By diehard
alvaradomccain@earthlink.net
 

Rating: MSR/WIP R/NC-17 for language and sexuality.

Classification: WIP, MSR, Alternate Universe, Post 'Truth.' Follow up to 'Day Tripping.'

Spoilers: Takes place directly where
'Day Tripping' left off.

Keywords: Seek and ye shall find.

Summary: Underground, Mulder and Scully attempt to find a way to launch an
offensive.

Feedback: alvaradomccain@earthlink.net

beta by the lovely sallie

website courtesy of the unbelievably
talented Circe Invidiosa.
www.invidiosa.com/diehard

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Chapter 1

She feels him stir and slide out of her embrace. In a blurry, early morning haze, she barely makes out the crooning in her ear,

"It's OK, Outlaw....Go back to sleep."

The kingdom of sleep reclaims her, pulling her down before she can find out what he's doing. It's a slow free fall, and before she knows it, the motel room is gone and the two of them are standing on a rocky outcropping, and there's nothing but blue twilight all around them. She can feel the last of day slip away and chill night air seep into her bones. Dream Scully shivers, as stars flicker and pulse above them. Mulder reaches for her, wrapping his arms around her, pulling her close.

He's the antidote for everything cold.

"I've got you, Scully...."

Without warning, white streaks blaze across the sky, zooming closer and closer. Shooting stars rain down, all around them and she tenses, bracing for impact. The night sky's shredding apart, but Mulder's arms hold her tight, and he whispers over and over, "I've got you."

Scully remembers hearing those words yesterday.

Fear dissolves as she relaxes against him, it's the the one shelter she has left. The scene shift abruptly, flipping back in time---replaying yesterday. Now they're saying goodbye to their son---then something ominous rolls toward them as they scan the far horizon.

We have each other, Mulder, she tells him inside the dream. Whatever happens, no matter what, he replies. The menace keeps closing in, but she's fearless.

Whatever happens, no matter what. That, she knows, is truth.

She awakens to find Mulder sitting at the foot of the bed, naked and hunched over the laptop. Slowly pushing aside the sheets, she slides herself down and curls up next to him. He's just written a message to J. Montoya, asking for a meeting location, specific directions, and a time to meet. Hitting the encryption password, she watches as the words dissolve into a combination of numbers, symbols and Dine phrases, disappearing into the ether.

Just like us, she thinks.

"It's you." Shutting down, and setting the laptop on the floor, he then leans down and kisses her good morning.

"Were you expecting someone else?" Smiling, she lets the taste of him linger on her lips.

Wrangling around, he stretches out next her and shakes his head. "Nope...Got what I want right here."

Pulling him close, she wraps her arms and legs around him, and whispers into his shoulder, "Me, too."

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It's only been a half hour, thirty minutes on the cosmic clock, but when it's like this, time slips its bonds. Side by side, they're a braid of limbs, breathing in unison. There's no need to make love, just the need to be.The seconds stretch, each one etching itself in memory. Looking into each others eyes, they see what scientists and mystics could never explain, the one thing they never planned on finding.

Slowly, Mulder rolls on top, covering her with his long body. He wants to hide her from the world, from everything dangerous, but he can't. In a part of his dura matter, they just find someplace and let themselves morph into a man and a woman living an ordinary life. But there's another part of his brain that knows better. Scully seems to read his mind, smiling slightly, as she once again does what needs to be done, becomes who he needs her to be.

"I should shower first, I'll need a little extra time this morning."

He knows what she means. Last night, along with their fast food banquet, cheap wine, and wedding rings, he bought hair coloring for her. Time to lose something else, time to watch another piece of Scully disappear without a trace.

"Yeah," he sighs, "I should see if our new best friend's sent us anything."

Groaning, he moves away from her and gingerly eases to the foot of the bed. Rolling his neck, he inhales deeply, taking in the smell of them, the musty and chlorine scent of every motel room he's ever known, gearing up for what's next, for what the day will bring. Leaning over, he fishes for the laptop, fires it up to retrieve today's words to live by.

"C'mon, J. Montoya," he tells the screen, "don't disappoint us."

She's not so quick to move, taking one last minute to let her whole body feel his phantom weight, his solid strength, his heat. Shifting so she has a good view, she lets herself watch the play of muscles of his back, remembering how her fingertips pressed hard along his spine as he made her come apart with pleasure just a few hours ago. 'Wither thou goest,' she pledges in silence, as she takes one last look. But this morning's reverie must come to an end. They're on the run, and the good little fugitive she is decides to get up and get going.

She's almost to the threshold of the bathroom when he calls her over.

"Scully, we've got mail."

He punches in the encription code, and they both watch the message materialize. 'Meet me at 2 pm,' it says. Six hours away, Scully notes. Six hours and counting.

Directions to Hard Line are next--it's a little over two hours away, off the Interstate, mostly on county roads. It won't be that long of a drive, Mulder thinks. He hopes Montoya will have a good place for them to set up camp. It looks like that's all and Mulder goes to wipe it, but Scully stops him.

"Wait, there's something else coming through." It's a three word sentence that makes them look at each other.

'Don't be late.'

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She's showered, and found the other clean towel that somehow was lying crumpled on the bathroom floor and set it carefully on the sink. She'll need it later. Her own damp scrap of terrycloth's been placed carefully on the rack. Mulder will have to use it too, not that it'll be a problem. Her teeth are brushed, and now she's opening the box, mixing the dye, and trying not to feel the crushing sadness that's rapidly overtaking her. Looking in the mirror, she sees one sad and troubled woman staring back. This is nothing, she thinks, this is just a bump in the road. It's an incongruent response, an overreaction. After all the death and loss and sacrifice, this is nothing, just one more thing stripped away.

A single tear runs down the side of her face. "Damn it." 'This is ridiculous,' scolding herself as she swipes it away. 'Do it and get it over with.'

What she doesn't realize is that Mulder's standing to one side of the threshold and has been watching her the whole time.

"Don't," his voice cracks when he speaks. "I don't want you to."

His eyes are as dark as fallen leaves, dying grass.

Startled, she sets the dye on the sink, barely avoiding a spill. Turning to him, she tries to sound in control.

"I'm fine, Mulder, just a little tired." She proffers a weak smile that doesn't fool him, and she knows it.

Walking up to the sink, he takes the dye and flushes it down the toilet, watching dark brown water swirl and vanish. She doesn't say a word, doesn't move. Still damp from the shower, hair wet and slicked back against her head, she's frozen in place.

Coming back to her, he cradles her head in his hands, snakes his fingers along her scalp and twists the thick, wet strands through his fingers. He knows he can't ask her to do this. He doesn't want her to do this. Not this.

"I want you to be Scully," he breathes into her ear. Every moment of the past nine years is flooding him right now, and this is the one thing he can save for her.

"Mulder..." She wants something to stay the same, something as small and as enormous as this. She wants, she just wants. Turning toward him, that same hunger is mirrored in his gray slate eyes.

Kissing wildly, everywhere--face, mouth, neck, shoulder, they can't hold back. Somehow, they stumble to the side, then he's got her against the wall, facing the cold tile.

Raising her arms above her head, she steadies herself, palms down, bracing herself as he bears down. His cock's hard, hard, hard, and she parts her legs and takes a hand to reach around to grab him, and he thrusts inside to the hilt.

Reaching back with both hands, she grabs his hips as he thrusts again and again. He's got his arm wrapped around her waist, anchoring them in place. Moaning, strangled words escape, and their voices echo in this tiny room. She can feel him swell and throb inside her, and she's so wet, her clit aching, her body's coiled for release.

Abruptly, he stops, pulling out of her, and turns her around.

"Don't stop," she pleads.

"I'm not," he pants. "I'm not....I need to see you." Pulling her to him, he lifts her so she can wrap her legs around the small of his back. Leaning into the tile, he slides into her again, this time with long, slow strokes. Clutching his shoulders, she bows her head enough to bite the side of his neck. Sliding a hand between them, he finds her clit, and starts stroking her hard, sweet spot. She starts that beautiful trembling, and it pushes him over the edge. They come together, breathless and shaking, then collapse against the slick, cool, bathrooom wall.

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They've gotten good at rapid recovery. They kiss, and he slides her down his body until she has her footing. Smoothing her hair into place, he plays with the tips, seemingly lost in thought. A faint smile plays at his lips and she knows something's got him preoccupied, something unexpected.

Cupping his face in her hands, she tilts his head down to get his attention. "I know that look, Mulder....C'mon, spill."

"I thought we could play salon, Scully. You've got scissors in that medical bag, right? Hindsight tells me I missed my calling."

"You want to cut my hair?" Her mouth goes slack with incredulity.

"You need a new 'do'....Something that says, 'I'm hiding in plain sight.' "

Letting a slow smile spread across her face, she lets her hands fall away and starts backing away from him, heading toward the bedroom. "You're a pretty kinky guy, you know that, don't you?"

"That doesn't sound like a complaint, Scully." His wolfish grin speaks volumes.

Minutes later, he's got her standing in front of the mirror again, both of them still naked--snipping lock after lock of hair with almost surgical precision, gently stroking her neck each place new skin is exposed. Soon, the floor around them is littered with long strands, and there's a woman staring back from the mirror with a chin length bob, with make-up free, freckled skin, looking like she's in her late 20's. She might be a hiker, or grad student. It's still Scully, but not--it's some alternate version of herself. She peers at this familiar stranger, amazed that something so simple actually worked. Behind her, she sees Mulder's taking in his handiwork, apparently satisfied with the transformation. The stranger catches Mulder's eye and smiles, and he smiles back.

Apparently he wants to make her acquaintance.

"Voila...Very sporty....Very chic. Now we just get you a bandana to wear, or a baseball cap, and we're good to go."

"What about you, partner?"

"Oh, I'm thinkin' a few day's stubble, and getting a cap of my own should do the trick."

"You left out something, you know."

"What's that Scully?"

"Cool shades, I understand they're de rigeur for couples on the run."

"You're sounding more and more like me all the time."

She showers again, and he makes sure all the hair's bagged up in the trash. Time to hide the tracks, suit up and hit the road.

Emerging dripping wet, she dries off one more time with the towel she left on the rack. The water's still running and the room's getting steamy.

"I left the good one on the sink for you."

"You're too good to me."

"Outlaw courtesy, Mulder." And she disappears to get dressed and get a move on.

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They're taking Interstate 160 for about 20 more miles, surrounded by the sprawl of Great Sand Dunes National Monument, all stark desert--white sand dotted with red mesas at the far horizon. It's hot during the day and cool at night, so T-shirts, tanks, and jeans are their haute couture. Once winter comes, it'll be a different story, if they're still here.

They left Alamosa about an hour ago, after buying some basic camping equipment, light provisions, jean jackets with flannel linings, a blue bandana and two black baseball caps. Mulder had passed this combination general store, post office and gas station in last night's foray to the diner, liquor store, and pawn shop. Having hit Jake's Dry Goods--provisions purchased and gas tank filled, the official town tour was complete. Along with their caps and their requisite shades, they've also slipped on the identities of David Stern and Delia Connor.

The 20 miles click by quickly and they turn onto Route 10. They're supposed to take it until they see the turn off for Las Animas Mountains. They're about 45 minutes away from where the turn off's supposed to be--once they're on the side road, it should only be a ten minute drive. The blue and black basalt peaks are looming close now. If he stopped the car, they could probably walk the couple of miles to where the grass covered foothills start.

Mulder turns on the radio and is treated to nothing but static. Clicking it off, he starts tapping his fingers on the steering wheel. He's keyed up; he knows Scully is, too. At least they've got AC; it was about 90 degrees in Alamosa, cooler now that they're at a higher elevation. He notices he still has the Bureau habit of never driving with the windows down, and wonders how long that will last. Turning down the arctic blast, he glances at Scully and gives their SUV some gas.

There are miles and miles of aspen, Ponderosa and bristlecone pine,blue-green sentinels that loom dark and foreboding, blocking out parts of the brilliant blue sky. They speed past scattered patches of yellow oxalis, and purple outcroppings of wild lavender, when an idea slowly begins to form in Scully's mind. She wants a distraction from worry, from the tension that's forming a knot between her shoulders.

They haven't said much since they left, both of them hoping that this isn't a wild goose chase, or worse still, a trap. Montoya is supposed to be a MUFON member, someone the Gunmen trusted enough for them to risk everything. But neither of them confuse calculated risk with blind trust. Each of them has a loaded Walther tucked into their boot. A Colt, clips at the ready, hides in the glove compartment, too. It's deserted out here, no signs of anything except mountain vegetation. No towns, no state police, nothing but the scenery sprawling on either side, and streaming black top ahead.

So far, so good.

"Lupine," she announces, breaking the silence. Wanting to ease the tension for both of them, she hopes he picks up on her challenge.

"Lupinus Fabaceae. You must want a beat down, Scully."

"We'll see, Oxford Boy," chuffing, as she scans the side of the road. "Monkshood."

"Aconitum columbianum Helleboraceae. God, you make it so easy."

She keeps tossing out the name of wildflower after wildflower, and the time slips by. The tight line in his jaw's softened and she can feel that her heart's no longer thudding. Passing a weathered wooden sign that says 'Pimenton Road/Las Animas Foothills 5 miles,' they take note and fall silent again. Soon David and Delia would see whether the Gunmen delivered.

Pimenton's barely visible as they close in, and as they follow the shoulder bend for the turn off, the tiny dirt road makes a sharp right and Mulder hurriedly hits the brakes as a mass of white appears out of nowhere. Tires screech, a huge dust cloud is raised, and they jerk forward as the car goes in an instant from 65 to zero. When the dirt settles, they get a good look at what's blocking the road.

Sheep.

About three dozen sheep, who apparently want to take their sweet time. And from the looks of his ribbon vest, turquoise jewelry and long, white braid, a Dine elder, who could easily be ninety years old, if he's a day. With a serious, yet kindly expression on his face, he taps some of the sheep on the outside of the herd to move them along. Slowly looking up, he's surprised to see visitors. White visitors at that. He meanders over to the car, motions to Mulder to roll down his window. He does, and the elder man gets a blast of cold air.

"Where you goin', son?"

"We're on our way to visit a friend." He's got an odd combination of amusement and impatience going. This is just too surreal not to enjoy, but they're coming up on the time they should be at Montoya's compound. Glancing at Scully from the corner of his eye, he can tell she's got a similar take on the situation.

"Sir, could you please move your sheep along?" Scully leans toward the driver's window, squeezing Mulder's knee with one hand.

"They'll be done when they're done, Miss. They been here longer than you two. "With that, the old man turns, and regally strolls back to his flock.

"Mulder, we've got five minutes to get to Montoya's"

"You heard the man. Looks like we got ourselves a case of imminent domain."

He leans over to turn on radio again, then settles back. Drumming his fingers on the dashboard, he does the only thing he can do--wait. Scully focuses her attention on the lazy stroll of livestock, trying to stay cool, stay focused.

In the flattened cadence of English spoken by the Dine, they're treated to an intro and the call letters of the local station. "I'm Simon Bishti, and this is K-R-E-Z, voice of the rez," a man's soft voice explains. "And it's a good day to be indigenous."

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Sheep and shepherd all finally meander to the other side of the road, and Mulder floors it. They should've been at Montoya's half an hour ago. Out of nowhere, they're right on top of it. Two squat cinder block structures, both with tin roofs--one larger than the other. The large one, maybe 1500 square feet, the smaller one, maybe half that.

The smaller building's partially obscured by the larger one, and doesn't seem to have any windows. Next to the larger structure there's a beaten-up, late Army issue Jeep. They can also see a well, what looks like a large generator, and something else that gives them pause.

It's a stone shrine of some sort, eight black obelisks about twenty feet tall, all arranged in a circle, with smaller slabs laid perpendicular to the base. They're tightly placed together, but there's enough room that someone could move in and out.

He throws the SUV in park, and they both get out and start walking the fifty or so feet to the main building. There's no signs of any one outside. Stepping carefully onto the rickety, sloping wooden porch, they stop in front of the door. Mulder knocks. No answer. There's two small, dirt-streaked windows to the left of the door, and they both look inside. It's spartan to the extreme--wood stove, some cupboards, a tiny frig, table, chairs, sink, and toilet and shower partially hidden by an old brown curtain. No books, pictures, or personal effects, just a foot locker near the bed to indicate that someone might actually be spending time here.

"Scully..."

"Yeah, Mulder..."

"Does this look as bad to you as it does to me?"

"Yeah," she sighs, "it does."

He fishes in his back pocket and pulls out the case with the picks. Crouching down low enough to start working the lock, he doesn't even wait for Scully's protest.

She doesn't make one. Instead, she turns on her heels and tells him over her shoulder, "I'll check the building in the rear."

"That's why I love you."

She lets a smirk cross her face, as she stops to reach down and feel in her boot for her weapon. Pulling herself up to her full height, she takes a deep breath and disappears around the corner.

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It's either a tricky lock, or he's losing his touch, but it's taking him longer than he thought it would.

"Fuck me," he spits. He hears the shuffle of feet behind him-- Scully must be done already.

"Believe me, you're fucked." It's a woman's voice, but not the one he's expecting to hear.

He feels the cold barrel of a gun at the base of his skull.

"Stand up," the woman barks.

"Listen, I can explain..." He slowly rises; the woman's hand grips his shoulder hard enough to bruise.

"Shut up! You talk when I tell you. Say another goddamn word and I'll pull this trigger and put you in the ground."

"Been there, done that."

The barrel's shoved hard against his head, Mulder squeezes his eyes shut. He wants to say something, but before any words can form on his lips, it's Scully yelling.

"Put down the gun!" She's back, and she got a bead on whoever this is.

"I'll shoot him!" the woman declares.

"I've got a clear shot at your head!" Scully shouts. Her adrenalin's rushing, the world's falling away, and she won't hesitate. "Don't make me do it!"

The steel in that voice makes the other woman pull back a little. "Should I listen to her?" she hisses to Mulder.

He seizes the opportunity. "We're the people who were supposed to be here a half hour ago. You should've mentioned Dine herders use Pimenton. The road was blocked... that's why we're late. I'm David Stern and the woman with a bead on you is Delia Connor. We confirmed the meeting this morning via encrypted email. The last thing you wrote was 'Don't be late.' " He feels her hesitate, then ease off on the trigger. "We have something in common...." he goes on, "the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

Jerking the gun away, the woman slides it into her back holster. "Start talking."
 

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Chapter 2

The woman motions for Scully to join them. Mulder's turned around and he's scanning his partner's face, locking eyes with her. Walking walks toward them; she's cautious, deliberate, her pistol held down at her side. Soon, all three of them are standing on the porch, and the other woman gestures for both of them to stand to the left, whiles he reaches into the side pocket of her cargo pants to pull out a set of keys.

She's about five-six, late thirties, with black, close cropped hair, that hugs her head like a skullcap, olive skin, obsidian eyes. Black pants tucked into calf-high, lace up boots--standard Army issue, and a olive green tank. Rattling the key in the lock, she pushes open the door with her boot, and with a sweeping gesture, motions them inside.

"I'm Montoya." Purposefully striding over to the rickety wooden table, the heels of her boots thud on the wooden floor. She yanks a chair out for each of them, and walks over to the sink and leans back, waiting. Lean and wound tight as a coil, her body tenses--her dark eyes keenly watch them, and there's a grim set to her full lips. She might have been a beautiful woman once, but that time's past. It's obvious the only thing she's been for a long, long time is a soldier.

Slowly walking over to a chair, Mulder settles in while Scully stoically follows, taking her time and making sure she never breaks eye contact with their host. Her grip on her pistol's as tight as ever. Once seated, she feels her whole body tense as the woman approaches. 'I can get off a shot,' she thinks, and she starts raising her weapon.

"It's all right, Delia." His voice's reassuring her, and she holds herself back while the stranger checks her, stopping when she runs across the implant scar.

"Find what you were looking for?" he asks.

"Maybe....Now I want to hear the whole story." Rubbing the nape of her own neck, Montoya's gaze never leaves Scully.

"You know what happened..." Mulder stops trying to engage their host, her attention is elsewhere. He catches Scully's eye, "It's OK....Tell her."

"I was abducted. My ova was stolen. I received an implant which gave me cancer." Scully's terse, carefully ennunciating each syllable. Her eyes are dull as she speaks, unreadable.

"And you," Montoya nods at him, "What about you?"

"No implants....I did get the full slice and dice, though. You see, a year or so before I was abducted, an artifact triggered an ability to hear people's thoughts, know when things were going to happen. Syndicate members tried to do some brain salad surgery on me, so I've got my souvenir." Shoving his hair back with his hand, he bows his head to show her the crescent ridge of scar tissue. "Seems it also bumped me into a different category." A faint smirk crossed his face. "They tried to make me a hatchery for a new and improved centurion. Didn't make the grade, though."

Swallowing hard, trying to intuit Mulder's game plan, the reason for revealing so much, Scully struggles to calm her racing mind, still her pounding heart. A second later, she sees that his gamble's paying off.

A look of recognition, then Montoya does something shocking---walking toward them, unholstering her pistol and placing it in her open palm. She steps back slightly, feeling the weight of the firearm. Her face unexepectedly softens, and in a wavering whisper she asks, "Who are you....who are you really?"

There's a long moment in which Scully focuses on the dust mites swirling in a shaft of sunlight that struggled its way through one of the small, dirty windows in this gray, threadbare room. It trails along the edge of the battered table, marking off boundaries, uneasy neutral corners. Mulder's sitting across from her. She can feel his eyes searching to make contact, and she slowly shifts so that her eyes capture his.

Whatever's next, they're ready.

Montoya speaks again, but she's more composed. She's still holding the gun as if she trying to make a decision. Her dark eyes scan the same swirl of sunlight and dust. "I've been based out of here about a year...aiding fugitive hackers, people in the child rescue underground, burned-out 60's radicals. I've been waiting for two people in particular..."

Mulder cuts in now, bringing Montoya's focus back to him and breathes in and out and wills himself to appear almost placid. "Looks like we have something to talk about. But we need more from you..."

His voice is calm, so calm, it's his negotiator's voice--he has to get the answer he needs before he can drop cover. "You wouldn't trust me or her if we just roll over." Instinctively, leans forward enough so that his hand skims the edge of his boot. If this goes wrong, he'll fire on Montoya before she can reach her gun and shoot.

Mulder hopes he right about where this is going, "Delia and I..." He's cut off before he can finish. From the corner of his eye, he can see Scully's fingers tighten around the trigger.

"Dont." Montoya's voice is still soft. "Whatever the two are calling yourselves, it's not your real names. No one comes here using their real name...." Now she stares down at the tips of her boots. "Maybe if I say this we can get to it....If I'm wrong," she hesitates and looks over at Scully's hand, "you better be ready to kill me."

Scully does not flinch, her blue eyes crystal clear as she meets Montoya's gaze. "Count on it."

Montoya shifts back to Mulder, his smooth, undecipherable face. "You said we're fighting the same enemy...You mean the aliens, the invasion, don't you? If you are who I think you are, you'll know who sent me back...who healed me...he was one of Them..."

It takes all his training to keep his voice even toned, his response unhurried. Before he says a word, he glances at Scully. He sees the tension in her face pulling her features tight, but she gives him a look of acknowledgment, of acceptance, nodding almost imperceptably.

"Jeremiah Smith. His name was Jeremiah Smith."

Montoya's arms fall to her sides, pistol held now in a loose grip. Taking a long, deep breath, she exhales. "Yes...he took care of me onboard a spacecraft, helped me escape... I was sent back to help two other abductees--two FBI agents--a man and a woman, if they made it this far....He told me what he knew about their abductions, their names...but not what they looked like. He said appearances were deceiving."

Mulder gets up, walks over and places a hand on Montoya's shoulder.

"I'm Mulder." Gesturing with his free hand to the far side of the table. "And this, is Dana Scully."

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Montoya reholsters her weapon and takes in a long, deep breath. Her arms fall loosely to her sides. "Jeremiah Smith was a prisoner in our holding pen, where we were kept before They experimented on us or killed us....He would heal the ones They weren't through with yet. I guess the fact that I fought Them every every time they came for me meant something."

Smiling ruefully, she went on. "Smith said he was one of the last of a group of alien resistors, but he'd been captured and imprisoned with us....He couldn't stand to watch the suffering, and They used him. Used him to treat the guinea pigs they still wanted... and destroy what was left when people died during the tests. The last time I had the tests it practically killed me. He saved me, and we came up with a plan to fight the aliens and the soldiers. I was hidden in the 'refuse,' dumped in the Arizona desert and found my way to the underground.

"You contacted the Gunmen." Pushing back his chair, Mulder stretches out his long legs and takes a deep, cleansing breath.

"It wasn't as hard as I thought it would be...not after I made myself known in MUFON circles."

"You know they're dead, don't you?" Wincing slightly as he speaks, his jaw's tight with regret.

"I assumed that when my messages to them got bounced back. You knew them?"

It's Scully who answers, her voice barely rising above a whisper. "They were friends..."

Mulder finishes, "...the best kind of friends."

Their host says nothing, but nods and stares down at the tips of her boots.

"And you've waited all this time for us?" Impassively scanning the woman's face, his gray-green eyes flicker. He's cautiously moving ahead, but every instinct he has tells him to trust her.

Montoya's lips curved into what Mulder guesses is a familiar smirk. "Well, I managed to keep busy. Aside from the aiding and abetting fugitives, I gradually stockpiled weapons...weapons that we can use against the soldiers. Pistols, rifles, hollow point bullets, grenades, explosive devices with a difference..."

Scully cut in, "Magnatite...you altered ammunition to carry magnitite..."

"Seems like you've been doing some field research of your own."

"We've discovered what its effect are. Are you suggesting you were sent back in order to launch an attack against the aliens?"

"It's a little more complicated that that. It's about the two of you..."Montoya glances at Mulder, then back at Scully....The Resistance can't succeed without you."

Hear that, Scully?" Mulder quips drily. Our leadership abilities are finally appreciated."

"It's much greater than that...We need what's in you... both of you."

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Chapter 3

An uneasy trust weaves itself around three strangers in a naked room in the middle of nowhere. Mulder stretches and cracks his knuckles, while Scully loosens her grip on the trigger and slowly sets her gun on the table. Montoya, still standing between the two of them, leans on the table with outstretched arms, palms flat against the weathered pine surface.

Scully finally cracks open the silence. "What do you mean, 'both of us?' Are you saying Mulder has some kind of implant we couldn't detect?" Taking a breath, she releases it, tries to stifle the other question in the back of her mind. She will not let herself think the word 'cancer.'

"No, his exposure to the artifact changed him. At least that's what I was told."

"My abnormal brain activity." Mulder looks up at Montoya and shakes his head, he doesn't know how he always knows, but he knows. "That's not what you mean, is it?"

"No, it isn't. You both have something in common, something physical."

Scully feels a single bead of sweat work its way down her spine, Whatever information Montoya has, she wants it and wants it now. The tension and frustration's eating at her but she wills herself not to move, sitting ramrod straight in the ancient wooden chair. "Enough cryptic responses...we need..."

"...answers." cuts in Mulder. He's trying to hold onto his reserve, but Scully recognizes the change in the color of his eyes. All traces of green are siphoned off by gray---something dark and angry is surfacing.

Montoya tries to respond. "I have to know you're ready to take this to the next level."

Scully surrepetitiously inches her hand along the tabletop, slowly wrapping her fingers around the Walther's grip.

"We're here because we want to stop the end of the world. There's no going back for us...nothing to go back to." Mulder 's voice starts off carefully modulated, but he keeps getting louder as he goes on. Gripping his knees to steady himself, he struggles against the urge to start shouting. "We either take them out or go down trying. Is that ready enough for you?" He stares at her dead on, and she stares back, silent.

Miraculously, it clicks into place, and the corners of Montoya's mouth form an actual, honest-to-god smile. "Good. I have information for your eyes only." The words hang in the air, and turning away from them, she strides to the bed and the footlocker on the floor. Looking over her shoulder, she glances over to Scully's weapon and the pistol sticking out Mulder's boot. "You won't need those... 'the enemy of my enemy is my friend'...."

Mulder rests his open hands on the table, and Scully slips the Walther carefully back into her boot. She beckons him, and easing to his feet, he's at her side in a couple of steps. Turning, she glances up at him, questioning.

Their host has gone back to what she was doing, pulling open the lid of the storage box, and removes two black, rectangular objects, each about the size of cigar boxes, one larger than the other. There are no seams, no lids, no hinges. Just two solid masses. Walking back to the table slowly, she sets them gingerly in front of the two of them, then motions to Mulder. "You have to do this together."

"Do what, exactly?" his voice curious. Scully's hand is on his thigh.

"Each of you has to touch the boxes. They're designed to respond to your biosignatures and yours alone." Montoya sounds confident, a little brusque. Clearly, her temporary hesitancy's gone, and she sounds as if she's giving fellow soldiers directives now

"Biosignatures? What are you not telling us?" Scully matches her tone, she knows how to give military attitude with the best of them. There's steel in her voice and in her eyes and she hopes it has the desired effect on Montoya.

"Smith told me he and a small group of sympathizers prepared this, in the event you both survived and could find your way to me. He mentioned biosignatures when he gve me the boxes." Pointing to the larger of the two, "This is an information storing device. Two possible strategies for an offensive have been outlined, based on the rest of the information that's there.....You need to be briefed, then make a decision."

"And what about us, what is it about us that's so important?" Scully keeps pressing.

"You're necessary....There's something that makes you different from other abductees, something that links you together....and somehow connects you to the vaccine. That's all I can tell you. What specific information's in the box is for you alone....I don't need to know, don't want to know....

"Eyes only, then?" Mulder asks, his sixth sense itching. Last night, hope was little more than a wish in the dark. Today, he thinks it might be found inside a black box.

"Yeah, eyes only....While you do what what you need to do, I'm going to get rid of a potential problem. Give me your car keys."

Glancing at Scully, he bites back a grin when she raises an eyebrow. Some things never change, he tells himself. Catching her eye, he gives her a slight nod. Then, both turning to Montoya, they stare her down, waiting for an explanation.

"We need to dump that SUV...it's a tipoff you're not from around here."

He hears Scully sighing as he reaches into his back pocket and tosses the keys.

Montoya's hand shoots up, and in one quick, fluid move, she makes the grab. Keys are shoved into her cargo pants, and she ambles over to the bed, pulls a Makarov semiautomatic from under the pillow, and reaches under the bed to retrieve a Glock 9mm. Striding back to where her guests are waiting, she offers an explanation. "I have a contact who'll trade me the gas guzzler for a ride that won't stick out like a sore thumb. I'll be back tomorrow at first light....It'll take me that long to make the connect, do the deal and drive back." Shoving theweapons onto the table, "Take these, and unload them into anyone who comes here...including me...or anyone looking like me."

Mulder pulls out the clip, "Magnatite in the bullets... In case our soldier friends stop by for a little search and destroy..."

"That's right...consider it extra insurance. Smith told me you'd be safe in this location. It's loaded with deposits....The whole region is, from here, all the way to Roswell....I just want you to be prepared in case recon somehow pushes through." Looking over to the still seated Scully." I'm guessing you won't have a problem dropping any uninvited visitors."

Scully hasn't said much and doesn't plan to. She doesn't completely trust this woman, but there's nothing new there. The one person who has her unconditional trust has decided for both of them, and there's nothing new there, either. Realizing that their new life's pretty much like their old life is strangely reassuring.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

A few minutes later they're standing on the porch, watching Montoya hop into the SUV. Instead of turning toward the access road, she pulls up and stops in front of them. The window whirrs down and she sticks her head out. There's a slight smirk on those full lips."You'll find a bottle of tequila in the cupboard above the stove. Wouldn't want you to think I'm a bad host."

With that, the window shoots up, and she floors it in reverse, pulls a U-turn, and in a matter of seconds becomes a dark blip speeding toward the main road.

Mulder nudges Scully, and when she turns toward him, there's an old, familiar gleam in his eyes.

"C'mon, honey, let's get it on."
 
 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
 

Chapter 4

Mulder grabs their bags and tosses them inside.
Leaning against the open door, he stops her as she tries
to pass and captures her in a loose embrace. One large
hand comes to rest loosely on her shoulder. Drawing
circles on her lower back with the other, he skims the spot
where the snake lies coiled.

"Ready?"  he asks softly.

She tips her head up and her warm lips brush his cheek.
Pulling back a little, she catches his eyes shift to
jade, signaling curiosity and anticipation. He's not
on edge anymore, or a hairsbreadth from losing control.
Nine years, and she knows all the signals of  his personal
barometer. "Let's hope whatever's in those boxes
is something we want to have."

"I'll settle for the truth." A faint smile crosses his lips,
but there's a solemn cast to his gaze.

Smiling back, the gravity of what they're about to do is
not lost on her, "That, and something we can use."
 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
 

He pulls out the two chairs and positions them on the side

of the table nearest to the boxes. Scully sits down
quietly, breathing slowly, readying herself.  He takes
his place beside her, leans in and whispers in her ear.

"I wonder if you can get cable on these."

"Jesus..." Exhaling a breath half way between a
laugh and a groan, she lets her shoulders slump as she
shakes her head.

"That was levity, an attempt to psychologically
defuse a charged situation."

"Shut up, Mulder." It's the usual retort, but her voice is
tender, and she reaches over and lightly strokes his
knee with the pad of her thumb.

"Tough talk....OK, let's do this, then."

Each of them brings a hand to rest on the larger box.
It's smooth to the touch, as cool and smooth as onyx.
It could very well be some semiprecious mineral,
alien gemstone for all they know.

Mulder starts to say something to that effect, when the
surface underneath their hands begins to soften
and break apart.

A nanosecond later, the top surface dissolves
completely, the rest of the mass starts to shift
and move, and blue light streams between
their fingers.  Jerking their hands away,
the urge to take cover is too strong. Reflexively,
their eyes slam shut.

No one breathes.

Exhaling sharply after what seems like an eternity,
Mulder opens his eyes first, then Scully.
The black box is now a holographic data station,
beaming a glowing screen of streaming code. Silent
with shock, it's just as well, because the room fills with
the sound of someone's voice.

Jeremiah Smith's voice, to be exact.

"Mulder, are you hearing this?"  It wasn't really
doubt, Scully had come to know all too well what was
possible, that there was science she couldn't
know, couldn't begin to understand.

They didn't look at each other, only at what was now the
wavering image of a face they both recognized---alien,
rebel, healer.

"Agent Mulder, Agent Scully, our friend Montoya has
obviously been successful in protecting this."

Smith sounded breathless, hurried.

"Listen carefully. I expect our mutual enemies will move quickly
once my treason is discovered. We have the technology
to encapsulate part of out consciousness in units like these.
They store information holographically, interactively,
and operate via voice command. I've uploaded DNA
information concerning the two of you, and plans to
distribute a hybrid version of a vaccine you both are
familiar with. All existing samples are safe in the companion
unit to this one. The vaccine requires something you
are uniquely qualified to offer."

It was Mulder now, "The future hinges on us...literally."

"Yes, but you will have to make a choice, a critical one.
I've also enclosed something for both of you along with
the vaccine. Choose wisely, Agent Mulder.... One last thing.
This unit will retain all the necessary biological constructs,
any formulas you may need. At the very end of
the data files you will find my personal log---call it a gift
from a comrade. However, anything about the two of you,
as well as my log, will erase  once displayed.
It is, as I think you would say, a one-time shot..."

Then nothing but static.

"Mulder, what happened?" Scully bit her lip,
knowing the answer.

"Fate.  His.  Now it's time to face ours."  One of his hands
grasped hers, and held it loosely.

A quiet pause, a deep breath and his voice, resolute,
"Return to data."

Smith's frozen image melts into blue symbols, a coded,
streaming legacy.

Scully's command reverberated in the little room, clear,
reserved, ready. "Display all relevant DNA models."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

First one double helix, then another emerges,
two sinuous double twists. Rotating in unison, they
provide a 360 degree view, the shimmering reduction of
who they are. Underneath each strand their names glow,
an eerie, ephemeral marker.

"Do you see it, Mulder?" Scully murmurs, more than
a little stunned. Stunned at what she's seeing, and in
the back of her mind she's surprised at how easy it is to let fall
another piece of the science she's built her life upon.

"What do you see...what is it?"

"We both have branching protein code...in more than
one location...it's subtle, but significant..."

"Mutation..." He feels the world shifting as he speaks, as
he sees what is irrevocably changed, and still he can't
say yet what he knows, what they both know.

"Yes."

There is silence for several long minutes.  But the
need to confirm the unspoken is just too powerful.

"We're hybrids, Mulder...like Gibson."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Idly tracing the letter S on the back of her hand
he's murmuring something, but only the last part is clear.
"...We blindly shuffle towards our dark destiny."

Some quote, some fragment of a poem, she's sure.
Turning toward him, she recognizes the shadows
clouding his expression. Self-recrimination
will keep chasing him, no matter how deep
her devotion, how hard he tries to let it go.

But he has to get past it, they both do.

"We make our own future, Mulder. You said
that you believed we'd find a way to save ourselves.
I plan on holding you to that."

He remembers and rallies because she remembers,
and because she holds his gaze in that deep, still way
and he feels her faith in him, and it's stronger
than any of his demons.

"When have I ever been wrong, Scully?
About saving the world, anyway."

It feels like an ancient reference, but he's happy to see
the light dance in her eyes, and feels himself relax
as they dodge the bullet once again.

She turns back to the models, but not before
she graces him with the tiniest of smiles.

"Identify specific location of branches and function."

The visuals on the models zoom into quadrants
of symbols, and words decrypt in the blink of an eye.
They're intently focused, but neither of them can
completely make out what's being shown.

"Slow display, form sections and hold."

"What are we looking at,  Scully?"

She reads the sections, then reads them again.
"The branches are involved with seroproduction.
Apparently we now produce an amino acid in
our blood streams that has human and non-human
characteristics."

"For what reason?"

"According to what I'm reading, there doesn't seem
to have any active function in our physiology. It's just
floating in our plasma...it's residue."

"It's not supposed to do anything to us...we're supposed
to do something with it." There's excitement in his voice,
the sound of intuition at work. Montoya's and Smith's
words reverbrate in his head. "This is what they were
hinting at, Scully. Display vaccine as molecule,"
he commands.

In a second, a three dimensional model appears.
He knows his intuition is on target, he can feel it.
"Insert hybrid amino acids to current display."
Instantaneously, as if drawn by a magnet they merge
into the molecular structure of the vaccine, thickening
rapidly, becoming one seamless entity, a dense strand
of radiant particles.

"Look at this. I've never seen anything
like it." Now Scully's voice is brimming with that
same elation. "Isolate effect of aminos on vaccine
and provide results as text."

The models dissolve, then words appear slowly,
heavy with promise, hovering in the stillness.
'Exponential increase in potency. Vaccine is
100 percent effective in blocking introduction of non-
human genetic material. Toxicity to hosts: none.'

"This is it," she breathes, awed at the possibility.
"It's..."

"Hope, Scully."  Touching her on the shoulder,
he waits for her to turn and face him.

"It's hope."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
 
 
 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Chapter 5

They've been at it a couple of hours at least.
Taking a short breather, they conceal all the data,
and symbols run down the small display field, a cobalt trail
of secrets. Scully stretches and finds the bathroom in working
order, but not before glancing over at the second unit.
Thinking about Albert Hosteen, and more worlds than
she can hold in her hand, it's clear her world's boiled
down to blood and someone else's science.

Quick foraging on Mulder's part revealed hidden
treasure in the tiny refrigerator---some water in a
pitcher, brown laying eggs, cold mutton in a crock,
and some fry bread wrapped in layers of cheesecloth.
He's wonders about the data they haven't seen yet,
guesses at how many vials of vaccine are in the other box,
and silently prays he wasn't wrong about hope.
A roll of the cosmic dice and look where they ended up.
They're fugitives, they're mutants, they're the saviors
of the planet. He can't say he's talking to God, not yet,
but he asks whatever's out there, whatever's holding
him and Scully and the universe together, to make this
come out right.

At some level, he's been ready his whole life for
the way things turned out, as long as it left him
with his proof. Scully never asked for any of it.
Fate stripped away family, career, even the bedrock
of her beliefs.

And then there's William.  'Loss is a feeble word,'
he tells himself,  'William is our forever sorrow,
Scully, yours and mine.'

"Hungry?"  he asks over his shoulder, needing to say
something, anything, the more banal,  the better.
He wants to offer her any shred of normalcy he can.

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he turns
just in time to catch her straightening the shabby, brown
curtain back into place. When she turns to face him,
there's no doubt or confusion in the depth of her eyes.
Relief runs through him--he can feel it, his breath releasing,
his body relaxing.

Meanwhile, she's figured out what he's thinking, and knows
what he needs to hear. Teasing him seems the right response,
it's not the time to talk about what this all means. Besides,
what they don't know is starting to nag at her.

"Caught me red-handed, Sheriff."

He smiles, and she smiles back. "Where's the handcuffs
when you really need 'em?" Now he's intuiting her, and
returns serve with the required innuendo.

"No time to play, I'm afraid." She glances over to the
table, loaded with guns, ammo, and alien technology.

His eyes follow hers. 'She's good,' he thinks, 'I'm good.'

"Maybe later, then. What about something to eat?
It would appear our esteemed host has left the larder full."
They ate late last night, and were too distracted by each other
and making ready to have breakfast this morning. It's really
more a perfunctory question than anything else. He doesn't
want anything now but the answers.

She knows he's not interested in food or a break
in the action Too keyed up to eat, she takes a long, slow
breath to center herself, "Not right now...what about you?"

"Nah....Back to the salt mines, Outlaw."

It's that strong, even stride that never fails to move him
as she nods and walks back to the table. Watching
her return to her seat at the table, and a second later
walks over and joins her.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Cracking his knuckles, then rolling his neck until the
vertebrae pop, he straightens tall in his chair and slides
it closer to her. Turning slightly in her direction, they're
sitting so close together that his shoulder brushes hers.

"Ready for the revolution?"

Taking another deep, deep breath, she stretches in her chair
and settles in, "Yeah, I'm ready."

His voice is calm and careful. "Display plans for an offensive,
both versions. Provide all tactical and strategic information."

Decryption happens instantly, and they're flooded with a
barrage of information. It's overwhelming, it's too much at once.
"Separate data and freeze into readable sections."

It almost looks like cell division, but the chaos of shimmering
blue becomes two distinct, explicit files, organizing themselves
like chapters in a book. It's their labeling that make the two
of them look at each other for the first time in what seems
like very long time. Underneath one is the glimmering
word 'Alpha,' and below the other is 'Omega.'

 "First strike and the last, best hope."

She doesn't respond directly to his remark. "Now we can
look at them one at a time.  Show Plan Alpha in foreground,
move Plan Omega to background and dim."

First up is the protocol and procedure for isolating
the proteins, then the formula specifying how many
parts per milligram to introduce to the vaccine,
followed by instructions as to how to mass produce
the final product. The second major section shows
a topographical map of the country, pinpointing
cities with large pharmaceutical plants, research labs,
medical schools, and MUFON members with access
to those sites,  as well as local boards of health, and
neighborhood clinics.

Over the next 18 to 24 months, the two of them will
travel to different cities, setting up cells where the vaccine
will be produced. To insure the distribution, the serum
would also be introduced to the most commonly used
medicines at the manufacturing level. A cadre of
carefully chosen resisters will distribute the vaccine
through large medical centers, then in local clinics,
then split off and set up new cells in other cities,
then rural areas. There are also plans to provide
the vaccine to former abductees who routinely
travel out of the country.

After studying the display, Mulder brakes the silence.
"We take point, stay on the move. This is doable, Scully. We
have enough resources to stay mobile, to hide in plain sight.
Large urban areas work as staging platforms. It's easy access
for us, and for other resisters. Then we gear up, divide and
multiply."  We spread globally.... reaching everywhere
like a ..."

"...like a virus. And you're right, this looks really possible."

"I like the way you think," he quipped, "especially when
you agree with me."
 
 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Scully gives the command and the second file opens,
now the luminous record reconfigures to show both plans
side by side. There's still an easy feeling here--the room
holds the sense of possibility, and sighing deeply,
she allows herself the luxury of this moment.

A  new topographic map materializes, but it's only
a fifty mile radius from their current location, pinpointing an
isolated plateau deep inside the nearby mountain range.
Mulder doesn't say anything, but he can feel the knot
slowly forming in his stomach. He asks himself why there's
another plan when the first was so perfect. It doesn't
make sense, he can feel it in his bones.

"Halt file. Freeze data.....Mulder, what's wrong?"
Scully catches the shift in the atmosphere immediately.
She can sense the change in him, in the whole
room without even looking.

"Smith's put new meaning in the term 'anal retentive."

"That's not it,"  she challenges, glancing at him over
her shoulder. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking..."  he murmurs as he touches her
arm, "I'm thinking that there doesn't need to be
another file, unless we're missing something."

Turning toward him, she sees the questions
in his eyes, the doubt. Truth be told, it's dawning
on her that it's all been too easy. "OK, let's say
you're right. There's only one way to find out.
We need to see everything that's here and then
draw our conclusions."

Tension at the base of her spine draws the muscles
tight, and instinctively she reaches back to start
massaging the spot, but Mulder's hand's already there,
his fingertips soothing away the stiffness, spreading
warmth. Sighing, she leans back, letting him hold her
up for a minute.  But she knows there's no time for
anything but a moment's respite. "Resume file display."

Pressing a last caress into the small of her back,
he slowly withdraws, turning back to the image
before him. "We'll deal with it, Scully, whatever
it is we find out."

"I know."  She reassures him as she steadies herself.

What the map indicates appears to be a base camp,
built partially above ground, with the majority of the
structure housed inside a large cave. They both
notice right away a honeycomb of connecting tunnels
fanning out into the mountains, into the local
valley, with some finally leading to rock culverts
hidden by the stand of pines they passed on
the road here.

"Display schematics for all aspects of featured
structure," he orders.

Diagrams and text emerge next to the map. There
are bare-bones living quarters, a main room
and two smaller ones, kitchen, bathroom, a lab
and a communication center. There also seems
to be a storeroom, or what might be a weapons
locker. It's clear to Mulder the structure's utilized a
preexisting cave shelter and tunnels left by Anasazi.
They're ready to take it to the next level, and
the reasoning behind this part of the puzzle's
critical.

"Someone's been renovating, improving on what
indigenous people left behind a thousand years ago.
It seems Spender wasn't the only one who could see
they were still useful."

"There's probably a lot Montoya hasn't told us,"
she answers dryly. Her attention hasn't left the display
either.  It's clear to her that the base is a production lab,
and she's betting Mulder's figured that out, too.

"It could be that Smith and his sympathizers were
responsible for this directly."

"It's possible, but does it matter? She's our only contact."

"You don't completely trust her, do you?"

She says nothing for a moment, then responds.
"The only person I trust completely is you."

"That's my line, Scully."

What he doesn't say is that all the best-laid plans mean
nothing, that that it all hinges on the two of them,
trusting one another, and being willing to take
it to the end together.

Turning to him again, she nods and takes her hand
and rests it against his cheek. No words need to be said.

She knows.

Both of them return to the business at hand, watching
intently as the tactical files decrypt. In this scenario, the two
of them staff and operate a central manufacturing lab
for the vaccine. Montoya will handle security and supervise
transport of cadre members from their locations to the base
and back. The resistance is still comprised of the same
MUFON members as before. Traveling covertly, they'll arrive
at the lab using a carefully staggered schedule and indirect
routes. Apparently, the density of magnatite in the region
blocks the normal tracking signal given off by the implants,
concealing the presence of cadre in the region. Over the
course of a week, they'll receive the training required to
reproduce the vaccine. Once completed, they'll be briefed
on tactical distribution using their respective home locations.
The overall time frame of 18 to 24 month still remains
in place.

Mulder sees the hole in the plan immediately. No matter
how careful they might be, the risk to abductees is obvious.
It might not be caught right away, but sooner or later a pattern
of travel outside the normal routine of the abductees will be
discernible. No matter how covert the travel, all roads lead
to where they are. The chips are locator tags, and even if
there's only a partial trail, the aliens will eventually lock
onto it, and will systematically search the whole area until
eventually they're all discovered and killed. Or worse,
captured and abducted again. There's the possibility that
some cadre could go undetected and distribute the vaccine,
but the chances of success are are much smaller. He looks
over to Scully, who seems lost in thought, her right hand
stroking the base of her neck, fingertips brushing back
and forth across her implant scar.

"Hey, Outlaw, " his voice soft, "You still with me?"

She wants to tell him she wishes she'd refused to have
the implant restored, but she knows there's nothing to
be gained by second-guessing. She didn't want to die,
she still doesn't.  'Please let us be safe, ' she prays,
'Safe enough to do this.  Please.'

"Yeah...I am," she replies, coming back to herself
and this moment. "This plan has significant weaknesses,
but I'm assuming you've figured that out."

"Plan Omega is a poor second choice, that's obvious.
What we're not seeing is why it's here to begin with."
Trying to concentrate, trying to unearth the fragment
that connects all the pieces of the puzzle, Mulder closes
his eyes, and leans back in his chair.

"Then we go over the files again, section by section
until we find what we're looking for."  Scully starts to
scrutinize the display fields, hoping to find a hint, a clue,
something. "Highlight key  features of plans Alpha
and Omega," she orders, "and crossmatch the following
variables...."

"Wait...The answer's not there."

Whipping her head around, she finds him sitting
at the edge of his chair, eyes bright with discovery.

"Encrypt files and close current location," he commands.
Glowing blue words twist and swirl, fading into symbols.
Suddenly, there's a pulse of light, then nothing. He knows
what to do, it was there all along in what Montoya said
to both of them. It's them.  The explanation has everything
to do with them.

"Display all biosignature data for subjects
Fox Mulder  and Dana Scully."

A new display opens, with sections of their DNA models
in close up, sections they hadn't examined before.
The anxiety's building and she can feel her heart racing,
Scully leans in to get a closer look.  "I don't know what
the hell I'm looking at here. I'll need to pull up the full models,
try to piece these segments into the whole. If I can do that,
maybe I can guess what it all means."

Before she can do anything, the voice of Jeremiah Smith
returns. "I think I can answer your questions, Agent Scully.
By now you and Agent Mulder must see the critical
importance you play in defeating the colonists. You are
on the brink of a critical decision with the power to
change the future. You need to understand fully
why you've been given that choice."

"The reason for these plans...what we need to know
about ourselves..." Mulder began.  All he could hear
was the sound of his own voice, all he could feel was
Scully's hand reaching for his.

"Yes, I think it's time, don't you?" Smith hesitates
for a moment, and Scully wonders if  he was trying
to gather the strength to speak.

"Simply put, this is the situation," Smith was back, and
there is nothing but resolve in his voice.  "Our people
are undergoing slow extinction due changes on our home
planet that have made the environment inhospitable.
Our leadership is an expansionist, and warlike. However,
they have never represented a majority among us. There
are those who have fought unsuccessfully for our people
to find other ways to survive. For decades, a tiny group rebels
has worked covertly on ships, looking for a way to halt
the invasion. We are separate from the splinter group that
you know as the faceless ones... their tactics have
been confrontational, ours remain non-violent, more secret,
and by necessity, more subtle. As often as we can, we leave
the ships for reconnaissance. Our ability to change our
appearance has been keenly useful in intelligence
gathering. We hoped that an opportunity would arise that
would allow us to help your people...

Mulder interrupts, "You turned against your own, chose
to fight against your race's chance to survive?"

"Yes, Agent Mulder, some of us believe that taking
of any life is unacceptable. That must come as a surprise
to you, but I am part of what you would call a clan of what you,
Agent Scully, might refer to as  priests. We formed the core
of the resistance on the ships. You both know of my capacity
to heal human abductees, and part of my mission was to attempt
to reach and restore as many as I could. That mission brought
me into contact with you, but the two of you have been surveilled
by our group since your partnership began. Early on, we saw that
both of you were willing to ask the right questions, regardless
of the risk. We've watched you closely over time, monitored your
activities, any significant changes."

"You knew about my abduction, then?"  As soon as the words
leave Scully's lips, Mulder's fingers lace through hers.

"Yes, but we were powerless to stop it, to stop any of them,
or the attempt to create hybrids...You...Agent  Mulder's sister....
we couldn't risk being discovered.... It was our hope, however,
that somehow, we could find a way to fight together."

"You'd better be right," she murmurs, hoping no one's
heard her, the squeeze of her hand tells her otherwise.
Clearing her throat,  "Go on."

"You have both undergone genetic changes we've
concealed from our mutual enemies by our group in the
hope it could be used to help wage an offensive. Simply
put, Agent Scully, some time after your abduction, it appears
you were exposed to some unknown mutagen that altered
your natural aging process. It also appears you have a
heightened ability to heal after serious injury. In other words,
you have the potential for extreme longevity."

"Fellig...," she murmurs, almost inaudible.  Mulder's nodding,
more history's come into play.

"Are you asking something, Agent Scully?"  It's Smith or what's
left of Smith, trying to respond.

"No, just go on..."

"As soon as we were aware of this fact, we sequestered
all the relevant data. It was was unclear for several years what
the corollary effect of that exposure was. But we periodically
checked our original cellular samples, and we discovered
not only multiple branching DNA strands, but the release
of certain amino acids which appeared to bind instantly to
samples of the vaccine we had in our possession. But its effect
on the vaccine was minimal--only small, incremental increases
in potency. Then approximately two years ago, The Smoking Man
abducted you."

Scully feels herself flinch but Mulder squeezes her hand.

"What we've been able to piece together is that he reprogrammed
your chip. Your risk of cancer is nil, and your fertility was
restored for a single pregnancy. For reasons we don't understand,
it appears Spender was attempting to provide  you with a chance
for motherhood, and a return to relative safety. Without a
functioning chip, you could move anywhere undetected."

"But there's always a complication, isn't there?" Mulder asks
even though he knows the answer.

"More than a complication, an event. Agent Mulder.  You were
exposed to the artifact from one of our ships, resulting in
anomalous temporal lobe function, giving you precognitive
ability that obviously would put plans for invasion in jeopardy.
We were made aware of your kidnapping, engineered by
members of the Consortium with the stated intention of
neutralizing the threat."

"And you were unable to do anything again but watch
from the shadows."  Mulder  spoke deliberately, but
the irony was there.  It was, however, lost on Smith.

"We came to understand that there was another agenda
in place, orchestrated by C.G.B. Spender. It was was
unsuccessful due to your intervention, Agent Scully,
and from what we discovered later, Agent Fowley's
as well."

"Fine.  We've just reviewed recent history. What are
you saying, Smith? How does Mulder's exposure
factor into this?"

"What you don't know is that we falsified certain
test results performed on Agent Mulder during his
captivity onboard one of our ships. Our operative found
evidence of heightened and intensified pineal gland activity
and concealed that information. As a physician Agent Scully,
you probably believe pineal gland function is essentially
vestigial. But Agent Mulder, I suspect you know the
significance of this change, and why we chose to
conceal it."

"Pineal gland function has been associated with
the 'third eye,' with the capacity to access other levels
of consciousness, other planes of existence...."

"You mean speaking to the dead."  She says it, and as
she does, she's aware there's no question in her mind
about it. In an old life, it would have been a bone of
contention, but too much has happened to question
what's being said.

"More like hearing what the dead are trying to tell us,"
Mulder responds.

"That, and the potential for telekenesis, for telepathy,"
Smith continues.  "Samples we took from you developed
branching DNA almost immediately, and when we saw
the presence of similar proteins to those of Agent Scully,
we introduced the proteins secreted by both of you to
the vaccine. The results were stunning, a breakthrough.
That was when we began to formulate the plans you
now have."

"And speaking of the plans, why are there two sets, Smith?
Just answer that directly."  Scully made no attempt to hide
her growing impatience. 'Cut to the chase,' she thinks,
'Let's get to the goddamn point.'

As if he could hear her thoughts, Smith replies. "The facts,
then, directly. It means that you and Agent Mulder give off a
linked biosignature unlike any two people on Earth. It only exists
when the two of you are in close proximity to each other,
for reasons we do not understand. It means that our enemies
can find you anywhere, except where there are large deposits
of magnatite. We developed a serum to mask those signatures,
concealed along with the vaccine in the second unit, but
there's a risk of fatality to Agent Mulder that we didn't have
the time to eliminate. When the timetable for distribution
of the virus was pushed forward, when the supersoldiers were
introduced, it forced our hand before we could perfect the
neutralizing agent. That's why there are two plans. The first
is the most feasible, but there is an obvious risk. We have no idea
what, if anything, could be done with just the proteins produced
by Agent Scully. We suspect that it may be possible to strengthen
the effects, but we have no solid evidence to support that.
In the second plan, you are protected, the vaccine is insured,
but many others face potential discovery, death or recapture.
Should that happen, the impact on resistance is obvious."

There is silence now, perhaps there's nothing else. Perhaps
the essence of Smith that remains in the box is waiting
for something.

Looking into each other's eyes, they both know there's nothing
to rely on but an intergalactic crapshoot and their utter
devotion to each other. Exhaustion and hunger are starting
to claim their bodies, but at the core, they're stronger, stronger
than this risk, stronger than any fear.

"Terrible odds, impossible choices, Scully..."

"Just like always."

It's not the first time, but Mulder can count on the fingers
of one hand the times he felt with pure and perfect clarity
why he was born, what he's supposed to do. He felt
it the moment he vowed to find his sister, the day he re-opened
the X-Files, the night in a playground when he let Samantha go.
And there was that crystalline moment after the failed trip
to England when Scully came him--whispering her promise
as they moved together, how he saw the rest  of his life
in the blue of her eyes.  Now there's this minute,
this revelation.

Studying his face, she marvels at the way his eyes are flecked
with gold in the fading daylight, and she can't help but smile as
she looses herself in them. It still amazes her how deeply in love
she is with him, how transparent she is to him now. She's past
hiding her love, past feeling shock at the daily unbelievable
that is their life, light years away from her old skepticism.
The woman who would've argued about what she just heard
is dead and gone. There's only room for believing what's in front
of her, seizing any chance that will keep them alive and help them
fight the future. She has to live by her wits, survive on instinct,
do the unexpected. She doesn't know how why, but for some
reason Montoya's parting words replay in her head. Before she
can stop herself she says the first thing that comes to mind.
It's not practical, it's not what her former self would say,
but that Dana Scully's not here.

"I think I'll have that drink now."

"I wasn't expecting that, Outlaw....Good call."  Mulder's up
in a flash, getting the bottle from the cabinet and two tumblers.
It's almost twilight now. They've been at this for six hours, and the
sunlight from the dingy windows is fading to dusk, to shades
of blue.

Striding briskly back to the table, he hands over the bottle and
glasses to her and she pours them two fingers of the amber liquid.
They're both poised to take the first shot, when the silence is
broken by Smith and a question.

"Are you ready to hear about your son?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Chapter 6

Slid onto the table, the mescal sits in front of them,
untouched. The mood's been shattered by the question that
hangs above them like a sword.

"What about our son?" Scully asks.

"With Agent Mulder abducted, we monitored your
activities more closely, soon learning of your pregnancy.
One of our operatives accessed your medical
records, and discovered the involvement of a Dr. Parenti,
a specialist in alien/ human hybrids.  We immediately
infiltrated his lab and learned that you and Agent Mulder
were going to have a son, one with a completely unique
DNA profile."

The two of them glance at each other, acknowledging
the confirmation. Mulder's throat is burning, out of the corner
of his eye he catches Scully welling up.

"Your child's genetic profile showed a tremendous potential
for telepathy, telekinesis.  He could, in fact, act as a conduit
for alien consciousness amongst the general population.
Parenti's notes confirmed this and suggested he could be
an ideal tool for use in colonization."

"Tool!" Scully spits out the word. "Our boy is not a 'tool,' Smith."
Mulder's hand brushes away the single tear on her cheek;
feeling her tremble beneath his fingertips. Scully pulls
herself taut, squares hers shoulders, grateful her voice
does not betray her.

"Your son would be used the way our enemies have tried for
millennia to use the holiest amongst us. But his life, your lives,
as is all human life, is sacred to us, you must believe that."

"Get to the fucking point, Smith."  Mulder's voice barely rises
above a whisper. He's shaking too, not with grief like Scully,
but with barely contained rage.

"Our ranks have been decimated, Agent Mulder, specifically
our leaders--all executed for treason. The only reason we have not
been exterminated en masse is that the colonists still use us
to treat abductees."

Of particular interest to our enemies have been the most sacred
amongst us, those who've have received visions, prophecies,
throughout the millennia. There is no known genetic cause,
no discernible link to specific physical traits.  The revelations
happen randomly, without any pattern detectable by our sect
or the colonizers....Your son is different, his potential obvious,
rooted in his biology.  Given the right behavioral inhibitors,
he could be the way to control millions. Consortium members
seized the information we'd stolen from Parenti's files and
returned it, killing our operative before it could be hidden or
destroyed. A faction within the Consortium acted on this
information immediately,  despite scattered reports that
Spender was seriously ill or possibly dead. We knew that
Agent Scully and your unborn child were in significant
danger..."

"Let me guess, Smith," Mulder cuts in, his voice dripping venom.
"You can't risk revealing yourselves, so you decide to wait
until she gives birth."  Scully knows he's at the edge, and
it's her touch, her warm hand cupping the back of his neck
that brings him back from the point of no return.

"I know our methods are difficult for you to accept. We had
to make difficult choices, based on necessity, on survival.
Please believe me. Work was begun immediately on a plan
to help your son, to end the threat to him, to all of us.
Unbeknownst to our enemies, we broke into Parenti's lab
a second time and retrieved a fetal tissue sample.
We manufactured a serum specific to the boy's physiology.
This was be administered before his immune system was
fully functional, eradicating any risk."

Smith's voice is eerily calm, despite a clatter of noise
in the far distance that slowly grows in its intensity. After
some static and patch of dead air, he rushes the rest,
words clipped, his voice thinning with fear. "There's not much
time left. We've located an emissary to deliver the serum,
someone you can trust, someone known to you. He will do
whatever's necessary to insure your son's safety."

Suddenly, there's another voice yelling in the background,
"Hurry, they're coming!  Finish it and I'll get the units
to Montoya."

Now Smith's yelling over an escalating din, a whir of
metal against metal. "One of our holy men had a vision...
we know you will not be able to keep your son."  The noise
reaches a crescendo, almost drowning out the last thing
Jeremiah Smith will ever say.

"Read my log...it's the last thing I can do for you."

The other voice is yelling now, "Give it to me!"
I've got the portal open..."  Then hissing, a roar of metal,
then nothing.

A minute later symbols appear, glimmering blue words decrypt
and Smith's log appears bearing his last gift. It's tersely worded,
but as the two of them read and re-read the brief entry they're
stunned by what they see. If all went according to plan, by now
anything connecting them to their son will have all been destroyed.
All that's left is a birth certificate for William Van DeCamp.

The sunlight 's fading, shadows growing around them.
They've come to the end, they've seen it all, all heard it all.

"Let's get some some air."  Mulder's pushes
away from the table and is on his feet.  Gingerly, he pulls
the string on the one bare lightbulb overhead.

"We have to talk." Scully  gives the command to destroy
everything except the formula for the vaccine and the
distribution plans, turns to to him, deliberately
holding his gaze.

"I know," he says quietly, and after he gives the order to
shut down the unit, holds out his hand, waiting for her to
rise from her chair.  Helping her to her feet, he wants to be
able to say something, but anything coming to mind seems
facile, useless in the face of today's discoveries.

They pick up their duffels from the floor and deposit them on
the bed. Digging out their denim jackets, the silence hangs
between them as they slip on the extra layer of clothing.
Mulder's first, easing the door open and stepping out of Montoya's
cabin with Scully right behind.  She leaves it cracked enough so
that a sliver of yellowish light guides them down the barely
usable porch. There's the faint cry of hawks in the distance,
the smell of pines nearby and dirt underneath their feet.
They head for the obelisk they saw when they first drove up
this morning. The only other sound is their footfalls crunching
across patches of grass and gravel. Once there, they claim
their spot, gazing up at the night sky. The glow of ancient
stars casts enough light to outline shapes and edges
of the dark landscape surrounding them. Mountains rise in the
distance, rimmed by a scattered outcropping of trees, silent
witnesses to the beginning and end of all things.

Twilight's eroded away, the last faint traces of purple nothing
more than a memory. Blue-black sky stretches above them,
a dark canopy punctured with starlight. There is a kind of awe
shared between them, one tinged with relief, with grief,
always grief, and finally, a faint glimmer of peace.

"Safe," she murmurs. "Can we really believe that?"

"I think we have to, Scully. What's our alternative?"

Scully takes slow deep breaths, first one, then
another, letting the cold mountain air fill her lungs.
She relishes the sting, the sensation of something simple,
straightforward and clean. The wind's kicking up,
blowing back her hair, and she welcomes the sharp chill
against her face. Mulder's wraps his arms around her and
pulls her close. For once, he wants only the tangible, for once
he wants to be anchored in the knowable. And what he knows
more than anything is that Scully is his one immutable truth.
Pressing her against his chest, together they keep looking
toward heaven, taking comfort in the vastness of night,
its secrets and its release.

William is safe.

They allow themselves the luxury of watching night's
unfolding. It's moonless, the few clouds left at twilight's
end have dissolved and faded, leaving a riot of stars.
Mulder points out the constellations and Scully argues
with him about Cassieopeia, while they both let the
enormity of today sink in.

Unfortunately, the end of the world's still looming large,
and the necessity of what to do next invades this temporary
refuge of theirs. It isn't long before he feels her tense in his
arms, feels his own pulse begin to race.

"I can't do it," Scully whispers, "I can't bury you again."

The raw devastation in her voice stuns him. Struggling to
make sense of what he just heard, his mind's racing.
Plan Alpha is the only real choice, despite what may happen
to him. The other risks too many lives, the chance for survival
itself. But maybe it's all finally crashing down around her, maybe
Scully has hit her own wall, she'd never quit fighting, but maybe
asking her to risk losing the only thing she has left is too much,
to spend a life running and hiding is more than she can bear.
He knows it's wrong, he knows he'll feel guilty for however
long he lives afterward, but he'll do what she wants, he has to.
They'll build a base camp, they'll try to make it work.

But he's got to know for sure, she has to say it, has to tell him.

Hands now on her shoulders, he turns her around so they're
face to face. "What do you mean?" He knows she can
see the pain and disbelief in his face, but he can't hide it.

There's something deep and unreadable in her eyes,
then a decade of loss, death, and love washes over
her features. Love and fierceness so strong it makes his
heart clench in his chest, grips him to the core.
His equal, his other half, he will never doubt her again.

"Tomorrow morning, you and I are going to take that serum,
and you, Mulder, will not die.  Understand me?  I will not
bury you again."

"Is that a dare, Scully?" The starlight glints in his eyes, and
there's the same luminescence dancing in hers.

"No, it's an order."

Hanging his head in mock defeat, he decides to milk it for all
it's worth with huge sigh and shrug of his shoulders, "You're taking
all the fun out of this, Scully. Looks like it's all settled then."
"Can I at least interest you in having that drink now, Outlaw?"

"For starters."

He starts to say something, but she's already started for
Montoya's shack, yelling over her shoulder, "Still keep you
guessing?"

"Everyday, Scully,"  he shouts back, loping toward the shack
until they were side by side. "Everyday."
 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Chapter 7
 

"You're slipping," she teases him as she opens
the door. "I gave you an opening back there and....
zip, nada."

"Just trying to lull you into a false sense of security..."
Mulder slips his arm around her waist and ushers
her to the kitchen table.

"And then...?" Scully pivots on her heels, making sure
she can get a good look at him. This is a serious game
they're playing, after all.

There's a kind of yearning in her eyes that registers
with him, something he understands. For now, they
desperately need to ignore the obvious, the inevitable.

"And then, I'll be workin' my mojo on you....The mojo,
Scully, against which there is absolutely no defense."
He hands her a shot of mescal and snags one for
himself, waiting to see how far she wants to take this.

With a grin that shines through her own exhaustion,
she chooses her words carefully, making sure the
innuendo's firmly in place.

"That's a pretty big assertion, Mulder.  You sure
it''ll stand up under scrutiny?"

Clinking his glass against hers, he's about a hundred
miles past tired, but she's thrown down the gauntlet.
Digging into his private reserve of wolfish charm, he
leans in, his voice low and gravelly, "I'm a dangerous
man, Scully, don't make me have to prove it to you...."
He doesn't need to say anything else, she's laughing
now, and that's enough.

With a deep breath and a flick of the wrist, her mescal
disappears in a single swallow.  It's a silky burn all
the way down, and almost immediately, she can feel
the letting go, her muscles relaxing as the combination
of 100 proof and the day's events claim her. Wiping
the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand,
she's treated to the sight of Mulder mimicking her,
following up with a lick of his lips.

The sandpaper warmth spreads down his throat,
expands through his chest, and the knots holding him
up start to work themselves loose. Nodding in
acknowledgment at the relief in her eyes, he collects
their empty glasses and sets them back on the table.

The day's over. They're still standing after all that's
been said, all they've found out.  With what seems
like Herculean effort, he walks slowly to the curtained
bathroom to relieve himself and splash some water
on his face. When he returns, Scully's gingerly touching
the second unit, her fingertips skimming along its
edges.

For the first time in his life, he can honestly say he's
seen enough for now. Gently pulling her away,
he presses kisses along her wrist, stilling when he
sweeps against the the subtle drum of her pulse.

Turning to get a better look at him, she sees the
resolve deep in the green of his eyes, "Mulder..."

"Scully, it's time for a pit stop on the 'Save The Planet' tour."

"We need to see what's in the other unit, get a look
at the vaccine."  She doesn't mention the serum,
she doesn't need to.

"It'll keep 'til later....C'mon...." With that, he leans over and
with one hand, shoves the two units and the assorted
weapons to the far side of the table.

Pulling the kitchen chairs away from the table so they
face each other, the two of them ease themselves
into the rickety seats. Shrugging off his jacket, he lets
it drop to the floor; she doesn't even bother to take hers off.
Slumping down low and spreading his long legs,
Mulder lets his head loll against the back of the chair.

Scully turns hers backward and straddles it, leaning forward,
arms hanging loosely at her side, chin resting on the
uppermost wooden rung. Wisps of her newly bobbed hair
tickle the corner of her mouth, and she blows them away
with a puff of breath. Her eyes slip shut and she starts to drift,
but her reverie's soon interrupted by Mulder and what
sounds like a stream of consciousness rant.

"Burned out, dog-tired, done for, done in, drained,
finished, flagging, haggard, played out..."

"Mulder," she tries to cut in, opening her eyes and giving
him a look she hopes gets through to him.

He forges ahead unabated, "Spent, wasted, weary,
whacked, worn, worn out...." Pleased with himself that he's
got her attention, "Sorry, were you trying to say something?"

"I was going to ask you that, actually."

"Just trying to describe our current state of being."
Feel free to jump in if I've missed something."

"That's very existential of you, Mulder.  But what are we
gonna do about it?" She tries to sound pissed, but there's
too much warmth in her voice to pull it off.

"Well, I was thinking we should raid the larder since one
of us seems to be experiencing low blood sugar crankiness."
This gets him the official Scully family raspberry.  "I'm going
to ignore your unladylike gesture. Now where was I?
Oh, right....After we grab some chow, a hot shower and bed."

"Five minutes," she drawls, stifling a yawn.

"Now who's tossing out non-sequiturs?"

"Five minutes of just sitting still, OK? Then we'll eat,
wash up and sleep."

Slowly draping her arms on the chair back, her eyelids
fluter and close again. In her mind, she and Mulder are
naked, twined in Montoya's army-issued cot. Her lips brush
against his, teasing them apart with her tongue, his hands
are in her hair, her fingertips press against his spine. Warm
hands trail down her sides, polish the curve of her hips.
A nascent ache deep inside starts to revive her.  Scully
allows herself a faint smile, surrendering to something
primal and real, something the burden of their secrets
cannot touch.

Mulder pushes away thoughts about the future hidden in
boxes just feet away. Slowly exhaling, he empties his mind,
tracking each and every move she makes. It's hypnotic,
pushing away everything pressing outside the door,
everything hovering at the edge of first light. There's
nothing else in the world but her and the way she moves.

His Zen moment is a short-lived one. He fantasizes that
they're archeologists working on a dig in an Anasazi ruin.
They've spent the unearthing relics day in the dirt, the dust,
and the blistering sun, now it's time to wash off the ancient
grime. Images of them stripping down, tossing their clothes
into a tangled pile and crowding together in the tiny shower
flood his mind.

Montoya's shower is so small one person can barely fit, but
Mulder's able to improvise in his scenario.  Hot water trickles
down his chest, down her shoulder blades, across the strong
muscles of her arms. He can almost smell the soap as one
hand lathers the snake coiled low on her back and other glides
across her breast. Hit with a surge of arousal, brief, sharp
and piercing, it's enough to remind him that even though
he's bone-tired, he's not dead.

Not by a long shot.

They sit for several long minutes in the silence, Mulder's the first
to return from the land of lucid dreaming

"Scully....''

"Hmmm?"  She doesn't stir as the image of him trailing his way
down her body begins to fade. There's the sound of the chair
sliding across the wooden floor and a couple of footsteps
coming toward her. When she finally opens her eyes, Mulder's
crouched right in front of her, an amused look on his face,
smiling just enough to show her he's figured out what's
been on her mind.

"You thinkin' what I'm thinkin', Scully?"

Instead of picking up where they left off with double-entendre
and gamesmanship, she surprises them both with the
simplest answer.

"Yeah...I am."  Low and husky, her voice sends a little chill
down his spine.

"What about food and a shower?"

"Oh, I want that too. But then it's you, me and that bed."

"You coming on to me, Scully?"

"If you have to ask..."

Before she can even finish, he's up and heading to the curtained
bathroom.  Soon there's the sound of water running and a loud
command, "Get your sweet posterior over here."

Peeling off her jacket, then scooping up Mulder's from the floor,
she hangs them carefully them on a couple of nails she spies
next to the door frame. There are some habits that just won't die.
Now ready for that shower, she walks over, pulls back the
separating curtain. A small miracle 's blasting full force, hot
enough to make a small cloud of steam rise in the makeshift
bathroom. The miniscule set up is far too small for the two
of them, so it's clear Mulder's elected himself towel boy as a
fall-back plan. Leaning against the sink, he's holding out
a well-worn swath of terrycloth and a bar of what looks like
hand-rendered yellow soap.

"Madame's shower is ready."  He's biting the inside of his cheek
to keep from laughing.

"And sadly, there's no room for you, Jeeves." She gives him
the eyebrow and the once-over, and he has to fight the urge
to drag her under the spray and test his capacity for  physical
contortion.

Taking the towel and the soap, she deliberately brushes
against him as she sets them on the top of the toilet tank.
She starts to undo her jeans, and he stops her, slowly
running his hand under her t-shirt,  along her stomach,
his thumbs stroking her hips underneath her
waistband.

"Hurry up," he whispers in her ear.  "And save me some
hot water."

"Absolutely. I want you nice and clean between the sheets..."
she whispers back, her fingertips trailing up and down the
nape of his neck. "After you make me some dinner."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Streams of hot water pummel the kinks into oblivion and Scully
fully relaxes for the first time all day. The shower is about 4 feet
wide and a little more than six feet tall--a jerry-rigged contraption
using a huge tin wash tub fitted with a drain, spare pipe, nozzle
and bent wire hung from the ceiling to form a circle holding a
cheap plastic shower curtain. In a different life, Scully would've
been off put, but after today she's in heaven, or at least a
reasonable, but temporary facsimile. Keeping her head under
the stream, she tries shampooing. The yellow soap lathers easily
despite the iron in the H2O,  mixing a metallic tang with the scent
of herbs. Woodruff, maybe sage, Scully thinks. Taking her time,
she soaps every inch of her body, luxuriating in the slick feel,
and letting herself conjure up more images of them moving
together, making love with a languid abandon.

She doesn't open her eyes, but she hears Mulder's footsteps,
the area divider whooshing open, followed by the clink of glass
against the old porcelain sink, the rustle of clothes, and the
divider closing again. Disappointed that he doesn't pull back
the shower curtain to try join her, even though it's obvious it's
a physical impossibility, she wants to be touched now. But then
she's able to detect the wafting aroma of food and decides to
forgive him. 'Soon,' she tells herself, 'very, very soon' sighing
at the warm throb between her legs.

Emerging from the contraption and grabbing the towel from
its perch, Scully sees that her clothes and boots have been
removed and in their place is a blue chambray shirt Mulder
bought for himself back in Alamosa, plus a pair of soft cotton
hiking socks. Poised near the faucet is a freshly filled shot glass
of mescal. After drying off, she rummages around in a wooden
crate set under the sink and finds an extra towel, which she
leaves draped on a hook next to the mirror.

Shimmying into the shirt without bothering to unbutton it, Scully
can't help but notice it skims her mid-thigh and smiles to herself
at his choice as she rolls up the sleeves. Pulling her socks on
and smoothing hair damp hair down, she takes a quick look in
the mirror, feeling a happiness that pushes aside what's facing
them ahead. Pledging not to temp fate, she nods at her reflection,
takes a sip of mescal and decides to join him.

She's treated at the sight of dinner on the table and the wood
stove lit and throwing off enough heat so the room is comfortable.
And lo and behold, the duffels and the suitcase have been set
by the foot of the bed and her used clothes are peeking out of
a burlap sack.

As soon as he hears her coming, he hurries to finish what he's
doing by the bed. He doesn't want her to find out yet, but it's
too late. She slips beside him, peering over at his handiwork,
a half dozen wildflowers--evening primrose and wild lavender,
hastily tied with twine and resting on the single pillow.
"Do I detect the presence of mojo?"

Without turning to look at her, "Guilty as charged." He's already
had a second shot while heating up dinner, and managed to
snatch his surprise from a patch just to the side of the porch.
Shifting around, he gets a good a look at her, barelegged in
stockinged feet, drink in hand, shirt sliding down to expose one
shoulder. Her mojo's right on target, judging by the lazy roll
of heat to his groin, hardening him slowly by degrees. Dipping
his index finger in the mescal, he drags it across her lower lip
and leans down to kiss her. There's the slight burn of alcohol
flavoring the sweetness of her mouth. She eagerly responds,
flicking her tongue against his, pressing up against him, so it's
a surprise when she pulls away, finishing her shot and handing
him her empty glass.

"Feed me." She's got a sly look deep in her eyes that belies her
otherwise casual expression.

"That's it, Scully? Isn't there something else you want to say?"

"We haven't eaten all day. Besides, the food smells delicious."
She heads toward the table, but it's only a few steps before he
grabs her by the arm, whirls her around, so that she's back where
she started. His hand parts open the shirt at the collar, his fingers
trace across her collarbone, back and forth, coming to rest at the
hollow between her breasts. Licking his thumb, he drags it down
and over to the spot just over her heart.  It's drumming, even though
she's motionless, eyes half-closed.

"Mulder....' she murmurs, "I think you're right about that mojo
of yours...."

Composing his face into a mask of seriousness as she looks up
at him, her pupils wide and black with arousal. There's nothing
like payback.

"Miss Scully, dinner is served."

Mulder is at his charming best all through dinner. Snippets of Byron,
Neruda, and Rilke pepper the conversation, along with ancient stories
of creation. Eternal stories of the man and woman who find each other
in the darkness and make the world. Scully regales him with tales
of her attempt at a bad-girl adolescence, sneaking out with Melissa
to joy-ride on the back of someone's motorcycle and drinking beer
on the beach at seventeen.

They steal kisses as they drink tin mugs filled with cool well-water,
flirt shamelessly as they dine on left-over lamb and day-old
bread, served on mismatched crockery. Hungry people make the
best food critics after all, the two of them proclaiming the meal
a feast. The fact that they've had a couple of shots of the Mexican
equivalent of Everclear probably doesn't hurt either.

They would never admit it to themselves or each other, but at
the moment, they are doing all they can to ignore the evidence,
what's happened to them, what will happen tomorrow. The
discussion is carefully constructed, the flirtation deliberate, and
neither of them look at the other side of the table, at the units or
the loaded guns. Right now, denial is their best friend.
They can do it, they really can, and they throw themselves
into the task at hand.

When the talk turns to past cases, it's only the funny ones.
Forget about history, about lost sisters, lost parents--all of them
dead and gone. Forget about murdered children and cut-out
fabric hearts, a little girl with starlight hair, killers with
cold eyes, demons, lies and conspiracies. Forget about
a baby's blue eyes and full mouth.

"A" is for temporary amnesia, not the apocalypse.

A paper-thin truce with time ticking away.

The initial buzz of the mescal fades, leaving them with a glow that
they hope to take full advantage of. When Mulder gets up to shower,
Scully whispers in his ear, telling him not to overdress, it seems
like mission accomplished. They almost get through the rest of the
evening without any mention of the price the future could exact
in flesh and bone.

It starts when he's undressing, when he flashes on images of vials
and syringes. But he shakes it off, pushes it to the back of his
mind. Just a while longer, he asks whatever's out there,
just a little more time.

He emerges later with spiky, damp hair and a newly shaven face,
throwing caution to the wind, thinking that after tomorrow he'll be
able to hide in plain sight. Barefooot and gray sweatpants riding
his hips, he shoves his clothes into the gunnysack hamper and
sees the table's been cleared. Scully's standing with her back
to him, and the units and the weapons have been moved.
He can't see them, but he assumes they're right in front of her.

He guessed right, as he gets closer the units are there, and the guns
are lined up just to the side. She doesn't answer when he asks her
what she's doing. When there's still no response after the second
try, Mulder pulls her away from the table and makes her look at him.
Despite how straight she holds herself, he can feel the slight
tremble in the line of her shoulders. Blinking slowly, she's
resolutely dry-eyed. She will not cry, she will not come undone.
There are things to be dealt with here, playtime's over.

He nods and the regret rolls off him in waves, palpable, familiar.
"We don't have to do this tonight,  Scully. We've made our decision.
We can do this in the morning when Montoya gets back."

Stroking the side of his face with her fingertips, "No.  I want to;
I need to. So do you."

Hands are placed in what's now a familiar position. Instead of a flash
of bright light, there's a soft, white glow, and then the surface
gradually softens and dissolves like before. They find a second box
inside, just large enough to hold a couple of syringes, but no one's
ready yet to see what's inside.

They're drawn instead to the five shelves of vials, stacked ten to a
row. The vaccine is a reddish yellow solution, no more than 10 cc's.
Gingerly picking one up, they each hold a small container to the
light. Golden particles swirl and scatter in the crimson fluid, like
dust in the wind. Scully wonders what will happen when they add
themselves to the mix, how the protein codes will combine,
what the final product will look like.

Mulder's observation's less scientific, but no less true.
"Who knew they were predicting the future at Woodstock?
We really are stardust, Scully."

"Something divine, after all."  She takes the vial from his open hand
plus hers and returns them to the top row.

Without saying a word, she lifts the smaller box out of the unit.
There are two indentations the size of thumbprints. She looks at
him and he looks at her and there's trust, always trust, the
indestructible belief in each other. They are still each other 's
touchstones, now more than ever.

Setting his thumb in the groove first, she follows suit a second
later. The lid melts away and what's left are two syringes, 20ml,
filled with lead colored fluid. Scully picks one up and rolls it
between her fingers. It's a thick, viscous liquid, they'll have to
use a large muscle group as an injection site. Mulder's busy
examining the other one, oblivious to what's happening to
Scully. The tears have come suddenly and she's not able
to stop herself. She doesn't make a sound, as they stream
down her face, doesn't stir. If he hadn't glanced her way,
he'd wouldn't have noticed.

"Mulder, I need you to tell me something."  She doesn't let him
hold her, gently refusing his outstretched arms. Choosing instead
to stand tall, choosing to stand down the fear that's eating away her
strength like hydrochloric acid on steel.

His own fear's got him by the throat, he can't do this tomorrow if
she's not convinced this is the only way. "There was no other choice.
Too many people would been be placed at risk..."

She no longer seems to be made of bedrock. Whatever she had
her back up against is crumbling and crumbling fast.  Struggling
to breathe, she's barely able to respond. "I know....I know...."

"What is it, Scully?"  He can get close now, cupping her face in his
strong hands, wiping the tears away with his thumbs. "Shhhhh,"
is all he says, over and over. She can't see his heart cracking open,
fissures of grief that run deep inside his soul. More tears come.
Mulder wipes those away, too, until there's no more left,
until she can speak.

"I want you to tell me you're not going to die tomorrow." She needs
him to believe, her faith in tomorrow's outcome resides in him,
in the two of them believing together.

Taking her left hand, he kisses the palm, bring his lips to her ring
and kisses it too. "I'm a married man, I'm not going anywhere."

"No jokes, Mulder,  please...I need you to say it...
Please for me..."

Her voice is heartbreakingly vulnerable. Scully, who never pleads,
never begs, is asking for this one thing. He has to make things
right and act on the faith he claimed he had in that hotel room
in Roswell.

Pulling her into his arms, he whispers in her ear, "Set me as a seal
upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm."  Finding her mouth,
he kisses her long and hard, obliterating their sorrow.  Scully
responds for all she's worth, her hands snaking through his hair
as she buries her mouth against his, tastes his very soul.

Stopping only to bring his lips to her other ear, he whispers again.
"For love is stronger than death. You taught me that....
I'm not gonna die, Scully.  Believe it."

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

They're going to get ready for bed, climb between the sheets
and make love. On the surface, millions of other couples will do
the same thing tonight. But in their universe, their bed time rituals
guarantee to set them apart. Oh, they'll do things like brush their
teeth and check the locks on the door, make sure the stove's not on.
They'll also given the order to close an extraterrestrial carryall
and its cargo, one that holds the fate of humanity.

Mulder grabs the magnatite loaded pistols from the kitchen table
and hides one under the bed on his side, the side closest to the door.
After checking the clip one last time, Scully stashes hers underneath
the single pillow, which luckily for her has been offered up by
Mulder as an earlier gesture of chivalry. While he fishes out extra
army blankets from underneath Montoya's spartan set-up, she stows
the aluminum suitcase with its combination lock underneath the
duffels at the foot of the bed. Scully's willing to bet John and Jane
Doe never have to worry about hiding laptops with mega-encryption
programs, discs with MUFON contacts and underground leads,
at least a dozen fake ID's, let alone of stacks of unmarked,
untraceable bills.

All done, they pull back the threadbare sheets and climb into bed.
Mulder takes the tiny bouquet from where it rests on the pillow and
sets it on the floor nearby, so Scully can lie down. He's on his
side, propped up on one elbow, his leg thrown across her hip.
Her hair ruffles across the pillowcase, and he takes his free hand
and plays with the errant strands. Wetting her finger with a sweep
of her tongue, she caresses his beautiful mouth, a stippling touch
down his chin, his throat, all the way to his collarbone. She rubs
her legs together at the growing swell of her clit, the wetness,
the slippery pleasure.

"You can't die...." she murmurs, reminding him of his oath.

"I won't,"  he whispers. The heat crowds low in his belly, tightening
his groin--his cock's hard, solid against his leg, He wants her
desperately, like how he craves the truth. He has to have her,
like air, like water. Undoing the buttons one at a time, he pulls
her out of the shirt and tosses it on the floor. Reprising the
foreplay from before, he licks his thumb and finds her breastbone
and drags it down, down, down, When he reaches the rise
of her mons, he teases his way through the soft patch of hair,
stroking her between her legs. Bringing his fingers to his lips,
he tastes her, sweeping his tongue to capture every drop.

"Promise me," she tells him.

He is fierce and tender, and they kiss until they can hardly breathe.
They are never not in contact with one another. Mouths, hands,
are everywhere touching. Bringing his head to her breasts,
he trails his lips along their curves, licks the nipples with the
flat of his tongue. The pleasure is so intense, but she's still able
to bite his shoulder in response. There's the smell of sweat
and sage, wildflowers and metal, and desire so raw their bodies
are shaking. Together they pull off his sweatpants, her socks
and shove them aside. Twining together, naked at last,
the emotional charge is almost shocking in its intensity. Licking
the sweat from her neck, he pulls back to look at her face.
Her lips are parted and she locks him in her gaze as she reaches
down to stroke him, feeling him swell and pulse as her
hand cradles him, closing around him, urging him on.

His hand covers hers, stills it, and he slips away only so
that he can climb on top of her, covering her with his long
body. Rearing back on his heels, he kneels over her as she
opens to him. Finally sliding inside, deep, so deep she gasps,
he leans into her, and his arms wrap tightly around her, holding
her in place. Clasping her hands around the back of his neck,
she arches upward, pressing flush to his groin and he's moving
back and forth, rocking her, hitting her clit just the right way,
so hard, each stroke rippling through her. She can feel him
everywhere, he's the only thing, he's everything. Then it starts,
slow waves that take her breath, that pull her under, once
and for all. And she moves, moves, moves, undulates with
every stroke. She pushes against him, and he plunges again
and again into her tight, wet heat. He tries to tell her nothing
is stronger than they are, but he can't talk anymore, can't do
anything but feel. When he comes, it rips through him like
lightening. It's devastating, annihilating. He shudders
her name as he lowers himself to rest at her side.

It's a lifeline, it always has been.
 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Chapter 8

Fraying the border of night, the next day gradually works its way
over the horizon. Gray dawn faintly trickles through the grimy
windows of Montoya's shack; spilling slowly across the floor,
stippling the tables and chairs, the stove and sink, and finally,
the bed where the two of them lie twined together. Mulder 's
lying on his side, still facing the door, with Scully asleep,
flanking him, next to the wall.
 
Pressed against his back, her body's a ribbon of warmth
against his skin. He lets himself drift, not quite fully awake yet.
Peace.  What he feels is peace.  Some part of him wants to
freeze this moment in time, not leave this bed, not feel anything
else but this stillness. But the encroaching daylight finds him,
and his uncomplicated peace fades.  His first waking thoughts
are of their future, and of Montoya and her whereabouts.
He can feel Scully's rhythmic, steady breathing and wants
to wait just a little longer, but they need to get up,
they need to be ready.

Her arm's flung over his chest, her hand fluttering against his
breastbone, claiming him in both the kingdom of sleep and the
daylight world. Burying her face in the crook of his neck, she
whispers his name, dreaming of ordinary pleasures. But somehow
in the dream, things don't stay simple long. They end up driving,
driving--driving toward wavering figures in the dark, toward
a secret place, toward a light that recedes the closer they get.

Even in the midst of all of this, she can sense Mulder in real time.
Feeling his body shift, she's aware of his fingertips stroking
her brow, her lips. The dream disintegrates and Scully
begins to surface, her eyes fluttering open. Still drowsy, it takes
a second for her to completely focus. Mulder's looking down at her
with a slight smile curving the corners of his mouth. But his eyes
are dark and solemn, almost the color of storm clouds.
'Too serious for so early in the morning' she thinks.

"First light, Scully. Montoya should be here any time now."

First light.  She remembers and the knowledge
rushes through her, a millisecond later, she's fully
alert and pushing off the flimsy covers.

"Right.  I'm getting up."

He hands her his shirt from last night, and she shinnies into it,
partially buttoning up while he pulls on his sweats. Before she can
scramble out of bed, he pull her close and kisses her softly.

"Everything's gonna be fine today," he whispers.

"I was going to tell you the same thing," she whispers back,
holding his hand and rubbing her thumb over his wedding ring.
She feels the tightness in her chest closing up like a fist, but puts
on the best game face she can, and eases off the bed. "C'mon,
we don't have much time." He follows suit, and lets her have
the bathroom first, after he grabs some toiletries to wash up
in the kitchen sink.

They both wonder if that last thing she said was a Freudian slip or
prophetic wisdom.

While she's in the makeshift bathroom, Mulder cleans
up, pulls on a pair of Levi's and a workshirt and gets a pot
of coffee going on the stove. When she emerges, she quickly
pulls on fresh jeans and T-shirt, throws the cover hastily over
the bed and retrieves all their weapons from where they were
stowed the night before. Handing Mulder his Makarov and
Walther, they check the clips and cowboy up.  Scully slowly rolls
her neck until she can hear the vertebrae pop, while he
shakes his arms loosely at his side to get the blood going.
That done, the guns are slipped carefully under their
waistbands and into the shaft of their boots.

The light in the cabin is no longer wan and pale.
It's burnished bright,  growing stronger by the minute;
the sun pulls itself higher and higher into the sky
and still no Montoya.

Scully starts to speak, questions large in her eyes, but Mulder
abruptly turns away, striding over to grab the hissing coffee pot
before it boils over. He understands the look and is sure
she's asking herself the million dollar question. Shutting off the
stove, he snatches two mugs from the cupboard, pouring them
each a cup. It strikes him that that neither of them has gone
to the window or looked outside yet.

"What if she doesn't come back?" Breeching the silence,
she accepts the coffee, casually offered as if they're back in the
office filling out 302's.

"She's on her way, Scully..."

"How can you be sure?"

"Psychic ability, you heard the man yesterday." Nodding toward
the cabin door, "C'mon, let's take a looksee."

He strides to the rough cut slab of pine, throws the dead bolt,
and with one hand shoves open the creaking wooden barrier,
cradling his cup in the other. Scully follows, hoping for the best
and bracing for the worst.

The two of them claim spots on the weathered ancient porch,
scanning the dirt road leading out of the little compound.
It's clear and cloudless morning, the stripped down landscape
breathtaking and stark, almost glowing in the burgeoning sunlight.
A few hours from now the sky will burn turquoise and heat will
shimmer in the desert. Dine herders are already trailing along
the mountain road, past meandering past purple lupine,
along trails of white woodbine and blue-green stands of
mountain birch. Everything today is as it was the day before
and they day before that.   At least for them.

Sipping hot, black coffee, Scully's thinking about fall back plans,
event horizons, collateral damage, risk factors. She looks over
to him, puzzled by the strange calm on his face as he squints
up at the sky, hand shielding his brow.

"Mulder, you and I both know she should've have been
here by now."

"It's only been daylight for a little while....She'll be here."

He stops scanning the heavens and takes a swallow from the
mug, then rolls it between the flats of his palms, studying
the swirl it makes against the chipped ceramic.

There's a confidence in in his voice, a surety she doesn't quite
grasp. What does he know that she doesn't?  Then it hits her,
the source of this confidence. What she thought was just a flip
remark a minute ago was really a hint. He hasn't mentioned
anything since Alamosa, since the confession about help
from the Great Beyond.

"Who told you?" She's asking in such a matter of fact way,
that he has to look up at her and smile.

"Krycek. He's all about atoning these days."

It was a split second, while she was washing up, while
he was measuring coffee into the pot. Just a whisper in his
ear, his voice unmistakable, "She's coming." Two words and
he was gone before Mulder could turn around. Scully's
let in on the latest visitation as she finishes her coffee.
Cup empty, she squints up at the sky, and it takes several
long minutes before she replies.

"That's actually reassuring, although it's hard to believe Krycek
seeking forgiveness for anything....I must really be losing it."

That gets a laugh out of him. Draining the last of his coffee,
he tosses his mug and she neatly grabs it in her outstretched
free hand.

"Faith, Scully...you gotta have faith."

"I"ll work on it on my way to the kitchen sink."

Her steps are measured as she carefully walks through the open
doorway. 'Faith's the only thing keeping us afloat,' she thinks.
She washes the cups in the tin sink and prays that today,
divine intervention takes the form of one J. Montoya.
Checking their gear, she shoves back the fear that ghostly
revelations won't cut it, that bad news is already on the way.
She's halfway through a recheck of everything -- briefcase,
duffels, the units on the table, when Mulder's yell
makes her run back outside.

"Scully!  You gotta see this!"

Running back out to the porch, there's a rapidly approaching
cloud of dust, a solid, dark mass getting closer and closer.
What 's soon clear to them both, is that it's a panel truck, navy,
not new and not too old.  A couple of minutes more, when it's
in real viewing distance, Mulder makes out some rust, not too much,
just enough to look nondescript, ordinary.

Barreling toward them at racing speed, it keeps on coming until
it's in throwing distance from where they stand. Someone hits
the brakes and the vehicle lurches forward to a breakneck stop,
spewing gravel and dirt from underneath the wheels.  Whoever's
behind the wheel cuts the engine and kicks open the door.

It's Montoya.

She jumps out, slams the truck door and walks onto the porch
without saying a word. She's got a jagged cut over her right eye
that's starting to crust over and a black eye to match.

Tossing Mulder the keys, she grunts, "I need coffee."

Scully shifts to doctor mode and blocks her path, trying to get a
better look, thinking she may need to put in some stitches.
Her raised hand gets batted away, clearly annoying the
woman of the hour.

"Leave it," Montoya barks. "I'm fine."  With that, she pushes
past them both and stomps into the shack, leaving the
door wide open.

Mulder leans down to whisper, smirk on his face.
"You know, she reminds me of someone."

Scully's not pissed, but she cuts him a look that lets him know
he'll have to enjoy his little joke all by himself.

"Don't even try,"  she whispers as they follow
the other woman inside.
 

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He can tell by Scully's solid strides across the creaking
wooden floor, that she's not about to drop this.
Under any other circumstances, this would be amusing,
but truth be told, Mulder's also worried that something
serious has happened to their host. They don't need
any more complications  than they already have.

Montoya pours herself a cup of coffee and leans against
the sink. Her eyes close as she drinks the hot brew,
and it looks like she's trying to catch her second wind.

"I think you should let me look at that," says Scully,
quietly, but firmly.

Eyes till closed, Montoya sighs heavily. "I think you
need to drop it...I said I was fine and I mean it. I
just need a minute to regroup and then we need to
get down to business. There's  nothing that...."

"Trust me, she's not  going to leave it alone."  Mulder
interrupts. " By the way, nice shiner you got there.  How
'bout letting us in on what happened?"

Montoya glances up, and the two of them are parked in
front of the kitchen table like a couple of sentries at a guard post.
Draining her cup, she places it into the sink and makes a decision.
The resolve in their faces convinces her to take the path
of least resistance. Walking over to them, she drags out
a chair and plops herself down.  "Let's get this over with.
We're burning daylight."

While Scully retrieves the medical kit from their baggage, Mulder
pulls out a seat, sets it across from her and joins her.
"It looks like you had a little problem last night. "

"No big deal.  Don't get your nose out of joint over it."

"In my case that would really be a problem," Mulder quips.

That makes Montoya chuff out what might pass as a laugh,
"Yeah, I can see that."

Scully's busy at the table pulling out gauze, tape and
Neosporin from the kit. She doesn't enter into the conversation,
approaching Montoya like she would a wary stray. The other
woman doesn't resist as Scully gets a closer look at the cut.
It's fairly deep, but it's too late for sutures. They'll be a scar,
but she's fairly sure that's not something Montoya will fret about.

Mulder keeps digging, "So, you were saying..."

"It was nothing.  I was at the drop point...a biker bar.
My contact and I just finished doing the deal and everything
was on schedule.  I was leaving and some asshole tried to
get up close and personal. I wasn't in the mood.   End of story.
That's why I was late."

Cleaning the cut with dry gauze before she applies the ointment
and tapes it up, Scully feels Montoya twitch. "Are you OK?"

Glancing up, "I don't like people touching me."

"I'm sure the asshole at the bar knows that," answers Scully,
letting a trickle of warmth seep into her voice. It's not that she
feels close to this woman, or anything remotely like friendship.
But she understands her. Montoya 's flinty because she has
to be. She can't let anyone stop her, failure is not an option.

"He got in one shot, but I took care of him." It's not a boast coming
from Montoya, just a statement of fact.

"Just tell me he's got his gonads left."   Mulder's joke earns him
a grin, a flash of teeth from her, brittle and brief.

"Just barely." Looking up at Scully again. "We done here, doc?"

"Let me just ask you some questions. Any dizziness, blurred
vision...."

Montoya interrupts, "No nausea, loss of consciousness. Negative
for concussion.....I was the medic in my unit. A medic and weapons
specialist. "

"Nice combination," Mulder tosses in. "Was that also 'need to know'
for us?"

"Something like that," she responds.

She will not drop her guard, not even with them, she won't say more
than she has to. It clear to him she's utterly committed to her role,
to the success of her mission, or she'll die trying. But she's too
used to being a lone wolf, accountable to no one but herself.
 
"Check my eyes," Montoya offers to Scully,  "you'll see they're PERL."

Scully sighs and gives this stubborn woman a fleeting smile. She
says nothing but holds out her finger and watches closely as
Montoya tracks every move. Then she covers and uncovers each eye,
and those black, bottomless irises confirm what was just said. Pupils
even and reactive to light. No signs of cranial injury or hematoma.

"Aside from your external injuries you seem fine."

"Great." Getting up from the chair, she motions for Scully to sit,
while she leans back against the edge of the table. "What did the
two of you decide?  That's why we're here, right?"

Instead of sitting down, Scully grabs the chair and pushes it
back to where it was. Mulder rises without a word and shoves his
into place. The three of them ring the table, and the two of them
look at each other. Montoya stares at the units spread before her
in the silent room and waits for an answer.

"Montoya. It's time you told us some things.  Exactly how much do
you know about the offensive?"

"Why is that important? I know whatever I need to get the
job done."

"It's important because I say it is," Mulder barks, arms folded
across his chest.  He has to win this pissing match. They can't
afford her holding back, even though there are things she
can never know.

"This is what you came here for. We're here now, and we're in charge.
You better get with the fucking program. Gesturing toward Scully,
"We can't afford anyone screwing up."

Montoya doesn't respond right away to the new chain of command.
She grudgingly acquiesces, nodding to Mulder. He's the Alpha male and
Scully, by turns, Alpha female of their little pack.

"Fine...There's two strategies. Plan A, you get injected with some
kind of serum that'll keep Them from tracking you. Since I'm a medic,
I'll give you the shots, then you get the hell out of here ASAP,
carting as much ammo as we can load you up with. Once you're
out of here, you start setting up bases as many places as you can."

"And if a problem occurs?" Scully jumps in, following Mulder's lead,
making sure Montoya sees her asserting her authority.

"Then I guess it's Plan B or we're screwed."

"Actually, there's a fall-back." Scully's tone is brisk and in-charge.
"If and when it's required, you' ll have to take on additional
responsibilities. It's 'need to know,' however. Any problems
with that?"

"None."

"Good."

Mulder draws Montoya back, "Finish bringing us up to speed."

Montoya's tense now, her jaw clenched. "I break camp tomorrow
at dawn and follow you to whatever coordinates you send me.