From: "Kristel S. Oxley-Johns" <crystalj@ftconnect.com>
Date: Thu, 7 Sep 2000 10:36:53 -0700
Subject: "Hegira" by Kristel S. Oxley-Johns
Source: direct

CHAPTER FOUR - Exigency


His partner lay on the sofa, her bright head reclining on the pillow as 
Mulder sat by the window, pensively scanning the shadows of the parking 
lot below.  The soft sound of her breathing broke the pre-dawn silence 
of the room, smooth and even, peaceful and reassuring. The parking lot 
was maddeningly inactive, which left Mulder alone with his own 
thoughts. It wasn't exactly a state he cared to be in.  It meant he 
might have to actually think about Scully's close shave.

They both took risks.  It was part and parcel of who they were and what 
they did, and they went into the situation with their eyes fully open 
to the possibilities.  Collectively, they had dodged the proverbial 
bullet more times than he could count.  In some cosmically ironic way, 
it would be fitting that an act of random violence, in no way related 
to their work, should take one of them down.  But every time something 
like this happened to Scully, he felt himself go cold, shutting down 
thought and emotion for as long as it took for him to get used to the 

idea all over again.

Maybe he would he having a little easier time with last evening's near-
disaster if he didn't have the almost certain feeling that there was 
something Scully wasn't telling him.  Her expression had been carefully 
inscrutable as she told him about the drive-by shooting, but her eyes 
had continuously darted around the room, scanning every corner and 
shadow as if for some hidden threat.  Every muscle in her neck had been 
tight as a bowstring as he had tended her head wound.

He'd never survive it if something happened to her.  It wasn't 
romanticism or melodrama; it was just fact.  She was the best part of 
him and nothing else mattered to him but keeping her safe.  They had 
accepted that for now their journeys lay together, she perhaps more 
readily than he, but if he had one goal in his life now, it was to see 
Scully safely back upon the path she should have chosen long ago.  The 
path that led to a healthy, normal life.  The life she would never know 
with him.

And maybe, just maybe, he could join her in that life.  God knew he 
wanted it.  But he couldn't escape the idea that someday he would have 
to let go of her for her own good.  He couldn't allow her to lose 
anything more on his account.  But the thought that one day he would be 
required to let her go was enough to bring cold dread to his heart.

He had known a life of peace and happiness and normalcy and love, for 
too few brief years so long ago.  He'd basked in the affection of his 
parents and the reciprocated adoration of his little sister.  But on 
the day Samantha disappeared, all that had changed.

His parents had closed themselves off.  To each other, to him...there 
had been no way to breech the silence, the emptiness.  But what Mulder 
had never realized was that he had closed himself off too.  On the day 
he knew his parents' affections were withdrawn forever, he took a 
chapter from their book and shielded himself from pain by shielding 
himself from the very most basic emotions and needs of the rest of 
humanity.  He'd never loved anyone again.

Until Scully had come along, he'd never known how completely the love 
for one person could consume a soul.  There had been no way to keep 
Scully from penetrating the armor; she'd found a place within him and 
set up shop, resided there, day by day bringing him back from the 
depths of the emotionally dead.

Sadly, his eyes sought out the pale, slumbering form of his partner.  
Lying there asleep, blissfully unaware of the turmoil inside him, she 
looked almost angelic.  In the illumination of the parking lot outside, 
he could see the gentle curve of her lips, just this side of pouty.  
The sight stirred something within him and his mind, tired of the same 
old melancholy realities he'd accepted long ago, wandered back to what 
had transpired before she went to sleep.

He wanted her.  Beyond all the tenderness and devotion lay something 
more primal and instinctive.  As though what he felt for her couldn't 

be contained within his body and needed a physical outlet.  They had 
been moving slowly and steadily toward bridging that final gap between 
them for ages and tonight Scully had finally given him the sign that 
she was ready.

He didn't know what had changed, but he had watched it happen gradually 
since she had rescued him after he had been taken from the hospital 
during the illness that had almost killed him last autumn.  Day by day, 
he had witnessed her slowly opening up herself, like a flower 
unfurling.  He smiled in the darkness.  Hadn't she once said much the 
same thing to him?

It had happened when she stopped rejecting his theories out of hand.  
Her science was as much a defense mechanism as anything else.  Whenever 
Scully wasn't feeling secure, she resorted to it to close out the 
things that frightened her.  

It had happened when she had comforted him and grieved for him at his 
mother's death.  She had set her science and her rationalism aside to 
simply accept the truths he needed to know.  

It had happened when she opened herself up to the search for Samantha, 
taking up the standard he had allowed to fall.  For the first time in 
their seven year partnership, she had taken that mantle upon herself, 
knowing that however bizarre the facts she might encounter were, she 
had to find them, to find Samantha, for Mulder's sake.


It had happened tonight in this very room when she had touched him, 
when she had made a move that couldn't be construed as anything other 
than that of a lover slowly feeling her way.

If Samantha hadn't been in the hotel room with them, he would have made 
love to Scully tonight.  He would have lost himself in her softness and 
warmth and completed the final step on a journey that they had started 
unknowingly one morning seven years ago when a fresh-faced, much more 
innocent Scully had entered his office and firmly entrenched herself in 
his life and his heart.

Mulder stifled a sigh and leaned forward, laying his face against the 
cool glass of the window.  He'd be wiser not to consider this too long 
or hard.  That way lay madness...

He heard a sound behind him and turned from the comforting chill of the 
window to see Scully sitting up, her crystalline eyes reflecting the 
light from the parking lot.

"Good morning," he replied with a gentle smile at her.

"Mornin'." She yawned and nodded at him.  He wondered what had awakened 
her; it was still very early.

"Everything okay?  Your head--"

"It's fine, Mulder.  I'm okay."  She reached over to the end table to 
turn on the lamp.

"Then if you don't mind me asking, why are you awake?  It's still 
early."

She shrugged.  "I went to sleep early."

She looked adorably tousled; her hair just a little fluffier than he 
normally saw it, her eyes still half-lidded with sleep.  It wasn't a 
Scully he got to see very often.  Damned good thing, too, or he'd never 
be able to concentrate.  And after what had happened before she went to 
sleep, he was just a little too vulnerable to distraction...

"I had a dream."

The non sequitur brought him fully around to face her.  A troubled 

frown was etched across her forehead as she plucked restlessly at the 
blanket covering her lap.

"Is this leading up to a human-rights speech?" His attempt at levity 
merited a tiny smile gracing her lips.

"About my abduction."

He was out of his chair and crossing the room to her before he even 
realized what he was doing.  They sat facing each other, separated only 
by the distance of their legs between them.  The lamp behind her cast 
Scully in silhouette, making her features difficult to discern, and her 
hair glow like living fire as the light shone through it.

"What happened?" He asked softly.

She shook her head.  "I don't know.  It was...strange, Mulder.  More 
linear that what I usually experience.  I seemed to see and hear things 
in so much more detail than I normally can.  It was disturbing."

He studied her face intently as she looked away, searching for words.  
"I don't know," she sighed finally, bracing her elbow against the back 
of the sofa and leaning her head on her hand.  "Maybe it's just the by-
product of how much I've been thinking about Samantha lately, a 

subconscious projection of the things I have seen and heard about 
abductions, manifested in the form of dreams about my own experience."

Mulder gave her a lopsided grin.  "When'd you study psychology, 
Scully?"

She smiled back.  "I guess you're just rubbing off on me."

And speaking of distraction...

You've got a dirty mind, Fox Mulder.

He sought refuge from the images her statement invoked in self-
deprecating humor.  "Better go shower."

That earned him a small laugh, which drifted into silence as she turned 
introspective once more.  "Krycek said something I can't quite figure 
out," she told him, changing subjects.  "He said that the smoking man 
gave me much more than I realized when I went with him last week.  I 
don't know what that means."

"You can't think of anything he might have been referring to?"

She shook her head.  "No," she said finally.  A troubled frown drew her 
mouth downward.  "It doesn't matter, I guess.  It's not like Krycek is 
the most reliable of sources."

There it was again, that evasive, defensive look.  There was definitely 
something troubling her.  Something she wasn't sharing with him.  What 
wasn't she saying..?

He was still pondering how to broach the subject when Scully spoke 
again, breaking the silence.

"I never got to ask you how things went up north.  Did you get 
everything taken care of?"

Nice way to change the topic, Scully, he thought cynically.  But 
looking at her, he could read nothing in her eyes but genuine concern 
and interest.

"Yup."  He couldn't repress a look of gleeful satisfaction as he 
announced with relish, "I'm selling it all."

Scully whistled under her breath.  "You're not going to have to work 
for the FBI anymore once that check comes in."

"Yeah, well, don't start moving your things into my desk just yet.  
The, um, the plan has changed a little bit, in that the estate may have 

to be split in half now," he gestured to the bedroom where Samantha 
slept, "but my intentions are still the same.  After I pay the 

inheritance taxes, which, by the way, are not inconsiderable, I'm going 
to hook up with the boys to sock a portion of the proceeds away 
someplace untraceable, in case we ever lose contact with our resources 
here.  After that's done, the rest will be donated to the Center for 
Missing and Exploited Children."

Scully stared at him in astonishment, a sudden sparkle of tears 
touching her eyes.  "Mulder...that's wonderful."

He squirmed uncomfortably.  Her look was just a little too admiring for 
his taste.  "Well, it seemed appropriate."

They fell silent as they each considered the children they hadn't been 
able to save across the years.  Lucy Householder, a woman whose 
childhood had been stolen from her long before they ever encountered 
her.  Gibson Praise, still missing after two years, last seen in the 
company of a man who intended to see him returned to those who would do 
him harm.  Emily...

Mulder's mind skidded away from that one.  He had never been sure how 
to feel about Emily, a child conceived of Scully's ova, born and bred 

for an experiment, nothing more.  All he knew was that he had watched 
Scully's heart breaking for days and been completely unable to do 
anything about it.  He'd never felt more useless in his life and the 
knowledge that the tragedy had ever touched her only because he had 
become a part of Scully's life was a bitter pill for him to swallow.

Somehow, she never held it against him.  He was damned if he knew why 
not, but she didn't.  Not so himself, he recognized where the blame 

lay.  Scully's abduction, the death of her sister, her cancer, her 
infertility, her near-death of an alien virus, the discovery and 
subsequent loss of a daughter she had never known she had...all the 
responsibility lay on his shoulders.  Even her older brother knew it, 
but not Scully.  Or if she knew it, she never said as much.

There were a lot of things it seemed they never said.

*     *     *     *     *

"How's the search through Mom's journals going?" Samantha asked, 
lifting her head.

Agent Scully had gone to retrieve the results of the blood tests she 
had performed two days ago.  Samantha sat in a chair, her legs curled 
up beneath her, reading the journal she had allegedly written when she 
was fourteen.  Occasionally, something she found in the book brought 
back a childhood memory that she would discuss with Fox in a low voice. 
With fresh clothes and a couple healthy meals under her belt, she felt 
much less the hunted creature she had been two days ago when Agent 
Scully had first found her in Fox's apartment.

"I haven't found anything yet that I didn't already know," her brother 
shrugged.  "I started in 1954, when Mom graduated high school with um, 
that man, Burke, and have gotten through to 1958, the year she and Dad 
got married.  She jilted him for Dad, that much is sure, and not 
without some serious doubts about the decision, but so far I haven't 
come across anything mentioning his work for the government."

"Did you know he told me he worked for the IRS when I was young?" 
Samantha asked, unable to suppress the undercurrent of bitterness that 
colored her tone whenever she thought of all the lies her father had 
told her.  The Father of Lies, she thought cynically.  Fox and Agent 
Scully certainly appeared to hold him in league with the Devil.

"He's not quite that evil," Fox replied with a chuckle.  "Close, 
though."

"I'm still having a hard time wrapping my brain around the idea that 
he's responsible for all of it..." her voice trailed off sadly.  "I 
never even suspected."

She had spent most of the previous day playing question and answer with 

Fox and Agent Scully, learning from them what they knew of her 
abduction and the Project for which it had been carried out.  Learning 
of all the others who had suffered as much or worse than she had.

"There's no way you could have, Samantha," Fox reassured her.


"What was done to me is one thing," Samantha continued, her voice 
cracking with dismay.  "Maybe I could live with that, but to know it 
was done to so many others, done to innocent *children*...Knowing the 
way my life was nearly destroyed, all I went through before I could 
begin to heal...And now to learn that it's not even over!  I've got a 
neurological disorder that will never go away because of what he did.  
As long as I have to seek treatment for my epilepsy, I'll never be able 
to forget.  And neither will the other people abducted as children, not 
if what you and Agent Scully hypothesized is true."

Fox looked uncomfortable in the face of her distress, she realized.  
They had spent the last two days gradually feeling their way toward one 
another, but it was not unreasonable that Fox should not know how to 
comfort her just yet.  And really, she had no business unburdening 
herself on him at this time.

"Did you find anything about my abduction in Mom's journals?" She 
asked, changing the subject.

"The journals from 1973 aren't in here," Fox replied, picking through 
the stack.  "Here's one that ends in late 1972, but they don't pick up 
again until the end of '75."

"Which means that whatever Mom might have known about what happened to 
me is gone, right?"

"That's exactly what it means."  Fox sighed with disgust, tossing the 
book in his lap aside.

"Do you mind if I help?" Samantha asked her brother cautiously.  She 
didn't know why she felt looking at her mother's journals was a right 
reserved for Fox alone, but she still felt much the outsider, unsure of 
her place in his life and as his sister.

"Please," he replied, rolling his eyes in mock gratitude.  He shoved 
the stack he had brought up from the boxes in the trunk of his car 
toward her and she began sorting through them.  Perhaps if she started 
with her own childhood, she might regain more memories...

*     *     *     *     *

Morning slid its way into afternoon as Mulder sat with Samantha reading 
their mother's journals, awaiting Scully's return and the information 
she would bring.  The day had passed comfortably, as they continued to 
sift through the contents of their mother's journals.  They shared a 
light lunch, talking of inconsequential things.  There was still a lot 
of information he didn't have about Samantha's life over the last 
twenty-seven years, but they were gradually easing into a level of 
comfort at which they could begin discussing more personal issues.

Samantha had fallen silent after lunch, engrossed in her reading.  A 
troubled frown creased her forehead, but she said nothing.  It wasn't 
unlikely that she was still mulling over the issue of her father or 
possible father and his lies.  He'd be troubled too, if he'd had to 
absorb as much information as she'd had to these last couple days.

Mulder lifted his head from reading a journal chronicling his first 
year to peer out the window once more and froze.  The hair on the back 
of his neck prickled.  Two cars, unremarkable in any way, were 
approaching down the winding parkway leading to the hotel.  He had no 
reason to suspect anything, except that they both had government 
plates.  He didn't recognize the men within the vehicles.

He leapt to his feet, springing into action.

"Samantha, get our bags!  Hurry!"

She stared at him, startled, then scurried to retrieve their bags. 
Luckily, Scully had taken the Paperclip files with her, so they 
wouldn't need to worry about losing those, but leaving the journals 
behind was going to hurt.  Pausing in indecision, he grabbed the gym 
bag containing Samantha's clothing and picked up two stacks of journals 
he had pulled out of the boxes for closer scrutiny, cramming them into 
the bag.  Lastly, he grabbed the pistol Samantha had arrived with off 
the shelf in the closet.

At Samantha's frightened exclamation that the cars were pulling into 
the parking lot, he quickly re-zipped the bag and loaded it over his 
shoulder.  "Come on!" he commanded, grabbing her arm and pulling her 
behind him out of the room.

Just outside their room was the door to the second floor janitors' 
closet.  Mulder picked the lock, casting worried glances over his 
shoulder, and pushed Samantha into the room, closing the door behind 
him gently just as footsteps were heard on the stairs.

"Get down!" he hissed at Samantha, crouching low.  A shadow passed 
across the small window in the door, and Mulder slithered backwards, 
his weapon drawn, forcing Samantha deeper into the dark room.  She 
banged against a laundry cart with a surprised outcry, which she 
quickly stifled. 

Minutes wore on interminably as they listened to the thumping and 
crashing of the room they had occupied being ransacked.  He shook his 
head wryly.  These people really had no concept of subtlety when there 
was someone needing to be erased.

Mulder spared a second to mentally beg Scully's forgiveness that he 
hadn't been able to bring her belongings as well.  Gradually, the 
noises tapered off, and the only sound in the room was their rapid 
breathing, and the noise of his own heart thumping.

More shadows passed by the window and then one paused, testing the 

handle of the door.  Mulder slowly, steadily took aim, waiting for the 
door to open, but then that shadow, too, passed and he heard a low 
voice report, "They're not up here," to another unseen party.

He and Samantha sighed with relief in tandem, releasing their bated 
breaths.  "Fox, are they gone?" Samantha whispered urgently.

"Probably not," he replied as quietly as he could and still be 
coherent. "Most likely, they're going to search the premises for a 
while.  We'll hang out here until we know they're gone.  There's only 
four of them, so providing they don't all land on us at once, we have a 
good chance."

"How did they find us?" She demanded frantically.

"It doesn't matter...what we need to focus on now is a way to get out 
of here."

He crouched silently for several long minutes, watching the rectangle 
of light in the door intently.  No sound or movement reported from the 
hallway outside, and still he sat, watching and listening, as his legs 
began to tingle and his back ached.  He wasn't sure how much time had 
passed that they crouched there breathlessly.

"Don't move," he whispered to Samantha and began to scout the dark 
confines of the utility room.  By feel he navigated around carts of 
cleaning supplies and buckets and vacuum cleaners.  In the scant light 
that made its way in from the hall outside, he could see the shape of a 
doorway on the far end of the room.  A closer inspection revealed it to 
be an elevator.

"Damn," he muttered.

"What?" Samantha's whisper turned into a squeak of alarm.

"Nothing," he replied.  "Nothing to worry about."

There was no sense in telling her he may very well have gotten them 
trapped.  If someone came through that elevator, there was no place to 
go but the way they came, facing near-certain exposure.

He crawled back in Samantha's direction and sat on the floor beside 
her.  "We may be in for a wait," he murmured.  "There's an elevator 
over there that quite likely leads down to the basement or laundry 
room.  If we wait a few hours, we can go down and see if we can find a 
way out from there."

"How?" Samantha's voice hitched in panic.

"I don't know...maybe we can make contact with the hotel manager.  She 
knows some of my friends.  She might be able to help us, or at least 
get word to someone who can.  We'll just have to wait and see.

Silently, he and Samantha huddled near each other in the dark room, the 
smell of cleaning agents strong and pungent in the air.

"We'll be fine," he reassured her as she shuddered beside him.  
Overcoming his reticence, he reached over and patted her hand.

He sighed, realizing that it was futile trying to remain aloof in the 
face of her fear.  She wasn't like he and Scully.  She had never been 
chased through mountain caverns by black-ops troops, or hidden in 
cornfields while helicopters searched for her overhead.  She was a 
frightened woman torn from her peaceful and happy existence and thrown 
into an odyssey of fear and danger.  She needed him and ultimately, no 
matter whom she was or claimed to be that fact would be the end of his 
resolve to remain detached from her. She leaned her head against his 
shoulder and sighed, "I'm scared, Fox."  Her voice cracked.  "I try not 
to think about it, but I'm so afraid I may never have the chance to see 
my children again!"

"Samantha, listen to me," he turned and took her firmly by the 
shoulders, trying as best he could to look her in the eyes in the 
darkness of the room.  "That's not going to happen.  Scully and I won't 
let it happen.  We'll protect you until we can stop whoever is 
threatening you, and then we'll see you back safe with your family, do 
you hear me?"  He lifted a hand and stroked her hair gently.  "You'll 
be fine, I promise."

Is that a promise you're going to be able to keep, Fox?  His inner 
voice of doubt nagged him.  You were supposed to take care of her when 
she was eight and look what you allowed to happen...

No, he told himself stubbornly.  Not this time.  This time he would get 
it right.  This time he would protect her.

He placed his comforting fraternal arm around her shoulders and allowed 
her to lean her head against him again.

This is your chance, the thought echoed through his brain again and 
again.  Your final chance...

*     *     *     *     *

The darkness and silence had lulled him into a stupor and Mulder 
started at the sound of the utility elevator on the move hours later.  
Samantha gasped beside him, going rigid with tension.  Mulder aimed his 
gun carefully in the direction of the elevator.  It would be lit from 
inside, giving him the advantage of seeing his adversary first.  
Rattling and thumping, the utility elevator ground to a halt on their 
floor and the doors slowly slid open.

"Hold your fire, Mulder.  It's me," came the familiar voice from 
inside.  Releasing the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, 
Mulder pulled back his weapon and turned the safety on as Frohike 
emerged from the elevator.

"The hotel manager, Claire, contacted me," Frohike explained in a rough 
whisper as they rose from the floor.  "She's an admirer of mine."

"So what's the situation out there, Casanova?"

"Two goons in a fleet sedan are out in the parking lot," the short man 
replied.  "The other two took off, according to Claire.  Your room was 
trashed, but it didn't appear that they took anything."

"They didn't take anything?"  Mulder's mouth pulled down in a frown.  
That meant whoever had sent the spooks was definitely after *someone*, 
rather than something.  Samantha?  Or Scully?

Jesus, if Scully came back unawares, she'd be walking right into a 
trap.

"Has someone called--"

"Byers is taking care of it.  We have a way to get you out of here and 
we have someplace you can go that's off the map."

"What about Scully?" Mulder insisted.

"We'll send her along to join you when it's safe," Frohike reassured 
him.  "We just have to make sure she isn't tailed first.  Don't worry, 
Mulder.  I'll comfort her while you're away."

"Try it and she'll put you down for the count," Mulder warned him.  
"Okay, what have you got?"

"A linen service van.  I'm even in uniform," the man replied.  "We can 
smuggle you out in back.  It's loaded with provisions already, so as 
soon as we're certain no one's following you, you can drop me off and 
head on out."

"Good.  Let's go."

Moments later, they were down in the laundry room.  Adjacent to that 
was a large storage room, which boasted a loading bay for deliveries.  
The bay was in an alley behind the building, while Frohike had told 
them the sedan was parked in the lot in front.  The linen van Frohike 
had spoken of was more of a minivan, perhaps slightly larger, 
customized to provide cargo room in back rather than additional 
seating.  Fortunately, it also lacked the surrounding windows that most 
family minivans had.  Frohike had conveniently backed the vehicle up to 
the building, leaving only a foot or so of a gap between the roll-up 
loading bay door and vehicle.

Glancing around to be sure no one was watching, Samantha leaped into 
the back of the van.  Before Mulder could follow her, Frohike grabbed 
his arm.

"Is that who I think it is?"

"Yeah," Mulder replied.  "Probably."

"She's hot."

Mulder clamped his lips against the impulse to warn the little man that 
if he didn't shut up, he'd be found days from here stuffed head-first 
into a laundry bag.  He discarded the effort of a retort and hopped 

into the back of the van, listening to Frohike's chuckle as the man 
slammed the doors closed behind him.  Moments later, the van swayed as 
he climbed into the driver's seat.

"Head's down," he warned them through the safety cage that prevented 
items in the back from flying forward and hitting the driver in the 
event of an accident.  With the number of crates and boxes stacked in 
the back of the vehicle, Mulder imagined that was a good thing.  His 
legs were already beginning to cramp in the confined space as the van 
lurched into motion.

*     *     *     *     *

"Agent Scully?"

Her eyes widened in surprise at the voice on the other end of the line.  
"Byers?"

She couldn't think of a single time any of the Gunmen had contacted her 
at the office.  Why in God's name would Byers be calling her?

"We need to see you right away," he stated gravely.  "Can you get 
here?"

"Yes, but--"

"We can't talk over the phone," he cut her off, his voice tense.  
"We'll wait for you at the office."

She frowned at the phone as the dial tone buzzed in her ear.  Sighing, 
she hung up and pushed her chair away from her desk, where she had been 
catching up on paper work to make herself appear industrious.  Skinner 
hadn't questioned her about Mulder, for which she was grateful.  He had 
long since gotten in the habit of not requiring them to file a 302 
before beginning an investigation, as long as they got it in within a 
couple days.  That gave them a little lead-time before announcing to 
the world they were on a case.  It prevented certain interested parties 
from mopping up the evidence before she and Mulder ever had a crack at 
it.

She'd had another reason for occupying herself with menial paperwork 
throughout the afternoon.  It took her mind off the information she had 
received that morning when picking her test results up from the lab.

"You're sure this is correct?" Scully had asked as she studied the 
results of the DNA comparison between Mulder and his sister.  And 
sister she definitely was, that much was certain.

"It certainly is anomalous," commented Dr. Palmental, the FBI 
geneticist helping her analyze the results of the test.  "They both 
have this same DNA sequence, but I've never seen it before."

"I have," Scully had muttered grimly, tucking the papers and films into 
the manila envelope she had pulled them from.  "I need you to run some 
more tests for me..."

Hours later, with everything sent off to the lab, Scully had returned 
to the basement office she shared with Mulder, taking her briefcase 
full of files and the results of Mulder and his sister's DNA tests with 
her.  With the door firmly closed, she pulled the records out of their 
sleeve once more and scowled at them.

Yes, she had seen that DNA sequence before.  In the form of a virus 
inhabiting chimera cells found in an ice-core sample in Alaska.  The 
same virus she had found in her own bloodstream, giving her irrefutable 
proof that the cancer which had nearly killed her was the result of a 
conspiracy designed to keep Mulder and her away from the truth.  
Whether that virus was actually extra-terrestrial in nature, or simply 
man-made, they had yet to determine.  They did know, however, that it 
was not the same black-oil virus that was undeniably of extra-
terrestrial origin which she and Mulder had both been infected with and 
vaccinated against on separate occasions.

Why had she never thought to check whether that virus still existed in 
her system after her cancer had gone into remission?  The idea had 
occurred to her as she and Dr. Palmental had been preparing the tests 
on the tissue samples provided in the files she had received, and so 
she had had her own blood drawn for a new analysis, with the same 
emphasis as the others.  Obviously, neither Mulder nor his sister had 
the illness that had almost ended her life and had definitely ended the 
lives of at least nineteen other women in Allentown, Pennsylvania.  
Could it be the virus was dormant and would only become active again if 
she removed the implant in her neck?  Samantha had a similar implant, 
which explained why she was not ill...but what of Mulder?

How could it be possible for a microchip to render a virus inactive?  
Limited as her understanding of the implant and its purpose was, that 
still seemed a stretch.  And yet, she had seen persuasive evidence that 
these implants did hold the key to eradicating at least some forms of 
cancer from the human body.  No matter how her scientific understanding 
rebelled against it, she could not deny the connection.

But there were other, deeper concerns attached to this whole issue.  
What the hell was the virus doing in Mulder's blood to begin with?  
He'd never been abducted.  What did it mean that he had this virus in 
his system?

It was at that point that her head had begun to hurt and she had set 
the test results aside to focus her thoughts on less confusing matters.  
There was nothing she could do until she knew for certain whether or 
not the virus was shared by all the abductees in the Paperclip files.  
So she had sought refuge in the tedious miscellany that littered the 
day to day life of an FBI agent.

Sighing in the aftermath of Byers' call, she began packing her 
materials away and left the office, turning off the lights behind her.

*     *     *     *     *

"There's been an incident at the hotel," Byers said grimly.  His voice 
was pitched low and Langly had activated the latest in eavesdropping 
prevention hardware upon her arrival.  Frohike, surprisingly, was no 
where in evidence.  She listened as he explained all that had happened, 
reciting the story that had reached them from the hotel manager via an 
information network complex enough to boggle the sharpest of minds.

"Mulder and his sister are headed someplace safe with Frohike," Langly 
picked up the tale, casting nervous glances around the room, as though 
expecting spies to come creeping out of the walls.  His voice dropped 
to a whisper.  "From there, we've given them directions to a safe-
house.  They're going to have to get there via indirect routes, so it 
may be several days until they arrive."

"How do I get there?" Scully asked, keeping a firm grip on the anxiety 
welling up within her.

Byers shook his head regretfully.  "Agent Scully, if someone is looking 
for Mulder, you're the first person they would follow to try to get to 
him.  If you go there too soon, you may jeopardize what security we've 
been able to provide."

Scully fell silent, her face drawn in tight, worried lines.  Byers was 
right, of course, but that didn't make the fact any more comforting.  
The idea of Mulder out there, hunted, without her to cover his back was 
as troublesome as it had ever been.  "How soon can I go?"

"We'd recommend waiting a few days," Langly said.  "Maybe even a week, 
until whoever might be tailing you to find Mulder is fairly confident 
that he isn't with you.  Then we may have the means to slip you out 
unnoticed and you can go to join them."

"Two days," she replied unyieldingly.  "Wednesday I'll be retrieving 
some important test results from the FBI labs.  I plan to be on the 

road that afternoon, no later.  Can you make it happen?"The two men 
exchanged concerned looks, and then agreed in unison, their faces 
sketched with identical expressions of pained resignation.

*     *     *     *     *

The nighttime late-March air was crisp.  Mulder and Samantha sat in the 
open rear hatch of the erstwhile linen van with sleeping bags were 
wrapped around their shoulders as they ate cold sandwiches. 

Frohike had driven for over twelve hours, heading inland and to the 
north.  When it was apparent no one had followed they dropped him off 
at a bus station in a relatively anonymous little town and proceeded on 
their own journey, watching for tails through the darkly tinted 
windows.  

Samantha had slept fitfully in the back while Mulder drove, 
occasionally consulting a map as he traveled southward.  The location 
of the mountain retreat was such a closely held secret that Frohike 
wouldn't even speak of it aloud.  He had handed Mulder the map and 
advised him to shred and/or burn it and the accompanying instructions 
as soon as he was confident he had memorized the route.

They had driven into the early morning hours, taking as many back roads 
as they possibly could, until they reached a secluded, wooded location 
in which to eat and grab a few hours of sleep.  Mulder's gun sat on the 
floor beside him for immediate access should he need it.  Samantha 
still held the pistol she had brought with her when she had first 
arrived.  Her eyes held the wary, tense look that he had seen in her 
the first day she had come to them, fear and distress etched deeply 
into the tightly knit brow and along her drawn mouth.  He longed to say 
something reassuring to her, but could not decide exactly what that 
should be.

The soggy sandwiches were washed down with stale bottled water and then 
Mulder spread out his sleeping bag on the floor of the back of the van 
with his head near the open hatch.  It would be cold leaving the 
tailgate open all night, but they could not allow for the possibility 
of someone sneaking up on them.  He spared a worried thought for 
Scully, offering up a silent entreaty to whatever fates might be paying 
attention that Byers had been able to get in touch with her in time to 
prevent her returning to the hotel.  She must be climbing the walls 
right about now with concern for them.  Until she joined them at the 
mountain retreat, they were both going to spend some restless nights 
wondering about how the other was faring.

"Thinking about Agent Scully?" Samantha asked out of the blue and 
Mulder realized he had sighed aloud.

He gave her a chagrined smile.  "She'll be worried about us."

"You two really do take care of each other, don't you?"

"Yeah, that's what we do."

"Good," Samantha gave a short, decisive nod.  "I wasn't too certain.  
Some of what I read about you two on the internet was ambivalent where 
she was concerned, because she isn't a believer."

Mulder frowned.  "She's a scientist, that's all.  And a damned good 
thing for me, too.  Scully...Scully's the one with her feet on the 
ground.  I'm not like that.  She's spent half our partnership digging 
my ass out of one kind of trouble or another."

"I doubt she sees it that way, Fox," Samantha commented softly.  "And 
I've seen enough in the last few days to know that you worry about her 
every bit as much as she does about you."

"The difference is, she needs it a lot less," he replied.  "She's been 
through a lot since we met, most of it relating back to our partnership 
and the X-Files.  I'd be dead if it weren't for her...several times 
over."

Samantha gave him a surprised glance.  "Seriously?"

"Um-hmm," he nodded, taking another sip of water and looking away 
uncomfortably.  Yeah, Scully was his savior, all right.  But if he 
didn't turn this conversation to other topics soon, he was going to end 
up spilling the whole sordid tale to Samantha, about his frequent and 
colossal fuck-ups and the tragedy and danger he had dragged Scully 

through because of them.  And right now, he really didn't want to go 
over all that again.

Apparently sensing his unwillingness to talk, Samantha changed the 
subject herself.  "I've been meaning to ask--how did Mom die?  Was my--
was *he* behind it?"

Mulder froze, licking his lips, and a tense moment stretched out in 
silence as he thought of how he might tell Samantha what had happened 
in a gentler manner than the truth actually allowed.  Failing that 
task, he sought refuge in stark honesty.

"He wasn't behind it.  She committed suicide," he admitted as 
delicately as he could, reaching out to pat her hand.  "I'm sorry."

"Is it...is it related to what happened when I was taken away?" she 
asked hesitantly, her voice tight with tears.

"Samantha..." his plea trailed off uselessly as he faltered for a way 
to convince her that she really didn't want to know what had happened 
to their family in the aftermath of her abduction.  Not now.  "She had 
a terminal form of breast cancer called Paget's carcinoma.  Scully did 
the autopsy, at my request.  She had a very good reason for not wanting 
to live."

"Fox, don't try to protect me from the truth," she told him sternly, a 
hint of iron in her tone.  "In the last two years, I have had to come 
to terms with the fact that my entire life has been a lie.  I deserve 
to know what really happened."

Closing his eyes against a burgeoning headache, he passionlessly began 
to recite the tale of the collapse of their parents' marriage and the 
paths of anger and denial their mother and father's lives had taken 
afterward.

"Mom always claimed she couldn't remember," he told her.  "The truth 
was she didn't want to remember.  That's why I thought the journals 
might help shed some light on the truth."

"And Dad?"

"He, um...I always felt that he blamed me for what happened to you, I 
guess.  I certainly blamed myself.  I always thought that there must 
have been some way I could have prevented what happened.  I could have 
acted more quickly, fought harder, shielded you somehow," he confessed, 
his voice hollow.

"Oh, Fox!" Tears choked Samantha's voice.  "You couldn't have--Jesus, 
Fox, you were just a kid yourself!"

"I guess I knew that," Mulder replied flatly.  "But I didn't know how 
else to explain why Mom and Dad stopped loving me.  I started looking 
for you after I joined the FBI, hoping that if I found you, or found 
the truth of what had happened to you, maybe I could make it all right 
again.  I would see Mom smile, and Dad would tell me everything was 
okay, that I was forgiven.

"The hell of it is," he continued, trying to repress a spark of anger 
kindling in his chest, "that I spent all those years trying to shoulder 
the blame for what happened, only to find out that it was Dad all 
along.  He and Charles Geoffrey Burke and the men he worked with who 
spearheaded the project for which you were abducted.  And he had spent 
all those years, hiding the truth from me, letting me carry the guilt 
that should have been his."

"Fox," Samantha whispered, "I'm so sorry..."

"No, Samantha...no," he sat up quickly and scooted over to where she 
sat, enveloping her in a comforting hug.  "Don't be sorry...you didn't 
have any control of what happened.  You were just a little girl."

"That doesn't seem to stop you from feeling guilty," she pointed out 
astutely, sniffling.

"I know.  And I've spent a lot of years trying to reconcile myself to 
the fact that I couldn't have done anything."

She buried her face against his chest, her tears dampening his t-shirt 
as she embraced him in return.  "I'm so sorry that I didn't come to you 
sooner after I found out you were alive," she told him, her voice 
muffled.  "I didn't know..."

"You couldn't have," he protested, resting his chin atop her head.  
"What I've done, Samantha...I've chosen to do.  There have been times 
when maybe my decisions weren't always the wisest or safest I could 
have made, but at any time, I could have walked away.  If anything, I 
should apologize to you.  I *did* try to walk away, in the end."

"What stopped you?" she lifted her head to look at him, sniffing 
loudly.

"Scully," he answered with a soft, affectionate chuckle.  "When I tried 
to give up, she refused to.  She said it would have been wrong, and she 
was right."

"Sounds like she's pretty special to you," Samantha observed, pulling 
away to tuck herself into a tight ball, her arms wrapped around her 
legs, her chin on her knees.  For a moment, she looked so much like the 
little girl of his memory that his chest ached with overwhelming joy.

"Yeah," he shrugged self-consciously.  He supposed it was as good a way 
as any to describe what he felt toward Scully.  He could talk for hours 
and still not convey to Samantha how truly remarkable a woman Scully 
was and what she meant to him.

Falling silent, Mulder stretched out once more in the back of the 
minivan.  The space, even with both rear seats removed, was too short 
and he imagined he would be a mass of aches and pains and banged-up 
shins if he had to spend too many nights here, but they couldn't chance 
another hotel.  Frohike had provided them with a good deal of cash, but 
that money would be quickly gone if they spent it on a room each night.  
Besides, the risk of exposure was too great.

"Try to get some sleep," he told Samantha as she remained seated where 
she was, hugging her legs.  To his own ears, his voice was getting 

groggier.  "We're going to have a long trip ahead of us."

She shook her head in brief negation.  "I'm not tired.  I slept while 
you drove tonight, so I think I'll stay up a while.  I'll wake you if I 
see anything."


Yawning, he accepted her proposal and laid his head on his bundled-up 
trench coat for a pillow, placing his weapon within easy reach.  He lay 
facing the rear of the car, where he could have a clear view of what 
was happening outside.  His last sight before he closed his eyes was 
his sister's hand resting next to her pistol, her fingers twisting 
nervously in the hem of her skirt.

*     *     *     *     *

Whiteness surrounded her.  Whiteness so stark and blinding she could 

barely stand to keep her eyes open against it.  Voices reached her 
ears, dim and muffled and distorted.  She existed in a haze of pain and 
confusion, unable to move in her agony, mere seconds away from 
retreating once more into the solace of unconsciousness.

"Now would be the best time to kill her and get her out of the way for 
good," a voice with a heavy German accent penetrated the fog 
enshrouding her conscious mind.

"If you kill her, Mulder will be unstoppable," another voice responded, 
this one colored with a crisp British accent.  This voice she knew.  
"Without her, he will have nothing left to lose...his estrangement from 
his mother and father is too complete.  She is the only tool we have 
left with which to hold him in check."

"Then we kill Mulder," the German replied with simple logic.  "You have 
coddled him too long.  You are responsible for allowing him to become 
the threat he is now."

"Killing Mulder is not an option," another voice, this one painfully 
and infuriatingly familiar joined the other two.  "Mulder serves a very 
useful purpose.  His credibility is non-existent and yet he provides a 
solid smokescreen for our activities with his very public antics.  If 
he should happen to stumble upon a fragment of truth here or there, it 
is of no consequence.  He only sees enough to make his own tales all 
the more incredible.  That is why we need him.  He poses no threat to 
our plans.  And when he gets out of line, we'll always have her to use 
to pull him back, now, won't we?"

"So you will risk exposure for convenience's sake?" The German snorted.

"There is no risk," the smooth, cultured tones of the smoking man 
replied.  "I'll handle Mulder, as I handled his father."

"I agree," the Englishman intoned.  "We keep both of them alive...the 
young lady may prove useful in the future."

"Then proceed, and I will know who to hold accountable if you do not 
fulfill your guarantees," the German promised direly.  The sound of 
footfalls on metal plating faded into the distance, and the smell of 
cigarette smoke wafted toward her from someone out of her field of 
vision.

"Is she suitable?" The Englishman asked.

"Yes, but she is far past the age where we'll see any direct results," 
the smoking man replied.  "The most we could possibly hope for is a 
second generation manifestation of the genetic enhancement."

"Then we must be assured that should any such offspring come along, 
they will be under our immediate control."  With those cryptic words, 
another set of footsteps echoed through the room and gradually faded.

Pain.  Cramping, excruciating pain tore through her abdomen, and she 
looked toward her feet to see the skin of her belly stretch upward, 
inflating like a balloon.  She screamed in agony...


Dawn was just barely beginning to lighten the sky as Scully bolted 
upright, gasping with fear.  The terror of the dream began to fade and 
she closed her eyes once more, willing her pounding heart to resume its 
normal pace once more.

By far this was the most vivid of the dreams she had experienced in the 
last week, she thought, wiping her damp palms on her bedclothes.  Every 
sound, every sight, every smell had registered with perfect clarity, an 
echo of a moment she never recalled experiencing.

"Look to your own memories..." Krycek had advised.  Was this what he 
had meant when he told her she had come away from her journey with the 
smoking man with more than she realized?

Nearly five years she had spent resigning herself to the loss of those 
three months of her life, to the idea that she would never hold the key 
to those memories in her hands.  Yet these dreams, these images... they 
were far too realistic and familiar to her to dismiss them as simple 
imaginings.

*Is she suitable?*  What did the Englishman mean by this?  *Second 
generation manifestation.*  That might be a reference to her harvested 
ova.  Had something been done to her prior to that procedure that would 
affect any possible offspring?  Was that why they had taken away her 
chance to have children?

Scully swore viciously and threw herself from the bed, striding angrily 
toward the bathroom.  Was that what this was about?  Maybe the idea 
that these dreams were just her imagination weren't so far fetched.  
The onset of her menses, as had happened yesterday, only served to 
remind her once a month of what she had lost.

The fuckers hadn't even had the courtesy to leave her in a state of 
menopause.  No, instead they zapped her with radiation until they'd 

gotten every viable ovum she could produce and what they left behind 
were too damaged by the procedure to ever be viable.  Only enough to 
initiate the hormonal process each month that had prevented her knowing 
what had been done to her for over two years.  Not until that day in 
the hospital in Allentown when a dying Penny Northern had told her 
about the infertility shared by the female abductees.  A story that 
Mulder had filled in the details for several months later.

You're shooting blanks, Dana, old girl, she thought bitterly as she 
dropped her robe and stepped into the claw-foot tub.

Why, goddammit, why?

Blinking back an unexpected rush of tears, she shook her head 
violently.  It didn't matter.  The whys were only excuses; they did 
nothing to alter the fact of what had actually happened.  What mattered 
was that she and Mulder find the proof needed to make the government 
own up to what had been done to her and countless others.  To make 
amends.

She showered and dressed mechanically as nagging worry settled in her 
stomach as her thoughts turned to the distance, far away with Mulder 
and Samantha.  She wondered where they had spent the night, or if they 
had driven through.  Had they been spotted, or had they made a clean 
getaway?  Were they safe?

With a heavy sigh, she braced her elbows on the small table where she 
sat eating a breakfast of cottage cheese and fruit, burying her face in 
her hands.  Surely she and Mulder had been in more dire situations than 
this.  The panic welling up within her was sheer gut reaction, in no 
way based on logic or reason.

They had looked for Samantha so long, and at such expense, that now 
that she was found, the danger to her seemed even more desperate than 
any they had faced before.  She had seen what had happened to Mulder 
the last time he thought he had found his sister, only to end up losing 
her in the end.  She couldn't allow that to happen again.  This time, 
it might destroy him, and she simply couldn't face that possibility.

Annoyed with herself, she dumped the breakfast she no longer had the 
stomach for down the disposal.  She wasn't going to accomplish anything 
sitting here going over the same useless fears and worries again and 
again.  Anger hung over her like a thundercloud as she gathered up her 
briefcase and coat, taking an instant to be thankful she had left the 
leather attache case with the Gunmen to store in their vault.  She was 
sick of dragging the damned thing around with her everywhere.


Outside, the late March morning was hazy and overcast, threatening 
rain.  The neighborhood was still and quiet.  Cars lined both sides of 
the road in rows, but it was a little earlier than most people left for 
work, so there was no one in evidence.  She inserted her key into the 
lock of the car and opened the door.

What made her look down at that moment, she would never know.  Her eyes 
traveled to the bottom of the open door frame, to the small gap between 
the driver's seat and the running board.  A tiny, pared down wire lead 
from under the seat to the spot where it was taped to the running 
board.  A trigger wire, she thought, recalling the bomb classes she and 
Mulder had attended during their stint in the Domestic Terrorism 
division, to initiate a detonation sequence on a car bomb.  How long?  
Fifteen seconds--thirty at most?  Long enough for her to be securely 
wedged in the driver's seat, right on top of the device?

The thoughts screamed through her brain in a single instant and in the 
next, she dropped her briefcase and began to run, her arms pumping 
desperately at her sides, waiting for the inevitable explosion behind 
her.

She had gained maybe fifty yards when it came, deafeningly loud.  It 
sent her sprawling forward onto the street.  A sharp pain sliced 
through her shoulder before she hit the ground, catching herself on one 
hand, and then the blackness descended.


CHAPTER FIVE - Deliverance


Her first instinct upon waking was to kill the bastard with the drums.

It was only after a moment of suffering that she realized the hellishly 
loud and painful pounding was inside her own skull.  Tiny demons with 
very large mallets had obviously taken up residence in her head.

Opening her eyes slowly, squinting against the light, she tried 
desperately to remember what she could possibly have done to deserve 
agony this great.  College and her single experience with a hangover 
were far behind her.

Recall came flooding mercilessly back and Scully bolted upright in 
alarm.  The bomb.  Jesus, had anyone been hurt?


She went for the nurse's call button to find her left hand in a split.  
It was badly sprained but not broken, she decided, assessing the 
injury.  Abrasions on the palm told her that she had probably caught 
herself on that hand when she went down.

At least it isn't my gun hand, she thought ironically.  That might come 
in handy if whoever had planted that car bomb decided to come back and 

finish the job.

The idea was an alarming one, and goose-flesh dotted her skin.

A burning pain prompted her to pull the hospital gown away to reveal 
large bandage on the back of her right shoulder.  Probably shrapnel, 
she deduced.  It would have to be on the opposite side of her sprained 
hand, and in a place that was going to make changing the dressing 
difficult, wouldn't it?  It was likely that the wound hadn't been 
stitched.  Shrapnel wounds were particularly nasty, with any manner of 
contaminants being driven into the wound upon impact.   Shrapnel from 
an exploding automobile was even more difficult, with all the various 
lubricants and chemicals that might have been coating the projectile 
that had hit her.  The wound would be left open in the case that they 
had not been able to cleanse it completely, so that it was less likely 
to fester within while the skin above it healed.

All this she observed with her doctor's eye.  The location of the 
wound, however, made her offer up a small prayer of thanksgiving.  An 
inch or two over, it would have sliced the carotid or taken her through 
the neck.  A small shudder racked her body. The resultant throbbing in 
her skull would make a concussion another likely addition to the tally 
of her injuries.

She scented him before she saw him, standing in the door with that sour 
odor unique to those who have just had a cigarette outdoors.  "I tried 
to warn you," he admonished, entering the room.  She quickly pulled the 
hospital gown back up over her shoulder, giving the man an icy stare.

"What do you want?" her voice was low and angry.

"I did try to warn you that you were in danger, did I not?" he asked 
archly.

"If you wanted me to give your warning any sort of serious attention, 
you might have chosen your errand boy more wisely," she replied 
stiffly.  She watched, annoyed, as he walked casually into the room, 
closing the door securely behind him, and sat on a nearby chair.  His 
face was, if anything, even paler and sicklier than the last time she 
had seen him.

"Was anyone hurt?" She reluctantly inquired.  The idea that she should 
need to ask anything of him was repugnant.

"Fortunately, no," he replied. "Surprising, really.  The bomb was 
powerful enough to damage cars and blow out windows up and down your 
entire block."

"Are you here to finish the job?"

An amused smile twisted his lips.  "Even after what I gave you, you 
still doubt me?"

"What have you given me?" she demanded.  "So we know there were other 
abductees.  That's not exactly revelation.  We know that you and the 
other cold-blooded bastards you work with carried out your experiments 
on countless innocent children.  No surprise there, either.  So what am 
I left with?"

"The files are only a fraction of the gift I gave you.  You're an 
intelligent woman, Agent Scully.  I thought surely you would have 
figured it out by now," he chided her.

"My memories are returning," she said carefully.  "Is that what you 
mean?"

"I knew I couldn't give you the disk Cobra carried," he explained, 
leaning back in his chair.  "I was serious when I said I was afraid the 
information would fall into the hands of those who would use it to do 
more harm than good.  And while I trust that you, Dana, are not such a 
person, your own hands are not as secure as I needed for that purpose.  
In exchange for your assistance in acquiring the disk, I instead gave 
you something more valuable."

"Why?"

"For exactly the reasons I told you before," he replied simply.  
"Everything I have worked for in my life is in ruins.  Now I want to 
make matters right."

"I don't believe you."

"Even though I have provided you with the means to get to the very 
heart of the Project I once worked for?  It's not over, Agent Scully," 
he cautioned.  "Not by a long shot.  You'd be foolish to think 
otherwise."

Crossing her arms over her chest, she stared at him, waiting for him to 
elaborate.  Finally, he spoke again.

"Men crave power, Dana.  They have sought it, fought for it, killed for 
it since the earliest recorded histories.  The men I worked with and 
myself; we had that power.  Absolute and untouchable.  That's not an 
easy thing to let go of.  One man in particular seeks to further his 
own ends now that the power structure of our organization is 
destroyed."

"Am I to assume this other party is the one who tried to blow me up 
today?"

"Indeed," he answered.  "He was an important figure in the group of men 
I worked with.  It was only the balance of the other members of our 
syndicate that kept him in check to any extent.  Now that the others 
are dead, only he and I remain.  And while I know how much you and 
Agent Mulder enjoy casting me as the villain," he gave her a chilly 
smile, "I assure you that he is much worse than I could ever be."

"So now we're pawns in this battle royale of yours, right?  You think 
you can use our work to further your own ends." She gave him a scathing 
look and he returned it calmly without answering.  She sighed 
impatiently.  "Why would he want to kill me?"

"Because without you, Mulder is rudderless," he explained.  "We 
underestimated you when we chose you to work with Mulder.  Instead of 
debunking his work, you threw your efforts into legitimizing it.  
Instead of blunting the fangs of Mulder's potential threat to our 
interests, you made him all the more dangerous."

"Wouldn't it be easier for him to go after Mulder directly?"  The 
question sounded crass even to her own ears, but it was a valid one.

"Mulder is important," his answer came with unhelpful simplicity.

"Why?"

He didn't answer, merely watching her as she looked upon him with 
distaste.  So there were limits to how far he would go to help her.  
There were questions he might answer, and questions he might not.  If 
she wanted to play the game effectively, she was going to have to find 
the right questions.

"Is this other party the one threatening Samantha Mulder as well?" She 
asked finally, not bothering to pretend this man didn't know she and 
Mulder had his sister in their custody.

"No.  I am."

She stared at him until he continued.  "I was trying to deter her from 
looking for her brother.  Look at all that has happened to you, Dana, 
since you threw in your lot with Mulder.  He attracts danger by the 
very virtue of who he is.  Do you think I would want my child anywhere 
near the man?  I have protected her these many years."  At her 
incredulous expression, he shrugged.  "I've protected Mulder as well, 
to the best of my ability.  His obstinacy has made the task more 
difficult than I would have preferred."

"Oh, you've protected him?" Scully's eyebrows arched in amazed 
disbelief.  "Is that what you call it?  Drugging him, shooting at him, 
trying to blow him up..."

"Had I wanted Mulder dead, he would have died long ago, Agent Scully," 
his eyes took on a cold, flinty gleam that sent a ripple of fear 
through her.  "Although, I have occasionally needed to use...forceful 
means to steer him away from that which would lead him to greater 
danger."

"Not to mention some pretty uncomfortable questions for yourself and 
your comrades."

He shrugged eloquently.  "I do what I have to do, nothing more."

"So why are you telling me this?" she demanded shortly.  The man was 
irritating her and the headache wasn't helping.  Better to get him to 
say what he had to say so he would get the hell out and leave her 
alone.

"As I told you before, I have come to have a great respect and 
affection for you, Dana."

She glared at him.  "Try again."

He rose from the chair, slightly unsteady as he got to his feet.  "I 
want you to let Samantha go."

"We're not holding her against her will.  She came to us for help."

"From a threat that doesn't actually exist," he argued.  "I tried to 
keep her away from Mulder to keep her out of the line of fire.  She was 
living a peaceful, relatively anonymous life up until now.  As long as 
she is with you and Mulder, Agent Scully, then she is truly in danger."

Scully's expression bespoke her incredulity.

"I was the one who orchestrated the raid on the hotel in Baltimore 
yesterday," he admitted.  "You were going to lead the men wanting to 
kill you right back to their location, so I had to drive them away.  I 
can protect Samantha if she's at home with her children.  They don't 
want her.  But I can't protect her when she's with you, especially not 
presently, not in light of the fact that you specifically, Dana, are 
the target right now.  Send her home, where she'll be safe."

"You know, your track record for credibility leaves something to be 
desired, Mr. Burke," she stated, her voice hard.  His eyes widened 
again at her use of his name.  "Especially recently."

"The man who shot at you when we went to meet Cobra was one I thought 
to be loyal to myself," he explained, his expression serious, "and yet 
he tried to kill you despite the fact that you were under my 
protection.  That is how long this man's reach is.  I couldn't protect 
you even if you would accept such an offer, which I assume you would 
not.  Samantha doesn't need to be a part of that danger.  She's not 
being threatened.  Let her go back home to her children, where she 

belongs, Agent Scully."

He walked silently from the room.  Scully, shocked and dumbfounded, her 
headache forgotten in the frantic workings of her brain, stared after 
him as he slipped out the door, nodding to a solidly built man standing 
at guard outside who then followed him out of sight.

Collecting herself, she reached over the side of the bed to retrieve 
the phone and began to dial.

*     *     *     *     *

"Tell me about your family," Mulder requested, glancing at Samantha out 
of the corner of his eye as they wound their way through narrow roads 
in the Allegheny Mountains of West Virginia.  She looked like something 
out of a bad spy flick, he thought with a smile, wearing a silk scarf 
wrapped around her head and sunglasses.

She smiled gently in memory as she stared out the window, watching the 
passing trees.  "I should have thought to bring pictures, except that I 
decided to leave my purse at home, so there would be no ID on me."

He gave an admiring nod.  For someone not accustomed to intrigue, she 
certainly had good instincts.  He waited patiently for her to continue.

"I have three children; two daughters and a son," she explained.  
"Jeanette's twelve years old, Daniel's nine, and Amanda just turned 
four.  They're, um...they're my pride and joy," she admitted with a 
smile.


"When my foster parents died, I inherited their ranch in Wyoming.  The 
proceeds were enough to enable me to stop working and stay at home with 
the kids.  I don't know, maybe I shouldn't have...they get annoyed with 
me sometimes, but it feels good to be with them.  The money also helped 
when I got divorced."

"What happened to your marriage?" he asked, concerned.  All his years 
of fantasizing about the peaceful and content life his sister led 
hadn't included a divorce.

"After I saw you that night in the diner, things started to fall 
apart," she told him sadly.  "Michael... he was a wonderful man and he 
understood that I had some issues that never quite went away, but when 
I learned that everything I had been told about my family had been a 
lie, I didn't know how to handle it.

"At first I withdrew, shut myself off from him.  I don't know why, 
except maybe that I was simply in denial and didn't want to turn around 
some day to find out that he was a lie, too.  And then, once I accepted 
the fact that my life was not what I thought it to be I began to look 
for answers.  It became an obsession with me; it consumed me...I 
couldn't let go of it.  Between that search and our kids, there was 
just no room left for Michael."  She drew a deep breath and admitted 
sadly, "He lived with it for a year and a half before he finally filed 
for divorce and moved out.  By that time, he had done everything he 
could.  He begged me to go to counseling, to seek help...I didn't have 
the time, or the desire.  The divorce was final six months ago."

"Samantha--"

"I know, it's horrible.  I realize that.  To sacrifice the very real 
and wonderful things in your life for an intangible ideal?  I hurt 
Michael and I endangered my kids because I couldn't stop...I had to 
know."

Mulder felt vaguely ill as she spoke.  He thought he might weep at the 
stark familiarity of her words.  She could have been describing his own 

actions over the years.  Hadn't he done exactly what she had?  Pushed 
personal considerations aside, endangered Scully time and again, shut 
himself off from everyone around him?  

"I'm ashamed of what I did," she confessed, "very ashamed.  And if I 
come out of this alive, I think I might go back and beg Michael's 
forgiveness.  But Fox...I found you.  I regained something I thought I 
had lost forever."

"It wasn't worth it, Samantha," he said bleakly, swallowing hard.

"How can you say that?"

"Because if you hadn't done what you did, you'd be sitting at home with 
your family right now," Mulder told her, his voice tight.  "You'd be 
with the man you love, the man who loves you, and while you might 
always feel you were missing something, it's never worth it to give up 
what you've got for something you might never have."

"Are you saying I shouldn't have found you?" she asked softly.

"No, Samantha...No," he stammered.  "I'm saying...I don't know what I'm 
saying, only that the idea of you sacrificing your well-being and peace 
of mind to find *me*...It's just not right.  It's not worth it.  You 
should have gone on with your life.  As much as I love you, Sam...as 

much as I've always wanted to find you again, that's what would have 
made me happiest."

He pressed his lips together, trying to put his thoughts together in a 
coherent sentence.  "I just always wanted you to be safe, Samantha.  
And happy.  That's all I've ever hoped for, and to find out that I'm 
the reason you're not...I'm sorry," he finished helplessly.

The sidewise glance she gave him was full of sad irony.  "Fox," she 
started, then paused, taking a deep breath, "if I understand the 
situation correctly, looking for me is the reason *you* haven't been 
safe or happy for years.  You're the poster boy for the UFO watch 
groups.  They all rave about your noble quest to find what happened to 

your sister, who was abducted by aliens, at the risk of life and limb.  
Don't you think that maybe I feel the same way about the things you've 
done?  That's a lot to feel responsible for.

"Maybe it wasn't worth the sacrifice," she sighed, watching him as he 
navigated a tight bend in the road.  "Maybe both of us could have kept 
things in a little more perspective.  But I found you, Fox.  That 
journal you found that I wrote...I mentioned the brother I could only 
half-recall time and again.  I went on and on about how much I hoped to 
see you someday.  I wanted to see you long before I even remembered 
you.  I can't regret that I finally fulfilled that dream."

"No," he murmured, giving her a tender glance.  Whatever had brought 
them to this point, they were together now, where he could see and 
touch Samantha and tell her all the things he'd wanted to say to her 
for twenty-seven years.  And the sheer joy of that knowledge, in spite 
of the chaos surrounding them, almost made up for what he had lost to 
be here.  Almost.  "I guess I can't either."

They both fell into silent contemplation.  Had the situation been less 
stressful, he might have admired the beauty of the surrounding scenery.  
There were times when the road would closely hug the side of the 

mountain and on the other side would be three thousand vertical feet of 
nothing.  The road itself was treacherous, driven only by those hardy 
souls who could stand to live two hours away from the nearest 
convenience store.  It offered a profuse canopy of trees to hide their 
passage, though the lack of maneuvering room in case of pursuit was 
somewhat alarming.

It was mid-afternoon when they pulled off the road to eat lunch and 
Samantha set the diary aside, declaring in frustration, "I hate this, 
Fox.  I've always hated it...the not knowing.  It's like I don't even 
really know who I am."

He could understand the feeling.  He always knew he had lost the 
memories of the time surrounding Samantha's disappearance, but now it 
seemed he was actually missing a great deal of his first ten years, or 
at least those dealing with "Uncle Charlie."  He shrugged awkwardly, 
unsure of what to say that might comfort her.


Samantha took advantage of the break in conversation to excuse herself 
and when she returned, began rummaging through her bag.  Emerging with 
her epilepsy medication, she opened the brown bottle and swallowed a 
pill with a sip of bottled water.

Curious, he held out a hand for the prescription bottle.  "May I see 
that, please?"

Bemused, Samantha handed it over, watching him as he scanned the label.  
The prescription was Dilantin, a common medication for the neurological 
disorder.  The pharmacy that filled it was a popular drug store chain.  
It was the name of the doctor who wrote the prescription that caught 
his attention.

"Samantha, how long have you been seeing this Dr. Andros?"  He asked, 
staring at the label, transfixed.

"Since I was twenty-six.  Why?"

"Because I've seen his name before," he handed the bottle back to her, 
disturbed.  "In the files that Scully and I were going over.  Several 
of the forms had his signature on them.  A lot of them were dated 
between 1973 and 1979."

She dropped the bottle as though it had suddenly become red-hot.  "Oh, 
my God.  Fox, are you sure?"

Nodding slowly, he bit his lip, his mind reeling.  He had someplace to 
begin looking now, a solid, tangible link between the child abductions 
and Samantha.  And Samantha knew where to find him.  Right where she 
lived, in Chalfont, Pennsylvania.

And he couldn't go there.

Shit.

His first duty was to see Samantha safe.  If it were just himself, he'd 
go, but with Samantha at risk, he couldn't take that chance.  There 
would be an opportunity for he and Scully to follow up on the 
information later, when it didn't mean jeopardizing Samantha.

"He was in on it?" Samantha asked in disbelief.  "Oh, God, Fox...how am 
I supposed to trust *anyone*?"

That sounds familiar, he thought with a pang.  Wasn't that what he had 
asked himself every day, year after year?  That had changed with 
Scully, though.

*Before I could only trust myself.  Now I can only trust you.*  His 
words, his sentiments, recorded on a tape Scully would never hear.  
What would have become of him between then and now if he hadn't allowed 
her in?

"Don't think that way, Samantha," he said, his voice firm.  "You can't 
live your life distrusting everything and everyone.  It doesn't work."

"Sounds like the voice of experience speaking," she commented.

"Just believe me.  It's no way to live."

"You've been alone a lot in your life, haven't you, Fox?" she asked 
gently.

"Nah," he mumbled uncomfortably.  "I've been all right."

"I didn't ask if you'd been all right.  I asked if you'd been alone."

"Well, yeah," he shrugged.  "But I chose to be that way.  What Scully 
and I do, it's dangerous, Samantha.  You bring anyone else into that 
mix, you run the danger of them catching the bullet with your name on 
it.  That's a lot of responsibility to carry."  He should know.  He'd 
had to watch Scully work through the fact that her sister had died by a 
bullet meant for Scully.  Since that day, Scully had worked extremely 
hard to keep the rest of her family as far away from her work as 
possible.

"I find that very sad, Fox," Samantha murmured.

"I'm not entirely alone, you know," he said defensively.  "Scully and I 
spend a lot of time together in the course of our work.  And I have 
friends."

"Okay," she replied in a tone that indicated she wasn't buying a word 
of it.

He gave her a scowl, realizing for the first time that having a little 
sister back might not be all it was cracked up to be.  Samantha gave 
him a knowing look, then discarded the remains of her lunch before 

climbing back into the van.

"You coming?" she asked archly, and with a low growl of annoyance, 
Mulder took up his station between the steering wheel and then they 
were on the road once more.

*     *     *     *     *

Never before had she realized just how savagely she hated hospitals, 
Scully mused.  Not a good sign for a doctor, she supposed, but she had 
simply spent too much time in them over the years, both as a patient 
and holding a bedside vigil for Mulder, to harbor any tender feelings 
toward them.

Of course in this case, her opinion might be just slightly colored by 
the fact that she really needed to get out of the damned hospital 
before whoever tried to blow her up came back for an encore.  A few 
hours after she had first regained consciousness, the doctor had 

visited and informed her that they would like to keep her the rest of 
the day and possibly overnight to assess the severity of her head 
injury.  Her medical training understood--she would have done the same-
-but she didn't much like being on the receiving end of it, the cliche 
about doctors making the worst patients not withstanding.

Luckily, it was unnecessary for a nurse to come by and wake her every 
hour.  The noises of the hospital were quite sufficient, if somewhat 
frustrating.  Lack of decent sleep was reaching epidemic proportions 
lately, she thought as she lay with her eyes open at five in the 
morning, processing the events of the previous day for the thirtieth 
time.

She hadn't taken the warning Krycek had given her very seriously.  Of 
course she was in danger--when was she not?  It was part and parcel of 
the lives she and Mulder led.  She would take an indication of danger 
to someone else's life with gravest caution, but as for her own...Was 
it possible she had skirted death just often enough to be a little 
over-confident?

This morning's attempt on her life put a swift and sure ending to that 
attitude.  Whoever had built that bomb had meant business.  A.D. 
Skinner had called to give her the preliminary forensics reports and it 
was glaringly obvious that a quarter of the explosive actually used 
would have been sufficient to kill someone sitting in the driver's 
seat.  Her would-be assassin was taking no chances.

She hadn't even told Skinner that she was on someone's hit list, hadn't 
told him it might be related to the matter she and Mulder were handling 
right now.  Instead, she had fobbed him off with the declaration that 
she had no idea why anyone would target her specifically and the 
hypothesis that the bombing might have been a random act of terrorism 
against any federal agent, and perhaps they should put all the local 
field offices on alert.  She hoped that would keep him busy a while.  
She was pretty sure he didn't believe her, but she had no other choice.  

If she had told Skinner the truth, he would have insisted on posting a 
guard to her and she couldn't allow that.  Knowing as she did that he 
was compromised, she simply couldn't trust him.  And even if she could, 
there was no guarantee that whomever he posted to guard her was clean.  
She was better off alone.

She didn't even allow herself to think of what Mulder might have to say 
about her refusing protection in these circumstances.  But the lack of 
a guard posted at her door didn't mean she was taking any chances, 
especially since she was a stationary target at this moment.  Her gun 
lay on the bed tray beside her, unholstered and within easy reach of 
her good right hand.  Next to her left was the nurse's call button.

The hospital seemed to get quieter with the encroaching dawn and she 
dozed lightly, weariness finally overcoming worry.  An hour later she 
roused as the door opened to admit the nurse coming to check her 
vitals.  Right on schedule.  She blinked sleepily at the figure 
silhouetted in the doorway.  A male nurse this time, she observed 
groggily.

He started toward the bed and a small alarm echoed through her sleep-
enshrouded brain as she realized he hadn't turned on the lights.  He 
was moving slowly and purposefully toward her, his hand emerging from 
his pocket bearing a syringe.

Her weapon was in her hand without her having any conscious memory of 
grabbing it as she bolted upright.  "Back off!" she barked, 
ostentatiously cocking the gun.  Her clumsy left hand fumbled for the 
call button, which had slid away when she moved.  The man stopped, but 
rather than backing away, he tensed, ready to spring.

"Put your hands up!" she shouted, her voice pitched higher with fear 
than she would have preferred, trying as she was for a firm, 
authoritative tone.  Her hand reached the call button and pressed it 
urgently as she held the gun on him, trying to foretell his next 
action.  A shadow appeared behind him, drawing Scully's eyes for a 
split second and that was when he made his move, launching himself at 
her.

A gunshot ripped through the air like thunder before Scully could 
squeeze the trigger and the man froze, spinning in an almost graceful 
half pirouette before crashing to the floor, a bloodstain blossoming 
over his breast.  The syringe rolled harmlessly from his dead hand.  
Gasping, Scully looked up to see the shadow in the doorway retreating, 
leaving her only a glimpse of the black leather jacket he wore before 
disappearing from sight.

*     *     *     *     *

By the time Skinner arrived, she had stopped shaking.  No sooner had 
her unknown rescuer gone than the nurse came running into the room.  
She had turned on the lights, taken one look at the body on the floor 
and the gun in Scully's hand and began screaming for help.  Hospital 
security arrived swiftly thereafter and by that time, Scully had set 
her gun aside and gotten out of the bed.  They were on the verge of 
pinning her against the wall and cuffing her before she had a chance to 
explain what had happened.  The police were the next to show up, by 
which time Scully had thankfully donned a thin hospital robe and was 
seated in a chair in the corner with a cup of coffee in her trembling 
hands.

She gave the police her statement, her voice dead with shock.  
Fortunately, the logistics of the crime scene worked in her favor.  The 
syringe was still on the floor as evidence and the wound in the man's 
chest was obviously an exit wound.  The bullet that had clearly been 
fired from the doorway was lodged in the far wall, and Scully's own 
weapon had not been discharged, so the possibility of her being the 
shooter was laid to rest with relative ease.  The body was being sealed 
in a bag and hauled away when Skinner appeared on the scene.

"What happened here, Agent Scully?" he demanded, plowing his way past 
policemen and medical examiners to get to her side, flashing his ID 
several times in the process.

She gave him a brief run-down of the situation.  "I'd be willing to bet 
that what was in that syringe wasn't meant to insure my continued good 
health," she concluded, her voice brittle.  The man's ID had indicated 

he was attached to the Tunisian embassy.  It wasn't the first time 
she'd had a run-in with someone from that quarter.  Filled with nervous 
energy, she rose and began collecting her belongings, pulling her 
clothes out of the closet with jerky, violent gestures.


"That's two incidents in less than twenty-four hours, Agent Scully," 
Skinner said, speaking to her back.  "Are you still going to claim that 
these are just random acts of terrorism?"  His tone spoke volumes on 
what he thought of *that* theory.

"No, I'm not," she said bluntly.  "Obviously I am being targeted."

"This time there's a body on the deck.  There's going to be an inquiry 
into this and I'm not going to be able to a damned thing to stop it," 
he advised her.

"Then don't.  It'll just have to proceed without me," she replied 
harshly over her shoulder, fear giving way to irrational and 
ungovernable anger.  "I don't plan to hang around long enough to see if 
three's a charm."

You can't walk out on a formal inquiry," Skinner stated firmly.  "Now 
we're going to leave here and put you directly in protective custody 
and then you're going to tell me everything you know about what's going 
down here."


"I can't."

"I didn't ask you whether or not you wanted to do it, Agent Scully.  
You don't have a choice."

"Is that an order to stay put, sir?" She whirled on him, pinning him 
with a baleful glare.

"Does it have to be, Agent?"

Suddenly Scully knew the meaning of the term "something snapped."

"If you try to keep me from leaving, you might as well be signing your 
name to my death warrant and you know it." Each enraged word flew from 
her mouth like a bullet.  "There's nothing you can do that will be 
sufficient to protect me, not against these kind of people.  This isn't 
terrorism, it's political assassination and it's being orchestrated by 
someone with a lot resources at his disposal.  So unless it's your 
intention to see me dead, I suggest you get out of my way.  Sir."

Skinner stood silently for a moment, his eyes intent on hers, his jaw 
flexing furiously.  Finally he looked away, asking from between 
clenched teeth.  "What do you need from me?"

"I need to get back to the Bureau to collect some things and then I 
need a car.  I've got the rest covered already," she answered, her 
shoulders losing some of their agonizing tension.

"Fine," he muttered.  "Get dressed and let's go."

She froze in place, her eyes wary and uncertain as she studied him.  
The sigh the assistant director released came out as a low growl of 
frustration.

"Agent Scully," he said tightly, drawing close to her, speaking under 
his breath.  "I may not be in a position to be trusted with certain 
sensitive information.  You know it, I know it, so let's not bullshit 
about it.  But I will die myself before I willingly or intentionally 
allow an agent under my supervision to come to harm.  Now, are you 
coming?"

All at once ashamed of her knee-jerk reaction, she nodded tensely and 
ducked into the bathroom to dress.

*     *     *     *     *

It was a long moment in the empty stairwell outside the Gunmen's 
second-story office, filled with anxious glances cast over her 
shoulder, before Frohike had all the bolts opened and she was allowed 
to enter.  Parked in the garage below was the FBI fleet car Skinner had 
personally acquired for her.  After collecting the test results she had 
ordered, not even taking the time to study them, she had driven 
straight here, heedless of the numerous speed limits she broke along 
the way.

"We heard on the police scanner what happened," Byers said, gesturing 
for her to take a seat.  "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said shortly, not meeting his gentle, concerned eyes.  
The truth was she was still scared as hell, but she couldn't let these 
guys know that.

"We've got the goods on the people in those files you left for us," 
Frohike told her, handing her a stack of printouts.  Of the seventeen, 
not including Samantha and yourself, twelve are still alive. Of those, 
seven live on the East Coast."

"Thanks," she murmured, giving the forms a cursory glance.  The 
information wasn't going to do her a whole lot of good now.  She wasn't 
going to be around to follow up on it.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw he three men exchange looks and 

nods.  Motioning her to silence, they lead her down a narrow spiral 
staircase in the back of the room, which descended into a cellar two 
stories below.  She had only been to this cellar once, with Mulder, 
bringing copies of files too sensitive to leave anywhere else for fear 
they might disappear.

A cinderblock vault stood in the center of the cavernous basement.  
Inside the structure, the walls were lined with steel plating and 
layers of soundproofing.  File cabinets stood in four neat rows, twenty 
in all.  One of these was the one they had set aside for she and 
Mulder.  Instead of going into the vault, however, they went around it, 
deeper into the basement.

"We've got a way to get you out of here, Agent Scully," Byers said, 
"but you have to leave now, from here."

"We took the liberty of getting you some clothing and provisions," 
Frohike added with a grin.  Had her mind not been fixed on other 
matters, she might have taken a moment to wonder how they knew her 
size.  

"Mulder and Samantha should already have some supplies and cash, but 
just in case, there's some extra in your bag," Langly chimed in.

"Thank you," she murmured, sighing.  "So what's the plan?"

"Our secret bolt-hole," Langly replied.  "Not even Mulder has seen 
this."

They led her farther back into the room, where bare light-bulbs 
overhead broke the darkness at intervals.  Broken and obsolete 
computers and other devices for which Scully would be hard pressed to 
guess a purpose were stacked along the walls.  Between two such piles 

was a steel fire door.  They stopped before it.

Byers punched in a code on the electronic pad beside the door and it 
opened. He flipped on a light and Scully saw a tunnel, ancient and to 
all appearances ready to collapse at any given moment.  She gave the 
boys a questioning look.

"We chose this building for our offices for a very good reason, Agent 
Scully," Byers explained quietly.  "We believe this tunnel may 
originally have been intended for access to subterranean utilities, 
perhaps built as early as the 1920's, but it was never completed, most 
likely forgotten when the Depression hit.  We've been through all 
available city records and plans and it doesn't show up anywhere.  A 
lot of records have been lost or destroyed in fires over the last 
seventy years.  As far as the government is concerned, this tunnel 
doesn't even exist."

"It goes on for a couple miles," Frohike continued.  "But a ways down, 
there's another door like this.  Behind it is a stairway leading up to 
another garage like the one in this building, but two blocks over.  An 
associate of ours bought that bit of abandoned real estate at our 
request so that we would have access to the garage without it being 
traced back to us.  There's a car already waiting for you, with all 
your provisions in the trunk.  If you'll come with me?"  He bowed 
gallantly for her to proceed him into the tunnel.

She accepted the folded roadmap Byers held out to her and checking her 
files to make sure she had everything she would need, she drew a deep 
breath and nodded.  Frohike followed her as she stepped into the 
decrepit passage.  Once they were inside, Langly and Byers closed the 
steel door behind them and sealed it.

"This way," Frohike gestured.  Brushing cobwebs away from her face, she 
marched down the passage.  As promised, a steel door identical to the 
first one appeared.  The tunnel went much further beyond that but 
Scully really had no inclination to explore.  She was tired and sore 
and far too nervous for her own good.  All she wanted was to be as far 
away from Washington, D.C. as she could get as quickly as she possibly 
could go.

Frohike punched in another code and the door opened.  Silently, they 
climbed the narrow staircase to a third door.  Through that lay a large 
garage almost identical to the one she had parked in beneath the 
Gunmen's offices dozens of times.  A late model brown Cadillac was the 

single inhabitant, looking somehow expectant as it faced the door.

"She may not look like much," Frohike commented, "but she'll get you 
where you're going."

"Thank you," Scully murmured again.  Too brain-weary to check the 
impulse, she bent over and kissed the scruffy man on the cheek, giving 
him a tired smile.

Flustered, Frohike held out a baseball cap and sunglasses to her.  
"Um...some of your features make you easily identifiable," he muttered.

Nodding, Scully twisted her hair up and settled the cap over it.  Then 
she sighed and opened the driver's side door of the car, checking the 
floorboard reflexively for any signs of tampering.  She placed her 
files on the passenger seat, and warily scanned the interior of the 
car.  She wondered if Frohike would be offended if she looked under the 
driver's seat, then decided that if anyone would understand, it would 
be him.  Crouching, she felt carefully under both seats and then under 
the dash.  When she was satisfied nothing sinister lurked within the 
vehicle, she seated herself, looking nervously over at Frohike, pulled 
the door shut and started the ignition.

This was the moment of truth, she thought, her heart pounding in her 
ears.  If anyone did spot her coming out of this garage, it would soon 
be apparent.  If, however, she actually got away from here without 
being tailed, she might have a fighting chance of making it to the 
location drawn on the map Byers had handed her.  Frohike pushed a 
button and the garage door slowly opened, revealing the brightly-lit 
April day outside.  Oblivious to its beauty, she slid the sunglasses 
onto her face and, giving Frohike a nod, pulled out of the garage.

*     *     *     *     *

"I met Michael my sophomore year at Ball State.  I was studying 
psychology and he was in one of my classes."

Fox shook his head, his expression amazed.  "You studied psychology?"

Samantha nodded.  "Interesting coincidence, isn't it?"

"Yeah.  Go on."

"Michael was there on a sports scholarship--he played basketball--and 
sociology was just one more pain in the ass requirement he had to 
fulfill," Samantha smiled in fond remembrance.  "Until about two weeks 
before the final when he realized he didn't stand a snowball's chance 
in hell of passing if he didn't get his act together.  So I offered to 
help him."

Fox shot her a look out of the corner of his eye.  "He's not one of 
these dumb jock guys, is he?" He asked, his tone hinting at 
disapproval.

She narrowed her eyes in warning.  "Of course not!  Now do you want to 

hear the story or not?  Because I will remind you, you *did* ask..."

"Okay, okay..." her brother subsided and continued to wind his way 
along the twisty mountain roads.

"In his junior year, an injury put an end to his playing basketball, 
and so all of a sudden he had to become a scholar.  He looked me up 
again, and asked me out for coffee, and we started talking about his 
options.  I'm not quite sure why he sought me out instead of a guidance 
counselor, but there it was," she shrugged.  "He pretty much spent a 
year just trying to figure out what he wanted to do, and then he 
discovered he had a real knack for comprehending economics.  So even 
though it put him back a more than a year to make that his major, 
that's what he chose."

She paused to take a sip from a can of warm soda that had been found 
amongst their provisions.  "So anyhow, by the time it was all said and 
done, he was a year behind me and I really couldn't consider leaving 
him behind after I graduated, so rather than returning to Wyoming, I 
found a job in town and we got an apartment together.  We were planning 
our wedding a year later when I got pregnant with Jeanette."

"What does he do now?"  Fox asked, glancing at her out of the corner of 
his eye.

"He actually went back to get his Master's degree in economics and now 
he teaches at a local community college.  It actually took him a little 
while to get over the idea that he was indeed a dumb jock, but once 
that was settled, he really did very well."

Samantha gazed off into the distance, falling silent.  "I loved Michael 
so much, but I could never explain to him what happened to me as a 
child," she finally continued.  "What few fragments of memory I had 
didn't gel with the idea that our family had all died in a car 
accident.  I told him I was an orphan, and not even my foster parents 

knew any differently.  For that matter, neither did I.  What I thought 
I remembered could have just been a result of the trauma of the 
accident.  So I never told anyone...I thought I would sound crazy.  I 
thought that if he knew and didn't believe me, he'd stop loving me.  
It's not that I didn't trust him, but it just sounded *so* crazy, I 
didn't think he could possibly believe me.  I think that, more than 
anything else, is what caused me to shut him out when I began looking 
for you.  If I explained to him what I was doing and why I was doing 
it, I would have to explain to him what I thought had happened to me as 
a child.  I gave him too little credit.  I should have known he loved 
me enough to at least accept what I was saying and help me find the 
answers I needed, even if he didn't quite believe it."

"So what do you plan to do if you go back to him?" Fox asked gently.  
"You can't keep a secret like this to yourself forever.  You have to 
let him in eventually, even if you're afraid."

"I know," Samantha whispered, feeling the sting of tears beneath her 
eyelids.  "I think maybe now that I've at least found some confirmation 
of what I believed I remembered, maybe I'll have the courage to finally 
say it.  After all, I have the diary I wrote, and the implant.  Michael 
won't need them; I know that now.  But I think I need them to reassure 
myself I'm not crazy."

She took another drink of her soda and consulted the map.  "I think 
you're supposed to take a left on the next county road," she told him.  
Shortly thereafter, a gravel road appeared on the left and Mulder 
turned onto it.

"What about you, Fox?"  She asked, turning her attention to him.  "Any 
ex-Mrs. Mulders in the picture?"

"Nope," he replied honestly.  Any other women who had been in his life 
before Scully and the X-Files were either dead or long gone.  "I lead 
the supreme bachelor existence."

"I know," she quipped, amused.  "I saw your apartment.  With the money 
you say Mom and Dad left behind, maybe you could afford a cleaning 
service to come in once or twice a week?"

"It's everything I can do to keep strangers *out* of my apartment, 
Samantha," he said drolly.  "I don't think I'll be handing anyone else 
the key anytime soon."

"Agent Scully obviously has the key."

"Yeah, she feeds my fish while I'm gone."

"I see."

"What?" He demanded, frowning.


"Nothing, nothing," she waved her hand in the air in the ages old 
"never mind" motion.  "So why did you join the FBI?"

"Oh, that started back when I was getting my graduate degree in 
psychology at Oxford..."

He explained to her that a paper he had written on a convicted serial 
killer had caught the eye of a professor who had an acquaintance back 
in the States who knew someone at Quantico, and so forth.

"Just before I received my degree, I got a call from a Bureau recruiter 
asking me if I would like to come to Washington for an interview.  I 
didn't have any plans after graduation, and I sure as hell didn't want 
to return to the Vineyard, so I went."

He had known within moments of setting foot at the FBI Academy that he 
had found the place he was meant to be, he told her.

"They had me ear-marked for the Violent Crimes Unit from the start, 
because of the aptitude I displayed at getting inside the heads of 
sickos, psychos, and weirdos.  I guess it's probably a good thing the 
Bureau called me when they did.  Otherwise I probably would have 
started teaching and then whole classes full of impressionable youths 
would have been corrupted," he concluded with a smirk.

Samantha laughed.  "So you sacrificed yourself on the altar of J. Edgar 
Hoover to save the precious children of America.  The mother in me 
thanks you."

"Yeah, don't thank me yet.  I figure about the time your kids are in 
college the Bureau will have decided to finally kick me out and I'll 
end up teaching anyway."

"Just let me know where and I'll remember *not* to send my children 
there."

*     *     *     *     *

She reached her destination in the mid-afternoon of the third day after 
leaving Washington.  Three days filled with endless hours of driving, 
of doubling back and taking slower, less trafficked, indirect routes.  
Three days of infrequent meals and brief, unsatisfactory naps when she 
got so tired she couldn't continue to drive safely.  Now with her goal 
so near, she could only feel a weary sense of triumph.

Exactly where the directions said it would be, a two-track dirt logging 
road led deeper into the dense woods in the mountains on the North 
Carolina/Tennessee border.  A "Private Property" sign on a red and 
white wooden gate had been placed at the entrance.  Scully left the car 
nervously and quickly entered the combination she had been given on the 
padlock keeping it closed.  She took an extra moment to carefully brush 
away any tire tracks she may have left once she was through the gate.

The instructions had said she would have to drive five miles into the 
woods before she reached the end of the road, but there was every 
chance something unexpected, such as a fallen tree over the road, might 
wait for her between here and there.  As it was, the condition of the 
rutted road dictated that five miles an hour was the fastest she would 
be able to drive if she wanted to reach her destination alive.  So she 
progressed slowly, branches of the trees she passed scraping loudly 
against the sides of her car.

Dear God, she was tired.  Tired physically, tired mentally, tired 
emotionally.  Tired of bouncing all over these damned backwoods roads.  
She wanted to see Mulder and Samantha safe more than she wanted her 
next breath, but running a close second to that desire was wanting to 
sleep until this whole nightmare was but an unpleasant memory.  Maybe 
here she could feel safe enough to rest, with Mulder keeping watch over 
things.  If she didn't get some sleep soon, she would be beyond caring 
whether the people who wanted her dead located her or not.

The instructions tucked inside the map indicated she should look for a 
very specific landmark, a fallen tree on the right side of the road 
with one branch sticking up toward the sky, which would be spray-
painted orange.  It seemed like an eternity before she finally saw it 
and across the narrow dirt road, a gap between two large trees barely 
wide enough for a car to pass through.  She was to pull into the 
clearing beyond these trees and hide her car with the camouflage net 
lying nearby.

She had parked and was in the process of opening the trunk before her 
tired mind registered the fact that there was no other car present.

"Oh, God," she whispered, bracing herself against the trunk of her car.  
They'd had a thirty-six hour lead on her, which meant they'd had four 
days to reach this place.  There was no logical reason for Mulder and 
Samantha not to be here by now.  The only possible explanation was that 
something had happened.

Sitting on the ground, she drew her knees up and rested her head on 
them, trying to whip her sluggish, churning mind into action.  She had 
two options.  One was to stay here and keep herself safe, knowing that 
she could accomplish nothing for Mulder and Samantha should the parties 
that wanted her dead reach her before she reached them.  The other was 
to go back, knowing that she could do nothing to help Mulder and 
Samantha sitting out here in the middle of nowhere, even though it 
almost certainly meant that eventually her assassin would catch up to 
her.

The choice was already made, really.  Her job was to serve and protect 
and her duty to Mulder dictated she couldn't leave him flapping in the 
wind while she ran for safety.  She had to go back.

But not yet, she decided firmly.  Her first instinct was to climb back 
in the car and start driving but she resolutely refused to allow 
herself to do it.  If she didn't get some sleep, she wouldn't be of any 
use to Mulder and Samantha or herself.  She would end up driving off 
the side of a mountain, or into a tree, and save the man who wanted her 
dead the trouble of killing her himself.

She would sleep a while, then turn back, she decided.  Hopefully there 
would be some clue as to where Samantha and Mulder were last seen.  
Aching with weariness, she dragged herself into the driver's side seat 
more, locking the door as if that might somehow keep her safe.  She 
reclined the seat and shifted to get comfortable.  For a brief moment, 
she was certain she would be unable to rest, that her worry and fear 
would keep her awake.  It was the last conscious thought she had for 
two hours.

*     *     *     *     *


It was late afternoon by the time Mulder and Samantha finally reached 
the two-track dirt road blocked by the "Private Property" sign.  At 
last, the final leg of their journey.

It had been decided it would be best to take Frohike to a bus stop far 
in the opposite direction of their destination, which had added nearly 
a day to their journey, and in addition to that, they had taken fairly 
regular meal and rest breaks.  Mulder had been afraid that if they 
tried to push it too hard, they stood in danger of running into trouble 
on one of the many narrow, winding mountain roads they had traveled.  
There was no reason for them not to rest when one could keep watch 
while the other slept.

Mulder groaned with relief at the realization that they were within 
five miles of their destination and gave a small smile as Samantha 
echoed the sound.  His eyes were tired and he was certain he had the 
minivan equivalent of saddle sores.  He and Samantha had lacked 
sufficient water or opportunity to observe much in the way of personal 
hygiene and he was feeling rather rank.  He wanted out of this damned 
van and to a shower or whatever passed for one up here.

He wondered how long it would take Scully to reach this place.  How 
long would it be until she was able to leave Washington without being 
followed?  Was she safe?

These were questions he'd asked himself time and again over the last 
four days, but no answers were forthcoming.  He wasn't going to be able 
to rest easily until Scully had arrived safely.

What would he do if she didn't show up?  Would he have to take Samantha 
back to D.C. with him to find out what had happened to Scully, or would 
he leave his sister here and hope she was safe while he found his 
partner?  How long should he wait before making that decision?  What 

it--

Oh, shit...

He slammed on the brakes and threw the van into park, ignoring 
Samantha's gasp.  Before she had a chance to ask what he was doing, he 
was out of the car and running.  The late-model Cadillac sitting out in 
the open was not a good sign to begin with, but the sight of Scully in 
the front seat lying still as death made his heart stop.

OhGodnoPleasenoScullybeallrightohJesusScully...

He tried the car door handle to find it locked and rapped frantically 
at the window, calling her name.  The response was instantaneous and 
terrifying.  The still figure on the front seat screamed and scrambled 
over into the passenger seat, taking immediate aim with the gun that 
had been lying close at hand.  Her blue eyes were wide and panicked and 
she had the trigger half pulled by the time she actually saw who was at 
the window.

"Scully!  Open the door!"

"Mulder!" Her mouth moved inaudibly and she quickly crawled across the 
front seat once more to unlock and open the door, her gasping breaths 
painfully loud when he finally heard them.

Extending a hand he helped pull her from her clumsy position half-
kneeling on the driver's seat.  He held her shoulders while she got her 
feet under her and then while she swayed for an instant.  At last she 
looked up at him, and his heart stopped again...

Her lovely, delicate face was pale and gaunt, her eyes dark hollows 
over her prominent cheekbones.  They had the frightened look of a 
hunted animal and kept shifting restlessly around, never still for an 
instant.


"Jesus, Mulder...When you weren't here I thought something had happened 
to you," she scolded him breathlessly.  "I was about to turn back and 
head to D.C. again."

"Are you all right?" he asked, his voice low with concern as he brushed 
a stray lock of hair from her face.

"Yeah, I'm fine.  You just startled me," she reassured him, and 
smiling, he pulled her into a brief, welcoming hug.

He realized that while he had been checking on Scully, Samantha had 
parked the van and was industriously unloading boxes and crates from 
it.  His sister stopped and gave them a friendly wave before resuming 
her activity.

"You look like hell, Scully," Mulder commented, studying her face once 
more.

"Thank you, Mulder," she shot back acerbically, frowning in mild 
annoyance.  "When was the last time you shaved?"

Surrendering, he pulled away and surveyed the amount of stuff they 
would have to haul a mile through the woods to the compound.  He swore 
under his breath and looked over to see Scully nodding in agreement.

"I don't know about you, Mulder, but I'm beat," she stated bluntly.  
"It's been a long drive for all of us.  I say we take as much as we can 
carry or need to get by for tonight and worry about the rest tomorrow, 
when we've all had a chance to recover."

"That...sounds like...a plan," a panting Samantha approached them, 
bending over with her hands on her knees as she drew a deep breath.  
"Three kids...you'd think I'd be used to physical exertion by now."

"If we're doing this by committee, the motion is unanimously passed," 
Mulder agreed.  They set to work determining what they would need to 
take with them this first pass and left the rest in the cars before 
setting off on the hike to their destination.

The compound, as it had been referred to, was a cluster of five one-
room cabins in the spaces between trees, each ten by ten foot room 
containing a pair of bunk beds on one wall, a kerosene space heater, a 
hotplate and a small refrigerator.  Electricity was by generator and a 
shed housed what appeared to be a several month supply of gasoline and 
kerosene, as well as crates of canned, non-perishable foods and various 
other supplies.  Large twenty-gallon plastic barrels of water were 
lined up behind the shed, leaving Mulder to wonder how the hell the 
people building this place could get the containers, which easily must 

have weighed a hundred and fifty pounds each, a mile over rugged 
terrain to this location.

They made a cautious circuit of the place, inspecting each cabin 
carefully.  None looked any more or less comfortable than the others, 
and so they arbitrarily chose one in which to drop their gear.  Some 
distance from the compound was a smaller shack, mainly for use as an 
outhouse but also boasting a small, stainless-steel tub.  Leaving 
Samantha inside to organize things, Mulder and Scully went outdoors to 
start the generator and the intrusion alert system the written 
instructions had advised them was available before it got dark.

"These guys take no chances," Scully muttered as they trudged their way 
across the solid carpet of fallen leaves.  Thankfully, it was still too 
cold up in the mountains for mosquitoes just yet.

They found the generator outside the shed.  It looked to be fairly 
contemporary but God only knew the last time it had been fired up.  

Mulder was struggling with the recalcitrant piece of equipment when he 
finally spoke again, his tone carefully moderated. "What's with the 
wrist brace?"

Scully snorted from inside the shed, where she was studying the control 
panel for the laser fence that would sound an alarm if anyone broke the 
beams.  Bitter irony colored her tone as she answered.  "Suffice it to 
say that I'll be in the market for a new car when we get back to D.C."

Something in her voice set Mulder's nerves on alert.  He paused what he 
was doing to stand in the doorway of the shed.  "What happened?"

Scully looked away, her jaw tensing.  "I'm on someone's hit list, 
apparently," she announced dispassionately.  "That night Krycek 
approached me in the garage and gave me the files, he warned me someone 
wanted me dead, but I didn't listen."

He stared at her, anger and fear churning in his gut.  "You've known 
since the night you called me and asked me to come back to Washington 
and you didn't tell me?" He asked coldly.

"Yeah.  I did.  Once Samantha showed up, I didn't think it was that 
important.  I had no reason to believe Krycek's word could be 
considered reliable.  I thought maybe he was trying to divert my 
attention from something else."

Mulder swore beneath his breath, every instinct within him demanding 
that he tell her how foolhardy such a move was.  Judging by the 
uncomfortable expression on her face, he thought she might already have 
a good idea.

"Look, Mulder, I'm sorry.  In retrospect, I realize I put you and 
Samantha at risk by not telling you, but at the time I really didn't 
think it would come to anything."

Shaking his head in annoyed resignation, Mulder stalked outside and 
began struggling with the generator again.

"So what happened?  Someone ran you off the road?"  He called, trying 
to moderate the irritation in his tone.

"Nothing so subtle.  They tried to blow me off the map.  Half my 
neighborhood will be shopping for cars right alongside me," she sighed.  
"I'll be lucky if I don't return to find my belongings dumped on the 
curb by my landlord."

Mulder peered around the door to the shed once more, his heart thumping 
loudly in his ears.  "Are you all right?" 

"Yeah," she muttered flatly.

He returned to his efforts with the generator as she gave him a brief, 
emotionless run-down on what had happened while she was in D.C.  He had 
a hard time concentrating on what he was doing as he listened more to 
what she wasn't saying than what she was.

In complete monotone, she outlined her two near-brushes with death.  
Her face, when he looked in at her, was a perfect mask of indifference.  
She recited the facts as she would a case file, as though they had 
happened to someone else entirely.  Mulder's gut felt hollow as concern 
steadily over-rode anger.  On a mental checklist, he marked off the 
classic signs of disassociation.  She had completely retreated from the 
reality of what had almost happened to her.

He knew Scully had a tendency to deny and repress things--they both 
did, in their different ways--but what he had heard behind her words in 
that moment was on an entirely different level.  It scared the hell out 
of him and he was just a little too tired and a little too terrified by 

what had almost happened to her to retreat peacefully to one of the 
cabins and pretend it would get better if he gave her time.

He'd only seen her like this once or twice in the years they had known 
each other.  After her first run-in with Donnie Pfaster was a good 
example, but on a much smaller scale.  He'd been able to break through 
it pretty quickly that time, but only because the trauma had been fresh 
and she hadn't had time to build up the walls of detachment that would 

keep her from confronting what she was feeling.  This time, she'd had 
days, and he imagined the walls of Jericho had nothing on what he was 
up against.  He had to find a way to bring her back out of the detached 
fog she had enshrouded herself with. 

His attempts to start the generator finally met with success and soon 
it was buzzing contentedly along.  He leaned in the doorway of the shed 

as Scully flipped on the switch to the intrusion alarm system and rose, 
brushing her hands on her thighs.  Reaching out, he lifted her chin, 
inspecting her for any physical signs of trauma.  She jerked away 
almost immediately, her eyes shielded and her body tense.  She brushed 
past him to enter the murky, tree-shaded area in the midst of the 
cabins.  Evening was already beginning to fall and with the heavy 
canopy overhead, very little of the dusky sunlight filtered through to 

the ground below.

"I'm fine, Mulder," she said firmly.  "The wrist will heal and the 

concussion is not that bad.  I'll be okay."


He didn't answer.  When she looked back, he was still staring at her.  
"Quit it, would you?" she snapped.  Schooling his face into complete 
neutrality, he neither responded nor looked away.

"Damn it, Mulder, stop!  I'm fine."

"You always are," he said harshly.

That got her attention.  

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" She snarled.

"It means," he stalked toward her, getting in her face, "why don't you 
tell me how you really feel, Scully?  Tell me 'Fuck off, Mulder' or 
"Mind your own damn business, Mulder' or 'I don't need you, get the 
hell out of my way, Mulder'.  Just cut it with the 'I'm fine' crap, 
okay?  I'm not buying it."

She looked ready to slug him, her face flushing a vivid shade of red 
and her hands clenching spasmodically at her sides.  Good.  If she 
punched him, it'd probably shock her back to reality all the quicker.  
Every word he'd said was true.  What caught him flat-footed was the 
fact that it felt pretty damned good to say it finally.  God knew he'd 
been tempted in the past.

"Goddammit, Mulder, don't start pulling this with me.  If I tell you I 
can handle it then I expect you to respect that!"

"Why are you so defensive?" he shot back.  "I saw you back in that car, 
Scully.  You nearly blew a hole through me before you saw who I was.  I 
wouldn't consider that the calling card of someone who can 'handle 
it.'"

"Don't play psychologist with me, Mulder!  What do you want me to say?" 
she demanded angrily.  "That I was scared?  Hell, yes, I was scared!  
Someone out there wants me dead in a big way and I don't have the first 
damned clue how to stop it or protect myself.  So, yeah, Mulder, I'm 
scared.  I'm fucking terrified.  Is that what you want to hear?  Can we 
stop now?"

Growling with irritation, she turned on her heel and strode rapidly 
away from him.  After several paces, she stopped, her shoulders 
hunching over.  When she turned back around, her eyes were brimming 
with tears.  He approached her with all the caution he would a wild 
animal, reaching out to her in as non-threatening manner as he could 
manage, waiting to see if she would bolt.  Gently, his hands closed 
over her shoulders, rubbing lightly, feeling some of her ramrod-
straight tension ease.

She caught him by surprise with the sudden violence with which she 
wrapped herself around him, burying her face in his shoulder as she 
sniffled, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back.  He 
encircled her with his arms, murmuring into her hair as he softly 
stroked her spine.

"This isn't like any other time we've been under the gun, Mulder," she 
said, her voice muffled against his chest.  "This isn't some government 
goon shooting at us because we went somewhere we shouldn't.  It's not 
some sick bastard like Pfaster, who kills because he gets off on it.  
Someone has just decided I'm in an inconvenience and has simply decided 
to get rid of me.  I don't know how to defend myself against that."

The fear in her voice clutched at his heart, twisting, and his arms 
tightened around her, pulling her closer in obedience of the marrow-
deep instinct to protect and comfort her.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he said quietly, his fingers lightly caressing the 
side of her neck.  He wasn't sorry he'd provoked her, really, but he 
was sorry he had allowed his own feelings to color how he went about 
it.  "I shouldn't have pushed you like that.  I just...I've never seen 
you quite this way, and it has me worried."

"Never seen me what way?" she asked, her voice slightly choked, turning 
to face him with the pale tracks of tears lining her face.

"Hunted," he whispered, tenderly pushing her hair back from her face, 
stroking her wet cheek with the backs of his fingers.

She gave a small, uncontrollable, hysterical giggle at the choice of 
words.  "That's about as fitting as anything," she replied, her tone 

wavering, unsteady.  He acknowledged the humor in his choice of words 
with a gruff chuckle.

She laid her cheek against his chest again, sighing.  He didn't know 
how long they stood there before he pulled back out of the embrace, 
rubbing his hands over her shoulders.  He searched her eyes, trying to 
gauge the emotional climate there.  What he saw reassured him.

"Come on," he prompted, resting his hand between her shoulder blades.  

"It's getting dark, and I'm cold.  Let's get inside."

Nodding, she allowed him to guide her into the cabin.

*     *     *     *     *

Samantha was already curled up on the bottom bunk asleep when they 
entered the cabin they had made their headquarters.  "Uh-oh," Scully 
whispered, looking at Mulder with amusement.  "How do we get our things 
out of here and into the other cabins without waking her?"

Mulder cast a fond glance at his sister.  "Don't worry about it," he 
murmured.  "Samantha could sleep through an all-out alien invasion.  
She always could."

Silently, they gathered their belongings and set them outside.  Mulder 
paused to turn down the kerosene heater and cover Samantha up with the 
extra blanket from the top bunk to reduce the risk of fire and emerged 
to see Scully already unloading her things in the next cabin to the 
right.  He took the cabin beyond that, dropping his gear carelessly on 

the floor and returning to join Scully.

"Any self-respecting fire marshal would have a stroke at the sight of 
this place," she commented over her shoulder as she ignited her own 
heater.  A loud "whoosh" announced her success, and she turned on the 
electric fan in the unit.

Shrugging, he sat on the bottom bunk, taking a good look around the 
cabin.  A single dingy light bulb hung from the ceiling.  The lanterns 
were for backup apparently.  The heaters could still give off warmth 
even without the blower turned on, so they weren't entirely reliant on 
the generator.  It might not be a bad idea, actually, to use the thing 
as little as possible, conserving their resources.  There was no 
telling how long they might be up here.

"The DNA tests came back," Scully interrupted his thoughts, sitting 
beside him on the edge of the bunk.  "Samantha is definitely your 
sister."

He looked down at her as she studied him carefully, waiting for his 
reaction to the news.  He merely gave her a small smile and nod of 
acknowledgment.

"At this point, I'd be surprised if she weren't," he replied, scooting 
backward to lean against the wall, his legs sticking out across the 
bunk in front of him.  Scully looked at him quizzically.  "We've had a 
chance to get to know each other in the last few days, to reconnect.  
We got to see what's different and what's stayed the same.  She's just 
too familiar to me not to be the real thing."

"I didn't get to tell you who visited me while I was in the hospital," 
she started, looking uncomfortable.  Mulder listened, at once angry and 
concerned as she related the tale of the smoking man's visit.  "He said 
that Samantha wasn't in any real danger, that the threats had merely 
been attempts to keep her out of the line of fire.  He said he's 
protected her all these years."

"And you believe him?"

She sighed, sliding back to join him leaning against the wall, so they 
were sitting shoulder to shoulder, their legs stretched out 
companionably beside each other's.  "I don't know, Mulder.  Frankly, I 
haven't had time since the assassination attempts to give it much 
consideration.  He said he could protect her if she were at home with 
her family, but not while she was with us.  Especially me."

"I can't say I'm willing to consider sending her home just yet, when 
we've only got his word to go on," Mulder stated, frowning.

"Me neither," she replied.  She paused for a moment then Mulder felt 
the motion as she took a deep breath.

"There's another player out there that we didn't know about," she said 
finally, and Mulder felt a small shudder pass through her.

"Who?" Instantly alert, he straightened, twisting to look at her.

"I don't know his name," Scully answered.  "We know about Burke, and 
about the Englishman, and the other man who showed me that box car, but 
there's someone else, a man with a German accent who seemed to be 
pretty far up in the hierarchy."

"Seemed?  You sound like you've met the man, Scully."

"Not as such, no," she said, appearing decidedly uncomfortable.  "I 
remember him--from my abduction."

Mulder swallowed hard, staring at her.  "Are you sure?"

She nodded, not quite happily.  "Pretty much.  I'm remembering more 
each day.  I can recall a lot of the sounds and some of what happened 
around me, but I couldn't see much, really.  I couldn't move my head or 
look around.  But I do remember a conversation between Burke and the 
Englishman and this other man, something that happened outside my field 
of vision.  The man with the German accent wanted them to kill me 
during my abduction.  Burke told me that one other man remained after 
the destruction of their group and that he was the one trying to kill 
me.  I think it might be this man with the German accent I remember 

from my abduction."

"Do you remember anything else?" he asked, his brow wrinkled with 
concern as he watched her.  She shook her head, not meeting his gaze.

"Not really...nothing worth mentioning yet.  I can let you know more 
after I've had a chance to figure some things out."

It was a hedge.  He'd bet his Sylvia Kristel collection on it.  He 
considered pressing her, then changed his mind.  If Scully felt it was 
something they needed to discuss now, she'd say it.  If she wasn't 
saying it, she had her reasons, most likely that she wanted to have 
more information before making any declarations.  She wasn't like 
him...she didn't go off half-cocked.  If she said something, she had 
the proof to back it up, period.

He settled back in beside her and fell silent as he processed all she 
had told him.  He could see in the corner the briefcase full of files 
and papers she had brought with her from the car.  It looked like they 
still had a lot of work ahead of them.  They had come to this place 
seeking to protect Samantha, but it was the peril Scully was now in 
that dictated they remain.

His mind went back to the conversation he'd had with Samantha.  How 
many times over the years had he set Scully and her needs aside in 
favor of his own pursuits?  What right did he have to lecture Samantha 
on throwing away the chance for happiness in favor of something she 
might never have?  Hadn't he been doing the same thing for seven years?  
It was not a thing he ever realized he was doing at the time, but now, 
having heard it spoken aloud, he could not deny it.  Maybe he should 
take a page from his sister's book and work to rectify that mistake.  
It was past time to put Scully first.

Something touched his shoulder and he looked down to see her head 
resting lightly against his arm.  Her breathing, soft and even, warmed 
his skin even through the layers of his coat and the shirt beneath.  He 
would have to wake her in order to move and return to his own cabin.

Her small hand, palm turned upward, rested on his thigh.  The sight 
stirred something deep within him, the awareness of the perfect trust 
held between them.  Despite all that had happened, despite all she had 
been through, she felt safe enough with him to rest, to lean on him and 
let him support her a while.  His throat tightened with emotion.

He moved slowly, supporting her as he laid her as gently on the bunk as 
he could.  He started to rise just before he felt her hand close 
tightly over his.

He looked at her and found her eyes were open, though half-lidded with 
sleep.  Something in their sky-blue depths pleaded with him.

Stay with me.  Help me feel safe a while longer.

The imperative was too powerful, the need behind it too great, too 
ignore.  Nothing that happened in the last seven days seemed to matter 
anymore, he thought.  The rightness of finally being together again 
superceded the fear and frustration and danger.  Washington was far 
away, and for tonight at least they were safe.

He reached for the coarse acrylic blanket folded at the bottom of the 
bunk and pulled it over their legs, then slid down until he lay beside 
her.  She moved for a moment to settle in against his chest, laying her 
head upon him, and closed her eyes once more.

He thought he might not be able to breathe for a moment, so intense was 
the tenderness and beauty of that moment.  He looked at her for a while 
longer as her face relaxed into sleep, and then he closed his eyes and 
rested beside her.