From: ephemeral@ephemeralfic.org Date: Thu, 7 Dec 2000 09:12:54 -0600 Subject: Memoir: Year Three 1/4 Source: direct Reply To: sarahkingman@yahoo.com Title: MEMOIR: YEAR Three Author: Laura Castellano and Sarah Kingman feedback to: sarahkingman@yahoo.com website: http://www.envy.nu/kingman Rating: PG-13 Keywords: MSR, Character Death BIG OLE FAT WARNING: Mulder and Scully are both dead in this story-- it assumes Scully died immediately after Je Souhaite and nothing after that episode happened. You really need to read Memoir: Year One and Year Two before starting this one, since this is a continuing series. They can be found at http://www.envy.nu/kingman/memoir/memoir.htm The story is written entirely from Mulder's POV. This part has spoilers for just about every Season Three episode. Distribution: Sure, but I'd like to know where it goes. Disclaimer: Not mine, never were, never will be. ----- Memoir: Year Two by Laura Castellano and Sarah Kingman We were always in danger. We lived our lives that way, after that first year, and we both seemed to accept it as a matter of course, and yet the closeness we felt to one another during that time was something we lost for a little while, later. After we'd been together five or six years, it sometimes seemed we both remained out of habit rather than choice. On the other hand, we both had opportunities to leave and neither of us took them, so perhaps we felt something deeper than we were aware. As bad as things were, neither of us suspected that the worst was yet to come, and after all we endured at the hands of our enemies, how ironic it was that she should die the way she did, and that I should end up here, chained to this chair for however many years I have left. I'd laugh if it didn't make me feel like crying, but then, maybe I'm just too close to the situation. Maybe if I was a simple observer, I could appreciate the irony more. Perhaps one day someone will dig up this memoir and read it and get the good laugh I know is buried somewhere in here, among all the tales of woe and horror and regret. If only I'd spoken to her sooner, told her how I felt when I first discovered it...maybe we could have quit the FBI, gone off together and lived somewhat normal lives. Then again, maybe not. For all I know, it was our destiny to do what we did. Although in the end, I don't really know what good we accomplished. At least of a global nature. We had plenty of good moments on a small scale. On the other hand, maybe that's just what life is--a series of unrelated moments strung together. If there's a reward in the afterlife, perhaps it's based on what we did with those individual moments. I think it should be that way, really. It seems only fair. After all, how many of us can see the big picture? And how many of us have a chance to be a savior of a race or a nation or a world? Maybe we're all put here to be a savior to just one person. Scully was mine, of course. That goes without saying. I sometimes wonder if I was ever hers. Oh, physically, of course I was, several times. I saved her life and she saved mine, but I mean "savior" on a much deeper level. I can't express all the ways in which she saved me. But the way things worked out, I didn't speak, nor did she, and once we both realized what we felt for one another was, shall we say, "twoo wuv" instead of the deep, agonizing need we both recognized, it was far too late to junk it all and go be Mr. and Mrs. Fox Mulder. We had too much invested by then. We'd both lost too much. I guess you could say our third year together started off pretty auspiciously--we both lost someone we loved, we discovered some frightening implications about what had happened to Scully during her abduction, and they tried to kill us both. Oh, she always claimed that when they fired that shot through the window of my apartment they were aiming for me, but I don't believe that. They thought they'd already gotten me. They were looking to finish the job with her. ----- I'd had the headache from hell for two days running, and I hadn't slept worth a damn. I'd made it through Monday by swallowing aspirin like it was candy, but by late that evening I was feeling like...well, you know. I never did figure out just *why* they were drugging my water before I even knew about the tape, before I had it in my hot little hands--for all the good it did me. Maybe they were planning something else. Maybe they wanted to make me so crazy with the drug that I'd do something stupid, (attack Skinner, maybe?), and get myself fired. Instead, the situation just seemed to drop right into their hands, although I didn't realize it until later. At the time, I had no idea the water in my building was drugged. I thought I was coming down with a flu bug or something. I was alternately hot and chilled, my head ached like a sonofabitch, and I felt nauseous and disoriented. Sounds like flu, right? Wrong. The knock at my front door was like a jackhammer on my aching head, so I hurried to answer before they could begin pounding again. It was the guys, and never in my life have I been so rude to my friends as I was that day. I told them I didn't feel well, and when they barged into my place anyway I should have realized something big was afoot. Instead I was nasty and sarcastic, but they ignored my mood and told me all about their cohort, 'The Thinker,' who had requested an audience with the Great Muldini. Oh wait, sorry...different case. That was another attempt at humor, in case you missed it. Hey, don't blame me--I'm slipping. I'm drugged up on antihistamines, and this damn cough is driving both me and Katie crazy. Anyway, they'd barely gotten through telling me about this guy when I snapped back to alertness pretty quickly--sounds of gunfire will always do that to me, I guess. It had come from around the corner, down the hall, and I ran there with my own weapon drawn, fearing the worst. Whatever the heck "the worst" means in a situation like that. Turned out Mrs. Parsons, sweet little old lady from down the hall, had killed her husband. I never really found out why, and she moved away from the building soon after, but at least she didn't go to jail. I was able to prove to the police that the water had been drugged, affecting not just me but everyone on my floor to some extent or other, and she was no-billed by a grand jury. Justice at last. They had a great marriage, from what I saw of them. They were both retired, and were always together and always smiling. If I ever got married again, I knew I wanted a relationship like that. God knows my first one was a disaster. I don't know if Scully and I had it in us to be that content, but we would have been happy. Especially if the bad guys had left us alone and let us live our lives. And yet, if they hadn't taken Samantha all those years ago, I probably wouldn't have become the pain in their ass I grew up to be, and they wouldn't have sent me Scully, and we might never have met. Life is strange, and I'm tired of trying to figure it out. I'm also just plain tired. I think I'll take a nap. Afterwards, I'll write about the boxcar where I nearly died, and the chip in Scully's neck. ----- That was a hell of a nap. About six hours, I think. It's well after midnight now, and Katie will have a fit when she sees the circles under my eyes in the morning, but I've slept enough. I feel an urgency to get this story told, although I haven't a clue as to why. Maybe because it's an unpleasant task I've set for myself, and I want to get it behind me. It isn't all unpleasant, though. Going through these old case files, I remember good things, too. I remember Scully's laughter, especially in the early days. I remember the softness of her hands in my hair or on my back when she wanted to comfort me, and I remember the warmth of her simple presence. I remember the friend I could count on in any situation--the one who never betrayed me, even when it seemed she had. I met with that guy, "The Thinker," and he gave me a digital tape that I informed Scully was my Holy Grail. It might have been, too, if I'd been able to read anything on it. I shoved away from the computer in disgust at the gibberish that appeared on my screen. I still felt lousy, and right at that moment I really wanted to put my fist through a wall. I might have done it if Scully hadn't already been so alarmed at my behavior. She took a seat and after a quick glance at the words told me she thought they might be decipherable. I arrogantly ordered her to find someone to do it, grabbing up my jacket and preparing to leave my office. When she asked, all the concern in the world on her face, if I was feeling all right, the only excuse I could offer was that I hadn't been sleeping. That's when I ran into Skinner and discovered that, no matter how well trained I might have been, I would never be a match for his larger bulk and greater experience. Hey, the man was a boxer in his spare time, and a damn good one. Not bad at wrestling, either. I was pissed, he goaded me--at least that's what I thought he was doing at the time--I stupidly threw a punch at him and found myself in a headlock before I could draw back my arm to hit him a second time. Effortless, I tell you--if Skinner ever decides to quit the FBI and turn pro, he could give any of the current champs a run for their money. Who are the big names in boxing and wrestling these days, anyway? Guess I'm out of touch--of all the sports I love, those two have never really appealed to me. Maybe because I know I'd suck at them. At any rate, I was certainly a laughable opponent for Skinner. He could have hauled my ass up before the director right that very moment if he'd wanted to, but instead he just sent me on my way with a few terse words. I always thought--later, when I *could* think--that if there hadn't been so many witnesses to the incident, he'd have let me off with nothing more than a bruised neck and wounded ego. Trust me to make a scene in the worst possible location. I went home, dug out some pain killers I still had from when I'd been shot in the leg the previous year, and took two of them. I never even woke up the next morning until Scully entered my apartment. I didn't hear the knock, I didn't hear the phone--I never even set the alarm. I had no intention of going to work that day anyway, and frankly I was in doubt as to whether or not I would still have a job, after my folly with Skinner. At the very least, I expected some type of suspension. Scully even asked me why I'd attacked our boss, and it should have been a clue to me that I had no idea why I'd done such a stupid thing, but it wasn't. By then I was so used to feeling bad that I just accepted it; I had flu. It happened. I put my masking tape 'X' on the window, hoping to get the answers Scully sought concerning the digital tape, but before X had a chance to contact me, I got a phone call from my father. My relationship with my dad was an odd one. I knew that, somewhere inside the alcoholic haze he'd lived in for the past twenty years, he loved me. When I was a kid, I never doubted that my parents cared for both me and Samantha. We had a normal family life, or at least I thought we did, until she was taken. In fact, on my birthday the month before Sam's abduction, Dad gave me a special gift he'd made himself. It was a desk for my bedroom, full of nooks and crannies and drawers for all my stuff, and it must have taken him months to build. I loved it. I still have it--own it, that is--but I haven't used it since I went away to Oxford. It's sitting in a storage shed right now, along with a bunch of my other stuff that won't fit into this apartment, but I'm not ready to get rid of just yet. Anyway, as I said, I know my dad loved me. He did. But he also loved Samantha, and when she was taken I guess he simply couldn't cope with the guilt of knowing he'd made it happen. He hadn't surrendered her the way he was supposed to--he was too busy giving me my birthday present that night, I found out years later--and talk about feeling a guilt trip! I beat myself up over it for a long time before I finally realized Dad had never had any intention of giving up Samantha. As a result, when she was taken it was an even greater trauma for the entire family than it should have been-- if that makes any sense at all. I think Dad knew to expect it at some point, and maybe Mom did too, but they never saw fit to let me in on the secret. As a result, that night was one of the most horrible of my life, ranking right up there with the night I learned my mother had committed suicide, and the night I killed Scully. Why do all the bad things happen at night? There's no answer for that question, and anyway, they don't. I know for a fact. When Cancerman tried to burn me alive in that boxcar, it was broad daylight. Most of it, though, most of it happened after darkness had fallen--Sam's abduction, Scully's abduction, Scully's abduction...yeah, they took her twice. I managed to save her that second time because of the interference of one of their own, one they immediately killed, and that was after nightfall as well. Maybe evil has an easier time coming out to play then. What I'm avoiding, prattling on and on about how my father really *did* love me--and I'm not trying to convince myself of that fact, believe me, I made peace with that years ago--what I'm avoiding writing about is what I found in that boxcar. And the night my father was murdered by Alex Krycek. Okay, I'll admit I have no proof of that last, none at all, but I still know, and I'll go to my grave knowing that Krycek killed my father and Scully's sister. It's just one of those undeniable truths that's written in my gut and affirmed by my knowledge that Krycek was a liar and a traitor and already a murderer. He'd killed the tram operator while he was trying so hard to stop me from reaching Scully before Duane Barry could make off with her. He accomplished his objective, and that was all it took for me to hate him forever. So my dad called and asked me to come up to see him right away, and I didn't hesitate. There was something in his voice, something awful, and for my father to ask to see me was a rare occurrence. Something was definitely afoot, and I had to find out what. He hugged me. I stuck out my hand, expecting the rather impersonal shake he'd given me when the fake Samantha had appeared, and damned if the old man didn't pull me straight into his arms for the first hug I'd received from him since I was a small kid. I was taken aback, to say the least, but I returned the favor. Hey, he was my dad. Maybe he was a drunk, and maybe he didn't always treat me or my mom right, but I couldn't help loving him anyway. That's why it hurt so badly when he was killed, less than an hour later, with me sitting unsuspecting in his living room, unaware that he needed my protection. It was the first sign of true affection I'd had from him in years, and I--ever the optimist--dared hope it might start a new chapter in our relationship. Then I sat on his couch and heard a gunshot and ran to find him dying. He asked for my forgiveness before he went, and although I never really knew what he wanted absolution for, I gave it as best I could. I cried, then, one of the few times in my adult life I've shed actual tears--at least until I lost Scully. Men don't cry, they say, but that's a crock. Men are just better at hiding it. We have our pride at stake. I didn't mind shedding a few tears in front of Scully when my mother had her stroke, and I alone knew of the night I knelt beside what I was sure would become Scully's deathbed and sobbed out my heart into the sheets. I cried over my dad, and then I did the only thing I knew to do. I called Scully. I have to admit my first instinct after calling her was to notify the police. I'm a--I *was*--a law enforcement officer, and I wasn't thinking clearly. The only thing I knew for certain was that my father had been shot. It didn't occur to me until Scully pointed it out that I was the only other person in the house--the logical suspect. Add to that our somewhat strained relationship, and it was clear I'd be looking at the inside of a jail cell by morning. I wanted to stay, call for help, go through official channels, but Scully talked me out of it. She spoke calmly, rationally, and she made me see sense. That's when she also told me someone had shot through the window of my apartment, nearly killing her. She thought they were aiming at me--I still don't believe that. Krycek was hiding in my father's house. He knew I was there. Maybe he'd even followed me there. Maybe Dad had even called for me at his behest, somehow. All I'm certain of was if I hadn't listened to Scully and run away, more than likely I'd have found myself in prison for murdering my father. If they'd managed to kill Scully as well, and her body was discovered in my apartment, it could very well have meant the death penalty for me. Oh, I know Massachusetts doesn't have it, but the state of Virginia does, believe me. So I went to her apartment, covered with my father's blood, feverish and barely conscious of what I was doing. Scully put me in her bed, bathed my forehead with a cold, wet rag, and tried her best to soothe me, and eventually I fell into an exhausted sleep. When I woke up late the next morning, she was gone. So was my gun. I was livid. I called her up and accused her of all kinds of things I would never have said had I been rational--it wasn't until the drugs were clear of my system that I could see her actions for what they were, but at that point we didn't even realize I *had* been drugged. She hadn't made off with my wallet, so I grabbed it, got dressed--and damn if a small part of me wasn't pissed off that I'd missed her taking my clothes off!--and started to walk off my anger. I think I had some silly idea that I might walk all the way home, but it was way too far, and I was weakened by the drug and the fact that I hadn't eaten a decent meal in days. Finally I ended up stopping at a pay phone and calling a cab, but it was already getting dark by the time I admitted that much defeat. When I arrived at my building, it was just in time to see Krycek slipping out the rear door. Maybe he'd come to finish me off and been disappointed to find me absent. Maybe he'd have realized I was with Scully and gone to her place, thus placing her in danger as well. None of these thoughts fully formed in my mind, but the essence of them was there as I made my way quietly around the building and intercepted Krycek. I was going to kill him, and there are times I still wish I had, but I wasn't given the chance. I did get in a few good licks, and he was too stunned by my sudden appearance to put up much of a defense. I was ready to pull the trigger when Scully appeared, and even though she ordered me to put the gun down, I didn't budge. I'd have shot Krycek if Scully hadn't shot me first. The wound wasn't that serious--my Scully was a damn good shot, lucky for us both--but between the shock of it and my already weakened state, I hit the ground and lost consciousness immediately, and Scully kept me that way for a day and a half. When I finally woke up, it was to find myself in New Mexico with Scully and an old man she introduced to me as Albert Hosteen. He was of the Navajo tribe, and had been a code-talker during World War II. He'd been working on deciphering the data on the digital tape that had started this whole mess, and there was quite a revelation contained therein. "My name is in those files, Mulder." That stunned me--I truly hadn't expected it. Suddenly, things began to fall into place: her abduction, Duane Barry, Krycek, my father's murder, and his odd talk of "merchandise" just before he'd died, talk I hadn't understood and didn't yet fully, but would very soon. After making sure I didn't hate her for shooting me, explaining to me about the drugs I'd been unwittingly ingesting and checking my wound and my bandage one more time, Scully left me with Albert and headed back to Washington. End part 1 of 4 Albert took me home to meet his son and grandson, who led me into the nearby hills and showed me one of the most horrible sights I've seen in my life. I've witnessed some really awful things, both terrestrial and supernatural, and I've seen plain old evil more times than I care to remember, but when I began to realize, when I grasped a tiny inkling of the "merchandise" to which my father referred, I felt physical illness. There was a boxcar from an old train buried beneath the desert sand, and inside it I found bodies. Lots of bodies. Alien-human hybrid bodies. And every last one of them I had time to examine carried a smallpox vaccination scar. I called Scully, tried to tell her what I was seeing, but before the conversation was finished, Albert's grandson had slammed the only door to the boxcar shut, trapping me inside and killing my cellular connection with Scully. At first I was confused, until I heard the sound of a helicopter landing and men's voices shouting, and then I understood--Cancerman had tracked me, had called my cell phone earlier, just to taunt me I thought, but I was mistaken--and now he had arrived. The boy was trying to protect me, not really knowing from what I needed protection, but acting on his own instincts. I was in a hole--there was nowhere to go. Immediately, ignoring my squeamishness, I started digging through the bodies, hoping to find a place to hide myself. I'd managed to burrow beneath a large pile of them by the time Cancerman's men came down to search for me, and holding my breath as long as I could, I was relieved when they left and reported no trace of me. It must not have occurred to them I might hide where I did. Either that, or they were as squeamish as I, but danger didn't necessitate ignoring their feelings. I heard my enemy's familiar voice shout, "Burn it!" and I was pretty sure I was a goner. It was obvious what they were about to do, and sure enough, moments later the boxcar began filling with smoke. Instinctively I pressed myself against the wall, and nearly cried out in relief when I felt it give. Somehow, someone, once upon a time, had dug a tunnel there. People who were privy to my adventure in New Mexico have often wondered how I managed to escape the burning train car alive, and I must admit, I've refused to answer on more than one occasion. It was a nice bit of mystery I enjoyed perpetuating; it was as if I'd risen from the dead. The truth was, it was probably kids who saved me. The tunnel seemed like something kids would dig--not large, not reliable, but a hell of a lot better than burning to death. I managed to crawl into it and shield myself from the fire well enough to save my life, but I nearly died of smoke inhalation in the process. The tunnel ended a short way from the boxcar, beneath a pile of large rocks. I tried to dig my way out, but I was too exhausted by then, too overcome by the heat and the smoke and the results of the past week--drugged, shot, lack of food and rest. It's a miracle I survived at all, and I still firmly believe without Albert Hosteen's intervention and his performance of the Blessing Way ritual, I wouldn't have made it. I don't remember much about that time--I was unconscious for most of it--but I do recall fragmented images. My father, Deep Throat, other people I'd known in the past, people who had died. I remember very clearly opening my eyes and asking my father if Samantha was there, and his reply that she was not. Everything else is a blur, but to this day I remember that part. Since I found out years later that Samantha was indeed dead, and had been for some years, I suppose none of it makes sense. Maybe the entire thing was nothing more than an hallucination brought on by my condition. Either way, I lived to tell the tale, odd as the tale might be. Once Hosteen had completed his ritual and I'd been released on my own recognizance, so to speak--instructed not to bathe or change clothes for several days, (an order I had no intention of following, but I did, it turned out, simply because I was too busy trying to stay alive to think much about personal hygiene--Scully was really nice about it too, aside from wrinkling her nose slightly just once), I made my way back to the east coast. I wanted to see Scully desperately, but first I had to take care of something else. I had to see my mother. And now, I have to sleep. ----- Katie came early this morning. I was just beginning to shift myself from the bed to my chair when I heard her key in the lock, so I waited. She helped me into the chair, and even gave me a little assistance with my morning grooming, although I draw the line at having her give me a sponge bath. This cold has taken a lot out of me, what with all the coughing coupled with the meds I've been taking, so I was glad of her help. Just getting into the chair can be an exhausting workout lately. After I'd finished in the bathroom, she pushed me into the living room and did her examination. She frowned when she listened to my lungs, but I guess my stubborn expression stopped her from speaking. That's actually a good thing. Katie's no shrinking violet; had I needed the hospital, believe me, I'd be there now. She checked my refrigerator, made me some juice from frozen concentrate, and set a big glass of it in front of me, ordering me to drink it down. She said I was getting dehydrated, but I don't know how she could tell. I don't feel thirsty. It was easier to obey than argue with her, and I had to admit the oj hit the spot, so I finished the glass while she waited. Then she left me with strict instructions not to forget my antibiotic at lunch. I tried not to look guilty when she said that; I have actually forgotten a couple of them, but not too many. Besides, I can't tell that they're doing any good anyway. So where was I? Oh yeah. Mom. I had questions, but she gave no real answers. My mother was skilled at that. I learned nothing from Mom, so I decided to seek out Scully at last. I arrived at my apartment just in time to find Scully and Skinner pointing weapons at one another, arguing over the digital tape. At the time I still wasn't sure Skinner was trustworthy, and seeing him holding a gun on Scully was enough to make me draw my own and point it directly at him. He didn't want to back down, but with both of us against him, it was obvious he had no choice. He had the tape. He kept it. I instinctively decided to trust him--if he'd wanted to get rid of Scully, he'd had ample opportunity. It was pretty clear to my gut instinct that Skinner wasn't our enemy. Scully wasn't so sure, but then, Scully was never so sure of Skinner as I. In the elevator, I had to cut her off before she could say anything that might make me lose my composure. I'd had too little sleep and too little food for far too long; I was running on anger and adrenaline at that point. If I'd let Scully say anything emotional at all, I'd have fallen apart, and I couldn't let that happen. Because of my condition, and the drugs I'd been pumped full of, I suppose, a lot of my memories of that time are hazy. I remember showing Mom a photograph of some of Dad's cohorts, for instance, but I can't for the life of me recall how I got it in my possession. I'm sure I didn't carry it around in my wallet, but I don't remember going back to my apartment for it. One thing I remember with crystal clarity, and always will, was standing before Viktor Klemper, the Nazi war criminal, while he told me calmly about how his work would go unappreciated in the annals of history. I'm not a practicing Jew, never have been, but my family came to this country in order to escape Hitler and the madness they saw happening around them. Some of them did, anyway--some of them died in the gas chambers and some we never knew their fate. So although I felt somewhat removed from Nazi Germany, standing there face to face with this relic of the Third Reich made my stomach clench. It was as if I had an irrational fear that he'd try to drag *me* off to his lab and do experiments on me, or something. Then when I figured out what he was trying to tell me, his words couched in riddles and innuendo, the feeling of nausea grew. It was, in fact, alien-human hybrid corpses I'd seen in the boxcar. Up until that moment I hadn't realized it--I'd thought they were pure alien. This was the first inkling I had of what their intentions really were. Of course I learned more later, when I found Scully's missing ova, when we learned about Emily, but that was years down the road. We were still innocent. I can't think sequentially about these things any longer. As I've mentioned, my memories of this time are fuzzy, but how could I forget Melissa's death? Melissa, Scully's older sister, who had bullied me into being right where I needed to be while Scully lay dying in a coma, had gone to visit her sister and received a bullet to the head for her troubles. It was when we saw the Gunmen that we learned of Melissa's tragedy, and they were the ones who told us one of the men in the picture was Viktor Klemper, so it must have been after I went to my mother and learned nothing. Scully was devastated, naturally, and wanted to go to Melissa at once, but I held her back. I told her if the bullet had been meant for her, as we both suspected, she couldn't arrive at the hospital or she'd make herself an easy target. I made her stay with me, and as a result, she never saw Melissa alive again. Made her stay with me. Now that sentence is ironic. I couldn't really *make* Scully do anything, she and I both knew it. I persuaded her. I used that famous persuasion that she knew crazy people had, and I talked her into waiting, and while she waited, Missy died. Do I really have to live with all of this? I didn't shoot Melissa. I still believe Krycek did, or at least that he was involved. I think it's time for more juice. ----- Klemper gave us a clue that led us to the files. Lots and lots of files, as Scully so eloquently put it. And in the files, tissue samples, records of smallpox vaccinations...we found Scully's record. And then I found Samantha's. It was supposed to have been mine. Crushing grief and guilt might have weighed me down right then, except that things started happening so damn fast I didn't have time to think about how I was the one who should have been taken, how someone, somewhere, had changed their minds and abducted my little sister instead of me. The lights went out, and I ran outside, thinking Scully was right behind me. It was the first time I'd ever seen one of their ships up close. Closer, I mean, than the one at Ellen's Air Base in Idaho, close enough I could make out the markings on the hull--markings that meant nothing to me. It sure as hell wasn't marked with an American flag, the usual symbol of our military vehicles, I can tell you that. Just as it disappeared into the night, a group of cars arrived, men jumping from them, shooting at me, and I ran back inside, grabbed Scully, and we slipped out a back door as fast as we could. It's a wonder neither of us was wounded. We called Skinner--or I should say *I* called Skinner, since Scully was still certain he was against us. I pointed out that we had no other choice, so she allowed it, although not happily. He came, and after telling us how desperate Cancerman was to regain the tape, informed us of a deal to be made. I wanted to keep that tape so badly. I know now that if I'd managed to hang on to it, it wouldn't have been for long. They weren't playing around this time--they'd tried to kill us both. Scully's sister had been shot. I'd lost my father. We were on the run. Skinner and Scully together made me see the hopelessness of our situation, and finally, reluctantly, I agreed to the exchange of the tape for our jobs and our safety. We'd already lost so much, and it was clear we couldn't hide out forever. We went back to see Klemper--there were more answers I wanted from him, and I was prepared to beat them out of him if necessary--but found they'd gotten to him before we could. He was dead. The man in his place confirmed my suspicion about the alien-human hybrids. He told me how my father had been lied to, why he'd lost faith in the "project," as they called it, and why he'd been ultimately murdered. Scully didn't want me to believe what he said, but it was all so clear then. I demanded to know why they'd taken my sister instead of me, but the only thing he could tell me was that I had become my father. I didn't know what that meant until years later, and I'd learned by then to deal with all the bad memories I had of the man. As I said, no matter what else Bill Mulder may have done, he did love me. I suppose he loved my mother too, although when I confronted her, in the middle of the night, about the choice she hissed that she'd hated him for it, that she hated him still. I held her while she cried. Then I went to the hospital, to Scully, and found that Melissa had died. I held her while she cried. And now I want to sleep. ----- Reading back over what I've written, I realize I've been doing more and more of that lately. Sleeping, I mean. I could blame it on the cold, and the meds, but the truth is, sleep is an escape. Dredging up these memories has been even more difficult than I imagined, and the only way to escape them is through sleep. And I do escape them, for which I'm ever thankful; no nightmares plague me now. Not this week, anyway. If you ask me if I've ever been struck by lightning, I might have to say yes. When I realized what I really felt for Scully, that was lightning. When I understood how deep was the level of evil we were fighting, that was lightning. When they told me she was dead... But no, in a literal sense, I have never been struck by lightning, nor have any of my friends. Darin Oswald was different. We went to that little town--Connorsville, Oklahoma--because the number of deaths due to lightning strikes, compared to the national average, seemed...well, outrageous comes to mind. Even if they did manufacture lightning there, as the good Sheriff was quick to point out. He was a jerk from the beginning, and I wanted to punch him out when I saw how he treated Scully. Knowing she might very likely punch *me* out, should I attempt such a misguided task as "protecting" her in such a situation, I merely kept silent and watched. I was hoping for more fireworks than I saw, but Scully did attempt to put the man in his place. To place blame where it really belongs, I didn't give her a full briefing before asking her to take a look at the latest victim. At first I almost thought the Sherif might be involved, he was so adamant that we were wasting our time, but it turned out he was just an idiot. A dead idiot, when all was said and done, because he couldn't unlock his mind from the chains of normalcy and accept the extraordinary. He let our suspect out of jail, which suspect then proceeded to kidnap the woman he had a crush on after threatening the life of her husband. We caught him. And they had to let him go because as usual, there was nothing we could use to prove, on paper, his guilt. We knew it--*he* knew it--but there you have it. Courts don't convict kids on suspicion of murder by lightning unless there's a very good reason to do so. Fresh from that defeat, we met a man neither of us would ever forget. I don't even need to look over the case notes to remember Mr. Clyde Bruckman. He was truly a unique individual, and I'm not talking only about his ability, which was strange enough. Mr. Bruckman was a nice man, an honest man, (and no cracks about insurance salesmen, please), and a man who, finally, could no longer live with the blessing with which he had been cursed. I still don't know if he could see a person's death by will, or if it just came to him in some instances and not in others. I do know he told me I'd die by auto-erotic asphyxiation, which I took as a joke then as well as now. Hey, I am--was--a healthy American male, but even when I was whole, I wasn't into anything quite *that* weird. He also told Scully, when she asked how she'd die, "You don't." Which was a lie. And I'm left here alone, after both of them have passed, to wonder if he knew, and didn't want to say. How would I have reacted if he'd told me I'd kill my partner? Of course, I doubt Mr. Bruckman would have voiced it in quite those terms, but had he told us I'd be driving the night she was killed, what then? Would I have refused to ever drive her anywhere again? She never would have let me get away with that, and Scully also wouldn't have believed him. Not for a second. I'd have endured merciless teasing from her until I finally gave in, and the end result would have probably been the same. I remember Scully inherited that yappy little mongrel from Clyde--what was his name? Queequeg. I'd like to tell you I hated the mutt, but the truth is, I was jealous. We hadn't managed to admit to one another what we felt, partly through nervousness and partly through genuine fear of what the result might be, and I think Scully lavished some of the attention on the dog that she later confessed she wanted to give me. I did feel bad when I got the dog killed, but the sorrow I felt was for her loss only. Yappy little mutt. Langly actually offered to bring me a kitten once, and I considered it for a little while. I like animals, especially cats, and I wouldn't mind owning one except for one practical matter--how the hell am I supposed to clean up after it? I pointed this out to Langly and invited him to come over twice a week to clean the litter box. For some reason, he's never mentioned it again. The next three cases we worked were things I'd prefer to forget--the man who died in the electric chair and came back to kill five people he felt had treated him badly, the perfectly human appearing mutant who killed women by sucking the adipose tissue from their bodies, the soldier who was so angry at his treatment as a Vietnam vet that he killed the loved ones of those he resented...these things are horrible to me even now and I'd sooner not delve into them. The one that hit me the hardest during this year--well, I'd sooner not delve into it either, but I think I must. It was the case of Lucy Householder and Amy Jacobs. This one tore me up for obvious reasons. It dealt with a young girl who'd been kidnapped, and a young woman who had survived an identical ordeal. Doesn't take rocket science to see where that would lead my thoughts, now does it? I wish I knew where Samantha's body was buried, but I was never able to track that down before...it would be something to work on researching now, I suppose, but I actually feel a fragile peace concerning my sister, and I don't want to jeopardize it in any way. I lived with the torment for long enough. That case was one of the few times I was ever truly angry with Scully. I kept telling her Lucy wasn't our suspect, and I expected her to disagree, but when she accused me of being blinded to the facts because of Samantha, I was furious. Scully wasn't the only one who hurt me during that case, but she should have known better. Mrs. Jacobs, when I tried to offer sympathy for her daughter's disappearance, railed at me, demanding to know how I could possibly understand how she felt. I didn't feel called upon to explain it to her. Some grief is meant to be suffered alone. I really believe Lucy somehow gave her life for Amy. Amy's ordeal had only lasted a few days--she still had a chance of recovery, and as Lucy told me, Wade hadn't "touched her" yet. We managed to find her before the bastard did more than lock her up and take a few pictures of her. Lucy, on the other hand, would never truly recover from the five years she was held captive by that monster. Maybe she figured this was a way out, or perhaps she just saw an opportunity to help the kid. Whatever her reasons, Lucy died so Amy could live. I couldn't help shedding a few tears over Lucy's death. I wanted so badly to be able to help her, a small atonement for failing my sister. Scully would give me a verbal kick in the pants if she heard me say that. She was always trying to ease my guilt, guilt she believed I didn't deserve to feel, but she was never truly successful. It was only when I learned Sam truly was in a better place, that she was in a place where nobody could hurt her, and that she was happy, that the peace came upon me. I still miss her, and I still feel an occasional, intense hatred toward those who took her for all the stolen years, but deep inside, I'm at rest at last. That's an odd term--"at rest." What does it mean, exactly? Does it mean death, as so many people use it to describe? The longer I sit in this chair, the longer I'm separated from Scully, the more I believe what she once told me. That no matter how meaningful this life is, we have nothing to fear when it's over. Most people fear death, at least for most of their lives. The elderly, the sick, the truly religious, they seem to overcome that fear at some point. I have overcome it now. The only thing I know for sure is that once I'm dead, I'll be able to see Scully again. Don't ask me why I'm so certain, I simply am. I feel it in her presence, more and more as I make this record, and I am ready to join her. I only wish it was time. ----- End part 2 of 4 Would you believe there was a time I could jump from a bridge onto a moving train? It's true. I did it once. Surprisingly, I even survived. Of course if it hadn't been for the benevolence of the man I simply knew as 'X' I'd have been blown to bits later on. That benevolence thing was a joke--a colder man I don't think I've seen. He did the right thing, but I've always wondered why. He never seemed to be doing it for his own sake. And as for saving me...well, believe me, the guy had to have been under orders not to let me perish. The reason why will remain a mystery forever. Looking back, I'm incredibly humbled by all Scully put up with from me. She could have asked to be assigned to another partner a dozen times and nobody would have batted an eye, but instead she stood by me, stood up for me, and endured a lot of crap for me. In the end, just when we were about to give each other what we both wanted most, it turned out it was all for nothing. I'd been hounding her to marry me ever since we had become intimate--that was how we started out our final year together. In fact, we'd barely awakened on New Year's Day before I was popping the proverbial question. It wasn't exactly a romantic scenario--she was brushing her teeth and I was lying in bed, sated from our activities of the evening before. I was feeling euphoric, still trying to convince myself we'd done what we had done, still trying to decide if it was a good idea or not, when the words just fell out of my mouth without warning. I was as surprised as Scully, and what surprised me even more was that I meant everything I said. She turned me down, naturally, as I'd known she would. Scully would never make a huge decision like that on the spur of the moment, and I was prepared from the outset, once I got over the shock that I had actually *asked* her, to argue my case for weeks, months if necessary before I finally swung her around to my way of thinking. She was almost ready to agree when she died. If she'd been able to keep her appointment the next morning, as I found out later, I'd have had my answer and would have been, as they say, the happiest man alive. Instead, I lay in a hospital bed in such bad shape I wasn't allowed to know for several days that she hadn't made it. For once she had gone first. Jumping on that train was just one more example of my impulsiveness, and I think Scully alternately loved me for it and in spite of it. She was literally in the process of telling me not to do what I did when I did what I did. I sound like Scully. No big surprise there, since I think of her twenty-four hours a day. Especially now. I'd have died during that case if not for her. Of course, as I've already said, it was X who actually pulled me from the train, but Scully was the one who gave me the code that would unlock the boxcar. For all I know, X wouldn't have been able to do that, and I'd have been blown to pieces regardless of his appearance. No, he didn't get me out of the locked car, but when the man I was trapped in there with beat the shit out of me and left me to die, X shot him and hauled my ass out as fast as he could. Just in time, too. It was my own fault. I'd turned my back on the guy, knowing he was conscious and unrestrained, but I really did think he was down for the count. Also, I think some part of me believed he wanted out of that boxcar as badly as I. After all, it was about to explode. That was the case when we met Betsy Hagopian. Betsy and her friends, it turned out, were abductees as well, and some of them remembered Scully from when she was taken. She didn't remember them, but then, Scully didn't remember anything of that time. The women all had the implants, and they'd all removed them. They didn't know--none of us knew then--what a mistake that was. ----- Having a cold--and I swear this one is developing into pneumonia, although I'm trying hard to keep that fact from Katie--isn't always a bad thing. Mrs. Scully brought me chicken soup this afternoon, and we watched a video together. You know, when she said she was coming over with a movie, I began sweating bullets. All I could think was, 'please let it not be Steel Magnolias.' I had so thoroughly convinced myself that's what she would bring that I almost didn't let her in. She knocked several times before I finally opened the door, making some flimsy excuse that she pretended to believe, but she stared at me curiously for a moment before dropping 'Aliens' in my lap. I think I might have actually sagged in relief. Don't ask me why I was so convinced she'd bring 'Steel Magnolias'--maybe because it's supposed to be the quintessential chick flick. At least that's what I've been told; I've never seen it, and after my final conversation with Scully, (the last one while we were both alive, anyway), I never will. We had a good time, and I swear Maggie's soup made me feel better than all of Katie's drugs combined. We talked, and I actually laughed a time or two. I snuggled into my afghan and didn't mention Scully's strand of hair, tucked in my desk drawer now, still taped to its paper. Sometimes I think I smell her perfume. ----- If Scully ever had a reason to call me an arrogant sonofabitch, it was during the Kevin Kryder case. I'm ashamed, recalling now how I behaved toward her--I treated her badly, very badly. I would like to say I didn't really think all my visions were real and all hers were bogus, but really, in my heart, I did. She and Skinner both, at separate times, accused me of thinking everything was about me, and looking back, I have to agree with them. I confused self-centeredness with single-mindedness on more than one occasion. The Kryder case was one of them. Scully wanted to see religious significance, and I wanted to see child abuse. She wanted to see a prophet from God, and I wanted to see a lunatic. We each got what we wanted, and at the end of it all we did manage to save the child's life, but I had driven a wedge of distance between us with my actions. She even confronted me about believing every light in the sky was a UFO but discounting what she considered to be a miracle. I had nothing to say then, but now I know--she was right. I managed to drive that wedge a little deeper with our next two cases, although in my own defense, the second one wasn't really my fault. And she was being just as big a bitch as I had ever been. I'd like to state right now, for the record, that I did *not* sleep with Bambi Berenbaum. She was certainly friendly, and had I wanted to take advantage of the opportunity I have no doubt the lovely Dr. Berenbaum would have been agreeable--hey, I'm no Casanova, but she was all over me--but I kept my pants right where they belonged. Besides, I was on the phone with Scully every five minutes--when would I have found the time? I didn't see this for what it was at the time, but later I realized, with a warm sense of smug pride, that Scully's behavior was motivated by complete and utter jealousy. I'd had to vacate my apartment while they sprayed for bugs--okay, I didn't *have* to, but have you ever spent a night in a freshly sprayed dwelling? The smell is enough to make you move. So there I was, spending the weekend in Miller's Grove, Massachusetts, where there had coincidentally been a lot of UFO activity reported recently, when I found myself in the middle of 'The Case of the Killer Cockroaches.' It's really a laugh--we always referred to our cases that way, especially our more ludicrous ones, like they were Hardy Boys Mysteries or something. We also had 'The Case of the Killer Kitty-Cats,' but that came later. At the moment it was cockroaches, and they appeared to be killing citizens of Miller's Grove. I was on the phone with Scully repeatedly, telling her she'd better get up there, that one odd thing or another had happened and I needed her investigative skills. In truth, I simply wanted her company, but she kept shooting down my wild speculations with calm rationale, and I slowly got the message--she didn't *want* to come to Massachusetts. Not until I mentioned Bambi, that is. As soon as she heard about the sexy bugologist--yes, I know that's not the word, but my head's fuzzy again and I can't think, and the dictionary's all the way across the room--she couldn't get there fast enough. I was too dense to realize that she was only protecting her territory, but once I realized it, I was a little angry. Not really mad, just irritated. Irritated that she seemed uninterested in my company until someone else wanted me, that old cliche. I sniped something at her, I don't even remember what, but I do remember the shocked look in her eyes. Maybe the syzygy was beginning to get to us even then. Syzygy. I do remember that word, because I'd never heard it before and had to look it up. It means "the nearly straight-line configuration of three celestial bodies. I know this because I looked it up. Isn't it strange what a person can remember, and what he can't? For instance, I couldn't remember the name of the detective, and she practically raped me. I had to look through the file to find her name. Well, I suppose saying she practically raped me is a little harsh, since we didn't actually have sex, but if Scully hadn't come in the room when she did, I fear my virtue would have been compromised. Hey, Detective White was attractive, and Scully and I had been grousing at each other for the entire case. I was always on uncertain footing with her, thinking one minute that she loved me as much as I loved her, and in the next minute that she hated her job and her partner and everything about her life. It's amazing what a little communication can do, but we hadn't reached the point of communicating yet. Anyway, Detective White--Angela was her first name, but I never called her that--came to my motel room. I was in the process of getting drunk, which was highly unusual for me, and I swear when Scully barged into my room I caught the whiff of cigarette smoke on her. Another testament to the fact that we weren't ourselves. Detective White had something to show me--her cat's collar, indicating that the animal might have been killed by whoever was wreaking havoc in Comity at the time. We still hadn't discovered who the perpetrators were. I hugged her, nothing sexual, just a normal comfort-hug, and the next thing I knew she was flinging me to the bed and attacking me. Well, there was a little more to it than that--I was sniffing her neck, but I swear it was just to smell her perfume. I'm serious when I say she attacked though, she shoved me down onto my back and was on top of me before I could protest. She straddled me, and it couldn't possibly have escaped her notice that I was becoming aroused. Not where she was sitting. Hey, I'm a man. Or at least I was. All right, Mulder, none of that. Back to the story. In my own defense, I tried to reason with her. I even suggested we watch some television before she began devouring me. I swear, I felt her tongue swab the back of my throat, the kiss was that aggressive. I tried to push her off me, but she was strong, and I was taken completely by surprise. Naturally, in true romance-novel fashion, that's when Scully came in. To say she was pissed at finding me in such a compromising position would be gross misstatement. She hadn't liked Detective White from the outset; now she was prepared to kill. If I'd thought Scully was jealous of Bambi, I had been sadly mistaken--that was nothing compared to this wave of emotion. I truly feared for Detective White's life for a second, and I was fairly sure I'd be the next to die. Instead, Scully coldly informed us both that there had been another murder, then stalked outside. I followed, augmenting my appearance of guilt by protesting that nothing had happened. The fight we had on the way home from that case was legendary, and according to the astrologer, this one couldn't be blamed on the syzygy, which had already ended. This one was pure Scully and Mulder at our worst. The end result was that she icily reminded me I was free to screw anybody I chose, (Scully was too much of a lady to ever use the F-word), and I agreed, pointing out to her that unfortunately, the only one I would choose, who sure as hell wasn't Detective White, didn't seem interested. She shut up then, as if afraid to let the subject move forward, and I was left to miserably wonder if I'd irrevocably overstepped our invisible boundary. We finished the rest of the trip in stony silence, for which I was profoundly grateful. Ultimately we grew closer together, not because I became less of an asshole, but because I became more of one. I spoke of Bill Patterson earlier in this memoir--he was my boss for a while before I began working on the X-files, and I've known few people who hated me more. Or at least seemed to hate me; I heard later that he really respected me, or at least my abilities at profiling, and that's why he wanted me on his last case, but if Bill had any liking for me, he had a strange way of showing his affection. He berated me from beginning to end on that case, and I, already feeling low from the state of my relationship with Scully, was vulnerable. I believed everything he said, and was determined to prove him wrong by cracking his case. I did, I cracked the case and also something more--I tapped into a part of myself that I'd thought was long since dead and buried. Had hoped was dead and buried. Looking into the darkness of a serial killer's mind has always frightened me--the very fact that I was able to immerse myself in the thoughts of a killer so deeply was terrifying. Every time I sank to that level, I feared I would never be able to climb out to the daylight again. When I was profiling full-time, I became more and more moody and withdrawn with every case until I finally recognized I had to find another career path or go insane. Those in charge weren't happy with my decision, least of all Patterson, whom I'd expected to cheer my departure, but as I said, Senator Matheson pulled strings and I got what I wanted. The X-Files was a dead-end, career-wise, and I knew it, but at least I was alive. And relatively happy, especially after they gave me Scully. On this particular case, the Mostow case, I delved more deeply into the killer's mind than I'd ever done before, and in doing so, I very nearly lost myself for good. Plus, I scared Scully to death. She was absolutely convinced I was going mad, and for a short time I think she even suspected me of...shall we say...illegal activities. It didn't help when I finally figured out who the killer was, and Scully came upon me pointing my weapon at none other than Bill Patterson himself. She didn't believe what I tried to tell her, that Bill was the killer, until he shoved her down and ran away. We both pursued him to the roof of the building we were in, and I shot Bill. I had no choice. I didn't kill him, nor did I intend to, but for a while I'm sure he thought he'd have been better off if I had. He spent months in a mental hospital. The last time I saw him, he wasn't even coherent--he was just screaming that it was still out there, that he hadn't done anything. It was sad, and it slammed home the fact that it could just as easily have been me in that padded cell. That was when I resolved never to accept another case like Mostow. _____ I actually went to dinner in the dining hall this evening. It was nice. The guy sitting next to me was eighty-three years old, a very nice man named Dean. Dean told me all about his wife of sixty years who had recently died. They'd been living in the retirement home together until she suddenly passed away in her sleep of a heart attack. She died the same month as Scully. I suppose I should take comfort from the fact that he can talk about her now without getting choked up, but he and Nelda had something Scully and I never achieved. They were married, they had kids, they had years and years together. Scully and I had seven years as companions, less than six months as lovers, and as for the rest--we were so close it hurts with a pain as sharp as any knife to think about. I did enjoy hearing Dean reminisce about his years with Nelda, raising their kids, all the ups and downs they had together. Scully and I had more experiences in our seven years than most couples have in a lifetime, but then again, most of our adventures were things nobody would *want* to experience. I didn't tell Dean about Scully. I just let him talk, then came back to my apartment, downed a glass of water and my handful of pills, and cried a little bit. Now I'm back at the computer, and I'm faced with another tough memory. ----- End part 3 of 4 She slammed into the office that morning, and I was full of the case we'd be investigating next, but even in my usual self-centered, "the-world-revolves-around-me-and-my-asshole" state, I could see she was upset. I asked her what was wrong and she said nothing, but I didn't believe her. Later on I got out of her that Skinner had told her they'd closed the investigation on Melissa's death. This hit her hard, not surprisingly, since her sister had most likely been murdered by Alex Krycek by mistake when he was really gunning for Scully. Alex Krycek, who showed up again during this case. That man was your typical "bad penny," always turning up again when you hoped he was out of your life for good. Why I didn't kill him when I had the chance, I'll never really understand. Of course, the first time, the answer was obvious--Scully shot me so I wouldn't shoot him. This time it was my fault. Unfortunately, I was too busy trying to get information out of him to kill him. Skinner was shot during this case, too, although he did survive, thanks to Scully's intervention. When he didn't die right away, they tried to get to him while he was being transferred from one hospital to another. Scully was there, and prevented his murder, then managed to apprehend Luis Cardinale, Krycek's accomplice, who later "committed suicide" in jail. We never really learned who had been the trigger-man in Missy's death, but Cardinale was definitely there. During all this, I was in Hong Kong, meeting up with Krycek and trying to find out more about the case we were investigating. I found myself handcuffed and trapped, thanks to Krycek, while the bad guys were outside the door with guns at the ready, but I did manage to grab the key and release myself just in the nick of time. I caught up with Krycek again at the Hong Kong airport while I was on my way home, and pulled my gun on him--beneath my jacket, of course. We flew home and rented a car so Krycek could take me to the locker where he claimed to have hidden the digital tape--that same digital tape my father and Melissa had died for--but before we could get there we were run off the road and I was knocked unconscious. The guys who rammed us took Krycek, and I didn't know if I'd ever see him alive again. I didn't have time to care before I blacked out. When I woke up in the hospital, Scully was there, and she told me about Skinner's shooting, and about the DNA evidence linking Cardinale to Melissa's death. The guys got the envelope Krycek had left in the locker, but it was empty. There was a phone number imprint on the outside of it, and when I called, I got through to what must have been one of the Consortium members' office. It was the same man who had met with Scully at my father's funeral, the same one who we'd seen at Viktor Klemper's place--ultimately the one who would be responsible for my ability to save Scully's life in Antarctica, but that came later. He asked me to meet him, and I did. He told me that what we were investigating--what was at the bottom of the ocean and had killed so many people--was a UFO fighter downed during World War II. That was when he reminded me that anyone could be gotten to. That was when I realized Skinner was still vulnerable, and I called Scully immediately to tell her to check on him. They'd already left with him in the ambulance, and she followed and caught up with them, climbed in back with Skinner, and that's when she foiled the second attempt to kill him. It wasn't while I was in Hong Kong--like I said earlier, my brain is a bit fuzzy. I know what happened, but sometimes it's difficult to keep it all in order. That's when she captured Cardinale, who told her Krycek was heading for North Dakota. We went there, and would have cornered Krycek in an abandoned missile silo, but before we could get to him we were captured by a group of Cancerman's men. They threw us in the back of a van and drove off, and we clutched at each others' hands, wondering if this was it. They'd tried to kill us several times, why not take us out and finish the job now? I've never been really sure why they didn't, but instead, they drove us several miles from the missile silo, released us, handed me the keys to our rental car, which another of them had followed us in, and told us in no uncertain terms to get out of town immediately. We did. We might have been on the trail of something enormous, but we weren't stupid. Skinner was safe, Cardinale was in jail, and Krycek was obviously lost to us--Cancerman had him. A few days later, when I got the news of Cardinale's death, I called Scully. She told me she was sitting in her car at the cemetery, trying to work up the courage to visit Missy's grave. I immediately went to join her, and when I arrived there, she was standing by her sister's grave, lost in reflection. I was glad I'd picked up a bouquet of flowers on my way. Melissa deserved no less from me. _____ If I don't stop this coughing, I swear I'm going to bust a lung. The cold is moving deeper into my chest, and even Maggie's leftover chicken soup isn't helping now. I sat up in my bed all night, with pillows propped behind my back, just trying to breathe. I've even been taking all my meds lately like a good boy, but nothing seems to be helping. I guess I'd better break down and admit it to Katie this morning. ----- I did tell Katie, who listened to my lungs, looked worried, asked me some questions, then bundled me up and wheeled me down the corridor to the infirmary. One step up from my apartment and one step down from a hospital, it's a place where the old and infirm can recuperate under the watchful eye of a nurse-practitioner...one step below a doctor, I guess. There is actually a doctor on the premises, but I didn't see him that day. It was just as well, I don't get along real well with old Doc Falstein. Don't ask me why--we just rub each other the wrong way. Trixie, the nurse-practitioner, is another story. She's always laughing, always cheerful, straight-up with me, and when she told me if I didn't take better care of myself I was going to end up in the hospital, I believed her. She checked me out, put me in bed and gave me some heavy-duty decongestant drugs, and pretty soon I was out for the count. I don't know how long I slept, but it felt great, and when I woke up I could actually breathe, and I think my cough had diminished some. I was there for two days, and while I lay there, staring at the ceiling or gazing mindlessly at daytime television, (which is pretty mindless in itself), I thought a lot about the case Scully and I worked next. No matter how long I live, I will never forget Robert Patrick Modell. So few of the criminals we faced really frightened me. Scully used to say I was brave, but the truth was, I just knew we were going to win--in most cases we were better equipped, better trained, and usually we were just plain smarter. Modell was another matter entirely. "Pusher," he called himself, and what he did was the most terrifying thing I can imagine, because he could creep into your mind and make you do things, things you didn't want to do, things you'd never do without his influence. I know it's hard to believe, but I *saw* him work. I saw a man set himself on fire with gasoline and a match, all the while screaming for us to stop him. He knew what he was doing, but he had lost his will to resist. He'd been "pushed." I tried to tell the judge, but Modell managed to influence him as well--not that my story didn't sound crazy, of course it did, but I think I might have gotten them to hold him at least temporarily. I never had a chance with Modell in the room. He walked right into the Hoover building and convinced one of our best secretaries to give him a printout of the Bureau's file on me. Skinner tried to stop her and got a heel mark on his face, among other injuries, for his efforts. Holly was devastated that she'd injured Skinner, but I knew, and I explained to Skinner, what had happened to her. A fine police officer lost his life right in front of us because Modell talked him into a heart attack. I tried to stop Burst from listening to him, tried to disconnect the phone, but the other officers didn't understand, and they were tracing the call. I was sickened when I talked to Modell, realizing he'd done what he did just for some perverse satisfaction. That was when he decided I was a worthy opponent. Scully's eyes begged me not to go to Modell, although she didn't say much. Our relationship had been strained, but we'd mended it after Skinner was shot. We'd realized how much we both had to live for, and how much we meant to each other, there in that van when we were certain we would be the next to die. We'd been a lot closer since then. She put her hands on mine, not speaking, and all I could do was try for a reassuring smile. We both knew it was very likely I wouldn't come out of there alive. Scully's quick thinking saved us both that time. Modell had me completely in his power, and after first making me put the gun to my own head and pull the trigger, he forced me to point it right at my partner. I could see a tear make its way from her eye, and my heart broke in that instant, both at the pain she was feeling and at my own helplessness. I did manage to get enough of myself back to urge her to run, and she did--right over to the fire alarm, which she yanked. The sound jarred me enough to release me from Modell's spell, and I put a bullet in the bastard. And still didn't manage to kill him. He came back to haunt us later, much later, but the thing I remember most about that day, looking at Modell lying in his hospital bed, was the utter hatred for him I could feel coming off Scully. If she hadn't been the woman she was, she might have finished the job then and there, and the thing that amazed me was that it wasn't the nearness of her own death that made her so angry, it was the fact that Modell had tried to use me to do it. Scully knew if I'd shot her, my torment would be a thousand times worse than if I'd simply died myself at Modell's hands. She hated him, not for threatening her, but for hurting me. She was quite a woman. She took my hand, and we left the hospital. I'm not even going to talk about the Case of the Killer Kitty-Cats. It was mostly about drugs anyway, and a curse upon an ancient urn. What I remember most is that there were rats and cats and we laughed about it for days, even while we were investigating the Case of the Body-Parts Lottery, in spite of the fact that people died. It was our way of coping. ----- Jose Chung is a talented writer--I'll be the first to admit it. I even have a couple of his books on my shelf, but one that I don't own, and that I will never spend my money to buy, is 'From Outer Space.' Actually, I don't have to buy it, because Scully let me borrow her copy. Hey, curiosity *dictated* I read the thing. I'm just glad it didn't get turned into a movie-of-the-week. It read like a B-movie, although skillfully written, and that was the reason I refused to be interviewed by the man in the first place. As I said, I was familiar with his work. He asked for me, but when I said no, Scully agreed to see him. He was her favorite writer, and I still think she just wanted a chance to meet him. Hey, if someone gave me the opportunity to have lunch with Stephen King, I wouldn't turn them down. Mr. Chung claimed to have taken one of our cases and "fictionalized" it, but what he really did was take several cases, throw them togther with a lot of rumors and misconceptions, and in the end wrote a story that made us look like fools. It wasn't much compensation that he assigned us different names in the book. I'd much rather be called 'Fox Mulder' than 'Reynard Muldrake.' Reynard. And I thought Fox was bad. The case in question purported to deal with UFOs, but in reality it was another military cover-up, one that we never really got to the bottom of. Scully began an autopsy on the "alien" body, only to find it was a perfectly human man in a zippered suit. The Stupendous Yappi probably made a small fortune off the videotape, marketed on late-night television to all the misguided, insomniac believers. If Scully hadn't been so embarrassed about the whole deal, she could have probably sued him for royalties. ----- Skinner had stepped in to intercede for us several times, and would do so many times in the future, but this time it was our turn to help him. He was accused of murder. Of course, Scully and I knew he wasn't guilty. Walter Skinner? A murderer? It was shocking enough to find he'd been with a prostitute, but he had just gone through a very bad time, and his wife had filed for divorce. Stress can do weird things to a man, perhaps even drive him to murder in some instances, but not this one. Not this man. It turned out to be an attempt to frame Skinner, to get him out of the way. This would have had the dual purpose of reining us in at the some time as getting rid of one of their obstacles--Skinner hadn't been cowed by them for a very long time. We managed to stop them--it seemed almost run-of-the-mill by then, the threats on our lives and our careers. It wasn't long after that I hauled Scully off to the Georgia mountains in search of a genuine sea monster. Well, a lake monster, anyway. Hey, every lake worth its...er...salt has one. In reality, I was hoping for a little vacation from the danger and pain we'd been living with for so long. A little jaunt into the mountains to search for a monster, now what could be more relaxing than that? Turned out to be a huge alligator that was killing the locals, and it damn near did me in before I managed to stop it by emptying my gun into its hide. The worst thing of all was that it ate Scully's dog. I know, I said I didn't care for the little mutt, but she was rather attached to him by then, and I felt guilty about the whole deal. Nobody had forced her to bring the yappy little monster along, in fact, nobody had forced her to come with me at all. This wasn't even an assigned case, it was just something I'd dug up out of my files, but the fact that she dropped everything to run off with me for the weekend made me feel great. Until the dog died and I spent the night in the emergency room. But ERs were standard fare for me. We also managed to sink a boat on that case, and boy did we feel stupid as hell when we sat on that damn rock for hours, only to find that we were within wading distance of the shore. Hey, it was dark, and we were in unfamiliar territory. Besides, we talked, out there on that rock, and real talking, from the heart, was something we rarely did. We were both too private for that. The case after that, I almost lost her again. In fact, I was called to identify a body, during a time she had gone missing, and I felt dead inside until I saw with fierce joy that it wasn't her. Someone had lost a loved one, but not me. Not this time. I've been on the wrong end of Scully's gun twice, and the time she was out of her mind wasn't even the time she shot me. I think we uncovered more of the government's dirty little secrets that year than ever before--and when I say "little" secrets, I mean things that didn't necessarily fall into the global alien conspiracy we'd been investigating. Believe me, the government has a lot of secrets. Some of them I never wanted to know. This one dealt with a particular filter they could attach to the tv reception which sent subliminal messages to anyone watching. It didn't happen right away--you had to watch for a while before it actually affected you, and while I forced myself to view some of the videotapes we'd confiscated from one of the crime scenes, Scully was the dedicated one. I went to bed, and she stayed up all night watching. The next day, Scully went nuts. She shot at me and the hotel manager when we were trying to get into her room, then took off. I was terrified, afraid she'd hurt herself or someone else before we found her. I was with the guys, and they were explaining the device to me when I got a call on my cell phone--I was asked to come down and identify my partner's body. I'm not normally a praying ma, but after parking my car in the garage, I bowed my head and asked whoever, whatever, for strength. The last thing I wanted was to break down when I saw her body. On my way in, I was stopped by someone sent by X, who had been responsible for setting me on the case in the first place. He told me to get the hell out of there and get back to work--"While you're chasing your partner, they're destroying the evidence!" I was disgusted at his suggestion that I abandon Scully to search for the people behind this. After all...why? I'd been through enough by then to know they could make evidence disappear faster than David Copperfield could hide a 747. I basically told the guy where to go, and forced my feet to carry me inside. I wouldn't even let the officer open the blinds shielding the body--I did it myself. That way I could do it in my own time. First I looked at the sheet covering the woman on the table--the body was small, thin, and it could very easily have been Scully. Finally, taking a deep breath, I forced myself to look at the face. The shock of seeing a stranger, after I'd prepared myself for Scully, was gut-wrenching, but I managed to control myself. I muttered something to the man about calling Scully's mother, and he said they'd tried, but she wasn't answering. That was when it hit me like a ton of bricks where Scully was. After all, I'd called Maggie that morning to let her know Scully was missing. I hadn't had time to think about it, but it suddenly seemed odd that she hadn't even contacted me for an update. Maggie didn't want to let me in the house, probably because she knew I'd be in danger, but I forced my way in and confronted my partner. She accused me of being involved with the conspiracy, of helping abduct her, of killing her sister...all these things shocked Maggie, I know, but when Scully said I'd come to kill her, Mrs. Scully stepped in front of the gun and took charge. Talking calmly to her daughter, Maggie managed to persuade Scully to put down the gun, and after a little more convincing, we got her to a hospital. I was so relieved to find she was going to be ok that I made several bad jokes, and she was so relieved to be herself again that she even laughed at them. After talking to Scully's doctor, and receiving an analysis completely different from the one the psychiatrist treating our first suspect had given, I tried to call him. I guess I shouldn't have been surprised to find he was nothing but a plant, one of their people busily covering up evidence. Through the trace of the psychiatrist's motel phone records, I was led to a house nearby, but before I could make my presence known the two men inside had been murdered--more evidence being cleaned up. I hated X in that moment, when I discovered he'd killed them. He even had the audacity to blame me, claiming if I'd gotten there sooner, he wouldn't have had to commit cold-blooded murder. I yelled at him that he risked my life, and Scully's life, but never his own. I was so wrong. He didn't live much longer. They must have been onto him by then. He did much more than risk his life. He gave it, and even in the dying, pointed me toward another source of help. After that, we had a situation where a man apparently could heal by laying on of hands, and my mother had a stroke. Coincidence? Providence? Who will ever know? Life nearly fell apart for us that year. Looking back, it's amazing we survived all the misery and the constant jeopardy we found ourselves in, but somehow we came out of it and lived to fight another day. The damn cough is back, worse than ever now. END Year Three We hope you enjoyed it--this will be Laura's last story, but Sarah will be finishing the series with Laura's blessing. Feedback is manna!