*       	*       	*      	 *       	*


Fox Mulder bit back a groan as his body crashed noisily to the
floor, knee first.

"Ow!"

Lying prone, he twisted awkwardly, a hand cradling his
wounded joint, trying to catch a glimpse of the ones responsible
for his injury.  They stood there just inside the entrance to his
apartment, unmoving, impassive, heedless of the damage they
had caused, the pain they had inflicted. . . .

When had he left his gym shoes by the door?

He blinked at them in annoyance and surprise, staring at the
offending Nikes as if he expected an answer to his unspoken
query.

The tennies remained, however, typically mute.

Stupid shoes.  A guy could break an ankle tripping over stuff
like that.

Or litter his living room with what had been only moments
before his newly laundered, carefully folded clothes.

Actually, he mused, absently rubbing his knee, his socks and
shorts might still qualify as fresh out of the dryer.  But the
whole carefully folded thing had gone to hell in a laundry
basket.  Now his wash lay twisted and balled, draped on
furniture, wadded on his faded Indian rug.

"Crap," he murmured softly and, hands braced against
the hardwood, began to push up from the entryway floor,
intending to go retrieve the aforementioned basket and
collect his scattered articles of clothing.  But the sudden
relative change in altitude made his head spin and his arms
buckle.  With a graceless "Oomph," he collapsed once more,
his cheek cushioned by his forearm as he ruefully chuckled
over his predicament.

"Shoulda never finished that tequila."

And he wouldn't have.  If the six pack of Sam Adams he had
picked up to wash down his pizza had given him the buzz he
had been looking for.

"Stupid beer," he mumbled, trying again, and this time
succeeding in levering himself to a sitting position, his legs
splayed, his back propped now beside the archway to his
living room.  Pleased with his progress, he just sat there for
a moment, dreamily contemplating the shadowy vestibule,
taking in the view.  It's not so bad down here, he decided
after a time, kinda dark and peaceful.  The floor wasn't even
all that uncomfortable once you got used to it, a little chilly . . .

. . . his door was open.  That wasn't good.  Not with him
sitting there on his ass.  Anyone could just waltz right in . . .

Better fix that.

He stretched to his left, reaching for the half-opened
portal.  Unfortunately, his lean threw off his precarious
balance and, resembling nothing so much as a defective
Weeble, he tipped over, landing on his side.

But not before his fingers snagged on the edge of the door,
allowing him to thrust forward with his shoulder and slam
the slab of wood into its frame, shimmying it against the
jamb.

It must be true, he thought woozily, looking up at the world
from his crooked fetal position.  God really does have a soft
spot for drunks.

No.  Not drunk, he amended only seconds later, the revision
accompanied by no small measure of affront.  Tipsy, maybe.
But not drunk.  If he were drunk, would he have been able to
wash, dry and put away not one, not two, but =three= loads
of laundry?

I think not!

True, the chore had grown noticeably more difficult as the
night had dragged on, that last load taking an eternity to
make it from the dryer to the table to his basket.  And he
hadn't actually "put away" the final batch, unless you
counted toting it from the basement to his apartment . . .

. . . which was a triumph of a sorts, 'cause there for a
minute, in the elevator coming up, he had forgotten what
floor he lived on. . . .

"Apartment 42," he now said aloud to no one in particular,
rolling over onto his back to study with profound concentration
the ceiling overhead.

And the meaning behind the mysterious 42.

"Number four-two," he repeated, the words spoken slowly
and with spectacular diction.

Weird . . .

. . . if he squinted really hard, that crack in the plaster up
there reminded him a whole lot of Alfred Hitchcock.

"Four plus two equals six," he recited dutifully, eyes
narrowed as he sought to bring into focus the image of the
man responsible for "Psycho."

Not the remake, the original.

What had he been mumbling about again?  Oh yeah . . .

"Sixth floor."

No . . . wait a minute. . . . that wasn't it.

God.  He'd always hated math!  Numbers were tricky things.
Willful and mischievous.  Like cats, only with greater
attention spans.

Just look at his checkbook.

Better stick with words. . . .

. . . Here come some now.

"Gotta clean up."

Indeed he did he did indeed.  After all, that's what he had
stayed home for.  To get cleaned up.  Well . . . his clothes
anyway.  He coulda gone out.  It was Friday.  Stuff was going
on.  =He'd had offers.=  The guys had invited him to sit in on
their weekly poker game.  Hernandez up in Violent Crimes
had said something about a happy hour when he had stopped
by that afternoon . . .

Happy . . . happyhappyhappy.  He was happy.  Goddamn it.
Why wouldn't he be happy?  His life was just fine.  Not a single
complaint.  Not a one.

Lie.

Liar.

Lying.

I'm lying, Mulder wordlessly admitted, the confession coupled
with a woeful sigh.  I'm lying while lying . . .

. . . on the floor.

I've got to get off the floor.

Carefulcarefulcareful . . . .

Success!  He stands.  He walks.

He wobbles. . . .

But he does *not* fall down.

Things were looking up.

If only the same could be said of the "thing" between Scully
and him.

Now, cut that out! he urged as, hanging on to the arm of the
sofa, he bent down with all the agility of an arthritic pensioner
to grab his overturned laundry basket.  The whole reason he
had indulged in this alcohol induced stupor in the first place
was so he wouldn't have to think about a certain auburn-haired
special agent.  He had wanted a night, just one night, where he
wasn't stretched out on his couch pretending to watch television
or staring at a printed page until the words blurred and ran,
becoming as meaningless to his untutored eye as Sanskrit.  He
had hoped to win a few hours respite, some time away from the
worry and frustration that had haunted him now for days.

And it had worked.

More or less.

Up till now. . . .

Time for another drink.

No, no, no.

Bad Mulder.

Besides, with the beer and tequila gone, the only alcohol he
had in the house was in his medicine cabinet.

And he was way too *tipsy* to try driving to the liquor store
for more.

"Just pick up your underwear and go to bed," he muttered to
himself as he scooped up a wrinkled scrap of black silk and
tossed it into the basket with its less slinky brethren.

Yeah.  Bed.  Bed was good.  Sleep was good.  Or so he'd
heard.  He really couldn't speak to the subject himself.  Not
lately.  Christ.  He hadn't really enjoyed a good night's sleep
since that evening spent in Scully's bed, which was ironic,
seeing as that was where his troubles had seemingly begun.

Of course, Mulder had lived with insomnia his entire life.
Sometimes, if they were on a case or if he was in the midst
of some particularly fascinating bit of research, he would go
days without shut-eye, subsisting on nothing more substantial
than caffeine and sugar.

Scully wasn't like that though.  She liked her eight hours.
Even so, she hadn't been getting it that past week, he was
almost certain.  Unless he missed his guess, something was
weighing heavily on her soul.  Something that robbed her
not only of slumber but of serenity.  Oh, the signs weren't
overt.  They never were where she was concerned.  Still, he
had noted them just the same.

He was a bona fide expert when it came to Scully-watching.

And yet, even with all his supposed expertise, he found it
tough to actually pinpoint what had tipped him off, hard to
articulate either verbally or inside his head.

Doubly difficult, right at that moment, given the amount of
alcohol he had imbibed.

He supposed it was a hardening of sorts he had spied, a
shutting down.  Without being snide or cruel, without
erupting in anger or in tears, Scully seemed to him to be
retreating inside herself these days, shielding all the soft,
vulnerable bits, tucking them safely away and then steeling
the rest of herself against the world.

Against him?

Or against some imagined danger.

But whatwhatwhat could that be?

He had asked her.  Repeatedly.

Only to have her politely, and repeatedly, dodge his inquiries.

With a smile and an assurance and a turning away.

Turning . . .

Lately, she carried herself differently.  That's something else
he had noticed.  Her movements were less fluid, her posture
more stiff.  That taut quality persisted in her expression.
Her face appeared drawn, set as if carved from marble, its
only color courtesy of Lancome.

And her eyes.

They were . . .

. . . sad.

He realized the word was vague, the sort used by children,
broad in scope, obscure in meaning.

Still, it was fitting where Scully was concerned, he now
thought to himself, weaving a tad unsteadily, yet somehow
managing to remain upright as he made his way about the
apartment.  Sorrow seemed to pour from those baby blues,
its intensity suggesting a cause far more serious than your
average bad hair day.

Of course, that was when she would actually condescend to
=meet= his gaze, he silently groused, snatching a sock from
where it dangled on the edge of his coffee table.  Such instances
had been few.  She had spent the better part of the week avoiding
his eyes.

And all other parts of his anatomy.

Damn.

Talk about frustrating.  Despite sharing an office with the
woman, he had hardly seen her the past several days.  She had
always had somewhere to go, something to do.  He would have
thought she was angry with him, miffed over some imagined
or all too real slight.  Only she had never fought with him
outright, never cut him with word or deed.  Instead, it was as
if she had simply removed herself from the situation, as if her
life were taking place on a plane not far from his. . . .

Yet separate, nonetheless.

And he hated that separation.  Hated being patient.  Being
understanding. . . .

But he didn't hate Scully.  Couldn't hate her.  Not even if he
tried.

He loved her.

And missed her.  Desperately.

Shit. . . .

Why did he have to wait till he was three sheets to the wind
to remember he was a maudlin drunk?

"Enough," he muttered, tossing the now heaped basket onto
his couch and then plopping down beside it.  He had tracked
down most of his strewn laundry.  He could find the rest in
the morning.

When he was hungover.

And if that wasn't a reason to greet the new day with a smile,
he didn't know what was.

Sighing once more, he leaned back against the sofa's cool,
black leather and closed his eyes.  This was nice, he decided
after a minute or two.  Comfortable.  Just sitting still.  Breathing
slowly and evenly.  Feeling the room roll gently beneath him,
lazily rocking, like the pitch of a boat on a calm summer lake.
Oh yeah.  Nice. . . .  Slowly, his body began to unwind, sinking
deep into the cushions, limbs heavy like sandbags.  One by one,
his bones softened, then dissolved.  Sleep beckoned enticingly,
promising to cradle him tenderly in its sheltering arms . . .

*BANG BANG BANG*

Which was why the vicious pounding at his door startled
him so.

"Agent Mulder?  Agent Mulder, would you please open the
door, sir?"

"What?" he croaked, jerking painfully awake.  Ouch!  His
neck . . .  Anybody know a good chiropractor?

"Sir, it's the Alexandria Police.  Can we talk to you for a
minute?"

The police?  What were =they= doing here?

"Sir, are you okay in there?"

"Yeah," he assured the voice on the other side of the door,
trying to figure out the best way to escape the sofa's clutches.
Why wouldn't his arms work in coordination with his legs?  
He knew they could do it.  He had seen them collaborate before.

"Sir?"

"Coming," he called hoarsely as, swaying, he at last fumbled
gracelessly to his feet.  "I'm coming."

A few rambling steps later, he was opening the door.  Two
of the boys in blue were waiting for him, both young, both
trying to peer past him and into his apartment.

"Can I help you?" Mulder asked politely, his shoulder propped
against the jamb for support, thrilled he had somehow managed
to utter the question with nary a slur.

The taller of his two visitors, the one with the name "Larson"
pinned to his shirt pocket, spoke first.  "Sir, we got a report of
an incident."

"Incident?" Mulder echoed in confusion, his brow furrowed.

"Yes, sir," said the other officer, a man named Pucinski.  "We
got a call saying you needed assistance."

Assistance with what? Mulder wondered in dismay.  With
gathering up his laundry?

No.  That couldn't be . . .

Oh, God.  Had one of his neighbors heard his tumble to the
floor?  Great.  The place gets ransacked and nobody says a
word.  He stumbles over his sneakers and old Mrs. McCreary
down the hall sends in the National Guard.

"Look . . . officers . . . I think there's been a mistake," he began
haltingly, ducking his head and running a hand over his unruly
after-hours hair.

"Mulder!"

A husky female voice lured his eyes from their perusal of his
stocking feet.

Scully?

She stood at the end of the corridor, down near the stairs.
Why would she have climbed all those steps when there
was a perfectly good elevator nearby? he asked himself.
And not only had she apparently taken the stairs, but judging
by the way her chest pumped and her forehead shone, she
had done so in a hurry.

"Who's that?" Pucinski asked, turning to curiously regard the
newcomer.

"That's my . . . my partner," Mulder mumbled, watching her
swift approach.  If Scully was surprised to see a pair of
policemen at his door she hid it well.  All her focus was on
him, her blue eyes burning into his as she marched the length
of the passageway, her pace just shy of a run.

"Are you all right?" she asked when she reached his side,
looking for a moment like she might reach out and touch
him, as if she somehow thought to gauge his wellbeing by
tactile means.  In the end, however, she refrained.  Dizzy
with standing, Mulder frowned, wondering if perhaps he had
only imagined her aborted caress.

"Yeah," he muttered, looking from her to the cops and back
again, still trying to make sense of it all.  "I'm fine.  Why does
everyone keep askin' if I'm okay?"

"You weren't the one who placed a 911 call to the Alexandria
P.D.?" Larson asked, his patience clearly being tested.

"No," Mulder began, shaking his head.  "I don't--"

"That would have been me," Scully quietly yet firmly confessed,
neatly slicing in two his befuddled disavowal.

Scully had called the police?  Why?  As far as he knew, Nikes
were exempt from the law.

"Ma'am, may I remind you of the consequences for unnecessarily
contacting an emergency operator?"

Uh-oh.  It sounded like Pucinski was getting pissed off now too.

Watch it, Scully, Mulder silently warned.  You were the one
who used to lecture me about playing nice with local law
enforcement.

But he needn't have worried.  Scully proved unfazed by the
policeman's hostility.

"Officers, may I have a word with you both?" she asked calmly.

Bowing a trifle reluctantly to her request, the pair followed
Scully a step or two from the door.  Mulder yearned to tag after
them, eager to discover the reason for his partner's phone call.
But he feared what might occur should he lose the door frame's
brace.  Almost as if sensing his dilemma, Scully looked his
way.

"Give me just a minute, Mulder," she said softly.  "I'll be
right there."

Scully would be right there.  With him, in his apartment.  On
a lonely, lonely Friday night. And suddenly it didn't matter
why she had made her way to Hegel Place.  What did he care?
As long as she was there.

Now, if only his breath didn't stink like a bar rag.

He couldn't hear what Scully had to say.  She spoke quietly,
forcing her two-man audience to stand close so as to catch
her words.  They listened attentively, nodding from time to
time, adding their two cents only when she was finished.

"Thanks," Mulder heard his partner murmur as she wrapped
things up.  "I really appreciate it."

"It's no trouble," Larson said as he turned towards the
elevator, his good humor seemingly restored.  "We don't
mind checking back."

"If anything happens tonight, tell the dispatcher to patch
you through directly to us," Pucinski instructed, handing
her his card.  "We can be here in a matter of minutes."

"I will.  Thanks," Scully said, pocketing the small piece of
paper.  "That's good to know."

"Good night, Agent Scully," Pucinski then said with a small
nod of farewell.  "Agent Mulder, sorry to have bothered you."

"No bother," Mulder mumbled, more confused than ever.

Larson smiled and ambled after his partner.  Within seconds,
the two policemen disappeared into the elevator.

Leaving Mulder and Scully alone together.

At first, neither said anything.  They just looked at each other
for a beat or more, Mulder scarcely resisting the urge to squirm
under his partner's scrutiny.  Christ, he silently huffed, glancing
away from her penetrating gaze.  If he had known he was going
to have company he would have changed into something besides
this ugly yellow T-shirt.  The ribbing around the neck had
pulled loose in two or three places, and . . . oh man . . . he
had a smear of pizza sauce down near the bottom there.  Lips
twisted in chagrin, he tugged at the shirt's hem, bowing his
head to try to get a better look at the stain, when the simple
shift in position shot his equilibrium all to hell.  With a small
sound of surprise, he began to list sideways.

But Scully caught him before he could do himself more harm,
her small hands clinging tightly to his arm, restoring his
balance.

"Are you sure you're all right?" she asked, her forehead
wrinkled with concern, her body close to his.  She smelled
of the outdoors, of wind and chill and winter yet to come.

Like a muzzled dog, the alcohol in his system strained
against its leash and, bursting free, succeeded in gnawing
the edges off his words.  "I tol' ya I'm fine."

Scully pulled back just a touch, her lips pursed in consideration.
Delicately, she sniffed the air between them.  "Have you been
drinking, Mulder?"

Busted.

Grimacing, he turned away and began trekking slowly and
carefully towards the sofa.  Absolute mortification took a
lot out of a guy.  He needed to sit down before he fell down.

Again.

"Who wants to know?" he mumbled, only just managing to
avoid taking a chunk out of his shin with the coffee table.

"I do," she replied from somewhere behind him.

Ah!  Here we go.  Rich Corinthian leather.  My friend.  My
bed.  My couch.  Sit.

Comfortably ensconced, he looked her way.  Scully was
standing, watching him from the apartment's entrance,
her arms crisscrossed against her chest.  Stop staring at me!
he longed to shout.  I know I'm drunk.

Maybe if he closed his eyes she would go away.

Bye-bye, Scully.

"Mulder?"

Damn.  That almost never worked.

"Why are you here, Scully?" he grumbled under his breath,
his lashes still stubbornly lowered.

He heard her shut the door, listened to the whisper of the
chain sliding through its metal channel, the grunt of the
dead bolt, the click of the lock as it engaged.

Apparently, not only was his guest still there, but she planned
on staying.

"I came to talk," she murmured as she crossed towards
him, her voice coming nearer, her heels sounding softly
against the throw rug.

"'Bout what?" he asked, his lips feeling thick and clumsy
on his face, their girth getting in the way of his speech.

She didn't answer immediately.  Instead, she walked past
him to the window where, with a rattle and a swoosh, she
drew closed the blinds.

"It doesn't matter now.  It can wait till morning."

When she said nothing more, he raised his lids.  What he
saw surprised him.  Scully was leaning against his desk,
massaging the area between her closed eyes.  Her shoulders
sagged wearily, her hair all but hiding her face from view.

"S'okay," he said soothingly, his worry dulled, but not entirely
drowned by alcohol.  "You can talk if you want.  I'm listenin'."

Like runaway window shades, her lashes snapped towards
her brows.  Standing upright once more, she took a step
his way.  "Mulder, look at you," she urged with a frustrated
sigh, gesturing in his direction as if she feared he might not
know to whom she was referring.  "You're . . . you're barely
conscious."

"Not true," he argued back, pulling himself forward to perch
on the sofa's edge.  "Look at my laundry."

Wait. . . . that wasn't what he'd meant to say.  He had meant
to tell her that he couldn't be that far gone, not when he had
gotten so much done that night.  That he could stay awake.
That he would listen to her recite from the Yellow Pages if
she wanted.  He was up for anything.

But that explanation required too many words arranged in
far too complicated a pattern.  So, instead, he just pointed
emphatically at the basket of clothes as if that would explain
everything.

And even though some part of him, some teeny-tiny, itty-bitty
bit of him recognized the pantomime as idiotic, as the action
of a man who with Cuervo Gold had tragically pickled untold
brain cells, another larger part of him all at once was proud.

Because, without warning, Scully smiled at him.  Slowly
shaking her head, her expression turned tender, a gentle
affection shining unmistakably in her gaze.

"Just how much have you had to drink?" she quietly asked,
the curving of her lips lingering.

He rubbed his hand over the lower half of his face, trying
to decide exactly what he should divulge.  "Dunno.  A little
of this, a little of that."

"How little?"

Sighing, he surrendered.  What was the use?  "Bottles are in
the kitchen."

She nodded, but didn't speak.

"So's pizza," he added helpfully.  "Couple slices left if you
want'em."

"No thanks."

This time he nodded.  Then yawned.

"Probably wouldn't be a bad idea for you to get some sleep,"
Scully said, taking a couple of steps in his direction.

"I'm tired," he admitted, a tad apologetically.

"Why don't you lie down here," she suggested, crossing to
move his laundry basket from beside him to the floor nearby.
"Just lie down and close your eyes."

Mmmm.  Close his eyes.  That sounded really good. . . .

. . . and so easy to do.  His lids drooped in anticipation.  But
first . . .

"You gonna stay?" he asked as she guided him down onto the
cushions.

"Yeah," she murmured, reaching past him to grab the blanket
off the back of the couch and shake it open before settling it
over him.  "I'll stay.  I'll be here when you wake up."

"And then we'll talk?" he queried sleepily as he snuggled
beneath the covers.

"Then we'll talk," she echoed in a whisper, her hand trailing
lightly over his hair.

That felt so wonderful, the brush of her fingertips against his
temple.  So remarkable, that he gave up even the pretense of
trying to stay awake.  With a deep, heartfelt sigh, Fox Mulder
slipped into the Sandman's realm, falling asleep so quickly
he never felt Dana Scully's lips press warm and soft against
his brow, bidding him sweet dreams.

And never remembered to ask just what it was the two of
them so grievously needed to discuss.
                        *****

Scully didn't nod off until dawn had nearly broken, sickly
and pale, from behind night's clouds.  She had spent the wee
hours on sentry duty, her Sig Sauer by her side, guarding her
partner from those she feared sought to harm him, watching
over him while he slumbered unawares.

At first, it had been easy to stay alert.  Emotions raw and
close to the surface, she had been all but a bundle of nerves.
Tearing over the bridge from D.C. to Virginia, she had
frantically called 911, telling the operator a federal agent
had been threatened and was in need of assistance, well aware
the local P.D. would be able to get to Mulder's place far faster
than she.  That done, all she could do was pray, pray and
flatten the accelerator to the floor.  Zipping through traffic,
she had darted between cars like a hummingbird in a flowerbed,
intent on one thing, and one thing only--getting to Mulder
before The Smoker did.

Arriving to see the squad car parked outside her partner's
building had done little to allay her fears.  Unwilling to
wait for the elevator, she had run up the stairs to his floor,
all the while imagining an endless array of Technicolor
horrors.  Pulse pounding in rhythm with her step, she had
pictured Mulder twisted on the rug in agony.  Bleeding from
a bullet hole, a puncture wound.  Or worse.

So, when she had seen him, unharmed, swaying drunkenly
in his apartment's doorway, she hadn't known whether to
laugh or to sob.  Her body had felt torn with indecision.  For
a moment, she hadn't even been able to move from her place
at the top of the stairs.  Instead, she had stood rooted to the
spot, trembling as if with fever.

He's all right, she had kept repeating inside her head.  He's
okay.  He's fine.

God.  At that moment, she would have given anything to have
been able to just let loose.  To yell or scream or run to Mulder
and throw her arms around him in thanksgiving.

But the police were there.  And she needed them on their
side, to serve as back-up if required.  She couldn't alienate
them with fantastic stories or melodramatic displays of
emotion.

She had to keep cool, remain in control.

With that in mind, she had calmly yet ruthlessly squelched all
her unseemly urges.  Adopting her most professional demeanor,
she had told the two officers she had received a threatening
phone call that evening, one that had promised harm to the man
with whom she worked.  Fellow law enforcement professionals,
they had immediately sympathized with the situation, and
pledged their support.  It's no doubt a crank, they had told her
in an attempt to reassure.  Just the same, we'll check back
throughout the night.  If anything funny happens, give us a
call and we'll be here in no time.

Good to know, she had thought.

Especially as, for the present, Mulder was in no condition to
champion his own cause.

Good grief, Mulder, she had scolded as he had slept.  What
had you been thinking?  You don't get drunk.  I've never seen
you drunk.  Yet there he had been in all his bleary-eyed glory.

And with him in such a state, how could she confess her
recklessness might cost him his life?

No.  She couldn't tell Mulder what had happened, couldn't
detail for him all The Smoker had said and done.  Not when
the man couldn't even focus his eyes.

In the morning, she had decided.  When Mulder was sober
once more, she would tell him everything, as she should
have from the start.  She would share with him what their
enemy had threatened and together they would figure out a
way out to defend themselves and their partnership.

The matter settled, she had moved restlessly about Mulder's
apartment, impatient now to simply get it all over with.
Looking for something to pass the time, she had quietly
tidied up about the place, picking up stray articles of wash,
drying the dinner dishes, and throwing out the empties in
the kitchen.  Beer =and= tequila, Mulder? she had silently
queried as she had wrapped up the leftover pizza.  You are
going to regret this come morning.

That thought sounding still inside her head, she hadn't been
overly surprised to have been roused from a light doze by the
sound of Mulder retching in the bathroom.  She glanced at
her watch.  6:02.  Great.  Exhausted, she had dropped into
the chair sometime around 4:30, thinking perhaps she might
read.  Not such a terrific idea.  It hadn't taken long before
she had realized that, as tired as she was, reading would
inevitably lead to sleeping.  However, the night had been
quiet and, despite the paranoia that had become her constant
companion of late, she felt reasonably secure with neighbors
close by and police patrolling the perimeter.  It should be
safe to give in to her fatigue, she had decided.  If only for
an hour or two.

But judging by the pained gasps coming from down the hall,
her hour or two was up.  Time to get Mulder ready to face the
world.  Poor guy.  She was certain he felt awful; the mornings
after were never kind.  Still, he would have to get past the
discomfort.  They were going to have to be at the top of their
game if they hoped to have a chance against The Smoker.

"Mulder?" she called, knocking on the bathroom door.  "Do
you need help?"

"Scu--, . . . Scully?" he murmured weakly from within.

That sounded like a 'yes', she mused with a touch of wry
humor.  Pushing open the portal, she slipped into doctor
mode, determined not to lecture or condescend.  No matter
how sorely she might be tempted.

But the minute she laid eyes on Mulder, all thoughts of
teasing evaporated.  He lay on the floor, wedged on his side
between the toilet and the sink, twitching.  The commode was
splashed brown with bile, spots of it dotting the seat and tile
as well.  He breathed raggedly from his mouth, his face sheened
with sweat.

"Mulder?" she whispered, falling to her knees beside him and
turning him over onto his back, cradling his head in her hands
to protect him from further injury.

Initially, he didn't answer, though his eyes found hers and
clung, fear shining darkly in their glassy depths.

"Mulder what's the matter?" she asked, hands running over
him, searching for a pulse.  She found it fluttering beneath
her fingertips, beating like sparrow wings.  "Can you talk to
me?  Can you tell me what hurts?"

He tried; his lips moved, but no sound came forth.  God.
His strange silence terrified her.  She had seen her share of
hangovers in her day, some of the ones in med school fairly
severe.  But she had never seen a sufferer in this condition.

"Mulder, I'm going to call an ambulance," she told him,
smoothing his hair away from his face as she began to stand.
"Just rest here.  I'll be right back."

"Scully?" he mumbled faintly, his gaze struggling to maintain
its hold on hers.

"Yeah?" she prompted, bending down once more, palm pressed
to his too cool cheek.  "What is it?"

"Somethin' . . . somethin's not right."

Saying nothing more, he blinked, then slowly closed his eyes.
And with one long, rattling breath, his head lolled to the 
side . . .

 . . . as Fox Mulder slipped into unconsciousness.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *


Walter Skinner got the call shortly after ten.  Weekend
traffic and rain-slicked roads slowed his progress.  Still, he
made it to Memorial Medical Center before noon.  A few
well-placed questions and he quickly found his way to the
seventh floor.  To Fox Mulder's bedside.

Not surprisingly, the X-Files' senior agent already had
company.

"Agent Scully," Skinner said in greeting as he stood in the
doorway, surveying Mulder's accommodations.  The room
was a single.  Small, it smelled of disinfectant and disease.
Although it was nearly midday, scant outside light dribbled
in through the blinds.  A goose-necked lamp clipped to the
bed's headboard did what it could to combat the dreariness.
Sadly, its feeble glow hadn't the firepower to provide the
chamber with anything approximating cheer.  "How is he?"

The small auburn-haired woman turned her head listlessly
in his direction.  One glimpse of her face and it was all
Skinner could do not to gasp at her appearance.  He had
known Scully had been the one to find Mulder, that she
had supposedly gone to his apartment that morning and
discovered him all but unconscious on his bathroom floor.
Still, Skinner hadn't been prepared for the toll such a
discovery might exact.  Christ.  Scully looked nearly as ill
as the man over whom she sat watch.  Shoulders stooped in
grief, she regarded him with lifeless blue eyes, her complexion
wan, her lips pinched with misery.

"He's stabilized now," she murmured dully, her voice sounding
raw and overused.  "They pumped his stomach when he was
first brought in and put him on the respirator . . ."

Her shuttered gaze drifted away from that of her superior,
returning instead to the man who lay between them, unmoving,
save for the steady, mechanical pumping of his chest.

"He couldn't breathe," she whispered, almost to herself,
the slight wrinkling of her brow the only overt sign of her
agitation.  "In the ER.  Could barely swallow."

Sighing, Skinner took a step towards her, cursing himself for
feeling so ill at ease in these sorts of situations.  "Scully--"

"I was afraid he was going to choke to death on his own vomit,"
she confessed brokenly, her hands clenched in her lap white-
knuckle tight.

"But you said he's better now," Skinner reminded quietly from
the opposite side of the bed, at a loss as how best to comfort
this woman.

Yet knowing, at that moment, she desperately needed some
form of solace.

Even one as awkwardly bestowed as his.

Mulder had been injured before, had spent more time during
his tenure with the X-Files being poked and prodded by doctors
than most men did in a lifetime.

And through nearly every office call, hospital stay and
quarantine, Scully had been by his side, oftentimes even
serving as his physician.

But never had Skinner seen her react this strongly to Mulder's
suffering.  Never had she seemed so perilously close to falling
apart over it.

"Yes, he's better," she absently agreed, all her attention on the
man whose condition they were discussing.  "The respirator is
doing his breathing for him, and the anti-toxin should soon
rid his system of the bacteria.  As long as no complications
set in, he should be out of the woods in a couple of days."

"That's good, then," Skinner said gruffly, punctuating the
statement with another bob of his head.  "He's going to be all
right."

At first, Scully said nothing.  She simply kept her gaze locked
on Mulder, her eyes avidly following the rhythmic expansion
and deflation of his lungs, her stare so intent it almost appeared
as if she were consciously willing his body to take in and expel
oxygen.  Then, in a small, fierce voice, she muttered, "Yes.
Yes, he is," the words seemingly a vow.

Glancing down at the room's lone patient, Skinner wished he
could share Scully's certainty.

Jesus.

Bluntly put, Mulder looked like shit. Lips closed around the
respirator's mouthpiece, his skin was ashen, the stubble on
his chin and jaw only accentuating his pallor.  His eyes
seemed sunken in his head, his cheeks hollowed, as if his
illness had already somehow lay waste to the flesh beneath.
A feeding tube had been run up through his right nostril; an
IV bag supplied the rest of his body's needs, its line attached
to the back of his hand.

Grimacing in sympathy, Skinner shook his head.  "I don't get
it.  Botulism?  Where the hell did Mulder eat last night?"

"At home," Scully replied, stretching out her hand to rest
it gently on her partner's forearm, taking care not to jostle
any of the many wires and tubes connected to his insensate
form.  "He ordered pizza."

"Pizza?" Skinner echoed.

She wearily nodded.  "Sausage pizza.  From Tony's.  It's a
little mom and pop place not far from his apartment.  He
orders from there all the time."

"Are you sure that's what did it?" Skinner asked.  "Couldn't
it have been something else, something he ate for lunch
maybe?"

"I wasn't sure at first," she admitted quietly.  "After I called
911, I grabbed the leftover slices, thinking I would bring them
in with me.  That the techs could analyze them, check them
for anything unusual."

Scully then paused for a second or two, saying nothing while
her thumb rubbed slowly and soothingly over the pale inside
of Mulder's arm, tracing the fine network of veins laying just
below the surface of his skin.

"But in the end, it didn't really matter," she whispered after
a time.

Skinner blinked at her from behind his wire-rims.  "What do
you mean?"

"The doctors had no problem diagnosing his condition or
pinpointing its cause."

Although he yearned to urge Scully forward with her narrative,
Skinner resisted the impulse long enough for her to finish her
story on her own.

"Over a dozen people have been brought in since early this
morning, all suffering from a particularly virulent strain of
the toxin.  The cause is believed to be tainted pizza sauce.
One of the victims, a little girl named Caitlin Marie Lindsey,
died less than an hour ago.  She was four years old."

"God," Skinner muttered, once more shaking his head.

"God had very little to do with this," Scully corrected huskily.

Not knowing what to say in response, Skinner opted to remain
mute.  Feeling hopelessly inept, he stood there, watching Scully
watch Mulder, until at last he shattered the deafening silence by
querying, "How long are you planning on staying here?"

"Until he wakes up."

Why did he even bother asking?

"Chances are Mulder will be out for some time yet," he said,
trying to approach the situation delicately, yet all the while
feeling as if he were wearing combat boots at a tea party.
"Why don't you go home?  Get some rest yourself."

"I'd rather not," she said, not even bothering to turn his way.

Skinner sighed, his patience beginning to fray.  "Scully,
you're obviously exhausted.  Go home.  There's nothing you
can do here."

"I can be here when he wakes up," she said simply.

"That may not be for days," Skinner countered, purposely
gentling his voice, hoping to coax rather than browbeat.
"Go home and get some sleep.  I'll sit here with him.  He
won't wake up alone."

"Thank you, sir," she said politely, her tone arch yet firm.
"But that won't be necessary.  I can sleep here just as easily
as I can at home."

Her insistence, while not entirely unexpected, niggled at
Skinner nonetheless.  "Is there some reason you're afraid to
leave Mulder here alone?" he asked, his nameless suspicions
lending the question an edge he regretted.  "Something having
to do with our conversation the other day perhaps?"

That brought Scully's eyes around to his.

"No, sir," she said calmly, the words sounding automatic
to his ears, machine-generated, like widgets off an assembly
line.

Skinner thinned his lips, trying to judge whether she was
telling the truth.

And failing to reach any sort of verdict.

"Did you see him, Scully?" he queried finally, testing her.

"See who, sir?" she asked, her lashes lowering and lifting like
a camera shutter.

"Don't be coy with me," he growled, his frustration sparking
his temper.  "The man you were looking for.  Did you get
what you needed?"

The corner of her mouth raised infinitesimally, yet her
expression suggested anything but amusement.  Dipping her
head, she tucked a few strands of flyaway auburn hair behind
her ear.  "No.  I didn't see him.  I don't plan to either."

Skinner frowned.  "Why not?"

Scully hesitated for a moment.  Then, bringing her other hand
atop Mulder's arm to rest beside the first, she spoke, her gaze
sliding from that of her boss to grow distant and unfocused.
"I don't need to anymore.  The issue has been resolved."

Skinner didn't like the sound of that.  "Resolved =how
exactly?"

She pursed her lips, staring now unseeing at the bedclothes.
"There had been a decision I had needed to make.  Some
questions I had hoped to have answered so I would know
best how to proceed."

When she paused again, Skinner prodded her along, forgetting
to be circumspect in his urgency.  "And you got those answers
without talking to The Smoker?"

"Yes, I did," she murmured, directing those vacant eyes his
way again.  "I know now what I need to do."

Skinner looked at her long and hard, noting her haggard
expression, the disturbing emptiness of her gaze.  Something
was wrong here, his instincts warned.  Very, very wrong.

"Are you planning on sharing that information any time
soon, Agent Scully?" he queried, already fearing her reply.

Yet, as it happened, it wasn't quite time for dread.

Not just then.

"Soon, sir," Scully said with a little nod of her head.  "Believe
me.  You'll know soon enough."

                        *****

The night nurses were infinitely more tolerant than those
who worked the nine to five shift, Scully decided, sliding
down a bit lower in the vinyl bedside chair, trying to find a
position that would relieve the stabbing ache between her
shoulder blades.  Seemingly sympathetic to her plight, they
had brought her coffee and a sandwich, and had found her
a spare blanket to help ward off the evening's chill.  Their
efforts had been gratefully acknowledged, even if she had
only been able to muster a quiet "thank you" in appreciation.
Yet, despite her reticence, they had appeared to understand,
to make allowances for her fatigue and her concern.  Pity she
hadn't hit it off quite as well with the day crew, she now mused.
She couldn't be certain, but by dinnertime she had thought
perhaps her presence had begun to unnerve them.

She hadn't meant to give offense, but with Mulder's present
vulnerability, she had been forced to be even more vigilant than
usual in supervising his care.  Watching like a hawk, she had
stood at one nurse's elbow then another as they had checked
his vitals, making sure nothing was amiss.  She had grilled his
doctors, questioning their diagnoses, their treatment strategy,
even their qualifications.  Still not satisfied, she had spent the
afternoon studying Mulder's chart, examining it as if were
written in hieroglyphics and she were an archaeologist intent
on unlocking the mysteries of the pyramids.  In reality, she was
checking and rechecking the staff's findings, searching for any
potential hazards the good doctors might have overlooked.  So
far, she had come up empty.

One thing was for certain, however--contrary to popular belief,
Tony's poor patrons had not been felled by a dented can of
Contadina's.  She didn't know how The Smoker's people had
managed to introduce the bacteria into the pizzeria's kitchen,
but she was positive the poisonings were far from accidental.

Oh God . . . . that poor little girl, Scully silently mourned,
lips pressed tight as if to hold back a sob.  Their enemies had
murdered that innocent child in cold blood.

And for what?

To cover up their attempt at killing Mulder.

To punish her for her disobedience.

No.  No, I am not to blame for this, she told herself, doing
all within her power to keep that inner voice firm and resolute.
I am not the one responsible for Caitlin Lindsey's death.

Maybe if I keep telling myself that, keep repeating the words
over and over again inside my head, chanting them like a
mantra . . .

. . . maybe one day I'll actually believe them.

Taking a slow, shuddering breath, Scully kicked off her shoes
and tucked her legs beneath her, settling in for the night.  But
try though she might, she just couldn't get comfortable.  Her
jeans felt like chain mail against her skin, heavy and rough,
binding her limbs like a corset would her middle.  What she
wouldn't give for a change of clothes or even just a shower.
She was still wearing the turtleneck and denim she had
donned for her visit to The Smoker's den.  And although she
knew it was impossible, she could swear she smelled a telltale
hint of cigarette smoke clinging to her person, marking her
as surely as the letter "A" had Hester.

Like a souvenir of her failed raid the night before, the phantom
odor kept reminding her of her mistakes.  You are to blame for
this, it told her, ruthlessly silencing the reason trying so hard
to convince her otherwise.  All of this.  Your pride put Mulder
in this hospital bed.  Your foolishness killed that little girl. . . .

I feel so dirty, she lamented, closing her eyes as she shoved
her fingers roughly through the rumpled mess of her hair, and
not only because I'm wearing yesterday's make-up.  Rather,
she felt soiled within, her very soul tainted in some way by
the events of the past twenty-four hours.

She had fought her fall every inch of the way, grasping for
alternatives the same way a climber might grab wildly for
handholds when the earth beneath her feet crumbled to dust,
and yet she had still been pulled down into The Smoker's plot,
made an accomplice to his crimes.  She had sworn she wouldn't
give in to his demands, had promised herself she would struggle
until her last dying breath. . . .

But what about Mulder's?

What right did she have to take chances with his life?

Because that's what she had done when she had contacted
Skinner, demanding information.  She knew that now, the
transgression so great, no amount of Hail Marys would ever
truly absolve her of the guilt.  She had played fast and loose
with Mulder's wellbeing, flaunting her rebellion, all but daring
The Smoker to strike out in retaliation.

To strike out at Mulder.

She couldn't pretend it had been anything other than her
arrogance that had led to her partner lying in that hospital
bed, his breath controlled by the pressers manipulating his
lungs.

And why?

Because she had believed he couldn't live without her, nor
she without him.

God . . .

"I'm sorry," she whispered, pushing aside the blanket and
pressing to her feet.  Her legs wobbly beneath her, she padded
the few steps to Mulder's bedside.  Reaching out, she threaded
her fingers through the hair on his brow.  "I'm so sorry."

Quietly, the sound muffled as if it came from several rooms
away, she heard the trilling of her cell phone.  Startled by
the noise, Scully turned, searching for her purse.  She found
it resting against the side of the night stand.  Quickly, she
crossed to the bag and, rummaging through it, retrieved her
Nokia.  Stabbing the Talk button, she mumbled, "Scully."

"How's the patient?"

The Smoker.

Her heart began pounding almost painfully in her chest, its
thump so powerful, she imagined she could feel the vibrations
setting her ribs aquiver.  Arm outstretched, she grabbed hold
of the back of the chair, closing her fingers round it vise-like
for support.

"You bastard," she hissed, her eyes suddenly filling with
tears, the salty liquid hot and corrosive, searing like acid.
"You fucking, =fucking= bastard."

"Now, now," he murmured indulgently.  "I don't think that's
quite fair.  Do you?  After all, I gave you plenty of warning."

Don't you put this on me, she mutely railed, fighting his
influence and her own inclinations.  Don't you try and make
me the guilty party here.  "You murdered a helpless little
girl."

He took his time before answering.  In the silence, she could
hear him take a drag off his cigarette, the small wet sound
of his lips closing around the stick of tobacco then releasing
once more threatening to upend her stomach.  "Innocents
are often caught in the crossfire, Agent Scully.  You know
that as well as anyone."

Yes, she did.

"How do you sleep at night?" she whispered, her tears now
branding her cheeks.

"Isn't that a question you should be asking yourself this
evening?" countered the person on the other end of the line.

"My conscience is clear," she said, wishing she could inject
the statement with more conviction.

"Is it?" he taunted knowingly.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, she said nothing in reply.
How could she?  They both knew her arguments were lies.
Instead, she turned to look at the man she loved.  The hour
was late, the room almost completely dark.  The only light
came from the lamp clipped above him.  Yet, she could see
Mulder clearly, his drawn, dear face amply illuminated by
the bulb's glow.

"For some reason, Agent Scully, you seem determined to cast
Agent Mulder and yourself as a pair of star-crossed lovers, a
couple torn apart by cruel fate, the FBI's answer to Romeo and
Juliet."

Listening almost dreamily to The Smoker's voice, she walked
slowly towards the bed, her stocking feet noiseless against the
tile.  Funny . . .  For as many times as she had seen him like
this, lying unconscious in one hospital or another, she could
never get over how strange it all was, what an odd image he
presented.  Awake, Mulder always seemed more alive than
anyone she had ever known.  His mind more breathtakingly
agile, his body strong and lithe, nearly pulsing with energy,
with drive, that passion appearing ready at any moment to
burst right through his skin.

"I wonder where the urge for such self-dramatization comes
from.  Why you have such a difficult time taking responsibility
for your own actions."

Yet, like this, dwarfed by the machines monitoring his condition,
all Mulder's potent vitality was missing, vanished as utterly as
his wry, lop-sided grin.  In its place was this . . . this stillness.
And the silence that accompanied it.  Neither ever really seemed
to belong to him.  Rather, it was as if an imposter was in his
stead, a pretender with his face.

Is that really you, Mulder?

Why don't you open up your eyes and tell me so.

"It seems to me this tendency is a form of vanity.  Don't you
think?  Ego.  After all, you and Mulder are adults, not starry-
eyed children.  You know the way the game is played."

"This is not a game," she said quietly, drawing up alongside
Mulder and stretching out her hand to caress his cheek, to
slide her fingertips from the center of his forehead to his
temple, to trace the shape of his brows.

"That's my point," said The Smoker, murmuring like an
imp in her ear.  "This is real, Agent Scully.  Real life."

Look at those eyelashes, she thought, her musing dim and
ill-formed.  Long and lush, they lay nestled in the bruised
hollows of his eyes, curled like a beauty queen's.  And that
nose . . .  What a perfectly ridiculous nose.  Mulder, only
you could be this handsome saddled with a nose like that.

"In real life, people like Mulder and you don't live happily
ever after.  You don't marry, move to the suburbs, and have
children.  You don't coach little league or drive a minivan."

Children, she repeated silently, the word ringing inside her
head, its meaning obscure for some reason, hard to grasp.
She didn't think much about children.  Hadn't for several
years.  They had no place in the life she led, the path she
had chosen for herself.  The one she shared with Mulder.

Well, what do you know?  The Smoker and she were in accord.

"That future isn't an option for you.  You're the sort who live
hard and fast.  You burn, your flame incandescent, until one
day that candle is snuffed out."

The way he was echoing her musings frightened her, making
her feel as if his surveillance had extended beyond her home,
her office, her car.  That now, her very thoughts were being
monitored, her emotions recorded, then cataloged for further
reference.

"I don't want him to die," she whispered, not sure anymore to
whom exactly the words were directed.  "I want him alive."

"I can give you that," The Smoker promised, crooning like a
lover.  "It's not too late.  I can see that he lives.  But first you
must give me what I want."

Closing her eyes, she swallowed hard against the sudden
thickness in her throat, swaying with the loss of vision.

"It's simple," he told her.  "All you have to do is say goodbye."

Goodbye . . .

"Come now, Agent Scully," the Smoker coaxed, his tone silky
and insinuating.  "It's time to end this . . ."

She lifted her lashes.  It was harder than it should have been;
her lids stubbornly resisted her efforts.

I'm so tired.  So very, very tired . . .

" . . . we both know that."

Brows drawn tightly together, she stared unblinking at Mulder,
her gaze fierce and clinging.

"It's for the best."

This is for the best, Mulder . . .

"Don't make me hurt him again."

No.  Not again.  Never, ever, again.

And letting loose a long, slow, deep breath, she surrendered.
"All right."

Rather than gloating, The Smoker sucked noisily on his
cigarette once more.  "Excellent," he finally said, the word
tobacco-charred.  "You've made a wise decision."

Turning away from the bed, Scully pressed her hand firmly
over her mouth, trying to squelch her impending hysteria.
Decision?  That implied Choice, didn't it?

"I'll expect your request for transfer to be on Skinner's desk
by the time Mulder is ready to be discharged from the hospital,"
The Smoker instructed.  "I don't want to wait any longer.  I'm
sure you can understand why."

"He'll have my resignation in plenty of time," she assured him
as she wandered towards the window, her thoughts and words
fluttering now at the edges of her consciousness, rent and worn
like a weathered flag.  She felt cold suddenly, her extremities
numb.  While, in contrast, her head tingled hot and fuzzy as if
with fever.

Shock.  I think I'm in shock.

The notion neither surprised nor alarmed her.

"Resignation?" The Smoker queried.  "I thought I had told you
that wasn't necessary."

Coming to a halt at the window, Scully propped her shoulder
against its frame.  Keeping the phone pressed to her ear, she
clumsily twisted open the blinds.  Mulder's room looked out
on the entrance to the hospital.  Even though it was the middle
of the night, cars motored past, their headlights glowing eerily,
reflecting off the oil smeared puddles dotting the asphalt.  A
man dressed in a navy blue windbreaker waited on the corner
for a bus.  Another, garbed in a red flannel shirt, leaned against
an ambulance, talking to a woman dressed in scrubs and a
sweater, a cup of coffee in her hand.  Something she said made
her companion laugh.  How amazing, Scully thought, peering
through the slats.  How remarkable, really, that the rest of life
should so blithely carry on . . .

. . . when hers was coming to an end.

"I don't think I have the stomach for this kind of work," she
told the man on the other end of the line.  "Not anymore."

"Yes.  I suppose that's understandable," he said agreeably,
his reply quick and smooth, as if he had expected such a thing.
"No need to punish yourself, after all.  You're a young woman,
a doctor.  You should get on with your life.  It won't be as
bad as all that.  You'll see.  One day, you'll forget all about
the X-Files. . . ."

Unable to stand a minute more of his blathering, Scully hit
the End button, wordlessly bidding The Smoker adieu.  Setting
the phone on the sill, she turned so that she stood with her
back against the wall, her arms wrapped protectively around
her middle.  Her teeth snagged on her bottom lip, she tipped
back her head so it rested against the plaster and closed her
eyes.

Forget? she echoed mockingly inside her head.  You stupid
monster of a man.  You believe someday I'll forget Fox Mulder
and the way I betrayed him?

Never.

I couldn't possibly live that long.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *


Fox Mulder dreamt he was dining on broken glass.  Jagged
pieces sat before his dream self, heaped in a bowl, glittering in 
a myriad of jewel-toned hues, brilliant, like fragments from a 
shattered church window.  In this odd otherplace, he felt no 
surprise, no fear at being offered such a repast.  Rather, he 
dug into it enthusiastically, scooping up the shards like they 
were corn flakes.  

It wasn't until after that first bite, until the spoon was pulled 
from between his lips that the pain began.  Like razors, the 
wickedly sharp edges shredded the tender inside of his mouth, 
sliced bloody furrows down the length of his gullet.  The 
coppery taste of blood on his tongue, his stomach rebelled 
against the noxious fare, cramping and roiling in an effort to
expel it.  But it hurt . . . 

Oh God, it hurthurthurt . . .  Burned.  Like those vicious bits 
of glass had never left the kiln.  They scorched and stabbed . . .

And choked.  

Choking . . .

Something was lodged in his throat.  Something hard and
wide that bruised the spongy lining of his esophagus.  He 
couldn't breathe. . . .  

Drowning, I'm drowning . . . and I can't even close my mouth 
to hold back the waves. . . .

"Mulder . . . =Mulder= . . . ssh.  Ssh, now.  It's okay.  Don't
fight. . . . don't fight.  Just relax.  Relax.  It's the respirator
. . . the respirator you feel.  Give us a minute and we'll get 
you off that thing.  You're going to be fine."

He couldn't open his eyes.  He wanted to, but the lids wouldn't
lift for him.  He didn't have the energy or the strength.  Still, 
he didn't need his vision to identify that the voice.  He knew it 
well.  And trusted the speaker.  Absolutely.

Scully.

Her husky alto whispered to him like rainwater on moss, 
dousing the fire in his gut, soothing his aching throat.  Scully
would make it better.  She would make the pain go away.

She always did.

He could feel her fingertips skimming delicately atop his 
hair, combing through the strands, her touch reassuring.  
She was murmuring to him still, though he couldn't 
understand all she was saying.  Just crumbs, particles 
floating through his consciousness like motes wafting 
before his eyes.

<Hospital.>

<Quiet.>

<Okay . . . okay . . . >

<I'm here.>

She was there.  He could relax.  That's what he needed to 
do . . . relax.  He would be all right.  Scully would take care 
of everything. . . .

And secure in that knowledge, Mulder promptly fell back
to sleep.

When he next awoke, it was to dazzling beams of sunlight, 
their radiance powerful enough to bleed right through his
lowered lids.  Realizing his only escape was still more sleep, 
he chose the opposite instead and opened his eyes.  Morning, 
he absently decided, squinting against the almost blinding 
brightness.  But which one?  Turning his head away from 
the painful evidence of day, he protested his discomfort with 
a low, breathy moan.

"Fox?"

That wasn't Scully. . . .  

Though he did recognize the voice.

His mouth felt as if it were lined with construction paper, 
his throat, like it had been the route for the annual Macy's 
Thanksgiving Day parade.  Damn, those marching bands 
were murder. . . .  Still, he thought he could muster at least 
some semblance of speech.  Swiping his lips with his tongue, 
he gave it his best shot.

"Mom?" he croaked.

Almost as if he had somehow conjured her, she stepped into 
view.  Wearing a mint green cardigan and shell, pearl earrings, 
and a chic silk scarf tied around her neck, Teena Mulder looked 
as impeccably groomed as ever.  That's the one thing he could 
always count on when it came to his mother.  Whether she 
was lunching with the ladies or playing nursemaid to him, the 
attractive matron invariably came prepared with manicured 
nails, a dab of Chanel No. 5, and just the right sweater set.

"There, there, dear.  Lie still," she murmured, reaching out
to gently press him back against the pillows, her hands cool
and white.

Surprised yet pleased to see her, he gave the whole talking 
thing another try.  "W-water?"

With a small smile, she reached behind her to the bedside 
table.  Lifting the pitcher positioned there, she poured some 
of its contents into a clear plastic cup and offered it to him.  
A striped, elbowed straw peeked gaily over the side of the 
tumbler.  Mulder grimaced, but sucked on the plastic tube 
anyway.  Terrific, he mutely grumbled as the H2O dribbled 
down his parched throat, not only do I feel weak as a newborn, 
but within minutes of waking, I get to nurse on a sippy straw.

While my mom holds the damned thing to my lips.

This could have deep, unfortunate, psychological consequences.

"There," Mrs. Mulder said quietly after he had swallowed a 
few mouthfuls.  "Is that better?"

He nodded ever so slightly and wearily sighed.  God, he felt 
like shit.  What the hell had happened?  One minute he was 
happily snoozing on the couch and the next he was bent over 
the toilet spewing up the contents of his stomach.  Hmm.  He 
could remember that, but not how he had wound up here. . . .  
Had he somehow crawled to the phone and called 911?  No. . . .  
No, Scully had been there.

"Sc . . Scully?" he queried now, craning his neck to look for 
her, straining to lift his head.

Lips thinned in concern, Teena Mulder pushed him flat with
the hand not still holding the cup.  "Your partner?  She's not 
here, dear."

Nothing like pointing out the obvious, Mom.  So, if she's not 
here--*where is she*?

"Wh--wh-where?" he began, the simple word taking as much 
effort to shape as Quonochontaug once did when he was a child.  

"Where is this?" his mother queried helpfully, turning away 
to replace the glass on the night stand.  

No, no, no.  He shook his head.  

His mother didn't see.

"Memorial Medical Center," she said, unaware her response 
was not the information he sought.  

"Wh-wh?" he stubbornly mumbled, determined to get an answer 
to his question. 

"I got the call late yesterday and came down as soon as I could,"
she said, misinterpreting him yet again as she straightened his 
blankets, tucking him in as if she had just finished reading him 
a bedtime story.  "I got in a couple of hours ago.  What I don't 
understand is why your partner waited until Monday before 
letting me know you were ill.  Had I been aware of the situation, 
I would have been here sooner."

Monday?

Then . . . that would make this . . .

"=T-Tuesday=?" he all but groaned, his eyes going wide in 
their sockets.

"Yes, dear," his mother said, her hand resting on his shoulder.  
"You've been very sick.  We were worried."

"Sc-Sc . . .?" he sputtered one last time, appalled that his 
language skills had tragically deteriorated to those of a toddler.

Yet, somehow, some way, his mother understood.  "Agent 
Scully?  She went home to get some sleep.  And not a moment 
too soon, if you ask me.  She looked awfully tired."

Good.  She was okay.

If tired.

Sleep.

What a good idea.

His eyelids drooped.

His mother took notice.

"You should get some rest too, you know," she advised in a 
voice he remembered well from childhood.  The one that 
reminded him to mind his manners, do his homework, and 
quit picking on his sister.  "You're going to need your energy 
to face all those doctors.  You gave us quite a scare, Fox.  
Don't think they aren't going to want to check you over but 
good."

Mulder knew of only one doctor he wanted giving him the
once-over.

Sadly, she wasn't around at present.

But surely she would be there when he awoke.

"Go to sleep," his mother urged him softly before kissing 
his brow.  "Go on.  Close your eyes."

"Mmm," he murmured, meaning the sound to be a kind of 
thank-you, yet fearing it didn't express all he had intended.  
He didn't want to seem ungrateful.  Honestly, he didn't.  He 
appreciated his mom coming all the way down from 
Connecticut, especially as under normal circumstances 
their relationship wasn't exactly what he would term 'close'.  
It was nice she had gone to the trouble, that she was willing 
to sit in that small, sterile room for no other reason than he 
was in it too.

But she wasn't the one he had wanted to wake to.

He wanted Scully.

Sighing at the injustice of it all, he nuzzled his cheek into
the bleach-scented pillow and closed his eyes.

Patience, Mulder, he told himself as he rapidly descended
into dreamland.  She'll be here.  Just get some sleep.

She's sure to be back soon.

                        *****

But Scully wasn't there when next he roused.

This time, when Mulder opened his eyes, it was dark outside.
And within.  In apparent deference to his slumber, no lamp
had been lit.  However, the door to his room was ajar.  A sharp- 
edged triangle of florescence spilled onto the floor from the 
hallway, spotlighting the heel marks scuffing the tile.  By the 
glow of this vivid yet limited light, he realized he was alone.  
One of the New York Times' hottest best-sellers lay on his 
bedside table, spine up.  Beside it balanced his mother's reading 
glasses.  She was nowhere to be seen.

"Mr. Mulder?"

Surprised by the unknown voice, Mulder swiveled his head
on the pillow, turning his attention away from the room's 
empty chair and back towards its entrance.  A wiry Hispanic
man peered around the door, the sculpted planes of his long, 
narrow face softened by a pair of sympathetic brown eyes and 
a mouth that looked prone to smile.  His lab coat and stethoscope 
marked him as a doctor.   

Great.  The fun begins.

Yet, as it turned out, Dr. Gilbert Marquez was a cut above the 
usual quacks who looked after him.  True, he was no Scully.
But he didn't condescend or treat Mulder like a piece of meat.
He performed his examination with care and explained the 
situation in simple, straight-forward terms, outlining for 
Mulder what lay ahead on the road to recovery.

"Overall," Marquez assured him, strolling to the foot of the
bed to retrieve Mulder's chart, "you seem to be responding
quite well to the anti-toxin.  I'm sure you feel weak, and that
your coordination is in some ways lacking.  But that's to be
expected.  The toxin attacks the nervous system.  It's probably
going to take awhile for you to feel one hundred percent."

Mulder nodded in regretful agreement.  One hundred percent?  
He'd give his left kidney to be at fifty.

"For right now, rest," Marquez kindly advised, eyes first on 
the machines circling the bed, then dropping to his clipboard
where he jotted down some notes.  "Tomorrow, if you're up 
for it, we'll start you off on some solids."

Mulder grimaced.  As cavernous as his stomach currently felt, 
the thought of chewing and swallowing actual food took his 
insides on the roller coaster ride from hell.

"Do you have any questions?" Marquez queried, capping his
pen and slipping it back into his jacket pocket.

"Where . . . ?" Mulder asked, gesturing weakly with his chin
in the direction of the bedside chair, amazed he was already
tiring.

"Your mother?" Marquez said, trying to fill in the blanks.
"She went down to the cafeteria to get something to eat.  
Don't worry.  She said she'd be by to say goodnight before 
she headed to the hotel."

"No, . . . no," Mulder mumbled, shaking his head restlessly. 
He couldn't take another game of Guess What the Invalid is
Grunting.  He just couldn't.  Somebody give him a goddamned 
piece of scratch paper already.  "Sc-Scully."

"Dr. Scully?"

No.  Rabbi Scully.

"Yeah," he murmured instead, behaving himself.

Marquez's lips lifted at the corners, wry amusement all at once
evident in his gaze.  "She's your partner, right?"

Mulder nodded, wondering at the doctor's curious expression.

"I'll bet she's a handful," Marquez stated flatly, a kind of rueful
admiration in his voice.

Well, Mulder fondly mused, sounds like somebody made quite 
an impression.

"What?" he queried hoarsely a moment later, the question 
rumbling deep in his ruined throat.

Marquez shrugged, his small smile lingering.  "Nothing 
really.  It's just . . . she is one formidable woman"

Mulder chuckled at that vast understatement. 

"Wish I had more information for you.  But as far as I know, 
she's still wherever it was she went to when she left here," 
Marquez said with a nimbleness of tongue that made Mulder 
want to howl with inarticulate envy.  "Once your mom arrived, 
she took off."

Mulder nodded again.  Scully had left that morning utterly
exhausted.  He knew that.  He knew she had kept watch in 
that horridly uncomfortable-looking chair for days on end
with nothing more stimulating to do than watch him sleep.  
He knew that too.  It wasn't that he begrudged her the time 
away.  And yet . . . 

"I can check with the staff and see if she's called in," Marquez
offered, taking a step towards the corridor and the nurses' desk
beyond.

"No, no," Mulder mumbled hurriedly, not wanting to appear 
anymore needy than was absolutely necessary.  The doctor 
smiled his reassurance.

"You're lucky to have her on your side, Mr. Mulder," Marquez
said, his hand on the door.  "Now get some sleep.  If Dr. Scully 
comes back tomorrow and your condition isn't to her liking, I 
=know= who's going to hear about it."

Unable to argue with that, Mulder simply closed his eyes once
more.

After all, the sooner he fell asleep, the sooner he'd wake up.

And with any luck, Scully would be there waiting for him.

                        *****

Only she wasn't there.  She didn't come.  Not that following 
morning, afternoon, or evening.

Instead, Mulder had his mother for company.  She tried to
distract him, to tell him amusing anecdotes about her friends,
to catch him up on all the family gossip.  They watched TV
together--seventies sitcom reruns and cable news.  She went 
down to the gift store and brought him back a stack of 
magazines.  She even offered to play cards with him.

By nightfall, he was all but begging her to return to Connecticut.

His foul mood did not go unnoticed by the woman who was its
undeserving target.

"When your partner called and said you were in the hospital, I 
told her what an awful patient you could be," she said after an 
increasingly strained afternoon, her lips pulled tight in a little 
moue of hurt.  "It wasn't that I wasn't willing to come down.  I 
told her that more as a warning, so that she would know what to 
expect.  After all, I certainly nursed you through enough bouts 
of the flu when you were growing up.  I know how restless you 
can get."

God, Mom, Mulder silently groused.  It isn't as if Scully doesn't
know what a pain in the ass I can be.  Ask her sometime about
the retro-virus I came in contact with in the Arctic, or when 
they drugged my water . . . or better yet--if you want to swap 
war stories--have her tell you about the time she shot me and 
then dragged me cross-country while I bled all over the inside 
of her car.  That oughta be good for a few laughs. 

"Maybe she took my words to heart," Teena Mulder continued,
choosing to leaf through one of the magazines she had purchased 
rather than look at him, her pointed avoidance unmistakable  
as punishment.  "Maybe that's why she hasn't stopped by."

"She'll be here," Mulder muttered, rolling onto his side and 
away from his obviously miffed mother.  He knew he was largely 
to blame for the tension between them, but he didn't have it in 
him to apologize.  Not just then.  He still ached all over, his 
throat and stomach raw, anxiety over Scully's whereabouts 
driving him just this side of homicidal.  Even under the best of 
circumstances, he hated being idle.  But this . . . this forced 
inactivity was making him =buggy=.  He wanted to know where 
his partner was.  He wanted to climb out of that hospital bed, 
track her down . . . and drag her back under the covers with 
him.

Where they would lie, twined around each other for all eternity.

What a lovely, lovely dream. . . .

Exhausted still in the wake of his illness, he fell helplessly 
back asleep, much to his mother's relief, dozing off before 
primetime got underway.

But Scully never popped in to kiss him good-night.

By late Thursday morning, Mulder was fast succumbing to 
panic.  This wasn't like Scully.  Not at all.  She hadn't visited, 
hadn't called.  Fearing the worst, he had tried her at home, 
then on her cell.  Nothing.  Recordings, but no Scully.  Christ.  
What if something had happened?  What if she needed him 
and he was stuck in that damned hospital, lying around in a 
powder blue smock with his ass hanging out?

Weak, yet resolute, he demanded to speak to Dr. Marquez 
who, when he heard his patient intended to check himself out, 
threatened to sedate him instead.  Overhearing this exchange, 
his mother informed him in no uncertain terms he was out of 
his mind.  Then, throwing up her hands in disgust, she walked
out, telling him if he came to his senses she would be at the 
hotel.

Left alone to plot and stew, Mulder had just about decided he
was willing to chance the good doctor and his fiendish needle 
when there was a knock on the door.

"I'm still here, Marquez," he called darkly from where he sat
brooding, propped against a stack of pillows, his voice scratchy 
but far easier to produce than it had been a few days previous.  
"No need to stick me just yet."

"Stick you with what?" queried Assistant Director Skinner
as he entered without invitation, his trench coat fluttering, 
his jaw set.

"Wouldja  believe 'the check'?" Mulder parried sheepishly,
wondering what the hell he had done to merit a visit from 
the boss during business hours.

"No," Skinner said shortly, coming to a halt beside the bed,
his hands fisted in his pockets.  "I wouldn't.  I just talked to 
your doctor on the way in.  He informs me you've been 
making his life difficult."

Mulder shrugged, a trifle embarrassed at being called by
Skinner on his bad behavior, but determined to stay the 
course.  "I gotta be me."

Skinner nodded.  "That's what I told him.  Not surprisingly, 
the man found it little comfort."

"I'm ready to get out of here," Mulder said stubbornly.  "That's
all."

Skinner looked at his agent appraisingly, his eyes narrowed 
behind his wire-rims.  "Can you even keep down solid food?"

"I'm a wiz with toast and Jell-O," Mulder assured him with a
sardonic lift of his brows.  

"What does your doctor say?" Skinner queried, seemingly 
unconvinced by the younger man's bravado.

"He says I've probably got another day or two of bed rest here,"
Mulder muttered, folding his arms as he leaned back against 
the headboard.  "Then he'll see about releasing me."

Skinner nodded, gnawing thoughtfully on the corner of his 
mouth.

"=I= say I have a bed at home," Mulder finished with a scowl.
"Or at least a couch."

"You're in that big a hurry to get out of here?" Skinner queried.

"I don't call a week's hospital stay rushing things, sir," Mulder
said sullenly, regretting he sounded like a petulant teen, but 
unable to help himself nonetheless.  "I just don't see how my 
lying around here for another day or two is going to make any 
difference in my recovery.  I have things I have to take care of."

"I don't suppose any of these 'things' would include Agent
Scully, would they?"

Something in his voice shot adrenaline through Mulder's veins,
drugging him in a way opposite to what Marquez had promised, 
setting his blood to tingle as it flowed.  "What are you talking 
about?"

Saying nothing at first, Skinner reached inside his trench and
withdrew from his breast pocket an envelope.  "This was waiting
for me on my desk this morning," he said, tossing the white 
rectangle onto Mulder's blanket draped lap.

Firing the other man a quick, questioning glance, Mulder 
slipped his fingers beneath the paper flap and pulled from the 
pouch its contents.

"I thought maybe you could tell me just what the hell it all 
means."

Distracted for a second by Skinner's ominous tone, Mulder 
at last folded flat the single sheet of stationery.  It was a letter.

Typewritten.  Short, to the point.

And utterly devastating.

<Assistant Director Skinner>

<Effective immediately>

<I tender my resignation as Special Agent with the Federal
Bureau of Investigation>

<Thank you for the opportunity>

<It has been an honor>

<Sincerely>

<Dana Scully>

"What is this?" Mulder demanded in a hiss, his voice low 
and terrible, his face colorless save for the two bright spots 
of red high on his cheeks.

"I don't know," Skinner retorted with a grim shake of his
head.  "As soon as I finished reading it, I called her in.  We 
talked. . . . Or rather, I did."

"What did she say?" Mulder asked, an awful, gaping emptiness
beginning to hollow out the center of his chest.

"That she had reevaluated her priorities and, as it stood, the
Bureau was no longer among them," Skinner said as if repeating
the words by rote.

Reevaluated her priorities? Mulder echoed inside his head, 
the very notion refusing to gel, to make any sense at all.  No, 
that wasn't possible.  Scully would never turn her back on the 
work, would never grow bored or disillusioned.  Would never 
even contemplate leaving the X-Files.

Or him.

Would she?

"Well, you have to stop her," he blurted out to his superior, 
heartily embarrassed the minute the words left his lips.  Still,
swallowing his pride, he forged on.  "You have to talk to her, 
get her to reconsider."

Skinner sighed.  "Mulder, that's what I'm trying to tell you--
we had that talk.  I did what I could.  I told her to think about 
it, to take some time.  I tried to convince her that it would be
wiser not to jump into anything.  Hell, I had her in my office 
for close to two hours."

"And?" Mulder urged, lunging forward from his comfortable 
berth, a hand stretched beseechingly towards Skinner.

"And . . . she wouldn't budge," the A.D. finished with another 
slow shake of his head.

At first, neither man said anything, Mulder only able to stare 
blindly at the foot of the bed, his brain having a difficult time 
wrapping itself around this particular calamity.

"I had considered simply ripping this to pieces," Skinner
murmured after a time, his focus on the floor at his feet.
"After all, it had worked with you."

Blinking as if waking from a dream, Mulder turned his 
attention once more to the man standing beside him, regret
carved into the lines of his face.

"But I don't think it would have made a difference with 
Scully," Skinner said quietly, the muscle in the corner of his 
jaw jumping as if zapped by electricity.  "Her mind was made 
up."

That was what Mulder was having trouble grasping.  How 
Scully could have decided this, could have opted to upend
their professional lives without ever saying anything, 
anything at all, to him.  Not when their private lives were
so closely bound to the same.

But had she really been that silent? queried a venomous 
little voice inside his head.  Had there been no warning 
signs for you to read?   No cautions, no alarms?  Are you 
certain she never told you, never showed you, she was 
drifting away?

Did you ever take the time to look?

"I need to talk to her," Mulder mumbled at last as he pushed 
aside the covers and made ready to stand.  But before he could 
do more than scoot to the mattress' edge, Skinner's hand clamped
on his shoulder to keep him from rising.

"I know you want to talk to her," the older man said, bending
down to speak the words directly into Mulder's face.  "I think
you should.  If there's one person who can talk some sense into
her it's you."

Swallowing hard, Mulder nodded, but said nothing, sensing 
there was still more Skinner had to impart.

"But there's something else you should know.  Something you
should be aware of before you go trying to drag Scully back to
the basement by her hair."

The image of himself as Neanderthal did little to lighten 
Mulder's mood.  "What?"

Skinner straightened once more, then took a step away.  
Running a hand over the smooth slope of his head, he 
spoke.  "About a week ago, Scully came to me to ask for 
a favor."

"A favor?" Mulder echoed warily.  "What kind of favor?"

Skinner hesitated, clearly torn as to whether he wanted to 
continue.  Grimacing, he finally did just that.  "She needed 
information.  Information she knew I had but would be 
reluctant to share."

Mulder perched on the side of the bed, mute, waiting for the
A.D. to finish, his impatience eating at him.

"She wanted the address of The Smoker."

A cascade of ice and dread shimmered through Mulder's
system, chilling him from head to toe.  "=What=?"

"She wanted to know where she could find him," Skinner
said, turning away to pace along the length of the bed, his 
eyes unable to meet those of his agent.  "She said she had 
questions she needed answered."

"And you gave her that information?" Mulder seethed as he 
pushed shakily to his feet.  "You sent her to him =alone=?"

Mulder's rage seemingly fueling a similar response in him,
Skinner rounded on the younger man, his color high, "I gave
her a way to contact him, Mulder.  That's it.  I did the same
for you once.  Don't you remember?"

"That was different--," Mulder began, taking a slow, unsteady
step his way.

"Why?" Skinner challenged.  "Because Scully's a woman?"

"No!" Mulder protested, vehemently shaking his head.  
"Because . . . because . . ."

Because she's Scully.

And if anything were ever to happen to her because he wasn't
there to watch her back . . .

"I've gotta talk to her," he muttered rather than finishing his 
earlier argument and, pushing past Skinner, he lurched away, 
his path wavering.  His destination:  the room's tiny closet. 

"For what it's worth, she told me she didn't go through with
it," Skinner mumbled from somewhere behind him.

Mulder pivoted to face him, his hand braced against the far 
wall for support, exhausted by a journey of a half a dozen steps.  
"Go through with what?"

"Seeing the Smoker.  She said she wound up deciding she
didn't need to."

Mulder hung his head, feeling as if the world were spinning
just a little too fast for his comfort.  Jesus.  Scully choosing 
not to see The Smoker made even less sense than her asking 
for his address in the first place.  Why would she have refrained
from confronting him when she had had information like that 
handed to her?

"And you believed her?" he quietly asked Skinner. 

Lips pressed flat, the A.D. shrugged.  "I'm not sure," he 
admitted.  "I can't tell.  I don't know what Scully looks like 
when she lies."

Slowly, Mulder nodded, wondering if, when the time came, he 
would be any more insightful.

Fearful of the answer to that question, he opened the closet 
door.  While he had been taking one of his many naps, his 
mother had been kind enough to visit his apartment and pack 
him a suitcase, a collection of personal items for when he was 
sent home.  Hanging on the rack before him were some of the 
contents of that tote:  a pair of his favorite jeans and a pressed 
white oxford.  Above them, on the shelf, was his shaving kit.  
He reached up to grab the small leather bag and almost groaned 
aloud at what the stretch did to his middle.

"You sure you're up to this?" Skinner queried from across the
room, obviously having witnessed his discomfort.

Was he sure?

His vision was fuzzy at the edges, pixilated like a painting
by Seurat.  His head felt as if it were filled with helium, 
weightless, so that it seemed to hover above his shoulder, 
airy and cold.  His knees shook, his hands quaked.  And 
he was certain that sometime during his convalescence 
his insides had mysteriously taken on the texture of an 
emery board.

But the woman he loved had just signed away their life
together.

"I'm up to it," Mulder solemnly told his superior, his clothes 
bunched in his hands.

I can take the walking out of here, I can face down Marquez, 
I can endure it all without complaint.

I'm not afraid of leaving this hospital.

It's what's beyond these walls I fear I won't survive.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *


How strange it was that years of work, of blood and sorrow, of
laughter and love, could fit quite neatly into a simple banker's
box.

She hadn't realized folded cardboard could so easily hold
something she herself hadn't even fully grasped.

Sighing, Dana Scully leaned over the carton, pushed upright
a collection of sagging file folders and wedged against them a
stained ceramic coffee mug.  Cobalt blue with hints of copper
spidering through its glaze, the oversized cup was a favorite, a
holdover from her days at the Academy.  She remembered when
she had first decided to bring it to the office, opting to do so
even though she feared her new partner would regard her desire
for the familiar as too girlish or sentimental.  That the man for
whom personalizing a workspace meant wallpapering it with
photos of the macabre and unexplained might deem her need
for such creature comforts a sign of weakness or immaturity.

Funny how, right from the start, Mulder's opinion had
mattered to her.  Had preyed upon her confidence, weighed
on her peace of mind.

The knowledge was not something about which she was proud;
Scully had spent long hours analyzing this need she had to
prove herself, to win acceptance and praise from those in
authority.  She had tried to pinpoint exactly when such
recognition had become something she craved.  Yet no
childhood trauma came readily to mind, no seminal event ripe
with meaning burned in her memory.  She recognized she was
a competitive person, someone driven to succeed.  But she
couldn't honestly say why she apparently required such success
be measured against a marker other than her own.  Resigned to
the situation, she had come to accept this tendency as merely a
part of whom she was.  Everyone has quirks to their personality,
she reasoned.  It's no big deal.  Hell, it could be worse.  Rather
than looking to others for validation, she could instead be
torturing small animals for kicks.

Once, that rationalization would have brought a certain measure 
of solace.

However, now, with what she was being forced to do to
Mulder, Scully feared tormenting the innocent had proven
a pastime not all that far removed.

"Christ," she muttered under her breath, still bent over the
box, shaking her head from side to side in weary denial.

What grieved her most about this ongoing travesty was that
through their closeness, Mulder had unwittingly handed her
the means for his destruction, had shown her where specifically
to wound, precisely how deep to plunge the knife.  Normally
the most intensely private of individuals, he had let down his
guard where she was concerned.  Not all at once, but gradually,
concessions won by trials jointly overcome, by confidences 
shared, then kept.  Shedding layer after layer of protection, 
peeling them away like the most erotic of stripteases, he had 
laid himself bare before her, childlike in his faith, his trust.  
Convinced that she, more so than any other, was incorruptible.

Foolish man.

When the price was his safety, she could be bought.

Just like any other whore.

Like any other fallen woman.

Angrily shoving her address book in with the rest, Scully
chuckled mirthlessly at such an absurd notion, at the idea
that she was some sort of modern day Mary Magdalene to
Mulder's Christ.

Jesus.

Might as well cast them as Adam and Eve, she silently huffed,
as two blithe souls living in a world made only of themselves,
a pair who reigned happily in their private realm, needing
nothing but each other.  Until one day, betrayed by her own
willfulness, the woman made a deal with a serpent.  And 
suddenly, nothing was as it had been.  The couple's life together 
was torn apart.  They were cast out, set adrift.

Banished from paradise.

All at once, her scornful contemplation took on a bittersweet
tone.  Eyes stinging, she looked around the shadowy office,
taking note of the worn, second-hand furniture, the dusty
corners and crannies, the stacks of documents and photos,
files and books, all piled willy-nilly, looking as if at any
moment they might transform into an avalanche of paper.

She would miss this place.

Who had known a kind of Eden could be created in a cold,
damp basement cell?

Lost for a moment in her reverie, she heard through the office
entrance the elevator doors sweep open, then footsteps on tile,
slow and deliberate, drawing nearer with each stride.

Straightening, Scully turned in the direction of the sound.
Skinner, she determined, pursing her lips.  It could be no one
else.  If she were to be honest, she wasn't all that surprised
by his impromptu visit.  She knew her superior had grave
suspicions as to the real reason behind her leaving the Bureau,
doubts as to what had truly occurred once he had given her
the whereabouts of The Smoker.  Upon learning of her
resignation, he had called her into his office.  There, he had
lectured her like the sternest Father Confessor imaginable.
To his credit, he had advised her well.  This is so sudden,
he had said.  So unexpected.  Think about your decision.
You don't have to rush into anything.

Oh, but I do, she had mutely corrected.  I have a schedule to
keep, a bargain to uphold.

So, despite his concern and her own traitorous heart, she had
held firm.  She had sat, posture impeccable, clad in her most
severely tailored suit, her expression solemn, and had listened 
to his pleas.

Only to remain unmoved.

She hadn't crumbled, hadn't cracked.  Hadn't even so much
as flinched.

Not even when, thwarted by her stubbornness, the Assistant
Director had heatedly grilled her on her dealings with The
Smoker.

That's what this is about, she now determined, listening to her
would-be guest approach.  Skinner wasn't yet convinced she
had refrained from using the information with which he had
so generously supplied her.

She couldn't say she blamed him for doubting her word.  If
their situations were reversed, she knew she would now be
marching down that basement corridor herself.

Still, she reflected, in the end it didn't matter whether 
Skinner believed her.  He couldn't prove anything; and even 
if he could, he couldn't stop her from turning in her badge.

His hands were tied.

Just like hers.

Heartened by that realization, Scully stood behind her desk,
her fingertips pressed lightly against the blotter as if for
balance.  Her features arranged into a suitably neutral cast,
she took a deep, cleansing breath, bracing herself for the
confrontation to follow.

I can do this, she told herself, that inner voice as reassuring 
as she could make it.  All I have to do is hold it together, keep
my emotions under control, and everything will be fine.

And everything would have.

If indeed it had been Skinner who had come to call.

But when the man who stepped across that office threshold
turned out to be younger, slimmer, and blessed with infinitely
more hair than the Assistant Director, Scully couldn't keep
her heart from surging upwards to plop heavily on her tongue,
gagging her like the bitterest of pills.

Mulder.

Oh my God.  Mulder.

Her first impulse was to smile, even though he looked absolutely
dreadful.  He faced her, one hand braced, shoulder high, against
the jamb, the other wrapped tightly around the doorknob, as if
he needed its support to stay on his feet.  His clothes seemed
to hang on him; although she fancied that observation was more
a response to the gaunt, gray quality of his complexion than
any dramatic wasting of his form.  His hair appearing as if it
had been combed via Cuisinart, he stared at her from below a 
furrowed brow, his eyes reddened yet intent.

"What are you doing out of bed?" she asked almost
automatically, praying her question sounded to him more
disapproving than shrill.  He should never have been
discharged so soon, she mutely railed.  Look at him!
He can't even stand without propping himself up.

"What are you doing cleaning out your desk?" he countered,
his voice an appealing combination of rasp and husk.

He didn't seem surprised, she noticed.  Just enraged.  He must
have known about her resignation before he had come.  Which,
of course, made sense.  Why else would he have left the hospital
so soon?

"Is that why you're here?" she queried softly, doing her best
to appear unflustered, even while she could feel her pulse
butting fast and hard against her temples, straining against
the fragile skin there like a battering ram.

"Answer my question, Scully," he muttered, pushing away
from the door to weave towards her, swaying a bit unsteadily
when he came to a halt, only the desk and a few feet of floor
separating them.

Sighing, she bowed her head to study her hands, her fingers
spread wide, their pads just barely resting atop the ancient
Steelcase.  What do you know? she mused.  The tremors she
could feel creeping their way down her arms straight through
to her nails were all but invisible to the naked eye.  "I was
going to tell you . . . ," she began quietly.

"Tell me what?" Mulder ruthlessly interrupted.  "That you
were too busy writing your resignation letter to visit me in
the hospital?"

"I called to check up on you," she said, her gaze once more
drawn towards his.  "I stayed in touch."

"I'm deeply moved by your concern," he mockingly assured
her.

She had nothing she could say to that, no defense of her
actions, no explanation she could share.  Hollowly, the room
rang with her silence, while Mulder stood, waiting, daring
her to reveal her motive.  Slowly, the echo turned hostile.
Unable to endure another minute of it, Scully finally nodded--
a quick, short, little bob--and looked away, wordlessly
accepting his rebuke. 

The point apparently resolved to his satisfaction, Mulder
forged on.  "So, I hear I should be jealous."

Startled out of her brief contemplation of the linoleum, she
stole a glance in her partner's direction.  He was fidgeting
now, shifting restlessly from hip to hip, his arms at his sides.
She didn't know where he was finding the energy.

"What?" she murmured with a frown, distracted by the thin
layer of sweat coating his forehead, the nervous clenching
and unclenching of his hands.  God, Mulder.  You have no
business being out of bed.

"Rumor has it you've been seeing another guy behind my back,"
he said with feigned nonchalance, his wounded expression
belying his casual tone.  "I hadn't realized you had a thing
for older men."

If her heart beat any faster its motion would soon be nothing
but a blur.  "What are you talking about?"

"I know about Cancerman, Scully," he said, prowling towards 
her, his stride powerful, yet stilted somehow, his gait reminding 
her of a jungle cat with a wounded paw.  "I know you asked 
Skinner how you could find him."

Shit.  She had wondered if in the wake of her resignation,
Skinner might renege on his word.   Apparently, she had her
answer.

"Why did you need to see him?" Mulder growled.  "What
did that son of a bitch do that you went to Skinner for
help?"

"Mulder . . . ," she mumbled softly, turning so she stood in
profile to him, her head bowed as if trying to escape his glare.
This wasn't how she had thought this would go.  Not at all.

But before she could retreat further, before she could draw
inside herself or even try to walk away, Mulder rounded the
corner of the desk, his movement clumsy yet swift.  Grabbing
her by her upper arms, he pulled her back to face him.

"What did he want, Scully?" he asked again, holding her
close.  "Did he threaten you?  Is that why you handed in your
resignation?"

"No, no," she lied.

"Why didn't you come to me?"

Scully looked up at her partner, trapped between the desk and
him, her forearms resting against his chest, his hands locked
around her biceps.  He was trembling.  She could feel the
shivers trickling through him and into her.  Yet, despite his
apparent weakness, there was no mistaking his resolve.  His
eyes keenly scrutinized hers, like twin flashlights carefully
scanning a darkened room, searching for anything, anything
at all, that might provide him with a clue, a way to solve this
latest mystery.

But this was one puzzle she couldn't allow him to make whole,
one riddle she didn't dare let him answer.

Not if she wanted to keep him alive.

Time to play her part.  All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for
my close-up.

"Mulder," she began quietly, her voice roughened by his
nearness.  "You've got it wrong."

"You didn't go to Skinner?" he challenged.

"I did," she admitted sharply.  "Of course, I did.  But it
wasn't because of something The Smoker said or did, it was
because of =me=.  Because of a decision I needed to make.
I had wanted his assurance he wouldn't try and interfere.
But then I realized that with a man like him, assurances are
meaningless."

He pulled back a touch, narrowing his eyes in confusion.
"What are you talking about?"

She lowered her gaze, taking a moment to prepare herself.
"Mulder . . . I've been thinking lately . . . about us."

"What about us?" he queried warily, his fingers flexing
around her arms as if he hoped to improve his grip.

She slicked her lips with her tongue.  "This thing we have,
this  . . . relationship,  . . . I . . . =we've= tried really 
hard.  To keep it separate from the job, to make time for each
other."

He nodded cautiously, obviously uncertain as to where she
was going with this.  Scully wished with everything she had
she didn't need to show him the way.  "Yeah, . . . so?"

She looked up at him once more.  He stood, waiting.  Pale
and sick, and utterly at her mercy.

Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she denied him.

Her compassion.

Her love.

Their tomorrow.

"I don't think it's working."

At first, Mulder stood motionless, still, save for his hooded lids.
They blinked at her.  Up, down.  Slowly, as if trying to clear
his vision.  Then, his mouth began to move, to open and close,
to gape like a baffled goldfish.  At last, his hands fell away,
releasing her from his hold.  Staggering back a step, he shook
his head and whispered dazedly, "What?"

Scully swallowed hard, striving to control the bile she could
feel rising in her gullet, burning and bubbling like witches'
brew.  "I'm sorry, Mulder.  But I just can't do this anymore."

And still he stood there, shaking his head.  "I don't understand.
You can't do what . . . us?"

She nodded, her chin bobbing madly.

Yet more color siphoning from his face, he spread his hands
before him, the simple gesture speaking more eloquently than
words ever could.  Screaming to her of his bewilderment, his
amazement, his surrender.  "But . . . but what happened?
What did I do?" 

I will not cry, she silently swore.  I will not, =will not= cry.
"You didn't do anything.  This isn't your fault.  It's me.  It's
what I need."

She took a step towards him then and laid her hand on his
arm.  The muscles beneath her fingers jumped when they
connected, as if her touch pained him in some way, shocked
him like charged metal.  Look him in the eye, Dana.  Make
him believe.

"It's what you can't give me," she said, her tone gentle, almost
apologetic.  "No matter how badly you might want to."

Yet her tenderness failed to soothe him.  Instead, Mulder's
jaw clenched viciously, his mouth grew hard.  "Try me."

Sighing, she again turned away, only able to hold his gaze
for so long.  Lips pressed flat, she crossed around the far
side of the desk, struggling to remain focused, to somehow
insulate herself against his suffering.  Yet she was fighting
a losing battle.  How could she hurt the man she loved,
deliberately subject him to what she knew numbered among
his worst nightmares when her every instinct urged her
instead to comfort him, to draw him into her arms and relieve
him of the sorrow she had so heartlessly engendered?

"Mulder, there isn't anything to try," she told him, wandering
as she spoke, her arms wrapped around her middle, her back
pointed his way.  "This isn't about some annoying habit, or
your forgetting my birthday."

When he didn't say anything, she continued, finding it easier
now that she had put some distance between them.

"This is about who and what we are.  It's about our situation
and the things we can't change."

She stood now at their work table in the back corner of the
office.  Its surface was covered by a scattering of slides, some
project of Mulder's, begun, then forgotten.  Pictures of crop
circles mostly, their designs intricate and beautiful, like Celtic
knot work.  Almost reverently, she traced the hard plastic
frame surrounding one of the images, running her fingertip
over it as if to memorize its texture.  To record what it had 
been like to pursue this sort of work, to chase after the 
fantastical with Mulder by her side.

"You're a good man," she murmured, the sound hushed and
aching.  "And you've tried very hard to make me happy.  But
there's no life for us together, no future.  This is all we'll
ever have.  And 'this' isn't enough for me anymore."

She didn't hear him move until he stood directly behind her,
towering over her smaller form, but not touching her.  Not
yet.

"Tell me what you want," he entreated, his voice broken and
raw.  "Tell me what would be enough.  And I'll give it to you.
I'll find some way.  You'll see."

"Mulder, it isn't as simple as all that," she whispered, woefully
shaking her head.

"Then =explain= it to me, Scully," he hissed, his hands
landing on her shoulders to spin her around.  Thrown off
balance by his action, she grabbed hold of the table behind
her to steady herself and looked up into his face.  Mulder
stared back at her, no attempt made to hide his misery or his
rage.  "Explain to me how it all got so =fucking= complicated."

But rather than speaking, she remained mute, struck dumb at
seeing the depth of his despair.

And knowing she was its cause.

"Nothing you've said makes any sense to me," he confessed
hoarsely, panic now glittering in his eyes, his hands slipping
down, returning to their former positions on her arms.  "I don't
know what any of it means or where it's all coming from."

"This isn't something new," she told him quietly, her gaze
sliding away to focus somewhere around his chin.  "It's been
building for a long time."

"But what is ='this'=?" he cried, ducking his head in an attempt
to recapture her eyes.  "You talk about how I've failed you,
about how you need something I can't give you.  And yet, you
won't even tell me what that something is."

"It's not some sort of secret, Mulder," she said, scowling
as she pulled free of his grasp and rubbed her palms over the
tender patches where his hands had gripped.  "We've discussed
it before."

"Remind me of our conversation, then," he snarled, shoving
his fists in the pockets of his jeans, almost as if to stop
himself from grabbing her again.  "Because I seem to have
forgotten something I swear to God I never knew."

"Our conversation would have had something to do with
'normal life'," she told him, her voice taking on an edge it
had been lacking to that point.  "About living like the rest
of the world does."  This was good, she thought, the two
of them squaring off as adversaries rather than teammates.
Vulnerable and grieving, Mulder threatened her resolve.
But, while it blistered and burned, his anger was something
she could combat, something she could push back against.

Something she could match with her own.

"'Normal life'?" he parroted scornfully.  "Normal for whom?
In case you haven't noticed, Scully, the world doesn't run
under a specific code of conduct.  Everyone has their own
way of doing things."

"I know that," she said with an emphatic nod.  "I realize that
'normal' is a relative term.  But I also know what it means to
me, what I have to have to feel . . . happy, to feel 'right'."

"Fine," he retorted, swaying again, only this time she
couldn't judge whether fury or exhaustion was its cause.
"So, I'm asking you again--what do you need?"

"I need to be in a relationship I can be open about," she
said, her voice raised, her tone high, all the emotion she
had so savagely been repressing, holding in check since
that first confrontation with The Smoker, starting to seep
out from beneath the barriers she had erected, like water
escaping from a dam.

"Open with whom?" Mulder queried with a derisive shrug.
"What does it matter who knows about us and who doesn't?
You've never cared before what people think."

"I still don't," she swiftly replied.  "This isn't about other
people.  This is about my having to watch everything I say,
everything I do.  It's about worrying that a simple dinner date
is going to bring my world crashing down around me."

When he refrained from commentary, she continued, the
words beginning to flow a bit easier now.

"It's about having to space out the evenings we spend together
so that we won't draw suspicion to ourselves," she told him.
"About having to check in my rear view mirror when I'm
driving home from your place to see if I'm being followed."

Breath coming quicker, examples suddenly springing up like
weeds, she paced, and kept on talking.  "It's needing to be
careful not to be too familiar with you in front of others,
about being afraid to touch you, to smile at you, to laugh
at your stupid jokes."

Shoulders hunched, Mulder stood, watching her, chewing on
his lower lip, still saying nothing.

"It's about never having any place I can go where I can get away
from this job," she said with a sweep of her arm, indicating
their workspace and all it represented.  "I mean . . . most people
can escape the office when they go home, can spend time with 
the ones they love and forget all about it."

She pivoted to face him then, to look him in the eye, knowing
that this like all that had come before it, was in its way true.

And, therefore, more likely to ring with conviction.  To sound
most damning to Mulder's ears.

"But not me," she said, her voice subdued.  "Not us.  With you
and me, it's all the same.  Here, at home, everywhere.  And it 
always will be."

"You don't know that," Mulder muttered, crossing towards her,
pulling his hands free of his pockets as he moved.  "You don't
know that we can't change things."

"Change things =how=?" she demanded, meeting the challenge
in his hazel eyes.  "As long as you're working on the X-Files,
the same dangers are going to exist.  You can't alter that."

"Actually, I can," Mulder said shortly, coming to a stop
before her and folding his arms across his chest.  "You're not
the only one who can turn in a resignation letter, you know."

Now it was Scully's turn to gape and gasp, her turn to stare
incomprehensibly.  Good Lord.  Mulder was offering to give
up the X-Files for her.  He was proposing to turn his back on
what was for all intents and purposes his life's work, if she
would only agree to stay with him.

Oh my God.

I'm honored, Mulder, she longed to tell him as moisture filled 
her eyes.  Truly.  But I am completely undeserving of such a 
sacrifice.  Don't renounce your dreams for someone like me.

Her gaze flitting between Mulder and the floor, she cleared her
throat and strove to speak around the tears.  "You don't want to
quit the Bureau, Mulder.  You'd cut yourself off from the access
and the resources you've come to depend on in your work."

"There are always other ways, Scully," he murmured with a
shrug.  "You know that as well as I do."

"Maybe," she allowed.  "But I think you'd come to miss 
the things you've always taken for granted--the additional 
manpower, the labs, the databases, the financial support."

He shook his head, denying her claims.

"You may not think so now," she said. "But after awhile,
you'd begin to weigh all those things, all those advantages
you'd given up against what you got in return.  And when
you realized that all you had was me, you'd begin to resent 
me for what I'd made you do.  For what we'd become."

Mulder grimaced in disbelief and disdain, his hands raking
through his hair.  "You don't know what you're talking about."

"You're wrong, Mulder," Scully shot back, her eyes again 
trained on him.  "I know you better than you know yourself."

"It's a =job=, Scully," he insisted, his volume rising.

"It's your =life=!" she shouted, topping him in decibels.

For a moment, neither said anything more.  They simply stood,
inches apart, both breathing hard, their gazes locked on each
other.

"These files, this work . . . it's your life," she repeated after
a time, her voice measurably softer than before, regret evident
in its timbre.  "And for a little while, you've let me share it
with you.  Thank you for that."

She could feel her bottom lip beginning to tremble, her nose
pricked, her eyes burned.  If she didn't hurry, she would soon
be sobbing like an over-tired child.

It was finally time to say goodbye.

Stretching out her hand, she stroked her fingertips along his
jaw, lightly caressing his warm, smooth skin.  "I need to go, 
Mulder.  I need to make a clean break, to start fresh somewhere,
far away from flukes and UFOs and nameless, faceless villains.
I =have= to do this."

He didn't say anything, he just stared down at her, slowly
shaking his head.

"And you . . . you have got to let me."

With that, Scully let her hand drift away from his face, to
instead fall heavily to her side.  Mulder remained silent, wraith-
like before her with his white shirt and pallor, his eyes telling
tales written by Poe.

"I'm sorry I've hurt you," she said quietly, her contrition not
at all contrived.  "That was never my intent."

Nodding, he folded his arms once more, then shrugged, an
ugly smile twisting his mouth out of shape.  "Yeah.  Well . . .
best laid plans and all that."

Ah.  Flippancy.  The classic Mulder defense mechanism.
The one he employed when he was taking punishment
rather than doling it out.

Taking it.

Accepting it.

Accepting her lie.

Oh God, he believed her. 

This was the end.

Taking a deep breath, she crossed past him to the desk.
Gathering the last of her things, she spoke briskly, her focus
on the cardboard box heaped with her belongings rather than
on him, needing now to simply get out of there.  "I . . . um . . .
I basically have everything.  There wasn't all that much to
pack.  I'm going to take some time  . . . some time for myself.
So, I won't be around for the next week or two.  But if you need
anything, have a question or whatever, you can leave a message
on my answering machine and I'll call you back."

"Fine," he mumbled, his eyes aimed now at the floor, his
body turned in profile to her.

Well, that was that.

Sighing, she grabbed her trench from the back of her chair
and pulled it on.  Sliding the strap from her briefcase over
her shoulder, she hefted the carton in her arms and stole one
last look at the man who used to be her partner.

The reckless sort of energy that had propelled him earlier had
apparently been burned away, leaving behind only a slender
shell of a man, strangely delicate for one so tall and fit.  He
stood very still, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his head
bowed, as if he feared movement of any kind might somehow
betray him, the same way prey cowers before the hunter.

Alone, Scully wordlessly lamented.  He seems so awfully alone.

But he'll be safe that way, a little voice reminded her.

Besides, do you really believe you're indispensable?  That he
won't learn to do without you?

Anyone can be replaced.

Some partings are merely more painful than others.

"Take care of yourself, Mulder," she murmured, tucking her
box beneath her arm and heading for the door.

"Scully?"

Hearing his quiet call, she stopped, but did not turn around.

"Don't do this."  He whispered his plea, the words coming
out all mottled with grief.

Closing her eyes, she choked back a sob, careful not to make
a sound. 

Slowly, she took a deep, quavering breath.

And another.

And still one more.

Then, eyes open, shoulders squared, she walked out of the
basement office, her step quick and light, leaving behind
Fox Mulder and the life they had once shared.

*       *       *       *       *       *       *       *