--------------------
Primal Sympathy - The Collector's Edition
by Lydia Bower 
<bower@cu-online.com>
--------------------

SPOILERS: You bet! Everything up to and including Gethsemane.
RATING: R for language and content.
CLASSIFICATION: XRA, MSR
SUMMARY: In order to find a cure for Scully's cancer, Mulder
fakes his own death without her knowledge. Once reunited, they
embark on a journey of discovery that may end up costing them
their lives.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: Can be found following the epilogue.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS: This one is for the Primal Screamers
over on AOL. Without your support, generous feedback and
tough questions, this story never would have seen the light of day.
And most especially to Mel Mooney, who really is my muse's best
friend. You ladies are the greatest! Thanks for your patience. :)
FEEDBACK: Yes, please. All comments are welcome and will be
answered.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder and Scully don't belong to me. Neither do
Skinner, Mrs. Scully, Mrs. Mulder, Cancer Man, the
Well-Manicured Man, The Lone Gunmen, Dr. Scanlon, Michael
Kritschgau, Babcock, Arlinsky, or the Kurt Crawford hybrids.
They are all the creation and property of Chris Carter, 1013
Productions and Fox Broadcasting. No infringement is intended,
nor is any money being exchanged. On a side-note, even though
the Crawford hybrids are CC's brainchild, George belongs to me,
and I'll fight anybody who claims otherwise. The poem excerpt
found in Chapter 1 is from William Wordsworth's "Ode:
Intimations of Immortality" and is used without permission but
with much respect and admiration.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Primal Sympathy
Chapter One

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
APRIL 26, 1997 
12:43 AM

     The decision to end my life is an easy one. It's the
following through with it that's proving to be a bitch.
     But there is no other choice. It's time to pull the ace from
my sleeve. Save a life. Break a heart.
     I don't cry for myself this time. I've shed enough selfish
tears. And anyway, it's not like I had a sterling reputation to begin
with.
     It's her I cry for. For what she'll have to go through. For
what she's already suffered. For what she'll believe. Not yet
knowing it's just another lie; another in an endless line of them
going back more years than we've been alive.
     I cry for her. Die for her.
     Ah, Scully. If there was any other way....
     It's all been set in motion. There's no going back. There's
nothing to do now but wait. And think. I tabulate regrets as the
minutes tick by. So many of them. 
     It's been a dark ride.
     And now I'm facing the prospect of my suicide. Seems like
a fitting end, right about now. I'm sure a lot of people will find
some humor in what they consider the inevitability of it. Fuck them
all. They have no idea. I'm stronger than that. 
     They say suicide is the act of a coward.
     Not this time. This one's going to take balls. 
     No problem. A desperate man is a dangerous man. 
     There's nothing left to lose but my life. And it's a fair trade
to give mine up in order to save hers.
     The ringing phone startles me. And I already know it's
Scully calling again; taking care of unfinished business. The first
message she left was brief and factual; telling me that Kritschgau is
being hidden away. Pampered and coddled and encouraged to spill
more of his lies; their lies. She actually used the word "safe." 
     "He's somewhere safe, Mulder."
     There is no safety, Scully. Haven't you figured that out yet?
It's all an illusion.
     There's a small pause between my recorded message and
her voice. "Mulder, it's me." She sounds tired and unhappy. "If
you're there, pick up. Please." Her sigh is loud--even over the
voices coming from the TV. "Mulder... What I said to you in the
warehouse, about my cancer... I just wanted to say I'm sorry. I
shouldn't have said that to you."
     Why not, Scully? You shouldn't ever apologize for the
truth. And what Kritschgau said about your cancer, what he told
you, stems from the truth. The only halfway true statement amidst
all the lies. 
     "They gave me this disease to make you believe."
     Oh, Scully, I already believed. They didn't do this to you to
convince me. They did it to keep me in line.
     "Well, I guess I'll see you in the morning, Mulder. Try to
get some sleep."
     I listen as she disconnects and the tape stops. The light on
the machine resumes its steady blinking. 
     I think back on her words and I know it's not so much
what she said to me in the warehouse, but how she said it. Because
she believes--finally and irrevocably. 
     In Scully's mind, I am the cause. It's because of me that
she's dying.
     Welcome to the small but select club of one, Scully. The
one who's always known that.
     The truth is the truth. And I guess it doesn't much matter
how we come to believe it. Whether, in Scully's case, it's packaged
neatly and handed to her with a pretty bow, presented in such a
way that she has no choice but to believe. Or if, as in my case, it's
a by-product of my tenacious search for answers. The result being
her disease. A punishment for my obsession.
     Either way, she's dying. And it's my fault.
     The sound of a car door slamming brings me to the
window. My future, my death stands below me, bathed in the light
of a street lamp. He chooses that moment to look up at me. Our
eyes lock and hold. 
     Does he know and understand the part he'll play? Can he
process the facts, reach the conclusions? If given a choice, is this
what he'd choose?
     All for the greater good. How many have died in this noble
pursuit of the truth? Nameless. Faceless. Countless.
     I head for the door, knowing his entrance to the apartment
must be made without sound. No knocking which might draw
someone to a peephole to witness this next step in the plan.
     I'm stopped by my reflection in a mirror. I pause and study
the face of a dead man. Tear-streaked cheeks, red-rimmed eyes.
Haunted. Driven. 
     As much as I hate what's about to happen, what I have to
do, there's no small measure of relief in finally putting the scheme
in motion. For so long it's been nothing more than a last resort. A
fiendish plan cooked up during long nights of introspection. And
from a desperate desire to do whatever has to be done to save her.
Some part of me hoped it would never come to this. Another knew
it was inevitable. Reaching this point is both burden and relief.
     I open the door and face the man who's become our
greatest enemy.
     Forgive me, Scully. I do this for you.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
APRIL 29, 1997
3:17 PM

     The first step into his apartment is also nearly my last. 
     I didn't realize how hard this would be. I thought the first
time would be the worst. I was wrong. The second time is just as
bad.
     All my senses are wide open and the assault is almost
enough to bring me to my knees. This place is fundamentally
Mulder. Everything, every object I see, reeks of him; as though his
uniqueness has permeated all his belongings. As though it seeps
down from the walls and drifts up from the floors.
     I stagger at the entrance and tightly clutch the ceramic urn
to my breast.
     For God's sake, Dana, don't spill his ashes on the floor.
     And I can see him so clearly now. A lop-sided grin on his
face. A smart-ass remark flowing from his mouth as easy as
breathing.
     Oh God. Please let me wake up from this nightmare.
     Carefully placing the urn on the table nearest the door, I
walk unsteadily into the living room. The thought of sitting on the
couch is quickly rejected. I sit in the club chair by his desk instead.
     I don't know what will become of this place now, or where
all his possessions will finally end up. Mulder didn't leave any kind
of legal will. Instead, I found a file in his computer directory the
day after his suicide, aptly named death.doc. It contained nothing
more than his request that he be cremated and his ashes given to
me to "Do with whatever you want, Scully. I trust you to do the
right thing."
     The right thing.
     I don't know what that is anymore. All I can be certain of is
that everything feels wrong now. It's as though someone has
tipped the world on its axis just enough to set everything off-kilter.
The earth stills turns, but nothing is the same. My balance is gone.
     How much of this is my fault?  
     Oh, you can label this all yours, a little voice whispers
back. You can spend the rest of your days taking the blame for his
death.
     I have the ashes. I suppose all I'm missing now is the
sackcloth.
     I saw the way his mother looked at me today at his
memorial service. She blames me, too. Even though she has no
way of knowing what happened that night. Or the words we
exchanged. She wasn't there to see the light in his eyes snuffed out
in an instant--the result of my proclamation of his guilt.
     We studied each other warily during the entire service. And
she broke the contact between us often enough that I know she
bears her own share of guilt. The secrets she holds so closely are
yet another truth her son will never uncover now.
     She approached me after the service and pulled me aside.
She had a request. I suppose it shouldn't have shocked me. After
all, she'd been completely unable to make any of the arrangements.
It all fell into my lap. From picking out the urn to deciding on the
memorial chapel to selecting the music. 
     And now she wants me to go through his things and do
with them what I see fit.
     It's no wonder I feel like a widow. 
     I don't have to do this right now. Mulder was more than
prompt with his rent. It's paid through the end of June. And I have
the rest of my life to get it done. Skinner placed me on involuntary
open-ended medical leave the morning after Mulder's death. And
then he sent me in to face the lions by myself. Bastard. I thought
we could trust him.
     Upside down. Inside out. My life doesn't feel like mine
anymore. This cannot be my reality. It's too painful. 
     This is the one thing I never would have expected Mulder
to do. He was always so strong; such a fighter. I've never known
anyone as determined as Mulder. Even after years of working by
his side, his passion and intensity still amazed me.
     Damn it, Mulder. Why did you have to do this?
     Be honest, Dana. You know why.
     Okay. I know why he did it. I know the cause. And I can't
afford to deny it any longer. It was because I blamed him for my
illness all along. It didn't matter that he had no direct hand in my
abduction and its aftermath. Or in the cause and onset of the
cancer. Some small part of me blamed him. Because if it hadn't
been for Spooky Mulder, none of this would have happened to me.
And he knew that, had accepted it. Could handle it so long as it
remained unspoken. 
     He might be alive now if I hadn't lost control. If I hadn't let
my anger at his unrelenting belief in the existence of extraterrestrial
life force my hand. If I'd've been able to stop the accusation that
spewed from my mouth like bitter poison.
     If only. 
     "They gave me this disease to make you believe."
     Oh yeah. That was the ribbon that tied up the whole
package for him. That, he believed. None of the rest of it. There
was no uncertainty in his eyes when he'd looked up at me after
hearing Kritschgau's story. No wavering when he'd announced,
"This man is a liar."
     It wasn't until I confirmed the fear I knew he secretly held
that the events of his death were set in motion. I may as well have
handed him the gun. 
     You're not getting anything done here, Dana. It's time to
put the grief aside and take care of business.
     The X-Files division has been shut down. The word came
from Skinner yesterday in the form of a tense phone call. At least
he was kind enough not break the news to me at the memorial
service. Not that it matters much anyway. The X-Files were
Mulder's life, not mine. It's only fitting that they be put to rest with
him. 
     Skinner asked me to go through Mulder's desk and collect
any files he may have brought home with him. And after I've
cleaned out my area in the basement, everything will be boxed up
and stored away somewhere. Back from whence they came. Five
years worth of work. Countless leads, possibilities and conjectures.
All forgotten, all dismissed. Most of it lies.
     I'm glad Mulder's not here to see it happen. It would break
his heart. 
     I shuffle papers and books around, looking for distinctive
red and white X-Files among the ordered confusion of Mulder's
desk. A book lies open and face down, noticeable only because it's
not stacked with the others. Not entirely unusual, but enough to
make me curious. Was this something he was reading that night?
     I glance at the spine. 
     Immortal Poems of the English Language
     A holdover from his days at Oxford? I've never known
Mulder to lose himself in poetry unless it's related to an X-File. I
flip the book over and my heart skips a beat. A section has been
highlighted in blue. My color. The color Mulder uses to draw my
attention to certain forensic or scientific data contained in the
X-Files. Yellow for Mulder. Blue for me. A system we worked out
years ago.  
     Was this book here when I checked his computer and the
answering machine a few days ago? I can't remember. But it must
have been. I back up until I feel the seat of the chair bump my
knees. Settling in, I read the passage he's marked.

     What though the radiance which was once so bright
     Be now forever taken from my sight,
     Though nothing can bring back the hour
     Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower;
     We will grieve not, rather find
     Strength in what remains behind;
     In the primal sympathy
     Which having been must ever be;
     In the soothing thoughts that spring
     Out of human suffering;
     In the faith that looks through death

     Was this meant for me to see? Am I looking at Mulder's
version of a suicide note; this message his last communication with
me? Then again, it could be something he marked years ago.
Something that struck a chord in him that he wanted to make easy
to find.
     But why was it opened and laid on the desk? It's almost as
though it were on display. Set there to be noticed only by someone
who understood the way Mulder's mind worked.
     What do I take from these words? 
     Even in death, Mulder continues to taunt me with his
innate love of the game. Of springing things on me. Delivering the
most incredible of tales in his soothing monotone and then waiting
for my reaction. His eyes bright and full of mirth. 
     Damn you, Mulder, for doing this to me now.
     Agent Scully steps in, wanting to know just exactly when
would be a good time for him to blow his brains out.
     Oh, but that's easy one. After my death, of course. Not
before. Not when I'm busy dying.
     He always was a selfish bastard. Always putting his needs
before anyone else's. Nothing else mattered but finding the truth.
And then when it's right there in front of him, close enough to
touch, he rejects it. Walks away.
     The truth is not like ice cream, Mulder. You can't pick
your flavor. And it's unacceptable to take your life if you find you
don't like it. 
     A flash of raw anger takes me by surprise. Of all the things
I expected to feel right now, anger is not one of them. But it's
there, simmering just below the surface. Making itself known to
me. And it's not just directed at Mulder. Oh, no. There's more than
enough to go around.
     I hate the men who've done this to us. The men behind the
lies. Ultimately, they are the ones responsible for everything that's
happened.
     Mulder and I were fools, both of us, to think we could
bring down an organization that operates outside the norm. A
syndicate abiding by its own laws; yet remaining a part of the same
government sworn to protect its citizens. 
     This is the government I believed in. Trusted. Swore to
uphold and defend. I foolishly believed I could make a difference.
That I could mete out justice for the victims of countless crimes.
     The cost of my naivet‚ is high. The price I will pay, that
Mulder has already paid, is nothing less than my life.
     The trilling of my cell phone startles me. I look up from the
book. The waning rays of sunlight through the windows is an
indication of the time I've spent submerged in dismal thoughts.
More time lost. I know I should care. I don't. I haven't the energy.
     "Scully."
     "Agent Scully. It's Skinner. We need to talk. Can we
meet?" His voice is tight.
     "What is it, sir?" I can't hold back the sigh that escapes me.
I'm tired. I don't want to do this anymore. I just don't care.
     "I realize you're no longer on active duty." And whose fault
is that? I question silently. "But something's come up that I
thought you should know about."
     I can't even work up the curiosity to ask. The silence
stretches.
     "Michael Kritschgau has disappeared from the safe house.
There's no sign of him anywhere," he announces.
     Is he taken aback by my short burst of laughter?
     "I'm not surprised," I tell Skinner. "That's just par for the
course, isn't it?"  
     "Agent Scully, you realize this may have an impact on of
the events of the last few days."
     Has he always been this circumspect? Yes, I guess he has.
Even when there's no longer a need.
     "I don't see why, sir. Mulder is still dead. The X-Files
division has been shut down. Whether that's the correct decision or
not remains to be seen. But it's only fitting under the
circumstances."
     "Scully--"
     "And I'm dying. It doesn't matter anymore. Just let it rest,
sir. Let him rest."
     All his life, all Mulder wanted was the truth. I remember
what he said to me that dark night in his family's summer home;
blood leaking from a small hole in his head. "I'm so tired. I want to
know, Scully. I just want to know."
     But I don't think he did. Not really. Turns out he couldn't
handle it. So why does the thought of Spooky Mulder putting a
gun to his head and pulling the trigger feel so very wrong?
     Because I didn't know him as well as I thought I did. It's
easy to look back on the last year and spot the danger signals.
Maybe I didn't want to see them. Maybe I didn't care enough.
     "Scully? Agent Scully! Are you all right?" I shake loose the
memories and focus on Skinner's voice. I've drifted off again.
     I make a fist of my free hand. The pain of my nails biting
into the soft flesh of my palm keeps me anchored. "Yeah... Yeah.
I'm fine."
     He barks it out like an order. "Agent Scully, where are
you?" 
     "I'm, um," I lean my head back and close my eyes. Tired.
So tired. "I'm at Mulder's."
     "I'll be right there."
     "Sir, that's not nec--" I hear the click of the receiver. He's
hung up. I feel the warm trickle of blood as I slip the phone back
into my pocket. I swipe it away from my nose with the back of my
hand. I suppose I should get up and get a tissue. I haven't the
strength. 
     It doesn't matter anymore. Just let me sit here and rest
awhile. A little more blood spilled won't make much difference.
     I'm dying anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
--------------------
Primal Sympathy
Chapter Two
      
ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA     
APRIL 30, 1997
10:13 AM

     Kurt Crawford held the phone out to the man standing at
the other side of the room. After handing it over, he turned his
attention back to the computer, fingers flying across the keyboard.
Fox Mulder's heart rate sped up as he put the phone to his ear.
There was only one person who had this number. And that person
wasn't the someone he really wanted to talk to. It could only be
bad news. His greeting was hardly more than a grunt. 
     "Agent Scully was admitted to Georgetown University
Hospital last night." The voice on the other end was low and
intense.
     Not so soon, he thought. Not yet. Mulder's eyes slid shut.
"Tell me."
     "I found her unconscious in your apartment. Her
preliminary diagnosis was exhaustion, dehydration and borderline
malnutrition. They're keeping her through today, possibly longer.
Her oncologist did another scan this morning and wants to wait for
the results before he releases her."
     Mulder felt his knees grow weak and leaned heavily against
the desk. Dehydration. Exhaustion. Malnutrition. Each word was
like a blow. Each a silent accusation. He'd known it was bad--he
just hadn't known how bad. The shared meals that'd become a
habit over the last five years had been far and few between lately.
He couldn't remember the last time he and Scully had hashed out a
case over a pepperoni pizza or take-out Chinese. And when was
the last time he'd seen her down more than a cup of coffee? When
had he last seen her that dark circles hadn't hung under her eyes
like bruises? He couldn't remember.
     Nor could he remember the last time he'd asked her how
she was doing. He'd stopped asking. He hadn't liked the answer
he'd kept getting.
     "I'm fine, Mulder."
     Part of him savored and instantly justified the hot thread of
undirected anger that moved through him. And then it found its
target with the caller's next words. "You're lucky you're too far
away to get my hands on you, Mulder. How could you stand by
and let it get to this point?"
     "What the hell did you expect me to do?" he asked as he
stood up straight, unconsciously taking up the defensive posture
he'd assumed so many times with this man. "Tie her down and
force-feed her? Put sleeping pills in her water?"
     "She's your partner, goddamn it!" Walter Skinner burst
out. "And I was under the impression Scully means a lot more to
you than that simple word conveys. What happened to doing
what's best for her? I thought that was the point of all this.
Malnutrition takes a lot longer than three days, Agent Mulder."
     Mulder clinched his jaw and tried to stop the series of ugly
tremors that ran through him. Part of him was vaguely bemused
that Skinner could ream him out just as well over the phone as he
could in person. He realized that much of Skinner's anger was
justified. But then again, so was his own. "And what kind of
answer did *you* get the last time you asked Scully how she was
doing?"  
     Skinner's long silence was all the proof Mulder needed. His
point had been made. Skinner's tone was less sharp with his next
question. "How close are we?"
     Mulder sighed heavily. "The results on the latest tests of
the formula are being downloaded right now. They'll have to be
analyzed. I should know something definite by tonight." He
glanced over at Crawford for affirmation and caught the man's
nod. "What about things on your end?"
     "Just a small glitch," Skinner told him. "But nothing that
effects the basic plan. Kritschgau's disappeared."
     "I'm not surprised," Mulder told him, not entirely
displeased. "He'll most likely turn up somewhere with a bullet in
his head--if he turns up at all. That's the way these men do
business. He completed his job as ordered. That makes him
expendable." 
     "Agent Scully had much the same response to the news.
Though for different reasons."
     "Yeah, well, see what being partnered with me can do for
you? Need a good dose of constant failure? Work with Spooky
Mulder for a few years." He knew he was whining, but couldn't
stop himself. He was so tired he'd gone past punchy and was
quickly reaching downright psychotic. 
     "I'm not much in the mood for your petulance right now,
Agent Mulder," Skinner snapped. "What do you want me to do
about Scully?"
     Mulder worried the stubble on his chin with a thumb and
forefinger, trying to gather his thoughts. It was like trying to
capture smoke in his hand. "Is her mom with her?"
     "Yes. She drove in first thing this morning." 
     "Good. Maggie'll keep her in line for a few days, at least.
I'm pretty sure I'll be able to make my move within a week. Two at
the max."
     Skinner was quiet for a long while. "Let's hope Scully can
hold out that long. She's in bad shape, Mulder. Ever since that
morning--"
     "I know," he quickly interjected. I can't hear this, he
thought. Not now. Not if I'm planning on holding my shit together.
"I'm doing everything I can. We're working as quickly as possible.
It's not easy to pull a miracle out of my hat, even after months of
planning."
     Skinner said, "Well, maybe when she finds out you're alive
she'll regain a little of her fighting spirit."
     Mulder remarked wryly, "Yeah. At least long enough to rip
me a new asshole."
     Had to give Skinner credit. The man tried to muffle his
snort of laughter. "I certainly wouldn't want to be in your shoes
when she finds out you're behind all this and didn't bother to tell
her. But you do whatever it takes, Mulder. Whatever it takes."
     Mulder couldn't resist reminding him, "Don't forget. She's
not going to be very happy with you, either." He paused. "You'll
keep in touch?" 
     "Any developments, you'll be the first to know."
     Mulder forced the words past the defenses that years of
wariness and distrust had built in him. "Sir? Thank you. For
everything."
     "Just find the answers we need, Mulder. That'll be thanks
enough. All the other bullshit can be sorted out after Scully's
healthy again."
     Mulder's reply was a whispered prayer meant only for
himself. He mumbled, "Yeah, I hope so," and hung up the phone.
     He turned and looked over at Crawford. His open, honest
face was turned toward the computer monitor in front of him. But
Mulder could feel the unspoken questions hanging in the air.
"We're running out of time," he told the young man. "Scully's in
Georgetown University. Doesn't seem to be directly related to the
cancer, but we need to find out. Can you get back into their
computers?"
     "Shouldn't be a problem. The clipper chip you brought us
will get us into just about any mainframe we need to access."
     Mulder nodded, deep in thought. "While you're in there,
pull up and copy everything in her file; not just the stuff from her
oncologist. It's about time I find out the whole picture." 
     God, Mulder. Just completely invade her privacy, he
rebuked himself. What the hell. She's gonna hate me before this
whole thing is over with anyway. Might as well go for broke.
     The hurt little boy in him tried to defend his actions. If
she'd have been honest with him all along, he wouldn't have had to
do this. And he'd tried. Tried to get her to open up to him and
accept his support. Fat lot of good it did him. Scully had just
continued to retreat further behind the wall she'd slowly built up.
     He could feel Crawford's eyes on him and looked over.
"What?"
     "You should try to get some sleep, Agent Mulder. You
haven't slept more than an hour or two at a time since you
arrived."
     Great. Now I've got a baby-sitter.
     He gave Crawford his best pit-bull stare. He was
half-tempted to tell him to mind his own business. But there was
something about the way Crawford had voiced the unwanted
advice that stopped him. The unique mixture of gentle affection
and concern made him ache. And that fact, combined with the
unforgettable eyes, the proud Roman nose, the coloring, was
going a long way towards convincing Mulder that the Crawford
hybrids had more than a passing acquaintance with Dana Scully's
genes.
     He'd never asked. Didn't really want to know. He had
enough to deal with already. His reply was casual but wary. "You
been appointed my nursemaid?"
     Crawford held his eyes for a moment before answering.
"You'll be of no use to us or to Agent Scully if you're not working
at full capacity. It's widely known that lack of sleep can cause--"
     "Yeah, yeah. I don't need the lecture. Heard it too many
times before." He softened his tone a bit. "Besides, I'm too wired
to sleep. Maybe I'll take a run. Try to wind down enough to catch
a couple hours." He turned away and walked across the narrow
office to the room that'd become his new home.
     "Agent Mulder?"
     He swung around. "Yeah?"
     "Please stay within the buildings. It's not uncommon to get
the occasional visitor out here. We wouldn't want to take the
chance of your being seen."
     "No problem." And it wasn't. The abandoned paper mill on
the outskirts of Allentown was a perfect base of operations for
them. Stretching out over a two block area, the mill had been
gutted after it had been shut down during the 70s. With the
exception of the office suites, nothing remained but the skeleton of
the building. The largest area, the mill itself, ran the entire two
block length. More than enough room to take a run; as Mulder had
discovered when he'd explored the mill the morning after his
arrival. All he had to do was run in long, looping rectangles.
Mulder figured he could just think of it as an indoor track with
corners. 
     He pushed open the door and stepped into what had once
been the president's office. He had no trouble picturing what it had
been like when filled with the appointments befitting a CEO. Now,
some twenty years later, the room was more than a little seedy.
But it had a double bed he didn't use. A couch he did. A small
round table and three chairs, with his own computer setup. A
semi-comfortable recliner. A small color TV and a VCR. There
was even a decent-sized kitchenette and a private bath and shower
off the room. All in all, he had nothing to complain about. It was
nicer than a lot of the motels he and Scully had stayed in over the
years. 
     He hated it.
     And why is that? he asked himself. Could it be because it
has everything I want, but not the one thing I need? Scully. She
should be here.
     Ever since he'd arrived at the mill three nights ago, he'd
found himself swinging around at the slightest sound. Believing
he'd turn and see her standing there. With him. Where she
belonged. She certainly shouldn't be in a hospital, suffering from a
raging case of self-neglect.
     He dug angrily through his duffel bag, searching for his
shorts. The thought of throttling Scully when he finally got his
hands on her was sounding pretty good. Although it would have
been easy, not to mention very in character, he refused to continue
to blame himself for this latest setback of hers. She was the one
who'd given up and given in; not him. He'd fought it tooth and nail
when he'd caught glimpses that she might have reached that point.
Not that it had done him a whole lot of good. Scully had left him
adrift a long time ago. Emotionally abandoned and spiritually
empty.
     Add to that her accusation of his blame in regards to her
cancer, whether true or not, and it might give a man reason to put
a gun to his head. That was certainly what Mulder hoped everyone
thought.
     Not that his pain wasn't real. Not that her proclamation
hadn't cut him to the bone. It'd just turned out to be one of those
strange moments in life when everything seemed to converge on
the same path at the same time. Mulder had seen and lived the
chaos that could result from that. The difference was that this time,
it had all worked out in his favor.
     Especially Michael Kritschgau. His appearance was
unexpected and far too providential to suit Mulder. But the line of
bullshit he'd spoon-fed Scully couldn't have been any better if
Mulder had planned it himself. His story had convinced Scully to
willingly appear before their superiors, bearing more than enough
justification to end their work. And she had, in one fell swoop,
declared him a victim of the lies. And the X-Files division a lost
cause. 
     She had, in essence, taken herself out of the bigger picture.
And his suicide had removed any reason the Consortium may have
had to suspect they might continue their search for the truth. With
his death came the death of the X-Files. The destruction of their
partnership. The termination of her last reason to go on fighting.
     The one thing Mulder knew beyond a doubt was that the
men behind the cover-up, the men responsible for Scully's cancer,
knew her very well. Knew that his death would mean the end of
her fight; even more so than the closing down of the X-Files
division. They'd known that with his death, she'd stand up for him
one more time and then quietly fade away and die. 
     A year ago he would never have believed Scully would
give up their fight. Six months ago he'd been awed by her strength
and conviction when she'd vowed to continue fighting despite her
diagnosis. But the last few months had ushered in a new Scully. A
Scully who'd chosen to turn her back on everything they'd seen
and experienced in a desperate attempt to deny what was
happening to her, and why. Her waning skepticism had given way
to frantic disbelief. She'd turned the last five years into a lie in
order to maintain her sanity.
     And Kritschgau had handed her a believable explanation
for her pain. On a silver platter. Compliments of the Consortium.
     Mulder had to admit that the hoax might have been a damn
sight harder to pull off if it hadn't been for Kritschgau showing up.
Not that he wouldn't have put his plan into action anyway. As soon
as Crawford had informed him that Scully's cancer had
metastasized into her bloodstream, he'd known the time had come.
All he'd been missing was the final blow that would offer a
reasonable enough explanation for his suicide. As painful as it was
to admit, the debacle surrounding the deaths of David and Amy
Cassandra wasn't all that out of the ordinary. Not for Spooky
Mulder. Although it was the first time he'd gone so far as to allow
someone to drill holes in his head, it wasn't the first time he'd ever
tucked a gun under his chin. Or held one to his head. Facts that
Scully was well aware of. He'd needed an explanation that went
above and beyond any of his previous setbacks. And thanks to
Michael Kritschgau, and Scully's about-face, he'd found it. 
     Mulder wasn't above thanking whoever was in charge of
these things for giving him the motive. Then in the next breath he
cursed that same source for making it necessary in the first place. 
     And then he ran.
     Ran until he literally could run no more. He blocked out all
awareness but the slapping of his sneakers against the concrete
floor. The rapid beating of his heart and the heavy inhalation and
release of breath. He ran until even those most basic of
awareness was gone. Stolen and replaced by the shaky high he
found in his exhaustion. He ran until the edges of his vision began
to blur and darken.
     He was finally forced to stop when his legs gave out on
him. He fell to his knees, ignoring the pain as he came down hard.
He bent over at the waist and folded in two, his chest resting on
his thighs, arms tucked under him. 
     He prayed for unconsciousness to take him. Because
Mulder knew the end of his run meant the end of his unawareness.
He didn't want to face the demons that awaited his return to
reality. Didn't want to think about all he and Scully had lost and
still stood to lose. 
     But down they came. Falling like hard, caustic rain upon
his head. Pummeling his body and soul with deadly precision.
     The regrets. The mistakes. The lost opportunities. The
grief.
     He rolled onto his side, his legs pulled tight against his
chest. He wept in quiet, forlorn sobs; Scully's name falling from his
lips like an invocation. Over and over. As though saying her name
would magically restore her to him. 
     Fox Mulder was terrified of many things that afternoon.
And Dana Scully's cancer was the least of them. What terrified him
the most was not that he might lose her to death, but that she
would leave him when she finally understood what he'd had to do
in order to save her. 
     He cried until there were no more tears left. Until nothing
remained but the dry husk of a man. And then he slept.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
     
             
     "Agent Mulder?"
     Cold. So cold.
     "Agent Mulder?"
     Mulder groaned and rolled over onto his back. The chill
from the concrete floor he lay upon had seeped into his bones and
stiffened him tight. He blinked foggy eyes and tried to focus on the
face above him. 
     Fuck, it's cold. And why am I seeing double?
     He blinked again, rubbing his eyes as he rolled onto his
knees. He craned his neck to look up and his hand hurried to work
the stiff muscles there. Nope. Not seeing double. Two Kurt
Crawfords stood in front of him, their serene expressions perfectly
matched.
     Mulder didn't think he'd ever get used to seeing more than
one of them at a time. It would have been a damned sight easier if
he'd been able to find a way to tell them apart. All eight of them.
But it was impossible. They not only looked alike, they *were*
alike. It was almost as though they operated with one central
brain. Shared one personality. Talking to one was like talking to
them all.
     The Stepford Wives perfected, Mulder thought groggily,
and took the hand offered him by the hybrid on his left. The one
wearing a light blue dress shirt. 
     Okay. His nursemaid. Right. He'd have been totally
screwed if they dressed alike, too.  
     "How long have I been out?" he mumbled, once he
regained his feet. The quality of the light through the grimy
windows and a glance at his watch confirmed his suspicions. He'd
been asleep nearly eight hours. Aside from the stiffness already
leaving his muscles, he felt pretty good. Rested. Purged. And back
on track.
     He glanced from one Crawford to the other. "We got
anything yet?"
     The hybrids traded a look and Blueshirt answered, "How
about some supper, Agent Mulder? Are you hungry?"
     Yep. No doubt about it. That was a smug grin on his face.
Rare for a Crawford. Or a Scully, for that matter. 
     "What's goin' on?" Mulder asked. He didn't notice when he
began to bounce lightly on the balls of his feet.
     "The rest of the supplies are here. And we've got
everything we need."
     "Everything?" Mulder repeated. His mouth suddenly felt
like the Sahara Desert had taken up residence there.
     "We have some promising results, Agent Mulder,"
Blueshirt confirmed. "We need to talk."
     Mulder made an opened-arm gesture as his mouth jerked
up in a smile. "Lead on, gentlemen." He fell into step beside them.
But it wasn't long before he realized he'd left them behind.
Apparently they didn't feel like trying to keep up him. Funny,
Scully never had that problem. He threw the hybrids a jaunty wave
and jogged the rest of the way back.

--------------------
Primal Sympathy
Chapter Three

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
MAY 4, 1997
8:32 PM

     Dana Scully closed the door behind her mother and leaned
her weary but relieved head against it. Alone. She was finally
alone. She threw the deadbolt and turned to look at the state of
her apartment. The flower arrangements would go first, she
decided. The cloying odor of the half dozen bouquets acquired
during and after her hospital stay had managed to nauseate her one
too many times. With her mother gone, all pretense of appreciation
for them disappeared. Though artfully disguised as get-well
bouquets, they only served to remind Scully of her impending
death. She would allow no more reminders. They made her weak.
     She worked quickly, grabbing vases both tall and squat,
carrying them into the kitchen and dumping the contents of each
into the trash. The cards accompanying them joined the flowers at
the bottom of the can. One from Bill Jr. Another from Charlie and
his wife. A third from her mother. Skinner had come visiting with a
potted tulip and a wealth of direct questions concerning her health;
and veiled ones concerning her state of mind. She'd easily
deflected those. A Venus flytrap from the Lone Gunmen had
shown up mysteriously on her doorstep the evening she'd been
released from the hospital. 
     She disposed of each without thought. Her only goal to get
them out of sight. This was her home. She would not allow it to
become a funeral parlor. 
     I'm not dead yet, damn it. 
     Quite a change from the woman of a week ago, she
thought derisively. The exhausted, under-fed shell of a woman had
managed one last transformation during her hospital stay. Yet
again, Dana Scully had pulled herself up by her bootstraps and
vowed to die with some of her dignity remaining.
     As she left the kitchen and wandered aimlessly through her
neat-as-a-pin apartment, Scully absently pondered the source of
her new-found strength. She'd honestly thought it completely
diminished by Mulder's death. Had said her good-byes and made
her peace. She'd accepted that the cancer coursing through her
body would win the battle. Had resigned herself to an agonizing,
ugly death.
     She'd awakened her second morning in the hospital, pulled
from dreams of Mulder, and had blinked against the blinding
sunlight pouring through the window. And she had, at that
moment, experienced a flash of perfect clarity. Her life's course
these last five years had been dictated by men who operated in
shadows. Men who decided the fate of nations and doled out that
fate with no thought towards the victims their schemes created.
     They may have ultimately ruled her life. They would not
dictate her death. If she had to die for the truths she and Mulder
had fought to uncover, than it would be by a method of her own
choosing. They had stolen her life. They would not control her
death.
     Mulder's suicide had begun to make sense to her. She
thought she understood, now, why he'd chosen the path he had. It
wasn't simply because of the words they'd exchanged. Or the
thinly-veiled accusation she'd thrown in his face. 
     Scully found herself rooting through her dresser, blindly
searching under the neat piles of underwear. Her fingertips
brushed against the sharp edge of the photograph and she pulled it
out and studied it.
     Mulder. The only picture she had of him. The one she'd
hidden away and pulled out occasionally. Like a guilty pleasure.
Something to be hoarded and enjoyed privately, selfishly. 
     She caressed the image of his face with a gentle finger.
Tracing his profile. Memorizing it as she had every time she'd
looked at it. Burning the image a little deeper each time, until it
was indelibly printed on her brain.
     Mulder had finally seen the role he'd played, understood it
for what it was. He'd been nothing more than a puppet, his life
planned and orchestrated by powers beyond his control. 
     Only his death belonged to him.
     It was a lesson Scully had taken to heart.
     She was oblivious of the tears streaming down her face.
Gathering and falling unheard and unfelt. A gentle rain.
     The picture had been taken during a field investigation a
few years back. A skinny boy of about ten or eleven had snapped
Mulder's picture at a diner. A small but tidy place they'd found off
some dusty two-lane in the middle of nowhere. The child was the
son of the owner; liked to take pictures of the people who stopped
in for a quick meal or a cup of coffee. Row upon row of photos
were pinned up on the wall behind the counter. More were taped
to the cash register and the glass case it sat upon. Mulder hadn't
noticed the Polaroid being taken, but Scully had caught the flash
and had ended up giving the boy a five dollar bill in exchange for
the photo. The transaction had taken place while Mulder had
visited the men's room.
     At the time, Scully had merely been curious enough to ask
to see the photo. She knew from experience that pictures of
Mulder were rare things. He'd hated having his picture taken. 
     But she'd kept it because of the way the image of Mulder
whispered to her. They'd been seated at a booth by the window,
Mulder's face turned so only his profile was shown. His eyes were
focused on the long, empty road outside. His hair was
wind-blown, his sunglasses perched on top of his head. He looked
dream-stricken and thoughtful--a thousand miles away from where
they were and what they doing there. She had studied the
photograph in the small diner and known in an instant that she had
to have it. 
     Dana Scully knew that all the answers she sought could be
found in Mulder's image, if she'd only learn how to see them.
When she finally figured out what was hidden there, she would
know why she'd stayed with him. Why she'd given her life over to
this man and his crusade. 
     She caught a tiny glimpse of it now, and strained to capture
the whole of the answer. Her brow creased as she frowned at the
photo; looking. Always looking. 
     Another drawer was opened and her service weapon
removed from its leather holster. She carried it loosely by her side,
shutting off lights behind her and settling into the couch. She laid
the gun on the coffee table and lifted the photo. The only
illumination in the apartment now came from the low light above
the kitchen sink. But it was sufficient to see his face, if she looked
hard enough. If she really tried.
     She would wait. She still had time. A few more days, at
least. Time enough to see the whole picture before she ushered
herself into death and whatever lay beyond.
     Give me the answer, Mulder. Tell me what I need to know.
It's late and I miss you so very much. Don't make me wait too
long. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
MAY 5, 1997
2:42 AM

     Mulder had only one thought, and it kept running through
his head like a mantra: 
     Please let this key work.
     He'd never had occasion to use the one Scully had given
him a few years ago. Seemed like every time he'd needed to gain
entrance, kicking in the door had always been the most expedient
method. There hadn't been time for keys. 
     Now he fumbled outside her door. Hunched his shoulders
further into his jacket. Praying that no one living in the building
decided to take a middle-of-the-night trip to the peep-hole of their
front door. He'd unscrewed all the bulbs halfway down the hallway
to her door, craving the shadows they afforded him. As he slipped
the key into the lock, his earlier conversation with Skinner played
through his head:
     "Have you lost your fucking mind, Mulder? You can't just
go in there and announce to her that you're not dead."
     "Done it before," he'd countered. 
     "It's out of the question! We've already discussed this.
Look, I'll make the arrangements to meet with her. I'll explain the
situation and bring her to you."
     "No. No way. It has to be me. I can't let her hear this from
anyone else. It has to come from me. I can convince her to do this,
you can't. No way in hell."
     "And what makes you so sure she'll listen to you?"
     "She will. She has to."
     "And if she doesn't?"
     "Then I'll gag her, hog-tie her, and carry her out of there
over my shoulder."
     "Seriously, Mulder..."
     "I've never been more serious in my life, sir."
     And now he'd never been more frightened. Funny, he'd
faced down every variety of nightmare, human and otherwise,
there was to confront. Had walked willingly into situations most
sane people would avoid at all costs. And yet nothing had scared
him quite so much as the thought of walking through her door and
facing Scully.
     His mouth was dry. His heart was doing a frenzied
pitty-pat dance in his chest. His breathing was rapid and shallow.
Mulder slowly, quietly, turned the knob in his hand and stepped
through the door. He silently closed it behind him. Grimaced as the
snick of the deadbolt locking sounded abnormally loud in his ears.
He turned and leaned back against the door, shutting his eyes and
taking a deep breath before he opened them again.
     The apartment was bathed in shadows. The only
illumination came from the tiny light above Scully's kitchen sink.
He did a quick scan of the kitchen and living room, freezing as he
spotted the small form on the couch. He took another step forward
and studied her.
     Scully was sleeping curled up on her side, an old blue and
white checked afghan covering her from her feet to just beneath
her chin. One small hand pillowed her cheek, the other was loosely
fisted and tucked up under her chin. Mulder felt something wrench
loose in his chest. His eyes welled up with sudden, unexpected
tears.  
     God, I've missed you, Scully. So much.
     His eyes drank in the deeply hollowed cheeks, the finely
sculpted nose, the fullness of her slightly parted lips. Her skin
looked transparent in the soft light, paper thin and pale; stretched
tight across the fine structure of her face. Her hair lay like a dark
cloud of fire around her head. 
     Had it only been a week since he'd last seen her? Mulder
felt as if it'd been an eternity. 
     His eyes drifted and stopped at the coffee table. He gave a
puzzled tilt of his head and quietly padded around the couch.
Bending over, he took hold and slowly lifted the prescription
bottle from the table, careful to make certain it wouldn't rattle. He
squinted to read the label and recognized the mild sedative. The
bottle looked full, save for one or two. Mulder released a breath he
hadn't been aware of holding.
     Well, that explained Scully's deep sleep. She hadn't moved
a bit since he'd snuck in. 
     But the other item on the table was more troubling. Had
she been frightened by something and taken to keeping her gun
unholstered and so close at hand? He had no way of knowing if
this was typical Scully. Somehow, he didn't think so.
     So what's the gun for, hotshot? Are we looking at safety or
despair here? Mulder was intimately familiar with both.
     He slid a finger under the Polaroid and flipped it over.
Now where the hell had this come from? Mulder didn't remember
it being taken. Weird. And, combined with the gun, very troubling.
     Aw, Scully, what are you doing?
     His case of the nerves came back with a vengeance,
racking his body with their ferocity. His stomach suddenly became
home to a large congregation of butterflies. Fear flooded through
him and propelled him towards the door.
     I can't do this. Skinner was right. I can't face her like this.
This is wrong. Absolutely wrong.
     He was reaching for the deadbolt latch when Scully began
to stir behind him. Though Mulder had experienced the fight or
flight syndrome many times in his life, the vibration it sent through
his body still hit him like a blow. He held his breath and watched
over his shoulder as Scully rolled onto her back, listened as she
mumbled something quietly. He was aware he was rocking back
and forth on his feet. First one way, towards the door. And then
back. To Scully. 
     Fine example of decisiveness you are, Mulder. Jesus, it's
just Scully. And you need to do this. What's she gonna do, shoot
you? Well, yeah, that thought had crossed his mind. Okay, let's
take care of that problem, he proposed to himself. He started to
turn back to the couch and was stopped dead in his tracks by the
voice that rang out.
     "Federal Agent. Put your hands up and step away from the
door."
     How many times had he heard that voice say those words?
His heart jumped into his throat and he wanted to laugh in delight.
That was insane enough. But the fact that he knew Scully was
looking at him down the barrel of her gun, and it didn't concern
him in the least, convinced Mulder he'd finally earned himself a
huggy coat. 
     He started to turn, a grin on his face. "Hey, Sc--."
     "I said put your hands up and step away from the door!"
Mulder felt a swift chill thread its way down his spine and turned
back. Of course. She couldn't know it was him. He was standing in
the shadows. And she had to be foggy from the sedatives she'd
taken. Careful, he warned himself. He slowly lifted his hands and
did as he was told.
     "Who are you?" she snapped. Had to give her credit.
Scully's voice was cold as ice and without the slightest hint of fear.
She had a gun. And she'd shoot first and ask questions later.
Mulder was certain of it. He heard the sound of the couch shifting
under her weight as she stood. And then the snap of the table lamp
being turned on. The room was bathed in light.
     "Turn around," Scully ordered. "Slowly." 
     And so he did. 
     Mulder would long remember the myriad emotions that
passed over Scully's face. During those first few moments, time
seemed to grind to a screeching halt. He read each emotion and
had time to analyze it before it faded and was replaced by another. 
     Somewhere in the middle was shock. And disbelief. And
confusion. There was a hint or two of what might have been
dawning comprehension in there, as well. But it was the first and
last things he saw that would stay with him forever. The first was
indescribable joy. So sweet and so pure it tore at his heart. The last
was implacable, immutable anger. As only Scully could do it.
     "What is this?" she hissed. Her arms were held ramrod
straight in front of her, hands gripping her service weapon. Mulder
caught the tiny tremble of tension in her arms. He knew if he made
one wrong move he'd end up with a third eye. She was a very
good shot.
     "Scully, it's me." 
     He watch a tiny crease appear between her brows and then
disappear. The fleeting expression was her only reaction to his
words. And then her features settled back into a cold, disbelieving
mask.
     "You're dead," she calmly announced.
     Mulder slowly shook his head. "No." His heart was
pounding in his chest. It's me, Scully, he silently implored.
     She eyed him steadily. "I...I saw you. I identified your
body." Her arms, which seconds earlier had begun to lower,
snapped back up. "Who the hell are you? What are you?" 
     "It's me, Scully." Now that's original, Mulder. He began to
stumble over his words, anxious to get past this tense and
dangerous stand-off. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Really.
I...um, I was kinda hoping for the wake-you-up-slowly scenario."
He started to lower his hands. Jerked them back up when Scully
widened her shooter's stance. "But this is all right. I... I can go
with this instead. It's okay, Scully. Just...just put the gun down and
we can talk. I'll tell you everything you wanna know."
     "Shut up." She shook her head as if to clear it.
     "Scully, I know you really want to pull that trigger,"
Mulder didn't have to pretend to plead with her. This was real. No
more dress rehearsals, like he'd been playing out in his head every
waking minute of the last seven days. It was time to talk the talk.
"But you have to listen to me."
     "Shut up!" Her eyes were blazing cold blue fire. Her hair
was tousled from sleep, her breath coming fast and shallow, her
cheeks flushing red. She'd never looked more beautiful. "How do I
know you're not one of them?"
     A shapeshifter. Of course. Scully'd had her share of
encounters with those, alien and otherwise. It was perfectly natural
for her to assume he might not be who he was. Mulder started
digging through his brain for a way to prove it to her. Snatched
one up and said, "Ask me a question. Anything you want to know.
Anything I would know. Pick a case, an X-File."
     Scully's mouth went tight. "I'm not foolish enough to
assume you couldn't find a way to access any information you
wanted. I know what you people do."
     "Okay, okay, you got a point." He licked dry lips.
"Something personal, then. Something just the two of us would
know." 
     Mulder watched as her eyes narrowed. Scully was actually
considering this one. This could work. God, please let this work.
"How about a conversation," he offered. "I can tell you what I
bought you for your--"
     "What did you leave me with?" Scully cut him off abruptly.
     "What?"
     "What did you leave me with?" Each was word was
distinct and clipped.
     Mulder ran the question through all the circuits and gears
and couldn't find a match anywhere. He drew a complete blank.
The question had caught him totally off-guard. Not a good thing
to have happen right now. Not with a gun pointed at his head.
"Scully, I... I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."
     "Then you're a dead man." 
     Mulder broke out in a cold sweat. He actually considered
trying to get to his own gun. For about a quarter of a second.
     Fuck that, he thought. I'd rather have her shoot me.
     He looked into her eyes and saw a grim uncertainty there.
He didn't want to disappoint her. Not ever again.
     "C'mon, Mulder," she goaded. "You're the one with the
eidetic memory. Surely you haven't forgotten already. What did
you leave me with, you son-of-a-bitch?"
     And then he knew. Just like that. The old proverbial light
bulb went off in his head and he opened his mouth and let the
words flow out. Slowly. Clearly.
     "What though the radiance which was once so bright." He
watched as Scully's chin began to tremble. "Be now forever taken
from my sight." Her stance was wavering, her arms beginning to
lower. Mulder slowly allowed his own to drop. "Though nothing
can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, of glory in the
flower." Her eyes grew shiny and moist. Mulder blinked back his
own sudden tears. "We will grieve not, rather find strength in what
remains behind." He watched, vaguely puzzled, as Scully switched
the gun from her right to her left hand. She took a step towards
him. And then another. "In the primal sympathy," he recited,
"which having been, must ever be."
     She closed the distance between them. Looked up at him
as he trailed off. Mulder held his breath and allowed himself a
moment to drown in her eyes. And then he saw it coming. He even
had time to avoid it. But he didn't. Scully snarled, "You bastard,"
and punched him squarely in the jaw. 
     Mulder was knocked backwards, dazedly impressed by the
force behind her punch. And then he stopped feeling anything. His
head struck the edge of the armoire by the door and the darkness
swallowed him up. 

--------------------
Primal Sympathy
Chapter Four 

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
MAY 5, 1997
3:00 AM

     I hope I killed him.
     That was Dana Scully's first thought when Mulder landed
in pile at her feet. The second--coming swiftly on the heels of the
first--was:
     Oh my God. I've killed him.
     She ignored the small voice in her head that kept muttering
he was already dead, and had been for a week now. And that she
was simply experiencing some sort of waking dream.
     Scully laid her gun down and dropped to her knees,
shifting into doctor mode. Exploring the already rising knot on the
back of his head with gentle, probing fingers. Checking the pulse
in his neck and finding it strong and steady. Pulling the lids up and
gazing into the clear, perfectly normal hazel eyes. 
     He'd just knocked himself out.
     Good, Scully thought viciously. He deserves it, the bastard. 
     She stayed on her knees, staring down at him, her breath
coming fast and shallow. A cacophony began in her head; a
hundred thoughts shifting and colliding. Shrieks and whispers.
Prayers and curses.
     Alive. He's alive. She bit back a slightly insane cackle,
picturing Frankenstein crowing over his monster.
     Mulder was alive. In one piece. And showing no outward
sign of having escaped after being whisked away by nefarious
shadow men. He'd not been the victim of a kidnapping. There'd
been no elaborate plan carried out against him by the men who
held the truths they'd sought to uncover. 
     Dana Scully knew with absolute certainly that this had been
Mulder's game all along. No suicide. No last desperate act caused
by anything she'd said or done. No sudden realization that he'd
been duped all his life. She remembered Mulder's words to
Arlinsky after the man had doubted the possibility of a hoax
surrounding the discovery of the alien body. A conversation that'd
taken place what seemed ages ago.
     "If you're going to do it, why not go all the way?"
     She squeezed her eyes shut against the realization. It had
been nothing more than another in a long line of ditches. Certainly
more elaborate. More carefully planned. But a ditch, none the less.
I'm going to kill him, she decided. And I'll make sure it's done right
this time.
     So, Dana, a little voice chirped. If you're so furious with
Mulder, why are you touching him like this?
     It was true. She couldn't keep her hands off him. His hair,
his lightly stubbled face, his shoulders and chest and arms. She ran
her fingers down the line of his throat, stilled them at the hollow
there. 
     Here. He was here. Alive, warm, solid under her hands.
Her fingers lifted and wove through his hair, pulling the wayward
locks back, smoothing them down. She bent low and took in a
deep breath through her nose. Savored the achingly familiar clean
and tangy scent of him. Scully shifted and placed a hand over his
heart, felt its strong beat beneath her fingers. She ran her other
hand across his torso and down one leg and up the other. Whole.
Complete. Her Mulder.
     Goddamn him.
     And then Mulder moaned, his head rolling on his neck, his
eyelids beginning to flutter open. Scully jerked her hands away and
shot to her feet, taking a step back. She smoothed her hair and
pulled her t-shirt back down over her hips. Chewed her lower lip
and then turned towards the kitchen. 
     She savagely cleared her mind of all thought. Became
merely motion and action. She pulled open the freezer door and
grabbed two trays of ice cubes. Dumping them into a ziplock bag,
she snatched a dish towel from the counter and wrapped the
ice-filled bag inside it.
     She caught two or three more groans coming from behind
her as she worked. Heard the soft creak of his leather jacket as
Mulder sat up. There was a long, long stretch of silence. She could
feel his eyes boring into her back. 
     "Hell of a right you got there, Scully." His tone was light
and conversational. There was a short pause and then, "It's nice to
know you missed me."
     She swung around, glaring at him. Was gratified by the
way Mulder instinctively scooted back on his ass, eyeing her
warily. One hand went to his jaw, the other began rubbing the back
of his head. He looked bewildered. Hurt. And so very beautiful her
breath caught in her throat.
     Alive. He's alive. 
     Damn him.
     She forced her legs to move, carrying her until she stood
looking down at him. He tracked her the whole way, his eyes dark
and piercing. She wordlessly handed him the ice pack and waited
till he reached up and took it. Turning on her heel, she walked to
the couch and carefully lowered herself into it.
     Mulder lifted from the floor and trailed behind her, taking
the chair nearest the couch. He slumped back and gingerly
alternated the ice-pack from the back of his head to his jaw. Scully
watched him, saying nothing. Mulder's head was lowered, his eyes
focused on the rug under his feet. She waited until his eyes lifted
to hers. 
     "Start talking," she told him.
     He gave a little nod of his head. "What do you wanna
know?"
     "Everything. Right from the beginning."
     Mulder took that moment to glance down at his watch, and
she was tempted to leap to her feet and punch him again. "You got
a hot date, Mulder? Am I holding you up?"
     His eyes shot level with hers and locked. Scully wasn't
entirely sure what she saw there, but she knew she didn't like it. He
actually looked irritated with her. How dare he look at her like
that. She opened her mouth to tell him so and was cut off.
     "Look, Scully. I'll tell you everything, I promise. But not
right now. I need you to do something for me."
     She gaped at him, unable to believe he'd have to gall to
shove her questions aside and then make demands of her. 
     "We don't have a lot of time. I need you to go pack a bag.
Just enough for a day or two. We can get whatever else you might
need later. We have to get out of here before it gets light."
     Mulder stood up, as though his action alone would hurry
her along. She watched as he lifted his eyebrows at her. The look
was so very familiar. And so aggravating. How many times had he
given her that "what are you waiting for?" look. Expecting her to
be a good girl and do as she'd been told. Perhaps the better
question, she asked herself, is how many times have I gone along
with his demands? Swallowed down my words and my feelings
and trailed behind him like an eager little puppy?
     But things had changed. She'd walked into his apartment a
week ago and looked down at the pale, bloody face of Fox
Mulder. Had sat before a group of men and women and declared
him a victim; someone deserving of the grief his death had caused.
She'd planned his memorial service. Sat through it tight-lipped and
dry-eyed, determined not to let them see her cry. Had collected up
his ashes and gathered the shattered pieces of her heart. 
     She'd mourned for him as she had mourned no other. Not
even her beloved father and sister. She'd accepted her own death,
and had welcomed it as she'd welcome a lover's embrace. 
     Only hours ago, she'd been planning her suicide. 
     But now Mulder stood before her, tall and strong. Very
much alive. And apparently completely oblivious to anything but
what he wanted her to do for him. He stood there expecting her to
follow his orders. Be the good little FBI agent. 
     A fire filled her. Beginning in her head and swiftly flowing
through her veins; thick and hot like lava. It shocked her with its
intensity; licking at her like a thousand tiny flames. She brought a
hand to her forehead, cupping it, feeling her pulse beating close to
the surface. 
     She only wondered at its strangeness for a few brief
moments. She'd thought it something alien and not connected to
her at all. How long had it been since she'd felt anything like it? 
     And then she knew it for what it was. Recognized and
welcomed it. The sudden rage continued to burn through her until
it settled low and heavy in her belly. And then she made a
remarkable discovery. With the white-hot rage came something
else; something even more unexpected. A new-found awareness of
herself. A reconnecting to emotions she thought she'd bid
good-bye. She hadn't felt this alive in months. It was almost
physically painful. 
     She cradled her head, taking slow, deep breaths. Waited
for the turmoil within her to reach a level she could begin to
handle. And then Mulder touched her wrist, murmuring, "Scully?"
     Her arm shot up and out, flicking his hand away like she
would a pesky bug. "Don't touch me."
     She glanced up at him and watched as he took a step back,
shoving his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Are you okay?" 
     The laughter bubbled out of her with no warning. She kept
her eyes on him, her mouth spread in a toothy grin. Her eyes filled
with bitter tears even as she laughed.
     A look of confusion passed over Mulder's face before it
settled into a frown. He gave her a small tilt of his head and waited
her out. Scully angrily swiped away her tears as her laughter
wound down to hiccups. "Oh yeah, I'm just fucking fantastic,
Mulder. Thanks for asking."
     He dropped down into a crouch before her and she
covered her face with her hands. She couldn't look at him. She was
too busy shattering into a million pieces. 
     "Aw, Scully...." She inwardly cringed against the
sympathetic tone of his words. Listened as he sighed low in his
throat. "I know how hard this is for you, but you have to believe
me. I didn't have a choice. I had to do it this way." He tentatively
laid a hand on her knee. "We gotta go, Scully, before we run out
of time. I'll tell you everything," he pleaded. "I promise. You just
have to trust me. Look, I'll go get you packed. You stay
here...and...."
     He trailed off as the warmth of his hand left her knee. She
sensed when he stood and turned toward her bedroom. Her hands
fell, and without lifting her head she announced, "I'm not going
anywhere, Mulder. Not until I get some answers."
     There was a long silence. His reply, when it came, was low
and even. "We don't have time for this right now."
     "I have all the time in the world. I have the rest of my life."
She turned her head to look up at him. His gaze was steady and
resigned. He blinked once, a slow blink. And waited.
     "Did you really think it was going to be that easy,
Mulder?" she asked. "You stroll in here a week after your death
and announce that it was all some kind of hoax, and you expect me
to just do as I'm told?"
     Rigid. She was absolutely rigid with anger. It took all her
control not to start screaming. "Do you have any idea what the last
week has been like; what I've been through? I thought you were
dead, Mulder. Dead. And, of course, you left me to clean up the
mess. To make everything right again. I can't do it anymore,
Mulder. I have no idea what this is about and, quite frankly, I don't
want to. I don't care. I'm not going to spend the last weeks of my
life blindly following you while you go on some wild goose chase.
I can't. I won't."
     Mulder stepped back to the couch and once more crouched
down in front of her. He dropped his eyes and took her hands in
his, fingers curling around her palms. He slowly rubbed his thumbs
across the back of her hands and lifted his eyes to hers. She saw
gentle affection there, and something that looked like hope.
     "You think I did all this because of some alien body that
may or may not be real?" He shook his head slowly. "Listen to me,
Scully. I'm here because I've found what we've been looking for.
Scully, I've found the answers we need to save you."
     She could only stare at him. His declaration ran through
her head over and over, until the words and their meaning blurred. 
     "What do you.... What are you saying?" Her tongue
tripped over the words. "A...cure?"
     Mulder nodded vigorously, a smile beginning to play at the
corners of his mouth. He squeezed her hands tightly. "We've found
a way to fight the cancer. We can make you well again. But you
have to come with me." 
     She stuttered, "But...."
     "I'm trying to hand you a miracle, Dana. Are you going to
turn your back on it, or are you gonna trust me and go pack a
bag?"
     It occurred to Scully that this was what it'd always come
down to. In the end, every aspect of her life the past five years had
boiled down to a choice between the obsessive, passionate Mulder,
and her chance at a normal existence. She'd always chosen him.
Scully knew she couldn't place blame on Mulder for that fact.
Because, truth be told, she'd always had the option of denying him.
Mulder had made certain she had that choice. And made clear he
wouldn't question her, or judge her, if she choose another,
different path. 
     Pride fought with hope. While it would certainly be
satisfying to tell him to go to hell, to walk away and leave her in
peace to live out the rest of her short life, it was far from practical.
If what Mulder was saying was true, she'd be a fool not to go with
him. Worse than a fool. 
     And despite her anger at what he'd done, the trust still
existed between them. Though deeply buried and bruised from
painful blows, she couldn't deny the truth and strength of it.
Especially not now, as he knelt in front of her, whole and healthy,
offering her a chance at life. 
     Scully pushed to her feet and went to pack. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 
 

--------------------

Primal Sympathy
Chapter Five

ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA
MAY 5, 1997
3:12 AM

     Walter Skinner required movement. Of any kind. The long
drive that'd brought him to this skeleton of a factory had been
difficult enough. Forcing himself to settle back into the couch in
Mulder's temporary living quarters had been an act of
self-discipline. Its purpose to allow him to gather his thoughts and
get them tightly under control. 
     It wasn't working. The fingers of his right hand gripped the
arm of the old couch so forcefully he feared they'd punch clean
through the thin vinyl. This hadn't been part of the plan. His
presence wasn't required yet. There'd been no reason to leave his
comfortable apartment in Crystal City and drive through the night
like a man possessed. But he hadn't questioned it when he'd found
himself in his car only hours after the phone conversation with
Mulder. 
     He'd told himself then that he needed to be here when
Mulder came back with Scully. *If* he comes back with her, he
reminded himself. If Scully hadn't told him to go to hell and was
sending him back empty-handed. And then there was always the
possibility that Mulder was lying dead of a gunshot wound in
Scully's apartment. Compliments of Scully's growing paranoia and
despair. Wouldn't that just be the height of irony. 
     When he'd set off for Allentown, he hadn't been completely
honest with himself about why he'd felt the need to come. The
realization had struck three-quarters of the way through the trip
and had clung to him tenaciously. His reasoning had solidified even
more after his arrival, when he'd stepped through the door into the
medical facility that'd been created solely for the purpose of saving
Dana Scully's life. 
     Walter Skinner was frightened. Not of the risks involved in
Mulder's insane plan. Nor of the chances they'd taken to put that
plan in motion. What scared him, and left him feeling strangely
guilty, was the thought of Scully's possible reaction when Mulder
told her everything. About the lies they'd created, the lengths
they'd gone to. Because Scully would demand answers. They both
knew that. Skinner was also frightened of what might happen if
this scheme didn't work; if she ended up dying anyway.
     The thought of being scared of a petite red-head who didn't
even reach his chin should have been a ludicrous one. If he didn't
love her, it most likely would have been. 
     What the hell are you doing here? he asked himself. What
exactly are you hoping to accomplish?
     Damn Mulder and his impulsiveness. If he'd have stuck
with the original plan, Skinner would've had no reason to be here.
To be so anxious. Edgy. If he'd only had a chance to see Scully
first, talk to her and help cushion the blow that the news of a living
Mulder would be to her.
     Instead, the man would be charging in there in the dead of
night. No doubt scaring the hell out of Scully. All so he could have
the dubious honor of announcing his resurrection himself. Never
mind the possible impact on Scully. 
     Skinner rubbed sweaty palms against his chocolate brown
jeans and pulled off his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose and
knuckling tired eyes. It was Skinner who'd laid the foundation to
cover for Scully's absence during her treatments. He'd planted the
evidence and made a trail for anyone who might go looking for
Dana Scully after tonight. The cover had been designed to be put
into place at a moment's notice. Mulder hadn't been sure how long
it would take to come up the formula needed to save Scully. Once
they had, they'd both agreed there'd be no time to waste.  
     He'd made a phone call immediately after the one with
Mulder, and set the next part of the plan in motion. There was only
one call left to make, and that couldn't be done until they heard
from Mulder. 
     Skinner sprung to his feet and stepped through the
doorway into the outer office. One of the Crawfords, the only one
in the room at the time, lifted his eyes from the book in his hand
and met Skinner's.
     "Anything?" he asked gruffly. 
     "Nothing yet, Mr. Skinner."
     He gave him a terse nod and ducked back into Mulder's
room. The hybrids made him uneasy. This was only the second
time he'd encountered them. He had no way of knowing which
he'd spoken to and which he'd not. He supposed the fact that
Mulder trusted them should be all he required. After all, months
had passed since Mulder had taken up allegiance with the hybrids
and begun to cook up the hoax surrounding his death. And there'd
been nothing, no indication that the plan had been compromised,
their intentions found out. What should have been reassuring only
continued to disturb him. 
     Skinner by nature was not a paranoid man. He didn't see
conspiracy everywhere he looked--unlike a certain rouge agent of
his. But Walter Skinner was smart enough to recognize a true
threat when he saw one. From the moment the X-Files had been
deemed an offshoot of the Violent Crimes division and placed
under his direct supervision, Skinner had known his comfortable
position within the bureaucracy had instantly become a little less
certain. A little more questionable. Although he'd long been aware
of the considerable skill and uncanny talent of Spooky Mulder,
he'd also known of the agent's tendency to ignore protocol and go
off on his own, finding the answers he sought with whatever
method might come in handy. Though Mulder's talent was envied
and admired by many within the Bureau, he was considered by
most of the higher-ups to be a nightmare to supervise.
     At first, Skinner had wondered just exactly who he'd pissed
off, that his punishment had been the addition of the X-Files to his
roster. And then the Cancer Man had slunk into his office for the
first time, and Skinner had realized that what was happening went
far deeper than he'd first suspected. The supervision of the X-Files
was not a punishment at all, but rather a test of his loyalties and his
willingness to toe the line. 
     Gradually, over the course of the past four and a half years,
Skinner had discovered where his loyalties were best placed--and
they weren't with the smoking son-of-a-bitch and his shadow
organization. Nor even with the Bureau proper. The uncovering of
truths and his willingness to place himself on the line for Mulder
and Scully had become Skinner's mission. Truth was a harsh
mistress and she exacted a high price--but one Skinner was more
than willing to pay. His peace of mind was worth whatever
sacrifices he'd had to make.
     Or so he'd thought. Until Scully's diagnosis and his
subsequent deal with the devil.
     In hindsight, it was easy to question his sanity. What had
he been thinking? To forbid Mulder to deal with Cancer Man and
then turn around and ignore his own advice? But desperation and a
sinking feeling of doom had driven him to ignore common sense
and do whatever needed to be done in order to save Scully. After
months had passed, he was finally able to admit to his selfishness in
making the deal: He wanted to be the one to save Scully. 
     But not as a way of undermining the relationship between
the two agents. Not to show himself as a man who could produce
miracles. He hadn't expected anyone to even know, and hadn't
planned on revealing his deal to anyone. It wasn't even so much
that he'd come to love Scully as something more than a sister but
less than a potential lover. He'd done it for both of them. For
Scully *and* Mulder. Because somehow the lanky, tortured agent
had wiggled his way past Skinner's barriers. Skinner wasn't certain
if it was Mulder's integrity or sense of honor, or even his apparent
fearlessness, but he'd come to respect Mulder. And, truth be told,
even admire him.
     Mulder was a maverick, a loaded gun. A largely unknown
entity who could be brilliant and razor-sharp one moment, and
bizarre and irreverent the next. He was also the closest thing to a
warrior Walter Skinner had seen in many years.
     Mulder never gave up. Ever. His tenacity and passion were
his blessing and his curse. It didn't matter what the Consortium
threw at him, or how many times Mulder had almost lost his life.
He'd shuffle through the halls of the Bureau after each
disappointment, shoulders slumped and hang-dog expression in
place. But, by God, he always managed to pick himself up and step
back into the ring. 
     Fox Mulder was either the bravest man he'd ever
encountered or the most insane. Skinner wasn't certain he ever
wanted a definitive answer. 
     It hadn't taken him long to realize that Mulder's only
weaknesses were his sister and Scully. The loss of his sister had
damaged Mulder in hidden, inexplicable ways. The loss of Scully
would be the final blow; sending him either to his own death or an
insane asylum. Walter Skinner had to make certain that didn't
happen. He owed both of them at least that.    
     So he'd made the deal hoping to save them and had done
what had been expected of him. He'd become an errand boy,
cleaning up someone else's messes. And losing his pride and sense
of honor along the way.
     Skinner paced in front of the tall, painted-over windows of
the office, his hands clasped behind his back. His blood raced
through his body, setting every nerve on edge. This had to work.
They had to save Scully. It was Skinner's only chance at
redemption. An attempt to make up for the silences he'd kept over
the past four and a half years.
     His head jerked around at the sound of a radio spitting
crackles and hisses from the outer office. Four long strides took
him to the doorway. Crawford had laid down his book and was
hunched over the radio set.
     There was a short squawk from the speaker and then,
"Raven to Hope Base. Come in."
     It was Mulder. Skinner took a deep breath and held it.
     Crawford flipped the switch on the mic and answered,
"Hope Base to Raven. We read you. What's your status?"
     "The tiger is out of the cage. Repeating. The tiger is out of
her cage. Copy?" Skinner let out a whoosh of air. Crawford
looked over at him and smiled a gentle smile.
     And Skinner caught himself returning it. Oh, what the hell,
he told himself.
     "Copy that, Raven. Bring her home," Crawford replied.
     "Nothin' I'd rather do. Over and out." There was another
squawk and then the radio went quiet. 
     Skinner picked up the phone with a shaky hand and made
his final call. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ON THE ROAD
MAY 5, 1997
4:03 AM

     "Tiger?"
     Mulder leaned forward past the curtains and into the front
of the conversion van, slipping the mic into its clip. He shrugged as
he settled back on the seat across from Scully and ventured a little
smile. "Seemed appropriate," he said quietly. Scully was not
amused. His smile was not returned. Mulder wasn't surprised.
     She continued to throw glaring looks his way, as she'd
been doing since they'd first climbed into the van and settled in for
the ride. Not conspicuously or so much so that it got on his
nerves. But just enough to keep him aware of her anger--as if he
needed a reminder. The ache in his jaw and the throbbing of his
head was good enough.
     Mulder was also aware that if his only punishment was a
few aches and pains and the occasional dirty look, he definitely
couldn't complain. Somehow, though, he didn't think it was going
to be that easy. True, Scully had been strangely quiet since they'd
left her apartment, but he attributed that to shock. And to Scully's
habit of mentally sweeping up facts and suppositions into a neat
pile before digging in. He knew her silence meant she was creating
a scenario in her head, fitting theories with facts. She'd asked only
one question between then and now. She'd turned to him after
climbing in the van and spotting Crawford behind the wheel,
asking, "Your co-conspirator?"
     "One of them," he'd answered honestly. That had gotten
him a patented Scully look, but no request for further information. 
     Scully and Crawford had exchanged strangely polite
greetings before the silence closed in. It wasn't broken again until
they'd hit the first of the back roads that would take them to
Allentown. It was then that Mulder had radioed in.
     Mulder lifted his head and caught another look in his
direction. This time he held her eyes and leaned forward, elbows
on knees. "So...."
     Scully looked away and reached up, tucking a lock of hair
behind her left ear. Mulder's fingers itched to repeat the action. He
silently pleaded with that silky lock of hair to fall forward again.
Any excuse to touch her would do. 
     The hunger was eating at him, and had been since he'd first
stepped in her door and seen her sleeping on the couch. He wanted
nothing more than to lay his hands on her. Pull her close and feel
her small body against his. Warm. Alive. But Mulder was smart
enough not to give in to his need. He didn't want to be the one to
initiate round two of the earlier boxing match. One more shot like
that and she'd probably bust his jaw. Mulder was surprised she
hadn't screwed up her hand. And then he really paid attention and
groaned quietly when he realized she had. Scully was very
obviously cradling her right hand low against her belly.
     Like magnets, their eyes met and locked. The connection
was instantaneous and solid, sliding into place like coming home.
Mulder felt his heart clinch tight. They still had that. If nothing
else, they could still see into each other's souls. They could almost
read each other's minds when they were really clicking. He scooted
forward and lifted a hand, reaching for her. "Scully?"
     "I'm fine, Mulder." 
     Her words stopped him cold. He stayed frozen in place for
a moment before sitting back. Worrying his bottom lip with a
finger and thumb, he told her, "You hurt your hand."
     "I told you, I'm fine." 
     She broke the contact and Mulder tipped his head against
the side of the van. He shut his eyes and recalled the image of
Scully looking up at him, bitter laughter spilling from her mouth as
tears snaked down her cheeks. She'd let her control slip. Instead of
the typical Scully response, he'd gotten something he'd long craved
from her. A moment of raw, naked honesty. Couched in biting
sarcasm, but honesty nonetheless.  
     It'd startled him. Set him aback. He'd been so certain he'd
get the infamous "I'm fine," that he'd almost imagined he was
hearing things. The shock had rolled through him and he'd very
nearly fallen apart, right there and then. Legs that would no longer
hold him had brought him to his knees before her. Apologies and
pleas had spilled from his mouth. 
     Dana Scully had nearly undone him in those minutes. And
all because for one lovely, crystal-clear moment she'd dropped her
guard and let him in again. 
     Do you have any idea how easy it would be to own me,
Scully? he silently asked as they bounced along the secondary
road. Mind, body and soul. All you have to do is say the words.
Give me your honesty in return for mine. 
     Mulder had made a vow many months ago that when (and
at the beginning, it had been "if") this day came, he would hold
nothing back from Scully. Any rationale he might've had for not
revealing things to her, or glossing over the truth, would be null
and void. In light of what he'd done, the sacrifices he'd made, the
decisions he'd agonized over, it was stupid to try to continue
withholding the truth from her. It was all or nothing from this
point on. It was one of the few rules he'd set for himself from the
beginning. And the most important. Mulder figured it was time to
let Scully in on it, too. All he could do was hope she'd recognize
the gesture for what it was and return it in kind. 
     He opened his eyes and focused on her. Scully was
watching the road behind them through the tinted rear windows of
the van. Her eyes shone brightly in the meager light given off by
the decorative bulbs mounted on the walls. She sat quietly, her
injured hand held carefully in her lap. There was no foot tapping or
nervous gesturing. Scully didn't fidget. She knew how to be still.
Mulder had lost count of the times he'd depended on her for that
very thing. It calmed him, slowed down the frantic forward
momentum he often found himself a part of.  
     "Look, Scully," he began after a minute or two of
observation. "If you want to sit there and pretend you're not
hurting, that's fine. But you're not fooling me. You never have."
     Slowly, she turned her head to look at him. Her expression
was inscrutable. "Where are we going, Mulder?"
     The question caught him off-guard. He felt like he'd
walked in on the tail-end of a conversation. He frowned and said,
"Allentown. Listen, Scully, we need to get some things straight."
He watched as she turned her face back to the window. "Scully?"
     Nothing. 
     "Damn it, Scully, will you look at me? Please."
     She did as he asked, but he could tell she wasn't happy
about it.  Mulder sat up a little, needing to close the distance
between them. "I need you to know something before.... " He
broke off. 
     No. Not like that, Mulder. No more excuses. They're too
much like withholding the truth. He took a slow breath, aware of
Scully's eyes on him. "The next few days are going to be rough.
You're going to find out some things that are gonna be real hard to
hear." He looked aside, shaking his head wryly. "I imagine I'll hear
some things I'd rather not, too. You may very well end up hating
me before it's all said and done. But I'm gonna make you a
promise, Scully. Right now." 
     Mulder glanced back up and saw that he'd tweaked her
curiosity. She was openly watching him now. "I promise you that
no matter what you ask me, I'll tell you the truth. The whole truth.
I won't hold back on anything. Even if it hurts one of us to do it."
Scully began to speak but Mulder held a hand up to stop her. "Just
let me get through this, okay?"
     "Afterwards, when you know everything you want to
know, when you're better, you can decide how to handle it from
there. But until then, I'd like you to promise me the same thing."
He took another breath and swallowed hard. "We can't afford to
keep things from each other anymore, Scully. We just can't. We've
got too much to lose."
     Mulder died a little during the long silence that followed
his words. Scully bowed her head and studied her hands. He
watched as she looked up at him, her head cocked just a little to
the side. A lock of fiery hair fell across her cheek. And then she
pierced him with a look that went straight to his gut. What he saw
in her eyes was more than an answer to his challenge. It was a
throwing down of the gauntlet. Scully was gearing up for all-out
war. Mulder suddenly began to regret asking for her promise in
return.
     "Okay, Mulder. You got yourself a deal. Now start
talking."


--------------------
Primal Sympathy
Chapter Six

ON THE ROAD
MAY 5, 1997

     It seemed that Scully was much more interested in asking
questions than in hearing Mulder tell a long, drawn-out story. It was
just the facts she wanted, not the methods and means behind them.
And that was fine with him. His storytelling abilities were somewhat
diminished anyway, faced with her cold, impervious stare.
     "How long has this been in the works?" she asked.
     "Since just after your diagnosis."
     "Well, I suppose it only makes good sense for you to have
planned your death as far in advance as possible." 
     No missing the sarcasm there. "Actually," Mulder said, "that
part of it came later. At first it was just looking for the answers we
needed to save you. The rest of it.... Well, it just kind of snowballed."
     "And who is 'we,' Mulder? Who else knows about this?"
     Here we go, he thought, and answered, "Skinner."
     He watched her face, curious to see how this little piece of
information would strike her. Her eyes opened wide before briefly
closing. "Sk...Skinner?"
     "Yeah. But not from the beginning. I brought him in a few
months ago."
     "Skinner," she repeated. Her next words were so quiet he
almost missed them. "I'm such a fool."
     "Scully--"
     "Why?"
     "Why what?"
     She shot him another cold glare. "Why Skinner? Somehow
that just doesn't fit your brand of paranoia, Mulder. What made you
believe you could trust him enough to involve him in something like
this?"
     She waited patiently for an answer as Mulder realized they'd
hit the first of what would be many sticking points. Though he'd
promised to tell her everything, part of him couldn't help but feel this
was Skinner's tale to tell, not his. Finally he said, "It's a long story,
Scully."
     "Never mind," she retorted. "I'll ask him myself."
     That should be an interesting confrontation, he thought. I
don't know if I want to be there for that one or not. 
     "And Crawford," she asked, lifting her chin toward the front
of the van. "What's his part in this?"
     Mulder inwardly cringed. There was no way to avoid this one.
He shifted around in his seat and then looked her straight in the eye.
"He's part of a small group of hybrids who've spent the last year
working on a cure for the cancer that wiped out the MUFON women
you met in Allentown; the same cancer that's killing you. And dozens
of other women around the country."
     Scully glanced at front of the van, even though she couldn't
see Crawford through the heavy curtain. She sighed and said quietly,
"Hybrids. Of course." She looked back at him. "Alien-human hybrids,
I presume?"
     "Yep."
     She sat back and went into the Scully pose. The one she took
after hearing an outrageous theory she was just itching to tear apart.
"You went to them. Or was it the other way around?"
     "It was a mutual decision. I discovered what they doing while
the boys and I were looking into the Lombard Research Facility."
     "The Gunmen?"
     "Yeah. I found your name in a file directory at the fertility
clinic I told you about. We had to get into Lombard to access their
mainframe. I, um, I ran across the Crawfords while I was there. I
went back later, after you left the hospital. They filled me in on what
they'd found and we agreed it'd make sense for us to work together."
     Scully nodded slowly. Her expression practically screamed
disbelief. "I don't suppose they told you why they'd undertaken this
charitable little project in the first place." 
     His hesitation led her to add, "Or wasn't that important
enough to ask, Mulder?" She shook her head in disgust. "Correct me
if I'm wrong, but it seems you trusted everyone but the one person
you had reason to trust."
     Her accusation was clear. And not completely fair. But he
wasn't about to tell her that. Not yet, anyway. Promising to be honest
with her didn't mean he had to spill his guts all at once. They had
plenty of time for that. "Look, Scully, they're only one group of many
who were created in order to further the Project. Luckily for us, they
didn't like what they saw being done and decided to do a little
research of their own, set up their own project. They figured they'd
rather save lives than take them. Doesn't exactly sound like a
nefarious plot to me."  
     "And you didn't feel you could share any of this with me
because....?"
     Well, Mulder, he asked himself, which truth do you hand her
this time? The easy one or the hard one? Eennie meenie miny moe.
     He looked over at her, his index finger absently poking at the
seat. "I didn't want to get your hopes up over something that might
turn into a dead end. I figured you had enough to worry about. Was I
wrong to think that?" 
     She must have caught the beginnings of frustration in his
voice. She looked up at him sharply. He saw her lips form an answer
and then watched as it died there. Her eyes went soft and she looked
away. "No," she finally admitted quietly. "No. I guess I can
understand that much. But why didn't you tell me when you were
certain you had something?"
     "Because up until a few weeks ago, we weren't sure of
anything. Scully, you know how this stuff goes. You have researchers
working on something for years, one tiny step at a time. And then
one day, boom! It all just comes together. That's what happened. The
final modifications on the drug they came up with weren't even
completed until the last few days."
     "So your suicide," she practically spat the word, "came after
these modifications?"
     Mulder hung his head. "Not exactly," he admitted. 
     "What do you mean, 'not exactly'?"
     "I knew we were really close. It was a leap of faith, Scully.
Besides, you handed me the perfect opportunity to off myself. I
couldn't pass it up." He lifted his eyes and saw the dawning
comprehension written on her face. Braced himself for what would
come next. He expected a few well-chosen curses, maybe even
another whack in the face. But nothing prepared him for Scully's
words. They were low and even and aimed with deadly precision.
     "Damn you, Mulder. I hate you for what you've done to me."
     He shut his eyes against the pain and sunk back against the
seat. He'd imagined those very words spilling out of her mouth many
times. Had awakened sweat-soaked and panting more nights than he
cared to count, the words echoing in his ears. The worst part of those
particular nightmares was that sometimes the words weren't Scully's.
Sometimes they were Samantha's.  
     You don't understand, he wanted to plead with her. This isn't
just about me. It hasn't been for a long time. This isn't me out to
prove something, Scully. This is me trying to save your life.  
     But he didn't say that to her. He sat up and leaned forward,
filled with renewed determination. And what he said was, "I can't
change the way you feel, Scully. But I did what I had to do. So you'd
have a shot at staying alive. I'm not gonna sit here and lie to you. I'm
not going to tell you it was easy to do the things I did. It was hard,
damn hard. But I'm not going to apologize, either. What's done is
done, and I'm willing to deal with the consequences." He hesitated,
dropping his eyes. "Even if it means losing you." 
     There was a moment of silence. And then in a haughty voice,
"I didn't realize I was yours to lose, Mulder."
     He looked up at her, searching for any hint of humor that
hadn't come through in her voice. Nope. Nothing there but absolute
anger. A wry smile crossed his face. He couldn't help but think it
might be tough for her to be honest with him if she couldn't be honest
with herself first.
     One thing Mulder knew for certain was that they belonged to
each other, whether they liked it or not. It'd happened gradually,
quietly, over the course of several years. The realization and
acceptance was now as much a part of him as breathing. Obviously
Scully hadn't reached that point yet. And now maybe she never
would. If she didn't, there was nothing more he could do. The
acceptance had to be mutual before any words could be put to the
feelings. Before it could be said aloud and their union sealed.
     "Okay, Scully," he told her. "We'll play this your way.
Whatever makes you happy." 
     "What would make me happy would be knowing why you felt
you had to fake your own death to pull this off. I can almost
understand most of what you've told me so far. That doesn't mean I
believe it all, just that it makes sense in a Mulderish kind of way." 
     He gave her his best sheepish look. She wasn't having any of
it. She just glared at him. "So why go to these lengths? Why the
hoax?" 
     Mulder thought back to the last few weeks and the recovery
of the EBE. He remembered Scully's absolute conviction that what he
was chasing after was nothing more than another bad joke. And then
there was her rock-solid, immovable belief in the line of bullshit
Michael Kritschgau had handed her.
     What the hell good would it do to tell her any of this? She
wouldn't believe a bit of it. Scully had made up her mind and wasn't
about to change it. Her report before the special committee the day
after his "suicide" had certainly proven that. To Scully, he'd been
nothing more than a patsy, a pawn. His entire life planned and
orchestrated by powers beyond his control. Everything, from
Samantha's abduction to  her own. From the cases they'd worked to
the clues they'd ferreted out and the truths they'd uncovered. From
Oregon to Alaska. From Puerto Rico to Russia to China. From life to
death and back again. All so he could have the honor of announcing
to the world what he believed to be proof of the existence of
extraterrestrial life. 
     What a crock of shit.
     Add to that all the thousands of independent sightings, the
proof of alien bacteria, all the evidence that'd been either exploited or
hidden deep in government files and you were talking about a massive
conspiracy. World-wide. All planned and carried out to convince one
Fox Mulder that everything he wanted to believe was true. It was
utter horse shit. And in order to buy it, he would've had to have been
the most arrogant son-of-a-bitch alive. 
     Mulder had no doubt of his importance to the anonymous
men who made up the Consortium. But not in that way; not to be
trotted out before the public eye and then proven a fool, his
reputation ruined. It was far too complicated and convoluted a plan
just to get him out of the way. It made no sense. If he was that much
of a threat to their ultimate goal--whatever that might be--a bullet to
the head would have been much quicker and cleaner. What was the
death of one man, one quest, compared to the hundreds and possibly
thousands of lives they'd already taken?
     No, Mulder knew the only reason he was still breathing was
because his life and his work mattered to them. He was alive for a
very specific reason. And he wanted to know why. 
     He glanced up and found Scully watching him, a grim,
expectant look on her face. All I can do is tell her what I think and
what I know, he thought. The rest is up to her.
     "Hey, Scully," he blurted. "Does it ever strike you as weird
that I'm still around?" 
     The only thing missing from the Scully pose was the crossed
arms. And that was absent only because her hand was hurting her.
But the look was there. In spades. "Well, Mulder," she declared,
"considering I identified what I thought was your body just a week
ago, yeah, I think it's pretty damn weird you're still around."
     He acknowledged her dig with a look and a faint smile.
"That's not exactly what I meant. But I can see your point." He
paused and pulled his bottom lip into his mouth, biting down gently
as he tried to decide where to begin. "I've been doing a lot of thinking
these past few months, Scully. About my work and my life. About
you. About what we do and who we are. And there's something I
can't quite figure out."
     "Oh," she murmured, "I can't wait to hear this."
     Mulder let that one pass. He figured she had the right to be a
little sarcastic. It was better than a punch in the jaw, even though he
had to admit her words carried a sting of their own. "If you look back
at some of the things that've happened over the last five years, some
of the things I've done, it just doesn't add up."
     "What do you mean?"
     "Well, just think about it, Scully. Is there any other agent in
the Bureau who could do even half the things I've done and get away
with them? End up with nothing more than an official reprimand in
my file? Hell, I should have been booted out on my ass after the
fiasco with Roche. Not to mention the dozen or so other fuck-ups
that came before and after. But I wasn't. Ever wonder why that is,
Scully?"
     Bless her, she was actually taking the time to think about his
question. He waited her out. "I would imagine," she finally said, "it
has something to do with the connections you've made over the
years. And then there's Skinner. Who, it seems, has a soft spot for
you--though God knows why." 
     He chuckled softly and thought he caught the edge of a smile
on her face. This was his saving grace; the fact that Scully was slow
to anger and quick to forgive. Not that he was foolish enough to
think everything was hunky-dory now, only that she'd begun to soften
a little. It didn't hurt that he was presenting her with a puzzle, either.
Scully liked puzzles. 
     "Hate to tell break this to you, Scully, but it's not me Skinner
has the soft spot for." He shrugged and continued. "Anyway, it's not
that simple anymore. It can't be. I mean, sure, I've still got my share
of anonymous backers, but nothing like what I had before Senator
Matheson lost the last election. And it's not a matter of my little
escapades going unnoticed, either. I've never really gone out of my
way to avoid detection. They may have stuck me in the basement, but
it's never been out of sight out of mind, y'know? And the Director
isn't exactly one of my biggest fans. So why am I still working at the
FBI? Who's making sure I stay there? And why?" 
     Mulder took a couple seconds to let that sink in and then
continued. "And how come I'm not dead?" His words hit him and he
glanced up at Scully. "Well, not *dead* dead. You know what I
mean. Seems to me I've got more lives than a cat, Scully. I shouldn't
have ever walked out of some of the situations I've been in. There've
been too many opportunities for our enemies to pick me off and have
done with it. But that hasn't happened, either. Ever wonder why?" 
     Mulder stopped as a shiny new thought popped into his head.
It wasn't even completed before he opened his mouth and spoke it.
"For that matter, why not a bullet for you, too? Why cancer? Why
something that takes considerably longer to kill than a gunshot?"
     They glanced at each other and their eyes held for just a
second longer than was necessary. And then Scully dropped her chin
and peered at him from the tops of her eyes. "Mulder...." She sighed
and looked at him squarely. "This is beginning to sound like some
highly unlikely theory that places you at the center of everything
that's been going on."
     "Is it any more unlikely than the scenario you bought lock,
stock and barrel from Michael Kritschgau?"
     Scully's mouth went tight. Like she'd sucked on a lemon.
Oops, he thought. I didn't mean to just blurt it out like that. Back up,
Mulder. Regroup. He scrubbed his mouth and said, "Hell, Scully.
We're really not that far apart when you think about it. The only
difference is that we're coming at it from opposite directions. You're
convinced that there's no alien life and that I was being used in order
to perpetrate a lie. A lie created to cover up the government's
culpability in what you believe are very earthly experiments."
     He waited until he got a small nod of acknowledgment that
his words were her thoughts. "On the other hand, I'm convinced of
the existence of aliens. And convinced that they're working in
conjunction with not only our government, but a vast world-wide
Consortium."
     "And your involvement in this, Mulder? How do you fit into
your own theory?"
     "I don't know," he admitted. "But it goes a lot deeper than
setting me up as a patsy. There has to be a reason beyond that,
Scully. The only thing I know for certain is that I was kept alive and
allowed to continue my work with the X-Files. Somehow, in some
way, my survival was important to them. And maybe now that I'm
dead, the reasons will become clear."
     They were both silent for awhile, each lost in their own
thoughts. Mulder finally closed his eyes and leaned back, aware he
was being lulled into sleep by the quiet, monotonous sound of the
miles rolling away beneath the wheels of the van. But he was too
tired to care; grateful that Scully's presence made sleep easier to
come by. Her voice calling his name startled him fully awake an
unknown time later.
     "So you faked your own death in order to gauge the reaction
it would get from the Consortium. Is that right?"
     He forced open his eyes and blinked at her through heavy lids,
yawning hugely. He arched his hips off the seat, stretching his legs as
his arms pulled tight above his head. "That's part of it, yeah."
     "And the rest?"
     Mulder leaned over and opened the small refrigerator next to
Scully's seat. He pulled out a bottle of iced tea and offered it to her.
     "No. Thanks."
     "Drink it, Scully. You can't afford to get dehydrated again."
     He had to admit he was more than a little pleased by the guilty
look that crossed her face. She silently took the bottle from his hand
and made a show of twisting off the cap and taking a swallow.
Satisfied, Mulder grabbed a second bottle and emptied in it in four
long gulps.
     "I told you I'd been thinking about this for a long time. Well,
the more I thought about it, the more I knew the only way to come at
the answers we needed to save you, and then keep you safe, was to
eliminate the biggest obstacle in our way. I realized that it wasn't
Cancer Man we had to worry about. Or even the shadow men he
works with. We have an enemy who's far more dangerous than any of
those men could ever be. And I had to make sure he was out of the
picture in order to make this whole thing work."
     "And who might that be?" she asked. "Just who is our
greatest enemy, Mulder?"
     He pinned her with his eyes and declared, "Me."  

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ 


Primal Sympathy
Chapter Seven 

HOPE BASE
ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA
MAY 5, 1997
6:21 AM      
        
     Mulder stepped from the van and slung the bag over his
shoulder. He turned back and silently offered Scully his hand. She
studied his tawny-gold eyes before she took it and hopped out after
him. The instant her feet hit the ground, his grasp on her hand
slackened and fell away. Scully was only slightly taken aback by her
sudden urge to grab hold of him and never let go. 
     She'd been fighting similar urges throughout the trip to
Allentown. She was never quite certain if she should be screaming at
him or flinging herself into his arms. Every revelation Mulder had
hesitantly dished out had provoked both desires in her. Conflicting
emotions were nothing new to Dana Scully. She'd been having them
most her of her life. But never so intense as with Mulder. And never
so confusing to her as now. 
     And so she'd done neither. She'd forced herself to remain still.
To be composed and let loose her words as she tightened the reins on
her traitorous body. 
     Scully glanced up at Mulder in the pinkish-gray light of dawn
and studied him as he watched Crawford pull away in the van. My
enemy, she thought. She rolled the words around in her head as she
would a piece of candy on her tongue; tasting its flavor. Testing it
against what she knew or only suspected. Is what he believes true,
she wondered. Could he be both the driving force in my life and the
instrument of my destruction--as well as his own? She hadn't known
when Mulder had first made his announcement, and she wasn't any
closer to an answer now.
     Mulder turned and looked down at her. She forced herself to
meet his eyes. There'd been no further conversation after Mulder's
last words to her. With a single look, they'd both silently agreed that
time needed to be taken. Words pondered. Actions and explanations
relived and investigated for hidden meaning. Mulder had finally
tipped his head back and slept. She'd spent the last hour of the
journey listening to his soft snoring; at once infuriated and comforted.
     Now she looked up into familiar hooded eyes and found
herself searching them. Looking for that same indefinable,
inaccessible thing she'd sought so often in the photo she'd kept of
him. 
     What exactly are you looking for, Dana? And will you know
it when you see it?
     "You ready?" Mulder asked.
     "I don't know," she answered honestly, but took her place
beside him as he turned and walked towards the abandoned factory.
Even if she had all the answers she wanted, she wasn't sure she'd be
ready for whatever lay beyond the door Mulder was leading them to. 
     She didn't stop to consider the fact that she'd once again
followed along side him, no more questions asked. She also took no
conscious notice of his hand taking its spot on the small of her back.
Not until it fell away as Mulder reached out to poke at a keypad set
into the wall beside the door. Then she missed its warmth.
     "Nice security system for someone on government wages." 
     Mulder glanced at her and softly smiled. "What, this? Sorry to
disappoint you, but it's not my doing. This is all compliments of the
Consortium."
     "What?" She was awestruck by the implication.
     "Relax, Scully. It's not the way it sounds. Remember, the
Crawfords are working for the Project. In some ways, the
Consortium is run a lot like Uncle Sam. They dole out the money and
don't much care where it goes, as long as they get the results they
want. It's a simple matter of ask and ye shall receive."
     "You mean all this was set up using Consortium money?"
Scully snorted quietly. "I'll be damned."
     "Pretty sneaky, huh?" Mulder replied. "You ain't seen nothin'
yet." The light on the keypad flashed from red to green and he pulled
open the heavy steel door. Stepping aside, he waved Scully through
and followed her in. The door closed and locked behind them with a
solid, heavy thunk.
     Scully looked around and felt as though she'd stepped inside
the skeleton of some giant, prehistoric beast. They stood in a huge
empty area, nothing remaining inside the paper mill but the thick steel
I-beams that made up the frame of the building. The ceiling rose high
above their heads, the walls bare and ugly. The only illumination
came from whatever sunlight managed to sneak through several
jagged holes in the roof. Dust motes swirled and danced in the beams
of light that pierced the shadowed recesses of the huge room. A
musty, ancient odor crept into her nostrils and Scully sneezed in
reaction. 
     Mulder's "Bless you," was automatic. 
     "Well, Mulder," she commented, and quickly lowered her
voice as it echoed through the empty space. "You certainly know all
the nicer places."
     He chuckled quietly and pointed a finger into the shadows.
"We need to go that way. Other end." He adjusted the shoulder strap
of her bag and set off into the darkness, Scully trailing along beside
him. "We set up shop in what used to be the office area," he
explained as they walked. "It's located at the back end of the building
and can't be seen from any of the main roads. All the windows have
either been boarded up or painted over. So we don't need to worry
about anyone seeing any lights at night. There's only one other
working entrance, and it's right off the lab." He glanced over at her.
"All things considered, it's pretty damn secure. The only visitors
we've had have been a couple kids tooling around in their car, looking
for a quiet place to make out. They didn't stick around long. I think
this place gave them the creeps."
     "I can't imagine why," she quipped.  
     "The offices are a lot nicer than this, Scully. It's not the Ritz,
but it's got everything we need."
     "How long have you been set up here?"
     "Just about a month. We didn't even get the last of the
supplies and equipment till a few days ago."
     They fell silent as they crossed the vast expanse, their footfalls
loud in the tomb-like stillness surrounding them. Scully was filled
with an odd anticipation. Considering all that had happened in the last
few hours, she should have been disoriented and exhausted. Instead,
she found herself anxious to see what Mulder had in store for her. I'm
like Pavlov's dog, she thought, a little irritated with herself. All
Mulder has to do is say the right words and I'm there--all good sense
be damned.
     Soon they reached the end of the main building and passed
through another secured door. Walking down a narrow hallway to a
third door, Mulder paused and turned to her. "Well, here we are." He
almost sounded apologetic.
     "Why do I hear a trace of 'abandon all hope' in your voice,
Mulder? Maybe I should just turn around and go home." Scully
suddenly shivered and fought back the desire to hug herself.
     And then Mulder reached out and brushed her cheek with the
back of a finger. A gentle, glancing touch. One that was gone before
she could react. "Can't do that, Scully," he told her quietly. "We can't
go back now. All the bridges are burnt."
     Scully guessed she knew that; had known it the instant she'd
agreed to go with Mulder. She also knew that he was alluding to
more than just the steps they'd taken the last few hours. By agreeing
to follow him, she'd also accepted all the ramifications that might
come from her decision to abandon her life as she knew it, and take
what Mulder was offering her instead. The funny thing was, she
couldn't remember exactly what it was he'd offered. It seemed like the
confrontation in her apartment had taken place days ago. It had
become nothing more than a dim memory. Until Mulder opened the
final door and ushered her inside. 
     Oh yeah, she thought dazedly, as she looked around. He said
something about finding the answers we need to save my life. 
     "The truth will save you, Scully. I think it'll save both of us."
     She heard the words so clearly she was positive Mulder had
just spoken them. But when she swung around to him, he was
looking straight ahead, his generous mouth firmly set. She shook off
the auditory memory and took a few steps further into the room.
Pivoting slowly on her heel, Scully took a good look around. 
     She was standing in the middle of a small but impressive
laboratory. All bright lights and shiny chrome. Scully let her eyes
slowly wander over the equipment, checking off each separate piece
on a small list she unknowingly kept her head. Low counters were
filled with beakers and vials and thick computer printouts. Desks
were scattered throughout the room, complete with PCs, monitors
glowing blue as information flashed across them at an alarming rate
of speed. Occupying three of these desks were the men Scully knew
as Kurt Crawford. As one, they turned their heads and gazed serenely
at her. 
     "Agent Scully," the one closest to her said. "It's good to see
you again."  
     She was struck with a sense of deja vu. She'd heard those
same words from the man behind the wheel of the van she just
stepped from. She could do no more than nod in reply. She caught
Mulder watching her from the corner of her eye and looked to him,
her brow furrowed. Mulder laid his hand against her back. And this
time he left it there. Scully could barely feel the heat from his touch.
It was hesitant and light, as though he were prepared to snatch it
away at the slightest sign it wasn't welcome. His eyes meet hers.
     "It gets easier, Scully. No less strange, but easier." He topped
off his words with an encouraging nod. Still holding her eye, Mulder
asked, "Did I miss anything exciting, George?" 
     The Crawford at the furthermost desk replied, "We rented the
original version of *The Thing* last night."
     "Been there, done that. Got the t-shirt," Mulder said quietly,
his eyes never leaving her face. Scully was flooded by the memory of
Mulder's big, warm hand brushing the hair from the nape of her neck
before settling there, gently cupping the delicate pearls of her spine.
She dropped her eyes and came up on the balls of her feet, her hand
coming to rest on Mulder's shoulder for support, her mouth close to
his ear. Instinctively, Mulder leaned down to meet her, his hand now
heavy at the small of her back.
     "George?" she murmured, trying not to focus on the perfect
swirl of his ear, the tiny hole in the lobe. She could feel the steady
hum that now pulsed between them. Simple contact. Her hand on his
shoulder, his hand on her back. The connection had been completed. 
     Mulder turned his face away and glanced over at the men
before turning back to her. He dipped his head again and kept up the
conspiratorial whisper. "I couldn't very well call all of them
Crawford. The one who's here the most, my unofficial baby-sitter, is
George."
     "How do you know which one he is?"
     She watched as he jerked a smile. "I don't. Not always," he
admitted and raised an eyebrow at her. "But I figure my chances are
pretty good he'll be somewhere in the room."
     Scully couldn't help but return his grin. She was also highly
ashamed of herself for thinking it under the circumstances, but she
was suddenly entranced by the way Mulder smelled up close. She
shoved down an insane desire to stretch on her toes a little bit more,
get a little closer. Just enough to bury her nose in the hair at Mulder's
temple.
     I need to sleep, she thought guiltily. I'm too tired to be
thinking these things and feeling this way. I have no control.
     But he's here, another voice whispered. And he's alive. And
wouldn't it be nice to just sink into his arms and have him take care of
me for awhile?
     Ah, yes. Mulder. The same man who allowed me to believe
he'd taken his own life. Who did everything in his power to make me
believe his lie. 
     Scully came down flat on her feet and took a single step away
from him. His hand was instantly gone. 
     "Oh, one other thing" George added, and Scully silently
thanked him for giving her a focus other than Mulder. "Mr. Skinner is
upstairs. He arrived late last night."
     "Skinner?" Mulder asked. Scully could feel him tense up from
a foot away. 
     "Oh, good," she murmured, thinking she could use another
target for her considerable anger. After all, it wasn't fair to take it all
out on Mulder. Was it?
     Mulder was in motion, striding across the room to George's
side. "What is he doing here?"
     Mulder's tone was an odd mixture of worry and something
almost territorial in nature; as though Skinner's presence was
somehow a threat to him. What is going on? Scully wondered.
     "Is everything all right, Mulder?"
     "I don't know, Scully. Let's go find out."
     Mulder took off towards the back of the room, Scully a few
steps behind him. He pushed through a fire door and she followed,
finding herself in a stairwell. After throwing her a glance over his
shoulder, Mulder bounded up the stairs, taking them two and three at
a time.
     Scully sighed and trudged up the stairs behind him. "That's
okay, Mulder, you don't have to wait for me," she mumbled to
herself. "Wouldn't want to slow you down." 
     But he was waiting for her at the third floor landing. He
pulled open the door as she reached the top step, ushering her into
another hallway. They made their way down the hall and pushed
through a glass door at the end. Scully caught a partial name and title
on the door, the black letters faded and peeling away. They entered a
large narrow outer office, complete with a desk and a fifth Kurt
Crawford. She barely  glanced at him as Mulder rounded the
doorway into the inner office, Scully right on his heels. 
     Skinner, who'd either been sleeping or close to it, jumped to
his feet as they burst into the room. His eyes rested on Mulder for a
brief moment before all his attention came to focus on her. Mulder
didn't waste any time with greetings.
     "What are you doing here? What's wrong?" he demanded.
"Did that son-of-a-bitch finally show up?"
     Skinner's eyes flicked between the two of them. Scully was
amazed at how they each received a different look. The one delivered
to Mulder was all business. Hers, on the other hand, was filled with
something that looked a lot like relief.
     Instead of answering Mulder's question, Skinner addressed
her. "Scully, I can't tell you how glad I am that you're here."
     She looked at both men and then turned to face Skinner head
on. "Well, sir, if you can't tell me that, then maybe you can tell me
exactly what your part is in this little scheme." Mulder made a low,
muffled sound in his throat and she threw him a warning glance. 
     Apparently, Skinner decided to ignore her question--at least
for the time being. He looked over at Mulder and said, "Nothing's
wrong, Agent Mulder. My only business here was to make certain
Scully arrived safely. And, no, I haven't been contacted yet."
     "Contacted by whom?"
     Both men turned to her. And then she watched as they
exchanged an inscrutable look. After a few seconds Mulder shrugged
and walked away, heading for the tall bank of windows on the outer
wall. Scully looked back at Skinner and flipped her arms up in a
gesture of frustration. "Would someone like to tell me what the hell is
going on here?" 
     "Why don't you sit down, Scully," Skinner suggested.
     Ignoring the pain of her bruised hand, she folded her arms
across her chest. "Is that an order, sir?"
     "No. No, of course not. I just thought you might be tired from
the trip." 
     "The only thing I'm tired of is being kept in the dark." She
caught Skinner's grim nod and watched as he settled himself back
down on the scruffy couch he'd been occupying when they'd come in.
A small part of her brain registered surprise that Skinner was willing
to put himself at a disadvantage; taking a position where he was
forced to look up at her. 
     I don't think I'm going to like what he's got to say, she
thought. She glanced over at Mulder. He was standing
slump-shouldered, his back to them, hands shoved in the front
pockets of his jeans. No, she realized, I'm not going to like it at all.
     "I don't know how much Mulder has told you," Skinner
began.
     "Not enough," she retorted coolly. 
     The Assistant Director leaned forward and bowed his head.
His forearms came to rest on his thighs, his hands hanging loosely
between his knees. Scully watched as he took two deep breaths
before raising his head and meeting her eyes.   
     "Mulder came to me shortly after you were diagnosed. He
wanted me to arrange a meeting for him."
     "With whom?" The question was automatic. But the sinking
feeling in Scully's gut gave her all the answer she needed.
     After an interminable silence, Skinner said "Cancer Man." 
     Her suspicions confirmed, Scully's knees went soft on her.
She felt behind her for the arm of the couch and sat down heavily.
She gave Mulder's back a long look, willing him to turn and face her.
She could feel the push of his resistance from across the room. 
     What had transpired, that Mulder couldn't even look at her?
     "Go on," she told Skinner.
     "Mulder was convinced, *is* convinced, that Cancer Man is
behind your abduction and what's happened to you since. He believed
the chances were high that the Smoking Man would have the answers
needed to save your life."
     Scully could feel the beginnings of a headache pulling tight
across her brow. She lifted a hand there and rubbed, trying to erase
some of the pressure. She felt lightheaded, queasy. She was filled
with questions, all of them directed at the one man in the room who
wouldn't even turn to face her. Was it cowardice that was keeping his
back to her? Shame? Or was it something far worse?
     She had no doubt that if Mulder could make himself invisible,
he'd do it in the blink of an eye. And so he made it easy for her to
ignore his presence, to cut him out of the equation. He could always
be added back into it later. She cleared her throat and asked Skinner,
"And what was Agent Mulder willing to do in return?"
     There was a long silence, and when the answer came, it wasn't
from the direction she'd expected. Mulder slowly turned back to
them. He gave Skinner a long look and then meet her steady gaze.
"Anything," he answered. "Everything. Whatever it takes, Scully. The
work. My badge. My life, if it comes down to that." He looked away
and quietly added, "And I guess it has, hasn't it?" 
     It was the matter-of-fact, wholly sincere tone of his voice that
brought the sting of tears to her eyes. It would have been far easier to
dismiss his claim as melodrama had it been accompanied by any hint
of selfishness, or a desire to be praised for his sacrifice. But there was
none of that. No hint of the cool, composed, smart-ass FBI agent.
There was just Mulder, with his sad eyes and beaten-down posture.
And with his heart firmly on his sleeve.
     "Oh, Mulder, no," she murmured, her blood suddenly running
thick and cold in her veins. "Please don't tell me you made a deal with
him." 
     Mulder raised his eyes to hers. "No," he answered, shaking his
head. "No, I didn't. But I would have--in a second." His gaze shifted
to Skinner. "I just didn't get the chance. Skinner convinced me there
were other ways to come to the truth. Ways that wouldn't require the
selling of my soul." 
     Scully released the breath she'd been holding and asked,
"What ways?"
     Mulder spread his arms wide. "You're looking at it."  
     Well, at least that much made sense. Skinner had steered him
away from making any deals with Cancer Man. Which had obviously
set him on the path they were all following now. But it still didn't
explain Skinner's part in it.
     Scully turned back to the AD. "So what is your involvement
in this?"
     Skinner gave her his best tight-ass stare and stated evenly, "I
didn't follow my own advice."
     Scully was stunned. She looked over at Mulder and felt her
stomach clinch at what she saw there. The confirmation shone dully
in his eyes. Turning back to Skinner, she stammered, "You mean
you.... You made a deal with Cancer Man? You bargained for my
life?" 
     His answer was terse. "Yes."
     Scully dropped her eyes and stared at the threadbare carpet
beneath her feet. She suddenly felt very small, and very much out of
control. "I see," she breathed. "And what was the price?"
     She heard the audible click as Skinner swallowed hard. "My
cooperation in certain matters."
     "Such as?"
     "Overlooking certain things. Focusing on others." There was
a short pause. "Cleaning up messes."
     Scully slowly her head in understanding and lifted her eyes.
Mulder had come to stand a little closer to her, his hands perched on
his hips. "I'm assuming," she said, "that since I'm still dying, he hasn't
held up his end of the bargain."
     "I doubt he ever intended to, Scully," Skinner replied. "In
fact, I know he didn't."
     "What do you mean?"
     "It wasn't me he wanted to deal with, it was Mulder. We
suspect that the onset of your cancer was nothing more than an effort
to bring Mulder into the Project. They knew he would be desperate
enough to give them whatever they wanted in order to save you. But
our smoking friend isn't a fool. He figured if he couldn't drag Mulder
into it, he might as well have another pasty to do his dirty work. I
doubt my involvement was part of their original plan."
     "Then why?" she asked incredulously. "Why would you ever
agree to such a thing? Why would either one of you even consider
it?"
     It was Mulder who answered. "Like he said, Scully.
Desperation."  
     She waited for more. She needed more. But it wasn't
forthcoming. After a long silence, she addressed Skinner. "And the
current status of your deal?"
     He sighed heavily. "I've had no contact with him since
Mulder's  apparent suicide. He seems to have disappeared into the
woodwork."