Truce
Chapter One

Disclaimers, etc., in Headers


"Umm... Fox?"

The low purr startled him from his work at the
laptop and he sighed, removing his glasses to
rub the bridge of his nose.  The day so far had
been one dead end after another, and his
companion's interruption threatened to blow the
lid on his simmering bad temper.  Looking up, he
swung away from the huge mahogany desk with
bleary eyes.  "Yes, Marvin, what is it?"

"Tea at four, remember?  And Mr. Bombay is
expected with this week's report then - have you
forgotten?"  The stilted tones of British
schooling came from a face so familiar it made
Mulder ache.

"No, I haven't." Mulder's reply was short as he
turned back to the computer screen.  In truth,
he had, but he wasn't about to tell Marvin that. 
The reports said practically the same thing
every week, anyway, so why bother?  "And don't
call me Fox.  It's Mulder.  Or better yet, call
me Mr. Robie.  It's my God damned name now."

The little man stiffened.  "There's no need to
swear.  I am well aware of your alias."

As his friend turned to leave the study, Mulder
rose from his chair, guilt at his anger making
his voice low.  "Marvin, I'm sorry, okay?  It's
just that -" He broke off, not knowing quite how
to apologize; this man had enable him to live in
comfort, to resume his work.  It wasn't Marvin's 
fault he was one morose bastard lately.

"You miss him, don't you?"

Mulder chuckled, a self-derisive exhale more
than genuine laughter.  He missed them all,
missed *her* more than anything.  And this man,
the perfect twin to the one who'd loved her as
he still did, had done nothing but live... and
give.  He'd appeared to Mulder on the beach in
Gulf Shores, Alabama several months ago;  Mulder
thought him a ghost, like before.  As he dropped
his pants to piss off a pier in the moonless
night, drunk off his ass, he'd snidely remarked,
"Gotta thing for my pee-pee, Melvin?"

His mistake was quickly corrected, however, as
Marvin had turned his nose up at Mulder's beard
and cutoffs before producing a detailed document
that explained all.

How the hell Marvin found him still amazed
Mulder.  But then again, the man was a Frohike. 
Identical in face and genius, his journey begun
on the death of his twin, he was diligent and
trustworthy like his sibling.  It was Marvin who
was responsible for Mulder's access, for the
means he'd thought lost to him forever by his
self-imposed disappearance.

And now, as he sat in opulence, courtesy of this
man's wise investments over the years, he could
do nothing but snap and snarl.  Typical, he
thought.

"I know I'm not him," Marvin began, but Mulder
waved a hand, cutting off the attempt at
unneeded conciliation.

"Stop.  It's me who should be apologizing to
you."  With a small smile, he added, "I would
have nothing if not for you, Marvin."

Seeing Frohike's twin, dressed in a black suit
that obviously did not come from a department
store rack, his close-cropped hair neat as a
pin, never failed to amaze him.  The glasses
perched on his nose were delicate but
serviceable, and his voice, while clipped and
precise, was Melvin's.  Even after the months
they'd been together, Mulder still felt a drag
of what had been lost when he looked at Marvin. 
It wasn't the guy's fault, and he should at
least treat him with the respect he deserved.

Thumb in the pocket of his waistcoat, Marvin
took a step forward.  The gesture was so like
Frohike that Mulder sucked in a sharp breath. 
Marvin couldn't know that, as he spoke softly,
"My brother - rest his soul - spoke of you
frequently, Mulder.  Though we hadn't seen each
other much since I departed for Oxford as a
teen, we did correspond, by phone when we could. 
He held you in great esteem."

"As I did him," Mulder replied.  Though he'd
ragged on Frohike at every chance, surely Melvin
knew how much he respected and admired him?  He
wasn't sure; just another missed opportunity
along the way.  One more reason to treat this
man better than he did.

Marvin nodded, accepting Mulder's heartfelt
statement.  "He thought you were the most
dedicated, passionate man he'd ever known.  A
mere redwood among sprouts, he told me once."
Marvin's eyes twinkled.  "But he said you didn't
- excuse the expression - know shit abouut
handling money."

"I never cared about that," Mulder said,
shifting in his chair with unease.  The fact
that said money was quite likely his father's
blood money had always contributed to his
dislike of financial matters.

"It's a good thing you set up some sort of
reserve, don't you think?  Use it, my good man."

Mulder laughed, leaning back in his chair.  "You
know, when I asked Frohike to set up bogus
accounts for me in the event I had to live...
well, just like this... I never expected to
live... well, like *this*.  I have you to thank
for that."

"Melvin was no better at investing than you
were, Mulder.  He knew I could turn your nest
egg into a gold mine, so I did.  It's what I do
best."

"Why didn't you ever -?" Mulder broke off,
sensing he drifted into personal territory.

"Help Melvin?" Marvin finished for him.  "The
little bugger refused.  Wanted to make his own
way." Marvin's chin dropped and he cleared his
throat, picking at an imaginary piece of lint on
his coat.  "I retired the month he died, you
know.  I had every intention of coming here to
persuade him to live in comfort with me. 
Instead, I find him gone, with instructions to
care for your needs."  Lifting calm eyes, he
proclaimed, "I can't imagine a more worthy use
of my time."

Mulder felt his own throat grow tight with
emotion, but he understood Marvin's need for
command of his own.  He stood and extended a
hand, finally sensing a communion of sorts with
this new friend after a bristling of several
months.  "Then I will endeavor to live up to
your great expectations."

Marvin took the offered hand and said with a
curl of his lips, "Don't disappoint me, my
friend.  Your work is not done.  Melvin's work
is not done."

Another jewel of a discovery was that Marvin
knew all about Mulder's work, about the
conspiracy and the impending alien invasion. 
Frohike had been thorough.  Marvin wasn't as
accepting unconditionally - in many ways, he
reminded Mulder of Scully - but he never
dismissed anything out of hand.  Mulder counted
himself lucky to have found him.  Rather, that
Marvin had found *him*.

"I'll do my best, Marvin."

Marvin gave his hand one last jerk, then turned
for the door.  "Good enough.  Don't forget, tea
at four with Mr. Bombay."

Chuckling, Mulder made for his desk.  "That's
*Doctor* Bombay, Marvin.  Didn't you ever watch
TV?"

Marvin snorted.  "Manna for the unwashed masses. 
A total waste of time."

"Remind me to introduce you to Baywatch
sometime, okay?  You gonna hang with me, you
gotta loosen that starched collar."  He was
determined to have his friend do the memory of
his brother proud, as well as let him have a bit
of fun.

"My cravat is loose enough, thank you."  With
that, he left, closing the study door behind
him.

"Not nearly, Marvin," Mulder murmured, "not
nearly."


**********


Mulder sipped at the tea, grimacing as he looked
out the veranda doors.  He really hated the
stuff, but he didn't have the heart to deny
Marvin the afternoon repast.  As long as he had
his morning coffee, he could put up with
Marvin's insistence they at least be somewhat
civilized in the afternoons.

The late February day was cold and dismal. 
Nothing like the winters in the northeast, or
even Washington, for that matter.  South
Louisiana winters were wet and chilling to the
bone, something his battered body didn't take to
easily.  His shoulder ached, as did the old
gunshot wound to the thigh.  Thank goodness
Marvin had found a house with plenty of room,
and spacious grounds.  Mulder still enjoyed his
daily runs, the acres of land perfect for
exercise.  And excellent for security, with its
twelve-foot iron fences - assayed before
purchase and found to be rich in magnetite.  The
cameras and alarm system were state-of-the-art,
and Mulder admitted he'd never felt safer in his
life.

He'd also never felt more lonely.  When Marvin
had found him in Gulf Shores and sobered him up,
he'd made it clear his purpose in life now was
to keep him safe.  Just pick the location and I
can set it up, he'd said.  Money is no object.

Mulder knew he shouldn't have picked a place so
close to his heart.  To *her*.  While not the
busy decadence of New Orleans, its humid air and
relaxed atmosphere were damn close.  At the
time, he'd harbored an unconscious hope that one
day, she'd return to the place that held so many
memories - good and bad - for them.  Thanks to
Bombay, the hotels in the city had standing
orders to notify him if Dana Scully - or Ana -
came calling.

Especially this time of year, when Mardi Gras
was gearing up.  He so wanted to just pick up
the phone and tell her once again, "This is what
I want.  Come to me."  But he couldn't, not
until he was sure they could remain together
forever.  Working constantly toward that goal,
he prayed she would still want to be with him
when he asked.  As he would one day, he had to
believe that.  And when the time came, and they
could face a world without threat, William would
join them.

Oh yes, he kept tabs on his son as well.  Knew
exactly where he was and who had adopted him;
knew the family down to their respective shoe
sizes.  Bombay's reports included William's
activities; doctor's visits, the social worker's
monthly workups, even the occasional trip to
church and the park.  Marvin had discreetly
dropped a few hints, asked subtle questions,
until Mulder had growled that it was none of his
business.  He'd tell him in due time, though he
suspected Marvin already knew his relationship
to the child, courtesy of his brother.  And when
Mulder's massive fortune was no longer needed
for security and espionage, he could turn its
use toward regaining custody of his son.

As for Scully?  God help him.  The return of her
love and trust was liable to drain him, and he
knew it.  Not of money, but of every ounce of
apology and regret within him.  He'd done what
was best by leaving her.  Given time, she'd
realize that.  But it damn well would take a lot
longer for her to get over her anger, and he
felt it now, even though a thousand miles
separated them.

With less invasiveness than he instructed Bombay
to exert with William's life, he had also gotten
a few sporadic reports on what Scully was doing. 
Mulder knew she was back at Quantico.  He knew
she'd tried to contact him using the old email
address.  He also knew he was no longer wanted
by the Bureau, but he didn't dare put her in the
path of one of the replacements by showing his
face.  The aliens were out there waiting, he
knew it.  They hadn't traced him past Gulf
Shores, and he knew it was because of Marvin's
and Bombay's efforts.  No midnight visits, or
potshots when he did rarely venture into the
city.  But they were there as surely as the next
sunrise.  Just waiting for one ill-timed, lonely
phone call to a certain woman in Georgetown...

The pain of loneliness ate at his gut day and
night.  Many times, he'd picked up the phone,
only to slam it down with frustration.  Today,
after yet another fitful night's rest and day-
long scrutiny of the Internet, he was in no mood
for Bombay's skimpy reports.  The man had better
have something to show for all that money, and
he'd better do it quickly.

"Mulder!  What's up?"

The clean-cut man held out his hand as he
entered the parlor, his bright eyes smiling in
greeting.  Mulder shook his hand like a soul
brother, nodding as he greeted, "That's what
you're here to tell me, Bombay.  Hopefully with
better news than last week's."

Dr. Bombay, nee Gerald Lacombe, had been a
secret associate of the Gunmen.  Working out of
a Bourbon Street apartment, he lived off his
father's oil money while doing his best to
'uncover the truth about the government'.  Not
quite as paranoid as his deceased friends, he
made no secret of the fact that his hacking
skills were not only used for truth-seeking - he
ran a legitimate business as well, consulting
for private firms.  Some of the richest in the
New Orleans area, in fact.  Turning one's nose
up in private at the establishment didn't mean
one had to live in poverty, he'd told Mulder at
their first meeting.

He wasn't nearly as hippie-ish as some Mulder
had dealt with since the Gunmen's demise, and
Mulder liked the guy.  Late thirties, he stood
tall and fit, and was reportedly quite a
charmer... with the fellows.  Mulder still
chuckled inwardly at Bombay's lifestyle.  A gay,
paranoid, computer hacker who liked the good
life - the Gunmen sure knew how to pick 'em. 
Bombay was also the best at what he did, and
Mulder paid him well enough to do it.  In cash,
of course.  He had to be careful about
*everything* he did these days, and he knew it. 
Thank goodness Marvin and Bombay were
trustworthy.  The Gunmen picked their friends
well.

"Have a bit of news," Bombay started, sitting on
the overstuffed leather couch.  He reached for
the pot of tea on the coffee table, pouring a
cup as he spied the sugary cakes next to the
teapot.  "These made with sugar?  Or Equal? 
Have to watch the old waistline, you know."

"Dunno," Mulder said shortly, sitting on the
opposite couch, his ears pricked at Bombay's
earlier statement.  "News?  Is it William?  Is
he okay?"

Bombay spoke around a sugary bite.  "He's fine. 
Got his first dog last week... a mutt named
Joey."

The bottom fell out of Mulder's stomach; he
wanted to be the one to give his son such
things.  Wanted to wrestle in the back yard with
him, teach him to throw a baseball, pull out the
washtub and help him bathe a mangy mutt named
Joey...

"What I've got is better - much better."

His friend's statement roused him from
melancholy and he looked up, all business. 
"Tell me."

"You really knew what you were doing, Mulder,
when you picked New Orleans as a base of
operations.  Before you came along, I never
imagined the scope of the deals that go down
here.  Really -"

"Just tell me already," he interrupted,
impatient and wanting to skip the hacker's
amazement.  Yeah, the world was a much more
horrible place than anyone could ever dream -
Bombay was just now finding that out?

Clearing his throat, the hacker stilled, placing
the cup down.  "I think I've stumbled onto
something.  Big."

"What?"

"Did you know that more than 6000 ships a year
transport goods up the Mississippi River from
New Orleans?  It's one of the world's busiest,
largest sea ports.  It's the only deepwater port
served by six class one railroads."

"Yeah, so?"

"The Port of New Orleans handles commodities
from rubber to coffee.  Its number one movable
product last year was steel."

"I say again - so?" Mulder felt like screaming. 
It was just like this friend of the Gunmen's to
linger over trivial facts - further proof of the
time he spent among them.

"So, it just so happens one of the leaders in
German steel production has relocated to the New
Orleans area in the past couple of weeks. 
Setting up shop in the International Trade
Center as we speak.  He's just been nominated
for the vacant seat on the Port Commission,
pending the governor's approval."

"Damn it, Bombay," Mulder growled, "what the
hell is all this leading up to?"

"In fact, rumor has it he's making the usual
political rounds at the Mardi Gras balls. 
Greasing a few palms, cozying up to the old
Guard, you know - kissing ass big time."

Mulder was seconds away from throttling the guy. 
As his jaw tightened, Bombay threw up his hands.

"Okay, okay!  Strughold.  Conrad Strughold. 
Ring a bell?"

Sudden excitement made Mulder sit up, his hand
flying up to scratch at his bearded chin. 
Strughold Mining.  Never proven, but certainly
suspect as one of the few major players left in
the Consortium.  Eyes wide, he bit out, "Sure
it's the same guy?"

"Only one, you know.  Heavy dealer in steel and
ore.  Diversified several years back into gas
and oil.  Galpex-Orpheus, to be exact."

At that, Mulder stood, walking slowly to the
veranda doors.  Had to be the same guy.  Not
only did he own the mine in West Virginia, he
just happened to own the rig in the Gulf of
Mexico pumping up the black oil.  A man who, by
all suspicions, was up to his neck in alien
collaboration.  What use would he have for a
seat on the New Orleans Port Commission?  That
was small change for an international business
mogul like Strughold.

Inroads into the Port Commission, on the
surface, seemed like a sound business deal. 
Able to make decisions on fees, schedules -
while not exactly ethical, the state of
Louisiana had traditionally turned a blind eye
to corporate wheeling and dealing... in return
for hefty political contributions.  Several
nagging questions remained, however.

"He's not a US citizen.  How could he gain a
seat on the board?"

"It's not like holding elected political office,
Mulder.  Basically, the governor can appoint who
he damn well pleases.  And Strughold's got the
money to buy ten seats on the board, you know
that."

Well he did.  Just as he sensed that it was time
to leave this fortress behind and begin the war. 
The importance of Strughold's arrival in New
Orleans pressed upon him; after so many months
without a peep from the alien conspirators that
remained, it was high time for someone to re-
surface.  Bombay was right - he *was* lucky.

Or unlucky, which would be all he heard from
Marvin when he broke the news.  Now, to find a
way to spy without arousing suspicion...

"Fox?  More tea?"  Marvin's quiet intrusion made
him turn, an idea already forming.

"Marvin, that stack of invitations on my desk? 
Get them for me, please?"

Marvin paled, the inevitable protest issuing
forth as he gleaned Mulder's thoughts.  "Fox, I
don't think that's a good idea."

"Just do it, Marvin." Ushering him out the door
with a gentle hand, he murmured, "I'll be
careful, I promise."  On the little man's
skeptical face, he closed the door, then turned
back to Bombay.  "Anything happening tonight?"

"Not that I know of.  Now tomorrow, there's
Pierre Gustav's party at Commander's Palace..."

Mulder grimaced.  Gustav owned several pricey
properties downtown, which didn't pique Mulder's
interests.  Besides, the location was too
public.

Bombay continued, "Then again, there's Ernest
Balfour's bal masque, at his home in the Garden
District.  You going?"

Balfour?  The name sparked instant recognition. 
A member of the New Orleans Old Guard, with his
fingers into everything from banking to a hefty
interest in the local NBA team.  Yes, Balfour's
was the better of the two.

Since Mulder had set up residence just upriver
from New Orleans, in one of the oldest and
largest estates on the river, he'd been the
source of constant buzz in the city. 
Invitations to parties, soirees, etc., had
started arriving almost immediately.  The rich
local mamas smelled when there was fresh meat
among the eligibles.  Relatively young,
handsome, mysterious... a recluse, by all
accounts, he knew the gossips enjoyed poking
into his life.  Especially when, on his
infrequent trips into the city, he rode in an
armored limousine and only to sign his bogus
name on million-dollar documents.  He could have
done this all from the mansion, that was true. 
But now and then, against Marvin's wishes, he
just had to have some freedom.  Looked like his
life was about to get a helluva lot more
exposure... and a damn sight more dangerous.

"Masked ball, eh?"  Off Bombay's nod, he added,
"I don't think I'm the costume type."

Bombay stood, his grin infectious.  Clasping his
hands, he affected a most feminine roll of his
eyes.  "But you don't have to be - all you need
is le masque.  Something black... ooh, you will
look so *wicked* in your evening dress, my
friend!  The devil himself!"

Ready to take revenge and take back his life. 
Perfect, he thought.


End Chapter One