Exodus
by Mish
mish_rose@yahoo.com

Classification: XA, M/S, post-Milagro, *seriously*
AU, character death (or is it?)
Rating: R for language and violence
Spoilers: Anything and everything through Milagro
Summary: Continuation of the So Let it Be
Written/Done series; Mulder and Scully together
again, but at whose hands?
Distribution: Yes to Gossamer.  All others, just
let me know where, okay?

Disclaimer: The X-Files and the characters here are
the property of Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. 
I wish they belonged to me; they would be a whole
lot happier than they are now.

Thanks to Alicia Kamenick, Brooke Kahlo, Renee,
Audrey Roget, Galia, Michelle Beck and haphazard
method.  You guys are the best!

Author's notes at end.

Hang on, here we go....


Exodus
Part One


555 Brooksbank Ave, Apt. 24
Washington, D.C.
2:25 a.m.


A weathered man sat before the wall of monitors
like a buzzard awaiting the final gasp of fresh
road-kill, his eyes glowing with feral expectation.

He felt the blood of Steinbeck, Hemingway, and
Salinger surge through his veins.  With just a bit
of Stephen King thrown in for good measure. 
Nothing like a little horror to color those
typewritten words. Preferably dripping in crimson.

Excitement brought an uncharacteristically broad
smile to his face.

Writing ambitions aside, this was the moment he'd
been awaiting for seven long years.  The ultimate
tool of power sat within reach of his fingertips,
anticipating words that would seal the fate of the
unwitting duo sketched in grainy black-and-white on
the screens before him.  He'd already pecked out a
phrase or two on the typewriter, his arthritic
digits screaming in painful protest, and had spent
the last hour expecting an earthquake.  All he'd
witnessed so far was a faint tremble.

"You rang?"

He didn't even turn around at the sardonic voice
behind him.

"So nice of you to come," he replied, reaching into
his coat pocket for the ever ready pack of
cigarettes.  "I was beginning to wonder if I'd have
to summon you with my newfound friend."  He nodded
at the typewriter, his hand caressing the keys of
his new pet.

Maybe a little Ian Fleming, too.  Ernst Blofeld; 
now *that* was a character to sink your teeth into.

"So I'm a little late.  You think I wouldn't come
when you call?  I'm not stupid," the visitor
growled, stepping up to shadow the old man.  "From
what you've told me, I would be a fool to test your
patience."

The old man fogged the room with a smoky exhale. 
He'd already explained to his accomplice the power
of the typewriter and his less than pure
intentions.  He wanted the younger man to see the
reunion of Fox Mulder and Dana Scully; he craved
appreciation for his omniscient power.

"Have a seat;  the show's about to begin," the
smoking man rasped, gesturing toward the empty
chair in the far corner.

"No thanks, I'd rather stand," came the soft reply,
causing the older man's spine to stiffen with
apprehension.  Just as he turned to gauge the
motives of his companion, a movement on the screen
nearest him diverted his attention.

His interest became focused on the couple separated
only by electronic inches and he waited for
confirmation of his objective.  Scully tossed in
wide-eyed despondency in her darkened bedroom, her
slender fingers absently plucking at the golden
chain resting upon her moonlit breast.  Mulder
twitched in the throes of nightmarish sleep on his
couch, occasionally murmuring her name.

"Why hasn't he remembered her yet?" the young man
asked, unnerved by the sound of Mulder's suppressed
agony.  "It's obvious that she remembers him." 

"She remembers because Diana made it so."

"Why does she *still* remember him?  Wouldn't she
have forgotten him once Diana burned the paper?" 
Although the smoking man had vaguely explained it
over the telephone, the younger man had a difficult
time following all of the intrigue.

"Of course.  But I've taken care of that; she is
fully aware of Mulder's existence.  As he will soon
be aware of hers, thanks to Diana's little
bonfire."

"Scully!"

They watch as Fox Mulder awakened from a troubled
sleep on his couch, her name erupting from his
lips.  In less than a minute Mulder retrieved his
car keys, badge and weapon, and bolted from his
apartment.

Alex Krycek snorted at Mulder's routine.  His gun
would be of no use this evening.  Cancerman would
make sure of that.

"Let the games begin."  The words fell from
nicotine stained lips with the arrogance of Caesar
at the Coliseum.  If frivolous theatrics were his
style, he'd have taken his handkerchief from his
pocket and let it drift to the floor.

But he was not a second-rate dramatist.

He was the novelist.


**********


Scully's Apartment
Georgetown
3:03 a.m.


I think I made it here in record time.  In the
pouring rain I practically hydroplaned through the
streets of Georgetown, running red lights and
veering wildly around other vehicles.

I had to get to Scully, my Scully, not the distant
colleague I vaguely knew in this sham life, by my
Scully, my one in five billion.  How could I have
forgotten her?  I am aghast that I could write her
out of my life so easily, that I didn't *know*
somehow.  But I know now, and I have to get to her. 
How could I have lost her?

My water-logged shoes squish and squeak through the
foyer of her apartment building and I count the
steps in a mantra of her name.

"Scully, Scully, Scully...."

The cacophony grows louder in my mind as I take the
corner with a clumsy slide.

"Scully, Scully, Scully...."

My heartbeat joins my fists in pounding on her
door.

"Scully, Scully, Scully!"

Come on, Scully, open the door.  Please open the
door.

My eyes close in relief when I hear a shuffle
behind the thick pine separating us.  My ears prick
up at the fumbling slide of the safety chain.  I'm
breathless by the time the door swings open.

Heedless of my wet clothes, I enfold her in a bear
hug, driving us both into the living room. 
"Scullyscullyscully...."

Her arms reach around my waist and she stands on
tiptoe to murmur into my ear.  "Shhh, it's okay,
Mulder, I'm here."

She fits perfectly in my arms, just as I knew she
would.  That unbelievably real Scully scent
surrounds me as I bury my face in her neck.  Her
name escapes from my lips uncontrollably, as do the
tears.  "Scullyscullyscully...."

Her lips move against my neck, slowing my pulse
into a lingering throb that matches her own.  "It's
okay, Mulder.  Everything's all right," she
whispers, her hands moving over my back like aloe,
soothing the burning pain of near oblivion.

Several minutes pass before I'm able to release
her.  Even then, I move only slightly away, my
hands resting on her waist.  Through the watery
blur of my vision I catalogue every inch of her
face.  The face I thought I would never forget.

"Mulder, let's close the door, okay?" she whispers
with a tremulous smile, her fingers cool against my
parched face.

The memories are flooding my mind now, the waves
alternately lapping gently, then crashing with
hurricane force.  They cascade over me; each surge
brings with it an intense pang of happiness and
relief.

My breath catches as the most vibrant recollection
assaults me.

She was looking up at me, much as she is now,
tearful and concerned.  I lowered my head until I
could feel her breath upon my lips....

I finish what was begun many months ago by
capturing that breath with my mouth.  She hesitates
at first, then leans into me.

The minutes slide by as Scully and I make new
memories, ones that involve lips and hands and
hearts.  Her mouth opens under mine; I seize the
opportunity to deepen the kiss.  She tastes like
lemon and honey, I note absently.  Has she always
had bedtime tea?

I could happily stay this way forever, but Scully
pulls away to breathe a reality check into my ear.

"Mulder," she moans.  "I think we should -"

Oh, that graceful neck, that perfect ear, that
wildly musical pulse beating under my mouth.  I
give equal attention to what are rapidly becoming
my favorite Scully parts while she tries to
distract me from my purpose.

Oh, no you don't, Scully.  I'm just getting
started.

I graze from the tiny cross in the hollow of her
throat to her chin.  In no time I'm feasting again
on bedtime tea a la Scully.

"Mulder," she protests, breaking away from my
kisses.  Okay, Scully, we won't continue the show
for the neighbors.  A startled squeak escapes from
her lips when I pick her up bodily and kick the
door closed.

She's just as shocked by my behavior as I am.  But
I am unable to stop;  relief has cracked the ice
around my heart, releasing all the love I feel for
Scully.  It's always been there, waiting for the
right time and place.  If not now, then when?  The
next time she's lost to me?

I gently lower Scully to the overstuffed couch and
kneel at her feet, pressing one last lingering kiss
to her forehead.  My mouth opens and closes several
times attempting coherent speech, but all I can
manage to do is look at her.  She's a vision in
peach satin, flushed and warm.  Her eyes are a
brilliant cobalt blue and her lips are slightly
swollen from my kisses.  I soothe her mouth with a
brush of my unworthy fingers, the words finally
spilling forth.

"Sorry, Scully, I didn't mean to attack you back
there," I manage to rasp out, hoping she doesn't
wake up and kick my ass.  "I just... I had the
most... this memory... so *real*...."

Lucky for me, all she does is laugh, a short, sweet
release of breath. "That's okay, Mulder, I
understand," she says, her fingers silencing my
nervous babble.  We mirror each other's movements
in silence, our fingers continuing what I started
moments ago.

Scully is the first to break away, coloring
slightly under my scrutiny.  Our clasped hands fall
to her lap, unwilling to give up contact just yet.

 "Well, that was nice, if a little unexpected," she
says shakily.  "I gather you remember me now?  If
not, then weird doesn't *begin* to describe this."

I give her knee a playful squeeze, the satin
sliding under my fingers.

"Oh, yeah, Scully.  Glad to make your
*re*-acquaintance."

She pinches my wrist and squirms.  "Mulderrrr," she
growls at my familiarity.

"All right, Scully.  I'll behave."  I insinuate my
hand back into hers instead, content just to look
at her for now.

"Mulder, you remember everything, don't you?" she
asks, uncertainty marring her brow.

"Of course, Scully," I quickly reassure her,
squeezing her hands in my own.  "How could I forget
you?"

She pulls away and rises from the couch, walking to
her window.  Her back tenses; if I remember
correctly, this stance signals rough waters ahead. 
"You didn't remember me this afternoon," she
accuses softly.

In two seconds I'm standing behind her, itching
with the desire to wrap my arms around her again,
while the heavens continue to cry for the both of
us in the darkness beyond the glass.  I hesitate,
clenching my fists with restraint.  "I know,
Scully," I say fervently.  "I'm sorry."

"Diana was there.  She was your partner, not me."


**********


555 Brooksbank Ave, Apt. 24
Washington, D.C.
3:36 a.m.


Krycek finally sat at that revelation.

"Diana?" he asked, an incredulous stare directed at
his mentor.  He was never given the details of
Diana's mischief by the old man.  Now he knew why
he carried her catatonic body out of her apartment
several hours ago.

The smoking man didn't spare him a glance.  "The
stupid bitch thought she could have her cake and
eat it too.  No matter, though.  I took care of
it."  He took a slow drag from the cigarette while
he considered his next words.  "I could have erased
Diana from Scully's memory, as I did to Mulder.  I
didn't want to; I want to see him talk his way out
of this."

He gazed fondly at the arguing couple.  "I like
tension; all the great works involve some form of
romantic tension."


**********


Scully's Apartment
Georgetown
3:38 a.m.


"Diana?"  Mulder asks, grabbing my shoulders and
spinning me around to face him.  "Who the hell is
Diana?"

He's looking at me like I've lost my mind.

"Oh, come on, Mulder," I snort.  "You know very
well who Diana is."

"No, I don't," he replies with consternation.  His
eyes are filled with characteristic naivete,
something he never could fake.  "Scully, when you
came to my office this afternoon, I was alone. 
I've *always* worked alone - in this life, anyway,"
he adds sheepishly.

My God.  He really doesn't know who I'm talking
about.  How could he not know who Diana is? 
Something's going on here, and it's not entirely a
good thing.

"Mulder, do you recall your trip to the evidence
locker?" I ask, dropping the Diana subject for now. 
We have to get a handle on this whole mess somehow.

He looks away momentarily and his face darkens with
the memory.  "Yeah."  He pauses, catching his lower
lip in his teeth.  "I thought I could make things
better, Scully."

The relief at having him remember me gives way to
fury.  "And just what gave you the right, Mulder?"
I hurl the words at him.  "Who died and made you
God?"  I turn away once again, my arms holding the
anger close to my trembling body.  I don't trust
myself not to hit him, the unselfish fool.

His own anger bubbles up, raising his voice.  "Hold
it right there, Scully.  You did some typing of
your own.  Don't pretend this fiasco was all my
fault."  He drifts in and out of my peripheral
vision, pacing a hole in the rug.

I let my head drop, my hair obscuring my vision. 
"It was a form of therapy, Mulder.  Karen Kossef
suggested it to me.  I never dreamed that it would
actually change things."  I chuckle derisively and
whisper, "It was supposed to make me feel better."

His pacing immediately stops and I feel his warmth
enfold me.  I thought I would never feel those arms
around me again.

"Oh, Scully," he sighs, his chest rising and
falling under my cheek.  "I thought you had come to
the same conclusion as me, that the typewriter was
the power behind the murders, not the man."

I meet those brilliant grey-green eyes with a
question.  "But how could that be, Mulder?  Didn't
Padgett write the last murder from his jail cell
with pencil and paper?"  Yesterday, I believed in
the eerie power of the typewriter, but today, upon
further review, it seems illogical.

"I originally believed that Padgett had the power
within himself, yes," he replies adamantly.  "But
there's something I haven't told you."  It's his
turn now to move away, his fingers rubbing his
brow.  Whatever it is, it isn't good.

"Okay, Mulder, then tell me," I say in what I hope
passes for calm control.

He sighs and faces the window, hands on hips. 
"Padgett knew we were on to him;  he tried to make
us believe he could *imagine* anything and it would
come true."

"Yes, so?"

"He knew the typewriter was the key.  Before I
arrested him, he passed the power onto himself
simply by typing the words.  I found the paper
tucked away in his desk when the cops were cleaning
out the apartment - it said something to the effect
that 'anything I write will come true.'  He wanted
to impress you badly, Scully."  He hesitates, then
adds, "It wasn't until I was alone in the office
later that I put two and two together."  Mulder
tilts his head and plucks at his damp shirt.  "With
a little help from a bottle of scotch."

I don't even dignify that last remark with a reply. 
Yes, Cancerman took great pleasure in informing me
of Mulder's drinking binge.  He ignores my
distasteful silence and whispers, "It was an
opportunity of a lifetime."

Words escape me; Mulder knew this and didn't tell
me?

He finally faces me, guilt and regret clouding his
face.  "You want to know, Scully, who died and made
me God?"  His eyes narrow, burning me with the
intensity of his gaze.  "Padgett did."

I let his words sink in, the hurt at his deliberate
campaign of misinformation blossoming.  "Why didn't
you tell me?" I whisper, letting the ache and anger
boil over into my words.

"Oh, I don't know, Scully," he sighs, hanging his
head in remorse.  "Maybe because I knew you
wouldn't let me do it."

"Damn right I wouldn't have," I reply, turning my
back on him to do a little pacing of my own.  "And
I *never* would have touched the stupid thing
myself, either."  The words are out before I
realize what I've said.

He pounces on them instantly.  "You mean you
wouldn't have given Samantha back to me?" he chokes
out, reeling from my admission.

Sighing, I cross to him and pull his reluctant
hands into mine.  This conversation is rapidly
deteriorating.  I can't let it continue.  "Of
course I would have, Mulder.  That was the one
thing I did right," I say truthfully.  "I'm so glad
she's home."

He answers my unsteady but faithful smile with one
of his own.  "Me too, Scully.  Thank you."

"You are very welcome."

Oh, God, Mulder has that look in his eye again. 
The mossy green gaze that says he'd like to devour
me.  Much as I would enjoy it, we have work to do. 
Just as his head starts to lower, I gently
disengage my hands from his and move toward the
bedroom.

"Mulder, we have to find that typewriter," I throw
over my shoulder.

An exasperated sigh follows me through the hall. 
"What for?  I mean, it's still in the evidence
locker, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't," I reply.  "I checked before I left
today.  I think I know who has it."  And how the
hell we're going to get it back, I haven't a clue.

He appears in my bedroom doorway just as I'm
slipping off my robe.  When his eyes darken, I
realize I have nothing on but a skimpy satin
nightgown.  I can feel the blush rise from my chest
to my face and I quickly pull the robe back on.

"Mulder, some privacy, please?" I ask, arching an
eyebrow.

"Wow, Scully," he breathes, his eyes raking me from
head to toe.  "Since when did you start shopping at
Victoria's Secret?"

"Apparently since I got a new life," I reply,
crooking my eyebrow at his amusement.  "My whole
damn dresser is full of satin, silk and lace. 
Thanks a lot, Mulder."

"My pleasure, Scully," he replies.  "*Definitely*
my pleasure."  His eyes twinkle with mirth, then
rapidly smolder with desire.

The bright vision of our future stands between us,
just within our grasp.  He knows it as well as I;
we are free to be together if we wish.  We stand
within arms' reach of each other, drifting closer
as the moments slide by.

His eyes tell me of things to come.  Things I know
I'm ready for, just not at this particular moment. 
A piece of office equipment and an evil old man
stand in the way.

I clear my throat and turn to the closet to pull
out a pair of jeans and a sweater, avoiding the
inevitable for now.  "Let me get dressed, Mulder. 
You really should change out of those wet clothes; 
there are extra clothes that should fit you in the
spare bedroom closet.  I'll be out in a minute."

At the tweak of his eyebrow, I manage to slip an
expressionless mask on and state, "It's not what
you think, Mulder.  I don't have a stranger
sleeping in my bed, you know.  You can see that for
yourself, can't you?"

"Just checking, Scully," he answers dryly.  "I
can't be too sure of anything these days."

Just as he shuffles off, I murmur, "Yeah, tell me
about it."

I breathe a small sigh of relief before closing the
door between us.  Some things are best left for
later discussion.


**********


555 Brooksbank Ave, Apt. 24
Washington, D.C.
3:55 a.m.


"So, she knows you have the typewriter?"  Krycek
looked away from a disrobing Scully, surprised at
this disclosure.  He wondered at the smoking man's
motives.

"Yes.  I told her I wanted her and Mulder
together."

"And do you?"

"Of course I do, you fool," he sneered.  "They are
essential to the Project.  Not in this life,
naturally.  Things must change."

"Then why don't you change them?  You have the
typewriter."

The smoking man turned to his comrade.  "Because I
choose not to," he declared, brooking no argument. 
"It was too easy with Diana.  I relish the
challenge, you see.  They made this world.  They
will unmake it for me."

Krycek shook his head in disbelief.  "I don't think
so."

"Before I'm through with them, Alex," Cancerman
said, "they will be begging me for their little
experiment in gift-giving and a blow torch to burn
it with."

Alex Krycek thought about the people this man had
manipulated over the years, some deserving, some
not.  But he still couldn't believe what he was
hearing.  It was one thing to enact revenge; 
dishing out cruelty was another thing entirely. 
The boss had the means to change lives at will, yet
he chose to sit there and drool over Mulder and
Scully's impending misfortune at his own hands.

Cancerman peered at Krycek through the haze.  "If
you don't have the stomach for this, you're welcome
to go.  I thought you would appreciate my little
play, Alex."

Krycek turned away to look at the screens again. 
"Oh, I appreciate it, all right.  More than you
know."

Quiet prevailed as Mulder and Scully left her
apartment.  With their entry into Mulder's car, the
camera tucked away in the rear window  activated,
bringing them both into view on the far right
monitor.

"I'm so clever, don't you think so, Alex?" the
smoking man gloated with a malicious smile.

"Yeah, you're really something," came the sarcastic
reply.


**********


En route to FBI Headquarters
4:18 a.m.


"Okay, Scully, explain to me how you know the
typewriter's missing," I start, slowly pulling the
car into the sparse traffic.  At least the rain has
stopped.  "And while you're at it, tell me where
we're supposed to be going."  I raise an eyebrow at
her slightly annoyed glance.

"Head for the office, Mulder," she replies,
buckling her seatbelt.  "Maybe we can get a lead by
looking at some of your old files.  And the reason
I know the typewriter's missing is that I had a
visitor in my office this afternoon."

I glance away from the slick street long enough to
ask, "Who?"

"Cancerman."

Shit.  I'm almost afraid to ask, but I know I must.

"What did he want?"  Like I don't know already.

"He has the typewriter, Mulder.  He as much as told
me so."

My jaw clenches with fury.  How could I have been
so stupid?  The man sees all and hears all.  If I
had never begun this in the first place.... 

Scully senses my guilt and places a warm hand on my
arm.  "It's not your fault, Mulder.  He would have
figured it out eventually.  Besides, I took a turn
with the typewriter, too, you know."

"But your gift to me was innocent, Scully.  My
misguided attempt at gift-giving was deliberate.  I
should have known better."  If I could kick myself
in the ass, I would.

Scully is silent as we come to a stop at a red
light.  A vague feeling of unease settles over me. 
Even at this early hour, the traffic should be
heavier than this.

Scully's voice snaps me back into reality.  That's
a laugh.  Some reality.

"Mulder, you believed what you were doing was
right, despite what I may have told you earlier. 
You've always been too unselfish for your own
good."  She twists in the confines of the seat belt
to face me, her face glowing in the light from the
corner street lamp.  "I want you to know, however,
that all I've ever wanted is to be by your side.  I
once told you that I wouldn't change a day and I
meant it.  When are you going to believe me?"

I look at her and realize that she really means it. 
It's written all over her face.  Her loyalty to me,
her passion for the work, and...Jesus, her love for
me.  Scully loves me.

"Scully -" My words are cut off with a bang, and
both of us whip our heads around to peer through
the rear windshield.

I can't believe this.  Some asshole just rear-ended
us.  How fitting.

"You okay?" I ask Scully and she nods quickly,
expelling a shaky breath.

"Yeah.  Why don't you check on the other driver? 
He must have slid on the slick road."  She squeezes
my hand in reassurance.  "Just get his name and
number, okay?  We don't have much time to spare."

"I know." I embrace her hand in return before
unbuckling my seat belt.  "Be right back."

I reach under the seat for my flashlight and open
the door to the chilly air.  The driver of the
other car hasn't moved, but I can see a shadow
sitting upright behind the wheel.  At least he
isn't hurt, from what I can tell.  I try to get a
better look through the window with my flashlight,
but the condensation beading on the window makes it
difficult.

"Hello?" I ask, tapping a knuckle on the glass. 
"You okay in there?"

The door swings open forcefully, catching me in the
midsection and flinging me to the pavement.  "What
the -?"  I'm cut short by a kick in the ribs,
robbing me of breath.  I hear a voice, dripping
with venom, its twang unmistakable.

"Thought you could get rid of Duane Barry, didn't
you, boy?"

It can't be.  He's dead.  I saw the body, touched
the body.

Jesus, he's wearing that same University of
Maryland sweatshirt.  Everything's exactly the
same, right down to the blood that dots the 'I' in
university.

"I know what you're thinkin', Mul-der," he says,
grabbing my shirt to pull my face to his.  Those
vacant eyes belie the vehemence behind the words. 
"You're thinkin' to yourself, he's supposed to be
dead.  Well," he swings a fist, connecting with my
jaw, "things aren't always what they appear to be,
Mr. F-B-I."  I see stars with the next blow.

My gun is tucked in the waistband of my jeans; in a
heartbeat I've got it in hand, trying to overcome
my double vision to blow this ghost away.  Barry
chuckles and disarms me immediately with the oldest
technique in the FBI rule book.

"Come on, Mulder, you can do better than that," he
mutters.  "I was an agent myself, remember?"

Scully.  Got to get to Scully.  Through the white
haze I see her move frantically in the car,
fumbling with the seat belt.  "What do you want?" I
rasp, pain searing through my addled brain.  Buy
some time, keep him talking.

"You know what I want, boy," he replies, shaking me
to the point of dizziness.  "She's gonna take my
place."

"No!" I cry, incredulous at this whole bizarre
scene.  "Leave her alone!"

"Too late, Mul-der.  Sorry, gotta run."  With one
last blow he leaves me in a heap on the pavement. 
My bruised body screams with the effort to rise.

I manage to roll over to see Barry open Scully's
door.  "Who the hell are you?" she begins, then
stops abruptly with a gasp.  I remember that sound
well;  I wore out my answering machine listening to
it years ago.  It breaks my heart all over again.

"You're coming with me, missy," Barry says, my gun
aimed directly at Scully's head.

"No, I'm not," she says, control seeping into her
voice.  "Where's Mulder?  What have you done with
him?"

"Do what Duane Barry says, girl," he growls,
pointing the gun at her with jittery fingers.  I
can't see her very well through the windows of the
car, but I can feel the tight rein she has on her
fear.  I ignore the pain threatening to suffocate
me and pull up to my hands and knees. 

I'm coming, Scully.  Hang on.

"Not this time," she says, her voice adamant.  "Not
again.  I won't go."

"Then I'll just have to kill you, won't I?"  The
hammer of the gun is drawn back with an ominous
click.  "Say goodbye to your boyfriend, missy."

"NO!"  I scream as everything goes black.


End part one

Exodus
Part Two

Disclaimers, etc. in part one



555 Brooksbank Ave, Apt. 24
Washington, D.C.
4:21 a.m.


"'Boy'?" Krycek mimicked Barry.  "He never would
have called Mulder 'boy'.  That is *so*
stereotypical."

Cancerman's lips thinned at Krycek's words, but he
said nothing.

Krycek became bold in his observations; the boss
was the most confident man he knew.  Except in his
writing.

"And lose the 'missy', too," he added with a silent
smirk.

"I had nothing to do with Barry's language," he
grumbled, pulling the paper from the platen. 
"Doesn't matter.  I'm tired of this scenario
already."

"Well, at least Mulder and Scully sound like
themselves," Krycek continued.  "You've succeeded
in that respect."

The last of the paper crumbled into ash, falling
into the wastebasket in a shower of black
snowflakes.

"I had nothing to do with that, either," came the
terse reply.  "Their words and actions are their
own.  All I wrote was that they get sidetracked by
Barry, who attempts to kidnap Scully.  The how and
why of it is of no consequence.  Although, if I
chose, I could put the words right into their
mouths."

He inserted a fresh piece of paper and typed a few
more words rapidly, ensuring that Mulder and Scully
would remember their encounter with Barry.

"Maybe after this business is finished, I'll have
more time to explore the possibilities," he mused. 
"Do you think Agent Scully likes rough sex?"

His eyes shifted to the bookcase on the far wall. 
Harold Robbins or Jacqueline Susann?  He'd have to
give it some thought.


**********


Corner of Wisconsin Ave. and M St.
Washington, D. C.
4:21 a.m.


God dammit!  Why won't this fucking seatbelt let go
of me?

The sound of Mulder's cries spur me on.  Hang on,
Mulder.  I'm coming.

Screw the seatbelt.  If I can slacken it enough,
I'm out of here.  My fingers curl around the gun
tucked away in my jeans.

I freeze at the opening of the car door and swiftly
turn my head to face our attacker.

"Who the hell are you?" I yell at the shadowy
figure.  It's a man, that much I can tell.  A man
that shoves a gun in my face before I can even pull
mine out.

My voice dwindles to a whisper at the sight of a
dead man.

Oh Jesus.  Unbelievable.  Duane Barry, wild-eyed
and psychotic as ever.

"You're coming with me, missy."  The gun in his
hand is shaking ominously.

My spine stiffens.  Although he got the best of me
once before, he certainly will not this time.  "No,
I'm not," I say adamantly.  "Where's Mulder?  What
have you done with him?"

"Do what Duane Barry says, girl."  A sudden
flashback threatens to overwhelm me.  The biting
pain of rope-burned wrists.  The suffocating smell
of gasoline fumes.  The claustrophobic blindness of
the ride in the trunk.

No.  I will not be his victim again.  I have my
hand around my gun.   If I can get the jump on him,
control of the situation swings to me. The panic
leaves me as quickly as it had come.

"Not this time.  Not again.  I won't go."

"Then I'll just have to kill you, won't I?"  My
eyes slip shut at those words.  The sweat trickles
down my face and I gasp for breath, preparing to
take that chance.  He will kill me anyway; may as
well go out firing.

"Say goodbye to your boyfriend, missy," Barry says
to me, the click of the hammer reverberating in my
ears like a death knell.  Please, just don't let
him hurt Mulder, I pray.

"NO!"  I hear Mulder yell from far away.  Close
your eyes, Mulder, don't look.

Just when I expect the bullet to rip through my
skull, all goes silent, save for my ragged
breathing and the hum of distant city traffic.  I
sit, my hand slowly inching the gun out of my
jeans, hoping Barry has been distracted somehow. 
With a cry of "Freeze!" I pull the gun out, open my
eyes, and aim it at nothing.

Nothing at all.

He's gone, vanished into thin air.  The seat belt
that refused to cooperate miraculously gives up its
choke hold on me and slides across my chest with a
muffled "thump."

Mulder.  Where's Mulder?

I practically fall out of the car into a ready
stance, waving my gun at the night air.  Barry's
car is gone, just as I expected.  Mulder is face
down on the pavement; I slip the gun into my jeans
once again and run to his side, kneeling on the
damp asphalt.

"Mulder?" I say, gently brushing the hair away from
his brow.  He's breathing, thank God.  "Mulder,
it's okay.  Open your eyes for me."

With a muffled groan and a pain-filled grimace, one
eye opens.  "Scully?"

I smile reassuringly.  "Yes, it's me, Mulder. 
Think you can get up?"

His face is bruised, but otherwise he looks okay. 
"Yeah." He pulls himself up to a sitting position
with a stifled moan, then jerks to alarmed
attention.  "Barry!  Where is he?"

I calm him quickly.  "It's okay, Mulder.  He's
gone."

His eyes shift from mine to the empty space once
occupied by Barry's car.  "What happened?"

I help him to stand, his weight staggering me. 
"Barry disappeared.  Come on, Mulder, let's get out
of here."  I wrap his arm around my shoulders,
intent on getting us out of here as soon as
possible.

"You know, Scully, it's nice to know some things
never change," he says, rubbing a hand along his
stubbled jaw.

"How so?" I ask, moving him into the light of a
nearby neon sign to check his eyes for signs of
head trauma.

"Even in my new life, I *still* get the shit kicked
out of me."  He gasps when I touch a sore spot on
his cheek.

I hide my grin by dropping my head, then raise my
eyes to meet his serious gaze.  I hope he's not too
rattled to understand my next statement.  "You know
who did this, don't you, Mulder?"

"Yeah," he says, "you were right.  The old bastard
has the typewriter.  I can't figure out why Barry
disappeared, though."

"He burned the paper."

"What?"

"The only way to undo what's been done is to burn
it.  And we can't do it, he has to burn it
himself."

Thankfully, Mulder doesn't argue the point.  He's
learned that anything is possible now.  "That
figures," he says, understanding dawning with every
second that passes.  He takes my arm and pulls me
toward the car.  "But why do I still feel like
hell?"

I force him to stop in the light from the street
lamp, where I inspect his face once again. 
"They're going away, Mulder.  The bruises - they're
going away."

He reaches up to pass his fingers over now healed
flesh.  "You're right," he breathes with awe. 
"This is crazy, Scully."

Crazy?  That's the understatement of the year.

"His eyes were lifeless, Scully.  Did you notice
that?" Mulder says, slipping into familiar
curiosity, that faraway look of fascinated
distraction firmly planted on his face.  "Much as
he terrified me, I couldn't help but notice how
dead they were."

I feel myself starting to tremble with delayed
reaction.  Now it's my turn to pull him to the car. 
"Let's go, Mulder, before we get another surprise
visit.  We can go over the details later, okay?"  I
pause only as long as it takes to grab Mulder's gun
from the sticky, damp pavement.

"I think that's a good idea," he agrees.  Within
seconds we're barreling down the deserted street.


**********


555 Brooksbank Ave, Apt. 24
Washington, D.C.
4:55 a.m.


"Did you get it?"

Krycek retrieved the fax from his pocket and
dutifully passed it to the smoking man.  "The list
is complete.  Our man is very thorough."

Cancerman reached leisurely over his shoulder and
took the paper.  He opened it and looked away from
the monitors briefly, running a finger down the
list of names until he found the perfect one.

"Yes, this will do nicely," he said.  "Now I want
more information on *this* man, Alex."  He pointed
to a rather generic looking name on the list, the
next scenario already taking root in his mind. 
"This is *so* entertaining, don't you agree?"

Krycek gritted his teeth, his disgust for this
on-again, off-again universe barely disguised in a
frozen mask.  "Entertaining is not the word I would
use."

The boss brought his lighter up to a cigarette, his
eyes focused on the flare of ignition, that first
drag bringing a closed smile to his face.  Only
then did he look at Krycek with a narrow-eyed
stare.  "And just what would you use, Alex?"

"Sadistic?  Morbid?  Evil?" he replied truthfully. 
"Take your pick."  Although he knew better than to
cross the old man, he couldn't seem to hold his
tongue.

"And you call my thinking stereotypical?" 
Cancerman mocked, completely sure of himself.  "Oh,
come now, Alex, after all they've done to you? 
Surely you must be receiving some satisfaction from
my little game.  They never were friends of yours. 
I daresay Mulder would jump at the opportunity to
kill you, even now."

Krycek pursed his lips.  The old man was right; 
there was no love lost between the two agents and
himself.  But this was bordering on insanity.  He
fidgeted with unease, deciding to keep his mouth
shut.  For now, anyway.

"That's better," Cancerman drawled at Krycek's
silence.  "The night is young, Alex.  Relax.  Enjoy
yourself."  He turned back to the monitors, the
fingers of his left hand steadily petting the keys
of the typewriter.

"I know *I* am."


**********


En route to FBI Headquarters
5:15 a.m.


Scully and I speed down the D. C. streets in total
silence.  She hasn't said a word since we got back
into the car, and there are so many questions
whirling in my mind I wouldn't know where to start. 
Her gun is still clutched in her slender fingers,
ready for the next possible universe.  She knows as
well as I do that the storm is coming.

We approach another traffic light changing from
yellow to red.

"Run it," she says as my foot punches the
accelerator.

"I was going to."  The lone vehicle at the
intersection honks furiously.  I check the
rear-view mirror constantly.  Nobody, especially
the living dead, is going to sneak up on us again
if I have anything to say about it.  Not as long as
I have my....

Gun.  Where the hell is it?  I remember Barry
taking it from me; it must have vanished with him. 
"Scully, did you pick up my gun?," I ask.  "Barry
took it from me."  I frantically run my fingers
down the leg of my jeans.  Shit!  My backup isn't
there either.

"It's right here, Mulder," she says, patting the
seat between us.  "I picked it up right where Barry
disappeared."

I slide my palm across the seat until it makes
contact with the cold metal.  "Thanks, Scully," I
say with relief.  "Next time, I'll be ready."  No
more careless advances by either of us; we will
turn every corner as if the devil himself is
waiting.

"So will I."  She finally looks at me.  I notice
immediately the traces of lingering fright, even
though she's trying her best to hide it.  Jesus, in
my hurry to get us out of there I totally ignored
her.

"Scully, are you okay?  Barry didn't hurt you, did
he?"

A humorless laugh precedes her reply.  "No, Mulder,
he didn't hurt me.  He scared the hell out of me,
but I'm okay now.  We're still here, that's all
that matters."  She falls silent and gazes out her
window at the empty sidewalks.

So, we won't talk about it.  Just another of our
"moments" we'll likely never discuss.  A nasty
habit we share that will definitely change once we
get past this roadblock.  I'm going to make sure of
that.

The silence in the car is deafening, however.  I
need to talk.  She needs to talk, whether she wants
to or not.  No use discussing the weather, it's
lousy.  Like Scully and I could ever talk about
something so mundane.  I think we forgot the
meaning of the word long ago.

Okay, small talk is out.  Our past together is
obviously off-limits for now.  Which leaves our
lives spent apart.

I want to believe she's been better off for not
having known me.  I have a snapshot of Scully in my
mind that shows her happy and safe, smiling and
carefree.  In it, she's surrounded by family and
friends, every hue and tone of the color photograph
blending in perfect harmony.  She's finally
attending that Labor Day family picnic she used to
miss every year because she was following me to the
ends of the earth, or nursing me back to health in
some hospital, or even worse, hospitalized herself.

The picture is beautiful.  Her family is smiling
along with her, Melissa included.  Scully's in the
center, dressed in a yellow linen sundress,
munching on a chili-covered hot dog and wiggling
her bare toes in the grass.

They all look so normal.  The only thing missing is
me.

Just do it, you idiot, I chastise myself.  Ask her.

I mentally cross my fingers and dive in.  "Scully,
what have you been doing all this time?  Surely you
know I've been basically the same, working in the
basement."

She hesitates, chewing her bottom lip.  It seems I
may have hit upon another taboo subject.  But,
wonders never cease.  She answers me.

"Well, Mulder, as near as I can tell, I've only
worked for the Bureau for the past eighteen months. 
We've had contact sparingly, as I'm sure you
remember.  When you've needed an autopsy performed,
naturally."

"And before that?"  I'm not sure I want to hear the
happy details.  A husband just formed out of
nothing on that photograph.  A normal, well-
adjusted, hopelessly in love with her, man.  What
if she just neglected to tell me that little tidbit
back in her apartment?  Scully successful,
respected, normal.  Married.  Jesus.

I sense her reluctance, my anxiety growing by leaps
and bounds.  You are such a selfish fool, Mulder, I
tell myself.  The normal life I envisioned for her
seconds ago is transforming into nightmarish
scenarios in my mind.  To think I would find a
married Scully upsetting; a hundred different ideas
tumble in my brain, each worse than the last. 
"Scully, if you don't want to talk about it...."

"I was married."

Christ, I knew it.  A vision of Scully making love
with another man swims before my eyes.  I was
wrong.  This *is* the worst.

"Funny, but I didn't even know I'd been married
until I got home yesterday," she says dryly. 
"Things felt *different*, Mulder.  There were
memories coming back to me that were unfamiliar,
but true somehow.  It all came back to me in a rush
when I found a wedding ring in my jewelry box.  I
had been married."

Hurt and jealousy grows within me. "Be careful what
you ask for," I've heard a thousand times.  Too bad
I never listened. Well, you wanted it, Mulder.  You
got it.

"I know what you mean, Scully," I start, slowly. 
If I ignore the jealousy, maybe it will go away. 
After all, this was all my doing, anyway.  What
right do I have to feel jealous?

"It was like that for me yesterday morning with
Samantha.  We were sitting there having breakfast
and I could remember having lunch with her the week
before.  It just came to me out of nowhere."  She
nods in agreement; it seems our memories are
returning in spurts.  Nothing makes sense about
this whole business.  But when has anything
associated with an X-file ever progressed
logically?

That's it, Mulder.  Think about the work.  The
work.  The.  Work.

The hum of the car fills the silence for a few
moments.

"So, you said you *had* been married," I ventured,
holding my breath for her answer.  So much for
concentrating on the work.  Hey, I tried, I really
did.  For all of about two seconds.

Scully looks away with a sigh and watches the
buildings slide by her window.  "He was an agent,
actually.  Maybe you knew him.  His name was
Michael Harden.  He worked in VCU." 

She told me.  I release my breath, wondering if I
dare ask her if she was happy.

I knew him, professionally, of course.  Had seen
him at the usual department-wide meetings.  From
what I recall, he was a pleasant enough fellow,
similar in build and coloring to... me.  Jesus.  I
don't want to ponder the significance of *that*
just yet.

In a flash I remember that he was killed a couple
of years ago in an arrest gone bad.  "I'm sorry,
Scully," I say, reaching for her hand, my jealousy
fading into sympathy.  "He was a good man."  And a
damned lucky one.

"Yes, he was."  She turns her shimmering eyes to
me.  "I loved him, and he loved me.  We were happy. 
Actually, he's the reason I joined the Bureau.  I
met him while I was working as a medical examiner
for the Baltimore Police Department.  I was in the
Academy when he was killed."

She was happy.  Scully just told me she had been
happy.  It's what I wanted.  I should be happy too. 
And I am, for her.  For myself?  No.  I want what
Michael Harden had.  I want Scully.

Her face becomes intense with determination,
cutting off my envious thoughts.  She grasps my
hand even harder, her words steely.  "I don't want
you taken from me, Mulder.  We're going to beat
this.  Promise me."

Shrugging off my resentment of a dead man, I bring
her hand to my lips, caressing the back with my
kiss.  "We'll be together in the end, Scully.  I
promise you."

Our eyes meet for a brief moment before mine are
forced back to the road.

Scully shifts in her seat and clears her throat,
releasing my hand.  "By the way, Mulder," she says,
breaking the tension with a question of her own. 
"Have you been married?"  She hangs her head,
suddenly showing an inordinate amount of interest
in a piece of imaginary lint on her sweater.

It seems she's not immune to curiosity, either. 
Dare I hope for a bit of jealousy?

"Who, me?" I give her my best 'insulted bachelor'
look.  "Not a chance.  Despite the best efforts of
my match-making sister, I'm still single.  She
thinks I work too much."

"Well, it's nice to know some things haven't
changed," she replies, her face illuminated by a
passing street lamp.  She wants to smile, I know
she does.  Nice to know I can still tempt her that
way.

Yes, mighty nice indeed.

Regretfully, the Hoover Building looms before us in
the misty predawn light, bringing us both quickly
back to the matter at hand.  Damn, just when we
were getting somewhere.  Scully notices our
destination towering between the street lamps and
bends her head to check her gun one last time. 
That effectively ends the conversation.

I'm not surprised.  Even when we did get around to
actually discussing things, which didn't happen
very often, Scully and I had numerous
interruptions.  Why should things be any different
after "the typewriter"?

I know we have business to take care of.  With a
deep breath, I clear my mind of all else but the
task at hand.  Hopefully this time, I can keep a
steady course.

"Ready, partner?" It rolls off my tongue with
familiar ease.

She looks up, her eyes smiling even if her lips
will not.  I do believe she's pleased at my choice
of words.  "Ready, Mulder."


**********


555 Brooksbank Ave, Apt. 24
Washington, D.C.
5:32 a.m.


Cancerman looked over the contents of the file
folder one last time, his eyes burning with
excitement.  This was just perfect.

"Well, Alex," he said, slipping a new piece of
paper into the typewriter.  "Ready for Act Two?"

Krycek made himself comfortable in the antiquated
office chair, striving for nonchalance.  "Yes."

They followed the path of the car as it meandered
through the parking garage.

"We'll give them a few minutes to make it down to
the basement," the smoking man said.  "Alex, be a
good fellow and get me a beer from the
refrigerator, would you?"

The basement office waited, eerily empty on the top
left monitor.


**********


Federal Bureau of Investigation
5:45 a.m.


We had no trouble entering the building; no ghosts
bent on killing us are haunting the halls as of
yet, thank God. 

Mulder hasn't said a word to me since we left the
car.  I know what he wants.  He wants to hear that
I've been happy without him.  The old "married with
2.5 kids and a little house with the picket fence." 
It was why he changed our lives in the first place.

I'd like to give him some sense of satisfaction, I
really would.  And I tried, when I told him about
Michael.  I know that even though that's what he
wanted for me, it hurt him to hear it.  Some small,
angry part of me relished his hurt.  Reveled in it,
even.

Then the juvenile revenge gave way to resignation. 
I realized there's only one way to get off of this
emotional roller coaster.  Find the instrument of
our destruction and do a little destroying of our
own.

I glance surreptitiously at his rigid profile. 
Just a few minutes ago, he went a long way toward
healing our recent rift with his "Ready, partner?". 
He knows how much that means to me.  Does he also
know how much *he* means to me?  How much I've
missed just being with him?

Of course, I remember our time together.  All the
late night stakeouts, "nice" little trips to the
forest, and his often unsuccessful attempts to make
me laugh.  But they all seem so distant, so
dreamlike, in a way.  The feelings associated with
those memories, however, still burn within me, as
strong as ever.

It seems like I've loved him forever.  I still do,
despite his arrogant attempt at *saving* me.  He
can't help what he is... the most unselfish person
I've ever known.  Now *I'm* feeling a little
guilty; I've been way too hard on him.

"You know, Mulder, it's a good thing I lived in the
same apartment," I deadpan, as we descend to the
basement.  "With your sense of direction, it would
have taken you two weeks to find me."

"Very funny, Scully," he replies with mock offense. 
There's that patented Mulder smirk.  "I found you
in Antarctica, didn't I?"

"Luck.  Pure luck," I reply.  "With a little help
from a certain English gentleman."

He gives me a wry look, then pulls the hammer back
on the gun.  "Hey, I'm not too proud to accept a
helping hand now and then, Scully."

Which reminds me,  "Mulder, do you still count the
Gunmen among your friends?"

"Of course, Scully.  I met them before I met you,
remember?  They're as paranoid as ever," he
replies, then gives me a wicked leer.  "And I think
I can safely say that Frohike is going to *love*
you."

That's much better.  Much, much better.

"Oh, joy," I say, rolling my eyes and placing a
hand over my chest.  "Be still my heart."

I'm the recipient of a full-fledged Mulder smile
this time.  Jesus, I think my heart just skipped a
beat.  I can't believe this wonderful man wasn't
snatched up by some lucky girl years ago.

In short order, the elevator pings its arrival in
the basement, ending our impromptu tennis match. 
It was pleasant while it lasted.

Mulder meets my eyes, silently asking if I'm ready. 
I nod and fall back behind him against the wall. 
The doors slide open and he quickly glances down
the hall in both directions before exiting the
elevator, gun drawn.  Sweeping the hallway with his
gun, he decides the hallway is clear, then gestures
for me to follow him.

My nose fills with the scent of dusty corners and
moldy files.  It has the oddly comforting smell
reminiscent of love letters hidden in your
grandmother's hat box.  Why haven't I noticed that
before?

Mulder quickly opens the door and, after the same
routine sweep, ushers me inside.  Things look
almost exactly the same.  I remember being here
earlier, yesterday afternoon, in fact, but I didn't
take the time to notice the details.  And why
should I have?  I thought this office was still
part of my life; I thought *Mulder* was still part
of my life.

I shrug off the lingering feelings of despair; he
remembers me now, that's all that matters.

His bulletin board is filled with photos, newspaper
clippings, memorabilia.  A few names jump out at me
from the yellowed papers.

Eugene Tooms.  Donnie Pfaster.  Chester Ray Banton.

"Mulder?"

"Yeah?"  He pauses on his way to the filing
cabinet.

"Why haven't you changed?  I mean, I thought the
whole reason for your interest in the paranormal
was due to Samantha's disappearance," I say,
perusing the "I Want to Believe" poster.

"To tell you the truth, Scully, I requested a
transfer down here years ago.  Skinner couldn't
find anyone willing to run the section, so I
volunteered," he says, then adds sheepishly, "It
was a huge pay raise."

I gape at him.  "Mulder, if you tell me you're a
skeptic...."

He walks over to me, filling my personal space so
that I have to tilt my head back to glimpse the
laughter in his eyes.  "Oh, I believe, Scully.  In
Elvis, in shape-shifting mutants, and the Tooth
Fairy.  It pays the bills."

I can't tell if he's serious or not; Mulder was
always playful, but with a dark edge to the quips. 
This uncharacteristically light humor is throwing
me for a loop.  I decide to throw it right back at
him.

"Agent Mulder, do you believe in the existence of
extraterrestrials?"

His mouth drops.  "Of course I do, Agent Scully. 
I've got a poster on my wall declaring to the world
that I do, don't I?"

We could play this cat-and-mouse game all night,
but sanity rears its ugly head.  I'll have to get
to the bottom of this later.  Right now, those
files are waiting.

I sidestep him and head for the file cabinet. 
"Remember this conversation, Mulder.  We're not
finished yet."

He crosses to stand by my side, opening the drawer
of the other file cabinet.  "Oh, I certainly hope
not, Scully."

I flash a look of amused irritation his way and
ignore his baiting.  We don't have to spend much
time searching; the file we want miraculously
appears before me.  It's too easy;  I'm almost
afraid to put my hands on it.  "Raul Bloodworth,
a.k.a. C. G. B. Spender."  A small smile flirts
around the corners of my mouth as I remember the
Gunmen's wild tale of this man's life.

"I found it, Mulder," I tell him, pulling it from
the cabinet and slamming the drawer shut.  He
follows me to the desk and we stare at it under the
light of his desk lamp.

"Well, that was quick," he says, his thoughts
running the same course as mine.  Our eyes fall to
the file, then back to each other.  Should we open
it?  We both know it was deliberately placed there,
waiting to be found immediately.

A breeze of a sigh from the shadows of the anteroom
spins us both around.  Mulder positions himself in
front of me, shielding me with his body, and points
his gun in the direction of the noise.  "Who's
there?" he demands.  "Show yourself!"

A man's voice, smooth as maple syrup, trickles from
the far corner.  "Don't shoot.  I'm unarmed."  His
hands rise and he gets up from the stool, his face
still in shadow.  "Konichiwa, Mulder.  Remember
me?"

Oh my God.  Modell.  I immediately bring my gun up
to join Mulder's, my finger squeezing the trigger. 
No way we're going to continue *this* conversation.

A rapid succession of futile clicks tells me what I
don't want to hear.

"Don't bother, Scully, it's empty," Modell drones. 
"And Mulder is not going to shoot me."

I fumble with the clip; it's empty.  Damn that old
bastard!

I grab furiously at Mulder's arm, trying my best to
make him look at me, but he shrugs me off. 
"Mulder, don't listen to him."

"Don't listen to her, Mulder," Modell interrupts,
"she's not your friend."

I walk around Mulder until I can look him in the
eyes.  He won't even look at me, his gaze trained
upon the voice in the corner.  He hasn't lowered
the gun;  I've got to get it away from him.

"Mulder, give me the gun," I demand, holding out my
hand.  "Give it to me now."

Modell shuffles into the meager light and Mulder's
gaze never wavers from his.  "It's still your turn,
Scully.  Pull the trigger, Mulder."

Jesus, he's quoting chapter and verse.  If I
weren't so frightened now, I would be utterly
fascinated by this turn of events.  I rack my brain
for the right response.

"Mulder, no."

"Mulder, yes," Modell hisses.

"Mulder, you don't have to do this.  You're
stronger than this."

Mulder's eyes waver from Modell to me and back
again, the sweat running in rivulets down his face.

"Come on. Pull the trigger, Mulder. She shot you, I
read it in her files. Payback time - shoot the
little spy!"

As if in slow motion, Mulder lowers the gun from
Modell and aims it directly at me.  "Scully, run!"
he whispers through clenched teeth.

"No, Mulder.  You can fight this," I reply, tears
pooling in my eyes.

"Pull the trigger, Mulder," Modell breathes.  "You
know you want to."

I flinch at the explosive *pop* of the gun.  Thank
God.  Mulder ends this scenario in exactly the same
way.  With Modell's brains splattered on the dingy
floor.

It's then that I notice the red spray on Mulder's
gray sweatshirt.

I reach a hand out to touch it, mesmerized by the
almost artistic pattern.  It looks like candy;  red
hots, I think they're called....

The gun clatters to the floor and Mulder reaches
for me.  "Scully!" he cries, stopping my descent to
the floor with his arms around my back.  "God, no!"

Blood.  My fingertips smear the red hots on his
chest into a slick mess.  My blood.

I look between us at the dime-sized hole in my
chest, my blood blossoming with frightening
swiftness.  Mulder is openly sobbing now, lowering
my dead weight to the floor.  "Jesus Christ,
Scully... I can't... God, don't leave me...."

My hand touches his cheek, blood and tears mixing
to form a scarlet smear.  "I won't," I whisper
before the surge of blood from my mouth makes
further speech impossible.


End part two

Exodus
Part Three

Disclaimers, etc. in part one



555 Brooksbank Ave, Apt. 24
Washington, D.C.
6:02 a.m.


"What do you think, Alex?  Should I let her die?" 
The smoking man held the paper above the
wastebasket, lighter in hand.  "What to do, what to
do...."

Krycek watched the scene unfold before him with
horror.  He thought he'd seen it all, seen every
evil possible in his work with this man.  He'd seen
children tortured, women raped, and grown men
buried alive, screaming for mercy; never had he
flinched from the violence he'd witnessed. 
Detachment.  That was the key.

It was easy to pinpoint the exact moment he became
*attached.*

"Burn it," he whispered, cringing inwardly at his
own begging.  "Burn it before she dies."

Cancerman took one final look at Mulder rocking an
unconscious Scully in his arms before setting the
paper on fire.  He dropped it into the can and
etched the memory of this encounter into the
partners' minds once again, pecking at the keys
furiously.

"There.  Happy now?" he asked Krycek.  "You know,
Alex, I think you're becoming a bit too involved
here.  Maybe you should take a walk, hmm?"

Krycek wiped the sweat from his brow and answered
with a shake of his head.  "No.  I want to see what
happens next."

The smoking man seemed satisfied with his answer
and turned to the monitors again.  "Sure, Alex," he
crooned, placing a gnarled hand on the young man's
shoulder.  "I think I'm getting better at this,
don't you agree?"  His flinty gaze bored into
Krycek's soul, menacing in its promise.

"Yeah, you're a real pro," Krycek responded, his
slight sarcasm lost on the old man.  As distasteful
as this business was, he had to maintain this
particular *attachment* for a little while longer.

"Good.  Let's continue."


**********


Mulder's office
6:02 a.m.


"OhJesusohJesusohJesus," I chant into Scully's
hair, her limp form dying before my eyes.  She
shouldn't be dying.  She *can't* be dying.  Barry
disappeared before he could carry out the
kidnapping, so Modell should have disappeared
before I could shoot Scully.

"Come on, Scully," I say, shoving the fear that's
threatening to immobilize me back down my throat. 
"Come on, baby, come back."  Her head lays in the
crook of my elbow, her face a ghostly white
imitation of its former beauty.  I touch my fingers
to the cool skin, hopelessly trying to channel my
warmth into her.

Modell.

The name barrels like a freight train through my
mind, snapping me back into this genuine illusion. 
I gently lay Scully down on the cold floor and grab
the still warm gun.

"You motherfucker!" I scream, standing and firing
into the darkness, emptying the clip.  A stream of
epithets accompany every shot;  I curse him, God,
and especially myself.

Sheisn'tcomingbacksheisn'tcomingbacksheisn't...

The click of the hammer tells me the gun is empty. 
Through the smoke and tears I peer into the
anteroom.  I don't see him, but he should be good
and dead this time.  I fumble for the light switch
behind me and a fluorescent glare comes to life.

But no Modell.

I frantically twirl, whipping the useless gun up to
aim at nothing.  He's gone.  Scully is laying in a
pool of blood; her chest is no longer rattling for
life-giving breath.

Too late.  He disappeared a second too late.

I should have saved a bullet for myself.

My legs give way and I fall to the floor, my knees
cracking against the concrete.  The sobs gather in
my chest and my breath hitches as I fight for
control.

A weak gasp is almost lost in my growing howls of
despair.

I raise my head and open my eyes....

Scully's eyes are fluttering.  She's trying like
hell to breathe.  

I crawl to her side, my hand finally making contact
with hers.  It curls around mine, warm and free of
blood.  As is the rest of her.  She's still laying
on the floor, though.  I kneel over her, seconds
away from CPR.

Breathe, God dammit, breathe.

"Breathe, Scully," I whisper.  "Breathe."

Her eyes open with a start and she draws a full,
gulping breath at last.  "No!" she cries and
latches on to me with all her might.  I return the
desperate embrace, my tears matching her own.

We fight for control as the anxiety passes with
agonizing slowness.  The similarity to the
aftermath of Naciemento's attack on Scully is not
lost on me; I cry even harder at that realization. 
Her hands claw at my back in the same frantic
motion and her humid sobs wet the side of my neck.

This is not fair.  What did we do to deserve this? 
God, are we doomed to relive every awful moment of
our lives?

I was stronger than this two days ago; I comforted
her as best as I could.  But not now.  My mind
replays the pull of the trigger over and over
again.  It takes me what seems like hours to shove
that moment away.  When I can speak again, I heave
the two ton elephant off of my chest and rasp, "It
wasn't me, I swear, I didn't want to shoot you,
Scully, but I couldn't stop listening to him... oh
God, Scully, I'm so fucking sorry...."

She's amazing.  In a second she's pulled away from
me to grasp my face in her hands.  "Mulder, stop!"
she cries, one last hiccup escaping in her bid for
control.  "That wasn't your fault;  you know that! 
It was written to end that way, just as it was
burned to undo it!"

Yeah, I know it.  Doesn't make it any easier to
swallow.  She died, I *know* she did.  By my own
hand.  This has got to stop.  Stop now.

Anger surfaces as I struggle to my feet and Scully
stands with me, bracing my teetering form with
steady hands.  My rock.  My Scully.  How she put up
with me all those years I'll never know.  The fury
slams into me, spurring me into action.

Time to end this farce.

Grabbing the file folder, I flip through the
photographs and clippings feverishly, searching for
any clue as to his whereabouts.  They fall
haphazardly to the floor in my clumsiness, so I
kneel, not even pausing when I hear Scully's
concerned, "Mulder?"

"We've got to find him, Scully.  This has got to
stop.  I won't watch you die next time.  I can't." 
I brush away the remnants of my tears before
continuing my search.  "Help me, Scully."

Memories of John Lee Roche, fabric hearts, and
black, loose soil staining my fingers come and go. 
God, I *definitely* could do without a visit from
him.

Scully sniffles one last time, crouches next to me,
and together we sift through the pile.  After
several minutes of silent cooperation, Scully
stills me with a hand on my arm.  "Mulder, look at
this," she whispers, an almost unblemished sheet of
paper in her hand.  My mouth drops at the words
written at the top.

*Ask Skinner.  He will tell you what you want to
know.*

So we get to visit Skinner now.  I hesitate, unsure
of myself and what the immediate future holds. 
"Jesus, Scully," I murmur.  "I'm almost afraid to
go up there."

"Me too, Mulder."  She meets my uncertain gaze with
sympathetic eyes.  "But you know we have to.  It's
the only way."

"Yeah," I reply sadly.  "Let me just sit for a
minute, okay?"

Scully rises, completely recovered from her brush
with death.  Her hand rests upon my head and I feel
a gentle kiss settle upon the nape of my neck. 
"Sure, Mulder.  I'll just get our gear from the
locker, okay?  I'll be right behind you."

As I hear her move into the anteroom, it dawns on
me why I hardly ever saw her panic, saw her lose
control.  I could count on one hand the number of
times she's cried in front of me.  It would take
all my fingers and toes and then some to add up the
times she *should* have cried.  She was always more
concerned with me, with my fears.  She wanted to be
strong for me.  Her cancer, Emily, my numerous
forays into dangerous situations without regard for
her feelings.  She's been angry with me, yes.  But
never at a loss for composure.

The fury I thought was gone returns with a
vengeance.  The old Mulder would have easily taken
the blame for all of this.  Hell, I know I'm not
faultless.  But I'm not totally to blame. Cancerman
shares that responsibility with me.  Everything in
her life with me, everything in her life without
me.  It all leads through me back to him.  I feel
the hot stain of anger grow on my cheeks and my
hands ball into fists.

Even though I know I shouldn't do this, it's
evidence, I grab the paper that directs us to
Skinner and rip it in two.  Then I attack the rest
of the contents of the file folder.

"Mulder."

Damn, that feels good.  The picture of my father
and old C. G. B. - torn to bits.  A copy of his
birth certificate, the names conveniently blacked
out, of course.  It lays in shreds, the closest
I'll ever get to ripping him apart with my bare
hands.

"Mulder!"

Scully's arms surround me from behind.  I quiet for
her sake, although my chest heaves with bottled
rage.

"Mulder, stop this.  It won't do any good."  Her
voice in my ear eases some of the pain of
frustration.

I sit for a few seconds longer, then struggle to my
feet, facing Scully.  I feel the blood drain from
my head and squash the impending faint.   "We have
to beat him, Scully.  He's always won before.  We
can't let him win this time."

"I know, Mulder.  But save it for him."

She's right.  Once again, Scully brings me back
from the edge.  I survey the destruction I've
wrought; Cancerman's life lays in pieces before me. 
Hopefully an omen of things to come.

All except for the typewritten paper.  It's whole. 
Scully draws a sharp breath; she's seen it too. 
She reaches around me and picks it up from the
floor.

"Mulder -" she begins warily.

"Yeah, I see it, Scully.  You were right.  We can't
destroy his work; it has a life of it's own."  The
paper doesn't even have a smudge on it.

Enough of this.  We both know what we have to do. 
I take a step, much too quickly, apparently, and
sway with lingering weakness.

"Easy, Mulder."  She steadys me while I take a few
deep breaths.  God dammit, will she always have to
take care of me?  Just once, I'd like to take care
of her.  Hold her and comfort her, be her rock.

"I'm okay, Scully."  My words come out with more
bite than necessary.  I'm instantly sorry. 
"Scully, I'm -"

"That's all right, Mulder," she says, forestalling
my apology.  "You're forgiven."  She squeezes my
hand briefly and turns to pick up what she was
rummaging in the locker for.  Kevlar.

Wordlessly, she hands my jacket to me and dons one
of her own.  She also retrieves our weapons from
the floor.

"They're empty," I say.  Of course they are,
stupid.  I quickly put my jacket on, feeling
foolish.  Scully retreats to the locker and comes
back with spare clips.

It doesn't take me long to replace the clip in my
empty gun.  I feel much better when I hear the
click that tells me I am armed and ready.

A derisive mumble bursts from Scully when she pulls
the clip out of her own gun.  "Hmmph," she snorts. 
"It figures.  *Now* I have ammunition."

So that's why she couldn't shoot Modell.  It all
makes bizarre sense.

She stores the spare clip in her back pocket. 
"Better safe than sorry."  A final check of her
vest, and she faces me, jaw set, cheeks flushed,
and oh, so feminine and tiny in her bulky Kevlar. 
"You ready?"

"Oh, yeah.  More than ready, Scully.  I was *born*
ready."

She chuckles just a bit, then the familiar gritty
courage settles on her face.  "Then let's go."

We're almost out the door when she stills me with a
light touch of her hand on my arm.  I face her with
a questioning glance.

Scully stands on tiptoe to whisper in my ear.

"I love it when you wear black, Mulder.  Especially
Kevlar.  Did I ever tell you that?"

With a Mona Lisa smile, she breezes past me on her
way to the elevator.  Her attempt at light-
heartedness works like a charm.  Too well, in fact.

I'm no longer angry, I'm petrified.

In the most God damned inconvenient place.


**********


555 Brooksbank Ave., Apt. 24
Washington, D.C.
6:35 a.m.


Cancerman pulled the paper from the platen and
admired his latest work.

"Good morning, Walter," he purred as the Assistant
Director materialized on the third screen from the
left.  "So nice of you to join us at this early
hour."

Krycek noticed the smoker's distraction and rose
from his chair.  "I think I'll take that walk now,"
he said.  "I need some air."

Cancerman dismissed him with a wave of his hand. 
"Don't be long.  I want you back in five minutes."

"Of course," Krycek replied, slipping out the door
into the hallway.  In no time he was out of the
building, cell phone in hand.  He furtively
disappeared into the darkened alley nearby.

His party answered on the first ring.  "Hello?"

"It's me," Krycek said as his eyes nervously
skirted the immediate vicinity.  "We have a
situation."

"What kind of situation?"

He explained the events of the last four hours as
efficiently as possible, then ended with, "I can't
do anything.  My hands are tied.  He won't let me
near the typewriter, and I can't undo what he's
done, only he can."

"I'll be there shortly," the voice on the other end
said.

Krycek heaved a shaky sigh of relief.  "I knew
you'd want to end this."

"Don't worry, we'll take care of it.  In the
meantime, here's what I want you to do...."


**********


Skinner's office
6:40 a.m.


Anger is good, I think, as we ascend to Skinner's
office.  But you don't want it to blind you to the
point of losing reason and purpose.  In Mulder's
case, not only was he angry, he was guilty.  When I
told him I wouldn't leave him, I knew I wouldn't,
even as I lay there, my life's blood oozing out of
me.  He was so traumatized by his encounter with
Modell that he didn't realize this was just another
of Cancerman's ploys.

The Mulder in this life may be a more confident
person, but the Mulder he's remembering carried
around a suitcase full of guilt and regret.  I
loved that Mulder with all my heart, but I love
this Mulder even more, if possible.  I recall my
trip to his office yesterday afternoon.  Although I
was devastated by his not remembering me, I was
elated at the ease of his smile.

I want this Mulder.  I want to bask in his smile.

I think my little comment on his Kevlar did the
trick.  When he joined me in the elevator he was
actually blushing.  I also noticed the slight
stiffness to his gait.  Shit, if I had known that's
all it took to arouse Mulder, I'd have done it
years ago.

At least he's not angry anymore.  I don't want him
angry, I want him to be determined.  By the set of
his jaw, it appears I got my wish.

He's back to his flowing stride by the time we get
off the elevator.  A wicked part of me sighs with
regret.

We pause in Kimberly's office, checking our weapons
and body armor one last time. 

"Scully?"

"Yes?"  His black vest makes him look so boyish,
thinner somehow.  I wasn't kidding before;  I
*love* him in Kevlar.  Hell, I love him in
*anything.*

"I think I told you this before... my brain's kind
of swiss-cheesed right now," he begins sheepishly
with a small smile, then sobers instantly, "but I
just wanted you to know that I love you."

A flash of puffy-faced Mulder gazing up at me from
a hospital bed creeps up on me.  "Yes, you've told
me that already, Mulder," I whisper, caressing his
cheek.  "If I didn't believe it then, I certainly
believe it now."

"Good," he says, answering my caress with one of
his own.  "Just making sure."

We share a quiet moment as our lives, past and
present, meld.  Forever, God willing.

"Ready, partner?" I ask, echoing his earlier words.

"Always."

He takes a place to the left of Skinner's door; I
put my back against the wall to the right.  After a
few deep breaths, he questions me with a nod, his
hand on the door knob.

Go, I nod back.

Mulder flings open the door and I rush through, my
weapon extended before me.  I feel a brush of
warmth at my side.  Mulder lowers my arms with a
touch of his hand.

"Look," he says, nodding at the desk haloed in
early morning light.

Skinner is sitting stone-faced, his chair pulled
close to the desk.  His hands are resting on the
blotter, one of them clutching his gun.  He hasn't
flinched or even looked up at our entrance.

It appears we are at the beginning of another
chapter of this dime-store novel.

Mulder steps in front of me with his gun raised
slightly, ready to fire if need be.  He gestures
for me to take station at the far door.  I slowly
move around the conference table, my eyes never
leaving the automaton that was once our boss.

"Sir," Mulder says softly, his eyes darting to me,
assuring himself of my position.  "I believe you
have some information for us."

Skinner slowly raises his eyes to Mulder.  "555
Brooksbank Avenue, apartment number twenty-four. 
He's waiting."

A chill passes over me at his monotone.  He speaks
as if he's a shadow of his former self, his life
energy drained, leaving him a shell of a man.  My
eyes meet Mulder's.  He's thinking the same thing.

"Sir," Mulder begins, but stops short when Skinner
raises the gun. 
He backs away toward me, gun aimed and ready.

"Don't try to cross him," Skinner drones, the gun
at his temple.

"No!" we both cry in unison.  I rush forward,
joining Mulder again.

In a single instant, Skinner's head explodes before
our eyes, splattering the window behind him with
blood and gray matter.

"Jesus!" Mulder hisses, nearly backing over me in
revolted retreat.  I put out a hand to steady him,
then cross over to put a hand on Skinner's neck,
feeling for but not finding a pulse.

"You okay?"  I ask Mulder, slipping my gun into my
jeans.  He's rattled, to say the least.  Walter
Skinner was always a good friend to Mulder.  The
father figure he needed.  I was always more wary of
the man, but I never wanted this to happen to him.

"Yeah, sure, I'm fine," he answers.  I force him to
meet my eyes by tugging on his hand.  He peels
anguished eyes away from Skinner's lifeless body.

"He's not going to come back, is he, Scully?"

I wish I could tell him that in a few seconds,
Skinner will bounce up out of that chair, alive and
well.  But he and I both know this was the final
warning.  One that is not going to be undone.

"I don't think so, Mulder."

"God damn him," Mulder mutters, turning his back on
the gruesome scene.  Yes, God damn that bastard.

"We can fix this, Mulder," I say.  "All we have to
do is make him burn the paper."  Easier said than
done.

Mulder faces me with grim determination.  "Then
let's go.  We have an appointment to keep."


**********


555 Brooksbank Ave., Apt. 24
Washington, D.C.
6:42 a.m.


Krycek slipped back into the room to be greeted by
the sound of gunfire.  The Assistant Director
slumped mannequin-like in his chair, the bloody
scene grotesque even by Krycek's standards.  He
stared at the screen, unable to believe what just
happened.

Cancerman didn't even flinch, he just calmly
inserted a fresh piece of paper into the typewriter
and composed his next bit of fun.  He pulled it
free, laying it on top of the others.

"Alex, take the typewriter into the other room."

Krycek stared open-mouthed at his boss.  "But
aren't you going to... I mean... don't you have to
burn this one, too?"

"I don't *have* to do anything, Alex.  Just do what
I tell you, and stay out of sight.  Keep your hands
off those keys and that door open.  I can hear
every move you make."

The typewriter was amazingly light, given its
awesome power.  Krycek gently laid it on the single
table in the darkened bedroom.  Through the
half-opened door he saw the smoking man roll his
chair to position himself directly in front of the
screen displaying the street outside.  Cancerman's
head bobbed like an excited puppy's between the
screen showing Mulder's car and the screen where
the next chapter would unfold.

With an ear open for his distracted boss, Krycek
turned to eye the typewriter with satisfaction. 
That was one hurdle he sailed over effortlessly.


**********


En route to 555 Brooksbank Ave.
6:55 a. m.


"You know what he wants us to do, don't you
Mulder?"

I impatiently honk at the sea of cars.  Just our
luck to be stuck in rush hour traffic.

"Yeah," I sigh, squinting at the burgeoning
sunlight.  "He wants us to burn it.  Burn what we
wrote."  The car creeps forward a few more inches
before I turn to Scully.  "We can't, Scully.  At
least I can't.  Much as I regret Skinner's death, I
won't trade it for Samantha."  I squeeze her hand
for emphasis.  "Even though I assume I would still
have you, wouldn't I?"

"You would, Mulder, though I think we wouldn't
remember any of this life," she says.  "You know, I
have the same incentive."  Her smile is tentative
but bright.  After so many years of infrequent
Scully smiles, I could get used to seeing them
pretty quickly.  "Melissa is alive."

That's the icing on the cake.

"You know, Scully, I began our little journey
seriously doubting if I had done the right thing,"
I tell her, "especially when I found out you'd been
married."  So I'm a jealous pig.  No use lying
about it.

She doesn't say a word, just shakes her head as if
to say, "I knew it all along."

"But even with this current turn of events... Duane
Barry, Modell, Skinner's suicide... I know that
when I wrote those words, I believed your life
would be better.  You would be happier."  She opens
her mouth to protest, but I continue before she can
argue otherwise.  "Somewhere in the back of my
mind, I knew we would find our way back to one
another.  And we have."  I pause, falling into her
liquid gaze.  "We were meant to be, Scully.  As
partners, friends...."

Lovers.  The word hangs unspoken in the air between
us.  I can't say it just yet.  It's too soon.

"Whatever we want ourselves to be," I whisper
instead.

Scully nods in agreement, the tears slipping
silently from her lashes.

Thankfully, the traffic ahead parts like the Red
Sea, preventing me from becoming just as emotional.

"'The Lord of Hosts will do battle for us.  Behold
his mighty hand,'" I quip, spreading my hands
before me.  Charlton Heston, eat your heart out.

Scully chuckles, wiping an impatient hand across
her cheeks.  "Okay, Moses, let's get this show on
the road," she replies shakily.

"Hey, Scully?" I ask as we accelerate into a decent
speed.

"Yes?"

"If I'm Moses, does that make you Sephora?" I ask,
referring to Moses' long-suffering wife.

"I think I'd rather be Nefretiri," she answers, a
profile of innocence.

Whoa.  A vision of Scully, dressed in gauze with
golden snakes gracing her arms, takes my breath
away.  "Why?"  Somehow I can't imagine Scully as
being so mercenary.

"Because I get to call you a 'stubborn, splendid,
adorable fool.'"

Now that sounds more like it.

"Oh, yeah," I breathe, not knowing whether to be
offended or flattered.  No matter, I'm lost in the
fantasy now.  "Then we get to kick Cancerman's, I
mean, Rameses' butt...."  So what if that wasn't in
the script.  I'm entitled to write my own fantasy,
thank you very much.

"In the immortal words of Yul Brynner, Mulder, 'So
let it be written, so let it be done.'"


**********


555 Brooksbank Ave., Apt. 24
Washington, D.C.
7:15 a.m.


"Rameses?"  Cancerman mused.  "I like it."  His
pleased smile quickly turned into a frown.  "Hurry
up, you fools.  I haven't got all day."


End part three

Exodus
Part Four

Disclaimers, etc. in part one


555 Brooksbank Ave.
Washington, D. C.
7:40 a.m.


The street is ominously empty.  I have a feeling
the building will be as well.

"Par for the course," Mulder says, parking the car
and surveying our surroundings with a grimace. 
"The man has no imagination.  I would have put a
homeless person here and there.  Set the mood, so
to speak."

Nice to know he still has that dry wit.  I think
maybe I'll start appreciating it more often.  After
we get through this, that is.

While we're checking our weapons and jackets one
more time, I remind Mulder what lies ahead.

"Okay, Mulder.  You realize he's going to throw the
book at us, no pun intended."  He gives me a small
smile in response.  "We have to be sharp, stay
focused."

"Got it," he replies, clenching his jaw with
determination. "Focused."

We exit the car and Mulder joins me on the steps of
the building; just as my hand touches the door, a
voice interrupts our entrance.

"Dana?"  Sounds like someone's calling my name, but
it's so fleeting and far-fetched I ignore it.

Mulder turns before we enter the door of the
brownstone, gun raised and ready to fire.  "Mulder,
what's wrong?" I ask.  He squints against the sun's
glare and nods, his eyes shifting to point me in
the direction of the sidewalk.

"Dana?"  It comes stronger now to my ears.

Oh, my God.  Please no.  Please don't let it be....

Michael.  I turn slowly, still unsure if the voice
is his.

"Dana, it's me.  Michael."

My brain is receiving all the right signals because
it looks like him, talks like him, smiles like him. 
I shrug off Mulder's attempt at restraining me and
walk down the steps until I stand before Michael.

A familiar scent fills my nose.  Jesus, it even
*smells* like him.

Somewhere in the back of my mind a tiny voice says,
"You know who's doing this."  But a stronger rush
of love pushes me into his arms and crushes the
voice into oblivion.  He even feels the same; my
hands meet behind his back and I bury my face into
the soft cotton covering his chest.

"Michael," I whisper, wetting his shirt with my
tears.  "Michael."  I can't seem to say anything
but his name.

His arms tighten around me as his lips nuzzle my
neck.  "Yes, Dana.  Yes."

The world comes to a grinding halt.  Michael and I
stand at the center of it, remembering and
re-connecting.  A landslide of memories make me cry
even harder, my eyes squeezing shut with pain.

Our wedding day.  He was late and I thought he was
going to ditch me at the altar; a flat tire had
stranded him three blocks from St. John's.  He
burst through the cathedral door, sweaty and
rumpled in his tuxedo, but full of profuse
apologies.  He never did catch his breath totally
that day... that night either, I remember.

Coming home from work late on our one month
anniversary.  The kitchen was a total mess; he
thought he would make a *special* dinner to
celebrate.  We ended up with Chinese take-out on
the roof and we made love under the stars.

Fast forward to eight months later.  A phone call I
never wanted to receive.  Arriving at the hospital
in a panic, only to find he had died ten minutes
earlier.  Ten fucking minutes.

"Scully?"

My grip on Michael refuses to relax.  Mulder's
voice breaks through the slide show in my mind.

Go away, Mulder, the right side of my brain
screams.

Help me, Mulder, the left whimpers.

Michael pulls away slightly and tips my chin so I
can meet his blue gaze.  "We can have this again,
Dana."


**********


Apartment 24
7:42 a.m.


Cancerman watched Scully embrace her husband at the
bottom of the steps.

"Genius," he pronounced, a thrill of excitement
wavering his smoke-damaged voice.  "Sheer genius."


**********


555 Brooksbank Ave.
Washington, D. C.
7:43 a.m.


My feet refuse to move.  They're attached to leaden
legs and a breaking heart.

She's looking at him like I've always wanted her to
look at me.  The way she *did* look at me hours ago
in the doorway of her apartment.  My breath hitches
and I look away; the sight of them together is
piercing my chest with a thousand daggers.

I should do something, anything, but I can't.  I
can't stop her from loving him.  I will never be
able to, much as I can't stop from loving her.  Is
this what she wants?  Who am I to stand in the way,
even if he's nothing but an old man's malicious
creation?

"Michael," she whispers, her hand reaching up to
caress his cheek.

"Dana.  I've missed you, so much."

God, but he's so *real*.  Through the haze of pain
I realize Cancerman must be getting better at this;
Scully is totally mesmerized.  I see happiness
shining through her tears.  Their lips slowly move
together as a roar builds around me.

I don't want to look.  I don't want to listen. 
That should be *my* arms holding Scully, *my* lips
moving over hers.  God dammit, why can't I say
something?

Because this is what she wants, my conscience
answers.  Don't ruin it for her.

With a start Scully pulls away from him, panic
blossoming on her face. "Michael?" She fills her
hands with fistfuls of his shirt, then grips his
arms.  "Michael!"

As her hands urgently fight to hold on, his form
fades slowly into nothingness.  His whisper dies in
the early morning sunlight. "I love you, Dana."

"Michael, don't go!" Scully cries, her hands wildly
clutching at empty air.  "God, no!  Not again! 
Don't leave me!"

She falls to her knees on the sidewalk, the
wrenching sobs torn from her.  At last my frozen
limbs thaw and I stumble down the steps to crouch
behind her, enfolding her huddling form in an
embrace.

"Scully," I soothe her, much as she did to me
earlier.  "Shhh..."  I want to tell her it's okay,
but how can I?  It's not okay.  God, what else will
we have to endure before this ends?

Her body flinches with resistance.  She struggles
against me, cursing between the sobs.  "God damn
you, you motherfucker!" she cries, her fists
pounding her frustration into my arms.

Is she cursing Cancerman or me?

"Scully, please stop.  Please," I whisper, and
after a few moments more of agonizing cries, she
quiets, her head lolling back to rest against my
shoulder.  I continue to murmur nonsensical words
of comfort into her hair while she slowly regains
control.

My earlier thoughts come back to me with a
vengeance.  Here's your chance, Mulder.  Be her
rock.  Comfort her.

Is this what she feels when she does the same for
me?  Being strong is painful.  I don't ever want to
see her cry again, it hurts too much.  How selfish
is that?

Very selfish.  I rid myself of self-indulgent
thoughts and embrace her pain.  Give it to me,
Scully.  I can take it.

"Mulder?" she whispers after a time, bringing a
trembling hand up to wipe her cheeks.

"I'm here, Scully."  I gently brush the damp
tendrils of hair from her forehead and drop a kiss
upon her hot cheek.

"It was him, you know," she says quietly,
resolutely, still trying to convince herself, not
me.

"I know, Scully."  Much as I want to believe
otherwise, I know he was real.  It matters not that
he was brought to life with a few typewritten
words.  He lived again.

I cradle her for a few moments longer in silence. 
Her breathing gradually returns to normal as her
hand strokes my arm.  We both know there will come
a time when we will have to discuss this, just not
here and not now.  God, I don't know if I'll ever
be ready.

I can almost hear the gears in her mind click back
into place as she slips from my arms and struggles
to stand.  She sways for just a moment and I grab
her hand to steady her.  "Scully, you okay?"

Her face is still on the pale side, but her eyes
are clear and cognizant, thank goodness.  She meets
my eyes for an indecisive moment before clearing
her throat and looking down to straighten her vest. 
"I'm fine, Mulder," she states, flushing slightly
under my scrutiny.  She looks like she wants
nothing more than to hide from me.

I can't really blame her.

"Hey," I whisper, my fingers gently tipping her
chin so she has to look at me.  "We can go over the
details later, okay?"  I give her own words back to
her and she nods in quick agreement.

"Okay."  She takes a deep breath; she's okay now.

"Come on, Scully," I say, my grasp firm on her
elbow.  "Let's just do what we came here for.  In
and out.  Piece of cake."  I give her my best
reassuring glance as we climb the steps.  God, I
hope the face I present to her is reassuring,
because I sure as hell don't feel confident.

She doesn't answer, just follows me through the
door and up the stairs.  I don't say anything as we
ascend; after all, what can I say?  Sorry you lost
your husband, *again*?  Would you like to take a
shot at me, seeing as how I'm mostly to blame for
your unhappiness?  

Scully can't even meet my eyes.

We arrive on the second floor landing, still
brandishing our weapons like the good agents we
are, although neither of us really expect to be
gunned down this late in the game.  The dimly lit
hallway, cobwebbed and dusty, stretches before us. 
The tarnished numbers "24" beckon to us from the
door at the very end.

Each door we check is locked.  No big surprise. 

I nod at the final door awaiting our entrance. 
"Care to guess what's behind door number
twenty-four, Scully?"

A budding hope rises from deep within me when she
finally raises her eyes to mine.  "Our future?  Our
past?" she questions in return, brushing a stray
strand of hair away from her face.  

"Maybe both."

We turn together to face them.


**********


Apartment 24
7:55 a.m.


Cancerman finished off his beer in one swig, his
attention so focused on the second floor hallway he
almost missed the click of the bedroom door.  With
a cough, he choked on the last swallow, an
uncharacteristic epithet spewing from his lips.

"What the fuck?"

Krycek was alone with the typewriter.

"Krycek!  You son-of-a-bitch!"

He stumbled to the bedroom door, panic taking hold.

"Krycek, open this God damned door!"  Cancerman
ordered as he fumbled pathetically with the door
knob.

A rattle of the apartment door knob signaled the
impending visit of the pawns in his game.  He
hesitated for a moment and weighed the options
before him.  The war was not lost.  He knew he had
yet to reveal his final, most glorious work.  He
retreated to his chair, composing his face into an
impassive facade.  Krycek would be dealt with
later.
 
He considered himself a pretty good author.

But he excelled at playing the game.


**********


The door opens easily, swinging wide.  The room is
lit by a dozen or more television monitors. 
Cancerman sits, bathed in the eerie electronic
glow, hands clasped in stoic silence.

If I could wipe that nasty smirk off of his face, I
would.  All it would take is one bullet.

"Well, Agent Scully," he addresses me, "did you
enjoy your reunion?"

My throat tightens as the tears threaten to return.

"Shut up!"  Mulder yells, pointing the barrel of
his gun at the bastard's head.

"I can return him to you, you know."

God, please make him stop.

"Shut the fuck up!"  Mulder steps forward in an
effort to shield me from that cold stare.  "Where
is it?"  Maybe Mulder will kill him for me. 
"Answer me, you son-of-a-bitch!"

"Oh, come now, Agent Mulder," he replies, taking
his time lighting a cigarette.  "You really think
I'm going to tell you?"

I drag my gaze away from the evil old man and take
a look around the room for the first time.  A
shiver passes over me; the monitors reveal our
total lack of privacy.  He's been watching us.  Our
apartments, our offices at the Bureau, even
Mulder's car.  Is there no peace from this man?

Mulder has obviously seen them too.  He looks like
I feel; the urge to vomit is overwhelming.  But I
see his back stiffen.  He backs up slowly until
he's beside me, his eyes scanning the room for the
typewriter.

I swallow the lump of disgust and look around. 
It's not here.

Mulder steps across to the closed inner door, only
to find it locked.  "It's in here, isn't it?  It
has to be somewhere close by.  You've been
orchestrating our every move today."  His voice
drips with revulsion.

"And I will continue to do so, if you don't do what
I want."

Mulder snorts.  "I could just break down the door
and destroy the damn thing.  End of story."

"You can't," Cancerman states.  "I've made sure of
that."  He waves several pieces of typewritten
paper like a red flag.

Mulder's jaw clenches, his only reaction to that
statement.  He knows as well as I do that Cancerman
could have any of a number of born-again
psychopaths waiting for us behind that door.

Luther Lee Boggs.

 "Barry, Modell, Michael Harden; they were just the
beginning."  The smoke carries his threat across
the room.

Greg Pincus.

"I could just kill you," Mulder says, throwing the
dice in a useless gamble.  I know it, he knows it.

Gerry Schnauz.

"You've had a gun in my face before," Cancerman
replies.  "You never could finish the job.  What
makes you think you could do it now?"

I listen to their exchange half-heartedly.  I'm so
tired.

Leonard Betts.

The endless list of possibilities grows in my mind. 
We don't know what's waiting for us around the next
corner.

Mulder draws the hammer back on his gun.  It's
gratifying to see Cancerman's pasty skin become
ashen.  But he maintains his composure.

 "I could have... oh, let's say... John Barnett
lying in wait for Agent Scully right beyond that
door."  He notes with satisfaction the color drain
from Mulder's face.  "Kill me, Mulder, and these -"
he throws the papers at my feet, "can never be
undone."

I crouch, sidestepping a stunned Mulder, and
retrieve the papers from the floor.

The words jump out at me.  His very first attempt,
ensuring that I remember Mulder.  Our encounters
with the undead on the way here.  Then the terrible
things to come:  Virgil Incanto, the Peacock
family, Eugene Tooms... they all figure prominently
in several bizarre, evil chapters.  "He's right,
Mulder.  We have to burn what we wrote.  I don't
think we'll get out of here alive otherwise."
  
He keeps his gun on the old man but whips his head
in my direction.  "Scully, we can do this, I *know*
we can."

"No, Mulder," I whisper, "we can't.  We can't win." 
He is taken aback at my surrender.

"Scully -" He refuses to give up.  I'm not
surprised.  Mulder has never given up on anything,
why should this be any different?  This stand-off
won't continue indefinitely, though, so I force him
to look at the papers clutched in my trembling
hands.

"Look, Mulder.  You'll see I'm right."

He quickly scans the written words and raises
frightened eyes to mine.  "But things will return
to the way they were before.   We won't remember
this life, Scully, if we burn what we wrote.  I
won't have Samantha and you won't have Melissa. 
You won't be safe."  His agonized gaze rakes my
face as if memorizing every curve, every inch of
skin.  He sadly adds, "You won't ever have had
Michael."

I ignore the reference to Michael; if I think about
him now, I'm lost.

"You know we have to do this, Mulder," I say,
touching his face for the last time in our new
life.  He's so warm and alive, happy for once in
his life.  "And I *will* be happy.  Because I'll
still have you."

Our eyes meet and I almost relent at the sadness in
Mulder's eyes.   He wants to fight and so do I, but
we can't fight when the odds are stacked against
us.  We *will* still be together; hopefully
continuing on our quest for the truth.  I entrust
these and other thoughts to him through my steady
gaze.

His eyes soften at my last unspoken admission.

I love you, Mulder.  Nothing we do here will ever
change that.

His hand covers mine over his cheek and we come to
the same swift conclusion.

"We'll do it," Mulder says, his gaze never leaving
mine.

We step together toward the smoking man.

"Father."

Cancerman's eyes shift from us to the tiny voice
behind us.  "Go away from here, Samantha.  This
doesn't concern you."  He doesn't allow her
appearance to deter him.

Mulder tenses beside me, his grip tightening on my
hand.  His surprise at her arrival quickly turns to
fear.  He closes his eyes as if willing her away
already.

"Samantha, go away," he hisses.  "This doesn't
involve you."   From the determination on her face,
however, I don't think she's quite ready to give up
her new life just yet.

"No, Fox.  You're wrong.  This *does* concern me." 
Mulder still hasn't faced her.  He thinks if he
ignores her she will just do as he says.  He
probably also thinks she was written into this
little play by our wrinkled friend over there.  An
opinion I don't share.  Cancerman is just as
shocked as Mulder to see her.

I look at her with slack-jawed fascination.  I've
only ever seen her once, and that was a clone. 
Something tells me she's the real thing.  She's
silently pleading with me to convince her brother
to let her in, her eyes so like Mulder's.

It occurs to me that Samantha is sharing in our
sorrow.  She's plagued with memories of two lives,
just as we are.  Cancerman still holds a place in
her heart; she loves him regardless of the man he
is.  How she came to be here today is a matter that
will have to be settled later.  The fact remains,
however, that she's chosen to be here today to help
Mulder and me, despite the loyalty she obviously
feels for her father.

If he even *is* still her father.  Much as I find
the idea distasteful, I'm hoping the father-
daughter bond is still there.

My heart, so exhausted moments ago, lurches in my
chest.

"Mulder," I say, tugging on his arm.  "Let her in."

He fixes me with an angry glare.  "No, Scully.  I'm
tired of playing this game and I just want it to
end."

A moment ago I would have echoed his words.  But
the flicker of hope that ignited in me at
Samantha's appearance refuses to die.

"Mulder, at this point we've got nothing to lose."

Samantha tires of our bickering quickly and shoves
her way through.  Mulder tries to stop her, but she
shrugs him off and approaches her father.

"Father, please, stop this.  Do it for me."  Her
pleas fall on deaf ears.  He slowly shakes his head
in response, adamant in his confidence.

"This is what I've been waiting for all my life,
Samantha.  Ultimate power.  The ability to create
the world's greatest novel.  Surely you can
understand that?"

A novel?  Is that what this was all about?  A
fucking novel?  I can't believe it's possible, but
I hate him even more.

"But that's not what you're doing, Father, can't
you see that?  You're playing with people's lives. 
People that I love.  Please, I'm begging you, stop
this now."

He clenches his jaw and remains immovable.  "But
the Project -"

Samantha cuts him off.  "This isn't about the
Project, Father, and you know it.  This has always
been about power.  You crave power.  You *love*
power."  Her voice lowers sadly.  "More than me."

"Samantha, no," Cancerman begins, "that's not
true."  He sits forward in his chair and takes her
hand in his.

Mulder starts forward, but I restrain him with a
hand on his arm.  He pierces me with his angry
gaze.  Let it be, I communicate silently.  I know
you can't stand to see Samantha so close to this
man, but we must be still for now.

Thank God he listens for once.

Samantha sighs and moves closer, cupping his cheek
with her hand.  "I didn't want to have to do this,"
she whispers, "but you leave me no choice."  She
straightens and her voice hardens.

"You will burn what you've written and you will do
it now."

Will he do it?  I close my eyes and pray with all
my might.  Please, God.  Let it happen.

Cancerman's eyes glaze over instantly.  He slowly
stands and walks to me, grabbing the papers from my
slack fingers.  Mulder's hand grips mine, and
together we hold our breath when he runs his thumb
across his lighter.

His expressionless eyes mirror twin flames as his
novel burns to ash.

I can't move.  Neither can Mulder.  We're stunned
by the spectacle we've just witnessed.

Samantha guides her father to his chair.  "Sit now,
Father, and rest."  He does so, and closes his
lashes over those blank eyes.

I turn away from Samantha's concerned handling of
her father to meet Mulder's eyes.  "We're free." 
The awed whisper emerges from my lips in a slur, my
limbs suddenly leaden.

One last thought screams through my mind. 
Cancerman's first typewritten words... they made me
remember Mulder....

Mulder swims before my eyes; I grasp his hand,
trying to hold on to his wavering form.  "What is
it?" His face transforms from mild concern into
frightened panic.  "Scully, I'm... I'm losing
you...."

Is this how Michael felt?

Mulder's hand slips from mine as I fall into the
black void.


**********


I grab onto Scully with all my might, then watch
her disappear right before my eyes.

"Aaah, nooo!" I howl, falling to my knees on the
stained carpet, my fists opening into empty hands. 
I *knew* this would happen.

*Dana Scully has never met Fox Mulder.*

Jesus Christ, what have I done?

My eidetic memory kicks in, just as I knew it would
when I started this journey days ago.  Only this
time, I have new memories to haunt me.

<My whole damn dresser is full of satin, silk and
lace.>

<I love you in black... did I ever tell you that?>

<Because I get to call you a stubborn, splendid,
adorable fool.>

<I *will* be happy... I'll still have you.>

No, you won't, Scully.  I made sure of that two
days ago.

She's never met me.  She doesn't know me.  Without
any outside influence by Cancerman, it's as if I
never existed in her life.

"Fox."  Samantha kneels beside me.  I gather her
close and cling to her in my misery.

"Fox, look at me."

I'm crying for the third time in less than six
hours.

"I'm not going to approach her, Samantha, so don't
even bother.  She's happier without me."

The pain is growing into an all-consuming cancer; 
I've just denied myself Scully.  A distant peal of
church bells signal the eight o'clock hour.

"Look at me!"

With great reluctance I raise my head.  She cradles
my face in her hands, her eyes boring into mine.

"Dana Scully will remember you, Fox.  She will
remember everything in your past together and
everything that happened here today."

"But how will she?" I ask, then add, "And don't
tell me to use that fucking typewriter again,
because I won't."

"You won't have to, Mulder."  The voice comes from
the now opened inner door.

We both turn to face Alex Krycek.

"What are you doing here?" I rasp, quickly rising
and shielding Samantha with my body, my gun up and
ready.

"I think you know, Mulder.  It's a good thing I
*was* here.  You'd be back where you started if it
weren't for me, pal."

"I *am* back where I started, you son-of-a-bitch."
I start towards him, intending to take out my pain
and frustration on the nearest available whipping
boy.  Krycek will do nicely.

Samantha interrupts the growing animosity between
the two of us with a hand on my arm.  "Fox, I think
you should get out of here as quickly as possible." 
She turns to Krycek.  "Do you have what they
originally wrote?"

He pulls a piece of paper from his coat pocket with
his left hand and gives it to me.

My God.  He's got both arms.  Amazing.  Damn, but
we changed a lot of lives with that piece of paper.

"Alex will destroy the typewriter, won't you,
Alex?" she nods at one of my least favorite people.

"You have my word on it," he replies adamantly.

"Yeah, like I'm gonna believe you."  He must think
I'm a fool.

"He will, Fox.  I'll make sure of it.  You must go
now, Dana's waiting.  She's at her apartment,
waiting for you."

At the mention of Scully's name, I turn away from
Krycek momentarily.  "I don't know if I should,
Samantha.  Like I told you before, she'll be
happier without me."

"Nonsense, Fox," she states, cutting off my pity
party.  "If ever two people were meant to be
together, it's the two of you."  She gives me a
little shove towards the door, but I don't budge.

"I can't leave you here, Samantha.  You have to
come with me; we need to talk."  Not to mention
discuss the question of how she came to be here in
the first place.  From her conversation with
Cancerman minutes ago, I'd say she knows quite a
lot about the Project and the men behind it, Krycek
included.

"I have to take care of Father, Fox," she replies
softly, nodding at the silent figure.  "I'll call
you when I get home, okay?"

I still don't trust Krycek, but Samantha's soft
tones are reassuring. It's obvious that she can
take care of herself; Cancerman is definitely out
of it for a while.  And if she knew Krycek in her
other life, she knows enough to be wary of him. 
"You hurt her, Krycek, and so help me...."

He cuts me off with a wave of his hand.  "Don't
worry, Mulder.  I have no intention of crossing
you.  I'm as sick of this whole mess as you are."

God help me, but I believe him.  Did he write it
that way while he was tucked away in the bedroom
with the typewriter?

He answers my unspoken question with a snort.  "No,
Mulder.  I don't think anything I write would
totally erase your mistrust and dislike of me."  He
pauses, then adds, "Trust me, Mulder.  I have my
reasons, just as you had yours."

"All the same, I think I'll take the typewriter
with me, Krycek.  Go get it."  I wave him towards
the bedroom with my gun.

He throws his hands up at my obstinance and looks
at Samantha.  She nods her agreement and Krycek
walks back into the bedroom.

"You really should give him a chance, Fox," she
says while he's gone.  "He's a changed man.  You
saw to that."

"That remains to be seen."  No way in hell will I
ever trust Alex Krycek.

Samantha frowns at my inflexible tone.  "Trust me,
Fox.  I know him a lot better than you do."

Before I have time to fully analyze that remark,
Krycek returns with the typewriter.  We make the
trek to my car in silence.

I hand my keys to Samantha; she opens the trunk and
returns to my side, depositing the keys in my free
hand.

"Right there, that's a good boy," I nod, and he
silently complies, closing the trunk like the lid
of a coffin.

"Samantha," I try once again to get her to come
with me.

"I'll be all right, Fox.  Go to Dana.  She'll
recognize you, I promise."

Krycek backs into the shadows, disappearing into a
nearby alley.  At least he's gone; I want to get to
Scully badly, but I was uneasy with that bastard
around.

"Call me later, Samantha," I say, hoping against
hope.

She brushes my cheek with a kiss.  "Will do, big
brother.  Don't worry.  You'll be pleasantly
surprised."

I pause in the door of my car.  "And Samantha?"

"Yes?"

"Take care of the peepshow in apartment number
twenty-four, okay?  I can handle the cameras from
my end.  Can you get rid of the monitors?"  It's
way past time for a little privacy in our lives. 
"I'm really tired of people spying on Scully and
me."

"Consider it done, Fox."  She gives me a thumbs up
and a wink.  Yes, I do believe it will be done at
last.

I take one last look at her before speeding away to
my future with Scully.


**********


"It's okay, he's gone," Samantha said to the figure
emerging from the alley.

Krycek walked to her with a rueful demeanor. 
"He'll never trust me, you know."

She knew he was right; things hadn't changed *that*
much.  "Do you have the paper?"

"Right here," he replied, pulling it from his pants
pocket and unfolding it to let her read it.

Samantha quickly skimmed the words, the words that
gave her the capability to make her father burn his
work.

"You know, I still had hope that he would listen to
reason," she said regretfully.  "The father I love
would not have done this.  I thought I could talk
him into burning them by myself."

"I know, Samantha.  I know how much you wanted to
give him a chance and I'm sorry he wouldn't
cooperate.  But I never really expected him to. 
That's why I told you I would be ready at the
typewriter, in case the need arose."  He paused,
then added, "I didn't realize Scully would
disappear like that.  I'm sorry I wasn't fast
enough to prevent that."

"That's okay, Alex.  She's waiting for him at home,
right?"

"Yes.  She should be.  After all, it is only eight
o'clock on a Saturday morning.  Where else would
she be?"

Samantha agreed with the logic, but she knew she
would feel better when she knew for certain.  She
would give Fox a few hours, then call for
confirmation.

Their business together was rapidly coming to a
close.  "I don't think I'll leave Father in such a
condition.  Would you mind?" she asked, handing the
paper back to Krycek.

"I don't know, Samantha, maybe we should just leave
him that way.  He's quite cooperative," he replied,
humor tinging his voice.  At her crestfallen
expression, he quickly pulled a lighter from his
pocket.  "Okay, okay.  I hope you realize, though,
how much it pains me to do this."

Samantha gave him a sympathetic smile.  "I know,
Alex, but it's not in me to be so cruel.  I don't
think it's in you either, anymore."

"You're right.  It isn't."  He touched the red-
orange flame to the paper; it was gone in seconds. 
With a last sigh at it's remains, he retrieved
another piece of paper from his pocket, the one
that assured Scully would remember Mulder.

Their fingers touched slightly as he gave it to
her.  Samantha flushed, her eyes darting away.  "I
have to see about Father," she murmured, moving
toward the steps.

"Are you happy?"  The question was torn from him.

She stopped, her foot poised above the bottom step. 
With a resigned sigh, she faced him.  "Yes, Alex. 
I'm... happy."

He was unwilling to let her go just yet.  "We were
good together, weren't we?"

She smiled sadly.  "We were."  At the glimmer of
hope in his eyes, she quickly added, "I'll miss
you, Alex.  But we can't go back.  You understand,
don't you?"

He nodded, clearing his throat gruffly.  "Go on. 
Take care of your father."

He watched as she disappeared into the building,
then turned and walked away.



END


Is Skinner alive?  Samantha and Krycek - what's up
with that?  Where is Diana (who cares?)  These and
many other burning questions will be answered
(except for the Diana one, I may just leave the
bitch in cold storage) in "The Promised Land" - an
honest to goodness MSR!

I know the plot holes are wide and deep; I think I
mentioned once before that this AU stuff is giving
me brain-drain!  And I know I've possibly broken a
major rule by playing with the tenses, but it read
better that way.


Author's Notes:  Many thanks to: Alicia, for the
"boy" observation and other stellar comments;
Brooke, for giving me her perspective, despite her
cringing when I mentioned the next part would be
NC-17 (can't help it, gotta do it!); Renee, for
pointing out that Mulder might lose his gun, but he
never leaves home without it; Audrey, for reminding
me that CSM is quite the frustrated novelist;
Galia, for laughing at "Neil" (see, I did away with
that) and Michelle Beck for just being such a good
friend and sending me such funny stuff!  Their
suggestions are what *made* this story.

Most special thanks go to haphazard method once
again, for saving my sorry ass at the last minute. 
"Angst!  We want angst!"  You were right, I like it
better this way.

You would not believe the numerous versions of this
fic; it is due to the help of the people above that
it was done.  

Thanks for reading, if you made it this far.  Hope
you enjoyed it!
Feedback to mish_rose@yahoo.com