Date: Thu, 16 Oct 1997
From: Lydia Bower bower@cu-online.com

Subject: Primal Sympathy by Lydia Bower 1/3

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

Primal Sympathy
Chapter One

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
APRIL 26, 1997
12:43 AM

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

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

ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA
APRIL 29, 1997
3:17 PM

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

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

Was this meant for me to see? Am I looking at Mulder's version of a suicide
note; this message his last communication with me? Then again, it could be
something he marked years ago. Something that struck a chord in him that he
wanted to make easy to find.
But why was it opened and laid on the desk? It's almost as though it were
on display. Set there to be noticed only by someone who understood the way
Mulder's mind worked.
What do I take from these words?
Even in death, Mulder continues to taunt me with his innate love of the
game. Of springing things on me. Delivering the most incredible of tales in
his soothing monotone and then waiting for my reaction. His eyes bright and
full of mirth.
Damn you, Mulder, for doing this to me now.
Agent Scully steps in, wanting to know just exactly when would be a good
time for him to blow his brains out.
Oh, but that's easy one. After my death, of course. Not before. Not when
I'm busy dying.
He always was a selfish bastard. Always putting his needs before anyone
else's. Nothing else mattered but finding the truth. And then when it's
right there in front of him, close enough to touch, he rejects it. Walks away.
The truth is not like ice cream, Mulder. You can't pick your flavor. And
it's unacceptable to take your life if you find you don't like it.
A flash of raw anger takes me by surprise. Of all the things I expected to
feel right now, anger is not one of them. But it's there, simmering just
below the surface. Making itself known to me. And it's not just directed at
Mulder. Oh, no. There's more than enough to go around.
I hate the men who've done this to us. The men behind the lies. Ultimately,
they are the ones responsible for everything that's happened.
Mulder and I were fools, both of us, to think we could bring down an
organization that operates outside the norm. A syndicate abiding by its own
laws; yet remaining a part of the same government sworn to protect its
citizens.
This is the government I believed in. Trusted. Swore to uphold and defend.
I foolishly believed I could make a difference. That I could mete out
justice for the victims of countless crimes.
The cost of my naivet=E9 is high. The price I will pay, that Mulder has
already paid, is nothing less than my life.
The trilling of my cell phone startles me. I look up from the book. The
waning rays of sunlight through the windows is an indication of the time
I've spent submerged in dismal thoughts. More time lost. I know I should
care. I don't. I haven't the energy.
"Scully."
"Agent Scully. It's Skinner. We need to talk. Can we meet?" His voice is tight.
"What is it, sir?" I can't hold back the sigh that escapes me. I'm tired. I
don't want to do this anymore. I just don't care.
"I realize you're no longer on active duty." And whose fault is that? I
question silently. "But something's come up that I thought you should know
about."
I can't even work up the curiosity to ask. The silence stretches.
"Michael Kritschgau has disappeared from the safe house. There's no sign of
him anywhere," he announces.
Is he taken aback by my short burst of laughter?
"I'm not surprised," I tell Skinner. "That's just par for the course, isn't
it?"=09
"Agent Scully, you realize this may have an impact on of the events of the
last few days."
Has he always been this circumspect? Yes, I guess he has. Even when there's
no longer a need.
"I don't see why, sir. Mulder is still dead. The X-Files division has been
shut down. Whether that's the correct decision or not remains to be seen.
But it's only fitting under the circumstances."
"Scully--"
"And I'm dying. It doesn't matter anymore. Just let it rest, sir. Let him
rest."
All his life, all Mulder wanted was the truth. I remember what he said to
me that dark night in his family's summer home; blood leaking from a small
hole in his head. "I'm so tired. I want to know, Scully. I just want to know."
But I don't think he did. Not really. Turns out he couldn't handle it. So
why does the thought of Spooky Mulder putting a gun to his head and pulling
the trigger feel so very wrong?
Because I didn't know him as well as I thought I did. It's easy to look
back on the last year and spot the danger signals. Maybe I didn't want to
see them. Maybe I didn't care enough.
"Scully? Agent Scully! Are you all right?" I shake loose the memories and
focus on Skinner's voice. I've drifted off again.
I make a fist of my free hand. The pain of my nails biting into the soft
flesh of my palm keeps me anchored. "Yeah... Yeah. I'm fine."
He barks it out like an order. "Agent Scully, where are you?"
"I'm, um," I lean my head back and close my eyes. Tired. So tired. "I'm at
Mulder's."
"I'll be right there."
"Sir, that's not nec--" I hear the click of the receiver. He's hung up. I
feel the warm trickle of blood as I slip the phone back into my pocket. I
swipe it away from my nose with the back of my hand. I suppose I should get
up and get a tissue. I haven't the strength.
It doesn't matter anymore. Just let me sit here and rest awhile. A little
more blood spilled won't make much difference.
I'm dying anyway.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
end 1/14

Primal Sympathy
Chapter Two

ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA
APRIL 30, 1997
10:13 AM

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

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

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
end 2/14

Primal Sympathy
Chapter Three

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
MAY 4, 1997
8:32 PM

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

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

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
MAY 5, 1997
2:42 AM

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
end 3/14

Primal Sympathy
Chapter Four

ANNAPOLIS, MARYLAND
MAY 5, 1997
3:00 AM

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
end 4/14

Primal Sympathy
Chapter Five

ALLENTOWN, PENNSYLVANIA
MAY 5, 1997
3:12 AM

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

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

ON THE ROAD
MAY 5, 1997
4:03 AM

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

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
end 5/14

Primal Sympathy
Chapter Six

ON THE ROAD
MAY 5, 1997

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

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