********************************
T h e X - F i l e s
Fallen Cards
Chapter 10: Dust of Snow* (Part 10/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized--'cause I still
vehemently deny any knowledge of ever having owned the
recognizable characters herein. So there. <g>)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.

********************************
Chapter X--Dust of Snow*

As merry Margaret,
This midsummer flower,
Gentle as falcon
Or hawk of the tower.

--John Skelton, "To Mistress Margaret Hussey"
(*from the R. Frost poem of the same name)
__________________________________________________

Washington, D.C.
Monday, December 1, 1997
5:16 p.m.
J. Edgar Hoover Building

"Scully, Samantha's missing."

"What do you mean, Mulder?"

"I mean, Skinner just got a call from Quantico; they
were taking her dinner and she wasn't there."

"I'll bring the car 'round front and meet you."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quantico, VA
7:18 p.m.

"I'm sorry, Agent Mulder--I don't know how this could
have happened."

"No one saw *anything*?"

"I've told you--I checked on her, she was sleeping. I
checked on her, she was gone. That floor is security coded; no
one gets in or out without being noticed and cleared. There is
no record of Ms. Jacobs--sorry, Ms. Mulder." The agent looked
sheepish for a second. "She asked us to call her Ms. Jacobs.
Sisters, eh? They're always trouble."

Scully put a warning hand on Mulder's arm, feeling the
tense muscles beneath. "Thanks for your help. If you find
anything, call." She turned to Mulder. "C'mon, Mulder, there's
nothing else we can do here. I'll take you home. She's a grown
woman; I'm sure she can take care of herself."

But they both recognized the fallacy in her statement.

Mulder did not respond.

And looking at his face, Scully bit down on her lower
lip hard enough to draw blood.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Washington, D.C.
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Office of Special Agent Dana Scully
Tuesday, December 2, 1997
1:29 p.m.

"Dana Scully."

Silence.

"Hello?"

"Ms. Scully."

"Yes, hello? Who is this?"

"We believe we have something you need."

"Who is this? What do you mean?"

The world telescoped to the voice on the phone,
disembodied and distraught, and yet she saw everything around
her in the clearest detail.

"We have the sister. And we want to trade."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Washington, D.C.
Wednesday, December 3, 1997
10:04 a.m.

"Hello?"

"Mom? It's Dana." She hated doing this. But she had
no choice.

She had spoken with them for only a few minutes. A
few minutes that had seemed like an eternity in living hell,
ripping apart her known life and replacing it with something
terrible and ruined. A deception, a destruction, a parody of all
she held true and sacred and real.

They confirmed that They had been using her for
experiments, would go on using her as They would. Because of
her circumstances they had been able to go farther, try tests and
perform experiments they could not have done on the other
subjects.

All the other women had died.

She yet lived.

But now They would prefer her to be willing. Due to
the nature of their experimentation, the final run of tests
demanded compliance. A certain degree of cooperation. An
active, willing participation by the subject would vastly increase
both accuracy of results and would remove limits to certain of
the tests. So They had waited, left her alone for the last few
days until they could provide a suitable offer for that
cooperation.

Make no mistake, They had assured her, if she did not
agree, the experiments would continue--in a modified form, of
course, for they would have to use certain drugs to ensure
compliance, and these would skew the results. Drugs would
make her less aware, and certain of the procedures were
perception tests, neither more nor less.

The kind run by psychologists on their patients every
day. "Not harmful, really," they murmured. "Just tedious."

The price They had decided to pay for her compliance
would be the return of Samantha. They would have either or
both, anyway, but if she said yes . . . They would not harm
Samantha. They would return her, safely, and take Scully in
return.

Could she trust Them? Of course not. But then what
choice did she really have?

"In truth," they said, "we are offering you an
opportunity to be a part of something monumental. You should
be honoured."

Two full days, They had said.

"We'll give you two days. And then, you will come to
us, willing and free, and be ours. Say yes, and the deal is
struck."

Midnight, December 5, 1997. The day her life would
end.

Oh, dear Lord. Please. Please, please not ...

"Yes."

So she agreed. The only possible choice. The only
choice she could make. The only thing that felt real, that gave
her some control. It was all a farce anyway, and she a puppet
following only to say that she chose to follow, despite knowing
she could do little else.

She hit the speaker phone button as she sat on the side
of her bed, arms wrapped around her waist to fend off the
nausea she felt.

"Dana. How are you?" Scully winced at the love in
her mother's voice, but there was no other way, and so she held
to her resolve.

"Just fine, mom. Listen, I need you to do me a favour."

"Sure, honey, what can I do for you?"

"I know I'd promised to come over for dinner this
weekend and unfortunately I can't. I'll be out of town on a case,
and I won't be coming back for a while. I was wondering also,
if, possibly, you would mind taking care of a couple of things
for me this weekend. I wouldn't ask except that I'm really in a
jam, mom."

"Of course, sweetheart, I'd be glad to." Scully could
almost read the subtext, *I wish you would take better care of
yourself, dear; I wish you wouldn't work so hard, dear; I wish
you would get a life, dear.*

Although that was unfair; her mother had never said
anything of the kind; had in fact always been supportive of her
only remaining daughter. Even when she didn't quite approve.

"Thanks, mom, that'll be great. I'll leave a list of stuff
on the dining room table before I leave, so if you could come by
Saturday or Sunday that would be great. I'll drop the extra key
off day-after-tomorrow."

"What time are you thinking, Dana?"

"Late morning?"

"I'll have lunch waiting."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quantico, VA
Wednesday, December 3, 1997
10:52 a.m.

Mulder had wanted, that morning, to check the room
one last time. There was a despair in his eyes that Scully could
not defend against, and so she'd agreed, knowing they wouldn't
find anything. Silently, painfully, they had driven out together,
Scully not trusting Mulder to drive. Not really trusting herself,
in the end, either. She drove anyway.

On the security level, they waited as they went through
an elaborate security clearance, stepped up in the wake of the
disappearance of a protectee. As they gathered their stuff and
the door to the floor was opened, they heard voices.

"Scully!" And Mulder, without a thought, grabbed his
gun from the table and dashed off down the hall, Scully only
moments behind him.

"Hands in the air!"

Both Mark and Kate looked towards the doorway to
her room where the FBI agents were both standing, weapons
drawn and cocked, faces stern. Mark looked apprehensive and,
for a split second, the room was filled with crackling tension.
All of a sudden the sheer absurdity of the situation struck Kate
and she couldn't help it. She giggled.

And while Scully looked both relieved yet strangely
saddened, Mulder looked like she'd always remembered her
brother looking. He looked a little sheepish and mostly
disgusted. And quite a bit put out that he'd been wrong.

"Agents Mulder and Scully, may I introduce you to my
supervisor and good friend, Mark Stephen Matthews. Mark,
these are the agents assigned to watch me, Mulder and Scully.
More than that I do not know, and could not begin to tell you."

Scully, watching from the sidelines, looking at the
scruffy-looking man and the cheerful, happy Samantha, could
only think one thing. *Bargain struck.*

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday, December 4, 1997
Washington, D.C.
4:15 p.m.

Margaret sat on the park bench, contemplating
peacefully in the late afternoon sun. Dana had come over for
lunch, and it had been lovely. She hadn't seen Dana in so long,
but she'd stayed for three full hours. She was flattered that her
daughter had taken time off work to visit. She knew how
important career was to her baby girl. She closed her eyes and
turned her face up to the sun.

A child's voice spoke to her, and Margaret smiled
automatically, opening her eyes before she gasped in shock.
Because this was the child from her dreams. She shook off her
sudden chill, and smiled again at the little girl.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"And what's your name?"

"Anais Evadne Margaret Davidson. What's yours?"

"Margaret."

"That's it?"

Margaret laughed. "I'm afraid so."

"Even my sister's name was longer than yours."

"What's your sister's name, honey? Is she here with
you?"

"Caroline. Caroline Rachael Davidson. She didn't
look like me, though."

"Doesn't she?" Absently, Margaret corrected the child.
The child, in the manner of all children, did not seem to notice.

"No, she didn't. She had brown hair. She's dead now.
I killed her."

Shocked, it took a moment for Margaret to find her
voice. "Oh, sweetheart, I'm sure you didn't do anything of the
kind."

"I did." The little girl stamped her foot. "I did, I tell
you, just like I was supposed to. I did a good job, too. She
couldn't do it, and so she had to be killed. They told me, and I
did. I'm a good girl, I do what I'm told. I'm the best. Everyone
says so." And she ran off to the swings.

And Margaret could only look after the distant child in
horror.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Basement
10: 18 p.m.

She looked around the office for the final time. She
would not be returning. That was the deal.

You're not even sure she was taken, a voice whispered
in her mind. She said she went willingly. Maybe . . .

But the proof was incontrovertible. There was no
other way. They really were that powerful, and she had never
been one to hide from a truth.

She looked around his office one last time. Two days
had not seemed long, at the time, to finalize all her affairs. But,
when it all came down to it, two days was really plenty of time.
There hadn't, sadly enough, been that much to do. Her
apartment rent was taken care of--she always gave her landlord
post-dated cheques on the first of the year. Her will was up to
date--most of her stuff would go either to her mom or Mulder,
with legacies and bequests to her godson, nieces and nephews.
Her brothers got a mention as well, but there really hadn't been
anything extra to update in the past three years. Her life was
pretty static.

As for work, her resignation lay, in triplicate, on the
top of Skinner's desk, with an extra copy on Kim's, just in case.
Mulder, too, received the benefit of a copy.

Mulder. She'd wanted to call him, but simply couldn't.
Instead, she had been doing a pretty good job of avoiding him
the last couple of days. Fortunately, with Samantha's
disappearance and reappearance, he'd been too distracted to pay
it much mind. So she'd taken the coward's way out and left him
a letter. Neat and perfect. Sitting gracefully on his desk, a
piece of cream linen bond covered in sharp black ink.

A letter of farewell.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Office of Special Agent Fox Mulder

Mulder,

Undoubtedly you will be alarmed by my resignation, and upset
that I have not heretofore discussed this with you. However,
circumstances have precluded such a discussion, and I can only
imagine how such a conversation might have played. Suffice to
say that I think we are both better off without.

They have called me and made me an offer. My willing body for
your sister's. They will do what They like regardless, and I have
made the only possible decision in this world where the rules
have been devised by those without morals or conscience. The
only choice that affords any degree of certainty. It angers and
grieves me equally that this is so, but if I have learnt anything in
the past five years, I have learnt that we cannot deny the truth.

Mulder, I have never doubted the strength of your convictions or
of your faith in the existence of the truth. I have felt this faith
and it has become, in its own way, a truth in my world as well,
becoming something I have, over the years, learned to recognize
as pure and good and this has lent me its own strength. I hope it
will continue to do so now, today and in the days to come. As
such, I rely on you to find that truth, and only regret that I
cannot find it along with you.

I know that you will feel in some way responsible, and I beg that
you will not. Know that this was my choice, mine and mine
alone. If there was some other way, some way that you could
have changed events, I know that you would have done so
without a second thought. Please remember that I trust you
enough to have asked, had that been the case. But it is not.

I also know, had this been your choice, or had I asked your
opinion, my decision may well have been different. But I chose
*this* way, weighing all the evidence and thinking through the
situation as carefully as any good analyst would do. I hope that
you will, in time, come to respect this decision and realize that
it is the best way, the only way, for us all.

For myself, I am happy to have seen you put to rest a quest that
began so long ago and that has ended with such success. I trust
that you and Samantha will get to know each other and that you
will begin to know the happiness you have always sought.

Finally, Mulder, as a friend, I would ask that you watch over my
mother. I know she loves you as much as she ever loved me, and
it would lend me some measure of peace to know that she could
depend on and trust you as I have learnt to do.

Be well.

All my love,
Dana K. Scully

-------------------------------xxxxxx----------------------------------
End of Part 10.

How gauche is it to beg for feedback at the end of the part as
well? Nevertheless I whine at you. I snivel at you. I grovel at
your feet. Please write me?
_____________________________________________

********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 11: When Rivers Rage (Part 11/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.

********************************
Chapter XI--When Rivers Rage

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage, and rocks grow cold.
And Philomel becometh dumb.
The rest complains of cares to come.

--Sir Walter Raleigh, "The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd"
______________________________________________

Friday, December 5, 1997
At a prearranged classified location
12:01 a.m.

"Welcome, Ms. Scully. We are most pleased to have
you join our Project."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Office of Asst. Director Walter Skinner.
7:57 a.m.

Dear Sir,

I have tendered my resignation with regret, sorry I cannot give
you proper notice or explain the matter to you in person.
However, the situation has been created not of my own doing
but by the same men that you and I are both aware of: men
without conscience, without morals, without consequence. Men
outside the law and beyond justice; men who take power and
use it without thought of repercussion.

I have recently learned that these men want something
that I have. They have the means and ability to take this from
me, or I can choose to give it to them. For the latter they will
give me something in return. A guarantee. A guarantee of the
life of another. Given these alternatives, my choice is clear. I
trust that you will understand this, and will make the
appropriate arrangements for my resignation. Severance pay and
benefits should be sent to my mother, if you would.

Sir, in the years that I have worked at the F.B.I., I have
always had a great respect for you. Thank you.

Sincerely yours,
Dana K. Scully.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
8:02 a.m.
Basement

Mulder stared at the piece of paper in his hand. He
had read it over, carefully, after his first panicked glance, and
then read it again. The words did not change, did not alter but
remained in their same precise, black gouges marring the pale,
thin sheet. This was not happening.

His hand was shaking; he thrust it in his pocket with
the letter crunched in his fist.

The phone rang, and he reached for it from force of
habit. "Mulder."

"Agent Mulder, I'm glad you're in. Assistant Director
Skinner wants to see you as soon as possible."

"I'll be right there."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Quantico, VA
10:13 a.m.

"They've taken Scully."

"Oh, God. Oh, Fox."

"She agreed. She traded. A fair deal."

"Agreed? She gave herself to Them willingly? Why
would she do that?" Kate suppressed a shudder.

"They offered her a life."

"A life?"

"There is only one person who was missing this week.
Only one."

"Oh, God Fox. You think it was me. You think she
traded herself for me."

"I think They told her They would return *Sam*." His
eyes blazed, bored into Katherine, then Mark.

"But I was . . ."

"They lied. Dammit, They lied! Samantha was with
me. They never had her at all." Mark's rage: quieter, slower to
rouse than Mulder's.

"Oh my God, Fox," Katherine's shocked whisper. "Oh
my God, do you know what she's done? Oh my God."

But Mulder's eyes had narrowed, and his voice grown
deadly quiet.

"How do I know that They lied?" The voice of danger.

"Fox . . . "

"What do you mean?" Confusion on Mark's part. He
did not understand her brother as she did.

"I mean, how do I know that you're not part of it. One
of Them." He paused, took a step forward. "Maybe. *They*.
Didn't. Lie."

The voice was even, brittle, measured. A blade poised.

"You can't seriously believe that I . . . I can assure you .
. ."

"I don't *trust* you!"

"Fox." She laid a conciliatory hand on his arm. "Fox.
I trust him. You can too." Momentarily halted by the touch, he
gazed down at this new distraction with suspicious eyes. A
strange woman. Katherine. Katherine's voice. Katherine's face.
Not his sister. He barely trusted *her* either.

He had been duped before.

The only one he trusted was gone.

But . . . but this *was* his sister. His *sister* . . .
Samantha . . . Samantha. He smiled and relaxed. Of course he
trusted her. He could not doubt *her*.

Samantha.

"Okay. All right." He took a deep breath.

So then the only thing left to do was find Scully.
Because he couldn't lose her. Not yet.

He *wouldn't* lose her.

"We're going to find her." Echoes of the past.

They settled down to make plans.

After Mulder left, Mark turned to Kate. "Katherine.
Katherine, he *cannot* know."

"I know." But her voice betrayed doubt.

"He will not understand. This must be done, but it can
only be done by you and I. Just the two of us. And in the end,
it will be done by you alone. I haven't the ability. It *must* be
so."

Mark forced belief, forced conviction into his voice.
They must not falter.

She could not fail.

He paused, and she was silent.

"Katherine. We must be cautious. It is imperative. I
know it is hard."

Could not risk failure.

She nodded again, and spoke. "I know. I will not tell
him."

Kara had failed.

He caught her eyes. "It is better this way."

Kara had failed, and had paid.

He held her gaze. "It is not a truth for him."

They had all paid.

She did not flinch. "I know." Blue eyes burned into
his.

He lowered his gaze. He could not look at her. He
hated himself. Compassion would weaken her. It had
weakened Kara.

She spoke again. Her voice was small, but she did not
flinch. "Mark. She gave herself up for me. Knowingly, freely.
She gave herself over . . . to *that*. For me. For me."

"She gave herself over because you are his sister.
Because he loves you. Not only for yourself, but for him.
Because of him."

Could he not give her that little?

"How does that make it better? She has given herself
for me, and I am betraying them both."

He looked at her again, searchingly, before placing his
hand over hers as it lay clenched on the rough wood of the table.

And looking at her face, cold and set, he could find no
further words to speak.

So he was silent, with only the lights buzzing overhead
and the harsh sound of Kate's gasping breath to break the quiet.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fairfax Mercy Hospice
Subbasement
Restricted Access Only
12:03 p.m.

"Agent Scully, welcome, we are quite delighted that
you have chosen to join our little project." Large white teeth
bared in a smile.

"It is not often we get a willing participant." Another
smile flashed.

"We have great hopes for you, Dr. Scully. Great
hopes. You should be honoured to be a part of something so
monumental, so immortalizing. You have made a wise decision.
This, of course, is a temporary facility. We will be moving you
to our main site soon. We just wanted to introduce you to
certain members of the project beforehand, as some of them are
not able to attend at the main facility. Obligations and the like,
you understand." Her 'host', the tall mustached man.

Ten pairs of eyes turned and glittered expectantly at
her. Scully wanted to scream; instead she swallowed and
managed against the constriction in her throat to speak. "Of
course."

To say anything more was beyond her.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Office of Asst. Director W. Skinner
2:48 p.m.

Skinner turned in his chair. "I called this meeting for a
very specific reason."

"Of course you did. But I can be of no help to you."
Ash fell upon the desk, marring the smooth surface.

"Don't lie to me, you son of a bitch." Fingernails
digging into the soft leather arms of the chair.

"Temper, temper, Mr. Skinner. However, in this case it
will avail you nothing. It is out of my hands, even had I wished
to assist you. I may have helped you, had I been able. I liked
her, but this time there is literally nothing I can do."

"Then I have nothing further to say to you."

"Well, Mr. Skinner, as always, it has been a pleasure."
And he stubbed out his cigarette slowly before turning and
leaving the room.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Time: Unknown
Location: Unknown

She woke, lying and covered in a dimly lit room.
Alarmed, she jerked awake only to find that she could not move,
could not sit up. Bound to a hard surface. No concept of time.
Everything hurt, but she concentrated on the pain. Pain kept the
mind blank. Pain forced away the horror of realization.

A voice spoke. "You are fighting. These are not the
terms--remember, your compliance has been bought and paid
for. You will not be punished, for now, but if you cannot
control yourself, the deal is off. Keep in mind that this was by
your choice. You are not now permitted to renege without
consequence."

Her clouded mind tried to remember. The voice was
right. She had agreed . . . . couldn't recall exactly, but she did
know she'd agreed. But the pain . . . she just wanted it to stop.
She'd change her mind. She would . . . what . . .

Slowly, she remembered.

Mark. Katherine. Samantha.

Mulder.

She must hold to the bargain.

But she prayed for the release of Death.

The only possible release she had left. Her only hope
for escape from this nightmare.

"Another such incident will not be tolerated." The
white light over her head clicked on, was moved into place,
shone mercilessly down.

Lying quiescent on the table, the former Agent Scully
concentrated on trying not to shudder visibly. Or scream.

Because, once begun, she'd be beyond stopping.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday, December 24, 1997
J. Edgar Hoover Building
Basement
6:18 p.m.

It was dank and cold in the basement. The heating
down here was not the best. He knocked on the door. Mulder
had been missing appointments or simply not answering the
phone. It was time to put an end to this. He would not have it
continue. There was no answer, and he opened it to see Mulder
slumped at the desk, staring sightlessly at the file opened in
front of him.

The agent looked up. "Sir."

"Agent Mulder, you're being reassigned."

"Reassigned?!"

"Yes."

"You can't mean that. Scully is still missing! I've still
got . . ."

"What do you have, Agent Mulder? I'll tell you.
You've got *nothing*. Nothing, Agent Mulder. It's been over
two weeks and you don't have even the slimmest lead. You've
had ample opportunity to explore all your resources. Mulder,
there is nothing left to do."

Skinner paused before continuing in a somewhat lower
tone. "I mourn her too. But she's gone. She chose her path,
Mulder. Freely and openly. I want Them to pay also, but I will
not destroy myself and my work for revenge. In this case, They
have won. And life goes on. Let it go, Agent Mulder, let it go.
It's Christmas Eve. Go home, enjoy, and when you return, you'll
start on this case."

"Here's the file. Your flight leaves at 9.a.m. sharp,
Monday morning. Go home, Agent Mulder." And Skinner
threw a file onto the cluttered desk before leaving the freezing
office.

End of discussion.

He was right, Mulder thought bitterly. He had tried
every option. Begged on Senator Matheson's doorstep. Called
in every contact, every friend. Begged his blonde informant for
any scrap of information.

"I'll do anything", he said. "Anything," he told them.
"Anything at all. Just give me something."

Across the board, unilaterally, unanimously, he'd been
refused. Harshly, firmly, sympathetically.

Undeniably refused. And now he was reassigned as
well. Skinner had been his last, his final support.

Mrs. Scully had called him, once, asking if he had
known anything, looking for answers.

He had none for himself, and none to give anyone else.

She had called at a bad time. Selfishly, he had not
been able to say anything that could give her hope, would give
her comfort. Only the bare and bitter truth: nothing. She had
not called him again, and although he longed to, he was afraid
to call her.

So he had not spoken with her since.

He wanted, more than anything, to be able to freely and
honestly give her the answers. If only there were any to give.

But in this instance, Mulder would not, would never,
accept defeat.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Time Unknown
Location: Unknown
Solitary confinement room

"Mulder? Mulder, I'm tired. I don't want to stay."

"So come home."

"I can't . . . . "

"Why?"

"I . . . I don't remember."

"Of course you do."

"No . . . I don't. I don't."

"Because of Sam. Because They are who They are.
Because They will do what They will."

"Yes."

"Because you bought a guarantee, the only guarantee
you could."

"Yes."

"Mulder, will you stay?"

"I can't, Scully."

"Please, Mulder. Please."

"I'm not really here."

"Mulder?"

No answer.

"Please, don't go . . . come back . . ."

Her voice was a whispered breath in an envelope of
silence. She struggled to make it stronger, stronger so he would
hear. He *had* to hear . . .

She was in a cell, chained to a hard pallet. Chained for
punishment, because she had not been fully cooperative.
Although she had tried.

Alone, and Mulder could not come.

There was a sound at the door, and then it swung open,
and she squinted her eyes against the light. They were back, Oh
God, They were back. Too soon. Too soon. She wasn't ready .
. .

"Please", she moaned, "please. Not now. No more."

"Tsk, tsk, Ms. Scully. Such a display. I had expected
more from you than this." The tall man entered, slim and
impeccable, wearing a long dark coat. Under the perfectly
trimmed mustache, his lip was curled in derision at the sight
before him.

Scully had not showered in days, although she had the
option. Her hair hung lank and limp, tangled. She had not
bothered to change her clothes for the past three days either.
Her voice was weak, and she smothered a hacking cough.

God, she was just like the others. Weak and pathetic,
instead of noble and brave. A sad state of affairs when the
subjects to the Project had to be . . . *this*, instead of the kinds
of subjects he would've liked to see. Strong. Honourable.
Willing to sacrifice their very being for the Good of All.

Not this reprehensible scene.

He spoke again. "Pray do not whimper in that fashion.
I cannot abide it. I sincerely hope that this . . . this tendency to
wretchedness is not hereditary. But as it happens, I merely
wished to introduce you to someone; testing is over for today.
Come with me then."

She shifted slowly, sat up. She knew she deserved his
scorn. She would try, however, not to incite it further.

She looked up. "I know you . . . I can't remember . . .
who . . ."

"Do let us go, Ms. Scully. I have a schedule to keep."
The voice was impatiently contemptuous.

She stood, clutching the wall, nearly crying out,
closing her mouth against it. A small mewling noise escaped
despite her efforts; she bit her lip against it.

Carefully, silently, she shuffled behind him down the
hall, staring at her feet. No point in looking up, dreaming of
escape. There could be no escape. Not this time. Not for her.

He took her to a room. An empty room. An
observation room, with a large one-way glass looking into an
adjacent playroom. A little girl sat in the other room, giggling
by herself. Hair in ringlets, dressed impeccably in a smocked
white cotton frock.

Alone. Lonely, in a room piled high with every toy a
child could wish.

"See that child?"

"Yes."

"She's yours."

No response.

"That's your daughter, Ms. Scully. Do you not see the
resemblance?" Was the woman dense, or just stupid? He
shrugged and continued.

"From what we can tell, she looks remarkably like you,
or perhaps more like your sister did as a young child. You may
go in to see her now, if you like, or we can bring her to you
later. As long as you do not upset her. Her environment is by
necessity carefully controlled. We thought today might be apt--
it's the 25th."

He paused; the woman's blank stare had not wavered.
"Christmas Day."

She spoke, a shallow gasp. "My daughter?"

A spark of interest. He had begun to despair of her
reported intelligence.

"Yes. She has done well, one of our finest creations to
date. We promised her a visit with her mother, as a reward for
good behaviour."

"You're lying." The barest thread of whisper.

"You do not believe me? Well, here is the file. All the
proof you need. Blood tests, D.N.A. the works, as it were."

Shaking hands tore open the file, examined impossible
evidence, lying documents, doctored test results. She would not
believe it. Could not. Refused to believe.

"Really, Ms. Scully, control yourself. Why would we
lie, now? What purpose could it serve? We have all we want
from you. We have all of you now. There is no reason for us to
create such an elaborate deception. No point in wasting the
resources. We would not bother to show you this, except that
we told her she could see you. The child *is* yours, whatever
you choose to deny. Your daughter, your flesh and blood.
Your own."

"My daughter?"

"As much as she can be said to be anyone's child. She
carries your basic genes, your D.N.A. Thus, she is yours. In
fact, you should be proud. She is special. There is no other like
her in existence."

"My daughter. Oh God."

"Honestly, Ms. Scully." The man made a disgusted
noise, somewhere between a sniff and a snort. "Here, take this
handkerchief. This is truly unsightly. Please do try and control
yourself. Every woman wants a daughter. Here you have one.
You should be happy."

She looked down at the child, playing happily in the
room filled with toys. Laughing, running, giggling.

Her daughter.

A child she did not remember. But They had proof.
Had shown her proof. Why would they lie?

A child, therefore, that was nevertheless hers.

Too much to bear.

My daughter.

Dearest Lord.

-----------------------------xxxxx-------------------------------------
End of Part 11
________________________________________________

********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 12: Heart's Desire (Part 21/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.

********************************
Chapter XII--Heart's Desire

O mother, mother, make my bed,
O make it saft and narrow;
My love has died for me today,
I'll die for him tomorrow.

--Barbara Allen (English Ballad)
__________________________________________________

Fairfax Mercy Hospital
Subbasement
December 26, 1997

"Well, the trap has been set."

"Do you think she'll buy it?"

"We did not expect the first phase to go as well as it
has. And she has been broken. Most thoroughly."

"It is your responsibility to ensure it goes well."

"MSAT1121 has become dangerous. She has become
allied with some dangerous factions. She must be contained.
We cannot afford any errors at this point."

"Explain, once more, exactly how this will work."

"We have introduced her to the child. Supervised, a
brief five minute meeting. They greeted each other, the subject
behaved herself. It can be unruly, but it has been taught
etiquette. In a few days we hope to leave them alone, observed
for a longer period. In time, we are hoping this situation will be
enough to incite SDK0223 to escape, because then the deal will
be off. Unilaterally breaking the promise we have made makes
certain of us . . . uneasy. However, if she does attempt escape,
the deal, naturally, will terminate and not by our hand. That
will take care of the first part of the problem."

"We also plan to leak the information to Agent
Mulder. By this, we hope to lure MSAT1121 to us as well.
Once here, DAEM0327 will destroy both the Agent and
MSAT1121 and we can finish the experiments on SDK0223 in
peace."

"It seems too easy."

"You have not seen what it can do. It is our best
creation yet."

"See that it is so."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Unknown Location
Unknown Time

She shuffled down the hall. She'd had daily visits with
the child all week. They'd let up on the tests as well, and she'd
been feeling a little stronger. Except for today. Today had been
bad. Today had been worse than she'd ever remembered.

But her memory was not great, these days.

She was having trouble seeing. Having trouble. But
they were taking her to see Anais. And she wouldn't miss the
visit for the world. An hour, an hour a day for the last five. The
only bright spots to her existence. She stumbled, gasped, took a
breath a trifle too deeply and gasped against the burning in her
throat, stifled the painful cough that ached in her chest.

Kept moving. Slow, difficult steps. Ignored the
derisive snort.

They were there. This room had a window, though. A
real window. A window to the outside world.

Scully gasped. Sunlight and shadow.

She'd forgotten what it was like, outside.

Someone had taken extra care to dress the child, today.
She wore a pale cream dress with ribbons and lace, and the
bright gold hair was in perfect ringlets. "Oh, sweetheart," Scully
breathed as the child ran up to hug her, "you look like an angel."

The child smiled in response to Scully's, then, head
cocked, asked the question. "What's an angel, mama?"

Tears sprang into Scully's eyes. She would do
anything to not be here. To not have her child here. Anything.

But Samantha . . . and the bargain. There was nothing
she could do.

Nothing.

But this was her *child* . . .

She turned her mind away from the thought; she
smoothed her hand over fine copper hair in an half-hearted
attempt to recover herself and bent down to explain to her baby
about angels.

A conversation as normal, as ordinary, as natural and
wholesome as everything in this place was not.

And Scully grieved for the unimaginable horrors
exposed to her child.

Her daughter.

Her baby.

Oh God.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, December 29
Along the I-95
5:17 p.m.

Stupid traffic wasn't moving. Mulder rubbed a hand
across his eyes. This last case was going nowhere. A true X-
file, and he didn't even have Scully off of whom to bounce his
ideas.

Focus, Mulder, on the case. Don't think about that.

Three high school math classes in Washington had all,
in succession, within a single week, committed mass suicide.
No explanation. Just average city high schools, average high
school math classes. One sophomore class, one senior class,
one junior class. Each averaged about 20 kids, all as normal as
could be, some more than others. No connection between the
victims. No connection between the schools--two private, one
public. Seemingly random. Shit.

The first school, a very exclusive, very expensive
academy, had tried to hush up the whole affair. The second had
"chosen not to publicize", although the Board had decided to
investigate. The third, a small public school in an affluent part
of Georgetown, had immediately reported the incident to the
local police, fearing some kind of drug influence.

He had checked, but there was no way to trace the
incidents to hysteria or drugs. One class had been an
accelerated academic one, one was remedial, and one was just
your regular math class. Some of the kids had been involved
with drugs, other students hadn't been and had never been.
Some of the students were known troublemakers, others were
just this far removed from the angels. There was no correlation
there at all that he could find.

Upon digging, he had found that each class had
contained the child of a prominent politician. One, Amanda
Torrance, the daughter of a Congressional Aide; another,
Gregory Ashford, the son of a Senator, and the third, Emily
Sinclair, the gifted and talented daughter of an affluent
diplomat.

But this was D.C. Nothing unusual in that.

Except each teacher remembered seeing, that day, a
small child wandering around in the hallway before class, or
interrupting in the middle in one case. A small child. A pretty
little girl in blue, in violet, in pink. With red-gold curls and
wide blue eyes.

The only connecting factor. The only clue.

A child identified, unanimously, as the very same child
appearing in the photo of the missing girl from New York.

Anais Evadne Margaret Davidson.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Unknown Location
Unknown Time
Observation Room

"Mama?"

"Yes, sweetie?"

"I want to go outside."

"We can't, Anais. Not today."

"But I want to *go*."

"Anais . . ."

Behind the glass, the men were agitated. The little
girl's eyes had begun to shine. One of them spoke, a loud
booming voice through the speaker. "Anais, behave yourself."

Scully shivered. Yet another sign that her life was no
longer hers. She had given it up, given it over. To Them.

"C'mon, Anais, let's play a game." And, in one of those
mercurial changes of mood so common in young children, the
child brightened.

"Okay. Can we play Snakes and Ladders?"

"Sure." Suddenly, a wave of dizziness hit Scully. The
aftereffects of a test. She swayed, and the world went black.
She sat down abruptly, eyes closed.

Distantly, she heard the child's voice. "Mama? Mama!
Are you okay? Mama!"

She gathered the strength to answer, breathing deeply
for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was calm, reassuring.
"Yes, sweetheart, everything's fine. Come, let's play."

But the little girl came up to her suddenly and threw
herself in Dana's lap. Hugged her, and whispered, "I don't like
to see you hurt, Mama, who hurt you? I'll kill them."

Her arms came up to wrap around the small child,
breathing in the baby scent. "Anais, no, it's wrong to kill
people. It's bad."

"But . . . They said . . ."

"No. Anais, listen to me. It's wrong."

"Mama?"

"Yes, Anais?"

"I love you, Mama."

And Dana pressed her lips to the fine strands of bright
hair, and whispered softly, "I love you too, sweetheart. I love
you too."

Behind the glass, two men turned to each other, and
smiled.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
New Year's Eve
6:31 p.m.

He walked up to his apartment, considering. The
child? How could she be involved. A baby, for Christ's sake.

Even after all he'd seen, he had trouble believing a
child so young could be part of anything so . . . evil. Although
in the past he'd seen evil prey upon the innocent. Seen evil in
the guise of innocence.

Even so.

He needed more information, he sighed to himself as
he unlocked the door. Step one, find the child . . .

The incredible vanishing child.

He'd spent all day interviewing families grieving for
their children. He was drained. He threw his coat onto a chair
and ran a hand through his hair, loosening his tie and walking
into the kitchen.

Someone had been here.

The note was left for him on his kitchen table. White
against the darker wood grain. Blue ink dark against the
starkness of the ripped page.

Three lines, no more. 10 words. All he wanted. All
he needed. He remembered to breathe.

Rainier's Park
2:30 tonight.
The envelope on the park bench.

He did not ask questions. His U.N. contact finally
came through. If there was any word, anything at all, he had to
be ready.

He picked up the phone and dialled an unlisted
number.

This time, he'd make damn sure they turned the
recorder off.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
January 4, 1998

Mulder looked over at Sam, sitting beside him in the
car. She had insisted on coming. He hadn't even known why.

She'd come over to his place, just as he'd been about to
leave. Uncanny, that. She'd simply said she was coming. No
preface, nothing.

Just said she was going.

He'd been too stunned to argue properly.

Silence had reigned between them on most of the drive
out to Aberdeen. Despite the need for urgency, he'd opted to
drive. Less trace of his tracks, that way. More places to hide.
More opportunity to figure out if hiding was necessary.

Sam had nodded when he told her that, as if she had
knowledge of this kind of thing. As if she approved.

She spoke suddenly although her head, turned to
where she'd been staring out the window for the entire trip, did
not move.

"Mark will meet us there."

"God, Sam, this isn't a pool party! How will he know
where we're going, anyway? You don't even know where we're
going."

"He'll know."

And silence reigned again.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
In a solitary cell
Time: Unknown

"Mulder? I . . . I'm going to leave."

"What about Samantha, Scully?

"I'm just not strong enough, Mulder."

"What about Sam, Scully?"

"I can't take it anymore, Mulder. I have to get out. As
soon as I can."

"What about my sister, Scully?"

"They have my daughter, Mulder."

"They'll take my sister, Dana."

"Oh, God, Mulder. I can't, I'm sorry, Mulder. I can't."

"You're breaking your word, Scully."

"Please, Mulder. I'm so sorry."

"I trusted you, Dana."

"Mulder, don't go . . ."

But he was gone, and she was alone. Again. Maybe . .
.

She shook herself. He was not here. And he would
not return. Because she could not stay.

Not for Sam.

Not for herself.

Not even, when it came right down to it, for Mulder.

Because they had her daughter. And in the end, that
was all that mattered. That was all she cared about.

This morning when she'd gone for tests, Scully had
managed to steal a hypodermic. A sedative, powerful. She
knew, it had been used on her several times, because the point
would always come, lately, when she was past control. They
knew that; didn't bother to blame her for it anymore. The tests
were getting worse.

She had to take the next opportunity. The side-effects
of the testing were leaving her less and less able to function, to
think. Pretty soon, she would be too weak to do anything of
any use. It had to be now. Anais was young, she could move
quickly. And bright. Once outside, Scully had no doubts that
Anais would be able to find the road, if Scully explained how
and what to do.

Because it was very likely she herself would be caught.
She hadn't the strength, lately, even to scream. Escape might be
more than she could manage. But at least one of them would
escape, if not both, Scully vowed. At least one.

Her baby girl. No matter how she had come about.

She would do anything to save her.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
January 5, 1998
8:19 p.m.
Outside of Aberdeen, PA
Off the I-83

"That's it, Fox."

"What?" he snapped in annoyance. He was tired and
irritable. The clues had led him to Aberdeen, but beyond that,
he was at a loss. He'd already been through the town. Scant
miles outside of Aberdeen now, he'd been driving around
aimlessly this night, knowing he had to give up if he couldn't
find her.

He didn't know what else to do, where to go. Was
hoping for something, anything.

"Take this road."

"Sam, it's a dirt road. It's not even a road. We'll get
stuck. This is a rental, and I rented it on a forged I.D."

She didn't even blink, didn't even respond. "Take the
road."

Looking at her, determination and certainty in her eyes,
he turned the car onto the lane, praying that this foolishness
wouldn't kill them both.

Taking her words, illogical as they sounded, on faith.

His heart ached for the reverse situation, when he was
the one who believed and there was another who believed in
him.

He would find her.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Eve of the Ascension
In an enclosed compound

They had let her take Anais outside. For a time. It was
late. The sky overhead was dark, shining with stars:
innumerable points of light. Of hope.

The first time she had been outside in God only knew
how long.

And Scully knew.

Despite Sam, despite Mulder.

She was going to run.

And she was going to take the child with her.

-----------------------------xxx----------------------------------------
End of Part 12.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 13: Quaecumque Vera (Part 13/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.

********************************
Chapter XIII--Quaecumque Vera*

"So young, and so untender?"
"So young, my lord, and true."

Lear, Cordelia, "King Lear"
__________________________________________________

Tuesday, January 6, 1998
Ravenspeak Centre for Adults
4:40 p.m.
Day of the Ascension

They had let them out into the compound again. One
more time. Snow, and sun; a mother and her child. It seemed so
natural.

Everything inside her screamed with tension. She was
going to make a break for it.

Suddenly, an alarm sounded, shrill and piercing,
cutting through the stifling quiet. Voices, shouts, footsteps.
And Scully saw her chance.

A guard rushed up to them, and she kicked him back,
jabbed him with the needle, grabbed Anais' hand.

Began to run, she knew not where. She had no plan,
no strategy. She only hoped that whatever happened, worked.

End of the compound. No gate. Had to go inside.

Running down a corridor, turn, another hallway. All
the same. No idea where she was going.

A staircase: no. Need to stay on ground level. Good
to hide behind, though.

Then suddenly she saw him, standing there, clear as
day. Could not stop the cry from her lips.

"Mulder!"

Shit. She shook her head. She'd given herself away
for an illusion. Maybe, if she moved fast enough . . .

Eyes startled, turned towards her, finding her. Finding
Anais.

"Scully!"

Wait. No illusion.

He began to move towards her.

Then all hell broke loose. A keening alarm sounded,
the sound as shrill as the squall of drowning kittens. The
guards in the vicinity--only three--came to their senses. An
evacuation warning was announced, and the alarm changed in
intensity.

Everything after that was a blur. A guard came up
behind Scully, and one grabbed Anais, without warning
dragging both off and through an exit. Scully was dragged to
one side and held, kicking, screaming, it did not matter any
more . . . beaten and dragged, dragged and beaten--all the
training in the world could not compensate for a slight figure
weakened through weeks of imprisonment. Dragged into a side-
chamber, where her captor stopped and waited, gun drawn,
trigger cocked.

And, despite the hand clamped over her mouth, despite
the pain and nausea and despair, she could see.

A boardroom. Full of dark-suited persons, who sat,
and waited. There were women, and men. Calmly; a few were
even smiling.

She turned her head, a window: saw trees, grass. A
room on the main floor then. How had she gotten here?

Sound of gunshots from the hall; Scully's body jerked
with every one. Please, she prayed silently, please. Thuds and
movement. Then eerie quiet. The place was as noiseless as a
cemetery. Evacuation. All but them. What was to happen?

Scully heard voices, nearing, and the hand gripping her
hair tightened. Shock and illness combined, Scully struggled
against her guard, but was impotent against the strength of his
200 pound, 6 foot frame hold.

The suits rose, as a unit, and began to exit the room
from the other door.

One of them beckoned to Anais. Unlike all the rest,
this woman wore a lab coat, spotless white in contrast.

Anais was released.

Scully bit her guard, who relaxed his hold for just a
moment so she could scream.

"Run, Anais, run!"

Unceremoniously Scully was shoved to one side, gun
pointed straight at her as the guard flattened himself beside the
doorway. She drew a breath.

Didn't hear anything, but felt the pain blossom in one
shoulder. A silencer, then. Fell, crumpling, to the ground. She
looked up when her vision had cleared.

The guards were standing in front of her, back to her,
blocking her view of the room.

Scully could hear reassurances from the guard that her
"mother" was fine, admonishing the girl gently against
disobedience, telling her that she mustn't be willful or naughty,
now.

Anais sent a concerned glance towards Scully, but she
could not see through the guard, who smiled at her
encouragingly. Taking her by the hand, he led her towards the
woman.

After a moment, the child skipped lightly towards the
woman of her own accord.

The guard crossed back towards Scully, and cocked the
rifle again.

The woman spoke. "She is coming, Anais. You know
what you must do."

And the child, the child with the glowing eyes,
nodded.

*Yes*.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
6:42 p.m.

Out in the hall, they both heard it: a voice, sharp and
high. "Run, Anais, run!"

A warning, enough. Samantha burst into the room to
find a man with a gun trained on Scully. Her aim was true, and
he began to fall just as he pulled the trigger. Not enough,
maybe, to stop him, but enough to divert the bullet. Her brother
was a second behind her, already into the room, already at the
side of the woman lying on the ground, collapsed in a pool of
her own blood.

The room was empty, save for a single unconscious
guard, a child, and Scully.

The child he'd been searching for.

He ignored her entirely.

Mulder crossed the room to Scully, pulling out his cell
phone and dialling rapidly, kneeling by her side in one fluid
motion. His brain was practically numb with panic and his
thoughts were jumbled, yet at the same time his mind noted
everything with an almost dispassionate clarity.

As he reached out to her, Scully began squirming away
from him and began moaning painfully, "Stop, please don't, it
hurts, please. Mom, it hurts; please mom, make it stop."

She pushed his hands away from the wound in her
side, the gaping hole that bubbled frighteningly with blood,
covering the wound with her own hand and trying at the same
time to inch weakly away. All the while he kept talking to her,
automatically, keeping his voice low and even, although it was
apparent she was not hearing him.

She was barely aware, her eyes were open but dark and
unfocused. He could not get a grip on her properly without
hurting her further, and at present, it was frustrating; her
movements prevented him from getting a good look at her
injuries. The fever he could feel on her skin was adding to her
confusion, he knew, and so he slapped her face, slightly more
harshly than he intended. But, for a moment, her struggles
ceased sufficiently that his soothing tone could reach her, calm
her, let him try to help.

Or so he chose to believe--he knew, intellectually, that
her comparative relaxation was probably due to the onset of
shock. Despite her fever Scully, though calmer now, was
shivering. She still plucked at his hands, but she was no longer
actively moving away, and so he merely captured her wrists and
held them off to one side, taking off his jacket with the other
hand to cover her.

It was worse than he'd expected.

She was looking at him now, and her eyes were a little
clearer. "Mulder . . . I'm sorry. I couldn't . . . I . . ." she shivered
violently, gasping against the pain.

"Shh, take it easy, I know, it's okay," he mollified, not
sure what she was trying to say, as he stripped off his shirt and
rolled it into a ball, intending to apply pressure to the wound in
her side. The shoulder injury was less serious; it could wait.

"You don't understand . . ." she began, face twisting in
pain as he pressed his still-warm shirt to her abdomen. She
inhaled sharply at the pain of the pressure he inexorably
applied; the effort it took to speak was overwhelming. She
closed her eyes without completing the sentence.

"Scully? Scully! Dammit, Scully, stay with me here . .
."

She did not respond, although her chest still rose and
fell, faintly. He wanted, irrationally, to shake her, to make her
finish what she was saying. To keep her with him.

Helplessly, Mulder sat rigidly and watched her breathe,
irrationally grateful every time her chest rose and fell, praying
for the ambulance to hurry.

With effort, Scully opened her eyes again to try to tell
him, searching for her child.

Her child, the woman, a fallen guard, Mulder.

Alone, somehow, in a room just now filled with
people. Where had they all gone?

She raised her head a little to see better, cursing her
blurred her vision, trying again to explain.

Then she looked at Anais, and the words died on her
lips.

Anais, who mere moments ago had giggled sweetly in a
voice high and clear and innocent, who had asked where stars
came from and how angels lived, turned to face Katherine and
announced, in a voice of darkness and depth: "I am the maker,
the eater, and the controller of dreams. And with this, I have the
world, and all in it, within my two hands."

But the hands she held out were those of a frail child,
impossible to believe that they could harm a butterfly.

Yet the woman Mulder thought to be his sister had no
such compunction, no such doubt. Her face was cold and set.
The hair she usually used as a shield she pulled back with stiff
hands. She looked at the tiny, perfect child before her and
spoke in a voice of glacial dispassion.

"No longer", said the woman Mulder once knew as
Sam. "No longer." And she raised a hand, and her eyes blazed
deepest blue. Shone, and shone again.

Anais raised a hand.

Kate raised her hand a fraction higher.

Scully screamed suddenly; a denial into the silence.
"NO!"

Anais turned to look at Scully. Turned back, and faced
the glowing eyes of the woman.

But this time, when Anais looked at the woman, her
eyes were clear and innocent, the eyes of any child. And the
tiny hand dropped.

Kate's did not.

And Anais, whose eyes had once also glittered blue,
crumpled and fell. Blue eyes focused again on Scully, who, still
lying on the floor, had raised her head to look back, frozen in
horror.

A whispered word from the child as she lay, "Mama?"

The universal cry of an injured child. An instant
passed, then another.

The small body arched in pain. A tiny noise emerged,
high and agonized, was cut by abrupt silence. And the child's
eyes faded to dull grey.

The child, who was not yet five.

Scully, wrenching herself away from Mulder, dragging
herself across the floor, finally reached the child. Placed a hand
at throat, at wrist. "Mulder," the rasping thread of whisper,
"she's dead."

Mulder turned shocked eyes towards Kate. "Oh my
dear God," he said, and his voice was strangled. "Sam," and his
voice raised in disbelief and revulsion. "My God, Samantha,
what have you done?"

"What was necessary, Fox, what needed to be done.
What I was meant to do." And the voice had ages of weariness
etched into every syllable.

Scully closed her eyes. Tears seeped from under her
closed lids, and Mulder was powerless to watch as she faded
further from him.

In the background, the faint sound of sirens drew
nearer.

Kate spoke again, exhaustion blurring the words,
sinking to the ground bonelessly, shaking uncontrollably. He
turned his head.

"Please," she whispered, her face composed, her eyes
tortured below their lids, "please ask Mark if he would come."
He could detect no wavering of the low voice, but knew it well
enough to sense the pain in it. It was almost his own.

She turned to him, her eyes focusing on him briefly,
meeting his: smoke into amber. An onslaught of anguish, of
misery; of devastation and guilt and self-hatred and grief,
repeating endlessly in the silence until she spoke again.
"Please."

He hesitated a moment, thought he would go to her.
"She's your sister," the voice in his mind said. "She needs your
comfort. Your baby sister."

But then he looked around and saw again the broken
body of the child once known as Anais, the child who looked so
like a younger version of Scully, and the brief flash of insight
into this woman he could not understand vanished like grains of
sugar on a death-bright coal.

For her, he had no comfort to give.

The sound of sirens, loud and annoying, drew even
nearer and then mercifully stopped.

"Watch Scully." The tone curt as he transferred the
ineffectual rag to her hands and quit the room. Unable to look
at the child, dead and motionless; escaping the sight of the
woman lying on the cold floor, pale and over-still. He went to
direct the EMTs, to give them the information they would need.

As he ushered in the EMTs, he wondered why she had
asked him now, of all times, to call Mark.

Kate felt Mark come in, felt him stand behind her, and
did not wonder how he came to be there. She had expected him.

Mark crouched down, and she could feel his breath,
warm against her ear, repeating her name. She could not even
turn to him; could, in fact, barely move. But then he put his
arms around her, and she could no longer stop the tears. She
turned a little, and felt the rough collar of his woollen coat, and
began then to sob helplessly into it, letting go of the blood-
soaked shirt she futilely clutched.

And then her brother was back, and the EMTs were
there, trying to get Kate's attention, asking if she was all right.

The EMTs and police were both trying to get his
attention. Did Scully have any allergies? Any medical
conditions they should know about? An officer was motioning
to Mulder to come and elucidate upon exactly what happened.
Absently, he finished giving the paramedics the vital stats they
needed, walking mechanically across the room towards the
officers, bent over the body of the guard, of the child.
Anyone to notify? What had happened here?

Distracted, Mulder tried to concentrate on giving the
officers the information they needed, tried not to think about the
agonized gasps from the other side of the room as the
paramedics loaded his partner onto a gurney. A small part of his
brain registered Mark's presence and was startled by it--where
had he come from, and why?--but the information did not add
up and so was filed away, to be considered later.

The commotion caught all their attentions, and then
Mulder was across the room. To hell with procedure.

Scully was thrashing and the medics were having some
difficulty giving her a sedative. They had done so by the time he
reached her, intending to calm her with his presence. He caught
her eyes and held them, willing her to recognize him through the
haze of pain. And the clouded eyes cleared, and saw him, and
calmed. She opened her mouth to say something, starting to tell
him, but the sedative had kicked in and she drifted off instead,
the thought unspoken.

He looked down at her sleeping form, pain lines still
etched deeply into her features. Then he turned his head
towards his sister, who sat against one wall, hugging her knees.
Mark was sitting beside her, saying nothing.

Mulder looked around the room. He spoke slowly,
slowly as the medics loaded his partner into the ambulance.
"She was a baby. Kate, she was a mere child."

And the woman who called herself Kate looked at him
in disgust. "How can you say that, knowing what you know?
How? " Her voice rose in volume and then the tirade stopped
suddenly. She began to talk again, now in a lower voice, almost
as if to herself. A voice of defeat, of resignation, of
indescribable exhaustion. "God, Fox, you really are as naive as
a grade school child. You know what they are capable of. It
was too late for her before she was ever born. I had no choice.
No choice in the matter at all." And she raised a hand to cover
her eyes, briefly: blocking out the child, the woman, her
brother's eyes.

The hand shook and she could not make it stop.

And Kate repeated to herself, as if to remind her own
conscience, her own heart. "I had no choice at all." And so low
Mulder could barely hear it. "I never did."

They let him ride with Scully to the hospital.

And briefly, Mulder remembered back to a night of
darkness and light, when a child was taken, screaming, from the
only home she had ever known.

--------------------------------xxxxxx---------------------------------
End of Part 13.

(*"Whatsoever things are true" or, more literally: "And with
this, Truth")
__________________________________________________

********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 14: Carving the Stone (Part 14/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.

********************************
Chapter XIV--Carving the Stone

Dost thou remember the promise made me?
When thou wouldst cla'd me in silken gown.
The golden ring gi'en me ere we parted--
That gown and ring I shall ne'er don.

--Scottish Ballad
__________________________________________________

John Hopkins' Medical Center
Wednesday, January 7, 1998
3:53 a.m.

They let him ride with her to the hospital.

He had not left.

Scully was still in surgery. She had been in surgery for
the last few hours. Idly, he wandered the hospital corridors, not
thinking of the child, of the lawyer, of the investigation or the
Syndicate.

Not thinking of Sam. Not thinking of her.

Scully, pale and fragile on a flimsy looking gurney.

Scully, his mind shrieked, O Dear God, Scully.

What had been done to her?

Not thinking of it.

Full circuit, he thought; he was back at the emergency
waiting room. It was silent, deserted save for one person who
sat quietly under the flickering fluorescent light there. A
woman, still as carved marble, sitting in one of the plastic scoop
chairs with her legs drawn up to her chest, a thin hospital
blanket half-heartedly wrapped like a shawl over her shoulders.
Her head was turned away from him, turned as if she looked out
through the patterned frost on the plate-glass window.

But it was too dark outside and the glass too obscured
inside to offer any kind of view at all. Yet the woman stared
steadily beyond.

"Samantha."

A shiver ran up her body; she started but did not turn
her head. She took a deep breath, and her voice, when she
spoke, had a faint catch.

"Fox."

Her voice almost shook, he thought. Maybe . . .

"How's Dana?" As if she was inquiring about the score
in a baseball game. The casual, diffident tone was firmly in
place. There was no room in that tone to even imagine emotion.
It angered Mulder, that his life was slipping away and she didn't
seem to care. Did she care about anyone?

But the other, rationalizing half of his mind kicked in,
the half that *wanted* to believe in--to love--this strange sister
he had found. She *does* care, it asserted. See the rigid way
she's holding herself, the carefully neutral tone. As if she's
afraid that to say more would shatter her defenses beyond all
hope of rebuilding.

Looking again, he saw that the rational half of his
brain had a point.

Finally, she turned her face towards his. The white
salt of dried tears made vertical lines on the shadowed face. Her
eyes glistened darkly in the artificial light.

He spoke, an offer of peace. Best he could do, for
now.

"Scully's still in surgery. They say that she should pull
through, barring any complications."

She nodded, and he thought he saw a faint trace of
relief cross her features. But he couldn't be sure, and didn't
know if he actually saw the compassion or simply wanted to
believe he had. He looked at her again, her arms wrapped
around her body tightly. Protecting herself, shielding herself.
Holding herself physically together.

"I am sorry I brought her into this." The tone was flat,
but this time he was sure he could read the layers of self-
recrimination in that simple statement.

"Hey, no one can stop Scully when she's set to do
something. We're FBI, it's what we do." He tried to make his
voice light, but it came out wrong, awkward. Forced, phony,
not quite condescending.

But it had been *his* fault that Scully had been
captured--injured--worse--*stop* it.

Stop. Don't think.

His fault, not--this . . . woman's. How could she have
prevented this? Not her job.

Not her concern.

Not her life.

Kate merely nodded, but he could see her muscles
tense even further, if that were possible. Time to try a different
tack.

Suddenly, it struck him. What the hell *was* she
doing here? And then it occurred to him to ask. "Why are you
here, Sam?"

"Mark just got out of surgery. He's asleep."

"Mark? Why's he having surgery? He seemed okay."
He was puzzled. Last he saw, the man seemed healthier than
anyone else in the room--after all, Mark had arrived after
everything was over, hadn't he? And it was still a mystery to
Mulder why Mark had been there at all, or how he had gotten to
be there.

Almost all the events of the last couple of months were
a complete mystery to him.

Kate did not react, but her body shook very faintly, as
if it occupied all her energy to not break down and bawl in the
middle of the hospital. She turned her head away again.

Kate? Worried about someone else? Something was
very wrong.

"I don't know. They . . . " a short pause, a gulp, "won't
tell me. He was shot, pretty badly. They told me it would be . .
. difficult." Her tone had risen, although it was still fairly even.
Tempered. But the mask was slipping, revealing the frustration
and fear he could sympathize with. Relate to.

Share.

He gulped air. "How?"

"After you and Scully left. We were the last to go, and
then, the guard, he was only unconscious, but I'd forgotten
about him, the EMTs had put him on a stretcher but I guess they
hadn't strapped him down yet--or maybe they had, and he--he
got up again. Tried to shoot me before I realized; Mark saw and
got me out of the way, and then, and then . . ." her breath caught
in her throat, her voice was rough. "I should have known. I
should've made sure, stopped it. I . . . ", her shoulders rose as
she took a slow breath, turned her face away. Closed her eyes.
"He shot Mark, point blank, in the chest, before throwing him
against the wall. And I . . . I didn't do a thing. One of the
officers shot the guard. Several times."

She turned back towards him, and her lashes were
damp spikes. "I think he was a Clone. I should've known."

Mulder shuddered.

"Burns?"

She nodded. "They're repairing what they can."

He wondered, for a second, why Kate had not been
harmed by the resultant green blood toxin, and then dismissed
the thought. She must have been far enough away.

A tear slipped down her cheek. She made a small,
irritated sound and reached up a slender hand to brush across a
cheekbone, trying to erase all sign of this weakness. She turned
her whole body away this time, back toward him. Took a deep,
gasping breath now, clearly irritated at herself and her body's
betrayal in this way.

But she could not erase the chalky white tracks on pale
skin: unspoken evidence of weeping.

"Hey. You can't always know. No one can. No one
did." His voice echoed uncomfortably in his ears. He took a
step and reached out a hand to touch her shoulder, stopped, let
it drop a hairsbreadth before he touched her.

She had not seen him, had had her eyes closed. She
looked back at him now, eyes full of suffering. Would not
accept his words, trusted him still only to a point. Could not
believe in him. But she spoke again, and her voice was a
fraction calmer. No less tormented, he knew, but now not so
immediate.

Remote and removed. A coping mechanism only.

"But I know better. I . . ." her voice caught again, she
swallowed, and then the elaborately casual tone was completely
back. "Anyway, I eliminated him, then, properly. A little too
late," she mocked herself bitterly, "but eventually, I can
complete the job."

How was this her job? What had she become? But
still he tried, and said, "He wouldn't blame you. No one
could've predicted this. It just happens, sometimes. Besides",
he said, slowly, willing it to be true, "it wasn't your job to
protect him." Unsolicited comfort Mulder, he thought. Trite.

Hoping, still, that it would be accepted. That she
would allow this. That she would let him see her worry, her
guilt, her terror.

That she would let him in.

Let him be her brother.

Despite.

He caught her eyes and held them. She gazed back
directly into his, hazel green into hazel blue. And it seemed
that the caring in his tone, in his eyes, broke through her
barriers, somewhat, because she rose, agitated, and began to
pace.

The door cracked open just a little.

Or maybe she had nowhere else to turn.

"It was not his fault. He did nothing, nothing but
befriend me. Nothing at all. Why? You're the FBI--tell me
why." And she turned to the wall, banging it with a fist, before
pirouetting on one foot to stop abruptly and stand before him.
"Why is this happening?"

She looked up at him, eyes clear; demanding. "Why,
Fox, why?"

And in that moment, he was undone. Because he did not
see the lady crying for her friend. Nor did he see the woman
who had rebuilt her life. Or the girl being taken from her home.
What he saw was a child. A child of long ago, crying for a
broken doll; the little sister who asked him to fix it.

But he could not and had never been able to.

Neither then nor now.

*Oh Sam*, he thought, and went to her, wrapping his
arms around her, giving her what strength he had to offer. And
at first she resisted, still dry-eyed, going awkwardly stiff. But
then, in a second, she relaxed. Relaxed, turned her face into the
soft flannel of his plaid shirt and began to sob violently.

And he stood mutely, and held her, and stroked her
hair. Even though at long last he had found his sister, his heart
could not rejoice. Too much pain, too much longing: too much
hope to ever be realized.

For nothing in this world is ever so simple.

After a few moments, she moved away, and he let her;
she dried her eyes, and the moment was over.

And once again they were Kate and Mulder, and Fox
and Sam were mere remnants of youth and a past best left
forgotten.

If they could, indeed, forget.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Room #216
Thursday, January 8, 1998
8:43 p.m.

He looked down at her, an unmoving lump under the
covers. Her skin was almost translucent; her features were still
and lifeless. She had been thrashing and screaming, earlier;
they had bound her wrists down. He hated to see it, but
otherwise the IV and monitor leads kept being jerked and
displaced. And she had far too many unknown chemicals in her
system to allow them to safely add any further sedatives; she
had been so weak they didn't want to further tax her system,
going for a minimalist approach.

He watched her. She stirred, and he waited, but she
did not move again. Mulder sighed and walked over to the
bathroom. He needed to wash--a night at the hospital did not do
wonders for anyone's appearance--or, he wrinkled his nose--
freshness, so to speak.

Scully became aware, slowly by degree, of pain.
Blackness swirled in infinite variety, and she fought her way
through it, anxious to get up. She had things to do. She opened
her eyes, and blinked. The light was dim, but even then it sent
beams of pain through her head.

Something burned at her wrist. She closed her eyes
again and tried to move it, to get up. But her hand wouldn't
move. Frightened, she tugged harder, opening her eyes again to
see the room. Not her bedroom. This room was cold and white
and sterile. And she was alone. A low sob escaped her lips.
Not again. This was her nightmare; and now, now it was real.

Mulder, washing his face, heard a noise. Grabbing a
towel, he emerged from the bathroom to see a wild-eyed Scully
making agonized, high-pitched noises and trying to tear her
wrists from the restraints at her side. Quickly he crossed the
room, and began to speak to her, standing so she could see him.
"Scully, listen to me, Scully. It's okay, you're in a hospital,
c'mon Dana, please, please just relax." He kept talking as she
calmed, slipping one hand in her small, cold one, holding it
still; using the other hand to push her shoulders back towards
the bed and then brush the hair from her eyes.

"Mulder?" Her voice was high and small, unused:
unlike the Scully he knew.

"Hmm?"

"Do you ... do you think ... you could ... please ... take
these off?" A rough rasp her voice: painful to speak, painful to
hear.

Her free hand, the one he wasn't holding, was still
jerking at the restraint. He had put his other hand over it to still
it, but the moment he removed his own hand, the jerking
renewed.

He frowned. He had been told in no uncertain terms
that he was not to interfere with the restraints--she had thrashed
so badly previously that after being forced to restart the I.V. for
the second time the nurse on duty had simply disregarded his
protests and restrained her.

Speaking of which, why had none of the nurses come?
He'd worn out the call button.

Damn cutbacks. He wanted to fetch someone but
would not leave Scully alone to do so. He would deal with the
unresponsive nurses later. They would not ignore this call
again.

"Okay, Scully. But the nurses won't be pleased.
You'll have to promise not to move too much if I do, all right?
It's very important you lie still for a little while."

She nodded, imperceptibly. Why was he talking to her
as if she was a child? She was thirsty. Her raw throat felt like it
had completely closed, and simple speech hurt. Where were the
nurses? She was so sleepy. But she wanted answers, and
needed to be awake to hear. She asked for water, muzzily
telling him it was okay if she had it, it had been long enough
after her surgery. A lie, but one he could not know to question.

Her mom was out of the country on a cruise, he'd said;
he told her they were trying to get a hold of her. She had asked
him not to mention that she was in the hospital. She didn't want
to ruin her mom's cruise; she had planned it for so long. From
before Scully's absence. It was enough that Mulder was here.

Mulder had removed the ties, and she moved restlessly,
ignoring the shooting pain, trying to shift position. She hated
lying on her back.

"Scully! Stop it. I told you to stay put." Mulder's
voice held anger and sharp concern. He moved back into her
line of vision, a hand on her chest, firmly holding her still,
another hand slipping under her head. "I brought you your
water. Sip it slowly."

She drew the water into her mouth through the straw.
It wasn't cold, but it was so wonderful. She drank as fast as she
could, choking, wanting more. The look in Mulder's eyes told
her she wasn't going to get any more though. He watched her
until she stopped coughing, sweat beading on her forehead from
the effort, lungs burning from the strain. He was practically
glaring at her. "I said slowly, Scully."

She tried to look chagrined. She had so much to ask
him, and needed him in a good mood. She swallowed, but even
before she opened her mouth he spoke, and his voice was
nothing so much as grim.

"You are going to sleep now. Anything you have to
say will keep." His voice gentled; he smoothed damp tendrils of
hair off her face and told her , "I'll explain everything later. But
you're exhausted, and just awake, and there is nothing you need
urgently to know. Everyone else is fine. Rest, and I'll fill you
in when you're stronger."

"Can you .... tell ... at least tell me if sss... ", she
paused, licked her lips, took a breath, "if Samantha is safe?"

"Scully, Kate, at present, is doing far better than you
are. Not another word now. Sleep." His voice was again stern,
cutting off her clear attempt at another question.

"But . . ."

"No."

She gave him a look, at which he barely smiled. He
was in his "don't trifle with me mood." So, having no choice,
she gave in to the dark, and slept.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Fourth floor, ICU
Friday, January 9, 1998
11:14 p.m.

He needed a breath of air, and so he slipped out for a
minute while Scully had been sleeping quietly, under sedation.
Did not know how he came to be here.

Saw her, standing there, looking through the glass into
the ICU. Her back was towards him; all her attention was
focussed away, concentrated on another still, motionless form.

"Sam?"

Silence.

"Kate?"

The woman jerked, saw him, relaxed. "Fox."

He flinched. Not his given name, not from her. Not
from this woman, this person who might once have been his
sister.

"No one calls me that anymore." His tone was
brusque, far more curt than it had once been, years ago, when he
had uttered similar words to another young woman.

She gave him an irritated look. "I do. And speaking of
wild animals, have you bathed anytime lately? You reek."

He ignored her, turning to the window looking into the
unit. He couldn't see anything through it, couldn't see anything
at all right now.

He searched for words to break the silence.

"How is he?"

"A little better. He should be in a regular ward in a
few days, they say."

"Good."

"He came so close, though." Her hands twisted
together, white-knuckled.

"Kate, don't. He's okay."

"I know." She didn't look at him, though.

He sighed.

She spoke again. "Any word on the Project heads from
your end?"

He sighed again. "Clean. When they evacuate, they
really do a good job. The guard has disappeared."

"He was dead!"

"Apparently not. The child's body has disappeared
also."

"I suspected that much, at least. We haven't been able
to find out anything either."

"What is this 'we' stuff, Kate? What or who exactly are
you involved with?"

"I can't tell you, Fox."

"What the hell does that mean? I have the right to . . .
and *don't* call me that."

"Don't be an idiot."

And that, apparently, was the end of their conversation.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Room #216
Monday, January 12, 1998
5:09 a.m.

Scully woke only to feel a little worse, if anything.
The pain was bad, far more acute than the general soreness of
before. Agony burned fiery with every breath she tried to take
and she felt like she was drowning. She couldn't sleep like this,
the pain took precedence and demanded attention. She looked
for a call button; lying on her back, unable to move much at all,
she couldn't see anyone or anything. When moving didn't work,
she called out Mulder's name.

Mulder, attempting to nap in a chair beside the bed,
jerked awake. Scully lay still, gasping, forehead beaded with
sweat. "What is it, Scully, what's wrong?" He moved so she
could see him, but she couldn't force her eyes to focus. He
moved past her a moment, and she closed her eyes as another
wave of pain swept over her. She struggled to form words.

"I don't know, Mulder, it just hurts. Could you ... do
something, please? Call someone?" She tried to smile, but it
was beyond her. She hated that pleading note in her voice.
Why didn't she have a call button? She heard the keen of a
monitor suddenly in her ear, tried to will the ear-splitting noise
to silence.

"Sure thing, Scully." Reassurance and worry blended
in his voice. Mulder moved past her to press the button for the
second time, and this time she was aware enough to watch.
Guess she did have a call button.

They had to move her again into surgery.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Wednesday, January 14, 1998
Room #428
4:39 a.m.

In another room, on another floor, Kate sat still by
Mark's bedside. She watched him sleep, silently, touching his
hand ever so lightly. She did not want to disturb anything, but
she had to, needed to touch him. To make sure he was really
there.

There were just so many tubes, so many machines, and
he was so pale, so fragile, so unlike the man she knew.

He had become her anchor in all of this, and she was
not quite sure how.

Mark had pulled through the surgery just fine, they
said; if all went well he'd even be going home in a few days.

She was so relieved, she'd almost cried when the
doctor had told her. A kindly woman, the doctor had noticed
and had not lingered, patting Kate's hand and leaving her alone
to watch him.

She supposed she should call the office, be more
worried about her career.

She was lucky they let her stay here all night; she was
neither family nor FBI. She had no badge to flash at the nurses,
no pathetic smile; she'd had to ask, to beg.

She did not know where her brother was, although she
assumed he was around.

Frankly, she didn't much care.

She sighed. Her brother. He was not at all what she
had thought. She wished ...

He was an FBI agent. That was unexpected. He was
still tall, although not as tall as she remembered. She smiled
crookedly. Still arrogant, and still annoying.

But when she had thought of him before, she thought
he'd be just as she remembered. Still goofy, and young, and
teasing and comfortable. A brother who fought with her, a
brother who irritated her, a brother who understood her, a
brother who was her closest friend on earth.

A brother who loved her.

She had lost years of her life, and she was not sure
where. She had lost pieces of her past, and she was not sure
how. She had lost a part of who she was, and she was not sure
of what.

She was certain of very little, right now.

Although Mark had told her a small part, and given her
a contact name she had called, it had not helped. The contact
had curtly asked why she had called and then told her nothing.
By the time she had called the second time, the line had been
disconnected.

It was *her* life, dammit, and she knew nothing about
it. She had been altered, she had been hurt, she had been
hunted, and no one would explain to her why, or how, or--or
even *what* she had done to deserve it.

She wished she knew.

She had killed a child, and while she knew some of the
reasons, intellectually, she still hated herself for it.

She watched the IV drip life slowly back into Mark's
veins, and tried not to cry.

For herself, for him, for a child who could not live.

For a brother who no longer existed.

A brother she wanted back.

Katherine grieved, uselessly, for what she could never
have.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Thursday, January 15, 1998
Room #311
10:10 a.m.

Later, she lay still again, newly patched up, hooked up
to more tubes than before, along with a couple of monitors.
They had moved her to the CCU. Couldn't even turn her head to
look for him.

She couldn't stand the instruments, the tubes. Couldn't
block them out. Took everything she had just to lie still and not
fight them. Oh dear God. She bit back rising panic. A beeping
sound began next to her, startling her further.

"Hey, Scully. Welcome back." Heard the smile in his
voice; it calmed her a little.

"Mulder?" She had fought them against the respirator,
at least. It hurt to breathe, but she could manage with the lesser
evil of the nasal tube.

"I'm right here, Scully. Just relax." His voice was deep
and soothing; she heard sounds of movement and soft
incomprehensible voices, then quiet. She closed her eyes
against the spinning room.

"Could you ... could you hold my hand?" She couldn't
move her hand to grasp his, try as she might; she hadn't the
energy.

"Better?"

She felt her hand enfolded in the warmth of his, felt
him run a gentle hand through her hair, and smiled faintly.

She wished desperately that he'd stay. She was
terrified he'd leave; surely he'd been here several hours already.
He probably had things to do, and the last thing she wanted was
for him to know that she was clinging to him. But while she
was awake, his presence was a balm to her irrational fear.
*Please don't go, wait till I fall asleep.* She needed to have
him here, feel his presence, hear his voice. But she couldn't ask
him. Instead, she fought sleep just so that she could talk to him
a while longer.

"Did you ... finish the case?"

"I'm not discussing the case with you now, Scully, but
yes. Your brother Bill has been calling on the hour, he couldn't
get away to come until the day after tomorrow; I'll tell him
you're doing better."

"Did you get the report in to Skinner? You're
supposed to put it in within 24 hours. It shouldn't be late."

"Not yet--we weren't supposed to be on this case so I'll
make up a legitimate excuse later. Scully, try to sleep." His
thumb was stroking the back of her hand, soothing.

"Did he assign us anything else?" She opened her eyes
and turned her head just a little to see him now on the periphery
of her vision. He'd moved closer, deliberately positioning
himself so she could see him.

"No, Scully, we've been kind of busy, fighting to make
you well and all. Well, I've been busy, you seem determined to
be difficult." Gentle mockery in his low voice.

"Have you been into the office yet at all?"

He sighed, half teasing, half serious. "He gave me
some time off to stay with you. I had vacation time coming
anyway, and where else would I rather spend it? So why don't
you go to sleep for a bit, that's what I need you to do right now."
Exasperation was creeping into his voice, and he couldn't
understand why she was struggling against the sleep she so
obviously craved. Her eyes flitted nervously about the room,
disoriented, pupils dilated and wandering. In a flash of clarity
he recognized that it was the fear reasserting itself; had been
denying it because it was so unlike her to be so frightened, so
rare--it disturbed him to see his strong partner like this, so
obviously afraid, though she would not speak of it, would not
say of what she was affrighted. He yearned to ask her, to plead
with her to confide in him, but did not. He could wait; he
would be patient. He saw the tension in her body protest the
weariness in her eyes. And so he began to talk of nonsense in a
low, calming voice, hopefully to lull her into a state where she
could no longer so actively resist her own need and the drugs.

"C'mon, Scully, just close your eyes, that's it. This is a
very strange hospital, I'm coming to realize. I looked high and
low for a nurse, yesterday, and there were none to be seen. I'm
starting to believe it's a conspiracy. Do you know, I think one
of the nurses is an EBE?" His voice had an obvious teasing tone
to it; even then she stiffened tensely when he mentioned the
EBE. Her head moved restlessly on the pillow; he raised his
hand briefly to her face, and she quieted at his touch. What had
happened to her? He kept talking.

She smiled slightly. "That's absurd, Mulder." But her
voice was slurred and drowsy, he noted with satisfaction, and
her eyes remained closed.

"No really, I have proof." And Mulder was off and
running.

And then she whispered, so faint he could barely hear,
"Anais is dead, isn't she?"

Suddenly, she roused, struggling to pull herself up on
the bed, and her hand clutched weakly at his. "Mulder, how
long have I been here? Why is there no one else here? You're
going to go now, aren't you? There was a terror in her eyes,
glazed by drugs, that her voice more successfully hid.

"No, Scully, I'm staying right here. Don't worry." He
increased the pressure of his grip on her hand, engulfing hers in
his own larger one, using his other hand to gently push her
shoulder back down on the bed, choosing to ignore her first
questions.

She'd been here for over a week now.

He wondered why Scully was so interested in the girl,
so upset, and so ignored that question as well, hating the dark,
defeated look in her eyes.

And he dreaded her asking where her mother was.

She seemed to calm a bit. "I am sure ... you have other
things you need to be doing."

"Not right now. Sleep, and I'll be here when you wake
up." His free hand lightly stroked her forehead for a moment,
the certainty of his touch reassuring. "I still have to investigate
the mystery meat in the cafeteria, you know?" And Mulder went
off to describe the various mysteries the hospital presented to
him.

Wrapped in the comfort of his voice, Scully fell once
more into the abyss of sleep.

-------------------------------xxx--------------------------------------
End of Part 14.
_________________________________________________

********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 15: Starlight Through the Snow (Part 15/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with
much gratitude.

********************************
Chapter XV--Starlight Through the Snow

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi' the sun:
O I will love thee still my dear,
While the sands o' life shall run.

--Robert Burns, "A Red, Red Rose"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Friday, January 24, 1998
Georgetown Medical Center
Room #543
4:14 p.m.

She had stabilized, so they moved her to D.C. She'd
progressed to a nice private room there, with mostly everything
unhooked but the IV. She hoped to be out in a couple of days.
Mulder was worried, but that was Mulder. He wanted her to
come and stay with him when she left. She told him she'd be
fine. If there were any problems, she was sure her mother would
come and stay with her for a couple of days.

She was, however, surprised that her mother had not
come already. She thought the cruise must be over by now. Bill
and a very pregnant Elizabeth had stayed with her over the
weekend until she had been declared stable; even her younger
brother, Charles, had visited the day before.

Charlie had business in D.C. and was due to come by
again later tomorrow evening in order to assure himself before
he left town that his remaining sister was fine. She was touched
that he had come at all; Charlie was a bit irresponsible and
hated hospitals almost as much as Mulder. But she still
wondered why her mother had not come.

She turned her head now to look at her only and most
faithful visitor. Mulder seemed troubled by more than just their
current argument; his face had a pensive, brooding expression,
lost in a world of his own. "Hey, Mulder, is anything wrong?"

"You want the usual list, or you want me to be
inventive today?" The words were flip, but he seemed to want to
say more. She waited, and he hesitated a moment before
continuing.

"You scared me, you know." His voice was full of
reproach, and a trace of resentment.

It made Scully irritated. What right did he have to
resent anything she did, he who ran off and ditched her at every
turn? He had no right to make demands of her, to expect
anything at all. She was his work partner, no more.

But the sensible half of her mind chided her
reprimandingly and would not let it pass. You're friends, it said
rebukingly, good friends and, and . . . it left the thought
unfinished. At the very least, you owe your friendship more.

And Dana Scully felt ashamed, ashamed that she
would not allow that it hurt Mulder to see her like this.

Not that she would ever let Mulder know that she felt
at all badly.

She relented. "If my mother can't come with me,
Mulder, I'll stay with you. But only for a couple of days.
Capiche?"

"Fair enough", he said, "fair enough." And he seemed
uncharacteristically saddened by the exchange, although he
would say nothing when she asked. So she let it lie.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Saturday, January 25, 1998
5:49 p.m.

"Peter! What brings you here?"

A slight, sandy-haired man entered the room
cautiously, carrying with him a large manila envelope. "Hi,
Dana--just got off. I, um, thought I'd bring you the, uh, results
you asked for." His demeanour was sober, and Scully visibly
tensed. Mulder, standing by the window, moved protectively
closer to the bed.

"Oh, Mulder, this is Peter, a friend from school. He
works out of National, primarily does research. He's great for
keeping me updated on all the latest stuff. Peter, Mulder."

The two men nodded at each other; Mulder was still a
little stiff as he sat down near the bed. Peter awkwardly put the
envelope down on the nightstand.

"So?"

Uncharacteristically, Peter was silent for a moment, not
looking at her. He shifted his weight, then finally took a breath
before plunging in as usual. "Dana, I'm afraid there are some
interesting finds on the child. It seems, um, it seems that her
DNA matches yours. Enough for a parent-child relationship."

Scully had gone white. Mulder interrupted, angrily,
rising to advance menacingly upon the smaller man. "I don't
know who paid you to come here and tell these lies, but ..."

Scully held out a hand in Mulder's direction,
forestalling him. "Mulder, Mulder it's okay, I asked him here.
Mulder! Listen to me. *I* asked him to do these tests. It's
okay."

Mulder paused and looked back to her, subsiding
when he saw her face. He walked over, took her outstretched
hand, and sat back down in the chair.

Peter took a steadying breath, shooting a wary glance
at Mulder, and continued. "And the blood type corroborates
this. I do not know how this is possible, but . . . I don't know
what to say. You were right. Dana? I'm, uh, sorry." Peter
paused for another moment, and then his voice trailed off into
medical jargon that Mulder could not decipher.

Listening, Dana clutched Mulder's hand tightly,
painfully. He gasped and removed his thoughtlessly from her
grasp, and so she moved her hands to her lap, gripping them
whitely together.

Watching her, he was instantly sorry he had withdrawn
his own.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
7:22 p.m.

"Mulder, I need my mother to come. Where is she
Mulder, why isn't she here? She can't still be on holiday."

Impatiently she watched him exchange a quick glance
with her brother, visiting this evening as promised. Charlie's
impassive face reminded her of the day she came home from
school to find out that grandma had died. Charlie never could
lie, not to her. From his face, she knew that something was
wrong.

Mulder looked merely miserable.

"What is it, what aren't you telling me?"

Charlie told her.

Her mother had been contacted in Acapulco, had been
going to the airport.

She never made her flight.

She had disappeared. Over two weeks ago. She was--
and this, they hesitated to tell her--presumed dead.

It was why her elder brother had been on furlough from
his ship.

She sat then, perfectly still. "Oh, I see. And you, none
of you, thought I needed to know this before? Charlie? Okay.
That's fine. I think I need to be alone for a while, if none of you
mind." Her voice was flat.

"Scully . . ."

"Please Mulder. Close the door on your way out."

Her face was set in alabaster, and he had no choice but
to accede to her wishes. He followed her brother out and, at the
door, he paused. "Scully, please, don't shut me out."

She didn't respond.

So he left.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
8:03 p.m.

In the back of the hospital, there was a small rose
garden with a hedge and a gate, she was told. For the patients to
sit in, if they chose. During the summer months. Not now.

But Scully, knowing she should not, slipped outside
anyway, in the thin material of the abhorred hospital gown and
robe. Quietly, alone. No one saw her; there was no one to
prevent her from doing so. Her mother could no longer visit.

She found the quiet garden, secluded and barren,
surrounded by tall evergreen hedges in a maze pattern. Walked
through and over to the bench in the center clearing, but did not
sit. Instead, she began to walk back and forth. Pacing. And the
tears did not come, even though this time she would not, could
not stop them.

What did it matter? Her mother was dead.

But she could not cry.

All she could do was press her hand against her mouth,
to stop the sound of her gasps. After a time, she had wrapped
her arms around her waist, tight, and it helped. Soon she
stopped shaking, stopped feeling. She sat then, on the bench,
dry-eyed and empty.

She noticed him at the gated entrance to this, the heart
of the maze. Voice steady, she apologized.

He shook his head. "Dana . . ." He moved forward to
wrap his coat around her, for she was shivering convulsively in
the cold. She shouldn't be out here, he thought; he was
surprised and more than a little angry that she was.

"It's nothing. Just . . . you think it doesn't affect you,
even though you know it must. But you know, you have to
know, that you can deal with it. But some days you just can't,
and then you find yourself turn into a cliche, a walking
pamphlet. 'Will experience intense emotions of anger, grief,
disillusionment . . .' Of course they," and she laughed, a bitter,
truncated sound in the silence, "gave me the standard literature
to read. It's all so stupid." She paused, choked by unfallen
tears; gasped for air to continue.

"And you find it annoying; you wake up one morning
and find you irritate yourself as much as those trite little
pamphlets they force you to read. Because denial is so short-
term, so temporary; after a time the lies fade to dust; they just
can't last forever. They can't. Your mind just focuses, and you
can't will it away. You try, but you can't. And that's even more
frustrating than anything else. You just want everything to stop,
so you can leave and come back later, when you feel stronger.
But the thing that hurts most is that it's all so futile."

She rose to her feet, turned toward him. "When did
this happen, Mulder? When? I only know that I once had
dreams, dreams that I confused with ambition. But since I came
to the X-files, all that changed. Everything I wanted, all that I
am. I don't even know who I am anymore, or what I want. And
when I wish for something now, I am no longer sure if it is a
dream, or ambition, or merely a castle in the air."

He mumbled to himself. "The X-files. Since you met
me, isn't it, Scully." And he turned away from her, bending
slightly to examine some small etching in the gate.

She kept speaking. "She was an innocent, Mulder.
My mother, for God's sake. The reason I went into the FBI. To
serve and protect. But it seems that all I've done is hurt the ones
I most love in all the world."

He cleared his throat. His voice rose, got stronger.
"Scully, I've been thinking. Actually, I've been considering this
for a long time, now, and think I am going to request that you be
transferred out."

"What?" Shocked, she gaped at him; recovered.
"What in hell are you babbling about Mulder?" she snapped.

"You're a great agent, Scully, but I don't think you are
needed any longer in my division. As soon as you're well, as
soon as this is over, I'm going to request that you transfer." He
spoke in measured tones, as if he was reciting a speech well-
rehearsed and committed to memory.

"Are you joking? After all I've done? After all this?
That's it?" Her voice rose in pitch with every question.

"Think about it Scully; think about it logically. You'll
see--it's for the best. Come inside now, you'll see."

"Damn you, Fox William Mulder, damn you! You
never consider anyone but yourself, do you? Never anything but
your own obsession." She was screaming at him by now, crying,
not caring who was listening. Venting her frustration, and part
of her knew it. Knew she was being needlessly cruel, needlessly
vicious. But the X-files were all she had left, now, and he
wanted to take them from her. She couldn't, wouldn't allow it.

But he was the head of the division, and *could* do it,
if he wanted. She knew this too, and fear fed part of her anger.
If he was determined . . . there was nothing she could do.
Although if he expected her to leave gracefully, he had another
thing coming.

He stood by the gate, his back to her, outlined by the
fading light. She looked at him, a tear of rage slipping down her
cheek, angry and hurt. Annoyed, she wiped the drop away, only
to have it replaced by another.

Finding herself able, gallingly, to cry in anger when
she could not cry for grief.

"Scully," he begged, "please try to understand."

He turned to her, faced her, and said, "Scully, don't you
see? I have nothing left to offer you. Nothing at all. Only this,
only one small thing. My love for you."

In the frustrating process of brushing away another
tear--they would not stop coming--she froze.

He paused, not able to see her anymore. Taking a deep
breath, he continued in a low voice, speaking now barely above
a whisper. "Not enough Scully. You deserve better."

She became very still. Had he been looking at her, he
would have noticed her tears halted in shock, and her face now
paler than the new snow on the ground. "What."

She cleared a throat suddenly too tight for speech;
tried again. "What did you say?"

"You deserve . . "

"Not that." Impatient. "The other. Before."

"I love you." He smiled ruefully, wistfully, but with a
stirring of hope. "I love you." He looked at her, shrugged
imperceptibly. "I always have."

The colour had come back to her face, somewhat. Her
eyes had filled with fresh tears. *Oh*, she thought, *oh my
love*. But she was silent.

Seeing the look in her eyes now, he took pause to
gently tease her. "Do you have no answer to give me? Dana
Scully, with nothing to say?" He grinned, but the desperation in
his eyes belied the tone.

She could not speak.

And he, who had never been sure of himself in the first
place, tried to gather up what remained of his faltered courage to
leave with at least a modicum of dignity. Of pride he had none
left. "Well", he began to say nonchalantly, "Well, I guess I
should leave you alone. I'm sorry, I just . . . I'm sorry. For
everything, Scully. But it'll be better. You'll see." Berating
himself for the flicker of hope. And a light in his eyes
dwindled, died.

Her brain processed, slowly, the fact that he was
leaving. And also, more slowly still, the hurt under the casual
tone, the bravado. It was this alone that galvanized her frozen
limbs to move, to cross the garden to him, to lay a hand against
his cheek.

To turn his face towards her own. To smile, gently,
and to say quietly, but with conviction. "My love. Oh Mulder",
she said, and her voice dropped to a whisper, "how could you
ever doubt me?" But she still smiled, and in her smile was the
world, and all the joy it could hold.

The look in her eyes left no room for fear; in spite of
grief, her smile held the promise of tomorrow. Looking at her,
the shattered faith in his own soul reformed, restructured,
healed. So that he could return her smile tenfold. The balance
restored.

And while it did not fix anything, for a moment time
stopped, and they were simply two people alone in a winter
garden that blossomed anew with the warmth of their presence.

So he came to her, and tilted her face up to meet his
lips. And he kissed her; there, as the first crystal snowflakes
fell in a long damp winter. Kissed her: slowly, tenderly. And as
he did he could taste the heated salt of her tears where they
mingled with the cold fresh sweetness of snow.

---------------------:~:~::~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:------------------------
End of Part 15.
__________________________________________________

********************************
Fallen Cards
Chapter 16: Ribbons of Gold (Part 16/21)
by Euphrosyne (euphrosy@netcom.ca)
(As previously disclaimed, rated and summarized.)

All comments, positive, negative, or otherwise, received with
much gratitude. If there is a part you are missing and would
like, please e-mail me and I'll be happy to send it.

********************************
Chapter XVI--Ribbons of Gold

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

--Robert Frost, "Nothing Gold Can Stay"
_________________________________________________
Georgetown Medical Center
Saturday, January 25, 1998
9:18 p.m.

Mulder wasted very little time after that about making
her go back inside, scolding her roundly for having left the
hospital's confines in the first place. And although she would
have liked to protest, to stay outside for just a few moments
more in their own private world, Mulder was inexorable.
Unfortunately, she was still fairly weak, and had begun to
shiver, just a little, which really did not help her argument
much. Mulder, picking her up and yelling at her about
pneumonia and respiratory ailments, despite her struggles and
firm admonishments to "Put me down. Now," would have none
of it.

She didn't think it was a good idea to remind him that
she really did have a medical degree.

Of course, she did let the fact slip, later: when he
railed at her that she pushed herself too hard, when he insisted
she stay in the hospital a few days longer. It did not help that
her doctor often took Mulder's side, despite every sound
medical reason she put forth, despite her entirely rational
reassurances that she'd be fine. But, eventually, there came the
day when she was released. When she got to go home.

And much as she hated the hospital, much as she had
abhorred her stay there, on the eve of her discharge a part of her
was loathe to admit that she had found a certain security in the
constant routine, in the fact that her loved ones were never long
out of sight, that a guard had been posted at her door. Despite
Their power, and despite the nightmares, she had found she was
able, while awake, to keep the shadows at bay.

As the moment drew nigh, she feared returning to her
apartment, knowing what she now knew. Knowing that They
had, and could, yank her from what had once been her refuge,
her former sanctuary. Her home.

A place They had violated, for their own convenience,
just to prove to her that they could.

A place she no longer thought of as safe against the
demons of this world.

But she said nothing. Merely packed her bags, kissed
her brother's cheek, thanked the nurses. Assured her brother
she'd be fine. Made arrangements with the doctors for follow-
up. Told Mulder she couldn't wait to go home. Fended off the
solicitous glances, the concerned questions about her being
ready.

She stayed at Mulder's for the requisite two full days,
and then he suggested he take her home. He was trying, she
saw: trying to give her space, to support without crowding. So
she nodded, although a voice in her mind screamed in protest.
But she did not say anything.

Because really, Dana, she asked herself, if you can't
even handle going home, then . . . well, how pathetic are you?

A question she would not answer.

He brought her home, and she was fine. He cooked
dinner, and she was thankful and flattered and she was fine.
And he got up to leave, and that was fine too.

Told him to go, because he needed the time. Because
he was exhausted and needed to sleep. He had been by her
bedside continuously for over three weeks, shuttling himself
between work and hospital. He *should* sleep.

Because she knew she could not. But she did not tell
him that.

Tried to believe, as he got up to leave, that she was in
her own home and therefore safe. Repeated the words to
herself. Forced herself to pretend she believed.

Waved cheerfully good bye. Prepared for bed. By
herself.

Looked around at her things. But they no longer gave
her the comfort of familiarity.

Made herself turn out the light. Closed her eyes.

And woke shrieking, unacceptably, for the third time.
Neigbour upstairs pounding on the ceiling. Woke this time and
shivered uncontrollably.

Her eyes were dry though: it was important not to cry.

Could not control the shaking. Although she must.
*They* would not tolerate it.

*Stop it, Dana,* she told herself. Stop it. It's over.
Stop it.

She did not want to call Mulder. But she needed him,
and wanted him, and what would it hurt to be weak? Just this
once. Because when, in desperation, she truly confronted the
depths of her soul, she was afraid. Weak and afraid; in need of
his strength. Couldn't survive this night without it.

Just this once.

She had only to reach the phone and call.

Only had to allow herself to do it.

How much would it hurt?

Just this once.

She dialled the numbers.

And when he came, too slowly: although she saw from
his face that he had run from the parking lot, and had probably
broken the speedometer on his car, she said nothing. She did
not move when he knocked and called and then let himself in.

Did not move.

Did not make a sound.

Just let him come close to where she sat, dry-eyed and
still-faced, clutching the arm of the couch. And when he came
close enough, she clasped his large, cold hand and pulled him
down to her. And when at last he was sitting beside her she
moved quickly, before he could vanish; moved close enough to
sit in his lap, to wrap her arms around his neck, to cling to him
with a grip that she loosened just a fraction: a fraction only, to
allow him to breathe when she heard his gasp.

Then--then he was gathering her close and holding her
tight and she had buried her face in the warm hollow of his neck
and she could feel his hair soft against her cheek and could
breathe his smell heavy in the air and hear his voice promising
safety in her ear and he was real and solid and there and she felt
safe and whole and safe and safe and safe.

She did not think she could ever let go.

His skin, soft and smooth against her face. His arms,
strong and hard around her body.

Did not think she ever would.

And finally, finally, she let herself cry.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Annapolis, MD
Apartment of Dana Scully
February 6, 1998
8:48 p.m.

He stayed on her couch with her for the remains of that
night, and slept in her bed the next. She spent the days alone,
at home, ostensibly recuperating, and Mulder would drive
straight to her place after work. Or she spent time at Mulder's
apartment while he was working, because his apartment did not
hold the same terrors as hers.

And neither of them talked of that night, last night, the
night before last, three nights ago. As if by avoiding that
anything was wrong they could fix it. Mulder would look at her
sometimes, with large, sad eyes--like those of some great dark-
eyed cow, Dana would think, and berate herself for the
malicious thought.

Because she could not bear for him to ask, and knew
he was biding his time.

He could not stay forever, and she could not bring
herself to tell him to go.

And then, on Friday, about a week after her release,
when she could no longer bear Mulder's eyes on her, when she
was on the verge of sending him away because she could not
endure him looking at her for a full weekend, the hospital
called.

Mulder drove her to Georgetown in silence.

There is something ominous about the waiting room of
a hospital, despite the attempt at consoling colours. Because
nothing can mask the cold sterility, the taste of pain, the smell
of fear.

And nothing can obscure the dark presence of Death.

They'd found her mother. Not, as she'd assumed, dead
or drowned, not taken by nefarious means. Merely the survivor
of an automobile crash in faraway Mexico, where the hospital
and doctors hadn't the resources or information to locate her
family. Her mother had been unconscious for several days.
When she'd finally awoken and made herself understood, they'd
asked for her next of kin and arranged for her transfer her to the
States.

A car accident.

The driver of one car had been drunk. He had died on
impact.

Of the five people involved, there had been only two
survivors, both in critical condition. An Olivia Grace Brown,
and a Margaret Eleanore Scully.

Her mother had been driving to the airport, leaving the
cruise ship at Acapulco. Because she had been told her
daughter was in the hospital.

This time, she was the suspicious one, and Mulder the
one who told her not to dig for mysteries where there were none
to be found.

Of all the people to be hurt, why did it have to be her
mother? Why, when her mother was going to come to her?

She couldn't help but be paranoid. It was unusual that
Mulder was not. He was always paranoid.

She wondered, waspishly, if he knew more than he was
telling.

She trusted him, she did: but he had done it before,
and it shadowed her, always.

The doctor, the nurses, they all told her that her mother
would be fine. Hell, she'd seen the chart, she knew it to be true.
They were simply cleaning her up, checking her out, giving her
fluids: routine procedures. Mom was going to be fine. She
knew it.

Still, why were they taking so long?

She rose and began to walk across the artificially-
lighted room, too nervous to remain still. Walked back. And
again. He watched her for a while, tense and pacing, and then
he leaned forward to reach out an arm and grab her elbow
firmly, holding her still. "Hey Scully."

"What?" She stopped, turned impatiently, scowling.
He let go.

"Nothing." He stood and merely looked at her
assessingly. She began to re-direct her anxiety into irritation at
him, manifested in an unconcealed glare.

Then he moved closer, reaching out and pulling her to
him; leaned forward, kissed her neck. Gently, tenderly. She
stiffened slightly, did not quite pull back.

"Mulder . . ." Exasperation covering anxiety of a
different nature. This was still new, and uncharted territory.

"Hmm?" He did not stop what he was doing, had
moved his hands to grasp her lightly by the waist.

"You're distracting me." The anxiety was more
apparent, but she did not move away.

"That's the idea." He trailed kisses down her
collarbone, to the point of her shoulder.

"Mulder?" Confusion.

He had slept in her bed for days, but he had not
touched her, had not so much as kissed her cheek ... since.

Since that night.

"I want you to stop this, Scully. Scully, I need you,
can't you tell? So badly, so very much . . . you can't do this to
yourself. She's fine." His fingers were under the sweatshirt, at
the skin of her waist, moving under the thick fleece barrier,
slightly higher, stroking gently against her back. His voice,
deep and rumbling, hoarse and seductive.

She shivered. He had his hand under her shirt. This
was a public place.

"I don't really think . . . "

He interrupted her. "That's just it, Scully, don't think.
Just relax." Soothing, coaxing. Entreaty in his voice, in his
words, in his actions. "Just relax, Dana, and let it go . . ."

She hesitated for only another brief moment before she
wrapped her own arms around him, fiercely now, and did as he
asked.

Leaning against him, letting him support her; there, in
the stark chill of the empty green and white waiting room, Dana
Scully cried for her mother's life in the arms of her love.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
Monday, February 9, 1998
3:54 a.m.

Restlessly lying in bed, he listened to her breathe.
There was the faintest trace of a wheeze, still, in the sound of
her breathing; he'd have to ask the doctor about that in the
morning when they visited her mother. Normally, he wouldn't
interfere but Scully, lately, seemed to have a reckless disregard
for her own health.

If Mulder had thought he could be a difficult patient,
Scully put him to the blush.

While at Georgetown, as soon as she was capable of
extended speech, she began to argue every day about leaving;
eventually, they had agreed to release her early because, Mulder
figured, she had just plain worn them down.

She would have worn them down even earlier, signed
herself out AMA, he had no doubt, except for that incident.

It had been dinner-time. The nurse had just come in
with the tray of plain rice, clear broth, and orange jello.

Not very tempting and Scully, pushing the food around
on her plate, told Mulder, again, that she wanted to leave.

They had been arguing heatedly when Mulder, in
frustration, walked out of her room. He needed coffee. Or
something.

In his absence, she had been walking around the room,
down the empty halls while everyone busied themselves with
dinner. Exerting herself more than she should, when she began
to crumple.

Arms flailing, she had managed to use her IV and the
wall to catch herself before sliding to the floor. A nurse,
hearing the noise, had come in and helped her to bed.

Mulder, with his coffee, had arrived minutes later,
catching the rancourous end of the nurse's tirade about relapses
and over-extension and creeping around instead of eating her
dinner properly. Seeing him enter, the nurse disgustedly
apprised him of the situation and left the room.

Scully, lying weakly in bed, said nothing. That was
the most frightening part.

When asked, she said she had wanted a book from the
patient's library.

He supposed it was almost comical, if it hadn't been so
sad.

She did not expect her body to betray her, never
thought she could not do anything she willed herself to do.

He had used the episode against her, hating himself for
the necessity.

Had sat beside her, stroked her cheek. Said quietly,
leaning in close to her. "Scully, Scully, I think you should
stay."

Lying limply against the pillows, eyes closed, she had
just nodded.

The frail woman on the bed didn't look like Scully--she
looked like a too-thin shell of a woman he didn't recognize,
attached to a plastic tube, a constant and hideous invasion of her
being.

Her lashes had been wet.

Despite her exhaustion, he had forced her to sit up and
eat something of her food before she let sleep claim her again.

But it had been a whole two days before she had
ventured to raise the issue of leaving again.

He remembered that now, and almost wished she
would quarrel with him. He did not like to see her so full of
defeat.

She hadn't eaten anything at dinner today. She had
eaten practically nothing the whole day, in fact, or yesterday.
Except the little he had forced upon her. They had argued and
fought. He wanted to trust her, but he didn't know. She had
said she felt nauseous when he asked, and had gone to sleep
early instead. He didn't know if she should still be sleeping this
much.

He sighed. He'd speak to her doctor about that too;
they had to go to the hospital anyhow to visit her mother.
Scully needed some follow-up tests as well and it was like
pulling teeth to get her to schedule an appointment; her doctor
had called twice already asking for the results.

He supposed they would have to argue about that too.

Her mother was all right, and instead of joy, she
seemed frozen. Listless. Apathetic.

She had cried when her mother returned, but she had
not spoken with him, save for trivialities, after that.

He'd thought, after she'd cried twice in his arms, that
she'd be able to talk to him. Had hoped she would talk to him.

But she had not.

She said she was fine. She avoided his eyes.

He had asked her, after some time, to talk to him.
Begged her to talk to him. Pleaded with her to talk to him.

Demanded that she talk with him.

Then, tentatively, he'd suggested that if she did not
want to talk with him, perhaps she'd prefer a profes ...

Her anger had been so swift, so vehement, it cut off his
very thought unfinished.

He physically shrank several sizes at the bare memory
of her wrath.

He had not mentioned it again.

Really, he had not needed to. The doctors, the Bureau
in an official letter, even Skinner in an awkward, albeit brief
personal visit: they had all suggested therapy.

She had refused.

Life continued, as per usual.

But he had struck a tender spot. And they both knew
it.

Even if she would not consciously admit to anything of
the kind.

Instead, she had been having nightmares since her
return. He was afraid to leave her by herself.

Not only would she not talk to him, she did not even
seem particularly fond of him these past few days. He slept on
her bed, on one side with Scully on the other side, and then they
woke and it was as if nothing had ever been said. As if they
were less even than they had been, less than before.

Until he left, every morning, and she would watch him
go with those desperate eyes.

He avoided her eyes, when he was leaving. He could
not bring himself to look, wanting to escape that need.

Unable to leave if he let himself see, and unendurable
to stay if he had.

He needed her just as much, almost more, but he could
not allow himself to look at her like that.

She would not talk to him, and so he could not help
her. Despite the startling information he had heard about the
child's supposed relation to Scully, she would not even talk
about that.

He wondered how, when she rarely believed solid
evidence, she could now believe these foundless, foolish,
baseless fabrications. Even though it appeared that's exactly
what she had done. Was doing.

He wanted to explain it to her, to make her understand,
to tell her it was so obviously a prevarication that even *he*
didn't believe, but he could not mention the child to her. He had
tried, only once.

Why *did* she believe? How could she?

Why in hell had she given herself to them?

At times, he'd look at her and get so angry he could
barely breathe.

How could she have done this to herself?

How could she do this to him?

He had spoken with Kate after Scully's friend had
visited, once; he had wanted to ask her if she had any solid
information, information he could take to Scully. But Kate,
whatever she was, definitely could not be trusted. He was
carefully not to mention Scully's fears, the reasons behind his
interest, and Kate had told him nothing of use.

Kate unsettled him; he had not called her again.

The stories she told were incredulous.

He wondered if Kate was even human.

He hated himself for wondering.

Scully moaned, trembling and twisting against the
sheets. With one arm, he pulled her closer towards him, pulling
her head back against his shoulder, holding her tightly still until
she calmed, worried she would hurt herself or tear her stitches.
She did not wake, eventually lapsing back into a less troubled
sleep. When her breathing evened, he released his hold.

Wearily, Mulder tucked his hand under his head, stared at the ceiling, and
desperately wished that he understood.

--------------------------------------------------------------------
Georgetown Medical Center
Monday, February 9, 1998
11:54 p.m.

Her mother was being released. Scully was supposed
to go in for a check-up anyway; Mulder convinced her that she
should have it done today as they had to drive to Georgetown
regardless. Her mother, sounding cheerful and happy on the
other end of the phone, agreed. Maria, the young woman
Margaret shared her room with, returned from surgery in the
afternoon, and Margaret wanted to wait so she could find out
how it had gone before she left. So she was perfectly content to
be picked up mid-afternoon after Dana had finished with her
tests.

They arrived at the hospital a little before noon, and
her mother expected to be ready by two. It was quiet at the
hospital, relaxed, empty, eerie. Mulder had called ahead; they
expected her. She filled out the forms and waited for the
doctor, a new one, one that read her file too quickly and smiled
too much in Scully's opinion.

"Well, Ms. Scully, just a quick exam and then we'll be
finished."

"Actually", said Scully slowly, "I don't really have time
right now, I had thought that maybe we could schedule for
later?'

"It will only take a moment." The doctor seemed
startled. Mulder frowned.

They both looked at her expectantly.

"I just . . . I don't . . . I'd prefer to do this another day",
she gathered herself and said firmly.

Mulder nodded at the doctor. "Could we have a
moment?"

He nodded back and left.

Mulder crossed over to Scully, stopped and faced her.
Apparently something fascinated her in the far corner of the
room, and even when he spoke she would not turn her head.

"I thought we agreed."

"I know."

He regarded her for a moment before he spoke again.

"It'll be OK, Scully, I'll be right outside. You should
really have this done."

She waited a moment, not moving, before she turned to
look at him. "I . . . I just . . . I can't do this, Mulder, not today.
Please." Her voice seemed firm, but her eyes begged him.

Concern for her made him adamant. "You've been
putting this off for days, Scully. I was lucky to convince you to
come today. They released you early because you promised
you'd return for regular check-ups . . . and your doctor really
thinks it's necessary."

He looked a bit guilty under her gaze. "I'm sorry--I
bullied him a bit into telling me a little . . . You can't avoid this-
-and I don't know if you're recovering like you should be. I
know you weren't feeling so well yesterday, and if you really
want to get better . . . besides, the stitches should be checked.
Just let's do it and get your mom and go."

"I don't know this resident. I'd prefer to wait until the
attending is back."

"Scully, what is this? He's just going to do an exam,
anyone can do it. Yesterday you said you just wanted it done,
you didn't care who did it--you could have seen the attending on
Saturday, and you said you'd wait 'till today."

"I thought I could; I did. I just can't. Please, Mulder."
Her voice had risen in agitation.

"Scully? What's this about? Talk to me."

The one thing she also didn't want to do. The bedsheet
enchanted her.

She took a deep breath, then nodded. "Mulder? Do
you . . ."

"Hmm?"

"Do you think you could stay?"

"Of course, Scully, I'll be waiting right here."

"No, I mean in here, with me. Please?"

"Are you sure?" He looked vaguely dubious.

"Please?"

"Okay, sure. Whatever you want."

"Thank you." As much relief as she could get.

He smiled at her. "I think I should at least leave while
you put this on. He held out the gown. Unless you want me in
here to do this too." He smiled at her again, gently, teasing only
a little.

She pushed him out the door.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
12:44 p.m.

She was panicking. She'd thought today would be
okay. Some days were worse than others, but this was
something she was hoping to avoid. Whenever. She'd endured
it while in the hospital, because she'd had no choice. But she
wanted to put it behind her, needed to put it behind her . . . she
hoped that they'd both let it go, but she'd been caught. And she
would've hated to look foolish if she'd argued further. She
tensed.

"Dana, you're going to have to relax." The resident,
over-tired and frustrated, tried to sound patient. These shifts
were far too long.

She tried, she really did, but she couldn't . . . she
forced her muscles to relax, and the doctor moved his hand. She
tensed again and bit her lip against a cry. The doctor audibly
sighed.

Mulder was at her ear, stroking her hair. "It's all right,
Dana, it's just fine. You're doing great. Relax now, for me,
c'mon, baby, relax . . ."

She leant into his voice, took strength from it. Tried to
shut out everything but the sound in her ear, soothing,
comforting, secure.

Tried, and it helped, a little.

Didn't even mind that he'd called her *baby*.

The doctor shot him a grateful glance that Scully, her
head turned away and eyes closed, was beyond seeing.

Her cheeks were damp, and the voice in her ear kept up
a steady, wordless monotone. The doctor finished up quickly,
doing as best he could. This was an ordeal no one wanted to
prolong.

The MRI was one of the low points. She hated Mulder
for making her do this.

The doctor came and spoke to her after.

She allowed Mulder to stay in the room.

"Well, Dana, your X-rays are good. The MRI looks
fine. Sonogram, clear. The blood work is excellent."

She waited patiently as he flipped through the chart
again, tapping it with his pen as he scanned for some piece of
information or other.

He frowned, puzzled. "Dana, it doesn't say here, I
guess someone forgot to note it. How long have you been in
remission?"

She didn't say anything.

The doctor looked up, confused, when he received no
reply. He was greeted by two faces, one shocked, one placid.

"I'm sorry. How long have you been in remission?"

"What?" Mulder croaked into the void.

The doctor looked a bit startled at Mulder's behaviour.
"The remission, it's fairly remarkable according to these results.
I just wanted to know how long she's been clear."

"She's not," Mulder blurted, after an awkward silence.

"Actually, she is. Maybe you need to discuss this with
her. According to the lab results, they are consistent with a
remission of some length of time." The doctor began to look
embarrassed.

"Scully?" Mulder looked at her. She shook her head,
slightly: she had not known.

Mulder's face froze into an expression of wild, terrible
joy as the doctor explained.

She was perfectly healthy. Perfectly.

She was still barren, of course, he said--another piece
of news that weeks ago, days ago, would have upset her, but no
longer could.

Men could afford to be nonchalant about things like
that, while the word cancer could reduce them to blubbering
idiots.

She had not even known she was barren in the first
place, not until a few weeks ago.

Mulder had known, had told her one of those long
days in the hospital. He'd felt guilty for keeping the news of her
mother from her, had felt suddenly confessional.

Odd, when he had never minded leaving her in the dark
before.

It was fine. She'd already had a child, without
knowing it, and had already lost her. Without ever having given
birth to a child, and without ever having buried one.

The doctor was still speaking. He told her her body no
longer had any evidence of cancerous cells. He kept repeating
himself, once it was clear that this was news. He and Mulder
would begin to discuss treatment and consequences, and then
he'd look at her and repeat the basic information again. As if
she didn't understand.

She watched his mouth move.

She supposed he wanted her to say something.

"Why?", she said.

Her voice was toneless; mildly curious, if anything.

His voice stopped. He looked perplexed at her
question. "We are at a loss," he replied, finally.

The doctor could not explain why.

Suddenly, Mulder went ballistic. He wanted more
tests, another exam, different doctors, independent specialists.
More evidence, more proof.

Scully sat quietly while Mulder filled the air.

He talked about suing the hospital, the doctors, the
nurses, the janitorial staff--if they were wrong, if she
discontinued treatment as a result; he threatened and ranted and
raged.

He had been thanking them a scant few minutes ago.

He demanded to see charts, X-rays, bloodwork, DNA
scans even.

Did he think she was someone else?

She was too numb to ask him, if so.

He raved and furied and cried.

She supposed she should feel something. She could
not.

Mulder started demanding to be shown results, that
they give her more tests, right there, right then. That roused her
from her fog, briefly.

She would not take any more tests. Not now, not later.
She did not want to argue the point. It was her body, and she
would not.

She did not particularly care if the cancer was gone for
good, or if it were only a brief reprieve. She did not care, and so
she told him.

She could not bear even one more test.

Mulder gaped at her.

The doctor, however, acquiesced. He warned her to be
extra-vigilant, to make sure she kept her monthly appointments.
Such a complete and sudden remission was aberrant--he could
not stress this enough--and he could not guarantee that she was
truly cured.

He wished her well.

She nodded assent, and smiled a thanks, waiting until
he left her.

Leaving her alone with Mulder.

She bit her lip, and turned her face away. A single tear
wound its way down her cheek. She did not notice it, until she
felt it drip onto her hand.

Wordlessly, Mulder walked towards her from where he
sat in the corner, laid a hand on her shoulder.

She shrugged his hand away.

While she dressed, Mulder silently went to collect her
mother and then drove her home.

They did not speak.

That night, she sent Mulder back home and went to
stay with her mom. Her mother rarely asked anything Dana did
not wish to answer, and Dana did not ask her mother anything
she did not want answered.

The day after next, she went back to work.

-------------------------:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:-----------------------------
End of Part 16.
_______________________________________________