TITLE: Walking Through Fire 
AUTHOR: LoneThinker (aka Bardsmaid)
E-MAIL: bardsmaid@imagesmithstudio.com
DISTRIBUTION: Yes, but please let me know where.
SPOILER WARNING: Anything up to *Drive, early S6
RATING: PG-13
CLASSIFICATION: X,S,A 
KEYWORDS: the gang's all here
DISCLAIMER: I don't own these characters.  I just discovered them hitchhiking when 1013 abandoned their real agendas on the Yellow Brick Road to Season 6's fantasyland, and I couldn't help offering them a ride.  Don't worry: I drive carefully and seat belts were provided for all. 
NOTE: Walking Through Fire is the sequel to *Paradise Lost and the second part of a completed trilogy that concludes with *Sanctuary.  You'll probably be somewhat lost if you haven't read *Paradise Lost--I'd give that a read first.   
SUMMARY: Determined to gain reinstatement at the Bureau after being unjustly dismissed, Mulder searches for a way to bring Cancer Man down while also confronting the grim reality of unemployment.  Meanwhile, Scully's responsibilities increase as she juggles her new Quantico assignment with her continued support of her ex-partner's quest.  But Skinner requests her forensic expertise in an ongoing investigation, saddling her with an additional burden that may prove more than she can bear.  A ghost from Teena Mulder's past prompts her to finally open up to her son, though the information she offers has the potential to crush him.  And Alex Krycek may inadvertently provide the evidence Mulder needs to foil the Smoking Man.

This entire fic universe can be found at:

http://www.sandarsdimension.com/excavations/XFfic/fanfic.htm
.....................................................................................
Walking Through Fire (1 of 14)

In the dream she was a little girl again, flying down the stairs 
in the thin light of early morning to check on the rabbit she'd 
been trying to protect the day before.  Bill had threatened to 
kill it, though she could see now, being an adult, that it had 
been an empty threat, designed merely to provoke her in the way 
big brothers often do.  At the time, however, his words had 
terrified her and she had tucked the tiny, squirming bunny, 
unthinking, into an old lunchbox in the basement and then had run 
upstairs.

She had forgotten the rabbit.  When she'd thought of it next, 
shortly after waking up, she'd run down the old wooden stairs, 
heart thumping, to find the small white body stiff, the life gone 
from it. 

She'd blamed herself, though she could see now that there could 
have been any number of causes for the small rabbit's death.  It 
could be that he 'd simply passed through too many small, eager 
hands in the days preceding his incarceration in the metal box.  
Still, she'd shed many tears over the small, still form, 
experiencing a piercing emptiness she'd never known before.  In 
the end, though, the lesson had served her well; it had made her 
more aware of the consequences of her strategies at protection.

It was Mulder she was watching over this time, officially her ex-
partner and yet in reality still very much her partner, the man 
who had--once again--saved her in the process of her saving him. 

Dana Scully rolled over and looked toward the window.  Thin, pale 
light was beginning to fill it.  She needed to be up, in the 
shower, preparing for another day's work--or cover--as a teaching 
pathologist at the FBI Academy. 

Fox Mulder loosened his tie as he emerged from the front door of 
the J. Edgar Hoover Building.  He paused, looked around, and 
headed for a trash can near the curb.  The sheaf of official forms 
and paperwork in his hand slid cleanly through the hole in the 
center, like a polished lay-up shot.  Two points--the final two of 
the game, as it turned out.  He looked up and squinted grimly into 
the brightness.  It was all over; he'd been cut loose.  He 
concentrated on his breathing, on keeping it even, steady.

Albert Hosteen, the old Navajo, had once asked him if he was 
prepared to sacrifice himself to the truth.  He'd believed he was, 
though the drop-off seemed deeper, and the chasm below it more 
treacherous, now that he was poised on the precipice.  

The traffic light at the intersection near him changed and he 
moved into the crowd, letting it give him direction.  On the other 
side he hesitated, looked both ways and then started slowly to the 
right, toward the Washington Monument.  After half a block he left 
the sidewalk and strode out into the grass.  As he walked he 
pulled the tie from his neck and stuffed it into the inner pocket 
of his suit jacket.  Then he took off the jacket and hung it over 
one shoulder.  He concentrated on his stride, deliberate and even, 
left foot and then right--rhythm substituting for certainty--the 
grass passing in a blur beneath him.
   
The exit interview had been an exercise, but he hadn't expected 
anything more.  The decision to cut him had already been made--or 
pressed upon them--their evidence of his contact with the X-files 
trumped up but conveniently designed to feed the preconceptions of 
the men who thought they were making the decision.  Anything he 
could have offered in rebuttal--if he'd had anything--wouldn't 
have been given a second glance; it would have been an exercise in 
futility.  He'd gone to the interview itself only to please 
Scully, to satisfy her that he'd followed protocol and that if 
they could indeed unearth some credible evidence of a conspiracy 
against him, he'd at least have shown himself to be responsible; 
he wouldn't have slammed the door completely. 

And the options now were--what?   His life was like the slow-
motion debris from an exploding grenade, bits flying in every 
possible direction with no center, nothing solid.  His access was 
gone.  The search that had fueled him for years--the search that 
had been his life, the search for his sister--had run into the 
roadblock, or maybe the brick wall, of credibility.  Maybe 
Samantha wasn't who he'd always thought she was.  Maybe she was 
the product of an unspeakable liaison between his mother and the 
Cigarette Smoking Man.  And his mother.  Just when he'd thought 
he'd finally broken through that shell she always carried herself 
in, she'd lied to him again.  What was she hiding?  Who was she 
trying to protect?

Mulder looked ahead and walked faster now, as if to leave his 
speculations behind.  He'd let them overwhelm him three nights ago 
and he'd nearly put a gun to his head.  Had put a gun to his head, 
momentarily at least, until he'd been stopped by fate's idea of a 
practical joke:  Alex Krycek.  The shock of realization had been 
like a cold shower--sudden, chilling recognition of how close to 
the edge, for all his rationalization, he really lived, and how 
easily motives and actions could be justified.  He'd made himself 
believe Scully'd be okay on her own.  She was strong, but for as 
much as she held him up, she was still human.  She wouldn't have 
deserved to find him on the apartment floor with half his head 
blown off.  Sometimes she stumbled, the way anyone did.  And who 
would've been there to pick her up, to help her, or even to notice 
a woman struggling through life wearing the careful camouflage of 
'I'm fine' to ward off all comers?

The Monument was crowded, tour bus loads of people milling in 
clusters near its base.  Mulder skirted the area and kept going.  
Off to the right of the Lincoln Memorial was a quiet pond and a 
spot that--hopefully--would offer some peace, or clarity.   

Walter Skinner sat at his desk, absently nudging the corner of a 
file folder with a pencil eraser.  It was done now; Mulder was 
officially out.  The power of his access--of his position as 
Assistant Director--should have meant something to Mulder in the 
way of backup, and yet he'd exposed himself twice in the last 
week, like a sniper foolishly firing when everything around him 
was quiet, blatantly advertising his position.  He'd gone to 
Senator Matheson to inquire about Mulder and then he'd given 
Scully a tip that had turned out to be a marked bill.  The 
Cigarette Man had seemed unaware of his indiscretion, but that 
hadn't kept Alex Krycek from figuring it out almost immediately, 
and what did that mean in the end?  How far would the information 
travel?  He couldn't afford to stick his neck out and now he was 
like a grunt--an infantryman--suddenly reassigned to the kitchen, 
left to wipe off cafeteria trays while the war went on all around 
him.

Skinner pushed back his chair and went to the window.  Outside, 
the day was deceptively bright.    

A knock came on the office door.  

"Come in."  Scully put her finger by her place in the technical 
journal and scanned rapidly to finish the paragraph she'd been 
reading.

The door squeaked as it swung open and a rush of cool air swept 
into the room.

"Agent Scully?"

Scully's breath caught.  Her finger pressed down harder on the 
shiny surface of the page.  Diana Fowley stood in the doorway.

"...Yes?"  Something inside her tensed.

"Do you have a copy of the lab workup you did on Gibson Praise?"  
Diana paused and smiled briefly, as if no bad blood had ever 
passed between them.  "I realize you've just moved in here, but my 
copy seems to have disappeared from our office--"

"Are you accusing someone?"

"No."  Diana's expression revealed only surprise.

Scully looked away, toward the window.  She could feel her pulse 
drumming, the flow of her blood.

"I don't need it today," Diana went on.  "But if I can have a copy 
when you get organized, I'd appreciate it."

Scully forced herself to smile.  "I'll make a note of it."

"Thank you."
 
Scully took a slow breath.  By the time she'd exhaled Diana had 
gone, pulling the door shut behind her.  Scully forced herself to 
loosen her grip on the arms of the chair.  She was a professional.  
Without a dispassionate, professional approach she would have no 
chance of figuring out the significance of this unsettling little 
visit.

She stood and walked slowly around the desk. 

Mulder paused at the stairway leading to the water.  It was a 
large pond--eight and a half acres according to the brochure the 
National Park Service put out--and yet it was off the beaten path.  
Tourists flocked to the Smithsonian, the Washington Monument, the 
memorials.  There was no monument here; maybe that's what made the 
difference.  The Canada geese liked it well enough, though.  
Mulder picked a step near the bottom and sat down in a patch of 
shade.

The air was hazy with the humidity it held.  Mulder squinted out 
across the muted green expanse of water and watched it ripple 
slowly with the vague movement of air.  He picked up a large, dry 
leaf from the stair above him and crushed it absently, rubbing it, 
unthinking, between his hands so that only tiny fragments fell 
onto the step below.

Deep Throat had told him, once when he'd hovered on the threshold 
between this world and the next, not to give up, to return to the 
world of the living and not to look into the abyss.  That there 
was truth to be had, but that no justice came with it.  Well, 
maybe justice was a pipe-dream, but the things he'd seen--the 
hybrid corpses on the Navajo reservation, the women abducted and 
tested and made sterile, his partner's cancer--they were reason 
enough to keep searching for it.  The men who'd done those things 
needed to be brought to justice.  And beyond the pawns and the 
thugs and the sell-outs stood Cancer Man.  The smug old bastard 
had to be the key, the peak of the pyramid.  Smoky wasn't likely 
to be reporting to someone higher up on the food chain.  Mulder's 
deductive reasoning told him that, but so did his profiler's 
hunch.  All the man's mannerisms and actions spoke directly to the 
controlling mastermind personality:  the constant, meticulous 
planning; the tendency to view life as a chess game, to seek out 
strategies with high potential payoffs; even the ability to let 
others think they were running things, all the while pulling the 
strings himself from behind the curtain.  

And if Old Smoky, for whatever logistic--and for whatever twisted 
personal--reasons, was waging this campaign against him, then the 
only way to get back his life, and the job that supported it, was 
to go after Smoky himself.  What was it Krycek had said once?--
that the thing these men feared most was exposure?  Expose him, 
you expose his crimes; you destroy the destroyer's ability to 
destroy.  

Mulder pulled a sunflower seed from his shirt pocket, put it in 
his mouth and bit down too hard, forcing splinters of shell into 
the tender seed inside.  He spit it onto the pavement and picked 
another seed from his pocket.  But where to start?  Where did he 
get a handhold, or a foothold?  Trying to nail Old Smoky would be 
like attempting to capture the drifting smoke from the old man's 
ever-present Morleys.

Mulder leaned forward, head in hands.  The sun beat a hot path 
across his shoulders and the back of his neck.  He tried to focus 
on the warmth, to let his speculations go, but the lurking doubts 
were creeping back, seeping into him like the sunlight penetrating 
his shirt.  Maybe he was he falling back into the same old 
pattern, instinctively rebuilding on the same shaky foundation as 
before simply because he didn't know any other way to live.  Maybe 
his life had been nothing more than the manifestation of some 
deep-seated psychological need or deficiency.  

Maybe he was what everyone else said he was.  

But what could you do to Cancer Man?  Anything overt would draw 
more fire than he could combat.  Whatever he did would have to be 
something covert, untraceable.  Otherwise Smoky's retaliation, as 
it had in the past, would most likely target his partner.

Mulder looked up suddenly, his jaw hard, and squinted out over the  
water.  There it was: it was impossible to make a move without 
affecting her.  Smoky'd like that.  Maybe he'd planned it that 
way.  He might not have figured on Scully becoming the kind of 
partner to him she had, but the fact was, their closeness had made 
her vulnerable.  It still made him wince to hear her words when 
she repeated what Kritchgau had told her:  "He said that the men 
behind this hoax... behind these lies... gave me this disease to 
make you believe."  It would have to be different this time, but 
without Scully, how far would he get?

Mulder stood and stretched his legs.  He picked up his jacket and 
shook it, then turned to leave.  Several steps behind him sat a 
pale-looking girl with a backpack and tired clothes, eating 
something from a fast food bag.  She smiled when their eyes met, 
as if she had no qualms about being caught staring.  

"Nice afternoon," she said as he passed her on his way up the 
steps.

"Yeah, nice," he replied without feeling.

Diana Fowley pulled the green ottoman close to the window and sat 
down on it.  So often this apartment seemed too large, too 
impersonal.  She'd preferred the friendly clutter of the Paris 
flat with its welcoming old chair and the wrought-iron balcony 
where red geraniums bloomed.  Life, deep and hearty and sometimes 
painful, seemed to infuse Europe with an intensity she'd never 
known here.  It had almost been enough to make her forget--
momentarily--the bigger picture, the grim future she'd been 
preparing for all her life.  It had nearly been enough to heal the 
tender spot she'd inadvertently allowed Fox Mulder to burn into 
her heart.  He'd been an assignment, a game piece to be 
strategically placed in order for the greater strategy to 
continue.  She'd intended only to do her job, to forward the plan, 
but he'd overwhelmed her--undercut her--with a living, pulsing 
humanity for which she had no ready defense.  His hope, his 
passion, his trust--all beyond the pale of the dark world she'd 
grown up in.  And it was frustratingly attractive, in spite of 
Mulder's obvious impracticality, to have that kind of hope, as if 
the world would go on, as if the future could hold a thousand 
positive possibilities.  Difficult to know that for all the 
attractive brightness of a single candle flame, it was she who 
must control it, starve it, ensure that it would never illuminate 
the shadows.

It was obvious, now, that she'd been used to do it again, to 
manipulate Mulder's search in some way through his untrusting 
partner.  Why had the Gibson Praise file disappeared?  Neither 
Mulder nor Scully would have taken it since they already had the 
information; Scully herself had done the workup.  No one else had 
any interest in the data, or even took it seriously for that 
matter.  Jeffrey wouldn't have bothered to take the time to find 
it and throw it out, no matter how much he disbelieved.  The 
material in the X-files, as well as the shape of the future, was 
completely beyond him.  He was simply a place holder in this 
assignment, meant to keep the Project from being exposed.

Mostly likely her father had slipped the file out himself, knowing 
that she'd go to Scully looking for a replacement.  It was yet 
another small opportunity to augment Scully's simple distrust of 
her as another woman--an untrusted woman--who'd had a tie to her 
partner.  Beyond the basic disorientation, Scully, ever the 
analyst, would deduce that she was being watched, that this was a 
further warning not to step out of line, that she wasn't free to 
press ahead in anonymity with any personal agenda originating in 
the X-files.

Diana rubbed her hands to warm them and looked out over the 
expanse of Washington outside the window.  She'd considered the 
fact before, that windows here never opened to the outside the way 
they did in Europe.  Safety factors would be cited, but the fact 
remained that they were designed to keep life in--your life--not 
open you to the invigorating and often messy contact with the life 
and breath beating beyond the glass.

Scully tilted her head to one side and then the other, waiting for 
the traffic light to change.  If she'd met Diana Fowley under 
completely different circumstances she wasn't sure her reaction 
would have been any different.  There was something stiff and 
closed off about the woman.  Something she was hiding.  Diana had 
set off her internal alarm that very first time, when she'd been 
just an unfamiliar face in a roomful of people gathered at Jeffrey 
Spender's briefing.  A Russian chess player had been murdered... 
or so they'd thought until Mulder had pointed out that little 
Gibson Praise, not the Russian, had been the intended target.  
Diana had spoken up quickly in agreement and Mulder had said her 
name--"Diana--"--as if...

It wasn't any business of hers whether Mulder had a personal life, 
or who it included, including Diana Fowley if that was his choice.  
It was the suddenness of it, and the fact that she'd thought she'd 
known him, that had thrown her off--that combined with the fact 
that Mulder was easily led, that he believed so easily and so 
sincerely that any number of people could take advantage of him, 
and had.  He didn't need someone who agreed with him so readily, 
who would only add fuel to his fire until it flared rapidly out of 
control and burned him.  And there was that something--that 
unreadable Mona Lisa look of Diana's that hid volumes, none of it, 
she was sure, positive or straightforward.

Diana's appearance in her office today had been deliberate--how 
else could she read it?--a warning that though she was out of the 
J. Edgar Hoover Building, she was still being watched, that she 
could not operate with impunity.  But how could she explain that 
to Mulder?  Diana was the one thing that brought the flow of their 
partnership to a skidding halt.  She refused to trust the woman, 
and Mulder couldn't believe that she was anything but his 
supporter.  If she said or even inferred anything at all about 
Diana's motives, they found themselves in an abrupt, standoff 
silence.  Mulder had laughed at her interpretations in the past, 
had even jabbed at them with his sarcasm on the way to admitting 
they were right, but nothing had left him sullen and silent like 
the suggestion that Diana had an agenda, and that it wasn't his.

She'd intended to drop by Mulder's after she got off work, to see 
how the exit interview had gone and how he was doing, whether he 
was holding up under the pressure of everything that had happened, 
but she dreaded the prospect now, the specter of ending up in 
another stony silence when she needed to know they were still both 
on the same team, partners in their fight against the Consortium 
and what it had done. 

Scully shifted in her seat.  She could call him.  It was late and 
miles past her own place to get to his.  She could get a feel for 
his mood over the phone and never have to mention Diana Fowley at 
all. 
 
The light above the intersection turned green and the cars in 
front of her began to move.  Scully eased her foot onto the gas 
pedal and looked ahead.

He'd paced himself.  He'd refused to panic or to let himself get 
caught up in the apparent hopelessness of the situation.  Instead, 
he'd looked ahead to the goal--to somehow expose Cancer Man, to 
gain some leverage over this man with no humanity, no conscience.  
To take back control of his own destiny.  

Mulder pushed aside the papers on his desk and rested his forehead 
against his hand.  He could see his father again, the way he'd 
been when he graduated from the Academy, not proud but tightly 
congratulatory, almost reluctant.  Somber.  His advice?  Not the 
usual--to investigate carefully, to leave no stone unturned, or to 
make a mark for himself--but to live economically, to put away 
whatever he could as a hedge against hard times, or uncertainty.  
At the time he couldn't have guessed what kind of uncertainty his 
father had in mind.  

Mulder rubbed his temples with his fingertips and closed his eyes.  
He'd taken the advice about saving.  There was money put away--a 
reasonable cushion.  But it wouldn't last forever with the 
expenses he had, but no matter how he ran the figures--and he'd 
been sitting here for nearly an hour pushing a pencil--he would 
have to cut his expenses, and the item with the biggest target 
painted on it was his apartment.  

He took off his glasses and laid them on top of the penciled 
papers, then stood and stretched.  The sky outside the window was 
hung in shades of purple and gray, the last of the sun's strength 
backlighting a spreading mass of dull clouds.  The street lights 
had gone on, spreading bluish light on parked cars and on a 
silhouette emerging from a cream-colored sedan.  Mulder looked 
more closely at the familiar motion of the figure and smiled 
suddenly.  It was Scully.            

The door to the apartment opened just as she was about to knock on 
it, and Mulder's face greeted her.  Scully composed herself and 
managed a self-conscious smile as he ushered her inside.

"Hard day at the office, Dr. Scully?"

"Not really.  No harder than any other day."  She set her coat on 
the back of a chair and followed Mulder to the couch.  "It's just 
been long.  I'd forgotten how much I dislike the commute."

She took his cue and sat down.  He seemed unusually quiet.

"So what about you, Mulder?  How did the interview go?"

"It was an excuse, an exercise."  He shook his head.  "Nothing I 
could have said would have made any difference, so I didn't."  He 
looked up at her, the beginning of a smile at the corners of his 
mouth.  "Not even anything I would have liked to say.  You 
would've been proud, Scully." 
 
She raised her eyebrows in return, but no words came.  She was 
tired.  She thought suddenly of three nights ago, sitting here in 
the dark, watching over Mulder's sleeping, exhausted form.  Of 
driving to come here that night, her insides churning, knowing he 
was in trouble, afraid of what she would find.  And of sitting 
hours earlier on a cot in a homeless shelter, filled with the thin 
emptiness of the dispossessed.

"We've got to find those people, Mulder," she said, watching the 
file folders on the coffee table go slowly out of focus.  "The 
Consortium.  Before they take more innocent lives."  She stopped 
abruptly, picturing the little blonde-haired girl with her plastic 
toys, thinking of Glenna Marquez, who she'd never seen--and never 
would, now that she'd been killed for the crime of glimpsing, or 
at least claiming to have glimpsed, the missing Cassandra Spender.

"Scully...?"

His voice was soft.  She refocused on the room, on him.  "Just 
thinking," she said.

He leaned forward.

"Scully, do you remember the time we caught Krycek in that 
fertilizer bust?  With the militia group?"

"You mean when he said, 'I love this country?'"

"Yeah, then."  Mulder shook his head.  "He also said if you expose 
him--if you expose Cancer Man--then you take away his ability to 
destroy."

"So you're going after Cancer Man?"

"It...It's all I can think to do.  He's the key.  He's got to be."

"What do you have in mind?"

He shook his head.  "I'm thinking about it.  Something covert.  
Something he can't trace back to either of us, so he doesn't come 
back at you for it."  He looked away suddenly.  She saw him 
swallow.

"Mulder--"

She sighed.  The room was quiet.  She leaned back against the back 
of the couch and looked at her partner's silhouette.  The line his 
jaw made when he was confident about something was missing now.  
Muffled footsteps came from the hallway outside.  The sounds of 
muted voices came closer, passed and then receded.  

"Ever wish you could have five minutes with your dad, Scully?" his 
voice came finally, quiet.  "You know, to ask him something?"

"My dad had a couple of minutes with me once," she said.

He turned to look at her.  "What do you mean?"

"When I was in the hospital.  When I was...returned.  After my 
abduction."

His eyes urged her on.

"He came to me in a vision, or a dream--"

"What did he say?"

Scully looked down at her hands.  "That he would give up 
everything he had--everything he'd earned, all his medals, his 
promotions--just to--"  She looked away.

She could feel him looking at her, waiting.  It had crept up on 
her suddenly, without warning.  She swallowed against the pressure 
in her throat and ventured a glance in Mulder's direction.  A 
softness in his expression encouraged her.  

"...just to have one more second with me, he said."  Her voice was 
quiet, nearly dry.  "It's very sobering, if you think about it."

He paused and nodded agreement.

"What about your father, Mulder?  What would you ask him?"

"When I went to see him--the night he was shot," he began, not 
looking at her, "he said something to me about having your own 
politics, that once you threw in with the group their politics 
were yours and you could be held accountable.  I... I've just been 
thinking about that, that maybe he wasn't in with the rest of 
them.  Not in the same way, I mean."  He leaned forward.  "You 
know how fathers are sometimes, Scully?--harsh because they want 
to make you tough enough to survive?"

She let her hand rest carefully on his shoulder.  "Sometimes it's 
the only way they know to tell you they love you."  

He nodded without turning around.

"You okay, Mulder?" she asked after a moment.

"Yeah," he said quietly, turning to face her.  His eyes were 
clear.  Something like hope filled them.

(end 1 of 14)
........................................
Walking Through Fire (2 of 14)

Alex Krycek hit the floor of his room with a thud.  He gasped, 
forced his eyes open and searched the blackness in front of him, 
heart racing.  No movement came from anywhere in the room.  After 
a moment he focused inward and willed the adrenaline racing 
through him to fade.  It was only the dream.    

Chalk up another scenario in front of the convenience store, the 
numbers on the car's clock flashing their warning.  It was amazing 
that his mind still came up with this one; there were so many 
other nightmares now to choose from.  Maybe it was just another 
reminder that he'd come full circle since he'd arrived in this 
country--hit man to fugitive to independent player who'd almost--
almost--swung by on a precarious rope and grabbed the top rung on 
the Consortium's ladder.  It had all gone to hell within a day's 
time: his leverage, the vaccine sample, the boy.  Marita.  Now 
even his dreams were recycled.  

Though there was always some interesting little twist to the car 
bomb nightmare.  One time he'd be locked in the car, trapped; 
another time the players would be different.  Occasionally the old 
man himself would come up and leer through the window.  Once it 
had been his mother, or at least a mock-up of her.  The closest 
he'd ever come to seeing her was the driver's license picture Che 
had downloaded from the Connecticut motor vehicle database.  It 
was enough, though.

Krycek wiped the sweat from his forehead with his right sleeve and 
got to his feet.  In the bathroom he splashed his face with water, 
then took a small glass from the counter and held it under the 
slow-running faucet to fill.  Before taking Mulder to Tunguska 
there'd been no need for a glass; he could cup his hands under the 
faucet and drink from them like anybody else.  He looked at the 
glass, at the slight shake of his hand from the jolt of the dream, 
then set the glass on the counter and turned off the faucet.  He 
drank slowly, deliberately.  The water tasted metallic, of old 
iron pipes.
    
He returned to the bed, tossed a thin cotton blanket over the 
sweaty sheets and lay back down.  The near side of the bed was 
dry, but lying there wasn't an option.  He slept with his back 
against the wall--had for years.  Life was a lot more manageable 
when you knew what was coming at you.
 
Krycek closed his eyes, then opened them again and looked up.  A 
slash of light ran diagonally across the ceiling, crossing the 
occasional eruption of cracking paint. Great digs.  He was the 
only peasant of the bunch--of the little private army the old man 
had produced to combat the future... or to help him defend his own 
position in it.  His half-sister had a respectable position and a 
prestige address.  But then she was a team player; she did what 
daddy told her to... at least as far as the old man could tell.  
Underneath, she had to be a snake.  How could you be anything 
else, growing up around the old man?

Then there was the old man's current golden boy: Jeffrey, as soft 
and naive as they came, the offspring of the old man's legal wife-
-the woman who'd become the poster child for the Consortium's 
experiments.  What the hell was so special about him?  Maybe it 
was just that he was fresh clay, ready for the old man's shaping.  
Too bad for you, Jeff.

Krycek eased himself a little farther onto his back to take the 
pressure off his stump, which he'd landed on when he fell off the 
bed.  Of all of them, he, the one who'd been raised in a Russian 
orphanage on a diet of too little of everything except harsh 
experience, was the lone peasant and always had been.  The old man 
liked to tell him he was the one he depended on, the one he 
counted on in the clutch.  But it was bullshit, pure and simple, 
applied with the wide, thick brush of the old man's fake smile.  
How could the old man ever think he'd believe? 

Had his mother believed?  Had she been clueless or star-struck, or 
just a lonely woman looking for a warm body to make her feel 
alive?  Living with old Bill Mulder might do that to you.  Still, 
she couldn't have been too smart.  What kind of woman would have 
let the old man get her pregnant not once but twice, and then 
carried both kids to term?  Well, maybe the old man had wanted 
Samantha; she'd have made a good knife to twist into Bill Mulder's 
psyche.  But why bother to carry a kid you knew you wouldn't keep?  
Even poor girls in the town near the orphanage knew how to get out 
of that.

Mulder stretched his legs over the arm of the couch and turned to 
look at the shafts of dull light coming through the living room 
blinds.  There had to be a weakness in the Smoking Man he could 
exploit.  He always seemed so invulnerable, though, like the devil 
himself looking down at you and laughing.  No matter when or where 
you crossed him, he already seemed to know every crack or chink in 
your armor.  However implausible it sounded, his forces were 
always set up, dug in and ready before anyone else appeared on the 
battlefield.  

Mulder smiled suddenly to himself.  Maybe that was it--a place to 
start, at any rate.  If Smoky had a manual for living, it would be 
Sun Tzu's *Art of War.  There was a copy somewhere, in a box he 
hadn't touched since Oxford, probably somewhere in the bedroom. 

He stretched his arms over his head and then glanced around at the 
contents of the room.  He'd need a storage unit someplace to put 
this stuff in, all the boxes, the files, his furniture, when he 
had to clear out of here.  He *would* have to clear out.  He 
couldn't afford to stay here, paying out what little he had left 
in rent.      

Mulder pulled up to a sitting position.  There was nothing about 
the apartment you could pin down as having any real sentimental 
value.  And yet it *was* his headquarters.  It was almost other-
worldly to lie here looking at it and realize he would be 
somewhere else soon, that his boxes and files and chairs and...The 
couch would have to be stored--there was the earth-shaker.  The 
couch--his bed, his command post--locked away somewhere under a 
moving blanket, like Samantha's things stored for so long in the 
Quonochotaug garage.  Gone now, all of them.  Never returned to 
anyone's use.

Mulder reached under the pillow and took out the long, dark braid 
of hair.  Whatever Samantha was--whoever her father--whatever the 
true circumstances of her abduction, or the validity of his 
recovered memories--this hair was the one thing that insisted that 
she'd been *real*, a living, breathing little girl he'd shared a 
life with and then lost.  All the rest--the speculation, the 
ominous possibility--was superfluous.

He eased himself back down and rolled onto his side.  He'd done 
this three nights ago--three *long* nights ago: rolled onto his 
side this way, feeling like shit, lost, to curl around the comfort 
of Scully seated on the middle cushion.  

She'd surprised him tonight. What safety had been left unlatched, 
what alarm disconnected that she'd found herself able to actually 
share something from inside her without having that internal 
buzzer go off--the one that invariably sent her on a scrambling 
retreat into her shell?  It had been nice, the kind of thing that 
usually only happened when they were marooned somewhere, like that 
rock in Lake Okobogee, or sitting at a stakeout.  Mulder smiled 
momentarily.  Scully's interior life was a lot richer with 
possibilities than she'd like to admit.  It probably scared the 
hell out of her sometimes.

Mulder traced the smooth length of the braid with two fingertips 
and returned it to its spot beneath the pillow.  He stood up and 
ran his hands through his hair, then turned on the light and went 
into the bedroom to look for his copy of Sun Tzu.  There was work 
to be done, and one smug son of a bitch to be caught at his own 
game.

Scully pulled her robe around her, glanced toward the steamy 
bathroom mirror and opened the door to the bedroom.  The cooler 
air chilled her face, still damp from washing.  She went to the 
chair and picked up her jacket, brushed off a stray hair and took 
it to the closet to hang.  She'd never told that dream--that 
vision of her father--to anyone; she hadn't intended on ever 
telling it.  It had just slipped out naturally, like breathing, 
and the odd thing was that there was no regret, no feeling of 
vulnerability for having let it out.  There would have been at one 
time, but somehow the awful moment hadn't come.  They'd touched a 
point of common ground, she and Mulder, a place where they both 
stood on the same shore.  There was something solid and reassuring 
about it.

Scully closed the closet door, then went to the bed and sat down.  
A yawn escaped her.  It was only nine-thirty, but it may as well 
have been one or two in the morning.  Maybe it was the commute.  
It would take some getting used to.

She sighed and lay back on the comforter.  

The commute and the fatigue were one thing.  The yearning was 
another matter entirely.  She wanted to be investigating, to have 
access to the kind of material or cases that might give the two of 
them a lead in finding and exposing the Consortium, or finding 
Cassandra Spender, and the fact was that every hour she spent on 
the road, or teaching a class, was an hour that kept her from that 
search.  She had lab access now, and she could analyze evidence 
from now to eternity, but just where would that evidence come 
from?  Before, it had come from Mulder, but now he had less access 
than she did; as of yesterday he had no access at all.  Scully 
looked down and loosened her hand from a fistful of bedspread.   

At the sound of the doorbell, she pulled up quickly.  Nobody came 
by at this hour, unless it was Mulder with something to tell her, 
or show her, something his enthusiasm wouldn't allow to wait.  She 
pulled the robe more snugly around her and retied the belt, then 
hurried to the door.  On tiptoe, she could see her prospective 
visitor through the peep hole.  The woman on the other side was no 
one she knew, an older-looking, thin and poorly dressed.

The doorbell went again.

"Miss Scully--"

"Who is it?"

"My name is Johnston.  Mr. Skinner sent me."

Scully frowned.  "What is this about?"

She could see the woman coming closer to the door, and the voice, 
when it came, was a loud whisper tinged with desperation.

"Please, Miss Scully.  May I come in?"

Scully hesitated, then sighed.  She unlocked the door and opened 
it part way.  The woman slipped inside almost before Scully knew 
what was happening.  Somewhere in the back of her mind a low 
voice--Mulder, or her father, or someone from the Academy--berated 
her about letting in a complete stranger at night.  She turned to 
face her visitor.

"Rita Johnston," the woman said with a slight twang, and held out 
her hand immediately in greeting.

Scully smiled cautiously.  "Dana Scully," she said, taking the 
hand the woman offered, "though I see you already know that."

"Mr. Skinner said you might be able to help me," Rita Johnston 
began.  

Scully sighed, made herself smile, then closed the door and locked 
it again.  Ms. Johnston was a small woman, probably in her mid-
fifties, with gray hair at her temples that streaked back through 
shoulder-length hair, which she wore tied back.

"Help you with...?"

The woman looked around.  She seemed tired.  Scully gestured 
toward the sofa.  "Have a seat.  Please."

The woman sat down gingerly on the first cushion she came to.  She 
looked Scully in the eye.

"My son works for Beeson-Lymon--"

"And Beeson-Lymon is..."

Rita Johnson looked apologetic.  "It's a defense plant.  In 
Kentucky; that's where I'm from.  He's been with the company just 
two years, but he's starting to get sick already; I know the 
signs.  He's gone to the company doctors more than once, but they 
always tell him there's nothing wrong with him, just to cut back 
on the cigarettes."

"But you think it's something else," Scully said, leaning forward 
slightly toward her guest.

"Yes, ma'am.  My husband worked at the plant twenty-two years, 
rest his soul, and it did him in the way it did in those other men 
he worked with."

"You believe your husband died from something job-related?"

"Yes, I do.  And I think the company is covering it up."

"Mrs. Johnston--"  Scully shifted on the sofa.  "Exactly how is it 
that you got my name?"

"My brother served in Vietnam with Mr. Skinner.  When we couldn't 
get anywhere about my husband's death and then Andy started having 
problems, Dale figured it was time to call in the cavalry."

"And Skinner gave you my name?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Mrs. Johnston, I'm a forensic pathologist, not a practicing 
physician.  I can't do anything directly for your son, though I 
could give you a list of things an examining physician could look 
for.  Now in your husband's case--"  She looked at the woman on 
the other end of the sofa, trying to gauge her strength.  "It 
would mean exhuming the body so tests could be run.  I know that 
could be a painful decision for you."

Rita Johnson hesitated a moment, then nodded.  "Bill would be 
willing, if it would save our boy."  She paused.  "It's lucky I 
stuck to my guns as far as the burial went."

"Excuse me?"

"The company covers the cost of cremation for employees, but I 
said no thanks, Bill wanted to be in the family plot with his 
mother and dad."

"Mrs. Johnston, did the company pressure you in any way to have 
your husband's body cremated?"

"Mr. Beeson visited me twice hoping I'd take him up on it but I 
guess I'd made my mind up.  He acted like he was concerned for the 
family welfare, the cost and all--"

"But you weren't swayed?"

"Bill'd made up his mind.  I couldn't go against his wishes after 
he was gone."

Scully smiled at the energetic woman on the other end of the sofa.  
"I'm going to do some research," she said.  "Is there a local 
address where I can contact you?"

"I'll be on a Greyhound tonight," Rita Johnston said.  "I'll give 
you my home number."  

Mulder lay in the dark, a copy of Sun Tzu tented on his stomach.  
"A military operation involves deception.  Even though you are 
competent, appear to be incompetent."  Draw your enemy in with the 
prospect of gain.  Cause division among your opponents.  Attack 
when they're unsuspecting.  Move when they're unprepared.

"Those who render others' armies helpless without fighting are 
best of all..."

It was the original guerilla manual, a classic all-time bestseller 
2500 years old.  Mulder smiled.  The book had been at the bottom 
of a box whose contents he hadn't seen or touched in years, 
covered by Plato, Jung and a copy of *Hamlet that had inexplicably 
called up an image of his old professor standing at the lectern 
and gesturing with both arms as if he were conducting a symphony, 
a man who would probably have been rendered speechless if tied up. 
He could hear the professor's voice again, his exact timbre and 
cadence as he intoned "...the story of a young man whose idyllic 
life is destroyed by the death of his father and his mother's 
betrayal of his father for--"

Mulder sat up abruptly.  For the man responsible for killing his 
father: he hadn't seen the parallel before.  There hadn't been one 
at the time... at least, not one he'd known of.  His mother hadn't 
aided in killing his father, but Cancer Man was the one 
responsible in the end.  And though she hadn't run off and married 
the old cigarette-smoking son of a bitch, flaunting their 
relationship, she hadn't been as repentant as Gertrude, either.  
Gertrude at least had seen herself in her son's impassioned 
protests.  His own mother had slapped him in the face and denied 
everything, as if *he* were the one at fault for having asked the 
question.  Reassuring, in the end, to know your family life was a 
tragedy worthy of the Bard.  

He ran his hands back through his hair, tossed Sun Tzu onto the 
coffee table and stood.  The clock glowed a green 2:13 from the 
end table.  Mulder went to the desk, reached beside it for his 
basketball and began to bounce it slowly, rhythmically-bam.  The 
ball passed through stripes of street light as it rose and fell.  
His mother was at his aunt's house now; he'd have to talk to her 
soon to let her know whether it was safe for her to return home.  
He didn't know if it was safe.  Probably.  Unless something had 
happened to the house in the meantime to indicate otherwise.  And 
what would he say when the conversation reached its inevitable 
pause?  He had nothing to say to her, nothing that might not earn 
him another slap in the face

Bam.

He couldn't avoid her forever.

Bam-bam.  

She always seemed immune--immune to everything.  Except when he 
tried to question her about the past, and then a pain surfaced in 
her face, as if everything he said cut her in some way.

Bam-bam.  Bam-bam-bam.

A sudden thumping came from below the floor, followed by the 
ringing of the telephone.  Mulder caught the ball and went to pick 
up the phone.

"Yeah?  Sorry... Okay, yeah. Yeah.  Sorry."

He hung up and ran a hand back through his hair.  The room was too 
hot--too cramped, too quiet, too closed in.  He held the ball, 
poised to bounce, and finally lobbed it into the leather chair.

In his room he found sweats and running shoes and put them on.  He 
worked the apartment key off his key ring and slipped it into his 
pocket.  When he pulled the door shut he hesitated, then went left 
to the stairwell instead of right, toward the elevator.  Every 
stair, every expansion and contraction of muscle, felt necessary, 
as if it were helping him break through a shell or cocoon that 
held him.  He paced his breathing, eager to get to the bottom, to 
be outside in the cold air.  The street beyond the building was 
silent and motionless, suspended in a freeze-frame of night.  
Mulder hesitated only a second, then turned right and hit the 
street sprinting.

Scully clicked the 'shut down' option and watched the computer 
screen go grainy and then fade to black.  She wasn't tired now, 
though it was nearly two in the morning.  It was a godsend--a 
puzzle to untangle, people to help.  Though she couldn't for the 
life of her imagine why Skinner had given her name to Rita 
Johnston and failed to tell her.

After she returned from taking Rita to the bus station, she'd gone 
surfing for background information.  Beeson-Lymon's Kentucky 
operation was indeed a defense plant, one of five the company 
owned.  This particular one, however, did something only two other 
plants in the country did:  it processed beryllium.  Made into an 
ultra-hard, lightweight metal, it was used in missile casings, 
fighter jets and even in the space program.  It also produced a 
toxic dust that could be dangerous--even potentially lethal--at 
extremely low levels of concentration.  Very possibly it was the 
culprit Rita Johnson was searching for--if the evidence checked 
out.  She would have to run tests on Bill Johnston's remains, and 
as many other victims as possible.  Hopefully not everyone had 
taken the company up on its cremation offer.  

Scully stood and stretched, then headed for the bedroom.  She knew 
now how Mulder felt when he called her in the middle of the night.  
This was a case that would pique his interest, and she felt the 
urge to call and tell him about her visitor.  Mulder would like 
Rita Johnston.  He would appreciate her earnestness and single-
mindedness.  He'd be impressed by the fact that she'd come here to 
talk and then had immediately turned around to spend the night 
riding a bus back to Kentucky.  Scully had suspected that the 
reason for her haste was economic--that Rita didn't have enough 
money for a place to stay the night.  She'd offered to put her up 
in a motel, but Rita wouldn't hear of it, though she had 
gratefully accepted Scully's offer of a ride to the bus station.  

She looked at the phone.  Mulder was probably asleep, and there 
was no point in waking him.  He'd seemed pensive tonight, though 
not brooding; she could tell when that kind of darkness came over 
him.  If he was resting, disturbing him might do more harm than 
good.  She could call him tomorrow, after she'd had a chance to 
talk to Skinner.       

Scully got into bed and reached to turn off the light on the night 
stand.  She had to be up again in three hours.  If she could have 
foreseen the way her life would go, the direction it would take--
if she could have shown this picture to her younger self, the one 
fresh from the Academy--she would have denied that it could ever 
be her.  It had been a long six years.

Mulder came awake to sun in his face.  He grimaced and rolled in 
an attempt to escape the brightness, but it was no use; light 
covered the couch--at least the end he was on.  He sat up and 
covered his face with his hands, then blinked and looked over at 
the clock.  10:17.  It was warm.  The morning was half over.

He reached for the phone and dialed the number of the rental car 
agency and waited, stuck on hold.  He couldn't keep doing this, 
renting cars when he had to go somewhere.  When the Bureau was 
paying it was one thing, but on your own dime it was a different 
story.  Taxis were no bargain, either.

He got up, tucked the phone under his chin and went to the leather 
chair for the basketball.  He picked it up and bounced it twice.  
When the agent came on, he grabbed the phone.

"Yeah, I'd like a car for one day--"  He looked at his watch.  He 
wouldn't be  picking it up much before twelve.  He could make it 
home by tomorrow noon; it should be no problem.

"Midsize...something midsize."

Hold again.  

Maybe has he crazy to be doing this, driving all this way--like 
driving was some kind of treat--to go to his mother's house and 
check it out so he could avoid talking to her.  Was he really 
spending all this time and money to avoid a phone call?  He tucked 
the phone back under his chin and began to bounce the ball, harder 
this time, bam-bam-bam.

After his reservation was confirmed, he hung up and tossed the 
basketball back into the leather chair.  There wasn't much time.  
A shower was the first thing on his list, and packing a few 
things.  He should call Scully, so she'd know where he'd gone--so 
she wouldn't worry that he'd done something stupid again.  Mulder 
headed for the bathroom, peeling off his t-shirt as he went.

(end 2 of 14)
.....................................
Walking Through Fire (3 of 14)

The ringing of the phone woke Scully with a start.  She forced her 
eyes open to find her desk before her.  Quickly she reached for 
the receiver, clearing her throat.

"Scully..."

"Scully, this is Assistant Director Skinner."

"Sir?"

"I have a case here that I'd like your input on.  Some forensic 
evidence we're going to need analyzed."

Scully blinked.  Her eyes were dry.  She'd only closed them for a 
moment, or so it had seemed.  "Does this have to do with the 
defense plant deaths in Kentucky?" 

There was a brief pause.  "How did you know about that?"

"I spoke with Rita Johnston last night.  Frankly, I was surprised 
that I hadn't heard anything from you first, sir."

"I just spoke with her yesterday afternoon."

"Well, evidently she's in a hurry because she came to my apartment 
last night."

"Sorry about the lack of notice, Scully.  This is a case I already 
have agents assigned to; we believe there may be a conspiracy to 
suppress evidence of overexposure to beryllium."

"Yes, the dust from manufacture can attack the lungs, causing 
beryllium disease."

"It was just another ongoing case until I heard from Dale Lanier 
the other day.  He was a buddy of mine in Vietnam; he saved my 
life once--"  He paused.  "Look, I know we've got a lot of 
competent people in the labs there, Scully, but I'd like your take 
on this one."

Scully's eyebrows rose.  "Certainly, sir.  I explained to Mrs. 
Johnston that her husband's body would have to be exhumed..."

"Wilkins and Acosta will take care of the details.  I'll call you 
as soon as I know when the remains will be arriving."

"Yes, sir."

Scully hung up the phone and leaned forward, resting her head in 
her hands.  She had never--never--done that before, fallen asleep 
at her desk on a lunch break.  Of course, she'd never had a 
private office before.  Still, if someone had chanced to walk 
in...

The phone rang again.  She reached for it automatically. "Scully."

"Scully, it's me."

She smoothed an errant strand of hair from her face.  Her face 
softened and she smiled.  "What's up, Mulder?"

"I'm going up to my mother's.  I need to check the place out and 
make sure Krycek hasn't turned it into fireworks, or doesn't plan 
to."

Silence took over the line.  She waited. 

"...So she can come back home..."  There was a slight grittiness 
in his voice. 

"Mulder?"

Another pause, longer this time.  She thought she could hear him 
sigh.  

"...Yeah?"

"Mulder, are you okay?"

"Yeah, I... I thought I was until a second ago.  Look, I've got to 
go check it out anyway, Scully.  To make sure everything's okay."

She pursed her lips.

"Scully, I can't talk to her.  I was up half the night thinking 
about it.  I went out and ran a couple of miles at two in the 
morning, but--"  His voice trailed off.

"We'll figure it out, Mulder."

"But I have to do this now.  I have to check the place out before 
she can go back home."

"Mulder, do you have your cell phone?"

"Yeah..."

"Call me when you get there."

"Okay."

"Promise me, Mulder."

"I will.  I'll call."

There was a click on the other end.  Scully hung up the phone, 
paused and glanced up at the clock.  She closed her eyes.  

So much was tied up for him in this thing with his mother.  She 
wished him a safe trip.  She wished him strength.

Skinner paused in the doorway to the spare room and stared at the 
closet door.  In a box on the second shelf--a box he hadn't opened 
in years--were pictures and a few odd pieces of memorabilia from a 
time he preferred not to disturb.  But it had already disturbed 
him now, had wakened and begun to stir like a dormant animal 
rousing itself from a long hibernation with the e-mail he'd 
received several days earlier from Dale Lanier.

He'd paced length of the apartment at least six times now, 
avoiding this room.  This time he made himself go inside and cross 
to the closet.  The door creaked as it opened.  

He'd begun as an idealist.  It was the reason he'd enlisted in the 
Marines on the day of his eighteenth birthday: to serve, to 
defend.  To make a difference.  But it hadn't worked out like 
that.  He'd been sent to a place where battles were fought with 
enemies who vanished like ghosts, or slipped like rats into the 
woodwork.  The same villages, the same hilltops were taken over 
and over again and then abandoned, like insignificant possessions 
fought over by two rival gangs for the purpose of marking out 
their turf.  A *show* of force, the only constant being that men 
died.  Boys died:  his friends; thin, smooth, black-haired kids 
from the other side; shaky, green recruits who'd just arrived and 
had no idea in hell how to survive.  

For a while he'd succeeded in convincing himself that he was 
defending a people--until it had become clear that the only group 
being defended was a corrupt regime bleeding its own poor, a 
poverty-stricken people swayed by considerations so basic that no 
government planners, no military strategists, had thought to take 
them into account.  Any lingering pretenses of idealism were 
blasted away the day he'd blown the head off a ten-year-old kid 
rigged with grenades.  There'd been no time for thought; he'd 
reacted the way he'd been taught.  He'd done the right thing by 
neutralizing the threat and saving the lives of the eight men with 
him.  But he'd paid a price.  The realization that sometimes men 
could only be saved at the cost of a child's life, and that a ten-
year-old was capable of unimaginable atrocities had left his 
spirit bruised and numb.  

Skinner reached for the light switch and flipped it.  He'd told 
himself things would be different at the Bureau, that the logic 
missing from the war would make a solid contribution here 
possible.  But bureaucracy had its own complications.  The behind-
the-scenes leverage and corruption that had made everything from 
Hostess Twinkies to American military vehicles available on the 
Saigon black market were at work here, too, killing investigations 
that got too close to some power broker's vested interest or 
moving things in a direction beneficial to a shadow group that was 
not only beyond prosecution but beyond exposure.

The closest he'd come to making a palpable contribution was in 
backing Mulder's work.  Mulder never gave up, never backed down.  
He refused to lose his idealism in spite of the snickers of his 
colleagues or the fact that people in the shadows were continually 
pulling the rug out from under him.  Mulder marched to a different 
drummer--one a lot of people  would claim was nothing more than 
the whispering of an addled psyche.  And yet Mulder did see 
things.  He saw and recognized things nobody else was ready to see 
or comprehend.  And though he was volatile, he'd found his 
grounding in his partner, in Scully the meticulous, steady, solid 
technician, though there was more to it than that; they were a 
team as solid as any two men he'd encountered under fire, one up 
when the other was down, each filling in for the other's weak 
spots.  They hadn't become complacent; they hadn't let the 
bureaucracy wear them down.  It was their vitality he supported as 
much as anything.  It held out the hope that justice was possible 
after all.

Skinner reached out and ran two fingers along the lid of the box 
that sought him.  Quickly he pulled it halfway out, then paused, 
his fingers tentative against the cardboard, and closed his eyes.

Krycek took another handful of pictures from the box and spread 
them quickly across the carpet in front of him as if he were 
dealing out cards.  *Solitaire*--he was here in her house, and, 
predictably, she wasn't home, the way she'd never been anywhere he 
was.  He scanned the pictures rapidly--a potpourri of years and 
situations, everything that had never been put into an album, from 
Mulder's Academy graduation to family picnics showing young 
parents and toddlers to another showing the old men in their 
thirties.  Krycek paused a moment, swallowed, then gathered the 
pictures up, set them aside and dealt another hand.  They looked 
as if they thought there was a chance of turning the future 
around.

It had been a stupid idea coming here, though it seemed to make 
sense at the time: show up posing as anyone--door-to-door 
salesman, utility worker, a guy with car trouble who needed to use 
a phone.  Anything to get her to the door.  Maybe a look at her in 
the flesh would give him a clue as to why she'd done what she had-
-brought him into this life and then tossed him away to sink or 
swim on his own.  Maybe that was asking too much, but hopefully 
afterward he could chase her out of his head for good.  

Never pass up a chance to learn something, though.  She might not 
have been here but there'd been a spare key inside the garage in 
one of those half-dozen predictable places, and the self-guided 
tour had been okay at first: pale gray carpets and walls, 
furniture that looked like it rarely got used--the museum look 
that American old people's houses had.  The waste of space was a 
crime; several Russian families could have shared the place and 
been better off than they were in Moscow or St. Petersburg.

But when he'd reached the hallway leading to the bedrooms, things 
had taken a turn.  Portraits lined the walls, starting with Mulder 
as a baby with an open-mouthed smile.  In each picture he was a 
little older--more serious, longer limbed.  Then there were two, 
Mulder sitting cross-legged and holding his sister on his lap, the 
kid tilted to one side, happy and oblivious, as if she were the 
leaning tower of Pisa.  So the two of them must have had some kind 
of bond, some spark between them.  It happened sometimes.  

In the pictures beyond, the kids got progressively older, the 
girl's hair longer.  For some reason, looking at her made him want 
to turn away.  There might be a DNA overlap, but it wasn't like 
she meant anything to him.  Besides, there was no time for 
gawking; he had an opportunity to take advantage of before Guess 
Who came home and he had to get out.  

Then, in her room, on the dresser, had been the picture that made 
his heart stumble.  There was no way to write it off as just a 
vague resemblance now.  He knew this girl.  Hell, he'd seen a 
dozen of her, braided hair and piercing eyes just like this 
picture, four years earlier at a colonist outpost in the middle of 
Nowhere, Alberta.  He'd spent the night in a bunk below one of 
them, had been wakened by her restless tossing.  She'd been asleep 
but evidently not at peace; he'd watched her for a few minutes in 
the moonlight.

He'd found himself breathing hard at the memory, wanting to break something or 
just get out--get away.  But the trip would have been in vain 
then; he'd turn it to something useful.  He'd spit on the carpet 
and made himself move on to the next room, a guest bedroom 
straight out of Martha Stewart: soft maize carpet with matching 
pale yellow wallpaper and white eyelet curtains in the windows.  
Even a strategically-placed quilt on the back of a rocking chair 
to give it that homey touch.  Image must be everything, especially 
for a woman who'd handed over her daughter to be cloned.  No 
language--Smith had said they'd been given no language.  In the 
end it was most likely the old man's doing, not hers, but still, 
both of them were definitely on the short list of candidates for 
parents from hell. He'd made his way methodically through the 
drawers and then the closet shelves and had come up with the box 
of pictures.

Krycek leaned forward, swiping up the pictures on the carpet and 
spreading out another row: Samantha on a rocking horse; a view of 
a dining room before a party; Mulder in a tent in what was 
probably the back yard--maybe nine or ten years old; men around a 
barbeque--Bill Mulder, the old man, the Brit, the old Nazi 
Klemper.  His fingers shook the edge of the photograph.  No matter 
how much he willed them away, every picture was overlaid with 
clone girls: the one he'd seen lying bleeding on the ground of the 
growing tents; others standing in doorways of peelpaint cabins; 
three of them sitting side by side, expressionless, at the long 
dinner table.  They'd served some kind of baked beans and 
vegetables.  Then the one he'd bunked below stirring in the wee 
hours, whimpering as if some part of her--her subconscious at 
least--knew exactly what she was being put through.

He dealt another handful of cards, tight-lipped, then paused to 
look up and listen.  Except for the chainy slurring of the mantel 
clock in the living room, there was silence.  He started through 
the cards once more, his fingers pausing by one of them.  After a 
moment his mouth hardened and he pushed it aside, then scooped the 
row together and added them to the pile of already-viewed 
pictures.  
  
A car door closed in the street.  Krycek's head went up, then he 
was on his feet and at the window, forcing his breathing to slow, 
compensating for the sudden spike of adrenaline.  His own personal 
rain cloud--Mulder--was stretching beside a white sedan across the 
street.  From the look on his face, he wasn't exactly thrilled to 
be here, either, though he didn't have the 'kill' look that said 
he knew who was inside.  For a fleeting second he could almost see 
his way clear to feel sorry for the man.  

Now Mulder looked up, focusing on the house.  Abruptly Krycek 
turned, gathered the photos and returned them to the closet shelf.   
Then he was moving down the hallway, his escape route clear in his 
mind, a single dog-eared picture tucked deep into the pocket of 
his leather jacket.

"Hey, Scully, it's me..."

"Mulder?"

"I'm here.  I just wanted you to know I made it... "  He cleared 
his throat.  "You know--that I'm not jumping out any windows or 
anything."

"Have you checked the house. Mulder?"

"Yeah, I checked everything when I first got here.  No signs of 
forced entry, no evidence of tampering of any kind.  The 
electrical wiring's okay, the phone still works.  She's got a 
water softening system in the basement and I checked the tank--
it's legit.  I even got one of those carbon monoxide detectors and 
put it in."

"You surprise me, Mulder.  You with a screwdriver?"

"Hey, I can do it, Scully.  It's one of my masculine talents."

There was a pause at the other end of the line.

"Scully?"

"Nothing, Mulder."  She sounded amused. "I was just picturing you 
as a handyman."

"Yeah, well I may end up as one if I don't figure out a way to get 
my job back soon..."

He bit his lip and turned to look out the window.

"I've come across something interesting." her words spilled out 
quickly now.  "Something that might interest you.  I nearly called 
you last night to tell you about it."

"You...*you* nearly called *me*?"

"A woman came to my door after nine o'clock last night.  Skinner 
sent her."

"Yeah?"

"Evidently the woman's brother was an old Army buddy of Skinner's 
from Vietnam.  She thinks her husband died from some kind of 
industrial exposure at the defense plant where he worked, and 
she's worried that her son who works there now is coming down with 
the same symptoms."

"Where is this he's working?"

"Beeson-Lymon Corporation.  Lexington, Kentucky--or just east of 
Lexington."

"Don't they process beryllium?"

"One of just three plants in the country."

"No, I don't think so--not anymore.  I...I think I read something 
recently--something the Gunmen did."

"Now *there's* credibility."

"No, Scully, I think they'd come across something important about 
an under-the-table deal in Congress to tighten the screws on their 
competitors, to force them out of the market..."

"In any event, I've done a little research on beryllium disease.  
It's not something you get a lot of background on in med school."

"And what did you find?"

"That the standard testing results in a lot of false positives.  
But a small number of workers *are* affected, often after 
extremely low levels of exposure.  But the other thing that made 
me take note is that the company evidently has a policy of 
offering to pay cremation fees for workers or former workers.  Now 
I know the area's economically depressed and it could be a gesture 
of goodwill, but still..."

"Makes a convenient way to get rid of any evidence of 
contamination."

"Exactly.  And Mrs. Johnston did say she got two visits from a 
solicitous Mr. Beeson intent on helping her with final expenses."

"Sounds like a case."  Mulder looked out the window again, at 
trees that had deepened to black silhouettes against a purple-blue 
sky, searching for... he wasn't sure what. He looked up and closed 
his eyes.  "So how'd you get wound up in this?"

"Skinner said he wanted my take on the forensics.  I think he 
feels like he owes Mrs. Johnston's brother."

"I thought Skinner would have been keeping a low profile after 
last weekend.  Krycek's gotta know where you got that tip on the 
homeless woman, Scully, and Skinner knows that Krycek knew."

"But this was already a legitimate investigation, Mulder.  Agents 
had already been assigned."

"Anybody I know?"

"Wilkins and Acosta."

"They're pretty good from what I hear."  He swallowed 
involuntarily.  He had.  He'd heard some pretty respectable things 
about them.  "I'll let you know, Scully.  You know--I'll check up 
on that angle the Gunmen had.  I'll let you know if I come across 
anything interesting."

"Okay.  Mulder."

"I...I don't think I'm going to stay here tonight, Scully.  I was 
planning to, but I think I'll get a motel instead.  Or maybe I'll 
just grab a few hours in the car and then come back down before 
the morning rush starts..."

He could hear her sigh followed by a long pause.  She wanted to 
tell him to check in somewhere and get a good night's sleep but 
she wasn't going to let herself say it.

"I'll let you know when I'm back," he offered.

"Take care of yourself, Mulder," she said.  It was a soft tone, 
not the perfunctory one she used to brush him off.

"Yeah, I will."  

He hung the phone up carefully and stared up at the darkening sky.  
There were stars now, barely pinpricks in the vastness of space.

In the dream he was barely three years old, maybe younger, dressed 
in pale blue-and-white plaid shorts and a collared shirt, sturdy 
little brown leather shoes and white socks.  He could see himself 
as if he were watching from behind: his younger self in the 
kitchen doorway, watching his mother down on her hands and knees.  
She'd been half-swallowed by the darkness under the sink, 
struggling with a wrench and something else.  Towels covered the 
floor.  An occasional grunt or mutter came from the enclosed area.

He came closer, curious, until he was standing behind her.  
Suddenly she backed out of the dark cabinet and turned around, 
startling him.  She paused momentarily, mouth open, her eyes 
suddenly wide and shiny.  She wiped past one of them with the back 
of her hand.  Suddenly the shape of her mouth changed and she 
smiled the most beautiful smile.  "Fox," she said, as if he were 
the best gift imaginable.  Her arms spread wide and he reached for 
her.

His fingers were cold.  His arms were cold if he let himself think 
about it.  Mulder zipped up the front of his jacket and crossed 
his arms over his chest for warmth, then curled to one side.  He 
groped for the lever that made the seat back recline and dropped 
it down the last few notches.

It was true.  He could actually remember a time when she'd smiled.  
At least before Samantha was born; after that she'd seemed always 
tightened up and pulled in, never quite unworried.  But before 
that he *had* seen her smile.  Scully would attempt to cushion his 
enthusiasm, would remind him that most people recalled very little 
from before they were six or seven.  But he knew this.  There were 
any number of things he remembered from before Samantha.

Something had happened to change her.

Mulder opened his eyes and blinked into the darkness, straining to 
see though condensation-frosted glass.

Sitting in the shadows of Krycek's room, the Smoking Man took a 
drag on his Morley and watched the tip glow red in the dark.  He 
tilted his wrist toward the window and peered at the numbers on 
his watch.  2:37.  Alex would have to watch his drinking; it had 
done many a man in.  It had done Bill Mulder in.

Of course, he could use someone else to take care of the Kentucky 
situation.  There was risk in sending Alex to where the chance 
existed, however slight, that he might cross paths with Dr. Vanek. 
Undoubtedly he would remember her and the connection he would draw 
could only be detrimental.  There was room for only one man at the 
mountain's peak and Alex would be eager to take it, given the 
opportunity..  It was the chance he'd taken, forging an offspring 
in the same fire he'd grown up in, tempering him in the same way, 
knowing how hard it was, how difficult and lonely a life.  But 
Alex had seemed to thrive in it.  He'd developed survival skills.  
He didn't seem to need or want the trappings he himself had longed 
for at one time:  love, family, acceptance.  In that way he was 
much more suited to the work.  It also made him much more 
dangerous.

The Smoking Man pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and 
shined it around the room.  Two utilitarian desks, one with a 
chair, the other with several mercenary magazines on top; the bed 
unmade, the pillow crushed and pushed into a rear corner; the 
bathroom sink, seen through the doorway, with its rusty streak 
running downward from the faucet, the open shelves above it 
dressed sparsely with a razor, a bottle of generic pain reliever 
and a small, clear glass, the kind cheese spread came in.

Perhaps he should have introduced Alex to the concept of 
attachment--to give him a vulnerability--but of course it was too 
late now.  He seemed to have no particular bond to people, no 
stake in them.  No need for their acceptance.  He was the model of 
the perfect soldier... as long as he was kept in check.

Teena Mulder stood at the window, watching huge raindrops splat 
randomly on the broad leaves that canopied her sister's garden.  
The late morning sky was frescoed in shades of gray but a 
yellowish cast in the light brightened the greens in the grass and 
leaves to an almost luminescent state.  Large dark blotches 
appeared on the carved stone bench as the drops became more 
frequent, and water splattered and then streamed down the outside 
of the window, turning the scene in front of her into an abstract 
of grays and greens and whites, foliage and flowers and the gravel 
of pathways running and blending together.

Unlike their mother, Trudy had never criticized her choices, had 
never told her she'd made her bed and now she must sleep in it.  
Trudy's comfortable house, the nice amenities, her way of life, 
had spoken for her priorities.  She'd taken the accepted path; she 
hadn't married 'down', hadn't taken her own road--risky road--
hadn't flouted her mother's advice, or opinion.  Trudy, though a 
widow, had grandchildren and a life that breathed quiet color, 
while she--Teena the rebellious--had an existence that looked much 
like what she could see through this wet pane of glass, mostly 
grays and whites with the occasional vibrant green of her one 
remaining child, the son who mirrored his father's intensity, 
whose ever-present hurt left her always face to face with the 
choices she had made so long ago.

She'd been here too long.  The time spent with Trudy had been 
pleasant, but now the contrasts between their lives had become too 
pointed, too painful.  Trudy had a life laid out in albums.  *She* 
had one she could explain, or confide, to no one: a lifetime of 
men working on secret projects that could not be told, with 
ramifications that would not be believed, that created and 
destroyed people in ways that could scarcely be explained, or for 
that matter, comprehended.

She walked to the desk and pulled the address book from her purse.  
Opening it to the page with her son's number, she picked up the 
phone and dialed.  Four rings sounded on the other end, then her 
son's voice said 'leave a message'.

"Fox, this is your mother.  Call me at Trudy's."

She hung up and breathed in deeply, suddenly aware that she'd been 
holding her breath.  Her home would not be a danger.  He wouldn't 
be after her.  It was her son he was after, seeking to manipulate 
him as he had manipulated her, into a useful tool for his own 
agenda.

(end 3 of 14)
...............................
Walking Through Fire (4 of 14)

There was warmth, then a light he could sense, and the familiar 
feel of the leather couch beneath him.  A car horn sounded in the 
street below.  Mulder rolled onto his side, opened his eyes and 
squinted against the midday brightness.  He reached over his head, 
groping for the alarm clock, and rolled back.  1:13.  He set the 
clock on his stomach and closed his eyes again.  He needed to get 
up.

He'd made good time after all.  He'd gotten into D.C. and had the 
car back at the rental agency by 8:15, easily averting the second 
day's charges he would have incurred if he'd slept the night in 
Connecticut and waited until morning to start back, though he 
could still see the road in his mind and feel the motion of the 
car.  His stomach growled, half hungry, half queasy.  He opened 
his eyes again and eased himself up to a sitting position.  There 
was work to do; Sun Tzu had said nothing about waiting until the 
sun was warm to put your plan in motion.

Mulder ran his hands back through his hair and tried to will the 
thickness from his head.  He needed to shower.  He needed a ride; 
maybe Byers would take pity on him and send Frohike like a good 
dog to pick him up.  He could check out that story about Beeson-
Lymon's beryllium maneuverings and then head for the Mall from 
there--that would be Step One.  Then he could sit and think it out 
some more, and while he was at it, figure out what to do about his 
mother, and transportation.  And the apartment, which was hovering 
in his mind like a past-due bill.

He stood and stretched and started toward the bathroom.  The light 
on the message machine was blinking green.  He hesitated, then 
turned and approached it.  His fingers curled, reluctant.  
Gradually he made them loosen and touch the play button.

"Fox, this is your mother.  Call me at Trudy's.

He grimaced, turned away and walked toward the window.  On the 
horizon a few thin clouds drifted toward the north.  His eyes 
closed.  There was rhythm but no thought, just the constant pulse 
of blood pumping through him, steady, regular.

*Just do it.*

He went back, picked up the phone and dialed.  Two rings, three 
rings, four.  He bit his lower lip.

"Hello?"

"Mom?  It's me."  He cleared his throat.

"Fox?"

"You left a message on my machine..."

"Yes, I did.  I want to go home.  I've had a nice time here.  It's 
been wonderful, but I'd like to go back now."

"Good timing."  Go with it.  Just go.  "I was... up at the house 
last night.  I checked everything out; I think it's okay.  I think 
you'll be safe there."  He let out a slow breath.  "It's me 
they're after, Mom."

There was a long pause on the other end.

"...Why?" she said finally, her voice dry.  "Why are they after 
you?"

"You know me, Mom--can't keep my mouth shut.  I can't keep my eyes 
shut and pretend what they're doing isn't going on.."

A sigh could be heard on the other end of the line.

"Your father couldn't hold with what was happening, either, and 
you know what happened."

"Yeah, I know."

"Fox., be careful."  There was a short pause.  "I have to go now.  
Thank you for checking the house.  Goodbye."

Mulder set the receiver down slowly and stared out the window, 
then swallowed and walked to the leather chair.  He picked up the 
basketball and began to bounce it, slowly, thump-thump-thump in 
rhythm with his heartbeat.

"... No, I can be here, sir.  Actually, I'm anxious to see what 
kind of story Mr. Johnston has to tell."

"I appreciate it, Scully.  Wilkins should be there with the 
remains by eight o'clock."

"I'll be ready, sir.  I'll let you know as soon as I have any 
information."

Scully hung up the phone and stared at the blank wall across from 
her desk.  Skinner was sending Wilkins with the remains.  Was he 
just being thorough, to make sure he did the best he could for his 
war buddy, or was there something else going on here?  Did he 
think Mr. Johnston's remains were in danger of disappearing in 
transit?

Scully glanced at the clock.  She had over seven hours, time that 
could be used to any one of many good ends.  The two papers she'd 
found on beryllium disease would make good reading.  Student work 
was beginning to come in; it needed to be gone over carefully.  
This was where her students would learn to be meticulous if 
properly trained--to follow every lead, to notice any abnormality, 
any potential sign of something that might hide a crime, and in 
the process allow justice to triumph over the tragedy in the 
world.

She smiled ruefully.  She loved their eagerness, their courage at 
tackling even the things that seemed most gruesome--the aftermath 
of man's inhumanity, the depth of the dark possibilities revealed 
there--secure in their conviction that they could digest it 
objectively, that it would not affect their weekends or their 
world view.  They were so much younger than they realized.

Reaching for a pen, she rolled it absently on the desktop.  The 
sample of Krycek's hair she'd taken to the lab on Monday for DNA 
testing might be ready.  It had haunted her each day since, and 
each day she'd had to force it from her mind, a Pandora's box 
calling to her when she could only imagine awful things inside.

Or she could be wrong.  There was always the chance that she'd 
misinterpreted what she'd seen. Maybe there *was* no connection 
between Mulder and Krycek, only a chance juxtaposition of Mulder's 
story about his mother's third pregnancy and the tenor of Krycek's 
remarks that had led to a connection in her mind--pure 
coincidence.  There could be other valid explanations.  Krycek 
could--and probably did--have some purely strategic reason for his 
apparent interest in Mulder.

Scully gathered together the materials she needed for her one 
o'clock class and tucked them into a folder.  She glanced at the 
clock-12:40--and left the office, letting the door slam shut 
behind her.  There was an elevator across the hallway but she was 
drawn to the stairwell by the picture windows.  Trees beckoned 
from behind the glass with their intense green.  Scully took the 
stairs quickly and emerged into dappled sunlight through an exit 
door at the bottom.  She paused and took a deep breath of the 
sweet air coming from the greenery.  Then she started to walk.  
From the distance came the peppering of gunfire from a practice 
range.  All over this complex--this campus--hopeful, eager people 
were being trained to probe, to question, to analyze.  To survive.  
To protect the lives of their partners.

Mulder sat on the broad steps beside the pond in Constitution 
Park, head pillowed on his arms, letting the gradual warmth of 
early afternoon seep through his t-shirt and onto his back.  He 
was tired still from traveling, and from lack of sleep.  He'd 
eaten at the Gunmen's but Frohike's spicy cooking hadn't helped 
the state of his stomach.  It was useful, though; it helped the 
quality--the authenticity--of the presentation.  The easiest of 
Sun Tzu's rules to implement, one he could put to good use 
immediately, stated, "Even though you are competent, appear to be 
incompetent.  Though effective, appear to be ineffective."

He hadn't washed his hair, hadn't changed his clothes.  Hadn't 
shaved.  He looked up, out across the water, and squinted into the 
hazy light.  He only needed to be seen.  He was a decoy for 
himself, and a decoy to help protect his partner.  He laid his 
head against his arm and felt the bristle of stubble, like 
sandpaper.  His eyes closed.  He was on the I-95 again, south of 
Baltimore.

He could fall sleep here.  It wasn't like his couch but it would 
do.  It was a talent he'd never honed--sleeping sitting on public 
stairs--though there were plenty of homeless men who had the skill 
down cold.

He drifted...

... And woke to the press of his head against cement.  Pain 
spidered through his side when he moved.  Mulder grimaced and 
opened his eyes.  Clouds were scudding past the sun and a steady 
whisper of wind came toward him off the water.  He straightened.  
2:47.  He'd been here for over an hour.

He had information for Scully.  He should call her, but not from 
here.

Mulder turned and looked around.  Behind him, the same pale-
skinned girl he'd seen on Tuesday was sitting on the uppermost 
stair in the shade.  She was watching him again.

"You okay?" she asked, nodding toward him.  She wasn't eating 
anything this time.  The backpack was beside her.

"You the spirit of the stairs or something?" he said.

She shrugged self-consciously.  "I guess."  She didn't seem 
displeased.  "You just looked a little... bummed."

"Yeah, well I guess that makes sense.  My life's..."  He paused 
and shook his head.  "... hit the fan, in a manner of speaking."

"Wherever you think you've hit bottom, you eventually find 
somebody whose life is in worse shape than yours," she said, not 
seeming to address him in particular.

He turned back again, toward the pond, and watched the way the 
wind rippled the surface of the water.  He dug a sunflower seed 
from his pocket and slipped it into his mouth.

"I lost my job," he said without turning around.  "I'm practicing 
being homeless."  He spit the hull.  It landed three stairs down.

"Your first time?"

Mulder turned around and looked at her again.  Her hands were 
twisted together.  "Losing my job or being homeless?"

"Either."

"I'm not homeless yet."  He looked past her, toward the estuary.  
"First time for my job."

"First time's the hardest for anything," she said.  "Then you 
start to get used to it.  You can get used to anything, whether 
you like it or not.  Whether you should or not."

Mulder eyed her.  She was staring out into the water.

"I'll remember that," he said, standing up.  He rubbed his 
shoulder and started up the stairs.

"Take care of yourself," she said as he passed.

"Yeah.  You, too."

Mulder went down the path leading toward the center of the Mall.  
There was a Metro station close to the J. Edgar Hoover Building.  
He turned right instead, heading for the Smithsonian station.  It 
*was* closer, and there would be enough walking to do on the other 
end of the line.

Krycek rolled to the near side of the bed and cleared his throat 
before reaching for the ringing phone.

"Alex..."

It was the old man's voice.

"Yeah."

"I missed you last night."

"Yeah, I noticed your butts here."  His mouth pressed into a thin, 
tight line.

"How is Mulder doing?"

"I don't know; I'm not psychic."   He rolled onto his back and 
focused on the corner of the ceiling.  "He seemed pretty depressed 
the last time I saw him.  You asking me to check up on him?"

"Keep your eyes open.  I heard he was seen sleeping next to the 
lake in Constitution Park this afternoon..."  Delight tinged the 
old man's voice. "...like a homeless man."

Something cold started to fill Krycek's gut.  "Maybe he's finally 
out of your hair," trying to keep it neutral.

"Perhaps."  Another pause, probably for a drag on the ever-present 
Morley.  "I may need you in a few days, Alex.  We've had a 
little... disturbance at our Kentucky facility.  It may settle of 
its own accord.  But if not, I'll need you to go there and take 
care of things."

"You know where to find me."  He reached to hang up the phone.

"Oh, Alex--"

Krycek put the phone back to his ear.  "Yeah?"

"Bars can be dangerous places.  Too much liquor loosens a man's 
tongue, makes him forget who he is, what he's about."

"The downfall of the weak."  Krycek rolled his eyes.

"Exactly."  There was a last breath--the cigarette--followed by 
the hum of a broken connection.

Krycek smirked.  The downfall of the weak.  He hung up the phone, 
got up off the bed and went to stand at the window.  In a few 
hours he'd make it a point to go out and make a show of being weak 
again.

But what about Mulder?  Would he holding up through all this, or 
would he end up going down the drain this time?  For all his 
tenacity he was fragile, like the little blond Sergei back in the 
orphanage.  He'd warned Vlad and Yuri to leave the boy alone.  The 
kid was too scrawny; it was obvious he was never going to last.  
But they'd taken him under their wing anyway--brought him extra 
food, made him toys.  Let him worm his way into their emotions.  
And when he died they were never the same, never strong again.  If 
Mulder couldn't make it on his own... Maybe he hadn't learned the 
lesson himself.  The strong survived and the rest fell by the 
wayside.  Natural selection.

Krycek looked at his faint reflection in the glass and closed his 
eyes.  In the blackness behind them he saw the photograph of 
little Mulder with Samantha draped over his arm.  Overlaying it, 
half-transparent, was the image of a clone girl restless on a bunk 
somewhere in Alberta.

Scully focused her frown on the clerk behind the counter.

"But how could this happen?"

"I honestly don't know," the girl said, very obviously 
uncomfortable.  "It just isn't there."

"And you've checked the chain of evidence?"

"The paperwork stays with the samples all the way through.  Your 
bag is gone and the paperwork is gone with it."  She shrugged.  "I 
have a computer entry for Monday, the day you brought it in, and 
nothing after that."

"You must be able to check with whoever was working Monday to find 
out who handled it..."

The girl nodded.  "I've already checked with everyone here now who 
was also working that day.  Nobody remembers seeing it.  I have 
messages out to the two people who aren't here today."  She 
paused, her forehead showing worry lines.  "I'm really sorry.  
I'll let you know as soon as I find anything out."

Scully managed a thank-you accompanied by a stiff smile and turned 
away.  It could be a mistake, a simple foul-up, but her instinct, 
the part of herself Mulder had taught her not to discount, if not 
always to trust, didn't believe it.  This was a pattern; it had 
happened too many times before.  Mulder had thought it was just 
him they wanted out of the way, that she would be safe now and 
free to go on with her work.  But it wasn't that simple.  Maybe it 
had never been that simple.

She started back toward her office.  The hallway was deserted and 
yet she felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to run, to escape.  The 
sound of her heels echoed off the polished, vacant surfaces.  
There was no one here, and yet she could feel their presence--the 
presence of the ones who watched, who abducted innocent women, who 
drove to distraction the people who pressed ahead, who wouldn't 
stop searching, or asking questions.

Mulder worked the key in his lock and nudged his bag of groceries 
inside the door with the side of his foot.  He closed the door 
absently behind him, pocketed the key and walked slowly toward the 
living room, pausing in the doorway.  After a moment he let out a 
slow breath.  The leather chair with his basketball in the corner, 
like a baseball nestled securely into the pocket of a fielder's 
glove.  The desk in front of the window, the window that even now 
held the sticky remnants of masking tape he'd used to contact X--X 
who had died so long ago--X who had saved his mother from dying 
alone on the floor of the Quonochotaug house, a house that was 
itself gone now, destroyed.  His coffee table with its clutter.  
The couch.  The plastered-over spot on the wall behind it where a 
bullet had lodged after grazing Scully.  It had been meant to kill 
her.  Or him.  A souvenir of the night his father died.

There should have been more time--to make arrangements, time to 
get used to the idea of not being here, of having to go somewhere 
else and put all this in storage.  But the fast-forward button had 
already been pressed and now here it was: the sudden strangeness 
of looking at all his familiar possessions as if they were only 
ghosts of themselves.  As if they were already gone, dead in their 
own way.

He went to the coffee table and sat down on the edge of it facing 
the couch.  His fingers wandered over the papers on the top and 
then traced the grain of the wood.  He'd come to the decision, 
riding home on the Metro, to go ahead and give notice on the 
apartment.  He'd have a month to find something else.  He had to 
start somewhere, sometime, and in the back of his head he kept 
hearing the words of Miss Muse-of-the-Stairs saying that you could 
get used to anything.  It was true; complacency was a killer, and 
it was all too easy to get worn down--ground down in one place--if 
you didn't get yourself moving.  But he'd have a month.  Everyone 
expected a month's notice.

He'd stopped at the little mom-and-pop grocery on the way from the 
Metro station--better to grab a few things now than to have to 
walk back later--and then had gone straight to the manager's 
apartment on his way upstairs.  He'd have that month's leeway to 
find another place.  Then came the words he'd never expected.  
"Too bad you didn't tell me weeks ago," Carl had said.  "I've got 
someone who's really hot to have one of these places."  How soon? 
he'd asked, uneasy.  "Well, she was dreamin' about this weekend," 
Carl said, though of course he knew Mulder couldn't be out by 
then, and anyway, it was Thursday already, practically Friday.

He'd taken a deep breath, the kind he'd taken before he jumped off 
the bridge onto that train carrying the Japanese scientists--a 
hold-your-breath, hold-your-mind's-breath kind of thing--and said 
yeah, he could do it.  Anyway, Carl was offering him a partial 
refund on his last payment for his trouble and the extra money 
would help.

Mulder leaned forward and rested his head in his hands.  Maybe he 
did need a month; maybe parts of him did, anyway.  But there was 
no month now; there were only two days.  Maybe it was a good 
thing, a necessary kick in the ass.

He got up and wandered around the room, touching chair and lamp, 
letting his fingers slide down the cold glass of the fish tank, 
then went into the bedroom and stared at the boxes.  Some were 
half empty.  He walked up to a stack and opened the top box.  Only 
a handful of files.  The box below--same story.  He took the files 
out of the first box and hesitated.  Different topic; he didn't 
want to mix them.  He set the box aside and opened the one below 
it.  A few more papers, different again, and what did it really 
matter if he mixed them if he hadn't opened the boxes in two 
years, or four?  What if he never opened them again?Mulder set the 
files in his hand on an unopened box.  He leaned forward until his 
head touched the wall and closed his eyes.

Two days was nothing--the blink of an eye--and just what would he 
do if another place didn't fall into his lap that soon?  In a town 
like this, finding new digs in two days was about as likely as 
having Bigfoot show up for a press conference on the White House 
lawn.  Mulder grimaced.  His stomach was still awash in a watery 
sickness.  He was hungry and now that he thought about it, he'd 
left the bag of groceries sitting by the door when he'd come in.  
Which meant the milk was warm.  Then he'd wandered around the 
apartment and finally had copped out completely and sat down on 
the couch, just to gather his thoughts--or who knew, maybe to keep 
it from disappearing from his life like everything else--and here 
he was, horizontal again and who knew how many hours later.

Mulder forced his eyes open and looked as his watch.  10:38.  He 
had information for Scully.  She wouldn't be asleep yet--unless 
she'd drifted off at her desk studying the background for that 
case Skinner had given her.  He should call.

He sat up and reached for the phone.  The Gunmen *had* been onto 
something after all, a couple of documents passed to them by 
someone inside the DOE outlining a tentative government 'deal' 
with Beeson-Lymon based on the imminent demise of its only 
competitor, Chronwell Industrial Metals.

He ran one hand back through his hair and paused.  His mother had 
actually said that--not just the 'be careful', but the part where 
she'd admitted knowing *something*, where she'd said his dad 
hadn't held with what the group was doing.  She'd almost sounded 
as if she were in his corner for a change, as if she was afraid of 
what they might do to him.  He reached for the phone and punched 
in Scully's number.  One ring, two.  He turned; the grocery bag 
*was* still there--by the door.  He sighed.  Three, four--click--
message machine.

"Scully, pick up... If you're screening, pick up.  I've got the 
scoop on that Beeson-Lymon thing for you..."

Empty air.  He started toward the bag of groceries.

"Scully, I'm back in town--"  He lifted the milk out of the bag, 
frowned--too warm--and headed for the fridge with it.  Yellow 
light spilled from the open door.

"Look, call me when you get a chance."

He set the milk on the top shelf, pushing aside half a dozen 
partially empty cans and containers, most of them prime candidates 
for lab experiments.  The phone was blinking.  He stared at the 
flashing light for a moment and shook his head.  He had no idea 
where she was at any given time anymore.  She had another 
assignment, a new life.  He flipped the phone's 'off' button and 
slammed the refrigerator door.  The yellow light that had covered 
the floor was abruptly swallowed up in darkness.

Scully looked up from the open chest cavity in front of her and 
glanced at the dark-skinned man sitting on the lab stool, 
watching.

"Are you sure you want to sit here and watch all this, Agent 
Wilkins?" she said.

"I'm committed for the whole ride."  He was soft-spoken.  "Hey, 
it's always good to learn things.  They tend to come in handy."  
The barest hint of a twinkle lit his eye.

Scully smiled.  "Yes, they do, though this is a lot more than what 
most people are ready to confront..."

"I guess I've got a personal stake in it--facing down an old fear, 
in a way," Wilkins said.  "When I was eight years old my mama 
died, and that was scary enough in itself."  He paused and shook 
his head.  "But the thought of that autopsy, that they'd cut her 
open that way... I never could grasp the need for that--to disturb 
her like that.  It's a hard thing for a kid."

"It can be difficult for anyone," Scully said.  "As the examiner 
you rationalize it to yourself; you give yourself clinical 
reasons...You remind yourself of the good you're doing... There."

She lifted out a lung.  "I believe this is what we're looking 
for."

Mulder set the nested cardboard boxes on the table, gave the front 
door an absent push and sat down immediately with the newspaper, 
separating the heavy sections.  No part of D.C. was a low-rent 
neighborhood--at least, not anyplace you were assured of waking up 
alive--but there had to be an apartment somewhere he could rent.  
Besides, he'd had a dream full of grim foreboding a little while 
earlier, just before he'd wakened fully:  himself, file boxes 
piled against a wall, trying to sleep at the Gunmen's, listening 
to Frohike snore, having to keep Langley from poking around in his 
boxes, catching Byers giving him that quiet puppy look, playing 
the helpful host but feeling sorry for him nonetheless.  Camping 
out at the Ice Capades would be more inviting.

There had to be some way to find a little private space.  What 
about the kid--little Miss Stair Sprite?  Where did she stay?  She 
might just be a local kid just sitting around and thinking.  
Ditching school or some other problem in her life.  But it didn't 
seem like that.  She had the look--the classic look of someone on 
the run--en route--though maybe even she didn't know to where.  He 
wondered what her story was.

He glanced up at an unexpected sound.  He'd hadn't fully closed 
the door when he came in and now a small, round face framed by 
vigorous dark curls filled the lower part of the doorway.  Deep 
brown-black eyes stared at him,  then a small nose wrinkled and 
the little girl broke out in giggles.  Mulder smiled back 
involuntarily.  A woman's hurried footsteps approached in the 
hallway.

"Mavash!" a shrill voice came from just beyond the door, and the 
little face was whisked away.

Mulder stood and peered out into the hallway.  A woman with a 
white head covering and an ankle-length dress was headed for the 
elevator, Mavash in tow, chiding the curly-headed toddler in a 
language he couldn't quite identify--possibly Farsi.  At the 
elevator the little girl turned back and focused on Mulder with 
laughing eyes.

Mulder closed the door carefully and pulled the classifieds from 
the sheaf of newsprint on the table.  He took them to the desk by 
the front window, sat down and reached for his glasses.

"Here, you can see it," Scully said, backing away from the 
microscope.

Agent Wilkins took his place at the instrument and peered in.

"And what we're looking for is..."

"The dark area," Scully said.  "Do you see it?"

"The little long thing?"

"Yes.  It's called a granuloma, a specific kind of scarring.  It's 
indicative of beryllium disease.  It's pervasive throughout this 
tissue."

Wilkins backed away from the microscope.  "So this is all we 
need?"

"Well, it verifies that Mr. Johnston had symptoms consistent with 
beryllium disease.  But I'll have to run a few more tests to rule 
out other possibilities.  If this weren't a criminal investigation 
it would be enough, but we've--"  She stopped.  "I've--"  She 
cleared her throat.  Heat rose in in her face.  "My partner and 
I... ex-partner... saw a lot of very strange things during the 
time we were field investigators.  It's taught me to be very 
thorough, not to discount possibilities."  She studied the 
countertop, then looked past Wilkins into the shadows on the far 
side of the room.

"It wasn't what they said, was it?" Wilkins said quietly.  "The 
reason they let Mulder go..."

"They didn't 'let him go'.  He was thrown out."  The words tumbled 
out unchecked, surprising her.  "No, it wasn't what they said."

"Look, I know a lot of people laughed about him--made jokes about 
you guys.  But hey, I've seen things in my life that *I* can't 
explain.  You guys had guts.  You did good work."

"Maybe we still do," Scully said quietly.  She sighed.  Her whole 
body felt heavy, weighed down with fatigue.  The building was 
quiet; most likely they were the only ones still here.  "Now, as 
far as Mrs. Johnston's son goes..."

"Andy--"

"He'll have to be tested, too, if you're going to prove a 
pervasive overexposure.  There's a blood test--it's called a 
lymphocyte proliferation test--an LPT--that he'll have to take.  
It's not a simple test, because it involves exposing live cells 
from Andy's blood to beryllium and then waiting to see if the 
lymphocytes grow, or proliferate.  I'll have to get you the name 
of a lab that can do the test."

She paused while Wilkins wrote down the information on a notepad.

"Of course, the medical evidence is just a small part of what 
you'll need to indict Beeson-Lymon in a criminal action.  If they 
are indeed doing what you suspect, then someone has to be making 
it worth their while."

"A small percentage of their production ends up in computers," 
Wilkins said.  "But the vast majority of it goes to defense 
applications.  It's sold to a number of different defense 
contractors."

"And ends up in the hands of the military."

Wilkins looked askance at her.

"Corners have been cut in the past, when the need seemed 
overriding.  And I've seen... too many things.  Things you 
probably wouldn't believe if I told you."  She paused.  "I'm only 
saying not to discount any possibilities.  Keep yourselves open."

He nodded.

Scully shook the hand Wilkins offered and headed for her office to 
gather her things.  A yawn overtook her.  Another late night, and 
she wouldn't be home before midnight.  But the first piece of Rita 
Johnston's puzzle was in place; that was worth something.  To Rita 
Johnston it would be invaluable.

And Mulder: in the bustle of everything that had happened she'd 
nearly forgotten about him.  He should be back in D.C. by now.  
She hadn't spoken to him since he'd called her last night from his 
mother's, when she'd clumsily poked him in several obvious sore 
spots.

In the car she locked the door and buckled up, then reached for 
her cell phone and dialed.  She started the car and backed out of 
the parking space.  There was a click as the call was picked up at 
the other end.

"Mulder, it's me," she said.

(end 4 of 14)
.....................................
Walking Through Fire (5 of 14)

He approached her chair from behind, silently.  She was sitting 
curled up in it, reading.  He had always enjoyed watching her--the 
dark wave of her hair, the way she would read a book, resting her 
chin on her hand.  She reminded him of her mother, a woman he'd 
barely known, but one who had nonetheless sufficed to give him 
this child.  She'd been a scientist, the mother, working on the 
early stages of Bill Mulder's project, a forceful woman for her 
era: professional, confident, analytical.  She'd been one of the 
first casualties among the project staff, the victim of a process 
that had been too little understood at the time.  Diana had been 
five at the time of the accident, though she'd never formed an 
exceptionally close bond with her mother because of her mother's 
pressing work schedule.  He had taken her, after her mother's 
death, and placed her in a boarding school, a place with a good 
reputation and close by, so that he could visit her often, support 
her, shape her.  He'd sent her to college afterward, again nearby, 
so they could maintain contact.  She was bright, Diana was, every 
bit as analytical as her mother in her own way.  She was a born 
strategist, a negotiator, a smoother of the way.  She'd taken it 
in stride when he'd told her about the plans, about the future and 
what would happen--as much as any human being could.  'What can I 
do to help?' had been her first response.

"Diana," he said softly.

She turned around abruptly, eyes wide, then relaxed at the sight 
of him.

"Hello," she said, smiling.  She sat up straight.  "Do you need 
something?"

"I wanted to see you," he said, settling into the chair across 
from her.  He reached into his pocket, then brought his hand back 
empty and planted it consciously on the chair arm.  "How are the 
X-files these days?"

"There's been very little new casework.  I think Skinner is afraid 
to make himself noticeable at this point."

"And well he should be.  He's in a precarious position.  He knows 
what happened to Mulder... and what appearing to side with 
Mulder's agenda might do.  He needs his job."

"I've been going through all the open case files and discovered 
that my copy of the medical workup on Gibson Praise was missing.  
I've made arrangements to get another copy."

He raised his eyebrows.  "And the boy?  You've never found any 
trace of him?"

She shook her head.  "We put up missing child posters as soon as 
he disappeared.  His name is on file with all the agencies and 
local authorities--anyone who'd be likely to look.  They were 
advised that he was mentally unstable with a history of self-
destructive incidents; it should have been enough to generate more 
attention than the usual missing child case.  But there's been 
nothing in all this time."

"You've kept an eye on his home, his parents?"

"We have sources in place.  If he were to contact them, we'd 
know."

He frowned.  "A missing Gibson Praise is the next best thing to 
our having him in hand.  But the boy is smart--too smart.  I'm 
afraid he may be out there making some kind of plan..."

"He's just one boy."

He raised his eyebrows.  "It only takes one player out of 
control..."  He cleared his throat.  "Which brings me to the point 
of my visit.  I have an assignment for you.  Fox Mulder seems to 
be somewhat... depressed of late over his recent dismissal..."

"And you want me to go see him?  At his apartment?"

"No.  There's no need for that.  Something more casual."  He 
breathed in deeply.  "I hear he's been spending his afternoons in 
Constitution Park.  By the lake.  You might arrange to chance 
across him."

She nodded.  Her face showed neither eagerness nor resistance.  
"I'll do it tomorrow," she said.

He got up from the chair.  She stood, too.  He approached her and 
kissed her lightly on the cheek.

"Goodnight," he said, and went to the door to let himself out.

Mulder waded between cardboard boxes to reach the ringing phone.  
He picked it up, tucked it against his shoulder, and smiled at the 
greeting coming from the other end.

"Hey, Scully, what's up?"

"I didn't wake you, did I?"

"No..."  He moved past a box.  "No.  I was... doing some cleaning 
up around here.  You know, organizing things."  He made his way to 
the couch and sat down.

"So you made it home from your mother's okay?"

The couch cradled him like a familiar, well-worn baseball glove.  
"...Yeah.  I caught a few hours in the car and then I had this 
dream and I woke up... Anyway, I wasn't tired after that, so I 
started back.  I figured I could beat the morning commute.  No use 
spending all that time spinning your wheels if you don't have to."

"I know.  I've been having to get used to this Quantico commute 
all over again.  I have to say it's less than enjoyable."

He glanced over at the fish tank.  He'd have to get rid of the 
fish.

"Hey, I've got that scoop for you on the Beeson-Lymon thing.  I 
checked  it out this morning at the Gunmen's.  Somebody they know 
inside the DOE passed them a couple of documents outlining--get 
this--a 'tentative offering' that includes higher beryllium prices 
and reduced exposure standards if Beeson-Lymon agrees to continue 
to supply once their only remaining competitor, CIM, bites the 
dust."

"CIM?"

"Chronwell Industrial Metals."  The desk was filled with stuff he 
needed.  "It's a family business and old Mr. Chronwell's been 
diagnosed with just a few months to live.  His kids don't want to 
take over from papa, so the company's going to be closed out."  A 
desk wouldn't take up much space if he kept it; it wasn't a big 
desk.

"My God...Mulder, I..."

The raw emotion on the other end of the line jarred him from his 
domestic speculations.  He closed his eyes and forced away 
everything but her voice.

"I just finished examining Bill Johnston's remains, Mulder, and 
his lungs were riddled with granulomas, the scars produced by 
beryllium disease.  We're going to arrange for his son to be 
tested, but that may take some time because the test will have to 
be repeated several times for verification.  And that will only 
tell us if he's *sensitive* to beryllium.  If he is, he'll need to 
undergo further testing--very painful testing.  I'm hoping Agent 
Wilkins will be able to locate other former workers' bodies we can 
examine.  But if the standards are relaxed..."

"...a lot more people are going to be affected," he finished.

There was a pause, then a breathy sound on the other end of the 
line.

"Scully, was that a yawn?"

"Yes, Mulder, as a matter of fact it was.  Actually, I'm lucky I 
can even see straight right now.  I guess this case has just 
mushroomed to take up all my spare time.  I only got three hours 
sleep last night and I'm just now on my way home after finishing 
Mr. Johnston's autopsy."

Mulder rested his head against the back of the couch.  "Hey, you 
can always snooze at lunchtime now that you have your own space.  
That's why they have locks on office doors."

"I'll remember that."  She sounded slightly amused.  "But I think 
I'll just wait and sleep in on Saturday, Mulder.  I can make it 
one more day."

"Suit yourself, FBI woman.  Just remember that fatigue can dull 
your edge."  He paused, suddenly sobered, and went on quietly.  
"Hey, you know that dream I told you about--the one I had last 
night?"

"What about it?"

"It was about something that happened when I was little."  He 
could picture himself again--the child standing in the kitchen 
doorway in his blue plaid shorts.  "It got me thinking."

"That..."

"She wasn't always like that--my mother--closed off, tense.  I... 
I think she got that way after Samantha was born.  I can remember 
some things from before then, and I actually do remember her 
smiling.  I remember her being happy."

"Are you sure you can trust your memory, Mulder?"

"I know, Scully.  I know most people don't remember all that far 
back, but I know this stuff.  I remember this neighbor we had next 
door.  He was an old man.  He had a cat and an electric fireplace-
-that really fascinated me, that fireplace.  He died when I was 
three and a half."

The room was suddenly quiet.  He opened his eyes and looked toward 
the fish tank.  The bubbler sputtered and began to work again.

"Maybe something happened to her, Mulder.  Something must have 
happened."

He could see his mother again--young---the tearshine in her eyes 
and the sudden change in her expression, as if he'd brought the 
sun out.  "I know.  I've been thinking about that--you know, 
trying to profile her, figure her out instead of..."  Instead of 
just letting it bite him on the ass every time she said something, 
or did something.

"You know, Mulder, I wouldn't be telling you anything new if I 
said your mother's a... a difficult person to understand.  She is.  
But if you've found something you can hold on to--something that 
was real to you--then hold onto that.  Go with it.  I've got to 
say that I don't think I would have had the patience with her that 
you've had.  Maybe in the end what she needs is your 
understanding."

"Yeah..." She'd been near tears, coming out from under that sink.  
And then everything had changed.

"...ummm..."

"Was that another yawn?"

"Mulder, I do believe that if I hadn't been talking to you I would 
have driven off the side of the road by now."

"Scully, now you're worrying me."

"As a matter of fact, in recognition of this significant 
accomplishment, I'm going to take you to dinner tomorrow night.  
Maybe that Italian place you like so well."

"Caravaggio's?"

"Caravaggio's it is.  Besides, it'll give me a good excuse not to 
stay late at work."

"...Scully, I'm overwhelmed."

"I assume that means you accept.  Do you want me to pick you up?"

He looked around the room, at the boxes and the stack of pictures 
he'd already taken off the walls.

"Uh, no.  I... I can meet you there.  It's no problem."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah.  I'll be there.

"Say around seven?"

"Yeah.  I guess I need some kind of appointment to see you now.  
Just don't crash before you get to tomorrow night.  Are you 
anywhere near home yet?"

"Just pulling onto my street."

"Then I guess I'll sleep okay."

"See you tomorrow, Mulder."

"Yeah," he said.  She'd clicked off already.

He leaned forward to set the phone on the coffee table and rested 
his head in his hands.  Breathe in, breathe out.  Steady--keep it 
steady.  Like a fighter pilot flying through a narrow canyon, you 
only make it through if you focus ahead, if you don't get 
distracted by how close the walls are to the tips of your wings.

Or do like the little girl in the doorway:  keep your bounce, 
don't let the details bog you down.  Life is more than your 
problems.

He leaned to the side and reached under the pillows.  His fingers 
found his sister's braid and curled around it.

Diana yawned and pulled the shawl closer around her.   Pale light 
was beginning to color the early morning sky; she curled up in a 
chair beside the window and stared out at the Washington skyline.  
She and Fox had watched a sunrise once, when they'd first met, 
after sitting up all night talking about precognition and space 
and the British and Jung.  There had been brilliant colors: 
purples and burning pinks and a yellow the color of fall poplar 
leaves in the French countryside--an almost electric glow.  This 
sunrise--the one outside the window--was a thin parchment color, 
tinged with the lavender-gray of passing clouds.

She hadn't slept well.  She'd showed no emotion when he'd asked 
her to go visit Mulder.  It was a result of conscious training: to 
be professional, to show nothing, not her eagerness or her dread.  
The cause was foremost, of course.  But still, the knowledge 
hadn't made sleep come any more easily.

She was perfectly capable of making the contact.  She would find 
out how he was and report to her father; the information could be 
crucial in the end analysis.  What she was incapable of was 
walking away from Mulder unaffected.  Like a radioactive material, 
contact with Fox Mulder always branded her--the energy, the hope, 
the trust freely given.  The trust assumed in return.  
Unknowingly, he turned a mirror to her that she was loathe to 
view.

"This is the worst kind of news, Agent Wilkins..."

Skinner tucked the phone between his cheek and shoulder and 
reached for a pencil.

"Tear the scene apart.  Find out everything you can about this... 
what did you say his name is?  Miller?... Cyrus Miller."  He wrote 
it down.  "Has anyone contacted Rita Johnston yet?"  He stood, 
went to the window and stared into the day's brightness.  "Yes.  
Thank you..."

He sighed and waited.  People passed by on the sidewalk below.

"...As soon as you have anything.  Anything at all."

Skinner returned to his desk, hung up the phone and rested his 
hands on the broad, smooth surface.  He closed his eyes and let 
his head hang. It could have been an accident.  It could be just 
another freakish twist of fate, like ten thousand things that 
happened on the battlefield.  The other option was more 
disturbing.

He straightened and went to the bookshelf. He knew the way his own 
mother had reacted when she'd learned he'd been wounded in combat.  
And he'd still been alive.  Rita Johnston was a strong woman--an 
exceptional woman--but she was still a mother.  She'd have those 
ties.  Take a child and you ripped away part of the mother's soul.

Skinner drifted to the guest chair, hands on hips, then to the 
window, then back to the bookshelf.  She was a strong woman, with 
conviction, in the way Mulder was strong.  But everyone had a 
limit.  He nudged the desk chair with his foot.  It had been--
what--a week and a half since he'd seen Mulder?  He hadn't called, 
hadn't dropped by to see if there was anything Mulder needed.  
Hadn't offered any support.  They could be watching him.  They 
could very well be watching his every move since he'd leaked the 
Cassandra Spender tip to Scully, and that had been his excuse: he 
was busy saving his own ass.

But this investigation: maybe it was more than what it seemed on 
the surface.  Maybe it carried implications he didn't want to 
begin to think about.  He'd know for sure if the Cigarette Man 
showed up in his office soon.  This was hardly the kind of payback 
Dale Lanier deserved for saving his life in a firefight half a 
world away.

Skinner returned to the window and pressed his palm against the 
warm glass.

Mulder spit a seed onto the step below him and looked out across 
the expanse of barely rippling water.  He'd gone to bed at 2:30 in 
the morning and woken up at ten.  He'd made a second box-gathering 
foray and had gone through drawers of stuff in the kitchen and 
bathroom, saving what little he needed and throwing away the rest.  
He'd bought oatmeal while he was at the market--the kind that 
could be zapped in the microwave--and had made some before he 
left, though his stomach was still queasy.  He knew this feeling 
and it wasn't the kind of ache that could be fixed with a pill.

He glanced behind him to where he'd expected to find Miss Muse-of-
the-Stairs, but the remaining stairs were empty.  He'd been 
expecting to seeing her this time.  There were no constants.

He would see Scully at seven.  He wasn't sure what had inspired 
her to invite him to dinner, but it was okay; he'd accept.  It was 
a chance to see her, to talk with her in that comfortable, 
familiar way.  To soak her in, as much as it was possible to soak 
someone in without having it affect them in any way.  She had her 
necessary defenses--the ones she believed she needed--and she 
reached past them only when she had to.  But like a sunbather on 
an intermittently cloudy day, he'd stay and take whatever he could 
get.  She'd become his reason for getting up in the morning when 
getting up to find Samantha had lost its three-dimensionality.

He rested his head on his arms and closed his eyes.  He hadn't had 
any kind of normal schedule in weeks.  He'd go whole days without 
sleeping and then pick up a few odd hours in the middle of the 
morning, or the afternoon.  Then he'd be wired in the middle of 
the night, ready to go running at two in the morning--how many 
times had he done that lately?

Footsteps sounded on the steps behind him and before he thought to 
lift his head and take a look, a hand on his shoulder made him 
start.  It was a soft hand, gentle.

"Fox?"

He squinted into the midday brightness.  "Diana?"

"What are you doing here, Fox?"

He swallowed, hesitated.  "Just thinking.  Taking in the day."

"I come here on my lunch hour."  There was a white bag in her 
hand.  "I like the view--the ripples on the water, the trees.  A 
little bit of quiet in the middle of the frenzy..."

His eye caught the subtle swaying of a nearby willow tree.  He was 
tired suddenly, worn.  Strange how that sudden flash of child-
think could overtake you, the desire to just curl up somewhere 
safe when you'd known for years the world wasn't like that.

"I heard what happened, Fox."

She sat down beside him.  She was wearing a navy blue suit, her 
usual tailored number with the just-below-the-knee skirt and the 
matching pumps--the kind that looked like normal office shoes but 
were comfortable to walk in.  "I haven't figured out where the 
directive came from; bureaucracies are strange things that way.  
But I'm hanging onto those files, Fox.  Skinner's a good man; I 
think he has a genuine interest in seeing the work developed, but 
I get the sense that someone above him doesn't see the value in 
the investigations you've been working so hard at.  I think they 
want to shut us down again if they can find a way to justify it."  
She sighed.

He shook his head.  No words came.  There were two ducks now, 
bobbing in the water at the pavement's edge.

"Do you know what you're going to do now?" she said after a 
moment.

"I dunno."  One duck bobbed below the surface, tail feathers 
skyward.  "I was thinking of making homelessness a career, but the 
perks don't seem too good..."

He looked at her.  Mordant humor had never worked with her; it had 
never been a part of their dynamic.  They'd both been too needy, 
too starved for connection to focus on putting up walls, or 
jousting.  "Sorry."

Her hand settled on his shoulder.  "You'll find something, Fox.  
You're a good investigator."

He nodded, or tried to, but it was a half-hearted effort.  There 
was pressure inside him, an empty ache steadily filling him like a 
balloon, swelling and swelling with no place to expand.

She shrugged.  "Somehow I'm not hungry right now.  Want half a 
sandwich?"  She held out the bag.

"No... Thanks.  I'm guess I'm not ready for anything, either."

It was almost the way they used to sit, side by side, shoulders 
touching, heads together.  He stirred.

She moved and tucked her legs under her to stand.

"Take care of yourself, Fox.  Don't give up."

She stood.  He tried to give her a smile.  Then she was gone, her 
footsteps echoing up the stairs.  By the time he turned around 
Diana was gone, but the Stair Sprite had materialized in her usual 
location.

"Warmer today," he said, attempting conversation.

It took a moment before she responded.  "It is."  She opened her 
backpack and started to poke through it.

He watched her a moment.  Usually she was the talker.  If he 
didn't know better, he'd say she was trying to avoid him.

She looked up.  "I'm just... My mind's kind of full right now."

Mulder shrugged and turned back to the lake.  "I know what you 
mean."

"Alex?"

Krycek held the receiver to his ear and twisted his wrist far 
enough that he could read his watch.  "Yeah."

"I need you to take a trip to Kentucky."  Pause.  "Just a small 
errand.  You'll need to leave right away."

"No problem."

"I'll send a car for you.  Your tickets and instructions will be 
there."

"Give me fifteen minutes."

He reached across the bed, set the receiver back in place and 
stared at the ceiling.  1:30 in the afternoon and he hadn't even 
made it out of bed yet.  Two days in a row he'd done the same 
thing, just no motivation to get up, to get out and doing.  It was 
beginning to make him jittery.

But what was the point, really?  There were a dozen years at best 
before the aliens came screaming down from the skies to claim the 
planet.  At best.  That had been the plan before the rebels showed 
up... and then vanished again, almost as quickly as they'd come.  
There was no telling if they'd show up again, or whether they'd 
help or harm the human population if and when they returned.  And 
even in the best case scenario, there was only so much you could 
do to influence the outcome.

Once he'd been in a position to make a difference--maybe a huge 
one.  He and Marita had taken a stolen vial of the Russian vaccine 
and delivered it to a Colombian pharmaceutical company that would 
turn it into enough vaccine to save hundreds of thousands--maybe 
millions if everything went smoothly.  There was money for the 
work.  Channels for distribution were in place.  But everything 
had gone to hell when Marita took off with the kid Dmitri and got 
infected herself.   Her approval was needed for the lab to release 
what it produced--her insurance that he wouldn't somehow take the 
produced vaccine and cut her out--and once the Oil got her she 
wasn't in any condition to approve anything.

His chances of influencing the group had disappeared with the boy, 
too.  Once he'd been discovered in the freighter, the old men had 
him by the balls.  For a while he'd had a little leeway; the Brit 
didn't trust the others and needed his help.  But seven months ago 
the Brit had gone up in flames and since then he'd been nothing 
more than an errand boy--chauffeur, gofer, go-between.  Anything 
to work his way back into the old man's confidence, to find out 
what he could, make whatever alliances might do some good.  The 
old man liked the group to think they were running things, but 
behind it all he had to be the one pulling the strings; it wasn't 
like him to do anything else.  He had to know more, have contacts 
the others didn't know about.  He had to know, as much as anyone 
did, what was really going on, and if kissing the old man's ass 
got him nearer to that information, he was prepared to pucker up.  
It was better than waiting to be wiped out by the alien hoards.

But how much difference would it really make in the end?  On good 
days knew he had to try regardless of the odds.  He'd learned that 
early on, in the orphanage: if there was no hope, you had to make 
some up, find something to focus on, grab onto anything that would 
move you forward.  On bad days he lay here until the early 
afternoon, knowing that getting up and getting going were a joke 
at best, a way to fill the days and hours until the inevitable 
arrived.

Trouble was, he could never bring himself to give up completely.  
Maybe it just bullheadedness; he knew how much satisfaction the 
old man would get from seeing him fold.  But it was a hell of a 
reason to keep going.

Krycek stood and worked off his t-shirt, first over the stump, 
then over his head and finally off his good arm.  There'd been a 
mirror on the back of the bathroom door when he'd moved in here.  
He'd taken it off one night--ripped it off--on one of those 
evenings when he'd actually had a few too many of those drinks he 
usually faked.  Like the old man said, the downfall of the weak, 
and weak was something he couldn't afford to be.

He went into the bathroom, wondering what the old man needed him 
for this time.  To end some insignificant life?  To blow something 
up, to torch a warehouse or a car?   Maybe to plant evidence of 
things that had never happened.  To influence the future by 
rewriting the past.

"Scully."

"Scully, this is A. D. Skinner.  We've had an unfortunate turn of 
events in the Johnston case.  Andy Johnston was killed today in a 
hit and run accident in downtown Lexington; he was trying to cross 
a street."  He paused.  "I'd like you to come to Kentucky with me 
and examine the body."

She paused and bit her lip.  "Right away, sir?"

"I want to get on this ASAP.  I have a feeling..."  There was 
abrupt silence at the other end of the line.  "I have a feeling 
this thing may be a lot bigger than we realize.  I want to find 
out what we're dealing with here before our evidence starts to 
disappear."

"I was planning on meeting Agent Mulder after work, sir.  It's 
been a rough couple of weeks for him."

She took a breath and held it, waiting for his response.

"You do what you think is best, Scully.  I can probably get 
Wilkins to camp out overnight at the medical examiner's if I have 
to.  How about tomorrow?  I just think Rita Johnston's suffered 
enough already;  I don't want her son's body being held for 
examination or shipped to Quantico.  I'd like to get this over 
with."

"Certainly, sir."

"Good.  I'll see if I can find a flight out around noon.  I'll be 
in touch."  Another pause.  "Give my best to Agent Mulder."

Diana sat at her desk--his desk--the one her efforts had helped 
take from him--the words on the report in front of her an 
unfocused blur.

Every time it was the same.  She would go in prepared to do a job, 
fortifying herself with assurances of his naivete, or his 
obsessiveness, or the futility of his blind crusade.  And he would 
give her something--sincerity, some small kindness, a trust she 
hadn't earned, a hope she could never really share.  Not with what 
she knew.  They were Ophelia and Hamlet meeting, with her father 
carefully hidden behind the arras.

"Agent Fowley, is something the matter?"

It was Jeffrey's voice.  Diana looked up.  She shook her head.

"Just a little bit of indigestion, I think."

"Do you want something for it?"

"No, I think I'm alright."  She paused.  "Thank you."

He looked at her, one eyebrow raised, then turned and continued to 
his desk.

After a moment Diana glanced at her partner, now head down, 
absorbed in paperwork.  She studied the tight curl of his hair and 
the straight set of his mouth.  He was petulant and defensive, 
like a small boy in the presence of other boys he didn't measure 
up to.  He was unbelievably naive; he knew nothing about the 
larger picture--and wouldn't have believed it if he were told.  He 
knew nothing about the rest of them:  herself, Alex, Samantha 
Mulder.  He knew only that he had a father who had suddenly 
reappeared in his life, someone with a degree of power he didn't 
fully understand, or trust.  And sometimes--sometimes--there was a 
clear touch of something else about him--a sincerity, a caring 
unattached to any self-interest.

He was a boy forced to grow up too early, made to shoulder a 
burden too large for his capacities.

She understood what that was like.

(end 5 of 14)
.................................
Walking Through Fire (6 of 14)

Teena Mulder turned from the window to look at the box of 
photographs on the bed.  Even having gotten them out was awkward, 
unfamiliar territory.  Her entire adult life had been a study in 
suppression, but returning from a week at her sister's had made 
her gray life of denial seem much less than comforting, or 
comfortable, now.

It was Trudy's garden that had impressed her as much as anything.  
It had always seemed like a burden in the past--the garden that 
drew her sister outside early in the morning, straw visor on, work 
apron around her middle.  Often she'd be snipping with shears or 
down on her knees pulling at straggling weeds as the sun rose.  
Certainly her project demanded commitment.  But on this visit 
she'd realized that rather than a burden, the garden was a source 
of renewal for Trudy, and a noteworthy victory for a woman 
unwilling to accept the convenience of mundane surroundings.  
Instead she'd transformed them into an almost magical sanctuary of 
light and shade, crisp flowers and flowing branches, a dozen 
shades of green punctuated by bright whites and yellows, stone 
paths and benches and the fleeting visits of small, near-
weightless birds to gracefully bobbing stems.

Her own life had been like the yard Trudy had begun with, but 
unlike her sister she'd been unwilling to take a chance with it, 
too accustomed to covering up, hiding, trying to forget or deny.  
It had become her legacy to her one remaining child.  Fox deserved 
more... and soon: they were after him now, the murky men, like 
dark crows intent on stripping the spirit from him.  Perhaps it 
wasn't too late to begin a new landscape.  Even small improvements 
would be better than none at all.

Ready at last, Teena crossed the room to the bed and sat down.  
Her fingers hovered momentarily over the lid to the box of 
photographs.  Then she lifted it off and took out a handful of 
pictures.  She faced each one in turn and then set it aside, 
taking another handful, making herself go on even though she 
dreaded arriving at the one picture that, more than the rest, 
would cause her well-deserved anguish.

But it wasn't there.

She went through the contents of the box a second time, and a 
third.  Fox must have taken it.

She stood abruptly and returned to the window, closing her eyes, 
fighting the need to be angry with him for holding her sins up to 
her yet again, for never letting them lie, or allowing them sink 
gracefully below the muddy surface.  He only wanted to find his 
sister.

Gradually she began to notice the breeze coming through the 
screen--the way it buoyed her hair, lifting it.  Softly it began 
to erase the moisture that rimmed her eyes.  Calmer, she opened 
her eyes and returned to the bed.  She gathered the spread-out 
photographs and went through them one last time, pausing at one 
particular picture and setting it aside.  It was casual, almost 
silly, certainly not formal enough to be put into a proper album.  
In it she was sitting cross-legged on the floor in shorts and a 
sleeveless blouse; there was a food stain above the breast pocket.  
She was laughing.  Fox, not more than three years old, was hugging 
her from behind.

The traffic in front of Carravagio's was constant, hungry people 
going inside and sated diners emerging more slowly from under the 
green and white striped canopy that shaded the front of the 
restaurant.  Mulder sat on a sheltered bench in front of the 
business next door, waiting.  He glanced again at his watch.  
6:55.  Depending on traffic, Scully should be here soon.

He ran his fingers over his chin, smooth now after two days of 
stubble.  He was still between personas, transitioning from Joe 
Homeless to Mulder-Partner-of-Scully: off with the tired jeans and 
two-day-old T-shirt and the unwashed hair, on with the white shirt 
and slacks, showered and shaved, as if he'd spent the day in the 
basement office like a good little public servant.  Joe Homeless 
was supposed to be the disguise.  Somehow it didn't feel that way 
anymore.

Something was going on with the Stair Sprite, maybe tied in with 
whatever was happening in her life.  No telling what the girl's 
circumstances were and D. C. could be an unforgiving place if she 
were short on funds, or on the run as he suspected.  If he hadn't 
been so thrown off by Diana's sudden appearance, he might have 
tried to get her to open up a little.

Diana.  When she'd left it had been night and day--flip the 
switch.  One day it was the X-files and the paranormal and the 
thrill of the research.  The next it had been an assignment in 
Europe, how she'd always wanted to go there, how she needed the 
challenge of a new experience.  He thought he'd known her.  Far be 
it from him to hold her back if that's what she wanted to do with 
her life; he just thought he'd known who she was.  Maybe it had 
hurt his profiler's pride, too, that he'd been thrown a curve 
without expecting it.  Either way it had hurt.  The loneliness had 
hurt.  It had hurt her, too; he knew that.  But the silence in the 
apartment had been too loud, the bed too big without her.  The 
contact, as with most long-distance relationships, had been too 
infrequent and quick to die.  Life had gone on and he had work to 
do.  It was a good excuse; it filled the void.  He hadn't seen it 
coming at all.  Blindsided.  Bam.

Mulder pulled a sunflower seed from his pocket and looked around.  
More diners approached; a line was beginning to form outside the 
door now.  He searched the street for Scully's car.  He'd taken 
more boxes home in the afternoon, packed the last of the kitchen 
stuff and cleared out the hall closet.  Called and arranged for a 
storage space and a truck to take everything there.  His stomach 
was still queasy, or maybe it was jittery, just wound up from the 
tension and the uncertainty of standing at the edge of the cliff 
and stepping off.  He'd gone over everything in the classifieds 
twice.  Not much out there was available cheap except rooms.

A room.

His mouth tightened.

"Hey, stranger--"

He looked up.  It was Scully, as if she were color in a black-and-
white world.

"Hey..."

"Looks like we may have to wait a while," she said, nodding toward 
the doorway.

"Yeah, I was thinking about getting our names in there but I 
wasn't sure when you'd get here, whether you'd end up stuck in 
traffic."

She sat down beside him.

"You look tired," he said.

"Maybe I shouldn't do this.  I think if I sit for more than five 
minutes I may not be able to get up."  She stood.

"We could always call in," Mulder said, nodding toward the 
restaurant.  "Order something to go."

She looked dubious.  "I'm not up for eating in the car, Mulder."

"We don't have to eat in the car.  There's a park about a block 
over.  They have benches."

Scully thought a minute and sighed.  "Okay, I'm game.  But only 
because I'm too tired to wait."  She pulled out her cell phone and 
dialed.   "What do you want, Mulder?"

"The lasagna, I think."

"With the red sauce?"

"I think I'll go with the white this time."

Scully raised her eyebrows.

"It just sounds good right now," he said.

Scully ordered and then hung up.  "Twenty minutes," she said.  She 
seemed a little less tired.  "You convinced me.  I got lasagna, 
too.  It'll be quicker.  They make it in huge pans; it's always 
ready to go."  A yawn started and she stifled it.

"Sit down," he said, tugging gently on her sleeve.

She shook her head.  "I'm on the verge, Mulder.  Twenty minutes 
could be dangerous."

"I'll wake you up."  He patted the bench next to him.

Reluctantly, she sat down.

"You've been pushing it," he said.

"It's this case of Skinner's.  I think the week would have been 
manageable without it.  I had to autopsy Mr. Johnston's remains 
last night..."

"So you said."

"His lungs were riddled with scarring.  Exactly what we were 
looking for."

"Do you have other victims, something you can build a case on?"

She sighed.  "Wilkins is checking for other burials.  The question 
is whether we can find evidence among whatever other burials there 
may be.  The plant is actually located east of Lexington in a 
little town called Owensburg.  It's a depressed area and Beeson-
Lymon is essentially the town's only employer.  Lots of people are 
probably eager enough to take the company up on its cremation 
offer..."

"And?"

"And what?"

"Something's eating you, Scully."

She looked away, toward the restaurant window.  The dim figures of 
diners could be seen through the smoked glass.  "Skinner called me 
this afternoon."  She paused, her voice sober.  "Andy Johnston, 
Rita Johnston's son--the one this case was started over--was 
killed late this morning by a hit-and-run driver while crossing a 
street."  She seemed suspended for a moment.  When she spoke 
again, her voice seemed fragile.  "He was her only son, Mulder."

He frowned and slipped a sunflower seed into his mouth.  "Sounds 
like a set-up."

"From what they say, witnesses have identified the driver as a man 
who's had a running argument with Andy Johnston for years.  A 
local guy--someone who used to be employed at the plant.  They 
haven't caught him yet."

Mulder looked up, above the roofs of the buildings to the sky.  
The light was thinning.

"Maybe you're onto something bigger here," he said.

"I think maybe Skinner thinks so.  I know this is personal for 
him... but he sent Wilkins with the remains, Mulder; he didn't 
just ship them.  Wilkins stayed and watched me do the autopsy."  
She smiled slightly, remembering.

"What?"

"Wilkins.  He's a rookie but he's going to make a very good 
investigator.  He's curious.  He wants to learn.  I'm not sure the 
autopsy was exactly within his comfort zone but he stayed anyway."

Mulder glanced at his watch.

"Skinner wants me to fly to Kentucky with him tomorrow to autopsy 
Andy Johnston's body.  I was planning on sleeping in.  At least we 
won't be leaving until around noon."  She glanced at the 
restaurant, where a  family with small twin girls was coming out 
the front door.  Her face clouded.  After a moment she turned to 
him.  "What about you, Mulder?  What have you been up to?"

Mulder nodded toward the front door.  "It's about time.  Maybe we 
should check on the food."

They worked their way past the waiting line and in the front door.  
Their food was indeed ready, packed into a large brown bag with 
handles.  Scully paid and Mulder took the bag.

"You ever been to this park?" he asked when they were outside 
again.

"I never even knew there was a park around here."

"You'll like it."

The park was small, barely the width of several buildings removed 
from the middle of a city block, with a thick perimeter of trees 
and a fountain in the center.  Mulder gestured to a bench near the 
fountain that faced the rear of the park.

"Will this do?"

Scully sat down.  "Actually, this is quite nice."  She looked up, 
into the leaves of the trees.  Her hair fell back from her face.  
"You know, Mulder, I can't remember the last time I sat outside."

"Maybe this is a good thing then," he said, taking the box of food 
she handed him and sitting down.

Mulder opened his meal and started to eat.  He wasn't that hungry 
but he could always save what was left over.  It was good, though.  
Scully had gotten the kind with the red sauce.  She seemed to be 
enjoying it.

"So what have you been up to, Mulder?" she said between bites of 
garlic bread.

He stopped chewing.  He breathed out and paused.

"I'm thinking about giving up the apartment."  He hadn't meant to 
tell her.  He'd planned to wait until it was unavoidable.

She frowned at him, exactly the look he'd been expecting.

He shrugged.  "I figure if I ever want to get back into the Bureau 
I've got to grab onto this thing," he said.  "If I let go now..."  
He shook his head.  "I may never make it.  I have a little money 
saved up, but it won't last if I keep the place.  I can always 
pick up something again later, when I'm back in."

"But Mulder, it's your home."

He stared at the water bubbling up quietly out of the top of the 
fountain and spilling over the rounded edges in glistening waves.  
"Can't be helped, Scully.  I can't let go of this.  Not now."  He 
focused on his voice, on keeping it even.

"Have you figured out how to catch him yet--Cancer Man?"

"Not exactly.  But I'm laying the groundwork.  I've got to let him 
think his strategy is working, that he's broken me.  That I'm not 
a threat anymore."

"Be your own decoy."

He nodded.  "If my guess is right, Alex Krycek will get worried 
and contact me."

Scully looked suddenly alarmed.  "Bit my tongue," she said, wiping 
her mouth quickly with a napkin.

"I... I don't know what Krycek's angle is yet, what value he 
thinks I hold for him, but he's bound to come around, and its a 
start.  Maybe I can get some information; you know he's working 
for Old Smoky."

"But how can you trust him, Mulder?  He could just want to use you 
against the Smoking Man."

"I know.  But at this point, what choice do I have?"  He squinted 
across to the far corner of the park.

"But where will you stay, Mulder?" her voice came quietly after a 
minute.  "If you give up your apartment?"

"I don't know yet.  I'll find something."

"What will you do with your things?"  She shook her head.  "Never 
mind.  Not exactly the kind of help you need, am I?"

He looked over at her.  "Sure you are.  You're the last thing I've 
got that hasn't vanished into thin air."  He paused, then raised 
his eyebrows.  "Thanks for the food, by the way.  It's the best 
meal I've had in days."

"You haven't eaten very much."

"I haven't been all that hungry."  He closed the lid on the box.  
"I'll save it, though.  It'll be good tomorrow.  Anyway..."  He 
nodded toward her and grinned.  "It was a chance to see the 
amazing Dr. Scully.  I figured I'd better go for it while I 
could."  He waited for a protest, a sign that he'd exceeded his 
limits.

Instead, she sighed.  "You know, Mulder, I was thinking about it 
last night.  Something Wilkins said to me and all of a sudden it 
felt like a thousand years since we've been out on assignment--
even one of Kersh's orange jumpsuit cases."

Mulder bit his lip and looked up, to where the sunset haloed the 
buildings in molten colors.

Alex Krycek eased his car down the dirt-and-gravel road in the 
dwindling light.  The subject's name was Cyrus Miller, 23, and at 
this moment he should be somewhere inside the grove of trees that 
lay at the end of this sorry excuse for a road.  High school 
graduate, social drinker, good ol' boy in training, never a jock 
but hefty enough to be a football player.  With buddies stupid 
enough to buy a stranger's story about being an old friend of Cy's 
from when he lived with his grandmother as a teenager.  Krycek 
shook his head.

He cut the motor and cruised silently down the last thirty feet of 
road.  Half an hour earlier would have been nice--a little more 
visibility--but this would do.  He checked his weapon and slipped 
from the car, leaving the door ajar.

His boots seemed unnervingly loud on the gravel, but it should 
thin into dirt soon and anyway, Miller should be drunk enough by 
now not to notice.  Krycek entered the trees.

The black silhouettes of lacy branches spread overhead, 
backlighted in the west by the bright purples and oranges of dusk.  
The eastern sky was already a deepening blue.  It *was* too dark, 
but a light shone in the near distance; he could see it already.  
Not a campfire.  A contained area.  A car.  A car with its 
interior lights on--how convenient could this guy get?  Krycek 
smiled grimly and walked on.

The light was nearly gone.  A pale, thin yellowness remained 
behind the building to the west of the park, outlining it softly.  
The trees were beginning to lose their detail, transforming 
gradually into black lace stencils.

"Rita Johnston, Mulder.  I just... What she must be going 
through."  She shook her head.  "I can't get it out of my head.  
It's like a loop--it just plays and replays."

She was warm up against his side.

A sudden current of warm air wafted between the trees, rustling 
their leaves, leaving them whispering.  Water in the fountain 
splashed noisily from the main bowl.

She let her head tilt a little more, until it nearly rested 
against his shoulder.

It wasn't Andy Johnston she was feeling this pain for; it was his 
mother.  The whole situation was too close to home.

"You're missing her, aren't you?" he said quietly.

Scully looked away.  He could feel her tighten.

Mulder moved his arm from between them and settled it along the 
back of the bench.  His hand curved around her shoulder.

"Be glad you haven't forgotten her, Scully.  Be glad you haven't 
tried to picture her so many times that her face dissolves in 
front of you as soon as you try to picture it."

She turned toward him but said nothing.  She seemed to lean into 
him more; he could feel her breath against his shirt.

Slowly his arm went around her.

He closed his eyes.

Krycek approached silently from the rear of the car.  Country 
music drifted softly from the radio.  There was a beer on the 
dashboard; Cyrus Miller sat in the driver's seat, his face 
yellowed by the weak light, ragged blond hair sprouting from under 
a baseball cap, a full reddish beard framing his face.  His eyes 
were glazy and he stared straight ahead.  Shiny trails ran down 
his cheeks.

Krycek watched only a moment.  He drew his weapon, put it through 
the open window and fired.  Blood sprayed against the passenger 
window;  Miller slumped slightly to the side.  Krycek breathed in, 
breathed out, focusing on his interior rhythm, willing the sudden 
raggedness from it.  After several moments a gurgle came from the 
body.  Krycek slipped a cloth from his pocket and began to wipe 
the surface of the weapon.

It was a good hit, quick and clean; the guy wouldn't have felt a 
thing.  Still, he was damn tired of this--playing the trigger.  If 
it weren't for...

A wail tore the silence--close-in, high-pitched.  Krycek grabbed 
the gun by the handle and spun around, struggling to see, to clear 
his head.  Nothing but leaves and darkness.  His ears buzzed.    

He turned back to the car, panting, bathed in sudden sweat.  
Except for his ragged breaths, there was silence.

Miller's body moved slightly.  Krycek cocked his weapon.  The cry 
came again, raw; a small face emerged from behind Miller's gut, 
eyes wide, terrified.

Dream--he was swimming through a dream.   He saw the kid Sergei, 
pale and bony.  He saw Victor bleeding onto the cobblestones.  The 
numbers on the dashboard clock were blinking.  Krycek's throat 
closed; he struggled to breathe.  The scream came again, harsh, 
echoing down his spine.

Krycek pointed his weapon and fired.

Mulder watched wispy clouds drift above the little park, his arm 
still around his partner.  Scully had fallen asleep against him, 
he didn't know how long ago but he hadn't wanted to wake her.  She 
was exhausted from a week of overwork and commuting, and then 
Emily had come to visit, Emily who had opened Scully up like no 
one else.  Emily she'd given her cross to, Emily she'd stretched 
herself for, *wanting* to take down those walls she maintained so 
assiduously.  Emily she'd sacrificed her emotions to release.  
Emily who'd helped her rebuild her walls more solidly than before.

Mulder dipped his head slightly until her hair rested against his 
lips.  He should wake her.  She should be in her own bed, sleeping 
where she could relax.  She had another trip to make--another 
assignment--tomorrow when she should be sleeping in--an encounter 
with the body of a mother's only son, and what would it do to her?  
How much could she take?  This was the only time they'd had--the 
only time he'd been with her in days, or was it months or years?  
She smelled like her, familiar and reassuring.  He could sit here 
forever--for years--just sitting here on this bench, his partner 
asleep against him, reassured by the rhythm of her breathing, of 
her warmth and weight against him.

He looked up again.  Above the trees two or three stars were 
visible, shining more brightly than the electrically-lit 
metropolis.  A breeze came from the right, blowing strands of her 
hair across his face.

He shifted.

"Scully..."

She stirred and opened her eyes.  She sat up.

"What?  Oh, my God.  I really did fall asleep.  What...?"  She 
looked around.

"Scully, it's late.  It's getting cold."

"Mulder, why didn't you wake me?"

He shrugged, sheepish.  "You were tired.  I figured you needed 
it."  He paused.  "It was nice here--the trees and the sky."

She looked up.  "Yes, it is."

"Come on," he said, standing.  He gave her a hand up and guided 
her toward the path.  "I'll take you home."

Krycek drove north over the darkened road to Cincinnati.  The 
radio was loud and the windows were rolled down all the way.  He 
shivered.  Nobody had seen him, nobody was chasing him, but still 
he shook, jittery little tremors that refused to stop.  There was 
a squawk from the radio as it skipped from one station to another.  
Country music poured into the car.  He slapped at the off button.

He was too hot.  He wanted a shower, wanted to wash away his sweat 
and the sticky residue of the grove, but there was no time, no 
place.  Damn the old man for giving him this hit.  Damn him for 
everything.   Damn her, too.

His throat swelled, hard and painful, and he gripped the steering 
wheel harder.

If he made good enough time, he could change his flight.  But the 
old man would find out if he detoured to New York.  He'd check the 
passenger manifest: there was no trust lost between the two of 
them.  But what reason could he give?  He couldn't afford to blow 
it now, to slip down the ladder he'd finally begun to climb again. 
Maybe he could volunteer to check up on the group, a surprise 
visit; the old man never trusted any of them too far.  It might 
appeal to him.

Or it might raise his suspicions.

Well, this time he'd have to take that chance.

Tail lights screamed red directly in front of him.  Krycek braked, 
swerved into a passing lane and fought the momentary adrenaline 
rush.  Get a grip, get a rhythm.  Now slow it down.

He checked the rearview--nothing--moved over two lanes to the 
right, eased on the brake and brought the car to a stop on the 
shoulder of the road.  He was breathing hard.  Damn her.  Damn her 
for not having the guts to end it before it started.

He let the engine idle for a minute and then switched the key off.  
His body continued to shake.  Three cars whizzed by in quick 
succession, their red tail lights growing smaller and smaller 
until finally they disappeared.  Blackness spread itself around 
him.

So cold now.  He hugged his arms against his chest and let his 
head rest against the steering wheel.  Inside he throbbed with the 
steady pulsing of blood that moved through him like a poison.  The 
one-eyed boy stared at him, face contorted in fear.

Silence--first a static-filled quiet and then true, empty silence.  
The cold arc of the steering wheel pressed hard against his 
forehead and a sob wrenched itself from his throat.  The boy 
stared unblinking.  Another sob slipped from him, then another, 
until he was only a small boat on a swollen river of pain, unable 
to steer for the shore.

Teena Mulder flipped the switch to turn off the bedside light.  As 
her eyes adjusted to the darkness her thoughts settled on her son.  
Where he would be at this moment and what dangers would he be 
facing?

(end 6 of 14)
.......................................
Walking Through Fire (7 of 14)

Scully worked her key in the lock and opened her front door.

"You sure you don't want to take my car, Mulder?" she said.  "It's 
awfully late to be waiting for a bus."

"No, it's okay.  It's no problem.  If I can escape from a Russian 
gulag"--he shrugged--"I can do this."

She looked up at him.  "Take care of yourself, Mulder."

"You, too."  He paused.  "You know, I think Skinner may be right 
about this case of yours.  There could be a lot more there than 
meets the eye.  Think about it, Scully.  This guy is killed in an 
accident by a man with an axe to grind; what could be a more 
perfect setup?  Who would think to look farther than that?"

"You may be right..."  She stifled a yawn.

Mulder nodded toward the interior of the apartment.  "You'd better 
get yourself in there and get some sleep.  Go on," he said softly.

"I'll let you know when I'm back from Lexington," she said.  She 
half-smiled and looked down.  "Goodnight, Mulder."

The door closed.  From the other side he could hear the lock 
turning.

Mulder's mouth pulled into a quiet grin.  She'd enjoyed herself.  
She'd done that little smile-and-look-away thing, the I'm-pleased-
but-I-don't-want-you-to-read-too-much-into-it thing.  It was okay.  
It was more than okay; it was damn good.

Mulder picked up the Carravaggio's bag with his leftover food and 
started toward the entry.  The air outside was cooler now and 
traffic was dying down.  The air carried a faint scent of 
something sweet, probably flowers blooming.  He glanced to the 
left.

One of the bushes under Scully's window swayed and then stopped 
abruptly.  Mulder tensed and carefully lowered the bag to the 
cement.  He paused for a few seconds, then took a step toward the 
bushes.  Branches snapped and a figure slipped from the shrubbery 
and took off toward the corner of the building.  Mulder sprinted 
in pursuit.

"Hey!"

The figure rounded the corner and ran toward the back of the 
building, keeping to the shadows.  Mulder followed.  He had no 
weapon, nothing except his own speed to force the guy to stop; 
he'd have to overtake and tackle him.  What the hell had the guy 
been doing under Scully's window anyway?  Images of police tape 
and the broken window from Scully's abduction crowded his mind.

The figure was approaching the chain-link at the rear of the 
building's small, grassy yard.  In a few seconds he was up and 
over.  He seemed to be a small man, quick in his movements, as if 
he didn't weigh much.  Mulder jumped up onto the fence, scrambled 
up and jumped down onto the other side.  The guy had gone to the 
right.

Breathe.  He felt his muscles strain, his skin flush.  Wind raced 
past his face.  He'd turned left again, darting between two 
buildings.  Over a short hedge, below an outdoor clothesline, 
another fence--this one wooden.  A gate.

Mulder pushed through.  Breathe.  He was in an alley.  He looked 
to the right: nothing.  The left: no movement.  He slipped back a 
few steps into shadows, out of the low glow of a street lamp, and 
waited.  He panted, bent over, waiting.  The street appeared to be 
deserted.  He held his breath, listening, and then gulped in air.  
If he'd had his weapon, he could have made the guy stop before 
he'd hopped that first fence.  Weapon and a badge.  Just a shot to 
make him dance, force him to reconsider.  Now he had nothing to 
show for his efforts.

Mulder stood up and started back the way he'd come, through the 
gate, and then stopped.  He had no authority.  Someone could see 
him going through this yard and call the cops on him.  No badge to 
back him up, to legitimize him; for all anyone knew he was just 
another psycho.  He went back through the gate, shut it quietly 
and started for the street.  He'd have to walk around the block.

How could he keep her safe now?  And what had the guy wanted from 
her?  Duane Barry had broken in through that same window and 
carried her off.  If he went back and told her what had happened, 
he'd wake her and she probably wouldn't be able to sleep after 
that... and she needed the sleep.  But the guy wasn't likely to 
return.  Not tonight.  Small guy--he was probably just a common 
thief.  Mulder's hands flexed and made fists.  A small cardboard 
box lay beside an overflowing trash can; he gave it a kick.  His 
food was still sitting on Scully's front steps unless someone had 
walked off with it, and he hoped there was still time to make the 
bus before they quit running for the night.

He stepped out of the shadows into the glow of the street lamps 
lining the sidewalk.  It was a side street, with no traffic now, 
its borders lined with darkened parked cars.  Large old trees 
spread themselves overhead.  On the lawn of the second building, 
near the walkway, was a small shadowed sign.  He went closer:  
room for rent.  Mulder looked up, to the numbers posted over the 
wooden porch, and committed them to memory.

"Oh, by the way, I have a change of plans for you, Alex," the 
voice came from the receiver.

"Yeah..."  Krycek leaned in closer to the pay phone.  He plugged 
his other ear to block out the blurred sound of airport 
announcements.  The scene around him seemed unreal, distant.

"I want you to go to New York.  I'd like you to"--a pause, 
undoubtedly for the old man's cigarette--"drop in on our 
associates."

Krycek's eyes squeezed closed.  He let himself sag against the 
phone enclosure.  Jackpot.  What had he done to deserve this?

"Alex?"

"... Yeah?"

He struggled to catch up, to focus on what the old man was saying.  
He *would* go now; he had to before he lost the courage.  If 
nothing else, he had to do it to put it behind him.  Greenwich was 
only a stone's throw from the city.

"Your ticket should be waiting for you at the counter.  Your 
flight leaves in an hour."

"Got it."  He hung up the phone, paused and picked up his bag.  
He'd told the old man about the boy.  He'd seemed to have little 
reaction except to say that it should easily pass for a murder-
suicide.  Son of a bitch.  He could still see the boy, wide-eyed, 
like a blood stain permanently imbedded in a white dress shirt.

He was thirsty suddenly, and his body was heavy and buzzing with 
fatigue, though he knew he wouldn't sleep.  He looked ahead, 
searching for a water fountain, and began to walk.

Mulder glanced around the room, aware of the small, gray-haired 
woman gauging his reactions.  It was a basement apartment with its 
own entrance--definitely a plus.  A single window was set into the 
upper part of the wall next to the door and four small panes of 
glass were fitted into the door itself.  It was a small room, with 
only a single bed and enough room for his desk.  A wing chair with 
a little table next to it sat at the foot of the bed.  A floor 
lamp was behind the chair.  There was a small closet the width of 
a door and a small bathroom with a stall shower.  Everything was 
painted a turn-of-the-century pale green.  On the floor was an 
old, patterned carpet in a worn red-burgundy with darker lines 
woven through it forming diamond patterns.  But it was clean.  And 
he could afford it.

Mulder looked out through the window at the pale gray of morning, 
then turned to the woman and nodded.

"I'll take it," he said.

Alex Krycek stood outside the white front door, heart banging as 
if he were waiting for his execution.  At this point he wasn't 
even sure why he was here.  He was too tired, his mind too messed 
up, to feel the sharp bitterness he'd expected to be able to focus 
at her.  Now he just had to know.  She was a hurdle he had to pass 
in order to go on.  He breathed out and pushed the bell.

His eyes closed momentarily.  He'd give almost anything to be able 
to curl up somewhere safe for few hours, but sleep wasn't likely 
to be pretty.

Approaching footsteps, a turn of the handle, and the door opened a 
few inches.  Her hair was lighter--whiter--than in her driver's 
license picture.

"Yes?" she said, obviously surprised by the stranger on her 
doorstep.

He swallowed.  "I need to talk to you," he said.  He cleared his 
throat.  His voice was like gravel.

"About?"

"About... your family.  About..."  He breathed out.  Seconds 
passed but no words came.  "Look, can I... can I just come in for 
a minute?"

She frowned at him, taken slightly aback.  "I don't even know 
you."

"I know.  I just... it's important."  Tongue-tied.  He breathed 
out again.

He looked at her; it was all he could do, some instinctive attempt 
at communication beyond the words that refused to come: an asking.  
Her face went from puzzlement to alertness back to puzzlement--the 
puzzlement of following instinct even as your mind warns you to 
beware.

"Only for a minute," she said, and opened the door wider and let 
him in.

She hesitated in the entry, and then pointed toward the kitchen 
and let him lead the way.  There was a table in the middle, but he 
went around it and stood with his back to the sink.

"What is it you want?  Has something happened to my son?"

Well, isn't that the understatement of the year.

Shit.

He opened his mouth.  Nothing came out.

She'd had a stroke two years before, when the old man had 
confronted her.  This wasn't a good time for another one.  He 
glanced down at his boots, then up at her.  She was waiting, 
clearly uncomfortable now.

"Look, I'm not trying to mess up your life here..."  His voice 
sounded strange, as if he were hearing himself on a tape recorder.  
He swallowed again.  It was taking too long.

"Who are you?" she said suddenly.

Her words echoed accusingly across the room.  She gripped the 
chair back beside her.   And he was sucked into a freefall, 
uncontrolled, tumbling.

"Look, there's something I need to know..."

Her concern was deepening.  His mouth was parched.  He could see 
her getting squirmy, wanting to move, to get the hell away from 
him and what he'd brought into her house.  Suddenly she turned 
pale.  It was the picture--the picture in his hand.  He didn't 
remember pulling it from his pocket.

She looked at him freeze-framed, her mouth half-open, eyes wide 
and painful.

"My God," she managed finally, her voice barely a whisper.  She 
pulled the chair out shakily and sat down.

She wanted to look away--it was obvious--but she didn't.  She 
couldn't.  She pointed to the other chair but he shook his head.

"I'm not the kind of guy you want to get to know."  He breathed 
in, breathed out.  Her face was all questions and dread.  "He sent 
me to Russia.  I grew up in an orphanage there.  I was raised to 
do his dirty work."

She swallowed.  Her face was distorted, pulled by anger, fear, 
pain.  He took a step closer and laid the picture on the table.

"Why?"  His voice was almost gone.  "Why did you go through with 
it?"

She was close to tears.  She shook her head.

"I..."  She sighed.  "For many years I was a very foolish woman.  
It's not a good excuse, but unfortunately it's the truth."  She 
looked away, and then back at him, studying his face.  Truly 
taking him in for the first time.  "What's your... your name?"

"Alex."

She nodded.  "I'm sorry.  I'm so very sorry... Alex."

His body seemed to sag, suddenly too heavy to hold upright.  He 
wanted to sit, wanted to close his eyes.  Wanted everything to go 
away.

"Look, do you have somewhere I could sack out for a few hours?" he 
said.

Her eyes widened in alarm.

He shook his head.  "No, not in here.  Anywhere will do.  A chaise 
lounge or something.  Just... I haven't slept in almost two days."

"There's a fold-away bed in the garage," she said, and stood up.

"No, don't.  I'll find it."  He looked at her.  "Like I said, I 
don't think you want to get to know me.  I'm not squeaky clean 
like Mulder."

She half-nodded, half-swallowed.

He went to the back door and let himself out.

In the garage he found the fold-away bed and made a place for it 
against a wall.  The mattress was dusty but it hardly mattered.  
He took an old blanket from the top of some boxes and shook it.  
Then he lay down on the mattress, covered himself, and closed his 
eyes.  After a moment he shifted, seeking a more comfortable 
position for the prosthesis.  His body was buzzing, heavy.

Darkness enveloped him and he sank into sleep.

Mulder lay staring up at the narrow, green-painted boards 
overhead.  It was his now.  Light filtered in through the window.  
Leaves bordered it like a picture frame, green and vibrant.  More 
light came in through the small panes of glass in the door.  
Outside there were stairs going up, set with pots of geraniums he 
hadn't noticed at first, the handiwork of his new landlady, Mrs. 
Santoli.

At least she'd saved him the embarrassment of having to provide 
proof of employment.  He could have gotten Scully or Skinner to 
vouch for him, but it was better he hadn't had to ask.  It would 
have felt like begging on a street corner.

He turned and glanced at the wing chair.  He'd need to eat.  He 
hadn't even thought of it when he'd come to look at the place, but 
as it turned out, Mrs. Santoli had a small fridge that went in the 
corner beside the chair and he could toss his microwave on top.  
He'd get by.

He stretched himself full-length.  The bed was like she'd 
described it, soft but comfortable.  But it wasn't his couch.

Scully should be taking off for Kentucky within the hour.  Though 
she could do an autopsy with complete clinical detachment, this 
one might be different.  The connection had already been eating at 
her, which meant she'd probably already had Emily on her mind, and 
why was that so surprising?  Why was it so natural to carry around 
someone you'd lost and so surprising to find that someone else 
could be doing the same?

He pulled up to a sitting position.  There was a lot to do--an 
apartment to clear out, a storage unit to check on, stuff to bring 
over here--before he fell asleep tonight.  Here.  At home.

Home.

He looked around once more and let out a slow breath.

The plane hurtled down the runway, gathering speed and pressing 
Scully back into her seat.  It lifted abruptly, as if it were 
being shot up a tube into the sky.  The ascent was steeper than 
usual.  Scully gripped the armrests, noticed her white knuckles, 
and willed herself to relax.  She breathed out slowly and looked 
to her right, at Skinner, who seemed absorbed in his own thoughts.  
Gradually the plane began to level out.

She tried not to think of Rita Johnston.  Instead she focused on 
Mulder, who had been uncharacteristically quiet the night before.  
But it made sense: he was giving up his apartment.  Her own family 
certainly hadn't been rich.  They'd lived in base housing and had 
moved any number of time, but this was different.  Mulder and his 
apartment seemed so much a part of each other.

"...I sent over?"

She turned to face Skinner.  "Excuse me, sir?"

"Did you get the accident report I faxed over?"

"Yes.  It seemed pretty straightforward to me.  There was 
corroboration from several witnesses.  Cause of death isn't going 
to be an issue here.  I think you should be aware that here's no 
guarantee we'll be able to find any demonstrable evidence of 
beryllium disease, either.  Sometimes it lies dormant for years, 
the way HIV can go for years without developing into full-blown 
AIDS.  There's a test for sensitivity, which is the first stage, 
but it has to be performed on live tissue and we don't have that 
anymore.  So unless the disease progressed extremely rapidly and 
we have scarring on the lungs... assuming he actually was affected 
in the first place..."

Skinner looked away.  His mouth tightened.

"What about other remains, sir?  Were Wilkins and his partner able 
to locate any?"

"I asked them not to press Rita Johnston for information right 
now; they're working through channels at the plant.  So far they 
haven't come up with anything..."

"Sir, I know this is a sensitive time, but Rita... Just from the 
type of person she is, sir, I think she'd want to help.  I think 
it would give her some purpose, a way of fighting back."  
Something to put her back up against, though she didn't say so.  
"I'd be glad to ask her if you'd like..."

He nodded.  "You're probably right, Scully.  I just..."  He shook 
his head and went silent.

"I think it's important to locate any remains as soon as possible.  
Agent Mulder..."  She paused; theoretically she probably shouldn't 
have told him about the case.  "Mulder thinks the hit-and-run 
could easily have been a setup, something so apparent that no one 
would think to look beyond the obvious."

He nodded, though he continued to look straight ahead.

The refreshment cart was approaching down the aisle, accompanied 
by the snap of soda can tops and the crunching of ice cubes.  
Scully looked out the window and closed her eyes.

Teena Mulder set the sandwiches on a plate and added a piece of 
pickle.  She'd spent the last two hours sitting in a chair, 
staring blankly at the fireplace and thinking only of Alex, of the 
fact that she'd never thought to look past Leland's offer to 
remove an inconvenient, unplanned child from her life.  She had 
automatically assumed the baby would be adopted.  That was what 
happened to babies people couldn't keep: they were put up for 
adoption.  It had been a convenient, comforting thought and she'd 
looked no further.  Having him gone had relieved some of the 
pressure between herself and Bill; they'd had virtually no 
connection by then and he'd known immediately that the child 
wasn't his.  Leland had--seemingly again--come to her rescue.  In 
the end, of course, he'd never rescued her at all.  He only used.  
It was the way he dealt with life.

Alex.

His eyes were so very intense.  *He* was very intense, direct, 
tight and wary, as if he'd spent his life being chased, having to 
survive.  Undoubtedly he had.  And undoubtedly he was every bit as 
dangerous as he implied he was, if Leland had trained and groomed 
him.

Teena stared at the plate of food.  She had no idea what he liked 
to eat; she knew nothing about this child who had once grown 
inside her body.  But he'd looked tired, worn, and undoubtedly he 
was hungry, too.  She pulled a roll of plastic wrap from a drawer 
and covered the plate with a piece of it.  Then she picked up the 
plate and went to the back door.

She stood a moment looking out through the window, then turned the 
handle and went outside.  The air was warm and pleasant.  The rear 
door to the garage stood open.  She walked carefully, quietly, so 
as not to disturb him.  When she reached the doorway she paused, 
allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the darkness inside. He 
could have been mistaken for a homeless man.  He had the bed up 
against the garage wall and was lying there half-hidden in an old 
blanket.  He made no sound as he slept.

She traced the pattern of his face in her mind and tried to 
imagine him as a boy.  She nearly could.  It was a ragged boy she 
saw in her mind, a boy straight out of *Oliver Twist.  A boy 
fending for himself, shaped by a distant and calculating father, 
sad-eyed and fierce.  A boy with no memory of a mother, carrying 
in her place the burning question *why?*

She watched the blanket move up and down with his breathing and 
adjusted her own to match, as if it would create some point of 
contact between them, some common ground they'd never shared and 
never would.  Finally she set the plate down next to the door and 
walked quietly back to the kitchen.  She shut the door behind her, 
paused a moment and turned the lock.

"Yes, Mr. Beeson--"  The Smoking Man paused and lit another 
Morley.

"We're starting to have a lot of trouble around here, a lot of 
snooping."

"I'd heard someone was making waves, a woman whose son seemed to 
have symptoms."

"Well, it's gotten worse.  There've been a couple of FBI asking 
questions at the plant--asking about other people they thought 
might've been sick."

"And you were... helpful?"

"They didn't exactly ask my permission, sir.  They just come 
around outside to the lunch area and started talking to people.  
Bob didn't know what else to do.  He couldn't just up and tell 'em 
to leave.  That was yesterday.  And now another one of 'em's come 
in, some bigwig, and he's brought his own medical examiner to look 
at Andy Johnston--a woman."

The Smoking Man frowned and fidgeted with his cigarette.  "I see."  
He blew out a very long stream of smoke.  "And this medical 
examiner... you've seen her?"

"She's a short woman.  Redhead."

He jabbed the butt of the Morley into the half-full ashtray in 
front of him.

"Thank you, Mr. Beeson," he said, careful to make his voice 
pleasant.  "Thank you for alerting us.  You provide a valuable 
service, much too valuable to lose."  He took a drag on the 
Morley.  "It may take us a few days to straighten things out.  
Just remain calm, Mr. Beeson.  Everything will be taken care of."

He hung up the phone, stood, and shoved the chair harshly into 
place at the desk.  Things would *not* be taken care of so easily.  
There were too many of them now--too many players involved to be 
able to eliminate them all cleanly.  Skinner had insinuated 
himself into the equation, no doubt intent on making some 
'meaningful' contribution to society, or saving the world's poor 
and downtrodden.

And Scully.  She hadn't been a threat before.  Her methods were 
too rigid, her grasp of the possibilities too narrow to allow her 
to discover anything of consequence.  Indeed, she had acted as a 
convenient brake on Mulder, insisting upon quantifiable proof to 
back up his wild-sounding theories.  She'd been useful as 
something to hold over Mulder, to make him jump.  But this wasn't 
the future in jeopardy; it was the present.  And the present was 
something she was capable of influencing.

He frowned again, pulled another Morley from the package and lit 
it.

Krycek opened his eyes and looked at his watch.  2:34.  He arched 
his back and turned carefully to look through the open doorway.  
Outside, the lime green leaves of a tree gleamed in the afternoon 
sun.  A scent of flowers, something sweet and penetrating he'd 
smelled once before somewhere, penetrated the air.  He eased 
himself onto his back and rubbed carefully at his stump, where the 
socket attached to it.  His body felt heavy, worn.  He pushed 
himself up to a sitting position.  He needed to be in New York.  
The emptiness of hunger flooded his middle.

He climbed off the bed and put the blanket back where he'd found 
it, folded up the bed and moved it back into place.  He glanced 
around:  late-model white Toyota, shelves stacked neatly with 
labeled boxes, a washer and dryer set to one side.  The typical 
garage of a single older American woman.  It spoke only emptiness 
to him.

He shouldered his bag and started out of the garage, nearly 
tripping over a glass plate lying in the doorway.  He paused, 
looking at the contents through the clear wrap covering the plate, 
and swallowed.  After a long moment he stooped to pick it up.

(end 7 of 14)
..............................
Walking Through Fire (8 of 14)

Skinner stared through the window at downtown Lexington.  The 
image of the street in front of him gradually dissolved into the 
scene in the basement office a week earlier, the Smoking Man 
greeting him with smug cheer, forcing him to face with what he'd 
done in passing Scully the Cassandra Spender information.

"Looks like a murder-suicide," Wilkins' words drifted in from the 
next room.

He'd come way too close to getting found out.

There was a gap in the muted conversation and then Wilkins 
continued.

"Maybe not?  Makes perfect sense, you know: he runs over the guy 
and then has a flash of clarity.  He realizes what he's done, that 
he's going to get put away..."

"Has anyone spoken to the wife yet?"  It was Scully, subdued.  "Do 
we know if he was ever despondent before, whether he was ever 
suicidal, how he handled his problems?"

"I... no, haven't done that kind of interview.  Yet.  I mean, this 
lady's been through a lot..."

"I'd be willing to go with you, Agent Wilkins, if I'm not 
overstepping my bounds here.  It may be easier for her to talk 
with another woman."

"Manny's going to be jealous."  There was soft humor in Wilkins' 
voice as he referred to his partner.

The click of shoes on tile approached.

"Sir?"

Skinner turned.  "That's probably a good idea, Agent.  How long is 
it going to take you to look at Andy Johnston?"

"Not long, sir.  Half an hour at most.  I can take samples and 
analyze them back at Quantico."

"All right."  He nodded at them.  "You and Wilkins see what you 
can find."

Skinner turned back to the window.  The afternoon was overcast, 
cool.  Shapeless gray masses made their way across the sky.  It 
could be that he was just being paranoid, that he'd been spooked 
by his own blunders the weekend before.  The evidence could 
represent just what it seemed to.  It could all be very 
straightforward.

Mulder had been suspicious, though.  It was awfully clean, awfully 
convenient that Johnston had been killed by someone with a score 
to settle.  It made sense that the guy might end up committing 
suicide, but... Big but.  It was clean, surgically clean.  Except 
for the little boy.

Skinner's hands found their way to his hips.  He dipped his head.  
Dale Lanier would be here any time--Lanier who had lost his left 
arm below the elbow for his efforts at dragging the sorry ass of a 
scared, green kid out of the heat of a firefight.

A sigh escaped him.  He set his jaw and forced himself to focus on 
the scene outside the window.

The Millers' mobile home was tucked against a hillside beside a 
second mobile home, neither of them new.  The broad area 
surrounding the structures was bordered by a scattered collection 
of rusty late '60's model cars.  Tall weeds reaching randomly 
through windows and open trunks indicated that none of them had 
been driven in years.  A black Labrador wandered in the bare front 
yard, sniffing at the ground.

Agent Wilkins brought the car to a stop and glanced at Scully in 
the passenger seat.  "This is it, I guess."

She nodded.

"I'm going to be watching how you do this... for future 
reference."

Scully shook her head.  "I wouldn't describe myself an expert at 
this, either, Agent Wilkins.  This type of interview is never 
easy."  She reached for the door handle.

Scully and Wilkins crossed the yard and climbed the gray wood 
stairs to the home's front porch.  Dark shapes could be seen 
behind a screen door.  Quiet voices drifted out from inside.  
Scully nodded to Wilkins, who knocked on the paneling beside the 
door.

"Mrs. Miller?"

The corner of Wilkins' mouth pulled.  He was taking this 
personally, Scully realized, putting himself in the victim's 
place.  Understandable, considering what he'd experienced as a 
child.

Footsteps approached and a brown-haired woman in her late thirties 
became visible behind the darkened grid of the screen.

"Mrs. Miller?" Scully said.

The woman paused to regard them.  "I expect you'll be looking for 
my daughter."

"We're from the FBI.  I'm Agent Scully, this is Agent Wilkins.  
We'd like to ask Mrs. Miller a few questions."

The woman looked at her, though her gaze seemed to catch on 
Wilkins.  "She's already talked to the police," she said.  "Do you 
people really need to drag her through this again?"

"I know this is a very painful time for all of you," Scully began, 
"but this incident ties into an ongoing federal investigation.  
There are a few questions we really need to ask her."

The woman sighed, hesitated a moment and went to retrieve her 
daughter.  Scully looked down and traced the grayed wood grain on 
the porch with the toe of one shoe.

Mrs. Miller, when she appeared, was probably nineteen at best.  
Her hair was wavy, long and brown, her eyes and cheeks puffy with 
crying.  Her mother stood behind her like a bodyguard.

"Yes?"  She looked from Scully to Wilkins.

"We're very sorry about your loss," Scully said softly.  "We need 
to ask you a few questions about your husband."

The girl stepped out onto the porch.

"Mrs. Miller, can you tell us about the disagreement your husband 
had with Andy Johnston?"

She squinted into the light and sighed.  "It was a running thing, 
something they'd had going ever since high school.  I don't even 
know what started it.  But they used to trade jabs back and 
forth... And then Andy Johnston snitched on Cy for drinking on the 
job at the plant and they fired him."  She looked at Scully 
through shiny eyes.  "But I didn't think their tussle'd ever come 
to anything.  Cy got another job.  Okay, sometimes he *talked* 
harm but this don't make any sense.  I never saw him do nothing 
awful before.  He loved Roddy.  I don't know how he coulda..."

Her lower lip quivered.  She dissolved into sobs and her mother 
stepped through the doorway and pulled the girl into her embrace.  
Scully pursed her lips and looked away.  She could feel the heat 
of the older woman's stare boring into her.  After taking a 
breath, she began again gently.

"Roddy was your son?"

The girl nodded.  "Yes, Roddy's my..."  She clutched at the 
familiarity of 'is', unwilling to step off into the awful void of 
'was', and then collapsed against her mother again.

"Mrs. Miller, we're just trying to make sense of what went on 
here, to try to find some answers, something that will help.  You 
said your husband 'talked harm'.  Did he ever seem depressed?  Had 
he ever thought about suicide that you're aware of?"

The girl wiped her eyes and turned back to Scully.  "He was mad 
every once in a while, but that was just Cy.  I guess you could 
say he was a little hot-headed.  After the plant, he got a job in 
his friend's machine shop and we were doing okay after that... 
Well, we weren't doing great but we were getting by."  She wiped 
below one eye with the back of her hand.  "When Roddy came along 
he never seemed to talk about Andy Johnston anymore."  She looked 
directly at Scully.  "He loved that boy.  He'd take him 
everywhere."  Tears and pain welled into her eyes again.  "Last 
night..."  She gulped.  "Last night when they left, Cy said he was 
taking Roddy to the park..."  Her voice began to waver and then 
turned into a low, guttural wail over which she had no control.  
She turned and leaned into her mother again and began to pound her 
mother's shoulder with a fist.  The older woman took the fist 
calmly, slowly, and covered it with her own hand.  She frowned at 
Scully and Wilkins.

"I think she's had enough now," she said, her mouth straight and 
tight.  "Don't you?"  She nodded at them and guided the girl back 
inside the house.

"Thank you for your time," Scully said, trying to project caring 
into her voice, though she knew it was unlikely to have its 
intended effect.  She sighed and glanced at Wilkins.  In spite of 
the brownness of his skin he seemed a little blanched, too.  He 
let her pass.  She stepped down and nearly tripped on the second 
stair.  Wilkins' arm was instantly under hers in support.

"Thank you," she said, though her voice was nearly gone.

"Basketball," he said, attempting to smile through his own 
grimness.  "Good training for quick reactions."

They got into the car.  Wilkins concentrated on the road, on 
careful driving.  Scully stared through the passenger window.  
Shapes in greens and grays passed by her, blurred, fleeting.

Mulder set a cardboard box next to the front door of his apartment 
and turned around.  The place was empty, or nearly so.  Only his 
desk was left, still in its place under the window, and a few 
cardboard boxes stacked by the door that would go with him to his 
new place.  New room.

The emptiness now was palpable.  The couch had gone first; he'd 
been in the bedroom supervising the removal of boxes when they'd 
taken it.  He'd merely come out to find it gone, an empty spot 
left in its place, dust drifting on the floor.

He picked up a broom and began to sweep the dining area.  The 
walls were bare.  The whole place was solemn, as if it were a 
monastery--no exuberance, no color, no sound allowed, as if it 
might disturb the gravity of the mood.  The broom bristles went 
whoosh, whoosh, whoosh in the emptiness.  Small drifts of dust 
skittered past the gathering pile of small, hard particles and 
floated free, silent.  The truck was gone now.  They'd be back in 
a half-hour or so for the desk and boxes and it would all be over, 
a chapter sealed away and consigned to the past.

Mulder swept the particles into a dustpan and set the broom 
against the wall.  He walked into the living room--empty room--and 
stopped by the desk at the far end.  He ran his fingers along the 
top of the chair back and closed his eyes.

So much of his time in this room had been spent waiting.  Waiting 
for Deep Throat to call, waiting for X to respond to the masking 
tape in the window.  Waiting to find out whether Scully would live 
or die, or whether the files would survive or be closed down.  
Struggling with his own beliefs and the realities that did or 
didn't support them.  And now he'd spent another week waiting--
sitting on his ass waiting for something to happen, to figure out 
a plan, or for something to fall into his lap.  Sitting, waiting, 
as if he were straight-jacketed and tied to a chair.  But there 
were no cords holding him, no ties, no ropes, and still he had 
done nothing quantifiable, nothing he could point to and say, 
'Here.  This is my plan.  This is how I'm going to bring Old Smoky 
down.  This is the way I'm going to get myself reinstated at the 
Bureau."   All he'd succeeded in doing was getting himself moved 
out of his apartment.  His fingers tightened on the chair back.

Footsteps approached in the hallway.  The muscles in his forearms 
strained against the wood in his grasp.  A footstep echoed inside 
the door.  The scent of cigarette smoke drifted in with it.

"Taking a moment for reflection, Agent Mulder?"

The words echoed through the empty rooms.

Mulder breathed in, breathed out, fighting a surge of adrenaline 
and anger.  *Keep your head.  Don't lose your head.  Play the 
role.*  He opened his eyes and turned.

"What the hell do you want from me?"  He took several steps toward 
the Smoking Man.  "Isn't it enough that you killed my father; that 
you used Scully as some kind of toy--as bait--bait--to catch me; 
that you managed to get me thrown out of the Bureau?  Is it enough 
yet?  Do you have enough?"

"Feeling sorry for ourselves, are we?" Smoky replied casually, 
half a smile on his face.  He reached into his pocket for another 
Morley and a lighter.  He slipped the cigarette between his lips, 
lit it and took a long drag.

"Get out," Mulder said, walking up to him, close, too close.  "The 
trash is gone now, so just get the hell out."  His voice was 
going.  But it was okay; it was a good thing.  *Don't lose your 
head.*

The Smoking Man glanced around the room.  "Everyone has to make 
adjustments from time to time, Agent Mulder.  Material possessions 
aren't all they're cracked up to be..."  He gestured with his 
cigarette toward where the couch and chair had been and put it 
back in his mouth.  "At any rate, I didn't come here to talk about 
you and your little domestic dilemma."

He took another drag on the Morley.  When it came out from between 
his lips, his mouth was set in a hard line.

"I came with some advice for your partner."  He paused.  "*Ex*-
partner... It seems she's gotten herself mixed up in a misguided 
little crusade of Assistant Director Skinner's--a case in 
Kentucky.  She needs to know that her actions aren't without 
consequence..."  The cigarette went in; a stream of smoke came 
out.

"The world is full of tragic little accidents, Mulder: the 
operation of chance, a twist of fate..."  Cigarette in, smoke out.  
The tight-set mouth again.  "Tell her if she'd like to stay where 
she is, in good health..."

Mulder's hands curled into fists.  His throat burned.

"...she should keep to her job description.  Lots of people do it.  
It seems to serve them quite well."

There was no feigning of cordiality this time.  He dropped the 
still-burning cigarette onto the floor and walked out.

Mulder flexed his hands but they returned automatically to fists.  
If he'd had a weapon he would have shot the son of a bitch--no 
thought, no hesitation--and was that good or bad?  Would it make 
him just like the man he wanted to killed?  Was it better to do 
the 'right thing' or to eliminate a sure evil?  He looked up, at 
the ceiling, and closed his eyes.  Tension pumped through him, 
making his arms shaky, unsteady.  He let out an ragged breath.

Footsteps in the hall again-two sets this time.

Mulder picked up the smoldering cigarette and threw it through the 
kitchen door.  It landed cleanly in the sink.  Score.

He'd been flustered, though.  Smoky *had* been flustered.  There'd 
been something there, a little hint of frustration behind the cool 
facade at the end, as if he didn't completely control the board, 
as if Skinner and Scully had stumbled onto something that could 
cause him real damage.  But how?  Was it something he could use 
and turn to his advantage?  And even if he could, how far could he 
go without having Smoky come down on Scully?  She was no longer a 
convenience to Smoky, someone he could use to make Fox Mulder sit 
up and beg.  He wouldn't toy around if he thought she'd stepped 
out of line.

What would he tell her now when she got home?  They'd been pulled 
from their own work and she was searching for meaning, something 
with significance, in her job.  He knew the feeling.  But now 
she'd have to be more careful than ever.

A knock came beside the half-open door and he turned around.  It 
was the movers returning for his things.  He let out a slow 
breath, set his jaw and opened the door wide.

"This is it, sir," Scully said, entering the room where Skinner 
was waiting and setting a small cooler down beside her.  "This is 
everything I'll need."

Skinner turned from the window to face her.  "Good.  The courier 
should be here within five minutes to pick it up."  He glanced 
behind her.  "Where's Agent Wilkins?"

"He's been observing me, sir.  He wants to get a background in the 
forensics involved."  She made an effort to smile, though she was 
weary, as if the weariness were a bulky burden strapped to her.  
"He's a very good agent, sir.  He's willing to go the extra mile."

Skinner nodded in reply.  "How soon will you be ready to go?"

"Agent Wilkins wants me to take a look at the last two bodies--
Miller and the boy.  I won't be long."

Skinner nodded again.  He'd seemed very subdued during the entire 
trip.

Scully returned to Wilkins in the morgue.

"Have you seen the bodies yet?" Scully said.

"I've seen Miller.  He was shot through the left temple."

"Was he a marksman?"

"As much as a lot of guys around here, I guess.  He'd hunted since 
he was a kid."

"Any previous incidents of shooting people?"

Wilkins shook his head.  "No.  Seemed like he was just a joiner, 
part of a group of guys he'd known since high school.  He was 
jailed a couple of times on drunk-and-disorderlies.  Nothing big.  
And then this thing he had going with Andy Johnston."

"Had Johnston ever retaliated in any way?"

"Not any way that local law enforcement has any record of."

Scully sighed.  It had been a long afternoon and her questions 
were perfunctory, an effort to stave off the inevitable.  But 
she'd seen hundreds of bodies; these should be no different.  She 
nodded to Wilkins.  "Shall we take a look?"

There was nothing unremarkable about Cyrus Miller's wound.  The 
entry was clean, point blank, and the exit wound was exactly what 
she would have expected.  "What was his blood alcohol level?"

"Pretty high; I don't remember the numbers.  Let me check my 
paperwork."

"It's not critical."  She looked up at him.  "It's a textbook 
case.  And the weapon they found with him?"

"His wife didn't recognize it.  She said he only kept hunting 
rifles at home, but it wasn't something she said she would have 
paid a lot of attention to.  Evidently he'd go shooting with his 
friends on occasion.  Manny's checking with them."

Scully held a breath momentarily and steeled herself.  "Have you 
looked at the boy?"

Wilkins shook his head.

Scully moved to the drawer.  There was no point in waiting.  She 
wrapped her fingers around the cold steel handle and pulled.

A headful of soft brown curls greeted her.  The child had been two 
and a half.  His body was smooth, showing no signs of abuse.  One 
knee was scraped and she could see from the bottoms of his feet 
that he had rarely worn shoes but instead had run around barefoot.  
There was a small rosebud mouth and one eye half-open that stared 
dully.  A hole sat where the other eye should have been.

Scully wiped her brow and pushed herself forward.

"Suicides--and murder-suicides--aren't always clean.  Quite often 
emotion interferes with doing the job efficiently," she began, her 
voice distant, as if it were someone else's--as if she were 
teaching a class.  "People who slit their wrists, for instance, 
usually have multiple cuts.  Without experience it's difficult to 
get it right on the first attempt."  She paused and then went on.  
"Obviously this isn't a clean job.  Anyone with weapons experience 
would probably have gone for the side of the head, as the boy's 
father did, or the heart.  Alcohol could have interfered, of 
course.  Or if in the emotion of the moment the boy had become 
fussy, or done something unexpected, the father's reaction could 
have resulted in this."

She swallowed and forced herself to look up, halfway up Wilkins' 
tie, then all the way to his face.  "Or you could have something 
else entirely here."  Her lips pressed together.  She brushed an 
errant lock of hair back from her face.  "If Agent Mulder's 
suspicions were to prove correct, that someone else used Miller to 
kill Andy Johnston in order to derail your investigation, then 
they may also have killed Miller to keep him from talking.  A 
shooter who approached the driver's window of the car where they 
were found might not have seen the child at first; Miller was a 
fairly large man.  The child could have been hidden from view if 
he'd been sitting beside his father."

She struggled to keep the words coming.

"Which do you think it was, Agent Scully?"

Scully breathed out.  She shook her head.  "I have no way of 
telling from the evidence here.  Keep track of your peripherals, 
how all the pieces fit together.  Where the weapon came from.  
Background from his friends.  Anything Rita Johnston might be able 
to tell you about the feud between her son and Miller.  Look for 
inconsistencies..."

"Scully--"

She turned around.  Skinner was standing in the doorway.

"Sir?"

"Taxi's here.  We need to get going if we're going to make our 
flight."

Scully slid the drawer back in, removed her exam gloves and turned 
to Wilkins, who offered his hand.

"Thanks for letting me tag along, Agent.  I've learned a lot."  
There was a lift to one eyebrow that indicated he'd learned a lot 
more than he'd bargained for.

Scully took his hand and shook it firmly.

"Let me know how your investigation moves along.  I'll be 
interested to know what you come up with."  She turned to Skinner, 
who nodded toward the hallway.

Scully went through the door Skinner held open for her and walked 
down a hallway that seemed to blur by on either side.  Skinner 
matched steps with her, though neither of them talked.  She was 
conscious of her calf muscles, their expansion and contraction as 
they moved her along.  In her mind she heard herself lecturing 
Wilkins, struggling to keep herself above water.  Two pairs of 
shoes echoed on the polished floor.

Teena Mulder woke with a start.  She'd fallen asleep in her own 
living room chair.  According to the mantel clock, it was after 
five already.  She stretched.  An empty silence filled the room, 
as if something were missing, as if she'd wakened only to a dream 
of her living room.  Outside the curtains, sun spread over the 
leaves of shrubs under the window.

Alex.

She stood up, conscious of the hollow ticking of the clock, and 
walked to the kitchen and then to the back door.  She paused, her 
hand on the smooth knob.  Slowly she unlocked it and walked the 
cement path to the back door of the garage, which stood open as it 
had before.  She peered inside.  Everything was in its place:  the 
car, the usual stacks of boxes with the old blanket spread over 
them, the fold-away bed wedged into its spot between boxes and the 
wall.  It was as if he had never been here.  Or had she dreamed 
him?  What imagination could have conjured up her child grown into 
the deliberately-shaped tool of his terrible father?

She turned and walked out into the light.  Warmth sank into her 
skin, spreading, comforting; the air around her was hung in 
silence.  No traffic noises, no birds, no neighbors' lawnmowers.  
She blinked.  The scene before her looked the same.

Only when she reached the back door did she see the empty plate 
next to the doorstep, the plastic wrap stretched smoothly over the 
top.  Underneath was a small scrap of paper on which was scrawled 
the word 'thanks'.

Mulder set the picture of Samantha carefully on his desktop and 
slipped the rest of the contents of the cardboard box into the 
right lower desk drawer.  He added the empty box to the three on 
the bed.  It was the last one.  He looked around.  The place was 
more cramped than he'd though at first.  His only closet was about 
the size of a phone booth and dishes, such as they were, were 
going to end up in a box under the bathroom sink.  But it would 
do.  He'd make it work.

He picked up the four boxes on the bed, opened and flattened them, 
and took them outside to the dumpster.  The sun was warm on his 
arms.  It felt good to be out in the light, up out of the 
claustrophobia of his little room with its excess of move-in 
stuff.  He turned and looked back at the building.  It was old.  
Water and drain pipes ran up the back side of it on the second 
story, on the wooden part, but the foundation, where his place 
was, was broad gray stones covered partially with ivy.  Outside 
his window was a small stone-edged garden bed, a place where the 
cement walk widened into a brief patio, and an old Adirondack 
chair off to one side, just out of view of the window.  He went 
over to it and sat down.  After a moment he leaned his head back 
and closed his eyes.

Maybe he was nuts.  How foolhardy was he to be doing this: living 
off his savings--eating away at them--in the hopes of finding a 
way to catch Old Smoky and bring him down?  It was a Don Quixote 
kind of thing, and yet Scully hadn't said a word, hadn't shown any 
of her usual skepticism or asked how he was going to eat or what 
he was going to use to pay the rent.

And anyway, Smoky had showed him exactly why he was doing this, 
back in his apartment a few hours ago.  If someone didn't take him 
down, he'd go on ruining lives, toying with them for their 
strategic value and throwing aside the crushed remainders.  What 
exactly had he meant by 'in good health', anyway?  Was it just a 
figurative phrase, or was he referring to the chip in her neck?

Mulder swallowed suddenly.  The sun was warm on his arms and face, 
coating him with a quiet, spreading heat, pulling him toward a 
hypnotic sense of drowsiness and ease he couldn't afford to feel.  
What if Smoky'd been talking about the chip?  He forced his eyes 
open and leaned forward, head in hands.

And what about Scully, when she found out he was living here?  
Would it look like he was just tagging along, following her like a 
lost hungry puppy, having a place so close to hers?

He looked up.

She'd be getting back in a while, back from having to examine Rita 
Johnston's son and having it remind her of Emily, the way she 
wanted so badly to keep her, to give her a life--a normal little 
girl's life--when all she could do in the end was to be there for 
her, to lay next to her as she let go of an existence no one with 
any sense of compassion would have brought her into in the first 
place.  He'd tried to be there for Scully, to smooth the way, to 
make it easier for her, and yet she hadn't been able to 
acknowledge any of it, which showed how close to the edge she'd 
actually been, how close to losing that control she seemed to 
need.

How was it that you could feel weak--feel lost--and not reach out 
for someone to brace yourself with?  How could you need to form a 
circle around that emptiness and want to guard it, to nurture it?

Scully maneuvered into the last available parking spot across from 
Mulder's building and turned off the engine.  She looked up.  The 
last sunset colors were reflected against his window but the 
blinds were pulled up, which was uncharacteristic, and the lights 
were off.  She sighed and let her head lean back briefly against 
the headrest.

It had been a long day and a long flight.  She and Skinner had 
barely exchanged a word on the way back, each of them weighed down 
by their respective burdens, and all she wanted now was to sleep, 
to forget this day, to escape from it somehow.  But first she 
needed to know that Mulder was alright.  She'd missed the signs 
completely a week ago and he'd seemed almost wistful the night 
before when they'd met to eat, uncharacteristically quiet.  His 
admission that he was thinking about giving up the apartment had 
caught her completely off-guard.

She looked up again at the darkened window.  He could be up there 
in the shadows, just sitting, or watching one of his videos.  She 
shook her head and reached for the door handle.

She crossed the street and entered the building.  The first thing 
she was going to do when she got home was to take off her shoes 
and then her suit, soak in the tub and put on something soft and 
comfortable.  Then she'd make it her mission to find a way to 
forget what she'd seen today.

The elevator dinged its arrival and she stepped inside.  It had 
become so familiar--this elevator, coming here.  She felt the lift 
in her stomach and leaned back against the wall.

When the doors opened, she stepped out and walked to the end of 
the hallway.  She knocked as she always did, below the 42 on the 
door.  There was no answer.

"Mulder..."

Another knock.  She waited.

"Mulder."

She didn't want to wake him if he was sleeping.  She listened, her 
ear against the door, and hearing nothing, opened her purse and 
worked her key in the lock.  When she flipped the light switch, 
her heart skipped a beat.

The apartment was completely vacant, as if he'd never lived here.  
Her heart raced.  She took a few steps forward, her shoes echoing 
loudly on the hard floor.  Kitchen.  Living room.  Bedroom.  
Bathroom.  Nothing.  She swallowed.  He'd said he was *thinking* 
about it.  And now he'd just taken off...

Or maybe he'd been too embarrassed to tell her.  It was his 
livelihood he'd lost and that was a hard lump for any man to 
swallow.  She remember when her dad had retired, how her mother 
had said he'd seemed almost embarrassed not to have someplace to 
go in the morning, how he *was* what he did and when he no longer 
*did*...

There was almost an echo of Mulder here: an emptiness, a reaching 
out.  She looked at the window with its remnants of masking tape 
stickiness, then at the spot on the wall where she'd dug out the 
bullet that had nearly killed her while Mulder was away at his 
father's, having to witness his death.  She studied the large 
front pane of glass, naked and unseeing like Roddy Miller's 
remaining eye.

She shivered suddenly, turned and walked rapidly toward the door, 
locked it, and continued to the elevator.  Surely the manager 
would know where he'd gone.  Her foot tapped the floor, waiting.

But when she reached the apartment manager's door, there was no 
answer.  She knocked again, harder this time.  Still nothing.  She 
bent down and looked at the bottom of the door.  No light showed 
from underneath it.

No comforting logic she could offer herself kept the images from 
crowding her head:  Mulder lying motionless on his couch a week 
ago; Roddy Miller's curls and his smooth little legs and dirty 
feet; Emily lying lifeless on white sheets, surrounded by the 
gleaming metal frame of a hospital bed, the warmth rapidly fading 
from her, her body horribly, achingly motionless.

Scully turned from the doorway and walked rapidly out of the 
building toward her car.

(end 8 of 14)
................................
Walking Through Fire (9 of 14)

He'd gone running for a change of scenery, to get away from his 
slowly imploding life and because he couldn't sit around any 
longer obsessing over what the hell Old Smoky had meant by his 
reference to Scully's 'good health'.  And he'd ended up here, on 
her stairs.  Mulder pushed up the sleeves of his sweatshirt and 
felt the early evening air wrap coolness around his arms.  She 
should be home soon.

A drop of sweat trickled from his temple.  He glanced at his 
watch--7:23--and then up again, into the street.  There.  A gray 
sedan was easing in to a just-vacated space.  He smiled.  She 
closed her eyes briefly, then took a moment to collect whatever 
she'd taken with her.  A minute later she was out, gauging 
traffic, crossing the street.  She hadn't seen him--hadn't even 
looked up.  Her mouth was set, small and tight.  She seemed worn, 
or worried.

"Been to Kentucky lately?" he drawled as she started up the 
stairs.

"Mulder!"  She nearly dropped the bag she was carrying.  She 
looked half shaken, half relieved.

She set the bag down on the stair.  "Mulder, I just came from your 
apartment.  I was--"  She swallowed and tried to compose herself.

He shrugged.  "They were looking for an apartment to rent," he 
said quietly.  "I figured I'd better jump on it while I had the 
chance."

"I--"  She shook her head and picked up her bag.  "I'm very tired.  
The entire procedure-physical examinations and a witness 
interview--was extremely difficult, Mulder.  The situation has 
gotten much worse."

She started up the steps and motioned for him to follow.

"I think you may be right about the case, Mulder," she said as she 
worked the key in her lock.  "The hit-and-run driver was found 
dead in his car last night, an apparent suicide."  She seemed to 
hesitate, as if she were unsure about something, then opened the 
door.

"Yeah, well I think I'm right, too," he said, following her in.  
"Because Old Smoky paid me a visit this afternoon."  He paused 
until she turned to look at him.  "He said for you to lay off this 
case."

"What?"  She let her bag drop to the carpet.  Incredulity went 
through her eyes, then indignation and fear.  She swallowed and 
looked down.  The moment seemed to stretch out.  "Excuse me a 
minute," she said, suddenly subdued.  "I, ah... I really need to 
change out of these things."

She shouldered her bag and disappeared into the bedroom.

"You okay?" he called out after a moment.

"Yeah, I'm okay, Mulder.  It's just been a very trying day."

He sat down on the couch to wait.  When she reappeared she was 
wearing a pair of sweatpants and a pale green sweater.

"What exactly did the Smoking Man say, Mulder?"  She came closer 
and took the seat across from him.

"His exact words?  He said that if you want to stay where you are, 
and safe, you'd better keep to your job description."  The other 
words caught in his throat.  She didn't need to hear them yet.

"...the Beeson-Lymon case?" she said.

"Huh?"

"You're certain he was talking about this case?"

"He said the Kentucky case, Scully.  He characterized it as 
Skinner's 'misguided crusade'... So I guess you'd better say 
something to Skinner."

She opened her mouth, then slowly closed it again.  Whatever she'd 
intended to say had suddenly escaped her.  She turned away and sat 
there a moment, teeth pressed against her lower lip.  One hand 
went up to her forehead and hovered beside her temple before 
passing back through her hair.

"Scully, you feeling okay?"

"It's just been a long day, Mulder.  It's been a lot of things.  I 
just haven't been able to let go of them all.  Yet."  She shook 
her head.

"Come on," he said quietly, standing.  "Come take a walk.  It's 
good for relieving stress.  Besides, the change of scenery will do 
you good."  He held out his hand.

She paused, then nodded and got up off the couch.  "Just let me 
get some shoes," she said, and padded off to the bedroom.

Mulder went and stood by the window.

"What if they're watching us, Mulder?"  She reappeared now, 
carrying running shoes.

"We'll go places you don't usually go."

She sat down on the couch, slipped her feet into the shoes and 
began to tie the laces.

In the hallway he started toward the back of the building.

"Mulder, what are you doing?"

He motioned for her to follow.  "Keeping you away from prying 
eyes," he said.

She gave him a look.

"Come on," he said.

She hesitated and then followed him out the back door.  Mulder led 
the way across the back yard and over to the chain link fence.

"I think there's a space here you can squeeze through," he said.    
He went along the length of the fence until he found it.  He 
gestured.  "Can you fit through here?"

She gave him a dubious look, leaned forward and eased her head 
between two fence poles.  She turned sideways and squeezed her 
body through to the other side.  Mulder jumped up onto the fence, 
scrambled over the top and jumped down to the pavement on the 
other side.  Scully raised an eyebrow.

"Such boyish agility," she said, nearly straight-faced.  "Where 
are we going?"

"This way," he said, and started toward a driveway between two 
buildings.

Alex Krycek stepped out of the shower and grabbed the thick, white 
terry robe from the hook on the back of the door.  It was one of 
those ridiculously expensive hotel rooms the old man came up with 
occasionally, probably a favor owed to him by someone whose life 
the old man owned as if it were nothing more than a remote-control 
race car for which the old man held the controller.

The amenities were nice enough: the beds were comfortable, the 
towels thick and lush, the refrigerator well-stocked.  Still, 
these places made him squirmy.  They weren't who he was.  The 
people who came here were plastic and haughty and the ones who 
served them were eager boot-scrapers, every one of them oblivious 
to the fact that they were only humans, whirling around on a 
doomed planet, with no idea of how little time they had left to 
play out their little fantasies, their little social games.  
Equally vulnerable, from the corporate executive to the bellhop.  
He had yet to accustom himself to the American notion of class.

He'd run the old man's errand, showing up at just the right time 
to keep the Consortium members jumpy and off-balance.  To keep 
them honest, if that particular word could be applied.  To keep 
them from thinking they could make moves behind the old man's back 
and get away with it.  They'd been cordial in their stiff way, but 
not uncomfortably enough for him to think they'd been hiding 
anything.  It was a good thing, making the visits and wielding the 
power of uncertainty for the old man; the aura transmitted itself 
to him, too.  The old men were scared of him, wary, though they 
tried to hide it.  If things went well it might serve its purpose 
eventually.  A seed planted in time.

Krycek walked to the refrigerator and opened the door.  He stared 
at the contents and then pulled a bottle from among the cluster on 
the top shelf.  He found a glass, added a couple of ice cubes and 
poured the glass half-full.  He carried it to the edge of the bed, 
took a sip and set the glass on the lamp table.  The bed was soft, 
the sheets the kind with tight, closely woven fibers that made 
them seem almost silken.  He pushed two pillows up against the 
headboard and leaned back against them.  She'd made him a 
sandwich; it was no reason to come unglued.  For all the years 
he'd lived, one plate of food was all she'd given him.  It was 
nothing, a gesture women were prone to, something in their 
programming: greet someone, offer food.

He reached for the glass on the lamp table and took another sip, a 
longer one this time, and felt the cold heat of the drink burn his 
throat.  He could see the big, dilated eyes the little kid aimed 
at him, and the way his face... She hadn't had to make him 
anything.  She could have ordered him out or called the police 
while he was asleep.  Cyrus Miller had been a big guy, a guy with 
a beer gut.  It was no wonder he hadn't seen beyond him.  Like the 
old man said, the downfall of the weak.

He took another sip of the liquid in the glass and watched the 
melting water from the ice cubes form crazy swirls, momentarily 
refusing to blend with the alcohol.  He raised the glass again.  
Just enough, no more.

He was warm now; the warmth seemed to pour out of him.  He leaned 
forward and pushed the pillows down, eased himself onto his side 
facing the door, and pulled up the covers.

The little blond Sergei'd had curls like the redneck's kid.  He'd 
warned the others to leave the boy alone.

There was no telling why she'd let him stay.

Dear Fox,

When you asked me nearly two weeks ago to go to Trudy's to assure 
that I was safe in the aftermath of the fire that took the 
Quonochotaug house, I went without a thought for how this visit 
might change my life, or yours.  Being at Trudy's gave me much 
needed time for reflection.  More than that, it forced me to look 
upon my life and see it, something I have worked very hard not to 
do for more years than I can count now.  This exercise has been 
needful, but it has also been beyond discomfort: it is like 
walking through fire.

My parents did not approve of my marriage to your father.  It was 
a downward step on the social scale and they showed their 
disapproval by shunning my new family.  It was of no consequence 
to me at the time.  I was a rebellious young woman and I believed 
I could live my life well enough without their support, or anyone 
else's for that matter.  I was enthralled with being a wife, with 
your father and having a household of my own, and then a child.  
Your first years were a very happy, heady time for me.  They hid 
the gradual erosion of my relationship with your father, whose 
work became more and more his life, whose worries seemed to make 
him more distant with every passing day.  Eventually I was forced 
to realize that I had been left alone with you, no longer anchored 
either to your father or to my family.  It was at this time that 
Leland came into my life.

I was raised in such a way that I believed there were certain 
things I was entitled to from life, among them a supportive 
relationship with a husband, and happy, innocent children.  When I 
found my relationship with your father had withered, I reached for 
another to fill it, believing that this was my due.  Leland, 
however, was not who or what he appeared to be, and I--and to my 
greater regret, you--have paid the price for my foolishness and 
naivete.

From the beginning you seemed able to sense my moods and my 
growing anger and sadness, and I believe, looking back, that you 
tried mightily to cure me with your caring, for which I thank you 
very belatedly, though at the time I rebuffed you in an effort to 
hide from the reality of my situation.  Samantha, too, benefited 
from your constant attention and support, often the kind of full 
support I could not give her as she was a constant, daily reminder 
of the choices I had made, since she was not your father's child, 
but his.

I realize how hurtful it must be for you to hear these things, and 
to know the awful realities of how my decisions--or avoidance of 
them--have taken such a terrible toll in your own life.  If I 
could find a gentler way to impart this information to you I would 
give anything to have it, but not knowing any, circumstances force 
me to tell you what I can, because I believe your eventual safety 
may depend upon it.

I knew very little of your father's work, or of Leland's, because 
there was no reason for me to have known it; I was a wife after 
all.  But eventually I came to be told about the colonists and the 
plan for takeover because of the requirement that each family send 
a child as collateral.  The entire picture was quite beyond my 
comprehension, as I believe it would be beyond anyone's, and yet 
the evidence was there and the alternative to sending the children 
was quicker colonization with no hope for anyone's eventual 
survival.  I would sooner have died than have given up either of 
you, but the die was cast.  You were to be taken from us as you 
were your father's only child, but your father, angry at Leland's 
betrayal, managed to find some piece of leverage against him and 
used it to ensure that Samantha would be taken in your stead.  
Leland is a very unforgiving man; I believe that he has probably 
used you in some way, in the intervening years, to further his own 
goals.  Though your strong loyalty to your sister motivated your 
earliest desire to search for and find her, I cannot help thinking 
that your later 'discovery' of the Bureau files on the paranormal 
was not entirely a matter of chance but somehow designed to 
entangle you into becoming an unwitting pawn in Leland's elaborate 
scheme.  You may well ask how a mother could harbor this 
information to herself for so many years.  I make no excuses for 
my behavior, which was purely self-serving, a scared girl's 
attempt to escape the monster hiding in the closet by refusing to 
open it , even though a friend was trapped inside.

There is more, and I hope that in the aftermath of the pain it 
will inevitably cause you to know it, you may be left with 
something that you can use to defend yourself against Leland.  
When you were last here you came to know that I had been pregnant 
again after Samantha.  The child was not stillborn as I told you; 
that was a cover story Leland devised before the birth, for my own 
salvation in the eyes of neighbors and family... or so I was led 
to believe at the time.  Leland had agreed to take the child and I 
believed, or perhaps merely wanted to believe, that the baby would 
be adopted, as your father was painfully aware that the child was 
not his and had refused to have it in the house.  I never laid 
eyes on this child that had grown inside me.  Obviously I was the 
victim of my own illusions once again, as well as the instrument 
of another child's torment, as I found out this morning when I 
received the most unanticipated visit from an intense young man 
carrying the very photograph you had discovered in the box in the 
spare bedroom such a short time ago.

He told me that he had been raised to, in his words, 'do his 
father's dirty work'.  He came to confront me, to ask me why I had 
bothered to go through with the pregnancy at all.  The idea of an 
abortion would have been completely beyond my scope of 
comprehension at the time I was pregnant, but this young man has 
obviously led a life of need and ragged survival and thinks in 
terms more blunt than any I could conceive of.  He did not hurt 
me.  In fact, I believe he was as shaken as I was.  He also warned 
me that he was not someone I would want to get to know.

Needless to say, my apparently quiet life has been shattered, in 
the end by my own hand; I lay no guilt on anyone else.  But when 
he had left I couldn't help but recall his words, that he had been 
raised to do his father's dirty work, and the thought keeps 
recurring to me that, in a twist of circumstances only Leland 
could plan, this child is the one you spoke of who killed your 
father and set the Quonochotaug fire.  He told me his name was 
Alex.

Dear Fox, I apologize from the bottom of my heart for my foolish 
actions and the pain they have caused and continue to cause you in 
your life.  You have stood by me when I did not merit your support 
in any way.  I do not ask for your forgiveness, as I feel I in no 
way merit it, but I hope, when the pain of these revelations has 
passed, that you will be able to use the information contained 
here to help yourself in some way.  If I had my life to live over, 
it would be in a very different manner.  I look to your constant 
energy and faith in your quest for your sister as benchmarks of a 
strength that will carry you through this time of crisis.  I am 
prouder of your courage and constancy than I can express.

                                             Lovingly,
                                                  Your Mother

Teena Mulder signed the letter, folded it in half and laid the pen 
on top.  She closed her eyes momentarily; it was late and her head 
ached.  She rose slowly from the chair and walked down the hallway 
to her bedroom, her only company the hollow ticking of the mantel 
clock.

"Didn't you ever swing this way when you were a kid, Mulder?"

Scully felt suddenly giddy, standing in the swing seat, going 
forward and back again like a child.  It was an odd feeling, but 
right now she'd take any moment that offered to put distance 
between her and what she'd witnessed earlier in the day.

"Yeah, I guess," he said.  "I don't remember.  But it looks pretty 
good when you do it."

She pumped harder and was soon swinging in and out of the light of 
the street lamp, through the dapple of shadows sheltering the 
playground and back into the light again.  Wind rippled through 
her hair.

"I should have done this sooner," she said.  "Come here, done 
this."  She squinted into the shadows.  He was sitting on a stair, 
watching.

"Hang your head back," he said now.  "Did you ever do that, so the 
ground's on top and the sky's below you?"

She took a deep breath and leaned back.  Gravity pulled on her, 
making her sag from the swing.  She gripped the chains harder.  A 
smile forced itself across her face.  She felt the pendulum of her 
weight, forward and back, forward and back, and watched the sand 
come up to meet her, then slip away as the sky took over.  She 
stifled a laugh, and then stopped trying.  She pumped harder for a 
moment, then relaxed and let herself gradually slow.  Eyes closed, 
she focused on the rhythm and waited for the movement to stop.

"How did you know about this place, Mulder?" she asked when she'd 
opened her eyes again.

"I went jogging before I stopped at your place."  He pulled a 
sunflower seed from his pocket and slipped it into his mouth.

"It's nice.  I've never been here before."

She went over to the stairs and sat down next to him.

"And you've lived here how long?  Six years?"  He spit the hull to 
one side.  "Maybe you need to take more time for yourself, 
Scully."  He paused.  "What ever happened to Dana?  Do you know 
who she is anymore?"  He was looking off into the distance, or 
perhaps at nothing, focusing on something in his mind.

"I have things to do, Mulder--things to accomplish.  Half the time 
I don't even get home before eight o'clock."

"Maybe you should."  He took another seed from his pocket.

She raised an eyebrow.  Aside from asking her what had happened in 
Kentucky, to which she'd given him partial answers that didn't 
include Roddy Miller or his mother, he'd been very subdued, 
pensive.

"You're pretty quiet for being the recreation director here, 
Mulder," she said.

"Yeah, but it looks like I picked the right place.  When was the 
last time you laughed, Scully?  I mean really laughed?"

She shrugged.

"I used to think about that when I was at Oxford, you know?" he 
went on.  "Everybody working their asses off to get that degree, 
to be the best in some class or other--some professor's golden 
boy--putting every last ounce into it... And what if you got run 
over by a car the day before graduation, and all you'd ever done 
was work and work and put off living, just being here in the here 
and now?"  He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand.  "Would 
it have been worth it?"  He turned to face her.

"Carpe diem," she said.

He raised one eyebrow.  "Easier said than done."  He reached for 
the back of his neck again and winced.

"What's the matter, Mulder?"

"I think I pulled something this afternoon.  I can't quite reach 
it."

She got up and resettled herself on the stair above him.

"Here?"  she said, probing carefully with her fingers at the base 
of his neck.

"A little to the right..."  He made a contented noise.  "Yeah, 
there."

She massaged carefully, hoping to probe without causing further 
pain.

"Do you have someplace to go tonight, Mulder?  Somewhere to stay, 
to put your things?"

"Yeah, I... found something.  A place.  I've got a place."

She could feel the tension in him.

"Mulder, if you need anything..."

He sighed--a sigh she could feel--and almost laughed.  Then he 
fell silent.  After a moment his arm went over her leg beside him.  
She stopped her massaging and rested her hands on his shoulders.  
Her mouth opened to say something soothing but no words came.  She 
let her thumbs move gently, tracing a broad arc, sending a shudder 
through him.  His head lowered.  She turned her head and rested it 
carefully against his back.  His heartbeat was a strong, steady 
pa-BA, pa-BA, pa-BA, pa-BA against her.  She closed her eyes.

Cold air wrapped around her sides and back; the palms of her hands 
and her cheek felt warm against him.  From somewhere high in a 
darkened tree a bird sent out a few tentative notes.  The rhythm 
of Mulder's breathing was steady against her, in and out, in and 
out, expansion and contraction.

"The hit-and-run driver turned up dead last night, Mulder, along 
with his two-and-a-half year old son--both shot point-blank..."  
Her words surprised her, seeming to come from someone else, from 
some other place.  "I had to check the bodies, but we also had to 
interview the man's widow.  She couldn't have been more than 
nineteen and she'd lost both of them--her husband and her son--to 
this thing, and we had to go out there and... I felt so awful, 
having to ask her those questions, watching her stumble over 
'was', not wanting to give her son up to the past..."  Her voice 
dissolved into a whisper.

She swallowed and blinked against the sudden stinging in her eyes.  
The memories were as raw as if Emily had died yesterday.  Mulder's 
fingers reached up and touched hers.  Her hands slipped down, went 
around his waist and held on hard.

"We grow older, Mulder," she said, her cheek pressed hard against 
his back.  "Our parents grow older, they pass the torch to us... 
And what happens?  Do we just go out for lack of oxygen when we 
have no one to pass our own torch to?"  She bit her lip.  Beside 
her eye, a small, damp patch was beginning to spread on Mulder's 
shirt.

His arms came up and covered hers with their warmth.

"I barely knew her, Mulder.  You were right; she was a miracle 
that wasn't meant to be."  She took a ragged breath.  "Am I crazy 
to carry her death around with me this way, as if it were a 
sweater I wear?"

"You're just trying to hold onto her, Scully."  His voice was 
gritty.  "There's nothing wrong with that, with loving her..."

(end 9 of 14)
....................................
Walking Through Fire (10 of 14)

Walter Skinner eased onto the brake and waited for the traffic 
light to change.  It had begun to drizzle, scattering the lights 
from oncoming traffic into diffused sparkles of color in the dark.  
He watched the droplets land silently on the windshield, waiting 
for enough of them to warrant turning on the wipers.  The turn 
signal sent its bink, bink, bink into the silence of the car's 
interior.

The light turned green, the car in front of him started up and 
Skinner maneuvered his car into the right-hand lane.  Lanier had 
been quiet and self-effacing, the same way he'd been thirty years 
earlier: soft-spoken, purposeful, no waste of words or excess of 
action.  He'd thanked him for his efforts on his nephew's behalf, 
reminded him that life was often beyond our ability to control, 
just the way it had been in Vietnam.

It hadn't made him feel any better.  Lanier had lost his brother 
and his nephew, while he, an Assistant Director of the FBI, had 
been able to come up with nothing beyond the deepening feeling 
that this was a case distinctly not meant to be solved--not if 
certain parties with a broad sphere of influence had their way.

Skinner gunned the car, made the turn and moved over into the 
second lane.  He flipped the wipers on and watched the windshield 
gradually clear with each arc of the blades.  Mulder was out of 
the Bureau and as far as he knew there had been nothing to 
indicate he'd come up with a way to get himself back in.  He 
himself had thought he'd found a safe case to champion in the wake 
of Mulder's dismissal--legitimate in the eyes of everyone 
upstairs--but now it appeared that he'd only been tightening a 
noose he'd slipped around his own neck.  He'd failed to help an 
old war buddy, a man to whom he owed an overwhelming debt, and 
what had he done by dragging Scully into the Beeson-Lymon 
investigation?  The men who drummed Mulder out would be watching 
her if she stepped over the line they'd drawn.  She'd seemed worn 
this afternoon, overburdened, probably from dealing with Mulder's 
situation as well as her first week at Quantico and the work he'd 
added on top of it.

The wailing of a police siren started up somewhere beyond the 
windshield.  Skinner glanced in the rear view mirror and saw red 
lights flashing.  They were right behind him.  He pursed his lips 
and signaled right, then moved over and pulled to a stop by the 
curb.  Puzzled, he rolled down the window and waited.

"Were you aware that you have a tail light out, sir," said the 
uniform that appeared by the driver's door.  "License and 
registration, please."

Skinner dug out his wallet, opened it and began to pull on the 
edge of his driver's license.  Something small dropped into the 
seat beside him.  The beam of a flashlight was instantly on the 
place.

"What was that, sir?"

"What was what?"

"That."  The beam focused on a tiny packet filled with something 
white.

"I have no idea," Skinner said, the words coming from deep in his 
throat.  They would carry absolutely no credibility; he knew it as 
he said them, though they were true.  He pulled the license the 
rest of the way out and handed it through the open window along 
with his Bureau ID.

"Step out of the car, please, Mr... Assistant Director, sir."

Skinner swallowed against the sudden flood of adrenaline.  It was 
beginning.  There had to be some tie-in to the case.  Either this 
was a warning, or the Cancer Man was finally finished toying with 
him, ready to move in for the kill.  He pulled the handle 
carefully, eased the door wide and stood up into bright lights.

"Put your hands on the hood of the car, sir."

Skinner put his hands on the wet hood.  Mist began to collect on 
the outside of his lenses.  Hands went down his sides, collected 
his weapon, made his pants legs flap.  He set his jaw.  On the 
other side of the car a second officer was holding up the contents 
of the glove compartment--registration, owner's manual, a handful 
of repair receipts.  He bent down again and disappeared.

"This yours, Assistant Director," the first officer said, waving 
the packet that had fallen onto the seat.

"No."

"Bingo!"  This from inside the car.  The second officer's head 
reappeared on the far side.  He was holding a baggie, much bigger 
than the tiny one from his wallet, one side of it crisscrossed 
with duct tape.

"This was taped up under the passenger seat..."

"You know anything about this?" the voice behind him asked.

"No!"

"Sir, place your hands behind your back."

Skinner did as he was told.  Cold steel clamped around one wrist; 
a hand pushed it toward his other.  He felt the metal, heard the 
click of the latch, felt the pull in his arms.  A hand behind his 
elbow led him toward the patrol car.

Mulder ran a hand back through still-wet hair and stared at his 
computer screen.  He was searching the Net, randomly word-
associating, looking for something--a clue, a foothold--that would 
lead him to Beeson-Lymon's importance to Old Smoky, and to how he 
might turn Smoky's knee-jerk reaction to Skinner's investigation 
against him.  He avoided looking at the image mirrored on the 
surface of the monitor itself:  Scully asleep on the bed behind 
him.

It was almost too much.  It had been getting to be that way for a 
long time now.  He needed her--all of her--in a way she apparently 
didn't need him, and there was nothing he could do about it short 
of making a wrong move and blowing everything he already had.  She 
wasn't, in any sense of the word, just any woman he could have 
picked up in a bar and taken home to bed.  She was his partner, 
his confidante, the stop to his go, the left half of his brain; in 
some way she carried the flame of his life.  But she didn't need 
him, or if she did, she worked assiduously at keeping that fact 
hidden from herself.  And he was left to deal with the aftermath.

He'd nearly laughed at the irony of her words earlier on the 
stairs:  "Mulder, if you need anything..."  She'd offered them 
with complete sincerity, but if he needed anything... Hell, if he 
did, she was the last person he could tell.  He needed *her*, and 
if he'd been bold enough or foolish enough to tell her so, it 
would only have sent her running in any direction that would get 
her away from him.  She had walls, and he respected her need for 
them--understood her need for them--but it didn't make him need 
her--want her--any less.

His heart had been with her on the stairs tonight but so had his 
body, and when she'd touched him, when she'd sat behind him and 
then wrapped her arms around his waist as if she were being washed 
off a rock in heavy surf... It was a sad day--a damn sad day--when 
the best you could hope for was to find a bathroom to lock 
yourself away in for a few critical minutes.  He didn't dare 
think, didn't dare feel, and yet here she was behind him, asleep 
from physical and mental exhaustion, and how could he miss the 
significance of the fact that the first person to sleep in this 
bed of his was her, the only way it was ever likely to be: alone.

They'd left the park eventually, her sadness and his own jockeying 
for position with his need, like radio stations drifting in and 
out, supplanting one another.  He hadn't dared touch her, not a 
hand at her back or on her shoulder.  He'd concentrated on the 
rhythm of the walk, on the shadows patterning the sidewalk, on the 
night smells of blooming vegetation that came alive when cars and 
buses stopped running.  She'd been hungry and they'd stopped at an 
ice cream shop; he'd insisted--with mercifully little protest on 
her part--on buying her a cone.  So they ate and walked again, and 
somehow the subject had come up, she'd asked him where he was 
staying, and it had just flowed at the time, in the context of 
things, and he'd brought her here, stomach all nerves, feeling 
like the kind of homeless man you could find on any street corner.

She'd been very quiet.  She'd liked the stairs and the door with 
its four diamond-shaped panes of glass and the pots of geraniums 
outside.  She looked around at everything, careful not to be 
judgmental, careful of his feelings.  She said it had 
possibilities, that she liked the way the ivy framed the window 
above his desk.  She was careful not to criticize and she was 
tired, weary from a week of too little sleep and from the trauma 
of having to face a two-year-old boy with part of his head blown 
off, and from yearning for the only person she had ever really, 
actively strained to open up to.

And then she'd asked him how he'd found the place, and he'd told 
her: that he'd come across it while chasing some guy he'd found 
hiding in her front bushes.

It was the last straw, the one that had done her in.  It had been 
a small man--he'd told her that--probably a kid, some druggie 
looking to steal in order to use, but it made no difference to 
her.  After Duane Barry how could it?  She was shaken.  She'd sat 
down on the edge of the bed looking drawn and weary.  He'd sat 
down at the desk chair and begun to look for the computer cords to 
plug them in.  When she'd yawned, he'd told her to lie down, to 
get a little rest, and she hadn't argued; she'd simply curled onto 
her side facing away from him--how telling was that?--and he'd 
spread a blanket over her, one he'd used on the couch at home--one 
he'd brought with him as a touch of the familiar, though bedding 
was provided here.  The next time he'd looked over at her, she'd 
been asleep.

She was asleep now, facing him, her expression smoothed by the 
lack of conscious care, hair crowding her face, lips slightly 
apart.  He tilted his chair back, reached over carefully and 
smoothed the hair back from her face, lingering over her cheek 
with his thumb.  He swallowed, watched her breathing a moment and 
pulled his hand away.  There was work to do, a hole to find in 
Smoky's defenses, for her sake and for his own.  He didn't have 
the artillery to fight a battle but maybe that wasn't what he 
needed. "Those who render others' armies helpless without fighting 
are best of all." -Sun Tzu.

If there was a way to render Smoky helpless, he damn well needed 
to find it.

"What are you doing?"

Langley looked up--but not too far up--into Frohike's shadowed 
face.

"Just listening to the police scanner," he said, shrugging 
defensively.

"Hot way to spend a Saturday night," Frohike smirked.  "What 
happened to your D&D game?"

"Barney couldn't DM; his mother's sick or something.  We figured 
we'd wait till he gets back next week.  We like his adventures."

Frohike rolled his eyes and walked away.  Langley shifted onto his 
side and returned his ear to the speaker next to his pillow.  He 
reached for the magazine on the corner of the bed beyond the 
pillow and began to thumb through it.  Then he paused.

"Whoa..."

He reached down over the side of the bed and groped on the floor 
for a pad of paper and a pencil.  The pencil skittered under the 
bed when he contacted it.  He pulled himself over to the edge of 
the bed, reached underneath and grabbed it.

"Hey, Beyers!" he yelled.  No response.  He jotted down the 
information and went into the other room.

"Beyers!"  The place was empty.  "Damn.  Hey, Frohike!"

Frohike's head poked through a doorway.  "Where's the fire?"

"Where's Mulder's number?"

"What do you want it for?"

"I just heard this thing on the scanner.  AD Skinner was stopped 
for a traffic violation and they found a baggie of cocaine taped 
under the passenger seat.  They're hauling him in."

"Ooh..."

Langley gave him a look.  "Do you think a guy like Skinner's 
really going to be using?"

"Lots of people use."

"Yeah, but if he did, I don't think Mulder'd be that tight with 
him."

Frohike shrugged.  "You're probably right."  He pointed to the 
phone.  "Mulder's number is 555-0197.  Maybe something big's up."

Langley dialed.  Frohike looked at him, waiting.  Langley glanced 
up, at the ceiling, then made a face and hung up.

"Recording," he said, and frowned.  "They said his phone's been 
disconnected."

Frohike shrugged.  "He's out of a job.  Maybe he's a bigger 
spender than we think and the bills have caught up with him 
already."

"Do you have his cell number?"

"Beyers has it."

"Is he here?"

"No."  Frohike paused; a smile spread across his face.  "But I've 
got the next best thing.  I have Agent Scully's cell number."

Langley threw him a skeptical look.  "She gave it to you?" 

Frohike looked hurt.  "Well, no.  I, shall we say, came across it 
while poking around."

"I'll bet.  What is it?"

"I'll dial.  You think she's going to want to hear from *you*?"

"Like you're Prince Charming!"

"Zip it, Langley."  Frohike held out his hand for the phone; 
Langley surrendered it.

"Isn't she going to be pissed at you for calling her this late?" 
Langley said.

"Not if your news is actually something important.  Besides"--he 
raised his eyebrows--"I like her when she's angry."

The sudden ringing made Mulder jump.  He caught himself and looked 
around.  It was Scully's cell, next to his pillow with her keys, 
and she was out cold.  He tilted the chair back and reached--too 
quickly--sending a wave of hot pain down the side of his neck.  He 
winced and pushed the talk button.

"Yeah," he said quietly, reaching to rub the offending spot with 
his free hand.

There was a long pause at the other end of the line.

"Hello?" he repeated.

"... Mulder?"

"... Frohike?"

"I'd ask where Scully is, but I guess I've already got that 
answer.  May I talk to her?"

"She's asleep."

"Ooh, the plot thickens..."

"Cut the crap, Frohike.  What do you want?"

"Langley picked up something on the police band a few minutes ago.  
We thought you two would want to know."  There was the sound of 
the phone changing hands.

"Skinner was stopped for a traffic violation and apparently they 
found a fat coke baggie taped up under his passenger seat," 
Langley's excited voice came from the receiver.

"What?"

"No kidding.  You think it was his or could it be some kind of 
setup?"

"No.  It's not his."  A pause.  "Where did they take him?  Where 
did this happen?"

"Downtown, I think.  Maybe he'd been at his office."

"Probably first district, then.  Thanks.  This may be something 
I've been looking for."

He switched off the phone and set his jaw.  Smoky wasn't wasting 
any time.  Maybe he didn't have time, and that could make him 
sloppy, vulnerable.  He glanced at Scully.  She wasn't going to be 
waking up any time soon, and she needed the rest, but he had to 
find out what had happened to Skinner.  He glanced at her key 
ring.  She'd offered him her car a day ago.  If Skinner was in 
trouble she wouldn't mind him borrowing it now.

He turned back to the computer, pulled up word processing and left 
a quick note on the screen.  Then he got up, reached for her keys 
beside the pillow and paused for a last look at Scully.  Her 
cheeks were rosy now from the warmth of sleep.

She hadn't always been the way she'd been lately-worn, rarely 
smiling.  When he'd first known her there were two people in 
there, Scully the fledgling professional/feisty scientist and Dana 
the woman, someone Scully would hold on a leash but who would slip 
out of her confines from time to time.  Now he never saw Dana.  Or 
maybe she never showed Dana.

Maybe she'd lost her.

He ran the back of his finger softly across her cheek, then 
turned, took his jacket from the arm of the wing chair and slipped 
out the door.

Mulder sat in the drizzle in Scully's car, watching the entrance 
to the police station through the shimmering drops sliding down 
the windshield.  He'd been reminded once again that he had no 
access.  He'd gone inside and inquired at the desk, but he was 
nobody now--Joe Ordinary off the street--and why should they tell 
him anything?  They sure as hell weren't going to let him see 
Skinner.  But the A.D. *was* there, and someone was on the way to 
bail him out.  So he'd wait.  For as long as it took.

Mulder's thumbs tapped the steering wheel.  If Scully had been 
warned and Skinner set up, then Scully's friend Wilkins and his 
partner were in danger, too--theoretically, at least.  They could 
be reassigned off the case easily enough with Skinner out of the 
way, but if Scully was right about Wilkins, he might not give up 
that easily.  Acosta he knew very little about.

The door to the station swung open and a woman tugging on a 
toddler emerged into the pale light of the street lamps.  A car 
pulled up in front of the walkway and the woman and child got in.  
Mulder reached into the pocket of his jacket and fished for 
sunflower seeds.

When the door opened again a large, gray-haired man emerged.  
Skinner was behind him.  The two walked toward the parking lot.  
Mulder opened the door quietly and got out of the car.  He waited 
until the two men were out of range of the brightest of the 
parking lot lights before he approached them.

"Sir?"

Skinner turned and squinted in his direction.

Mulder jogged the few car lengths between them.

"Sir--"

"Mulder, what are you doing here?"

"I heard what happened, sir.  I need to speak with you."

Skinner scowled, then turned to the gray-haired man.  "Excuse us a 
minute, Ray."

The man turned aside.

"What is it, Mulder?"

"I was paid a visit this afternoon."  He glanced at his watch.  
"Yesterday afternoon, by the Smoking Man.  He told me to tell 
Scully to leave your Kentucky case alone.  He termed it your 
'misguided crusade'.  Now unless that white powder they found in 
your car was yours, I believe this may be his strategy for getting 
you out of his way, too."

Skinner leaned closer.  "How did you know about that?"

Mulder shrugged.  "I have my sources."

Skinner looked behind him, taking in the parking lot.  "Well, 
someone did a fine job, because I've landed in deep shit this 
time."

"What happened, sir?"

"I was pulled over two blocks from the office.  Officer said I had 
a tail light out and when I went to pull out my license, this 
little packet falls out with it."  The corner of his mouth 
twisted.  "It was a plant, but what I can't figure out is when 
anyone could have put it there."

"*Did* you have a tail light out, sir?"

Skinner shook his head.  "I didn't even think to check.  I guess I 
was too blown away by that baggie they found under the seat."

"I think your investigation is close to something, sir, and that 
it got close enough fast enough to catch Smoky off guard.  That's 
why he's having to double-time it to get all your pieces off the 
board."

"I'll be put on administrative leave first thing Monday morning," 
Skinner said, glancing beyond Mulder to where his friend waited in 
the shadows.  "Wilkins and Acosta will get pulled from the 
case..."

"Which means they have one more day of access."

"Or their lives may be in danger as we speak."  Skinner heaved a 
sigh and looked out over the parking lot again.

"I think I'm going to take myself a little trip to Kentucky, sir."

Skinner scowled.  "What are you talking about, Mulder?  This case 
has nothing to do with you."

"If it's Smoky tripping up, sir, and if I can catch him at it and 
get my job back, then from where I sit, it has everything to do 
with me."

Skinner frowned, then pursed his lips.  "Take care of yourself, 
Mulder."

"If you need to get in touch, I've, ah..."  He looked down, at the 
stark streetlight-on-black of the asphalt paving.  "I've moved, 
sir.  You can contact Agent Scully.  She knows how to get ahold of 
me."

Skinner nodded, looked to where his friend had started to unlock 
his car in the next row, and hurried to catch up.

(end 10 of 14)
..................................
Walking Through Fire (11 of 14)

At first she knew only the smoothness under her fingers, then a 
patch of warmth on her hand and arm, soothing, penetrating.  The 
bed was soft and comfortable and she wasn't ready to wake up, to 
open her eyes or think; she only wanted to stay here, suspended 
inside the warmth and softness.  Her whole body felt relaxed, more 
relaxed than she'd been in months, and the blanket smelled gently 
of... Mulder.

Scully opened her eyes and squinted against the brightness.  
Morning light poured in through the small window above Mulder's 
desk, backlighting the ivy surrounding the window, making it glow 
a vibrant, translucent green.

"Mulder?"

She pushed up on one elbow and looked around.  The room was 
silent.  The bathroom door stood open.  She sat up, ran her hands 
back through her hair and tried to clear the drowsiness from her 
head.  His clock on the desk read 7:43.

"Mulder?"

She stood and stretched, then walked to the bathroom and peered 
in.  Behind the door was a small, tiled shower, the curtain new 
and obviously unused.  She went to the front door and looked out 
through the lower panes.  The yard was empty: the right half 
paved, the left planted in languishing lawn, a towering tree in 
the middle of it that scattered its leaves on the grass.  Below 
the tree sat an old Adirondack chair dressed in peeling green 
paint.  At the rear of the yard were two large dumpsters, one with 
its lid open.

She'd been here all night; she'd taken his bed and left him no 
place to sleep.  She pursed her lips.  It was like him not to have 
wakened her, to have gone without himself only to pass it off if 
confronted, shrugging and saying she'd needed it more than he did, 
or that he hadn't seen any point in disturbing her.  Sometimes he 
was so completely self-focused and at others he shamed her with 
his generosity.

There was a small paper on the computer screen.  'Note', it said.  
She sat down at the desk and moved the mouse.  The screen 
brightened and lettering appeared.

Scully-

I didn't want to wake you since you seem to be sleeping so 
peacefully.  I know you need the rest.

Skinner's been set up by the Smoking Man.  A bag of coke was 
planted in his car and 'discovered' by D.C. Metro just before 11 
p.m. at what had to be a trumped-up traffic violation stop.  I 
borrowed your car and went to talk to him at the First District 
station.  He's been released on bail but I can't help but think 
that all these incidents--the Kentucky killings, your warning and 
now Skinner's--show that Smoky's feeling cornered and something is 
very close to being exposed here, if I can only look things over 
and figure out what it is.  I need to get something on him if I'm 
ever going to get my job back and quit this day job as a bum.

I'll be on a 6:30 a.m. flight to Lexington by the time you read 
this.  I plan to be there just a day, two at most, because I can't 
afford to raise Smoky's suspicions that I may be out of town and 
working against him.  I had the Gunmen set me up a fake ID so 
Smoky won't be able to trace me as easily.  If you look in the top 
drawer under the pencil tray you'll find the information.  I also 
had them do one up for you in case some emergency comes up and you 
ever need it.

If I'm not back by tonight don't touch the forensic evidence you 
sent back from Lexington.  If it shows up at all, they'll be 
watching you for sure and there's no point putting yourself in 
danger.  I know how much you want to help Rita Johnston, but we'll 
come up with something.  After all, if Smoky catches you, you 
won't be much help to anyone anyway.

Scully, take some time for yourself today. Last night in the park, 
on the swing, I saw something in you I haven't seen for a long 
time--too long.  I think you felt it, too.  You tuck away that 
vulnerable part of yourself--the Dana part--to keep her from 
getting hurt, but she's suffocating, Scully; I think she's been 
suffocating for a long time.  Let her breathe; she's the part of 
you who laughs, who feels life, who can have joy.  Don't let her 
die.  You don't want to lose that beautiful part of yourself.

If you're concerned about the safety of your apartment, feel free 
to stay here.  Be it ever so humble... you know the drill.  I'll 
be in touch.
                                             -M

Scully read the letter a second time, then saved it and got up 
from the chair.  Hazy clouds washed the sky in gray-tinged white 
and the room had begun to cool.  She went to the bed, picked up 
Mulder's old blanket and pulled it around her shoulders.  Then she 
went to the door and looked out through the small, diamond-shaped 
panes of glass.  The diffused light was painfully bright.  She 
closed her eyes and leaned her head against the door.  The room 
behind her was a still life.  The only sound was the sound of her 
own breathing.

Mulder sat in a patch of shade on Rita Johnston's brick porch, 
waiting.  She was gone, probably to church if he'd pegged her 
correctly, in which case she'd be back before too long.  He looked 
at his watch.  10:18.  He reached into his shirt pocket hoping for 
a few remaining sunflower seeds.  It was a good thing he hadn't 
thrown the shirt away.  It was a good thing he'd moved or he would 
never have discovered it crushed at the back of the closet behind 
a box.  Blue flannel wasn't exactly what he wore at this point--at 
least, it hadn't been up until a couple of weeks ago--but it was 
okay now; it fit the bill and made him look the part of someone 
not himself, just an ordinary guy who'd blend in anywhere, someone 
nobody would think to look twice at.

He turned around to take in the house behind him:  a modest white 
board structure with brick around the bottom, neatly painted 
shutters, a small porticoed porch, and flower beds circling the 
front yard with a riot of waist-high flowers in reds and pinks and 
purples and yellows that reminded him faintly of cottage gardens 
he'd seen in Britain. He leaned--carefully--against the pillar 
beside him, letting his sore neck muscles stretch gradually, and 
closed his eyes.  Behind them he saw the swing in the park, and 
Scully on it.

"'Scuse me..."

Mulder woke with a start.

The voice was a woman's and carried a slight twang.  He opened his 
eyes and immediately squinted against a painful brightness.  
Haloed by the light were a smallish graying woman and a broad 
strawberry blonde-haired girl of perhaps seven or eight who'd been 
half-shooed behind her.  He sat up, swallowing the discomfort of 
the effort.

"Mrs. Johnston?" he said, standing, wishing he'd never leaned 
against that post.  Hoping he wouldn't come across as groggy as he 
felt.

He held his hand out.  "I'm a friend of Dana Scully's.  I worked 
with her until very recently."

Rita stepped forward, took the hand he offered and shook it 
firmly.

"Walter mentioned you," she said after a pause.  She smiled.  "But 
I don't recall the name."

Mulder glanced around and nodded toward the house.  "I can 
explain.  May I speak with you for a moment?"

She seemed puzzled by his remark but stepped past him to the front 
door, girl in tow, and unlocked it.

"I never used to do this," she said, gesturing apologetically at 
the lock, "but things have become awful strange around here of 
late.  Go on, sweetie," she said to the girl, who disappeared down 
a hallway to a room on the right.

"My granddaughter," she said, looking up at Mulder.

"Your son Andy's?" he asked.

She gave up a bittersweet smile at the mention of his name.  
"Yes," she said.  "An early liaison.  They were both way too 
young.  The mother took off when Bethy was three, left town with a 
trucker.  Bethy's been with me ever since."  She smiled up at him 
again.  "How she got to me's no matter, though.  Don't know what 
I'd do without her."  She flushed.  "But you, come in, sit down.  
Here I am yabbering on about myself."

She led him to the living room and paused.  "Do you mind the 
kitchen?  I have some things to do.  You're welcome to sit out 
here where it's comfortable but I have a feeling that if I left 
you for more than two minutes I'd come back to find you asleep."

A straight shooter.  Mercifully, she didn't look him in the eye, 
but continued on to the kitchen.  Mulder followed, feeling a 
sudden flush of heat in his cheeks.

"I didn't sleep last night," he said.

She offered him a chair at the kitchen table, then opened the 
refrigerator door, stooping down to take out several items.

"I'm sorry," he said.  "My name is Fox Mulder, but don't spread it 
around.  From what Agent Scully's told me... I think what's been 
happening here is the tip of a much larger iceberg, Mrs. Johnston, 
one that involves more innocent people than anyone has yet 
realized.  Dangerous men in some very high positions of power have 
what I believe is a personal stake in the beryllium that comes out 
of Beeson-Lymon.  They've gone to great lengths here to cover it 
up, and yesterday they threatened Agent Scully and AD Skinner as 
well.  I was already in their dog house."

Rita was standing at the sink, peeling hard-boiled eggs; she 
turned to look at him.  There was a momentary lapse in her all-
pervading equanimity, a twitch at the corner of her mouth, a flash 
of grief and despair, and then it was gone, faded into resolution.

"What can I do to help you, Mr...?"

"Wallace," Mulder said carefully, looking into her, entrusting her 
with the weight of his disguise.  "Ben Wallace."

She nodded.  "Mr. Wallace."

Isaiah Wilkins took another swipe at the shorter man and was 
rewarded with a stinging left to the ribs.  He grabbed at the desk 
chair with one hand in an attempt to steady himself and nearly 
knocked it over.

"Alright, alright," he said, waving one hand in the air.  "End of 
Round 3.  You win."  He stopped and gasped out the last of the 
pain, then continued breathing heavily, waiting for his heart rate 
to slow.

"Its all in the training," his partner said with a nod, sweat 
trickling down his forehead.

"It's gotta be, man, 'cause my arms are longer than yours."

Manny Acosta just grinned.

Wilkins waved him off.  "Go hit the shower," he said.  "You need 
it."

Acosta disappeared into the bathroom.

"You know we've got to stop meeting this way," Manny's voiced 
drifted out into the bedroom.

"Yeah, before broken motel furniture starts showing up on our 
expense reports.  Skinner'd go ballistic."

The bathroom door closed and Wilkins could hear the shower go on.  
He grabbed a towel from the desk and wiped his face.  Then he 
picked up the ice bucket and went outside in search of fresh ice.

It was nearly noon and the air was warm and slightly muggy.  He 
squinted into the brightness and headed for the ice machine, 
fishing in his pocket for enough change for a soda.  Hopefully 
Manny wouldn't spend half an hour in the shower.  He stopped in 
front of the soda machine and contemplated his choices.  The root 
beer was empty.

"Agent Wilkins?"

Wilkins spun around to find a man behind him, shadowed under the 
stairwell.  White guy: jeans, flannel shirt with the sleeves 
rolled up, baseball cap.  A day or two's growth of stubble.

"Fox Mulder," the man said, offering his hand.  "Can we talk?"

Wilkins raised an eyebrow.

"Sure," he said, nodding down the passage toward his room.  He 
quickly stuffed his quarters in the machine and punched a button.  
A soda can clunked out at the bottom.  He grabbed it and led the 
way back to the room.

"What's up?" he said when he'd closed the door behind him.  He 
gestured toward the chair but Mulder shook his head.

"You're probably going to get bumped from this case in the 
morning," Mulder said.  "I think what you've discovered here is 
the tip of a very big iceberg.  Yesterday Scully was warned to 
back off this investigation by the man I believe was responsible 
for my dismissal from the Bureau.  Then last night AD Skinner was 
stopped for a traffic violation and a baggie of planted coke was 
found in his car."  He paused.  "I don't think it was any 
coincidence, any more than I think the deaths here connected to 
this case were accidents, or suicides."

Wilkins gave his visitor a skeptical look.  He was an intense guy 
for sure, known around the Bureau for spouting crazy-ass theories, 
but if Scully trusted him as much as she seemed to... Wilkins 
pulled out the desk chair and straddled it.  He nodded to Mulder, 
who sat down on one of the unmade beds.

"Lay it on me," he said.

"There are men in high positions of power--essentially untouchable 
positions--who I believe are siphoning off a lot of the beryllium 
that comes through this plant for their own purposes..."

"What purposes?"

Mulder seemed to hesitate.  Half a deprecating smile forced its 
way across his face and he looked away.  "I don't think you want 
to know."  He looked back.  "Suffice it to say, these men stop at 
nothing.  They killed my father; they killed Agent Scully's sister 
in a botched attempt to kill her.  I believe they may have set 
Cyrus Miller up to kill Andy Johnston and then had Miller killed 
so he couldn't talk.  Have you interviewed his friends?"

"My partner did yesterday..."

"What did they say?"

"They seemed totally blown away.  They were surprised he'd run 
over Andy Johnston in the first place. Said they'd had this back-
and-forth thing going between the two of them for years, but they 
didn't figure Miller'd actually go out and do something like that. 
It was all a talk thing as far as they were concerned."

"What about personal background? Did he have financial problems, 
anything that might have induced him to do it for the money? Do 
you know if anybody'd been asking around for him recently? Someone 
not from around here?"

Wilkins shook his head. "We can try to find out."

"I'd do it myself, but I can't afford to be seen here. If they 
know I've left D.C.--that I'm looking into this--Scully's life 
will be in danger, and she's been through enough already."  
Mulder's mouth went small and tight.  He looked away.

"How long did you two work together?"

"Six years." There was something in his delivery, as if he'd said 
twenty years, or thirty.

"She's quite an agent," Wilkins said, smiling. "I was watching her 
do those autopsies..." He shook his head. "I couldn't do that 
stuff."

Mulder nodded agreement. He seemed on the verge of saying 
something but appeared to think better of it.  Instead, he pulled 
a picture from his wallet and held it out.

"Ask them if they've seen this man."

"Who is he?"

"He does a lot of their dirty work. Name's Alex Krycek. They even 
had him planted inside the Bureau as an agent for a while."

"Is he cold enough to kill a little kid?"

Mulder only nodded.

"Okay, man.  We'll get on it as soon as my partner in there..."--
he nodded toward the bathroom--"decides to get himself out of the 
shower."

"I'll be around for the rest of the day.  I'll be in touch."

Wilkins raised an eyebrow. "You're taking a chance, you know, 
getting mixed up in this shit." He paused. "How do you know I 
won't go back to headquarters and tell them you were here?"

Mulder raised his eyebrows. "Scully trusts you," he said. "I trust 
her judgment."

Mulder sat half-dozing in his rental car across from the motel. 
Lexington might, at one time, have been the 'Athens of the West' 
it boasted to be, but this little place thirty miles out was 
Podunk--a hardscrabble, trying-to-survive little place in the 
rising hills away from the manicured horse farms of the landed 
gentry, with Beeson-Lymon as the principal reason for its not 
having turned into a ghost town decades earlier.

He reached for the soda can ensconced in a pool of melting cubes 
in Wilkins' ice bucket. At least there'd been a shady tree to park 
under. He took a drink of the warming soda and set it back to 
float precariously in the plastic tub. His cell phone rang and he 
grabbed it.

"Yeah."

"Mulder, it's me. Something's happened here. Your old landlord 
just called."

"Carl?"

"Yes. He said he was prepping your apartment, getting it ready to 
paint, and he found a recording device carefully embedded into the 
doorframe between your living room and dining area."

"A camera?" He leaned forward in the seat.

"Yes. He wouldn't tell me more than that. He wanted to talk to 
you."

Mulder slammed the steering wheel with his palm. He looked out 
into the shimmering heat rising from the roadway and set his jaw. 
"Do you have his number?"

"It's 555-1354."

He breathed out heavily. "Okay, I'm going to call him, Scully, and 
then I'll get back to you. Could you go over there and check it 
out?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"Find out where it feeds to. If it's live I want to know what's on 
the tape."

"Okay."

"I'm going to call you right back. Are you at home?"

"No, Mulder, I'm at your place. Otherwise I wouldn't have been 
here to get the call."  She paused.  "I was trying to follow your 
advice. I've been sitting out in that chair in your backyard, 
looking up at the leaves. Very peaceful, actually."

He smiled. "Good. Good for you... Look, I hate to send you out on 
this thing..."

"No, it's okay, Mulder. We need to know what it is."

"I'll get right back to you, Scully."

"I'll be here."

Mulder switched the phone off, then on again and dialed Carl's 
number. It must have been Old Smoky this time, or the group he 
worked with, not a DOD project like the last time they'd been 
watching him. And yet... and yet if Smoky had any knowledge of it, 
he would never have come into the apartment yesterday and said 
what he'd said where it could be heard, or recorded.

There was a click at the other end of the line.

"Carl? This is Fox Mulder..."

Scully punched in Mulder's cell phone number and waited. A 
tightness had been steadily growing inside her, a tenseness and a 
twisted feeling in her stomach that she hadn't known since she'd 
begun at the Academy, or since the day six years ago when she'd 
descended a now-familiar flight of stairs to meet the infamous 
Spooky Mulder for the first time.

She wedged the phone between her cheek and shoulder and pressed 
her hands together. Two rings, three rings, four. Pick-up.

"Mulder, it's me.'

"Scully, what did you find?"

"Mulder, I think you have your smoking gun--maybe even your Holy 
Grail--and it's right here in D.C." Her breath caught in her 
chest. She forced herself to breathe out. "The tape, Mulder. 
Yesterday is recorded on it. It shows Cancer Man--your entire 
conversation."

For a long time there was no reply.  "You're kidding," he 
sputtered finally.  "You're not kidding."

"No, Mulder, I'm not. I think you're going to want to come home 
right away."

"I... I'm.. .trying to process this. I... Geez, Scully."

"I checked flight times for you," she went on. "It's not good 
news. If you hurry, you can get the last evening flight out of 
Lexington at 7:10. You're going to have to fly to Cincinnati where 
there's a nearly three-hour delay before you can catch a flight 
coming into D.C. The Cincinnati to D.C. flight doesn't get into 
Dulles until 11:58." She sighed. "I can pick you up, though, when 
you arrive."

"Fine, that'll be great. I just... I think I could probably sprout 
wings and fly there under my own power right about now. Where's 
the tape? Do you have it with you?"

"I have it right here, Mulder. And Frohike made a copy.  The 
Gunmen are keeping it for you.

"Great. I guess I'll see you in a few hours."

"Well, the sooner the better, Mulder, because right now I feel 
like someone holding thousands of dollars in cash. I'll rest a lot 
easier when I know it's safely put away."

"Guess I'd better run, then. Scully, thanks. I owe you."

He clicked off and she hung up. She turned the desk chair and 
looked at the thinning light coming through the little glass panes 
in the door. Five hours, close to six. She swallowed and looked 
around. She'd slipped the tape into a deep side slot underneath 
the seat cushion in the wing chair for safekeeping. Five hours. 
She should eat something, but she didn't want to leave and there 
was nothing here to eat; he'd barely moved in.

It would all be over.  Cancer Man and his tricks and agendas would 
be only memories.

Hopefully Mulder could get his apartment back and this would turn 
out to have been just a minor blip on the screen of his life, 
though one that had already affected him deeply, more deeply than 
she'd realized in her own hurry and bustle to adjust to her new 
work assignment. She hadn't really grasped how much he must have 
worried about the loss of income--not because it wasn't a logical 
concern but because Mulder had always seemed so immune to mundane 
concerns like paychecks or balanced meals. His hopefulness always 
seemed to bridge the gap between cold reality and some extreme 
possibility.  With Mulder there was always another way, a 
different angle waiting to be discovered with a little thought, a 
little effort.

Five hours.

He had the evidence he needed now. They could use it to help 
Skinner, too, and with Skinner's backing they could probably be 
reinstated as partners again at the Bureau. There was value in the 
work at Quantico--she would never discount the evidence brought to 
light in the labs--but her mission was different now, broader. 
Hopefully they could go back to their own work, uncovering more of 
the Consortium's plans and experiments.

She stood at the door and looked out into the back yard, 
searching. No movement, nothing out of place. Her stomach 
grumbled. Maybe she would call out for something and have it 
delivered. Then there would be something for Mulder, too, when he 
got in; with all the excitement he might have forgotten to eat 
entirely. She looked at her watch. Five hours and counting.

It was like being released from a chain gang. She hadn't seen it 
clearly before this: the way their investigations had given her 
life purpose, had given it meaning, something beyond just a job 
and a routine with an impressive title. Meaning was what kept you 
going, what fueled you.  It was certainly what fueled Mulder.

Five hours and counting, as long as all went well. As long as no 
planes fell from the sky, no critical tapes were intercepted, and 
she remained ensconced here, tucked away from the Smoking Man's 
observation.  And who had placed the recorder? How long would it 
be before whoever it was discovered that the tape they'd placed 
there was gone? Would Carl tell where Mulder had gone if a gun 
were pointed at his head? Did he even know?

The ache in her stomach moved up to fill her throat. She should 
eat something. She sat down at the desk, picked up the phone, and 
began to dial.

(end 11 of 14)
........................................
Walking Through Fire (12 of 14)

Krycek paused cat-like behind the old man's chair.  In his mind he 
aimed a weapon at the back of the old man's head, the way he'd 
done a thousand other times.  In the back, out the front: it would 
be poetic justice for him to end up that way, faceless.  Too bad 
it wasn't a possibility.  If the old man actually had a leg up 
with the colonists--and Krycek's instinct told him that he did--
then personal revenge was a luxury he couldn't afford to consider.  
He hadn't hung around all these years to do something stupid and 
blow the planet away.  If there was going to be any salvation--and 
at best the chances looked about as good as winning the lottery--
then the key was to find out what the old man had, what he knew, 
get to his contacts.  After that he could be taken out.

Krycek took a step forward and rested his prosthetic hand on the 
back of the chair.  "I did as you asked," he spoke into the bluish 
silence strobing from the TV.

The old man jumped visibly, turned around and frowned.  He waved 
Krycek to a seat.  Krycek smiled slightly to himself and took it.

"I want you to check up on Mulder tomorrow," the old man said, 
clasping a Morley between his lips and forcing a stream of smoke 
out to one side.

Krycek nodded.

"He moved out of his apartment yesterday," the old man went on.

Krycek felt his heart skip a beat and willed it back into 
regularity.  "Where did he go?"  The old man had taught him that: 
smooth, confident, detached, as if you have no stake at all in the 
information you seek.

"I don't know, actually.  I was alone; I had no one to follow 
him."  A pause.  "I hadn't expected he'd give the place up so 
soon."  He turned from the black and white picture on the TV 
screen to look at Alex.  "I assume you won't have any trouble 
finding him.  Truth be told, he's been rather... petulant lately, 
feeling sorry for himself."  He took a last drag on the Morley and 
stabbed it out in the half-full ashtray.  "How was New York?"

"They seem to be staying in line," Krycek said.  A strange buzzing 
was building inside him, like the sensation he'd experienced 
standing at his mother's front door.  "They'd have been busy 
kissing my ass if they were hiding anything."  He pictured Mulder 
lying motionless on the floor of his apartment in the weakening 
light of early evening, the smells of other people's dinners 
wafting in through the open window.

"What do you want me to do about Mulder?  You just want to know 
where he is?"

"And what he's up to."  A newly-lit Morley entered the old man's 
mouth.  "He hasn't been seen today in the usual places."  He 
raised the remote and changed the channel.  The scene was in color 
now, an infomercial.  He clicked again.  "It's Agent Scully I'm 
concerned with at the moment.  I have little doubt she'll see the 
light and remove herself from this investigation eventually, but 
time is of the essence.  You might help her along: an anonymous 
phone call, a tap on the window after she's gone to bed."  He 
smiled.  "She'd be particularly receptive to that, I think."  The 
old man clicked the remote again and settled back into his chair.  
A lengthening section of ash near the tip of the Morley glowed red 
and nearly fell off.

Krycek stood and started toward the door.  The old man didn't look 
up or acknowledge him.  It was his way of letting you know he was 
the alpha, the default emperor of this fucked-up world, and that 
you were the dirt he walked on.

He'd gotten the message long ago.

Only two hours until she would meet Mulder at Dulles.  Scully 
turned away from the darkened panes of glass in Mulder's front 
door.  She drifted to the desk and sat down.

She should have slept, but there was a tension inside her that 
refused to let her lie down, or turn her back to the door.  She 
could go home but her apartment held no comfort now.  Another man 
outside her window.  It could be nothing--a petty thief hiding.  
Still, the thought of him had been enough to convince her to lie 
down here on Mulder's bed last night without any sort of protest.  
And tonight, once he was home and tired, what would she do, or 
say?  She was an adult.  It wasn't acceptable to be afraid of the 
dark.

She lifted the pencil tray from the drawer Mulder had mentioned in 
his note and took out the envelope underneath it.  She opened the 
flap.  Ben Wallace, Californian.  Business and credit cards.  She 
looked at Mulder's picture on the driver's license.  A beach-print 
shirt.  A slight shadow of stubble.  It had the mug shot look of a 
typical driver's license picture and something more, very subtle--
a hollowness in his expression.  But it should all be over soon.  
He'd be reinstated at the Bureau and this time there would be no 
Smoking Man to shut them down.  She reached into the envelope 
again.

Her fingers touched several cards rubber banded together.  She 
pulled them out and eased the band off.  She was Annie Barrett, 
from the outskirts of Baltimore.  Her hair in the photograph had 
been digitally altered to give her a more ordinary, working-class 
look.  She frowned slightly, wondering where Mulder had gotten the 
picture.  When she'd inspected all the cards--Visa, gas card, 
driver's license--she banded them back together.  Thank God, she'd 
never need any of this.

She glanced at her watch.  In another forty minutes she would 
leave.  She'd be ready and waiting when Mulder arrived.

In her mind she saw the tape footage again, Mulder going up to 
Cancer Man, a shudder of emotion in his movements, his voice 
overloaded and indignation and his words--"used as bait--bait".  
But he hadn't told her everything.  He hadn't said the words "in 
good health".  Her fingers slipped trembling toward a spot at the 
back of her neck.

He'd only meant to shelter her.  But all of that would be over 
now.  It would have to be.

Annie Barrett.

She glanced again at her watch and wished it were later.

"Scully..."

She jumped and opened her eyes.  Mulder was leaning in through the 
passenger door, smiling to see her.  Smiling at the possibilities 
of having his life back.  She glanced around the car interior, 
trying to anchor herself.  The scene in front of her was odd, 
distant, as if she were seeing it through a filter.

"How was your flight, Mulder?"  She should have slept earlier.  
Everything was hazy now.  Her head was thick.

He tossed his bag into the back seat and got in.  She fumbled with 
the keys and started the engine.

"You mean *flights*--plural," he said.

She looked into the rear view mirror, trying to gauge approaching 
headlights.  They seemed indistinguishable, neither close nor far.

"...Yes, flights," she said, struggling to catch up.  The pressure 
she'd felt all evening--had felt ever since she'd first seen the 
tape--was building when it should be easing.  "Flights," she 
repeated.  She stared hard into the rearview again and slipped the 
car into gear.  Red taillights sped past them.  She blinked.

"Scully?"  There was a hand on her shoulder.  She turned to look 
at him.  "Scully, are you okay?  Maybe you'd better let me drive."

She gripped the wheel  harder.  Pressure was rising inside her, 
surrounding her.  Rising into her throat, closing in on her, 
inescapable.

"Scully..."  Sudden warmth capped her right hand--his hand, 
loosening hers carefully from the wheel.  Her other hand continued 
to cling.

A strange, soft sound began at a distance... crying.  Somebody 
was...  It was her.  Her head was against the steering wheel.  Her 
body shook.  It seemed like someone else's body.

She heard the sound as the engine was shut off, and then his jeans 
against the fabric of the seats as he moved closer and pushed up 
the arm rest between them.  His hand smoothed a warm patch across 
her forehead and back into her hair and then she was eased against 
him and into the shelter of his arms.

She cried.  She couldn't stop herself.

Krycek sat waiting in the darkened car.  The radio was on, the 
volume low, but he couldn't have said what song was playing.  He 
let his head fall back against the headrest and watched two sets 
of taillights glide past in the dark.  Strange that he'd felt 
nervous in front of the old man, like a schoolboy caught in a lie-
-as if the old man would be able to see his thoughts and know 
where he'd gone, or that he'd seen *her*.

Scully wasn't home.  There was a light on in the living room, but 
no others had gone on or off since he'd gotten here and according 
to the infrared, there were no living bodies inside.   Tomorrow 
he'd have to find out what Mulder was up to.

A tall man emerged from the building and entered a car parked 
directly in front.  Krycek watched him hitch up his seatbelt, 
reach for the radio knob, examine his teeth in the rearview 
mirror.  Then the taillights and headlights came on and the car 
eased out of the parking space and drove away.

They were so different, the two of them.  But then people changed 
over time.  Well, some did, some didn't.  What had the old man 
been like then... or better put, what had there been about him 
that could possibly have attracted her?  Not that he gave a shit.  
It was a stupid question.  The old man never would have been any 
different.  She'd said it herself: she'd been foolish.  End of 
story.

Headlights approached and slowed.  A car pulled up and stopped 
just ahead of the vacated space, paused, and eased slowly back 
into it.  The light of a street lamp fell across the driver's 
face.  It was Mulder and he seemed to be alone.  Krycek watched 
him get out of the car, circle to the passenger door and open it.  
Scully's head came up.  She seemed to hesitate.  Mulder held out 
his hand, helped her out.  His arm went around her.  Slowly hers 
went around his waist.  Mulder turned back to make sure the doors 
were locked, then the two of them went slowly up the stairs and 
through the building's entry door.

He could still see them once they'd made it to her door.   
Scully's head was against him.  She dug in a pocket for keys and 
handed them to Mulder, who worked the lock.  The two of them 
disappeared inside.  No additional light went on in the living 
room.  Soon there was a dull illumination in the bedroom.

Krycek's fingers drummed on the steering wheel.  He let out a 
sigh, reached for the key and turned it.  He knew where they were 
now; they wouldn't be going anywhere.  Scully had seemed almost 
sick, or drunk.  Or if Mulder was finally getting some, then he 
wasn't about to interrupt.  They wouldn't be undermining the old 
man's plan anytime in the next few hours.  And Mulder could be 
tailed easily enough in the morning.

He eased out of the parking space, flipped on the headlights and 
gunned the car.  At least Mulder wasn't his father, and at least 
he'd chosen well.  He and Scully wouldn't be creating any messed-
up, throwaway kids together.

The light ahead turned red.  Krycek eased onto the brakes and came 
to a stop.  No cross-traffic appeared.  Krycek poked at the radio 
knob, finally jabbing it off.  He could still see Mulder at the 
door, his movements careful, easing Scully along.  Poor sucker 
wore his heart on his sleeve and the old man worked that point for 
everything he could get out of it.  Still, it was almost beyond 
comprehension: having somebody you could trust as far as those two 
trusted each other.

The low light produced deep shadows that stretched across Scully's 
living room.  Mulder studied them from the edge of the couch where 
he sat elbows-on-knees, one foot tapping subconscious worry.  He 
was waiting for the bathroom light to go off, to hear her pad 
across the intervening space, to know she'd gotten into bed.

He hung his head.  His neck ached.  He needed a shower, but it 
would wait until morning.  Waiting had been the story of his life 
lately: sitting on his ass on planes and porches, in cars and 
airports.   But eight hours from now he'd have that tape.  He 
could stand in front of a panel and expose the smirking old son of 
a bitch once and for all.  He reached for the warm, aching streak 
on the side of his neck and rubbed it with his fingertips.

Scully's bathroom light went off.  He waited, picturing the 
distance and imagining her crossing it, getting into bed, pulling 
up the blankets.  After a moment he stood and went into the 
welcome darkness of her room.  He could feel her presence though 
his eyes hadn't yet adjusted to the lack of light.  He sat down 
carefully on the edge of the bed.  A warm palm went against the 
side of his jeans.

"You going to be okay, Scully?"  He reached out, felt her 
shoulder, smoothed the hair back from her face.  She nodded 
against him.

"Did you find the blanket in the closet?"  Her voice was dry and 
strange, strained from crying.

"Yeah."  He leaned down and kissed her forehead lightly, then 
stood.  "I'll be out there if you need anything."

He walked back into the living room and turned out the light.  He 
sat down on the couch, slipped off his shoes and settled the loose 
cushions at one end of the sofa.  Her throw blanket was only 
enough to wrap around his shoulders but it would do.  His neck 
ached; he arched his head, searching for a comfortable position, 
and eased himself onto his back.  She'd promised to ask for a 
leave of absence in the morning.  She was going to call in, go see 
the Bureau counselor and then arrange for some time off.  She 
should have taken it long ago.

He closed his eyes and felt the weariness begin to spread, luring 
him toward sleep.  She'd cried for half an hour, just sitting 
there, pressed against him, cars and taxis flowing by, planes 
roaring past overhead.  It had scared and reassured him at the 
same time.

There was an emptiness in the air, a strangeness, as if the world 
had changed in some fundamental way--the way it felt when someone 
close to you had died--though the scene before her contained all 
the usual, familiar elements.  Scully blinked at the soft light of 
morning.  She sat on the edge of the bed, robe pulled tight around 
her.  Cool air tingled against her still-damp face.  She'd washed 
it to get rid of the stiff feeling the tears' salt residue had 
left, though the dark circles that rimmed her eyes were something 
soap and water wouldn't carry away.

A shuffling sound approached from the living room.  She glanced up 
to see Mulder standing in the doorway half-awake, his hair wild.

"How's it going?"  He radiated worry and hope.

She felt heat rise in her face.  She turned away, toward the 
window.

"Like I'm in an alternate universe, Mulder."  She shook her head.  
She could feel the stinging in her eyes already.  "Thank you, 
for..."  She bit her lip.

"It's okay," his voice came softly.

The quiet in the room buzzed loudly. Sunlight brightened the 
carpet, inching its way toward her feet.

"Look, Scully, I'm going to go running," he said.  "I'm going to 
go home"--his voice hitched slightly on the word--"and take a 
shower."  A pause.  "Will you be okay?"

She nodded, only half-looking at him.

"I'll be back in an hour," he said.

She stared unseeing across the room and followed the sound of his 
footsteps retreating toward the living room.  A minute later the 
front door opened and then closed.  She could hear him trying it 
from the outside to make sure it was locked.  Pressure rose in her 
throat.  She stood up.  She would shower.  No, she'd call in and 
then she would shower.  She'd make an appointment with Karen 
Kosseff.  Hopefully she could see her this morning--a cancelled 
appointment, maybe.  And Mulder would go to the Bureau.  He'd 
present the evidence that would finally disarm the Smoking Man.

She went to the window: no Mulder.  Probably he'd gone out the 
back, the way he'd taken her two nights ago, over the fence and 
down the alley.  It was shorter that way.  He'd be back in an 
hour.

It would only be an hour.

Mulder looked into the mirror and wiped the last of the shaving 
cream from his face.  He pulled the white shirt from the hanger on 
the door behind him and put it on, then reached for the tie.  It 
had been a week since he'd worn a suit, and then it had only been 
long enough to go through the charade of the exit interview.  It 
could just as well have been years he'd been bumming around in 
jeans and T-shirts, or old flannel, being nobody, blending in, 
being invisible.  Less credible, even, than he usually was.  He 
shook his head.

He pulled on the slacks, went to fasten the belt, hesitated at his 
usual notch--too loose--and pulled it tighter.  He'd been starving 
by the time he got here, but Scully had obviously ordered Chinese 
the night before and had left him some in the fridge.  He could 
have eaten twice as much.  It was nervousness, though, not hunger, 
just wanting to see this thing done: no hitches, evidence 
delivered and accepted.  Then watch Old Smoky sink.

He went to the closet for his jacket.  Two days ago he'd stood 
here wondering what the hell he'd ever do with half a dozen suits 
in here taking up space.  He pulled a jacket from its hanger, laid 
it over the back of the wing chair and sat down to put on his 
shoes.

His mother would be back in Greenwich.  Probably she'd settled 
back into business as usual.  Though there'd been something, a 
tinge of something driving her when she'd said she wanted to go 
back home, as if she'd wanted to get away from Trudy's.  Maybe 
something was haunting her there.  What had happened to the woman 
his mere presence had been able to kindle joy in when he was a 
little kid in plaid shorts?

He stood up, slipped on his jacket and went to glance one more 
time in the bathroom mirror.  Mr. Legitimacy--as legitimate, 
anyway, as he was ever going to get.  He ran a comb through his 
hair and turned to go.  Focusing on the wing chair, he smiled.  He 
slipped his hand under the seat cushion and into the channel along 
the side where Scully had told him to look.  His fingers probed 
until they touched the plastic case of the cassette.  He pulled it 
out.

She'd been on the verge.  He hadn't wanted to say anything to push 
her over that edge again, or make her look weak in her own eyes.  
Scully had a bone-deep need to feel her own strength.  Hopefully 
he'd done the right thing in leaving her alone for a little while.  
Anything to keep her from feeling smothered, because when she felt 
smothered, she ran.  And if she ran who knew where she'd end up.

"... extremely serious charges, Mr. Mulder."

How many times had he been here before?  The script was 
practically carved in stone.  But that was okay.  He'd repeat the 
scenario a thousand times if that's what it took.

"I'm aware of that, sir," Mulder said, clearing his throat.  "I'm 
also aware that lives have been lost in the past because of this 
man's agenda, and Bureau personnel will continue to be endangered, 
as will innocent civilians."

There was a pause and the man behind the desk pushed back farther 
into his chair, then frowned at him from under bunched eyebrows.

"I don't have to tell you what a shortage of credibility you have 
around here, Mulder..."

"You can verify for yourself, sir, that the rate of solution on 
the cases Agent Scully and I investigated is well above the Bureau 
average.  I believe Assistant Director Skinner finds me credible."

"AD Skinner also finds himself in a distinctly compromised 
position at the moment."

"He was set up.  He was set up by the man you'll see on this 
tape."  He heard his voice, sharp-edged, and paused.  Scully would 
be giving him one of her glances now, urging him to keep his cool, 
not to blow this.  "All I'm asking, sir, is a chance to show this 
to a panel myself.  I've experienced a history of crucial evidence 
disappearing without a trace, and I can't afford to let that 
happen this time.  It's too important."

"You're not really in a position to set conditions here, Mulder.  
Surely you must know that."

"No, but I'm in a position to save lives, and that's what I intend 
to do.  Besides, sir, if what I'm presenting is a... a hoax, a 
sham... then the only one who'll come off looking like a certified 
ass is me.  Why would I do that to myself?"

The man sighed, looked down at his papers and rubbed his thumb 
along the length of the pen he held.  "I have two panel members in 
a meeting," he said, looking up.  "I'll call you when they're 
out."

"How long will this be?"

"Maybe an hour.  Maybe two or three."

Mulder nodded, the tension within him laced with relief now.  It 
was only the first small step, but it was happening.  Finally it 
was happening.  He stood.

"I'll be waiting for your call, sir."

(end 12 of 14)
.............................................
Walking Through Fire (13 of 14)

Karen Kosseff poked her head out into the hallway and looked 
toward the man seated on the otherwise vacant row of chairs 
outside her door.

"Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder looked up from the sports section someone had left behind.

"May I speak with you a moment?"

Something tightened in his stomach. "Sure." He stood.

He went through the door she held open. She didn't ask him to sit; 
she merely faced him.

"It will probably come as no surprise to you that I'm very, very 
concerned about Agent Scully," she began softly. She had one of 
those soft counselor voices, the kind you could sink into and 
smother, though Scully had thought enough of her to make the 
appointment.  "She's been through some extremely traumatic 
incidents in the past couple of weeks as I'm sure you're aware..."

He reddened involuntarily, wondering just how far back Scully had 
gone in recounting the trauma. He nodded.

She paused, looked him in the eye, forced herself to smile. "I'm 
trying to find a way to express this that won't violate my pledge 
of confidentiality to Agent Scully, but I think..." She took a 
breath, composed herself, went on. "Agent Scully has a need to see 
herself... in control of her own life... as having the strength to 
do that. It's very natural." Another pause. "What she needs most 
at this moment is a strong support network, and I'm afraid she 
doesn't have that, isn't willing to avail herself... Agent Mulder, 
you've been her partner for six years. I think you're in a better 
position than anyone to see that she gets the support she needs." 
A pause. "Can you do that for her?"

"Yes." His voice sounded solemn, as if he were making a promise in 
court.

Kosseff walked to the door of her inner office and opened it 
carefully. He could see Scully inside, sitting in a chair. She 
seemed faraway.

"Someone is here for you," the counselor said softly.

Scully looked up.  She knew already who it was. She stood and came 
toward them.

"I understand there were a few complications to your coming here 
today," Kosseff said, addressing both of them. "I'll let you 
discuss your plans." She went through the inner door and closed 
it, leaving them alone in the outer office.

Scully looked up at him, just a hint of expression curling at one 
corner of her mouth.

"I'm tired," she said.

He couldn't tell if she'd been crying again. She looked like she 
needed to rest, like she needed to be at home in her own bed. But 
he had a presentation to make, soon, he didn't know how soon.

"Scully, they're putting a panel together. It could be a couple of 
hours, maybe less." He grimaced. "Maybe more. Do you want me to 
take you home? I can do it if you want."

Apprehension tinged her expression and then melted into something 
he couldn't quite read. She shook her head.

She still didn't want to be there alone.

"You could stay at my place..."

He could see the gleam of water starting to form in the corner of 
her eye. She took a step forward and then hesitated.

Mulder took the intervening step between them. She looked up at 
him momentarily and attempted a smile--part embarrassment, part 
weariness, part resignation--and rested her cheek against his 
jacket. He smoothed her hair back with one hand and left it to 
rest against her neck.

"I've got things to do here, Scully," he said.  "What if...? How 
about if I get Byers--just Byers--to come and stay with you for a 
few hours. You could lie down in the car.  I'll be done in a 
while."

She sighed and nodded against him.

Mulder took the cell phone from his pocket and dialed, watching 
her take a seat on the sofa against the wall. He talked, half-
attentive, with Byers. She was trying to look okay, trying to look 
comfortable. But she wasn't trying very hard, wasn't pulling the 
'I'm fine' routine.  It scared the hell out of him.

"Yeah, ten minutes," he said, and hit the 'off' button. They could 
wait ten minutes. He nodded at her. "It's okay, Scully," he said. 
"He's coming."

Mulder watched from behind the glass as Scully walked out the 
front door of the Hoover Building and stood near the curb. He'd be 
out there with her if he could, waiting, making sure she was 
settled with Byers, but he couldn't afford to be seen with her, 
not for her sake or for his own. The less he showed himself, the 
better. At least here. Now.  Anyway, he had an appearance to put 
in on a certain set of stairs.

Byers' car pulled up, an innocuous light blue sedan. He spotted 
her immediately and double-parked at the curb. Mulder bit his lip. 
Scully hesitated; the back seat passenger window lowered slowly. 
Byers was calling to her, saying something--hopefully nothing that 
would send her over that cliff edge she was hanging onto so 
precariously. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them and 
looked again. She was disappearing into the back seat now and the 
door was closing. She appeared to be saying something to Byers.  
She seemed okay.

Mulder took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

Krycek's thumb drummed against the steering wheel as he waited for 
the light to change.  Fifteen minutes it had taken him to make it 
this far, though it would have been longer if the old man didn't 
have a few convenient, close-in parking spaces at his disposal.  
He glanced ahead, at the humid green of the Mall vegetation.  
Maybe she'd think he'd flaked, or maybe she'd have decided he was 
exactly the kind of guy they were always warning you to stay away 
from.

Mulder hadn't shown up by the lake.  But at least he'd checked.  
The old man would know he'd done his bidding and the next thing, 
after this crazy little detour, would be to drop by Mulder's old 
place, pull that last cassette out of the recorder and find out 
what Mulder was actually up to.  If he'd mentioned anything at all 
about what he had planned, or where he was going, it would be on 
that tape.

The light ahead of him turned green and Krycek accelerated with 
the traffic around him.  A block away, now half a block.  He 
searched the curb area ahead where the street intersected 
Constitution Avenue.  No sign of her.  His thumb tapped the 
steering wheel again and he braked quickly to avoid a parked car 
pulling into traffic.  There was no kind of guarantee she'd show.

There.  Six cars ahead she'd stepped into view: pale hair, worn 
dress and that little yellow cardigan it was too hot to be 
wearing.  He swallowed.  She caught sight of him and stood 
waiting, red pack hanging off her shoulder.

In the dark behind her closed eyelids, her boundaries were the 
gray cloth upholstery pressed along the length of her left side, 
the suffusing warmth of the hazy day, the slight pinch of her 
shoes. In her mind she could see the woman from her dream, 
insistent, wanting to show her the contents of the bag she 
carried.  She didn't want to see inside the woman's bag. There was 
a body there, half rag doll, half little girl. She didn't want to 
look.

She was falling again, spiraling, tumbling end for end. It would 
be hours yet. She could feel her eyes burn, the swelling in her 
throat.

"Agent Scully?"

The voice was soft, compassionate. She opened her eyes and looked 
up through the window above her. At an angle she saw Byer's face. 
He seemed worried, like a kindly old grandfather looking over her.

"Agent Scully, would you like to walk? It might do you good."

The tumbling had stopped. Temporarily. She made herself sit.  
After a moment she nodded her assent.

Byers opened the door and she stepped out into the brightness of 
midday. There were trees all around. They were in a small parking 
lot; a path went off to one side. It was the Arlington side of the 
river.  She remembered the sound of going over the bridge.

Byers took the first few steps and she followed.  After a moment 
he slowed slightly, waiting for her, and they walked together in 
silence. The path led toward the river--packed, hard dirt, wide 
enough for two. In the distance the sparkle of water winked 
between tree trunks. Her walking was the rhythm of footsteps and 
the cool-and-warm-again of passing through shadow and dappled 
sunlight. A veil of sadness hovered above her--around her--but did 
not touch. Mulder would be out there, somewhere on the other side, 
putting in his decoy appearance by the lake near the Lincoln 
Memorial.

Her toe caught on something.  She was launched forward, stomach 
pitching, fingers reaching.  Byers' arm was there; her hand went 
around it near the elbow.

"All right?" he said, concerned and yet calming. He was the 
perfect babysitter.

"Yes.  Thank you."

She left her hand where it was. They continued down the path.

Karen Kosseff had been her usual professional self, taking 
Scully's questions and turning them back on her. What was it she 
thought she needed, what did she think she should do? But this 
time she needed answers, not a mirror. It was all too mixed-up. It 
hurt to contemplate; everything rose and swirled around her when 
she tried to pin it down. She tightened her grip on Byers' arm.  
He didn't seem to mind.

The path was more footsteps, left and then right, sunlight and 
shade, rhythm, breathing, movement. Halt.

She looked up. The Potomac spread in front of them. There were 
benches.

"Agent Scully, would you like to sit?"

She focused--benches...shade--and finally nodded. She let go of 
Byers' arm. Downriver, to the right, she could see the stairs that 
cascaded to the river from behind the Lincoln Memorial.  To the 
left of the memorial was the lake where Mulder would be. The water 
moved slowly, a rippling gray-green mass.

Byers was in front of her now, sitting on the bench. She walked 
around it and sat down beside him, the haze in her head fading. 
Damp air prickled at her face.  Her stomach was hungry; she'd 
eaten nothing.  Byers sat neatly in his gray and charcoal suit, 
his beard neatly trimmed. She felt herself redden. She half-
smiled.

"I... I really should apologize..." she started, her voice 
interrupting the silence.  For being so weak, so needy, so...

"No need," he said, smiling softly. He paused.  After a moment his 
expression changed and looked out over the water. "I know... what 
it's like." He glanced at her. "The feeling, I mean. That falling 
feeling. Wondering if it will ever stop..." He was staring at the 
far shore.

She sighed.  Tension seemed to escape with it.  Ants scurried 
across the ground in a jagged line.

"Some years ago..." Byers was talking again. He stared beyond the 
far shore, into memory. "...I was engaged to a woman. She'd been 
divorced. We used to go jogging in the morning, when it was cool."

He glanced over, to acknowledge her. She half-smiled.

"One day I was sick, and she went out without me. I never saw her 
again.  She was struck by a car, run over by her ex-husband."

She felt the veil descending, tightening around her. "I'm so 
sorry..."

After a few seconds he smiled. "Eventually I learned to celebrate 
her--who she'd been, what she'd done. It took a long time, 
though."

Byers never talked.

"...So I know," he said.

"Thank you," she said.

Mulder's reached back to rub the sore spot at the side of his 
neck, then eased his head against a convenient railing and closed 
his eyes.  The color behind them gradually faded from yellow to 
red to black. In the dark he could feel the tension of time 
ticking away, the minutes counting down. It was the last time he'd 
have to play this dirty-jeans, tired-shirt charade, the last time 
he'd sit here waiting to be seen, displaying himself for Smoky 
like a whore.

It was Krycek: in all that had happened he'd forgotten to tell 
her, or maybe it was best right now that he didn't mention that it 
had to be Krycek who'd shot Cyrus Miller and the little boy 
Scully'd had to look at. Acosta had caught up with Miller's 
friends at the funeral and two of them remembered seeing the man 
in the photograph. He'd been asking about Miller, saying he was an 
old friend. He'd shot a kid, an innocent two-year-old boy for 
godsake, and what did it take--what the hell kind of background 
did it take--to produce a human being so morally bankrupt?

When he opened his eyes, he squinted out over the expanse of 
placid water, then turned to look behind him.  The stairs were 
empty.  What had become of the girl?  In the crush of moving, of 
finding out about Skinner's arrest and then his trip to Kentucky, 
he'd forgotten about her.  Maybe she'd moved on by now, not that 
she looked like she had the means.  Her clothes had been old, 
hand-me-downs at best.  Maybe someone she knew had come to take 
her home.

Mulder glanced at his watch. It had been forty-five minutes but it 
felt like hours. He ran a hand back through his hair.  High-level 
meetings could go on for... well, for a lot longer than he wanted 
to wait.  But he'd have to.  Everything was riding on this.  He 
could feel the subtle drumming of his pulse, quicker than usual, 
waiting.

He turned and squinted toward a stand of trees.  Scully would be 
out there, beyond those trees and across the Potomac.  Byers had 
said he'd take her across the river, someplace quiet where she 
could walk if she wanted to. He hoped she was finding some peace 
there.

"Alex?"

The old man's voice delivery was uneven, emotional. Krycek pressed 
his hand against his ear to block out the din of the jukebox.

"Yeah?"

"I need you right away." There was a pause, but not long enough 
for the old man's trademark drag on his Morley. "Mulder has a 
tape. He has me on videotape.  There must have been a unit in his 
apartment somewhere."

Krycek's heart spasmed.

"He's requested permission to show it to a Bureau panel this 
afternoon."

"What do you want me to do?"  Heat rose inside him, covering him 
with a fine sheen of sweat.  It was his recorder.  He'd put it 
there to make sure Mulder wasn't burning his fingers on a hot 
stove or falling into an irreversible funk.

"Stop him. Get the tape."  A pause.  "Find the device.  I want to 
know who put it there."

Krycek's heart raced.  Gino was watching.  He turned away from the 
bar and closed his eyes a moment.  What a hell of a time to be 
caught already off-balance.  He'd need an airtight story to feed 
the old man and still walk out of this in one piece.

He cleared his throat.  "And Scully?" His delivery was smoother 
this time, though his heart continued to pound, oblivious to his 
will. He'd have to pull the recorder, clean it, get the damn tape 
back.  Mulder wouldn't give it up without a fight but the guy was 
crazy if he thought he'd make it to the head of a conference table 
with that tape before a bullet found him.

"Scully has outlived her usefulness to us."

Mulder.  Mulder had the tape.  What kind of crazy twist of Greek 
tragedy was that?

*You never make things easy, do you, brother?*

Krycek took a short breath and held it.  "I'll take care of it."  
It was his best cool, professional voice.

He switched off the phone, got up from the bar and headed for the 
door.

Mulder ran his hands back through his hair and grimaced at the 
loud, squabbling honks of two large geese by the water's edge.  It 
been two hours and what the hell were those panel people up to? 
Aside from the Chinese leftovers in his refrigerator he'd eaten 
nothing, and it was one now. His stomach wanted food, and yet it 
was a nervous want, too, an echo of his need to present the tape, 
to nail Smoky, to stop spending his life in limbo. One foot tapped 
a rhythm against the stair.

He glanced into the trees on the left. What was Scully doing now?  
Waiting like he was? Maybe she'd fallen asleep; that would be 
better. She needed the rest.

Unexpectedly, the girl formed herself in his mind. He'd seen it 
and yet he'd paid no attention, drowning in his own private 
quicksand. He could see her again, long faded dress and a pale 
yellow cardigan sweater, something straight out of the fifties. It 
was the way she sat, leaning back slightly, her hand resting on 
her belly, on the barest hint of roundness. She'd been pregnant.

It was taking too long.

He pulled out his cell phone and punched in the number. His foot 
tapped the wall beside him.

The Director was out to lunch.

Mulder hit the off button.  His mouth hardened. Maybe he was out 
to lunch and maybe he wasn't. Maybe something had happened. Maybe 
Smoky'd found out.

Mulder stood suddenly and started rapidly up the stairs.

The sadness had descended again, wrapping itself closely around 
her, almost smothering in its tightness. Byers was right.  It felt 
like falling. Freefall.

Byers had taken her to get some lunch.  She'd managed to please 
him by eating a muffin and then the sadness had come, a thin, 
gray, seeping sadness she seemed to wick up like a piece of dry 
cotton fabric, thirsty and eager, though she wanted none of it.

She opened one eye and closed it, taking in a quick view of the 
back seat's interior and the sky beyond. The cloud cover had 
become thicker, the afternoon cooler. Mulder would be waiting, 
impatient, pacing on the inside if not on the surface. Taut, ready 
to snap at the least provocation.  She was glad she wasn't there. 
And yet she *was* with him. It was his life hanging in the 
balance, his spirit reaching, teetering.

She felt her throat constrict, the wetness begin to leak from the 
corners of her eyes. End for end. It was happening again.

Krycek stifled a growl and resisted the urge to slam his good fist 
into the closet wall.  The recorder was gone, along with the small 
upper shelf he'd set it on. He leaned his head against the door, 
panting.  He'd have to get another one to give to the old man; he 
wouldn't know the difference.  Or he could admit he'd placed it 
himself.  Maybe the old man would give him bonus points for 
ingenuity.  Or it could raise a red flag, setting off the old 
man's natural fears that he'd go his own way once he knew enough.  
Given that the old man had gotten caught on the tape, sudden 
admissions of truth weren't going to be the way to go.

Fuck.  And it wouldn't take much for Mulder to realize that if the 
old man had talked in his apartment, he couldn't possibly be the 
one who put the bug there.  And who was Mulder likely to blame in 
the heat of the moment?  Who did he ever blame?

Krycek looked up at the dull overhead bulb and closed his eyes 
momentarily.  *Why are we always like this, Mulder?*  They weren't 
so far apart in what they wanted, but they always ended up on 
opposite sides of any struggle, at each other's throats doing a 
kind of Cain and Abel thing.

He exhaled heavily and worked to push the chaos into the back of 
his mind.  He paused to listen--all quiet beyond the door--and 
slipped out into the hallway.  Where the two halls intersected, he 
glanced toward Mulder's old place, then headed for the stairwell 
and started down.

Now he got to walk the high wire.  The old man had to have the 
tape; there was nothing to be gained by having the old man exposed 
now, possibly taking him out of the picture before he'd given up 
enough of his secrets.  And Mulder had to be kept alive, which 
wasn't going to happen as long as he was carrying that tape 
around.  But Mulder would fight giving it up, especially since he 
thought it was the key to his future.  And there'd be no reasoning 
with Mulder.  When had Mulder ever listened to anything he had to 
say?  Getting the tape from him would have to be quick, clean, 
decisive--no lag time, no room for argument.

Krycek emerged from the stairwell and made his way outside to 
where he'd parked. He worked the key in his car door and got in.   
It was happening again: everything accelerating around him, events 
becoming critical, the stakes heightened.  The only thing this rat 
race shit was good for at the moment was keeping the image of a 
certain brown-haired kid out of his head, and the memory of 
standing across a kitchen table from his mother, stumbling like a 
fool over his own words.

He started the engine and pulled out into traffic.  The girl had 
had pale skin and hair, not that much different from Marita's 
coloring.  Marita had admitted once, in one of those awkward, 
quiet moments that occasionally overtook them, that she might have 
wanted a child someday--if circumstances had been different.  If 
they'd lived in some alternate universe that wasn't going to hell.  
He'd been awed at the time, touched that she'd trusted him enough 
to expose herself that way.

Mulder sat in the outer office, elbows on knees, waiting. Scully 
had seemed a little out of focus when he'd talked to her. He'd 
have asked Byers about her, anything that could have been answered 
with a 'yes' or a 'no' to keep from attracting her attention. But 
she'd know. She'd realize what was happening and he wouldn't do 
that to her, give her a vote of no confidence that way. He sat 
back and straightened his tie. Public persona #1 for the second 
time today. He looked at his watch. It was four.

The secretary came back. She looked puzzled.

"He was here a minute ago. He must have just stepped out."

"I can wait," he said, though he felt no calmness. His stomach 
tightened further.

The girl sat back down at her desk and opened a folder from the 
pile in front of her. She picked up a pen and twirled it absently 
between her fingers.

The phone rang; Mulder nearly jumped. Redness rose in his face but 
he willed it away. The secretary was talking, glancing over at him 
and then back at her desktop.  Then she hung up.

"The Director's been called away on an urgent matter of national 
security. He says tomorrow morning at nine."

Urgent. Urgent, yes, but he could guess whose security was being 
protected. *They were doing it to him again.*  One hand curled 
tight but he checked himself and stood. He could almost feel 
Scully's reaction as if she were there: the hand on his arm--just 
the ghost of a touch--saying something quiet, rational, urging him 
out of the room with that sultry whisper of hers before he did or 
said something he shouldn't--something she, at least, would regret 
later.

"Nine," he said, and let himself out.

There was no security in nine o'clock tomorrow morning, no 
guarantee or comfort in it. Anything could happen between now and 
then. Something wasn't right. He had to get to Scully.

He looked down the hallway. The elevator door straight ahead of 
him was just opening. He quickened his pace and then stopped 
abruptly, turned, and headed for the stairwell.

(end 13 of 14)
.......................................
Walking Through Fire (14 of 14)

"See?"  Carl pointed to a hole high in the door frame where the 
device had been hidden.

Scully looked up, a delayed reaction.  She'd seen the place 
before.  It came and went--the haze and the sadness, the falling.  
She glanced over at Mulder.  He was looking at one room and then 
the other, gauging how much of his activity had been recorded, 
trying to maintain his composure---probably for her sake, in order 
not to disturb her further.  But inside, surely he must feel 
violated.

"I don't suppose we have any idea how long this was here," he 
said, pursing his lips.  He stepped under the doorway into the 
living room and then back again.  His hands rode his hips.

"The recorder was remotely located in a service closet around the 
corner."  Scully took reassurance from the sound of her own voice.  
It injected her into the reality around her.  "The Gunmen have it 
now."

"Do you use the closet?" Mulder said, addressing himself to Carl.

"I keep a mop and a rolling bucket there--you know, for cleaning 
the halls," he said.  "There's a sink..."

"Let's take a look," Mulder said.  He started toward the door and 
then glanced back at her, catching her eye.  "Scully, you coming?"  
His voice was soft, muted.

"I saw it the other day."  She gave him a half-smile, attempting 
to reassure him.  He was worried: about her, about Cancer Man.

Mulder hesitated a moment longer, then turned and followed Carl 
out the door.

His mind was doing double-time; she knew that.  He wanted to take 
her someplace he knew she'd be safe, but where would that be?  How 
would he keep himself safe until tomorrow morning?  Scully shook 
herself, forced the encroaching haze back a few paces.  She 
stepped through the doorway and into the living room.  *His* 
living room.

It was a different place now--whiter paint, blinds drawn up, bare-
-as if he'd never lived here, as if the last six years had never 
happened.  And yet... and yet there was some intangible part of 
him that remained.  A smile played at the corners of her mouth.  
It was an essence of him and of the things that had happened here, 
times they'd spent strategizing, waiting.  Holding each other on 
the verge of sanity, though neither of them would have ventured to 
say so.  She could see the room dark again, herself on the chair 
next to the couch.  Mulder's breathing was rapid but steady as he 
slept.  She could feel the heat from his body beside her.  She was 
rising from the chair now, walking to the window and looking out 
for stars--for hope--searching...

*He'd been here before she arrived that night.*

He'd found Mulder, stopped him, had stayed with him.  Krycek did 
nothing without a reason, or out of generosity.  Cancer Man would 
never have come here if he'd known he'd be recorded.  And the two 
had been at odds before, Krycek and Cancer Man.

"Scully--"  Mulder's voice echoed in the empty room.  Now he 
appeared in the doorway.  "Carl went downstairs to get my mail.  
He said I got a few things."  His eyebrows rose.  "Probably junk 
mail.  Hey, you ready to go?"

"Mulder, I think it was him," she said softly.  She looked up.  "I 
think it was Krycek."

Her words seemed to hover in the air and then drop.  His mouth 
opened; his head tilted almost imperceptibly.

"Think about it, Mulder.  He was here that night, the night... a 
week ago.  He must think he can use you for something."

His face was anger, concern, revelation.

"He did this on his own."  Mulder's mouth sat half-open in 
realization.  "And now Old Smoky knows.  He knows about the tape.  
Krycek's going to get found out, he's..."  Krycek would be 
desperate.  He'd be out to get the tape back, or to get them in 
order to save himself.  And Cancer Man would be after them, 
wanting the tape.

Scully watched it all register on his face.  He took her arm.  His 
hand was insistent against the small of her back as they hurried 
out the door.

Carl met them in the hallway with a handful of papers.  Mulder 
took them quickly and urged her toward the elevator.  She pushed 
the button and they waited.

When the elevator came, they got in.  Mulder punched the first 
floor button and leaned back against the wall.  The haze was 
descending over her again; she could feel the thin grayness start 
to pull at her.  She glanced over at Mulder.  He was staring at 
something in his hand.

"What is it?" she said.

"A letter from my mother," he said, and shrugged.  "I wonder what 
she wants.  I... I can't remember the last time she wrote to me."  
He began to slide his finger under the flap.  There was a 
settling, a ding, and the door slid open.  Mulder started to slip 
the letter into his pocket and then stopped.

"Scully, will you hold onto this?  I don't want to leave it in my 
suit pocket and forget it."

Scully took the letter, her fingers curling around it tightly.  
They crossed the lobby quickly, Mulder pausing to toss his junk 
mail into the trash can near the door as they passed.  Then they 
were out the door, into the abrupt, hazy warmth of late afternoon.

Mulder hurried down the steps to the green door and worked his key 
in the lock.  He needed to grab a few things--anything essential, 
don't leave anything compromising, anything irreplaceable, who 
knew how long they'd be gone, and to where, for that matter.  He'd 
done it again, though she'd argued against it, had seen it coming 
even before he could put words to it:  he'd gotten her into this 
again.  She'd shouted back at him--no, everything is *not* your 
fault, Mulder--had shouted hard enough to make tears come and 
after that she'd sat there, staring him down, water streaming down 
her cheeks, refusing to look away, making him feel like shit.  But 
she was right; he'd had to turn away and watch the road, look 
where he was going.

The flare-up had passed.  At least she'd looked alive when she'd 
yelled at him--that in itself was reassuring--but now was no time 
to get emotional and screw up, because this was both their asses, 
not just his.

He pushed the door open and went inside.

What to take.  He pulled off his suit jacket and opened the closet 
door to hang it.  No need to bring it along.  This wasn't going to 
be a formal trip, more like running as fast and as far as you 
could, looking like somebody else, some poor couple on a bus--they 
should take a bus, not Scully's car that could be traced, which 
might give them away.  He unbuttoned his shirt on his way to the 
desk and pulled out the drawer.  Under the pencil tray was the 
envelope--the ID's--thank God he'd taken Frohike up on the offer--
the little troll had Scully's cell number--and he slid out the 
cards to put them in his pocket.

His mother's letter.

He pulled it from his shirt pocket and paused.  It was strangely 
thick.  The marks where Scully's damp fingers had clutched it 
still wrinkled the thin paper.  He set the IDs on the desktop and 
sat down on the bed.  Sliding his finger under the envelope flap, 
he pulled out the thin sheets inside.  Many pages.  He spread them 
open.

Trudy's... reflection... walking through fire.  Disapproval... 
rebellious... heady.  He swallowed and skimmed on.  Where was she 
going with this, anyway?  Gradual erosion... no longer anchored...

...Leland.

Mulder closed his eyes.  His heart stopped.

Scully sat with her head against the car window, looking up at the 
tree in Mulder's back yard.  The upper leaves swayed gently in a 
breeze that didn't reach the ground.  The sky had begun to yellow, 
the clouds were breaking up and golden light poured through here 
and there, shafts that could be clearly seen, as if light itself 
were tangible, made of shape and bulk.

He'd reached that cliff edge--self-blame--and she'd had to shout 
him away from it for his own safety and for hers.  He was packing 
now.  He'd only be a minute, a few minutes, and where would they 
go?  If they took her car they could be traced; if they left it 
somewhere her mother would be contacted and what would she think?  
How could she put her mother through that after Melissa?

She refocused on the tree, on the sway of the leaves, green with 
the occasional flash of gold.

It was taking too long.

She sat up and looked at her watch, glanced over at the open door 
at the bottom of his stairs.  There was no movement she could see.  
She reached for the door handle, opened it, stepped out of the 
car.

Across the pavement, down the stairs, to the door.  He was sitting 
on the bed.  She stepped through the doorway but he didn't move or 
look up.  There was a feeling in the room, a strange silence, 
palpable, terrible.  His face was wet, his eyes brimming, but he 
made no move to turn away, to hide.  To speak.

"Mulder?"  The word barely formed a sound.

His eyes touched her and then retreated.  His hand moved slightly, 
the thin paper of the letter wobbling in it.

She went closer.

"Mulder, what is it?"

No movement.

One step closer, up against the bed, in front of him.  She reached 
out, touched his hair.  His head came forward, resting against 
her, warm and damp.  Her hand slipped through his hair, behind his 
neck.  His shoulders shook.  She could feel him swallow and begin 
to shake again.

"Mulder, what does it say?"

The hand clutching the letter came up.  She took it with her free 
hand and began to read.  His head turned to the side, nuzzling 
closer against her.  Reflection... distant.. .Leland... 
foolishness... not your father's child... awful realities.. safety 
may depend... unwitting pawn... not stillborn...

Alex.

Alex.

"Oh, Mulder--"

The haze retreated.  The room was clear now.  She saw the 
intensity of the green paint on the narrow strips of wood 
paneling, and the shadows between the strips where the edges 
tapered--a necessary moment of clarity and pain.  His breath was 
warm and damp against her, the quiet laced with the halting tenor 
of his grief.

Scully glanced around her living room and hesitated, mouth half-
open.  The scene in front of her was strange and distant, as if 
some essential element of reality were missing.  She shook her 
head.

"I... I don't know what to take, Mulder, what to bring..."

"I'll check out here," he said.  "I'll look around."  He hadn't 
said much, his voice thick, his demeanor sobered.  "Go on.  You 
get some clothes, whatever else you need."

There was a hand, warm at her back, urging her.  She went through 
the doorway into the bedroom.  She was like one of those people in 
California who suddenly found their houses threatened by gust-
driven fires:  only minutes to get out, perhaps never to return, 
all the material markers of their lives to be converted to ash, 
and what did they take?  What became the most precious?  How did 
they decide?

She went to her dresser and pulled open a drawer.  She stared.  
Casual.  Casual, unobtrusive, anything that would make her blend 
in.  Ordinary.  She began to push through the contents.  
Underwear.  Socks.  A pair of shorts.  Not too much, Mulder had 
said.  One bag, whatever she could carry.  They could pick up more 
on the way.

This was what he'd gone through days earlier, moving out of his 
apartment.  She was leaving this place--her home--and when would 
she return?  Would she return?  Would it be here if she did, or 
would Krycek burn it, the way he'd burned down the Mulder family's 
summer home in Quonochotaug?  She'd seen the hair--Samantha's 
braid--in front of the picture on Mulder's desk.  He'd looked at 
it, hesitating, balancing on the edge of indecision.  She'd picked 
it up--it was smooth, strong hair--and put it in his travel bag.  
He'd seemed relieved.

Scully made piles as she went, setting them on top of the dresser.  
Then one by one they all went into her bag.  She pushed them to 
one side and went into the bathroom, taking a small zippered bag 
from under the sink--a floral-patterned one Missy had given her.  
Methodically, she began to fill it with essentials:   small 
bottles, jars, shower cap, toothpaste.  Toothbrush.  Washcloth, 
one she particularly liked.  She zipped the bag and took it to the 
bed, set it inside her travel bag and paused.  Closet.

She opened the door and stood staring at the dark colors hanging 
in front of her.  The green sweater she'd worn the other night, 
when Mulder had taken her to the park.  She smiled momentarily.  
Her hand reached in.

Strong hands yanked her into the dark, twisted, turned her.  Hands 
clamped around her, over her mouth--her heart pounded--loud, wild-
-her hands were grasped, pinned back.  She gasped for air.  The 
hold was vice-like.  She knew him even in the dark, his lips close 
against her ear.  She wanted to squirm away but the blade stopped 
her.  Instinctively she went loose, limp.  It was the only way, 
the way to save herself; one slice and she was gone.  Mulder was 
in the other room he was gathering...

"Just relax, Scully."

The words tickled in her ear.  She didn't want them to tickle--not 
him--her heart was racing and she wanted it to slow everything was 
strange, shifted, maybe it was only a dream.  Cold steel against 
her neck: no dream.  She could feel her eyes wide in the dark, 
could feel her body shake in his iron grasp and willed it to stop.  
Mulder.

"Out easy, Scully, and you'll live..."

His voice was casual, detached, almost soothing.  But there was 
nothing soothing about him.  He was Donny Pfaster, Jerry Schnauz, 
he was worse: he'd watched her sister die.  She could save Mulder, 
she could help him, but not if she panicked.  She willed away her 
rigidity and let Kyrcek lift her.  His hand clamped her mouth, 
pressing hard against her teeth--it was the fake hand--her hands 
were free, dangling free, and the blade was nestled against her 
throat.

"*Dyshi*, Scully.  Breathe."

She took a ragged breath, and then another.  His breath was hot 
behind her ear, against her neck; they were standing, coming out 
into the light, the grip on her mouth was loosening.

"Call him."

She swallowed, felt the pressure of the blade.

"Come on, Scully."

"Mulder..."

It was a strange sound, squeaky, and Mulder had no weapon, she 
would have to do something, think, signal him...

"Where's the tape, Mulder?"

"In the car."  His voice went out to Krycek, but his eyes were on 
her, looking at her, gauging her.

"Get it."

"What good's it going to do you, you son of a bitch?  You think 
it's the only copy I've got?"

"Get it."  Louder this time.  Krycek seemed flustered.

Her arms were still loose; the blade was his leverage.  She inched 
her right hand up almost imperceptibly.  Mulder's eyes were on the 
blade.

"You're just a throwaway to him, aren't you?"  Mulder nodded at 
Krycek, one corner of his mouth curling upward in a hint of a 
smile.  He was gauging him, probing.  He was stalling.  Scully's 
hand inched upward, smoothly, slowly.  "You're nothing more to him 
than a human shield."

"Cut the crap, Mulder!"

The blade tightened against her neck, pressure, then loosened and 
slid slightly, a tiny movement.  She gasped.  Mulder shuddered, 
swallowed.  It stung suddenly.  Not a lot--not a big cut--but she 
could feel the warm trickle start crazily down the side of her 
neck, toward her throat, into her collar.  Her hand moved upward, 
to her waist, and rested on her belt.

Mulder's eyes were wild; she could see the panic, her blood almost 
reflected in them, filling them.  Then his eyes, suddenly, on her 
waistband, wide--too wide--and she wishing them away, shouting 
back with her own: look away, look at him, somewhere else, 
anywhere; Mulder pleading don't do this don't do anything stupid 
don't risk yourself; she shouting look away, up, anywhere, just 
away.  All just a glance, then passed and gone.

"Just..."  Mulder swallowed, pain in his face.  "Krycek, don't 
hurt her, don't..."

Mulder curled--some sudden streak of pain--hand to his eyes, 
falling to his knees, Krycek behind her moving a fraction, 
tentative, the knife loosening just enough, Mulder on the floor, 
grimacing, her hand creeping...

*Now*.

She felt herself falling back with him--pulled back--heard the 
shot after.  She was on her back on top of him, ceiling overhead, 
shaking, weapon still grasped tight.  Krycek wasn't moving, wasn't 
squirming.  The knife was gone, fallen away.

Mulder appeared above her, lifting her, pulling her off, upward, 
his face full.  He swallowed and lay her down to one side, fingers 
against her neck, checking, wiping away the blood.  He paused.

"Breathe," he said, and tried to even his own.

He looked over at Krycek, bit his lip, wiped a hand across his 
face.

"Scully...?"  He nodded toward the man on the floor.

She turned to look.  Krycek's eyes were glazy, his breathing 
pained and shallow.  Blood brightened a growing circle beside his 
waist.

Scully sat up and reached past Mulder, rolled Krycek slightly, 
felt behind him.  An exit wound, clean--clean enough. Abdominal 
wounds were always tricky but it would give him a fair chance, 
which was more than he deserved.  Krycek looked up at her, staring 
through faraway eyes.

"I think he'll live," she said.  Her voice sounded strange, rough 
in the silence, the only other sound Krycek's hollow breathing.

She sat back on her heels, breathed in deeply, letting the air 
fill her lungs.  She closed her eyes briefly and then looked up.

Mulder was standing above her, staring.  He shook his head.  He 
was pale.

"Shit, Scully--"

He reached out a hand and lifted her up.  She was engulfed in a 
hard embrace.

"Don't you ever... Don't.. .Just..."

He rocked her back and forth slightly.  She closed her eyes and 
breathed against him, rhythm against rhythm.  Her one hand dangled 
loose, sticky, full of Krycek's blood.

They had to go.

Mulder stared at Krycek's sprawled form on the floor in front of 
him.  His blood was staining Scully's carpet.  Krycek's breathing 
continued shallow but steady.  The prosthetic arm lay at a crazy 
angle, a detail Krycek seemed unaware of.  His good hand covered 
his wound.  Blood seeped from between his fingers.

"Go on, Mulder.  Get her out of here," Krycek whispered.  His eyes 
were glassy.

Mulder didn't answer.

There had been no posturing.  Krycek had made no taunts.  For his 
own part, he hadn't waved Scully's weapon in Krycek's face and 
made empty threats to kill him.  He only looked at the man on the 
floor.  He couldn't keep from looking, searching the face in front 
of him for some sign of his mother, or of Samantha.  He was, after 
all, her full blood brother.

"Mulder, go," Krycek's voice came again.  He strained to focus on 
Mulder above him.

Mulder turned and left.  He went through the lobby, down the 
stairs and crossed the street unseeing.

Scully was curled into the passenger seat against the window, 
shaking.  It had begun when he'd taken her into the bathroom, set 
her on the counter and begun to clean the blood from her neck and 
hand.  She'd sat there like a dazed child wakened in the middle of 
the night and then she'd begun to shake.

He reached over now and rested a hand briefly on her shoulder.  
Her eyes held something wild, not so very different from the way 
she'd looked that time at her mother's two years earlier when 
she'd nearly shot him.  But she didn't pull away.  She was inside 
there--he could see that--struggling to come to terms.

Mulder let his head fall back against the headrest and closed his 
eyes momentarily, letting the moisture inside gradually wash away 
the burning sensation.  Then he opened them, reached for the 
ignition and started the car.

The streets were full of the usual Monday traffic but the scene 
seemed hazy and not at all like Monday... or any other real day, 
for that matter.  Frohike would be at the bus station waiting to 
bring Scully's car back and repark it at her place.  Intersections 
came and went.  He focused on the traffic lights, on the brake 
lights in front of him, on their shape and the tempo that turn 
signals beat out.  It kept him from seeing Scully, knife to her 
throat, blood trickling down into her shirt, and Krycek's eyes 
behind her--hard eyes, cold as death.

The sign for the bus station loomed ahead.  Mulder signaled and 
turned in.  Frohike appeared from between two cars, waving.  
Mulder pulled into a vacant space and parked.  There were bags to 
gather, keys to exchange, an envelope Frohike handed him that he 
stuffed into his back pocket.  Scully was getting out on the other 
side, squinting into the late afternoon light, trying to look like 
she hadn't just been nearly killed, like she hadn't just shot 
someone.  Byers appeared by her side, said something low and 
pressed a small paper into her hand.  A smile flitted across her 
face and was gone, and then she was beside him, he was shouldering 
the two bags on one side and she was on the other, her hand on his 
sleeve and they were heading in to the terminal, on the way to 
heaven only knew where--anywhere, just away, out of D.C. to 
somewhere Old Smoky wouldn't think to look.

Krycek moved his good hand slowly toward his right side, inched 
carefully around the side of his pants and grasped for his back 
pocket.  No luck; he was lying on it.  He moved tentatively, 
curling toward the wound.  Hot pain shot through him and he 
retreated to his former position.  Lift.  He had to lift up.  He 
brought one leg up, then the other, placing them carefully, 
awkwardly beneath him.  He held his breath, bit his lip and lifted 
quickly, just enough to snatch the phone from his pocket, then 
sank back against the carpet and closed his eyes, panting.  Pain 
strobed in crazy colored patterns, forcing him to open his eyes 
again and focus on the ceiling.  He searched the textured peaks of 
the ceiling methodically, as if they were mountains, working the 
pain from the forefront of consciousness.

Score one for Mulder and Scully.  But it would be good cover, 
this, if he lived.

He'd probably make it.  He'd felt worse.  He'd call the old man.  
In the confusion his slip would go unnoticed.  He'd tell the old 
man Scully'd surprised him.  The old man would think he was inept, 
he'd fume, but he'd have him patched together again.  The old man 
needed him.  Mulder would be gone, hidden away, still potentially 
useable if the right time ever came.  He and Scully would keep 
each other sane.

Krycek closed his eyes and almost immediately struggled to open 
them again.  He'd carried his life for so long; it would be so 
easy to just lie here and let go.  Slowly he lifted the phone from 
his chest.  His hand shook but he steeled himself, stretching his 
thumb toward the number he needed to dial.

The last of the afternoon light was fading, coloring the sky 
outside the window with broad swathes of pale yellows and lavender 
and streaks of gray-blue.  Mulder looked over at Scully, 
apparently asleep, her head vibrating against the bus window.  
He'd offered his shoulder but she'd needed space.  Finally he'd 
pulled a sweatshirt from his bag and given it to her to use as a 
pillow.  It seemed to help somewhat.

He hadn't killed Krycek, he wasn't sure whether for his mother's 
sake or for his own.  Think what she went through to write that 
letter, Scully had said to him in a small moment of clarity.  She 
was right, but it didn't make the absorption of his mother's 
revelations any less painful.

A baby wailed from somewhere behind them.  Mulder glanced over at 
Scully.  He hoped it didn't wake her, didn't remind her of Emily, 
or of the other children she'd never have.  She seemed peaceful 
enough now, her face unlined, smooth.

He would have to talk to his mother.  He wouldn't call--wouldn't 
put her in danger in case Smoky'd tapped her line.  He'd have to 
go there and face her.  He'd have to, anyway, in the end.

The last of the sun's light flashed suddenly from between clouds, 
a blinding yellow meltdown searing into the horizon.  Mulder 
closed his eyes, reached for the knob on the side of the armrest 
and let the seat back down.  He shifted slightly in an effort to 
get comfortable and reached for the dull aching spot at the back 
of his neck, rubbing at it gently.  He opened one eye and glanced 
at Scully, clear-faced, free.  Then he closed his eyes and let 
sleep take him.

(end 14 of 14)
___________________________
Thank you for taking this journey with me!  Eager to find out what 
happens next?  The saga continues in *Sanctuary.  Not a work-in-
progress, it's already complete.  You can find *Sanctuary at:

http://www.sandarsdimension.com/excavations/s_fine_print.htm