

ISOMETRY
By syntax6





Two fifty-six a.m. Saturday night -- well, Sunday morning, really 
-- found Dana Scully shifting in the passenger seat of the Taurus 
to try to keep her rear end from going numb.  Somehow, errant 
sunflower seed shells had lodged in her underwear, and with Mulder 
sitting next to her, there was no discreet way to remedy the 
problem.  She kept one eye on the dilapidated warehouse down the 
street from them and one eye on the luminous green numbers that 
told her when she could swallow her next pill.  She had little 
hope of being discreet with that, either.

"Scully," Mulder said as he flicked another shell at the already-
brimming cup holder, "do you remember that time at Heuvelmans 
Lake?"

"I remember.  I remember the time *in* Heuvelmans Lake."

Mulder chuckled.  "We got dunked good, didn't we?  I can still 
remember the look on the Sheriff's face when --"

Scully leaned hear head back against the seat and let herself 
drift to the sound of his voice.  A few months ago, she would have 
worried that Mulder's sudden mention meant another trip to Georgia 
in a vain hope of sighting Big Blue, but not anymore.  

"Remember when" was Mulder's new favorite game.  He played it in 
the office and sometimes on the phone at night, but he always 
saved the really good rounds for evenings like this, when they sat 
hidden in dark alleys.  

An ad for Barnum and Bailey's on the radio:  "Hey, Scully.  
Remember when that guy came out of the ground at the circus freak 
funeral?"

A spider tiptoed across the windshield:  "Scully, do you remember 
those bugs in the National Forest?"

And then, with a sly, sideways glance:  "And the cockroaches in 
Massachusetts.  You remember them, don't you, Scully?  The ones I 
investigated with, uh, Dr. Berenbaum?  I told you not to come up 
there but you did anyway."

Yes, she would tell him, yes.  I remember.

The purpose of these jaunts down memory lane eluded her.  He kept 
them light and expansive, as if they were around a campfire 
telling adventure tales.  There was no push to make her shove 
back; no argument to crackle the air.  He wasn't out to make her 
believe in monsters, aliens or things that went bump in the night.  
Maybe, she fancied, this was how he kept his memory so fit -- 
regular exercise.  

Except he had never done this before.

Maybe it was a test to ensure that the cancer had not yet addled 
her brains.  If so, she gave him points for subtlety.  

Sudden pain crystallized behind her eyelids, shards that made her 
white-knuckle the armrest with one hand as she groped in her 
jacket pocket with the other.  Her shaking fingers found it -- 
relief in the form of a smooth plastic bottle.  She popped the lid 
still deep in the pocket, but Mulder heard the rattle.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Yeah, fine."  She didn't risk moving her eyes to look at him.  
Slow exhales and the nausea would fade.  Mulder set her water 
bottle in her hand as she withdrew the pills from her jacket.  
"Thanks," she managed, and then swallowed three in a row.

"Better?" he asked immediately.   As if the pills just magically 
exploded into her bloodstream.

"Better, yeah."  She backed it up with a direct look.

He blinked first, settling back into his seat.  "It's after three.  
I don't think this guy's going to show."

"What a surprise.  Anonymous tips are usually so reliable."  It 
came out sharper than she intended, fuelled by the lightning hot 
pain in her head.  She forced herself to relax her clenched jaw.  
"Let's give it another fifteen minutes."

She felt more than saw his nod.  A second later, the seed 
crunching renewed.  She rested her head against the windowpane, 
which was cold from the night air and fogged from all of Mulder's 
remembering.  With one finger, she traced a line through the 
condensation until it amassed into a single tear that trickled 
down into the door.

"Jeez, what a mess," she heard him mutter.  The air stirred as he 
brushed off his coat.  "Scully, you remember when I tried to 
change the toner cartridge in our copier myself?  Last time I mess 
with one of those fuckers."

"No," she murmured, only half-listening.

"C'mon, you must remember.  It was right after you came.  I got 
ink all over myself and the copier and you helped me clean it up.  
You said I reminded you of those old kid's jokes -- what's black 
and white and red all over."

"The toner was red?"

"No, my face was."  But the levity was gone from his tone; he 
sounded impatient, almost angry.  "C'mon, you really don't 
remember?"

"Mulder, I told you I don't remember."  She sat up.  "Pardon me if 
I don't recollect every mess you've made over the years."

He persisted.  "It was raining that day, I think.  The ink was 
going to run if I got wet."

"If you say so."  The pounding in her head had not receded.  She 
massaged her temples with one hand.

"I was wearing that red tie with the yellow circles --"

Jesus, enough already.  "Mulder!"

He stopped.

"I believe it happened, okay?  You don't have to give me a full 
report.  I believe you."

"But you should remember, Scully.  You were the only one there."

She drew a sharp breath, like a pinch in her lungs.  So that was 
it.  All his aimless recollections weren't so haphazard after all, 
she realized with abrupt illumination.  They were stories just the 
two of them shared, each to bear witness for the other.

If an FBI agent sticks his finger in unknown goo and his partner 
isn't there to see it...

She sighed.  "I'm sorry," she said, laying hand on the rough 
warmth of his wool coat.  "I'm sure it was very...dramatic."

"S'okay."  He shrugged.  "It was stupid.  Probably better that you 
don't remember."

"I remember you covered head to toe in bile.  Does that count?"

He scrunched his face as if smelling the incident all over again.  
"I wish neither one of us had to remember that," he said, and she 
smiled.  She gave his arm a squeeze before pulling her hand away.

"It's three fifteen," she said.

"Yeah.  There was nothing in the warehouse anyway.  If the 
Crawfords were ever working an operation out of here, they've been 
long gone."

Don't say it, she willed him silently.  Please, please don't say 
it.

"Sorry, Scully."

Her shoulder slumped a bit, heavy under his words.  She wished 
backward to a time when he never dared say them out loud.  "It's 
not the first time we've chased a dead lead," she answered.

He started the car.  "We still have that sighting in Oklahoma the 
boys told us about.  That could be something."

Could be.  Except it never was.

Mulder drove them back through the empty streets and she watched 
as the roar of the defroster stole their breath from the windows.

~*~*~*~*~*~

One of the most bizarre side effects of her cancer was that it had 
turned Monday into her favorite day of the week.  Fridays were now 
treatment days, at least twice a month, but weekends gave her time 
to regroup.  Monday seemed happy to see her, too, all crisp, cold 
air and bright sunshine.  Scully commemorated the occasion with a 
stop at the bakery on her way in to work.  For herself she ordered 
coffee and a raspberry croissant, and as an afterthought she 
picked up a lopsided blueberry muffin for Mulder.  

With the paper cup of coffee burning in her hand, she made her way 
down the basement stairs.  The office door was open and she could 
hear Mulder inside talking to someone.  Someone live, she 
realized.  Not the phone.

Outside of Skinner and the janitorial staff, they didn't get many 
visitors.  The X-Files didn't exactly make it onto the Bureau tour 
route.

Scully slowed her steps in the hall to see if she could identify 
the foreign voice, but she couldn't place it.  It was a woman, 
well spoken with a hint of a Southern accent.  Scully caught 
something about the Yeti; Mulder laughed.

"Hello," Scully said as she entered.  The woman was sitting in the 
chair by Mulder's desk.  Two coffee cups sat between them, and 
Scully could make out the remnants of what seemed to be powdered 
donuts.  Mulder still had a white smudge on the corner of his 
mouth.

"Hey," he greeted, swinging his feet down from the desk.  "Miranda 
Westfall, this is my partner, Dana Scully.  Scully, meet Miranda 
Westfall.  She's a professor at Johns Hopkins." 

The only Miranda that Scully knew was the one in the police 
warning, so that was the association she made.  "Hello," she 
repeated.

Professor Westfall stood up, revealing her full height.  She 
nearly equaled Mulder.  In her black turtleneck, boots and long, 
denim skirt she was a commanding figure.  Scully adjusted her cup 
and bag so she could shake hands.  In moving closer, she noticed 
that Westfall, despite her darker coloring, seemed to wear the 
exact same shade of lipstick she did.  Not a wise choice.  "Agent 
Scully," Professor Westfall said warmly.  "Of course.  It's nice 
to meet you."

Her familiarity suggested to Scully that she ought to recognize 
the woman, or at least place her name.  Maybe I am losing it, she 
thought.  "Westfall...you say you're a professor?"

"I say it as often as I can," she answered with a smile.  "I'm 
still trying to convince myself."  

Scully recalled those days well, when she'd looked in the mirror 
and tried to match the phrase "FBI agent" with the woman who still 
looked sixteen years old.  "New job?" she asked as she pulled over 
a third chair.

"Just started last year.  You know how it can take forever to get 
that PhD."

"Indeed," said Scully, though she'd gotten hers in just three.

"Professor Westfall teaches a class on Science, Myth and 
Mysticism," Mulder said.

That explains the Yeti, Scully thought.  Aloud she said, "And 
which one did you get your PhD in?"

Professor Westfall laughed.  "My PhD is actually in the philosophy 
of science.  But I was a chemistry major as an undergrad."

Mulder shot Scully a gleeful look -- bet wrong, didn't you?  She 
ignored him.  "What brings you here to the FBI?" she asked.

"Shameful pandering."

Scully lowered her coffee cup and raised her eyebrows. 

"There's still donuts here if you want one," Mulder said.  He'd 
managed to wipe off his face.

"Thanks, I'm fine."

"I figured a food bribe would help," Professor Westfall said.  
"And that's why I drove down here instead of calling again.  I was 
hoping that I could get one or both of you to come talk to my 
class.  Your work is exactly the kind of thing we're discussing, 
and it would be great for them to see how we're still grappling 
with the tension between western science and the unexplained."

"You're familiar with the X-Files then," Scully said.

"Somewhat.  I read my 'Post' thoroughly.  The two of you show up 
on the back pages quite often.  And then there's the Internet."

Scully winced.  "Of course."

"I wish I could tell you there's a big honorarium in it for you, 
but the best I can offer is a dinner in a nice restaurant.  It 
wouldn't have to be a formal, prepared lecture, though.  I just 
thought the students would enjoy hearing about your work."

Scully tried to imagine how she would have reacted to her and 
Mulder as an undergraduate.  Scoffing disbelief probably didn't 
begin to cover it.  But then, as undergraduate there was no way 
she would have been caught dead enrolled in a class entitled 
"Science, Myth and Mysticism."

Too bad, she thought.  Would have been the most useful thing I 
could have taken.

Mulder cleared his throat and leaned forward across the desk.  "I 
was just explaining to Professor Westfall that we can't take the 
time right now."

"Why not?" This was her job, was it not, to take the other side?

Mulder looked confused.  "Scully, the work...we have that lead..."  
His voice softened.  "We have to follow through.  We can't afford 
to take time away."

Oh, he almost had her.  That he truly believed the next tip, the 
next whisper on the phone, the next man in the shadows would 
answer all the secrets and somehow make her well again always 
melted her resolve.  The strength of Mulder's beliefs was a force 
to be reckoned with indeed.

"It's one afternoon."  She looked at Professor Westfall.  "Right?"

"Right.  Preferably Friday the 26th, but I'm flexible."

Perfect, thought Scully.  "I have an appointment then," she said, 
"but Mulder, you should go."

"No."  He gave a vehement shake of his head and folded his arms 
across his chest.

"You're much better at this sort of thing anyway."  She glanced at 
Professor Westfall.  "He's really the one you want."

"We can postpone," the woman said.  "Perhaps another Friday..."

Scully shook her head.  "No, really.  It's fine."

"I don't want to go without you," Mulder protested.

Scully regarded him.  And that's the problem, she thought with a 
pang.  You just might have to.  "Go," she said.  "Tell them about 
the man-eating Flukeworm."

Mulder hesitated a minute, then smiled.  "That is always a crowd 
pleaser."

"It's settled then," Professor Westfall said with a pleased smile.  
"The class starts at two thirty and runs until five after five, 
but you don't have to talk to the full time if you don't want."

"We have enough material to last through a dozen lectures," 
Mulder said, clearly warming to the idea.  "Hey, Scully, you 
remember that time we got caught in a frog rainstorm?"

"Toads," she corrected, but Mulder wasn't listening.  He'd turned 
his body towards Professor Westfall.

"It was the most amazing thing.  One minute, it's just rain, and 
the next minute these animals are pelting us from the sky."

"Really!  I can't wait to hear all about it, but I'm afraid I've 
got to run if I'm going to make my lecture for today.  I still 
haven't prepared the overheads."  She stood and gathered her coat.  
"Thanks so much for doing this.  I'm sure you'll be a big hit with 
the crowd."

"Let me walk you out," Mulder said, coming from around his desk.  
"You can give me directions on how to find you."

"Would you?  I got lost twice on my way down here."

"Back in a sec, Scully."

She raised her hand to show she heard.  "Nice meeting you, Agent 
Scully.  I do hope you'll come talk to the class some other time."

"I'll think about it, thanks."

As they left, Scully could hear Mulder continuing the toad story.  
She finished her coffee, but her croissant sat untouched in the 
bag.  Swivelling her chair around, she studied the office filled 
with wild pictures and incredible souvenirs from cases past.  
Mulder would give a good talk.

In the corner sat the copier.

"I was wearing the red tie with yellow circles --"  Yes. Mulder 
brushing more ink onto himself even as he tried to wipe it off.  
Her laughing.  It was the first time she'd seen him without his 
shirt off.  Of course.

"Yes," she told the empty room.  "I remember."

CHAPTER 2

Only when he sat still long enough to hear the thoughts in his 
head did Mulder acknowledge the irony of his situation.  Here was 
his main skill, his gift of intuition, honed through years of 
practice to a laser-sharp power of observation, and now Scully had 
rendered him blind.  He had become a kind of Mr. Magoo, bumbling 
around with his too-loud narrative and his too-bright enthusiasm.  
Why, no, he hadn't seen the pill bottle come out three times in 
one day!  Half-finished lunch?  Missed that, too.  Head down, 
distracted by papers, talking to the ceiling as she dabbed at her 
nose -- he'd mastered the art of looking the other way.

Except like now, when he had no other place to look.  

Their flight from New York was half-empty, and he'd already 
memorized the blue and gold diamond pattern on the seat in front 
of him.  Scully had the window but she wasn't using it.  She'd 
been asleep before they were airborne and hadn't so much as 
twitched since then.  As often as he'd teased her about her 
ability to sleep anywhere, it wasn't like her to conk out so 
dramatically at four pm on a Thursday afternoon.  

The sun streaming in caught the edge of her red-gold lashes.  He 
walked his fingers across the empty seat between them until he met 
her limp hand.  Gently, he brushed the papery skin that covered 
her fine bones.  She curled her fingers around him like an infant 
would but did not stir.  He let her hold him until the plane began 
its descent.

"Hey," he said, tapping the center of her palm.  "Scully, we're 
here."

She sat up with a jerk, pulling her hand away. "Hmmm?"

"Home sweet home."

She blinked.  "I always forget how short this flight is," she said 
as she checked her watch.

"It helps when you're unconscious."

"Beats reading the in-flight magazine," she countered, not taking 
the bait.

He pulled a magazine out and waved it in her direction.  "Hey, 
there's some quality merchandise in here.  I purchased an electric 
toothbrush and a knife that can cut through diamonds."

She didn't give him even a token smile, instead fussing with lap 
belt.  He did an excellent job of not noticing when she cinched it 
a notch tighter.  "It's a good that the storm held off," she said 
a minute later.  "Now you won't miss your lecture tomorrow."

"And you won't miss your, um, appointment."  He tested the waters 
using their agreed-upon oblique language.  He had no idea what 
sort of poking or prodding she endured at the hospital, and Scully 
seemed to prefer it that way.

"I could have easily rescheduled," was all she said.  End of 
discussion.  A part of him unclenched in relief; what she didn't 
tell him, he didn't have to know.  

The plane touched down and they did the commuter shuffle down the 
ramp with the rest of the weary travelers.  Mulder wondered how it 
was that the fast food kiosks and concession stands always seemed 
more welcoming in National Airport.  That's when you know you've 
done too much traveling, he thought grimly.  Joe's Hot Dogs starts 
to look like home.

"Hey, Scully, you want to grab something to eat?"

She did a double take at the hot dog stand.  "Now?"

"No, on the way home.  We could get a pizza or something."

"A pizza."  The frowny lines appeared between her eyebrows, and he 
regretted his offer.  "No, Mulder, I don't think so.  I have a lot 
of work to do tonight."

He rubbed his eyes with a tired hand.  "Fine, then I'll just drop 
you off."

"I'll take a cab."

"Scully -- "

"It's out of your way."

"I don't mind."

"I do."  She grabbed her bag from the luggage carousel.  Hers 
always seemed to come off the plane first.  He watched her 
manoeuvre it with ease, lifting it high and down in one smooth 
motion.  "Good luck with your lecture," she said.  "I'll see you 
on Monday."

His battered bag clunked down onto the carousel, and a crush of 
people surround him to meet the latest batch.  By the time he'd 
retrieved his luggage, Scully had disappeared into the crowd.  
Mulder ducked his head.  "Yeah," he said.  "See you." 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Somewhere along the line, his door had developed a haunted house 
creak.  It shuddered as he yanked his key free, then yielded with 
a groan, leaving him staring down the dark maw of his apartment.  
He kicked his bag with enough force to nudge it over the threshold 
and flung his keys in the direction of the coffee table. 

They missed.

Flicking the nearest light switch, he ambled over to the fish tank 
still in his overcoat.  "Hey guys," he said as he tapped the 
glass.  "Everyone still alive in there?"

They swished to and fro, mouths moving in silent clamor as they 
raced each other to the bubbling top.  "I solved the case," he 
told them while he sprinkled in some food.  Maude paused to give 
him the fish-eye but Harold kept right on chowing.

Mulder replaced the lid and shrugged off his coat.  No sooner had 
he tossed it aside when his phone rang, forcing him to pick the 
coat up again to dig the it from his pocket.  The glowing numbers 
were not Scully's.

"Hello?"

"Hello, is this Agent Mulder?  It's Miranda Westfall calling."

The lecture.  Right.  "Professor, hi," he said, sinking down onto 
the couch.  His bones gave a creak that would match his door.  
"What can I do for you?"

"I didn't catch you at a bad time, did I?"

A bad time, Mulder thought.  That was one way to describe his life 
these days.  "No, it's fine.  I just got in."

"Oh! I tried you at the office and they said you were out in the 
field.  I don't mean to trouble you --"

"It's no trouble."

"--but I just wanted to see if you were still able to lecture 
tomorrow."

"Of course."  He forced some animation into his voice.  "I'm 
looking forward to it."

"So are we.  I mentioned the possibility of the man-eating 
flukeworm, and the students were all very excited."

Mulder allowed himself a small smile.  "That's because they didn't 
have to roll around in the sewer with it."

"You're kidding."

"I wish.  Listen, I'm glad they're excited.  I'll be sure to start 
with that, then."

"Terrific." She paused, and her voice took on a hint of teasing.  
"So you're back from another case.  Should I be looking for you 
and Agent Scully in the Post tomorrow?"

"No, you can skip the fine print this time.  We were in New York 
working a series of murders in a Hasidic Jewish community.  
Somehow I don't think that's likely to make the news on Capitol 
Hill."

"Ouch.  Sounds like a hard case."

Was it?  Not by X-Files standards, it hadn't been, but that didn't 
explain the strange ache that plagued him still.  He and Scully 
escaped unscathed this time.  So why did he feel as though someone 
had wrung out his insides like a sponge?  "Revenge murder with a 
twist," he said eventually.  "The twist being that the original 
murder victim was the one exacting the revenge."

Professor Westfall didn't even blink.  "Ghost?"

"Golem."

"Oh, I've read about that," she said, "and not just in the Jewish 
texts.  There's a long tradition in many religions of those kinds 
of myths, where someone is brought back out of love only to have 
things go terribly wrong.  Today these stories survive as bad TV 
movies and Stephen King novels, but they're still with us."

Mulder actually pulled his phone from his ear to stare at it a 
second.  "So you believe in this sort of thing."

"Well, it does sound incredible, and I've always taken these tales 
as more metaphor than fact.  But I suppose it makes sense in a 
way," she mused. "If you posit the existence of a soul -- a spirit 
without form -- then the opposite should exist as well."  

"Not everyone posits the same way you do."

She laughed.  "I learned that a long time ago, Agent Mulder.  
Someone keyed the words 'hippie freak' into my car a couple of 
months ago.  The campus police investigated the students, but 
frankly I suspect it was a member of the faculty."

"Really?"

"Let's face it, no one in the eighteen to twenty-two age bracket 
uses the word 'hippie.'"

Mulder grinned.  "Point taken."

"And I was hired into a tenure track position against a few 
strenuous objections from people outside the department.  But I'm 
hoping my large enrollment and positive evaluations will vindicate 
me in the end."

"So I'm a ratings stunt, that's what you're saying?"

"Let's just say that tomorrow I expect unusually high attendance 
for a Friday afternoon class."

"Uh huh.  It all becomes clear."

"No, really," she protested through more laughter, "it's not hard 
to get them in the seats.  This material has the same resonance 
for them as it would for anyone.  Take your golem, for example.  
Who hasn't wished they could bring back a lost loved one just 
through sheer force of will?  Anyone who has mourned a 
grandparent, a friend or even a pet can identify with that."

"Yes."  He sat up and let his eyes wander around his shadowed 
apartment.  "You sound like you speak from experience."

"Of course," she answered softly.  "Even hippie freaks are human, 
you know.  You're telling me you don't know the feeling?"

Like a genie, her words conjured it up again -- a slithery smoke 
that started in the pit of his stomach. Helplessness wafting so 
thick it choked.  The constriction of terror as it squeezed him 
from the inside out.  Every night the same fevered dream and the 
chant that never left his mind -- bring her back bring her back -- 
anything, I'll do anything.  No more teasing.  No more taunts.  

*I will not do anything wrong ever again* written to fill 1000 
pages.

Star light, star bright.

"Uh, of course," he said, groping for words like a man in 
quicksand.  "I know.  Except...except in my case it didn't work."

Until it did, the hiss continued.  About twenty years later.

"No," he muttered.

"Excuse me?"

"Nothing," he said.  "Nothing."  He stood up and walked around his 
coffee table.  
"I'm sorry, I should go."

"Of course.  Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."

He clicked off the phone and tossed it on the couch, continuing 
his aimless pacing.  It wasn't the same at all, he reasoned.  Not 
at all.

Anythinganythingatall.  Middle of the night promises made on tear-
stained sheets.  Begging, bargaining, shouting into the wind.  

Star light, star bright.

 -- is anybody listening?  

Three months later, there she was again.  Taped up and 
reassembled.  Rough around the edges but just about the same, 
right?  Close enough for sure.  

Be careful what you wish for.

~*~*~*~*~


Scully sat up in her hospital bed, concentrating on smoothing out 
all the wrinkles from the blanket around her.  It was softer than 
the ones she was used to from her visits over the years, made 
special for patients whose skin might be worn thin from toxic 
drugs or dried out from radiation.  She had studied all the 
treatments from the instant she'd been diagnosed, but no printed 
words could capture the reality of being cooked from the inside 
out.  No one had mentioned the fact that your body could become so 
conditioned to the dizziness and nausea that it started sending 
them along earlier, just at the sight of the pale blue hallways or 
the wisp of the cotton gown against your skin.

"Knock-knock," a woman called on the other side of the door.  
Scully drew her knees up to her chest, undoing all her hard work 
eliminating the wrinkles.

"Come in."

Her oncologist, Vanessa Alton, entered the room carrying a 
clipboard in her hand.  She was a willowy woman, with quick, dark 
eyes and high cheekbones that suggested her Masai ancestry.  
Scully knew from overheard talk in the waiting room that some 
people did not like Dr. Alton's bedside manner.  "She's a 
little...fierce for me," one woman had confided when Scully 
mentioned Alton was her oncologist.  "It's almost like she's going 
to war."

Exactly, Scully had thought.  And in a war, she wanted Dr. Vanessa 
Alton on her side. 

"Good afternoon," Dr. Alton said as she dragged a stool over to 
the bed.  "How are you doing today?"

"Okay."

Dr. Alton scanned the information that the nurse had jotted down 
earlier.  "Blood pressure is good.  Any nosebleeds this week?"

"No."

"Great."  Dr. Alton looked up.  "How about at work?  How are you 
holding up there?"

Scully felt herself flush as she remembered her hasty retreat from 
the airport last night.  She'd poured herself into a cab and 
managed to give her address before passing out again.  The poor 
driver had had to shake her awake at her apartment stoop.  

"I'm all right."  When Dr. Alton looked skeptical, Scully 
straightened herself and tried to sound more convincing.  "Really.  
It's going okay.  I'm just a little tired."

Dr. Alton glanced at her records again.  "You've lost another 
three pounds," she said, not unkindly.  "No wonder you're tired."

Just the thought of food made Scully's stomach pitch and roll.  "I 
eat."

"You need to eat more.  Is it the nausea that's a problem?"

"Not...not usually."  How to explain the extreme exhaustion she 
faced every night?  It took every ounce of energy she had to 
complete a day at work, and heading into the kitchen to slice and 
dice when she got home was just more than she could handle.

Dr. Alton was still watching her, apparently waiting for 
elaboration.  "I eat," Scully repeated.  "I'm not just not very 
hungry these days."

"Understandable.  But it's important to keep your strength up.  
Try eating smaller portions more often, okay?  Set an alarm to 
remind you if you need.  And here's another tip:  share meals with 
others when you can."  She smiled.  "We tend to eat more when we 
have company."

Scully dropped her gaze.  "Okay, thanks."

"Now about the pain meds.  Janet wrote here that you need a refill 
already?  Maybe we should try something else if these aren't 
getting it done for you."

"They're fine."

"Dana."  Dr. Alton touched her arm.

Scully looked up reluctantly.  Stronger meds meant stronger side 
effects.  How long before she had to quit working?  How long until 
they just switched to morphine and let her die?

"You can lie to yourself if you want," Dr. Alton said.  "But if 
you lie to me I can't help you."

Scully hesitated.  She hugged her knees.  "Okay," she said.  "What 
else have you got?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

All the murmuring ceased as Mulder entered the classroom in front 
of Miranda Westfall.  He halted under the power of sixty pairs of 
curious eyes and leaned backwards to whisper, "These are college 
kids?  They look like they should be home watching 'Sesame 
Street.'"

She patted him on the shoulder.  "I know.  It's terrible.  What's 
worse is that they look younger every year.  Here, let me set 
those up for you."  She took his slides from him and went to the 
projector booth at the back of the small auditorium.  "Class, this 
is Agent Fox Mulder from the X-Files division of the FBI."

Mulder raised his hand in acknowledgment.  He backed up until he 
felt the lectern hit him from behind.  The class snickered.  "Hey, 
everyone.  It's, uh, nice to be here.  Been a long time since I 
was in a college class."

"Do you have to go to a special college to be in the FBI?" one 
girl called out.

"No, you can go to college anywhere.  The FBI academy will train 
you once you graduate."

"Does the FBI really investigate ghosts?" another girl asked.

The skinny boy sitting next to her gave her a swift elbow.  "Not 
ghosts, *aliens*."

Mulder shifted his weight from one foot to the other, hands in his 
pockets.  "Well, actually, we do a little bit of everything.  The 
X-Files unit was created to investigate cases in which traditional 
techniques have failed to provide any answers."

"Like ghosts," the girl said with satisfaction.

"Exactly."  At that point, Professor Westfall got the projector 
working and a faint picture of the giant fluke worm appeared on 
the screen behind him.  "Instead of me telling you what we do," 
Mulder said, "why don't I show you?"

The lights dimmed.

"This is a photo taken about three years ago.  Initially it wasn't 
an X-File at all.  We were responding to reports of a creature, 
perhaps an alligator, that was attacking sewer workers in New 
Jersey.  As you can see, what we found was anything but an 
alligator."

He looked out at a sea of scrunched faces staring at the screen.  
Some of them had tilted their heads to the side.  "Bites on the 
victims revealed marks consistent with a fluke worm -- only much, 
much larger."

"But it's got human eyes," said one student.

"It had a lot of human characteristics," Mulder agreed.  "We 
hypothesized it might be some kind of hybrid."

A hand shot up from the front row.  Mulder squinted around the 
projector light and saw a petite girl with her black hair cut 
short in a perfect straight line.  She regarded him from behind 
large owlish glasses.  "Did you do genetic typing?" she asked.

"Uh, no.  We didn't get a chance.  It was being transported for 
further testing when it...escaped."

There was a collective gasp from the class, but the girl in the 
front row was unfazed.  "If you didn't do any genetic testing, 
then you can't say for sure it was a hybrid."

Mulder dropped his chin to concede her point.  "No, we can't say 
that for sure.  Our best guess is that the mutant was a result of 
the Chernobyl disaster since the incident reports suggest its 
origins were in the Russian sea."

"But radiation shouldn't cause DNA from one creature to combine 
with another," the girl said.  "It simply mutates the DNA within a 
single specimen."

"Gina," someone from the back groaned.  "Give it a rest, already."

"I don't mind," said Mulder.  "We don't have that much experiences 
with the levels of radiation seen in the Chernobyl accident, so we 
don't really know the extent of the damage that can occur.  And 
wouldn't you allow it's possible, given how genetically similar 
all carbon-based organisms are, that DNA mutation within one 
creature could cause it to resemble something else entirely?  
Something genetically related?"

Gina frowned.  "I suppose it's possible."

Mulder nodded with satisfaction and hit the button for the next 
slide.  "Now this one..."

"But a man and a flukeworm aren't that genetically related."

"Gina!" the class yelled.

"Maybe you should save more questions on this subject for after 
Agent Mulder is finished," Professor Westfall said.  Gina folded 
her arms over her chest and said nothing.

Mulder turned back to the screen, hiding a smile.  "This slide 
here is from a hotel room where the occupant mysteriously 
vanished.  All we found was the ash-like print you see there on 
the floor."

"Spontaneous human combustion!" one of the boys said.  
"Cool!"

"Well, sort of, yes," Mulder said, turning back to the class.  
"What we found was..."  He stopped when he saw Gina's hand in the 
air.  "Yes, Gina?"

"There doesn't seem to be anything there but a large dark stain.  
It could be ash from anything, or even ink.  Did you analyze a 
sample for human remains?"

"As a matter of fact, we did.  We analyzed several samples and all 
were consistent with the residue of burned human flesh."

"I don't suppose you had them tested for accelerant, too?"

"I suppose we did.  None found."

"Was the victim an alcoholic?  With a high enough blood alcohol 
content, perhaps --"

"GINA!" everyone around her hollered in unison.  

Mulder just laughed.  "No, she's right," he told the class, 
feeling lighter than he had in months.  "It's important to ask 
questions.  Let me see how many of them I can answer, okay?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully paused for breath before putting on her sweater.  The 
treatment was over, but the agony was just beginning.  Her skin 
felt like a blanket of lead weighing her down.

Dr. Alton entered.  "Hey, you made it through another round.  Good 
for you."

"When do we see if it's working?"  Scully sat gingerly on the edge 
of the bed.

"We'll do another scan next month to assess any progress. Right 
now it's still too soon to tell."  She gave Scully a concerned 
frown.  "You look awfully pale, Dana.  How are you getting home?"

Taxi, Scully thought.  It was probably already waiting outside.  
"Uh, my mom is meeting me downstairs."

"You want me to get her?  Have her help you out?"  Dr. Alton was 
already turning to leave.

"NO!  No, I'm fine.  I'll just meet her in the lobby."

"Okay, then.  Call me if you have questions.  Otherwise, I'll see 
you in two weeks."

Scully nodded, forcing herself to pay attention to the other 
woman's words.  They seemed slowed down in her head, like playing 
a record at half speed.  She bid goodbye to Dr. Alton and was 
relieved when the elevator was blessedly empty and silent.  She 
leaned against the cool wood paneling and waited for the ding to 
signal her to move again.

Outside, it was drizzling, but her taxi sat idling with its heater 
running.  She climbed inside and gave her address.   The leathery 
smell of the interior made her stomach clench, and for a few 
minutes she had to concentrate on not being sick.  At last the 
feeling subsided.  Closing her eyes, she rested, listening to the 
cars swoosh past on the wet street. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

"Fantastic!"  Professor Westfall was beaming at him, and Mulder 
found himself grinning back.  It wasn't often someone looked at 
him with such naked appreciation.

"It went okay?" he asked her as the students filed out around 
them.

"It went great."  She grabbed his hands and squeezed.  "Thank you 
so much for doing this.  I really enjoyed it, and I know the 
students did, too."

"It was fun."  The word tasted strange on his tongue, like a 
foreign berry picked just under ripe. 

"Sorry about the rough time Gina gave you.  I should have 
mentioned she's a live wire."

Mulder glanced over at the small body loading giant textbooks into 
her backpack.  She paused to push her glasses up on her nose.  He 
caught her eye and smiled.  "It's okay," he said, turning back to 
Professor Westfall.  "I like her."

"I do, too.  She keeps me honest.  Listen, I have a couple of 
quick things to do around here and then I owe you a dinner.  You 
want dress up Italian or slightly grungy pub?"

"Grunge sounds great."

"My kind of man.  C'mon, I'll show you around the department."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully let herself into her apartment and shrugged off her coat.  
When it slid from the hook and crumpled to the floor, she gave it 
a long, baleful glance but decided to leave it there.  The energy 
required to bend down and pick it up might be all she had left in 
her.  She used it to walk to the bedroom, where the shades were 
still drawn from the night before.  Or was it the night before 
that?  

She took off her shoes and climbed under the covers.  The room 
spun around for several nauseating seconds.  She kept her head 
still as she reached for the phone.   "Hi, Mom," she said, a 
minute later.  "Yes, I'm home.  It went fine.  Yes.  Yes.  I'll 
eat in a bit, okay?  Yes, Mulder picked me up.  Everything is 
fine."

Her mother chattered on until it made Scully's teeth hurt just to 
listen.  "Mom, I've got to go.  I'll call you tomorrow, okay?"

She clicked off the phone and curled up with it under her chin.  
Her bedside clock read quarter to six.  She forced her eyes to 
stay open despite the fact that her hands twitched from fatigue.  
Mulder would be calling soon to make sure everything was all 
right.  Every Friday he called after treatment.  Must be awake for 
that.  He would call and she would say she was fine.  Just like 
always.


CHAPTER THREE

"This is the place," Miranda said, and pulled him into a narrow 
brick entryway.  She paused to shake cold rain from their shared 
umbrella.  The damp air had revived the scent of her shampoo, 
breathing spring into their cramped quarters even as fat winter 
drops fell from the ends of their coats.   Her arm slid across his 
middle when she reached for the door handle.  "Always sticks in 
the rain," she said, giving the heavy wooden door a hard yank.  

"Here."  Mulder looped his arm over her head and grabbed the 
frozen handle.  One sharp tug sent the door flying open and 
Miranda stumbling back against him.  He jumped but she flashed him 
a smile.

"Thanks."

Inside, she unwound her scarf as he took in the atmosphere.  Black 
and white pictures of Baltimore from the sixties decorated on the 
walls, camouflaging paint that had yellowed with smoke and age.   
A lone ceiling fan stirred air that smelled of old wood, stale 
heat and wet woolen clothes.   Mulder crunched a few scattered 
peanut shells as he moved to check out the items on a nearby 
shelf.  Bowling trophy, 1983.  A windup monkey with a bass drum, 
and a beer stein that could have easily held twenty-two pints.   
He smiled and tapped the monkey's drum.

"Hey, Doll.  I've missed your face around here.  How you been?"   

Mulder turned at the voice and found Miranda leaning across the 
bar to squeeze the man behind it.  The low hanging lights caught 
his bald head in full shine.  "Good, Win," Miranda replied.  "I've 
been good.  Insanely busy but good.  Listen, I want you to meet 
someone."  

She stretched a hand back, and Mulder ambled over to her.  "Win, 
this is Fox Mulder from the FBI.  Agent Mulder, may I present Win 
Flynn, owner and proprietor of Carly's Pub."

Flynn folded his beefy arms across his chest and cocked his head 
at Mulder.  "Fox," he said.  "You don't say."

"You're right, I don't say," Mulder agreed pointedly.  "I'm 
Mulder."

Flynn grinned.  "I hear you.  Winston's no prize either.  Call me 
Win."

"Not Carly?" Mulder asked, and Flynn roared.

"Carly's my daughter.  Her mother used to give me hell for naming 
a pub after a six year old, let me tell you.  But she ain't six 
anymore.  My baby got married last year and moved to Buffalo, so 
now I've got to make do with the likes of this one."  He nodded at 
Miranda.

"My apartment is three blocks from here," she explained to Mulder.  
"Win, we're going to take the booth in the corner, okay?"

"It's all yours, Doll."

"He seems nice," Mulder said as they walked towards the back.  

"Yeah, I stop in whenever I need a lecture about how I should get 
out more or how I'm not eating right.  The fact that Win's 
dispensing this advice over a plate stacked with onion rings 
doesn't seem to lessen the passion of his message."  
She stopped at the booth and eyed him.  "You're not one of those 
guys who needs to sit facing the TV, are you?"

Mulder looked up to see that ESPN was muted above them.  "My 
season doesn't start for another few months," he said as he slid 
across the scarred wooden bench.

"Ah, a baseball fan.  The Orioles look like they might actually do 
something this year."

A waitress dropped off their beer and Mulder sipped his Black and 
Tan.  "No, it'll be the Yankees all the way."

Miranda leaned over the table at him.  "The Yankees!  Didn't you 
say you grew up in Boston?  Pinstripes are persona non grata 
there." 

Mulder shrugged and smiled.  "I enjoy living dangerously."

"You know, I sensed that about you," she said, giving him an 
appraising look.  

"Yeah?" He straightened in his seat.  Women usually sensed he was 
crazy, not dangerous.

"Yeah," she said, pretending to think.  "You mentioned something 
about you wrestling around in a sewer with a giant fluke worm?  
That's either dangerous or stupid, and my mother always said to be 
charitable, so..."

He tossed a peanut shell at her.  "How's that for dangerous?"

She ducked.  "For a man with a gun, you sure have crappy aim."  
She flicked a shell from the table, catching him square on the 
chin.

"Returned fire," he said as he picked up a handful of peanuts.  
"Now I'm authorized to kill."  She laughed and tried to fend off 
the rapid succession of shells he pelted in her direction, her long legs knocking 
against his under the table.  He tried to pin her in one place with his knees, but 
she squirmed free.

"OKAY, OKAY!" she cried at last.  "Truce." 

"There is no truce in the FBI.  This would be the part where I 
break out the handcuffs."

She arched an eyebrow at him.  "That might not be so bad."

"What?"  Mulder halted his fiddling with the shells and pulled his 
hands into his lap.  SEX! his mind supplied, complete with helpful images.  SEX.  
It had been so long for him that sex seemed like one of those impossible theories 
he and Scully always argued about.  "I, uh...um."

"Oh, jeez."  She shook her head and gave him a rueful smile.  "I 
didn't mean...sometimes I just say the first thing that pops into my 
head.  Gets me in trouble all the time.  I'm sorry.  I didn't mean anything by 
it."

"Right."  Mulder gave a short nod to indicate he had known it all 
along.  His mind didn't give up hope so easily, however, and kept circulating 
distant memories of skin on skin.

"For all I know, you've got a girlfriend at home with a ring on 
her finger."

Mulder traced the lip of his beer glass.  "Uh, no."

"No ring?"

"No girlfriend."  Just the words were enough to evaporate the porn 
show running in his head, as though his neurons realized it was a 
hopeless cause.

"Huh."  She sipped her beer.  "I could have sworn you were taken.  
I'm pretty good at guessing these things, you know."  She held the 
glass to her chin and studied him through narrowed eyes.  "What 
about Agent Scully?"

"She's not..."  He coughed.  "She's not seeing anyone either."

Scully has sex with men from bars, his brain started up again.  
You're the only loser in this equation.  You stay home and jerk 
off while she goes out in her fuck me shoes and drinks tequila 
shooters until her eyes go wild and his hands move up the inside 
of her thigh and she likes it and then he --

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut.  He knew no details, of course, but 
creativity filled in plenty.

"I just thought," Miranda said with a shrug, "the way you answered 
David in class today-"

"What?"

"David.  When he asked you about Agent Scully in the photo?  He 
asked if he joined the FBI could he work with her and you said -"

"'No, this one's mine.'"

"Exactly."

"A joke," he said, because that's what it was.  Scully had made 
herself quite clear on that matter:  I'll fuck a paranoid 
psychotic murderer before you, Mulder.

"Okay," Miranda said.  She looked uncomfortable.  "I didn't mean 
to pry."

The waitress came with their burgers, breaking the tension, and 
Mulder busied himself with shifting beer and his sodden cocktail 
napkin.  "We're just partners," 
he said when the woman had gone.

Miranda smiled.  "Good ones, it seems from your work.  I'm sorry 
she couldn't have come with you today."

Mulder hit the ketchup bottle a little too hard.  "Shit!" he said 
as red sauce splattered everywhere.

"It's okay, take my nap-"

"I have to make a phone call," he said, sliding out of the booth.  
"I'll be right back."

People had been crowding in during his drink with Miranda, and he 
had to thread his way through the noise, smoke and bodies to find 
a quieter spot near the restrooms.

~*~*~*~*~

The phone pulled her from sleep like a rope hoisting a grand 
piano, each ring dragging her closer to consciousness.  She felt 
around under the covers for the receiver with her eyes still 
closed.  Joint pain had set in, making her feel rusted and creaky.  
She clicked "on" just as her machine picked up, and she used the 
message time to swallow the cotton from her mouth.

"Hello?" she said after the beep.

"Scully?  It's me.  I hope I didn't wake you."

She curled into the pillow at the sound of his voice.  "What time 
is it?"

"It's almost eight.  I'm sorry I didn't call earlier.  How are you 
doing?"

She made a small humming noise and considered.  Dense, as though 
she would sink to the bottom; her head was heavy but her limbs 
were weak.  There were pinwheels of light spinning behind her 
eyes.  She shivered under her blanket.  "I'm all right."

"Do you need anything?"

Each week she measured the cost of saying yes, the price of 
needing him.  If it was just one night, she might be able to take 
it back on Monday.  She could put on her pressed suit and serious 
expression and ignore him when he looked at her with eyes that had 
seen her retching over the toilet bowl.  Maybe if it were just one 
night she could still say, "I'm fine" and make him believe it.
     
Tears pricked her eyes.  "It's still raining," she said when the 
wind swept gusts of water against her windows.  Just this once, 
she would say yes.  She wouldn't even have to get out of bed to 
let him in; she could just say, "Mulder, come over," and he would 
be there to untangle the hair from her eyes and fetch the heavy 
quilt from the closet.  She would still hurt.  She would still be 
dying.  But at least she wouldn't be alone.

"It's pouring here, too," he told her.  "If it keeps up like this, 
the drive back could be interesting."

"Drive?"  Drive back from where?  Had she been speaking aloud and 
not realized it?

"I'm still in Baltimore."

"Oh."  She blinked in the darkness, remembering.  "Your lecture.  
How did it go?"

"It was great," he said, and she could hear the smile in his 
voice.  "I wish you could have been there.  There was this one 
girl in the class named Gina who could have been your understudy.  
I think you would have liked her."

"Mmmm."  She was drifting, half-listening, waiting for her cue 
when he asked if she wanted him to come over.  "I'm glad it went 
well."  

"Excuse me," Mulder muttered, and she heard a man's voice in the 
background.  There was music, too.

"Mulder, where are you?"

"Carly's Pub.  It's this little hole in the wall outside the city, 
but the beer is pretty good.  Miranda bought me dinner after 
class."

His tone was upbeat, happy.  Scully pushed herself up on the 
pillows and tried to focus.  "So you're still with her then."

"Yeah, but I can duck out if you need something."

"No," she said, her voice sounding far away to her own ears.  "You 
should enjoy your dinner.  You earned it, after all."

"'Kay."  He acquiesced without their usual argument.  "You should 
eat something, too."

Scully swallowed hard to control the flash of nausea.  "I...I 
will."

"Good."  He hung on the line, maybe searching for concrete advice 
he could give.  Mulder liked specific tasks.  But all he said was, 
"Okay, then.  Call me if you need anything."

She was already forming her battle plan for the rest of the 
evening - fetch quilt, swallow pills, crawl back into bed.  She 
would have two more days to patch herself up before she had to see 
him again.  "I'll call," she said, pretending as though she meant 
it.  He pretended to believe, too.  They hung up without saying 
goodbye.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Outside Carly's the rain had stopped, leaving black shiny streets 
and heavy frosty air.  The cold didn't touch Mulder; his blood 
hummed warm from alcohol and laughter.  She was teasing him again, 
bumping shoulders as they walked down the street.

"Zombies?"

"Yep," he answered.

"Sea monsters?"

"Naturally."

"Big foot, of course."

"Of course."

"ESP?  Astral projection?  Reincarnation?"  She walked backwards 
in front of him, her hands deep in her pockets.  He felt charged, 
crackling, like an electron about to be pulled into her orbit.

"Yes, yes and yes," he told her.

She stopped, forcing him to halt as well.  "Agent Mulder, is there 
anything you won't believe?"

He made a show of considering.  "Maybe not.  Maybe I am the gold 
standard of belief."

"In chemistry we would call you absolute zero."

"I've been called worse."

She laughed, and the sound of it echoed down the quiet street.  
"Tell me about another one of your cases," she said as they 
resumed walking.

"Well, not too long ago we investigated several deaths in the San 
Joaquin Valley that were linked to El Chupacabras."

"You're kidding me!  I did a paper on El Chupacabras in college.  
That myth has such a fascinating history and persists with amazing 
strength in some communities today."

Mulder gave her a sideways glance.  "I know," he said, and she 
blushed.

"Sorry, bad habit.  I tend to slip into lecture mode at the drop 
of a hat."

He smiled.  "I bet you got an 'A' on the paper, though."

"I still have some of the books I used," she admitted.  "There is 
one I found in a dusty used bookstore that's quite old.  It shows 
some of the earliest known sketches of El Chupacabras."

"Really?  I'd like to see it some time."

"How about now?" she countered, stopping again.  "My apartment is 
just up there and around the corner.  I could make coffee, too, if 
you like."

Mulder's mouth went dry.  Out in the open air, he could manage the 
dizzy buzz in his head and the loose heat of his bones.

"I understand if you have to get going," she said when he 
hesitated.  

A graceful out, he thought, but his feet remained stuck to the 
pavement.  Maybe it was the way her gloved hand grazed his jacket.  
Maybe it was the three beers he'd consumed with dinner.  Maybe it 
was just his insatiable curiosity, but he wanted to see what would 
happen next.  A dare to himself:  how far could he go without 
tumbling down?

"Uh, sure.  For a minute," he said finally.  

Her apartment turned out to be one half of an old, Victorian-style 
home.  She led him into a living room equipped with crown 
moldings, large front windows and a high ceiling.  The hardwood 
floor creaked under their feet.  "Please excuse the mess," she 
said, switching on a floor lamp.  Buttery light shone over the 
cherry coffee table, a burgundy high-backed chair, and gray 
stuffed sofa.  Papers littered the table, and he saw a teacup 
hiding under one printed sheet.  There was a chenille throw draped 
on the couch, but it seemed to have been appropriated by a fuzzy 
white cat.  "That's Arabella," Miranda said when she saw 
him looking.  "She's quite friendly."

Mulder tested that hypothesis by sticking his fingers under the 
creature's soft chin.  Arabella stuck out her neck and leaned 
obligingly into his hand.  He smiled as she started to purr.

Miranda took off her coat and threw it over the back of a chair.  
"Can I get you anything?  Coffee?  Tea?"

"I'm fine," Mulder answered.  

"Let me see if I can find that book."  She walked across the room 
to the large bookcases that lined the far wall.  Mulder ambled 
over as well.  "I don't see it here," she said after a moment.  
"Let me check the bedroom.  I'll be right back."

While she was gone, Mulder scanned the titles on her shelves.  She 
seemed to be a classic mystery buff; he noted many tales of little 
old English ladies solving murders on the sly.  Incan history.  
Ghost stories.  Medieval myths.  He leaned down to see the lower 
shelves.

*When A Loved One Has Cancer*
	
*How to Fight Cancer and Win*	
	
*The Breast Cancer Survival Guide*

Unable to resist, he pulled out the first one.  His heart pounded 
in his ears as he flipped it open to the middle.  The faint scent 
of dust assaulted his nose.  "Sometimes chemotherapy and radiation 
can result in irritating rashes on sensitive skin," he read.  The 
one sentence was enough to make his stomach clench.  Rashes? Did 
Scully get them?  What other stuff was going on that he didn't 
know about?  

Suddenly, he felt a bit like a voyeur. 

He palmed the one book and bent over to see the others.  

"I found it," Miranda called as she re-entered the room.

Mulder startled.  "Hi.  I was just...uh, I was looking at your 
books."

She dropped her gaze to the one he held in his hand.  "It's okay," 
she said, but he scrambled to put it back.  When he stood up 
again, Miranda was at his side.

"I just saw you had a lot of books on cancer."  He stumbled 
around, feeling enormously awkward.

"My mother had it.  She died two years ago."

"God."  Now he felt awful for trespassing.  "I'm sorry."

"Me too," she said, hugging herself.  "I miss her every day, but 
by the end she was so sick that it was almost a relief when she 
died.  I know that's a terrible thing to say."

Of course it wasn't, but Mulder felt a flash of anger anyway.  He 
couldn't imagine ever being grateful that Scully was dead.  "It's 
understandable," he said aloud, even though he didn't.  Not 
really.

Miranda gave him a wistful smile.  "Arabella was her cat, you 
know.   Having her here helps me remember."  She hesitated a 
moment, then laid a hand on his arms.  "I'm sorry if you know 
someone..."

"A friend," he interjected quickly.  Scully was such a private 
person, and she guarded her illness so closely.  He wouldn't open 
her up to pity when she wasn't around to counter it.

"I'm sorry," Miranda said.

"She's going to be okay," he said, because he was the man who 
could believe anything.  "I know she will."

Miranda rubbed his arm.  "Of course."

They stood like that another moment, the warmth of her touch 
seeping through his coat and down into his skin.  He could feel 
the burn from each of her fingers.  

Slowly, she slid her hand down until she met his.  He let her 
clasp his fingers, and that smallest caress set his skin 
vibrating.  He heard her shallow breathing.  
"Fox," she murmured, "I want you to know -"

"I should go."  He broke their contact and took a step toward the 
door.

"But you haven't even looked at the El Chupacabras book."  She 
scooped it up from where she had set it on an end table.

"It's okay," he said, still moving in the direction of the exit.  
"Maybe another time."

She followed him with the book in hand.  "Here," she said, "why 
don't you take it with you?  That way we can be sure there will be 
another time."

He stopped with his hand on the doorknob.  "I don't know..."  

She slipped the book into arms.  "Take it."

"I can't let you do this."

"Too late," she whispered, and kissed his cheek.  "You already 
have."


CHAPTER FOUR

Chin in one hand, pen in the other, Mulder heaved his best put-
upon sigh as he documented the paranormal in triplicate.  Scully's 
briefcase and overcoat lay on the table at the other end of the 
office, but Scully herself was nowhere to be seen.  It wouldn't be 
fair, he reasoned, to fill out all the paperwork himself.  She 
probably had her own slant on things, and he didn't want to 
deprive her of the opportunity to make her views known.

He drummed his pen on the desk and glanced idly around the room.  
The book Miranda had lent him sat where he had left it when he 
arrived that morning, leaning against his basketball on the shelf.  
He rolled his chair over and picked up the book.  The worn binding 
sloughed against his palm as he traced the faded El Chupacabras 
image on the front.  

Flipping the cover open, he found Miranda's name in delicate 
script on the inside.  He smiled and swivelled in his chair, 
propping his feet on the desk as he began thumbing through the 
musty pages.  In the middle, there were photographs of a wall of 
red rock that had a fierce fanged creature etched into it.

The phone rang, and Mulder groped for it with one hand, not taking 
his eyes from the book.  "Hello?"

"Hello, may I speak with Dana Scully please?"

Mulder put his feet down and paid attention.  "She's not here at 
the moment.  May I take a message?"

"That would be great.  This is Barbara from the Georgetown 
Hospital, and we need to talk to Ms. Scully about scheduling an 
appointment as soon as possible."

"Uh, sure.  Is everything okay?"

"Just have her give us a call sometime today, all right?"

"All right, I'll tell her."  Mulder hung up the phone and put the 
book aside.  Of course her doctor couldn't give him any specific 
information, but lately his lack of real knowledge about her 
illness and its treatment had been needling him.  He'd made a few 
awkward passes at asking Scully, but she always clipped him off 
before the full sentence was out of his mouth.

"I'm fine, Mulder."

Which they both knew was an utter lie.  Penny Northern and a dozen 
women like her could have testified to that fact, had they not 
been dead and gone of the precise disease now eating away at his 
partner.  But Scully knew these terrible truths as well as he did, 
and he didn't see what good it would do to rub her nose in it.  
Still, for all the conspiracies, cover-ups and dirty deals he'd 
seen over the years, he'd never before encountered this particular 
kind of quiet frustration.  No cloak and dagger informant was 
going to slip a note under his door:  

"Want to know the truth about your partner's health?  Meet me in 
the garage in half an hour."

"Hey," said the object of his thoughts as she breezed through the 
door carrying a stack of folders.  Her smart purple suit snapped 
with her quick steps, and her hair had not one strand out of 
place.  It seemed impossible that he was taking messages for her 
from a cancer ward.

"Hi," he said, straightening himself up.  "I missed you this 
morning."

"I've been at the lab.  Did you need me for something?"

"No, but your doctor's office just called."  He skimmed his 
fingers along the edge of his desk, avoiding her eyes.  "They want 
you to call them back ASAP to schedule an appointment."  He risked 
a glance at her to see if she might want to elaborate, but her 
face gave nothing away.

"Okay, thanks.  I'll call them."  She dug out her cell phone and 
turned her back, but she didn't leave the room.  Mulder bit his 
lip and tried not to breathe.  "Hello, this is Dana Scully.  I got 
the message that you called?  Yes.  Okay.  Did she say how low?"

Mulder's ears practically went out on stems as he devoured each 
bit of cryptic information.  Low could not be good, whatever it 
was.

"All right, yes.  I can come in at five.  Would that be okay?"

Mulder's eyes flew to the clock on the wall.  Five was over four 
hours away.  Something was low, damn it, and low enough to warrant 
a call.  Four hours seemed a long time to wait.

Scully hung up the phone and put it back in her pocket.  "What are 
you reading?" she asked, lifting her chin in the direction of 
Miranda's book.  She took a step closer and frowned.  "Mulder, not 
that Mexican goat sucker thing again."

"No," he said, slipping the book into a drawer.  "It's nothing.  
What, uh, what did the doctor say?  Is everything all right?"

"Fine."  But he waited her out this time, refusing to break her 
gaze.  She sighed.  "The labs came back from my blood tests on 
Friday and my white cell count is a little low.  They just want to 
repeat the test, that's all.  It's nothing."

Her echo of his dismissive words effectively shut that topic in a 
drawer, too.  He ducked his head.  "Okay.  Then I guess I'll go 
grab a quick sandwich up the street.  We've got to have these 
triplicates filled out by tonight."

"Can I join you?"

He halted in putting on his coat.  "For lunch?"

"Yes." She lifted her eyebrows. "If that's okay."

"Of course it's okay.  I'll even buy."

She eyed him as she reached for her things.  "Maybe we should run 
some lab tests on you," she said.  He held the door and she walked 
out under his arm, missing his smile.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The weekend rain had pushed out the cold and washed in a temporary 
air of spring.  Both Mulder and Scully left their coats 
unbuttoned, flapping like great black capes behind them as they 
walked.  In the early days of their partnership, it had seemed to 
Mulder that either she was scrambling along just behind him or he 
was forced to slow his lope so she could keep pace.  He couldn't 
recall making a conscious decision to alter his gait permanently, 
and Scully had not grown longer legs, but somehow they now 
matched.  The cadence of her heels had become part of his own 
internal rhythm, like a heartbeat, constant and strong.

Suits jammed the sandwich shop, as though the recess bell had rung 
on Capitol Hill.  Mulder stood in line while Scully stalked a 
table.  After twenty minutes, they had a two-person place by the 
window and thick turkey sandwiches with golden chips.  Mulder 
waited a moment so he could start with Scully, but she had lifted 
the top slice of bread from her sandwich and was busy realigning 
all the ingredients inside so they were even across the bottom 
slice.  "Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your 
food?" he asked, amused.

"It tastes better this way."  Satisfied, she reassembled her 
sandwich and took a bite.

"Yeah?"  He knew he sounded inordinately pleased.  With a mental 
note, he filed "Turkey Sandwich" under "Foods Scully Will Still 
Eat."

As if reading his mind, she glanced at his plate.  "Can I have 
your pickle?"

He grinned.  "Scully, you can always, always have my pickle."

She hid a smile as she plucked it off his plate.  "You know, my 
father used to tell this story about a magic pickle he saw in 
Puerto Rico once."

"It danced, it sang, it pulled a rabbit from a hat?"

"Not quite."  She paused to lick her fingers.  "It brought good 
luck.  The story was that this farmer was struggling to hang on to 
his land after a couple of years of drought sent him into debt.  
His latest round of crops was doing well, but he needed a chunk of 
money to hold him over until the big, end-of-the-summer harvest.  
Then in the middle of July, the nearest town decided to hold a 
country fair, complete with a contest for the best produce."

"I can see where this is going from a mile away."

"Ah ha," she said, tilting her head at him.  "I bet you can't."

He made a sweeping motion between them.  "Pray continue, then."

"The farmer got word of this contest and went out to his fields to 
select the best quality vegetables to enter in the contest.  There 
were round, red tomatoes and zucchini as long as your arm, but he 
knew that neighboring farmers had these kinds of vegetables as 
well."

"But not the pickle," Mulder interjected.

"No, not the pickle.  Out in the farthest field he found the 
perfect cucumber. It wasn't the largest or the fattest, but it had 
a pleasing shape and a lovely green color."

"Scully, say 'pleasing shape' again."

She ignored him.  "So the farmer picked the cucumber and took it 
to the fair.  He was so certain it would win that he didn't bring 
any other vegetables to enter in the contest.  Unfortunately for 
him, the prize money went to a giant eggplant."

"Huh," Mulder said, setting down his sandwich.  An unexpected 
twist.  "That doesn't sound so lucky to me."

"It wasn't," she agreed.  "Dejected, the man collected his 
cucumber and returned to the farm.  The story says that on the way 
home, his tears fell on the cucumber and that's when it took on 
its luck, but my father was skeptical about that part.  In any 
case, the next day, the man pickled his beloved cucumber and then 
took it to town to sell at the local grocery.  The grocer 
immediately fell in love with the lone fat pickle in the jar, and 
he paid top dollar for it -- more than the farmer would have 
received at the fair.  The grocer put the giant pickle on display 
in his window and said he would sell it to the highest bidder.  
The funny thing, though, was that people started coming by just to 
see the pickle.  His business boomed, and the pickle became the 
talk of the town."

"That's still not magic, though," Mulder argued.

"I'm not finished.  The man who owned the grocery was blessed with 
a lovely wife, but they had been unable to have children.  One 
night he took the pickle home to show his visiting mother-in-law, 
and he brought it in his bedroom that night for safekeeping.  The 
very next month he found out his wife was pregnant."

"And it was the pickle that did it," Mulder said, deadpan.

"In a manner of speaking, at least that's what the grocer thought.  
Anyway, he took the pickle back to the store but vowed not to sell 
it.  He told everyone of its powers and people from all over the 
country started coming by to rub the pickle jar and make a wish.  
Dad said he talked to a couple of people who swore the pickle made 
their dreams come true.  And that--" she said as she picked up his 
pickle and bit off the end of it, "--is the story of the lucky 
pickle."

"Lucky pickle," he said, shaking his head.  "I can't believe those 
words came out of your mouth."  But he knew he sounded completely 
charmed.

"I didn't say I believed the story."

"Of course not."  He looked down at her plate.  "And I'm still not 
eating those things."

She shrugged.  "More for me."

All you want, he thought as he watched her polish off half of the 
sandwich.  In the hum and hustle of the small shop, they could 
have been any two government flunkies dawdling to avoid going back 
to their desks, and Mulder searched his brain for a light topic, 
anything to keep the illusion going.

"Tell me more about your lecture," she said before he could think 
of something to say.  "Did you make true believers out of them 
all?"

He smiled and leaned over the tiny table towards her.  "You were 
right about the fluke worm story, Scully.  It was a big hit.  
Eugene Tooms made a pretty big impression, too.  The kids got a 
good laugh out of me and a naked guy under and escalator."

"Then you didn't make them believers," she said.

"No?"

"If they believed these things were real, Mulder, they wouldn't be 
laughing.  They'd be terrified."

Mulder thought of the disappeared young woman with the quick smile 
and easy trust who had walked into his office four years ago, and 
wondered if maybe Scully believed more than she claimed she did.  
He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.  "Well, here's a kind of 
laugh," he tried again.  "I think Professor Westfall was flirting 
with me after the lecture."

Scully didn't laugh.  She paused with her sandwich partway to her 
mouth.  "You *think* she was flirting?"

"Okay, I'm pretty sure."  He fiddled with his straw wrapper, 
gauging her reaction in quick glances.  Why he felt the need to 
confess this little detail of his Friday, he did not know.  Maybe 
this was how their relationship worked, where they each served 
volleys across the net hoping to discombobulate the other.  Scully 
returned his shot.

"And what did you do?" she asked.

"Uh."  Frantic fiddling.  He hadn't really expected her to press 
onward with the conversation.  "I guess I let her do it."

Scully snorted.  "You make it sound like she mauled you in a dark 
alley, Mulder."

"It wasn't like that."

"What was it like?"  Her gaze nailed his, and he realized he'd 
been pinned.

"It was, um, it was...weird."

"It can't have been too weird if you stuck around for more."

If there was a correct reply, it failed Mulder.  "Forget I 
mentioned it," he said.  "It doesn't matter anyway."

Scully's brows knit in a frown.  "So you're not going to see her 
again?"

"Am I going to...no, I'm not going to see her again.  I can mail 
the book back to her."

"What book?"  Understanding dawned on her face.  "Ah, the Mexican 
goatsucker.  She's into that, is she?"

"Define 'into,'" Mulder replied with a slight leer, deflecting as 
best he could.  Scully was not dissuaded.  She leaned across the 
table.

"You should see her again."

Okay, he could play at this game.  "Why?"

"Why?"

"Yes, give me one good reason."

Scully drew back. "You -- you like her."

He shrugged.  "I like a lot of people."

"Fine, whatever," she said, setting aside her napkin.  "Do what 
you want.  I won't play defense attorney in the case of 'Mulder 
versus A Real Life.'"

Irritation flashed through him, hot and quick.  "Real life is the 
best reason to say no.  You may have noticed we don't exactly work 
a standard nine to five job."

"And Lord knows everything is about the work."  

She stood to leave and he grabbed her wrist.  "Scully, especially 
now --"

"Don't you dare make this about me."

"But you know.  You know better than anyone the consequences of 
being associated with me."

She went perfectly still in his grasp and bowed her head.  "I 
always knew you thought it," she whispered, not looking at him.  
"I never believed you'd say it out loud."

"Scully..."

She yanked herself free and swept up her coat in one single, 
efficient motion. He watched through the cold glass as she 
disappeared into the crowd.   Alone he sat, his knees bumping the 
table, with her unfinished sandwich. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"What about sex?" 

"Excuse me?"  Dr. Alton paused from taking Scully's blood 
pressure.

"Sex.  I can still have it, can't I?"  Scully knew her tone 
bordered on defiant, but she was still simmering from her 
lunchtime conversation with Mulder.

"As much as you want," Dr. Alton said, but Scully derived no 
satisfaction from the answer.  The sad truth was that she didn't 
want, not really.  It took every ounce of energy she had just to 
brush her teeth in the evenings.  Radiation and chemotherapy 
seemed to have withered every sexual impulse she had.  "You got 
someone particular in mind?" Dr. Alton asked with a smile.

"No," Scully sighed, some of her anger seeping out.  "I just want 
to know the possibility is there."  Because it had occurred to her 
as she had stewed about Mulder that the possibility could 
disappear at any day.  That she could die without ever having been 
touched that way again.  And yet there was Mulder, throwing away 
such a chance while laying the blame at her feet.  "God damn him," 
she muttered.

"Ah ha," Dr. Alton said.  "So there is a specific him."  She 
released the cuff and Scully wiggled her hand as circulation 
returned.

"Trust me, there isn't.  Mulder and I just had an argument today." 

"About sex?"

"In a roundabout way, I guess.  There's this...woman."

"Oh," Dr. Alton said knowingly.

"It's not like that.  He's refusing to go out with her."

Dr. Alton shone a light in Scully's right eye.  "And you think he 
should."

"She's pretty and she seems nice."

"Maybe you should go out with her."

Scully pulled away.  "If she had the right chromosome combination, 
I would.  But Mulder is just determined to end up alone."

"Oh," Dr. Alton said again, this time more gently.  She wrote down 
the results of the exam on Scully's chart, then set the pen aside 
and squeezed Scully's hand.  "He's not alone," she said.  "And 
maybe that's what he's trying to tell you."

~*~*~*~*~**~*~*~*

Scully drove home in the dark and dragged herself up the stairs 
into her apartment building.  Exhaustion layered every portion of 
her being, from the physical to the emotional.  She looked forward 
to opening a can of soup and collapsing on the sofa.  Smothering a 
yawn, she trudged the last few steps and turned the corner into 
her hallway.

She halted with a blink.

Sitting in front of her door was a large jar containing one single 
fat pickle.


CHAPTER FIVE

The two phones in his house rang slightly out of register with one 
another, like calling birds, despite the fact that they were 
attached to the same line.  Mulder grabbed the closest one and 
shut them both up.  "Hello?" 

"Hello, Fox?"  It was Scully and yet it wasn't.  His brain took a 
moment to resolve the confusion, and when he figured it out, his 
tone shifted to cautious.

"Hello, Mrs. Scully.  How are you?"

"I'm all right, thank you.  How are you?"

"Fine," he said, taking a page from the Scully handbook.  He 
lowered himself into his desk chair and rocked backwards.  If 
there was something wrong, he was going to make her be the one to 
say it.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you.  I'm calling because it's Dana's 
birthday in a couple of weeks and the family is having a kind of 
surprise party.  Her brothers are flying in and my sister is 
coming down from New York."

"Surprise party," Mulder repeated, wondering about the wisdom of 
this boondoggle. Scully kept an itemized, daily "To Do" list in 
her appointment book; she did not seem to enjoy surprises.  
"That's, um, that's great."

"I just thought with everything that's been going on..."

"She'll love it."  

"We hope you can come, of course.  It will be the afternoon of the 
twenty-second rather than Monday the twenty-third.  Maybe you 
could help get her out of the house so we could set up?"

Mulder tried to remember the last time he had attended a birthday 
party.  College, he supposed, when they all piled into the pub and 
drank themselves silly to celebrate.  But the thought of Scully 
surrounded by streamers and balloons made him smile.  "I'll do 
whatever you need," he said.

"Great."  He heard a rustling of paper on the other end and 
imagined the older Scully kept a rather neat list herself.  "The 
main reason I'm calling -- this is a little strange for me to say 
-- is I've realized I don't know who Dana's friends are these 
days.  She never mentions anyone, and I thought maybe you would 
know."

Mulder's smile faded.  Once there had been friends.  At the 
beginning, her stakeout chatter had been peppered with names -- 
people with ordinary names to match their ordinary lives -- and 
he'd just tuned her out until she'd started talking about work 
again, about what was important.  

This is serious business Scully, keep up, keep up.  If we run fast 
enough we might just figure out what we're chasing.  She'd shed 
people as she shed pounds, becoming lighter, leaner, unencumbered 
bone and gristle.

He took a deep breath.  "She never mentions anyone to me either."

"Oh," she said, a small sound, heartbreaking in its wistfulness.  
"I see.  It will just be family then, and you."

"And me," he agreed.  He would go and smile and stand in for all 
the people lost along the way.  He would try to be enough.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mulder left the heater off in his car and the night chill seeped 
in through the vents; his white knuckles gripped the wheel with 
purpose.  Invigorated, reckless, he pointed the car toward the 
highway and did not stop to think about the consequences.  By 
damn, if she had been following his lead all these years then the 
least he could do was show her a different path.

Don't make this about me, she had said, but he didn't know how to 
measure otherwise.  She was the metric of his life.

He found Miranda's apartment with no trouble, and the dash clock 
winked out at ten thirty-three as he cut the engine.  Grabbing her 
book, he got out and jogged across the deserted street.  The 
chain-link gate squeaked as he pushed it open.  He walked up the 
steps and rang the bell for the first floor, then hung back, his 
breath puffing in the damp cold air.

A moment later, he heard footsteps and the white curtain on the 
door pulled aside.  Miranda peered out at him from behind squarish 
glasses.  He gave her a feeble wave.

"Agent Mulder?"  She opened the door and he saw she was dressed in 
her pajamas.  Flannel checked pants stuck out beneath her robe.  

"Hi.  Sorry about the hour."

"That's okay," she said, but still sounded a bit confused.  "Would 
you like to come in?"

"NO!"  He back-pedaled.  "No, thanks.  I know it's late.  I wanted 
to return this and ... and to see you."

"You did." She accepted the book and leaned against the doorframe, 
her arms folded across her chest.  

"Yes.  I wanted to know if you might like to have dinner some 
time.  Uh, with me."

She raised her eyebrows.  "Why?"

"Why?"  He shoved his hands in his pockets, shifting from one foot 
to the other.  "The other night...I thought you might want to."

"And you made it pretty clear you didn't."

"Um."  This was supposed to have been much easier.  "I'm sorry.  
Maybe I should just go."  

"No, wait."  She leaned forward and placed a hand on his arm.  "I 
didn't mean to give you a hard time.  It's just when you left like 
that the other night, I didn't really expect to see you again, and 
now here you are out of nowhere."  She slid her hand down his coat 
until she grasped his hand; hers was soft and warm.  "I just want 
to understand."

She took a step closer to him, her bare feet on the cold wooden 
boards of the porch.  Not everyone disappeared when he told.  
Scully had stayed on his bed that first night and listened to the 
whole story without judgment.  When he had knocked on her door the 
next morning, he'd expected no answer, but there she'd been -- 
still believing in him.

If they really believed, Scully had told him today, they'd be 
terrified.

He swallowed with difficulty.  "I don't do this very often," he 
said to Miranda.

She squeezed his hand and smiled.  "Well, I didn't think it was an 
act.  And hey, we're just talking about dinner, right?"

"Right."  

He tried to imagine it, he and she dressed up in a nice restaurant 
and surrounded by clinking wine glasses and scraping forks, tried 
to make it real in his head.  But the image kept zooming in and 
out, blurring, and making him 

"When?" Miranda asked.

"Uh..."  He hadn't gotten that far in his plans.

"How's Thursday?  I'm going to be in DC that afternoon doing some 
research."

"Thursday.  Thursday's good."  If real life had people like 
Miranda in it, maybe it was worth a try.  She would be his secret 
partner as he went deep undercover as an ordinary citizen. 

"Seven thirty?" she said, when he didn't elaborate.

"Great.  I'll, uh, I'll probably still be at the office."

"I know where that is."  She teased him gently.  "Just keep going 
down the stairs until you can't go down any further."

"That's me.  The FBI's most unwanted."

"Now that," she said, leaning in to kiss his cheek, "is certainly 
not true.  Good night, Agent Mulder."

"Good night."

The warmth vanished with her, replaced by a slicing wind.  Mulder 
touched the spot on his cheek where Miranda's lips had been.  He 
stood tingling on the porch for a moment before returning to his 
car.  Like any good field agent, he dug out his cell phone to 
report his findings.


Scully awoke to a ringing phone and a couch imprint on her face.  
She rubbed her cheek with one hand, reaching around the huge 
pickle jar with the other to retrieve her phone from the coffee 
table.  "Hello?"

"It's me, Scully."

"Mulder?"  She sat up, blinking sleepily as she tried to read the 
clock across the room.  "What time is it?"

"Quarter to eleven.  Oh, shit -- were you asleep?  I'm sorry."

"No, no.  It's okay.  I wasn't in bed."

"I wanted to find out how the test went," he said.  "At the 
doctor's."

"I'll know the results tomorrow, but everything seems okay."  She 
ran her fingers over the smooth cool glass jar in front of her.  
The giant pickle bobbed inside.  "I found your rather strange 
offering when I got home."

"It's a big one, isn't it?"  She could hear the smile in his 
voice.  "Maybe it's even lucky.  You should hang on to it for a 
while to make sure.  Don't eat it."

"No," she said, smiling too, "I won't eat it."

"You were right about today, Scully.  I can't blame anyone else 
for my choices."

"No, I shouldn't have pushed you."

"No, you were right."

Her heart stopped.  "I was?"

"I think maybe I get too focused on what I can't have.  I keep 
chasing the impossible and inventing stories for myself about why 
my life has to be the way it is.  I don't know.  Maybe it does 
have to be this way, but I thought after what you said I would at 
least check out the theory."

"I'm not sure I'm following you, Mulder."

He was quiet for a moment.  "Maybe you're following me too much."
 
"What?"

"I took your advice, Scully.  I'm in Baltimore at Miranda's.  
Well, outside Miranda's.  We're going to have dinner on Thursday."

"My advice."  Scully closed her eyes and leaned her head back 
against her sofa.  "Yes."

When she didn't say anything further, Mulder spoke up again.  "I 
should let you get some sleep.  I just wanted you to know I heard 
what you were saying today.  G'night."

"Night."  She lay back down on the couch, her eyes even with the 
pickle.  It blocked out everything else in her view.  I took your 
advice, he'd said, as though they were playing some grownup 
version of Simon Says.  In the space of a few hours, he had 
transformed her from the martyr in his life to host of The Mulder 
Dating Game.  

She eyed the pickle with disgust.  "Lucky, my ass."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Thursday morning, Scully had a homicide and a cup of coffee for 
breakfast.  The homicide was certainly more interesting than a 
bagel -- a high-ranking General shot to death in his limo by a man 
who wasn't there -- but not as filling.  She tamped down her 
stomach's small pathetic grumbles and soon it fell silent 
altogether.  

By noon she was blinking away spots from her eyes, but she 
attributed the fuzziness to Mulder's crazy theory about Teager 
hiding himself by slipping into holes in his victims' visual 
fields.  

"Mulder, there are no such holes," she told him in the car, once 
they had served their warrant.  

"I've done the tricks, Scully.  In science class in the third 
grade -- hold a piece of paper out with a cross on one side and a 
circle on the other.  Look straight ahead and move the paper back 
and forth and the cross will disappear and reappear as it goes in 
and out of the blind spot."
 
"Not if you have both eyes open," she argued.  "It's true that 
each eye has a blind spot from where the ocular nerve enters the 
brain, but the other eye compensates for that small hole.  
Besides, we're talking about a section of the visual field that is 
maybe a couple square centimeters; there's no way you could miss a 
grown man."

"But haven't you told me -- "  The phone rang and cut him off.  
"Mulder," he said.  Scully watched his face for hints about the 
caller.  "Yes.  Yes, sir.  We'll be there."

"What's going on?" she asked when he had hung up.

"Teager just showed up at the Vietnam Memorial and then 
disappeared again.  Skinner wants us to meet him there. There's a 
rededication of the wall scheduled for tonight, and Skinner's 
worried some of the officials be targets."

"From a dead man."

"Who is apparently not so dead."

The ache behind Scully's eyes intensified.   Four years ago there 
had been only two categories of people in her life -- dead and 
living.  Then Mulder had come along with a whole new filing 
system.  "Not so dead," she said, trying out the label.  "But 
apparently also invisible."

He shook his head.  "I still think it's a trick.  Didn't you tell 
me that the eyes are really a tiny part of vision?  That we really 
see with our brains?"

"The signals coming in through the eyes are very rough, yes.  The 
brain has to refine and classify them before we can recognize even 
simple lines."

"Exactly!"  Mulder slapped the steering wheel for emphasis.  "So 
the brain could perhaps be fooled into 'deciding' something isn't 
there when it really is."

Scully turned her head as if to look out the window, using the 
time to slip two pills into her mouth.  She swallowed them dry.

"Admit it, Scully -- we only see what we want to see."

~*~*~*~*~*

It turned out, as usual, that Mulder was at least partially right; 
Teager wasn't dead.  Except then he was, and now she had blood on 
her clothes and bags under her eyes.  "You want to drive?" Mulder 
said, jangling the keys at her.  She managed a shake of her head.

He slid behind the wheel, and she slipped into her seat beside 
him, fumbling with the seatbelt buckle twice before finding the 
catch.  The roar of the engine seemed overloud, the sound leaping 
up from beneath her to drown out her pounding heart.  She gritted 
her teeth and willed herself not to be sick.

"Fuck," he said a moment later.  She pried her eyes open enough to 
look at him.  His gaze was on the dash.  "It's almost eight.  I 
was supposed to meet Miranda at seven-thirty."

"So call her."

"I don't know her number."

In the dark, Scully felt perversely satisfied.  "She'll 
understand."

"Yeah, I'm sure people stand her up because of invisible assassins 
all the time."

"Well, she'll have to get used to it."  She could feel Mulder's 
eyes on her, but she refused to answer his look. 

Back at the Hoover building, she lagged behind as they walked 
through the lobby.  Her feet felt weighted down even has her head 
felt curiously light.  Mulder stopped short when they rounded the 
potted plants, and it took her a moment to figure out why.  
Miranda sat on one of the long benches.

"After hours," she said as she stood with a smile, "apparently 
they don't like civilians wandering the building around 
unsupervised.  I figured I could wait here."

Scully caught Mulder's rueful look.  "Sorry about that," he said.  
"We got hung up on a case."

Miranda glanced at the bloodied edge of Scully's suit jacket.  "It 
would seem so.  Everything okay?"

"Fine," Scully answered.  The ground rolled beneath her feet and 
she swallowed hard.  "I'll just be downstairs."

"Yeah, come on downstairs for a minute," Mulder said to Miranda.  
"I'm really sorry about this."

The bright fluorescent lights of the elevator shone like lasers to 
Scully, and she kept her eyes focused downward. She could see 
Miranda reflected in the metal panels, reaching for Mulder's 
shoulder.  "You have a leaf," Miranda said, and Scully dropped her 
gaze even more.  

The room went black.

Scully sucked in her breath and grabbed for the railing.  "You 
okay?" she heard Mulder ask.

"Yeah."  She blinked and her vision returned, but her heart rate 
had doubled.  She retained her death grip on the rail.

"Sure?" Mulder pressed.

"Mulder, I'm fine."  It came out more harshly than she intended, 
but she just wanted the questions to stop.  She needed every 
precious bit of concentration to go to the office, fetch her 
things, and go home.

The soft ding of the elevator signaled their floor and Scully 
walked out first.  Sit down for a few minutes, she coached 
herself.  Catch your breath and everything will be fine.

"I understand if you want to postpone dinner," Miranda was saying 
as they entered the office.

Please, Scully thought, go.   She sat in her chair.

"Uh..." Mulder hedged.  He sat, too, and rubbed his eyes with one 
hand.  "I have reservations at La Scala."

"Fancy," Miranda observed.  There was a pause.  "Maybe a bit much 
for tonight?"

"Well, then how do you feel about cheese steaks?"

"Love 'em."

Mulder shuffled some paper around and stood.  "Then I know just 
the place.  Scully?"

"Hmm?"  Scully grabbed the nearest folder and opened it.  The 
words blurred on the page, but she made a good show of reading.

"You want to come get a cheese steak?  My treat."

"No, thanks," she answered, not sparing him a glance.  Taxi, she 
thought.  There's no way I can drive home.

"'Kay.  I'll see you tomorrow then."

"Nice to see you again, Agent Scully," Miranda said.

Scully nodded in her direction.  "Bye."

They left and Scully breathed in the quiet.  The journey back to 
Georgetown seemed as impossible as a trip to the moon, so she 
broke it down into small mental steps.  Phone.  Taxi.  
Soon she could climb inside and close her eyes.  When she opened 
them again, she would be home.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Instead of linen tablecloths and crystal, they had particleboard 
and red plastic cups, but the steak was tender and the cheese was 
hot.  "These are great," Miranda said, taking a healthy bite of 
hers.

"Best in the city," Mulder agreed.  He could feel some of the 
evening's stress evaporating from his body.  "Just try not to 
notice the grease."

Miranda smiled.  "I'm glad you were stilling willing to have 
dinner with me.  You look like you've been through the wringer.   
Wrestling in the sewers again?"

"No, we were involved in that trouble at the Vietnam Memorial 
today."

She shook her head, confused.  "What trouble?  I've been cooped up 
in the library all day."

"An ex-POW tried to assassinate one of the generals at the 
rededication ceremony."

"My God," Miranda breathed.  "What happened?"

"We stopped him."  He didn't detail how, or mention the two 
successful murders they'd had earlier in the day.  But Miranda 
didn't seem fazed.  She leaned forward, her eyes alight.

"So what was the X-File?"

Mulder shifted backwards on the bench, uncomfortable.  It was one 
thing to recount old glories over a couple of beers, quite another 
to titillate while three men lay freshly dead.  "I really can't 
get into it," he said.

"Oh.  That's okay."

He tried changing tacks.  "How did your research go?"

"Great," she said, brightening again.  "After your mention of 
El Chupacabras the other night, I got to thinking it would be 
interesting to do a lecture on Hispanic myths, perhaps near the 
end of the semester.  Maybe you could come back for that one."

"Could be."  He swirled the ice around in his glass.  "Hey, have 
you ever heard of a lucky pickle in Puerto Rico?"

"You've got to be kidding me.  A lucky pickle?"

"Sure."  He told her the story, and she laughed when he finished.

"That is some tale.  I bet you anything that a clever pickle 
vendor invented it to boost sales."

He smiled.  "So you'll believe in goatsuckers but not magic 
vegetables."

"Pickle power?"  She was teasing him again, the way Scully used to 
do.  His toes curled with happiness.  "Just how is that supposed 
to work?  Is it like a genie in the lamp, where you rub the jar 
and the pickle makes your wish come true?"

"Maybe it's like the Pope," he said, catching on, "where you 
request an audience with the pickle."

Miranda laughed.  "I think you can go to hell for that analogy."

"Nah."  Mulder paused for effect.  "I'm sure his Eminence and the 
pickle play for the same team."

"You're positively awful!"  Miranda tossed her napkin at him just 
as his cell phone rang.  The hilarity ceased.  "More work?" she 
asked.

"Shouldn't be."  He dug out the phone but didn't recognize the 
number glowing on his small screen.  "Hello?"

"Fox Mulder?"

"Yes, this is Fox Mulder."

"This Gabrielle Lucas from the Georgetown Medical Center.  
I'm calling because you are listed on Dana Scully's emergency 
contact card."

Mulder stood up so quickly that he knocked the table, causing the 
cups to jump.  "What happened?  Where is she?"

"Ms. Scully was admitted to our emergency room a short while ago.  
You might want to come down here at your earliest convenience."

"What's wrong?  What happened?  Is she okay?"  Mulder struggled to 
yank his coat free from where it had caught between the seat and 
the back of the bench.

"Fox?"  Miranda gave him a worried look.

"All I can tell you is that we're treating her now.   I promise 
we'll give you all the details when you get here, sir."

"I'm coming.  Tell her I'm coming."  He snapped off the phone and 
freed his coat.  "Scully's in the hospital," he said, already on 
the move towards the door.  "I've got to go."

"Wait!  I'll drive you."

"No, no," he muttered, fumbling for his keys.  "It's fine."

Miranda caught up with him on the sidewalk and snatched the keys 
from his hand.  "You're not going to do her any good if you wrap 
yourself around a tree."

"Okay, whatever.  Let's just go!"

~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully had vague recollections of being loaded onto a stretcher 
and wheeled into the hospital.  She was reasonably sure she'd 
answered some questions about her name and the year, but she 
couldn't remember where they told her she was.  Still the 
hospital, she observed, noting the striped curtain and the IV in 
her arm.

Dr. Alton poked her head around the curtain and ended the mystery.  
"Hi," she said.  "I was just leaving when I got word they'd 
brought you in.  Seems you gave some poor taxi driver quite a 
scare."

"He brought me here?"

Dr. Alton entered the makeshift room and picked up Scully's chart.  
"You took a pretty hard snooze in the back of his cab.  How are 
you feeling now?"

"Fuzzy."  Scully tried to sit up, but Dr. Alton gently pushed her 
back down.

"None of that."

"What happened to me?"

"I'm not sure," Dr. Alton said, scanning her records.  "But I can 
guess.  How much have you eaten today?"

Scully thought back through a day that felt more like a year.  
"Coffee," she said.  "Animal crackers.  Some of a ham sandwich."

"Mmm-hmm.  How much of a ham sandwich?"

"I'm really not sure."

"Well, I am.  It wasn't enough.  I know you want to keep this job, 
Dana, but you're going to have to take better care of yourself."

"I work these kinds of days all the time.  It's never been a 
problem."

"You've lost eighteen pounds," Dr. Alton said more gently.  
"Your body doesn't have the kind of reserves it did before.  
You need more rest and regular meals."

"I need to go home," Scully said.

"Not until Dr. Canera releases you.  I think your Mom is on her 
way."

Scully closed her eyes.  "Great."

"Hey, if it were up to me, I'd keep you until after your treatment 
tomorrow."

"Mmm."  Scully was trying to make her sluggish brain come up with 
a good story to tell her mother.  

Dr. Alton sighed and squeezed her hand.  "Feel better, Dana.  
I'll see you tomorrow, okay?"

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Mulder crashed through the emergency room doors with Miranda on 
his heels.  "Dana Scully," he said to the receptionist.  
"They told me she was brought here."

"One minute, sir -- "

"Fox!"  He turned at the sound of Mrs. Scully's voice.  "I just 
got here," she said.  Her cheeks were pink from the cold.  "What's 
going on?  How's Dana?"

"I don't know."  

"Mrs. Scully?"

"Oh, thank God," Mrs. Scully said, her hand to her heart.  
"Dr. Alton."

The name was familiar to Mulder, but he had never met the woman.  
He searched her face for any clues about how bad the situation 
was.  Dr. Alton greeted Scully's mom with a calm smile.  "Dana is 
okay," she said.  "She's all right."

Mrs. Scully covered half her face with one hand.  "Really?  
She's okay?"

"She just overdid it a little."  Dr. Alton gave Mulder an 
appraising look.  "You must be Agent Mulder."

"Yeah." Invited to join the inner circle, he took a step forward.  
"What happened to Scully?"

"My guess is that she let her blood sugar get too low, but you'll 
have to talk to Dr. Canera about that.  He's her treating 
physician in the ER."

"Can I see her?" Mrs. Scully asked.

"I'm sure you can."  She hesitated.  "Let me ask you something," 
she said to Mrs. Scully.  "How is Dana doing after the treatments 
on Fridays?  I get the feeling she might be downplaying her 
fatigue a little."

Mrs. Scully wrapped her arms around her waist.  "I wouldn't know," 
she said stiffly.  "He's the one who picks her up on Fridays."

The hairs on Mulder's neck stood up.  "No, I don't.  She said you 
stay with her."

"Oh, God," her mother said, turning away.

"So let me get this straight," Dr. Alton said.  "What I'm hearing 
is that *no one* is picking her up from treatments?"

"I just don't know what to do," her mother said.  "I just don't 
know what to do anymore."

"We'll figure it out," Dr. Alton assured her.  "Right now why 
don't you go and see Dana?  And go easy on her -- she's had a 
rough day."

Her mother pursed her lips.  "I need a glass of water.  I need -- 
to sit down for a minute."

"Okay, let me help you."  Dr. Alton's voice was soothing.  
Mulder drifted away from them, back into the emergency room.  

"Dana Scully?" he asked a passing nurse, and she gestured to a 
curtain near the back.  All the beeping and the voices faded away 
as he approached the tiny area.  He drew back the curtain.  
"Scully?"

"Mulder."  She was as thin and pale as the sheet.  Blood stained 
the collar of her suit, remnants of an unchecked nosebleed.

"Scully," he repeated, and tears filled her eyes.  He stepped 
forward and took her small, cold hand.  His throat ached.  
"Scully, what are you doing?"

She squeezed.  "The best I can."



CHAPTER SIX

Miranda was easy to spot in the waiting room.  Long legs crossed 
and a dog-eared copy of "People" in her lap, she was the only one 
not keeled over in either pain or anxiety.  He took a deep breath 
and dragged himself over to where she sat.  "Hi," she said when 
she saw him.

"Hi," he said as he plopped down next to her.  "I'm sorry to take 
so long."

"Don't be silly.  I've been perfectly fine here.  How is 
Scully doing?"

"She's okay."  He plucked at the large button on his overcoat.  
Indoors nearly two hours now, and he still hadn't gotten around to 
taking it off.  "She's sleeping.  They're going to keep her 
overnight."

"What happened?"

Mulder leaned forward, his face in his hands.  This was always the 
question, the one for which he'd follow a million miles of yellow 
brick road to find a wizard with the answer.  Surely somewhere 
there was the original sin, the person with the first blood on his 
hands, someone to explain why his life just kept unraveling as he 
stood by with the strands choking everyone around him.  "Scully's 
sick," he said.  "Cancer."

"Oh, how awful." She touched his shoulder.  "I'm so sorry."

"Yeah."  He rubbed his face a couple of times and sat back in his 
seat.  "Awful doesn't even scratch the surface."

"No, it doesn't."  Miranda paused.  "I never would have guessed 
she was sick."

Mulder puffed out a short breath.  "Believe me, she wants it that 
way."

"She must be a person of great fortitude to keep working as she 
has.  I admire her strength."

"It's complicated." 

Miranda laced her fingers with his and rose from her chair.  
"Why don't we go down to the cafeteria and get a sandwich.  
You can explain it to me."

He shook his head, remaining seated.  "It's late.  I should take 
you home."

"You're not driving anywhere.  C'mon, let's eat something."  
She tugged until he stood up, and his stomach picked that moment 
to rumble into action again.  Adrenaline had vaporized the three 
bites of cheese steak he'd had earlier.

"I guess a sandwich would be okay."

Downstairs they purchased pre-wrapped plates and cans of soda.  
The lack of windows made it hard to discern how late it was; young 
people in scrubs and wrinkled loved ones waiting out the night sat 
scattered about the pale yellow room.  Mulder followed Miranda to 
a narrow booth and slid in across from her.  

Miranda glanced at him as she removed the plastic covering from 
her plate.  "When my mom was sick, everyone walked on egg shells 
around me, figuring that I didn't want to talk about it.  But 
really, they were the ones who didn't want to talk.  'How's it 
going, dear?  Good, good.'  The doctors gave her six months to 
live, and I still had to present a good front to the outside 
world."

Mulder bit into his club and chewed without tasting.  His pulse 
still beat high and rapid in his throat.

"I stopped at the drug store one night on my way home from the 
hospital," Miranda continued.  "The clerk said, 'Have a nice day!' 
and I went outside and sobbed in my car for half an hour."

"Scully is...Scully's going to be okay."

"Oh," she said, startled.  "Of course she is."  Miranda reached 
over and squeezed his arm.  "I didn't mean...I'm sorry.  All I was 
trying to say is that I know how hard it can be to get through a 
day when you're falling apart inside."

Yes, he thought, feeling himself crumble a bit more.  He put down 
his sandwich.

"You want my pickle?" he asked.

"No, thanks."

"Scully usually eats my pickle."

Miranda smiled.  "You've known her a long time, haven't you?"

"Four years.  I didn't want a partner but they gave me one anyway.  
God, she was green.  She stepped into my office with this serious 
little face and acted like she knew everything."

"I'm sure you disabused her of that notion," Miranda said.

"Actually, I'm not sure I ever did.  You know Gina from your 
class?  Well, that was Scully.  That *is* Scully.  She's got an 
argument for everything."

"It takes two to argue," Miranda said mildly, and Mulder smiled.

"True.  We eye each other over the pile of evidence and see who 
can come up with a theory first.  Every big word I use, Scully 
digs up one larger."

"Sounds like the makings of a perfect partnership."

Mulder shook his head, bemused, and popped open his can of soda.  
"You've been great tonight, with everything that's happened.  
Thanks.  I owe you one."

"I was happy to help.  And the only thing you owe me is dinner."

Mulder nodded as he took another bite of his sandwich.  "I'll have 
to get back to you on when."

"No hurry."  She rested her chin on her hand, studying him 
intently.  

Mulder brushed crumbs off his shirt.  "What?" he asked around a 
mouthful of food.

"I'm just trying to figure out if I should be offended or 
flattered."

"Um...I'm not following you."

She sighed and straightened herself in the booth.  "You lied to me 
when you said you weren't attached.  Clearly, you are.  Very much 
so."

Mulder swallowed the lump of bread in his throat.  "I didn't lie."

"I think I'll go with 'flattered,'" she said to herself.  "It's 
better for the ego."

"Miranda, I'm not seeing anyone."

"Scully."

"We're friends.  Partners."

"On the outside, maybe."  She reached across the table and brushed 
her fingers over his heart.  "But not in here."

He squeezed his eyes shut.  "That doesn't change anything.  
It doesn't count."

"Fox," she said, and when he opened his eyes she was looking at 
him with a sad smile.  "You beautiful, stupid man.  That's where 
it counts most of all."

~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Scully had to blink several times to be sure she had opened her 
eyes because the room was as black as the inside of her head.  Her 
limbs felt heavy under the sheet, her tongue swollen in her dry 
mouth.  She shifted as she tried to get her bearings.

"Dana?"  Her mom's soft voice floated across the darkness.  A 
second later, a tiny light switched on.  Scully turned her head 
and squinted at her mother.

"Mom?  You're still here?"

"Of course I'm here.  How are you feeling?  Would you like some 
water?"

"Yes, please."  She struggled to sit up as her mother poured some 
water into a pink plastic cup.  It felt smooth and cool in her 
hand, and she was reminded of Koolaid on hot summer days.  "What 
time is it?"

"It's after one."  Her mother wiped the tray where condensation 
had accumulated around the pitcher.

"You should go home and get some rest.  I'll be fine."

Her mother stiffened; then completed her task with one precise 
swipe.  "You are not fine.  You are running yourself into the 
ground, and I just don't understand it."

"Today was a mistake I won't make again."

"Do you listen to you doctor, Dana?  Because I just had a very 
illuminating conversation with her tonight.  You have to slow 
down.  You have to take care of yourself."

"I am taking care of myself!"  There certainly wasn't anyone else 
cleaning the toilet after she was sick or juggling all of her 
medication bottles.  Mulder, her mother -- everyone wanted an up 
close look at her illness, but they didn't seem to realize what 
she was sparing them.  "I am handling this the best way possible, 
Mom.  You have to trust me on this."

"Trust you?  How am I supposed to do that when I get a call saying 
my daughter in the ER because she passed out in the back of a 
cab?"

Scully closed her eyes and sank into the pillow.  "You don't 
understand."

"I do understand," her mother said fiercely.  Scully felt the bed 
sag, and her mother grabbed her hand.  "I know exactly what it 
feels like to lose a daughter.  You're not the only one who's 
terrified here.  But pretending you're not sick is not going to 
make everything magically better, Dana.  It only makes things 
worse."

Scully opened her eyes again to find a lock of hair had fallen 
into her face; her mother brushed it away.  "I'm not pretending 
I'm not sick," she said.  "But I won't pretend to be dead either."

"Oh, Dana.  No one is asking you to.  But all this running you do, 
all this stress.  And for what?  Just to put yourself in the 
hospital?  This is a time you should be concentrating on spending 
time with your family.  You should be doing things you love."

*I am.*  

The guilty words popped into Scully's head unbidden, and she 
immediately dropped her gaze.  Her actions spoke louder, she 
supposed:  I have my priorities, mother.  You're just not one of 
them.

Her mother squeezed her hands again.  "I used to rub your back 
when you weren't feeling well, remember?  And make the special 
soup?  I should be taking care of you now. Instead I hardly see 
you."

Scully blinked back exhausted tears.  "Mom, I'm not trying to hurt 
you.  I promise you that.  I just don't know why you would even 
want to be here during the treatments when there is nothing you 
can do.  I'll be sick whether there is anyone around to see it or 
not.  It doesn't matter."

It was her mother's turn to look away.  "It matters to me."

~*~*~*~*~*~

The following Friday morning he made his opening gambit.  
"Scully, they're showing 'The African Queen' at GW this Sunday 
afternoon.  What do you say we check it out?"

Across the room, Scully took off her glasses and wrinkled her nose 
at him.  "A movie?  No, I don't think so."  She returned her 
attention to her laptop.  "I have to take advantage of the 
weekends I don't have radiation treatment, and I have a ton of 
work to catch up on this week."

"But it's a classic!  Bogey and Hepburn!  Leeches!  C'mon, 
Scully, I know you love leeches."

She smiled faintly but did not look up.  "Another time, 
Mulder.  Why don't you see if Miranda will go with you?"

Because I'm not supposed to get Miranda out of the house for a 
surprise party, he thought.  No doubt *she* would cooperate and 
just go to the damn movie.

He tossed a pencil at the ceiling in frustration.  It bounced back 
and hit him in the eye.  "Dammit," he muttered, clutching his 
injury.

"Hmm?" Scully still wasn't looking at him.

"Scully..."  

Just tell her, part of his brain said.  She'd want to know anyway.  

Mrs. Scully would have your jewels on a platter if you ruined the 
surprise, the other half warned.

"Mulder, what have you done?"  Scully got up from her table.

"It's fine," he said as he rubbed his eye.  He blinked a few times 
to fix the blurriness and all was well again, but Scully was 
already standing over him.

"What happened?" she asked, leaning down.

He used his two good eyes to check out the shadowy hollow between 
her breasts.  "Nothing," he said.  At that moment, another pencil 
let loose from the ceiling and landed in her hair.

"Mulder."

"Oops?"

She removed the pencil and sighed.  "Serves you right, then," she 
said as she tossed the offending object back on his desk.  She 
then glanced up at the collection that still stuck to his ceiling.  
"You better take those down before you go blind."

"It's art, Scully.  I'm saying something about the limits of 
mankind to achieve his dreams."

Scully folded her arms and sent him a look of equal affection and 
exasperation.  "No, you're saying something about man's attention 
span when it comes to filing expense reports."

"But in an artistic way."

She rolled her eyes and started to walk back to her desk. 

"Scully, wait!  I, uh, I need your help with something."  At her 
instant look of concern, he felt a little guilty.

"What is it?  Is it your eye?"

"No, uh...it's...it's my bathroom!" She arched an eyebrow at him 
and he scrambled for an explanation.  "I'm...I'm painting it this 
weekend, and you've got good, steady hands.  What do you say?  
Help me out for a couple of hours?"

The little lines appeared between her eyebrows.  "You want me to 
help you paint your bathroom."

He nodded vigorously.  "I helped you move your furniture that one 
time."

Her shoulders rose and fell with her sigh.  "Fine.  Saturday 
morning okay?"

"Sunday afternoon." 

She narrowed her eyes.  "I thought you wanted to see 'The African 
Queen' on Sunday."

"I'll catch a Saturday show."  He didn't offer anything further, 
so after another minute of staring at him curiously, Scully shook 
her head.  

"Sunday it is."

He told her one o'clock, and at the stroke of one, Scully knocked 
on his door.  Scully seemed to have beaten the laws of physics at 
their own game; no matter what the hour of day or traffic 
patterns, she always arrived precisely when she said she would, as 
if the time-space continuum parted for her like the Red Sea.  

He opened the door and had to adjust his gaze downward to meet her 
eyes.  Without her heels, Scully reduced to one size smaller, like 
one of those Russian dolls that fit inside themselves.  She wore a 
faded gray FBI sweatshirt and a girly, time machine ponytail that 
catapulted him back to their early days when Scully had waged 
daily war with her hair.  

"I'm having a crisis," he said by way of greeting.  "Should I go 
with 'Ocean Breeze' or 'Misty Forest'?"

Scully hooked her jacket next to his and joined him by the paint 
cans.  "You bought both of them?"

"Yep."  Mulder put his hands on his hips.  "What do you think, 
Scully?  What would Martha do?"

"Martha would use one of her millions and hire someone else to do 
it."

"Yes, but--"  He held up the cans.  "Blue?  Or green?  Leafy?  Or 
breezy?  And why does the interior decorating community think that 
I'm so hot to pee outdoors?"

Scully dropped her chin to hide a smile.  "Use the blue," she 
said.  "You haven't had much luck in the forest."

"Ah, true.  It's important to cultivate good bathroom karma."  
He set the green paint back on the coffee table, and she followed 
him to the bathroom.  "I cleared out all my junk earlier so it 
should be all set to go.  You can get first dibs on the brushes."

She perused the assortment he had lying on the counter next to the 
sink.  "Just bought one of each, did you?"

"It took me long enough to find the damn paint aisle in the first 
place.  I was not about to go back any time soon."

"We should take the shower curtain down first," she said, moving 
to stand on the edge of his tub.  She disappeared behind the blue-
striped plastic until all he could see was her sneakers peeking 
out below.  "Mulder!"  

He turned at the sound of her laughter bouncing off his porcelain.  
"What?"

She held a rubber alien bath toy above the curtain rod.  "What on 
earth is this?"

"That's Frohike being a smart-ass.  Or so he thinks.  I got even 
by calling the thing Melvin."

"I don't even want to think about the significance of you bathing 
with a toy named after Frohike, Mulder."

Huh.  He hadn't thought about it that way.  She had a point. "I'll 
move it to the bedroom," he called, and Scully dissolved into 
fresh echoing giggles.

"Much better."  She freed the curtain from the last of the hooks 
and held it out to him.  "Get rid of this and hand me the tape and 
the one-and-a-half inch brush.  I'll start over here."

He did as she requested and then popped the lid on "Ocean Breeze."  
Scully straddled his tub to tape up the molding.  He hoped she 
worked fast because they were due back at her house at four.  

"How do you do that?" he asked her after a solid hour's worth of 
painting.  His strokes left sliding blobs that careened over the 
tape border and plopped onto the floor.  Scully's tape was nearly 
clean.

"Do what?"

"My hands have so much breeze on them they might blow away." He 
held up his palms to prove it.  "You don't have a drop on you."

She shrugged.  "Learn to remove the malleus and the incus without 
disturbing the stapes, and you could paint a straight line, too."

"I think I'll leave my incus where it is, thanks.  How are you 
doing for paint?  You need some more?"

"No, I've got plen--"  She broke off in mid-sentence for a wet, 
choking cough.  Mulder looked over and saw his newly-painted wall 
splattered with blood.

"Shit, Scully!"  He leapt over the paint cans, skidding on the 
sheet they used as a drop cloth. 

"I'm okay."  She tipped her head back and pinched her nose.  A 
trickle of blood ran down neck.  

Mulder batted the toilet paper roll until it unraveled a long 
trail of tissue.  "Here," he said as he handed it to her.  Scully 
coughed again.

"Your wall..."

"Can wait.  Let me get you down from there."  He wrapped his arms 
around her and lifted her to the ground.  "Here, sit."

Scully sat on the lid of the toilet and he crouched next to her 
with more tissue in hand.  "I'm fine," she said, still staunching 
the flow.  "It will stop in a minute."

He squeezed her knee and said nothing.  Surrounded by pale blue, 
he saw only the deep red of her blood.  A lock of hair had pulled 
free from her ponytail and wisped against her cheek.  It seemed 
pale and faded next to the life force leaking out of her.  

"Stop looking at me like that."  She straightened and wiped the 
last of the blood from under her nose.  "I'm fine."  Wordlessly, 
he stepped aside and let her go to the mirror.  "Oh, my God," she 
breathed.

Flecks of blood dotted her chin and the front of her sweater.  

"Scully..."

She turned on the water faucet with a sharp twist, drowning him 
out.  "Do you have an old rag?  I should be able to get most of it 
off the wall with just cold water."

"Maybe you should sit down for a minute.  Take it easy."

"How about in here?"  She opened his small linen cabinet, but he 
pulled the door from her grasp.

"I'll get the wall.  You sit down."

"It's fine, Mulder."

"I'll fix it."

"No!" The cabinet door took the skin from his fingers as she 
slammed it shut.  "You can't fucking fix it!"  

She left the bathroom with small, angry steps, and he stood there 
with toilet paper still in his hand.  It stuck to his palm as he 
tried to shake it away.  He heard her in the kitchen banging some 
more doors.  Cautiously, he padded down the hall.  "Scully?"

"These will have to do," she said, brushing past him with a roll 
of paper towels.  

He traipsed after her into the bathroom and watched her wet the 
towels and climb back onto the ledges of the tub.  She attacked 
the bloodstains with vicious swipes.  He could see her knuckles 
turning white from across the room.  Leaning against the 
doorframe, he said nothing while she exhausted herself.  The fight 
left her all at once, her shoulders wilting, and the hair falling 
back into her eyes.

"We'll have to paint over it," she said, her gaze fixed on his 
grout.

He walked over to her, saw her fingertips peeping out from the 
edge of her sweatshirt.  They were cold and wet when tickled them 
with his own.  "It's okay."

"I'm sorry."

He took her hand and pulled her back down.  "Me, too."  She leaned 
into him, sniffling against his tee-shirt.  His thumb found the 
soft hairs at the back of her neck, and he kept a slow rhythm 
until she shuddered in his arms.  "Better?"

He felt the heat from he cheek as she nodded.  "I'm all right."

He kissed her head and she pulled away.  He squinted.  "I think I 
got paint in your hair."

"We're even then.  I got blood on your shirt."

He looked down, and sure enough, there was a small smatter of red 
on the edge of his shirt.  "True partners," he remarked, and she 
smiled.  "I'll make you a deal.  You finish that strip right 
there, and I'll take care of the tub.  I've got the bigger brush 
anyway."

"Men and size," she muttered, but she was still smiling.

Mulder took his brush and covered the faint spots with a few easy 
strokes.  Gone but not forgotten.  He knew he could bring home a 
little Luminol from the lab, a little UV lighting, and the marks 
would still be there -- evidence that this day had existed.


CHAPTER SEVEN

The doorway to Mulder's bathroom turned out to be the perfect size 
for one Mulder and one Scully, provided the Mulder kept his arm 
stretched over her head like a chin-up bar.  He smelled of paint 
and of warm, sweaty male.  "I think breezy was the way to go," he 
said as they surveyed their handiwork.  "It looks good."

"It does seem brighter in here."

He bopped her gently on the head with his elbow.  "Thanks for your 
help."

"You're welcome."  She smiled, surprised to find she meant it.  
When she'd awoken tired and achy that morning, she had considered 
canceling on his little home improvement project, but now that it 
was done, she relished the feeling of satisfaction.   Often at the 
end of her days with Mulder, she had more questions than she had 
answers, nothing tangible to show for their work.  It was nice to 
see something through to the end, even if it was only a tiny blue 
bathroom.

"So now we have two options," he said.  "We can stand here and get 
high on the fumes, or we can go grab some pizza at the Taverna."

She looked up at him.  "Mulder, the Taverna is all the way over 
near my place."

"But they have the best pizza."  He lowered his arm, squeezing 
them tighter together in the doorway.  "And we can pick up a copy 
of 'The African Queen' and watch while we eat.  What do you say?"

Her stomach grumbled.

"I'll take that as a yes," he said, grinning.

"Yeah, okay.  Let me wash the worst of the paint from my hands and 
we can go."

"Oh."  He sounded suddenly pained, and she turned to look at him.

"What?"

"Um...nothing."  He scratched the back of his head and gave her 
the once-over.  "I could loan you a shirt or a sweater or 
something.  If you want."

She looked down at the blood splattered across her sweatshirt.  
"I've worn worse.  I'll just change when we get to my place."

"Yeah, about that..."  She raised questioning eyes to his in the 
bathroom mirror as she scrubbed her hands with practiced, 
efficient motions.  He opened his mouth and then shut it again, as 
if changing tactics.  "We're stopping for the pizza first, 
remember?"

She frowned and used his hand towel.  "We won't be there long. 
I'll just keep my coat on."

"Okay."  Mulder gave a frustrated sigh, and her irritation level 
rose a notch.  Here was a man who skulked in empty graves, playing 
Pick Up Stix with the long white bones, and now he was squirming 
over a few spots of blood?

"It'll be fine," she said, giving him a pointed look.

He shrugged.  "I just want it on the record that I tried."  

It must be the fumes, she thought, shaking her head as she trailed 
after him into the living room.  They collected their coats and 
agreed to take separate cars to the pizza parlor.  "Sausage, 
pepperoni and onions," he said in the elevator.

"No pepperoni.  And I want a vegetable."

"Olives--"

"Are not a vegetable."

"And I am not eating a pizza with leaves and stems on it."

The elevator dinged and she fished her keys from her pocket.  
"Peppers," she said, "and I'll get a side salad."

"Deal."  

But she knew he would make sure to beat her to the restaurant, 
just in case.

Back at her apartment the hallway was Sunday quiet, with long 
purple shadows from the setting sun.  Someone had pulled 
Mulder's string, though, and he kept up a steady stream of chatter 
behind her.  "No, listen, Scully -- I was reading last week, and I 
think you'll find this very interesting: given that the cells in 
our bodies are charged, it's possible that the naturally-occurring 
electromagnetic fields could be harnessed as a form of mind-
control."

Scully let his words rumble around inside her without assigning 
them any meaning.  She caught her breath, closed her eyes, 
capturing the coldness of the key against her fingers, the spicy 
pizza air, and the unseen solid Mulder at her back.  She'd learned 
to hoard time in smooth-stone moments, slipped deep in her pocket.

Mulder fell silent at the scrape of her key in the lock, just in 
time for a thump inside her apartment and the escape of a 
distinctive child-like giggle.  Scully drew back and blinked at 
her door.  "Did you hear that?"

"Um, what?"  

She turned to look at him and he looked at the ceiling.  "Oh, God.  
Tell me you didn't."

"It wasn't me!"

"Oh, no."  She fisted her keys and raised one arm in despair. "I'm 
not going in there."

He crowded closer, bumping her with the box.  "You have to.  The 
pizza's getting cold."

"We can eat it here in the hallway."

"Scully."  She opened her eyes and favored him with a baleful 
look.  "Open the door."

She drew a long, put-upon breath, and reinserted her key.  
Wincing in anticipation, she pushed open the door.

"Surprise!"

Scully stood with her shoulders drawn up around her ears, as if 
someone had doused her with a bucket of ice water.  Someone 
snapped a flash photo in her face.  Bill once told her that her 
pictures made her look like a robot imitating a human, only Bill 
had used the word "mandroid."

"Happy birthday, honey," said her mother.

Mulder gave Scully a not-so-subtle shove into the apartment, and 
she pasted on her best mandroid smile.  There was a "Happy 
Birthday" banner stretched across the wall over her windows, and 
she just knew someone had stood on her antique chair to put it 
there.  

Relatives she had not seen in years peeped out among bunches of 
helium balloons.  Aunt Ruth gave her the same exaggerated finger 
wave she'd had since Scully was three.

"Dear heavens," her mother said, reaching for her.  "Is that paint 
in your hair?"

Scully ducked from her touch.  "Yes."

"I had to get her out of the house somehow," Mulder explained.  He 
was still holding the pizza box.

"Well, come on in here and join the party.  Allison and Mark have 
come all the way from Nebraska!  Isn't that wonderful?"

Scully had vague memories of her cousin Allison showing her and 
Melissa how to French braid their hair one summer that their 
parents had rented a cottage together for a week.  She'd sent a 
card -- and candlesticks? -- to Allison and Mark's wedding years 
ago.  "Yes, wonderful," she said aloud, trying to smile at her 
cousin.  Allison nodded back.

"Dana!"

Scully turned towards the voice and found herself crushed in a 
huge hug.  "Charlie," she said, letting him rock her nearly off 
her feet.  She curled her fingers into his scratchy wool sweater 
and smiled against his shoulder.  

"How are you?" he asked into her ear.

"Good," she said, pulling away.  He tugged her ponytail and 
smiled.

"Thirty-three, huh?  I can't believe it.  I remember when you used 
to pin me to the ground and make off with my water gun.  I walked 
around with knee-shaped bruises on my ribs the whole summer I was 
six years old."

"I could still take you."

Charlie's smile dimmed a little but he nodded.  "Sure, sure you 
could." 

Everyone had been watching them, so when they fell silent, the 
tension expanded to include the whole room.  Her mother flitted in 
and started to remove Scully's coat.  "Stay a while," she said.  
It came out too stiffly to be teasing.

Scully shrugged out of her jacket, and her mother's eyes grew 
round.  "Dana..."

The blood.  Of course.  Scully turned away from the faintly 
horrified looks of her relatives.  "It's fine," she said.  "I'll 
just go change."

She shot Mulder a look as she left.  He'd plastered himself nearly 
to the wall, still wearing his coat and clutching the pizza.  He 
looked so uncomfortable that she couldn't be too upset at him for 
his role in the afternoon's shenanigans; no doubt her mother had 
twisted his arm, too.

She did, however, take a certain delight in leaving him to his 
wide-eyed terror as she disappeared into the bedroom.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

"You must be Mulder.  I'm Charlie, Dana's brother."  Charlie 
extended his hand, and Mulder set down the pizza so he could 
reciprocate. 

He saw pieces of his Scully in so many faces around him -- a chin 
here, an earlobe there.  Here was her brother with the same 
piercing, pale eyes.  Mulder thought this must be how 
archeologists felt on a dig, reconstructing a civilization through 
dusty bits of the past.

"The one in Atlanta," Mulder said as he shook Charlie's hand.  
"She's mentioned you."

Charlie gave him a quick smile.  "All of it lies."  He held on to 
Mulder's hand when Mulder would have pulled it away.  "She's 
mentioned you, too."

Mulder's smile was rueful.  "All of it true, I'm sure."

He hoped Scully wasn't too truthful, though; Scully might be 
confident of her ability to take down her tall, broad-shouldered 
sibling, but Mulder didn't relish the opportunity himself.

An older woman with wire-rimmed glasses and a neat perm stepped 
forward.  "So you're one of Dana's work colleagues?"

"Yes, Ma'am.  My name is Fox Mulder."

The woman pursed her lips.  "I'm still not clear how she went 
through medical school and ended up working for the FBI."

From the way the rest of the Scully family looked around at the 
walls, it was obvious no one else was clear either.  Charlie 
scratched behind his ear.  "Something about aliens, right?"

"Charlie!"  Mrs. Scully's voice cut in from all the way across the 
room.

"What?"  He turned back to Mulder.  "Stands to reason they're out 
there, right?  We can't be the only ones in the whole damn 
universe.  I think it's just as well that the government is 
keeping a lookout."

Mulder wrinkled his brow, trying to figure out whether the man was 
joking.  He could never tell with Scully, either.  

Charlie walked over to the buffet table set up in front of 
Scully's bookcase.  "You want a beer?" he asked.

"Uh, sure."  Mulder took off his coat and went to join him.  

Charlie handed him a bottle of Sam Adams.   "Tell me the truth," 
he said, "what did you think of 'Independence Day'?"

~*~*~*~