..Disclaimer: The X Files belong to Chris Carter, 1013, and Fox, not me. ..Author's notes: Parts of this story have previously appeared as the stories, "Absence of Sun," "Peaches" and "Close Your Eyes." I thank everyone who encouraged me on those stories, for they have become this story. ..Pigeonholing for Fun and Profit: Story. Angst. Colonization. MSR. K/S UST. S/SP UST. K/SP UST. First person POV. ..Summary: Colonization will begin on a holiday weekend and FEMA will declare a state of emergency. How does Memorial Day sound? *This* Memorial Day? Can six people who know the truth make a difference? Can one? Diary of the Second Holocaust by Megan Reilly February 26, 1999 - April 19, 1999 Absence of Sun The shadow stretches long across the ground. I haven't had sex in so long I can't remember what it's like. Rita knows exactly what I'm thinking when I turn and look at her. "Yahtzee," she says, and not for the first time. I hadn't heard her. I glance at the dice on the dusty wood floor of the cabin before she scoops them back into the blue plastic cup and makes a note on the little notepad. She's beating me, as usual. She's cutthroat. She hates it when I call her Rita. But she hates it more when I call her "Mary Margarita Covarrubias," rolling my r's as I do it. I think that's part of what makes the flamboyant declaration of her name so amusing to me. She shoots me a dark look with those damaged irises of hers and I yearn to slide my palm down over her eyes and make her close them until they've healed. But they never will. We all have scars now and as I understand it, the war hasn't even begun. I shift and don't make a sound as I wince against the twinge between my ribs. Rita starts to clean up the game. There's too much time for games, hiding here, and not enough mirth or life to keep them going. It's going to be dark in another hour or so. I should go and check on the firewood before the sunlight goes. But as Rita places the lid on the box, I don't move. She looks at me again. "It wasn't easy growing up in the Puerto Rican slums of New York City to become what you see today," she informs me, raking a hand through her blond hair. It's gotten to be a darker shade of blond, more natural, since we've been here. It's a beautiful shade that looks like honey. No roots. "My grandmother was Rita. I was named for her. She had her first child at fourteen. We were so poor." I nod and wonder if anyone else knows this about her. "But you did it," I murmur encouragingly. She nods bitterly. "I spent half of college on my back." She moves my hand from her shoulder. She doesn't want me touching her. I was only trying to be friendly. Honestly. But she doesn't believe it. "And the other half?" "I had two educations to get. There was no Henry Higgins," she pronounces precisely. Her accent never surfaces, not when she's angry or sick or dreaming. "I have an MBA," she says and breaks into twisted giggles. "How did you end up involved in all this?" I've been watching her carefully this entire time, while her eyes dart from the floor to her hands to the snow drifts outside the window, looking anywhere but at me. "I wasn't going to go home. I didn't want to manage a Tylenol factory in Indiana," she informs me. "It took a lot of ambition to get where I was, Jeff, don't you understand that? With my background..." "They approached you," I finish for her. She nods. "I speak five languages fluently and know three more casually. Why would I be interested in you?" "Because I'm safe. Because I'm here," I answer. I don't really want to sleep with her. She's beautiful, but damaged. If she weren't, she'd be incredibly intimidating. Now she reminds me of my mother. And after recent events, I've finally been cured of my Oedipal complex. I don't want to find another woman exactly like her. I want a woman that's nothing like her. "Tell me something about yourself that I don't know," she prompts, as though she's changing her mind. There's a fairy tale in here somewhere, the prince wooing the haughty princess. But I'm not a prince and I'm not really wooing. In all honesty with myself, I'm probably the frog. I don't say anything. "I worked with them, Jeff. I know more about you than you do." "Then tell me." There's so many pieces to the puzzle that I don't have, that I'm not sure I want to have. My mother and my father...and some unbelievable alien project. I don't want it to be true. The stories she told me when I was a child and even as I turned from her as an adult...I don't want them to be true. "I could have been Diana Fowley," she says with a bitter smile. "And you could have been Fox Mulder." "I never could have been Fox Mulder." My face is getting hot as I look away from her for the first time, looking at the floorboards. He hit me. The man I wondered about for twenty years hit me and told me he wished another man had been his son. I would never be good enough. It's strange. I have nightmares about a man melting into a green puddle in front of me more often than I dream of being shot by my father. His face was so blank, so cold. As though he didn't feel anything as he pulled the trigger and left me there to bleed to death. Gutshot is not a pleasant thing. I think I learned a lot about myself that day as I felt the life spilling out of me and believed I was going to die. Rita leaves the game box on the floor and walks to the window. She shivers as she stands in front of it. She doesn't know or care that the weak light streaming through illuminates her thin body through the white gown she's wearing. I was never a Victoria's Secret sort of guy until they introduced their cotton line. "I wish Alex would get here." She folds her arms and continues to stare into the snow until her shoulders relax. It has a hypnotic quality to it, the acres of white as far as the eye can see. We're low on supplies and it's two weeks past when Alex said he'd get back for the next delivery. Next week we're going to be living on cans of peaches. But that isn't why she longs for him. "You and Alex had a thing," I say. She nods. "I was using him." Her voice is hollow. "He was using me." "You've changed since then." "The black oil didn't want to go quietly," she says. That's why her eyes are damaged now, from forcing the alien substance from her body. "What was it like?" "Symbiosis," she says. I wish I could see her face. I can only watch her shoulders and her back and her thighs through the gown. "I imagine it's what it's like being pregnant. But I guess I'll never know." Her shoulders sag and she wraps her arms closer around her body. It's cold there, by the window. The air seeps in around the glass. "I had a miscarriage in college. Before I even knew, it was gone. Saved me the trouble, but now I wonder sometimes..." Rita, like the other abductees, can't have children. The men in the project, the men she was helping, robbed her of that right. I can't stretch my imagination far enough to know what that's like. I could barely imagine the reality of the project. It took me a long time to learn. "I wish Alex would get here," she says again, with no impatience. I stand next to her and she turns her head. There are no tears in her eyes, and very little sadness. She doesn't let herself feel much anymore. When she did, it nearly made her insane. There's no room in this cabin for insanity. Her eyes flick over me. "Jealous?" I shake my head. "I kind of have my eye on Agent Scully," I say, joking. Almost. Lately when I think of her, I can barely breathe. In the absence of reality, fantasy always takes over, even if it's unrealistic. "She'd be good for you," Rita says, as though she has no idea that Scully's in love with Mulder. Of course, Mulder has no idea either. He didn't see her when he disappeared in Bermuda. So full of fire and life. Scully amazes me. She's stronger than the rest of us put together. "It's getting dark," I say and pick up the heavy flannel shirt to go outside. It's work to bring in the firewood and chop more, and it makes me warm quickly. I'm getting my strength back, but it's hard work. Swinging an axe is harder than running the paths at Quantico. Rita doesn't say anything and I let the door bang shut behind me. The sun's almost gone. Soon the wolves will be howling. They must be starving in this deep winter. I yearn to feel the heat of the sun on my skin. When this is over, I'm going to the tropics. I might not come back. I scream and grunt, adding power to the thrusts of the axe through the splintering wood. If Rita and Alex are to be believed, I won't have the chance for my tropical vacation. They say an invasion is coming soon. Very, very soon. I push myself harder. I need to be strong when they come. If they come. Aliens aren't going to take this planet without a fight from me. They're going to pay for what they've put me through, and no one else is going to suffer like me or Rita or Alex or my mother or Scully. And we need the heat of the burning logs to get us through the night in the absence of the sun. xxx xxx xxx Close Your Eyes I am back in the silo. It is so dark my eyes can't adjust, or maybe there is simply nothing there to see. I am locked in and there is no food and there is no water and there is something in there with me and I am going to die, alone. I know what to do. I do what I did before. I began to walk, putting one foot in front of the other, my left hand dragging against the rough brick wall. I count the steps under my breath. "One...two...three..." When I get to the corner, I make the turn and start counting over again. As long as it is the same number of steps, I know the walls aren't closing in on me. Once, stunned into exhaustion from hours of pacing, I came up with a different number. I still remembered how my heart pounded and I had to stop to try to get my breath, convinced beyond any doubt that the walls were closing in on me and I was going to suffocate. The air is musty and it clouds my lungs. He can't quite get up a cough. It leaves a taste in my mouth like petroleum. My eyes burn, but that is from something else. I can't quite remember what. It's like the time I fell off my bike in fifth grade and pounded my head into a fence rail. I knew I'd done it, but couldn't remember. I think I hear voices. A voice. Mulder's voice. Taunting me, just on the other side of the slimy cement walls. "Help me," I scream. I can hear someone else breathing, the soft, harsh sound of air being sucked in. I turn, and there is no one there. Walk. I can hear Mulder on the other side of the wall. Laughing at me. "Mulder!" I scream and burst through the walls that confine me. A dream. It had all been a dream. The oppressive moist air was gone. I lay still with my eyes open and my heart pounding. >From somewhere beyond the blinds, a streetlamp shines into my eyes. It's cold. But the breathing hasn't stopped. It's coming from another figure in the darkness, sitting on the bed with me. I watch the creature's eyes, as they catch the light from the streetlamp. It's some horrible monster, I'm certain. "What're you doing here?" Her voice is low and threatening and I wanted to laugh until I cry. Scully, her eyes barely concealing her fear and breathing through her mouth. "So help me, Krycek, if you don't tell me what you're doing here..." I put my hand on the table next to the bed without even thinking about it and pick up the gun lying there. Her gun. "You'll what?" I ask, teasing her. She freezes, her entire body going rigid. She really is afraid of me. "What?" I ask, wondering if she'll shoot me if I hand her the gun. I'm not taking any chances. "Don't hurt me," Scully whispers. I'm stunned. I wonder if she can see it on my face in the dark room. "Are you begging?" I ask her, astounded. "Take whatever you came here for and go. I...won't tell Mulder." She sounds sincere. "That's quite an offer," I murmur. How much will she let me get away with taking? I don't know how I've come to be in her bed. That's an unusual situation, and since she's been asleep, I don't think asking her is a very good idea. I stare at her for a long moment, her pale skin and tousled hair. I reach out to touch that hair and find that it's incredibly soft between my fingers. She flinches when I touch her. That fascinates me more than anything. "Why are you here?" she asks. Her voice is rough because she is so tense. "I don't know," I say honestly, knowing she has no reason to believe me. "You were saying Mulder's name." "I was having a nightmare," I admit. She doesn't say anything. "You ever have dreams like that?" She won't answer. I suppose I should jump up off the bed and leave her now, while I'm still mysterious, but my body aches and I can feel I'm close to shaking with exhaustion. I need another couple of hours of sleep and since we are in a motel, on a very soft, comfortable bed. Scully is my only problem. If I fall asleep, she'll kill me. Unless I can convince her not to. Which won't be easy. I try to think of a way to do it, to use my silver tongue to solve my problems, they way I so often do. There aren't any words to convince a sullen skeptic like Scully, even in the middle of the night when she is rumpled and vulnerable. The top button of her pajama top has worked its way loose, exposing a wide expanse of white flesh that I want to touch, to see if her skin is as soft as her hair. "Do you have your handcuffs?" I ask. She makes a startled little cry and I fight the sudden urge to reassure her. I nod and she slips off the bed to get them for me. She holds them out to me, an offering. I look in her eyes and hate the fear and dread I've inspired in her. She thinks she's going to get raped. No one seems to realize I'm not that kind of guy. I might have a lot of problems, but I know how to express my anger without hurting innocent women. Or even non-so-innocent women, like Scully. I open the cuffs, weighting them in my hand for a moment before fastening one end around her wrist. I don't allow my fingers to linger on her arm, even if I want to. She has a lovely forearm. Tugging gently on the handcuff, I pull her with me to the head of the bed and slip the chain through the slats on the bed before fastening her other wrist in the metal circle. She's trapped. After a cursory pull to test the strength of the bed, Scully doesn't fight or try to get free. I find that very curious. The fact that I would have fought like the devil if it had been me on the receiving end only makes me feel worse. "It's temporary," I whisper into her ear and feel her shiver. "Cold, Scully?" Proudly, she shakes her head. I dive to the end of the bed and draw the quilted bedspread up over both of us. "I just need to get some sleep," I tell her, settling down on the bed on my side, facing her. She stares at me with furious eyes. "Why don't you get some sleep too?" I suggest. "Why don't you go to hell?" Scully demands, kicking me. "You don't want to do that," I warn her, capturing her legs with mine. She groans as she tries to throw me off, but because she's chained, she can't. "Now, I need to get some sleep," I inform her sternly, staring into her eyes to be sure she's understood. I slide down her body, until I'm stretched out over her. She is so tense I'm surprised she isn't standing up off the bed. "Now," I say, settling my head onto the pillow next to hers. "Isn't that nice?" "Fuck you, Krycek," she says. "That could be arranged," I inform her. While I have no intention of doing so, she's a temptation, lying underneath me like bartered bride. She doesn't need to know I won't hurt her. What has Scully ever had o fear in her sheltered life? For one night, she can know what it's like to walk in my shoes - to lie in my bed. I close my eyes. "Go to sleep, Scully." I'm asleep in the next instant. When I wake, the sun is up. Scully's asleep when I sit up and look at her. Her body has relaxed into a puddle of softness on the bed and I wonder what she's dreaming about. In the strong morning sunlight, I can see the freckled on her skin and I sweep back a strand of her hair. She really is beautiful like this. "Okay, Scully," I say to myself as much as to her. "Thanks for the memories, it's been fun, we'll have to do this again some time." I put the key into the handcuff lock and turn it. She screams as she comes at me like a banshee, her arms free of the bed with one quick movement of her wrist. She's been waiting for this. I feel the metal restraints scratch me across the cheek as she swings her hand to punch me. It's more of a smack than a punch, but it catches me by surprise. "You'll pay for this!" she yells, diving across the bed after me, hitting me again and again. She's going to leave bruises. I grab her gun a second before she does. "Can't we talk about this like adults?" I request, sitting up and forcing her back. She presses up against the wall, as far away from me as she can get. "Am I really so repulsive?" I ask her. "Yes," she whispers "Come on, Scully, you don't have to believe everything your partner tells you. What'd I ever do to you?" I've caught her without an answer, and I can see the fear in her eyes again. I step closer to her, lowering the gun, but she doesn't move, still aware that I've got it. My heart hammers the same way it used to in seventh grade when I sat next to the pristinely beautiful Mary Alice Wierzbowski. She has to tip her head all the way back to look at me when I stand in front of her. "I'm not so bad, am I, Scully?" She doesn't answer. With the gun in my hand, I can make her do anything. Anything. It's quite the feeling of power. Too bad I don't have time to enjoy it more fully. "Someday you're going to need my help very badly." "Someday hell'll freeze over, too," she suggests. I shake my head. "Cliches," I say. "Isn't this a cliche of the worst sort?" she asks. I raise an eyebrow at her. "The man with the gun and the helpless woman?" she elaborates. "You're anything but helpless, my darling." "Don't call me that." "What should I call you?" "How about...don't call me anything," she decides. "I never want to see you again." "Then close your eyes," I say and close mine as I lean down to push my lips against hers. Scully has a wonderful mouth, I discover. I try to put one hand on her, but the gun is still in my fist and I just end up nudging her with the barrel. She groans and tries to move away from it, but there's nowhere for her to go. I open my eyes and find her staring at me. Our lips cling for a second before parting. I kiss her again softly and watch her eyes close. It's so amazing, I have to do it again. Every time I touch my lips to hers, her eyes drift close with such intense concentration. I don't want to stop kissing her. "Don't," she murmurs, the word no more than a breath. "Why don't you scream for your partner if you're so afraid?" I challenge her. She just shakes her head. "Isn't he here?" The head shaking stops. She doesn't want to let me know that I'm right. Mulder isn't on the other side of that wall. He probably isn't even within a thousand miles. I have to wonder why not. But things are changing. It's all beginning to go to hell. She's practically trembling now, and it isn't because of anything I'm doing to her. "You don't know where he is," I diagnose. She looks away with ashamed eyes. "You might need my help sooner than you think." She meets my eyes again, darkly, but she doesn't deny it. "Okay," I say, taking several steps back. Scully seems to slide down the wall, slumping as I move away. "Okay," I say again, as though I'm reassuring myself. I put the gun into the waistband at the back of my jeans and wipe my palm on my thigh. "When you need me, I'll be here," I promise, unwilling to examine my motives too closely. "How will I know?" she asks, doubt coloring her tone. "Just close your eyes, sweetheart," I suggest. Impulsively, and I know better than to act impulsively, I duck in to seal the deal with a kiss. The next thing I know, Scully has her gun from the back of my jeans and is pushing it into my stomach. "Get the hell out," she orders. I hold up my hands and walk backwards toward the door. I've worn out my welcome. Obviously. "If you ever come near me again, I'll shoot you, Krycek," Scully promises. "I doubt that very much," I say, making sure she knows I'm laughing at her. She squeezes off a shot, but it goes high over my head. I know she wouldn't miss unless she meant to. And I am a firm believer in leaving before my luck runs out. "See you around, Scully," I say and stroll out the door. I know it's only a matter of time until we meet again. But until then, I have other people who need my help more than she does. And by saving them, I might be saving her as well. Sometimes it's hard having the weight of the entire world on my shoulders. Men are such fools, they don't see what's plain in front of their faces. Mulder and Scully are definitely a part of that. xxx xxx xxx Peaches He's here again, finally. He's got a smirky look like he's been laid recently. Something about it really pisses me off, proving again what a frustrated old maid I've truly become. Hating him only makes me hate myself more. It doesn't help that he looks at me and then at the door. The order is clear: bring in the groceries. Alex reclines in the armchair and puts his feet up. I leave before Rita fetches him his slippers in her mouth. The trunk is loaded with cases of food. How long does he think we're going to be here, anyway? Pain makes me gasp as I heft the first case of cans. More peaches. I'm dragging by the third trip and breathing hard. I lean against the kitchen counter and listen to the silence. I can't take my eyes off Alex because Rita won't look at him. The more he notices me staring and Rita not, the more uncomfortable he gets. "What took you so long?" I ask. Alex shrugs and nails me with a slow smile. It breaks like sunlight over his face. I'm not certain if he knows what buttons to press, or if he really was busy doing something that would make me want to punch him in his perfect nose. "Who was she?" I shoot back, the only ammunition I have, standing here clutching my side, extremely aware of how dependent I am on Alex for the necessities of survival. That doesn't just mean food and water. He could tell them where I am, that I'm still alive. He could throw us to the world just as the invasion is beginning. Rita gets up and walks out of the cabin. I stare after her because she's only wearing her nightgown and no shoes. The door closes without a sound behind her and I picture her pale, naked feet cutting through the melting snow. "Someone should go after her," I say, not moving. Alex just eyes me. He's comfortable, with his feet up. "Rita," I call, stopping just on the other side of the door. The landscape is still and the sunlight is bright. Spring is coming. I watch for her, for any sign of movement. "Marita," I try, but there's nothing. She'll come back in her own time. I trudge back inside. Alex has been waiting for me. I sit down. "What's the timetable?" "You're not ready." He dismisses me with a glance. "It's almost Spring. I'll be ready. You just..." and this is so hard for me to say to a man like him, "have to tell me what to do." He looks at me very carefully and I expect something grave to come out of his mouth. "You should probably stay here, Jeff. It's the safest thing for you and...Rita." He says the name like it's oddly amusing to him. He never called her Rita and they were lovers. He wants to ask, but won't. "I don't want to be safe. I -" I stop, because the next words out of my mouth are going to be very stupid. "You want to save the world?" Krycek chuckles as though I'm a cute toddler. I resist the urge to nod my head puppyishly and stare back at him. "How'd you like getting shot?" I don't say anything. Suddenly my eyes are locked on his hand lying in his lap. The plastic one. Maybe I was lucky to have been shot in the gut and nearly bleed out on the dirty floor in the basement office. Maybe I was lucky to have my lung deflate and three transfusions and infections that aren't worth considering. Maybe he's right, maybe I am too weak to do anything but sit here and play dead while the world crashes down around my ears. I want to punch him, but I can't. He's got an arm that's made of plastic. "She makes you uncomfortable, doesn't she?" I ask him, because Marita seems to be the only ammunition I've got. "You can sleep with her if you want to, Spender," Krycek tells me with a disgusted look on his face. "Just be careful." "Oh, but why? I already know where she's been." My look is pointed. "Frankly, Spender, I'm surprised you'd be interested. As far as the Madonna/Whore/Crone scenario goes, I'd imagine you'd need something a lot milder. Someone more like your mother before your father made her the mad queen in his experiments." I can only stare. In situations like this, that's really all I can do. Words completely abandon me. Nothing's changed since the elementary school playground. Nothing's changed, except I have the inexplicable urge to laugh in Krycek's face. "Actually," Krycek continues in a very bored tone, lifting his left hand and dragging it lightly across the arm of the chair, "I'd figured boys would be more your type." I would have to break my jaw to be able to open my mouth to say something. The fact that my cheeks are flaming only makes me more embarrassed. "Was that an offer?" Krycek's eyes are like jealousy personified. I've never seen anything that color green before in my life. He leans toward me, looking so interested that my heart's beginning to pound. When you play with fire, you don't feel it burning until the damage has already been done. "What if it was?" My mouth is dry and I can't speak. I'm afraid he's going to spring from his chair and pounce on me. I'm more afraid that I want it to happen. I like women, I've always liked women, I love tangling my fingers in their long hair, I love the softness of their lips, I love their breath and their breasts and their laughter. I manage to draw a breath. If Krycek comes near me, I'm going to kill him. "If you want to be a great man, Jeff," Krycek says in a near whisper, confiding in me. Teaching me. "You've got a lot to learn. You'd better get started. They'll be here soon." He means the aliens, I think and for a moment, I feel the floor roll beneath my feet. I'm going to have to kill them. Quite possibly a lot of them. And guns aren't going to work. I'm going to have to get close to them. I'm going to have to stab them in the back of the neck. I am going to have to kill in order to survive. "I can trust you, can't I, Jeff?" his voice rises, threatening an almost hysterical laugh. He pushes up from the chair and I take a step, my only thought is Away, but I'm not fast enough. He smells like leather and cologne and something else when he leans down and presses his lips to my cheek. Cinnamon, I realize, before I gather my wits and shove him away from me. He laughs and when the room stops swimming, I see Rita in the doorway, cringing into it with her head down. I wonder what she was like before all this, when she must have walked with her head up high. Did men stop and turn to admire her beauty? They must have. I wipe Krycek's kiss off my face with the back of my hand and Rita's eyes lock with mine. Their pinkish rims are grave. She winds her arms deeper into her sweater and her chin sinks almost to her chest. "We need wood for the fire," she says, walking to the stove and turning up the gas flame. It flickers blue as she reaches for the cast iron pot to set on it. Dinner for three tonight. And it won't be peaches. "I'll, um, go," I say, trying to gather my thoughts into coherence. I can feel Krycek's eyes still on me and my face is hot. My knees feel oddly weak and I don't want them to as I walk out into the cold, crisp air. Logs are piled by the side of the cabin, near the stump with the axe stuck into it. I pile two or three of them into my arms, cradling the wood like a child and taking them into the house. Rita's started the fire, kindling twigs into flame, leaning down so that fire illuminates her gown and licks at her blond hair, casting a warm orange glow on the tangled strands. I hear the logs drop from my arms onto the cabin floor as the blackness at the edges of my vision fall like a blink of my eyelids over my vision. I feel myself falling and for a cold, clammy moment I wonder if I've died. "What did you do to him?" I hear Rita's accusation. I never thought she'd sound so concerned about me, but it's more a chance to vent her anger with Krycek. Noise recedes to join my vision and I black all the way out. I've never fainted before. It seems so Victorian and feminine. Or maybe I have and I just don't remember slipping into unconsciousness after being shot. When I open my eyes, I'm embarrassed to have done something so silly. Rita has an odd, tender look on her face and a bowl of stew made from honest to god fresh vegetables in her hand. "You need a good meal," she says maternally, leaving the bowl an inch from my limp hand and retreating. I can only look at the steam rising. I feel nauseous. Wasn't embarrassment, it was fever. I push myself up from the floor and flop down on the bed. Krycek looks at me. "You okay?" he frowns and I only shake my head. I hate being sick. Maybe it's because I watched my hypochondriac mother go through so much torment, agony she'd chosen to inflict upon herself. And sometimes on me. Rita's making quick work of her fingernails, her brow furrowed like a street vagrant's. She's rocking slightly where she stands. I don't want to do this to her. "Yeah," I answer Krycek, because it feels so good to lie down. "You need to get your strength back," Krycek says, swooping down on the stew and sitting on the edge of my bed. It's an uncomfortable feeling for me because it's new. No one ever cared for me when I was ill. No one ever cared. I judge the look in Krycek's eyes and I'm not certain he does now, even as he puts the spoon to my mouth insistently. I swallow the soup and lick the salt from my lips. He's watching me curiously and suddenly I'm scared. I never figured Krycek for a gay guy. He slept with Rita, didn't he? That was business. But so would this be. The thoughts in my head are making me dizzy. He's still feeding me and when a drop dribbles down from the spoon, he brushes it from my chin with his fingers. I shake my head and he puts the bowl down. "You've got a long way to go yet, Jeffy," Krycek says with quiet derision and removes himself from the bed. I lie there, unable to keep the hot tears from burning in my eyes. There was a time when I'd learned not to cry, when I was able to keep it all inside. After my dad left, I had to be the little man of the house, especially when my mom would sob or the boys at school would tease and hit me. Now when I need it most, I can't be as strong as I once was. I close my eyes and hope no one will notice the tears oozing over my lashes. It isn't sleep, but it's rest. In all the time my eyes are closed, Rita and Alex don't say a word to each other. I can almost pretend I'm alone. I haven't been alone in such a long time. Even when I feel someone get into bed with me, I don't open my eyes. I don't want to know. Hours later in the darkness, even when it's safe to look, I don't. The soft whimpers begin and I know it's Rita curled up next to me on the edge of the bed, trying to make herself invisible even in her sleep. A hand nudges me and I jump. "Quit playing possum, we've got to talk," Krycek orders. I see him heading through the door into the moonlight. I don't want to go. I don't have a choice. The cold doesn't seep into my bones the way it used to. Krycek stares off into the distance, above the treetops. No stars tonight. I wonder what time it is, what day. "Rita's going to be a problem," he tells me and I wait. "She's scared of her own shadow. And she's immune. She knows too much." I have nothing to say. There's a point here, and Krycek comes to it. "You might have to shoot her." He meets my eyes. I break the gaze to see he's holding a pistol out to me, its barrel pointing down at the ground. "No." I won't take it. "You may have no other choice." "No. No one else has to die." Krycek chuckles. There is such bitterness in him. "A lot of people have to die, Jeff. This is barely beginning. You don't know what's happening out there." "So tell me." He says nothing. "Alex?" "You'll find out soon enough," he says. "Rita will want to stay here. That's good, as long as it's safe. I might not be able to get word to you. If they find you here, she won't want to leave. That's when you should ..." he trails off pointedly, his arm still extended with the gun at the end of it. I refuse to participate. "You will have to shoot her. For her own good. What they'll do to her...it'll be a blessing, Jeff." I continue to shake my head. I can't. I can't even touch that thing, the metal twisted into an implement of death. I've been shot. I could never do that to someone else. Not even if it would save her. "Do you know what they did to your mom, Jeff?" Krycek continues and the words sound obscene coming from his mouth. Rita shakes most of the time, a gentle trembling that can build into shudders without warning. I'm beginning to feel that chill myself, standing in the night air with this murderer. His other hand touches mine. It has strength I hadn't expected and the synthetic fingers curl around mine, crushing them around the gun, forcing me to accept its weight and possibility. "You've got to prepare yourself," he counsels. "Fight or die, Jeffrey." At least he doesn't kiss me on the cheek again before he disappears into the night. I stare at the gun in my hand and put my finger on the trigger. A burning tear rolls from my eye. There is a new weight on my shoulders as I slump back into the cabin and sit in the chair by the quickly dying fire. A book is lying there. Its cover is vaguely plush as I drag my thumb across it, suede or velvet or some mixture of the two caressing the grooves in my skin. I hold it and it is a slim counterweight to the gun in my other hand. In the dimness, I let the book fall open and look at the neat handwriting inside. Krycek smelled vaguely of cinnamon and the connection zips through me. Scully. I don't understand why he's given me her personal journal until I begin to read it. I don't want to consider how he acquired it. *** Mulder doesn't know I remember, but I do. Reinserting the implant underneath the skin of my neck seems to have stimulated the memories. For so long I struggled to remember and now I can only pray to forget. The needles were frequent and numerous and the anesthetic was weak. The needles weren't the worst of it. My skin pulled taut even as I watched and the pain was horrific. I'd never imagined it was possible to have a machine rape you, but it is. I mean, me. Rape me. *** The pages fall closed. No wonder Rita cries and shakes. No wonder Scully has the warmth of a statue. No wonder my mother was insane. My father did this. Sometimes I can feel his evil flowing through my veins, singing through my blood, waiting for the right time for me to hurt someone. Until now I've only done so with nonaction and disbelief. I hold the book as I wish I could hold her, enfolding her tight between my arms and my chest. It doesn't stop the pain, but makes it easier to bear somehow. I'll probably never see Scully again. Krycek may have killed her the way he urged me tonight to kill Rita. I have no idea. Even now, I think that I'll leave Rita for him. And use the time before our discovery in this cabin to get ready to fight, or die, or both. I don't believe it's possible for any of us to win. It's gone too far for that. xxx xxx xxx Dear Fox, I know it's crazy, since I'd never call you Fox in real life, that I should do so in a journal, but being cooped up here isn't doing much for my mental state. I don't even know why I'm keeping a diary - I don't have much hope for the future that there will be anyone to read it. I'm a little old to be the next Anne Frank, recording her battles with her parents and budding sexuality to inspire generations of girls. I guess it was some twist of fate that book somehow ended up here, in my hiding place, so much like hers. I guess, for *posterity* I should explain what happened, to the best that I can explain it. People found out about the aliens, the project, the black oil, all of it. And being people, they needed someone to blame, and they chose to blame us. The abductees. I can't tell you how terrible that was. It was bad enough we had to suffer the indignities of missing time and what they'd done to our bodies in the name of their experiments and their so-called science, now it was considered by the general populace that it was our fault. To me, it was the equivalent of telling a rape victim that she'd asked for it. I realize they were scared, more scared even than I was because they couldn't understand what was happening and I'd had years to come to understand it, come to terms with it, but holding us responsible was wrong. Is wrong. There had to be some reason why they'd picked us. Basically, people decided - with the prompting of the Congress - that someone had to be held accountable. They believed that if the abductees died, the project would not go forward. What followed was a cross between a witch hunt and genocide. Anyone suspected of being an abductee was dragged out into the middle of the street, usually in the dark of night while wearing her nightdress or nude, and examined for "the mark." The mark could be many things. Scars sometimes look like scoop marks, although scars were enough. It was a mad citizenry educated by Whitley Strieber, Budd Hopkins, Jose Chung and television. People determined to be abductees were killed. Most of those killed were successful white women, but it depended on the neighborhood you were in. Ethnic women, men, gays...no one was truly safe. Until they found the List. I have no doubt it was the lily-livered smoking man who turned it over to them. I've had dreams where he was crying for them to spare his life, and to achieve this, he sold all of us to the devil. The list was thick and printed on old-style printers, the ones with the strips on the sides that have to be torn off by hand, leaving the edges rough. I saw it. I saw my name in it. And I saw Mulder's face when he saw the list, when we found my name together, like a death sentence, like a mistake on the Vietnam war memorial. He knew then that something had to be done. Some people ran to Mexico, but Mexico wasn't far enough. Some people ran to the woods, but it didn't save them either. I still smell the burning trees and leaves. Skinner helped. Skinner's going to be our outside contact when Mulder joins me here. It's a lot of trust to put to one man. He believes his position of power will keep him safe. We all have to believe that, if we are to depend on it. He helped us find this space, so much the like annex of legend. It's an old forgotten bomb shelter, with no window, hidden below an office building. The space is small. I used to not be able to go one full day without leaving my house for some reason - any excuse to get outside. I have not seen the sun in two weeks. I know this length of time will only grow longer. There was an episode of the Twilight Zone that starred Burgess Meredith as a man who worked in a bank who loved to read, but he never had the time to read all of the great books in the world, there would never be time with all of his responsibilities to read as much as he wanted. Everyday at lunchtime he would go into the vault at the bank to read. One day at lunchtime there was a nuclear war that killed everyone but him. In joy, he stumbled out to the ruins of the library, to find all the lovely books intact. And then, he stepped on his glasses. I have time enough to read. I am a voracious reader now, not by choice but by circumstance. The days are so long here, the hours unfilled. Ten hours of the day I must live in perfect silence. I tried at first to sleep through the work day of silence, but in terror of crying out in my nightmares, I couldn't trust myself to. So I sit most days here on the floor and turn pages in the books Skinner brings me. They aren't my first choice in books, but they are all I can get. I've read Nancy Drew and relived my girlhood, Sunset magazines and fantasized a life I may not have again, and half of a large volume of Jane Austen. The Austen makes me miss you, Mulder. I wonder if the days will be better when you come, or if we will implode against each other like the Frank family and the Van Daans. I wonder what you are doing with your days. I hope you will be careful in finishing the work you say you have to finish, that you will not wait too long and let yourself be discovered in carelessness. You know they will want you as surely as they have wanted the abductees and the other who knew and participated in the conspiracy of silence. To them, we are the bad guys. Why can't they see that what they are doing is wrong? It is inhumane and will not help their plight when colonization comes. This could happen to anyone. But it happened to me. Love, Dana Katherine Scully former special agent of the FBI M.D. B.A., physics Loving sister and daughter and friend I guess I am afraid to stop writing. But I will. God, I wish you were here with me. Maybe I should pray. Nah. What I wouldn't give for a nice gameboy loaded up with tetris right now Or even a mindnumbing game of solitaire I didn't realize people could become codependent on their diaries. stop!!!! Dear Fox, Skinner was just here, delivering supplies. His face was pinched and lined. He looked afraid and wouldn't tell me anything. He didn't want to be here, I could tell. Only three weeks in and already he is weary of our ruse. What if one day he didn't come? What would happen? The thirst would be worse than the hunger. No, I do have running water here and I could conserve it to use during the long, silent days. It had been so long since I'd used my voice that I barely recognized it, hardly knew how to raise it above a whisper to speak to him. He wouldn't tell me anything about you, Mulder. I hope you are well. I haven't even looked at the things he's brought me. I was too worried about you. My stomach is gnawing with worry about what he wouldn't tell me. Maybe it's time to look to see what he's brought. Newspapers! I can see what is going on in the world I've left behind. I can read the horoscope and the comics and the obituaries. I can read the classifieds one by one. I can match up the men seeking women with the women seeking men. I will gain hours of enjoyment from these. I smile to myself. Newspapers are wonderful. Below that is the books. Many of them have round paper stickers marked 10cents, or prices in cents written in thick black marker on the covers. I gave him my savings before I came to hide in here. He said it would not all be gone when I came out, but it might well be. I might not have a life when it is time to come out. I may never be allowed to come out. I won't allow myself guilt at his expenditures. There are a lot of books in here. Someone must have had a garage sale, or he's found a good used bookstore. I try to decide if I should give him back the books I've already read to trade in, or if I should save them here to read again, just in case. I pull the books out with both hands, studying their covers one by one, piling them up by category and author. There are a lot of romance novels here, and some mysteries, and a couple of scifi. All genre books. No nonfiction. I like nonfiction. But such books are expensive. I will take what I can get. In the other bag is food. Fresh fruit and salad, condensed and powdered milk, soups to be heated on the hot plate, more cans to add to my stockpile. I will have a wonderful feast tonight. There is one final treasure inside the bag - a Hershey bar. I set it aside, as well, for a time when I really, really need it. The anticipation of having it is enough for me. That's all for this week. I have my salad and fresh fruit to look forward to, and my books. And the newspapers. It has been a long time without news. I forget how dependent I was on the media, for entertainment and for company. I would give anything to hear the voice of another person right now, even though Skinner left less than an hour ago. He wouldn't tell me anything, though. When you come, we should be able to talk on the weekends and at night. I could talk now, to hear my own voice, but I don't want to. I think I'm afraid of going mad, of becoming a woman who talks to herself. I could sing, but I don't want to. What will we talk about when you come? Will we have long, deep conversations or will we argue and fight? Will we learn, like an old married couple whose children have gone, that without the X Files we are nothing? I miss you so much. Hurry to me, Mulder, hurry to me. Love Scully Dear Fox, Mulder misses me. He must. That's enough of a warm thought to take to bed with me tonight. I miss you too, Mulder. Love, S. Dear Fox, I am going to die of the boredom of it all. What's the point of living if it has to be done in here? Alone? I've been alone all my life, I can't take this any more. I need to hear a voice, to see the sun, to feel another human touching me. There has to be a way, Mulder. For you and me to run away, there has to be somewhere that's safe from them. Them the aliens and them the crazed persecutors. Who will save us? There is no Allied Powers in this war. There's barely even a war. What do those people think they've accomplished by killing their own kind? Now I know how hostages and inmates feel. I've invented an exercise routine. A quiet one, controlled by space. Walking the perimeter of this room. Situps. Pushups. Endlessly, endlessly. I long to kick and punch, to spin, to step. Run. God, to run. If I ran fast enough, I could see you before they found me. I could see you again. I know I'm feeling desperate, and knowing that I can't do anything about it makes me feel even more desperate. I cannot read another book. I have to find something else to do. I can write, I guess, but what do I have to write about? I have no *life* anymore, Mulder, I have nothing. I don't even have you. And I need you. If you were standing here before me, I wonder if I would still be too afraid to tell you. I've been reading these romance novels Skinner brought me. A lot of them are truly poorly written and hard to get through because they're so unbelievable, or offensively weak or just stupid. But some of them are good. They're not only romantic, they're erotic. Not in that smutty kind of way, but they make you think. They make you yearn for these things to happen to you. They make you miss the loves you had that are gone. For someone who cannot hear another human voice, they are heartbreaking. They talk about silky smooth skin, soft under fingertips. They talk about the whisper of hair. The hoarse tone of voices enraptured, the hot breath against the delicate ears. I am lonely here, Mulder, and I am lonely for you. Please come. I'll be waiting for you. Love, Scully. Sir, I was grateful for the newspapers you brought. If you can get more, I'd appreciate it. Also, please stop bringing romance novels. They are making me sad. If at all possible, can you bring me some drawing pencils or coloring books and crayons or needlepoint or something to fill my hours besides books? The books are great but there's only so much I can take. Although a good stack of the Journal of American Medicine would do a world of good. I've had some trouble sleeping, and the table has one short leg. I cannot tell you how thankful I am. My life, truly is yours. Scully PS How is Mulder? Dear Fox, Skinner should be here any moment. Or you. Please let it be you. I know I'm getting my hopes up and they'll be dashed when I see that surly face on the other side of the door, but I can't help it. My heart is beating fast. Anticipation. This is my whole life, this weekly visit. I chewed on the end of my pencil for a good twenty minutes before deciding to ask Skinner in the note how you are. I want to know, but I'm still scared to know. Just like I want you here with me, but I don't want you to have to be here, to stay indoors and be so silent and bored and dead. It would be more bearable if there were two. It's how it was meant to be. Obviously the solitude is making me crazy. Later Skinner's just gone. Two more paper bags, a curt nod and a note. I could have hugged him. I could smell the outdoors on him. I've grown old and musty in here without realizing it. I wanted to follow him out. Another warm body, a man. He didn't even smile at me. Just made the exchange, my small note for his two large bags. Groceries and books. Skinner doesn't have much imagination, I'm learning. Another week just the same. The calendar above my bed has almost thirty perfect little boxes marked with X's all in a row. A month of my life gone, trying to save it. What's worth saving? I thought you were going to join me in a week or two. Hmm, Agatha Christie. I haven't read this since I was ten. At least one old friend hasn't abandoned me. Scully Dear Fox, I'm mad at you. Oh yeah, you. I'm talking to you, loverboy, so get your sorry ass here so I can yell at you properly. What would the people upstairs think if they suddenly heard a mad shrew screaming? Would they immediately think, "It must be an abductee in hiding! Let's kill her!" Are there even any other abductees in hiding? Why do I ask myself so many questions when there aren't any answers? I hate this and I hate you for putting me through this. You ditched me from the very first goddamned case and you're doing it to me again. Are things too much fun there on the outside, or can you just not be bothered? Is there no need? I wish you would answer me. I wish you could. You've always been a coward, Mulder. By believing in little green men you didn't have to face your real fears about the world. You didn't have to accept that people died. That little girls die. Sometimes at the hands of their fathers, Mulder. Sometimes at the hands of your father. Your father is in part responsible for all of this. If he hadn't kept all of this a secret...if he'd realized his daughter was dead and gone public anyway even at the risk to himself and his family...there are a thousand if onlies. They're useless. Back to your cowardice, Mulder. You are weak and you are soft and you are spineless. you let them stick you with a partner who was a spy, and all you used to defend yourself was a little sarcasm and a lot of sexual tension. Ignoring that matter for at least another second, you ran away. You ran away whenever it was convenient. You were scared, so you ran. You were scared of losing sight of the truth so you ran after it. You were scared of having to kill so you dropped your gun. You are scared of so many things. You were scared of succeeding so you made yourself fail. You were scared of being liked so you chose to become Spooky. You were afraid to live so you tried to die. I know you didn't think I knew about that, but I did. I'm not as dumb as I look. You have always been scared of me. What you felt for me. I know I'm not projecting here, Mulder. You've been running scared for years. Why not just kiss me, Mulder? Hold me, touch me, love me? Why haven't you been able to love me, Mulder? Even fear isn't a good enough answer for me. I've been waiting for you all this time. I can't believe I went from furious anger to tears. I hate myself even more than I hate you, Mulder. Dana Scully xxx xxx xxx Pleas She's getting worse. Rita. She screams all day and she screams all night. Half the time I don't know what she's screaming about, what's upsetting her so badly, because her eyes are wide and I think she sees things that aren't here. I wish Krycek were here because I think he could do something about this. I think he could handle her. I know he'd do what I've been longing to do for a week. Stuff a gag into her mouth, tie her to the bed, lock her out of the cabin and bar the door, beat her into submission. I had no idea that noise could be so annoying. The nerves in my teeth reverberate with every shriek. I dream about being alone. I take deep breaths and close my eyes, picturing clouds, a bright white place where I am left in solitude and silence. If only she weren't here. Times like this, I start to think of killing myself to end it. Then I open my eyes and see Rita rigid and staring and I know I can't. Someone else depends on me. This is how my mother never felt. Or maybe it is, I seem to remember the wary look in her eyes from time to time as though she had no earthly idea where I'd come from or what she was supposed to do with me. Usually, she'd toss up her hands and leave. Sometimes she'd do her drinking at home. She never touched me, not once that I remember after the age of five or so. I was just a little boy then. I hadn't done anything to anyone. I rest my hand on my side, where the scar is. It's habit now. It doesn't give me pain any more. The bones have knit and the muscle healed. I've never had such definition in my arms and shoulders before. Chopping wood does a man's body good. The snow is almost gone. It's almost time to rejoin the world. "You've got to eat something," I tell Rita gently, kneeling in front of her so she can see where the voice is coming from. I try to make her focus on me, but her eyes have focus far beyond the walls of our small prison. I look down at the bowl of applesauce and mashed potatoes I've fixed for her and will the strength to persist. "Come on, just a few bites. You'll feel better." I seat the spoon in my hand and put the bowl on the floor, waiting for the Helen Keller act to begin with wild thrashing and punching. She screams like a girl in a horror movie. She tenses her diaphragm as she inhales and closes her eyes to give the shriek its best impact. Too bad she's too old for the renewed teen horror genre. She could be a B-movie star. I smile looking at her platinum hair. She'd like that. "Marita," I order and grab her face with one hand. She stills suddenly, taking us both by surprise. Her breasts heave and she can't catch her breath. She's torn her T-shirt on something again. She still won't look at me, but I have her attention. "Come on now." I push the spoon into her mouth and she eats. "Good girl." I wipe her chin for her when she's finished and she draws her knees up. With an odd frown on herself, she rocks herself over onto one side and closes her eyes. Asleep. Thank god. She's exhausted us both. I sigh, but there's still work to be done. Enjoying this rare moment of peace, I scarf cold potatoes from the pan in the kitchen and wash the dishes. The silence is eerie after the ruckus and goosebumps make themself present all over my body. I check on Rita to make sure she's still breathing before I sit down near the window. The sun is shining. How can things be wrong in the world when the sun continues to shine and the plants flower and the birds come back from their southern winter vacations? I know the time is winding down. The invasion will be soon. Sooner than any of us can be ready for. Scully's diary has become well-thumbed since Alex left it for me. It's voyeuristic and sick, but I don't expect to ever see her again. I'm not sure I'll ever see any of them again. But Scully is different. I don't think I could face her after reading this. Even now, it's hard to reconcile the vulnerability in her words with the living, breathing woman I knew. The diary's not an accurate reflection. She only wrote in it when she hurt so badly she would burst if she didn't do something. I must have been the only one who didn't know she'd almost died of cancer, courtesy of my father. I hate him. I have to be strong and get out of this cabin and live through whatever hell on earth is going to occur because I have to kill him, the way he killed me. The way he killed my mother. The way he killed Rita and any hope future generations had for this planet. The one thing the diary can't tell me is what he has planned. If Scully ever knew more than I do, she never wrote it down. Rita's crying again. I barely glance in her direction, rolling my eyes and feeling the jagged edge of my nerves. I can't stand the sound of my own thoughts when she does this. Her cries don't sound human. The way cats wail at night, sounding like demonic babies...that's the quality Rita's cries have. "Stop it!" I shouldn't yell at her because she can't help it, she's lost in another world, one much more terrible than I've ever seen. "Stop it!" I throw the book on the floor and jump up from the chair, stomping over to her with steps hard enough to make the floorboards bounce. "God damn it, just fucking stop it!" I'm going to cry in a minute. I can't take this any more. I want to put my foot through her skull. The boot looks so large next to her translucent, skeletal face. I can't do it, of course. I can't even bring myself to smash the spiders I see scurrying in the corners of the windows and the walls. "Please," I beg, getting down on my knees next to her. "Please." I'm so tired I don't even know what I'm saying any more. It's been three days since I've had any sleep at all, and when I dream it's darkness and death. "Please." The whisper is directed at her hair. I touch her even though she disgusts me. She needs a bath badly but I stroke her face and push her hair out of her eyes. "That's it," I say as her pink gaze fixes on me. Now if only she would say something coherent, snap all the way out of it. "That's it," I tell her again, encouragingly, folding one arm around her back as I continue to stroke her hair back from her forehead. She's like a rag doll in my arms and I'm petting her. Her breath falls into an even rhythm as she looks at me. I swear I see a thought forming somewhere in her head. She seizes in my arms, her entire body convulsing. She chokes, gagging and twitching. I don't know what to do. I want to run, terrified, but I hold her. I've never seen anything like this before. I can see the muscles spasming in her thin arms and I wonder vaguely if I've caused this. I can only stare at her as the convulsions seem to last for hours. She blinks and slowly her body stills. Her eyelids flutter closed and she whispers, "It's beginning." Then she turns her head and vomits on the floor. More for me to clean up, but I can't even move. Rita drags herself to her feet, free of the insanity and the fit she's been subject to. Her knees shake but she makes it to the kitchen. When I see the glint of the blade in her hand, I jump. "No," I scream, again like an errant guardian. She comes toward me with it, a determined look in her suddenly clear eyes. The gun is halfway across the room and the bullets hidden so nothing will happen in haste. I'm regretting that decision, but Rita presses the handle of the knife into my hand and turns around before me, kneeling like a supplicant. "Take it out," she says, the words laborious. Her head falls forward between her shoulders, presenting the bony knobs of her spine to me. Paler even than her flesh is the tiny scar, one I've read about in Scully's book. This is where they put the implant in. Rita waits for me to cut her and I watch the knife move as my hand trembles. Another moment and I won't even be able to attempt this. "Jeffrey," Rita begs and I slice open the skin at the back of her neck. She flinches without screaming. The blood is much redder than I expected, flowing more freely. The sight of it makes me feel faint. "Take it out," Rita orders in an animal tone. I have to put my finger in the blood. The tiny microchip clings to the tip of my finger and she spins around, thrusting her hand in my face. "Give it to me." She must be mad. I can't do or say anything, I'm frozen with fear. She grabs the chip and makes a fist around it. But it remains intact in her hand so she drops it on the floor. "Don't," I caution automatically. She looks at me with such fury I expect her to grab the knife. "I won't want it later," she informs me. "They've done this to me, and that chip is how. I'll get sick, but not for some time and then it won't matter any more. That death is better than living under their control." She puts her bare foot down on the chip and smashes it, grinding it into the wood with a wringing motion originating in her knee that goes on for longer than it needs to. "It's beginning," she says and walks away from me, blood still pouring from the cut on the back of her neck. There's blood on the knife in my hand and if I look hard, I can see the pieces of the implant on the floor. It's beginning. I don't even know what that means. It was the microchip that made her scream. I want to ask her why she was screaming, but I can't. I don't want to be that close to her, I don't want to know. She draws into herself on the other side of the small cabin and begins shaking again, the way she has ever since I met her. Absently she raises a hand to the back of her neck and stares at the blood that comes away on her fingers. I should offer to clean the wound and bandage it for her, the way I ministered to her needs when she was out of her wits. Rita can take care of herself. The sun is shining and I can't stay in the cabin for another minute. But even the sunlight turns out to be an illusion - a cold wind is blowing through the trees and it chills me to the bone as it whips through my clothes and hair, cutting straight through to my skin. I can't stay here much longer. There's too much to be done. xxx xxx xxx Dear Mulder, Why do you think that people are the way they are, why do they get angry when there's nothing they can do to make the situation change and make themselves not be angry anymore? You will always be who you are. I know this. I can't change you, and if I could, I wouldn't have much to celebrate in my success. What I've done is no different that what the people on the outside have done, and yet I have no more insight into why they've done it. I guess they're scared. Scared when things change too fast. Have I done the right thing, coming here? I want so much to leave. I find myself having doubts. What if it all would have passed? But when Skinner comes and looks so much older every week, like his body is giving him pain, I know I wasn't wrong. Is he sick, Mulder? Is that's what's wrong? I don't think I could bear it if they took another good man from us. God, how could I even ever ask him? That's not something to be said aloud, or jotted in a note for him to worry about a reply to. That's something to be confided in a person, when you are ready in your way to tell him. I remember telling him about my illness. It wasn't hard because I was being practical, he had to know, and it hadn't yet become real to me. It didn't become real to me until I had the first treatment and got so sick and had such terrible dreams. It didn't become real to me until Penny died, and I knew then that I could die too. I wrote these things in my diary before, and I know you said you read some of it, but I don't think you ever really knew. Though you must have suspected or you wouldn't have been able to hug me the way I needed to be, in that bonecrushing warm embrace that took my thoughts out of my head for a moment and reminded me that I was alive and that I would continue to live for as long as I continued to live. I've continued to live. I don't know why I believe things would be different if you were here with me. We'd just be two people going slowly insane instead of one. You wouldn't put your arms around me any more than you did before all this became necessary. I just can't help feeling guilty. Because I am here and I am safe and so many other people aren't. So many innocent women have been murdered so that others can remain secure in their worlds. I could have done something to change that, but I was too afraid. It's not you who is the coward, Mulder, it's me. I'm even more of a coward because I want to shelter you here where it's safe. Scully Dear Mulder, I've been thinking and I've come up with some questions for you. 1. Where does time go when it disappears? If you lose nine minutes, why would your watch also lose nine minutes? Why wouldn't it just be you? Does it affect all watches equally the same? Or just good quality watches that can keep precise time, whether it be time passed or lost? My Timex was nine minutes and so was your fancy rich boy watch, but if I'd been wearing a watch from Burger King, would it have lost more or less time? And would it have been more, or less? I know you have a "logical" explanation for this, but I can't figure it out. If it's 10:04 and you lose nine minutes, then the next second you look at your watch and it's 10:13, but your body has skipped nine minutes, so did you go forward or backward in time? Is it possible that these little grey men are actually something ancient that is traveling forward in time, rather than aliens from far away who are traveling back in time due to the distances involved in space travel? Do people ever "gain time"? Look at your watch and it's 10:13 and then when you look again, it's 10:04 so you've gained time? If the "aliens" and I use the term loosely give us a mini version of daylight savings time, "spring forward" do they ever also "fall back"? Yeah, it's getting hard to sleep at night. Scully Dear Mulder, What would happen if I got taken from this place the way others get taken from their homes and their beds? I've heard all your cheesy stories about people put back in the wrong car, the wrong house, with their clothes on backwards and inside out or their shoes on the wrong feet. While many of these defy common sense [a four year old child can put their shoes on the right feet - aliens supposedly space travel and yet have less intelligence and problem solving capacity than children?] - what would happen if I suddenly found myself outside or in another hospital with time far gone behind me? I know it won't happen but I can't keep it from frightening me. Why do we, the experts, know so little about these beings and what they do, what they're about, how they live and how they operate? I know I'm scared of them, just like other people, but I know the abductees aren't to blame. I also know that I was never "taken" the way they were and because I have only my person experience to judge by, I am now cast into doubt. Was what happened to me different than what happened to them? I can't even wish that you were here so I could ask you, since I would never ask you out loud. How can I tell you my doubts? If it just weren't so dark and quiet during the nights...and so dark {figuratively} and quiet during the days, maybe I could think of something else, or not think of anything at all. Not thinking would have a lot of advantages. Too bad I don't have a television or some mind-altering drugs. It'd be funny to see Skinner's face if I put mind altering drugs on my shopping list. Yours, Scully Mulder, I wish the dreams would stop. All the dreams are bad, whether they are pleasant or not. The pleasant dreams are too pleasant and the nightmares are very horrible. I would never confide this to you, or to anyone, in life, but in a letter, in a journal that I'm only keeping to try to remain sane during my confinement, maybe - just maybe - it's safe. Missy used to write down her dreams in a "dream journal" and analyze the hell out of them for any scrap of meaning or psychic ability. I was never one to bore with "last night I dreamed...isn't that funny?" because my dreams have intense personal meaning to me. Who else would be interested in looking so deeply into me? I've had night terrors and nightmares and post traumatic stress flashbacks since my abduction. I know there have been days I've seemed more tired to you than usual. This is why. The things my mind creates are more horrible than the things we face in the waking hours, and you and I have seen some terrible things. My dreams can be unspeakable. Last night was one of the dreams that was terrible in its pleasure. I was thinking about baths before I turned out the light, and it must have wormed its way into my dreams somehow. I dreamed that you were here and we were in the fluorescent bright bathroom here. It's too small for two, and we were close together. We had a close relationship in the dream, much closer than the one we have in life. Not closer, but different. We were lovers in this dream and we were loving and it made me want to cry when I woke up alone and cold in my bed. The hot water running from the tap was making steam and it made me warm. You, your presence, made me warm. You had my rough pink washcloth in your hand and were wiping my skin with such tenderness. But it turned red anyway - I'm very pressure sensitive, anything will turn my skin red - and your eyes looked so puzzled, like you were afraid you'd hurt me. You could never hurt me that way. I grabbed your head and made you kiss me on the lips and then we began to make love in earnest. I've never had an orgasm in a dream before. It's pathetic to think of it, to write it, that it's been so long since I was touched that I have to come to this brink in my sleep. That I could, without anyone touching me at all, just through the power of mind. I don't know what it means except that I'm lonely. Lonely and obsessed with a prince who will not arrive. I didn't mean to write you had gorilla feet earlier. Your feet are lovely, long bony and white. I'm in such a bad place, it's all those damned romance novels I've read because there's nothing else to read and I should be glad that I have them. I picture you as the heroes, no matter how hard it is to imagine you as a tennis pro or a cowboy. And they make me think about you when they get to the love scenes. I *miss* you so badly. Scully. your lover in her dreams Mulder, I'm embarrassed about what I wrote this morning. That dream did something to my brain. There are chemicals in the brain that signal to women that sex is love. I guess a couple of them accidentally fired when the rest of the pleasure centers got set off by my brain too. I can't believe I'm writing any of this, if I was the type who would blush, I would be blushing. Oh, never mind, I'm not writing anything at all. Maybe I'll tear those pages out and burn them. Scully. Mulder, Skinner didn't come today. I'm worried. I know I didn't get ahead of myself on the calendar because the date is on my watch. Scully. Mulder, Where is he? Something must have happened. Something bad. He wouldn't just forget this way. He wouldn't forget me, would he? Scully. Mulder, Five weeks now, to the day. Five weeks of X's on my calendar. The letter has come to symbolize something new and entirely different in my mind. I haven't had any contact with the outside for a week and a half. Maybe the outside is gone and there's no way for me to know. I'm trying to ration the canned food, but when I get nervous and bored, I eat. I don't think you ever knew that about me, Mulder. When we were separated, I worried about you all the time. and I didn't have our work to occupy me and I gained weight. I didn't feel like me anymore and my mother kept looking at me like she wanted to ask if I was pregnant and that was why I was working at Quantico and I was embarrassed every time I saw you, but you never seemed to notice. Thankfully, there were treadmills and gyms. There's no treadmill here, Mulder, and I hate to run in place. Not that this is a warning that you won't like what you find when you finally burst through that door. It's giving me a chance to practice my willfulness. Which maybe is good, so I won't throw myself at your neck when I first see you. So maybe you won't like it. I think you found me willful enough before. Do you even think about me at all? Miss me? Maybe you don't. Maybe I have been forgotten. Scully. They've forgotten me. And if I keep eating this way, I'm going to starve later. If they never come back for me, will I just leave? Or should I kill myself down here, knowing that death is what awaits me outside our hiding place? Maybe I'm supposed to kill myself, maybe I'm supposed to die. I've always believed that God has a plan for us. Was it the plan? Is this the plan? There are sleeping pills here. Maybe not enough to die on, though, and what would happen if I didn't die? Like overdosing on aspirin, what if I didn't die but instead became very, very sick. Who would know or be able to help me? At least the sleeping pills mean one thing. I will be able to sleep tonight. I'll crush it up and only take half a pill. To conserve them. In case I need them later. I'm a doctor, death is a part of life. Even my own death, if it needs to be. He's here, oh my god, thank god, he's really here and he's safe. I'd taken the sleeping pill and was deep in black, dreamless slumber when I felt someone nearby. I felt someone touching me and thought it was a dream and then I was terrified it wasn't a dream. For several moments, I was trapped between sleep and waking, struggling through the drug, terrified they'd come to kill me or take me away. I jerked in horror, muscles spasming unconsciously when I saw the dark figure. I opened my mouth to scream but there was no sound, just like in the nightmares. Then I felt it was his touch and I recognized his voice saying my name and I grabbed the hand that was stroking my hair and just wanted to burst into tears. "Aren't you going to say anything?" He will never let me forget my response: "Took you long enough." He chuckled and I turned on the light. He looked like hell, gaunt and thin and filthy and unshaven and I was beginning to notice a certain odor about him. He'd come to me like this before and those other times, I'd embraced him. I couldn't, this time, I don't know why, maybe it was the close quarters or not trusting myself after so much time longing for him. I held him at arms length and his shoulders fell and he went into the bathroom to clean up. He hadn't brought anything with him but the clothes on his back. No food, no bedding, no supplies, no extra clothes. "What's happened to Skinner?" I asked through the closed door to the bathroom, hearing the water running and some part of my stomach turned queasy at the thought of him in there, bathing. Queasy with a lust I shouldn't be feeling, sick from the sudden awakening, and fear. "He was tied up with helping me." "Helping you what?" "Helping me escape." "Helping you escape where?" I demanded. The door opened a crack. "I don't have anything to put on," Mulder's voice emerged for me and his hand shot out, fingers clenching, suggesting that I hand him something. Ever so modest. I've seen him before, when he was sick or hurt. It was beginning to occur to me that he was sick and hurt now. I picked up the rough blanket from the other bed and put it into his hand. A moment later, the door opened and he was wrapped in it like he was freezing. He sat down gingerly on my bed and I realized he didn't want me to see him clearly. I walked into the bathroom and found his clothes neatly dripping onto the floor. They were worn and torn. I hated to see him hurt and steeled myself to find him torn, too. "Sorry I woke you up," he grinned at me. "I took something," I admitted, sitting down next to him and beginning the struggle for the blanket. "What happened to you?" I was determined to win our tug of war and did, finally, discovering welts and bug bites and bruises on his upper body. I couldn't help touching them, feeling their size and tenderness. Without realizing it, I counted his ribs, too, since I could see them so clearly. "Hey," he half-laughed, bending his head down over mine to see what I was doing. I felt that laugh under my fingertips. "If you wanted me to take my clothes off, all you had to do was ask." "Who hurt you, Mulder?" It wasn't going to work like that, not this time. Not any time. He turned his head to look at the wall, not about to tell me. "Are you here for good?" I asked. He nodded. "Better get used to me, Scully," he said, "I'm your roommate, maybe for life." With that, my new roomie flopped down and rolled up in my covers, on my bed, leaving me with the mattress on the other side of the room. It was okay. I wasn't going to sleep anyway. As he drifts off now, I can't help watching him and wondering if I should have examined him more closely. How did his eyes look? Does he have a head injury? Internal injuries? I shouldn't have allowed myself to be so overwhelmed by his closeness. xxx xxx xxx He's here somewhere. I know, I can feel it in my blood. The way I felt before, when I was sick enough to die and he must have gotten what he wanted from me and I didn't. I look for him everywhere I go, searching all the faces, knowing he's in disguise. Like he was before. If we don't learn from the past, we are doomed to repeat it. I was supposed to die more than twenty five years ago. It's amazing to me even now to think about so much time having passed. I used to be an innocent eighteen year old boy, raised in the hot, dry oilfields of Texas and sent to the oppressively moist jungles half a world away in Vietnam. I fired a gun and I smoked pot and I buried myself in cheap whores that smelled of sweat and napalm. And when the time came, I was more than willing to die if it meant I didn't have to serve another day in that hellhole. I still can't believe I woke up. There was a long time when I buried myself in my work, another whore just as cheap, and managed to forget. Details became important to me, protocols and rules. I found myself inspecting the dust on the base of my desk lamp, measuring staples on reports to see if they'd been hastily done. I'd forgotten about life, the way it's meant to be lived. Sweaty and messy and painful as hell. Then Krycek came along and stuck tiny machines in my blood that tried to kill me. I've read Scully's report and it still makes no sense to me at all. I never had a clue things like this existed. I don't need to read science fiction when it comes across my desk like clockwork. Mulder's terrible with a stapler. But what Krycek did that I have to thank him for, is remind me that I'm alive. And I could wake up tomorrow dead. Things have changed in the last few months. I've felt myself aging. It's the way of the world. I can't believe the atrocities taking place in our own American cities, cities I was willing to give my life to protect. I never thought something like this could happen here. I never thought I'd be so powerless to stop it. We didn't even need anyone to do this to us. We did it to ourselves. My knees creak and my eyesight's worse. If I had any hair, I've no doubt it would be gray. The joints in my fingers ache when I get home at night and I find myself watching advertisements for Aleve and arthritis treatments with interest. I'm not a young man any more. The old woman has come to visit more than once. For a long time, I thought I was invincible because I'd looked Death in the face and she chose not to take me. I thought that meant she would never return. Now it seems I see her every day. I see her when I'm looking for Krycek. Waiting for him to make some claim, pull some trick in order to control me. But the pain and the creaking are all my own; I just can't face the fact of it. I'm going to be an old, helpless man one day soon, if I live long enough to see it. I'm doing my part. It's like recycling one plastic bottle and expecting to conserve oil or recycling one newspaper and hoping to save a forest, but it's something. I've kept one woman alive and safe and I've kept hope alive in one man. Agents Mulder and Scully never would have guessed I would be such an ally for them, but what other choice is there? If I can't save myself, at least I can save them. In the meantime, I feel Krycek close. I'll be waiting for him when he comes. I suspect he'll bring the old woman with him this time. I only hope I'll have accomplished all I need to before that day. There's so much left for me to do. xxx xxx xxx Mulder, How hungry you are. The rations are running low and I can't tell you to stop eating. I can hear your stomach from the other side of the room. I can see the gooseflesh on your arms, which is why I let you have the two good blankets, even though the one I kept leaves me cold too. I can't suggest that we share a bed. I can't tell you anything any more. The words catch up in my chest, somewhere much too close to my heart. I guess absence does make the heart grow fonder. Scully. Mulder, I guess you got to find out about the bad dreams tonight. This tiny living space is too small to keep anything from one another. This one was bad, Mulder. They had their needles and they were hurting me and there was nothing I could do about it. It wasn't as bad as the ones where they hurt you, but I dreamed that it was a choice, and they showed me a little girl who looked like your sister and said they could hurt her instead of me and all I had to do was tell them to stop. And I was in such agony and I begged them to stop and when they did, I realized they were hurting the little girl instead of me and it was all my fault. When I sat up, breathing impossibly fast and terrified, I knew you were awake and it made my heart pound worse. He knows, I thought, not knowing what I was afraid you knew. That I was a bad person. That I have dreams that prove what a bad person I am. You said my name and put on the light. I didn't want to see you and it hurt my eyes. "I know," you said to me, sadly, like there was nothing either of us could do, and I barely made it to the bathroom before the tears came. I tried not to sob too loudly and I heard you knocking on the door, even though I ignored it. I can't let you see me like this, Mulder. I can't let you know how I am. I saw the light go out from under the bathroom door and waited a long time, until I was certain you'd gone back to sleep to slip back into bed. Now, in the morning, the lock's broken off the bathroom door and you're not saying a word about it. You haven't even looked at me. sometimes I wish you'd look at me the way you look at the food before you devour it. I've never seen you look so passionate about anything. The argument will have to come, but I'll let you eat your breakfast first. Scully. Dear Fox, I've wondered at the logic of addressing a journal to a man who is sitting across the room from me twenty four hours a day, who I could talk to if I just opened my mouth, why I do talk to, until I am tired of listening to my own voice, but I realize this journal isn't addressed to him. He is not Fox, he's Mulder. Fox is a man who doesn't exist, except in a long ago past, and perhaps in a much more secure future. Sometimes I imagine lying in bed, holding him, touching his hair and calling him Fox, but I know even if I were ever in that situation, the name would be all wrong. It isn't who he is. I'm not sure it's who I want him to be. It seems that it's who he wishes he could be again. Not that he's said as much to me. There's something so cozy and home-y about chopping vegetables in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder, set together on a task. Dinner was simple, but delicious. He says no one tosses a salad like I do. Well, no one boils vegetables like he does. We relaxed over dinner, for what seemed like the first time since his arrival. Talk about Skinner led to talk about ourselves, our past together. Nothing I didn't already know. He read aloud to me last night, before we went to sleep, as we lay on our separate bunks under our thin, rough blankets, like kids in summer camp or inmates in prison or close siblings. I wonder if this is how he thinks of me, as another sister he's doing a better job of protecting. A younger woman for him to teach, tease, tantalize. What was it like between he and Samantha? What would it be like if she was still alive? But if she were still alive, we might never have met. His whole life would be different. Normal. If she were still alive, she would have been killed by the men out there. I don't know if Mulder ever gave any thought to it, but his sister is one of them, as I am. Her name wasn't on the list because she is no longer alive [whether he can accept that or not]. There may be children out there that belong to his family, who have that nose and dark hair and luminescent eyes. Little nieces and nephews. As I may have, somewhere, sons and daughters I'll never know. What are they doing to those children out there? I don't want to know, and if I think about it, I'll cry. It was never like this in my family. We were noisy, rambunctious, unable to sit still. Melissa and I, when we shared a room, were always fighting for space, trying in little ways to hurt each other even when we managed to play together or work in cooperation. Competition. We always knew which we could win and which the other sister would take. Melissa was voted "Best Girl" and "Most Outgoing" and I won the science fair. It's not worth thinking about anymore. He read to me and my eyes closed, my body relaxing with only the sound of his voice to hold me to alertness. At some point, I drifted off to sleep. I don't think I'd ever felt so safe since I was five years old and my father read Moby Dick to me for the first time. He read me other books, too, but none prompted such begging for repeats as that one. I don't know what it was in that tale that attracted me so. Maybe it was because I could picture my daddy as the hero. I couldn't do that when my mother read me fairy tales or girl's stories. I'm not even sure what Mulder was reading to me last night. One of those long, deep wordy novels he loves so much, where the words become pictures that don't necessarily imitate any form of life I know of. Like songs, the words go together but don't paint the entire picture. Mulder, what's your favorite song? He says it's Happy Birthday and I know he's joking. He says it's Rudolf the Red Nosed Reindeer and I tell him he needs to brush up on his Billboard Top 20. What, I ask as an odd look crosses his face, and now he's telling me about the radio and TV stations, all taken over. It's martial law out there now. It scares me, even in the relative safety here. I'm freezing now, wondering what would happen if they found us here, and too scared to ask Mulder. Scully, what's your favorite song, he asks me now and I know we're on to something here. A pastime. Later. Scully. He's reading me Winnie the Pooh now. It's bedtime and he's reading to me like he always does. It never matters about the book and he never lets me read. He tells me I don't do it right, that my inflections are too boring and he'd fall asleep. When I remind him that's the point, he just gets that look on his face. The look I'm not sure what it means, and I wish to believe means more than it really does. That he loves me. I'll never know, we never speak of such things. Every time I close my eyes I see the baby I'll never have, the child I wouldn't want to bring into this screwed up world even if I had a choice. How could expose a baby to this insane persecution? It has to end, and we have to do something to end it, but that's beside the point. It hurts, inside. It hurts. If I said, "Mulder, I want a baby," he would pity me. I couldn't stand that. Scully Dear Fox, Last Christmas, I opted out of the invitations to parties that I received from my friends, my acquaintances, my parents' friends. I wanted to stay at home and have some quiet time to contemplate and rest. I could drink and sing and carouse and flirt next year. There's always next year. I've battled cancer, I've knocked on death's door. I know that next year is not always there. I know, but I didn't think about it. There's so much time now to think about the things I've done wrong. I'll never see any of those people again. Last winter I dialed up a catalogue and bought gift certificates, then wrote the check to my credit card. Fifteen minutes and no thought involved. Christmas isn't all about the gifts, but I didn't even think about the people who I love. I gave them no thought, none of my time. Now I would give anything for to take back that selfish time and be with them. Even Mulder. I could stare at him for hours, burning the image of him lying on his back, knees bent, head on one arm, holding the paperback he's reading up in the air, squinting and trying to block the light with the book. It has nearly a thousand pages, but I can't make out the title. I don't care. It's the angle of his limbs that I'm interested in, the lock of his hair touching his eyebrow. It's like I'm staring at him because I know I'm never going to see him again. I'm scared. Scared that time will run out and there will be nothing I can do. "Mulder, what did you buy with the gift certificate I gave you for Christmas last year?" His look is completely blank. He has no idea. Last year I told everyone I didn't care about them for Christmas. "Is something wrong?" he asks me and I only shake my head. No, Mulder, everything's wrong. He's looking at me like he wonders what unhappy thoughts I'm writing down. Looks like it's time for a conversation. Scully xxx xxx xxx Oh, my Scully. So soft and so strong. She won't bend to my arms. Warm skin and my nose is cold. Mmm. Cinnamon and heat and love. She tastes good. A gasp, her breath catches with my lips on her skin. Scully's kiss is like marshmellow chicks at Easter, sugar and softness filling my mouth. I'm so hungry. Beautiful ocean pools, waiting for my lead. This is going to happen. Waited way too long. There's time now. Electricity in her hands. What were we waiting for? Such calm in her eyes. She's softer than I thought she would be. Warm, wet, there we go. No sound, no words. Us. She finds her claws as the whirlpool pulls at me. She growls with pleasure and starts to purr. I can let go now. I love her I love her I love her I love...love.... Amazing. She shifts and I sigh. Nice. Up on one elbow, she stares but I'm too relaxed. Closing my eyes, I brush her mouth again. She doesn't taste like goodbye. xxx xxx xxx She's getting worse. I didn't think it could happen so quickly. The left side of her body seems to drag and she's been known to drool. I find her closing one eye when she looks at me. Scariest of all, the shaking's stopped. How can I leave Rita like this? "Come with me," I urge, zipping the Jansport backpack. I know she'll slow me down. She's a liability in a world where I don't know what to expect. "I can't," she says. Her voice is soft, but her thoughts are crystal. That's what makes it hard to see her like this. I keep wondering what she was like before any of the torture she's been through. I wish I could wait for Krycek, but the flowers are blooming and it's warm. It's got to be April, and I know the timetable. They're coming in May. A major holiday. I would have held out for July 4, myself, but maybe after the movie, the alien colonists find Independence Day too predictable. Memorial Day is ironic enough. There'll be more food for her if she's here alone and she'll be safe. No one will think to look for her here. I don't think anyone remembers her. Women are the material of the project and the scientists look at them as disposable, temporary and limited in their use. They might know the names, the differences, but they don't matter. No one would worry about Rita. She's no threat to them now. "'s cold," she murmurs, rubbing her arms through the sweater she's wearing. She's wrong, it's not cold. How can I leave her here to die alone? I don't want to believe it, but she has come to mean something to me in the months we've hidden here. I have been closer to her than any other person on this earth. There is nothing about her I don't know. She frowns and I watch her walk in a circle, rubbing her forehead. I reach for the bowl on the counter to crush another aspirin for her automatically. Her blood must be like water from all the aspirin she's taken. "Here." I watch to make sure she's got the glass before I release it. Her muscles don't always clench or grab when she thinks they do. She winces at the bitterness but drinks until the glass is empty, tipping her head back so I can see her throat working to pull the liquid down. She puts the glass down with some difficulty and walks into the table. She doesn't even notice any more. "I don't want you to go," she says, tilting her head and looking at me with her left eye squeezed shut. When have tears begun leaking from it? That's new, within the last week. "I'm afraid." She turns her head, ashamed of this admission. "Rita -" "I know you have to go, and I have to stay here. Alex told me..." "He told you what?" I wait, but she tightens her shoulders and shakes her head, letting the blond strands fall down in front of her closed eye. I kneel slightly to her right, so she can see me and I put my hand on her forehead. No fever. She feels like ice. I can feel the tumor between her eyes and a twisted part of me wants to rub it like a curiosity. What does it feel like when I touch it? She tries to open her left eye and I drop my hand. "I'll be safe here." "You will be," I tell her gently. I will be guilty for this for the rest of my life. My mother asked to be institutionalized, so she could spend her days with the March Hare and the Doormouse. I didn't see the rabbit hole before I fell through it. "I wish..." Her voices trails into nothingness and she wipes her mouth with her hand. None of this seems to bother or embarrass her. "I had a message for you to deliver. But there's no one..." Her brows rise and her skin wrinkles. How old is she, I wonder for the first time. Younger than I am, and older. She is eighteen and she is eighty, ageless. I nod gravely. That's a bond we all have in common. We have no one, all of us, the tools of the consortium. We only have each other, a network of connections and informants we use and abuse and distrust. I squeeze her hand. I have to go. I've waited too long already. "I do," she says and I wait. Her dry lips crack as she grins. "Tell 'em...when you see them..." The effort of a conversation is exhausting her. "Tell 'em to fuck themselves." I smile in spite of myself. She nods, satisfied, and lets her eye close again, looking at me. On an impulse, I press my lips against hers. It's not a kiss. I don't know what it is. I can't tell her to take care of herself as I pull the straps of the pack across my back. I give a wave before I turn and cross the threshhold in the forest, but I'm not certain she can see that far anymore. I put the bullets in the gun before I left. I owed her that much. She'll find it, she'll manage. It's what Krycek told me to do, even if I don't have the balls to pull the trigger myself. I feel so sorry. Guilt will come later. xxx xxx xxx Dear Fox, I wish I was writing this in some fit of post-coital bliss, but then we had a screaming fight. Shouting, ranting, listening to each other only enough to get more ammunition. In this moment, I hate myself. I knew I couldn't do this properly. I knew I shouldn't have tried, but I had to try, I had to tell him because I have this awful feeling of doom and if I didn't I wouldn't be able to live with myself. Is it easier to know that he hates me? I don't know. He knew what I was going to say. I sought him and that was his first clue. He held me with his arms loose, as though he wasn't certain how to react, staring over my head as I closed my eyes tight, wishing he would hug me for just that one second. I pulled away and met his eyes and felt his sharp alarm. "Mulder," I said and he panicked. I should have stopped there, but I didn't. "Don't tell me this, I don't want to hear this!" I think his angry words will ring in my ears for the rest of my life. He didn't want to hear that I love him. Am I so terrible, so horrible, so repulsive to him? We've gotten to see each other at all times of the day, at our very worst. We never agree on anything. I don't know why I feel this way, but I do. Not knowing why, not having any damnable scientific evidence should have been enough to warn me. A thousand things should have warned me that he didn't feel the same. He didn't say, "I don't love you, Scully," but I think the fighting said enough. I wish I could stop the tape of his voice from screaming through my head. I wish he wasn't lying over there watching my face as I write. I wish I didn't think he was watching me when he doesn't care a bit. I wish the world wasn't the way it was, and I wish I didn't love him so I could take the words back and have everything be all right again.. Now he's gone and I don't know where. I wish I didn't love him. I wish I didn't love him. I wish I didn't love him. Dana Scully. xxx xxx xxx Bagpipes There's no one home. Not good, not good. The cabin's quiet, still. I wish I'd gotten here while the sun was still up. The lamp's broken. There's glass...everywhere. Must have been a fight. A flashlight would be pretty damn useful right about now. I flick the Bic in my pocket. Blood everywhere. I knew I smelled something. Blood and rot and gunpowder. Hasn't been very long. I turn around, but he's not here. It's just Marita. Makes me angry. How could he just leave her here, like this? Alone and defenseless? I have to sit down. I never thought Marita would leave me breathless this way. It hurts. We weren't anything to each other. The chair is hard against my thighs as I sit and breathe and try not to stare at her. She's dead. It's beginning to break through to my brain that no one killed her. She did this to herself, with the gun I left for Jeff. I told him to shoot her for her own sake. The pain in my chest is strikingly sharp. It never goes away. I've killed people and that's when I feel it. Marita wasn't innocent. None of them were. Doesn't make it hurt any less. I should find Jeff. But there are things here that need to be taken care of first. The sound of the shovel biting into the ground is a familiar one. Goosebumps rise across my arms and shoulders. Walking on my grave, isn't that what they say? I shiver. It's not as warm as I thought it was. It's awkward trying to dig a hole in the ground with only one arm. I have two, but only one is really mine. I hate the smell of earth since that night. I hid, but hiding wasn't enough. I know now that hiding is never the answer. The sheet unfurls like a bloody flag. Her eyes are open, staring. It doesn't matter how many times I try to close them, they continue to stare like a demonic doll on a toy store shelf. There was nothing doll-like about this woman in life, but now she looks porcelain and innocent with her blonde hair and blue eyes. One of her pupils is dilated wider than the other. There's a huge slash at the back of her neck, barely healed. I've seen scars like this before. Twenty five years without a night's sleep would make me kill myself, too. But this is about the implant. Jeff must have taken it out. I trusted him. I hope he did the right thing. Our paths will meet, unless he's dead. I've got other things to do at the moment. I check my watch, a rude thing to do before the dead, but a necessity. They're going to test the virus in twenty four hours. A few thousand bees, scattered to the wind, could end up anywhere, could sting any unsuspecting person on a hot summer weekend. Then the project will go forward. I'm sweating despite the chill I can't shake as I fill the hole I've created, pour the dirt back over Marita's body. It disappears, bit by bit. I'm breathing hard when I finish and my eyes are raw when I wipe them on the back of my hand. I'm not crying, but I can't catch breath enough to give volume to my humming of Amazing Grace. If it can't be played on glorious bagpipes, it should always be sung. I tell myself it's the song that makes me sad. I don't have time to fix up the cabin or pause for a night's sleep. I've got to do something about the damn bees. Or there are gonna be a lot of jobs for bagpipe players in the weeks to come. xxx xxx xxx I've got to get out of here. I've got to get out of here. I should stay in case he comes back. He's not coming back. I've got to get out of here. I've never fallen apart like this before. Not when I was abducted, not when I was missing, not when I had cancer, not when I was cured, not when I found out I had a daughter, not when she died, not when Mulder's stupid ass ex turned up, not ever. The old commercials used to advise, never let them see you sweat. Well, I never let them see me cry. Until now. There's no one to see, but if there was I wouldn't be able to prohibit them from taking a look. I can't make the tears stop. My throat is sore and my nose is red and my eyes are swollen almost shut and still they come. I can't sleep, the thoughts don't stop racing through my head. He's gone. He planned this. If I found him now, I'd kill him. I don't even ask myself how he could do this to me. I can feel the stars pulling at me. I can feel them like breath on my skin, hot and irritating. It's not a good feeling. Something's going to happen. That's why Mulder left, I'm sure, on another crusade he doesn't trust me with. It's always been trust between us. Funny how I thought if he trusted me with his body, with his heart, he would trust me with his life. I guess he really isn't anything like me. I don't know what to do without him, but I'm not going to stay here and wait. My mind is made up and my clothes are packed, along with food and medical supplies. I don't know what will greet me out there, I don't know what has changed. I'm afraid of the world after this respite in stillness. I'm terrified someone will look at me and recognize me as a renegade abductee, that they'll drive me into the woods with torches and chase me until I fall. I don't want to die. Every time I close my eyes, I see the fire. If it isn't the maddened mob, it's the faceless men, having gathered us into a group like helpless dumb animals waiting for the slaughter. They don't even kill us for a reason. They're not going to make hamburger or handbags. They just want us dead. I hate them. I hate everyone who's done these unspeakable things. Without a thought, my hand wanders up to rub the implant scar. I can't do that any more, even when I feel it burning me. It's hot to the touch and I wonder if it's glowing an angry red. I have to get out of here. I don't feel very strong. I'm scared I'm not going to see Mulder again and what I would do to him if I did. It's all about me now. Whatever happens to me now, there's no one else to blame. And that's not easy either. I've been good at blaming myself but not at taking the blame. Finding Mulder's going to be like looking for a needle in a needle factory. The air outside is cold and still and I have the crazed urge to scream and twirl around like a child again. Instead, I stand there and feel the air on my skin. It's May and the air smells like flowers. No perfume has ever been so sweet. Then I realize I can't go home. A payphone presents itself. I barely even know where I am. A gas station. Prices are lower than I'd realized. I thought I was over missing my apartment and my office and my things, but it all comes crashing back. I don't have any money. "Borrow a quarter?" I've been reduced to begging and it fills me with shame. A rough looking man presses one into my hand and I smile at him in thanks. Automatically my fingers want to dial Mulder's number. An overwhelming urge to call my mom washes through me. But I call Skinner instead. "It's me." I don't know why I'm whispering. "Where the hell are you?" "Um, a gas station. Near...where I was. Can you...?" I can't make myself say it. I wait for him to say, I'll be right there, but he doesn't. "Please?" "Yeah." He sounds angry. I put the phone down and lounge against the wall, afraid I look like a hooker. I've never been afraid of so many things at the same time. And then I see the sky. A deep shudder passes through me. It's calling me. I can feel it reaching for me. I shake my head and my lips form the word "no" but I don't let it come out. I'm going to be one of those crazy women talking to herself on the street. A big black car pulls up and the door swings open. I jump and see Skinner's pinched face glaring at me. "Get in the car," he orders. My limbs feel slow and awkward as I climb into the car. Skinner reminds me of my father when I've done something very bad. "What the hell are you doing?" he demands as he floors the gas. I clutch at the door and grab for my seatbelt. "Are you okay?" I ask him. Skinner doesn't look well but he shrugs off my question. "Do you know where Mulder is?" I'm starting to get my voice back, and my strength. Skinner looks at me for so long he almost plows into the car in front of us when it brakes suddenly. "Guess not." I huddle closer into the seat, wondering if he'd slap my hand if I made a move for the heater control. "Scully, what you've done is very serious," he warns me. "What they've done is very serious. I'm not going to be a victim any more, and I'm not going to listen to anyone tell me that if I wait long enough, I'll be safe, it'll be okay. That's a load of shit and I think we both know it. I'm going to stop them or die trying. What have you been doing?" I let the anger carry me. Anger has always been a safe emotion. It feels familiar, the way it bites at my stomach and makes my heart race. It's like a battery cell inside me giving me power. "You don't understand..." "Then explain it to me." He parks in front of a seedy motel and puts the car into park, taking his time before he turns his eyes to me. "You're sick again. They're controlling you the same way they control me." I want to touch my implant, but I don't let myself. Skinner has the next level of technology - nanoprobes inside his body, mechanical germs lying in wait, sleeping dormant until activated. From the look of him, I'd guess they've been activated. He probably feels even more helpless than I do, as close to death as he was when they were installed. I hope they're not listening to us. "Stay put," he says. "I want my money." I inform him, getting out of the car. His eyes are dark on mine. "All of it." Money can purchase freedom, or at least its trappings. Cash prevents the need for identification and facilitates all sorts of lies. I wonder when I became so dark and savvy. "I can't," he says and if I had my gun, I would pull it out and shoot him to show that I really do mean business. "Find a way," I warn. "Thanks for the ride." I turn and walk into the hotel with the hundred dollar bill he gave me. I pay for a week and have enough left over for the vending machine and the pay phone, but the candy's stale and the Lone Gunmen have disconnected their phone number. Who's going to help me now, I wonder, heading inside to catch up on the news I missed while I was hiding from the world. I have to have some kind of plan, and I have no idea what that might be. Mulder did a good job if his goal was to render me useless. Isolation and lonely and even now, only able to think about him. xxx xxx xxx It isn't really safe for me to stop. A traveller gains a lot of attention these days. Everywhere I look, I see hollow worried eyes and a quiet oppression. It's fear. At least no one will see me differently. I recognize the expression from my own eyes when I stop in gas station restrooms and accidentally look up while soaping my hands and occasionally, the rest of my body. I try to pretend I'm a local, that I'm only on a short trip to the market to buy milk or baby formula. Most of the time it works, because everyone is preoccupied. I did the Johnny Appleseed thing for a while, until I crossed the border back into America, my homeland. There are thousands of miles of unguarded border between the US and Canada, and you never hear racial epithets about those "damn Canadians, sneaking over to steal our jobs." Maybe it happens, but in general, I imagine Canadians are too smart to want to be Americans. We have our own brand of screwed-up south of the border. I also figured it'd be too hard getting a stolen or rented car through customs. I gave in to the better side of my conscience and visited the first Budget I saw on this side of the border. I should be home in another day, if DC was ever my home. At one time, I was on the fast track at the Bureau. I know it's hard to believe, but I was a good employee. I had a knack for blending in, gaining trust, and turning. I could be political, I could kiss ass. Everyone who's groomed for a higher position the FBI kisses a lot of ass at the Hoover building at one point in their career. I felt lucky for having the opportunity so early. It was a long time ago. There are people who know me there, so I have to keep my profile low. I'm still supposed to be dead - if they find out I'm not, I will be. I don't want that to happen. The reason people look so dark and scared is because they know about the aliens. All the Star Trek movie sequels in the world couldn't prepare them for the horror of knowing the universe is no longer ours exclusively. We always thought when they came, when we found our siblings in the great galaxial womb, that we would be the older sibling, the sophisticated ones. Gazing out the window at passing 7-11s and McDonalds, it's all too obvious just how naive we really are. They don't even know about the master plan to kill them all. Or maybe they do, somehow, a feeling of dread seeping through the collective unconscious. Krycek will know what to do. I just have to find out how to find Krycek. xxx xxx xxx I've been thinking about Krycek, about what he said to me that last time I saw him. How the hell he got into my motel room I have no idea. The strange thing is I'm not sure he knew either. Welcome to life as a pawn, I think now in retrospect. Not only will you black out and miss time, but people will appear and disappear around you. It's hard to be frivolous when I'm scared sick. It's cold and this room is filthy. The weekly rate doesn't seem to include maid service. Maybe when the week is up, I can find another motel. It's probably a good idea to keep moving. And if I have to listen to the crack baby next door crying pathetically for another week I will probably smother it out of the goodness of my heart. I've come a long way in the last months. I lost my career and my home. I don't stay in nice motels with Mulder on the other side of the wall, crunching sunflower seeds and leaving angry maids from one coast to the other. I'm pretending I don't exist to try to stay off their radar and it's starting to get convincing. Maybe I don't exist any more. I've just come from a memorial, of sorts. I'm very proud of myself for not crying, even though I know it means I've completely lost even the semblance of humanity. It hurts too much to feel. Three identical headstones in the cemetery. The same one where Melissa was buried, what seems like decades ago. It hasn't even been four years. Skinner told me the Lone Gunmen were dead when I asked him if he could use his resources to get me their new phone number. He said it happened not long after I went into hiding. Another angry mob. I know they weren't abductees and I can't imagine anyone blaming the three of them for the apocalypse that is to come. They were the Henny Penny in this story, they cried to anyone who would listen that the sky was falling, but no one would listen. Like Mulder in that respect. Skinner didn't say they died protecting me, but I'm sure that's what happened. I didn't even know they'd worked with him and Mulder to keep me safe. I feel like Snow White if the Wicked Queen had been a ruthless leader and killed the dwarfs to keep her under control. If I let myself, I would be angry that they did this. Three sweet men who didn't deserve such a fate. The building where their business was is burned. It hasn't been rebuilt. There's a condemned sign on the door. In most cases, such a thing wouldn't stop me, but the fire gutted the place so I'm assuming they're serious about the threat of collapsing roof beams. I don't want to die in a ruined building. Not until I get some revenge. Without them to turn to, I've been thinking about Krycek. I always had the feeling he had a bit of a thing for me. It sounds vain and worse, it sounds stupid when I know he was involved in my abduction and my sister's murder. He kissed me in that motel room. He also said I'd need him again, sometime soon. Too bad Alfred put the batsignal away. I roll through the channels on the tv but it only takes me a couple of minutes. The networks are fuzzy but the sex channel comes in crystal clear. If I stand in the right spot, I can get CNN well enough to watch. As I strain to see the stock market ticker scrolling through the static, I remember Byers had a wife. I don't know her name, but I could find out. I spring from the bed and lock the motel room door behind me. Any number of people doubtlessly have keys and I don't have anything to steal, but it's the little touches that remind me of the way normal civilization lives. I nod to the pimp and his dealer on my way through the lobby, wondering how exactly Skinner chose this motel. Hope shoots through me - maybe Mulder - but it's just as soon mashed down. Byers had a wife. The poor woman. She probably doesn't even know anything. Which won't keep me from finding out. xxx xxx xxx There's someone lurking in the darkness of my apartment when I turn off the baseball game, impossibly late. I was never a baseball fan, but it fills the hours. I've been locked in securely since I got home from work at seven. I wonder how long he's been here. Maybe it wasn't the beer, but this, that made me feel better as I stretched out in my very tasteful naugahyde barcalounger and sat through fouls and runs and outs. "Where are you, Krycek?" I ask, keeping the apartment dark to maintain some semblance of fair. If I can't see him, he can't see me. I'll need any help I can get fighting a man ten years younger than me, uncrippled by nanotechnology. And I intend to kill him for his palm pilot control of me. After Sharon, I moved to this security high rise for a reason. I wanted to make sure no one could get the drop on me. No red-coated old lady would be slipping past the doorman and the cameras to sneak into my bed without leaving a tangible record. On occasion, the security has been a hindrance, but most of the time I go to sleep after checking the balcony door lock only twice and I sleep well. I'm not going to sleep so well anymore. "Where are you, Krycek?" I ask again, entering the bedroom. "Not...Krycek." The voice that greets me is small enough to emerge from a kitten, but it's not a kitten I see when I turn on the light. It's a mongrel, one I thought was roadkill months ago. "Spender. You're alive." I shouldn't have been so quick to believe the troublemaker was dead. That's what wishful thinking gets you, I guess. I watched the smoker pull this one's strings and I saw what he put Mulder and Scully through. Maybe I should handcuff him out on the balcony and see how well he fairs. He nods. Funny how helpless he looks now. It dawns on me that's why he's here. "I didn't know where else to turn," he says. "How's your dad?" "Know where he is?" Spender's eyes light up. "I'd like to kill him." So we're on the same side of the street now, or so he claims. I'm not so quick to trust as I once was. "Why're you here?" I conjure my best, pissed off A.D. voice. He recognizes it, since he used to answer to me. "What they're planning...has to be stopped." "Let me guess, now you want to help." He gives me a pained look, but it seems to be sincere. Either that or silence covers a multitude of sins. "What do you want from me?" He shakes his head. "I've got nothing. No leads, no connections..." Sounds like someone else I know. xxx xxx xxx I wake, terrified. The pounding on the door to my motel room is loud, insistent. They've found me. It's my only thought. I look around the room waiting for the door to burst open. There is no other escape. They've found me, and they're going to kill me. "Open the damn door!" I stop my frantic searching for escape. It's Skinner. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely coax the door open. I steel myself for bad news or Mulder standing there next to him. The last thing I expect to see is the rail thin frame of Jeffrey Spender. The shock must show in my face as I throw a look to Skinner. "Inside," he suggests gruffly and I stumble backward, allowing them entrance to the room. It seems very full with both of them there. "What's going on?" I fold my arms over my chest, realizing I'm in my nightclothes - a worn thin T shirt and cotton boxer shorts. A far cry from the dignified pajama sets I used to wear. "Aren't you dead?" Spender won't look at me. He shrugs. He could have been taking lessons from Mulder. Talk about spooky... But I'm not in the mood. I walk over to him, feeling short in my bare feet. I push him. "I'm talking to you." He glares at me but says nothing. "Save it, Scully," Skinner advises. "You'll have plenty of time later." I stop and look at him. "Meet your new roommate." My jaw drops. It's really very embarrassing. "No." "Good night all," Skinner says and heads for the door. I hurry after him meaning to argue but by the time he crosses the threshhold, he's running for his car and I don't think it has anything to do with the light rain that's beginning to fall. I slam the door soundly and lean against it, looking at my new 'roomie' while noticing there's only one bed in this cheap room, and it's a full size one. "Well?" I snipe, watching as his ass gets closer and closer to my bed. When he begins to sit, I scream and he jumps. "Explanation?" I cross my arms again. "It's hard to know where to begin." His voice is impossibly soft. I can barely hear him, but it doesn't lessen my anger. His vulnerability makes me want to strike out at him, to hurt him badly. "We could start with your death," I snap. I hate the sound of my own voice when I get like this. It's not satisfying to be a harpy. "I didn't," he says almost inaudibly. "I'm sorry, may I -" He raises a hand to indicate the bed and my brows draw together with the thought that he's going to fall down. I nod slightly and he sighs aloud as he plops onto the bed. "It's been a long trip. You know my father...?" He raises his head for the first time, meeting my eyes. "Yeah, Luke, I heard," I crack. "He shot me, but I didn't die. I faked my death so no one would come after me. You know their plans...?" He looks at me again. I don't move. "On Memorial Day, the bees will be released and the colonization will begin. We have to do something to stop them." It takes me some time to absorb this information. The bees? Colonization? Memorial Day isn't very far away. But he shares my same goal. "How?" "Krycek knows." "And where is he?" Spender shakes his head. "Where's Mulder?" He looks around as though expecting an ambush. I shake my head back. "It's you and me, kid," I inform him, wishing I could stop talking like Humphrey Bogart for five or ten minutes. I sit down on the bed next to him and shove him over with my formidable hips. He looks shocked. "We can talk about this in the morning." Maybe I won't be such a bitch then. I'm almost afraid as I turn out the light. I'm afraid of what the darkness and the night might bring. xxx xxx xxx She's glorious and amazing, all flash and fire. I can't stop thinking about the journal Krycek gave me as she flicks off the light and flops down on her side as though I'm not even in the bed. She doesn't know I know how long it's been for her. Almost as long as it's been for me. I'm exhausted and dizzy but once she lays down I can't even think of sleep. I can only lie here and smell her hair and try not to touch her. I drift off without realizing it until I start awake. She's crying, shaking and sniffling. She's trying not to make any noise. I hate the sound of it. Like Rita before she got sick. Is she dead now, I wonder? Lying abandoned and undiscovered in the cold cabin? I can't allow myself to think of her, but she will be avenged along with my mother and the others they tortured. "Hey," I murmur, slipping my fingers up against her spine. She freezes with a choke. "No, it's okay, it's okay." I've had a lot of practice at this in the last few months. "No," she says, sliding away and wiping her nose on the back of her hand, then wiping her hand on her shorts. She walks to the window and peeks out, staring transfixed up into the dark sky. "They're not going to let me go." I wait for her to say more. She folds her arms and relaxes, leaning against the wall, not taking her eyes from the heavens. "You were abducted?" she asks me, still staring upward. I make an affirmative noise, lying on the bed. "You have the implants too?" she asks, finally turning her head. It seems to take some effort to tear her eyes away. I shake my head, thinking of Rita. "But I know." Thinking of her journal. "How could you know?" Her voice is quiet, but she's serious and still angry. She thinks I'm silly or naive. How can I tell her about the past few months without negating her pain? I tug at the hem of my shirt. She makes an agitated noise as though I'm hitting on her, but it stops when she sees the scar. "It's hideous, I know," I murmur without meaning to say anything. I just wanted her to see. I didn't have the benefit of doctors who took their time. They were good doctors to save my life, without telling anyone, but it wasn't exactly Johns Hopkins. I raise my eyes to look at her and Scully's mouth is hanging open and she's staring with a concentrated frown. She's also moving away from the window. Toward me. Her hands are cold and gentle when she touches me. She doesn't feel like a doctor inspecting another's handiwork. She feels like a woman. I hold myself stiff and try to keep from inhaling the scent of her hair as she keeps touching me. "I don't know how you survived," she says. "Your father did this?" I close my eyes as I nod. Through all of this I haven't cried. It's harder now with someone touching me like this. I pluck her hands off of me and hold them. She looks up at me. "Who - how - ?" She can't find the right word to begin her question. "Krycek knows everything." "Krycek." She smiles grimly. It isn't pretty at all. "Where's Mulder?" Them apart is like seeing Siamese twins apart for the first time, and there is no sign of him. "Gone." She shakes her head slowly and takes a step back. I've still got her hands. They're growing warmer in mine and suddenly I wonder if the rest of her body is as cold as her hands. I want to ask about him, but she looks too sad and I can't. "How are we going to find Krycek?" I have no idea and it's painfully apparent. "What a pair of FBI agents we are," I joke. She doesn't smile. "There is no FBI any more, not as we knew it. We have to find a way. We should kill the men who caused this." "They're dead." Her eyebrows go up at my words. "Burned." The word hangs in the air as she physically cringes away, crumpling into herself. "Hey, it's okay." Hollow words, but I manage to mean them in the moment. I lay my hand against her back and it only deepens her flinch. "It's only a matter of time until they get me," she whispers. "We'll stop them before then." "How?" she snaps, turning on me. Scully's frightening when she's angry. She plants her feet and her eyes practically glow with fire. "How are we going to stop them? They are controlling people by remote. They can hide by looking like anyone." She stops, staring at me. I can feel the thoughts going through her head. "No," I say firmly. She's backing away. I'm suddenly wondering if she has weapons. If she has one of those weapons. Is a metal spike going to come crashing through my spine in a moment? I can't stop picturing my blood spattering her, even when I close my eyes. I have to do something to stop her. Words are my only weapon because I can't hurt her. "Mulder was missing. You came to my office looking for information and threatened to kill me." "Everyone knew about that," she snarled. "I can't win with you!" "I can't let you kill me." It's a stand-off between us. How do we win? I'm searching my brain for something that was just between us and I don't think there is anything. "The videotape. After you were hypnotized by Verber. I showed you the tape from when I was a kid. Bad cordoroys and '70s hair. You said you didn't have a mother feeding you abduction stories." "And you said I had Mulder." She's serious and I think I've convinced her. "How could you not believe your mother? You were there, you went through it too." I shrug. "How could you doubt the X Files? You were there." She doesn't say anything. She can't. She doesn't believe in everything they investigated. Her shoulders fall and her eyes close. "I'm so tired." She does half a neck-roll and flops back down on the bed. "So tired." I know exactly how she feels, but I can't get back into the bed with her. I look around and locate the chair as she moves around on the bed, stretching her muscles and getting comfortable, burrowing as though she is unwatched. It only proves to me how very little I matter. I look long enough to burn her image into my retinas and flip off the light. "You're going to sleep in the chair?" Her voice cuts through the darkness. "I was going to, yes." "There's no reason we can't share," she says. "I mean...Mulder and I..." She's trapped herself and has to fight the net to get out. "We shared all the time." "But you loved him." Did I say that out loud? The silence is long and painful. "Good night, Spender." I hear the covers move and consider the subject closed. "Night Scully." It's so silly to call each other by last names, but we have to keep our distance. xxx xxx xxx I got there too late. One more failure. I shot the men responsible and watched their blood leak into the sandy dirt, but the traps were empty. The bees were gone. And as I turned around, listening for the telltale humming, I began to think for the first time that I'd done the wrong thing. The men lying dead in the dirt could have given me information but I acted too quickly. Dead men tell no tales. I hear the squeal of tires in the distance. They could have told me a lot, judging from the firepower the consortium sent to silence them. I dash into the bushes and try not to think of where the bees might be lurking. I never liked bees as a kid. Lots of people aren't afraid of them, but I was. But in a concrete city where the trees never see the light of day, bees were rarely the biggest thing I had to worry about. The men in black aren't happy that someone's done their work for them. I wonder who's pulling their strings. I check the clip on my gun. Four left. Four of them. Even if I started shooting from here, they look like they're pretty good at what they do. One against four aren't odds I've ever favored. Run away and live to fight another day, that has always been Alex Krycek's motto. It may seem like cowardice, but essentially it's just smart. The same sort of smart that told me to hide the motorcycle back here in the bushes. I wait and watch as the assassins leave and I follow them, hoping they'll reveal the secret path to the batcave. I lose them on the empty rural road, trying to keep myself safe by looking casual. Nothing looks more casual than wiping out and eating asphalt with your face. Damn prosthetic arm, it's too light and throws my balance off, not to mention making it hard to steer and keep the bike under control. I see heads turn in the black sedan ahead of me and hope they won't get me while I'm down. Four bullets left and not enough speed to take them. The assassins keep driving. It's about time to pay Scully a visit, I think. The bees they released today are bound to sting within twenty four hours. They're angry little bees - may I suggest a nice can of OFF! from your local discount store. It burns my eyes as I sweat here in the dry southwestern air. Scully's had firsthand experience with virus and she's a doctor. She also may have antibodies. She'll know if we can retrieve antibodies from Marita's cold dead body in Quebec. Scraped and skinned and weary after only a mile of walking the bike and staring at its flat front tire as it goes around and around and around, I find myself smiling. Scully's always a barrel of laughs. xxx xxx xxx The television drones incessantly, driving all coherent thought out of my head. This is ten times worse than being holed up with Rita. At least then I was feverish and there was something to do. At least she spoke. Scully lies on the bed with her mouth half open and her hair uncombed, zooming from Dateline to 20/20 to the news to documentary after documentary. Too bad we're not in a nicer dive or she'd have CNN and all the other cable channels. Then she'd never have to sleep. She's either trying to kill herself, or kill me. I haven't figured which, yet. The sight of Peter Jennings tells me it's past dinnertime. We never sample Brokaw or that other guy, it's always the smirky, soothing tones of the Canadian on ABC. "Dinner?" I say, but she doesn't hear me, too busy watching the screen. She looks like she's trying to commit it all to memory. Lines appear in her forehead. "Scully, dinner?" I get up to try to block the TV. "I think you'd better sit down and watch this." Her low voice catches me by such surprise that I actually do as she says, my knees folding to deposit me on the bed next to her. After a second, I turn my eyes to the screen and try to focus my ears on what I've worked very hard to tune out. She sleeps with the TV on. I think she thinks it will keep her safe. "Fire ants are stirring and causing problems now not only in Southern California, but throughout the southwest," Jennings reports, and the mini-image next to his head is of a frightening bug. "How they spread is puzzling scientists, as is the severe and most times fatal reaction of their victims. Fire ants cause more allergic reaction than bees and wasps, but they've never seen anything like this before." As they go to a tape of a scientist in a white coat who looks like he's come from Central Casting, Scully turns her eyes to me. Her stare is so intense I ask, "What?" "They're not using bees any more." Goosebumps rise across my skin but I manage not to shiver. "What? How do you know? You think -?" My hand weakly rises to indicate the screen. My heart is pounding. "Why would they switch?" She's shaking her head. "Maybe ants get farther faster. Maybe they deliver the virus better. I don't know. Ants have the same hive mentality as bees, don't they?" If she's asking me, she doesn't pause. I don't have an answer anyway. "And they have a queen." The tone of her voice scares me when she says that. I want to tell her she's seen Alien so many times she's starting to sound like Ripley, but I can't get the memory of my mother out of my mind. Maybe there is a queen for this alien project. I'm drawn to touch Scully and tell her that I'll keep her safe but I'm afraid of what she'll do if I act on the impulse. "Dinner?" She blinks as though I've woken her with an unfamiliar word. "Yeah, I guess. Whatever. I don't care." "Obviously." I reach over and pinch a thin flap of skin on her forearm. She's shrunk before my eyes. When I came here, she looked healthy and radiant. Now...if I get her to eat, that's protecting her. She isn't going to have the strength to save the world. Her eyes are sharp and for a second I'm afraid she's going to slap me for the intrusion. Instead, I watch her shutter down and she sighs heavily, grabbing the remote and changing the channel, searching for another ant story. I take a handful of quarters off the dresser, aware that all of the money is her money because I'm dead. "Get me a paper," she requests and I take another quarter, nodding. What would she do if I grabbed her and shook her? What would she do if I jumped on her and...? I can't even imagine doing it. I leaf through the paper as I make my unhealthy selections from the vending machine down the hall, unwilling to venture far enough away to get slabs of hamburger on bun from the McDonalds beyond the parking lot. It's all bad news but I don't see any fire ant stories. Why would they change the program now? But why wouldn't they? The room is dark when I return and I think it's too early for Scully to be playing possum. I reach for the light switch just inside the door. I'm not going to let her get away with this anymore. I took care of my mother for years, I know all about enabling. "Don't," she says and the rasp in her voice scares me. Something is going on. "I, um, got dinner." I feel stupid standing here waiting for something to happen. "Did you bring enough for everyone?" a familar voice whispers and I jam the lightswitch into the up position, flooding the room with light. "Get your hands off her!" I command Alex Krycek, who has both hands full of Scully and is holding her prisoner. He starts to laugh and it makes me angrier. She looks scared. "Let her go or I'll -" "You'll what?" Krycek challenges and I remind myself that I'm not afraid of a guy with one arm, no matter how menacing he seems. "You wanna fight, Jeff?" he asks quietly. I don't say anything, but my muscles are tight, ready to strike. He lets Scully slip out of his arms and she doesn't move to strike him. The fear in her eyes surprises me. Krycek turns those smoky green eyes to me and I wonder if I looks as scared as Scully does. But Krycek isn't going to grab me and squeeze my breast and breathe into my hair. He's angry. "You fucked up, Jeffy-boy." He knows the blow to my stomach, where I was shot, will hurt the most, and he packs all of his power into it. By the time I remember how to breathe, his first has connected with my face. "That was for Marita," Krycek breathes as I try to hold my cheekbone together. I can feel the swelling instantly throbbing all through my face and my teeth. "Enough," Scully says, bored and annoyed. She doesn't throw herself between us and I glare at Krycek. Both of us are breathing hard. He's wearing his trademark tight jeans and tighter T-shirt, muscles rippling. I sucker punch him and his yelp brings me satisfaction. A second later, his eyes are filled with murder and he's trying to forcibly remove my head from my body. Crying uncle isn't an option. Scully's looking at the floor like she can't decide what to do. I half expect her to head out the door and let us kill each other. "That's enough," she says in an incredibly soft voice, placing one cold hand on my arm and one on Krycek's. As though captured by a magical spell, we both stop and look at her, out arms dropping to our sides, the fight finished. She holds my eyes for a long time, until I find my breath short, before she looks to Krycek. "Why are you here?" "Aren't you happy to see me, sweetheart?" "Drop the act," she orders coldly. "What do you want from me?" He picks up her arm and she doesn't pull away. The long white limb is limp and he turns it over in his hand. I can see her veins beneath her pale skin, from elbow to wrist. "There's a lot of things I want," he says after trailing that blue rope in her arm. "You're out for blood, Krycek?" her voice is uneven. He nods and I know I would kill to protect her. He caresses her eyebrow and it's obscene. She can't look at him and her posture is stiff. He releases her as though giving her a gift and she wraps her arms around herself. "Where's Mulder?" Krycek looks pointedly at me. I'm still Mulder's pale substitute. I shake my head. "I was hoping you'd know," Scully admits and surprises me with her honesty. She sits down carefully on the edge of the bed, not taking it over with her presence, unwilling to trap herself in a place where she can be cornered. "What've you got there?" Krycek turns to me and scoops a Milky Way bar from where it fell during our scuffle. He tears into it like an animal that hasn't been fed. His teeth are white and even and I meet Scully's eyes after watching his capable lips. She's having the same thought and my heart almost stops. No woman ever looked that way about me. "Nothing about your ants in the Post," I tell her, tossing the paper to her. "You know about the ants?" Krycek has a smudge of chocolate in the corner of his mouth. Scully's gaze is direct. "I was right, then. That's why you're here. It's beginning." "It's begun," Krycek says. "I need you to come with me." "Where?" she asks. I'm watching a tennis match or a movie. As a spectator, what will become of me when they leave here? Krycek went to a lot of trouble to save my life but he seems to have figured out just how useless that is finally. "Quebec," Krycek answers and she nods, agreeing, without asking any other questions. For once, he's forthcoming. Those bedroom eyes lock with mine and he says, "There's a woman we may be able to get antibodies from. She's only been dead a week or two." I close my eyes and swallow hard. She did it. And he blames me. Suddenly the biggest thing I have to worry about is that I'm going to cry in front of both of them. Krycek stares at me with a fire that will haunt my nightmares. He wants to put me in the ground next to her. The words "it's not my fault" spring disgustingly easily to my lips, but I can't say them. I am not the man I was, and the biggest part of that is accountability. I didn't protect her the way I should have. "Marita," Scully guesses, gauging the look between us. I find the courage to break the stare and look at her, nodding. The silence hangs until she requests, "Can someone explain it to me?" "I think I'd like an explanation myself, Jeff," Krycek snipes and the bed sinks beneath his weight. She doesn't look at him. Suddenly on stage, my mouth is dry and my palms are wet. "Her screams were terrible and her mind...cleared when I took out the implant in her neck. She begged me to. But then the cancer...stole her mind again. You knew," I appealed to Krycek. "You gave me the gun, but I couldn't...after being shot I couldn't hurt her. I knew she would find it and...I guess she did." The carpet looks badly abused, stained and tread-upon. I can't raise my head. I try to catch my breath, knowing if I can regulate the gasps, the tears will stop. I feel her arms before I hear her whispering, "It's okay." She envelops me in her arms, the way my mother never did, and bears the weight of my sobs with her body. "It's okay," she murmurs, over and over until I almost believe it. Her hand on my neck pulls my head up and suddenly its weight isn't too heavy for me to hold up. I want to thank her, but I can't. Krycek looks like he's going to be sick. I can feel his judgment straight through to my bones and my face tinges pink. Scully checks my eyes as though she can read my thoughts through them and I manage to smile at her. She nods and releases me. "We've got a long way to go tomorrow," she says and looks at Krycek. "We can wait until tomorrow?" He nods and she picks up a packet of M&Ms - her favorite, I know - and begins to pour them into her mouth. "Get some rest tonight." She crumples the paper wrapper she's emptied in only moments and curls up in the bed, closing her eyes. She can't possibly be asleep but she makes a good show. Krycek and I glare at each other for a long time. He sits on the bed and I stand in the middle of the floor. Finally, he shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it onto the chair. He makes murmuring noises as he snuggles in next to Scully's motionless body. I feel my face burning with anger and shame because he's done what I haven't dared. I don't even move his jacket before retreating to my familiar "bed" on the chair, inhaling his musk as I drift into a dreamless sleep. xxx xxx xxx I feel like Snow White. Someday my prince will come, but until then I've got a couple of little boys who are depending on me. I'm sure no one has characterized Alex Krycek as a little boy in a very long time, but he should watch his behavior in the future unless he wants it to stick. He's been playing in the dirt, I can smell it on him as he lies next to me, sleeping hard and sweating. The jeans would be uncomfortable, but I can't imagine sleeping with a prosthetic arm. I couldn't even sleep with my retainer in when I was fifteen. Mulder whispered into my ear that he loved my teeth. I don't want to think about having a prosthetic arm. We've all given too much to this. I wish I knew where Mulder is. Krycek can't keep his hands to himself and he talks in his sleep, snuffling and snorting half in Russian. I'd rather sleep with Spender, who never seems to change position in his chair and never complains of cricks or aches. I sit up and watch him for awhile as Krycek begins to slobber on my hip, his hot arm snaking around my back. I need air, I need water, and I think I need some more M&Ms. I just need Mulder. I've been in this room long enough to maneuver perfectly in the darkness, slipping the cellophane cover from the thin plastic cup and filling it with water from the tap. I never would have drunk tap water before this. It really must be the end of the world. It's not cold enough and I let it run, gulping down glass after glass until my stomach threatens to burst. I slip outside and a mist of fog settles against my skin. My watch tells me it's 2 in the morning. This is our last night here. The cool air feels like the water sliding down my throat - refreshing, but not satisfying. It's quiet. "Are you okay?" Company. I turn and see a tired-eyed Spender blinking at me. He's got a massive bruise where Krycek hit him. I nod. "Fine." He nods and silence settles. Blessed silence. I search for something to say, but the words aren't there. It's nice to have someone who is comfortable with the quiet. It was like that between Mulder and me sometimes. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay," he says, either inviting me to say more or making an excuse to go back inside and go back to sleep. I look at him and can't decide which. I nod again and realize he's shivering. It is actually cold out here in the darkness. "You can go back in," I tell him. He makes no move for the door. He's waiting for me, to make certain I come inside safely. It's sweet and annoying at the same time. I come up with some change from my pocket and go to the vending machine, aware that his eyes follow me the entire way. The packet of M&Ms is open before I return to his side. It's later than I thought - the first pink and yellow rays of sunshine are starting to streak the sky. Spender starts when I grab his hand and I realize I've been too rough. Gentler, I turn his fingers over in my hand and open his palm, studying the square fingers. I pour half of the M&Ms over the lines and creases and he closes his hand involuntarily, almost finding a smile for me. It's like feeding a baby bird. He pops the candy into his mouth. It's like a goddamn commercial, the way we bond over chocolate and the sunrise. The door makes a noise when it opens. "What the hell are you doing out here?" Krycek demands, his voice high with irritation. I turn, all emotion masked behind my monotonous tone. "It's time to go," I say and walk back into the motel before either of the men. xxx xxx xxx The Shovel and the Shallow Grave She jumps when she sees the puddle of blood staining the wood floor of the cabin and Krycek is right there to comfort her. I seethe with a quiet anger the way I have for the days it took us to drive up to Quebec, sitting in the back seat like a child while meaningful discussion took place over my head. I couldn't even make the attempt; the front seat was his. Scully drove. Even when she slept and I took over, Krycek remained in the passenger seat like a warning to me. Krycek doesn't know as much as he pretends to. I hope she sees through his glib talk and excuses. She turns and looks from the stain to me, as though I am responsible for what happened to Rita. I hold her eyes, my only protestation of innocence. I held her when she sobbed and I did as she asked me when she screamed. I'm not the one who killed her. Krycek puts a shovel into my hands and I rip my eyes away from Scully. The pain is sharp and sudden. He wants me to dig her up. "I'll show you where," he says and I follow him from the cabin, taking one last look at Scully and wondering where Krycek hid the gun when he cleaned up. He points and stands back. Spring was quick to claim the land back and flowers have already begun to sprout on the dark, upturned earth. He didn't put her very deep and the stench is terrible, but not as bad as the decay. I've never seen an old, dead body before and the coffee I drank at six o'clock that morning rushes up the back of my throat. I drop the shovel and turn away, wanting to run. Scully is there. Her face is hard, a ceramic mask. She kneels next to Rita and examines her like she was never a person, like she never breathed and felt and fought. "I don't think there's anything we can do," she says. Krycek nods. Scully's produced a ziploc bag and slips some tissue inside in spite of her words. As she gets to her feet, she places a hand on my arm, almost comfortingly, and walks back to the cabin. Krycek follows her, leaving me with the shovel and the shallow grave. When I turn around and look, he has his hands on her. Why does she let him do that? I wonder, realizing that she must like it. Like him. I must be wrong about Scully. I begin to put the dirt back over Rita's ravaged body. The muscles burn but I move until I'm drenched in sweat and she is no longer exposed to the elements and prying eyes and larger predators. Only the bugs and the bacteria will have her now. I walk slowly back to the cabin, measuring my footsteps, uncertain what I will find when I arrive. Krycek has a way about him that has nothing to do with his green eyes and his eyelashes and his little turned up nose or even his damnably tight black jeans. It's a relaxation I'll never know, a comfortableness and ease. They've been waiting for me and I'm glad I walked slowly. "What next?" I ask. "I need access to a lab," Scully says, looking at Krycek. He can arrange anything. I'm just along for the ride. "Tonight," says Krycek, paging through a novel from the built-in shelves. Oh god. Scully's diary. It's here. If she finds it...shame floods me at having read it, for being privy to her most closely held, painful thoughts. Of course as I panic she rises and walks to the shelves. But she doesn't search. Her small, capable hands go straight to the Yahtzee game, and her eyes turn to me. An invitation. I played with Rita and now she's dead. I sit down on the floor anyway. xxx xxx xxx "You call this access?" I scoff, knowing Krycek hates it when I complain. We are in the midst of breaking into an office complex on the outskirts of Quebec. I wonder if the alarm will sound French when it goes off. "Better than nothing," he whispers tensely and jerks his arm. The door opens and he shoves me inside, following so closely I can feel the heat of his body on my back. Spender's bringing up the rear. Krycek wanted to leave him back at the cabin, but I couldn't. I don't want to be alone with Krycek, who seems so angry but his eyes didn't change at the sight of the dead woman back there in the woods. I remember when an autopsy in progress made him convulse and gag. The way Spender did today. I want to tell him not to turn out like Krycek, but he probably won't even have the chance. Besides, I couldn't imagine Krycek washing out test tubes and helping in the lab. The skin sample is useless when I get it under the microscope. I want to toss it to the floor and hear the slide shatter. Instead, I turn calmly and fold my arms, catching Krycek's eyes. "I need answers if this is going to work," I tell him. "Anything you need to know, sweetheart." He's doing this purposely to make me uncomfortable, he must be. I allow him to toy with the strand of hair that's escaped my ponytail. "The bees are carrying the alien virus. The black oil," I say and he nods, his fingers still moving over the strand of hair. It pulls lights at my scalp, prickling. Like most women, I do have a soft center and right now it's focused on that feeling and the fantasy that next he will take my head in his hands and kiss me. I don't want to kiss him and I keep my voice firm. "It makes humans the host to the monster that rips out of them." He nods again. "The aliens are going to turn us into artificial wombs." "Something like that." He drops my hair. I wonder what Spender thinks of all this, how much he knows, but if I glance away from Krycek, my power will be lost. "We need a vaccine. To prevent the spread of infection. Or a cure, like the one that was used on me." Krycek is staring back, so I must be correct. "I'm not an immunologist." "You're all we've got." The fabric of his jeans whispers as he shifts position. His gaze focused on me is intense. "You received the only dose of the weak vaccine and it saved you." The only dose? And they chose me. I'm not touched, really, I have to wonder why me. As I've wondered so often in the dead of night for the last four years since my abduction, why me. Krycek doesn't know I remember him. Now I turn my head. "Spender, I need a hand here." He approaches instantly, a good Igor doing the mad scientist's bidding. I put the length of rubber tubing into his hands and he looks at it like he doesn't understand. Maybe it would have been easier to tie around my own arm, using my teeth like drug addicts in the movies. I hold out my arm and he ties it gently, as though he's afraid he'll hurt me. "Tighter," I urge and Krycek snickers. I glare at him and Spender yanks the tubing. I look down. For someone as pale as I am, I have terrible veins. One finally appears and I spear it, sucking out my own blood and watching it fill a tube. The only sound in the room is my breathing, much louder than the buzzing of the fluorescent lights overhead. At least we're not doing this by flashlight. The tube fills and I pull the needle out, watching the blood well up in the crook of my elbow. I'm just going to leave it, but Spender stops me, unknotting the tubing and wiping my blood away with his bare fingers. No doctor I know would take such a risk and I stare at him. "Scully?" Krycek's voice reminds me why I'm here. I whirl around and look at him, staring openly at his prosthetic. I know why he lost his arm, Mulder told me about what happened in Russia. I suspect Mulder is immune to the alien virus and at least I know he's safe that way. If only I knew where he was. But there are larger issues here than my poor broken heart. "You're next." "Uh-uh," he protests, sounding all of seven years old. "You were vaccinated in Russia. Like Mulder," I say. He looks impressed, but still walks away when I approach him with the needle. "Damn it, hold still," I cry and Spender grabs Krycek from behind, trying to hold him for me. Krycek turns on him and knocks Spender to the floor "Are you hurt?" I ask, not taking my eyes off Krycek who is behaving like a cornered animal. Spender mutters but he's not hurt. "Krycek," I say softly. "It's just a little blood. It won't hurt at all." He's afraid. "I won't hurt you." Because I've implied that he's afraid, he thrusts his arm out, so forcefully he almost punches me in the stomach. I draw the blood as quickly as I can and he turns away disgustedly, glaring at Spender before slipping into the hallway to stand guard. "How can I help?" Spender asks. "Just stay out of my way," I advise and he does so, immediately, moving back to watch me work. The should be a similar element in my blood as Krycek's. That will be the antibody to the black oil. But Krycek's blood is different. It looks like Mulder's after he'd been exposed to the toxin in the green alien blood. It's slightly thicker, filled with coagulants. I've never seen anything like it. Then I see the same elements in my blood, thousands of times smaller. It looks like the black oil. It looks like the stuff that almost killed Skinner. "Krycek!" I holler, but he's out in the hallway. Spender's jumped at the sound of my scream. "Go get him." He goes wordlessly and I stare at my discovery. Are these nanites, living inside of us? I can't figure out what the hell they are. "What?" Krycek is angry and his look is dark. "Come take a look at this." "It won't mean anything to me." He sounds so lazy. "Look at it," I order and he ambles over to the microscope where I've inserted his slide. "That's your blood." "Is that what blood's supposed to look like?" he asks. "No," I answer and he raises his head. "Do you know anything about nanotechnology?" "That's not nanotechnology," he informs me. "Guess you do," I say, keeping the ball in the air. "What is it?" "You're the doctor, you tell me." I really want to punch him. "It must be the immunity," I say, turning back to the microscope, my mind full of theories I'm not going to be able to prove. The foremost one in my mind involves blocked receptors, possibly on the cell DNA itself. I'm not going to be able to do this alone. "Good," says Krycek. But I'm working, and I pretend not to have heard him. I work and work and when he says, "It's almost six," I wave my hand, wanting just a few more minutes even though my feet and back are aching and my knees are about to give out. "We have to go. Now." His voice is insistent. When I look up, the room swims before it pulls into focus. The sun has risen. "Pack your stuff and let's go." I store the slides and samples, taking the supplies from this company. I'm stealing. I wish I could steal a microscope, too. The cooler seems impossibly heavy at the end of my arm and Spender takes it from me. We get into the car and pull out just as the first employee enters the other end of the parking lot. It feels so good to sit down in the passenger seat and I let my head fall against the window. The next thing I know, Krycek is trying to pull me out of the car. "What?" "We're here," he says. "I was trying not to wake you." "You failed." I put my feet on the ground and push away from him. "You need some rest." He's playing with my hair again. "Probably," I agree. "Don't we need to be moving on?" "We can wait a few hours. Until rush hour is over," he allows. "Where are we going?" I ask him. He is the one who knows what's in the cards. "I'll tell you later. Get some sleep," he orders. I walk into the cabin and Spender's found the chair, just like in the motel room. He already looks like he's asleep. The quilt on the bed smells musty but I wrap it around my body anyway. It occurs to me then that this is where Marita slept and my eyes refuse to close. Krycek has locked the door and taken a seat and pulled out a handheld computer. "That's cool," I say. He looks at me. "I thought I told you to sleep." "I don't always do what I'm told. Where'd you get it?" I drag the quilt across the floor with me to look over his shoulder. It's the smallest computer I've ever seen. It looks like a toy. "Japanese prototype," he says. "I used to have connections." "Can I look at it when you're finished?" I ask and for a second I think he's going to close it up and slip it back into his jacket pocket. I guess the answer is no. "What're you doing?" "Checking the news reports." Using the stylus, he scrolls quickly through screen after screen and I try to figure out how something so tiny can be connected to the internet. It's thinner even than the cellular phone that never left my side. "Damn it." "What?" "Bees." "Where?" "California." He put the computer back in his pocket and crosses the room, kicking at Spender's legs as though he were a dog. "Get up, we have to leave. We're going to have to fly." "They'll want identification," I say. At least one of us is supposed to be dead, and Krycek and I are both fugitives. "I know," Krycek snarls. "We'll have to hurry." xxx xxx xxx They said it never rained in Southern California, but we spent the afternoon watching the storm from the plate glass window of our motel room, facing the parking lot, the pool that hadn't been cleaned since a distant fall, and the motel office. The girl behind the motel counter never wavered from her window. She never turned to computer in front of her, never picked up a fashion magazine. She watched the weather and so did we. I watched her, but she didn't seem to notice us. Krycek was so still he didn't seem to be alive and yet I knew if I moved, he'd be faster. Scully's not here to protect me now. She's consulting with an old friend, an expert in immunology. I have no doubt they have their heads together over their microscopes, comparing notes. Anyone else would take advantage of the freedom and have some fun. Anyone else visiting a male friend from her college days might be tempted to make conversation, whip up some spark of flirting. Scully never did. I have no idea how I came to be obsessed with her. I never thought it possible to be obsessed with a woman I spend every waking hour with, but I haven't solved even half of her mysteries. I don't like this feeling, I don't like the way my eyes are drawn to her whenever she's in the room, even to the point where I can't sleep with her lying in the bed across the darkened room at night. It isn't right. The clouds are still dark overhead, providing a stark contrast with the sun trying to emerge from behind them. The rain is still falling, but it's gentler now, illuminated by sunlight. Krycek is watching me. Is this how Scully feels under our constant gaze? I wish he wouldn't look at me and all I can do is ignore him. The air is hot with tension, roiling like the clash of cool and hot air in the clouds above us. Thunder booms, impossibly loud, and I fight the urge to cringe. The power flickers off and it's dark in the motel room without the orange-shaded bulb. I look at him and his eyes are as dark as the clouds. When I was a boy, people told me that when the sky and the air turns green in a thunderstorm, it means a tornado is coming. I saw it once, not the tornado, but the sky as it was happening. Somewhere unseen, the whirlwind created a roaring in my ears and I vaguely remember my mother screaming something about it being a sign. Even then, I knew it was just weather. Krycek's eyes look like that now and I want to back away from him, but I can't show my fear. "Are you afraid of the dark, Jeffrey?" he asks, that voice gliding out, sliding through my ears and into me, into my stomach which begins to burn. If I so much as blink, he'll win, so I don't respond. He doesn't move for a long time, like a snake out waiting its prey. But I can sit as still as he can when it means avoiding danger or punishment. I wish I knew how he did it, drew all the light in the room to him like some kind of shining messiah. Even Scully can't look away from him when he wants to draw her into his spell. His hand reaches out to me, following the same trail his voice took, across my cheek and brushing my ear to grasp the back of my neck like a lover. "Don't touch me." "What would you do?" he asks me, tightening the grip on my neck. It's a warning. He could kill me, snap my spine in a second, and in my fear I've let him gain the upper hand. "Hm?" Krycek raises an eyebrow to match the rising tone of his voice, a question that's answerless and taunting. If I had a knife, I'd stab him. I'm going to get a knife and this isn't going to happen again. "I said, don't touch me." We've been drawn into a mesmerizing dance and all I can do is raise my voice threateningly. With a snap flash of lightning, he drops his hand and it's like the moment never was. His eyes are transfixed on the window again as though something called him to look there. I frown at him and touch my neck in a stupid gesture, like I'm proving to myself that it's still there. And then I look out the window. It's dark with the dancing bodies of the bees. As they dart this way and that way, I can sense something angry in them. Bees can't be blatantly, hostile, or so I believed until this moment. I'm out of my chair and so is Krycek. His mouth is open and he's staring transfixed at the motel clerk. She has streaming brown hair, down to her waist, now that she's stepped from behind the counter and I can see her. The look on her face is horrified as she watches the bees swarm just a glass window's thickness from her. She puts both hands on the glass and the bees seem drawn to her, converging. She moves toward the door. It had a bell on it, I think, when we checked in. A little bell so she would know to look up from her studying and no one could sneak up on her. She doesn't look old enough to be out of high school. "Shit, no!" I scream, pounding on the window myself, but it's as though I don't exist. The girl moves slowly toward certain doom, the headband she wears in her hair slipping backwards as the door closes ominously behind her. She's on the ground in ten seconds. It's the most horrifying thing I've ever seen in my life. He's touching me again, his hand on my wrist the only thing keeping me from running out the door myself, to try to help her. I look at him. Doesn't he understand? She's dead. He lets go of my wrist. "I'll let you go, Jeff. If you want to die," he says. "We have to do something." But going outside is clearly not an option. The bees continue to swarm. She must be dead by now. I hope. I feel like a coward. Krycek tosses his cell phone at me and I grab it against my stomach, almost dropping it. My hands are shaking. I hadn't noticed. I've got my finger on the 9 when he says, "Get Scully here now." He stands by the window, watching, and I stare at him for a second. Not 911? Right, the bees, the alien virus, did she leave the number? I tear through the papers on the bedside table, aware that her pen between her fingers have littered most of them. Scully never seemed the type to doodle. I find the number and dial it and tell her to get here, now. The terror in my voice precludes any questions. She'll be here. When I turn around again, the sun is out. The rain is gone, the clouds are gone, and the bees are gone. They're gone, all of them, like they never were. Except for the dead body on the pavement. My eyes burn and I look at Krycek. He's still again. Waiting for Scully. xxx xxx xxx Spender trails me like a goddamn puppy who's wanted to go outside all afternoon. I had him going good before. He looked half hopeful and half terrified. I'd almost made myself believe I wanted to kill him. As a rule, I don't play with my victims. I don't even think of them as victims. I'm an assassin, I kill people who deserve to be killed, and I go about my business. Kinda like John Cusack in that stupid movie, only I'm not going to the prom with Minnie Driver. I'll admit I'm still a little upset about Marita. But Spender's easier to control when he's afraid - I learned that from his father. He almost wet his pants when the bees came. I didn't expect him to try to go after the girl. It's good that he saw. I'm glad Scully missed it, I realize as her car speeds up, screeching to a halt just short of banging into the wall of the motel. She can't drive worth a damn. It's more annoying than cute. She jumps out of the car and I head out of the motel with Spender dogging my heels. He's so into Scully, half the time I can barely keep from laughing. If I burst out laughing for no reason, though, Scully would think I'm nuts and she already knows I can't be trusted. Observant girl. Spender doesn't rush to the object of his affection and jump on her, licking her face and sniffing her crotch. He's the picture of restraint as he barely glances at Scully and races to the dead woman. The stings have welled up and her face is misshapen. Scully runs after him, her feet confident in her high heels on the wet pavement. I amble after them. Nothing I can do. She's already dead, and that's the only specialty I have. Knew I should have finished high school. "Be careful," Scully barks out just as Spender's about to touch the woman. His hands hover mid-air and he looks at her. "There could be bees trapped in her clothing or, ugh, her hair." She moves handfuls of the stuff out of the way to put two fingers to the dead girl's neck, checking for a pulse. "I think she's dead," I say, bitingly sarcastic. My best Mulder imitation. She gives me that unamused look she seems to have reserved for him. "What the hell happened here, Krycek?" I love it when she says my name like that. It crunches in her mouth. She's so damned angry. "I guess they're still using bees after all." I jam my hands into my pockets and look at her. "Unless fire ants can fly?" It's an actual question and she shakes her head. "What'd your friend tell you?" "I had to leave before we could draw any conclusions. He said he'd keep working on it." "He didn't think it was weird?" I ask her. "He's met Mulder." Her mouth almost manages the shadow of a smile. Thinking of Mulder. How dreary. "We have to get this girl to a hospital," Scully orders and Spender sighs as though to say, finally. He'll be surprised by Scully's next words. "We have to get her on ice and I'd like to do an autopsy." Scully looks at me and I know exactly what she's telling me with that glance. I get the girl's feet in flowered Doc Martens and Scully hauls her shoulders. As promised, dead bees fall to the pavement. I wish I had my sunglasses; that sun is really something. "Autopsy?" Spender screeches. "Um, she's dead. Don't you think a doctor should look at her?" I look at Scully and she's about to explain that she is a doctor, albeit a doctor of the dead. She's come to a halt while Spender raves, and the kid we're holding wasn't exactly a lightweight. "Shouldn't we tell someone?" "That's the fun of being in a secret war to save the world, Jeff," I point out. "We can't tell anybody." He stares at me like I was speaking Russian. Which I wasn't. Scully rolls her eyes and I prefer to believe it's a comment about Spender and we toss the girl into the trunk of the car. Scully's eyes darken when I slam the lid. Yeah, she was in a trunk like that once. But she wasn't dead and that was the difference. "Stop!" she screams, and by the time I've recovered my hearing, she's across the parking lot again, holding both of Spender's arms at the wrists. He's crouched where the girl died and his look is confused. He hasn't died and gone to heaven...yet. By the time I walk on over, Scully's gone into full lecture mode and I fear for the health of her brain cells because she doesn't seem to have breathed in the whole time she was talking. She's a long winded one, that's for sure. "I don't think you understand the gravity of this situation," she explains. "I appreciate your wanting to gather samples for me, but what this woman died of is not bee venom, it's a virus, the alien virus that's going to take over the world in about a week if we don't do something and I'm pretty sure there's nothing we can do. I'm immune and Krycek's immune but you're not immune which is why I want you to get as far away from these fucking bees as possible and stay away from them, do I make myself clear?" Spender looks stunned by the force of her sheer being. His mouth is hanging open and he looks whipped. "Yeah," he says, unable to stop staring at Scully. She nods at me. "Krycek, get some of the bees," she suggests, knowing that I have a plastic arm that's immune to poison. I grab a handful and shove them into the plastic bag she's holding open. I look her over, wondering where she keeps those at the ready the way my grandma had tissues when I was toddling. "Are you okay?" she puts her hand on Spender's arm and looks earnestly into his eyes. I turn away, thinking it's mean of her to be encouraging him, but she doesn't know what she's encouraging. Scully's blindness to her own charms is, indeed, one of her charms. I throw the bees into the glove compartment and settle into the passenger seat, preparing myself for another go at Agent Scully's Wild Ride. Maybe in between the bees and the fire ants and trying to save the world, we could stop by Disneyland. Nah, better save that for after we save the world. I glance in the rearview mirror and watch Scully and Spender have what appears to be a heart to heart. She's doing all the talking, of course. I sigh and take a welcome moment to relax. It's not easy keeping the bitter, cynical walls up all the time. xxx xxx xxx I sent Spender to get some ice, knowing these things crave heat. I don't want the alien to hatch and jump out and slice us all to ribbons. I don't want the alien to hatch at all. How many bees were there? How many got away? Krycek is watching me menacingly and I want to interrogate him about the crime scene: what were the bees wearing? How tall were they? "I'm going to make the Y incision," I say. He probably thinks I'm talking to myself. Maybe I am; I often narrate the autopsies as I perform them. Sometimes I'm talking into a tape, making notes, but even when I'm not, I talk. But maybe I just want to warn Krycek so he can look away. I remember him tossing his cookies when Mulder introduced me to him in the morgue. Or maybe it was an already accomplished killer putting on a darn good act. With Krycek, you never know. I glance at him. He's looking back, his eyes lazy with boredom. Those eyes look like a cat's, after it's had its cream. Then I look down to cut into the body. It's already gone kind of mushy and I can't help thinking about how many crimes we're committing. This girl is going to become another missing child, a runaway teen. She looks barely old enough to be out of high school. God, how many other missing children aren't missing at all but taken by the conspiracy for experiments? Suddenly my hands are shaking. The alien is clinging between her stomach and her heart, encased in some sort of an amniotic sac. Spender dashes in and plunks down the bags of ice, spreading the cubes around the body with hands that are sort of helpless because his face is turned the other way. I wonder if there's time to send him for a camera. Finally, I have become an alien autopsy doctor. Mulder would be so proud. "There ought to be a camera in the cabinet over there," I say to either of the men, but neither of them respond. I raise my head and meet Spender's brown gaze. "Could you bring it to me, please?" He nods and ambles over to the metal-finish cabinets underneath the sink. I half-watch as he pulls out an ancient camera and a roll of film. He juggles the camera against his body as he loads the film and starts back to me. Krycek jostles him like a playground bully and the camera crashes to the tile over cement floor. To make sure it's good and truly broken, Krycek smashes it under his foot, putting all of his weight into it while making the move look effortless. Spender looks shocked. "No pictures," Krycek snarls, directing the words at me. "No evidence." "We might need to know about this later," I tell him, but his expression is hard, impassive. He doesn't care, I think. "There will be more," he says, holding my eyes threateningly. I stare back for a long moment. Ultimately it is Spender who breaks our childish staring contest. He groans and I look at him, seeing how pale his skin has gotten. "I don't feel very well," he says and my heart speeds up with worry. "You can lie down here," Krycek offers, pulling out one of the lower morgue slabs which is mercifully empty. Spender shakes his head and lumbers into the bathroom. We listen as he empties the contents of his stomach. "Guess it's too much excitement for him." I glare at Krycek, thinking he's a real asshole sometimes. I begin to snap off my gloves to go and see how Spender is, if he's really sick or if he just has a problem with dead bodies. Most people aren't terribly fond of the dead. It's an affront to their own concepts of immortality. It's really very healthy. "Where are you going?" Krycek demands. "Someone has to see if he's okay," I snap, implying he's not about to do it. "Jeff, you okay?" Krycek calls. "Mm," Spender says back. "I think I'm going to stay in here a while." "He's fine. Finish," Krycek orders. He has his gun loaded and out, his hand resting against it casually, almost caressing the shining metal. I thought it was so he could shoot any unruly aliens. Maybe I was wrong. The alien fetus has grown since I walked away. "Will this thing die if I cut it open?" I ask, not wanting to get a surprise. I know about the pointy tool that goes into the back of the neck. I've held it in my hands and even used it on one of them, unsuccessfully. I'm lucky he didn't kill me. I've always wondered why he didn't. "It should." Krycek's helpful advice is drown out by the scream of the monster as I stab it with the scalpel. I realize I should have cut its ties with the body system of its host first. A liquid shoots into the air from its body and I step back quickly, so it misses me. It seems to sizzle against the tiles on the floor. At least it doesn't burn through like the acidic alien goo in "Alien." I really don't want to end up battling this thing in my panties. I wouldn't look half as good as Sigourney Weaver. Honestly. "What the fuck was that?" I ask Krycek and he shrugs. I'm the doctor here. I get to work severing the fetus from its support system and watch for several very long moments as it shudders, weeps, and finally dies. I glance at Krycek, finding my mouth incredibly dry. I may have a future as an abortion doctor after all. I pull the alien out and plop it on the table, then try to decide. Will it be more useful to autopsy the alien or to autopsy the girl and see what it did to her in its efforts to take over? Hell, we have all day. It is saving the world we're talking about. By the time Spender's crawled out of the bathroom, careful to shield his eyes so he won't get a glimpse of what I'm doing, the alien is in several pieces at the bottom of the medical wastes container. I memorized everything I could so I can draw it later. My skills as an artist are severely lacking, but I'm the only one working here. "Scully's Anatomy - a guide to the other worlds." Maybe it has a ring to it. I wonder if it will find its home in the New Age or the Science section of Barnes and Noble. A week from now, there might not be any Barnes and Noble or anything else. I haven't learned much from the girl. The alien acted much as any other parasite, cancer, or even a naturally occurring gestational organism. It set up feeder lines and spun a web of its own blood vessels, drawing heat and nutrients from its breakdown of the decomposing body. It was really very efficient, and I had no idea of how to stop it. This thing had once taken root inside of me and I was saved only by the weak vaccine Mulder injected when he found me. I push off from the table and pull off my gloves, not wanting to deal with the clean-up issues yet. I face Krycek, who is inspecting his neatly trimmed and buffed fingernails. No blood under them. "I need some answers," I say and he looks up. "How did the vaccine work?" He doesn't respond. "I'm thinking it had to inhibit the process the parasite takes, preventing it from setting up shop. Sort of like the new developments in cancer drugs, which prevent the cancer from growing by preventing the formation of new blood vessels to feed it." He's looking at me like I'm speaking in tongues. "Hello?" "I have no idea," Krycek answers. "Were you there when they did the experiments on whatshername?" I demand. The blond. Mulder's friend. Informant. "Rita," Spender says sadly, eyes trained on the floor. "Did she tell you anything?" I can't help it, my voice softens when I address him. He doesn't seem able to take it the way I know Krycek can. It's often difficult to believe this is the same man who lorded over the X Files for half a year, trying to get Mulder and me tossed into the brig every other week. He shakes his head. "They drove it out through her eyes. That's all I know." I'm thinking about the black oil that came up from the bottom of the ocean. "That's how it exits when it can't take hold," I say. I swear Krycek shivers at the words and I frown at him. "How did it kill her?" Spender asks. "Anaphylactic shock stopped her heart almost instantly." But she wasn't allergic to the bee stings, not really. The virus, wanting to spin itself into a complete organism, is a powerful toxin. The virus is different than the black oil in that respect, I realize. The black oil is already a complete organism, wishing to use the human body to reproduce itself. The virus was engineered to use humans to replicate, just like any other virus needs willing cells to replicate itself. Humans have never found a cure for viruses. And if this one mutates, as I suspect it does... "We're toast," I say, kicking one of the legs of the autopsy table, sending it crashing away from me, careening to a stop when it smacks into the cabinets. Krycek averts his eyes and I notice he's put his gun away. Spender looks afraid, but it is he who comes over to me, pulling the stained white lab coat from my shoulders and tugging it down my arms. He folds it once, inside out so his hands won't get dirty, and sets it on the counter. I am drenched with sweat, I realize, and suddenly feel like a rung out dishrag. My knees are weak from bearing my weight and I see that the clock on the wall reads 11 p.m. I'm tired, and with good reason. Autopsies are slow work, but absorbing. "You'll think more clearly when you've had something to eat and some rest," he promises, leading me away. I glance at Krycek as though to get permission. He nods once, curtly, and I wonder when he became the one to crack the whip over my head. I used to crack my own whip, and I still want to. I feel close to something, but like a name I've forgotten, it can't break through the haze in my brain to make its presence felt. "But -" I protest, looking back at all the stuff we're leaving in the morgue. The authorities are going to be all over this. Krycek catches my eye and almost smiles as he tapes a sign to the door. "QUARANTINE" it says. There is a roll of red tape in his hand and he seals the cracks around the door. I stare at the biohazard symbol until he pulls me away. "We can't go back to the motel," he says, taking command. He puts his hand in my pocket to find the car keys and I let him, even though I don't think it was necessary for him to grope me as he did so. I let it slide because I get to sit in the car with my head against the window and rest as he drives around, looking for a place suitably sleazy. "Don't you have credit cards in your false identities?" I ask, making him look at me. I hate the way he steps on the brake every time he takes his eyes off the road. Krycek's a shitty driver and it has nothing to do with only having one arm. He seems unwilling to take even the smallest chance, quite unlike his personality the rest of the time. Maybe he has thought of better ways to die than in a smash up due to a risky left turn in front of traffic. The guy I had a crush on in high school once told me the way you drive a car is the same as the way you make love. It sent my sixteen year old mind whirling. It makes me raise an eyebrow now. "Can't we stay somewhere nice?" I'm dangerously close to whining here. I want to take off my shoes and put my feet up. I have several thousand pages of notes to write and no hope of a nice laptop computer to help me organize them. I will figure this thing out, it's just a matter of putting the pieces together in the right order and finding out how they lock, like assembling a jigsaw puzzle painted black on both sides. Krycek signals and turns into a Howard Johnson's. He checks us in and I turn around to look at Spender. "You okay?" I ask. He nods. "I don't like death," he says. His color looks better. "No one does," I reply. "You didn't get stung?" He would be dead if he'd been stung, wouldn't he? But I didn't die instantly. He shakes his head and Krycek returns, gauging the interaction between us. I feel like I've been caught doing something bad, like I'm a child disobeying her nanny. Krycek and Mary Poppins, what a pair. I try to picture him with a flowered hat, carpet bag and big old umbrella and fail. I always get punchy when I'm tired. Howard Johnson's all have the same pattern on the bedspread and the same smell in all the rooms. It smells almost sweet, like a perverted cleaning fluid flavored ozone mixed with dry cleaning solution to mask the smell of secretly smoked cigarettes. I inhale deeply and sit down on one of the beds, opening the nighttable drawer to look for a pad of paper. There is one, with a pen that say Howard Johnson on it in turquoise letters. I let my mind work for a moment. I need to write down my findings and my theories. I need to sketch the alien's systems and figure out what exactly they do. I really wish I had snapshots to help me document. I need to take a shower, because my shirt feels damp under my arms and I have the distinct feeling that I smell. But I'm tired, so I decide to do all of these things when I wake up, lowering my head to the pillow and closing my eyes for some instant sleep. I think I hear Krycek say, "That's amazing," but I'm not sure. xxx xxx xxx It was a quiet night. Scully roused for a few minutes when Krycek sent me to get some greasy burgers from the diner before it closed. She downed a hamburger enthusiastically and used the bathroom and managed to actually get under the covers when she got back into bed. She must be exhausted. We all are, I think. Krycek lay down in the bed next to her. This motel room has two beds so I don't have to sleep in the chair. I'm glad I don't have to sleep with him, but I don't want him to sleep next to her. My face burns with something more like shame than anger in the darkness. It's probably been hours since he turned out the light, but I'm not going to sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the girl being stung by bees and there's nothing I can do about them as they swirl, agitated, dancing in every direction. I can hear their hum even though I couldn't hear it then. I have to sit up to make certain it's not coming from somewhere in the motel room. Bees like to hide in walls. It's all too easy to imagine them swarming, covering one wall, waiting for me to turn on the light to attack. I've seen one too many Fox specials. It's easy to let your imagination terrify you in the dark. Even more so if you know that the terrors are real. I sit up, to make sure the bees humming is only in my mind. There isn't a sound. Scully's sleeping on her side, with one arm up over her head, facing me. It doesn't matter what motel we're in, she always takes the bed farthest from the door, and sleeps on the inside, next to the nightstand. Probably so she can be close to the phone and the light. Probably the same reason I like to sleep next to the nightstand, too. I lay back down, imagining that I can hear her breathing. I can hear my heart beating. And then I hear another sound, the bedsprings on the other bed creaking. The shifting of the covers. Rhythmically. Anger washes over me. I know exactly what he's doing, lying in that bed next to her as she sleeps so innocently and I want to break his neck. I can hear him breathing now, in rough, short gasps and I close my eyes, wanting to shut it out, even as I'm getting hard lying there listening to him. I can hear his hand moving against his flesh, the rasp of his hair. I can't believe he's doing that. He must be compulsive or something. It's making me sick and angry but I can't stop listening, wonder what sort of sound he will make when he finishes. I have to make sure he doesn't do anything to Scully. He's grunting now and my skin is growing tight and hot. I close my eyes and think of something else, because I'm not going to do what he's doing, even as my hand wanders downward. His grunts grow more urgent and suddenly Scully sighs. An awake sigh. She tosses back the covers and walks into the bathroom without turning on the light until after she closes the door. Krycek doesn't make another sound and the springs stop creaking. I yawn, wishing for sleep, but stop mid-stretch. Maybe Scully won't want to go back to sleeping next to him after that. Maybe she'll come over here. The toilet flushes in the bathroom and light goes off. The door handle rattles. I never get to find out. Suddenly, there is a serious of loud thuds against the door of the motel room. I sit up, my heart pounding as though I've been woken from a dream. The door flies open, banging against the opposite wall. The men in the doorway have a huge, bright flashlight, not to mention the light of the hall silhouetting them, blinding me. "Get up." "No," Scully is standing just outside the bathroom door and the man turns the light on her, illuminating her white skin and mussed-up hair. Her thighs look smooth and vulnerably exposed beneath the shorts she's wearing. "Get up and get dressed. This area is being evacuated." "Evacuated?" Scully asks in that I-can't-believe-this tone she has. "You've got ten minutes." The door bangs closed and I hear the purveyor of doom move on to the next room. I fumble for the light, wondering if Krycek's managed to get his pants back up. I squint against its brightness. Krycek's lounging on his pillow, his eyes open, the blankets covering his lap. "What the hell is this about?" Scully demands. "Are we going to go with them?" I ask. "It's begun," Krycek says, throwing back the covers and getting out of bed. He leans down and begins lacing his boots, having been sleeping in his t-shirt and jeans. They never leave his body. "What?" Scully and I demand at the same time. "This is how it begins," he says, finishing with his boots and standing up. "You'd better prepare yourselves." He walks past Scully, close enough to brush her chest with his body and locks himself in the bathroom. Scully stands there, staring at me, but I have no answers for her. I wish I did. xxx xxx xxx This isn't how the world is supposed to end, you know. A few hundred fearful people gathered into a high school gym, the doors and windows barred and taped. Row after row of cots, made up into beds. These cots are our homes now, provided for us by FEMA and the Red Cross. These centers are spreading across the United States, and for all we know, the world. They tell us we'll be safe here, that the bees can't reach us and infect us with their virus. As long as we stay here, nothing will happen to us. I'm positive we're waiting for death. At least I have my own cot. I'm trying to keep a record, so that someone may know what happened to us and that we tried to stop it. We just didn't have enough information and we didn't have enough time. The invasion began on the Thursday afternoon before the Memorial Day weekend. Memorial Day is on Monday, so a lot of people were making it a four day weekend. The highways were packed by the midnight that saw Friday begin. People were already going on their holidays. The girl at the motel was the first victim. I think they found her in the hospital morgue. We don't get much news here. They shout it through a megaphone at us, like all of their other instructions. It's impossible to understand with the terrible acoustics in this gymnasium, and all of the other people. They seem to talk all the time and my ears ring with it. My implant seems to be active again. It's burning, just under the skin, and I think I can feel waves radiating from it to interfere with my brain. It's gotten so bad I want to cut it out with the dull children's' scissors they allow us here. It's telling them where I am, I'm certain. So they can come and get me, like they wanted to before. They'll kill all of the other people here too. Not kill, infect. I look at Krycek, knowing he's immune. He can't sit still, tapping his feet, his fingers. One knee is bouncing right now as he stares into the sea of people. It stops and his foot begins to twitch. He wants to get out of here. I look where he's looking - at the sealed doors. He's trying to figure out a plan of escape. If I ask him, he would take me with him. Spender is slowly turning cards over in a game of solitaire, one hand pressed against his head as though it's causing him pain. "Are you okay?" I ask him and he raises his head to look at me, his hand falling away from his skin to rest in his lap. "Fine," he says. Then he breaks down and goes for the truth. "I've got a headache." Krycek makes an irritated sound as though he wants Spender to find the medic, take two Tylenol, and shut the hell up until morning. I look at him and say, "So do I." Spender's eyes change. He looks almost surprised by my admission. I turn back to Krycek. "Where's his implant?" "What?" Krycek sputters and every part of his body stops moving. He holds himself in absolute stillness so I know I'm right. "They took him like they took me and now they're tracking both of us. And you too, probably." That's why he's so nervous. "Come on, Scully. You've been awake since midnight yesterday. We're in a high school gym that smells like old bread and sneakers with five hundred other displaced people trying not to let any bees in. I'm sure a lot of people here have headaches," Krycek says, but there's something else in his eyes. I know Krycek too well to call it fear, but that's what it looks like. "When will they get here?" I ask him. "Who?" Krycek is wonderfully blank. What a liar. "The faceless men with their hands full of fire. They're coming, aren't they? To save us from the fate that's worse than death, the infection. How soon will they be here?" "You can't hide from them forever, Dana," Krycek tells me gently. I stare at him, my body tense. "Did you know this was going to happen?" He doesn't say anything, doesn't look away. "Did you plan this? Did you?" I demand, digging through my big black bag, looking for my army knife. It's worn now, the red paint chipped and faded. I got it in sixth grade when my dad took me on a camping trip. In my family, we didn't get presents if it wasn't our birthday. It seems small in my hand now, so many years later, even though my hands are the same size they were then. "They're not going to take me again," I vow, tugging out the knife and wondering if I have the courage to do this. Without the implant, I'll die anyway. Probably before I get to see Mulder again and I really want to see him again. "Scully, don't," Spender says. "You don't want to do this." He sounds like he's talking a jumper down off a building. "Trust me. I watched her die and it was terrible." My stomach tightens. He's talking about Marita - Rita, whatever her name is. "Where does it hurt?" I ask him. He raises one hand and places the tip of his index finger behind his ear. Mulder had pictures of L-shaped scars behind the ears of abduction victims. I get up and cross the twelve inches of space between our cots, standing in front of him and pulling his head forward and down, into my stomach. He lets me. I gently press his ear forward and rub my finger over the spot. There's something in there. My shoulders sag and I want to cry, but I slip one arm around Spender's shoulders and turn to Krycek. "Where's yours?" He looks impassive. His attitude is beginning to piss me off. "Where the hell is it, Krycek?" I snarl and he opens his one arm wide, inviting me to find it. I hurl myself at his body, my hands moving over him, angrily, not caring that I'm straddling his lap on the narrow cot. I shove his head this way and that, looking for it, clawing through his hair, digging for the implant. "Stop, Dana," he says, catching my hands. He grabs them both in his fist. We're both breathing hard. "You're not going to find it that way." And he tilts his head backward until I'm looking straight up his nose. It takes me a second to realize that's his intention. "Same place as Mulder's." "Mulder -?" His name is a cry from me. Of course he would have one. "Oh god." I'm shaking and crying and Krycek releases my hands to pet my hair. I jerk away from him and return to my own cot, sitting down on it cross-legged and burying my face in my hands so no one will see me cry, even though I'm sobbing so loudly there can be no question. I've just realized I'm never going to see him again and I can't fight any more. I unfold my legs and push myself facedown on the cot. I'll lay here until they come. They can burn me alive. I don't care any more. We've lost. Neither man says anything to me. There's nothing they can say to make this better any more. xxx xxx xxx Watching Scully cry breaks my heart. She really, really loves Mulder. I wonder why I didn't see that before. I knew there was something between them, but I didn't know he went all the way to her soul. They shut down the lights about half an hour later, but they're still glowing faintly overhead. The sodium kind that buzz faintly and turn everything red an odd shade of orange- brown. I had a red watch band when I was in first grade and I didn't understand then why it would change colors in the gym. I'm not that small, sickly kid who got picked last anymore. "Hey," I whisper. We're not supposed to talk once the lights are out. I don't know what the punishment is for talking but I know the punishment of listening to Scully cry. "Hey." Her shoulders stop shaking, but she doesn't raise her head. "It's okay." She shakes her head, sniffling miserably. Scully isn't like this. This is bad. I cross the inches to sit on her cot next to her. Without a word, she wraps both arms around me, squeezing like a boa constrictor. I can't breathe, shocked. It only takes a few minutes of petting her hair before she stops crying and drops her grip. "I know," I tell her, but the rest of the sentence drops away, the words disappearing inside me. I don't know where they go. I know what it's like to love someone and have them desert you. I don't want to let her go. "I know," I say again. She looks up at me, those eyes red and full of tears. With one finger, she pulls a thin gold chain out of the neckline of her shirt and holds it out for me to see. Hanging at the apex of the chain, the weight of it pulling at it, is a cross and a tiny ring. It doesn't even look like it would fit on Scully's smallest finger and I realize it isn't her ring. It's a little girl's ring, with a chip of yellow- brown stone. A birthday ring for a little girl born in November. I look at her, not understanding. Mulder's sister's birthday is in November. Did Mulder give her that ring? She closes her hand around it. "He left me," she sobs angrily. "You're making me sick," Krycek comments dryly from his nearby cot. Scully's head snaps in his direction. The lights are getting brighter. It isn't morning yet. The child who's been crying for the last two days is crying again. "Something's happening," I say, looking around. "You, come on." A man in uniform grabs Scully's arm roughly, hauling her to her feet and pulling her along. Krycek's eyes meet mine and we both run after her. We're caught up in a wave of people. This center is being evacuated. Parked outside the gym is a line of yellow school busses. Scully turns back and holds out her hands. Krycek grabs one, but I can't reach. "What's going on?" Scully asks, her voice strident and carrying of the din of confused people. No one answers her. She turns back and looks at me. We're being moved. She stumbles up the school bus stairs, as steep today as they were in the distant years of youth. I follow her, rounding the corner and stopping for a second because the bus is already packed with people, adults and children, white faced and afraid. I sit down next to Scully. Her eyes are wide with fear. So are mine, I'm certain. Krycek is holding up the line. His arms are braced on either side of the bus doorway and he refuses to enter. "Get on the goddamned bus," one of the officials orders and a bayonet smacks Krycek in the back. He falls to his knees and Scully scrambles across my lap to reach him. He's lying bleeding in the stairwell as the driver cranks the door closed and the bus lurches forward. At least we haven't become separated. xxx xxx xxx I was going to get away tonight. If Spender and Scully had gone to sleep instead of snivelling, I would have been well on my way sneaking out of that hellhole high school gym before they decided to load up the busses and ship us out of there. I wonder where we're headed. It looks like they're driving us into the desert. I know all that's in the desert is death. If I could look up, the vultures might already be circling. Instead, I've got a hell of a pain in my back, courtesy of one of FEMA's goons. Who uses bayonets anymore? Whatever happened to guns and knives? They must want us alive. That's something I don't think Scully's figured out yet, and she's got Spender beat in the brains department by a mile and a half. The colonists aren't going to kill all of us. We're their gestational hosts. If they use us all up, there won't be any baby razor nailed aliens, so cute and hotly black blooded. It wouldn't be smart. Which is where the colony comes in. A colony of breeders. If we're lucky, they're taking us to our deaths. But I'm already lucky. My head is in Scully's lap and she's stroking the sides of my face with her strong little hands. She must not realize it was mostly a flesh wound. She must not realize the phenomenal view I've got from down here. God, I love her thighs. She could use some Oil of Olay on that throat, though. Those lines are gonna be ugly in another fifteen years. God, I should live that long. No one really worried about moisturizing in Auschwitz, did they? It may sound sacreligious to make that comparison. But I know what they have planned for us. Every time she breathes, those firm, soft breasts get that much closer to me and I can smell her. Scully smells good, like dirt and sweat and life. She smells like a woman. I could close my eyes and lay here happily forever. Forget the world beyond the jouncing bus tires. Forget the horror that's due us. Them. Not me. As soon as Scully glances down and sees me grinning like that Cheshire cat that eat the tweety bird, this ruse is gonna be up. I wonder if she'll hit me. But it's definitely worth it. Then first chance I get, it's gonna be goodbye. She'll fend okay. Better if she ditches that sop Spender. I liked him better before he started shooting me jealous glares and fearing me. Speak of the devil. He leans over to whisper in Scully's ear. They must think I'm asleep down here. Scully's toes are wiggling and it shimmies up her leg. Her breathing's become a bit more shallow, the softness of her belly touching me more frequently. Spender's lips are practically touching her ear and he looks hungry. "We've got to do something," he whispers to her, "We've got to get off this bus." I wonder what he's proposing. Her body shakes with the force of her nodding head. "They're going to kill us," she murmurs back. Not you, my darling. Not you. I bend my arm and dig my fingers into her knee, almost triggering it's reflex. I push myself up to a sitting position. My back wrenches in agony. Hurts like hell. I shove Spender away and he stumbles into the aisle, his footing uncertain on the moving bus. If he cracks his head, Scully's probably hold him the rest of the way. "What do you know about this?" she snaps. Her eyes are flashing. I've been caught faking. Her lips are moist and her cheeks are rosy. What would she do if I buried my fingers in her hair and kissed her until she couldn't breathe? It's an intriguing prospect, but it'll have to wait for later. "Nothing," I tell her innocently. It's true. I don't know anything about this, specifically. I could tell her things she didn't know about herself. "How do we get them to stop the bus?" she demands in a low voice. As though commanded, the bus grinds to a halt. I grin. It makes her look at me like I made it happen. Does she believe I could make it happen? She really thinks I'm that powerful? Man, that feels good. "Time to go," I tell her, swinging out of my seat and dashing down the aisle. I stop when I see the bus driver is missing the better portion of his head. The woman splattered with his blood is too stunned to scream. The doors open under duress and I recognize the faces of the men boarding the bus. Scully's come up behind me, pressing me forward, and I shove her back with my bad hand, shielding her body with mine. "Get off the bus NOW!" She doesn't have to be told twice. I push her to the back of the bus, where she throws open the emergency escape window and crawls through. The stench of burning human flesh makes my eyes water and my throat burn. No one else is moving, caught in the strobe of macabre horror. With my back and my fucking hand it's harder than hell getting through the window but someone's pushing me. I guess little Jeff is good for something. Note to self: be nicer to the kid. I hit the ground running, something my knees tell me I've done once or twice too often. Is that my scream of pain mingling with the death yells of the people still trapped on the bus? Stupid aliens must not know anything about gasoline and combustion engines... There's something about an explosion that makes you stop in your tracks and look. Which isn't a very good idea, as the white hot fire sears your eyes and the blast wave knocks your feet out from under you. The smoke is acrid, burning, and I can't manage to sneeze. Or see anything but a huge purple blot swimming in front of my eyes. Hands pick me up as I'm crawling and lead me away. Not Scully's. The hands of the man that let Marita suffer and left her alone to shoot herself in the head. xxx xxx xxx Scully's gone and I'm here alone with Krycek. How could Scully disappear so fast? She must have taken off running before the bus blew. I yell her name, but on this flat, desolate land, I would be able to see her. I feel alone, possibly more alone than I ever have, even when I was an ignored child or when I was hiding in the cabin from the men who would steal my life. Because Krycek's hand is hot and moist in mine and his eyes are streaming tears. He's blinded himself. Hopefully not for long. "What do we do?" I ask him, feeling weak for even having to ask. "Either we walk, or we run. Where are the colonists?" "The fire guys?" I crane my neck around, looking for them. "They must have gone up with the bus." Krycek nods, rubbing at his eyes with his plastic hand. "They're instructed to give their lives for the cause, if they must. Do they have a car?" I look around again, wondering how the faceless men with their lighter wands got here. There's nothing but the black acrid smoke from the burning hulk of the bus. "No," I say, refusing to look up into the sky. It's even more frightening to think they may have materialized here from thin air, or some kind of psychotic transporter beam run by a faceless Scotty. "I guess we walk then," Krycek says, and allows himself to be lead by me. "Scully's disappeared." "She made it off the bus," Krycek tells me. He doesn't tell me she's going to be all right. The silence where I wanted those words to be rings in the air. I don't know why I need this man's reassurances, but I do. "They didn't," this is going to sound so idiotic, "you know, beam her up, or anything?" He laughs. It's a kindly, avuncular laugh. If I wasn't holding his hand, he probably would have patted me on the head. But he doesn't say anything for a long time. Then he asks me, "Did we pass anything on the road back there when we were on the bus?" I have to think about this. "I think there might have been something," I admit. "You're not sure?" I shake my head. Krycek's still rubbing his eyes, keeping them closed. "No," I voice. "It's probably still our best bet," he decides, and I lead him down the highway in the direction opposite the smoking bus. Back the way we've come. There is nothing in the desert and I'm already thirsty and tired. It's advantageous that it's the middle of the night, or the sun would kill us quickly, like in the old cartoons with the propectors whispering "agua," as they crawl toward a mirage and end up drinking handfuls of sand. "Are you okay?" I ask him and he sort of snorts. I don't know how to take that, but it was his answer, so I leave it there. When he can see again - and I refuse to make that if - I'm sure he'll drop my hand and probably take charge of everything. I sort of like him this way, docile as a broken horse. "Do you have one of those pointy things?" I ask him a few miles down the road. There aren't any stars in the sky. It's dark but my eyes have adjusted. I sweep the road and the land with them, searching for any sign of the faceless men. I don't think I would falter at killing them now. There must have been a hundred people on that bus, and we are the only ones left. It might be a metaphor for the larger world. I don't want to be the only one left, here on this deserted road with Krycek. "So, C3PO or R2D2?" he asks me. It takes me almost a minute to get the reference. "Star Wars," I say, explaining it to myself. "The two droids blast out of the Death Star in a shuttlepod and land on Luke Skywalker's home planet and walk along in the sand." "So, are you C3PO or R2D2?" he asks me again. I look at him like he's lost his mind and he breaks a smile. "You're C3PO," he tells me. This is insane, I think. Teenage boys talk about Star Wars, not us. "You're Luke," I tell him, playing his game. It's conversation. It's not like I can talk to Krycek about books. "You're Luke," he shoots back at me, irony twisting his voice. I wince with the thought of my father. He's laughing somewhere, I know. Krycek squeezes my hand reassuringly and I watch the pavement move under my feet. "I know you want to be Han Solo, but you're Luke," I tell him. "You lost your hand." "Ever notice how many people in that trilogy suffered the same fate?" Krycek asks me, more irony in his tone. He's probably smirking, not really amused, but I don't look at him. I can't. "Arms were flying everywhere." Silence. "Mulder's Han Solo," Krycek tells me. I nod my agreement. And Scully, I think, is Princess Leia. The only girl in the story, so everyone wants her. Full of fire and spunk. Thank god she doesn't have bread rolls on her head. I almost lose it to hysterical laughter at that thought, but the thought of death sobers me instantly. Death hovers all around us here. We're walking more slowly, keeping pace with each other. It won't be long before exhaustion sets in and the vultures come for us, leaving nothing but bleached bones and the wires from Krycek's bionics for the world to remember us by. Who the hell am I, I wonder. In the Star Wars continuum, where do I fit in? I'm not the hero in this tale. I'm a second rate turncoat. Not even Boba Fett, who all my friends thought was cool back in the days when we saw Empire Strikes Back fifteen times in one weekend. Maybe I'm Anakin Skywalker, I think, since I did a turn for the dark side, following my father. But now I know better. "That's what really pisses me off," Krycek's voice cuts through the stillness of the night. "That new Star Wars movie opened what, a week ago? And we've been so busy fighting and getting nowhere, I didn't get to see it. George Lucas finally breaks down and makes another fucking Star Wars movie and the world goes to hell before I can see it." I suddenly have visions of Krycek's abode, where I'd never pictured it before. I'm imagining action figures and theater lobby standees and merchandised sheets. "A fan?" I ask. "That movie came out when I was fifteen years old. It changed my whole damn life. Honest to god." Krycek stops talking, presumably sunk deep into some old memory. We must be about the same age. I saw it once. A girl I had a crush on wanted to see it. She let me take her to the movies. Because no one else would. Even then, I let other people use me. I wonder what Krycek's story is, but he's not telling. "There it is," he says. I blink and a gas station swims into focus about a mile up the road, all lit up and gleaming. Then I look at Krycek. His vision seems to have recovered just fine. "You can see," I say, feeling mildly betrayed. "Mm," he agrees. "I just had big purple spots for the longest time. Looks like we're saved." Casually, he drops my hand and strides in front of me, finally taking charge. I follow, feeling puppyish because my feet won't let me keep up with him. My palm is tingling, almost burning with the residual heat of his hand. He was holding my hand. I don't know what that means. And his skin was soft and warm and it felt good. I don't know what that means either. Krycek lets out a whoop when he pushes open the door to the gas station but it's a moment before he shifts away from blocking my view. "Scully!" I cry, relief filling my chest so that I can't breathe. She's sitting up on the counter next to the Slurpee machine, her legs drawn up underneath her. She's got a full calorie Pepsi in one hand and a bag of M&Ms in the other. And she's grinning. No one has ever looked so beautiful to me. Ever. "You guys finally got here," she says. "You look beat. Get some carbohydrates and some water," she orders. "How'd you get here so fast?" I ask, after downing a bottle of water big enough to fill my hands. Krycek's throat moves as he works his way through a 32 ouncer of red Gatorade without stopping. "I ran like hell," Scully replies honestly. "I hate those guys." Her face is gravely serious. Krycek's nodding. Me, too. I hate those guys too. "You should know there are bodies out back," she continues. "We're going to have an infestation by morning." Neither of us ask what sort of infestation. I don't believe in aliens, but I'm not going to ask. "But there's showers and an old beat up couch and a TV in the back," Scully continues. "I guess this was a mini-haven for truck drivers. And there's all the food you could want," she finishes, looking from me to Krycek and back again. I wonder how long she's been rehearsing those words in her mind. Ever since she finished casing the joint, I guess. "Maybe the couch folds out. If we're lucky. You guys can check it out while I have a shower." She jumps down from the counter with the agility of a teenager and begins to gather supplies from the "Travel Center" behind the counter. Into her hands she collects a tiny bottle of shampoo, soap, body lotion, a toothbrush, even dental floss, all in single use packaging and affixed to little white cards. As an afterthought, she grabs a couple of the T-shirts from the rack. Paper towels would be too rough for her skin. "Guess it's you and me." It doesn't even masquerade as a joke. Krycek must be more exhausted than I thought. The couch is dismal and he flops down on it, sending up dust. The springs scream under his weight. The TV has a turn dial and no stations come in. After I've tried them all, I look back at Krycek. His head is tipped against the back of the couch. His mouth is open and his eyes are closed. He's asleep. I'm envious, but someone has to stay awake and guard Scully while she's in the shower. xxx xxx xxx Hot water is the best thing on earth. I'm so filthy that the very privilege of shampooing my hair is almost enough to make me orgasmic. I scrub and scrub until the soap breaks into two pieces in my hands and my skin is red from the attention and the heat of the water and even then I stand under the spray with my eyes closed, trying to convince myself this is all a terrible dream. It's not. The stall is still stained and dirty when I open my eyes and I wonder about foot fungus. I guess I really have better things to worry about. The ring on the chain around my neck is leaving green streaks between my breasts, but I don't think about taking it off. It's Samantha's birthstone ring. I had one like it when I was a little girl. Mulder gave Samantha's ring to me, before I went into hiding. In my mind, it's a wedding ring, binding me to him the way my cross holds me to God. I don't know where Mulder is or if he's still alive. I have my doubts about God, too. But we got off the bus. Alive. All of us. Not the other people, not the driver, not even the faceless men, but the three of us. That's as big as my world is now. I can't even mourn for the other, lost people. Not now. Later, in my nightmares, I will cry for them, suffer their pain and their horror all over again. I sigh and use one of the shirts to towel off with and smooth the baby lotion into my skin, rubbing down my thighs and my calves and my hands. I've lost weight. It doesn't even matter any more. Finally I have bony knees and thin thighs and there's no one to appreciate them. My breasts don't even fill my hands when I cup them in front of the mirror. Like when I had cancer. I turn away from my image, disgusted. Thin thighs aren't worth it. The T-shirt comes down to my knees and I know I'm tempting fate but I can't bear to put on my filthy clothes again when my body is clean. I scrub my underwear in the sink and try not to think of the two men on the other side of the door as I hang it up. I scrub my teeth and look at my tangled hair. Conditioner is a luxury beyond the means of this gas station. Krycek's asleep, I note, as I dash out to grab a comb. Spender looks like he's asleep with his eyes open. "I saved you some hot water," I tell him, sitting down on the couch between him and Krycek and tugging at my hair with the comb. I can hear strands snapping and the snarls are painful. "Here." I can feel the rasp in his voice as his hands ease the comb from mine. He begins at the back of my head, so gently I don't think he'll get even one of the knots out. He shifts slightly against me, and turns my body slightly with his hands on my shoulders so he can better reach my hair. He's being too careful, I think again, remembering my mother's whiplash-inducing brushings when I was a girl. Melissa gave herself a boy's haircut when she was seven to escape them. I close my eyes for what I intend to be the barest second. "You're all set." Spender's words rouse me and I hear him set the comb down as my eyes open. I'm disoriented, sitting nestled between his legs. I was asleep. My hands rise to my hair, which is smooth and straight. I scramble away from him and the look on my face must be amazed. Spender's hands are self-conscious, almost, as they go to his own hair and his lips almost form a smile. His hair is curly. Did I ever notice that before? "Thanks," I say. "I guess you didn't see if the couch folds out?" "I'm pretty sure it doesn't," he says. Krycek, at the other end, is reaching the point of his sleep where he's snuffling and murmuring in Russian. "Are you going to catch a shower?" I ask Spender, feeling weird. Relaxed and lightheaded. Must be from the catnap, I tell myself, but I have the feeling I'm lying when a dagger of excitement flashes through me as I catch Spender's eyes lingering on my legs beneath the hem of the t-shirt. He shakes his head and rests one arm on the back of the couch. Something in me recognizes that as an invitation and I cautiously sit down again, the wood in the edge of the couch at the crease of my thighs as I remain on the edge of the seat. Spender swallows back a yawn and pulls me against his chest. His hand against my back and his evenly rising and falling chest makes me feel safe and I sleep. xxx xxx xxx They make me sick. Sleeping together like kittens curled at their mother's breast. I move down the couch until I'm sitting next to Scully. Her mouth is open and she's sleeping hard, her brows furrowed slightly. Her t-shirt has ridden up her thighs. She's not wearing any underwear. I'm leaving in a few minutes and it won't pay to wake her up. I lean over her, putting my hand high up on her thigh, my fingers just inches from the soft heat there. Her lips are parted and she makes a tiny sound as I knead the skin inside her thigh. I lean closer and brush her lips with mine before she can murmur Mulder's name, betraying her dreams. I don't mean for my mouth to catch hers. I don't mean to kiss her, really, I don't, but once I'm here, I can't help myself. She awakens as I push my tongue into her sweet mouth, grabbing her hair and pulling her head back just at the point of causing her pain. I kiss Scully for what seems like a long time and she doesn't move, doesn't struggle. As I'm releasing her, I drag my knuckle against the part of her I most want to touch. Her body jerks when I make contact, but my hand is just as quickly gone. I step back, off the couch, half expecting her to come after me and claw my eyes out with her hands. Instead she lies down on the other end of the couch, away from Spender's body. She curls up tightly and closes her eyes like she's gone back to sleep. But she's shaking. I let her pretend to sleep and make sure the door doesn't bang behind me as I walk out of the filling station, feeling disgusted with myself. I feel like I've done something wrong, something angry and bad. The kind of thing that never used to bother me before. xxx xxx xxx "You'd better get up. Krycek's gone." I open my eyes when I hear Spender's voice. I wasn't asleep, and I already knew he was gone. I've been tasting his tongue for the last several hours, wondering why he did what he did. He could have raped me, and he didn't. Was that the message he was sending? "I'm going to take a shower," Spender says and disappears into the bathroom. I sit up slowly, digging my hands through my hair. There's a sore spot on the back of my head where Krycek's plastic hand pulled my hair. What the hell was he doing? I ask myself again, looking around. Where did he go and why is the more important question. He must have left some clue, I think, but there is none. He left no sign that he was even here. I suspect Krycek likes things that way. The water's running and I know Spender's in the shower, but after last night, I really want my underwear. It doesn't matter, I tell myself, I won't look. I push open the door and grab my panties, pulling them up and reaching for the bra also dangling from the hook. I stop when I see the long, lean line of Spender's body under the water so hot it releases steam when it hits his skin. He could be Mulder's brother and I stare at the muscles in his back and his flanks and his thighs. He is leaning against the opposite wall of the shower and when I take a step toward the door, I see why he is bent over and pressing his eyes into his forearm, braced against the stall. He's touching himself. His penis grows thicker and longer even as I watch his fist move over it. I watch until I feel my face growing hot and my breath getting quicker. Then I turn away, feeling shame for having looked, and dress in the other room. The sets of car keys I gathered from the dead bodies out back are one fewer and I look out the window from behind the cash register. Krycek took the best car, a late model cream colored Ford. It was in the best shape and had the most gas. He's got to be hundreds of miles away by now, leaving me to figure out what to do next. There's a letter stationary pad among the small convenience store's inventory and I open it, taking the black ballpoint pen from behind the counter and clicking it. I had notes to make, days ago before this began, and now I make them as quickly as I can, the words flooding my brain faster than my hand can move over the page. The information is coming back to me and if I don't record it, it will be gone. I sketch the alien's systems and the way it attached to grow inside the motel clerk's body. I make notes and brainstorm. The drawings are neater, cleaner than the ones I made back in school. Unused skills come back stronger, I guess. I wish I knew where Mulder is. "Hey," Spender says, lurking in the doorway like he's reluctant to disturb me. The pages came loose from the pad when I turned them over and I have quite a collection of them in front of me. I straighten them into a neater pile and he picks one of the souvenir T-shirts from the rack and pulls the shirt he's wearing off in favor of the clean one. He has a mole right in the middle of his back. I want to look at it more closely, but I don't move. "What're you doing?" He comes closer. "Making notes on the autopsy of the motel clerk," I reply. "I was just about done." "What're we going to do now?" he asks, looking to me like I'm his savior. I look back. I could tell him what we're going to do, since I've already decided. But looking into his dark brown eyes, I realize there's something going on inside his head. there must be. He's been to college and through the academy. He's an FBI agent, trained in logic and clues as I have been. "What do you think we should do?" I ask him. He shrugs like he'll do anything I tell him to. I wait, determined to hear him answer. "Maybe we should try to find the camp. Wherever they were taking us on that bus. Maybe we could liberate the people there." He shrugs again like he thinks it's a dumb idea. It is a dumb idea. We don't have guns or knives or bombs. There are only two of us and we don't really know what we're up against. But he's right. We should try to help the other people. The people who would be us. I nod. "Do you think they're looking for us?" he asks me. I shake my head. "If they were looking for us, they'd find us." "Because of the implants," he says, guessing or asking. He hasn't lived with this for six years as I have, the facts of it becoming more familiar than the things in normal life like grocery shopping and movies on Friday nights. "What do they do?" I shake my head again. I don't really know. "We think they transmit. Information, data, locations, I don't know. And they seem to aid immunosuppression of the cancers that abduction subjects us to." But not suppression of the alien beings. Do they aid the growth of the alien host? Does that prime our bodies for their possession? "There are so many groups and I don't know which one uses the implants." "Krycek knew." I nod. "He knew." Krycek knows everything, and tells nothing. "He was there during your abduction." I frown. Spender's not asking me. How he hell would he know? Did that cigarette smoking asshole he used to work for talk about me? I feel anger rising dangerously quick inside me, my blood pressure surging. "What do you know about that?" My voice is instantly shrill. "Lucky guess." He's lying. "So, what are we going to do?" he asks me. "We have our choice of three cars," I tell him. "I want to go home." He just looks back at me and I close my hand around the keys for the next best car. God only knows what'll be waiting for us when we get there. Spender follows me, so silent I wonder what he's thinking. But I like silence. I jam the car in gear and leave the gas station behind us before he can even fasten his seatbelt. And I feel powerful. Until the cream colored Ford appears by the side of the road about an hour later. I brake and my seatbelt locks as the wheels of the car skid to a stop. The door to the Ford is thrown open and there's no sign of Krycek. No sign that he was ever here. I wander a few steps out into the desert, and when I look back, mine are the only footprints. "They took him," I say. Spender looks grim and disbelieving. It makes me feel like I'm Mulder and he's me, back years ago when life wasn't normal, but still seemed to make some sense. "I just want to go home," I say, and when I approach the car, I walk to the passenger side. The keys are still in the ignition and Spender takes the hint, getting in on the driver's side and moving the seat back. He shuts the door and turns up the air conditioner. It feels like it's 40 degrees blowing on me, but I just turn my head and watch the scenery fly by. He must want to go home, too. The other times I've been separated from Mulder, he's contacted me in my dreams. It doesn't make sense, I know, but there isn't any other way to describe it. He sent me a message, conscious or not, and I was receptive while I was in the mysterious stages of sleep. When I woke, I knew he was all right and I could feel his presence like he was in the room, like he'd been that close to me before I broke through into consciousness. It's a feeling I've also had with the dead. This time, from Mulder, I've gotten nothing. I'm going to have to get used to the idea, sooner or later, that he's dead. I'm not sure if this life will be worth living when I make myself believe that. "Are you okay?" Spender asks, glancing at me, as though he senses my thoughts. I don't turn my head and look at him. "Fine," I reply, and we drive on. xxx xxx xxx There's no motel clerk when we get to the motel twenty hours later, both of us too exhausted to drive any more. Scully takes a key to one of the rooms overlooking the parking lot, which is empty. When she opens the door, I can see why. It's not much of a motel, but there are two beds beneath the waterstained ceiling, and a scratched-up TV. She turns it on immediately, but no stations come in. She flops down on the bed and lies there like she's dead. It's clear she has no intention of moving. She raises her head slightly when I go to the door, heading out to find the vending machine. We need something to eat, something to keep us going. Her especially. Krycek's choice to leave us affected her, and I think the empty car on the road scared her. It scared me. It screamed "abduction" and Alex always seemed safe from that. From them. Above it, somehow. I guess that wasn't possible. There's nothing even bordering on nutritious in the candy machine and I wish we'd taken some pretzels or Met-Rx bars from the convenience store. I buy Scully two bags of her favorite M&Ms, hoping they'll cheer her up. She's turned on her side when I walk back into the motel room, her back to the door. She doesn't look up, not even when I nudge her. "Okay," I say. "I'll just leave these here." I rustle the bags as I set them on her side of the nightstand. She doesn't care. She hasn't said anything to me since she said she was fine after we found Krycek's car. I didn't believe her then and I really don't believe her now. It's the helplessness that I can't stand. I never knew what to do to help my mother. She would have days like this, when I was a boy. Months, sometimes. I learned to be self sufficient and I learned to stay away but I never learned anything to say or do to help her. And I never showed her my fear, sensing that would only make it worse. I shut off the static on the TV and climb into the other bed. We only stopped to sleep, anyway, and unwind our limbs from the cramped interiour of the car. She let me hold her last night and it feels like a thousand decades ago. xxx xxx xxx There's water. Where Mulder is, there's water. I can feel it. I can hear it, rushing just out of my earshot. I can taste it when I open my mouth and inhale, the briny-dirty smell of the California sea. We've been driving home to Washington, DC. We can't have been going the wrong way. "Mulder," I say, but my voice is thick and filled with bubbles. I realize then that I am already in the water. It's closed over my head and in moments I will be drowning. I thrash and look around, but I don't see him. I'm alone and there are rocks. I'm trying to swim but I've forgotten how. My arms and legs won't move, won't work. "Mulder!" I scream, but the only sound is "glub!" as the water burns down my throat and into my nose. It's saltwater, from the sea. And it's cold. So cold. I sit up in the dark motel room and listen. My breathing is harsh and fast. As it slows, I hear the water in the toilet tank running as though it's been flushed recently, but it doesn't stop running after a few seconds. It doesn't sound like it will ever stop. I lay back with my eyes open, thinking of the dream and of Mulder. It was about him, about my yearning to see him, even in my dreams, but he wasn't there. I'm scared more now than ever that it means he's dead and gone, like everyone else, and that I'll never see him again. Tears fill my eyes as I stare at the ceiling and I'm powerless to stop them. Crying releases toxins in the bloodstream. It's a biological necessity to cleanse the system of stress. I hate it, as I lie there, wiping my eyes and my nose with my fingers when they become too moist and drippy to bear. I don't want to get up. I don't want anyone to know. I turn over to make sure Spender's asleep. He seems to be. There's a box of tissues on the nightstand and I sniffle until there's a wad of used tissues littering the floor. There are two packets of M&Ms that he must have brought for me. I can't stomach the thought of them right now. I want something saltier than my tears, something to fill the hole inside me. I want Mulder. I get up and wash my face. I'm not going to do this anymore, not going to cry. I'm not going to let myself think of Mulder. There are things we have to do now, important things. When those things are done, then I can try to find him. He must be doing something, I think, something to help the cause we've fought for, for so many years. Knowing Mulder, something dangerous that'll make him dead. Enough of that. I pick up the phone when I return from washing up and sit cross-legged on the bed. I listen to the dial tone for several long seconds, its hum reassuring in my ear. I can't decide who to call. Then I punch in Skinner's home number, looking around for a clock. There isn't one. I don't even know what time zone we're in. "Yeah." He sounds gruff and asleep. But he's alive. "Assistant Director Skinner?" He's not my boss anymore. But what am I supposed to call him, Wally? Hey Wally, where'd the Beav go? We fucked and he ditched me and now I'm stuck with Lumpy and Eddie Haskell... "Scully?" His voice is more alert now and I hear rustling as he sits up and throws back the covers. "Where are you?" "I, um, I'm not really sure. But we're on our way back." "Mulder?" Damn it. "Spender." Skinner doesn't say anything. "You know what's happening, out west?" I ask. Skinner waits a long time before he sighs, "Yeah. Look, Scully, there's some things you should know." "Sir, I don't know how much time there is. We've come halfway across the country, from California where the invasion started. We haven't seen another person since we...um..." Do I really want to explain it all to him? "They're already rounding people up here, Scully," Skinner tells me. "The President's dead." "What?" Spender sits up when I shriek. Sorry, buddy, I know you needed the sleep. "They couldn't do this with him in power. You know that." "What about you? Are you safe?" I ask, twining the phone cord between my fingers. "Yes," he replies. "Because you're working with them," I realize. He is silent, confirming this. "I know it's the only way," I tell him. "Should I have not called you?" He doesn't answer for a long time. We had our doubts about Skinner, Mulder and I did, we doubted him for the longest time, until he seemed to support us and what we were doing. He's suffered consequences just as the rest of us have. "I'm glad you called me, Scully," Skinner answers. "I just don't know if you should come in to the city. They'll know you're an abductee and your life will be worth less than the actual humans they're rounding into busses." I nod. I don't know what to say. "We'll see you soon, sir," I reply finally and press down the hook switch with my fingers. When I raise my eyes, Spender is watching me. "Skinner," I tell him. "They're rounding people up in DC. I guess the bees aren't there yet." I reach up and turn on the light. "He doesn't think we should go back there." "Did he say where we should go?" I shake my head, looking at Spender. "You worked for them." He looks like I've accused him. "They never told me anything. They used me, Scully." "You know where their headquarters were?" "In New York, on 46th street. But they cleared out of there before I..." One hand rubs his chest. I don't think he's aware that he's even doing it. He looks afraid and almost sad and I know he must be caught up in remembering. They tried to kill him and he almost died. You don't get over something like that. There is a light scratching noise at the door and we both jump, staring at it. It sounds like there's a cat outside, trying to get in. Then the door shatters, sending splinters flying everywhere and a creature stalks inside. It has claws like Freddie Kreuger's and it smells like the intestines of a dead man. Which is where it was born, as far as I can tell. It's one of the aliens. Spender's frozen. The alien is looking at me. This isn't good. I run into the bathroom and pull the towel rack off the wall. We don't have a stiletto, we don't have anything even vaguely like a stiletto. The alien follows me like it thinks I'm its mother. It isn't slashing with its claws. I really don't fucking understand but I don't care either. I grunt as I slam the towel bar through the back of its neck with all the force I have. It comes through the front of its throat like a badly performed tracheotomy, assuming aliens have tracheas. Its scream becomes a death gasp. Green stuff oozes out and I cover my mouth and nose with my hand, stepping around its body, remembering the alien I stabbed before. The one that pulled the blade out of its neck and choked me. That alien let me go. I may not be so lucky this time. "Get out of here!" I yell to Spender, who is staring at the alien. I grab his hand and pull him out of the motel room. We get in the car and sit there, breathing hard, feeling safe in our metal capsule. Once I get over the jolt, my mind starts working. The alien hasn't emerged from our motel room, so I'm thinking it's dead. I could do an autopsy. This is just the opportunity we need. I unlock the door and throw it open. "Where are you going?" Spender demands. He has to get out of the car to talk to me. "I'm gonna do an autopsy on that thing," I explain. "No way," he says. I don't move and neither does he. "Get in the car." I don't. "There's got to be more where that one came from." He's practically begging with me now. "Stop being so stubborn." His shoulders fall. He wants to give up. "Please." They used to call me stubborn when I was a little girl. He reminds me of my mother, begging me to behave. I was never bad, but I was uncooperative. I wanted to do what I wanted to do. I still do. Even though I know he's right. "Let me drive," I acquiesce and he rounds the car to the other side, climbing in to the passenger seat and closing his eyes. I start the car and stomp on the gas. At 100 miles an hour, it would only take ten hours to cross 1,000 miles. Right? We're going to find out. xxx xxx xxx The city streets are quiet and there is no one about. For the first time, I don't feel afraid in downtown DC. Which is stupid because I have more to fear now than I ever did before. The drug wars and the ignorance of youth may have been slowly leaching the life out of America, but the invasion is a quick, silent war. Skinner is waiting for us at the motel, standing in a dark spot outside with his arms folded. "You can't stay here," he tells us without moving, his voice cutting through the night. "Why not?" Scully demands. "They're looking for you. I couldn't keep them from finding out you're alive. I'm sorry." He's speaking directly to Scully. "Who?" she asks. There are so many 'they's to choose from. The aliens. The colonists. Whatever might be left of the consortium. "The men I work for," Skinner says with a flinch of shame. Scully's eyes are cool, studying him. "They promised me safety - immunity," he tries to explain. "I thought I could do more good alive than dead," he finishes. "Where should we go?" Scully asks and Skinner doesn't answer. "I need something to drink," she announces and we walk around the corner of the building all in a group to the soda machine. Her hands are shaking so badly from all the other Cokes she's drunk that I have to count the change for her. Skinner observes, and he looks at me as though I'm not taking good enough care of her. I didn't take good enough care of my mother, either. She fell in with the wrong people and she died. Like Marita. Suddenly I want to get as far away from Scully as possible. She drains the can and looks like she's going to be sick. "The men you work for," she says to Skinner. "Can I meet them?" xxx xxx xxx She looks like Joan of Arc in the rearview mirror, her head up and her profile noble. Doesn't she realize I'm taking her to her death? Scully is too easy, too trusting, and I want to stop the car and tell her to run. Spender squirms in the passenger seat next to me. He's been in these big, dark sedans before. They're like mafia limousines. We don't make conversation and we don't listen to the radio. She thinks less of me for going with them, for crossing to the wrong side to save myself. I meant what I told her, my intention to fight them from inside their ranks. Never mind that it's failed in the past. I got the cure for her cancer. I had to kill for it, but I saved her and let Mulder think it was his triumph. I make no move to get out of the car when we arrive. Scully gets out and shuts the door softly. Spender looks at me, but I'm not going. He gets out to join her. He'll be facing his father again, I hope he realizes that. And his father will be angry with him. I don't think she's ever dealt with the cancerman before. I don't think she'll enjoy it. xxx xxx xxx The old man smells bad. He is sitting, lounging in a leather easy chair the way he used to in Skinner's office back when things were normal and there was an FBI. He's been waiting for us. My stomach clenches at the thought of Skinner telling him as soon as I called. This was all planned. I feel Spender at my back and I want to step into him for protection. But no one can protect me now. I don't even have a gun. The old man's face changes when he sees his son behind me. The wrinkles lengthen and deepen and I wonder how old he is. He looks like the devil, but he can't be much more than sixty. He is just a man, who once had a wife and a son. He was not always the epitome of evil. "Get him out of here," he orders, thrusting one finger toward the door. He looks almost panicked to see Spender. I want to see Spender's face, but I won't turn to look at him. He doesn't move from my side. The cancerman appeals to me, "I'll talk to you, but I won't deal with him." Spender still doesn't move. As though realizing he's lost this round, the cancerman relaxes back into his chair, pretending he doesn't care. It's good to have won the first round. "You wanted to see me?" he asks, the words flat like a statement. He strokes the length of his cigarette before placing it between his lips and lighting it. I get the feeling he's flirting with me or trying to unnerve me, or both. "Yes," I reply. There is another chair and I sit in it. It creaks as though it's never been sat in before. I scuff it forward, across the wooden floor and lean in toward the smoking man, even though the smoke from his cigarette is foul. Spender remains behind me throughout, standing behind my chair like a consigliere. I am the godmother, I think, I am the mob. Is this what actors do to give themselves presence and power on the stage? "I want some answers, Mr. Spender." He smiles when I call him that name. I'm aware it's an alias, but I'm playing nice. Mulder and I spent an evening trying to figure out what "C.G.B." stood for. The answers got sillier the more we drank. "What have you to trade?" he asks as though interested. "I'm not here to make a deal," I inform him. "I want to know how you think you can win this war." He makes a bridge with his fingers and I find it patronizing. "It's not a war to be won, my dear," he says like a kindly grandfather. "It's a matter of survival." "What kind of a deal did you make with them?" I ask. "I don't make deals," he informs me. "Is that why you've come here? To try to get me to give you information you should have figured out for yourself? I picked you because you're a bright young lady. Don't disappoint me now, Dana." His words succeed in raising goosebumps along my arms. I remember him, from the meeting at the FBI where I was assigned to be Mulder's watchdog. I realize he was behind my placement on the X Files. But I am the reason I lasted there. I cross my arms and lean back. "What should we do now?" I ask him. "You should get out of here and run like hell before my men find you," the smoking man replies honestly. "You're not a part of our plan, and the colonists will like a remaining abductee even less." I noticed. I get to my feet and shove the chair back. I look at Spender for the first time and find his face a mirror of the mask I'm wearing - expressionless and hard. "It's good to see you again, Jeff," the smoking man says cuttingly. "I trust you've fully recovered." "No thanks to you." His voice is full of venom and I put my hand on his arm to restrain him. "I'm surprised at the company you're keeping, son," he continues. "Doesn't she remind you that you're no comparision to Fox Mulder? Or has she finally lowered her standards?" I turn on him and for a second I'm surprised when lightning doesn't flash from my eyes and strike him dead. "Your son has honor and nobility and courage, which is more than I can say for you, you little cockroach. You may be standing when the last of the bombs fall, but there'll always be a thousand more of you, scavenging and living in the darkness inside the walls. You don't deserve to speak to him. You don't deserve to speak Fox Mulder's name. We're going to bring you down, you bastard, and when we do, so help me god, you'll wish that you had courage to get you through the type of torture you so enjoyed inflicting on me and a thousand other women, starting with your ex-wife and your daughter!" My voice hasn't risen and the ice dripping from it frightens even me. My anger is sometimes like an out-of-body experience. I lean in closer to him, so close I can smell the tar on his putrefying breath. "And I'm going to be the one who attaches the electrical wires and when you're screaming and crying for relief, like the dickless coward you are, I'm gonna shove the implant so far up your ass it'll hit your brain." It strikes me as a junior high school sort of insult when I've said it, but he's sunk in his chair. I've made the fearmaker afraid of me. "Now," I ask, "Do you know where Mulder is?" He laughs and I punch him. His head slings to one side and his eyes close. I turn to Spender and he takes my arm, steadying me. We walk out together. "Do you think he was serious?" Spender asks me. "I was," I say and he chuckles until I give him a dirty look. "Do we need to run?" Spender asks, to clarify his earlier question. I wish I knew. "I'm going to the FBI building," I tell him. I want to look at Mulder's files. I think there's some things he never told me. I don't want to believe it, but I'm just as certain that it's true. xxx xxx xxx The FBI building has been looted. The glass is all smashed in and it looks like someone held a bonfire in the lobby, right over the "Fidelty - Bravery - Integrity" emblem. I caused a fair amount of destruction when I worked here, I think as I follow her through the halls like a ghost on Ms. PacMan's trail. The shredder used to make me cough and sneeze when I leaned over it to put the pages through. And damage was done to me. I wonder if she ever noticed the blood staining the floor in their office. The door to Mulder's office is still locked when we reach the basement, but it's off its hinges and bent in the middle. Somebody wanted inside. The file cabinets are tipped over, but the drawers are still full, seemingly untouched. I stand back as Scully shoves one of them back into place against the wall. She has muscles in her upper arms that define themselves as she works. I find myself looking for the place where I thought I was dead. The cleaning crew must have done an excellent job because there's not even the faintest smear of blood. "Did you mean what you said back there?" I ask her. She looks like she could use a stepstool to reach the top drawer of the file cabinet. "I may have exaggerated slightly," she says with a mildly embarrassed smile. "I meant about me...being courageous." I'm afraid to ask, because I'm afraid she'll take it back, say that she only meant it to hurt my father. I'm afraid she'll think less of me for asking. She stops rifling through the drawers and looks at me. "Of course I meant it," she says, taking several steps toward me. I fight the urge to back away. Her eyes have gone soft and I don't know what that means. "Did your father compare you to Mulder often, when you worked for him, to try to hurt you?" she asks in a quiet voice. "Only once," I reply, remembering his slaps that knocked me back in my chair and back into my place. "What is your father's relationship to Mulder?" she asks me. "I wish you wouldn't call him that." "Your father?" Her eyebrows go up. I nod. "I wouldn't want to be reminded, either," she admits understandingly. "I don't know....about him and Mulder. I think he respected Mulder...or something," I tell her. She nods and goes back to the file. "You said he abducted his daughter...but I don't have a sister," I say. "Mulder thought..." Scully pauses and looks at me. "Mulder had reason to believe that your father was involved in his sister's abduction. He believed that the cigarette smoking man had a close relationship with his mother. So close that Samantha may have been your sister." She looks sorry to be telling me this. "Samantha's abduction date corresponds with the date of your mother's first abduction." I don't know what to say, and after a second, Scully goes back to the files. I wonder what she's looking for. "What are we going to do now?" I ask her. "We're going to find out about the implants and we're going to find Mulder. And Krycek." She doesn't express any doubt that they're still alive. "How are we going to do that?" I ask her. "They're monitoring us from somewhere," she says, closing the folder with a flourish and heading out of the office, leaving me to follow her once again. xxx xxx xxx There were things in the files Mulder never told me of, just as I'd suspected. Rooms at the Pentagon where women lay on tables in rows with lights projected onto their swollen stomachs. He'd gone raiding with the identity card of the man he shot in his apartment, who had been spying on him for god knows how long. Mulder let the world think that man was him for as long as the ruse lasted. Not long. I was busy dying of cancer at the time, so I understand why he wouldn't have wanted to bother me with the details. He found the implant there, in their rows of catalogued boxes and files. The implant that was put back into my neck, that is sustaining me today. It's got to be where their monitoring equipment is, deep in the bowels of the Department of Defense of my own beloved government. It makes me angry. That there is no one at the Pentagon comes as a slight surprise to me. There are no doors from the subway, which is still running. The Pentagon was open twenty four hours a day, guarded at all times, and planned with dry cleaners and pharmacy and shopping so its employees wouldn't lose time and productivity on their lunch hours that they could lose in other ways, such as wandering the ringed halls forever in confusion. Spender is close on my heels. I like that he follows me and doesn't ask questions. Mulder wasn't much for directions, but I pick up the trail he must have followed, down to the lowest level of the basement. I'm sensing a pattern here with the basements and everything. We come to a door with an electronic lock. "I've been here before," Spender says. I stop and let him walk past me, up to the lock. I watch as he keys in the code numbers and the light turns green. He glances at me and pushes through the door. "What did you do here?" I ask, my voice hushed in the dark hallway. There shouldn't be anyone to hear us. "I was meeting him. And Diana." Ah, the fowl one. I haven't heard her name since she disappeared about the same time Spender did. Funny how I didn't miss her at all. And now that I'm thinking about her again, I'm wondering if she's alive and knows where Mulder is. Maybe he's with her. Maybe he ran off to be with her. My insides turn queasy and I vow not to think about it. At least not until later, when I'm due my nightly crying jag and breakdown. I'm starting to really hate myself for that. I peek through the windows. All of them have chickenwire enforcing them, and when I see one that's interesting, I try the door. It opens easily in my hand. So much for security. Spender follows and we walk through an aisle with a long card catalogue, tiny file drawers. They're meticulously typewriter labeled with letters of the alphabet and it isn't difficult to find where "Scully" will fall. I yank the drawer so hard I almost dump the cards onto the floor and Spender steadies it for me. "Thanks," I murmur with a glance at him. He holds the drawer while I paw through it, looking for my own name. There are a lot of Scully's, I guess it's a more common Irish name than I thought. I'd only ever heard of Vin Scully before, the Dodgers announcer. My dad used to joke that he was an uncle and he'd introduce us to the team. Then my dad went off on a ship and my brothers, my sister and I would manage to forget the empty promises every time. Vin Scully doesn't have a card in the drawer, in case you're interested. I do. It has an identifying number on it. Beyond that, the card is blank. About half of the cards are blank. I wonder what that denotes. Suddenly I feel like I'm in a big library with a complete collection and I want to look up everything. I take my card and hold it in my hand. Lots and lots of files, I think, taking two steps to my left and finding Spender's drawer. He looks horrified, but Krycek told him that he had an implant. Krycek. Another person to look up. Maybe by cross referencing the cards, I can figure out what's going on here. Maybe if I ask nice, Spender will go out and get me a sleeping bag and a six pack of Pepsi and I can move in. Spender's card is also blank. He takes it from my hands and looks at it. His eyes almost seem to cross when he focuses in concentration. I hadn't noticed that before. It's sort of cute, I think, and wonder what the hell is going on in my brain. It probably means he needs glasses, I tell myself. "Do you know what any of this means?" I ask him, studying his face. He shakes his head and gives his card back to me. I look at Cassandra's card, which is not blank. It also shows some sign of a human hand. A little star has been drawn in the upper left corner in light green ink. I compare her card to her son's, looking at the number, trying to see if they have any sort of generational bearing. It doesn't seem to. I put Cassandra's card back. There is no "C.G.B." card. I 'm not terribly surprised. I look up Penny Northern. Her card is blank. I put it back. I take Mulder's card. It isn't blank. I take Samantha's card. It is blank. I push the file drawer closed and then pull it open again, having a thought, looking for cards on his parents. There is no William Mulder card. There is one for Mulder, Rebecca Kristeen. It isn't blank. There's a pattern here somewhere, if only I can find it. Krycek's card isn't blank either. There are no other Kryceks in the drawer. I look at the array of cards in my hand. Who am I forgetting? Spender puts a card into my hand. Covarrubias, Mary Margarita. It's blank. Blank means dead. Someone's been keeping the card file up to date. I look at him and he's looking at the floor. For the hell of it, I visit Skinner's card. Not blank. "Okay," I say. "Know anything about the filing system?" Spender shakes his head. Across from the card file is row after row of metal shelves with grey cardboard boxes. The boxes are labeled with numbers with the same form as the identifying numbers on the cards. I shuffle the cards until Mulder's is looking up at me and set off to find his box, wondering what I will find inside. A horror movie vision of heads in boxes haunts me until I realize these boxes are much too small. Besides, Mulder's card isn't blank. They don't think he's dead. Of course, my card is blank and so is Spender's, so we fooled them. Or they know something we don't. Mulder's box has two vials and a blue Stratego piece shaped like a castle. One vials seems to have blood in it. The other looks like semen. This place is seriously starting to give me the creeps. The contents of other boxes that I check are similar, except Spender's doesn't have the blood sample and mine, obviously doesn't have any semen in it. That would be quite a discovery. "Find Marita's box," Spender tells me. I look at him, but he doesn't elaborate. I do as he says anyway. I open it and it's empty. "Damn it!" he cries. I cross my arms. "What's going on?" "Rita was the only person ever successfully treated with the antidote for the alien blood," he says. "Not the weak vaccine, the cure. I thought...hoped..." "It would be in here," I finish for him, looking in the box again. It's empty. It occurs to me that none of the other boxes were empty. "Someone got here before us," I determine. "Who?" Spender asks. The hair on the back of my neck is rising and I suddenly feel like I'm being watched. I hope it is merely paranoia. "Krycek, I hope," I tell Spender in a low voice. He looks around, sensitive to my uneasiness. We are the only two here. "I think we'd better go." He agrees, and we don't start running until we hit the stairwell. xxx xxx xxx "Are you sure we'll be safe here?" I ask her, looking around as though expecting bullets to come flying through the walls of the motel room at any time. I don't feel safe here. I don't feel safe anywhere now that we've seen my father and he knows I'm alive. Scully is pacing up and down in the shallow walkway between the bed and the television, which is on and turned to news. She's chewing on her thumbnail, something I've never seen her do before. I've never seen her pace this frenetically, either. "We're safe," she removes her finger from her mouth to tell me. "For now. They're watching us because they're curious what we know and what we're going to do." She stops and looks at my expression of disbelief that we hold this much power. "He's not the all-powerful Oz, Spender," she tells me, "He's just a little man behind the curtain pulling the strings." "Nice analogy." I wish she would sit down. "What do we know?" She just paces. I try not to look because it's driving me crazy. "What are we going to do now?" "We're going to find a cure or a vaccine for the alien virus and begin an immunization program," she says like she believes it. "How are we going to do that?" She looks at me, startled, like no one's ever questioned her authority before. If she could get a good look at herself, she could see why. "I'm serious, Scully. You're exhausted. If you keep this up, you're going to collapse." She doesn't stop moving and I'm starting to get angry. I'm supposed to be taking care of her. I get up from the bed and put my hands on her shoulders, making her stand still. She does stand there for a moment, looking up at me defiantly. Her muscles are quivering under my hand like electrical current is flowing through her body. Then she breaks away to pace some more. "God damn it, Scully!" I yell and don't even recognize the sound of my own voice. "Don't make me pick you up and put you in the bed." "What are you going to do once you've got me there?" she asks quietly. The dark rings around her eyes make her look like she's afraid of me. Me. That's almost hilarious. I change my approach. "You're going to go to sleep and when you get up, your head will be clear so you can figure out the vaccine." "What're you gonna do?" she asks, but I've won. She's moving toward the bed and she even looks sleepy, now that she's allowed herself to stop being so keyed-up. It's a good question, I realize as she stretches out and pulls the covers over herself. I turn out the light and sit there in the dark, asking myself. What am I going to do to save the world from alien invasion? No answers come to me. xxx xxx xxx I'm having a dream about Mulder and when I feel the hand on my back, I know it has to be him. "Mulder?" My voice is tenuous and confused as I lift my cheek from the cool, smooth formica countertop. My feet are still hooked around the rungs of the stool. I turn around and there's no one there. I blink, to make certain I'm awake, and there is no one in the lab with me. I've been here for days, slaving to make progress that I honestly don't know enough to make. I'm a forensic pathologist, not Edward Jenner. My arm is still lying on the counter, numb from having slept with the weight of my head on it. It's starting to tingle sharply and I realize there is a glass vial in the palm of my hand. It wasn't there when I fell asleep. I sit up, excited and scared. There really was a hand on my back, someone waking me so I would see what they gave me. It's the vaccine. I don't know how I know, but I do. My feet find the floor and I don't set the vial down as I walk into the hallway. It hasn't been but a few moments; whoever was here can't have gone far. I open the door and look down the long, dark hallway of the abandoned university. School was already out when the first signs of national emergency came. There's no one there. My eyes adjust from the brightness of the lab and I notice something shiny on the floor. I step out from the doorway and crouch. It's blood. Fresh blood. Someone is here. Someone who's hurt. If it's Mulder, why would he sneak away? "It's okay," I call, taking more cautious steps, looking for the messenger. I follow the trail of blood, hoping it's not leading me to someone who's been chewed and sliced by one of the alien hatchlings. I push the door to the stairway open carefully and find Krycek lying there, bruised and bleeding. "Oh god," I whisper and he opens his eyes. "It's not as bad as it looks," he says and manages a rakish smile. I don't believe him. His eyes are filled with pain. I put the vaccine vial into the pocket of the long white lab coat I'm wearing and help him up to his feet. His sweater is soaked with blood. I don't ask him where he's been or what's happened to him. I help him back into the lab where I've been working and call Spender at the motel and ask him to bring the car. Then I turn back to Krycek and look at him. He's slid down the wall into a heap at the juncture of the wall and the floor. His swarthy complexion is pale, bluish. I start to push his sweater up over his chest and he chuckles. He pays for that laugh in pain. I hold his eyes for several second and then push the sweater up. Four sharp, deep scratches across his chest. They all need stitches and look infected. They're crusted with blood but not closing properly. I frown at him. "How old are these wounds?" He doesn't reply. I get up and walk to the cabinet, filling a syringe with penicillin from the refrigerator. "You're not allergic?" I ask and he barely has time to grunt as I pull him into my arms so his butt isn't touching the floor. I jam the needle in through the fabric of his jeans and he howls. "Now," I say as he settles back on his stung ass, "How old are these wounds?" "A day," he whispers. "They're from one of the alien hatchlings," I say and he nods confirmation. "Why didn't you seek treatment sooner?" "I had to get the vaccine to you." "Does it hurt to breathe?" I ask, touching his chest lightly and watching him wince. "You can make more, can't you?" he asks desperately. "Yes," I tell him soothingly. "We can make enough for everyone." I hope this is possible, but I'm not certain. But he's agitated and his color doesn't look good. "They'll try to stop it. They'll try to kill us," Krycek tells me. "Looks like they already gave it their best shot." I get a clean cloth to apply pressure to his bleeding stomach and the door to the lab opens. I look and see Spender. "Jesus." The word slips through his teeth. "Good to see you too," Krycek says to him. "What's wrong with him?" Spender asks me. "He needs stitches. I think we need to get him back to the motel," I say and move away to gather the equipment I'll need. Silk thread and a needle, a big bottle of alcohol. I lucked out with them having penicillin in the refrigerator - there isn't much else. No novocain or topical anesthetics. This is going to get pretty ugly. I look at Spender picking Krycek up and realize it already is pretty ugly. "You got him?" I ask and Spender nods, his face dark and intense. He turns away and walks out through the door. I follow, locking up behind us and turning out the lights. "Put him in the back," I suggest and Spender does, dropping Krycek heavily onto the back seat. "There's something you should know," Spender tells me gravely as he gets in on the driver's side and starts the engine. I wait as he pulls out sedately and then he looks at me before putting the car into drive from reverse. He looks at me. "The bees are here." He stomps the gas uncharacteristically and Krycek lets out an involuntary sound of pain from the back seat. My hand is on the vial in my pocket. I just nod at Spender's grim pronouncement and look out the window at the passing scenery, wondering where the other cars are. The roads are practically empty. Then I hear the announcement on the radio and understand why. "For your safety, you are implored to report to a refugee center. We will transport you and your families to a safe, insect free environment. Rest assured that we are taking every precaution and spraying will begin almost immediately. We are doing everything in our power to get you back to your homes as soon as possible." I could only wonder who "we" was supposed to represent. Those who were in power due to their collaboration with the aliens, who would convey people to their deaths. Spender pulled into the space in front of the motel room and made quick work of getting Krycek inside. There was blood on the back seat of the car where he'd been laying. I began to unpack my supplies, wishing we had a way to sterilize the equipment further. As Krycek groaned, I noticed Spender laying towels into the cracks around the door and the window. "What're you doing?" "They are going to spray like they said on the radio. But it won't be to kill the bees. It's their way of getting the people who don't report. It's the same chemical cocktail that was responsible for Gulf War syndrome. Only stronger." I don't ask how he knows this. I believe him. "How much time do we have?" "They're beginning at sundown." My eyes shoot to the clock. We have perhaps an hour. I have to attend to Krycek. "What about the hospitals?" Spender shakes his head. "I imagine they're there now. Shooting the people whose bodies are too weak to gestate one of the hatchlings." This is too much, and we should have been prepared for it. "Damn it," I whisper and snip Krycek's sweater off, too hurried to bother with undressing him. "This is going to hurt," I whisper to him apologetically and he flashes me with his teeth before he passes out. Better this way, I tell myself, working quickly. My handiwork is terrible; I'm used to sewing up the dead. It should do. I douse the whole thing with alcohol and look at the clock again. Time is passing. I snatch up the phone and dial Skinner's number. To my surprise he answers. "This is Scully," I say, speaking quickly. "I have the vaccine. I need to be put into contact with people who can stop the carnage and get the vaccine put into production quickly." "Scully," Skinner sighs. "You shouldn't be telling me this." Translation: his line is bugged. "What should we do?" I ask him plainly. The line goes dead in my ear a second later. "What did he say?" "He hung up on me," I say, still mildly angry with Skinner. "I know what to do," Krycek whispers. He tries to put his hand against his chest, but when he does he winces and removes his hand quickly. His eyes are red but his color's better. "We tell them it's a new, better infection process. They'll take care of the rest." "Wait a minute," Spender says, "Won't they be able to tell the difference?" I cross my arms and wait. I'd really like to hear this, too. These men have been running experiments for at least twenty-five years. They've got to be smart enough not to fall for a trick like that. "Don't you get it," Krycek says, turning on his side to look at me. "They don't know what the hell they're doing. I got the vaccine from the Russians. They're under heavy attack, but they've been researching the black oil since the meteorite hit Tunguska in the early part of the century. Their inroads have only come in the last few years and the men who ran those tests are now dead." "I assume you know someone in the organization you can pass this to?" I ask him. "They won't trust me any more," he says. "I turned on them too many times." I look at Spender and quickly dismiss him as a possibility. My hands are starting to sweat. We're close to blowing this wide open. The only thing more perfect would be if he told me the vaccine also killed the baby aliens running around. "I think they might believe this coming from you," Krycek says to me in a soft, persuasive voice. "Me?" I jump and look at him. "Why would they want to take anything from me?" "You're determined and you're smart. You know more about their plans than anyone else alive on earth," Krycek tells me. It makes me worry for Mulder. If Krycek knew where Mulder was, he would tell me...wouldn't he? I shake my head, recalling my meeting with the cigarette smoking man. "Skinner," I say, even though he hung up on me less than five minutes ago. "His phone's tapped, isn't it? He's working for them." Spender is frowning. He doesn't like this plan. "But Krycek says they'll believe I could come up with it. If I give it to Skinner..." Spender's still shaking his head. I look at Krycek to see what he thinks. "It could work," he concedes. I pull the vial out of my pocket and look at it, holding it up to the light. It looks like a lighter, thinner version of the black oil. "How much do they need?" I ask Krycek. He looks puzzled. "I'm not giving them everything we have. Just in case. And Spender needs to be inoculated." "Scully, no," Spender says, his eyes bright with shock. "Don't blow this on my account." "Yes," I insist, crossing the room to the supplies that I brought. An extra syringe, which I half-fill with the solution from the vial. I pour a bit more into a test tube, sealing it carefully. This leaves approximately one quarter of the vaccine left to hand over in our lie. "Don't do this," Spender says as I approach him with the needle. "I'm not...I don't..." I grab his chin with my other hand and make him look at me. He stops his babbling and his protestations. "You are a valuable person. You do deserve this. You deserve the chance to live, Jeff." It's weird for me to call him by his first name, but I am making a personal appeal to him here. If he doesn't believe in himself, he is wasting all of our time. There's no room for self esteem problems when you're trying to save the world. Which may be why Mulder took off. I push back a sudden anger with my former partner. "I want you here with us." He looks touched and I squeeze his knee. "Now drop your pants." Krycek burst out laughing. I can't bite back my smile, either, at how it sounded, but I shoot Krycek a warning look as Spender unbuckles his belt and pulls down the khaki pants he's wearing. He leaves his midnight blue silk boxers in place and I have to reach up under them to inject him. "He's going to be sick as a dog," Krycek tells me as soon as I've emptied the syringe into Spender's bloodstream. "I don't feel too good," Spender concurs and already his body has begun to tremble. I frown and look at Krycek. He nods, as though this is normal and I drop the syringe into the trash, sitting on the bed next to the two injured men to call Skinner. I want to get the material to him as soon as possible. "Skinner," he says gruffly. "This is Scully," I say. He waits silently. "I - I've come across something I think you should know about. It's a substance that speeds up the process of infection. It could replace the bees. I...don't know what to do about it." I don't have to insert the hesitations into my voice. I'm scared. This could backfire badly, and I'm looking at the ragged stitches on Krycek's stomach and the way Spender's curled into a fetal position. I need to take care of them both. I can't go this alone. "I need to make some calls," Skinner tells me and rings off. "Well?" Krycek asks. "He's going to make some calls," I relay and Krycek nods. "He'll get back to you in less than an hour. I guarantee it," Krycek promises. "Relax." He tries to cross his arms over his stomach and winces. "Wish I had another shirt since you ruined this one." "Ingrate," I retort, but I don't have another shirt to provide. "Maybe you could sew this one up for me," Krycek invites, holding out the jagged edges of cloth that I cut away. It's crusted with blood and he probably shouldn't be wearing it. I should go and get some supplies. He's staring at his stomach. "It's going to leave a scar," he says sadly. "I'm not a plastic surgeon," I say, feeling inadequate. "But I did what I had to, to save your life. You were bleeding quite heavily." He nods. "The clotting factors in my blood are a little off." "Off how?" I ask, leaning toward him, interested. "My mom always said we came from Russian royalty," he says and shrugs. "Maybe she was right." "Are you telling me you're a hemophiliac?" I ask, my tone more shrill than I intended. "Maybe a slight tendency," he says. "You can't have a slight tendency to hemophilia," I inform him, aware that I sound sort of hysterical. "It's a chromosomal disorder, you either have it or you don't. Do you bruise easily? Do you have joint pain?" He shakes his head, amused by my worry. "No, Scully, stop worrying." "I want to know what you meant," I insist. "I had a run-in with the black oil. That's how I built an immunity to it," Krycek explains. "And ever since then, my blood's been a little...off." I don't understand. "Is this going to affect Mulder, or me? And the people who are vaccinated?" I look at Spender. He looks like he might have gone to sleep. When I'm finished arguing with Krycek, I'll check on him. "It's not a side effect of the vaccine," Krycek tells me seriously. "I had the black oil inside me. It took control and used me as a vessel to get what it wanted. As far as I know, that hasn't happened to any other people." "The diver and the diver's wife," I say, remembering the case. The oil was brought up by the diver, who found it in the cabin of a B-52 bomber plane that crashed into the ocean during World War II. I wonder where they are now. "What?" Krycek asks. I shake my head, reaching over to touch Spender. His skin is hot and he's sweating. His eyes are tightly closed and his face is contracted like he's in pain or a nightmare. "Is he going to be okay?" I ask Krycek. "The fever should break in several hours and he'll be fine. He won't remember anything," Krycek tells me. "He'll be weak, but fine." Krycek watches me as I stroke Spender's forehead and rub his back, wishing I could make him more comfortable or make the nightmares go away. The phone rings and I jump. It's Skinner, already. Krycek smiles and me and nods and I pick up the receiver. xxx xxx xxx "Where did you get this?" The night is cold and windy and fog has rolled in. The planes that were supposed to spray the city with poison were grounded due to the fog. Lucky for us. Scully keeps tucking the same strand of hair behind her ear, but it's no match for the wind. She shakes her head and hands me a glass container. "It doesn't matter." "It'll matter to the men I work for." "You don't like working for them, do you?" she asks me and I can't answer honestly. I hate working for them. But they own me. There is technology in my blood. If I disobey them, all that's due me is pain and death. I've seen first hand what the bees can do but I want to survive. I will find a way to fight them. "They're watching us now, aren't they?" she asks, looking back over her shoulder. "Are they going to follow me back?" "No," I tell her. "I'll call them off." "And they listen to you," she says, and I nod again. "Use this," she tells me and wraps her hand around mine, lowering her voice. "Get them to use it on everyone. It will further the cause." She means our cause. Hers and mine. She's giving me a message as her blue eyes bore into mine. She hasn't stopped fighting and now I've been given the opportunity to do the right thing. She still trusts me when I've done nothing to deserve it. I nod and pocket the glass tube. I'll make sure it gets into the right hands. "I don't have any information for you...about Mulder," I tell her in a low voice. "I'm sorry." She sets her mouth and shakes her head, but I see the tears in her eyes even as that strand of hair whips across her face again. "It doesn't matter," she says. "Use that," she tells me. She always was a good liar. I'm just glad I can help. xxx xxx xxx "It's over," she says when she walks into the motel room and I start. Something went wrong. Goddamn it all to hell if she or that bald idiot blew it after I went to hell and back... She sees what must be a terrifying look on my face and smiles. "I made the drop. Skinner'll make sure it's distributed and that no one looks or questions too closely." "Are you sure you can trust him?" I ask her, to see what her reaction is. "Absolutely," she replies and I believe her. She walks around the bed to check on Spender again and I feel jealous. She isn't coming over to check on me and I'm the one she doctored on. I've got a fever myself, but Spender's is just hitting its highest spike. It's been about two hours since the inoculation and it'll be about two hours more before he's back to normal. "God," she whispers when she feels his forehead. I can feel the heat of his body from where I'm sprawled next to him and the sheets are soaked with sweat. She was reluctant to leave us here, like a mom with two sick little boys. I don't want her to act like my mom and I'm pretty sure Spender doesn't either. Finally, she turns to me. "This doesn't look good," she tells me, leaning in close to inspect the stitches she's made. She places her hand against my forehead and it feels cool. "You've got a fever, too. I think your infection's getting worse. You're lucky the alien didn't kill you." Tell me about it. That thing had claws like Freddie Kreuger. It didn't seem all that interested in killing me. I was lucky. I'm not above admitting that. My luck is what keeps me alive. I was called the cat with nine lives before I was even ten years old and my nana had no idea the trouble I would get into once I was a big, grown up boy. I must be sick if I'm thinking about nana and my boyhood. "I don't have any more penicillin," Scully says and raises my head with one hand while feeding me aspirin tablets. I crunch them between my teeth and cringe at their bitter taste as she gets me some water. "You're not supposed to chew them," she tells me gently. "Can't help it," I tell her. "I can't swallow pills." "And you're what, thirty five years old? And you never learned how?" she asks me, rubbing her fingers through my hair. God, that feels good. If she's not careful, she's gonna make me think she likes me. I shake my head. "Just say no," I joke and let my eyes slide closed. "Get some rest," she suggests and I open my eyes again to watch her moving away, to make a bed for herself in the chair. I get to sleep with Spender tonight. Too bad neither of us are in any condition to enjoy it. xxx xxx xxx I can't sleep with them and the future of the world to worry about. I turned off the light so Krycek would go to sleep. I'm hoping he'll sleep off the fever and the infection. I need to know more about his little brush with clotting problems, though. It's not just an interesting medical puzzle. It could mean his life. I try to tell myself he's come this far and made it okay. He lost his arm and he's survived. I'm not sure I could do that. He's mumbling in Russian now, sleeping soundly. Spender's not faring as well. He's thrashing now, restless in his sleep, trapped inside feverish dreams. He was crying about an hour ago. I went through a different process and I didn't suffer after I was vaccinated. It was being infected with the alien gestational virus that was painful. "Mommy," Spender says and his voice sounds high. I cringe but I have to go to him. I whisper that it's going to be all right and hold him against me. The ice in the bucket already melted and I've been too hesitant to leave them and get more. Spender's body is cooler, almost normal. That's good. He opens his eyes and looks up at me. "Scully?" "Yeah," I say. "You're going to be okay. Just go back to sleep." He must trust me because he closes his eyes again. I remain sitting there, enjoying the weight of his body in my arms. It's Mulder that I miss, and no one else is much of a substitute. I have to get used to the fact that he's probably dead. Some day, when I tell myself that, I won't cry. But tonight is not that night. xxx xxx xxx I wake, and it's like waking from the sleep of the dead. Scully is sitting up with her back against the head of the bed, like she was watching over me while I slept. Krycek is gone again, having disappeared into the darkness of the night. He swooped down with the thing that saved everyone. It's still dark and I get up to find my knees trembling. I need to take a shower, but I'm drawn to the window. I pull back the heavy, plastic lined drapes to an amazing sight. It looks like a thousand shooting stars, all of them pointed up into the sky. "My god, Scully, come look at this," I say. "Wha?" She wakes with a jerk and I beckon her with my hand. She pushes her hair back into place and walks over to where I'm standing. I make a place for her in front of the window and hear it when the sight takes her breath away. I put my hands on her shoulders and hold her against me. Something in me knows that this is over and things aren't going to be the same again. "It's beautiful," she says. "They're leaving," I tell her and we watch for what feels like hours in silence. The rockets silently moving up into the sky grow fewer. When I was a very small boy, my father told me that if I made a wish on a shooting star, it would come true. I used to believe in wishes and the things that my father told me. "Krycek's gone?" she asks, not moving even as the sun begins to rise. "Yeah." "I hope he's okay." She has such a big heart. Krycek's not a good guy - he's done terrible things and a lot of them were directed at her - but she's worried about him. "You did it, Scully," I tell her. "You did this." She shakes her head. "Krycek -" "None of this would have happened without you," I tell her and she drops her head slightly, the way she does when she's embarrassed. "I guess it'll all go back to normal now," she says. "That's all I ever wanted but somehow..." Words fail her and she just goes back to looking out the window. This time has been special to her. I understand because I feel the same way. I never felt as alive or as important as I have in the months since my "death." She starts to pull away, to clean herself and dress to start a new day, but I hold her. Scully looks at me, her eyes cloudy with confusion. "I want to say something to you," I tell her and her look changes, as though to tell me not to do this, not to say these words. "I have to." She stills to listen. "I admire you, for everything you've survived and the way you never let it mark you. You are so strong and so lovely and you just work so hard and drive like such a maniac -" She laughs at that, a quick laugh that exposes her teeth. "I hope that when this is good and truly over, we can still be friends." God, did I just say that? How many girls and women have given me the friends speech and I just told Scully I wanted to be her friend? "What I mean is -" "I know what you mean," she says. "And there's nothing to admire. Just flesh and blood. Just a woman." She picks up my hand and places it against her upper chest as though to prove this to me. I can feel her heart beating solidly beneath my palm. I close my eyes and lean down to press my lips against hers and she lets me. It's a sweet kiss, not a passionate one. She smiled at me and stroked my hair before she turned and walked away from me. I stood at the window feeling sad, knowing it could never be. xxx xxx xxx I got my apartment back and pulled my things out of storage, but I can't have my old life back. Officially, I'm on a leave of absence from the FBI, but there are more important things to do now. More than two billion people died and no one did anything to stop it. Abductees were burned just like witches as neighbors turned against each other. People who we'd placed our trust in sold us out like nothing more than goods. Our whole race became nothing more than food. I am now an advocate of science. We need to develop our space program and our technology and quickly. When the aliens left us, where did they go? I'm certain they did not run home with their tails between their legs. Humans have been immunized against their plague and our planet is no good to them. We need to go to the next planet they will strike and help them to help themselves. I believe this is what the rebel aliens were trying to do. But we won't go with blowtorches. We will go with science. I don't feel comfortable around people any more. It's only been a week or two since life got back to normal, but I can't trust anyone. Some days, it's so bad I can barely leave my house. This crisis has done nothing to change the ways in which we relate to ourselves and the world around us. We are still abusing the environment and each other. Guns are still sold in pawnshops and drugs are still sold in playgrounds. Faraway dictators went right back to killing all the people they dislike. I hate that nothing's changed. I want the fabled world government. I want the happy utopia. I want Mulder. I turn off the black and white science fiction movie and lay my head back against the arm of the couch, thinking ahead to the speech I will be giving in the morning. I'm not going to be able to sleep, so I get up from the couch and grab my running shoes, which are never very far. I think I've logged fifty miles in two weeks. Let's make it fifty-five, I tell myself, jogging out the door, hoping to exhaust myself and clear my mind, or at least so saturate my brain cells with endorphins that I'll have no choice but to sleep. I return an hour later, drenched with sweat and pleasantly aching. My brain is happily numb. I freeze when I push open the door to my apartment. I overdid it. I'm probably having a heart attack and that's why I'm hallucinating. But the hallucination breaks into a wide, white grin in the darkness of my living room, and the chair with the pink stripes that I hate creaks as he raises himself from it to wrap both his arms around me. "Oh my god, it's really you, oh my god," I'm babbling like a woman who just won a car on a game show. I can't believe this. He's saying my name into my neck and it's just beginning to soak in that Mulder is really here, in my arms, alive and safe and whole. I pull back from him and demand, "Where the hell have you been?" "I was trying to save the world," he says. "What the hell happened?" I ask. "You saved the world first," Mulder says, trying to wrap himself around me again. I hold myself still and stiff. I'm going to have to hear more than that to convince me. He walked out on me and let me think he was dead. He left me so dreadfully alone to fight the worst fight of my life. "What?" he pulls back to look at me and when I look up into those golden hazel eyes, I lose the battle. I pull his mouth down to his and kiss him, hard. He kisses me back just as hard, hugging me so tight he can pick me up with just his arms and put me down on the couch, just where he wants me. Our clothes are off in seconds and I scream as he thrusts into me. He stops like he didn't know where that scream was coming from and he waits until I stop panting and focus on his face, his eyes and relax. We draw breath together, like one being, and he begins to move inside me. "So sweet, so good, it's been so long," he mumbles into my ear, taking the lobe between his teeth and tugging. Fire shoots through me, tearing up my nerve endings and I come and I come and I come like only he can make me. "Where have you been?" I ask gently, toying with the hair hanging down into his eyes as we lay together in bliss. "I was trying to find answers. I wanted you to be safe. That was more important to me than anything." "I thought you were dead," I confess. "And I hated you for it. I hated you for leaving me alone to face this on my own. I'm still kind of mad." "You don't seem mad." He's touching me again. I push his hand away and it falls back as though magnetized to my skin. "Everything turned out okay." "Didn't you even miss me?" I ask him, and damn it, I am not going to cry. I've already asked a clingy question. I don't want him to leave me ever again and it makes me panic. "Yeah," he says and that gruff tone is honest. "Every day and every night. I worried about you and when I looked for you I couldn't find you and when it all came back together, I couldn't get back to you fast enough. But you did it, Scully. You saved the world. All by yourself." "I had help," I say, but I can't tell him about Krycek and Spender and Skinner. I can't tell him about any of it, I find, as I open my mouth to try and find only a big knot in my throat. And I realize he can't tell me where he's been, except to say that he was trying, too, trying to help, in ways that didn't get the job done but might have, eventually, just as I may have failed and we would all be dead now. We're together. Which is all I wanted. It's all I ever wanted. xxx xxx xxx I still see her sometimes, in the halls of the FBI building, but more often on television, talking about her causes. I've sent checks to her organization and I did research before I voted to see who would make sensible choices. I can't forget that my father is still out there, and more men like him. I know, as Scully does, that this could happen again so easily. But I've gone back to my life of fighting the common criminal. Kidnappings, murders, white collar crime. The usual FBI platter. I know that Mulder's back because I've seen him. And I've seen the smile on Scully's face. I'm happy that she's happy. Even if it makes me feel empty inside. If the person you were made to love, was made to love someone else...what are you supposed to do? I tell myself the things that spinsters must, that I can live without love, that I'm focused on my career, that I will find the right person someday. I'm no more or less happy than I used to be. I just miss her from the days when our lives were in such danger. That's the thing about adventures. They end. xxx xxx xxx I dreamed about the grays last night. Maybe it's because I'm here in New Mexico, only a few miles from where the Anasazi tribe lived five hundred years ago. Their name means "ancient aliens" and they disappeared without a trace one day, perhaps blasting off to the distant star that is their home. The grays in my dream told me that I'd made a terrible mistake and humanity would suffer for it. I awoke to the clock radio in my motel room, blasting out a story of a schoolboy who planted bombs all around the small town where he lived, killing most of the population. He says he doesn't know why he did it. Something about loneliness and isolation and emptiness. The seminar I'm giving isn't scheduled until tomorrow, at the conclusion of the conference. I know I should go, put in an appearance and take notes, meet with colleagues who feel the way that I do, but I don't want to. Those red rocks and ruins are calling to me. I lace up my hiking boots and put my hair up in a ponytail, making certain I have a bottle of water and some sunscreen and I head out into the glorious sunshine. I stop when I reach a plateau just high enough to overlook some of the surrounding countryside. I walk along the edge, feeling brave, and look quietly. Then I realize I'm not alone up here and turn. Krycek is sitting with his back against a rock. He raises his good hand to waive. "Fancy meeting you here," he says and the phrase is absurd coming from his lips. "Krycek. Are you okay?" It's the first thing that occurs to me after the way he left us, the morning that the world was saved and the old world returned to us. "Wanna see your handiwork?" he asks, reaching for the hem of his shirt to show me the scars. I think of Mulder back at home and don't look. "We made a mistake," Krycek says and a chill goes through me. It's what the alien said to me in my dream. "No," I say, even though I've had the same thought myself. "We learned something from it, I know we did." "That's not what I'm talking about," Krycek says. He pats the ground next to him, inviting me to sit down, and I do. I see now where he parked the motorcycle he rode up here on. I wonder if this is how he spends his time now, sightseeing and thinking deep thoughts. "We thwarted evolution, Scully." "That's impossible. Evolution can't be stopped." He's nodding. He's wrong. "They were killing people, Krycek, for their own purpose. They have no way to reproduce so they had to use us. They used us. You saw the way the bodies were used and destroyed -" "Transformed," he corrects and I can do nothing but stare at him. "Those people didn't die, Scully. They were transformed. They went on to the next phase." "I can't believe that," I tell him and he shakes his head. "I'm supposed to believe that people evolve into those hatchlings that fight and claw and kill angrily and without reason?" "And then into grays, who are telepathic. They have no need of reproduction, Scully, because they are immortal. They're what the ancients considered gods." He stares out over the countryside, where the Anasazi built their houses into the cliffsides. "And they're us?" I ask incredulously, and he nods. "I can't..." "We made a mistake," he says again. "I don't see it," I tell him. "You will," he promises, and gets to his feet. I stare up at him from my seat in the stand. "We doomed ourselves, Scully." "If we did, then we weren't ready for evolution. Evolution is slow, over generations. This...would have been a revolution. Quick, overnight change. We haven't lost our chance, if it's true." Krycek just stares at me and his green eyes seem to burn me. They look brighter than ordinary human eyes. "Are you sure?" he asks, slinging one leg over his motorcycle and strapping on his helmet. I have to answer "Yes," but the words are lost to the roar of the cycle as he blasts away, leaving nothing but a cloud of dirt in his wake. I watch him until he becomes a speck of black, too distant for the eye to see. I know I did the right thing. Mulder said I saved the world. Things are back to the way they were. Maybe Krycek's right, I think, as I get to my feet and begin the journey back home. the end.