Scenes From A Shower
I: Lost

Three days. It had already been three days. He hadn't believed he could make it three minutes or even three seconds with the knowledge in his heart. She was gone. Mulder turned the handle sharply and scalding hot water rained down upon his shoulders. The searing burn felt good. It was pain he had earned, pain he deserved. For letting her down. Again. For letting her die. But the pain on his skin could never match the ache he felt inside. Not only guilt, but also the realization that she was truly gone, forever. Scully existed now only in his hideously precise memory--memory that rendered every second they'd spent together with perfect clarity--like a still photograph, forever two-dimensional, devoid of color. The endless highway of his future spilled out in front of him, gray, and bleak. A life without Scully was a life he didn't want, couldn't live. Steam swirled around in the modest bathroom. Hidden from sight, tears ran freely as Mulder banged his head in rhythmic protest, slowly against the tile. That helped him only for a moment, as the thrumming in his head faded, only to be replaced with the sharp memory of her face. Beautiful, but lifeless. Pain was not enough. Mulder wanted oblivion., yearned for it. Half an hour passed and the water grew cold. It didn't matter, he was numb already, dead inside. His body-chilled and shaking, matched the dark empty void within him. Was this how Scully felt, he wondered, as another wave of nausea washed over him. As the retching subsided, Mulder gasped for breath and began to cry anew. While new to prayer, he was well versed in the art of begging, of pleading. And so, he did. For the first time in his life, he begged for a truth to become a lie. For the lie he clung to so fervently, to become the truth. "Alive," he sobbed, barely coherent. "Please........God....." Let the funeral he was preparing for be anyone's--even his own, but not hers. Anyone but her. She had been so alive only a few days ago. And, he dared to imagine, so happy... Was it possible? Sinking to his knees, Mulder slid onto the floor of the shower stall and closed his senses to the baptism of icy water. Ignoring the pounding at the bathroom door, he cradled his head in his hands and desperately tried to remember.

Mulder sat in the airport, waiting while Scully spoke with the customer service agent. All around him, people hurried about their travels in a familiar fashion. He could have been in any city, anywhere in the country. Babies cried. Young parents milled about, pleading for good behavior from their charges. Teenagers stood around, bored and disinterested with the family travel process. A pair of smiling coeds giggled and winked in his direction. Age notwithstanding, Mulder favored them with an apologetic grin and turned his head away. His interest in women had become more particular. Much more specialized. Even singular. Say, something along the lines of a petite 30 something redhead. Very professional with a degree in medicine. Dry wit, blue eyes, and brilliant mind. Something like that.

He waited patiently, absent-mindedly cracking and munching on the sunflower seeds Scully had produced at the ticket counter. He had been whining about the state of the "continental breakfast" provided by their hotel. Stale donuts & a black viscous liquid, which the proprietor claimed to be coffee.

Scully had favored him with a sympathetic eye roll before reaching into her overcoat and offering him the packet. He bit down on one, rolling the exterior shell out of his mouth and chewing thoughtfully on the inner core. He'd had an epiphany towards the end of this fruitless case. An exciting, terrifying epiphany. And while the idea wasn't entirely new to him, it was one he had always dismissed. Lives to be led, cases to be solved, work to be done. Thanks to their new AD there was procedure and protocol to be followed, not that that had ever stopped Mulder in the past. But things change. And after their return from Antarctica, the loss of the X-files and the subsequent drudgework they had been forced to endure, their usual working relationship had been sorely tested. Where once, months ago, he and Scully had almost kissed, until lately they had barely even felt like partners, much less friends.

But the cases continued, and as Kersh shifted into high gear, working feverishly to divide them, something unexpected occurred. Away from the X-files, stuck in the middle of nowhere, canvassing farmers and doing background checks, he'd made a remarkable discovery, come to an important conclusion. The X-files remained his life's work, his passion. But they were no longer his only one. He came to realize that, after six years of working side by side, the focus of his passion and energy had become his partner. More often than not, in rare moments of peace, Mulder's thoughts shifted to her. On the way she looked at him. On the soft blush of her skin, the way she moved in relation to him when they were working a case. On how she was able to touch him without ever *touching* him. She would always be there for him, her constancy and unwavering support an almost tangible caress of comfort. Her ability to staunchly refute his explanations without making light of his beliefs was infuriating and exhilarating. And how the weight of a single word from her, combined with a look, could lift any weight from his shoulders, change his perspective, his outlook. She *had* saved him, he'd told her so himself. But at what cost? Mulder thought of the terrible personal losses she had suffered, and how yet she steadfastly, almost stubbornly remained with him.

Things *were* different now, he was sure of it. In the past few weeks, and on this case in particular, there had been something different in the way she was reacting to him. She was opening up to him. In very minor ways, of course, but anyone who knew Dana Scully, knew that even the slightest change in convention was significant.

During their case in Utah, Mulder had blinded himself to the obvious. A series of murder/mutilations so bizarre and precise, with a killer who left no clues and seemingly stole his victims away in full view of their families. So convinced that there was an X-File hidden in the mysterious brutal murders, he'd ignored the very real possibility of a human perpetrator, simply obsessed with killing. He remained focused on minute details, the surgical precision of the murders and obsessed over the disturbing images carved into the victims.

But Scully had conducted her investigation on the path of logic and reason, depending on science for facts and Mulder for backup. With her practiced eye and forensic skills she had divined the truth. That the murderer was a madman. A psychotic who viewed each murder as an artistic experience. Who used his victims as a canvas for his obsessive mutilations. But a very real, very human madman. So reason led Scully to the evidence which presented them with irrefutable proof of Figueroa's guilt. Now Eduardo Figueroa was safely behind bars, a permanent transfer to a mental institution imminent.

Perhaps it was the specter of working with the Salt Lake City Office that unsettled him. The place where months earlier, his partner had been reassigned to. More likely, it was the subtle change in the way his partner had been reacting to him. Rare was the patented "I'm fine" reply she had honed to a fine art.

On their way back home, she revealed that sometimes, when they flew, memories of the wreckage that claimed the lives of Max Fenig & so many others haunted her. Of her fear that night that the very same thing could have happened to him. She shared with him the grief she hid when watching her young nephew at play. How she had come to terms with the tragedy of Emily's sad life and death, accepted that it really was for the better. And yet, she could not completely escape the empty ache that sometimes overcame her. Though Scully would never have mentioned it, Mulder had learned to become sensitive to a monthly cycle of anger and depression that had never manifested itself before.

The biological ritual infused with so much meaning in many cultures had become nothing but a nagging hollow reminder of what would never be. For although her body continued to function, oblivious to the terrible price Scully had paid for her allegiance to him, it functioned without hope or purpose, permanently unable to create a new life...

And in Scully's sorrow, Mulder found himself experiencing an entirely new sense of loss and guilt. Guilt and loss, his heart assured him, which could be assuaged by a painfully simple process. A lifetime of showing Scully just how valuable a person she truly was. How much of a gift her life and love could be. If not to a child, then to him. By spending the rest of his life giving her everything she asked for, needed or wanted.

Lost in thought, Mulder slowly realized he was being watched. He turned slowly and, using his peripheral vision, glanced behind him . Into the menacing face of a terrifying purple dinosaur. Feigning alarm, Mulder let out a short cry of horror. He was rewarded for his efforts with a burst of giggles. He turned around completely and grinned.

A little redheaded boy ducked down playfully, but continued watching him rather intently. Mulder smiled at him with amusement. He didn't know kids too well but would have guessed the boy was slightly younger than Emily had been. Emily. The thought struck his heart like an arrow. He scanned the gate area, relieved to see that his partner was nowhere in sight. Scully was no emotional lightweight, but he tried to spare her any unnecessary contact with small children. And with his cherub face and freckles, the little guy behind him would definitely be a source of discomfort. He smiled, offering him a sunflower seed, not sure if he was even old enough to really eat one. Silently he shook his head but continued to observe him intently, a twinkle in his round, green eyes. Gazing about impatiently for his parents, Mulder tried to determine what exactly the kid's interest in him could possibly be. "What's your name?" he offered brightly.

Emerald saucers regarded him balefully as the child slowly shook his head. "Mama an Papa say never talk ta stangers" he said with a faintly slavic accent.

Mulder suppressed a grin and nodded his head in agreement. "That's good advice," he agreed.

He looked at the grape colored reptile in the boy's hand with a grimace. "You really had me scared there for a second, pal!"

"That's cause he's a monster!" the little boy enthused.

"You're telling me," Mulder replied. "Where are mama & papa now?"

Again the little boy shook his head. "Mama's looking for Papa, he's sp'ose to be getting our tickets. Mama told me to wait in my chair."

Mulder turned and looked. Scully was next in line and he began to feel a little anxious. Returning the boy to his family before Scully was finished started to become something of an imperative for him. He looked down. The child was eyeballing the packet of sunflower seeds, heedless of the activity all around him.

"You sure you don't want one?" he inquired again.

"No, 'sank you. You like 'dose?"

Mulder nodded, smiling softly.

"Mama buys 'dose," he offered, then paused. "But she never eats them. Then she gets mad."

Mulder was still looking around, not really concentrating on the child any more. He couldn't see anyone who looked related to, much less interested in the boy. In a busy airport, this was surprising, if not alarming. He was about to take the child's hand when he spoke.

"Oh," he said earnestly, "My Papa has a gun, too. He works for the ABC."

Mulder glanced down with a measure of horror. The kid was motioning to his exposed holster, his eyes wide and serious.

"Is your papa a policeman?" he questioned sweetly, taking a bit more interest in what the child was saying.

The little boy gave him a patient, exasperated look, as if he was trying to teach a puppy to roll over. "No, he's not a pleeceman," he groaned. "I tode you. He works for the ABC. Sometimes he helps the pleece. He's very smart. He kills people if they are bad. "

Mulder tried hard not to spit out the seeds that remained in his mouth. He started to cough a little, his face reddening.

"You OK mister?" he asked, mildly concerned.

He gathered his composure and started to get up.

"Uh oh..." the little boy started to murmur, eyes suddenly downcast, as a shrill, agitated voice escalated in volume and grew nearer.

"Piotr!! Shto vy zdyelatka??" (Piotr, what are you doing?)

"Zdrastvuytye, Mama," he replied sorrowfully. "I'm sorry. I was just talking to this nice man. It's ok, I think he's a pleeceman."

With relief, Mulder turned, smiling and totally unprepared for the angry Slavic tirade and what he suspected were epithets spilling out from the dark haired woman the child had called Mama. She was dressed in a decidedly foreign style with a long flowing skirt, and a big floppy hat which seemed oddly out of place on her., and Mulder immediately noticed the birkenstock sandals she wore with painted toenails. The whole ensemble smacked of a certain exotic, hippie earth mother theme. Her face was freckled and free of makeup except for her lips, which were smoothed over in a garish red. In contrast to that, she wore a pair of reflective cop-style sunglasses that concealed her eyes.

She was short, maybe even shorter than Scully. Or possibly taller. The little boy exclaimed something loudly, and Mulder looked down at the child, smiling warmly. Her mouth pursed grimly, his mother grabbed hold of the little boy's hand. Had he been able to see her eyes, Mulder suspected the look she'd given him might be sufficient to kill. Still, there was something oddly familiar about the two that struck a distant chord in Mulder's memory. Despite his time in the Tunguska Gulag, Mulder's Russian was limited to a few memorized lines from Dr. Zhivago. "Da, nyet, and whatever the phrase was for "Where is the toilet?" He could only shrug and smile with a guilty, pained expression.

He opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. The woman had halted, staring at him with an expression of shock and horror. Puzzled, he reached into his jacket for his badge. The woman raised a pair of thick eyebrows in alarm, grabbed the boy, and bolted. Curious, Mulder got up to follow them when a soft, light touch at his elbow gave him pause.

"Mulder?" Scully inquired, "Mulder what is it?"

He looked down into the concerned face of his partner, and his train of thought derailed instantly.

Svetlana Vasily was tired, and her headache was returning with a vengeance. She checked her watch and promptly frowned. < Only 1:17??? Damn!> Too early for another insulin shot,. She would have to ask Alexei to call the clinic. If the headaches continued like this, they would need to adjust her prescription. Maybe then Dr. Auerbach would finally let her switch to the oral medication. Even with her husband to help her, she loathed the daily shots necessary to maintain her blood sugar.

A tiny tug at the end of her coat disrupted her thought.

"Please Mama, where is Papa?? I want to go home! I'm tired."

Lana smiled broadly despite the throbbing in her head. She took a seat next to her young son and gently smoothed the hair on his head.

"Shh, moy dorogy mal'chik" (Hush, my dear boy) "On budit zdyes skora." (He'll be here soon.)

Lana wound her hand through the soft red curls on Piotr's head. "Ya tebya lyublyu, Piotr." (I love you, Piotr.) Contentedly, he leaned against his mother and closed his eyes.

With a grunt of irritation, the young boy suddenly sat up, rubbing his side.

"Mama, that's not comfy, that chair is pokey, " he whined. "I want Papa! Can't you get him??"

Wearily, she rubbed the bridge of her nose where her glasses rubbed. "Nyet, Piotr, nye nuzhna pasidyet..." (No, Piotr, I want to sit down for a while...)

Piotr frowned at her, watching his reflection in the mirrored lenses of her sunglasses. "No mama, talk Engish, like Papa tode us to. We're 'mericans now." The little boy looked up at his mother. She had turned away, and was scanning the busy airport terminal for a sign of her husband. She groaned softly, shaking her head. "I don't see him , Piotr. Do you want me to hold you?"

Piotr made a pouty face and wriggled out of the chair to the floor. He stood in front of his mother, tugging at her hands, trying to pull her out of her chair. "Come on Mama. Get up. Let's find Daddy..."

Lana got up, brushed off the front of her dress and adjusted the hat her head, tightening it slightly. Normally she hated to wear the thing, but she felt nervous and unprotected in large crowds. Lexei said he hated it, that it made her look more like an old maid than his "krasavitsa." (Beautiful woman) More often than not, she wore it to tease him. But here in the middle of Dulles Airport, in the capital of America, she wore it to shield herself. From strangers, and their passing glances. From curious stares and prying eyes and the faces that haunted her sleep. Nightmare faces, familiar faces. Horrible people who wanted to hurt her and her family, now that they had built a life together.

She got down on one knee, looking Piotr squarely in the face. He reached to grab at her sunglasses, and she gently brushed his hand away. "Listen to me, Lyubimaya," (beloved) "I will go look for Papa if you promise to sit right here and wait for me."

He nodded his head gravely, but there was a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

Lana cocked her head to one side, peering at him above the rim of her sunglasses so he could see that she meant business.

"I mean it, Piotr. Don't move from this seat. You can be a big boy and watch all our luggage, da?"

The little boy smiled broadly and nodded his head in silent agreement. He climbed into the seat and swung his legs back and forth in childish abandon, satisfied that he was getting his way.

Smiling despite herself, Lana got up. There was very little between them and the gate, and 'Lexei was nowhere in sight. She turned and viewed the bustling throngs heading towards the concourse with trepidation. She looked back towards her young son, who was acting out a scene on his lap with a toy monster and its hapless victim, completely unconcerned with the flurry of activity surrounding him. Inhaling deeply, she began to wade through the crowd.

"Izvinitye," (Excuse me) she muttered, as some henna'd American woman collided with her on her way towards the concourse.

"Pardon me," the suited woman replied, without looking up, as she went on her way.

Only momentarily distracted, Lana continued to search for her husband. She spotted him, head down and talking on a payphone at the opposite side of the concourse. With his precious American "Oakleys" on, she couldn't even tell if he had seen her. She looked back to Piotr, still sitting obediently in his seat. The toy monster's rampage had taken a course onto the back of the chair as he continued in his play. She waved impatiently at Lexei. Apparently oblivious to her, he turned his head away and continued talking on the phone.

Torn, Lana cast a final glance at Piotr before striding towards the other side of the terminal. As she got closer, she could hear her husband's angry voice, snarling hushed epithets into the receiver.

She slowed her pace as she approached, listening intently. If her husband was that upset, it probably meant trouble for the three of them. And trouble usually resulted in another move. Wearily, she sighed. She had just begun to settle in the last house when Lexei insisted it was time to go again. Cautious, she slid in closer to her husband.

"Listen to me," he hissed, "They're in the same goddamn terminal, the same fucking gate!! Do you understand me?" He paused, listening. "No----yes, I know that. NO, wait a second! All right, yeah, I know, that's the main reason we left, .but....well I don't care about that, what are we supposed to do until.." The voice on the other end was speaking again. Her husband turned and caught sight of her, surprised to find her right behind him. He put up one hand, silently telling her to wait, as he continued. "OK, fine. But I swear to God, if this was intentional, if I find out we're being set up, so help me, I'll take every single one of you out myself." Once more, he listened intently. "Yeah well, yobni evo, a yobni vy slishkam!" (Fuck him, & fuck you too!) Violently, he slammed the phone down. "Poshol k chortu, " he muttered under his breath as he turned towards Svetlana. Immediately, his face softened and he laid his hand upon his wife's shoulder.

"Eta sir yozna?" She asked him, a worried expression on her face. (Is it serious?)

"English," he reminded her gently.

"We save the Russian for cursing, then?" she asked him sarcastically.

Her husband grinned patiently, and looked at her over the top of his glasses. "And for other things, moy drolya Svetlana..."

Lana blushed slightly before turning serious once more. "All right, Tovarish Vasily." she remarked dryly, with a trace of a sly smile. "But tell me, who is here??"

His expression soured and Lexei let his hand drop from his wife's shoulder. "Maybe nobody," he whispered consolingly. "But I thought I saw a man from before. One of them. Maybe THE one."

Svetlana's face paled and she whirled around. "Piotr..." she whispered.

Lexei frowned, suddenly realizing their son was nowhere in sight. "Lana where is he?" he asked gravely.

Still craning her neck to make out her son above the crowd, Lana's voice faltered. "He was tired, restless. He wanted me to find you. You know how he hates to wait.....I told him to sit in the chair, over there with our belongings while I went to get to you...right....there!" Lana's breath caught in her throat as the crowd parted slightly affording her a clear view of the now vacant chair. She clasped a hand to her mouth. "Bozhe moy!!!" she exclaimed. (My god!!!) "Piotr!" She started to dash towards the gate, but Lexei grabbed her by one arm, angrily.

"Lana, you left him alone in an airport?? In Washington DC?? Are you crazy?"

Wild with panic, Lana struggled against her husband's firm grasp. "Lexei, let go, we have to find him!"

"Wait," he urged her abruptly. "I told you that man might be here, we have to be careful. I'll look over here, you go back to where you left him."

Nodding frantically, Svetlana turned and moved through the crowd, motherly instinct prevailing over her earlier discomfort.

As his wife rushed off, Alexei Vasily grimaced. He pushed his Oakleys back up over his eyes and slowly eased out from behind the pillar that had hidden him from view. He glanced about the terminal with a trained eye. "Fuck!" he exclaimed loudly, as he caught sight of his only son.

Not far from where Svetlana had left him, and chatting quite amiably with the one person in the entire world truly capable of bringing their relatively peaceful lives to a shuddering halt. A war raged within him. His paternal instinct was to just grab his son from harm's way, consequences be damned. But self-preservation had become an almost mechanical reflex over the years, and in the end, won out. Survival of self overrode preservation of family, but Lexei nonetheless continued to watch Piotr like a hawk, afraid to intervene but unable to flee. If it became necessary, Lexei was prepared to kill without hesitation. But experience had trained him against acting out of turn and he was determined to wait. After a moment, the delicate frame of his wife came into view, dark brown hair spilling out from under her hat as she marched purposefully towards the boy, unaware of the potential for disaster. Straining to hear without taking a breath, Alexei was certain he could make out a flurry of scolding in Russian as she neared their son. Piotr looked up as his mother approached, and his eyes grew wide with a mixture of guilt and fear. Despite his own apprehension, Lexei smiled. Lana's anger was enough to invoke that response in anyone. The more things change, the more they stay the same.

As Lana reached to grab Piotr's hand, the man, who had been seated, stood up, his face now in full view. With her back to him, Lexei could not gauge Lana's reaction if any. The man spoke, his eyes mirthful as he continued to gaze at Piotr. He glanced up at Lana and frowned slightly. His face took on a different, more unreadable expression and he began to reach into his coat.

Without thinking, Lexei automatically reached into his own jacket, stifling a curse as his prosthetic hand slipped out from beneath his coat. < Airport, you idiot,> he thought. <No guns.> It was a useless exercise anyway. Of course Mulder wasn't really drawing a gun on his wife and child. To her credit, Lana simply turned away and ignored the man, dragging a remorseful Piotr with her. She was heading back towards him, and Mulder's gaze followed her, a curious, puzzled look upon his face. Shit!! Alex ducked back behind the pillar before Mulder caught sight of him. He peered cautiously around the other side, and relaxed somewhat. Scully had come up behind her partner and was thankfully, unbeknownst to her, running interference. True to form, Mulder followed after her, his Pavlovian response to her presence stronger than anything the syndicate could ever hope to develop. When his wife and child moved past his hiding place, Alexei Vasily Krycek padded silently up behind them, and Piotr squealed with gleeful abandon as his father lifted him high into the air, setting him upon his shoulders.

Scully was getting mildly irritated. "Hello?? Mulder?? Anyone home?"

"What?" he asked somewhat distractedly, turning to face his partner.

Scully sighed. "Mulder you look like you're about to draw your gun, is something wrong?"

Blinking in surprise Mulder looked down. Again, he had exposed his gun and holster. Sheepishly, he shook his head. No wonder the woman looked frightened and had run away. She probably thought he was there to hijack a plane or something. With all the unrest in the former Soviet republics, she was undoubtedly wary of strangers with guns, and justifiably so.

"Uhh, no" he answered, scanning the throng of people moving through the terminal. He smiled contritely then flashed Scully a winning grin. "Just extending a warm Washington welcome on behalf of Hoover and Kersh."

She made an exaggerated frown, then smiled.

"If you're just gonna scare people, Mulder, you don't have to use a gun, you know..."

Taking the bait, he raised an eyebrow and put one hand to his hip. "And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"

She grinned. "Simply that if fear is the desired response, the more humane method would be to just relate one of your latest theories on the upcoming invasion of the planet."

He affected a look of mock indignance. "Agent Scully you wound me! Whatever happened to opening oneself up to extreme possibilities?"

She shot him a look before administering her 'coup de grace.' "Oh, extreme possibilities? Well, if you really want to scare them, you could always just *try* to cook." She flashed him a triumphant smile, like a cat who just ate the canary...and liked it.

Mulder muttered something incomprehensible.

Scully was pretty sure she made out the word "toast" or maybe "ghost," and something that sounded suspiciously like "itch."

"What was that Mulder?" she asked, a friendly warning in her tone.

He rewarded her with an equally dazzling grin of his own. "Nothing Scully. Just planning my next culinary homicide. You ever think about wearing a hat?"

Scully frowned with visible confusion, as if the question of Mulder's sanity was not necessarily a given. "Mmm-hmmm" she replied in a monotone, as she reached down to grab her bags from the floor

She quickly headed towards the parking garage, and Mulder had to dash to catch up with her.

"So Scully, everything worked out OK then? They're not gonna charge us a penalty for returning early?"

Just as she got to the automatic doors, Scully stopped and turned around so fast Mulder practically skidded to a halt. Her tone was serious but her eyes were twinkling. "Yes Mulder, everything worked out OK. When I flashed them my badge the supervisor was more than happy to eliminate the service charge."

He gave an audible sigh of relief. "I hope you thanked her," he said, "at least that'll be one less problem with Kersh."

Scully shook her head. "Yes, Mulder I did thank *him* and he seemed genuinely happy to assist the FBI. Besides, what does Kersh have to be upset about? We solved the case in record time." When the door slid open, Scully got in and waited for Mulder.

"You mean *you* solved the case in record time, Scully," he countered. "And besides, where I 'm concerned, Kersh doesn't need much of a reason to be a tightass."

Scully smiled and let the remark slide unchallenged.

After pushing the 5 button and the G button, they both were silent for a moment.

"Muld....Scully.." They both spoke at once.

Embarrassed, each one motioned for the other to continue.

Mulder spoke up first. "I was just gonna ask you if you were hungry or anything."

Scully bit down on her lower lip. "Actually after that stuff they gave us on the airplane , Mulder, I don't feel much like eating. What I want is a nice bath or maybe a shower. And a long night's sleep."

Trying to ignore the sad, pitiful expression that crossed his face, she continued.

"I'm supposed to have brunch with my mom tomorrow morning, but I was thinking, if you don't have any plans for later tomorrow, maybe we could go over our reports to Kersh, grab a pizza or something??"

In the second it took for Scully's invitation to register, Mulder's expression went from downcast to rapturous. His entire face lit up, and Dana had to restrain herself from laughing out loud.

"I take it that's a yes?" she asked him teasingly.

"Absolutely." You want me to pick something up on my way over?"

"Mulder even I am not open to possibilities that extreme. The last pizza you brought me had things on it that the Conundrum wouldn't eat. No, you just bring your reports and we can order when you get there. If you're feeling generous, I suppose you could pick up a bottle of wine or something."

Scully tried to sound casual, but inside her chest, her heart was beating so fast she could feel her pulse throb in her temples.

Mulder turned to face her, then quickly looked away. He cleared his throat after a squeak came out when he tried to speak. "Red OK? Or maybe something else?"

Scully looked thoughtful. "It's your call, Mulder. I'll trust you on this, even though undisclosed sources advise me against such a move."

The elevator tone sounded, and the doors opened to reveal the top floor of the parking garage. Somewhat hesitantly, Scully picked up her bag and moved to exit the elevator.

"Want help with that?" Mulder offered.

"No thanks," she replied, " I think I can manage. Have a good night Mulder, I'll see you tomorrow, OK?"

"You can call me later tonight if you think of anything...." he began, "I'll be at home if you need me." He tried not to place too much emphasis on *need*, but still waggled his eyebrow suggestively.

Scully let out a sigh and smiled. "TO-MORROW, Mulder, OK?? Tomorrow. Tonight is my night off--from work, everything."

"All right." He stood up straight and gave a mock salute when the doors began to close. "As you wish, Herr Doctor." He clicked his heels with a militaristic flair and the door closed.

Chuckling softly to herself, Scully made her way to the spot where she'd parked her car. She took a quick assessing look at the area around her before reaching into her coat pocket for her keys. A woman alone was an easy target for the criminal element, and few people were more aware of that fact than she.

Several spaces down sat a nondescript late model car, the interior filled with smoke.

The man in the passenger seat took a long drag off his cigarette before speaking to the driver. He handed him a small piece of paper and a key. "Here's the address. Don't try to follow her, that will only alert her to your presence."

The driver nodded mutely, his eyes flashing with hungry anticipation.

"Wait several minutes after I leave. Your success will ensure your survival and freedom. The matter of payment and the....items you requested are in the trunk of this car."

Stubbing out his cigarette in the car's ashtray, the man exited the vehicle. Almost as soon as the door had shut, another car, black with tinted windows raced up and came to a halt. The door opened and the man got in.

As the smoking man's car pulled away, the man in the other car looked at the still burning cigarette butt with distaste. He rolled his window down and deposited the offending item onto the concrete. Rolling his window up, he examined the scrap of paper his benefactor had left.

He looked up at his reflection in the rear view mirror and grinned. Lifeless coal gray eyes looked back at him as his grin gave way to low guttural laughter. It filled the car and trickled faintly into the parking garage.

As Eduardo Figueroa turned the key and the engine roared to life, his mind worked feverishly fast, contemplating the most delightful and deliciously gratifying experience to come. Until now, his victims had all been strangers. The idea of using his 'skills' on someone he'd actually met, a woman who now had just cause to truly fear him, who knew what horrors he was capable of, was an exciting prospect. A prospect which would add new dimensions to his "art."

Smiling, with relief, Lana grinned as Piotr grappled playfully with his father. After settling in atop Lexei's shoulders, Lana rewarded them both with a loving smile. Alexei smiled in return, frowning slightly as Lana paled a little. "Lana?" he asked with a worried expressions they made their way to the security checkpoint.

"It's OK, Lexei, I'm fine, I just....my headache is kind of bad with all the excitement. Take Piotr to the gate and I will meet you there. I have time, Da?"

Alex nodded thoughtfully, and reached out with his hand to give her a gentle, consoling squeeze on the shoulder.

Grateful for the glasses that hid the tears welling in her eyes, Lana broke from her husband's grasp. She moved quickly towards the security of the nearest women's room.

Her husband watched after her anxiously. As he approached the metal detector and X-ray machines, he couldn't help but cringe a little, inwardly. Traveling by air, out in the open was one of Krycek's least favorite things to do.

As soon as the bathroom door closed behind her, Svetlana made a quick check under the stalls. Satisfied that she was alone, she bolted herself into the nearest one, and allowed the tears to come. Slowly at first, then in a torrent as if a dam had broken, Lana cried. She wailed for Piotr and for what had almost happened, what she had practically allowed to happen. She sobbed with the sorrow of one forced to leave her home and flee. She wept for the tenderness of her husband, for his patience in enduring life with a woman half possessed. Possessed by demons she couldn't begin to understand. Nightmarish visions that woke her from sleep, screaming and inconsolable, and inexplicably afraid. Lights, blinding her eyes, pain blinding her senses, voices in her head, whispering, murmuring and screaming all at once. She had seen the man that Alexei had spoken of. Seen and recognized. Seen, recognized and been struck blind with an overwhelming sense of .... Of....... She leaned her head into the cooling, soothing smoothness of the bathroom stall, clutching the wall for support. An overwhelming sense of...what? Fear? Apprehension? Exhilaration? It was like before, before Alexei had come into her life, before the untold joy she found in their love and then their son. Before she was whole, before she was sane. Gooseflesh riddled her body and a shiver ran up her spine as memory flooded in, unwelcome and overpowering. The accident, the shooting, monsters all around her, trying to harm her, take her, hurt her. Monsters with flesh and bone who walked as men, and men of scale and tooth who looked like monsters. Memories of Russia, of the angry man who beat her--and the vision of Alexei when she first saw him. Fevered, incoherent and out of his mind from the pain. It was a miracle he hadn't bled to death before she found him. Sweat broke out upon her brow as Lana fumbled for her purse. The room around her began to spin and sway. Recognizing the signs of her bloodsugar dropping, Lana grabbed for the premeasured syringe, popped the top off with her teeth, and jabbed it solidly into the meat of her thigh. As she depressed the plunger into the barrel, she could feel the cool, sting of her insulin warming the flesh where it entered her body. Pulse racing, eyes dilated, she leaned once more against the wall for support and closed her eyes, willing her body to cease its involuntary insurrection. Minutes later, as the medicine took effect, Lana emerged. Calmer, but still rattled, she removed her glasses to stare blankly at the reflection in the mirror before her. < Who are you?> she mouthed silently, touching a hand to the face that blankly stared back at her. Suddenly angry, she yanked the hat away and tossed it in the garbage. Still unsatisfied, she tugged at the thin elastic binding most of her hair up on her head. As the warm brown waves of hair cascaded about her shoulders, she shook her head. < Better,> she thought, her pulse steadying. Alexei loved her long brown tresses, loved to run his fingers through it as he drew her nearer and... The unwelcome visage of the man who had held her at gunpoint, the man who'd had her son came into view. She gulped back a cry as another woman entered the bathroom, passing by with a curious stare. Swallowing quickly, Lana splashed a little water onto her face, then patted it dry. She looked up at her reflection once more, surprised to see it looking back with the same measure of distaste.

"Mmmmm" Scully groaned, as she slid into the warm, softly scented bath. She let out a sigh of contentment. She had decided not to bring her latest book into the bath, but to simply soak and enjoy the soothing heat until she had shriveled into a human prune. Classical music wafted in from her living room, and Scully wondered idly why she never did this to unwind on a case. She stretched her toes out, lifting them up and out of the tub so that she could sink deeper under the bubbles. Resting them on the faucet handles, she leaned into the bath pillow and closed her eyes.

There was only one thing that could make this experience better.

After donning her robe and padding into the kitchen , Scully returned to the bath, glass of wine in hand. The water felt even warmer against her chilled skin. As she sipped daintily from the wineglass, she savored the cool fruity taste, and the heady promise of relaxation.

After a little while, her head began to bob slightly. As she nodded off to sleep, her mind centered on one pleasing thought.

There was just one more thing which could make this experience better.

And he was coming over tomorrow night.

Maggie Scully hummed to herself as she made her way through the Georgetown streets. This area was so much nicer than the neighborhood in Annapolis and it made her feel better to have Dana in a decent area. The fact that it was a slightly longer drive mattered little. What mattered most was that she & Dana were finally able to spend some time together. After the 'unusual' summer her daughter had, things seemed a tiny bit strained. Dana had been distracted, agitated,. With all that had been going on in her professional life, it was no small wonder that Dana would be somewhat out of sorts. It felt like years since they had spent a leisurely morning just talking.

And if the sudden buoyancy in her spirit had anything to do with her relationship with Fox, then so much the better! Despite Bill's problems with the man, Maggie knew that Fox cared far more for Dana than had any of her previous beaus. She knew he cared for her far more deeply than her daughter realized.

As she turned onto the street, a car departed, leaving a great parking space in front of her daughter's building vacant. Fox had pronounced it "Rock Star parking" when they had helped Dana move in, graciously offering the spot to Maggie. The memory of that lovely afternoon always brought a smile to her face. She scanned the surrounding cars for any sign of the blue Intrigue that Fox drove. Wishful thinking, perhaps, but Margaret still hoped a more serious relationship might blossom between the two of them someday.

Her shoes squeaking on the wooden floor of the hallway, Margaret paused in front of Dana's door. Her instinct was to simply let herself in, but she respected her daughter's privacy and knocked. After a few seconds passed, she knocked once again and called to Dana. "Dana?? Honey?? It's me, Mom.....are you ready to go?? Hello? Dana?"

Clucking softly to herself, Margaret reached into her purse and fished out the key to her daughter's apartment. She turned it into the lock and opened the door hesitantly. "Dana? Dana, are you awake?? Hello??"

The apartment was empty, silent. Margaret pursed her lips. Either Dana had overslept or she had forgotten about their brunch and had gone out already. A twinge of irritation flashed across her face, softening as she took note of the clothes haphazardly strewn across the floor. She must have really been tired to have left such a mess, poor dear.

She paused before the bedroom door, opening it slowly. The bed was mussed, but empty. She let out a sigh of exasperation. This was not the way she had brought up her children. She began to straighten the bed, intending to make it, when she noticed the blood. Horrified, she let out a small gasp and pulled the covers back. Crumpled in the middle of the bed, under the covers was one of Dana's towels, stained with blood. A lot of blood. Her heart in her throat, Maggie looked up and noticed the bathroom door was ajar, the light on.

"Dana..." she called fearfully, gulping quietly as she tried to sound normal, "Honey?"

As she came to the door, she called her daughter's name once more before pushing it open.

With a choking cry, Maggie's eyes widened with horror as she took in the grisly scene. Her eyes drifted from the blood spattered walls to the pale blue form of her daughter lain back in the tub. With horror she let out a cry and moved towards her daughter but froze as her feet grazed at the edge of an obscene pattern of blood on the floor. Her gaze flickered across the multitude of injuries inflicted upon Dana's naked form, and came to rest on her face. Smooth and pale, spared from the violations inflicted on her abdomen and extremities. He eyes were open wide, clear and blue, but blank, unseeing and devoid of life. Margaret's head began to swim and she felt her stomach roil. She backed quickly out of the bathroom and fell upon the bedroom floor, choking gagging. Head down, she crossed herself quickly, blinking back the burning tears which began to flow. Her sobbing, soft at first, grew to a hysteric, inconsolable wail.

Mulder hurried down the street, his arms filled with purchases. What had started out as a jaunt to get his hair cut and buy the wine had become a full-fledged shopping extravaganza. The night before, once he'd actually fallen asleep, he slept better than he had in months. If thoughts of Scully had kept him from sleeping, they had also accompanied him into slumber, guiding his dreams. Not the usual dreams either. His perversions set aside for once, he dreamt of tender moments and shared smiles. Not the idle grins she favored a petulant partner with, but dazzling laughing smiles that showed her teeth. Mulder dreamt of whisper soft kisses, the warmth of her lips and the graceful curve of her neck as she.... OK, maybe they weren't exactly the dreams of a monk, but there was a definite change in tone.

In any case, Mulder awoke early, refreshed and unusually chipper. After a good run and a shower, he opted to spend his morning, like Scully and Maggie, out on the town. After changing, he stopped into a local cafe for some coffee and breakfast. His spirit soaring with hope for his evening with Scully, he was loath to return home and wait. He ventured out, intent on finding the perfect wine to accompany supper. That achieved, he went in search for additional edibles to accompany wine. Say what you would about Mulder's cooking ability, he knew how to make a damn fine meal with foods which required no skill or preparation. He purchased chocolate croissants and strawberries, brie and grapes. As an afterthought, he grabbed a couple of ripe apples and some oranges. Hell, maybe they could skip the pizza altogether. Although a little voice inside him also suggested that most of his purchases would make for an excellent breakfast. Not that he was being presumptuous. Far from it. Perhaps he was being hopeful, optimistic. And he was also thinking that after so many nights spent at one another's apartments, they rarely shared a morning meal. If anything, maybe coffee. Scully deserved more. So much more. But then again, the image of presenting her with an elaborate breakfast in bed had merit......of feeding her strawberries and... Mulder shook his head. Regardless of where he slept, if he did stay overnight, he'd insist on that. A decent breakfast. And for once, he'd try to talk to Scully about something other than casework. Really talk. Something they'd never done. Something he'd always wanted to do. Something that the nagging voices inside his head had always denied him. < She doesn't want you, you don't deserve her...>

He was sure he'd felt something between them at the airport, and that Scully felt it too. An electricity of equals--an undeniable attraction.

The nervous twitching in his stomach was a kind that he'd last experienced in high school. Lanky and insecure, sitting in his Mustang with Mindy Lassiter after his first school dance. He couldn't talk then, frozen with fear and insecurity.

Like that night in Florida when Scully had approached him with a wine and cheese reception of her own. Again, he'd frozen, rattled off a flippant remark and disappeared faster than you could say "Moth Men."

He would not freeze up tonight, he *would not*. And even if he was wrong, about how Scully felt, well they would still have a nice meal, good company and polite conversation. Finish up their casework. Partners. Friends. And then he'd go home. Where his heart would explode into a million bloody pieces.

Frowning, he caught his reflection in a passing window. < No!> He thought to himself. He pushed down the feelings of inadequacy and denial. He loved Scully. Nobody else knew her heart as well as he did, understood what drove her and made her who she was. No one could possibly understand her or love her the way that he did, appreciate her for the sacrifices she'd made. They belonged together. She had said as much herself.

He took a deep breath and moved on through the streets. It suddenly occurred to him that Scully might prefer white wine to the red he had purchased. Intent on making the evening a perfect one, he quickened his pace and headed back towards the liquor store.

As policemen milled about, taking pictures, looking for trace evidence, Maggie Scully suppressed the urge to scream. She wanted to yell at them, tell them to get out, to leave her daughter's home. They didn't belong, with their veiled masks of sympathy and understanding. The empty questions were pointless and insincere, offering her no hope. They were vultures, impotent creatures with clumsy legs stumbling into the sanctity of Dana's home. Men in dark jackets poked and prodded through Dana's possessions, sifting through the precious remnants of a life left behind in the brightly-lit apartment.

"Careful!" she'd cried out as a detective very nearly knocked over the porcelain figurine her husband had brought Dana from China as a belated First Communion gift. Wary eyes observed her as she gently eased the tiny treasure back into its place of honor among the mantle decorations. She gazed lovingly at the array of sentimental possessions. A cameo picture of Missy and her beloved crystal necklace. Dana's Med School graduation picture, one of the last real family pictures of the Scully clan. And laying against that, a delicate gold bracelet, which Dana had seldom wore but obviously cherished. It had puzzled Maggie, and when she asked, Dana explained the sad circumstance in which she'd received the belated birthday present. Bequeathed to her at the last minute-- as a fellow agent lay dying. She had never spoken of the young man named Pendrell to her before, or since. Picking it up, she examined the tiny script engraved on the inside. "Special Agent Dana Scully, MD" Absent-mindedly, she slipped it on her own wrist, and continued on.

She came upon the familiar now faded portrait of herself and Bill at their wedding. Gently, she trailed her fingers along the wooden frame. Bill always looked so handsome and dashing in his dress whites. Even in his later years. "Watch over our baby" she murmured softly.

Finally, she came to the last item on display on Dana's mantle. Another picture, this one taken only a few years earlier. A candid image of Dana and Fox outdoors at some FBI function. They were headed in different directions but had turned towards one another. Together when apart, even in a crowd. They seemed to be sharing some secret between them, and although neither one smiled in the picture, Maggie had always felt they looked rather happy.

The tears had started again, and Maggie slumped down onto the sofa, rummaging through her purse for a tissue. There was only one person who could possibly understand, and she'd been unable to reach him. At home his machine continued to pick up and the cell phone was a dead end. Either Fox had turned it off or he was out of the DC service area. In frustration and fear, she'd practically forced the police to dispatch an officer to Fox's apartment. And while there was no sign of him, thankfully, there was no sign of foul play either. He was simply gone. Blissfully unaware of the event which would change his life forever.

Mulder had barely made it into his apartment and closed the door before he heard a soft knocking. Arms still full, he began to set his packages upon the kitchen counter. "Just a second..." he called out, mildly irritated. The entire expedition had taken longer than he had anticipated. As it was still not time to head over to Scully's, he wanted to take another shower. There was something about a haircut. No matter how careful they were, you always wound up with an itchy neck and back.

The knocking at his door grew more insistent. "Mr. Mulder...."

Mulder instantly recognized the cracked, nasal whining of his older neighbor, Mrs. Schimmler. He rolled his eyes and gently laid the box of croissants upon the counter. Pushing the refrigerator door open, he called out to his neighbor. "Just a minute, Mrs. Schimmler, I'm getting ready to go out. Can this wait till tomorrow?" Mulder set both bottles of wine inside to chill, and kicked the door shut with his foot. He headed towards his bedroom when he noticed the flashing light of his answering machine. He started back to his desk as his neighbor began rapping at his door again, more insistent than before. Mulder rolled his eyes. He threw open the door with the falsely patient smile reserved for bureau superiors and great aunts. "Yes Mrs. Schimmler, what can I do for you?"

"Mr. Mulder, somebody was here to see you this morning and they made a terrible racket. You weren't here and he..."

"I'm sorry about the disturbance, Mrs. Schimmler," Mulder apologized, "I promise I will speak to my friends and...."

"It wasn't those buddies of yours, dear, it was a policeman. He gave me this and told me to give it to you when you got home, and to ask you to call him."

She handed him a small business card and turned away, hobbling back towards her own apartment.

Perplexed, Mulder turned the card over in his hand. "Thank you Mrs. Schimmler...." he called out as he closed the door behind him and headed towards his desk.

Detective Martin Townsend, DC Homicide. Jeez, what was it with the DC police?? Didn't they understand people took off weekends?

He started to lay the card down when he noticed the counter on his answering machine. The light was flashing wildly, and the digital counter read 13.

A second passed before his gaze went from the counter to the card and then back. His breathing halted and Mulder scrambled for the telephone. His hand was shaking as the phone on the other end continued to ring. "Come on, Scully, come on....." He gave a sigh of relief as he heard the voice of his partner.

"Hello"

"Oh thank god, Scully, you wouldn't believe what just happened, I...."

"You have reached 555-9196, I'm sorry, but I am unable to answer the phone right now. Please leave your name and number, and a brief message, and I'll return your call as soon as poss....."

Mulder slammed the phone down, his heart pounding. < Breathe,> he told himself, < It has nothing to do with her. It's early, she's in the shower or something,.> He looked at the answering machine. Thirteen. Not a lucky number. He glanced at the business card. Then back again.

Maggie Scully's eyes fluttered open slowly. She felt the familiar softness of Dana's couch beneath her, breathed in the welcome scent of vanilla which hung in the air. Disoriented, she adjusted her eyes. It had grown dark. The ringing of the phone startled her momentarily. She had fallen asleep. She began to look for her watch when her daughter's voice boomed out from behind her, as she answered the phone.

"Hello"

Maggie jumped up. Oh, thank God--it was all just a terrible.....

"You have reached 555-9196, I'm sorry, but I am unable to answer the phone right now. Please leave your name and number, and a brief message, and I'll return your call as soon as poss....."

The answering machine recording clicked off and a loud dialtone echoed through the darkened apartment. With a pained gasp, Maggie slumped back down onto the couch, suddenly mindful of the quiet.

It had been hours since the police had left, hours since the coroner had come and.....and...and...

Mrs. Scully looked fearfully towards the open bedroom.

The overwhelming urge to cry, to sink into total despair was becoming too much. She willed herself to be strong. Strong like Dana, like Dana would have wanted. Father Mc Cue had rushed over and administered last rites before the coroner took her. He would have stayed, and Maggie was grateful for his strength, but wasn't sure that she could bear it. She needed to gather up her own strength for someone who would need it more.

Swallowing softly, she forced herself to get up, willed herself to move towards Dana's kitchen phone. In seconds that felt like years of dread, she dialed the familiar number and waited for Fox to answer his phone.

After hanging up on Scully's answering machine, Mulder nervously regarded his own. He fingered the detective's business card in one hand, tapping his fingers on the desk with the other. He reached to push play, then hesitated, drawing his hand back. Making a fist, he began to reach towards the play button when the ringing telephone made him jump.

"Fuck" he cursed loudly. He grabbed the phone to his ear, and trying to sound relaxed, croaked out "Mulder.." rather matter of factly.

"Fox, is that you?"

Mulder sat straight up. "Mrs. Scully!" he exclaimed, momentarily thrown off. He 'd almost begun to smile in relief when reality came crashing in.

"Mrs. Scully?" he asked, her very name a question he dared not ask. "Where are you?'

"Fox, I..I 'm at Dana's."

He let out another breath, but couldn't breathe in.

"Oh. Uh, can I talk to her for a moment?"

Seconds of silence passed with only the crackle and hiss of the receiver.

"Mrs. Scully, can I talk to her? I need to talk to Scully for a second, I..."

"Fox, I'm sorry. I'm afraid I have some news, and it isn't good."

"Mrs. Scully, what's going on?? What happened?? Where is she?? Why can't I..."

"Fox, please. I'm sorry, but she's gone."

It was as if Scully's mother had begun spouting phrases in Latin. Mulder didn't understand, couldn't make sense of the words. He could hear the words, heard her mention an intruder, something about a lunatic, but it made no sense. Mrs. Scully was the lunatic she was laughing and crying now and trying to tell him that Dana was gone. He wanted to know where she had gone. But she wouldn't tell him where and he couldn't get her to explain it. He told her that he and Scully had a date that night, well it wasn't really a date but that she had invited him over and that she couldn't be gone because they were going to have pizza. So if Scully was gone she would be back very soon because he promised to get her pizza that she would like and that he'd even bought her wine and although he didn't know if she liked red or white he'd gotten her both. And now he knew that Mrs. Scully was mad, because she told him it didn't matter about the wine. Suppressing the urge to swear at Scully's mother, Mulder simply hung up the phone. Of course it mattered about the wine. Angrily he hit the play button on the answering machine, waiting expectantly for the voice of his partner. Scully would have called him if she was going someplace. She would tell him where she was going so that he could go too. Maybe she wanted him to pick her up. So when he heard the tearful messages left by her mother, he began to get angry. What was wrong with Maggie, anyway? He skipped to the next message, which was from that detective. Mulder forwarded through his message as well. Apparently Scully's mom had half of DC convinced that Scully had gone somewhere, Mulder shook his head, frowning. They were partners. They just got back from a case. Scully wouldn't go anywhere without him.

Mulder got up and started to pace. His throat was feeling tight and he cursed softly under his breath. Another message from Maggie, a message from Kersh, then Maggie then Skinner. Furious, Mulder began to pound the delete button as each voice in succession that wasn't Scully came into play. Near the end he must have hit rewind. Before he yanked the answering machine from the wall, preparing to hurl it against the other wall, he heard the detective mention one name. Eduardo Figueroa. Mulder dropped the machine onto the floor and it shattered. The name brought a sharp halt to the swirling confusion, giving credence to words Mulder's mind insisted were cruel lies. His eyes grew wide and he leaned against the desk for support. "Oh no, god no oh god no, not her, not him not now not like that oh no no no no no..." he babbled. As the room began to spin, Mulder was distantly aware of a trio of familiar faces swimming before him as his world collapsed before finally sinking into black.

"Mulder?"

As he began to drift back into consciousness, Mulder's vision cleared. He was looking up into the concerned faces of Byers and Langly. So serious and solemn. For a moment he forgot himself and began to smile wanly, rubbing his temple. Though he had never seen the pair of them show more emotion than a smile, both of them appeared flushed, teary-eyed. Realization hit him and he shot up, narrowly avoiding a collision with Byers' head. "Scully!" he shouted, jumping up, past Langly, past Byers, through his doorway and out into the hall. Racing down the stairs two at a time, Mulder skidded out the hallway and jumped into his car. < Stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid>he chanted, cursing his lack of composure. What would Scully say if Margaret told her how he'd acted? She would be so angry....

Margaret busied herself about the kitchen, tidying up here and there as she set to making a pot of tea. For the first time that day, she felt blessedly numb. The whirling nightmare of earlier had subsided into a throbbing, persistent ache as she nervously awaited the arrival of Fox William Mulder. Acting on autopilot, she'd called the mysterious number Dana had given her to use in the event of an emergency. And after the way Fox had acted on the phone, Maggie felt the call was warranted. She'd known Fox wouldn't take the news very well, but was wholly unprepared for the ferocity of his denial. The way he'd sounded--the things he'd said before hanging up..... Maggie wasn't sure what to expect, what he might be capable of. She and Fox had been there for one another before, supporting each other in bad times when Dana was hurt or missing, but before, there had always been hope. She wasn't sure she wanted to see what Fox was like without hope.

She had buried a husband and a daughter already. Maggie Scully was no stranger to death, but the death of her youngest daughter had left a void open within her, A void that was slowly being filled by a cold, overwhelming sense of loss. Margaret had always prided herself on being a woman of substance, accustomed to working and dealing with the everyday problems and situations that life threw at her. Raising a family in the military had taught her to adapt to any number of difficult situations. But no mother expects or plans to outlive her children. She had her faith to help deal with her grief, and she was grateful for the small comfort it gave. Dana was in a better place, of that she was certain, sure. But faith did nothing to assuage her feelings of helplessness, to prevent the flood of memories that filled her mind. It did nothing to warm the icy stone that her heart had become. So Maggie did the only thing she knew how to do. She carried on as best she could, which meant redirecting her energy someplace where it was needed. And she could think of no one on the planet who needed it more than Fox.

The man who had called her back to tell (or perhaps warn) her that Fox was on his way seemed equally stunned and shocked by the news. But at least he'd been rational. The relief Maggie had felt in knowing Fox hadn't done anything rash disappeared quickly as she fretted over what to say --what to do, when he arrived.

In less than half an hour, Maggie heard the scramble and shuffle of feet outside the door. Fox had arrived. Taking a deep breath, Margaret moved to let him in , stumbling back as the door burst open unexpectedly. Mulder stood there, panting, red faced and wide eyed, with a key in hand. He barely noticed her as he moved about the living room, pacing to and fro before settling on the edge of Dana's couch.

Margaret tried to muster up a consoling smile, but faltered.

Slowly, she moved towards him, hand outstretched. "Fox..."

He turned quickly towards her, his eyes dark, wild and afraid. There was nothing human or familiar in his gaze, and he regarded her outstretched hand with apprehension.

Mrs. Scully spoke calmly, inching towards him cautiously as one might approach a cornered animal. He had turned away, and his shoulders sagged a little as he began to sob. "Please Mrs. Scully, where is she?" he implored.

Margaret was close enough now to reach him. "Fox, " she murmured, as she gently squeezed his shoulder,. " I'm sorry but it's too late. For both of us. She's gone."

If it was possible, Mulder's shoulders sagged even further. From the back he looked more like a shrunken old man than the FBI Agent Maggie had grown so fond of. He shook his head despairingly from side to side. "You don't understand me, Mrs. Scully, I need to know. WHERE. SHE. IS." He emphasized each syllable of the final four words, increasing the volume as he spoke. Stepping back almost imperceptibly, Maggie flinched. Mulder got up and moved away from Maggie. He glared at her, madness flashing in his eyes. He looked past her and his eyes narrowed. "Scully?" he shouted, before glancing back at Margaret with suspicion. He started to move towards the bedroom. "Scully?"

As he brushed past her, Margaret took hold of his arm. "Fox, please," she begged, "don't do this. You don't want to go in there."

His expression softened momentarily. "Is she in there? he asked, hopeful.

It was too much. No human on earth had the endurance to outlast Mulder's denial. Margaret felt something in her snap. She grabbed Mulder by the other arm and shook him angrily.

"God DAMMIT, Fox, will you listen to me??" she demanded. She's gone. Dana's gone. I tried to tell you on the phone. She's not here, the coroner came and took her a couple hours ago...."

The hopeful, dazed expression in Mulder's face remained and he began to speak. "Where did he take her....." he trailed off, confusion in his voice and eyes.

"Fox did you hear me?? She's gone. Dead, all right?? Murdered. Is that what you need to hear?? That man you arrested in Utah--he escaped---and he-----and then----he came here, Fox, he found her----and he........Oh God, Fox, he.....the things he did to my baby and Fox, he killed her and Fox, oh God, WHY?"

Loosening her hold on him Margaret began to sink towards the ground. Fox grabbed her by an elbow, and supported her weight against him.

"Mrs. Scully?"

His hazel eyes focused on her as it gradually dawned on him that Scully's mom was crying. All of a sudden Mulder understood the words which Maggie had spoken, and the terrible truth became clear. His arms fell slack to his sides and he collapsed onto the floor. "Scully?" he asked, looking up as Margaret nodded, choking back a sob. Once more, his gaze drifted towards the bedroom door. His brow furrowed. "Figueroa?" He spoke the name as if it were a question . "But how?" A question he did not want to be answered Slowly he got up and headed towards Scully's bedroom.

Shaking her head, Maggie moved towards the couch and sank down into it. She stared blankly at the wall in front of her as tears rolled silently down her face. Twenty minutes later, Mulder emerged from the bedroom,. Although she couldn't see him Maggie could hear the sharp intake of his every breath,.

He remained silent, fighting for control.

"The coroner...where did they take her?" Mulder's tone was harsh, cold.

"Fox, please, don't do this, Dana wouldn't want you to...."

"Mrs. Scully, I *have* to see her."

Maggie sighed with resignation. "Northeast Georgetown Memorial," she whispered, "Fox, are you sure?"

The click of the door as it closed behind him was her answer. Margaret Scully closed her eyes, crossed herself once more and with a sigh, prepared to call her sons.

It was cold in the hospital morgue. Mulder felt colder.

The attendant stared nervously at the haggard looking FBI Agent. Over time, experience working in the morgue had acquainted him with a variety of sympathetic phrases and words of comfort to utter to the lost souls who waited to have their worst fears confirmed. He could find no appropriate words of comfort to offer this man. His expression was distant, clinical, but loss and agony screamed from behind his dark eyes. Although he felt sorry for the man, he couldn't help but breathe a sigh of relief when the pathologist finally appeared and motioned for him to follow her.

"This is highly irregular, Agent Mulder" the gray haired woman exclaimed. She glanced at the chart. The woman's next of kin--her mother, had already supplied the necessary identification of the body at the crime scene.

"Humor me." the agent said flatly. "I have reasons to question and doubt any official records." Mulder bit his lip as they moved into the autopsy bay. He'd been in hundreds of rooms like this before, hundreds of times, with her. He drew his breath in sharply and bit harder, drawing blood as the doctor opened a door in the wall which bore the name "Scully, Dana K." But this time it was so different. She was here with him, again, but this was wrong, so wrong. It wasn't supposed to be like this. In his worst fevered nightmares--in countless nights spent alone and haunted, he'd never imagined this......

She pulled a drawer out, exposing the sheeted corpse that lay upon it. She cocked her head and gave Mulder an appraising, inquiring look. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

Unable to speak, Mulder nodded mutely.

The pathologist drew the sheet back gently, careful to expose only the head. No, not *the* head, *Her* head, *her* face, Scully's face. The muscles in his chest constricted and Mulder's world imploded. Choking back the bile that rose in his throat, Mulder gagged a little then remembered to breathe. "Shouldn't her eyes be closed?" he rasped angrily, blinking back the tears which appeared, before looking away.

The doctor looked down, raising her gaze to him with a sympathetic nod. "I'm sorry Agent Mulder, but those things are normally reserved for the mortician. I was under the impression that you were acquainted with the details of ....."

"Not HER," Mulder interrupted harshly, "Not her--not....never like this."

Doctor Crawford considered a reply, then chewing thoughtfully on her lip, held her tongue. Something like this was not the kind of thing one ever prepared for, even in a dangerous field like his.

She looked over at the man. He loved her --that much was obvious. But there was a sorrowful look about him which transcended loss. She wondered if the woman knew-if she had known. The agent moved closer to the table, shifting uncomfortably. One hand rested gingerly on the smooth metal edge and the other was raised slightly above the body. He was obviously torn by the desire to touch her, but held back by either guilt or indecision. Tears slid easily down his face as he looked upon her.

Doctor Crawford concluded that the woman didn't know. Or at least he hadn't told her.

Mulder's gaze slid nervously to the faint reddish tinges on the sheet that bore witness to the horrors inflicted upon Scully. With a cry of anguish, he tore his gaze away from the stains and gazing intently, summoned the courage to touch her face. He murmured something softly.

Doctor Crawford turned away. This was one of the things she was grateful to avoid. The grieving was a hindrance, a distraction. That was the attendant's job. Her duty was to the deceased, and they never shared with her their loss. Averting her eyes, she moved to the other side of the room, busying herself in shuffling papers, trying to grant some semblance of privacy to the grief-stricken Agent

After moments had passed in complete silence, she turned around, gradually at first. She was taken slightly aback. "Agent Mulder!"

The man had leaned in closely and was scrutinizing his partner's face with an expression that at once both disturbed and embarrassed her. If she had to guess, she would have said he was about to kiss her. At the sound of his name, he straightened up, a guilty pained expression on his face. "I need an autopsy performed," he stated abruptly.

"But Agent Mul--

"Now, " he interrupted, in a matter of fact tone.

Momentarily incensed, Doctor Crawford considered calling security and having the tall agent forcibly removed. She set her clipboard down upon her desk and turned to face him.

"Now see here, " she began.

Her reserve faltered as Mulder fixed her with a sorrowful, pleading glare. Gone was the tone of insistence and authority he had just used. "Please....." he begged. "I don't want to explain, and you probably don't want to hear it. But after the things I 've seen, " he gestured to Scully. "After some of the things we've been through, I owe her this. I need to be sure."

She gave an exasperated sigh. "I've given her a cursory examination already, Agent--I can tell you what killed your partner. Massive blood loss as a result of multiple stab wounds and lacerations, severing the carteroid and femural arteries. Judging from the state of the injuries sustained, I would guess she died around 3:18 am this morning. Well before her mother found her, I'm sorry."

The tall Agent winced at her words, then turned away, steadying himself on the exam table. She saw his shoulders slump, and his body shook slightly.

"I'm sorry," she offered, placing a hand upon his shoulder.

The man turned and Ellen's eyes widened. There was a look of such pain, such burning intensity in his face, it hovered on the brink of madness.

Quietly, slowly, he repeated his demands. "I need to know, without question, without 'guesses'. Did she suffer, was she injured in any..." he gulped, "other way. I want to know what he did to her, I want to know how. I need to know, to be sure. Also, there's a chip, in the back of her neck. I need it removed for,.....trace evidence."

"A chip?" Doctor Crawford questioned. "What kind of evidence? What are you looking for?"

Turning away from the doctor to move towards the pale, lifeless form of his partner, Mulder spoke softly. "I'll know it when I see it," he breathed, adding, "if I see it."

Doctor Crawford did not like the Agent's tone of voice. If he meant to imply that she would permit him to just sit in on the autopsy of a Federal Agent, partner or no, he had another thing coming.

A flash of gold caught Mulder's eye. Wincing slightly, Mulder gently eased the sheet a little further down. It revealed both the tiny gold cross pendant, and the beginning of what Mulder imagined was most likely a long, shallow and precise incision from her chest to her pelvis, if Figueroa had followed his previous MO. The necklace was something of a surprise. He hadn't given it much thought, hadn't expected it somehow. Hesitantly, he reached around beneath her neck, pausing as if to reconsider before releasing the slight clasp which held the necklace fast. He held the twinkling chain aloft for the doctor's approval before pocketing it.

"I'm sure her mother will want this," he uttered, before moving slowly towards the exit. "I'll be in the outer hallway if you find anything."

Shaking her head in bewilderment, Ellen Crawford set to busily preparing the various tools of her trade. She looked curiously upon the perfect, smooth face of the red headed woman who was the source of so much pain for the man.

"Was he this much trouble when you were alive?" she asked grimly.

"Agent Mulder?"

Mulder started from his dazed state. He wasn't sleeping, sleep was a never again pipedream after this day. More likely he had fallen into some kind of post-traumatic shock. Or missing time, he thought, glancing at his watch. What seemed like passing minutes had been nearly 3 and a half hours. The doctor didn't seem terribly surprised to find him still there.

Rather jerkily, he stood up. "Yes?" he asked her, only the slightest hint of life in his dull bloodshot eyes.

She handed him a glass vial, filled with a colorless liquid. "Since the "chip" as you call it was imbedded into tissue near her spinal cord, I suffused it in a sterile isotonic solution to preserve it. Are you sure it's a chip?? It looks more like shrapnel to me.

"Trust me," he answered with a sigh, as he took the tiny ampoule and pocketed it in his coat pocket. "Did you find anything else?? Any evidence of something besides.....?" he trailed off.

Understanding the Agent's fears, the doctor shook her head. "No, I did a thorough and complete examination. There is no evidence to support the possibility of any form of rape or molestation. She died as predicted, heart failure as a direct result of massive blood loss. There *was* something else, I'm not quite sure if it is good news or bad...."

Mulder stiffened, his expression changing rapidly. "What?" he demanded.

The pathologist looked over her paperwork, frowning slightly as she adjusted her glasses. "Well in my initial findings, I discovered alcohol in the contents of her stomach. Allowing for your...suspicions, I had a sample of it analyzed. It was heavily laden with Phenatoxicycline, a paralyzing agent."

Mulder looked confused. "Like slipping someone a mickey?? He knocked her out?"

Doctor Crawford took a deep breath. "No, not exactly. Phenatoxicycline is an experimental anesthetic. I can't imagine how the individual was able to acquire it. Its use has been restricted to closed government trials as a possible alternative to spinal taps and other high-risk forms of anesthesia. It paralyzes the subject, so they are incapable of motion and free of pain, but conscious.

She was awake. Conscious. Scully was awake the entire time that madman Figueroa was cutting her up. He knew, Oh Jesus, he made her watch as he butchered her, made her see her life's blood draining away.. He made her see what he was doing to her, she knew what we would find, what would be left behind of her. Christ. Mulder felt the contents of his stomach churning. The image of his partner, helpless against that lunatic, watching, knowing, was too much to bear. He couldn't see anymore, the entire room had become a swirling mass of flashing colors and white-hot light. He stumbled for the elevator, banging weakly on the button .

Mulder barely looked up as the elevator bell rang and the doors opened. Head down, his thoughts elsewhere, Mulder tried to brush past the elevator's sole occupant. Gruesome visions of his partner-filled his mind. Scully lying there in the bath, drenched in her own blood-eyes heavy, her pulse fading as she waited to die. Alone. There were other visions, more terrible, too horrifying to consider. Violated. "Excuse me," he mumbled as he bumped into the man.

"Mulder?"

Mulder looked up with a measure of confusion and irritation.

The face was familiar, his expression one of concern. The voice was soothing, authoritative.

"Mrs. Scully told me I might find you here. Was the coroner able to locate anything that might indicate some other cause of death?"

More from habit than anything, Mulder straightened his posture a little.

"No sir," he replied in an oddly detached tone. "She died from massive blood loss. He bled her to death after carving her up. She was the ultimate masterpiece in his twisted portfolio. She wasn't like the others. He knew her, and as a result, Scully suffered horribly for that. Mulder turned to Skinner, angrily. "He cut her--like a piece of meat. Don't you get it?? I should have been there. I should have saved her or died trying. It....it should have been me."

Skinner tried to place a hand on Mulder's shoulder. He looked terrible and had begun to shake. His eyes were bloodshot, wild, unfocused. His face was drawn and pale. He was unshaven and had the look of a man ten years his senior.

Mulder shook off his hand, and slumped against the wall. His tone softened and his eyes misted. "The coroner did find one thing. One significant difference. This time Figueroa used a drug." His voice dropped to a choked whisper. "Scully was conscious the whole time-that's why he used the drug. Figueroa made sure she saw everything, made her watch him as he....when he...."

"Mulder you can't be sure" Skinner responded gently. "You can't blame yourself. You and Scully captured this lunatic, saved lives."

Mulder stiffened. "But I am sure, sir. You haven't looked into his eyes. He lived for the realization of *his art.* Other people's suffering. Until Scully, the pain mitigated that art. The victims became unconscious after a point. That's where Figueroa lost interest. I should have known. The way he looked at Scully when we brought him in. I should have seen --should have protected her. I never should have let that maniac within 10 feet of her. And now she's gone."

Skinner paused before speaking again. "Well if you knew that Mulder, why this? Why come down here in the middle of the night? What did you hope to accomplish?"

Mulder's gaze fell. "I had to see her" he murmured, barely audible. "I had to know. Without question, I had to be sure." He reached into his pocket and produced the small glass vial Dr. Crawford had given him. "And for this. I came for this. It's all I have left of her. " The chip jingled coldly in the glass tube.

Skinner frowned. He didn't like the idea of Mulder coming to see his partner's mutilated corpse any more than he liked the idea of Mulder carrying around her metal implant like some kind of bizarre keepsake. The man was obviously on the verge of losing what little grasp he had left on sanity.

"Mulder I came here to tell you something. I'm sorry about Scully. You know I liked her. She was dedicated to her work and a good person. I think I have an idea of what she meant to you. But you can't blame yourself. If it were you lying in there, she would be here right now telling me the same things about you. You're too close to admit the truth. Nothing can eliminate the pain of losing her, but you can't blame yourself."

Mulder fidgeted. "Is that all sir?"

Skinner lifted his head and cocked it to the side, trying a more stern approach. "Agent Mulder, I came here to inform you that at 11:27 this evening, Eduardo Figueroa was cornered by officers from the DC Police force in a vacant building on the lower West side. He opened fire on the officers and at 11:49 this evening died from a self inflicted bullet wound to the head."

Mulder gaped at him. "Why didn't you call me?? If you had a lead on where he was you should have called me. You had no right to keep this from me. Screw the bureaucracy."

Angered by his implications, Skinner responded abruptly. "Listen to me, Mulder." he hissed. "I broke protocol and attempted to contact you on this matter. You know the policy on placing agents in the field when they are too close to the matter. When it's personal. In any case you weren't there, or you sure as hell weren't answering the phone. Now Figueroa is dead and I thank God you missed that call. Because if you had made it out to where they found him, he'd still be dead, only now you'd be in jail, Mulder. So don't talk to me about what's right."

Skinner turned to down the hall to the coroner's office and Mulder pressed the call button again. Almost instantly the elevator doors opened and Mulder slipped inside.

On an afterthought, Skinner spun around to face the elevator.

"You have a responsibility to her, Mulder.," he called out. "To her family. To the truth. You're not responsible for what happened to her, no matter what you think. But you are responsible for your actions now. Make sure you honor her, Agent Mulder. Don't belittle her sacrifice by wallowing in guilt and self-pity. It's not what she would have wanted. It's not what she would have expected from you. You owe her that."

Skinner watched as the elevator doors closed after Mulder. Shaking his head slowly, he turned and looked up at the doors leading to the morgue. He hesitated and glanced back at the elevator again before proceeding to the morgue.

After the doors closed, Mulder let his defiant posture drop. He stumbled out of the hospital, hot tears burning his eyes. After hailing a cab, he paused to consider his options. "Georgetown" he commanded brusquely. "But I need to make a short stop on the way."

After shoving a handful of bills at the driver, Mulder watched as the taxi pulled away. He turned to look up at the darkened apartment building Scully had called home. Only a week ago the mere thought of her apartment filled Mulder with a combination of longing, comfort and security. Now he could feel nothing but guilt and dread. She was gone now, and without her, all hopes of comfort and warmth went with her. There was nothing left, nothing but the ashes of his former life with her. He twisted the cap off the bottle and raised the paper bag aloft. "Here's to you, Scully" he murmured bitterly, before taking a long swig. It had been months since Mulder's last drink. Since that horrible mess in Dallas, yet another time he'd come close to losing her. He sputtered a little, licked his lips and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat. The harsh burn of the whiskey felt good. It was warm, reassuring. The only pleasure his wretched life would ever afford him now came in a bottle. Pushing aside the sudden image of his father, Mulder moved towards Scully's apartment. He turned to catch the disapproving glare of an elderly woman as she passed by. Warily she regarded him with a thinly veiled sneer. She took in his appearance and the obvious brown bag he clutched. He took an exaggerated bow, baring his teeth in a Cheshire Cat grimace.

Moments later he found himself at Scully's door. The urge to knock was a difficult one to quell. Fumbling with his keys, he singled out the silver one he'd marked with tape. Not that it was really necessary. From the moment she had given it to him, it was all he could do not to wear it around his neck. Like a talisman, it was his sacred relic, his holy grail. A token of her absolute trust. The red badge of courage had nothing on the silver key to Scully's.

The door swung open and Mulder stepped inside, holding his breath. As he shoved the door shut behind him, he exhaled, then inhaled deeply. Vanilla. Clean. Tangerine. If he didn't know better, he could trick himself into believing she was still here. Still alive. If he didn't know better. If he didn't know that the bathroom off of her bedroom was spattered with her blood. If he hadn't seen the rust colored remains of her life spilled and trailed across the floor. Caked and dried till it nearly clogged the bathtub drain. He could pretend that at any moment Scully would appear in front of him, half-smiling, eyebrows arched. If he hadn't spent the early morning's hours reflecting on her mutilated body. He took another long drag from the bottle and contemplated the bedroom. "No, not yet," he thought. "There'll be time for that later." Ghost-like, he moved through her apartment, his fingers trailing idly over furniture, bric a brac. The things that made Scully's apartment home. The comfortable couch that no bed on earth could equal. It carried her fragrance and was soft beyond compare. The ornamental wardrobe he had never seen open. He considered it for a moment, then moved on. The kitchen was immaculate. He fingered the paper shopping list held fast by a magnet. He rolled an orange between his hands. Clean dishes sat in the dish rack, waiting to be put away. He lifted a mug. The mug she always gave him coffee in when he came over, washed and waiting for him. He closed his eyes and saw her standing there, offering it to him, smiling. "Coffee, tea or me?" he had joked, but half-serious as always. Without missing a beat Scully had rolled her eyes and pressed the steaming mug into his hands. "Sorry Mulder, but I'm cutting back on nuts..."

Mulder reached into Scully's icebox and retrieved a couple of ice cubes. After dropping them into the mug, he filled it with whiskey and left the kitchen. He walked around some more, his body a mass of nervous energy and twitching nerves. He caught sight of her bookcase and moved over to it, staring blankly. It took a little time for the titles to register in his fevered brain. He drained the mug in a matter of minutes as he gazed at the eclectic assortment of books intermingled with medical journals, forensic texts videos and reference books. He was impressed but not surprised by the diversity. Stephen King sat beside Stephen Hawking. The humor of Twain matched with an impressive collection of Shakespearean plays. He had an impulsive vision of Scully as a teenager, voraciously reading every book she could get her hands on. Scully in braids, reading Neitzche as her contemporaries struggled with "Huckleberry Finn." Scully as he knew her, glasses perched on her nose, poring thoughtfully over some unknown volume. He couldn't decide if he was more shocked to find a copy of the I Ching or Mein Kampf. If that was surprising then the presence of "Superstars of the Superbowls" nestled in beside "Carrie" & "Schindler's List" was positively surreal. It was even opened. Mulder almost laughed. He bent down to get a closer look at some dustier volumes near the bottom of the shelf. Jane Eyre, Little Women, Anne of Green Gables, even a battered Nancy Drew Mystery. And mixed in along with those, Moby Dick, Emerson, the collected works of Emily Dickinson. < Poetry, Scully?> Smiling in spite of himself, he reached for it then paused as he caught flash of blue & green behind it. Moving the other volumes aside, he reached in and removed a tiny book. It was a child's storybook, careworn and faded. He turned it over in his hands, gazing at it in confusion, until it's significance struck him. He opened the cover and his suspicion was confirmed. On the inside page, in red crayon, printed neatly in a child's hand ...."Dana"

Taking the book with him, Mulder settled onto the couch. He tried to take a sip from his mug, and realizing it was empty, got up to refill it. He came back and sat down on the couch once more. Wistfully, he trailed a hand along the painstakingly printed letters. He squinted hard, trying to see something of Scully's handwriting recognizable in the letters. He laid the book in his lap and regarded it as he continued to drain the mug of its contents. Absent-mindedly he flipped through the pages. A bedtime story with bunnies. < What was it with you and rabbits?> he wondered sadly. He began to read. The little bunny who was the focus of the tale was intent on running away. "If you become a rock on the mountain above me, I will be a mountain climber, and I will climb to where you are" Samantha would have liked it, he thought. "If you become a bird and fly away, I will be the tree that you come home to" He closed the book and began to tremble. "If you run away I will run after you.." He closed his eyes, hot tears streaming down his face. He reached beneath his shirt to the gun stowed in its holster. He held it in one hand, the mug in the other. A painful, unwelcome vision intruded, that of Scully, her body as drained of life as it was of blood. Her eyelids fluttering closed as she released her hold on the flesh. "If you run away I will run after you.." He looked down at the book, then laid the gun down on Scully's coffeetable. "Shit" he swore, hands shaking. Mulder winced and hurled the empty coffee mug against the fireplace. He missed the fireplace and cursed as the mug collided against the mantle, knocking off a picture. "Dammit" he yelled out loud. He began to cry softly as he bent to pick up the picture from the floor. The glass had broken, the frame as well. Scattered in amongst the glass and bits of frame was a picture of them. The two of them, trapped at that incredibly boring workshop in Georgia. The only thing that had kept him from going on a tri-state killing spree was the fact that it had been held outdoors. Well, that and the company. Gingerly he brushed the bits of debris from the picture, replacing it on the mantle without a frame. Why she kept that picture, he never understood. He looked terrible--goofy--happy. And Scully--well she looked incredible. He felt a lump forming in his throat & Mulder swayed a little. The alcohol was finally taking effect. Thank God. "If you run away I will run after you.." Somewhat unsteadily, he made his way to Scully's bathroom. His resolve to face the spot where Scully had drawn her final breath vanished as he flicked on the bathroom light. Blood. There was so much blood. Too much blood. Anger boiled up inside him. Mulder ran the bathtub, the sickly sweet aroma assailing him as the water met Scully's dried essence and turned rust to pink. Choking back a sob Mulder got up and opened the door of Scully's linen closet. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed a handful of navy blue towels, avoiding the pristine white ones. He ran the sink faucet as well, hands shaking as he twisted the handle. He dropped one of the towels into the sink, watching as it absorbed the water. "If you run away I will run after you.." He squeezed the excess water out and ran the sopping towel over the floor once more. Over the horrible intricate pattern Figueroa had drawn with Scully's blood, over and over in circles until it was little more than a garish pink swirl on the wet glistening tile. Momentarily satisfied with his efforts, his gaze returned to the bath. Half filled with steaming crimson water. Water that was not draining. He moved to reach into the water, but shrank back. He couldn't do it. He grabbed the toilet brush and swirled it into the reddish water, poking and prodding at the blood crusted drain. As he did so, a darker tinge swirled up in the water as he worked the brush, and the water gradually began to drain away. Mulder left the bathtub running as the water filtered out. It was barely pink now, and he turned the brush against the more stubborn patches of blood that remained. A fury had built up and he was working frantically. The part of him aware that he was destroying a crime scene was brushed aside by the stronger sense of violation, the grim satisfaction of knowing Figueroa was nothing but a sheeted corpse himself. He hoped that somehow it was possible that before she died, Scully knew she had been the last, that no further lives would be forfeit as a result of her sacrifice. He would have liked to have been the one who shot Figueroa. But that would not have been enough. Mulder tightened his grip on the brush as he scraped the sides of Scully's tub, < tightening his grip around Figueroa's neck until his eyes bulged.> He would have thrown him against the wall, against the floor. Smashed that twisted grin on his face till it was nothing more than a smear with teeth. If he had any left. The water had all but cleared, and so Mulder rinsed the blood-and-water-soaked towel in the tub. Clean, everything had to be clean. Free of the death, cleansed of the suffering his Scully had endured. She would want it that way. Clean. No more blood. This was no longer a crime scene, the suspect had already been captured, tried and sentenced. This was Scully's home. It had to be clean, pure, like her. He used the other towel to soak up what was left of the watery, pinkish fluid on the floor. After rinsing it, he squeezed it out and hung it over the side of the tub. Satisfied with his handiwork, he stepped back, somewhat shakily. His alcohol fogged gaze drifted past the edge of the tub to the wall beside it and cursed. He'd missed a spot. He examined it more closely and let out a sharp, agonized gasp. It was a handprint, trailing down the wall. Delicate and perfect. Hers. Hesitantly, he placed a hand over it, dwarfing Scully's smaller print with his own hand and fingers. Had Scully left this mark as a sign for him? "If you run away I will run after you.." He sank to his knees beside the tub. "Oh Schuhlee," he breathed softly. A rush of images flashed through his mind. Did Figueroa watch as she faded, or did he grant her her last few moments in peace and privacy? Did she imagine, alone, & numb in her final moments that even then, he might arrive to save her? When the moment came, did she see it for what it was, welcome it?? Or was she afraid?? Did she cling to her life as tenaciously as she did to her science?? Did she rage against the dying of the light?? He moved his hand a little and the tiny print was smeared. "Shit" he cursed, carefully lifting his hand away. His hand, wet with water was traced with blood. Scully's blood. Her last chance for contact confined to a lingering smear on the wall. A benediction in blood. "If you run away I will run after you.." Mulder got up and left the bathroom, returning with the bottle in his hand. He eased himself into the tub and lay back against the cool slick surface. With the brunt of the blood cleaned away, he could make out the faintest traces of an aroma that was familiar, and filled him with longing. An aroma that was pure, Scully. He took a long, cleansing gulp of the liquid fire, savoring the burn as it coursed down his throat and spread a warmth inside him. The only warmth he would ever feel again. Mulder contemplated the mark on the wall beside him. He laid his hand upon the wall and then examined the blood on his palm. It was all he had left of her, he realized. Angrily he took one last draw from the bottle, emptying it, and hurled it against the ceramic tile floor where it shattered. Splintered into a million tiny fragments. "Fuck" he exclaimed as he surveyed the mess. Tenderly, he cupped his hand and held it against him as he gave into the sobbing. He mourned for her life and the suffering of her death. He cried out for what could have been but never was. He wept for chances never taken, for harsh words uttered in haste. For the words never spoken, for feelings deeply felt, but never expressed. And as fatigue and sleep finally moved to claim his body, he wept for her. For love.

He was drifting in a sea of darkness, cold, and unreachable. His best reason for living, and reason itself destroyed with the flash of a surgeon's scalpel. An instrument of healing bringing death in the hands of a madman. Mulder's imagination filling in every painstaking blank. He couldn't look, he didn't need to. Figueroa's handiwork was imprinted in his mind already. The horrors in Utah that others had averted their eyes from, he'd examined with clinical detachment. But he couldn't bear to see his Scully that way, her body ruined by the knife. The body he'd hoped to one day intimately discover himself. Left behind in a bloody abattoir, the final testament to Figueroa's fearful imagination.

Mulder came to slowly, groggily. If ever he had doubted the power of alcohol, he was now a convert . He had slept deeply, and for the most part dreamlessly. Only the briefest flashes of reality's nightmares invaded his slumber. Where the hell was he, anyway? Christ, his neck hurt. And his legs were cold and cramped. The last thing he remembered was Scully's bathroom.....cleaning. He remembered the handprint and falling asleep in Scully's tub. But it was so dark here. He scanned the darkness, peering intently for any hint of his whereabouts. He heard a faint click, and reflexively reached for his holster. Instantly, bright fluorescent light blinded him and Mulder turned his head away, cringing. "What the fuck" he exclaimed angrily, as his eyes adjusted to the light. He turned back towards it and lost the ability to speak. He was in Scully's bathroom, on the floor, not in the bath. Because Scully was in the bath. Up to her neck in blood. God, there was blood everywhere. Mulder began to retch and gag, his stomach's contents spilling out as he fought for breath. The briefest hiss of air beside him made him pause. He looked up again at Scully's prone body. Her mouth was moving, oh Jesus she was still alive!! Her eyes were blank, unseeing as he cradled her head against him. "Scully", he whispered, "Scully!!" Her mouth moved silently, no words came out. "Scully??" he begged softly, "Scully I can't hear you, oh God, Scully, I'm here...." He rocked her back and forth for a moment. " I'll get help, Scully, I'll be right back...." he cried as he set her down gently. A sickening thump gave him pause at the doorway and he turned to face her. Her blank expression was gone, replaced with a mask of sheer agony. The thump was her hand, striking the wall beside her in a final spasm of pain. "Scully?" he shouted, sprinting back towards her. "Mulder..." she gasped, arching her head up and back, then still. Slowly, her hand trailed down to rest on the edge of the tub. "SCULLY!" he screamed, slipping on the crimson slick floor. His head collided with the ground and once more, Mulder's world went black.

"Mulder."

Hands shaking him, checking his pulse, feeling his head. A voice. "Jesus Christ. "

Another voice, sullen, sad. "Watch your mouth."

"Sorry Frohike. But would you give me a hand?"

Both voices in unison, calling him. "Mulder! Mulder wake up. "

Sighs of disgust, then silence. Another pair of hands upon him, their grip firmer. Mulder could feel his body being wrenched up and his back protested loudly. He groaned softly. The hands hesitated, drew back. "Oh, so you're alive then?"

Mulder blinked , his eyes dry and his mouth filled with the taste of alcohol and bile. "Barely. What the hell are you doing here anyway, Byers?: He rubbed his temples. "Was I out past curfew?" he remarked bitterly.

Byers moved away, shaking his head sadly.

Langly spoke up, his voice strained. "Mulder do you even know where you are?

Mulder looked over to where the blonde Gunman stood regarding him with an oddly sympathetic look.

Mulder glanced at Frohike who met his gaze only briefly, then turned away and left the bathroom. He rubbed his head ruefully. "Yeah, I'm in Scully's bathroom. Didn't wanna go home."

Byers sighed in exasperation. "Mulder why didn't you call us or just come over? We're as upset by what happened as you are...."

Mulder looked back at his hands. "No, you're not. His voice cracked slightly. Couldn't be."

"Mulder, she meant a lot to all of us," Langly interjected.

Mulder covered his face with his hands. "Not the same," he muttered. "But it doesn't matter now. She's gone. She's gone and" his voice dropped, "I never told her."

He closed his eyes and slumped forward, sobbing almost silently.

"She knew, Mulder," Byers stated gently, "I know she did. After Antarctica and everything else..."

"Not the same," Mulder insisted.

"Yes it is." The hoarse voice of the third Gunmen surprised him. Mulder hadn't heard Frohike return. "She knew Mulder, that's what kept her going. Why the hell else do you think she stayed? After everything you did and said-- with Diana and all the shit work? After being shot--almost killed? Why else would she stay?"

"Because of duty. Because she was my partner," Mulder spat. "Because that's the kind of person she was."

"That's Bullshit, Mulder & you know it."

Mulder looked up with surprise at his usually calm friend.

"You're just saying that because you're angry and hurt, Mulder. Well I've got news for you. We're all angry and hurt. We all miss here and we *all* loved her. No, it wasn't the same for us as it was for you. But if you would quit being such a selfish bastard for one moment you might realize that diminishing her feelings for you diminishes Scully. Who she was, and who you were to her. Why even now I envy you. Because you had something with Scully that half the people on the planet never even come close to having or even feeling. So why don't you try and pull yourself up out of your fucking self pity long enough to show some respect. Because you're not the only person who lost something in this room. Some of us lost a friend. Mrs. Scully lost a daughter." Frohike took a deep breath, his face red and his flashing anger, before turning and storming out of the bathroom.

Byers and Langly exchanged wide-eyed glances, then simultaneously turned their heads to face Mulder.

At first his eyes were dark but then his entire expression softened. He looked just as surprised as any of them. "I..." he began.

Byers moved towards him. "Mulder, look. We came here to get you, OK?? You weren't in your apartment, so...." He offered a hand to Mulder, who took it, and slowly rose out of the tub. "Mulder, you knew that this was a crime scene-why did you.....?"

"S'not a crime scene anymore," Mulder mumbled. "They caught him. He's dead. Fucker."

Langly and Byers exchanged puzzled glances once again. Langly nodded at Mulder then Byers, who shook his head.Langly shot his friend a stronger look and Mulder raised his head in time to catch the urgent expression.

"What?"

Byers furrowed his brow. "Nothing, Mulder."

Mulder stiffened, then freed himself from Byers' grasp. "What is it?? I'm sure all three of you didn't just come here to help me with my personal hygiene." He took a second look at Langly. Byers was in his usual attire, suited to the nines in a dark blue number. And Langly--Langly was wearing neatly pressed black jeans, a button down shirt with bolo tie and a dark sportscoat. "Jesus" Mulder mumbled, gaping openly at him. Even his hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail. Langly rolled his eyes and left the room.

"Actually," Byers said in a voice that was barely above a whisper, "we did. Mulder, you need to get cleaned up. Scully's mother called us this morning. There's a memorial service at 3:00. "

Mulder wiped at the sweat which had begun to form on his upper lip. He wasn't ready--couldn't do this. It took quite a bit of convincing on his part to get his friends to enter the church without him. Mulder stood outside, fidgeting by the entrance to the church. Thankfully, Bill, his wife and Mrs. Scully were already inside. He paced nervously as more cars pulled up. He nodded politely at the people who passed him by on the way in. It wasn't surprising to see droves of people coming to say goodbye to her. He knew better than most what a precious gift her life had been to all she touched. It was simply hard to accept that Scully, *his* Scully had been a part of so many other people's lives, not just his. People he had never met, never known. He felt an angry despair, a sudden unreasonable jealousy. He wanted to grab each stranger by the coat, and shake them. To scream to them that she had been his alone--not theirs. Tears began to fall and so he moved away, to the side of the church. He felt safe in his anonymity. Just a friend of the deceased. Not her partner, that shiftless bastard. Not the one who let her die. He steadied himself once more to go inside as another limo pulled up. A young couple got out. As the man ushered his wife into the chapel, Mulder found himself transfixed by the man. He was a younger, masculine version of Scully. Same red hair, same slight nose. As their eyes locked, Mulder faltered. Although the man smiled kindly, his eyes were deep and sad. His eyes were-it was almost like..... Mulder felt inexplicably drawn to this man. He wanted to reach out to him, grasp his hand and make him see, make him understand. He needed it. The man extended his hand to him. "Mulder?"

Mulder nodded mutely, shaking the young man's hand.

"I thought I 'd recognize you." "Dana told me so much about you. I'm Charlie. This is my wife Sarah....." He gestured to his attractive companion who smiled warmly and shook his hand.

"Yes, Mr. Mulder, you're all she ever talked about. It's really nice to finally meet you...." She faltered a little. "I just wish it were under different circumstances." She smiled at him. A sympathetic, hesitant smile.

Mulder shivered. He was a bastard, not worthy of such kindness. He opened his mouth to speak but couldn't find the words. Sarah nodded. "I know," she murmured, relinquishing his hand. "I know."

Charlie guided Mulder towards the entrance to the church and Mulder stiffened. "I can't...I'm not ready...it's just not..." he croaked.

Charlie spoke firmly in a soft commanding voice. "Come on, Mulder. This is something we all have to do. It's time."

Mulder allowed Charlie to lead him into the church. He scanned the crowd of mourners, some already sobbing softly as music filled the church. He caught the gaze of Langly & Byers who actually looked surprised to see him inside. Frohike sat beside his companions, head bowed, eyes closed.

He saw a few familiar faces from the Bureau, nodding mechanically as they recognized him. He fought the urge to scream and run. They moved slowly down the aisle of the church when Mulder looked up and saw Mrs. Scully near the front. She was facing him, her forlorn expression fading somewhat as she caught sight of Charlie and Sarah.

He started to speak when Charlie nudged him gently. As they approached, Maggie moved towards them, embracing Charlie tightly, then Sarah before turning to him.

"Fox," she murmured. "I'm glad you're here..." She turned back towards her son. "I see you've met Charlie & Sarah. Won't you please come sit with us?" Mulder was about to nod his assent when he saw Bill get up from the pew Maggie had just left. Bill's eyes darkened as he took in the sight of Mulder with his younger brother and mom. He moved towards him menacingly, lips curled in a sneer.

"Here it comes" Mulder thought. "Ultimate shame. I shouldn't have come."

"Bill!" Sarah exclaimed quietly. Within a matter of seconds, Sarah intercepted, placing herself directly in between Mulder & Bill.

"Mom?" Charlie whispered softly, "You wanna show Mulder where to sit while I speak to Bill?" Deftly, he placed Mulder's hand into Maggie's and moved to embrace his older brother.

Bill almost snarled as he caught sight of Mulder escorting his mother back to her seat. Charlie tightened his grip. "Bill," Charlie warned softly, "please." "This is already hard enough on Mom, don't make it worse. I know how you feel about him, and we both know how Dana felt. Just let it go. This isn't the time or place. He was invited."

Bill leaned back and away from his brother's grip. "But he's..."

Charlie grabbed hold of Bill's shoulders and looked him squarely in the eye. "He's lost her too, Bill. We all have. She's gone now, Bill isn't that enough? Let that be enough."

Bill gazed into Charlie's eyes and they both faltered. "Please?" Charlie whispered. "For Mom?" Biting his lip and stifling a sob, Bill hugged his younger brother back tightly. "For Mom?" he echoed. Charlie nodded his approval and they moved to the front of the church.

Passing Mulder, Bill looked down with disdain at the man he had grown to hate. He saw nothing in that man worthy of his contempt or Dana's love. Charlie was right. It was *almost* enough that this man had lost her too. Dana was the only good thing in his life-- all he'd had and all he'd ever wanted. He saw that now. But the coward had never even told her. What a sorry bastard. He was broken, hollow, a lost shadow of a man. Bill nodded curtly at Mulder before seating himself between his mother and his wife. The music stopped, and Father McCue came and took his place at the pulpit.

Mulder remained silent, motionless. During the entire service, he didn't really hear a word that the priest had spoken. Snippets of phrases made their way into his consciousness. Words intended to comfort, to make some sense of tragedy. Extolling the virtues of a life ended too quickly, now entrusted to God's care.

It was all he could do not to be sick. He tried to avert his gaze from the gleaming wooden coffin beside the pulpit. It was both an abomination and a precious cradle. Scully's death was the final proof he needed to know that God didn't exist. The priest droned on and on, pausing as the choir sang. Mulder perked up a little bit, enough to listen. It must have been a favorite of Scully's. He recognized the tune from Emily's funeral.

Emily. He winced at the shameful memory. On that sunny day in San Diego when he couldn't enter the church until after everyone else had left. Scully had suffered so much and he couldn't bring himself to be there for her till the end. Couldn't see until it was too late, how much she needed Emily, needed that connection with a child of her own. Couldn't admit to the jealousy that had almost poisoned him, consumed him. Hated himself for not seeing Emily as she truly was-an innocent victim, a child in need of love. Instead he had only viewed her as an oddity, a threat to their partnership. Until it was too late. Until the only comfort, the only support he could offer Scully was to stand by her side as she grieved. And he had failed her at that. He grieved for the Christmases that had followed, grim reminders to Scully of all that she had lost. All that they had stolen from her. Their last Christmas had been the first in years that held any meaning for him at all. Two sharp knocks on his door brought him more happiness than he knew he could find. A face, warm and forgiving, tired of grieving, ready to live. Tearing into the gifts each had bought the other with the enthusiasm of children on Christmas morn. He had been foolish enough to hope that that year might prove to be the first of many. A new tradition between partners--between close friends--maybe even..... Mulder was suddenly aware of the quiet and looked up. Everyone was still, impassive. Silent. Father McCue stood at the pulpit, gazing intently at the throng of people. What had he missed?? He looked around nervously. A few more seconds passed a and a deep voice boomed from someplace behind him. He recognized it instantly.

Walter Skinner stood. "I, uh have a few things I would like to say. I had the pleasure and the good fortune to work with Dana Scully for many years. As her direct superior, it was my job to assess her performance as an Agent. She was an asset and a credit to the Bureau--well liked, highly regarded and considered to be among the best in her field. She was professional, compassionate and good-natured. My only regret is that I didn't have the opportunity to get to know her better as a person. Even so, I feel lucky to have counted her amongst my friends. And though it may seem inappropriate I want to remind those of her friends and family here, that she died honorably. For something she believed in. And that thanks to her, many other lives are safe. I think that is a legacy that she would appreciate--be proud of. This was typical of Agent Scully. To say that she will be missed, well it doesn't begin to do her justice." He paused briefly then sat back down.

And so it went for what could have been minutes or hours. People rose and shared their experiences, impressions of her. Mulder found himself caught up in the stories, closing his eyes and committing them to memory. Envisioning her as others saw her. He wanted more, needed more. He wanted to steal their memories, hoard them away. Retribution for the memories that should have been his--memories he would never have.

After a time the priest spoke again. Music played softly. It was achingly beautiful, and Mulder found himself unable to contain his grief any further. Tears flowed freely down his face and his shoulders shook as Mulder sobbed. He could hear the intermittent wails and outbursts as others took advantage of the cover that the music afforded and gave in to their tears.

Mulder was shaken from his misery as the people around him stood in unison. Caught off guard, he rose, scrambling to join them. The priest said a few words in Latin then motioned for a minute of silent observance in honor of the departed.

After a minute the organist began to play once more. Mulder recognized the melody. Barber's 'Adagio for Strings.' How odd it sounded coming from an organ. Not the tune he expected but beautiful all the same.

While the music played, people began to move slowly past him towards the center of the church where the priest had relinquished his pulpit. Again Mulder was momentarily confused until he followed the procession of people and his eyes came to rest on the mahogany casket. Reflexively, he averted his gaze, bowing his head down. < Oh god....>

He sank back down into the pew, his palms sweaty. Suddenly he began to feel ill. Violently sick. This was wrong, so wrong. The Scully family rose up and moved past him. Margaret paused in front of him, laying a hand upon his shoulder. Mulder looked up his tears flowing freely, and Margaret nodded understanding. "The burial service is tomorrow, Fox, at Arlington. We've invited only family, but I know Dana..." Margaret Scully faltered momentarily and Mulder took her hand, squeezing hard. "You know you've always been a part of the family to me, Fox." She blinked back a few tears clasping his hand in return, then moved on. Mulder watched mutely as the procession of people passed by Scully's coffin, pausing to pay their last respects, say their final farewells. He was not surprised that neither Skinner nor the Gunmen were among the crowd of people. The Scully they knew would have balked at such a display. But certainly they had no right to question Mrs. Scully.

After a time, Mulder found himself alone in the church. The priest had moved towards him as the last mourner left, pausing in front of him, before thinking the better of it and moving on.

Several minutes passed and Mulder found himself lingering before the flower-laden casket. He shook his head sadly, turning away as if to leave. < No> he thought, < not this time> and turned back to face her. He moved up the steps to the mahogany casket. Mulder took a deep breath and opened his eyes slowly. He gasped, weeping. Even now she was so lovely, peaceful. It was unreal. She couldn't be dead--she looked so peaceful--a little pale perhaps, but not dead. He gazed at her reverently--intently, willing those closed lids to open. He found himself entreating her quietly. "Scully please Scully--do it--just open your eyes please..." Tear began to fall once more as he sank onto the coffin's edge weeping softly. "Scully, please....please.....please....." He raised his head up, regarding her tenderly through reddened eyes. "I can't do it alone Scully...." he pleaded. Gently he took her hand. It had come down to this moment. He turned around cautiously. After assuring that he was alone, he turned back to his partner. "Scully" he breathed softly, as he gingerly traced the outline of her hair. "Scully...." he murmured again, then leaned in, closing his eyes, and placed a soft kiss upon her mouth. The moment his lips had come into contact with hers, he froze, horrified. He stood up, revolted with himself. This wasn't Scully. She was gone. He glanced about in shame before exiting the church quickly. Thankfully no one had seen him. He needed to go home--back to her home-- and he needed a drink.

Alex carefully watched the sleeping woman beside him. A thin sheen of sweat covered her face. She was having another dream, he could tell. A bad one. Although she only stirred faintly, he could feel her body tense up next to him. She moaned something and rolled towards him. Sensing some form of safe harbor in his presence, she pressed her body up against him, clinging to him like a fragile child. "Shhh" Alex whispered consolingly, brushing back the dampened tendrils of hair that clung to her brow. "It'll be all right nenaglyadnaya, it'll be better soon, I promise." She continued to whimper softly, so Alex eased himself up into a sitting position, cradling her head in his lap. It tore at him to see this cycle replay itself every time they made love. A part of him regarded it as some form of karmic payback for the life he lived. For the debt he owed her. For the lies and the lies told to cover up lies. But she....she deserved better. It killed him that his presence--his touch wasn't enough to keep the demons at bay. Lana stirred again, a few mumbled syllables of a name almost recognizable. His back stiffened. He willed his blood pressure down and continued to stroke Lana's head gently. He moved his ministrations to her neck and lower back, feeling her muscles gradually relax under his touch. < At least I can give her this,> he thought. < And Piotr.....> A million lies couldn't make him sorry for Piotr. As if in response he heard the faintest whimper come from the direction of Piotr's room. Lana didn't suffer alone in dreams. Alex's gaze drifted to the doorway that Lana always insisted on leaving cracked open. He smiled ruefully, then frowned. What horrors had she been subjected to that a closed door was such cause for terror? The purpose and nature of the tests were no secret to him. But the details--the particulars were one of the most closely guarded secrets. The Smoking Man had told him nothing. Saving her had been no easy task. So he had played along as always, the dutiful double agent. Gleaning information like food. Feigning interest in the Smoking Man's triumphs while storing away every minuscule detail for reference. To be used in turn against him. He owed Lana debt he could never repay. His life and more.

Though she might not know it--couldn't remember clearly, thanks to the memories they'd stolen. In a sense it was a blessing for him, for she also had no memory of his betrayal, his duplicity. All for the tests. And that was his fault too. Unknowingly he had been the one who had delivered her to them. The woman who had taken him in after the butchers had taken his arm. He willed away the nightmare of his time in Tunguska and turned to gaze at the woman in his bed. The woman who had been his foe and become his love, his Svetlana. He would gladly live a lie if it meant another day with her, even if it was on borrowed time.

And she was here with him, with their son. A normal child. A human child. The sheer wonder and impossibility of such a thing was not lost on him. At times he almost wished he could tell her-make her understand and appreciate it. But she wouldn't--couldn't possibly understand. She would only hate him for it. Lana stirred again, and Alex eased himself back under the covers. He cradled his wife's head onto his chest and began to sing softly.

"Last night when you were lying in my arms, and I was wondering where you were you know you looked just like a baby, fast asleep in this dangerous world He hushed his crooning to an almost whisper. "And you know...that I'm going to be the one who will be there.. when you need someone to depend upon, when tomorrow comes...."

Although he had initially shunned her first request, he found that for some reason, his singing--bad as it was, elicited a sort of calming effect upon the troubled woman sleeping in his bed. The knowledge filled him and sustained him. After everything she had suffered--because of him,-- he could deny her nothing. So he would give her this. For as long as he was able. The fleeting dream of peace and semblance of family that neither had ever dared to expect or even hope for. She was his for now, safe from them, safe from the tests. He couldn't pretend that it would last, but it was enough for now. It had to be.

Lana relaxed, stretching up against him like a cat, serene in sleep. A sudden surge of protectiveness came over him and he held her tightly. The stirrings her warm body always caused in his were no match for the dread he felt in his heart. He could see that her "medication" was beginning to lose its effectiveness. The nightmares & depression were proof. He had known it would happen eventually, but dreaded it all the same. In a short time he would have to choose-either return her to them for more tests-- keep the memories from flooding back--or just let that happen--and lose her forever. It wasn't much of a choice. Since he couldn't stomach the thought of surrendering her once more to the men who had almost destroyed her, that left him one option. And so he clung as tightly to her as she did to him. The end times were coming and he wanted to enjoy every moment of what they had left. But he wasn't ready to say goodbye.....not yet.

Mulder awoke groggy, disoriented. He slowly became aware of the overwhelming fragrance of his partner. His eyes blinked open--once, twice and came to focus on the flashing LCD of an alarm clock. He squinted a little. Almost 1:00 a.m. With a sigh he rolled over on the bed, away from Scully's clock. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do. Nothing that mattered. His head was throbbing. It could have been the whiskey or the hours he spent in Scully's bed, sobbing uncontrollably. He was a wreck--he simply had no idea what to do without her. How to proceed with the simplest trappings of living. Mulder stumbled off to Scully's bathroom, studiously averting his eyes from the bath. After relieving himself, he shuffled into Scully's living room and slumped onto the couch. He pointed the remote at her television and flicked through the various stations. Not surprisingly, Scully had cable. Somehow, it bothered him immensely that he didn't know that. He moved passed the adult channels without even thinking. Past the action movie of the week, the classic movie channels the Espns and Cnns and the shopping networks. Numb, he paused on some sort of nature show. He got up and went to the kitchen, returning with a glass of ice and the bottle of Bushmills he had found earlier in Scully's cabinet. He raised his glass in a stupor and sat back to watch apes battle out their hierarchy on TV. At times it was quite violent, and though he watched, Mulder didn't see. His plans for the early morning hours were limited to drinking himself blind. As a matter of fact, his plans for the rest of his life lingered on a somewhat similar path. If he was lucky, the path would prove to be a short one.

Margaret Scully kept looking up behind her, and around the cemetery. In keeping with Dana's bequest, the burial took place at sunset. The sun cast glorious shades of pink and orange and gold. The air was fresh and crisp, filled with the promise of Indian Summer. Stolen days, safe from the chill and death of autumn. Still too early for the icy breath of winter. It was the sort of day which always made her think of her children. It gave her comfort. She had become quite adept at bottling up hurt and loss over the past few years. When she was safe and alone the tears would come. But for now she needed to be strong--for Dana. For Charlie. And especially for Bill. She glanced at him, and he caught her eye, nervously looking away. She wondered if he was somehow responsible for Fox's absence. She gazed sadly at the gleaming mahogany casket, covered in stargazer lilies and roses. AS Father McCue finished his final benediction, Margaret leaned down to place a single daisy on the casket. She swallowed back tears as she softly whispered a final farewell before laying the daisy amongst the other flowers. As she got up, she noticed someone observing them from another hill. At first she thought it was Fox, but as the tall figure nodded sadly towards her, she realized it was not. She turned her attention back to her family. After her sister Eileen laid a small bible on the coffin, she squeezed Margaret's hand gently. Bill , then Charlie came forward and said their farewells. A short prayer followed, and then the attendants eased the casket into the ground. Despite an attempt to keep her composure, a few hot tears began to fall and Margaret gave in to her grief. Charlie took her into his arms and led her away as the family followed. Bill came up around them on the other side and pulled them into a tight embrace as they walked away. Both Sarah and BILLS WIFE exchanged sorrowful glances before following behind. The small procession headed back towards the waiting cars, where they got in and finally, drove off.

The solitary figure paused then moved down the hill towards Dana's grave. Silently he motioned the attendants away. Without a word, they left The tall man held a small bouquet of yellow roses in one hand, his hat in the other. "I wasn't planning on buying these until your birthday, Dana," he murmured sadly. "I'm sorry if they're not quite right." He knelt down on the ground and leaned in, carefully positioning the flowers atop the coffin. As he did so, his back stiffened and he frowned. He tried to lay a hand atop the casket, but a noise from behind him broke his concentration. Slowly he got up and looked around the cemetery. Another man was approaching. He turned to the intruder, who wore sunglasses and a long overcoat. He was unkempt and staggering slightly. Even from a distance, Lucius could see that Mulder was drunk. He sighed then grimaced.

"Where did everyone go?" Mulder half slurred, pausing to check his watch, then stumbling.

Wearily, Hartwell caught his arm and steadied him.

"Am I late?" Mulder's eyes widened in recognition. "You" he exclaimed softly. Just as quickly, they narrowed angrily and he wrenched his arm away. "What the hell are you doing here?" he spat.

Before Lucius could answer, Mulder teetered a little before stumbling down on one leg.

"Jesus Christ, Mulder" Lucius exclaimed with disgust. "It's a damn good thing you *are* late. You're drunk. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Mulder looked up contritely, then down into the grave at the flower covered casket. "Everything" he sputtered, "everything is wrong." "She's gone."

Lucius nodded thoughtfully and his voice took on a more patient tone. "I know that Agent Mulder. But...." He scratched his head thoughtfully. "But...don't you think it all happened a little too quickly?"

Mulder's head bobbed angrily as he regarded the tall Sheriff. "What the hell does it matter.....she's DEAD." Mulder scoffed, then looking down upon the casket , began to cry.

Lucius was taken aback. While he had entertained a number of suspicions regarding the Agent & his partner, this was never one of them. Frowning uncomfortably, he fidgeted with his hat a little. "Agent Mulder, you don't have to be a detective to see that something is wrong here..." He paused momentarily before proceeding. "Don't you think you owe it to Dana to find out exactly what that is?"

Hartwell's casual use of Scully's first name did not escape Mulder. "Owe her??" Mulder straightened up then faced him angrily. "I owe her *everything* you idiot!! EVERYTHING!" His gaze went down. "Just go away." "Go away Dammit. Leave me alone. You don't belong here."

Lucius eyed him with open distaste. "Neither does she Agent Mulder, neither does she...."

Mulder's eyes widened in rage. He spun around to grab the man and fell over himself onto the ground. Hartwell was gone. Mulder looked around. There was no sign of the man. "Great" Mulder complained aloud. "I'm hallucinating vampires." He got up and brushed the dirt off of his coat. Then sank to his knees. "I'm sorry, Scully" he whispered as he reached into his pocket. He pulled out the fine gold chain that she'd worn for as long as he could remember. "I can't......" He dangled it aloft, turning it in his fingers as the tiny cross glittered in the fading sunlight. Carefully, he settled the necklace in amongst the lilies. His hand brushed momentarily on the cool smooth exterior of the coffin. "Oh God," he wailed, his face contorted with grief. Fingers tracing circles in the wood, Mulder lay there sobbing violently until darkness fell and sleep overtook him.

Skinner drove angrily through the DC streets. He should have seen this coming, he should have known.... He wheeled into the Union Street Station of the DC Police force. Marching angrily up the steps he cursed Mulder for being so goddamned weak. Scully's death was a tragedy and an affront to him. But Christ--getting bombed and making a scene at her graveside?? He must have totally lost it. He'd read Mulder's file--knew about his father. Hell, even his old man had been one to drink his troubles away at times. But Mulder should have known better. In the Marines you were taught to face your pain, take it and lock it up inside you. Accept it. Deal with it. Move on. He had always admired Mulder's intensity. His ability to get inside a killer's head--his profiling skills was unequaled in the Bureau. But every gift comes with own curse. After signing in, Skinner sat beside a grumbling old man as he waited for the clerk to summon Mulder from the drunk tank. After nearly half an hour, Skinner grabbed the young Officer with whom he had signed in. "Excuse me," he muttered grimly, flashing his badge. "I've been waiting to get one of my Agents out of the D & D? Fox Mulder?? His partner was recently killed?" The young officer looked nervous and flustered as scanned through the paperwork.

< Rookie,> Skinner thought with annoyance.

"I...I'm sorry, sir, but it appears Agent Mulder isn't here...." He responded nervously.

"What do you mean?" Skinner demanded. "I got a call from your CO not an hour ago letting me know that he had been detained, D & D at Arlington. They brought him here."

"Yes, he was," the lieutenant agreed, reading off a paper. "Drunk and disorderly, interfering with the cemetery caretakers who had come to inter the casket."

"What do you mean, 'was'?" Skinner intoned a note of warning in his voice.

"Well according to this, Agent Mulder was released on bail on his own recognizance. It says here bail was posted by a John Fitzgerald Kennedy." It suddenly dawned on him that he had been had.

"JFK??" Skinner repeated, incredulous.

"Well, they had ID..." the young man offered lamely.

"They?" Skinner repeated. It began to make sense. "Let me guess. Three guys, right?"

The officer nodded.

"A tall one with a beard & mustache, a skinny blonde guy and an older guy with glasses, right??"

Meekly the officer nodded again, shamed and red faced.

Rolling his eyes, Skinner turned and exited the building. He snorted a little as he turned the key to start his engine. "JFK?" He said aloud as he whirled the car out of the parking garage and into the street, shaking his head. At least Mulder was in good hands. So to speak.

He'd never been told where the strange trio lived, so Skinner had two choices. Driving by Scully's apartment, he'd suppressed a slight shiver. No, Mulder wouldn't have come here again. Not after a night in the drunk tank. He'd be too guilt ridden for that. As he pulled onto the Alexandria street where Mulder lived he noticed a beat up VW van parked out front. "This must be place," he thought grimly. Skinner didn't even have to enter the building. As he made his way up the walk the door to the building opened and Mulder exited, followed closely by his three benefactors.

"Mulder" Skinner called urgently.

The agent looked up and nodded in Skinner's direction. "Sir." he said in cursory acknowledgment, passing the AD on his way to the street. His companions followed, glancing uneasily at the tall ex-marine.

"Mulder!" Skinner called more insistently this time. "What is going on? I got a call early this morning that you had been brought in on charges from the ceme--"

"Yes sir, I was," Mulder interrupted. "My apologies for your inconvenience. Now if you'll excuse me..."

"I'll do nothing of the kind, Agent Mulder," Skinner insisted, grabbing him by an elbow.

Mulder glanced down to where his superior held his arm in a viselike grip. He looked Skinner squarely in the face, then nodded to his friends who were looking around nervously. "Go on," he assured them, "I'll be there in a minute."

He faced Skinner who slowly released his arm. Their eyes met and he stared back, unwavering. "As I understand it from a brief discussion with Dr. Kossef this morning, I have been temporarily relieved of my duties and placed on psychiatric leave following the murder of my partner." Mulder spoke slowly, mechanically, as if the words he uttered held no meaning.

"That wasn't my doing" Skinner replied. "And besides, Mulder...based on your actions last night, I can't say I disagree with Dr. Kossef's assessment."

Mulder accepted this calmly. "That's fine sir. And since we are in agreement on that, and since I am currently on leave, then as of this moment, you are no longer my superior. So you'll excuse me if I take my leave...."

"Can the crap, Mulder, what's going on?" Skinner demanded.

"Well, sir, if you must know, it was recently brought to my attention that the details regarding Figueroa's escape are at best, highly questionable."

"Even if that were true, Mulder, you're on suspension. You can't just open an investigation and expect..."

"Actually, sir, I can. On my own free time. As a concerned citizen and a close personal friend of the victim, I am exercising my freedom to look for the truth."

"Dammit, Mulder, it's over. Don't you get it?? Figueroa's dead. Why can't you just let this go? Scully wouldn't want you to..."

"Scully?" Mulder interrupted again, "Scully would want to know why there is no official record of Figueroa's escape. How a confessed killer was loaded on a prison transport and then managed to simply disappear. She would want to know why, when that transport arrived at Lichtenfield Penitentiary, Figueroa was not only *not* on it, but how his name could be missing from the prisoner transfer log."

His tone had grown louder and more insistent. Skinner could only stand there, stunned.

"And lastly," Mulder continued, "Scully would want to know why the driver of that transport and the other two prisoners have all been found murdered."

"Murdered?" Skinner's tone was one of disbelief.

"The guards claim the two new prisoners allegedly both committed suicide. On the same night? In solitary? Seems unlikely. And the guard was found murdered in his home, the victim of an alleged break in. Too bad the robbers left without taking anything. But his wife did report that on the day he died, he made a rather substantial deposit into her savings account."

Skinner shook his head, and started to speak. "How did you?? Where did you..."

Mulder nodded to the van. "I didn't. I was too busy grieving. Too buried in my own little world to even notice what was going on right in front of me. They did a little checking and made the discovery. And a damn good thing they did. "

"But that makes no sense," Skinner replied. "Why go to all that trouble just to..." he trailed off.

"Just to kill Agent Scully?" Mulder finished the sentence for him. "Why do they do anything? To destroy me, my work-our work" he corrected himself. They've tried before, just this time they succeeded. I suppose they thought that if Scully was killed--if I lost her --like that...I would stop--give up--that I wouldn't go on." He sighed. "Well they were almost right. " Mulder looked Skinner in the eye once again. "Scully may be dead, but this case isn't closed. Not by a long shot. I OWE her that much."

Skinner was too stunned to speak. He watched Mulder get in and as the door slammed shut, the van sped away. He hurried back into his own car and decided another trip back to the DC Police Department was in order. If what Mulder said was true, then it seemed also unlikely that Figueroa had met his end as reported. The men in charge of such things were notorious for cleaning up loose ends. And that meant the policemen involved would be next on the list.

Mulder sat in the dark familiar room, surrounded by his friends. The need for the truth-to understand why and to bring the guilty to justice had overridden his grief--temporarily.

"OK. We know Figueroa got here quickly, which means he must have flown."

Langly had been typing away furiously at his terminal since they'd come in.

"Exactly." Byers agreed solemnly. "A few calls to the airlines confirmed that there was only one other possible flight he could have taken --besides yours to get into DC in time to...to be there the same night."

"So what are you doing now?" Mulder questioned.

"A pretty basic hack, although somewhat complicated from a technical standpoint," Langly explained. "Since 1980, the Dulles Airport Security has been co-opted by the NSA and the Secret Service as a result of threats to the president from abroad and within as well as the possibility of domestic terrorism. All airport surveillance videos are taken, re-recorded, digitized and filed in the NSA supercomputer."

"Big Brother is watching you?" Mulder quipped dryly.

"Exactly" Frohike chimed in. "At the slightest indication of a threat they can monitor all incoming and outgoing flights with the touch of a button."

"Not that it helps" Langly added derisively. "Didn't do Reagan a whole lotta good." He grinned.

"But you can break in?" Mulder asked. "We can see who came & went from that terminal the day before Scully was killed??"

"Not can," Langly corrected triumphantly. "Did. I'm in."

Even Byers moved in with the others to peer at the flickering monitor. "Key in the exact time frame," he directed, "Let's see how much surveillance this covers"

Mulder gazed blankly at the bewildering array of numbers and html codes that flashed upon the screen. "You can make sense of this?" he murmured, more a statement than a question.

"Yeah," Langly responded, "just give me a minute."

"There!" Frohike interjected, pointing to a sequence of numbered codes.

"Got it" Langly continued to tap at the keyboard until a small window appeared. "Oh...kaaay......it looks like we have 3 cameras in that terminal. The tapes from each one will be housed under their own sub-disk heading but we should be able to download the entire thing. If we stay and access them online we'd be on too long and we risk discovery."

Byers and Frohike both nodded their heads.

"And by pulling down the data we'll be able to split the download into separate files," Byers pointed out eagerly. "Access them from different terminals." "It should take half the time to run through the surveillance tapes that way."

"That's right," Frohike agreed, impressed.

The spectacled blondeGunman set to work and in less than an hour the files were finished downloading.

Mulder seated himself alongside Frohike at a terminal. Byers followed suit and began typing away at his monitor. "OK " he announced, "I'll take the camera from the west area of the main concourse, it isn't as busy." He looked towards Frohike. "Why don't you two take the security checkpoint? There will be a lot more traffic there and if that guy came in through the airport, he would have passed through that gate."

Frohike nodded without even looking up and tapped away at the keyboard.

"I'll take the east wing camera then" Langly chimed in.

In a matter of moments the room was bathed in silence as the Gunmen and Mulder attended to the task at hand. Mulder had shown them a photograph of Figueroa so they were pretty sure they knew just what to look for. Almost an hour had passed when Mulder gasped out loud. Langly and Byers turned towards him. Haltingly, Mulder extended a hand towards the screen.

Frohike turned towards his friends with a pained expression. "Scully..." he explained softly. Eyes downcast, they returned to their vigil at the computer screens. About twenty minutes later, Langly tapped quietly at the keyboard. A few seconds later a silent message appeared on Byer's screen. < What are we doing?> He demanded < This is only feeding Mulder's obsession.>

Byers cast a quick angry glance at his bespectacled friend before typing a reply.

< We're trying to get his attention back to something constructive, you idiot.>

< By feeding into his paranoia? Fueling his rage?>

Byers sighed impatiently. "If it keeps him from drinking himself blind or committing suicide, I don't care. He needs us. Frohike's right-We owe it to Agent Scully."

The increasingly frenzied typing between Langly & Byers had attracted the attention of Frohike. "Hang on a sec," he admonished Mulder before getting up and moving towards his two companions.

"What the hell are you two doing?" he hissed quietly.

Byers nodded in the direction of Langly. "Someone thinks we're wasting our time on Mulder."

Langly shot him an accusatory look. "I didn't mean that. I just think this airport thing is a dead end. We haven't even seen the guy yet. If we're already at the point where Mulder and Scully are in frame then we are wasting our time. There's no way the guy could have gotten here in time. After what happened with the escape we know he isn't working alone. He probably flew in special ops or something. Besides, the next flight in puts him here only 10 minutes before Scully--before..." he trailed off sadly as his shoulders slumped a little.

Frohike sighed then leveled his gaze at the two men. "I don't like it either, but Langly has a point." he whispered.

Byers looked stunned. "What?"

"Hear me out. I think he's right. If Figueroa had come in we would have seen him already. We can pull up tapes from the early morning red eye arrivals and check those out just in case, but I really don't think..."

"Stop-HEY! Wait!" Mulder hollered to them, pounding at the keyboard and clicking on the mouse. "How do you get it to pause?"

The trio raced over to him anxiously. "Did you see him?" Langly asked. "Was it Figueroa?"

Frohike made a few entries and reversed the file frame by frame.

"No," Mulder answered gravely. "Not Figueroa."

Byers and Langly exchanged concerned looks.

"What then?" Frohike asked, as he continued to back up the image file.

"Not what," Mulder murmured, "Who." He continued to peer intently at the screen. "There!" he exclaimed, grabbing Frohike's arm. "Stop it there."

He leaned in close to the monitor. "Can you pull up this area?" he asked, circling the top left corner of the image. It was a man and a child, waiting to proceed through the metal detector.

"Sure," Frohike replied, making a few adjustments with the mouse. He clicked on file then enlarge and in a matter of seconds the screen was filled with the image of Alex Krycek.

"Krycek" Mulder exclaimed with disgust.

"Who's that?" Langly inquired. "I thought we were looking for Figueroa." Mulder continued to glare at the monitor. His hands gripped the armrests of his chair and his knuckles began to turn white. Frohike glanced at Mulder then turned to regard the screen. "Who's the kid?"

Mulder shrugged. He wasn't looking at the kid.

Frohike took off his glasses and moved closer for a better look. "That guy looks familiar. Wasn't he..." "No" Mulder replied. "They assigned him to work with me when they took Scully away. But he was never my partner...never. He killed my father and god knows how many other people. He was responsible for Scully's abduction, and he stopped me from getting to her in time to save her. He works for them."

"You think this guy is the one who brought Figueroa here?" Langly asked.

Mulder nodded, his lips tightening into an angry grimace.

"What about the kid?" Frohike thumbed at the screen.

Mulder tore his gaze away to look at the child. "Shit" he exclaimed. "I saw this kid-but he was with a woman." He slammed his hand on the desktop. "Dammit! The sonofabitch was right there!" His head sank down in despair.

Byers spoke up. "Mulder, I don't know-he's coming into the gate-not leaving-did you know he had a kid?"

Mulder turned towards him, his eyes gleaming black with hatred. "I don't know anything about him" he seethed, "And I don't need to. I know that wherever he goes, people die. There's no way in hell that rat bastard's appearance is a coincidence. And as for the kid, I don't know. He could be some sort of test subject, like Gibson. Kidnapped maybe. Either that or he's extorting money from the parents. Trust me. This guy is slime. You have no idea what Alex Krycek is capable of. I do. It's gotta be him."

"Mulder," Byers began to object.

"What?" Mulder demanded, whirling on him. "You said you wanted to help. To find out who was responsible. Who really killed her? Well I'm telling you, there he is!" Mulder gestured wildly at the screen. "Don't you get it? He works for THEM. DO you honestly think it's just a coincidence that appears at the airport on the same day Scully and I returned? Maybe he just happened to be going to Disneyland with his son on the night Scully was murdered. Maybe the Assassin's Father-Son picnic??"

"Easy, Mulder," Frohike soothed, laying a hand on Mulder's shoulder.

Mulder shrugged it off angrily. "Don't tell me to take it easy. Tell me you'll help find him."

The Gunmen exchanged glances before nodding silently. "Of course we'll help, Mulder." Byers replied. "It's just--we just want to be sure."

"I'm sure," Mulder responded angrily. "More sure than I've ever been of anything." "And when I find that rat fucking bastard I'm gonna execute him."

Frohike stepped forward and laid a hand on Mulder's shoulder. Mulder only glanced to the side but their eyes met. Empathy flowed between them, a sort of shared hatred, hurt and mutual understanding.

Mulder nodded slowly, and turned to go out the door.

"Mulder," Byers objected, "Where are you going?"

"To pack a few things and to say a proper goodbye. I'm going to call in some favors and then I'll give you guys a call. I need for you guys to hack into the passenger manifests on all flights out of Dulles that day and look for a man & child. It's not much but it's all we've got for now."

Frohike stepped forward. "If you'd like company, Mulder, I could..."

"No thanks, Frohike. I'd rather be alone."

After dropping off a proper bouquet at Scully's graveside, Mulder found himself at the door to his apartment He fumbled with the key in the door and as it opened, something skittered across the floor. It was a small brown envelope. He shook it. Something rattled inside of it. He tore into one corner and reached inside. With a stunned expression, he slowly removed Scully's gold cross. There was a small folded piece of paper in the envelope. Holding the cross in his palm, he opened the note. It said simply; "Agent Mulder--I believe you lost this." It was signed with a weird sort of flourish that could have been Chinese or Gaelic or just an odd scribble. Mulder held the necklace aloft and was about to set it down upon his countertop when he thought the better of it and instead, placed it around his neck, fastening the clasp. Reverently, he fingered the slight necklace, eyes closed. "Scuhleee..." He whispered, blinking back tears. Now was not the time to lose it. He was gonna nail that two faced sonofabitch. Krycek. He should have known. Bastard was probably watching him & Scully the entire time. So he came back to finish the job he had botched years ago. It was a mistake he was gonna regret the rest of his short wretched life. Mulder would make sure of that.