Life's Simple Fate
by Ainon (mulangst@hotmail.com)


RATING: 
SPOILERS: Post third season. Events beyond the first episode of the 
fourth season are considered void as far as this story is concerned.
CATEGORY: Angst
DISCLAIMER: This is a work of fiction. Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, and 
other X-Files characters used herein are the property of Chris 
Carter,1013 Productions, and Fox Television Broadcasting. No 
infringement of copyright is intended.
SUMMARY: Terminal illness forces both Mulder and Scully to accept 
inevitable changes in their lives.
WARNING: Character dies.





Life's Simple Fate 
	

Scully entered Mulder's hospital room and was amused to see that he was, 
quite literally, mooning her.  He was lying on his side with his back to 
the door. His hospital gown had hiked up his back, and his blanket had 
been kicked down to bunch around his ankles. Full exposure.

Scully came up beside the bed and very gently, started pulling his gown 
down, and his blanket up. He was sleeping soundly. He had just had a 
bone marrow biopsy the previous morning and he'd been in pain since. The 
pelvic area of the biopsy was bruised, but no longer swollen. She 
wondered if Mulder had been given something to help him sleep through 
the pain.

Once she had covered him adequately enough, she sat down and watched him 
sleep. She desperately needed sleep herself. For the past few days she'd 
lain awake at night worrying about Mulder. And at the office she was 
bogged down by backlogged case reports. This morning she had a meeting 
with Skinner, who informed her that new and unfortunate developments in 
the Investigative Support Unit may warrant the need to temporarily 
transfer Mulder back to the ISU. If that were to happen, she could 
either stay on with the X-Files until Mulder was transferred back, or 
she could temporarily fill in a teaching position at Quantico for the 
length of time the ISU needed Mulder. The whole thing reeked of a set-up 
as far she was concerned. 

Skinner had insisted on knowing what was wrong with Mulder this time, 
why he had to be admitted into hospital yet again, but she managed to 
avoid giving him a direct answer. She herself was still unsure about 
Mulder's condition, and was not ready to say anything just yet.

"Oh Mulder, what are we going to do about you?" she said out loud.

 Mulder stirred, waking up. 

Scully smiled hesitantly. She hadn't meant to wake him. Mulder shifted a 
little, half-rolling onto his back. He saw her and gave her a wan smile.

"Hey," she said. Mulder rubbed at his eyes with his hands. There were 
awful dark rings beneath his eyes and his face was too pale. He sighed 
heavily. She could see right away that the news was bad.

Finally he spoke. 

"Acute promyelocytic leukemia." He stressed each syllable. There was a 
certain degree of vehement bitterness that rolled off with each 
syllable.

"Confirmed?" Scully asked with a sinking heart. "They're absolutely 
sure?"

Mulder didn't acknowledge her. He kept his eyes averted from hers and 
stared blankly at the wall.

"They are absolutely confident with this diagnosis?" Scully asked again, 
her tone rising a bit.

This time Mulder responded with a derisive snort. "They better damn well 
be. I have been punctured for bone marrow twice already. I do not want 
to be poked there a third time." He scowled and added, "Hurts like 
hell."

Scully stared back at him in silence as he rubbed at his bruised arms. 
He had had so many blood samples taken for testing she was quite sure 
every single large and medium-sized vein in his arms had been punctured 
at least once. 

How he must hate the tests and needles as everyone tried to find out 
what was wrong with him.

Mulder had injured himself five days ago during a stakeout. It wasn't a 
major injury - he had slipped and fallen as he was climbing down an old, 
rickety, slippery ladder. He banged his arm hard against one of the 
rungs, and grazed the skin of his forearm. He had been profoundly 
embarrassed that Scully was witness to his incredible lack of grace, but 
otherwise, it was no big deal.

It turned out to be a very big bloody deal. Very slight injury indeed, 
but he bled all over the upholstery of the car afterwards. By the time 
they got to the hospital, the arm of his shirt was literally drenched 
with blood, and he was feeling a little faint from the blood loss. 

They ran tests of course, and they found out that Mulder was severely 
anemic - he didn't have enough red blood cells. They also found out he 
had low platelet counts - platelets are required to stop bleeding. And 
they discovered he had way too many white blood cells.

The immediate suspicion was that he had some form of leukemia. But she 
hadn't wanted to believe that. Mulder being Mulder, he could have some 
rare infection of some sort, or maybe someone had done something to him 
with a hypodermic syringe while her back was turned. Never could tell 
with Mulder.

But leukemia... no, not Mulder. Mulder wasn't the one due for a terminal 
disease. Mulder got into accidents. Or got infected by alien 
retroviruses. Or got beaten up by morphing aliens. Or stung by 
carnivorous insects. Whatever.

"Dr. Bryant wants me to start chemotherapy next week," Mulder said, 
breaking the silence. Dr. Bryant was one of two hematologists who were 
dealing with his case. The other doctor was a slightly older man, a Dr. 
Sullivan who was also an oncologist. Dr. Bryant was a polite man about 
Mulder's age who allowed Scully to discuss medical matters with him 
without thinking of her as a busybody intruder.

"Good, you should. The earlier, the better," Scully said. 

Mulder continued to stare dully at the wall. 

"You can be treated on an outpatient basis," Scully added. "And there 
are anti-nausea drugs you can take now whenever you receive chemotherapy 
to avoid getting sick. You can continue a relatively normal course of 
life."

"Oh yippee." Mulder responded with thinly veiled sarcasm.

Scully pursed her lips and held her tongue. Of course Mulder already 
knew all these things. He'd received his crash course in all matters 
pertaining to acute myelocytic leukemias from that very first day when a 
fresh-faced intern unceremoniously informed him that he had acute 
leukemia. He knew as much about leukemia and its treatment now as she 
ever would.

Dr. Sullivan had been the one to give Mulder a full-length explanation 
in his brusque, direct way. "Your bone marrow is producing too much of 
this immature white blood cell we call promyelocytes. Normally 
promyelocytes remain only within the bone marrow - the body's blood 
factory. But you have a lot of these promyelocytes in your blood. 
Leukemic immature blood cells are present in your blood when they should 
not be."

Dr. Sullivan had glanced pointedly at Scully as he said that last 
sentence. Scully had refused to accept his earlier diagnosis of leukemia 
and at the time was still expressing doubts over the accuracy of 
Mulder's lab results. In fact she hadn't been happy about Dr. Sullivan 
wanting to talk to Mulder before his diagnosis was properly confirmed. 

Dr. Sullivan continued his lecture while Mulder listened in sullen 
silence. "To rectify this situation we will start you on chemotherapy to 
destroy the leukemic cells. Alternatively we give high doses of 
chemotherapy to destroy the cells of your bone marrow, and then give you 
a bone marrow transplant from a healthy donor. Now, you have to 
understand that your bone marrow has basically gone haywire, hence the 
production of these leukemic white blood cells. And your condition is 
acute, so these leukemic changes are happening rapidly. At the same 
time, your bone marrow is not performing its other functions properly so 
you do not have enough red blood cells or platelets. We can rectify both 
problems, should the need arise, by giving you blood transfusions..."

Mulder had interrupted at that point. "If we are dealing with acute 
leukemia what complications will I have?"

Dr. Sullivan sighed sympathetically. "Well, I would worry about anemia. 
Your anemia is already quite bad now, I can only imagine it getting 
worse. Bleeding complications are a definite concern since your platelet 
counts are so low. Leukemic white blood cells will infiltrate your bones 
and organs so when this happens you have pain. These are the main 
complications. There are other complications which we'll deal with when 
and if they arise."

Dr. Sullivan had carried on, explaining the depressing facts to a very 
quiet Mulder and a stubbornly skeptical Scully. The gist of Dr. 
Sullivan's talk was that acute promyelocytic leukemia is the hardest 
type of leukemia to treat. The remission rate is low. Chemotherapy will 
have to be intensive. 

Scully heaved a soft, sad sigh. Looked like Dr. Sullivan's lecture had 
been well timed after all.

"I got a pamphlet for the American Cancer Society," Mulder blurted out 
absently. "I guess I should read it. My health insurance should cover 
costs of treatment. Everything costs so much. Covers for injury while in 
line of duty so it should cover this too. But it is an FBI policy so 
there might be fine print saying it doesn't cover... I suppose I should 
have bought another policy." He rubbed his arms again. "I swear if I 
never see another needle with a bore hole in it I will be the happiest 
man on earth. I am telling you fate can be so crappy. If I was fated to 
get sick and use up my insurance, couldn't I have just gotten a strep 
throat infection?"

Mulder was jumping from one thing to the other, saying things without 
expecting replies. Scully sighed inwardly. Mulder never confronted 
issues. He sidestepped them, analyzed them. She wasn't any better 
herself, she knew. 

"Mulder," she said carefully when Mulder stopped his rambling. "Do you 
feel you need time off from work? For a little while?"

He thought about it. "No, I don't think so. What was it you said once 
before? I need something to put my back up against." He paused. "That is 
once my back stops aching so much."

"And are you going to tell Skinner?"

"I shall have to," he said reluctantly. "He will find out sooner or 
later. Might as well have him find out from me."

The lines were more or less rehearsed. For the past four days they had 
already discussed what would happen if he really had leukemia, treatment 
options available for him if he really had leukemia, whether he would 
still be able to carry on with his work if he really had leukemia? They 
had discussed the leukemia theoretically, in a distant way as though it 
wasn't Mulder who was being diagnosed, but a third person individual. 
Both of them had clung on to the faint hope that Mulder was actually ill 
with something more mundane. Like maybe a bad case of anemia due to lack 
of iron - although logically, the odds of a previously healthy male 
developing that kind of problem were unheard of.

Both of them had purposely ignored facts that had been so plain to see. 
Mulder had lost weight. A lot of weight. Mulder was frequently tired. It 
wasn't unusual for her to look up from whatever she was reading and see 
Mulder nodding off at his desk. Mulder was pale and gaunt. She had 
noticed how Mulder's suits hung loose. And she had been worried enough 
to wonder aloud if maybe he wasn't feeling well. Mulder had simply 
replied that he was feeling crappy all right, but the flu bug should 
pass soon enough.

And the bleeding problems he'd had over the past month. She recalled how 
he had once asked her if it was normal for his gums to bleed. She had 
joked that maybe he had been brushing his teeth to hard. On one other 
occasion he had pointed out to her the dark bruises on his arms, the 
result of bleeding beneath the skin. She had been a little concerned but 
Mulder never mentioned the problem to her again after that and she had 
simply forgotten. At the time she had assumed that he had probably 
bumped against something.

Just recently he'd complained of joint aches which he had assumed was 
the result of him exerting himself while running. Once he mentioned to 
her that he felt like there was 'tenderness' in his bones but he'd 
mentioned it casually, without any sense of alarm.

Then the blood counts. And the bone marrow slides Dr. Sullivan had 
grudgingly allowed her to see. She was a pathologist for crying out 
loud, and she knew abnormality when she saw it. Mulder's bone marrow was 
not normal. But did she choose to accept the fact? No. Run more tests, 
that was what she'd demanded. So once again in the space of two days, a 
huge needle was inserted into Mulder's pelvic bone to obtain the marrow 
for biopsy. Mulder had not been amused that her zeal to find out what 
was wrong with him should involve so many needles.

The irony of it was that she was the one most at risk for having cancer. 
Two years ago she had disappeared, literally, off the face of the earth. 
No trace of her, no clues for three months. She was finally 'returned', 
barely alive, to a Washington hospital. Her recovery was a medical 
miracle. She was incredibly lucky to still be alive now. 

She had no memory of what had happened to her. She had total and 
complete amnesia of that three-month period. Then last year in the small 
town of Allentown she found out there were other women like her, women 
who had disappeared for months only to be returned later. They claimed 
they were abductees and that they had been forced to undergo horrific 
experimentation. They had had implants removed from various parts of 
their bodies, small metal implants which looked very much like the 
implant she had removed from the back of her neck a few months after she 
was returned.  Then they had claimed that they were all dying, 
succumbing to rare and lethal tumors. 

She hadn't known whether to believe them or to ignore them, but they 
were adamant that she had been one of them - that she was also an 
abductee. Besides there was the implant she had had removed from her own 
body. Under a microscope that piece of metal had looked like a 
sophisticated microchip. What was it doing in her body? She had that 
nagging worry ever since. Cancer. Those women had disappeared, had 
returned, had gotten cancer, and died. She had disappeared. She had 
returned. For now she was still healthy. She hoped.

"I don't want to burden you with this, Scully. I'm sorry."

Scully looked at him in surprise. He still wasn't looking at her, 
preferring instead to continue his perusal of the wall opposite his bed.  

 "What is there to be sorry for Mulder?" she asked gently.

"For getting sick on you." He glanced at her then, gave her a wry smile. 
"Always a lot of trouble aren't I? And you thought when you joined 
Pathology you wouldn't have to deal with live, troublesome patients."

"That was not the reason I chose Pathology as my field of expertise," 
Scully said. She meant for the sentence to come out as a resounding 
retort that might make him laugh but instead her words sounded lame. 
Mulder just shrugged and tried to move into a more comfortable position, 
but he winced loudly when he was jolted by pain in his lower back.

Scully wished she knew what to say or do. Mulder had closed his eyes, 
probably waiting for the pain to subside. She stared at his thin arms. 
He had lost so much weight and yet she had not noticed. He hadn't been 
this thin since the hypothermia, retrovirus infection, and coma in 
Alaska. She had been so scared for him then, he was so sick and she was 
trying every single antiviral drug in existence and worrying that if the 
alien retrovirus didn't kill him then maybe the antiviral drugs would.

What was she going to say to him now? Before they could discuss things 
theoretically. Now, the diagnosis was confirmed. No more doubts. Mulder 
had leukemia. They were going to have to accept that and move on forward 
towards the cure. Still how does one simply accept and move on? What 
could she say? 'Don't worry Mulder, you won't die! Even if you are going 
to die you should at least have another two months to enjoy! Be happy!'?
 
Mulder opened his eyes. "I am sorry, Scully," he said slowly. 
"Seriously, who knows how sick I will get, Scully? How long will I have? 
I don't want to scare mom..."

He stopped in mid-sentence and swiped at his face roughly with his hand. 
She thought he was going to cry, but he didn't. She knew he was scared, 
just as she would be scared if she were in his place. She knew that his 
mother would not know about this. In fact he had refused to allow her to 
inform his mother about him being in hospital. Oddly enough she 
understood. She wondered how she would deal with her mother and family 
if she discovered a tumor. She'd never told her mother about the 
possibility that she may be at risk for cancer.

"There is no need to be sorry for something nobody has any control 
over," Scully told him. "We never know what is going to happen or 
who..."

"No of course, we can't blame fate can we," Mulder interrupted bitterly. 
Scully was once again silenced. Mulder's emotions were a whirled up 
mess. Despondent one minute, angry and bitter the next. Perhaps she 
should just let him be, let acceptance sink in. 

"I've a big problem now, Scully, don't I?" Mulder murmured. He finally 
looked directly at her, his eyes sad and his spirit dismayed. Then just 
as Scully was about to comfort him, he gave a sudden harsh laugh. 

"Did I just say what I said? I have a big problem. Now isn't that the 
understatement of the year?" 

Scully patted his thin, bruised arm as she desperately searched for 
something to say. He was staring at the wall again. She remembered other 
times he had been sick or injured, when she would sit by his side 
waiting for him to wake up and heal.  Each and every time she had never 
doubted that he would recover. Mulder was no loser. She knew he would 
fight this with every ounce of strength he had. She just needed to 
remind him. 

"We'll be all right. We'll get through this." She grabbed his hand in 
hers and squeezed it hard. "We'll deal with the problem, Mulder. We 
always do."

She felt Mulder's fingers squeezing hers back in turn. And she heard him 
reply, in his low soft voice, "I know."


**********


Mulder rested his head against the window of the car and wished 
fervently that the pain in his lower back would just go away. There was 
simply no comfortable position for him to be in, the pain was always 
there. He had painkillers of course, carried them around with him 
wherever he went, but he didn't want to take the pills too often if he 
could help it. 

Pain in his elbows too, and in his arms. Three months after his 
diagnosis and the pain was everywhere. Amazing that he used to have a 
life totally free of pain. How blissful life must have been then.

He was still working is spite of the pain and constant fatigue. He was 
slow on his feet now, and slow in the head too thanks to the medication 
he was on, but he needed to work, even if his definition of work now 
meant him coming into the office for about half a day and then returning 
home exhausted after lunch. He was finding out new meaning to the term 
exhaustion.

Miserably he tapped his fingers on the steering wheel of the car. He was 
parked outside the building, waiting for Scully to finish up her work 
and join him for the arrest of Donald Webster, a pedophile and suspected 
murderer of six young children whose little bodies were found discarded 
in bushes beside major roads. Mulder had written the profile that helped 
the FBI track down the man.

It was close to the end of his second month back with the FBI's 
Investigative Support Unit as a profiler. He hated his current situation 
with a passion. He had never enjoyed his time as a profiler the first 
time around and he certainly wasn't enjoying himself now.

He was supposed to have rejoined the ISU three months ago when the 
division lost three of its agents in a car bombing incident but he 
managed to avoid the transfer by insisting that there was a lot of 
urgent X-Files work to be done. Skinner, as the superior agent in charge 
of the X-Files had seconded Mulder's motion. One month later, the ISU 
lost yet another agent when that said agent swallowed a bullet from his 
own gun. Mulder still held a grudge against that agent - the man may 
have been miserable and clinically depressed and wanted out of his life, 
but his suicide was now making Mulder's professional life intolerably 
stressful. The ISU was short on profilers and profilers were a special 
breed of people. You can't pick any man off the street and train him up 
to write profiles on deranged serial killers and homicidal mass 
murderers. Everyone at the ISU was severely stressed, incredibly 
over-worked and permanently depressed. 

The one little consolation was that when Skinner reassigned him back to 
the ISU he made sure Mulder was allowed to remain in his own basement 
X-Files office. Citing his health and treatment requirements as valid 
excuses, Mulder was not required to physically transfer over to the 
ISU's offices at the FBI academy in Quantico. 

Scully chose to remain in the basement office with him but was not 
working on any X-File either. She refused to teach at Quantico. She was 
now something of a resident FBI pathologist for the D.C. area, spending 
most of her time performing autopsies or viewing slides. Neither of them 
had been out in the field together in two months, although Mulder was 
sadly aware that even if they were still together investigating X-File 
cases, his health would not have permitted him to work in the field 
anymore.
	
Mulder checked his watch for the umpteenth time. Scully was more than 
fifteen minutes late but she hadn't called him on the cell phone. He had 
to assume she still wanted to come along. He certainly wanted her to. 
God, he missed fieldwork. He adjusted the cap on his head then tried to 
massage the ache out of his lower back. Damn, if Scully wasn't planning 
to come then he might as well just go home and sleep.

He had started wearing the baseball cap when he started losing hair as a 
side effect to chemotherapy. Not because he was vain, besides a baseball 
cap doesn't exactly hide baldness - but simply because he got sick of 
looking at himself in the mirror every morning and realizing that he had 
less hair on his head than when he went to bed the night before. 

So one morning he took the cap of the coat stand in his apartment, put 
it on, and never took it off. FBI agents do not wear caps, but no one 
ever said anything to him about it. He didn't know if it was because 
they were sympathetic with his situation or if it was because Skinner 
himself had said nothing about him blatantly flaunting the FBI dress 
code. He still wore his usual suit and tie though, so technically he 
wasn't actually breaking any rules. He just had that extra cap on his 
head. After all in the old days FBI agents did wear hats didn't they?

The door on the passenger side of the car was suddenly yanked open. 
Mulder startled awake. 

"Sorry I'm late," Scully panted as she entered the car. "I had trouble 
explaining some basic facts about decomposing bodies to a couple of 
rookie agents."

"You have to teach?" Mulder asked. He blinked the tiredness out of his 
eyes, then started up the car. He hadn't even realized when he'd dozed 
off.

"No, these are qualified agents," Scully replied. She was slightly out 
of breath. Must have rushed all the way out to the parking lot. "Part of 
a team of agents working on that organized crime case."

She glanced over at him as he drove. "Had your lunch?"

"Yeah," Mulder lied. He hadn't actually eaten anything since he vomited 
what he'd had for his dinner last night. 

"Still working on that case?" 

Mulder nodded and waited for Scully to nag. But she didn't. She just 
heaved an exaggerated sigh and stared out her window.

He was concentrating on a case nicknamed the Christmas Children case. 
Over the past five years five little girls disappeared on Christmas Eve. 
One little girl a year. The girls were all five years old at the time of 
their disappearance. Always the disappearance was during the Christmas 
Eve shopping rush - the mother would be forcing herself through a crowd 
of last-minute Christmas shoppers with her daughter in tow, then 
suddenly the mother would lose her grip on her daughter's hand and the 
girl would be gone. The little girl would turn up again on next year's 
Christmas Eve, in another city, dead. Cause of death was of air embolism 
- the murderer and presumably kidnapper would inject her in the heart 
with a syringe full of air, then lay her body out on a park bench. No 
other signs of abuse. Another little girl would disappear from that 
city, only to reappear in the same fashion a year later in another city 
far away. The pattern remained the same year in and year out.

Assuming the kidnapper kept the girl alive with him all year long, 
Mulder still had several months to track the kidnapper down before he or 
she killed the fifth girl, a beautiful long-haired blond named Samantha 
Ann Rebecca O'Connor.  The name was a terrible coincidence, a 
coincidence which Scully did not find amusing in the least. His own 
sister Samantha Ann Mulder had disappeared at the age of eight and was 
still missing after more than twenty years. Scully was of the opinion 
that having him try to track down little Samantha O'Connor would hit him 
too close to home.  

Scully was right about that of course. But professionally he had a job 
to do, he had to get Samantha O'Connor safely home before Christmas Eve 
regardless of how much heartache the attempt might cost him.

As he waited for a red light to change at an intersection he absently 
squeezed at a gnawing sharp pain in his arm. Scully watched him quietly.

"Just a little ache," he told her. The look on her face told him that 
she understood that his definition of  'little' was not at all the 
literal meaning. He immediately felt annoyed. 

There were times when he didn't mind Scully worrying about him. At least 
that meant he wasn't alone. She was his support, his pillar when things 
were looking bleak. But there were other times when he wished Scully 
wouldn't hover over him so much, wouldn't nag him about taking his 
medication or eating proper meals or about working too hard. Sometimes 
her concern for him could be plain stifling and annoying.

 Scully didn't pity him though. He was grateful for that. He hated pity 
more. Inevitably, for it was difficult to hide the effects of 
chemotherapy, just about everyone at work knew he was ill, and just 
about everyone went out of his or her way to be nice to him. He 
absolutely hated that. After all the years of people snubbing him and 
making derisive jokes about him, he now had to deal with people feeling 
sorry for him. 

And then there was Skinner. He couldn't help but feel that his superior 
could have used his authority and clout to deny Mulder's transfer to the 
ISU if he had really wanted to. Mulder had been honest with Skinner 
concerning his illness. Skinner had in turn expressed genuine concern 
about Mulder's state of health without exhibiting any of the forced 
sympathy that he often saw on the faces of coworkers. However Skinner 
was also the one responsible for keeping the X-Files out of his grasp.

During the first two months after his diagnosis Mulder had gone about 
feeling numb, rarely thinking about his illness. He could still pretend 
things were okay - his pain was intermittent, chemotherapy was only just 
beginning, fatigue wasn't a permanent state of being, he was still 
working with Scully on the X-Files. Then his pain became sharper and 
more frequent, chemo brought physical changes, his anemia got worse and 
he was kicked back to the ISU. 

Lately annoyance and anger were all he felt about a lot of things.  He 
was angry that Skinner transferred him back to ISU, thus preventing him 
from continuing his search for the truth. He was angry that some stupid 
arsonist had the gall to blow up three federal agents - if the three 
agents hadn't been killed in the first place, Mulder wouldn't be so 
desperately needed by the ISU and he would still be working on the 
X-Files with Scully. He was angry that in spite of intensive and 
sickening chemotherapy he was no closer to remission. No indication at 
all that he was winning his fight against leukemia. 

He was angry at his life that seemed now to be in tatters and at his 
future that now looked bleak. He was angry that when push came to shove, 
there wasn't anything more he could do to salvage his own health.  

Scully cleared her throat. Mulder braced himself for her annoying words 
of medical wisdom. 

"Light's changed," she said.

Mulder was forced to snap himself out of his ponderous self-reflection 
and drive.



*******



Twelve federal agents trooped into Donald Webster's front yard. Donald 
Webster lived in a comfortable house in a peaceful suburban 
neighborhood. There were little green shrubs planted along the length of 
the driveway, the yard was neat with the grass mowed down. The house 
itself was well kept. No peeling paint, no dusty windows. There were 
potted plants arranged around the porch. Not at all the stereotypical 
dilapidated hovel serial killers in movies were always living in.

Agent Yothers, a large man three or four inches taller than Mulder was 
the Violent Crimes agent in charge. It was Yothers who would earn all 
credit if they managed to apprehend Webster today. 

Mulder never bothered about who got credit though, and besides his 
position was very clear - he was the profiler who provided consultation. 
That was that, and that was all. He didn't even need to be here for the 
arrest. But Yothers had informed them when they were moving in on 
Webster and had asked would Mulder want to come along? 

The perfect opportunity for him to get out of the office, and for Scully 
to escape her presently mundane duties of performing autopsies. Both of 
them back together in the field.  He always felt a twinge of guilt that 
his illness was also affecting the quality of Scully's work. He was 
reminded again of how dull Scully's life had become when he saw the 
excitement on her face. He felt a little happier to know that at least 
today she would have some outdoor fun.

"Looks like the search warrant is just a formality," Agent Yothers told 
him. "Far as we can tell, nobody is home. He's gone off somewhere."

"Any problems getting the search warrant?" Mulder asked. 

"Not at all. He fits your profile like a glove and we've had him under 
surveillance for more than a week. He's our guy," Agent Yothers replied. 
"Your profile was a great piece of work by the way."

Mulder shrugged absently in a manner that could be construed as modesty.  
The truth was he didn't think of the profile as a particularly great 
piece of work. In fact he knew he could have gotten the profile written 
faster and in better detail if he hadn't been so tired from the 
chemotherapy and his anemia. 

Agent Yothers bounded up the front steps of the porch and jabbed down 
hard on the doorbell.  Matter of protocol and formality. Then he turned 
the doorknob. The door wasn't locked.

"Mr. Donald Webster! We are agents with the Federal Bureau of 
Investigation!" Yothers announced loudly as federal agents entered the 
foyer of the house. "We have a warrant here, allowing us to search your 
premises!"

Silence. The inside of Webster's house was just as neat as the outside. 
Lacy curtains framed the windows, carpets covered the floor. Magazines, 
old newspapers and books lay scattered around, but otherwise everything 
else appeared to be in order.

Federal agents spread out to start their search, some going back outside 
to the yard, others checking the rooms and basement. Mulder nodded at 
Scully as she went off into the den. Yothers came up beside Mulder.

"You want to search the living room?" Yothers asked.

Mulder shook his head. "No, I want to check his bedroom. Where he 
sleeps."

"Oh we can cover that for you," Yothers said. "Stay down here. Should be 
an easy search downstairs."

Mulder could see where this was leading. Yothers wanted to be kind to 
him without actually admitting that he knew how sick Mulder was. People 
like Yothers seemed to think that it was okay for him to spend days 
thinking like a killer to catch the killer, but these same people were 
concerned that climbing up stairs or crawling around looking for clues 
under furniture would make him sick while he was in their company. Like 
these people ever gave a damn about him before when he wasn't wearing a 
cap on his head to cover up the straggly wisps of hair he still had 
left.

"I need to see what he does every day in his room," Mulder said in an 
absent-minded tone. Then without waiting for Yothers' reply he headed 
upstairs to the bedrooms. 

There was another agent who smiled faintly at Mulder when he entered the 
first bedroom by the top of the stairs. Mulder tried to remember the 
agent's name... Agent Wilkins.

"Anything yet, Agent Wilkins?" he asked, looking around the room. It was 
the master bedroom, a very large room with a huge queen-size bed and a 
beautiful oak dresser set. Carpet on the floor. Connecting bathroom. 
Freshly worn shirt thrown carelessly on the loveseat by the window. 
Rumpled sheet with the comforter bunched up at the foot end of the bed. 
This had to be Webster's bedroom.

"Well, I've only just stepped into this room myself," Wilkins replied. 
"I was about to check the closet."

The closet was very big, the type of closet that could pass for a room 
by itself. Wilkins slid the door panel open and stepped inside. Mulder 
decided to tag along.

Lots and lots of dresses, blouses, skirts, slacks, sweaters, coats - all 
belonging to Donald Webster's deceased wife. The woman had died more 
than five years ago but her widowed, childless husband still kept her 
clothes. She had had a lot of clothes. Wilkins ran his hand past the 
dresses and clothes. Then one of the sweaters fell down.

Well actually, when Mulder had time to think about it, it looked more 
like the sweater jumped out.

Wilkins stumbled back against the other side of the closet, falling back 
onto a rack of shoes. Mulder suddenly found himself face to face with 
the number one suspect himself: Mr. Donald Webster, a spry-looking 
middle aged accountant with a bushy moustache and gray eyebrows. The 
suspect gave a snarl and before Mulder could even think of doing 
anything, he was punched in the stomach.

All the wind was knocked out of him. He coughed and tried to bend over, 
but Webster slammed him back against the wall of the closet. He choked, 
because of the punch to his stomach just now, and also because Webster 
had an arm pressed against his throat.

"Sons of bitches," Webster growled into his face. Mulder was starting to 
see purple spots before his eyes. He slammed his hands hard into 
Webster's face, pushing him away. Webster grunted and lost his grip on 
him, but just as Mulder started gasping for breath, Webster punched him 
in the belly again. 

Ignoring the terrible exploding pain, Mulder kicked at Webster as hard 
as he could. Webster grunted - Mulder had gotten him on the kneecap. He 
gave Mulder one final hard shove, then hobbled as fast as he could out 
of the room.

Mulder slowly sank down to the floor. He could hear the commotion out in 
the hallway. Other agents were going to get Webster, there wasn't 
anywhere Webster could run. Webster must have underestimated the number 
of federal agents who'd arrived to search his house. Either that or he'd 
just gotten scared of hiding and decided to chance his luck and bolt for 
it. 

Mulder pulled himself into a ball and rested his head on his knees, 
trying to catch his breath. His chest and stomach ached. Great. More 
pain to live with. He was so glad that Webster hadn't tried anything 
more gung-ho, like grabbing his gun.

"Mulder?" He was temporarily disoriented. It wasn't Scully calling him. 
He looked up and saw Wilkins squatting in front of him, looking 
concerned. That was something new. Wilkins was one of those agents who 
would usually not want to be seen breathing in the same room as Spooky 
Mulder. 

"Just let me catch my breath," Mulder gasped. Wilkins patted him on the 
shoulder.

"Did he hurt you?"

"Nah," Mulder shook his head. "But he knocked the wind out of me real 
good."

"Well, he gave me a good bump on the head," Wilkins said sourly. "I 
think I hit my head on an alligator skin shoe."

"My God, he has alligator skin shoes? I'll say that proves it. He's our 
killer." Mulder was mildly amused when that statement made Wilkins laugh 
out loud. 

Scully entered just then. Wilkins made way for her and she came into the 
closet to crouch beside Mulder.

"I'm fine Scully," he told her before she could say anything. She helped 
him stand up. His stomach and chest still hurt badly but he managed to 
stand up reasonably straight. He was looking around for his cap when he 
realized that it was still on his head. 

I've just been punched up for the hundredth time in life, but that's 
okay, no one saw me bald, he thought giddily. Scully was looking at him 
worriedly. She was going to suggest that he be taken to the hospital. He 
could see it coming.

"I think I'd like to go home now, if nobody needs me here anymore?" 
Mulder huffed. Best way to distract Scully from the idea of 
hospitalizing him was by admitting that he wasn't okay. Weird, but it 
seemed to be the best method to stay out of hospital.

It worked. Scully was still worried but at least she didn't look like 
she wanted to check every single rib in his chest for fractures. He had 
a vague idea that Scully would have done that already if Wilkins and 
another agent weren't in the room. 

Agent Yothers came in. "We have him," he stated simply. He touched 
Mulder's shoulder. "You okay? They say he attacked you?"

"He rushed at me," Mulder said. Oh boy, his chest hurt. "He was hiding 
in the closet."

"Hiding in the closet?" Yothers shook his head in amazement. "Now 
there's a very friendly way to react when federal agents visit your 
home."

"You doing the interrogation later?" Mulder asked. 

Yothers nodded. "There may be some interesting things in the basement 
that I can ask him about. And it will certainly be very interesting to 
find out why he felt it necessary to hide from visitors from the good 
old bureau of investigations. There's you profile to taunt him with too. 
Hey, Mulder, are you okay?"

Mulder couldn't quite keep up his charade of feeling fine anymore. He 
sagged against the wall behind him. Scully was already reaching up to 
feel his face. He managed to hold her hand off.

"You're trembling, Mulder," Scully said, deep concern in her eyes.

"Yes, well, Webster has a very bad effect on me, you know," Mulder said 
calmly. The pain in his chest was constricting, each breath was hurting 
him more and more.

"Where did he hurt you?"

"He surprised me, I fell back against the closet wall. That's all. I'm 
just feeling dazed. A little dizzy." Mulder couldn't help but feel 
impressed with himself. Wonderful liar he was, even under circumstances 
of severe pain. 

The other agents in the room were politely leaving the room. Apparently 
they felt Mulder and Scully needed to be alone together or something. 
Yothers was the only one who remained.

"Hey look, go home," he said to Mulder. 

"Oh, sure," Mulder snorted. "Chasing me off your turf are you? After all 
I've done."

"Yeah, I'm claiming all credit for the capture of Donald Webster," 
Yothers grinned. "Get out of here, Mulder. Get some rest. You sound like 
my asthmatic son. And look at you - you're shaking like a wet dog."

Yothers certainly had an apt way of describing things. Mulder silently 
wished yet again for those good old days when pain wasn't his permanent 
best friend. Scully tugged gently at his elbow to take him home. 


*******
		

The knocking on his door was persistent. Very determined visitor. Scully 
would have used her key by now. Since the visitor wasn't Scully, he 
wished the visitor would quit the knocking and go away.

The knocking stopped. Mulder waited, then heard the sound of a key 
turning in the lock. So it was Scully after all.

She walked in slowly, her heels tapping gently with each step she took. 
He heard her step up near his couch and heard the clunk of keys being 
placed gently on the table. There was silence, he knew she was watching 
him and wondering if he was asleep. He opened his eyes and looked up at 
her. 

She looked exhausted, but her smile brightened up her face. 

"How are you?" she asked. 

Mulder sighed, not moving from where he lay on the couch. "I hate Donald 
Webster."

"Everyone hates Donald Webster," Scully said grimly. "He's threatening 
to sue the bureau, claims he's a decent tax-paying American being framed 
for crimes he did not commit."

"Hmm, well I suppose it is every decent American's precious right to 
hide in the closet if he so desires. Found any hard evidence?"

"There were signs that children had been in the basement," Scully said. 
She took off her coat and sat down, grateful to finally get off her 
feet. She kicked off her shoes and leaned back.

"There was a small cot down there, a few toys, and a washroom. But there 
were no prints at all. Webster must have wiped everything clean. 
Forensics did find hair and fiber but it will take quite a while before 
we know whose hair, and whose clothes. Meanwhile Webster has called his 
lawyer who is apparently some big hot shot with ties to our esteemed 
Director."

"How convenient."

"His lawyer is threatening to have every agent who touched his client 
fired. And he's planning a separate suit for those 'agents who 
physically assaulted and brutalized' his client."

"Those are the lawyers who get to go straight into hell without having 
to line up," Mulder observed dryly.

Scully made a face. "Well, the Director has yet to say anything, and 
Yothers should have something concrete by tomorrow. Webster must have 
suspected that the authorities were onto him - he deleted his computer's 
hard disk, and destroyed his floppy disks but our computer guys might be 
able to undo what he's done to the hard disk. We are also trying to find 
out which websites he frequents, and if he has a homepage of his own 
dedicated to pedophile activity. But smart as he thought he was he 
wasn't able to destroy all his evidence. Our guys found film negatives 
in his trash."

"No kidding? I wouldn't have thought that he would be so careless."
 
"Not so much carelessness as pure coincidence combined with his bad 
luck. For whatever reason, garbage truck never came around to pick up 
his trash this morning. He must have only thrown things out last night."

"He should have known better. He should have burned his negatives. 
Honestly, I thought Donald Webster was a smarter man than that."

"Don't complain. If the negatives reveal pictures of all the kidnapped 
children then we can book him straightaway for kidnapping and murder. We 
can put him away forever and ever. Makes our job so much easier. We've 
also talked to his neighbors, but they claim to know nothing. That's 
amazing apathy for you. He must have kept each child hostage for months 
at a time in his basement but nobody realizes anything is wrong."

"Neighbors are usually the last to know, Scully."

Throughout the discussion, Mulder's discomfort was increasing. The pain 
in his chest kept flaring up each time he took a breath before speaking. 
He had to speak slowly, and had to keep pausing between sentences. 
Scully was staring at him suspiciously. He was still dressed in the 
shirt and pants he'd worn to work, and he hadn't eaten nor had anything 
to drink since he came home. He must look all rumpled up and pale and 
sick.

"Are you still dizzy?"

"No," Mulder said truthfully. His head was fine. It was his chest that 
was killing him.
 
Scully got up and came over to the couch. She felt his neck. "You have a 
fever."

Mulder brushed her hand aside when she tried to remove his cap to feel 
his head. But when he did that the pain made him wince.

"What's wrong?"

"Don't touch my cap. It's mine."

"No," Scully said, exasperated. "Are you in pain?"

Real bad pain actually, Mulder thought. The pain in his chest had gotten 
steadily worse since his little encounter with Webster. From the time 
Scully had dropped him off at his apartment, he had lain on his couch 
keeping as still as possible. That lessened the pain to a gentle 
continuous throb. Painkillers did not work.

Well, time to confess. "He sort of punched me in the midriff... now my 
chest hurts."

"You didn't say anything about him punching you!" Scully exclaimed. She 
tried to unbutton his shirt so she could examine him but he brushed her 
hands aside again and tried to sit up.

Very bad move. He almost passed out. The pain was so bad he didn't want 
to breathe because breathing would move his chest muscles and expand his 
lungs and he could feel his heart thudding in his chest but he wished it 
would stop because the thudding of his heart amplified the sharp 
throbbing pain in his chest. He heard Scully screaming his name but he 
couldn't answer her because he needed to save the air for his lungs.

"Don't," he managed to gasp when Scully grabbed the phone to call 911. 

"Mulder, you are going to the hospital!" Scully snapped as she punched 
the numbers.

"No, no, I've been in hospital enough times," Mulder whined. "I don't 
want to go."  Oh he shouldn't talk too much. He really needed to 
conserve his oxygen.

"You have to," Scully insisted. She relayed the necessary information to 
the emergency unit, then scooted over to his side again. He was turning 
a pasty gray color. She tried to get his pills for him.

"They don't work," Mulder moaned. She tried to make him swallow the 
pills anyway but he gagged. The abrupt jerking motions tripled his pain. 

Scully had never seen him in so much pain but there wasn't anything she 
could do for him, all his painkillers needed to be ingested orally. 
Nothing she could inject to relieve his pain. She wiped the tears away 
from his cheeks and could only hold him as he suffered through the 
onslaught of unbearable pain. 


**********



The night air was cool against his face. He tilted his cap back. He 
missed having soft breeze ruffle his hair. Funny the things you take for 
granted in life. He had never really cared about his hair. Cut it when 
it gets in his eyes, shampoo every once in awhile. He probably inherited 
male pattern baldness, sure, but that wasn't supposed to happen till he 
was in his forties.

The straggly wisps of hair left covering his scalp he covered with his 
cap. Wearing the baseball cap was now more a habit than anything else. 
Skinner had done a double take the first time Mulder went to see him in 
his office with the cap on, but had the discretion not to say anything 
about it. Following Skinner's lead, the rest of the FBI had tolerated 
his breach of protocol too.

He hugged himself to keep himself warm. He had on a double layer of 
clothing and a jacket on top of that. He shouldn't be this cold. It was 
a beautiful night, and despite the brightness from the lights of the 
city he could look up and see the stars twinkling above. There were 
couples strolling about, and couples making out on nearby park benches. 
Mulder sat alone on his bench, noticing for the first time how 
beautifully different the flowers in the park looked under the glare of 
artificial light. 

The last time he'd sat here waiting for someone was after the hacker 
broke into the Defense Department's computer files and stole the MJ 
Files. That was the catalyst that led to his father's death. He pondered 
about what he was about to do now and wondered if he'd finally lost his 
marbles after all. 

Terminal disease can do that to you.

He spent two weeks in hospital following what turned out to be a case of 
internal bleeding. Donald Webster had punched him very hard indeed. For 
the first few days he was in so much pain they doped him out of his 
misery. When he was finally lucid enough to recognize he was in the 
hospital, the first person he saw was his Scully, fast asleep with his 
hand by her cheek. The first thought in his head was, "She's here. She 
loves me after all."

He didn't know where that thought came from.  He was given a week to 
recuperate at home and the recuperation was strongly enforced by Scully. 
In fact he was quite worried that she might call him at home and suspect 
something amiss upon finding out he wasn't in. Today was his last 
'holiday' before trying to start work again tomorrow. He'd have to risk 
her wrath.	

The days in the hospital had forced him to deal with a fact he had been 
purposely ignoring since he was diagnosed with AML. He was dying. There, 
he could say it now. He was going to die. Unless he achieved remission 
through chemotherapy or got cured through a bone marrow transplant or 
unless some miracle kicked in, he was going to be dead before the end of 
the year. 

Never mind the Truth, it didn't care if he died. His sister Samantha... 
maybe she was dead, maybe she was still alive out there somewhere - 
maybe he would die without ever finding out. So never mind that. He had 
been searching for her all his life, but if his life were to end, then 
the search would also end. 

He could deal with not understanding the truth, of dying without 
answers. If he tried hard enough, and cried long enough, he could deal 
with it. But this didn't mean he was giving up. Far from it. He was 
determined to win this fight. He wasn't going to let leukemia kill him. 
He wasn't going to die now. Too much work to do. Scully to think of.

Still, facts were facts. He was dying. No more denial and curiously 
enough, no more anger either. And when one accepts the fact that death 
is no longer a mere rhetorical suggestion one has to make sure that 
things will be okay should the fight for life be lost. No more 
postponements. Time to write the will. Time to get the insurance.

He smelled the cigarette smoke before he felt the presence to his right. 
He didn't bother to turn around. 

"Nice evening."

"I would agree, Agent Mulder," said the man who had come to stand beside 
him. A long pause. "I heard that you aren't feeling well."

Mulder gave a mirthless chuckle. "Amazing the accuracy of the things you 
hear."

"Accuracy is a matter of importance to me." There was a soft smack of 
the lips. "Also I heard through the grapevine that you wanted to meet 
me."

Mulder was mildly surprised. Straight to the point, no beating around 
the bush, no dancing of words.

"Effective vines you have," he said. He hadn't been sure how he could 
successfully arrange a meeting with this man. In fact until the man 
actually materialized beside him a minute ago, Mulder had doubted that 
the meeting would actually take place. 

The man beside him lit a cigarette, but otherwise did not move. Mulder 
didn't offer him a seat. Smoke drifted towards him but he wasn't 
particularly concerned about second hand smoke now. He already had his 
own special cancer, why harp about lung cancer?

The two men remained silent for a long moment. Mulder fidgeted as he sat 
on the bench. Finally the cigarette-smoking man coughed, once.

"Very lovely night, Agent Mulder. But I doubt your health would permit 
you to stay here very long."

Mulder wondered if he should feel angry about the man speaking of his 
health that way, then decided that if he had to wonder whether he should 
be angry or not, then he shouldn't even bother.

He shrugged. "I wanted to talk to you. About truths, and answers."

"There are only answers when there are questions."

"Oh I have the questions. I assure you."

Ring of cigarette smoke floated up into the night. "You are certain that 
I would know the answers to these questions in your mind?"

"Simple questions really."

The man sneered, "So many simple questions still unanswered after all 
the hard work through the years?"

"Real truths are hard to find, sir." Mulder said, finally turning to 
look at the cigarette-smoking man. "For the moment I'd settle for your 
version of the truth."

"There is only one truth, Agent Mulder." The man seemed to be having fun 
with the play of words.

"Is it a truth you would share with me?" Mulder asked. Cancerman simply 
stared at him as he inhaled on his cigarette. "You would tell me about 
Agent Scully? Her truth?"

Mulder noted the incredulous look on the man's face. "Agent Scully?"

"Her abduction. What happened to her. What will happen to her."

"You want to know about Agent Scully?" There was no mistaking the 
surprise in the man's voice. As Mulder stared back at him, the 
realization dawned on him. Cancerman had expected Mulder to ask him for 
help in getting a cure for AML. He expected Mulder to demand to know 
where Samantha was, because if Samantha were alive, she could possibly 
be his bone marrow match and thus donor and savior. The man expected 
Mulder to use this meeting as a way of saving his own life.

"What is there to know about Agent Scully?" 

"I think you know," Mulder said. "I'm sure you know. This matter 
concerns her health in the near future? Perhaps you could be of help."

The man sniffed. "I know nothing about Agent Scully. Besides, why should 
I help you help her?"

"Because you like her. And you like me too," Mulder said as a sarcastic 
reminder. That was what Cancerman had claimed once, as Mulder was 
holding a gun against his head, demanding to know the truth following 
Scully's 'return' after disappearing for three months. He saw the mix of 
emotions on the man's face. Most apparent was disbelief. The man was 
still trying to understand why Mulder wasn't using this opportunity to 
save himself, or to find out something for his own purposes.

"Information like that will require time to..."

"I am afraid I cannot guarantee you the luxury of my time," Mulder said 
rudely. He saw the other man start. "I'm not trying to burden you here. 
I'm merely asking for Agent Scully's life. I would appreciate your help. 
I would pay your price, if it is a price I can afford."

The man wanted to say something, but changed his mind. He dropped the 
cigarette stub onto the ground and for a while just looked at his 
fingers. Then without a glance at Mulder he said quite gently, "Go home, 
Fox. You should rest."

The man walked off. Mulder watched him go, wondering if anything good 
would come out of the meeting. He had expected Cancerman to demand 
something perhaps, or argue the issue further. At the very least he had 
hoped the cigarette-smoking man would drop a hint or two about what 
Mulder had to know. He was certain that Cancerman knew the truth about 
the abductions of so many women, including Scully's. And he was quite 
sure Cancerman was aware of the cancer risk Scully now faced.

He hadn't known what else to do. All he had been sure of was, regardless 
of whether or not he survived AML, he wasn't going to let Scully suffer. 
He wasn't going to allow her to go through the cancer pains he was going 
through. He was going to find her a cure, and keep her safe. That was 
his insurance policy for her. 

			
**********



Mulder was back in hospital three days later. Pneumonia.

Things had been going so well too. After almost a month Donald Webster 
finally gave up his FBI frame-up theory and confessed to the sexual 
abuse and murder of six children over a course of seven years. He even 
disclosed his methods, which were eerily exactly what Mulder had 
described in his profile. It was sweet revenge for Mulder - the man who 
literally caused him so much pain was now going to rot in jail forever.

Then he developed a mild fever, and started coughing. Nevertheless he 
insisted on working. Until the very moment he 'collapsed' in Skinner's 
office. 

He was presenting this profile on the Christmas Children case to Skinner 
and an FBI senior liaison agent from California, a middle-aged man named 
Andrew Thorne. Andrew Thorne was trying very hard to understand Mulder's 
profile.

"You are saying that this man kidnaps all these girls because he misses 
his own little girl?"

Mulder nodded patiently and tried to ignore the tightness he felt in his 
chest.

Andrew Thorne frowned. "He is from a normal family, you say, nothing 
that would indicate he'd grow up to become a serial killer. He married 
young, probably divorced a few years later but had the time to father a 
little girl."

"Bitter divorce, and denied custody of his child," Mulder said. This was 
all in his profile, and they'd gone over this already. He was getting 
restless.

"I say again, why should that make him want to go around kidnapping cute 
little girls on Christmas Eve? A lot of estranged fathers out there are 
denied custody of their children. You don't see them dragging other 
people's kids home to pretend as their own."

"I never said this man was like other people," Mulder reminded Thorne. 
He coughed, then continued, "For whatever reason, his separation from 
his wife and child was incredibly harsh. His wife is likely to have 
remarried and relocated, taking the girl with her. His daughter is 
permanently out of his reach. He misses her, and he wants her back. 
Somehow he thinks by kidnapping these little girls every year, he can 
keep her with him."

"He kills them," Skinner said, joining the discussion. "Why would he do 
that? You suggested that the man cares for the girl as though she were 
his own daughter. Why kill her then, on Christmas Eve?"

Mulder had to finish another bout of coughing before he could answer. "I 
believe his final meeting with his daughter took place on Christmas Eve. 
That was the last time he saw his daughter, perhaps the last time ever, 
literally. She must have been fond of him then, but wherever she is now, 
she no longer remembers him. He is heartbroken about that  - his 
daughter has grown up and forgotten him. He takes a child to keep as his 
own, but he cannot keep her forever. He has to kill her at the end of 
the year because that is the only way he can keep her pure."

"He loves her but he kills her?" Thorne asked incredulously. "And 
explain this pure thing to me again, will you?"

"He thinks the girl can remain his and his only as long as she is a 
sweet young child, innocent and pure. He associates her growth with 
betrayal - he cannot afford to lose her that way. She has to remain 
pure, to remain as his. That is why his method of murder is so quick and 
bloodless. And he lays her body out in her most lovely frock, with 
ribbons in her hair. He cares for the child deeply, but he has to send 
her to heaven. That way she will never grow up and rebel, or forget 
about him. She will, in essence, remain his forever. But then he'll have 
to choose a new sweet angel to care for for another year."

Skinner and Thorne silently digested Mulder's words. Mulder meanwhile 
was starting to feel oddly lightheaded.

"You are certain this man will be in California?" Skinner asked.

"Positive, sir. The nature of his job allows him to travel from city to 
city, relocating every New Year. I surmise he must be a freelance 
writer, or perhaps a photojournalist. He is professional of some sort 
definitely. Male between the ages of thirty to forty-five, married very 
young but divorced before he was even twenty-five. He tries to pass 
himself off as the kidnapped girl's father. I don't know how, but he has 
managed to succeed in pulling that off. The girls accept him, and he 
never mistreats them. I am also positive that this time, with his fifth 
'daughter' he will try to send her to school. He is confident and secure 
in his methods now, and he feels he should provide his 'daughter' with 
all the life he can give. That's how we'll get him."

"I still need to know why you say he's in California," Skinner said.

Mulder coughed a couple of times, then insisted hoarsely, "I just know."

"Look Agent Mulder," Thorne began, shaking his head. "If you say he's in 
California, then maybe he is. If you say that he is crazy enough, or 
confident enough, or whatever, to send this girl Samantha O'Connor to 
pre-school, then I suppose weird things can happen. Why won't the girl 
squeal on him though?"

"As far as she is concerned, he is the one who feeds her, loves her and 
cares for her. She truly does adore him. She still misses her own 
family, but she has learned to live with him. It is possible that he 
keeps promising her that she will meet her family again soon. She won't 
squeal on him. Nor will anyone suspect anything. There are many cases of 
single fathers raising their daughters on their own."

"Therein lies the problem, Agent Mulder," Thorne sighed. "There are just 
so many single men raising children on their own. As there are so many 
single men moving in and out of California on assignment. And there are 
so many little girls with long blond hair who go missing every year."

"I have already suggested..." Mulder was unable to finish the sentence 
because he started a fit of coughing.

"Yes, yes, the face on the milk carton," Thorne said when Mulder 
stopped. "We do that for so many kids already. We simply do not have the 
manpower to comb the entire state in search of this little girl. And for 
all you know, she may not look anything like she was when she was with 
her parents. He might have dyed her hair or something."

"Do it for Samantha," Mulder wheezed. He saw Skinner's worried frown. 
Thorne was getting uncomfortable. "Her face on every milk carton. He 
won't change her. He has to keep her pure, straight through till death. 
Distribute her picture to every single pre-school in the state. Every 
single one."

"Do you realize how much..." Thorne didn't finish his sentence. Mulder 
started coughing and hacking so hard he had to hunch over in his chair. 
In fact Mulder was coughing so hard he wasn't able to breathe.

Skinner panicked when he saw that Mulder was coughing up blood. He 
immediately called an ambulance and then he also called Scully and told 
her, in what would no doubt go down in history as one of the greatest 
innocent exaggerations ever told, that Mulder had 'collapsed'. 

Scully's instinct and imagination immediately supplied her with the 
worst images possible - him dying of respiratory failure or him dying of 
respiratory distress, or him dying of whatever means available. She was 
there at Skinner's office about five minutes after the paramedics 
arrived, an amazing feat considering she was actually in a mortuary at 
the other end of the city. She must have broken every speed rule in her 
haste to get to the J. Edgar Hoover building. 

Anyway, by then Mulder was on the floor, propped against Skinner's desk, 
breathless and sick to the pit of his stomach but feeling very sheepish 
nonetheless about the whole fuss. The coughing fit had passed. The blood 
Skinner had seen him cough out wasn't really blood from his lungs. What 
had happened was that when he started his coughing fit he had clenched 
his pen too hard and somehow, had managed to impale himself in the hand 
with the tip of the ball pen. What one would call a freak accident. 

Outside Skinner's office a crowd had gathered, breaking strict protocol 
for the sake of curiosity. The paramedics were giving him oxygen and 
were waiting for him to feel clear-headed enough so he could follow them 
down to the ambulance. The pair of paramedics were kind and experienced, 
and understood that he still needed to retain a bit of his dignity, and 
that he would prefer to walk if he could, rather than be wheeled flat on 
a stretcher past the crowd of agents outside. Besides, pneumonia was not 
a condition where he was going to keel over and die so soon.

Skinner was unrepentant however, and was convinced that he had saved 
Mulder from the very threshold of death. When a distraught Scully barged 
in, Mulder couldn't help but roll his eyes heavenward and wonder what in 
the world had he sinned in life that would require such cruel 
humiliation as punishment. 

At least she calmed down quickly upon seeing that he was upright and 
conscious. The blood on his shirt, tie and hands alarmed her, but since 
he was still breathing, with a steady pulse and a lucid enough state of 
mind to be stubborn regarding his rights to walking out of Skinner's 
office, she concurred with the paramedics that death wasn't interested 
in him just yet. 

With the paramedics' assistance, he was walked out of Skinner's office 
ten minutes later, quite bloody, but dignity intact. Diagnosis of 
pneumonia was confirmed by doctors at the hospital, and like it or not, 
he was once again a bedridden patient.

Mulder still wondered sometimes what Special Agent Andrew Thorne thought 
of the whole thing. As he recalled, the senior agent had leaped out his 
chair and stayed as far away from Mulder as possible while Mulder was 
coughing his lungs out. He probably thought Mulder had AIDS, or 
tuberculosis. Mulder certainly was pale and sickly-looking. Andrew 
Thorne had looked at him very strangely when he came into Skinner's 
office with his cap on. Mulder couldn't really be bothered though. He 
just needed that agent to help him search for Samantha O'Connor. 
Unfortunately he had yet to hear anything from California. Or maybe 
Skinner and Scully were suppressing the information from him.

Didn't matter. Today was his last day in hospital. He'd been allowed 
home leave. The pneumonia had cleared up after huge doses of 
antibiotics, but on the other hand he was becoming even worse - he 
needed a bone marrow transplant and he needed it quick. His name was 
already on the list for urgent bone marrow transplant and they were 
trying to find a donor for him through the National Registry of bone 
marrow donors. 

There was nothing more that could be done until a bone marrow donor was 
found.  That would probably take quite a while. The donor would have to 
an anonymous, non-related donor since Mulder had no relatives who might 
provide him with the marrow he needed. Well, maybe his sister Samantha 
could have, but well... 

Meanwhile, he had developed ulcers in his mouth and throat. Painful 
white ulcers that made it hard for him to swallow his own saliva, what 
more swallow food. He gave up solid foods. The only reason he drank 
anything was because Scully literally forced the fluids down his throat. 
And if Scully weren't around to do that, the sweet nurses on his ward 
were more than happy to do so on Scully's behalf.

The nurses were otherwise simply wonderful, fun and gentle. They flirted 
with him shamelessly and gave him sponge baths, and shaved him even when 
he didn't need shaving. Best of all, they allowed him to wear his own 
T-shirts and sweatpants rather than hospital gowns. Another unexpected 
source of joy was the company he got from his fellow patients in the 
ward, most of whom he'd gotten to know from the numerous times he came 
for chemotherapy and checkups. 

These new friends knew what life was really like for someone with 
terminal illness. He could talk to them about things he would never even 
broach with Scully. He could grumble about the pain. He could complain 
about his lost freedom. He could compare withdrawal symptoms when nurses 
were late with the drugs. He could crack jokes about death and not worry 
about mortified expressions on the faces of his listeners. Finally, at 
this stage of his life, he had found the perfect ensemble of friends to 
hang out with. Now, if only they wouldn't keep dying on him...

Scully visited him often enough that more than one person had asked if 
she were his wife - now that was among the more amusing propositions 
he'd heard in his life. Scully's mom came to see him once in a while, 
bringing flowers to cheer up the room each time she came. Skinner 
dropped by when he could, and was always sending his regards through 
Scully. The Lone Gunmen came to see him when they were certain there 
were no government surveillance teams at the hospital. His room was 
decorated with more than a dozen 'Get Well Soon' cards, most from people 
he never imagined would care. A few colleagues from the bureau had 
visited him also, much to his pleasant surprise. Even the Director of 
the bureau had sent him a personal Get Well note, as well as a letter of 
commendation that his profile had aided in the capture and arrest of 
Donald Webster. 

So many people wishing him well. When previously so many people just 
wanted him out of the way. While it was nice to have visitors to help 
break the monotony of hospital life, he was oftentimes embarrassed if 
the people visiting him were not close personal friends. They could 
never hide the pity in their eyes whenever they talked to him. He was so 
thin now, and so pale. And weak. He hated that most. Weakness was not 
something you wanted others to see.

His own mother remained naively unaware of his deterioration. He had 
informed his mother about the leukemia the day before he started his 
first round of chemotherapy. Her reaction had been one of severe grief. 
She came to see him twice, and both times she had fussed over him like 
he was a child. She hadn't paid that much attention to him since he 
graduated from high school. While he called her fairly often, every two 
or three days, he would tell her the same reassuring words each and 
every time; that he was feeling fine, that he was responding incredibly 
well to treatment, that he had no problems at work. White lies so his 
mother wouldn't know the painful truth. 

It hurt to have to lie to his mother so consistently but he felt that 
having her know the truth was just as damaging. He had always felt an 
urge to protect his mother, a behavior response that probably stemmed 
from his earlier failure in life to protect his sister. His mother 
hadn't actually seen him since her last visit more than a month ago. He 
had since lost a further fifteen pounds and was now pale as a ghost. The 
last thing he wanted his mother to have to deal with was him looking 
like a wraith. 

			
*******


Scully rapped loudly on Mulder's door before opening it. She made it a 
habit to knock first before entering ever since that day she had walked 
in while he was having his urinary catheter inserted. He hated the whole 
process, the whole indignity of it and he had been mortally embarrassed 
that she had seen him. 

Scully came in carrying a paper bag. Mulder grinned. She hadn't 
forgotten. Since the ulcers in his throat and mouth prevented him from 
eating solid foods, Scully had suggested that maybe she should feed him 
ice cream. 

He was sitting in bed, propped up against a couple of pillows. She came 
up beside the bed and lifted out a small tub of chocolate ice cream from 
the bag. She also picked out two plastic spoons, one for him, and one 
for her. Mulder took the proffered spoon and scooped a bit of ice cream.

"Good?" she asked as Mulder slowly swallowed and licked his lips. 

"Can't tell you if it's good or not, Scully," Mulder said honestly. "But 
I can tell you that I like it." The sweetness of the ice cream countered 
the awful bitterness of drugs on his tongue, and cool ice cream slid 
down his throat without friction against the ulcers. Taste was the least 
of his concerns. His taste buds were pretty dysfunctional after all the 
drugs he'd been consuming.

"That's what a girl wants to hear. That her man likes the ice cream she 
feeds him."  She swallowed her own scoop of ice cream. Mulder chuckled.

"How's work?" Mulder asked. He desperately missed being with her during 
the day. She came to see him during lunchtime only if she were free, if 
she were busy then he'd have to wait till evening for her to visit. By 
then she would be tired and he would be drugged up because his pain was 
always worse in the evenings.

"Oh Mulder, one word," Scully said, rolling her eyes. "Boring. I'm 
turning into the resident forensics expert. Never a chance to step 
outside the office. Simple, routine investigations. Nothing that taxes 
the mind."

"So get an X-File," Mulder suggested.

She was surprised. "Get an X-File? You mean get a new case?"

"Yeah. Skinner has anything against a new X-File?"

"Well, no," Scully said slowly. "You know he doesn't. In fact he asked 
me about it the other day. He jokes that he misses the feeling of 
absolute confusion he used to get after reading our case reports."

"Then go back and pick out a case, investigate. Skinner needs humor in 
his life. Humor him."

"No Mulder, you need rest. You're in absolutely no condition to 
investigate anything. No chasing after alleged alien life forms."

Mulder sighed. Was she being obtuse on purpose here?

"Go get a case and investigate it yourself, Scully. On your own."

"Investigate an X-File on my own?" Scully echoed. She sounded doubtful. 

"Yes, Scully. Skinner will approve whatever case you want. You are the 
other half of the X-Files. And the X-Files have been kept in cold 
storage for long enough, don't you think?"

"But Mulder, I have never investigated an X-File all by myself!" 

"Scully," Mulder said patiently. "Sooner or later, 'they' will shut down 
the X-Files if nothing is going on. The X-Files will be an inactive 
division existing for no known purpose. It would be the perfect excuse. 
Now I don't want them to win on account of my being sick and not being 
able to work in the field. So one of us will have to keep the X-Files 
active, keep producing results. Solve cases."

Scully remained silent so Mulder continued, "Once they shut us down this 
time I don't think there will be an easy way to get the X-Files back. 
Who knows how long I'll be sick? And once I'm well enough to work 
Skinner'll probably assign me permanently to the ISU or Violent Crimes. 
You will be part of the permanent teaching staff at Quantico, or 
assigned a different partner in a different division. It'll be so easy 
for them Scully, to be rid of us without any mess or scandal."

"I have never investigated an X-File by myself." Scully repeated.

"So? Now you can."

Scully opened her mouth, took a breath, then clamped it shut again 
without saying anything. She looked down into the tub of ice cream.

"Tell you what. You choose what cases you think will be worth your salt. 
You can bring the case files home to me. We can still discuss the cases 
together even if I can't follow you around. Then, once I'm strong 
enough, I will follow you around, be your driver. Promise I'll stay in 
the car and keep away from large men with huge fists."

Scully smiled sadly. What she could not say to Mulder was that she did 
not want to investigate an X-File by herself. She did not want to solve 
a case by herself. Maybe there had been times when she wished to be 
recognized as her own person rather than Mrs. Spooky, but now she only 
wanted to work with him. She didn't want to be alone in the middle of 
the night on some deserted stretch of highway tracking down clues. Her 
heart would break if she had to work alone.

"Okay?" Mulder asked gently. 

Scully gave a slight nod, very slight inclination of the head. She would 
have to think about this when she got back to the office. Mulder 
accepted her nod as agreement, and went back to his ice cream.

"So tomorrow you can come home," she said, hoping to lighten the mood.

"Oh yeah," Mulder said dreamily. "And first thing I do when I get home, 
I'm gonna sleep with the TV left on, without anyone waking me every two 
hours asking if I need a sleeping pill." He paused, glancing at Scully. 
"You don't mind me sleeping with the TV on?"

He would be going back to Scully's apartment, not his own. He needed 
someone to be with him should he run into an emergency or become sick. 

"So long as you behave yourself and not watch anything I would never 
watch," was Scully's answer. 

"You mean I can't watch arm wrestling championships?"

Scully snorted. "You know what I mean," she said firmly. She was fully 
aware of Mulder's fascination with naked women prancing around doing 
who-knows what in X-rated movies.

Mulder shrugged absently and maintained his innocent expression. Then he 
asked, "You took my clothes already?"

"Yes." She eyed him carefully. "You realize most of your clothes are 
going to be too loose for you."

Mulder sighed. "I know. You think I can still wear my suits?"

"You aren't thinking of going to the office?"

"Well, you know I can't Scully. I'm too sick. But I do miss the FBI. 
Believe it or not, I miss the smell of exhaust smoke in the bureau's 
basement parking lot?"

Scully chuckled and shook her head in wonder. "I frankly do not 
understand the things you choose to miss."

"Well there are so many other things. I miss being with you, that's 
another thing I miss. And I miss swimming. I miss rain. I miss getting 
wet with you in the rain. I miss wearing my overcoat and walking around 
with you. I miss anyplace that does not smell of antiseptic. I miss you 
not agreeing with me."

He missed her. Scully felt her heart lighten up to know that. He missed 
her, he missed doing things with her. 

"I don't always don't agree now do I?" she chided gently. "Don't you 
miss when I agree with you?"

"You've been agreeing with me a lot lately," Mulder said. He had stopped 
eating although the tub was still a quarter full of melting ice cream. 
She didn't try to force him to finish it.

"You haven't been stubborn lately," Scully said lightly as she put the 
tub aside. She didn't notice the sudden sadness in his eyes.

"It's too tiring to be stubborn now," Mulder said quietly. 

Scully heard the resignation in his voice. She straightened up and gazed 
at him, taking in the pale haggard face, the cap on his head, the 
hollows of his cheeks. There wasn't much of him left, really. How much 
did he weigh now? A little over a hundred and ten pounds? On a six foot 
frame. She made a soft clucking sound at the back of her throat. She 
reached out, stroked his arm.

"You should gain weight, Mulder," she said. "When you come home with me 
I'm going to make sure you eat everything I cook for you."

"Make sure you cook mush then."

"Oh Mulder, you want me to go all mushy over you?" It was a corny 
attempt at a joke, a mild attempt to cheer him up but it worked. He 
laughed. The fleeting feelings of self-pity were wiped away.

Scully gave him a pat on his cap, picked up the paper bag into which she 
had deposited the dripping ice cream tub and stood, ready to leave.

"It's time to go?" Mulder asked, surprised.

Scully smiled and said, "Well, yes. I was hoping to take a little walk 
with a friend of mine before going back to the office. I hope you don't 
mind."

Mulder twitched his lips. "Mind? Now why would I mind if you wanted take 
a walk with someone instead of staying in this room?" He injected a tone 
of indignation into his voice but his eyes were merry.

"Good then," Scully said. "I was worried you wouldn't approve."

"Can't decide what things you ought or ought not to do now can I?" 
Mulder said sulkily even as he accepted Scully's outstretched hand. She 
helped him get out of bed, then helped him with his sneakers.

"So it'll be all right for me to go?" Scully asked once he had his 
sneakers on. She held the walker ready for him.

"Oh sure," Mulder sniffed. "Go ahead. Obviously I can't force you to 
stay."

Scully laughed. She slipped her free arm around his waist and together, 
they walked slowly down to the lobby of the hospital and from there to 
the small garden on the hospital grounds.

********


Scully knew something was wrong. She stepped out of the elevator half 
expecting shouts of panic and medical staff in chaos. She didn't know 
why the deep feeling of foreboding should haunt her. Mulder was fine. He 
was coming home with her tomorrow.

She was late in visiting him this evening. After spending time with 
Mulder in the hospital garden she had to go back to the office for the 
afternoon, but promised to return to the hospital by dinnertime.  Once 
at the office she found out that she had been saddled with the duty of 
performing an autopsy on a gruesome body left in a drainage pipe for 
more than two weeks. The body stank terribly and the stink permeated her 
clothes and hair. Disgusting. She had gone home for a shower and a 
change of clothes before coming to the hospital. She had gone home, 
ignoring the feeling in her gut that she should go to the hospital 
instead, no matter how much she stank or how dirty her hair and skin 
felt. 

Her stomach growled. Her feeling of unease had been such that she had 
rushed out immediately without having dinner first. She had broken out 
in cold sweat as she was driving to the hospital, it took all of her 
willpower not to break the speed limit.

The corridor was calm, no shouting, no emergency alarms. Everything was 
fine. Mulder was fine.

Scully berated herself for almost giving in to irrational fear.

She walked past the nurses' station. There was only one nurse there, 
bowed over a patient's chart, jotting something down. The nurse didn't 
look up as she walked past. For no fathomable reason Scully started 
walking faster. She had to get to Mulder's room. She had to get there 
fast.

His door was ajar. A nurse aide was leaning against it. She heard voices 
inside the room. Nurses were in there, and Dr. Bryant was beside the bed 
giving orders. 

Oh God, she was right. Something was wrong with Mulder.

"What is this?" She demanded to know in her most authoritative voice. It 
came out sounding high and shrill instead.

Dr Bryant turned around, saw her and came towards her, effectively 
blocking her view of Mulder.

"He had a seizure," he told her. She gaped at him. 

"Why?" She demanded.

Dr Bryant shrugged. "Don't know. He was fine half an hour ago. Was given 
his painkiller and sleeping pill. Seized suddenly. Grand mal seizure. 
Things are under control now. You understand this means he can't go home 
tomorrow."

"No, no, of course not," Scully said, without really caring what Bryant 
was saying. She needed to see Mulder, needed to comfort him. Oh God, why 
the seizure? She tried to push Bryant aside so she could get to Mulder. 
Bryant gave way to her.

Mulder was sprawled on the bed, his limbs limp, his face turned to one 
side. His breath hitched in his chest. He was otherwise silent and 
still. The blanket was twisted around his legs, the sheet was pulled out 
in one corner and someone had removed his pillow. He was bleeding. 
Somehow his IV needle, which had been left in his wrist even though he 
wasn't actually being given anything intravenously, had been yanked out 
while he was seizing. Blood all over his hand and arm, all over the 
sheet, blood on his T-shirt and face.

He was going to loose a lot of blood if nobody did anything about that 
bleeding, Scully thought in a detached clinical way. 

She knelt down beside the bed so that her face was level with Mulder's 
face. His skin was gray. His chest rose and fell with each gasp. She 
touched his cheek and called his name softly.

His eyes flickered open. Glazed eyes, not quite focussed. She could see 
that he was in pain. His lips quivered as he tried to speak.

"Shhh," Scully whispered, stroking his head. "It's okay." Out of the 
corner of her eye she saw someone trying to staunch the bleeding from 
his wrist.

He was trying very hard to keep his eyes on her. His lips moved and she 
heard something, very soft, but she couldn't make out what he said. More 
like a gentle exhalation of air. 

"No, don't say anything. I'm here. You'll be fine." Meaningless words 
that she hoped would comfort him.  Beside her the nurse was finding out 
that he wouldn't stop bleeding. She heard someone order one unit of 
blood and one bag of platelets for transfusion. Dr. Bryant was leaving 
the room.

His lips moved again and this time she read his lips. He was trying to 
say her name. He was trying to say 'Dana'. She realized he wanted to 
apologize to her for causing this trouble, he didn't want her to have 
this new extra burden. 

She placed her finger on his lips, silencing him. She moved closer to 
him and whispered into his ear, "I know, Mulder. It's all right. I 
know."

Her lips brushed his forehead. When she drew back he was still looking 
at her, but he was quiet. She continued to stroke his cheek and whisper 
sweet nothings.

Suddenly she felt his body jerk. He turned away from her and moaned. She 
flung an arm over his chest, thinking he was going into another seizure. 
He jerked again but this wasn't a seizure. She stood up and touched his 
face, trying to get him to look at her.

"Mulder?"

His eyes were wide, vacant, not really seeing her. He whimpered and 
tried to pull away from the two nurses holding on to his arms. It was 
the pain. The pain was getting bad.

"Where's his painkiller?" Scully snapped. The two nurses were still 
fighting to hold on to Mulder's arms, who was fighting even harder 
against them. A nurse aide was standing by the foot of the bed, holding 
a new saline bag.

Scully growled at the aide, "Get him morphine now! He's in pain damn 
it!"

The nurse aide gawked at her for a second, long enough for Scully to 
start yelling again. The aide hurried out of the room, leaving the 
saline bag on the trolley. Scully could not believe the sheer stupidity 
of the night staff to rush in to attend to a cancer patient without 
bringing any painkiller along.

Mulder was thrashing in bed, a sure sign that the pain in his back was 
so bad he had lost all control to rationalize or wait. 

Scully recognized very well the stages of Mulder's pain. At the very 
beginning he would fidget and shift about as the pain caused discomfort 
rather than distress. Then he'd become still and quiet, if he spoke his 
words would be monosyllables with his gaze averted from her eyes. As the 
pain progressed he would start to clench his hands into fists, or take 
to grabbing handfuls of blanket to clench, all in an effort to maintain 
control and stop himself from screaming. 

It frightened her to see how bad the pain was this time. He was 
whimpering, crying. She was trying her damnedest to comfort him and stop 
him from thrashing about even as she cursed the aide for being slow with 
the morphine. The nurse holding on to his bleeding wrist had let go of 
his arm, or maybe her gloves slipped because of the blood on her gloves 
and his arm. He was bleeding freely, yet another thing for Scully to 
curse about. Where was that unit of blood and where was that bag of 
platelets?

The aide finally returned with a syringe, together with two nurses and 
Dr Bryant. It took four people to hold him still long enough for Dr 
Bryant to inject the morphine. Then it was almost five minutes before 
Mulder stopped thrashing and just lay there, spent. 

Scully wiped the tears away from his cheeks. He was still awake, barely 
coherent. But he tried to smile when he saw her. She smiled back and 
furiously blinked the tears from her eyes. She didn't say anything 
because there wasn't anything to say. He was drugged now. That was what 
was important. No pain till morning.

				
*******


The loud rap on the door startled her. She turned around and saw 
Assistant Director Skinner standing awkwardly by the door. 

"Agent Scully," he said.

"Sir," she responded politely. He came into the room slowly, hoping, she 
supposed, not to wake Mulder up. But she already knew that Mulder wasn't 
going to wake up any time soon.

"You applied for emergency leave today," Skinner said as he settled down 
into the chair beside her. "Since I had some time to spare I decided it 
would be best to come and see if everything was all right."

"Thank you for your concern," Scully said quietly. 

Skinner nodded towards Mulder. "I thought he was going home today."

"We both thought he was going home today," she replied as she stroked 
Mulder's arm. "But it looks like he'll have to stay a few extra days."

Skinner frowned. "What happened?"

"He suffered a seizure last night."

Skinner paled visibly. "My God," he exclaimed. "Is he all right?"

"He'll be okay," Scully said. She shook her head sadly. "But it's just 
not fair, you know," she added softly. "He was getting so much better." 
She looked up at Skinner's concerned face.

"There's a bit of a problem with his blood coagulation - the clotting of 
his blood. Disseminated intravascular coagulation. DIC."

"Is this problem related to his... um, illness?"

Scully noted that even after four months Skinner still had trouble 
saying the word leukemia out loud. She nodded in response to his 
question. 

"There is a connection. You see the clotting of human blood is 
accomplished when a cascade of coagulation factors react with each other 
to trigger the blood-clotting mechanism which works in tandem with the 
body's platelets to stop any bleeding. Normally the cascade of 
coagulation factors, which you can think of as chemicals, is set off 
upon injury. In Mulder's case though, leukemic promyelocytic cells are 
releasing the chemicals that trigger the clotting cascade. The clotting 
mechanism takes place in the absence of any injury. So small tiny clots 
form throughout his circulation and within the organs."

"Cascade?"

"The release of one chemical will initiate the release of another 
chemical, that will then initiate the release of yet another chemical, 
so on and so forth. All these chemicals react together to accomplish 
blood coagulation. A cascade of coagulation factors."

"Resulting in his blood clotting even though there is no injury?" 
Skinner guessed.

"Yes." Scully nodded. "And since there is no injury for the clots to 
cover up, the clots lodge within the body's internal organs."

"Is this condition fatal?" Skinner asked hesitantly.

Scully paused before answering his question. She gazed at Mulder as he 
slept his drugged sleep - he had been given more morphine early in the 
morning, and he wasn't expected to wake up any time during the day.

"DIC can be fatal," she said, keeping her voice steady. "But it is 
treatable. He's being given anticoagulants intravenously. Anticoagulants 
will prevent further formation of clots and dissolve the clots already 
present in his circulation. Ironically enough, at the same time that he 
is having these coagulation problems he is also bleeding internally due 
to lack of platelets. His body is not producing enough platelets which 
are necessary for blood clotting and preventing him from bleeding some 
more. We'll need to maintain a careful balance of platelets and 
anticoagulants for transfusion."

"What about the seizures?"

"Probably the result of clots in his brain," Scully answered. She 
sounded professional and clinical but she feared that her calm facade 
might crack at any moment. "Clots can be in the brain, in the lungs, in 
the kidneys. Can lead to organ failure, but since Mulder will be 
monitored very closely from now onwards this isn't going to happen 
again. He'll be fine."

She kept her face averted from Skinner. Tears were brimming in her eyes. 
Everything was crashing in on her. She had willingly accepted the burden 
of being the close friend of a terminally ill person, but she hadn't 
been prepared for the emotional anguish that accompanied Mulder's steady 
deterioration.

In the beginning she had been optimistic and supportive. She learned to 
steer clear of Mulder when he was feeling depressed, but remained by him 
when she felt he needed her company. She checked that Mulder was 
receiving the proper treatments, that he was taking his medication and 
his vitamins. They rarely spoke about his illness, but they both knew 
she was the one watching over him. She was the strength Mulder depended 
on.

But he kept losing weight, and his appetite dwindled away to almost 
nothing. Her heart ached to see him wither so quickly before her very 
eyes. He came to work, but he became weaker and weaker. His pain 
escalated but she could do nothing. Her heart broke that day when she 
walked into the office and saw Mulder wearing his cap for the first 
time, but he had been jovial about the whole thing and she was forced to 
fake her humor for his sake. And her heart was heavy to accept the fact 
that Mulder's gray pale pallor was permanent, that rosy pink cheeks were 
not something she should expect to see in his face in the near future.

She blinked the tears away. Skinner was saying something about the 
X-Files.

"I feel perhaps it would be for the best," Skinner ended. She'd missed 
the earlier part of what he had said.

Scully glanced at him. "Sir?"

"For you to take over at this point."

"The X-Files sir?"

"Yes," Skinner said. "You will officially be the agent in charge as long 
as Mulder is on sick leave. Then once he's ready to come back, he'll 
have to re-qualify as field agent but we can settle that when the time 
comes."

"Did Mulder express this desire to you?"

Skinner looked puzzled. "I beg your pardon?"

"Did he ask you to do this?"

"No," Skinner said, somewhat taken aback. "I thought this would be the 
best course of action. I assumed that you and Agent Mulder would agree 
with this change."

Scully knew for a fact that Mulder would support the change. "Will I be 
working alone?"

"If you feel you need additional hands to help, then you can send in a 
request later. I think you'll be just fine. Mulder handled the X-Files 
by himself for quite a while before you joined him."

"I see," Scully said. So she wasn't going to have a have a rookie agent 
around to debunk her work.

"Is he getting better? I mean, aside from this... problem?"

Scully looked at Skinner thoughtfully. This man had helped them through 
so much. He really did care about them. His concern for Mulder was 
always genuine.

"We can cure his leukemia," she responded vaguely. She didn't want to 
mention the bone marrow transplant until she was certain that it was 
definitely going to happen. Somehow by not talking about it, she didn't 
have to keep her hopes too high up.

"The seizures won't affect him? I mean, no brain damage or anything?"

"It was just one seizure," Scully corrected. "Just a seizure. Not a 
stroke or a major head trauma. He'll be all right, really. We can handle 
this." 

"Well I'm sure he'll pull through. Nothing seems to keep him down for 
long," Skinner observed optimistically. He patted her shoulder 
affectionately. Then he mentioned that he had to get back to the office 
for a meeting, and wished Mulder a speedy recovery.

He left and Scully sat alone beside Mulder's bed, watching the gentle 
rise and fall of his chest. So now she was the one in charge of the 
X-Files. What a day. First her partner suffers a grand mal seizure - bad 
news. Next her boss tells her she's just been promoted - great news, 
even if she didn't exactly cherish the thought of working alone without 
Mulder as her partner. 

Wonderful even balance of distress and jubilation, but no one to talk to 
about it.  She felt so lonely, so sad. She stared at Mulder's gaunt 
face, at the permanent dark shadows beneath the eyes, at the protruding 
bones of his elbows, and wondered idly if she might have cancer one day, 
and become like Mulder, and how she would handle it. Mulder handled 
things rather well, all things considered. He had continued to work for 
as long as he was able, rarely complaining. He didn't speak too much 
about the future, nor did he dwell too much on his past. 

But how would Mulder handle it if she became sick too? She pushed that 
thought aside. After all, there was no solid evidence that said she was 
prone to developing tumors. Might be all pure coincidence - she wasn't 
really an abductee like the rest of those women. She couldn't be.


**********


Every few days a cleaning lady would come into Mulder's hospital room
and wipe clean smooth surfaces, the window, and the windowsill. She used
a mild disinfectant to wipe surfaces after she was done cleaning them.
He didn't much like the smell of the disinfectant but he had to live
with it, the smell would linger for days - and just as the smell was no
longer noticeable the cleaning lady would return.

There was one thing he secretly enjoyed about the cleaning lady coming.
Whenever she wiped the window the dampness on the windowpane would
reflect the sunlight in a certain way, reminding him of soap bubbles
floating in the wind on a summer day. The dancing colors in the window
never lasted more than half a minute, for the windowpane dried quickly.
He had to be alert when the cleaning lady moved over to the window.

He also loved the sunbeam that streamed through his window in the
mornings. The sunbeam would light up his room, then track slowly across
his bed, but stopped short of shining full on his face if he were lying
down in bed. The sunbeam was warm, a pleasant visitor to welcome for
about an hour each morning. And when the windowpane was wet as the
sunbeam passed through, he would see soap bubbles floating in the wind.

That was a sweet memory, the memory of when he was a ten-year old
blowing soap bubbles in a wide open field as his six year old sister
shrieked with glee. Samantha had chased the bubbles, and kept asking him
to blow more - "Bigger ones Fox! Make them flyyyy!!!!"

He was a ten-year-old big brother babysitting his little sister during
summer. And as he blew soap bubbles on that warm summer day he had loved
her. He had loved the way her big shining eyes watched him blow bubbles
that followed the wind to far off places, he had loved her unabashed
adoration, he had loved the way she skipped about him, her pigtails
bouncing up and down, and he had loved her love for him. On that day she
was his little sister and he would have done anything for her. She
wasn't just a whining little girl who distracted his mother's attention.
She was his sister. And he loved her.

The memory was bittersweet, for they never ever played in that field
together again. They had spent the whole day there, waiting till the sun
set and the sky turned a beautiful orange purple yellow hue before
returning home for dinner. He had always wanted to take her there again,
but for him school started, then she grew up and he grew bored of her
clinging to him. They had been to the field before that day, but he had
introduced her to soap bubbles only on that special day, and so that
made all previous trips to the field obsolete.

There were soap bubbles dancing in the window now. He could hear
Samantha giggling as he told her he was going to make color lights fly
into the wind. She'd called him a big fat liar. He told her to wait and
see. Then he blew the bubbles into a soft breeze and she had gasped in
wonder and astonishment. "Fox!" she exclaimed. "They're so beautiful!"

He treasured the memory jealously. His memories of Samantha now were no
longer of her screaming his name as a bright light whisked her out of
his life. Instead he remembered Samantha as a toddler trying to catch up
with his bicycle. He vaguely remembered his mom and dad announcing that
the little baby in his mother's arms was a baby girl, not a baby boy and
that all babies looked like that when they were just born. He remembered
his father cradling his sister in one arm and hugging him tight with the
other as they watched shooting stars from the front porch of their
house. And he remembered Samantha's first day at pre-school when she'd
rushed home to tell him that Fox wasn't a name, it was a furry doggy
animal with this really nice bushy tail.

The last memory always made him chuckle. How was it that his little
sister had learned to read before the age of four and yet never ever
came across any references to foxes? And then he'd remember one spring
day when the two of them had wandered together, looking at birds on
branches and tagging after little furry animals.

Only now was he appreciating the wealth of happy memories he had of his
sister during their short time together. There was no need to brood over
the screams of a frightened eight-year-old girl. He had enough tiny
pieces of happy memories to cherish. He had enough laughter to fill his
mind.

Was he letting go of his obsession of finding her? He still wished to
see her again, alive. He wanted to see Samantha Mulder, his little
sister - not another bunch of pseudo-Samantha clones. But realistically
speaking, that was merely a wish that wasn't going to come true any time
soon.

Lately though he'd caught himself praying to God to keep Samantha's
soul, to keep her safe and warm. He didn't believe in miracles or God,
preferring instead to believe in Truth and whatever paranormal phenomena
fascinating enough to give him hope that if these strange things really
did happen, then whatever he thought happened to Samantha must have
happened and she must be out there, alive, somewhere.

He didn't know why he should turn to God now, although psychologically
he was aware that revival in faith was a natural process for terminally
ill people. But he wasn't contemplating death was he? He wasn't praying
for his own soul after all. He wasn't thinking of death. He planned to
live. He planned to find his truths and answers. He wasn't looking for
salvation just yet.

The sunbeam had moved on and the dancing color lights in the window were
gone. The cleaning lady left his room without shutting the door
properly. He frowned at her back as she left but was too lazy to call
out to her to shut the door.

The workmen were staring their work. He wondered how long he'd hold out
against them this time.

Mulder had started identifying his stages of pain as what work of
torture the 'workmen' residing in his lower back and in his bones were
doing. It was important for him to identify his stages of pain so his
painkiller doses could be adjusted accordingly. And of course he wasn't
just going to grade his pain on a scale of 1 to 10 without any creative
interpretation.

If painkillers did their work, Mulder was relatively free of pain, but
somewhat groggy and disoriented. Then, as the protective effects of the
drugs ebbed away, and he became more alert, the workmen would start to
chip away at his spine with little picks and hammers. He was used to
that pain by now, really. In fact he was so used to having some degree
of constant pain he could no longer remember what it must have been like
to live a life totally free and blessed from pain.

Eventually the workmen would chuck aside their little picks and hammers
in favor of big sledgehammers that they would slam into his back in
unison. He imagined there were between ten and thirty workmen assigned
to give him this misery, depending on just how badly the pain throbbed.

Then another group of workmen would join the team. These new workmen
loved to drag their steel rakes up and down his back and along his
bones. That was terrible. When he'd first experienced that level of pain
he had wanted to just die straight away. But now, that level of pain was
a 6 on his scale.

The workmen had more methods of torture to implement. Power drills,
joining the steel rakes and sledgehammers. Huge power drills, not the
little ones for drilling picture-frame holes in thin-plaster walls.
These were the big power drills used at construction sites, to drill
through metal.

When he got to that stage of pain, he wouldn't have given a second
thought about signing a form for euthanasia. If somebody were to shove a
gun against his head he would beg the person to just pull that fucking
trigger and be quick about it. If someone gave him a knife, he'd try to
stab himself in the back.

He never tried to imagine what the workmen were doing for stage 10 pain.
By then he'd be too crazed by the pain and or already passed out. Or
he'd be begging in all earnestness for death to come take him out of his
misery.

Right now the workmen in his back were using their little picks. Slowly,
he raised one hand and tucked it beside his cheek, then tried to shift
his body a little to get comfortable. The workmen in his back didn't
quite approve his move. The sudden spontaneous hammering of twenty picks
in his back made him wince.

He tried to concentrate on the TV. Goofy, Mickey and Donald were trying
to make their own ship out of a DIY kit. Amusing enough. He was finally
going to leave the hospital tomorrow, one week after his seizure. No use
keeping him in hospital anyway. He hadn't had any more seizures. Scully
could take care of him at her place, she'd just bring him in every two
days for his medication and blood transfusions.

Scully wouldn't be coming till late afternoon. She was still doing
forensics work, procrastinating the start of her first solo X-Files
investigation by explaining that she wanted to have him home and out of
hospital before she started. Her excuse made absolutely no sense to
Mulder but he didn't bug her about it. At least she already had a case
in mind to investigate.

Still no good news in the search for Samantha O'Connor. It would take
weeks for the FBI and the police in California to comb through all
pre-schools in the state to find her.

Minnie Mouse was joining Mickey and his pals as they prepared to cast
off in their brand new DIY ship. Pretty impressive ship too, Mulder
thought. Then he noticed the faint smell of cigarette smoke. He turned
his face towards the open door.

"You shouldn't smoke in a hospital," he said to the man standing on the
doorway. Cancerman. Fascinating name to call him by, based simply on the
fact that he was a long-term cigarette smoker. But who was the one with
cancer now, ladies and gentlemen?

The man shrugged absently.  "I am not."

Indeed he wasn't. The smell of cigarette smoke came from the man's
clothes. Mulder purposely ignored the man, paying attention instead to
the difficulties Mickey and his crew were facing as their DIY ship
started coming apart in the water.

The man shuffled his feet a few times. When that failed to get Mulder's
attention he moved closer to Mulder's bed.

"How are you?"

"That has got to be a rhetorical question, right?"

Cancerman actually had the decency to look embarrassed. "I'd like to
talk to you."

"So?"

"If you feel all right about it."

Mulder simply stared up at the man, wondering why the man even bothered.
Like Cancerman was going to care if Mulder were half-mad with pain, he'd
probably do whatever gloating he wanted to do anyway.

"What do you want?" Mulder asked finally, tiredly. Personally he wanted
to watch the Disney cartoons.

"I believe this is what you want," the man said, almost slipping back
into his usual slimy haughtiness. "We need to talk about Agent Scully."

"What about her?"

"As I recall you wanted to know. I am telling you now that there is
reason to believe she will not be in her best of health for long."

Mulder closed his eyes. He wasn't really surprised. He had taken the
trouble to investigate the alleged abducted women of Allentown and knew
enough about them and their deaths to know what could happen to Scully.

"Are you telling me this because you can help her?"

"There may be a method ... which is actually experimental at best. There
is a doctor here who might be able to explain things better."

As if on cue, a red-haired man wearing a lab coat walked into the room.
There was something familiar about the man that Mulder couldn't quite
place. The man closed the door before coming up beside the bed.

"Agent Mulder, I am Kurt Crawford," he said as he extended his hand.
Mulder ignored it.

Kurt was unperturbed by Mulder's lack of civility and went straight to
the point. "You have a friend who was abducted two years ago?"

Mulder nodded warily.

"Okay, now, most abductees who return develop tumors. It's actually a
side-effect." Mulder thought of asking 'side-effect to what?' but Kurt
continued, "You have heard of cancer-suppressor genes? These are
switches in the human DNA - turn off the switch and that person develops
cancer. Of course that is just a simple way of describing it.

"The main point is, your friend's switch has been turned off. Her
cancer-suppressor genes are inactivated.  We don't want that to happen,
but we can't seem to stop it from happening. Fortunately, we may have
found a way to reverse it, to turn the switch back on."

Mulder wondered if he was being strung along, or if he should take the
chap seriously. "How?"

"Well, I can't describe everything to you right here, not enough time
and certainly not enough physical evidence or material for a more
comprehensive lecture," Kurt said. Mulder's sense of deja vu was
increasing, as Kurt spoke. Where had he seen or heard this guy before?
"What I can tell you, is that with our intervention, her chances of not
developing cancer at all will be eighty percent."

"Only eighty?"

"That will actually place her in a position better than most of the
general population. Of course we do aim for a hundred percent protection
but we haven't had enough subjects. Your friend will be the perfect
subject. The protection I speak of is total. We eliminate all oncogenes
and repair all mutations that may be present in the genome of her
somatic cells. I can see that I have lost you. Oncogenes are genes whose
protein products are associated with neoplastic transformation. That is,
the development of cancer. And genomes, well that's what genes are.
These oncogenes and genomic mutations are also inevitable and
regrettably unfortunate side-effects of our experimentation."

Cancerman stood by the side of the bed, listening but not interrupting.
Kurt Crawford looked at Mulder expectantly, waiting for Mulder to agree
to hand Scully over to him for more experimentation. Crawford saw Scully
as a new subject for him to test and prove his theories. He didn't
actually care. But Mulder cared. He cared deeply.

"You sons of bitches think this is some on-going study? You took three
months out of her life, you are suggesting that you used her like she
was some lab rat, and now you are pitching me this idea as though..."

"Please, Mr. Mulder, there is no need to get upset. I agree our methods
seem somewhat devoid of ethics..." 

Mulder made a choking sound.

"But I suggest you take this matter into serious consideration.
Admirably enough your friend remains healthy. We suspect she has not yet
manifested any signs of cancer and that makes her the suitable candidate
for our trial. Rest assured that I use the word trial here very loosely.
We are confident in our methods - she will be receiving the benefits of
years of our research."

Mulder was speechless. The impunity of this man to talk and to think of
Scully as no more than a test subject, another series of data on a lab
sheet!

"If she will come and see us," Kurt added, ignoring the pained horror
and barely controlled anger on Mulder's face. "We shall be able to tell
her more. My friend here," Kurt gestured at Cancerman. "Can assist her
in arranging an appointment with us. She needn't even need to know who
we really are if you don't want her to."

"I don't know who you are," Mulder retorted, teeth clenched. "I don't
know if you can be trusted."

Kurt raised an eyebrow. "I have no evil intentions. There are no
ulterior motives. I only wish to meet her, and proceed with a plan for
prevention of neoplasia. Therein lies the purpose of my meeting you
here. We are her best, and I dare say, only hope for long-term survival.
We wish to accomplish that goal, and I was made to understand that is
also your wish."

There was no chance for Mulder to respond. Kurt was already moving out
towards the door, being shepherded along by Cancerman. Kurt gave Mulder
one last nod before stepping out into the hallway. Cancerman hesitated
for a just a moment longer.

"This is not a trick, Agent Mulder."

"I suppose I should take your word for that?" Mulder snapped.

The man met his gaze, but lowered his eyes a moment later. "It will be
up to you. I have done what I can. You have met the doctor and he has
told you, in the simplest way he knows, what you asked me to find out
for you. If you wish to pursue this, then we can arrange another, more
proper meeting."

The man turned to go, but he hesitated again. "Is there anything else I
can do?"

"No. But I thank you. For Agent Scully's life. If that is what we are
talking about here. I sincerely do thank you, though thanking you is not
something I ever thought I'd do."

"I mean, for yourself. I can help?"

Mulder shook his head. "I am already in your debt."

"I am doing this for a child I knew once," Cancerman said, almost
tenderly. "This child was the son of a friend of mine. This child was an
adorable child, a lovely child. He knew me once too, this little child,
and I think he quite liked me. At the time."

Mulder stared at the man standing in the doorway. He didn't know what to
say.

"There will be no debt," Cancerman said. "I consider this a favor for
that little boy I used to know."

"I can help." He repeated it as a statement this time, not a question.

Mulder shook his head again, slowly. The Cancerman sighed sadly but said
no more. He stepped out of Mulder's room, pulling the door shut behind
him.


**********


The television droned on, it was a documentary about wild life in 
tropical forests. Scully tried to pick the remote control out of 
Mulder's hand but he seemed to sense what she wanted to do and grasped 
it tighter. Scully gave up.

She changed out of her office clothes before going into the kitchen to 
prepare a cup of coffee for herself, and brew medicinal herbal tea for 
Mulder. Then she scooped some ice cream into a bowl and took it out to 
the living room where Mulder was sleeping on her couch. 

He was lying on his side, huddled under a blanket. The cap remained on 
his head, which rested on a pillow that her mom must have taken out of 
the bedroom. She shook his shoulder gently.

"Have something to eat," she whispered. Mulder sighed and opened his 
eyes.

"Back already? What time is it?"

"Just after three." She placed the bowl of ice cream on the small table 
beside the couch, within his reach. The table was cluttered with bottles 
of medication and tissue paper, along with a can of ice cream soda that 
her mom must have left open for him. She picked up the can. It sloshed, 
half-full. Well, at least he drank some.

Mulder wasn't quite able to care for himself now. Though he was 
reluctant to burden Scully and her mom with nursing duties, he didn't 
have any other place to go. He didn't want to remain in hospital and he 
didn't want to burden his own mother, who had suffered a stroke a few 
months ago and was still recuperating. Besides, Scully had a feeling 
that Mulder didn't want his mother to realize how sick he was now. She'd 
overheard quite a few of his phone conversations with his mother and he 
always maintained fake cheeriness and optimism while speaking to her.

"How is the case?"

She was finally working on her first solo X-Files case, investigating an 
alleged alien abduction. Mulder had been amused that she would pick an 
alien abduction case to investigate on her own.

"So far, I'll have to insist that our alleged abductee was either 
totally stoned and somehow was picked up by someone and then dumped 
twelve miles away from her home, or she is a delusional schizophrenic." 

"But she has been assessed by psychiatrists who validate her sanity, and 
you have not found any traces of drugs or alcohol in her blood or 
urine."

"Well, I am not about ready to claim that this girl was abducted by 
aliens," Scully said sourly. Mulder just smiled at her. If they were 
working together on this they would have started arguing already. How 
she missed those days. Now she was the one who had to think of both the 
paranormal and scientific possibilities for a case. And she wouldn't 
have anyone but herself to debate the issues with.

Mulder was too tired to pursue the line of argument further despite his 
obvious interest in the case. He merely listened as she recounted her 
day's events, sometimes making a comment or two but never actually 
embarking on a long discussion of the case with her.  He just wasn't 
able to anymore.

The pain had reached a point where he was permanently drugged. So he was 
also permanently groggy, barely able to concentrate for more than five 
minutes at a time. He spent most of the time at her apartment huddled on 
her couch fast asleep with the TV on. He only ate ice cream or mashed 
potatoes, or her mom's soups. He drank cola drinks because he preferred 
the hyper-sweet taste to the tastelessness of plain water. Caring for 
him wasn't too hard. There was no need to get a live-in nurse. He could 
still do things for himself in the bathroom but he did need help getting 
to the bathroom. The only times he left her apartment were for his trips 
to the hospital and when she took him back to his own apartment for a 
short visit and for him to retrieve a few more of his things. 

He was going back to the hospital tomorrow. A bone marrow donor had at 
long last been found. The donor was of course, anonymous, and while not 
exactly a perfect marrow match for Mulder, it was the closest they could 
find.  A bone marrow transplant can still take place even if the donor 
and the recipient are not a hundred percent compatible, but of course 
post-transplant complications are more likely to occur the more 
incompatible the two are.

Scully patted Mulder's arm, prompting him to roll over onto his back. 
She helped him balance the ice cream bowl on his chest, then she went to 
the kitchen to take her mug of coffee and his mug of herbal tea.

A friend who had successfully battled breast cancer and survived had 
recommended the medicinal herbal tea to her. The tea was supposed to 
balance the body's yin and yang, and purify the healing spirit, and 
lessen pain as the body healed itself. Whatever. It was helpful in a 
way, which was why she insisted that he keep drinking it. Before Mulder 
always had difficulty sleeping through a whole night. Pain always woke 
him up. Since he started drinking the tea, his night sleep was no longer 
interrupted, and he slept quite peacefully during the day as well. 

Of course it may not necessarily be the tea that was helping him sleep. 
His worsening anemia probably contributed to him being dead tired enough 
to sleep through even the worst pain.

Mulder hated the tea because it was bitter but took it anyway just to 
humor her. The tea did provide him some relief from pain when he was 
awake. But again, that may be due to the fact that Mulder was just too 
tired to complain about his pain anymore, rather than the tea being 
effective. She tried to talk him into going to see an acupuncturist to 
relieve the pain, but after more than four months of needles, tests and 
infusions of this and that, Mulder was absolutely adamant about not 
having anything to do with little tiny acupuncture pins.

There was one other thing for her to do - hang her late sister's charms 
and crystals in the room he was sleeping in. Mulder had given her 
strange looks while she was doing that, and in fact, Scully felt 
ridiculous about it too. But well, her sister had been really into 
charms and healing crystals, and yin and yang, and had always gone on 
and on about how effective these things were spiritually so Scully 
figured there wasn't going to be any harm in trying. Regardless of how 
stupid the idea sounded.

Mulder patiently put up with her alternative methods of therapy. His 
reluctance about non-medicinal cures surprised her in a way, she would 
have expected Mulder to be the one who would actively search for his own 
cure. Instead he seemed strangely uninterested. On the other hand, 
Scully was the one who had suddenly become fascinated by alternative 
methods of treatments, reading up on folk cures and herbs and mushrooms. 
During the first two months she had put Mulder's disinterest down to the 
fact that he was in denial and thus wasn't willing to acknowledge that 
he needed a cure. She supposed that presently he was too sick to be 
bothered with actually expending his energy to search for his cure when 
he knew Scully was doing that on his behalf. 

Besides her sudden change in opinion about the effectiveness of 
alternative methods of treatment provided some form of amusement for 
Mulder. He was frequently chiding her for being gullible enough to fall 
for the various alternative treatments she recommended for him.

Mulder was licking his spoon when Scully sat down in the chair beside 
him. She placed his mug of tea on the table. Mulder pretended not to 
notice. 

One of her alternative methods of treatment did work. She brought back 
some black powder, apparently watermelon frost, for his mouth and throat 
ulcers. He hadn't been happy about that either at first - the powder had 
to be dabbed directly on the ulcers and that hurt like hell. The powder 
really did heal the ulcers though, there were none now. 

"Why are you watching this?" Scully asked, indicating the nature 
documentary on her television. "I never thought you had much interest in 
orangutan mating habits."

"Hey, just because I am forced to be totally celibate now doesn't mean I 
can't watch other guys having fun."

"I told you to behave while you're at my house," Scully reminded him 
with a smile.

"I am behaving myself," Mulder said. "This is nature, mind you. I am 
trying to commune with nature."

"Fine, commune all you want, but be careful with that bowl of ice 
cream."

Mulder hadn't eaten much of the ice cream, and what was left was pretty 
much melted mush sloshing in the bowl. He shrugged and handed the bowl 
to her. She took the bowl and put it back on the table in case he 
changed his mind and wanted some more.

"Is your mom coming again later? When did she leave?" 

"She left when I got back just now. And yes, she's coming back later. 
She'll be bringing that chicken soup you like."

"Okay," Mulder said. He turned back onto his side and shifted down on 
the couch, careful not to jostle the cap off his head, and closed his 
eyes. His blanket was wet from where the ice cream bowl had been but he 
pulled the blanket up around him anyway. Scully sipped her coffee. She 
should make him drink his tea first before it got cold, but she didn't 
want to force him into a sitting position once he was so obviously 
comfortable. Besides he had already fallen asleep. Just like that. After 
all those years of insomnia he sure was catching up on sleep with a 
vengeance. At least he had relinquished control of the remote control so 
she was able to switch channels and find something to watch to keep her 
company.

There was a documentary on another channel about recent advances in the 
detection of breast cancer in women. The commentator was speaking of the 
genetics of cancer - the likelihood of a woman having breast cancer 
increased substantially if other female members of her family had had 
the cancer as well. 

"Do you take care of yourself?"

Scully was surprised to hear Mulder speak. So he hadn't fallen asleep 
yet. His question was also a surprise, although she instantly knew 
exactly what he was talking about. He was asking about her health, her 
possible risk of developing cancer following whatever it was that had 
happened to her during her three month disappearance after she was 
kidnapped by Duanne Barry. She knew Mulder worried about her as much as 
she worried about him, but they had never spoken about this matter 
before. Never ever.

"I make sure I'm okay," she answered. Mulder was still lying on his 
side, watching her intently.

"Do you go to a doctor?"

"Mulder, I am a doctor." 

Scully's little joke only earned her a slight twist of Mulder's lips. 
She turned her attention to her mug of coffee, trying to ignore Mulder's 
scrutiny. She wasn't about to tell him how much time she spent in front 
of the mirror every night, checking her body for the slightest 
discoloration, or the smallest lump. She wasn't going to admit that she 
now watched her weight fanatically to ensure there wasn't any 
unexplained weight loss - Mulder had lost almost twenty pounds in under 
two months without anyone noticing anything wrong. She worried if she 
felt unnecessarily tired at work - Mulder had been incredibly tired and 
anemic for weeks before his diagnosis. She almost always panicked if her 
period came late, or too early.

Much as she tried to deny the likelihood of any cancer risks, she still 
worried. She worried that if she discovered a tumor it might be 
inoperable. She worried that if she did develop cancer, it would be 
incurable. Then she would end up as bad as some of the patients she'd 
seen in Mulder's cancer ward. Cancer was a painful, sad thing to have. 

"Scully," Mulder's voice jolted her out of her reverie. He was still 
watching her carefully. "I didn't tell you this, but Cancerman visited 
me at the hospital."

Her blood ran cold. "What did he want?"

"He had this man with him," Mulder said, ignoring her interruption. 
"Some doctor of some sort, well, he had a white lab coat on. Said his 
name is Kurt Crawford. He claims to know about you, and your risks of 
neoplastic transformation."

Neoplastic transformation - an elaborate way to describe cancer 
development. Scully nervously waited for Mulder to continue. 

"He said that he can help. He spoke of cancer suppressor genes, and 
mutated genomes, and oncogenes. He says he can reverse these mutations. 
Turn genetic switches back on so as to avoid neoplastic transformation. 
He said he could fix the side effects of whatever it was that happened 
to you before. He suggested that a meeting can be arranged to discuss 
things further."

Mulder's news was as cruel a blow as telling her she had only one month 
left to live. An indirect confirmation that she was indeed going to 
develop cancer, that it was not a 'risk' of developing cancer, it was 
more of a guarantee. Her clinical mind argued this could be either a 
trap or an incredibly sick joke.

"Who was that man?" Her voice was no more than a hiss.

"I don't know him. He claimed to be sincere and to be in a position to 
help. He insisted he had no ulterior motives."

"You trust him?" Scully barely spat out the words. 

"I do not know. But I have been giving this matter much thought, and I 
would never have told you about this if I didn't feel there was reason 
enough for you to consider meeting him."

"He says I have cancer?" Scully asked in a whisper. She dreaded to hear 
the answer but she needed the confirmation. 'Developing cancer' meant 
something totally different from 'having cancer'. Developing cancer was 
a distressing thought, but it still afforded some faint hope of 
prevention. 

"No, he says you probably do not yet have neoplasia. But you will 
develop neoplasia if there is no intervention on his part."

Her silence spoke volumes of her confusion, of her reeling shock, of 
flashes of mortality slipping near. She had been close to death once, 
and had emerged victorious and convinced that life was such that when 
the end finally came, she would be ready to take leave of life and go in 
peace. But in truth, life was not something so easy to let go of.

"I am sorry Scully," Mulder said softly. "I would never have mentioned 
this, but I felt that in the end it isn't my decision or my right to 
decide if he was telling the truth or a lie. I have to tell you. It is 
your life, your health. He may be able to help. He may be sincere. It 
will have to be your decision."

"He has to be lying."

"Yes, but only you can decide that."

"He's claiming what? That he can reverse the mutation that will be the 
cause of my cancer? That is science fiction! Genetic mutations are not 
reversible!" 

"Science fiction now becomes science fact later. A hundred years ago 
landing on the moon was a fiction. Now we know it and take it for 
granted."

"This is not the same!" Scully yelled. "Medical advancements of that 
magnitude are not within our grasp yet. Nobody can claim to reverse a 
mutation or turn on a genetic switch that for whatever reason has been 
turned off!"

"When you returned to us you had branched DNA in your system," Mulder 
reminded her quietly. "That is also a scientific impossibility."

"Branched DNA was the side effect of what they did to me," Scully said 
flatly. She glared at Mulder. "Did he say what they did to me?"

"No he did not," Mulder answered. "But Scully, work is being done by 
many scientists to track down mutated genes that lead to disease. 
Scientists have isolated so many genes already which are known to be 
responsible for disease. Might not Crawford have discovered a way to 
identify the specific cancer gene and alter it?"

"Nobody can change a structure of a functioning gene in a living human 
body!" Scully was nearing the point of hysteria. She didn't want to know 
this now. She didn't want to think about this now. 

"Perhaps they can," Mulder said soothingly. She realized suddenly that 
Mulder had not spoken this much in one go since the day he came home 
with her. He would usually lose his strength mid-way through a 
conversation. But now, he was actually maintaining a sort of argument 
with her. The effort must be taxing. She tried to calm down, for his 
sake.

"I honestly do not know what is truth and what is not. Meet this Kurt 
fellow, Scully. If he's full of crap, then tell him off. You'll know if 
he's lying. Or if he is telling the truth. The truth hurts, Scully, I 
know. But better this painful truth than the pain of being sick later."

"He is connected to the Cancerman? Why should I have anything to do with 
a man who is in cahoots with that bastard?" Scully demanded.

 "Because I want to make sure you are okay, Scully. I have to make to 
sure. I don't want this for you... being this sick. It hurts, it sucks, 
and there's a death sentence on your head that is real hard to ignore. I 
don't want this for you."

Scully stared at him. "Did you make a deal?" 

"Not a deal," he replied. "An agreement which I am sure he will honor. 
Protect yourself Scully, take care of yourself, that is all I'm asking 
you to do."

"You are asking me to believe that a man has told you that I will get 
cancer and that I will die! And this man seems to be the be the only 
thing between me and a short life. You are asking me to meet and then 
decide if I should trust a man who might be working with the man who had 
my sister killed!" She was screaming at him again.

 Mulder looked at her and calmly said, "Yes, Scully. That is exactly 
what I am asking you to do."


**********


Scully walked quickly towards the lone figure sitting on the bench in
the hospital's small recreational park, feeling the first drops of rain
striking her eyelashes and cheeks. The figure was dressed in jeans and a
sweatshirt, and the cap was on his head as usual. He didn't seem
particularly concerned about the raindrops falling down on him. She
stopped just beside him and waited for him to notice her.

"Is this seat taken?"

He grinned. "Well, I was waiting for this terrific brunette I picked up
in the bar the other day, but I guess since you got here first I'll have
to settle for you."

She sat down, gently patting his leg as she admonished him, "I had to
search all over for you, Mulder. You are not supposed to be here."

He shrugged. "I figured you might miss those days when you never knew
where I was and never knew how you were going to cover up for me."

"So you decide to wander off and let me worry again?" He chuckled in
response to her statement. She smiled back. He was right in a way. She
desperately missed all things Mulder, even the annoying habits that got
on her nerves. "Who helped you out here?" she asked.

"One of the other patients' visitors," Mulder answered. She saw his
walker by the side of the bench. She guessed that he must have been
brought here in a wheelchair by a friendly, helpful, but naive fellow,
then Mulder had convinced that person to leave him to sit on the bench
for a while. The walker was left near him so that he could go in by
himself if he had to, although the truth was that Mulder was in no shape
to walk far unaided. Mulder tilted his head up to look at the cloudy sky
above, blinking as the drops of water splashed about his eyes.

"Let's get out of this rain Mulder," Scully said. "You shouldn't have
left your room." Mulder was being prepped for the bone marrow
transplant. The slightest hint of infection would set all plans off.

"Wait a while longer, Scully." He glanced at her. "I want to get
drenched. I have been sitting here for a long time, just waiting for the
rain."

The light drizzle was rapidly turning into real rain. She saw that he
had disconnected his own IV tube. She wondered how he had managed to
sneak out of his room without being noticed at all.

She had arrived at Mulder's room just after lunch with a couple of cans
of root beer to celebrate the return of Samantha O'Connor to her family.
Samantha had been rescued the day before yesterday, when the police of
Orange County tracked down the kidnapper - a kind-looking man in his
mid-thirties who had kidnapped Samantha and then proceeded to care for
her as though she were his own daughter. He would have continued to love
her until Christmas Eve, then he would have killed her and picked
another little girl to pretend as his daughter.

The kidnapper was exactly who Mulder said he would be, working the sort
of job Mulder had suggested he would have (he was a freelance nature
photojournalist who moved from state to state at the end of every single
year), and who seemed in a warped way, to genuinely love and care for
Samantha, just as Mulder had claimed he would. Samantha was safe,
unharmed, and was in fact, a happy little girl. Police and the Los
Angeles FBI were still trying to determine his motives, but there was no
doubt that his motives would turn out to be what Mulder had already
predicted.

Mulder had been overjoyed that his comprehensive profile had proved
instrumental in the rescue of Samantha O'Connor. His sad regret was that
he hadn't been there personally for the search and subsequent rescue and
that he wouldn't be there to interrogate the kidnapper.

She was surprised not to find him in his room. He'd only been back at
the hospital for less than a week after his 'holiday' at her apartment.
Nobody knew where he was, in fact the nurses in the ward were probably
still frantically searching for him.

She had tried looking for him in the garden because he had mentioned to
her yesterday how much he would love to just sit outdoors and breathe
real air again, instead of the filtered disinfected air in his hospital
isolation room. Still she hadn't quite believed that Mulder would have
been able to get out of the cancer ward, and then all the way down to
the garden. She should have known better.

"I was thinking of our first case together," Mulder said. "Now that was
wet! Real drenched to the skin wet."

Scully had to smile at that memory. "And everything we owned for that
trip was burned to crisp."

Mulder laughed. "Oh yeah. I thought you would dump me after that. I
figured you'd run back to your superiors and beg them to please, take
you back."

"Staying with you was definitely a better option than begging. I never
beg."

"Well, stay with me now. Please?"

Her hair was getting wet. She was glad she hadn't put too much make-up
on, just a dash of lipstick. Drops of water slid down her face and into
her mouth when she talked.

"You cannot be out here Mulder," she said. "We have to get you out of
the rain. Rain is going to make you sick. We don't want you to get
pneumonia now."

"Scully, you know better than that," Mulder quipped. "Rain isn't going
to make me sick. You can't catch pneumonia from raindrops."

Scully sighed, mildly exasperated. Of course he would be stubborn. She
tugged at his arm and then stood up, trying to pull him up with her. He
managed to resist her and pull her back down beside him.

"Stay with me," he pleaded again. Very unpredictably, he slung an arm
over her shoulder and pulled her closer to him.

"Cold?" She allowed him to hug her.

"I just want to hold you for a while," Mulder said. Scully didn't mind
that. She wrapped her arm around his waist and leaned into him. Mulder
rested his cheek against her hair. The rain pattered in an absurdly
rhythmic way off his cap, Scully found she quite liked the sound.

"Mulder, we really cannot risk you getting sick. There will be other
times to sit together," Scully said, hoping to reason with him. The only
other alternative would be to get help from hospital orderlies and drag
him in.

"I want this time, Scully," he murmured into her wet hair. She barely
heard him above the pitter-patter sound of raindrops falling.

"You should not be out of isolation. What if you  get sick." She tried
to disentangle herself from his embrace, but he hugged her tighter.

"Never mind. It's simple fate, Scully."

"What?" she asked incredulously.

"Simple fate," he answered happily. "Whatever will be will be."

"What are you talking about?"

"Things happen Scully, for no reason. And if they happen, then they
happen. But you can't waste time worrying about something that might
happen. So you live, Scully. You take every opportunity that comes along
and live it. Sometimes it's better not to think about the consequences."

"You have to, Mulder. The consequences of you becoming sick again..."

"I miss the rain, Scully. There's something beautiful about the rain
that I've always taken for granted. But I'm here now, and I want to stay
and appreciate the rain again. And you're here with me too. I have both
the things I have been missing most. Never mind the consequences, what
that comes after this. I'll accept my life's simple fate."

Mulder's philosophy was not something Scully thought of as particularly
appealing under the circumstances. She pulled away from him a bit and
tried to look up at him, a very hard thing to do while raindrops were
splattering her face. She had to keep blinking water out of her eyes.

Mulder was so happy. She hadn't seen him so happy in a long time. This
was an adventure to him, a little forbidden adventure outside the
sterile confines of his hospital room. Despite the terrible death pallor
of his face, and the blueness of his lips and the shivering from cold,
his joy was radiant. Against her better judgement she allowed him to
keep his arms around her, and moved closer to him, ignoring the squishy
feeling of wet pantyhose.

"This is ridiculous Mulder. And very dangerous to your health," she
said, a last ditch appeal to get some sense into him.

"Scully, I'm not bleeding anywhere. My lungs are working, my kidneys are
working, and my heart is working. I am not having seizures. I know I am
at risk for infections but I'm getting a lot of antibiotics to ward off
infection. Most importantly - right now the pain isn't so bad. I haven't
had a day as good as this in so long. I want to breathe the rain. I want
to feel the rain. And I want to be with you. Give me this time, Scully.
Share it with me."
 
The rain was falling steadily, heavier than a drizzle but not an
outright downpour. The drops of rainwater splattered gently off the both
of them. Their clothes were getting drenched.

"Why do I let you talk me into this?" Scully wondered aloud.

"Because I'm sick and you indulge me," Mulder answered cheekily.

She would have loved to smack him for giving her that answer but instead
she just cuddled closer to him. They sat that way, together, as the rain
pattered down on them from the heavens above.



*******



She stayed with him in his room until late at night. It was an
inevitable option really, considering how wet she was. Her wet clothes
were still hanging in Mulder's bathroom, she was wearing one of Mulder's
T-shirts and a nurse's skirt. She would have to wear the borrowed
clothes home, and hope that nobody she knew was going to spot her.

 The nurses and doctors had been so amused by the idea that the both of
them had sat out in the rain for half an hour that they decided to
forgive Mulder for removing his IV and 'escaping' from his room. He was
no worse off from his little adventure anyway. A bit cold when he came
in again, but he was so overwhelmingly happy that he didn't even whine
when he was reconnected to his IV line and then given a thorough,
antiseptic cleanup.

She desperately hoped that he wasn't going to become ill after all that
time spent wet and cold. His condition really was that fragile. He was
scheduled for his bone marrow transplant in fourteen days.

In retrospect, she would always be glad that she had stayed with him in
the rain. Mulder's joy had been giddying, infectious. She had enjoyed
herself as immensely as he had. They stayed in the rain until it
tampered off to drizzle again, then they tried splashing through puddles
as he leaned on her for support. They lingered as long as they could in
the park, breathing in the fresh scent of wet earth and toying with the
tiny droplets of water at the edges of leaves.

For dinner she fed him her mom's chicken soup, while she ate a sandwich
her mom had also brought. They watched the CNN news bulletin of Samantha
O'Connor being hugged and kissed by her grateful parents. Mulder smiled
as he watched it.

"She is such a lovely child, Scully."

"And she is going to grow up to be a lovely woman, thanks to you."
Scully told him.

There was mention of Fox Mulder's name on the same bulletin. Special
Agent Fox Mulder was the federal agent who had successfully tracked down
Samantha O'Connor, and the O'Connors were quoted as they profusely
thanked the wonderful agent who gave their daughter back to them.

Mulder watched that part of the news silently, and when it was over he
simply changed the channel without further comment. But Scully noticed
the way his eyes brimmed bright for a while and knew that he was feeling
a mixture of joyous pride and sadness. Pride, that he was right and that
his profile had helped save Samantha's life. Sad, that the Samantha he
had saved was not the Samantha he had devoted his whole life to
searching.

Her hair was still damp, but it was time to go home. She wasn't making
much headway with the alien abduction X-File she was working on. Her
heart wasn't really in it, she supposed. She had Mulder to worry about,
and she also had Kurt Crawford to contend with.

After careful consideration of what Mulder had told her, she had agreed
to a meeting with Kurt. To arrange the meeting she had to contact a UN
representative in New York, apparently this was what Mulder had done
when he arranged his own meeting with Cancerman in the park. By dropping
some subtle clues and hints during a brief telephone conversation with
this representative, a woman who Mulder claimed offered him sympathy and
assistance while his mother was still comatose, she was hopefully
sending a message for a meeting across to the secret government man. She
waited for that man to contact her with a time and place, then she went
to the place at the pre-arranged time for the meeting. Kurt Crawford
came alone.

The meeting had started off badly. Kurt was arrogant and insensitive,
she was reeling from the emotional blow that she had been a guinea pig,
and that they had experimented on her body. They'd done terrible things
that even Kurt wasn't keen on mentioning.

"So was he full of crap?" Mulder had asked yesterday when she gave him a
full account of the meeting.

"Much as I would like to believe that, I am more inclined to believe
that he was telling the truth. However I insisted that when we meet
again he is to bring me solid evidence, proof that he does know me, and
my history."

"What about the things he said? The genomic mutations, the cancer
suppressor genes..."

"His theories are sound. His methods are actually feasible, providing he
has the equipment to back them up. As a scientist I have to confess that
his medical breakthroughs are fascinating. Unfortunately, those medical
breakthroughs need to be tested on me. Understandably, that is where he
and I fail to see eye to eye."

"But?"

"I need to have some tests done. He claims that in the majority of
abductees the first tumor appears within the nasopharyngeal cavity - the
cavity in the skull here, above the nose. Inoperable. It is not a brain
tumor, but it can push against the brain as it grows larger, and this
tumor will, without fail, metastasize to all other organs. A very lethal
neoplasm."

She was not going to do anything else until she determined for herself
whether or not she might have a tumor. Kurt wouldn't be of much help if
she were already sick. She was scheduled for a thorough examination in a
couple of days. There was no turning back now. The time had come for her 

to accept her fate.

 Mulder had respected her decisions and given her support, listening
patiently as she recited what Kurt had told her, and as she discussed
her doubts over what was science fact and what should be science
fiction. Kurt had been an impressive lecturer. It was only later that
the realization struck her that Mulder had struggled not to fall asleep
last night as she rambled on.

Right now though, Mulder was sleeping, one hand holding her hand loosely
in its grasp. She called to him softly.

"I have to go home now, Mulder."

He didn't wake up. After the CNN news broadcast his pain had flared up
badly and he'd asked for, and got, a lot of morphine. She sighed, then
pulled her hand away slowly. She stroked his head. One month without any
chemotherapy and his hair was growing nicely. Pity he was going to lose
it all again. She kissed him good night, and somewhat reluctantly, left
him to sleep alone.


**********



"That's good, that how you do it."

"No, no, don't. OK, OK, that's it, breathe, right, you have it, now 
breathe."

Mulder did as he was told. He heard other voices, felt hands on his 
body. He heard the beep beep of a heart monitor. He also heard a 
familiar soft pumping sound, a sort of whoosh. There was a tube down his 
throat, he couldn't swallow. He suddenly understood. He was on a 
respirator. Someone was trying to teach him to breathe with the machine 
instead of fighting it.

He opened his eyes and for a brief while he thought the world had gone 
incredibly bright while he slept. Then slowly his eyes focussed. He was 
lying in bed, the ceiling was above him, and a voice was telling him 
when he should breathe. And his chest hurt so bad, how long had he been 
on the respirator?

There was a hand against his cheek. "Are you awake Mulder?"

That was such a stupid question. If Mulder didn't have the tube down his 
throat he would have come up with some snide reply to that. 

"Can you squeeze my hand?"

Mulder squeezed somebody's hand. He suddenly felt the excitement from 
everyone around him. But he was too tired and confused to be scared. He 
remembered going to sleep. Scully had been with him. Everything had been 
fine. Earlier in the day he had sat with Scully in the rain. Then they 
had dinner together. And he remembered CNN showing Samantha O'Connor's 
safe return to her family. Why was he on a respirator now? 

He wanted to sit up, but his body hurt too much, plus the blasted tube 
was down his throat. And he was so terribly weak, he had never ever felt 
this weak before. Someone was still there beside him, telling him when 
he should breathe in. He could see the doctors and nurses around his 
bed, watching him, monitoring him, testing his reflexes. He was still in 
his own hospital room.

"When did he wake up?" Scully's voice. His throat was raw and painful, 
he was tired of breathing with the machine. Then he heard a different 
voice, "Take him off the respirator, he'll be OK."

Other voices were replying to Scully's voice but one loud voice was 
telling Mulder not to gag, that they were going to pull the tube out. 
Then suddenly the tube was out but Mulder couldn't breathe. 

"No, no, don't," someone said. Mulder wasn't sure what that meant, he 
was too busy gasping, trying to get air into his lungs. Hands grabbed 
his head and an oxygen mask was slipped into place over his mouth and 
nose. Now his chest muscles hurt even more, and the simple act of 
breathing seemed to require more energy than he felt he had. 

He felt a hand grab his hand and he squeezed. The soft hand squeezed 
back. Scully. 

He felt fingers caressing his cheek and head, but he'd closed his eyes 
and was too tired to open them again.



*******


Two nights ago he'd had a seizure. It was the night Scully sat with him 
to watch the CNN broadcast of Samantha O'Connor's safe return to her 
family, it happened after Scully had gone home. The first seizure was 
followed by a second in less than five minutes. By the time Scully 
arrived at about five in the morning, Mulder had had four grand mal 
seizures and was in severe pain. 

DIC had resulted in hemorrhages in his brain. He hemorrhaged elsewhere 
too and tiny clots lodged in his kidneys' circulation. He was at risk of 
kidney failure. There wasn't anything more the doctors could do - even 
though Scully was literally screaming that they should save him, that it 
wasn't too late. They had done what they could, loaded him up with 
anticoagulants, connected him to a dialysis machine, made him as 
comfortable as possible. He was still with them when the sun came up, 
but by then he had slipped into a coma. They called his mother and told 
her to come as quickly as possible.

"There was no need to call my mother," Mulder said. He was still very 
weak, and to Scully he looked awfully frail. He sounded frail - his 
voice was terribly hoarse and soft and he had to take long pauses to 
catch his breath. He'd woken up from his coma just five hours ago. 

Scully gently caressed his cheek, carefully avoiding the oxygen tube. 
They had taken the oxygen mask off and were giving him oxygen through a 
nasal prong, and they had removed most of the equipment that he had been 
connected to while in coma. Only the dialysis machine remained. 

"She'll be upset of she sees me this sick."

To Scully Mulder remained one of the most unique individuals on Earth. 
He'd just been told how close he'd been to dying and his first voiced 
concern was that his mother would get upset upon seeing how sick her son 
truly was. She decided that Mulder should be spared the truth about how 
upset his mother really had been.

"Mulder, we thought we were going to lose you. I called your mother. 
She... she waited with me," Scully said. No need to explain what they 
had been waiting for.

Mulder's eyes softened. "Thank you for waiting."

Scully smiled, and for some unknown reason, blushed. 	

He watched as her cheeks turned bright red and felt delight. If he had 
even a bit of strength in his arms then he'd have reached out and 
caressed her cheek, or played with a lock of her hair, just so she'd 
blush some more. She was lovely.

Perfect thing to live for.

"But I knew you were going to be all right, Mulder," Scully stammered. 
She grabbed his limp hand, than said more earnestly, "I was waiting for 
you to wake up. Somehow I knew you weren't going to leave me. Not yet."

Mulder just nodded. Scully gently stroked his arm. She knew that the 
stroking comforted him. Mulder closed his eyes. 

He had been fascinated rather than scared or upset when Scully told him 
how close he'd been to dying. Thing was, he hadn't even been aware of 
it. No clue whatsoever that his life could have simply just slipped 
away. When he'd woken up from the coma he'd felt like he'd just woken up 
from a long nap.

No near death revelations. No dreams. Nothing. Just him falling asleep 
one minute, and then him waking up with a tube down his throat the next.

Never mind that he hadn't died. The point was that he had almost died. 
And for some reason he felt that he should have been aware of that. He 
felt he deserved some bit of enlightenment before leaving life, that if 
his life should somehow end now then larger mysteries should be 
revealed. He felt that this was owed him after all that he had had to go 
through.

Death, he realized, could be amazingly easy. Just slip away... and sleep 
forever. 



*******


Mulder's chest heaved with each breath he took. Breathing was very hard 
work. She patted the soft new hair on his head. She remembered growing 
up on navy bases, watching handsome young men in uniform with their crew 
cut hair. She and Missy would gawk at the dashing officers in uniform - 
she must have had about a crush or two every year of her teenage life. 
She and Missy would sit together in their room and giggle about which 
enlisted man was the handsomest man alive.

She smiled sadly to herself. If Mulder weren't so haggard, he would 
definitely cut a dashing figure in uniform - he'd certainly look the 
part with his current hairstyle.

She continued to stroke him, to caress him. She wanted him to know that 
she was with him. She wasn't going to leave him. When she arrived at the 
hospital two days ago after Mulder's seizures, she had been so afraid. 
Mulder was in agony, he was gasping for air, his body was shivering, and 
he was weeping from the pain. When she reached out to hold his hand he 
had grasped her hand so hard she was surprised that he still had the 
strength. He whispered, "Will you wait with me?"

She had stroked his forehead, and answered that of course she would.

"Will it hurt?" His voice was so soft she had to lean down close to his 
face to hear him. He wasn't looking at her. He was staring at some point 
behind her, staring hard, as though there really was something to see.

"It's OK, Mulder, I'm here, everything's fine. No, it won't hurt." The 
nurses had already given him his morphine. 

"It won't hurt anymore." Mulder murmured, his relief evident. And Scully 
suddenly realized that he was talking about death. Death was here to 
take him away from her, and he was ready to go. He was dying, and he 
knew it and he welcomed it.

"No!" she cried. "You will not leave me Mulder. Stay with me! I am not 
going to leave you. Don't you dare leave me!"

Mulder sighed again. "It won't hurt."

"No, Mulder, you will fight. You have to fight. You are going to live. 
You are staying with me, damn it, for at least another thirty years! You 
hear me? Stay with me! Fight!"

And Mulder had done that. He fought for life and defied Death. He had 
lingered on, stayed with her, probably listened to her cries, probably 
tasted a few of her tears as she sat beside him through the two whole 
days of deathwatch. 

Her own mom sat with her through most of those hours. And Mrs. Mulder 
never left the hospital from the moment she arrived. 

Mulder's mother had taken a flight out to DC, and then taken a cab from 
the airport. She walked into Mulder's room while Scully was there with 
her mom. Mrs. Mulder came up beside the bed, stared down into her son's 
pale and gaunt face, traced the tube from his mouth to the respirator, 
stared at the beeping lines of the heart monitor. Then she had broken 
down in tears, and had tried to hug her son where he lay motionless in 
bed. Mrs. Scully had politely excused herself from the scene, but Scully 
had stayed, stubbornly holding on to Mulder's hand. 
 
After Mrs. Mulder was done crying, they sat quietly together on either 
side of Mulder, and waited. They rarely spoke except in hushed whispers 
to Mulder. After two days with Mrs. Mulder Scully still knew absolutely 
nothing about her, save the fact that Mrs. Mulder did love her son very 
much... and that she was ready to let him die, if that were his fate.

Occasionally her mom would come in and order her to go get food, or to 
go take a bath, or to go sleep on the couch available in the waiting 
area. Her mom didn't agree with her unwavering belief that Mulder was 
not dying.

"Dana honey, let him go," she'd said to Scully. Only the two of them 
were there at the time beside Mulder's bed. His mother had finally been 
talked into taking a quick bath.

"It's not his time, Mom. You'll see. If he can just fight this, he'll be 
OK."

"I don't know medicine, but I understand what people tell me," her mom 
said. "His kidneys are failing. His lungs are failing. His heart is 
weak. Even if he does recover from this, what hope will he have? This is 
his time, honey."

"No! There is so much more he has to do!" Scully hoped that Mulder could 
hear them talking about him, hoped that somehow he would join her fight 
and prove everyone wrong. Hoped that he would hear her and remember just 
how much more he had to live for. 

"His sister... the search isn't over. He shall not want to not know what 
has happened to Samantha. And me..."   ...He has to stay with me, he 
will help me if it the nightmares turn out true and I do have cancer - 
he is so concerned about that, surely he won't just abandon me now?

But she couldn't speak those final words out loud. She could not let her 
mother know that she was a ripe candidate for malignant tumors.

"Honey, God put him here, for whatever reason his life has been the way 
it is. And now Fox's life is complete. It's his time to go. He was so 
lucky not to suffer any ill effects after that first seizure. Who knows 
what damage has happened after these seizures? He doesn't have to be in 
pain anymore. We can mourn him, Dana. But we cannot keep him."

Scully bit her lip, choking back tears. She remembered her mother 
speaking this way to her when she was a child and her grandfather died. 
Sudden bitterness engulfed her. Would these be her mother's words to her 
brothers if she were the one dying from cancer? Mulder would never give 
up on her. He would do everything in his power to save her. She knew 
that. She knew he would trade his life for hers if that would save her 
from having cancer. He would probably sell his soul to the Devil if he 
thought he really had no other alternative to save her life. She thought 
of Kurt Crawford and Cancerman. She didn't know what sort of agreement 
Mulder had with Cancerman, but he had done it, just to make sure she 
would be all right.

Skinner had visited too, each and every time he was free. Yesterday 
afternoon he sat with her for a half hour before literally dragging her 
off to the cafeteria for lunch. She had taken emergency leave from work 
again to be with Mulder, and Skinner suggested that maybe she should 
just take a whole month off or so. He felt Scully would need the time to 
grieve after Mulder... departed.

"I would prefer to save my vacation days for later, when he has his bone 
marrow transplant," Scully had responded to his suggestion.

Skinner shifted uncomfortably, unsure how to deal with her denial of 
Mulder's condition. "Is he, um, will he still have the transplant? Once 
he, well, recovers?"

"Of course," Scully said. "A bone marrow transplant is his best hope for 
a cure." She looked directly at Skinner as she added, "He will recover 
from this... trauma. He looks worse off than he really is actually. I 
know he's so thin, he's cachexic. You know. But he will be fine. I think 
he's been given enough anticoagulants to remove all blood clots from his 
circulation. His kidneys will recover too eventually."

Skinner nodded but she could see the concern and doubt in his eyes. She 
didn't give a damn though, what others thought. She knew Mulder was 
going to live.

 "You mentioned before that chemotherapy should cure him, and that a 
bone marrow transplant would be a last resort."

"Well, with Mulder there are other problems to think of, namely anemia 
and DIC," Scully said. She was glad to be able to explain medical facts 
rather than to follow Skinner as he treaded carefully around the issue 
of Mulder's mortality.  Medical facts she could cling on to, medical 
facts were her salvation for Mulder and also for herself, if Kurt 
Crawford was for real. She'd be happy to talk clinical talk till the sun 
went down. Or until her Mulder awoke, whichever came first. 

"You see, his marrow is producing leukemic white blood cells. At the 
same time, his marrow is simply unable to produce enough red blood 
cells, which results in severe anemia. We can counter that for the time 
being by giving him frequent transfusions to replenish his red cells. A 
bone marrow transplant is the best solution for a case like Mulder's. 
New marrow from a healthy donor will be transfused into him and  will 
engraft - that means his body will accept this new marrow and he can 
produce sufficient red blood cells as well as platelets, and most 
importantly, normal, functioning white cells. Intensive chemotherapy 
prior to transplant eradicates all the leukemic white cells, once those 
cells are out of the way, his complications relating to DIC are gone 
too, because DIC is triggered by chemicals released by the leukemic 
cells."

Skinner was silent for a while. Scully wondered if he understood. Then 
he asked, "But what about the chemotherapy Mulder had before?"

"For some reason or other, Mulder never responded to chemo." 

"No remission." Skinner said.

"No remission is one thing. For Mulder absolutely nothing happened. 
Chemotherapy had no effect whatsoever. Even if he hadn't achieved 
complete remission, we should have been able to knock out quite a number 
of leukemic cells."

"But that didn't happen?"

"No," Scully twisted and untwisted the cling wrap of the sandwich that 
she'd eaten.  "We're not sure why chemo didn't work. But I do have my 
own theories." She considered whether or not to trust Skinner with her 
thoughts, then decided she wanted somebody to talk to. She hadn't 
discussed this with anyone else and she simply had to get it off her 
chest now. 

"Do you remember when Mulder was infected by that alien retrovirus?"

Of course he remembered. Just one of the various other times that Mulder 
was one mere step away from death. He nodded.

"He recovered, and I never noticed anything abnormal about him, I mean, 
there were no problems with blood clotting, his immune system seemed 
fine - no increased susceptibility to illness, but really, we knew 
nothing about the virus, and we still know nothing about it now. There 
is no way to know; what if the virus damaged his marrow? What if this 
leukemia, this hyperproliferation of promyelocytic cells is a result of 
the virus infection? After all, there is no history of anyone in 
Mulder's family ever developing cancer, and genetic testing has shown 
that Mulder does not have that certain genomic mutation that would cause 
him to be susceptible to acute myelocytic leukemia. Perhaps the virus 
damaged his marrow in some way that affects the production and 
proliferation of blood cells. Some viruses are proven to be associated 
with the development of cancer."

Scully paused before voicing her next concern. It was a more personal 
one, one that she felt terribly responsible about. 

"The other possibility is that all the antiviral drugs I gave him to 
fight the retrovirus severely undermined his systems, probably creating 
tolerance for cytotoxic drugs, which could explain why chemo didn't 
work. But then for all you know it's the antiviral agents that damaged 
his marrow. Too much antiviral medication given in too short a period of 
time... true I saved his life, but the doses I gave him... probably 
carcinogenic amounts... I knew they were toxic amounts, he could have 
died of toxicity." Scully stopped. Her voice had been calm and steady 
when she began, now she was rambling. 

 "If the drugs had resulted in marrow damage, then I'm the one who 
caused his leukemia," she finished, her voice a low, small whisper of 
anguish. She had thought about these facts often but she had never 
voiced them before. The guilt had settled around her heart like a vise, 
a secret burden she'd been carrying around for months. 

"Agent Scully," Skinner said gently. He had never seen her so 
distraught. "This isn't necessarily related to that retrovirus 
incident."

"I'm trying to think of the best explanation for why he has AML, and why 
he didn't respond to chemotherapy."

"There are other explanations, Scully, surely there are others who get 
sick for no known reason? You cannot hope to find an answer for 
everything."

"For everything that happens there is always a reason, always a cause."

"But is that important to know now? It's not like anything will change. 
Mulder is already..."

Scully abruptly pushed her half-empty glass of juice away and stood up. 
"I'm going back to Mulder's room."

If she stayed any longer she was going to break into tears again. Her 
confession had only succeeded in distressing her. Skinner didn't 
understand. She would rather cry by Mulder's side, then he might hear 
her sorrow and come back.

Skinner called after her. "Agent Scully!"

She paused in mid-step but didn't turn around.

"I am praying for Agent Mulder," he told her honestly. 

Scully hung her head, then slowly whispered her thanks. She walked back 
alone to Mulder's room. Mulder's mother was in the other chair, asleep. 
Scully sat down in her chair, rested her head on the railing of Mulder's 
bed, and wept quietly.

She was definitely reaching the end of her emotional tether. Her energy 
was spent. She had given her everything for Mulder. She no longer had 
the strength to deal with the likely risk that she may have cancer. She 
didn't even have the courage to face up to Kurt Crawford again to 
discover the truth of what had happened to her during the three months 
she had gone missing.

She couldn't live without Mulder. She needed him to be her strength, her 
pillar, her comfort. She would need to depend on him, to lean on him, 
just as he had depended on her for the past four months. He was the only 
one who truly knew her strengths and weaknesses. He was the only one who 
had absolute faith in her life.

Finally she had placed her palms together, and after such a long lapse, 
she prayed again to God, beseeching Him to keep Mulder with her.

Mulder woke up from his coma this morning. He was now breathing on his 
own, albeit with great effort but what mattered was that he was back 
with her, and he was going to remain with her. She patted the hair on 
his head again. The hair was so soft. She stroked his arm, ignoring the 
skin and bones, concentrating instead on the warmth of his living body 
beneath her hand.

Then she clasped her hands together and  prayed again to God, to thank 
Him for sparing her Mulder's life. And to thank Him for keeping her 
meaning of life alive.


**********



Mulder was much stronger the next day. He ate the ice cream she fed him, 
and she helped him sip root beer whenever he was thirsty. He remained 
awake and alert straight through the day, never even complained of pain. 
He cracked jokes with Scully's mom when she visited in the morning. His 
own mother came to sit with them for a few hours in the afternoon, then 
she went back to the motel. She would come back later to accompany him 
through the night.

Since Mulder was wide awake and perfectly lucid they spent the hours 
reminiscing about their past cases together: successful cases, unsolved 
cases, silly cases.  

"You had long hair the first time we met," Mulder remembered. "How come 
you never keep your hair long now?"

"I wanted to save on shampoo," Scully quipped. He smiled, then feebly 
tried to reach for a lock of her hair. Mulder's bed was raised to a 
thirty-degree angle so she leaned forward, closer to him. He was then 
able to touch her hair.

"You have nice hair," he told her as he twirled the lock of hair between 
his fingers.

Scully recalled another man liking her hair too, once, and he had tried 
to kill her for her nice hair. But the memory of that nightmare didn't 
cause her to shudder this time. Instead she remembered that it was 
Mulder who was the first through the door to save her and it was Mulder 
who had untied her bonds and then supported her as she cried. She could 
still recall the feel of the warmth of his body through his coat as he 
had held her.

"Did you ever keep your hair real long?" 

"Well, when I was in grade school I had shoulder length hair," Scully 
said. "My sister Melissa always had nicer hair though. Her hair was soft 
curls, not straight like mine. I always wanted to have curls in my 
hair."

"No, you wouldn't look nice with curls," Mulder mused, appraising her. 
"You wouldn't look like the Scully I know."

"How would you know I wouldn't look nice? I might be absolutely lovely."

"No, I know you wouldn't look nice," Mulder insisted. "It's because you 
wouldn't be you anymore if you curled your hair."

Scully raised an eyebrow, confused by what point Mulder was trying to 
make. She let it pass.

"You don't look too bad bald, Mulder," she said, playfully tapping the 
cap on his head. "You can pass yourself off as a military man. All you 
need is a uniform, and lots of medals on your chest."

"I hate uniforms. Never even joined the Boy Scouts."

Scully laughed. "I mean it, Mulder. There is no need to hide under the 
cap. Some women happen to find bald men very attractive."

"Do you?"

"Hmm," Scully considered the thought for a moment. "Maybe some men..."

"Admit it Scully, you preferred me when I had hair," Mulder said.

Scully pouted a little. She was caught between a rock and a hard place 
here. She gave a slight shrug and Mulder burst out laughing. Or at least 
he tried to. He ended up gasping and choking instead.

She waited for him to finally catch his breath. She didn't like the way 
he sounded, the way he was literally panting. He caught her eye and gave 
her a reassuring smile. 

"It's okay," he rasped. She shook her head. She was debating whether to 
call the doctor and have him check if Mulder was getting enough oxygen. 
Mulder didn't want that though.

"I'm just... it's hard to I breathe... hurts a bit," again that sad 
smile. "Don't tell!" He added conspiratorially in a loud whisper.

"Mulder, a respirator can help you breath easier," Scully coaxed gently. 

"But I won't be able to talk."

"Mulder..."

"Shh, don't tell them!"

Scully was forced to smile and play along. She figured she should be 
able to detect any sign of respiratory distress anyway, and at the 
moment Mulder was not in clinical distress. 

He was still twirling her hair with his fingers. She took the hand in 
hers and played with his fingers. "You know, if we had met under other 
circumstances, I would have wanted to marry you."

"Oh really?" Mulder raised his eyebrow. "And why not marry me now?"

"I already have you for a partner, why go through the trouble of birth 
control and preparing breakfast?" 

"Want everything but not the responsibility?"

"Something like that," Scully said, grinning. 

"So what you are saying is that we are now partners together minus the 
holy matrimony?"

Scully squealed with laughter. "I never would have thought holy 
matrimony mattered so much to you, Mulder."

"Well partner, my one and only light of my life, to live together in 
holy matrimony is much more ideal than a life of cohabitation, wouldn't 
you agree?" 

"We don't live together, Mulder."

"Ouch, the things I am so obviously missing in life," Mulder sighed 
melodramatically. He cocked his side to one side. "You do know that I 
have always been faithful to you?" His eyes twinkled.

Scully laughed. "I have always known that, partner. And do you know that 
I have always been faithful to you?"

"I have always known... yet it gladdens my heart to hear it uttered from 
your lips," Mulder teased. The effect would have been better if he 
didn't sound so frail. "Truly I shall be yours till death do us part."

In response to his words, Scully kissed him gently on the back of his 
hand and smiled beautifully at him. She still had the other hand by his 
cheek, and he turned his face a bit so that her hand was trapped between 
his cheek and his pillow. She had to be careful not to nudge the oxygen 
prong beneath his nostrils.

"What were you like when you were a little girl?" he wondered aloud.

"Why should it be your business?" Scully retorted with humor.

"A partner should know everything about his lady. It's his manly right."

Scully giggled. "Manly right? Now that is a new one!"

She did end up telling him about her childhood anyway, telling him about 
the navy bases she grew up on, about the tricks her brothers used to 
pull, about the dolls she used to operate on.

"You dissected Barbie?" Mulder exclaimed in horror.

"I wanted to observe the brain. I was quite crushed when I discovered 
Barbie did not possess one. After that I just stuck to dissecting teddy 
bears. At least I could do stuff with the cotton." 

She told him about her first awkward date, and about the time she and 
Missy sneaked into her mom's room to try on her make-up. They weren't 
caught in the act, but her bothers had been curious to know why the two 
sisters had such bright red cheeks. She told him about her dad and how 
he taught her to aim and shoot.

"That is not fair," Mulder grumbled. "I had to learn all my shooting by 
myself when I joined the bureau." 

"Tough luck yuppie kid," Scully sneered good-naturedly.

She even told him about her childhood dreams and fantasies, to find a 
prince and marry him, or to join a circus and ride the horses.

"But never to become an astronaut?"

"Nope, never."

"I taught Samantha how to ride a bike. Then next thing you know, she 
wanted to grow up and join the Olympics cycling team."

"Ambitious."

"Yeah, she was always trying to reach for the largest apple on the 
biggest tree. I taught her how to throw a fastball and she started 
daydreaming about joining the Major League. Taught her how to climb a 
tree, and she's hopping around and swinging about like a monkey. She 
broke her collarbone once, you know, fell off our rope swing. She was 
trying to prove how high she could go. Always had guts that girl," 
Mulder said. He sounded weary because of the effort required to speak so 
much, but he wasn't particularly sad as he talked about his sister in 
the past tense. 

"We will find her you know," Scully said after a brief silence. "We will 
discover the truth."

"I know we will, Scully. But... well, it's funny... just that lately 
I've come to realize that maybe Samantha does not have to be my goal in 
life anymore," Mulder said. Scully looked at him curiously. 

"I still wish to see her again, if she's alive... but I'm also quite 
happy not knowing. I don't know if you understand me. I've always hoped 
that she's alive somewhere, and that she is safe. But I also felt I had 
to see her, and touch her so I can be sure that she is my sister. I 
realize now that it's not so necessary for me to find her, whether she's 
alive or dead, she'll always be my sister."

"She's safe, you know, wherever she is. You have to believe that."

"It's the nicest thing to believe, Scully," Mulder said quietly. "That's 
why it's better not to know, sometimes." He squeezed her hand. "But I do 
need to know that you will be okay."

"I will be fine," she said. "I will make sure that I'm fine."

"You promise me that?"

"Of course," she managed a reassuring smile. 

"Did you go for the medical checkup?"

The appointment was two days ago, but of course she hadn't wanted to 
leave Mulder's side at the time. "It's been rescheduled, next week."

"Fine. Make sure you go Scully. No excuses."

"Don't worry Mulder. I'll go," she promised. "But I can't help but think 
about this Mulder. If Kurt Crawford can and does help me, what price 
will we have to pay later?"

"There is no price."

"We have dealt with these men before. We don't know what they really 
have up their sleeves."

"There will be no price," Mulder repeated. "This is an arrangement made 
between me and the cigarette-smoking man. He will honor it."

"You trust him?" Scully asked doubtfully.

"I trust he will honor me with this deal, in spite of everything else. 
He will not interfere with you." Mulder assured her. "So you don't have 
to worry about that. Just take care of yourself, and make sure you live 
forever."

"No, not forever," Scully said. "Live long enough and I just might run 
into the risk of seeing a revival in disco and bell-bottom pants."

Her mild little joke seemed to give Mulder a lot of mirth. Once again he 
was forced to gasp for breath. Scully watched him shrewdly, wondering if 
she was missing some big joke somewhere. She was also wondering why 
Mulder seemed to place so much faith in Cancerman honoring a promise to 
protect her. She doubted that the man could be bothered. 

But if Mulder had faith in the deal, then she supposed she should keep 
up her end of the bargain and hope that Kurt was indeed her savior and 
her protector from the ravages of cancer. 

"You know what will be good if you live forever?" Mulder wondered aloud. 
Scully raised an eyebrow. "You will be the ultimate X-File."

"That's taking dedication to my work a bit too far, Mulder," Scully 
replied.

Mulder smiled. "Well, you are the best pair of hands I could ever hope 
to hand the X-Files over to."

Scully tried to squish her guilt about not finishing her investigations 
into her first solo X-File. "Oh, I'll do my best."

"I know you will," Mulder said. He knew she hadn't finished the case 
yet. "I trust you'll handle things just fine."

She caressed Mulder's forehead with the tips of her fingers. Her face 
was close to his, she could just lean forward a bit more and kiss him. 
She always marveled how fast Mulder could recover from illness. She 
wished he weren't so pale though. She wanted to have him healthy again 
as soon as possible, and to see him with a touch of color to his cheeks 
and a full head of soft brown hair. She wanted to see his eyes - bright 
and eager, and curious, and see him all fidgety and excited, ready to 
set off on a case. But tonight his hazel eyes were bright and alert, not 
at all glazed over by the morphine or pain. 

Those eyes were gazing up at her right now. "Hey," she whispered 
teasingly.

"Are you scared, Scully?"

The question caught her by surprise. "Of what?"

"Of being sick? As sick as me, maybe?"

She thought about it for a while, then nodded. "Nobody wants to die that 
way Mulder," she said honestly.

"No, no, of course not," he sighed a little, kept his eyes on her. "So 
if you know Kurt is right, and that he can help you don't hesitate. I 
don't want you to ever become sick."

"I know," she said. "And you have to get over this as quickly as you 
can, so we can have the marrow transplant. Then we can have you healthy 
again. Then we can be together again."

"I know," Mulder said softly, smiling. He stroked her cheek with the 
back of his hand. "I miss you, you know."

"So do I, Mulder. So do I."

The door opened and Mrs. Mulder popped her head in. Scully straightened 
up and checked her watch. It was already ten o'clock. Time to go back. 
Mrs. Mulder smiled and nodded at them, then backed out into the 
corridor, leaving them alone for another moment.

"Time to go, partner. It's late." She patted his head one last time.

"I know. Time to go home." He squeezed her hand. "Take care of yourself 
Scully."

She smiled and remarked, "I have a gun, Mulder. I will always be safe. 
Good night, Mulder."

"Good night Scully. Good bye."

On impulse, she leaned forward and gave him a gentle kiss on his 
forehead, and another tender kiss on the lips. "Bye-bye Mulder."

He didn't release her hand until she backed far away enough from the 
bed. As she stood aside to let Mrs. Mulder in she heard Mulder's clear 
voice greet his mother, "Hi Mom! How are you?"

She felt better than she had ever felt in a long time as she went home 
that night. It was a feeling of bright optimism. Past the gloom of the 
possibility that she could develop cancer was the little golden promise 
of a breakthrough medical intervention to prevent the cancer. And if 
Mulder was going to beat his odds, defy fate, and recover from his 
leukemia, there was certainly no reason why she should accept her fate 
without a hell of a good fight.



*******


Scully woke up the next morning without the aid of her alarm clock. She 
rolled over onto her back and just lay in bed for a while, staring up at 
the ceiling, marveling the lightness in her chest. She was probably 
going to have a rough patch ahead of her, what with caring for Mulder 
through his treatment and bone marrow transplant, and then the worry of 
determining her own health status.

But the thoughts didn't cloud her bright spirits. She bounded 
enthusiastically out of bed. Wonderful, beautiful new day. She hummed a 
tune as she showered, and boy, did she shower. She came out feeling 
fresh and clear-headed. She now had everything planned. Today she was 
going to apply for long-term vacation leave. She would have to put the 
X-Files on hold for the time being. She wouldn't have time to work and 
care for Mulder and take care of herself at the same time, although now 
that Mulder's mother was here perhaps her burden would be lighter. 

She would have to explain this decision to Mulder - he wouldn't approve 
of her temporary 'neglect' of the X-Files or be happy about her just 
leaving a case dangling with no solution.

First things first. She was going to visit Mulder at the hospital, feed 
him ice cream and discuss things with him, then she was going to the 
bureau to talk to Skinner. She should clear up the basement office a bit 
too if neither of them would be going to work for some time. She 
wondered if she should reschedule her appointment for an earlier date 
with a different doctor, but decided to stick to her original plan. This 
doctor she was going to see was one of the finest oncologists in the 
country and she had had to pull a few strings to set an appointment with 
him. He had assured her he would give her an absolutely thorough 
checkup. He would detect any abnormality that might be there to detect. 
Her next meeting with Kurt Crawford was in a fortnight's time. She hoped 
that by then Mulder would be strong enough to undergo the preparative 
procedures prior to the bone marrow transplant. 

She dressed in her finest office clothes: her softest blouse, her nicest 
suit and skirt. She brushed her hair as she had never brushed it before. 
She positively glimmered. She applied just the right dash of make-up and 
smiled at herself in the mirror. Mulder was going to be impressed.

She picked up her car keys and the as-yet unsolved case file and was 
ready to go. She had her hand on the doorknob when her phone rang. She 
dashed back into the apartment to answer the phone. Probably Mulder with 
a special ice cream request. He did that sometimes.

In response to her "Hello," she heard a low, strangled sob. 

"Dana Scully?" 

Familiar voice. She had spoken to this voice a few nights ago - to 
inform her that her son was gravely ill. It was Mrs. Mulder. Now Mrs. 
Mulder was calling her, and she was crying? 

Scully's answer was automatic. "This is she."

"I'm calling you... to...My son... he... my ... Fox, he passed away... 
about ten minutes ago."

Scully's brain was suddenly so sluggish. Her thought processes were 
jamming up. Her knowledge of English idioms was lost... 'Passed away' - 
what did that mean?

"He... he died in his sleep. He was in... he didn't... There was none... 
No pain."

Died? Mulder? He was fine last night. Must be some mistake?

"He'll be... we'll wait... I'll wait for you. To come. He'll be here for 
you to come. When you come. To see."

"Thank you. I will," Scully said softly. She heard more sobs, then the 
soft clunk of the phone's handset being placed in its cradle. She was 
holding her own phone tightly against her ear, and listening to the 
shrill tone of a disconnected call.

Her fingers were numb. She set her phone down on the table. Her whole 
being was numb. She stared blankly out the window. Dull morning light 
outside. Should be brighter by this time.  She saw the silver streaks 
flashing down from the sky and realized it was drizzling. Drops of water 
pattering gently onto leaves, leaves bowing down from the weight of 
water splashing down all the way from the heavens. Pitter-patter of 
raindrops against the surface of the leaves. 

Pitter-patter of raindrops against a cap worn by a lovely man who had 
held her in his arms as rain fell. Warmth of his embrace despite the 
cold of rain, tenderness of his touch on her cheek as water slicked her 
face.

Mutely she picked up her car keys again and headed for the door. 


The End


Life's Simple Fate
Ainon (mulangst@hotmail.com, tsuzi@hotmail.com)



AUTHOR'S NOTES: I owe the succesful completion of this story to Susan 
Proto who encouraged me to stick with it and to keep on writing, and 
then helped make sure the story was okay. This is my first story ever. I 
would greatly appreciate feedback and any form of criticism whatsoever, 
but please be kind. Thanks.