AHEAD OF TWILIGHT 
by TexxasRose
(a.k.a. Laura Castellano)
March 2, 1999 - May 20, 1999

laurita_castellano@yahoo.com

Classification: S, A, MSR

Disclaimer: If I owned Fox Mulder I'd keep him much too busy to
solve cases. If I owned Dana Scully she'd be my shopping buddy. I
don't own Skinner or the Gunmen or anybody else that you
recognize either, obviously. They all belong to Chris Carter, and
1013, and Fox Broadcasting, and all those other lucky entities.

Spoilers: Anything up until Biogenesis is fair game.

MAJOR thanks to my long-suffering beta-reader, Julie, who makes
the stories intelligible and who practically wrote the scene with
Mulder, Byers and Skinner singlehandedly but would not let me
give her co-author credit.              


Rating: R 

Archive: Please email me if you wish to archive

WARNING: Minor character death.  This story also contains
mild language, minor references to rape, references to
domestic violence, and a couple of rather graphic shooting
scenes.

SUMMARY: Mulder's life has changed irrevocably and now he must
depend on Skinner to help him recover from a horrible injustice.


***********

Chapter One

***********

The verdict had come quickly, the jury deliberating for only
three hours before returning with their decision.

A federal agent accused of murder.  It was sure to grab headlines
in any newspaper or television broadcast in the nation.

Reporters from all over the country packed the courtroom, their
attention focused on one man who now stood motionless, fearing
even to breathe as he awaited his fate. Today he would learn what
became of him.  At this moment his life was completely out of his
hands.

He had held out hope until the end that their goal had simply
been a good scare--it wouldn't have been the first time they had
toyed with him in that manner--but now all hope was gone. The
verdict was in, and as it was read in a toneless, dispassionate
voice, he felt his world crashing down around him. He finally
understood that they were all-powerful and he was nothing. To
ever have believed otherwise had been so foolish.

His shoulders jumped as the gavel banged and life ended.  From
here on out there would be nothing for him but cold existence.
There would be appeals, of course, but in his heart Mulder knew
it was over.  He was a dead man now, although the heartbeat might
go on in his body for years to come.

It had happened simply, but not suddenly.  Time had been dragging
inexorably toward this moment for months, but he recognized now,
as he faced the reality of it, that he had never truly believed
it would arrive.

Guilty.

Guilty of murder.

He felt the world go black around him as his vision narrowed to a
small tunnel, centering on the gavel.  How could this have
happened?  How could life be over?  It mattered to no one that he
was an innocent man; the court would say anything 'They'
commanded and 'They' had decreed him doomed. 'They' wouldn't kill
him outright. Where was the fun in that?  'They' wanted him to
suffer.  What better way to cause that suffering than by sending
him away in chains, disgraced before his family, friends and the
world, never to be seen again?

A hand touched his arm and he turned, still in shock, to face its
owner. Her eyes were brimming with the tears she refused to shed
here in front of reporters and gawkers, but her face was a mask
of misery that matched his own. Without a word she put her arms
around his waist and lay her head upon his chest.  Numbly he
raised his hands to embrace her and felt resistance as they were
drawn behind him.

Already?  They wanted to take him already?  But he hadn't had a
chance...

Before he could even complete the thought his wrists were cuffed
behind him, the sharp snap of the metal causing them both to
jump. Mulder felt the cold knife of reality cut through his soul.
It was his very last opportunity to hold her and he had lost it.
Stumbling, resisting for a moment, he tried to catch his breath
enough to speak to her.

"Scully..." he murmured as they took his arms and forcibly led
him away, his feet unwillingly following the path that had been
set by those determined to destroy him.  His voice gained power
as he was hustled away from her. "Scully!" he cried, lunging
toward her.  The two burly guards hauled him back and dragged him
in the direction of the door as the courtroom erupted in a
cacophony of sound.  They reached the exit and he jerked away
from them once more, turning for a final look at the woman who
meant everything to him.

A single tear escaped her, breaking his heart with its downward
path.  Skinner put an arm around her shoulder, sensing she needed
his comfort, and Mulder watched as he led her away.

His breathing rapid and shallow, the pain in his chest almost
unbearable, Mulder took one more look at the courtroom.  One more
glimpse of freedom.  The last person he caught sight of before
the door closed behind him was the smoking man, leaning against
the jury box, casually lighting up one of his infernal
cigarettes.  Their eyes locked for a moment and the older man
smiled, giving a nod to Mulder.  Mulder turned his head away and
the world was taken from him.

*****

Four years later

*****

It was a funny thing about liberty, Mulder mused as he watched
the scenery pass.  It could never be taken for granted.  One day
you could have it, and the next it could be gone, yanked away
from you without warning.  For him it had happened with a knock
on his door late at night, police demanding entrance with a
warrant for his arrest.   He would never forget the cold fear he
had felt as they cuffed him and escorted him to the police car.
Even with the knowledge of his own innocence, he was afraid. He'd
had a bad feeling from the beginning, somehow sensing that this
was something more than a simple mistake.

The next few weeks and months were a blur to him now, meaningless
time spent locked in a cell at a county jail.  Mulder knew that a
desperate fight had gone on outside those walls for his freedom,
but in his eight-foot-by-eight-foot world he was helpless to
assist. Time had ticked deliberately by for him.  It was like a
heartbeat losing precious life every second, slower and slower
and slower, until the day the guilty verdict had been read at his
trial and the lifeforce drained completely away.

The next four years were ones he would spend the rest of his time
on Earth trying to forget.  Most of the days (one thousand seven
hundred three of them, Mulder knew without a doubt) had passed in
relative obscurity, too many spent in solitary
confinement--partly for his own protection and partly because
Mulder, being possessed of a less-than-obedient nature anyway,
had discovered that when you have no hope of ever regaining your
freedom, compliance to rules can sometimes mean nothing.  He
would work diligently, at times, to get himself thrown into
solitary. It might have been oppressively lonely but it was safer
for him there.  A federal agent in a federal prison, as anyone
would agree, was not a nice thing to be.  Safety being assured,
there were drawbacks. The days had dragged on even more slowly in
isolation, and Mulder had discovered that although his life
ended, his existence went miserably on. One twenty-four hour
period blended unnoticeably with another, each melting inevitably
into the next and the next until Mulder was certain that he had
somehow been plunged from life into hell without benefit of
death. Moment dragged relentlessly into moment, time that teased
and tortured him with its perseverence.  He had been certain that
he could not survive in prison, and he was right.  The only thing
he had mistaken was his estimation of how long it could take a
body to die once the soul had given up.

Some moments in the four years of monotony stood out with crystal
clarity, and these were the ones Mulder knew he would try forever
to shove from his consciousness. Flashes of them occasionally
came unbidden to his mind in a series of still frames--memories
of being restrained by another inmate while a guard beat him
senseless, of being cornered in the exercise yard by two of the
biggest convicted murderers he'd ever seen, being held struggling
against the concrete wall of the prison while--  Forcibly he
repressed that memory and a dozen others like it. There was no
point in reliving his torture.  It was over.  He was a free man.

Mulder sneaked a glance over at Skinner sitting behind the wheel.
The older man caught him looking and gave him a smile.  Mulder
stared in amazement.  Skinner possessed a smile?  He was sure in
all the years he'd worked for the man he had never seen those
lips when they were not either chewing him out or pressed thinly
together, holding back words over his and Scully's latest
escapade.  Not that Skinner had ever been one to hold much back,
he reflected, consciously and neatly side-stepping the trip his
mind had attempted to take into Scullythoughts.  He'd become
quite adept at avoiding them in the last year-and-a-half (four
hundred ninety-four days, his subconscious whispered faintly),
and although he knew the current situation regarding Scully was
something he couldn't elude, ditching those thoughts right now
seemed an excellent idea.  Time enough to cope with all that
later.  Right now he was busily reminding himself what it felt
like to be free.

They were approaching an area of greater population now, shops
and restaurants beginning to dot the landscape, and Mulder found
himself seeking out faces--faces not hardened by the extreme
lives most of his companions of the last few years had
experienced. Mothers with young children fascinated him, and he
stared out the window unashamedly, drinking in the sights and
sounds of liberty.

"You hungry?"  Skinner's voice startled him, and Mulder
considered the question.  He couldn't recall the last time he'd
actually felt the pangs of hunger. Appetite had left him long ago
never, he was sure, to return.  He couldn't deny the thought of
real food, outside food (freedom food), sounded nice if only for
the idea of it, so he nodded slightly and watched as Skinner
pulled the car into a nearby Burger King.  When they reached the
menu-speaker Skinner glanced over at Mulder, seeming to
understand that asking Mulder to make a quick choice now, after
all the years of having nearly every decision made for him, would
be cruel. He ordered two burgers, fries and drinks and pulled the
car ahead.   Meanwhile Mulder leaned back in his seat and,
closing his eyes, happily inhaled the air that had wafted into
the car when the window was opened.  City smells.  Exhaust from
the cars in the queue coupled with the mouth-watering aroma of
frying food, and overlaying it all was the sound of children
playing on the restaurant's playground.  Mulder swallowed hard
around the sudden lump in his throat and hoped Skinner didn't
decide to start a conversation.

Instead, Skinner silently guided the car forward until they
reached the window, where he paid for their food and handed
Mulder a cold drink and a wonderful-smelling paper bag.  He took
his own drink and placed it in the car's cup-holder, then slowly
drove around the parking lot and found a space in front of the
playground where he parked the car and killed the engine. Mulder
opened his eyes, which he had squeezed tightly shut while
enjoying the aroma of the food, and saw Skinner looking at him
quizzically.  Embarrassed, he realized he was clutching the bag
to his chest protectively.  He held it out to Skinner, who
extracted a burger and fries and handed it back to him.  Mulder
took out his own meal, lifted a french fry hesitantly to his
mouth and found himself experiencing complete and utter bliss.
There had never, Mulder decided, been anything to compare with
burgers and fries purchased from a greasy fast-food joint.

Skinner made short work of his meal while Mulder consumed his
more slowly.  Once they were both finished the older man gathered
up the garbage and took it to the can just beyond the car.  When
he returned he found Mulder staring at the children playing in
front of them.  There was a little girl of about four, with
reddish-blond hair, and Skinner sighed inwardly. He knew thoughts
of Scully had to be tormenting Mulder, and wondered how long it
took a man to get over a woman loved with the passion and
devotion that Mulder felt for his old partner.

"Mulder," he said, lightly tapping the man's arm, and Mulder
turned to him with eyes that were more profoundly haunted than
any Skinner had seen before.  He thought he had experienced
everything in 'Nam, but he'd been wrong. No sight had ever
touched him as deeply as the naked hurt in those hazel eyes. A
moment later it was gone as Mulder again consciously thrust
thoughts of Scully aside.  He couldn't face up to them now.  He
would deal with them later.

They drove in silence for another half-hour and Mulder began to
grow sleepy.  He settled back against the leather comfort of the
headrest, realizing that for the first time in years he could
drop off to sleep without worrying about being dragged from his
cot and...hurt. He glanced over at Skinner and an unfamiliar
feeling crept over him.  It had been such a long time that it
took him a minute to identify the sensation. Safe.  He felt safe
with Skinner.



A sudden cessation of motion jerked him awake and Mulder blinked
heavily, looking around the parking garage, perplexed. Skinner
was already in the process of withdrawing a large suitcase from
the trunk when Mulder finally stepped uncertainly from the
vehicle.

"Sir?" he began hesitantly, and Skinner stopped him.

"Mulder, you don't work for me anymore, you don't have to be so
formal. Call me Walter."  He slammed the trunk and motioned
Mulder toward the elevators.

"Where are we, Sir--Walter?" Mulder asked, feeling the unfamiliar
name roll off his lips with difficulty.  It would take some
getting used to.

"My building.  You'll be staying with me for a little while,
until you get your feet back under you and control of your money
is transferred over to you."

The money.  Mulder knew he'd inherited quite a lot of it when his
mother died--Scully had told him the terms of his mother's will
on one of her last visits to him. Confident in the belief that
Skinner and Senator Matheson would someday be successful in their
campaign to get him released from prison, Teena Mulder had left
her son her entire not-inconsiderable estate. She had inherited
money from her parents as well as from his father when he'd died,
and had continued to maintain a modestly comfortable lifestyle,
so the bulk of her money had been invested and had grown steadily
over the years.  It amounted, according to Scully, to a little
over three-and-a-half million dollars. Mulder had been stunned.
He'd had no idea his grandparents or parents were so wealthy.
There had certainly been very little outward sign of it, but
thinking back he could now remember an occasional indulgence or
two that probably couldn't have been afforded on his father's
income.

He'd been surprised to find she'd made no provision for Samantha.
His jaw tightened as he realized that his mother had undoubtedly
known things that would now never be revealed, and he wondered if
this was an indication of her certainty that Sam would never be
returned.  He also wondered if his mother had discussed it with
Scully.

Now that he was out of prison the money should, legally, be
turned over to him, but Mulder figured that like everything else
involving the legal system it would require time. It had taken
several months from the time of the real murderer's confession
for Skinner and Matheson to actually obtain Mulder's release.  A
new trial had been necessary and while it had progressed quickly
once begun, getting it started had been a bitch. To Mulder it
seemed as though the justice system was reluctant to let go of
someone once they had them incarcerated, as if certain that if
you weren't guilty of the crime that put you there, you were
certainly guilty of some crime and were, therefore, right where
you belonged.

Not that Mulder cared much about assuming control of his money,
but he would need some means of supporting himself while he tried
to decide what to do with the rest of his life.  He couldn't go
back to the good old FBI, that much was certain. Somehow Mulder
doubted they would rehire him even though his innocence had been
proven.  And he wasn't so sure he would have returned in any
event. It wouldn't be the same without Scully.

Nothing was the same without Scully.

He followed Skinner into the elevator and they rode it silently
up to the seventeenth floor, stepping out into the deserted
hallway.  Skinner led him a short way down the corridor and
unlocked a door, stepping back so Mulder could enter.  Mulder was
impressed to find that his old supervisor's apartment was large,
roomy and actually quite neat and welcoming.

Seeing Mulder's surprise, Skinner informed him, "I have a
housekeeper come in twice a week."  Skinner hung his coat on the
coat rack behind the door while Mulder stood uncertainly just
inside the doorway.

He didn't belong here.  He didn't belong anywhere. It upset him
to think that Skinner had worked so hard to get him out, and now
he had no place to go. Clearing his throat, he began,
"Si--Walter, I don't..."

"What, Mulder?" Skinner asked, looking at him searchingly.  He
knew things would be extremely difficult for Mulder at first, and
had never considered abandoning the younger man to his own
devices.  He'd personally invested enough into getting Mulder
released that he now felt responsible for his former agent.

"I don't want to impose," Mulder said in a voice that was almost
a whisper, eyes not rising above the carpet.

Skinner surveyed the broken man before him and wanted to kill
those responsible for destroying the strong, proud person Mulder
had been. He felt a bolt of pure, blinding fury run through him
and took a deep, quiet breath to control it.  Mulder didn't need
his anger now, it would only frighten him.  Mulder needed Skinner
to be calm and casual, so calm and casual he would be, even if
the urge to hunt down the cigarette smoking man and anyone else
who had been behind Mulder's farce of a trial--and kill them
slowly and methodically--burned in him.

"It's no imposition, Mulder. Actually, I welcome the company.  I
have an extra bedroom and bathroom, so it isn't as if you'll be
crowding me." He picked up Mulder's suitcase from where he'd set
it inside the front door. "You'll give me someone to watch
football with on Sundays," he called over his shoulder as he
started off down a hallway, and after a moment's hesitation
Mulder followed, not knowing what else to do.

They entered the bedroom that would be his and Mulder stopped,
regarding the room with a dazed expression. A few of his
belongings were already here--books, personal items, even his
computer.  His feeling of awe increased when he saw how much
consideration Skinner had given to making him comfortable here.
It obviously hadn't been a spur-of-the-moment decision.  Skinner
had had plenty of time to change his mind or make other
arrangements. Maybe that meant Skinner actually wanted him
around.  The idea of being wanted was a novel one.

Skinner threw the suitcase onto the bed and opened it.  "I packed
up some of your clothes from your storage unit this morning," he
explained. "They may be a little large on you until you put some
weight on, but they're better than that." He gestured toward the
nondescript outfit the prison had given Mulder to wear home.

Mulder looked around the room, his gaze lingering on the large
bed--was it really all for him?--and felt a lump forming in his
throat.  He fought to contain his bubbling emotions, and took a
deep, shuddering breath.  Skinner, seeming to understand that he
wanted to be alone, nodded toward the next room, telling Mulder
it was his bathroom, and left.

As soon as the door closed behind Skinner, Mulder gave up the
fight and let the tears come coursing down his face.  His
feelings were overwhelming.  Most prominent was an almost
crushing sense of gratitude toward Skinner--an emotion Mulder was
inconversant with after existing so long in the role of victim.
Skinner had never given up the fight to get Mulder released, had
never stopped believing in Mulder's innocence.  It would have
been so easy, over time, for Skinner to forget about Mulder
rotting away there in that prison and simply go on about his
life, but he hadn't.  Skinner had continued his quest with the
same dogged determination that Mulder himself had once possessed
and, unlike himself, Skinner had been successful in his endeavor.
Mulder stood here a free man due almost solely to his former
supervisor.  Senator Matheson had contributed influence, and the
Gunmen had assisted with the grunt-work, but Skinner had been at
the heart of the operation, Mulder knew.

Hand-in-hand with gratitude came intense sadness at the thought
of all he had lost, things that could never be returned or
retrieved.  His job, his mother, the last four years of his life,
and most of all...

Slowly he sank onto the bed, grabbing at a corner of the spread
and shoving his face into it to catch the tears and stifle the
sobs as he quickly lost control. All the fear, frustration and
despair of the experience erupted in a rush and Mulder was
helpless to stop the flood once it began.  Like a child he cried
for a long time; every time he thought he was beginning to calm
down another wave of sobs would overtake him and he would fall
helplessly into the grief. Finally, exhausted, he stretched out
on the bed, relishing the roominess of it, and slept.

In the kitchen Skinner looked around for something he could feed
Mulder for supper that night that wouldn't be too hard on him. He
knew Mulder had a touchy stomach.  Scully had always been
concerned at her partner's lack of appetite, and he was afraid
that after the burst of raw emotion he could hear coming from the
bedroom, Mulder wouldn't be able to handle more than the lightest
of meals this evening.  Most people wouldn't have realized he was
as close to the two of them as he'd been, but after Mulder had
saved his butt on more than one occasion, with Scully offering
her own brand of invaluable assistance, he had come to think of
these two agents as his friends. Friends took care of friends, he
had been raised to believe, and that was the reason he'd never
given up on Mulder. That and the fact that he was absolutely
convinced of the man's innocence. His face tightened as he heard
the muffled sobs go on and on, and Skinner clenched his fists,
resisting the urge to drive them into the wall.

*****

A knock at the door woke him, and Mulder realized it was getting
late. It was dark outside, and glancing at the clock he saw that
it was already 6:30 p.m. Sitting up, he rubbed a hand across his
face. His eyes felt gritty and swollen, his nose was stuffed up,
and his head was pounding.

"C'mon in," he called, sniffing surreptitiously as Skinner stuck
his head around the door.

"I'll have some supper ready in a few minutes," he told Mulder,
ignoring the obvious evidence of his tears.  "If you like you
could have a shower and change clothes."

Mulder sat uncertainly on the bed, not quite knowing what to do
next, and Skinner, seeing his confusion, flipped back the lid of
the suitcase and grabbed a set of sweats and clean underwear for
him.  Mulder accepted the clothes gratefully and stood, slowly
stretching his stiffened limbs.

"I'll leave you alone, then," Skinner told him, retreating from
the room, and Mulder curiously opened the door to his bathroom.
He was pleased to find that it was fairly spacious, but as he
caught sight of the large tub he was assaulted with memories of
the prison showers.  His eyes squeezed tightly shut and for just
one moment he was back there, feeling the familiar urgency to get
clean and get out before someone found him there who might want
to do him harm.  Mulder hated the way the simple act of washing
his body had turned into a daily ordeal in that place. With a
long sigh he retreated from yet another unpleasant thought, and
vowed never to take another shower as long as he lived. Leaning
over, he set the stopper in the tub and began running water as
hot as he could stand it.  No more having to rush to get clean
before the lukewarm water turned to cold, either.  Never again.

Mulder made sure the door to the bathroom was locked, enjoying
the luxury of being able to do so, and sank down gratefully into
the tub.  He trusted Skinner, of course, but old fears were hard
to overcome and he knew he wouldn't relax unless the door was
secured.  Few things in life had ever felt so good, he decided as
he submerged himself completely, letting the hot water wash the
smells of the prison away.  Eventually he reached for the bottle
of shampoo that Skinner had thoughtfully provided, telling
himself idly that a haircut needed to be the first thing on his
agenda.  The prison barber had been a kind-hearted soul but he
couldn't cut hair worth a damn, and in addition to being more
closely cropped than Mulder preferred it, his hair was uneven and
ragged.  He'd get it cut into a decent style soon, then let it
grow as long as he liked.  No more worrying about a bureau dress
code.

Forty-five minutes later, when he emerged from his bedroom
dressed in clean, if loose-fitting sweats, Mulder sniffed the air
appreciatively. After his crying jag earlier he'd have sworn his
appetite was gone for the evening, but Skinner had managed to
coax it back with whatever he was preparing.  Mulder entered the
kitchen to find him standing at the stove stirring a pan of soup,
wearing jeans and a comfortable shirt, and couldn't suppress a
tiny smile.  He had rarely seen Skinner so informal.

"Feeling better?" Skinner asked nonchalantly, inwardly rejoicing
at the slight curve to Mulder's lips.

"A lot better."  Another almost-smile.  "I never suspected you
had a domestic side." Mulder's voice was soft as he quickly
lowered his eyes.

"Well, everyone has to kick back sometimes," Skinner said
philosophically.  "Have a seat, Mulder."

Mulder took a place at the small kitchen table and watched
Skinner intently.  Skinner poured half the soup into each of two
bowls and put the empty pan in the sink.  Mulder had already
taken a peek at the sandwich on his plate and discovered it was
bologna with cheese, thickly spread with mayonnaise.  It looked
excellent.

Skinner sat down and gestured to the spoon beside Mulder's bowl.
"Dig in," he said, taking a bite of his own sandwich.  "It's not
fancy, but it's good."

"It smells great," Mulder said shyly, swirling the spoon into his
soup and finally lifting it to his lips.  He sipped it slowly,
savoring the salty taste of it, and Skinner nodded in
satisfaction.

After a few sips, during which Mulder kept his eyes on the
tablecloth, he finally spoke.  He felt like the worst kind of
ungrateful bastard for not thanking Skinner profusely for saving
his life, bringing him home and making him feel safe again, but
words seemed completely inadequate.  Taking a deep breath, he
gave it his best shot.

"Sir, I--Walter--I don't know what to say.  How to thank you..."
he began, and Skinner shook his head slowly.

"You don't need to thank me, Mulder."  The eyes behind the
glasses were more gentle than Mulder had imagined they could ever
be.

"But you've done so much, worked so hard to get me released..."
Mulder protested. His fingers played uncomfortably with a corner
of the tablecloth.

"I hate injustice, Mulder," Skinner cut in firmly.  "It's the
reason I went into law enforcement in the first place."  When
Mulder didn't answer, he went on, his voice becoming more hushed,
and it occurred to Mulder that Skinner had his own set of painful
memories.  "Besides, it could have been me.  I remember a time I
could have gone to prison for a murder I didn't commit, and you
saved my ass then.  I consider this no more than I owe you."

Mulder's gaze shot up at those words.  His expression was one of
confusion. "You didn't owe me anything, you saved us more than
once, Scully and me..." He stopped, unable to complete the
sentence.

Skinner sighed inwardly.  He knew this would be the hardest part.
Sooner or later Mulder was going to have to face up to the fact
that Scully was out of his reach now, and he only hoped the other
man was strong enough to bear it. "Mulder, I don't know what
happened between the two of you, why you made her stop coming to
see you, but I do know that after you were sent away she
was...decimated.  She did love you, Mulder, no matter what you
may think now."

Mulder fought valiantly to keep the tears from falling but once
again lost the battle.  He swiped angrily at them as they
streamed down his cheeks unchecked.  Finally he buried his face
in his hands and gave in to the sobs, hating the fact that he
couldn't stop them. Skinner rose and came around to put his hands
reassuringly on Mulder's shoulders and found himself embracing
his old friend in a comforting hug instead.  Skinner smiled wryly
at himself sitting in his kitchen holding another man while the
other man sobbed his heart out.  It was a good thing he lived too
high up for people to peer in his windows.  This would completely
ruin his reputation as a hardened ex-marine.

He had never encountered such a broken spirit as the one before
him, and for a moment wondered if Mulder could ever be put back
together.  Angrily he shook off that thought.  Mulder was an
incredibly strong person and he had overcome obstacle after
obstacle in his lifetime.  Surely he would get past this last,
most difficult hurdle without falling apart.

"How am I--" Mulder gulped around his hiccuping sobs, "--supposed
to get by without her?  I depended--on her--so much--"

"I don't know," Skinner said, at a loss for words, "but you will.
Somewhere inside  you is the strength that has always sustained
you through tough times.  You're a survivor, Mulder."

"But what happens--when a survivor--no longer wants to survive?"
Mulder asked, finally beginning to regain some control.  He wiped
his face with the backs of his hands and stared at the floor,
waiting for the answer.

Skinner had none.

*****

He had slept so much that day, first in the car and later after
his crying bout in the bedroom, that he found himself wide awake
when bedtime arrived.  After lying there for an hour, decadently
enjoying the soft comfort of the mattress and the smell of clean
linen, Mulder finally sat up and reached over to switch on the
bedside lamp. He wandered across to the bookcase but found
nothing that caught his attention.  Smiling grimly, he perused
the titles of the books he had owned.  Before.  Mulder shook his
head in amused disgust at some of the things that had interested
him then.  It all seemed so unimportant now.

Finally turning his back on the books, he made his way to the
desk and sat down in front of his computer.  He wondered idly
what kind of shape it was in after all these years as he flipped
the switch, and was impressed when it began powering up.  After a
few minutes the screen lightened and Mulder froze.  The picture
that had been his desktop wallpaper for the last couple of months
before his arrest was as clear as the day it had been taken.

Her mother had been the photographer, he remembered as he closed
his eyes and began to take deep, controlled breaths through his
nose.  The three of them had gone out for Sunday brunch to
celebrate Scully's birthday, and he had given her the new camera
as a gift.  Mrs. Scully told them she wanted to be the one to
christen it, and had ordered them to stand close together and
smile. Mulder remembered how he had slid his arm around Scully's
waist at the last second before the picture was snapped, and how
Mrs. Scully had winked conspiratorially at him just before
pressing the button that had immortalized the moment. He'd taken
his copy of the picture to Frohike, who had scanned it, enhanced
it, and e-mailed it to him.  Mulder had immediately installed it
so it was the first thing he saw when he fired up his computer.
He'd never told Scully.

Quickly trying to remember how it was done, Mulder went into the
display controls and changed them so his desktop now gave him a
stark, white background.  He couldn't deal with this memory just
yet.  On the other hand, neither could he bring himself to delete
the picture.

Mulder only vaguely remembered the files he'd had on his hard
drive, so he went browsing through them with the intention of
clearing out old junk and refamiliarizing himself with things.
Suddenly he sat back and inhaled sharply.

He had forgotten all about his journal.

He'd kept it occasionally, when a case was particularly
interesting or in some way disturbing. Other moments in his
day-to-day life had inspired infrequent entries as well, and as
he stared at the screen, Mulder was transported back years to a
memory he wished he could delete from his mind as easily as he
could delete the journal files.

He was lying in a hospital bed, having been fished out of the
water after almost drowning, and the sudden urge to tell Scully
how he felt about her had been overpowering.  It probably had
something to do with the drugs they had been giving him, he told
himself cynically, but the sentiment certainly wasn't
drug-induced.  Even as the words left his lips he knew they
shouldn't. "I love you," he'd said, and her response had been so
predictably Scully-ish that he had smiled when she strode out of
his room, knowing that while her words might dismiss his, her
heart would not.  She loved him as well.  He knew it.  It simply
had to be true, after all they had shared and seen and done
together.  The level of devotion they'd had to one another went
far beyond normal friendship, it was simply undeniable. When he
had gone to Antarctica to fetch her after she'd been kidnapped,
when she had rescued him from the waters of the Bermuda Triangle,
it hadn't been because they were good friends, and it hadn't been
out of professional respect.  They had done it because, in saving
the other, they were each saving themselves.  With a razor-sharp
pang Mulder realized that right up until the very end he'd clung
to the hope that he and Scully would one day be a real couple.

He wanted badly to open the journal files and read, to try and
touch his former life in some way.  Maybe he could recapture a
few moments of the joy he had known on rare occasions. They had
been few and far between, but there had been moments of joy in
that life, most of them revolving around her.  He gave it serious
consideration, almost succumbing to the urge, but deep inside he
knew it was a bad idea.  Never again would he be Special Agent
Fox Mulder of the FBI.  Never again would he investigate X-files
with Dana Scully at his side. Those days were gone forever,
stolen from him, irretrievable. All those days and all those
cases and all the times shared with Scully seemed like a dream to
him now, as if he had never truly lived them.

His throat constricted painfully as his mind wandered back to the
day she had entered his life.  She had walked into his domain
with a look of sheer wonder on her face.  Had it been wonder at
the work in which he was engaged or wonder at his level of
sanity? Even now he wasn't sure.  Scully had never really
believed in all the things they'd seen, her practical mind simply
wouldn't let her.  She had been a true partner though, sticking
by him and supporting him even when she didn't understand what
was going on.  They had been so young then, so innocent, the
knowledge they possessed barely scratching the surface of the
depths to which it now extended.  The bad guys had been just
that--bad guys.  Not evil. Thinking back, Mulder could pinpoint
the exact moment when they had become evil in his mind.  It was
the moment in which he had realized that 'They' had taken Scully
from him, that it hadn't just been the workings of Duane Barry's
dementia.  At that very second his innocence had ceased to exist.

His eyes played over the journal entries for 1998.  He knew
exactly which one contained his thoughts after his revelation to
Scully.  He'd been elated, in a way, that he had finally worked
up the courage to tell her, and at the same time disappointed
that she had never mentioned it again.  Perhaps she hadn't
believed him, maybe it had been too much to hope for. Scully had
loved him, damn it, he knew it.  Even when he'd thrown her out of
his life, he had felt her love surrounding him for a long time
afterwards.  But then Skinner had arrived one day to break the
awful news to him...

He let the cursor wander to the journal icon, feeling sickness in
the pit of his stomach, and wondered if he would really do this
to himself. Reading it now would be like losing her all over
again.  Shaking his head resolutely, he backed out of the folder
containing that entry.  Positioning the cursor over the 'Journal'
folder, he clicked the mouse button.  The record of his previous
existence was gone forever.  Just like the life it represented.
Just like Scully.

In the end they hadn't been able to save each other after all.

Mulder stared for a moment at the blank spot that had represented
all the good things in his life.  All contained in six brief--too
brief--years.  God, such a tiny percentage of his life had
actually been happy.  It was her. She was the reason.  The only
relationship in his entire adult life to mean anything to him had
been with her.  Memories rushed unbidden through his head.
Memories of the fights, the cases, the rare smiles...the pain was
almost unbearable.

Regret hit him without warning.

"Oh God, Scully, what did I do?" He backed hastily away from the
computer, almost falling in his rush to distance himself from the
monitor.  He focused on the screen, eyes blurry with more tears.
Gone.  His entire life gone with the click of a mouse.  'Oh
shit!' he thought.  'Oh God NO!'

The cry of anguish from Mulder's room brought Skinner up from his
bed with a start.  He raced down the hall, all thoughts of
sparing Mulder further embarrassment deserting him at the
desperation he heard. Flinging open the bedroom door, his eyes
searched for the cause of Mulder's pain, but as far as he could
see, there was nothing.  No blood, no explosion, nothing, just
Mulder frantically pounding on his computer.

"Mulder, what is it? What happened?"  Nothing.  Not even a sign
that Mulder knew he was in the room.  He advanced toward Mulder,
his eyes focused on the other man.  What was he saying?  It
didn't seem to make any sense...

"Ohgodno!  I didn't mean it!  Shit!  Give it back!"  Mulder
raised his arm in preparation for another swing at the hapless
computer, but Skinner caught him roughly and spun him around in
the chair.

"Mulder, talk to me!  What the hell is wrong?"

Mulder just stared at him, his mouth opening and closing but no
sound emerging.  Putting his hands firmly on Mulder's shoulders,
Skinner caught his gaze and held it, trying to bring him back.
"Calm down. Take a deep breath.  Another.  Again."  Mulder's eyes
began to focus as he obeyed, and Skinner breathed a sigh of
relief.  When he felt Mulder was calm enough he asked again,
"What happened?"

"I...I...deleted it.  All of it!  I didn't mean to and now it's
all gone...everything..."

Skinner threw a confused glance at the computer, then focused
once more on Mulder.  "It's not gone, Mulder, it's just in the
recycle bin.  We can get it back."

Mulder shook his head.  "No, I don't keep anything in the bin, I
have it set to delete immediately."

"Well hang on.  Don't panic again.  You of all people should know
nothing ever really disappears."  He crossed to the phone and
began rapidly punching in numbers.  After a brief pause, he said,
"Hi, it's me.  I need you to come over here right away.  Yeah,
fine, just having some trouble with his computer."

Twenty minutes later he was opening the door to let a
sleepy-looking Byers into his apartment. The Gunmen had been an
invaluable source of support to him while Mulder was imprisoned,
both moral and technical.  They had alternated weekends with
Skinner so Mulder had visitors every Saturday, comparing notes
with him and helping out whenever possible.  In the process, they
had become Skinner's friends, as well.  Not the kind of friends
a person could hang out with--Skinner was a loner who "hung out"
with no one, and he preferred it that way.  No, the guys had
become the type of friends he knew he could call on in a crisis.
The kind who would stop at nothing to help.  The best kind of
friends.

"Hey Mulder, what's up?" was all Byers said when he entered the
bedroom.

Mulder heaved a resigned sigh and explained what he had done.
Byers listened intently.

"So you didn't shut it off?"

"No."  Mulder buried his head in his hands.  "I can't believe I
did such a stupid thing."

"Ah, don't worry about it," Byers told him lightly.  "It happens
to everyone."  He motioned Mulder away from the computer and sat
down, settling himself comfortably in the chair.  Quickly exiting
Windows and entering DOS, the man typed furiously.  He made some
'uh-huh, hmmm' sounds occasionally, but apart from those the only
sound in the room was the tapping of the keyboard.

"Got it," he announced a few minutes later.  "Which ones do you
need restored?"

"You found them?" Mulder asked eagerly, leaning toward the
computer.  "I don't remember the exact names, but they all
started with 'j' and four numbers and ended with '.txt'."

Byers' fingers again flew across the keyboard and a few minutes
later all the files were restored.

"Done," he smiled, standing up and waving Mulder into the chair.  

Mulder sat and immediately began opening files, assuring himself
that they were all indeed there.  "Thanks," he tossed over his
shoulder as Skinner and Byers silently left.

"How's he doing?" Byers asked when they reached the living room.
"We thought it best not to overwhelm him the first day."

Skinner sighed again.  "Better than expected, but not as well as
I'd hoped.  I'm trying not to smother him."

"Scully?" Byers asked curiously, and Skinner shook his head
warningly.

"Not a good topic of conversation right now."

"She hasn't called?"

"No, and I doubt she will.  And I wouldn't let her speak to him
even if she did. He's not ready for that."

Yawning hugely, Byers nodded agreement and took his leave.
Skinner glanced once again down the hall toward the spare
bedroom, then resolutely headed for his own bed, leaving Mulder
to his privacy.

*****

Mulder had been free for a week before Skinner finally got up the
nerve to broach the subject on his mind.  He dreaded the look in
Mulder's eye when it was mentioned; he was afraid it would be the
same expression he wore when Scully came up in conversation. That
was a look Skinner had come to fear, for he knew it meant Mulder
would lose his appetite and shut himself in his bedroom for
hours.  With a sigh, mentally crossing his fingers, Skinner
finally spoke as they were finishing breakfast on Saturday
morning.  There were difficult things to be faced now that Mulder
was free again--this would be one of the worst.

"Mulder, there's something I've been thinking about."

Mulder's dark head raised from the plate where he was shoving
scrambled eggs around in pretense of eating them.  He put down
his fork, his eyebrow rising inquisitively at Skinner.

It had been a bad night, plagued with nightmares, and Skinner
wondered how many of them were about prison and how many involved
other memories that tortured the younger man.  He'd heard the
cries coming from the guest room and had wavered at first,
uncertain whether he should try to comfort Mulder or leave him to
work it out alone.  His answer came when he stood outside the
other man's bedroom door and heard the muffled sobs, not quite
stifled by the pillow.  Skinner had turned and noiselessly gone
back to his own room, leaving Mulder with his dignity intact.
There was nothing else he could do.

"You haven't been to visit your mother's grave," Skinner said
quietly. "Would you like me to take you there today?"

Mulder's face paled and he began to nervously tear small pieces
from a slice of toast, dropping them on his plate beside the
uneaten eggs.  Staring down at the mess he was making of his
breakfast, Mulder nodded, not trusting himself to speak.  He'd
wanted to go to his mother as soon as he'd been released, but
Skinner had already done so much for him that he didn't like to
mention it.  He didn't have a car of his own any longer, and he
hadn't felt comfortable asking to borrow Skinner's.  Besides,
Mulder wasn't sure, after all these years, if he still remembered
how to drive one, although he supposed it was something you never
completely forgot.

The idea of getting behind the wheel and fighting city traffic
frightened him.  The idea of standing at his mother's graveside
and finally forcing himself to confront the fact of her death
terrified him beyond belief.  So far he had managed to avoid that
thought, along with all the other really painful ones, and
convince his subconscious that she was alive and well.  It wasn't
as though he had seen her or talked to her often before--  But
still, he knew she was always available should he need her.
Now...

He swallowed past the lump in his throat, telling himself angrily
that he would not let the tears start again.  "I'd like that,
Sir."  He still couldn't get used to the idea of calling his
former boss by his first name, and addressing him verbally as
'Skinner' was completely out of the question.

Skinner sighed inwardly at the 'Sir,' wondering if he would ever
get Mulder to feel comfortable with him.  He supposed it was
tough, living in the same house with the man you used to consider
one of the major authority figures in your life, but he hoped it
would become easier as time passed.

"We can leave as soon as we've finished here, then," Skinner told
him, going back to his own meal.  "It's not far.  We buried her
nearby. I thought you'd prefer it that way."

Mulder smiled a little.  It amazed him, the way Skinner had never
faltered in his determination to exonerate him, or his belief
that he would one day be successful.  Mulder had long since lost
hope of ever regaining his freedom when Skinner had arrived one
day with the incredible news that the real killer had been found.
Apparently the guy had killed again--for his own reasons this
time--and when his house was searched evidence was found linking
him to the crime for which Mulder was imprisoned.  Since they had
him dead-to-rights on the current murder, the D.A., influenced
both by a powerful Senator and an Assistant Director of the FBI,
had convinced the man that confession was good for the soul--or
in this case, his health.  If he confessed to the other murder,
thereby clearing Mulder, they assured him he would escape the
death penalty.  Knowing that conviction and probable execution
were almost certain in this case, the suspect's attorney had
advised him to take the deal and the wheels had been set in
motion to free Mulder.

Mulder didn't know any more details than that.  He didn't want to
know. Any time Skinner tried to raise the topic with him, he
quickly changed the subject.  Some things, Mulder felt, did not
bear discussion.  He only knew that now he was a free man and he
would die before he would ever be locked up again.

*****

As the car approached the cemetery Mulder felt the coldness in
his body increase little by little, until finally he was
completely numb.  His mind twisted desperately to escape what he
was about to force it to accept. In his hands he clutched a
bouquet of pink roses--they had been his mother's favorite.  The
small amount of conversation he and Skinner shared during the
ride had ceased some miles back, and now that familiar tunnel
vision was creeping up on him again.  His breathing grew heavier,
and he knew it would take him the rest of the day to recover from
this nightmare.

"She's over there," Skinner said, gesturing to a large headstone
nearby. "It looks like S--someone's been here recently."  He
caught himself just before uttering Scully's name.  The last
thing Mulder needed right now was to be reminded of the love he
had lost.  It occurred to Skinner that he was the last link
Mulder had to his old life. Sadly he wondered how long it would
be before Mulder felt the need to sever ties with him in order to
eliminate as many memories as possible.  Somehow it seemed
inevitable.  He'd always liked the man, but this past week had
made him realize how much he'd missed Mulder over the past four
years.  Missed the debates they had always had in his office over
cases, missed the younger man's passion and fiery intensity.
Mulder was one of the strongest personalities Skinner had ever
known--at least he used to be.  Watching him now as he made his
way across the cemetery toward his mother's grave, Skinner
thought he just looked tired.  Tired and sad.  There wasn't a
hint of the old Mulder in him today, although Skinner had seen
traces of him during his week of freedom.  He was convinced the
Mulder he had known was still inside somewhere, and was
determined to help him emerge. On the other hand, Mulder without
Scully seemed somehow...'incomplete' was too trite a word to
describe what Mulder was.  Fragmented.  That was it.  Mulder was
fragmented.  Torn to pieces.


Mulder approached the headstone with trepidation.  He knew how
damn-near impossible this would be, but he also knew it was the
right thing to do, something he needed to do--something he *must*
do.  There was a pot of white carnations sitting beside her
stone, and Mulder wondered for a moment who had brought them.
Surely not--?

Dodging yet another thought, he knelt beside the stone, tracing
the letters carefully with his fingertip. Teena Mulder. 'Beloved
mother' it read, and he mused on the words.  Yes, he had loved
her, as any son loves his mother. Had wanted to believe she loved
him, had craved her attention and affection.  If only she had
been there to support him, the awful experiences of the past ten
years might have been easier to endure, but she simply hadn't
been that kind of mother.  She had always seemed somewhat
distant, even more so after Sam's disappearance.  If things had
been different, he might not be in the position he was in now. He
might not have spent so many years searching for an elusive truth
he had never found, for the sister he now believed he would never
recover--he might not have lost the last four years.

Might not have lost Scully.

"Mom," he whispered softly, almost afraid to speak aloud but
needing to talk to her. "I miss you.  I wish things...could have
been different between us. I wish--I could have been here for
you, Mom.  I wish--" his voice wavered and he had to stop before
he broke down. Lowering himself from his crouch to sit on the
ground, he pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arms
around them. Mulder stared off into the distance as he hugged
himself protectively, and thought of the times in his life that
his mother's love for him had been evident. There hadn't been
many, but he now clung desperately to the few he could recall. He
needed to dwell on the good things about her.  He could almost
hear her voice calling to him as he let the memories wash over
him, tangible things that teased and tormented him.

He sat that way for a long time, eyes closing occasionally at
some remembered pain, until he gradually came back to the present
and guiltily thought of Skinner, patience personified, waiting
for him. Glancing over at the car he saw that Skinner had taken
out a book and was quietly reading to himself.  Mulder still
marveled at all his former boss had done for him.  He'd never
been sure whether or not Skinner even liked him before, but was
beginning to get the impression that he actually did.  It gave
him a bit of a warm feeling inside, gratefully welcomed after the
coldness of the morning.

Mulder picked himself up from the ground and brushed off the seat
of his jeans.  It was time to say goodbye.  Sadly he realized he
had barely known her--he missed her with an aching loneliness he
could never have anticipated.  As he walked toward the car he
absently thought that he needed to buy himself some new
clothes--these were still painfully large.

Skinner looked up to see him coming and wordlessly put the book
away.  He took note of Mulder's dampened eyes but saw that his
face was unmarked by tears.  Silently Skinner said a prayer of
thanks--he'd been afraid this visit might be too much for Mulder
but apparently the man was as strong as he'd suspected.  In fact,
it may have been just what Mulder needed to start living again,
he thought as he pointed the car toward home.

"Do you know who left those flowers on her grave?" Mulder asked
suddenly, and Skinner considered carefully before he answered.

"No," he lied, keeping his face carefully neutral.  He wasn't
about to mention Scully's name to Mulder.  Not today.  Not even
Mulder was that strong.  A man could only take so much pain.  His
jaw tightened as he endeavored to keep his sudden rush of emotion
hidden from the man at his side.

Damn them anyway, he thought with quiet fury.  Damn them all to a
fiery hell.  Mulder hadn't deserved this.  Scully hadn't deserved
it.  They could have been so good together if they'd only been
given the chance.

Mulder had adored Scully for years, that much had been obvious;
Mulder wore his emotions on his sleeve most of the time. Skinner
hadn't been certain Scully returned those feelings until Mulder's
trial.  Her devotion to her partner during that time and her
utter devastation after Mulder was taken away from her in chains
lay to rest any doubts he may have had in that regard.  Scully
adored Mulder as well.

That was what made it so hard to understand why she'd done what
she had done.
     

***********

Chapter Two

***********


Dana Scully Morrow sat at the desk in her den long after
midnight.  The house was still now, her husband and step-daughter
asleep, and she had crept from her bed after hours of tossing and
turning, unable to find rest.  It was time. Tomorrow she had to
call the attorney handling Mulder's trust fund and set up a
meeting between the three of them to transfer control of the
money to its rightful owner.  After that meeting, her last tie
with Mulder would be severed.

The picture in her hand was worn, and Dana kept it well
hidden.  It had a special place in her third desk drawer, stuck
carefully inside a dictionary at the beginning of the 'M' words.
'M' for Mulder.  It was a photograph of the two of them together
that her mother had taken.  Mulder had playfully eased his arm
around her waist just as it was being snapped.  She knew Mulder
had a copy on his computer--Frohike had spilled the beans to her
about that ages ago.  She also knew she wasn't supposed to know
about it.  She smiled sadly, remembering the old times. Leaning
back in the chair, her eyes took on a faraway look as her mind
traced the path of their partnership, which had deepened into
friendship, which had eventually grown into love.  Had they been
a normal couple they would have undoubtedly married and produced
several children by now, but things in Mulder's orbit were never
normal.  She had long since learned that sacrifice of the
commonplace was the price to be paid if he was part of your life.
She often thought that she could retire now and just write about
their experiences in the brief--relatively brief--time they had
spent together, and live off the royalties.  Surely more odd and
unexplained things had been encountered by the two of them than
any other seven people combined.

She thought of the times they'd trusted only themselves, never
certain who was on their side but always having the security of
absolute faith in one another. It had sustained them when nothing
else would have--the knowledge that when the entire world was
turned topsy-turvy there was still this one constant they could
depend on.  Dana knew she would have never had the strength or
courage to fight her cancer had it not been for Mulder's
ever-present support and determination to do something, anything
he could, to help.  In the end he had been the one, she still
believed deep in her heart, who had saved her life. Certainly he
would never have survived the first year of prison life if he
hadn't had her visits to look forward to and her love to rely on.
At least he'd had it until...

With determination she replaced the picture and, locking the desk
drawer against prying eyes, left the room.

The old times were gone now.

She wandered into the kitchen, still not sleepy, and made herself
a cup of cocoa.  As she sat at the table sipping the warm liquid,
she caught sight of her reflection in the glass patio door and
stared.  Who was that woman? She looked so old, somehow, and
saddened.  With a wry shake of her head, Dana realized that she
*was* older and sadder than she had been a few years ago. Since
Mulder had been sent away her interest in life had slowly
diminished, being replaced by an empty void that she had tried in
every way to fill.  She'd been only partially successful. Her
relationship with her mother had been somewhat chilled by her
marriage to Zachary Morrow, but Margaret Scully had eventually
warmed up, helped largely by the addition of a new granddaughter.
Zach's little girl was a beauty and a sweetheart, and Maggie had
grown to love her as quickly as Dana.  Over time, they had
resumed their normal mother-daughter connection, but each knew
the other had not changed in their thinking.  Maggie Scully had
badly wanted Fox Mulder as a son-in-law, and she had never fully
accepted Zachary.  Dana had recognized that she never would, and
once that course had been silently agreed upon it had never again
been mentioned.  Dana knew how lucky she was to have a mother who
loved and stood by her, even when she did things that were
disappointing, and disconsolately wondered if things might have
been different for Mulder had his mother been equally supportive.

She'd always had rather unforgiving thoughts toward Mrs. Mulder;
her contact with the woman had been extremely limited and the
times when any mother should be at her son's side--times when
Mulder had been ill or injured--she had been conspicuously
absent.  She knew the relationship between her partner and his
remaining parent had been strained, at best, and it wasn't a
topic of conversation either of them cared to pursue.  Largely
due to this perception, Dana had been shocked and surprised when,
not long after Mulder's conviction, Teena Mulder had arrived for
a visit.

"I came to talk with you about a very serious matter, Miss
Scully," she had said after Scully served her coffee in the
kitchen of her small apartment.

Scully had leaned back in surprise, one eyebrow raised, and
waited.  She couldn't imagine what Mrs. Mulder could want to
discuss with her that would possibly classify as 'serious.'

"I know that Mr. Skinner, aided in some small way by you, I
believe, is attempting to prove my son innocent of this
ridiculous charge," the woman had gone on, and Scully nodded,
wondering if the constant love and support she provided Mulder
counted as her 'small' contribution.

"I have every confidence that he will one day be successful, but
I'm also realistic.  It could be years before Fox is returned to
us, and once he comes home, he's not going to be able to support
himself--at least not at first."

"Mrs. Mulder, I don't understand--"

"Then let me explain it to you, young lady," Teena had
interrupted her severely. "I'm not going to live forever.  I hope
to still be alive--in fact I plan to be alive--when Fox is
released, but in the event I'm not..."

"You want me to take care of Mulder?" Scully had asked, confused.

Mrs. Mulder sighed lightly.  "I've made a will.  Something I
never did before." Her shoulders gave a tiny, delicate shrug.  "I
always thought Fox would take care of all the details.  He was
such a help when his father died.  Now it appears he may not be
available."

Scully shifted uncomfortably, wondering if Mrs. Mulder was about
to ask her to handle the funeral arrangements in the event of the
elderly woman's death.

"I have, of course, left everything to him, as he is my only
living relative," she continued.  Her eyes had been downcast, and
Scully knew thoughts of Samantha had been running through both
their minds.  She almost opened her mouth to question, then
thought better and kept it closed.

"I know you love my son," Teena said suddenly, her eyes meeting
Scully's with a piercing blue gaze that had looked into her soul.
"I know you can be relied upon to never hurt him. That's why I
would like to make you trustee over the inheritance, should I die
before Fox is released."

Scully felt as if the breath had been driven out of her stunned
body.  She had certainly never expected Mrs. Mulder to place her
in a position of responsibility such as this--she hadn't even
thought the woman liked her.

"As I said, I hope to live to see that day," Mrs. Mulder went on,
ignoring Scully's astonishment, "but in the event I don't, I've
come to ask your permission to place this burden on you, as my
son's closest and most trusted friend."

Scully swallowed hard around the sudden lump in her throat.  She
couldn't decide if it was caused by the emotional moment or by
Mrs. Mulder's acceptance that, in her son's case, justice might
never be served.  Whatever their differences, it was undeniable
that both women desperately believed in Mulder's innocence and
wanted him returned to the free world.

"It's no burden," she said when she found her voice.   She felt
light-headed, detached, as if in a dream.  "I'd be happy to help
you and Mulder in any way possible."

Mrs. Mulder had given her an aloof smile and squeezed her hand in
thanks.  "My attorney will be contacting you," she'd said, rising
to go, stiff formality returned now that the moment was over. She
had shown herself out, leaving Scully to sort through this latest
circumstance.

Once she was alone, Dana had stared blankly into her coffee for a
long time, considering the Mulder family and the new alliance she
now had with them.  She wondered exactly how much control Mrs.
Mulder was trusting her with (very little, it turned out later;
most of the details were handled by the attorneys, but Scully was
required for occasional signatures) and how much money was
involved.  Mrs. Mulder had apparently made no provision for
Samantha's return, and Scully found that odd.  Perhaps she had
long since accepted the fact that her daughter was dead, or
perhaps she knew if Samantha ever reappeared her doting older
brother would see to it she was provided for.  Or, Scully mused,
perhaps the woman knew that Sam was simply never going to be
returned by those who had taken her.

It hadn't been until Teena Mulder's death a year later that
Scully had learned the extent of Mulder's inheritance, and the
additional, rather surprising terms of the woman's will.  The
money was to go in trust, handled mostly by Mrs. Mulder's
attorney and nominally by Scully, until such time as Fox was
released from prison, when he would be given full control of it.
On the occasion that he should die in prison, having never been
released to assume his fortune, the entire estate--all three
point five million dollars of it--was to fall to Dana Katherine
Scully.


Shaking herself back to the present, Dana buried her weary head
in her hands. Zachary had wanted the money, she could see it in
his eyes at times when he thought she wasn't looking. She'd never
told him about such a private matter, of course, being
disinclined to discuss such things, but she found out after their
marriage that her brother Bill had related to his friend the
entire story. She'd been furious when she discovered it, but by
then the damage had been done. She and Zach had one of their
worst arguments ever over it, and for days they had avoided one
another.  Finally Dana had decided to mend fences with him, if
only for her step-daughter's sake. Things had never been quite
the same between herself and her husband, but then, things had
never been as good as they should have been.  She supposed that
was what you got when you married a man you didn't love for all
the wrong reasons.

She had been faithful in her visits to Mulder, unfailingly
appearing each and every Saturday bringing news and gossip and
all the good cheer she could possibly muster.  Mulder had seemed
happy to see her, grateful for any contact with the outside world
and especially for her company. She wanted desperately to be able
to touch him, take his hand, feel contact with him, but their
visits were conducted with a wall of glass between them, and at
times she thought it symbolic of their entire relationship.  They
could see one another, talk to each other, share jokes, give
support, but anytime they reached out for more there was always a
barrier in the way.  Sometimes it had been one of their own
creation, and at times, as now, it was one that had been forced
upon them, but the obstacle was equally effective no matter its
origin.

Eventually she had felt Mulder begin to distance himself from
her, and she had become frightened.  She didn't think she could
stand to lose any more of him, she was already so incredibly
lonely without him.  She'd tried to continue as a field agent
after he'd been sent away, but eventually had requested
reassignment back at Quantico, where she was now teaching.
Sometimes she felt she'd never left and that the entire
partnership with Mulder had been nothing but an illusion.  Each
time she caught him withdrawing she died a little more inside.
She knew the fragile relationship they had was being steadily
eroded but was frightened at her helplessness to stop the
deterioration.  Her heart grew more desolate with each visit
until finally she began dread, rather than anticipate them.

On occasion she would find him ill, or bruised, and wondered how
much he was concealing from her.  She knew fights were common in
prison, and prayed that Mulder would lie low, keeping out of as
much trouble as possible--but that had never been Mulder's way.
She soon came to understand that he was a common target for
anyone looking for a victim.  He was smaller than many of the
inmates--loss of appetite and will combined served to diminish
his physical stature--and the knowledge that he had been a
federal agent fueled their hatred toward him. If she mentioned it
Mulder would hastily change the subject, and it became clear to
her that he didn't want to discuss the situation.  Finally she
bowed to his wishes, although it broke her heart to see the
bruises and marks on his body.

His retreat from her became more and more pronounced, however,
until she could no longer ignore it, and one Saturday, sixteen
months into his sentence, found herself broaching the subject.

"Mulder, tell me what's wrong."  Her voice had been carefully
controlled, although she wanted to cry at the sight of him. There
had been another fight, and not only was his face a mess but he
was holding one arm protectively close to his body.  At first she
couldn't decide whether it was the arm troubling him or if he was
trying to protect his chest, but it soon became obvious that his
rib area was very sore, and she wondered if the prison doctor had
examined him. Probably not, she told herself.  Mulder wouldn't
have asked for medical attention and there was nobody here to
force him to take care of himself as she had always done.

He snorted in disgust.  "Nothing's wrong, Scully," he'd growled.
"Everything's peachy.  I get three tasty meals a day, a
comfortable bed to sleep in, and I don't have to work.  What more
could a guy ask?"

She bit back the angry retort on the tip of her tongue.  Mulder
had lashed out at her before when he was angry at circumstances.
She hadn't let it bother her then and she wouldn't today.

"I mean," she explained carefully, "why are you pulling away from
me?  Lately you hardly talk to me when I visit, and two weeks ago
you wouldn't even see me!"

"I wasn't feeling well," he muttered, not meeting her eyes.

She paused a minute.  "Okay," she answered finally.  "You weren't
feeling well. I'll accept that. What I can't accept is the way
you've withdrawn from me." Frustration colored her voice. "What's
changed, Mulder?  I feel as if I don't even know you any longer."

"Maybe you don't," he replied fiercely, raising his eyes to bore
into hers through the glass. "You don't have a clue, Scully, you
have no idea what it's like in here!  You come each week for your
mercy visit and then you leave this place to go back to your
nice, safe, comfortable life, and I'm left to deal with another
week in hell!"

His words hit her like a hammer.  She'd never realized he thought
of her visits to him as "mercy." "It isn't like that and you know
it, Mulder!" she responded hotly.  "I come to see you because I
want to, not because I have to.  I care about you."

"I never asked you to."  His voice had grown cold and she
flinched as if he'd slapped her.

After a moment of silence she tried again.  "You know we're doing
everything we can to get you out of here," she reminded him
desperately.  "It just takes time--"

"Too much time."  He gave a short bark of mirthless laughter. "On
the other hand, time is all I have now, isn't it?"

She leaned toward him and her soul cried when he instinctively
drew back.  "You have me, Mulder," she'd said softly.  "You'll
always have me."

"No, Scully, I'll never have you," he said cuttingly.  "Not you
or anyone else. And you know what?  That's just fine.  I don't
need anyone, and I don't need your pity."  He turned away from
her, running his hands through his close-cropped hair in
agitation, thus missing her look of utter betrayal.

"Stop worrying about me, Scully," he said when he caught sight of
the tears she was holding back.  He took an angry, perverse
delight in them.  He had almost accomplished his goal today.  One
more push and he would be victorious. "Stop waiting for me.  Stop
coming to visit me."  Taking a long, deep breath, as if his next
words required all the strength he could muster, he added, "I
don't want to see you again.  Forget you ever knew me."

Blindly Scully groped behind her for the chair, feeling her knees
begin to buckle.  She knew Mulder so well, knew exactly what he
was doing right now. She wasn't sure of the technical name for
this tactic, but she recognized it for what it was.  He felt
guilty because of her devotion and he was trying to shut her out,
run her off, set her free.  From his own egocentric viewpoint,
Mulder believed that if he got rid of her he would somehow be
doing her a favor.  She wondered with a moment of absolute fury
if he was doing it for her benefit or simply to assuage his own
sense of guilt.

"Mulder--" her voice was nothing but a whisper, barely
discernible in the room.

"No," he told her firmly, that old Mulder mask of indifference
already in place. "It's over. Whatever we may have had is gone.
We never had a chance."

At that she found her voice, anger giving her strength.  "I won't
let you do this," she said, her voice deepening with emotion.  "I
won't let you cut me out of your life this way because of some
misguided sense of self-pity or guilt. You can't get rid of me
that easily."

He gave her a smile that sliced her to ribbons with its
sharpness.  "But I can, Scully.  It's the very last thing I have
control over."

He turned to the guard, who was studiously ignoring their
conversation, and Scully wondered in the back of her mind how
many scenes like this one he had seen played out over the years.
"Take me back," Mulder commanded, and the guard reached to unlock
the door.

"No.  Wait!" Scully said, pressing her hand to the clear barrier
as he began to walk away from her.

He stopped momentarily, but refused to face her.  "It's over,
Scully," he said to the wall.  "Go make a life for yourself.  I
can't be there for you."

"Mulder, you don't have to be anything for me," she said
pleadingly.  "I don't expect that from you.  I already have a
life, and right now part of it is here with you."

"I don't want you coming here anymore," he had repeated grimly.
His teeth had been clenched tightly and she knew, somewhere
beneath her own pain, how much those words had cost him.  "I
don't want to see you again."

"Mulder, don't do this to me.  Don't tell me how to live my
life," she had commanded, feeling herself trembling with fear and
fury.  The icy feeling in the pit of her stomach told her if he
walked away now she would lose him forever.

Reaching for the doorknob he turned slightly toward her.  They
stared at each other for a few seconds, during which she could
see the ache in his eyes, before he nodded to the guard and
slipped quietly through the door.  And was gone.

She stared after him, breathing heavily, years of practice
allowing her to control the tears that wanted to course down her
face.  She would not cry here, she told herself furiously, and
managed to keep herself in check until she reached her car. Then
she had lost command of her emotions entirely for a few minutes,
screaming, crying, pounding the steering wheel in anger at him,
at herself, at the smoking man--at the entire world that had
taken him from her and taken everything from him, turning him
into the empty shell she had just left.

After a few weeks of almost unfathomable pain during which she
had realized that Mulder didn't really want her out of his life,
that he was simply being predictably Mulder-ish, she had gone
back to the prison to resume her usual visiting schedule.  He had
refused to see her.

She had not lain eyes on him since.

Over time, out of pure self-defense, Scully had managed to stoke
up her anger at him, thereby overpowering the other emotions that
threatened at times to consume her.  Mulder was a bastard, she
told herself dismissively.  A selfish bastard not worthy of her
time.  He hadn't wanted her and had told her so in no uncertain
terms.  Ending their relationship--if it could be called a
relationship--had been the best thing for both of them, she
insisted to that tiny voice inside that dared disagree with her.
She would give him what she wanted.  No problem. Leaving him was
easy.

It was the staying away that was almost impossible.

*****

Walter Skinner removed his glasses, placing them gently on his
desk, and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily.  He'd just
finished an uncomfortable telephone conversation with Scully (he
simply couldn't bring himself to think of her as 'Dana Morrow'
even after all this time) and now he was a man with a problem.
Scully had scheduled a meeting with the attorney handling
Mulder's inheritance for the next day, and it was his job to make
certain Mulder arrived at that meeting so all the papers could be
signed that would give Mulder control of the money. It was
necessary.  It was unavoidable.  It was going to be hell for
Mulder.

Skinner was desperately tired of avoiding the topic of Scully,
but he was also reluctant to upset Mulder needlessly. The look in
his friend's eye when Scully crossed his mind was both
heartbreaking and horrifying, as if Mulder had gazed into that
dark abyss so often spoken of in literature and found it
laughable in the face of his own pain.

It hadn't been even a week after her engagement to Zachary Morrow
that Mulder had been thrown yet again into solitary confinement
for the longest stretch he would spend there. Skinner had arrived
for his regular bi-monthly visit only to be told his former agent
had "gone crazy" and attacked another prisoner in the mess hall,
beating the other man badly before the guards had been able to
stop him.  It had been over a month before Skinner had seen
Mulder again, and once he did he had been unable to obtain an
explanation for the violent behavior.  Mulder had been sullen and
silent on the subject, and Skinner knew not to push.

Scully had called him after her last meeting with Mulder, once
she had regained control of her emotions enough to maintain her
usual cool, confident air. Skinner tried valiantly to talk her
out of what he perceived as an abandonment of Mulder, but he had
been unsuccessful.  When Scully did eventually try to mend fences
with Mulder she had been thoroughly rebuffed, and after three
Saturdays of being turned away she had informed Skinner she
wouldn't be returning.  She was giving Mulder what he wanted.  He
could see in her eyes that she knew the truth behind Mulder's
actions, but it was buried so deeply beneath her own pain he
doubted it mattered.

It had been just over a year later that she had announced her
engagement.  She had come to him in order to tell him personally,
knowing he would be passing the information on to Mulder. Skinner
had seen the tears behind her smile, but in true Scully fashion
she had shrugged them off.

"He doesn't want me," she'd stated flatly in answer to his
unspoken question. "I've given him plenty of time to get past
this, but he still refuses to see me. He returns my letters." She
had taken a deep, steadying breath.  "I can't force Mulder to
have a relationship with me, Sir.  He's made it perfectly clear
that it's over."

But Skinner knew it wasn't over for Mulder, that it would never
be over.

Breaking the news to Mulder had been one of the most difficult
things Skinner had ever been called upon to do.  Mulder had
stared at Skinner, his eyes dead, then turned away and buried his
face in his hands.  Skinner sat silent and uncomfortable, knowing
the other man was fighting back tears, until finally Mulder
raised his head.  His face was blank.  Skinner had seen that face
on a number of occasions in the past, usually when Mulder was
being verbally attacked by a co-worker or superior, but never had
he known it to conceal the depth of emotion it did that day.  He
had risen, hands in his pockets, and quietly asked Mulder, "Is
there anything you want me to do for you this week?"

Kill me, begged those haunted eyes, but Mulder just gave a quick
shake of his head and fixed his gaze firmly on the wall as
Skinner left the visitor's cubicle.  He knew that sooner or later
Mulder's carefully constructed facade was bound to crumble, and
hoped Mulder would be alone when it happened.  Now, thinking
back, Skinner wondered if Mulder had deliberately gotten himself
thrown into solitary in order to have a chance to grieve for
Scully.

Since his release, Mulder had studiously avoided the topic of his
ex-partner, and Skinner was certain that seeing her was something
he would postpone forever if possible.  Unfortunately, it wasn't
possible, and now the time was upon them.

Laying his head on his arms, Skinner wondered for a moment at the
complexities of the Mulder family.  Teena Mulder had loved her
son, of that he had no doubt. It had been made very clear to him
in the meetings he'd had with her after Mulder was sent away, yet
never once had she visited him in prison.  He supposed she
couldn't face the pain of seeing her child behind bars.  It would
be difficult for any mother, and Teena had certainly faced more
than her share of troubles where her family was concerned.

Although she hadn't visited Mulder she had kept in touch with
Skinner, and he had been happy to give her frequent reports both
on Mulder's condition and on any progress made in trying to free
him.  Things had been bleak for a long time, and as he pondered
life and death, Skinner wondered if Teena was in a place now
where she could see that they had finally achieved their goal.
She had been a very strong woman right up until the end.

He remembered the day she had called him to ask if he'd help her
pack up Mulder's things. Skinner had groaned inwardly, and agreed
with a sense of dread. He didn't want to paw through Mulder's
belongings, it felt too much like the invasion of a man who had
already been violated enough.  Most of all he didn't want to be
with Mrs. Mulder when she inevitably broke down, but he had
apparently been designated the 'strong one', and had never been
one to shirk his responsibilities.  She had surprised him,
though, quietly and determinedly going about the business of
sorting through her son's possessions, never shedding a tear.
They had worked side by side for hours with few words exchanged,
and once they were finished she had calmly called for a truck to
haul away Mulder's stuff to be placed into storage.

"I think I'll have to sell his car," she'd told Skinner softly,
"but I can't bear to part with anything else.  He'll need it when
he's released."

"Mrs. Mulder--" he began, and she shook her head firmly.

"I have absolute faith that you will save my son, Mr. Skinner.  I
have to believe it.  I simply can't lose him, too."  With those
words she strode purposefully from the room, and Skinner watched
her go with admiration.  Spunk, his father would have called it.
She had spunk.

He sank down to Mulder's couch, gazing around the room that was
now stripped of all personal items, and thought of the man who
had been its occupant.  How many years had he lived in this small
apartment?  Skinner had no idea, Mulder had been here when they'd
met, but it was long enough to leave his essence, his imprint on
the place.

He hadn't come here many times, but though few in number his
visits had been memorable.  He still vividly recalled sitting on
this very couch while Agent Scully held a gun on him.  They had
been at a standoff--he'd known she wouldn't kill him, but
wouldn't put it past her to shoot to protect herself even from
him--when a noise at the door had startled her.  To their
astonishment, in had walked the man they both thought had
perished in a boxcar in New Mexico.  The look on Scully's face at
Mulder's unexpected appearance hadn't registered with him in the
next few, tense minutes, but recalling it later he recognized it
for what it was.  He wondered when they had fallen in love with
each other, and how he had been so blind as to not even notice it
until then.

He remembered arriving here one morning, Mulder's suicide having
been reported, fearing, dreading that look at the man who not so
many weeks earlier had saved his own life.  And Scully--Scully
had been her carefully controlled self at that time, and he'd
believed that inside she was falling apart.  Of course he'd
discovered later it had all been an act, but had the
circumstances been different, he doubted her reaction would have
changed.  Glancing up at the ceiling he shivered as he recalled
the surveillance that Mulder had been subjected to. How had the
man survived all the things that had been done to him?  And to
Scully?  His eyes drifted to the window--Scully had been shot at
through that very window, although there was no evidence of it
now.  There was nothing left to any of them but memories, both
good and bad.

It had been so difficult to gain their trust, and at first he
wasn't sure why he even wanted it.  He was their superior, they
worked for him, that should have been enough.  But somehow along
the way he had come to respect this set of agents like no other,
and found himself desiring their respect in return. Eventually he
had earned it, and over time had come to think of them as his
friends, although Skinner was essentially a loner.  There was
never a time he would have called up Mulder or Scully and asked
them over for dinner, but he knew that if he needed them they
could be counted on unequivocably.  That, in his opinion, was the
truest sort of friend.   He knew his loyalty to them had been
questionable at times, but Mulder, and to a lesser extent Scully,
had believed in him firmly.  That was why he was helping Mulder
now.

Raising his head from his arms, Skinner reached for the telephone
on his desk, intending to call Mulder to inform him of the
meeting, then drew back.  This type of news was better broken in
person, he decided.  That way Mulder couldn't run away.  He had
to get this meeting with Scully over with in order to begin
rebuilding his life.  Skinner knew Mulder was going to fight
against it, and he could be more persuasive face-to-face.  Mulder
had been in a fragile state all weekend after the visit to his
mother's grave, and Skinner had been careful to give him plenty
of space.  He'd seemed better last night, sitting up late
watching Monday Night Football, and he'd still been asleep when
Skinner left for work that morning.  Sitting back in his chair,
he began to plan the best way to approach Mulder with the bad
news.

*****

"Mulder, you have to face her sometime."

"Why?" Mulder demanded stubbornly.  "Give me one good reason
why."

Skinner shook his head in exasperation at his friend.  "Because
the problem isn't going away and you can't avoid her forever.
Because sooner or later you're bound to run into her and you may
as well get it over with now. Because these papers have to be
signed, and it's easier for all concerned if you and Dana meet
with the attorney together."

Mulder pursed his lips but said nothing more, and Skinner went
into his bedroom to change out of his suit.  Mulder had put up a
good argument, telling Skinner the attorney could mail the papers
to him for his signature, but Skinner was determined not to let
Mulder wriggle out of this.  He, more than anyone, wanted to get
this meeting between Scully and Mulder behind them.  Maybe then
Mulder could begin putting those fragments of himself back
together.

The minute Skinner was out of sight Mulder sank wearily to a
chair, his legs giving out.  To see her again, after all this
time.  How would he react?  How would she?  Would she be cold and
distant, or greet him warmly as an old friend? Mulder wasn't sure
which would be worse.  He knew from experience that her icy
exterior could flay him, but to pretend...  He shook his head
firmly. They simply couldn't pretend things were just like the
old days.  They couldn't deny the painful words that had been
uttered at their parting.  All they could do now was try and put
the past behind them.   Scully had gotten on with her life, he
reflected grimly.  It was time he did the same.  Mulder rubbed
his hands over his face, stubbornly fighting back a wave of
emotion, then stood determinedly.  Skinner was right.  It
couldn't be postponed any longer.

"When is the meeting?" he asked when Skinner emerged from the
bedroom, and Skinner breathed an inward sigh of relief.

"Tomorrow," Skinner told him bluntly, his authoritarian exterior
betraying no hint of his anxiety.  "Ten o'clock.  Take my car, I
can catch a ride to work."

Mulder hesitated.  He hadn't driven in over four years, and now
Skinner was offering him the use of his car without a moment's
pause, he realized uncomfortably.  What if he wrecked it?  That
thought was quickly followed by the reminder that, once he
emerged from the meeting with Scully, he would have access to a
large amount of cash.  If he crashed Skinner's car he'd just buy
him a new one, he told himself recklessly.  Maybe he'd buy
himself one as well. Maybe it was time.


Mulder was up early the next morning, pacing throughout the
apartment restlessly and generally annoying Skinner, who
patiently held his peace.   Skinner ate breakfast and watched as
Mulder played with his own, but refrained from nagging. It
probably wouldn't be doing Mulder a favor to insist he meet
Scully with a full stomach anyway, not with his tendency toward
nausea under stress.  Just before leaving for work he tossed
Mulder his keys, sternly reminding him, "Ten o'clock, Mulder.
Don't be late."

Mulder caught the keys one-handed and, with a knot in his
stomach, went to his room to get ready.  Facing Scully for the
first time in years would require a little extra self-confidence,
which he was miserably low on these days, and he decided he'd
better bathe and put on some of his new clothes.   At least they
didn't hang unattractively off his frame like the old ones.  He
hoped once this meeting was behind him he would be able to find
his appetite again.  He hated being this thin and sickly looking.

Combing his hair in the mirror after he'd shaved, Mulder surveyed
himself critically.  His ribs were too prominent, but she
wouldn't be able to see that--he'd be sure to wear a
loose-fitting shirt.  His arms and legs were also thinner than
usual, and Mulder decided it was time he began exercising. Being
able to run again sounded wonderful, and maybe his workout
routine should include some weight lifting to help bulk up his
arms.  While they were watching football Monday night, Skinner
had suggested he look up some of his old basketball buddies, but
Mulder had wryly pointed out to him that being surrounded by a
bunch of guys who were bigger, stronger, and in better shape than
he was didn't really sound appealing at this time.  Skinner had
given a snort of laughter and gone back to watching the game,
which Mulder appreciated more than the other man knew. He didn't
want to be treated with kid gloves, he just wanted to be normal.
At least as normal as possible under the circumstances.

Skinner had loaned him five hundred dollars so he could buy the
clothes and a few other personal items.  Mulder had stared at the
money in awe for a minute, then tucked it into his jeans pocket,
already feeling the familiar gratitude mixed with a heavy dose of
guilt.  Skinner shouldn't have to do this for him. He was such a
burden.  He had mumbled his thanks uncomfortably, and Skinner had
simply nodded, dryly telling Mulder that he could repay it when
he became a rich man.  Mulder still couldn't quite accept the
idea that so much money would soon be his.  He briefly considered
blowing a large amount on something fun and frivolous, like a
brand-new Ferrari, but quickly rejected the idea.  It just wasn't
him.

With the promise of a free lunch he'd gotten Langly to drive him
to a nearby shopping mall so he could get that decent haircut
he'd wanted and buy new clothes.  They'd driven in awkward
silence for a time, and finally Mulder had sighed, determined to
break the ice with his old friend.

"I'm sorry I'm not good company," he'd begun, but Langly shook
his head, indicating Mulder's apology was unnecessary.  "I don't
quite know what to say."

"We're just glad to have you back, Mulder.  Sorry we haven't come
around, but we didn't want to make you feel weird.  We figured
when you were ready you'd contact us, and I guess we were right."

Mulder smiled.  "Well, there wasn't anybody else I could ask to
drive me around in the middle of a weekday," he joked.  "All my
other friends work for a living."

For a moment it almost felt like old times, especially when Langly 
asked him to come and hang out with the guys on Friday--they
missed his wit and his company.

Again Mulder had to smile.  "You just miss the beer I bring," he
kidded, but agreed to the plan.  He wondered for a moment if he
should invite Skinner along but quickly decided Skinner would
probably enjoy being rid of him for an evening. It was definitely
time to jump back into life.

Langly had offered to accompany Mulder inside, but Mulder thanked
him, saying he needed to face this first venture away from his
safe haven alone.   Waiting in line to pay for his purchases,
Mulder felt odd. He wondered if the salesclerk behind the counter
could tell where he'd been for the last four years. He felt out
of place, as if he had the words "ex-con" stamped on his
forehead. He'd been forced to think of every other person in his
vicinity as a potential threat for such a long time that he was
now wary of them, and had deliberately chosen a time to shop when
he knew the mall would be practically deserted.  All the same,
Mulder had been glad when the ordeal was over.

Bridgette, the sweet young thing who had cut his hair, had wanted
to make conversation, but he hadn't been able to muster up
sociability.  She'd begun by demanding, in a nicely chiding way,
to know who had created the disaster she saw before her.  Mulder
just smiled and told her "Frank."

"Frank?" she'd questioned, one perfect eyebrow raised.

"Yes.  Very old friend of my father's," he'd lied, his expression
serious.  "He's been cutting my hair since I was a little boy.
Frank's getting up in years and his eyesight isn't all it should
be, but I can't bring myself to give up on him."

"So why are you here?" Bridgette asked as she quickly snipped and
combed, hiding the mess that had been made of his hair with her
magic scissors.

"I can't bring myself to live with such a bad haircut, either."

She laughed, the giggling laugh of a young woman who had not yet
learned the things of which men were capable, would probably never 
be targeted by evil people because of her determination and
stubbornness.  Mulder sighed inwardly, relishing the idea that
such innocence still existed in the world and mourning the loss
of it in himself.  It had been such a long time since he'd really
laughed.

Once he'd finished making himself feel human again with his new
clothes and haircut, Mulder had called Langly from a pay phone.
He'd arrived within minutes, and Mulder had a suspicion that
Langly had never left the mall parking lot at all, but he didn't
ask.  He knew how lucky he was to have friends like the Gunmen
and Skinner, friends who had worked and sacrificed for him and
had never deserted him.

Too bad the same couldn't be said of her.

*****

Dana looked at the clock for the twentieth time that morning.  It
was still only 8:45--she had over an hour to kill before they
were to meet Mulder, and the drive to the lawyer's office
wouldn't take more than ten minutes.  She'd already washed the
breakfast dishes and made the beds, and now there was nothing to
do but sit and wait.  In the middle of the living room floor, her
stepdaughter sat playing happily with her dolls.  Smiling at the
display of four-year-old innocence before her, she reflected on
her current life.  It wasn't good, but the Nymph, as Dana called
her, was the one bright spot in her existence. Finally able to
endure the anticipation no longer, Dana asked her, "How would you
like to go to the park?"

The little girl's eyes lit up, and Dana's heart swelled.  She
adored this child. She sometimes wondered if Zachary had
introduced her to his daughter early in their relationship in
order to sway her decision toward marrying him.  Her brother Bill
had been instrumental as well, since Zach was an old friend of
his. He'd been pushing her and Zach toward each other for years,
but had backed off somewhat while she was still partnered with
Mulder.  Ever since Mulder's arrest, though, Bill never passed up
a chance to remind her that Zach was stable, sane, and available,
which she supposed was meant to be a subtle jab at Mulder in his
absence.  She had steadfastly resisted for over two years, only
finally giving in and agreeing to a first date in a fit of
determination to move on with life.

At first, after Mulder's rejection, she had fought the idea of
dating other men, her heart still firmly set on him, but as the
days had dragged on and he had refused to have any contact with
her, Dana had finally realized that the situation was out of her
hands.  It was Mulder's decision, and it had been made. She had
to choose--either sit around licking her wounds and waiting on
him, or try to grab a little bit of, if not happiness at least
contentment, before she died.  When Zachary had proposed after a
month of dating, Dana had thought it over carefully for a couple
of days. Once or twice she'd almost convinced herself to pay
Mulder a visit just to find out if he'd talk to her--but had
changed her mind when she remembered the pain she had suffered
after their last meeting. Mulder didn't want her, she reminded
herself with a stubborn set to her jaw.  He had not minced words
in telling her so.  She wouldn't waste any more of her time on
him.  She and Zach had been married soon after in a modest, but 
nice ceremony by her mother's priest and Dana had never looked
back--at least not by all outward appearances.

Now, driving toward the park with her daughter safely buckled
into the car, she again tried to convince herself her feelings
for Mulder were gone.

*****

Mulder had to admit that getting behind the wheel of a car again
felt good. After a few minutes of awkwardness he began to get a
feel for it, and soon was driving comfortably, if more carefully
than usual, in the opposite direction from the address Skinner
had given him.  He briefly considered running away, then ruefully
told himself stealing Skinner's car wouldn't exactly endear him
to his host, and when he was found Skinner might just kill him
for such a stunt.  He'd been very clear that he'd accept no
excuses for Mulder missing this meeting.  With a tight feeling in
his stomach, Mulder tried to resign himself to the fact that he
had to see her today.  There was no escape.  In desperation he
told himself the meeting couldn't take longer than half an hour.
Thirty short minutes.  Just long enough to watch an old rerun of
Night Gallery.  Except, of course, there would be no
commercials--no reprieve.  He'd already decided a stiff drink was
in order once the meeting was behind him.

Glancing at his watch and noting that he had over an hour before
he was due at the attorney's office, Mulder made a quick decision
and swung the car onto the freeway.  Feeling much the same as
he'd felt when he discovered his journal files on his computer,
Mulder found himself instinctively driving toward his old
neighborhood.  He asked himself the same question--would he
really do this to himself?--but as he grew closer and closer to
his former home he knew it had already been answered.  Yes, he
was going to do this to himself, and he would most certainly
regret it later.

Goodbyes had to be said, however, and Mulder wanted to get them
out of the way. All of them. Exorcize all the ghosts that haunted
his dreams, taunting him with the memory of all he'd lost. Face
your fear, he told himself firmly.  Face it and put it behind
you.  All well and fine, his inner self argued, but the closer he
drew to Hegal Place the sharper the pain in his stomach became,
until he was afraid he was going to have to stop the car and
throw up.  When he finally parked in front of his old building,
his hands were trembling violently and he felt light-headed.
Leaning against the headrest, he closed his eyes tightly, trying
to summon up the courage he would need to do this thing that he
was already telling himself was a terrible idea.

At last, after a severe inner conversation in which his practical
side angrily insisted to his emotional persona that this must be
done for recovery to progress, Mulder stepped from the car
purposefully, refusing to allow cowardice to drive him away.  He
was here, it would never get any easier, and he needed to see...

Knocking on the door of the landlord's apartment, Mulder glanced
around the familiar corridor. It was identical to the one
upstairs.   A vision floated in front of his eyes without
warning--he could almost see the scene replayed in a diaphanous
reality, much like a hologram--and Mulder gasped, feeling
physically assaulted by the memory.  Scully...him...the hallway
outside his apartment... Clenching his fists tightly, he let the
pain bring him back to the present. After a moment he opened his
hands to find that he had actually drawn blood in a spot or two.
He was wiping them on his jeans when the door opened and he
stared into the face of his former landlord.

"Mr. Mulder?" the man asked, astonished.

Mulder's eyes met his briefly, then dropped to the carpet.  Of
course Mr. Perrino knew where he'd been for the last few years.
Everyone knew.  With a muttered, "I'm sorry," he turned, about to
leave, when the elderly man's voice stopped him.

"I'm glad to see you back," he said sincerely.  "I read about
your new trial in the papers.  How've you been?"

Mulder slowly turned back to the man, disbelief evident on his
face.  Mr. Perrino was happy to see him?  Why?  He hadn't exactly
been a model tenant, what with the shootings, unauthorized
surveillance, and then there'd been that incident with the
waterbed he wasn't supposed to have. Mulder thought his landlord
should have been delighted to see him go.

"I never believed you were guilty of that trumped-up charge
anyway," Mr. Perrino continued briskly, ignoring Mulder's
expression of doubt.  "You were always a pain in the ass as a
tenant, but still, you were a nice young man.  You couldn't have
done what they said you did."

Still staring at the floor, Mulder nodded slightly and almost
whispered, "Thanks.  I appreciate that.  Sorry about all the
trouble I caused you back then."

"Oh, don't worry about it," the old man told him happily.  "It's
all over and done with now.  Will you be needing a place to live,
then?  As luck would have it, your old apartment is empty right
now, although I feel I must remind you," shaking his finger in
Mulder's face, "no waterbeds!"

At his words all the breath left Mulder's body in a rush.  Could
he do this? Should he?  The decision was removed from him, as Mr.
Perrino had already grabbed a key off the rack beside his desk
and was gently pushing Mulder out the door.

"Let's just go upstairs and you can have a look at it, all right?
I know the last tenant painted the walls, you might not like the
color, but we can always change that, can't we?"

With a feeling of resignation, like a man on his way to his
execution, Mulder followed Mr. Perrino obediently into the
elevator and waited while it creaked its way up to his old floor.
When he'd lived here he'd most often taken the stairs, usually in
too much of a hurry to wait on this ancient machine, but Mr.
Perrino was in his eighties and Mulder supposed stairs were too
much for him these days.  His sense of impending doom grew as
they approached the door behind which so many years of his life
had been lived.  While Mr. Perrino fumbled with the lock, Mulder
cautiously stretched out a hand, his finger lightly touching the
brass "2".  It was much shinier than the "4" and had obviously
been replaced recently.  He gave a tiny, wistful smile as he
remembered the trouble he'd had with that pesky "2".

"Now I must tell you, the rent's gone up a bit while you were
away, but I--" Mr. Perrino stopped and looked slightly
uncomfortable.  "Have you been able to find a job, Mr. Mulder?"

Mulder shook his head slightly, his eyes glued to the spot where
his couch had stood for so long. "I've been staying with a
friend," he said absently, pushing forward into the room.
Gratefully he realized his body was becoming numb, protecting
itself from the pain this should be causing him much as it had
when he'd visited his mother's grave.  As then, he knew he would
have some sort of emotional breakdown later, but the important
thing was that it didn't happen here.  Not now.  Not in front of
this man who was such a symbol of his past life.  He smiled
again, fondly remembering his poor fish and wondered what had
become of them.  He'd have to ask Skinner this evening.  He knew
Skinner had adopted them, but had seen no sign of the aquarium
anywhere in Skinner's apartment.

He allowed Mr. Perrino to pull him through the entire apartment,
largely ignoring the man's chatter as wave after wave of
remembrance washed over him. He noticed the carpet in the bedroom
had been replaced, and recalled the ocean he'd put his feet into
one morning--again and again and again, although nobody believed
that except him--when his waterbed had leaked.  In the kitchen he
closed his eyes against the memory of himself heating pizza in
the oven while Scully waited in his living room, casefiles,
computer and notes in front of her, as they settled into an
all-nighter preparing their reports for Skinner.  That hadn't
been long after her return, and he'd still been giddy with her
company at that point.  Wandering back into the main room Mulder
stared thoughtfully at the ceiling.  It was a fairly safe bet, he
believed, that the subsequent tenants had never had their
apartments bugged, that no one had surreptitiously observed their
every movement.

Lowering his gaze once again to the bare wall where his leather
couch had been, Mulder shivered. For a second he could almost
feel Scully's hands sliding through his hair as he lay there,
eyes closed, exhausted.  What had they been doing that day?
Scully had been talking on his phone, he remembered.  She'd kept
her voice hushed, trying not to disturb him as he lay there with
his eyes shut, arms crossed, simply letting her presence surround
him.  It was a bad day, he recalled that much.  They'd been about
to lose again, he was sure. Whatever the situation, the mere fact
of her hands gently stroking his forehead had made it better.
Shaking his head again, he forced himself back to the present.

"So will you be wanting it?" Mr. Perrino asked, watching him
expectantly, and for a short second Mulder felt the word 'yes' on
the tip of his tongue.

Thankfully, common sense prevailed and he shook his head again,
more slowly this time.  "I'm sorry, Mr. Perrino, but I'm not sure
coming back here to live would be a good idea right now. There
are so many memories..."

"Of course, I understand," the man told him sympathetically, and
without another word Mulder turned to walk out the front door.

He didn't get more than a few steps before a wave of pain hit him
so hard he had to lean against the wall, gasping for breath.
Right here.  It was right here in this very spot, and good god he
could still feel her arms around his neck, her soft lips on his
forehead, could still see the acceptance and love shining in her
tear-stained eyes as he'd leaned closer and closer, almost
reaching her mouth with his own before--

"Mr. Mulder!  Somebody call an ambulance!" he heard Mr. Perrino
shouting as if from miles away.

Clutching his left arm, fighting the pain coursing through his
chest, Mulder carefully lowered himself to the floor, forcing his
breathing to remain slow and steady.  "No," he gasped, but his
ex-landlord ignored him, already knocking on the door across the
hall.

"No!" he managed, louder this time, feeling the pain beginning to
diminish. "Mr. Perrino, I'm all right."

"You're not all right, you're having a heart attack!" Mr. Perrino
insisted, pounding again at the door adjacent to Mulder's limp
body.

"No," he said weakly, then gathered his strength.  The sharp pain
throughout his body was almost gone now.  "It's not a heart
attack.  It's just a panic attack." He gave a wry smile which was
immediately eclipsed with another wince as one last stabbing pain
shot through him.  "I get them sometimes.  I'll be all right.
Really."

"Are you sure?" Mr. Perrino asked doubtfully.  It was clear he
still wanted to call an ambulance, but with a quick glance at his
watch Mulder confirmed his suspicion.  He was going to be late
for the meeting if he didn't leave right now.  He didn't want to
have to face Skinner this evening if that happened.

Politely refusing the older man's insistent offers of assistance,
Mulder stood, still holding to the wall for support, and steadied
himself.  Managing a smile for Mr. Perrino he began to make his
way down the hall, grateful now for the elevator.  Seeing there
was nothing else he could do, Mr. Perrino followed him, one hand
outstretched should Mulder lose his balance, but every step gave
him more confidence.  By the time they reached the ground floor
Mulder was able to appear relatively normal, and thankfully was 
able to convince Mr. Perrino he was capable of driving.  The man 
watched as Mulder drove away, giving him a friendly wave, and 
Mulder felt a rush of unexpected pleasure. There was someone outside 
his small circle of old friends who was happy to see him a free man 
again, he told himself.  Mr. Perrino had been genuinely pleased at 
his visit, and Mulder breathed a little more easily knowing he had 
gotten one more difficult necessity out of the way.  He wondered if 
he would ever find the courage to visit Scully's old neighborhood.

Switching on the radio to drive away the sadness that threatened
to engulf him, Mulder decided driving past Scully's apartment
would be an extraordinarily bad idea.  He was still feeling
somewhat weakened from his panic attack and there was this
meeting yet to endure.

He found the office easily, and pulled Skinner's car into a
parking space near the street.  Stepping out into the cool
morning, Mulder took a deep breath, hit once again with a sense
of wonder at just being free.  It was amazing the things you
forgot, like how it felt not to have to glance behind you every
minute, and how nice it was to decide, on a whim, to go wherever
you wanted to go. Mulder didn't even have a cell phone to tether
him any longer, and he found the sense of privacy and liberation
to be exhilarating.


She caught her breath suddenly, forgetting to push the swing for
a moment until a squeal from the little girl brought her back to
reality.

Mulder was here. 

He stood beside the car, staring down the street, and she was
able to get a good long look. Absently continuing to push her
daughter, she took in the sight of him hungrily.  He had lost
some weight, which made him look even taller, and his hair was
shorter than usual, which set off his profile quite nicely.  He
was dressed all in black today, and she wondered briefly if he
had done it deliberately.  She remembered complimenting him once,
at least a hundred years ago, on how nice he looked in black. The
jeans clung gracefully to his legs, not too tight, and his shirt
hung loosely from his body, untucked and casual. As she watched
he reached up to remove the black sunglasses he'd been wearing
and tossed them into the car before slamming the door.  He turned
as if to walk toward the entrance and she found herself calling
to him.

"Mulder!"

Hearing her voice stopped him in his tracks.  After a second he
turned, searching for the source of the shout, and saw her waving
to him from across the street.  Firmly swallowing the lump in his
throat and telling himself he would not allow his heart to
shatter today, he ignored her and entered the attorney's office.

Scully stared after him in shock.  She didn't know what type of
reception she'd expected from Mulder, but she certainly hadn't
thought he would disregard her completely.

"Who's that, Mommy?" asked the child in the swing.

"Just a friend, Nymph.  A very old friend," Scully replied
absently, her eyes still on the door through which Mulder had
disappeared.  Shaking off the thoughts of him, she smiled at the
little girl and held out her hand.  "We have to go to Mommy's
boring meeting now, but I promise you lunch at McDonald's
afterwards, okay?"

She was rewarded with a happy nod as the girl sprang eagerly to
her feet, slipping her hand trustingly into Scully's.

After carefully crossing the street, the Nymph reminding her
solemnly that they must look both ways, Scully opened the glass
door and escorted her daughter inside.  A secretary sitting
behind her desk greeted them with a smile.

"Mrs. Morrow?" she asked, and after an almost unnoticeable
hesitation, Scully nodded.  Morrow.  She hadn't been able to
bring herself to change her name professionally, preferring to be
called 'Dr. Scully', and so few people called her 'Mrs. Morrow'
that she still felt unfamiliar with the name.

"Just through that door," the secretary pointed.  "Mr. Mulder's
already arrived."

Scully's heart leaped into her throat at the mention of his name.
Ushering the little girl into the office she pulled out a chair
from the large conference table and helped her climb into it.
Reaching into her purse, Scully extracted a coloring book and a
box of crayons she'd had the presence of mind to stuff in at the
last minute before leaving the house.  During the entire time she
fussed with her daughter she was able to avoid looking at Mulder,
but she could feel his presence, reaching out to her from across
the table, and for a moment she could swear she smelled the
aftershave he'd always worn.

Now that her task was completed, she had no pretense to look
away, and finally her eyes sought him out. It was his turn to
avoid looking at her.  Neither had counted on the precociousness
of the child.

"Are you a friend of my mommy's?" she asked, regarding Mulder
thoughtfully from beneath her dark bangs.

When Mulder didn't answer, Scully stepped in. "He's a very old
friend of Mommy's, Emmie.  His name is Mulder."

She stared at him for a moment, then informed Scully, "He doesn't
look as old as Grandpa."

The attorney had arrived just in time to hear her statement, and
his laughter broke the tension in the room a little.  Mulder
didn't actually laugh, but the ghost of a smile crossed his lips.
Finally he looked at Scully, but still refused to meet her eyes.

"Emily?" he asked in a somewhat startled voice.

"Emmaline, Emmie for short," she corrected him quietly, her eyes
not quite finding his either.  Scully knew she would never admit,
even to herself, that the nearness in names between Zachary's
daughter and her own had been one more factor in her decision to
marry him.  She simply wasn't that shallow; she certainly knew
the difference between the two girls.  Where Emily had been blond
and round-faced, Emmie had her natural mother's dark hair and
eyes, and finely sculpted features.  Emmie was destined to be an
incredible beauty, Scully thought.  It wouldn't be many years
before the boys would be wanting to date her.

After that a pause descended, and just as it threatened to
lengthen into an uncomfortable silence, the attorney cleared his
throat.  He didn't know what the bad karma between these two
involved, but it was practically tangible.  "Let's get down to
business, shall we?" he asked, and Mulder and Scully gratefully
turned their attention to him.

"This is your copy of everything, Mrs. Morrow," he said, handing
her a sheaf of papers.  Mulder flinched slightly at the name.

As Scully leaned over the table to take the copies from him,
Mulder noticed a dark bruise coloring her upper arm.
Involuntarily he reached his finger toward it, and at the last
second drew quickly back.  He didn't want to touch her.  If he
felt her skin under his fingers he'd never get to sleep tonight.

Seeing the question on his face, Scully assured him, "It's
nothing.  I backed into a bookcase yesterday.  Wasn't looking
where I was going and banged into it pretty hard.  Hurt my head,
too, but I'm all right."

He risked a brief glance at her face and almost froze when she
smiled at him. He could see the lines of weariness around her
eyes.  Sadly he realized they matched his own.  They had both
aged in the past four years.


*****

"So she's with him now, huh?" Bill Scully asked as he shoved
another beer toward Zach.  His friend had been so despondent over
his wife's appointment with Mulder this morning that Bill had
driven up from Norfolk, where he was stationed these days, to
spend the day with him.  It was a long drive, but Bill and his
brother-in-law had been friends since grade school.  He didn't
mind the miles on his car or the extra gas if it meant he could
be with Zach when he was feeling down.

Zach was certainly depressed today, and it disturbed Bill a
little that he wasn't certain of the reason.  Was it because Dana
was with Mulder, or was it the fact that Mulder's release from
prison removed any chance Dana had of inheriting the money?  Zach
had been rambling on for an hour now about both topics.

"When Dana told me the terms of that old woman's will..." he
shook his head sadly.  "I never thought that bastard would get
out."

"He shouldn't have," Bill commented, gazing into his own beer.
They were each on their third, and had no intention of stopping
soon.  Every time Bill thought of Mulder, and all his family had
suffered because of the man, he took another swig.  So far he had
managed to blame Mulder for every misfortune to befall the Scully
family for the last ten years.  The more he drank the more
creative he became.  With difficulty he directed his mind back
toward his friend.

"You know the worst part of it?" Zach was asking angrily.  "When
we first got married, she was trying to help him get out! Working
against herself.  Working against *me!*  You can bet I put a stop
to that," he told his old friend with a satisfied look.

"How'd you stop it?" Bill asked, taking another sip.

"I have ways of keeping her in line," Zach said mysteriously, his
smile taking the sting out of his words.  "Dana usually does as I
tell her."

"'Bout time she found a real man to take care of her," Bill
muttered.

"Oh, I am that man, buddy, I am that man." Zach took a long
swallow of his own drink, then wiped his mouth with the back of
his hand and belched loudly. "Sonofabitch should have died in
that place, anyway," he announced.

"Should have," Bill agreed, wondering why Mulder always seemed to
land on his feet.

Leaning closer to Bill, Zach whispered conspiratorially, "I tried
to arrange it, you know, but things didn't quite work out as
planned."

Bill stared at his friend, afraid to ask questions.  He knew
Mulder had received several beatings while incarcerated, one of
them so severe it had left him hospitalized for weeks.  His
sister had received the information from Skinner and passed it on
to him.  He had just figured it was all a part of prison life,
but now...Zach was talking as though he might have had something
to do with it. But that was crazy, Zach was a nice, normal guy
with a wife and a kid and a job. He wasn't the type of person to
even have the connections to...was he?  With another long swallow
of his beer, Bill decided he didn't really want to know. Surely
it was the liquor talking.  Zach always did turn into a terrible
braggart when he was drinking.

"So now it's gone.  All that money, gone," Zach said sadly.

"Well, maybe not," Bill answered after a minute of fuzzy
recollection.  "You might still have a chance at it, but you'll
probably be a very old man by the time--"

"What are you talking about?" Zach demanded, suddenly appearing
more sober than he had seconds earlier.

Bill shrugged carelessly.  "Before Mulder was arrested, I know he
had made Dana his heir in case his mother had already kicked the
bucket," he explained.  "Of course, his estate didn't amount to
much back then, probably less than ten thousand dollars."  He
leaned over, as if imparting an important, little-known fact.
"It's a lot more now," he said owlishly.

Zachary stared at Bill for a long time, long enough that Bill
began to grow uncomfortable, then rose suddenly from the table.
He extracted a wad of cash from his pocket and threw some down in
front of Bill.  "I have to go," he told his companion, slapping
him on the shoulder. "Thanks for coming up to offer me moral
support, old friend."

"Where are you going?" Bill asked, but Zach was already out the
door.

*****

It was over.  The papers were signed, sealed and delivered, and
Mulder was a rich man.  Rich by his standards, anyway.  It felt
odd, knowing he had all that money at his disposal, and in some
ways uncomfortable, although he'd already decided his first
purchase would be a new car.  Then maybe he'd start looking for a
house--Skinner had been great, treating him like an old friend
instead of some type of psychosocial invalid or misfit, but
sooner or later Mulder knew his presence was bound to become an
imposition.

Mulder left the office quickly, while Scully was still helping
Emmie gather her things.  He hoped to make his escape without
being forced to speak to her.  Then he intended to find a bar
somewhere nearby and spend the afternoon getting quietly drunk.
The pain he'd felt at her nearness had been incredible, much more
severe than he'd ever imagined it could be, and he was exhausted
from the effort of hiding his emotions.  He kept his face
carefully shuttered through the entire nightmare, and when it was
over gathered his papers hastily and almost ran for the door.

Scully watched him, an expression of angry disbelief marking her
lovely features.  Once the meeting had begun Mulder had been all
business, studiously ignoring her.  There hadn't been an
opportunity for personal conversation and as he disappeared out
the door she knew if she let him go now he'd never give her
another chance.  She wasn't willing to throw away all the years
of their friendship just because Zach and Emmie were now in the
picture. Sweeping Emmie's crayons into her bag, Scully lifted the
little girl, although she was really too big to be carried far,
and rushed after him.

Mulder reached Skinner's car and flung open the door, sinking
into the seat gratefully.  Blindly he reached for the sunglasses
he'd tossed on the dash earlier--he thought it best to hide his
slightly dampened eyes from anyone who might pass.  God, she was
still so beautiful, he thought, in spite of everything.  She was
thinner than he remembered, but not as painfully thin as when
she'd been wracked by her cancer.  Her face had appeared etched
with weariness, but when she smiled--Mulder drew in a sharp
breath, willing the sudden ache in his chest to disappear.  When
she'd looked at Emmie he had seen the old serenity there in her
eyes, and it nearly broke his heart to realize he hadn't been the
one to put it there.  It was obvious to even a casual observer
that Scully loved that child.  Apparently she loved the child's
father as well, he reminded himself with a slight curl to his
lip.  She'd married him.

He turned to close the car door and felt his stomach lurch.  She
was there. She'd crept up without a sound.

"Mulder," she began, and he gripped the steering wheel
ferociously.

"Just go away, Scully," he muttered.

"Not until we talk," she insisted.  "You can't just walk away
from me like this."

"Why not?" he flared, unable to maintain his control any longer.
"Isn't that what you did?"

She stared at him, a flush tinting her cheeks.  "You didn't want
me!" she reminded him angrily. "You insisted I leave, and when I
tried to visit you later you wouldn't see me!  My letters were
returned--you cut me out of your life completely."  She was
breathing heavily with indignation, but he ignored that fact.

"Oh come on, Scully, you knew the situation.  You knew *me*.  You
must have known that wasn't what I really wanted."  He gazed up
at her from behind his shades and she had a sudden urge to rip
them from him, force him to meet her eyes.

"I suppose I did know that, Mulder, but that doesn't change the
fact that I had no access to you at all."

He turned slightly away, his face tinged with embarrassment.  He
knew what she was saying was true, he had cut her out, but damn
it, he insisted inwardly, he'd have waited on her had the
situation been reversed!  Finally getting his voice under
control, he said quietly, "I was wrong, Scully.  I'm sorry.  I
didn't want you to waste your life waiting for me."

'And I didn't!' she was tempted to say in a cutting voice, but
she changed her mind when she realized he was fighting back
tears.  It struck her suddenly that Mulder was still in love with
her. She truly hadn't believed it until now.  This meeting must
have been sheer torture for him.

Sliding Emmie to the ground but keeping a firm grip on the little
girl's hand, Scully leaned against the car.  Her expression was
gentle as she kindly turned her back on him.  "But I wanted to
wait for you, Mulder," she told him softly.  "It's all I wanted
to do.  And I was willing to do it, but you wouldn't let me.  If
you hadn't shut me out completely, if you'd only left me one
thread of hope to cling to--"

"Scully... "

"I was lonely, Mulder."  Her voice had taken on a deeper tone,
and it occurred to him that she was fighting back tears of her
own.  "I already missed you so desperately, and then when you
sent me away I had to feel the loss of you all over again."  She
paused, staring across the street at the children playing in the
park.  "Zach was there, he was attentive, he was good company,
and he had a daughter I adored."  She gave the child in question
a squeeze and reassuring smile.  The little girl looked slightly
taken aback at the tone of the conversation.  Scully realized
sadly that Emmie had seen enough marital spats between the adults
in her life that she didn't look terribly surprised.  Shrugging,
she went on, "It hurt too much to hope that when you were
released you'd have anything to do with me.  I really thought you
didn't care any longer."

Agony descended on him like a crushing weight and for a moment it
was all he could do to simply draw breath.  "You mean I caused
this?" he asked finally in a strangled voice.  "I drove you to
this, Scully?"

She glanced down at him then, and the suffering she saw on his
partially-hidden face frightened her deeply.  She stretched out a
comforting hand to him but he withdrew as if scorched the moment
her fingers grazed his arm.

"I couldn't live in limbo, Mulder," she told him, her voice
pleading for his understanding.  "I had to go one way or the
other.  Since you made it clear I couldn't have you, I took
Zach."

"And Emmie."

Her chin rose defiantly.  "Yes, and Emmie.  I may not love Zach
the way I loved you, but we've done all right together."

He turned his face slightly toward her now, eyes still hidden.
"Loved?" he asked, his voice harsh as he fought to control his
pain.

She stared back at him stonily.  "I buried those feelings,
Mulder.  I had to in order to survive."

There was nothing more to say.  Scully, after loading Emmie into
her car, climbed in beside her and drove away.

Mulder watched her go, wishing he could find that numbness now,
but no merciful lack of feeling would rescue him this time.
Finally realizing he was much too upset to drive, Mulder grabbed
the shades, tossing them aside, and exited the car.  He slammed
the door as forcefully as his strength would allow and, shoving
his hands in his pockets, head bowed in misery, started toward
the park across the street.


Zachary hadn't intended to do what he did after leaving the bar.
He was on his way home, having reached the end of his endurance
listening to Bill prattle on and on about that Mulder bastard,
when a thought struck him. Why not go try to get a look at the
sonofabitch?  He had seen photographs, mostly blurred and grainy,
taken from newspaper accounts of the two trials.  From what Zach
could tell, there was nothing about the infamous Fox Mulder to
warrant his wife's continued, unexplained interest.  Glancing at
his watch, he decided if he hurried he might make it to the
lawyer's office before they left.  He quickly made a right turn
at the next light and altered his destination.

Once he reached the block where the office was located, Zach
slowed his truck and approached the parking lot with a watchful
eye.  After a moment of scanning the area, he saw the door to the
attorney's office swing suddenly open.  A tall, dark-haired man
let the door fall shut behind him as he stalked purposefully
toward the car parked next to Dana's.  Just as he climbed inside
Zach saw his wife emerge from the same door, Emmie clutched in
her arms.  She quickly intercepted the man and Zach pulled his
truck over to the curb to observe their conversation.  He
couldn't hear anything, of course, but it was evident from their
body language that angry words were being spoken.  Zach smiled
smugly, confident in the belief that Dana was telling her
ex-partner off, when he saw his wife stretch out a hand to touch
the man.  Even from this distance he could see the compassion in
her action and his smile turned to a scowl of jealousy.  In the
next moment Dana hastily buckled Emmie into her car and soon was
disappearing down the street out of sight.

Watching carefully, Zach saw the man who could be none other than
Fox Mulder climb out of his car, slam the door, and head for the
park.  Later he told himself it was simply an opportunity too
good to waste.  All he heard was Bill Scully's voice in his ear
saying 'It's a lot more money now'.  All he felt was rage.
Without warning he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal and
drove straight for the man crossing the street.

Mulder looked up, confused at the sound, just before the truck
impacted his body and sent it flying.  Landing hard on the
pavement, he lay stunned and gasping for breath. Dimly he heard
the sound of screaming, but as he turned his head painfully
toward the huge pickup that had struck him, Mulder was aware that
the driver had not left the vehicle.  Instead, the man in the
street watched in dazed horror as the truck began slowly backing
up. Mulder tried to sit and immediately sank back in agony.  The
pain in his chest was sudden and intense and none of his muscles
wanted to obey.  Fighting the throbbing torment that pervaded his
upper body, he carefully rolled over on his side to face his
attacker.  Mulder could only stare, terror paralyzing him, as the
pickup halted in its reverse path and once more began to move
directly toward him, quickly gaining speed.  Closing his eyes,
helpless, he awaited the impact.

Zachary grinned as he pressed on the gas pedal once more,
intending to finish off his victim with this pass, when his
attention was drawn by a woman running for the curb and screaming
bloody murder.  It was possible she'd seen the whole thing.  She
was a witness.  If he killed Mulder now she might be able to
identify him later.  Sizing up the situation quickly, Zachary
decided not to risk it.  Hoping the near-hysterical woman hadn't
the presence of mind to get his plate number, he deliberately
lurched the truck forward, swerving at the last second to miss
Mulder's head by inches.  With a screech of tires he roared away,
leaving the injured man in the street, the woman repeatedly
screaming his name.

"Mr. Mulder!  Mr. Mulder!"  Joyce, the secretary from the
attorney's office, had been returning to her desk after a quick
trip to the coke machine when she'd happened to glance outside
and see the truck hit Mulder, gasping in horror at the image.
She'd immediately dropped her soft drink to the floor and run for
the door, already beginning to yell.   Her boss, alerted by the
screaming, had run outside to see what was going on and quickly
taken charge of the situation. Joyce was a great legal secretary
but she wasn't someone you wanted around in a crisis, he decided
grimly as he called for police and an ambulance.


Mulder opened his eyes slowly, gradually reaching the realization
that he was operating under a haze of some very good shit. He
knew that because he could feel pain in his chest, but somehow it
didn't *hurt*.  It was simply something he was vaguely aware of.
He tried moving his arm, found it too heavy to lift, and with a
sigh wondered who had beaten him up this time and why.
Eventually his eyes focused, and he saw with relief that he
wasn't in the prison infirmary. This was a real hospital, with a
real hospital bed, and beside that bed sat Skinner, patiently
reading.

"Welcome back, Mulder," Skinner said, tossing the magazine aside
and rubbing the bridge of his nose.  He yawned once, stretching
his arms above his head, and smiled a little.  "I'd ask how you
feel, but I think I know."

"Feel pretty good r'now," Mulder slurred, and Skinner snorted a
laugh.

"Well that's something, anyway.  Do you remember what happened?"

Mulder nodded once, then winced and held his head still. Mistake.
Mentally he began taking inventory.  Head, chest, arm...what part
of him wasn't injured? Sneaking his eyes open again he glanced
down at the lower half of his body and sighed in relief.  No
casts or bandages visible down there, his legs seemed in working
order, and all the pain was concentrated in his upper body
anyway. As he lay quietly, the medication again began to take
hold, thankfully wiping out the effects of his ill-conceived head
movement.

"Truck hit me," Mulder stated clearly, fighting his tongue, which
felt an inch thick.  "Really big one."

"That's right," Skinner nodded.  "It was a hit-and-run.  I'm
surprised you remember anything."

Mulder turned his head very slowly to gaze at Skinner.  "It
wasn't a hit 'n' run," he said carefully. "It was d'liberate."

Skinner furrowed his brow, regarding the man in the bed.  Mulder
wasn't given to serious flights of fancy, although he'd had some
weird ideas in the past.  "What makes you think it was
deliberate?" he asked finally.

Mulder grimaced a little.   He knew his former boss wasn't going
to like his answer.  After hesitating for a long moment he
replied, "I jus' knew.  Tried to hit me again."

"Who did?"

"Th' driver."

"Did you get a look at the driver, Mulder?'

"No," Mulder muttered.  He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.
Skinner picked up a cup of water and held the straw to his lips,
allowing him to drink.   After a few sips Mulder seemed satisfied
and Skinner replaced the cup.

"Do you even know if it was a man or a woman?"

"No."

"What do you mean when you say he tried to hit you again?"
Skinner didn't want to appear impatient with Mulder, but the only
eyewitness to the incident had clearly stated that the truck hit
Mulder, backed up and roared away.  The secretary had given a
surprisingly coherent account considering the state she'd been
in, and there was nothing in her statement to indicate, in
Skinner's opinion, that this had been anything more than a simple
hit-and-run.

"Backed up," Mulder explained, fighting the unconsciousness
threatening to overtake him.  "He was coming f'r me again.  She
screamed.  He left."  His voice trailed off to a whisper.

Mulder relaxed against the pillows, exhausted with the effort of
trying to make Skinner understand.  He had known, when he'd
looked up at the grill of the enormous truck and seen it begin
backing down the street, that he was about to die, but had been
terrifyingly unable to do a thing about it.  He couldn't even
move out of the way, couldn't call for help, could only lie there
in helpless fascination as the pickup started forward again. He'd
closed his eyes, he remembered now, not wanting to see the
impact, and seconds later had felt a rush of air through his hair
as the truck passed him by.  He supposed he'd lost consciousness
after that, waking up here in this room, pleasantly riding the
pain on a narcotic cloud.

Skinner removed his glasses and swiped one hand over his eyes,
then replaced them on his nose. "Mulder," he said, meeting his
friend's eyes steadily, "I know you're sincere in your belief,
but I have absolutely no evidence that this was anything out of
the ordinary."

Mulder shook his head again desperately, trying to ignore the
rush of agony that jerked him fully awake.  "Someone tried to
kill me," he insisted.

"Do you think they were targeting you specifically, or was it
supposed to be a random hit?" Skinner asked curiously.  Not that
Mulder had never been a target before, of course, but there was
no reason for anyone to want him dead now.  He was no longer a
threat to those who'd previously put him out of the way.  Surely
they'd leave him alone.  Besides, if they'd wanted Mulder dead,
he'd *be* dead. They couldn't afford mistakes like this and they
didn't hire amateurs.

"Don' know," Mulder replied, his speech growing even lazier as
his eyes closed and he drifted under again.

Skinner thought about what Mulder had said, going over the
secretary's statement carefully in his head, but in no way could
he come to the conclusion that Mulder was right.  His former
agent must be mistaken.  Who would want to kill him?  His
thoughts were interrupted by a sudden presence at the door.

"How is he, Sir?" Scully asked, coming softly into the room.
She'd gotten the phone call from Skinner immediately informing
her of the accident, but with nowhere to leave Emmie for the day
had been unable to come to Mulder until now. Zachary hadn't been
happy when she told him she'd be out all evening visiting an old
friend in the hospital.  She knew their subsequent fight must
have been heard by the neighbors, and wondered if he would still
be awake when she arrived home tonight.  Scully suppressed a
shiver. She hoped not.  She hated it when Zach drank, and he had
been drinking steadily all day, first with her brother Bill, then
later alone.  The only time they had their really bad arguments
was when he was under the influence, and in addition to that, she
knew that today he'd been battling disappointment over the
potential loss of Mulder's money.  It had always disgusted her,
this interest Zach had in Teena Mulder's will.

"He's bunged up pretty badly, but he'll recover," was Skinner's
response.

Scully approached the bed and Skinner offered her his chair.  She
smiled at him gratefully and sat, reaching over to clasp Mulder's
hand in her own.  "His pulse is a little fast," she observed.

"He was awake until just a minute ago.  Scully," Skinner said,
crouching beside the chair so she didn't have to crane her neck
looking up at him.  "Did you see or hear anything unusual before
you left?"

She stared at him searchingly.  "No," she told him, "why?"

Skinner pressed his lips together into a thin line, and Scully
was transported back to the old days when she and Mulder would
sit before him in his office and he would wear exactly that
expression.  It usually meant he had conflicting information and
didn't quite know what to do with it.

"Mulder seems to think this was no accident, that it was a
deliberate attempt on his life," he told her flatly.

Her eyes widened at the implication.  "But who would--?  And
why?" she asked. "Surely the people who sent him away--"

"If they'd wanted to, I'm sure they'd have found a way to prevent
his release," Skinner interrupted.  "They fixed one trial, they
could easily have influenced another.  I don't believe it was
them.  In fact, I don't believe it was anybody. I think Mulder is
mistaken, but he seemed adamant, and you know Mulder.  Once he
gets an idea in his head..."

"A nuclear weapon couldn't dislodge it," she smiled in agreement.
"But you know, Sir, Mulder was right more often than he was
wrong.  At least partially right."

"I'm surprised to hear you admit that, Scully.  You always seemed
to want to prove him wrong." Scully stiffened, and he hastened to
add, "I don't mean to be unkind, but you never appeared to buy
into most of Mulder's paranormal ideas."

She relaxed back into the chair, deciding he hadn't meant
offense.  "I didn't buy into them.  I don't buy into them.  But
somehow, we usually managed to reach a compromise in our
beliefs..."

"But not always," he finished for her.

Sadly she shook her head, fighting back tears as she squeezed
Mulder's hand again.  "No, not always," she whispered.  "Not
often enough."

With his head he gestured toward the man in the bed.  "How will
he react if he wakes up and finds you here?" he asked with forced
casualness.  "Did you two mend any fences?"

"None," Scully confessed sadly.

"I don't want him upset," he warned as he rose, his popping knees
reminding him painfully of impending age.  In spite of your best
efforts, he reflected idly, your body got older day by day. "He's
had an incredible day. I won't have his pain escalated by your
presence, no matter how good your intentions."

Not trusting herself to speak, Scully nodded, her eyes on
Mulder's still form.

"Then I think I'll step out for a bit, if you don't mind,"
Skinner said.  It seemed the most graceful way to give her time
alone, and Scully obviously needed that now.  She nodded again
and Skinner left the room, softly closing the door behind him.

Scully took in Mulder's profile as he slept, head turned slightly
away from her, and silently thought that he hadn't changed all
that much in physical appearance since she'd seen him so many
months ago.  The day he'd cut her out of his life. His face was
more lined than before, but then so was hers.  There was a
speckling of grey at his temples, and she reached forward to
lovingly smooth the short bangs away from his forehead.

Mulder, feeling her hand on his face, opened his eyes groggily.

"Scully?" he asked, wondering if she was a dream.  

She only smiled in answer.  He wondered how many times they had
replayed this scene--him waking up in the hospital after an
injury and her sitting beside him, waiting.  Waiting for him.
Waiting on him.  Why hadn't she waited this last, most important
time?  Exhaling a long breath, Mulder forced his mind from that
thought.  She had explained it to him as well as it could be
explained, he supposed.  It would take him time to accept her
words, but he knew she'd been truthful.

"I'm sorry I couldn't be here before now," she told him in a
gentle voice.  "I had to wait for Zach to get home so he could
watch Emmie."

He forced himself to focus on her.  "Does he know you're here?"
he asked sharply, carefully enunciating through his morphine fog.

"He does," she lied, telling herself it was only half a lie,
really.  "He sends his best."

Mulder gave a sickly grin.  "Bullshit," was his only comment.

"Mulder, about our conversation earlier--"

"Forget it, Scully.  I understand that you did what you thought
you had to do. In time I might even come to accept it, but that's
my problem.  There's something else I need you to do for me right
now."  His eyes sought hers out earnestly as he struggled to
remain lucid.

"What is it, Mulder?"

"This person who hit me, whoever it was...Scully, it was
deliberate.  I tried to tell Skinner but he didn't believe me.
You have to find out who wants to kill me and why."  The
earnestness in his voice frightened her, and she wondered
suddenly if Skinner had talked with Mulder about psychological
counseling.

"Why do you think it was deliberate?" she asked gently, repeating
Skinner's earlier question, and Mulder still had no real answer.

"I just know, that's all," he said in a low voice, dropping his
gaze.  "I can't explain it, but I knew at the time.  I could feel
it, Scully.  Skinner didn't believe me, but surely you can see
that this was too coincidental."

//Scully, you have to believe me// whispered his voice from the
past.

She shook her head slowly as his face took on a look of
frustration.  "I'm sorry, Mulder, I just don't.  Skinner says
there's no evidence--"

"What about the truck?" he interrupted, fighting back feelings of
desperation. "Did anybody get a good look at the truck or the
driver?"

//Nobody else on this whole damn planet does or ever will...//

Scully's eyes widened at the memory, but she forced herself back
to the present. "The only witness was Joyce, the secretary from
the attorney's office.  All she could tell us was that it was a
red truck.  And that it was a definite hit-and-run," she added
pointedly.

"Scully, the last thing I remember is the sound of Joyce
screaming hysterically," he mumbled sarcastically, aware that he
was beginning to lose his battle against the medication.  "Surely
she's not the most reliable of witnesses."

"You were hurt.  You were unconscious.  Does that make you more
reliable?"  She squeezed his hand to take the sting out of her
words, but he drew back.

"I saw what I saw 'n' I know what happ'n'd," he insisted, his
speech slurring again.

"Well, without more evidence than your feelings, we simply have
nothing to go on," Scully said, hurt that he had pulled away from
her once again.  "The police will keep looking for the driver of
the vehicle, of course, but you know the odds of them finding
anything are slim."

He nodded uncomfortably and shifted position to get a better look
at her.  Her hand had rested on the bed rail and the long sleeve
of her blouse was pulled back a little.  His eyes couldn't miss
the darkened spot just above her right wrist.

"What's that?" he asked, gesturing toward it now.

Scully drew her hand back hastily and crossed her arms.  "What's
what?"

"Scully, don't bullshit me!" he said angrily.  He knew exactly
what he'd just seen.  She'd been able to deny it at the meeting
this morning, and Mulder had believed her because the Scully he
knew would have pulled out her weapon and shot any man who had
dared to hit her, but this was too obvious to ignore. "Those were
finger marks.  Did he do that to you?"

Scully glared, angry with him for noticing, angry with herself
for not covering it up better. Zach had grabbed her wrist during
their argument, squeezing much tighter than he should have, and
she'd finally had to threaten him before he had dropped her arm
remorsefully, apology in his eyes.  He was a big man, she was a
small woman, and occasionally when his temper got the better of
him he would grab her wrist or arm a bit too firmly.  How dare
Mulder suggest it was anything more than that?  What kind of
woman did he think she had become?

"Maybe Zach and I like to play rough, Mulder, did you ever think
of that?" she demanded coldly. "What business is it of yours?"

Her words hit him like a splash of icy water.  He settled back
into the bed, his eyes gleaming like coals.  "None at all," he
bit out.  "What you and your husband do," he said, emphasizing
the word, "is your business.  I doubt he'd care for you spending
your evening at another man's bedside, so why don't you just go?
There's no need for us to see each other again."

He couldn't look at her as she rose from the chair and started
for the door. Stopping in the doorway, she turn back as if about
to speak, but his face was a stony mask and a second later she
was gone.

Mulder forced himself to breathe slowly and deeply, clenching the
bed rail with his right hand as hard as he could.  He knew if he
let himself give in to the emotions racing through him he would
fall apart completely, and he was determined to keep control. Not
to let her get to him.  Not to shed a tear.