TITLE: Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows
AUTHOR: Dawn
EMAIL: sunrise83@comcast.net
ARCHIVE: MTA, Xemplary, Gossamer - others are fine, just let me know
SPOILERS: Through season 6
RATING: PG-13 - for violence
CLASSIFICATION: XA, AU
KEYWORDS: MSR
SUMMARY: What happens when the person you despise becomes your only hope for 
saving someone that you love? Grey McKenzie and Bill Scully are about to find 
out.
DISCLAIMER: Mulder, Scully, and their merry band belong to Chris Carter and 1013 
Productions. Grey McKenzie is all mine.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This is the latest installment in the Blood Ties series. You can 
find the others, as well as this story in its entirety on my Web page, thanks to 
the terrific talents of Shirley Smiley. The URL is: 
http://members.tripod.com/~dawnsunrise/index.html
More notes at the end of the story.
FEEDBACK: Always treasured, always answered



Blood Ties 6: Strange Bedfellows (1 of 2)
By Dawn


Georgetown
Sunday
3:42 p.m.


"Set one foot outside that door and I will shoot you where you stand." 
*Busted.* 
Mulder pasted on a toothy grin. "Hey, Scully. I didn't expect you back so soon." 

"I can see that." Scully couched her response in a flat tone, her blazing eyes 
making up for the lack of expression. 
She lay her palm flat against his chest and pushed, none too gently maneuvering 
him back into her apartment so that she and the bag of groceries could slip 
past. Basketball still tucked under one arm and resting on his hip like a 
beloved child, Mulder silently watched her furious back as it disappeared into 
the kitchen. Only Scully could have a furious back, he thought ruefully, but 
there it was. Exasperation in the unnaturally straight set of her spine, 
irritation in the rigid set of her shoulders. Six years, and he could write a 
book on all the subtle and not so subtle nuances of Scully's body language -- 
one of the reasons she was incapable of lying to him. The logical extension of 
that thought broadsided him, his head swiveling to regard his reflection in the 
mirror to his left. Shifty eyes, flared nostrils, teeth embedded in his lower 
lip... In short, guilty as hell even without the damning evidence of the 
basketball. 
Mirror Mulder glowered and stabbed his finger, muttering,
"You have seriously lost your edge. Better start groveling." 
Scully was putting away several cans of soup -- with a vengeance. Mulder winced 
as first garden vegetable and then chicken and rice met the wooden shelf with an 
earsplitting crack. He leaned in the doorway, the offending ball tucked safely 
out of sight in the hall, and searched for a mood-lightening quip. 
"Mulder, so help me, if you dredge up one of those smart remarks of yours I 
won't be held responsible for my actions." 
And then again, maybe this called for the direct approach. 
"Scully, it's not what you think." 
"You know, I'm really glad to hear that, Mulder. Because what I think is that 
you were headed out into the frigid air with barely healed lungs to shoot 
baskets at the park around the corner. And taking into consideration the fact 
you're only five days out of the hospital, that would make you either 
monumentally stupid or in need of committal at the nearest psychiatric 
facility." 
The latter half of that rant stung, a little too close to some of the snide 
whispers of the Bureau rumor mill and way too painful after his recent 
first-hand experience in five-point restraints courtesy of Greg Pincus. 
"You're really on a roll, aren't you?" he snapped, his good intentions flying 
out the window to join her temper. 
"I haven't even begun," Scully spat, wrapping her arms tightly across her chest 
and narrowing her eyes. "Have you actually forgotten the condition you were in a 
week ago? You nearly died, Mulder! You promised Nick Brewer you would follow his 
instructions to the letter, and unless I'm mistaken, basketball was not on the 
list of approved activities during convalescence!" 
It was hard -- no, make that impossible -- to argue with that one, but Mulder 
gave it the old college try. "Sculleee! The walls were closing in on me, to say 
nothing of the fact that I'm bored stiff. You and Skinner won't even let me 
*look* at a case file, and have you seen the crap they put on TV during the day? 
I just wanted to shoot a few baskets, nothing strenuous! It's not like I was 
going to play a game." 
Mulder anticipated any one of several reactions to his protest. Another, more 
extensive diatribe on his lack of common sense and self-destructive tendencies, 
sarcasm for his pitiful attempt at gaining her sympathy, even acidic humor at 
his inability to entertain himself. Scully spinning on her heel and leaving the 
room was perhaps the very last thing he would have expected, and Mulder stared 
at the now vacant spot where she'd been standing and gaped like a fish for 
several minutes before tracking her to the living room. 
She'd ensconced herself in the far corner of the sofa, curled into a ball and 
gazing out the window. Body language again, telling him louder than words that 
this time he'd done more than just piss her off. Suddenly Mulder felt the 
proximity of his brush with death, every cell in his body weary. He slumped down 
onto the cushions, close but not touching, and caressed her face with his gaze. 
"Scully, I..." 
"It's not really that you hold yourself in such low esteem," Scully said, 
tearing her eyes from their contemplation of a black Ford pickup and meeting his 
with a level stare. "Though I'd be lying if I said that didn't bother me, didn't 
hurt me to some degree. I love you, and when I see how little value you place on 
your own life and well-being it can't help but cause me pain. But that's not the 
real issue here, Mulder. The crux of the matter is that you deceived me. You 
assured me that you'd be fine on your own, that I could go to the store and not 
worry about you, and then you deliberately set about breaking that promise. So 
much for your precious trust." 
Her words, the edges honed sharp by their truth, penetrated every chink in his 
formidable armor. Mulder's mouth worked impotently for an eternity before 
managing to vocalize a token rebuttal that sounded weak even to his own ears. 
"Scully, I didn't plan it. I just didn't think..." 
"Then let me give you a little something to ruminate on, Mulder. You aren't the 
only one with an investment in your recovery. I paid for the cure that enabled 
you to be sitting here next to me right now. Don't you dare presume to cheapen 
that by reducing it to a game." 
Scully's voice dropped in pitch and her eyes grew distant, haunted. Mulder could 
almost see the memories play across her face -- memories that she had resolutely 
refused to share with him. He'd recognized the fresh scars that could only be 
attributed to her experience with Cancerman, agonized over each with morbid 
fascination. In the absence of actual facts, his mind insisted on conjuring up 
its own horror show. He tried not to think about it, to accept that whatever 
Scully had endured was now behind them and must be put to rest. But the forced 
inactivity left him with few methods of distraction, and his thoughts 
insistently returned to the worries the way a child cannot seem to refrain from 
picking a scab. It was just such traitorous musings, rebuffing his efforts to 
squash them, which had driven him to pick up that damn basketball and head for 
the front door. 
That Scully would think he belittled her sacrifice decimated him. 
Without conscious thought, he dropped to his knees and buried his face in her 
lap. He wanted to tell her how sorry he was, explain that the chief response her 
actions provoked was not indifference, or even regret, but fear. Fear that she 
could possibly feel for him the equivalent of the love he felt for her. It was 
all right for Fox Mulder to put his life on the line, travel halfway across the 
word, or bargain with the devil to save Dana Scully. But the realization, the 
incontrovertible proof that Dana Scully would willingly walk through fire for 
Fox Mulder... The nagging whisper in his head, the one with his father's voice, 
insisted she was a fool. That Fox Mulder had never been worthy of that kind of 
love and never would be. 
So he knelt on the floor with his forehead pressed to her thighs and the words 
clogging his throat, not even realizing he was weeping until he felt Scully's 
fingers sift through his hair and heard her gently shushing him. 
"Mulder. Mulder, don't. This isn't what I wanted from you, love," she murmured. 
"Can't you understand?" 
He scrabbled for control, turning to lean his back against the couch but leaving 
one arm draped over her legs. His head ached, he desperately craved a cup of 
cold water, and his muscles were beginning to thrum with exhaustion. "I want to, 
Scully. Can't you see that any reality is preferable to my imagination? Do you 
honestly believe I haven't considered the price you paid for that serum? It's 
all I can think about! We need to talk about this -- for your sake as well as 
mine." 
Scully glanced away from his upturned face. "I know. I just need some more 
time." 
Mulder sighed wearily, leaning his head against her knee. "You've got it, babe. 
God knows you've cut me enough slack over the last six years." 
"Just for the record, Mulder -- cutting me some slack includes refraining from 
behaving like an idiot, doesn't it?" Scully's tone communicated a trace of humor 
as her small hand tangled affectionately in his hair again, this time 
punctuating the sentence with a gentle tug. 
"I resemble that remark," Mulder muttered, allowing himself to be drawn up onto 
the cushions beside her and trying in vain to stifle an enormous yawn. After 
several minutes of companionable silence, Mulder pulled back a little so he 
could see Scully's face. 
"Hey, babe, you know by now that I'm used to running or playing basketball when 
I need a distraction. If you're going to keep me out of trouble, you'll just 
have to dream up an alternate method of diverting my attention." He wriggled his 
eyebrows and grinned lecherously. 
A slow, seductive smile spread across Scully's face. "I don't know, Mulder. Are 
you sure you're ready for that? It's a lot for one man to handle." 
"Oooh, Scully! Trust me when I assure you that I can manage anything you choose 
to send my way!" Mulder said, pitching his voice in the husky timbre he knew got 
under her skin. 
Scully leaned over and caught his lips in a kiss that instantly tripled his 
heartrate and eradicated all traces of exhaustion, breaking it only after 
reducing him to a panting mound of gelatin. Her eyes glinted wickedly, and her 
Cheshire cat grin actually widened. 
"That's wonderful to hear, love. I have that stack of expense reports in my 
briefcase, would you like them now?" 
She was still snickering, inordinately pleased with herself, when Mulder finally 
picked his jaw up off the floor. "You are a cruel woman, Scully," he growled, 
flopping back onto a throw pillow in a gesture of defeat. "A very cruel woman."


Georgetown
Sunday 
6:30 p.m.


The brisk rap on her door startled Scully, wrenching her from immersion in the 
successful usage of Thalidomide with AIDS patients. She set the journal on the 
coffee table and stole a quick look at Mulder, still unconscious, before 
standing. She indulged in a brief, feline stretch, vertebra popping agreeably, 
before padding across the room. She couldn't suppress the prickle of irritation 
at the second knock, more insistent than the first, which beat her to the door. 
Obviously patience was not one of her visitor's virtues. 
Scully peered through the peephole, took in the fish-eye view of red hair and 
broad shoulders, and flung open the door. Before she could draw breath to speak 
his name, Bill pulled her into a bear hug that literally swept her off her feet. 

"Hey, Short Stuff. How have you been?" he asked, grinning as he returned her to 
earth. 
"I'm good! Bill, what are you doing here? Mom said you wouldn't be in town until 
Wednesday night," Scully replied, the animation in her voice revealing her 
pleasure at the discrepancy. 
"I managed to extend my leave a little, so we flew in this afternoon. Tara's 
back at Mom's with Matty. He was worn out from the flight." 
Casting a quick glance over her shoulder at the couch, Scully half expected to 
see Mulder performing his "Night of the Living Dead" imitation. Since his 
illness, he tended to sleep so deeply that his normally hair trigger awakening 
had degenerated to a gradual process consisting of several minutes spent in a 
dazed, zombie-like condition. Contrary to her prediction, however, he was still 
sleeping soundly and in the same position -- one leg trailing off the side of 
the couch and the remote control still loosely gripped in one hand. 
Scully wasn't aware that her eyes softened and the corners of her mouth curved 
at the sight. Nor did she perceive her brother's jaw clench in response. 
"Come into the kitchen," she said quietly, pulling him inside so that she could 
shut the door. "We can sit at the table." 
"Sure," Bill muttered, jerking down the zipper on his jacket as he followed her. 
"Wouldn't want to wake sleeping beauty, now would we?" 
Scully paused, spinning around and nailing him with a warning glare. "Don't 
start, Bill. You don't understand, Mulder's been very sick and..." 
"Yeah, yeah, yeah, I heard. He had pneumonia and some other weird condition that 
almost killed him. Mom told me." Bill sank into one of the wooden chairs with a 
blank expression of indifference. "So that's the excuse this time?" 
Scully's lips thinned. "What are you talking about? What excuse?" 
Bill thrust his chin forward, brows lowered in a scowl. "The reason why you 
aren't spending Thanksgiving with your family. It's because of him, right? Your 
partner." He pronounced the word as if it only contained four letters. 
Scully bristled. "First of all, Bill, this was *my* idea -- not Mulder's. We 
planned this trip two months ago, before I knew you'd be in town." 
"Plans can be changed, Dana." 
The little line between Scully's brows deepened. "Perhaps so. But I'm not 
changing these. Now, can I get you something to drink? Coffee or a soda?" 
"You can try to give me a reasonable explanation for why this little getaway 
with him can't be postponed in deference to spending the holiday with your 
nephew -- who, I might add, barely knows you." 
*Ouch.* 
Scully dropped into a chair, reflecting that Bill's aim was as true as ever. Of 
course, he'd learned from the best. Ahab had been able to play her emotions with 
the skill of a virtuoso. Guilt and remorse vied with anger for control, and only 
the genuine hurt submerged in Bill's scowl prevented her sharp retort. 
"Look, I don't owe you justification for my decisions, Bill, but I also don't 
want you to think I make them lightly. This is a difficult time of year for 
Mulder under normal circumstances. Add to that the fact that it's his first 
Thanksgiving since his mother's death and he's recuperating from a 
life-threatening illness and maybe you can begin to appreciate why we felt the 
need to let our plans stand. Not to mention the fact that we've had very little 
opportunity to be alone together." 
"Just another in the long string of bad choices you've made over the last seven 
years," Bill growled. 
"DON'T! Why can't we have one pleasant visit where we catch up on each other's 
lives? Why must you always resort to undermining everything I value?" Scully, 
realizing her voice had crept higher in pitch and volume, clamped her mouth 
shut. 
"Do you expect me to just sit back and say nothing? Dad tried to tell you that 
joining the FBI was a mistake, but you wouldn't listen, and the consequences 
have impacted our entire family! Mom's already lost one daughter -- how many 
times do you think she can withstand nearly losing the other? Kidnapped, given 
cancer, shot, drugged -- hell, you can't even have children! Are you going to 
tell me it's worth it? That *he's* worth it? He's done nothing but tear this 
family apart since the day he stepped into your life!" 
Rather than further inflaming her, Bill's tirade prompted only calm resolution. 
Scully deliberately pushed her chair back and stood, leaning over to brace her 
palms on the smooth oak of the tabletop. 
"You have no say in my life, Bill. You don't know me, you never have. You 
thought just because I didn't dye my hair purple and wear crystals around my 
neck that meant I'd conform to your expectations for the perfect little sister, 
the dutiful daughter. But I choose my own path just as much as Missy did. Mulder 
is not accountable for my decision to do the work I do, and he certainly isn't 
accountable for the fallout from that choice. He is, however, responsible for 
giving me something you never have -- love without strings. Now, I think you'd 
better go." 
It was gratifying to watch Bill's eyes widen and his chin drop. He lurched to 
his feet and stalked across the kitchen, pausing in the doorway. 
"One of the reasons I stopped by tonight was to invite you to dinner at Mom's 
tomorrow," he said stiffly. "She figured you'd be busy packing and wouldn't have 
much food in the house." 
Scully sighed and shook her head. "I don't know, Bill. That might not be such a 
good idea." 
Bill pursed his lips and blew a puff of air out of his nose. "Tara and Matty 
would really like to see you. I promise I'll be civil." 
She elevated one eyebrow, tilting her head forward as if she hadn't caught his 
words. "Excuse me?" 
"You heard me. Just don't expect me to be involved in a group hug." Bill dug his 
hands into the pockets of his coat and hunched his shoulders. "Truce, okay, 
Short Stuff?" 
One corner of Scully's mouth quirked in spite of herself. "I'd like to see Tara 
and Matty. Tell Mom we'll be there about 5:30." 
She accompanied Bill to the door and suffered a kiss on her cheek. Shutting the 
door firmly behind him, she rested her forehead against the wood, feeling 
bruised inside. Abruptly remembering Mulder, she turned, her eyes darting to the 
couch. 
Empty. 
"Mulder? Did you finally decide to join the living?" she called, moving down the 
hall and into the bedroom. No sign of him there, either, though he'd evidently 
pulled on a sweatshirt, since that drawer lay open. One of Mulder's annoying 
bachelor habits was to open drawers but not close them. She bumped the drawer 
closed with her hip and checked the bathroom before completing the circuit and 
returning to the kitchen. 
No Mulder. 
Scully bit her lip, trying to quell the panicky voice that said he'd gone 
running. A stupid thing to do. A self-destructive thing to do. Something not 
even Mulder would resort to in his current condition, unless... 
*He's done nothing but tear this family apart since the day he stepped into your 
life!* 
Unless he was hurting so badly that he'd try anything to keep from thinking. 
Scully grabbed her coat and keys and headed out the door.


Georgetown
Sunday
7:15 p.m.


Scully yanked open the door and barreled full speed into an immovable object. 
Immovable, but not silent. Mulder grunted, flinging both hands out to clutch the 
jamb, dropping something with a loud thunk. Within a split second his weakened 
lungs protested the sudden whoosh of air by tipping him into a vigorous, but 
blessedly brief, bout of coughing. 
"Hey, Scully," he gasped, tears trickling down his flushed cheeks. "Going 
somewhere?" 
"Mulder!" 
Scully eagerly mapped his frame from head to toe, taking in the slightly 
disheveled hair, clean sweats, and sneakered feet. Her hand darted out of its 
own accord to cup his jaw, the skin warm and rough with stubble. The coil of 
fear in her belly loosened -- he'd obviously not been outside -- even as 
annoyance rushed in to take its place. 
"Where have you been? You had me worried sick!" 
Mulder's blank incomprehension, however, rapidly left her feeling foolish. "The 
laundry room. I ran out of clean sweats so I thought I'd better wash some." He 
reached to the side and retrieved the item he'd dropped -- an empty basket. 
Rather than risk digging the hole any deeper, Scully spun on her heel and 
stripped off her coat, taking longer than necessary to hang it in the closet. 
She felt Mulder brush by and move down the hallway to the bedroom, returning a 
moment later sans basket. His steps faltered just a bit as he hovered at her 
shoulder, then turned toward the kitchen. She listened to sounds of rummaging 
through the refrigerator for several minutes before sighing and following them. 
Mulder had poured himself a glass of juice and was in the process of removing 
the cap from a prescription bottle. 
"Better eat something," Scully admonished, moving over to pull out a loaf of 
bread. "You know how that tears up your stomach if you don't." 
Mulder made a face, but returned to the refrigerator for a package of deli meat, 
mayonnaise, lettuce, and tomato. Scully laid out bread for two sandwiches and 
began layering turkey and lettuce while he sliced the tomato. Finally, she could 
take the pregnant silence no longer. 
"How much did you hear?" 
The smooth even swish of the blade never varied. "I went back to get the laundry 
basket while he berated you for neglecting your nephew and walked out just as 
the destruction of your family was laid in my lap." 
The words were cool, emotionless save for a dry twist of humor, but Scully's 
eyes caught the barest quiver of the hand that gathered tomato slices, and her 
ear detected the acceleration of breathing. Not for the first time, she mentally 
cursed her brother. 
"Mulder, he's an ass. He's always taken it upon himself to run my life without 
understanding what I really need," she said. She placed one of the sandwiches on 
a plate and handed it to him, deliberately snagging his fingers in the process. 
"You and I both know he's got a point, Scully," Mulder replied quietly, sitting 
down at the table and playing with the top slice of bread. "The X-Files have 
changed your life, changed you irrevocably. I'd be lying if I said there aren't 
times I'd give anything to turn back time so that I could do what I should have 
done that day you walked into my office." 
Scully knew where he was going, and didn't want to hear it. "And eliminate six 
years of foreplay?" she said, doing her best to imitate his trademark leer. 
"Mulder, you're no fun." 
He couldn't block the slight puff of laughter in spite of a heroic effort to 
remain sober. "Scully! You know what I'm talking about! Your life would be very 
different right now if I'd kept you out of this damn quest of mine! I'm just 
saying that Bill has good reason not to be president of the Fox Mulder fan 
club." 
"Especially since that position is already filled," Scully agreed, propping her 
chin on her hand. When he refused to allow a smile to be coaxed onto his face, 
she humphed. "This is a tired conversation, Mulder. I stand behind the choices 
I've made in my life, whether that means sticking with the X-Files or loving 
you. It's bad enough I have to defend myself to Bill, I certainly don't need to 
do the same with you." 
Mulder grinned a little. "Point taken. I'll try to curb my overdeveloped sense 
of guilt." 
"Good. And while you're curbing things, G-man, add doing laundry to the list. 
You aren't supposed to be engaging in any strenuous activity." 
Mulder's eyes rolled skyward. "*Strenuous*? Scully, I carried a plastic basket 
down two flights of stairs and plugged some quarters in the machine! Now unless 
you're concerned I might break a nail..." 
"Very funny. All I'm saying is that you're supposed to be resting, Mulder. If 
everything looks good when Nick checks you out on Tuesday we'll be extending 
that to include sunning yourself on a tropical beach and maybe a few moonlit 
strolls." She took a bite of her sandwich, sensuously licking a blob of 
mayonnaise off the tip of her thumb and gazing at him from beneath her lashes. 
"I want you in good shape, love." 
Mulder's hand snaked out to clamp around her wrist, eliciting a startled gasp as 
he leaned over to draw the digit between his own lips. He slowly swirled his 
tongue around the pad as if helping to remove the already non-existent 
condiment, finally releasing it with a wet smack and smirking at Scully's 
suddenly flushed cheeks. 
"Trust me, babe. All the important equipment is in perfect working order." 
Never one to be thrown off balance for long, Scully rallied. "That calls for an 
expert opinion, Mulder. I'll have to judge for myself."


Georgetown 
Monday 
3:12 p.m.


This time the knock caught Scully in the midst of folding a pile of clothes 
she'd retrieved from the dryer. She stared at the front door, a pair of shorts 
in one hand and a crease marring the pale skin of her brow. The middle of the 
afternoon on what would normally be a workday. The list of possible callers was 
short, and the prime candidate not someone she cared to cope with right now. 
With a grimace of resignation, she laid the shorts to one side, squared her 
shoulders, and pulled open the door... 
To reveal a tall figure, dark hair tucked under a reversed baseball cap and 
hazel eyes glittering with mischief. 
"Good afternoon, ma'am, I'm selling magazine subscriptions and..." 
His little speech cut off with a grunt as Scully wrapped her arms around him in 
an enthusiastic hug. Softness replaced the teasing edge to Grey's voice. 
"Glad to see you too, darlin'." 
Scully released him and stepped back, tilting her head up to give him a saucy 
grin. "I'm just relieved it wasn't my brother at the door. I'd have hugged even 
the pizza guy." 
Grey snorted and moved past her, shaking his head. "Ahh, yes. I presume you mean 
the warm and ever supportive Bill Scully that I've heard Fox mention a time or 
two." 
Scully pursed her lips to hide the smile. "That's the one." 
"I thought he lived in California. In town for a little holiday cheer?" Grey 
asked, his eyes panning the room before he dropped down onto the couch. 
Scully resumed her own seat by the laundry basket and pulled out one of Mulder's 
gray tee shirts. "An unexpected visit," she confirmed, arching a brow. "As is 
yours. I thought you'd be back in Raleigh, busy nabbing bad guys and keeping the 
city safe." 
Grey wrinkled his nose. "Yeah. So did I. Unfortunately, my back hasn't exactly 
cooperated. My doctor has me riding a desk for the next week before he'll 
declare me fit for duty. So, I thought I'd check up on you and Fox." 
Scully sucked in her bottom lip and concentrated on folding. "That's nice. So 
you came all the way up here just to see *us*. I'm flattered." 
Grey's head swung sharply in her direction and he studied her carefully 
controlled expression for a moment before breaking into an embarrassed grin. 
"All right, all right. So I also drove up to see Kristen. I'm bringing her back 
with me to spend Thanksgiving and meet my family." 
Scully's mouth turned up. "Thought maybe she was on the agenda somewhere." 
"I'll bet you did. She's got to work late tonight and all day tomorrow so we 
can't drive home until Wednesday. I was hoping I could stay at Fox's place." 
"I'm sure he wouldn't care, but why not just stay here?" Scully suggested. "The 
extra bed is all made up and, unlike
Mulder's, I can guarantee the sheets are clean." 
"Well, if you're sure you don't mind..." Grey said a little dubiously. 
"Not at all. If everything goes as planned, Mulder and I will be on a flight to 
Cancun tomorrow afternoon and you'll have the place all to yourself tomorrow 
night." 
Grey stripped the cap from his head and finger combed his hair. "Speaking of 
which... Where *is* Fox?" 
Scully placed the last shirt into the basket and set it aside, glancing down the 
hallway toward the closed bedroom door. "Sleeping. He's been out for nearly two 
hours so I imagine he'll be surfacing soon." 
All traces of humor left Grey's face and he leaned forward, hands clasped 
between his knees. "How's he doing, Dana? Really." 
Scully leaned back and sighed. "I guess that depends on the perspective. *I* 
think he's doing amazingly well. When you consider how close he came, that less 
than a week ago he was still in the hospital, his progress has been phenomenal. 
His lungs are weak, and he still has an occasional round of coughing, but all 
traces of the pneumonia are gone. He's even managed to pick up a little of the 
weight he lost." 
Grey, who had been listening carefully and nodding at her assessment, lifted his 
head. "I take it my brother is less satisfied with his progress than you are." 
Scully blew a harsh puff of air out her nose and shook her head. "To put it 
mildly. From Mulder's viewpoint, if the pneumonia is gone he should immediately 
bounce back to normal. He doesn't want to acknowledge the fact that the virus 
severely weakened him and he's going to require time to heal. His stamina is 
virtually non-existent right now -- even the slightest activity like reading or 
using the computer wears him out. But he refuses to give in and rest until his 
body finally makes the decision for him and he crashes." 
"Which just serves to frustrate the hell out of him," Grey observed. 
"Couldn't have put it better myself," Scully said wryly. "I'm hoping the change 
in scenery and a lot of sunshine will lift his spirits." She glanced at her 
watch. "I've got one more load of clothes in the dryer, Grey. I'll be right 
back." 
Grey watched her gather an empty basket and scoot out the door. He sank back 
into the cushions, staring up at the ceiling and drinking in silence so deep he 
could hear the faint tick of the wall clock marking time. After several minutes 
he stood and wandered over to a bookshelf, smiling a little at the mishmash of 
medical reference and psychology texts with books on the paranormal and pulp 
romances. His eye lit on a photo framed in silver, and his hand gently lifted it 
for closer inspection. 
Fox and Dana, seated on a porch swing, his arms loosely cradling her against his 
chest, her head tipped back on his shoulder. Dana's sapphire eyes bore an almost 
sleepy contentment, the corners of her mouth a gentle curve. Fox's expression 
was...incandescent. The countenance of someone granted his fondest wish, the 
deepest desire of his heart. The face of a child. 
Grey swallowed the inexplicable lump in his throat and gently replaced the 
photo. He wandered across the room and padded quietly down the hall to the 
bedroom, door slightly ajar. He carefully pressed his palm to the wood so that 
it swung a little wider on silent hinges. Fox sprawled across the bed, lips 
slightly parted and his deep, rhythmic breathing loud in the stillness. Grey 
grinned. Sure didn't look like he'd be waking anytime soon. 
He'd just shut the door when Dana's phone rang. Grey hesitated, then moved 
quickly to scoop it from its cradle, hoping the noise wouldn't disturb his 
brother. 
"Hello?" 
Silence, then a hesitant female voice. "Fox?" 
"Ahh, no, this isn't Fox," Grey said uncomfortably. "It's his brother, Grey. Can 
I take a message?" 
"Well, it's about time I had the pleasure of talking with you! This is Maggie 
Scully, Grey. Dana's mom." 
Grey relaxed at the warmth in her tone. "Hello, Mrs. Scully. It's nice to 
finally meet you -- so to speak." 
"Please, Grey, call me Maggie. In some ways I feel I already know you. I didn't 
realize you were coming up for a visit." 
"It was kind of spontaneous. I just got here a few minutes ago." 
"Are you there alone? Where are Dana and Fox?" Maggie's question communicated a 
frission of worry. 
"No, they're here," Grey reassured her. "Fox is sleeping and Dana's downstairs 
doing laundry. She should be back any minute, if you'd like her to call you." 
"That's not necessary, you can just give her a message. Tell her to come by at 5 
instead of 5:30. The baby goes to bed by seven and I know she'll want time with 
him." Maggie paused only a moment before plunging on. "Are you free for dinner 
tonight, Grey? I'd love it if you would join us." 
"Well..." Grey fumbled uneasily for an excuse, came up with none. 
"Please, I'd love to meet you. Fox has become a part of our family, and I know 
how important you are to him," Maggie coaxed. She laughed. "And as Fox will tell 
you, I make a mean pot roast." 
Grey chuckled, once again put at ease by her kindness. "How could I possibly 
refuse?" 
"Wonderful. We'll see you at 5." 
Grey bent over to replace the phone, nearly dropping it when Fox's sleepy voice 
startled him. 
"I like to sneak up behind Scully when she's on the phone and give her a kiss. 
Glad I controlled that impulse." 
"Sorry to disappoint," Grey replied, grinning. "C'mere." 
He pulled Mulder into a quick hug, then watched him flop onto the couch, 
stifling a yawn. His brother's eyes still had the slightly glassy, unfocused 
cast of someone not quite awake and his hair gave the appearance of being run 
through an eggbeater. 
"Sorry if the phone woke you," Grey said, taking the chair Dana had vacated. 
Mulder scowled. "I'm glad it did. Feels like all I do is sleep these days. And 
*don't* (he held up a warning hand) tell me that my body needs lots of rest to 
recover. I get enough of that from my personal physician." He squinted at Grey. 
"What brings you up for a visit? You seeing Kristen?" 
"Why is it so improbable that I could be up here to visit you and Dana?" Grey 
asked petulantly. 
"I'll give you three words -- smart, blonde and beautiful. While Scully and I 
may fit two of those, the third leaves us out." 
"Scully and *you*? Which one is supposed to apply to you, little brother?" Grey 
asked, deadpan. 
"Nice! Where's Scully and who was on the phone?" 
A rattle of keys and Scully nudged open the door, the now full basket balanced 
on her hip. Mulder, obviously more awake, popped up and relieved her of her 
burden, depositing it back in the bedroom and then joining her on the couch. 
"I was just about to tell Fox that your mom called," Grey told Scully. "She was 
a bit startled to have me answer the phone, but I explained." 
Mulder's lips twitched. "If I know Maggie, she wasted no time making you feel 
welcome. She's been pumping me for information ever since I told her about you." 

"Well she's about to get it straight from the source," Grey replied mildly. "She 
insisted I join y'all for dinner tonight. Hope you don't mind." 
Scully smiled at his reserve. "Of course we don't mind!" 
Mulder's eyebrows drew together. "Speak for yourself! Personally, I was hoping 
to talk my way out of this dinner on the grounds that my brother was in town." 
Scully dug her elbow into his side. "Mulder! Knowing my mother, she's probably 
cooking a pot roast just for you!" 
Mulder ignored Grey's snuffle of amusement. "It's not your mother I'm trying to 
avoid, babe." 
Several disjointed pieces snapped together in Grey's mind with a nearly audible 
click. "Bill -- your brother... He's staying at your mom's house? He'll be there 
tonight?" he asked, both eyebrows climbing up to hide beneath the sweep of his 
hair. 
"Yes. Bill, his wife, Tara, and my nephew, Matthew are staying at Mom's while 
they're in town for Thanksgiving," Scully confirmed. 
"It's not too late for you," Mulder intoned gloomily. "You can still back out. 
I'm sure Jerry Springer is on -- you could enjoy plenty of verbal abuse without 
ever having to leave this couch." 
"Mulder." Scully gave him what Grey knew he termed "the Scully Death Stare" and 
another small jab to the ribs. 
Grey's smile widened to show more teeth, looking far more like a shark circling 
its prey than a man expressing good humor. "A chance to finally meet Bill? Oh, 
no, little brother, I wouldn't miss this. Not for the world."


Baltimore
Monday
5:03 p.m.


When Maggie Scully opened the door, golden light, a rush of warm air, and 
delicious smells spilled onto the front porch. 
"Hi, honey! Glad you could make it," she greeted, giving her daughter a buss on 
the cheek as Scully stepped across the threshold. 
She then examined Mulder from head to toe, the crinkling of her forehead 
indicating dissatisfaction. "Fox! It's wonderful to see you, but you look a bit 
like death warmed over! How are you feeling, sweetheart?" 
"I'm actually feeling much better, Maggie - especially if I'm smelling what I 
suspect I am," Mulder replied. 
Grey tipped his chin down to conceal a smile as Maggie tugged his brother into a 
hug and kiss. No wonder Fox spoke of Dana's mother with a reverence that was 
practically spiritual - her brand of easy affection made quite a contrast to 
Teena Mulder's cool distance. Before he could complete the thought, she had his 
hand sandwiched between her own and was guiding him inside. 
"I don't need an introduction to you, Grey! You and Fox certainly bear a strong 
resemblance," she said warmly. 
"If you become confused, ma'am, just remember I'm the good-looking one," Grey 
replied, giving his brother a sidelong smirk. 
"Definitely not the funny one," Mulder retorted as Maggie chuckled. 
"Hang up your coats, you three, and go into the living room. Tara and Matty are 
already there, and I'll see if I can find Bill." 
Scully led the way into a large, brightly-lit room dominated by a stone 
fireplace. A blonde woman reclined in an overstuffed chair, watching a 
tow-headed toddler surrounded by toy cars and trucks. She sprang to her feet, 
smiling. 
"Dana!" 
Mulder looked on as the two embraced, but a moment later Tara released Scully 
and drew him into a quick hug. 
"How are you, Fox? We heard you've been pretty sick." 
"I'm doing well, thanks, Tara," Mulder replied, accepting the gesture with 
minimal discomfort. "I'd like you to meet my brother, Grey. Grey, this is Tara." 

Mulder turned, Grey and Tara's polite exchange receding to an unintelligible 
buzz when his gaze landed on Scully, sprawled on a thick Oriental rug with 
Matthew on her lap. The little boy was babbling enthusiastically as he 
demonstrated a miniature semi truck. Scully listened with rapt attention, one 
hand curled around his chubby tummy and the other dutifully manipulating a jeep. 

The upward twist of his lips belied the sharp pain that blindsided him. Mulder 
watched dumbly, reminding himself that Scully's infertility was an established 
fact, a crisis they'd somehow weathered. Though it would always be a part of 
her, Scully refused to let it define her. As for himself, he'd made peace with 
the stark reality that she would never have her own children. 
He'd just failed to consider that she'd never have *his* children. 
Scully, sensing his gaze, brought her eyes up and Mulder saw immediately that 
she knew -- that their highly attuned nonverbal communication laid bare his 
morose thoughts. For what seemed an eternity, blue eyes remained fused with 
hazel and he could feel her sorrow as keenly as his own. 
Scully's smile was the brilliance of sunshine in the wake of a storm. She 
dropped the toy and reached out, capturing his hand and pulling him down beside 
her. 
"Hey, Matty. This is my best friend, Fox." 
Grey sat down on a chair across from Tara, looking on as his brother and Scully 
submitted to Matthew's garbled instructions for play. Of course, Fox immersed 
himself in short order, delighting the child by fashioning a crude tunnel from 
several picture books and some "off road" terrain with two throw pillows. Scully 
eventually lost track of the game, which seemed perfectly comprehensible to 
Mulder and Matthew, and scooted over to prop her back against the couch, content 
to observe. 
Grey leaned over. "Now I know what to get him for Christmas," he laughed 
quietly. 
Matthew chortled as Mulder engineered an earthquake, causing the tunnel to 
collapse on a hapless Ferrari. 
Scully tilted her head back, smiling wistfully. "He's great with kids." 
So much left unspoken, but Grey understood. Even Tara dragged her eyes from the 
activity on the floor, shooting Scully a look of sympathy before they skittered 
uncomfortably away. 
"Bill!" she exclaimed, a kernel of relief in the name. "There you are!" 
Grey saw his brother's relaxed slouch turn rigid. Mulder abandoned the truck 
he'd sent careening off a throw pillow cliff and struggled to his feet, dusting 
off his jeans. Grey's eyes darted over to the doorway, eager for a glimpse of 
the man he'd only heard about. For a split second, he caught an unguarded 
expression - eyes narrowed, lip curled - before Bill assumed a bland smile of 
welcome. 
"Hey, Short Stuff. Long time no see." 
Mulder extended his hand and Bill shook it firmly, raking his gaze up and down 
his form before speaking. 
"Hi, Mulder. Geez, Mom was right. You do look like shit." 
A light tone, meant to sound like good natured ribbing. But Grey clearly 
detected the maliciousness beneath the façade. So that's how Bill operated, hmm? 
Grey rose slowly to his feet, pasting on his own smile. 
"Thanks, Bill. Actually, looking like shit is an improvement," Mulder replied 
mildly. 
Scully slipped her arm around Mulder's waist and glared at her brother. "You 
promised, Bill," she growled. 
Bill's eyes widened. "What'd I say?" 
Grey stepped forward, bringing himself to Bill's attention. Tara, who'd stood to 
the side, her focus fluttering nervously between the other three, leaped at the 
diversion. 
"Bill, this is Grey, Fox's brother." 
Grey shook hands politely, inwardly amused by Bill's appraising stare and his 
own burst of testosterone in response. 
*This town ain't big enough for the both of us* he thought crazily, and bit the 
inside of his cheek to abort a snicker. 
"Nice to meet you," Bill said neutrally, giving Grey's hand an obligatory three 
pumps before releasing it. Grey found himself watching to see if Bill would wipe 
that hand off on his pants, almost disappointed when he merely reached around to 
cup his wife's shoulder. 
"You too. Fox has told me so much about you, I've been anxious to put a face 
with the name." Grey kept his tone conversational, his face guileless. Bill 
wasn't the only one who knew how to use doublespeak - let him interpret *that* 
as he may. 
Bill's jaw dropped and he appeared speechless for a moment before his brows 
plunged. Any reply was cut short by Maggie's cheerful call to come to the table, 
though Grey sensed the proverbial line had been drawn in the sand. 
The dining table was laden - pot roast with all the trimmings, a huge bowl of 
salad, and fresh bread. Everyday dishes instead of fine china, food served 
family style, and Matthew jabbering from his booster seat all encouraged relaxed 
dinner conversation. Mulder accepted Maggie's efforts to reverse his weight loss 
with amused tolerance and Grey patiently fielded questions about his life and 
family in North Carolina. Bill contributed little to the dialogue, though he 
displayed more than a casual interest in Grey's answers. 
"It's wonderful you and Fox found each other after all this time," Tara 
remarked, retrieving the carrot slices that Matthew had attempted to hide under 
a napkin and placing them back on his plate. 
"God works in mysterious ways," Maggie agreed, reaching over to give Mulder's 
hand a squeeze. "To lose a sister and then gain a brother." 
"Except he doesn't believe in God," Bill pointed out. "Do you, Mulder?" 
Mulder's face remained calm but Grey saw the fingers of the hand Mrs. Scully had 
touched curl into a fist. "No, I don't." He smiled at Scully and then Maggie. 
"But I respect that faith in others." 
Maggie's pursed lips didn't hide their upward tilt. "You know what they say, 
Fox. It doesn't matter if you don't believe in God. He believes in you." 
"Guess that makes God the ultimate believer in extreme possibilities," Scully 
murmured, looking at him slyly through her lashes. 
Mulder's eyes danced and his shoulders lost their rigidity. Bill, on the other 
hand, looked as if he'd bitten into a lemon - just a step up from Matthew, who 
took exception to Tara's third repositioning of his carrots and dissolved into 
tears. 
"Sorry! He refused to nap today," Tara apologized, struggling to be heard over 
tearful repetitions of "Yucky!" and "No!" as she scooped the kicking toddler out 
of his seat. 
"Here, honey, let me take him," Maggie said, standing. "I'll put him to bed. You 
go ahead and finish your dinner." 
Tara hesitated only long enough for Matthew to lean willingly toward Maggie's 
outstretched arms, then surrendered him with a grateful smile. "Thanks, Mom." 
"He's usually very happy and content," she sighed, sinking back into her own 
chair and picking up her fork. "He's just a bear to be around when he hasn't 
gotten enough sleep." 
"Must be genetic - OW!" Mulder bent over to rub his shin. "That's going to leave 
a bruise, Scully." 
"Serves you right. You're not exactly Mr. Congeniality in the morning yourself, 
Mulder," she said pointedly. 
Tara grinned at their banter, while Bill's jaw clenched. 
"So, where is it you two are headed?" he asked, shoving aside his empty plate 
and propping his folded arms on the table. "Just so I at least know where my 
little sister is on Thanksgiving." 
Scully's lips compressed to a thin line. "Bill." 
The innocent look again, and Bill held up both hands in defense. "What? I'm not 
supposed to ask where you're going? Is it a big secret?" 
Her brows drew together. "No! I just..." 
"Cancun," Mulder answered quietly. 
"Oh, that sounds wonderful," Tara said enthusiastically. "I could do with a 
little sunshine myself right about now! I'm sure you two will have a great 
time." 
Bill huffed and muttered something under his breath. Mulder's gaze darted to his 
face and he opened his mouth as if to speak, then just clamped his lips shut and 
glanced away. Scully showed less restraint. 
"What did you say?" 
Bill met her challenge defiantly. "I said it better be a damn paradise, 
considering it's taking you away from your family on a holiday." 
Scully shoved back her chair and pushed herself upright, leaning across the 
table. "You can't do it, can you? Can't put aside your own stubbornness for one 
night and be civil." 
Mulder lay his hand on her shoulder. "Scully." 
She ignored him. "Why can't you see..." 
"*You're* the blind person here, Dana," Bill retorted, mimicking her posture 
from across the table and thrusting his face mere inches from hers. "I just keep 
hoping that eventually you'll wipe the stardust out of your eyes and start 
seeing the facts." 
"Bill, you wouldn't know the facts if they bit you in the ass," Scully snapped. 
"Did you ever stop to consider that the idea of spending Thanksgiving with *you* 
might have spurred me to leave town?" 
"Scully, DON'T!" 
The anguish pulled her up short, quenching the fury that had momentarily severed 
the connection between her brain and her mouth. Mulder, white-faced, slowly 
shook his head. 
"I don't expect to change what HE thinks of me," he said softly, taking the 
napkin from his lap and laying it on the table. "But I'd certainly appreciate it 
if you refrained from proving him right." 
Scully gaped, speechless, as he got up and walked out of the room. "Mulder, 
I..." When he didn't turn back she cast one more venomous glare at Bill and 
hurried after him. 
Tara's eyes lifted from the contemplation of her plate to skim Grey's before 
dropping back down again. "I'm going to start the dishes," she murmured, 
collecting several serving platters and fleeing to the kitchen. 
Grey looked around at the empty chairs. "Well, I'll say one thing for you, 
Bill," he drawled. "You sure know how to clear a room." 
Bill sat down and glowered. "Spare me. You came on the scene six months ago - 
I've been here for six *years*. You don't have the slightest idea what your 
brother has done to this family." 
Grey snorted. "Fox was wrong. You aren't pig-headed, just plain self-absorbed! 
If you'd stop for a minute and look at the complete picture instead of filtering 
it through your own petty concerns you just might learn something - about Fox 
*and* your sister." 
"I've learned enough! I've watched him drag Dana through hell and back again, 
sacrificing Melissa along the way. Is it self-absorbed to want to spare my 
mother the constant worry and heartache? To want my sister in a profession that 
doesn't involve taking lives and risking her own? If he were any kind of a man, 
he'd have insisted she abandon his meaningless quest years ago!" 
Grey laughed. "How well do you know your sister? Because I've got news for you, 
buddy. No one drags that woman anywhere she doesn't want to go -- at least if 
they want to live to see another day! If your head wasn't stuck in the sand you 
might have noticed that his so-called meaningless quest has become hers." Grey's 
voice dropped, softened. "And that the kind of love they share comes along once 
in a lifetime, if you're lucky." 
Bill grunted. "If you call that luck, count me out." 
Grey's eyes glinted dangerously. "But that's the problem, isn't it? You won't 
allow them to count you out. Or didn't your mother ever teach you that if you 
can't say something nice, you should shut the hell up?" 
Bill appeared stunned, then infuriated. "There's a family resemblance, all 
right," he sneered. "You're just like him." 
Grey slouched back and grinned. "Why, thank you, Bill. I believe that's the 
nicest thing you've said to me." 
Bill's hands twitched as if longing to wrap themselves around Grey's neck, but 
he pressed them to his sides. "I'm going to check on Matty," he muttered, 
stomping out of the room. 
Grey folded his arms, a smile still lingering on his lips. "Round one goes to 
the good ole boy from Carolina," he murmured. "And the crowd goes wild..."


En Route to Georgetown
Monday
7:48 p.m. 
"Are you warm enough?" 
"I'm fine, thanks." 
Shrouded in the shadows of the back seat, Grey winced. He numbered that the 
fourth painfully polite exchange since leaving Maggie Scully's house, and he was 
beginning to wish for a good, old fashioned knock down, drag out brawl to ease 
the tension. Dana's fingers had a choke hold on the steering wheel, her eyes 
periodically shifting from the road to Fox and back again. Even in the dim glow 
of passing streetlights, Grey could read exhaustion in the lines and planes of 
his brother's face. But Fox maintained his ramrod straight posture, refusing 
even to rest his head on the seatback. 
By the time Grey wandered into the living room, Maggie had returned from tucking 
in Matthew, interrupting a rather heated discussion between Mulder and Scully. 
They'd passed the remainder of the evening in courteous, if somewhat stilted 
conversation. Bill's shifting facial expressions occasionally betrayed his 
animosity, but in Maggie's presence he held his tongue. Mulder's flagging energy 
and drooping eyelids provided a convenient excuse to cut the visit short. 
"Mulder, I said I was sorry. I certainly didn't mean to upset you," Scully 
finally said, more impatience than contrition in her voice. 
"Scully, I'm tired, and I really don't want to talk about this now," he replied, 
his own tone heavy with fatigue but retaining a sharp edge. 
"You may not want to discuss it, but I'm tired of feeling your anger." 
Mulder sighed. "It's not you, Scully. I'm mad at myself." 
"Mulder, my brother acted like a complete jerk! Why on earth would you be mad at 
yourself?" 
Mulder scrubbed his face with both palms, then ran one hand through his hair. "I 
should never have gone tonight, Scully. It had disaster written all over it from 
the beginning, and I *knew* it. If I hadn't been there you might have been able 
to spend a relatively conflict-free evening with your family. Bringing me into 
contact with Bill is like waving a piece of raw meat in front of a lion and 
telling it not to pounce. He's incapable of accepting me as anything but the 
devil incarnate, and that's not going to change." He tipped his head to rest 
against the cool window glass. "Better to count me out of any family 
get-togethers if he's present." 
"So what are you saying here, Mulder?" Scully asked tightly. "That because of 
Bill's tunnel vision I can never share a holiday with you *and* my family?"" 
"That's an unreasonable line to draw," Grey spoke up quietly from the back, 
knowing he should opt out of the argument but unable to keep silent. 
"Stay out of this, Grey," Mulder snapped, turning to glare at his brother. "You 
didn't exactly help matters tonight. I don't know what you said to him after I 
left the table, but he looked ready to chew tacks." 
"He's right, Mulder," Scully said. "I refuse to let Bill dictate my life. I'm 
tired of the constant guilt trips." 
"So you're going to kill the relationship?" Mulder demanded. "Just like that?" 
"I'm not..." 
"You *are*, Scully! You were in the process of digging the grave at dinner! All 
you did was lend credence to Bill's claims that I'm a home wrecker!" 
Scully pulled into a parking space across from her building and shut off the 
engine, then turned deliberately to face him. "Some relationships aren't worth 
the heartache, Mulder. Bill makes my decision for me when he insists on behaving 
like a pig-headed fool." 
Mulder tossed his head in frustration, staring out the window in a blatant 
evasion of Scully's eyes. "It isn't all Bill's fault, you know. He's not the 
only one to disapprove of your lifestyle -- just the only one left to vocalize 
it." 
Scully's eyes narrowed. "What the hell does that mean?" 
Mulder reached for the door handle. "Forget it." 
Her fingers buried themselves in an iron grip on his leather jacket. "What. Did. 
You. Mean?" 
Mulder shrugged off her grip, scowling. "Your father never approved or supported 
your choice to enter the Bureau, Scully. I'd say it's more than likely he heard 
about your crazy partner who hunts aliens. I'm sure he made his feelings 
abundantly clear. You've as much as admitted that his disapproval caused you to 
doubt his love." 
"Shut up, Mulder." 
Mulder heard the warning, but exhaustion and his own guilt precluded him from 
heeding it. "All I'm saying is that you're convicting Bill of the same crime 
that you absolved your father of." 
"You have no right to judge my father," Scully replied icily. "At least my 
father didn't knowingly allow..." She bit off the words before they could tumble 
from her lips, horrified. 
Mulder went very still. "Finish it, Scully." 
"Fox, let's go inside. The car is starting to get cold," Grey inserted, his 
stomach churning at the sight of Scully's expression. 
Mulder ignored him -- or perhaps never heard. His eyes bore into Scully with 
desperate intensity. "What did my father allow, Scully? I know you've been 
keeping something from me, something you learned when you were with Cancerman. 
Tell me." 
Scully's eyes flooded with tears. "Please, Mulder. I don't want... It shouldn't 
be this way." 
"What way should it be? When is it going to be any less painful? I'm not going 
to beg you. TELL ME." 
"He said... He said your father knew about the genetic manipulations performed 
on you and Samantha. That he was convinced to allow the experiment, and 
participated willingly." 
Mulder recoiled as if struck. Even in the muted lighting they could see the 
color drain from his face. He licked his lips. "He knew? He *knew*? No, that's a 
lie! He wouldn't..." 
His voice seemed to dry up, becoming wispy and insubstantial before evaporating 
entirely. He stared blankly at Scully, then abruptly flung open his door and 
lunged out. Grey and Scully watched him stumble over to lean against a tree, 
head bowed and shoulders curled. She pressed the backs of her fingers against 
her lips, her eyes never leaving Mulder. Submerged in her own misery, Grey's 
gentle utterance might as well have been a scream. 
"It's done, Dana. Stop beating yourself up and go do some damage control." 
His hand descended on her shoulder, thumb rubbing soothingly through the bulk of 
her coat. Scully leaned her cheek against the warmth, blinking rapidly as she 
fought for composure. 
"I've been trying to find the right time, the right way to tell him ever since 
he came home from the hospital. I knew how much this would hurt him, and he's 
been so weak. I can't believe I just unloaded it on him like that." 
"Dana, I learned early on during my marriage that loving someone also means 
knowing all the right buttons to push. Unless I'm mistaken, you weren't the only 
one to hit a few tonight." He ducked his head so that she was forced to see his 
face. "I'm going for a little walk. Give me a key so I can get in later." 
Scully pulled her keys from the ignition, but juggled them in her palm so that 
they jingled rhythmically. "Maybe I'm the one that should be taking that walk," 
she said ruefully. "Seems a bit like sending the arsonist to put out the fire." 
Grey filched the keys from her hand and got out of the car. A moment later he'd 
opened her door and was leaning inside. "Darlin' we both know the real arsonist 
smokes Morleys. And I think you may just be the only one with the expertise to 
handle this blaze." 
Leaving her no chance to protest, he cast a final, troubled look at his brother 
and walked off in the opposite direction. 
Mulder was shivering, his entire body vibrating, though whether from cold or 
emotion Scully wasn't sure. She lay a cautious hand on his shoulder, keeping her 
voice low and soothing as if she were calming a wild animal. 
"Mulder, it's freezing. Come inside and we'll talk." 
He reacted like a wild animal -- injured, cornered, and dangerous. "So now 
you're ready to talk? Don't do me any damn favors!" 
Scully clutched at her temper, which squirmed to break free. "I'm sorry I didn't 
tell you until now. You were so sick, I just wanted to give you some time to 
heal." 
Mulder's face twisted into a barely recognizable mask. "I had a right to know! 
How could you have kept something like this from me?" 
Scully mentally opened her fingers and let loose. "Does the word *Tunguska* mean 
anything to you, Mulder? Or are you the only one allowed to withhold information 
in the name of protection?" she snapped. 
"That was different!" 
"How? How is it any different?" 
"That was the job, this is personal! My father..." The word transformed, 
breaking midway into a sob. The shivering became shudders, frightening Scully 
with their severity. She mutely reached out to pluck one chilled hand from the 
tree and tugged. His fury spent, Mulder followed her complacently across the 
street and into the building, not even mustering a lewd remark when she reached 
into his pocket for keys. Once she'd deposited him on the couch, Scully 
reluctantly left long enough to make some tea. 
He sat poised on the edge of the cushions, the cup cradled in his hands and an 
afghan draped across his shoulders. Scully took her place by his side, waiting. 
She knew that although he gave the appearance of a man contemplating the deeper 
mysteries of his Doc Martens, Mulder's brain and soul were struggling heroically 
to comprehend the scope of his father's betrayal. 
"How would he have done it, Scully?" he asked without meeting her eyes. 
"This...this dabbling with my DNA. How did the bastard pull it off?" 
Scully selected her words carefully. "I can only speculate, Mulder. But I'd 
guess something was done to your father's sperm, some kind of drug or procedure 
that modified the chromosomes and changed the genetic code." She shook her head. 
"Five years ago I'd have sworn it was impossible, that we don't possess that 
kind of technology. But now, after what we've seen..." 
"It makes a terrible kind of sense," Mulder replied woodenly, rotating the mug 
in tiny circles so that the liquid swirled and steamed. "Remember my mother's 
letter? She couldn't figure out how she kept getting pregnant in spite of using 
birth control. Guess dear old dad was sabotaging the contraception." 
Scully ran her hand up and down the taut muscles of his back, aching at the 
bitterness in his voice. Mulder set the barely touched mug on the coffee table 
and buried his face in his hands. 
"How could he do it, Scully? He let people experiment on his own children! No 
wonder he looked at me as if I were a leper." 
Scully closed her eyes against tears as Spender's oddly empathetic words floated 
through her mind. 
*Pity that Bill could never reconcile his fatherly pride with the guilt over his 
capitulation.* 
"I can't pretend to understand it, Mulder," she murmured, pressing harder 
against a particularly large knot near the base of his neck. "I can only say I'm 
sorry. Not just for what your father did, but for telling you like that. Please 
believe that I would never willingly hurt you." 
Mulder turned huge, shell-shocked eyes on her, teeth tearing viscously at his 
lower lip. "They took Samantha -- the experiment must have been a success. 
What..." He faltered, swallowing hard. "What else has been done to me? I don't 
think I know who...*what* I am." 
Scully guided him backward and he folded against her, his head tucked into the 
curve of her shoulder. "You're just what you've always been, love," she said, 
trailing her fingers through his hair. "The same honorable, brilliant, 
passionate, exasperating man I loved yesterday, and will still love tomorrow. I 
don't give a damn about the process. Just the end result." 
Whether it was the power of her declaration, or simply that the numbness wore 
off, he began to weep hot, silent tears. They seared her skin like fire, and she 
cursed Bill Mulder for each and every one. 
"Let it go, love," she murmured, her own voice unsteady. "Let it all go."


Georgetown 
Monday 
9:56 p.m.


Grey eased the door open, flinching at the high pitched creak. He stepped inside 
and eased it shut, sighing appreciatively as warmth penetrated the bubble of 
cold air that still clung to his skin. Stripping off his coat, he peered into 
the living room, squinting against the dim illumination. Fox was curled 
pretzel-like on the couch, and though Grey couldn't make out the details of his 
face, his deep, uniform breaths testified that he was asleep. 
"Grey? I'm in the kitchen." 
He followed the hushed voice and the rich smell of chocolate to the source, 
finding Dana at the kitchen table. Her head was propped on one hand and a 
half-filled mug of cocoa rested near the other. Grey attempted to analyze her 
features for a clue, but gave up when confronted by a tangle of emotions too 
complex to unravel. 
"There's more in the pan," she said, inclining her head toward the stove. 
"Probably still warm." 
Grey searched for a mug, finding the correct cupboard on the second try, and 
poured himself the remainder of the hot chocolate. He took a long swallow, 
grateful for the tendrils of warmth that seemed to spread throughout his chilled 
limbs. Sinking into a chair across from Dana, he curbed the impulse to browbeat 
her for information. 
"I notice the smoke detectors are quiet," he said, taking another sip. 
She looked at him blankly for a moment before understanding, and then amusement 
seeped onto her face. "True. But that doesn't mean there aren't still a few 
smoldering piles of ash to contend with." 
Grey ran one hand over his brow, massaging his temples. "The whole time I was 
walking, worrying about Fox and his ability to cope with this nightmare, I 
couldn't help feeling relief as well. Like the guy that misses the plane and 
then finds out it crashed. Some brother, huh?" 
"You're only human, Grey. Do you know how many times I've looked at Mulder's 
childhood and thanked God for my own? Believe me, I understand." 
"And what about you? How are you holding up?" Grey asked, stretching his hand 
across the table to lay it over hers. 
Scully hissed at the contact of his frigid flesh. "You're half frozen! You 
didn't have to leave, Grey. You know he doesn't have any secrets from you." 
Grey lifted one shoulder. "I realize that. But no one needs an audience when 
dealing with news like that. I hoped that if it were just the two of you he 
wouldn't hold back." He leaned closer. "And you never answered my question." 
Scully smiled weakly. "I'm not the one who just found out his father used him as 
a guinea pig." 
"No. You're the one who had to break the news. Not a big step up, if you ask me. 
So I repeat -- how are you?" 
Scully closed her eyes against the sudden rush of tears. "It hurts to see him 
hurt," she said softly. "I could cheerfully kill Bill Mulder and I resent the 
hell out of him for already being dead." 
"Well said," Grey replied, his fingers tightening over hers before he withdrew 
his hand. "I don't think I'll ever understand the man. I see Fox's scars -- the 
guilt, the lack of self-esteem -- and I know Bill is directly responsible. And 
yet, I can't shake the memory of the way his face would light up whenever he 
talked about Fox." 
"Pride is useless if it's never expressed to the one who matters," Scully said 
darkly. She took a deep breath and blew it out, rotating her head until her neck 
gave a satisfying crack. "He's completely exhausted. Tonight pushed him way past 
his reserves. I'd worried that this vacation might be too much for him, but I'm 
beginning to think it's just what we both need." 
"Speaking of which, I'd be glad to give y'all a lift tomorrow. That way you 
don't have to leave a car at the airport." 
"You'd have to take us to the doctor first," Scully cautioned. "We were planning 
to go straight to the airport after Mulder's check-up." 
"My services are entirely at your disposal, ma'am," Grey replied, adding with a 
sly smile, "At least as long as Kristen is tied up at work." 
Scully grinned, her spirits lifting. "Don't worry. We know our place in the 
grand scheme of things." The grin receded to a smile. "Thanks, Grey. You seem to 
have a knack for cheering me up." 
"No problem, darlin'. Now what do you say I help you get him out of my bed and 
into yours?" He waggled his eyebrows, purposely imitating his brother's patented 
leer. 
Scully snickered at his theatrics. "*That* is an offer I can't refuse."


Baltimore
Tuesday
8:47 a.m. 
Bill stood at the French doors, sipping coffee while watching Tara push Matthew 
on the old tire swing hanging from the maple tree. Matty's blond head tipped 
backward, his sparkling eyes and open mouth attesting to the delighted squeals 
muted by panes of glass. Entranced by the sight, his mother's voice nearly made 
Bill jump. 
"Penny for your thoughts, sweetheart," she said, slipping an arm around his 
waist and turning her gaze from her grandson to her son. 
Bill shook his head, mouth curving. "Just can't believe how big he's getting. 
Seems like just yesterday I could hold him on one arm. Now he's walking, 
talking, and becoming his own little person." 
"Time has an uncanny way of speeding up as you age," Maggie mused, rubbing 
little circles on the small of his back. "When you're a child the days seem to 
pass as slow as molasses, each one its own lifetime. But by the time you reach 
my age..." She chuckled softly. "The days just slip by like water through a 
sieve. Useless to try and clutch at them --if you're wise you just learn to let 
them flow." 
She gave him a final pat and pulled back to capture his eyes. "As for becoming 
his own person, well, children have a way of doing that early on. After a 
frustrating time of trying to fit you into Missy's mold I came to see that you 
each had to follow your own path, and not one of my choosing. My job was to love 
and support each of you kids no matter where that path might lead." Maggie 
huffed, a rueful twist to her lips. "Your father struggled with that part." 
Bill's brows angled downward. "What are you trying to say, Mom?" 
To his confusion, she collected his empty mug, walked over to the sink, and 
began washing breakfast dishes. "I need to ask a favor, Billy. I've got an 
errand for you to run." 
Shaking his head a little, scrambling to make sense of the abrupt change of 
subject, Bill walked over and picked up a towel. 
"Sure, Mom. You need something from the store?" 
"Dana had asked me if she could borrow that old straw hat of mine. The Mexican 
sun is awfully strong for her fair complexion and she's likely to need all the 
protection she can get. I forgot to give it to her last night." 
He was already shaking his head, but she ignored the motion and the accompanying 
scowl. "You should be able to catch them at Georgetown Medical. Fox had a 10 
a.m. appointment and they planned to go straight to the airport after that." 
"Mom, you know I'd do anything for you. But in this case..." 
"It'll also give you a chance to apologize," Maggie interrupted, her placid 
expression transforming to iron determination. 
Bill reddened. "APOLOGIZE? What in God's name would I have to apologize for?" 
Amazingly, she ignored his irreverent usage of the Lord's name, choosing merely 
to dry her hands while pinning him with a cool stare. 
"I've raised four children, William. I'm not blind, nor am I stupid. If what 
went on at the dinner table last night was any indication of what occurred after 
I'd left the room, it would certainly explain why they cut their visit short. 
Did you honestly think I wouldn't notice?" 
Bill grit his teeth. "Fox Mulder has ruined Dana's life. He's repeatedly 
endangered her with his ridiculous quest and he's alienated her from our family. 
I can't help trying to make Dana come to her senses." 
Maggie slapped the towel down on the counter and stepped forward, infringing on 
his personal space. Bill unconsciously backtracked, startled by the intense 
anger in his mother's brown eyes. 
"You'll help it when you're in *my* home, William Scully. Fox was my guest, and 
I expected you to treat him as such. Dana's *job* has put her life in jeopardy, 
a job that she chose before ever meeting Fox. On the other hand, he's saved her 
more times than I care to think about. And for the *record*, the only one 
alienating Dana from this family is *you*." 
Bill started to scuff his toe into the ceramic tile, realized he must look like 
a recalcitrant 10-year-old, and folded his arms instead. "I don't see how you 
can defend him, Mom. The guy is a loser, plain and simple." 
Maggie sighed, her wrath obviously spent. "It's worse than that, Billy. I love 
him. But what's more important is that Dana loves him. And if you love her -- 
real love, and not just lip service -- you'll accept Fox Mulder as an integral 
part of her life and move on." 
When he continued to stare sullenly at the floor, Maggie sighed again and 
returned to the dishes. Sometimes it was painfully evident her children had 
inherited more of the Irish in Bill than just his red hair -- mulishness and a 
quick temper, for instance. She was pulled from her reverie by her son's 
muttered words. 
"I'll take the hat. I can't promise anything more." 
She let her eyes drift closed and bobbed her head, listening to him stomp up the 
stairs. A small concession, but sometimes you had to take what you could get.


Georgetown Medical 
Tuesday 
10:38 a.m.


"Looking good, Mulder. Looking very, very good." 
Nick Brewer rapidly flipped through the chart's pages, then placed it on the 
table and pulled out a penlight. Mulder submitted to the examination of his 
pupils and opened his mouth obediently, grimacing when Brewer removed the tongue 
depressor. 
"Can't they give those things a better flavor?" he complained. "It's like 
licking a tree." 
Brewer raised an eyebrow, slipping the ends of his stethoscope into his ears and 
warming the metal with his palm. "And you've licked a lot of trees in your 
lifetime? Breathe." 
Mulder rolled his eyes but inhaled, coughing once or twice after a particularly 
deep breath. Brewer's casual demeanor switched to grave concentration as he 
touched the scope to various points on Mulder's chest and back. Nodding in 
satisfaction, he pulled out the earpieces and looped the instrument around his 
neck, the ends brushing his psychedelic tie. 
"Still some crackles but you've made tremendous progress. The CAT scan was 
clear, and though still very low, your white count is recovering. Dana must be 
doing a good job of sitting on you." 
Scully, seated on a chair in the corner, inclined her head with a small grin. 
Mulder resisted the urge to stick out his tongue. 
"That's what the tests say," Brewer continued, leaning against the foot of the 
gurney and studying Mulder's face. "How do you *feel*?" 
"Sick and tired of being sick and tired," Mulder growled, his lip thrust out 
petulantly. "I'm good for virtually nothing right now, and it's making me 
crazy." 
Brewer snorted. "Hate to tell you, dude, but you'd better get used to it -- for 
a while, anyway. I know you've probably heard this a million times, but your 
body took an incredible beating. Only time and lots of rest will get you back to 
where you want to be." He shook his head, open amazement on his face. "Though I 
gotta say that your progress so far is way beyond my wildest expectations. You 
have an unusual capacity for healing." 
Brewer had turned to retrieve the chart, missing when Mulder flinched visibly. 
Scully, eagle-eyed as always, stood and walked to Mulder's side, tangling her 
fingers with his. 
"So, are we cleared for take off?" she asked lightly. "Our flight leaves in a 
couple hours." 
"I give you my blessing," Brewer replied as he scribbled furiously on the chart. 
He paused and pointed the pen at Mulder. "With all the obvious restrictions. I 
think a change of scenery will do you good, but your most strenuous activity 
should be lying on the beach and soaking up some rays. And be careful to only 
eat or drink food at the resort -- your immune system can't handle a bad tamale 
at this stage of the game." 
Mulder slid off the gurney and offered up a mock salute.
Brewer walked them down to the waiting room where Grey was perusing the sports 
section of a relatively intact newspaper. 
"Did you pass?" he asked Mulder, standing and stretching gingerly with one hand 
pressed to the small of his back. 
"Beam 'em up, Scotty," Brewer said with a little grin. He turned to shake 
Mulder's hand. "I want to see you back here in a week. Make sure you don't undo 
all the progress." 
"I promise to explicitly follow the instructions of my personal physician," 
Mulder replied, raising his hand. He leaned over to add in Scully's ear, "Or 
should I say follow the *explicit* instructions of my personal physician?" 
Scully bit the inside of her cheek to hide the smirk. "Be a good boy, Mulder, 
and maybe I'll let *you* play doctor," she murmured wickedly. 
His smile widened -- became slightly lascivious. "Promises, promises, babe." 
Brewer was already headed back down the hall when Scully dragged her attention 
from Mulder and called after him. 
"Nick! Do you happen to know if Elena is working today?
I'd like to say hello." 
He glanced back over his shoulder. "Don't know, but I can find out. Hang on." 
Grey shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'd like to see her myself." He thought 
for a moment. "Do you know if Walt ever made his move?" 
Scully's smile could have rivaled the Mona Lisa. "I couldn't say. But I think 
it's a question worth pursuing." 
Mulder's jaw dropped. "What are you talking about? Elena...and *Skinner*?" 
"Oh come on! Are you saying you didn't notice?" Grey asked incredulously. "I 
thought it was pretty apparent." 
"Mulder can be a bit dense about these things," Scully said dryly. 
"I am not... I was sick!" Mulder whined, folding his arms. "And since when is 
"Walt's" sex life any of my business?" 
"Gotta hand it to you, little brother," Grey said, slapping him on the back. 
"You give the term 'oblivious' a whole new meaning." 
Mulder was still groping for a retort for that when Brewer called to them. 
"You're in luck! She's working Cardiology -- three floors up. Ask at the desk if 
you don't see her." 
As they waited for the elevator, Mulder cleared his throat. "Scully? What Brewer 
said about my ability to heal so quickly... Do you suppose...? I mean, could 
that be part of..." As he fumbled for words that wouldn't seem to come, Mulder 
jabbed viciously at the call button. 
Scully caught his hand in both of her own, her thumbs rubbing over the knuckles. 
"Are you asking if I think that it could be a product of genetic manipulation?" 
she asked gently. 
Mulder glanced away, his teeth clenched. "It crossed my mind, yeah." 
Scully considered carefully, mindful of the nearly imperceptible tremor in his 
hand. "I won't lie to you, love. I had the same thought, and it's certainly 
possible. On the other hand, we have no basis for proving it. Everybody heals at 
his or her own rate. Yours just may be exceptionally rapid." 
"And I don't think you should start jumping at shadows,"
Grey put in quietly. "If you look for this in every slightly extreme possibility 
you'll only make yourself nuts." 
"Easy to say," Mulder said darkly. "When birth order assignments were handed out 
you drew the lucky number." 
Grey's face collapsed. "I know that. And I'm sorry, Fox." 
The elevator doors opened but Mulder put a restraining hand on Grey's arm before 
he could enter. "I'm the one who's sorry. You didn't deserve that." 
One corner of Grey's mouth lifted in an insubstantial smile. "Yeah. And *you* 
don't deserve any of this. So do me a favor and don't think about it -- at least 
for the next five days, okay?" 
Mulder stepped into the elevator and draped himself against the back wall. "I'm 
trying, Grey. I'm trying." 
The fourth floor was oddly silent, lacking the usual bustle of activity typical 
to a busy hospital. Influenced by the stillness, they followed the signs toward 
the nurses' station without speaking. Grey let his eyes wander, noting the 
presence of patients in the passing rooms but the absence of staff. He realized 
he'd fallen quite a bit behind, and had quickened his steps to catch up, when he 
saw his brother round a corner -- and jerk to a halt. 
Mulder had just taken Scully's hand, raising his eyes to scan the hallway for 
Elena, when an angry voice shattered the quiet. The next several seconds slowed 
to a snail's pace as his senses recorded a deluge of information and instinct 
kicked into high gear. 
* Sharp odor of alcohol, sparkle of broken glass, and an ever widening slick of 
clear liquid. * 
*Group of nurses with Elena on the fringe, huddled together and clutching each 
other for support, soft frightened sobbing not quite muffled by trembling 
hands.* 
*Middle-aged man, disheveled and wild-eyed, pressing a gun to the head of a 
white-coated, whiter-faced doctor, muscular arm curled tightly around the pale 
skin of the physician's throat.* 
*Closed door to the stairwell not ten paces beyond the gunman, blood red EXIT 
sign above flickering on and off from a light bulb past its prime. * 
*Steady blip of a heart monitor through an open door to the right, hooked to a 
snoring and blessedly oblivious elderly man.* 
*Sharp intake of Scully's breath. * 
* Pad of Grey's sneakered feet approaching rapidly at his back.* 
Mulder slammed on the brakes, trying frantically to back up before the gunman 
could spot them. Even as his feet reversed their motion, the crazed eyes locked 
onto his own and the gun swung outward until he could feel the sights boring 
into his brain. 
"You two! Hold it right there!" 
Purely on reflex, Mulder extended his left arm, still shielded by the wall, 
backward with the palm facing out. He heard Grey's footsteps cease, felt him 
standing just behind his left shoulder where the corner protected him from the 
gunman's view. A nearly giddy sense of relief washed over him and left his legs 
rubbery. 
"Put your hands up where I can see them!" the man shrieked, tightening his elbow 
around the doctor's neck and waving the pistol back and forth. "NOW!" 
Mulder complied, keeping their gazes linked but sensing Scully's capitulation. 
Grey's voice was little more than a puff of air. 
"What do you want me to do?" 
Mulder swallowed, the dry click of his throat sounding abnormally loud to his 
hyper-attuned ears. "Skinner," he growled, never moving numb lips. "Hurry." 
"Get over here and join the party. You too, Red. And keep
those hands up!" 
Making his movements slow and deliberate, Mulder nodded. "Take it easy. You're 
the boss," he said with as much calm as he could muster. Jumbled images of a 
bank left him feeling disoriented for a moment, and he gave his head a sharp 
snap to clear it. 
"Just shut up and MOVE!" 
Clamping his lips together, Mulder moved. The brush of Scully's body against his 
own was torment rather than comfort. He sensed her fear -- knew it mirrored his 
own. Fear for her like a bad taste on his tongue, obliterating fear for himself. 
Only Grey's stealthily receding footfalls gave him a crumb of hope.


Georgetown Memorial
Tuesday
11:03 a.m. 
"You armed?" Mulder muttered as they neared the fidgeting gunman. 
Scully snorted, and without looking he could sense her eyes roll. "I thought I 
was bound for six days of fun and sun in Mexico, Mulder. No, I am *not* armed." 
"I want everyone to sit down against the wall, hands where I can see 'em," the 
gunman ordered, his gaze jumping nervously from doorway to doorway. "Hurry up!" 
Mulder backed up as directed and studied the man peripherally, carefully masking 
his interest. Large in both stature and weight, hands rough and callused, clad 
in faded jeans, a flannel shirt and heavy workboots. Thinning blond hair 
wreathing his head and skin still bearing the bronze of a summer tan. Facial 
features amazingly delicate in comparison to the bulky form, and brown eyes... 
Mulder's stomach did a slow roll, plunging to take up residence somewhere in the 
vicinity of his toes. The eyes, behind the bluster of lowered brows, were wide 
and terrified. Not the eyes of a career criminal or a fanatic consumed by a 
cause. The eyes of a man driven by desperation past the point of all rational 
thought. A very bad sign. 
Mulder's shoulders connected sharply with the wall, jarring him from his 
reflection. He slid down to a crouch, folded hands braced on bent knees, and let 
his eyes track down the hallway. Four rooms to his left, split evenly between 
both sides of the corridor. When he rotated his head to check in the opposite 
direction, Elena's presence at his side startled him. She sent him a 
tight-lipped smile, keeping her own alarm in check. "Good to see you, Mulder, 
but you picked a heck of a time to visit." 
"What's going on?" he hissed, part of his focus still trained on the gunman, who 
was berating a whimpering nurse for not reacting quickly enough. 
"His name is Daniel Rynne. His wife is dying from advanced heart disease and 
unfortunately was rejected as a candidate for transplant. I guess he figures 
this is the way to change Dr. Lawrence's mind," Elena said, sotto voice. 
"Somehow I don't think a Smith and Wesson is going to put
Dr. Lawrence in the mood to operate," Scully murmured, listening in from 
Mulder's right shoulder. 
"It's worse than that," Elena replied. "He claims he's got a bomb." 
"Now how 'bout you explain to me one more time why you refuse to save my 
Theresa's life," Rynne snarled at the doctor, still in a chokehold. "And try it 
without all the fancy doctor doubletalk." 
Mulder watched Dr. Lawrence vainly try to speak through the constriction of his 
throat, the words thready and unintelligible amidst his frantic gulps for air. 
His quivering hands flew up to clutch at Rynne's sleeve but the gunman leaned 
backward until the physician's feet kicked impotently in midair. Mulder tilted 
his head sharply forward, losing Elena's hushed description of Rynne's threats 
as his focus narrowed to a pinpoint. 
Rynne's shirt had worked its way loose from his pants on one side, revealing not 
just the caramel skin of his belly, but the slate gray of plastic explosives. 
Then Rynne dropped Dr. Lawrence back onto the tile and the bomb winked neatly 
out of sight. 
Mulder squeezed his eyes shut and tapped his head rhythmically against the wall. 
"Scully, he's wired," he muttered, cracking open one eye to absorb her reaction. 

"You mean he's *wearing* it?" 
"Two words, Scully. Cradock Marine." 
Her breath caught in her throat, and she laid her small hand over his. "Mulder, 
I know what you're thinking, but you're not up for this," she hissed. "We need 
to sit this one out and wait for Skinner." 
Mulder registered her plea with only half his brain. Rynne was screaming again, 
pummeling Dr. Lawrence with the butt of his weapon until the man lolled limply 
in his grasp. A flicker of movement caught Mulder's eye and he snapped his head 
to the right, observing several heads cautiously poking out through open doors. 
He closed his eyes, trying to ignore Rynne's ranting, Scully's hushed 
entreaties, and the oppressive smell of panic as he marshaled his thoughts. 
"Where's the most vacant section of this hospital?" he asked Elena roughly. "A 
wing or floor where there aren't many patients? Are there any sections not 
currently in use?" 
Elena's eyes slid over to Scully's distraught face before she answered. "The 
southwest wing on the fourth floor is under construction. There are no patients 
right now." 
Mulder grimaced, his mind conjuring up the image of three floors beneath them, 
should the worst come to pass. "What about the first three levels under that 
wing? Are they heavily populated?" 
Elena, sensing where he was headed, frowned in thought. "The cafeteria. And most 
of the diagnostic equipment - the labs, X-ray, and so forth. A few rooms with 
patients but not many." 
Scully's nails pierced the cotton of Mulder's shirt, digging into the soft flesh 
of his upper arm. "Mulder, what are you thinking?" 
"Scully, we can't just sit around and wait for Skinner! Sooner or later some 
unsuspecting patient is going to come blundering out of his room and Rynne is 
going to overreact by blowing us all to bits!" 
"Red! I said hands where I can see 'em, not on loverboy there! And no talking!" 
Two quick strides and Rynne towered over them, the doctor a giant rag doll in 
his arms. Scully released her death's grip on Mulder's bicep, hastily lifting 
her hands in a show of submission. Mulder considered her flared nostrils, 
quickened respiration, and compressed lips, recognizing the anger that Rynne 
misinterpreted as fright. 
"That's better. Just do as you're told, Red, and you won't get hurt," he 
snarled, brandishing the weapon and tightening his iron hold on Dr. Lawrence 
until the man whimpered. 
"What about your wife?" Mulder asked quietly. 
Rynne, who had been about to walk away, spun on his heel to glare down at 
Mulder. "What did you say?" 
"I said, what about your wife? She's the reason you're doing this, right? The 
reason we're all here? Are you so sure *she* won't get hurt?" Mulder's voice was 
low, conversational, and he met Rynne's gaze without flinching. 
"SHUT UP! What the hell would you know about it?" 
"I know that your wife is very sick. And that you're desperate enough to resort 
to anything, even violence, to help her. But this isn't the way." 
"And I bet you have all the answers, don't you, professor?" Rynne sneered. 
He shoved Lawrence aside, ignoring the fact that the physician collapsed into a 
white puddle, in order to grab a fistful of Mulder's shirt and haul him to his 
feet. Jamming the gun snugly under Mulder's chin, he slammed him up against the 
wall and proceeded to examine first one hand and then the other before his lip 
curled and he jerked his head dismissively. 
"Just like I thought. You're just like the high and mighty Doc Lawrence over 
there -- never done a day of hard labor but you look down on those of us that 
do. Think you're smarter than we are, just because you can put a few letters 
after your name." Rynne thrust his face so close to Mulder's he could feel the 
flecks of spittle that sprayed from the gunman's lips. "Well, I ain't gonna fall 
for a load of overeducated bullshit! Theresa deserves a chance same as anyone, 
and by God, she's gonna get it!" 
Rynne emphasized his words by yanking Mulder forward and then ramming him back 
against the wall. His head connected with an audible crack, and bright sparks of 
light and pain obliterated his vision. He heard Scully's gasp, sensed her 
restless movement, and fought to regain his equilibrium. 
"Then you'd better take this party of yours somewhere else," he said quickly, 
before Rynne could turn his attention on her. "Hasn't it occurred to you that 
when the police show up your wife could be caught in the crossfire? Or that if 
you really do have a bomb, as you claim, she'll be blown up with the rest of 
us?" 
Rynne's mouth hung open for a moment as he considered Mulder's words, then it 
snapped shut and his eyes narrowed. "Oh, there's a bomb all right, professor. 
Take a look for yourself." 
He hiked up his shirt to reveal a makeshift vest fashioned of plastic explosives 
and webbed with wires. Far from an expert in such matters, even Mulder could see 
that the bomb was large enough to do serious damage to both property and lives. 
Schooling his expression to hide his panic face, Mulder calmly looked from the 
bomb to Rynne's overbright eyes. 
"I can see you're serious. But that doesn't change the fact that if you set that 
thing off she'll be one of the first to go. Is that what you want?" 
"You know it's not! What are you trying to say?" Rynne growled. 
"That no one is going to take your threats seriously when they endanger the very 
woman you want to save. If you move up a floor your wife will be out of the 
immediate danger zone. You don't really want her to see you like this, do you?" 
Rynne surprised him, his belligerent demeanor crumbling along with his face. 
"She's unconscious. She can't hear or see anything." His grief vanished a 
heartbeat later, replaced by cold determination. "But Dr. Lawrence is going to 
fix that, aren't you, doctor?" he said, voice rising in volume as he loomed over 
the physician still cowering on the floor. "He's gonna put my Theresa back on 
that transplant list and get her a heart! Aren't you, Doctor?" He punctuated 
each question with a sharp nudge of his foot, pursuing Lawrence as he scrabbled 
backwards like a crab. 
"*Back*?" Mulder asked, more to distract Rynne from tormenting the doctor than 
to satisfy curiosity. "You mean her name was on the recipient list and he 
removed it?" 
"She was first in line!" Rynne screamed, the hand not clutching his weapon 
repeatedly clenching into a fist and then flexing open. "Number one on the list, 
the next available heart would have gone to her! And then he tells me she's no 
longer a good candidate for surgery, that he's taking her name off! And he 
starts spouting a bunch of big words that no one could understand, as if it'll 
justify giving my wife a death sentence. Well, I ain't stupid, and I can smell a 
load of shit when it's shoveled into my lap! I know the real reason he took that 
heart from Theresa was so he could give it to somebody with the money to pay him 
for it! Well, he's damn well gonna give it back!" 
Rynne lunged for Dr. Lawrence, catching hold of his white lab coat and shaking 
him until his teeth clacked together. 
"Wait!" Mulder said, taking several steps forward only to be halted by Rynne's 
gun in his face. "You don't need to do this, Mr. Rynne. If what you say is true, 
then all you need is your wife's chart and a second opinion. If another doctor 
agrees that Theresa should have the operation, she'll regain her spot on the 
list." 
Scully winced, dropping her head to conceal her expression from Mulder and 
Rynne. To the best of her knowledge, the decision to add or remove a patient 
from the organ recipient list was made by committee, not left to the whim of a 
single physician. Though she recognized Mulder's attempt to pacify Rynne and buy 
them time, she feared he was backing them all into a very tight corner. 
Rynne hesitated, eyes flitting back and forth between the pale, moaning man in 
his grasp and Mulder's calm sincerity. Mulder struggled to exude a sense of 
openness and reassurance, though his heart pounded and he could feel a maddening 
trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades. 
"It's too late," Rynne said, but the protest was weak and uncertain and he 
loosened his hold on Lawrence. "Where will I get a second opinion? How would I 
know who to trust? Any other doctor in this hospital will only back up what he 
says." 
"I'm a doctor." Scully's quiet declaration sent a chill scampering down Mulder's 
spine and his shoulders sagged in resignation. "I'll look over her chart and 
give you my professional opinion. But only if you agree to leave these nurses 
here and move up to the fourth floor." 
Rynne squinted at her. "You don't look like a doctor." 
Scully pursed her lips. "And I'm sure under normal circumstances you don't look 
like a man who takes hostages and threatens to blow up a hospital. Appearances 
can be deceiving." 
Rynne glowered at her acid tone, then the corners of his mouth lifted 
grudgingly. "You're all right, Red. Somebody get her Theresa's chart," he 
demanded, waving his hand at the line of cringing nurses. 
Elena quickly rose and walked down the corridor, disappearing into a room four 
doors to the right. She returned a minute later bearing the clipboard, her face 
expressionless as she surrendered it to Scully. 
Scully glanced briefly at the top page before tucking it under her arm. 
"Upstairs," she said firmly. 
Rynne's forehead creased with anger but he assented with a quick dip of his 
chin. "But the doc and your boyfriend join us," he countered, pulling Lawrence 
close and gesturing with the gun for Mulder to precede him. "If I even *think* 
you're lying to me, he gets a bullet and I push the button." 
Mulder raised his hands and started toward the door to the stairwell, casting a 
fleeting look of regret at Scully. When Rynne's attention was temporarily 
diverted by the difficulty of maneuvering the nearly catatonic Dr. Lawrence 
after Mulder, Elena leaned in to whisper in Scully's ear. 
"Look out. Dr. Lawrence may be a bastard with no bedside manner but he's a good 
surgeon. If he voted Rynne's wife off that list, there must be a valid reason." 
"RED! Get over here!" 
Scully bobbed her head, an acknowledgement of both Elena's warning and Rynne's 
command. She followed Mulder into the stairwell, observing the heaviness of his 
steps and the way his hand gripped the railing. He had to be running on his last 
reserves of energy, close to complete collapse from fatigue. Yet she was 
grateful for his presence, hopeful that between the two of them they could avert 
Rynne from his path of self-destruction. If ever they needed Mulder's eerily 
accurate profiling skills, now was the time. 
She could sense Rynne's presence behind her -- the measured thump of his boots 
and muttered curses as he dragged the gibbering Dr. Lawrence up each flight of 
steps. 
*Only Mulder,* she thought in bitter amusement, unconsciously shaking her head. 
*Who else could go to the hospital for a routine doctor's appointment and wind 
up hostage to a gun-wielding, bomb-toting lunatic?* 
Mulder had reached the top of the second flight and was holding open the 
cumbersome fire door. As if sensing her thoughts, he stuck out his lower lip and 
crinkled his brows. "Scullee! This isn't my fault!" he hissed resentfully. 
Scully released a long breath of air and a tiny smile, pausing to run her index 
finger across the back of his hand. Mulder rotated his hand so that his palm 
curved around the finger, squeezing it gently. For a split second the fear 
receded and they shared the joke, weak and trembling as it might be. 
"Keep movin', Red! Or I might change my mind about the value of your boyfriend!" 

Rynne's snarl snuffed the light from her face, reality reasserting itself with 
painful intensity. Scully ducked her head, pulling her finger from the warm 
cocoon of Mulder's hand and continuing through the doorway.


Georgetown Memorial
Tuesday
11:10 a.m. 
"This is Skinner." 
Grey coiled the telephone cord around his thumb, the steel band across his chest 
loosening just a bit. Five minutes of clinging to the shreds of his patience, 
feeling like a ping pong ball bounced from one extension to another, but at last 
he had the man himself. Sucking in a calming breath, he gathered his scattered 
thoughts. 
"Walt, this is Grey. Don't talk, just listen for a minute." A quick glance at 
the two nurses standing anxiously to his left, and Grey turned slightly, 
lowering his voice. "I'm at Georgetown Memorial. From what I can gather, there's 
a hostage situation in progress on the third floor, the northwest wing. A single 
gunman, undetermined number of hostages. I've already talked to hospital 
security and they've cordoned off the area -- no one comes or goes. So far the 
gunman hasn't attempted communication with anyone on the outside, but you'd 
better get a team down here right away." 
"Hang on." Amusement displaced fear for a moment, Grey's lips twitching at the 
sound of Fox's hard-nosed boss barking orders to his secretary. A flurry of 
shuffling papers and slamming drawers, then Walt was back on the line. 
"You're saving the best for last, aren't you?" he asked, but the dry tone thinly 
masked his concern. 
"Fox and Dana walked right into the middle of it," Grey confirmed grimly. "I 
barely got out myself, thanks to Fox's quick reflexes. And Walt... I think Elena 
is up there too." 
A string of creative expletives gave credence to Skinner as an ex-marine and 
inexplicably cheered Grey. "Has anyone called the police?" 
"Not to my knowledge. So far, not many people know what's going on, and I've 
been calling the shots." 
"Let's keep it that way, for now. You sit tight and I'll be there ASAP." Skinner 
paused, and when he continued his voice had abruptly switched from assistant 
director to friend. "They'll be all right, Grey. Mulder is a profiler, he's got 
years of training and experience in just this type of situation." 
Grey strove to accept the reassurance, couldn't bring himself to do so. "Seven 
days ago Fox had one foot in the grave, Walt. He's not up to this, no matter how 
thorough his training." 
Skinner didn't try to argue. "On my way." 
Grey replaced the receiver, tamping down the overwhelming desire to act, to 
return to the third floor in a foolhardy attempt to rescue his brother. He 
squeezed his eyes tightly shut, wishing he could block out the image of Fox, 
pale and gasping for breath, fighting for his life in the ICU. Yes, he'd made 
amazing strides toward recovery the past week, but he was still a shadow of his 
normally energetic self. Regardless of the danger in catching a stray bullet, 
the stress alone couldn't be good for Fox's fragile immune system. 
Grey's morose thoughts were interrupted when the stairwell door swung open and a 
group of agitated, weeping nurses tumbled through, a security guard on their 
heels. Grey crossed the hallway in three long strides, his eyes searching 
hopefully for his brother and Dana but finding Elena's dazed face instead. 
"Elena! Elena!" he called, one arm swinging in a wide arc to catch her 
attention. 
"Sir, please step back. She can't speak with you now," the guard, an older man 
with salt and pepper hair and an obvious paunch, looked half-terrified and 
wholly out of his element. 
Grey impatiently pulled out his badge as Elena freed her hand from the iron grip 
of a younger nurse and hurried to his side. "Detective McKenzie, Raleigh PD. I 
know all about what's going on up there -- I'm the one that called security. I 
suggest you take these ladies to the staff lounge. The FBI is on its way, and 
they'll want to talk to everyone." 
Looking extremely relieved to have some instruction, the guard ushered the 
little group down the corridor. Grey turned to speak to Elena, finding himself 
face to face with Nick Brewer instead. 
"What's going on?" Nick demanded quietly, his eyes darting from the departing 
guard, to Elena, and then back to Grey. "Where are your brother and Dana, and 
why do those nurses and YOU (he indicated Elena with a small jerk of his head) 
look as if you just saw a ghost?" 
"More like a monster," Grey muttered under his breath. 
Elena looked at him, shaking her head. "Not a monster, Grey. Just a desperate 
man willing to try anything to save someone he loves." 
Grey's eyes hardened. "Yeah. Well, I'm feeling a little desperate myself. I'm 
assuming he still has Fox and Dana?" 
Elena nodded, her brown eyes warm with empathy. "And Dr. Lawrence." 
"What are you saying? Will one of you please give me the secret decoder ring so 
I know what the hell you're talking about?" Brewer snapped, exasperation 
replacing his normally benign calm. 
"There's a gunman on the third floor holding Fox, Dana, and this Dr. Lawrence 
hostage. A patient's disgruntled family member?" Grey waited for Elena's 
acknowledgement. 
"Husband. His name is Daniel Rynne. His wife was just removed from the 
transplant list. That's essentially a death sentence," Elena said, rubbing 
wearily just above her right temple. 
"So he's got nothing to lose," Grey mused grimly. "Not a promising set of 
circumstances." 
"It's worse than that. He's wearing a bomb, Grey, strapped to his chest. He says 
that if Dr. Lawrence doesn't guarantee her a new heart he's going to flip the 
switch. Dana agreed to look over her medical records - trying to buy time, I 
guess." 
Her words robbed all the oxygen from Grey's lungs, leaving him lightheaded with 
dread. He sensed Brewer stiffen, heard him swallow hard before mustering a shaky 
query. 
"What can I do?" 
When Grey didn't immediately respond, Elena reached out to wrap her fingers 
around his arm just above the elbow. A gentle squeeze brought him back from the 
knife's edge of panic, grounding him. He slowly drew in a deep breath and 
released it, a slight bob of his head to signal he'd regained control. 
"Begin implementing whatever procedures you have for emergency closure of this 
hospital. See that any incoming patients are rerouted to other hospitals and 
clear out as many of the ones present but not admitted that you can. And 
whatever you do, DON'T mention the word bomb unless you want mass hysteria on 
our hands." 
Brewer offered up a mock salute, but the tremor in his fingers spoiled the 
effect. Grey watched him trot off in the direction of the main desk, then 
returned his attention to Elena. 
"Are they still on three?" 
"Mulder talked him into moving up to the fourth floor," she began, breaking off 
when Grey groaned and slapped one hand to his forehead. 
"He moved *up*? Is he crazy? That's just one more floor to..." 
Elena's brows drew together. "The southwest wing of four is under construction, 
Grey. NO patients. And the floors beneath consist mainly of diagnostic services 
and the cafeteria. It wasn't just an impulse --Mulder knew what he was doing." 
One corner of Grey's mouth turned up at the indignation in her tone. "Okay, 
okay. So there's a method to his madness. Sorry I doubted him." He ducked his 
head a little to study her face. "Did he seem...all right?" 
She grasped the significance of the question immediately. "I'd say he was 
handling the situation quite well for someone who was circling the drain ten 
days ago. Dr. Lawrence, on the other hand looked ready to piss his pants." 
Grey's mouth dropped open in shock before he burst into laughter. "Elena, you've 
got a hell of a way of whistling in the dark. I needed that." 
She smiled, but her eyes were sad. "I know. I'm going to give Nick a hand with 
getting the ball rolling. Page me if you need me." 
Grey slumped against the wall, shoving his hands into his pockets and glancing 
at the wall clock. Hopefully Walt would be arriving soon -- he was more than 
willing to relinquish control. His years with homicide in Raleigh left him ill 
prepared to handle a potential disaster of this magnitude. Bad enough a hostage 
situation, but now a bomb thrown into the mix. 
"Least things can't get much worse," he mumbled, closing his eyes. 
"For the hundredth time, I'm looking for Dana Scully! She was here with a 
patient named Fox Mulder. M U L D E R! Now are they still here, or not?" 
Grey's eyes flew open. The voice rose above the buzz of emergency room clamor, 
loud, angry, and all too familiar. The cap of auburn hair only confirmed his 
fears. 
Grey buried his face in his hands. "Oh, God. They just did."



4th Floor 
Tuesday 
11:30 a.m.


"Been married long, Mr. Rynne?" Mulder asked, one long finger tracing patterns 
in the construction dust that littered the floor. 
Rynne tore his eyes from where Scully sat methodically reviewing charts and test 
results to squint suspiciously. Mulder's face was guileless, his body posture a 
relaxed sprawl against the wall. Rynne's stiff shoulders slackened but the gun 
remained pointed toward Lawrence's head. The doctor remained rigid with terror, 
nearly hyperventilating. 
"Twenty-three years. Got married right out of high school." 
Mulder whistled low and shook his head. "Staying together that long is no small 
feat. You must love her very much." 
"Figured that out all by yourself, did ya, Professor? You really are a genius," 
Rynne sneered, but his eyes were an open wound. 
"The name is Mulder. Have any kids?" 
Scully glanced sharply at Mulder from behind the curtain of her hair. Their eyes 
locked, communication flowing without a word uttered. 
*What are you doing, Mulder? Don't mess with this guy!* 
*Trust me.* 
Scully rolled her eyes, a tiny grunt of annoyance her response as she refocused 
on the chart in her lap. 
"Got two. Girl's a senior in high school. Boy's a freshman at University of 
Maryland." Rynne's terse reply couldn't disguise his obvious pride. 
"Maryland, huh? That's great, you must be really proud of him." 
"First Rynne ever to go to college. Damn right I'm proud." He backed carefully 
over to a window with Lawrence pressed to his chest, weapon never wavering. To 
the left was a circular opening in the wall that led to a chute used for 
bringing construction materials directly to the fourth floor. Rynne leaned 
against it, the cool draft of outside air drying the sweat on his brow. "How 
'bout you and Red? Got any kids?" 
He should have seen that one coming -- couldn't raise the barriers quickly 
enough. Mulder's eyes skipped involuntarily to Scully, but she averted her own, 
ostensibly buried in the data. 
"No. No kids," Mulder said quietly, his voice tight and level. 
Rynne pulled his eyes from the view to peruse Mulder's face. "Can't, huh? That's 
a bitch. Kids are the only thing that make this damn life worthwhile." 
"Mr. Rynne. Daniel. What are your kids going to think? Have you considered 
them?" 
Rynne's face darkened and he stalked angrily across to loom over Mulder. "Of 
course I considered them! You think I'm stupid? Or is it just that you think I'm 
selfish, that I'm doing all this for me?" The gun dipped to caress Mulder's 
forehead, right between his eyes. "My kids need their mother, Mr. Mulder. And, 
by God, they're gonna have her!" 
"They need their father too," Mulder persisted, meeting Rynne's thunderous 
glare. "You set off that bomb and they'll lose you both. Who's going to help pay 
your son's tuition if you're blown to bits? Who's going to be there to watch him 
get his diploma?" 
"Mulder..." Scully's voice was barely audible, yet the alarm was evident. 
"You think I want to be doing this? Think I enjoy turning myself into a bomb? I 
HAD NO CHOICE! I didn't know what the hell else to do!" Rynne maintained his 
chokehold on the doctor but the gun dropped to his side. "I don't think you 
understand, Mr. Mulder. Theresa *is* my life. She's a part of me now, and I 
couldn't exist without her." 
Mulder closed his eyes and swallowed, feeling the heat of Scully's gaze through 
his sealed lids. 
*You make me a whole person.* 
"I understand all right, Daniel. I've even been there. But this isn't the 
answer." Mulder opened his eyes, saw he'd made a small chink in Rynne's armor. 
"She wouldn't want this, would she?" 
Rynne stared at him blankly, then brought the gun back up to Lawrence's temple 
and turned toward Scully. 
"I don't want to hurt anyone. I just need Red to look at Theresa's chart, to see 
that she deserves that operation. Then everything will be okay, you'll see." 
At his desperately hopeful words Scully lifted her eyes from the data and 
flipped the folder shut. Mulder read her expression, and his heart plummeted. 
"Mr. Rynne." She paused, obviously fumbling for the right words. 
Rynne went still, then snugged the gun tighter under Lawrence's chin. "I may not 
have a college diploma, but I can read people. I can tell you're not a good 
liar, Red. Your face is gonna show me if you do. So you'd better level with me 
and not try any of Lawrence's fancy doctor doublespeak. I'll know if you're just 
telling me what you think I want to hear, and I won't hesitate to throw the 
switch." 
Scully nodded, clearing her throat nervously. "Mr. Rynne," she said gently, 
running her tongue across dry lips, "I've reviewed all the tests and treatments 
your wife has undergone. I have no affiliation with this hospital, nor am I 
acquainted with any of Mrs. Rynne's doctors, therefore I've assessed her 
condition with an impartial and unbiased eye." 
"Go on." Rynne's face was lifeless, as if he sensed the blow about to be dealt. 
Scully licked her lips again, sneaking a quick peek at Mulder, who gave a barely 
perceptible nod. "There was a time, as recently as a month ago, when a 
transplant would have benefited your wife. That time has unfortunately passed. 
The vessels surrounding the heart have further deteriorated to such a degree 
that attaching the donor organ would be nearly impossible. In addition, her 
general health and strength have sharply declined, leaving her in a weakened 
state that makes surgery not only inadvisable, but dangerous." She sucked in a 
deep breath, then resolutely looked into Rynne's pleading eyes. "Dr. Lawrence 
was right to remove Theresa from the transplant list, Mr. Rynne. If she were to 
undergo that operation now, I have little doubt that it would kill her."


Georgetown Memorial
Tuesday
11:45 a.m.


"So let me see if I've got this straight. Some crackpot with a dying wife and a 
homemade bomb waltzed into this hospital and has taken a doctor, Mulder, and my 
little sister hostage? And he's threatening to set off the bomb if his wife 
doesn't get an operation?" 
Bill's voice was even, but cold as the blue eyes that bore relentlessly into 
Grey. He pressed his lips tightly together and nodded, wondering just how Dana's 
brother managed to make him feel like an accomplice to the "crackpot." 
"That's right." 
Bill tightened his jaw and deflected his gaze to a point just above Grey's left 
shoulder, absorbing the news. Abruptly, his eyes dropped back to Grey's face and 
he took a half step forward. 
"Then why in the hell are you here, sitting around on your ass doing nothing? 
What's being done to get her out of there?" 
Fury, raw and primal in its intensity, surged through Grey's entire body until 
he was blind, deaf, and dumb with it. Bill's unjust criticism offended him on a 
number of levels. Anxiety and frustration with being thrust into a position of 
authority in an emergency far beyond anything he'd ever experienced in fifteen 
years of law enforcement. Fear for Fox and Dana's lives. And outrage at Bill's 
reference to saving Dana while pointedly ignoring Fox. 
Grey took his own step forward, unaware that his hands had curled into fists. 
"I've already contacted their boss at the Bureau - he has a team on the way. 
They've closed the hospital and are in the process of evacuating the floors most 
at risk. Everything possible is being done to ensure Dana *and* Fox -- not to 
mention the hundreds of patients and employees -- come out of this alive." 
At the mention of Mulder's name, Bill's lip curled. "Once again your brother has 
managed to land Dana in the middle of life-threatening circumstances. Is it any 
wonder I'm not one of his biggest fans?" 
Grey's jaw dropped, astonishment temporarily outweighing his anger. "You can't 
honestly blame *Fox* for this? He's as much a victim as Dana --they were both 
just in the wrong place at the wrong time." 
"Funny how that seems to keep happening. Maybe it's because just being with 
*him* is the wrong place and time," Bill sneered. 
Grey started counting to ten, got to three, and was in the process of drawing 
back his fist when he heard someone call his name. 
"Detective McKenzie? There's a call for you -- he says it's urgent." 
*Saved by the bell, you ignorant, pig-headed bastard.* 
"Excuse me," he said with exaggerated courtesy and stalked down the hallway to 
accept the receiver. 
"Grey? I'm only about two minutes out. What's the status on our gunman?" 
Grey let his eyes slip shut, ignoring Bill hovering at his shoulder. "Our 
gunman's got a bomb, Walt. He's released everyone but Fox, Dana, and his wife's 
surgeon. Seems she was eliminated as a candidate for a heart transplant and he 
wants to change the doc's mind." 
Skinner muttered something that sounded like an obscenity under his breath, then 
asked tersely. "Elena?" 
"She's safe. She's the one that told me about the bomb." 
"Does she have any idea how big?" 
"Big enough that Fox manipulated the guy into moving to a wing on the fourth 
floor that's under construction. He did us a real favor, Walt. It's the least 
populated section of this hospital, and we've already begun evacuating the 
surrounding floors." Grey heard Bill hiss at his words of praise, fought the 
desire to turn and flip him the bird. 
"You've got to close the hospital to incoming patients and..." 
"Done. Elena and Dr. Brewer are implementing disaster protocols." 
"Okay, I can see the hospital now. We'll cordon off the area around the 
southwest wing and... Shit!" Skinner broke off and Grey could hear the faint 
wail of sirens. 
"Walt? What's wrong?" Grey demanded. 
"Who called the D.C. cops?" Skinner growled impatiently.
"They're converging on the hospital as we speak, complete with a SWAT team." 
The sirens grew exponentially louder, and Grey realized he was hearing them 
through the ER doors and not just the phone. "Maybe one of the security guards. 
Is this a problem?" he asked uneasily. 
Skinner blew out a gust of air. "It muddies the waters a bit," he admitted. 
"Don't worry, I'll handle things out here. Has this guy..." 
"Rynne," Grey supplied. 
"Has Rynne attempted to contact anyone? Has there been any communication at all 
since he released the other hostages?" 
"No. Elena said Scully agreed to look over his wife's medical records, hoping to 
stall for time," Grey explained. 
The thunk of a car door shutting, and then Skinner was speaking authoritatively 
to someone on the other end of the phone. 
"Assistant Director Skinner from the Bureau. I need to speak to whoever is in 
charge right now." Then he was back online. "I'm sending two agents inside to 
oversee the evacuation. They'll also round up any witnesses for questioning." He 
paused, then said with a trace of wry humor, "I suppose telling you to get out 
of there now would be a waste of my breath." 
"Save it for the D.C. cops -- you'll need it. I'm going to find Elena and see if 
she can use an extra pair of hands," Grey replied. Inspiration struck and he 
continued, "But Dana's brother, Bill, is here. You'll probably want your agents 
to escort him out along with the nurses." 
He could barely make out Skinner's reply over Bill's belligerent refusal mixed 
with slurs against his parentage. 
"Be careful. I'm going to see if I can reach Mulder via his cell phone. Do you 
know if he was carrying it?" 
Grey snorted. "This is my brother you're talking about, Walt. I don't think he 
goes to the bathroom without his cell phone." 
Skinner laughed quietly. "I see your point. I'm sending a walkie-talkie in with 
Agent Whiting. You can reach me on channel three. Stay in touch." 
"Will do. Now go make nice with the D.C. boys, Walt." 
Grey hung up, grinning a little, only to be cornered by an extremely bad 
tempered Bill. 
"Listen, you son of a bitch, I am not leaving this building until I know my 
sister is safe and sound! Get used to having a second shadow because I'm going 
to be on your ass until she is!" 
"I'm flattered, Billy," Grey returned, putting on his cheekiest grin. "And to 
think Fox predicted we wouldn't get along!" 
He headed down the hallway in search of Elena, a smirk on his face and a mass of 
spluttering, pent-up fury hot on his heels.


Fourth Floor 
Tuesday 
11: 52 a.m.


Mulder winced at Scully's forthright declaration, ready for an eruption of 
Rynne's barely leashed temper. He ran shaking fingers through sweat dampened 
hair, fighting to hold it together for Scully's sake. Adrenaline rushes only 
lasted so long, and he was tired...so tired. 
Rynne gaped open-mouthed at Scully for several seconds before his face literally 
crumpled, the lines and planes falling into pure misery. "What?" he whispered, 
his voice no longer strident, but weak and confused as that of a child. He 
cleared his throat, summoned a scowl. "Are you sure?" 
Scully darted a nervous glance at Mulder, took in his dark eyes and pale, sweaty 
face, and grit her teeth. "Yes, I'm very sure. Mr. Rynne, if Dr. Lawrence were 
to attempt the transplant it could mean the death of not only your wife, but the 
next person on the list who needs that heart. Who could actually benefit from 
the operation." 
Rynne tore his eyes from Scully to stare at the quivering doctor in his arms, 
the gun slipping from Lawrence's throat to hang by his side. "I...I thought... I 
never..." 
"Theresa wouldn't want that, would she, Daniel?" Mulder asked, his own voice 
thin. 
The soft question ignited Rynne's confusion to rage. In a flurry of motion, he 
strode to Mulder's side and drew back his foot. "Shut up! Shut up! You don't 
know her, know anything about us, you..." 
"DON'T!" 
Scully cast the chart aside and placed her body between Rynne and Mulder, her 
face clouded with anger and fear. 
"Scully, no!" Mulder protested weakly, trying to push her aside, terrified that 
she would bear the brunt of Rynne's ire. 
Scully refused to give way and he was currently no match for her strength. She 
spread her arms out in a protective shield and glared up at Rynne, challenging 
him to defy her. 
"This has gone far enough! How many people are going to suffer while you attempt 
to assuage your own pain? This won't help her!" 
Sirens, their mournful keening punctuating her question, drifted in along with 
the cold air from the open chute. Rynne dragged Lawrence over to the wall and 
peered out the window, his eyes widening. 
"Shit, shit, shit! There's cops all over the place out there!" 
Mulder firmly moved Scully to the side, standing on trembling legs. "You're in 
control here, Daniel. This doesn't have to end badly. Your son..." he trailed 
off, questioning Rynne with his eyes. 
"Elliot," Rynne muttered, his eyes never leaving the view but the word choked 
with emotion. "We named him after my father." 
"Elliot doesn't have to lose his parents today, Daniel. We can all walk out of 
here right now." 
Rynne ripped his eyes away from the activity outside, a hysterical laugh 
escaping his lips. "Just walk out? Are you crazy? There must be twenty cops down 
there! You think they're just going to welcome me, maybe get me a cup of 
coffee?" 
"They want a resolution to this as much as you do," Mulder persisted, gently 
shrugging Scully's restraining hand from his arm and taking a tentative step 
forward. "They won't shoot if you don't give them a reason to." 
Rynne's grip on the doctor tightened almost unconsciously and he waved the gun 
at Mulder. "Oh really, Professor? And what makes you such an authority on what 
the cops will and won't do?" 
Scully flinched. 
*NO, Mulder! Nonononono...* 
"I'm FBI," Mulder answered gravely, hearing Scully catch her breath. 
Rynne laughed wildly. "Riiiight! Why didn't you say so sooner, Mr. FBI? Would've 
been nice to know I had such an important hostage." 
Rynne's snickering faded when Mulder's expression remained sober and he gingerly 
removed his badge for scrutiny. Paling, he staggered backward several steps and 
swung the gun up to point at Mulder's head. 
"Stay right there and don't move any closer," he warned. "I'll use this if I 
have to." 
"You don't have to," Mulder said calmly, voice low and soothing. "Listen to me, 
Daniel. My boss is probably out there by now and..." 
The piercing trill cut off Mulder's speech, startling all of them. Rynne's 
finger actually tightened reflexively on the trigger before the source of the 
sound registered and he relaxed a little. 
"My phone," Mulder said, keeping his gaze locked with Rynne's as he carefully 
pulled it from his pocket and, when the gunman didn't protest, flipped it open. 
"Mulder." 
"I distinctly remember signing Scully's request for leave, Agent Mulder, so that 
you two could go to Mexico. What in the hell have you gotten yourself into now?" 

Mulder blinked, and his lips curved. Skinner's exasperated growl was exactly 
what he needed to hear. A balm to his frayed nerves, it pushed back the 
weariness and renewed his hope. Just knowing Skinner was out there, taking 
charge, reassured him. 
"Good afternoon to you too, Sir. I was just talking about you." 
"All compliments, I'm sure," Skinner replied dryly. "Just answer yes or no. This 
man, Rynne -- he's still holding a gun on you, Scully, and the doctor?" 
"Yes." 
"He's got a bomb?" 
"Yes." 
"Big?" 
"Hard to tell. Enough to take seriously." 
"Just yes or no, Mulder. Let's not spook him," Skinner admonished. "Is he 
rational? Have you been able to reason with him?" 
"Yes, and I'm giving it my best, sir," Mulder replied grimly. 
"Who is that? I want to know what you're saying and who you're saying it to!" 
Rynne demanded shrilly. "This isn't a 900 chatline, Mr. FBI!" 
Mulder pulled the phone from his ear, raising his free hand in a pacifying 
gesture. "It's my boss. As I was trying to tell you, he's going to be the one 
running the show out there. If I tell him you're coming out to give yourself up, 
he'll see that you're given safe passage. No one will hurt you, Daniel. I can 
promise that." 
Rynne studied Mulder's face, then shook his head. "I dunno, FBI. I think you're 
a straight shooter, and I can see you believe what you say. But how do I know 
your boss is reliable? I don't know anything about him, and my ass is the one on 
the line here!" 
"You'll have to take my word for it," Mulder replied evenly. "Accept that I 
trust him -- with my life if necessary. And I can tell you, trust doesn't come 
cheaply or easily for me." 
Rynne dropped his eyes to his shuffling feet in an agony of indecision. "I'd 
like to believe you, FBI. God, how did I get myself into this whole damn mess!" 
"I'll vouch for him too," Scully said suddenly, stepping around Mulder to catch 
Rynne's attention. "He's my boss too." 
She held out her I.D., disregarding the regret in Mulder's hazel gaze. Rynne let 
out a hoarse bark of amusement, casting his eyes toward the ceiling. "Only I 
could manage to take two Fibbies hostage. God, I am such a screw up!" 
Mulder's voice tightened, toughened. "Then make it right, now. End this. For 
your daughter. For Elliot. For Theresa." 
Charged silence as Rynne stared at Mulder as if hypnotized. Finally, he hung his 
head in a barely perceptible nod. "Yeah. All right." 
Lightheaded with fatigue and relief, Mulder pulled the phone back to his ear. 
"Did you hear that, sir?" 
Skinner's voice was colored with emotion. "I heard it. Mulder, you need to get 
him to come down the stairs and out the door at the extreme southwest end of 
that wing. Do you know what I mean?" 
Mulder glanced down the hallway, saw the glowing exit sign over the stairwell 
door. "Yeah. I see it." He lowered his voice. "I can't stress enough the 
importance of keeping everyone back, sir. We're on the razor's edge." 
"I hear you. Keep this line open and take it slow, Mulder." 
Mulder heard Skinner bellowing orders as he lowered the phone and inclined his 
head. "It's your move now, Daniel." 
"You two lead the way," Rynne ordered, the words trembling as badly as his 
hands. "I'll hang back a little. Keep your hands where I can see them and don't 
make any sudden moves." 
Mulder nodded, trying to moisten parched lips with an equally dry tongue. He 
steered Scully ahead of him, indicating the stairwell with a jerk of his thumb. 
His eyes fastened on the red letters above the door, vision tunneling until the 
rest of his surroundings faded to insignificance. He was over halfway down the 
corridor before he sensed Rynne begin to follow, the clunk of his boots echoing 
in the silence. 
Scully was a mere ten paces from the door when the world turned upside down, 
splintering into chaotic fragments. 
"Police! Freeze!" 
Mulder spun at the command, and time wound down to a snail's pace as his brain 
processed the overload of sensory data. 
*A man dressed in black and a kevlar vest, bearing a high powered rifle, poking 
his head through the open chute.* 
*Rynne half-turned with Lawrence as a shield, gun bobbing recklessly and his 
eyes bulging with fear.* 
*Lawrence, panicked and struggling, one hand clawing at
Rynne's grip on his throat, the other scrabbling for purchase on Rynne's chest.* 

*The snick of the rifle.* 
*Rynne's desperate grunt as Lawrence's fist found it's mark, pummeling his upper 
body...* 
"NOOO!" Mulder screamed, vaguely hearing Skinner's tinny shouts from the phone 
still clutched in his fingers. 
Spinning back around, he dove forward, registering Scully's shocked, horrified 
face as he covered her body with his own. 
*A flash of brilliant white light.* 
*A deafening thunderclap that vibrated through his entire body.* 
*Darkness.*



Georgetown Memorial
Floor 2SW
12:10 p.m.


Grey slowly lifted his head and propped himself up against the wall, the muscles 
of his back screaming in protest and his ears filled with an irritating ringing. 
He shook his head in an effort to dispel the fuzziness, his eyes roving to 
regain his bearings. One moment he'd been trotting down the hallway, ducking 
into rooms to confirm they were vacant, and the next he was lying on the floor 
in a tangle of arms and legs. He heard a grunt and turned his head to see a 
dazed Bill picking himself up off the tile and fingering a nasty swelling 
beneath his right eye. 
Realization crashed over Grey like a tsunami, stealing the breath from his lungs 
and eclipsing the physical aches and pains. 
"Oh my god," he murmured, tremors wracking his body and turning his normally 
mellow baritone to a painful rasp. "The bomb..." 
Bill froze, his face losing color as well as expression. "Dana." 
Grey squeezed his eyes tightly shut against the rush of tears. Rynne had 
detonated the bomb, and Fox and Dana were with Rynne, therefore... His mind 
shied away from the logical conclusion to those thoughts, but his body ached in 
response. A vivid picture of the two at breakfast imprinted itself in his brain 
-- Fox's relaxed, easy banter, Dana's constant, loving touches. He felt liquid 
warmth on his palms, realized he'd curled his fingers so tightly into fists the 
nails had sliced his skin. 
"They must be dead," Bill intoned, voice as blank as his face. "No one could 
survive that." 
He gestured to the jumbled and overturned equipment, the cracked, buckled 
ceiling and drifting clouds of plaster dust. Grey numbly fumbled through his 
pockets until he located the walkie-talkie and pressed the button with clumsy 
fingers. 
"Walt? Walt, this is Grey -- can you hear me?" He barely recognized his own 
voice, heavy with grief and tears. 
Skinner's response was a collage of rage, horror, sorrow, and guilt. "Grey? 
Grey, where are you? Are you all right? Are you injured?" 
Grey struggled to answer, the words catching in his throat. "I'm on the second 
floor. The concussion knocked us down and we're a little banged up, but okay. 
Walt, what happened? Why did he set off the bomb?" 
Skinner cursed, but Grey heard anguish, not anger in the epithets. "They were on 
their way out, Mulder talked Rynne into giving himself up. Some damn eager 
beaver on the SWAT team thought he'd be a hero and took matters into his own 
hands. He went up the chute used to transfer construction materials to the 
fourth floor and tried to apprehend Rynne himself. He must have spooked him into 
setting off the bomb." 
Grey turned his back on the mute suffering in Bill's eyes, leaning his head 
against the wall. "How bad is it, Walt?" 
Silence -- oppressive and damning. "It looks pretty bad,
Grey. Rescue crews are assessing the situation now, but the fifth floor appears 
to have collapsed down onto the fourth. Inadequate support due to the 
construction caused it to crumble." 
Grey bit his lip hard, shaking his head though he knew Skinner couldn't see it. 
"I won't accept that they're gone until I see the bodies," he choked, swiping at 
renegade tears with the back of his hand. "They could still be alive up there, 
Fox has more lives than a cat, you know that, and if he managed to get clear of 
the immediate zone of impact, if he was able to protect them from..." 
"Grey." Skinner uttered the name with fierce compassion. "You need to get out of 
there now and let the rescue crews take over. They're the professionals; it's 
their job. That
whole wing is unstable and you could..." 
"NO!" 
Skinner bit off his attempt to calm, shocked by the vehemence. 
"I will not sit by while Fox and Dana might be trapped, still alive! I'm going 
up there, Walt. I'm going to find them." 
"You don't know what the hell you're doing, Grey!" Skinner hissed, furious. "You 
could cause more damage, blundering around aimlessly, not to mention get 
yourself killed. You and I both know odds are overwhelming that they didn't 
survive! You need to clear out of there right now. I can make it an order if I 
need to." 
Grey bared his teeth in the semblance of a grin. "You can try. Look, no one else 
is invested in finding them the way I am, Walt. They've already written them off 
-- hell, even you have! They'll concentrate on the obvious survivors first. 
Well, I have my own priorities. I'll stay in touch." 
"Grey! Grey, don't you sign off on me, damn it..." 
Grey thumbed off the receiver and turned to see Bill regarding him with a 
predatory smile. "Wouldn't have thought you had it in you, McKenzie, but lead 
the way." 
Grey's mouth worked impotently for a reply so he settled for adamantly shaking 
his head. "Uh uh. No way. I don't want or need a partner on this one." 
Bill's smile widened. "I told you before, hotshot. Until Dana's safe and sound 
(he faltered, the smile less feral and more brittle) or until I find her body, 
you've got more than just a partner. You've got a damn Siamese twin." 
Grey moaned, dropping his chin to his chest in defeat. "I can't believe this is 
happening. All right, I give. Let's get started."


Georgetown Memorial 
Floor 4SW 
12:30 p.m.


Something was wrong. Scully lay very still, grasping for elusive thoughts that 
tried to drift away like dandelion seeds on a breeze. She could feel Mulder's 
warm solidity at her back, the soft puff of his breath on her neck. But instead 
of pliant, warm flannel under her cheek she felt cold resistance. Instead of 
fabric softener and Mulder, she smelled dust and ash. And she hurt -- her whole 
body a cacophony of aches and pains, but especially her left arm that was 
somehow twisted beneath her. 
Scully slowly opened her eyes, an involuntary whimper escaping as the pounding 
in her head turned from solo to ensemble. She battled heavy eyelids to focus in 
the semi- darkness, at first unable to make sense of the confusing jumble of 
metal beams, broken tiles, and chunks of drywall. Something warm and wet 
trickled into her eye and she sluggishly lifted her free hand to swipe at it, 
bringing away crimson stained fingers. And then, like the flip of a switch, it 
all fell into place. 
*Rynne.* 
*The bomb.* 
*MULDER!* 
Panicked, she desperately tried to wriggle out from under Mulder's oppressive 
weight, at first succeeding only in dislodging a few loose ceiling tiles and 
irritating her already excruciating arm. Forcing herself to relax, she lay 
motionless until the shifting debris settled, then gingerly wormed her way free 
and sat up. 
Spots flashed, obscuring her vision, and the banging in her head switched to a 
high-pitched whine for several minutes. When her sight cleared and her stomach 
ceased doing somersaults, she was able to reach out and touch Mulder, for the 
moment just confirming that he still drew breath, that his heart still beat. 
Cradling her injured arm against her chest, she ran her eyes over his body, only 
making it as far as his torso before recoiling in dismay. 
"Oh, Mulder," she whispered, tears spilling to mix with the blood on her cheeks. 

By sheltering her with his body, Mulder had borne the brunt of the fallout. 
Blood matted his silky brown hair and dripped down his pale cheek, his right arm 
appeared to be pinned beneath a large, wooden beam, and his left side... 
Scully closed her eyes and swallowed thickly, taking deep slow breaths until the 
resurgence of panic receded to a more manageable level. A half-inch metal pipe, 
probably part of the sprinkler system, had pierced his left side and embedded 
itself in the tile, pinning him to the floor like a bizarre specimen in an 
insect collection. Blood steadily oozed from the wound and pooled on the floor 
in a sticky crescent. 
Mesmerized by the steady trickle, Scully stared for several minutes until her 
paralysis wore off and the need for action became imperative. She turned her 
head, her eyes panning a full 360 degrees and even above them, her drive to find 
help shattered by reality. The fallen beams, sections of wall and ceiling, and 
other rubble contained them in a precarious pocket of safety so small she could 
not even rise to her feet without hitting her head. Occasionally she could hear 
a creaking groan followed by a crash as somewhere a damaged support gave way. 
She bit her lip hard, forcing down the overwhelming urge to dissolve into tears, 
and cautiously slipped out of her jacket and flannel shirt, grunting in pain as 
she worked the material over her damaged arm. Clad only in a white tee shirt, 
the swollen, already bruising flesh from elbow to wrist confirmed at least one 
broken bone. She loosened her leather belt and slipped it from her jeans, 
refastening it to bind the limb to her body with her hand elevated as much as 
possible. The discomfort flared into white-hot agony, and she had to pause 
twice, panting and willing herself not to pass out. 
Impatiently brushing sweat and blood from her eyes, Scully used teeth and her 
functioning hand to tear two strips from the flannel shirt. The first she 
converted into a makeshift bandage for the gash above her left temple, tying the 
material in a manner similar to the headbands she and Charlie used to create 
when stuck playing Indians to Bill and Missy's cowboys. Taking the second strip 
in trembling fingers, she tenderly cleaned the worst of the blood from Mulder's 
face and then the cut on the back of his skull, which had already begun to clot. 
Mulder didn't even twitch, and she couldn't help pressing two fingers to his 
throat. Weak, but steady -- small comfort, but comfort nonetheless. 
Steeling herself, Scully folded the already hiked-up leather jacket to expose 
the wound in Mulder's side. The sharp steel had sliced cleanly through the skin 
above Mulder's left hip but below the diaphragm. The positioning looked to be 
dangerously close to the area of the spleen, or possibly the kidney. She longed 
to wrap her hands around the invader violating her partner's body and remove it, 
but the doctor in her realized that to do so would likely initiate severe 
hemorrhaging. Though every fiber of her being screamed against it, she left the 
pipe in place, laying the remainder of her shirt over the open area of the wound 
and pressing firmly. 
Mulder moaned, a bottomless, fundamental cry of torment. His eyelids fluttered 
and his unfettered arm and legs jerked spasmodically as the fresh infliction of 
pain dragged him to consciousness. Terrified that he would aggravate the already 
grave injury, Scully restrained his arm by looping her leg over it and leaned 
close. 
"Shhh. Mulder, be still. I know you're in pain, but if you keep moving you'll 
make it worse," she murmured, her words both commanding and calming. Ignoring 
the nauseating throb in her arm and head, she skimmed her fingertips across his 
cheek and kept up a continuous patter of reassurances until his body stilled and 
his eyes finally remained open, though clouded with pain and confusion. 
"Scully? Where..." 
"Shhh. Don't try to speak, love, just listen. We're at Georgetown Memorial, 
remember?" 
She could see the bewilderment vanish, sorrow and regret replacing it. "Rynne," 
he said softly. "The bomb." 
He tried to shift then, to twist his body so that he could better see her face. 
Scully's hand shot out to arrest the motion but her own reflexes were sluggish. 
Mulder screamed, his eyes flying open is if they would pop, then slamming shut 
as his face contorted in agony. His fingers clenched into an impossibly tight 
fist and he pressed his ashen face into the floor while tears leaked from 
beneath his lids and mingled with the dust, grime, and dried blood. 
"Slow it down, Mulder. Concentrate on my voice and slow it down," Scully said 
over his frantic pants for air. "Breathe in, breathe out. In. Out. That's it, 
love. In. Out." 
She could sense him lock onto her words, see his respiration drop accordingly, 
but the aftermath left him shivering helplessly, his skin cool and clammy to the 
touch. 
*Shocky* she thought absently, disregarding the little voice in her head that 
warned her own condition was marginally better. She tucked her discarded jacket 
around him as best she could and threaded her fingers through his hair. The 
odors of acrid sweat and coppery blood mingled and filled her nostrils, forcing 
her to breathe open-mouthed to assuage the queasiness roiling in her gut. 
"Gonna be sick," Mulder gasped, mirroring her thoughts. 
"It'll pass," she told him with more conviction than she felt. "Just keep 
breathing, love." 
Time lost any meaning, so Scully was uncertain how long it took for his 
respiration to even and her stomach to settle. She felt disconnected, drifting, 
her only anchor the feel of Mulder's hair sifting through her fingers. 
"What's wrong with me?" 
So wispy and colorless, but the question tugged her back to reality with a jolt. 

"There's a piece of metal pipe embedded through the flesh
just above your left hip," she replied through numb lips. 
"Hurts," he groaned. His hand flailed, then clamped around her wrist in a 
crushing grip. "Pull it out, Scully. Please, pull it out." 
The thin cry for help coupled with eyes glassy with agony left Scully feeling as 
if her insides had been filled with broken glass. She took a gulp of air that 
hiccuped into a whimper, blinking furiously. 
"I can't, Mulder." What was intended to sound both strong and compassionate 
fizzled to a beseeching moan. "Right now the pipe is acting as a cork, 
preventing hemorrhaging. If I remove it you could bleed out before anyone finds 
us." 
Mulder didn't speak, but his vise-like hold loosened and his thumb moved back 
and forth in a gentle caress. "'S okay, babe. I understand." 
Scully saw him try to meet her eyes by twisting his head without moving his 
body, and gingerly stretched out beside him with her good side pressed to the 
frigid floor. His gaze sharpened, losing its vagueness, and he slid his hand 
across until the index finger traced the edge of the cut peeking from her 
homemade bandage. 
"You all right, kemosabe?" he murmured. 
As always, his sense of humor even in the midst of a nightmare, seeped through 
the cracks in her defenses, liberating her tears. 
"I'm fine," she choked, then made a face at his look of disbelief. "My arm is 
broken," she amended. "And I think we both have concussions." 
He showed his teeth in a sort of grin. "Scully, this is the first time we've had 
matching head injuries! Cements the bond, dontcha think?" 
Playing her part, she rolled her eyes. "Most couples just exchange rings, 
Mulder." 
He chuffed a little, but stiffened, biting down hard on his lip. "Can't laugh, 
babe," he said tersely. "Better start talking about Bill. That'll do the trick." 

"Shhh," she replied, automatically shifting into her method for soothing him, 
rubbing lightly up and down his arm. 
Like a Pavlovian response, his eyes lost focus and the lids began drooping. The 
doctor in her knew that in his shocky condition falling asleep could be 
dangerous, but denying him the respite from pain was too cruel to contemplate. 
"Just rest, love," she crooned, her throat tight with a fresh surge of weeping. 
"I'll listen for the rescue crew." 
He didn't argue, didn't acknowledge, just slipped away from her. Scully studied 
his beloved face -- the sweep of dark lashes against a milky cheek, the lines of 
pain around his generous mouth that remained even in slumber. 
She told herself that she wasn't letting him down. That she fervently believed 
they would be found in time. That allowing him to sleep against her better 
judgement wasn't giving up. 
It felt like a lie.


Outside Georgetown Memorial
Tuesday
1:28 p.m.


Skinner was not having a good day. 
The chaos surrounding the hospital, reaching epic proportions during the 
immediate aftermath of the explosion, showed no sign of ebbing. Sirens blared as 
a steady stream of ambulances evacuated Georgetown's current patients, as well 
as those injured by the blast, to other facilities in the area. Machinery roared 
as rescue workers struggled to gain access to the most severely affected floors, 
still cut off from help. Reporters and television news crews threatened to 
overflow the barriers as they shouted questions, thrust microphones, and flashed 
cameras. 
Skinner hated the press. 
And through it all, through the noise and confusion, barking orders and making 
decisions to achieve some damage control, Skinner grieved. For a small, 
fiery-haired woman whose grit and determination were only exceeded by her 
loyalty and integrity. For a man, hounded by loss and tragedy but possessing a 
brilliant mind and an ability to think outside the box that made him one of the 
best agents
Skinner had ever had the privilege of working with. 
A senseless loss, and completely avoidable. 
And that's where Skinner's grief blended seamlessly into fury. The entire 
incident had been a hair's breadth from peaceful resolution, no doubt due to 
Mulder's uncanny ability to profile his adversary. No casualties needed to occur 
-- especially not the two he'd privately come to regard as friends and not just 
colleagues. Until the action
of one overzealous cop blew it all to hell. Literally. 
A tragedy, said Chuck Draper, captain and officer in charge of the D.C. cops 
whose arrival had coincided with Skinner and his agents'. A well-meaning but 
inexperienced officer makes a poor judgement call that costs not only his own 
life, but others as well. A deadly object lesson in the necessity of following 
the chain of command. 
Draper was a good man, and Skinner publicly accepted his assessment and his 
condolences. Privately, however, he nursed more than his share of doubt and 
resentment. He'd had dealings with Mike Fenton, the SWAT team leader, before. 
Skinner closed his eyes, lifting his glasses to massage the bridge of his nose. 
And remembering... 
**Thirty-two and SAC of his first big case, a bank robbery gone bad. Ten 
hostages -- one critically injured. Two gunmen packing assault rifles with 
mile-long records of breaking and entering and armed robbery. 
His negotiator establishes a dialogue with the gunmen, feels confident he can 
talk them into surrendering peacefully. 
Fenton, all bluster and bravado, has a different opinion. The criminals will 
never willingly give up, he argues. The only way to save lives is to go in, and 
to go in full throttle. He's territorial -- resenting Skinner's involvement from 
the beginning. He flaunts his additional eight years on the force, eight years 
in the trenches to Skinner's comparative inexperience. 
They argue bitterly until Fenton undermines his confidence to the point where he 
acquiesces. Fenton's commandos go in with teargas and blazing guns. 
Both gunmen die, but not before killing three hostages. Fenton is coolly 
ambivalent. He points out the seven lives saved and uses terms like "acceptable 
losses." 
Skinner can't forgive himself -- even sixteen years later.** 
Skinner sighed and opened his eyes, staring across the sea of activity at the 
empty SWAT van, its inhabitants now assisting with crowd control. Fenton had the 
good grace to give him a wide berth and he was wise enough not to seek a 
confrontation -- at least not here and now. 
He'd once told Grey that there were times he was certain that life was just a 
single series of events endlessly repeated. Well, this time through he was not 
an inexperienced rookie, lacking confidence. This time, by God, he'd see that 
Fenton accepted responsibility for his actions. 
"Assistant Director Skinner? Sir?" 
The light, feminine voice, overlaid with anxiety, pulled him from his dark 
rumination. He swiveled his head toward the sound and was confronted by an 
attractive young woman with honey blonde hair and wide blue eyes. Not just a 
woman, but an agent with which he was all too familiar. 
*Damn.* 
"Agent Harding," he said gruffly. "I seem to recall assigning you the Winkler 
file. Is it finished already?" 
Normally a stickler for protocol, she ignored him -- a fact that clearly 
attested to her state of mind. "I heard about the explosion, rumor has spread 
all through the Bureau. They're saying Agent Mulder and Agent Scully are dead. 
Is it true?" 
The fresh stab of pain at her words surprised him. "It looks that way," he 
confirmed through tightly clenched teeth. 
Kristen dropped her eyes and nodded, projecting composure, but he could see her 
hands tremble before she slipped them into the pockets of her navy pantsuit. 
"Was he with them?" 
He had to admire her strength -- the question was uttered with a level tone, 
only a slight break at the end betraying emotion. 
"No. But," he lifted a hand to quell her sigh of relief, "he was inside the 
building when the bomb went off. And he disobeyed my directive to come out and 
let the rescue teams conduct the search. He's convinced they may still be alive, 
and he's taken it upon himself to look for them." 
Kristen pursed her lips, a mixture of worry and affectionate exasperation on her 
face. "He's incredibly hard-headed sometimes." 
Skinner's eyebrow lifted. "I have to admit, I thought you'd be more upset. That 
building is completely unstable, and sections are going to continue to collapse. 
He's placed himself in serious danger." 
Kristen's eyes slid away from his, and he realized that the fear was present, 
just carefully masked. "Of course I wish he were here, sir, out of harm's way. 
But I love him. And that means I have to accept that he'd walk through fire -- 
or in this case a collapsing building -- to save his brother." 
"And what if there's no one left to save?" Skinner muttered. 
She lifted her head, straightened her slumped posture. "Then I'll be here to 
help pick up the pieces."


Stairwell 
Tuesday 
2:30 p.m.


"This isn't working." 
Grey used his arm to brush sweat and damp, curly tendrils of hair from his brow. 
He glared over his shoulder at the man sprawled on the landing, sipping from a 
bottle of water. 
"And it never will if you just sit on your butt and leave me to do all the 
work!" he retorted. "Your sister is up there somewhere -- or have you 
forgotten?" 
Bill slammed the plastic bottle to the floor, leaning forward. "Of course I 
haven't! But I'm smart enough to recognize a useless expenditure of energy when 
I see it. We've been trying to clear a path through that rubble for over an hour 
and you'd never know it. Face the facts, McKenzie. We aren't going to get 
through that way." 
Grey set aside another chunk of drywall, watched his hands jitter with fatigue. 
He stomped down the four steps to the landing and threw himself to the ground 
beside Bill, curling his arms around his folded legs and resting his head on his 
knees. 
He was furious. Furious that a glory-seeking kid had snatched defeat from the 
jaws of victory. Furious that Bill was right, that their hour of hard labor had 
succeeded only in sapping their strength. Furious at the traitorous tears that 
clogged his throat and hovered constantly behind his eyelids in spite of his 
determination not to break down in front of this man. 
"I haven't heard any brilliant ideas from you," he growled, fueling the anger to 
sublimate the grief. 
Surprisingly, Bill didn't allow himself to be baited. "I never claimed I had 
any." 
Silence filled the space between them. Grey tried to quiet the Pandemonium in 
his spirit, but images of Fox kept interfering. 
"He nearly died a week ago. He's still so weak." Grey bit off the words, 
horrified that he'd spoken them aloud. 
An elbow nudged his arm and a bottle of water was thrust into his hand. Still 
embarrassed by his admission and confused by Bill's small gesture of kindness, 
Grey turned his head and took a long pull from the container. The water was 
lukewarm but delicious. 
After another brief silence, Bill spoke. "If anyone could pull him through 
something like this, Dana can. God knows, she refuses to let go of him no matter 
what happens." 
It was a grudging, left-handed offer of comfort but Grey accepted it with grace. 
Another few minutes of stillness before he broke it. 
"He would, too, you know. Don't forget that he went all the way to Antarctica to 
bring Dana back safely." 
"Course, she wouldn't have wound up in Antarctica if not for his damn quest," 
Bill pointed out, an edge to his voice. 
It added tinder to the dying spark of Grey's anger. "How can you continue to 
hold Fox responsible for every bad thing that happens to your sister?" 
"Because he is! Dana had a good life before she became mixed up with the X-Files 
and your brother! She was close to her family and she knew where her 
responsibilities lay. She was content!" 
"They do an important job, Bill, a job that makes an impact against the evil in 
this world. I've seen it!" 
"But at what cost? She's nearly paid with her life more times than I can count!" 

"You have such tunnel vision, Bill!" Grey exploded. "You think that it's been a 
picnic for Fox? Every time I see him he's added a new scar to his collection! 
It's what they *choose* to do. The least we can do is respect that choice." 
"Why should I respect a choice that has brought so much grief to Dana and to our 
family?" Bill snarled. 
Grey leaned his head against the wall, staring into space. "Martin Luther King, 
Jr. said that unless you've found something worth dying for, your life isn't 
worth living," he mused quietly. 
Bill snorted. "You think little green men are worth dying for?" 
Grey cast him a sidelong glance, lips twisted in a rueful smirk. "Do you 
honestly think it's the *quest* she's willing to die for? You're even denser 
than I thought, Billy boy." 
Billy gaped, open mouthed, until Grey's meaning sank in. Flushing a dark red and 
jerking to his feet, he yanked the stairwell door open and paused on the 
threshold. 
"I'm going to see if I can find another way up," he snapped, the words clipped 
and delivered without expectation of a response. "You can sit on your ass or 
come along -- I really don't care which." 
He stalked out the door, leaving Grey to replace the water bottles in his 
makeshift backpack and heft it onto his shoulder. The overtaxed muscles of his 
arms protested loudly, sending little jolts of pain as an expression of their 
discontent. 
"With a gracious invitation like that, how could I possibly refuse?" he replied, 
resisting the latent, school boy portion of his psyche that wanted to make faces 
at Bill's back. 
Instead he swiped the sweat from his face and counted to ten, this time making 
it all the way. "Brace yourself, Grey," he muttered. "If all goes well that 
idiot could be your brother-in-law someday." He affected a mock shudder, pulling 
open the door. "Now *that's* an X-file."


Floor 4SW
Tuesday
4:17 p.m.


"Thirsty." 
Startled, Scully carefully shifted to face him. She'd been lying on her back, 
staring at the deepening shadows as day waned and the light faded. Mulder's eyes 
gleamed from beneath heavy lids and his tongue slipped out in a vain effort to 
moisten parched flesh. 
"Me too," she admitted, reaching out to brush the pad of her thumb across the 
swell of his lower lip. "Welcome back." 
Mulder gingerly tried to shift his upper body, grimacing. "Never thought I'd say 
this, babe. But I was hoping to wake up in a hospital. A different one, of 
course." 
Scully's thumb moved up to caress the arch of his cheek before her fingers 
trailed down the length of arm and entwined with his. "They'll be coming soon," 
she said quietly. "Grey and Skinner will move heaven and earth to find us." 
Mulder's gaze skittered away. "Unless Grey was caught in the explosion too." 
"There's no reason to assume the worst, Mulder," she chided. "Skinner is out 
there, right? And we know Grey was responsible for calling Skinner. I think it's 
reasonable to assume that he was with him -- or at the very least, a safe 
distance from the blast." 
Mulder accepted her reassurance with a perfunctory nod, but his teeth worried 
the inside of his cheek and his expression remained troubled. Scully watched him 
brood for several minutes, longing to ask a question that had been troubling 
her, but loathe to upset him further. 
"Mulder?" 
"Hmm?" 
"What happened? Why did Rynne set off the bomb?" 
Mulder's mouth tightened into a thin line and his eyes narrowed. "Daniel didn't 
do it. Lawrence did." 
Scully blinked, his answer knocking her completely off balance. "*Dr. Lawrence*? 
I don't understand. How...why would Dr. Lawrence set off the bomb?" 
"Somehow a cop came up that materials chute by the windows. Looked like SWAT or 
some other Special Forces unit. Daniel got scared and turned back so Lawrence 
started struggling, hitting him. He must have tripped the switch."
The lengthy speech overtaxed Mulder. He broke off, panting for air and 
shivering. 
Scully fumbled for the bloody strip of flannel and tenderly blotted the beads of 
perspiration from his brow. "Easy. You keep forgetting to breathe, love," she 
murmured. 
"Daniel was going to give himself up, Scully," Mulder puffed, ignoring her 
admonition. "Skinner guaranteed his safety. *I* promised him. Why would they 
renege and send someone in like that?" 
Scully shook her head, searching for the words to comfort but coming up empty. 
Mulder's use of Rynne's first name was not lost on her. He'd done it again, his 
unique gifts of profiling and empathy forming a connection with a criminal until 
the lines between guilt and innocence, blame and absolution blurred beyond 
recognition. 
"Skinner wouldn't have authorized it, Mulder," she said, capturing his fingers 
once more. "There must have been a misunderstanding, miscommunication between 
him and the police. But regardless of that, Rynne strapped on that bomb and he 
is still the responsible party. Not the police, not
Doctor Lawrence, and certainly not you." 
Mulder's eyes played keep away again, dropping to their joined hands. "That may 
be true, Scully. But two kids just lost their father, and maybe their mother. 
And it didn't need to happen." 
She had no reply for that, and knew he wasn't really expecting one. Scully 
pushed herself upright, wanting to check the wound in his side before darkness 
made it impossible. She shivered as a draft of cold air teased her bare arms to 
gooseflesh. 
"Put your coat back on, Scully." 
Irritated that he'd glimpsed the evidence of her discomfort, Scully chose to 
ignore the weak command and concentrated on carefully removing her improvised 
pressure bandage. Despite her soft touch, Mulder sucked in a sharp breath of air 
and shuddered helplessly. She stared unhappily at the wound; the edges inflamed 
an angry red and still steadily oozing fresh blood. She refolded the shirt in a 
useless attempt to press a clean side to the injury, biting her lip hard when 
Mulder whimpered. 
"Sorry," she whispered, scooting around to lie down beside him once more. She 
cautiously snuggled into his side, both to give and receive additional warmth. 
Mulder gradually regained control of his breathing and opened eyes that had 
clamped shut. Scully saw him scrutinize her thin cotton tee shirt and the frown 
on his face deepened. 
"Take back your jacket, Scully," he repeated, pushing the words past his lips 
with as much force as he could muster. "I mean it." 
"I'm fine, Mulder..." she began, only to gape when Mulder used a word she'd 
never heard him utter in her presence, let alone direct toward her. 
"You are *not* fine! You're injured, you're only wearing a tee shirt, and it's 
getting cold in here! Now take the damn jacket or I'll..." 
Mulder reached awkwardly over his shoulder, groping for the coat, but 
inadvertently twisted too far. This time he didn't even scream. The small amount 
of color remaining in his cheeks evaporated and his eyes rolled back in his 
head, the lids fluttering shut. 
"Mulder? Mulder, don't zone out on me!" 
Scully ran her knuckles briskly across his cheek and was rewarded by a small 
moan and a glassy stare. He blinked languidly twice, finally focusing on her 
frightened face. 
"Smooth move, Mulder," she scolded, giddy with relief. "Now lie still and stop 
causing trouble." 
Amazingly, though he could barely lift his head, Mulder picked up where he'd 
left off. "Take coat...please." 
Tears stung the back of her throat, but she tenaciously held on to rationality. 
"Mulder, your condition is much worse than mine. You're still losing blood, and 
you're in shock. You need that coat more than I do." 
In the end, as always, it was his eyes that undid her. She could have her mind 
made up, her responses set in stone, and yet one moment of immersion in the 
intensity of his gaze left her defenseless. 
"For me," he croaked, and Scully was dismayed to see he also was close to tears. 

She silently lifted the coat from his back and slipped her uninjured arm into 
the sleeve before draping it around her. Relief and gratitude smoothed the 
creases from his forehead and he seemed to slump further down onto the tile. 
"Thank you." 
"Why?" Scully asked, hating how wonderful it felt to have the soft material 
enveloping her again. "Why couldn't you let me do this one little thing for 
you?" 
"Don't want you to make another sacrifice for me, Scully," he answered. "God 
knows, you've paid enough." 
She frowned, bewildered by his words and the strength of the emotion underlying 
them. Then, abruptly, she recalled their conversation after Mulder's failed 
basketball outing and it all began to make sense. 
"The deal I made with Spender for the serum," she said, searching his face. 
"That's what's really bothering you, isn't it? You can't get past the fact that 
I willingly placed myself in his hands in order to save your life." 
Mulder squirmed a little but immobilized as he was, he could do little to avoid 
her. Settling for closing his eyes against her knowing gaze, he curled his 
fingers as if trying to dig them into the floor beneath his cheek. 
"You shouldn't have done it, Scully." 
Tired, thirsty, and hurting, his perpetual self-deprecation drove her to anger. 
"Why, Mulder? Why the double standard? You've repeatedly put your life on the 
line for me without giving the matter a second thought. You broke into that 
research facility and the DOD looking for a cure for my cancer. Despite a 
gunshot to that hard head, you dragged yourself halfway 'round the world to find 
me and bring me home safely. And I happen to know that the only thing that 
stopped you from making your own bargain with Cancerman was Skinner. Why is it 
so hard to accept that I'd do the same for you?" 
"Because it scares the hell out of me." 
The fragile, hushed reply annulled her anger and laid bare her heart. Scully 
traced one finger over the delicate skin of his closed lids with a gossamer 
touch until he hesitantly opened them. 
"Why, love?" 
Slipping into a conditioned response, Mulder tried to deflect with humor. "You 
mean other than the fact that I'm a wuss?" 
Scully's steady, unrelenting stare was his only answer. His heart, already 
fluttering at an abnormal rate, lurched and the twisting sensation in his gut 
temporarily eclipsed the fire in his side. Then her soft palm cupped his face, 
her thumb exploring the boundary between the stubble of his jaw and the 
smoothness of his cheek, and even his stubborn, screwed up, overcautious brain 
could read the elemental love in her eyes. 
For a split second Mulder's mind turned inward, to a place he sometimes visited 
when the demands of day to day existence left him feeling confused and adrift... 

**Brilliant golden sun, warm brown sand, cool azure water. He sits on a large, 
flat rock, the crash of the waves filling his ears and the breeze kissing his 
sun-flushed cheeks. A small, dark haired boy stands on a pier, his red swim 
trunks a bright splash of color against the weathered boards. Mother and father, 
already in the water, are calling encouragement. Even from a distance, he can 
see indecision warring within the child as he remains poised above the surf. 
It's written in the hunch of small shoulders, in toes curled tightly over the 
edge of the planks. 
To jump, or not to jump? 
Love and trust pull him forward. Fear holds him back. 
And then mother swims closer, planting her feet against the tug of the waves and 
raising outstretched arms. "You can do it," the gesture says clearly. "I'll 
catch you." 
And immediately, without hesitation, the boy jumps.** 
"Mulder?" Scully's hushed utterance of his name was questioning, uncertain. 
Mulder blinked, coming back to the stench of plaster dust, the gloom of 
approaching darkness, and the bite of the metal in his side. Yet he could still 
feel the lingering warmth of sunshine on his cheeks. He looked into Scully's 
eyes, recognizing love, recognizing safety, but immobilized by fear. 
And decided it was time to jump. 
"I'll tell you why, Scully." He reached up, wriggling his fingers until they'd 
slipped neatly between her own. "It terrifies me because it means that you 
really could love me as much as I love you. And I don't think...I *know* I can't 
live up to that. Eventually, I'll wind up disappointing you, babe. I always 
have. And I always will." 
Scully's fingers clamped down convulsively on his and a tear trickled down her 
cheek, but her words were tinged with humor. "Mulder, you are such an idiot. In 
fact, I sincerely doubt that a bigger idiot exists. Even on Reticula." 
Mulder's lips curved in spite of his morose mood. "Don't pull any punches, 
Scully. Give it to me straight." 
"Just exactly what kind of ideal do you think you need to live up to? I believe 
I have a right to know, since it would seem only fair that I achieve the same 
level of perfection -- don't you agree?" 
Rather than irritate, her exaggerated sarcasm acted as a salve to his raw 
emotions. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, babe." 
Her eyes narrowed. "Oh really? So you don't mind when I nag you about leaving 
the toilet seat up and getting shells all over my coffee table? Or what about 
when I'm grouchy because I haven't had enough sleep and I argue with practically 
every word out of your mouth? Are you telling me that none of that bothers you, 
makes you want to grab hold and give me a good shake?" 
Mulder's mouth twitched. "Well, sure. I suppose there are times that you get on 
my nerves, but I'd hardly consider them important in the greater scheme of 
things! I mean, I love you, and nothing else really..." 
He broke off, confounded by Scully's smug expression, both copper eyebrows 
arched. 
"You were saying, love?" she prodded sweetly. 
"I...It's not the same, I..." 
"Got you, Mulder. Big time. Now I suggest you come to terms with the fact that 
this is an equal partnership -- even in love -- and get over yourself." 
Mulder appeared struck speechless, a rare occurrence indeed. He tugged their 
joined hands to his lips, pressing kisses to her knuckles. After several minutes 
of silence, he cleared his throat. 
"Scully, this is the last time I'm going to ask about this. I promise to accept 
whatever answer you choose to give me, and I won't bring up the subject again." 
Scully frowned at the reticence in his face. "What is it, love?" 
"What happened to you while you were with Cancerman?" When her face darkened 
with impatience and...something else, Mulder rushed onward. "I'm not trying to 
beat myself up about this, Scully, I swear I'm not! I just... Scully, nothing 
could be worse than the images I've come up with in my own mind. I would really 
like to know the truth." 
She sighed, anger draining out of her expression to leave a tension around her 
mouth that spoke of weariness and memories best left buried. 
"What do you want me to say, Mulder? That it was horrible? It was. That they 
drugged me just enough so I knew what they were doing to me but couldn't stop 
them? They did. Poking and prodding and strange machines and needles until I 
didn't think I could stand anymore." 
Scully stopped herself, trembling. Mulder's face was granite, impassive, but his 
eyes bled. He nodded, then tried to speak, but at first his voice failed him. 
Scully braced herself for guilt, for self-recrimination. 
"Thank you." 
Not just an expression of gratitude for her honesty, but an acknowledgement of 
her gift to him. His simple reply astonished her. Healed a wound she hadn't 
realized she bore. 
"You want to know the worst part of my time with Spender, Mulder?" she asked 
softly, leaning more strongly into the comfort of his body until her face rested 
only inches from his own. 
A tiny jerk of his head, teeth tormenting his lower lip. 
"Not being able to see you, to touch you. Wondering if I'd be too late, and 
terrified that you could slip away without allowing me the chance to say 
goodbye. To be sure you knew that in spite of the bumps in the road, I've never 
regretted this journey." 
Mulder's eyes shone but he pursed his lips. "Bumps in the road, Scully? There've 
been a hell of a lot of potholes, I'd say." 
Scully grinned and brushed her mouth across his in a feathery kiss. "Especially 
the flukeman thing." 
He bit back a chuckle. "Sculleee! Don't make me laugh." Carefully burrowing his 
face into the crook of her neck, he drew in a deep breath, then slowly released 
it. "There's no one else I'd rather make the journey with, babe," he mused 
drowsily. "'M sorry you got stuck in this particular hole, though." 
She pressed another kiss to the crown of his head, wishing for two good arms to 
hold him tight. And watched as the last pale threads of light gave way to 
darkness.


Floor 2SW
Tuesday
5:00 p.m.


"I'm not sure this is a good idea." 
Grey rolled his eyes and bit back ten different wise retorts. He was tired, he 
smelled, and he was damn sick of
William Scully, Jr. Blowing out a long breath of air, he lifted his hands, palm 
up, in a gesture of frustration. 
"Then what? We've been over this floor at least five times. Both stairwells are 
impassable -- as you so eloquently pointed out. We're losing the light, and 
these pissant little penlights aren't going to be real helpful. We need to do 
this, or just pack it in and give up." 
Bill's brows drew down until it seemed they'd brush his nose and his lips 
thinned. "I am NOT giving up on my sister, hotshot." 
"Then get over here, put your hands together, and stop bellyaching," Grey 
snapped. 
Looking as if he were sucking on a cactus, Bill stomped into the elevator, his 
footfalls echoing down the shaft. Grey ignored his muttering and stepped into 
the proffered hand, shoving aside the access panel in the ceiling and hooking 
his arms over the edge. 
"Boost," he grunted, and nearly flew through the air when Bill heaved upward 
with more force than necessary. 
He wriggled over the lip and rolled onto his back, gazing upward. Amazingly, the 
shaft remained intact for as far as he could see in the dim light. Flipping back 
onto his stomach he peered through the opening to regard Bill's upturned face. 
"Looks good." Scooting farther over the opening he extended his right arm. "Take 
my hand, I'll pull you up." 
Bill snorted, his lip curling in disdain. "Just step back. I'll get there on my 
own power." 
Grey shrugged and did as he was told, reflecting on the sheer mystery that Dana 
shared genes with this man. He heard Bill's guttural explosion of breath as he 
launched himself upward, followed by the sight of fingers curled over the sides 
of the open hatch. Red-faced and dripping sweat, Bill hauled himself up, first 
securing his elbows and then worming forward. 
"Piece of cake," he said, puffing heavily. 
Grey lifted an eyebrow. "Right. Well then why don't you head right up that 
cable, Billy boy? Wouldn't want to waste all that energy." 
He didn't wait for Bill's inevitable sour response, just settled the backpack 
more firmly on his shoulders, swiped his sweaty palms over his denim-clad legs, 
and wrapped his fingers around the steel. Feeling the weight of Bill's less than 
supportive stare, he took a deep breath and began shimmying upward, hand over 
hand. 
It was harder than he expected. The cable was slick under his hands and didn't 
give the way a rope would. He paused once he reached the doors to the third 
floor, panting and blinking against the perspiration trickling down his forehead 
to sting his eyes. Carefully tilting his head, he squinted upward. 
"Gonna go all the way," he huffed, licking his lips and tasting salt. 
"Are you crazy?" Bill's question held incredulity, not anger. "If you fall from 
that height I'll be scraping you off this thing!" 
"Aww! Knew you cared," he called, forcing his tired arms to start pulling again. 

Bill uttered a string of curses worthy of a sailor, which he steadfastly 
ignored. At last double doors bearing the number 4 slid into view. He hung there 
for a moment, muscles quivering with exhaustion, while he gathered courage to 
take the next step. 
Gripping more tightly with both hands, Grey kicked out, swinging his legs with 
all his strength. When his toes cleared the lip of the doorway he pushed off 
with both arms. Both feet connected with solid ground but his weight remained 
distributed toward the cable and he sensed himself begin to careen backward 
toward the shaft. Flinging both arms wide he scrabbled frantically for a hold 
while trying to compensate by lunging forward. 
Just when he thought all was lost, his right hand found purchase and he righted 
himself, blood pounding in his ears and breath hitching in his lungs. He let his 
head drop down to rest against the closed doors and concentrated on the 
solidity. 
"What's going on? Can we get through?" 
"Just extracting my heart from my mouth," he replied sarcastically, the words 
bouncing and wavering until they reached their destination. "Give me a minute." 
When his heartrate approached normal and his legs ceased trembling, he pushed 
his fingers into the crack between the doors and pulled hard. They resisted at 
first, then slid slowly open with a creak of protest. 
Something large whizzed past his left cheek, and he reflexively jerked backward, 
nearly losing his balance and tumbling down the passageway. A second later he 
heard a bang and Bill's shout of alarm. 
"What the hell was that?" 
Grey stared glumly at the jumble of boards, insulation, and other debris that 
completely blocked entrance to the fourth floor. 
"That was me getting ready to come back down. Fourth floor is completely 
obstructed." 
He eyed the chasm with distaste, aware for the first time that in order to 
retrace his path to the third floor he would have to jump and catch onto the 
cable. 
"Just how are you planning on getting back down, Einstein?" Bill called. "Did 
you stop to think about that?" 
"No, this was a one-way idiotic plan," Grey muttered under his breath. Aloud he 
called, "Ready or not, here I come." 
The jump was perfect -- not too far so that he overshot his goal but far enough 
for his hands to connect easily with the cable. Grey had a spit second of 
exultation before his hands lost traction and he plunged downward, leaving his 
stomach behind. 
Reflex saved him again, prompting his legs and feet to wrap frantically around 
the metal and his fingers to tighten convulsively. His hurtling decent slowed, 
then stopped just a few feet below the third floor doors. Squeezing his eyes 
shut against tears of pain, Grey tried to disregard the streaks of fire licking 
across his palms, exacerbated by his death-hold on the cable. 
"McKenzie? You all right?" 
Bill's voice was soft, tentative. Grey zeroed in on it like a lifeline, a 
reminder of why he was in the present predicament. 
"Yeah. Yeah. Just..." He broke of, unable to bite back a small groan of pain. 
"I'm coming up." 
"NO!" 
Grey could hear Bill literally screech to a halt at the panic in his voice, 
evoking a cartoonish image in his warped brain that caused him to nearly erupt 
in hysterical laughter. He pictured little puffs of smoke rising from under 
Bill's heels. 
"You'll shake the cable," he said, shoving the thought away and regaining some 
composure. "I can't... I won't be able to hold on. Wait." 
"Fine, fine. I'm waiting. Just don't fall on top of me," Bill growled. 
Grey longed to make use of his middle finger, settled for inching deliberately 
upward. 
"You are one crazy son of a bitch, McKenzie," Bill's harsh words concealed a 
grudging admiration. 
This time when he swung his legs across the gap one hand slipped free and he 
slammed to his knees, pinwheeling his arms furiously. Then, whether from 
depleted strength or simply because they'd jammed, the doors stubbornly refused 
to open until he'd peeled back a nail and further injured the screaming flesh of 
his palms. Yet when he tumbled through the opening onto the chaotic wreckage of 
the third floor he could have danced for joy. 
"Hello! Mind giving the rest of us an update?" 
Until Bill's acerbic voice burst the bubble. 
Grey cast one hurried glance down the murky, rubble-filled corridor before 
leaning through the doors and swinging his arm in a welcoming arc. 
"C'mon in, the water's fine." 
Bill's puckered expression of scorn further lifted his flagging spirits and 
compensated for the fire in his hands. He'd begun to enjoy this sport of 
brother-baiting and couldn't seem to scrape up an ounce of remorse for his 
behavior. Well, maybe an ounce... 
"Careful," he warned as Bill curled his fingers around the cable. "It's a lot 
smoother than a rope, and easier to slip." 
"Thanks for the advice," Bill growled, in a voice that meant anything but. "I 
don't need a backseat climber." 
"Whatever," Grey sighed, leaving Bill to his acrobatics and switching attention 
to his lacerated hands. 
A narrow, angry red line of inflammation bisected the tender skin of each palm, 
oozing small droplets of blood in some places. Grey hooked one finger into the 
pocket of his jeans to fish out a handkerchief and gingerly wound it around his 
right hand, the more severely damaged of the two. 
After securing it in place, he lifted his eyes to find Bill clinging to the 
cable directly opposite him. 
"Move it or lose it, hotshot, I'm coming through," he cautioned, looking as if 
he hadn't broken a sweat. 
Grey stepped aside with an exaggerated bow and a smirk. "Oh *do* join me, Billy, 
I thought you'd never get here." 
It was destined to become fodder for his occasional bouts of insomnia 
--wondering whether the needling might have thrown off Bill's timing. Whatever 
the cause, instead of landing squarely at the mouth of the doorway the way Grey 
had, Bill released his hold too late and fell short. Grey watched in horrified 
slow motion as the tips of Bill's sneakers brushed past firm ground and he 
dropped like a stone toward the elevator car beneath. 
"NO!" he screamed, lunging forward to clutch at something, anything. A limb. A 
swatch of clothing. Even the flimsy excuse for a backpack if it halted the man's 
plunge. The tips of his fingers skated across a cotton pullover, snagging for a 
split second before it tugged loose. Bill's momentum slowed a fraction, but he 
continued to freefall, eyes wide with terror. His hands shot forward, groping 
for the ledge as he sank past it, and, miraculously, they locked on. With an 
abrupt and muscle-wrenching jolt he aborted the fall, legs swinging wildly over 
thin air. 
"Hang on!" Grey dropped to his belly, reaching over to clamp his hands around 
Bill's arms just beneath the elbow. He could only see the carrot top of his 
head, Bill's gaze trained on the shadowy mass of the elevator car beneath. 
"Bill, look at me!" Grey ordered sharply. 
Sluggishly, reluctantly, Bill complied, his face pale and sweaty. 
"You have to let go of the edge and grab onto my arms," Grey said slowly, 
recognizing that the man was on the verge of panic. 
Bill shook his head wildly, an action that caused his body to sway back and 
forth until Grey nearly lost his grip. "NO! I can't let go, I'll fall!" 
"You'll fall if you don't! You can't hang there indefinitely, you're tiring 
already," Grey argued, his own arms now singing as loudly as his hands. "BILL. 
Trust me. I *won't* let you fall." 
Bill scrutinized him for a very long moment before ducking his head in a small 
nod. 
"All right. On three," Grey huffed, sending up a silent prayer. "One. Two. 
THREE!" 
Without hesitation, Bill released his grasp on the edge and clutched at Grey's 
forearms, transferring his entire weight. For an instant Grey felt himself slide 
forward, toward the drop-off, and he scrambled desperately to plant his feet 
against the tile. The rubber of his Nikes finally caught and he gradually, 
slowly squirmed backwards. 
Once Bill snagged an elbow over the edge, he ceased being a dead weight and 
through kicking, dragging, and slithering, managed to work his way completely to 
safety. 
For a very long time both lay pressed to the beautiful solidity of the floor, 
Bill on his back and Grey his stomach, gasping like fish. Eventually Grey hauled 
himself to his knees and pawed through his backpack until he'd extracted a 
bottle of water. After taking a long, satisfying draught he offered it to Bill, 
bemused by the way the fluid sloshed wildly in his jittering hand. Obviously in 
no better shape, Bill succeeded in spilling a good portion of the liquid down 
his chin as he attempted his own drink. Scowling at his ineptness, he glared at 
Grey's grin, which rapidly transformed to a snicker. 
"You think that was funny?" he blustered, though it came out thready and 
insincere. 
"I think we both almost pissed our pants," Grey answered, little riffs of 
laughter still escaping. "And I'm glad you're still alive, Billy boy. Who'd a 
thought?" 
Bill stared at him, then smiled. Which became a grin. A chuckle. And then they 
were both rolling on the ground, roaring like idiots. 
Finally Bill sat up and dry washed his face, smearing the sweat and grime. He 
looked over at Grey, still flat on his back and intermittently snickering, and 
sobered. 
"Thanks, McKenzie. I owe you." 
Stunned into his own sobriety, Grey extended a hand and let Bill tug him 
upright. "You're welcome, Bill. As for owing me... You may want to reconsider. I 
don't think you'll like how I choose to collect." 
Bill's baffled expression melted to understanding and mild annoyance. "Huh. Well 
if what I just saw in that elevator shaft is any indication, we'll be even 
before I have to worry about it. You always take risks like that?" 
Grey's smile faded. "Only in times of extreme circumstances," he answered 
grimly. "I think this qualifies." 
Bill stood, offering his hand. "Yeah," he said quietly. "I'm with you on that."


Outside Georgetown Memorial
Tuesday
8:33 p.m.


"Don't give up yet. Please." 
Skinner thrust his jaw forward and averted his eyes, staring at the damaged 
building rather than the frustrated countenance of Joe Adamson, leader of the 
rescue operation. 
"Look, Assistant Director Skinner, it isn't that I don't sympathize," Adamson 
said wearily, scrubbing his sleeve across the sweat and grit layering his face. 
"But we've had no success gaining access to the fourth floor, and our attempts 
to do so haven't uncovered any signs of life. From what we've been able to 
determine so far, there *isn't* a fourth floor anymore. It's almost as if the 
fifth floor dropped down to take its place." 
"But you haven't been able to explore the entire fifth floor, have you?" Skinner 
persisted. "You said you'd only managed to break through to a small stretch of 
it." 
Adamson wrinkled his nose and massaged the back of his neck. "That's true. To be 
honest, our first priority was evacuating the injured on the floors we could 
reach. Amazingly, there have been relatively few casualties thanks to the early 
warning and the efficiency of hospital staff. 
"Then you have to admit..." 
Adamson shook his head, holding up one hand to forestall Skinner's protest. 
"Just because I've seen only a portion of that area doesn't mean I can't make 
some pretty educated assumptions regarding the chances of those closest to the 
blast. Frankly, surviving that kind of a concussion would be a miracle. I 
understand they're your agents, sir, and I wish I had better news. But I have my 
own men and women to think of, and proceeding in the darkness, despite the 
floodlights, significantly increases their danger. Considering the odds against 
finding anyone still alive,
I'm loath to take the risk." 
Skinner trained the full intensity of his gaze on Adamson. "I understand what 
you're telling me, and I've no doubt it's based on hard-earned experience. But 
you've got to trust my judgment on this. I'll admit I've got my doubts about 
Mulder and Scully living through that explosion." Skinner's grim features 
softened and one corner of his mouth lifted. "But if anyone on this planet 
could, it would be those two. More than once I've written them off only to have 
them prove me wrong. I won't make that mistake again." 
He sighed heavily. "And as we stand here and debate whether to call a halt to 
the search for the night, there are two untrained, but extremely stubborn, men 
in there somewhere, conducting their own little rescue mission. God only knows 
what kind of a jam they've gotten themselves into by now." 
Adamson squinted at him doubtfully. "You're certain about that? I know you said 
they were already inside, but nobody has seen hide nor hair of them." 
Skinner's hand tightened reflexively on the walkie-talkie in his pocket, 
reproachfully silent despite repeated attempts to contact Grey. "They're in 
there, all right," he growled. "I can't vouch for Bill, but I know Grey won't 
give up until he discovers exactly what happened to them. I can't do any less." 
Adamson pondered his declaration, then shrugged. "All right. Have it your way -- 
for now. We'll take another crack at the fifth floor. But until I find some hint 
of life, I'm playing it conservative, Skinner." 
"Of course. I understand." 
Skinner worked to contain the influx of relief that left him weak-kneed. 
*In the greater scheme of things, this means nothing. The cold hard fact is that 
Adamson is probably right. How could they have survived?* 
"Mr. Skinner?" 
He turned to see Maggie Scully, a steaming cup of coffee extended and a 
questioning expression on her careworn face. Kristen hovered at her elbow. 
"Any word?" 
Skinner accepted the cup, taking a gulp of liquid warmth, which spread 
throughout his chilled body while he chose his reply carefully. Calling Maggie 
Scully with bad news was becoming a familiar, though unwelcome, occurrence. Each 
time his admiration for the woman rose another notch --her grace and fortitude 
under fire reminiscent of a certain redheaded agent. 
"No sign of Dana or Mulder -- or our recalcitrant pair of rescuers, for that 
matter. But he's agreed to continue the search, at least for now." 
Maggie let her eyes slip shut and exhaled. "Thank God for that." She fixed 
Skinner in the warmth of her gaze. "And thank you, Mr. Skinner. Don't think I 
don't appreciate your role in that decision." 
When he attempted to voice an embarrassed denial, Maggie held up a quelling 
hand. "We've been through this a few times, you and I. Certainly enough for me 
to have seen the subtle ways you've supported Dana and Fox." She shook her head 
ruefully. "I frankly don't know who to be more concerned about. My 
daughter-in-law tells me there was no love lost between Grey and my son." 
Skinner's mouth twitched. "I wouldn't worry," he said, looking at Kristen from 
the corner of his eye. "I'm sure Grey can take care of himself." 
Maggie reached over to give Kristen's arm a gentle pat. "Oh, I'm certain of it. 
It's Bill I'm worried about. I love my son dearly, Mr. Skinner, but there's 
times he'd try the patience of a saint." 
The startled guffaw burst from Skinner before he could rein it in. Initially 
horrified by the inappropriateness of his laughter, the twinkle in Maggie's eye 
told him she hadn't taken offense -- had, in fact, purposely provoked the 
release of tension. 
Allowing an open smile of admiration, Skinner raised an eyebrow. "Please call me 
Walt, Mrs. Scully. I think we've been here enough times to dispense with the 
formalities." 
"You're right about that. And it's Maggie, Walt." She turned to the shivering 
Kristen with a critical eye. "We're going to go somewhere warm and get a quick 
bite to eat. Can we bring you something?" 
Skinner could feel his stomach applaud at the mention of a meal. "Please. 
Anything warm will do." 
Maggie nodded, but Kristen was shaking her head vehemently. "I'd rather not 
leave, what if they find them, what if..." 
Maggie linked her arm with Kristen's. "I was a Navy wife for over thirty years, 
Kristen. I had to sit by while Bill ventured into some dangerous situations, and 
I learned an important lesson. The next best thing to being with him was to make 
sure I was prepared to welcome him home. You'll be of no use to Grey if you're 
half-starved and frozen." 
Kristen frowned and opened her mouth to protest, but the steel in Maggie's brown 
eyes changed her mind. "Well, maybe just a quick meal," she said grudgingly. 
Skinner watched Maggie steer her away before turning back to stare at the 
crumbling building. Kristen was in good hands. He could only hope Mulder and 
Scully would fare as well.


Floor 4SW 
Tuesday 
9:22 p.m.


"So... Tell me again why you think the Knicks are going to do so well this 
year?" 
Scully endeavored to keep her voice light, conversational. She didn't want 
Mulder to sense how troubled she was. 
"Scullee! Already 'splained to you. 'S because..." 
Mulder's slurred reply trailed off and she knew he wasn't even aware that he'd 
stopped speaking in the middle of a sentence. His cognizance and coherency had 
declined sharply over the past hour, causing fear to bubble up inside of her 
like a pot left unattended over a flame. 
"Mulder?" 
"Mulder!" 
Her only reply was an incoherent mumble. Scully desperately wished she could see 
him, could look into his eyes to assess just how frightened she should be. A 
barely perceptible trickle of light filtered into their prison, illuminating a 
vague outline of Mulder's body, but no more. Contenting herself with touch, she 
ran her fingers over the too warm skin of his brow, down his cheek, and across 
to his ear. 
"Sorry, love," she muttered. 
Taking his earlobe between thumb and index finger, she gave the soft flesh a 
vicious pinch, wincing as if she'd inflicted the discomfort on herself. 
"OW!" 
Too late, Scully realized that the simple trick for restoring consciousness 
would also cause Mulder to reflexively jerk away from her hand. His cry of pain 
modulated into a wail, bringing tears to her eyes and a frantic litany of 
apology from her lips. Reduced to soft whimpers of pain and gasps for air, 
Mulder still managed to seize her hand and press it tightly to his cheek, 
silently communicating forgiveness. 
They lay mutely in the darkness for an undetermined time, long enough that 
Scully began to fear he'd slipped under despite her unwitting torture. Then 
Mulder spoke, his words a bit garbled but lucid. 
"Think Sam's alive?" 
Like coming into a play during the second act, Scully scrambled to figure out 
what just happened and what lay ahead. Mulder's silhouette, dark and indistinct, 
revealed nothing, but the voice was laced with weariness and resignation. 
"Why are you asking me that question now, Mulder?" she asked, hoping to define 
the terrain of this unfamiliar landscape. "You've always been certain she was 
out there, somewhere, and that one day you'd find her. Does it really matter 
what I -- what anyone else -- thinks?" 
He was so still, his ragged, uneven breathing her only indication that the 
shadow beside her didn't belong to a statue carved from stone. 
"Useta be sure of a lotta things, Scully. Not anymore." 
Ahh. Scully was both relieved and disconcerted to be back on the topic of Bill 
Mulder's betrayal. Leave it to Mulder to be half out of his head with pain and 
shock one moment and probing for the answers to life's greatest mysteries the 
next. 
"Mulder. I know that learning of your father's duplicity has shaken you. But it 
doesn't have to change your beliefs, your convictions." 
Mulder's grasp on her fingers tightened. "It does. Changes everything, Scully. 
'S like dominoes. Nothin's left standin'." 
Scully shook her head, realized he couldn't see the gesture, and pulled their 
joined hands to her lips instead. "Even dominoes need a solid surface beneath 
them, love. There are fundamentals that your father's deeds, however 
treacherous, can't touch." 
"Such as?" 
Scully sucked in a deep breath. "Such as the man you are. You're a good person, 
Mulder. A little flawed, yes, but no more so than any of the rest of us. And 
your relationship with Samantha -- love can't be engineered, can't be 
genetically programmed. What you meant to each other hasn't changed just because 
your father dealt with the devil. You've dedicated your life to finding her and 
bringing her home. Has anything you've learned really changed that?" 
Silence, and she could practically feel him thinking. The fingers woven between 
her own trembled and his breathing hitched, first speeding up and then slowing 
down as he fought for restraint. 
"Used to waver b'tween wanting his attention 'n dreading it," he said softly. 
"Only emotion he showed me was anger, disappointment. Thought it was 'cause of 
Sam. Thought he blamed me." A pause and more rapid pants for air. "He *knew*, 
Scully. He *knew* why they took her but he left me to bleed. How could he live 
with himself?" 
Scully walked the tightrope, each footstep tentative and meticulously placed. 
"From what you've told me, love, he didn't -- at least, not very well. He became 
an alcoholic, his marriage broke apart, and he alienated his son. I don't think 
you were the only recipient of his guilt." 
A tissue paper thin sigh. "Mulders're quite the all- American family, huh, 
babe?" 
Scully bit her lip. "I'll admit your family life was pretty dysfunctional, 
Mulder. But nobody's is perfect." 
"Yours was pretty close." 
Inside, she flinched at his wistfullness. She knew she'd allowed Mulder to bare 
his soul concerning his family without ever really sharing much about her own. 
Yes, on the surface, and in comparison to Mulder's, her formative years appeared 
smooth sailing. But Mulder considered her family life a small step away from 
"Father Knows Best," and she was guilty of perpetuating that myth. 
"Mulder." It was hard to say the words, her lips and tongue felt heavy and 
uncooperative. "My family was not... We had our own problems. My father was away 
at sea for long periods of time, and every time he came home we had to adjust to 
having him around again. He was much stricter than Mom, so it felt like the 
rules changed in the middle of the game. He'd try so hard to "whip us into 
shape" that he wound up overreacting. Melissa, in particular, found his 
restrictions stifling and she'd rebel just for the sake of defying him. She dyed 
her hair green, dabbled in drugs, ran away from home... And as if that weren't 
enough, Bill started trying to fill Dad's shoes when he was gone, lording it 
over the rest of us and insisting he was the man of the house. He and Charlie 
barely even speak to each other now, which is part of the reason you've never 
met Charlie. And me..." 
"The good girl," Mulder whispered. 
Scully's lips turned up in the suggestion of a smile.
"Yeah. That was me. Daddy's girl, the one always trying her hardest to please, 
to live up to his standards, his expectations. I loved and admired him so much, 
I was willing to do whatever was necessary to make him proud." 
"But you went into pathology. The FBI..." Mulder's voice fell off but she 
clearly heard what remained unspoken. 
*The X-Files.* 
She explored the memory of her father's disappointment the way a child's tongue 
probes the hole from a missing tooth, cautiously testing for pain. To her 
intense relief, she found only a dull ache. 
"That's the danger of raising your child to be her own person," Scully mused. 
"Eventually she is." 
Mulder's thumb traced the lines on her palm. "He'd be proud, babe." 
"I hope so. But what's more important, is that *I'm* proud. You've given me that 
gift, Mulder. Together we do good work, important work." She squeezed his hand. 
"Another fundamental. Don't ever doubt it." 
Mulder released a puff of breath that might have been laughter, then sighed. 
"Thanks, babe. 'M glad you're your own person." 
Scully grinned. "I'm going to hold you to that, love. Count on it."


Floor 3SW
Tuesday
9:17 p.m.


"I don't get it. Mom told me that Mulder didn't know about you until recently. 
Why not?" 
Grey didn't actually turn his head, just allowed it to loll to the right so that 
Bill came into view. "His...our parents gave me up for adoption. They never told 
Fox and Samantha I existed -- or anyone else for that matter." 
Bill's forehead creased. "I repeat -- why?" 
Grey pressed his shoulders more firmly against the wall and grit his teeth. 
Finding Fox had helped him come to terms with his parents' actions, but they 
still stung. "That is a very long, very complex, and extremely unbelievable 
story. Suffice it to say that they felt they were protecting me." 
Bill silently absorbed this while Grey took another swig of his water and gazed 
at the pile of rubble bisecting the hallway. A pile he and Bill had 
systematically reduced over the last several hours, finally breaking through 
just a few minutes earlier. Eyes bloodshot with fatigue and muscles quivering 
from exertion, both had sunk to the ground in unspoken agreement to rest. 
"Why just you?" 
Sliding down the silence into a slight stupor, Bill's question jerked Grey back 
like a dog on a leash. How to answer that one? Bill lived a black and white, 
two-dimensional existence not so different from the one he himself had inhabited 
up until about six months ago. Shattering that worldview was not a 
responsibility Grey cared to shoulder -- not that Bill would be receptive if he 
tried. 
"By the time Fox was born, I don't think my parents' lives were their own," he 
said carefully. "Deception was no longer an option." After a pause, he added, 
"You feel contempt for my brother's quest, for the choices he's made. But the 
simple truth is that Fox never really had a choice.
There were those who manipulated his future even before his birth. Yet somehow 
he's managed to retain his integrity, the purity of his purpose." 
"You sound as if you *admire* him," Bill muttered, incredulity dripping from his 
words and twisting his features. 
"Damn right," Grey retorted softly, vehemently. 
Bill snorted and shook his head. "Look, McKenzie. You seem to be a decent guy, 
though occasionally a pain in the ass. But your brother..." His lip curled. "You 
think I didn't check up on him when I found out Dana was assigned a partner? 
I've got friends with connections; I put my ear to the ground! Spooky, they call 
him. Had an amazing capacity for catching serial killers -- most likely because 
he shares many of their personality traits. Cracked up after mind-melding with 
one too many psychos and wound up in the basement, investigating aliens, ghosts, 
and things that go bump in the night. Couldn't hold onto a partner, a lone wolf 
with complete disregard for rules or procedures. That's what they told me my 
little sister was paired with. And you know what? I've seen nothing to dispute 
that assessment!" 
The inability to summon anger defined Grey's exhaustion more clearly than his 
burning muscles. He released a long puff of breath and pursed his lips. 
"I've got news for you, Bill. I've asked a few discreet questions of my own, and 
I've little doubt that my source is a bit more reliable than yours." 
"Yeah, they call him Spooky. The name originated right about the time his solve 
rate exceeded that of any profiler in the Bureau's history, coined by those 
jealous of his talent. And yes, his acquisition of the X-Files occurred after a 
breakdown caused by an outrageously heavy caseload and too much empathy for 
victims. And as far as not keeping a partner, well, he and Dana have been 
together six years. A lot of marriages don't last that long!" 
"You think you dislike my brother, Bill, but the truth is that you don't even 
know him. You let rumor and innuendo taint your perception of him before you 
ever saw his face, and now nothing can sway you from that preconceived opinion. 
And I guess the saddest thing of all is that you trust the judgement of a few 
acquaintances above that of your own sister." 
Grey expected a smart retort or come back of some kind, so Bill's expressionless 
mask and stony silence unnerved him. Heaving a sigh, he hauled his throbbing 
body upright and resumed clearing away pieces of rubble to widen the passageway. 

"Don't know why I wasted my breath," he grumbled to himself. 
Grey tugged at a particularly heavy board that abruptly came free and sent him 
staggering backward. Cursing softly under his breath, he let it drop to the 
floor and inspected the now shredded skin around a large blister in the center 
of his palm. 
"Here." 
The gruffly spoken word was followed by a white handkerchief thrust into his 
view. Grey's gaze trailed from the hand, up the arm, until it met Bill's 
scowling face. 
"Better wrap that." 
Grey accepted the square of cloth, fumbling awkwardly as he attempted to wind it 
around the injured area with only one hand. After watching impatiently for 
several moments,
Bill uttered a grunt of annoyance and snatched the handkerchief, though he 
accomplished the bandaging with a surprisingly gentle touch. 
Grey flexed his fingers, then stooped to pick up a slab of drywall. "Thanks. 
That really helps." 
"Just didn't want you so incapacitated that I'd have to do the rest myself," 
Bill replied stiffly, avoiding Grey's eyes by reaching for a section of pipe. 
Grey suppressed a sharp rejoinder and merely shrugged, throwing himself back 
into the task at hand. After less than ten minutes they'd created an opening 
large enough to wriggle through on hands and knees. 
The corridor before them looked like a nightmarish obstacle course. Mounds of 
beams, girders and piping were interspersed with overturned carts and smashed 
equipment.
In some areas the ceiling had cracked and sagged downward, in others the 
linoleum buckled and surged upward -- a surreal parody of stalactites and 
stalacmites. Grey added the weak beam from his flashlight to the faint glow from 
what he could only assume were external floodlights. What he saw made his heart 
sink like a stone in deep water. 
The hallway was passable for perhaps thirty feet before the ceiling caved in 
completely, sealing off the remainder in an impenetrable wall. He felt Bill move 
up behind him, heard the sharp catch of breath as he took in the destruction. 
"That's it, then," Bill said, his voice not soft enough to hide the despair. 
"End of the line." 
Grey's temper ignited, the culmination of too much worry, overwhelming physical 
exhaustion, and the forced companionship of a man he strongly disliked. "It is 
*not* the end! I haven't sweat blood over the last nine hours just to give up 
now! There's got to be another way!" 
Bill planted himself in front of Grey, deliberately invading his space. "Where? 
Have you been paying attention? We only made it this far by nearly killing 
ourselves in that elevator shaft! This was the only direction we could pass down 
the corridor, and that's a hell of a dead end! I want to find them as much as 
you do, but we've just run out of options!" Bill's explosive tirade cut off 
abruptly, and he dropped his head, massaging his temples with shaking fingers. 
"Look at this place, McKenzie. This is only the third floor. If it's this bad 
down here..." 
"NO! I refuse to accept that until I see it with my own eyes! I *won't* give up 
on them, so either start looking for an alternative or stay the hell out of my 
way!" 
Bill simply folded his arms in unspoken challenge, refusing to step aside. 
Something deep inside Grey snapped. He connected with
Bill's jaw before he could consciously register that his fingers had formed a 
fist. The force of the blow drove Bill backward, an almost comical look of 
astonishment on his face. He recovered quickly, however, surprise transforming 
almost instantly to anger. A quick lunge forward, the blur of his arm, and Grey 
found himself sprawled on the floor, a warm trickle spreading across his upper 
lip. Bill loomed over him, cradling his jaw and glowering. 
Grey let his head drop back to the floor with a small moan, swiping at the blood 
beneath his nose with the back of his hand. "I can't believe I did that. I must 
have a death wish." 
Bill stared at him blankly, then broke into a shark's grin. "Actually, you've 
got a pretty mean right hook." 
"Easy for you to say," Grey griped, groping for his flashlight, which had rolled 
several inches away. "You're the one standing." 
"And you're the one who started this dance," Bill reminded him, still probing 
his jaw. But he leaned over and extended a hand. "Here. Get up." 
When Grey remained motionless, ignoring his offer of assistance in favor of 
examining the ceiling, Bill huffed in irritation. "Oh come on! I didn't hit you 
*that* hard!" 
Grey, oblivious to his aggravation, trained the beam from his flashlight upward 
and scrambled to his feet. He continued absently to blot the blood from his nose 
as he turned in a small circle, head cranked back as far as possible. 
"McKenzie!" Bill snarled. 
Grey didn't bother to look at Bill, but his clipped command seethed with 
excitement. "Look up." 
Thoroughly exasperated, Bill threw up both hands and glanced impatiently in the 
direction indicated. "Why? What in the..." 
An opening. Nearly two feet in diameter, its edges were absurdly smooth and 
regular, as if fashioned by a paper punch. And through the hole, dimly, an open 
expanse that hinted at accessibility. 
Grey's head swiveled slowly, revealing a bloodstained face and eyes that 
glittered with manic glee. 
"I think we just found our option, Billy."


Floor 4SW 
Tuesday 
10:24 p.m.


Scully was alone. Mulder was reduced to a mere physical presence, a warm body. 
He'd become increasingly difficult to rouse, finally completely unresponsive 
even to painful stimulus. She didn't realize how much strength she derived from 
just hearing his voice until he fell silent. While he was conscious, she could 
focus on *his* pain, *his* needs. Now her arm throbbed and she burned with 
thirst. Her only measure of comfort was that Mulder, at least, had escaped his 
torment. 
So she pressed tightly against his fevered body and tried not to think of ice 
water in a tall glass beaded with moisture. Of lying in Mulder's arms in the 
safety and comfort of their bed, piled high with soft pillows and thick 
blankets. Of sun and sand and blue, blue water -- all that should have been but 
now might never come to pass. Scully buried her face in the crook of her own arm 
and wept. 
His soft, unintelligible moans and whimpers of pain shook her from the 
indulgence of tears and she concentrated on smoothing his sweaty hair from his 
brow and rubbing small concentric circles across his back. The sound of her 
voice calmed him so she rambled on, a surrogate television to soothe his restive 
spirit. 
"Did I ever tell you about the time Charlie and I redecorated the Christmas 
tree? I guess I must have been four and he was three. Melissa was in first 
grade, Bill was in kindergarten, and Charlie and I were supposed to be napping. 
Poor Mom was lying down in her bedroom -- worn out from dealing with the four of 
us since Dad was still away at sea. I remember Charlie and I had our noses out 
of joint because we hadn't been allowed much participation in decorating the 
tree. Mom let us hang a few unbreakable ornaments, but only Missy and Bill got 
to handle the really special ones." 
"It was my idea, I'll admit. Charlie would pretty much follow any suggestion I 
made at that age, so when I concocted my brilliant plan he tagged right along. I 
figured if the two of us took all the ornaments off the tree, then we could have 
the fun of putting them all back on again. We were too small to reach the ones 
at the top, but I dragged a couple of kitchen chairs over so that we could get 
most of them." Scully nuzzled his shoulder with a small grin. "You know how 
resourceful I can be, Mulder. I guess we had nearly three-quarters of the 
ornaments stripped off the tree by the time Mom woke up and caught us in the 
act. She shrieked so loud Charlie nearly fell off his chair -- it's a wonder 
neither of us broke our necks!" 
She chuffed quiet laughter at the memory, but it sounded hollow and lonely 
without accompaniment. Scully blinked back a rush of tears and soldiered onward. 
"I'm sure I don't need to tell you that Charlie and I did *not* get to hang any 
of the ornaments we so industriously removed! We also had to stay in our rooms 
rather than play outside in the snow after Missy and Bill got home from school. 
But those punishments were nothing compared to the agony of having our little 
escapade recounted in excruciating detail every single Christmas." She sighed. 
"I just hope we get out of here so that Mom can embarrass me by dredging it all 
up again this year." 
Mulder made a small sound in the back of his throat, shifting restively. His 
hand twitched restlessly until it tangled with hers, and his eyes fluttered open 
to half-mast. He regarded her solemnly in silence, until his tongue crept out to 
moisten chapped lips. 
"So thirsty." The words were as dry as the parched tissues of his throat, as 
insubstantial as a current of air. 
"Me too, love." 
His fingers tightened painfully and she felt a shudder ripple through his body. 
"Hurts." 
One word, a single syllable, but from a man who could redefine the meaning of 
"stoic" it spoke volumes. Scully bit down hard on her trembling lips and shut 
her eyes firmly against the tide of emotion. All she could do was share his 
vulnerability. 
"I know. Me too, love." 
He fell silent, though the occasional glitter of his eyes catching the meager 
light told Scully he was still awake.
Another, smaller spasm and he drew a ragged breath. 
"Not coming, babe." 
His quiet declaration affected her on so many levels -- she wanted to comfort, 
she wanted to berate, she wanted to deny. In the end, she simply pressed a kiss 
to his palm. 
Because deep down inside, she feared Mulder was right.


Floor 4SW
Tuesday
10:36 p.m.


Grey paused, panting and clinging to the angled beam like an oversized tree 
squirrel. Bill's face poked from the hole above his head, a pale moon in the 
semi-darkness. One large hand wrapped around the high end of the board in a 
stabilizing grip, the other directed a flashlight so that Grey could see as he 
shimmied upward. 
"You all right?" 
*This guy deserves an award for asking stupid questions.* 
"Yeah. Having the time of my life," Grey growled, mopping the perspiration from 
his brow as best he could without loosening his death hold on the wood. 
"You can make it, McKenzie, you're almost there," Bill called. 
It was supposed to be encouragement, but it set Grey's teeth on edge. True, he'd 
covered three quarters the distance from the floor to the hole in the ceiling, 
but the difficulty of ascent also increased exponentially along with the angle. 
When he and Bill were lugging the heavy beam across piles of rubble and then 
hefting it into place, he'd thought climbing up would be the easy part. 
Wrong. 
Bill had gone first, scooting up the makeshift ladder with relative ease while 
Grey anchored the bottom end. Unfortunately, when Bill attempted to return the 
favor it rapidly became clear that providing the same steadying influence from 
above was impossible. The further Grey's weight moved upward, the more the beam 
rocked, until he feared losing his grip and tumbling to the floor. 
Pulling in a long, slow, breath of air, Grey slid both hands several inches up 
the beam and dragged his body after, assisting the process with a push from his 
feet. The wood beneath him bucked and shifted, prompting Bill to drop the 
flashlight and grab on with both hands. Grey, thrown off balance by the absence 
of light, fought to regain equilibrium. 
Feeling himself tilt to the right, he leaned hard to the left. Too hard. The 
near darkness impaired his spatial perception, abruptly removing cues he needed 
to orient himself. The sensation of teetering on the edge of an abyss caused him 
to clutch instinctively at the board beneath him, but its wobbling only served 
to further confuse him. 
"LOOK OUT!" 
Bill's shout of alarm coincided with the terrifying disappearance of the beam 
from beneath him, followed by a loud clatter. Grey flung both arms upward, with 
a low cry. Something like a vise clamped onto his wrist, halting his plunge with 
a teeth-rattling jerk. He screamed involuntarily as pain burst along the length 
of his arm, a giant wishbone about to be separated at his shoulder. His feet 
kicked wildly, a bizarre dance over thin air. 
"Stop kicking, you moron, I'm gonna drop you!" Bill grunted through clenched 
teeth. "Put your other hand up!" 
Biting his lip hard against the pain, Grey did as ordered and nearly wept with 
relief when Bill caught his left arm and eased the tension on his right. Peering 
upward he could now make out Bill's tense face by the weak glow of his discarded 
light. He refused to look into the blackness beneath his dangling feet. 
"Haven't we been here before?" he panted blearily. 
Bill bared his teeth, the cords on his neck standing out as he slowly hauled 
Grey upward. "Not exactly." 
"Liked it better...the first time through." 
Grey's legs cleared the rim of the hole and he dropped onto the floor. He rolled 
to his back and cradled his aching arm, looking around carefully. They were in a 
tunnel formed by fallen supports and debris, the roof barely four feet above his 
head. Bill puffed wearily and retrieved his flashlight. 
"Arm okay?" 
Wincing, Grey sat up and flexed the limb experimentally. 
"Hurts like a sonuvabitch, but I'll be fine." He searched Bill's expressionless 
face. "Thanks." 
Half Bill's mouth turned up in a wry smirk. "Told ya I wouldn't owe you for 
long." 
Grey started to retort, only to snap his mouth shut and struggle to his knees. 
"What...?" 
"Shhhh!" 
Grey made a cutting motion with his good arm and cocked his head, listening 
intently. A moment later he was rewarded by a faint cry. 
"Is someone there? We need help!" 
His heart swelled almost painfully in his chest and his eyes darted to Bill. 
With something akin to awe, he watched the man's face transform, a brilliant 
smile replacing the sullen glare. 
"Dana? Dana, is that you?" 
Shocked silence, then Dana's voice, muffled and quavering with emotion, replied. 

"*Bill?*" 
"It's me, Short Stuff," he called tenderly. "Where are you?" 
Grey, who had fumbled his own flashlight from his pack with shaking fingers, 
hastened to add its illumination to Bill's. They began moving slowly down the 
narrow passageway toward Dana's voice, crawling on hands and knees. 
"Don't know. There are boards and other rubble all around and I can't move. 
Bill, what are you doing here?" She sounded so small and lost, the words rough 
like sandpaper. 
"Mom sent me to bring you a hat," Bill replied dryly, carefully navigating over 
several jagged hunks of steel.
"And who should I run into but..." 
"Dana? Dana, where's Fox?" Grey interrupted frantically. 
He struggled to keep Bill's pace, hampered by his sore arm. Scrambling awkwardly 
over the chunks of metal, he snagged his ankle and hissed in pain and 
frustration. Bill skidded to a halt and Grey nearly barreled into him. 
"He's here, Grey. But he's hurt. You need to hurry." 
What Dana left unsaid came through clearly in the inflection of her voice -- 
fear, despair, and something
Grey couldn't quite put a name to. Something like dread. 
"Why are you stopping?" he snapped impatiently, sitting up to peer over Bill's 
bulk. 
"Found 'em," Bill said tersely. "Would you like to propose how we reach them?" 
Grey stared in dismay at the wreckage cocooning a bright flash of auburn hair. 
Creeping around Bill he shined his flashlight between two boards to reveal 
Dana's blood- streaked face and haunted eyes. Panning the beam to the right he 
could dimly make out the sprawled form of his brother, motionless. 
"Fox?" 
The name began as a cry, but emerged as little more than a whisper. He dragged 
his eyes back to Dana, silently asking for a shred of reassurance. Instead, she 
gave a sharp shake of her head and repeated her previous plea. 
"Hurry." 
Grey turned on Bill, who had been studying the pile of debris with an almost 
detached air, now and then reaching out to warily touch a section of pipe or 
slab of plywood. 
"You heard her, we've got to get them out of there!" Grey said shortly. 
He'd actually stretched out a hand to tug at a loose board when Bill elbowed him 
sharply in the chest, knocking him backward. 
"Stop!" 
Grey scrambled to get up, white with fury. "What the hell do you think you're 
doing?" 
Bill held him down, hand to chest, his face impassive. "Preventing you from 
killing my sister -- *and* your brother!" 
Grey knocked the hand away, lunging forward and burying his fists in Bill's 
shirt. "You heard what she said, you bastard! He's going to die if we don't get 
him out of there! But that wouldn't really bother you, would it?" 
Bill tried to twist free, then settled for copying Grey's hold. "Listen, you 
self-righteous little jerk, I want my sister out of there just as badly! But 
that's like a house of cards -- you pull out the wrong piece and the whole thing 
could come down on top of them! And have you stopped to think what in the hell 
you're going to do once you get him out of there? We can't exactly take them 
down the elevator shaft, you know!" 
The truth in his words pricked the bubble of Grey's indignation, effectively 
deflating it. "I'll cross that bridge when I come to it," he said weakly. "We 
can't just sit here, we have to try..." 
"You touch anything and so help me God, I'll..." 
"STOP IT!" 
Dana's angry command yanked them from their bickering. Grey flushed in shame and 
Bill dropped his eyes guiltily to the floor. 
"I don't know how you two Neanderthals made it this far," she rasped. "But you'd 
better stop arguing and work together or none of us will get out of here. This 
whole area is unstable, and you two are carrying on like a couple of brawling 
little boys!" 
She took a shuddering breath and winced, exhausted from her tirade. "Grey, you 
can't move him," she went on quietly. "He's pinned to the floor by a piece of 
metal pipe through his left side. We need help." 
Grey slumped down, dropping his head to his hands. "Okay," he muttered. "I get 
the picture." 
Bill's hand on his shoulder startled him. "I didn't mean we'd do nothing," he 
said gruffly. "But we have to take it very slow." 
Grey nodded, then gasped. "I can't believe I forgot! I've still got the 
walkie-talkie!" He dug through the pack and located the transmitter. "I'll 
contact Walt. You see if you can find a way through that mess." 
"Sure, give me the fun job," Bill grumbled, but his face held determination and 
not resentment.


Outside Georgetown Memorial 
Tuesday 
11:03 p.m.


"Thought I'd return the favor." 
Skinner handed Maggie a cup of coffee, tendrils of steam seeping from beneath 
the lid. She was seated on a chair in the makeshift "command center," an island 
of serenity amidst the turmoil. She smiled appreciatively and inclined her head 
to indicate an empty chair. 
"Agent Harding?" Skinner asked, sinking down and barely containing a grunt of 
relief. 
"She's been keeping Grey's family informed," Maggie explained, popping the lid 
from the Styrofoam cup and taking a sip. "His parents were ready to fly up 
immediately, but Kristen convinced them to wait -- in exchange for regular 
updates." 
"Skinner." 
He stiffened, feeling Maggie's curious gaze as he turned to face the speaker. 
Mike Fenton crossed to his side, dodging police, FBI, and rescue workers with 
barely concealed impatience. Skinner had managed to avoid the SWAT leader until 
now, but his anger had not cooled. Though he'd not spoken to the man in fifteen 
years, he deliberately kept his hands clasped behind his back, a silent 
indication of his disapproval. 
"We're heading out now," Fenton announced, gesturing at his team members piling 
into the van. "Most of the gapers have lost interest, and Chuck assigned a fresh 
batch of patrolmen to keep the press in check. My men are beat, it's been a hell 
of a day." 
Skinner's jaw tightened with the effort of withholding his true feelings. 
"Fine." 
Fenton, his hair now a uniform silver and his face deeply lined, frowned. "You 
got a problem, Skinner?" 
*Yeah, I got a problem. You.* 
"Nothing I want to discuss here or now," he said aloud, the words clipped. 
Fenton's eyes narrowed. "Oh please. Don't worry about my delicate 
sensibilities," he said sarcastically. 
It proved to be too much. Skinner's grip on his temper had always been a bit 
tenuous, so grief, worry, and bone-deep fatigue merely served to loosen his 
fingers. 
"All right. If you insist." Skinner's voice was deceptively soft, deadly calm. 
"We shouldn't be here right now. My agent had the situation under control, five 
more minutes and we all would've headed back for a late lunch. You overstepped 
your bounds, and Mulder and Scully may very well pay for your rashness with 
their lives." 
Fenton's brows angled downward. "Jackson acted on his own recognizance! You 
can't blame me for..." 
"You once told me that the men in your unit were taught to follow your orders, 
and to do so without question," Skinner interrupted. "Are you slipping, Mike?" 
Fenton's face flushed red and his hands curled into fists. "I oughtta... You'd 
better think carefully about that accusation, Skinner. Easy enough to take pot 
shots here, but unless you want to repeat it in front of a review board..." 
"Oh, I intend to, Fenton," Skinner said dangerously. "You can count on it." 
Clamping his mouth shut and spinning on his heel, Fenton stomped off to the van, 
plowing through a young EMT and nearly sending him to the ground. Skinner 
sighed, running a hand across the top of his head and cupping the back of his 
neck. He turned to find himself the object of Maggie's amused stare. 
"I thought Fox was supposed to be the one who didn't play well with others," she 
said quietly, lifting an eyebrow. 
"Sorry," Skinner muttered, the oddest feeling of déjà vu washing over him. 
Then he understood. How many times had he observed the same scene played out 
between his two agents -- Scully dryly disapproving, Mulder sheepishly 
repentant? Finding himself cast in Mulder's role was too strange to contemplate. 

"Anger is wasted effort," Maggie was saying sadly. "What matters now is finding 
Dana and Fox and getting them out of there." She sighed, eyes far away. "Fox was 
already so weak." 
Skinner searched her face, then shook his head. "You're just as worried about 
him as you are Dana," he reflected, obviously amazed by the epiphany. 
"Why should that surprise you?" Maggie's tone was honestly puzzled. 
"Well...she's your daughter. Granted, Mulder is now much more than just her 
partner, but..." 
Maggie chuckled, though her eyes were still shadowed. "Oh, Walt, he's been much 
more than just her partner for a very long time!" When Skinner's face screwed up 
in confusion, she continued. 
"I was drawn to him over the months Dana was missing. He was so kind, so 
attentive to me, keeping me abreast of the investigation into her disappearance. 
I saw the guilt devouring him, recognized that he blamed himself for not being 
there when she needed him. But I sensed there was more -- deeper, older hurts 
that had never quite healed.
Maybe it takes one mother to perceive the void left by another." She smiled 
affectionately. "If ever there was a young man that cried out for some 
mothering, Fox is one." 
"You love him like one of your own," Skinner observed, his respect evident. "In 
spite of the pain the X-Files have brought Scully." 
Maggie's smile widened. "Of course. Walt, you've seen them, seen the way he 
looks at her. I have no doubt that Fox would throw himself in front of a moving 
train if it meant sparing Dana pain. How could a mother not love a man who'd put 
her daughter's life above his own?" 
"Sir?" 
Skinner looked up to see a young D.C. cop, one of Draper's men, fidgeting 
nervously beside him. Gratified he could still strike terror in others, if not 
his two agents, Skinner stood. 
"Yes?" 
"An Agent Hastings asked me to deliver a message to you," the officer stammered. 
"He said that someone has been trying to reach you on the walkie-talkie. Channel 
three." 
Frowning, Skinner reached into his jacket pocket to retrieve the device. The 
knob had been turned all the way to the off position, something he vaguely 
remembered doing in a fit of pique when Grey refused to answer. Cursing under 
his breath, he waved the kid away and flicked the unit back on. 
"Walt? Walt, I repeat, this is Grey! Do you hear me?" 
Skinner's throat suddenly transformed into the Sahara Desert. He cleared it 
apprehensively. 
"About time you decided to let us join the party," he growled. "What's the 
situation in there?" 
Grey's next words, both triumphant and distraught, brought Maggie immediately to 
his side. 
"They're alive, Walt. But you have to hurry, we don't have much time."


Floor 4SW
Tuesday
11:42 p.m.


Under Bill's direction they cautiously, methodically cleared an opening to reach 
Dana and Fox, shoring up the weak areas with extra pieces of wood to add 
stability. Grey wriggled through first, nearly knocked on his backside when Dana 
launched herself into his arms. Swallowing hard, he enthusiastically returned 
the embrace. Dana hissed at the pressure on her injury, and he pulled back as if 
scalded. 
"Sorry. Is it broken?" 
"More than once, I'm afraid." She ran her tongue over her lips and greedily eyed 
the pack on his back. "Don't suppose you have any water, do you?" 
Grey mentally smacked himself on the head. "What a couple of idiots! Of course I 
do! Here." 
He fished out a bottle and twisted off the cap, holding it steady until her 
shaking fingers could find purchase. She took several rapid swallows, eyes 
slipping shut in bliss, then came up for air. 
"Don't have to tell you to go easy, do I darlin'?" Grey asked. 
Dana barely heard him, her eyes darting to the sprawled form lying several feet 
away. "He's badly dehydrated from the blood loss," she said, voice quavering. 
"He needs this more than I do." 
"Plenty to go around," Grey replied easily, feigning a calm he didn't feel. 
"I'll take care of him. You just relax." 
"He's been in and out, Grey. I'm not sure..." 
"Dana!" 
Bill crawled through the opening with a grace that belied his large stature. He 
scrutinized his sister from head to toe, face a mixture of joy and concern, 
before gently pulling her into a hug. 
"Thought I'd lost you, Short Stuff," he murmured, the words cracking with 
emotion. 
Dana buried her face in his shoulder, snuffling and clinging with a 
white-knuckled grip. Grey tore his gaze from the reunion and crawled over to his 
brother. Tears flooded his eyes, blurring his vision and muting the gruesome 
sight. He scrubbed at them impatiently with the back of his hand, then reached 
out tentatively to stroke a lock of dark hair from his brother's ashen face. 
"Fox," he choked. 
Grey swept his flashlight slowly down the length of Fox's body, following the 
beam with a feathery touch of his hand. He examined the pipe violating his 
brother's body and pressed his lips tightly together. Brow furrowed, he abruptly 
leaned over, curled his fingers around the metal, and tensed in preparation. 
"NO!" 
Dana's weak but vehement cry frightened him and he automatically lifted his 
hands defensively. Scooting closer she placed her hand on his arm and turned her 
face up to his. 
"You can't do that, Grey. It's the only thing keeping him alive." 
Grey's face twisted with confusion. "What? Dana, are you out of your mind? Can 
you imagine how much pain he must be in? We have to get that thing out of him 
right away before infection..." 
"He'll bleed out," she replied forcefully. "Of course I understand the danger of 
infection, but that pipe is responsible for minimizing his blood loss!" 
Grey stared down at the large, sticky puddle of crimson before his eyes slid 
back to her. "You call *that* minimal? It looks like pretty damn much to me!" 
Bill scowled at his belligerent tone. "Look, McKenzie, if
Dana says..." 
"Oh shut up, Bill," Dana snapped impatiently. "You'll only make it worse. I can 
handle this." She tightened her fingers on Grey's arm. "I'm not trivializing it, 
Grey, he's lost a lot of blood. But it could be worse, much worse. He could be 
hemorrhaging, but he's not. God knows, I'm aware of his pain -- I've endured it 
with him. We have no choice." 
Grey squeezed his eyes shut, but nodded. Rummaging in his pack he produced 
another bottle of water, a box of gauze pads, and several sample packets of 
ibuprofen. 
"Here," he said huskily, tossing her two blister packs. "Sorry it's not the good 
stuff but they keep that locked up." 
"You've heard the expression 'Beggars can't be choosers?'" she returned, 
grimacing while attempting to open the pills one-handed. 
Bill took the package from her and extracted the pills, which she washed down 
with gulps of water. He watched as Grey moistened a gauze pad and tenderly 
bathed the dried blood and sweat from Mulder's pale face. Averting his eyes, he 
grappled with an empathy he didn't want to feel. 
"I warned you he brings you only grief, Dana," he muttered softly, mustering 
anger instead. "Can't you see it?" 
Dana's mouth dropped open in consternation and her eyes darted to Grey. Seeing 
that he was too occupied with his task to overhear, she purposely turned her 
back and confronted Bill. 
"You bastard!" she hissed, torn between slugging him and bursting into tears. 
"Brings me *grief*? Have you stopped to wonder why his injuries are more severe 
than mine? Have you?" 
Bill's nostrils flared but he jerked his head sharply. 
"He threw himself on top of me, you ass! Mulder figured out what was happening a 
split second before the bomb detonated, and he reacted by protecting me with his 
own body. He saved my life!" 
Bill squirmed, aware he'd gone too far. He desperately wracked his brain for a 
reply, but a guttural moan saved him. 
"Fox? C'mon, little brother, I didn't join this party just to watch you sleep," 
Grey coaxed. 
Fox's lids slid open a crack, just enough to reveal a glint of hazel. Grey 
dribbled some water onto his cracked lips, delighted when his brother first 
licked them, and then pulled them into his mouth and sucked frantically to 
extract the fluid. 
"More." 
"Easy. A little at a time," Grey soothed, repeating the action several times 
before Fox signaled he'd had enough. 
The edge off his thirst, Fox seemed to register Grey's presence. He struggled to 
turn his head, but Grey quickly stilled his movements with a firm hand on his 
neck. 
"Fox, don't. You'll hurt yourself." 
He crouched down so that his brother could see him without effort and tried to 
paste on a confident expression. 
"If you didn't want to go to Cancun, you should've just said so, little 
brother," he gibed gently. "I'd have taken Dana." 
Fox blinked sluggishly. "How...get here?" 
"You might say we took the low road," Grey replied, stroking back the same 
stubborn piece of hair he'd touched earlier. "Walt's people are taking the high 
road, and should get here soon." 
Fox's eyes lost focus, rolling back in his head before wandering back to Grey's 
face. "Tired," he whispered, the word little more than a puff of air. "Really 
tired." 
Grey tried to reply, but grief and fear filled his throat and tied his tongue. 
To his astonishment, Bill leaned over his shoulder and answered for him. 
"Tired?" he chided, but his tone held no malice. "You think *you're* tired? 
While you were lying there resting, your brother had me climbing up elevator 
shafts and excavating tunnels! He refused to give up, Mulder, so you damn well 
better make the same effort. Your boss is already pissed at us, so you'd better 
not bail on us now." 
Mulder's eyes had widened when Bill began speaking, but now his mouth turned up 
in a faint grin. "Skinner...kick ass." 
Bill cocked an eyebrow and glanced sideways at Grey. "He can try." 
As if summoned, Grey's walkie-talkie squawked to life.
"Grey? You read this?" 
Grey pulled it from his pocket and moved off to the side. "I hear you, Walt. 
What's the hold up?" 
"About a ton of concrete and steel," Skinner replied dryly. "Adamson just 
contacted me. He's fairly certain that he's in close proximity to your location. 
He said there are weak spots in the rubble beneath them and he's going to 
attempt breaking through. Just sit tight and don't get spooked by the noise." 
Grey glanced at the others, saw that they understood. "We hear you, Walt." 
Skinner hesitated. "How's Mulder?" 
Grey looked up, but at this distance Fox was barely discernable in the muted 
lighting. "Hanging in there." 
"Keep in touch," Skinner said quietly. 
Grey pocketed the transmitter and moved back toward the others. Bill, who had 
removed his jacket, astonished him by spreading it over Fox, not Dana. His 
brother's eyes were closed and he was shivering. Grey quickly stripped off his 
own coat and added it to Bill's. 
"Shock," Dana murmured. "That and the fact that the floor is freezing." 
Bill tugged her back against his chest and curled his arms around her small 
frame. Dana settled into his warmth with a sigh like a sob. 
"He wouldn't let me give him my coat," she said, her lip trembling. She used the 
pad of her thumb to swipe a few errant tears from beneath her lashes. "He was so 
adamant I gave in -- figured the stress was worse than the cold." 
The faint roar of heavy equipment caused the three of them to jump, in spite of 
Skinner's warning. Grey glanced at the ceiling uneasily, then settled back down 
next to his brother with his hands clasped around his knees. Fox continued to 
shiver, oblivious to the noise. 
"Was what you said true?" Scully asked after several minutes of strained 
silence. She tilted her head to see her brother's face. "Did you really get here 
by climbing up an elevator shaft?" 
Bill hitched a shoulder in Grey's direction. "He drove," he said, grinning. "I 
just came along for the ride." 
"He asked so nicely, I just couldn't refuse," Grey confirmed dryly. 
Scully's eyes leap-frogged between the two men, her lips parted in surprise. 
"You know, if I didn't know better, I'd say you two were actually beginning to 
get along with one another!" 
Bill eyed Grey as he replied. "You know the old saying about politics making for 
strange bedfellows? Guess the same could be said for a bomb." 
"I'll say one thing for your brother," Grey remarked grudgingly. "He's got a 
great catch." 
Bill smirked. "Yeah, but my high wire act could use some work." 
Scully rolled her eyes. "I'm guessing I'd rather not know what you two are 
talking about." 
The racket from the rescue equipment sharply increased in pitch, followed by the 
clatter of heavy objects striking the floor. The machine cut off, followed by a 
brief silence. 
"Hello? Agent Mulder? Agent Scully? Can you hear me?" 
"Over here!" Scully called frantically, leaning forward as if to crawl toward 
the voice. 
Bill's large hand on her arm restrained her. "I'll find them," he said gruffly. 
"You stay with Mulder." 
Scully gaped at his retreating back, then turned slowly to regard Grey with an 
arched brow. He simply shrugged. 
"Been campaigning for your cause, darlin', but I didn't think I was getting 
anywhere. Now sit down before you fall down, you look terrible." 
"You sure know how to sweet talk a girl," Scully grumbled, but she complied 
anyway. 
Grey placed a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder and they waited in tense 
silence until Bill reappeared. Close on his heels was a middle-aged man in 
coveralls and an EMT dragging a box of first aid paraphernalia. Scully waved the 
young man off with an impatient flick of her hand. 
"I'm all right. My partner needs you now." 
Before she could continue with an assessment of Mulder's condition, the older 
man spoke. 
"Agent Scully, I'm Joe Adamson. I can't tell you how happy we are to find you -- 
you and Agent Mulder have been our needles in the proverbial haystack!" 
"We're equally happy to be found, Mr. Adamson," Scully replied, her eyes glued 
to the paramedic as he checked Mulder's pupils and wrapped a blood pressure cuff 
around his upper arm. 
Seeing her preoccupation, Adamson lightly touched her arm to gain her attention. 
"I've got another medic coming with a basket. As soon as Olsen there has your 
partner ready to travel, we'll get him out of here." 
"It's not that easy," Scully said sharply. "If I'm correct, once that pipe is 
removed from his side the bleeding will escalate. He'll need a trauma team and a 
surgeon ASAP." 
Olsen, who had been examining Mulder's injuries while Grey held a high powered 
flashlight, raised his head and nodded grimly. "She's right, Joe. This has to be 
choreographed down to the smallest detail or he could bleed out before we've 
cleared the building. As it is, it's much too risky to transport to another 
hospital. Can they take him downstairs?" 
Scully flashed him a grateful look while Adamson frowned and pulled a radio from 
his belt. Scully scooted closer to Mulder while Adamson conferred with someone 
on the outside, voice low and terse. 
"How's he doing?" she asked, watching as Olsen efficiently started an I.V. in 
Mulder's hand. 
Olsen brushed blond bangs from his eyes and grimaced. "He's not good. Are you a 
doctor?" When Scully nodded, he continued. "He's pretty dehydrated -- but the 
saline will help with that. His BP is low and his pulse is thready. There's 
early signs of infection, but nothing like I would expect in a situation like 
this." 
"He just got out of the hospital a week ago after suffering from pneumonia," 
Scully murmured. "They've got him on some heavy duty antibiotics." 
Olsen winced. "Poor guy can't catch a break, huh? Don't worry, we'll get him 
through this. Once my partner gets here -- there she is." 
A young woman, her bobbed hair as dark as Olsen was fair, squeezed into the now 
crowded enclosure, pulling the long, wire basket that would eventually transport 
Mulder to freedom. 
"Glad you could join the party, Brandmeier" Olsen said smoothly. "Our patient 
here is Agent Mulder. This is his partner, Agent Scully, and his brother." 
Mulder's hand twitched and his eyelids fluttered. Olsen sprang quickly to 
prevent him from dislodging the I.V.
Further disturbed by the restriction, Mulder whimpered and began to struggle. 
"Take it easy, Agent Mulder, we're trying to help you," Olsen said, leaning into 
his grip. "You have to stop fighting me or you're going to mess up the I.V. and 
I'll have to start another. You don't want that, right?" 
Mulder went limp, but his eyes opened and flitted anxiously about. "Scully?" 
"Shhh. I'm right here, Mulder. Just lie still, we're going to get you out of 
here." 
Scully worked her way around to his head, where she could rest her hand without 
interfering with the EMTs. She tried to block out Olsen and Brandmeier's 
concerned expressions as they quietly conferred, petting Mulder's hair and 
drawing what strength she could from Grey's solid presence. Adamson put away his 
radio and cleared his throat. 
"Everything's set on the outside. The ER was barely affected by the blast and 
though they're closed to public admittance they've been treating patients 
internally who incurred injuries from the explosion. They'll have a team 
standing by. We'll take him up and out the fifth floor and around the building 
to the ER. Proceed whenever you're ready." 
Olsen and Brandmeier consulted each other with their eyes, reached an agreement. 
Olsen beckoned to Bill, who reluctantly crawled to his side. 
"First things first," he said briskly. "Mr..." 
"Bill. Bill Scully," Bill replied uneasily. 
"Bill. I need you to help me lift this beam so that Brandy can slip Agent 
Mulder's arm out from under it. Once that's done, we'll extract that section of 
pipe and get him the hell out of here." 
Bill hesitated only momentarily, then nodded. Following Olsen's lead, he seized 
the heavy plank of wood. 
"On three," Olsen said. "One, two, THREE!" 
Scully and Grey looked on anxiously as Bill and the EMT carefully hauled the 
beam upward, tendons standing out on their necks and perspiration dotting their 
foreheads.
Surrounding boards creaked ominously, but Brandmeier drew Mulder's arm from the 
niche slowly and deliberately. 
"Got it!" 
The beam settled back in place with a soft thump, Bill and Olsen huffing from 
the exertion. Mulder squirmed a bit as Brandmeier poked and prodded the limb. 
"Scullee. Make 'em stop," he moaned. 
Scully shushed him, relieved when Brandmeier flashed her a brilliant smile. 
"Looks good. Circulation wasn't affected but the wrist is sprained --possibly 
broken. It can wait until later." 
Scully leaned over to press a kiss to Mulder's temple. "Hear that, love?" she 
whispered. "Gonna have matching casts too." 
"Okay, let's take this act on the road," Olsen said briskly. "Brandy, did you 
give him some morphine?" 
"Just enough to take the edge off," she answered, adjusting the drip on the I.V. 
"I'm concerned about the head injury and he's awfully shocky." 
Olsen nodded, then addressed his observers. "I need everyone but Agent Mulder's 
brother to move back. Once I get rid of this pipe we're going to break speed 
records to get him out of here. Every second counts. Joe will help the rest of 
you out once we're gone." 
Bill moved to a corner, surreptitiously touching Scully's shoulder as he passed. 
She brushed her lips against Mulder's forehead, then his cheek, blinking hard 
against stinging eyes. Mulder's lids kept slipping shut and his gaze was vague 
and unfocused. Knowing that he couldn't grasp what was about to happen added to 
her distress. 
"I have to leave you for a few minutes, love," she murmured, the words catching 
in her constricted throat. "I'll just be a few steps behind you. Wait for me, 
okay? No ditching or I'll kick your ass." 
His only response was a string of consonants. Weeping inside, Scully tipped her 
chin up and gave Olsen a firm nod. 
Licking his lips, he curled his fingers around the pipe and gave an experimental 
tug. Mulder whimpered, and Scully's eyes slammed shut reflexively. Warmth 
encompassed her shivering body, along with a familiar and comforting scent. She 
leaned back into Bill's arms, appreciative of the support and that he offered it 
silently. She turned her face into his shoulder, for the first time unwilling to 
face Mulder's pain head on. Olsen's voice was tense but steady. 
"One. Two. THREE!" 
Mulder shrieked. The cry was raw, primal, and Scully felt it throughout her 
entire body like an electrical charge. A flurry of motion and a volley of terse, 
hasty words drew her from her sanctuary just in time to see Mulder strapped into 
the basket and whisked out the narrow opening, Olsen pulling and Brandmeier 
pushing. 
One snapshot image of his deathly pale face and shuttered eyes, a sparkle of 
moisture on his cheeks. 
Tears. 
And then he was gone. 
Scully listened dully as the scrape of the basket, shouted instructions, and 
hurried footfalls faded and utter stillness rushed in to take their place. 
She felt split, torn in two, as if Mulder had been ripped from her the way Olsen 
had ripped the pipe from Mulder's body. Involuntarily, her eyes strayed to the 
discarded piece of metal stained with his blood. 
He was gone. Just that quickly. Just that simply. 
Something large and solid blocked her view, ending her contemplation. Grey 
crouched down, glancing warily at Bill before taking her face between his hands. 

"Just a few minutes behind, Dana. You promised him, remember?" 
She stared into his eyes, Mulder's eyes, and felt the split begin to heal. She'd 
promised. And Mulder always held her to her promises. 
Sensing something from her expression, Grey dropped his hands and stepped back. 
Scully turned to Adamson, straightening her shoulders despite the throb in her 
arm. 
"Let's go. I've got somewhere I need to be."


Room 217NE
Wednesday
6:25 p.m.


An annoying hum, like a mosquito buzzing in his ear, drew Mulder reluctantly up 
from the depths of velvet darkness. Somewhere there was pain, sharp teeth 
gnawing the flesh of his side with avid intensity. Fortunately, a thick gray 
cloud cocooned him, encasing his limbs in lead and leaving his brain cells the 
consistency of slush. The pain was there, somewhere. He just didn't care. 
The quiet drone began fragmenting into pieces -- words, his torpid mind finally 
concluded. They danced like butterflies just beyond his reach, and he was 
tempted to ignore them and sink back into the comfort of the darkness when a 
single syllable dropped into his grasp and he latched on, following its thread. 
"...Dana was very lucky. Both breaks were clean and she won't need surgery." 
Grey's voice. 
"Still can't believe she wouldn't let them admit her for observation. Sometimes 
she can be as hard-headed as your brother." 
Skinner. 
"I'm just grateful she sat still long enough for them to set the breaks and give 
her some fluids," Grey answered dryly. "She wouldn't let anyone touch her until 
he got out of surgery." 
Skinner snorted. "If they were smart, they didn't push the issue. I've been on 
the receiving end when she's distraught over Mulder and believe me, you don't 
want to go there." 
A soft chuckle. "I hear you." 
"You all right? Playing Keanu Reeves in an elevator shaft can't have been good 
for your back." 
Mulder sensed the shrug. "It's pretty tight right now but the doc said I didn't 
add any damage, just set back my recovery a bit. Funny thing is, I never felt it 
until after we got Fox out of the building. Adrenaline, I guess." 
"Where's Agent Harding? I was looking forward to watching her kick your butt. 
She was pretty worried, you know." 
A chuff of laughter, then Grey's voice softened. "She already did. I was 
suitably repentant. She was dead on her feet, so I sent her home to get some 
sleep." 
"Wouldn't hurt to take your own advice." 
"Yes sir, Assistant Director Skinner." Quiet laughter. "I swore to Dana that I 
wouldn't leave him until she gets back. It was the only way to get her to lie 
down for a while." 
The teeth were gnawing a bit more vigorously now, harder to ignore, and Mulder 
wanted to see his brother's condition for himself. Concentrating mightily, he 
levered heavy eyelids to half-mast and tried to focus. He must have made a sound 
because when the blurred images finally resolved both Grey and Skinner were 
bracketing the bed and watching him intently. 
"Hey, little brother," Grey said, eyes shadowed but warm. "How do you like the 
new accommodations I got you?" 
"'S hoping for...suite at...Hilton." 
His throat had that ground glass quality consistent with intubation and Mulder 
screwed up his face in displeasure. 
"Here. I'll be Scully this time," Skinner said wryly, holding a straw to his 
lips. 
Cool, slick, wetness. Mulder drank and drank, vowing to never take water for 
granted again. He finished the entire cup, then eyed Skinner as he replaced it 
on the bedside table. 
"Scully kisses me. Feel free...skip that part." 
Grey chortled and his boss rolled his eyes. "Must be feeling better. His 
smartass sense of humor is back." 
Mulder let his head loll to the right. "How 'bout...damage report?" 
Grey clasped his hand, and Mulder was surprised by how good the simple physical 
contact felt. His brother sank into a chair but left their hands linked. Skinner 
walked around to carefully perch on the foot of the bed. 
"Minor concussion. Sprained wrist. A set of bruises that would do a prizefighter 
justice. And a half-inch hole in your side that somehow managed to avoid every 
major organ. You were beyond lucky, Fox. You'd better rethink your religious 
stance, 'cause someone was looking out for you yesterday, and it wouldn't do to 
piss Him off." 
Mulder's eyes wandered over the twin bags of blood and I.V. solutions, then 
locked onto Grey's. "Scully?" 
"Concussion and a couple of broken bones in her arm. She's lying down on a cot 
in the nurses' lounge, thanks to Elena. They wanted to admit her but she 
politely told them what they could do with their forms," Grey smirked. 
Mulder's lips curved. "Tha's my Scully," he slurred. 
His side beginning to burn with a vengeance, Mulder tried to shift to his right. 
The resulting explosion of pain rivaled Rynne's bomb. The world receded to a 
pinpoint and his ears buzzed loudly for several minutes. He didn't even realize 
he'd been moaning until he noticed his sore throat had returned. 
Grey was standing again, his face tight. "Guess I forgot to mention that you 
shouldn't try to move right now." 
Mulder tried valiantly to grin but it felt like a failure. "Don't suppose...time 
for more good stuff?" he asked hopefully. 
"I'll get Elena," Skinner said, jumping at the opportunity to be useful. 
Mulder watched him duck out the door, managed a wry twist of his lips. "Gonna 
get 'em together...'f I don' kill
m'self first." 
Grey dropped back into his chair, shaking his head. "You do have a way about 
you," he mused. 
"I'm getting the strongest sense of déjà vu," Elena said, pausing in the doorway 
and offering Mulder a sassy grin. "Must be related to a past life." 
"Ha, ha," Mulder said weakly. "Should be...comedienne." 
"After yesterday, I just may give that some serious thought," she replied, 
crossing to the bed and setting down a small, stainless steel tray. 
She proceeded to slip a thermometer in his mouth and appropriated his good 
wrist, eyeing the clock as she checked his pulse. The blood pressure cuff went 
on and she retrieved the thermometer, nodding in approval. 
"Lookin' mighty good, Mulder. Temperature just a little above normal and BP is 
climbing back up to a reasonable range. Good thing, too, since Dr. Brewer was 
pretty ticked off that you messed up his hard work." 
Mulder gave her a longsuffering glare. "Sorry. Apologize...when see him." 
Elena examined him with a critical eye, taking in the lines of pain around his 
eyes. She touched his cheek gently, the skin cool and clammy under her 
fingertips. 
"Pain's bad?" she asked, all flippancy gone. 
His eyes slid away to study the frayed edge of the blanket, but he nodded. Fully 
aware this man tended to minimize his hurts, not exaggerate them, she laid her 
hand briefly on his forehead and then picked up a syringe from the tray. 
"I've got just what you need," she murmured. 
Within five minutes he was sleeping deeply, fingers slack in Grey's grasp. "You 
must have given him some good stuff," he said, cocking his head at Elena. 
"He earned it," she replied, eyes soft with compassion. "A lot of people owe him 
and Dana their lives." She smiled up at Skinner and Grey. "And the two of you, 
as well." 
Skinner actually grinned at her, some of the weariness falling from his 
features. "You didn't do so bad yourself. The rest of us are trained for this 
sort of thing, but you... You kept a cool head, Elena. You told us what we 
needed to know, and you helped evacuate those most at risk. They owe you too." 
Elena gave a mocking little bow, but her eyes were pleased. "Well, thank you. 
I'm on my way out of here -- can I buy you two a cup of coffee?" 
Grey held up a hand. "Thanks. I'll take a rain check." 
"He's just going to sleep, you know. I hit him with enough morphine to stop a 
tank." 
One corner of Grey's mouth lifted at her description. "I know. But I promised 
Dana I'd stick with him until she gets back, and I value my life." 
Skinner's smile widened. "Smart man." 
Grey listened to their banter as they walked out the door, glad that Elena 
seemed to bring out Walt's lighter side. The man certainly needed to loosen up 
now and then. 
He squirmed around in the uncomfortable chair, finally propping his legs on the 
end of Fox's mattress with a little hiss of relief. His brother could have been 
made of stone, but for the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Grey let his head 
drop to the seatback and closed his eyes. 
"She said I had to stay, but she didn't say I had to be awake," he mumbled 
wearily. "I won't tell if you don't." 
Despite sore muscles and the hard chair, sleep found Grey easily.


Room 217 NE 
Wednesday 
7:22 p.m.


This time when he swam up to consciousness Mulder knew she was there. He could 
smell her -- the distinct blend of soap, shampoo, and Scully that lingered on 
their sheets and gave him a warm feeling of contentment. His lips curved before 
he opened his eyes, his reward a blinding smile from his favorite redhead. 
"Hey, sleeping beauty. It's about time you decided to join the land of the 
living." 
The straw appeared before he could open his mouth, and he chuckled a little to 
himself as he sipped. When she pulled it away he gave her a loopy smile. "You're 
a lot prettier than Skinner, babe." 
Scully laughed, an all out expression of mirth that he'd rarely been privileged 
to witness. Her palm cupped his cheek and her thumb brushed across his lower 
lip. "You are so stoned," she said, little riffs still escaping. 
Mulder wasn't sure what he'd said that was so funny -- the narcotics racing 
through his system left him too fuzzy- headed to puzzle it out. It didn't really 
matter anyway. He'd make an idiot of himself on a routine basis if he could 
generate laughter like that. 
"How do you feel?" Scully asked him, her fingers automatically slipping to the 
pulse point on his wrist. 
He opened his mouth to reply but a yawn slipped out first. "Better. Side just 
aches a little." 
"I'll bet," she replied, eyes still dancing. 
Mulder slipped his wrist from her grasp and clumsily twined their fingers. 
"You?" 
"Pretty good, actually. I caught up on some sleep since you were down for the 
count. And I'm on drugs myself -- though hardly of the same caliber as what's 
dripping through that I.V. of yours!" 
Mulder squinted a little, struggling to focus his wandering concentration long 
enough to assess her appearance. To his relief, her words seemed to be sincere. 
A cast encased her arm from wrist to shoulder, and there was a livid bruise on 
her cheek, but her eyes were bright and her posture relaxed. 
"Look good," he said, attempting a lecherous wink but only succeeding in 
provoking more gales of laughter. 
He was still tired, so tired, and his eyes involuntarily began to drift closed 
when an important question cut through his muzzy brain. 
"Go home tomorrow?" 
Well. Obviously he'd discovered how to make the laughter vanish too. Scully 
sobered and her thumb caressed the tender skin around his I.V. 
"Mulder, you've been through a severe trauma, and right on the heels of a 
terrible illness. You need time to recoup, to build up your strength..." 
"Grey said no major organs. An' no infection." 
"You lost a lot of blood, love. And you're on intravenous painkillers. You're 
going to be hurting when you try to get up," she chided gently. 
"Be fine," he insisted, wincing but doggedly shifting himself forward as if to 
prove the point. "I'll rest." 
"Mulderrr," she groaned helplessly. "Maybe by Friday -- *if* you keep improving, 
okay?" 
He shook his head adamantly, and to her bewilderment seemed on the verge of 
tears. "NO, Scully. Tomorrow. Please?" He turned his head to stare at the wall, 
blinking hard. "Don't wanna spend Thanksgiving in the hospital, Scully. Please." 

His ragged plea, delivered barely above a whisper, cut through her confusion and 
splintered her heart in the process. Of course, tomorrow was Thanksgiving. A day 
rife with unhappy memories for Mulder. The first without his mother's presence 
-- such as it was -- in his life. No wonder he was willing to endure anything 
not to spend it here. 
"I forgot, love," she admitted, nudging his leg so she could sit beside him. "I 
can't believe I could actually forget about Thanksgiving, but I've been a little 
preoccupied." 
"'S okay. I just can't..." 
"Mulder, my man! How's the incredible human Timex tonight? Dude, you are one for 
the record books, that's for sure." 
Dr. Brewer breezed into the room with impeccable timing, sporting an incredibly 
gaudy tie and a wide grin. Oblivious to the scene he'd interrupted, he continued 
to converse as he pulled Mulder's chart from the pocket at the end of the bed 
and flipped through the pages. 
"Yesterday was crazy, huh? You guys do that for a living? This job doesn't look 
half-bad after all! I gotta say, though, you are one lucky son of a bitch, 
Mulder. Considering what your body's been through the last few weeks, you're 
doing great -- no, make that amazing. You..." 
Their silence finally seeped through his chatter and he trailed off, eyes 
darting back and forth between their faces. 
"What's up?" 
"Nick," Scully said, squeezing Mulder's leg reassuringly. "We have to talk."


Room 217 NE 
Georgetown Memorial
Thanksgiving Day
3:08 p.m.


"More pie, sweetheart?" 
Mulder waved a hand, while he swallowed a mouthful of whipped cream, gazing 
pleadingly into Mrs. Scully's eyes.
"Maggie, have pity! I'm stuffed." 
"Small wonder, you ate like a pig," Grey pointed out, standing up and stacking 
his brother's now empty paper plate on top of his own. 
"Like you have room to talk," Mulder retorted. 
"He's right, Grey!" Kristen admonished, laughing. "People who live in glass 
houses..." 
Grey adopted a wounded expression. "Et tu, Kristen? Siding with my brother 
against me?" 
"Just keeping you honest," she replied, pressing a kiss to the corner of his 
mouth and appropriating the plates. "It's hardly fair to pick on an injured 
man." 
"In other words, the answer is yes," he called after her as she scooped up an 
empty cup and headed for the trash can. 
"I want to thank you again, Maggie," Mulder said, ignoring his brother's 
theatrics. "I never intended..." 
"Doesn't matter what you intended, Fox," Maggie said firmly. "You're a part of 
this family now -- don't you realize that? I'd never let one of my children 
spend a holiday in the hospital, alone." 
He stared at her mutely for a moment, then looked quickly away eyelids 
flickering rapidly. He sensed Grey make himself scarce, felt Maggie's hand run 
affectionately through his hair. 
"I'm sure you miss her, sweetheart. Holidays just seem to intensify it. I must 
admit I find myself thinking of Bill and Missy more this time of year." 
It took him a moment to process that she was speaking of his mom and not 
Samantha. Mulder swallowed the tears and met her gaze. 
"In some ways you've been more of a mother to me than she ever was," he 
confessed softly. "But I think... I *think* she regretted that." 
Scully, chatting with Tara near the doorway, drifted over, gaze shifting between 
their faces, her expression tentative. Mulder smiled reassuringly, touched by 
the mixture of relief and love that crossed her face. 
"Is she done stuffing you, Mulder?" she asked, slipping her hand into his. 
Maggie looped an arm around her daughter's waist in a hug. "You know me better 
than that, sweetie. I haven't even begun! Now if you two will excuse me, I 
haven't had a chance to wish Walt and Elena a Happy Thanksgiving." She headed 
across the room to where Skinner and Elena were conversing with Grey. 
Scully turned to Mulder, her eyes doing a quick inventory from the top of his 
head to the tip of his toes. 
"See anything you like?" Mulder asked, producing a respectable leer, thanks to 
the reduction of morphine in his bloodstream. 
"Mmm. Let's just say I'm *very* thankful this year," Scully responded, giving 
him a smoldering look of her own. "How are you holding up under all the 
festivity?" 
"I'm a little tired and sore," he admitted. 
"You can have another shot, Mulder. You had them cut back the dosage pretty 
drastically." 
"Your mother went to an awful lot of trouble to pull this off, Scully. I didn't 
want to be too high to appreciate it. I'll be all right for a little bit 
longer." 
Scully eyed him shrewdly, but whatever she saw seemed to satisfy her. "Mom 
wanted to do this, Mulder. When she heard it was impossible for Dr. Brewer to 
release you, she felt terrible. She insisted that if you couldn't come to 
Thanksgiving, Thanksgiving would come to you." 
"I'm sure Bill loved that," Mulder said under his breath. 
Bill was currently seated in the corner near the door, arms folded across his 
chest, watching the activity with a jaundiced eye. 
"He was less than enthusiastic," Scully admitted, pursing her lips in a useless 
attempt to hide her smirk. "Mom told him to feel free to spend the day at home, 
alone. She's adopted you now, Mulder. There's no escape." 
Mulder tore his gaze from Bill, a smile creeping back onto his wan face. "Yeah. 
She told me. I'm grateful, and I'm sorry I hared out on you yesterday. I 
just..." He sucked in a long breath, blew it out slowly. "It was too much like 
the holidays when I was a child, after Samantha was gone. I tried, year after 
year, to concoct a way to bring our family back together. To make it special and 
maybe recapture just a little of the good times we used to have. But no matter 
what I did, how creative I was, it was always a bust." 
He looked down at their joined hands wistfully. "I wanted this year to be 
different. When Mom died, the last vestiges of my old life died with her. I 
don't mean to sound as if I've given up on finding Sam -- I'll never stop 
looking. But I'm also not that lonely little kid anymore, desperate to belong. I 
have Grey, and I have you. That trip to Mexico was more than just a vacation to 
me. It was a sign, proof that this year I'm not on the outside looking in. When 
it all went to hell like that, when I realized that I would wind up stuck in 
here..." 
"It felt like old times," Scully murmured. 
"In the worst sense of the word," Mulder agreed. 
She gently disengaged her fingers from his and reached up to brush a lock of 
hair from his eyes. "Even if my mother hadn't turned into the Martha Stewart of 
the surgical wing, you wouldn't have been on the outside, love." She ducked her 
head and grinned into his eyes. "Or at least you would have had someone out 
there with you. And believe me, I'm just as disappointed about the vacation as 
you are. But I consider it postponed, not cancelled. Once you're up to it, I 
expect to be lying on the beach in that skimpy bikini you bought me, while you 
rub suntan lotion on my back and bring me a cold drink." 
Mulder raised an eyebrow. "I'm beginning to understand my place in the grand 
scheme of things," he said sardonically. His eyes dropped and he shifted 
uncomfortably. "Might be a while before I'm ready to wear a swim suit, babe. Got 
a glimpse of the damage when they changed the dressing today, and my left side 
is not a pretty sight." 
Suddenly his patented leer was wearing Scully's face. "Mulder, when you wear 
that suit, it's not your *side* they look at." 
He gawked at her in shock, then embarrassed amusement.
"Sculleee!" 
"Am I interrupting something?" 
Skinner's voice startled them both, and Mulder shot Scully a quelling glare. 
"Not at all, sir. Scully and I were just mourning the loss of our vacation." 
"Only you could find a way to be injured in a hospital, Mulder," Skinner said 
ruefully, shaking his head. 
Scully half-heartedly attempted to conceal her grin behind her hand, and he 
barely resisted the impulse to stick out his tongue. There was obviously still 
too much morphine in his system, since no snappy retort would come to mind.
Skinner spared him further deliberation by turning serious. 
"Mulder, I wanted to let you know that I checked on Theresa Rynne. She was 
evacuated before the explosion and she's still alive, though in critical 
condition. The shock of her husband's death, and the circumstances surrounding 
it, understandably put a further strain on her already weakened condition." 
"What's her prognosis?" Mulder asked quietly. "Did you speak to a doctor?" 
"Her new cardiologist," Skinner replied grimly. "She was transferred to George 
Washington and assigned a new physician, since Dr. Lawrence... Anyway, he was 
less than hopeful. Said she'd probably survive another couple weeks, a month at 
most. All they can do at this point is make her comfortable. They don't expect 
her to leave the hospital. She has a sister that's assuming guardianship of the 
children." 
Mulder absorbed this information, his face impassive. "Did you take care of the 
other matter?" He sensed Scully's sharp gaze, maintained eye contact with 
Skinner. 
Skinner averted his eyes, jaw tight. "It's a highly unorthodox request, Mulder. 
I don't even want to *think* about all the articles of protocol I'm helping you 
violate," he said sotto voice. 
"Then you did it?" 
Skinner's eyes were back on his, piercing. "Yes. My lawyer had a trusted 
colleague who's handling it. The trust fund will be set up so that Rynne's son 
can only access the money for his education. There's a second one for the 
daughter if she decides to go to college when the time comes. They're anonymous, 
and won't be traced back to you." 
The tension left Mulder's body and he leaned back farther into the pillows, 
wincing. "Thank you, sir. I understand your reservations, but this was something 
I needed to do." 
Skinner acknowledged his words with a slight dip of his head. "You have nothing 
to feel badly about, Agent Mulder. Your handling of Rynne was above reproach, 
and if not for outside intervention, I have no doubt that you would have 
resolved the situation peacefully." He appeared to mentally push aside 
irritation that his own statement engendered. "Now I think I'll have that second 
piece of pie that Maggie has been offering." 
Mulder stared after Skinner's retreating back, a thoughtful expression on his 
face. Scully cleared her throat, giving him a narrow look. 
"Something you forgot to share with me, Mulder?" 
He flushed guiltily, tugging her closer to the bed. "I was going to tell you 
eventually, Scully. I just wasn't sure how you'd react." 
His expression was contrite, but she also sensed a deeper sorrow lurking under 
the surface. Slipping off her shoes, she nudged him over and carefully joined 
him on the bed. Her arm still ached, and it felt good to lean into the warmth of 
his body and the softness of the pillows. 
"Scully, not now. Your mother is here and there's a minor present," Mulder 
teased, indicating Matthew, who was busily driving cars on the windowsill. 
"You're deflecting, Mulder," she said, quieting his fidgeting hand by snagging 
it with her own. "Tell me about this trust fund." 
He went very still, his voice dropping to a murmur. "I'm not blaming myself, 
Scully. I know there's nothing I could have done to stop what happened. But I 
couldn't forget how proud Daniel looked when he talked about his son. The first 
Rynne to go to college." 
"So you decided to make sure he'd be able to graduate, in spite of his father's 
death," Scully said. 
"His kids were the reason I was finally able to reach him, Scully," Mulder 
replied defensively. "It meant everything to him that his son might succeed 
where he hadn't. You know how I feel about the money my parents left me. This 
puts some of it to an honorable use." 
Scully brought his hand to her lips and placed a kiss on the palm. "Mulder. I 
think it's a wonderful gesture. Did you really think I wouldn't approve?" 
A shrug of his shoulder. "Not exactly. Just that you might think I was doing 
this out of a sense of guilt. That it was
a way of punishing myself for not being able to save Daniel." 
"*I think* that you're someone who feels deeply for other people," she replied 
affectionately. "It's just one of the reasons I fell in love with you." 
He shifted a little to look into her face, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. 
"Just one, babe? Care to mention some of the others? Or better yet, let me 
refresh your memory?" 
"My mother and Matthew, Mulder, remember? Not to mention how you your little 
demonstration would affect Bill." 
Mulder leaned back, a beatific smile spreading across his face. "Ahh, Scully. 
Now *there's* a picture that's worth a thousand words." 
She chuckled softly, leaning her head against his shoulder. 
Across the room, Bill eyed their cozy position and turned stiffly in his chair, 
taking another gulp of the drink in his hand. 
"You're sure the life of the party, Billy. Better tone it down, we *are* in a 
hospital, after all." 
Bill scowled up into Grey's mild smile, pushing his chair back and standing. 
"When I find a reason to celebrate, I just might be," he growled. 
Grey shook his head, the humor leaving his expression. "It's all staring you in 
the face, Bill! Two days ago a bomb took out a wing of this hospital, yet we're 
here, alive and reasonably intact, to tell the tale. You could be standing over 
your sister's grave right now but instead you're here, a drink in your hand, a 
wonderful meal in your belly, surrounded by people who, for some reason, love 
you -- including your sister. What more do you need?" 
Bill had the good grace to look ashamed. "She's my little sister, McKenzie, and 
I love her. I just want what's best for her. This life she leads with your 
brother -- it's not what I would have chosen for her." 
Grey shook his head. "She doesn't need you to choose for her," he said shrewdly. 
"She needs you to love and support her in the choices *she* makes." 
Bill heaved a gusty sigh and glanced back to where his sister and Mulder were 
lying on the bed, their heads close together as they talked quietly. He clenched 
his jaw and turned back to Grey. 
"Supporting her is a bit much for me right now. But I guess I can stay out of 
her way." 
"Now *that's* something to celebrate," Grey said, clapping him on the back. "How 
about joining Kristen and me for a piece of pie and you can tell me all about 
where you learned to catch someone on the fly." 
"It's all in the wrists, McKenzie," Bill answered, grinning. 
Mulder glanced over just in time to see his brother slap Bill's shoulder, and 
the answering smile. Squeezing Scully's hand to gain her attention he motioned 
toward the two men. 
"Scully, look at that!" 
Scully swiveled her head and watched their brothers for a few moments, a smile 
spreading slowly across her lips. 
"Now *there's* an extreme possibility, Mulder. Must be an X-File."


End 
Author's note: Well, if you've made it to the end, hope you enjoyed the ride! 
This story began as just a small piece to follow Legacies and resolve a few 
loose ends. Then my cyberbud, Vickie Moseley, had to complicate things by 
casually tossing out a couple of terrific ideas. Suddenly, my short little 
holiday story became a major epic - thanks, Vickie! <VBG> But I have to say, 
this story truly would not be what it is without her input and I am very 
grateful. Thanks also to Vickie, Laurie, and Donna for their beta magic. This 
was a lot of work, and at times I thought I'd never finish, but it was lots of 
fun too. To all of you who have sent me wonderful feedback for this series - you 
keep me going and make this so rewarding. Thank you!