SUMMARY - They thought that as long as they had each other they would survive. But what happens when reality begins to blur and their worlds turn upside down?

AUTHOR'S NOTES - I finished this a long time ago but never did anything with it. Now that I have some time on my hands I decided to return to it, play with it, re- write it and post it. This is the result. If you start to read this never fear - it's absolutely NOT a WIP aside from the usual editing etc. If you enjoy it please feedback. It makes me not mind the never ending treadmill that is the editing process! Also a word or two on the classification of this fic. This is very different from anything I ever wrote before and just to warn you it contains certain scenes that may be viewed as being harsh both physical and mental. If you don't like to see them hurting you might want to skip this. Huge thanks as always to Peggy who beta-d this for me and to Meg for the edit. Couldn't ever do it without you guys. :-) DISCLAIMER - The X-Files remain the sole property of Chris Carter, 1013 Productions and FOX. No infringement intended.

Genesis - Prologue

Mulder hated days like this. Days where they had no new cases to investigate. Nowhere to hide and nowhere to run.

A day spent sorting through the seemingly never ending pile of 'visiting' case files sent to them from various field offices around the country in the hope that just one out of the pile would amount to something substantial enough to warrant his and Scully's involvement.

But out of the twenty-five or so that had found their way here, dumped unceremoniously on the desk, Mulder was smart enough to realise that the chance of actually finding a genuine X-File amongst them was slim at best. So far today all he had seen, as he meticulously read the type written words, were sloppy investigative procedures. No mystery. No surprises. Not a single enigma to be found anywhere.

With a little care and attention the majority of these cases could be solved. But by their opening Agents - not by Mulder and Scully. As a professional courtesy, Mulder would offer advice pertaining to alternative avenues of investigation which he knew wouldn't be acted upon, and then he would simply pack the files up and send them back from whence they came.

It was, he admitted, a little disheartening to recognise that tomorrow would in all probability herald more of the same.

He glanced across at Scully, smiling slightly at the sight of her opposite him, poring over a file with a frown creasing her smooth brow. The look on her face spoke volumes. She was tired, she was pissed off, and she was bored. Mulder didn't blame her.

"Why don't you call it a day," he suggested. "I can finish up here."

She looked back at him, narrowing her eyes as she did so and typically, refused to back down gracefully. She waved her hand vaguely in the direction of the files.

"I can't leave you to wade through these by yourself."

Mulder grinned. "Yeah, you can. I don't imagine there's much in them to find anyway. No point the two of us wasting our time right? Besides..." he spread his arms wide to take in the whole office "This is my life remember? This what I live for. My guiding light, my reason for being, the yin to my yang..."

Scully held up her hand to him, palm up. "Mulder, stop. I get the message." She began to rise up out of her chair, stretching the kinks out of her back as she did so.

"You're sure? I can stay if you want."

Mulder shook his head.

"Nahhhh, you go. I'll see you in the morning."

He watched as his partner headed for the door, pausing by the coat rack to grab her jacket which she slung casually over her shoulder and just for a moment he regretted letting her go. The office always seemed empty somehow without her working beside him. Too many years together had developed a bond - a closeness he had never felt towards any other human being that had ever entered his life. It was difficult sometimes to fathom and he tried not to think about it too much. Tried not to admit to himself that what he felt for her went way beyond a professional friendship. He would willingly die for her. He had proved it in the past, had risked his life without even a second thought just as she had returned the favor many times over. Theirs was a complicated relationship. Sometimes difficult, often tempestuous, but always rewarding.

She turned briefly towards him and flashed him one of those dazzling smiles that she seemed to reserve just for him and just looking at her caused Mulder's throat to tighten. It was a smile that lit up her whole face and reached right in to the depths of her sparkling blue eyes, making the years fall away from her, transporting him back to a time when they stood together by an empty grave in Oregon as the rain poured down. So young back then. So trusting. But not anymore. They had seen too much to ever hope to regain that innocence. "Night, Mulder. See you in the morning."

Mulder returned her smile, thanking God for the thousandth time for sending her to him.

"In the morning." He finally managed before dropping his gaze back to the paperwork in front of him.

He listened to the sound of her footsteps receding in to the distance before finally reaching for the next file, attempting to concentrate on the words in front of him. It wasn't easy.

For the next half hour or so he read report after report that contained nothing more paranormal than a bunch of proverbial brick walls. He had come across this kind of thing too many times during his time on the X-Files and it was beginning to get rather tiring. His reputation for the unusual had spread like wildfire and an unfortunate consequence of that was the knowledge that he and Scully were fast becoming a dumping ground for every unresolved case that happened to find the Agents-in-charge scratching their heads. When in doubt, good 'ole Spooky Mulder would get the job done.

And reading the files in front of him, Mulder had no doubts whatsoever that he and Scully could indeed give insight in to these cases. But not of a paranormal nature. There was nothing in these that good, solid investigative procedure wouldn't cure. It was laziness, pure and simple, and Mulder knew that he had quite enough of his own unsolved cases without shouldering the burden of someone else's. So far today, he had found nothing in any of these files that actually warranted his and Scully's involvement and certainly nothing to suggest they needed more than the most cursory once over.

To send him this kind of case was a waste of everyone's time and energy. Not to mention the fact that there was the potential to waste valuable time that would be better employed in actually trying to catch the sometimes violent perpetrators.

He eyed the stack of yellow Post-it notes atop his desk, fingers literally itching to attach a scathing note to the file he held in his hand before he slipped it back into it's manila envelope for dispatch back to the opening Agent. But he didn't. He knew it would do no good whatsoever. That tomorrow another stack would be waiting for them when they came in to work.

He glanced down at the remaining files that stared accusingly back at him from where they lay. Fifteen down, three to go. Another half hour at the most and he would be able to put them to bed for night and head home. It had been a long day.

Sighing softly, Mulder picked up the topmost file and eased it out of it's envelope, his eyes scanning the information attached to it's front.

*Alleged kidnapping of a minor.*

He raised his eyebrows, interest piqued. It was rare they were ever asked to get involved in kidnappings. Disappearances yes. He had hundreds of case files pertaining to just that, but kidnappings were rare. Of course, during his time in the Violent Crimes Section he had profiled a few cases but had rarely been involved in the hands-on investigation.

He opened the cover, perusing the first page which contained the data pertaining to the case. Scanning the information rapidly, he leaned forwards slightly. An unconscious gesture as he became ever more interested.

*Charlotte Bethany Stevens (Minor) age three years ten months. Disappeared from her home on August 10th 1999. Mother Christine Stevens discovered by immediate neighbour in state of extreme agitation. Defensive injuries to upper extremities. Signs of struggle in house. No ransom note as yet forthcoming. Forensics report inconclusive. (Enclosed) Local interviews have turned up no witnesses to date. All potential suspects eliminated from enquiry at this time. Unable to thoroughly question Christine Stevens due to hospitalisation. Allegations made re Governmental conspiracy relating to her missing daughter. No evidence to substantiate these claims at this time. All avenues of investigation exhausted.*

At the base of the page a small, yellow post-it note was stuck crookedly, it's edges curling over where it had been confined to the envelope. Mulder peeled it off, a grin spreading across his face as he read the familiar scrawl.

*Mulder, Saw the words 'Government' and 'Conspiracy' and couldn't help thinking of you and that fiery partner of yours! Give it the once over and let me know what you think. It's yours if you want it - we're going nowhere with it. Give me a call. John Wickham*

Wickham had been Mulder's classmate during his time in Quantico, and had gone on to become one of the bureau's most respected criminal profilers. He had risen up the ranks to Special Agent In Charge, and Mulder had frequently seen his name appearing in the national newspapers. He was one of the few people Mulder held a genuine respect toward, and he suspected that, if Wickham was calling in the cavalry, the case must be playing on his mind. It was unusual at the extreme for him to admit defeat.

Mulder balled up the note and tossed it toward the direction of the waste bin, grimacing in disgust as it bounced off the rim and landed on the floor. He turned his attention back to the folder and flipped over the page. Paper clipped to the top edge a photograph stared back at him.

Obviously taken at a professional studio it showed the image of a blonde haired, blue eyed little girl, smiling happily for the camera. In her hands she held a stuffed plushy toy rabbit, clutching it possessively to her chest. Her hair was long, but two ribboned barrettes held it back from her face. A face which Mulder would have known anywhere. The shape of the eyes, the lips, the nose were all too familiar to him.

He let the file fall from his fingers and his eyes shifted involuntarily across to Scully's desk, the implications for her all too obvious. He resisted the urge to simply put the file back in it's envelope and mail it back to San Diego, knowing that in doing so he would be compromising both his life's work and the trust of his partner. A trust which, should she discover what he had held in his hands, could never hope to be recovered.

He forced himself to eye the photograph once again, whilst all the time fighting an internal battle within himself. Groaning softly, he dropped his head in his hands, blocking out both the image of his partner and that of the child in front of him. Shaking his head numbly at what could not be denied.

"Jesus Christ." He muttered shakily.

He sat, locked in the same position for a considerable length of time, knowing that by sitting there he was only putting off the inevitable. Eventually though, he rose from his desk and picked up the file. Barely even conscious of doing so, he left the office, locking the door behind him out of habit. But if he were asked later he wouldn't be able to remember doing it. Vaguely he was aware of his footsteps reverberating around the concrete corridor that led to the parking garage, his mind whirling as the implications began to sink in.

The file felt heavy in his hands. A thin bundle of paper and metal that weighted down his soul and stole his voice from him. A collection of words and pictures that he knew, had the ability to send his partner rocketing backwards to that terrifying time when he had almost lost her. When she had turned tortured eyes on him and silently begged him to make everything okay again.

The endless nights when he had been awoken to the sound of her screaming her dead daughter's name, holding her, shuddering and terrified against him as he soothed her back to sleep before returning to her couch to lie wide awake for the remainder of the night.

For weeks and weeks it had carried on, eventually tapering off and eventually disappearing altogether as Scully had somehow found peace within herself again.

A peace he was about to shatter.

Georgetown. Washington D.C.
7:06p.m.

Mulder found himself to be so preoccupied with his thoughts, that on opening the double doors which led in to Scully's apartment building, he failed to see the female who, at the exact same moment, was exiting. They collided heavily, and he suddenly found himself looking directly in to the angry blue eyes of his partner. Judging by her expression she had been about to give him a piece of her mind, but on realising who he was, her mouth closed abruptly.

"Mulder? ... what are you doing here? I thought you'd gone home."

Mulder waved the file at her.

"I need to show you something."

Scully groaned as she identified the tagged brown cover of a 'visiting' case file.

"Can't it wait until tomorrow? I'm kind of in a hurry right now."

"A date?" Mulder asked irrelevantly, trying to delay the moment for as long as possible. Scully smirked at him and folded her arms across her chest.

"Yeah, a date. With my mother. Which..." she checked her watch, "I'm currently running twenty three minutes behind for, and if you don't get out of my way I'm going to miss out on entirely."

Mulder made no move to allow her past, and as she looked intently at him, Scully felt the first impressions that something was wrong, nervous tension caused butterflies to break out inside of her, fluttering within her as her expression became guarded.

"Mulder, what is it?"

Her unease only intensified as her partner failed to respond, just stared down at her, the dilemma written clearly across his face. He spoke only when the tension between them became such that Scully could almost hear both of their heartbeats.

"Not here."

He turned the corner which led to Scully's apartment, and waited impatiently as she withdrew the keys for the door from her pocket, noticing how her hand shook as she fitted the key in to the lock. After what seemed like hours, she swung the door open and gestured him inside, following him in and slamming it shut behind her. Mulder flinched at the sound. Scully faced him accusingly.

"Whatever this is about Mulder, it had better be good," she warned.

Mulder crossed the room and picked up the telephone. He handed it to her.

"Call your mother," he advised. "Tell her you can't make it."

"What?.....Why?" The exasperation was evident in her voice, and Mulder held up his hand to silence her, a conciliatory gesture which indicated to Scully that he was aware that he was making a mess of things.

Sighing heavily, she backed down and accepted the proffered phone from him, watching him out of the corner of her eye as she waited for the call to connect.

As she greeted her Mother, Mulder used the time to get himself under control, wishing he felt more confident that he was indeed doing the right thing, that in coming here he was serving her best interests. He glanced around the familiar surroundings, recalling the time he had spent here in the past. He had always felt comfortable here, the open space and layout of the rooms a direct contrast to his own cramped apartment.

Scully took great care of her home and Mulder had never come here to find it anything other than neat and organised.

Tonight was no exception. The setting sun's rays danced brightly on the white walls, lending everything a bright, rosy glow. It was a place to relax in, to unwind after a hard day. It represented all that was positive about his partner, gave him valuable insight as to what she was like underneath the professional, tough facade she wore like a suit of armour. Her femininity manifested itself here more than anywhere else both in the decor and the layout.

He had been surprised when he had first had cause to come here, beginning to recognise her not merely as his partner, a scientist, but as a woman in her own right, living a life outside of work which he knew nothing about. Somehow, it made what he was about to relate to her all the more difficult.

"So are you going to tell me what's so important I had to cancel my evening or do I have to guess?"

Scully sat down opposite him and clasped her hands in front of her, crossing her legs as she regarded him quizzically.

Mulder took a deep breath, uttering a silent prayer as he did so.

"I came across an unsolved case amongst the batch that arrived today. It involves the disappearance of a small child out of San Diego. An old colleague of mine sent it out to me in the hope we could add some insight on to what may have happened to her."

He paused, trying to find the right words. "Her mother has alleged that it may be kidnapping, although there's no evidence of that being the case."

Scully raised an eyebrow, the confusion evident on her face.

"A kidnapping? You're not interested in kidnappings, Mulder."

"I'm interested in this one. I'm pretty sure you will be too."

He reached forward and handed the file to her.

"Here. See for yourself."

Scully frowned as she turned over the first page, eyes moving rapidly across the text as she absorbed the words. The bewilderment all too patently displayed across her features as she struggled to comprehend why Mulder had singled out this case amongst the thousands of children who disappeared every year. She could see nothing in this which would warrant their involvement.

She advanced a page forwards and froze, mouth dropping open as she slowly lifted her head to gaze uncomprehending at her partner. The color had all but drained from her face, so rapidly had the transformation taken place, that Mulder had been almost able to see it happen.

"Emily . . ." Scully whispered in a voice which was barely audible.

Mulder quickly got up and joined her on the couch, gently prying the folder away from her fingers which were locked on to it rigidly. He placed it behind him and turned back to Scully.

"No," he corrected carefully. "Not Emily. You know that can never be."

Scully focused on his face, responding to the compassion that was evident in his tone as she struggled with the emotion raging inside of her.

"Then who . . ." She trailed off as Mulder laid his hand over hers.

"You know who she is. Just as you know who Emily was, and how she came to be."

He watched her attentively as she digested the information. He had never expected that this day would come, had never foreseen that more children equivalent to Emily had been born. He should have accepted that this was at best a futile hope, that some day more evidence of what had transpired would come to the fore. He had prayed that the day would come later rather than sooner, but it was here, and he couldn't disregard the consequences any longer.

Scully shook her head numbly, and she pulled her hand away from Mulder, rising from her seated position suddenly. Her eyes appeared alarmingly blank as she spun around, away from Mulder, heading for the kitchen.

"Shit." He muttered, heading after her.

He discovered her at the table, shoulders shaking as she cradled her head in her hands.

"Scully . . ." he ventured uncertainly. She did not acknowledge him, and Mulder ran his hand through his hair, questioning himself over how to react to her. He understood her pain, but was equally aware that her reaction would only serve to precipitate that pain. He crossed the floor and came to a halt in front of the cabinet. Reaching down he removed a bottle of Brandy and a glass, then as an afterthought added another one, opening the bottle and pouring liberal amounts of the liquor in to each. He picked them up and set one on the table in front of his partner, pulling out a chair and sitting down opposite her.

"Scully."

No response.

He extended his hand and carefully drew her hands away from her face. With the other he pushed the brandy towards her.

"Drink some of this."

She eyed the glass's contents warily.

"Do it, Scully. It'll help," he advised.

Slowly, Scully wrapped her shaking hands around the glass, but was unable to still the trembling sufficiently to bring the glass to her lips.

Mulder recognised that in this situation at least, he had to take charge. Removing the glass from her, he set it down on the table before walking around the table and hunkering down beside her. Raising his own drink to her lips he inclined the glass just adequately enough so that she was able to take some of the liquid.

She swallowed heavily and the action brought about a storm of coughing as the unaccustomed alcohol burned her throat. When the sound abated however, Mulder was at least gratified to observe that she appeared to be more in control, that the shock to her system was abating.

"I'm sorry, Mulder . . ."

"Ssshhh. It's OK. I half expected this. You don't need to apologise to me, you know that."

Scully gazed in to his face, and not for the first time realised how lucky she was to have him for a partner . . . and as a friend. She squeezed his hand.

"Thanks."

He smiled up at her.

"No problem."

Scully took a deep breath.

"So where do we go from here?" she asked shakily.

Mulder got to his feet.

"I'm flying out to San Diego tonight. I'll call you when I get there."

"What do you mean you'll call me?"

Mulder shook his head.

"I don't think that it's such a good idea for you to come with me right now. Not until I have a better idea as to what's happening out there . . ."

"No way," Scully said vehemently. Then, she let her voice soften slightly. "I know why you're doing this, that you're trying to protect me. But I need to go there, Mulder, I have to. I owe it to myself . . . and I owe it to Emily. Please understand that."

Mulder let his gaze settle on the window, watching his own refection as he struggled to find the right words to make her understand.

"I just . . . I don't want to see you get hurt all over again, and I'm afraid that if you come down there with me, it will become inevitable. I don't think you're ready for that. Not after everything you've been through."

Scully rubbed her fist across her eyes, grinding the last residue of tears from them. She recognised and appreciated Mulder's concerns, but this was the one time when her feelings towards her partner were not going to get in the way.

"I'm fine. I'll *be* fine. And I am going to San Diego. With or without you"

Her eyes challenged him to argue further, and Mulder knew that he was beaten. That she would follow her own path regardless of his reasoning to the contrary, and if she so chose, she was more than capable of doing it without him by her side. He wasn't prepared to let that happen.

"I'll book you a flight." He conceded wearily.

San Diego International Airport. 5:15 a.m.

Despite the early morning hour, the airport was packed with people intent on reaching their respective destinations as quickly and easily as possible.

Mulder and Scully had arrived at the airport at the worst time, a time when early morning commuters joined the throngs of tourists either on their way to, or departing the famous city, and Mulder knew that it would be some time before they escaped the stuffy confines of the building.

Their FBI status would hurry things up somewhat, but he suspected as he gazed around the bustling concourse, that they would be here for some considerable time.

They headed for the security check point, nodded at the two heavy set security guards, and briefly displayed their badges. In doing so they bypassed the metal detector, knowing that should they pass through it, the weapons they carried would provoke the kind of high pitched scream from the machine of which Mulder was acutely conscious would cause his headache to swell to mammoth proportions, swiftly rendering him unable to think straight.

He was not usually prone to headaches, in fact he was rarely sick at all, but a combination of a lack of sleep and the concern he felt for his partner had taken their toll on him.

Scully had been silent and uncommunicative during the six hour flight, responding to his questions and comments with a monosyllabic terseness that was quite unlike her, and Mulder had eventually admitted defeat, turning away from her and staring out of the window at the black nothingness which surrounded the plane.

He had remained painfully aware of her though, as she unsuccessfully feigned sleep next to him, and now as he regarded her before him, it was clear that she was still having a tough time handling the news he had brought her, that whatever resources she had draw on to get her through the last few hours were now stretched to the point of breaking.

Wearily, Mulder brought his hand up to his face briefly, and rubbed his temple, trying to dispel the pounding in his skull as he glanced around the concourse, attempting to get his bearings.

He felt a hand touch his arm.

"Are you OK, Mulder?"

He nodded slowly, careful to limit the movement.

"I'm fine. Just a headache that's all."

He slung his overnight bag over his shoulder and smiled reassuringly down at her.

"C'mon Scully, let's get out of here."

They began to walk through the concourse corridor which led to the arrivals lounge, fighting their way through the crowds, and when Mulder was elbowed sharply by a small unassuming looking man with wire rimmed glasses who was obviously not looking where he was going, he thought nothing of it, just nodded slightly at the man's mumbled apology and carried on his way.

The man though, didn't proceed, he simply remained standing, staring at the departing Agents, a small smile playing around his face. When he was sure they were out of sight he raised his hand to his mouth, a gesture which from a distance resembled a simple covering of a cough or a sneeze. On closer inspection however, it would become obvious that his reasons were of a much more sinister nature, for hidden inside the opening of his shirt cuff, a tiny radio transmitter was pinned.

State of the art in it's design, it could be neither monitored nor detected with any of the current systems in use amongst the security or law enforcement agencies. The man spoke in to the receiver, his voice barely above a whisper.

"They're here, and the cargo has been delivered."

He did not wait for a response, he didn't need to. His job was done, at least for now, and with an ease that made him so adept at what he did, he walked back in to the crowds, immediately becoming just another face amongst the many. No different from any other small time businessman in a suit on his way to work, the kind of man people looked through rather than directly at, forgotten in an instant. It was exactly that kind of ordinariness which served him more completely than any disguise could ever hope to.

The man kept his smile as his thoughts settled on to the assignment in hand, his most intriguing to date, and one which could secure his future within the consortium.

Oh yeah, this was going to some fun he decided.

It was past seven when the two Agents finally checked in to their respective motel rooms, and as Mulder had feared, his headache had swelled in magnitude with every passing second, so much so that he had insisted Scully drive the rental car the short distance from the Airport, provoking a worried glance from his partner, but she had not questioned him, recognising that in his current state driving would be both dangerous and foolhardy.

Mulder had spent the journey with his eyes closed, head resting back as he fought the feeling of nausea brought on by the car's movement and when they had reached the motel Scully had suggested he rest for a while. He had checked his watch, and almost argued with her, wanting to proceed with the investigation, not wanting to waste any more time.

He had eventually concluded though that to proceed to the FBI field office would be pointless. At such an early hour it was doubtful whether there would be anyone there who was qualified to answer their questions, and despite himself he had had to admit that he needed some sleep if only to clear the headache.

He had eyed the bed in his room, considering and rejecting thoughts of unpacking, and after drawing the curtains to block out the early morning sun, had fallen on to it fully clothed, sleep coming mercifully rapidly, dispelling the incessant hammering inside his head.

Scully on the other hand, had not slept at all. She had intended to, but a hot shower had put paid to that, driving away her exhaustion and causing her to come fully awake once more.

Despite the feelings of urgency she had toward getting to the bottom of this case she also appreciated that her partner needed to rest, that she needed him on this to temper her own emotions which would surely come to the fore. She had eyed the laptop computer which accompanied her on every case, like an extension of herself, and briefly considered attempting some work.

She had shelved the idea though, when she found herself staring blankly at it's muted grey screen, re-reading the same sentence for the fourth time as she struggled to take in the words in front of her. Eventually she gave up in disgust, and crossed to the bed. She knew she wouldn't sleep, but somehow she needed to empty her mind, so she lay, staring at the white ceiling of the motel room, waiting for the images of her daughter to stop haunting her, attempting to relax her mind so that instead, she thought of nothing at all, and in doing so she felt the tension leave her body. At least for the moment.

The sound of a fist knocking on wood drove through Mulder's consciousness like a blade, and initially he squeezed his eyes shut tighter in an attempt to block it out. The familiar voice that accompanied it though caused him to sit up, dropping his head down quickly, as a wave of dizziness overwhelmed him. His throat felt gritty and raw, and he suddenly realised how cold he felt in the air conditioned room.

"Mulder? It's me."

The sound of Scully's voice prompted Mulder to rise from his position on the bed, and he groggily made his way to the door, knowing that he probably looked every bit as bad as he felt. His partner's expression as he swung the door open to face her affirmed his fears.

She took in his flushed, sweating face, and immediately propelled him back inside the room, gesturing to a chair. Mulder didn't need asking twice and he sat down heavily.

"I'm Okay," he said weakly. "It's just a headache."

He flinched as Scully rested the back of her hand on his forehead.

"Mulder, you're burning up," she exclaimed, "You should be in bed."

Mulder held up a hand.

"I'll be fine. Just give me time to get a shower and change my clothes Okay?"

"Mulder . . ."

Mulder recognised the concerned 'doctor in charge' tones which Scully had adopted, but this was no time to get sick, or worse to succumb to it. He suspected that a lack of sleep was making the symptoms worse, and that once he actually got himself moving, they would abate sufficiently to allow him to function enough to do his job. Shakily, he got to his feet, stepping carefully around Scully lest he betray just how badly he was feeling.

"Give me twenty minutes. I'll meet you in the car."

In actuality, Mulder slid in to the passenger seat next to Scully in just under fifteen. She scrutinised him carefully and was relieved to see, that on the surface at least he appeared to look much better. His dark hair was still slightly damp from the recent shower and Scully resisted the urge to point out that walking around with wet hair wasn't exactly going to serve his cause health- wise. He was freshly shaven and dressed in a clean shirt and jacket, his impeccable professional facade firmly in place once more, and she relaxed slightly.

Mulder, aware of his partner's swift medical evaluation with regard to him grinned crookedly at her.

"Are you planning on pondering my state of health for the remainder of the day or do I pass muster?"

He was cut off as Scully abruptly gunned the motor, shifting the car in to gear and pulling smoothly away from the motel. At the end of the drive she turned left on to the highway, heading for the city and the San Diego field office, where hopefully John Wickham would be waiting for them with some answers.

Scully had put in the call to him as she waited for Mulder to emerge from his room, feeling gratified by the easy warmth which had crept in to his voice when she had identified herself, and he had assured her that all the current information regarding the case would be made available to her on their arrival.

Finally, it was time to find the answers.

FBI Field office, San Diego. 9:41a.m.

Special Agent in Charge John Wickham turned out to be every bit as helpful as Scully had hoped he would be. An imposing figure he stood a couple of inches taller than Mulder's six feet, and absolutely towered over her small frame.

The stern expression he habitually wore had transformed in to a wide grin the minute they had stepped through the door to his office though, and Scully immediately recognised the obvious respect he had for Mulder as he shook his old friends hand warmly.

"Hey Fox, it's good to see you, even if I had to entice you with the promise of a case."

Mulder smiled noncommittally and shrugged by way of apology.

"You know how it is, work gets in the way."

"Save it, man. Things can get kinda crazy around here too." His eyes flittered across to where Scully stood off to one side and Mulder gestured toward her.

"John Wickham. My partner, Dana Scully."

Wickham smiled appreciatively across at her and extended his hand which she shook briefly.

"Pleased to meet you, Dana. I've heard a lot about you."

"Oh, have you indeed." She raised an eyebrow at Mulder who reddened slightly.

"Relax, Scully. I only enlightened him as to the more praetorian aspects of your personality."

Before she could respond, Wickham punched her partner lightly on the shoulder.

"If she's corrupt, Buddy, it only stems from working alongside you for so long. This man . . ," he informed Scully, "could corrupt anybody. Even back at the Academy I can remember him being. . ."

He got no further as Mulder, who didn't like the conversational turn, jumped in abruptly.

"About this case," he ventured.

Wickham nodded, but refused to let Mulder off so easily. He winked at Scully. "We'll talk later," he promised.

Despite herself, Scully couldn't help a grin. She had warmed immediately to his easy nature and the way he had welcomed them effortlessly in to his domain. She got the sense that she was going to like him, that he would become a welcome ally to them both, and it was evident that Mulder held him in a high regard.

It was something she rarely saw in him, mostly due to his in built suspicion of those he didn't know well, respect from Mulder took a long time to earn. She herself had discovered that the hard way.

Her thoughts turned to the job in hand as Wickham handed them each a folder, very similar in content to the one she had seen back in Washington. She forced herself to remain professionally detached as she turned the pages.

"Basically, what you see there is what you get," explained Wickham. "As far as we can tell, there's no motive for a kidnapping, no estranged husbands or partners, no disgruntled neighbours or delivery men. The Mother had no enemies as far as we can tell, and we've got no witnesses except her and she hasn't been much use to us. It's obvious though that the kid didn't just wander off because aside from the Mother's injuries at the scene, she would have turned up by now. We've checked with family services and they don't have the family listed on the at-risk register so it's unlikely that there was any abuse involved. All reports suggest that this kid was well loved and well cared for. It's like she just disappeared off the face of the earth, and the Attorney General has got my butt in a sling."

Mulder raised his eyes from the file.

"News coverage?" he queried.

"Yep. Regional and national. Papers too. No response. Aside from your usual variety of cranks who insist they've seen the kid playing with fairies at the bottom of their gardens or being carried away by little green men. No offence, Fox."

Mulder waved his hand casually, none taken.

"You said you'd interviewed the mother?"

"Extensively. I'm not sure whether it was the bump on the head she received or whether losing the kid has tipped her over the edge, but she talks as if she's a walking testament to the corruption in our fair land. Raving about conspiracies and how she's known that they would find her. How she should have left town before it happened."

He paused and ran his fingers through his hair.

"I tell you, Buddy, it's got me chasing my tail. Normally I would've chalked it down to experience, but I got kids of my own, y'know?. I can't just give up on it. Someone knows where this child is and I'm afraid that if we don't find her soon they'll be nothing to find . . . except maybe a body, and I seen enough of those to last me a lifetime."

"They won't kill her," mumbled Mulder, almost to himself. "They need her."

"What do you mean?" Wickham's keen hearing had picked up the words and Scully silently sent her partner a warning not to divulge too much to this man, because friend or no friend, if they voiced their suspicions they would find themselves on the next plane back to Washington. She needn't have worried though. Realising his mistake, her partner covered himself adeptly.

"C'mon John. How many profiles have you written on kidnappers, huh? There's no such thing as a motiveless kidnapping, the crime occurs to serve some sort of agenda in the perpetrators mind, monetary gain, revenge, whatever, and until that need is filled he must keep his victim alive, because if he were to kill them, then the bargaining tool is lost, as is the reason for the crime. What we need to do is to get in to the mind of the kidnapper, because only by understanding him can we begin to understand his motives, and by comprehending them we can begin to look for a suspect."

Wickham shook his head.

"OK, consider me put firmly back in my place. Once a profiler always a profiler huh, Fox?"

"Yeah, well," Mulder countered easily, "when I'm not chasing after little green men toting ray guns, it's what I do best."

"So you're gonna draw up a profile on this guy?"

Mulder shook his head.

"Not yet. I think Scully and I need to take a little side trip to see the girl's Mother. She's still in the hospital, I take it?"

Wickham scratched his head.

"Yeah, and I can't see her leaving any time soon. She's pretty drugged up, you'll be lucky to get anything coherent out of her, I know I didn't have much success."

"I'll take my chances," Mulder declared with a small smile. "you never know what effect my boyish charm will have on her."

Wickham grimaced in disgust.

"Yeah well, I wouldn't hold out much hope of that. I'll get you some directions to the place, but I'll warn you, this woman didn't exactly keep up her medical insurance premiums. It ain't exactly what you could call The Ritz."

Little Sisters of Mercy State Sanatorium. San Diego. 10:45a.m.

"My God, Mulder, just look at this place."

Scully wrinkled her nose in disgust at the dank depressing surroundings she found herself in, turning in a slow circle as she took in the crumbling walls and the peeling wallpaper.

Everything was painted a dirty institutional grey, and it was painfully obvious by the bubbled texture from the damp underneath that it had been years since it had seen a paintbrush. The building was old and decrepit and the air held an unpleasant smell of stale urine that no amount of disinfectant could mask.

Some attempts had been made to brighten the place up and small pots of flowers rested on every available surface, but even they seemed to be wilting under the oppressive atmosphere and they appeared drab and forlorn.

The inadequate strip lighting cast flickering yellowish shadows over everything and when Scully raised her head to look above her, she observed that out of the five lights, only three were actually working.

Government cut-backs were one thing, but squalor was something else entirely. It offended Scully, as a doctor, that such places existed. She questioned the level of medical care which was transferred on to the patients who resided here, and was smart enough to realise that such care did not really exist.

This was the kind of place where society sent its misfits. To remain forever locked in a cycle of neglect and drug induced haze. It was a place to be forgotten in.

She turned questioningly to Mulder.

"Why would they put Mrs. Stevens here?" she queried, "I understood that she was mentally unsound, not dangerous."

Mulder's mouth had set in a grim line as he surveyed the bars on the windows and the panic buttons on the wall, noting sourly that they appeared to be the token gesture with regards to the present day.

He was feeling pretty ropy still despite regular intakes of Tylenol and what he saw only served to worsen his already disagreeable mood.

"I don't know, Scully," he admitted and then gestured to where the receiving desk stood, seemingly unmanned. "Let's find out, huh?"

It took almost twenty minutes for anyone to respond to Mulder and Scully's presence, despite the repeated ringing of the service bell which was located to the left of the desk. They could hear it's sound echoing around the deserted corridors, bouncing off the bare concrete floors and Mulder's patience was quickly running short.

Eventually though, faint footsteps could be heard hurrying toward them and suddenly a door behind the desk opened and they found themselves facing a short middle aged woman in a white nurse's outfit. She appeared flustered and harried, her dark hair escaping the confines of it's French knot and hanging messily around her face.

She shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of apology.

"Sorry. Staff cutbacks, y'know."

Mulder however was in no mood to exchange pleasantries. He pulled out his badge and displayed it unceremoniously to the woman.

"Special Agents Mulder and Scully. We're here to interview a patient of yours."

The nurse scrutinised their FBI credentials and hurriedly tucked the errant hair back up under her white cap.

"I see. And the name would be?" she inquired.

"Mrs. Christine Stevens."

Scully observed a subtle difference in the nurse's facial expression as Mulder informed her of who they had come to see and she swore that just for a second something akin to blind panic crossed her face.

"Is there a problem with that?" she ventured.

Instantly the nurse smoothed out her expression, smiling apologetically at the two Agents.

"I'm sorry, but that would be quite impossible at the present time. The patient is heavily sedated and is not able to see anyone. Her mental state is extremely tenuous and any outside contact would be quite damaging to her. I have orders from her Doctor that she be kept absolutely quiet and undisturbed. I'm sorry. Maybe you could come back tomorrow."

Mulder glanced uneasily at Scully.

Something was wrong here, he was sure of it, and judging by his partner's guarded expression she was experiencing similar suspicions.

"We work for the Federal Government," he pointed out, "and it is imperative we be granted access to Mrs. Stevens. We believe she can furnish us with information which is critical to the ongoing investigation regarding the disappearance of her daughter."

The nurse however was not moved by his plea. Again she shook her head.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I have my orders. The patient is not to be disturbed."

Seeing her partner's expression harden, Scully laid a warning hand on his arm.

"Look," she cajoled, "I'm a medical doctor. Fully trained, and I can assure you we will do nothing which will compromise the health of your patient. I understand your need to shield her, but you also have to understand that the life of a four year old child is at stake here and every minute we waste is compromising her well being. We only need five minutes. Don't make us get a court order. It just wastes everyone's time, including yours, because we will be back."

The nurse shifted her eyes around guiltily, as if she were afraid of being seen, and then swiftly unlocked the door which led through to the receiving area.

"You can have five minutes with her and that's it, but I'm warning you she's not in very good shape."

Mulder pushed past the nurse quite unable to disguise his dislike of the woman.

"Five minutes is all I need," he barked. He inclined his head, bestowing a smile on the woman that was anything but friendly. "After you."

As the nurse led them through the twisting maze of corridors, it became obvious to Scully that whatever meagre amount of money used for the upkeep of the building had been used exclusively for the public areas.

The section they found themselves in was ill maintained and decrepit, gaping holes in the walls where rotten plaster had sheared away more evidence of the damp which was eroding the very structure of the building. Scully thought of the bright summer sunshine which they had left outside and shivered slightly. It was doubtful whether any of the sanatorium's residents ever got the opportunity to even see the sunlight, let alone feel it on their skin.

Scully saw no signs of life during her journey through the hospital, in fact only the sound of far away voices indicated that they were not actually travelling through a deserted building. She had visited these kinds of places before, both during her time with the X-Files and when she was undergoing her medical training.

She always found the experience unnerving, to be surrounded by people who had lost the tenuous grip on reality, people who had once lived relatively normal lives, with homes and families and jobs. It seemed an alien concept to ever imagine herself falling to that level, and yet her training had taught her that the thread which separated sanity from madness was as thin and as delicate as gossamer silk, and that once that thread had been severed it was almost impossible to repair.

A minority of the mentally ill were lucky enough to find themselves sequestered in one of the few modern sanatoriums which were dotted around the country but most were not and after the initial emergency care was given, they found themselves hidden away in institutions such as this one, where they would become the forgotten victims of a society which simply didn't have the time or resources to adequately treat their conditions.

It was an issue which raised it's head during election years, and one which was conveniently forgotten about immediately afterwards. These people didn't need politics, they needed satisfactory funding.

Scully was jolted out of her repose when Mulder suddenly came to an abrupt halt in front of her, and Scully was suddenly struck by how quiet it was down here, it reminded her of a little used basement, silent aside from the sound of a tap dripping in the distance. She began to feel uneasy.

"Is this wing empty?" she inquired.

The nurse shrugged.

"It was officially closed three years ago, but unofficially it's still used as a kind of isolation area for our more problematic cases."

"Is Mrs. Stevens a problem?"

"She's been difficult, yeah. Upsetting the other patients with her screaming and shouting, disrupting their sleep, attacking the orderlies..." She unlocked the solid steel door in front of her. "Anyway, you'll see for yourselves. I'll be out here if you need me."

Mulder glanced uneasily at Scully, and then gingerly swung the door open, taking a second to let his eyes adjust to the dim light within. At first glance the room appeared empty, and then he saw her, huddled in a corner, knees drawn up to her chest as she rocked silently.

Even in the darkness he could plainly see the restraints which bound her hands and feet, restricting her movement. The woman did not respond to the opening of the door to her room, it was if she was locked in her own world, a world from which she had shut everything out.

The two Agents stepped softly in to the twelve by ten room and Mulder shut the door behind him slowly. His voice was gentle when he spoke.

"Mrs. Stevens?...Christine? We've come about your daughter."

Christine raised her head cautiously and Mulder got his first real good look at her. Her dark hair looked ragged and unkempt against her pale face which was streaked with a combination of grime and tears, and the eyes which stared back at him were wide and frightened. She licked her lips, trying to moisten them enough to speak.

"She's dead, isn't she?" she whispered.

Mulder hunkered down beside her, appalled by what he saw.

"No. We don't know where she is. But we're going to find her, and we need your help to do that.....will you tell us what you know?"

Christine's eyes filled with fresh tears.

"What's the point?" she asked him bitterly. "I've told it a hundred times and no one believes me. My little girl has been taken away from me and no one cares."

Scully joined Mulder beside the woman exhibiting a twin look of horror to his own as she observed the tightly bound restraints which were cutting in to the frail flesh of her wrists, and knowing she was going against all she had learned during her medical training, reached out and gently began to un-strap her, wincing inwardly at the bloody welts which evidence of the restraint. She also observed something which surprised her, because as she gazed in to the woman's eyes she saw fatigue, and desperation and defeat, but not madness.

"We care," she informed her simply, "and we're going to do everything we can do get your daughter back."

She touched Mulder's sleeve. "Mulder, I need a minute with you."

She rose to her feet and spoke softly to him as he came to join her.

"We need to get her out of here. We need to get her out of here now."

"I agree, Scully, but it would take a court order and there's no time for that."

Scully shook her head.

"Not if she requires urgent medical attention which I for one do not believe she could get here. Look at her Mulder, she's malnourished almost to the point of starvation, caged up in here no better than a wild animal, the neglect is appalling and I for one am not prepared to go out that door and leave her here."

Mulder recognised his partner's resolve and nodded his head, deferring to her medical judgement, knowing that what she said was true, knowing that the woman was here by no small accident.

"OK, Scully, you stay with her, I'll go talk to our friendly neighbourhood nurse and see if I can't get her to come around to my way of thinking."

Scully closed her eyes briefly as he turned back to the door, silently hoping that what they were about to do would not come crashing back down on their heads.

"What you're suggesting is absolutely out of the question!"

Mulder remained in his position, guarding the door to his partner and the frightened woman within.

His voice was hard, leaving little room for argument.

"You don't seem to understand. I'm not suggesting anything. What I'm telling you is that Mrs. Stevens is in need of immediate medical attention, and my partner a trained physician believes that she should be surrended to our care in order to recieve it "

"You don't have the authority," blustered the nurse.

Mulder nodded in agreement.

"No I don't. But I *do* have the authority to see you and whoever runs this poor excuse for a medical facility prosecuted for the willful neglect of a patient in your care, and believe me, I won't rest until that happens. All it'll take is one phone call."

"But I have orders..." she seemed on the verge of tears but Mulder's resolve only hardened. The nurse's eyes widened as he pushed his jacket to one side, casually displaying the Sig Sauer automatic pistol which nestled securely in it's holder, as he rested his hand on his hip.

"Yeah, well.....you just got new orders. Now show me where you put her clothes."

Finally, after the tense silence stretched between them, Mulder saw the woman's face sag visibly with defeat, as she realised that it would be futile to argue any further. She didn't owe anyone a measure of loyalty so great that it warranted getting shot for.

"It's down here," she mumbled almost to herself.

Mulder kept his gun visible as he gestured down the corridor.

"After you," he offered, his headache almost forgotten as he followed her to the small locker which was set against the wall, watching as she removed a pile of clothing and a woman's purse from within.

She passed it grudgingly to him. "You won't get away with this." She threatened.

Mulder rested his steady gaze on her.

"I just have," he informed her solemnly.

It took a considerable amount of time to get Christine Stevens dressed and able to leave the hospital mostly due to the effects of the powerful sedatives which were still in her system. She appeared confused and disorientated as she stepped out in to the bright August sunshine, and she shielded her eyes against the glare, but had allowed Scully to guide her to the waiting car.

Once she had her safety settled in the rear seat Scully turned to her partner.

"So what now?"

Mulder scratched his head absently, feeling the heat on his forehead, a sign that his fever had not abated. He was running on pure adrenaline now, fighting the urge to succumb to his body's need to slow down and take some time to recover, but at the same time recognising the urgency of the situation they had found themselves in.

"We can't risk taking her to the hospital, Scully. Not until we find out what's happening. I don't doubt that news of our departure will reach certain parties and registering in a hospital would just lead them straight to her. She wasn't meant to leave this place, they never allowed for the possibility that someone might find her who might just might believe her story and I believe they'll go to any lengths to prevent her telling it to us."

"So where do we go? If we go back to the motel it's just a matter of time before they track us down."

"I realise that, but for the short term to hole up in motel somewhere is our only option, unless of course you disagree. I mean what's her state of health right now in your medical opinion?"

Scully shrugged.

"Well those wounds on her arms need some attention, but other than that I can see nothing immediately wrong that rest and good food won't cure. As to her state of mind...I'm just not qualified to give that kind of diagnosis...I'll have a better idea when the effects of the sedation abate."

Mulder considered her words and, aware that they were wasting precious time just standing there, made the decision.

"OK. We'll check in to different motel and while you give her the once over I'll go back and pick up our things."

"Are you sure you'll be OK to drive? You look terrible."

Mulder smiled despite himself.

"Oh I think I can hang on for another hour. Then I promise you can force feed me antibiotics for the rest of the day if you want to."

"Antibiotics don't have any effect on a cold, Mulder. It'll have to be regular doses of Tylenol and lots of fluids I'm afraid."

"Well, whatever, I'm at your mercy, Dr. Scully."

Scully tossed him the car keys which he caught deftly.

"You don't want to make promises like that, Mulder. Believe me."

He just shrugged, saying nothing as he opened the door and lowered himself in to the driver's seat, and after one more glance over his shoulder at the dark facade of the oppressive building, he gunned the motor and left it behind them.

E-Z 8 motel, Route 49, San Diego. 3:05p.m.

By the time Mulder returned from retrieving their things from the previous motel he was feeling ready to drop, so much so that he was finding it increasingly difficult to concentrate on the job in hand.

Despite the heat of the mid afternoon sun, he was freezing cold and every move he made sent a fresh wave of agony through his already aching body.

His throat felt as though he had eaten a handful of glass splinters and the pain cut through him whenever he swallowed. He had eventually made it though, and now he knocked wearily on the door which led to Scully's room. She answered it quickly and ushered him inside where he handed her the overnight bag which he had retrieved from her previous room. It hadn't even been unpacked yet so his task had been fairly straight forward. He had simply picked it up from it's position on the bed and carried it out to the waiting car, feeling it's slight weight pulling at his aching muscles as he did so.

He sat down heavily in one of the overstuffed chairs which graced the small room and gestured to one of the two single beds which jostled the other furniture for space in the cramped area. On it, covered over with a down comforter, Christine Stevens lay deeply asleep.

"How's she doing?"

Scully sat beside him on the other chair.

"She's OK. I treated the wounds on her wrists, cleaned her up and put her to bed. She's been sound asleep ever since, and I can't see her waking up any time soon. She was still extremely disorientated and confused, but my guess is that whatever sedative or tranquilizer she was on is only augmenting the condition. She's obviously deeply afraid of something though."

"Or someone," Mulder mused. He rubbed his hands across his face wearily, and Scully allowed herself to really observe him for the first time since his return.

"You look awful, Mulder."

"Well that's good then. Because that's exactly the way I feel."

"I'm serious."

He raised his head and regarded her through bloodshot eyes.

"Believe me, Scully, so am I. I feel like there's a racket ball game going on inside my head."

He flinched as Scully pressed her hand to his cheek.

"I think your fever's got worse. I need to check you over."

It was a measure of how bad he was feeling that he didn't protest, and Scully reached around to the small end table and picked up the thermometer which she had purchased earlier at the tiny supermarket attached to the motel grounds. Obligingly he opened his mouth slightly and let the instrument rest under his tongue, but despite everything he couldn't resist commenting.

"For a second I thought you were going to ask me to bend over."

Scully frowned at him sternly. "In your dreams, Mulder. In your dreams. Now shut your mouth properly or I won't get an accurate reading."

As she waited for the reading to register she gave Mulder a cursory examination, noting how swollen the glands were around the base of his throat and neck. Mulder flinched as she gently applied pressure to the area and Scully quickly dropped her hands.

"Sorry. I know they hurt. Is your throat sore too?"

Mulder nodded, unable to speak due to the thermometer.

"Do you feel nauseous?" More nodding. She reached over and pulled the thermometer from his lips, her brow furrowing slightly as she examined it.

"Are you experiencing any dizziness?"

Mulder shrugged.

"A little," he admitted. Scully replaced the thermometer back on the table.

"I'm not surprised," she informed him. "You have a temperature of a hundred and one."

"Meaning what?"

"Meaning, Mulder, that you have no business walking around. I suspect you have some sort of viral infection. You need to rest and you need to keep warm."

"Is that it?" Mulder asked incredulously. "I mean aren't there any pills I can take?"

Scully smiled.

"Sorry, Mulder. All you can do is keep taking the Tylenol and drink lots of fluids. Nothing more magical than that. Nature will do the rest."

"For how long?" He couldn't help but recognise how bad his timing was. Getting sick in Washington was one thing. Getting sick here was something else entirely and as he looked at his partner he saw much the same conclusion displayed on her face. Nevertheless, she stood her ground.

"For as long as it takes. If you're lucky you'll be up and around again in a couple of days."

Mulder groaned. "I don't believe this. I don't have time for this."

"Mulder, listen to me. You don't play around with this kind of thing, because if you do you run the risk of it developing in to something much worse, and if it does it'll drop you in a second. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about."

"Yeah, well. Four years of medical training has to count for something."

"Exactly. Now go to bed. I'll check on you later."

Mulder had long since discovered that it would be pointless to argue with her, so he held up his hands in mock surrender and shakily got to his feet, feeling Scully's hand on his arm as he swayed slightly.

He turned to face her, needing to affirm something before he left.

"How about you, Scully, are you OK?"

She squeezed his arm reassuringly.

"I'm fine, really, and besides I've got enough to worry about right now not to have to worry about myself. Now try to get some sleep, you look like you could use it. I'm going to do the same. There's not a lot we can do right now anyway, at least not until Mrs. Stevens recovers enough to speak to us."

Mulder paused and glanced over at the sleeping woman.

"You have to promise to come get me when she does."

Scully rolled her eyes. "I promise. Now you need to sleep okay?"

He allowed Scully to take him by the arm and gently steer him to the internal door which connected the two rooms, leaving it slightly ajar as she crossed over the threshold.

"Just in case." She advised him before guiding him to the bed.

Mulder didn't bother to argue as she pushed him down into a seated position, standing over him as she watched him settle himself back against the pillows. Pivoting, she headed for the bathroom and returned with a tumbler full of water in one hand and two Tylenol in the other, both of which she held out to Mulder.

"Here. Take these before you sleep. They'll help"

She watched as he swallowed the pill, noting worriedly how he winced with every swallow.

"Small sips okay? Little and often is the key here."

He nodded slowly and placed the glass on the bedside cabinet and satisfied at last that he would do as she had asked, a ghost of a smile played across her lips as she turned to leave.

"Sweet dreams Mulder." She offered and was gratified at least to see her smile returned by her partner.

Leaving him to rest, Scully exited the room quietly and returned to Christine Stevens. She checked once more on the sleeping woman, affirming to herself that she was resting peacefully and adjusted the comforter so it covered her more evenly. Christine didn't stir and Scully suspected that it would be some hours before she awoke. She decide to take her own advice and get some sleep, conscious suddenly that she hadn't had any rest for well over twenty four hours and of how tired she was.

Before she let herself succumb to the fatigue though she had to do one thing, and she crossed the room and picked up Christine Stevens' purse. She felt uncomfortably like a sneak thief as she rummaged around in it until her fingers found what they sought.

Gingerly she withdrew the photograph, the kind of image that every self respecting parent carried somewhere on their person, in a purse, in a wallet, in a briefcase, and traced her finger along the outlines of the child's sweet dimpled face. The same face that had once haunted her dreams at night and caused her on occasion to wake suddenly, calling out her daughter's name.

The dreams had begun to abate. The pain of losing her had not. Scully doubted whether it ever really would. They had found each other for such a short time and yet the bond had been formed between them as Scully fought to save her life. Despite everything though she had ultimately failed her. She had let her daughter die rather than live half a life controlled and hunted by her creators.

She had watched her tiny three year old daughter slip peacefully away as the disease which gripped her had taken it's toll. The ultimate betrayal occurring when she had found that she had even been denied the opportunity to lay her appropriately to rest. Even that had been a sham and she would never forget the pain she had felt when she discovered that the tiny white coffin had been filled with nothing more than sand, looking closer as she had detected a hint of gold amongst the grains and finding her cross nestling unharmed beneath them.

And now as she held the photograph in her hands, looking in to Emily's face as it stared back at her, she vowed that whoever this little girl was, she wasn't going to let the same thing happen to her. This was her chance to put things right, to finally let her daughter find peace.

10:13p.m.

"Who are you?"

The three words cut through Scully's consciousness and her eyes snapped open abruptly. Initially she thought that she had heard them in her dreams, but then she detected a slight movement out of the corner of her eye.

Three feet away Christine Stevens was staring at her fearfully, the comforter clutched protectively around her and Scully immediately swung around to face her, holding a calming hand up to the woman as she did so.

"It's OK. My name is Dana Scully. I'm a special agent with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. My partner and I came to see you in the hospital. We brought you here. Don't you remember?"

"I . . . can't . . . no, I don't remember. Why am I here?"

Scully swallowed.

"We were asked to look in to your daughter's disappearance. We were told that you had information which could help us to find her. That you know who took her."

Despite Scully's conciliatory tone Christine's expression hardened.

"How do I know you are who you say you are?"

"I can show you identification." Scully reached in to her jacket pocket and pulled out her badge, heart sinking as the woman in front of her didn't even give it a cursory glance.

"No offence, Miss Scully. But I've seen enough so called I.D.'s to last me several lifetimes. Why should I believe yours is any different? The men who took my little girl had a badge just like yours, he showed it to me just seconds before he knocked me down and forced his way in to my house and carried my screaming child away with him, like she was no better than a rag doll. I hear her screams, see her face every time I close my eyes." She paused, looking at Scully accusingly. "Do you have any idea how that feels, to watch your child being taken from you and knowing that you're powerless to do anything about it?"

Scully winced at her words, knowing that this woman couldn't possibly know that she had experienced just that . . . and worse.

She forced herself to keep her voice steady.

"I know enough to realise that you're scared. But I *also* know that my partner and I are perhaps the only ones who can truly help you. You have to trust us, because there's no one else for you to trust right now and if you refuse our help now then your daughter might be lost to you forever."

Christine didn't respond for a while, but as she scrutinised Scully's face for even the smallest hint that she wasn't who she appeared to be, she saw the pain which she tried unsuccessfully to hide, creeping in to cloud her eyes, and an inexplicable feeling of empathy toward the young woman overwhelmed her.

"All right," she ventured uncertainly. "I'll tell you everything I know."

Scully relaxed visibly and got up from the bed.

"Where are you going?" The fear returned to Christine's voice and Scully gestured to the connecting door.

"To fetch my partner."

"No." Christine blocked her path. "I've seen what happens when people leave rooms. Call him instead."

Scully sighed. "Mrs. Stevens...Christine. My partner is sick. I need to check that he's OK."

"So ask him when you speak to him on the phone, because if you leave this room I won't be here when you return. Believe it."

"All right. If that's what it takes I'll do it, but as I said before, you have to trust us."

"Trust has to be earned, Agent Scully. Now make the call."

Scully picked up the phone and punched in the number which would connect her to her partner's room, tapping her finger against the receiver as the line rang and rang.

The walls were just flimsy enough for her to be able to hear the phone through them and she heard Mulder pick up the receiver before the corresponding click echoed in her ear. His voice was heavy with sleep and he sounded slightly disorientated.

"Yeah?"

"Mulder, it's me. She's awake."

He didn't respond.

"Are you all right? Mulder talk to me."

To her intense relief his voice came back to her.

"Yeah. . .um . . .I'll be right there. I just need to get dressed. Give me a minute, OK?"

He sounded weak and far away, and despite Scully being all too aware of Christine Stevens glaring suspiciously across at her, the well being of her partner overrode any mistrust directed at her from the woman.

"Are you sure you're up to this, Mulder?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I'm just tired that's all."

Scully heard the lie which was so evident in his voice, but before she could question him further the line clicked, replaced suddenly with dead air as he hung up.

Scully shook her head, half annoyed at him for being so pig headed, but at the same time grateful that he wasn't prepared to let her do this alone. She replaced the receiver and turned away from the phone, meeting Christine's accusing stare.

"He's on his way." She informed her.

If Scully was uneasy following her telephone conversation with Mulder, she was even more so when the connecting door swung open and he entered the room. His face was flushed with fever, his eyes narrowed against the light.

From his disheveled appearance it was obvious that he was quite un-together and had literally thrown on whatever clothes had come to hand, and, Scully noted worriedly, had not done a very good job of it.

The shirt he had pulled on over his white T-shirt was badly creased and fastened on the wrong buttons, the cuffs undone and hanging over his wrists and Scully's first instinct on seeing him like this was to turn him around and frog march him back to bed.

Before she could put the thought in to action though, Mulder turned to where Christine Stevens sat, eyeing him warily. He held out his hand, which after a moment's hesitation, she grasped briefly and as she viewed him, Mulder thought he detected a hint of contrition in her face.

"I'm sorry."

Mulder frowned. "For what?"

"Your partner told me you were sick. I didn't believe her, thought she was trying to trap me. Obviously I was wrong. I'm sorry."

Mulder glanced at Scully who shrugged apologetically.

"Don't worry. I probably look a lot worse than I feel," he lied smoothly.

"So, what is it you want to tell us?" Mulder sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, the action necessitated by the tilting of the room, and consciously he avoided his partner's accusing glare.

He could fool a stranger, but there was no way he could fool Scully. He didn't have the energy to even try. He focused his attention on Christine.

She twisted her hands nervously in her lap.

"I don't know where to begin," she admitted. "I mean, it's crazy. I've waited so long to tell it to someone, for someone to believe me...and now...I can't seem to find a place to start."

Scully leaned forward, and laid her hand lightly over Christine's, calming her with a touch.

"Start at the beginning. Take your time, we've got all night to listen to you." Christine's eyes briefly closed, and then nodding slowly, she opened her mouth and began to speak.

"Jim, my husband, and I couldn't have children. We tried for years, had the tests, underwent the treatments, nothing worked for us. It was a yearning that never went away. And then one night, about four years ago, Jim came home from work with some men. He told me that they could arrange for us to take care of a child, a baby, who had no one else, but that it doing so we had to undertake certain conditions regarding her care."

"Conditions?"

Christine nodded. "Yes. They told us that she was special, that she needed specialist care in order to survive, that she needed regular treatment to keep her safe and that we would have no part in that side of her life. Of course we agreed, it was the answer to all our prayers, what we had wished for so long. We didn't ask too many questions, and suddenly we found ourselves with this brand new baby girl."

Christine's eyes softened.

"She was so beautiful, all rosy cheeked, with huge blue eyes and blonde hair. She was perfect, in every sense of the word, and apart from the treatment we were told she had to receive, she was never sick, not once in her life. Over the years she grew in to a bright, funny little girl. On the outside she was totally normal, but sometimes I would catch her looking at me from across the room, and it sounds crazy, but I would swear she would know what I was thinking."

Mulder narrowed his eyes.

"In what way?"

"It's hard to explain, but like, sometimes I would be thinking about my Mother, or about what to cook for dinner, y'know something like that, and Charlotte - we called her Charlie - would start talking to me about the exact same thing, like I had spoken the thoughts aloud to her and it was the most natural thing for her to answer me. I tried to discuss it with Jim, but he just laughed at me, said I was imagining things, that all kids acted like that sometimes, but I began to worry."

"About what?"

"When Charlie was a baby, she had to go away once a week for treatment. I didn't know what the treatments were, and I never asked. She was always returned to us unharmed and happy, so I never gave it much thought either way. But then things began to change. She began to hate going, and it got so that she would scream for hours before they took her and for hours after they brought her back. We would ask her what she was so afraid of, but she would refuse to answer, take herself away and sit in a corner of the room. I began to hate myself for making her go, but what could we do? We'd made an agreement, and besides, we believed that to deny her the treatment would endanger her life."

Christine took a deep breath. "About six months ago, the nightmares started. Once every couple of weeks at first, and then every night, sometimes twice. Charlie would wake up screaming that *The bad men* were hurting her, that they wouldn't stop. We would try to calm her, but she just kept saying that they were going to hurt her Mommy, that they would kill her if Charlie was bad. At first I didn't understand, and then one night when I had calmed her down and put her back to bed, Jim sat with her and asked her why anyone would want to hurt me. He came back downstairs, shaken to the point he looked ill."

Christine raised her eyes from where they were fixed on her hands. All the time she spoke her fingers twisted the hem of her cotton shirt over and over, as though she couldn't bear to remain still.

"It wasn't me that Charlie was so afraid for, but for her real Mother, a Mother we had never told her about. A Mother who she seemed to know everything about and one which she tried to protect through her dreams..." she trailed off as Scully exhaled sharply.

Scully noticed the woman's questioning look, but could not find the words to explain. Instead she rose to her feet and gestured helplessly toward Mulder who had observed the subtle change in his partner's expression.

"I'm sorry. I need a drink of water."

She headed for the bathroom, needing the time suddenly to get her thoughts together, leaning on the sink, staring back at her reflection in the mirror. Listening to Christine talk about her daughter had been hard enough, but this? This was almost more than Scully could bear.

She squeezed her eyes shut, blocking out her image, but a faint breeze against the nape of her neck apprised her of her partner's presence behind her. She opened her eyes, but did not turn around, gazing at his reflection instead, knowing that to turn around now would only cause her to break down completely. She couldn't afford to do that. Not now. Not when they were finally gaining the answers they needed.

She forced a smile. "I'm OK. I just needed a minute."

"Are you sure?" He rested a hand lightly against the small of her back. "I know this is hard for you, having to hear this, but Scully, it's not too late to step away. I can handle this for you, there's no need for you to put yourself through this."

She looked in to his fever flushed reflection and smiled slightly.

"No, really, I'll be fine. Like I say, I just need a minute. You go back. I'll join you in a second."

The pressure of Mulder's hand remained.

"You're sure?"

"I'm sure."

He nodded slightly and dropped his hand away, and after staring at her for a beat, turned and left her alone in the bathroom.

Only once he was safely out of sight did Scully realise she had been holding her breath, and she exhaled slowly, feeling the tension which had overtaken her body, inside of her like a tightly coiled spring. She wondered, not for the first time, just how much more she could reasonably be expected to take before the spring gave way.

The temptation to remain where she stood, forehead pressed against the cool glass of the mirror was strong, but after a couple of minutes, she knew that to do this would be impossible. She forced her features into an expression which resembled something akin to normality, and after rinsing her face with cold water, headed back in to the main room.

On returning she found the scene to be much the same as when she had left it. Mulder had obviously halted Christine's narrative until she rejoined them, and had taken the opportunity to make some much needed mugs of the Motel's instant coffee, one of which he passed to Scully. She took it gratefully, smiling in response to his questioning look.

"Thanks, Mulder."

The two words spoke volumes to her partner, and satisfied that for the moment at least, she had regained control of her emotions, he turned his attention back to Christine, asking the question that he had been about to ask before Scully had left the room.

"You spoke of your husband," he queried. "Where is he now?"

He couldn't help but notice how Christine's knuckles whitened as she locked her fingers around the mug he had offered her, and also how for the first time, the woman's eyes filled with tears. Her voice cracked as she answered him.

"Like I said, we were becoming more and more concerned about what was happening to Charlie. Jim seemed to know more about what was being done to her although he never discussed it with me. But he was scared. I knew that much, and he began to talk about us going away, taking Charlie and going where *They* would never find us. He said he had the connections to make sure we would never be found. Part of me wanted to do as he said, but a part of me was afraid for Charlie, that this treatment she was getting, despite what it was doing to her, was necessary, that if we took her away she would die." She shook her head sadly. "We had a terrible argument, him insisting that we had to leave, me refusing. And then he told me."

Christine's expression became far away, her eyes clouded with pain as she remembered.

"He told me that my precious little girl was a part of an experiment, an experiment to create children for a secret Government agenda, an agenda which he himself was a part of. He had known all along that we would care for Charlie, that we had been chosen months before her birth, and that later, when the time was right, she would be taken from us. He also told me that this *treatment* she was receiving was nothing more than a kind of gene therapy to enable her to develop in the way they hoped she would, and that if the treatment ceased, she would eventually become just another normal child."

Christine laughed bitterly.

"I didn't believe him at first, I mean it sounded too crazy to be true, but as he told me more about the Government's hopes for Charlie and for the others like her, everything began to make sense to me. The way she seemed able to read my thoughts, her intelligence - she could read and write by age two - the way she would climb on to my lap when I had a headache, laying her head against mine, and within minutes the pain would be gone. They were all things I hadn't given much thought to at the time, but which now seemed so relevant to what Jim was saying. He also told me that night, that Charlie was special, that she was one of the Project's greatest triumphs. Apparently she was developing in ways they had only dreamed about, far in advance of the others, when so many had failed in the past. I asked him what he meant by *failed*"

She paused then, taking a sip of the coffee she still held in her hands.

"I don't know why really, deep down I knew what his response would be, but I didn't want to believe that he could be capable of such terrible things..."

"What things?" Scully's voice was so low, it was almost a whisper, but the room was heavy with silence, and Christine had no problem in hearing the words. She leveled her gaze at Scully, eyes matter of fact, as though she had cocooned herself to the horror.

"He told me that hundreds of children had been created. That Charlie was just a small part of genetic experiments which had been ongoing for years, decades even. There had been marginal successes apparently, but all too often these children would reach an age where their heightened development would cease. They were considered to be non- viable, not worthy to be allowed to live. The word Jim used was *release*."

A single tear escaped from Christine's eye and tracked it's way down her pallid cheek.

"What he really meant was termination, that when a child ceased to be of use, they, and everything connected to them, was quietly disposed of. They had certain ways of ensuring the continuing secrecy of the project. Suicides, car accidents, house fires, a burglary gone wrong, anything which could be explained away as *accidental*. No one ever asked any questions, and the project continued, children kept on being created. But something went wrong. I don't know exactly what it was, but like I said, Jim was scared. He came to me that night and said that somehow the project had been exposed, and that he had been ordered to remove the evidence. All of it."

Mulder spoke for the first time.

"And Charlie was a part of that evidence?"

"Yes. Our little girl had been reduced to the level of a lab rat, and even easier to deny. But Jim loved her like she was his own daughter...he couldn't do what they were asking of him."

She looked at Mulder and Scully in turn as she implored them to understand.

"Jim wasn't an evil man. He had gone along with the Project because he had thought he was serving the best interests of his country, but now they were erasing the very children he had helped to create, terminating their lives in the interests of national security, when they could just as easily be allowed to live. Having Charlie had changed him, had made him see these poor kids as something more than a number on a chart, and despite everything he couldn't go along with what they were ordering him to do."

"So what *did* he do?" despite herself, Scully's voice came out accusingly, quite unable to feel any kind of sympathy for a man who had played such a deadly role in all that had happened to her. Christine heard the sharpness behind the question and glanced across at the younger woman in surprise, unsure of how to react to the sudden hostility.

"He...he sent us away. He knew we didn't have much time, so that same night he bundled some of Charlie's things together, and insisted we leave. I resisted him at first, because however much he had kept things from me, he was my husband, Charlie's father and we needed him. He refused to change his mind though, just said that I was to contact no-one about where I was going, he wouldn't even let me tell him. I was to just get in the car and drive, far away to where no one knew us. He promised me that he would find me, and that when it was safe he would join us again, that we would be a family, like it had been in the beginning. So I came here. I had a little money set aside, and I began to pick up my life. I did as Jim had told me to do. I changed my name, and Charlie's so that we couldn't be traced, using the names he suggested, so that when the time came he would be able to find us. But he never came. I waited and waited but he never came."

Her voice was lost as she buried her face in her hands, sobbing in earnest now and a feeling of guilt overwhelmed Scully.

She had no right to feel antagonism toward this woman. She was nothing more than another victim, a pawn to be toyed with as she herself had suffered at the hands of these men, and whatever else she might be guilty of, it was clear that Christine Stevens loved her daughter. That she would die for her.

"How did they find you?" she asked softly. Christine shook her head.

"I don't know. How do they find anyone who doesn't want to be found? I'd begun to think that we might be safe. Charlie had begun to thrive away from the treatments and the tests, and over the months, she began to lose the characteristics that had set her apart from other children her age. She never lost her intelligence, but the intuition she seemed to have lessened with each day, until it just wasn't there at all. She became like a normal child."

Christine smiled suddenly, "I remember one day she wasn't her usual self, she was always such a happy child, but on that day she was cranky and irritable. At first I panicked. I thought she was finally having a reaction to the cessation of the treatments, but then I looked closer and it dawned on me. My four year old daughter was suffering from her very first cold, and hating every minute of it. I began to think then that maybe we were going to be OK." An edge of bitterness crept into her voice. "I should've known better."

Scully glanced at where her discarded wallet containing her I.D. lay on the side table next to her, and a thought suddenly dawned on her.

"You said earlier that the man who took Charlie had a badge just like the one I showed you. What exactly did you mean by that?"

Christine laughed, the sound forced and tight.

"Why did you think I didn't believe you were who you said you were? The men who forced their way in to my home and stole my daughter didn't work for a secret Government Agency, or the N.S.A. or the military. They worked for the FBI just like you do."

12:01a.m.

"Do you believe her?" asked Scully queitly.

Mulder shrugged and directed his gaze to the connecting door which led through in to Scully's room which remained just slightly ajar.

They had left Christine alone, needing to discuss all they had heard away from her piercing gaze although it hadn't been easy to persuade her to allow them to leave. So they had compromised and agreed to leave the door connecting the two rooms open.

In particular, Mulder had wanted to speak to Scully alone, to get her impressions of the story they had just been told, a need partly necessitated by the fact that he wasn't firing on all cylinders at present, but also governed by the look he saw displayed clearly across her face.

It was a look he had seen all too often during their time together, and one which suggested that she wasn't buying what she had heard.

"Don't you?" he queried quietly.

Scully shrugged uncertainly, gesticulating helplessly as she tried to put her doubts in to words, knowing that she had nothing more concrete to go on than a vague feeling of unease - a hunch for want of a better word - that not everything was as it seemed. It was something she had accused Mulder of doing a hundred times in the past, and something she had never given much credence to.

"Scully?"

"I don't know, Mulder. It just doesn't track somehow."

"What doesn't track?"

Scully sat down.

"Why wait until now to get help?" She didn't wait for Mulder to respond. "I mean, if what she says is true, she's been on the run for the better part of a year, and yet she carried on her life as if nothing had happened, knowing that she was being hunted like an animal and doing nothing about it. Does that make sense to you?"

"She was scared." Mulder pointed out reasonably.

"OK. I'll buy that. But surely if she were *that* scared she would have at least attempted to seek some kind of help."

Mulder held out a hand to her. "From whom? You saw what happened when she tried to go through proper channels. She was declared insane and they threw away the key."

He stopped mid sentence as Scully hauled herself to her feet and began pacing the room. It made him dizzy just watching her, but at the same time he could feel the energy practically sparking from her, and it was always best to allow her to focus when she got like this, knowing that she was at her best.

"You're missing my point, Mulder. I don't mean she should've cried for help *after* the event. What I'm saying is, why wait until she lost the only tangible proof she did have? Charlie was her proof, and yet she did nothing. She could have told her story to any number of people at a time when it could have been proven, but she chose not to, even when it was obvious that her husband wasn't coming back."

She paused and turned to her partner. "It just seems too...I don't know...convenient somehow."

She shrugged.

"Do you think I'm looking for something that isn't there?"

Mulder considered her question carefully before answering. He had always put a great deal of faith in his partner's ability to separate the truth from the deceit and admired her analytical approach to a problem, an approach which complimented his more unorthodox methods perfectly.

But tonight, here, he wasn't sure how much of her doubt was based on good, solid intuition, and how much was due to the emotional connection the child's disappearance had to her.

"I think," he offered carefully, "That you're very close to this case, and that that closeness might be clouding your judgement slightly, making you overly paranoid."

Scully raised her eyebrow. "Paranoid?"

"Okay, not paranoid exactly, but threatened, certainly."

"By what exactly?" Scully's voice rose defensively, and Mulder held up his hand to silence her.

"I just mean that it's difficult for you to have to hear what this woman, the mother of this child, has to say. It's natural that you would look for a reason to discount her as anything other than the enemy, and that's happening because of the emotional connection you feel towards this child. You and I both know that it's happened before, and hell, Scully, it's not exactly hard to understand, especially after what you went through with Emily."

Scully crossed her arms over her chest, narrowing her eyes at her partner, a sure sign that she didn't like what she was hearing.

"Is that what you really think of me, Mulder? That I would place my own personal feelings above my professional ability to do my job? Because if it is, then you're wrong. I just think that there's more to this than meets the eye, but as usual, you're so willing to believe that you're not looking for reasons to question the facts. Believe me, Mulder, I want to believe her too, but it all just seems a little bit too convenient for it to be real. I can't rationalise why it feels so wrong, it just does."

Mulder opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off by the sudden high pitched trilling of his cellular phone, a sound which cut through his pounding head like a hammer. He snatched up the phone and pressed the talk button, more to silence it than anything else.

"Mulder?"

The voice at the other end was instantly recognisable, and sounded, Mulder noted, extremely pissed off.

"Mulder, it's John. Where the hell are you?"

Mulder coughed guiltily before answering.

In all the confusion, he hadn't given his old FBI buddy a second thought, and with it came the knowledge that he had made a tremendous error of protocol in keeping the senior Agent out of the loop.

"Um, Scully and I switched motels..."

"So I gathered. I've been trying to reach you all day." Wickham's tone was hard and uncompromising, a far cry from the welcoming tones he had used earlier.

Mulder knew what was coming next, and instinctively he glanced at Scully who frowned questioningly at him.

"I've got the Attorney general breathing down my neck, asking me questions that I can't answer."

"Questions?"

"Yeah. Like why the two Agents I brought down from D.C. to assist on this case took it upon themselves to illegally remove a key suspect in a Federal crime from the care of the state."

Mulder snorted.

"Care of the State? That place was a disgrace and you know it. Anyway, what are you talking about "suspect in a Federal crime"? Since when?"

"Since a witness came forward with crucial information regarding the afternoon the child was taken. It seems Mrs. Stevens wasn't quite the devoted mother she made herself out to be, and I now have evidence which sites a history of abuse dating back to 1997."

"I refuse to believe that," Mulder argued. "I've seen this woman, spoken to her; Agent Scully has spoken to her. She's guilty of nothing more than trying to protect her daughter, and whoever is making these allegations against her is doing it as another way to ensure her story never gets out."

"Look, Mulder. I don't care what you believe right now. What I'm telling you is that I can't protect you for much longer. I've got my butt in a sling for you already, but I'm not prepared to put myself on the line for you, for Scully and especially not for some woman who's living in some crazy fantasy as a way to live with what she's done. I want her back here. Right now. Tonight. Do you hear me?"

Mulder rubbed his hand wearily over his eyes.

"I can't," he said softly. "I'm sorry, John, but you don't understand what's at stake here."

"Then explain it to me, Fox, explain it to me so I can explain it to *them*."

Mulder didn't immediately respond, and Wickham's voice rose exasperatedly.

"Look, Buddy, I want to help you. Hell, I was the one who brought you on the case. But, Jesus Man, you have to give me something to work with here. Tell me where you are at least so we can talk about it, figure out what to do, because if what you say is right, then you're gonna need all the help you can get."

"OK." Mulder waved his hand vaguely in the air, and did his best to avoid his partner's eye, knowing that she wouldn't approve of him involving another party in this, and remembering her unspoken warning from earlier in the day, attempted to compromise.

"But not here. I'll come over to you, because believe me, I've dealt with these people before and it's in your best interests that you don't know where to find us right now. Is there somewhere we can meet?" Mulder grabbed a pen from the table, and on the back of a discarded drinks coaster, scrawled down the address that his old friend offered him.

"OK. I got that. I'll be there in an hour." He glanced at Scully. "No. I'll be alone. . . all right, I'll see you in a while."

He pressed the "end" button and threw the phone on to the bed, finally meeting Scully's eye.

"Did you get all that?"

"Most of it. I gather he's not too pleased."

"Yeah well, that's understating the point. I think understandably pissed sums it up pretty well. I need to explain some things to him before this whole thing gets out of hand."

"Do you trust him?" Scully asked.

Mulder sighed, "Do I have any reason not to?"

"Mulder, you heard what Mrs. Stevens said. What if there's a connection to the FBI? What if the badge she saw was genuine? Look, I know that you and John go back a long way, but supposing we're being played. It's happened before."

Mulder laughed.

"And you really think that this is all some elaborate ruse to get us down here? That's a bit of a leap don't you think? And what purpose would it serve?"

Scully fought to keep her voice level.

"I don't know. I just have a bad feeling about you going down there."

Mulder put a hand on her shoulder.

"I have to go, Scully. Because if I don't the consequences of what we're doing will rain down hard on us, you know that, and quite apart from that, I owe him enough not to let him take a fall because of me, because of us."

Scully fixed her china blue eyes on him.

"Then let me go with you."

"No. I need you here with Mrs. Stevens."

Mulder reached for his jacket and painfully eased his aching arms through the sleeves, wincing as he did so.

Scully shook her head, as she watched him. "Look at yourself, Mulder. You shouldn't be going anywhere. Quite apart from the fact that you look half dead, it's not safe for you to be driving feeling the way you are."

Mulder picked up his phone and attempted a grin which didn't quite come off. "I'll call a cab." Then, seeing the expression on his partner's face he sobered slightly.

"Look. I'll call you the minute I get there, and the minute I get back. I'll be fine, Scully, really. Get some sleep, OK? You look like you could use it, and tomorrow we'll figure out what we're going to do. I promise. But right now I have to do this."

Scully shrugged, knowing that he would go his own way no matter what argument she brokered, but at the same time unable to let go of the inexplicable feeling of dread which gripped her, twisting her insides like a vice as she looked at him. She couldn't find the right words to express what she wanted to say, and so settled on the next best thing.

"Here. You might need these later."

She reached in to her pocket and threw him a bottle of Tylenol. Mulder grinned again as he palmed them effortlessly.

"I'll see you later, Okay?"

She didn't answer him immediately, but as Mulder reached the outside door, her voice turned him around again, and for just a second, he saw a mirror image of his own emotions flitter across her face, reflecting in her eyes, telling him without words, everything he needed to know.

"Mulder, wait . . .drive carefully, and call me, alright?"

Mulder waved his phone at her, and smiled reassuringly.

"I promise."

Scully stood, for a long while after the door had swung shut and she had heard Mulder's car pull out of the forecourt, staring at the space he had just occupied. Eventually she pulled herself together, and returned to her own room, checking briefly on Christine Stevens who was once again deeply asleep on the bed. Scully sighed, and covered the sleeping woman with a blanket, knowing that she herself would not sleep until Mulder was safely back. Wearily, she lowered herself in to a chair, suspecting already that it was going to be another long night.

Many miles away, in a motel room very similar in design to the one Mulder had just left, someone else was settling himself in for a long night.

The voice recording equipment which surrounded him spooled satisfyingly, recording the almost imperceptible sounds of a car's engine, and the changing of gears as it was driven to it's destination. To the left of the man sat a small color monitor, which to an untrained eye displayed nothing more than a series of grids which pulsated with every beat, but which to him gave him all the information he would need to execute his plan.

A smile crossed his face, as he watched and listened as Mulder drove towards San Diego, chuckling at the irony as he had plainly recognised the concern which Scully had shown toward her partner, not realising that she would have been better served by turning her concern on herself.

The man picked up the motel room phone, and punched out a number from memory. The line rang for only an instant before it was picked up. There was no welcome greeting on the other end - there didn't need to be. Similarly, he wasted no time on niceties.

"Mulder's on the move. He's left Scully at the motel. I'm ready to proceed when you say the word."

A slow smile spread across the man's face as he listened to his orders.

"Yes, sir. I understand." He replaced the phone in it's cradle and stretched luxuriously, savouring the feeling that finally, Mulder was going to get exactly what was coming to him, and no one, not even Mulder himself, would be able to connect it to him.

He shoved the semi-automatic pistol in to his belt holster and realised that suddenly, the night didn't seem so long after all.

Oxford Park, San Diego. 1:56a.m.

Wearily, Mulder drew the rental car to a halt, and squinted through the darkness at the crumpled piece of paper he held in his hand.

He had taken several wrong turns during his journey, a combination of both his unfamiliarity with the local area, and his throbbing head, but as he now scrutinised the large apartment building in front of him, he was pretty sure that at last he'd made it.

The building was old but well cared for, and as Mulder stepped in to the lobby, the plush decoration indicated that this was definitely the kind of fashionable abode that an up and coming young FBI Agent, such as Wickham, would feel was both necessary and deserved.

Mulder thought of his own cramped, middle income apartment, and smiled ruefully. He doubted whether he would ever make the grade where he could expect to live somewhere such as this, or even that he would want to.

Material possessions meant little to him, status even less, although there had been a time long ago when he had enjoyed the same fast track existence that Wickham bore the fruits of. Somewhere along the way though Mulder had lost his footing, and he doubted whether he would ever climb back up, he had made too many enemies, upset too many people along the way - he was, as he had once told Scully, a lousy Bureau dancer - and he had long ago stopped trying to improve his footwork.

He had accepted the sacrifices his work brought about as completely as he accepted the ridicule. It was something he no longer even questioned, even to himself.

Mulder once again checked the slip of paper he held in his hand. According to Wickham's instructions, his apartment was located on the fifth floor, and Mulder let his eyes wander around the lobby until he sought what he was looking for. He passed the door that led to the stairway, recognising that trawling up five flights, feeling the way he did, would just about finish him off, and instead made for the highly polished brass doors of the elevator. His heart sank as he got closer.

"Great." He muttered to himself as he read the professionally printed sign which was tacked to the left of the sliding door - no tacky magic marker in this building - and did an about turn back towards the stairwell.

It was ironic he decided, that in the seven years he had lived in his own slightly down market apartment, the elevators at least, had never let him down, but here in this monument to gracious living, he was forced to let his legs take him where he needed to go.

So much for progress he decided sourly as he wrenched open the door.

The stairs where at least brightly lit and spacious, the wrought iron balustrade extending upwards in a snaking twist of metal, but as Mulder craned his neck upwards, the walls began to tilt alarmingly, and he was forced to grab the railing to steady himself. He closed his eyes briefly, and took some deep breaths, waiting until his head cleared sufficiently for him to move, and then slowly, each step laboured, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps, he began his climb to the fifth floor.

Despite his attempts to pace himself, Mulder was forced to stop several times to regain his breath, and once to drop his head down as a sickening wave of dizziness threatened to topple him backwards down the stairs. He was beginning to realise that in spite of his assurances to Scully, he was in no fit state to be out of bed, let alone exerting himself like this. It was also a measure of how bad he was feeling that the climb was taking such a heavy toll on him. Normally he would have sprinted up the stairs two at a time without even breaking a sweat, a level of fitness derived from a daily seven mile jog and regular laps of the FBI pool.

But the virus in his system together with a lack of both sleep and food, had left him feeling drained and used up. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be old, battling to scale even the smallest hurdle when all the time your body was screaming at you to just lie down and say "No more". It was a feeling that he could relate to at the present time.

Eventually though, he reached his destination, and after taking a minute to compose himself, he knocked softly on Wickham's door. It opened almost immediately, suggesting to Mulder that his arrival was not before time.

He held his hands up as Wickham ushered him inside. "I know. I'm sorry, I took a couple of wrong turns."

He shrugged off his jacket, and without waiting to be invited, sank heavily in to nearest chair. He was acutely conscious of the sweat which beaded his skin, and even more so of his old friend's piercing stare.

He began to squirm uncomfortably, knowing what was coming, expecting at the least an angry rebuke for keeping his superior in the dark. Wickham's words, though, when they finally came succeeded in throwing him significantly off balance, as did the concern behind them.

"Jesus Man, you look terrible. Are you OK?"

Mulder grinned crookedly. "I'd have felt a whole lot better if the elevator in this damn place was working."

He passed a hand over his throbbing temples. "It's a case of the flu, that's all. Like I keep telling Scully, I look worse than I feel."

"I sure hope so, Fox, 'cuz you look like you've just been run down by a truck."

Wickham held up the glass he held in his hand, the amber liquid it contained shining golden in the subdued lighting. "You want one of these? Medicinal purposes?"

Mulder considered the offer. It was certainly tempting, but on reflection, he decided against it. He was having a hard enough time driving as it was without adding alcohol to the equation.

Wickham however was never a man to give up without a fight. "C'mon, just a small one. You look like you need it."

"All right." Mulder conceded.

He had neither the time nor the inclination to protest. He just wanted to get this over with and get back to Scully so he could finally crawl back in to bed and block out the misery his aching body was putting him through.

He watched as Wickham poured the scotch in to a second crystal tumbler, and held up his hand as the level continued to rise. "Hey, a small one you said."

He accepted the proffered glass and took a small sip, gratified by the way the liquid warmed his aching throat, the warmth settling deep inside him like a salve, and thought back to the last drink he had had. Was it really less than two days ago? How had he managed to go from feeling relatively OK to feeling like this in only two days? For someone who was never sick, he was sure making up for lost time.

He dragged himself back to the here and now though as he realised Wickham was speaking.

"...harbouring a suspect in a Federal crime isn't going to reflect too well on your record, and the fact I brought you out doesn't sit very well on mine either."

Mulder held up his hand defensively. He had not need to hear Wickham's opening dialogue to catch the gist. "I hear what you're saying John, believe me, I've run in to enough hard assed protocol to last me a lifetime, but you have to understand that there are reasons behind our actions that go much deeper than simple Bureau procedures."

"OK. So explain it to me.....and Mulder, keep it simple, no little green men with ray guns. Just the facts."

Mulder sighed. "I'm afraid you'll find that the two tend to go hand in hand, only the little green men can seem more believable than the facts sometimes. I'll tell you what you need to know, but you need to be prepared to listen, without question to what I'm saying."

"You mean "open myself up to extreme possibility"? That is the term you'd use right?"

"Yeah," Mulder smiled ruefully, "That's the term I'd use."

He took another sip of the scotch, and sat back, dragging his mind back to find a place to start. So much had happened over the last five years, and it was difficult to pull all the strands together. When exactly had events been put in to play which resulted in him sitting here now?

His partnership with Scully? His opening of the X-Files? His partner's abduction?

So many events and so many implications to all those involved meant that Mulder now found it almost impossible to come up with the kind of narrative which would describe the gravity of the situation. His headache didn't make his task any easier. Finally though, he settled on a place to start, beginning a diatribe that he knew would sound crazy to his long time friend, but one which he had to make him believe if he ever stood a chance of discovering the truth, knowing that he needed to be able to count on his allegiance and his help in protecting Christine Stevens.

Wickham remained silent as he listened impassively to Mulder. He showed no reaction other than the occasional raised eye brow as Mulder spoke of Scully's abduction, his Sister's disappearance, the tests, the implants, the lies, the discovery of a secret Government project, the purpose of which was still unknown.

He spoke almost without pausing, eyes far away as he relived the horror and the loss his quest had brought about, and he didn't really notice when Wickham leaned forward and refilled the glass that he held loosely in his hand.

He had continued to take regular sips of the drink, more to ease his aching throat than from any great need for the alcohol it contained, and he was suddenly conscious that his words were becoming slightly slurred.

He stopped mid-sentence and frowned. He felt fuzzy and disorientated, almost drunk, and yet he knew that to be so would be impossible.

The glass remained half full, and Mulder, although not a regular drinker, had the kind of constitution that could handle six or seven such shots without it affecting him in this way. He tried to lift his hand, but he found he could do little more than twitch it slightly and this frightened him more than anything. It was as though he was paralysed, caught underneath a great weight which held him down, rendering him helpless, an all encompassing numbness spreading through his body.

The tumbler slipped unnoticed from his fingers, and landed with a dull thud on to the carpet below.

"Hey, Fox?....you OK?" the voice seemed to come from far away, and then Wickham's face loomed in to view.

Mulder struggled against the wave of dizziness that threatened to overcome him, and fought to catch his breath. His chest felt tight, as though an invisible fist were pressing down on it. He was aware of a strange whistling sound in his ears, and it took him a few seconds to recognise that the sound was actually emanating from him as he struggled to breathe. He could feel his chest rattling with the effort, cold sweat breaking out on his face, a result of his exertions.

"I...I don't feel so good..." He finally managed in a strangled whisper.

He closed his eyes as he felt Wickham press an index finger to his neck, just below the jawbone, already knowing that his pulse would be racing. He could hear the pounding of his heart inside of his head, the sound blocking out almost everything else, but Wickham's voice somehow broke through the barrier, concern all too evident in his words.

"Fox, open your eyes man..."

Mulder heard the words but did not respond. Exhaustion enveloped him like a wave, and the temptation to slip in to the darkness overrode all other thoughts, and then through the pain, and the fear, and the nothingness, a picture formed in his confused mind, a picture of his partner, her face standing out sharply against the blackness.

He struggled to open his eyes, the lids feeling like lead weights, and as he slowly focused, he was conscious of Wickham's face hovering above him, and he realised that he was no longer in the chair, but flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't remember how he'd gotten there, and it didn't seem important.

"Jesus Buddy, don't do that to me. I thought for a minute you were dead..." He broke off as Mulder, summoning up every last reserve of strength he had left, raised his hand and clutched at his friends arm, his fingers grasping the air until they finally gained purchase.

"Scully..." he whispered hoarsely.

Wickham shook his head. "It's OK. Just take it easy, don't try to talk, there's an ambulance on the way, they're gonna take care of you...."

The pressure increased as Mulder fought to stay conscious long enough to say what he had to, even now concern for his partner at the forefront of his mind. "You have...you have to get to her...protect her..."

His hand fell away then as he lost the battle, hearing a buzzing in his head that seemed to emanate from his every fibre, overwhelming him with a sickening dizziness. He shut his eyes as the room began to spin, tilting crazily as the world angled away from him, hearing the sound of a siren wailing in the distance, hearing it getting closer and closer, until even that ceased to make any impact on him as everything went black.

Genesis 9/30

46th Street, New York City. 2:51a.m.

The streets of New York were quiet. The last of the late night revelers had long since gone home, and now the only signs of life came from the occasional sighting of a yellow cab, trawling the streets looking for business. The pavement was slick from the rain that had fallen almost continually for most of the day, and the streetlights reflected back up from it like glowing orange orbs, standing out against the darkness of the surrounding buildings.

One building, however, still sported the muted tones of a light behind tightly drawn blinds, it was a building that never completely slept, having as it did at least one man on duty there to gather any information that might be forthcoming from any of the hundreds of operatives scattered across the country.

Tonight though the man was not alone. His companion sat serenely in one of the large leather armchairs, staring out across the room, looking at nothing in particular, content to wait for the news he suspected would come in to the office any time soon. He was a patient man, in his line of work he had to be.

He removed a crumpled pack of Morley cigarettes from his jacket pocket, removed one and lit it without even looking at it. Noxious blue smoke swirled around him briefly, before the overhead fans dispersed it. The smoke disappeared as if by magic, but the tenacious odour of the Smoking Man's almost constant chain smoking clung to every surface, a persistent reminder to those who would subsequently use this room, that he had been there, waiting for a message to say that he could proceed with his plans.

His mind drifted, as it often did recently, to Fox Mulder. He found it incredible that after all this time, he would still view the young FBI Agent as such a threat, especially knowing that Mulder could never be allowed to succeed in his quest for the truth.

The Smoking Man suspected that Mulder had been spared only because he was now high profile enough to cause questions to be raised should he meet with an unfortunate "accident". Maybe two years ago they would have gotten away with it, but not now. Too many others would now take up the cause where Mulder left off, not least of all his partner.

Life was full of ironies, he decided, as he took another pull on the cigarette which rested loosely between his thin lips. The idea to pair Mulder with a partner who would invalidate his work had been his own suggestion, and it had been he who had painstakingly trawled the FBI records until he had settled on Dana Scully as the most likely candidate to debunk Mulder's work on the X-Files.

At the time she had seemed like the perfect choice. Young, ambitious, inexperienced. In short, easily manipulated to their way of thinking. It had been the biggest miscalculation of his life, and one which he had paid dearly for allowing to happen.

Almost immediately she had shown that she had a definite mind of her own, and even worse a fierce sense of integrity that only matched her loyalty to her new partner. Instead of debunking Mulder, she had begun to defend him. By the time the error was noticed, it was already too late. The damage had been done.

Several attempts had been made to limit that damage, but all had been thwarted by Mulder, who had repaid her loyalty a thousand fold by risking his own life to save hers, and now, in a strange way, the Smoking Man actually found himself admiring them both. The way they had managed to prevail in the face of so much adversity, how they had refused to be beaten despite all attempts to break them.

The Smoking Man had come to view them as the powerful adversaries he had always suspected they could become, and he had learned the hard way that neither one of them should be underestimated. Despite this though, he was also aware of their weaknesses, the Human frailties that when exposed, could be turned to his own advantage.

Mulder had only one Achilles heel as far as he could tell, in that he cared about one individual above all others, a person who's life he valued more than his own.

Mulder had already demonstrated his lack of regard towards himself, on more than one occasion when he had been approached regarding a possible shift of allegiance, but the Smoking Man still had one more card left to play, a card which if dealt at the right moment would crush Mulder's every reason to continue.

He dropped the Cigarette in to the ash tray which rested on the arm of the chair, and was in the process of reaching for another when the phone began to ring. The younger man who was seated at the desk, answered it even before the ring had a chance to fade, and after listening for a second, he handed it to the Smoking Man.

"Yes?"

The familiar voice greeted him with the news he had been waiting for.

"Mulder's out of the way. I have a man on route to Agent Scully and the woman. Do I tell him to proceed as planned?"

The Smoking Man nodded. "Yes."

"And the child?"

"The child stays where she is . . . until the time is right to let Agent Scully see what she desperately needs to see."

"And afterwards?"

"Afterwards the child will be surplus to requirements. She will be disposed off in the usual manner. You know what to do."

There was a slight pause as the figure on the other end digested the information, then, "Our source at the Bureau. Can he be trusted?"

"Oh yes." The Smoking man allowed himself just the ghost of a smile. "I think you'll find he can be trusted implicitly."

"How can you be sure? You've made mistakes in the past."

The Smoking man's facial expression did not change, but his knuckles whitened as he gripped the receiver more tightly. "Mistakes which I might point out, resulted from some momentous instances of misinformation directed at myself."

"So you've said."

"May I remind you that if it weren't for me, the Mulder problem might have continued to escalate. As it is, we now have an opportunity to end it once and for all, and I intend to do just that. I suggest you concentrate on your own obligations apropos that outcome and let me do the same."

Without waiting for a reply from the younger man, he replaced the receiver abruptly, conscious not for the first time that not so long ago, he would not have tolerated being spoken to in such a manner, nor would he have expected it.

Oh yes, his mistakes had cost him dearly.

This, though, would erase all memories of those past discretions. The elimination of Fox Mulder would once more elevate him to the position within the group that he not only deserved, but one which he felt was rightfully his. He didn't allow himself to consider the consequences of failure. This time failure was not an option.

E-Z 8 Motel. Route 49, San Diego. 3:17a.m.

Scully's eyes snapped open as she became instantly alert. Her reflexes finely honed by years on the job, she was never completely relaxed even in sleep. She was surprised to find that it was past three, and realised that despite her best intentions, she had succeeded in dozing off almost immediately she had settled in the chair.

The room was quiet, and Scully could just make out the sleeping form of Christine Stevens on the bed. Obviously, whatever had woken Scully had not infringed on her slumber. For a second, Scully wondered if she had been dreaming, and had simply awoken with a start, but then she heard it. The faintest sound of someone knocking at Mulder's door, and accompanying it she felt a sharp pang of worry as she realised that he had not yet contacted her.

Without switching on the light, Scully rose slowly from her seated position, but kept her body crouched low as she fumbled in the darkness for her gun. Her hand closed over the leather holster which she had left on the side table, and reassured by it's familiar solidity, she began to move towards Mulder's room. As she did so, it suddenly struck her that she would look pretty stupid if the late night caller turned out to be no one more sinister than her partner, but then again, it was unlikely that if he had forgotten his key that he would be knocking at his own door.

The connecting door between the rooms creaked as she pushed it gently inwards, the sound cutting through the silence like a knife, and Scully held her breath. She was not yet inclined to let her presence be known to whoever stood on the other side of the room's door, at least not until she had determined whether they were friend or foe.

The door itself was equipped with a peep hole, and Scully reached up on tip toes to press her face to it. Her eyes widened as she recognised the distorted features of John Wickham, and for a second she was unsure as to how to respond.

Common sense told her that, as her superior Agent, she should let him in, but at the same time, the niggling feeling of unease returned to plague her. Why was he here? And more to the point, where was Mulder?

Her hand hovered over the door handle, but she was saved from making a decision when she heard the sound of a key being inserted in the lock. Dropping like a cat, she crouched to the left of the door, her body pressed against the wall, gun drawn and ready to fire.

She tensed as the door opened and Wickham stepped hesitantly in to the room, his back to her as he squinted in to the darkness, obviously looking for something - or someone.

"Agent Scully?" His voice was hoarse with the effort of whispering, and a heavy sigh followed it as he realised she was not in the room.

He moved as though to turn, but froze as Scully finally spoke.

"Don't turn around. Get you hands where I can see them. I have a gun pointing at you right now."

Obediently, Wickham raised his hands and laced them behind his head, hardly daring to breath as he recognised the strain that was all too evident in Scully's voice. He had enough experience of situations such as this one to know when the fastest way to get yourself killed was to start arguing. It wasn't an error he intended to make.

He heard the metallic click as she cocked the weapon, and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck begin to stand on end. "Stay cool, Dana. It's not what you think, OK?"

"You have no idea what I think," she said tersely. "Now move forward slowly to the chair and sit on your hands."

Wickham blinked as she snapped the overhead light on and brightness flooded the room, but without hesitating he complied with her request, getting his first good look at her, as she moved around him, sitting on the edge of the bed, gun pointed straight between his eyes. Her grip, he noted, was rock steady; her blue eyes like twin chips of ice, unwavering, unyielding.

"Why are you here?" she asked. "Where's Mulder?"

Wickham chose his words carefully, needing to make her understand, but at the same time trying desperately hard not to aggravate what was already an inflammatory situation.

"Mulder collapsed at my apartment just over an hour ago. He's in the hospital. He told me to come here, to come get you. He said something about you needing protection."

Scully narrowed her eyes suspiciously, "How do I know you're not lying?"

"You don't. But Mulder trusted me enough to send me here to get you. To protect you. Not that I'm thinking you need protection, Agent Scully. You seem perfectly capable to me."

He stopped mid sentence as he saw Scully's expression relax in to something almost resembling a smile, and she slowly lowered the gun.

Wickham looked visibly relieved. "Thank you, Dana. I thought for a minute there I was going to wear my brains as a hat."

"I'm sorry."

He waved away her apology. "Hey, after what Mulder told me, I expected as much. That was some story he told."

At the mention of her partner's name, a fresh wave of fear gripped Scully. "You said he was in the hospital? Why?"

Wickham wiped a bead of sweat from the end of his nose, and tried to find words which would break the news to her gently, all too aware of the fear he saw displayed in her eyes. He was pretty sure that the relationship between this woman and his one time colleague went much deeper than merely a professional partnership, and his earlier conversation with Mulder had only served to strengthen that belief.

He also suspected that Scully was teetering on the edge emotionally at the moment. He didn't want to be the one responsible for pushing her over. Nevertheless, she was a trained Medical Doctor, and she would learn the truth soon enough anyway.

"Like I said, he collapsed at my apartment, and although he was lucid for a while, by the time the ambulance showed up, he was in a pretty bad way. By all accounts he went in to full cardiac arrest on the way to the hospital. They managed to bring him back but it's pretty touch and go right now. They were still working on him when I left to come get you."

Scully shook her head numbly, her expression gone alarmingly blank. Her mouth worked for a few seconds as she struggled to regain the control she needed to speak.

"But . . . but he was fine, I examined him myself. It was the flu; nothing more than that. I don't understand."

Wickham got to his feet and gently rested his hand on her shoulder, feeling the tension there.

"It's not the flu, Dana."

She shrugged his hand off angrily.

"Then what?"

"They're not sure yet," he sighed, delivering the final blow and hating himself for it. "They need to run more tests to make a definitive diagnosis, but early indications suggest a massive viral infection, possibly meningitis. They're waiting on the results from the spinal tap. I'm sorry."

"I need to go to him." She headed for the door, but Wickham called her back.

"Dana, wait. You can't just leave. Mulder sent me here for a reason, remember?"

Sudden understanding halted Scully in her tracks as she recalled her purpose for even being in San Diego. Torn as she was by the need to get to Mulder as quickly as she could, she also knew that she had an obligation to the sleeping woman in the next room, that it was her duty to keep her safe. She turned back to Wickham and nodded reluctantly.

"What do you suggest?" she queried.

Wickham sighed.

"When I phoned Mulder earlier, it was for the express purpose of covering my own ass. After hearing his story, hearing what you've both been through and the reasons for it. . ." he scratched his head. "Hell, I don't know what to think anymore. I've known Fox for a lot of years. Although I don't assume to understand every detail of what he's told me, or the reasons behind it, I know him well enough and respect his judgement enough to know that if he maintains that this woman is in danger, then I'm not about to contest that view. I believe that rightly or wrongly, we have to get Christine Stevens in to some kind of protective custody right away. I'm kind of hoping you'll be able to direct me from there, because quite frankly, I haven't got a clue on how to proceed."

"I'll go wake her, explain things to her." Scully headed for the connecting door, but before she disappeared through it, she turned and flashed Wickham a brief smile of gratitude.

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For believing us," she said simply, before disappearing from view.

Mercy General Hospital, San Diego. 6:29a.m.

It had taken all of Scully's powers of persuasion to convince Christine Stevens to accompany SAIC Wickham away from the relative safety of the Motel and in to protective custody. Whilst Scully could understand her misgivings after everything she had been through, she had found herself losing the little bit of patience she had left.

Eventually though, Christine had conceded, perhaps realising that she would achieve nothing by staying where she was, and was finally, after much red tape, ensconced within one of the Bureau's local safe houses.

It was only then, that Scully was able to get away, and ignoring Wickham's gentle suggestion that she should get some rest, had instead headed straight for the hospital to see her partner.

Information on his condition had been scant at best, and when she called them up, they had stood by their strict policy of refusing to give out any details over the phone, a policy that as a doctor herself, she both understood and appreciated. It didn't lessen her anxiety though, especially since she also knew that when the medical profession clammed up it was usually because the news was not good.

It was fortunate for her that the early morning streets were still quiet, because she made the drive to the hospital at breakneck speed, taking full advantage of her excellent reflexes to keep her out of trouble. She had managed the journey in a little under ten minutes. On arriving, she had wasted no time on formalities, bypassing the front desk, and instead heading straight for the I.C.U. where she quite literally ran in to the doctor in charge who grabbed at her arms to stop her proceeding further along the corridor.

"Whoa, where do you think you're going?"

Scully shook off his hands, breathing heavily from her exertions.

"You have a patient here. Fox Mulder, he was brought in early this morning."

"And you are?"

Realising her mistake, Scully reached in to the inside pocket of her jacket and pulled out her badge, flipping it open in front of the doctor's face."

"I'm his partner."

The doctor relaxed visibly, and Scully lowered the badge.

"What's his condition?"

Her heart sank as the doctor once again took a hold of her arm, applying moderate pressure in order to steer her forward, away from the nurse's station, towards the visitor's lounge.

"Let's talk in here," he suggested.

The room was empty, the blinds drawn against the rising sun, and on another occasion Scully might have appreciated it's soothing decor. But not today. Not now. Following the Doctor's lead, she perched on the edge of one of the hospital issue chairs that lined the room, and waited for him to begin. He smiled at her soothingly.

"My name is O'Brien. I'm currently the physician in charge of your partner's care. I attended to him initially he was brought in, in view of the seriousness of his condition."

"What is his condition?" Scully repeated, already dreading the answer.

"Well, I have to admit that we're slightly at a loss. Mr. Mulder arrived here in an extremely serious condition," he consulted his notes, "he was in full cardiac and respiratory arrest, which to a lay person means..."

"I know what it means. I'm a doctor."

"But you're an FBI Agent. . ."

"That too. How is he now?"

O'Brien shook his head. "We managed to jump start him again, but his condition is currently giving us some cause for concern. We have him on a ventilator, at present he is making no efforts to breathe unaided. He is extremely tachycardic which thankfully we are managing to keep under control. He is deeply unconscious and isn't reacting to external stimuli. He has dangerously low blood pressure, and his temperature . . . well, see for yourself."

Scully accepted the proffered notes, and quickly ran her expert eye down the lists of figures. Her mouth dropped open.

"105.6? . . . but that's not possible. Are you sure that's an accurate reading?"

O'Brien nodded. "Absolutely accurate. We took three separate readings using three different instruments. The results were the same. We've had your partner on a cooling bed for the past two hours and it's had no effect at all on his basal temperature. I've never seen anything quite like it."

"But I was told that a viral infection was the cause, that you suspected meningitis."

"Yes that's right," agreed O'Brien, "but I got the results of the spinal tap an hour ago. It was completely clear. No abnormalities at all."

"Did you run blood work?"

"Extensively."

"And?"

"Same result. Nothing there. A slight reduction in the red blood cells, but nothing that would suggest anything more than a low grade infection, a cold, the flu, something along those lines."

"Did you run a Toxicology screen?" Scully broke in.

"No, I didn't. Not yet anyway."

"I'd like you to run one immediately."

O'Brien looked confused, "What am I looking for exactly? I mean, a Tox screen won't explain why he's like this."

Scully fixed her blue eyes on him, not yet willing to voice the suspicions that were formulating in her mind, especially not until she had something to back them up.

"I don't know yet. Maybe nothing, but it can't hurt to explore every possibility. There has to be an explanation, and we have to find it."

"Agent Scully, do you have information that I should know?" O'Brien narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but Scully held his gaze.

"All I know is that six hours ago, my partner was suffering from nothing more than a nasty case of the flu. I examined him myself, it was a diagnosis which any first year med student would have made, and now, if what you're telling me is correct, he's fighting for his life. That didn't just happen for no reason, and I need to know what that reason is. I think you do too."

She got to her feet, indicating clearly that the conversation was over. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to see him."

O'Brien shook his head, "I'm sorry. That's not possible right now. We have him in isolation, no visitors."

Scully was not impressed by O'Brien's attempts at authority. "OK. Then I would like to speak to someone in charge."

"Agent Scully, I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation here."

Scully drew herself up to her full height, preparing to deliver her trump card.

"No, Doctor O'Brien, I think it's you who doesn't understand. If you would like to check Agent Mulder's medical records, you will see that I am listed as both his next of kin and his chosen physician. Do you need me to spell out to what that means? Because you're wasting time standing here arguing and I won't tolerate that. So you have a choice, either take me to him, or accept that I will exercise my right to remove him from your care and the care of this hospital. Don't make me waste my time."

For a second, they glared at each other, but finally O'Brien dropped his eyes, knowing that he was in a no-win situation, that if he stood his ground, she would do exactly as she threatened.

"All right, Agent Scully. Against my better judgement, I'll allow it. But you must ensure that full isolation procedures are followed. Until we know what this thing is, I refuse to take any chances, especially with your life."

Scully softened slightly, appreciating the reasoning behind his gruff words. "I understand. Thank you."

10:13 a.m.

Scully glanced at her wristwatch wearily, and rubbed a hand across her eyes in an attempt to wake herself up. She was painfully aware that it was now forty eight hours since she had experienced anything resembling normal sleep, and the dull ache behind her eyes was a constant reminder that she was pushing too hard.

She desperately needed coffee, a shower and food, in that order, but she couldn't bear to leave Mulder alone for even a few minutes, and to add to her burden, she was counting down the minutes to Skinner's arrival.

She had phoned him shortly after receiving the news of Mulder's collapse from Wickham, and after a brief conversation, Skinner had informed her that he would be getting the next available flight out.

She had mixed feelings regarding his decision, needing and wanting his support, but at the same time knowing he would want answers, answers that she simply didn't have at the moment. Just to compound things further, she also found that she couldn't rid herself of a nagging feeling of guilt, that she should somehow have prevented this, that she hadn't taken Mulder's symptoms seriously enough at the beginning.

She knew it was absurd to be thinking like that, having gone over and over the events of the last two days in her mind. Nothing she had seen at the time, or that her partner had described could account for the seriousness of his condition right now. Scully was becoming more and more convinced that an outside influence had been brought in to play, that something had been done to him during the early hours of the morning, after his departure from the motel.

She shouldn't have let him go alone, and nas her eyes settled on him once again, she sent up a silent prayer now that her error come back to haunt her, like so many others had done.

Beside her Mulder lay as if dead, the steady rise and fall of his chest a direct result of the ventilator tubing which was taped to the corner of his slightly open mouth, rather than from any normal respiratory effort on his part. His temperature remained abnormally high, and though it had fluctuated slightly over the past three hours, it was still high enough for his body to be bathed in a constant sheen of sweat. He was naked apart from a towel draped over his middle torso and despite the cooling blanket beneath him that circulated a constant cycle of cold water around it, Scully could still feel the heat from him radiating towards her.

Despite his high temperature though, his complexion was sickeningly pale, his parted lips seemed cracked and dry against the whiteness of his skin, his dark hair wet with sweat and plastered against his forehead.

The myriad of tubes and wires attached to him made any kind of close contact difficult at best, the life support systems which monitored his condition clustered like high tech sentries around the bed. Scully's medical training made them easily identifiable to her. She constantly checked their readings, all too aware that Mulder's condition was not improving in the slightest, despite the high grade antibiotics that were being fed regularly in to his system through one of the two canulars which had been inserted in to his arm.

The other contained nothing more than saline solution, essential in maintaining his fluid levels as his temperature continued to rage and the sweat poured out of his every pore. She knew that dehydration was a dangerous reality in cases like this, and one which Mulder didn't need right now, because weakened as he was it would kill him in a matter of hours.

During her time at his side, she had been able to do little more than hold his hand and murmur soft words to him, not really knowing whether he could hear her, but needing to do something to let him know she was there, that he wasn't alone.

She had seen his life threatened before, had spent more hours than she cared to remember pacing hospital corridors or by his bedside waiting for him to wake up but this was different somehow. Back then there had at least been a reason for him to be there, something she could grasp hold of to give her hope. Now though, there was nothing to explain it, and nothing she could do to help him.

Scully sighed and brought her partner's hand up to her cheek, and rested it against her, her eyes never leaving his face as she searched for even the tiniest signs of life, but there was nothing, no response to let her know he was still with her. Feeling helpless, she closed her eyes and let her head drop until it rested on the bed beside his arm. Her fingers remained tightly curled around his, and even as she finally succumbed to the exhaustion that overwhelmed her, her grip never loosened, unwilling to let him go, even in sleep.

"Agent Scully?" The familiar voice, although his words spoken from some distance away, were enough to rouse Scully instantly out of sleep. Her eyes snapped open immediately, and she guiltily raised her head from it's position on Mulder's bed, eyeing her superior warily as she did so. He was standing, fully gowned and protected, just inside the door that led to a small anteroom off Mulder's room.

"What time is it?"

"Just after eleven." His eyes flicked to take in Mulder, a frown creasing his brow as he recognised immediately the seriousness of his condition.

He had not expected to be confronted by this, although Scully had furnished him with only scant details of Mulder's admittance to the hospital, and now he felt at a loss as to what to say in response to the sight in front of him.

He chose to concentrate instead on Scully, who in truth, wasn't looking much better than her partner, and it was clear to Skinner that she was exhausted despite all her attempts to hide the fact.

"How's he doing?" he asked.

"It's not looking good," she replied heavily. "They have him on an aggressive anti-viral treatment, but it seems to be having little or no effect, and without a definitive diagnosis it's proving impossible to find a way forward. I'm waiting for the results on the Tox screen. Maybe then we'll have a clearer idea as to what we're dealing with and an avenue of treatment."

"And you?"

Scully looked puzzled. "Sir?" she queried uncertainly.

Skinner gestured in front of him. "I mean how are you doing, Agent Scully."

"Oh. I'm fine."

"You don't look fine." He narrowed his eyes, "When did you last sleep? I mean adequately?"

Scully considered lying, but quickly dismissed the notion. Like Mulder, Skinner had the uncanny knack of recognising when his Agents were being less than straight with him. It was easier simply to tell the truth and to subsequently plead her case.

"Two days ago, before we flew out." She admitted, uncomfortably aware of his unwavering gaze.

He nodded curtly, not surprised in the slightest by her admission, and without hesitating, he curled his finger, beckoning her to join him.

"Come here."

Sighing, Scully complied, easing herself up from her seated position by Mulder's bed and crossed the room to where Skinner stood. He pulled her into the room and scrutinised her, arms crossed before finally pulling her coat down from where she had hung it earlier in the day.

"Here."

She made no move to take it and Skinner recognised the set determination on her face. Nevertheless he stood his ground.

"Take it."

"Where are we going?" she asked warily.

"You need to sleep, but first you're going to tell me just what the hell's been happening here. You can do that on the way back to your motel. Now move."

Scully shook her head defiantly. "I'd rather stay."

"I don't care what you'd rather do, Agent Scully, because what I'm telling you is that you're coming with me. Right now."

His voice softened slightly as she turned her stricken expression back to her partner and he rested his hand lightly on the back of her neck.

"He's not going anywhere and you need to take care of yourself."

His words had the desired effect, and she nodded slowly, the movement only barely perceptible beneath his touch, and he dropped his hand away. Scully lifted her head slightly.

"Can you give me a minute?"

Skinner did not need to question the reasons behind her request, nor did he deny her the time alone with her partner that she obviously needed.

"I'll see you outside, Okay?"

Scully didn't turn around, but instead turned around and re-entered Mulder's room. On reaching his bed she leant forward and brought her lips to Mulder's forehead, tasting the salt on his burning skin as she remained there, eyes closed, as if transferring her strength in to him, willing him to fight, to come back to her.

She eventually straightened up, tenderly brushing the fallen strands of hair away from his face and letting her fingers trace the line of his jaw. Her medical training told her that he couldn't possibly hear her, but she felt compelled to give him some kind of reassurance that she wasn't deserting him.

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I'll be back soon Okay?"

She was aware of the tears which filled her eyes but blinked them back before they could escape their confines, knowing that to show weakness now would only serve to enervate her position with Skinner. So instead, she drew herself up to her full height, and without a backward glance, proceeded out of the room where her superior waited patiently for her.

E-Z 8 Motel. Route 49, San Diego. 1:40p.m.

Skinner had insisted on stopping at a small diner on route to the Motel where he had disappeared for a few minutes, leaving Scully in the car. She had been dozing on and off for most of the journey and Skinner surmised that if he were to reasonably expect her to recount the details that had led her and Mulder here, he first had to ensure she at least made an attempt to put some nourishment inside her.

He had returned to the car and placed a brown take-out bag in her hands, not speaking as she closed her eyes, savouring the mouth watering scents of the toasted cheese sandwiches and home-made soup it contained.

On their arrival back at the Motel he had insisted that they eat first, talk later.

And to his surprise Scully had not only acceded to his request, but had finished everything he had placed in front of her without question.

Finally when he was satisfied, he inclined his head to indicate she should start. Skinner had absorbed Scully's narrative without question, allowing her to furnish him with the facts and events that had led up to Mulder's current condition. As thorough as always, despite her fatigue, she left nothing out, and she was aware of how crazy her story sounded, even to herself.

On the occasions she allowed herself to glance across to her superior, she saw nothing in his expression that suggested anything other than a deep scepticism for her words. She got the uncomfortable feeling that as she heard the desperation in her voice, that she was beginning to sound like Mulder.

Skinner sat opposite her, loosely holding the case file in his hands, as he listened to her and for a considerable length of time after she had finished, did not speak. Finally though he raised his head.

"So let me get this straight." He held up the photograph of Charlotte Stevens. "You're telling me that this is your child?"

Scully sighed. "Biologically, yes."

"And there have been others?"

Scully had also related to him for the first time the events that had transpired over eighteen months ago: her discovery and subsequent loss of Emily. She was painfully aware that in not sharing the information with him sooner, she had broken just about every rule of protocol in existence. Her only saving grace was that the case had officially fallen when she was on leave, but even so, she had been acting under the jurisdiction of the Federal Government, and she knew that the excuse was flimsy at best.

The decision not to involve any higher authorities had been hers alone, and although she was aware that Mulder had an X-File sequestered somewhere deep in his filing system, her partner had not questioned her decision to bury the case.

He had appreciated the fact that, in reality, the decision had been hers to make, and also that to investigate it further would only serve to cause her more damage.

That all seemed immaterial now though.

The damage had already been done, and not just to her.

"Yes."

"Well, what are we talking about here, Scully?" Skinner barked harshly. "One? . . . ten? . . . more?"

"I don't know, sir. Maybe hundreds."

"And you have no insight in to who's behind it?"

Scully leveled her tired gaze at Skinner. She didn't want to be doing this right now, especially without Mulder by her side, but she knew that Skinner needed answers in order to help them, and painful though it was to furnish him with the details, she had to keep a hold of herself. It was becoming more of a challenge by the second as a combination of guilt, worry and numbing fatigue threatened to turn inwards. But Scully knew that to succumb would be disastrous, not least because Skinner would have her on the next flight back to Washington or worse, would temporarily relieve her of her duties until such time as he felt she could cope with the rigours of the job.

She forced herself to remain coolly professional as she answered him.

"We found connections to a pharmaceutical company called Pramgen. A man named Calderone was working out of the facility and apparently in sole charge of Emily's treatment. He refused to speak to us and so Agent Mulder surveilled him, following him to a private rest home for the care of the elderly. Once inside he found evidence of a massive cover up. He also discovered the identity of Emily's birth mother."

Skinner raised his eyebrows as Scully continued.

"She was a seventy-nine year old woman named Anna Fugasi. And she wasn't the only one. We turned up conclusive proof that out of the twelve women in the facility, nine were listed as having given birth during the previous three years, six to healthy baby girls, three to boys."

"And you're maintaining that these children are genetically yours?"

"Yes. Mulder found charts that contained, amongst other things, my name and dates which corresponded to my being taken. A time when the procedures were performed on me that would render me unable to conceive, a time when the creation of these children was already in progress . . ."

She trailed off as she saw the expression on Skinner's face.

"I know how crazy it must sound," she admitted quietly.

Skinner shook his head. "Aside from the obvious, Agent Scully, what I'm having a hard time with, is why you didn't come to me with this information earlier. Why you and Agent Mulder chose to withhold such a potentially serious set of circumstances, and why even when news of a second child was brought to your attention, you still saw fit to come down here with essentially no backup and no support." He paused then, all too aware that in the past he had often given them cause to leave him in the dark, but after everything that he'd done for them, he had hoped that they no longer felt they had to go behind his back.

Giving them free reign on the X-Files was one thing. Allowing them to risk their lives was something else altogether.

"Why didn't you come to me? I could have helped you," he said softly.

"We couldn't," Scully replied. "We had no evidence. Whoever was behind it had made sure of that. Within hours of Emily's death, whatever connections there might have been had been erased. We had nothing to support our findings and no one to corroborate our story. Who would have believed us?"

"I would," stated Skinner flatly.

Scully shook her head. "Would you?" she challenged softly, forcing Skinner to drop his eyes guiltily, as he realised that in all probability, he would have used the same arguments for not pursuing the case as Scully had just cited, lack of evidence.

"With all due respect, sir," she went on, "Even if by some miracle you had taken us seriously, what could you have done? Gone to the Director and requested a full investigation? You'd have been laughed out of the building. And believe me, Agent Mulder and I both know what that feels like. Going public with what we'd uncovered would have achieved nothing other than to draw even more attention to ourselves, and possibly even mark the total cessation of the project, a plot to bury the truth so deeply that it would never be uncovered."

Skinner considered her words carefully, comprehending her reasoning, and if he was totally honest, he would have to admit that everything she said was true. He sighed heavily, noting, not for the first time how pale and tired she appeared. He suspected she was hanging on by the barest thread right now, and one Agent in the hospital was quite enough for him without driving another one down the same path.

Nevertheless, he needed to know one more thing.

"And the situation with Agent Mulder?"

Scully took a deep breath before answering, knowing that she was about to voice some serious allegations with nothing to back them up.

"I believe that Agent Mulder has been exposed to some kind of outside influence that has resulted in an unknown illness, an illness that cannot be identified, and which is I believe, a direct result of our involvement in this case. Someone, somewhere doesn't want us here, and they will eliminate anything that gets in their way. Including us."

An expression of alarm briefly crossed Skinner's face.

"If that's the case, Agent Scully, then you're as much at risk as Agent Mulder, and shouldn't be here." He waved his hand vaguely around the room. "You should be in protective custody until we determine just what the hell is going on here, and you should let someone else handle this case."

Scully got to her feet, a sudden vision of her partner, lying prone and lifeless in his hospital bed flashing unbidden in to her mind, and not for the first time she wondered just how much of the responsibility for his condition lay at her feet. She owed him more than simply hiding away at the first sign of trouble, and if she never convinced Skinner of anything else again, she had to make him understand.

"I appreciate your concern, sir, but I can't do that." Skinner opened his mouth to argue, but Scully held up her hand, determined to say her piece.

"This is not a case that you can just hand off to another Agent and expect to get to the truth," she said desperately. "And with Agent Mulder in the hospital, there isn't anyone qualified to handle the investigation other than me. If I walk away now, then they'll just start to bury it all over again. I can't allow that to happen. Not now. Not when I have a second chance to find these men, to make them accountable for their actions."

Her eyes pleaded with Skinner to come to the right decision, needing him to understand that to remove her from the case would be the worst possible determination he could ever make. She also knew that despite her respect for her superior Agent, if he were to make an unfavourable judgement, she would disregard him and go her own way. The consequences for such actions would be severe, but she would face that eventuality only when the time came, so it was with a palpable feeling of relief when Skinner finally nodded slightly, regarding her through narrowed eyes.

"All right, Agent Scully. Against my better judgement I will allow you to pursue this case. However, for the remainder of today, I don't want to see your face. You have to promise me you'll try to get some sleep and then we'll begin again in the morning, Okay?"

Scully nodded gratefully, prepared to agree to his conditions, to reach the compromise in order to remain on the case.

"I promise." she whispered, both grateful and touched by his almost fatherly concern.

She watched as he rose to his feet and picked up his topcoat.

"Where will you be?" she asked.

Skinner paused. "I'm going to need to speak to Agent Wickham. I need a full background on this Stevens woman and her daughter. When I'm finished there I'll be at the hospital with Mulder. I'll phone you."

He crossed over to the door, but instead of opening it, he turned back to face her. "I meant to ask you something."

"Sir?"

Skinner coughed awkwardly.

"When I pulled up Mulder's personnel record to contact his next of kin regarding his current condition, I saw that you are listed. Why is that? Why not his mother?"

Scully swallowed, torn between her duty to answer, and a loyalty towards her partner's personal life. She settled on the safest option.

"I'm not sure about the details, only that Agent Mulder has become estranged from his mother. He asked me some months ago if I would be willing to be listed and I agreed. Why? Is that a problem?"

Skinner shook his head quickly.

"It's an unusual situation, Scully, but no, it's not a problem. I was just curious."

He once again reached for the door handle.

"Anyway, I'll see you later. I'll be on my cell if you need me."

He didn't wait for a response, just left and closed the door quietly behind him, leaving Scully perched on the edge of the bed. Wearily she got to her feet and closed the drapes, blocking out the California sunshine and returned to the bed. She was so tired she felt as though she could sleep for a year, and after pulling back the covers, she lowered her fatigued body on to the cool, crisp sheet.

The fact that she was still fully clothed seemed like a mere technicality, although she did pause for long enough to kick off her shoes before sinking her head in to the softness of the pillow and closing her eyes. Sleep came almost immediately, and she relaxed, unaware of the hostile eyes that watched her from across the forecourt, assisted in no small way by the high powered binoculars held up to them.

The man had cursed when she had pulled the drapes across, but had quickly chided himself. He knew she was in there. He knew she was alone. All he had to do now was wait for the order and she would be his.

E-Z 8 motel. Route 49, San Diego CA. 11:21p.m.

Scully had only awoken once from her deep sleep, a result of her body's need for food which had been pretty scarce over the past couple of days. She had tried to ignore it and go back to sleep, but found herself unable. Instead, she had got up, showered and changed in to jeans and a sweatshirt, and ordered a pizza. While she waited for it's arrival, she put in a call to the hospital to inquire on Mulder's current condition, and was relieved to discover that, although he remained largely unchanged, his temperature had dropped slightly during the course of the afternoon, and was now hovering around the 104 mark.

She had attempted to gain information regarding the results of the Tox screen, but the hospital had refused to share the information down a phone line, so Scully had given up. She had then phoned Skinner on his cellular, and was further mollified to discover she had caught him on route to the hospital.

They had spoken briefly regarding his meeting with Christine Stevens, and then Skinner had repeated his earlier instructions that she rest, that he would handle things for her, and after assuring him that she would comply, Scully had hung up and waited for the pizza guy to arrive. She had spent the remainder of the evening curled up in a chair watching T.V.

It was something she did only rarely, neither having the time nor the inclination, but after eating, she had found it impossible to go back to sleep and had instead attempted to do some work. She had nixed that idea pretty quickly when she had found her mind drifting from the job in hand and settling all too often on her partner, so had instead opted to simply empty her mind by focusing it on mindless game shows and an unlikely mini-series.

The comforting blurb emitted by the TV had slowly had the desired effect, lulling her in to a state of relaxation that allowed her to drift back to sleep, to escape from her problems for a while. The relaxation though, didn't last for long, before the sharp trill of her cell phone caused her to sit bolt upright in the chair. For a second she let it ring, strangely wary of answering it and facing more bad news, but also because she couldn't help remembering Skinner's earlier words.

Alone in the motel room she felt suddenly vulnerable, and she mentally scanned the list of people who would have access to her number, and also who would call her at eleven o'clock at night. The list came up pretty short, and it was with some trepidation that Scully palmed the phone and depressed the call button.

"Scully." Despite herself, she was gratified to hear her voice come across as strong and even, not a hint of nerves were displayed, and she visibly relaxed as she recognised the voice on the other end.

"Scully, it's John Wickham. Sorry to call you so late, but something's just happened that I thought you should know."

Scully tensed. "What have you got, John?"

The voice on the other end disappeared suddenly as a burst of static swallowed the connection, but Scully caught the tail end of Wickham's words. She swallowed dryly, her heart beginning to pound, and she forced herself to remain calm.

"Say again, you broke up back then."

This time the words came to her strong and clear, verifying what she had heard.

"I said we've found the girl. I'm sending one of my guys to pick you up and we'll meet you there, OK?"

For a second, Scully found herself unable to respond, and then Wickham's voice, urgent now.

"Scully? Did you hear what I said?"

Scully pulled herself together. "Um, yes. Does A.D. Skinner know?"

"I called him. He's on his way here now." A muffled voice in the background, then, "Look, Scully, I've got to go. My guy'll be with you in about ten minutes. Be ready."

The soft purring of the dial tone replaced Wickham's voice and Scully placed the phone back on the table, trying to get her thoughts in some kind of order. For some reason she felt the first stirrings of a general undeniable unease, but she pushed the thoughts in to the background as she began to get ready to go.

Whatever personal feelings she had towards this case, she knew she had a job to do, a role to play as she had done so many times in the past. She was sure that whatever misgivings she may have were in part at least a direct result of that personal involvement. It was something she would have to deal with later.

The knock on the door came just as Scully was reaching for her coat, and although it was expected, the sound made her start slightly. She shook her head, annoyed at herself for being so jumpy, but almost unconsciously, her hand rested lightly on the holster which held her gun at her hip as she went to the door.

Unlike Mulder's room, hers was not equipped with a spy hole, so she stood slightly to the side of the door to verify the identity of the caller. "Who is it?"

The voice that answered was slightly muffled, masked by the wood which separated them.

"Special Agent Walsh. California Bureau. I was sent to get you by SAIC Wickham."

Knowing that she had only one way to verify his identity, Scully eased the door open cautiously, and relaxed when the first thing she saw were his FBI credentials. She scrutinised them carefully, to the obvious bemusement of the younger Agent, who shifted uncomfortably before her.

"Um, is there a problem, Agent Scully?"

Scully raised her head, and smiled for the first time since his arrival. Too many years spent with Mulder she thought ruefully, noting that suspicion was one thing. Outright paranoia, now that was something else altogether, something that was usually to be found in her partner, but rarely in her.

She stepped out of the door and shut it behind her. "No," she assured him, "there's no problem."

It was clear by Agent Walsh's expression that he remained unconvinced, but he wisely let the matter drop and instead gestured towards a dark blue Ford Sedan that was parked a few yards away.

It was, Scully noted, a standard issue Bureau vehicle, it's very design rendering it indistinguishable from the thousands of other such cars on the American highways and making it indispensable as a surveillance or pursuit tool.

In short, the car was just too damn normal to belong to the FBI and it was just such a misconception which had led to the arrests of many unscrupulous, dangerous perpetrators, which of course was the point exactly. If there was one thing that Scully had learned during her eight years as a Special Agent it was that the Bureau had a reason for everything, from the weapons they carried to the cars they drove. Although over the years, FBI Agents had become something of a joke amongst other law enforcement agencies with regards to the strict dress code forced upon them, and many had surmised that the easiest way to spot a Fed was to look for the suit.

Scully glanced down at her jeans and sneakers and smiled ruefully. Being over dressed for the occasion wasn't something she could be accused of tonight. The casual cotton jacket she slung over her shoulders only served to reinforce that image, and were it not for the powerful automatic weapon resting comfortably against her side, she was totally indistinguishable as an FBI Agent. Mulder, never one for keeping a tie on for long, would have been proud, she decided as she lowered herself in to the passenger seat of the car.

She glanced across at Agent Walsh who wore the uniform with all the arrogance of a newly recruited Agent, and tried to remember a time when she herself had looked like he did. She failed miserably. It was a long time ago. Too much had happened to get in the way.

"So where are we going?" she asked when the younger Agent made no move to start the engine.

"Agent Walsh?"

He did not respond, simply sat staring out of the window in to the darkness beyond. As Scully fixed her eyes on his reflection, something in the set of his face caused her heart to painfully skip a beat and with a lurching feeling of dread, she realised that all her instincts had been correct.

Blindly her hand reached out to grab the door handle, knowing even in her panic that her only chance was to exit the vehicle, to get away from it's confines, but there was nothing there, only the feel of soft vinyl where the car had been customised to prevent such an escape. With her free hand she pushed her jacket aside and went for her gun, but even as her fingers brushed the grip, the cold steel she felt at the base of her neck caused her to freeze. She didn't need to be told what it was, or that to go any further would be akin to signing her own death warrant.

Slowly, she let her hand fall back in to her lap, her eyes travelling back to the window which now clearly showed the reflection of the second man in the back seat, the one who held a gun to her head, and who was smiling mirthlessly back at her. Scully had never seen him before, of that she was certain, but she had seen his expression a thousand times reflected in other adversaries she and Mulder had encountered along the years. He had the face of a killer.

"Who are you?" she managed finally, after they had stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity.

The man tutted softly.

"Names are not important, Dana. They get in the way don't you think?"

Beside her Walsh was fiddling with something, but he remained just out of her field of vision. She found herself unable to shift her gaze away from the man behind her, his eyes had mesmerised her like she was a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights, needing, wanting to escape, but unable to command frozen limbs to move.

"How do you know my name?" she asked.

"Oh, I know everything about you, Dana. You and your partner. About where you've been . . . where you're going. I've studied you, learned what's important to you, and now I own you. You belong to me."

Scully felt a shiver work it's way up her spine as she listened to his voice, absorbed the meaning of his words, and despite her fear, she was still thinking coherently enough to realise that she had reached the end. That this man had been sent to kill her, and that no matter how many resources were made available, that she would never be found, she would simply disappear. An image of her partner flashed before her eyes, and with it the knowledge that by killing her, they would also kill him, and she was powerless to prevent it.

The man fell silent, and Scully heard nothing aside from the beating of her heart which seemed to fill her very being, and every fibre was focused on the feel of the gun against her skin, waiting for the inevitable shot to ring out. Would she hear it before she died? Or would everything simply cease? She had often wondered about whether a violent and sudden death would impinge on the conscious mind before it succumbed, although she had hoped never to find out first hand.

"Time to go, Dana." The whispered words pierced Scully's soul as the survival instinct inside of her screamed out that she fight, run, do anything she could to escape her fate. But instead she did nothing, knowing that it would be pointless, squeezing her eyes shut to block out the face in front of her. She did not want it to be the last thing she ever saw, preferring instead to see blackness, and she waited for the inevitable to happen.

She did not have to wait for long before the confined space of the car exploded in a barrage of sound. The act was so violent and sudden that, for a second, Scully did not register the pain in the back of her neck as she opened her eyes and focused on the blood which had splattered across the upholstery and was still pumping out of Walsh's chest.

She tried desperately to make sense of it, but within a few seconds, she had slumped sideways, her body covering that of the dead man as she succumbed to the darkness that enveloped her, not registering the sounds of the body being removed from the car, nor herself being transferred tenderly into the back seat.

The killer quickly disposed of the gun and climbed in to the driver's position, knowing that he had scant minutes to escape the scene before it would be crawling with cops. He couldn't afford to fail now. Not now he was so close to claiming all that rightfully was his. He allowed himself the luxury of glancing back to study the inert form of the woman behind him, absorbing the image that had haunted him for many long nights as he prepared for his assignment, knowing that for now at least, he had spoken the truth, that she belonged to him. The thought made him smile, and he was still smiling as he piloted the car out on to the highway and in to the night.

FBI Field office. San Diego, CA. 1:01a.m.

Skinner negotiated his way along the twisting maze of corridors that made up the Bureau's California office. He moved purposely, his gaze fixed firmly ahead as he concentrated on the task in hand. Despite the lateness of the hour other Agents milled around, but no one questioned his right to be there. No one dared. They simply moved out of his way, knowing that if they failed to do so that they were in danger of being trampled on.

Skinner's usual demeanour was stern at the best of times. Tonight he looked downright frightening.

The call had reached him a little more than thirty minutes ago. The voice at the other end appraising him of the fact that Agent Scully was missing was enough to make him drop everything and head on over here.

He had not given the caller a chance to fully inform him of the facts surrounding her disappearance. He had instead simply barked out a series of orders, issuing his expectation that there would be a full team of experienced Agents waiting to greet him when he arrived at the office. He assumed that those individuals who now chose to give him a wide berth were here as a direct result of that, but this fact did nothing to improve his mood.

He finally rounded a corner and found himself outside the office of John Wickham, a man he had met briefly earlier in the day when he had asked to be appraised of the reasons why Mulder and Scully had been called down here in the first place. He had found Wickham to be courteous and helpful, and, in Skinner's opinion, a very worried man. He hadn't been able to put his finger on exactly why, just a general feeling that all was not well in the man's personal universe, and that if he wasn't actually withholding information, then he was most certainly glossing over certain facts pertaining to the case.

Skinner had taken the decision not to push too hard. Now he could only wish that he had, because maybe he wouldn't now be in this position, and maybe his Agent wouldn't be either. He wasn't usually a man who wasted time on personal recrimination, viewing it as both a waste of time and energy, but despite his every attempt, he couldn't let go of the nagging feeling that this was somehow his own doing.

It wasn't a nice thought, but he swallowed it, at least in part, as he entered Wickham's office. He didn't bother to knock and his sudden appearance visibly startled the younger man who tried unsuccessfully to appear as though he had been expecting him to enter in the way he had.

Forgoing any pleasantries, Skinner declined the offer of a seat, leaning instead on Wickham's desk, his looming presence and body language designed to intimidate and unsettle. This time he wasn't prepared to take any crap. Not now the stakes were so much higher.

"What happened?" he barked unceremoniously as Wickham seemed to visibly relax, safe in the knowledge that this at least was a question that he could at least answer, if only in part.

He took a moment to compose himself before answering.

"The details are pretty sketchy, sir. But we have a deposition from an eye witness."

He reached across the desk and picked up a manila folder, offering it to Skinner. Skinner's eyes though remained locked on to him, and Wickham's hand trembled slightly as he noted the expression on his superior's face.

"I'd rather hear it from you," he said softly.

Wickham paled slightly, swallowing nervously before he managed to speak.

"As I said, sir, the details are sketchy, but from what we can gather Agent Scully left her motel room at approximately 11:30p.m. and was seen accompanying a man to a waiting car. They both got into the car, and a couple of minutes after that a shot was fired. The car exited the forecourt at speed, leaving behind the body of an unidentified male. He had been shot in the back of the head and according to the emergency services, died instantly. The police arrived on the scene almost immediately, but no trace of the vehicle or Agent Scully were found. That's all we know at this point in time. As I said, we only have one witness and he viewed the scene from some distance away."

"This man. The witness. Who is he?" Skinner asked.

Wickham's eyes dropped to scan the statement sheet in front of him.

"His name's Barney Sinjin. He's the motel manager. He was doing his final rounds when Scully was taken, which is why he saw what he did. He was also the one who radioed the call in to the police."

"Does he have a description of the man seen with Agent Scully?"

"Um..." Wickham cleared his throat uncomfortably before continuing. "It was dark, sir. He didn't get a real good look at him. All he can be clear on is that he was around six feet tall and wearing a dark overcoat."

"What about the car?" Skinner barked.

"Again, sir, he's vague. Some kind of sedan. Quite new. Dark in colour, maybe black, maybe blue."

"Great," muttered Skinner darkly. "One of my Agents is missing, possibly dead, and all we've got to go on are vague details and assumptions. What about the dead man? Anything on him?"

"No nothing. We've ran his prints through the N.C.I.C. database, but nothing's come up on him so far. No ID on his body."

Skinner absorbed this fact, his sense of unease growing sharper by the minute. This was altogether too convenient, and although not a particularly paranoid man by nature, he couldn't help but wonder just how much of this had been predestined. A plan hatched before Mulder and Scully even left Washington, by the very same adversaries who had threatened their lives so often in the past. It was all falling in to place. Get Mulder out of the way and strike when they were at their most vulnerable. It all made perfect sense and Skinner could only now marvel at his own blind stupidity.

How in God's name had he not seen this coming? How could he have left her so unprotected?

The thought caused him to raise his head sharply as he visualised Mulder laying inert and unresponsive back at the hospital. He glared at Wickham and issued what would be the first of many orders during the next twenty-four hours. Orders that would, by their very tone be impossible to question or to ignore.

"I want a 'round the clock guard on Agent Mulder's room. No one but myself and recognised medical personnel are to enter. I don't care what their reasons are. Anyone who tries to do so will be assumed to be a threat and will be shot on sight. Is that understood, Agent Wickham?"

Wickham nodded and reached for one of the three phones which jostled for space on his overflowing desk. Before picking one up though, he lifted his troubled green eyes to lock with those of his superior Agent.

"There's something else, sir. Something I haven't told you, that's included in the statement from the motel."

His voice trailed off as though he couldn't bear to go on, but Skinner's patience at this whole sorry situation was fast running out. He didn't have time to play games.

"And?" he queried abruptly as Wickham faltered.

The younger man swallowed heavily.

"Mr. Sinjin was unsure regarding many details of what he saw, except relating to the shot fired. In that respect, he is very specific. I'm sorry, sir, but he is citing Agent Scully as firing the kill shot, and that there did not appear to be any kind of struggle immediately before the shot was fired. His exact words led along the lines of it being in cold blood, and that Agent Scully also pointed her weapon at him before driving off in the car."

Skinner shook his head.

"That's impossible. I refuse to believe that she is capable of such an act."

"Um, Agent Mulder hinted that she had been under some emotional strain of late. Maybe that could be a . . ."

Skinner banged his fist down hard on the desk making the younger man jump visibly.

"No! If, and I do mean *if* Agent Scully fired that shot, she would first have had to have had ample justification to do so. If I were in your shoes, Agent Wickham, then I would muster every available resource I had at my disposal to find her, so we can then begin to ascertain exactly what that justification was."

The tone of his voice brokered no room for further argument, and satisfied he had made his point, Skinner nodded curtly and made for the door, pausing only once before exiting. He inclined his head towards the phone handset still held by Wickham.

"Shouldn't you be making that call we discussed? Before another of my Agents brought down here at your request disappears under suspicious circumstances?"

Wickham blanched at his words, but nevertheless, tried to appear unruffled as with shaking hand he began to punch out the numbers on the phone, holding his breath as he tried to quell the beating of his heart, lest it be heard and betray his nervousness. Only when he heard the sound of the door shutting did he begin to relax. He savoured the moment whilst he could, knowing that now, things could only get worse, that somehow, some way, the situation had gotten out of control. That despite his careful planning, it had all gone to Hell.

Mercy Hospital

3:51a.m.

On rounding the corner of the corridor which led to Mulder's hospital room, Skinner was at least mollified slightly to see that his orders had been followed to the letter.

The two men stationed on either side of the closed door wore no uniform, but their matching dark suits and no nonsense demeanours made them instantly identifiable as law enforcement of the FBI variety. They stiffened momentarily as Skinner approached, adopting the hand on hip stance which enabled easy access to the weapons concealed out of sight beneath the suits. As Skinner produced his credentials from his inside pocket, they relaxed once more, affording the newcomer the respectful gaze that his position commanded as the bigger of the two men shifted position to allow him entrance to the room.

Skinner however paused for a few seconds before entering in order to appraise the men more completely, an action that was instantly understood by them, and without being asked they simultaneously removed their own ID's to be scrutinised by their superior.

No words had thus far been exchanged. None had been needed, but now Skinner felt bound to emphasise the seriousness of the situation, a situation that he knew all too well would not have been adequately explained to the two men guarding Agent Mulder. Bureau protocol was such that Agents took assignments without question but, in his experience, Skinner knew that the more information they had, the more likely it was that every precaution would be taken in order to follow the assignment to the letter.

"Who placed you on this assignment?" he queried.

The two men glanced uneasily at each other before the taller of the two answered for both of them.

"It was SAIC Wickham, sir. He told us that there was some urgency regarding we get down here."

"What else did he tell you?"

The Agent shook his head in confusion, unsure as to what exactly Skinner was driving at.

"Um, just that Agent Mulder was in some kind of danger and that no one be granted access to him unless it was on the basis of specific instruction," he faltered uncertainly, dubious as to where the line of questioning was heading. "Is there some kind of problem that we should be aware of, sir?"

Skinner shook his head slowly.

"I hope not, Agent Rich. I hope not," his voice trailed off and the young Agent tried again.

"Do you have new orders for us, sir? Regarding Agent Mulder?"

The question seemed to strike a chord with Skinner and he looked up sharply. It was something he had not expected to be asked. He knew that by answering it and overriding the direct order of another Agent, even one who was lower in rank than himself without good reason, he was at best, breaking several rules of protocol if not actual Bureau operational policy.

He weighed up his options in a split second, but the decision was an easy one to make. He cleared his throat.

"Yes. From here on you take your orders only from me. You let no one in to this room aside from authorised medical personnel unless I specifically allow you to do so, you don't leave this position without my say so, not for any reason. I don't care who tells you otherwise. Anyone who has a problem with that you send to me," he paused to allow his words to sink in. "Is that understood, Agents?"

The two men nodded instantly, accepting the weight of his position. His status within the Bureau did not allow for argument, and as Skinner listened to their spoken affirmation he wondered that in issuing the order, just how many enemies he would make for himself. He swallowed the thought though as he slipped past the men and silently entered the anteroom where he repeated the same process he had performed earlier of washing up and donning the gown and mask supplied to him by the medical staff.

He had spent time here earlier on in the evening, but the sight of Mulder's inert form laying motionless on the bed amidst the tubes and wires that seemed to snake from every available part of his body still sent a shiver down his spine. He had over time come to regard Mulder as almost invincible. He had seen him fight time and time again against the most powerful adversaries, had watched him pick himself up when all seemed hopeless, but he had never seen him like this. It brought home to him how frail the Human state really was, and thatlike others who appeared to be unconquerable, Mulder was in reality made of flesh and blood, as easily destroyed as anyone else.

But Skinner was also aware of the one trait which did set Mulder apart from those around him - his ability to fight for what he felt was right no matter what the consequences. It was that ability that Skinner put so much faith in to pull him through this.

He sat by Mulder's bed and hoped against hope that his faith was not misplaced, because he knew that without Mulder's insight to help him fathom this thing out, the chances of finding Scully alive were minimal.

He sighed and opened the manila folder he had brought with him from the San Diego office. Contained inside it was the case file that had brought his two Agents down here in the first place, the one that had landed on Mulder's desk just three short days ago. He had requested the file from Wickham shortly before coming here and the Agent had been happy to oblige. If he had viewed the rest of the folder's contents, he would in all probability been less happy, for after leaving the field office Skinner had put in a call to Washington requesting all the available information regarding John Wickham be scanned and E-mailed to him immediately.

With typical efficiency, the files had reached him in less than thirty minutes, and in answer to the nagging feeling of doubt inside of him, Skinner settled down in the hard backed chair to absorb these first. He sincerely hoped his doubt was misplaced. His years of experience told him it wasn't. If Agent Mulder held one of the keys to unravelling this whole mess, then SAIC Wickham was surely holding the other. The difference was though, that Skinner knew which side of the fence one of the men sat on, the other, he held far different views on.

7:16a.m.

Scully was cold. She wasn't exactly conscious of the thought, or even if it could be called a thought at all. It was more of a general feeling that pushed itself up through the murky darkness she had found herself to be imprisoned by, acknowledged only by her body's in built survival instincts as she groaned softly and pulled her knees tighter towards her.

The surface she was laid on was hard and unyielding and her clothes felt damp against her skin, adding to the chill she felt invading her to her very core. She was vaguely aware of this fact, but her mind as yet refused to co-operate sufficiently to rationalise the thought in to action.

She was aware of one thing though, in fact she had been aware of it for quite some time, how long exactly she couldn't be sure, but so intense was the feeling that it overrode all others, did not allow room for denial or acceptance. It was simply there. It existed in her consciousness and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't block it out, in fact even before she could conceive it in her mind, she had cried throughout the night.

Again and again, the tears that accompanied it escaping from the confines of her closed eyes and running down her cheeks to collect in a salty pool by her on the cold stone floor. It was like a demon inside her head, bringing with it a pain so intense she wished that she might die. She had never known hurt like it, it invaded every part of her body only to centre in the back of her neck, stabbing her with such ferocity that, had Scully been capable, she would surely have sought to end her own suffering in whatever way she could.

The drugs that had been fed in to her at least gave her some respite, rendering her incapable of even recognising thought or feeling, and she had welcomed the oblivion they afforded her as she slipped away during the night.

Initially she had fought them, the survival instinct within her not allowing her to slip in to nothingness lest it be her final condition. Finally sheer fatigue and hopelessness had overcome her and she opened herself to them willingly, grateful to be able to escape the pain even for a short time.

As the hours dragged by though, these periods of respite had become less and less as she entered in to this strange state where she hovered somewhere between wakefulness and repose. Her body becoming more alert even as her mind remained in limbo, and deep inside of her she knew the time was approaching when she would be forced to open her eyes to confront the full horror of her situation. It was something she wanted to delay for as long as was humanly possible, and so, she continued to let her mind drift, unwilling as yet to defy her instinct to ignore what was fast becoming impossible to disregard.

"She's beginning to wake up."

"Yes."

The two men centred their gaze through the one way glass that afforded them a murky view of the room beyond and the woman held within it's confines. They had stood for a long while, the only spectators to Scully's night within the prison they themselves had created for her, had listened to her feeble cries without so much as a flicker of emotion or guilt.

Guilt was a luxury and a hindrance they could ill afford, especially now that their plan was coming to fruition, and they viewed her with all the detachment that one might expect from a scientist viewing a lab rat. To them she had ceased to be a person and was now seen as simply a means to an end.

The taller of the two men turned his attention away from the glass and reached casually in to the pocket of his jacket, withdrawing a crumpled packet of cigarettes and tipping one in to his hand.

The long night had taken it's toll on him, reminding him that he wasn't so young anymore, and he needed the boost that the nicotine would bring him. It was a boost he sought often, and over the years his intake had grown considerably. As a young man he had abhorred the mere act of smoking, having lost his mother to terminal lung cancer when he was little more than a boy, and he often wondered whether things might have turned out differently for him had she still been alive. He remembered her as being a gentle woman, firm but fair, and although he tried not to think of her too often, he knew that she would have been horrified by the paths he had chosen for himself, and for those held in his not inconsiderable power.

To wield this power in the way he did was not without it's downfalls, and for years he had battled with the guilt such actions brought with them, but now he could distance himself from it, disregard the consequences to their lives as he had come to disregard his own.

The path had been chosen. He would walk it until the day he died and he held that knowledge with a weary acceptance of one who knows that freedom of choice was a precious commodity that few could boast.

He brought the lighter flame to the tip of the cigarette and inhaled deeply, holding on to the noxious fumes for longer than was strictly necessary before exhaling slowly. The blue smoke swirled around the close confines of the small room and hung like a mist in the damp air, causing the second man to blink in an effort to take the sting from his eyes. He had expected some kind of response from the Smoking man in respect to his observation regarding Scully, and the silence of the man unnerved him slightly. He had played his part well, securing himself a future within the Consortium and in the very future of Humankind itself, but his responsibilities were not yet finished and he still had much to do.

He was well aware that time was running short and that if Scully were allowed to awaken before all was put in to place, everything he had sought to do would be in vain. Although he certainly hadn't been present at the time of her removing, he had been instrumental in it's planning.

The Smoking man's apparent disregard of this fact irked him slightly.

"Shouldn't we be moving her?" he prompted a little more forcibly, "Because if she wakes up before . . . "

The Smoking man turned his attention back towards the glass, a small smile beginning to play across his face as the sounds of Scully's piteous whimpering once more reached his ears from inside the tinny speakers which lined the walls.

"She's not going to wake up for a while yet." He assured the second man, the smile on his face becoming almost fatherly as he observed the woman who had haunted his dreams for over five years.

It seemed strange that in all that time he had never really allowed himself the luxury of actually looking at her. She had always been just an extension of Fox Mulder, a worthy adversary in her own right, and, he had thought, just as invincible. Time and time again she had beaten him, but this time it would be different. This time he would be the winner, just as he had foretold it to Mulder so long ago, only this time he was going to win in style. It would be a victory that no one would ever forget.

The man standing beside him watched the Smoking man's face with something akin to revulsion as the smile grew ever wider. He knew the man was living out some personal vendetta against the two Agents, and it was this knowledge that had almost prompted him to decline to become involved. Greed had overtaken him at the last minute though, and despite his best intentions he had been sucked in far deeper than he had ever wanted to go. His involvement should have begun and ended in the enticing of the two Agents down from Washington, but somehow events had spiraled out of control and he now found himself in way beyond his depth. It was far too late though to get out now. To do so would be to sign his own death warrant.

He knew these men, of their capabilities, and it would be all too easy to put a bullet through his brain and orchestrate it in such a way as to divert attention away from their group should he opt to go his own way.

Watching the smug expression filter across the older man's face, he wondered if becoming like him was to be his fate. It was not a pleasant thought and suddenly the confines of the small room became almost unbearable, the need to escape overriding his every thought and action, and he stumbled toward the door.

"I'm going outside for some air."

The Smoking man nodded sagely without turning, but the threat was clear as he spoke softly.

"Don't get lost out there."

The words themselves were innocent enough but they caused the second man to pause, gripped suddenly by the eerie feeling that somehow, the Smoking man had been granted access to his thoughts and fears, that he had been able to look straight in to his head and see all the weakness that lay within it. He knew that such insight was impossible, but nonetheless, it took several long seconds before he was able to still the trembling inside himself in order to leave the room. Finally though, good sense once more prevailed, and it was with more than a little relief that Special Agent John Wickham exited the cheerless room and escaped outside in to the sweet, clean air of the Californian day break.

The Smoking Man observed his exit expressionlessly. It did not surprise him in the least that Wickham was getting cold feet regarding his recent escapades, in fact it was a reaction he had seen time and time again when suddenly these men found the stakes becoming ever higher in what was expected of them. Most got over their initial misgivings when they were faced with the realisation that whatever choices they had made they had made them for life. Some foolishly attempted to bow out gracefully, deeming the potential consequences for their actions as outweighing the rewards. None of these men had lived to tell the tale. They had simply been removed by the Consortium who viewed such desertion in a very dim light.

Total unbending loyalty was the key to survival amongst these men. Anything less spelled disaster for them.

He dropped the spent cigarette to the floor and ground it with the toe of his highly polished shoe and fixed his shrewd grey eyes once again on Scully. Despite the assurances he had given Wickham to the contrary, by observing the small fluttering movements coming from her, it was apparent that the sedatives administered to her were lessening in their effects. If their plans were to come to fruition, it was imperative that she be moved from here as quickly as possible.

He allowed himself a small smile as he reached inside his jacket for his cell phone. So far the complexity of the operation which had taken Mulder and Scully from Washington and away from each other had been mere child's play compared with what was to come. A plan so ingenious in it's very simplicity, it would render both the Agents incapable of even existing within the worlds they had left, and more prudently, it would effectively split the partnership forever.

He had tried and failed to destroy them so many times before he had come to the logical conclusion that only by turning them on each other could he ever hope to win.

The smile grew wider as he imagined Scully's reaction when told of her *betrayal* regarding her partner. It was a sight he had only dreamed about until now, but one which was now close enough for him to almost taste it.

He stiffened slightly as the cell phone connected.

He did not confirm his identity. He did not need to. He simply spoke the two words which would put the wheels of deceit in motion.

"It's time."

Without waiting for a response, The Smoking Man ended the call and slipped the phone back in to his pocket, glancing at his watch as he did so, aware that with every minute that ticked by, he was one step closer to the confrontation he had awaited for so many years. The knowledge that within forty- eight hours he would witness the destruction of Agents Fox Mulder and Dana Scully at their own hands.

Mercy Hospital. San Diego. CA. 9:01a.m.

Skinner had had no real intention of spending the remainder of the night at Mulder's bedside, but during the course of that night, subtle but pointed changes had occurred in the younger man's condition.

For a start, Mulder's temperature had undergone a steady decrease until it hovered as it did now at just slightly above normal. The respirator had been detached as hour by hour his vital signs improved sufficiently to nullify the need for the artificial breathing aid. He had begun to make a concerted effort to breathe unaided. Aside from the oxygen mask which still covered his face, he looked almost back to normal, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm which almost matched the monitors that still surrounded him as a precaution should his condition suddenly worsen as rapidly as it had improved.

Skinner knew by the reactions of the doctors who had tended his Agent through the long night that they were as mystified by Mulder's quick turn around as they had been to the reasons for the onset of his condition. They had been wary of discussing too much with him, but the general consensus of opinion seemed to rest heavily on the high grade antibiotics which had been fed regimentally through Mulder's bloodstream as having played the major part in his recovery. They refused point blank to speculate exactly what Mulder was actually recovering *from*.

The Toxicology screen results had finally come back and they suggested the presence of a pathogenic substance which had invaded his bloodstream.

Skinner was no doctor but, having heard Scully's account of how her partner was already suffering from a low grade viral infection, it did not take a genius to figure out what kind of consequences such an invasion would cause. For someone who's immune system was already battling against the flu virus, any introduction of a foreign substance spelled disaster.

Skinner had voiced this opinion but had found to his intense irritation that he had not been taken seriously. This theory, he had been informed loftily, belonged in the pages of a science fiction novel, and not in the real world. What he was suggesting was impossible, not just because of the complex make-up such a pathogen would require, but also because it would be almost an impossible task to introduce it to a subject in such a way as to render him inactive in such a short space of time.

Skinner had listened to their objections in silence, unwilling to push his argument further for fear of sounding as paranoid as he had so often accused Mulder of being. But the offhand manner in which he had been dismissed had given him a unique insight as to how his Agent felt most of the time, and the thought had continued to trouble him throughout the night. It was in part this judgement that had prompted him to remain where he was, but he was also painfully aware that no fresh news of Scully had been forthcoming from the San Diego Bureau despite regular phone calls from him to various Agents. It seemed as though she had simply disappeared off the face of the Earth and even during the short time immediately following her abduction the trail had effectively gone cold.

Skinner had fought against the crazy compulsion to get in his car and go find her himself, knowing that it was simply a knee jerk reaction to his own tightly controlled emotions after everything that had happened and that the most valuable person right now was Mulder. Skinner suspected that when Mulder woke up he would have a tale to tell, one which would at least shed some light on to how he had come to be here. When that time came, he was determined to be the first one to hear it, to decide on what action to take from there.

But now as he continued to sit staring at the younger man, he was beginning to suspect that the time for that might never come. Mulder was showing no signs of waking up anytime soon, and Skinner couldn't quell a nagging feeling of doubt that for Scully, time could very well be running out. He sighed heavily and reached for his coat. Ten minutes away from this room couldn't hurt he decided, and besides which he was beginning to desperately feel the need for a strong cup of coffee and a shave in that order. He had already witnessed two of his Agents nearly fall apart on this case. He didn't feel much like adding himself to the list, especially since he already suspected that he would need to rely sharply on his years of training and savvy to get him through the following few days.

He also had no doubts as to exactly who he was dealing with here, and that if they held true to form, that they were more than capable of crushing him underneath their encompassing might. It was not a pleasant thought.

He exited the room quietly, nodding slightly at the two Agents still posted on either side of the door. He was aware of their eyes on him as he continued down the hallway, painfully conscious that he probably looked like he had the weight of the world resting on his broad shoulders, but not knowing how to dispel his fears.

It was a new experience for him but he embraced it gladly, knowing that his knowledge might, just might pull them all through this.

9:23a.m.

John Wickham groaned softly and cradled his head in his hands wearily. It had been a long night, not just in terms of hours, but also in the mental transition he had been forced to make as he confronted his feelings of guilt in the part he had played not only the removal of Scully, but also in the incarceration of Mulder to the Mercy Hospital.

He had carried out his orders efficiently, believing fully at the time that he was acting in the best interests of the Consortium and of the American people in general. Indeed, when he had initially been approached, he had felt a great sense of patriotism towards his country as he pledged his allegiance.

The idea had been planted easily in his head, made all the sweeter by the promise that the rewards for him would far outweigh the risks, and he had slipped easily in to the role of willing conspirator.

He had expected that his years of FBI training would have numbed him to the responsibilities his actions would bring, but he had found the reality to be somewhat different.

For one thing he was quite unable to rid himself of the image of Mulder's trusting, genial expression when they had met up again after so many years apart, not least because of his absolute respect for the man and his work. He had followed Mulder's career with a certain amount of detached interest over a number of years. Although he could quite understand just how Mulder had managed to become something of a laughing stock amongst his peers, he also knew the man well enough to appreciate the absolute commitment he had shown to his quest. Betraying him on such a gargantuan level had been difficult in the extreme.

There had been a fleeting moment, when Mulder arrived at his apartment, that Wickham had considered backing out of the deal and telling Mulder of the real reasons he had been lured down here. It was only the thought of the consequences to his own family that such a revelation would bring, that he had continued within his role. Such an action would have been a death sentence to everyone he cared about, and besides, he had been assured by the men that no actual harm would befall either his old friend or Agent Scully, that their discomfort would be limited to a minimum.

He now knew that assurance to be false and that to inflict harm was practically the only possible outcome of this whole sorry mess. He also knew that he had no way out and no where to turn. That he would have to continue this thing through until the bitter end - whatever that might be.

He had watched with mounting horror as Scully was moved from the dark prison in which she had been captive through the night and installed in more comfortable surroundings, the sound of her anguished cries still reverberating around his head as the pain relief given to her began to wear off and she became more aware of every movement inflicted on her already tortured being.

He was not entirely sure what had been done to her during that time. He had watched from a distance as clandestine figures in white coats hovered around her and administered more drugs to her system, stilling the sounds that emitted from her and reducing them to a series of pathetic cries.

He had questioned why the unknown procedure had to be carried out whilst she was semiconscious and obviously in great pain as a result, and had received no assurance other than that Scully would eventually awaken with no memory of what had occurred and that she would have no lasting discomfort. Wickham had found himself unable to believe their words, knowing that these men made it their business to trade in lies, and had left the room in disgust lest his expression of revulsion betray too much.

He knew that he still had a major part to play, and that the time for him to confront his own feelings regarding that role was fast running out. He was to be the first recognisable person whom Scully was to be faced with on her awakening, and it would be him who was to plant the first seeds of doubt in to her vulnerable, confused mind.

It was something he felt totally unprepared for, and something that was coming ever closer. He had looked in on her only thirty minutes ago and found her to be sleeping peacefully, a state he had been told was the final stage of the process that had lasted through the night, and from which she would shortly awaken.

The sight of her, warm covers tucked around her had reminded him sharply of what he had done, and despite his involvement with the Consortium and the way he had discussed Scully with them prior to her coming down here, meeting her had been somewhat different.

Mulder had often spoken of her and, despite his obvious feelings for her that he tried unsuccessfully to hide, he had painted her very much as an independent spirit. Tough, professional and absolutely committed in her career. He had therefore been unprepared to be confronted with her when she had trailed after Mulder in to his office when they had first arrived in town. It was then that the first seeds of doubt had been planted in his mind as to whether he was doing the right thing.

He had been furnished with sketchy details of her incarceration in the Antarctic, and of Mulder's subsequent rescue and he had understood then just why he had been asked to do what he had. To allow them to remain together was now impossible, but the men responsible were too cowardly to risk the reprisals that their removal would bring, and so a course of action had been decided upon that would solve the problem once and for all. It was a decision that Wickham had embraced wholeheartedly but when he had been confronted by them both together and had seen the way they acted towards one another, he had questioned his decision to become involved at all.

Watching them that day in his office, he had seen something he had never seen before during his years with the Bureau. It radiated from them both like a beacon, in the way they looked at each other, the way that they stood side by side, exhibiting body language so subtle it could easily be misconstrued. But he had seen and understood it immediately. It was blind trust. Plain and simple. A trust which far exceeded normal boundaries, a trust which would enable them quite without question to give their life for the other and one which had kept them together for so long.

Wickham had then immediately understood his role in all this, more so than he had previously during all the conversations he had had with the shadowy characters governing his every move. His role was simple. It was up to him to sever that trust so completely that it could never hope to be regained, and he knew then that the men had lied to him when they said that no one would get hurt. The plan was elegant in it's simplicity. Destroying their trust in each other would ultimately destroy them, without any blame being centred around those who really deserved it. Wickham sighed, knowing that the time was drawing near when he would have to begin the process . . . and he hated himself for it.

Mercy General Hospital. 10:13a.m.

The first tangible thought that filtered in to Mulder's conscious mind was that his throat hurt. It wasn't the kind of hurt that came from being too long asleep, or even from a virus of some kind, but more a gritty discomfort that no amount of swallowing would ease. It almost felt like his throat was scratched or bruised in some unfathomable way but he could think of no reason why this should be so.

He was aware of sounds around him, an incessant bleeping which cut through his escalating headache like a scythe. He fought against the need to sink back down in to the sweet oblivion of sleep in order to block it out, answering instead to the small voice inside of him that demanded he wake up fully. He had been mindful of the voice for a considerable length of time, and he had struggled to obey it's commands, willing his eyes to open and throw off the bounds that held them closed. Something inside of him told him over and over that he was needed, that to sink back in to the abyss would be disastrous for all concerned, especially himself, and it was this all encompassing need that forced him finally to come back in to a state of full awareness.

Slowly, painfully, Fox Mulder opened his eyes.

He was more than a little surprised to find himself focusing on the stark brightness of a fluorescent light and for a few seconds he felt an overwhelming sense of fear as he realised he was in alien surroundings.

As his mind cleared, however, he was able to identify the slightly antiseptic scents that assailed him and put two and two together. He was in a hospital. The how and why would follow shortly, and for the present time they didn't really concern him. Instead he focused on the light above him, willing and able to wait until he felt more together before asking himself questions he couldn't answer.

The sound of a door being opened somewhere to the left of him prompted him to attempt to lift up his head, but the slight movement caused a wave of dizziness to wash over him as his equilibrium struggled to cope with the sudden rush of blood. A hand on his chest ceased his efforts, and beyond the roaring sound in his ears a familiar voice reached him.

"Take it easy, Mulder."

The damage though had already been done, and Mulder's last waking thought before lapsing back in to brief unconsciousness was surprisingly lucid. -- Why was Skinner in San Diego? -- and the answer came right alongside it, that whatever the reason was it was bad . . . very bad.

"So how are you feeling now?"

The man had earlier identified himself as being called O'Brien, and from what Mulder could gather, he had been overseeing all of his treatments over the past twenty four hours, and was now continuing along that same vein.

Mulder's earlier lapse in to unconsciousness had been brief and he had awakened once again to find Skinner gone and this man in his place.

He had allowed himself to be thoroughly checked over, and had attempted to furnish the doctor with some kind of explanation for his recent illness. He also knew by the man's guarded expression that he was still at a complete loss as to how to give any kind of definitive reason for Mulder's condition.

Mulder too was unable to piece together anything that could be of much use. He remembered hazy details of his being in San Diego and the reasons for it, but beyond the vaguest of recollections, his mind was a complete blank. The headache was still there, pounding away in his skull and, despite the pain relief the medical staff had administered, was not abating at all.

Mulder forced himself to rise above the pain in order to arrange his thoughts in to some kind of distinct pattern that would enable him to make sense of why exactly he was here, and more importantly why Skinner had chosen to fly half way across the country to be here too. His instincts told him it wasn't simply out of concern for his health.

He eyed O'Brien as the doctor jotted some more notes on to the chart that hung at the bottom of the bed and voiced the question which had been buzzing uncomfortably around his head since his awakening.

"Is my partner here?"

His tone was casual, but the words hung in the air as O'Brien busied himself with his writings. The seconds ticked by as Mulder waited patiently for a response, and when it became obvious that he was not going to answered he tried again.

"Agent Dana Scully. Is she here?"

O'Brien raised his head, and although he attempted to keep his expression neutral, something about the way he shifted his eyes away caused momentary panic to surge through Mulder.

"Dr. O'Brien?"

"Um . . . no. She's not here." He replaced the chart in to it's slot and turned away, abruptly ending a conversation he did not feel equipped to handle. Mulder's unease edged up another notch, and he struggled to remain calm.

"I think you should talk to Mr. Skinner, Agent Mulder, that is if you feel up to it."

Mulder nodded numbly, not trusting himself to speak as the doctor raised his eyebrows in an unspoken query, wondering just exactly he was about to hear from his superior, but knowing that what ever it was it was unlikely to be good news.

O'Brien pivoted quickly and Mulder, from his prone position on the bed, heard rather than saw his exit from the room, just as he was aware of Skinner's sudden presence before he actually saw him appear above him, the concern on his face was unmistakable.

"How are you feeling, Agent Mulder?"

Mulder did not answer immediately, waiting for Skinner to take a seat beside him, dismissing his question as being irrelevant.

"Where's Scully? Why isn't she here?"

Skinner closed his eyes briefly, knowing that he could not escape answering, but at the same time knowing that Mulder was in no shape to confront the realities of his partner's situation until he was stronger. He briefly considered lying, but dismissed it when he realised that weakened or not, Mulder would no doubt see right through him. He finally decided that optimistic honesty would be his best course of action for the time being.

"Agent Scully is missing."

"What?" Mulder's voice came out strong and clear as his natural defences for his partner's well being kicked in and Skinner held up his hand in an effort to calm him down and also to prevent him from struggling in to a sitting position too quickly.

Mulder though was having none of it, and despite Skinner's best efforts he raised himself up, closing his eyes as a wave of nausea overwhelmed him. He felt Skinner's hand on his shoulder and he opened his eyes.

"What do you mean missing?"

Skinner removed his hand.

"Agent Scully hasn't been seen or heard of since late last night. There was an incident at the motel you were staying at. A man was fatally wounded."

Mulder narrowed his eyes.

"And?" he prompted.

Skinner sighed as he realised that honest optimism had flown out the window. Only the truth remained, as elusive as ever.

"A witness has identified Scully as firing the shot, that it was an unprovoked attack. She hasn't been seen since driving from the motel."

"And you believe it?" Mulder's voice was heavy with cynicism, and Skinner eyed him levelly.

"Can you give me a good reason not to?"

The expression on Mulder's face made Skinner instantly wish the choice of words back in to his mouth, especially in light of his own deep misgivings regarding the case. But he did not have the luxury of reiteration. The words had been said. He couldn't take them back.

"You're kidding, right? This is Scully you're talking about here. Do you really believe she's capable?"

Skinner opened his mouth to speak, to be allowed to put things right but Mulder threw him one more disgusted look before pushing back the covers and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The action pushed the words from Skinner's head as concern for the agent in front of him overrode that of the one in his thoughts.

"What are you doing, Mulder?" The question was irrelevant since he already knew the answer, and he wasn't surprised when Mulder did not respond.

He watched as the younger agent struggled to his feet, only moving when it was obvious that Mulder was in no state to be standing up. He grabbed his arm and applied just enough pressure to let Mulder know that he wasn't kidding, and Mulder in turn allowed himself to be pushed back in to a seated position.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Mulder didn't flinch in the slightest.

"I'm checking out. I need to find her."

Skinner laughed, the sound hollow and totally without mirth.

"And how exactly do you propose to do that? E.S.P? Don't be an idiot, Mulder."

He allowed his voice to soften slightly as he regarded the stricken expression on the younger man's face, needing him to face facts.

"Take a look at yourself, Mulder. How long do you think you'd last before you wound up right back in here? You're in no shape to be going anywhere, and misplaced heroics aren't going to help Agent Scully."

"How are you helping her? You shouldn't be here, you should be out there finding her."

Skinner sighed.

"Mulder, I have half the San Diego Bureau trying to find her and the other half figuring out ways to *help* find her. Believe me, I've got it covered, and what I don't need is another of my Agents going missing, especially one who has no business walking around. It won't help you, it won't help me and it won't help Scully."

He waited a few seconds for his words to register, and it was with a certain amount of relief that he watched Mulder relax slightly, knowing that for the time being at least he was having a measure of success, before carrying on.

"What I need from you, Agent Mulder, is a narrative. Everything, anything you can remember that might help. I don't care how trivial it might seem, I need to hear it."

To his intense relief, Mulder nodded slightly.

"You're right. I'm sorry, I just . . . I don't know what to think any more. . ."

"It's OK."

Mulder closed his eyes, the weariness showing all too clearly in his face.

"I need some time."

Skinner observed the unhealthy pallor of his Agent, and was reminded sharply of how ill Mulder had been. The last thing he needed right now was to be pushed too hard, especially in light of everything that had happened, and Skinner was smart enough to realise that a couple more hours would hardly make any difference either way. He made the decision to leave quickly.

"Get some rest. I'll come back later."

He waited a few minutes until Mulder was sleeping, and then quietly left the room, taking the opportunity to grab some much needed food and a change of clothes.

He returned to the hospital ninety minutes later and headed straight up to Mulder's room. He was less than pleased, although not particularly surprised, to be confronted with realisation that his Agent had gone.

San Diego 11:19a.m.

In her dream state, Scully was running. From whom or what she wasn't yet certain, but a strange sense of urgency forced her to carry on even as her throat began to burn from the effort of her exertion. She could hear the heavy tread of footsteps behind her but didn't dare turn around for fear of losing her balance and falling, knowing that to do so would mean the end for her.

In the distance she could hear the sound of a child crying, a pitiful keening cry that pierced her very soul, and she focused on the sound, allowing it to guide her during her headlong flight.

The crying grew ever nearer as she continued to run, and within a few seconds she had rounded a corner to find herself face to face with the object of her search.

Emily stood before her, arms outstretched, the tears falling freely from the wide blue eyes and streaking her pretty face as she implored Scully to please make the bad men go away.

Without hesitation, Scully scooped the child up in her arms and held her close, breathing in the sweet scent of her child, rewarded as she felt Emily's grip tightening around her. The sweetness of the moment was short-lived though as she felt the child become rigid in her arms, hardly breathing as she focused on some unseen horror, and then Scully knew. The footsteps behind her had ceased. He had found her.

She spun around to confront him, still holding Emily tightly to her, and found herself gazing in to the green eyes of the one she trusted most in all the world. For a second she relaxed, sure that he was there to save them both, but then her chest tightened as she realised he was pointing his gun directly at her.

"Give her to me."

His voice was hard, uncompromising but Scully simply clutched Emily closer to her and took a stumbling step backwards even as Mulder advanced. Her eyes darted wildly around, seeking an escape route but finding none. Her only hope was to get past him, but he seemed to sense her strategy and easily out maneuvered her, grasping her arm so tightly that she cried out in response to the pain. His face was only inches from hers, and to her horror, his features had become twisted in to a kind of ugly caricature of the friend she had trusted and relied upon through everything. That man had gone, only to be replaced with this new version of Fox Mulder who seemed intent on getting what he wanted.

"Mulder, please. . ."

The grip on her arm tightened in response to her beseeching tone.

"I said give her to me, Scully. Don't make me take her from you."

She struggled to make sense of his words, eyes widening as she realised he had pressed the gun he held in to the space under her rib cage. It was then she knew that he meant to kill her, regardless of whether she surrendered Emily to him or not but her own survival meant little to her compared with that of her child. To keep hold of her put her life in jeopardy, and by the look in Mulder's eyes she didn't doubt that he wouldn't think twice about shooting through Emily if she chose to attempt escape again. Locking her own blue eyes with that of her partner, Scully slowly lowered the still sobbing child to the floor, unable to look down at her for fear of breaking down completely, not wanting the haunted face of her daughter to become the last memory she held, and instead sought to gain understanding for her partner's betrayal.

"Mulder, why are you doing this?"

To her surprise, instead of answering, he drew her close to him, running a finger softly down her cheek as she implored him with her eyes to respond.

"Because I can."

His answer chilled her and she knew a split second before the world exploded in a barrage of pain and sound that he had never really been her partner, that in reality he had been one of them, using her as she had been used all along. And then she fell, crumpling to the floor as the gunshot ripped through her, reducing her vision to a hazy red as the life force bled from the gaping wound in her side, hearing her daughter screaming the word she had longed to hear for so long, a tortured sound which reverberated around her head long after she lost consciousness.

"Mommmmeeeee . . ."

The word fading in to the distance as he took her away . . .

Scully's eyes snapped open abruptly as the full horror of the dream forced her in to full wakefulness, and for a few seconds relief washed over her as she realised that it had been no more than a simple nightmare, no doubt brought on by the rigours of the case.

Her relief however was short lived as she struggled to make sense of her surroundings.

Something was very wrong. For one thing, the room she found herself in was way too bright, the bed beneath her hard and unyielding and the second more pointed, was the pain she was experiencing in her left side, a stabbing sensation that seemed to synchronise perfectly with every beat of her heart. She attempted to sit up and the stabbing became a chain saw cutting her in half, escalating to a point where she couldn't help but cry out in pain.

Immediately she did so she felt a hand drop on her arm, stroking softly as the voice reassured her.

"Sshhhh. It's OK, Dana. You're safe here. Don't try to move...."

Her vision was slightly blurred and she blinked a couple of times in an effort to clear it, focusing finally on the face that hovered above her, identifying it immediately as belonging to John Wickham.

The senior agent's expression was creased with concern, and from the growth of stubble that adorned his cheeks, it was patently obvious that he had been there for some considerable length of time.

Scully ran her tongue over lips that felt dry as sandpaper, and then attempted to speak.

"Where am I?"

Her voice was little more than a strangled whisper, but Wickham picked up immediately on her fear. The fact that she was frightened was good. It would make his task all the easier.

"You're in the hospital, Dana." He answered softly, aware that she would expect more than that, but in playing the game to the letter he had to wait for her to ask rather than furnishing her with the information unprompted. He didn't have to wait long.

"For what?"

Again the question was voiced in little more than a whisper, and for the merest instant Wickham had the crazy urge to pick her up from the bed and take her as far away as he could from the men who had put her here. He was also aware though that his every move was under scrutiny from the C.C.T.s that were positioned in every corner of the room, hidden from view behind the false walls that had been hastily erected for just that purpose. He wouldn't manage more than a few feet before they realised what he was doing and the consequences would be disastrous.

Instead he swallowed his thoughts and gently smoothed the hair from its disheveled position around her face.

"Don't you remember?"

He watched as she frowned up at him, the confusion all too evident in her eyes, struggling to make sense of her circumstance.

"I . . . no, I don't remember . . ."

Her voice trailed off uncertainly.

"You were shot. The bullet perforated your left kidney and for a while it was touch and go. You've been unconscious for over a week. We didn't think you were going to make it." he smiled suddenly. "I guess you're a lot tougher than you look."

Scully didn't hear him. Her mind was reeling from his information, and she squeezed her eyes shut as the image of her partner rushed unbidden in to her mind. The look in his eyes and the sound of the gunshot as he pulled the trigger. She forced down the panic that overwhelmed her. It was a dream. A nightmare. Nothing more than that. It hadn't really happened.

"It's OK, Dana. Take it easy."

Scully cut off his words as she grasped his sleeve unsteadily.

"Who shot me, John?" she asked hoarsely, already knowing what his answer would be and at the same time praying that she was wrong, that the trauma of the injury had mixed up her perceptions of what had happened, that any second now her partner would walk in to the room and everything would be back to the way it had been before.

Wickham's next words sent all those hopes crashing to the floor.

"Oh, Jesus. You really don't remember, do you?"

She heard the strain in his voice at being the one to deliver the news. The news she now didn't want to hear. She closed her eyes before he dropped the bombshell, needing to retreat in to herself lest she break down, but the words had to be uttered. They needed to be.

"Dana, I'm sorry. It was Mulder. It as witnessed by a half dozen people including myself. We're still out there looking for him."

He trailed off as Scully turned her face away from him, his chest constricting as he saw the stricken expression of horror that now covered her features, watching as the tears rushed to her eyes and began their slow descent down her waxen cheeks.

The guilt overwhelmed him as he observed what his news had done to her, and clumsily he reached out to her, withdrawing his hand as Scully shook her head.

"No. Leave me alone."

Wickham nodded as he rested his hand lightly on her shoulder.

"I understand, Dana. It's OK. I'm gonna go now, but I need to send the Doc to see you. Check that you're all right, and then later we'll need to talk. See what you remember. But you've been through a lot and the best thing you could do right now is rest, OK?"

Scully refused to look at him, but the barest nod of her head at least indicated that she had heard his words and satisfied, he rose to his feet.

The first segment of the plan had been executed without a hitch, but as he headed for the door Wickham felt only one emotion. It should have been pride -- elation even at what he had achieved -- but instead he felt a deep sense of shame, knowing that he had destroyed everything within her that she counted upon, and that in doing so he had also destroyed her.

San Diego, CA. 3:05 p.m.

Mulder had no clear idea as to what his next move should be. He had slipped out of the hospital unnoticed after discovering an escape route in the form of the wrought iron fire ladder attached to his bathroom window and after removing his clothes from within their confines of the room's locker, had begun the perilous descent to the ground below.

The experience had not been a pleasant one, hindered as he was by his still weakened state. Once or twice he had almost fallen, having to close his eyes until the ground below him receded sufficiently to allow him to continue, but all the while the image of his partner remained strong in his mind, urging him to take the risks he had.

He knew all too well just what Skinner's reaction to this latest escapade would be. He also knew deep down that any recriminations would be justified, but only by removing himself from the guardianship of his superior could he hope to find the answers to all that had happened over the past three days.

He also knew that he was in no shape to be doing this.

The all too bright sunshine beat down upon him as he made his way unsteadily along the suburban street he had found himself on and he wished fervently that he could discard the jacket he was wearing which was only adding to his discomfort. The thought, tempting as it may be, was an impossibility, not least because of the presence of his FBI issue weapon which he had been more than a little surprised to discover still tangled up with the rest of his clothes in the hospital locker.

Under normal circumstances any firearm, even that of a law enforcement officer, was tagged and deposited in the hospital's safe until such time as it could be returned to it's rightful owner. Mulder could only marvel at the oversight that had occurred for it not to be so. He wasn't complaining though. The presence of the weapon afforded him at least one advantage in an otherwise impossible situation and he felt somewhat reassured by it's presence, however incongruous it might be.

The fact that the clip was less than half full was less reassuring and the spare clips he had brought to San Diego with him were still safely ensconced within the walls of the E-Z 8 motel where he had left them before making the trip to Wickham's apartment. He had considered going back there to retrieve them, but had shelved the notion almost immediately as he realised that, if what Skinner said was true, then a full blown murder inquiry would be in place there and he couldn't risk the possibility of being seen by the hoards of cops who would no doubt be trawling through the grounds in their pursuit of evidence.

To be seen there would be calamitous, not because he had any fears that he was in any way connected with the incident, but because he had enough sense to realise that until he figured this thing out his best course of action was to remain invisible. To disappear in to the woodwork until such time as it was prudent to allow his presence to be felt.

His memory of events preceding his incarceration at the hospital were still, at best, fragmented, but his instincts told him that this was no kind of coincidence. His recent illness and Scully's disappearance were connected somehow, and he just had to figure out what that connection might be, knowing that once the connection was made, everything else would fall in to place.

He walked aimlessly, not having any clear idea as to where he was heading, turning the scant recollections he had managed to hold on to over and over in his mind, trying to find some kind of correlation between them. He came up with nothing that would shed any light on why Scully had been taken, and if there was one thing Mulder was certain of, it was that she had been taken. By whom and for what reasons, he was less sure of. But that would come. Eventually.

He rounded a corner and found that the street on which he traveled ended in a large well maintained patch of open park land, and the wooden benches that surrounded it suddenly looked more than a little inviting to him. He needed to sit for a while, if only to appraise in more detail his current situation, and his aching body silently thanked him as he lowered himself on to one of the seats.

Five minutes later he began to wish that he hadn't bothered, because in doing so he just confirmed to himself what he already knew. Rummaging through his pockets he had realised how high the odds against him really were, because aside from his weapon, his FBI credentials and his cell phone he was pretty much out on his own. His wallet contained just under $20 and his assortment of credit cards. The money wouldn't go very far and using one of the cards would be equivalent to holding up a large sign with the words 'Here I am' painted on it in red block lettering. He had no transport, no protection, no support and no where to begin. Adding that to the grim fact that he felt like his head was about to come apart, didn't exactly fill him with optimism and he suddenly wished more than anything that Scully were here with him.

The thought prompted him to shake his head ruefully as he realised that if Scully was here then he wouldn't be. He would still be warmly tucked up in a comfortable bed being tended to by professionals who would no doubt be horrified if they could see him now.

So if not Scully, than who?

The list came up pretty short as he trawled through his mental address book of possible allies who he could place the required amount of trust in to do the right thing for him. Professional acquaintances were easily discarded, Skinner being at the top of the list.

John Wickham?

Mulder frowned suddenly.

His old Academy buddy was an obvious choice, especially in light of his recent involvement, but the more Mulder thought about it, the more it seemed like a bad idea. He couldn't put his finger on why exactly. It was simply an almost unconscious warning that buzzed around his head. Scully would have called it paranoia. Mulder called it a hunch and he had learned enough not to disregard it, so there was no doubt in his mind that Wickham had to be struck off the list also.

He rubbed his eyes wearily as he realised that hunch or not, it wasn't exactly aiding his present position and that he needed to come up with something pretty soon, because each wasted second was only heightening his partner's current situation and the reasons behind it.

Mulder withdrew the cell phone from within his pocket and for a few seconds just regarded it ruefully, knowing that stored within it's memory was the number of the three people who he knew he could rely upon to give him the assistance he needed. He had hesitated in calling them, knowing that he was involving them in a situation that could quickly escalate out of control and questioning his right to do that.

Putting himself on the line was one thing. Asking others to do so was something else altogether.

He sighed heavily. He didn't have much of a choice, and it was with this awareness that he reluctantly depressed the button that would connect him to the small basement apartment in the outskirts of Washington, listening to the ringing tones, waiting to hear one of the three voices of his most trusted allies. He didn't have to wait for long before a voice on the other end identified itself.

Mulder took a deep breath and closed his eyes, uttering a small prayer before he spoke.

"Byers? It's Mulder. I need your help."

11:01 p.m.

"What took you so long?"

Mulder was unable to prevent his accusatory tones, brought about mainly from the long wait he had been forced to endure in the lobby of the San Diego Airport, conscious of the hours ticking by whilst all the time he did nothing to attempt to start unraveling the mystery of Scully's disappearance. A lack of both rest and food had left him not exactly feeling his best and at that moment all of his frustration was solely directed at the figure standing before him.

But Melvin Frohike was more than accustomed to Mulder's outbursts and chose to ignore it. He was shocked though by Mulder's appearance and especially by the lost, hopeless look in his old friend's eyes as he glared down at him. He decided that the best thing he could do for Mulder would be to get things moving as quickly as possible and in answer he held up a small leather sports bag.

"One change of clothes, wash bag, keys to a Ford Taurus rental parked outside and ready for collection and . . ." he reached inside his jacket, withdrawing a manila envelope. "$500 in cash."

Mulder took the envelope from him gratefully and stuffed it in to his own jacket.

"Thanks, Frohike. I owe you."

Frohike coughed uncomfortably.

"Um, actually you don't. I took a little side trip to your ATM. back in D.C. and withdrew the money from your account. Langly hacked in to your bank's mainframe and made some adjustments."

"What kind of adjustments?"

Frohike held up a credit card sized library membership card and handed it to Mulder who frowned.

"What's this?"

"Um, it's your new ATM card. Keep it somewhere safe."

Despite himself, Mulder couldn't help but grin. He should have guessed.

Frohike shrugged apologetically. "Desperate measures and cash flow problems, y'know?"

Mulder slotted the card in to his wallet and glanced around the lobby. Frohike anticipated his next question and answered it before he had a chance to ask.

"Byers had to make a stop. He'll meet us at the motel."

Mulder nodded.

"And Langly?"

"Still safely located back at home base in case we need to call on his considerable talents."

He looked past Mulder, eyes narrowing as they locked on to a group of men dressed in near identical attire. Mulder's FBI experience had tagged them immediately as middle income business men, probably on their way to some kind of convention. It was clear from Frohike's expression that he did not share Mulder's appraisal. To Frohike, a suit meant only one thing - Government - and Mulder smiled slightly as he recalled Scully's accurate conjecture that Frohike and Co. were the most paranoid men she had ever met, even more so than Mulder, which was certainly going some.

He cuffed the smaller man lightly on the arm.

"C'mon Frohike. We've got work to do. Save the paranoia for later. Believe me you're going to need it."

At around the time that Mulder was smiling at Frohike's evident paranoia, someone much closer to him was battling some serious emotional misgivings of her own.

Ensconced safety within the boundaries of her hospital room, Dana Scully lay staring up at the ceiling above her, battling to hold on to some semblance of sanity as she replayed the events of the last few hours over and over in her mind.

Since awakening, it had seemed as though a constant stream of doctors and FBI agents had surrounded her, asking her questions she didn't know how to answer. She had not seen Wickham all afternoon, despite her frequent requests, and it seemed that no one had any wish to tell her any of the details she desperately needed to hear without him being present.

She had spent the afternoon battling to remember in more detail just how she had got here and the events leading up to it, and although the memories were there, the structure of them just didn't track somehow. She could remember clearly confronting Mulder as she held the child in her arms, and his face as he insisted she hand her over to him. It had also become clear to her that the child had not in fact been Emily, but the terrified form of Charlotte Stevens who they had tracked down to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of San Diego. She could remember clearly her conversation with Mulder as they drove to the location. In fact she could remember every word of it, as though it were a stage play she had seen as an observer rather than a performer.

She could remember feeling mild pangs of unease at Mulder's insistence that they did not need to enlist the support of other agents before entering the building. But she could not remember actually entering or how exactly they had known that this was the place or that the child would be there.

She recalled talking to Christine Stevens at the motel and of removing her from the care of the sanatorium, of her partner's mild illness, and of his conversation with Wickham regarding those same actions.

What she couldn't reconcile in her mind were the gaps in those memories when some segments were so clear to her. For example, she had no recollection of the interval between Mulder's conversation back at the motel and of getting in to the car to go find the warehouse. It was all a complete blank, and the more she tried to remember, the more she ended up at a brick wall, frustrated to the point of tears.

She had not wanted to believe that it was Mulder who had put her here, but Wickham's words, her injury, the notes on her chart that she had requested to view and not least her own memories had made the fact just about irrefutable. The real question, she admitted, was not that he had done this to her, but why?

It was something she suspected only Wickham could answer, but his long absence was not helping the situation. Nor was the fact that no one seemed to be able to give her any kind of assurance as to his return, only that he had intended coming back to see her later.

Scully sighed and shifted her head slightly on the pillow, attempting to get comfortable and to ease the pain in her neck that her doctor's training told her was a direct result of laying in the same position for so long. She wished she could turn over, but the nature of her injury dictated that to do so would be both foolhardy and dangerous. The powerful pain relief that was being fed in to her via a canular in her arm had dulled the pain somewhat and Scully had no wish to allow it to flare up again.

The substance was probably a morphine based drug, and although she had attempted to read the typed wording that adorned the clear bag above her, she had been unable to, arriving at her conclusion based mostly on how drowsy she felt. She had drifted off for periods of sleep throughout the day, welcoming the oblivion, however brief, from her current situation, only to awaken with ever sharper memories of what Mulder had done to her, becoming wide awake once more as the sense of betrayal sharpened, driving in to her like a knife to her heart.

Why?

The word was such a humble one, and yet it had been used by humans for centuries to inflict punishment and torture from within. To attempt to gain understanding for the inexplicable.

Scully sighed heavily as her eyes began to close, knowing even as she slipped toward sleep that the word was set to torture her for many years to come.

If Scully had been aware of the presence of the two men viewing her from within the confines of a small room across the hall, sleep would not have arrived quite so easily.

They had remained in their positions throughout the day, although Wickham had left for brief periods of time to check in with the office so as not to give rise to any suspicions regarding his absence.

He had also been mildly alarmed to hear from Skinner that Mulder was missing from the hospital, although he had been slightly mollified to be told by his companion that Mulder's leaving the hospital was integral to the continued success of their scheme

He turned to face the Smoking Man who was regarding the sleeping form of Dana Scully closely.

"So what now?"

The Smoking man merely smiled softly.

"We wait, Agent Wickham."

"Wait? For what exactly?" Wickham was aware that his voice was shaking slightly, but all this waiting around was playing on his already shattered nerves, and he had no wish to draw out the process for longer than was absolutely necessary.

For a few seconds though, his question remained unanswered and the silence stretched uncomfortably between them. Finally though, The Smoking Man inclined his head toward the screen.

"Agent Scully has spent the afternoon playing events over in her mind. Events that have been suggested to her without her knowledge and which she now believes to be absolutely accurate. But the process cannot be rushed. Information must be suggested to her over time, information which she will come to regard as her own memories of what happened to her and why she was betrayed so utterly by the man who has saved her on so many occasions. To expedite the process would be disastrous for all concerned, inasmuch as Agent Scully must believe without question. Too much information would effectively induce her to not be able to differentiate between the truth and the lies. She would begin to question her own memory and with it her recollections of true events," he smirked, "and we wouldn't want that to happen would we, Agent Wickham?"

The unspoken threat was unmistakable and Wickham felt himself pale slightly, as the implications of the words became clear.

The Smoking Man, however, didn't seem to notice.

"So," he continued, "I believe we should let Agent Scully enjoy the quietude she so desperately needs to help her recover from her recent ordeal. And then, when she awakens once more, you will be there to answer some of her questions. You will be her friend. Her only friend, now that Mulder is gone."

10:40 p.m.

"Hey, Dana. How're you doing there?"

Scully was conscious of the voice even as she came slowly out of sleep, and as she opened her eyes she experienced a moment of absolute certainty that the voice belonged to her partner. Her hopes were dashed, though, as SAIC Wickham's face swam in to view, hovering above her displaying the same expression of concern she had seen earlier.

She swallowed heavily and ran her tongue over her dry lips in an effort to moisten them, accepting the plastic tumbler of water that Wickham offered her and taking several small sips.

"Take it easy. Don't take too much."

His hand supported her head as she drank, the action causing the same twinges of pain she had felt earlier, sharper though, more localised than before. She winced enough for Wickham to notice.

"Are you OK, Dana? Do you want me to fetch someone?"

Scully shook her head.

"No. I'm fine. Aches and pains that's all."

"Yeah, well, that's understandable, I guess."

He removed the tumbler from her hand and set it down once again on the small side table next to the bed, appraising Scully carefully as he did so. She looked slightly better than the last time he had been here, and although she was still pale, the tiniest bit of colour now graced her cheeks. He marveled at her powers of recovery, and even more so when she began to struggle in to a sitting position.

Nevertheless, he moved quickly to assist her lest she do herself more damage, changing the settings of the bed to support her back.

"OK?"

Scully nodded.

"Thank you."

She glanced around the small room, taking in her surroundings now that she was more able to view them comfortably, eyes lingering on the flowers that were banked up against the far wall. Wickham followed her gaze.

"I guess you're more popular than you thought. You made the ten o'clock news last week, and since then they've been arriving in droves. It seems everyone loves a hero, or in your case, a heroine."

"I don't understand. Why would people do that?"

Wickham saw the confusion in her eyes and rose off his chair. He stood by the flowers, finally locating what he was looking for -- a large extravagant bouquet of white lilies tied with ribbon -- and plucked a small card from it's depths.

Silently, he handed it to Scully who read it, her eyes widening as she did so.

*You brought my daughter back to me. I'll never forget you. Christine.*

"Charlotte Stevens is alive?" she asked incredulously.

Wickham frowned.

"Of course. Why wouldn't she be?"

"Because at the warehouse . . . before I was shot . . ." she could hardly bear to utter the words. "Before Mulder. I mean . . ."

Her eyes filled with tears at the memory and Wickham set himself carefully on the bed, reaching out for her hand as he sought to reassure her.

"Dana, he didn't take her."

Scully shook her head.

"But . . . I remember . . . "

"No. I was there, remember? He knew he had no way out if he took the child, although he did take her from you. We found her a short distance away."

"Is she all right?"

Her words were so soft that Wickham almost didn't hear them. He squeezed her hand.

"She's fine. A little scared maybe, but none the worse for wear. We have her in protective custody with her mother until we can figure this thing out."

"And Mulder?"

Wickham dropped his eyes.

"We don't know. It's like he disappeared off the face of the earth. But we'll find him. Eventually. He can't run forever."

He watched as Scully digested the information, confident now that her feet were firmly set on the path he had carefully laid for her. Her next question threw him slightly though.

"Can I see her?"

"Who?"

"Charlie."

Wickham scratched his head thoughtfully, using the action to buy himself some time, and in doing so he remembered the Smoking Man's words regarding the child.

He had anticipated her request, the son of a bitch. Wickham could only marvel at the mind of a man who could remain ten jumps ahead. To see the child would only add more weight to the false memories they had carefully planted. He knew then why the child had been so well cared for.

He smiled down at Scully.

"I'll see what I can do. When you're feeling a little stronger."

He watched her reaction to his assurance carefully and was gratified to see a light appear behind her eyes.

"So anyway . . ." he continued. "Are you ready to tell me what you remember now or do you want me to come back later?"

Scully shrugged.

"I don't know. I can remember some things as though they happened just a few minutes ago but, there are so many inconsistencies in the content of those memories, that I can't be sure they even happened at all."

Wickham nodded his understanding. This was something he had anticipated.

"It's OK, Dana. Just tell me what you can recall, for the record, and when we're finished I'll try to fill in some of those gaps for you. How would that be?"

She didn't answer him, but then she didn't need to. Her expression told him all he needed to know, and for the first time since entering in to this sorry scheme, he felt something akin to arrogance at how easily he had drawn her in to the web he had helped to spin for her.

She began to slowly give him a narrative on what she remembered regarding the incidents at the warehouse, and her memories of what exactly had prompted her and Mulder to come down here in the first place. Wickham could easily identify the segments of recollection that had been suggested to her. She related these incidents with much more confidence than the true events that had been allowed to remain in her mind, and there were long periods of silence as she battled to get her thoughts in order. He also knew that it was his job to fill in those spaces for her, allowing them to be planted in her mind, which, with the aid of the drugs being fed to her, were to become unquestionable reality for her as she slept.

He marveled at the scheme, at it's complexity, at how a human mind could be so easily manipulated, knowing that when she next saw him she would already have forgotten that this conversation had taken place.

Instead she would remember only what they allowed her to.

She would remember him being here tonight, and of giving him a history of recent events, but would not recall any of the suggestions he would make to her, instead believing that she had arrived at the determination of Mulder's betrayal herself.

And so he listened, affording just the right amounts of sympathy and professionalism for her to trust him implicitly as an ally, until she finally came to an end.

He finished jotting down her final words, and finally satisfied, leveled his cool grey eyes on her.

"That's all you remember?"

Scully shrugged.

"I'm sorry. I know it probably doesn't help much."

"Hey, don't worry. It helps us more than you know. Believe me."

"So . . ." she faltered slightly before going on, "what happens now?"

Wickham was careful to drop his eyes respectfully before answering, sounding contrite as he did so.

"Well, until we find Mulder, we're up against a brick wall. I have all my best men on the case, but so far we've turned up squat. But I don't mind telling you that I'll rest a lot easier once he's put where he belongs. Because while ever he's still out there, he represents a clear danger to you, and in here, there's a limit to how much protection we can give you."

Scully's eyes widened.

"What do you mean?"

He coughed slightly as if embarrassed to be the one to spell it out to her.

"Um . . . he tried to kill you once, remember? Who's to say he won't try to finish the job?"

He held up his hand as Scully shook her head, cutting her off before she had a chance to speak.

"I know this is hard for you, but you have to face facts. I have two armed Agents on the other side of that door. But I know Mulder. He wouldn't let them get in his way in order to get to you and I don't believe he would give you any kind of opportunity to raise the alarm. I've seen what he's capable of, and so have you. I'm not prepared to take any chances with your life."

Scully shook her head numbly. She could hear Wickham's words, but it was as though they came from somewhere outside herself, and try as she might she just couldn't correlate his warning to that of the man she had shared almost every day for the last six years with. The image was alien to her.

"I know it sounds crazy," she admitted quietly, "but I can't imagine him doing that. Even after everything that's happened, everything I know." And then, grasping at straws she turned tortured eyes on to Wickham.

"He must have had some kind of reason or justification for doing what he did."

Wickham laid a hand on her shoulder sadly.

"But he did have reason, Dana. More than enough to betray your trust the way he did. If you're feeling up to it, I'll explain everything to you."

He watched carefully as she nodded uncertainly and, with the arrogance he had felt earlier, he began to tell his tale.

11:11p.m. Energize Inn Route 56 San Diego CA.

"So what now?"

Mulder regarded the two figures in front of him from his seated position on the bed and shook his head slowly. During the time since their arrival in San Diego, it had seemed as if Byers and Frohike were more concerned in seeing he took care of himself than in offering any practical help toward finding Scully. But now, after they had seen to it that he had been fed and watered, it appeared as though they were ready for action.

Despite his urgent need to get started in his quest, Mulder could not help but feel a certain amount of gratitude towards the two men. Even he had to admit that the shower, the good food, and the change of clothes they had insisted upon had done wonders for his physical and mental well being. The hospital seemed a million miles away, and aside from the niggling headache, he felt more or less back up to par.

This fact, though, didn't make finding a place to start any easier, and for a few seconds he did not answer.

"Mulder? Did you hear what I said?"

Mulder waved his arm in the air to show acknowledgement of Byer's words, whilst wracking his brain to find an acceptable answer. He had trawled through the events over and over in his mind for the better part of the day. In doing so, he seemed to always arrive at the same name as he remembered his partner's outright scepticism back at the E-Z 8 as she confronted him with her fears regarding the woman's story. More and more he was becoming sure that Scully's perturbation had not, as he had first thought, been misplaced. At the time, he had not given it much credence. Now he wasn't so sure, and suddenly, he knew exactly what he needed to do.

"You said Langly is waiting to hear from us back in DC?"

Frohike nodded.

"Yeah. We thought you might have more use of him there. He's waiting by the phone as we speak, fingers flexed, and ready for action."

"Well tell him to keep flexing," Mulder directed, "because I've got a real good one for him."

Frohike raised his eyebrows quizzically at Byers who ran his finger underneath his tightly buttoned shirt collar.

"What do you mean?"

Mulder grinned slightly.

"Just a little bit of a wander around a Federal database. There's some information I need regarding the woman I told you about. I need to know where she's being held."

"Hhmm, Federal snooping. I like it."

Mulder watched as Frohike began to dial, listening as he outlined his requirements to his unlikely colleague back in the Capitol, occasionally chipping in to offer additional information to make Langly's quest all the more easy to accomplish.

Finally, Frohike replaced the receiver, eyeing Mulder confidently.

"Consider it done. Fifteen minutes max. And he'll have everything you need to know."

Mulder shook his head ruefully as he wondered, not for the first time, if there really was any such thing as confidentiality anymore. The FBI database was supposed to be unbreakable, a hundred different fail safe devices in place to prevent exactly the kind of breach he had just requested. Fifteen minutes. Obviously fail-safe didn't have the same kind of significance anymore. At this moment though, he wasn't about to take offence regarding the Government's inadequate protection systems. Too much was at stake to allow indignation to surface.

Instead he focused on the cheap wood-effect clock that hung on the wall adjacent to him and watched the minutes tick by -- painfully conscious that every second that passed took him one second further away from his partner -- and at the same time hoping against hope, that the seconds were still ticking for her, that time hadn't suddenly ceased, willing Langly to get a move on.

As it turned out, he didn't have to wait long. Not quite ten minutes had elapsed before the phone rang and he had to restrain himself in order not to snatch it up. He had already agreed that it was best for all concerned that his voice should not be heard over the airways. A precaution should he still be being watched. Instead he rose from his sitting position and hovered over Byers as he took the call. Finally, after much shaking of his head and murmured monosyllables, Byers took the receiver from his ear and pressed his hand over the mouthpiece.

"Langly hacked in to the Bureau's main frame as you requested but he's failed to turn up anything on Christine Stevens or her daughter. There's no case file on her supposed kidnapping either under the file number or the Agent of record. He also ran it against Wickham's case files and came up with zilch."

"That's impossible," Mulder cut in without giving Byers the chance to finish. "Wickham brought us down here. He sent me the case file across to DC; I held the damn thing in my hand. It has to exist somewhere. Tell Langly to run it again."

Byers didn't bother to argue. Mulder was vaguely conscious of his return to Langly, speaking the words that Mulder had demanded, but a thought had entered his head over the last few seconds. It was this thought that was now at the fore of his reasoning, hammering away, insisting he give it the credence it necessitated. Something was very wrong here and the more he thought about it, the uneasier he became.

He remembered how he had been so reluctant earlier to enlist the help of his old Academy buddy. A thought that had been based purely on blind instinct rather than any kind of tangible reasoning. And now, as he sat listening to the sound of Byer's voice, he mentally kicked himself for being so stupid. Something in his head had clicked, and suddenly everything fell in to place, like the pieces of a jigsaw slotting together.

Without hesitation he flew to his feet and grabbed the telephone from Byer's grasp, ignoring the look of amazement on the other man's face and disregarding the need to keep himself hidden from prying eyes and ears. It seemed irrelevant now.

"Langly, it's Mulder. I need you to check something for me. Dial in to the site files for the Department of Health and enter the name . . ." Mulder dragged his mind back, trying to remember accurately. "Little Sisters of Charity." "Mercy. Little Sisters of Mercy State Sanatorium. San Diego."

He shuddered as he remembered the empty, ill cared for, almost derelict state of the hospital and realised that, in his poor state of health, he had failed to realise the significance of the dereliction.

Scully had noticed it and he had effectively dismissed her, intent as he was on getting to the truth before it was neatly disposed of.

He focused back in on Langly as he realised that he had asked him a question.

He answered it through gritted teeth.

"All I need to know is when it was closed down, and who the lease was passed on to."

He listened for a couple more seconds and then nodded.

"OK. Thanks, Langly. Stay by the phone, I might need you later."

He cradled the receiver gently, almost reverently, and turned his attention to the two men stood before him, noting their twin expressions of bemusement.

"The hospital Scully and I were sent to by Wickham has not existed as a hospital for over five years. The lease was taken over by a Pharmaceutical company named Pramgen six months ago."

Frohike jumped visibly as Mulder slammed his palm down on to the table which housed the phone.

"They've played us all along. Scully saw it and I didn't. This has all been a part of an elaborate plan to get us down here. Orchestrated from the start. Maybe going back months, and I let them. I played right in to their hands."

He shook his head numbly.

"How could I have been so stupid?"

Without waiting for a response, Mulder grabbed his leather jacket which lay on the bed and shrugged it on hastily, motioning to Byers to follow him.

"C'mon, Byers. We're going out."

The older man balked visibly.

"Um, going out where, exactly?"

Mulder didn't look up from where he was rapidly scrawling a few words on to the back of a discarded drink coaster, thrusting it in to a startled Frohike when it was completed.

"This is where they've got Scully. The number next to it belongs to Assistant Director Skinner. Call him and tell him to meet us there. Frohike, you tell him that on no account is he to trust Agent Wickham. Tell him I'll explain everything when I see him. You got all that?"

Frohike nodded numbly, taken aback by the sudden rapid turn of events.

"C'mon, Byers, let's go. I don't think we've got much time left."

He held the door open for him to exit the room, and as he followed him to the car he sent up a silent prayer that whatever time they did have would be enough.

Little Sisters of Mercy State Sanatorium. 11:37p.m.

Scully eyed the gun that lay on the locker beside her bed. She had awoken to find it there and could recall a vague conversation in which she had requested that she be allowed access to a weapon.

The exact nature of the conversation eluded her, but she could remember the basis for her request. She could now remember in great detail Mulder's actions and subsequent betrayal. She also knew that what Wickham had surmised was correct -- that Mulder would have no hesitation in coming and finishing the job off properly -- and when he did she was determined to be ready for him.

The sense of outrage had grown inside of her until it boiled in a cauldron of hatred so intense that it effectively blocked everything else out. She no longer questioned why her most trusted ally had betrayed her so completely, it no longer seemed relevant, and for her part she was only interested in self- preservation now.

The physical pain was still there, somewhat lessened now, but the slightest movement reminded her sharply what he had done and with it came an even stronger resolve that he should be made to pay for his actions.

Scully did not challenge this totally out of character conclusion, nor how she had come to it so completely. The drugs being fed in to her system had had the desired effect, and just as Wickham had been told she would, she now saw Mulder as one thing and one thing only - something to eliminate in whatever way she could. The FBI training was disregarded. It was now not something she even gave much of a thought to. Right or wrong no longer came in to it. Her every waking thought was firmly targeted on her partner. Of his destruction.

Scully closed her eyes . . . and waited.

11:56p.m.

Skinner snatched up his cell phone even before it had completed it's first ring.

He had returned to his hotel a little over an hour ago after a fruitless day engaged in the attempted search of his missing Agents. The fact that Mulder had absconded from right under his nose with two armed guards outside the hospital room had not exactly improved his mood. Nor had the fact that he had spent half the afternoon trying in vain to contact SAIC Wickham.

He had finally given up in disgust and called it a day, knowing that if Mulder were going to get in touch, that it would be sometime during the night, after he had had a chance to investigate his partner's disappearance more thoroughly.

Skinner had not known whether to feel angry or relieved that Mulder had checked himself out of the hospital. On the one hand he knew that sick or not, Mulder was the one link that might unravel this whole mess. But the fact remained that he was sick and Skinner couldn't let go of the uncomfortable feeling that Mulder could well be laying in a gutter somewhere, weakened as he was from his recent ordeal.

To have one Agent missing was bad enough, but to have two was almost an impossibility, but suddenly the shrill tones of his phone drove away some of the uncertainty.

"Skinner." He barked, feeling the frustration course through him as he realised that the voice that greeted him on the other end was not Mulder's. He frowned. Something about the voice did seem familiar, and he dragged his mind back, trying to place it, eyes widening as the voice delivered it's grim message.

"Who is this?" he demanded angrily and then relaxed visibly as the caller identified himself warily.

"Frohike? What are you doing here? Where's Mulder?"

Almost unconsciously, Skinner's eyes darted wildly around the small room in search of his weapon as Frohike delivered Mulder's directions, and with the phone still held to his ear, he grabbed his gun and exited the room, slamming the door behind him.

He reached his car in record time, and then sat for a few seconds, trying to arrange his thoughts in to some kind of rational order. He didn't know how Mulder had located Scully, or how he had determined that Wickham was involved, but Skinner had known his Agent long enough to not feel the need to question his reasoning.

Some called Mulder's ability to make great investigational leaps mere chance. Skinner called it instinct, plain and simple, and he wasn't about to disregard it. He had seen it too many times over the last six years to treat it with anything other than a deep respect.

It was what had kept Mulder ahead of the game for so long, and his ability to see clearly where others failed had undoubtedly kept him and Scully alive in their quest.

Skinner eyed his phone which he still held in his hand, knowing that the smart thing to do would be to call for back-up of some kind. He also suspected that, should he do so, the request would immediately be picked up by the wrong people and a reception committee of the most heinous nature would be waiting to greet them at their arrival at the sanatorium. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, cursing himself for his indecisiveness. To not call for assistance, especially out of his own area of jurisdiction was, at best, a break away from protocol and, at worst, grounds for dismissal. Lives could be lost and the finger would be firmly pointed in his direction for ignoring the most basic tactical rule.

He glanced at the phone again, it's LCD display glowing greenly in the darkness, and Skinner decided there and then that. for once in his life. he wasn't going to do the smart thing. Just for tonight. he was going to emulate Agent Mulder and trust his almost forgotten instincts.

He gunned the motor and prayed that they wouldn't let him down.

Little Sisters of Mercy State Sanatorium. 12:31 a.m.

"It looks deserted."

Byers' voice shook slightly as he stared up at the imposing facade.

Beside him, Mulder remained silent.

They had left the safety of the car some two blocks back and completed their journey on foot, ever conscious that, should the building house what he hoped, there could be no doubt that it's electronic surveillance equipment would be top of the range and impossible to spot. It would be hard enough to gain entrance without announcing their presence by arriving in a car. Aside from one half-empty gun, a torch, and two short wave radios, their only asset was stealth. Looking at the structure of the huge building, Mulder was even beginning to question whether the element of surprise would help them in their quest.

The hospital must surely house a myriad of corridors and rooms, any one of which might be holding Scully, and in darkness he wasn't convinced that he might find her.

He sighed and glanced at his watch, the luminous dial shining brightly in the darkness.

Where the hell was Skinner?

"Hey, Mulder. Are we going to stand here all night?"

Mulder held up his hand to quiet Byers, who was getting antsier by the minute, but he had to be sure he was doing the right thing. One slip and it could mean the end for all of them, Scully included. Mulder noted the chalky whiteness of his friend's face and decided to keep the thought to himself. For the tenth time, he removed the powerful handgun from his holster and flicked it open, studying it's contents as though sheer will power could double the six bullets it held. He would have felt happier to have had a full clip, happier still to have been able to offer a weapon to Byers.

Wistfully he thought of the small but powerful Baretta languishing in his suitcase back at the E-Z 8 motel. He used it only rarely, but it was an excellent weapon to have as back-up, fitting as it did in a small concealed holster that fitted around the wearer's calf it was virtually undetectable and easy to reach.

Mulder had bought it along almost on a whim and. under normal circumstances. he would have been wearing it when he was out in the field. But the illness, whatever it had been, had caused him to completely forget about it.

He glanced once again at his watch, cursing as he registered that the hands had only barely moved. He had the uncomfortable feeling that time was running out, and his brain told him to get moving - and quickly.

"OK."

Byers leaned in closer to pick up Mulder's whispered words which were only barely audible above the late night traffic that filled the California roads.

"I'm gonna see if I can find a way in through the back." He handed Byers one of the radios which he flicked to channel three. "I need you to keep watch for Skinner. When he gets here, you put him on immediately. I'll need him to join me inside."

Byers nodded, the relief clearly displayed across his face at the understanding that he wouldn't actually have to join Mulder in the building.

"What if someone else comes?"

Mulder grinned.

"You run like hell and hope you're faster than the other guy."

Byers swallowed heavily.

"You're kidding, right?"

"Relax, Byers. Think of it as an adventure."

Byers watched as Mulder's form disappeared in to the blackness and when he could see him no more, turned his attention to the short wave radio he clutched in his hand.

It was shaking visibly.

He leaned heavily against the wall.

"Why me?" he muttered. A little computer crime was one thing. But this? This was something else altogether and he sent up a silent prayer that Mulder did indeed know whet he was doing.

"Do you see him?" Wickham rose to his feet and pointed unnecessarily to the screen -- one of about twenty -- that covered the far wall of the tiny, cramped room he had spent the seemingly endless day within.

The image was fuzzy and slightly degraded, but the figure moving stealthily across the courtyard was as unmistakable as night was from day. The man's features were lost in the darkness, but the way he moved, the way he crouched low against the wall, hiding his body in shadows was unmistakably Mulder.

Wickham remembered him from the Academy, remembered how he had marveled at the man's sense of stealth. He was like a cat, lithe and silent, and had they not been expecting him to show up, they would probably never have spotted him.

The Smoking man did not respond other than to get to his feet and turn towards the door.

"What are you doing?" The confusion was evident in Wickham's voice, and he knit his brow at the older man's expression.

"Agent Mulder has arrived, Agent Wickham, which means it is time for us to go."

"What? I don't understand. I thought . . ."

"You are not required to think. You are simply required to follow my orders. Can you understand that?"

Wickham blanched visibly but nodded slowly.

"What about Scully?"

This time The Smoking Man smiled down at him, and enunciated his next words carefully, as though he were addressing a rather backward child.

"Agent Scully will be horrified to see her partner, the man she believes is responsible for her current condition. She will draw upon her not inconsiderable talents to ensure her continued survival. She will finish what we have started, and when she comes to realise was she has done, what we have done, she will cease to be able to function, as an Agent of the FBI or as a human being."

"And the child?"

The Smoking man paused before exiting the room.

"The child will be found. She will be disposed of in the usual manner."

A chill worked it's way up Wickham's spine as his eyes lit on a separate screen that took up space in one corner of the desk.

Clearer than the external screens it showed the image of a blonde haired, doe-eyed child who sat in the corner of a sparsely furnished room. She did not appear to be afraid, or distressed in any way. She did not attempt to escape the confines of the room. Her intelligence had allowed her to accept fully the new and unfamiliar regime that had been thrust upon her, just as it allowed her to understand that her mother was somewhere close. The time would come when she would need to go to her, and until then she was content to retreat in to her own mind, saving her strength and energy until such a time came that she would need them. The time was coming, and it would all be over soon.

Wickham had felt ill at ease and unsure during the limited time he had spent with the child. For a child as young as she, he had expected tantrums, or at the very least tears as her requests to be taken back to her mother had been ignored and unanswered. But instead, each time her requests brokered no response, Charlie had simply fixed her captors with china blue eyes and nodded thoughtfully, as if she held a far greater understanding of her situation than those who had brought it about.

Wickham had been told little regarding the child, what she meant to the Project, but he didn't need to be a genius to understand that she was different - dangerously different.

From his position in front of the monitor, Wickham was suddenly gripped with the feeling that not only did little Charlotte Stevens know that there were hidden cameras inside her small room, but also that she was as aware of him as he was of her. Wickham shuddered involuntarily and turned back to the Smoking Man.

"We should take her now," he ventured uncertainly, not wishing to transcend his limited authority but at the same time understanding the consequences that the child's discovery would broker.

The Smoking Man raised his eyebrows at the younger man's audacity. Wickham clumsily attempted to justify his words.

"What if Mulder finds her?"

The Smoking man directed his gaze to the figure on the screens who had now gained access to the building, and was even now, only a few hundred feet away. Only doors, bricks, and walls separated him from the man he considered to be his greatest adversary, and for a fleeting second, he felt almost sorrowful that their acquaintance was about to end.

He pulled out a cigarette and rolled it distractedly around his fingers before answering.

"Agent Mulder is intent on finding his partner. Nothing else has any meaning to him, and when he does, even meaning will cease to be important. For a second, he will look deep in to his partner's eyes, and then blessedly, it will all be over for them both. Just the way we planned it."

Wickham shuddered, and for a second, he was caught in a flashback to the day in his office when Mulder had introduced Scully to him. Even though he knew he should be feeling relief that finally it was over, he knew that, for him at least, it would never be over.

12:43 a.m.

The darkness inside the old building closed in on Mulder like a curtain, all encompassing and thick, his torch seemed to barely cut through it, and he realised with a sinking feeling of dread that the beam was wavering.

He shook it angrily, and was gratified when the light turned from yellow to white again. A loose connection, that was all.

Carefully, he angled the torch slightly in a downward direction to ensure the connections touched. It narrowed his field of vision somewhat, but he reasoned that limited light was preferable to none at all.

His head pounded, and he allowed himself a moment to get his bearings. His excellent memory would normally have allowed him to find where he wanted to be with no problem, but he had been feverish and weak during his last journey here, and he had to draw from deep within him in order to get any kind of direction.

He started down the long corridor, even now uncertain as to whether he was heading the right way, but trusting his instincts. He would have felt better to have Skinner by his side, but had now arrived at the conclusion that he was on his own, for better or worse.

Occasionally he paused at one of the many doors that lined the corridor and shone the torch through the square of observation glass that adorned each one. He did it more out of a need for thoroughness than out of hope that Scully was held captive behind one of them. He was pretty sure where, if anywhere, his partner would be held, and remembering the chill, damp air that had seemed to invade the abandoned wing of the old building, a shudder worked its way down his back.

Mulder turned away from the glass and realised that he was almost at the end of the corridor. If he remembered correctly, the corridor would end with a door on the left-hand side which led in to the older part of the building where they had found Christine Stevens. The corridor was rapidly running out and for a panicky second, Mulder was sure that he had come the wrong way, and then there it was just ahead of him.

Mulder narrowed his eyes against the glare of the torch light, and for an instant wondered if what he saw was simply his eyes playing tricks on him, an after glare from the torch hitting the white paint, but as he got closer he realised that a white line of light spilled out from beneath the closed door. He closed his eyes, knowing suddenly that his hunch had been correct, and that Scully was here.

He could feel her presence, as though she were by his side. Although he knew that his partner would no doubt find a rational explanation for what he was feeling, Mulder held on to the thought, knowing somehow that it might be the only thing to get him through this.

He switched the torch off, knowing that he wouldn't need it once he had stepped out in to the light, and he eased it back in to the pocket of his jacket. He substituted it with his handgun, holding the weapon tightly, unaware of what might be waiting for him on the other side of the door.

He tensed as he stepped in to the light, allowing himself to breathe again as his eyes registered nothing but another long corridor, almost identical in design and layout to the one before it. Doors lined it and Mulder was painfully aware that any number of unknown dangers could lurk behind them. His eyes scanned the corridor and a quick calculation inside his aching head told him that there were at least forty of them. Forty possibilities. Six bullets. The odds weren't great.

He shook his head in an effort to clear it and forced himself to get moving, knowing that for every second he stood there that the odds were shortening even further, that he was no doubt being monitored and that he was now in plain sight. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere to run. All he could do was to move forward and he did so, slowly at first, checking each of the doors, opening those that were not locked, his pace and urgency intensifying as door after door revealed nothing more remarkable than empty space. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead, a combination of the slight fever he still ran and the numbing thought that somehow he might have been wrong. His heart hammered against his chest as the adrenaline pulsed through his body, causing his breath to come in short sharp gasps, making his head swim even worse than it already was.

Distractedly he ran a hand through his hair as he crossed the corridor to the next door. He opened it slowly expecting to see nothing but bare floors and walls.

His jaw dropped though as realisation seeped through him, and for a few seconds he was rooted to the spot, unable to enter for fear of a trap of some kind, waiting to snare him, to put an end to his search.

The indecision lasted only a heartbeat though, as his feet moved him forwards, almost against his will and he found himself staring straight at the familiar face of his partner.

12:54 am

The hand that dropped suddenly on Byers' shoulder almost caused him to drop the walkie-talkie that he was holding tightly. Such was his absolute terror at being left in this situation by Mulder.

He breathed again though when he allowed himself to look up at his aggressor, who was no other than Assistant Director Skinner. They had met only briefly but Skinner immediately recognised him and his eyes narrowed as he realised that he was alone.

"Where's Mulder?"

Byers swallowed nervously at his harsh tone.

"He went in alone. He waited for you, though. I guess he thought you weren't coming."

Skinner sighed heavily.

"I was at the hospital. I had to drive halfway across town to get here."

He glanced around the darkened parking lot.

"Which way did he go?"

Byers waved his hand vaguely to the right, toward an almost invisible alleyway that ran through the centre of the imposing building. As he did so, Skinner caught sight of the radio held tightly in his grasp. He raised his eyebrows.

"Does that thing work?"

Byers nodded, but held back as Skinner reached across for it.

"What if someone hears it? Maybe we should wait for him to contact us."

"The hell we will," Skinner countered harshly, "Mulder forwent any sort of bargaining the minute he stepped in there alone. Now give me the radio."

Byers hesitated for just a beat, but the expression on Skinner's face did not encourage argument, and he reluctantly surrendered it to the older man, watching as he depressed the speak button, noting the frown that furrowed Skinner's brow as seconds passed and his call went unanswered.

For a few seconds, Mulder remained rooted to the spot, his eyes drinking in the image before him. Whatever else he had been expecting when he entered the room, it wasn't this.

He scanned the monitors that lined every inch of the walls and he realised he has stumbled on the epicentre of a sophisticated and comprehensive surveillance system, that viewed the building from without and within. Four of the small screens showed the image of his partner lying in a standard hospital issue bed.

He stepped closer and scrutinised the image closely. It was difficult to make out the details, but he was pretty sure her eyes were closed. Whether she was unconscious or merely sleeping he couldn't tell, but from the medical equipment that surrounded her he was sure of one thing - that whatever had been done to her, it was bad.

He frowned as his memory transported him back to the Washington Hospital almost five years ago, when his partner had lain as if dead, a condition brought about by the very people who had been instrumental in this latest crime against them. It had been the start of a nightmare for them both, and one which seemed never ending now.

He shuddered slightly and forced his attention back to the here and now, noticing for the first time the small black numbers that adorned the left-hand corners of the screens.

At first glance they appeared to be random, but it soon became obvious that they related to specific areas of the hospital and it's grounds and Mulder was pretty sure that the last two digits were room numbers.

He tore his eyes away from Scully, and for the first time allowed himself time to look at the other images that surrounded him. He inhaled sharply as his gaze fell upon the far right screen, and the child within.

Charlie Stevens.

She had been here all along, brought to the same place as her adoptive mother and held for who knew what reasons.

Mulder's jaw set rigidly as he realised perhaps for the first time just how far John Wickham had deceived them, and at that moment Mulder would have liked nothing more than to have five minutes alone in a room with his ex-Academy buddy.

He knew however that that was unlikely ever to happen. Wickham would be long gone by now and the rational part of him pushed its way back up to the surface as he realised he had much more pressing business to attend to right now.

He took one final glance around the room and then without further ado he spun around and with a governing sense of urgency, began to hurry along the decrepit corridor, aware for the first time of where he needed to head.

The doors flashed past as Mulder hurried through the hospital. He barely gave them a second glance, sure now as to where he was going, and the direction he needed to take. He knew that behind one of those doors Charlotte Stevens was held captive, and although she was the sole reason they had even got involved with this in the first place, Mulder couldn't afford to turn his attention towards her until he had found his partner. He also knew that she may very well hold the answers to many of his questions, but those answers seemed meaningless right now.

His breathing became slightly laboured as he forced himself to keep going. His weakened state manifested itself sharply as he pushed himself onwards, but he forced himself to rise above it, promising himself that once this thing was finally over, that he was going to take some time out to recover from what he had been through.

Finally, he reached his destination, noting with some relief that the door to the room was unguarded, and at the same time he felt a small shiver of unease work its way down his spine. So far this had been almost too easy. He had been allowed to breach the building unchallenged and seemingly undetected, and for the first time since entering he began to question how that could have been. He reached forward tentatively and tried the door handle, whilst all the time, keeping his weapon trained on the door in front of him. The door was locked, and he briefly considered his options, realising at the same time that having come this far, there was only one option available to him.

Without considering the potential consequences such an action may broker should there be a third party in the room, Mulder summoned up every last ounce of energy and threw his weight against the door.

The cheap wood came apart with a splintering crack as the frame buckled inwards, and Mulder almost fell in to the room. The impact sent a shower of bright flashes across his eyes as his pounding head threatened to come apart on him. He shook his head once in an effort to clear it, but the sight that greeted him when his vision settled down was the last thing he had expected to be confronted with.

In front of him, like a vision from his worst nightmare, was his partner. Concern as to how ill she looked was soon wiped from his mind as he struggled to make sense of what he was seeing, and it took him a few seconds to correctly assimilate the information being fed in to his battered consciousness.

He opened his mouth to speak, to question why she was pointing a gun at him. But before the thought could be transformed in to words, the world suddenly became filled with light and sound and an unknown force that sent him spinning off his feet and crashing to the ground. He was only vaguely aware of the pain that accompanied the warm wetness that seeped through his shirt before, merciful nothingness took him away.

Skinner almost jumped out of his skin when he heard the gunshot, and his excellent training immediately identified as it coming from a medium weight automatic weapon, much like the one he himself carried.

He remained rooted to the spot, expecting to hear more shots, or at least an accompanying shout of some kind, and a cold sweat broke out on his brow as neither were forthcoming. It could mean one of two things - either Mulder had fired his own weapon at a single perpetrator and had disabled him sufficiently for him not to retaliate, or that the shot had been intended to stop Mulder in his search for Scully.

Skinner didn't dwell on this second possibility, and instead took off down the corridor at a sprint, trying to gauge the direction in which the sound had come from. The echoes in the old building did not make his task any easier, but he was fairly confident he was heading in the right direction. He kept his own weapon in front of him, ever alert for unexpected assailants that might be lurking in wait for him in any of the rooms that lined the corridors. He saw no one though, and the only sound that followed him was that of his own footsteps bouncing off the spartan walls.

Scully slowly lowered the gun and let it fall from her hand on to the floor where it clattered loudly on the linoleum surface. The minute since she had heard the door handle turn had seemed like an eternity. The sight of her partner crashing through the door in front of her had provoked one response and one response only: a fear so intense it had blocked everything out. As she had leveled the weapon at him, an inner voice had screamed at her to reconsider what she was doing.

The effects of the drugs though had been too powerful, and she had squeezed the trigger almost against her will, watching as Mulder was thrown backwards with the force of the bullet, waiting for him to get to his feet and at the same time praying that he wouldn't. She had waited for what seemed like hours before she had summoned up the courage to swing her legs over the side of the bed, ignoring the sharp pain that tugged at her side as she did so.

The canular that was still inserted in to her arm limited her movement, and with a shaking hand, she eased the needle out, ignoring the bright drops of blood that began to drip down her arm, ignoring everything but the sound of Mulder's breath that seemed to fill the silence that enveloped her.

Scully frowned as she edged closer to her partner's prone body, and for the first time she realised that the silence that surrounded her was unnatural in view of what had just transpired.

The gunshot should have prompted a score of concerned medical personnel, or at the very least the guards that Wickham had assured her were posted outside the door.

Instead there was nothing, and despite herself Scully felt a twinge of unease as what she had just done.

Mulder lay at her feet, the blood that spilled from the wound rapidly soaking in to the shirt he wore and beginning to pool around his unconscious form.

Despite this though, Scully could see immediately that he was still very much alive. Her eyes drifted to the Sig Saur that Mulder still clutched loosely in his hand, unwilling as he had been to release it in the face of such danger. Shakily, Scully bent down to retrieve it, removing the immediate danger she still felt her partner posed to her, but even as she did so she frowned. Something wasn't right.

The weapon felt lighter than it should have done, and, as she inspected it more closely, she identified the reason why.

The clip, when removed, showed the presence of a mere six bullets and both she and Mulder carried an expanded clip that would hold a maximum of fifteen bullets when fully loaded.

Despite the drugs in her system, and the knowledge that her partner had been on the run for over a week, Scully had a hard time reconciling the facts.

Only five minutes ago, she had been sure that Mulder had been here to kill her, but if that were the case, then surely he would have not risked coming here so poorly prepared, especially in light of the fact that he must have known of his wanted status?

The thought jumped unbidden in to her mind, fleeting and easily ignored, but Scully found she couldn't discount it.

She was becoming more and more uneasy regarding her apparent solitude in this vast hospital, a hospital that Wickham had assured her was literally teeming with federal Agents intent on her protection.

She shook her head in an effort to exercise her demons, to drive the thoughts from her mind, and carefully knelt down beside her partner, extending a hand towards him fearfully as she sought to find a pulse. She was also surprised to find that finding one seemed like the only important thing in her life right now.

The pulse was there, slightly thready, but still strong under her fingers and her doctor's training told her that the bullet had no doubt passed through Mulder's body without hitting any of the major organs.

Despite this though, the blood continued to spill from the wound at an alarming rate, and Scully was fairly sure that she had nicked a major blood vessel if not an artery.

Suddenly, despite all he had done, Scully realised with absolute clarity, that she did not want her partner to die, not like this.

She got to her feet and gazed wildly around the small room, seeking something to press against the wound, to staunch the flow of blood that she had caused, when a voice behind her made her spin around.

The injury under her ribs tore as she did so, and she cried out in pain.

Walter Skinner stood inside the doorway, his own gun leveled in front of him as he took in the carnage that greeted him. The sight of Mulder was shocking enough, but the look on Scully's face was almost more terrifying. He had never seen her look like that. It was as though she were not in control of her own actions, and when he allowed himself to look in to her eyes he found them to be alarmingly blank, devoid of the emotion that usually sparkled from them.

He did not lower the gun.

"Agent Scully? What happened here?"

Scully frowned at the sight of her superior, and her voice wavered slightly.

"He came to kill me."

Skinner followed her gaze to where Mulder lay, and he suddenly understood so much as to what had transpired here - who had fired the single shot he had heard and who had been the target. His eyes came to rest on the weapon she still held in her hand, and with a sinking heart he leveled his own gun squarely at the one woman he had come to respect above all others.

"Scully, drop the gun."

Scully shook her head slowly.

"You don't understand, sir. He came to kill me."

"Agent Scully, Mulder came here to save you. I came here with him for that very same purpose. Now *drop* the gun."

Skinner held his breath as he watched his Agent clearly trying to come to the right decision, and also to fit him in to the picture she had formed in her mind. He was all too aware that every second he wasted was a second wasted that might be getting the medical help that both Agents obviously desperately needed. He had already noticed the blood that was soaking through Scully's flimsy hospital gown and the sweat that beaded her waxen skin. As for Mulder, he had not had any kind of chance to even speculate as to the nature of his injuries, and wouldn't until Scully was disarmed and under control.

Finally, to his intense relief, Scully loosened her grip on the gun and allowed it to clatter to the floor, stepping backwards as she did so.

Skinner stepped up close to her for the first time since entering the room and gently grasped her elbow, guiding her back to the bed. Before he reached it though, he felt her go limp, and caught her just before her legs gave out. Her eyes fluttered though, and for a moment before she finally lost consciousness, her gaze locked with his and her expression cleared as she whispered a single word to him. It told him all he needed to know.

Mercy Hospital San Diego, CA. Sunday.

Scully lay back against the pillows of the hard hospital issue bed and fought to keep her eyes open. A numbing fatigue had settled over her, and more than anything else she wanted to succumb to it, but she forced herself to stay awake.

Since checking in to the hospital three days ago, she had seemed to spend the majority of her time sleeping, and she knew that it was a combination of the light tranquilizers that were being fed in to her system.

She now had a good idea as to what had happened to her.

She had regained consciousness to find Skinner by her bed, looking more tired and used up than she had ever seen him before. He had filled her in, silently passing her the results of a Toxicology screen that had been run to determine the reasons for her bizarre behaviour. Despite her training, Scully had never encountered a mix of drugs like this, and although most of the separate elements could be identified, some could not. Scully doubted that they ever would.

The memories planted in her head were fading, although some re-surfaced in her dreams - dreams that were plagued with the one image she couldn't shake - the sight of her partner laying bleeding on the floor of the room in which she had been betrayed for so long.

She had received only sketchy details of his condition, and although she had been assured by Skinner that he would suffer no long term effects from his injury, she could not shake the over whelming sense of guilt at what she had done.

Skinner had been supportive, but he was in an awkward position, having as he had to explain how one of his agents had come to shoot her own partner, and Scully knew that the Brass in Washington wanted answers that they just couldn't give them.

She needed desperately to see Mulder herself, but Skinner had gently persuaded her that it might not be such a good idea until she was feeling more like herself.

Initially, Scully had argued, but had slowly come to realise that Skinner was right. Until her condition was fully understood, and under control, it was best for all concerned if she were segregated from her partner.

Scully frowned, she wasn't even sure if she still had a partner. How would they continue to work together after everything that had happened? They had been through a lot together, but she had tried to kill him, and the reasons for it just didn't seem to cut any ice with her anymore. She should have trusted him, and despite the drugs, she should have realised that he would never betray her in the way that had been suggested to her.

Her body was healing. The wound had turned out to be nothing more than a surgical incision, designed to reinforce the lies being fed to her. But her mind was taking a little longer as she continued to torture herself as to what she had done and she didn't know whether or not she would ever be able to let the images rest.

She wouldn't know until she saw her partner again. His reaction would tell her everything.

12:47 p.m.

"So how are you feeling?"

Skinner eyed Mulder suspiciously as the younger man shrugged.

"I'm OK, I guess."

He narrowed his eyes.

"I'd be better if you'd let me see Scully."

Skinner shook his head firmly.

"Out of the question, Mulder. But we've already been through this, right?"

Mulder laughed hollowly.

"Yeah, right. You still think my life's in danger if she sees me? C'mon, Skinner. That's bull and you know it. I need to see that she's alright."

"She's alright. I want to make sure she *stays* alright."

"And you think if she sees me she won't be alright. Is that it?"

Skinner looked down at the younger man and frowned. Mulder had, for the last two days, insisted that he was healing rapidly, but the waxen tone of his skin and the Doctor's absolute refusal to let him up out of bed all spoke otherwise.

Not to mention the fact that he was suffering from far more than a simple gunshot wound. He could try and hide it as much as he wanted, but Skinner could see it plainly displayed on his face every time the subject came up.

It was betrayal. Plain and simple. He had been betrayed in the worst way by the one he trusted the most and until he was given the opportunity he needed, to speak to Scully and see for himself that she was indeed okay, that feeling wouldn't go away.

"How is she doing?" he asked Skinner for what seemed like the hundredth time since he had been brought here.

Skinner shrugged. "She's still weak. They're keeping her lightly medicated to ensure she gets some rest. She's not sleeping well."

"I want to go to her." Mulder reminded Skinner of a petulant child, denied access to a favorite toy. Told over and over that the toy was broken but still wanting it regardless. But right now, it was a risk he wasn't prepared to take. Not until they were both stronger.

"No way, Mulder."

Mulder closed his eyes briefly, remembering the look on Scully's face as she had leveled her gun at him. The hurt in her eyes as she pulled the trigger. It was all he remembered of that night now. The other memories were sketchy, faded in his mind. But his partner's face was still there. She haunted him every time he relaxed his thoughts.

Her bullet had passed straight through him, miraculously missing all his major organs. But the soft tissue damage had been intense and painful. For two days he had floated along on the back of a drug induced haze and, by the time he had regained any semblance of normality, Skinner had effectively taken over the investigation.

Investigation was possibly too weak a word now. *Manhunt* would be more accurate as the search for SAC John Wickham intensified.

Not surprisingly, they had turned up nothing. Mulder doubted they ever would. In all probability he was already dead because, although Mulder was still slightly unsure as to what had been the purpose of his old Academy buddy's involvement in all of this, he had no doubt that whatever it was, he had failed. Mulder had unique insight into the way these men worked. He doubted that such an failure would be taken lightly.

He also knew that Skinner had ordered a full and thorough search of the abandoned medical facility where Scully had been held. That too had turned up nothing.

Pramgen Pharmaceuticals had been thoroughly questioned and had remained adamant that the lease on the sanatorium had been made ahead of time in order to acquire the necessary authority from the city planners for a complete renovation of the building. The purpose of which was to eventually turn into a private facility to house patients during drug tests. They had covered themselves well, presenting the necessary documentation when it was requested of them. The organisation was apparently, squeaky clean and above reproach.

There had been no trace of the child that Mulder could remember seeing so clearly staring back at him from within the communications room. Skinner had questioned him gently, suggesting that maybe his perceptions had been clouded after everything he had been through. Certainly, the information given to him by Mulder had been sketchy at best as the younger Agent briefly regained consciousness as they waited for the EMT's to arrive, gasping out the words as he struggled against the pain.

Similarly, there had been no sign of Christine Stevens. On checking the San Diego database Skinner had discovered that no woman of that name or description had been placed in protective custody within the last month.

Mulder had simply nodded when he had been enlightened of this fact.

He had obviously been expecting it.

Skinner regarded the younger man in front of him worriedly. It had been four days now since the shooting and Mulder still appeared to be extremely ill. It took time to recover, Skinner knew that, but while the younger man was allowing himself to wallow in self-recriminations over what had happened, he was just prolonging the healing process.

Just like always, Mulder was blaming himself.

Skinner got to his feet.

"You need to rest. I'll see you later." He headed for the door, pausing before reaching it. "And Mulder? You get up out of that bed and I'll shoot you myself."

Mercy Hospital. San Diego, CA

Mulder slept. He found himself sleeping at odd times of the day and night, his injury and the pain relief in his system had made staying awake for longer than a few hours at a time an impossible luxury. When he awoke again, he realised that somehow, without his knowledge, night had once again fallen. The lights in his room had been dimmed, a tray with a snack atop it placed by his bed.

He wrinkled his nose at the thought. Food at the moment held little appeal. Besides which, he had much more pressing matters to attend to.

Earlier in the day he had placed a call to Frohike who had ummed and ahhed before finally furnishing him with the information he needed. Mulder had plainly heard the doubt in the little man's voice, but loyalty had finally won over common sense and he had called back ten minutes later with the number.

Scully's room number.

Mulder eased his legs over the side of the bed, wincing as he did so. The wound was still new enough to make moving around difficult but four days of rest had taken the edge off the burning pain and Mulder decided it was at a manageable enough level for him to be able to do this. He was being foolish, though. He was aware of that.

Bed rest meant bed rest. Not gallivanting around the hospital in search of his partner. And as the injury twinged again he knew that in all probability he would pay for this later. But that was okay. It was worth the cost.

Being separated from her like this was unthinkable. He couldn't remember a time recently when he had spent so much time away from her. Especially in light of what they had been through over the last couple of years. He had admitted to himself a long time ago that he loved her. On what level, he was less sure of and he didn't question it often. He just accepted it as a part of who they were.

And knowing she was here somewhere, hurting as much as he was, almost tore him in two. The enforced separation was far more painful than any physical wound and tonight, now, Mulder aimed to alleviate that pain for the both of them.

Without sparing another thought as to the potential consequences, Mulder eased the IV slowly from the back of his hand and gingerly allowed his feet to make contact with the linolium floor beneath him. For just a second his head swam and he stood for a minute, waiting for his vision to clear.

He was amazed how easily it was to slip out of the room unnoticed. Just another patient dressed in the anonymous gown and robe taking a walk along the almost empty corridors. And if any of the medical personnel noticed that he walked with a peculiar shambling gait, hand pressed against his side as a support, no one questioned him on it. They all had better things to do it seemed.

It wasn't difficult to locate Scully's room. Frohike had given him fairly precise instructions which was fortunate for Mulder, if only for the fact that by the time he reached her door, he was just about ready to collapse. The twinging pain he had experienced when he had first got up out of bed had escalated rapidly into white hot agony as he made himself concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other. Several times along the way, he had had to stop. To lean against the wall for a moment until the world came back into focus and he was able to carry on. He would have liked to have rested in one of the chairs that lined the corridor walls, but had rapidly nixed the idea, realising that should he succumb, he was unlikely to want to get up again.

He stood, indecisive outside the door. Unsure as to whether to knock or to walk right in. The sweat poured off him and he was aware that he had pushed way too hard, perhaps for the first time realising just why he had been confined to his bed. The short trip here had left him exhausted and shaky. A combination of the fatigue and the throbbing pain in his side leaving him feeling nauseous to a point where he was terrified that if he opened his mouth he would throw up. His breathing was shallow but rapid and he was unaware that much of the dizziness he was experiencing was as a direct result of the fact he was now hyperventilating in an effort to temper the pain that washed over him in waves.

But he had got this far and was damned if he was about to give up now. So instead, he curled his fingers around the door's handle and turned it slowly, pushing against it as he did so.

The first thing he saw when he entered the room was an empty bed, it's coverings rumpled and thrown to one side as though it's occupant had recently awoken and decided to vacate it. The second thing he saw was the figure who stood by the window, silhouetted by the blue moonlight that poured through it. Her arms were folded against her chest, her head tilted to one side as she regarded the stars thoughtfully.

She looked so much smaller than he remembered. The fact that her feet were bare against the tiled floor took inches off her usual height. Sometimes he forgot how tiny she really was. Her hair was tied up in a ponytail that just brushed the nape of her neck and Mulder's eyes widened as he caught sight of the piece of medical gauze that covered the area beneath it.

All of this information slammed in to his brain within the space of a couple of seconds, and in the meantime, Scully began to turn in response to the sound of the door opening. Her eyes widened when she saw him. The expression in them a combination of concern, surprise and something else that Mulder couldn't quite put his finger on.

"Hi." He offered weakly.

She took a step towards him then stopped abruptly, her eyes scanning him rapidly.

"Mulder, what are you doing here? You shouldn't be out of bed yet."

Mulder shrugged, his hand groping for the edge of the door that had begun to swing shut, suddenly needing something to hold on to as the room began to tilt crazily beneath his feet. But his fingers grasped ineffectively at nothing more substantial than fresh air and he gave up, hearing the door click closed behind him.

"I needed to see you were okay."

Scully's eyes filled with hot tears that closed her throat and made her conscious of the rapid beating of her heart as his whispered words registered. The knowledge that -- even after what she had done to him, how she had hurt him -- his first concern was for her, hurt her more than she could ever tell him. She didn't deserve his understanding. Not now. Not ever.

She turned away as the tears began to slide down her face.

"I'm fine, Mulder."

And then he realised what that undeniable something he had seen in her eyes had been.

*Guilt*

So much guilt that she couldn't even bear to face him.

He forced himself to take a step toward her, conscious of the rigid set of her body as she kept her eyes fixed on the window ahead. He could see his own reflection in it and knew she could too. Just by the way she tensed he knew she could see him advancing toward her.

"Scully, please."

Somehow he had to get through to her, to make her understand that none of this was her fault, that he didn't blame her even a fraction of how much she apparently blamed herself.

She shook her head from side to side, denying his words. Denying him. Her ponytail swayed gently, the bright flash of color discernable even in the half-light. Her voice when it finally reached him was cracked and strained.

"Leave me alone, Mulder. You shouldn't be here."

And it was enough for him to ignore the pain, to ignore the way her voice seemed to come from far away, to ignore the way the ground was falling away from beneath his feet as he began to bridge the gap between them both. A few feet that suddenly seemed like miles.

And he so very nearly made it. He was close enough to touch her gently with his fingertips before he lost the battle with consciousness and began to fall, crumpling to the ground even as she spun around, her face a picture of anger that he had ignored her words. But as he fell, his eyes fixed on her face, he saw her expression subtly change. In the blink of an eye concern flooded her delicate features and she reached out for him, managing to catch him for just long enough to lessen the impact on his battered body as he hit the floor. And somewhere deep inside him as he hovered on the fringes of consciousness he heard her voice, felt her hands come around his back as she knelt beside him, cradling him in her arms as her tears burned his skin.

Her words came from far away, but it was enough. Enough for him to finally let go as darkness enveloped him.

He knew she was there. Before he even opened his eyes he could sense her presence. Watching over him, soothing him with her touch as he fought against the darkness. He could vaguely remember losing consciousness, of falling to the floor even as she tried to support him with her own fragile weight. To lessen the potential injury he might have caused himself.

But the pain was still there, escalating with every second he became more aware.

But he was no longer in her room. The mattress beneath him was hard and unyielding but a vast improvement to the floor onto which he had crashed.

He could hear her breathing beside him, could feel her hand covering his own, her fingers curled around his thumb as she stroked it gently. He would recognise her touch anywhere.

Not yet able to open his eyes he squeezed his own fingers in to the back of her hand, rewarded when he heard her voice, drifting towards him like a summer breeze.

"Sshhhhh, it's okay. Don't try to move. It's okay."

He could hear her tears and the knowledge she was crying was enough to force his eyes open. It took a while for her face to swim into focus. He felt groggy, out of himself somehow. But he silently watched her as a tiny, tremulous smile twitched across her lips.

Her blue eyes were clouded with concern, her pale skin streaked with tears she had no doubt shed for him as she watched over him. Waiting for him to awaken and for the first time he was aware of the sunlight that streamed through the gaps in the blinds drawn closed at the windows.

He ran his tongue over lips that felt dry and cracked.

"What time is it?" he managed finally.

Scully shook her head.

"It's Tuesday, Mulder."

Mulder's mouth dropped open as he attempted to sit up, Scully's hand placed firmly against his chest effectively blocking him. He gave up and dropped his head back down.

"Tuesday?"

She nodded

"*Tuesday?*" He repeated numbly. "But . . ."

Scully reached up a shaky hand and smoothed a strand of hair from where it had fallen towards his eyes. Eyes which were now clouded with a combination of confusion and pain.

"You've been unconscious for almost two days. When you fell, you opened up the wound. They got you down to surgery in time but you lost a lot of blood."

Her eyes shone with fresh tears as her tone hardened slightly.

"You almost died, Mulder. How could you be so stupid?"

He shrugged, wincing as he did so.

"I needed to see you."

Scully snatched her hand from his, her anger finally boiling to the surface as she looked down at him. Saw the way he just shrugged off his own well being for the sake of hers. And she was angry, so damn angry she could shake him.

"I'm not worth dying for, Mulder. I don't deserve for you to give up your life just because you worry about how I'm feeling. I'm not worth it. No one is."

He didn't even flinch as the harshness of her words hit him. Instead he simply shook his head.

"You're wrong, Scully." She dropped her gaze from his, her anger evaporating as quickly as it had come.

"I almost killed you," she whispered brokenly. "I pointed a gun at you and pulled the trigger without a second thought."

She was crying hard now, all pretence at composure abandoned as she choked out the words. Words that had been haunting her since that terrible night and Mulder grasped her arm, feeling the delicate bones beneath his fingers. She had lost weight since he had last seen her.

"You didn't kill me, Scully. You couldn't have known what they did to you. We were played - the two of us. You know that. You had no more control over your actions than a pawn in a game. Besides . . ." he grinned crookedly, "we should be thankful your aim was off."

Scully didn't return his smile. "Mulder, don't. Don't joke about this. Shout at me, curse at me, hate me even for what I did. But don't reduce it down to something we should just dismiss. Because I can't dismiss it. Every time I close my eyes it's *there*. I can't escape it."

Mulder swallowed heavily, feeling his eyes begin to burn with his own unshed tears.

"Is that what you believe? That I should hate you? Is that what you really want?"

Scully turned her gaze back to him. The sight of him lying there, so pale and tired and used-up brought the guilt sharply back into focus.

*She* had done this to him. Because regardless of how much he tried to alleviate her guilt, she knew she was responsible for him being in this bed. For yet another scar left on his body to remind them constantly of what they had gone through.

"You should hate me. God knows, I hate myself right now..."

Mulder cut her off, raising his voice for the first time and ignoring the pain the added exertion caused him.

"Don't lay this at my feet, Scully. If you want to wallow in self-pity, then go right ahead. But don't you expect me to help you justify it. Because I can't. I won't." He paused, taking a deep breath as the pain washed over him once again. "This isn't your fault. None of it."

She met his gaze squarely.

"Then who's is it, Mulder? If it's not mine, if I'm not *responsible* then who the hell is?"

But this time he didn't answer. He simply reached for her, drawing her towards him until she could lay her head against his chest, the sound of his heartbeat reverberating in her ears, it's cadence strong and regular.

"You hear that?" Mulder whispered, not waiting for her to respond. "That's the only thing on this earth you're responsible for. Because without you it would have been silenced long ago."

His voice was hoarse as he battled the tears that threatened to spill over, trying with all his heart and mind to make her understand how much she meant to him. That without her by his side, he would have died years ago. That the thought of losing her scared him so much sometimes that it stole away all rational thought.

"Nothing you could ever do will change that, Scully. Nothing."

He was rewarded when her arms snaked around him, holding him against her as she listened to the sound of his heartbeat, telling him without words everything he needed to know. Telling him that she understood everything he was trying to say. Telling him that somehow, everything would be alright between them again.

The End

Genesis Epilogue

Three weeks later.

On Scully's insistence, Mulder had agreed to spend the early part of his first week's release from the hospital safety ensconced in her apartment. He hadn't argued much when she had suggested it, seeing the sense in her words.

His recovery had been slow and he was still in the hospital by the time she had been pronounced fit and well and up on her feet.

She had left him briefly, attending the OPC review where she had been questioned at length regarding her actions in San Diego. The hearing had dragged on for three days while the medical evidence was discussed at length. She had coped admirably with most of it, but on the second day, when they had begun questioning her relationship with Mulder, she had lost her habitual cool and stormed out of the conference room.

Skinner had been sent to retrieve her and had been horrified to find her sobbing against a wall, hands covering her face, so appalled was she that they could even think that her actions had been in any way premeditated or independent from the drugs that had been fed into her system. In fact, she had been almost ready to go back in there and tell them to go to hell.

Not a very smart course of action and one which Skinner had managed to talk her out of.

And she had managed to make it through the remainder of the hearing with her professional facade firmly back in place.

When the verdict had finally come through that no disciplinary action would be forthcoming, he had immediately granted her a leave of absence to recover from the ordeal she had been through. He also recognised her unspoken need to take care of her partner through his recovery. To make amends maybe.

And make amends she had. Mulder had been faintly amused by the way she had hovered around him but had played along, knowing that she needed to do this to help heal them both.

On the third day, though, he had managed to persuade her to leave the apartment for a while. To go shopping, to go for a walk, to get her nails done. Anything really, to let her escape all this for a while. He was fine. Getting stronger every day and whilst any sudden movement reminded him to take it easy, the pain had all but disappeared and he had managed to get it through to her that he was fine to be left to his own devices for a while.

But she hadn't stayed away long. A couple of hours maybe before she was back, face slightly flushed from the sunshine that had caught her pale skin.

Immediately she had known something was wrong, had looked at the expression that clouded her partner's pale face and dropped the bags she held in her arms unceremoniously on to the kitchen table.

"What?"

Mulder had passed her the newspaper that had been delivered shortly after her departure and which he had folded in such a way as to make the article easily discernible from the rest on the crowded confines of page four.

*Body of FBI Agent found*

The accompanying article spoke of the grim discovery by a guy walking his dog of the 4X4 parked amongst the trees in a wooded area off the beaten track in the Oregon countryside. The decomposing body was still sitting at the wheel of the car. The hose that snaked from the exhaust and into the vehicle had made cause of death a forgone conclusion, although there was no suicide note to be found anywhere.

No other suspects were being sought in connection with his death.

Special Agent in Charge John Alan Wickham was to be buried with full honors after a small private ceremony confined to members of his immediate family.

There was a small accompanying blurb by the article's author on the stresses that law enforcement professionals were forced to deal with on a daily basis and the grim statistics of suicides within the various police agencies.

Scully stepped towards Mulder.

"Do you believe it?" she asked softly.

Mulder shook his head.

"Do *you*?"

But she didn't need to answer. They both knew that Wickham had failed the men he had pledged his allegiance to. And the cost of that failure had been to die at their hands. Another senseless death to add to the multitudes that these men were responsible for. Scully wondered whether they ever managed to successfully wash the blood from their hands. Did they return to their families at the end of the day and sit amongst them feeling smugly justified in their actions?

She didn't even want to contemplate that the answer might be yes.

The potential knowledge was just beyond her as a human being.

She grasped Mulder's hand, placing the newspaper gently atop the table. Later she would throw it in the trash.

But right now, she simply stepped in to his embrace as he wrapped his arms tightly around her.

So many deaths. So many lives cut short.

But so far they had both been lucky. They were together still. Alive and breathing, listening to the sounds of their heartbeats as they merged into one.

And that was enough.

It had to be.

End

Thanks for reading.

If the urge takes you and you're at a loose end feedback to Ally112038@aol.com Fic page - http://www.reocities.com/ally_fic/

Thanks go to - Meg and Peggy who as always made all the difference to this process. I could never do it without you guys and even 3000+ miles away you give me such support it's like you're right there with me. :-) Pam - you know I love you. Goes without saying - but NIANCW of course. 'Genesis' came about after a germ of an idea grew in my head and somehow got out of control. It refused to be quiet but now that this thing is finished it's all gone now!