TITLE: A Covenant of the Will
AUTHOR: Birgit Mueller
EMAIL ADDRESS: rm12908@navix.net  (ALERT! 
bg50001@navix.net NO LONGER WORKS.)
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: Feel free to archive everywhere.
SPOILER WARNING: One Breath arc (minor), Pusher
RATING: PG with an "f-word" warning (just once or twice, I think)
<g>
CONTENT WARNING: MSR
CLASSIFICATION: S, R, A (I had some trouble categorizing this
one.  It's MSR, yep, but it does have a plot... So judge for yourself.
<g>)
KEYWORDS: Mulder/Scully romance
SUMMARY: A sequel to "Will to Power".  Scully begins to recover
from her injuries -- but her doctor makes a discovery that puts them
all in danger.

DISCLAIMER: Of course they don't belong to me.  If they did, the
M&S relationship would have taken a different turn after "Pusher"
...and I'd be rich, of course... <g> They do belong to Chris Carter,
and 1013, and all that.  This is fanfiction, folks, and we all know
the drill.  I make no money -- lawyers please take no money!

Thanks are definitely due to Jill Selby from the Beta Reader's
Circle (THANK YOU!! :), and also to Freida, Kat, and Fay for the
comments and reassurance <g>.  Also, a special thanks to Holly
Alexander -- Holly, I'm sorry we lost touch.  If you're still out 
there -- looky, I finished it!!

This is a sequel to "Will to Power", which I originally posted in
March 1996.  This one picks up immediately where WTP left off,
so (SHAMELESS PLUG ALERT!!! <g>) you might want to read
that one before reading this one .  This one will make enough sense
as a standalone story, but it does just jump into things...

=================
A Covenant of the Will
Part 1 of 5
by Birgit Mueller
(rm12908@navix.net)
=================


     Fox Mulder blinked in the bright fluorescent light that
flowed outward onto the dark pavement.  Oblivious to the large red
letters spelling out "Ambulance Arrivals Only," he stumbled
through the double glass doors.  He was clutching Scully as if his
own life depended on the contact.  She was ash-pale, unconscious
and utterly limp.  Her flesh was so hot that it burned him where he
touched her, and her breath crackled in erratic liquid gasps, as if
being forced from her chest by a leaky compressor that was no
longer doing its job.

     Instantly, there was yelling and scrambling, and the efficient
chaos of the emergency room flooded over him in a bright,
unintelligible wave.  His ears roared.  Someone plucked her from
him deftly, as if it were a step in a relay race.  He moved to follow
them.

     "Someone have a look at him, too," a voice near him
shouted.  "Looks like a head injury."  He felt dizzy.  A hand fell,
grasping his shoulder and making him wince in pain.  He shrugged
it off, panicking when he lost sight of Scully.  He took a step, 
intent on finding her...

     And the floor, cold and blindingly white, introduced itself
with a sound and utterly unexpected *smack*.

     For what felt like one long moment, the world was a blanket
of mist, quiet and still.  Brief snatches of awareness hovered around
him, graceful spectres that couldn't quite make themselves heard. 
He didn't feel but still knew that he was being hoisted up; then he
understood that he was being rolled away, away from Scully, but he
was powerless to stop it.

     Then everything faded to black.

*********************************

     Mulder regained consciousness slowly, first hearing the
steady, pulsing *whir* of the machine, then feeling the cold steel of
the bench beneath his bare shoulders.  He wondered vaguely where
he was and why he was there.

     A thousand jumbled memories abruptly flooded him.  The
realization that he'd lost his cell-phone in the fire...  Confused
and frustrated, the knowledge that his head injury was worse than 
he'd thought, and then swerving off the road to throw up in the 
snow... How had they gotten to the hospital?... *I love you too...for
a long time*...  Scully slumped, unmoving, against the passenger 
window, her breathing, loud and rattling, overpowering even the whine
of the engine...  Scully...

     Scully.

     His eyes flew open at the sound of his voice whispering her
name, and all he could see was the expanse of a concave silver sky
suspended above him.

     "Sir," a voice crackled in his ear.  "Sir, you need to remain
quiet, please."

     *What the hell?*

     "Hey," he said, the word a disoriented mutter.  There was no
response.  He reached up and whacked the curved metal above him
with the heel of his hand.  He felt a sharp pain, noticed absently 
that it was bandaged.  "Hey!" he said again, louder.

     The voice was back again, coolly professional.  "Sir, please,
try to remain still for the remainder of the scan."

     *Scan?*

     He suddenly realized he was inside the giant metal hollow
of an MRI machine, his head immobilized by a single strap.

     "Let me out," he demanded, ignoring the technician's
directives.  "I want to know where my partner is."

     No answer.

     He felt abruptly like he was alone inside a bubble; chillingly
alone.  He needed her with a sudden, confused, childlike urgency. 
"Hey!" he repeated, reaching up to give the metal ceiling above him
another solid *thump*.  "Dana Scully.  Where is she?"  Still, there
was no response.

     His voice fell ominously in pitch, becoming a dazed growl. 
"Answer me! *Where's my partner?*"

     Finally, the technician responded.  "I don't have that
information, sir," she said crisply, a hint of irritation tinging her
voice.  "*Please* remain still for the duration of the scan."

     A swift, dazed terror rushed up at him from somewhere
very, very dark.  He couldn't clear the strange film that seemed to
encircle his thoughts, and all he could see was her blood on the
snow, bright red on pristine white, and why wouldn't they tell him
where she was?  "I don't *need* any *fucking* tests!" he shouted
suddenly.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he realized he was
disoriented and irrational, and he regarded himself with a cool,
powerless amazement.  She was dead, that was it.  After all they'd
survived together, she was dead.  He slammed his hand powerfully
against the smooth metal, punctuating his words.  "*I* -- *need* --
*to* -- *know* -- *where* -- *she* -- *is*!" he roared.

     As if responding to his frustrated blows, the machine
whirred to a stop.  Taken aback, Mulder lay abruptly still and
listened to the sound of his breathing, heavy and fast.  Panic was
fast giving way to controlled rage.  She had to be dead.  He felt
sick.

     Suddenly, he was sliding out, away from the metal cylinder.
He blinked as fluorescent light bled downward into his eyes.

     A shape in a white lab coat loomed over him.

     "I'm Dr. Hessman," the shape said, as it lay a hand on his
forehead.  Not the lab tech...good.  A penlight shone in his left 
eye.  He squinted and pushed it away.

     "I see you took quite a blow there," the doctor continued,
soothingly, as the penlight snuck up on him and blinded his right
eye for an instant.  Mulder recognized -- and resented, despite
himself -- the even and careful bedside manner so often reserved
for the traumatized and the unstable.  "You really need to have this
test performed," he continued, just as gently.

     Mulder clenched his teeth for an instant.  He wanted to
scream.  In lieu of that, a tightly contained "Get me out of this
thing" was all he could manage.  He reached up and began, on his
own, to fumble with the strap.

     The doctor shooed his hands away and regarded him
uncertainly.  Head injury patients were always some of the worst. 
Combative.  "Only if you promise not to pummel anything," he
said, trying to dispel the tension.  Trying to earn Mulder's attention.

     "Yeah," Mulder grunted, unaffected, "sure.  Whatever."

     The doctor reached up and carefully unbuckled the strap,
then helped Mulder slowly to a sitting position.

     Pain fired through his body -- his head, his taped shoulder,
his bruised ribs, his arms and legs, his hands.  The room swam as
his eyes swept the scene.  Dr. Hessman was an average-looking
man in his early fifties, with wire-rimmed glasses and thinning
greyish hair.  The room would've been an average room, if it hadn't
been for the other shapes -- two orderlies.  Two *large* orderlies. 
And behind them, lurking in the doorway, a uniformed police
officer. *Great,* he thought sourly. *We're famous.*

     Dr. Hessman looked him in the eyes.  "Now.  What can I do
for you?"

     Mulder, suddenly calmer, hesitated uncertainly.  Much more
softly than he'd intended, he asked, "Where is she?"  He steeled
himself.  He feared the answer.

     Dr. Hessman glanced at the chart in his hand.  "I'm
assuming you're referring to the woman you brought in earlier?"

     Mulder nodded slowly, then closed his eyes as the
suddenness of the movement made him sway.

     "Now, there's no need to be alarmed," the doctor said
carefully.  "She's in surgery."

     *Surgery*, he repeated silently.  Not the morgue.  A
powerful wave of relief rippled through him, making the tips of his
fingers tingle.  For an instant, his entire body slumped, and he
deflated like a spent balloon.  The doctor caught him as he started
to pitch forward.

     "Whoa there," Dr. Hessman chided, steadying him on the
bench.

     "Thank you," Mulder whispered, his eyes closed.  The
doctor got the feeling the words hadn't been aimed at him.

     He cleared his throat, then continued, "She was taken to
surgery several hours ago."

     That got Mulder's attention.  *Hours?* he thought, shocked. 
How long had he been unconscious?  "She'll be transferred to
intensive care after she leaves the OR."

     Mulder's too-vivid imagination pictured Scully on an
operating table, and panic stabbed at him again.  The panic brought
on more dizziness, and he wobbled again, then it ebbed and the
sharp edge of sudden fear was replaced by the dull, sick feeling of
anxiety settling in for the long haul. "Is she..." he began, but 
trailed off.  He knew better than to ask the naive question that had 
been poised there like a line from a bad soap-opera.  For now, at 
least, she was alive. He swallowed hard, feeling a sudden spike of 
nausea.  "When will I be able see her?"

     The doctor glanced briefly toward the doorway, and Mulder
noticed the police officer edge closer to them.  "Well," he replied,
"I'm not sure just yet."  He looked down at Mulder and tried his best
to appear sympathetic and concerned.  "Are you her husband?"

     Mulder's eyes snapped sharply upward, and he gave the
doctor a sudden, startling glare.  It wasn't a new question, but this
time it jarred him.  "I'm her partner," he grunted.  "Her name is
Dana Scully.  I'm Special Agent Fox Mulder, FBI."

     He was gratified to note the abrupt glimmer of respect and
empathy that suddenly graced the expression of the lurking local
policeman as he took the names quickly down.  Still, the officer
spoke with a note of skepticism in his voice.  "You two both came
in without ID," he reminded Mulder.

     Mulder sighed heavily, feeling his anger return, feeling his
impatience rising.  "I know.  We were investigating a possible
kidnaping along the national trail when Scully was assaulted.  We
lost everything we were carrying."

     "What exactly -- " the policeman began, pen in hand.

     "Look," Mulder interrupted him, waving his fingers tersely
in the man's general direction.  "Officer..." he squinted at the 
man's badge.

     "Simms," the officer supplied.

     "Officer Simms," Mulder continued.  He took a deep breath,
fighting to keep his head clear, fighting to keep from ripping the
man's face off in a totally unwarranted fit of irrational rage.  "I
understand your need for the details of this incident, and I -- " 
*and my partner,* he silently added, the closest he would ever get to
a prayer " -- will be glad to supply you with it *later*."

     He steadied himself again.  Scully's face intruded into his
thoughts, followed by the feeling of an oppressive, gaping vacuum
in the center of his chest.  It almost took his breath away.

     *Concentrate,* he urged himself.  *Do your job.*  "Call
Assistant Director Walter Skinner in D.C.," he heard himself
saying.  He paused, watching as the officer scribbled hastily onto
his notepad.  "He'll certainly be able to fax you any verification 
you need."

     Mulder suddenly felt detached, pulled away from himself. 
He hovered numbly in the background as his mind worked,
focusing on the details, dragging forth the absolute minimum that
had to be said.  The burned building.  The bodies.

     He chose to ignore the raised eyebrows and the strange look
on the policeman's face as he slipped out.  Winded, amazed at how
much that little monologue had taken out of him, he turned toward
the doctor.  His head felt like it was stuffed with cotton.  Suddenly
very woozy, he collected the pieces of his psyche and said simply,
"When can I see my partner?"

     The doctor still looked unsure, but he consulted the
indecipherable scribblings on Scully's chart and replied, "I'll have
someone inform you when she comes out of recovery."

     He juggled the charts in his grasp, wrote quickly in
Mulder's.  "*You*, we're going to want to keep here overnight. 
You've had a substantial con -- "

     Mulder cut him off.  "No," he snapped, standing.

***************************

     Mulder blinked. He was standing in the doorway to Scully's
ICU alcove.  He'd gotten his way in the end, but he was almost
dizzy enough to regret it.  Almost.

     He peered into the small room.  There were tubes
everywhere, but he saw Scully's face clearly, her eyes closed, her
chest moving rhythmically in time with the respirator's gentle hiss,
the bright scarlet of her hair making her face seem that much paler,
almost indistinguishable from the white of the sheets covering her
body.  His heart contracted painfully, and for an instant he couldn't
move.  She was in there, alive, and he felt...what?

     A nurse's voice startled him.  "Looks like you both got
banged up pretty good."

     Mulder, unable to wrench his eyes from Scully, didn't
answer.

     The voice softened, sympathetic.  "Are you her husband?"

     That question again; Mulder cringed, but exhaustion denied
him his earlier venom.  "I'm her partner," he breathed softly.

     He heard a soft chuckle and felt a pat on his unbandaged
shoulder; the unsolicited familiarity made him vaguely
uncomfortable.  "Whatever they're calling it these days, hon."

     He didn't correct her.

     "She's pretty heavily sedated, sweetie," the nurse continued,
"but I'll bet she wants to hear your voice."  For an instant, Mulder
hesitated.  The nurse sensed it.  "It's okay," she said, nudging him
gently.  "You can go on in."

     *Can I?* he thought ruefully.  But he found himself moving
and took the few painful, limping steps to her bedside.  Careful of
his battered body, he slowly lowered himself into the chair next to
her.  He glanced up and saw that the nurse had disappeared, and
then there was silence, punctuated only by the rhythm of the
respirator and the steady beeping of Scully's heart monitor.

     The cold, crisp air of the ICU flowed against his bare back,
and he shivered.  Memory washed over him, waves of flashbulb
images of the last time she'd come so close to death; that, and even
more vividly, the feeling.  The feeling of losing her; the one that
was so overwhelming...  He suddenly felt the drowning pull of an
impending emotional shutdown.  How could he face the prospect of
doing this again?  How could he do this at all, now, any of it?

     *Christ,* he thought suddenly. *What have I done?*
Panicked, he reached out blindly for her hand, covered it
possessively with his own.

     His eyes ranged over her -- she was as bruised as he was, the
dark results of Modell's rage standing out in stark contrast to her
pale skin.  Without thinking, he released her hand and moved to
smooth the hair back from her face, then his fingers, just brushing
the respirator's intrusive plastic tubing, hovered and came finally 
to rest against her cheek.  She was still so hot.

     Why did everything he touched and everyone he loved
somehow wind up suffering for it?

     She had been such an unexpected left turn in his life, an
unbelievable gift greater than anything he ever thought himself
capable of protecting, or capable of keeping...Was that why he had
fought it so?

     How was it possible that she also loved him?

     His heart splintered a little further, and her image reflected
back at him along the surface of every tiny shard.  The only thing
more frightening than being with her was being without her.  And
the promise that she would never lose him -- the one he wasn't sure
he could keep -- had nonetheless been made long before it had
finally, yesterday, been uttered.

     He finally found his voice.  "Scully," he murmured softly. 
"Scully, I'm here."

*****************************

END PART ONE................


=================
A Covenant of the Will
Part 2 of 5
by Birgit Mueller
(rm12908@navix.net)
=================


     Mulder awoke to the sound of a hushed, familiar voice drifting
past him.  "I...I don't know.  No, no...not that I remember."

     Slowly, awareness returned.  He was slumped in his chair, the
chair he'd pulled close to Scully's bedside, and his hand was still
wrapped protectively around hers.  He shifted slightly, felt pain 
radiating from numerous locations, and noticed with annoyance that
now, to top it all off, he also had a crick in his neck.

     "She never..." the voice continued, then paused.  It was a
woman's voice, with an anguished edge that made it sound as if she 
were holding back tears.  Mulder forced his eyes open and sat up.  "I
can only think of the time she was missing...she -- "

     How long had it been since he'd called her?  How could she
already be here?  "Mrs. Scully?"

     She turned when she heard Mulder's voice.  "Fox?"  She moved
into the ICU alcove from the doorway, and he could see that she'd 
been crying.  "Oh, Fox, I didn't want to wake you.  The nurses said
you'd been here for hours.  You look terrible."

     He grunted indecipherably, vaguely hating the disorienting loss
of a sense of the passage of time.  He clenched his teeth against the
pain and stood.  His attention was distracted by the figure in the
doorway and the apparent conversation, but he tried half-heartedly to
smile at Mrs. Scully.  He cleared his throat, but his voice was still
a hoarse rasp.  "What's going on?"

     Mrs. Scully tried to look composed, but Mulder could see the
tears that threatened to spill over.  "Dr. Hessman was just asking me
a...a few questions about Dana."

     Despite his best efforts, Mulder's face darkened and he took a
large, sudden step forward, toward the doctor.  "What questions?" he
grunted.  "What's wrong?"

     The combination of Mulder's tone and his expression pushed the
doctor back an involuntary step, but even as he moved back, out of
Mulder's reach, his face reflected a genuine concern.  "Mr. Mulder,"
he said, "someone needs to be checking on that head injury of yours
periodically.  I still wish you'd let us admit you."

     Mulder glowered at him.  "What's wrong with Scully?" he
demanded, as if the doctor hadn't spoken.

     Hessman sighed and dropped the subject.  "Why don't we step
into the consultation room?" he offered, gesturing quickly.  With a 
black look, Mulder stalked toward him.  He led them to a small room
beside the nurse's station.  As he moved to close the door, Mulder 
heard him mutter to the nearest nurse, "See that someone checks on 
his head injury occasionally, ok?"

     The door swung closed then, and the doctor turned to face them.

     Then he pulled a small glass vial from the pocket of his lab coat.

     Mulder's sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the room,
then he closed his eyes against what he didn't have to see to know. 
He sank and landed heavily on the tabletop.

     "Fox?" Mrs. Scully whispered.  He heard it in her voice -- 
panic, mostly at his reaction. *Dammit*.

     He couldn't look at her.  His throat constricted unexpectedly, 
and all he could manage was one word, aimed at the doctor.  "Where?"

     "In her thoracic cavity.  It was recovered during her surgery."

     "What is it?" Mrs. Scully asked, sounding strangely calm.

     "Originally," the doctor continued, "considering her -- " he 
eyed Mulder " --*your* -- profession, I assumed it was some kind of
shrapnel."

     Dr. Hessman paused, and Mulder took a deep, cleansing breath
and tried to rid himself of the ugly visions his imagination had 
begun to generate.  "...And now?"

     The doctor sighed.  "And now I'm no longer certain of that. 
X-rays have indicated another metallic object of some kind, this one
lodged in her left ovary.  It's...considerably larger."  He paused, 
looked pointedly at Mulder, then said, "I can find no discernable
entrance wound."

     Her ovary. *Jesus.*  Despite his best efforts, the visions 
became sudden, dark suspicions too horrifying to find a conscious
voice in his thoughts.  He swallowed hard.

     Mrs. Scully's eyes were wide.  "Is she in any danger?"

     Dr. Hessman's expression was suddenly sympathetic.  "Until we
can run some further tests, I just can't be sure," he admitted.

     "It's some kind of electronic device, isn't it?" Mulder blurted.

     Dr. Hessman's eyes pierced him; the nature of the question let
the man know Mulder knew more than he was telling.  He cleared his
throat.  "I don't know, Agent Mulder."

     Mulder gave no indication that he had noticed the doctor's
reaction.  He pressed onward.  "Can you remove it?"

     Dr. Hessman flashed him an accusing look.  Mulder tried to keep
his expression as blank as possible and wondered if he was succeeding.
"Well," the doctor said carefully, "we won't be certain
until she's sufficiently recovered from her current illness and we 
can have a good look, but I believe we can."  He turned the vial over
absently in his fingers, and Mulder's eyes recorded every tiny 
movement.  "She may lose the ovary, though."

     For a few long seconds, there was silence, then Dr. Hessman's
said simply, pointedly, "Mr. Mulder, what the hell is happening here?"

     Caught on the thin edge of what he knew was a dangerous
juncture, Mulder hesitated.  He scrutinized the doctor -- tense,
angry...genuine.  And still, he -- *they*, he and Scully -- could trust no
one.

     The sudden pressure of Mrs. Scully's shaking fingers against his
arm moved him finally to action.  "Fox..."  He faced her, and the
expression in her eyes, a mixture of bewilderment and fear for her
daughter, pushed the air from his lungs.  "Fox, what do you know about this?"

     His stomach clenched.  He hopelessly wished he could somehow
make it right, somehow rid Dana of the bitter overspill of his life and his
demons that had long ago seeped irretrievably into her life 
as well.  But all he could do was control the damage.

     Mrs. Scully had a right to know, but he didn't know how he could
possibly begin to tell her.  He took a deep breath.  "Mrs. Scully," 
he said gently, "has Dana...has she ever really spoken to you about 
her..." that word again, 'abduction'.  He just couldn't use it.  
"...about the time she was missing?"

     Mrs. Scully's eyes grew even wider, and the confusion in them
was plain.  She shook her head slowly.  "No...well...no, not really.
She just said she couldn't remember."

     "Did she ever tell you anything about -- " he inclined his head
toward the doctor's hands " -- finding one of those?"

     Mrs. Scully's hand shot to her mouth.  "No," she whispered
through her fingers.  Tears appeared suddenly in the corners of her 
eyes.  Why hadn't Dana come to her with this?

     "This has happened before?" the doctor interjected tersely.

     Mulder nodded.  He faced Dr. Hessman again.  He knew he had
to prepare his words carefully.  "Once, that I know of."

     Dr. Hessman held the vial up to the light and scrutinized the
small metal object clinking against the glass.  "Agent Mulder, do you
know what this thing is?"

     Weighing his options, Mulder shook his head slowly.  Dr.
Hessman looked back toward him, and his eyes narrowed. "Then do you
have any *suspicions*?"

     *Nothing you'd believe,* he thought dryly. *Nothing Mrs. Scully
ought to hear right now.* "I..." he began, then his words trailed 
off.  At one time, the glee of discovery would've sent him into a
state of giddy excitement...if it were anyone else...  He glanced 
quickly at Mrs. Scully, then looked away and fixed his eyes blankly 
on a vague point beyond the doctor's head.  "I suspect...I think it 
might be some kind of device."  His bandaged hand ran quickly through
his hair.  "Beyond that, I don't know."

     The doctor eyed him critically.  For a tiny second, he seemed to
have an internal debate, then he said, "Agent Mulder, I have never 
seen anything like this."  He held the vial up to the light once
again.  "What are you not telling me?  Do you know who's 
responsible?" 

     Still unwilling to look the doctor in the eyes, Mulder nodded. 
It was a forlorn gesture.  "I *do* have my suspicions about that." 
His gaze fell to focus on the vial in the doctor's hands.  "But 
that's all they are," he murmured.  "Suspicions."

     The doctor pursed his lips.  "Is there anything *at all* you can
tell me that might be helpful to Agent Scully?"

     Mulder turned and looked at Mrs. Scully, then took a long, deep
breath and let it slowly escape his lips.  In the cabin, he had 
watched his wounded partner as she slept and was anxious for the
coming of every breath and every movement.  In a particularly black 
moment, he'd wondered again, as he so often did alone, in the dark, 
what he would ever say to Dana's mother if...

     Christ, they'd discussed Dana's headstone, but this was somehow
worse.

     He slumped, shoulders hunched, and fixed his gaze on his hands. 
Finally, in a hushed voice, he murmured, "I think she might be part 
of an...experiment.  Some kind of medical experiment.  Without her
consent."  He forced himself to straighten, to look the doctor in the
eyes.  "When she was returned after her -- " he forced the word out, 
his voice breaking almost imperceptibly " -- *abduction*, there was 
branched DNA in her bloodstream."

     The doctor's eyebrows abruptly shot up.  "Branched DNA?" he
repeated.

     Mulder nodded, and he didn't wait for the doctor to offer up any
further reaction.  "Beyond that," he finished, "I just don't know."

     For an interminable second, there was silence in the room, then
the doctor simply nodded and said curtly, "All right."  Then, almost
seamlessly, the face Mulder guessed belonged with his usual bedside
manner -- the face he'd been greeted with earlier -- fell into place.
The doctor placed his hand comfortingly on Mrs. Scully's forearm. 
The contact startled her.

     "Mrs. Scully," he said, sounding suddenly, strangely cheerful,
"your daughter's wounds are healing, and she appears to be responding
to the intravenous antibiotics.  Her fever is beginning to come down. 
She isn't out of the woods yet, but her odds are improving.  I'd say 
she's doing as well as we could expect under the circumstances."

     Mrs. Scully, looking shell-shocked, simply nodded and managed
an unsteady, "Thank you."

     Mulder hung back as the two of them exited the consultation
room.  He fingered the small glass vial now in his own pocket and
watched as the doctor guided Mrs. Scully gently through the doorway.
Another implant, another job for Pendrell.  All in a day's work, after all.
 A day in the life of the FBI.

     He'd hoped -- wanted to believe -- that the worst was over.

     He was shaking.  He felt it coming, the familiar, unwelcome
intrusions, the dark, inky stirrings of his too-oft abused imagination.
That *thing* inside Scully now, that wasn't the kind of
thing you would just leave.  The kind of thing you wouldn't come back
for.  It was too large, too conspicuous, and he feared because of 
this that it had some purpose vastly different from the others.

     For just an instant, Scully's face filled him; terrified, motionless,
watching in silent horror as the distorted features of 
those small, grey figures hovered over her in preparation 
for...for...

     Whoever They were, They weren't finished.

     He reached out blindly and slammed the door shut with
unexpectedly brutal force.  The consultation room began to spin 
lazily around him, and he felt nauseous again.

     And then, soundlessly, he simply began to cry.

     They were still taking her.

*****************************************

     Mercifully, Margaret Scully asked him nothing, though Mulder
was unsure if it the lack of interrogation was motivated more by
compassion or by simple shock.  Hours passed.  She finally slept, 
curled up awkwardly on the cot the hospital had offered her.

     Mulder, numb with frustration, chewed his thumbnail and paced
Scully's alcove with the energy of impotent rage.  Modell had been 
bad enough, but now to know the bastards were still...

     And here, wherever that was, another implant in his pocket, he
could do nothing to find Them, nothing to stop Them.  He felt 
trapped, contained by the intensity of what wouldn't let him leave
her.  What the doctor had discovered had put them all in danger, 
Scully most of all.  And every time he glanced over and saw her, he 
knew she'd been right then, in the cabin, waiting for the Pusher; he
would quite willingly lay down his life to protect her.

     It would be so easy, as easy as drawing another breath.  For the
very first time, he realized what that really meant.  And for the 
very first time, it truly frightened him.

*****************************************

END PART TWO............


=================
A Covenant of the Will
Part 3 of 5
by Birgit Mueller
(rm12908@navix.net)
=================


     It wasn't until many, many hours later -- Mulder had ceased
to count the time in days -- after Dana had been taken off the
respirator and the sedatives and transferred to an empty semi-private
room, that he left Mrs. Scully alone with her and dared to take the
time to shower.  He did so in the hospital, his sore body reveling in
the feel of something as simple as hot water and soap against his
skin.  Then he dressed, tearing the tags from brand new clothes and
braving a brief fit of embarrassment at the thought of Margaret
Scully's rather accurate guess of his underwear size.

     Finally, he tore open the nondescript FedEx package from
Regional Headquarters and revealed his replacement badge, along
with a handwritten, sour-toned fax from Skinner about two bodies
and a minor forest fire.  He shook his head, dropped the crumpled
package in the trash in a deliberate disregard for protocol, and
shoved the badge into his back pocket.

     Feeling vaguely human again, he swept through the door and
into Scully's room.  Mrs. Scully was as he'd left her, sitting in a 
chair on the far side of Dana's bed.  Eyebrows raised, he dropped 
gingerly into his own chair.

     "The same," Mrs. Scully responded, answering the unspoken
question.

     Mulder nodded and regarded Scully quietly.  Her face was
still so pale, the light dusting of brown freckles standing out even
more against the whiteness of her skin.  The respirator had been
replaced with an oxygen tube.  The bed was tilted upward, inclined
to take the pressure off her injured lung, and the pillows behind her
seemed to dwarf her small body.

     He watched her breathe.  The continual, regular beeps of her
heart monitor lulled him into an exhausted daze...

     The first sensation Scully remembered was the feeling, a
kind of feeling she couldn't explain, that Mulder was there.  It was
simply the feeling of his *presence*, an awareness that resonated
through her like a hum.  It cut through the darkness; it pulled her 
up, lifting her toward him, toward the bright cacophony of light and
sound that was calling her.

     He was what she saw when she opened her eyes.

     "Mulder?" she whispered.

     The sound of her voice almost stopped his heart.  His eyes
snapped up and he saw her looking at him with bewilderment.  It
was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.  His expression
blossomed into a wide grin.

     "Scully," he replied gently.  "Scully, it's ok."  Unconsciously,
he reached out to touch her, his fingers brushing lightly against her
cheek. .  Mulder watched, captivated, as memory and realization
poured into her, as the life and the vibrance, the essence of her,
returned to her crystal blue eyes in a great rush.  That, and 
something else; something meant only for him.

     Mrs. Scully shifted, breaking the spell.  Mulder pulled his
hand away suddenly, sheepishly.  She felt the strength of something
new and powerful, something she didn't quite understand, passing
between them.

     She patted her daughter on the hand.  "Dana, honey?" she
said. 

     Scully wrenched her gaze away from Mulder.  "Mom," she
murmured, looking equally embarrassed.

     Bemused, Mrs. Scully sensed she'd abruptly become an
intrusion.  "I'll let you two have some time," she said simply, and
then she quietly slipped out.

     Scully watched her go until the door fell shut behind her,
then her eyes came to rest again on Mulder's face as he pulled
himself closer to her.  She took him in as if seeing him for the 
first time -- the fading black eye and the bare stitches along his 
temple, the lines beneath his eyes, the growth of stubble dusting his
jawline.

     "Hi," he murmured, suddenly tentative.

     "Hi," she answered, cutting her eyes up at him through dark
lashes in a gesture he could've sworn was almost shy.  Her voice was
hoarse and weak, but it was steady.

     For an instant, they both groped for words.  So much had
happened, but through the cloud of pain and morphine that shrouded
her thoughts, all she could manage was a husky inside-joke.  "I guess
I'm not dead."

     Mulder chuckled.  "Or we both are."

     Scully chuckled too, faintly, carefully.  "No," she said, her
eyes twinkling unexpectedly at him.  "The accommodations would
be better."

     Mulder felt an abrupt pang of joy at the look in her eyes.  "Or
worse," he quipped.

     Scully let out the tiniest of amused grunts and said, "Speak
for yourself."

     He grinned, feeling another sudden surge of happiness at the
normalcy, the ease of things between them.

     Scully chose that instant to shatter that sense of normalcy
with the touch of her fingers.  He took in a sharp breath as she
reached out delicately, tracing his the line of his jaw with her 
thumb, feeling the roughness of the days of stubble that dusted his
unshaven skin.  She stopped short just below the stitches in his 
temple.

     "You should cover those," she whispered.

     Unexpectedly spellbound, he only nodded, once, feeling the
palm of her hand glide gently against his cheek as he did.

     Then the air felt abruptly oppressive, too thick with unspoken
words.  The glass vial in his pocket clinked as he shifted.  Sensing
the change, her eyes clouded.

     He cleared his throat.  "Scully," he murmured.  "Scully, I -- "

     She interrupted him with two fingers against his lips.  "Shh,"
she breathed.  Already, she felt herself tiring.  "Not now."

     Mulder, understanding, nodded in earnest.  Scully studied his
face again, the small details she knew so well she could see them
when she closed her eyes.  They had almost lost one another, and
they had said things, and they could never go back.  And she knew
that scared him, but she was so tired, and all she wanted this very
instant was to fall asleep to the sound of his heart beating.  The
barrier had been pierced, breached, shattered, and there was no need
to run from him any longer, no reason to push him away.

     So why did it scare her too as she said, "Mulder, please
just..."  She looked away, shyly.  "I just...I really need you next 
to me."

     Without a word, he rose from the chair and moved to sit
beside her on the bed.  There was an awkward moment as he swung
his still-bare feet up beside her and she shifted gingerly to give 
him more room, then he reached around her as she leaned in against 
his chest.  He shifted too, careful of his still-sore ribs and his 
shoulder.

     Finally, she was comfortable.  She relaxed into him as he
held her, really held her, for the first time.

     She heard the rhythm of his heart, strong and steady, and felt
the muscular strength of his arms as he encircled her.  It was like
coming home.

     Mulder sank back against the pillows, the tension draining
from him in a torrent as he felt the blissfully simple warmth of her
body beside him.

     "God, I love you," he blurted sleepily, frightening himself
with the sound of words he hadn't intended to speak again, so soon. 
But he felt a smile tug at him when her only response was to
mumble inaudibly and burrow more tightly against him.

     Maybe, for just right now, he could forget about the
uncertainty and the danger and simply let this quiet joy overtake
him.  And maybe, for just right now, he could sleep. 

     An hour later, when Mrs. Scully's soft knock went
unanswered, she cracked the door to find Mulder snoring softly and
curled jealously around a soundly sleeping Scully, shielding her as 
if she belonged only to him.

****************************************

     Mulder awoke with a disoriented start to the feeling of a
presence in the room.  It was dark -- when had it gotten dark? -- and
something was out of place.

     His eyes registered movement.  The faintest, surreal whisper
of a shadow stole away, dissolving with an oddly soundless grace
into the pale glow spilling from the open doorway.

     Someone had been in there.  Someone who didn't belong.

     Instinct yanked him to his feet and launched him into the
narrowing swath of white light.  He caught the door just before it
fell closed completely and pulled it back hard, then found himself
squinting painfully in the harsh hospital glare.  He scanned in both
directions, searching for the intruder's retreating form, but the
hallway was empty, a blank expanse of white and gray tile.  Directly
facing him at the nurse's station, the RN, an older woman with wire-
rimmed glasses and dark hair dusted with grey, looked up from her
charts and eyed him with vague interest.

     "Who was just here?" he asked.

     The nurse's brow furrowed.  "Excuse me?"

     In the back of his mind, a quiet siren began to sound. 
"Someone was in the room."

     The nurse shook her head.  "I didn't see anyone."

     "Are you sure?" he asked, his voice rising in pitch.  "What
about her mother?"

     The woman nodded firmly.  "I'm sure," she said, sounding
faintly bemused.  "I've been here for over an hour.  I haven't seen
Miss Scully's mother, or anyone else."

     The alarm surged forward, louder.  Wordlessly, he turned
back into the darkness of Scully's room.

     The door fell closed.  Dazed, Mulder leaned back against it
and scanned the shadows.  Something was different.  Wrong.  What? 
He could barely make out what he assumed was Scully's form,
unmoving, in the far bed.  And the nearer bed was empty, as it had
been before...but there was the rumpled blanket and the pillow, and
the indentation where his head had been.

     The realization slammed hard into his sternum, knocking his
breath away.  Oh, God, he'd been moved.

     He stabbed at the wall switch, instantly flooding the room
with flourescent light.

     Scully was still.

     Mulder was across the room in three huge steps.

     Her oxygen tube was gone, and she was a chalky white -- so
white.  Mulder's palms began to sweat.  In the span of a heartbeat,
his eyes swept over her body, and he saw it -- the tiny, ruby-red
smudge across the back of her hand.

     Blood.  Her blood.

     *Oh, Christ, no.*  His legs went abruptly weak.  "Scully!" he
whispered sharply, the words a gravelly, visceral hiss.

     She remained silent, silent and so very still.

     Some dark intuition moved him.  He reached out, snapping
back the hospital blanket in one swift tug, and then he froze.

     She was simply bathing in blood.

     At that very instant, her eyes drifted briefly open, searching,
groping desperately for him like a drowning swimmer going under
for the last time.  Crimson poured suddenly from one nostril and ran
into the corner of her mouth.

     "Mulder?" she whispered, barely audible.  There was
confusion and terror in her voice.  Paralyzed, speech betraying him,
he was silent.  "Mulder..."

     The coursing green of her heart monitor peaked a few times,
erratically, then fell across the screen in a steady, glowing,
horizontal line.

     For one dazed second, Mulder stood, frozen in disbelief, and
then the code-blue alarm screamed through the room, and something
inside him broke free, jerking him toward her with incredible force.

     "*Scully!*" The heel of his palm found her ribs, fumbled
upward, and shoved down hard.  The heart monitor, responding to
the pressure, gave a weak *blip* and then was still. 

     "*Goddamit*!"

     He bent over, covered her mouth with his own, pushed air
into her lungs.  She was limp beneath him.  He covered her heart
again with his hands and began the rhythm of CPR, hearing the frail
bleats from the monitor as he did and silently begged her to breathe.

     Then chaos erupted around him.  Two nurses, a doctor he
didn't recognize, a crash cart.  They had to pry him away, and he
dimly realized he shouldn't be fighting them, but he just couldn't
stop.  He couldn't get his breath.  Their lives, his and Dana's, were
one as he felt the motion of her heart beneath his hands, beating for
her, pushing death away.

        Then the burly arms of a huge orderly -- where had he come
from? -- reached through and whipped him around, pinning him into
the corner.  Spent, the connection broken, he sagged helplessly
against the wall.  The man blocked him, and he couldn't see Scully,
but he could hear.  Someone shouted for whole blood, four units --
*God* -- then he heard *clear* and winced at the unmistakable
*thump* of electricity jolting her body.  The heart monitor
*blipped* twice then fell again into a steady line.  Murmured
numbers, *clear* again, and again the telltale *thump* that made
him flinch even before he heard it.  Again the steady, unwavering
line.  He felt numbness creeping up his legs, sinking into his chest. 
*Clear* a third time, a third *thump*.

     The heart monitor squealed.  Mulder held his breath.  He felt
the numbness moving, growing, sapping the strength from him.
*Please.*

     Chaos settled into steady rhythm.  Someone shouted that they
had a pulse.

     Mulder's legs gave way and he sat down hard on the floor.

     Someone yelled for a gurney as someone else shouted
something about surgery, *stat*.  He clearly heard the word
'hemorrhage' surface from the cloud of noise around him; then there
was only rustling and scrambling, a mass of frenzied sound.

     The sound faded away hurriedly, down the hallway.  The
orderly uncertainly backed away, the door fell shut with a sound-
sapping *whump*, and the room was abruptly silent.  It was a dark
silence, thick, and it enveloped Mulder, still in the corner, his 
face buried in his hands.

     Above it, he could hear the orderly breathing.

     "Sir?"  The orderly tentatively placed a hand on Mulder's
shoulder.  Mulder didn't move.  "Sir?  Are you okay?"

     The surge of anger he should've felt at the asinine question
numbly missing, Mulder dug balled fists into his eyes.  No, he was
not okay.  If he lost Scully, he would damn well never again be okay. 
"Where are they taking her?" he mumbled, sounding lost even to his
own ears.

     "I don't know, sir," the orderly replied.  Mulder looked up
and blinked.  His eyes burned.  "You should ask the nurse.  She -- "

     The orderly jumped as the door banged open.  Unaffected by
the sudden noise, Mulder slowly and deliberately swivelled his eyes
upward into the stricken face of Simms, the young police officer
from the MRI room.  The man seemed only dimly aware of what had
just transpired.  "Agent Mulder, sir, I'm sorry, but I've been sent
down here to get you.  There's been some trouble."

     Mulder grunted and somehow dragged himself to his feet. 
There was a dead spot, cold and lifeless, in the center of his chest.
It radiated outward, dulling everything, even the sense of alarm he
should've felt at the desolate chill. *How 'bout that?* he mused
morosely.  *There's _trouble_.  Isn't that a kick in the pants.*

     Still, he heard, "Trouble?" and realized the word had come
from his own lips.  He hovered and watched from a great distance,
faintly amazed that his voice seemed to be working on its own,
without him.  "What kind of trouble?"

     "Dr. Hessman, sir.  He was brought into the ER about a half
an hour ago."  Simms paused, looking seriously uncomfortable in his
role as the bearer of bad tidings.  "He's been shot, sir.  He's dead."

************************

END PART THREE...........



=================
A Covenant of the Will
Part 4 of 5
by Birgit Mueller
(rm12908@navix.net)
=================


     Dr. Hessman.  Of course.  The realization hit Mulder like a
shock wave.  Until now he'd had no time to think; he'd just been
reacting.  He grabbed at his waist and felt the smooth contour of his
hip pocket.

     Empty, it was empty.  The glass vial was gone.  They had
taken it, as easily as They had taken Scully from her hospital
bed...from him.  As easily as They had taken everything he'd ever
had from him.

     A sudden anger burst forth, shattering the aching void in the
center of his chest with blinding force.  Simms watched, stunned, as
Mulder seemed somehow to explode, to break apart from the inside. 
Mulder lurched forward, crashing past the police officer before he
could react and yanking the door open with such power that it
smashed against the wall and bounced.

     With amazing speed, he burst into the hallway and, slamming
against the counter, reached over the elbows of a startled young
nurse toward the charts in her hands.

     "Hey!" she squeaked, yanking the charts from his grasp just
as his fingertips touched them.

     "Dana Scully's chart," he growled.  "I have to see her chart."

     "I can't...I can't do that," she stammered.  Her eyes were wide
as Simms and the orderly appeared behind Mulder.

     A hand fell on Mulder's shoulder, but he shrugged it off
angrily and yanked the badge from his back pocket.  "Look, my
name is Fox Mulder, I'm a special agent with the FBI, and I *need to
see her chart*!"

     "Sir," the nurse began, her eyes vacillating nervously
between Mulder's face and his badge, "if you're really an FBI agent,
then you know I can't show you this chart without a warrant."

     Oblivious, Mulder lunged forward again, only to be grabbed
by Simms and the orderly.  He struggled, but this time he couldn't
shake their grip on him; the orderly was just too big.  "You don't
understand!" he shouted, frustration boiling over into panic as the
two men pulled him backward, away from the nurse's station.  "It's
been tampered with!"

     Simms glanced sidelong at the frightened nurse and, over
Mulder's shrill, "Goddamit, check her records *now*!", murmured
"Where have they taken Dana Scully?"

     Unsure whom she should obey, the young woman glanced down at
the charts in her hand, then up again timidly.  "OR 4," she
replied, avoiding Mulder's eyes.

     Simms nodded his thanks.

     "Where is the nurse who was here a few minutes ago?"
Mulder continued to shout, unwilling to acknowledge the pressure
against his shoulders that was forcing him to stumble backward
down the hallway.  "Who was on duty? *Where is she?*"

     Simms, now more than a little alarmed, attempted to turn
him around and tried to sound soothing.  "Come on, Agent Mulder,
you're upset.  We'll take you to the waiting room and I'll get the
Sheriff on the phone about what's happened with your partner."

************************

     A moment later, Simms and the orderly forcibly deposited
Mulder in a chair in the waiting room.  He slumped immediately,
head in his hands, vaguely realizing that he looked like a lunatic. 
He knew he was haggard, angry and frightened, exhausted and barely
under control.  He wondered how could he explain himself to
someone like Simms, whose law enforcement experience consisted
largely of ignored stop signs and drunken teenagers tipping cows.

     The forlorn question hovered there; how could he explain
himself to anyone but Scully?

     Confused and uncomfortable, Simms hovered over him,
waiting, Dr. Hessman's murder all but forgotten.  Just as the officer
opened his mouth to speak, a trembling voice from the doorway cut
him off.

     "Fox, my God."  It was Mrs. Scully, and she swept into the
room and immediately sank down beside Mulder.  Discreetly,
Simms backed away.  "I was in the cafeteria and I was paged," she
said, breathless.  "What's going on?  What happened?"

     Mulder took in a ragged, shaking breath, let it out slowly.  "I
don't know," he mumbled finally, through his hands.  "I don't know."

     "They said you were with her," she pressed him.

     Mulder looked up at her sharply, then his gaze slid
downward to regard his trembling fingers. *I was there.*  "I was... I
was..."  He shook his head miserably.  He felt on the verge of
completely unraveling.  "I don't know."

     Mrs. Scully's hand fell gently on Mulder's shoulder.  "Fox,"
she continued softly, "you *were* there."  She caught his gaze,
looked him in the eyes.  "You were both asleep, but you were there. 
I checked on the two of you not half an hour ago.  What happened?"

     His head snapped up sharply.  "Are you certain?" he asked,
suddenly urgent.  "Are you absolutely sure of that time?"

     "Yes, I'm sure," she replied, confused by his abrupt
animation.

     The urgency grew, flaring behind his eyes like a match just
struck.  "The nurse on duty -- did you see her?  Did she say
anything?"

     Mrs. Scully's puzzlement was plain.  "Well, yes, I did see her. 
We smiled at each other, but no, I don't believe she spoke... Fox,
what -- "

     Mulder cut her off; the matchlight erupted into fierce flames. 
"What did she look like?" he demanded, his voice growing louder.

     Mrs. Scully stammered, startled by Mulder's abrupt
forcefulness.  "I don't... I'm not sure."

     Realizing he was alarming her, Mulder made a conscious
effort to lower his voice, but he couldn't contain the bonfire 
blazing now inside him.  He reached out, gripping her forearm firmly.
"Mrs. Scully, this is important.  How old was she?  How old was the 
nurse you saw?"

     Mrs. Scully hesitated, searching his face for an answer.  "I...
fifties, maybe.  I'm not sure.  She was older."

     "Glasses?"

     Swallowing hard, she nodded.

     Mulder shot from his seat as if spring-loaded.  He turned
toward Simms and barked, "See that she isn't left alone."

     "Agent Mulder," Simms sputtered, confused and taken aback
at the swift, sudden energy with which Mulder was moving, "just
what do you think is going on here?"

     It was as if he hadn't spoken.  Mulder bolted past him and hit
the hallway at a dead run.  Simms stared after him, dumbfounded,
and briefly considered pursuit, but finally allowed himself to give 
in to the vague sense of relief he felt at being free of the strange,
intense FBI agent.

********************

     The records area was dark, and the set of janitor's keys
jangled too loudly as Mulder tried them, one by one, in rapid
succession.  Finally, with a satisfying click, the lock turned.  
Mulder twisted the doorknob and slipped inside.

     With quick, silent determination, he moved toward his goal,
the X-ray racks at the back of the large room.  His pen-light shone, 
a tiny bright spot running the length of the alphabet, as he 
searched.

     *Scully, Dana K.*  Holding the light between his teeth,
Mulder yanked the large brown envelope from its resting place and
pulled the X-rays from it.  The pen-light provided just enough
illumination to make out the distinguishing features of the films.

     Mulder felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.  The films
were clear, perfectly normal -- not Scully's.  He was too late.

     *I should've known.*

     He felt suddenly, infinitely heavy, and his hands failed him. 
The penlight landed on the floor with a sharp clatter against the
background flutter of falling X-rays.  He pressed his forehead
dismally against the cool metal of the X-ray rack and hovered over
the feeble light seeping out against his still-bare feet.

     *I can't do this anymore.*

     He lifted his head slightly, just enough to give some force to
the blow when he banged it forward against the metal rack.  A
bereft-sounding *thunk* echoed in his ears.

     It was like a sick joke, one of those deviant black comedies
that kills them all in the end and mocks you for having cared.  He
picked his head up, slammed it back down again, harder.  The pain
was sharp and unexpectedly vicious.

     Somewhere, he thought, someone was laughing.  He saw
Scully's blood-soaked body and felt her heart against his hands.

     He had been stretched too tightly for too long, and the thin
fabric of his self-control simply burst, rupturing like an 
overinflated balloon. 

     He screamed.

     It was an ear-splitting, nonverbal howl from somewhere
primitive and violent.  Desperate for deliverance from the fury he
could no longer keep at bay, he hurled himself blindly at the nearest
thing he could find.

     The entire X-ray rack came crashing to the floor in a torrent
of noise.  The release was immense and immediate.  Mulder
wheeled around and caught the edge of a neighboring rack with his
shoulder.  It went down as well, smashing into the wall with an
enormous crash.

     He stumbled, catching his toes against the edge of the fallen
flashlight, and rasped, "*Fuck!*" as he grabbed at it.  Wielding it
like a weapon, he raised it high and bashed it against the fallen 
rack with all his strength.  One blow, then two, and the light went 
out.  Still, he continued to pound it blindly into the dented metal,
wallowing in the sound and the feel as it struck, needing it like a
drug.

     He was beyond thinking, beyond anything but the release of
years of anguish and unfathomable rage.  They had taken everything
from him he'd ever cared about.  They had done this to *her*, to the
one person who didn't shy away from the maelstrom of conviction in
his eyes.  Scully *stayed*.  For that simple crime of loyalty and 
love, she had been marked.  And somehow, someday, They would pay. 
He closed his eyes against the darkness.  They would pay.

     Suddenly, the lights snapped on, blinding him like a
revelation.

     He froze, paralyzed, chest heaving, hair soaked with sweat,
and blinked in the brilliant glare.  Simms' voice boomed like the
voice of God in his ears.  "What in the *hell* are you doing?!?"

     He looked down at the splintered remains of the flashlight in
his grasp as if waking from a vivid nightmare.  For an instant, there
was free-falling clarity, poignant and condemning.  He was in
trouble.  *Oh, no.*

     He barely recognized his own hands as he buried his face in
them and slumped mutely to the floor.

********************

     Mulder pounded his forehead rhythmically against the cell
bars.  He felt empty, hollow and bottomless.  He never should've left
her, never should've let her out of his sight; he hadn't been 
thinking at all.  She had been hurt so badly, and he was so angry and
so frightened and so desperate for... *For what?* he thought blackly.
*Evidence, answers...revenge?*

     Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head with a desolate
shudder; did it matter now?  He had lost himself, and if she died and
he wasn't with her because of his own singular insanity, he felt sure
that the suffocating, pulling hole in his chest would simply swallow
him, drag him in and crush him to death with the weight of his own
grief.  He wanted just to touch her face so badly his fingers ached.

     A familiar staccato voice pulled him slowly out of his dismal
musings.  "Agent Mulder, where the hell are your shoes?"

     Mulder could only muster the will to move his eyes,
swivelling them upward to fix their listless gaze firmly on that of 
the black man standing before him, on the other side of the bars,
trenchcoat swirling around his calves.

     The mysterious Mr. X.  It figured.  "She could be dead," he
replied tonelessly.  "Why am I not surprised to see you here?"

     "Strong words," X replied in clipped, even syllables.  Then
he produced a set of keys from the pocket of his coat.  "I'm here to
get you out."

     Wordlessly, Mulder rose and followed.  He retrieved his
belongings and allowed himself to be quietly escorted from the
precinct station and out into the night.  When his bare feet hit the
frozen pavement of late winter in Colorado, the absurdity of the
situation was not lost on him -- he just couldn't muster the mettle 
to care.  X placed him firmly into the passenger seat of a rented 
sedan and pushed the door shut.

     X eased himself into the driver's seat, shut his own door, and
turned the ignition switch with one easy, fluid movement.

     Mulder stared stonily ahead as the car pulled away from the
station and turned out onto the city street.  A moment passed in 
total silence.

     "I'm taking you back to the hospital," X announced finally.

     Suddenly, a swift, irrational anger bubbled up, filling the
hollow in his chest with an unexpected, acrid rancor that seized him
by the throat.  "Why not just shoot me and dump me in the parking
lot, like you did the doctor?" he shot back petulantly.

     X jabbed down on the brakes so hard their seat belts locked. 
He swerved abruptly into the empty, dark parking lot of an
abandoned gas station, put the car in gear, and twisted violently in
his seat.

     "Do you have any idea what a risk I've taken, saving your ass
tonight?" he demanded viciously.  "I had to call in several very 
large favors for this one, Agent Mulder.  This has not gained you any
allies."

     "*I* didn't call you!" Mulder shouted angrily.  "I didn't ask
you for anything!  I don't *owe* you anything!"

     "Agent Mulder -- " X began, his tone an unmistakable
warning.

     Mulder cut him off.  "You've been here all along, haven't
you?  You're responsible for everything that's happened here!"

     "Everyone has orders," X responded through clenched teeth. 
There was no remorse in his flat dark eyes.  "But your partner is the
one variable in this equation with which I am *not* involved."

     Mulder felt his chest constrict at Scully's mention, and his
eyes narrowed with sudden, venomous comprehension. *He knows.*

     In one startling, swift movement, Mulder leaned over,
grabbed X brutally by the lapel, and gave it a sharp jerk.  "Who is
it?" he demanded.  "*Who's* *doing* *this*?"

     X's body went rigid as he grabbed Mulder's hand pointedly
and hard.  One beat passed, two.  Mulder finally released him with a
disgusted push and hissed,"If she dies tonight, so help me I'll kill 
you myself, you bastard."

     X opened his mouth to speak.  But then, surprisingly, he
hesitated.  He took a deep breath and placed both hands, palms
down, atop the steering wheel as if to steady himself.  Stunned,
Mulder eased back in his seat.

     "Agent Mulder," X said, "whether or not you believe me, I
can... *appreciate* your position in this matter.  And your
insistence."  There was a pregnant pause.  Mulder watched as X
shifted in his seat and straightened the lapels of his jacket.  He
flexed his gloved hands in a gesture resembling frustration, but his
voice was toneless and curt, his face unreadable.  "I'm sorry, Agent
Mulder.  I can't help you."

     Mulder felt himself falling once again.  X knew; he knew,
but he would not help.  "You mean you *won't*," he grunted bitterly.

     In answer, X put the car back in gear and they started back
out onto the street.  For a moment, the only sound was the quiet hum
of the engine.

     Finally, X again broke the chilly silence between them. 
"Originally," he said, "they believed Agent Scully had been a
mistake.  She had been meant to distract you, to keep you on the
defensive.  And yet with her your work thrived.  There was talk of
removing her; the attempt was made."

     X paused, choosing his next words carefully.  "Your...
*attachment* to Agent Scully is clear," he finally added.  He glanced
briefly toward Mulder, caught his gaze for an instant before
returning his attention to the road ahead.  "*Clear*, Mulder.  Surely
you must know that."

     Mulder was rooted to his seat, startled into silence.

     "Not everyone agrees, either on your value, or hers, or on
how to proceed.  You and your partner have become an intractable
problem.  There will be other attempts at a solution, and they will 
be out of my hands."

     The sedan pulled into the hospital parking lot and rolled to a
stop.  X fixed Mulder with a piercing look.

     "You are valuable to me for reasons you may not understand," he
finished.  "But everyone has orders.  And mine have been fulfilled
here."

     For a long moment, Mulder held X's gaze, waiting; but there
just wasn't anything to say.  Finally, wordlessly, he just turned and
stepped out of the car onto the black pavement.  Without hesitation,
the sedan sped off into the night.

*********************

END PART FOUR...........


=================
A Covenant of the Will
Part 5 of 5
by Birgit Mueller
(rm12908@navix.net)
=================


     She slept.  Mulder stood again at the threshold of Scully's
ICU room and stared open-mouthed at her heart monitor, at its
steady, unwavering rhythm.  She was alive, there in front of him,
almost close enough to touch.  He felt suddenly like a drowning man
surfacing, exploding through the barrier between water and air and
gasping thick, full breaths sweeter than any he had ever tasted.

     She was still alive, and he could breathe.

     "Fox?"  Startled, Mulder swivelled abruptly on his heels to
see Mrs. Scully approaching from the open door of the consultation
room.  He glanced around quickly and caught brief sight of the
dimly-outlined shape of a lab coat disappearing out the door.

     He noticed then that she was alone, and he clenched his teeth
in irritation.  His histrionics must have finally cost him the last 
of whatever credibility he'd ever had with the local police.  At 
least it no longer mattered.  Simms and the sheriff would handle 
Hessman's murder, for what it was worth.  The killer had disappeared
into the darkness in a rented sedan and would never be caught, and it
would all be forgotten soon in favor of more pleasant things.  It was
over, for the moment.

     Mrs. Scully touched his shoulder.  "Where have you been?"

     Mulder grimaced.  "I was... unavoidably detained," he
murmured quickly, then moved on before she could question him
further.  He inclined his head toward the consultation room.  "What
did the doctor say?"

     Mrs. Scully hesitated for the most brief of instants before
replying, "He said... he said she's going to be fine."  She tried to
smile for him.

     Mulder caught the hesitation in her voice.  "What's wrong?"
he demanded.

     Mrs. Scully fixed him with a discomfited look.  "I..."

     Mulder's brow furrowed.  "What?" he asked softly, suddenly
apprehensive.  "What is it?"

     "Fox," she said hurriedly, seeing the rising panic in his eyes,
"no, it's ok."  She placed a comforting hand on his forearm.  "She's
going to recover."

     Mulder was not to be comforted.  "Then what?  What is it?"

     Mrs. Scully shook her head.  "They couldn't even... they don't
know how it happened," she finally managed.  She sounded drained;
defeated.

     "What did the doctor say?" Mulder asked again, gently.

     Margaret moved away from him to claim a chair at the far
end of the nurse's station, out of her daughter's potential earshot 
and line of vision.  Mulder followed, sinking down next to her.

     For a moment, she was silent.  Mulder searched her face.

     "They... they couldn't even find a wound," she murmured
finally, so soft it was almost a whisper.  Her eyes looked 
frightened, confused.  "They couldn't find a *reason*, Fox."  Tears 
spilled over onto her cheeks.  "The doctor said they did something 
called a laparoscopy, and she looks as if she's never been touched."

       She wiped her eyes with the balled-up tissue that had been
clenched tightly in one fist.  "They're calling it a post-surgical
complication, but even the doctor admitted it doesn't make sense. 
My baby girl almost died tonight, and no one can tell me *why*."

     Unsurprised, Mulder sighed, a deep and bone-weary sound,
and fixed his gaze on the floor.  He felt suddenly numb and
powerless in the face of her bewilderment, and all he could say was,
"I'm sorry."  *I'm sorry,* he thought bitterly.  *There's a lot of 
that going around lately.*

     "Fox..." Mrs. Scully hesitated uncomfortably, then finally
continued.  "Do you know what's happening?  Did you find out who
did this?"

     There was the shortest of pauses, then, never meeting her
gaze, he simply said, "No."  It was the only thing to say.  "No, I 
don't know."

     Mrs. Scully shook her head.  "But you suspect someone."

     Mulder shifted uneasily in his seat.  What could he tell her
that would make any sense?  "Mrs. Scully, I..." he trailed off,
thinking.  Finally, he moved to meet her gaze with his own.  "The
answers you're asking me for... they're the same answers I want."

     She was silent for a moment.  Then, with a small, wistful
smile, she said, "Her father didn't approve of her career choice, you
know.  He wanted her to set up a practice somewhere.  Do
something safe."  There was another pensive pause, and Mulder
watched her as she stared at her hands.  He felt vaguely queasy and
so very, very tired, and he wondered if she blamed him.

     Unexpectedly, she broke the silence when her head swivelled
upward to face him dead-on.  "Fox Mulder, "she said with sudden
forcefulness, "what are your intentions toward my daughter?"

     Stunned, Mulder blinked in a kind of jolted anxiety halfway
between a sixteen-year-old schoolboy on his first car date and a
guilty man being asked unforseen questions on the witness stand. 
He hadn't expected such a forthright question; she wasn't asking if 
he planned to make her daughter an honest woman.

     Seeing the panic in his eyes, Mrs. Scully immediately
backpedaled.  "I'm sorry," she said hurriedly.  "That wasn't a fair
question."

     Mulder shook his head and chuffed a brief, bitter laugh. 
"Yes," he said, his voice thick and tangled with sudden, poignant
emotion, "yes, it was."  His voice caught on the last word, and he
cleared his throat and fell again silent.

     He could not meet her eyes, and a long, awkward hush drew
out between them.  He could not explain himself.  He didn't have the
answers Mrs. Scully deserved, no promises of Dana's safety and
happiness.  He had only the apparent transparency of his feelings. 
That, and a covenant of the *will*, the private offering to die 
before she shed another drop of blood.  That vow hung between mother
and beloved, heard but unspoken.

     When he finally broke the silence, Mulder's only words were
a quiet request.  "It's over now," he murmured.  He found the
courage to face Dana's mother, to look her in the eyes.  "They won't
be back here.  Let me take her home."

**************************

     The next days were singularly uneventful.  Margaret Scully
boarded a plane back to Baltimore, and Mulder watched it taxi down
the runway as if its witnessing were of ritual importance, a parable
of the comforting familiarity of the mundane.  After he could no
longer see the jumbo 757 from the window, his gaze wandered down
toward his feet.

     Before she left, she had bought him some shoes.

     Scully asked no questions beyond the scribblings in her chart,
and her doctors and nurses seemed only too happy to forget the
entire incident, especially given the rumors that had begun to swirl
around this strange patient from the FBI and the death of Dr.
Hessman, a man they had all known and liked.  They seemed civil,
polite, but wary and vaguely blameful.  Mulder knew they would be
only too happy to see Scully leave.

     Mulder kept his experiences to himself, kept them from her. 
He reconciled his silence by deciding that she simply didn't know,
about the implants, the visitation, any of it.  They did not really 
talk.  She slept, and he held her and kept a quiet vigil beside her, 
and he watched as the barely glowing embers of life and strength, 
color and breath, caught fire again and flared into the bright blaze 
that was her.

     He took her home.

**************************

     The air in Scully's apartment was stale and heavy as she
elbowed the door open and stepped into the darkened living room, a
stack of unopened mail landing on a table in the entranceway as she
did so.  Mulder followed, breaching the threshold as she fumbled for
the light.

     Before she could flip the switch, he reached out, closing his
hand over hers, and gingerly pulled her fingers away.  He drew her
against him, his arms wrapped protectively around her midriff, her
back pressing into him.  The front door swung closed behind them,
suspending them alone together in sweet, dark silence.

     "Mulder?" she murmured, sounding bemused.

     "Shhhh," was his only reply, a gentle, whispered sound that
ruffled her hair.  He wanted desperately just to hold her neverending
in the shadows.

     Her lips quirked upward, a tiny smile in the darkness.  She
turned in his embrace, and he caught her face with his hands and
brushed his lips against hers in an unhurried, delicate kiss.  He 
felt her arms surround him, felt her small hands pressing against his
sides, and wondered at how he had been in the world before her
arrival; lifeless, numb.  He couldn't remember living before Scully. 
There had been no joy before her; nothing that had been real.

     Slowly, so slowly, he pulled away.

     "We have to talk," she whispered.

     He sighed, not willing to release the bliss of the moment.  "I
know," he murmured finally.

     Reluctantly, he stepped back and surrendered her to the
inevitable.  They did need to talk, and the need had been building 
for days.  She drew away slowly, and warmth lingered everywhere she
had touched him.

     She shrugged out of her new winter coat; he did the same
with his own, and she took it self-consciously from his hands and
hung them both on one hook beside the door.  She left the overhead
light off but clicked on the end-table lamp next to the sofa as she
headed for the kitchen.  The room became infused with a soft amber
glow.

     "I'm getting something to drink," she tossed backward over
her shoulder.  "Do you want anything?"

     "Uh, yeah," he replied, moving toward the couch.  He wanted
a drink, all right; a strong drink, one that would calm the choppy,
anxious brine churning in the pit of his stomach.  "Sure."

     Mulder heard muffled kitchen noises and the clinking of
glass, and Scully emerged from the kitchen a moment later with a
bottle of wine in one hand and two thick tumblers in the other; no
pretense there, no need for wine glasses, not for him.  The thought
filled him with unexpected happiness.  She sat down to face him,
one leg drawn beneath herself, and handed him a glass half-filled
with the sweet red liquor.  She took the other glass and placed the
bottle on the coffee table.

     Mulder took a long, deep sip and regarded her pensively. 
She did the same, and for a moment no one spoke.  There was too
much between them now, and nowhere to begin.  Mulder took
comfort in her seeming lack of regret over the step they had taken in
the cabin that night, the one that could not now be undone.  He took
a second sip, even larger than the first, and absently set his 
tumbler on the table beside him.  They could not go back, only 
forward and through; but he wondered if she would hold him to his 
promise of partnership and fidelity when she really knew the price, 
all of what had happened in the hospital.  He wondered if she would 
leave him; he wondered if she *should*.

     She was watching him, too, watching and wondering at the
complexity of what went on in his mind.  There were still questions. 
She had sensed it for days; something was wrong.  He had been
keeping something from her.  She sighed, took a second large
swallow, and set her glass on the coffee table beside his as she
leaned in toward him.  "What happened in the hospital?" she asked,
giving voice to her fears.  "What have you been leaving out?"

     He cringed, realizing then that she suspected more than he
had offered.  He should've known better, known not to sell her short. 
She was an FBI agent, after all, every bit his caliber, and she knew
him better than anyone had ever known him; better than he knew
himself.

     He *knew* he would have to tell her the truth ...and still,
what came to his lips was an uneasy, dissembling smile and an
effortful, "What?  What makes you think I'm leaving something
out?"

     Scully shook her head.  He was usually so eager to fill her
ears with his version of the truth, his theories, his experiences...
but now, he was afraid.  The realization of that was more disquieting
than anything she imagined he could say.

     She leaned over to grasp his hand in both of hers.  "Mulder,"
she said simply, pointedly, "whatever happened, *I need to know.*"

     He gazed down at the small, delicate hands clasped so firmly
around one of his.  How could he tell her this?  How could he say it? 
He wrapped his other hand around hers, brought them both to his
lips, kissed her fingers gently with half-closed eyes.

     "Mulder, what -- "

     "There were more implants, Scully," he blurted, forcing the
words from his lips as he relinquished her hands.  He couldn't open
his eyes, couldn't look at her.

     There was a second of stunned silence, then he heard her
breathe an almost inaudible, "What?"

     "The surgeon took one out of your chest," he explained.  It
took every ounce of strength he had to keep the tremor from his
voice.  "It was a lot like the one you found."

      He steeled himself and opened his eyes in time to see the
confusion in her expression transform into mute horror.  It was
almost too much to bear.  He reached out for her shoulder and felt
her trembling.   "Scully, I -- " he began.

     She cut him off, shrugging his hand away.  "You said
*implants*, Mulder."

     He nodded.  He was desperate not to tell her now, frantic to
will away the truth.  Yet still it demanded audience.  It always did. 
"There was another one," he admitted.  "They..." His voice broke; he
cleared his throat.  "They found it on your x-ray, in your..." He 
took a deep breath and focused hard on finishing the sentence.  "In 
your ovary."

     She silently covered her mouth with one hand; the other
moved in an involuntarily protective gesture toward her abdomen. 
She said nothing, merely stared at him with an expression of half-
paralyzed shock in her wide blue eyes, an expression that he knew
would haunt him for a long, long time.

     There was a question there, too, a question she wouldn't
voice... a grim, harsh question he knew he would have to answer. 
He shook his head quickly, as much for his own benefit as for hers. 
"No, no, it's not there anymore."

     She did not move; the only change was the deepening of the
furrow of her brow.  He wasn't making sense; there had been no
surgery to remove it, no mention at all of any of this in her chart. 
"I don't understand," she breathed through her hand.

     He took a deep, calming breath and let it out slowly.  "That's
why you bled that night, Scully," he explained gently, as gently as 
he could.  He felt bruised, his heart battered beyond anything it had
the capacity to withstand.  The rest came out in a sudden rush, as if
keeping it unspoken were causing him physical pain.  "They took
them back, both of them.  What's in your chart was a lie.  They 
killed your surgeon, Scully, and They replaced your x-rays.  You 
didn't hemorrhage that night because of your stab wound."  He caught 
her eyes with his own and said pointedly, "You bled because of what
They did."

     "Mulder..." she murmured softly, her expression a mixture of
confusion and disbelief.  Both hands drawn across her abdomen now
in reflexive, unthinking self-protection, she leaned away from him
with a look that was equal mixtures of defiance and terrible
realization.  She shook her head slowly.  "Mulder, you're not making
any sense," she insisted in a small, tenuous voice that belied the
substance of her words.

     Carefully, he moved from his seat.  He pushed the coffee
table back slowly with his foot as he knelt in front of her.  Gently,
he took one hand, then the other, and uncoiled her, tugging her 
gingerly toward him.  For an instant she resisted him, then she 
pulled her foot from beneath her body and shifted so that she faced 
him.

     But she hung her head and would not meet his eyes.

     He felt as if his heart were going to burst forth and flee the
confines of his chest for greener pastures.  "Yes," he insisted softly.  He
was shaking now, too.  "I am."  He pulled her hand to his
face and placed her palm against his cheek, but still she would not 
look at him.

     "Scully, look at me," he implored.

     Silence.

     "*Dana*," he whispered.  He sounded lost.  "*Please.*"

     Hesitantly, she turned her face upward.  There were unshed
tears gleaming like bright gemstones in her eyes.

     "Oh, Scully," he murmured ruefully.  He had no words that
could take away what had to be said, and he felt as if nothing could
possibly convey what he felt for her.  He pulled her hand from his
cheek and placed her palm over his heart.

     She could feel it beating fast beneath his shirt, could feel him
breathing.

     "I'm telling you the truth," he finally murmured.  "You know
that."

     There was a beat of charged silence between them.  Then,
without warning, she jerked her hands away and shouted, "No!"

     Mulder jumped, startled at the unexpected anger, the shock
and hurt showing in his eyes.

     She turned abruptly away from him on the couch and pulled
her knees tightly beneath her chin.  Gone was the dispassionate
physician, the cerebral FBI agent.  Mulder had never seen her like
this; she emanated the contained fury and the sorrow of a wounded
child.  "You've got it wrong," she insisted sharply.

     There was nothing he could say.  He was miserably bereft,
out of comforting words, out of steam, out of gas.  And overarching
all of it, he was responsible.  He was to blame.  All he could do was
plead.  "Scully, please," he whispered softly, his hand on her
shoulder.  "Please believe me."

     Unthinking, she blurted angrily, "I don't *want* to believe
you, okay?"  She felt the tears spill over onto her cheeks and swiped
violently at her eyes with the back of her hand.

     Mulder pulled back as if she'd struck him, and suddenly she
realized the meaning of what she had said.  She deflated, pressing
her forehead against her knees, withdrawing that much more
completely.  She just couldn't face it, the truth or the hurt in his
eyes.  "I don't want to believe," she repeated softly, mumbling into 
her knees.

     For a long moment, neither of them moved or spoke.  Scully
could hear Mulder breathing, could hear his watch ticking over a
silence that was heavy and oppressive.

     Then, gradually, she became aware of  another sound, soft
and muffled and utterly disconsolate.  The sound penetrated her,
pulled her out of the desolate well of herself.  She lifted her head 
to look at him and found him still kneeling before her, doubled over
now, face buried in his hands.

     He was crying.

     She felt a sudden, sharp pang of remorse at the thought that
she might have caused it.

     "Mulder?" she asked tentatively.  She had seen him ill,
wounded, delusional... but she had never seen him cry.  Not like 
this.  She unfolded her body and reached out to touch his shoulder. 
"Mulder, look at me."

     When he didn't respond, she reached down and pulled him up
toward her.  When he dropped his hands and looked at her, his
glittering eyes held an expression that made her ache for him.

     "I'm sorry," he breathed.  The words sounded as if they had
been summoned from the very core of who he was.  "I'm sorry. 
>From the beginning, I have done nothing but cause you pain."

     She cringed.  "Mulder, that's not true."

     It was as if she hadn't spoken.  "After all I've put you 
through, Scully.  After everything that's happened and all that 
you've lost because of me.  I don't understand why you stay."  He 
looked at her pointedly, the statement not one of self-pity but of 
simple fact layered in pain and confusion.  "I don't understand why 
you want me."

     She looked at him, incredulously, tenderly.  "After everything
we said in that cabin, Mulder, you still don't know?"  She shook her
head.  "From the moment I met you, a part of me knew I couldn't
walk away.  Not from the work... and not from you."  She reached
out to take his face in both hands.  "Never from you."

     "Maybe you should," he blurted unexpectedly, pulling back
from her embrace, refusing to be comforted.  Thoughts of being
without her clamped down hard on his heart, seizing it so forcefully
he almost choked on the words.  "Maybe you deserve more."

     Alarmed, she watched as he rose abruptly from the floor and
began to pace in a tight circle.  "Mulder, what are you saying?"

     "I can't keep you safe," he insisted, swiping an agitated hand
through his hair.  "I *can't*, Scully.  Don't you see that?  It's 
because of me that you were abducted, that your sister was killed." 
He turned back to her and said flatly, "As long as you are with me,
you're never going to be out of danger."

     Suddenly, Scully was angry, frustrated with his
overdeveloped and misdirected sense of guilt... hurt at the thought
that he might break his promise to her, even if it were out of 
loyalty and love.  She exhaled loudly, thumped the arm of the couch 
with her fist.

     "How do you know this, Mulder?" she demanded.  Her tone
was biting.  "How do you know?  Why do you think it all revolves
around *you*?"

     Her anger wounded him.  He felt everything leave him in a
rush, and he sank down on his knees before her.  "I only know what I
was told, Scully," he said softly.

     Surprised, she felt the anger leave her in one great, swift
wave when she saw the raw pain in his eyes.  What...?  "Who told
you this was your fault?" she whispered gently.

     "X.  The man you met once, our source.  I... I met with him
in Colorado.  He told me we were a problem."  He hung his head. 
"He told me They thought you -- giving me your partnership -- had
been a mistake, one that needed to be fixed."

     He looked up at her again; she thought he looked just then
like an abandoned little boy.  "They'll be back, Scully.  They're not
done."

     She studied his face and for a moment said nothing.  His gaze
was intense.  She didn't know what to say to him, how to comfort
him.

     But she did know the truth.  "I remember now, you know,"
she murmured finally.

     Mulder's brow furrowed.  "Remember what?" he asked,
thrown by the shift in the conversation.

     She sighed.  "My... my..." she began, but trailed off, unable to
finish.  She snagged his eyes with her own, and the expression there
sent another wave of plaintive dread through him.  He knew what
she would say next.

     "When I was missing," she finally breathed.  "I
remember...*things*."  Her face contorted into an ugly frown to
punctuate the last word, and she cut her eyes quickly down at the
hands in her lap. *Things,* Mulder echoed, and shuddered,
wondering if his imagination could possibly be worse than the
reality of what she had suffered; hoping it was.

     "I saw you that night," she continued.  "I don't know why.  I
don't even know if it was *real*.  But I remember it.  There was all
this...this *light*, and there you were in the middle of it, with 
Duane Barry.  You were shouting at him; I couldn't hear what you were
saying.  But you were shouting.  And then you looked up."

     She finally dared to look at him again, and what he saw in
her crystal blue eyes caught him and held him helpless with the
sheer force of its intensity.  He was wide-eyed and silent, paralyzed
for fear that if he spoke he would break the spell of her confession. 
"God, Mulder," she breathed, "I was *sure* you looked right *at*
me."

     Suddenly self-conscious, she dropped her gaze to her hands
once again.  "I clung to you.  I remember that now too.  I clung to
that last image of you, to the idea that you'd never stop looking for
me.  I held onto that through everything."

     For a brief instant there was only silence, and Mulder groped
dumbly for the voice that it seemed had simply fled.  "You're right,"
he finally replied, the words a throaty whisper.  He reached across
the space between them and covered her hands with his own.  "I
never would have stopped."

     She found the courage to look at him again and saw the
ferocious, infinite honesty of that promise laid bare before her in 
his eyes.  It seemed a lifetime since the night in the cabin.  It had
been so overwhelming then, the sudden knowledge of what he felt and
what it meant...the knowledge that she returned it a hundredfold.  It
frightened her for so many reasons, yet here it was now, raw and
true, and she could not run, even after knowing everything he knew. 
She could only love him with a bottomless depth that had been alien
to her before him, before his life had enveloped her so completely.

     She could not walk away, and now she had the missing piece
of the puzzle, the certainty that she was right.  "Mulder, don't you
see?" she said.  "They're *afraid* of us.  They want us apart.  If I
leave you, then They've won."

     She shifted, her hands gripping his now, tightly.  "You made
me a promise --"

     Abruptly, Mulder looked up at her, his eyes fierce with the
strength of some sudden internal epiphany she couldn't quite
decipher.  "It's because you make me strong," he interrupted with the
enigmatic conviction of sudden realization.  "That's why they want
us apart."  He looked stunned.

     "You make me strong," he repeated, realizing what the words
meant, needing to hear them aloud again.

     Scully reached out to run her fingers lightly along his jaw. 
That was it, wasn't it?  Strength.    "I think we make each other
strong," she whispered in a voice full of emotion.  He would keep his
promise.

     He leaned into her and their lips met, coming together in a
kiss that was this time anything but tentative.  She moved her 
fingers through his dark hair as the kiss deepened.  Mulder slid his
hands around her waist, pulling her closer, drawing her against him.

     When they finally broke away from each other, he buried his
face in her hair and whispered, "I don't think you know how much I
love you."

     "Stay," she whispered in answer.  "Stay with me."

     He turned to lay a gentle kiss upon her neck, then she felt his
lips curl into a smile. "Why, Agent Scully," he mused quietly, 
"that's hardly standard procedure."

     She laughed then, a soft noise deep in her throat.  "Mulder,"
she murmured softly, running a hand through his hair, "nothing you
do is standard procedure."

     He chuckled, and she lost herself in the low, seductive sound
and the feeling of his lips against her skin.

****************************************

     The streetlamps washed the stars from the sky, making it
look to Mulder like nothing more than a lifeless, black abyss,
endlessly empty, unimaginably cold.  He was staring out the
window, Scully's bedroom window, at the world outside the two of
them.

     He glanced over at his sleeping partner, at her slow, rhythmic
breathing, and knew they weren't a part of that world anymore.  They
were beyond it, apart from it, aliens in their own ways, strangers in
the midst of backyard barbeques and baseball games and suburban
routine.  He had always been an outsider, living his own eerie life
quite apart from the rest of humanity, and he had been singularly
unprepared for the fireball from the heavens that had been Scully. 
She had haunted him from the beginning, and she had paid the price
for it.

     Yet, she made the choice and she stayed, was somehow
willing to walk with him along this strange, dark path that was his
-- *their* -- life.  She had become his partner in every sense of the
word, and she had forsaken all others, all which embodied the
prosaic and the secure.  His quest and his grail had become hers as
well.

     Somehow, she loved him.  As he watched her shift in her
sleep, a smile crept over his features at the thought of that one
simple truth, the only constant in the universe.  She made him
strong.  Alone he was just a man, but together they were a force of
nature, powerful and fierce.

     And dangerous.  His eyes clouded over and he returned his
gaze to the window.

     He was watching the sky.

***END***

The development of our cerebral cortex has been the greatest achievement of
the evolutionary processes.  Big deal.
					-- Fox Mulder, FBI

Verbum sapienti:
quo plus habent,
eo plus cupiunt.
Post nubila, Phoebus.  -- Enya