Her apartment is as quiet as it ever gets, and dark.  Street
noise - normal, comforting - drifts in through the tight-shut
windows, and the blinds are closed, leaking only the
faintest hint of streetlights.  She can almost hear her heart
beat.  But she still can't sleep.  The baby won't let her.

Dana Scully rolls from her back to her side and peers at the
red numbers on her alarm clock. 3:22 a.m.

"Oh, God," she murmurs, exhausted.  One arm flops
beside her head as she rolls back again.  The other rubs
lightly at her distended belly.  "Don't you ever sleep?"

Her child rewards the question with an even more
emphatic kick at her insides, and Scully winces.  "I'm
taking that as a 'no.'"

Trying to sleep is obviously going to be an exercise in
futility.  With a sigh, Scully pushes herself to her feet and
heads for the bathroom.

In the harsh fluorescent glow of the overhead light, the
strain of the past several months is more evident than
usual.  Her eyes are rimmed red with exhaustion; her
cheeks, much too thin for a woman nearly seven months
pregnant.  Stress has worn deep lines across her forehead
and around her mouth.  She meets her own eyes in the
mirror and barely recognizes herself.

Tired hands turn the faucet taps; she splashes lukewarm
water on her face and decides to brush her teeth again.

"Okay, kid, here's the deal," she says, reaching for the
toothpaste.  "I'm going to make some tea.  You have about
fifteen minutes to finish with the jumping jacks.  After that,
I'm going back to bed, and you're going to let me get some
sleep."  She squeezes out a small amount of white-and-
green striped gel onto her toothbrush.  "Because you don't
want to know what'll happen if your mother passes out in
the middle of a meeting with Kersh."

It's happened before....

Scully feels the words more than hears them, the familiar
wry tone crackling across her mind like lightning.  She
startles violently.  "Mulder!"

The bathroom light spills a cool glow into the hallway.
Bedroom, spare room, living room; all are lost in shadow.

In here, Scully.

Living room.  Bare feet slide, suddenly uncertain of
footing, across the floor; hands seek a precarious balance
against the walls.  She is in the living room, braced against
a chair, almost before she realizes she's moved.

He stands by the window, in front of the desk she'd taken
from his apartment, his figure half lit by streetlamps and
moonlight, half in shadow.  His eyes are downcast.
Looking at the desk?

That's not right ....  His voice -- if she can call it a voice --
sounds puzzled.

"Mulder?"

I need your help, Scully.

His gaze shifts to her, touches her face, her body.  Their
eyes meet briefly.  The baby shifts within her.

He smiles.

Scully rushes forward, but Mulder's image fades into
nothing but moonlight, and dust motes in the air.
"Mulder..."

He is gone.


In the void left by his absence, Scully falls into the chair at
her desk and buries her head in her arms.  Something
metallic clatters to the floor, dislodged by her movement.
Scully sighs.  Awkwardly, she bends to pick up the
wayward object.  Her fingers brush over engraved brass
letters.  She sets the nameplate carefully back in its proper
place and stares at its moonlit gleam while her mind spins
circles within her skull.  A moment later, she turns on the
desk lamp.  From a side drawer, she removes a thick
folder of word-processed pages.  She opens it to the first
sheet.

Coroner's Report, it reads.

Subject: Fox William Mulder.

----------------------------


J. Edgar Hoover Building
Washington, D.C.
March 6, 2001
7:43 a.m.

"And Hargreaves' assistant -- Donna Bauer -- did she also
leave no forwarding address?"

Scully is on the phone when Doggett enters the office.  A
red-striped file folder lies in front of her, its contents
spread wide across her desk.  Her voice carries a familiar
edge.  Doggett can empathize with whatever unfortunate
soul is on the other end of the line.

"And no one thought any of this was at all suspicious?"  A
short pause.  "I see.  Well, when your supervisor does get
in, tell him Agent Dana Scully would like to speak with
him.  Please."  The courtesy is only grudgingly appended.
Scully spits out the office phone number and hangs up.

"Unbelievable," is her comment to him.

"You're here early," Doggett rejoins.  "Was that to do with
the Wahlston case?"  He waves a green-tagged bag of
Lipton's finest decaf at her from over by the coffee
machine.  "Tea?"

"Thanks," says Scully, regarding the tea, "and no.  It's an
old -- an old case."

Doggett recognizes that particular half-wary, half-longing
tone of voice.  He questions her carefully.  "Mulder?"

She raises her head sharply, and the look in her eyes has
Doggett quickly retreating behind his own desk.  For a
moment, her eyes bore into him, and when she replies, he
can sense her reluctance.

"I was speaking with the night nurse at Deaconness
Medical Center," she said.  "Trying to track down the
coroner who performed the - the autopsy."

"And?"

"And, he's missing.  As is his assistant.  Since two days
after Mulder was buried."

"Wow."  Doggett leans back in his chair, brain starting to
perform calculations that he doesn't much like.  Scully's
paranoia is starting to rub off on him.  "Bit of a coincidence
there."  He throws out the comment, like bait.

He can see her eyes narrow.  "I don't believe in coincidence
anymore, Agent Doggett."

Bingo.

Scully gets up and starts moving restlessly about the
office.  Doggett watches her curiously.  She exudes a
nervous energy that she hasn't evidenced in months, not
since her partner was buried.

"Why now?" he asks.

"What?"

He clarifies.  "What made you want to get in touch with the
coroner again, after three months?"

Scully stops her pacing by the coffee machine, watching
the tea water steam.  She pours herself a mugful, then
turns off the burner.

"I had a dream," she says finally.  Her back is still turned, a
strange tone in her voice.

"A dream?"

"Maybe not a dream," she clarifies.  "Maybe.  It doesn't
matter."  Doggett can see her arm moving as she dips the
tea bag.  Up and down.

"And the dream made you think - what?  That something
fishy was going on with the Lewis and Clark County
coroner?"  Doggett doesn't much like the aggressiveness
that has come into his voice at this first whiff of something
not completely mundane, but he can't help himself.  It's too
deeply ingrained.  And given recent events, he thinks he
has the right to be suspicious of strange perceptions on
Scully's part.

"Forget the dream," she says then.  "It only drew my
attention to the coroner's report again.  And I noticed a few
things I missed when I first read it back in December."

"Things like what?"  He's not completely pacified, but he'll
let it slide.

"Like missing scars," she says.  She sits, and takes a sip of
her tea.  Doggett figures his face must show his
puzzlement, because she clarifies. "It's customary for a
coroner to do an external, as well as an internal,
examination of the victim.  Any and all distinguishing
features are usually written down at this time.  Scars,
birthmarks, things like that.  Mulder -- Mulder had a lot of
scars."

He eyes her, but she's perfectly calm, her earlier agitation
suppressed, if not absent.  Her blue eyes meet his levelly.

"Some of his scars were not noted in the report."

"That could just be carelessness."

"It could be," she admits.  "But there were other
irregularities.  More subtle things.  Things I didn't notice
the first few times through because I wasn't looking for
them."

"So you decided to give the guy a call, for clarification."

Scully nods.

"And now you find out that he's unavailable.  That he's
been gone for almost three months."

"Yes.  And I wonder ...."  Her voice trails off, and her eyes
slide away from him.

"Wonder?" he asks, even though it's obvious she's not
going to answer.  He blew any chance at that with his
dream comment.

Sure enough, when she speaks again, it's not to complete
her earlier thought.  "Skinner might be in," she says,
looking at her watch.  "I'm going to see if he'll run a few
checks for me on Hargreaves and Bauer.  But I don't think
he'll find them."  Scully gathers up the papers on her desk
and leaves.  He listens to her footsteps recede down the
hallway, and frowns.  Much as it galls him to admit it,
even to himself, he doesn't think they'll be found, either.


Liberty Diner
Washington, D.C.
7:34 p.m.

The diner looks indefinably welcoming to Scully as she
drives up.  She parks her car next to a floodlit 15-foot
replica of the Statue of Liberty, torch upheld against the
night.  A string of red, white and blue pennants waves
from the diner's facade.  Warm light spills out of the plate-
glass windows.

Give me your tired, your poor ...

She and Mulder had been here a number of times over the
years, when they had paperwork to do in the evenings,
and little white cartons of take-out whatever had lost their
appeal.  The Liberty had the best cheeseburgers in the DC
metropolitan area, and waitresses who didn't seem to
mind when their patrons would linger for hours over
coffee and expense reports.  Scully hasn't been back since
Mulder disappeared.

Somehow it seems appropriate tonight.

Inside, the diner is all bright chrome and red vinyl, with
pecan and apple pies under glass on the counter and
World War II memorabilia on the walls.  Skinner has
commandeered a booth along the side wall, and is
studying a yellowed newspaper clipping about the Battle
of Midway.  He looks up at her approach.

"Interesting place," he says.  He stands up to take her coat;
she waves him off, and hangs it herself on the peg at the
end of the booth.

"Did you find anything?"  She slides into the booth,
arranging herself carefully between the seat back and the
edge of the table.  Another couple of weeks, and she'd
have to sit sideways.

Skinner shakes his head.  "Gone without a trace, just as
you expected.  Nothing on either of them after that date,
that I could find in a day."

"Did you check the airlines?"

"Nothing under either of their names.  Bank accounts
haven't been touched.  No credit card transactions for
either of them since December 14th."

"I called Joseph Hargreaves' wife," Scully says.

"And?"

"She's convinced they ran off together.  Apparently there
were rumors of an affair around the hospital, too, before
they disappeared.  But even she is a bit surprised that she
hasn't heard from him."

The waitress arrives to take their orders.  Skinner orders
meatloaf, Scully a cheeseburger with fries.

"Cheeseburger?" Skinner asks when the waitress has left.
His tone of voice suggests he was expecting her to have a
fruit plate with cottage cheese.  He's seen enough of her
eating habits over the past few months to know that
cheeseburgers are not usually on the menu, even with her
pregnancy.  But she's hungry today.

"It's a diner, sir," she says, as if that explains it.

"Ah."  Unenlightened, Skinner continues the conversation.
"If they left voluntarily," he says, "then they're flying pretty
low under the radar.  Fake ID, almost certainly.  A source
of cash, somewhere, that can't be traced to them.  They may
have left the country."

"But you don't believe that."

"No, I don't.  And neither do you."

Scully nods.  "I think they were forced to leave, possibly
threatened.  Or they might be dead."

Skinner lets that sink in for a while.  The waitress brings
their drinks.

"Thanks," he says to her, then to Scully, "Okay.  Let's
assume for the moment that Hargreaves and his assistant
were removed involuntarily, and that their removal had
something to do with the fact that they performed
Mulder's autopsy.  Who would have reason to do that?"

"There's always the usual suspect."

"Krycek, you mean?"

"He did want to talk to me about something regarding
Mulder."

Scully can see Skinner remembering that terrible day when
her grief and rage had peaked.  His concern for her is
almost palpable.  She smiles slightly to reassure him.

"With respect, though, sir, I think you're asking the wrong
question.  Not who did this, but why?"

He studies her.  "Why, then, Agent Scully?"

She sets out to convince him with all the conviction
Mulder ever put into the same task.  "I told you about the
omissions in the autopsy report.  They fit a pattern.
Without exception, they are from injuries or medical
problems which would never have found their way into
any Consortium file.  Things that were never treated in any
hospital.  Mulder has a round scar on his knee.  He got it
in seventh grade, slipping on a diving board at the local
pool.  It's not in the autopsy report.  And yet the gunshot
wound to his scalp, which is hidden under his hair and far
less obvious, is noted and recorded in detail.  Internal
things, too -- tests which could have been performed and
were not -- I think because they didn't know what the
answers should be.

"They tried to fake him, and they didn't know him well
enough."

Skinner stares at her while she takes a long drink of water.

"You think the autopsy report was faked?"

"I think the *autopsy* was faked.  A report was put
together, maybe with Hargreaves' help, but the autopsy
was never performed."

"Scully ...  Dana ..."  Skinner trails off at the waitress'
cheerful, "Here we are," and waits while their meals are set
before them and the woman retreats.  Scully can see his
doubt; to some extent, she shares it.  She knows she's
hanging a heavy load of speculation on a thin thread of
fact.  Mulder would be proud of her.

"Mulder would appreciate this," Skinner says finally,
echoing her thoughts.

"I know."

"If they didn't do the autopsy," he starts again, "why not?"

Scully takes a bite of her cheeseburger while she thinks.
"This is just conjecture --"

"Of course."

"-- but, what if they did something to Mulder they don't
want us to know about?  Something that would show up in
an autopsy.  Or if they took his body?  It's happened
before.  The casket could be empty.  Or what if --"

That's not right.

I need your help, Scully.

"What if -- " She whispers her secret hope, the one she had
promised herself she would not reveal.  "What if the body
that Doggett found wasn't Mulder at all?  What if it was a
clone, and Mulder's still alive?"

"Scully ...."

She reaches out and lays her hand over his where it rests
on the table.  She looks up into his agonized face.  "Help
me find out, sir.  One way or the other.  I need to know."


Mount Comfort Cemetery
Alexandria, VA
11:28 p.m.

"I can't believe you talked me into this," Doggett says.  He
is standing with Skinner between the graves.  The moon is
overhead, nearly full; it sheds the only light on the scene
until Skinner brings out his flashlight.  He shines it briefly
at the headstone in front of him.  Fox Mulder, 1961 - 2000
gleams back.

"This is the one," Skinner confirms.

"This is insanity," Doggett grouses.  "Sir.  Don't we need a
warrant for this?  Or a permit?  Or something?"

Skinner hands him a shovel, his face unreadable.
"Sometimes it's easier to beg forgiveness than to ask
permission."

"I can't believe you just said that.  I can't believe I'm even
standing here."  Skinner's shovel bites into the dirt.  No sod
has yet been laid on the new grave, and the soil has barely
had time to settle.  The shovel lifts again easily, and
Skinner tosses the dirt aside.  "What does Scully expect
you to find down there?"

"I'm not sure she even knows."  Skinner stamps the shovel
down again into the ground.  "I only know I can't live with
the doubt.  Hers, or mine."  He looks up.  "You gonna help,
Agent Doggett?"

"Yeah," Doggett says.  He takes off his jacket and lays it
over a nearby headstone.  "I'll help."

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

"The moment of truth," says Doggett.  He and Skinner have
been digging for close to two hours, and both men steam
with sweat in the chilly air.  They've excavated the coffin
and lifted it to level ground.  He couldn't detect any
movement inside the coffin despite all the bumping and
shoving.  No bones rattling around, he thinks, on the edge
of totally inappropriate laughter.  The setting is getting to
him, though.  It's the witching hour, and a near-full moon
rides the sky.  For a moment he entertains the thought that
Scully might be right.  Mulder might not be in that coffin.
What do they do then?

Skinner has cleared enough dirt from the latches to
unclamp the coffin.  "Moment of truth," he echoes.  He lifts
the lid.

Doggett can't see anything beneath the lid's shadow, but
there's none of the smell of decomposition that he had
feared.  Skinner, presumably, can see better.  "Doggett," he
says, his voice strangled, "get my flashlight."

It takes him a few moments to find the thing, on the grass
at the edge of the dirt pile.  He brings it back to Skinner,
who hasn't moved a muscle.  He finds the switch and flips
it on.

The flashlight's beam illuminates the edge of the coffin lid
and the pristine blue satin lining.  Doggett lowers the
beam.  "Jesus Christ."  Whatever he had been expecting,
even in the dimmest recesses of his mind, it wasn't this.
Mulder is in the coffin, after all.  Almost three months
since Doggett had found him unbreathing and cold in the
Montana woods, and he hasn't changed a bit.

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

In a wooded area at the edge of the cemetery, a man
lowers a pair of high-powered infrared binoculars.  He's
seen the two figures completing their work among the
graves, their bright figures receding, carrying a third, less
bright but still distinct against the cold background.  Past
time to call the boss.  The line picks up after the third ring.

"Yeah?"

"You wanted me to let you know if the grave was
disturbed."

"And has it been?"

"Skinner and Doggett just walked out of here with him."

A pause, in which he hears murmurs of conversation.

"Okay.  Let me know where they take him."

"Will do."  The man hangs up and hurries to pack up his
things.  If he's quick, he'll be able to catch them coming out
of the parking lot.


Inova Alexandria Hospital
Alexandria, VA
March 7, 2001
3:10 a.m.

 She finds Skinner in the corridor outside the morgue,
 talking to several people in surgical scrubs and one man
 in a lab coat.  She strides into their midst.

"Is it true?" she demands.

"Slow down," says Skinner.  He guides her away from the
others with a hand to her elbow.

Scully shakes him off.  "I want to see him."

"I know you do.  I was hoping we'd have him in a regular
room before you got here."

"He's in the morgue?"

"They didn't know where to put him.  Some of them still
won't admit -- "

"Is it true?" she interrupts.  Her voice feels like it's going to
break.

Skinner nods.

Scully whirls and pushes open the morgue door.

Mulder lies on the cold metal table nearest the door,
wearing only a hospital gown.  The funeral suit she'd
picked out herself drapes over a nearby stool.  Dark gray
wool, blue oxford shirt.  She'd always liked him in blue.
EEG leads are attached to his skull, leading to a box where
thin green lines dance in unfamiliar patterns.  She can see
no other signs of life.  Cautiously, she touches the skin of
his arm.  Her fingers glide over smooth, abnormally cool
flesh.

Skinner and Lab Coat have followed her through the
doors.  "He's warmed up a few degrees since your
colleagues brought him in," the doctor says quietly.  "His
oral temperature was 72 a few minutes ago, just above the
temperature of the room.  Don't ask me how.  He has some
muscle tone, in his voluntary muscles anyway.  He doesn't
breathe, and his heart doesn't beat."

"But he's alive."  Skinner has brought over another stool for
her, and now he pushes her gently down onto it.  Scully
keeps hold of Mulder's arm throughout.  She can't seem to
stop trying to rub warmth into his skin.

"Don't ask me how," the doctor repeats, "but I'd have to say
yes.  You can see the EEG for yourself."  His voice rises
with excitement.  "Some of my colleagues are talking about
a kind of super-hibernation, or suspended animation ..."

She tunes the voice out.  Her eyes study Mulder's pale
face.

Skinner speaks softly beside her ear.  "Doggett's upstairs
trying to get the administrators to put him in a regular
room.  He's doing a lot of badge-waving.  I'm sure it'll be
just a few minutes."

Scully nods.  "Can I have a minute with him?" she
whispers.

"Of course."

She's vaguely aware of Skinner herding the doctor -- she
didn't even get his name -- out through the double doors.
She watches the green lines on the screen, reassured when
they never falter.  Carefully, she lowers her head to
Mulder's unmoving chest.  She breathes deep, and closes
her eyes.


J. Edgar Hoover Building
10:14 a.m.

Skinner is on his way out of his office when he feels a
telltale pain in his chest.  Nanobots.  Krycek's little love
tap.  He stumbles, and careens into the wall.

"Sir?  Are you all right?"  Out of the corner of his eye, he
sees Kimberley push back her chair in alarm.  He needs to
get out of here.  He straightens, with effort.

"Okay," he says.  "I'm okay.  Thank you."

By the time he gets to the hall, the pain has eased, but his
stomach is churning.  Krycek turning up now cannot be a
good sign.  Skinner punches the ëdown' elevator button.
The bastard can come find him, if he wants him.

Krycek is in the elevator.

"Surprise," he says.

"Go to hell," says Skinner.  He turns to walk away; the
nanos seize him with pain once more, and he sinks to the
floor.  Through bleary eyes, he can see Krycek bending
over him, holding that damned torture device.

 "Shame on you," Krycek murmurs.  "You eat with that
 mouth?  And you don't even know what I want yet."

"I don't care what you want."

"I think you do."  Krycek stands, and a moment later the
pain abruptly ends.  "Come on, Walter."  He grins.  "Let's
take a ride."

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

In the X-files office, Krycek makes himself comfortable at
Mulder's desk.  Skinner remains standing, jaw and fists
clenched.

Krycek taps the picture frame Scully keeps there.  Mulder,
from one of their cases.  "The word on the street is he's
back from the dead, more or less.  He's a regular Houdini."

"Tell me what you want."  Skinner is in no mood for the
man's games.

"What I want is to give you the chance to save Mulder's
life."

"Mulder's already saved."

Krycek leans forward, meeting Skinner's glare with earnest
green eyes.  "See, but I know some things you don't.  I
know why he's not worm-bait already.  I know why he is
the way he is, and exactly how long he can stay that way.
And let me tell you," he leans back again, looking relaxed,
"he won't stay that way indefinitely."

Krycek looks about as sincere as a door-to-door vacuum
salesman.  Skinner wants to puke.

"I'll make a bargain with you, Skinner.  Quid pro quo.  I'll
even go first.  I'll arrange it so Mulder starts breathing
again.  You get me a DNA sample from Scully's baby."

"No."  The word snaps out of him without any conscious
input from his brain.

"I don't think you understand me, Walter."

"I do," says Skinner.  "I won't do that to her."  He turns his
back on Krycek, and focuses on the map of the continental
United States pinned to the room's wall.  Constellations of
multi-colored thumbtacks decorate its surface.  "It's
impossible, anyway," he adds.

Behind him, Krycek chuckles.  "Resurrecting the dead is
impossible.  Acquiring DNA is  pretty easy."

"She can't have an amnio now.  She's high-risk; her doctor
would never allow it."

"I'd be satisfied with the results from the first one."

Skinner turns around, startled.

Krycek smirks.  "Didn't think I knew about that, did you?
She was careful; I couldn't find any trace of the results
myself, but I know they exist."

"Why didn't you just go to Scully with this?"

"You were there the last time I tried.  Correct me if I'm
wrong, but I don't think she likes me very much."

Scully, right outside this very door, going after Krycek
with all the rage of the Furies ....

"I can't do this to her."

"I can get what I want very easily once the baby is born,
you know.  A few skin cells.  Strands of hair.  One little
cheek swab -- takes all of ten seconds and it's done.  You
won't stop me.  I'm offering you a chance to get something
in return."  He pauses.  "Right now, Mulder makes a coma
victim look animated.  Don't you want to help Scully get
her partner back?"

Skinner hesitates.  His eyes land once more on the
photograph on the desk.

"I'll ask her," he says, and Krycek smiles.


Inova Alexandria Hospital
10:02 a.m.

Doggett's still here, Scully notes on her way back down the
hall.  He slumps on a white plastic hospital chair in the
hallway outside Mulder's new room.  A wrinkled copy of
the Post decorates the floor by his feet.

"You should go home and get some sleep," Scully says, in
lieu of a greeting.

"Good morning to you, too, Agent Scully."  Doggett
straightens his spine, and tries to flex some feeling back
into his toes.

"I'm serious," Scully says.  "You look exhausted."  She
hands him a bag containing a plain bagel and orange juice.
"Cafeteria's finest."

"Thanks.  Any new ideas from the brain trust?"

Scully smiles ruefully.  Lab Coat has a lot of friends, now.
Mulder's case is attracting high-powered doctors from all
over the DC area.

"Plenty of ideas," she responds.  "Theirs and mine.  All
completely unsupported, of course, at least until some of
the tests come back."  She frowns.  All she can do for now
is wait.

Doggett just nods, slumping a little deeper in his chair.
He looks hideously uncomfortable.

"Go home," she repeats.  "Mulder's not going anywhere.
And I'll be fine."

"You sure?"

At her nod, he collects his paper and stands.  "Call me if
anything comes up."

"I will."

She watches him go, then turns the knob and enters
Mulder's room.  The hospital has come through for him,
finally, and assigned him to a private room in the
Cardiology unit.  Appropriate, in a way.  He's still largely
free of the tubes and wires he seems to collect at most of
his hospital stays.  To the EEG has been added only a
nasal cannula attached to an oxygen canister.  She's not
quite sure why they've bothered.  Maybe it makes the
nurse feel better -- a small gesture to normalcy.

"As if you've ever been normal," she murmurs, feeling a
fond smile tug at her lips.

"Dana?"  A familiar voice interrupts her thoughts.

"Mom!"  Her mother's arms wrap around her tightly.
Scully hugs her back, eyes suddenly stinging with tears.
As always, her mother's touch threatens to undo her.  With
a deep breath, Scully steps back and smiles.

"Thank you for coming."

"Don't thank me, Dana.  Of course I had to come."  Her
mother's voice is gently chiding, but her grip on Scully's
hand is warm and secure.  "How is he?"

Scully steps aside so Maggie can see for herself.  "Just like
I told you on the phone.  Alive.  But not in a way anyone's
ever seen before."  She watches as her mother studies
Mulder's face, then touches his hand.  Finally she
addresses her daughter.

"Will he recover?"

Scully winces, despite Maggie's sympathetic tone.  Trust
her mother to get right to the point.  "I don't know.
Nobody knows."

Maggie gives Mulder's hand a squeeze.  "Have faith."

Scully sinks into the chair beside the bed.  "I try.  It's hard
sometimes."  She closes her eyes, and rests her head on her
arms, crossed at Mulder's side.  "I can't stop remembering
the three months I looked for him.  I was so certain I'd find
him.  I never gave up hope.  And then we did find him...."
She turns her head downward, and speaks to the floor.  "It
killed me, Mom.  There were times, that I....  That I
honestly couldn't comprehend why I was still breathing."

"I know.  I understand."

Guilt pricks at her.  She hadn't meant to remind her mother
of painful events.  She sneaks a look at Maggie and sees
only calm compassion.  Scully straightens in her chair and
continues.  "So now, I'm having a little trouble believing
that he may recover.  I'm afraid to hope."

"Then don't hope."

"What?"  Scully is shocked out of her melancholy.

"Pandora's box," says her mother.  "You know the story, I
think."

Scully nods, and raises an eyebrow in question.

"I always wondered about that myth.  All the world's
monsters in one little box.  Sickness.  Famine.  Hatred.  All
let loose through one woman's folly.  And Hope left
behind.

"I always wondered, why would Hope be prisoned in the
same box with all of the evils?  It never made sense to me,
until I grew up, and suffered losses.  And then I wondered
if maybe Hope belonged there, after all."

Scully is silent, gripping tightly to the arm of her chair,
eyes fixed on her partner's face.

"I think you know what I mean, when I say that."  Her
mother's voice has never been more compassionate.

"Yes," Scully whispers.  "I do."

"Don't hope, Dana.  Hope is jealous.  It wants only one of
all possible outcomes.  It takes no notice of what must be,
only of selfish desire.  Hope has no trust in God's wisdom.
But that's exactly what faith is."

Maggie reaches out, and brushes Mulder's still face.  "Do
what you need to do to bring him back to you, Dana.  But
do it out of faith, not hope."


10:28 p.m.

The hospital corridor is dim at this time of night.  But not
so dim that Skinner can't recognize the figure approaching
from the entrance to the stairs.

"Krycek." He nods, feeling strangely calm.

"You have the information?"

"In a safety-deposit box in Bethesda.  You get the key
when Mulder's feeling more his old self."

"That was the agreement, wasn't it?"  Krycek leads the way
into Mulder's room, flipping on the light as he goes.  He
bends over Mulder's bed, testing the temperature of his
skin, holding a finger in front of his nose, finally laying a
palm on Mulder's chest.  Skinner folds his arms tightly
across his chest to keep from swatting the man away.

Krycek watches the green lines dance on the EEG screen
for a moment, then grins at Skinner.  "It's hard to believe,
isn't it ... that Mulder could ever possibly get out of that
bed?"

"Make me believe it," says Skinner, "or you get nothing."

He half-expects Krycek to respond with a threat, and is
somewhat surprised when the man merely nods.  "One
miracle," he says.  "Coming right up."  He waves in the
direction of the door, a gesturing motion.

Skinner turns, and is startled to see a man standing just
inside the room.  He hadn't heard him enter.  The man has
pale skin, and curly brown hair.  Skinner can't put an age
to him; his face is oddly immobile.

Krycek moves beside him as the stranger approaches
Mulder's bed.  "One of my allies," he mutters to Skinner.
"Sometimes, anyway," he adds, under his breath.

The stranger turns at the sound of Krycek's voice, and
Skinner realizes what's so odd about his face.  His eyes
don't move.  Skinner shivers in the presence of the
inhuman.

"Go ahead," says Krycek, his voice sharp.

The alien raises human-seeming hands to Mulder's face.
Suddenly Skinner feels something, like a sound just too
low or too high to hear, something that makes the hairs on
his neck stand on end and his back teeth ache.  It lasts for
an intolerable minute, maybe two, then abruptly ends.
The alien drops his hands and turns away.

"Is he ... ?"  Skinner can't get the words past the tightness in
his throat.

"Check for yourself."

He approaches the bed slowly, feeling like he's walking in
a dream.  Mulder's skin is still cool to the touch, but not as
cool as it was when he dug him up.  But that's only to be
expected; it's a lot warmer in here than outside.  Something
else, then.  He feels for a pulse, and can't find one, but that
proves nothing.  Half the time he can't find his own pulse,
and right now his fingers are shaking badly.  He pulls back
the white blanket, the bleached white sheet, and lays his
hand flat on Mulder's chest, as Krycek had done.

Mulder's heart is beating.  Skinner snatches his hand away
in reflex.

"Oh, my God."

Behind him, he hears Krycek laugh.

Mulder's body shudders from head to toe, then he coughs.
A gasp, then another, then abruptly, shockingly, he is
breathing normally.  Color returns to his face.

"It'll take him a while to wake up."  Skinner hears Krycek's
voice, dispassionate, behind him.  "Since he was ...
underground ... for so long.  Twelve hours, maybe twenty-
four.  More than that, you can sue my friend for
malpractice.  If you can find him."

Mulder has actually started to snore, not very loudly.
Skinner doesn't know whether to laugh or cry or shout.
When he gets home he may do all three.

"Key's on the chair outside," he says without turning,
"under my coat.  There's a note with the bank address and
access instructions."

He hears rustling noises by the door, then Krycek's voice.
"Got it.  Skinner."

"Yeah."  Here comes the threat, he thinks.

"I can read a DNA chart," Krycek says.  "I know what I'm
looking for.  I'll know if you double-crossed me.  I can
push a little button and send thousands of nanobots
sizzling to your brainstem in a second.  Remember that,
Skinner."

"I didn't give you fake results."  Skinner watches Mulder's
face, animated and alive now, even in sleep.

"Good.  You made a good bargain."

Krycek and his sometimes-ally depart.  From the corner of
his eye, Skinner can see them disappear down the hall.

"I know," he says.


March 8
7:35 a.m.

Scully looks different.  Doggett stands in the doorway of
Mulder's room for a moment, watching her doze in the
chair beside the bed.  Her legs are curled beneath the seat.
One hand rests on the swell of her abdomen; the other
stretches out along the edge of the bed.  Her head lolls
gracelessly.  Doggett can't help but smile at her
uncharacteristic total relaxation.

He must have made a noise, because Scully jerks and
straightens, blinking her eyes.  He notices her quick glance
at the bed beside her.

Yep, still there, he thinks.  Still breathing.

"Agent Doggett?"

"I heard the good news," he tells her.  "The brain trust
seems a little perturbed."

"Too bad for them," she says, and grins.  The smile
transforms her, erasing the last vestiges of her grief.
Doggett knows he's never seen her smile like that.  He
moves further into the room, studying Mulder with
curiosity and a little wonder.  "What a change in one day.
He looks great."

"I think he might wake up soon.  His sleep patterns are
becoming more regular, and every cycle he comes closer to
consciousness."

Doggett watches her take Mulder's hand, and twine their
fingers together.  "I only wish," she says quietly, "that I
knew what price was paid for his recovery."

"You mean this wasn't spontaneous."

"No.  I wish I could believe that.  But no."  She glances at
Doggett, an assessing look.  "I got a call from Skinner this
morning, early."

"And?"

"And he told me to get here.  That Mulder was okay.
Sleeping."  Her thumb makes slow, unconscious sweeps
over the back of Mulder's hand.  "His voice was ... not
right."

For once in all his months on the X-files, Doggett makes
the necessary connection effortlessly.  "He made a deal."

"I think so.  But -- "

He sees her face change, and spins to look at the door.
Skinner is there, eyes locked with Scully's.

"Sir!"  She levers herself up out of her seat.

"Let's go to the cafeteria, okay, Agent Scully?"  He glances
at Doggett, then at Mulder's sleeping form.  "It'll only take
a minute."

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

Skinner insists that she eat before he'll talk.  She finds
herself swallowing down a bowl of gluey oatmeal with
raisins, with a side of cranberry juice.  Her face puckers
dramatically when she swallows the juice.

"Don't like cranberry juice?"

"Hate it," she said.  "But the baby must want it.  I keep
buying it, expecting it to taste better next time.  It never
does."

Skinner gives her a half smile.  "There's probably a lesson
in that."

"Probably.  Sir?"

"Agent Scully?"  His eyes slide over her face, then away.
One finger taps restlessly against the edge of the table.

"Walter," she says.  That gets his attention.  "I want to know
what price you paid for Mulder's recovery."

Skinner's hand stills, and he meets her questioning eyes.  "I
paid nothing, Dana," he says quietly.  "Nothing at all."

She stares at him.  "I know these people as well as you do.
They don't do things out of the goodness of their hearts.  If
you bargained for Mulder's recovery ...."

"Nothing," he repeats.  "Scully, listen to me."

"No, sir!  Whatever you did, you didn't have to do it!  We
could have researched what was causing his condition,
determined how to reverse it ...."  Scully lets her voice trail
off, knowing in her heart just how long the odds really had
been.

Skinner's brown eyes bore into her, more intense than she's
ever seen them.  "You and Mulder have a chance for some
happiness.  Don't pass it up."

He's talking in riddles, and her overloaded mind is simply
not capable of solving them.  "Sir?" She watches him gather
keys and overcoat to leave, feeling exhausted and numb.
Skinner gives her a wry grin.

"What time do you think the banks open in Maryland?"


J. Edgar Hoover Building
9:10 a.m.

Doggett steps into Kersh's office and immediately, as
always, feels oppressed by the dark atmosphere.  Outside,
the morning sun shines brightly; inside, only thin bright
stripes of light penetrate the blinds.  The office lighting
does little to cut the gloom.  Kersh looks up at his
approach, his expression unreadable.

"Sir, you wanted to see me?"

"Sit down, John."  Kersh holds an official-looking
document in his hands; his fingers play along the edges of
the paper.  "I hear there was a bit of a miraculous
occurrence last night," he says, once Doggett has settled
himself.

Doggett shifts in his chair.  "I don't know that I'd call it a
miracle, sir.  It was unexpected."

"I've been thinking, and I find myself wondering how a
man three months dead and buried suddenly comes to be
breathing again.  Even walking and talking, soon, if the
reports are to be believed.  It beggars belief, John."

"I think we're all still wondering."

"Are we?"  Kersh's dark eyes hold Doggett's for a long
moment.  "I think someone must know exactly how this
miracle occurred.  I'd think I'd like to know, as well."  He
leans back in his chair.  "Care to shed any light on events,
Agent Doggett?"

Doggett studies his face carefully, but Kersh gives nothing
away.  Finally Doggett says, "I can't help you, sir."

Kersh nods as if he had expected no other answer, and
hands Doggett the stapled report he has been holding.
Doggett recognizes the seal of the Alexandria police
department.

"Apparently one or more persons broke into a local
cemetery night before last.  The management filed a police
report.  Looks like typical vandalism, except only one
grave was disturbed.  Your license plate was caught on a
security camera across the road.  John, the cemetery owner
wants to press charges."

Doggett realizes his mouth is hanging open and quickly
shuts it.  Kersh has to be joking.  He pages through the
police report, taking in each item with growing disbelief.

"This is ridiculous," he says finally.  "Sir, I helped save a
man's life.  I think that justifies a little dirt pile in the damn
rose bushes."

"No doubt that's true," his supervisor says.  "I'm fairly
certain the owner can be persuaded to drop the vandalism
charges, under the circumstances.  But you have to admit,
it's not good for the FBI's image.  I believe grave robbery is
still a felony in the state of Virginia."

Doggett shakes his head in disbelief.

"Luckily," continues Kersh, "the X-files division is fairly
low profile.  Do you understand me, Agent Doggett?
You're on the wrong floor."

Doggett nods, clutches the ridiculous police report in one
hand, and stands to go.  "Understood, sir."

"And John..."  Kersh's voice stops him at the door.
"Naturally, the cemetery will have to recoup their losses as
part of any settlement.  I believe you'll find an itemized
account of the damages on the last page of your report."

Doggett takes a last look at the Deputy Director as he
leaves the office.  Kersh's bland expression almost, but not
quite, conceals the maliciousness.


Inova Alexandria Hospital
8:48 pm

Skinner parks his car between a pair of SUV's and switches
off the ignition.  Directly in front of him is a shadowed
corner of the parking garage, formed by the edge of the
stairwell and the adjacent wall.  His headlights fail to
penetrate the dimness.  He squints through the windshield
at the ceiling.  The nearest overhead light seems to be
burned out.  Unsurprising.  He kills the lights and heads
for the stairs.  Halfway there he stops.  An open business
envelope lies on the floor, bright white in the gloom.  On
top of it, a blank sheet of paper.

A flurry of steps behind him and he is slammed face-first
up against the musty concrete wall.  The heavy weight of a
gun presses into his lower spine.

"I was expecting the nanobots," he grits out through the
pain in his jaw.

"Too impersonal."  Krycek's voice would freeze the flame
off a candle.  "You bastard.  You have no idea what's at
stake here."

"Scully's baby is not going to become your lab rat."

A snort of unamused laughter.  "That baby may be the
salvation of the human race."

"What --  "

"Shut up!"  A dig with the gun.  "You picked a hell of a
time to grow a set of balls, Skinner.  I need that DNA
sample.  And I'm going to get it."

Skinner opens his mouth to object.  Another dig with the
gun.  Krycek's voice hisses in his ear.  "Move again, and I
blow a three-inch hole through your guts.  Let me tell you
the way things are, Skinner.  You and I have both drawn
too much attention, bringing Mulder back from the good-
as-dead.  Certain parties are going to wonder why I
bothered.  They're not completely stupid.  One of these
days they're going to put one and one together and come
up with three, and when they do, that baby's life isn't
going to be worth the spit on a cigarette.

"You get me a sample of that baby's DNA.  Or I'll take it
myself."

The pressure on Skinner's back lets up, and he can hear
Krycek backing away.  He turns around slowly.

Krycek has reached the end of the row of cars, and the
second stairwell.  He still holds the gun trained on
Skinner's midsection.

From the doorway, he throws a familiar smirk in Skinner's
direction.  "I'll be in touch," he says, then is gone.


9:13 p.m.

The bedside chair has long since become uncomfortable,
and Scully shifts awkwardly, trying to find a better
position.  She settles for leaning half-on, half-off the edge
of Mulder's hospital bed, resting her weight on her arms.
Her fingers rub back and forth over his upturned palm.
He has spent most of the day flirting with consciousness,
but has yet to truly wake up.

 She's so tired, but she's not sleeping again until she hears
 his voice.

Mulder's fingers twitch, and she looks up sharply.  His
head moves on the pillow, turning in her direction.

"Mulder ..."

His eyes open, and meet her gaze.

Scully bites her lip hard to keep from bursting into tears.
She can feel her mouth curve into a wide smile.  "Hi," she
whispers.

Mulder's voice is scratchy.  "Must be bad," he says.  She
can see a matching smile flirting about his face.

"Bad?"

"You don't usually smile like that unless I've been at
death's door."

A gust of laughter escapes her, almost a gasp.  Scully
draws a shuddery breath and squeezes his hand.  She lays
her head down on his shoulder, pressing her lips to his
chest in a firm kiss..

"Mulder, you have no idea."

Her partner's arms come up around her and hold tight.
His breath teases her hair.

"Scully."

"Hmmm."

"I don't remember what happened to me."

She raises her head and regards him worriedly.
"Nothing?"

"No.  Except ... maybe dreams.  I don't know."

"Dreams?"  Mulder's expression is strange.  His eyes move
over her face, and she can see him take in the lines of stress
around her eyes and mouth.  He lifts a hand to touch her
hair.

"Your hair is longer."

Scully breathes carefully, and nods.  She'll have to tell him
all he's missed.  She opens her mouth to speak, but his
hand is still moving, sliding over her shoulder and along
the curve of her spine.  Then around to her front, still
hidden beneath the edge of the hospital bed.

"Scully ..."

He meets her eyes.   "Not a dream, then."  His voice is just
above a whisper.

She can feel the weight of Mulder's palm, warm and solid
and reassuring, through the layers of her clothes.  She nods
confirmation.

"Is this ... Did we ...?"

She can't resist a smile at the color in his cheeks.  "We most
certainly did, Mulder."  She straightens up, so Mulder can
see the evidence, and lays a hand over his where it rests on
her abdomen.

He shakes his head in wonder.  He opens his mouth, but
nothing comes out.  Scully grins even wider.  After nearly
a decade of knowing him, she's finally rendered Fox
Mulder completely speechless.

Her joyous laughter fills the room.

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

In the hall, Skinner hears Scully laugh.  A glance through
the door to Mulder's room shows the partners wrapped in
a fierce embrace at the edge of Mulder's bed.  Skinner
watches for a moment, then turns away.  His cheek still
stings where it had scraped against the concrete, and his
back hurts.  He hears Krycek's voice again in his mind.

That baby may be the salvation of the human race.

He hunches his shoulders against a sudden chill, and
walks on down the hall.


END.