TITLE:  Far Lesser Things (1/5)

AUTHOR:   Nynaeve

E-MAIL:  scully@on-net.net

RATING:  PG-13

CATEGORY:  S, post ep

KEYWORDS: MSR (implied/impending RST); conspiracy (a little)

SPOILERS:  big ones for "Biogenesis"; rumored season 7 spoilers
(premiere eps only); little ones for entire show

NOTE:  You will need to read my other post-"Biogenesis" story,
"Things Not Seen" to fully understand elements of this one.
The story is available at my site, under "Post Episode Fiction":
http://members.tripod.com/NynaeveSedai/NynaeveSedai.html


SUMARY:    Scully returns from Africa after making some interesting
discoveries.  Will they help her save Mulder?

DISCLAIMER:  Chris Carter...  yadda, yadda, yadda ...
1013 ... blah, blah, blah.  Bottom line:  not mine.

DEDICATION:  A and J as always.  Especially this time to J 'cause
she listened to me read about half of it.  Thanks for listening,
for going to the FBI building with me, and for not screaming at
all the little "Kryceks"!  <g>

FEEDBACK:  Yup. Love it.  Keep it all in little folders, specifically
marked for each story.  Respond to all of it too.

LANGUAGE NOTE:  Some of this takes place in the Ivory Coast, where
a dialect of French is spoken.  Therefore I have written some of the
dialogue in French.  I was hesitant to do this as the last time I
helped someone add in French, we were soundly criticized and then
corrected.  My intention here was to make the story as accurate as
possible, especially since I enjoy using French, something I don't
always get to do.  If you are a French speaker I would therefore ask that
you take into consideration French is not my native language and that
I have indeed made great effort to render as correctly as possible
your language.  If you should happen to find errors that are extremely
significant, that, for example, convey rudeness, I would be happy to
hear from you.  If you find minor errors in structure or form, for
example, using a formal form versus a familiar, slang type one,
please ignore it.  I have never, and will never, criticize a writer
whose native language is not English.  I deeply admire that you are
willing to write an entire story in my language and that you put
effort into getting it right.  Fan fiction has the power to draw
people from all over together.  Unwarranted criticism only has the
power to pull apart and engender negative feelings.  I respectfully
ask that with that in mind, you extend to me the same courtesy I
promise to continue to extend to you.



Far Lesser Things

'I've been a fool for far lesser things...'
Mary Chapin Carpenter



The water was warm and scented.  The translucent gelatin capsules
emptied their exotic-yet-familiar smelling oils into the tub.  Scully
inhaled, tried to put a name to the scent, but found she could not.
She dipped a finger into the water and caught one of the deflated,
dissolving pieces of pulp.  She crushed it between thumb and forefinger,
relishing its slimy texture.  It reminded her there was a real world
somewhere in the midst of the insane illusion she was living.  The
sharp, spicy scent drifted into her nose, revitalizing her body, but
calming her mind.  The oil and hot water caressed her knotted shoulders
easing the cramps there.  And between her thumb and forefinger the
pale mush tethered her to an ordinary world, yielding up to her a
modicum of hope.

Hope was all there was left now.  She turned her head slightly, as
it rested against the inflatable cloth and vinyl bath pillow.  Her
eyes came to rest on her cross, lying disregarded on the floor, its
chain pooled on the tiles.  The memento her mother had given her
during her teens, meant to be worn, meant to be cherished, meant to
draw her more firmly to her faith, shone dully in the overhead
light.  She had worn it almost constantly since Eugene Tooms took
her locket as a 'trophy'.  Lost during her abduction, it had been
placed in Mulder's loving care.  More than once had he returned it
to her.  Bestowed upon Emily Sim, a token of comfort for a lost,
little girl, given by an unsuspecting mother to an unsought-for
daughter, it had returned to her in a haze of tears and sand-blown
visions.  It had drawn the attention, over the years, of men such
as Owen Jarvis and Father Gregory who saw her wearing of it as a sign
she believed in the same things they did.  She stared at the cross
and wondered what it meant now.  What she found in Africa had shaken
her to the core, but could not *entirely* dislodge her faith.  Yet
it seemed God, whoever He was and wherever He existed, could or
would do nothing to lift from her the burden she faced.

She sunk lower in the tub, unwilling to acknowledge the words
in her mind.  She angled her neck, felt the water soak into her hair,
wash over her scalp.  She shifted until only her eyes, nose, and
mouth remained about the surface.  She raised her arms so they
floated, suspended, fingers trailing downward.  She closed her eyes
and let sensation take her.  The world, dark behind her eyelids, began
to spin slowly, gently.  She was only vaguely aware of the soft
motion of the water, propelled by her own breathing.  The urge,
pale and fleeting, to slip beneath the water, to still the action of
her lungs stole over her.  It took no root in her soul though.
That was not Dana Scully's way out.  Nothing in her nature allowed
her to take an easy way out.  She sighed and pulled herself up into
a sitting position, knees drawn to her breasts, hands clasped
around her shins.   As complex as her life was with Mulder in it,
it was about to get far more complex and she would not have his
strength upon which to draw.  The tears started as the words she had
been trying to deny broke through.  Mulder was dying.

**********************************************************************

Her mission to Africa had largely been a failure.  She returned unable
to help Mulder, only to find he was then considered beyond help.
His doctors said only a miracle would save him and somehow Scully
doubted any of those would be forthcoming.  God had been rather silent
for a long time now, on that subject anyway.  Worse, by the time she
had returned, he had lapsed into a coma, which was expected to be
terminal.  All of the things she had meant to tell him, of which
to assure him had died on her lips.  The moments, time she had
assumed they would have *someday* had vanished, leaving her with
only memories of polite touches, friendly caresses, relieved hugs,
and the genuine smiles of her best friend.  A moment in his hallway
she had believed they would complete someday would now live only
in her dreams; a night of love and laughter spent smacking horsehide
with a stick would only be repeated in what should have been.  Mulder
was dying and with him was dying much of Scully's world.

She had stayed in Africa for nearly a week, monitoring the progress of
the archeological team, caught between astonishment, disbelief, and
something bordering on resentment.  Days she had spent under the harsh
African sun, skin lathered in sunblock, hair pulled back, sometimes
helping to clear portions of the ever more exposed craft as a seawall
was constructed to hold back the tides that washed over its ancient
burial place.  Sometimes she had studied pieces of it that had come
loose or she stood atop it, studying its surface and the markings
there.  Nights she had spent sitting outside under benignly twinkling
stars where the air, if no cooler than inside the makeshift huts, was
at least fresh.  She had made notes, copious and exact, detailing her
activities and findings, drawing only vaguely worded conclusions for
most of what she saw.  She kept a separate log for her own thoughts,
concerns, and unscientific observations.  Much of her time she had
spent gazing at the ocean in front of her or the sky above her.

She had watched the rolling waves, rising and falling, starlight
flashing off their crests, moonlight playing in their troughs.
The sound, one intimate to her childhood, had met her ears in the
ageless whoosh and hiss of water overwhelming and then retreating
from the sandy shore.  She had pondered the miracle of
oceans. Formed billions of years ago, science told her, in response
to a cooling Earth, tides arising due to the gravity of her newly
ensnared moon.  The Bible told her it was the will of God, as He
set order to the universe He had troubled to create.

Her eyes had also been trained on the sky, dark, soft, and close.
There were few lights to pollute the air, allowing the stars to
shine and twinkle through the humid air.  For years had men and
women speculated about those stars, ascribing to them in Ancient
Times personas and powers.  They worshipped them. They feared them.
They held their motion to be sacred predictors of future events.
Time had moved on and science had eventually grown, lead by men
like Copernicus, Brahe, and Gallileo, who explained the motion
of the heavens in absolute, physical terms.  They dismissed the
notion that stars were as people.  They also placed the Earth not
at the center of the universe, the long held notion in scientific
cultures, but at its reaches.  In due course, the Space Age had
arrived and humankind had begun a hesitant exploration of
the nearest corners of its neighborhood.  Stars, galaxies,
nebulae, and the like were named, categorized, easily referenced.
Their compositions were noted, explained, sometimes puzzled over.
For the first time, it seemed, more people began to wonder if
scattered throughout that starlit sky there were others, different
civilizations. The idea became common and frequently debated.

Through all of the tumult of time, as civilizations rose and fell
and ceased even to be remembered, those of a religious nature,
faith deep and insistent, maintained the stars were the handiwork
of God and the Earth remained, in essence, the center of His
universe.  The thing, the craft, that ship lying under the waves
a few hundred feel away gave question to all of that.  Didn't it?

She had wept intermittently for a God she might be losing, for a
faith slipping away quietly with each stroke of seawater against
the alien ship out there.  She clung to the tenuous notion that
this was all a part of His plan, grand and mysterious, necessarily
unfathomable to the minds of men and women.  She had wept for all
those lost to her now, so suddenly gone, despite their deaths
having been long since.  It felt as though Ahab and Melissa
were ripped anew from her.  For, if God did not exist, if her
faith was a lie, then the cherished expectation of being with
them again someday was forfeit.  The aches, old and dulled by
the passage of time and the faulty mechanism of memory, flared
into fresh pain, hot, dark, more bitter than the first.  In
the end, she could not bring her soul to turn completely from the
idea, the reality of a God.  She simply needed Him too much.

On the fourth day Scully had been examining an artifact that
had been washed loose. Her fingers had traced the deep cut
grooves that formed letters unreadable to her.  The material,
like stone, yet akin to no stone Scully had ever encountered,
seemed to vibrate almost imperceptibly in her hand.  She knew
geologists frequently tested rocks to determine their composition
by tasting them, but had decided that sticking objects of unknown
origin in one's mouth was more Mulder's area of expertise than
hers.  She would settle for an eventual scientific analysis of
it.  She had been sketching the piece, making notes on it when
a commotion had broken out among the workers, a few hundred feet
away at the craft.  One of the men had come sprinting across
the sand, motioning for Scully to join them, calling in French, which
although Scully did not understand, she could guess.  Laying her
notes and the artifact aside, she had gathered her skirts in one
hand and had run to where the men stood in a knotted group.  In
the center, one of the men had lain on the sand, hands clenched
against his head, breathing rapid and shallow.  He had moaned
repeatedly a phrase Scully could not comprehend.  She had looked
to the dig foreman, a local archeologist named Amalik, who spoke
halting English.

Amalik had stared at her, puzzlement bright on his face.

"Amalik?"  she had prompted.

Amalik, now pale and starting to shake, said, "He say, ' Stop,
stop the voices.'"  Amalik paused.  "How is this?  We say
nothing."  He looked to Scully for answers she did not have.

In lieu of a response, she had made her way past the crowd
of men, into the circle.  She had knelt next to the stricken
man, laid a hand on his forehead.  His eyes were wide, terror
entrenched in them.  Scully watched as his eyes rolled back
and he seemed to fade out of consciousness.  She struggled
to remember his name.  "Thierry,"  she had said softly, her
brain at last supplying his name.

He had opened his eyes and struggled to focus on her, continuing
to moan now a single word, over and over.  "Arretez, arretez..."

Scully had looked at Amalik again.  "Let's move him to the huts,"
she had said.

Amalik had given orders Scully did not understand.  Several of the
men had gathered up their comrade.  Scully had begun walking across
the sand,  to the huts.  Social structure in the Ivory Coast was
extremely traditional.  Her very presence as a woman had caused
great commotion at first.  The mores imposed by this society forbid
the men to enter her dwelling, where it would have been easier to
treat Thierry, but Scully had not even dared to suggest it.  She had
known better.  She had known she would just have to manage, despite
the general crowding in the workers' hut.

Amalik had rushed ahead and pushed aside the curtain that served as
a door.  His eyes had met Scully's.  He had been clearly uncomfortable
with the idea of her entering the living quarters of the men, but
as they approached with Thierry, now muttering incoherently, he
dropped his eyes.  Conscious of the scandalized looks most of the
workers gave her, Scully had nevertheless followed them, kneeling
beside Thierry.  His eyes had begun to flutter, as his features
relaxed and his muttering subsided.  Scully had turned to request
that Amalik translate for her.

"Amalik, please ask him if he still hears the voices."

Amalik looked frightened by her request.  He had swallowed hard.
When he was ready he had spoken to Thierry softly.  "Thierry,
coute-moi."  Thierry had turned his head, fixing a distant,
tormented gaze on Amalik.  "Entends-tu toujours les voix?"

Thierry had nodded slowly, adding in a strained whisper, "Mais
il y a moins de voix maintenant."

Amalik had translated for Scully, explaining Thierry still heard
voices, but he heard fewer of them.  She had nodded.  "You...
expect this?"  Amalik had questioned.  "What is happening?"

"I'm not certain,"  Scully had answered honestly.  "But I have
an idea."  After a pause, spent thinking, connecting, determining
a course of action, she had said,  "Let him rest.  In a few
hours I will need to ask him more questions.  In the meantime,
I'd like to find out what the others saw or observed.  Hopefully,
that will give me some idea what's going on here."

They had left one man, a cousin of the afflicted man, to sit with
him.  They had instructed him to report any change in the now-
sleeping man's condition.  Amalik had helped Scully to question
the men.

Through questioning what they had seen, Amalik and Scully had
been able to determine who had been closest to Thierry when he had
had been stricken.  Of those closest to him, only one man,
Paul Mercault, had observed anything significant.

"Il a trouvaill a la pice nouvelle,"  Mercault had said.
Il a touch les marques tranges et ensuite..."

As the man had paused, Amalik had explained to Scully.  "Thierry
was working on the new section.  You know the one?"
She had nodded.  "He ... um ... with his hand ... um ...
touched the figures ... the letters ... no, the strange
marks and then ..."

Mercault's expression had changed as he sought words to describe
the change in Thierry's face and demeanor.  Mercault's eyes had grown
frightened by the memory and as he had spoken his voice dropped,
became even lower, possessing the timbre of a man forever haunted
by unspeakable visions.  "Tout d'un coup, ses yeux se sont ferms
et il s'est agripp  la tte.  Il a commenc  crier."  He had
accompanied his words with pantomimed action and Scully had needed
no translation to understand.  Like Mulder, the man's eyes had shut,
he had gripped his head and begun to scream.  As with Mulder, it
seemed the effect diminished with distance from the object, at
least for now.  She had asked Mercault to show her the exact
location where Thierry had been working.

Mercault had refused at first, doing so eventually, obviously
under duress.  Mercault refused to touch the craft even in
the general area where Thierry had been working.  He would do no
more than stand above and point, saying, "Oui" when she was close
and "Non" as her fingers trailed away from the location.  Scully
had traced the unfamiliar rune-like writing with her fingers.
It had no effect on her, nor on Amalik when he was at last
persuaded to touch it.  In Scully's mind, theories, suggested
by ancient superstitions and a futuristic reality, began to come
together.

She had asked Amalik to find for her the paper they routinely used
to make a rubbing of the area.  He had agreed when they heard
shouting coming from the workers' hut.  Amalik had looked at her.
"Thierry - he awake."  She had nodded.

"Tell Mercault the craft will not harm him.  I need him to make
a rubbing of the exact area we've been examining."

After a short argument, Mercault had conceded  defeat and agreed
to make the rubbing.  He had admitted to Amalik that neither
Scully nor Amalik had been harmed.  Grudgingly he seemed to have
agreed it would be safe for him to touch that portion.

Thierry's account, translated by Amalik, had matched in every point
Mercault's description.  Through Amalik, he explained to Scully
what had befallen him.  He had said it was as if a radio had come
on in his head.  The sudden cacophony of unexpected noise had
terrified him once he understood none of his companions heard
what he did.  He had suspected that he had stricken by the gods
for some unspecified sin.  The blur of voices had also produced in
him an exhaustion.  All of this had begun to recede as he had been
brought away from the site.  He felt he could still sense the
voices, but they had grown quieter, seemed to decrease in number.
He had asked Scully for an explanation which she could not
adequately give to him.  As they finished, Mercault had entered
with the completed rubbing.  Thierry's eyes had clenched shut
almost instantly, his hands pressed desperately to his head, and he
had begun moaning again.  It had solidified and proven Scully's
vague theories.

Although the rubbing had subsequently been kept away from Thierry,
fear gripped the man tightly.  Medical equipment and supplies had
been lacking everything but the basics needed to treat minor
accidents.  Scully had been powerless as the next day the man
inexplicably developed a fever.  She guessed his blood pressure
was elevated and it stayed that way.  The next night, roughly
thirty hours after his encounter, Thierry had suffered a
seizure that had all the signs of stroke, and he had died.

Scully had sat outside, on the rock overlooking the ship.  She
had been fairly certain she now understood how elements of the
ship triggered what she was calling the "telepathy response"
in certain people, though she doubted science would ever be
able to explain why this was so.  She had stared bleakly at
the waves, regretting her inability to save Thierry.  She had
not even thought to bother with an autopsy.  The local culture
was against the practice and she had already known what
killed him.  Fear of the unknown, superstition as old as man
himself, had wreaked havoc with Thierry's nervous system.  He
had quite literally died of fright.

She had supposed, scowling down at the rocks and waves, that
Mulder, for all his leaps of logic and frequent forays into
the paranormal, was still a product of a scientific culture.
The confused, uncertain, even tormented Mulder would have
known she would search for a scientific key.  He would not
have been afraid the telepathy was God's wrath.  He could
be treated medically, where with Thierry that had been
impossible not only physically, but also because Thierry's
condition had primarily been emotional.

It had led her to wonder, yet again, about Gibson Praise,
who possessed this ability, yet seemed unfazed by it.  She
had been able only to surmise that it was due to his having
been born with it.  If you knew nothing different, there
would be no element of shock; fear would not be part of the
equation.  Still, the questions remained.  Could this
phenomena be turned off in Mulder?  If so, by what mechanism
would this be accomplished?  Knowing how to turn on the
telepathic ability was, at that point, more a matter of
academic interest than any real help to Mulder.  And if she
couldn't determine a way to help him, could he, unlike
Thierry, learn to live with it, as Gibson did?

She had drawn her knees up and laid her arms across them,
forming a narrow, bony shelf, on which to rest her head.
Her hair hung down over her arms, brushing the front of her
legs as the breeze toyed with it.  A deep sigh, filled with
frustration and discontent, left her lips.  She closed her
eyes and it had seemed a thousand images played before her,
still shots and moving scenes.  Not a woman who usually
cried with ease, she felt tears prick at her eyes.  "Damn
it,"  she muttered to the breeze, the sound forlorn to
her ears.  She could neither stop the tears nor the images
that drifted through her mind.  Each image seemed to have
been assigned its own measure of tears and she had soon
given up counting them.

She had lain there for a long time, eyes closed, inert,
tears coursing soundlessly across her face, the home movie
of their lives in the last years flashing through her
brain.  Thierry's death had frightened her deeply.  She had
begun even then to try to push the thought that Mulder
might not survive this away from her, to cling to the past,
to pray that it might yet be the future.  There was little
she thought she'd gone through already that she wouldn't
go through again if it could save Mulder.  She had been
pulled from her watery reverie by the trilling of her cell
phone next to her.

"Scully."  She had been too aware that the tears lingered
in her voice, despite her effort to impose her usual
authoritative tones on the syllables of her last name.

"Agent Scully,"  Skinner's voice had been tense.  He had
spoken rapidly.  "When will you be returning to Washington?"

She had erected the familiar barriers around her emotions,
injected steel into the softness of her voice.  "I don't
know that, at this time,"  she had said flatly, adding
with a low note of sarcasm, "sire."  Subtle enough still to
be professional, but clear enough as well to a man of the
Assistant Director's undeniable intelligence.

"Agent Scully, I can *order* you back, if I have to,"  he had
growled at her.

"You can try, sir,"  she had informed him.

"Agent Scully..." he had begun.

"Assistant Director Skinner, your priorities are no longer
the same as mine.  Your loyalties, for whatever reason,
are now divided, I know that.  You dispensed with my help
and that of Agent Mulder's months ago.  With all due respect,
*sir*, at this point I don't feel compelled to follow your
orders."  With that, she had hung up, knowing she had
likely sacrificed her career, but little caring.  Skinner
was a traitor, a double agent, and she had had no wish to
offer herself up into the hands of whomever pulled his
strings.  Had she told him she then planned on getting out
of Africa as quickly as possible, she had been certain his
master would have arranged for her a convenient disappearance.
Aware of the sophisticated methods for tracking cell phone
transmissions, her next phone call had been even shorter.
Again she had called on the Gunmen, again reaching Byers.

In the material he had sent her regarding Magic Squares
he had offered to arrange her transportation out of the
Ivory Coast when she needed it.  He had provided a simple
code, one breakable by almost anyone in the intelligence
community, but with luck enough it would throw them off long
enough.

"Byers,"  she had said.  "Elsa here."

"Elsa.  How is the weather?"  he had inquired.

"Miserable,"  she had told him.

"I'm sorry to hear that.  Shall I send you anything?"

"An umbrella,"  she had responded.  "And an east wind."

"As soon as possible.  Good-bye, Elsa."  The call had ended,
its absurdity bringing a smile to Scully's tear stained face.
She had gotten an unshakeable picture of herself, disguised
as Elsa, the loveable lioness, floating back to D.C. holding
on to a large black umbrella.  A silly code, undeniably
silly, but it did give her an insight into the types of
movies  Byers enjoyed.  Maybe when it was over, the two of
them could pop some popcorn and compel Frohike and Mulder
to abandon their usual choice of movie magic in favor of
a double feature of "Born Free" and "Mary Poppins".

The same friend of Langly's who had driven her out to the
archeological site arrived late the next day to take her
back.  Before leaving she had verified that he had the
sort of connections that could keep an eye on the dig
and could notify her if something occurred, though that
seemed doubtful.  Most of the workman had been too scared
to continue working, even when threatened by Amalik.  It
was good to know that what she viewed as her interests and
those of Mulder would be looked after.  She had amused
herself by wondering how you said,  'The Lone Gunmen'
in the local dialect.

Unsurprisingly, Byers' itinerary for her had been the
reverse of her outbound route.  From the Ivory Coast she
had flown to Dakar and from there to New York City.  At
JFK she had passed back through Customs with barely
enough time to make it to the commuter shuttle that
had taken her to Washington.  Byers had awaited her at
the Dulles gate.  Wordlessly he had taken her carry-on from her.

CONTINUED in Part 2

Far Lesser Things, Part 2


Though Scully had ached to know, to ask about Mulder, she was 
as aware as Byers of the possibility of observation.  They had
made their way to the shuttle that would deliver them from
Concourse D to the Dulles main terminal.  Seated closely on
the crowded shuttle, Byers had spoken lowly in her ear,"  I
thought you'd like to go straight to the hospital."

She had nodded and whispered, "Thank you."

Grateful for the years of fly-by-night trips to out of the
way locales that had given her experience in packing lightly, 
Scully had been able to shake her head negatively when Byers
had asked if she had additional luggage.  Instead, they had
been able to bypass the zoo that airport administration called
"Baggage Claim" and head straight toward the hourly parking.
Concern for Mulder and the short week away from D.C.'s busy
traffic had caused Scully to be momentarily stunned, distracted,
and forgetful, nearly stepping into the traffic that whizzed by
them.  Waiting to be allowed to cross the street, Scully's foot 
had tapped impatiently.  By some stroke of unbelievable luck,
Byers had found a space somewhat close.

He had opened the passenger door for her, before sliding open
the van's side door and storing her carry-on.  She had sunk 
into the seat, letting her head fall back and she had sighed.
Byers had walked around and climbed in by the time Scully
opened her eyes.  As he had started the engine, she lowered
the passenger side visor.  The image that greeted her in its
tiny mirror was not up to par.  Though her appearance was not
paramount to her sense of self-worth, Scully had wished she
looked more presentable.  Her clothes were wrinkled, her hair
lank and tangled, her face burned a bit despite her liberal
use of sunblock.  Nothing could have disguised the exhaustion
limned on her face.

Before she could speak, Byers had said, "Langly and I are 
hoping you'll forgive us, but we let ourselves into your
place and took the liberty of getting you some fresh clothes."

Through habit, her eyebrow had arched in question.  She had 
not known if she was grateful or embarrassed.

"I'm sorry.  It's only outerwear.  We ... uh... that is..."

"Thank you, "  Scully had said, uncertain for which she was
more grateful:  the fact she had fresh clothing or the fact
that Byers and Langly had eschewed examining the contents of
her lingerie drawer.

Without further comment, she had maneuvered herself into the 
far back and through various indescribable contortions wrestled
herself into the pair of crisp black slacks and soft, blue cotton
top Byers had brought her.  She would never ask, but somehow Byers 
(or Langly) had also found her spare hairbrush, so she was saved
from rummaging in her carry-on for her usual one.

She had brushed her hair smooth, sliding the brush through the
myriad tangles as gently as she could.  Accepting the fact she
would be able to do little to hide her exhaustion, she had
nonetheless fished her make-up bag from the front pocket of the
carry-on before working her way back to the front passenger 
seat.  Her situation was precarious and she had known a run-in
with Skinner, even perhaps Fowley, must be handled as professionally
as possible.  She might not *feel* professional, but she could
approximate the appearance of that feeling.  She had hoped the
more put together she was on the outside, the less likely she
was to snap on the inside.  Not, she admitted to herself wryly, 
that she displayed that sort of emotion frequently anyway.  Giving
in to the emotions that lurked beneath the exterior might have
proved satisfying personally, but it could not have helped Mulder.

Byers had handed her two folders and a container of TicTacs. For
the toothbrush impaired, she had assumed with a smile.  The soft
smile that had crept into the corners of Scully's mouth made her
seem younger, more vulnerable.  She had known for a long time 
now, certainly since the events of last February, that the
Gunmen respected her, trusted her, most likely would lay down 
their lives for her if it came to that.  It seemed she could
trust them not only with her life itself, but with all the 
mundane details associated with daily living.

She had read the contents of the top folder, slipping the other
into her briefcase with her African notes.  The folder she had
read contained Mulder's charts, doctors' notes, lists and
descriptions of numerous treatments that had been tried to no
avail.  The Gunmen had also kept for her a written log of
everyone who came to see Mulder, the dates, the times they had
arrived, and the time they had left.  It further showed that one
of them had been with him twenty-four hours a day since her
departure.  She had noted with interest Fowley's visits:
frequent at first, tapering off after a couple of days.

In an uncanny reminder of the "gift" that had driven Mulder to
the edge, Byers had spoken aloud, seeming to read the question
in Scully's mind.  He had said, "Once she figured out we weren't
going anywhere, she pretty much left him alone."

"Why does that almost concern me more?"  Scully had asked rhetorically.

"Skinner, as you can see, comes in about once a day, usually with
fresh flowers."  Scully had arched the eyebrow at him again.  "We
de-bug them after he leaves."

Scully had not quite been able to suppress a tired grin at that
image, but then irritation replaced the look of amusement.  "Damn
it!  I kept hoping I was wrong."

"And idea who he's working for?"

She had shaken her head slowly, distractedly.  "It has to go back 
to that 'illness' of his.  Ever since then ...  Someone
engineered that.  Someone who wanted  something ... what?"

"Information,"  Byers had suggested.  "Control."

She had nodded.  "But why?  Whatever's left of the Syndicate wouldn't
need him.  And how?  How was this accomplished?"  She had a lapsed
into silence.

Byers' face had been thoughtful.  Scully had glanced over and had
been able to see he was thinking, working on connections.  "Scully?
How much do you know about nanotechnology, especially nanoprobes."

She had given him an incredulous look.  "'Star Trek'?  The Borg?"

"Resistance is futile,"  Byers had quipped, a touch of ironic humor
in his voice.

"But ... that's science fiction,"  she had protested.

Byers had inhaled.  "Not strictly,"  he had informed her.  "Some
pharmaceutical companies are experimenting with nanotechnology.
It's actually pretty exciting work.  Nanocapsule delivery systems 
for vaccinations, antibiotics, even diagnostics.  Nanoprobes for
control of vital systems.  The thinking is that in time, a lot
more quickly than anyone once thought, this technology will  replace
current methods of health care.  Capsules will be easier to
administer, less painful, than shots and actually more accurate
than many of today's diagnostics because in terms of size they are
much less invasive.  Probes could be engineered to take over the
function of, say, a pacemaker.  They would be more reliable, easier
to insert and to use, more reliable.  But no one in the industry
had advanced it that far..."

"Maybe no one in the industry has, but *someone* sure as hell seems
to."

"Scully, we've never run across even a primitive example of this,"
he had cautioned.

Scully had been silent for some time, watching the George Washington
Parkway flash by, waiting impatiently for the exit that would 
eventually lead them into Georgetown and to the hospital.  At last
she had said,  "Yes, we have Byers.  We all have..."  He had looked
at her.  "The chip in my neck."

Byers had exclaimed softly, "Oh my God, you're right."

"So, whoever manufactured that chip seems to have advanced their
technology.  But again, why use it on Skinner?"  She had paused.
"Unless whoever did this to him isn't working with the people who
took me.  But it would be someone with connections, with the 
resources to get the necessary material.  Someone whose motives
differ from those of the Syndicate, though.  Someone who didn't
die at El Rico Air Force Base, since Skinner is still under that
person's control."

"Fowley?"  Byers had suggested.

"Krycek,"  Scully had stated, certainty burning through her.
"Byers, I need you to find out everything you can about this
nanotechnology.  Finding Krycek would be best, but I'll settle
for a way to neutralize the probes in Skinner.  There's a blood
sample in the file Mulder opened on Skinner.  It's in a safety
deposit box in Arlington.  I'll give you the key."

"I'll see what our connections can do," he had promised.  "We'll
see if we can come up with anything new on the maker of the chip.
They *are* the most likely source for this technology."

When they had arrived, Scully took a few minutes to powder her face,
succeeding in almost masking the tension and tiredness around her
eyes and mouth.  She had closed her eyes and lowered her head.  She
might never know it, but her actions gave her a posture frighteningly 
similar  to Mulder's posture the night he had sat in a Maryland
County Coroner's parking garage over three years ago, terrified
he was about to identify Scully's murdered body.  As he had done, 
she sighed deeply, then looked up.

"Scully..." Byers had said, his eyes dark and filled with concern.

"I know,"  she had said.  "I read the reports."

Byers had nodded solemnly.  "Frohike is there now.  I'll drop
your luggage by your apartment, then get to work on this."

"Thanks."  Her eyes had met his.  Once upon a time these had
been Mulder's friends, never hers.  Now things had changed so
vastly and she realized how very grateful she was for them.
"I'll get a cab home.  Let me know if you find out anything."

He had nodded.  "Scully?"  She had turned back to him.  "Do
you have any idea what did this to him?"

She had looked down, then back up, swallowing hard, eyes shining
with tears.  "I think so, but ..."  She had not been able to
finish, yet Byers had understood.  They had all been here before:
knowing the cause but not the cure.

"You'll find a way,"  he had assured her, wanting to believe it.

A few moments later she had been opening the door to Mulder's room.
Frohike had looked up.  He gave her a ghost of a smile as he rose,
relinquishing his chair next to Mulder's bed.  "I'll be outside,"
he had told her in a hoarse whisper.

She had sat down with Mulder's latest chart in front of her, jaw
clenched and lips pressed into a tight line.  In the institutional
room monitors showed various lines and graphs, representing Mulder's
body's systems and their functioning.  They beeped their inane
beeps as they spun out the story of the final days of Mulder's
life.  He was comatose, not expected ever to regain consciousness.
The charts showed his decline and suggested if he lived another
week it would be miraculous.  The clinical doctor in Scully wished
for a quick ending; the loving, grieving, bereft woman in her
begged him silently to hold on, to fight the pull of death, to 
come back to her. 

Laying the chart aside, she had taken his hands in her own and begun
caressing his fingers absentmindedly.  "Mulder..." she had said
at last, voice thick with the tears that also filled her eyes.
"I'm sorry, Mulder, so sorry.  I know what's causing this.  I
just can't change it.  I can't help you."  She had choked on
those words, tears flowing down her face.

She had then laid her head against his shoulder and sobbed quietly.
His arms were never again going to hold her, not in comfort, not
in joy and relief, not in long-denied passion.  His hands would 
never again slip into the small of her back as he guided her this
way or that, wordlessly protecting her and claiming her with the
gesture.  His eyes would ever again search out hers, meeting them
in a gaze that spoke more than all the words known to man. She would
never again hear his voice or see his smile.  "Damn it, Mulder.
This is not how it was supposed to end.  There was  supposed to
be more time than this.  There was so much left to tell you.  
Africa was ... I don't even know how to tell you.  I just know none of
it would have surprised *you*."  She had laid his hands down and
stood up.  She had planned to come back later, to sit with him, to
keep vigil over him.  Nothing else mattered then, but she had needed
to rest.  She had needed some time to build up the walls around
her feelings, to steel herself for letting him go, for mourning
him.  She had leaned over him and kissed his lips, softly.  She 
believed it was the only kiss they would ever share.  "I love
you, Mulder.  I'm sorry things had to go this badly for me to
be able to tell you that, but I do love you,"  she had whispered.

In the hallway she had encountered Frohike quietly arguing with
Assistant Director Skinner, denying him entrance into Mulder's
room.  She had touched Frohike's shoulder gently and he had
turned.  A small movement of her head had told him she would
handle this and sent him back to his turn at sentry duty over
Mulder.  Scully had faced Skinner.

"Agent Scully, your behavior while in Africa was unacceptable,"
he had begun brusquely.  "I am going to overlook it due to the 
circumstances."  His face had been stern, uncompromising.  He
had turned from her, gazing down the hall, almost as if looking for
someone, as if seeking approval for his performance.

"I don't give a damn, Sir,"  she had told him evenly, watching 
him turn, shock on his face.

"Scully, you're outta line and you're jeopardizing your job,"  he
had threatened.

"So what if I am?"

Seeing she honestly meant that, Skinner had tried changing tactics.
"If you walk away from the  X Files, Agent Scully, I will have
to reassign them.  Most likely to Agent Fowley."

With a bravado she did not truly feel, she had challenged him,
"Go ahead, Sir.  Nothing can hurt Mulder anymore.  Not you,
not her, not Alex Krycek."  She had watched the shot go home and
seen Skinner's slight flinch.  "Without Mulder, I have no 
interest in the X Files,"  she had claimed.

Skinner had looked around again, nervously, before speaking.
"Scully, you *know* men still exist, men who survived El
Rico.  You know what they are capable of..."

"And I know, Sir, that I no longer have *any* allies at the
Bureau, that I can work more efficiently against these men
outside government channels."  That was largely a bluff.
She knew Byers, Langly, and Frohike would give her all the help
she needed, but she doubted even their extensive network of
connections would be able to open enough doors, or the right
ones.  She also knew she had nothing to lose.  Without Mulder's
partnership, with Skinner's subverted loyalties, she would be
isolated at the Bureau, ineffectual at best, utterly hamstrung
at worst.

"Scully, think about this, for God's sake!"

"Stay away from him; stay away from me,"  she had responded
to him, in a voice stronger and colder than she had thought
herself capable of at that time.  She had stared at him until 
he turned and walked away.  She had leaned into the wall,
slumping slowly to the bench outside Mulder's door, shaking like
a leaf.  It was then she noticed the flowers Skinner had left
on the bench, forgotten during their confrontation.  She had
taken them and dumped them in the nearest trash receptacle.  Once 
she was back in control of herself, she had told Frohike she 
would be back in a few hours.  He had nodded.

Exhaustion had overcome her in the cab on her way home.  She
had slept lightly during the ride.  Arriving at her apartment,
she had noted that her carry-on sat on her couch, but Byers had
left no other sign of having been there.  At some point, she
would have to talk to them about breaking in here.  Maybe
she would give them a key.  She had trudged to her bedroom and 
set her alarm for four hours later.  Not sixty seconds after that,
she was sleeping soundly.

*****************************************************************

Now, she was in a bath, hot scented water surrounding her.  She
let her tears fall from behind closed eyes.  Sleep, which almost
always improved perspective, had only served to clarify the truth
for Scully.  Mulder *was* dying and the charts in his room, the
copies Byers had given her, showed there was nothing she could do.  
She looked up.  Byers had given her a second folder, the one she'd
stuck in her briefcase, meaning to read later.  She hadn't done so
yet.  Could there be something, anything? 'No, Dana,'  she told
herself, 'don't hope.  Don't wait for miracles.'

She insisted to herself she was getting out of the tub because
the water was getting hold, but in truth it was hope that drove
her forth.  Mulder had never given up on her.  She owed it to him at
least to look for something that hadn't been tried.  She was sure
she knew the cause of  his condition, certain of it.  There *had*
to be hope in that.


CONTINUED in Part 3


Far Lesser Things, Part 3

She dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, left her hair to air dry,
and sat on the couch with the other folder and a pot of tea.
The folder contained the Gunmen's research on the properties
of Magic Squares.  The first few pages were the preliminary 
information Byers had sent her when she had arrived in Africa.
They explained how Magic Squares were formed, what they were
purported to do, and why many ancient (and some modern) mystics
believed them to be powerful.  At the time she had asked for this,
it had been due to Mulder's passing reference to Magic Squares.  
Now it seemed to her far more vital.

The rest of the pages were story upon story.  Some modern, some
hundreds, even thousands, of years old, told and retold.  Some
had taken on the characteristic of legend, so old were they.  
Scully realized as she read that despite the fact she had said
nothing to Byers about why she wanted this information, he had
known.  His thoughts had paralleled her own.  Many of the "cases"
they'd found would have struck anyone else as unrelated, as stories
of people mentally ill, as irrelevant.  One thing Scully could say
she'd learned over the years was nothing is irrelevant.  Sometimes
you just had to be open to the possibilities before you could see
the questions.  You had to analyze the data with an eye to the
paranormal.

She began making notes, starting first on the explanations of
Magic Squares, then on the cases.  She learned that Magic Squares
are ancient, first appearing in Western History thousands of years
ago of an unknown origin, though many thought they came from the Far
East.  In cultures where early forms of writing had used the same
symbols to represent one letter *and* one number, these squares had
flourished.  It was believed that when the letters of a person's
name were arranged in a specific manner to arrive at a given number
this 'magic square' would affect that person.  Great care was taken 
in the creating of the square, lest unfavorable conditions, such as
weather, positions of the stars, or even mood, influence the
effectiveness of the squares.  It fit with what she had begun to 
suspect in Africa, that the unidentifiable writing on the ship and on
the artifact acted like Magic Squares.  It explained why Mulder and
Thierry could be struck with this cursed gift, yet the same thing that
destroyed them affected no one else.

She looked over her notes and sighed. The Gunmen either had not thought
to, or had been unable to, find out how the effects of Magic Squares
could be countered.  She got up, stretched, and took the pot of tea to
the kitchen.  She poured some orange juice to go along with the 
cookies she took down from the cupboard.  She grabbed her cell phone
and headed back to the couch.

Langly answered.

"It's Scully.  I need you guys to drop what you're doing with the
nanotechnology and find out how a Magic Square is ... um ... turned
off, I guess."

"We checked into that,"  he replied.  "The information was sketchy
at best."

"What Byers gave me indicate the Kabbalah makes reference to them.
Try finding a Kabbalstic scholar.  I have a theory about this."

"You think it might help Mulder?"

"I think it's ..." she paused, an image of Mulder coming to mind.
She was standing with him, near water.  His face was contorted in 
anguish, voice breaking as he pled with a man who had later dis-
appeared in Alberta, Canada, over three years ago now.  'I need you
to come with me to see my mother,' Mulder had said.  "I think it's
his best hope,"  Scully finished.

"OK,"  Langly agreed.  "We'll call you if we come up with anything."

"Thanks,"  she said, absently.  "Thanks a lot."  Her mind raced, two
words, a name, pounding incessantly in her head.  "Jeremiah Smith,"
she whispered.  "If I can find him, he can heal Mulder."  A coldness
swept over her.  She knew of only one way to find Smith, or someone
like him.  CBG Spender, who would exact a price for his help, a price
she shied from contemplating.  If it would save Mulder ...  but first,
she resolved to give the Gunmen time.  And she began to take notes over
the cases in the folder.

Some were stories, written down from oral histories.  They came from 
all over the world as many periods of history.  Others were reviews of, 
speculations about case histories completed by those who studied 
mysticism. Until modern psychology had developed most of the people 
described in these histories were relegated to asylums, forced into 
exile, or even tried and executed on varying charges.  Accounts of 
demon possession, of divine inspiration, of clairvoyance had been 
re-examined in this light and the conclusions proved compelling.  
Scully thought these were all different sides of the same coin, 
spinning endlessly through time.  As fascinating as it might be 
to watch, as easy as it might be to become mesmerized by the swiftly 
turning, flashing coin, she could not afford to be mesmerized.  She 
drew her mind from pondering the intricacies of these cases back to 
reading them, hoping still to glean from them some way, any way to 
help Mulder.

She found stories of anonymous people who revealed themselves to her 
as  she read.  A young girl who heard angelic voices commanding her 
to save her country from a destructive war.  Never having seen her 
nation's uncrowned prince, she nonetheless identified him in the 
midst of a  crowded room.  Clad in men's armor, she had led soldiers 
into battle, all the while citing these angelic voices as her inspir-
ation.  The British had eventually captured her, tried her, and burned 
her at the stake for heresy.  History knew her as Joan of Arc.

Another story told of a man, powerful, respected, feared even, until by
his actions a great and valued property was lost forever.  He became
renowned for his habit of traveling to London's Regent Park and there
conversing at length with various trees.  Mad King George III of 
England.

Was it possible?   This idea of Magic Squares, of letters and numbers
coming together to imbue certain people with this ability, hidden for
ages in the shroud of mysticism, did it explain some of history's
puzzles?  She had to accept it was possible, given what she had seen
with Mulder and Thierry.  She also had to accept, as she scanned
these files, that none, not a single one, of these stories told of
the person's recovery.

Though hope faded with each story she read, she continued to sort 
through and to scan the remaining cases.  She reached a point where 
she primarily read them for the outcome.  "Oh my God,"  she whispered, 
as she came  to the end of one.  She hastily turned back to the 
beginning.  It was an account, written down by a Dutch priest in 
the Seventeenth Century.  It told of a man in the extremes of madness 
who had managed to tell his story to the priest before collapsing 
into what the priest had called  "a deathlike sleep".  The priest's 
account was devoid of judgment for the most part, a fact that was 
quite remarkable given its time period. He had stated the facts 
related by the dying man.  He had detailed his  own actions in 
regards to the man's death.  Attached to the original  Dutch 
document was a rather stilted English translation, probably done
shortly after the record was discovered.  Scully read every word.

"Father Peter Voorhees, -dam, Holland

I found the man on the doorsteps of the church on the morning of 
October 16, in the year of Our Lord, 16--.  His clothing, tattered 
and filthy, hung on his frame in a manner which indicated substantial 
weight loss in the months past.  The man gave off a powerful stench.  
He spoke without coherence for the most part, though I was able to 
determine he had been begging alms in the town for several days before 
being beaten and driven from the streets.  I believed the man to suffer
from some illness, though what I knew not.  I took him with me into
the Church, such being my duty as a minister of Christ.  Due to the
lice that infested not only the afflicted one's rags, but also his
unkempt beard and matted hair, I induced him to bathe whilst I burned
what remained of his clothing.  From the Church's store of clothing 
given in alms, I was able to provide him clean garments.  He carried 
with him a leather pouch, stained and dirty, but clearly of expensive 
make. It contained documents, none of which gave him a name, a few 
gilder, and an oddly shaped stone, carved in a writing which I knew not.

The man broke his fast upon a bland mixture of oats with honey and a
measure of tea with which to wash this down.  His eyes bespoke a
wildness bordering to madness as they darted in this way and that
during the whole of his meal.  He ate as though one starved, in great
gulps and gasps, swallowing convulsively.  He maintained a conversation
with himself, quiet, mumbled, hurried throughout his meal.  When he had
completed his repast, he astonished me by thanking me with manners that
neared to courtly.  As well he made use of my name, which I had not 
given him at any time.

'How didst thee know my name, traveler?'  I inquired.

'You told it me,'  he replied, an expression of despair in his eyes.

'Nay, never did I do so,'  I instructed him.  I observed him closely,
noting his features.  His face, which he had troubled to shave,
possessed a strong jaw.  His eyes were of a light brown shade; his
complexion darker than that of most of my countrymen.  From England,
the Nordic, or Germanic regions he was not in my estimation.  His
hair, a common brown, had but in the fashion of the time, when last it
had seen shears.  As I watched my disavowal penetrate his taxed senses,
he slumped over the table.  'Tell how thee come to know my name.'

'I heard it,'  he confided,  'though not from the lips of any man, not
woman neither.  I know not how to explain it more fully than to say
it was spoken inside my head, by what power I cannot discover.'

'Think you it was the voice of the Most High?'  I asked with caution, 
little desiring to be in the act of harboring a heretic.

He waggled his head in a negative manner, with great deliberation and 
slowness.  'Surely He would not torment me so.'

'What mean you?  Torment?'

'What reason would He have for placing in my head the thoughts of 
others, at both night and day, so that I have no respite."  He 
continued to speak, his story falling from his lips in a great 
cataract of words.  I strove to keep calm my own face, fearful for 
the soul of this beleaguered man.  "When I first did gain this ... 
this ... I know not what to call it ... ability, I didst think it a 
blessing.  I traded in gold and jewels, occasionally lending small
sums of money here or there.  With this power, I found myself able 
to get the best in my dealings.  I knew what price a man would pay, 
how much interest he could afford and so I never lowered my terms 
below the numbers I read in their minds.  At first it didst seem 
I could control this gift.  I had the ability to turn my mind from 
other sounds and seek out only those I desired to hear.  I assured 
myself I did nothing wrong, of if I didst do so, I was yet blameless 
because I soon came to know what my clients thought of me, and
of my people.  I even knew which among them had persecuted us in 
the past.'

'Soon however I didst discover this ability becoming a curse.  I
was never alone.  The voices would not cease.  It became as if
I were penned within a crowded room, people speaking without
pause, at all times.  When I was no longer able to exert any control
over the voices, I didst make a discovery.'  He stopped, stared at
his hands with their torn and dirtied nails.  'We were never intended
to hear one another's thoughts, Father, for the best of reasons.
We become borne down by them. burdened by troubles in which we truly
have neither part nor solution.  People reflect all to infrequently
on their joys, keeping those instead inside their hearts.  I have
heard more vicious, evil, venial, degrading thoughts than I ever
didst believe possible.  Men are liars all, in some manner or other.
It drives me to the edge of darkness.  It is too much for any man
to suffer.  I fear soon I shall be swallowed whole.'

When he had finished his tale, I led him to a small cell, set aside
for sleeping.  There was naught I could do for him in that moment
but leave him.  He requested the contents of his pouch, which I
brought to him.  He pulled from it the strange stone, explaining he
had been amused by its oddity, had purchased it from an Eastern
trader shortly afore his troubles, those that had seemed blessings
in the beginning, had begun.  He held it and his gaze drifted from
me.  I turned to leave him to what solitude he could find.  He
made a sound and I turned back to him.  'It may well be demons,
Father,' he remarked, causing me fresh alarm as he told me back
my own thoughts.  Shortly after, he collapsed.

I little understood, nor had joy of my situation.  The man, almost
certainly from his comments, a Jew, seemed to be possessed by 
demons.  Although this land is more accepting than many of its 
Jewry, the Church is little so.  I could neither, in conscience, 
turn away the man, nor could I call upon the officials of my faith
to restore him, to exorcise from him these demons.

At the last, the question was of no import.  The man woke again, once
only before his final moment, raving, all vestiges of his sanity 
vanished.  It would seem he had kept hold of his faculties long 
enough only to tell me his story. Something in him had refused 
to succumb to the darkness until at the least one other human being 
should bear witness to his tale.  He lay in a deathlike sleep for 
four days before taking his last breath.  At the very last he didst
ope his eyes and mumble, 'I am not who I am.'  

I hastened to record his story, lest my mind fail to recall its 
details.  I made a copy of what I had writ and arranged to have this
delivered to a name found in the documents the man had carried.
I could only assume the man to whom I sent these papers was a relation,
possibly the father or brother of my guest.  I included the gilders
and the odd stone.  A cloth merchant from --dam agreed to deliver
this parcel to these people in the great city of Amsterdam.

Twenty-third day of February, year of our Lord, 17--.  To
the record I have already made, I add the following:  The cloth
merchant returned the parcel of items I have described to me upon
his return to --dam on the fourth day of December in the Year of Our
Lord 16--.  He had been unable to find the man whose name I had
given him.  A man of scruples and conscience he had questioned
neighbors in the area to which I had sent him.  He was able from
these good burghers to ascertain that there had once been two brothers
who had lived in the house indicated.  One had left to seek his
fortune years since and of his fate, they knew nothing.  The other
had remained at home, wed, and produced a small family with whom he
had moved unexpectedly some months previously.  The neighbors surmised
they had moved to England (unlikely at this time, as she is not 
welcoming to Jews) or perhaps to the New World (another land I 
doubted).  Others surmised, as I would have, they had betaken them-
selves to Poland or Germany.

In the years since the merchant returned to me the parcel, I have
searched in my own small way for the nameless man's brother.  I ask of
wayfarers who pass through here from distant lands if they have ever
heard of a man called by this one name.  I have little expectation
or hope of every finding my guest's family, yet I persevere.  I have
in addition, made a representation of the stone of which my guest was
so fond.  I include it with this slim account.

I new not my guest's name.  I buried him in a corner of the church-
yard in an unmarked grave.  The years have transformed him in my
mind into "The Traveler" or, when I feel the need to give him a
name of some sort, the brother of him whom I seek, Wilhem Mulder."

Scully found there was indeed a copy attached of the 'representation
of the stone', a rubbing the priest had made.  Scully compared it to
the artifact that had transformed Mulder.  Though the symbols remained
unintelligible to her, she had spent enough time in Africa, at the
dig site, to be familiar with their designs.  She found on both
rubbings, in exactly the same position on each, six marks that were
identical.  It was more than conceivable that they correlated to
the letters now used to represent 'Mulder'.

She laid the file next to her, took off her glasses, and stared up at
the ceiling.  "Oh my God,"  she whispered.  "Oh my God."

She stared into nothing for quite a while.  Outside the sun began to
sink, shadows began to line the bare word of the hardwood floors,
to catch the lights in Scully's hair.  The phone rang, jarring her from
nothingness.  She looked at it clinically as it rang again.  A weary
sigh slipped from her as she leaned forward to pick it up.  "Scully."

"We think we have something,"  Byers informed her.

She sat up straighter, ran a hand through her hair, tugging at small
tangles.  "Your place or the hospital?"

"Here,"  he told her.  "There are some ... matters that have to be
discussed first."

"I'm on my way."

CONTINUED in Part 4

Far Lesser Things, Part 4

She knocked on the door to the Gunmen's "lab" and heard Langly go
through the usual rigmarole of opening about thirty different
locks.  Seated on the somewhat threadbare couch in the main room
was a man, older, graying hair and beard, dressed mostly in black.
An old fashioned black hat rested on the couch next to him.  He wore
earlocks.  

"Agent Scully," Byers said,  "This is Rabbi Schlomo Kuonen.  He is
a Kabbalistic scholar."

The rabbi rose to greet her.  They shook hands politely.  Byers
continued,  "The Rabbi thinks he can help us."

The Rabbi nodded.  "Mr. Byers has told me of your friend and I do
believe, young lady, I can be of help.  But, you must speak of
this to no one.  For centuries the ways of the mystics, the Kabbalah
itself, have been in disfavor, shrouded in mystery, practitioners of
its ways shunned."

She nodded.  In a thoughtful tone, filled with respect and a genuine
interest, she asked, "I thought that in recent years that had begun 
to change."

He waved a dismissive hand.  "Yes.  It even becomes fashionable to
study the Kabbalah.  In Hollywood they proclaim loudly how it helps
them to make sense of their lives.  Pssshhh...  What can they truly
know?  It takes a lifetime to study the Kabbalah and none will ever
fully comprehend its mysteries and its depths.  There is still much
which hides in the shadows, knowledge that is carefully guarded for
many reasons.  Mr. Byers tells me you believe a friend has come into
contact with what is called a Magic Square and that is has produced
a negative influence on him.  Mr. Byers says his life is in jeopardy."

Scully nodded.  "I ... that is ... I honestly don't *know* what is 
causing his condition, Rabbi Kuonen.  Coincidence indicates it could
be as you suggest, but it's still just a theory."

"You have other theories, no?"  He asked, a shrewd, yet gentle, glint
in his eyes.  "You have doubts that the Magic Square which did this
to him was crafted by the hands of man?"

"How did you ... ?"  Her voice trailed off.

"Do you think we mystics believe we hold the actual power of the 
Creator?  Of course we don't.  We seek to understand it, to live
in accordance with it, but wise men always fear that power as much
as they respect it.  We know that we can never create anything so
wonderful as He has done.  And even in our texts is no clear indication
of the origin of Magic Squares."

"Do you believe they come from God?"  she asked.

"Everything comes from God, Miss Scully,"  he said with great
conviction.  "Everything."

Scully looked at him, her tattered faith feeling the stirrings of
renewal.  "What about lies?"

"Those come from the Father of Lies, who rebelled against the Creator
in the time before men appeared.  In his time, he will be destroyed
and will exist no more.  Your own faith,"  he pointed to the cross
she had slipped on before leaving her apartment, "teaches that."

She touched the cross, looked down at it.  "I don't know if I believe
that anymore."

"Then Satan has won a battle already.  Do not believe his lies, young
lady, or may yet win the war."

Scully swallowed hard.  Feeling like a child who has been kindly, yet
firmly rebuked by a concerned parent, it was a moment before she could
ask her next question.  "Can you help Mulder?"

Rabbi Kuonen took her hand.  "I believe so.  I have some ... what you
might call 'colleagues' whose help I will require.  And I will need
you and your friends here to make certain we are allowed to proceed
without disturbance."

She nodded in response.

********************************************************************

2:13 a.m.

The Gunmen stood outside Mulder's door, taking turns pacing the
hallways.  Earlier they had hacked their way into the system that
sent Mulder's vitals from the machines in his room to the nurses'
station.  They had set up an automatic feedback loop so that
nothing would be noticed.

Scully had arrived at the hospital in the early evening.  She had
sat by his bed, holding his hand, talking to him.  Unable to tolerate
for long the endless beeping of the monitors, she had chattered at
him, telling him of her findings, recalling old cases, even at times
pleading with him to recover.  The nurses had let her stay.  Towards
midnight she had fallen asleep next to him.

At almost two Byers had woken her up, as Langly and Frohike had been
prepared to put the nurses' station monitors on the automatic loop.
Rabbi Kuonen had arrived shortly after that and in the succeeding
ten minutes, his 'colleagues' had assembled.  The only part Scully had
balked at arrived as the machines keeping Mulder alive were dis-
connected.  She was possessed by great misgivings.

"Be at ease, child,"  Rabbi Kuonen said softly in her ear.  "Put
your faith in your Creator, not machines."

Scully looked back at him, eyes brimming with tears.  Her doctor's
mind recalled to her the clinical facts of Mulder's condition,
reminded her he barely met the definition of 'life' at this point.
She admitted to herself Mulder would not want this to go on and that
whatever happened next was for the best.  "Before ... can I?"  she
began.

The Rabbi nodded.  Scully leaned over Mulder.  With a delicate, gentle
movement she brushed hair from his forehead and kissed him softly.
"Godspeed, Mulder,"  she whispered.  She then withdrew to the edge
of the room, leaving Rabbi Kuonen and the others to form a horseshoe
around his bed.  Scully stood, back against the door as the men began
to chant.  It reminded her of the Holvey case and Mulder's description
of the Calusari rituals.

Scully stood motionless and watched, for how long she did not know.
Outside her head the voices of the mystics pounded against her ears.
Inside her head, an endless litany thumped dully.  "Please God.  Please
God.  Please God."  She stood transfixed, as if in a waking coma,
rarely even blinking.  She was never even aware of the tears that ran
down her face.

The touch of Rabbi Kuonen's hand brought her back to herself.  She
had not realized the room was silent again.  "It is done,"  he told
her.

"Were you?  Is he?"  she asked.

"We do not yet know.  It may be many days yet before we know if we
succeeded, Miss Scully."

"Days?!"  She was incredulous and indignant.

"Do you think the Most High answers our prayers in the instant He
hears them, child?  He is not an overindulgent 'papa', but a careful,
studious, exact Father.  He has heard us and if He chooses, He will
grant our prayers in His own time.  Have faith, Miss Scully.  Have
faith.  I suspect this is a trial of your spirit as much as it is a
test of Mr. Mulder's physical being.  You must have faith.  If you
can do this, you will be rewarded with a price above rubies.  You
know that text, do you not?"  he asked benignly, a chuckle escaping
him and a beatific smile creasing his face.

She looked at him, felt his belief radiating from him.  She then
turned from him and once again took her place at Mulder's bedside.
The men seemed to have melted away quietly, yet with no trace of
stealth, no hint of trickery or furtiveness.  Byers had entered the 
room and was prepared to escort Rabbi Kuonen away.  The Rabbi waved
his hand dismissively, nodding toward Scully instead.  "Keep watch.
She has great need of friends though I think she is only beginning
to know this,"  he told Byers.  So, Byers watched over Scully as 
she slept, Mulder's hand clasped in hers.

*******************************************************************

Scully was startled to find herself awake.  It was still dark out
and she was shivering, the dew on the grass seeping into her
clothing.  Dew?  Grass?  She looked up.  There was not a single star
in the sky.  The sky was not overcast; it was simply devoid of light.
She thought, "Where am I?"  and then, "*When* am I?"  She shivered
again.

"Cold?"  

She turned and gazed up, craning her neck back to look up that high.  
"Mulder?!"  The smile that lit her face was a combination of surprise, 
relief, and joy.  It made up for the starless skyscape surrounding 
them.  He dropped down to the grass next to her.


"C'mere,"  he told her, but before she could hesitate or accede to his
wishes, he pulled her to him, wrapped his arms around her and laid his
head on her shoulder.  His lips almost brushed her neck.

"Mulder,"  she squealed uncharacteristically,  "what are you ... ?"

"Shut up, Scully,"  he said gently, his words vibrating against her
neck.  "For once, OK?  Just shut up and be with me.  Accept this and
have faith in it."

Smiling, she agreed, "All right, Mulder."  She relaxed into him,
relishing the feel of him holding her.

For a long time they sat, still as stone beneath the unchanging,
star-abandoned sky.  Mulder's breath was warm against the skin of her
neck.  His arms held her tightly.  She could feel the strong beat of
his heart against her.  She wasn't cold any longer.

He spoke, "'The year's at the spring/ And day's at the morn/ Morning's
at seven/ The hill-side's dew-pearled/ The lark's on the wing/ The
snail's on the thorn/ God's in His heaven- / All's right with the
world!'"

She sighed.  "Tennyson?"

"Browning.  A favorite of mine.  He's a romantic at heart, but 
restrained in his expressions."

"Not to mention," she said, a wicked look on his face.  "Devilishly
witty and cold at times."

Mulder gave her a look.

"What's that one?"  she said.  "'That's my last Duchess painted on
the wall / Looking as if she were alive ...' We studied it in high
school."

"Mmmmm,"  Mulder said, breathing against the warm flesh of her neck.
She shivered.  "Cold again?"

She could only shake her head and nestle into him more deeply.

When at last he moved, he shifted her so that she was almost cradled
in his arms.  He stroked her face with one hand.  "I love you, Scully."
He leaned down and kissed her.  As their lips parted, he whispered, "I
will always love you, Scully.  Forever."

She parted her lips to respond but could not, watching herself instead
melt away like a sand castle overwhelmed at high tide.  A wind came
from nowhere and swept away the pieces of her, the grains of her 
soul from him.

She woke with a start and a shocked, "OH!"  Byers looked at her.  She
gazed around the room stupidly.  It was morning, about 6:00 a.m.
Mulder remained motionless, comatose.  Scully sighed, rose and 
stretched.  Her mind flitted to her ... what had that been?  a dream?
a vision? an alternate dimension?  She refused to let it remain
at the forefront of her thinking, knowing this morning there was the
hard work to do of explaining in reasonable terms why Agent Mulder
was no longer on life support.  And why he was not going to be put
back on it.


The scene created by the discovery of Scully's actions quickly became
a full-blown circus.  It starred a disgruntled A.D. Skinner, numerous
and varied lawyers, both Bureau and hospital, Mulder's doctors, and
Scully herself.  Guest stars included Diana Fowley, who arrived with
the Assistant Director for some unspecified reason, Byers, Langly, and
Frohike, as well as members of the hospital's Board of Ethics.  The
ringmaster consulted with the lawyers, who referred to Mulder's 
Living Will.  Act One closed with Scully's back to the bars of the
tiger's cage, her only protection being the terms of that Will.  
During the Intermission, the participants sought out lunch and awaited
the arrival of one promised and highly anticipated diva.  Act Two
opened with the arrival of the diva, in this case, Teena Mulder.
Act Two was cut short when she agreed with Scully's decision, supported
it wholly, and promised no legal suits would be forthcoming.  Dis-
appointed that Scully was not to be eaten by the tiger, the cast
parted with vague warnings, mild threats to remove her from the
Bureau, to revoke her medical license, and the like.  The triumphant, 
if still unhappy, heroine in all this sank gratefully into a chair,
while Mrs. Mulder sat with her son.

Scully had watched Skinner glower at her throughout the proceedings, 
yet he had made not one single comment.  She knew a reckoning with
the Assistant Director was looming.  The impasse they had reached
could not last long.  She pushed it to the back of her mind, vowing
to worry about it later, when Mulder was out of danger.

When all was calm and it was clear Teena intended to stay with Mulder
for a while, the Gunmen convinced Scully to go home.  She gave in at
last, realizing Teena needed some time with her son.  She decided
though that she would visit her mother.  Maggie was relieved and sur-
prised to see her weary child appear on her doorstep.

Maggie insisted Dana eat something.  She asked about Mulder, briefly.
As much as she had come to like Fox Mulder over the years, her
daughter's obviously exhausted and worried condition concerned her
far more.  Maggie asked not if her child was all right, but how she
was doing.  Maggie wanted to know how Scully's trip to Africa had
gone and how matters stood at that moment.

Scully gave her mother an abbreviated version of her trip to Africa,
touching only briefly on the death of Thierry, not even offering up
her speculations about the origin of the ship.  She summarized
her theory about Magic Squares, saying only she felt something unusual
had affected Mulder and last night she had engaged the help of a group
of experts to counter those effects.  Needing to confide in someone, 
she told Maggie about her odd dream.

"What do *you* think it means, Dana?"

They were sitting on Maggie's couch.  Scully sat cross-legged, much
as she had as a girl coming home from school and sitting down to tell
her mother all about her day.  Her hair had come partly loose from its
holder and it effectively curtained her face when she looked down at
her hands.  Speaking in a tiny, child-like voice, the one she might 
have once used to confess a poor grade or tell about a fight with a
school friend, she said more to herself than to Maggie, "I think he
was saying good-bye, Mom.  I don't think he's going to recover."

Maggie regarded her.  "Dana,"  she said softly, "he told you to have
faith.  I know, baby, that it's hard, but you have to believe in
him."

"Oh, Mom,"  she nearly wailed,  "I've seen so much, experienced so much,
I'm not sure what faith is anymore.  I thought I did, but this ... all
of this..."

"Dana, do you remember a story Father Mccue told at Mass a few months
ago, about the nature of faith, what it means to 'have' faith?"  
Seeing her daughter shake her head, Maggie continued.  "Two childless
couples in a small town each went to the parish priest.  They asked
him to pray with them for a child.  Nine months later the first
couple had a healthy baby.  The second couple waited and waited but
still had no children.  They returned to the priest and asked him why
God had granted the prayers of the other couple, and not their own.
The priest told them the other couple had left the Church after praying
with him and had gone to buy a cradle.  Do you understand, Dana?  The
first couple not only prayed, they *acted* on that prayer.  They
believed God would grant their prayers and they took action which
reflected that belief.  The second couple waited for God to prove
Himself to them.  Prayer must be active; it must be more than bare
hope, more even than bare need."  Maggie hugged her daughter tightly.
"*Act* as if Fox is going to get well, Dana.  Refuse to accept his 
death as if it had already happened, just as he always refused to 
accept yours after your abduction and when you had cancer."

Scully spent most of the next three days in Mulder's hospital room.
She talked to him, read to him, told him more of Africa.  She held
his hand, paced his room, cared for him when she could.  He seemed
to be holding his own, though there was no sign of positive change.
Though machines no longer breathed for him or forced his heart to 
pump, a feeding tube provided him nourishment.  

She left the hospital only for short intervals.  She went home to
shower, to change clothing, to eat the small amounts of food she 
knew she had to eat to maintain her own strength.  After leaving her
mother's that day, she had gone to Mulder's apartment briefly.  She
had fed his fish and tidied up a bit.  

She had also packed him some clothes to wear home from the hospital.





CONTINUED in Part 5

Far Lesser Things, Part 5

On the afternoon of the third day, Scully was called into Skinner's
office.  She sat facing the Assistant Director, her posture perfect
and rigid, her face of blank mask that revealed absolutely nothing.
Skinner thought of the agent he had first known seven years previous.
For all her skills and credentials, Scully had been so young then,
even girlish at times.  In the beginning, she had often seemed un-
certain of herself, struggling to find her place. The intervening
years had burned away the girl in her.  Like fine steel, the fires had
hardened her into a woman of great strength.  He had watched as her 
unadulterated integrity deepen into a loyalty to Mulder that knew 
almost no bounds.  She had gone on to prove herself Mulder's equal,
not only intellectually, but in the dedication and passion she showed
for his, no ... *their* work.  She had not only found her place; she
had carved it out of granite with her indomitable will.  Skinner,
caught in Krycek's grasp, sought not to betray her, but ultimately to
save her, to save Mulder, and thus to save himself, if not in body, 
then in spirit.

He looked at the papers in front of him, then back up at her.  "Agent
Scully, the purpose of this meeting is to ascertain your status as an
agent of the F.B.I."

"Yes, Sir."

"I think I can forego listing the various breaches in procedure and
protocol that have marked your actions of late.  There are 
circumstances which mitigate your ... uncharacteristic behavior."

"Yes, Sir."

Skinner looked at her.  She was not willing to meet him on this, not
even part of the way.  He couldn't blame her; she had guessed enough
of his particular truth not to trust him.  "Agent Scully, I would 
like to grant you indefinite administrative leave so that you may
devote your time and energy to other matters.  Specifically, I believe
your skills would be best used pursuing a cure for Agent's Mulder's
illness, if there is a cure to be found, that is.  I am aware, as well,
that you have spent most of your time since your return from Africa
in aiding in his care."  He didn't add, <And possibly in killing him
with that stunt involving the life support systems.>  Skinner guessed
there was more to that story than anyone, other than Scully and the
other three, knew.  He had learned over the years though, that Mulder
and Scully tended to be justified in even the most bizarre of actions.

"Thank you, Sir."  They stared at each other.  Skinner dropped his
eyes first.  After about ten seconds, he glanced up at her, hoping to
catch her in an unguarded moment, thinking of the fond, if puzzling
kiss she had given him when he'd helped her get the Bermuda infor-
mation.   She was still staring.  She said, "If there's nothing else,
Sir?"

"No.  You're free to go, Agent."

"Thank you, Sir,"  she said and was gone.

**********************************************************************

For over a month Mulder's heart beat on its own and his lungs 
remembered to breathe.  The feeding tube continued to provide
nourishment.  Daily physical therapy kept his limbs as limber
as was possible in his state.  Every few days, a male nurse came
into shave him.  And the clothes Scully had brought him to wear
home hung in the hospital room wardrobe.

Scully's days took on a routine.  At night she slept on a cot in 
Mulder's room.  Each morning, Langly, Byers, or Frohike came and
stayed with him while she went home to shower and eat, something
she continued to make herself do, though she lacked any sort of
appetite.  She checked in daily at their place with whichever two
of the guys wasn't at the hospital with Mulder.  They thought they
had a lead on the nanotechnology.  One time they even thought maybe
they had tracked down Krycek.  He seemed to be visiting a woman in
Indianapolis, Indiana, but the trail went cold after that.  Twice a
week, or so, she went to the Hoover Building to pick up messages and
mail.  Few people who passed her would even meet her eyes.  Even fewer
would ask how Mulder was doing.  She loathed the look of sympathy
those who glanced at her gave her.  She found herself really missing
Agent Pendrell, who had always been in her corner and who would have
helped her now.

Every afternoon she returned to the hospital to help with Mulder's 
care.  Sometimes she was even able to help with his physical therapy.
She reviewed his charts daily and updated her own notes, trying,
when possible to view this as another X-File, another case to solve.
It turned out to be frequently impossible.

She read to him often, from books, from magazines, Internet print-
outs, whatever was available.  She told him what was going on in the
world, normal and paranormal.  Most nights an orderly brought her
dinner.  Twice a week Maggie Scully insisted Scully leave the hospital
to have dinner with her.

Maggie herself came by several times a week.  She always stopped on
Sundays, after Mass, to tell Dana about the service and to let her
know she had picked up her dirty clothes and dropped off the ones
Maggie had laundered.  Maggie called her daughter every day and came
by on the days when she heard in her child's voice the note that
signaled she was close to the breaking point.

Teena Mulder had stayed about a week.  There was no mistaking in her
the love and concern of a mother for her only son, but Teena hadn't
Scully's strength for this vigil.  She phoned the hospital twice
daily for updates on Mulder and Scully had promised to call her
immediately if there was any change.

Bureau personnel kept their distance from the hospital as well.  
Skinner checked on Mulder  about once a week.  The atmosphere between 
him and Scully continued to be strained and cold.  Fowley hovered
in the background, 'visiting' every so often, never finding Mulder
unguarded.  If the tension between Skinner and Scully was palpable,
it was like a concrete barrier built in the heart of the Arctic
between Scully and Fowley.  Though Scully said nothing to the other
woman, the message washed off the redhead in ways the interloper could
not miss.  'Go away.  Leave him alone.  Get out.  You are not wanted
here.'



Five weeks, thirty-five days, had passed since Rabbi Kuonen and his
group of mystics had performed their ritual.  Scully was again sinking
into despair.  She once again began to consider other options.  She
began to think of the price CBG Spender was likely to exact from her.
She was beginning to believe it would be worthwhile.  Anything would
be to save Mulder.  So, one more time, Scully began waiting.  This
time she was waiting for a chance to contact Spender, Sr.  She
planned to offer herself in exchange for the means to heal Mulder.

Three days later, Diana arrived for one of her 'visits'.  Scully 
spoke, "I need to meet with him."

Diana put on her best innocent face, looking wide-eyed and agape.  
Scully was not convinced.  "Who?"  Diana asked.

"You know who,"  Scully said evenly.  "The Smoking Man."

"I don't know whom you mean,"  she insisted.

"Oh, come off it, Agent Fowley.  You know *exactly* whom I mean,"
Scully spit out at her.  "You can wear as much expensive perfume as 
you like, but you still can't hide the stench of his cigarettes on
you."

Diana actually did look taken aback.  Scully watched as the older
woman shifted gears.  "All right,"  she said slowly.  "Assuming I
can contact this person, what is it you want from him?"

"That's my business.  And his,"  Scully shot back.

"I'll have to know..."

"No, you won't," Scully interrupted, with a tone and look that
brooked no argument.  "Just tell him I want to meet."

Diana regarded Scully, gazed over at Mulder, and knew her chances 
were gone.  Mulder, if he ever regained consciousness, knew what
she had become because he'd been in her head.  Scully knew what
she was because ... Mulder had taught her to trust no one.  But if
she could deliver Scully to CBG, Mulder would become irrelevant.
Hell, without his protective mother lion around, he might not even
survive.  "Fine,"  she said and stalked from the room.

With her dinner that night, a note arrived.  It contained an address
and a time about thirty hours hence.

Scully told no one of her plans.  Her mother would have locked her
up.  The Gunmen would have wanted to go with her, to wire her, and
that was not an acceptable risk.  Instead she left a note by Mulder's
bedside.  If she came back, she could destroy it; if she didn't make
it back, the note explained what she'd learned and to whom she'd gone
at last for help.  She took the added precaution of posting a letter 
to the Gunmen, asking them to call her when they got it.  If they
couldn't reach her, they were to go to a rail station locker.  She
included its key.

She was too restless to sleep at all, so she sat with Mulder.  She did
not read, nor talk to him of the world.  She couldn't discuss old
cases.  She found instead the time had come to tell him everything her
heart contained.  She spoke of cases only in reference to her growing
feelings for him.  She confessed how the years with him had changed
her, helped her grow from the young woman still seeking the approval
of her elders, to a woman with strength and confidence in herself.
She confided how very much he meant to her, how no matter what came
to pass, her heart was his and his alone.  She whispered the only way
she would ever willingly leave him was if it meant saving him.  She
kissed his forehead and said, "I love you."  Then she was gone.


**********************************************************************

Abandoned Wherehouse
2:15 a.m.

"Welcome, Agent Scully."  The Cigarette Smoking Man's voice was thick
and oily as it floated out of the dark to her.  "What can I do for
you?"

He stopped under the one light, a bare bulb hanging from the 
dilapidated ceiling.  She advanced, stopping about five feet from 
him.

"You can save Mulder."

"I?"  He mocked.  "How can *I* do that?"

She glared at him.  "You know people who can heal him.  Jeremiah
Smith.  Or some thing ... someone like him."

"I don't know who you're talking about,"  he claimed, cigarette
glowing at the corner of his mouth.

Scully reflected that selling one's soul to the Devil was bad 
enough, but this man in front of her actually seemed to take pleasure
in it.  He reveled in the fiend he'd become.  "Yes, you do.  One
of them healed Mrs. Mulder after her stroke."

His demeanor broke a fraction, skin paling, sickening smile faltering.
"How do you know about that?"  he demanded harshly.

She gave him a bitter, triumphant smile.  "Until you said that, I
only guessed at it."  She paused.  "Now, you're going to help me."

"And if I don't?"  he asked, the mocking tone returning to his voice.

Scully reached around and drew her weapon.  She leveled it at him.
Her hands were steady; her voice calm.  "I'll kill you where you
stand,"  she informed him.

He chuckled.  "I wonder if *you* have more resolve than Agent Mulder.
I can't tell you how many times I've stared down the barrel of 
*his* gun.  I've grown tired of the view, though."

Scully cocked the weapon.

Spender raised an eyebrow at her and put out the cigarette he was
smoking.  "Scully, if you kill me, it won't help Mulder at all."

"That's true,"  she agreed, finger quivering on the trigger.  "But
if you won't help me, Mulder is likely to die.  And in that case,
killing you would feel damn good."

"Well, well.  This is an interesting situation, isn't it?"  He
grinned at her.  "I honestly believe you *do* have more courage
than Mulder.  I'd love to know if you actually would pull that
trigger."  He paused, lighting a new cigarette.  "The problem
is that I wouldn't be able to enjoy that knowledge very long now,
would I?"

"Make up your mind, you heartless, black-lunged bastard or you'll
have an eternity in Hell to ponder just how serious I *was*,"  
Scully told him.

"My, my ..." he clucked.

"Now!"  she shouted at him.

"You know my help will come with a price."  He looked at her.
She hadn't moved an inch.  "Are you willing to meet my demands?"

"Yes,"  she said.

"Without even knowing what they are?"  he asked.

"Yes,"  she repeated.

"Well,"  he said, drawing the word out to two syllables, sending
shudders of disgust down Scully's spine.  She began to lower her
weapon.  "Does Agent Mulder know what a lucky man he is?"

"Yes, he does,"  came a voice from behind them, from the shadows.
Scully whirled, gunning coming up again.  As the figure stepped into
the light, Scully's eyes widened and her mouth fell open.  She
lowered her gun and absently holstered it.  "Get over here, Scully,"
Mulder commanded.

She fled into his embrace.  His arms wrapped around her, his
hands moving restlessly against her back.  She clung to him, murmuring
almost soundlessly, "You're OK?  You're OK?"

"I'm fine, Scully.  Fine,"  he told her warmly, mouth against her
ear.

"How? ... When?"  she asked him, stunned and overwhelmed.

"I'll tell you everything, but let's get out of here first,"  he
prompted.

"What about ... ?"  Scully turned.  CBG Spender had disappeared
back into the shadows.

Mulder looked at her.  "Let him go, for now."  They began walking
back to the building's entrance.

She nodded.  "We need to get you back to the hospital, Mulder.
You've got to be checked out."

He stopped and faced her.  "Look at me, Scully.  I'm fine.  There's
nothing wrong with me."  He smiled at her.  "In fact, I haven't
slept as well in years."

She looked at him, carefully, critically.  He did indeed seem well.
He pulled a face at her, begging, pleading, with his eyes.  

"Scully, I just want to go home."

She pursed her lips and gazed up at him.  After a lot of thought,
she said,  "All right.  But I'm taking you *straight* to your
apartment."

He smiled at her again and she could not help smiling back at him.
This was a sight she had despaired of ever seeing again.  "That would
be good,"  he said.

They drove to Mulder's apartment in easy silence, Mulder resting,
Scully's hand held firmly in his tender, yet insistent grasp.

They sat close together on Mulder's couch, drinking coffee and talking.
Scully told him about her discoveries in Africa, her theory about the
Magic Squares.  She told him the story of the man in Father Vorhees'
story, the man she believed was a distant relative of his.  Mulder
listened, smiling.

"What?"  she asked at last, a small laugh in her voice.

"It's so nice to *hear* you again, your voice.  I feel like I've 
heard this before, as if in a dream."

"They say people in a coma state maybe able to hear ..."

"No, no no.  I heard your thoughts, Scully.  It was like you were
inside my head."

"Oh,"  she said in a tiny voice, not wanting to think of other thoughts
Mulder might have heard.

"Scully."  He took her hand in one of his.  "You're the only person
I don't mind having in my head,"  he told her with a smile, laughing
at the blush that colored her cheeks.  He reached out his other
hand and touched a strand of her hair.  "You've let it grow."

She nodded.  "I haven't ... had time ..."

"I like it,"  he assured her.

"Mulder," she said, her face growing serious.  "What happened
tonight?"

He looked away, out his window, for a moment.  He turned back to 
her.  "Jeremiah Smith."

She sat up and stared at him.  She said softly,  "Mulder!"

"I know, Scully.  *I* know, but it was him."

"How did he know that you were ...?"

"I don't know, but he did.  In my head I could hear him, talking to 
me, telling me what he was going to do.  Then I felt him touch me
and everything went silent.  It was like ... I don't know how to
describe it."

"The radio went off."

"What?"

"Gibson Praise told me it was like having a radio playing in his head
and sometimes there were lots of radios."

Mulder nodded.  "Yeah.  That's a good description."

"So?"

"Hmmm?  Oh, I woke up and felt great.  I know it's impossible, but..."

Scully laughed at him.  "Mulder, after all these years, to hear you
say that..."

Mulder's face grew serious and he looked into her eyes.  "When I
woke up and you were gone, I read your note.  I knew what you'd
gone to do.  Scully?"  he asked.  "Would you really have ...
anything?"

She nodded, tears starting in her eyes.  "To save you,"  she
whispered.  "Anything."

"Scully,"  he whispered.  "Oh, Scully."  He pulled her to him.  His
lips met hers, the taste of salt tears warm on them.  She responded
to his kiss without hesitation.  They broke apart, reluctantly.
Mulder rested his forehead against hers and held her tightly.  "I
love you, Scully."

He brushed away the tears she couldn't stop crying.  "I love you,
too, Mulder."

After a time they shifted so they were in the same position as in 
her dream.  Mulder kept his arms close around her.  He stroked her 
fingers.  She felt his heart beat against her flesh, felt him
breathe evenly.

"Scully?"

"Mmmmm?"

"Why exactly did you bring me clothes to the hospital?  I never
really understood that part."

Her brow creased, a slight frown pulled at her mouth.  "Oh!"
she exclaimed.

"What?"

"The date.  Today's date.  It can't be ..."

"Can't be what?  C'mon, Scully, you're losing me here."

She turned and gazed at him, awestruck.  "It is.  Forty days and 
forty nights since Rabbi Kuonen and the others performed their
ritual."

"Scully, what are you talking about?"

"Faith, Mulder.  Faith."  She smiled as if that explained everything.
Scully thought of a line in a song she'd heard. 'I've been a fool for
far lesser things...'  Yes, she reflected, that was true.  In the
world, there were far lesser things than this man she loved with her
whole self and there were far lesser things than faith.

END


General Notes:  Never let it be said I rush things - this one took
two months to complete and the idea had been in my head since
finishing its predecessor, "Things Not Seen".

I owe a couple of people some additional thanks - my husband for
beta reading; Galia for giving me some advice about the use of
the term "Rabbi"; A - for the unstinting encouragement; I noted
it in my dedication, but I can't thank her enough; J - for
absolutely everything.

I know there are inaccuracies in various parts of this - I have
zero medical training, so the hospital stuff is off.  What can I
say?  If I were writing a story about teaching, it would be
*super* accurate  <g>;   I know there are also inaccuracies in
the way I've portrayed the Rabbi and his interaction with Scully -
it was a plot device and I apologize if my inaccuracies have
offended anyone; lastly, in the real world, I am certain Scully's
actions in disconnecting Mulder's life support would result in
big consequences for her - which is why this is called "fiction".

Thanks for reading

Nynaeve