TITLE: Cherished AUTHOR: Alcott CLASSIFICATION: SA, UST COMPLETED: January 2000 RATING: PG-ish. There's a bad word here and there. DISTRIBUTION: Yes, but please let me know if it's our first time. SPOILERS: This story is set before Sein Und Zeit and Closure. SYNOPSIS: An unseen friend keeps vigilance over Scully's sick bed. DISCLAIMER: The only characters I own are the invisible ones. Job 4:12-19 "A word was secretly brought to me, my ears caught a whisper of it. Amid disquieting dreams in the night, when deep sleep falls on men, fear and trembling seized me and made all my bones shake. A spirit glided past my face, and the hair on my body stood on end. It stopped, but I could not tell what it was. A form stood before my eyes, and I heard a hushed voice: `Can a mortal be more righteous than God? Can a man be more pure than his Maker? If God places no trust in his servants, if he charges his angels with error, how much more those who live in houses of clay, whose foundations are in the dust, who are crushed more readily than a moth!" ***** I have been with her always, since the moment of her conception. When she fell out of the oak tree on her eighth birthday, I was the one who cushioned her fall so that she only sprained her ankle, rather than breaking it. When the chain broke and her cross tumbled to the ground as she was rushing through the halls of her high school, I nudged it into her line of vision. When she returned to the hallway, in tears, she cried out in joy when she saw the glimmer of gold, illuminated by a stream of sunlight that I had put in her path. I rejoiced with her when she graduated from medical school. I wanted to reach out and touch the parchment, to trace the name printed on her diploma. I was so proud of her. I stood beside her in the rain the day her father's remains were washed into the sea. For her sake, I cried tears on her behalf. When Melissa died, I stood with her in that empty, sterile hospital room. When her pain became too strong, and I could no longer offer her comfort, I found her partner and nudged him to her side. I have misdirected bullets aimed for her, I have flattened tires on cars that would try to run her down. I have sat beside her through every stakeout, walked with her through every dark and deserted parking garage. I have been through the kidnappings, the narrow escapes, the tears of frustration shed silently into her pillow. Through it all, I have cherished her. Years ago, I pleaded with Him to spare her life, to pull her from the clutches of death. I pleaded for her life a second time, when she had been shot by one of her own kind. She saw me that day. She looked me straight in the eyes; first in fear, and then in awed understanding. I protect her life every day, most of the time without her noticing it. Through it all, I have not aged. Today, I try with all my heart to keep her away from this case, this sick little girl. This morning, I bump her so that she spills lukewarm coffee down the front of her blouse. I even let the air out of her rear tire, in the hopes of detaining her. Ever the efficient woman, she calls her partner for a ride. I ride with them to the hospital, where one sister has died while her twin hangs over death's open door. The child's guardian sits beside her, stroking her hair and whispering secrets in her ear. The girl's eyes are fixed upward, tied to those of her guardian. The guardian's eyes meet mine when we enter the room. The room is full, although the mortals do not see us. The child's parents sit, their minds beaten into disbelief. Behind them, their guardians hold tightly to their shoulders. Fox's guardian grasps his arm, and he hangs back, his face marred in fear. He has more success with his charge than I do. My Dana reaches for the child, feeling the girl's weak pulse, taking the time to stroke the girl's sticky forehead. The child's angel looks at me and shakes her blond head morosely. I bow my head and pray that once again, He will spare Dana's life. ***** Two days later 7 p.m. "Hello, dear, you look awful." Dana smiled. "Thanks, Mom, it's nice to see you, too." She held the door of her apartment open invitingly, and her mother stepped past her. Maggie's eyes traveled the length of her daughter, noting the flush on her cheeks and the dark smudges beneath her eyes. "What's wrong?" Maggie asked, her mother's intuition picking up distress signals. Her daughter shrugged her shoulders and ran a restless hand through her hair. "Just a bad case, Mom. A virus killed a pair of twins, both within the past week." "Did you find anything?" Dana shook her head wearily. "We were concerned it would be of an extraterrestrial origin, but it seems to be completely unrelated." "'We' were concerned, or your partner was concerned?" Dana dropped her eyes at the accusing tone in her mother's voice, and sighed, "Mom, the girls were in kindergarten." "Oh, honey." Maggie Scully pulled her daughter near, but frowned and set her immediately at arm's length. She confirmed her suspicions by pressing a palm against her daughter's forehead. "You have a fever." "I've got a little bug, Mom. I'm fine." "Well, why didn't you call me? We didn't have to have dinner together tonight." "Yes we did, Mom. I had to cancel on you last week because of that thing Mulder wanted me to go to, and the week before, Mulder asked that I do that autopsy on the guy who glowed in the dark. I owed you." Maggie clicked her tongue, barely suppressing the irritation she felt for her daughter's partner. It seemed he monopolized her every moment, whether it was during business hours or not. No wonder her daughter had dark circles under her eyes. "Sit down," her mother ordered. "Let me finish dinner." "Everything's finished. The lasagna is out of the oven and the bread is just warming." "Then you sit down and rest and I'll make you some tea." Dana sank into her couch, knowing it was futile to argue. Let the fussing begin, she thought, and collapsed against the throw pillows. She was nearly dozing when she heard the knock, followed by Mulder's voice, muffled by the heavy oak door: "Scully, it's me." "It's open," she called weakly. Mulder opened the door and stepped inside, toeing off his muddy shoes. It was raining, just as it had been for the entire day. The angels, Dana mused, are crying. Mulder closed the door, leaving the storm behind him. "You seemed upset when you left the office tonight," he explained. "Are you all right?" She forced herself to sit up and nod, even as her head seemed to twirl. "Do you want to stay for dinner?" Maggie emerged from the kitchen, holding a steaming cup of tea. Immediately, her smile disapeared. "Hello, Mulder." He nodded. "Mrs. Scully." "Do you want to stay for dinner?" Dana asked. "Stay, Fox," Maggie said, although she clearly didn't want him there. Too many times, her daughter's life had been compromised by this man. Even the mild virus Dana was fighting seemed unusual for her; before she'd been assigned to the X-Files, she rarely was ill. She got enough sleep then, ate on regular intervals, and wasn't dragged to hell and back every week on her partner's whim. All these factors had surely suppressed Dana's immune system, and nothing her daughter could say would change Maggie's mind. Still, more to save herself from a tongue-lashing from her daughter than out of sincerity, Maggie said, "She's made enough to feed a third- world country." "Okay, well. . . thanks, Scully." He smiled again. "Scullys." Sitting down at the dining room table, Dana forced herself to not gag at the sight and smell of the lasagna she had prepared only an hour ago. Without taking a piece, she passed the garlic bread to Mulder. He was on a tangent, his eyes bright and his mouth closing only to chew as he told Maggie about the dead ends they'd encountered on this case. "It was the damnedest thing," he said, waving a piece of garlic bread in his hand. "One minute, the girls were fine, and the next day, they were dead. It started out like regular old stomach virus, but then their kidneys failed, and then their livers, and then their lungs filled up with goo." Mulder was so entranced with his story he didn't notice that Dana was poking at the food on her plate, but not actually eating any of it. Maggie watched him for a moment, then cleared her throat. "Well." She turned to address her daughter. "Do you remember Mark Summer?" Dana reached for her water glass. "Should I?" "From med school. He was the RA in your dorm. You went out with him." Mulder sat up straighter. "Twice," Dana said tightly. "Well, you brought him to the family picnic." "I used him as a pawn so Charlie and Bill would stop asking me if I was a lesbian." "Well, whatever," Maggie said in exasperation. "I ran into him the other day. He asked about you." For a few moments, Dana sat, listening to her mother's he'd-make-a-nice-boyfriend-why-don't-you-call-him speech. Throughout it all, her eyes were burning and her throat was in spasms. "Mulder?" she whispered. Maggie set down her fork. "Honey, what is it?" "I'm going to be sick," Dana whispered. Maggie was on her feet and at Dana's side before Mulder could even comprehend her words. A piece of garlic bread in his hand, he watched as Maggie half-dragged her daughter to the bathroom. He heard Maggie's soothing words between Scully's heaves. Feeling as if he should do something, he wandered to the open bathroom door and peeked in. Scully was on her knees in front of the toilet and Maggie was kneeling beside her, holding her hair away from her face. When the spasms subsided, Maggie stroked her daughter's hair and soothed, "Do you feel better now?" Dana sat back, mustering the strength to be embarrassed by her audience. "Can I be alone? I want to brush my teeth." Maggie helped her to her feet and then let her be, closing the bathroom door and walking back to the kitchen. Mulder trailed behind her. When Dana emerged, the table was cleared and the food put away. Both her mother and her partner watched her warily. "Why don't you go to bed?" Maggie suggested. "I'll make you some more tea." She had already warmed the teapot on the stove and was unwrapping a peppermint tea bag. "I think I just want to lie on the couch," Dana replied, not wanting to admit that she didn't think she had the strength to walk to her bedroom. She leaned against the doorframe, her body shuddering. Mulder draped his arm around her shoulders. "Come on, Scully, I think 'The Last of the Mohicans' is on. You know how you enjoy drooling over Daniel Day-Lewis." She nodded sluggishly and was grateful for his lead, since her head still felt as if it spun on her shoulders. From the kitchen, Maggie worried, "Honey, don't you think we should go to the hospital? What if this is that same disease those girls had?" Mulder sat down on the couch and guided his partner down beside him. She sighed and rested her head against his thigh. "No, Mom," Dana sighed. "I just want to lie here." "The girls were isolated cases, Mrs. Scully," Mulder explained, tamping down his own unspoken fears. "Even their parents didn't get sick." "And there's a stomach virus going around work," Dana whispered. "Yeah!" Mulder agreed. "I had it myself last week. I spent the whole weekend in the bathroom." Maggie, a teacup and saucer in her hands, entered from the kitchen and stopped short when she saw that her daughter was crumpled in Mulder's arms. Maggie glared at him. "Uh, why don't you sit down, Mrs. Scully?" Mulder invited. As if he *lived* there. Maggie set the cup on the table in front of her daughter with more force than necessary, sloshing a little of the tea. She sat down in the chair beside them, but her muscles refused to release their alert fear. Her daughter did not have the same tenseness; in fact, she rubbed her cheek against her partner's leg, softly sighed, and closed her eyes. Mulder pulled the afghan from the back of the couch and draped it over her. Despite the pairs of eyes staring at her, she fell asleep. ***** She died. My Anna died when she was in her late teens. She was far from being my first charge, nearly as far as she would be from being my last, but I loved her. I was with Anna from the beginning of her life until the end. She was never without a smile, never lost her innocence despite a bad marriage and the miscarriage of a child. I loved her far more than her husband could have ever loved her. He was never there, except on the occasions when he tried to impregnate her. To her heartbreak and his fury, they conceived only one child. Only one. And when that baby passed from Anna's body in the third month, he never spoke to her again. She fell ill with scarlet fever and died in an infirmary, cradled in my arms rather than her husband's. And just before she died, she lifted her eyes to mine and whispered, "I have always felt you. Now I see you, too." And then she drew her final breath. The death shook me to my very core. I grew bitter at the unfairness of this mortal world. I very nearly slipped from God's grace as I began to question my position in the grand scheme of things. By grace or by miracle, He allowed me a second chance. But I was impartial from then on, guiding my charges through their lives with detached protectiveness. But then came Dana, who had freckles like Anna, whose hesitant smile was just like hers, who held the same tender heart as Anna had. And I swore an oath that Dana's life would not end in such tragedy. ***** 7:45 p.m. "What are you doing to my daughter?" Maggie's question was out of the blue, pulling Mulder out of his reverie. He'd been sitting with his partner's head in his lap, tenderly stroking his fingertips over her cheek, enjoying his role as comforter. Now, he lifted his head, at a loss for words. Maggie's mouth was set in a tight line, her jaw clenched. "Look at her," she hissed. "This isn't just a virus. She's exhausted. People who work forty hours a week don't look like this." Mulder dropped his eyes, his heart twisting within his chest. Dana's eyes fluttered open then, and she moaned. He recognized that moan; he sat up straighter, lifting her. "Scully, are you sick?" She nodded feebly. Maggie rose to her feet and helped her daughter to sit up and lean over. Mulder barely had time to pick up the bucket Maggie had stationed beside the couch before Dana vomited. When she was done, her mother sat on the armrest of the couch, stroking her daughter's hair, leaving the dirty work for her partner. Mulder was not a man who handled this sort of thing well. Now, he dutifully carried the bucket to the bathroom with a grimace. Cleaning it out with his eyes screwed shut and his nose plugged with one hand, he still gagged. When the chore was finished, he found Maggie standing in the doorway behind him. "I think it's time to take her to the hospital." "You heard her before. She doesn't want to go," he said. "She says it's a virus." Maggie lowered her voice. "Perhaps this isn't your concern, but I am her mother and I'm concerned about her well-being." "Mrs. Scully, I don't know what you want me to do." "Talk to her. She'll listen to you." He snorted. "You're overestimating my influence on your daughter." "Really?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "It seems that you have a very strong influence over her." "Mrs. Scully, I'd like her to go to the hospital, but she's a doctor and a grown woman. I can't force her." Feeling her glare, he soaked a cloth with cool water and returned to the living room, where Dana still sat, her head cradled in her hands. He knelt in front of her, reaching to stroke her brow with the washcloth. "I am so sorry," she whispered, near tears. "Yeah, you're going to owe me in a big way," he joked shakily. "Do you think we should go to the hospital and get you checked out?" Dana shook her head slightly. "I just want to go to sleep." He glanced at Maggie, letting her understand he had tried to appease her wishes. "Well, let me get you into your own bed," he said. "I can't, Mulder." He realized how much it took for her to admit that, and he began to wonder if they were in fact dealing with more than a stomach virus. "Okay, hold on," he announced. "I'm going to pick you up." With a gentle motion, she was in his arms and he was carrying her into her room. Maggie hurried ahead to pull down the quilt. Then she hung back, worrying that they would forget she was even there. Quietly, she watched as this man settled her daughter into her bed, then drew the quilt to her chin. He began to rummage through her dresser drawers. As if he'd been in her bedroom before. "Where are your pajamas, Scully?" And yet, Maggie thought, he doesn't know where she keeps her night clothes. "Second drawer, on the left." He found them, then sat her up, inch by inch so as not to jostle her stomach, and slowly eased her out of her sweater with a familiarity that unsettled Maggie. "Be careful," Scully whispered. He grinned. "I promise not to rip your clothes off." "If you move me too much, I'll be sick." Without hesitation, he unbuttoned her skirt. When he had done as much as he could without her help, he asked, "Can you lift your hips?" Maggie cleared her throat, and with a blush Mulder remembered she was there. "Perhaps I could be the one to take my daughter's clothes off." "Mom, just let him do it," Dana groaned. She was feeling too ill for them to change places; she just wanted the chore to be finished so she could lie back. Maggie pursed her lips and turned on her heel, marching out of the room. "Uh-oh," Mulder said. "You just got me into a whole bunch of trouble." "You were already there," she whispered. He snaked his arm around her and lowered her back to her pillows. Then, he struggled with her skirt, trying to lower it. She grimaced and closed her eyes. The gentle tugging was jostling her stomach, and she gasped, "Mulder... Mulder, no. Please, just let it be." He nodded seriously and pulled the quilt up around her. "Maybe if I close my eyes, I'll die and get this over with," she whimpered. "Is there anything I can do to make you feel better?" She rubbed her eyes like a fretful child. "I just want to sleep." "Okay." He kissed her forehead, which now felt decidedly hot, and headed for the door. "Mulder." He turned. "Hmm?" She looked small, lying in the middle of her bed, clearly feeling sick and alone. "What are you going to do?" He shrugged. "Face your mother, I suppose. Try to convince her I've never been in your bedroom before." "Hide in here," she offered weakly. "We could watch 'The Last of the Mohicans.'" He sat gingerly beside her and reached for the remote perched on her night stand. He turned on the television, then lowered the volume until it was barely perceptible. "Scully," he hedged. "Are you sure you don't want to go to the emergency room?" She nodded wearily. He nestled her gently to his side, resting her burning cheek against his chest. Immediately, her body relaxed, and within moments, she was mercifully asleep. He watched five minutes of "The Last of the Mohicans," but lying there in that warm bed, with his partner cuddled against him, made him feel luxuriously sleepy. Finally, he succumbed to his own fatigue, left over from a long workweek- and an even longer Friday evening- and closed his eyes. Outside, the black skies continued to pour. ***** I stand over them while they sleep. I give them the rest they need, spreading my arms over them so they feel safe. The man's guardian keeps watch at the door for the enemies that always lurk nearby his charge. Every time the agent declares he doesn't believe in God or angels, his guardian takes another step back, guarding him from a distance. It is difficult to watch over those who don't believe in you. She is dreaming. In her mind's eye, she sees an unseen enemy, creeping closer to her. She tries to scream, but her voice is lost. I reach to stroke her brow, chasing away the nightmare; the dream ends and her sleep deepens. I bow my head in silent prayer for her safekeeping. I have learned to love this person, for her kindness and for her devotion to her family, to her faith, and to her partner. She is a good woman. She would give of herself to anyone who asked for her. And that is why at times, it feels so senseless. For years, I have been devoted to my service. I have performed my duties admirably. And yet, as her fever rises and her body begins to burn, words form an accusation in my mind. It. . . isn't. . .fair. ***** 9:23 p.m. When Mulder awoke, the room was dark, lit only by the television. He felt like he was embracing a smoldering log, fresh from a campfire. Scully, lying in the crook of his arm, had perspired to the point that she, the blanket, the pillow and the length of his body were soaked. He touched her face. She was flaming with fever. "Scully. Oh my God." He snapped on the bedside lamp. She blinked in the bright light and tried to sit up, her face stricken. "I'm going to be sick." Instantly, he was on his feet, rushing to help her. She, too, leapt to her feet. Now, however, she was swaying. She staggered into the bathroom, closing the door and leaving him outside. He leaned against the door, respecting her privacy but somehow wanting to be in there to comfort her. He lifted his hand to touch the door with his fingers, spreading his palm against the wood. "Jeez, Scully, how are you finding anything else to throw up?" he mumbled. She retched in response. He shuddered, trying to block her out and concentrate on the sounds of rain pelting her window. A few moments later, he realized that all he could hear was the rain outside. "Scully?" he called. Nothing. He banged on the door. "Scully!" There was no response. He threw open the door. "Oh, shit, shit, SHIT!" She was lying, sprawled across the tiles, her face burning red. Her eyes were open. "I lost my balance," she mumbled. Maggie was in the doorway, her hair pressed to her head by the nap she'd taken on the couch. She cried her daughter's name, but before she could move from her vantage, he had swept Dana into his arms, carried her into her bedroom and sat her down on her bed. Wrapping the quilt around his partner, he said grimly, "We're going, Scully." "Mulder?" "Yeah?" Her eyes, rolling in her head, struggled to focus. He almost expected her to assure him that she was fine. Instead, she collapsed against him, unconscious. ***** On the way to the hospital, I sit beside Mulder, who insists on driving even though his hands are trembling and his eyes are darting from side to side, daring anyone to get in his way. Over his shoulder, he calls his partner's name. In the backseat, Maggie cradles her limp daughter, calling to her and rocking her as if she were a child. Dana does not react to their pleas. Only when we are in the emergency room does she wake up, blinking in the harsh, fluorescent light. She is examined, poked, prodded. A nurse begins an IV, and scribbles notes on a chart. Then, she is swept upstairs to be settled into a regular room. Through it all, Dana stares at the ceiling, her bottom lip trembling. I weep bitterly. Why is she here again? How is it that some people are predestined to bear the pain of a dozen? She is frightfully pale. Tiny blue veins are visible, pulsing beneath her transparent skin. In a hospital gown, stripped of her power suits and street clothes, she is even smaller than I realized. Her condition has worsened in the short time we have been here. Her mind repeats a mantra: "This is it. This is really it." She does not speak of these fears. Instead, she lies there with her eyes at half-mast, holding her mother's hand. Her mother watches the IV bag over their heads as it drips fluids into her daughter's body. The doctors do not know what is wrong. Their medicines are powerless against this thing, this beast who is devouring my charge in front of my eyes. They still believe she has a virus. Her partner is not here. He has rushed away to look at autopsy reports on the children and to talk to the sisters' doctor. When that reveals nothing, he returns to the hospital. For over an hour now, he has been on the phone, pacing the waiting room and shouting about not having time to get the court order he'll need to see juvenile records on the young girls. The girls are adopted. He wants to know their history, he wants to know where they came from. He's grasping at straws, looking for anything in the girls' past that will give him an answer. His pleas are falling on deaf ears. In desperation, he calls his supervisor, despite the late hour. Deep in his heart, he knows he is powerless. But on the surface of his consciousness, he has to be doing something. He cannot cope with his own sense of helplessness. His actions, no matter how ineffectual, sustain his belief that his partner will recover. I stay with her, standing beside her bed, listening to the voices of other guardians as they do the same in other rooms. Every once in awhile, another guardian drifts in, to speak in quiet praise of the woman I have guarded for so many years. They are coming to me because they know. They know that I will grieve. ***** Georgetown University Medical Center 12:30 a.m. When he entered the room and she gazed up at him, the whites of her eyes were pinpricked with blood. His knees wavered a little, and Maggie, sitting beside her daughter, stood, offering her chair wordlessly, despite accusation in her eyes. Maggie crossed to the chair across the room and sat stiffly, trying to compose the horror growing inside. In a voice void of expression, she said, "The capillaries in her eyes are bursting from the vomiting. She vomited again when you were gone." It was an accusation, not a statement, and it struck his heart. "Oh, Scully," he murmured. "The doctors have ordered a nasogastric tube," Maggie informed him. "The Compazine isn't helping." Dana held out her hand for him, forever comforting him. "My stomach has to stay calm. It's the only way." He hated the NG tubes, had suffered from them on more occasions than he cared to remember. And he knew Scully didn't enjoy them, either. "What can I do for you?" he asked earnestly. She squeezed his hand and smiled weakly. "Make my mom go home and get some sleep." "Absolutely not!" Maggie interjected. "I'm staying right here." "Maybe it would be good for you if-" Mulder began, but Maggie turned to him, her eyes narrowing. "Listen, you have already contributed enough to this problem. I'll thank you for butting out now." He wanted to know how this was his fault, but before he could ask, the nurse entered, her arm loaded with a tray of supplies that were wrapped in sterile packages. She was Scully's age, with eyes that nearly matched Scully's in color. The woman's blond hair was twisted into a messy French twist, and her smile was bright. "Hi, I'm Kirsten. I'm here to put in your NG tube." To Mulder and Maggie, she said, "If you'd like to step outside for a few moments. . ." "Please," Dana said quietly. "I want Mulder to stay." She smiled weakly. "He's an old pro at NG tubes." Hurt flickered in Maggie's eyes. This- choosing him instead of her- was going too far. "I think I should stay," she began, but Dana interrupted. "Mom, this is a really disturbing procedure to watch." "So why do I have to stay?" Mulder joked. Maggie did not smile. Instead, she turned away. "I'll be right outside." Dana nodded as the nurse lay a towel over her chest and an emesis basin over the towel. The nurse walked to the sink, to wash her hands and don her rubber gloves. Mulder and Dana exchanged a nervous smile. Kirsten handed Dana a tissue and asked her to blow her nose. That bit of business out of the way, the nurse positioned the lubricated tube just inside Scully's right nostril. Mulder turned away. After a moment, he heard the nurse say, "Can you lower your chin for me, Dana?" He heard Scully retch. He chanced a peek and saw her eyes were tightly shut. She was gagging, her throat bobbing. He looked away. "It's okay, Dana, just try to swallow past it. Swallow. . . again. . . easy. . ." Mulder thought he was going to throw up, and for a moment, he was squeezing Scully's hand as tightly as she was squeezing his. Finally, Scully's grip on his fingers relaxed, and he turned back. The nurse was leaning over, flashing a light in the patient's mouth and pressing Scully's tongue down with a depressor. "Everything looks great, Dana." Kirsten taped the tube into place and nodded in approval. "How does it feel?" "Like there's a tube down the back of my throat," Dana said, her voice sounding congested. "Yeah." The nurse patted her arm. "Well, that will keep your tummy empty so you won't throw up anymore, plus they've got some anti-nausea drugs in your IV. Is there anything I can do for you?" Dana shook her head slightly, inadvertently tugging on her tubing. "All right." Kirsten rubbed Dana's blanketed leg, then gathered her tray and was gone. Scully tried to snicker. "Mulder, you're sweating." He wiped his fingertips across his brow, found them wet. "That was incredibly gross, Scully. I thought it was gross having one put in, you should see it from this angle." She smiled weakly and squeezed his fingers. "Thank you for staying, Mulder." A lump rose in his throat. "Thank you for asking me to." ***** I stroke her forehead as the nurse rotates the tube and eases it down past her throat. Her body, naturally wanting to extract an intruder, tenses and her throat spasms, trying to dislodge the tube behind it. For a moment, it appears she can't breathe. It is then that I lean close and whisper in her ear, "Swallow. . . swallow. . ." After the tube is in place, I sit back. Through millenniums of time I have never felt tired, but now I feel the first layer of fatigue settling around me as tears run down the corners of her eyes, melting into her hairline. She assures him that it is only a side effect of the nasogastric tube, but I know this is a half-truth. There is another presence here, standing near me. It has not shown itself, nor has it spoken. But its vague familiarity haunts me. It waits. ***** 2:00 a.m. Scully put the file down, too weak to hold the papers that felt unbearably heavy, and watched Mulder pace back and forth at the foot of her bed, his cell phone pressed to his ear. "Mulder," she whispered. "Why don't you leave this up to the doctor?" He lowered the phone, disconnecting the call he'd been attempting. "The doctor doesn't know what he's dealing with, Scully," he said grimly. "He still thinks he's dealing with a stomach virus." "My mother is talking to him now. She'll scare him into doing more tests." She sighed deeply. "Besides, what if it is just an influennza? The doctors have no reason to believe otherwise. We're probably overreacting." Mulder glanced at the doorway, to make sure Maggie wasn't within earshot. "If it's not, we have a lot of work to do. If it is, I'll buy everyone a latte. No, make those espressos. With whipped cream." He punched a phone number into his cell phone, and waited. Then: "Frohike? It's me. Turn off the tape recorder." ***** Just before dawn, it calls me by name. Her mother sleeps in a lumpy chair in the corner of the room. Her guardian stands behind her, rubbing her shoulders with an angel's soothing caress. Dana's partner sits at her side, holding her hand. He is exhausted, his head bobbing toward his chest. Still, he can't take his eyes from her. Dana, in sleep, is frowning, wrinkling her brow, somehow sensing an unfamiliar presence. It is without form, but the voice whispers directly into my soul. "How much do you care for her?" "Where have you come from?" I ask quietly. "From roaming through the earth," says the presence, "and going back and forth within it." It is a code of sorts among us. Once, my Master asked Satan the same question. The response confirms my suspicions. "Leave this place, fallen angel," I say. "You are not wanted." "I am not?" He steps from the shadows, making himself visible to me. I recognize my own face in his. Both of us had been created perfect, mirror images of Him and of each other. Yet, as I look into his fire-filled eyes, I see a stranger. The stranger smiles. "You do not want your own brother? Your own flesh and blood?" "We are not flesh and blood," I protest. He raises an eyebrow and his eyes trail down to Dana's pale face. He reaches for her, but I step between them. "She is good," I insist. "She is dead." "Leave us!" My cry brings the other guardians to rise to their full heights, looming in a brilliance of iridescent light. The fallen one does not speak again, and I feel his presence wane. Dana breathes easier. But I know he will return, and as Dana weakens, his power grows stronger. ***** 6:23 a.m. A walking bouquet of flowers entered the room just after dawn. Behind the sprays of roses, daffodils and carnations, Frohike appeared, quietly setting the vases down on the radiator in Dana's room. Byers, still dressed in yesterday's suit, set his modest green plant beside the other offerings, and Langly offered his Mylar "Get Well" balloon to the Scully shrine that had quickly formed. Everyone was asleep. Maggie, curled in her chair with her head tilted at an uncomfortable angle, snored softly. Mulder, sitting beside Dana's unmoving form, had face-planted into her bed and was out cold, his cheek pressed against the files he'd been reading. Byers shook him softly, but he still leapt to his feet, his eyes wild. They shushed him, but Maggie opened her eyes and sat up straight. Immediately, her eyes narrowed. "Don't you think it's a little early for visitors?" Mulder nodded an apology and led them to the waiting room. "Well?" he said by way of greeting. "There's just nothing out there," Byers said quietly. "I checked every medical database I could hack. I concur with your findings; there are no records of anything like this happening before." "Those girls had to pick this up from somewhere," Mulder snapped. "I know," Byers said. "But I checked their school records like you asked, and there isn't any record of another child being sick like this. We're checking all the public school records, but it's going to take time." "The family did have a personal Web page," Langly added. "But all it showed were pictures of the family dog and the diary they kept on the family trip to Europe." Mulder swore and threw himself into a chair. The Gunmen exchanged glances. "How is she?" Frohike asked cautiously. Mulder shrugged his shoulders in defeat. "The doctors think I'm cracked. They still think it's a virus." "Well, in case it's not, we'll find out what it is," said Langly. Mulder wiped his eyes with the pads of his fingers and heaved himself to his feet. "Come on, you guys, I'll buy you some cafeteria food." ***** 7:15 a.m. Dana wasn't in her bed when he returned. Maggie lifted her eyes from the magazine she'd been thumbing through and gazed at him coldly. Their eyes locked, his filling with futility, hers already welled with anger. Finally, she spoke. "They're running more tests," she said. "Unless you and the Three Stooges have found a cure for her." He stared at her with wounded, exhausted eyes. With a start, she saw something lurking in them that she hadn't seen before. He was terrified. Unable to accept that, she stood up and walked out the door. He didn't know what else to do, so he sank onto the freshly made bed, which had been stripped of Scully's scent. He took a deep breath, and missed her. ***** They think she has a virus. True, the stomach viruses have run rampant this winter. The hospital staff has seen many people, professing to be on death's door, when in fact all they needed was a couple of days in bed and some chicken soup. These people are cluttering the ER and the staff collectively is getting short-tempered with them. Some patients are given fluids, some are admitted overnight. But no one seems as ill as Dana. I can tell, as they draw blood and take X-rays, that the technicians are beginning to wonder if Dana's illness is more serious. They treat her gently, fearing the sickness raging inside her, secretly worrying that they might catch whatever she has. The doctors insist she is suffering from complications of the flu virus. Fools. Ignorant fools. I am angry for her. How can these doctors not see that her life is at stake? That death stands patiently nearby, just waiting for acknowledgment? I hold her hand as they wheel her back into her freshly cleaned room. She has slept through most of the procedures, and sleeps now as they transfer her back into bed. Her partner stands beside her, watching anxiously. When she is settled, he leans close to kiss her forehead. She stirs and her eyes open. She tries to speak, but doesn't have the energy. She feels the changes, the weakening in her body, and she is afraid. She wants him to lie down beside her, to comfort and hold her near, but she can't make her wishes known. I give him a little nudge in the right direction, and the light blinks on in his mind. He lowers the guardrail, sits down on her blanket and then lies back beside her. She smiles wearily, because he understands her. He smiles, too, realizing he has given her what she needs. He rolls to his side, not fitting on her little bed, his gangly legs hanging off the bottom. She snuggles against him, her body relaxing. Exhausted beyond anything he's ever felt before, his muscles give in and he closes his eyes. Once again, I grant them rest with a wave of my hand. But it is growing more difficult to grant her sleep. Pain is creeping into her kidneys, and she knows this is the beginning of the end. She has seen her last sunrise, and if she is lucky, she'll live to see the next sunset. She feels her body begin to die. ***** 12:02 p.m. "Mulder?" He opened his eyes and saw that her pallid face was stained with tears. He sat up beside her, his face masked in questions, in fear. "Where's my mom?" Something in her tone frightened him, causing a shiver to race up his spine. He glanced around the room. "It's lunch time, Scully, maybe she went down to the cafeteria. Is there something I can do for you?" Her face held a resigned sadness he had seen before, when death had been only a breath away. "Mulder?" she whispered hoarsely. "I feel close." "Close to what?" He knew, goddammit, he knew; but he wanted her to say something else, to say she needed a sip of water, or maybe she needed her pillow fluffed, or an extra blanket to warm her. Dana took a shuddering breath, and whispered, "I think you should call for Father McCue." Mulder's blood turned to ice, and the color trickled from his face. Her face contorted in tears. "I wish I could stay with you," she whispered. ". . .but I can't." He turned to her, pulling her close. "Don't say things like that, Scully. It's just a virus, you're just dehydrated and your fever is high." "You know what's going to happen," she wheezed airily. "There was a pattern in those girls' deaths. The vomiting, the fever. . .then pain in the kidneys and then the liver-" "No." He nearly knocked her tray over in his haste to stand and get away from her. She lifted her head determinedly, desperate to make him understand. "My vital organs will begin to fail one by one. First my kidneys, then my liver. And eventually, fluid will drain into my lungs until I can't breathe." Her chin quivered. "My kidneys hurt, Mulder-" "It's a stomach virus, Scully!" "No," she said gently. "Mulder, listen." She used all her strength to lift herself up on her elbows, her hair matted around her earnest face. "Mulder," she said tenderly. "I never had the chance to tell you-" "Shut up!" he cried. "Shut up, Scully! You don't know what the fuck you're talking about!" His face turned down in a tragedy mask of pain, and before he could sob, he was out of the room. ***** He has broken her heart, and my own threatens to burst. The moment he is out of her sight, she turns away and weeps with ugly, braying sobs that should attract a nurse but somehow don't. Her mind races: Why? How can you do this to me, now? Tears are slipping down her face and I want to catch them in my hands, not willing to let something so precious simply melt away. Then the pain strikes her kidneys, invading her, and she throws her head back, gurgling. I can almost feel the pain, the deep stabbing shards of agony as her kidneys struggle to function. She rolls to her side, inadvertently tugging on her nasal tube, and draws her knees to her chest. At first, she only trembles, her face turned down in agony. A scream is bubbling in her throat and she grits her teeth, but it is too intense and she screeches. . . screeches his name. She rarely swears, but now she is shouting the words to whomever wants to hear. Her mind pleads, 'Help me. Oh, God, help me.' I cannot stand to be still; I lay my hands upon her back, over her kidneys. I cannot heal her--why have I never been given this power?-- but I can ease the pain. Immediately, she feels better. She collapses onto the pillow, her hands curling into fists and pressing against her eyes. Her breathing comes in that HUH-uh, HUH-uh of a child who has cried too hard for too long. I stroke her perspiring back, trying in vain to radiate healing from my fingers, waiting for her to catch her breath. When she has, she rolls onto her back and looks directly at me. I smile, although I know she can't see me. She nods and whispers, "Thank you." Before I can process this first exchange between us, Kirsten is there, apologizing for taking so long and stroking Dana's hair away from her sticky, tear-stained face. "Do you want me to ask your doctor for more meds?" Kirsten asks. "No," Dana whispers. And she closes her eyes and falls immediately into the welcoming arms of sleep. The nurse peeks under the blankets, looks at Dana's catheter bag and frowns. I silently plead with her: Call the doctor. The nurse stays beside her, holding her hand until she is sure her patient is asleep. Then she makes a note on the chart at the foot of the bed, draws the window shades and lowers the light, and is gone. Within moments, the nurse returns, a doctor in tow. They are whispering about renal failure. The doctor orders Lasix, to help with her kidney function. He makes a phone call, alerting someone of a potential need for dialysis. He orders more tests. I watch all of this in silence. In the shadows, I feel a presence. He is watching me again. He knows me as well as I know myself. He wonders if she is my one true weakness. As I stroke her hair, kiss her fevered brow, I know I confirm his suspicions, and he finally sees the truth. ***** 12:15 p.m. The Virgin gazed down upon the mother, her smooth features etched in compassion, her hands outstretched. Staring into the chapel's shrine of white, flickering candles shrouded in red glass cups, Maggie felt the fearful beginnings of truth sinking into her consciousness. She had been frightened by Mulder's panic, but she hadn't felt the beginnings of her world crumbling until she had seen that new emotion in his eyes. Terror for a tragedy that seemed suddenly inevitable. It was impossible. No good and loving God would take her husband, her granddaughter, and not one, but both, her daughters. Would He? Would He really ask her to bear the sorrow of so many tragedies? Was He trying to see how much strength still remained within her? To see how far it could go before she truly and irreparably cracked? "Mrs. Scully?" She turned and lifted herself from her knees slowly, like the old woman she'd become in the past five years. "I've been looking everywhere for you," Mulder said, gasping for breath. "She's asking for you." Maggie's heart stopped beneath her breast. "Why?" His eyes were red-rimmed, his face haggard. "She thinks it's time to call Father McCue," he said brokenly. Her knees began to buckle, and she clutched a pew for support. "What are you talking about?" "She has pain," he whispered. "In her kidneys. It's. . .one of the symptoms of the illness that killed the girls." So, she thought, that was her answer. Maggie's face crumbled and with a sweep of her arm, she knocked the burning candles from the shrine. They toppled to the carpeting, the wicks extinguishing in a gurgle of melted wax and shattered glass. "Don't," Mulder said weakly. "Mrs. Scully. . ." "Don't what? Don't blaspheme church property? What do you care? You don't believe in the church. And you know what, Fox? I don't blame you. "I don't believe in it, either." "Mrs. Scully," he whispered. "You need your faith. Don't blame your God for what's happening. It isn't His fault." She stared at him, disbelieving. Then, when his words had sunk in, she closed the gap between them, until her face was only an inch away from his. "Then who should I blame, Fox? You?" she whispered. "God knows my daughter would never find fault with you. "And now she's dying." He had never known such pain. Bullets, flames, even the loss of his sister could not compare, could not possibly prepare him for the agony that irreparably burned his heart. Maggie gasped for breath, fighting back keening sobs as she stumbled toward the elevators that would carry her to her daughter. She was oblivious to the strange looks of the doctors and nurses she passed. She did not make eye contact with the other visitors who rode up the elevator with her. And when the elevator doors slid open, she raced to the room, as if being chased by the Devil himself. The hospital room was shadowed. A kind-hearted nurse had drawn the curtains and turned out the overhead light, and now Dana slept, her lips pressed together, her arms folded over her chest. She looked dead, Maggie thought, and she lunged forward, shaking her daughter's shoulder. When Dana failed to respond, Maggie reached up and snapped on the overhead light. And then she gasped in disbelief. Her daughter's skin had turned a sickly shade of yellow. ***** Below, in the chapel, Mulder eased his exhausted, aching body into a pew. He smelled the wood polish, the faint echo of incense, all the churchy smells he remembered from going to services as a very young child. At the time he had not known why he was there, why he had been forced to sit quietly and pray to someone he couldn't even see. Now he sat, his hands limply folded in his lap, and realized he still didn't know why. Within his jacket pocket, Mulder's cell phone rang, and for a moment, he thought it was Scully. Realizing it wasn't, his voice was weak when he spoke into the receiver. "Yeah." "Mulder?" Langly's voice was nervously exuberant. "We were just looking at the family's Web site, and we found something we missed the first time around. Guess why they went to Europe?" "To see the sights?" he asked weakly, his voice dulled in anguish. "That, and to pick up an au pair." "An au pair?" "Yeah, you know. A nanny. A nanny who arrived just a few days ago." "Guys, I don't have the energy-" "They posted a journal of their trip. Do you know how much it costs to hire a nanny?" He rubbed his burning eyes. "I've got to go." "Wait! Mulder, listen. We found a picture of Scully in her pocket." Mulder sat up straight. "Where is this person?" "She's sitting here, alive and hissing." "Hissing?" Byers' voice came over the phone. "Mulder? I think you'll want to come look at this. Mary Poppins here had more weapons on her than the Terminator." ***** The Lone Gunmen's office 12:47 p.m. "How'd you find her?" Mulder demanded by way of greeting when the door swung open. "Phone book. The family was listed," Langly explained. "All we did was knock on the door, and she answered." "She would have followed us home even if we hadn't asked her to," Frohike added. Mulder stepped past them and stared bleakly at the spread on the Gunman's computer table. He swore under his breath. A hunting knife. Syringes of black, syrupy liquid. A pistol. Extra cartridges. Some kind of hand-held gun that appeared to fire lasers instead of ammunition. "She had them on her," Frohike explained. "What kind of au pair packs this much heat?" "Guess she was really expecting those kids to get out of hand," Langly added. Mulder whistled softly. "How in the hell did you guys get this stuff off her?" Frohike and Langly grinned and turned to Byers, whose ears immediately reddened. "Byers, would you like to share with the rest of the class?" Langly simpered. Byers' cheeks were crimson. "She was easily persuaded to come with us." "And why was that?" Frohike snickered. "All right!" Byers exploded. "All right, fine." He took a deep breath. "She thinks I'm cute." "She thinks more than that," Langley added. "We went to the house and Byers asked if she'd come with us so we could talk to her. The next thing we know, she's in the car, buckling her seatbelt. When we got back here, Byers took the weapons off her and she acted like he was seducing her." "I was not seducing her!" Byers said hotly. Mulder picked up the gun and inspected it. "Hey!" Frohike ducked. "Careful. That thing doesn't come with a safety." "Mulder, watch your back when talk to her," Langly warned. "Byers pissed her off." "Well, what was I supposed to do?" Byers demanded, his ears reddening. "Accept her proposition?" "So Byers breaks her heart and now she's in a seriously bad mood," Langly explained, unlocking the door that separated them from her. The room, overrun with stacks of old Gunmen newsletters, pieces of computers and piles of surveillance equipment, had just enough room for a table and two chairs. Mulder's heart, stopping when he stepped in the room, began to race as if making up for lost time. The young woman sat in a chair with her arms tied behind her back, her long curly hair falling around her face. From beneath the rats' nest of tangled curls, one eye peered at him, staring into eyes that were nearly identical to hers in color and shape. Both children had their father's eyes. She hissed at them, baring her teeth, and Frohike took a step back. "Man, I hate when she does that." Mulder stepped closer, his face expressionless. He felt woozy. He must have looked as bad as he felt, because Byers lay a hand on his shoulder. "What's wrong?" Mulder looked into the eyes of his sister and willed his heart to slow its erratic beat. "I think she's a hybrid," he said quietly. "How do you know?" Byers asked. "She looks like Samantha." He rubbed a hand over his eyes, collecting himself, and then said, "In my experience, alien hybrids tend to look like long-lost sisters." The gunmen exchanged glances as Mulder sat down opposite her. He reminded himself in a determined mantra that this was not his sister. Even in the sorrow, the pain, he would not let this shatter him. "Who sent you?" he demanded. She responded in a string of incomprehensible words, her eyes burning in hatred. "I don't speak alien," he said quietly. "You'll have to try English. And don't tell me you don't know how to speak it." She lifted her chin. "I am not here for you." "I gathered that. Do I have to guess who you are here for?" She didn't answer, struggled against her restraints. "Easy, wildcat," Frohike murmured. Mulder demanded, "Did you kill those children?" "By accident," she snapped. "I did not know the illness would kill my own kind. It was only supposed to kill those who are implanted." "The children were alien?" Mulder's eyes narrowed. "You're a colonist?" She nodded. "A bounty hunter?" Again. "Who are you after?" She did not speak. Finally, Mulder lunged at her. "WHO DO YOU WANT?" He grabbed her by the throat, squeezing his fingers into her windpipe. She swallowed with difficulty and cursed at him in her native tongue. "Mulder." Frohike grasped his arms and shook him. "MULDER. You need her right now." Mulder released her and sank into the wooden chair opposite her. He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. "Scully. You're after Scully." "She is the only survivor." "What did you give her? Cancer? They ran tests. There was no trace of it." "It is untraceable," said the alien. "But it is there. The only way it can be stopped is through death." "No." He scrubbed his face with his hands, composing himself. Then he leapt to his feet and began to pace. "There's another way. There has to be." "Not unless you have the Creator on your side," the alien sneered. Mulder's face crumbled, and Byers lay an arm on his shoulder, but Mulder shook it away. "NO!" He lowered his voice. "I have to get out of here." He handed his cell phone to Byers, his hand shaking. "Number two on the speed dial is Skinner's home number. You call him. You meet him somewhere and you get. . .this. . .thing. . .out of my life." Byers rushed out behind him, jogging to catch up to Mulder's frantic strides. "Mulder! Wait up a minute." Mulder paused, but his eyes were those of a wild animal. Byers reached into his coat pocket and pulled a tattered picture of Scully. It was a surveillance photo, in black and white. She was turned slightly away from the camera, her lips pulled in a half-smirk and her hair blowing slightly in the wind. She held an ice cream cone in her hand and a smear of chocolate graced her lower lip. In the edge of the photo, he saw his own shoulder, clothed in his favorite suit coat. He remembered that lunch hour. It had been a warm, summer afternoon and the FBI building was fiercely hot. He had coerced her into going outside and had bought her a cone. Not any of that fake tofu-ice cream; he'd insisted on the full-fat, double-chocolate kind. Only the best for her, he'd said. Except that, while he'd been saying this, someone or something had been taking her picture. Byers nudged him slightly, breaking him from the memory. "Take it," he said. "Take her with you." Mulder nodded and took the picture. "Thank you," he mumbled, before tucking it inside the pocket closest to his heart. ***** Vietnam Memorial 6:04 p.m. Among mingling tourists and the setting sun, in a haze of cigarette smoke, the man waited, his back turned on the names of those who had died. It was not long before shadows approached him. "Your mission failed," Skinner spat, shoving the bounty hunter toward him, where she fell to her knees. The smoking man glanced at the tourists around them and yanked the girl to her feet. "Why, Mr. Skinner, whatever do you mean?" "Why do you persist in using her as a pawn?" Skinner asked under his breath. "Don't you people ever learn? If anything happens to her, do you think he'll just give up?" Skinner leaned closer so that the man could see the rage burning in his eyes. "Hear what I'm about to say," Skinner hissed. "If she dies, he'll only fight harder. He'll become the biggest pain-in-the-ass vigilante you've ever seen. "And so help me God, I'll be right there beside him, hunting you down to the ends of the Earth." The sharp rap of Skinner's heels faded as he stalked into the shadows. When he had disappeared, the smoking man peered down at the girl cowering beside him. "You must be new, to have been captured so easily." She wept in response. For a long moment, he stood without moving, flicking ashes among the wilted flower bouquets left for the dead. The girl pleaded in her native language, "I want to go home." "Yes, child," the smoking man responded kindly. He placed his hand at the small of her back, guiding her toward his car. Inside the depths of his coat pocket, a stiletto waited for the foolish bounty hunter. The tourists gazed at the memorial, unaware that in the shadows, the bounty hunter whimpered before her body began to melt into the ground. ***** The doctor is afraid. I can see it in the lines of his face, the worry in his brow. Most of all, I can read it in his mind. He knows she doesn't have a virus. His mind rattles off the possible causes of liver failure: alcoholism, gallbladder disease. . . Cancer. It's cancer, he knows it is. He just prays he can find it in time. I hang my head in defeat, knowing he won't. "Guardian." I face my brother, my eyes flashing fire. "Go." Behind him now stand a legion of fallen ones, the ones cast out of Heaven by my Master. Their betrayal of Him had been great, evoking the cruelest of punishments: banishment from Heaven and from His grace. The worst of all memories: my brother, screaming for me to grant him mercy, a moment before the gates of Heaven slammed closed in his face. What could I have done? If I had betrayed my Master, I, too, would have been banished. Suddenly, in the face of losing Dana, banishment sounds like a better fate. They stand behind their leader now, like a million shadows in the darkest shades of blackness. "You cannot have her," I say. "Her soul is secure." "We do not want her," he hisses. "We've come for you." I turn my back on them, reaching to press my hand against Dana's heart, to soothe the erratic beating. Her limbs twitch restlessly, her forehead creases with pain. My touch, before able to calm her, is futile now against the evil ravaging her body, cell by cell. "You're tired," the fallen one says. "Your soul aches because she is once again dying. And this time, there will be no bringing her back. By the time the doctors find out what has ravaged her, her body will have returned to dust." "Why do you tell me what I already know?" I whisper, as if she could overhear. "I can spare her life." "You don't have that power," I scoff, although my heart leaps at the possibility. "You haven't the time to question it." The other guardians rise to their feet, standing like a backbone of strength at my sides, but I still waver. Behind me, the angels begin to pray aloud. "How?" I question warily. "How will you save her?" "I have great power." My foe smiles slightly. "Who do you think led them to her in the first place?" All the angels in the heavens cry out in protest as I lunge forward, for the first time in a million years embracing the hatred that wells inside me. ***** Georgetown University Medical Center 6:16 p.m. Two IVs hung from the pole above Dana's head, and a heart monitor stood nearby, bleating steadily. The patient was nearly lost beneath the spider web of tubes. Ten minutes after the doctor had asked to see Maggie in the hallway, she had returned with red-rimmed eyes. The resignation in her mother's eyes was a death blow for Dana. Maggie did not tell her daughter the news. She didn't need to; Dana understood what was happening. Congestive heart failure, brought on by kidney failure and fluid retention. Her heart was working overtime, her lungs filling with congestion. The oxygen mask over her face offered little relief from the shortness of breath. Her mother sat beside her, took her hand and smiled bravely. "Did you call Father McCue?" Dana whispered. "Yes. He'll be here soon." Leaning to whisper into her daughter's ear, Maggie prayed, "The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He leadeth me beside still waters. . ." Dana watched her mother with solemn eyes, mouthing the words because she lacked the breath to speak. Kirsten entered the room, followed by a man dressed in scrubs, carrying a tray of supplies. Maggie stood, squeezing her daughter's hand and then letting go, severing what felt like a lifeline between them. Kirsten took her place, patting Maggie's arm as she did. "Hi, Dana," Kirsten said quietly, and her caring tone could not hide the sadness in her heart. The nurse had seen the woman's chart and knew they were the same age. Kirsten couldn't imagine her own life ending now. She had so many things left unfinished, so many things she still wanted to accomplish and places she wanted to visit. But this woman would not have the chance to do any more. Kirsten, feeling the sting of tears, pressed the notion out of her mind and patted the patient's arm. "You're. . .still. . .here," Dana gasped. Kirsten smiled and nodded. "Yup. A couple of nurses have the flu, so I got roped into doing a double shift." She took a deep breath, uncomfortable with the news she had to deliver. "The doctor thinks we should put in an endotracheal tube. How do you feel about that?" Dana's eyes filled with tears. "Already?" The nurse squeezed Dana's hand. "Well, your lungs are getting pretty filled, and you're having a hard time catching your breath, aren't you? You're not getting enough oxygen in your bloodstream." A tear slipped from the corner of Dana's eye. "So. . .fast. . ." She gasped, then threw her head back, choking. "Oh, God," Maggie whimpered. "She can't breathe." There was no time for goodbyes, no time for last words. The man leaned over her, hastily saying, "Dana, I'm Mark, I'm the respiratory therapist who's going to put in your tube. All right?" He began ripping open sterile packages, not expecting an answer. Kirsten turned to Maggie. "Mrs. Scully, I'm sorry, I have to ask you to leave the room for this procedure. Why don't you go get a cup of coffee from the cafeteria, and by the time you come back, it'll be all over and she'll be feeling much better." Tearing her eyes away from her only surviving daughter, Maggie shuffled into the hallway. On the door of her daughter's room, a sign had been hung: "No visitors except immediate family." Maggie, who had sat at a million bedsides, it seemed, understood that hastily scrawled sign. No one could visit her only remaining daughter. It was proof positive that things had grown critical. Blinking into the fluorescent light, she sank against the wall, her knees barely supporting her. She pressed her fist against her mouth, her lips moving against her fingers in a silent mantra: Where is he, where is he, where is he? ***** "Dana? I'm going to have to restrain your wrists," Kirsten said gently. "Just in case you get frightened and try to pull out the tube, okay?" Dana tried to nod. Her mind knew what was happening, but her body had betrayed her and she couldn't find a way to tell them she understood. She tried to breathe, but the air rattled in her throat, refusing to enter her lungs. She tried again, but all she managed was a squeak. Her eyes rolled back in her head. Kirsten tethered Dana's hands to the bed railings, then gently grasped the woman's frail, cold fingers. Dana stared at blurry faces as they leaned in and peered down at her. She felt warmth spread over her arm and knew she'd just been sedated. Her head began to feel fuzzy. Her world darkened to a pinprick of light, and she felt weightless, as if her body were loosening its hold on her soul. A cold instrument pressed her tongue down. Then she felt the tube touch the back of her throat and push down past her tongue. She gagged. The tube stopped its descent. "You okay, Dana?" Mark asked. No, she wanted to scream. No more tubes. Instead, she made some tiny sound of assent and felt Kirsten massage her hand. "It'll be in place in just a moment, Dana." She felt like it was stretching her throat, invading her body, causing her to suffocate. She tensed, only to feel more warmth trail from her IV line. A moment later, her muscles went limp. The tube was in place within moments. Trailing from her throat, it was attached to a ventilator, and the first mechanical inhale and exhale sounded like a death rattle. As Mark was taping the tube into place and cleaning up, and Kirsten was brushing Dana's hair from her brow, Dana's lips lost their blueness, and her eyes fluttered open. But her irises were dull and listless. Kirsten had seen that look before. It could only mean one thing: Dana's heart was already leaving, the world losing its hold on her. The patient lay motionless, staring at the ceiling, her face expressionless as death began. ***** The fallen one laughs joyously as I clutch at his form, trying to kill for what he has done. "That's it, flesh of my flesh," he says in a low voice. "Kill me." I cry out, releasing him, and fall to my knees, pressing my forehead against the cool tile of the floor. "Leave this place," I whisper. "Not without you." "Why?" I moan. "Why do you want me now?" He is down on the floor beside me now, and I can smell the dank, putrid heat of his breath. "Because I saw your weakness once before," he says. "You love this one, like you loved Anna. "The end of this world grows closer every day," he whispers. "And when it does come, we'll need allies." I cannot speak, so mortified am I by his words. "I'll let her live," he tells me. "You're lying," I accuse. He smiles. "And how would that benefit me? You would hate me forever." "I already hate you," I spit. "Say the word," he sing-songs. "Tell me you are mine and I will set her free." I crawl to Dana's bed, pull myself up beside her. The nurse is there, along with another; their guardians stand behind them, peering at me through mournful eyes. The man gathers his supplies and leaves, but the nurse stays a little while, casting nervous glances at her charge. I stand beside her, feeling the fallen one and his legions pressing closer and closer to the hospital bed. They have put a tube down her throat, and she cannot, will not, speak again. Her eyes stare, cold. After long moments, I hear the thud of Death's footsteps. She sees him, in the distance. He is coming for her. I feel his cold presence as he draws nearer. I raise my forehead, the words on my lips. The fallen one stands beside me, nodding. "She will live," he says. I see the light in his eyes. He knows he has won. I am not alone; the others stand around me, whispering, "Don't." I raise my eyes heavenward, feeling betrayed by my Maker, who has given me these charges only to have me lose them before their time. The fallen one holds out his arms to me, and his smile is genuine, real. "I will make it all right," he says. "I promise you." And I am reaching for him, desperate to do anything to rid this burden from my shoulders, to sacrifice myself for her. "Why me?" I gasp. "Why me, out of everyone?" I hear his dark laughter. "The worth of one ordinary mortal is nothing compared to the worth of one who has been kissed by God." I reach for my brother. Behind me, a guardian weeps, already mourning me. And it is at that moment that the struggle is taken out of my hands. I feel light burn my shoulders, a strong touch against my forehead. I lift my eyes and I hear myself say, "Only if it is my Father's will." ***** 6:41 p.m. All Mulder wanted to do was see her, to hold her hand. But the sign on the door: "No visitors except immediate family" seemed aimed directly at him. He leaned close to the closed door, listening. Inside, he heard Maggie's muffled voice, uttering words that sounded like prayers. It struck him then: perhaps she was the one who had posted the sign, effectively segregating him from her daughter. Well, he sure as hell wasn't going to leave. But he didn't know where else to go. A few minutes later, he found himself, standing in the entrance of the chapel, not knowing how he had gotten there. The chapel was empty, but someone had cleaned up the broken candles. There was a stain of melted wax in front of the Virgin's statue, but new, unused candles had been set at her feet. He approached the shrine cautiously, as if expecting the Virgin to hold out her hands and beckon him. He stared at the altar for a moment, and then said to no one, "I don't do this kind of thing." He pulled the photograph from his pocket and perched it beside an unlit candle. With a trembling hand, he lit a match and set it to one of the wicks. The wick caught fire, reflecting shadows across Scully's face. Then sputtered and extinguished itself. Mulder's blood curdled as he realized what was happening, knew Scully was slipping away from him. He shook his head, disbelieving at first, but then with urgency. He gasped, "Scully, don't. Don't do this to me." He felt his bond with her loosen and untie, untethering her and allowing her to fly free. When the realization seeped into him, and with it the grief that always lurked in the darkest corner of his mind, he lost his balance and fell to his knees, his mouth opening in a silent scream. Throwing his arms wide, he appealed to the stained glass windows, the smoldering candles, the statue of Mary in front of him, the crucifix suspended in the center of the altar. "PLEASE!" he choked. He collapsed to the ground, his cheek scraping against the rough, red carpeting. "Oh, please," he whimpered. "If You're out there, please. . .please. . .please." ***** "My. . .Father's. . .will." The words barely leave my lips, and the room lights as if bursting into flames. Brilliant light, a shriek of organ music, and the fallen one hisses, slinking back from me as if I, on fire, have scorched his skin. He cowers in fear as the light infiltrates the room. His legion scatters, shrieking. I have risen to my feet now, and I peer down at him. He is covering his eyes with his hands. I can feel the heat, the warmth pour into my body as my strength is renewed. "Leave her," I say. "And never return." The fallen one screams with a voice that sounds like my own, his shrieks growing louder and louder, until I am sure the mortals will hear. I want to cover my ears, I want to hide from the horrid sounds. Instead, I stand tall. The fallen one's wails begin to fade, and I realize that he is fading as well. I feel his hold on me loosen, and then, with a cry of hatred, he is gone. The light simmers, allowing my eyes to see my surroundings once again. The music drifts away, leaving only the suctioning rasp of the respirator and the beep of the heart monitor. Then, that steady beep, the beep that has reassured me that her good and pure heart was still beating, ceases. A pause of silence. And then a flat, monotonous tone as that heart, the one I have fought so hard to protect, falls silent. Despite my battle, he has won. ***** "Is it over?" she asks mildly, standing beside me in her bare feet and hospital gown. Her voice is matter-of-fact, her face set in clinical neutrality. We are standing together now, watching the flurry of activity over the shell of her body. The room is filled with people. Kirsten is there, shouting her name and rubbing Dana's arms. The doctor on call is ripping apart her hospital gown, exposing her breasts and putting the defibrillator pads in place. He shouts, "Clear!" and Dana reaches for my hand as her body lurches. I squeeze her fingers. "I am sorry. I did everything I could." She shrugs. The doctor waits impatiently, then shakes his head and replaces the paddles against her chest. "Clear!" She turns to me, unaffected by the scene in front of her. "Where is he?" she whispers. "In the chapel," I say. Her face, unlined and lacking the pain of recent years, darkens as she says, "I want to see him before I go." ***** "Mulder?" He couldn't hear over the sobs that wracked him. A hurricane would not have had the strength to drown the wails that erupted from his soul. Somehow, he lifted his head, sensing the warmth of sunshine against his body. He rolled over and sat up, choking for air, and saw her standing beside the shrine. She was dressed in her hospital gown, but her skin had lost its jaundice, and the blood had cleared from her eyes. She smiled, a serene smile he had never seen before. The candle crackled to life, reigniting the flame. Then, every flame in every candle flickered to life, dancing. He blinked his weeping eyes for a moment, and when he looked back, she was gone. ***** We are back in the hospital room, and although the heart inside her shell is beating again, beside me she seems indifferent to it. She is still tottering, still deciding. Behind us, a bright light is beginning to warm our backs. I glance over my shoulder, and I can just make out the welcoming entrance of eternity. They are waiting for her, and she understands this. She does not look at them, because she knows that she will never be able to tear her eyes away. In a tiny voice, she asks, "Is it a good place, where I'm going?" "Yes," I answer truthfully. "It is more beautiful than you have ever imagined." She smiles. "I read once that God would prepare a room for me in His kingdom." "It awaits," I agree. "My father. . . ?" I nod. "Melissa. . .?" Again, I nod. She hesitates, and whispers, "Emily?" I smile and reach to stroke her hair. "Of course, little one. She's been waiting." She smiles, but it fades quickly. "I'll never see him again." I can't bear to look into her eyes, so I concentrate on what the doctors are doing to her body. Then I hear her whisper, "I want to go back." I turn to her, to say that decision is not mine to make. She has already disappeared. The light, without its prize, retreats. ***** One moment, she was beside her guardian in a peaceful place, where the pain and evil of the outside world could never again touch her. The next, she was slammed back into her body, entering the world in blinding pain, noise and light. Her throat burned like fire. Dana threw her head back and choked as alarms wailed. Her eyes flew open in terror and she yanked at the wrist restraints. The doctor leaned over her, reassuring Dana and stroking her forehead. The nurses hung back, waiting to see what would happen next. Kirsten leaned over the patient and spoke loudly. "Dana, I know the tube in your throat is frightening you. But what I want you to try and do is relax and let the respirator work, okay?" Dana's wide eyes met the nurse's, trying to convey her fear. The nurse smiled and gently stroked Dana's cheek with her knuckles. "Just breathe, nice and easy, and maybe we can get this tube out soon, all right?" Dana nodded and the nurse could see the patient relax her shoulders, loosen her fists and calm herself. Then, she closed her eyes. Kirsten straightened, but her head was spinning. She had watched Dana die, and instead of retrieving a death kit and preparing a body for its trip to the morgue, she now watched a heartbeat that was strong and steady. She didn't know what the hell had just happened. She was about to raise her eyes heavenward in silent prayer, when realization hit like a thunderclap. "Oh, shit!" she gasped. "We forgot about her mother." The attending doctor glanced up, and Kirsten smiled crookedly. "I sent her mom downstairs for coffee, so we could put the tube in." she said. The doctor raised his eyebrows. "Perhaps you should go find her." Understatement of the year. "Yes, sir." Kirsten leaned to whisper in Dana's ear. "I'm proud of you, Dana. Keep up the good work." She squeezed Dana's hand, and smiled when she felt the patient grip her fingers weakly in return. ***** 7:02 p.m. When Mulder opened his eyes, he found himself staring blearily at the ceiling of the chapel. His legs were folded beneath him, as if he had crumbled to the carpeting in a faint. His eyes were unfocused, but he heard Scully's voice. "Mulder! Are you all right?" "Scully?" he mumbled. "Can you hear me?" Not Scully's. The voice sounded like hers, but was deeper and hoarse with emotion. He shook his head, as if to clear his vision, and struggled to sit up. He felt an arm loop around his shoulders, lifting him; but it was too much for his grieving heart, and he slumped back against her. "Scully." Maggie cradled his weak body in her arms, pressing his head to her shoulder. "She's upstairs." He pushed away from her, his face angry at her cruel attempt at humor. But her face showed no hint of humor; in her eyes, he only saw. . . Relief. Then, she smiled. "As a matter of fact, Mulder, she's probably wondering where the hell you've been." ***** She was there, lying propped with pillows. A nasal tube hovering below her nose and an IV snaking from her arm were the only outward indications that she'd been so sick. He had to grip the back of a chair to keep from falling. She turned, creaking the freshly bleached pillowcase beneath her head, and opened her eyes. They were still pinpricked scarlet, but they were brilliantly blue and alive. Her eyes swept over his rumpled clothing, his tear-tracked face. She smiled, and tried to say hello. No sound emerged and she grimaced. He wanted to rush to her, to climb into bed and hold her to him and never let go. Instead, he said, "Your throat must be sore." She nodded. He crossed the room and lifted her Styrofoam water cup, placing the straw to her bottom lip. She sipped it slowly, then cleared her throat and tried to thank him. When her voice refused to come, she reached for his hand, and the sheer touch of her cool skin against his was enough to break the composure he had struggled to find. He lifted her fingers, pressed them to his trembling lips. "You were so sick," he finally managed. "Scully, I. . ." He exhaled weakly. "I tried to find a way to save you. "It was them, Scully." Her expression didn't change, except for the barely perceptible tightening in her jaw. Then, she nodded. He dropped his chin, his face crushed in defeat. "They're after you. The girls, they were clones. Put there to lure you close. Their au pair was a bounty hunter for the colonists." She did not speak, but her eyes were wounded. Miserably, he shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Scully." She swallowed painfully. "I. . .remember." He raised his eyes to meet hers. She tried again to speak. "I saw. . .you. Chapel." "In the chapel?" he repeated dubiously. She nodded. "I wanted. . .to come back." He frowned, his eyes blank. "I don't understand." "You were. . .crying." Her eyes rolled in exhaustion, but she struggled to focus on his face. "They promised me everything, Mulder. My dad, my sister. . .Emily." "You. . .*saw* me?" Again, she nodded. "In the chapel. You were. . . alone. I didn't want you to be alone." She spoke the last word as if breath were leaving her body, and she lay still, spent, against the pillows. She smiled at him, but she was so exhausted, and her eyes drifted closed, the smile still playing on the corners of her mouth. ***** Four days later She baffles the doctors. Doctors are, in my experience, a somewhat arrogant lot. They like to play God, and when they don't have the answers, they have a difficult time accepting the unknown. Her doctor and the parade of consultants and specialists that follow are befuddled. They have no idea what caused Dana's illness, nor do they know how she was cured of it. Finally, they have to shake their heads, document her case for future medical books, and discharge her, under strict orders that she come back for checkups throughout the next months. This morning she sits on the edge of her unmade bed, in the new sweat suit Mulder bought for her. It is several sizes too large for her, and between her already slight frame and days of being fed by a tube, she looks like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes. Her face is pale, but no longer jaundiced. Her hair, freshly washed for the first time since her admittance, is drying in several directions around her face. Her eyes are lowered, her fingers picking at the edge of her blanket. It's as if she wants to say something but can't find the words. The nurses have left her alone. Kirsten has already popped in to squeeze Dana's hand and wish her well. They've agreed to get together for coffee sometime, although who knows if they'll really do it. Mulder made three trips to his car, loaded down with the flowers that the Gunmen and Skinner had brought with each of their visits. Now, Mulder is at the nurse's station, shuffling through her discharge papers, and her mother is at home, cleaning Dana's old bedroom. Dana is going to be staying with her for a few days, and Maggie has had the foresight to also straighten the spare room. Somehow she suspects she won't have her daughter to herself while Dana regains her strength. For the moment, I have her to myself, for the first time in days. The last time we were alone, she looked into my eyes. Now, when death does not breathe here, she does not see me. She lifts her eyes, looks around the room as if expecting to see me. Then she sighs and whispers, "You're here, aren't you?" I catch my breath. Yes, I whisper, although I know she won't hear me. "I've always known you were there," she tells me. "I've felt you with me the whole time." She raises her eyes, and they are clear and blue like the water in a mountain stream. She looks directly at me. "I wasn't afraid," she says. "When I died, I wasn't afraid, because I knew you would take care of me." Her face glistens with a peace only found in those who have glimpsed the other side, who understand that this world is in fact only a small piece of their entire existence; that there is no such thing as the 'unknown'; and that there is nothing to fear. She smiles, a smile just for me. "I want to say thank you," she says. My heart breaks beneath my breast; I want to become flesh and kneel before her, press her close to me and praise Him for saving her life. I want to cradle her beautiful face in my hands, and in a voice she can hear I want to promise her that I will always take care of her. Just as I am about to plead that the Master release me into her human care, Mulder arrives with a wheelchair. "Hey, pretty lady, wanna ride?" Her smile brightens and she holds out her arms. He returns the smile, and I sense his peace. She is well. And she is his. He squeezes her tightly, and then asks, "Are you ready to go?" "I am definitely ready." She stands, still a little shaky on her feet, but his strong arm loops around her waist, and she leans slightly against him. He settles her into the wheelchair, throws his own jacket over her legs to keep them warm. As he leads her to the doorway, he asks, "Who were you talking to just now?" She reddens a little, embarrassed by her folly of talking to invisible beings. "Would you believe me if I said I was talking to my guardian angel?" she asks, smiling. He shrugs. "I'd be tempted to have you readmitted, but yeah, I guess I'd believe you." They disappear into the hallway. Mulder's guardian, who has been standing at his usual safe distance away from his subject, rolls his eyes at me and heads out behind them. And even though my heart is breaking, because she doesn't need me as she once had or as I'd prayed she always would, I follow. END AUTHOR's NOTES: Love and chocolate to everyone who read this story, both before and after it was posted. Special thanks to Dasha the Great, who prevents me from doing stupid things; to Eclipse and Nlynn, who did not one, not two, but FOUR deep-massage betas each; and to Peggy, who checked and double-checked my medical stuff and told me more about gooey lungs than I ever wanted to know.