Title: Arms of the Angel

Author: Claire Doyle

Email: chiara_16@hotmail.com

Disclaimer: I still hold fast to my belief that the X-Files belong to
me, as well as every other viewer. If we weren't watching, the entire
cast and crew would be out of a job. But, because Fox Broadcasting will
decide to sue me if I don't write this, and I have no money to pay, then
alright. But I won't give them the satisfaction of making it easy to
read. Gnihthyreve taht sah ot od htiw eht seliF-X, sti sretcarahc, ro
gnihtyna esle X sgnoleb ot Xof Gnitsacdaorb, 3101 Snoitcudorp, dna Sirhc
Retrac, eht refrus urug. There, Fox, plain enough for you?

Dedication: This is for anyone with a loved one, or a lost love, and to
anyone who needs love. Beyond that, this story is for my best friend and
sister in spirit Jenny.

Spoilers: Bits and pieces from the whole series, but mainly The End and
the Movie

Keywords: MSR, major Angst, and a little humor to lighten up the situation

Rating: PG-13. Anything less and there would be smurfs dancing around.

Distribute: Anywhere, including ATXC I would like to know where it's
archived, so let me know, please.

Quick Pronunciation Guide: For all of you not into Gaelic and/or Celtic
mythology, here's how you say the few words you'll come across.

Tir Na Nog - Tear na knock or tear na knog

Oisin- osheen

Nimah- Neeve

Author's notes can be found at the end.





God, I wish that I didn't have to say goodbye tonight. I don't want to,
and if I had any other choice, I wouldn't. We've just gotten the X-Files
back, and the last thing that I want to do is give it up. But after what
I learned yesterday, I can't stay and let her stand witness to what's
going to happen to me. The image of my death is not what I want to leave
her with. I hope that she understands in the end what she means to me. I
wouldn't hurt her for the world. That's why I have to leave. Because the
minor parting that she experiences now will be far less painful than the
one that she would if she were around until the end.

When I found out what was going to happen to me, I almost died at that
point. There was no future for me after that moment when the doctor
said, "There's no cure." And I wasn't even going to have a quick ending.
I would live on forever in this world, with no hope of ever being freed
from the confines of this disease. They hadn't even known what it was at
first. "It's beyond our knowledge to describe it." On and on they spoke
about everything that they had discovered, but there was no source, and
no remedy. I would slowly grow sicker, they said, until I wouldn't even
know or care about who I was or what I did. I would be only animal,
nothing more. And I wouldn't let her see me like that. As nothing more
than a monster, a plague to anyone near me. Including her. Especially her.

I love her more than anyone can dream. She completes me, keeps me sane.
Why did this have to happen? There could have been a future for us,
sometime soon. Not anymore.

So now I'm waiting outside of her door, and I still don't know how I'm
going to say goodbye to her, my only friend, my confidant, my partner,
and my love. I knock, hoping that she's home, and that she's alone. She
answers the door, and it looks like she's getting ready for bed. "What
is it, Mulder?"

"Scully," I start to say. Then I lose my courage. "Can I come in?"

She's startled that I asked. "Sure, Mulder." She closes the door behind
me. "Now what's going on?"

I tell her what truth I can. "I came to say goodbye, Scully."

I can tell that she doesn't understand. "Where are you going?"

"I don't know, Scully. Away. Forever."

"Forever, but. . .but Mulder, why? We have the X-Files back, we have
everything that we fought so hard to get. Why are you leaving?" She's
hurt, and there's nothing I can do.

"I wish I could tell you why, but if I did that, then I'd put you in too
much danger. I don't want to do that to you."

"Where the hell do you get the idea that you can choose for me what to
know and what not to know? You're my partner and my friend, and I have a
right to know what's going on. I don't care about the danger, damn it."

"I have the right to choose to tell you or not, Scully. I'm not trying
to hurt you. I'm doing this for your sake. And I do have the right to
keep you from danger if I can."

"Why?" She had the smug little 'I got you now' look on her face. Now I
was angry that she was making it so hard for me to do this.

"Because I AM the danger, for God's sake!" Now I'd done it. I either had
to leave now or explain myself. I left. But before I closed the door
behind me, I said, "and I have the right because I love you." I left her
with tears in her eyes.

I don't know why I said it. It's not like it isn't true. It is true. I
just can't believe that after five years, and at the prospect of not
being able to see her again, I tell her as I'm walking out of her life
forever.

I get on US 1 and head north. I don't stop at my apartment. Everything
that I need I can either get later, or is in the back seat of my Taurus.
I'm planning to sell it as well so that she can't find me. I also have
to learn to come up with a new identity. I probably won't need it for
long, if what the doctors say is true.

I've decided to live out the rest of my life in Vermont. It's in the
north, an area I'm familiar with, but it's new, and I see it as a bit of
an adventure. My last one, I suppose. I wonder what will become of the
X-Files now that I'm gone. I wish that I could have stayed at least a
little longer. . .no, I can't start to think like that, or I'm going to
drive myself insane. I'll have plenty of time to do that when I get
where I'm going. But the only way I'm going to get there is if I don't
think about the files, or her.



XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX



What he said is still ringing through my mind. He's the danger to me. He
loves me. He. . .loves me? I never expected to hear him say it, though
when we standing in the hallway of the apartment on that fateful night,
he and I came damn close to not only confessing, but consummating.

But what sort of danger could Mulder be to me? I can't understand, and
it hurts. It hurts that he doesn't trust me enough to tell me what's
going on. He must know that I love him as much as he loves me. More. But
he left, and I still don't know why.

A danger to me? It could have something to do with the Syndicate, the
group of men that did what they did to us all of these years. But I've
been through so much, we both have, that I don't think that would cause
Mulder to do what he's just done. They could have threatened him with
the possibility of taking me again. I would think, though, with Mulder's
overprotective nature, he would have stayed and been my personal
bodyguard and shadow until there was no danger left for me.

No, there has to be some other explanation, and it must be beyond his
control to circumvent, because I'm sure that otherwise, with the X-Files
reopened, he would never have left like this. I need answers.

I grab my keys and head for my car. I drive to his apartment. It's dark.
I didn't think that he would come back, at least not right away. I go up
the stairs, and knock, just to make sure. Then I open the door and let
myself in.

There are still a lot of things left. His couch, table, fridge,
television, and all of the other large appliances. Then I notice that
while his desk remains, his computer is gone. And, as I check his
closet, so are his clothes. And his books. He left his movie collection.
His bathroom is probably the emptiest room in the house. His soap and
shampoo, shaving cream and razors are all missing, and so is almost
everything in the medicine cabinet. But there has to be some kind of
clue left in the house.

I turn the apartment upside down looking for some clue to his
disappearance. Nothing, there is absolutely nothing. Well, I can hardly
believe it. This time he completely covered his tracks. I have nothing
to go on, and no way to find him. I realize that I may have lost Mulder,
my Mulder, forever. That prospect is worse than any death. I sink down
on his couch and cry. "Why, Mulder, why?" But the silence gives me no
answer. At that point I begin what is called in the Irish heritage, the
keening. It's a process of mourning that is to lend comfort to the
humans left behind by giving them contact with the lost loved one in the
realm between living and dead.



I'm riding a white horse that wears a golden bridle. My hair is long and
golden, and my clothing is that of royalty. I'm in search of something,
someone. I know that he is here somewhere. "Oisin, my love, Oisin, my
darling, where are you?" I call to the heavens. My voice echoes off of
the distant hills. In the back of my mind I acknowledge who I am,
remembered from fairytales told to me as a child: Nimah of Tir Na Nog.

On and on I search for my love. Finally some mortals tell me that I may
find him in the home of a holy man named Patrick. I also know that this
is Saint Patrick, who brought Christianity to Ireland. At last I find
the dun where the man lives, but I fear dismounting the horse, for I may
turn to nothing but dust; while under the enchantment of Tir Na Nog, I
retain my youth, but to step on earth could certainly mean death to one
as timeless as I. But if I do not dismount, I cannot reach my love. I
leave behind my mind, and use my heart to guide my feet. I tentatively
step onto the earth. Praise to the gods nothing happened. I can go in
search of my love.

Through one corridor and the next I go, looking, searching, hunting for
my Oisin. I know that he is here, somewhere. Finally I come upon a room
at the very end of the corridor, and I know that he is here. I push open
the door, and I see that the only person in the room is an old man near
death.

Sadly, I wonder, has my heart made a mistake? Could I have been fooled
the whole time even into believing that he is here? Then something
awakens the old man, and he looks at me. Before he can speak, I know
that it is him. His eyes are the same as they were when he came to be my
husband five hundred years before. But now he is old. Finally he croaks
out a word or two. "My love, I did not wish you to see me this way. For
now I am no fit companion for you in Tir Na Nog. Please, leave me to my
death, for I do not wish you to witness my passing as a mere inferior
mortal." He turns his eyes to the wall of his cell.

My heart at that moment is more full of love than it has ever been
before. "My life, you are as dear to me in this form as you are in the
body of the strapping youth that I took to my side as my eternal
companion. The body, while pleasing to the senses, does not possess the
love that I have for you. But this body is an illusion, my love, as
unreal as any. Inside of that frail bag of bones, the heart of a warrior
beats. And with my love for you, and the magic of Tir Na Nog, you can
again be the man that you were, if you so desire."

"I do desire it, dearheart, for while my body is not all of me, it is
the vessel for my self, that which you love, and I wish it to be strong
so that it may remain with you all the days of your life."

With those words, I bent down to him and kissed him. The world that he
had lived in and lost to the ravages of human time disappeared, and we
were once again in Tir Na Nog, where forever we would live and love,
content only with each other.



I wake up as the last strains of some unknown love song faded away into
nothingness. I had been given a sign of some sort, whether from my own
unconscious, or from God, I don't know, but a sign nonetheless, one
which would point me in Mulder's direction.

I realize that I am lying on Mulder's couch, and sit up. I look out the
window at the sunlight that is streaming through, and I know that it
must be morning. My watch confirms it. Oh, God, I have to go to work
today, alone, and somehow explain to Skinner what has happened. But
first I have to freshen up. Fortunately my overnight bag is ever packed
and ready in the backseat of my car. I use Mulder's shower to wash off
the night before, but I have to detach myself from the fact that this is
Mulder's shower, or I would never get to work. Without much enthusiasm,
I head for the Hoover Building.



Skinner's in his office, and fortunately alone, so that I can talk with
him. "Sir, do you know that agent Mulder has left the Bureau?"

He sighed, and looked almost afraid to answer. "Yes, Scully, I do. He
came in with his resignation papers yesterday and asked for me to sign
them."

"And you did?"

"He told me that if I didn't that he was going to leave anyway. I
believed him, agent. So I signed the papers."

"Sir, what did he put down as a reason for resignation?"

"He didn't put down one, Scully. He left no information as to why. When
I asked him, he said that it was personal."

I couldn't tell if the assistant director was lying or not. He kept his
face stony throughout the entire conversation. But I have no choice but
to believe him. If he was lying, then the documents in question would
soon be either destroyed or changed to fit his story. Then I see it, the
way he can't look directly at me, even now. So he is lying. Shit. Then
there is something going on over my head that I don't see. But I had
already ruled out conspiracy. So what is it?

". . .the X-Files are yours if you wish to keep them, or you may have a
transfer of your choosing. I'm giving you a choice." I draw my attention
back to what Skinner was saying. Keep the X-Files by myself? To go at it
without Mulder might be pointless. But a transfer was unthinkable. I
have to stay here until I find out what is going on.

"Sir, I'll keep the X-Files as long as I am allowed to. I want nothing
more than that. And that includes a new partner. I don't believe that I
can work with anyone besides Mulder and do it effectively. My opinion
may change, but for right now, that's all I ask for."

Skinner knows that I know that he's lying, and he's not sure if I'm
blackmailing him, threatening him, or being perfectly honest with him. I
know the answer, and so does he. He nods, agreeing to my terms. "As you
wish, Agent Scully. You are dismissed." I thank him, stand, and begin to
leave. But as I reach the door, he puts a hand on my shoulder. I turn
around and look at him. By losing Mulder, he has lost more than an
agent. They had a special relationship too. I couldn't call it a
friendship, but on second thought, maybe that's exactly what it was.
Though an odd one. But all I can see in his eyes is pain and sadness.
"If you need anything else, Scully, tell me." This I know comes not from
Assistant Director Skinner, my boss, but Skinner, a fellow human being
who thinks and feels as well. He drops his arm and I turn so that he
can't see the grateful tears that I have in my eyes, as well as the ones
I haven't finished crying for Mulder. But he knows, and he tentatively
puts his arms around me, the gesture awkward for him as well as for me,
and if I had been watching the two of us, I would have laughed. But I
don't. Right then and there I sob all over the front of my superior's
shirt, with complete disregard for my dignity, and thankful for the
support that he is giving me. When I finally collect myself, I pull away
from his embrace, and smile at him through a tear-stained face. I can
only imagine how I look. He grins back a little wryly, and hands me a
handkerchief from his pocket. I take it and clean myself up as well as I
can. This time, when I thank him, it is meant as much as a gesture of
friendship as one of gratitude. And saying goodbye is not a formality.
It is sincerely meant. Now I just wish that he would tell me the truth.



Now there's something else that I have to deal with. That's facing an
empty office. I hate that thought, and I dread opening the door to the
new workspace, and not seeing him behind his new desk, leaning too far
back in his new chair. So I take my time getting there. I pause at the
door to our new basement with two nameplates put there, at Mulder's
demand, his and mine next to each other, not one above and one below,
but equal, as he hoped the two of us to be. Fat chance now that he's
gone, I think to myself.

With every ounce of courage I can muster, I unlock the door and open it.
I'm playing a game now. It's called
Mulder's-really-on-vacation-and-I-have-to-work-alone-until-he-gets-back.
This is the only way that I'm going to get through this. I check the
messages on the machine. Nothing as usual. I flip through files lying on
my desk, the ones that we started to reconstruct after the fire from
what we had on the computers and what was in the Bureau's database. It
was a start. The phone rings and startles me. It's Mulder's. I go to
pick it up. "Hello?"

"May I speak to Mr. Mulder, please?" Mr. Mulder? This obviously wasn't
about a case.

"I'm sorry, he's not here at the moment. Can I. . .take a message?"
unable to think of a way to explain the situation at hand in one sentence.

"Yes, this is Doctor Reilly's office. We have further information on his
diagnosis, and need to speak to him as soon as possible."

"Condition, what condition?"

"I'm sorry, that's privileged information, ma'am. Please give Mr. Mulder
the information." The phone goes dead.

"Shit, Mulder, why didn't you tell me that something was wrong with you?
Damn it, I should have known." I launch the nearest object at hand, the
stapler, against the wall at full force. It leaves a dent in the new wall.

As the rage I feel flows out of me, I realize that at least now I have a
lead on what happened to Mulder. I had forgotten that he had a doctor's
appoint the day before. Whatever they told him must have been bad.
Really bad. Bad enough to make him leave everything behind, including me.

I snap out of my reverie, knowing full well that self-pity is going to
get me nowhere in finding him. What was the name of that doctor again?
Reilly. No first name. This was not going to be easy. I look over at
Mulder's desk, and I wonder, could he have an organizer? Not likely. But
I might as well look.



An hour later I have my answer. In the very bottom of the very bottom
drawer of his desk, I find a small appointment book. And while it's at
least two years old, it has the name of this doctor that he visited. Dr.
Caitriona Reilly. A good Irish name. I dial the number on the paper.
"Doctor Reilly's office, how may I help you?"

"This is Doctor Dana Scully, Special Agent for the FBI. I'd like to make
an appointment to speak to Doctor Reilly if I may." I hate to throw my
titles around, but sometimes they get more accomplished than a gun. And
I'm in a hurry.

"Yes, Doctor Scully, Doctor Reilly can see you at five o'clock this
afternoon."

"Thank you." I get directions to the office, and hang up. I have to come
up with a reason to get the doctor to let me see Mulder's records. I
just hope that I can without too much trouble. If not, then I may have
to resort to committing breaking and entering.



Well, I never thought that I would do it, but here I am, breaking into a
building, with no authorization whatsoever and completely independent of
Mulder as far as the actual crime is concerned. He, however, is the
whole reason that I'm here.

The appointment with the doctor was a complete waste of time. Not only
did she NOT let me see Mulder's files, she wanted to know what I had
done to him to cause him to have whatever he has. She was sure that I
had infected him with this thing, as a way to get back at him for
something, from not being a good partner to not being a good lover. I
could tell that this woman had it for him bad, and I can't say that I
blame her. But the nerve of her, a doctor to a doctor accusing me of
doing something to hurt Mulder. . .well, aside from the bullet wound in
the shoulder. Maybe he told her about that, and she got the idea that I.
. .oh, well.

I can't dwell on these thoughts, because I'm crawling through a vent in
the wall that was cut off from the clinic when the building was
renovated. It opens up to the back of the record room. How do I know
this? From the help of none other than the Three Stooges.

Yes, that's right, those three paranoiacs from the depths of D.C. are
here, at my request, helping me to break in to this building. It turns
out that Mulder gave them no more of a clue where he was going than he
did me. And they want to know where he is. Plus, it gives the three of
them the chance to have a little fun with their favorite hobby.

They disconnected all of the alarms, and then gave me the blueprints for
the building, showing me exactly where to go. From what I can guess, I'm
just about. . .there. I can feel the paneling give against the pressure
of my fingers. I'm in. I just hope that the three of them have managed
to turn off the cameras.

Penlight in hand, I go in search of the file that I need. The one that I
hope will give me the answers that I seek. Finally I find it. 'Mulder,
Fox W.' Unless there's someone else in D.C. with a name like that, I've
got my man, so to speak. Quickly I flip through the pages of records.
There's an abnormality in the bloodwork. 'Undetermined.' Interesting. I
go through a little more. Abnormalities abound, from his hemoglobin to
his kidney functions. Great. This is going to make it quite easy to
pinpoint the problem. As fast as possible, I make copies of the pages.

"Scully, hey, Scully. Can you hear me?" Frohike's voice cut through my
thoughts.

"What's going on?"

"You need to get out. Fast. Just replace everything and move it."

"Who's coming?" I start to straighten the room out as he's talking on
the headset.

"We don't know, but whoever it is has circled the block three times now,
and he should be coming around for a fourth. Use the alternate exit that
we planned on. Byers will meet you there. If there's any danger, I'll
let you know."

Now I've replaced the piece of the wall, and with the papers tucked
under my shirt, I head through the shaft, to the approximate location of
the back door. I drop down through the opening in the vent, cross my
fingers, say a prayer, and open the door. Nothing. I breath a sigh of
relief. Fortunately, Byers is right on time with a nondescript car
waiting to get us the hell out of here. I jump in, we swing around to
pick up the other two, who have reconnected the alarm system, and we're
gone.

It takes us about five minutes to figure out that we're being followed.
I look at the others. "Is that the same car that you saw earlier?" They
affirm my question. "Alright. Byers, do some fancy driving." I take my
gun out of my holster.

"A woman with a gun. How. . .alluring." I don't even dignify that with
an answer. Instead, I roll down the front window, carefully aim, and
shoot out the right front tire of the car. It swerves, but doesn't stop.
I aim fire, and the next one goes flat with a satisfying explosion. The
driver hits the brakes, spins, and is quite safely out of our hair for
the moment.

I hear a gulp behind me. I turn, and see that Frohike's eyes are huge,
and Langly keeps shaking his head, like he can't believe what he's just
seen. Byers, thank God for him, seems rather unphased by it all. He
simply says, "Good shot," and continues driving.

"What was that you were saying about a woman with a gun, Frohike?" I say
with a smile. He bows his head in defeat.



We drive for what seems like hours before we arrive at the hotel we
agreed on for our temporary headquarters. The guys have enough
technology in the trunk to not only hack into any and all files in
existence, they can make coffee while they wait for files to download. I
smile and shake my head. All I'm interested in is the stack of papers
which is still stuck in my shirt. We unload our supplies, check into our
room, (a suite with two bedrooms, a divan and a couch bed), and start to
work.

After an hour of referencing, cross-referencing, and searching, Byers
looks up at me from his computer screen. "I have a match to the medical
records that you gave me, but I don't think that you're going to like
what you see." He hands me the laptop.

I read a few lines, and then look back at him. "You're kidding. This is
it? But. . .but. . .lycanthropy? I don't believe this." But it's all
here, in computer-generated text. Somehow, someone had done bloodwork on
a person who was said to be a victim of lycanthropy, and the
abnormalities were identical to Mulder's.

Langly stares at me. "So what you're saying is that Mulder is turning
into a werewolf?" He, for once in his life, looks skeptical.

"I don't want to say it, but that's what it looks like. But I don't
believe. . .how could Mulder have gotten this?"

"It's easy enough to drop something in somebody's coffee. Or a routine
check-up can be performed by one of them. Anything. The question is, how
did they get a hold of something that would actually give someone, for
lack of a better word, werewolfitis?" Frohike frowns.

"With the kind of technology that the people I believe gave this to him
have, it's entirely possible that they cultured some sort of virus that
causes lycanthropic symptoms." I can't believe that I'm arguing for the
possibility of Mulder having this affliction. It's made up, make
believe, a fairy tale. Then I think about how my life has turned out
like a fairy tale, not one of those cream puff stories that Disney
releases, but the dark, sinister kind that the Grimm brothers wanted you
to read to learn a lesson. Boy have these past years taught me a lesson.

I shake my head free of the thoughts that are running through it, and
focus on the three men in front of me, waiting expectantly for a plan. I
only have one. "We have to find a cure, find Mulder, and give it to
him." Simple as that. I leave out what I'm going to do when I find him.
The boys don't need those disturbing images haunting them.



XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX



God, I miss her. It's only been a few days, but already the pain is
worse than when she was abducted. All I have to do is pick up the phone
and dial the number that I know by heart. But I can't. I can't hurt her.
That's the whole reason that I left. If she comes to me now, it's all
going to be over.

I've spent my time reading, writing, and just looking at the view out
the window. The real estate agent wasn't kidding when she said what I
was paying was worth the view alone, never mind the house. Seeing the
sun set on the mountains has a calming effect, and soothes all of the
hurt that I feel, even if it's only temporary, and once it's dark I'm
again left to my thoughts. If I didn't have that small amount of time, I
would probably go and throw myself off of one of the mountains. But I
don't.

Obviously Skinner hasn't told her anything, because she would be here by
now. I told the doctor's office not to call work or home, so that she
can't figure anything out. I hope that they wrote that down. The
secretary didn't seem overtly bright.

I see now what Scully must have gone through with her cancer: not
knowing, waiting for the inevitable, and wondering when it was going to
come. Nothing more has happened to me, but I feel something inside of
me, and I know that I don't like it. I also know that I have to
appreciate the days that I have left, and, as the cliche goes, live them
to the fullest.

It's darker now, and I head back inside, to be again closed in with
myself. Tonight I know that I'll dream of her again. I've written final
letters to everyone, and they're all sitting in a pile on my desk. All
except hers, Scully's. I don't know what to say, or how to say it. I
love her, and I want her to know how much, but I don't know how to
express it. I can't write poetry or sappy love songs. Frankly they make
me want to vomit. But it seems that everything I try to say becomes
devoid of feeling and so sentimental that there's no point to them. The
words say nothing. I stare out my window at the stars, and hope that
they will give me some answers.



XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX



I almost didn't catch it. I've been working out of a makeshift lab for a
month, hoping to find a clue to the disease that Mulder's been given.
The X-Files have become part of my formula for this cure, because every
mention of the word 'werewolf' might hold some key to the riddle. Then
tonight I find it, and I can't believe it.

It can't be a typo. It's too wrong. I would understand if the RH was
wrong, but to screw up his bloodtype? Sloppy, very sloppy. But still, if
I hadn't been so meticulous tonight going over Mulder's papers I would
have missed it, and been working on this fruitless search for God knows
how long. Possibly until it was too late to do anything.

I would have guessed that the entire file was forged, but Mulder
wouldn't have left on a simple diagnosis without having any symptoms.
And I'm sure that even though he had them, being the paranoid,
suspicious person that he was, he would have had at least a second
opinion, if not a third and a fourth. So my conclusion: somebody did
something to Mulder, but I don't know what. Though he's not turning into
a werewolf.

That does explain the nondescript car that tailed us that night. I
haven't been plagued with any other obvious covert activities, though
once or twice I thought that I was being followed. The Gunmen have kept
me under close surveillance and tight security, so I haven't had to
constantly look over my back. Thinking about them, I flip on my cell and
tell them what I've found.

"So what exactly does this mean, Scully?" Byers asks of me.

I hesitate for a moment. "It means we follow the guys who have been
following me. I have a feeling that I know the source of this, and it's
going to give me great pleasure to find them, or rather, him, and either
get answers or blow his head off." I surprise even myself with the force
behind my words.

Surprisingly, Frohike speaks up first. "Alright, Scully, what do you
want us to do?"

"Langly, Frohike, get your kung-fu in gear."



Tonight, finally, tonight I get the answers I've been looking for. I'm
finally going to free Mulder from whatever spell has been put on him by
these no-name bastards. I follow in another car while the guys take my
car with one of them, and I refuse to hazard a guess which one, wearing
a wig and driving. The car follows closely behind them. They think that
they're going to make a move tonight. *Not a chance boys, it's my turn.*

My gun's sitting beside me, my spare is tucked in my waistband in the
small of my back, and I'm dressed all in black. I must have been a
Charlie's Angel in a past life. The guys come to a stop outside of the
hotel like we planned. The one wearing the wig gets out, while the other
two, I'm guessing, are hidden in the backseat. The guy in the other car
waits, and I know that he's watching. Good. I can make my move. I pull
up on the sidewalk, down the street and in the shadows. Gun in hand, I
sneak up to the car just as the driver gets out. Not surprisingly, I can
see in the glow of the parking lot light that it's not my man. The boys
will be safe enough. They have guns, brains, and good running skills.

Once the tough is out of the way, I wait for the count of ten before I
skulk up to the car. Before anyone inside can make a move, I pull open
the door, use it as a shield, and point my gun in. "Get out of the car,
now." It's not a request. By now, Byers is behind me, with his own gun
in hand. The person obeys, but I still can't see who it is, because they
got out on the other side. I check inside the back seat to make sure
that I don't have any surprises waiting for me. It's clear. So's the
front. Now I turn my attention back to the matter at hand. "Come into
the light." They obey, as anyone would with a Sig and an S&W aimed at
their head. I almost drop the gun when I see who it is. "Oh, my God."
Byers echoes my prayer behind me.

"Why are you so surprised, Agent Scully? Didn't you think that I could
do something like this?"

"No, but I don't understand, why you'd do it, Diana."

She laughed. "Off the record? Because I'm an insanely jealous person,
and if I can't have the X-Files, then, as the saying goes, no one can.
Officially, I work for men who pay for this kind of work. They pay big.
They wanted Fox dead, and the two of you permanently removed from the
Files. I decided that it was time to get even, and do my job at the same
time. He's in some godforsaken place waiting to die, or worse, and
you're just about to go down the same path. The catch is, you're the one
who's going to die. He's just going to spend the rest of his life in
misery, until he either dies of old age or kills himself. Either way
he's out of the picture. You get a bullet." She looks at a spot over my
shoulder. Before I can turn I hear a gun cocking. I aim my gun at the
trees, but I know that I can't hit what I can't see. Byers still has his
gun aimed at Diana.

"Whatever happens, don't let her get away. Find Mulder." I wait for the
gun to go off, and for my life to end. But when one does, it isn't the
one aimed at me. Or at least, it isn't the only one. There are two
shots. The first one hits something in the trees, and the second one
comes from that direction and hits my arm. The pain is enormous, but I
know that I'm not dead. Diana stares dumbfounded, rooted to the spot.
Out of the trees I get my second shock of the night.

Krycek comes out into the light, and takes in the scene. Then he looks
directly at me. "I have my own orders, and my own agenda. Your death
isn't in them. Neither is Mulder's." He throws a package at my feet.
"Don't forget that I did this for you. But don't underestimate me,
either." With that, and with the sound of sirens wailing in the
distance, he goes back into the trees, and is enveloped in the
blackness. I can't believe it. Krycek's turned into some kind of dark
angel.



The next few hours are a blur. I remember the cruisers and the
ambulances pull into the parking lot, and I'm put on a stretcher.
Diana's led away in cuffs. And the last thing that I saw before they
closed the door was Frohike with a red wig. I wish I had dreamt that part.

I wake up with sunlight streaming through the window of my hospital
room. I glance around, and the nurse on duty sees that I'm awake and
attacks me, trying to get my vitals. Then she leaves, and a few minutes
later my three saviors walk into the room. "Hey guys. I believe the last
time you were in a hospital, Byers put on a hospital gown and Mulder
walked out of here." They grinned.

"It's scary, Scully, but you're starting to pick up Mulder's sense of
humor," Byers said. "Speaking of him, we analyzed the stuff that you
were given. It seems that it's a sort of enzyme. Our guess is that it'll
counteract whatever Mulder was exposed to. We don't know, though,
because we still have no idea exactly what he has."

I smile gratefully at the three of them. "Thanks guys. I don't know what
I would've done without you on this." Then I frown sadly.

"What's wrong, my beautiful angel?" Frohike tries to cheer me back up.

"It's just that while all of this is wonderful, I still don't know where
Mulder is, and if you guys haven't found him, I don't know who can."

"This is where my part comes in," comes a gruff voice from my doorway.
We all look up, and with hasty goodbyes, the Gunmen scuttle out the
door. Skinner approaches my hospital bed hesitantly.

"Good morning, sir. What are you doing here?"

"You've gone against protocol, used the Bureau information for personal
matters, investigated a matter not given to you, and I suspect that you
broke into a doctor's office." He stared down at me through his glasses.
But I've just been shot, he's not going to scare me.

"Mulder's a bad influence, sir."

Surprisingly, he smiles a little. "Obviously. None of the above
mentioned actions actually happened, did they, agent."

"No, sir."

"Good. I expect better from you. Now, on the matter of agent Mulder's
whereabouts." He pulls a paper out of his shirt pocket. "That's the
information that you need to find him." I watched him visibly soften
from his hard-assed boss persona to Walter Skinner. "How long until
you're out of the hospital, Scully?"

"I can check myself out today, sir. From what the nurse said, I didn't
have the opportunity to lose a lot of blood, and the wound was entirely
flesh. I would, however, like to request a few days of vacation if I
may, sir."

He nodded, no explanation needed. "I'll have the papers drawn up today,
and you're free to go." He rested a hand on my shoulder for a minute,
trying to find something to say. All he got out was, "Bring him back,
Scully."



XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX



Today the pain is greater than ever before. I can't do anything more
than lie in bed and when needed, stumble to the bathroom. Now all I do
is think about her. The end has to be near now. I haven't seen any
change in my body, except for the gauntness that's apparent. I'm just
glad that she's not here to see this. I don't want her to ever see me in
this state.

I've arranged everything with my lawyer, my landlord, and the post
office. The house and everything I have is left for Scully. The letters
will be picked up the day after I don't answer the phone when the post
office calls. I hope that my letter to her is enough of an explanation.

I dreamed about her last night. I saw her for just a moment, and she was
in pain. I wanted to stop the pain but I couldn't. Then she was here, at
my bedside, like some sort of guardian angel. That's what she is: my
angel. I wept in her arms for what I had become and because I had to
leave her alone. She told me that in the end all would be well. Then she
kissed me, and I awoke.



I hear a noise outside the house, but I don't even have the strength to
call out. I have to lie here, helpless. The door opens at the far end of
the house. Who could that be? Why won't they leave me to my misery?

The footsteps, as they tread, sound so much like hers do. I can't let my
thoughts drift that way. But then, then I hear her voice calling to me.
"Mulder? Mulder, are you here?" It is a ghost, a fantasy, a
hallucination brought on by pain and stress. I close my eyes, and
concentrate on blocking out the sound.

At my doorway I hear a gasp. "Oh, I'm sorry, I must have the wrong
house." It is her. I open my eyes to gaze upon her one more time. She is
more beautiful than ever before. Recognition fills her eyes as she looks
into mine. "Oh, Mulder." She hurries to my bed.

It's all I can do to speak. "Scully." It comes out as a hoarse whisper.

She's crying now, but she's smiling through her tears. "I'm here, Mulder."

"Scully, I don't want you to see me like this."

"It doesn't matter how you look to me, Mulder. That's not why I'm here.
I'm here because of this." And she lays her hand over my heart. "I'm
here to help you."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Shh, you won't. You wouldn't." She takes something out of her pocket.
"Just rest, Mulder." I feel a sharp jab. "Everything will be alright." I
start to drift into unconsciousness.

"I'm here for you, my love."



XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX



God, I couldn't believe the way that he looked. The strong, no-shit
Mulder I knew wasn't on that bed. I didn't even recognize him at first.
Only when he looked at me with those eyes. His eyes will never change,
no matter what happens to the rest of his body. I hate Diana for what
she did to him, and I can't even understand why she did it. It's so
pointless to take another's life for no reason.

I hope that I got here on time. I gave him the serum, whatever it is,
and now I'm sitting at his bedside praying that he'll wake up, and the
old Mulder, my Mulder, will be there. He's so still that I check his
pulse every few minutes to make sure that he hasn't slipped away on me.
I look on his dressing table, and I see a stack of envelopes. They're
addressed to everyone that Mulder knew and cared about. The Gunmen,
Skinner, his mother, one for Samantha, too, and then, at the bottom of
the pile, there's one addressed to me. I open it, curious at what he has
said to me.



'Scully,



I know by this time that you must hate me for leaving you the way that I
did. As I said, I wanted to keep you safe from me. I don't know what I
have or how I was given it. The doctor's couldn't explain. Dr. Reilly,
the one I went to initially, thought that you had done something to me.
I think that had something to do with my explanation of the bullet wound
in my shoulder.

The last thing that I wanted to do was leave you behind. The X-Files I
could leave, and did, but you. . .do you have any idea what you do to
me, Scully? I left myself behind when I came up here. I told you that I
love you, the night that I left, but I didn't say it under the best of
circumstances, did I? I'll say it again, and if I could, I'd say it to
you forever. But I can't, because of the monster that I have by now become.

You once said, if I can save you, let me. Well, you have, Scully. I
could have come up here, a lonely and unloved, unloving person as I was
five years ago. If that was the case, then I would have thrown myself
off of the mountains that you can see when you look out the windows of
my house. But if you look outside my window, you can often see a hawk,
or some other bird flying out there, free from cares, and from the
confines of earth. You've set me free, Scully, from a lifetime of
loneliness, and I can never thank you enough for that.

Just remember Scully, that I loved you, and still love you, no matter
what form my body may take, and no matter if I'm dead or alive. As I
told you before, you make me a whole person. I hold on to the memory of
you now as I write this letter. I'll never let it go, because that
memory is the memory of an angel.

I will love you forever,

Mulder.



P.S. Can you feed my fish? They must be hungry by now.'



I don't know what makes me cry more, the letter in its entirety, or the
last line. All I know is that I'm sitting by Mulder's bedside sobbing
uncontrollably. I never knew that he felt that strongly about me. I
didn't know that I meant that much to him, that I did as much for him as
he said that I did. An angel? That's the last thing I think of when I
think about myself.

He has to wake up now. I don't want to go on without him. What he's said
makes me realize just how strongly I feel about him. Loving him isn't a
question. It never was. I had no idea how much I did until this moment.

I'm so intent on my tears that I don't notice him moving until his hand
is covering mine, and squeezing tightly. I look up in shock. "Mulder?"
I'm almost afraid that he'll disappear, that all of this will be an
illusion and I'll wake up.

Then he smiles, and I know everything will be okay. "Hey, Scully," he
croaks, then frowns. "Do I sound as bad as I think?"

"Worse." I smile back at him. I'm still crying, but I don't even care
anymore. I reach over to brush an errant piece of hair back from his
forehead. "How are you feeling?"

"Like a million dollars. Would you like me to get up and dance?" He
stops joking, and looks at me. "How did you find me?"

I don't answer; instead, I go to the bathroom and get him a glass of
water. "Here, drink this." He does, but he's still waiting for an
explanation. So I give him one. The whole story. When I finish, the
shadows are lengthening, and my eyes are starting to droop from lack of
sleep. I haven't slept a night through since the night that he left, and
I had that dream. He sees the weariness on my face, and uses what
strength he has to move over in the bed.

"Come on, Scully. We're not officially partners anymore, so we can
fraternize freely." Even emaciated and coming back from the point of
death he has the ability to leer at me.

"Not tonight, G-man. I'm going to sleep." I stand, and start to walk out
of the room, but he grabs my hand. I look back at him, and his eyes are
almost fearful. "Stay, Scully, please."

How can I refuse him? I climb into bed beside him, and he carefully,
slowly puts his arms around me. It's as if he's afraid of hurting me, as
if I've been the one near death. I roll over to face him, and I likewise
wrap my arms around him. I kiss his forehead, and he kisses my lips oh
so gently. Then I drift off with his beautiful face by mine.



XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX



She's sleeping now. My angel again brought me out of darkness. I'm
alive, and this time I won't waste a moment of my time I have with her.
I have to regain my strength, but the minute I do, I'm proposing to her.
She's not going to leave my sight again, conspiracies and consortiums be
damned.

I pull her closer to me. I feel stronger every moment that I have her in
my arms. I whisper "I love you," in her ear before I too drift off into
the bliss of sleep, where I no longer have to fear waking up alone.



The end.

Further notes: The dream that Scully has is based on an Irish myth. Want
to know more? E-mail me. I have to say that I really enjoyed writing
this story, though certain parts aren't as good as I wish they were.

I know, I know that everyone believes that Krycek is evil, but I still
have some major problems with that theory, though I do NOT think, (and
the movie confirms this for me), that there is anything between he and
Mulder.

Please, let me know what you think of my story. Flames will be used to
burn my crappy stories, but everything else is welcome.