TITLE: Semaphore
AUTHOR: Forte
E-MAIL: Forte1354@aol.com or Bjm1352@aol.com
URL: http://www.thebasementoffice.com/
RATING: R for language and some unsavory descriptions of
physical injury.
CATEGORY: SA
SPOILERS: Something from every season, including FTF, through
Two Fathers/One Son.
KEYWORDS: UST/DAL.  ScullyAngst.  MulderAngst.  SkinnerAngst.
Character death -- but not if you don't want it to be.  You'll
see what I mean.
SUMMARY:  A trip to meet an informant, and the aftermath.
TIMEFRAME: Season 6, post-One Son, pre-Biogenesis.
ARCHIVE: Gossamer/Ephemeral/Xemplary/M&S/Spooky awards site OK;
anywhere else please ask first.
DISCLAIMER:  Of course Mulder, Scully, et al. don't belong to
me.  Would I be driving a 1987 car if they did?  ::sigh::  They
belong to CC, 1013, and Fox.
FEEDBACK: Yes please -- it's better than chocolate!  E-mail me
at Forte1354@aol.com or Bjm1352@aol.com.


********************************************************************
Semaphore
by Forte
********************************************************************

County Hospital
Clarksburg, Oregon
Monday, 1:50 p.m.


*beep*  *beep*  *beep*

The persistent sound could have been an alarm clock harassing
someone out of bed.  A pager demanding attention.  A truck
backing up.

It was none of those.

*beep*  *beep*  *beep*

But God, she wished it were.

Scully sat in another damned chair, near another damned bed, in
another damned hospital's ICU.  Of all the sounds she heard --
the wheezing of the respirator, the scratching of the nurse's
pencil, the shuffling of feet outside the door -- what stood out
most was the quiet metronome of her partner's heart monitor.

While the staff physician and nurse on the other side of the bed
examined Mulder, Scully's own clinical eyes swept over him for
the hundredth time.  Some evidence of their accident was
obvious: most of his skin was mottled with the grotesque reds
and purples of newly bruised flesh.  Thick white bandages over
his right eye and on his left forearm hid deep gashes.  There
were multiple cuts and abrasions over the rest of his body,
although those were less serious.  An assortment of wires and
tubes for his catheter, IV's, and monitors surrounded and
invaded him, as though he were a youth's electronics project.

There was damage to his body hidden from the eye, however. 
Mulder's airbag had saved him from serious head trauma, but
because of the downward angle of the car as it had crashed, he'd
suffered multiple internal injuries.  Individually, none would
necessarily be life-threatening, but in combination...

"It's touch and go," the doctor said, with the grim detachment
of a medical professional.  Scully jerked her head up to see the
nurse nodding as she wrote, lips moving in silent agreement. 
Scully stared at them, not believing the doctor would say
something so foolish in front of an unconscious patient.  Didn't
he know Mulder might be able to hear him?  Why let him think he
had any option except living?

Glaring, Scully watched them finish and leave, unable to stop
the doctor's words from reverberating around the room.  Touch
and go.  Touch and go.  Touch and go.

Mulder could die.

And for now, all she could do was wait.  And think.

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

12 hours earlier


They were in Oregon, perhaps an hour from where their first case
had been.  Neither had had the opportunity to reflect upon the
irony, however.  They'd spent hours traveling since Mulder had
gotten the call from Marita Covarrubias.

"'White tanker trucks.  Unmarked.  Are you interested?'" Mulder
had quoted to Scully.  They were at the airport within an hour.

Once they were in the small town of Lewiston they'd followed
Marita's directions: two miles east off the highway to an access
road, and then seven miles north until the drainage ditches
disappeared as buried underground pipes.  Pull over and wait for
her.  Arrive by 2 a.m., she'd said.

And now they sat, fifteen minutes early, waiting.  The slim
light of the quarter moon showed no signs of people, vehicles,
or buildings as far as they could see.  The land on either side
of the road was dotted with trees, bushes, rocks, and hills of
dirt, as though someone had intended to build upon the property
years earlier but had abandoned the effort.

Scully broke the silence.  "I don't understand her motive,
Mulder.  What would Marita have to gain by giving us information
now?  For that matter, what did she *ever* have to gain?  She
gave you that photo of the farm in Canada.  She helped you get
to Tunguska.  Why?"

Mulder gazed out the windshield, watching for approaching
vehicles.  "I asked her that question myself once.  She said she
believed in the search for the truth."  He dipped his hand into
his jacket pocket, brought a sunflower seed to his mouth,
dragged it along his lower lip.  "In this case, though, I'd put
money down on revenge.  You should have seen her at Fort
Marlene, Scully.  She looked like she'd been to hell and back,
several times.  I was amazed she could walk."  He sucked the
seed between his lips and crunched down.

"Well, apparently she's recovered well enough to do some
investigating.  I doubt the men who used her as a human guinea
pig just handed their train schedule to her."

Mulder spit bits of shell into an empty fast food cup.  "Good
point, Scully.  We'll have to ask her where she got her
information -- *after* she tells us where those tanker tr -- "

Abruptly, Mulder ducked his head to look out of the windshield,
far up into the sky.

Scully mimicked his actions.  "What?" she asked, her voice a
razor blade.

"Flashing lights," he replied, then relaxed.  "But it looks like
just a commercial airliner."  Scully frowned at the lights in
concentration, then nodded her agreement.

Mulder settled back into his seat.  "Or some very high-altitude
fireflies," he added, popping another seed into his mouth.

Scully shot him a surprised glance, then settled back against
her seat as well, a small smile gracing her features.  Mulder
noticed her expression and tilted his head quizzically,
mirroring the curl of her lips.  "That wasn't even one of my
better jokes, Scully."

She looked at him again, shaking her head, still smiling. 
"No... it just reminded me of something."  She turned to look
out the window, the pleasure still evident on her face, but she
said nothing else.

Mulder watched her, sensing that she wasn't completely focused
on the scene outside their car.  After several seconds of
silence, he spoke up, voice gentle.  "Want to let me in on it?"

Scully took so long to respond that Mulder started to wonder if
she had heard him.  Finally she turned, her face serious.  She
considered him for a moment, unblinking.  Then she returned to
looking out the window, swallowed, and relaxed into the small
smile again.

"I saw fireflies for the first time when I was about four years
old," she said quietly.  "I didn't know what they were, and I
was afraid of them.  My mother told me they were just angels
talking to each other."  She paused, running her index finger
over her cross then returning her hand to her lap.  Mulder
wondered whether his own mother had ever been capable of Mrs.
Scully's kindness, but his partner's voice pulled him back into
her story.

"My father couldn't leave it at that, though.  He told me that
those angels were blinking out messages in Morse code."  The
corners of her lips curled up further.  "I think the naval
officer in him wanted to get me interested in those dots and
dashes."  She paused again, still smiling, still staring into
the dark, eyes shimmering in the scant moonlight.

Mulder studied his partner's peaceful expression, his own smile
widening.

"My mother didn't let him get away with it, though.  She made
him tell me the truth, tell me he'd made it up.  But I liked the
idea."  She paused.  "That I could see angels.  That there might
be a way for me to communicate with them."  She looked down at
her lap and brushed something away with her hand.

"Until I was in high school, whenever my father was away at sea,
I'd watch for the 'angels'.  Imagine that they had a message for
me from Ahab."  She looked up, gazing out the windshield again,
and shook her head.  "I know that makes no sense, but..."

Mulder felt the back of his throat tighten, picturing a
Samantha-aged Scully sitting on her back porch at twilight,
searching the sky.  It makes perfect sense, Scully, he thought.

Quietly, he prompted, "So did you ever learn Morse code?"

Another moment of silence.  "Yes, after I inherited one of
Bill's old Boy Scout handbooks.  I was seven or eight then."  A
small smile crept onto Scully's face.  "I'd lie in bed at night
with the covers pulled over my head and practice with a
flashlight."  She shook her head again.  "I can't believe how
long ago that was.  That handbook must still be in my mother's
house somewhere.  I should check the next time I'm there."  She
seemed lost in thought for another moment, then cleared her
throat and turned to look at her partner, face neutral.  "Did
you learn Morse code as an Indian Guide, Mulder?" she asked, her
nostalgic tone gone.

Wistful Scully had been nice while it lasted, Mulder thought. 
He wrapped a warm smile around his response.  "Of course not,
Scully."  He spit out another shell, slipped another seed into
his mouth.  "Indian Guides didn't learn Morse code, they learned
how to send smoke signals."

In mock disgust, Scully turned away and faced the windshield,
but her lips curled up again.

Mulder watched her, expelled the seed's shell, decided to keep
teasing while he was on a roll.  "It's only been in recent years
that I switched to using masking tape on my window."

"Well, if I ever lose my cell phone I'll keep an eye on your
window, then."

Mulder grinned, watching her stare out the window.  He leaned
forward and placed the container of shells in the dashboard's
cup holder.

Scully suddenly tilted her head, sat forward, and frowned. 
"Mulder?"

"Yeah?" he asked, drawing out the syllable.  Still leaning
forward, he peered out the window, trying to follow the angle of
her gaze.

The sharpness in her voice returned.  "Over there."  She
gestured to the right.  "Those aren't fireflies -- and I don't
think it's Marita, either."

Mulder looked up to see two white dots glowing on the horizon,
sweeping slowly from side to side.  His stomach knotted at the
familiar movement.  "Shit!"  He slammed himself back into the
seat, twisting the ignition key and throwing the car into
'drive'.  "She set us up!"

Jamming on the gas pedal, Mulder spun the steering wheel into a
screeching U-turn.  Scully turned in her seat to look out the
back window as two black helicopters, searchlights swinging,
appeared over the horizon.

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

County Hospital
Monday, 2:06 p.m.


*beep*  *beep*  *beep*

Scully alternated between despising the heart monitor for
attaching itself to Mulder again, and worshipping it for the
continual good news it brought to her ears.

*he's alive*  *he's alive*  *he's alive*

For now.

How many times had she done this -- sat at his bedside, holding
vigil, praying for him?  She was so, so sick of it.  Dear God,
was this hell?  Was that where she was?  Was it possible to
escape?  To run away?

Scully felt an urge to get up, to walk away, to find safety and
comfort and warmth and rest.  Rest -- God, that would be so
wonderful!  She was exhausted, needed rest so much... but not
now, not yet, not when Mulder needed her.  Needed her stubborn
insistence that he not give up.  When she was sure he'd be okay,
she could rest.  But not until then.  Never until then.

Until Mulder woke up, she wouldn't leave his side.  Not unless
they came and dragged her away.

And he *would* wake up.  He had to.

Her eyes swept up and down his battered body yet again, counting
each slow rise and fall of his chest as a blessing.  Was this
how it had been for him, she wondered, whenever she'd been in
the hospital?  When her cancer had nearly killed her, when she'd
been left to die after her abduction?  Did he want to run, to
scream, to beg, *anything* to stave off the insanity of waiting?
 Such a vital part of their history, their almost-deaths, and
yet they'd never talked about them.

Almost never, she corrected herself.  On one late-night
stakeout, about a year after her abduction, Mulder had brought
up his experience in New Mexico.  His return from the dead, as
he'd called it, his words tentative, cautious.  Scully wasn't
sure if he'd needed to get the story off his chest, or if he was
encouraging her to talk about her own experience.  To expand on
what she had told him on the ship in Norway, about there being
nothing to fear when this life was over.

She'd listened to his story, given him the proper compassionate
words in response.  But she hadn't been ready to talk about what
had happened to her.

Was it too late to share with him now?  To tell him that she
knew where he was, that she understood how he was being pulled? 
She knew the allure of that final trip, the desire to seek
peace, to just let go of the pain, to join those who'd gone
before.  He had reached her there, had given her the strength of
his beliefs when she'd needed it most.  She could only recall
his words in vague memories, but she remembered his strength
with diamond brilliant clarity: he'd been certain that she
wasn't ready to go.

What could she say to him now to convince him to fight?  To
live?

Her recent words about Marita Covarrubias came back to her,
unbidden. 

<"I don't understand her motive, Mulder.">

Motive.  Motive.  Give him a motive, a reason to fight.  A
reason why death, the giving up and giving in, would be
unacceptable to him.

Deep Throat had urged him to go back, to live.  He'd told Mulder
that where he was, there was truth but no justice to go with it.

How unfair would it be if Mulder were left with truth but
nothing else, after all these years?  Wasn't some kind of
closure, be it justice, or revenge, or judgment, always implicit
in his search for the truth?  Wouldn't he rail against having
that stolen from him?

She stood and leaned over toward his ear, so close that she
might have tickled him under different circumstances.  Her voice
came out low, laden with emotion.

"Mulder... I know you're tired.  I know you're looking for
somewhere to rest.  And I know there's a road in front of you
that you'd like to take.  For me it was rowboat on a lake,
Mulder, but I know you don't like boats very much, do you?"  She
glanced toward his face, hoping against hope to see the corner
of his mouth twitch at her joke.

Nothing.

"You don -- "  Her voice caught; she started again.  "You don't
know exactly where the road goes, Mulder, but somehow you know
it's to someplace important.  Someplace you want to go.  I know,
Mulder, I understand, because I've been there.  I never told you
about that, but I *have* been there; I've seen it; I've felt it.
 And Mulder, if you take that road..."

God, help me.  Help me say the right thing.

"You remember what Deep Throat told you, don't you, Mulder?  If
you take that road, you'll lose your chance at finding justice. 
You may find knowledge -- the men who took your sister, who took
me, who killed your father -- but you won't be able to do
anything about it.  I know you, Mulder, and you'd be frustrated,
knowing you hadn't finished what you'd started.  You'd have your
truth, but it wouldn't be enough."

Scully stretched over the bed rail toward his hand, to twine her
fingers in his.  From her position at his ear she couldn't reach
far enough, and so stroked his forearm instead.

"I know you'd like to rest, Mulder.  I know you'd like to be
with the people you miss... "  She faltered, trying to find the
right words again.  Her voice shook as she continued.  "With the
people you miss and... and love, but... "  She choked on her
words again and dropped her head.  For a split second the urge
to run returned to her, but she pushed it aside and lifted her
head.  She forced strength into her voice, the same kind she
used when she debated with him.

"Your time isn't over, Mulder."  She paused, clasping his arm. 
"You're the only one who can do what needs to be done.  To
demand and bring about the justice that needs to be served. 
It's always been you, Mulder, your insights, your intuition -- I
can't do it for you.  You have to finish what you started."

That was really what she'd most wanted to say, wasn't it?  He
had to finish his work.

But was that enough?  Had she convinced him?

Would she be able to tell if she had?

She straightened, her movements as tentative and cautious as
Mulder's words had been on their stakeout.  She moved down the
side of the bed, sliding her hand down his arm, finally
enveloping his fingers with her own and giving them a light
squeeze.

Can you give me a sign, Mulder? she wondered.  Did you hear me? 
Did you understand?  Are you turning away from that road?

Her eyes swept from his hand to his face and back again, but he
gave her no twitch, no blink.

Please, God... he had to have heard me.  Please let him decide
to live.  He has so much to do.

"Please, Mulder," she whispered.  "Hang on."

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

12 hours earlier

Lewiston, Oregon
Monday, 1:56 a.m. 


Highwayhighwayhighway...

Repeating that mantra in her head, Scully felt the car
accelerate as Mulder pressed the gas pedal to the floor.  Had to
get back to a populated area, the helicopters wouldn't follow,
fasterfasterfaster...

She twisted toward the back of the car, straining against the
seat belt, ducking to look out the rear window to watch their
pursuers.  Scully gripped the top of her seat as they went over
a short hill and then dipped back into a straightaway.  When she
re-gained her balance, she searched the sky for the lights of
the helicopters, but found only inky blackness.

"Where'd they go?" she sputtered, trying to ignore the pounding
in her chest.  Don't panic, don't panic...

She glanced toward Mulder, caught his eye, and knew he felt the
same nauseating sense of deja vu as she did.

Texas, another pair of helicopters that had disappeared...

Without thinking, Scully put a hand to the back of her neck. 
She scanned the sky for the dark movement of a swarm, but saw
nothing.

Mulder eased up on the accelerator as he negotiated around a
curve, punctuated by a high mound of dirt at the side of the
road.  The centrifugal force pushed Scully toward Mulder's seat;
she grabbed the back of her own again, fighting the rolling
sensation in her stomach.  She squeezed her eyes shut for a
second, took a deep breath, then forced herself to maintain her
watch.

A glint of movement caught her eye.

Damn.

"Cars behind us," Scully reported, injecting calm into her
voice.  "Two."

Mulder's eyes darted to the rearview mirror and back to the
road.  "Where?  I can't see them."

"About a hundred yards back.  Headlights off.  They must have
been waiting at that turn."

"Great," Mulder muttered, eyes again flying between rearview
mirror and road, "just what we -- shit!"

"What?"  Scully spun around in her seat, squinting out the
windshield.

Oh, God.

Two more cars, coming at them.  Headlights off.  Almost
invisible, except for the glints of moonlight that bounced off
of them as they barreled down the road.  One car in each of the
narrow lanes, completely blocking their path to the highway.

Trying to force them off the road.

Scully's eyes flickered from one side to the other.  Drainage
ditches on both sides of the road.

And two cars following behind them.

God, they had nowhere to go...

"Shit!" Mulder spat again, white-knuckled, forearm muscles taut
as he gripped the steering wheel. "Hang on, Scully!"

For some absurd reason, Scully's last clear thought had been,
"Air bags don't guarantee survival."  She heard Mulder cry her
name, and then there was nothing.

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

2:18 a.m.


Before he remembered where he was, or even who he was, Mulder
knew he was badly hurt.

He fought back a gag at the coppery taste in his mouth; his
breath wheezed in and out.  Head spinning, eyes still closed, he
tried to orient himself.  He was on an angle, pitched forward
and down, as though frozen in a fall.  His forehead pounded; his
face and neck itched and throbbed.  Something dripped from over
his right eyebrow, down his nose, a maddening tickle.  Mulder
tried shifting his jaw, and felt a tiny twinge of relief that it
moved without unbearable pain.

He continued his inventory, recognizing the pulling across his
chest as his seat belt.  The pressure below -- steering wheel? 
dashboard?  He couldn't tell.  His legs, he could feel his legs,
aching stabbing pain, but couldn't move them an inch.  His left
arm throbbed, too, and was wedged up and back, as though he were
about to throw a football.  His right arm was pinned almost
straight out from his shoulder, pointed toward the passenger
seat... 

Passenger seat!

"Scull -- " he croaked, wincing at the stab in his chest.  He
stretched the fingers on his right hand, trying to feel for her,
but finding nothing in the tiny space he could explore.  He took
in a slow lungful of air and forced out two broken syllables. 
"Scul-lee?"

Mulder felt a slight breeze from his left -- where the window
used to be? -- and held his breath as pain danced across his cut
flesh.

Gotta find Scully, gotta get out of here...

He tried opening his eyes again, tried to blink the multiple
fuzzy images in front of him into one.  But blinking hurt. 
Breathing hurt.  Everything hurt.  His head spun; a roaring was
building up in his ears.

He shut his eyes again.  He couldn't move his head much, anyway,
and staring at the crushed remains of the car wasn't going to
help him.

He concentrated, gathering strength to call for her again.

"Scully?  Can you hear me?" he rasped, louder this time, higher
pitched.  Was she hurt?  Or...

Christ, no -- had they taken her again?

A wave of nausea seized him at the thought; he held his breath
until the sensation ebbed.  Then he panted, sucking in oxygen,
trying to think.  Don't panic, don't panic, it won't help...

"Scully!" he called, as loud as he could.

"Mulder?"

Mulder's heart thumped in relief as he heard Scully's voice,
faint, through the cacophony growing in his head.  But
disoriented, he couldn't tell from which direction her voice
came.  Was she still in the seat next to him?  Or was she
outside the car, inches from his face?  Had her movement caused
the breeze he felt?

"Mulder... hang on, okay?"  He strained to hear her voice,
wavering like a far-off radio station.  "Help is on the way...
they're coming now..."

Mulder relaxed, his breath hitching at the pain of the sigh he
released.  In the background, he could hear the vague strains of
a siren.  The cars, the helicopters must be gone.  Scully had
called 911.  She would take care of everything.  Take care of
him, like she always did, sorry you have to do this again
Scully...

Without thinking Mulder tried to move, to reach for her.  He was
thwarted again by stabbing pain, and by metal and plastic
pressing against him.

"I can't move, Scully," he whispered, biting back a groan.

"I know, Mulder," her voice came back, her most soothing tone.
"Your side of the car..."  She faltered, then started again. 
"They'll get you out of the car, Mulder.  You're going to be
fine.  Just hang on."  Her voice cracked on the last words.

Was it that bad?  Was she that afraid for him?  "I'll be okay,
Scully..." he gasped, then realized he didn't know how she was. 
She'd been able to use her cell phone, but surely she hadn't
crawled out of the car unscathed.  Even if his side had taken
the brunt of the crash.

"Scully," he wheezed, "you okay?"  He strained to hear her
answer; something soothing again, he could tell.  But her words
were drowned out by the sirens, growing louder by the second,
and by the roaring in his head that built to a crescendo before
it swallowed him.

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

Viva Tower
Crystal City, Virginia
Monday, 6:30 a.m.


*beep*  *beep*  *beep*

Walter Skinner rolled over in bed and slapped off the annoying
alarm, blinking at the dawning Monday that filtered through the
window blinds.  He flipped the blankets back, swung his legs off
the edge of the bed, and sat up, stretching.  He was about to
push himself to a standing position when the phone rang.

Who the hell was calling this early?  He lifted the receiver,
scowling.  "Hello."

"Walter Skinner, please?"  The feminine voice, hesitant, was
unfamiliar to him.

"Speaking.  Who is this?"

"This is Nancy Baker from, uh, County Hospital in Clarksburg,
Oregon... uh... is this Assistant Director Skinner of the
Federal Bureau of Investigation?"

"YES.  What is this about?"

The woman cleared her throat.  "Mr. Skinner, I'm very sorry to
inform you..."

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

County Hospital
Thursday, 4:20 a.m.


*beep*  *beep*  *beep*

Scully had been listening to Mulder's heart monitor for nearly
three days, so she was used to the sound, and now took comfort
in it.  He'd been removed from the respirator after the first
day, and continued to breathe on his own.  That was a good sign,
she kept telling herself.  A very good sign.

She stood at the bed rail, stroking his right arm.  Her fingers
finished their lazy journey from his elbow, down to his wrist,
across to his thumb.  She gave it a small squeeze, then started
the cycle again, as she'd been doing for hours.  During the
daytime she kept up a constant one-sided conversation, stroking
his arm or forehead.  Telling him over and over why he had to
live, why death was such an unattractive option.  Appealing to
the stubborn side she knew would hate to lose his chance at
justice.

At night she quieted, allowed him a break from her monologue,
but kept up the physical contact.  Maintained the connection.

I'm here, Mulder.  And don't you dare forget what I told you.

In spite of the near-silence, she was glad for the night, for
the dimmed lights.  It helped hide the bruises covering Mulder's
body, which were now a putrid combination of purples and greens.
 He'd suffered injuries over the years, so many she'd lost
count.  Never before, though, had she seen his body so battered.
 But the changing colors were a good sign, too, she kept telling
herself.  The healing process was taking place.

Now if he would just wake up.

There was a drawback to the dark, to its quiet.  Her mind
wandered, considering other things to say to him, words other
than entreaties to live.  Apologies, regrets, things undone or
unspoken.  But she thrust those ideas from her thoughts,
refusing to utter anything that might sound like a goodbye.

To distract herself, she glanced up at the clock on the wall. 
Nearly four thirty -- Skinner wouldn't be back for hours yet. 
But at least he had come.  Shame on Mulder's mother for not
showing up, although that didn't really surpr--

No!  That was something else she wouldn't dwell on.

Scully was grateful when Mulder's doctor and a nurse entered the
room, giving her something else to focus on.  She watched,
silent, as they positioned themselves on the opposite side of
the bed.  Scully concentrated on the doctor's examination and
his words that followed.

"Make sure his temperature is monitored closely," he told the
nurse.  "If it spikes, page me immediately.  If an infection
sets in at this point, I want to be very aggressive in treating
it."  The nurse nodded her assent, making notes, as the doctor
continued.  "He's continuing to show signs of improvement,
though.  I think he'll regain consciousness sometime later
today."

Scully blinked, relieved that the doctor's opinion coincided
with her own clinical -- and personal -- optimism.  As the
doctor and nurse left the room, Scully nodded her thanks for
their news, fingering the cross at her neck.  She moved to her
partner's ear, bending as close as she could, then spoke in a
hushed voice.

"Did you hear what the doctor just said, Mulder?  You can wake
up now."

She sighed, leaning to rest her forehead in the crook of his
neck.  Tired, she was so, so tired, needed to rest, but not
until she was sure he'd be okay...

She nuzzled his shoulder, whispering, "Please, Mulder."

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

6:31 a.m.


By sheer force of will, she'd found the energy to go back to
stroking his arm: elbow, wrist, thumb, squeeze, repeat.

Activity in the hallway was gradually increasing; with a sigh of
exhaustion Scully glanced up at the clock.  Not too early, she
thought, to start talking to Mulder again.  Reminding him why he
had to live, why he couldn't take the road that stretched out
before him.  She looked toward his face, to where she needed to
be so she could whisper to him.  It seemed so far away, and she
was so tired...

She stared back down at her fingers as they began their next
cycle of movement on his arm.  She sighed again, blinked hard a
few times to try to wring out her fatigue.  "Come on, Mulder,"
she murmured, watching her fingers slide down to his wrist and
over to his thumb.  "Wake up.  You don't want to spend another
day listening to me nag you, do you?"

She squeezed his thumb, then moved her hand to the top of the
bed rail.  She began to push herself closer to his ear.  But a
movement caught her eye, stopped her cold.

Mulder's thumb.  It shifted: a fraction forward, a fraction
back.  As though seeking something... seeking her?

For several seconds she stared at his hand, limp again, and her
mouth hung open in an "O."  She finally gasped, regaining her
power of speech.

"Mulder?"

She whipped her head around to look at his face; his eyes were
still closed.  God, had she just imagined it?

*No.*  No, she couldn't have.

She turned back to his hand and slid her fingers into his palm,
squeezing, more forceful than she'd intended.  Her words, too,
were commanding.  "Do that again, Mulder."

His thumb pressed against her.  Weak, but impossible to miss.

Oh, God.

Scully's expression nearly split with her grin as she turned
toward his face again. The most beautiful of sights greeted her.

His eyes.  Unfocused, but open.  And directed at her.

Still clasping his hand, she leaned over him so he could see her
more easily in the dim light.  Mulder's eyes followed her; her
smile glowed despite the small frown on his face.

"Hey.  Remember me?"

Mulder squeezed her fingers again, stronger.  He blinked twice,
his frown relaxing as he focused on her.  He licked his chapped
lips.

"Scul--" he croaked, then grimaced and swallowed.

"Shhh," she soothed, stroking his shoulder with her free hand. 
"Don't try to talk."

"Scul-lee," he rasped.

She shook her head, still smiling, fighting the urge to cover
his mouth with her hand.  "Shhh," she repeated.  "We were in a
car accident, Mulder, but you're going to be fine."  She brushed
back some hair from his forehead, near the bandage over his eye.
 "You'll be up and complaining about the hospital food in no
time."

Mulder's frown re-appeared as his eyes roamed over her. 
"You..."  He stopped, licked his lips again.  "You... okay...?"

He was worried about her, of course; bless him.  But there was
nothing to be worried about; she couldn't let him waste his
energy on that.  "I'm not the one in ICU, Mulder.  Everything's
going to be fine.  Don't worry."

He continued to study her, the frown remaining.

She gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze, trying to distract him
from his concern.  "You totaled another rental car, Mulder. 
You're going to have a lot of paperwork to do when you get out
of here."

That drew a small smile out of him; his eyes slid shut on a
contented sigh.

"Scully," he murmured, though she couldn't tell if it was a mock
admonishment for her joke, or something else.

She brushed his wrist with her thumb as he continued to hold her
hand in place.  She leaned closer to his face, watching his
frown lines smooth out.  The bottom of her cross grazed his
chest as it swung back and forth.

"Tickles," he exhaled.

"Sorry," Scully whispered.  She pulled back so the gold dangled
a few inches above him.

"S'okay, Scully," he whispered in return.  "It's you."

Scully swallowed the lump in her throat, smiling, gazing down at
him.

"So..." Mulder murmured, "I wrecked the car?"  He tugged at her
fingers, hard, and Scully's heart nearly broke.

Oh, Mulder -- I know what you really mean.  Stop worrying about
me.  It won't help you.

She squeezed his shoulder again, harder.  "Mulder."  At her firm
tone he opened his eyes again, meeting hers.  "I don't have a
mark on me.  Now stop worrying.  Everything's going to be fine."
 She rubbed her thumb over his shoulder, making small circles,
and lowered her voice.  "Everything's going to be fine."

She repeated the last sentence over and over, gentle and
soothing, until his eyelids fluttered and closed again.  His
breathing evened out, but his right hand still gripped hers.

Was he asleep?  Or was he facing that road again?  The one that
he knew went someplace important, the one she wanted him to
avoid?

"Mulder?" she spoke, tentative.  For a silent moment fear
gripped her, then her partner tugged at her hand again and took
a slow, deep breath.

"You shouldn't worry about me either, Scully," he murmured,
"I'll be okay."  He opened his eyes halfway and graced her with
another small smile.  "I won't dump that paperwork for the car
on you."  His last few words dropped off in volume, his eyelids
fluttering and opening again, but the curl of his lips remained.

Scully smiled in return, feeling like a weight had been lifted
from her shoulders.  Mulder would be all right.  He knew it;
he'd said so.  He'd made his decision.

Thank God.

"Close your eyes, Mulder.  Get some rest."

"Been restin'," he mumbled.  Within seconds his eyes slid shut
again, his face relaxing into sleep.  His hand loosened its grip
on hers, but didn't let go.

Satisfied with his peaceful look, Scully ran her fingers through
the hair over his forehead one more time and straightened, her
right hand still holding his.  A serenity washed over her,
followed quickly by lethargy.  She bent over, dropping her
forehead to the bed rail.

She should really get some rest now.  God knew she needed it.

*beep*  *beep*  *beep*

Scully smiled at the heart monitor's companionable sound, the
one that had comforted her for so many hours with its message of
hope.

*he'll be fine*  *he'll be fine*  *he'll be fine*

Thank you, God.  He's going to live.

Yes, she could rest now.  She had to take care of herself, she
knew, so she would have more strength for Mulder later, when he
needed her. She knew it logically, although it tore at her heart
to leave.

Go, Dana, she told herself.  You know you need to.  It's okay
now.

She lifted her head from the rail and gently pulled her fingers
from his hand.  Mulder frowned in his sleep; a little humming
noise escaped his throat and his thumb searched for her as it
had earlier.  Smiling, Scully leaned near his ear, her forehead
just brushing the side of his head.

"I have to go for a little while, Mulder," she whispered.  "If
you need me, you know what to do.  Just put the masking tape on
the window, okay?"  She drew back and watched his frown ease
into a hint of a smile.

Good -- he remembered her joke, their conversation in the car.

She pushed herself up straight again.  Gazing at his relaxed
face, she inched toward the foot of the bed, trailing her
fingers with a gossamer touch over his healing flesh.  Down
first his arm, then his hip, then his leg.

"He'll be all right on his own for a little while," she told
herself with each step.  "Nothing is going to happen to him now.
 He'll be fine."

As her fingers reached his feet she stopped, still staring at
Mulder's peaceful face, memorizing it.  Even as she repeated her
self-assurances, and prayed that he would forgive her for her
deception, her other hand crept up near her throat.  She touched
the cross there, then ran her fingertips up the gold chain
toward the back of her neck.

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

8:50 a.m.


Skinner slumped in the cheap plastic chair of the hospital
cafeteria, taking cautious sips of near-scalding black coffee. 
Funny that they weren't more careful about the temperature.  He
didn't think the emergency room needed extra business from
second-degree burns.

As the hot sting of the liquid drilled down his throat he
paused, glancing around the room.  It was deserted, except for a
few cafeteria employees and a young woman in scrubs paying for a
can of Coke at the register.  Good choice, he mused, looking
down at the paper cup in his hands.  Only the truly desperate
would drink this sludge for a hit of caffeine.

Skinner leaned forward and set the cup on the table with more
force than he'd intended.  A splash of coffee hit his hand; he
yanked his arm back, cursing and flicking his wrist to shake the
hot liquid off.  For a second he wanted to take the damn cup and
throw it across the room.  Instead he sat back in his seat,
hard.  He slid down and tilted his head back until he stared at
the ceiling, blew out a loud breath, and squeezed his eyes shut.

Don't lose it, Walter.  You're just tired.

Tired.  Three days of planes, hospital visits, and sleepless
nights.  Investigations with the local P.D. that were going
nowhere.  Yeah, tired was right.  He needed to wake up.

But at the same time, he didn't want to.

Skinner's first stop that morning had been to Mulder's bedside. 
His body had been still, his eyes shut, as he had been since the
accident.  Skinner had studied Mulder for a few minutes, trying
to convince himself that his agent looked less battered than he
had the night before.  Then a nurse had come in and asked him to
leave for a while.  He'd nodded, trying not to think about what
she needed to do to Mulder that required privacy.  He'd turned
toward the door, then stopped.  Damn, was he that low on sleep
that he'd forgotten to ask?

"How's he doing?"

"Holding his own," the nurse had replied, scratching something
on Mulder's chart.  "We're monitoring him closely for signs of
infection, but otherwise he's doing as well as can be expected."
 Something on the chart made her squint, then she looked at
Skinner.  "We're hopeful that he'll regain consciousness today."

He had nodded as the nurse turned back to her patient, then he'd
escaped to the cafeteria.

Skinner opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling again.  Thank
God Mulder seemed to be improving.  He was so, so damned tired
of hospitals, tired of blood, tired of damaged bodies and
damaged psyches, tired of saying "I'm sorry" to families
shell-shocked by bad news.

Tired.  Sick and tired of all this sh--

*beep*  *beep*  *beep*

Skinner jerked his head and body upright, then glanced down at
the small black pager clipped to his belt.  The hospital staff
had given it to him to alert him to any changes in Mulder's
condition, standard procedure for ICU patients.  It allowed
relatives and friends keeping vigil to leave their side for
short periods of time with less fear.

For a moment Skinner stared at the device.  Was Mulder awake so
soon?  Or -- Christ, no more bad news -- was it something else?

Skinner squeezed his eyes shut again, trying to force out the
exhaustion, and sucked in a deep breath.  He exhaled loudly
through his nose, then opened his eyes and stood.

Only one way to find out.

Leaving his coffee on the table, he squared his shoulders before
taking long, swift strides out of the cafeteria.

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

9:02 a.m.


Skinner stopped short as he entered Mulder's room, his greatest
hope and worst nightmare slapping him in the face.

Mulder lay in bed, eyes shut.  But there was no question in
Skinner's mind that he was conscious.  Creases lined Mulder's
forehead, as though growing from underneath the bandage over his
eye.  His right forearm draped heavily across his chest; his
fingertips playing with something -- gold?  His hand shifted;
Skinner could see that Mulder was wearing a gold cross on a
chain around his neck.

Where the hell had he gotten that?

Skinner shook off the question.  What did it matter?  He took
another step into the room, sucked in a breath.

"Agent Mulder."

Mulder's hand stilled, the gold necklace pinched between his
fingers.  He turned his head toward the voice with a slow,
cautious motion.  His eyes opened into slits; the creases on his
forehead deepened.

Pain, Skinner thought, feeling a jab himself in the pit of his
stomach.  I should get the nurse...

Before he could turn away, Mulder's jaw slipped up and down a
fraction, but Skinner heard no sound.  He crossed the room and
leaned down until he was about two feet from his agent's face.

"Agent Mulder?" he asked, voice low.

Skinner watched as Mulder blinked several times, struggling to
open his eyes all the way.  Finally he succeeded, but by the
confused look on Mulder's face Skinner knew that he couldn't
focus.

Should he be having this much trouble? Skinner wondered, his
pulse speeding up as Mulder blinked a few more times.  Why can't
he see me?

The thought left Skinner's mind as he saw recognition come over
Mulder's face, replaced almost immediately by a fallen, pleading
look.  Realizing his own face must look grim, Skinner did his
best to erase the visage, to mold his expression into something
more hopeful.  Then he forced a semblance of optimism to his
voice.  "Welcome back, Agent Mulder.  How are you feeling?"

At first Mulder stared at him, looking to Skinner like a
confused, scared little boy.  Then he licked his lips and
swallowed, and rasped out two words.

"Where's Scully?"

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

Two weeks later
Late afternoon


"Take me there."

Those were Mulder's first words to the Lone Gunmen in two days. 
Without being asked they had flown out to Oregon after Mulder
had regained consciousness.  A day later Skinner had been forced
to return to Washington by professional, as well as personal,
demands.  During most of his remaining time in the hospital,
Mulder had resisted the Gunmen's attempts at conversation.  When
a response was necessary, he had answered their questions with
nods or shakes of his head.

Now the Gunmen had flown back to Washington with him, and there
was only one place he wanted to go.  He wanted to see the proof
of what had happened.

Proof.  Wouldn't Scully get a kick out of that...?

Mulder's breath caught, the back of his throat tightened, his
eyes burned.  He slumped in the back seat of the Gunmen's VW
bus, head leaning against the side window.  He stared out,
seeing nothing, feeling nothing as his temple bounced off the
glass and smacked back again at every bump in the road.

After two weeks of thinking in the hospital, he welcomed
oblivion.

His friends drove him to their destination, from highway to
local streets to gently winding pavement lined with shade trees.
 They parked, walked him to the site, and returned to their
vehicle to wait for him.  Not a word passed between them.

Mulder stood, staring: seeing the newly-chiseled letters,
comprehending the words they formed, but not absorbing the
meaning.  On some level he needed to, but a more defiant part of
him refused.  He knelt, his movement stilted and awkward,
hampered by still-healing muscles.  He swallowed, eyes burning
anew, and brushed warm, trembling fingers over cold, unyielding
granite.

DANA KATHERINE SCULLY
1964 - 1999
Beloved Daughter, Sister, Friend
"Whoever lives by the truth comes into the light."  John 3:21

It's a lie, it's not the light, it's dark, so dark, so dark, oh
Scully...

For almost an hour Mulder stared at the gray stone, rocking on
his heels.  He stroked her cross around his neck and cried,
anguished sobbing without sound.  Then, eyes glazed and body
numb, he rose and staggered back toward his remaining friends.

The sun had begun to set, and he couldn't bear to watch a shadow
pass over her grave.

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

2630 Hegal Place
Alexandria, Virginia


By the time they returned from the cemetery it was dark; no
trace of the setting sun remained.  Mulder had resumed his
slumped position in the back seat, fingering Scully's cross.  He
wanted oblivion again, but thoughts kept pushing up out of his
mind faster than he could tamp them down.

For the first few days after he'd regained consciousness,
hospital personnel had insisted that he couldn't have seen
Scully.  Couldn't have talked to her, couldn't have touched her.

"We're very sorry," they'd told him.  Gentle at first, less
patient later.  "There was nothing that the EMT's could do for
her.  She didn't make it."

"You're lying!" he'd screamed.  "What did you do to her?  Where
did you take her?  You're working for HIM, aren't you?"

It had taken threats of sedation and Skinner's return shouting
to stop his verbal assault.  But even then he'd kept insisting
to Skinner that Scully was alive.  "How else did I get her
cross?  Who called for the ambulance if it wasn't Scully?" he'd
demanded.  Skinner had had no answers, and Mulder had persisted.

Then, two days after Skinner's return to DC, Mulder had gotten
the phone call from Scully's mother.

"Fox," she'd said, tearful.  "The hospital..."  She faltered,
then started again, voice shaking.  "They sent her home, Fox,
and it was her.  I know my baby girl."

"Mrs. Scully..." he'd pleaded.

"I buried her next to Melissa," she'd declared.  Resolute and
determined with him, just like her daughters.  "Please, Fox,
stop torturing yourself.  Dana wouldn't want that."

After that conversation, Mulder had stopped talking.

Byers navigated the VW bus toward the back of Mulder's building,
searching for a parking space.  As they rounded the corner, a
young man standing in the alley waved them down.

Byers slowed and cranked down his window.  "What's going on?"

"Sorry," the man replied, breathless.  "We need to keep the
alley clear -- can you go back?  There's an ambulance coming
around from the front of the building."  He gestured behind him;
as if on cue the ambulance appeared, lights flashing, at the
other end of the narrow street.  "My neighbor had a heart
attack.  They're bringing him up the basement stairs."

Mulder straightened in his seat, staring at the flashing lights
in front of them.

No point in explaining that one of his passengers lived in the
building, Byers thought.  "Okay," he told the man, rolling up
the window again.  He looked over his shoulder then backed up
around the corner, cutting the wheel sharply and parallel
parking on the sidewalk.

"I'll move it later," he told the others, sheepish, and switched
off the ignition.

The Gunmen climbed out of the bus.  Mulder followed slowly,
still focused on the flashing lights of the emergency vehicle.

*beep*  *beep*  *beep*

The ambulance announced its reverse direction with a loud,
staccato tone as it backed up toward the building's rear
stairwell.  As the Gunmen and Mulder approached, the vehicle
stopped and the driver jumped out to open the ambulance's rear
door.  At the same time the building's back door burst open. 
Two EMT's carried a white-haired man on a stretcher up the
stairs; behind them trailed a crying woman wringing her hands.

Mulder stopped short, squeezing his eyes shut.  He tasted blood
in his mouth, nearly gagging on it.  His head spun, pain jabbed
like rusty nails at his body, a pressure squeezed diagonally
across his chest...

<"Mulder... hang on, okay?  Help is on the way... Mulder...">

"Mulder?"  Langly called his name, tentative.

Mulder blinked open his eyes and realized he was standing still,
swaying slightly.  When his eyes focused he saw the Gunmen
staring back at him, as though he were a bomb that they were
afraid of setting off.

He sucked in a shaky breath, closed his eyes again, and tilted
his turn head backwards to try to compose himself.  Exhaled. 
Inhaled.

He wasn't going to fall apart in front of the Gunmen.  He
wouldn't... *she* wouldn't.  Scully would have held it together,
at least until she had privacy -- and so could he.

Mulder pressed his lips together and opened his eyes, staring up
at the sky.  He held the position for a long moment while he
tried to control his racing heart.  Then he noticed... stars? 
No, it was an airplane.  He watched, concentrating, willing his
pulse to slow.  The plane moved across the sky, lights
flickering.

Or were those lights fireflies?  Or angels blinking out messages
in Morse code?

Without thinking, he swiped at a bead of moisture running down
his face.

"Come on, Mulder," came Frohike's low voice.  "Let's get
inside."  He placed a hand on Mulder's shoulder.

Mulder huffed out a breath and muttered, "Yeah."  He tilted his
head back up, dragging his gaze down his apartment building's
brick exterior.  Something caught his eye, calling to the
investigator in him like a siren.

A brief flash of light.  Then another.  Then a third.

Coming from his apartment.  From his living room.

*Someone was in his apartment.*

In his mind's eye he saw Marita Covarrubias standing by his
desk, waiting for him with narrowed eyes, demanding to know why
he hadn't made their 2 a.m. rendezvous that night, *as if she
didn't know*...

Something inside Mulder snapped.

He stormed inside the building, pushing past the small crowd
that had gathered to watch the ambulance.  The Gunmen followed. 
Mulder motioned to Frohike and Langly to take the elevator, then
bounded up the stairs, Byers close behind.  That bitch, Mulder
thought -- was it really Marita up there?  Or would it be Cancer
Man?  Krycek?  He would be happy to kill whomever it was.

The door to his apartment stood ajar, inviting him in.

Mulder gestured for Byers to wait then reached for his weapon. 
His hand found nothing but the cloth on his body -- his gun had
not been found after the accident.  He cursed under his breath,
gave the door a frustrated push, and entered.

He searched his apartment quickly, aided by moonlight and
streetlight shining through the windows.  He went to his bedroom
first, grabbing a baseball bat leaning against the wall, then
opened closets, threw back the shower curtain, even pried open
the cabinet under the kitchen sink with his foot.

There was no one there.  No stench of smoke, either.

Mulder went back out into the hall; all three Gunmen now stood
there.  Langly shook his head -- no, no one had come out.

Mulder rubbed his stubbled chin with his free hand.  Shit, how
had they missed -- whoever it was?  They'd covered the stairs
and the elevator.  His shoulders slumped; he retreated back
inside his apartment, leaving the Gunmen standing in the hall.

He flipped on the switch for the living room's overhead light
and dropped the bat on one of the chairs.  Now what?

He should know what to do next, shouldn't he?  Was he that
incapable without...

Mulder sucked in a sharp breath and pushed the thought from his
mind.  Somehow his feet brought him across the room to the
window near the desk.  He peered out, running a trembling hand
along the window sill.  The ambulance was gone -- no sign of
anyone.

Now what? he thought again.

He turned his back on the window, scrubbed his chin again. 
Think, Mulder.  Someone had been there -- what had they wanted? 
Were they looking for something?

Mulder swept his eyes around the room, looking for signs of
anything broken, anything missing, anything out of place.

His eyes stopped at the corner of his desk.  His roll of masking
tape sat on top of an open book.

What was the tape doing out?  He hadn't used it since...

He reached over and picked up the roll of tape, then noticed the
book underneath.

What the hell?

Mulder moved to the front of the desk so he wasn't reading
upside down.  He hadn't been imagining things: the yellowed,
dog-eared pages showed the alphabet in Morse code.

He dropped the roll of tape by the desk lamp, then picked up and
shut the old book carefully.

"Boy Scout Handbook," was at the top of the worn cover in bold
letters, with "Boy Scouts of America" in smaller print along the
bottom.  The artwork showed three uniformed Boy Scouts in the
foreground; the background had other Scouts, tents, and a
smoking campfire.

No.  It couldn't be.

His conversation with Scully in Oregon came back to him,
unbidden.

<"So did you ever learn Morse code?">

<"Yes, after I inherited one of Bill's old Boy Scout
handbooks.">

Mulder opened the book's cover, heart pounding.  "Bill Scully"
had been written in the inside, then had been crossed out with
three bold, straight lines.  "Dana Scully" appeared above it,
printed by a child's hand.  Mulder slowly brushed the pads of
his fingers over the letters.

Scully had said she was seven or eight when she'd gotten her
brother's book.

Hands trembling, he flipped a few pages until he found:

"Seventh edition - first printing 1965"

He stared at the page, swallowing hard.

<"I'd lie in bed at night with the covers pulled over my head
and practice with a flashlight.">

Mulder shifted his gaze to the desk lamp, the one that he'd seen
flashing in the window.  The lamp used by someone --
some*thing*? -- that had vanished.

<"I liked the idea... That I could see angels.  That there might
be a way for me to communicate with them.">

Suddenly out of breath, Mulder set the book down again and
leaned against the desk for support.

<"...if I ever lose my cell phone I'll keep an eye on your
window...">

<"I have to go for a little while, Mulder.  If you need me, you
know what to do.  Just put the masking tape on the window,
okay?">

Oh.  God.  Scully.

Mulder flipped back to the page with Morse code and picked up
the roll of masking tape with shaking hands.  Tearing off a long
strip, he moved to the window.  He started to position the first
slash of an "X", then hesitated.  He rotated his hands further,
placing the tape vertically.  He placed a second, shorter strip
of tape horizontally across it.

Mulder stood back to inspect his signal, fingering Scully's
cross around his neck.

"Mulder?"

Without looking he knew all three Gunmen were watching him, but
Mulder didn't turn around at Frohike's concerned voice.  Instead
he dropped the roll of tape of the desk, then reached for the
desk lamp and mimicked what he'd seen from outside.

Flash-flash-flash.

Then Mulder ran his finger down the yellowed page of the
handbook.

In Morse code, dot-dot-dot was the letter "S."

<"Did you learn Morse code as an Indian Guide, Mulder?">

<"Of course not, Scully.  Indian Guides didn't learn Morse code,
they learned how to send smoke signals.">

Ignoring the watchful looks of the Gunmen, he picked up the
book, cradling it in its open position.  He moved to the couch,
sat down, and began to study.

Tonight, Mulder thought, I will learn Morse code.

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

- End (almost...) -

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


Did it work for you?  When did you realize Scully was dead?  I'd
love to know: Forte1354@aol.com or Bjm1352@aol.com.  Thank you!

Author's Notes:  I hate fics where Mulder or Scully dies.  So
why, you might ask, did I write this?  I blame it on my Muse. 
When she gets an idea in her head, she just won't let me rest
until she's satisfied -- although in this case it took almost
nine months. <g>  For my own sanity, I had to write an epilogue.
You can skip it if "character death" doesn't keep you awake at
night. ;)

BTW, you can see the cover of the 1965 edition of the Boy Scout
handbook at: http://www.scouting.org/excomm/handbook/index.html.

Many, *many* thanks to my wonderful beta reader, Jintian, for
her tireless efforts on this fic.  That included beta-ing in a
non-linear manner <g>, nudging me at all the right times, and
not laughing at some of the ideas that I wound up *not* using in
this story. <g>

Also, big thanks and virtual chocolate chip cookies to Mish,
Special Guest Beta Reader, for her reality check. :)

Now for the (optional) epilogue:


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

Three more nights -- three sunsets, three moonsets -- had come
and gone.  And he had nothing to show for his vigil but dark
circles under his eyes.

Mulder had turned on the desk lamp each day at mid-afternoon,
pointing it toward the cross in the window.  That was long
before sunset, but he wasn't taking any chances.  He'd waited
for her signal, patiently at first; later pacing from window to
couch and back again, adjusting the angle of light from time to
time.  He'd also tested the lamp more than once; three flashes,
just as he'd seen from outside the building a few days earlier. 
A package of spare light bulbs sat on the coffee table.  So did
the Boy Scout handbook, although he'd memorized the dots and
dashes of Morse code.

He'd been ready.

But in three nights not a single light in the sky had appeared
for him.  Not one firefly.  Nothing blinking at him at all, not
even twinkling stars or airplane lights.  Nothing sending a
message for him to decipher.

No angels.  No Scully.

Just still, unnatural blackness, eventually melted away by
useless daylight.

So now the third night was done.  Mulder switched off the lamp.

He sat on the couch, dropping hard, banging the back of his head
against the dark leather.  He exhaled a long, loud sigh, then
sat up, resting elbows on thighs.  He hung his head and set the
alarm on his watch for 3 p.m.  The start of his next vigil.

He sat for a minute, shoulders slumped.  He should get something
to eat.  Shouldn't he?

Fuck it.

He swung his legs around and stretched out, throwing his left
arm over his eyes.  The bright morning light streamed in the
window, casting a shadow from the masking tape cross over his
chest.

Scully... where are you?  Isn't this what you told me to do? 
Isn't this why you came to me in the hospital, why you said
everything would be fine?

His right hand trembled, moving toward the cross around his
neck.

Aren't you all right, Scully... wherever you are?

He wanted to believe... but three nights with nothing... was it
all just another sick hoax?  Was the Scout handbook planted by
that black-lunged son of a bitch, a variation on the fake
Samanthas designed to fuck with his head?  The car in Oregon
could have been bugged; he could have heard them talk about the
fireflies, the Morse code...

But dammit, he wanted to believe -- in it, in *her*...

His right hand gripped the cross where it lay over his heart. 
His breath hitched as he squeezed the gold, eased off, squeezed
again.  He pressed his left arm more tightly over his eyes as
his body shook; warm tears turned cold as they tracked down his
cheeks, his neck, his arm, until finally he fell asleep.

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

*beep*  *beep*  *beep*

Was it 3 o'clock already?  Feeling disoriented, eyes still
closed, Mulder reached for his watch to shut off the alarm,
but...

He wasn't wearing his watch.  Nor was he lying on his couch.

He was sitting in a chair, hunched over.

His eyes sprang open, and he found himself surrounded by white
-- crisp white cotton, a sheet under his head, wrapping around
the edge of a mattress...

Mulder sucked in a breath, sharp, and jerked up his head.

Scully.

*Scully.*

Next to him, pale, unconscious, hooked up to wires, tubes, IV...
but breathing, alive, *right there*.  He'd been asleep in the
chair, his head lying on the edge of her hospital bed, his right
arm brushing against her thigh.

He stared at her, mouth hanging open, not breathing.

*She's alive.*

She's alive, there's no grave, she's right here, she's alive, we
both are... 

He exhaled in a rush, then dropped his head back to the bed as
though it were suddenly too heavy to hold up.  He gulped in
mouthfuls of air, his entire body trembling, his heart thumping
in his chest.

Scully, Scully, Scully... 

Mulder squeezed his eyes shut, biting his lower lip.  He drew
slow, steady breaths in and out, trying to exorcise his
nightmare.  Remembering what had really happened.

*beep*  *beep*  *beep*

Scully's heart monitor, he realized, its steady sound helping
him slow his own racing heartbeat.

As his adrenaline rush wore off and his breathing returned to
normal, Mulder's body began to ache.  It was due, in part, to
the awkward position in which he'd been sleeping; he'd lost
count of how many hours he'd been at Scully's side since their
accident.  But the dull throb was also evidence of his own
injuries: deep bruises, badly strained muscles, gashed forehead
and left arm.

Vague memories of broken glass, sirens, ambulance, and emergency
room formed in his mind, speeding his pulse again.  Mulder
shoved the mental images aside, took a deep breath, and pushed
himself up from the bed.

He lifted his head and shoulders several inches and opened his
eyes, catching a glint of gold on the bed.  Scully's cross
draped from around his neck onto the white sheet.  He pushed
himself up a few more inches so he could see her face more
clearly; she was bruised and scraped yet still beautiful.  Then
for several long moments he simply watched the rise and fall of
her chest, and listened to the heart monitor's steady
affirmations.

Mulder reached out his hand to brush across his partner's
fingers, calming further as he felt the warmth of her hand, then
leaned down to kiss her fingertips.

They twitched when he touched his lips to them; he jerked back
as though burned.

Could she be... ?

"Scully?"

His stood on shaky legs, the pain in his body forgotten, his
heart pounding again.  Jaw slack, he stared down at her.

Her eyelids fluttered once, twice.  Then they opened, and her
gaze focused on him.

Mulder exhaled a shaky sigh, leaning closer to her face.  He
stroked her cheek with the back of one finger, and beamed. 
"Hi."

Her lips parted, then closed again.  She swallowed, then paused,
as though she were trying to muster the strength to speak.

Mulder tensed, leaning closer.  "Are you in pain?"

No, she mouthed.

"Don't talk then," Mulder said softly.  He massaged gentle
circles on her arm with his thumb, in time with the heart
monitor.  "Just rest, Scully.  I'll let the nurses know you're
awake."

He started to reach for the call button, but she fixed her eyes
on him, her expression insistent.  The intensity of her gaze
made him lean even closer toward her, his ear towards her mouth;
so close that her cross draped down from his neck and into the
hollow of her throat.

"What is it, Scully?"

He had to strain to hear her faint words.

"Told you... everything would be fine..."

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

- NOW I'm done. <g>  Thank you for reading. -

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

So... was it all Mulder's dream?  Scully's dream?  A little of
each?  Did some of it really happen?  Was this fic as befuddling
as Triangle? <g>  Feedback makes me dance on the ceiling:
Forte1354@aol.com or Bjm1352@aol.com.  Thank you!