Corral Dust
by Keleka


Email: keleka@keleka.net 
Distribution: Yes to Gossamer.
Rating: PG
Spoiler Warning:  8th and 9th seasons
Classification: XRA
Content Statement:: MSR, D/R UST, M/D friendship
Summary: An investigation in Texas leads Doggett to 
an unexpected encounter with an old friend. [Assumes 
that "The Truth" never happened.  If only we could 
make it so.]
Archive: Sure
Disclaimer: If I owned this cash cow, don't you think 
I'd be living in Hawaii?
Feedback: It's always welcome in my house.
Author's Note:  Huge, steaming piles of thanks to my 
absolutely fabulous beta reader, fabulousmonster.  Kudos 
also to our other betas: EnigmaticDoctor and Shoshana; 
and to my medical consultant, Philiater.  
OMG!  I wrote something Skinner's not in!
The rest of my fanfic can be found at:
http://www.keleka.net

This was submitted for the TexPhiles 2004 challenge.  The
elements are at the end of the story.


Corral Dust
by Keleka


Monica takes the call and somehow convinces me that this is a case
that deserves our time and energy.  Somehow.  Another cattle
mutilation, or some such nonsense, in West Texas.  I tell her that
Mulder's file on cattle mutilations is six inches thick and that even
he never found anything he could seriously connect to alien activity,
but she doesn't care.  I think she just wants to get out of what she
considers bone-chilling DC and back to a part of the country where
she can get warm.  It's been some time since I could deny Monica
anything, so here we are, heading west on Route 380 from Lubbock,
Texas, in a rented Ford.  Our destination is a hole-in-the-ground
known as Bronco, Texas, on the New Mexico border.

The sun is the kind of bright that you only see out here in the Wild
West, so bright that my sunglasses are barely doing their job.  I
steal another glance at Monica and this time she catches me.  The
smile she turns on me is almost as brilliant as the damned sun.

I turn my eyes back to the road.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"You were looking at me."

"Yeah."

She laughs.  It's a little game we play, only I haven't figured out
the objective.  And only Monica knows the rules.

She reaches over and pats my leg.

"Not now, Monica," I say.  "I'm driving."

That gets me a bigger laugh and we drive on in silence.  That's one
of the great things about Monica.  The silences don't feel
oppressive, like I have to fill them with idle chatter.  I can sit in
a car with Monica for hours and there's never any pressure to talk. 
None of that 'what are you thinking?' crap that so many women pull. 
Of course, Monica's psychic.  She usually knows what I'm thinking
before I do.

Finally we see a sign: 'Bronco, Texas...3 miles.'  

"He said the entrance to the ranch should be on the left, shortly
after we pass the three-mile sign," Monica reminds me.

I nod, and when I see the short stretch of log fencing ahead, I slow
down.  'Bronco Creek Ranch' is carved into one of the logs so I turn
in.  It's another four miles of dirt road before we reach the ranch
house, an attractive log home of modest size.  It even looks like it
has indoor plumbing.  Three barking German Shepards rush off the
front porch to greet us with wagging tails.  Trailing along behind
them is a skinny creature I recognize as a Greyhound.  It's not
barking, but its tail is wagging and it looks practically joyful to
see us.  I guess they don't get many visitors out here.

There's an ancient Jeep Wrangler parked in front of the house and my
eye is immediately drawn to the sticker on the rusted-out bumper: 
'JFK 2004.'  Whoa!  A Kerry supporter in west Texas?  Another sticker-
-"George W. Bush/All Hat, No Cattle'--tells me I've found a kindred
spirit. 

"Looks like we found Democratic Headquarters," Monica says as I pull
in beside the Jeep.

Before I can respond, the screen door slams open.  Monica and I both
instinctively reach toward our firearms for a moment while we assess
the threat.  

"Agent Reyes?  Agent Doggett?"

I squint and try to shield my eyes from the sun.  "Dr. Gray?"

I walk into the shadows and can finally see the man who has come out
of the house.  He's a large man, as large as AD Skinner, and just as
bald.  He wipes his hand on a dirt-encrusted jeans and holds it out
to me.  His palm is rough from work and his grip is firm.  I can tell
right away this is a man I'd want at my side in a fight.  

"Herman," he says, taking a checkered handkerchief out of his pocket
and wiping the sweat off his brow.  "Call me Herman.  Any trouble
finding the place?"

"Not at all, sir," Monica says.  "It's beautiful out here.  Reminds
me of home."  The greyhound nuzzles up to Monica seeking attention. 
Monica gladly complies and kneels down to bestow some loving on the
friendly dog.  The shepards realize what they're missing and rush
over to get in on the action.

Gray makes a noise that's a cross between a lion's roar and a
squirrel's chuckle.  "I've heard this part of Texas called a lot of
things, Agent Reyes, but 'beautiful' isn't one of them.  Where're you
from?"

Monica stands and dusts her hands together before turning her charm
on our host.  "I grew up in Mexico," she says.  The dogs continue
nuzzling her for attention and I start to get a little jealous that
they don't want anything to do with me.  I guess they can sense that
I'm a cat person.

Dr. Gray seems transfixed by Monica's smile for a second, then he
notices the firearm strapped to her waist and that seems to remind
him why we're here.  He claps his hands together and snaps at the
dogs to leave Monica alone.  The shepards obediently--if reluctantly--
slink back to the porch.  The greyhound glues herself to Monica's leg
and hangs her head.

"Please pardon Mandy," Dr. Gray says.  She's an attention wh---, uh,
she's a glutton for attention.  Retired racers often are."

"I don't mind," Monica says and continues petting the shy dog.

"You called us about cattle mutilations, Doctor?" I say, trying to
get this show on the road.

Gray nods and motions us over to his Jeep.  "I wish mutilation was
all it was," he says.  He throws open the flap to the back of the
vehicle and pulls out a manila envelope.  He pulls out several sheets
of glossy paper and hands them to me.  They're circular color photos.
 I'm not sure what I'm seeing.

"I took those under a high-powered microscope at the university,"
Gray prompts.

I hand the photos to Monica to see if she has a clue.  She gasps as
soon as she sees them, so I'm guessing she has lots of clues.

"Nanotechnology," she says.

"Huh?"

She pulls me away from the Jeep with a quick apology to Dr. Gray.

"I've seen this before," she says, like I couldn't have figured that
out by myself.  "Dana showed me a file, a private file that she keeps
in her safety deposit box."

Safety deposit box?  What the hell?

"It was something she and Mulder investigated a few years
ago....something involving Walter Skinner."  

The mention of Skinner gets my attention so I shut up and listen as
she tells me a tale scary enough to curl my hair.  And Skinner is
infected with this stuff?

"Does he know where it came from?" I ask her.

"Yes.  Krycek."

That explains a lot.  "What about now?  Now that Krycek's dead, I
mean."

Monica shrugs.  "Don't know.  Maybe nobody."

Maybe nobody.  Or maybe somebody even worse than Krycek.  Damn.

"Agents?"

Oh yeah, Dr. Gray.  Hearing about these little mechanical monsters
that live in Skinner's blood and threaten his life every day made me
forget all about Gray and his cattle mutilations.  We walk back to
the Jeep.

"Where did you find this?" I ask, though I think I know what he's
going to tell me.

"Those pictures are from four different head of Longhorn," he says. 
After I found the third one mutilated, I started looking for an
answer.  I started drawing blood.  The next four looked like that. 
It was too late to check the first three."

"Were all seven on your ranch?" Monica asks.

"Yes.  And all in the same area, down by one of the watering holes."

"How about we go visit the scene of the crime," I suggest.

Gray tosses Monica a tangle of empty canteens from the back of the
Jeep and points toward a nearby spigot.  She gets the message and
starts filling the canteens while he cleans out the back of the Jeep
so there's room for all of us.  He hands me an empty five-gallon gas
tank and asks me to fill it at a fuel pump over by a shed.  The dogs
recognize the signs of an impending trip and dance around us
excitedly, except the greyhound who stays glued to Monica's side.

"I'm afraid one of you is going to have to ride in the back," Gray
says once we're ready.  He's covered the cargo hold floor with a
blanket and tossed in a couple cushions.  I start to climb in but
Monica stops me.  

"I've got more natural padding, John.  I'll be more comfortable."  

I think Monica just accused me of having a bony ass.  The twinkle in
her eye makes me want to swat that padding.   Before I can object,
she climbs in and gets herself situated.  Mandy almost knocks me down
in her efforts to get in the car with Monica.  Gray pulls the
greyhound down and scolds her.  I don't think I've ever seen a more
disappointed look on a dog's face.

A half-hour later, I'm wondering if my bony ass is going to survive
this trip, even with the benefit of a seat cushion.  There's no real
road where we're going and the Jeep's suspension is stiff.  I'm
trying to avoid asking 'are we there yet?' like a whiny five-year-old
when I hear Monica pipe up from the back.

"How much further, Dr. Gray?"

"We're almost there," he says and points to an outcropping of rock
on the horizon.  "That's the watering hole and feed station.  I found
all of the carcasses in a quarter-mile radius from that spot."

As far as I could tell, it was also the only source of shade in
sight.  I wouldn't want to be out here in the summer.  As we get
closer, I see a few creatures near the outcropping.  I'd call them
cows, but...somehow, that doesn't sound quite right.  They're too
big, and those are fierce-looking horns.  When Gray pulls the jeep up
near the watering hole, the longhorns look at us with sullen
expressions, but they stand their ground.

"I breed for gentleness," Gray tells us as we climb out of the Jeep.
"But when they have calves at their side, they're very protective. 
Just keep your distance and don't make any sudden moves and they
should ignore us."

I sure hope they ignore us because those things are so damned big
that I doubt our sidearms would bring them down before they could
trample us.  I shake my head to try to get the movie image of a
cattle stampede out of my mind.

Gray leads us away from the watering hole about fifty feet to a
stake in the ground.  "This is where I found the second one."

I kneel down to take a look at the ground.  There's not a speck of
blood so there's really not anything to look at.  The stake is marked
with a number and the date, presumably, the date the carcass was
found.  

"The third one was over there," Gray says, pointing to another stake
about fifty feet further out.

"Did you stake all of them?" Monica asks.

"All the but the first one," he says and reaches into his pocket for
a piece of paper.  He unfolds it and hands it to me.  It's a diagram
showing the watering hole and marking where and when he found each of
the seven carcasses.

"You could have had a career in law enforcement," I say, handing the
diagram to Monica.

Gray laughs.  "I did.  I was a cop in Houston for six years before I
went to vet school.  It was an old buddy of mine--he's a Texas Ranger
now--who told me about your office.  He said you guys specialize in
things like this."

"Something like that," I say.  I kick at the dirt a little.  I'm
never quite sure what to say when people say things like that. 
Mulder is a specialist in the paranormal.  Scully and Monica, too. 
I'm just a thick-headed cop doing the best I can to make sense of
this crazy stuff.  

Monica starts doing a circular search around the stake.  I walk back
toward the watering hole.  The longhorns seem to be as concerned
about watching me as I am about watching them.  The one closest to me
has a calf at her side and when I get about twenty feet away, she
nudges her calf and they both trot away.  I think we're both relieved
to avoid the confrontation.

The rock by the water seems completely out of place.  It juts up out
of the earth at least twenty feet.  It reminds me of the indoor rock-
climbing wall at my gym.  I wouldn't have any trouble rapelling down
it, but climbing up the damned things doesn't appeal to me.  

There's a feed bin beside the rock and I walk around it, examining
the rock face as I go.  When I get around the feed bin, something
catches my eye.  It looks like a tiny piece of fabric, not much more
than a few threads.  It's silver, and almost looks metalic.

"Hey, Monica," I call out.  "Come look at this."  When she reaches
me, I point to the silver speck.  "What do you think this could be?"

Monica examines the speck and pulls a small ziplock baggy out of her
trouser pocket.  I pry the speck away from the rock, slip it into the
baggie, and pocket the baggie.  I continue examining the rock face,
looking for more evidence.  Monica walks out to another stake, about
a hundred feet from the watering hole.

I'm not sure how much time passes as I work my way around the rock. 
I've almost circled it when there's a sudden flash of brilliant white
light and a loud, piercing sound that reminds me of the transporter
sound from the original Star Trek series but with a higher pitch.  I
run out from behind the rock and see Monica looking at the sky.  She
must have seen something I didn't.

Suddenly, I hear thunder, but there's not a cloud in the sky. 
That's when I realize it's not thunder, it's the sound of hooves
pounding the earth  My heart quickens and I feel a knot of fear in my
gut as I recognize the sound of a stampede, and it's heading straight
for Monica.  

"Get in the car!  Get in the car!"  It's Dr. Gray, running toward
the Jeep and waving his arms, trying to get our attention.  "Get in
the car, now!"

I yell at Monica to run and she takes off toward me, but it's too
late.  She's halfway to the watering hole when the terrified
longhorns reach her.  One of the calves hits her and knocks her to
the ground.  She rolls and just barely avoids being trampled. 

As soon as the last of the beasts passes, I run to Monica.  She's
lying face down in the dirt, motionless.  I fall to my knees beside
her, afraid to touch her, afraid I could make it worse.  It's only a
few seconds before Dr. Gray is at my side.  He tells me to help him
turn her and I do.  He may not be an M.D., but in a situation like
this, any medical knowledge is better than none.

We turn her carefully and there's blood on her forehead and in her
hair.  There are some rocks nearby.  She must have struck her head
when she fell.  She's unconscious, but her pulse is strong and she's
breathing.

"We need to get her to a hospital," I say, master of the obvious.

Gray picks Monica up like she's no heavier than a potted plant.  He
tells me to get in the back of the Jeep.  I'm going to need to hold
her to keep her head from banging against anything while we race
across the prairie.  When Gray gets behind the wheel, he heads west,
not back toward the ranch house.

"Isn't Lubbock the other way?" I yell over the noise of the engine.

"Lubbock is nearly a hundred miles away.  We're only sixty miles
from Roswell.  There's a good hospital there."

Roswell?  Holy shit!  We're only sixty miles from Roswell, New
Mexico?  Roswell, the UFO capital of the world?  *That* Roswell?

*

It takes us nearly two hours to travel the sixty miles to Roswell
and I feel every minute in my bony ass.  This time tomorrow, I
probably won't be able to walk, but I don't care.  What I do care
about is the blood-soaked towel I've been holding against Monica's
head wound.  Dr. Gray assures me that "head wounds bleed like a
sonofabitch," but it doesn't make me worry any less.  It's been only
a few months since Monica's last head injury from a car accident. 
Just thinking of how close I came to losing her to that murderous ER
doctor makes my throat constrict.  

I think I'm going to ask AD Skinner to make Monica wear a football
helmet when she's out of the office.

Dr. Gray calls ahead and when we reach the Eastern New Mexico
Medical Center, a team of medics meets us.  They lift Monica out of
the Jeep and rush her into the ER on a stretcher.  A nurse who must
have been a Marine Corps Drill Instructor in a previous life stops me
from going into the exam room with Monica, even after I flash my
badge and use my best FBI Agent voice.  I tell her I have Monica's
medical power-of-attorney, but even that doesn't sway her.  She tells
me to take a seat and the doctor will come out and see me as soon as
he can.

It's a slow day and there are plenty of seats to choose from.  I
prefer to pace and it's not long before I can tell you exactly how
many steps it is between any two points in the waiting area.  Dr.
Gray tires of my spastic energy quickly and goes off to find a phone.
When he comes back he tells me that his son is driving our rental car
over for us and will be here in about an hour. Then the the drill
instructor nurse comes to tell me the doctor wants to see me.  I give
her a look that says 'you should've let me in in the first place' but
it slides right off her.

They say you know you're getting old when your doctor is younger
than you are, and this doctor is making me feel damn old.  He looks
like he's barely started shaving.  Despite his youth, it's obvious
he's in command here, so I go along with Monica having Doogie Howser
taking care of her for now.  

"I'm Dr. Phil," he says and I steal a glance at his nametag. 
Jeremiah Phil.  He was probably conceived when his parents made out
on the sofa while watching a Robert Redford movie on TV.  "Are you
the husband?"

I pull out my badge again, mentally cursing the nurse for not
filling him in on Monica's identity.  "I'm Agent Reyes's partner,
John Doggett.  I have her medical power-of-attorney," I say.  

Dr. Doogie tells me they're taking Monica up to get a CAT scan.  
His examination of Monica's scalp injuries indicated a possible skull
fracture.  At my alarmed look, he adds quickly that a simple skull
fracture is not serious but would require observation for
neurological injury.  A more serious fracture or a hematoma will
require surgical intervention.  

Well, that makes me feel a lot better.

The next hour, while Monica has a CAT scan and is seen by a
neurologist, has to be the longest hour of my entire life.  When Dr.
Doogie finally comes to see me again, he has good news.  No skull
fracture, no hematoma.  She has a cerebral contusion with
lacerations, but if no hemorrhaging develops in the next twenty-four
hours, she should be fine. 

The relief I feel is profound, even after he warns of possible
complications later.  She's to see a neurologist back in DC as soon
as we get home.  Fine, fine, I think.  Whatever it takes.  

It's another half-hour before Monica is taken to a room.  She's
surrounded by medical instruments, each of them beeping or clicking
or whirring in relation to one or more of her vital signs.  The
sounds are a hypnotic symphony and quickly lull me to sleep.	


*


When I awake, the sun has gone down and the room is dark.  My watch
says it's been three hours since they brought Monica to this room.  I
don't know how long I've been asleep.  Earlier, I called Skinner to
update him, and then I spoke to Monica's mother.  If I never have to
give bad news to Monica's parents again, it'll be too soon.  

Dr. Gray then came in with the keys to the rental car to tell me he
was going back to Bronco.  He felt horrible about what happened to
Monica, but he needed to get home to keep his appointments for the
next day.  I've been sitting here since then watching Monica sleep,
if sleep is the right word for it.  I wonder whether she knows I'm
here.  Did she hear me talking to Skinner and her mother?  It was
almost better last time when I could focus my anguish on proving that
Dr. Preijers was trying to kill Monica and harvest her organs.

I suck at waiting.

I'm on my third round of feeling sorry for myself when the door
opens and a figure slips quietly into the room.

"Agent Doggett?"

Damn, that voice sounds familiar.

"Yes," I say as I stand and reach for the wall switch.  It takes my
eyes a moment to adjust to the light so I can see my visitor.

"Mulder?"

Holy Shit.  It *is* Mulder.  He's got shaggy blonde hair and a
beard.  His skin is taut against his cheek bones.  He's
wearing a white lab coat and has a stethoscope draped around his neck.

"Shhhhhhh," he says and flips the lights back off.  Then he
surprises me a second time and puts his arms around me.  "It's good
to see you again, Agent Doggett."

"Damn, Mu-- Uh, I mean, hell, what are you doing here?"

Mulder smiles enigmatically and looks at Monica.  

"How's Agent Reyes doing?" he asks.  I don't answer, and I guess I
still have a stunned look on my face.  "John?" he prods.  "How's
Monica?"

"We don't know yet," I say.  "She's been unconscious most--."   My
throat tightens and I have to stop.  

Mulder picks up Monica's hand and holds it for a moment while he
watches her face.   I suspect he's thinking about all the times he
sat vigil at Dana Scully's hospital bed.  It's hard enough on a cop
when his partner is injured; it's much worse when you feel about your
partner the way Mulder did Dana.  The way I feel about Monica.

Mulder gently lays Monica's hand on the bed and turns toward me.  He
puts his hand on my shoulder.  "I know how rough it is," he says.

I nod, but I don't say anything.  I can't.

"How about we go get some dinner?" he asks.  "There's a good Tex-Mex
restaurant a few blocks from here."

I look at Monica.  I want to be here when she wakes up.  But it
isn't until Mulder mentioned food that I realize I haven't had any
since a bagel at 6:00 this morning, and that was D.C. time.  I won't
be much good to her if I pass out from hunger, so I agree and we slip
out quietly.


*


"What are you doing here, Mulder?"

"The same thing you are.  Investigating cattle mutilations."

I mull this over.  How does he know that?  "Haven't you outgrown
cattle mutilations by now?" I ask.

Mulder laughs and takes a long draw on his bottle of Shiner Bock. 
"Not these mutilations," he says.  "They're different."

"Because of the nanites," I say.  I can see I've surprised him.

"You've come a long way, John," he says after a pregnant pause.

It's my turn to laugh.  "Yeah.  I'm finally getting the hang of this
job."  The waiter chooses this moment to bring us our chips and
queso.  Mulders dives in like a starving man.

"How did you know we were here, Mulder?  You can't tell me this was
dumb luck, that you just happened to be hanging around the Roswell
hospital."

Mulder shakes his head.  "I heard it on the police band.  It's big
news when a couple FBI agents come snooping around a little town like
this."

He's right about that.  The Chief of Police paid me a visit while
Monica was having a CAT scan.  Once she knew Monica was injured in a
stampede outside her jurisdiction, she lost interest in us quickly.

"What do you make of these nanites?" I ask after the waiter brings
us two huge platters of food.

"I think they're testing a new generation of nanites," he says
between bites.  

"Newer than the ones in Skinner?"

Mulder stops shoveling the burrito into his mouth long enough to
give me a surprised look.   "I didn't know you knew about that. 
Skinner tell you?"

"Christ, Mulder!" I snap.  "How many more secret X-Files are there? 
This job's hard enough without all this damned subterfuge.  What else
haven't you and Dana and Skinner told me?"  I take a deep breath and
immediately regret losing my cool.  I tell him how I found out about
Dana's secret file on Skinner's nanites.  "I shouldn't have to find
out third-hand like this," I add.

Mulder doesn't stop eating during my outburst and when I finish he
gives me an understanding look.  "If you don't like subterfuge, John,
the X-Files will eat you alive."

"I think it'll eat me alive anyway," I grumble.  

"You're probably right about that."

We eat in silence for a moment.  Mulder finishes his before I'm half
through.  I pretend I'm full and push my plate toward him.  "Finish
this for me, will ya?  My eyes are bigger than my stomach."

Mulder hesitates, but only for a second.  "Thanks," he says and
switches plates with me.

"Look, Mulder, I'm worried about you.  You're not looking well, and
it's damned clear you're not getting enough to eat."  He doesn't look
up from the plate.  I pull out my wallet, remove the cash I have on
hand--about $150--and slide it across the table.  "Take this, and
let's talk about how else I can help you."

Mulder looks at the cash for a moment.  He frowns and for a moment I
think he's going to tell me to go to hell.  He's reluctant, I can
tell.  But he also knows that I'm aware of his situation.  He takes
it and thanks me.  

"I have plenty of money, you know," he says.  "I just can't get to
it without getting myself killed."

"Where is it?"

"It's in an account in Scully's name in DC.  Scully and I had
planned a way for her to send me what I need, but after that debacle
last time....  We can't communicate at all anymore, and I haven't
figured out anything that'll work without getting me killed."

I think for a moment.  "How about we arrange a place to meet in a
few months?  Dana can withdraw a little cash each week and sock it
away.  I'll bring it to you.  I'll take a few vacation days.  We can
set up a new meeting place each time and I'll bring you some
cash...and anything else you need."

Mulder pushes away my now-empty plate and sits back, patting his
stomach.  "That might work, John, but you have to be very careful. 
Don't speak it aloud, don't email it.  Write it down by hand, let
Scully read it, and then burn it.  Assume everything you do and say
is being watched and listened to, because--trust me--they are.  No
place is safe.  Not your home, your car, your office, and especially
not Skinner's office.  Hell, with the technology they have, they
could be listening to us right now.  I'm alive only because they
don't know where I am.  If they suspect you're in contact with me,
they'll go after you, too."

I'm starting to understand why they call him 'Spooky Mulder.'  
Viscerally, I already know he's right, but as long as I haven't had
to think about it, I've been able to pretend it isn't true.  How will
I ever feel safe in my own home anymore?  How did he and Scully live
this way for so long?  

Mulder gives me a funny look.  "It's not what you expected, is it? 
The X-Files, I mean.  Everyone thinks it's about ghosts and vampires
and things that go bump in the night, but it's a lot more serious
than that."

"Damn straight."

We agree to meet in three months in Scottsdale, Arizona at a Chinese
restaurant Mulder knows.  My brother lives in Phoenix so I'll have an
excuse to take a few days off to go visit.  By then, Scully should be
able to withdraw at least two thousand dollars without drawing
suspicion. 

I pay the bill and we walk out into the darkness.  A squad of cadets
from the New Mexico Military Institute jogs down the street, chanting
a cleaned-up version of an old Marine Corps cadence.  We watch them
go by in silence.  When they pass, Mulder reaches into his back
pocket and pulls out a thick envelope with Dana's name on it.  He
hands it to me.

"Will you give this to Scully for me?" he asks.  "I've been keeping
a journal, and I've gathered some information she should have.  It's
all in there."

I take the envelope and put it in a buttoned pocket inside my
jacket.  "Anything you want me to tell her?" I ask.

That simple question brings tears to Mulder's eyes and I really
reqret asking it.  After a few tense moments, he says, "Just tell her
I'm okay."


*


On the walk back to the hospital, we find an ATM and I withdraw
$300.  Since Monica and I are here on a case, it should go unnoticed
by anyone who might be watching my financial activity.  I worry that
$450 isn't enough to get him through the next three months and still
have money to get to Scottsdale, but he assures me he has been
surviving on far less.

We arrive at one of the hospital's side doors.  I turn and look at
Mulder intently.  "About Dr. Gray's longhorns, I think we should--"

"Let me handle this, John," he interrupts.  "I can go places...do
things...that you and Monica can't."  I open my mouth to protest, but
he cuts me off.  "This is my case, Agent Doggett," he growls.  "Back
off!"

"Your case?"  I bristle.  "I must have missed the memo reinstating
you to the FBI!"

We glare at each other.  Mulder sits down heavily on a bench near
the door.  "You know I'm right," he says quietly.

Yeah, I know.  "I'll tell Monica," I concede.

"No, you can't tell Monica anything!  And you especially can't tell
her you've seen me!" he says, grabbing my forearm for emphasis.

I look at him in disbelief.  "You gotta be kidding.  Why?"

"Anyone who knows my whereabouts--anyone," he says, looking
pointedly at me, "is in grave danger.  Even you.  Hell, I should
cancel our meeting in Scottsdale right now--"

"Forget that, Mulder.  You need my help!"

His grip on my arm intensifies.  "Promise me.  Promise me that you
won't tell anyone but Scully.  And even she's not to know where we
meet."  His eyes entreat me.  "Only you can know.  Promise me," he
repeats.

"Mulder, do you know what you're asking me?  To lie to Monica?  To
tell Scully only half of what's going on?"  I can see Monica's dark
eyes flash angrily and Scully's rage in my mind's eye.  "I can't--"

"If you care for either one of them..."  He regards me with intense,
dark eyes.  "If you care for Monica, you'll promise me."

'Care' doesn't begin to describe my feelings for Monica, and somehow
he knows it.  "I'll do it, Mulder," I say, choking on the words. 
"Dammit, you sonofabitch, I'll do it."

But the sonofabitch in question is gone.  "Goodbye, Mulder, watch
your back," I whisper to the swinging hospital doors.


*


"Hey, look who's awake!"

Monica's eyes flutter and then open completely.  The confusion on
her face dissipates quickly as she realizes she is in a hospital and
she remembers what happened.  I lean over the bed to be in her line
of sight.

"Ya gonna stay with us this time?" I ask.

She takes a deep breath and turns her head to see me.  I'm relieved
to see recognition in her eyes.

"John."

"Ya got that right," I say with relief.  

"How long?" she asks, her voice thick with sleep.

"They tell me you came to a couple times in the ER last night," I
tell her.  "Stick around for good this time."  

Her smile is small but it looks marvelous to me.  "I had the
strangest dream while I was asleep," she says.

"Oh?"  A feeling of dread begins to creep over me.  Monica and her
damned perceptive dreams.

Her dark eyes bore into mine.  "I dreamt that Mulder was here.  That
he was trying to say something to me, but I couldn't hear him."  She
shifts uncomfortably in the bed.  "Strange, huh?"

I lean over and gently push back a lock of her hair that has spilled
over the bandage on her head.  "Not really.  A concussion can mess
you up pretty bad."  I try to redirect the conversation.  "I'm
surprised you weren't seeing tweety birds flying around you."

"Tweety birds?" 

"Yeah, you know.  Like you see in cartoons when the roadrunner
whacks the coyote on the head with a mallet."

She chuckles.  "Tweety birds."

"Or in your case, maybe flying cows with huge horns."  I hold my
hands to my temples and simulate horns.

She snorts with laughter and then grips her head in pain.  "Ohh,
don't make me laugh!"

I smile.  Crisis averted for the moment.

There's a flurry of activity as the nurses come in, and then the
doctors.  More tests.  Maybe another CAT scan.  Things are looking
good.  Monica will be here a few days, but that's okay.  We can both
use the vacation.  I call Skinner, and Monica speaks to her mother.  

After about an hour, it's just me, Monica, a bowl of broth, and a
shimmering brick of green Jello left behind by an attendant.  Monica
struggles with the jello while I read a two-year-old 'Time' magazine.

"John, you'd tell me if Mulder was here, wouldn't you?"  Monica asks
suddenly. 

Damn.  Sometimes I think she really can read my mind.  I want so
badly to tell her the truth, but Mulder's words echo in my mind:  'If
you care for Monica, you'll promise me.'  If I tell her, I put her in
danger.  If I don't tell her and she finds out I lied to her....well,
I don't even want to think about that.

I peer over my magazine.  "Mulder was never here, Monica.  Let's
face it--we don't even know if he's alive."  I move the food tray to
the dresser.  "You need to get some rest."

I fluff up her pillow and she lies back.  "Well, at least we can
carry on his legacy and figure out what's happening with Dr. Gray's
cows.  Besides," she says, wincing and rubbing her head gingerly. 
"It's personal now."

I clear my throat.  "The case is over, Monica.  Skinner wants us
back in DC as soon as you can travel."  My initiation as an active
participant in X-Files subterfuge begins.

Her eyes widen.  "Over?  But the mutilations...the nanites..."

I shrug my shoulders.  "Boss's orders."

Her look is one of bewilderment.  "Since when do you roll over so
easily?  You saw what I saw--"

I grip her hand tightly.  "I didn't see anything, anything that
couldn't be explained by a person who has a grudge against Herman
Gray.  From what I understand, there are some ranchers who want to
expand into his territory.  Mutilating some cows is a pretty
effective way to spook him into selling."

This is a blatant lie, but I don't care.  Mulder was right.  The
fewer people who know that I am his lifeline, the better our chances
of staying alive.  Telling Scully is one thing; I know she'd die
before putting Mulder at risk by letting it slip.  But I'm not
willing to put Monica's life at risk as well.

At least, that's what I tell myself as I deflect Monica's ire. 
"Enough about this case, Monica," I say, a bit more abruptly than I
intend.  "Get some sleep."

"This isn't right, John.  Something's not...you're not right about
this."

I grin wryly.  "Well, it wouldn't be the first time I've been wrong."

"I'm not joking."

"I know."  I sigh.  "You'll just have to trust me on this."  It's
time to end this discussion.  I drop the A-bomb:  "You do trust me,
don't you?"

She is nonplussed by such a question.  "Of course.  I don't mean to
imply..."  She sags into the pillow.  "I guess I'm more tired than I
thought."

Her deflation unnerves me and I move to leave.  "I'll see you after
your nap."

As she drifts off to sleep, she mumbles, "You got my back, John?"

My knees almost buckle at her question.  It seems she has an A-Bomb
in her arsenal as well.

"Yeah, Monica," I whisper.  "I got your back."

'Don't make a liar of me, Mulder,' I warn as the door snicks softly
behind me.

*end*


"Corral Dust" is cowboy slang for lies.


This is the first fic I've ever written for a challenge.  I usually
don't write fast enough to submit in time for challenges.   I don't
know what happened this time.  It just kind of happened.

The elements for the 2004 TexPhiles Challenge were:

two lawyers
one doctor
one veterinarian
Dallas Cowboys
Longhorns
Shiner Bock Beer 
JFK
Parkland Hospital
Tex-Mex restaurant
Six Flags Over Texas

The challenge required using six of them.