Rating: PG

Category: SA, Muldertorture, Scullytorture, Angst (big
time)

Spoilers: Thru 7th Season

Archive: Sure, especially Spookys!

Feedback: Love it! Love it! E-mail us!

E-Mail address: xenitha@yahoo.com, dev1025@uswest.net

Discussion List:  Yes!!! Yes!!!

Summary:  “You, Fox Mulder, have the luck of
a Buddy Holly, a Stevie Ray Vaughn, and the
entire lot of steerage passengers aboard the
H.M.S. Titanic.  Your body has been invaded
by equivalent of a Symbiote black widow.  I will
live off your passions, 'til it kills you.   I'll
record
every grueling moment of it for you, Fox baby.
And in the process I'll get what I need to keep
living.  I’m sorry to do this to you, but this is
how I stay alive.”


SYMBIOSIS


Marker Date: 06-07-2000AD Archive Flag One
Planet Name
(local): Earth Subject: Fox William Mulder


The transmission you are receiving is the
recorded report of a Symbiote assigned to this
planet.  That you have activated the translator
and are hearing this message now, signifies
you are not of our species. You are welcome to
listen to this piece of the Archive and to learn
about our kind.

Scattered throughout this planet, you will find
many such reports, which all form a part of our
archive. Sample any and all you wish to hear.
Our people are by our very nature, a people
that honors the sharing of knowledge.  That we
Symbiotes owe our existence to sharing, we
recognize the universal truth -- when one
shares it glorifies all. So, recorded here,
sharing this history, is our archivist-detailed
knowledge of the carbon based life forms who
so graciously shared their bodies, their lives
and their world with us.


Report of: #8\18081957/Fox
Local Name: Miriam *****

You don't know this, but three days ago, your
body became the new home for an alien life
form, thus beginning a symbiosis that has
existed between your kind and mine for almost
4 millennia.

Your part in this companionable relationship is
of course the host. Our hosts provide us with a
comfortable atmosphere in which to live and
the necessary chemical on which we feed.

The Symbiote, in turn, helps maintain the host
by manipulating his cells, keeping them running
in peak condition and aiding the body's natural
defense mechanism in combating disease. A
Symbiote/host alliance will last, on average, for
40 years of mutually productive co-existence.

You, on the other hand, Fox Mulder, have the
luck of a Buddy Holly, a Stevie Ray Vaughn
and the entire lot of steerage passengers
aboard the H.M.S. Titanic.

Out of the 8 million Symbiotes on this planet,
you had the unbelievable misfortune to draw
me. Look at the cards you were just dealt,
Agent Mulder -Yep, that's right. I'm the original
Dead Man's Hand.

Your body has been invaded by equivalent of a
Symbiote black widow. I will live off your
passions, 'til it kills you.   I'll record every
grueling moment of it for you, Fox baby. Should
make interesting reading. And in the process I'll
get what I need to keep living.  I’m sorry to do
this to you, but this is how I stay alive.

So, we are heading into the first chapter.
Fasten your seat belt, it's going to be a bumpy
ride.

*****

The joining occurred at Bethesda. You were
there with your partner, waiting for her to finish
up an autopsy. I, of course, was occupying my
former host, who had already been
autopsied.  I didn’t enter the coroner who
performed that autopsy because he wore
gloves.  You, of course, didn’t.

Since old George Stevens, now ex-Rear
Admiral and former Forensic Pathologist of the
U.S.Navy was deceased, I heard none of your
conversation until I entered you.

I soon gathered you had asked your partner,
Agent Dana Scully, to examine the corpse of a
woman who had died in her sleep. (You both
are Special Agents with the Federal Bureau of
Investigations and were on a "case". I note that
she is also a medical doctor which means that
my work is going to have to be even more
convincing than usual.)

 Also, from here on out I'm referring to her as
"her". I don't like her. At all. We do tend to a bit
possessive of our host, but you got yourself a
card carrying member of "Ball Breakers of
America" for a partner, Mulder. I think we'll get
you a medical leave A.S.A.P.

Apparently, your request that she do this bit of
forensic detective work , (without looking in
advance at any charts or reports on the
deceased) is a game you two like to play.  More
on this and what I've discovered about your
occupation later.

She had been autopsying the body of the old
woman for almost three hours and was
finishing up when you leaned against the table
old Georgie was lying on.

That's when I sensed that my new mobile home
had arrived, and I went in to check the place
out. Now, here's the strange part, and I'm
learning very quickly that with you, unusual is
the norm. -- You felt me enter you. In my 3000
years, this has happened, a host actually
feeling me at the moment of entry, less than
half a dozen times. You're strange AND unique,
Fox Mulder. Almost spooky.

She glanced up, seeing you straighten, your
face twisted in a blend of surprise and disgust.
Quickly, almost stumbling, you hurried over to
the sink and began scrubbing your hands,
rubbing frantically at the point where I'd joined
up with you that soft web of skin between the
thumb and index finger on your right hand, . I
don't wash off that easily, and anyway, by that
time, I was already inside and making myself at
home.

She strolled over to the table, checking quickly
to see what my ex-host had might have died of.
She had assumed you'd gotten something on
you;  some sort of body fluid after noticing your
disgust and frantic attempts at cleansing the
area. She checked because you weren't
suitably attired for this bio-hazardous area and
you never can tell.

"Mulder, are you okay?" She asked, leaning
over the sink to watch you scrubbing your hand
raw under the hottest water you could get.
"Yeah...I'm fine. Just got...something..on my
hand." You continued scrubbing, almost
compulsively. Skin be damned, the way you
were wielding that nailbrush, you were going for
blood.

"Mulder, let me take a look."  She gently pulled
your hand out from beneath the spray and
examined it closely.  Aside from the crimson
rash made by your obsessive attempts at being
next to godliness, the skin looked clean and
whole.  I pride myself on the subtlety of my
invasions.  “Nothing there, Mulder.  Does it hurt
or is it numb?"

You pulled your hand away and tucked it
behind your back.  "No, Scully.  Nothing like
that.  I just got something on it. I'm okay,
really."

She gave you a doubtful look but returned to
my ex-host, picking up his file.

"It's pretty obvious that the shotgun blast to the
head is what killed George Stevens. And I'm
fairly certain that it was self-inflicted" She
scanned the file and I could see her eyes
tracking over the lab results. You didn't hear
her sigh of relief when she discovered that
George had not killed himself because he was
HIV positive.

No, actually George blew his brains out
because he had just received the news that for
the third time in just under 3 years, he was
going to have to begin yet another round of
chemotherapy. My buddy George  Steven had
been diagnosed with, then gone into remission
from, cancer three times in the two years he
was my host. The disease had occurred in
three separate sites.

Get the picture, Agent Mulder, of what lies
ahead in our relationship? Most would assume
that Admiral Stevens was a very unfortunate
man to have such luck. He was a Jonah, that's
true. He became my host, and I'm very, very
good at what I do
.
You made an excuse and got the hell out of the
morgue just as soon as you could.  Your
partner was waiting for us outside the men's
room door, undoubtedly listening to the sound
of water running during the eternity you once
again began what had become a ritual.  I
spotted her glance at your hand, now red and
bleeding, when you opened the men's' room
door, but she said nothing. She didn't have to,
'that look' said it all.

*****

I didn't figure out the details of your relationship
with her until we were sitting in the hospital
cafeteria and she was eyeing you, one auburn
brow creeping upward toward her 'only her
hairdresser' knows for sure roots.

She'd asked you why you'd had her bother
autopsying the woman before we left the room,
but you'd not answered. You were still
somewhat shaken from perceiving my entry
into your life. The look of faint disgust on her
face, easily readable had you not been so
distracted, told me she assumed your lack of
interest on everything but your hand was
squeamishness on your part. It puzzled her, yet
it seems she's used to puzzling behavior from
you.

"Penny for your thoughts, Mulder." She
interrupted your train of thought. You stopped
rubbing that offending triangle of flesh, then
heaved a loud sigh.

"Huh? What was that?'

"Mulder, since we were in the morgue you've
been in another world. Care to share your
thoughts with me?"

"Oh, I was just thinking... how unfair it is that
life is so fragile it can slip through our fingers
and vanish before we even realize it's fading,
but death is so strong we almost always feel its
shadow. I mean, I know the fight makes us
stronger but..look at how George Stevens
fought off cancer twice, stood up to death,
battled it for his life, then killed himself instead
of taking a chance at winning a third time.
Why? Why was death able to outlast his will to
live?"

You were absently messaging THE SPOT
again, and I saw her quick glance of notice.
"Maybe I'm getting old, Scully.  I just don't see
myself as indestructible anymore. I did at 25.
Well, maybe not indestructible but I wasn't
jumping at shadows like I am now."

She sighed, a belated echo of your own and
settled into her chair.  "I know, Mulder.  When I
had the cancer I came to understand just how
precious and fleeting life is.  That's when I
realized that we have to focus our what's
important. I think I finally learned to appreciate
and  make the most of what I have: my work,
my family, my faith."

"Yeah, well I was thinking maybe I might buy a
sports car, y'know?" Mulder grinned but her
eyes were only puzzled.  She didn’t understand
your point.

She ended her attempt to decipher your unique
mental patterns and the subject returned to the
relatively simple riddle of the corpse that she'd
so recently dissected.

"So, Mulder, why did you want me to autopsy
that woman? She was at least 80 years old and
obviously died of natural causes."

You sipped your coffee around your grin.  "No,
she wasn't.  Scully, she was 25 years old, I saw
her records.  Here.." You smoothly passed her
a file.  Her face clouded even before she
opened it, growing darker each moment that
passed during her study of the pages inside.

"Mulder, this just isn't possible.  Even if she had
progeria it would show up in her medical
history. Something must be wrong with the
identification of the body. This can't be the
same woman."

"I double-checked that the correct dental
records came with the body.  You id'd her
yourself."  You stopped mid sentence and grew
suddenly still.

"Mulder, what's wrong?" She gazed at you
anxiously.

"I...just feel weird, that's all.  Like something's
not right inside...no, no pain or anything.  I
just...feel ...strange."

Well, no wonder.  When one of my kind settles
in, we have to spread out.  My tendrils soon
incorporate themselves along all the nerves of
the body, and that can cause some unusual
sensations in the host.  But normally, it is very
subtle and not noticed by my new host--Mulder,
you are one sensitive guy.  Ours should be a
very pleasurable relationship, for me at least.

Scully frowned at you then announced,
"Mulder, come on back into the M.E.'s office.  I
want to examine you."

You protested, but she won. Does she always
win all the arguments?  Must do something
about that.  She led you, almost but not quite
by the hand, to the morgue office and began to
examine you.  I had no worries, of course. I've
been fooling people for 3000 years.  Your blood
pressure was optimal, your heartbeat was
regular and every test she gave you drew a
textbook response.

At the end of this hastily planned but thorough
physical she was the epitome of relief, but you,
however, were still troubled.

"I'm sorry, Scully, but I just can't describe it any
better.  I just feel...weird."

"Weird.  Is that a clinical term?" She folded her
hands across her chest and gave you a solemn
look, one brow raised.

"Mulder, you don't have to attend autopsies,
you know.  I can give you the reports myself."

"Scully, I've been an FBI agent for 10 years.  I
am not developing a weak stomach this late in
life..." You suddenly ran out of steam as the
import of your defiant claim hit you square in
the face.  Yep, Fox ol' pal, you aren't a spring
chicken any more, but hey--who's counting?
After the first 1000 years time starts to blur
anyway.


*****
As is customary and in order to better
document my observations, I will include, along
with my archival account, excerpts from Fox
Mulder's journal


JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER June  15, 2000

That I am basically a loner by nature is not
something I need to document here.  That my
inner thoughts and musings are being shared
with no other human being, but are always
related here in these pages which can claim
with me as its sole readership, speaks for itself.

What I'm struggling to understand, the point I'm
pondering as I write this installment, is my
concern over what exactly is causing my
normal self awareness to be so askew.

I grew up with the knowledge that if I did not
take care of myself, no one would. So I have
always been able to say, with the greatest of
confidence, I know Fox Mulder.  I am
completely aware of how each cell in my body
should feel when all is running smoothly in the
Mulder machine.

Right now, I can tell that I am experiencing
some sort of malfunction, but I cannot tell what
that might be. It is this aspect which troubles
me the most, for my entire life I have been able
to trouble shoot my body accurately.  This
ability to gauge my limits has enabled me to
keep working long past the point of exhaustion.

Something is definitely wrong. The problem is,
it's something I've never dealt with before and I
don't even know where to begin to fix it.  I don't
know what's happening to me.  I feel strange,
distant, disconnected from myself.

I feel like something alien is taking root inside
me, growing into my very being, subverting my
body to suit its own ends.  If I had any recent
memory lapses, I would suspect that I had
been infected with the black oil.  However, my
memories are complete and I'm not in a
cryogenic freezer, so that's not the problem.

Part of my agitation is that I feel as though my
ability to communicate with the only other
person who can truthfully say they know me
has virtually disappeared. Usually, the so called
normal methods of interaction between my
partner and myself are not even necessary.

Scully and I never had to suffer through one
lousy seminar to learn to achieve this almost
symbiotic rapport we share. What she and I
have is all natural, purely instinctive and didn't
come from any stupid office furniture tower
building workshop.

But right now, I haven't told her that I *know*
that something is really happening to me. I can't
articulate whatever this is that I'm feeling to
Scully.

I did try to tell her.  She didn’t believe me.

“Mulder, there are absolutely no clinical signs of
illness in you,”  Scully laid her stethoscope
down on the desk as I was putting my shirt
back on.

“Your blood pressure is normal, no heart
abnormalities, no neurological deficits and you
have no objective symptoms of any problem.
Even the bruising on your hand is fading.  And
the only complaint you can make is your
subjective feeling that something has invaded
you.”  She stood, arms akimbo.  “Mulder, I have
news for you, *every* human being is a host for
a variety of bacteria and enzymes, not to
mention the occasional virus.  We are definitely
not alone, we just pay no attention to it.”

“Scully, It began at the Coston autopsy, in my
hand...when I got something on it or in it.  I
could feel a sort of tiny prickling ripple which
ran up my arm, then throughout my body. My
hand still hurts, that is the focal point of
this...thing. “  I held up my hand and she
examined it yet again.

“Mulder, all I see is bruising, caused by your
scrubbing at it so violently.  There is no
dryness, patchiness or evidence of a chemical
burn.  At your request, I biopsied the skin and
found nothing: no chemicals, no cancer,
nothing.  There’s nothing there to find.”

I felt uncharacteristically stubborn.  When
would she ever learn to trust my instincts?
God, they’d saved our lives a dozen times!
“Scully, I don’t have anything objective that you
haven’t already seen.  I don’t *feel* right,
something’s off.  Please, can’t we do some
more testing?”

Scully sighed. “Mulder, I took the blood sample
you gave me yesterday and sent it to a medical
lab.  Here are the results: normal, normal and
normal.  You don’t  have so much as a
hangnail.  And you didn’t pick up any new bug
from Amber Coston’s body, you never touched
it.  Have you considered stress as a cause for
your feeling?”

I just stared at her.  “You mean you think I’m
finally losing it?”

She hemmed and hawed but finally said, “Well,
Mulder, it wasn’t so long ago you were
hospitalized because of that alien rubbing.  But
the new CT scan shows normal brain activity,
so it’s not that.  But the entire experience was
stressful for you.”  She paused and looked at
me compassionately.  “You were dying, Mulder.
That’s a life-changing event. You’re just
reacting to it now.”

I had finished with the shirt and was finishing
with my tie.  “If that’s the most that you can say,
Doctor Scully, then all I can reply is that you are
wrong.  This isn’t post traumatic stress disorder
and I’m not burning out.  This is real.”  I
grabbed my coat.  “Now, if you will excuse me,
I’m going home.”

I caught Scully’s glance at the clock: 3:30 p.m.
on a Wednesday afternoon.  Here eyebrows
raised, but I didn’t give a damn and slammed
the door on my way out.

The feeling of, well, possession was stronger
than ever as I went to my car.  And with it I felt
a wave of dizziness and a strong feeling of
unreality.  I stood swaying on the concrete until
it passed, then I got into the car and drove
myself home.

Scully’s been blinded by her own insistence on
objective evidence to the fact I truly know that
something is terribly wrong here inside of me.
This sense, this knowing, started that day in
the morgue, when Scully was doing the
autopsy on Amber Coston.

My ability to work hasn't been affected; when
would I let any type of illness, body or mind
ever do that?  So, until I have something more
concrete, or at least have found some clear,
reasonably lucid way of describing my
symptoms, I'm not going to bother Scully with
any of this.

It’s there, this..something.  Right now. I know
it's taken up residence inside of me. Now and
then I sense it traveling along the network of
my nerves, sometimes the maze of veins and
arteries. It as though some silent ghostly entity
is moving about my body, like a spirit
wandering though a house haunting the various
rooms.  I don’t like to admit this, but I am afraid.

******************
Symbiosis (2 of ?)

JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER
July 7, 2000

We got another body, similar to Amber
Coston's.  Michael Gillette, DOB 10/13/62,
had recently retired from the Alexandria P.D.
at the rank of detective.  He was found dead
in his bedroom and, to all appearances, he
died of old age.  He was exactly one year
younger than I am, and now he's dead.

Scully and I went to the scene and surveyed
it carefully.  Mrs. Gillette was there and
gave us what little she knew.  She and the
kids had gone to visit her folks over the
weekend. When they got back, she found him
dead, looking wizened and old beyond his
years.

When she told me his date of birth, I looked
at him more closely.  He left behind a wife
and two children, both under the age of ten.
He had a house, two golden retrievers and an
SUV.  In short, he had the life I have longed
for, but never have managed to acquire. I
sighed and leaned over the body, which had
the appearance of a man of at least eighty
years.

"What do you make of this, Scully?" I asked
my partner. She was busy studying the body,
carefully examining the wrinkling and other
signs of aging.

"I just don't know, Mulder.  I'll have to do
an autopsy to be sure, but he seems to
display all the same symptoms as in Amber
Coston.  I went back and double-checked the
labs for her and I can find no cause for the
accelerated aging--not even a sign of any
buildup, such as the 'heavy salt' we were
exposed to."

She ran a gloved hand over the corpse’s
chest. “Hey, what’s this?”  She removed a
shiny silver religious medal from the palm of
his hand.  She held it up to the light.
“Amber Coston had one of these in her
effects.”

“So what’s so unusual about that?  You wear a
cross yourself.”  I examined the medallion.
It wasn’t the usual Christopher medal I’m
used to seeing.  The saint it celebrated
was...St. Jude.

“The patron saint of lost causes...” I
murmured.

Scully nodded.  “An unusual medal.  I don’t
think I’ve ever seen one quite like this.
And it’s heavy.  I think it’s solid silver.
Maybe we can trace it.”

She called Mrs. Gillette over to ask her
about the medal.

“Oh no, I never saw Michael with any kind of
religious jewelry.  He was an agnostic.  I
have no idea where that came from.” She
turned as a little boy, maybe five years old,
ran into the room.  While she was soothing
him and leading him away, I was struck by the
incongruity of the situation.

"Scully, this guy was a year younger than I
am and he was retired."

"Yeah? So?" She gave me a look that said
'Mulder, you're cracking up on me'.

"Nothing, Scully.  It's just that he was too
young to die of old age.  And he had so much
to live for: wife, kids..."

"A normal life, you mean," Scully sighed.
"Mulder, I've stopped reaching for normal.
These days all I hope for is a clean motel
bathtub at the end of my day."  She turned
away and began conferring with the detective
that had just entered the room.

Is that all she has left to hope for?  Have I
reduced her to this?  She used to fight,
struggle for the hope of a 'normal'
existence.  Now, has she chosen this life for
herself or has she given up?

The spot on my hand is still bothering me.
It has taken on an odd brownish color that I
find disturbing.  When we got back to the
office, Scully caught me rubbing it again.

"If you do that any more, Mulder, you'll just
bruise it worse," she said and turned back to
her file.  I heard her tone, had read her
expression.

I'm the living, breathing definition of
obsessive. Paranoia is my middle name. I just
might be sliding headlong into hypochondria
and that's such an unattractive affliction.
Even though Scully appears to be currently
lacking most of her normally skillful
perception, she has been sharing with me
useful nuggets of information that comes from
her vast medical expertise. Now let me see if
I heard this right. If I rub this dark spot
with greater frequency, it'll bruise more
severely. Wow, imagine that. She's probably
right. Seriously, I am keeping my eye on it.
Biopsy, be damned!  It just doesn't look
right to me.

Another thing I'm not mentioning to Scully
are the strange dreams I've been having.  I
hear a woman's voice in my head, speaking to
me. She tells me her name is 'Miriam', then
her voice drops down to a soft whisper. When
I can’t understand what she’s trying to say,
I start to shout at her, begging her to speak
louder, but she just continues to murmur,
below my hearing.

Somehow I sense that I must discover what she
has to tell me. I know that it's vital I hear
what she has to say.

There's probably some Freudian meaning behind
it all, but haven't got a clue what it might
be. Naturally, being it's my subconscious and
that we are talking about Freud here, the
interpretation is bound to be chock full of
fascinating insights into my sexuality.
Scully would tell me that I've been watching
too many porn videos and I'm dreaming about
them now. Do I still have "Miriam makes
Manhattan"? I think I loaned it to Frohike


ARCHIVAL ENTRY

Entry no: 2000/7/7
Report of: #8\18081957/Fox
Local Name: Miriam

 *****

I've begun to make myself at home.  It
certainly is strange that Fox can sense my
movements. Well, it only adds spice to the
whole proceeding.

I have begun to alter the cells at my point
of entry, encouraging the growth of melanoma
on the webbing of his hand.  I do find this
cancer useful.. It's one of my favorites
because it metastasizes so easily, but begins
so simply. They never know that there's a
problem until it's too late. It is truly a
biological work of art.

Of course, I delayed it until his doctor
friend was fed up with examining him.  I am
no novice at the art of self-camouflage, and
cannot afford to be found.

I find Fox's journal entry troubling.  Can he
actually hear me?  Surely not.  Nobody has
heard me in over 2500 years.

I will continue to observe my host and record
his reactions to the disease which awaits
him.

I should add a note about the nature of my
life form, and about my nature in particular.
Symbiotes are genetically adapted to reside
happily within a host, gathering data and
living off the body’s waste chemicals.  This
normally results in an abnormally long and
healthy life for our hosts, because we thrive
on such substances as “bad” cholesterol,
alcohol in the blood stream, carcinogens and
other pollutants from the environment.
Accordingly, Symbiotes chronicle long,
healthy, happy lives and devote themselves to
details of cultural  and historical events
experienced by their hosts.

I am different.  For one thing, history and
culture began to pall 1500 years into my long
life.  I began to crave excitement, the drama
of human terror.  I became especially curious
about the human experience of death and how
it affects those about to die.

Then the 20th century came along, and with it
modern chemotherapy drugs.  My reactions to
chemo drugs in my host’s system is akin to
that of a human on heroin.  After a host of
mine developed cancer, I discovered that I
was hooked, both on her terror and on the
drugs.  I needed more.

I ensured that she survived the first three
bouts of cancer, but she succeeded in killing
herself during the fourth.  This pattern has
been repeated through multiple hosts over the
past years.  With the death of each new home,
I find myself craving even more drugs and
drama.

I am already thrilling to his unease.
Admittedly, he’s the first in a long time
capable of sensing my presence.  Thank
goodness for this modern age which believes
nothing which cannot be measured by their
very primitive science.


Entry no: 2000/8/4
Report of: #8\18081957/Fox
Local Name: Miriam

*****

Today I accompanied you to the doctor’s
office. You quietly made an appointment with
a dermatologist, and lied to your partner to
keep your appointment today.  She thinks
you’re getting your teeth cleaned.

The dermatologist examined your hand
carefully, then took a biopsy.  He told you
that it was probably nothing serious, you
only have a mild, bruise-like discoloration
after all.  But it’s always safer to check
these things.  I try not to mar my hosts
physically if it can be avoided while getting
what I need.



JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER
August 4, 2000

This morning when I got to the office, she
was whistling as she replaced some files in
the drawer.

“My, aren’t we bright and chipper this
Friday,” I commented as I entered the
office.  “Got plans for the weekend?”

She smiled at me, a full 1000 watts.  “Yes,
as a matter of fact I do.  I’m going to the
Symphony tomorrow night.  They’re playing
Copeland’s Appalachian Spring, I can hardly
wait.”

She looked so light and carefree that I
couldn’t help but beam back at her.  “So, you
going with your mom?  Can you use an extra?
I’ve always loved that piece.”

Her face fell a little bit.  “Uh, Mulder, I’m
going on a date.  With a guy.”

I could feel the ground slipping under me.
“Oh? With who?”  Yeah, Scully, what kind of
lowlife is taking you out tomorrow?  And
where can I find him to kick his ass?

“His name is Philip Huffman, and he owns a
bookstore.  I met him in church.”  She
couldn’t meet my eyes. Small wonder, she’d
see the betrayal glowing there.  Tamp it
down, Mulder, don’t let her see she’s hurt
you.

“Oh.  Probably a good Catholic, huh?  I bet
your mom likes him.”  I was watching her
closely, trying to read her.

“Mom hasn’t met him yet, but yeah, he’s a
Catholic.  He runs a religious bookstore, as
a matter of fact, called Ave Maria Books.”
She looked up and waited for me to make the
snide remark.  I just turned away and picked
up a file off my desk.

“Oh, well I hope you two have a good time,” I
said as though she’d announced she was having
her home sprayed for ants.

“Thanks,” she said, and moved back to the
file cabinet.  She said nothing when I told
her that I had a 3:00 dentist appointment and
didn’t react when I told her I wasn’t coming
back to the office today.

Scully’s got a date tonight.  I don’t know
how I feel about that.  She does have a right
to her own life, after all, and it’s not like
she’s romantically involved with anybody....
I mean, I don’t have any rights to her time,
do I?

I went to the dermatologist that Byers
recommended.  Dr. White said that the
discoloration could be cancer, or could be
nothing.  He took a biopsy and will notify me
of the results.


JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER
August 14, 2000

Not what I’d call a ‘good’ day.  First,
Scully came in smiling and relaxed for the
second Monday in a row.  She has that glow
around her that says she’s getting some and
loving it. I’ve been trying to bite back
sarcastic comments for a week, and it’s
getting tougher and tougher.

Damn, she has the right to her own life but
how could she date this relic salesman!  She
told me the name of the bookstore, so I had
to check it out.

The bell on the door jingled as I walked in.
The interior smelled of candle wax and
incense.  I wandered over to the book
display, past the rosaries (encasing genuine
Lourdes water) and took a quick look at the
crosses set with real chunks of stone from
Bethlehem.  I glanced at them.  They looked
like pea gravel.

While I scanned the back cover of a book by
Thomas Merton, I heard ‘Phil’ greet a
customer.

“Why Mrs. Mackey, how are you these days?” he
greeted her effusively.

“Not so well, Mr. Huffman.  My arthritis is
getting worse.  The doctor says he can’t do
much for me.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.  You know, that
when human cures fail you must rely on the
Great Physician for help.  Have you tried
some miraculous water from the shrine at
Lourdes?  I have some in the back..”  His
voice dipped in a persuasive croon.

“Really?  You have water from Our Lady’s
shrine at Lourdes?  How much?”

Twenty five bucks later, she left with what
looked like half an ounce of tap water in a
vinegar cruet.  I shook my head at human
gullibility, then quickly ducked behind the
book display as the doorbell tinkled and I
heard a familiar voice.

“Phil, are you ready?  The restaurant starts
to fill at lunch time.” I could see Scully
move forward and plant a kiss on his lips.
He kissed her back, harder.  Tongue.

I gritted my teeth and tried to keep from
putting my hand through the cardboard book
display.

“Almost done here.  I have one more customer,
then I’ll turn the shop over to Sylvia.  Go
and wait for me in the car, sweetheart.  I’ll
be right out.”

Sweetheart.  He called her sweetheart.  That
scummy, lowlife, bastard who peddles water to
suffering little old ladies called my
*partner* sweetheart.

Then that jerk had the nerve to come up to me
and ask if he could be of any assistance.

“No thanks, I was just leaving,” I snarled
and left.  I did take care to make sure that
Scully didn’t see me.

I was still fuming this morning when Scully
breezed into the office, wearing that “I had
the orgasm of my life last weekend” look.
All I could do was look at her, then quietly
go back to my work.

An hour later the phone rang and the day got
even better.

“Mulder,” I answered crisply.  Can’t let
Scully know I’m upset.

“Agent Mulder, this is Dr. White.  Your test
results have come back. I’m sorry to have to
tell you this, but it’s positive for
melanoma.  I’ve scheduled surgery for you on
the 16th at 2:00 p.m.”

“Whaa...what?”  I slumped back in my chair.
“It’s cancerous?  How serious?”

“I believe it’s stage 0 at this point, that
means it hasn’t spread to any other parts of
the body. This is the least serious type of
melanoma, but you are at risk for a
recurrence.”

“What are my treatment options?” I could see
Scully’s ears perk up at that.  She looked up
at me worriedly.

“Surgery for now, and monitoring to make sure
it doesn’t recur.”

“All right, surgery it is.  This will be at
your office?  Fine. I’ll be there at 2 p.m.
on Wednesday.”  I put the phone back into its
cradle, then studied my hand intently.

“Mulder?  What’s wrong?” Scully’s anxious
voice traveled across the room.

“Nothing you need be concerned about.  Just
some skin cancer I need to have removed.”  I
held up my hand and showed her the discolored
spot.  “It’s a melanoma; the biopsy results
just came back.”

Her mouth formed a silent ‘o’.  “Mulder, I’m
so sorry I doubted you...”

I got up and grabbed my suit jacket.  “Yeah,
well, there’s nothing new in that, is
there?”  I left the office and Scully behind.

******************
Symbiosis (3 of ?)

Entry no: 2000/9/10
Report of: #8\18081957/Fox
Local Name: Miriam


I must apologize, but I've been remiss in my
duties as an archivist.  However, life with
you, Fox,  has been pretty busy of late.  I
am encouraging an emotional distance between
the two of you by tweaking your brain
chemistry a bit.  Fortunately, Scully's new
relationship is helping things along as well.

Lunch with Phil three times this week, huh?
Somehow yogurt with bee pollen and you just
doesn't appeal to her anymore. Well, never
mind.  We'll find you some nice woman who
doesn't ask too many questions.  From your
conversations with Scully, I gather that you
have a long and checkered medical history,
and the apparent ability to survive just
about any physical trauma.  Very good.  You
and I will have a long and (for me)
satisfying relationship.

Because of *her* sharp eyes, I am moving a
bit more slowly with you than I normally do.
You are beginning to have bouts of nausea and
your appetite has dropped off.  But since
*she* no longer lunches with you, she doesn't
notice.


I must admit that you do have an interesting
life.  Your newest case is very
entertaining.  Another body has been found,
dead of old age like the others.  This victim
was a 14 year old gymnast named Teresa
Scartini.

You pulled yourself out of bed with Scully's
knock on the door of your apartment.

"God, Mulder, you look awful," she blurted,
eyeing you up and down.  You have lost
weight, more than you've noticed.
You leaned against the door, preventing her
from walking in.  "Yeah.  The flu will do
that to you.  What's up?"

I could see her noticing your leaning wasn't
the nonchalant variety; rather the doorframe
was keeping you from falling over.  I gave
your blood sugar a quick boost and you
straightened up.

"Another body's been found, just like the
other two.  But this time it's a child."

You grimly nodded and moved away from the
doorway, wandering into your bedroom to find
a suit that wasn't too big.  I could hear her
rustling around the apartment, taking in the
messiness and general air of illness.

"Mulder, maybe you shouldn't come out on this
one.  You're still sick." She called from the
living room.

"No.  I'm fine," you said through gritted
teeth. You walked carefully from the bedroom,
preventing yourself from swaying by sheer
willpower. She gave you a quick look, then
followed us out the door.

*****

The 'crime scene' I think you call it, was
surreal.  We entered a room that was the
epitome of 'sugar and spice, and everything
nice'. Little girls are made of bedrooms like
the one you surveyed. Sunlight filtered
through the frilly, pink curtains, to shine
upon a pink rag rug. Sitting in front of the
window was a French provincial style desk.
The computer sitting atop this study area
was new and fairly impressive. Beside it was
an open text book, a number 2 pencil rested
in the fold, holding the place where study
had stopped the night before.

The pale pink walls were adorned with posters
of the Backstreet Boys, Brad Pit and one lone
announcement of the frightening teen years
that would have come, a Death Metal band,
disgustingly called "Dismembered Fetus".
Your stomach began to churn with the
knowledge that somewhere among all this
sweetness and innocence was darkness and
cruelty, the body of a child. Scully was
waiting for you beside the canopy bed. Lying
beneath the ruffled bedspread (pink) was a
small body, dressed in baby doll pajamas
(blue, thank goodness).  The face was
wrinkled beyond recognition.

You started when you saw her, quickly
glancing away, once more taking in a bedroom
that could have been Samantha's. (Yes, I know
about her.  I've discovered a lot about you
during my tenancy).

Agent Scully began a quick examination, when
you heard a light ‘clunk'.  You knelt on
the floor and spotted a coin-shaped object
that had just rolled under the bed.  There
among the dust-bunnies you found the now
familiar silver medallion of St. Jude.

"Think there might be a pattern here?" you
commented dryly, carefully handing her the
medallion with your gloved hand.

She looked at it closely.  "Yes, it's the
same medal that was found on Amber Coston
and Michael Gillette.  All of the...Mulder?"

She had turned to confer with you but found
herself speaking to empty air.

I'd heard her words through the door of the
bathroom where you were busily losing your
breakfast.

"Mulder?"  When the soft tap on the door
wasn't answered she entered and watched,
worried frown in place, your final (from the
toes)  moaning retch. Still too shaky even to
stand, you rested your head on the toilet
seat, taking in deep, gasping breaths.

Her hand was cool against your neck, "Mulder,
you still have the flu.  Let me drive you
home."

All you could do was nod, your eyes closed,
the padded ring still all that was keeping
you from sinking face down on the floor. She
was still standing in the doorway, quietly
waiting when you finally were able to lever
yourself upright, using the bathroom sink.

Scully had stepped aside to let you pass when
her cell rang. "We'll go in a moment,
Mulder.  Let me get this. Scully....Oh hi,
Phil..."

She retreated into the bathroom, shutting the
door for privacy. Propping yourself against
the wall to wait, you couldn't help
overhearing every word. Her voice had taken
on a musical quality, making it clearly
evident that she was very, very glad to hear
from him.

*She thinks she likes him.*  I gently
encouraged those impressions in your mind. *
She thinks she likes him because she really,
really does, Mulder.  She likes him a lot.  I'll bet
lots more than she does you.* I whispered
these thoughts into your subconscious.

Don't worry though, she isn't right for you
anyway.  The quicker we can get
this bitch away from you, the clearer my
field of operation becomes.

I gave you another jolt to the blood sugar,
so you would start feeling better.  Of course
that fueled your jealousy-inspired anger a
bit, too.  A dark, brooding cloud had
swallowed you up by the time she came
through the door. You turned, just as she was
putting away the cell phone and she greeted
you with a broad, sunny smile.  "Okay, Mulder,
why don't I drive you home now?"

Seeing her happiness made the rain just come
down that much harder on your parade."  "No,
Scully, I'm fine.  There are a few things I
want to look at first," Your reply was cold
and an icy front moved into the pink
bedroom.  For the next hour you resolutely
conducted a thorough and detailed examination
of the scene, politely but firmly cutting off
any and all suggestions from her that you
might not be fit for duty.

By the time you were quietly certain you
would die from sheer nausea, you opened your
cell phone and called a cab.  She heard your
request and with a puzzled frown walked over
to your side. " Mulder, call back and cancel.
I told you I'd take you."

Your face had frozen into a blank,
inscrutable mask, "We're going opposite
directions, it would be a waste of time."
That settled the matter, until the taxi
pulled up in the drive. She followed you
outside.

"Mulder, I don't mind driving you home." A
faint edge sharpened her tone and she eyed
you with growing suspicion.

"That's just the point, Scully.  I'm fine and
I don't need you hanging over me.  You go
ahead and do the autopsy.  I'll go home and
write my report.  And give my best to Phil."

Your last view out the back of the taxi was
Dana Scully, standing dumbfounded on the
driveway in front of the Scartini home,
watching you drive off into the sunset.
Bravo.



Entry no: 2000/9/11
Report of: #8\18081957/Fox
Local Name: Miriam

You appeared at work, bright and early this
Monday morning.  I couldn't help admiring
how  neatly you were dressed, how calm,
composed, and collected you seemed even
though you hadn't eaten anything since lunch
yesterday. You were the picture of J. Edgar's
finest, even though you'd spent half the
night in the bathroom because even the ginger
ale wouldn't stay down.

Controlling your nausea manfully, you greeted
Scully with a cool glance as she settled into
her area with her morning coffee.

"Mulder, I've been thinking about those
religious medals.  They really are unusual,
and we might be able to trace the killer
using them."

"So you do think that this was murder?  I'm
surprised," you commented, with just an edge
of sarcasm to your tone.  "I thought for sure
you'd find that a virus or something caused
all this."

She frowned,  but refused to be baited.  "I'm
not ruling that out, but since the medals
were found with the bodies it's either a case
of a contagious disease or a purposeful act
by somebody.  Either way we locate the
disease carrier or the murderer."

"So, where are you going with this?"

"Phil knows about religious jewelry; why
don't we ask him about these medallions?"

She seemed surprised when you exploded.
"What?  That creepy relic-peddler?  Scully,
the only religious artifacts he's familiar
with come in plastic and have Hong Kong
stamped on the bottom!"

Her face froze and she reached into her desk
drawer for her car keys.  "I'm going out to
consult with him, Mulder.  You can either
come with me or stay here.  You decide." She
was halfway out the door before you
grudgingly followed her.

I think I'll let Mulder tell the rest of what
happened. The man does have a way with
words.


JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER September 11,
2000


Phil Huffman is a pompous, egotistical,
manipulating, womanizing asshole. I can't
believe that I let her talk me into going to
that idiotic bookstore.  I got to finally meet Phil
and can safely say that I hated him on sight.  If
he were a dog, he'd be a poodle.

He looked even more down at heels today than
he did the last time I was in the store.  He didn’t
remember me, thank goodness.

He was at the counter when we came in,
wearing a Sears Roebuck heather tweed jacket
with patches on the elbows.  To look even
more professorial, he was smoking a pipe.
Give me a break.  His brown hair is
blow-dried in a 'do' that barely hid his bald
spot. That is, if it's his own hair at all.

Scully just simpered up to him.  "Phil, this
is my partner, Agent Fox Mulder."

"Glad to meet you, Fox," Phil reached out a
clammy hand and shook mine.  I tightened my
grip and was gratified to see his face whiten
a bit.

"Call me Mulder," I replied and watched him
surreptitiously rub his hand.

"Oh, well, I'm Phil to my friends," he
announced with a smarmy smile.  "I'm happy to
do anything I can to help you two out. Are
these the medals, Dana?"

'Dana'.  He called her Dana. I know how he
likes to help Dana. That's why she simpers
and smiles at him.

"Yes, here they are."  'Dana' set three
transparent evidence bags on the counter.
Phil looked the medals over carefully. He
seemed impressed.

"These are very unusual and are actually
quite rare.  They were created and sold
during the last century by an order of
Spanish nuns in California.  These medallions
were often given to supporters of the convent
who made generous donations to the order.  I
don't think I've seen more than two in my
career. "

"Do you know where the order is based?  How
would we contact them?" Scully had her
notebook out, eagerly listening to every
pearl of wisdom.

"Oh, you can't contact them.  The order died
out in 1900 when the last nun passed away.
They had a convent in the San Joaquin Valley,
near Sacramento, but they've been gone a very
long time."

It was while Phil was expounding on this
ex-order of nuns that the world began to
spin. I felt a strange confusion as I tried
to follow what Scully was saying.  I
felt...foggy, confused, absent.  Brain-fog,
that's what it was. I couldn't concentrate
for a moment.  I could see Scully's lips
moving but couldn't take in the meaning.

"Isn't that right, Mulder?  Mulder?" Scully's
eyes narrowed with concern.

I shook my head to clear it and said in a
monotone, "Yeah, yeah...that's right.  Excuse
me a moment, I need some air..."  As I walked
out to the car I could hear Scully explaining
to Phil about my flu bug.

This is the strangest flu bug I've ever had.
It really is the flu, isn't it?

******************
Symbiosis (4 of ?)

 AUTHORS' NOTE:  Lyrics used in this part were taken
from two songs by the group "October Project" from
their self-titled album: "Ariel" and "Wall of
Silence".


JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER September 14,
2000

Well, I’m having my usual run of good luck.
I finally saw a doctor yesterday, having
gotten sick and tired of being sick and
tired.    He took blood and just gave me the
results.

I have Hepatitis C.

Since this is a blood-borne illness I was
advised that I either got it from a tainted
transfusion pre-1992 or shared a needle or
sex with somebody infected.  Well, the sex is
out. Needle? Not unless Cancerman and his
minions re-use dirty needles.  Not like
them.  I told the doc that it was probably
the appendectomy I had in 1990; I know they
gave me a transfusion then.  Hepatitis
sometimes stays quiet, but not dormant,  for
years before it’s discovered.

How it's gone undetected in my blood during
my physicals is a question no one could answer
but, it is just sterling proof that excrement
occurs,
particularly to Fox W. Mulder.

And it gets happier.  I’ve had this for some
time and have developed cirrhosis of the
liver. We’re starting treatment next week
with Interferon.  I read the card about
possible side-effects, and apparently the
treatment will give me the same set of
physical problems I just went to the doctor
for, more mad toilet bowl dashes, as well as
those perennial favorites: muscle aches,
headaches, depression,  anxiety and hair
loss(!).

But the thing that upsets me most, that
totally cheeses me off more than anything
else is that when I phoned Scully tonight, to
give her the news, she wasn’t home.  It’s a
Thursday night after 9 p.m.  She’s *always*
home on Thursday night.

Maybe she is at home.  Maybe they’re doing it
and the phone is off.  Maybe his hands are
all over her white skin and he’s....no, this
makes me way too mad.  She has a right to a
life of her own, I’ve told her that more times
than I can count.

---later--

12:30 a.m. She’s still not home.  She’s out
with him.  She’s making love to him.

That balding, seedy, greasy little man is fucking
my Scully, I know it.

She’s calling his name in that soft tone she
uses.  I can’t get the pictures of them out of my
mind; I can see them writhing together,
sweating.....geez.....

September 15, 6:00 a.m.

I finally got Scully on the phone and the
first words out of my mouth were “Where the
Hell were you?  I called you at 9:30, at
12:30 and at 2:00 a.m. and you weren’t home!”

“Mulder, since when have you become my
mother?” she said coldly.  “I was out and
where I was is none of your business.  Now
what do you want?”

By that time I was so pissed that I could
barely get the words out. “Nothing.  Nothing
important,” and hung up.  I waited for her to call
me back and demand what was wrong.

She didn’t.  I guess I really pissed her off,
but that’s okay because she pissed me off too.

9:00 a.m.

I called Skinner and requested a medical
leave.

“Of course, I’m sorry to hear about your
illness. I assume that Agent Scully knows
about this? She’ll have to be tested.” he
asked crisply. She'll just love that fact.
Insinuating we either shared needles
or...yes, she'll love that.

“Well, no sir, I haven’t advised her yet.  Could
you tell her? Otherwise, I’d prefer you keep this
confidential.”

There was silence on the other end of the
line. “Agent, is there something between you
and Agent Scully that I should know about?
Your partnership doesn’t seem to be up to its
usual...er..form.”

“No sir, there’s nothing ‘between’ Agent
Scully and I.  Nothing at all.  I’ll keep you
posted on my condition.”  I hung up the phone
and reflected on the simple truth I’d just
told him. There really is nothing between
Scully and I, and anything I might have
thought was there is purely wishful thinking
and imagination on my part.  I feel like such an
idiot.

2 p.m.

The phone has been ringing off the hook
today. I listened to the first two messages
Scully left, then got mad and threw the
answering machine against the wall.  Now the
phone just rings.

4 p.m.

Scully was here, oh frabjous day.

I heard ‘her’ knock on the door; funny how
you learn those things.  I opened it and she
was there, white faced and determined.

“Mulder, what’s wrong?  Skinner told me about
your illness.  You haven’t answered your phone
all day.”

“Yeah, well, I’m just dealing with the news, you
know?”  I stood there in the doorway, daring
her to say more.  She tried.

“I know it’s hard having an illness like
this...” She could see my cold expression but
tried again. “Mulder, if there’s anything I can
help with...”

I broke in.  “No, I’m fine, really.  I’m just going
to take some time off and rest, do the
treatment.  I’ll be okay.  You told me
yourself when you had cancer that you had to
face it by yourself, that you had to make the
journey alone.  I’m just going to take it a
day at a time.” With that I quietly closed
the door in her face.

I wish I could say that I feel triumph or
vindication.  Instead I just feel empty.

And sick.

*****

Entry no: 2000/09/21
Report of:#8\18081957/Fox
Local Name: Miriam

You have begun Interferon therapy and it’s
making you feel worse (if possible) than you
did before treatment.  Sorry about that, but
I must admit that I’ve never felt more alive
than I have with you as my host.  There is
something intoxicating about the depth and
strength of your emotions.

Agent Scully has called several times daily
all week.  You have grudgingly returned her
calls and given short, monosyllabic responses
to her questions about your condition.  What
is it about the phrase “I’m fine” that sets
her off so? She seems to get angry when you
tell her that.

Of course she doesn’t believe you, but she
seems to be getting the message that you will
not be any more forthcoming about how you
really do feel.  And so your conversations
with her are becoming shorter and shorter.

This is fine with me, naturally.  I am adding to
your feelings of betrayal and resentment.
You are so wonderfully sensitive that I am
able to project visions in your mind, tweak
your imagination as it were.

You have been thinking of all the provocative
positions Scully and Phil might be indulging in
during their bouts of passionate lust.  I’ll say
this for you, Fox, while nausea does
tend to aid me in my ability to make you
punish yourself in this visual manner, it
does little for your imagination. Surely you can
do better than the fantasies you’ve been
indulging.

Today I feel an understandable surge of
victory.  Agent Scully, instead of calling,
stopped by.

You were crouched next to the toilet, where
you’d been for the past 45 minutes, afraid to go
too far from it.  You didn’t hear her
knock at the door, or the rattle when she
tried her key and found it didn’t fit.

You did hear the pounding as she forcibly
kicked on the door and yelled at the top of
her lungs, “Mulder!  It’s me, Scully!  Are
you all right in there?  Mulder!! Answer me!”

You dragged yourself away from the toilet and
hauled your body upright then staggered to
the front door.  “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
you called as loudly as you could.

You opened the door and Scully gasped when
she saw you.  You hadn’t shaved in two days
and wore your favorite Knicks t-shirt, now
two sizes too big for you.

You looked at Scully with tired but hostile
eyes. “Hi Scully.  What brings you to my bed
of pain?”

She jerked like she’d been hit but tried to
smile at you.  “I wanted to bring you up to
date on the Coston case.  Can I come in?”

“Sure, fine, whatever,” you said and opened
the door.

She said nothing as she picked her way
through the messy living room strewn with
half empty bottles of ginger ale, t-shirts
and other garbage.  She opened the file and
spread it on the coffee table.

“We’ve had a break in the case,” she began
brightly, obviously trying to ignore her
reaction to your appearance.  “It seems that
the last nun in the order of St. Jude died of
premature aging, just like our victims.
There’s a small archive at the Sacramento
Diocese with the remaining effects and papers
of the order.  I have a letter from my local
bishop allowing me access, so we’ll be flying
out to California tomorrow.”

You brightened at that phrase; you’ve missed
work these past days.  “Okay, I’ll pack a
bag...”

Her face fell.  “Mulder, I’m sorry but you
aren’t going.  You’re on medical leave, not
active duty.  Um...Phil is coming along, at
his own expense, as an advisor.”

You sat quietly for a second, letting it sink

in. “Let me get this straight....
That....Bible-salesman...is going on this
trip as your *partner* to investigate OUR
case?”  You kept your voice steady and cold,
I give you credit for your control.  I was
zapping as much adrenaline at you as I
could.  Come on, Mulder, give it to her! “So
what you’re really saying is that you and
Phil are going to have a nice California
trip, enjoy the honeymoon accommodations
maybe?”

She bit her lips and tried to control her
temper, then sighed.  “Mulder, you know that
I’ve been dating Phil for a while and you’re
probably wondering what the attraction is.”
She looked up and met your eyes.  “For the
past 7 years I’ve lived, breathed, eaten the
X Files.  They have consumed my life, my
dreams, my future and I seemed powerless to
carve out a space just for myself.  And then,
there’s you....” Her voice faded away.  She
cleared her throat and began again.

“Since I joined the X Files I’ve had no
romantic relationships, Mulder.  None.
You... have occupied my days, my thoughts,
my fears, my worries.  Your quest has been
mine and I’ve followed you into nightmares I
could never have imagined.  Your passion has
consumed me and your grief for Samantha has
motivated me. I’d  begun to wonder where I
ended and you began and it frightened me.
Then I met Phil, an ordinary, simple,
uncomplicated man. I...don’t know what to
say.  Mulder, I love you....I love you....but you
are all I know.  Forgive me.  You’re a
part of me but I can’t breathe just now.”

You just stood there and looked at her but I
could feel your heart break.  You took a
ragged breath and replied softly,  “Scully,
you know that I’ve been telling you for years to
just get the Hell away from me and save
yourself.  I’m... glad you’ve finally come to

your senses.  I want for you....the life you
deserve, free and unencumbered.”  You looked
down at your hands, studying your whitened
knuckles.  You didn’t look up and said in a
flat monotone, “Have a good time in
California, Scully.  Let me know how the case
goes.”

Her eyes were swimming with tears but you
didn’t notice them, you were locked in your
own pain.  “Mul....Mulder...” She whispered,
then reached out a hand, but you weren’t
seeing her.

“It’s okay Scully, we’ll always be friends.
You know that.  I guess I should have
expected that you and Phil were getting
serious. I...have to go now.  Let me know
what you find out.”  You gave her a brief
glance and backed into your apartment,
quietly shutting the door behind you.

You waited until you heard her footsteps walk
away from the door before you broke.  I would
have expected violence from you, so terrible
and chaotic were the emotions I sensed in
you.

You stumbled to your leather couch and sat
down, cradling your head in your hands.  You
were still for a while until the first
gut-wrenching sob took you.

I have lived three thousand years but I have
never seen a grief like that.  You cried and
howled your anguish to your silent apartment
until eventually you fell asleep on the
couch.   I, for one, was relieved.  I’m not
ready to have you die on me yet, and I could
sense that suicide was not far from your
thoughts.

JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER
September 23, 2000

I’ve spent the past two days in Hell and only

just now got up the energy to write.

She’s gone to California with Phil,
officially to investigate the order of nuns
that produced the St. Jude medals in the
Coston case. Unofficially....well, let’s just say
that I don’t think Phil is paying for a separate
hotel room.

I sound bitter, but I have no reason to be.
It’s not as though I ever gave her any real
reason to look for that kind of relationship
from me. Oh, yeah, I blurted out that I loved her
once when I was high on demerol after she
saved my ass in the Bermuda Triangle.  And
there was the way she cared for me when that
alien rubbing got me, then that New Year’s
kiss, (though after seeing how Scully kisses
Phil, that peck of celebration can hardly be
called a kiss).

I guess I thought that there would be more after
that night. But then, why would there be,
neither of us tried to move forward to ensure
there was more. I've just contented myself with
watching her quietly, savoring the way her
eyebrows quirk when she’s just about to
pounce on an inconsistent argument. I’ve
waited for her wry retorts to my most blatant
come-ons.  I’ve guarded her back hundreds of
times, while she’s done the same for me.  But
I’ve never told her that she’s more than my
best friend or the one honest person I trust
absolutely.

I love her.  She’s my life.  She’s my soul. I want
to have her. To hold her, to touch her.
I want her body; I want to fuck her silly and
hear her cry out to me for more.

I want....a normal life with her.  Sunday
paper, coffee, kids screaming through the
house, cleaning up doggie doo in the yard,
soccer practice, Hamburger Helper on Monday
nights when she takes her ceramics class.  I
want...so many things and I never told her.

I shouldn’t have expected her to wait for me
to finally get the balls to tell her.  She’s
beautiful and smart and has told me over and
over that she wants a ‘normal’ life.  Maybe
she  was even once willing to share it with
me.

My gut hurts and I’ve made more trips to the
john in the past 48 hours than I can count.
I can’t tell whether I’m crying as I vomit or
vomiting as I cry.

This morning after I lost what I laughably
call breakfast, I sprawled out on the couch
and listened to the radio.  I’d gotten tired
of television (watching too much of it these
days) and left it on an alternative music
station.  Very soothing until I found myself
listening to a  woman’s haunting voice singing
words now burned into my soul.

“I’ve seen that life touches us with pain
And we change
Becoming strangers to our friends....

I’ve thought of us,
Hard to talk these days
Did we change?
Or were we strangers all along?
Tell me what caused us to turn away...

How did I lose you along the way?
There’s a wall of silence
Miles across
A wall between us
Holding back, holding back our loss...”

Did I ever really know Scully?  Appreciate
her needs and desires?  I took her for
granted, assumed that she’d always be there
guarding my back and, when I was finished
with my quest and had found the truth about
Samantha, then I’d tell Scully that I loved
her and ride off into the sunset with her.

There’s no more time.

Scully sent me an e-mail today.  I’m pasting
it into this journal, for posterity I
suppose.

---------------------------
To: fwmulder@fbi.gov
From: dscully@fbi.gov
Re: Let me explain

Mulder, I’m so sorry that what I had to say
the other day came out so poorly.  I feel
that I need to explain myself, to try and
make you understand.

First of all, the timing of all this is
terrible.  You are ill and I worry about you, but
we’ve always been truthful with each other.  My
hiding my relationship with Phil wouldn’t serve
either of us.

I feel as though I’ve betrayed you, when
there was nothing romantic between us.  At
least, while I’d always hoped that you had
romantic intentions, they somehow never
materialized.  I have longed to share my life
with someone for such a long time, and then I
met Phil.

He’s bright, articulate, educated and I can
respect his mind.  You taught me how
important it is to be mentally challenged by
the person you spend your days with.

Oh Mulder, you are my best friend and that
hasn’t changed.  But I can’t wait any more
for feelings that may or may not be there
between us to make themselves apparent.
You’re still my partner and I’ll still die to protect
you, but I’m a grown woman and I need more
than our friendship can offer me.

Please, please understand.

Dana
----------------------------

My soul hurts.

******************
Symbiosis (5 of ?)


JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER
September 25, 2000

The days are very long and I do a lot of
thinking.

Scully tried to call me, but I haven’t
answered the phone.  She finally sent Skinner
over to check on me.  He came by yesterday,
his expression a cross between anxiety and
irritation.

I opened the door after being summoned by a
loud, very masculine sounding knock.  Skinner
peered into my cavelike apartment.  I had the
shades drawn, not wanting the outside world
to intrude on my sickbed seclusion. It's my
right as an American to wallow in my illness-fed
self-pitying misery in privacy.

“Agent Mulder?  Are you all right?  Agent
Scully has been trying to reach you for three
days.” He took a close look at me and I could
see his jaw clench.  He stepped inside the
apartment and I closed the door behind him,
my face coloring as I watched him take in the
disarray.

“Agent Mulder, why haven’t you been
answering
your phone?”

He met my eyes with a steely, no-nonsense
glare.  I struggled to find a reasonable
excuse but was tongue-tied.  Finally, I
stammered, “Well, I’ve been sleeping a lot. I
don’t always hear it.”

“She’s worried about you, do you know that?”
He glanced around the apartment again, his
lip curling with disgust.  “She believes that
you aren’t caring for yourself, and I tend to
agree with her assessment.”  He stalked over
to the window and abruptly pulled up the
shade.

Bright sunlight flooded the room, and I
squinted against it, shielding my eyes from
the glare.

“I’m taking my meds.  I just don’t feel well,
that’s all. Ah...excuse the mess,
housekeeping's never been my forte, but
lately it been just...uh...” I cut the
sentence short for a quick dash to the
toilet.  I’m sure that he heard me retching
long after my gut was empty. I was still
hanging over the toilet-bowl, shaking and
trying to catch my breath, when I heard the
linen cupboard door open and the water in the
sink run.

A hand entered my field of vision and gave me
a washcloth soaked in warm water.

“Thanks,” I said and buried my face in its
steamy depths.

Skinner helped me back to the couch and
covered me with the blanket, then sat on the
coffee table and studied me quietly.

“Mulder, are you sure you should be here
alone?  Maybe you ought to be in a hospital,
or at least have some help.” Skinner looked
uncomfortable, and glanced around the room.

“No sir, I’m okay.  I’d rather be home than
in a hospital, and I’m managing all right.  I
just have to take it easy, that’s all.  I
don’t move too fast these days.”  I settled
back, the warm washcloth covering my eyes.
The nausea had receded for now and I felt
almost human.

“Well, answer your phone then.  And if you
need anything, call me.  Oh, and Agent, the
other reason I stopped by is that Agent
Scully wanted me to give you her report on
the Coston case.  Her research into the order
hasn’t turned up as much information as she’d
hoped.  I’ll leave this here for you to read
when you feel better.  I’d better get back to
the office now.”  I could hear him get up and
walk toward the door.  I took off the
washcloth and struggled to sit.

“No, don’t bother to get up Agent Mulder.
Stay there and rest.  But I’m serious.  If
you need any help, call me.”

I nodded.  “I will, sir.  Thanks.”

I read over her report.  No mention of Phil,
but his opinions hid behind every line.  They
examined the records of the order.  The last
nun, Sister Monica, died at the age of 30
from a mysterious wasting disease which was
never explained.  However, in another
interesting mystery, a Sister Teresa
disappeared from the convent the day Sister
Monica died.  Sister Teresa, age 65, was
known to have a very youthful appearance and
had single-handedly run the local school for
40 years.  She attributed her energy and
appearance to her intense spiritual
devotions.   She was said to be rather
charismatic in her manner and was constantly
surrounded by children, rather like a pied
piper in a black habit.

The file included copies of some sepia-tinted
photographs.  When she was younger, Sister
Teresa was a babe.

Still, this trail is 100 years cold.  There
was no local evidence of any similar
occurrences in the Sacramento area, nor did
Sister Teresa ever turn up again.  Local
theory had been that, in her grief over
Sister Monica, she’d wandered into and
drowned in the American River, which ran by
the convent grounds.

I closed the folder and thought about the
case. Dead end.  Did Scully and Phil have a
more fulfilling time? Probably so.  Scully
and Phil belong together more than Scully and
I ever did.  They believe in the same God,
where I never gave Scully anything but grief
when she tried to share her beliefs with me.
I’m the original agnostic, and recent events
do not convince me any more strongly of the
existence of a loving, caring God in my
universe.

Yeah, she and Phil will have the house, car,
kids, pets.  Family dinners with the
Scullys won’t become brawls because big
brother Bill disapproves of Scully’s
husband.  Bill's never stopped hating me, but
I can’t blame him for that.

I’m really a piece of work.  I’ve never been
able to finish anything I started.  Didn’t
graduate high school, nope, went to college
early instead.  Couldn’t take life as a
profiler, so I had to bail on that.  I’ve
never found Samantha or any hard, fast, solid
proof of the aliens or the conspiracy to aid
them; or at least the proof I’ve found cannot
be presented to the public because it has
been taken from me.

I don’t own a house.  My bank account squeaks
when I open the checkbook.  I haven’t had any
sex partner besides myself in more years than
I like to admit. I’m an over-educated,
underachiever who spends his days puking his
guts out and wallowing in self-pity. The type
of loser, that not even a parent could love.

God.  Why can’t I just fucking die and get it
over with?



Entry no: 2000/9/30
Report of:#8\18081957/Fox
Local Name: Miriam

*****

Well, Fox Mulder, the dawn is just breaking,
but already it appears to be my lucky day.
Because I'm in such a joyous, expansive mood
I do believe I'll be a good little Archivist
and give my report in the proper,
chronological order. That I gambled, you
survived and I've won will be a perfect
ending to this entry. God, I love this job.

Thursday morning, the 28th,  you were
awakened by the pain in your side. However,
on that cloudy September morn, I don't
believe "pain" would have been what you’d
have called the searing agony which
encompassed that roughly foot square area of
your body. The focal point of this discomfort
which brought tears to your sunken, decidedly
off color orbs began  at your breast bone and
extended at a downward angle on the right
side, roughly following your rib cage.

Your hands instinctively went to the site,
the feather light touch of your fingertips
tracing the raw hurt that kept you from
drawing a full breath. Your skin was warm,
stretched tight. Further tactile examination
in the dim stormy light, made your rapidly
racing heart pound with strained ferocity
within your chest. Because of the frightening
weight loss you'd recently suffered, you'd
become accustomed  to the pitiful concave
that had once been a flat, athletically
muscled abdomen. This morning your stomach
was a hard, basketball sized mound that
reminded you of the taut, swollen belly of a
woman who could expect her tax deduction to
arrive near the end of this fiscal year. You
looked like you were in at least your 6th
month.

"Oh God, what's happening to me?" Your
terrified moaning question wasn't answered by
Him, or anyone else you could hear. There's
nobody left but me, Fox. Alone, with your
chronic nausea reporting in for its daily
duty of making life miserable and your face
buried in you pillow to muffle the sound, you
allowed the tears to come.

*****

You spent all of Thursday huddling on the
couch, wracked by intermittent chills and
fever.

The only time you ventured off that sweat and
urine-smelling, garage sale reject you use as
a bed, was to make stumbling dashes  to the
john twice-hourly.   You couldn’t even run
upright, instead you listed to the side
because of the pain.

By nightfall you'd run out of clean underwear
and were reduced to performing a smell check
on the stash of "to be laundered" jeans  you
keep hidden in that no man's land of a junk
yard bedroom that I've never seen you use.

Haven't felt like washing clothes since,
when...August? What would your mother say,
Fox? Worse, what would Scully think of the
filth that clutters the shadowed corners and
dark closets in this miserable, foul scented
hovel?  Six pair of boxers laid on the bottom
of  the tub that night, secreted behind the
shower curtain. Each time you used the
facilities, they were shameful reminders that
on that long, torture filled, seemingly
endless day, you lost every race against your
intestine wringing diarrhea, save that very
first one.

The illness is consuming you. The fluid that
was filling your stomach had  ballooned the
b-ball sized swell to half again its
initial, early morning size. The 20-sack box
of twisty hefty bags that kept your nausea
from being entered in the bathroom track and
field meet, was almost empty.

Dehydration had made your blood the
consistency of molasses and the physical
strain that came with this condition kept you
just this side of comatose. Every now and
then the fluttering, rapid beat of your heart
would stir you; the rush of adrenaline that
came with this shocky fright simply adding to
the problem.  It was only "HER" persistence,
her stubborn insistence that she actually
"SEE Mulder NOW" that saved you, bought
you
those precious ticks of the clock.

You roused at hearing the pounding on the
door. Lucid thought returned at a snail’s
pace. Sheer will forced your body upright and
sent you shuffling to the door.

After you'd opened the door, a silence
stretched to eternity while you both studied
one another. It was finally broken by her
dazed query, "Did...did I wake you?"

"What do you want, Scully?" Your words were
slurred, roughened by a voice that had grown
rusty from lack of use. "I'm not in the mood
to hear about your vacation with
Phil.  It's obviously no longer my case, so I
don't really give a shit."

Actually, Fox, you did amaze me.  You hadn’t
been very lucid these past few days.  That
your mind cleared to the near normal levels
of cognizance during this brief visit is
unbelievable.

Honestly, I must admit, that the last half
hour before her arrival I was beginning  to
fear I had overplayed my hand.  The
unpredictably rapid progression of the
diseases was ignored and I continued on with
my plans, eagerly pushing on with my
manipulations of your system. My impatience
almost destroyed my carefully constructed
project and nearly cost you your life. Luck
is what saved everything. I'd best not allow
my ego to believe any other explanation for
the fortunate results.

"Mulder, no one has heard from you in three
days. Frohike called me because he was
worried and Skinner thought...."  Her tone
was almost pleading. She had read the dark
bitterness in your eyes.

“Skinner thought I wasn’t taking care of
myself. Yeah, I know.  He came by.” You
stared at her coldly.

I could only guess she felt a calm-shattering
sense of responsibility for everything. Her
brow was wrinkled in grave concern, and I
perceived a desperate desire to make matters
right. She felt she had to fix things. Your
health. Your peace of mind. The fissure that
had widened into a crevice between you two.

You perceived none of this. What held you
upright, one hand holding tightly to the open
door, the other gripping the frame with a
white knuckled intensity, was rage. I was
made almost giddy by the startling heat that
drove you. An understanding was born, full
blown and complete in my mind, and I knew
the  answers to all my questions.

You'd been pulled back from the edge by the
sound of that knock. You returned with the
long-building fury unleashed at what had
happened to  you these past few months. This
fuel gave you a strength your weakened body
no longer possessed and a determination to
rail against all the injustice that you've
been forced to endure.

This saved you from death, but your energies
focused on the only presence perceivable to a
conscious human mind. Her. Your partner had
played a role in the hurt that had festered
during your helpless suffering and now she
bore the brunt of this ire.  I added my own
small touches to inflame your rage.  This
woman is too persistent for my comfort level.

"This treatment they got me on is...rough."
You spoke with a low, hard edged control.
Both your expression and tone seemed created
from cold, ungiving stone. "Sorry, you
cut your trip short. My answering machine’s
broken and I just haven't been
grabbing the phone 'cept when I'm up. You’re
the only person who ever called, really, that
I cared to talk to and you...well, I knew it
wouldn't have been you. I forgot about the
Gunmen.”

You felt your energy begin to slip and
surreptitiously leaned against the doorjamb
to keep from sliding onto your face.  “I've
had to learn to ration my strength. Just tell
the guys I'm fine.  I'm hanging in there.
Scully, you of all people should understand
what I'm dealing with. Explain to them, make
them understand, like you tried to make me
understand when you were sick. Let them know
how having people around, letting people into
your life is distracting. You were right, it
all comes down to the fact that I AM in
this alone. That is what you were trying
to tell me back then, wasn't it?"

I watched her fade. Her Irish fairness
drained away from her face, leaving it
parchment white. Something inside her was
crushed by the weight of your evenly spoken
pronouncement. Thick, dark lashes fluttered,
attempting to brush away her sudden, unbidden
tears. Her blue eyes searched your face for
something familiar, but she realized  that
she was facing a stranger. She is used to
your wielding hurtful truths as a weapon, but
she was surprised by your intent to see
blood. Her blood. With a sigh, she
surrendered at finding nothing but hostility
in you.

"Mulder, you look so bad. I think you're not
getting the treatment you need.  The way this
disease is progressing, the symptoms
becoming
so severe, so quickly, maybe you should see
another doctor. I know false positives aren't
as common as they once were, but they still
occur. Maybe this is something else. As ill
as you've been, you need to check out the
possibility..."

"Scully, it's handled." You cut her off with
a finality like a sharp, stinging slap.
You rested your head against the door. I
could feel the strength that had sustained
you dissipating. The anger was still there,
but the fuel was rapidly being consumed and
its solid forcefulness seemed suddenly shaky.
"They started with the RIBA test. When it
was positive I got a PCR. Same thing. Then a
biopsy. No mistakes. I'm on alpha 2-b. My
doctor is Stephen Li."

"Doctor Li? He's taking new patients? I'd
heard he had given up his practice because
the American Liver Foundation was financing
his research?"

"He's Langley's uncle." A weary smile barely
made it to the corners of your mouth. I knew
that if you didn't end this soon you'd be
saying your good-byes looking up from the
floor. Apparently you figured this out as
well.

Grasping for the last lingering filaments of
that hot, primal rage that had gotten you
this far, you grabbed for that shiny new knob
and pushed yourself up straight.
The raised brows of her concern
gave you the strength to make your full
height, and offered the final spur you needed
to end this visit. "Look, Scully, I need to
get some rest. It's getting late and I'm
tired."

The brow wrinkle and lofted cleft of auburn
above those bright blue eyes stated that
she'd made a judgment call, deciding 7:30
p.m.  was much too early for Fox Mulder to
declare as late unless he felt worse than he
claimed. "Please, let me help. Don't close me
out like this, Mulder. I'm worried about
you."

She took an involuntary step backward when
dark anger twisted your face. "You came here
because YOU'RE worried!"  Your icy calm
broke.  You hurled your rage at her, your
voice a loud, shaking rumble that made her
shrink away.  "News flash, Scully -- This
isn't about you!"

Slamming the door, hiding that stunned, grief
stricken face was your last hurrah. You sank
to the floor, propping up against the door
while you fought your rolling, churning
stomach with deep, gasping breaths.

The room was pitch black when you  began a
hunched, weak kneed journey to the bathroom.
The half glass of water you'd guzzled to
avoid the burning muscle cramps of the dry
heaves stayed down only as long as it took
you to turn off the faucet. Your bed that
night was where you sank beside the toilet to
let the waves of sickness claim you.

*****

I was sure I'd killed you. After the third
bout of nausea, you'd collapsed and hit your
head. No blood flowed from the scalp wound
except a thick, slow ooze.  I heard her tap
at the door. Luckily, you hadn’t secured the
locks. The sound of her searching for you
ended with a faint, stutter rap on the closed
bathroom door and a panicked, "Mulder, it's
me," before she entered.

Her frightened gasp echoed off the tiles as
she took in the sight before her. She quickly
realized, in the bright stark lighting of
this room, that what looked like pallor in
the dim hallway was actually yellow jaundice
tinting your skin. You moaned and the sight
of the golden brown caste to the whites of
your eyes, as you blindly glanced around,
chilled her blood. 911 was already dialed
with trembling fingers before she knelt
beside you.

Her report was clear and clinical to the
dispatcher, but I heard her praying as she
sank down beside us to wait.

*****

And so we come to this morning. You're still
in the ICU, still comatose.

They're all  worried, Scully, your doctor,
the various friends who've filtered in to
join your ever vigilant, guilt wracked
partner on this deathbed watch.

“How is he?” I heard the rumbling voice that
I identify as Skinner.  A female voice,
*hers* replied.

“The same.  He’s comatose and....even if he
regains consciousness there’s a strong
possibility of brain damage.  The test
results have come back...” Her voice broke
and he waited in silence for her to finish.

I heard her blow her nose, then continue.
“Thank you sir....um...the test results are
positive for hepatocellular carcinoma. That
means that he has Adult Primary Liver Cancer;
Localized unresectable, Stage 4a, NO,MO.”

“What does that mean for him?” Skinner’s
voice was solemn.

“If...when he wakes, they’ll treat him with
chemotherapy.  As far as they can tell, it
hasn’t metastasized, but there is certainly
some damage to his liver.  How much we don’t
know yet.”

“I see.  Is there anything I can do, Agent
Scully?”

She replied in a whisper.  “No, sir.  Just
wait. And pray.”

“I’ll try that.  Call me if there’s any
change.”  I heard the door shut quietly
behind him, leaving her alone with us.

I heard familiar prayers, the ancient Ave
Maria, the Pater Noster, both now translated
into the vernacular and said with heartfelt
fervency. Then she began to talk to you.

“Mulder, I don’t know if you can hear me, but
I think you can.  Once I was...lost...like
you are now, and you brought me back.
Please, listen to my voice, and come back to
me.”  I could feel her warm fingers cradling
your left hand.

“I hurt you; I know how much.
Mulder...I...can’t live knowing what I did to
you.  Please, don’t go.  Don’t give up on
me.  Please....”

I felt the splash of her tears on your hand,
although you were somewhere far away in a
place warm and safe.

When you finally surface from that cozy place
where weakness and pain drove you,  you
might
just wish you could escape back to that foggy
world when your partner tells you what they
found.

All the tests are back; the biopsy confirmed
it. My first project is ready to bear fruit.
Your cancer has ripened and chemotherapy is
your best option for treatment. Oh, happy
day!


*****

JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER October 9, 2000

Scully finally found my laptop in the mess at
my apartment. She informed me she hired
someone to clean up. I hope there's enough
money in my account to reimburse her. I
wouldn't take that job for any amount.

A lot has happened since my last, half lucid
entry in here. I almost died, my ass saved
yet another time by my partner (former
partner). Acceptance, Mulder. That's the key
word I've learned during my daily sessions
with Angie. Unless I face what's happening, I
can't hope to deal with it. No more hiding. I
have cancer. My only option at this time is
chemotherapy. I started today.

Scheduled Chemo Sessions Appointments -

Oct 9-13...Happy Birthday to me!
Oct 23-27
November 6-10
November 27-December 1
December 11-15
December 26-30...note, no chemo on Christmas
day. Proof -- death does take a holiday?
January 8-12
January 22-26
February 5-9
February 19-23!!! Scully's Birthday. I will
be well!

I guess that says it all. I'll write more
later.


******************
Symbiosis (6 of ?)

JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER
October 13, 2000

Happy Birthday to Me.  Yeah, right.

Scully brought me a cupcake with candle on it
and I tried to smile.  I don’t feel much like
smiling.  She hasn’t said a word about Phil
and I won’t ask.

I’m just...well, I’m glad she’s here.  Huh,
maybe I should be grateful for this illness;
if it gives me time with Scully.  I probably
won’t have much more of it without
interruptions.

I still don’t know how she did it, but she’s
talked me into coming home with her.  She
argued, logically, that I hadn’t taken very
good care of myself and she didn’t want me
relapsing.  I agreed, if only to keep Skinner
from chiming in. But I know that this is
temporary.  I’ll stay long enough to salve
her conscience, then go home.

It’s funny, when she thinks I don’t see, I
catch her looking at me, studying me.  I
don’t look any different, not yet anyway.
They say this treatment does wonders for your
hair; gives everyone the Michael Jordan look.
Maybe I can get Skinner to give me a few
styling tips.

She keeps starting to say something, then
stops. It’s like she has something very
important that she wants to say, but can't
because she doesn’t know how to tell me. Her
silence can only mean one thing, and I don’t
think I can take it.  Phil’s asked her to
marry him and she’s accepted.  I don’t blame
her, not one bit.  Smartest choice she could
make. I just wish she'd wait until...later.
So I don't have to hear.

Well, we’re off to Scully’s apartment now;
the nurse with the wheelchair is here.

Think I’ll find a truck and walk in front of
it.


Entry no: 2000/10/14
Report of: #8\18081957/Fox
Local Name: Miriam

We finished the last day of your initial
chemotherapy treatment today, and the doctor
said you could leave the hospital.
Arrangements were made Monday for you to stay
at your partner’s when you were released, so
her neat, tastefully decorated apartment is
where we headed when they gave you your
walking papers.

The rush from the morning's chemicals had
muted to a pleasant, soft haze about the
edges of my consciousness, but as always, it
left me with an intense heightening of how I
sense your emotions. For all the burning,
electric high I get at the moment the chemo
is flooding through my host, this afterglow,
that comes the week following a treatment, is
my favorite part of this. The host is always
primed with raw emotions and my ability to
perceive them is so wonderfully enhanced.

She'd gotten you comfortable on her huge,
overstuffed sofa, and since you'd suffered no
nausea to speak of, she set about preparing
you something to eat.

"They never brought down your lunch tray;
time to refill the machine.  Mom sent over
some homemade soup, Mulder.  Does that sound
okay?"

Your eyes fluttered open as her voice floated
from the kitchen.  You straightened, willing
the lethargy that had 'snuck' up on you to
vanish.

"Fine!" you called, mustering a nice, healthy
sounding heartiness. The thought of trying to
work up enough energy to eat brought your
wearily murmured, "Great. Wonderful.
Perfect."

Tired from the ordeal of your release from
the hospital, your eyes shut of their own
accord even while you breathed those replies.

"Mulder, I've got your bed all made up; you
might be more comfortable there. The soup'll
wait."

You jumped, she'd crept up on you, just like
the cat nap had. Her offer was too good to
pass up. Stretching out in a real bed, one
without railings or an orthopedically correct
rock-hard mattress was worth forcing your
aching bones up from the low-slung seat. With
a groan, you followed her to the bedroom
she'd prepared for your stay.

*****

Having to answer nature's urgent call is what
awakened you. The red glow of the bedside
clock in the darkness announced that if you
decided to appease your rumbling stomach, the
meal you'd consume would no longer be called
lunch.  You'd have to ask for dinner. Six
hours of near comatose slumber had left you
stiff, but feeling a hundred percent better.
Shuffling barefoot across the carpet you made
your way through the living room, searching
for company.

You found our hostess sitting alone in the
dimly lit kitchen, silently sipping on a
glass of wine while she contemplated the oven
timer ticking down. The room smelled of
apples and spice, summoning memories of
childhood.

She turned, smiling, sensing you were there.

"Smells good in here," you murmured, easing
into the low chair across the table from her.

"It was supposed to be a surprise. I called
your mother to let her know you were out, and
she said applesauce raisin was your favorite.
She gave me the recipe. The cream cheese
frosting's coming from a can, though."

Your throat tightened, I assumed from some
sentimental flash of birthdays past. You've
tended to have some odd, uncontrollable mood
swings during your recovery.

Several times a day, tears have threatened
with the slightest provocation, and your last
journal entry gave me some concern, but you
always seem to stabilize somehow.

Suddenly, you realized what she'd said and
your mercurial emotional barometer whirled to
stomach burning distress. "My mom, I...did
you tell her I was sick? I wasn't going to
tell her yet, Scully." There was a hint of
disapproval in your tone, though you'd tried
not to let it escape. "Her health isn't
good..."

A touch of color tinted her pale cheeks and
her eyes grew solemn. "Oh Mulder, I'm sorry.
I forgot to tell you about this. I'd called
her that first night, after I found you. We
weren't sure if...well, you were so sick. I
thought she needed to know, just in case.
We've kept in touch. She's called every
couple of days." She lowered her gaze to her
almost empty glass for a moment, silently
tracing a fingertip around the rim. When she
raised her head, her eyes were damp, leaking
a bit with her apology.  "She knows. I told
her the day the doctor told us. I should have
talked to you. I'm so sorry. I..."

"It's okay," you quickly whispered, grasping
her hand.  The soft, warmth of her skin and
the sight of that full, quivering mouth made
you lose your train of thought.

Chewing nervously on your bottom lip you
searched for what you'd planned to say, but
the words had vanished leaving you with
nothing but a softly repeated, "It's okay."

Her tiny fingers intertwined with your own
long, lean digits. I felt swept up by your
wonder at how perfect this small embrace
seemed. The silence stretched on until it
became awkward. Looking up from your thoughts
you searched her face. Her eyes sparkled a
crystal blue. The steady, piercing gaze
touched your soul, made your heart thud a
quick, aching rhythm against your ribs.
"Thank you. I probably wouldn't have had the
guts to tell her. I would've just gambled and
waited 'til I was either well or she read the
obit in the paper."

She winced and pulled her hand from yours,
clasping it with her other hand tightly in
her lap. She bowed her head and you felt the
connection sever. Your desperation was an
electric tingle forcing you to your feet. A
loud buzzer, signaling the time had come
brought a startled gasp from both of you. She
leapt up to answer the summons but you
stopped her. I was surprised, Mulder. Perhaps
you've learned something about time.

"Scully, I'm sorry. It's the only way I know
to deal with this," You held her hands. Your
explanation was almost a sigh.

Her smile held a sad understanding. With a
slight bob of her head, her lips brushed
lightly against your neck as she sighed, "I
know."

This separation didn't sting as badly when
she moved away to open the oven door. The
smell that wafted out with the warmth made
your mouth water.

*****

I've shared countless lives, but for the most
part, my existence has been nothing but
second hand sensations.  That's why I crave
the chemical your illness brings. I believe
this heightened awareness is the closest my
kind can come to feeling life instead of just
observing it. So few of us feel the lack. I'm
one of the unlucky chosen, I guess. I've
always longed for a taste of what you take
for granted; what your species so seldom
appreciates. Even those who face what you are
facing rarely try to grasp hold of the gifts
which have been bestowed upon your kind. But
I do believe you possess a certain promise,
Fox Mulder, to truly understand and treasure
your birthright.

*****


When she curled against you, molding herself
to fit along the curve of your legs, as you
lay on your side on the couch, I sensed the
warmth stirring in your groin. Side by side
you'd watched the science fiction movie,
wrapped in a comfortable silence, simply
allowing your birthday meal to digest, and
relaxing after this long, hectic day. Her
head settled back, melding with your chest
and your fingertips idly caressed the soft,
silky smoothness of her bare shoulder.

A gentle chuckle shook her when you began
murmuring, "Dum, Dum, duh-duh-duh-duh -dum,
duh-duh-dee-dum, duh-dee-dum..."

I was surprised by her laugh, rising up so
unexpectedly, deep-throated and rich. I hate
to admit it, but I liked the sound. She does
have a wonderful laugh, Mulder. "I gotta tell
you, Luke does have a pretty impressive light
saber. But, I always wished they'd given us a
glimpse of Han Solo's weapon."

Now, I've seen this movie more times than I
can count.  Only Jedis have light sabers,
Mulder. Han is not a  Jedi. I don't believe
you were laughing at her ignorance. This
whole exchange was a private, sexual innuendo
I presume. I’ve lived with humans for
thousands of years but still don’t understand
the sexual urge.  Nevertheless, I'd never
heard you happy before. It was good. I love
your laugh. Apparently, she does, too.

She turned into you and wrapped her arms
about your neck. You held her close,
relishing the feel of her embrace. The tender
warmth of her lips, moist and supple, against
your own shocked you. Once again, tears
welled up, very close to the surface when you
softly asked, "Scully, you haven't mentioned
him since...?"

"We talked on Tuesday. He doesn't understand,
Mulder."  She glanced away, teeth moving to
still a trembling bottom lip. The silence
measured by a heartbeat, was broken by a
gentle sigh, then, with a quick upward tilt
of her chin, she met your eyes.  "He wanted
to know why I spend so much time with you.  I
told him that you're my best friend, the
person who always watches my back, who's
always been there by my side.  You’re my
strength, my...constant.  He just looked at
me. I think he tried to understand.  Then he
told me that *he* wanted to be all those
things."

Her fingers in yours tightened and she
laughed a little.  "I guess that's when I
finally realized the obvious.  Phil could
never be to me what you already are, Mulder.
What you have been for a very long time.  We
broke it off; it was pointless since I'm
already in love with a very brilliant,
egotistical, difficult man."

You sat up suddenly.  “And that’s it, huh?”

“What?  Mulder, what’s wrong?”  She moved
aside as you crawled off the couch.  You got
up and began pacing back and forth.

“Just like that, I’m the love of your life?
You came to me, not a month ago and told me
that I was too intense for you, that you
couldn’t ‘breathe’ I think was the way you
put it.  And now, after all this, you
suddenly discover that you love me and not
him?”  You folded your arms across your chest
and glared coldly at her.  “When exactly did
you decide this? When did you decide it was
safe for you to love me? Was it when you
found out that I might not have that long?
Hey, what have I got, six months at the
most?  I bet you could hold your 'breath' for
that long. I guess my dying was just what we
needed for our 'relationship’."

Her face fell, growing more stormy with each
word you uttered. Silence hung thick in the
air between you two, so dense it was
tangible. She finally cut through the almost
palpable wall of tension when she spoke, her
voice sharp with sarcasm. "Are you through?"

"YES!" you spat, angry because you could feel
a weariness sapping your rage, stealing your
energy.

Her tone dropped, softer but still
unyielding. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," you muttered, your eyes still fiery.

"Good, maybe you'll listen to me this time."
Her tone was calm but bitter.  “Mulder, I’m
not offering lame apologies for myself.  I’ve
been dense and frightened. You've always been
the most exciting, intense person I've ever
known. You burn hot, Mulder, so white hot
I've always been afraid of losing myself in
you, of being consumed by your fire.” She
moved forward and touched your arms with her
hands.

“I went to California with Phil, fully
intending to seal our relationship, but...”
she stared at the floor.

“But?” you prompted, your voice had fallen to
a choked whisper.

She looked up, eyes focused intently on your
face.  “In every thought, every fantasy
*your* face kept intruding.  I found myself
wanting your opinion on bits of evidence,
missing your commentary on the state of the
hotel towels and even the sound of sunflower
seeds crunching next to me. Mulder, he wasn’t
the one.  He could never have been the one.
There are a thousand Phils out there. There's
only one Mulder. ”  She placed herself in
front of you, willing you to believe her.

“When I got back from California, I went to
see you, to try to tell you.”  She looked
down and wrung her hands.  “You were angry at
me, justifiably. I'd hurt you. How could I
expect you to ever accept what I had to say?
I left that day, sure that I’d lost you for
good.  But I was worried; you’d looked so ill
that I decided to check on you and your
temper be damned.”  She looked up again and
met your eyes.

“Then I found you, half-dead on the floor of
your apartment,” she said softly.  “While we
waited for the paramedics, I prayed, Mulder.
You ask me what makes me tell you I love you
now? Well, you're right, it is because I
found out I might lose you. But, that's what
I prayed about. I told God if he just let me
have one more chance, I wouldn't waste it.
This is why I'm telling you now. I love you,
Mulder."

Your eyes filled, but hope made a smile flit
across your lips.  “Scully, are your sure?
Really sure about this?  I was angry, hurt.
You have a right to your own life, your own
safe, *normal* life.  I...probably don’t have
much time.”

“Mulder, you’re going to beat this.  I expect
you to fight it.” She moved closer to you and
touched your arm lightly. "If it takes me
nagging you and kicking your ass every step."

You shook your head.

“Scully, I know my test results.  I know that
most people who have had untreated hepatitis
longer than three years *die*.  The cancer is
just a bonus.  Do you really want to shackle
yourself to a dying man?”  You edged back
from her, away from her touch, but I could
feel you straining toward her like a starving
man.

“If you say that ONE more time, I'll...! I'm
choosing to be here. If you still want me,
I'm here, Mulder.  I’ve wasted so much time
already that I don’t want to lose another
second.  I learned when I was sick that all
we ever really have is this moment.”  I could
sense her longing as she stepped close.

“And am I still too intense?  Do I still
frighten you?” Your eyes bored into hers.

She looked right back, smiling.  “Mulder, I
spent a week with Phil Huffman, and never
once did he take my breath away.  There's one
thing missing in this relationship, Mulder.
Are you ready? For that one thing?"

You grinned ruefully.  “I’ve been ready for 7
years,” you breathed and then moved her into
an embrace culminating in a kiss.

You opened your lips and soon your tongue was
dancing with hers.  You moved into her,
pushing her back to where she finally met the
wall.  She fell against it with a thump while
you deepened the touch, pressing hard with
your lips. Your hips held her fast, her hands
responding with light caresses that stole
beneath your shirt, warm and gentle, against
the skin of your back. Her fingertips teased
the soft hair there, at the base of your
spine.

When you pulled your mouth away, she seemed
dazed, breathless. You grinned while you
began to unbutton her cotton shirt. One by
one each pearl circlet passed through its
small hole, and your hands slipped the fabric
down off her shoulders.

She was still while your nibbled the smooth,
rounded muscle you so carefully exposed, and
hungrily you tasted her skin, up her neck to
her earlobe, then back down again.  You heard
faint whimpering and a sharp intake of breath
from her as you nipped where her pulse
fluttered against your mouth, biting down
ever so slightly into her creamy, ivory
colored flesh.

You felt her tiny fingers working at the
waist of your jeans, eagerly, intently, and
surprisingly the grating sound of the zipper
going down came at the exact moment the
button slipped open. With a soft chuckle you
fought to keep standing as your pants pooled
around your ankles.

“Hey, you don’t fight fair, Agent Scully!”
you grinned, trying to grab at your trousers.

She smiled back, her voice a low, teasing
sigh.  “But I get the job done, G-Man.  Need
some more help there?”

You stepped out of your jeans, kicking them
hurriedly away and quickly pulled your
T-shirt up and off, flinging it aside as
well.  “Nope, but I’d love to help you...”
You moved forward to slide her blouse all the
way off and found the catch to her black lace
bra.

“Front hooks?  My goodness, Agent
Scully...Whatever would your mother say?”

“I don't know, you can call her tomorrow to
find out. Just shut up, Mulder, and make me
breathless.”  She tugged at the black lace
bra, pulling it off in one smooth motion.
Slowly, her eyes gleaming blue crystal
flames, she leaned forward, running her hands
over your chest and touched her lips against
your belly, letting her warm, wet tongue
trace the curling diamond of hair down.


******************
Symbiosis (7 of ?)

Entry no: 2000/10/14
Report of: #8\18081957/Fox 
Local Name: Miriam 
Entry continues....

She inched downward, slowly moving and
pausing occasionally to feel you shudder,
until she reached the base of your now-erect
shaft. Gently she nibbled her way to the head
and then took you into her mouth.  You
couldn't control your trembling at the
sensations flooding your body, your mind, me.

Hot, raw passion surged through you, cresting
with an explosion that made you tumble back
to the couch, every cell in your body
tingling from the throbbing warmth. Your head
reeled and you sat stunned, only realizing
what had happened when your organ gave
those
last few tale tell pulsations.

I felt the flush of shame burn your face,
deepening when you opened your eyes and
saw
her standing before you, her face etched with
concern.

"Mulder...?"

"Scully, I...I..." Your tongue passed quickly
over parched lips, "I'm sorry. I’ve wanted you
so...for so long..."  It was only after a deep sigh
that you were able to continue. "Not exactly the
way I always pictured it. Was it good for you?"
Your laugh was a sharp bitter bark. The
silence lasted forever and for want of
something to still your shaking hands you
grabbed your crumpled shirt, which somehow
had landed on the sofa and clumsily mopped at
your groin, covering yourself modestly.

"Mulder, why do you insist that everything
is about you," she whispered as she eased
down beside you.

Her words brought your bowed head up with a
start, a knee jerk reaction of fright, but
the fear faded when you noticed the teasing
grin that tilted her lips. "I want this
Mulder. I want this to happen. I've dreamed
about this for years. It's not over G-man.
Take my breath away..." Her eyes held you as
her hand reached up to trace the strong cut
of your jaw.

A knowing smile crossed your mouth as you
pushed yourself up to stand and with a sudden
burst of excited energy you swept her up into
your arms. Her deep throated laugh surrounded
you as you carried her to her room, dropping
her on the bed. Her husky chuckles blended
with the muffled protest of the springs as
she landed with a bounce. With your lips
moving rakishly up at the corners you knelt
over her, smoothly popping the snap of her
pants and sliding the zipper down with one
quick fluid motion.

"Wait," She caught your hand, a wicked smile
on her lips. She finished removing first her
jeans, then her panties, undressing herself
slowly and seductively.  I caught a
mischievous grin on her face when she noticed
your rapt (dare I say near-comatose?)
expression as you watched her.

Finally nude, she stretched out on her back,
her arms reaching above her.  "Like this better,
Mulder?" she purred.

"Oh yeah.  Now let me share *my* fantasy with
you..."  You lay down on the bed next to her,
your face opposite her pubic area and rolled
her in close to your mouth.  Parting her
lips, you began to move your tongue
seductively, making yourself at home.

We heard a sigh and moan from the head of
the bed.  "Ahhhh....sixty-nine..uh...huh,
Muld...der? Ohhhh........"  Her voice died
away in a long whimper.

You released her clit from your mouth briefly
and replied.  "One of my favorite numbers,
Scully.  But this is for you, I don't know if
I can...again....ohgod....mathematics?"
Clearly she had found you as well and had
resumed her oral caresses.  You, on the other
hand, were discovering exponential increase.

"I'm a math geek remember, and I've learned a
lot since catechism class," she murmured.

You both happily continued your mutual
stimulation until Scully was on the verge of
release.  You were holding yourself back with
an iron will, waiting for her to orgasm
before allowing your own pleasure.

"Mul...mul..der...I...want you inside
me...please...I want to come....god..with you
inside me..." Her breathless voice carried
to where you and your tongue had sought
hitherto unplumbed depths of Agent Scully.
You didn't wait for a second suggestion, but
pulled your tongue from inside her vagina and
gasped your answer.

"Okay...be there in a minute...."  Fox, you
are undoubtedly a loving and sexual man, but
you have an unimaginative and unromantic
side guaranteed to render any woman close to
you near-homicidal from time to time.  Be there
in a minute?  Please.

You  moved your body until it lay on top of
hers, propping yourself up with your elbows.
She grinned up at you then grabbed your ears
and pulled you down for a deep and lingering
kiss.

"What?" you gasped, puzzled by what was
clearly a token of gratitude.

"Just wanted to tell you thanks," she
replied. "Now fuck me until I scream, G-man.
That's an order."

"Yes ma'am."

With her gentle hand guiding, you positioned
yourself at her entrance and slid inside with
a soft moan of pleasure.  I have observed
many couplings in three thousand years and
mind-blowing is not a word I commonly use to
describe most of them. After the first 500
years it gets stale.  But you, Fox, well
let's just say that the earth moved so
heavily for you that I felt the tremors.
Your thoughts were so loud they were
shrieking in my psyche:

"Home...home...safe...comfort...home..."

Her eyes were closed as you began to move
inside her, and she began to perspire,
gripping you tightly with arms and legs.
Your thoughts changed and deepened,
becoming louder and louder to me: "Gonna
*live*, not gonna *die*, gonna LIVE, gonna
LIVE...LIVE..LIVE*”

With each mental repetition of the word
'live' you pushed into her so hard and deeply
that I began to fear for her safety.  Then I
realized that you were murmuring the phrase
out loud and she had picked it up and was
repeating it with you.

"Gonna live, not gonna die, you're gonna live
Mulder...you're gonna live...you're gonna
live..."

She came first, going rigid and then lying quiet,
you still pumping violently into her from
above. Then she held you, stroking your back
and quietly murmuring to you as you found
your orgasm.

"It's okay, Mulder....it's gonna be okay..."

You finally collapsed and lay atop her,
burying your head in her neck. Her fingertips
lightly brushed your face and feeling your
tears her embrace grew that much tighter.

The quiet lasted an eternity before
you found enough energy to whisper, " I
guess we gave it one for the Gipper, huh? I'm
so tired Scully." Your exhaustion was
palpable, her kiss on your head was a warm
comforting caress. "I wanted it to go on
forever.  I want forever," you softly confessed,
your bone weary tiredness making your voice a
fading sigh.

"We'll have as close to forever as we can
manage, Mulder. And I won't leave you, ever.
You aren't alone in this."  Then she held you
close, trying to surround you with her body
as if to keep the darkness away. I felt you
slip away into sleep, your body relaxing,
melting into her. I thought she'd followed
you until I heard her soft assurance," We're
in this together, Mulder."


JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER
October 16, 2000

I feel better than I have in months. I
believe it's because for the first time, in a
very long time, I feel as though I'm in
control of what's happening. To my body. In
my life.  I flew through the first treatment.
The counseling sessions I received while I
was an inpatient really helped. I could
actually visualize this invader in my system
and with my will and the weapons they were
giving me I felt like I was fighting back. I
know it sounds hokey, but I did feel I
accomplished my goals.

On the personal front, a door has opened that
I never even fathomed existed. I've loved
Scully for years.  I've stated this here,
countless times before. There was always
some reason, though, that I couldn't declare
this out loud, to make sure I was heard. That
this is the only area in my life I didn't actively
pursue voicing my feelings seems absurd to
me, now.

I know it was fear that kept me silent. But
it was ignorance, too. I think of myself as
such an intellect and I never understood that
what I have just found is worth any price. If
I'd made discovering this truth my
obsession...well, what Mulder? Maybe finding
what love can be this late in life, at this
fragile moment in my life, is the only time I
could appreciate it. Maybe I finally deserve
Scully's love. Finally.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>


JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER
October 23-27, 2000

And you can't always get what
you want, honey
You can't always get what you
want
You can't always get what you
want,
But if you try sometime, yeah,
You just might find you get
what you need!

Couldn't say it better myself, Mick.

I plan to bring this journal with me each
time I come here, to archive these sessions.
It's ironic, but I feel that my view of life
and the world around me has become so much
clearer, more intuitively in focus since
finding out that I have a potentially
terminal disease. I guess the Grim Reaper
blocking my view of what lies ahead has made
me stop and look more closely at those things
around me.

Like Scully’s and my relationship, and dare I
say it, whether or not there is some other
"presence" directing our lives. Looking back,
I can't help but think both Scully and I have
had lives that were produced by some mad,
demented "creator". When I think of all the
things that happened to keep us from even
sharing our first kiss, I can't help
wondering if this "being" is cruel, sadistic
or just tends to enjoy scripting cliché
pathos. I mean letting us get *this* close to
kissing then having a mutated, alien virus
carrying honey bee sting her?

Has my life been directed by a power?  Fate
or maybe God?  Who knows?  The
coincidences in my life are startling, but they
might just be coincidences.  And what lies
ahead?  I'll fight. I'll fight like Hell, and I'll
win.

*****

Once, eons ago when I'd just hit 19, I went
to a pub with some classmates. Since my
companions were obviously all over the legal
drinking age of twenty-one, while I was not,
I received a lesson that even my drunken
father's back hand couldn't have taught me.

At first I soberly spent my evening bemoaning
the fact that because I was the only
chronologically challenged member of our
group, I was obviously the best choice for
designated driver. While my buddy's tied one
on as only jocks who bleed orange and black
can manage, I cursed the fact that I'd been a
overachieving nerd whose ego and parental
favor seeking neuroses had driven him into
reaching college by 16 and thus too young to
have any kind of fun.

My mentor, Zig-Zag (if you have to ask, you
obviously never set foot on a college campus
during the late '70's) and I had wandered
outside for a quick bit of fresh New Jersey
air. It was this dimly lit parking lot that
Z.Z. began his instructions for this all
important life's lesson. The red faced jock's
first gasp brought on a fit off coughing
which led to a bout of near projectile
spewing the likes of which I never again
witnessed until this week.

The crux of this rambling tale came after
Z.Z. had deposited his $100.00 worth of beer,
tequila, everclear and licorice schnapps all
over the parking lot and the side of his
custom painted orange '65 Mustang. He'd
studied the results of his aromatic labors,
hands on knees, for a good 5 minutes before
reaching into the vile mess to retrieve
something.

Knowing that he was still inebriated, and
being the good buddy that I was, I tried to
stop him from his repulsive treasure hunt.

"Muler...ish hokay. 'M fine," he informed,
giving me a pretty fair contact high while
making my stomach lurch as he breathed the
sour smelling fumes into my grimacing face.
"I. jus' thought for a momen' I'd puked up my
tonsil, but it was only a coupla crowns. Did
you fine my contacs, though? Never fel' them
go."

I never have been much of a drinker since
that night, but I now know how it feels to
puke so hard I could believe my tonsils were
in danger.

Scully helped me find my contacts.

I see the dentist tomorrow.


******************
Symbiosis (8 of ?)

JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER
October 31, 2000 Halloween

I’ve watched two Darth Mauls, five skeletons
and one Death approach my door, begging for
candy.  This is the one holiday of the year
when we choose to celebrate the monsters of
our existence, including Death himself.  This
year I’m not celebrating much.  I suppose.
Scully got some chocolate bars and has been
handing them out to the trick or treaters.
I’ve been watching all the cute little kids
dressed as monsters, devils and death troop
through our doorway.  I wish the real items
were as harmless.

I’m troubled by the financial burden I’m
causing Scully, being her live-in, housebound
patient. I’ve suggested to her that I might
go to a hospice, but she just gets mad.
“Hospices are for dying people, Mulder, and
you aren’t dying!” was her last comment on
the subject.

I guess -- what started this, what put this
plan in action was the idea that popped into
my head as I watched Scully's face as she
labored over writing out her bills. It was
Sunday, two days after my last treatment, but
I was still puking my guts up. Nothing was
working to stop the nausea, but it was
slowing a bit. She's made me up a bed on the
couch, in front of her TV.

I knew that missing work almost the entire
month of October was playing hell with her
budget and I was in no position to help after
two months of medical leave. That's when it
hit me, the idea. It seemed so perfect, so
right. We love each other and wasn't there a
saying, "two can live as cheaply as one?"

I pushed myself up from my makeshift sick-bed
and strolled over to join her at the table.
She gave me a quick, half hearted grin of
acknowledgment as I took my seat, but grimly
returned to her task of robbing Peter to pay
Paul without a word.

I suppose I didn't impress her with my smooth
charm. I don't think I worded my question
quite right. Hell, I've only done this one
other time and I don't remember how the
subject even came up that time. I don't even
recall doing it, I think I was drugged. I
just woke up the next day and it was over.

"Scully, I've been thinking," I began.

A frown of concentration still lingered on
her forehead as that one lone brow shot up to
question me. That ‘look' always unnerves me
and I grabbed her hand to calm myself. Just
touching her gave me strength so I pushed on,
"Scully, I know that your losing all this
time because of me has really hurt you
financially and..."

Stopping and looking at her face was my big
mistake. I should have just kept my head down
and barged on. My tongue tied when I watched
that second auburn brow slant up to join the
other by her hairline. Stammering now, I
continued.  "See two can live as cheaply as
one...at least that's what they say...and,
and...the bureau does have a spousal paid
leave...and since we're practically living
together...well we are living together now, I
mean we're sharing the same bed and
we're...you know, having sex and..."

"Mulder, are you by any chance asking me to
marry you?" she asked aghast, but I could see
the shadow of a smile.

I nodded.  “If...if that’s okay with you,
Scully.  I know I’m not much of a catch right
now....” I couldn’t finish my sentence
because she was kissing me so hard.

“Dammit, Mulder, you never know when to shut
up, do you?  Of course I’ll marry you,” she
whispered throatily into my ear.  That’s my
Scully, romantic to the end.

She’s wearing my Oxford ring as her
engagement ring.  I called Mom, and she’s
sending Grandma Mulder’s wedding ring for the
ceremony.  It’ll be small, and Mom isn’t well
enough to attend.

Scully and I will be married in the chapel at
the Rosie Dawson Cancer Treatment Center by
the chaplain there. We’ve decided to have the
big Catholic wedding later, when I’m
recovered.  I telephoned Skinner and asked
him to be my best man.  He was surprised but
very flattered by the request.

*****

November 1, 2000 All Souls Day

Scully’s mother and Skinner stood up with us
and the gunmen videotaped the wedding so my
mom'll have a copy. Mom sent flowers, and the
chapel was bedecked with chrysanthemums,
white and yellow and rust-colored. This
morning, Special Agent Dana Scully, MD,
wearing a fetching navy blue suit (she
doesn’t own a white dress) added a 'hyphen
Mulder' to her name.

Mom sent the wedding ring by overnight pack
and I was glad to be able to slip it onto
Scully’s finger.  And, for a wonder, I didn’t
throw up all day.  Must be the champagne
Skinner brought.

We celebrated with cake and champagne after
the ceremony and Frohike cried.  I always
knew he was sentimental.

I GUESS -- some people might wonder why I'm
so happy, since Adult Primary Liver Cancer;
Localized unresectable only has a survival
rate of 30%

ALL I KNOW -- is I'm lying here in bed, my
wife sleeping beside me, her small warm hand
resting casually on my upper thigh and I just
can't stop smiling.

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER
November 6, 2000

I'm writing this, half reclining in a lounge
chair, while a tube is pumping poison into my
veins. I've spent the last half hour since
Scully went to see if they've found
something....anything....I can take for
nausea, trying to convince myself I'm not in
the throes of a nightmare.

I've only been able to force food down my
rebellious gorge for two days without it
coming immediately back up, and here I am
starting this process all over again. The
frowns I received at my "weigh-in" this
morning were silent, disapproving testimony
that Fox Mulder is losing too much weight. As
if I had any say in the matter.

This morning, as I was getting ready for this
appointment, I frightened Scully.  I think I
took ten years off her life. I'd just stepped
from the shower and was combing my hair when
I screamed. I couldn't help it.

"Mulder!" she didn't waste a moment knocking,
and the door was flung open without an
announcement.

I couldn't speak, I just held the brush out
for her to see. She almost hid the wince that
came with her notice of half a head full of
matted hair, there in the bristles. It's
started, no warning, no preamble. I'm not one
of the fortunate to dodge this bullet. My
hair is falling out in clumps.

"I've got that Yankee's cap you gave me after
the series."  Scully's voice was soft. She
met my eyes.  She's got more guts than I
have. I couldn't even look at myself in the
mirror. I never realized I was this vain.

*****

I'm back at the house, curled up on our bed,
a trash can at the ready beside me. This time
is worse than the last. Just when I think
there's nothing left inside me, it hits and
I'm choking on saliva, phlegm and bile.

I've got 4 more days of this.


*****

They have started me on methadone to help my
nausea. It's helping. I haven't vomited in
twenty minutes.

Were staying here at the hospital overnight
because that last time I tossed my cookies
(the last time since Scully brought me into
the ER) I had another blood vessel burst.
They say no problem, though. I just got a
little intense while I was flinging chunks.
My red cell count's a little low, too. They
just wanna keep an eye on me.

Speaking of eyes...I burst a couple of them,
too. Not my eyeball, little blood vessels in
them. I once saw a strangulation victim, when
I was working VCU, whose eyes looked like
mine do now. After my barf-o-rama. He'd been
killed with pantyhose. His girlfriend did it.
An honest to God female serial killer. She
got rid of four boyfriends before we caught
her. The guy with the red eye was the last
one.

She had red hair. Okay, Scully keep up with
me here. I'm telling you what I'm typing,
when I type it, so I know I'm going slow
enough for you. Hey, I'm making perfect
sense.  No, I'm not sleepy. Not at all. I, I,
I, I feel ggggreattttttt. No, I don’t need to
rest, wanna finish typpp...ttyPPpp.. writing
here in my...um... in this thingy. My book
uh...thinggg.... Hey wait, No! Scully, don't
take my ...

I took your laptop. Good night. - DKS-M

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

JOURNAL OF FOX MULDER

December 1, 2000

Frohike and Byers dropped by while Scully was
at the hospital getting my fix.<g> (The
Methadone does seem to work, though it makes
me higher than a kite. I reread my last
journal entry and I don't remember writing
half of what was there.) Tried to be my usual
witty, entertaining self but this damn nausea
is getting me down and my vision is still off
after breaking those blood vessels in my left
eye. (For some reason, I don't say things
like "This is killing me" anymore. Wonder
why?)

She sensed that one of the gunmen had the
beginnings of a head cold and my dulcet
darling, with her J. Edgar style and finesse
got him to confess he'd also just recently
had a stomach bug. I plan on printing up a
sign --

Be ye warned, all who venture to this door -
A clean bill of health, signed by no less
than two licensed physicians (both MD’s
credentials must have met prior approval by
Special Agent Dana K. Scully-Mulder, MD) will
from hence forth be necessary for entry.


She cares. I know that's why. Reminds me of
that song by the Band. She mends me, tends me
and defends me.

Scully's the reason I'm going to make it
through this.  And I am.

*****

Scully has continued to research the Coston
case and has been bringing the files home for
me to read.  I appreciate that, I can only
watch so much Jerry Springer before I begin
to feel homicidal.

The killings have continued and seem to be
escalating.  The victims are getting younger.

Two more bodies have been found, both
females, age 14 and 13, both dead of
premature aging.  Both were found with
identical religious medals of St. Jude on the
bodies.  And there’s more.  Scully found
traces of salted water on the latest body,
consistent with holy water.  She theorizes
that the killer is somehow blessing the body,
implying either a ritual killing or, as I
believe, a blessing of the body after death.
Maybe our killer has a conscience?

Also, investigation of Amber Coston’s
background has turned up a stormy
relationship between the couple.  Apparently
the two had a fight, in front of witnesses,
just two days before Amber turned up dead.
Coston wished out loud that Amber would just
disappear from his life. Two days later Amber
was found dead of old age.

We have also found a connection between three
of the victims.  The last three girls found
dead were all members of a local youth soccer
league, and Scully has confirmed that Michael
Gillette was a coach for the same league.  I
saw a team soccer picture on his desk when we
were at the house, showing his 9 year old
daughter with the rest of the team.  But why
kill him and then move on to children?  The
killings just don’t fit together.  Amber’s
could have been a revenge-murder, but where
does Gillette fit in? Or the girls?

And weirdest of all, Michael Coston is dying.

He is HIV positive, now living at St. Mary’s
Hospice.


******************
Symbiosis (9 of ?)

Entry no: 2000/12/04
Report of: #8\18081957/Fox
Local Name: Miriam


You were sleeping peacefully, the nausea lulled away
by the tea she'd fixed you and the warmth of her arms,
when you suddenly sat straight up in bed.

The flu that Byers had passed on, finally made its
presence known. I might have helped some, had I not
been floating on my numbing chemo high. As it was,
your fit of almost projectile-like vomiting woke
Scully. How could it not, the contents of your stomach
saturated the entire bedroom, her included.

"I think that nightmare about Linda Blair and the
split pea soup set this off," you croaked, sleep and
fatigue rusting your tone.

She half carried you into the bathroom, chuckling
softly for your benefit at your drowsy attempt at wit.

You mutely stretched a not so steady hand to her
cheek, vainly dabbing at where a smear of rapidly
drying vomit had landed.  "I'm sorry, Scully," came
out in a low, hitching half swallowed sob of
embarrassment.

Murmuring "It's okay," and handing you a warm wash
rag, she allowed you the dignity of the somewhat
daunting task of sponging yourself clean.

Assured that you were holding your own, she then left
the door ajar for safety, and dutifully set about
cleaning up the havoc in the bedroom your sudden
illness had wrought.

Even in my stupor, I could read your mood, Mulder. I
knew, even weak and depleted from yesterday's dose of
chemo, you still wanted to fight.

You needed to rage back at what was happening to you.
With a sigh, you tossed the rag into the sink, knowing
that the task of getting rid of what was now caking on
your entire body would have been impossible with that
tiny, damp square of terry cloth.

Gamely gathering up all your energy, you shuffled over
to the shower and turned the spray on to your favorite
setting of blistering needles. You then began to peel
off your soiled T-shirt and sweat pants, giving the
foul-smelling garments a half hearted kick to the far
corner by the toilet. You made a mental note to
yourself to remember to take care of this messy detail
before Scully got a chance to spot them.

You'd just stepped through the wafting steam and were
shutting the curtain behind you when you spotted the
stranger. That thin, yellowed parchment skinned,
partially bald man, hunched and wearily trembling as
he moved about in the hot, gray fog of the bathroom,
wore your face.

That one reflected glimpse stole your breath away.
Shocked horror drove you reeling back 'til you pressed
against the moist, just warming tiles. You clenched
your eyes shut in denial, squinting against the tears.

Stark black and white images passed before your mind's
eye -- emaciated men, women, children, stripped of
hair, clothing and all but the last tattered vestiges
of their pride. Behind your closed lids, in the
darkness shuffled the countless wraith-like people
who, like you,  were prisoners trapped in a cruel,
pitiless world that moved on, heedless to their silent
cries for mercy.

Those in your vision  wore the same haunted,
death’s-head expression, while being led to their
slaughter, that you'd just witnessed in your own
reflection, opening a door in you that you'd somehow
kept barred until now.

You saw your mortality.

You saw the skeleton finger beckoning you into untold
suffering and ultimately death.  You know that your
fate is to follow where the Reaper leads.

Scully entered moments later to find you sobbing,
huddled in the tub, your