Any Other Name						Part 2 – Chapters 4 & 5
by Louise Marin
mibosh@earthlink.net
www.angelfire.com/la/xspot



FOUR:

Scully slipped into the desolate alley that harbored the entrance to 
the Gunmen's lair.  The night air carried a chill that bit at her 
cheeks and her tear-strained eyes.  She folded her arms around her 
chest, feeling like there was nothing alive in the world but herself 
and the man that walked behind her.  He shadowed her, close but without 
physical contact.  The inches between them were filled with his heat, 
his nervous energy, and, she felt, the need to touch her.  He never 
seemed to know where to put his hands.  The alley itself seemed to suck 
up sound like the black hole Scully often thought it was.  She swore 
that the only sounds for miles were those of their feet on the pavement 
and his breath behind her which puffed onto the back of her neck, slid 
over her shoulders, and made her feel like she was being trailed by a 
memory.  She reached around to scratch the small of her back.

He, whoever he was, had seemed distant and bewildered on the ride from 
her house.  Scully had noticed him fighting his fatigue so that he 
could observe the outside world as they passed it by.  As much as he 
seemed to want to stay alert, she knew his body would give out soon, 
exhausted, and rest would be required.  She had no idea how many miles 
he had run and hoped that the Gunmen could spare a couch for him.

The Gunmen.  As they approached their door, Scully allowed herself a 
tired, half-hearted chuckle.  She wondered what her old, sometime 
friends' reactions would be to such unexpected guests.  Would they be 
afraid?  Amused?  Angry?  An uneasiness began to bubble in her stomach.  
It had been almost a year since she had last been in contact with any 
of them.

Scully looked up at the camera fixed to the brick wall across from the 
Gunmen's rust-brown door.  Her companion looked up as well, and then he 
started to fidget nervously.

"Do you know what that is?" she asked.

He nodded.  "Camera.  There were many at the Clinic.  They watched us."

"You didn't like that?"

"No."  He looked down at his feet.  "No."

Scully nodded, wondering why the Gunmen were taking so long to see them 
and open the door.  She had a vision of them sitting in front of their 
security monitor, its gray light flickering across their open mouths 
and wide eyes.  They sat frozen in place until her imaginary Frohike 
fainted and fell out of his chair.  Smirking, she shook herself from 
the vision, hoping that the sight of Mulder alive and well outside 
their lair was not really too much for them.  Come on, guys, she 
silently begged.  It's cold out here and it's quiet and he's standing 
so close…

She let a few seconds go by, but still there was nothing. Finally, she 
turned and pressed a button on the dirty speaker box next to the door.  
Several more minutes passed, and Mulder started to get really fidgety.  
She watched him wring his hands together as he tried to stay still.  
"Is this a home that we are at, Dana Scully?" he asked shyly.

"Yes.  Sort of.  The camera should see us and notify the guys of our 
arrival, but…"  She pressed the button on the intercom twice more.

"Identify yourself," a gentle voice finally buzzed from the speaker.

"Byers, it's Dana Scully.  What's wrong with your camera?"

"Scully," Byers said, sounding suddenly dry and distant.  

There was a long silence.  Scully closed her eyes and hung her head.  
She should have known the Gunmen would not be immediately forgiving of 
the kiss-off she had given them following his death.  They had not 
understood.  They were too close to him.  Every word they spoke echoed 
of him in her mind.  She had not been able to see them anymore.

"I'll be right there," Byers finally said.

While they waited for Byers, Mulder leaned tiredly against the wall 
next to the door.  Scully hoped he would stay right there, would remain 
out of Byers' line of sight until she was ready to present him.  Maybe 
she could find a way to ease the shock the men were about to receive.

Finally the door swung open.  Mulder jumped at the sound, but Scully 
pressed her hand to his chest to keep him settled against the wall.  

Byers looked down at Scully from the doorway.  "Camera's broken." He 
watched her for a moment with hard eyes, but then his face softened 
some.  "God, Scully.  It's been so long.  Is everything okay?"

"Fine, Byers.  Extraordinary and inexplicable, but fine."

The corners of Byers' lips lifted in a rare smile.  "Sounds just like 
old times," he said.  "Oh!"  His hand flew to his mouth, covering 
sudden embarrassment.  "I'm sorry Scully.  I didn't mean that the way 
it sounded.  I mean, I know it could never be the same, and…"

Scully shook her head, trying to get Byers to stop his unnecessary 
apology.  Deciding there would be little way to dull the shock he and 
the others were about to receive, she decided to expose her remarkable 
companion and put an end to this uncomfortable conversation.

"I brought someone to see you," she announced.  

Byers' eyebrows shot up.  A question, a lot of paranoia, and a tiny bit 
of fear wrestled in his eyes.

Scully chuckled.  "I think you're going to like this guy, John."  She 
turned to Mulder and gestured for him to come forward into the doorway.  
He looked at her with boyish uncertainty, his lips puckered and his 
chin tucked into his chest.  "It's okay.  These men are friends," she 
said gently.  Then she took his hand and pulled him into the light.

Byers' jaw hit the floor.  Scully herself had to wrestle with her own 
composure.  Giggles bubbled at the surface of her cool exterior as she 
watched the man's face change from shock to joy to confusion and then 
back to shock again.  He stood perfectly still, studying the vision of 
his lost friend.  "Guys!" he hissed over his shoulder.

"Tell them we don't want any, Byers.  It's one AM, for Christ's sake!" 
Frohike grumbled loudly from inside.

Byers swallowed hard and called again, louder and more urgently, 
"Guys!"

Frohike and Langly appeared behind Byers in the doorway.  They both 
looked tired and groggy, and Scully was sure they had just rolled out 
of bed.  She wondered when they had started retiring so early.  "What 
the hell, Byers?" Langly muttered.

Frohike and Langly noticed Mulder simultaneously.  Their eyes widened, 
and both their mouths dropped open.  "Holy shit," came their collective 
voice.

Scully felt Mulder begin to shift nervously under the men's scrutiny.  
She squeezed his hand reassuringly, but it did not seem to help.

"Is it a ghost?" Langly whispered.

"I don't think so," was Byers' dazed reply.

"Shut up, you dumb-asses," Frohike said.  "Look at him."  He pushed the 
two taller men aside and wrapped his arms around Mulder's chest.  
"Mulder, you asshole, where the hell have you been?" the little troll 
asked, a smile on his face.  

Moments later, the other two men rushed out into the alley so they 
could all hug Mulder at once.  Scully just barely heard his whimper 
over the other men's joy.  Gently, trying not to trample anyone's 
feelings, she insinuated herself between Mulder and the three men 
fawning over him like he was a long lost child. 

"Dana Scully, I don't understand," he muttered to her.

She rubbed his arm comfortingly.  "It's okay.  These are your friends.  
I mean, these were his friends," she tried to explain, feeling more 
than a little confused herself.  "Hopefully, they're going to be your 
friends, too.  You understand the word friend, right?"

He nodded but continued to look at the Gunmen warily.

Frohike, obviously tired of this game, walked straight up to Scully.  
There were healthy doses of both hurt and ire in his eyes.  "What the 
hell is wrong with him, Scully?"

Scully sighed and rubbed her temples wearily.  "It's a long story, 
Frohike.  I think you guys overwhelmed him just now.  Can we come 
inside?"

Frohike nodded, and they all retreated into the Gunmen's stuffy, 
cluttered, highly electronically automated abode.  As Byers shut and 
locked the door behind her, Scully tried to come up with a gentle way 
to tell them that they might not be reuniting with the same dear friend 
they had lost eighteen months ago.

"I think you should all sit down," Scully said once they were all in 
the Gunmen's 'living room.'  Even there, electronic gadgets lined every 
wall and covered several metal worktables.

The Gunmen parked themselves on couches and chairs, but Mulder remained 
standing by Scully's side. Uncertainty creased his brow.  Scully pulled 
him over to a wheeled chair by one of the tables and sat him down.  
Leaning both her palms flat on the table, she took a deep breath.  
Where to begin?  Where to begin?  The Gunmen watched her with expectant 
eyes.

"Scully, how can this be?" Byers asked with uncharacteristic 
impatience.  "We all went to his funeral."

"There was no body at that service, and you know it," Scully snapped.  
She watched as Byers withdrew his gaze from her, choosing instead to 
stare some more at Mulder.  Scully looked down at the table she was 
using for support and pinched the bridge of her nose, struggling to 
keep herself under control.  When she felt a feather-light touch on the 
back of her free hand, she looked up to find Mulder staring straight 
into her, his expression full of worry.  She felt her lips rebel and 
turn up into a small, weepy smile.  "It's okay," she whispered to him.  

Pulling her hand away from Mulder's touch, Scully turned back to face 
the Gunmen.  "He's been at a place he calls the Clinic.  All he 
remembers is his time there. He escaped and somehow followed his nose 
to my house.  I think…"  She swallowed.  God, it was painful to even 
suggest that he was not the man he was supposed to be.  "I think he may 
be a clone.  He said they were planning to wipe his memory of his time 
at the Clinic.  I think, maybe, they were trying to bring Mulder back."  

Scully watched as the three faces in front of her all fell at once.  
When she glanced over at Mulder, she found him looking down at his lap.  
She looked down at hers too.  "He said there were others there like 
him."

A full minute passed and no one said a word.  It was Mulder's soft, low 
voice that finally stole the silence.  "Dana Scully, why do you not 
believe me?"  His downcast profile was unreadable.

Something twisted in Scully's chest.  "Oh, Mulder.  We've been duped so 
many times regarding so many different things.  Always by bad men like 
the gray-haired man you mentioned.  It's not that I don't believe that 
you believe you're telling the truth.  I just want to make sure we're 
not both being fooled."

Mulder nodded, still not looking up at her.  She hoped that he 
understood.

The Gunmen, so far, had been quiet, probably lost in the shock of it 
all.  Scully thought for a moment that she would like to get lost with 
them.  Langly was the first to finally recover.  He crossed the room to 
stand in front of Mulder, inspecting his face carefully.  "That's a 
nice cut you have on your mouth, Mulder.  Scully, if he was a clone, 
shouldn't the cut be…well, you know…more on the green side?"

Scully nodded.  "I know," she said quietly.  Her throat felt so raw and 
so tight.  It was a wonder she could form any words at all.  "The other 
clones were all hybrids, which could be distinguished by the green 
blood.  But I think this may be the real thing."

"And you want us to find out if he is."

"Well, there's that, and…  Frohike, where's your metal detector?"

"In the other room."

"Is it a good one?"

"Nothing but the best for me, Agent Scully.  What's it for?"

Scully took a deep breath.  "The men at the Clinic embedded an 
electronic tracking device somewhere in his body."
All three Gunmen jumped up at once.  "Jesus, Scully, why didn't you 
tell us when you got here?" Langly asked.  

Scully shrugged.  At least she had gotten them moving.  "I don't think 
they're coming for him.  If they were, they would have picked him up by 
now.  We should get it out now, though, anyway."

The Gunmen simply glared at her as they darted into the other room to 
hopefully retrieve the metal detector.  Scully tugged on Mulder's 
sleeve, asking him to follow her into the Gunmen's main makeshift lab.  

In the lab, Mulder looked reluctant to get up onto the exam table at 
Scully's request.  "Did you have to get on a table like this often at 
the Clinic, Mulder?" Scully asked gently.

He nodded.  "Doctor Baker put the cold liquid on my skin," he 
explained, gesturing to his shoulder and his leg.

"Well, we won't put anything cold on your skin, okay?  I promise," she 
said, looking into his gentle eyes.

"Okay."  His face was trusting and open, and Scully felt her eyes begin 
to tremble with tears once again.

She brushed a lock of hair from his forehead.  "Hop up, then, okay?"

Mulder nodded, but instead of hopping up on the table, he reached for 
the waist of his sweat pants and started to pull them down.

"Oh, no, Mulder.  You can keep those on for now," Scully told him. 

He jerked the pants back up, looking everywhere but at Scully, and then 
climbed up onto the table.  Embarrassment was obvious on his face, but 
Scully could not tell whether it was over his exposing himself in front 
of her or over the fact that he had made a mistake.  She sighed, 
realizing that no matter who he was they both had so much to learn, or 
relearn, about each other.

Frohike came into the room with his metal detector.  He pressed a 
button and it came on with a beep.  "Check this baby out, Mulder.  It's 
the TrackAll 72Million.  What do ya think?"  Mulder blinked at the 
little man.  Frohike grunted, obviously disappointed.  He shook his 
head and thoroughly glided his metal detector over Mulder's body.  When 
he reached Mulder's left underarm, the device spouted a flourish of 
beeps.  

"There it is," Frohike said, a little bit of glee showing behind his 
scowl.

"Okay, shirt off, Mulder," Scully commanded.  Mulder slid the 
sweatshirt over his head, and Scully lifted up his left arm to inspect 
the skin and hair beneath it.  She pressed the pads of two fingers 
against him, probing.  Mulder began to shift uncomfortably at her 
touch.  Scully smiled despite herself.  "This tickle, Mulder?" she 
asked as she lightly brushed her fingernail over his skin and hair.  He 
tried to wrench his arm from her grasp, a tormented smile crinkling his 
face. 

"Hey was Mulder ticklish before?" asked Frohike.

"I don't know," she replied with a sigh.  She had never had the chance 
to tickle Mulder and find out.  Their relationship was playful a lot of 
the time, but that playfulness had rarely extended into the physical.  
She had no idea why she had tickled Mulder, this Mulder, just then.  No 
idea at all.  She shook her head, trying to clear it, and went on with 
her exam.

"Here it is," she announced, having found a tiny lump in the center of 
his arm pit.  "It's not very deep, and it's not near any major tendons 
or arteries.  Should be easy to remove."  

With the Gunmen's help and supplies, Scully shaved away the hair 
covering the lump, applied a local anesthetic, and deftly removed the 
chip.  While Scully sewed in two stitches and covered the area with a 
waterproof bandage, she thanked God for the Gunmen.  They were prepared 
for anything.  Mulder sat quietly, watching her work, the procedure not 
bothering him a bit.

The Gunmen themselves were far more interested in the device itself 
than in the wound its removal had caused.  They huddled around their 
big microscope like boys perusing their first stolen copy of Playboy.

"What do you think, fellas?" Scully asked as she finished up Mulder's 
last stitch.  

"I think we need to destroy this thing," Langly said.  Byers and 
Frohike agreed.

Scully put down her thread and ran a hand through her hair and over the 
back of her neck.  She felt the bump of her own chip there at the same 
time Byers dropped the tracking device into a tiny plastic bag and 
Frohike took a hammer down from the wall.

Scully's stomach turned to ice.  "No!  Wait!  Frohike, wait," she said 
desperately, wrapping herself around his arm and pulling the hammer 
from his hand.  The three Gunmen gaped at her.  She gaped right back.  
"Four years ago I had a mysterious chip pulled from my own neck.  Do 
you remember what happened?  We can't do this.  We can't destroy it.  
He might need it.  We should never have taken it out."  She was 
shouting, she realized.  But in this, control was beyond her grasp.  

Still sitting on the table, Mulder whimpered and cringed at her shouts.  
"I don't understand," he said, barely audibly.

Scully was grateful when Langly went to him.  He put his hand on 
Mulder's shoulder and gave him comforting words.  "It's okay, man.  
She's just…  She's had some bad things happen to her.  She got scared 
for you, that's all."

When Mulder settled back down, Byers held up the tracking device.  
"Scully, it's just a standard tracking device, albeit a very small and 
technologically advanced one.  We all saw your chip, and this one is 
nothing like it, okay?" 

Scully nodded but still felt uneasy.  "And the only way to disable it 
is to destroy it?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

Byers nodded, and the men did not wait for her to protest or make any 
kind of decision.  Byers and Frohike turned to Langly and set the chip 
and the hammer reverently into his hands.  "I'm sorry, Scully," Byers 
said quietly.  "We can't risk him or ourselves by keeping it around 
here.  I promise you, though, that removing it will not hurt him.  We 
would never put him in danger, you know that."

Scully sighed and rubbed her eyes.  "Sorry guys," she said quietly.

"That's okay."  Byers put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.  "Langly 
will take the device a few miles out and destroy it there."

Scully nodded her thanks and then turned to Mulder.  He was sitting on 
the table looking at her blankly.  "It's okay, Mulder," she said.  
"It's okay."  She could hear the fatigue in her own voice.  God, she 
was so tired.  She rubbed her eyes.  What now?  What now?  

"Does Bucater still have that blood sample?  The one we sent after 
Mulder returned from Tunguska?" she asked the Gunmen.

"He should.  He said he was going to save what was left to study the 
virus over time," replied Langly as he searched the cluttered room, 
presumably looking for the keys to their van.  

"I'll see if he's home," Frohike offered.  "I think he owes me a 
favor."  Russel Bucater was the head of the Biotechnology Department at 
Georgetown, a longtime subscriber to The Lone Gunman, a part-time 
paranoid schizophrenic, and an avid porn collector.

"Good.  See if he'll do an in depth DNA analysis and comparison and, if 
he can, run a scan for the antibodies to that Tunguska virus," Scully 
commanded.  Frohike crossed the room to use the phone, and Scully 
turned to Mulder.  "They drew your blood before at the Clinic, right, 
Mulder?"

He nodded, and Byers supplied Scully with a sterile syringe.  She drew 
the blood and handed it over to Langly, who left a few minutes later to 
take care of the chip and to meet Bucater at Georgetown. 

"Frohike, do you have a strong magnifying glass and a really bright 
light?" Scully asked, deciding to keep Mulder on the exam table a few 
minutes more.

"Sure thing, Scully."  Frohike poked around the cluttered room a bit 
and then handed Scully the magnifying glass.  "Where do you want the 
light?"

"Point it at his chest."  Once the light was good, Scully used the 
magnifying glass to inspect Mulder's shoulder.  Aside from the pink 
color and the ink brackets, the skin there was perfect.  As far as she 
could tell, it had never been torn; a plastic surgeon could never have 
removed the scar tissue and reconstructed the skin so flawlessly.  
Every line, every hair, was in place.  There were even a few light 
freckles dotting the area.

"Hey Scully," she heard Byers call, "did Mulder ever have braces?"

"Don't think so.  Why?"

"I've got his dental records here.  Not the straightest teeth in the 
world, which doesn't help us much.  He did have a lot of fillings, 
though."

Scully asked Mulder to open his mouth.  She shined a penlight onto his 
teeth.  They were white and clean, whiter than Mulder's had ever been.  
There were no fillings or evidence that they had ever been drilled.

Scully closed her eyes.  Bad.  Things were looking very bad.  It's not 
going to be him, is it? she asked herself, or God, or anyone that would 
listen to her despair.  It was not going to be him.  Shaking her head, 
she willed herself to reserve judgment until the blood analysis came 
back.

Opening her eyes, she caught Mulder mid-yawn.  She told him he could 
put his shirt back on and climb down from the table.  "I'm going to 
take him into the living room to lay down, okay guys?"

"Sure, Scully.  There's some blankets in the closet in there," Frohike 
said.

"Come on, Mulder.  You need to get some sleep."  Scully led him into 
the living room and got him situated with a blanket and a pillow on the 
couch.  When he looked up at her from his makeshift bed, she saw that 
fear still haunted his eyes.  

"It's okay, Mulder," she reassured.  "Sleep now.  I won't let anything 
happen to you."

"And you?" he asked.

She knelt down beside him.  "I'll be fine.  Just fine."

He nodded and closed his eyes.  Scully ran her fingers through his 
hair.  "I don't think they're coming now," she said gently.  

Just a few minutes more passed before his breathing evened out and 
Scully knew he had found sleep.  She sat there watching him, 
appreciating his beautiful, bruised, living face and the way his long 
eyelashes rested so gently and peacefully against the skin beneath his 
closed eyes.  He was, at that moment, the Mulder she had seen every 
time he had ever slept in her presence.  She had listened to him 
struggle with nightmares through the walls of countless hotel rooms.  
But when he was with her, whether it was in the car or passed out on 
her couch or napping at his desk, he hardly seemed to dream at all.  
She wondered what she was going to do if this man truly turned out not 
to be him.  She wondered if it mattered.  He needed her.  But was he 
'Mulder' enough?  Could she ever need him back?

She noticed, suddenly, that Byers stood at her side, watching Mulder 
sleep as well.  "It's not him, is it?" she whispered, looking for some 
reassurance or comfort.

"We don't know that yet, Scully," was all Byers could offer.  He 
stepped away, sinking down into a nearby easy chair.  Scully did the 
same, and together they watched him sleep in reverent and uneasy 
silence.


Hours later, Langly returned with the blood analysis results.  Scully 
watched him enter the living room from her post in the chair nearest 
Mulder.  Langly's face was drawn and grim, his jaw set.  His body moved 
slowly as if the dim room was filled with glue.  Scully's heart sank.  
It was not him.

She took the blood results from Langly and went over them herself.  
Everything looked perfect, correct, and doubtless.  Of course.  Bucater 
never did a bum job.  The tears that Scully had spent the last few 
hours stifling invaded her eyes with a vengeance.  

Byers and Frohike looked at her with anticipation.  "There were some 
discrepancies," she explained tightly.  "Mostly in the genes 
responsible for growth and aging.  The differences were so minor that 
three distinct tests were required to see them at all."  She swiped at 
the tears in her eyes and took a deep breath.  "They did a good job, 
whoever they are.  They even gave him antibodies to the black oil.  A 
biotechnologist or a genetic engineer like Bucater would find the 
differences in the DNA if he was looking close enough, but a regular 
doctor, a hospital…never." 

"So they would have gotten away with this if he hadn't escaped and they 
had wiped his memory," Byers said numbly.

"I think they would have."  Silently, Scully battled with the part of 
her that wished they had, that wished she knew nothing of cloning and 
would be able to accept amnesia Mulder without asking the questions 
that would lead her to this awful truth.  She glanced over at the man 
sleeping on the couch.  He stirred, rolling onto his side to face her, 
his mouth falling gently open.  He was so beautiful.  He was so Mulder.  
She had wanted it to be the right Mulder, her Mulder.  Oh God, how she 
had wanted it to be him.  But he was, without a doubt, a true clone.  
The science of it, at least, was more believable than a resurrection, 
but it did not help to quell Scully's disappointment.  "It's not him," 
she whispered.

Frohike stood next to her, his face dull and blank.  Scully knew he had 
wanted his friend back almost as much as she had.  "No, it's not him, 
Dana.  But, in so many ways, it could be him," he said quietly.  "Is it 
not the mind that makes the man?"

"Is it?  I don't know.  It's not him.  It's just not."  She put her 
hand over her mouth, trying to still her quaking chin.  The tears were 
so close to spilling over.  "I don't know what I'm going to do," she 
said from behind her hand.

Byers put a supportive hand on her shoulder.  "Well, you're certainly 
not going to abandon him," he stated mildly.

"No.  No, of course not," she said as her tears finally grew too heavy.  
One spilled over onto her cheek.  "Excuse me," she said.  Turning 
quickly, she went to find the bathroom.

At the sink, she splashed water on her face and sucked in the rest of 
her tears.  She was heartbroken but could not let herself break down 
and sob, not after all this time.  She had been holding onto the hope 
that the clone really was her Mulder and that he would eventually get 
his memory back.  She had hoped that they could become once again what 
they had been before.  She wanted her partner back.  But she knew now 
that she had to let that hope go.  There were no memories for this man 
to recover.

She splashed her face one more time and then looked up into the mirror 
above the sink.  Her face, she knew, looked different than it had 
before the death.  There were more lines around her eyes and across her 
forehead.  And her eyes themselves were not the same.  They were harder 
and hopeless.  She was not quite the same person she had been before, 
and she suddenly wondered if having this different Mulder around would 
be all that bad.  Surely having a clone with the potential to be Mulder 
would be better than having no Mulder at all.  Surely…surely…  Her 
hands began to shake.

Suddenly, she felt an urgent need to see the body.  The clone had said 
they were keeping it preserved at the Clinic.  She wanted to see him 
one last time, to say good-bye like she had not been able to at a 
memorial service with an empty casket.  Most of all, she wanted to see 
the faces of the men who had teased her so cruelly by bringing the 
clones to life.  Heading back into the living room, she gathered up the 
Gunmen and roused Mulder.  It was time for a road trip.


Scully watched the quiet, pre-dawn world fly by through the tinted 
windows of the Gunmen's old van.  She sat in the back seat with the 
clone, feeling exhausted in every possible way.  It had been the 
longest night and one of little sleep.  In a few more minutes, the sky 
would whisper first light.

The clone had been characteristically quiet since they had awakened 
him.  As they were leaving the Gunmen's, he had asked a single 
question.  He had asked Scully if she would help the other clones at 
the Clinic.  Without hesitation, she had promised him she would.  It 
was the first time she had seen him openly, easily smile.

He appeared nervous now, his knee bouncing and his fingers twisting 
around each other in his lap.  But Scully could not find it in herself 
to comfort him.  She needed some distance and some time, and she needed 
to see the body, needed to separate the original Mulder from the clone 
in her mind and in her heart.  

The clone had drawn a map from Scully's house to the Clinic.  
Apparently, he had the original Mulder's perfect photographic memory, 
and the way was clear in his head.  The Clinic itself turned out to be 
less than ten miles from Scully's house.  All this time, the clones and 
the body had been less than ten miles away.  Scully shook her head in 
sad disbelief.

The van pulled to a stop in front of a dark, concrete warehouse.  The 
large property around it was enclosed by a thick and very tall chain 
link fence.  

"Is this the place?" Scully asked the clone.

He nodded, but a frown tugged at his lips.  Something was bothering 
him.  

Up ahead, the fence shifted into a large gate.  A lone guard-post was 
positioned just in front, leaving a path for cars to go through on 
either side when the gate was open.  The small building was dark and 
appeared vacant.  Scully instructed Langly to pull the van up to the 
gate.

The guard-post was indeed empty and closed up.  The clone looked at it 
intently, his eyes creased in confusion.  "There should be someone 
here," he said quietly to Scully.  "This is where the guard hit me."

"Sorry, man," Langly said from the driver's seat.  "Looks like there's 
no one here now."

The clone nodded and then turned to look back at the main building.  
Before Scully could protest or stop him, he left his seat, tugged open 
the van's sliding door, and jumped out onto the pavement.  Scully 
checked to see that her gun was in place and then slipped out after 
him.

He stood still and quiet in front of the fence, gazing hard at the 
building.  Scully stood next to him, watching him quietly.  Dawn's 
light was gray and flat, and she found it difficult to read his face.

"It's different," he said.  "Dark.  When I ran, it was bright.  There 
were lights."  He pointed up at the tall, metal floodlights that would 
have lit the parking lot in front of the building.  They were off now, 
dark and forsaken.  The parking lot itself, Scully noticed, was also 
empty.  She released a worried sigh, next to certain that they would 
find the interior of the building to be just as deserted as the 
outside.  She reached up, wanting to use the fence as support, but her 
hand was batted down by the clone.  

"Don't touch," he commanded.

Scully looked up at him, puzzled.  He had turned to her, and she found 
his expression more than readable now.  A wild panic lit his face, 
though he seemed to be trying to hide it behind his clenched jaw and 
downcast eyes.  

"Electric fence?" she guessed.

He nodded solemnly.

"How did you get out, then?  You didn't climb over the fence…"  Against 
her own resolution to keep her distance, Scully found herself reaching 
for him.  She inspected his palms for burns, running her fingers over 
the skin, seeking reassurance that his injuries were not more severe 
than she had deduced thus far.  

"I am unhurt, Dana Scully," he assured, though he did not pull his 
hands from her gentle grasp.  "I saw that."  He nodded toward the 
lifeless body of a brown tree squirrel sprawled in the grass on the 
other side of the fence.  "It…  It is an animal.  As I was running, I 
saw it touch the fence, and it…  I think it became deceased, and I knew 
not to touch.  A car had just gone through over there.  I ran through 
the open gate before it closed.  The guard chased me then."

Scully nodded and dropped his hands.  "I guess you're okay, then," she 
mumbled, embarrassed by her panicked reaction to his possible injury.  
She told herself again that he was not Mulder.  But oh God did he look 
like him.  His hands felt like his.  His voice caressed her soul with 
the same silky comfort she had lost when Mulder had died.  Noticing the 
noisy ruckus of the Gunmen emerging from the van, Scully abruptly 
turned away from him.

"Are you sure this is the right bolt cutter?" she heard Frohike call.  

Alarmed, Scully scanned the shadowy area for his small figure.  He 
stood next to Langly's willowy silhouette at the center of the 
property's gate.  "Don't touch the fence!" she yelled, running toward 
them.

Her warning came too late.  She saw Frohike hold the bolt cutter up to 
the fence and squeeze.  There was a loud, metallic click followed by 
the tinny sound of chains hitting the asphalt.

"Scully?" Frohike asked as she arrived, panting and panicked, next to 
him. 

"He said it was an electric fence," she explained.

"Guess it's not anymore," Langly said as he pushed on the gate.  It 
swung open mildly.  

"This is looking pretty deserted.  Maybe they turned off the fence when 
they packed up and left," Byers suggested.  He looked at the clone.  
"Hey…ah…Mulder, were there lots of cars here…before?"

The clone nodded, his brow creased and his eyes alight with 
preoccupation.  He watched the property warily, like he was afraid it 
was playing a heinous trick on him.  His nostrils flared and his eyes 
were wide with panic.  Scully prayed for his sake and certainly in vain 
that the Others were still being kept inside the building. 

As the Gunmen stepped through the fence and onto the property, Scully 
went to the clone and took his arm, holding him back.  "I think it 
would be safer for you to wait in the car," she said.  "Byers, will 
wait in the van with him?"

The clone gently pushed her hand from his arm.  He caught her gaze, his 
own eyes filled with worry, and said simply, "No."  Before Scully could 
protest, he trotted off ahead of her and the Gunmen.  Drawing her 
weapon, Scully moved quickly to catch up.

She found him not at the door, but at one of the large, tinted front 
windows.  They were, she had noticed, the only windows on the outside 
of the building.  

"This was the front room," he said, his voice flat, "where people came 
in and out.  We used to try to go here to look through the windows.  
But they didn't like us doing that."

Scully stepped up to a window, placing her head close to the dark 
glass.  The room inside was lit slightly by the steadily brightening 
sky.  It was heartbreakingly empty.  Pulling her flashlight from her 
pocket, she joined the Gunmen at the door.

Langly used his electronic lock pick on the metal door and pulled it 
open.  He turned on an extra flashlight and handed it to the clone who 
then ran ahead of them inside.  Scully trotted after him, panic 
fluttering in her stomach when she lost sight of him down a dark 
hallway.  

Sweeping her light back and forth, she discovered that all the rooms 
were empty and perfectly clean.  The walls everywhere were clinically 
white, and the entire place reminded her of a hospital without, of 
course, any staff or equipment.  Or patients.

She found the clone standing in the doorway of a dark room.  Lighting 
his back with her flashlight, she saw that his breathing was heavy and 
erratic.  He did not react to Scully's arrival.  Squeezing into the 
doorway next to him, she swept her flashlight over the room, wondering 
what about it had upset him.  It was long and rectangular, and there 
was nothing inside but white tiled floor and walls and ceiling.

"This was the sleeping-room," he said, his voice dull.  "The others 
should be here."

"How many?" Scully asked quietly.

"Twelve."  His voice cracked on the word, and Scully's heart twisted as 
she realized that the others would have been like brothers to him, the 
only family he had ever known.

"And the body?" she asked, afraid of the answer but desperately needing 
to know.

He looked down at his feet, his body sagging with defeat and 
exhaustion.  "That room was empty also."

Scully leaned against the doorframe, closing her eyes and trying to 
control the desolation that had crept into her heart.  She had wanted 
to see the body and to see the other clones and the doctors.  She had 
wanted absolute proof that what this clone had been telling her all 
night was the truth.  She needed to know with the same certainty she 
had possessed little more than two weeks ago that Mulder was dead and 
gone.  She opened her eyes and forced herself to accept the fact that 
she had found none of these things.  Then she berated herself, knowing 
that she should be used to ending up with more questions than answers.

"I don't understand," said the familiar stranger next to her.  "What 
did they do with them all?  And why did they leave and they didn't come 
look for me?"

Scully shook her head.  "They knew you knew how to get here, so they 
probably left so we couldn't find them.  And like I said, maybe you're 
still here because someone actually wanted you to get out on your own.  
Maybe Doctor Baker.  I don't know."

"I don't think so.  Leaving on my own was not what the gray-haired man 
intended.  And they always did as he said."  He looked up at Scully 
with a combination of frustration and heartbreaking disappointment.  
Scully had seen that trademark face a thousand times.  Probably more.  
Mulder had worn it at every roadblock they had faced on their quest.  
He had worn it after every death and after every unresolved case.  And 
now this different Mulder wore that tormented face as well, probable 
for the first time.

"Oh, Mulder," she said with a sigh as she leaned into him, wrapping her 
arms around his waist.  "I'm so sorry they're gone," she whispered.  
"I'm so sorry."

For several moments, he was still and stiff in her embrace.  Then she 
felt him lift his arms.  Two large, tentative hands spread across her 
back.  As he held her to him ever so lightly, she felt his body begin 
to shake again, though she could not tell whether it was from emotion 
or from shock.  She really needed to get him into bed to sleep off some 
of the night's trauma.   

"I don't understand," he whispered into the top of her head.  "What did 
they do with them all?"

"I don't know," Scully whispered back, squeezing him a little tighter.  

When she heard the Gunmen approaching, she pulled away from him and 
took his hand.  "Come on, Mulder.  Let's go home."



FIVE:

Scully pulled her gun and unlocked her front door.  Leaving Mulder and 
the Gunmen outside, she slipped into her semi-dark home to be greeted 
immediately by Ishmael.  He pushed his nose into her free hand and 
licked her palm.  The dog's normal behavior was a good sign that the 
place was safe, but Scully did a quick sweep of all the rooms just to 
be certain.

When she reappeared at the door and gave the okay, the Gunmen pushed 
their way inside.  Mulder followed close behind, still looking a little 
wary of the large animal hovering excitedly in the entry hall.

Once they were all in the living room, Ishy slathered the guests with 
kisses and tail-wagging affection.  Mulder jumped when Ishy pushed his 
nose into his hand but then tentatively patted the dog on the head.  He 
looked surprised at the feel of Ishy's silky fur, pulling his hand away 
to stare uncertainly at his palm.  

Shaking her head in amusement, Scully took Mulder's arm and led him to 
the couch.  One of the white cushions was stained with dried blood from 
the night before, and she swiftly flipped it over.  "Rest," she said as 
she sat Mulder down and wrapped him in the blanket he had worn the 
night before.  He nodded, and she turned back to the Gunmen, who were 
already poking around the house.

"Nice place, Scully," Frohike said as he inspected her video 
collection.

"Thanks."

"German Shepherd.  Good protection," Langly commented.

"Yes," Scully said absently.  "We should get started."

"Look Scully, we'll sweep for bugs and cameras.  That's no problem.  
But I really don't think it's safe to have him here," Byers said, 
nodding toward Mulder.  "If they do want him back, this is probably the 
first place they'll look."

Scully turned away from him.  She went to the sliding glass door at the 
other end of the living room.  "Come here, Ishy," she called, pulling 
the door open.  The dog trotted over and slipped happily out into his 
back yard.

"Let's just do this, please, John?" Scully said quietly as she slid the 
door shut.  She just wanted to be home.  She had never let her enemies 
scare her out of her own house, and she was not about to start now.  
She wanted to get Mulder into the shower and then send him off to bed.  
She wanted him to sleep and then wake up and be himself again.  She 
wanted to show him her new house.  And if the men from the Clinic came 
for him, she would protect him without hesitation or failure.  She 
could be home, with him, and everything would be fine.

Byers sighed and nodded, and Scully and the Gunmen got to work.  Scully 
showed them around her small house, but they all decided to start in 
the living room, inspecting every inch of every surface in the room.  

Taking a break from searching her bookcase and its contents, Scully 
noticed Mulder watching the room's activity with wide eyes.  He leaned 
forward on the couch, his rapt attention darting from one Gunman to the 
next.  When Scully caught his gaze and gave him a tiny smile, he looked 
away shyly.  She wondered with a heavy heart how long it would take to 
make things right between them again.  This man was Mulder, but he was 
also a stranger, and Scully's head and heart were spiraling quickly 
into confusion. 

Trying to push her bewilderment away but needing to be near him just 
for a moment, Scully went to the phone that sat on the end table next 
to the couch.  Mulder watched her while she checked the phone for 
tapping or bugging devices.  When she came up empty, she held the 
receiver up to her ear and dialed the office.  She listened to the 
phone ring, waiting for Jon's voicemail to pick up.  

Mulder never took his eyes from her, his curiosity wrinkling his 
forehead.  He opened his mouth to speak, but Scully held up her hand, 
stopping him.  She looked down at her feet, feeling bad for cutting off 
his question.  The voice mail, though, was signaling her to start 
speaking.  "Jon, it's me," she said into the phone.  "Something came up 
and I won't be able to make it in today.  Don't worry, everything's 
fine.  I'll talk to you later."

When she looked up again, Mulder was gone, a crumpled pile of blanket 
left in his place on the couch.  She found him standing in front of the 
sliding glass door.  When she stepped up next to him, he looked at her 
and then back at the yard outside.  His face was lit with sunlight and 
awe.  The world had grown bright and pleasant outside.  The grass in 
her small yard was early spring green and looked inviting even to 
Scully.  

She could feel Mulder's excited energy next to her.  Knowing he should 
rest but unable to deprive him of such a beautiful morning, she opened 
the door and peeked out into the yard to make sure everything was safe.  
With a healthy dose of comfort, she noted Ishmael chasing a butterfly 
near his doghouse.

Stepping back into the house, she looked up at Mulder.  There was an 
excited question in his eyes.  "It's okay," she said, moving out of the 
doorway.

She watched as Mulder stepped hesitantly out onto her back patio.  He 
surveyed the yard and then spent long moments looking up at the cloud-
sprinkled, blue sky.  

As he stepped onto the grass, Ishy trotted up alongside him.  Mulder 
put his hand uncertainly on the dog's head and then quickly pulled 
away.  Ishy wagged his tail.  Mulder shook his head and gave the dog a 
tiny smile.  Then he bent down to touch the damp morning grass.  His 
face filled with surprise at its texture.  Rising again, Mulder began 
to walk slowly around the yard, his eyes caressing every aspect of this 
strange new little world with unabashed, innocent discovery.  Ishy 
trotted happily at his side as if he was giving a guest the grand tour 
of his home.

Scully smiled to herself as she watched them.  She felt conflicted, but 
almost embarrassingly happy.  She had been certain that Mulder would 
never see her new house, would never set foot inside and make himself 
at home.  But now she watched him tour the yard with her dog.  It was 
not like he had never left, but rather like he had gone on an extended 
leave and returned a new man.  Scully bit her tongue as a chill 
shimmied down her spine.  

"Do you think it's safe for him out there?" Frohike asked, pulling her 
out of her own confused head.  

"He's fine," she said, turning back to the living room.  "The yard is 
completely enclosed, and Ishy will alert us of any danger."

Frohike nodded and they all went back to their search.  Every few 
minutes, one of the Gunmen would grumble about how it was not safe for 
her and for Mulder there.  Scully quickly learned to tune them out.


An hour had passed, and they were almost finished searching the living 
room when Frohike called Scully and the others over to the glass door.  
Looking out at the yard, Scully saw Mulder flat on his back on the 
grass with ninety pounds of furry German Shepherd on top of him.  
Ishmael had two paws firmly planted on Mulder's chest and was 
methodically licking him senseless.  Mulder laughed and wiggled as the 
dog's tongue tickled his face.  Even from inside, Scully could see his 
eyes twinkling like she had never seen the original Mulder's twinkle 
before.  His joy brought unexpected tears to her eyes.

"He never laughed like that," she mumbled.

"What?" asked one of the Gunmen.

"Nothing," Scully whispered, not trusting her voice.  The original 
Mulder, she remembered, had never even really liked dogs.

Scully and the Gunmen continued to stare out the window, all held rapt 
by the scene unfolding in front of them.  Ishy bounced from Mulder's 
chest to retrieve a tennis ball from his dog house.  As Mulder sat up 
in the grass, not bothering to brush himself off, the dog trotted up 
and dropped the ball in his lap.  Mulder picked the object up, only to 
be surprised by the slimy coating the dog had left on it.  He made a 
disgusted face that made all three of the Gunmen chuckle and then 
tossed the ball aside.  Ishy, being the good dog that he was, went to 
retrieve the ball.

Mulder stood now, and Ishy returned to drop the ball at his feet.  The 
dog wagged his tail and looked up at Mulder, cocking his head and 
pricking up his ears.  Mulder cocked his head as well, mimicking his 
new friend.  Then he picked the ball up and threw it again.  He smiled 
when Ishy returned with it, and the game went on.

"He really doesn't know anything, does he?" Langly commented.  

"Nope," said Frohike.  "It's a good thing he got Mulder's smarts."

A frown touched Scully's lips.  She felt her chin begin to quiver and 
clenched her teeth hard together, fighting the tears.  Suddenly, 
Mulder, this Mulder, connected with her from across the yard.  His eyes 
bore into hers, surely seeing the sadness there, and then he scanned 
the other faces at the window as well.  Scully's heart broke when his 
face fell.  He looked down at his feet self-consciously and began to 
brush the dirty paw marks and grass from his sweatshirt.  Ishy dropped 
the ball at his feet.  Mulder threw it one more time and then headed 
toward the house, looking sheepish and a little afraid.  Ishy, ball in 
tow, trotted up alongside him.  

Scully slid the door open.  "Looks like you made a friend," she said, 
trying to smile through her teary eyes.

Mulder nodded and tried to nudge his way past her and into the house.  
"It's okay," she said.  "You can stay out."

"You…  You are…"  He sighed and shook his head.  "I will sit here."  He 
went back to his spot on the couch and wrapped himself back up in the 
blanket.  

As the Gunmen scattered, getting quickly back to their search, Scully 
went to Mulder, sorry for spoiling his fun outside.  Standing in front 
of him, she reached down to rub his knee comfortingly.  "Are you okay?" 
she asked.

He nodded and then scanned the room, his eyes falling on Ishmael, who 
was standing next to Langly, sniffing his shoes.  Eyes still on his new 
friend, Mulder yawned, his face stretching and completely unrestrained.  
He had never looked so much like a tired little boy.  Scully fought the 
urge to take him into her arms and pet his hair and rock him to sleep.  
His eyes looked dry and were rimmed with dark shadows.  "Why don't you 
lie down, Mulder?  You can play with Ishy some more later," Scully 
suggested.  Gently, she moved him into a horizontal position on the 
couch, placing a pillow under his head and tucking the blanket around 
him.

Scully kept her eye on Mulder as she continued to search the room.  
Hours ticked by and his eyes were drooping with fatigue, but he still 
refused to sleep.  He seemed far too interested in observing Scully and 
Frohike.  Langly and Byers had moved on to the kitchen and the 
bedrooms.  

Frohike moved over to inspect the couch area, displacing Mulder from 
his makeshift bed.  Scully watched Mulder stand there next to Frohike.  
He was bent at the waist and watching over everything the other man 
did.  She was surprised when he spoke.  "Fro…  Frohike?" he asked.  
"Will you tell me what you are doing?" 

"We're looking for bugs, G-man," Frohike explained.  "Listening devices 
and little cameras the bad guys might be using to watch you and 
Scully." 

Mulder nodded.  "Have you found any of these devices?"

"Not yet, Mulder."  Frohike shook his head.  It had been a long, hard 
morning, Scully knew, and so far they had come up empty handed.

"I am glad you are looking for these devices.  The Gray-haired man said 
they were watching Dana Scully somehow," Mulder said, looking directly 
at Scully.  There was worry in the downward curve of his lips and in 
his determined eyes.  His look filled Scully's heart with longing.  
This worried face had been the original Mulder's, and she had pushed it 
away so many times, never letting him in to truly express his concern 
or say his piece.  It was certainly a face she had never thought to see 
again.  It left her speechless, now, where she stood in the middle of 
her own living room, blindly running her fingers over the knick-knacks 
on her mantle as she checked for bugs.

"Frohike, how come Dana Scully is two words, but you only call her one 
of them?" Mulder asked, never taking his eyes from Scully's face.  

Frohike stopped his search of the couch cushions and glanced hesitantly 
at Scully.  When she said nothing, he tried to explain first names and 
last names, telling Mulder that everyone has two or three names, but 
that people usually only use one of them at a time.

"I like the name Dana," Mulder said.  "It's pretty."

Frohike looked at Scully, a half-smile on his face.  "Dana's a pretty 
lady, isn't she?" he asked.

Mulder nodded.  

Scully put the picture frame she was checking back down on the mantle.  
"I'm going to go get started on the bathroom," she said, looking 
quickly away from the two men.

"Why don't you lie back down here, Mulder," Scully heard Frohike 
suggest as she left the room.

"Okay," was Mulder's soft reply.


It was almost noon when they all gathered in the living room, stumped 
and disgruntled.  There were no bugs and no cameras anywhere in the 
house, and the Gunmen seemed to find their absence suspicious in 
itself.  Before Scully was even aware of what was happening, they had 
all three switched from paranoid geek mode to commando.  She watched 
them quickly file out the door, shouting back over their shoulders that 
they were going to scout the area for any suspicious activity or 
surveillance vehicles.

Scully found herself alone with Mulder for the first time since they 
had left the Clinic.  Glancing over at him, she saw that he was still 
not sleeping. He rarely took his eyes from her, she had noticed, and 
now he stared up at her from the couch, his face unreadable.  
Discomfort began to creep up her bare arms, and she decided she needed 
an activity to push it away.  She knew she should check his injuries, 
but they could wait until the Gunmen had gone home.  

"Are you hungry, Mulder?" she asked.

He nodded, his head bobbing against the big blanket he had pulled up 
just past his chin.

"Okay.  I'm going to go in the kitchen and make us something to eat."

"I'll come," he said quietly, starting to untangle himself from the 
blanket.

"No, no, Mulder.  You stay here," she said curtly.  When confusion 
washed over his face, she tried to explain.  "Look at you.  You need to 
sleep.  Please just rest, okay?"

"Okay," he said quietly, wrapping himself back up.

"I'll just be in here," Scully said and then whisked off into the 
kitchen.

Hunting around the refrigerator and cupboards, she quickly realized 
that she had little to feed her male visitors.  She decided she would 
make a pot of fresh vegetable soup.  It was not the Gunmen's usual fare 
of salt, grease, and meat, but she figured it would be good for Mulder. 
She took the vegetables from the fridge and put them on the counter, 
thinking it would serve him well to learn to eat better than he had 
before…better than the Original had.  Before she began to wash and 
chop, she leaned against the back of her kitchen table chair and rubbed 
the palm of her hand against her forehead.  Her head was throbbing.

"Mulder," she whispered to herself, wondering to which Mulder she 
referred.  She sighed and turned back to the vegetables, unsure of what 
their future held.


Sitting around the kitchen table, they all ate soup but Scully.  She 
ate nothing, knowing she was too exhausted to put anything into her 
stomach without feeling ill.  

The Gunmen were still disgruntled about their search and its lack of 
results.  For the hundredth time that day, Scully listened to them rant 
about the dangers of staying in her house.  

"Look, Scully, we know they're watching from somewhere, somehow," Byers 
said.  "Why don't you stay with us, or maybe with your mother?"

Scully was thankful for their help, but refused to take their advice or 
accept their concern.  "It's safe here.  I have the alarm system, the 
dog, and my gun.  We'll be fine."

"They know exactly where he is here.  Why did we even bother to take 
the tracking chip out?"

Scully sighed.  "They would find him no matter where we went.  They 
always have.  If they want him.  They have not even presented 
themselves as a threat yet.  Don't you think they would have come for 
him by now, if they were coming at all?"

"You know, Scully, that 'they' are just cruel enough to tease you for a 
few days and then come take him."

Their circular conversation was cut off by Scully's ringing phone.  
Mulder jumped at the unexpected noise, and Scully put her hand 
supportively on his shoulder as she plucked the phone from the kitchen 
counter.

"Dana Scully," a man said before she could even say hello.  It was a 
statement, not a question.  The voice had the dry rasp of age but 
lacked a distinguishable accent or character.  Its direct, matter-of-
fact tone, though, spoke of cigarettes and treachery.

"This is Dana Scully.  Who's this?"

"Damage control.  You are right, Agent Scully," said the man.  "If we 
want him, we will find him.  But not today."

Scully sucked in a breath and held it tightly, pursing her lips in 
frustration.  "You are listening.  You're listening to us right now.  
Where the hell is the bug?"

The man's harsh chuckle drove straight into her heart.  It made her 
throat go dry and stole the air from her chest.  "We are listening," 
the man said, "and watching.  Take good care of him, Agent Scully."

"What do you want?"

"The same thing you do.  We want Agent Mulder back at work.  He is 
still needed.  Doubtless he's told you what he is by now."  The man 
sighed dramatically.  "It was not supposed to happen this way, of 
course.  There was to be no hint of his true identity or, rather, lack 
thereof.  But I'm sure you will accommodate regardless.  You want to 
keep him, don't you?  Agent Mulder back at work.  See that it happens, 
Agent Scully," the man commanded.

Scully fought the urge to slam the phone down in fury.  This man who 
she could not see was taking things from her.  He was taking her 
control and her privacy.  He was pulling invisible strings.  A puppet.  
After a year of relative peace, she had believed they had gone 
underground or ceased their activities altogether.  But she was still 
just a puppet in the hands of these shadow men.  They expected her to 
perform always according to their undiscoverable agenda, and she was 
tired, and she was angry.  "Who are you?" she snarled into the phone.   

There was a soft click, and the connection severed.  "Damn it!"  Scully 
dialed the bureau and asked for the origin of the last call placed to 
her number.  

"Damn it!" she cursed again as she hung up the phone.  "Pay phone over 
two hours away."  She slumped down into her chair at the table, 
cradling her head in her hands, wondering whether she should be feeling 
relieved or afraid.  "They're listening even now," she said dully.

"You don't know who it was," said Frohike.

Scully shook her head.  "If I had to guess?  It was Mulder's  'gray-
haired man.'  And if I had to guess about the gray-haired man, I'd say 
that our smoking friend has finally reemerged.  He said to take good 
care of him."  She looked at Mulder.  His face had turned pale with 
confusion and fear.  Scully put her hand on his and squeezed 
supportively.  "They will find us wherever we go.  We might as well 
stay here."

The men around the table nodded grudgingly.  Then Frohike asked a 
terrible but innocent question.  "Do you want to stay here with Scully 
and Ishmael, Mulder?"

Scully was suddenly overwhelmed by fear and self-loathing.  She had not 
even considered his desires.  

Her fears fled, though, when Mulder nodded his head enthusiastically.  
"Yes," he said with innocent emphasis, though he seemed embarrassed to 
look at Scully as he spoke.

The Gunmen appeared to be on the verge of further protest.  Scully cut 
them off with an acute, "Okay then, that's settled.  We'll stay here."  
She squeezed Mulder's hand again and then got up to clear the table.

"Scully, are you sure you're okay with all this?" Byers asked, concern 
and a hint of pity in his face and his voice.

Scully's stomach burned at the sound of Byers' gentle voice and gaze 
and pity.  She would adapt to the situation, to the new Mulder.  She 
would find a way to separate him from the original, from the loss.  She 
pushed her own confusion over Mulder's identity and reality aside to 
give her own emphatic affirmation: "We'll be fine, John."  She watched 
the Gunmen for further arguments, but they were each quiet, having 
seemingly resigned to Scully's stubbornness.  

"Mulder, do you want some more soup before I put it away?" she asked.

He shook his head.  "I need to…  I think…"  He shifted in his seat.  "I 
need to use the bathroom."  He looked at Scully with a question in his 
eyes, as if he was unsure if he had used the proper word.

"Oh, Mulder, I'm sorry.  I should have shown you the bathroom hours 
ago.  Come on."  She led Mulder to the small bathroom in the hall near 
the spare bedroom.  After showing him where the light was, she scooted 
him inside and pulled the door closed behind him.

Scully leaned against the wall in the hallway.  She knew he did not 
require her escort from the bathroom back to the kitchen, but she 
waited anyway, just in case.  Through the bathroom door, she could hear 
the healthy sound of urination and then the flush of the toilet.  
Several more minutes, however, passed without another sound, and Scully 
began to worry.  "Mulder, are you okay?" she asked, knocking on the 
door.  There was no answer but the sudden, horrible sound of retching 
accompanied by intermittent whimpers.

Pushing the door open, Scully found Mulder on the floor, his head 
hanging over the toilet.  There were miserable tears running from his 
eyes and sweat shining across his face and brow.  

Scully was hesitant to go to him, afraid she would damage his dignity.  
The original Mulder would have slammed the door in her face.  When this 
Mulder turned his head and whimpered up at her, though, she knelt 
beside him and rubbed his back until his tumultuous heaving subsided.  

"I don't understand," he said in a small voice as he hung his head and 
braced himself against the toilet seat, trying to catch his breath.  

"Has this ever happened to you before, Mulder?"

"No," he whispered, a terrible fear consuming his face.  "I don't 
understand.  My stomach hurt…  And I thought…  But then…"

"Oh, sweetie, it's okay.  It's normal.  I think maybe your stomach just 
didn't like my soup."  She pushed his hair back and pressed her palm to 
his forehead, noting that he had a touch of fever.  "Have you ever had 
vegetable soup before?  It can be a little hard to digest."  

"No."

"Have you ever had vegetables?  The things in the soup?"

"No.  

"No vegetables.  What did they feed you at the Clinic, then?"

He thought about it for a full minute before finally speaking, a 
perplexed look on his face.  "I don't know," he said.  "I don't know 
what it was."

"Was it always the same?"

"No.  Different things.  The food was not very enjoyable.  I know it 
was not vegetable soup."  He looked down at the mess he had made in the 
toilet.  "I'm sorry."

"Don't be."  Scully wet a wash cloth and wiped it across his face and 
mouth.  "At least you got it in the toilet."

"There's some on the sink," he said sheepishly.

"I know.  It's okay."

"I feel better now," he said, looking down curiously at the stomach 
that had betrayed him.

"It doesn't hurt at all now?"

"No.  Dana, I liked the vegetable soup, but if my stomach does not like 
it, what will I eat?"

Scully laughed and ruffled his hair.  "Mulder, there's plenty of other 
types of food.  We'll try something a little easier on your stomach 
next time, okay?"

He nodded, and Scully helped him stand up.  He swayed a little, looking 
puzzled at the weakness in his knees.  

Scully gave him a cup of water and made him drink and spit.  "Better?"

"Yes."

"Good."  Scully gently took his arm and led him back into the living 
room.  They were met by three worried Gunmen.  

"You were gone a long time.  Is he all right?" Frohike asked.  "He 
doesn't look so good."

"He's fine.  Just a little upset stomach," Scully explained as she sat 
Mulder down on the couch.  "I do need to redress his wounds.  I think 
one of them might be infected.  He's running a small fever."

"Okay.  I think we'll go then and let you two get settled," Byers said.  
"Unless you need anything else?"

"No.  We'll be fine.  Thank you, guys.  Thank you so much," Scully said 
sincerely.

"Anytime, Scully.  Keep us informed, okay?  And be careful."

"We will."

The Gunmen promised Mulder they would see him again soon and then took 
their leave.  The house suddenly felt empty and still without them. 

Scully sat on the coffee table in front of Mulder and opened the first 
aid kit she had left there the night before.  When she looked up, she 
found him staring serenely at her, his eyes tired but content.  He was 
so close there in front of her.  She could smell him, his old, familiar 
Mulderness, the one without soap or after-shave.  In the emptiness of 
the house, an uneasiness slid into her once more.  She could feel 
herself getting attached to him, but she was so afraid.  He needed her 
so much, and she wanted him unlike anything she had ever wanted before, 
aside from the original Mulder's resurrection, of course.  It was 
almost all too much, but certainly not enough to make her give him up.

Taking a deep breath and reaching out for logic, she told herself there 
was nothing wrong with getting attached.  He would be her 
responsibility now.  She would be his guardian angel and his guide to 
the world, and she would never fail him.  Not this time.  She resolved 
to simply take great care not to lose herself, or him, in the process.

"Pants off, Mulder," she commanded gently.  "I need to look at your leg 
again."

Lifting himself up, he slid the sweats down to his ankles.  Scully told 
him he could leave the pants and his shoes there.  He sat quietly, 
waiting for her to tend to him.  She was intrigued by his lack of self-
consciousness and wondered what his life at the Clinic had been like.  
Once he was well rested, she would remember to ask.  

Carefully, she peeled the bandage from his groin.  The wound beneath 
was an angry, infected red.  

"It hurts," he said.

"I know, Mulder.  I'm sorry."  She cleaned the wound again and swabbed 
the area with a strong antibiotic cream.  After covering the wound with 
a new, slick, waterproof bandage, she led him into her bathroom and 
turned on the shower. 

He seemed to understand about the shower and looked relieved at the 
opportunity to bathe.  Scully showed him her shampoo and conditioner 
and soap and then left him to do the rest. 

In her bedroom, she changed her own clothes, glad to finally get out of 
yesterday's suit.  She barely had time to slip into navy sweat pants 
and a white T-shirt before Mulder emerged from the bathroom.  He had 
redressed in the sweats but carried the shoes cradled in his arms.

"That was quick."  Scully took the shoes from him.

He stared at her blankly.  His eyes were beginning to droop with 
fatigue.

"Think you can sleep now?" she asked.

He nodded.  "I can sleep now," he said very quietly.

Scully took a pillow from her bed and settled him back on the couch 
where she could keep an eye on him.  He curled up on his side and 
closed his eyes.  She went into the kitchen to clean up but found that 
the Gunmen had put the leftover soup in the fridge and their bowls in 
the dishwasher.  When she passed back through the living room, Mulder 
was finally sleeping peacefully.

In the spare bedroom, she put sheets and blankets on the bed and then 
turned to the boxes that were piled up in the center of the room.  In 
the whirlwind weeks of pain and anger following the death, she had 
packed up his most important possessions and taken them to her 
apartment.  Aside from her frantic search for his sweats and tennis 
shoes the night before, she had not looked through the boxes since.  

As she stacked the boxes neatly against the wall and out of the way, 
she felt Ishmael bump up against her thigh.  She turned to squat down 
in front of the dog, scratching him behind the ears.  "What do you 
think of our new roommate, Ishy?" she asked quietly.  "You like him?"

The dog wagged his tail happily, as if he knew what she was talking 
about.  

"I like him, too."


He awoke to the feel of something soft and warm touching his arm, 
something rubbing gently.  He had fallen asleep on the couch when Dana 
Scully had gone into his sleeping-room to make up the bed.  But now he 
could smell her around him, hear her breathing next to him, feel her 
touch on his arm.  He opened his eyes to find the room dark and her 
face in shadow where she hovered above him, a very soft, white light 
illuminating just the curve of her left cheek.  She was real; she was 
not the dream he had feared she would turn out to be after he had slept 
and awoken.

"Hi, Mulder," she said softly.

He opened his mouth to speak but then hesitated.  'Hi' was like 
'hello,' he hoped.  "Hi," he said.  He pushed up onto his elbow and 
tried to look around the dark room.  Its objects had become shadow 
forms that he would not recognize had he never been in the room in the 
light.  He glanced over at the glass door and saw that it was dark 
outside as well.  The teachers had explained to him about night and 
day, but he had not been prepared for their reality.  They shared so 
many beautiful differences.  He had seen the day sky earlier, felt the 
warm light, and had seen the dark but shiny night sky when he had run 
from the Clinic.  Together they were overwhelming.

Dana Scully, Dana, he told himself, touched his forehead.  Her palm was 
warm and soft, and he had never felt anything so perfect.  So few 
people had ever touched him, and she was, he was sure, the best person 
of all.  "You've slept a long time," she said.  "How do you feel?"

He thought for a moment.  His stomach still felt uneasy and empty, and 
his legs and arms felt heavy.  He thought that if she would just leave 
her hand on his forehead, he would like to slip right back into sleep.  
"I feel fine," he said.

"Are you still sleepy?"

"Yes."  As she took her hand from his forehead, he felt something soft 
brush against his cheek.  Without thinking, he reached out and took a 
gentle hold of her sleeve.  Her clothes had changed, and he was curious 
about these new ones.  He rubbed his fingers over the material.  It was 
soft and flat and smooth and unlike anything he had ever touched 
before. 

"It's silk," she explained.  "Do you like it?"

He nodded and gently wrapped his fingers around her arm, sliding his 
hand over the soft material, over her.  She did not move at first, but 
then her arm began to tremble.  He pulled his hand away quickly, hoping 
he had not made a mistake by touching her unnecessarily.  

"Come on," she said, standing up next to him.  "I made up the bed for 
you."

He followed her to the bathroom where she gave him a toothbrush and 
toothpaste, two things that he found wonderfully familiar.  The light 
in the bathroom allowed him to see Dana Scully's face well.  She looked 
so tired, her eyes dark and heavy.  She had cared for him and his 
injuries tirelessly for more than a day and a night.  He hoped that she 
would sleep soon.  

He brushed his teeth and then followed her to the room where she had 
given him clothes and shoes the night before.  The boxes she had found 
the items in had been moved against the wall, and he wondered at their 
contents before she nudged him over to the bed.  

He slid under the sheets.  They were much softer than his sheets at the 
Clinic.  He thought about how good they would feel against his skin, 
wondering if he should remove his clothes before sleep like he and the 
Others had sometimes done.  He decided it was better to leave them on 
since Dana had not told him to undress.

"Goodnight," she said, touching his shoulder.  Goodnight was a word 
that he did not understand, but he was reluctant to question its 
meaning aloud, to point out again his own unawareness.  He said 
nothing, concentrating instead on her touch.  It felt so good, but he 
did not understand why she gave it to him so often or why sometimes she 
would give it and then take it away quickly, refusing to meet his eyes.

"I'll just be in the other room," she said.  "Okay?"

He nodded reluctantly, knowing that soon she would leave.  He wanted to 
sleep in the same room with her, like he had done with the Others.  He 
wanted his bed next to hers.  But he guessed that that was not what 
people did.

"Goodnight, Mulder," she said again.  She squeezed his arm and then 
left the room, and he was no one again.  The speck of identity he had 
accumulated since leaving the Clinic the night before disappeared with 
her down the hallway.  He was alone in the darkness.

A feeling filled his chest, one that he could not name, could not 
possess, much like he could not name himself.  Wanting the Others to be 
there with him, wanting them to have escaped as well, he rolled over 
onto his side, curled up into a ball, and tried to sleep.  But he found 
that even in the darkness he could not close his eyes.  Dana Scully had 
apologized for the lack of furnishings and possessions in his sleeping-
room, although there had been no possessions at all besides his bed and 
his clothes at the Clinic.  Now the objects in the room blended with 
the soft light falling in through the window to create strange shadows 
across the floor and the walls and the bed.  And there were other 
shadows as well, ones whose source he could not identify.  These 
shadows swayed and shimmied in an inconsistent pattern on the wall 
opposite the window.  It made his stomach roll and turn.  He finally 
closed his eyes.  

Then there were only the sounds, the ones that he did not recognize, 
the sounds of the world.  This place was nothing like the quiet 
stillness of the Clinic.  He heard strange, high pitched buzzing and 
clicking sounds that seemed to come from everywhere, inside and outside 
the house.  Sometimes he heard the sound of cars, and they made him 
remember the men from the Clinic and wonder if they would come to take 
him back.  There was a tapping at the window.

Unable to keep his eyes shut any longer, he threw the blankets back and 
slipped from the bed.  Cautiously, he moved to the window to 
investigate the tapping.  A tiny flying creature, an insect like the 
ones he had seen out in Dana's yard, bounced against the glass.  It 
flew at the window and bounced away over and over and over again, 
trying to escape past a barrier it did not understand.  It reminded him 
of himself, of his escape, and suddenly he had to possess it.  Reaching 
out to the creature, he closed his hand gently around it.  But when he 
carefully cracked open his fist, the creature did not move; it stuck to 
his skin, hanging lifeless, deceased.  Too late he realized that to set 
it free he had needed only to open the window like he had opened the 
glass door to go out into the yard, like he had slipped out the open 
gate at the Clinic.  He was alone again.

He padded down the hall and into the bathroom to wash the insect from 
his hand.  Even the soft carpet beneath his feet was strange and 
prickly to his skin, between his toes.  It was not at all like the 
smooth, cold floors at the Clinic.  

Finished in the bathroom, he was drawn to Dana's sleeping-room on the 
way back to his own.  Peeking inside, he found her curled up in her 
bed.  He stood still in the doorway and watched her.  Her breathing was 
even and peaceful, and as much as he longed for her, he could not bring 
himself to wake her.  A tiny bit of light fell into her room from 
outside to show him that she was even more beautiful in sleep than 
awake.  There were so many things he wanted to ask her, but he had been 
unable to find the time or the words.  He promised himself that when 
she woke he would try to talk to her.

After watching her for a long time, he noticed Ishmael's dark form 
curled up on the floor beside her bed, sleeping soundly.  Desperate for 
anything but the emptiness of his sleeping-room, he wondered if it 
would be right to lie on the floor beside the dog and sleep there.  

Suddenly, Ishmael raised his head and looked up at him.  He was wary of 
the animal, though it had been very friendly so far.  Ishy got up 
slowly and walked over to him to nuzzle his hand.  The dog's nose felt 
cold and wet and soft.  He rubbed his hands over Ishy's soft head and 
ears.  The dog leaned into his touch, and suddenly his eyes grew wet 
with tears and his chest filled with feelings that he could not 
understand.  

Not wanting Ishmael's movement to wake Dana, he turned and went back 
into his sleeping-room.  Ishy followed him closely.  He climbed back 
into the bed, and the dog curled up on the floor next to it.  The 
tapping insect noise was gone, but the shadows and the sounds and the 
emptiness were still there along with the new sound of Ishy's 
breathing.  It was a little better with Ishy there, but the dog's 
breathing was all wrong.  It was too fast, too shallow.  In all the 
time he has spent planning his escape, he had never considered that he 
would feel the Others' absence so strongly.  He tried to comfort 
himself, telling himself that he would see Dana again in the morning, 
that everything would be better then.  He closed his eyes and tried to 
sleep, but much of the night passed by before sleep took him.



(End Chapter 5 – End Part 2)