The Resurrection is the latest story in my XF/H:LotS/EQ crossover series. It helps to have read the previous stories, but this will still make a semblance of sense if you don't. This story contains spoilers for XF eps up to and including Gethsemane (obviously) and the Strangers and Other Partners ep on H:LotS.

I wrote this story because there's no way I could sit around waiting for Chris Carter to continue messing with my brain. This is my answer to Gethsemane and to the EQ episode Mission:McCall. For all you EQ fans, I have rewritten history concerning the appearance of Harley Gage. I hope you won't mind. ;-)

Please send feedback, praise, flames, and/or money to: sjbryan@athenet.net

I WANT TO BELIEVE.

The poster still hangs on the wall. Dana Scully closes her eyes, willing the tears away. Sitting in the cramped basement office, she wants to believe.

She wants to believe that she is not dying. That her cancer is not just another silken thread in the ever-expanding conspiracy to trap Mulder.

She wants to believe that at some point in her future she will wake up one morning and be able to feel something other than this grief and a constant gut-wrenching fear.

She wants to believe that Carolyn Mulder is not lying in a hospital bed somewhere, alone, suffering through the aftermath of another stroke.

But most of all, Dana Katherine Scully wants to believe that Fox Mulder is not dead.

A single tear tracks down her cheek as she stares at the poster. "I want to believe," she whispers.

But she can't.

***

Lieutenant Al Giardello watches the squad room through his office window.

Chaos.

He watches his detectives answer the bleating cry of the phones. He listens to the familiar clack of the typewriters, the buzz of voices asking, telling, demanding, lying, confessing, denying. A daily ritual.

Controlled chaos.

His Homicide Unit consists of five of the best detectives he's ever had the pleasure to command, as well as a damn fine sergeant. The past few years have been difficult. First Crosetti's suicide. Then the shooting. Now, Beau's death. Morale is down. He can see it in their faces. He can see it in their eyes.

Gee sighs and replaces the phone in its cradle. He stands and walks to the door. He searches the bustling room until he finds the man he's looking for.

His voice booms through the squad room: "Bayliss!"

Tim Bayliss stands by the coffee maker, deep in conversation with Detectives Pembleton and Lewis. He glances up at the sound of Gee's voice.

Lewis grins. "Timmy's in trou-ble."

Tim swallows, vaguely nervous. He casts a quick look at Frank. Frank shrugs. He walks to Gee's office, wracking his brain for anything he might have done wrong. He can't think of anything.

He pauses in the doorway. "Yes, Gee?"

The Lieutenant motions him inside the office. "Have a seat, Tim."

Tim sits.

Gee folds his hands. "I just spoke with Roger Dailey, the Director of the FBI's Violent Crimes Unit."

The name is familiar. "Dailey...he assigned Mulder to help with the Poet case?"

"Yes." Gee leans back in his chair. "He's a friend of mine."

Tim nods politely, waiting for Gee to get to the point.

"He gave me some information that I thought might be of...interest to you."

Tim raises an eyebrow.

Gee clears his throat. He presses his lips together in a thin line. Thirty years as a cop have provided him with more than enough practice giving bad news. But that doesn't make it any easier to open his mouth and say the words. He exhales. "Tim...Fox Mulder killed himself four days ago."

Tim stares at Gee. "What?"

Quietly: "I'm sorry, Tim. I know you were...close. I thought you'd want to know."

Tim shakes his head. "But I haven't heard anything," he protests weakly. He looks at Gee, eyes wide. "What...what happened?"

"He shot himself."

Tim licks his lips. "Are they sure? I mean, look what happened with Beau. Maybe--"

Gee interrupts. His voice leaves no room for doubt. "They're sure."

The two men sit in silence for several seconds. Finally, Tim stands. He nods at Gee. "Thank you for telling me, sir. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome."

Tim lingers by the door. "No sign of murder, Gee? *Nothing*?"

"Dailey said the investigation is already closed."

Tim closes his eyes. Opens them. "Okay. Thank you." He opens the door and stands outside Gee's office. He can't remember what he had been doing. Discussing a case? Working on a report? He drifts toward his desk. He sees a sudden image of a man's body at a hotel in north Baltimore. A gunshot wound to the head. But thankfully, the body hadn't been Mulder's. Someone had gone to a lot of trouble to make it appear Mulder and Scully were dead. Tim puts a hand over his mouth. Only this time...Mulder is.

But suicide?

He feels a whisper of chill through his soul. Why? Why would Mulder kill himself?

Why did Crosetti? Why does anyone?

Because they can.

He slumps into his chair, another thought niggling for attention. What about Dana? She must be going through hell. He reaches for the phone. He'll call her. Right now, and see--

"Hey Bayliss! I bet Gee chewed you out over the Webster case, huh?" Lewis asks. He taps a football against one knee.

Tim looks up. It takes him a moment to focus on Meldrick. "What?"

Lewis whistles. "Whoo-oo! Gee busted you good!"

Tim shakes his head. "No."

Frank studies Tim's face. "What did he want?"

A nervous smile flits over Tim's face. He looks away, clears his throat. "He just wanted to tell me that...Fox Mulder killed himself."

Munch swivels in his chair. "He died again?"

Tim shoots a glare at John. "What do you mean, *again*?"

Munch rubs his nose. "Oh, that's right. He wasn't really dead before. That turned out to be a John Doe." He shrugs. "Look on the bright side, Tim. Maybe he's not really dead this time, either."

Mike Kellerman walks into the room carrying a paper bag with a fast food logo. "Who's not really dead?"

"Fox Mulder."

"The FBI profiler?"

"He killed himself a couple of days ago."

Mike falls silent. He unwraps a cheeseburger.

"Was he working undercover?" John asks.

Lewis gives the lanky detective a disgusted look. "You know, Munch, not every suicide turns out to be a murder."

Munch feigns shock. "Really, Meldrick?"

Lewis tosses the football at Munch. "Yeah. And maybe Beau and the little salami brain are just on vacation."

The football bounces off the side of John's desk.

Tim abruptly gets up from his chair and leaves the room.

Frank looks up at the ceiling, then swivels in his chair to stare after Bayliss. Lewis rests his chin in his hand. The phone gives a triple bleat. Munch answers: "Homicide."

***

"Hey."

Tim squints up at the sky. Not a cloud on the horizon. The wind ruffles his hair, blows his tie. He shivers. "Hey."

Frank stands a few feet behind his partner. "We got a call," he says, hands in his pockets.

"I spoke to him two weeks ago," Tim replies, ignoring Frank's statement.

Frank grimaces. "Mulder?"

"Yeah. He sounded okay. He was fine."

"He wasn't fine, Tim. If he was fine, he wouldn't be dead."

Tim turns to face Pembleton. "You know, Frank. I have had it up to here--" he jabs at the air "--with suicides. You know something? I don't even ask 'why' anymore. I ask 'why not'."

Frank shakes his head. "Tim. It's not your fault."

"Really, Frank? How do you know?"

"Because you didn't pull the trigger. You didn't make Mulder pull the trigger. Regardless of what you said, or *didn't* say, it was his choice. His. Do you understand?"

Reluctantly, Tim nods.

"You want me to take Munch or Lewis along?"

Wearily: "No. I'm coming."

***

"Why don't you come out for the weekend," he suggests. "Or the week. You know you're welcome for as long as you like."

Scully sighs. "Thank you, Robert. But I don't think so...not right now."

McCall is silent for a moment. Then: "If you don't feel up to the drive, I can come your way."

She winds the phone chord around her fingers. "I think...I'd rather be alone right now."

Helpless: "Dana..."

"I'm fine, Robert. I just have...I have a lot to do. The next few days are going to be very busy. I have to go through the files," her voice breaks but she quickly regains control, "and clean out...the office."

McCall sighs loudly. "There's nothing I can say to change your mind?"

The faint smile comes through in her voice. "No."

Relucantly. "All right, all right. I'll bow to your judgment." Pause. "This time."

She closes her eyes. "Thank you."

After a moment of silence, McCall clears his throat. "Dana. There's something I have to tell you."

Scully shifts on the couch. She pulls a pillow into her lap. Mulder sat here. Mulder was in this apartment. She clutches the pillow tighter. With an effort: "What?"

Softly: "I know...I know about your cancer."

Scully's eyes focus on the refrigerator door. Her lips tremble. She feels a combination of anger and relief. "How?" she demands.

He sounds almost embarrassed. "I was worried about you...and I-I spoke to your mother."

Incredulous: "You called my *mother*?"

"I did ask Mulder, Dana, but he wasn't very forthcoming."

Scully puts a hand over her eyes. Oh Mulder... Her voice is flat. "How long have you known?"

"About a month."

Scully blinks back tears. A *month*? She calculates. Ever since her trip to New York. Unbelievable. Her anger dissipates, replaced by amazement. "You...never treated me any differently."

"Of course not," he says hoarsely. "If you had wanted me to treat you differently, you would have told me yourself. I don't agree with your decision not to tell me, but I respect it."

Dana squeezes the pillow. "But not enough to stop you from going behind my back."

Robert doesn't answer.

She sighs. "Why are you telling me now?"

"Because I don't like secrets. I've had enough to last a dozen lifetimes. I prefer honesty."

Scully swallows. "Thank you for being honest with me."

Faintly reproachful. "I wish you could have been honest with me, Dana."

"It's not a matter of honesty, Robert. It's a matter of--" she fumbles for the right word "--privacy. This disease is very...personal. I don't like to share it."

Gently: "I want to help you, Dana."

"I know that. But the only person who can help me right now is *me*. I know you're concerned for me. And I appreciate your concern. But I'm okay. I'll get through this."

She can hear the faint pride in his voice. "I know you will. I just thought the company of an old man might cheer you up."

Dana laughs in spite of the pain in her throat. But the laughter acts as a release and within seconds she is sobbing into the phone. Deeply ashamed, she concentrates on the cream colored pillow balled in her hands. With intense effort, she steadies her breathing. "Oh God, I'm sorry," she whispers.

"Don't apologize, Dana. There's nothing wrong with a good cry. I've had a few myself. They're good for the soul."

Dana stretches out on the couch, her cheek against the pillow. "I keep hearing his voice."

"Mulder's?"

No. She can still see the pain in his eyes, the tight look of despair on his face, but it's not his voice that she hears. It's Detective Rempulski's. He asks her again and again: This him? This him? This him? Each time she wants to say no, she wants to see someone else's body. But each time, she looks down at Mulder's silent face. "No. The detective. Rempulski."

McCall is quiet. "Rempulski? He's with the Alexandria Police Department?"

Yawning: "Yes."

Slowly: "That name is vaguely familiar. Hmm. Do you know his first name, by any chance?"

Scully shakes her head. She's too tired. "I don't remember...Oh. Jack. Jake. Something like that. Why? Do you know him?"

McCall makes a noncommital noise. "Huh. I guess not."

She closes her eyes, listening to the sound of her own breathing. Of Robert's.

Concerned: "Dana? Are you still there?"

"Yes...I'm just...tired."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner? Of course I'll let you go. Get some sleep, Dana. Don't hesitate to call me if you need anything, all right?"

"I will."

"Take care, then."

"You too." Reaching with one arm, she finds the phone base and replaces the receiver. She pulls the afghan off the back of the couch. She sleeps.

***

He goes in without bothering to knock. Control turns away from his computer, annoyed. The annoyance fades to curiosity, and finally, worry. "Robert. What is it?"

McCall paces in front of Control's desk. "Why don't you tell me."

Control gestures toward the computer. "I'm busy, old son. I don't have time to play twenty questions."

McCall smiles, but his eyes are angry. "Sure you do, Control. I'll even start." He leans against the desk. "If you're going to use one of the northern operatives for dirty work, why the bloody hell did you choose Rempulski?"

Control's face reveals nothing. "Rempulski?"

McCall's eyes flash. "Let me jog your memory. Jacob Rempulsi. He was a seven year veteran when I left." He leans toward Control, voice low. "I really doubt that he's transferred to the Alexandria PD. So imagine my surprise when I discover he is the detective investigating Fox Mulder's death." He folds his arms. "Maybe 'investigating' is the wrong word. Let's try *inventing*, shall we?"

Control sighs and leans back in his chair. "What do you want to hear from me, Robert?"

"How about the truth?"

Control shakes his head, suddenly weary. "I can't do that."

McCall glares at his friend. "Just tell me where Mulder is. That's all."

Control spreads his hands on his desk, palms down. "Listen to me, Robert. Fox Mulder killed himself."

"The hell he did! Why would Rempulski be involved, then? Last year Mickey was sent to protect Agent Mulder and nearly lost his life--"

"But he didn't," Control points out quietly.

"--so who's protecting him this time? That *is* what's going on, isn't it? Who's pulling the strings, Control? You? Why do you want the world to believe Mulder is dead?"

"I'm not pulling the strings, Robert." He sighs. "I'm following orders."

"Whose orders?"

A warning: "Robert..."

"Why did he need to make it look like a bloody suicide?" McCall asks, livid. "Do you know how upset Dana is? Agent Mulder's mother had another stroke for God's sake! What were you *thinking*?"

Control massages his forehead. "It wasn't my idea."

McCall's lip curls. "Ah yes. Good old Rempulski." He studies Control's face. "Where is Jake, anyway?"

"Never mind where Jacob is."

McCall glares at Control. "Dana Scully is dying of cancer. I am *not* about to let her think her partner killed himself. I am *not* going to let her suffer from one more second of guilt."

Control runs a hand through his hair. "The only reason you're upset is because you have a personal involvement with Agent Scully. If this were anyone else you would understand the need for...discretion. Don't pull this sanctimonious routine on me, Robert. I don't have the time."

McCall takes a deep breath. "Yes. Yes, you're right. I *do* have a personal involvement. That's the point." Quiety: "I'm going to tell her."

"I'm sorry that she's ill, old son. I really am. But you *can't* tell her!" Control's voice rises. "You can't jeopardize dozens of lives for the sake of easing your overactive conscience." His eyes narrow. "You *know* better than this, Robert."

Robert sighs heavily. "What I *know*, is that a woman I care for very deeply is dying. She is going to spend the last months of her life feeling responsible for her partner's death."

Control bows his head.

"When is he coming back?" McCall demands.

Control doesn't answer.

"*Is* he coming back?"

Control looks up, his face tight with anger. "I already told you--"

McCall dismisses Control's reply. "Yes, yes, you did. You can't tell me. It's classified. It's a bloody *secret*." He nods, agreeable. "Fine. I understand. Go ahead, keep me in the dark." He walks toward the door. "I'll find another source of light this time."

The door slams.

Control sits behind the desk, jaw clenched.

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

"Something wrong?"

Mickey frowns and glances at his watch. He manages a smile. "Nah. I don't think so. Just waiting for a friend."

"Oh?"

He likes the way her eyebrows draw together.

"McCall," he clarifies.

Linda smiles. So does Mickey. He's pretty sure he's making a fool of himself, but the smile stays.

"He's late?"

Mickey shrugs. "A little." In truth, a lot. He feels a faint niggle of unease. He picks at the remainder of his sandwich, replaying Robert's instructions: I don't want to talk on the phone. Meet me at Cleo's in an hour.

It's been over an hour. Almost two. And still no McCall.

"Are you finished?"

Mickey glances at Linda. Beautiful black hair pulled back with a metal clip. A hint of makeup. That killer smile. Not to mention those eyes... Mickey offers her a lopsided grin. "Yeah. I'm done."

She takes his plate and Mickey drums his fingers against the counter. The shrill cry of his cell phone interrupts his admiration of her long legs. He reaches into a pocket and pulls it out. He gives his standard greeting. "Yeah?"

"Mickey! Where's Robert?"

Mickey frowns at the sound of Control's voice. The niggle of unease becomes a tight fist inside his gut. "Why?"

"I just got word that Ian Morris arrived in New York last night."

Linda emerges from the kitchen, but Mickey doesn't see her. He turns away from a nearby customer. "What do you mean you *just* got word? You should have somebody with McCall." His voice drops lower, dangerous. "Somebody like me."

"Then find him and don't let him out of your sight. We both know how badly Ian wants revenge."

"I'd love to do that, Control, only I don't know where he is. He's *supposed* to be with me. He called me two hours ago and set up a meeting. But I seem to be the only one here."

A hint of panic creeps into Control's voice. "Maybe he had an appointment? Another meeting with a client? What exactly did he say when he called?"

Mickey slides off the stool. "He didn't say anything! Do you think he knows Morris is here?"

"I have no idea." Control sighs. "Look, I have to go. If you find him, have him call me *immediately*."

"Will do." Mickey slips the phone back into a pocket of his camouflage jacket.

Linda is wiping the cash register off with a rag. He waves a twenty dollar bill at her. "I have to go. Keep the change."

She stares at him. "But--"

He scrawls a phone number on the bottom of the bill. "If Robert comes in here, give me a call at this number. And ask him to wait for me. Okay?"

Linda takes the slip of the paper. Curious: "Okay."

He hurries out of the diner and toward his van.

***

She lies on the couch, eyes closed. Remembering. Fragments of conversations drift through her mind.

Leering: Nobody down here but the FBI's most unwanted.

Hoarsely: They killed my father, Scully.

His arms around her in the hospital corridor: Welcome back.

Four nights ago, in an abandoned warehouse, the hurt and anger obvious in his voice: What the hell did that guy say to you that you believe his story?

She can see him, smiling. Joking with her. Baiting her with a particularly far-fetched theory. She can see him, stalking away from Ruby Morris' hospital room. She can see him typing up another report behind his desk. She can see him in the dark of the Quanoctotoc house, the gun in his hand.

She hates him. With every breath in her body, she hates him for leaving when she needs him most. Four years of support repaid with a bullet to the brain. She squeezes the pillow between her hands. She hates him. But she cannot blame him.

Mulder is Mulder. He defies explanation. He is an erratic combination of opposites: curiosity, confidence, belief, doubt, and guilt...so much guilt.

She can't think of him in the past tense. Not yet. Too much of him is left, lingering behind, like a fingerprint on her soul. He let himself *become* his quest. And without his search for that elusive truth, he became...nothing.

As much as she hates him from the couch in her living room, Dana Scully would give her dying breath to speak to him just one more time.

***

Mickey leaps the steps up to McCall's apartment building with an easy grace. Jogging down the long hallway, he stops abruptly in front of Robert's apartment. The door is open. Just a crack, but enough to cause his lunch to do a slow roll inside his stomach. He draws his gun, counts to three, and kicks the door open.

And stares.

The apartment is a mess. Worse than a mess. It's destroyed. His heart hammers against his ribs, and he raises the gun, on guard. "McCall?"

Movement. Down the hall toward the bedroom. He licks his lips and presses himself against the kitchen cabinets, out of sight. Footsteps. A familiar voice: "Mickey? Is that you?"

Mickey lowers the gun. He walks into the living room to see McCall's son, Scott. Scott looks at Mickey, his face pale, eyes wide and wet with tears. He whispers: "Where is he?" He holds Robert's glasses in one hand. They're broken.

Kostmayer's stomach plummets, afraid he knows the answer.

Ian Morris.

***

He exhales a thin cloud of smoke and regards the figure in the doorway. "Yes?"

Kyle Geiger clears his throat. "Mr. Grace is on the phone, sir."

He stubs the cigarette out slowly. "I'm busy."

Kyle watches the man pull a fresh pack of Morleys out of a desk drawer. "I can see that, but he sounds...agitated." "Charles is *always* agitated."

Kyle hovers in the doorway.

The man lights another cigarette and sighs, resigned. "Fine." He picks up the phone and punches a button. "Yes?"

The voice is cold and thin. Much like its owner. "I trust the situation is being handled?"

Bored: "Yes."

"You do realize I'm trusting you against my better judgment."

He lowers the Morley, smiling. "Come now. You don't find me trustworthy?"

"I don't find you *dependable*," the man snaps. "Save your theatrics for someone else. I'm willing to go along with protecting the boy." Slight hesitation. "For now. Just keep in mind that there is *much* more at stake than Mulder's life." Hissing: "In fact, his life is worth very little."

The cigarette trembles momentarily in his hand. He stubs it out. He opens his mouth to speak. Closes it. He waits.

"But I will allow this...indiscretion. I find your means to be self-grandizing, but the end *is* necessary. Until the project comes to fruition, it's best to keep him alive." Pause. "Have you found the leak?"

"Kritschgau won't be meddling again."

"What about within the group?"

A weary sigh. "I'm working on it."

His superior's voice is harsh: "I will not put up with this kind of mendacity and deceit within our circle! I expect loyalty to the project and to *our* goals. Nothing less." There is a long silence. "You find who ordered Fox Mulder to be killed. You find who ordered Kritschgau's...performance. And then...you eliminate him."

***

The uniform greets them out on the front lawn. She makes a face. "A nasty one."

Frank raises an eyebrow. "You mean there's some other kind?"

The uniform chuckles and guides them inside. The living room is already filled with lab techs. A photographer squats beside the body, camera snapping sporadically. Julianna Cox leans over the body.

"What have we got?" Tim asks.

She glances up. "One slug to the head, one to the heart." She grimaces. "Whoever killed him meant it."

Frank sniffs. He purses his lips, glancing around the room. Nice house. No sign of a struggle. A picture on the mantle of a smiling couple. "He have a wife?"

Officer Lucas nods. "Upstairs."

"What happened?"

"The wife was upstairs taking a shower. Thought she heard a noise. When she came downstairs she found him on the floor and called the police."

Tim and Frank exchange looks. Tim nods toward the body. "He own a gun?"

Lucas nods. "It's already bagged."

Cox stands. She brushes the hair out of her face with the back of a hand. "The gun is a .32. Just from the size of the holes in this guy, my guess is we're looking at a .38 at least." She shrugs. "We'll find out soon enough."

Tim starts for the stairs. "Let's go talk to the wife."

Frank glances down at his notebook. "What's the victim's name?"

"Michael Kritschgau."

***

It's another two hours before they're ready to go. Another two hours of asking the same questions and getting the same answers.

Did you see anything?

No.

Did you hear anything?

No.

Tim recognizes the signs. Despite the upscale appearance, the neighborhood suffers from a deep, permeating indifference. Each neighbor politely apologizes for his or her inability to help. It's not that I don't care, Dee-tective, I just don't have the *time*. Tim frowns at the growing list of names on his notepad. They're too busy donating time/effort/money to their own family/church/charity. Who has time to worry about what happened to Michael? So sorry, try the Hendersons.

The Hendersons recommend the Dillons. The Dillons mention the Carltons. An endless circle of finger pointing and eyebrow wagging, the afternoon drags on. As he walks back to the Kritschgau house, Tim yawns. His jaw cracks. A nice, loud indication of his increasing stress level. Rubbing his jaw, he surveys the front of the house. The windows are dark, two blank eyes watching him.

Who killed Kritschgau?

So sorry, try the Hendersons' house...

Tim sighs and steps up onto the front porch. And there--nearly lost beneath the sprawling greenery of the shrubs, is a cigarette butt. He doesn't remember seeing a single ashtray in the house. No smell of smoke. Windows are clean. He looks through the front door to see Frank and Linda Kritschgau seated on the sofa. Tim cracks the door. "Excuse me, Mrs. Krtischgau? Did you husband smoke?"

She glances over at him, her face pale, eyes dull. It's a look Tim has seen many times. Too many times. "Did he...?" She shakes her head slowly, as if the motion takes great effort. "No. He never smoked. He had...sinus problems...the smoke bothered him..." she trails off.

Frank leans forward and says something to her, his voice gentle. He rises and joins Tim outside. "What? Did you find something?"

Tim sighs. "Not much, but let's bag it anyway. You never know." He holds the cigarette butt gingerly between two gloved fingers.

Frank eyes Tim critically. "Could be the paper boy's."

Tim nods. "Maybe."

"Could be a neighbor's."

Another nod. "Could be."

"Maybe a Jehovah's Witness had a quick smoke after a long afternoon chat."

Tim glances up at Frank. "Or...it could belong to the killer."

Frank grunts. "Maybe." He squints. "Can you read the brand?"

Tim drops the fragment into an evidence bag. "Morley."

Frank grimaces. "I'll tell you this much, Tim. The person who smoked that cigarette may not be our killer, but he's still guilty."

"Guilty of what?"

Frank shakes his head, disgusted. "A complete lack of class and style. Morleys? Please!" Chuckling, Frank walks back into the house.

***

Scully glances toward the door. "Mom. *Mom*! Somebody's at the door. I have to go. Yes...I'll call you later, okay? You too. Bye."

She hangs up and pads across the room. She peers through the small eye-hole. She is rewarded with the view of a man's back. A long, tan coat, dark hair. Her hand closes around the knob, white-knuckled. Mulder. She takes a deep breath. No. Not Mulder. He's...gone. She waits a few seconds before opening the door, making sure her emotions are under control. She swallows. Rubs her eyes. Get it over with. She pulls the door open.

Tim Bayliss.

His hair is longer now, and mussed. A few strands fall into eyes. He smiles, a big, familiar, sheepish grin.

After a moment of quiet surprise, Scully offers a tentative smile in return. "Tim!" She steps back and motions him inside. "Please...come in."

"Thank you." He follows, nervous, one hand plucking at the buttons of his coat. She finds the gesture endearing. It seems...somehow Mulder-like. He sits on the edge of the couch, hands on his knees, self-conscious..

Suddenly aware of her unkempt appearance, Scully drifts into the kitchen. "Would you like some coffee?"

Tim licks his lips. "Um, yeah." He gets to his feet. "If it isn't any trouble, I mean."

She waves his concern away, glad to have something to do. "It's no trouble." She fills the glass decanter with water. "I could use a little caffeine myself."

Tim slowly sinks back onto the couch. "I'm sorry I didn't call first."

Scully fills the coffee filter. "It's all right." She glances in his direction. "Is there something...in particular...you wanted?"

He rubs his nose. Forty minutes of rehearsed speeches forgotten after one look from those luminous eyes. She looks beautiful. A little thinner than he remembers, her skin more translucent. Her eyes hold a deeper sadness, but the beauty shines through, ethereal. He stares at her. Answer the question for God's sake! Tim stutters. "I-I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am. I just found out about...about Mulder." He bows his head. "I don't know what to say."

Neither does she. She opens a cupboard, hiding her face in the safety of cereal boxes and soup cans. After a moment she joins him in the living room, her expression strained. Quietly: "Thank you."

"I spoke to him a few weeks ago...I didn't realize..." the detective takes a halting breath, struggling "...I didn't know..."

Scully lowers herself into a chair. She can hear the guilt in his voice. Her lips press into an angry line. What does he know about guilt? She musters a response. "No one knew." A lie. A blatant lie. *She* knew. Two weeks ago Mulder had tried to kill himself after undergoing experimental memory-retrieval therapy. Her fingernails rake the chair arm. Therapy is too kind a word. Torture is a more apt description. Combine the after effects of those memories with Kritschgau's testimony and it is...*almost* understandable. Don't forget your little revelation, Dana. Don't forget the part you played.

I didn't play a part.

That's right. Ease your conscience.

Tim leans forward, concerned. "Dana? Are you okay?"

Scully nods, struggling to bury the intruding thoughts. Tightly: "Yes. I'm fine." Another lie. She's become an expert.

He rubs his face with the palm of a hand. He looks at her, head cocked to one side, eyes mournful. A hangdog expression. A look Mulder perfected. "Why didn't you call me?" he asks softly.

Dana looks away from those wounded eyes. Because I wasn't thinking about you, Tim. I was thinking about me. And my disease. I was thinking about the lies. And I was thinking about Mulder. *That's* why I didn't call you. She crosses her arms. "It's been very busy," she finally says. "It's been difficult trying to catch up at work." Every good, moral fiber of her being demands that she offer some small apology to Tim. She resists the urge. She will spend the rest of her life apologizing. She can't afford to waste one of those apologies on Detective Bayliss.

She rises from the chair. "Let me check that coffee."

Bayliss watches her puttering in the kitchen. She pulls two mugs out of the cupboard and sets them on the counter. He feels infinitely uncomfortable. He is an intruder. Every time he opens his mouth, the wrong words come out. He twists his hands in his lap. When did his mouth take on a life of its own, betraying him at every turn? He tries again. "Are you...are you going to continue with the X-Files?"

Scully hesitates. And investigate what? More lies? The X-Files are--she flinches--*were* Mulder's driving force, not her own. She's witnessed enough horror to last a lifetime...two lifetimes. Without Mulder beside her...No. She won't continue. If the results of her last batch of blood work are true, she doesn't have much time left. "I don't think so."

She fills both cups. "Do you want sugar? Creamer?"

"Black is fine."

She hands him a cup.

"Thank you." He holds the flowered mug in both hands, careful. He blows at the hot liquid, stomach churning. "Dana...I just want you to know that I'm here if you ever, you know, need someone to listen." He shrugs. "If you ever want to talk about...anything. Okay?"

Dana studies a piece of lint on the front of her shirt. She nods. And smiles. "Okay." She wants to say more, to thank him, to tell him that his offer means something. But staring at the tall detective on her couch, only one thought runs through Dana's head. Tim Bayliss is a lot of things...kind, good-hearted, well-meaning. A little insecure.

But he isn't Fox Mulder.

Scully closes her eyes and leans her head back against the chair. "When I was at Meadow Grove...they told me Mulder was dead. They tried to make me believe he killed himself." She struggles to keep her voice steady. "But I never believed them. I told myself that Fox Mulder would never give up." She tries to smile. "I believed in him."

Tim leans forward, eyes bright. "And Mulder believed in you. I don't know why he killed himself, Dana. But it had nothing to do with you. He told me how important you were..." Tim swallows, his voice hoarse.

Dana shakes her head, her lower lip trembling. She speaks more to herself than Tim. Softly: "No...Mulder believed the Lie."

They sit in silence, staring into their coffee mugs. Both looking for an answer the other cannot give.

End part 2/12

From maraschino@ibm.net Wed Jul 16 19:24:26 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: REPOST: The Resurrection by Shannon (3/12) From: "Maraschino" maraschino@ibm.net Date: 16 Jul 97 23:24:26 GMT

Repeat after me: They aren't mine, but I wish they were. See Part 1 for the Full Speech. Title: The Resurrection Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: My answer to Gethsemane.

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

Part 3/12

The three of them stand inside the large, deserted room. The designated meeting place.

"I don't understand why you didn't do something if you knew Morris was here!" Scott shouts. "Now my father is missing!"

Mickey puts a strong hand on Scott's shoulder, reigning him in. "Calm down, Scott," he hisses. "We'll figure this out." He searches Scott's face, trying to ease some of the young man's panic. "Okay?" He's just as angry as Scott, but losing his temper won't get him the answers he needs. He paces the length of the room. Turning to Control: "What does Ian want?"

"What do you *think* he wants?" Control snaps.

"Oh God," Scott whispers, "we've got to find him."

Mickey steers Scott over to a chair. He squats down so that they are face to face. "Scott. Listen to me. I know how much you care about your dad. And I know you're worried. I'm worried too. But we'll find him. Control and I, Jimmy, Sterno, we'll put everybody on this. Your dad is important to a lot of people." Mickey rakes a hand through his hair. "Especially me. But this could get dangerous. You have a wife to think about. I think--"

"Don't send me away," Scott interrupts. "I want to help."

Mickey offers a lopsided grin. "Good. You know how you can help me the most?"

Scott shakes his head.

"Go home. Be safe. Stay with your pregnant wife." Mickey leans closer to Scott. "Because if anything happened to you, McCall would never forgive me. What will help you dad the most, is for you to be here, waiting, and safe, when we bring him back."

"No! I don't--"

"Yes," Mickey says firmly. "I know that's hard, Scott. But you said you wanted to help. *That's* how you can help."

Scott puts a hand to his head, trying to think.

Control speaks up. "Mickey's right."

Mickey chuckles. "That's a first."

Scott drops his head into his hands. Mickey pulls a chair next to him and sits. "I'll start hitting up some contacts, seeing what kind of information I can shake loose. I also want Ginger and Jimmy to come to McCall's apartment and help me go over everything. There's got to be something there." Control sighs. "Mickey...if memory serves, you're still on medical leave."

Mickey grins. "I guess your memory's not as good as it used to be."

Annoyed: "Mickey, six weeks! It hasn't been six weeks yet. If I let you out in the field before your shoulder and arm are fully healed--"

"I'm fine."

"--you'll end up right back in the hospital."

"I *said* I'm fine."

Control nods. "I hear you."

Mickey shrugs. "Either support me on this, Control, or I'll look for him on my own." His eyes hold a warning. "You know I will." McCall is the reason he's standing here. If his friend hadn't confronted Allenwaite, he would be a dead man. He owes McCall his loyalty and friendship--as well as his life.

Control meets Mickey's dark gaze. They stare at each other, locked in a battle of wills. Finally, Control exhales loudly and closes his eyes. "Fine. But Ginger is still involved with Nighthawk, and Jimmy is teaching a surveillance course." He clears his throat. "I have someone else in mind to help you."

Mickey raises an eyebrow, suspicious. "Who?"

"Harley Gage."

Mickey shakes his head. "No way."

Scott eyes Mickey. "Who's this Gage guy?"

Mickey leaps to his feet. "I don't even need help, Control. I'll do this on my own." Confident: "I can find McCall."

Control nods. "I know you can. With Gage."

"Who's Gage?" Scott repeats.

"He's one of our best agents."

"*Was* one of the best," Mickey mutters.

Control ignores the comment. "He knew Morris. Play it my way, Mickey, or don't play at all."

Mickey scowls. "I thought Gage was out of The Company."

"Not entirely," Control says.

Kostmayer begins pacing. Fine. If Control wants to bring Gage in, that's his prerogative. Just as long as he stays out of my way.

*** The message light is blinking on McCall's machine.

Mickey wades through the rubble of McCall's apartment and presses the play button. Dana Scully's voice fills the room. "Robert? About your offer from this morning...maybe I will come up this weekend. Call me when you get in." Pause. "Thank you."

Mickey sags against the kitchen counter. McCall talked to her this morning? Maybe Scully has some idea of where he is. He reaches for Robert's phone. As he dials, his attention strays to a scrap of paper barely visible beneath the answering machine. He recognizes McCall's precise handwriting: Senator Matheson, (202) 555-1210. He frowns, staring at the name. It's vaguely familiar.

He sees himself back at New World Labs. Lying on the floor, he fights against Mulder's invading thoughts. He feels Mulder's disappointment at Matheson's lack of support. None of his phone calls returned, the Senator has withdrawn his backing.

Maybe not. He recalls the faint whiff of rumor that circled The Company's halls a few months back: Matheson was the one to request protection for Mulder during the meeting with Nick Shaw. Mickey hadn't pressed the issue. Mulder was the one on a quest for truth, not him.

But why would McCall have the Senator's number? He hears McCall's voice again, tense: I don't want to talk on the phone. Meet me at Cleo's in an hour.

A voice on the other end of the line interrupts his thoughts.

***

Scully rolls over in bed, reaching blindly for the phone. "Hello?" She squints at the bedside clock, expecting Mulder's voice. He's the only one who calls at this hour of the morning.

"Scully?"

She comes fully awake, the last vestiges of sleep dissipating. It's not Mulder's voice. How can it be? He's dead. She pushes herself upright. "Mickey?"

His voice is harried, distracted. "Yeah. Hi. Dana." Pause. "Oh...did I wake you?"

"It's all right. What is it?"

"Did you talk to McCall this morning?"

Scully swings her feet over the side of the bed. "Yes."

"Have you spoken to him since? Say, this afternoon? This evening?"

"No I haven't. Why?" Mickey's tone makes her vaguely anxious. She reaches for her robe.

He speaks low and fast. "I don't know if it's a good idea to talk over the phone. Can I come down there tonight?"

Scully clicks on the lamp. "Um...sure. I guess." Concerned: "Is everything okay? Is Robert in trouble?"

Sighing: "I'm sorry to leave you hanging, Scully. To tell you the truth, I'm not sure what's going on. I'll get there as soon as I can."

"Okay."

"Oh--and Scully?"

"Yes?"

"I can't get in touch with Mulder. Do you think you could ask him to come over?"

Scully licks her lips, heart pounding. "Mickey..."

Tense: "What?"

Weakly: "I'll see you when you get here."

"Right." He hangs up.

Scully stares at the phone in her hand.

***

He knows something is wrong the minute he sees her face.

Scully motions him inside the apartment. She shuts the door and turns to face him, her heart heavy inside her chest. "I don't know how to tell you this, Mickey." She takes a deep breath, hating the words, hating herself, hating Mulder. She whispers: "Mulder killed himself on Friday night."

Mickey stares at her.

"He...he shot himself in the head."

Mickey blinks. "You're...sure."

Bitter: "Yes, I'm sure!"

Mickey sinks down onto the couch. He drops his head into his hands. Oh God. McCall gone missing and now this. Mulder...dead? He shakes his head, infinitely weary. He wants to say something, he *should* say something to Dana, but there is nothing to say. No words are adequate.

Once, in a prison cell, Mulder had trusted in Scully. His constant belief that Scully would save him had kept both of them alive. Mickey rubs his face. Where had that belief, that trust, gone?

Head down, he asks: "Did McCall know?"

Softly: "Yes. We spoke this morning. He invited me up for a visit."

Mickey glances up at her, his face dark. "McCall is missing."

Scully sits beside him. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that his apartment has been ransacked. We found his glasses...but not him." Only the faint tremor in Mickey's voice betrays the depth of his worry. "He was supposed to meet me, but he never showed." He turns to Scully, searching her face. "I don't suppose that he mentioned anything to you...that he had other plans?"

Scully struggles hard not to cry. This is too much. She would laugh if it didn't hurt so damn much. What was that old adage her mother used to say? God only gives us what we can bear. Really? Then why is Mulder dead? Why am I *this* close to screaming? There's a question for you to answer, Father -fill in name- She swallows. "No. He didn't say anything. We talked about...my visit." She doesn't tell him about her illness. This isn't the time. Is it ever?

Mickey exhales loudly. He leans back and locks his hands behind his head. "Are you familiar with Senator Matheson ?"

Scully folds her arms, hugging herself. "Matheson? Not personally, but I know of him. He...he was an advocate of Mulder's work." She looks away, eyes downcast. "At one time, at least. Last year he stopped returning Mulder's phone calls." Mulder had nearly died in that train car. And now he is dead. "Why do you ask?"

"I found his phone number in McCall's apartment." Pause. "Why would McCall want to reach Matheson?"

Scully frowns. "I don't know."

"What if Matheson only withdrew his *public* support of Mulder, not his private?"

Her forehead wrinkles. "I'm not sure if I follow."

"I think Matheson is the reason I was sent to protect Mulder last year."

Scully nods cautiously. It's possible. "Do you think McCall's disappearance has to do with the Senator?"

He shakes his head. "No." It has to do with Ian Morris. But he doesn't tell her that. Scully is in enough pain. He's not willing to cause more.

She touches his arm. "What are you going to do?"

Mickey rests his hand on hers briefly. Determined: "Find him." He gets to his feet.

So does Scully. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Mickey leans against the wall, hands in his pockets. "Want to come back with me?" he asks, only half kidding.

Scully manages a tired smile. Yes, she does want to go back with him. She wants to forget about Mulder for one hour, one minute, and listen to Mickey's stories about McCall. She wants to do something constructive, something worthwhile. Finding Robert is meaningful. Categorizing the dozens of folders in that claustrophobic office is not.

But she can't go with him.

She has a doctor appointment. A now familiar routine of blood tests and medications. She bites at her lip. "I have an appointment tomorrow--I mean this morning. Can I meet you later?"

Mickey nods. He almost tells her to meet him at McCall's, but catches himself. He wants to spare her the sight of his apartment. "Go to O'Phelan's and call me. I'll come get you."

Scully glances toward the kitchen. "Can I make you some coffee?" The mugs she and Tim drank from still sit beside the sink. "Do you want something to eat?"

Mickey rubs his jaw, eyeing the door. "No. But thanks. I better get back."

Dana looks back toward the kitchen, unable to hide her disappointment. "You have to go...already?"

Mickey closes his eyes, struggling to keep it together in front of Scully. He can hear the pain in her voice. He knows she doesn't want to be alone. But he does.

Mulder's dead.

The thought keeps intruding, begging for attention. He clenches his jaw, trying to keep the anger at bay. Damn you, Mulder.

"Control is waiting for me to get back." A white lie. Control isn't waiting, but somewhere, McCall is.

"Do you think Robert is all right?" she asks, worried.

He forces a grin, hoping Scully doesn't notice the strain. "I'm sure he is..." he shrugs, "he never could distance himself from The Company's business."

Scully nods, unconvinced.

"If I come," she corrects herself, "*when* I come, what do you want me to do?"

This time Mickey's smile is genuine. "Just stick with me, Scully. I'll get the word out that you're going to interrogate the bad guys. They'll take one look at you and beg to be arrested."

He's pleased to see a faint blush creep up Scully's pale cheeks. She looks away, but not before he sees the smile touch her lips. He memorizes that smile. He files it away for future use, because he knows that his next question will destroy it.

Heart pounding, the words are little more than a whisper: "Scully...I have to ask you. Did you see Mulder? Are you sure it was him?"

The look in Scully's eyes is all the answer he needs. He sighs. Damn. Okay then. That's that. He steps forward and plants a quick kiss on her cheek. "I'm sorry, Dana. I'm very sorry."

She nods. Not as sorry as I am. "I know."

Mickey backs toward the door. "I'll see you later?"

"Yes."

Mickey shuts the door quietly behind him. He walks down to van, despair creeping into his bones like lead. He unlocks the door and slides behind the wheel. He stares into the night for several seconds before his fist comes down on the dashboard, hard, pounding out the rage, again and again. And again.

Each time his fist connects with the hard plastic, a single word echoes through his brain:

Why?

His fit of anger reignites the wound in his shoulder and finally, Mickey stops. He rests his head on the steering wheel, fighting tears. He never even knew anything was wrong. He never even had a chance to say goodbye.

He closes his eyes. Let me find McCall. Don't make me regret not saying goodbye.

***

He slams the car door. "Not *once*?" Tim asks, incredulous.

Frank casts a dour toward his partner. "Not once."

They walk toward the large building. "Not in highschool...college...not ever?"

Frank purses his thick lips and rolls his eyes skyward. "Nope."

Tim shakes his head. Softly: "I don't believe it."

Frank pulls one of the heavy doors open. "Why not?"

"Everybody gets depressed, Frank."

Frank nods. "You're right. But just because a person is depressed doesn't mean he has to kill himself."

"I know, but--"

Frank sweeps an arm through the air. "But nothing. I have responsibilities. Why would I take my own life?"

"Some people can't deal with those responsibilities, Frank. That doesn't make them a bad person, or guilty."

Frank shrugs. "You're right. It makes them weak."

"Weak," Tim repeats. He stares at Frank, disgusted. "So you think Crosetti was weak? And Mulder?"

"What are you telling me, Tim? That you considered suicide?"

Quickly: "I didn't say that."

Annoyed: "What exactly *are* you trying to say?"

Tim stops walking. "Wait a minute, wait a minute. Okay...so that means Todd Palmer was weak too, right Frank?"

They stand in the middle of the lobby. "Oh, no. Not Mr. Todd Jackson Palmer. He wasn't weak." Frank intones, eyes narrowed. "He was a coward.

"He committed a crime. Crimes, plural. He found it in himself to take a knife and murder four young women." His eyes bore into Tim. "To attack you with a baseball bat. He found it in himself to do those things, yet he couldn't face the consequences of those actions. I find that repugnant. I find that inexcusable."

Tim's face contorts. "You still blame Mulder, don't you?"

"Blame? *Blame*? I don't blame Mulder. If I'm going to blame anyone, it's myself. *I* should have gone in there."

Tim lifts his chin, defiant. "Oh yeah...that's right. Mulder was weak. But you, you're strong. Isn't that right, Frank?"

Frank sniffs. "Listen to me, Tim. We've got a job to do. I'm not going to stand here and argue with you. I'm going to say this once, and then I'm going to go up to Michael Kritschgau's office. You can come with me, or you can stand here in the lobby. I don't care."

Tim waits.

"Mulder wasn't weak during the standoff. He just messed up. He lost control. He just plain *lost*. But when he killed himself? Yes. He was weak.

"Life is hard, Tim. I know it, you know it. We see terrible things every day, we're surrounded by death. It takes courage to live in this world. Anybody can pick up a gun and put a bullet in his brain. It takes guts to put one leg on the floor every morning and get out of bed. What Mulder did was easy. He left his partner, his family, his superiors with the hard part. They have to pick up the pieces."

Frank puts a hand on Tim's shoulder, drawing him closer. He lowers his voice. "I could do a lot of things, Tim. But I could never, *never*, leave Mary and Livvie behind. I could never leave Mary and Livvie with that guilt." He removes his hand. "I wouldn't do it to Gee." Pause. "And I wouldn't do it to you." Abruptly, Frank turns and stalks toward the elevators. He glances back at Tim. "Hurry up."

Tim swallows, his anger gone, and watches Frank for a moment. A slow smile transforms his face. He follows his partner.

End part 3/12

From maraschino@ibm.net Wed Jul 16 19:24:33 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: REPOST: The Resurrection by Shannon (4/12) From: "Maraschino" maraschino@ibm.net Date: 16 Jul 97 23:24:33 GMT

Repeat after me: They aren't mine, but I wish they were. See Part 1 for the Full Speech. Title: The Resurrection Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: My answer to Gethsemane.

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

Part 4/12

Doctor Kelsey seats himself behind his desk. He folds his hands and stares down at the test results spread out before him. He raises his eyes to Scully's face. He sighs. "We have to make a decision, Dana."

She nods, silent.

"We tried radiation. We tried chemotherapy." He glances down at one of the pages and turns it over. "No improvement. According to these tests you only have a few weeks left, Dana."

Dana nods again, feeling her throat tighten. Weeks?

Kelsey picks up a pencil, puts it back down. "I'd like to recommend you for an experimental treatment program an associate of mine is conducting. The program has already started, but you meet the criteria, and I think he'd let you in on my recommendation." He picks up a sheaf of papers, leans forward, and hands them to Scully. "His name is Tom Gild. He did AIDS research for several years. Through trial and error he discovered that a derivative of AZT, called AZD, seems to have an affect on the type of nasal-pharyngeal tumor that you have. There may not be noticeable shrinkage, at least not at first. But it may stop further growth...as well as the mestastisizing."

Dana finds it difficult to swallow. "What are...what are the side effects?"

Kelsey offers a sympathetic smile. "Are you asking if the treatment will kill you? Probably not directly. But there's always the possibility of toxicity, and you already have a low white-blood cell count.

"That means daily blood transfusions while you're undergoing treatment." The doctor studies Dana's face. "It's a strict regimen. Five days of treatment every two weeks for two months. You'll continue to have nosebleeds, probably more frequently due to the anemia. You'll have severe headaches, nausea, insomnia, appetite loss, numbness in your hands and feet..." He gestures to the packet in her hands. "Take your pick, Dana. There's a whole roster of possible side effects. It's going to be difficult. But I can't sit back and objectively watch you slip away. You're a strong woman. I suggest you try the treatment."

Scully licks her lips, refusing to acknowledge the faint spark of hope. "You've worked with Tom Gild?" She can't afford to take Kelsey's word at face value. She trusts Kelsey, but Gild? He could be another Scanlon.

Kelsey reads her mind. "Tom and I went to medical school together. We even interned at Cook County together. I've known him a long time, Agent Scully." The unspoken promise is clear: I trust him. You can too. "I took the liberty of copying some of the articles Tim has had published, along with the literature on the AZD program."

Scully offers the doctor a brief smile, grateful for his foresight. "I'll look the information over...and I'll let you know."

Kelsey nods. "Of course."

Slowly, Scully gets to her feet, the papers tucked firmly under one arm. She walks to the door, but Kelsey's soft voice stops her.

"I strongly encourage you to consider the program, Dana. I would be very happy to recommend you to Tom. So call me. Soon."

Scully turns the doorknob. "I will."

***

Mickey walks along the street, shoulders hunched, hands deep in the pockets of his camouflage coat. He looks deceptively ordinary. His dark eyes scan both sides of the street, alert. As soon as he returned from Annapolis he hit the streets, talking to his contacts, keeping an ear open for any leads to McCall--or Ian Morris.

Three hours of leg work and he has...nothing. Not a single lead. Not even a rumor. McCall has simply vanished. Scowling, he yanks the door open and walks into O'Phelan's. Technically, the restaurant is still closed. Jeremy stands behind the bar, polishing the counter. A man sits in the far corner, chin in his hand. He wears a practiced look of boredom.

Harley Gage.

Mickey grimaces and walks over to Gage. He pulls out a chair and sits. "Well?"

"Most of my contacts haven't heard anything on Morris for at least five years."

Mickey raises an eyebrow. "Most?" Gage shrugs, unconcerned. "I've got a few more. I'll take care of it."

Mickey shakes his head, voice low. "You'll take care of it? When? Next week? McCall's life is on the line, here. I don't need you dragging your feet on this, Gage."

Gage rolls his eyes. "Give me a little credit, Mickey, will you please?" He folds his arms and regards Kostmayer. "You know, I didn't exactly *ask* to work with you either, okay?"

Mickey glowers at the dark-haired man.

Gage leans back in his chair, gesturing. "What is it, Kostmayer? After all this time, you *still* blame me?"

Mickey glares. "You're the reason McCall is missing. You had the right to flush Morris out, but you were supposed to wait until McCall was out of the way. Those Moscow boys aren't quite as forgiving--or forgetful--as Glasnost has led us to believe."

Gage returns the glare. "I thought McCall had left! I didn't know he was still there, Mickey. I never thought Morris would put two and two together." His voice takes on an annoying plaintive quality. "How did I know the KGB could add?"

Mickey puts a hand to his head. Wearily: "This isn't a joke, Gage."

Gage sighs and rubs the back of his neck. "I know that. Believe me, I know. For what it's worth, I'm sorry about what happened. I'm sorry about what happened then, and I'm sorry about what's happening now."

Angrily: "Not as sorry as you'll be if McCall is hurt."

"I get the message, Kostmayer, all right? I know you want McCall back. So do I. So does Control."

Really? Then why did he stick me with you? Mickey wonders. Out loud: "When does Ginger get back from Colombia?"

Gage shakes his head. "I don't know."

Mickey bites down on a retort. He isn't willing to let his disgust at working with Gage put McCall in further jeopardy. He can do this. Gage can do this. They'll find Robert. Softly: "No matter what I think of you, I know you had a damn good toehold in Moscow. They accepted you. Make the rest of your calls. And find out where Morris is, what he wants." His dark eyes search Gage's face. "This is your chance to put things right." He pushes the chair back. "I'm going to make some inquiries of my own. Let me know what you find out."

Gage cocks his head, the bored look back in place. "Yeah."

Mickey's voice drops dangerously low. "I mean it, Gage."

Gage waves him off. "I will. Let me get on it, will you?"

Mickey turns away before he has the chance to say something he'll regret.

***

Tim stands in Kritschgau's office. He glances at the assortment of framed blueprints on the walls. The office is neat. Too neat. He sighs and glances at the bookshelf along the far wall.

Through the smaller, adjoining room, Frank looks over the secretary's shoulder. "That's the phone log?" She nods, handing him a book of carbon message sheets. Frank glances at them. "Did Mr. Kritschgau have any visitors last Friday? Any unusual calls?"

The woman shakes her head. "Not that I recall." She glances at the book. "But I'd have to check to be sure."

Frank flips another page and stops. He stares at the name printed in careful script. He points to it. "Do you know what this person wanted? There's no message."

The woman closes her eyes, trying to remember. "I believe she just wanted to know if Michael was in his office. She mentioned calling back later."

"Did she?"

"No."

"Do you know what her working relationship is to Mr. Kritschgau?"

"No...I'm sorry."

Frank nods. "That's okay. Thank you for your help." He carries the book into Kritschgau's office.

Tim is flipping through a dog-eared Day Timer. "Get anything?"

Frank holds the book out, his face neutral. Tim looks. His eyes widen. He glances at Frank sharply. "That doesn't mean anything."

"How do you know what it means, Tim?"

Tim sniffs, nostrils flaring. "Dana Scully didn't have anything to do with Kritschgau's death."

Frank spreads his hands. "Easy, boy. Who's saying she did? I'm just curious why she called. I just want to ask her some questions."

Tim shakes his head. "No."

Frank sighs. "Yes."

Adamant: "No!"

"We're already in D.C., Tim. We might as well head over to the FBI and ask her. What's the problem?"

Tim rubs his nose. "I don't have a problem."

Frank grins, teeth gleaming. "Ahh. I get it." "You get *what*?"

Frank chuckles. "You've got a thing for FBI Agent Dana Scully. You're waiting for her to button your coat, right Tim?" The chuckle becomes a laugh.

Tim frowns. "Button my coat?"

Frank wipes his eyes. "Oh come on, Tim. Don't you remember your love lorn confession about your second grade school teacher? I don't forget stuff like that, Tim. I file it away for future use...for moments just like this, actually." He laughs again.

Tim's face grows hot. Uncomfortable: "I'm glad my deepest secrets can provide you with amusement, Frank. That's just wonderful." He sighs. "I don't have a--" he fumbles over the word, "*thing* for Dana. She's my friend." There is the minor point he would *like* a thing with Dana...but that's neither here nor there.

Grinning: "Uh huh."

Tim runs a hand through his hair. "Fine. We'll go talk to her."

Frank nods. "Good. Let's go."

Tim follows, rubbing his jaw.

Frank glances at him as they walk down the long corridor. "Your TMJ bothering you?"

Tim scowls. "No, Frank. *You're* bothering me."

***

He's driving up Commercial when the cellular rings. He pulls it out. "Yeah?"

Gage's voice, subdued. "I've got something." Pause. "Meet me at your place."

Mickey hangs up. He glances in the rear view mirror. Nothing behind him. Heart pounding, he does a U-turn and speeds toward his apartment.

***

"Over there," Tim points toward the parking garage.

Frank mutters under his breath and steers the Cavalier into the right lane. "How the hell do people drive in this city?"

"Any way they want to," Tim observes. He shifts in the seat, trying to ignore the stone of worry buried in his gut. Could Scully be connected with Kritschgau...or was her call a mere coincidence? Another, deeper layer of unease forces him to take a series of shallow breathes. Mulder is dead. He doesn't want to see the empty desk. He exhales loudly. Come on. This is no big deal.

But it is.

"What do you mean she's not here," Frank asks, leaning over the receptionist's desk and into her face.

The girl falters. "She...ah, took a personal day today. Agent Scully will be back tomorrow," she offers, desperate to be rid of the intimidating black man.

A woman walks by. She drops an interoffice envelope into the slot in the wall. She gives the two men a cursory glance, pausing when she notices their badges.

"Do you know where Agent Scully is spending her personal day, perchance?" Frank continues.

The girl shakes her head. "She didn't say." Hopeful: "Can I leave her a message?"

Frank sighs loudly. "No..."

"You want me to call her cell phone?" Tim asks.

Frank's eyebrows shoot toward the ceiling. "You know her cell phone number by heart?"

Tim shrugs. "So what?"

Drifting away from the main reception desk: "Face it, Tim. You've got a thing."

"No I don't! Why do you--"

"Excuse me?" The woman with the interoffice envelope gives them a nervous smile. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I heard you say Agent Scully's name."

Frank returns the smile, encouraging her. "Yes?" The tag on her lapel reads: Agent Hedin.

"Are you here because of Michael Kritschgau?" she asks.

Tim and Frank exchange glances. How the hell does she know *that*?

Don't ask me.

"Why do you ask?" Tim ventures, cautious.

"I just wanted to make sure she followed through on pressing charges. That son of a bitch could have killed her."

Another look, longer this time. Frank licks his lips. "And you're referring to...?"

The woman frowns. "The incident in the stairwell last week. When Agent Scully was pushed down a flight of stairs. She's very lucky she wasn't seriously injured." Hedin glances from the smooth dark face to the weary white one. "Isn't that why you're here?"

Pembleton purses his lips. He looks at Tim, but Tim avoids his eyes. "We're investigating a murder, Agent Hedin."

She stares at them, surprised. "Murder? Whose?"

"Michael Kritschgau."

She puts a hand to her mouth. "Oh. God." She takes a step backward, wondering if she's just cast blame onto her coworker. Another step. "I'm sorry to bother you...good luck with the investigation." She turns and hurries down the hallway without looking back.

Tim leans his head against the wall. He taps it against the plaster, once, twice, making a rhythmic *thud*.

Frank is silent. He waits patiently for Tim to stop.

"That's not a reason for murder."

Frank nods. "I know that."

Tim closes his eyes. Opens them. He moves away from the wall. "Let's go find a phone."

***

Walking back from lunch, he meets Carl Larson in the hall. "I've been wanting to ask you about your latest report, do you have a minute to come into my office?"

Carl glances at his watch. "Sure." He opens the office door. They walk inside.

Mickey Kostmayer sits behind his desk. Harley Gage perches on the edge of it. The look on Mickey's face tells him everything he needs to know. "Tell you what, Carl. I'll come to *you* a little later this afternoon."

Carl nods and slips out the door. Control would like to do the same.

He shuts the door and turns to face the two men. He glares at Mickey. "You're sitting in my chair."

Kostmayer glares back . "And you're a liar."

Gage is silent.

Control walks around his desk, arms folded, his expression unreadable. "Explain that statement."

Mickey rolls the chair back and stands, his face flushed. "What's to explain? You lied to me from the start, Control. Ian Morris has been dead for the past five years! You called me at Cleo's and lied through your teeth." His voice is hard. "Why?"

Control doesn't answer. He drops into his now-vacant chair. His voice is gentle, almost regretful. "Mickey...I have my reasons."

Mickey throws his hands up in the air. "Well that's just great. You have your reasons. Those reasons have been chewing a hole in my gut for the past twenty-four hours." He leans against Control's desk. "I can usually tolerate your lies, Control. But not about McCall."

Control's temper sparks. "You aren't in a position to deem which lies are acceptable and which aren't, Mickey. I have my reasons. Some lies are necessary." His voice rises to a near shout. "Sometimes they save lives!"

Mickey lets his anger fade. He focuses on Control, struggling for calm. "Are you saying McCall is still in danger?"

Control rubs his forehead. "I'm saying...sometimes...McCall doesn't know when to ignore his own conscience."

Gage speaks for the first time. Amazed: "You have him don't you?"

Mickey jabs at the desk with a finger, the pieces clicking into place. He doesn't like the final picture. "*You* had McCall's apartment trashed, didn't you? You put him someplace so that you can keep on eye on him." His lips curve in a sneer. "So you can make sure he doesn't spill whatever toxic waste you're involved in." He stares at Control, his chin raised, jaw clenched. "Am I right?"

"No. You're not. But you are overstaying your welcome." Control points to the door. "Out."

Gage slides off the desk and takes a hesitant step toward the door. Mickey doesn't move.

Control's mouth tightens. "You heard me."

Mickey folds his arms. "I'm not leaving until I get some answers."

Control shakes his head. "That's not possible, Mickey."

Mickey puts both hands to his head, struggling with the sudden headache pounding behind his eyes. "Listen to me, Control. I spoke to Scott fifteen minutes ago. He called my apartment. Do you know why he called? He and Abby believe Ian Morris is holding Robert hostage. They believe his life is in danger.

"An hour ago Abby went into labor."

Control pales. He opens his mouth to speak, but Mickey doesn't give him a chance.

"She's only thirty-two weeks along, Control. That kid could die. All because of your games. So I'm asking you. Nicely. Tell me where McCall is."

Control bows his head. "Oh my God..." Dammit. Dammit! What the hell is going on here? He shakes his head again. "Mickey. I *can't*."

Kostmayer nods. "Then I'll wait."

Control's hand hovers near the phone. "And I'll call security."

Mickey shoots Control an ugly look. "And I'll give them a *very* hard time. And when the EMT's are done hauling their butts out of your office, I'll *still* be waiting."

Control studies Mickey's face. He considers the strength of Mickey's loyalty to McCall, his skill, and his strength. He considers O'Rourke and Donnell from security. He lets his hand drop.

Mickey ignores the dull pain in his shoulder, the heavy tug of his weary limbs, and the nervous cramps in his stomach. He tries again. Quietly: "Tell me where Robert is."

Control is silent for several minutes. Gage grows restless, but a look from Mickey stills him. They wait. Finally, Control speaks. "I can't tell you." Pause. "But I'll show you."

End part 4/12

From maraschino@ibm.net Wed Jul 16 19:24:39 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: REPOST: The Resurrection by Shannon (5/12) From: "Maraschino" maraschino@ibm.net Date: 16 Jul 97 23:24:39 GMT

Repeat after me: They aren't mine, but I wish they were. See Part 1 for the Full Speech. Title: The Resurrection Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: My answer to Gethsemane. ************************

Part 5/12

The angry shouts echo all the way down the corridor. Frank and Tim pick up speed, running for the squad room.

Two uniforms are struggling with a burly skinhead. His age is impossible to guess, the sloping forehead and bulging muscles place him anywhere between seventeen and twenty-five. Glaring, he screams an encyclopedia of obscenities and racial slurs. Sergeant Howard motions the uniforms into the Box. Munch stands beside her, hands on his hips. "Is that the best you can do?" he laments. "How about a little creativity?"

Kay's smile is dangerous. "Come on now, Percy. Don't give me any trouble, hmm? I don't like trouble."

"GO TO HELL YOU STUPID BITCH!" is Percy's genteel reply. An afterthought: "I didn't do anything!" He throws his head back, connecting with Officer Canon's nose.

Canon claps a hand to his face, swearing. Blood spouts through his fingers. Bayliss reaches the fray in two strides. He places one arm around Percy's neck and presses. "Hey! Percy! Sergeant Howard here asked you to behave. So you better behave. You got that?" He knees the big man in the back and propels him into the box. Within seconds Percy is handcuffed to the table, Kay is sitting across from him, Munch and the second uniform stand behind him.

And Tim is emptying the ice-cube trays from the freezer into a plastic bag.

"Your back go out again?" Frank sets a Styrofoam cup next to Tim.

Tim grimaces. He untucks his shirt and presses the bag against his skin. Disgusted: "Yeah."

Frank makes a tsk-ing noise. "You ever consider that maybe your warranty ran out, Tim?"

Bayliss squints at Frank. "My warranty, huh? That's what the problem is?"

Pembleton sips at his coffee. "Exactly." He pulls out a chair and sits. "Mine wore out last year."

"No, you had a stroke."

Frank nods. "I had a stroke. That's my point. My body broke down all at once." He smiles. "But you? You're going piece by piece, Bayliss." He shakes his head. "How can I have a partner who spends more time at the emergency room than he does in the squad room?"

Tim gestures with his hand, annoyed. "You're doing it again, Frank."

"Doing what?"

"You're exaggerating. I'm fine, okay? Just let me stand here with this ice for five minutes and I'll be fine. That's all I'm asking, Frank. Five minutes of peace and quiet."

Frank shrugs. He takes another sip of coffee.

"Gentlemen."

Gee stands in the doorway. "What's happening with the Kritschgau case?" He notes the ice on Tim's back.

Tim rubs his jaw. "Uh, it's going...good."

Frank raises his cup in agreement. "Good."

Gee frowns. "You have a witness?"

"No."

"You have a suspect..."

"Um..."

"...fingerprints..."

"Well..."

"...a lead?"

Silence.

Gee's lips compress. "Why do I get the feeling my definition of good is not the same as yours? Let me clarify: 'Good' means Kritschgau's name is written in black ink."

Frank runs a hand over his head. "We're on it, Gee."

The Lieutenant raises an eyebrow.

Pembleton sighs. "Agent Scully is coming in for questioning. There's a possibility that she--"

"Might have some information on Kritschgau," Tim finishes.

Frank shoots Tim an ugly glare.

Gee nods slowly. "Just solve the case." He thumps his chest. "Make me a happy man."

"We will," Tim assures him.

Unconvinced, Gee returns to his office.

"Don't interrupt me again, Bayliss. I have a right to tell Gee about a possible motive."

Tim makes a face. "Oh, now it's a motive? Please, Frank! You're delusional."

Frank steps closer. "Excuse me?"

"Bayliss."

Both men ignore the detective standing by the refrigerator.

Louder: "Bayliss!"

Tim glances up at Lewis. "I'll fill the damn ice cube trays in a minute, Meldrick!"

Lewis blinks. "Glad to hear it, Tim." He walks away, stops, and glances over his shoulder. "Oh, by the way...Dana Scully is waiting for you."

Tim inhales sharply and turns a steely gaze on his partner. His voice holds an unmistakable warning: "Frank."

"I'm only going to ask a few questions, Tim. That's all."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

***

She's standing beside his desk. Tim tucks his shirt in gingerly, wincing at the effort. He smiles. "Hi Dana. Thanks for coming so quickly."

Scully nods. "Sorry I missed you in D.C." Her expression is strained. "You wanted to ask me some questions about...Michael Kritschgau." A statement, not a question.

"Yes we did." Frank glances at the Box. The door is still closed, he can just glimpse Kay pacing inside. He gestures toward a small conference room. "We can step inside here."

Scully sits at the far end of the table, hands folded, her back rigid. All business. "What do you want to know?"

Tim touches her arm. "Do you want some water?"

She shakes her head. "No thank you."

"Coffee? Soda?"

"No."

"All right, Agent Scully," Frank glances at his notes, "according to Agent Hedin, Michael Kritschgau pushed you down a flight of stairs last week."

Scully licks her lips. Nods.

"Do you want something to eat?" Tim asks.

Frank's lip curls. "Why don't you go bake a cake, Bayliss, and let me ask the questions."

Scully offers Tim a tight smile. "I'm fine." To Frank: "That's right. Kritschgau stole some samples we were having tested. When I pursued him, we scuffled, and he pushed me down the stairs."

Frank nods. "Were you hurt?"

Scully blinks. I'm dying. What does it matter? She forces an answer. "A few abrasions. Bruises."

Tim massages his back. "When you say 'we', you mean yourself and Mulder?"

Softly: "Yes."

Frank drops his notes onto the table. "Can you tell me why you called Mr. Kritschgau at his office last Friday afternoon?"

Scully considers the question. How much can she tell him? How much *should* she tell him? She chooses her words carefully. "When Agent Hedin ran his fingerprints, I found out he worked for the DOD. I wanted to make sure he was in the office because I...I planned to confront him."

Frank blinks.

Scully continues, stomach churning. "I planned to question him. About why he stole the samples." She bows her head. "Working in the X-Files...you become resigned to the fact there are always more questions than answers. But sometimes...you have to ask anyway."

Tim presses himself against the wall, easing the pressure on his back. "And you met with Kritschgau?"

She swallows. Looks up at Tim. "You know...maybe I would like some water."

"No problem. I'll be *right* back." Bayliss moves as fast as his back will let him.

She rubs her forehead. "Yes. I met with Kritschgau. I caught up with him in the parking ramp."

Frank lowers his head so he can look up into her face. "And did you get your answers?"

Scully's voice breaks. "Oh, yes." Bitterly: "I got answers."

Frank makes a sweeping gesture with his hands. "So Michael Kritschgau was only too happy to tell you why he stole these...samples?"

Scully takes a deep breath. "No. He wasn't willing. Not at first. He...tried to run. But I pulled my gun and told him I was going to turn him in to the police."

Frank nods, listening.

"Kritschgau said if I turned him in he would be killed. He said that if I didn't turn him in, he would...answer my questions."

"What questions, Agent Scully?"

Her chin trembles and her pale blue eyes focus on the far wall. She answers slowly. "Questions about the validity of the X-Files and Agent Mulder's work."

Tim returns with a Styrofoam glass of water. Softly: "Here you go, Dana." He sets it down gently, careful not to spill.

She reaches for the cup and smiles. Her eyes light on his face briefly. "Thank you, Tim."

The pain in his back seems to lessen.

Frank puts a hand over his mouth, thinking. He stares at Agent Scully a moment. His eyes flick to Tim. He raises his eyebrows. You should hear this.

Tim stares back. What?

"So you had reason to believe Agent Mulder's work wasn't....valid?"

Scully takes a tentative sip of the water. Then another. "Mulder was on a...quest to prove the existence of alien life. The samples that Kritschgau took had to do with a discovery Mulder found in Alaska.

"Mulder believed he had found incontrovertible proof in the alleged remains of an extraterrestrial biological entity."

"In other words...Agent Mulder thought he found E.T.?"

Scully stares at Frank coldly. "Mulder's discovery was a hoax. Kritschgau told me the discovery had been planned, it was an elaborate set-up, designed specifically for Mulder. He said..." she closes her eyes, struggling to continue, "...that everything Mulder believed...was a lie. Kritschgau said that they had...invented Mulder." She clenches her fists, determined not to lose control.

Tim puts a hand to the back of his head, eyes wide with a pain that has nothing to do with his back. "Oh...God. Is that why...is that why...?" he can't finish.

Scully nods.

Frank leans back in the chair. "You said 'they' invented Mulder. Who's this omniscient 'they?'"

Scully shrugs, too tired to answer. Who, indeed. Everyone. No one. Mulder was dead. She is dying. Did it really matter now?

A faint voice in the back of her mind: Yes.

"So after your talk in the parking lot, you didn't see Kritschgau again?"

In a monotone: "We talked in Kritschgau's office, not the parking lot. I called Mulder and asked him to come and listen to what Kritschgau had to say. He came. But he refused to believe. Mulder left and I followed him." She looks into Frank's eyes. He turns away, uncomfortable. "The last time I saw Michael Kritschgau was around nine o'clock on Friday night." Pause. "The last time I saw Mulder was at ten."

Frank exhales loudly. He doesn't believe Scully had anything to do with Kritschgau's death. Expedited his death, maybe. Killed him? No.

So.

Who *was* the killer?

***

He sits in the car, jaw clenched, hands fisted. A familiar building up ahead. Cryptic words over the double doors: Imperial Order of Ancient Mystics. He casts a dark scowl at Control. He should have known. McCall had been sitting under their noses the entire time.

Mickey tenses. Still a block away, he can sense something is wrong. One of the large doors is partially open. He is out of the car, gun ready, before the vehicle comes to a full stop. Gage follows Mickey's lead. He stands by the door, raises his gun, and nods to Mickey.

Mickey kicks the door open. He fights hard to stay calm. Lefkowitz, Byers, and Pallson are dead. Lefkowitz is slumped over a computer teriminal, the other two lay on the floor.

There is movement beside him. He turns to Control, eyes hard. "Is this part of your plan too?"

Control's face is gray. He shakes his head. "No. I don't know what this is."

Gage stoops and examines the floor. He looks up at Mickey. "Blood."

Mickey swallows hard. He finds it hard to draw a full breath through the panic in his chest. He follows the thin red trail up the stairs. Down the hall. To the small, spare room. The door stands open, lock broken. The room is empty. Near the closet he sees the blood. Too much blood. He closes his eyes. McCall's blood.

Control's voice is quiet. "This is where he was."

Mickey inspects the closet, the bed. He drops to the floor and peers beneath it. Nothing. He runs a hand across his face, afraid of the possibilities. "Who did this?" he demands.

Control shakes his head, at a loss. "I don't know."

Mickey glowers at Control, fed up. "The hell you don't!"

"I'm telling you Mickey, I *don't*!"

Mickey storms out of the room. Control's voice follows him. "Where are you going?"

Mickey grips the banister, white knuckled. His eyes glint dangerously: "I'm going to find my friend." To Gage: "Stay with Control. If he so much as blinks three times in a row, I want to know about it."

Gage stares at Mickey, surprised.

"DO YOU HEAR ME?" Mickey bellows. He's not taking any chances. Putting Gage on Control keeps both of them out of his way. And McCall's.

Gage nods.

Control protests: "Mickey--"

"Save it," Kostmayer hisses. "If you'd have been up front with me from the start, I wouldn't be standing in Robert's blood right now."

Mickey pounds down the steps and out the door.

***

She looks out over the water, thick red hair blowing around her face, fingers locked through the chain link fence. She closes her eyes, concentrating on the feel of the sun on her back.

Right now, she would like nothing more than to take a shower. As if mere water could wash off the feeling of Percy aka Cueball Wenta's hate. She glances at the woman beside her. "I'm sorry to hear about Mulder."

Scully musters a weary smile for Sergeant Howard. "Thanks." She hesitates. "Tim told me about your ex-partner."

Kay looks up at the sky. A smattering of flat white clouds dust the horizon. Beau Felton. Why had she let their friendship slip away? He had been her partner, *her* Beau...and now he was gone. Kay sniffs. "Yeah." She pulls her long hair away from her face. "We'll catch that bastard Cantwell."

"Cantwell. He killed Beau?"

Kay shakes her head. "He murdered Beau."

Scully glances at Kay sharply. What's the difference?

Howard turns and leans against the fence, hands locked behind her back. She sighs softly. "It's funny...I was all set to believe the worst about Beau. But he surprised me." She glances at Scully, proud. "He turned out to be a hero." Her smile is bittersweet. "I keep thinking...I never gave him enough credit. Maybe I didn't expect enough of him, hmm? Maybe if I had told him he was good police...he would have stayed." A long pause. "I should have told him."

Scully studies the ground. "Maybe he knows."

Kay sniffs again. "Maybe." The wind lifts her hair, a red fan against the fence. "It's funny...you partner with someone for years...but you never really know them. You only know who *you* think they are." Softly: "I really believed Beau could kill himself."

Scully looks away. "And I believed Mulder couldn't."

The two women stand against the fence, lost in a past where they both had a partner. A partner they knew.

End part 5/12

From maraschino@ibm.net Wed Jul 16 19:24:47 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: REPOST: The Resurrection by Shannon (6/12) From: "Maraschino" maraschino@ibm.net Date: 16 Jul 97 23:24:47 GMT

Repeat after me: They aren't mine, but I wish they were. See Part 1 for the Full Speech. Title: The Resurrection Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: My answer to Gethsemane.

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

Part 6/12

Fifteen minutes.

Not a long drive, really. A few stop lights, a few turns. A side street off Washington. For Mickey Kostmayer, it might as well be fifteen hours. He taps his foot impatiently against the floor. "Pull over," he barks to the cab driver.

The driver glances back at him. "You said--"

"I know what I said. Now pull over."

The driver mutters something and pulls over. Mickey tosses a handful of bills at him and springs out of the car. The sprawling brick structure of the University lies two blocks away. He starts running.

The campus is bustling. Students walking to and from classes. People on roller blades, on skateboards, on bicycles glide past him. A studious young man carrying a back pack and an armload of books walks by. Mickey stops him. "Where can I find Professor Milton?"

The man keeps walking. "Try the Memorial Library." He points, trying not to drop the books. "Red brick building, white roof."

The library is like stepping back in time. Even the wedges of sunlight slicing across the carpet seem antiquated. A few students joke, voices rising, but the cavernous room dwarfs the sound. He stops at the information desk. "Can you tell me where I can find Professor Milton?" The girl blows a large bubble, lets it pop. She cocks her head to the right. "That way."

A few seconds later he stands in the doorway of a small office. Papers, books, folders, apples, all piled helter-skelter throughout the closet sized room. The worn chair behind the metal desk is empty.

Mickey sighs.

"Can I help you?"

A tall, bearded man stands behind him. Late fifties, early sixties, a head of thick gray hair, the beard white and neatly trimmed.

"Professor Milton?"

The man nods. "Yes?"

Mickey gestures toward the man's office. "May I speak with you for a moment?"

Milton blinks. "About what?"

Smiling: "I have...sort of a history question."

Milton beams. "Then by all means, come in. Come in!"

The room is too small for Mickey to sit, he leans against Milton's desk. Milton lowers himself behind the desk with a sigh. He reaches for one of the apples and plants his elbows atop a stack of papers. "What is your question?"

"I was wondering if you could tell me where I could find Mikail Androvich."

The smile remains on Milton's face, but his eyes change. They darken, a brief flicker of something barely identifiable. But Mickey knows that look. Fear. Milton studies Mickey's face for several seconds. "That is an odd question," the old man finally says.

Mickey shrugs. "Do you have an answer?"

Milton gets up, chair creaking, and shuts the door. He turns back to Kostmayer, voice low. "Why would I know this...this Mikail Androvich?"

Mickey slips his hands into his pockets. "I don't know. I just heard that you might be...familiar with him."

Milton frowns. "I'm not."

"You're sure?"

A hint of anger. "I don't know him." Pause. "How could I? Androvich died in 1981."

"But I heard you were close to him at one time," Mickey persists.

Slowly, Milton returns to the desk. "And if I was?"

"Maybe he could get me some information."

Sharply: "Who are you?"

Mickey meets the older man's gaze. "I'm a friend of Robert McCall's."

The old man is silent. He stares at Mickey, uncertain.

"I heard McCall is the one who helped your friend Androvich leave Russia in one piece."

Milton nods cautiously. "Perhaps he did. What of it?"

Mickey rests his hands on either side of the desk and leans over Milton. "McCall is in trouble."

Milton's face contracts. "I'm...sorry to hear that. But there's nothing that I can do. I'm just an old history professor."

"A history professor with contacts." Mickey steps back and folds his arms. "I need to know if Ian Morris had any relatives, any children."

The fear flashes across Milton's face again. It stays longer this time. "Morris? I don't know--"

Mickey waves a gloved hand, cutting Milton off. "Maybe you don't, but Androvich sure as hell did. McCall saved your friend's life. Maybe Androvich can't repay the favor." Pause. "But you can." He drops a piece of paper onto Milton's desk. "Call me at that number when you find out."

Milton sputters. "I can't! I don't have any--"

Mickey turns a cold glare on Milton. "You *can*, Milton, and you *will*." He opens the door. "I'll expect to hear from you within the next three hours." He walks away.

The old man gets up and locks the door after Mickey's footsteps die away. He drops his head in his hands. He sits quietly for several seconds, heart pounding. And then Mikail Androvich picks up the phone.

***

"Hey, Sarge!"

She can tell by the way he walks. The pained expression on his face helps of course, but so does her medical training. "Back problems?"

Tim grimaces at Scully. "Bad back. Picked today to go out on me."

Kay wipes roughly at her face, eyes downcast. "What is it, Bayliss?"

"Gee's looking for you. He wants to know what you got out of Mr. Congeniality."

Howard raises her head, a faint smile on her face. "I think we got enough, hmm?" She rocks back on her heels, adjusting her belt. "How about the Kritschgau case?"

Tim clears his throat. "Not much." Pause. "Yet."

"Keep me posted," she says and heads back toward the building.

Tim watches Howard for a moment, then turns to Scully. He studies her profile. "You okay?"

Scully gives him a tight-lipped smile. She opens her mouth to give a pat response, the message is garbled between her brain and lips. "I talked to Mickey last night." She scuffs at the gravel with the toe of one shoe.

He nods, searching for a response. "Ah." He pulls a pair of sunglasses out from his shirt pocket. Wire frames, rectangular lenses. He slips them on.

She glances up at him. "He said Robert is missing."

Tim walks over to the swings and eases himself down, his long legs crossed at the ankles. "Missing? As in...?"

"No one knows where he is."

"I'm sure he has a good reason."

"His apartment was trashed." Pause. "Mickey found his glasses. They were...broken."

Tim rubs his nose. "That doesn't mean he was there at the time. Maybe the glasses were a spare pair."

Scully looks at Tim. She hadn't thought of that. "Maybe." She glances at her watch. She should get going soon. Mickey is waiting.

Bayliss lifts his feet and the swing glides forward. "I'm sorry to drag you down here."

She shrugs. "I understand." She watches the detective for a moment. "You should see a doctor about your back."

He grins. "You're a doctor." He shakes his head. "Nah. I've had my fill of physical therapy. Thanks but no thanks. It'll get better." He's not quite as confident as he sounds.

Reproachful: "You're just making it worse." The shrill cry of Scully's phone interrupts a longer speech.

She pulls the cell phone from her pocket. Who could be calling? She knows who it *won't* be. "Scully."

"Agent Scully. I know you took a personal day...but I need to speak with you."

Scully grips the phone tighter. "About what, sir?"

"I need your medical opinion, Scully. Is there someplace we could meet?"

Surprised: "You don't want me to come to the office?"

His answer is vehement. "No. It would be better if we spoke in a...less conspicuous environment."

Scully checks her watch. "I'm in Baltimore. It will take me a few--"

He cuts her off. "That's fine. I'll come your way."

She glances at Tim. "I know a safe place where we can talk."

***

Control is waiting for him. Alone.

Mickey does a quick scan of the room. "Where's Gage?" he demands.

"A few of my other agents...suggested he go home."

"Dammit, Control, why--"

"I don't need a babysitter," Control interrupts, voice low. The two men stare at each other. Finally: "Well? Did you find him?"

Mickey turns away. "Do you see him?"

Control sighs. He rubs a hand over his eyes. "What I did was necessary," he says quietly. "I didn't intend for this to happen. You know that."

Mickey bows his head, chest tight. Maybe he does. But he doesn't have to like it.

***

The call comes an hour later. Androvich whispers the information, his voice so soft Mickey has to press the phone against his ear, furiously trying to make out the words.

His stomach cramps at the news.

His reply is simple: "Where?"

"I don't know."

Furious: "Then find out."

A long pause. "I'll try."

Mickey hangs up without answering. He slows his breathing, trying to ride out the panic. Stay calm. You won't do McCall any good like this.

He waits in the van for a few more minutes. Finally he gets out and glances up at the apartment building. Damn Gage, anyway. He isn't just wasting Mickey's time, he's wasting McCall's. And that's unacceptable. He still can't figure out why Control chose...

Mickey stops, halfway up the stairs.

Of course.

Control assigned Gage to him knowing they would have a hard time working together. Hoping that they *couldn't* work together. Hoping they wouldn't trace McCall back to Control. Mickey snorts. Control could play it any way he liked, but *he* was going to come out the winner on this.

He bounds up the stairs. A couple passes him on the landing, hand in hand. They're dressed in matching spandex, holding expensive tennis rackets. The woman is blond, long straight hair, startling blue eyes. Almost violet. She offers Mickey a half smile. He barely acknowledges her, distracted, and jogs to the end of the hallway. He stops in front of Apartment 21A. Knocks.

No answer.

Mickey feels his temper slip another notch. Come on...come on...open the damn door.

He knocks harder, tries the knob. It turns in his hand. He shoves the door open. "Gage, I want you to--" The words die, his instructions forgotten. He draws his gun instantly, sweating, every nerve in his body on edge. He walks down the hall slowly, stopping at each room, but the apartment is empty.

Except for Harley Gage. Lying on the couch, a pillowcase over his head.

Dead.

***

A small bar. Dimly lit. Jazz flows from the jukebox. Plastic menus line the tables, block letters spelling out 'The Waterfront' in dark green print. She's sitting at one of the tables near the wall.

He pulls out a chair. "Agent Scully."

"Sir."

He sets the briefcase on the table. Snaps it open. "Come here often?" The smile shows in his eyes, not his lips.

"I know one of the owners."

He pulls a thin stack of papers from the case and hands it to her. "Can you tell me what this is, Scully?"

She stares at the computerized print-out, throat dry. She blinks and gradually the words assemble into safe, neat lines. It's okay. It's not what she thought. She answers softly: "When Mulder and I were presumed dead...this is a copy of Doctor Buchanan's autopsy report."

"For Mulder?"

Scully lets the report drop onto the tablecloth. "This report is fraudulent, sir." She grimaces. "Indirectly fraudulent, at least. The man Buchanan examined wasn't Mulder."

Skinner bites at his lip. "Have you seen the results of Mulder's--"

She shifts in the chair, unable to let him finish. "No."

Skinner removes his glasses. "Well I have. It took five separate phone calls to finagle a copy for his file. Take a look." He drops it beside the first report.

Scully can't. How many of these same forms has she filled out? How many times has she read an autopsy report as if it were a best-selling novel? The number is infinite. But this report is different. This report...her hands clench in her lap. This autopsy report...is like looking at her own.

Mulder dead. Reduced to five pages of measurements and single-spaced print. Her voice is a whisper. "Sir..."

Skinner reaches across the table and pushes the report closer. "Please, Agent Scully. I'm *asking* you to read the report."

Her lips pull into a tight line. Hating Skinner, she bows her head and focuses on the second report.

NAME: MULDER, FOX WILLIAM

She scans the report, feeling ill. Height: 72 inches...Weight: 170 pounds... Distinguishing Marks: mole on right cheek...scars...

She blinks. Flips to the next page. And the next. She reaches for Buchanan's spurious report and compares the two documents.

She reads in silence, eyes flicking to the signature on this week's report. Doctor Anthony Gold. The faint curl of excitement in her belly dies. Gold is a respected pathologist. He would never falsify a document. Unless they got to him.

Now who wants to believe the lie?

Skinner reads her expression. "Anthony Gold has taught at Quantico for fifteen years."

Scully nods weakly, unable to reply.

"Gold retired six months ago. I spoke with him two hours ago. He's in Florida. Has been for the past three months."

Scully closes her eyes. "What...what are you suggesting, sir?"

Skinner taps the reports. "I'm not suggesting anything, Scully. These are." He leans toward her. "I was looking for some information on the Stipler case." His eyes flicker. "You know what Agent Mulder's desk is like. I came across Buchanan's photocopy which reminded me to look into his...current autopsy. If I hadn't found that copy, I would never have realized--"

"That Gold's report is a fake," Scully finishes. Reading the report with trained eyes, she can see the slightly different type used beneath the doctor's name, the date, and the cause of death. Buchanan's report, altered. Scully frowns, reading again. "There's no mention of the scar in Mulder's hairline." She glances up at Skinner. "He had a small scab wound from...from a medical treatment." She flushes slightly at the lie. "Gold would have caught that."

"All the way from Florida?"

Scully's lips curve in a smile. She meets her superior's gaze. There is a light in her eyes, an intensity that has been missing for a long time. She gestures at the documents. "What does this mean?"

Skinner shuts the briefcase. "You tell me."

***

Mickey paces the length of the room. Back and forth. Back and forth. Sergeant Alice Shepherd gives him a look. "You're giving me a headache." A smile takes the bite out of her words.

"Join the club," he replies, still walking. No amount of aspirin can relieve the fear pounding in his head.

They're inside Harley Gage's apartment, along with an assortment of lab technicians and the photographer. The M.E. has already left. Cause of death: single bullet to the head. Surprise, surprise.

Kostmayer finally stops pacing and sags against the doorjamb. He hooks his thumbs into his pockets and bows his head. He never liked Harley Gage. It's quite possible that he hated Harley Gage. But he didn't want him dead.

So. Who did? And was there a connection to McCall's disappearance? He studies the blood splatter on the wall and looks away, uneasy. McCall had damn well better be alive.

He turns to Shepherd and sees...

Trees. Everywhere. A forest. Most of the trees have lost their leaves. A few still cling to slender branches, steadfast. He stands at the window, lost. The view is desolate. An army of trees stand guard, arms outstretched, barring his escape.

Her voice comes from far away. It drifts into his mind slowly, like fog. "--are you all right?"

He's sitting on the floor, back to the wall. Alice squats next to him, concerned. He blinks at her. "What happened?"

Alice shakes her head. "You just...fell over." Her eyebrows knit. "Are you okay?"

Good question. "Guess I shouldn't have skipped breakfast." He grins.

Alice doesn't.

He pulls himself to his feet, shrugging off the Sergeant's concern.

Alice flips her notebook closed. "Look. I don't have any more questions. Why don't you go home and get some rest. You look exhausted." She touches his arm. "I'm sorry about your friend."

He yawns. Friend? Not quite.

Her lips curve. "See? You do need some sleep."

Maybe. But I won't be getting any. He turns to the door.

"Mickey?"

He pauses. "Yeah?"

"Say hi to McCall when you see him."

"I will," he says. A promise.

***

"Frank, Frank...pull over!"

Frank maneuvers the car out of the parking garage. "What? Why?"

Tim raps the window. "Dana's over there. Pull over."

Frank turns his head, following Tim's gaze. The FBI agent has just emerged from The Waterfront.

"No way, Tim. You want to ask her out, do it on your own time."

"Frank!"

"Is it my imagination or am I the one sitting behind the steering wheel?"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Just pull over. I'll be one second." He gives Pembleton a look. "And I'm *not* asking her out."

Frank rolls his eyes and lets out a excessively long sigh. He pulls the Cavalier to the curb. Tim opens the door. "Dana!"

Scully turns to see Detective Bayliss running toward her. She stares at him. "Tim?"

"Hey...uh, hi. I just wanted to, ah, ask you to keep me posted. About Robert." He gestures with his hands, self-conscious. "I hope everything is okay." The shrill blare of the car horn punctures the moment. "Ah." He smiles. "That would be Frank."

Another blast on the horn. Longer this time.

"I'll let you know," Scully says. She starts to walk away. Stops. "And, Tim? Thank you."

Tim's smile is beautiful. He waves and runs back to the car. He slides into the seat. "You didn't have to honk the horn."

"Of course I did. Did she say yes?"

"*Frank*!"

"Special Agent Dana Scully," Frank muses. "Explain to me just what the hell a Special Agent is. How do you get to be "special"? What does that mean? Everyone else is known as a Regular Agent?"

Tim leans his head back. He rolls it from side to side. "I don't know, Frank."

"It doesn't make any sense."

Tim winces at a sudden flare of pain in his back. He squirms in the seat. Relief lasts about two blocks. He shifts again.

The stoplight ahead turns yellow, then red. Pembleton steps on the break. "Do me a favor, Bayliss. Quit gritting your teeth and complain."

"What?"

Frank slaps the steering wheel. "Just complain about your damn back and be done with it. Do you think I don't notice when you squirm around like that? It looks like you've got fire ants chewing on your ass. SIT STILL! I can't drive with you hopping all over the seat like that!"

"I'm *not* hopping all over the seat! How can you even say that?"

Frank sneers. "Right. If you complain, I can tune you out. Your voice has the perfect cadence for white noise. But that squirming? I can't ignore that."

Tim's mouth sets. "Try harder." He stares at the black man. "What are you saying, Frank? That you never pay attention to anything I say? That you don't even *listen* to me?"

The light turns green. The car glides forward. Frank glances at Bayliss. "Did you just say something?"

End part 6/12

From maraschino@ibm.net Wed Jul 16 19:25:42 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: REPOST: The Resurrection by Shannon (8/12) From: "Maraschino" maraschino@ibm.net Date: 16 Jul 97 23:25:42 GMT

Repeat after me: They aren't mine, but I wish they were. See Part 1 for the Full Speech. Title: The Resurrection Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: My answer to Gethsemane.

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

Part 7/12

He sits at a table in the corner, away from the other customers. The look on his face is a clear indicator of his mood. Not even Jeremy, the bar tender, ventures near.

McCall is still missing.

McCall is hurt.

Possibly even...hurt.

Androvich hasn't called back.

Neither has Dana.

Gage is dead.

McCall is *still* missing.

He glowers at the tablecloth. He can still hear Control's voice. Cool outrage at the knowledge of Harley's death. Demanding to know what
Mickey has learned. Mickey's silent reply. This time he holds the cards. And he isn't going to share.

The front door opens and Mickey lifts his head, hopeful. An older couple, not Dana. He twists in his chair, checking the entire room, wondering if
he's somehow missed her.

And to his left is...the ravine. Dry leaves and branches form a thick carpet beneath his feet. To his right is the electrified fence. A sparrow lies
on the ground at his feet, a testament that the currant is turned on. He feels an overwhelming despair. He stares down in the ravine and wonders if
he stepped over the edge, would he ever stop falling?

Mickey jerks in his chair, his breath coming in shallow gasps. What the hell is going on?

***

"Just have the damn surgery," Frank says.

Tim is adamant. "I don't need the surgery. I just need a trip to my chiropractor. And a lead on Kritschgau wouldn't hurt."

Frank shakes his head. The guy is unbelievable. "Your penance is over, Tim."

Tim fiddles with the vent settings. "Meaning?"

Frank speaks slowly, enunciating each word carefully. "Meaning your penance is over. Paid in full. Done. You are not responsible for
William Mariner's death. Or Mulder's."

Tim's chin goes up. He turns his face to the window, unable to look at Frank. He opens his mouth to protest...but can't find the words. A
second ticks by. Then two. When he does speak, his voice is soft, almost hoarse. "You blame Mulder for Palmer's death."

"That's different."

"Why?"

Frank sputters: "Because it is. It just *is*."

Tim shakes his head. "I don't see it."

Frank puts a hand to his head. "You don't see it..." He smiles. There is no mirth in the look. "Forget it, all right? Just forget it."

They ride in silence for several long minutes. Frank breaks it. "I'm not surprised your back hurts, Tim. You carry so much guilt around it's
a miracle that you can even walk."

***

The two men stand in the shadows. Barely noticeable in the dark bowels of the parking garage, their posture suggests a strong currant of
animosity.

The first man wears a long coat. It's hard to make out much more than a nondescript suit and a dark bow-tie. Red. Maybe brown.

The second man's coat is buttoned. A cigarette glows in one hand, a single red eye, watching. Waiting. He moves the cigarette to his lips and
inhales. Exhales. "Your incompetence is not my concern," he says coldly.

The darkness hides the look of contempt on the other man's face. "My competence or incompetence had nothing to do with McCall's abduction.
There's someone else involved now."

"No one of consequence."

"Maybe not to you, but he damn well is to me! McCall is my *friend*." His voice is sharp with sarcasm. "Are you familiar with that term?"

The cigarette bobs. "Oh please. You'll hurt my feelings."

Furious: "This isn't a joke! I did what you asked. I tried it your way. But I'm done. When I find McCall--and I will--he can tell the whole damn
world that Fox Mulder is alive."

"Tut, tut. We had an agreement."

Control's voice is wrought with scorn. "An *agreement*? You can call blackmail anything you want, but it's still blackmail! Either I help
you or you kill McCall and Kostmayer? What kind of choice is that? I thought Robert saved your life...worthless as it is."

"He did." The cigarette drops to the pavement and he lights another. "But he's put his nose into my business too many times." He lowers his
voice. "He's forcing me to be selective with my memory. Now it's up to you. His life is in your hands. So is Kostmayer's.

"The *only* reason they're still alive is the fact that I feel a vague, grudging respect for Robert. They've seen too much, especially Kostmayer.
Their lives put *mine* in jeopardy. And that makes me more than a little nervous. So save the long-winded soliloquies. I've done more than enough.
I've been extremely charitable toward them both." Pause. "And you."

Control protests. "I can't cover this up!"

"You had damn well better. Sit on McCall if you have to."

"I don't even know where he is!"

"Two seconds ago you were certain you'd find him. What's happened to your confidence, Control?"

Control jerks a finger in the other man's direction. "You better hope he's alive."

Smoke billows from the shadows. Mocking: "Or...?"

Control shakes his head, amazed. "You are one insufferable son of a bitch,"he whispers.

The man shrugs.

They stand in silence for some minutes. "Where's Mulder?" Control finally asks.

"Safe."

"Have you identified the problem yet?" The problem. A polite term for traitor.

A slight hesitation. "Yes." A lie.

"Then maybe you better identify who has Robert!"

The second cigarette drops to the ground. The voice is suddenly weary. "If I knew I'd tell you. I have work to do. So do you." He stalks away
with a final command: "Don't contact me again."

Control listens to the footsteps fade, fists clenched. He whispers into the darkness: "Don't tell me what to do."

***

This hell is more accommodating.

This isn't a cold stone cell. There is furniture here. Plush carpeting. Amenities. Doors that open and close by his hand. But he isn't
deceived. He can't see the bars this time, but he knows they're there.

There is plenty of food. Complicated, expensive dishes. Not that he can taste it.

Sitting in the chair, head down, he finally understands the truth. His friends and his enemies speak the same language: Lies. No matter which
way he turns the game board, he is still a pawn. There are no sides, no right, no wrong. There is only the slow, sickening knowledge that he has been reduced to a non-person. He is a figurehead to be locked away or exalted. In the end, they're the same thing.

Inside these well-furnished walls, inside his apartment, or inside that distant basement office; it makes no difference. Fox Mulder will always be a prisoner.

The past is a very heavy chain.

***

The phone rings twice. The first time it's Scully, telling him she's on her way. "Another hour," she says, "depending on the traffic."

The second call is Androvich. He has a list of five possible locations. Mickey scrawls hurriedly, the words barely legible.

"You're sure about these?" Kostmayer asks.

"No, I'm not sure. But it's the best I can do. This is a delicate situation. I can't afford much...attention."

Mickey stares down at the page. "Okay. And Professor?"

Wearily: "What?"

"Thank you." Mickey hangs up, slipping the phone and paper into his pocket. Another glance at his watch. Another hour before Scully comes.

Sixty minutes.

An eternity.

He nibbles at his lower lip, debating. There's no way he can sit here, letting the minutes slip away while he does nothing. While McCall is
missing.

<While McCall dies.>

<No.>

<Yes.>

Face set, he hurries out of O'Phelan's and into his van.

Sixty minutes.

Enough time to do some checking.

***

"What do you think of Kendall Robbins' sudden revelation?"

Tim shrugs. "An anonymous tip? Who knows. Maybe he saw something. Maybe he didn't."

Frank parks the Cavalier in front of the single story house. Beige aluminum siding, well kept yard. They are three blocks away from Michael
Kritschgau's house. Might as well be three hundred blocks. The neighborhood, the houses, even the pavement have a tired, leaned-
on look. No tennis courts, no pools, no money-scent here. "Maybe he was jogging by and saw something."

"Or maybe he's our guy."

Frank opens the car door. So does Bayliss.

They walk up to the front door. Both detectives wear Kevlar vests beneath their long coats. Tim raps on the door. "Mr. Robbins.
Baltimore PD."

No answer. Tim knocks again. "Mr. Robbins? We understand you have some information regarding the murder of Michael Kritschgau."

A muffled voice. "How'd you find me?"

"Your call was traced, Mr. Robbins. Can we come in?"

Frank steps forward. "We just want to ask you a few questions, Mr. Robbins."

The door opens. A reed-thin black man stands looking at them. "Questions about what?"

Frank and Tim walk past him into a small living room. "About your call to Homicide this morning." Frank removes his hat. "Can you tell us
what you saw the afternoon Mr. Kritschgau was shot?"

Robbins sighs, resigned. "Fine. Fine. But you caught me in the middle of lunch. Let me turn of the stove." He moves into the kitchen. "You
guys want some coffee or something?"

"No thanks, I'm fine," Tim says.

Frank: "Thank you."

They look around the small living room. Mismatched furniture. A few knick-knacks. They drift toward the kitchen while Robbins putters.

"I thought an anonymous call was supposed to stay anonymous," Robbins complains.

"Not when you can help us solve a crime, Mr. Robbins."

Kendall is stirring something on top of an old stove. He glances at the two detectives in the doorway. He opens the stove and reaches inside.

He pulls out a gun.

He fires before either detective can react.

Frank Pembleton drops to the floor.

***

Finally. She maneuvers the car into a parallel parking spot and turns off the engine. Nearly one o'clock already. O'Phelan's is still full with the
lunch crowd. Jeremy gives her a wink and she scans the bustling restaurant just in case Mickey is here.

He's not.

She dials his number and waits. One ring. Two...three...four...five. Had she misunderstood? Was she supposed to call--

"Yeah?"

"Mickey! It's Dana." Never Scully. She will only refer to herself as Scully for one person. "I'm at the restaurant. Sorry I'm so late."

Mickey's voice is faint. "Actually. You're just in time. I'll be there in a few minutes."

"Can you tell me what's going on? Do you know where Robert is?"

"I thought Ian Morris, an old "associate" of McCall's, had him."

She can hear the quotation marks in his voice. "But he doesn't?"

"Morris is dead." Pause. "But it looks like McCall might be at a warehouse in Queens waiting for transport."

"Transport? To where?"

"Back to Moscow."

"By who? Who has him?"

"Morris."

Scully frowns. "But you just said Ian Morris was dead."

Mickey's voice comes through the earpiece, hard as steel. "He is."

***

He explains on the way.

"...by 1983 Gage was heavily immersed in the KGB. McCall was posing as a Russian diplomat. Before McCall finished his assignment and
returned home, Gage blew Ian Morris' cover. Morris' entire mission--an important arms deal--was blown. The only problem is, Gage couldn't blow his *own* cover, so he used McCall's name in the communique. Except McCall was still in Russia," Mickey says, contemptuous. "Robert barely escaped with his life thanks to Gage."

"But Morris is dead..."

"Yes. His superior officers were...not pleased that the mission was jeopardized. He was executed in 1984.

"But he left behind a family."

Scully raises an eyebrow. "A son?"

"A daughter. Emile Krushnik. She was sixteen when her father died. She took her mother's last name."

"Do you know anything else about her? Do you think she has Robert?" Scully's face is pinched with worry. "You already said Robert is
hurt...do you think she'll...do you think she'll kill him?"

Mickey glances in the rear view mirror. That's a question he's been trying to avoid. "I don't know. But she must have found out about Gage. The only things I *do* know are Emile Krushnik was Daddy's girl, and she arrived in New York yesterday morning."

"Where is she now?"

"An associate tracked down an address. Fifty-three Parkway. The only problem is, Parkway isn't residential. It's mostly a bunch of burned
out buildings. Crack houses."

Scully sighs. "Wonderful."

Mickey manages a crooked grin. "Don't worry. I have a plan."

***

"Jesus! God! Frank!" Tim stoops beside his partner, heart thundering. <Oh dear God let him be okay. Let him be okay. Not again. *Not*
again...> His thoughts race, a thousand fears screaming for a voice. Oh God oh God a ten-thirteen!

He is aware of three things, simultaneously:


There's no blood. Where's the blood?

Kendall Robbins is a lying bastard.

Kendall Robbins has just run out the back door.

***

He runs toward the warehouse, Scully in pursuit. She shouts after him. "Stop! Federal Agent! Stop right now!"

Mickey keeps running. He circles the building, testing doors. Finally, on the east side, a door pulls open. He slips inside.

Dana's voice follows him. "Come out of the building. I repeat: Come *out* of the building."

Mickey spots the two men watching a small television a few yards away. Thick with muscles, they look inflated. Both sport matching crew
cuts. And Uzis. Mickey grimaces. He shuts the door carefully and ducks behind a stack of boxes.

Scully follows Kostmayer into the building, shouting into her cell phone: "The suspect has just entered the B & J Supply warehouse on Parkway. Requesting backup immediately."

They stare at her.

Scully flashes her shield. "FBI Agent Dana Scully. I have reason to believe a murder suspect, armed *and* dangerous has just entered this building." She speaks quickly, no-nonsense. "I'm with the FBI, *not* the DEA. I'm not here to bust anyone, I just want my suspect."

The two men eyeball each other. Scully can read their minds...not that there's much to read. Who *is* this broad?

"So?" Scully asks.

Dumb glares at her. "So...what?"

Dumber turns back to the television, intent on watching a leggy blond peel off her clothes while a dark haired guy does the same. He does not appear at all interested in what the guy is doing.

Impatient: "So did you see anyone enter the building within the last few minutes?"

"Besides you? No."

Scully approaches the man watching television. She puts her gun to the back of his head. "Put your weapon on the floor, please."

His brother smirks at Scully. "What do you think--" His words fade. So does the smile.

"Put *your* weapon on the floor," Mickey says. He taps the gun against the man's skull for emphasis. He releases the safety. "Please."

Both men oblige.

End part 7/12

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

Part 8/12

Adrenaline drives the pain away. Bayliss chases Robbins, his long legs pumping, feet pounding against pavement. His back does not protest. He screams at Robbins to HALT, his voice spiraling into the crisp afternoon air.

Robbins does not.

Tim swallows, ignoring the stitch in his side, and puts on speed. Frank has a wife. He has Olivia. He has another baby on the way. Frank should not have been shot.

An ambo is on the way. So is backup. None of that matters at this moment. Right now there is room for one thought in Tim's brain, and one thought only. Bring down Robbins.

Bayliss raises the gun. He aims. He is at one with the weapon, the air, the universe. Tim stops, he stands still. So does time. He closes one eye, concentrating. Calm.

So calm.

He pulls the trigger.

***

They separate. He climbs the metal ladder to the support beams, tracking Scully's progress from above. She walks calmly from room to room, gun in one hand, ID in the other. "Michaels!" she calls, playing her part. "I know you're in here! Put down your weapon and come out!"

The east wing of the warehouse is divided into three large rooms. The first room holds a makeshift office. Yards of cable lead to a computer, fax machine, and modem. A mobile phone rests on the card table beside the monitor.

"Who are you?" The voice is soft, laced with a vague accent. Deadly. And feminine. From his vantage point, Mickey recognizes her immediately. The woman from the hallway in Gage's building. Except now she holds an AK-47 instead of a tennis racket.

Emile Morris Krushnik glares at Scully. "How did you get in here?"

Gun down, Scully displays her identification. "I'm an FBI agent. I'm in pursuit of a murder suspect who entered this building about five minutes ago. Have you seen anyone of a suspicious nature?"

Krushnik sneers. "Other than yourself? I'm afraid not."

While Scully explains that a team of field agents are on their way to assist her in the search, Mickey watches a man emerge from a storage area along the far wall. Krushnik's tennis partner. He pulls what looks like a Glock from a holster. Mickey's lips tighten. Not today, buddy. He squints. Fires.

The man screams and drops the gun. He stares in wonder at the hole in his hand. Scully has the presence of mind to stay focused on Krushnik. "Put down your weapon or my friend will persuade you."

Emile's eyes blaze. "Never!" She raises the gun but Scully doesn't give her a chance to depress the trigger. Emile falls to the ground, blood pouring from a bullet wound in her chest. The man takes a step toward his partner but Mickey discourages him.

"Don't move unless you want a matching hole in the other hand."

Scully kicks Krushnik's weapon out of reach. Mickey nimbly lowers himself from the beam, dangles, and lets himself fall to the ground. It's a long drop but he lands on his feet. He retrieves the AK-47 and joins Dana. "You okay?"

She nods. Mickey squats beside Emile. "Where's McCall?" he demands harshly.

Krishnik spits. "Dead. Just like that pig, Gage." She smiles, eyes wild in her pale face. "Just like you'll be."

Mickey's face contorts. "I'm not the one with the bullet hole in my chest." He stands and grabs her partner's arm. "Come on. Help me find my friend and maybe I'll let you live." He prods the man forward with the rifle. "Move it."

Scully reaches down and checks Emile's pulse. Thready, but if the ambulance arrives soon, she has a chance. Emile flinches. "Don't touch me."

"I'm a doctor." Scully rocks back on her heels, hands raised. "Do you want me to let you die?"

Emile turns her head away, silent.

***

"Don't you die, dammit!"

Bayliss runs both hands through his hair. Damn! Damn! He stares down into Kendall's face. A single shot to the back. Through and through. His heart is sporting a new exit valve. Tim screams at him: "Why'd you set us up?"

Ken's words are slurred. "They just paid me the money...paid me to throw you off...that white dude's murder."

"Did you kill Kritchgau?"

Robbins grimaces. "Me, man? No...not me."

Tim leans over him, fierce. "Then WHO did?"

"Them suits. Guys in suits." His head rolls. "I dunno."

Tim grabs Robbins by the shirt collar and shakes him. Blood spills onto his hands. "Give me a name!"

Kendall closes his eyes. Weakly: "I don't know. One of the dudes was smoking...Marlboros...Morleys. That's all I remember."

The wail of the ambo comes closer, closer. Still screaming, lights flashing, it rounds the corner.

Let Frank be okay. He remembers the terrible fear, the guilt he felt when Kay, Beau, and Stan were shot. How thankful he was that it hadn't been him. But now, after the agony of Frank's stroke, the helplessness, he wishes it *had* been him.

"Why didn't you shoot me?" Tim whispers.

"Hey man, gimme back my gun. I'll give you a turn." Kendall starts to laugh, but the sound turns into a sigh and then nothing. Silence. Kendall Robbins is dead.

Tim puts his hands to his head, effectively smearing the dead man's blood in his hair, on his forehead. He starts to shake. He just killed a man. He has killed. Murder. A homicide, if you will. Of course, the word jusifiable will be tacked onto the label, but that doesn't change the sickness inside his belly. No suicide this time. This time *you* pulled the trigger.

He watches the EMTs enter Kendall's house. He waits for them to bring out Frank. He can't breathe. Oh God. He waits, heart thudding, sick. A squad car squeals to a stop behind the ambulance and two uniforms spill out. Tim shakes his head. Too late. You're too late!

He gets to his feet. Staggers. Walks back to the house. Still no Frank.

He was wearing a vest. He's fine.

Kay was wearing a vest. Shot through the heart, remember?

Just like Kendall Robbins here. Guess that QRT training paid off, huh?

Tim shakes his head. They're taking too long. Too damn long.

And then--there they are. Both EMTs. And Frank.

Frank is walking. By himself. There's no blood. Hands pressed to his side he looks up at Tim. And scowls. "That son of a bitch cracked three of my goddamn ribs!"

Tim Bayliss covers his face with his hands.

***

The second room is empty. The third is not.

There is a metal chair. In the chair is a lanky blond man with a mustache. He holds a magazine at an angle, immersed in the finer qualities of Miss April. A narrow cot sits beside him.

A figure is lying on the cot. Robert McCall. Eyes closed, skin gray. Mickey's stomach cramps. He tells himself they wouldn't post a guard if he were dead.

Kostmayer clears his throat. "Room service."

Blondie looks up, eyes flicking from Mickey to his wounded associate. He blinks. And reaches for the gun at his feet.

"I wouldn't," Mickey warns. "That's my friend right there. If you do anything to make me nervous, *you'll* be the one lying in that cot. You understand me?"

He does.

Mickey pulls the gun out from under the chair and goes to Robert. McCall's skin is slick with sweat. His eyes dart behind the lids, feverish. Makeshift bandage around his chest, soaked with blood. Mickey struggles to keep his hand steady as he feels for McCall's pulse.

"Mickey? Is he...?"

Scully stands in the doorway, flanked by two medics. She swallows, throat dry, afraid to know the answer.

Mickey closes his eyes. "He's alive." He squeezes McCall's hand, voice dropping to a whisper. "Make sure you stay that way, Robert."

***

"Hey guys. Is Bayliss here?"

Munch slides an icy mug toward Lewis. It rockets along the polished bar top, and Meldrick catches it with a practiced flourish. "Nope. He and Pembleton went to check out a call from our good buddy, Mr. A. Nonymous."

"All right." Kay sighs. She turns to leave.

"Wait a minute, Sarge. Come on in and have a drink. Relax a minute." Munch points to one of the empty stools. "Drink some soothing spirits while I bend your ear with an assortment of witty anecdotes."

Lewis chuckles. "I thought you wanted Kay to *stay*."

Munch makes a face. To Kay: "Come on. I'll whip you up something that's guaranteed to make your taste buds sing." He reaches for a fresh glass. "Listen, Kay. This glass is calling to you, personally."

Kay rolls her eyes. She stands with her hands in her pockets, undecided. Her wild red hair held back by a barrette. "I don't know..."

Munch puts the glass near his mouth. He whispers, sotto voce: "Kay....Kay..."

Meldrick gives Kay a look. "Come on, Sarge. Just so he shuts up."

Howard smiles. Shaking her head, she moves to one of the empty stools.

"What'd you want Tim for?" Lewis want to know.

Kay sighs. Rubs her face. "I just wanted an update on the Kritschgau case."

Munch sets a full glass before her. "Doctor Munch's orders. Drink up, Sarge."

She takes a tentative sip. She looks up at John, a slow smile lighting her face. The light doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Thanks, Munchkin."

John nods, pleased. He studies Howard for a moment.

She feels his gaze. "What?"

"What's the matter?"

Kay unclips the barrette and shrugs. "Nothing. Long day."

Lewis snorts. "Got that right. Gonna be an even longer night."

"You look melancholy, Kay."

Kay ignores John's comment and takes another sip of her drink.

"Did I ever tell you about the time--"

Lewis interjects: "Yeah you did. Twice."

Munch sighs, wounded. "Meldrick, you don't even know what I was going to say."

"You don't have but three stories, John. You trot 'em out regular, rain or shine, day in, day out."

Munch folds his arm. "You're mocking me."

"Yeah, right."

"Yeah. Right."

Kay looks up suddenly. "You know something?"

The two men fall silent. "What?"

She stares through Lewis, focused on the past. "We've all lost our partners. Over the past five years, the only one of us who still has his partner is Pembleton. And he didn't even *want* a partner."

Lewis and Munch exchange glances. "Kay..."

"Think about it. Steve's gone. Stanley's retired. And Beau's...dead." Kay fidgets with the straw in her drink. She sighs and rests her chin on one hand. "I never realized how lucky we were, hmm? All of us. Things were different then. Better, hmm?" Her voice is soft. Wistful.

John leans against the bar, hands spread, head down. "We had some good times...I miss the Big Man."

"Yeah. And I miss that little round salami brain. But ya'll can't go talkin' up the past like that. It ain't all hearts and flowers. I seem to recall you were shot, Kay. And Beau. *And* Stan."

"And I seem to recall Cantwell got away, hmm?"

Munch runs a hand through his thick, gray-flecked hair. Ah. The real issue. Cantwell. "Come on Kay. It's inevitable that we'll get him. The law of averages is on your side. All you have to so is look at a name and it goes to black."

Except for Erica Chilton, Lewis thinks. He keeps this to himself. "Munch is right."

Kay looks from Lewis to Munch. Her eyes are beautiful. And troubled. "I don't think so."

Meldrick reaches into his pocket for some change. "What we need is a little music. A little something to sooth the soul, am I right? Some cool jazz to heat things up." He moves to the juke box.

Kay stares into her glass.

Lewis drops the coins into the slot. He presses the button. The mellow strains flow through the bar. Meldrick closes his eyes, letting the music pull him in. Softly: "This one's for Crosetti."

Kay raises her glass. "For Beau."

Munch touches his glass to Kay's. "And the Big Man." He smiles at Kay.

She smiles back.

***

"How is he?" Control enters the small waiting room, his face pale, hair mussed.

Scully is sitting in one of the chairs, feigning interest in an old issue of *Redbook*. She is very tired of hospitals. She is very tired, period. Mickey wanders back and forth in front of Scully, too nervous to sit. He glares at Control. "How do you think he is?"

Scully looks at Control, somber. "He's still in surgery. They seem optimistic about the outcome." She closes the magazine and drops it onto the empty chair next to her. "If they can repair the lung without pneumonia setting in, Robert might be home as early as next week."

Control nods, tugging at the red scarf wrapped around his neck. He unbuttons his coat and takes a seat in the center bank of chairs. He looks to Mickey. Quietly: "Care to tell me what happened?"

Mickey shoots Control an angry smile. "Not really."

Control folds his hands in his lap. "Mickey..."

Kostmayer shakes his head. "I found him, that's what happened. I shook a few trees and waited to see what fell out. I got lucky." He glances pointedly from Scully to Control. "And I got some *real* help."

Control's eyes darken. "Drop the attitude, Mickey. It's not going to help Robert."

Voice low, Mickey zeroes in on his superior. "McCall wouldn't be in this position if you hadn't put him there. The minute you put Gage back in the field, you sent a beacon all the way to Moscow. How could Morris resist?"

Control shakes his head. A warning: "Be careful, Mickey."

Kostmayer snorts. He glances at Dana but she's studying her lap with great interest. He slumps into the chair beside her and--

--stares at the fire. Rich gold flames lick the hearth, deep yellows, orange, red. Aubern. Copper. Flames the color of Scully's hair. He can see her face in the flames, the pain and anger in her eyes. So much anger. And blame. He can hear her voice echoing inside the warehouse, the accusation, the...hatred. He is the reason for her cancer.

He alone. She is dying for him. Because of him.

And he sits here, in this chair, inside this well-furnished prison, alone.

Dying with her.

"Mickey! Mickey! What is it?"

He opens his eyes. Scully. Not in the fire, but here, with him. What..? Control is on his feet, concerned. "What happened?"

He finds it difficult to speak past the sudden panic flailing in his chest. It beats against his ribs like a thing with feathers and claws, screaming. He finally understands. He can see the pieces falling into place with perfect clarity.

Perfect Clarity.

The drug from New World Labs. The drug that turned him into everyone but himself. The drug that tore away his personality, his thoughts, until Mickey Kostmayer didn't exist.

He manages to turn his head toward Scully. His wide eyes bore into hers. She puts a hand on his shoulder. "You blanked out for a minute, almost like a small seizure." She tries to smile. "You had me worried."

Mickey closes his eyes. Seizure. One of Perfect Clarity's side effects. A drug that was supposed to be out of his system. Long gone. He puts his hands to his forehead, pressing at the tight knot of pain inside his skull.

He can still see Scully's face in that dark warehouse. He can still feel the guilt. A guilt that doesn't belong to him...but to Fox Mulder. He takes a deep breath. "Dana..."

"What?" Her eyes on his face, so concerned.

"He's...alive. I can...feel him."

She misunderstands. Soothing: "I know, Mickey. Robert will be okay."

He shakes his head. "No." God, how can he tell her? How can he make her believe when he's not sure that he does? "Perfect Clarity...it's...it's happening again." He passes a hand over his face. "Scully...Mulder is alive."

Control stares at Mickey, careful not to betray the shock he feels.

Scully's face closes off. She swallows, tempted to be angry. If it were anyone else she would be furious...but Mickey? He wouldn't lie. He *wouldn't*.

Mickey pushes himself back in the chair. Softly, desperately: "Did you do the autopsy?"

"No..."

"But you identified his body?"

"Yes."

"Did you touch him? Feel for a pulse?"

"No...I...I, the Detective just asked, and I..." she trails off, thinking about the autopsy report Skinner showed her a few hours ago. She swallows hard, fighting sudden tears. "I just don't see how that's possible, Mickey."

Mickey challenges Control. "Do *you* think it's possible?"

Control sinks wearily into a chair. They wait a long time for his answer. The minutes tick by while Scully's nails bite into her palms. When he does answer, his voice is so low she must lean forward to hear him. He utters a single word:

"Yes."

***

"He's waking up. You can see him now."

The three of them stand.

The doctor's voice is stern. "One at a time. And only a few minutes. He needs rest."

Mickey licks his lips. He hesitates, looking in at the still form of his friend on the bed. Robert turns his head. Their eyes meet. Mickey raises his hand and salutes his friend from the doorway. McCall blinks: Thank you. Kostmayer smiles: I'd do it again. In a minute. McCall is going to be okay. Thank God. He senses Scully's presence behind him. Mickey watches McCall a moment longer before turning to Dana. "Go ahead." It's all right. Robert knows how he feels.

Scully takes Mickey's arm and gives it a grateful squeeze. "Thank you."

She enters the room quietly and moves to the bedside. She brushes a few white hairs off Robert's forehead. "Hi, Robert. It's Dana. You didn't have to go to all this trouble just to get me down here for a visit."

Robert looks at her from beneath heavy lids. He tries to smile, not quite succeeding. "Dana..."

His fingers move, searching for her. She takes his hand in both her own. "I'm here, Robert. So is Mickey. And Control."

"I have to tell you...something."

Scully bows her head. Whispering: "What?"

"Fox...is alive."

Scully raises her head. Smiling through the tears. "I know."

End part 8/12

From maraschino@ibm.net Wed Jul 16 19:25:49 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: REPOST: The Resurrection by Shannon (9/12) From: "Maraschino" maraschino@ibm.net Date: 16 Jul 97 23:25:49 GMT

Repeat after me: They aren't mine, but I wish they were. See Part 1 for the Full Speech. Title: The Resurrection Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: My answer to Gethsemane.

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

Part 9/12

The fire is out now. The house is quiet. Except for the roar of his heart.

Where are the guards?

Yes, yes, there are only two people here with him, the cook and the caretaker, but he knows what they really are.

He eases himself out of the chair. And hesitates. No, still quiet. He walks silently over the oak floorboards and into the hallway. To the right is what Garrett calls his sleeping quarters. Poor choice of words. It's impossible to sleep here. Sleep means trusting you'll wake up. Sleep means dreaming. No thanks.

He takes a deep breath and turns to the left. Toward the beveled front door. Heavy wood decorated with thick, tinted glass. The image of a duck among cat tails is etched into the surface. He tries the knob. It's locked. He turns the bolt and opens the door. He can no longer hear his footsteps above the din of his heart.

There is an expensive security system. They'll know he's out. The waiting forest, the electrified fence. If he did manage to get to the road, where would it lead? He has no idea where he his--what city? What state?

There are no telephones here. Plenty of jacks set into the walls, but no phones. Garrett and Paul have cell phones. Neither are willing to share.

The voice comes out of the darkness, a rough whisper. Not a threat; an order: "Go to your room, Mr. Mulder."

Mister. *Mister* Mulder. Polite captors. "I'll go to my room if you give me your phone."

A soft chuckle from Garrett. "No."

Desperation makes Mulder's temper flare. "Dammit, I have to contact my partner!"

"No. You don't."

The inflection troubles him. Not you *can't* contact her, but you don't have to. Which meant...

He puts a hand to his head, struggling to remember. In his apartment, watching the damned videotape, thinking about Scully...

they gave me this cancer so that you would believe

you would believe

...when the knock comes on the door. A police detective asking him about a murder across the hall. He hadn't known there *was* a murder across the hall. What now? Everyone is dying. Murder, murder, everywhere. Not for nothing is D.C. the murder capital. Alexandria is learning to follow big brother's lead. Rempulski comes into the apartment and Mulder turns for just a moment to close the files on the table.

And then he wakes up inside this...this...place. A luxurious cabin. Fortified to the rafters. It may be the Taj Mahal of prisons...but that doesn't make it less of a prison.

"Why don't I need to call her?" he demands.

Garrett steps into the square of light spilling from the doorway. "It's no longer necessary."

"No longer..." he shakes his head, struggling with the fear writing in his belly. His anger sparks again. "What did you do?"

Garrett leans in. "We saved your life, Mr. Mulder."

Mulder takes a step back, throwing up his hands. "Really. You call this saving my life? Locking me up like a...like a goddamn prisoner. Do me a favor, Garrett. Just kill me. Because really, I can't tell which side you're on. I don't know which side *I'm* on. So let's just give everyone a break and get it over with." Mulder taps his chest. "Right here. Bull's eye. Sound good?"

Garrett enters the house and shuts the door quietly. He looks at Mulder. Calm. He smiles a tiny secretive smile. "Those aren't my orders. You're more valuable alive."

Mulder stares at Garrett. Thick head of unruly dark hair, a dark beard, just as unkempt. He looks like a mountain man. Or a bum. But the look in his dark eyes, his stance, the cock of his head, the tone of his voice, all imply otherwise. Oh no. This guy is *good*.

More valuable alive? "I'm more valuable...? More valuable! What the hell does that mean?" Mulder's eyes flash. He thinks of Kritschgau. "Because I know the *truth*, no matter how many lies you people weave into a noose?"

Garrett raises his hands. "Take my word for it, Mr. Mulder. If I wanted you dead, you would be." He shrugs, as if to say, How can you doubt that? "We're trying to keep you alive, Mr. Mulder. No matter what else you might think, you do have...certain acquaintances with an interest in your well- being."

Mulder snorts. "You've got a damn funny way of showing it. You're interested in my well-being? Send me on a vacation to Rio." His eyes narrow. "But don't treat me like some...some game piece! You can't just take people and do whatever you want! I have a life, dammit!" Mulder's voice rises.

Garrett scratches his head. Part of the Mountain Man routine. "We can take people," he says softly, "and we do. You do have a life. And right now, you're living it. Right here. With me." He stares hard at Mulder. "Good night, Mr. Mulder."

A muscle in Mulder's jaw twitches. He doesn't move.

"I said good *night*."

Mulder turns abruptly and walks down the hall. He slams the door shut, and kicks at, furious. Again. And again. If Garrett hears, he's not interested enough to investigate. Mulder sinks down on the bed and looks out the window.

The moon is a silver fingernail.

And there is his answer: the window.

***

The monitors beep. Pale green lines rise and fall on the screen. IV's drip. The steady whoosh of the ventilator as it breathes in, out, in, out. Two men sit beside the bed. One is young, the other much older. Both men are uncomfortable. The first, by the sight of the dying woman, the second, from the memories of an elusive happiness long gone. A happiness as substantial as butterfly wings. Once, this woman had loved him. Once, they had a child.

And then, Bill had quit the project.

He just quit.

Walked out. As simple as that.

The man toys with an unopened pack of cigarettes, suddenly angry. After all these years, there is still anger. How could Bill have been so blind? So ungodly foolish?

Had he really thought they'd stop the Project without him? That through quitting he could somehow find the soul he had sold so long ago? No. He was mistaken. Men such as themselves did not need souls. They did not need consciences, or even memories. What good were they to the Project? To the New Future? Those were useless things, meaningless and were easily cast off.

Except at times like this. When he was forced to watch Caroline Mulder drift toward death. There would be no reprieve this time. He takes her hand and holds it lightly in his larger one. Once, long ago, she would have returned that slight squeeze, smiled at his touch.

So long ago.

Now there is the lingering sour taste of a promise made in impassioned haste. A promise he has managed to keep. Working at odds with himself and the others, he has kept Fox Mulder alive. So far. And so pointless.

Kyle Geiger shifts beside him. "Sir...Is there anything else you need?"

He waves a hand, dismissive. "Go ahead."

A figure appears in the door. A slender woman with straight blond hair. Tailored business suite. She watches the men before entering. "Any change?"

Kyle shakes his head. Stands. "No. It doesn't look very promising."

The older man studies Marita's face. "Have you solved the problem?" Have you found the man responsible for this ludicrous debacle?

"Almost." I can't tell you now.

Kyle kneads his neck with one hand. He glances at Marita, weary. "Do you need any help?"

Marita smiles. "I have things under control."

Kyle looks vaguely skeptical, but returns the smile. He nods to his superior and Marita. "Tomorrow, then."

Marita watches Geiger walk down the hall. She shuts the door of Mrs. Mulder's room and takes Kyle's empty chair.

The two sit in silence for some minutes.

The man turns to her. "You know who ordered Mulder killed?"

Marita nods, eyes on the still form in the bed.

He sighs, already knowing the answer. "Kyle."

She nods again.

***

He is propped up in bed, a myriad of pillows behind him. Wearing new glasses and reading the *Times*, he looks his old self. Except for the large white bandage across his chest and the IV snaking into his arm. He smiles at Mickey. "What a pity I couldn't see you come to my rescue."

Mickey shrugs and returns the smile. Simply enjoying the fact that his friend is alive. And safe. "So you're a grandfather now. Guess I should start calling you Gramps."

McCall eyes his friend. "I think not." But he shakes his head, still smiling. "I can hardly believe it, Mickey." He quotes: "Out of pain comes joy, out of loss, hope."

Mickey leans back in the chair. "What about Mulder, Robert?"

McCall's eyebrows knit. He frowns. "You know what it's like to squeeze information out of Control. It's bloody difficult. All I know is Senator Mattheson has an interest in Mulder."

Scully rubs her eyes. She speaks from her chair in the corner. "What kind of interest?"

McCall sighs. "I don't know. Whatever it is, it's kept Mulder alive."

Scully glances at her watch. Almost nine. "Excuse me a moment. I have a few calls to make." She slips out of McCall's private room and into a nearby waiting room. It is deserted. She sits on the edge of a soft loveseat and looks down at her cell phone.

She prays that Mulder really is alive. She struggles to squelch the anger and fear. There will be time for that later. Right now she must work with Mickey to find her partner.

She bows her head. Let him be alive. Give me another chance. Give me a chance to tell him this was my choice. This was always my choice. I didn't have to take the job. I don't blame him for my cancer. I just want him back in that office. I want him to be alive.

She opens her eyes and dials.

***

What a day.

He unlocks the door and throws the keys onto the table.

What a day.

After getting back to the station house, he spent the next three and a half hours filling out paper work. Forms upon forms. Forms he never even knew existed. Forms which had probably been created solely for him to sign.

He spent the next hour fielding questions from Gee.

Do you want to talk to the shrink?

No.

Do you want some time off?

No.

Are you okay with this?

Yes. Robbins shot Frank. But inside, deep inside, there is doubt. He does not dwell on this right now.

When he finally leaves for the chiropractor he was forty-five minutes late.

She won't see him.

He insists.

The receptionist points to the schedule. Her mouth says "Sorry," but her eyes say: Go to hell.

Bayliss pulls out his shield. He informs the entire waiting room he isn't just a cop, he is a Homicide Detective. The Elite. God's personal servants. And he is late because a Bad Guy shot his partner. He had to run after the Bad Guy, dammit, thereby hurting his back. Face red, he glares at the receptionist. "Get it?" he asks.

She gets it.

He is ushered in next.

And now, at home, sorting through the junk mail, his back does feel better. Nothing that a long hot shower and a month of sleep won't cure. He can already feel the steam. He closes his eyes in anticipation. Oh yes. A shower and bed. Just what the doctor ordered.

He starts up the stairs.

The phone rings.

He stares at it. He thinks: Go away.

But it might be Frank. Or Gee. Or it might be...he leans against the bannister, knuckles white. It might be George.

Sighing, he walks back down the stairs and picks up the phone. "Yeah. Bayliss."

"Tim?"

He sinks into the cranberry colored chair. Puts his gun on the end table. He is thankful for the voice. "Dana. Hi."

"Hi. I just wanted to let you know Robert it all right."

"Oh. Yeah. That's great. Great." He rubs his forehead. "Where was he?"

"It's a long story."

He waits for her to elaborate.

She doesn't.

Bayliss leans his head back. "Well...thanks for letting me know."

"There's something else I wanted to tell you."

"Okay."

"There's a good possibility..." she trails off. Starts again. "I think that Mulder is alive."

Tim shuts his eyes. Listens to the soft tick-tock of the clock across the room. "Mulder. Alive," he says. He bows his head. Oh, Dana. Don't do this to yourself.

Breathless: "Yes."

He opens his eyes. Turns his head to the left then the right, stretching. "I don't...understand." His voice is low. A whisper.

"Neither do I. But it looks like someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to convince the world that Fox Mulder is dead. I've seen the autopsy report, Tim. It's faked." She waits a beat. "Mickey thinks he's alive." Tim sniffs, nodding. Okay. Sure. He can't quite keep the bitterness out of his voice. "He does, does he?"

Gently: "Yes."

Jealousy aside, he can't see why Mickey would lie to her. He springs to his feet, agitated. "I don't understand, Dana. You're telling me Fox is alive. That he *didn't* kill himself. How many times do we have to go through this?"

"Tim, I understand--"

"Yeah. *You* understand. You live with conspiracies. You seek them out. You *revel* in them. But I don't." He sighs loudly and rubs his face. "I just want to wake up and get through my day, Dana. I wake up hoping that I see one less dead body than I did the day before. I want to see one less murdered child. I want to stop looking down at little *children* and feeling thankful because they were only murdered and not raped first. I spend every day of my life grieving to some extent, Dana. I can't push that humanity away.

"But you're asking me to stop grieving for Mulder? Because he's come back to life? I-I can't. I don't know how to...how to..." he trails into silence.

"Tim, Mulder isn't dead. He didn't kill himself."

There is a long silence. She wonders if Tim has hung up. His words startle her. "How long?"

"What?"

"How long can this go on, Dana? How many times does Mulder have to die before it becomes real? What happens when no one even cares anymore?"

"Tim. I need your help. If you don't want to, then--"

Angry: "I didn't say that! I just can't...I have trouble dealing with this. I don't like being...toyed with, okay?"

"Neither do I!"

"Then who's behind this? Who's the son of bitch that decided Mulder was going to kill himself?"

She clears her throat. Calms herself. "I don't know. What I *do* know is...this appears to be some kind of rescue attempt. Some one wants Mulder dead. And in order to foil the attempt, some one else created the suicide."

Tim rubs his mouth. "I see," he says. But he doesn't. Matter-of-factly: "So...some one is protecting him. By putting the rest of us through hell."

"That's...yes."

"And you don't know who's protecting him?"

"No. Well, Senator Matheson might be involved."

"Richard?"

Now Scully is surprised. "You know him?"

"Not exactly." Pause. "And you have absolutely no idea where Mulder might be?"

"I have a feeling that he might be...he might be in a heavily forested area."

Tim's forehead wrinkles in concentration. "Dana...I might know where Mulder is."

***

Scully blinks. "Where?"

"I spent two years kowtowing to the Mayor. But those two years of yes sir, nor sir got me into Homicide."

She waits for him to continue.

"Hizzoner was friends with Matheson. I remember in...must have been fall of 1991, he had me drive him up to Matheson's cabin. Very private. Lots of trees. High security. Hard to access."

Scully swallows. "Where?"

"Pennsylvania. I can get you there."

Scully laughs, her throat tight.

"What?" he asks. "What's so funny?"

Extreme possibilities, she thinks. Out loud: "Nothing. I'm just surprised. And thankful." She feels a rush of affection for the tall detective. "Thank you Tim. You're a good friend. To me...and to Mulder."

"Well, hey, it's no big deal. I mean, of course I'd..." he fumbles over the words, thrown off by her admission. "I'm glad I can help," he finally says. He traces a circle on the table top with one finger. Tries to push the doubt away. "Just tell me this, Dana. Do you honestly believe that Mulder is alive?"

Scully is quiet for a moment, thinking. "I want to believe."

End part 9/12

From maraschino@ibm.net Wed Jul 16 19:25:54 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: REPOST: The Resurrection by Shannon (10/12) From: "Maraschino" maraschino@ibm.net Date: 16 Jul 97 23:25:54 GMT

Repeat after me: They aren't mine, but I wish they were. See Part 1 for the Full Speech. Title: The Resurrection Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: My answer to Gethsemane.

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

Part 10/12

McCall is asleep. They both watch the steady rise and fall of his chest. She speaks softly. "I want you to have a full examination. A complete physical."

Mickey glances at her. Winks. "Are you offering?"

Her lip curves slightly. "As a *doctor*, Mickey. If you really are feeling the effects of Perfect Clarity again, I don't want to take any chances."

Mickey nods cautiously.

Scully continues. "A complete blood work up. Cranial ultrasound. And your heart should be checked as well."

"I agree," Mickey says. "But later."

She stares at him, aghast. "Later?" Shakes her head. "Not later. Now."

Mickey takes a quick look at McCall. Still sleeping. He stands, takes Dana's arm and gently guides her into the hallway. "Once Bayliss gets here, we're leaving. McCall is in good hands. I'm not going to sit back and let the doctors poke me while you're looking for Mulder."

"*Doctors* won't be poking you. I will."

Mickey smiles weakly. "Good. Because frankly, you're the only doctor I trust with a needle these days. But the MRI takes time. I'll agree to all the tests you want. But *after*. Not before."

Scully frowns, debating.

He leans toward her smiling. "Make it easy on yourself, Dana. You know I'll go along anyway."

She sighs. "Promise?"

He raises a hand. "Promise."

She puts a hand on his shoulder. Looks into his face. "I don't want anything to happen to you. Robert would hold me personally responsible."

Mickey gives her a lopsided grin. "Nah. He knows me too well."

"At least let take your blood pressure."

He looks at her, suspicious. "Please don't tell me you carry a cuff in your purse."

The comment earns him a genuine smile. "No, I don't. But I'm sure I can find one."

She takes a step toward the information desk, but Mickey puts a restraining hand on her arm. "Dana...just a minute."

She pauses. Raises an eyebrow. Waiting.

"Is there...is there anything you want to tell me?"

She stares at him. "Like...?"

He ducks his head. Looks back up at her, eyes flitting nervously to the far wall. "Like the fact that you have cancer," he whispers. His eyes finally rest on her face. They are dark with worry. And pain.

She licks her lips. Tilts her head toward McCall's room. "Did he--"

He answers softly. One word explains everything. "Mulder."

She closes her eyes. Of course. The telepathy. She should have known. She takes a deep breath. Plunges ahead. "Yes."

Mickey turns away from her, a hand over his mouth. "Are you..." He stops. Changes direction. "How much time?"

Scully moves her tongue against her teeth, studying her friend's face. "I don't like discussing my...illness, Mickey. Not with Robert. Not with you. But I'll tell you this: I just spoke with my doctor. I'll be starting an experimental treatment next week." She risks a small smile. "It sounds...promising." She folds her arms. End of discussion. "Now I'm going to get a blood pressure cuff, all right?"

Mickey nods. He watches her go. He's thinking the treatment better be a hell of a lot more than *promising*.

***

There is no time for the shower or the sleep, or even food. In the end, he has time to change into a pair of jeans and a faded sweatshirt. He grabs the map out of the middle desk drawer and hurries out to the jeep.

Pulling onto the Eighty-Three, he wonders what it must be like to live with the knowledge someone wants you dead. As a murder police, he enters the picture too late.

What does a constant diet of fear do to a man?

***

The fear sits heavy in his gut. It waits there, twisting his insides. The window is locked. He knew it would be. He listens again for Garrett. Nothing. No sounds from the kitchen.

No sound except his heart. He goes to the bed, pulls off a pillowcase and wraps it around his fist. He takes a deep breath, turns his head, and slams the window. It shatters. Glass shards fly, he feels one of the pieces bite deep into his hand. Throat dry, he pulls it out. Blood bubbles out of his palm. In the darkness it looks black.

Like oil.

Like Tunguska. When those *things*...

He swallows hard and shoves the memory away. This is his chance. He kicks the remaining glass out of the way and squeezes out the window frame. He hangs from the second story window for just a moment. It's so dark. The moon is just a sliver, the forest is black as pitch, the trees lean toward him, dark arms, reaching, reaching.

He wishes for a flashlight. He wishes for Scully. And jumps. He lands awkward, rolling onto his side. He lies against pine needles, breathing heavily. Taking inventory. Nothing is broken. Yes, his hand throbs, but that's nothing to--

And then he is blind.

The light blinds him.

White light shines on his face. His lungs refuse to draw air. He gags, the taste of fear thick and sour in his mouth.

A voice: "You're very persistent, Mr. Mulder."

The flashlight beam shifts and Mulder blinks, rubbing his eyes. He looks up at Garrett.

*** The Senator checks his watch, wondering if he can still catch one of the aides. He punches in an extension number. The call is answered on the fourth ring.

"Mallory's office."

"Mallory?"

"No, sir. Kyle. Just stopped in to drop off a report. Is there anything you need?"

Matheson sighs. "I don't suppose I can get a draft of the new ad campaign."

"As a matter of fact, the printer dropped off a batch of samples yesterday afternoon. Want me to run some up?"

Matheson smiles, pleased. "Excellent."

"Oh...and Senator?"

"Yes, Kyle?"

"Is your offer to use the cabin still open? My girlfriend and I were wondering about next weekend..."

There is a moment of silence. Matheson grimaces. "Actually...I have relatives staying there right now. Probably through the month. Try me next month, all right? God knows you deserve it." He coughs. "We'll work something out."

"Thank you very much, sir. I'll bring the proofs up right away."

Senator Matheson breaks the connection.

Two floors down, Kyle Geiger smiles.

*** He speeds, almost daring some uniform pull him over. No one does. He stops once to refill the gas tank. When the highway starts to blur he stops again for coffee.

Tim blinks at the passing headlights. Yellow beams, poking through the night. Above him, the sky is dark. There is a hint of moon, but low clouds obscure most of the stars. Here and there, a diamond shines through.

He turns on the radio, low, trying to stay awake. Another forty-five minutes and he'll be there.

***

Garrett extends a hand. "Get up."

Mulder ignores him. Rolls over and gets to his knees. He stands, pine needles clinging to his clothes.

Garrett runs a hand through his thick beard. His eyes glint in the faint moonlight. "Mr. Mulder...you're only making things more difficult for yourself."

"No," Mulder snaps, "*you're* making things difficult." He curls his arm toward his body, cradling the cut hand. "Let me go."

Garrett shakes his head. "I don't want to shoot you."

Mulder swallows, throat clicking. "I thought I was more valuable to you alive."

"Yes. Yes you are. But a bullet to the knee or elbow would certainly help slow you down, wouldn't it?"

Mulder doesn't answer.

The two men stare at each other. Garrett pulls a gun from his overalls. "Let's go, Mr. Mulder."

Mulder raises his hands, resigned. "Okay. Okay. I'm coming."

Garrett motions with the gun. You first.

Slowly, Mulder moves ahead of Garrett. They start for the front of the cabin. One step. Two steps. Three. Mulder's knee buckles. "Ah! Damn!" He staggers. "I think I twisted it when I fell."

He goes down on one knee, both hands holding his other leg. "Damn!"

Garrett sighs. "I'm losing patience, Mr. Mulder..." He glares at Mulder. Lowers the gun slightly

Mulder grimaces, face tight. He waits for the gun to drop lower. When it doesn't, he closes his eyes. This is it. He lunges at Garrett.

Both men go down.

They roll, grunting, eerily silent beneath the trees. Mulder lands a solid blow to Garrett's chin and the man falls back, momentarily stunned. He crawls away from the larger man, hands flailing along the ground for the flashlight. He can't find it.

Garrett lifts his head, cursing.

Mulder runs. He plunges into the mouth of the forest.

***

"We'll take my van," Mickey says.

Tim frowns. "But the jeep is--"

Mickey shakes his head. "If we run into trouble--and we probably will--I've got plenty of...supplies."

Tim stares at him.

Mickey shrugs, smiling. "Better safe than sorry."

Scully and Mickey lock eyes. She gives him a barely perceptible nod.

Tim feels himself instantly transported to third wheel status. Come on! Isn't he the one with the big information, here? He frowns and stares at shoes. Looks up and forces a smile. "Then we better go."

The three of them cross the main lobby. "Robert's going to be all right?" Tim asks.

Mickey glances at the detective. "Yes."

Tim almost tells them that some drugged out mope shot at his partner today. Correction: *shot* his partner. But he keeps silent. The main doors glide open, and a young girl wheels an elderly woman into the hospital lobby. They wait for the wheelchair to pass.

The doors slide open a second time and Tim and Scully exit the building. Mickey comes last. He walks through the doors and feels--

--branches slap his face. He flinches, but keeps running. A thousand stinging branches pluck at his clothes, his hair, his face. Trying to hold him back. His feet crackle over the underbrush and he pauses, gasping, listening for Garrett. His heart roars like the ocean. His hand burns. He looks up, searching for the moon. A cloud covers her slender face like a veil. He waits impatiently, glaring up at the sky until the cloud shifts. He runs again.

He winds his way through the trees. God, what he wouldn't give for a compass right now. He takes a deep breath, trying to get his bearings. It's okay. It's okay. He'll get out of here. Get out and find Scully. What did they tell her? He sees her face again. Hears the pain in her voice. Does she even care that he's gone? Does she even know?

He doesn't see the tangle of roots. He trips and tumbles to the ground. Damn! Leaves and twigs cling to his hands and knees. He staggers to his feet and keeps moving, more cautious now. Slower. But he keeps moving.

Mickey opens his eyes. He's on the ground. Scully kneels next to him, face drawn. Someone is holding is head. He turns slightly to see Tim's wide eyes studying his face. He's lying in the parking lot.

"Another seizure?" Scully asks.

Mickey nods. Pushes himself into a sitting position. "Yeah." He looks at Tim. "Thanks."

Tim swallows. "Yeah, man. No problem. What...what happened?"

Mickey scratches his head. "I seem to be having a few flashbacks thanks to my stay at New World Labs."

Tim taps a finger against his lips, searching his memory. "That drug...Perfect Clarity?"

"Yeah. Lucky me."

Scully folds her arms. "I know we discussed this, but I think you should stay here, Mickey. It's too dangerous. We have no way of knowing how bad the seizures will get."

Mickey stands. "That's a chance we'll have to take."

"That's not a chance I'm to willing to take."

The three of them stand beneath the parking lot lights. Mickey rubs his eyes. "Scully. Listen to me."

"Maybe you should listen to her," Tim suggests.

Mickey shoots Tim a glare. You stay out of this.

Tim moves closer to Scully, protective.

Scully moves away.

She puts a hand on each man's arm, trying to diffuse the tension. "Let's think about Mulder here, all right?"

"That's exactly what I'm doing!" Mickey insists. "Like it or not, I'm your link to Mulder. You need me with you." He pulls the keys out of his pocket. "So let's go. Mulder's running from someone. I don't know how much time we have."

Scully follows reluctantly. She feels Tim's eyes on her, but she says nothing.

All three are silent as Mickey unlocks the doors. "Wait." He nods at Tim. "You drive."

Tim stares. "What?"

Mickey stares back. "What's going to happen if I have a seizure while we're going seventy down the interstate?"

Tim makes a face. "Ah." He holds out a hand and Mickey throws the keys. Bayliss catches them, one-handed, and climbs behind the wheel.

***

Paul Swope yawns. It's past midnight. The kitchen is clean. Spotless. The dishes are put away. Paul Swope may be a member of the Secret Service, but cooking is his true passion. God bless Nancy and the kids, but nothing beats his great-aunt's baked beans and rice recipe. The secret is in the spices. Paul Swopes knows spices. Oregeno. Tumeric. Sage. The names alone are beautiful. Exotic. Use them in the right combinations--a pinch here, a sprinkle there--and he can make clay a delicacy.

Walking through the foyer, he dials a number on the cell phone.

"Garrett."

"You find him yet, Scott?"

"If you didn't call me every five minutes maybe I'd have him by now."

Paul chuckles. "Of course."

"He won't get far," Garrett barks. He breaks the connection.

Paul makes a face. "Excuse me for asking," he mutters.

He glances at the small table in the alcove by the front closet. Today's mail. Two clothing catalogues. A long flat package. He squints at the typed print: SPEEDY PRINT. A sticker in the bottom left hand corner reads:

Campaign Flyers 100 Count Sample

Paul's forehead creases. Is Richard due up here this weekend or was the package sent by mistake? He'll have to check tomorrow.

End part 10/12

From maraschino@ibm.net Wed Jul 16 19:26:41 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: REPOST: The Resurrection by Shannon (11/12) From: "Maraschino" maraschino@ibm.net Date: 16 Jul 97 23:26:41 GMT

Repeat after me: They aren't mine, but I wish they were. See Part 1 for the Full Speech. Title: The Resurrection Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: My answer to Gethsemane.

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

Part 11/12

They travel through New Jersey and into New York. Mickey sits in the front passenger seat. Scully is in back. "Try keeping all four tires on the ground," Mickey mutters.

Tim looks at him. "I'm not used to driving a van, okay? I'm sorry."

Scully hands the map up to Kostmayer. "We're almost there."

They lapse into silence again. Mickey bites at his lower lip, stomach rolling. He wonders who Garrett is. He wonders if Tim knows where the hell they're going. He can still taste Mulder's fear, so palpable, and the sting of the branches on his face. He closes his eyes. We're coming.

Scully leans forward on the bench seat, elbows on her knees. Her chin rests on her clasped hands. Her hair is mussed. Makeup long since worn off. Glancing

in the rear view mirror, Tim thinks she is beautiful.

She bows her head. She puts her trust in the two men with her. With Mickey's skill and his connection to Mulder, they'll find him. And Tim will get them to the cabin. They'll find him. Mulder will be alive and safe and she can apologize.

She understands now. Mulder wasn't the only one to believe the lie. By blaming Mulder for her illness, she was sharing his guilt. There are many truths and many lies. Perhaps it's easier to believe in both...not one or the other. Maybe she was wrong to trust Kritschgau. Maybe...maybe *she* believed the lie. Not Mulder. Maybe, as long as they can still believe in each other, it doesn't really matter.

She swallows. They are both damaged now. Things have been said. Words tallied. Judgments made. But it's not too late. They are still partners. They can work through this. She clenches a fist. They *will* work through this.

Tim keeps his eyes on the road. Eyes focused on the long black strip, he sees Frank falling against the kitchen wall in horrific slow motion. He sees Kendall's face go still and silent. He sees a dead man in a hotel room. A man wearing a silver chain and Mulder's wallet. One victim is real, the other not.

Who decides the difference?

***

The road winds higher. The trees grow thicker, denser, as the altitude climbs. Suddenly Tim turns off onto a gravel road. Gradually, the road becomes dirt. The road forks and he turns the van to the right. He drove slowly, fighting to get the vehicle through the muddy trail. At this point, the term road no longer fit. "We wouldn't have this much trouble if we had the jeep," he mutters.

Mickey looks at him sharply. "What?"

"Nothing."

Squinting in the darkness, he finally parks the vehicle, flicks off the brights, and turns off the ignition. "We're here," he declares.

Scully glances out the window. "I don't see anything."

Tim opens the door. "This is it."

Scully stares at him. "How in the hell did you find this place?"

Bayliss grins. "I *am* a detective." He points. "See that grapevine over there?"

Scully squints.

Mickey nods. "Yeah. And that glint of metal."

Tim hands the keys back to Mickey. "Right. The fence."

Scully walks closer. She sees the gate. And the mailbox carved out of a tree stump.

Mickey stretches, feeling calmer. They're here. No more waiting. This is the part he likes. The part where he can *do*.

Dana approaches the fence.

"Don't touch it," Mickey hisses. "It's electrified."

Tim sighs. "Great."

Jingling the keys, Mickey moves to the back of the van. "Not a problem."

***

"Can you come?"

Annoyed: "It's late."

Unconcerned: "Yes. It is. But I have identified the problem."

A pause. "I see..."

"Ms. Corvirubious."

The voice changes. More relaxed. Or is it his imagination? "I'm not surprised."

"Really."

"Yes. There's always been something about her."

"That no longer matters. She must be disposed of. I have no tolerance for traitors."

Kyle is silent. Then: "Why me?"

"Why not? I trust you. Are you telling me you aren't up to the task?"

"I didn't say that."

"How soon can you come?"

"Fifteen minutes?"

"Excellent."

***

He runs. His face is on fire, stung by dozens of branches and nettles, hand sticky with dried blood, he scrambles around trees and over thick foliage.

He runs from Scott Garrett.

He runs from a past he can't remember.

He runs from a past he can't forget.

He runs, panting, toward more than open road. He runs toward a future where there are answers. Where there is truth. Where he will see his partner smile again. Where he will have a partner.

A future where he will be allowed to live. Without lies. Without conspiracy. Without pain.

He runs because he *can*.

But as he lumbers through the night, lungs straining, he wonders if he isn't just running in circles. Fooling himself. Fooling them all.

Maybe it's not their lies he needs to worry about. Maybe it's the ones he's been telling himself.

***

He throws the shovel into the back of the van and shuts the door. "Ready?"

They are.

Scully crawls through the opening first. Belly pressed into the dirt, she slides her way beneath the fence. She comes across to the driveway, safe. Mickey goes next.

Tim watches them, heart hammering. He's going to get elecrocuted. He can tell. He's the tallest. There's no way he's going to fit through that little hole.

"Come on," Mickey hisses from the other side.

Tim swallows. Think of it as an exercise. You're back in QRT. Get on with it! He drops to his knees. Teeth clenched, grimacing, he inches his way under the fence.

Mickey holds his hand out, waiting.

Tim takes it.

He pulls Tim out. Tim breathes a shaky sigh of relief. Thank God. "How are we going to get Mulder out?" he asks.

Mickey raises his gun. Smiling: "I have a key. By then, it won't matter who knows we're here."

***

The car is waiting at the designated spot. Kyle walks along the deserted street and slips into the passenger seat.

The driver is smoking. From the look of the ashtray, he's been waiting a while.

"Sorry for the delay," Kyle says. He doesn't sound sorry.

The other man is silent. Puffing on a Morley, he studies Geiger's face. "You know how much I value loyalty."

Kyle nods. "Yes."

"I value loyalty above all else," he continues.

"I understand. I'll take care of her. When and where?"

The older man clears his throat. "Now."

In that instant, Kyle realizes the truth. The bastard knows. He opens his hand to reveal a small plastic device. "Go ahead and kill me. I'll kill Mulder."

He exhales smoke in Kyle's face. "You're lying."

"Am I?" He breaks out into a sweat. "Care to take a drive up to Senator Matheson's cabin?"

The cigarette goes into the ashtray. He lifts the gun in his lap. "That knowledge doesn't do you much good now, does it?"

"If I press this button, that cabin will be orbiting the moon," Kyle growls. "So will everyone in it."

They stare at each other. The driver's finger moves on the trigger. "Don't do it," Kyle warns. Too late, he feels the metal on the back of his head. Someone in the backseat. He tries to breathe, but the fear is too thick. He's choking. Oh God! He scrambles for the button.

The bullet sends him forehead in the seat, blood spraying the windshield. He convulses once, twice. In death, his finger finds the button.

***

He's been running forever. God, where is he? Where's the fence? Where's the goddamn fence? A low branch looms ahead and he ducks, dodging out of the way. The earth dissolves beneath his feet. He manages a brief scream. The ravine!

He falls.

***

Tim creeps along the narrow driveway, one hand on his gun, the other holding a flashlight. He turns back to make sure the others are behind him. They are, several yards back. Mickey on the left. Dana on the right.

The movement is all it takes. Some subtle message is misunderstood and his back goes into a spasm of agony. He grunts and drops to his knees, just as the world explodes.

***

Fire.

The orange ball leaps up into the sky, a terrible balloon, before it flattens out, rolling over everything in its path. The flames crush the trees like matchsticks. And the deadly flames rush forward.

***

Up ahead, he sees Tim drop. And then he feels the blast, before he actually sees the geyser of flame shooting higher, higher into the air. A board rockets through the air, slicing the air where Tim's head had been five seconds earlier.

He screams to Scully. "GET DOWN NOW!" He races across the driveway and throws her to the ground. They lie face down in wet leaves, arms over their heads, praying the distance is enough.

Scully screams: "Mulder! Mulder!" She lifts her head, but Mickey presses it back down, hard.

"Don't move!"

Bayliss tries to crawl toward them. He can see the fire. He can hear its voice, screaming toward them. Closer, closer.

Cursing, Mickey runs to the driveway and drags Tim back toward the trees. He can see now that the fire's not going to stop. It races toward them like a blinding train.

Scully cries, fists clutching handfuls of dead leaves. "No! No! MULDER!" Oh God, not fire. Tears stream down her face, blinding her.

He's running on pure adrenline. Dragging Tim forward with one hand, he reaches for Scully's shirt, yanks her up, and pulls her with him. "The fence! NOW!"

No one argues. Gun out, Mickey starts shooting, the sounds muffled by the screaming flames. They can all feel the heat closing in. "Oh God!" Tim breathes, face white.

The lock blows open. Mickey kicks at the chain link doors. God it's so hot so hot so damn HOT! The heat alone is going to kill them. It's licking at their heels, breathing down their necks. They aren't going to make it.

Past the van.

Across the road.

It's coming, relentless--

oh dear God!

Mulder!

faster come on faster oh please

--and they dive down the hill, down the embankment on the other side of the road, no one caring about rocks or distance or breaking bones, just the fire, its steady roar, louder than any train, louder than anything, louder than God.

The fire arrives, still hungry.

***

He fumbles at Kyle's fingers, pulling the device out of his hand. "Dammit! He pressed the button!"

The man in the back seat shrugs. "I don't think so."

He opens the car door, furious. "You don't think so," he spits. He steps out and turns, looking back into the interior. "I hate sloppy work," he hisses and raises his gun. Pulls the trigger. The man slumps against the back seat.

He takes a deep breathe, trying to stay calm. Slides a Morley out of the pack with a gloved hand. He lights it, and strolls away, not looking back. ***

He is curled on his side, hands over his face, lodged against a large rock in the wall of the ravine. Twenty feet above him the forest is gone. Smoldering trees and scorched earth await him. He coughs at the stench of smoke and raises his head. He stares in disbelief.

"Oh my God..." he whispers, awed by the destruction. He looks down into the ravine. A long way down.

Mulder starts climbing, in shock, not even realizing that his ankle is broken or that the itch on his forehead is a two inch gash. He wipes the blood away, distracted. Sweating.

He leans his head against a rock. Just a minute. He needs to rest for just a minute. He stays there, eyes squeezed shut, afraid to think how close he came to being swallowed alive.

*** Scully is the first to move. She opens her eyes in wonder. She is alive. Turning her head, she sees Mickey at the bottom of the embankment, face down. Tim is next to her, hands still shielding his face. She swallows, searching for saliva. "Tim?" she whispers, hoarse.

He nods. Slowly, he lowers his hands. They're red and blistered. His face is red as well, as if he suffered severe sunburn. His hair and clothes are smudged with soot. Scully imagines she looks the same. "Are you all right?"

He looks at her. A short laugh escapes his lips. Scully joins him. She puts a hand to her mouth, trying to stop the impending hysteria. "Poor choice of words," she whispers.

"I'm alive, it that's what you mean."

She scoots around him, on her hands and knees for a better look down the slope. "What about Mickey?"

Tim shakes his head. "God, I hope so." Together they ease down the embankment. The detective's face is a rictus of pain.

She grunts at him. "Your back?"

He shakes his head. "My leg. I think it's broke." He gives her a sidelong glance. "What about you?"

She licks her lips. "I don't think anything's broken."

They reach Mickey and she feels for a pulse. It's strong. She blinks back tears. Thank God. Together, they roll him over. His eyes are open and he stares up at the night sky. "Is it a seizure?" Tim asks.

"I don't know." She puts a hand to her stomach, struggling against a sudden wave of nausea.

Mulder.

He's...

The fire.

...dead.

Mickey coughs painfully. He blinks at her, unseeing. Gradually his eyes focus. They both lean over him. Scully touches his face. "Mickey? Are you hurt?"

He lifts both arms experimentally. Winces. Moves his legs. "I think I'm still in one piece." He grimaces. "Barely." He looks up at Dana, his face streaked with black. He puts a strong hand on her arm. "Scully...Mulder's still alive." He nods toward the annihilated forest. "He's in some kind of ravine."

Scully puts a hand to her head. "Thank God." Her lank hair falls forward, obscuring her face. Hiding her tears.

***

He limps through the gutted forest, stopping periodically to catch his breath. Pale columns of smoke swirl around him like a ghostly ocean. He swims through the haze, eyes watering.

Picking his way over a blackened stump, he hesitates. He looks up, searching the thick darkness. For a moment it sounds like--

A faint cry on the wind. A rustle of non-existant branches.

He runs blindly, heart pounding toward the voice. "Scully!"

Her voice again, louder. Closer. Calling his name.

And there, beneath the ashen moon, amidst swirling smoke and dying embers stands a familiar figure. He stumbles toward her, arms outstretched. "Scully!"

He stops suddenly, eyes burning with unshed tears. He stands mere feet away, unable to face her.

Her voice is soft. The sound of forgiveness. "Mulder." She bridges the distance between them and puts her arms around his stiff shoulders. "I thought you were dead." She speaks into the plaid fabric of his shirt. "I saw you on the floor...in your apartment. The police were there. They said you shot yourself. I was afraid...I was afraid that..." she can't go on.

Mulder closes his eyes. "I'm alive, Scully." He rests his cheek on top of her head. The tears start. "I could never leave you like that. Now when it's my fault...my fault," his voice breaks, "that you're..." he can't say the word, "...sick." He pushes her away, fists swinging at demons only he can see. "I wish to hell they'd given me the goddamn cancer. I already believed, Scully. They didn't need to take you away! They didn't need to!"

She reaches for him, but he stumbles back. He's had his brief reprieve. This is the time of penance. "It's bad enough I lost Samantha. But now I'm losing you!" He lifts his head skyward, and Scully sees the tears glistening on his face.

"No, Mulder. Listen to me. About what I said in the warehouse. I was upset, I didn't mean--"

"You were right. This is my search. *My* holy grail. Not yours. I've been selfish. I *am* selfish." He wipes roughly at his forehead, accidentally reopening the gash. "I don't know what to do. I don't know who to believe."

"Believe your instincts, Mulder. Believe that I trust you. That I believe in you."

He laughs harshly.

She shakes her head. "I didn't say I believe what you believe, I said I believe in *you*. There's a difference."

Mulder wraps his arms around himself, silent. His body language shouts at Scully: I might be standing here, but I'm still running.

He senses movement and looks behind his partner. Mickey Kostmayer raises a hand. A wide smile lights his dirty face. "Mulder!" He senses the tension between the two agents and hesitates.

Scully calls to him. "Is Tim all right?"

"Yeah. I just wanted to check on you." To Mulder: "And make sure you're still among the living." Mickey's eyes search Mulder's face, but in the darkness, he can't read his friend's expression.

Mulder nods. "For now." He notices the blood on his hand and tentatively feels his head. His hand comes away, wet. He stares at it, surprised, then wipes it on his soiled jeans. Looks back at Mickey. "So Bayliss is here too?"

Dana nods.

"Saving your butt is pretty much a full time job lately," Mickey grins.

Scully shoots Mickey a look and he regrets the joke. He approaches his friend slowly. "Come on Mulder, let's go." He speaks softly.

Mulder watches Mickey carefully. "Go where?"

Mickey and Dana exchange glances.

In the distance they can hear a helicopter. Mickey cocks his head. "Sounds like a police chopper."

Dana cups her hands around her mouth, straining to be heard. "I called for an ambulance. It should be here soon."

Mulder's arms tighten around his body. "I'm not getting in an ambulance."

Mickey squints at Mulder. "Just how hard did you crack your head?"

Mulder laughs angrily. "Not that hard." To Scully: "No ambulance, no hospital, no records. If they want me dead, I'll be dead."

"Mulder, you can't--"

"I can. They started this game. Let me finish it. This way I have free reign to find out what the hell is going on."

"It doesn't work that way," Mickey says.

Glaring: "Oh? How does it work?"

Mickey sighs and backs off. The chopper draws closer. To the east, another one approaches.

"You asked me for time before, Scully. Now it's my turn. I need to know if my memories are real. I need to know why someone wants me dead."

"You need to do your job!" Scully insists. "What about the X-Files?"

He gives her a pointed look. "I managed to work alone."

Angrily: "I don't want to work alone. We're *partners*." Her eyes meet his. "Aren't we?"

He drops his gaze first. Wearily: "Yes." He starts walking and Scully hurries to keep up. "All I want is to lay low for a while, Scully. Maybe this can work to my advantage." Another angry laugh. "For a change."

"So what are you proposing?"

"Leaving before the welcome wagon arrives."

Directly ahead are the silver remains of the fence. The metal links are twisted and misshapen; they form gaping holes that beckon them toward the gravel road.

"Mulder, every vehicle within a mile radius is a melted cube. Are we supposed to fly?"

"You aren't coming with me."

She stares at him, incredulous. "You think I'm going to let you out of my sight?"

He ignores her, moving down the embankment, Mickey lags behind, offering a modicum of privacy.

Tim waits at the bottom, his leg stretched out in front of him, supported by a long branch and several strips of cloth torn from his shirt. He looks up at the sound of Mulder's voice. Eyes wide, he grins at the agent, amazed to see his friend right *there*. Within arm's reach. "Hey, Mulder!"

"Hello Tim." Mulder glances at the splint. "You break your leg?"

Tim just stares at Mulder, unable to stop smiling. "I can't believe this! I really can't believe this!" He touches his chin, then raises his hand to Mulder, amazed. "There you are."

Mulder keeps walking. "No I'm not."

Tim stares. "What?"

Mickey moves in front of Mulder. "Look--"

"*You* look!"

Scully puts her hands on her hips. "You aren't ditching me, Mulder. Not this time."

Mulder turns to face her, puts his hands on her shoulders. "Scully. Haven't I caused you enough trouble? I'm not ditching you, all right? I'm *asking* you to stay here with Tim and Mickey. I'm asking you to tell whoever listens that you didn't find me. I need your help on this, Dana. I'm not ditching you," he repeats. "I'm asking you to be my eyes. For just a little while."

She lifts her chin, defiant. "While you do what?"

He shakes his head. "I don't know Scully. I really don't know." He stares at her for a long moment. The helicopters draw closer. Searchlights sweep across the blackened earth, nearer. He takes a deep breath. "I'll be back, Scully."

Mickey puts a restraining hand on Mulder's arm. "We passed a truck stop about two miles back. I saw phones and a john. You do what you have to do."

Scully closes her eyes. "Mulder...please."

He leans close and she feels his breath against her face. "I need to do this."

She opens her eyes, shouting against the din of the oncoming helicopters. "Mulder. Before you go, you have to know something."

He waits, impatient.

"It's your mother. She had another stroke. She's...she's not expected to live. I'm sorry, Mulder."

He closes his eyes, nodding. Of course. Of course. Should he be surprised? He starts to laugh. The last time he saw her they had argued. She had slapped him. Hard. Her face livid. Now, on this hellish night, weeks later, he can still feel the weight of her hand. He can feel the weight of her hand and her lies...of his whole life crashing down on him, crushing him, grinding him down, down, until there is nothing left. He sinks to the ground.

He can't breathe.

He feels Scully's hands on him. "I'm here, Mulder. I'm here," she tells him, but she isn't. He can see her, but it's only a matter of time before she's gone. His father, his sister, his mother. His partner. Everyone he touches. Everyone he loves.

He turns his face away, tears mingling with ashes.

And the first helicopter lands.

End part 11/12

From maraschino@ibm.net Wed Jul 16 19:26:46 1997 Newsgroups: alt.tv.x-files.creative Subject: REPOST: The Resurrection by Shannon (12/12) From: "Maraschino" maraschino@ibm.net Date: 16 Jul 97 23:26:46 GMT

Repeat after me: They aren't mine, but I wish they were. See Part 1 for the Full Speech. Title: The Resurrection Author: Shannon (sjbryan@athenet.net) Rating: R Classification: Crossover (X-Files/Homicide:Life on the Street/The Equalizer) Summary: My answer to Gethsemane.

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Part 12/12

The next hours blur by. A fleet of EMTs stand by, attending to Mulder and Tim. Men sift through the rubble, voices low, radios squawking. All four of them receive fresh oxygen before being transported to an area hospital outside Philadelphia.

Night segues into morning, and Mulder sits in the waiting room, fresh stitches in his head. He wears a baseball cap purchased from the hospital gift store pulled low over his face. Scully sits beside him, their simple nearness speaking more than words. He is listed on the hospital records as George Hale. No insurance. He paid for the stitches and the cast on his ankle with Scully's credit card.

The reporters have finally tapered off. They find the mysterious trio's story severely lacking. Two buddies and a girlfriend on their way to a friend's cabin for sightseeing and fishing? Please. That's a page six material. Since the explosion, dozens of witnesses have crawled out from their respective rocks. A young woman at the rest stop near the Senator's cabin claims she saw an alien space craft just moments before the deadly fire. Now *that's* a page one headline.

***

McCall sits in a chair in the corner, legs resting on a stool. "You do need me to keep you out of trouble, don't you?" he asks his friend, smiling faintly.

Mickey locks his hands behind his head. "I think you've got that backwards, McCall. You're the one in the hospital this time."

"Yes, yes, that's true," Robert muses. He studies Mickey carefully. "But I understand you just might earn yourself a room here after all."

Mickey shakes his head. "Nope. Not this time."

"He has a clean bill of health," Scully says from the doorway. She smiles at both men and enters the room. "Aside from the fact he and Mulder are in contention for the greatest number of scars, Mickey is doing fine." She consults the sheet of paper in her hand. "No thickening of the heart. No seizures within the last twenty-four hours."

"So I'm back to normal?" Mickey asks.

Scully's lip curves. "I'm not sure if normal is the right--"

Mickey waves her off. "Ha ha. The big doctor over there thinks she's a comedian."

Robert strokes his chin. "Do you have any idea what caused the reoccurrence of the symptoms?"

"None at all."

Slowly: "So...they can reappear at any time?"

Mickey sighs. "I guess it's a possibility."

McCall folds his arms, concerned. "But that's preposterous!"

Mickey gets to his feet, hands in his pockets. "I'll handle it."

"How?" Robert asks.

Mickey musters a grin. He shrugs. "I haven't quite worked that little detail out yet. But I will." He nods at McCall. "I'll be back later." To Scully: "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

Robert slides his slippered feet off the stool. Scully sits. "How are you feeling?"

"Fit as a fiddle."

She lifts an eyebrow.

"Would you believe a used fiddle?"

She chuckles. "I'm glad."

"Dana...do you think Mickey...is he going to be all right?"

Scully chooses her words carefully. "I don't know, Robert. But Mickey is a hard man to keep down." She smiles fondly.

Robert returns the smile. "Yes, that he is." There is a hint of pride in his voice.

"What about Mulder? How is he doing?"

Scully stands, her posture stiff, ill at ease. "He's...been better."

"Where is he?"

Scully doesn't answer.

Robert watches her face. "You don't have to tell me, Dana. I understand."

Scully offers him a tight smile. She nods. "Thank you."

He holds a hand out to her. "How are you doing?" he asks softly.

Scully takes his hand. "Better."

***

"Control."

He looks up at the sound of Mickey's voice. "Come in."

Mickey enters the office, arms folded.

"I received copies of your test results," Control says.

Mickey nods, silent.

"They're inconclusive."

Mickey shakes his head. "No they're not."

Control blinks. "Excuse me?"

Mickey walks closer to Control's desk, his eyes on the older man's face. "I can say with absolute certainty those tests gave me definite results. A clear plan of action."

"What do you mean?"

Mickey pulls an envelope from his back pocket and drops it onto the desk top. He clasps his hands behind his back. He watches Control reach for the envelope and pull out the single, typed sheet.

Control glances up at Mickey, his expression guarded. "What is this?"

"What does it look like?"

Control stuffs the page back into the envelope. "This isn't necessary. There are plenty of assignments that you can command safely. There are training positions and teaching positions that--"

Mickey holds up a hand. "No thanks. It's not that complicated, Control. I resign. Quit. End of story."

Control looks up at the agent. "Mickey...I know you hold me responsible for what happened with Robert, but--"

Mickey laughs. "Give me some credit, Control."

Control holds the envelope in both hands. "I'm not comfortable accepting this, Mickey."

Mickey flashes him a lopsided grin. "That's your problem, isn't it?"

Control watches Kostmayer leave. Softly: "No Mickey, it's yours."

***

Skinner pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose, reading. "At this time Matheson is going to put efforts into rebuilding the cabin on hold so that he may continue working on his re-election full time. However, he was quoted as saying that 'local authorities are still investigating. I don't know what happened yet, but I have faith they'll get to the bottom of it.'" The Assistant Director folds the paper and drops it into the recycle bin. Shaking his head in disgust: "Why do I have the feeling he's lying through his teeth?"

Scully crosses her legs. "Probably because that's exactly what he's doing."

"When will Agent Mulder be back?"

Scully shakes her head. "I'm not sure, sir."

Skinner taps his fingers against the desk. "But he *will* be back?"

Confident: "Yes."

Skinner leans back in his chair, studying the petite agent before him. He clears his throat. Softly: "How have you been feeling, Agent Scully? Are you still determined to continue with the X-Files?"

"Yes, sir. I feel fine."

He stares at her. "Off the record."

Scully bows her head, smiling faintly. "I still feel fine. The new treatment seems to be going...well."

Skinner folds his hands. A genuine smile crosses his face. "I'm relieved to here that, Agent Scully."

She stands. "So am I, sir."

***

She smiles, shaking her head. "That's amazing. You're lucky to be alive!"

Mickey smiles back. "Nah. The ability to run *really* fast has more to do with it than luck." He shifts on the stool. Admiring Linda's thick black hair. Blacker than night. So black it almost looks blue.

Linda feels his gaze. "What can I get you?" she finally asks.

He pats his stomach. "I could really go for one of those turnovers..."

She winks. Nods. "Coming right up."

The door opens, and a bell chimes, indicating another customer. Robert McCall enters the small cafe. Mickey grins and waves toward the empty seat next to him.

McCall sits. He nods to his friend. "Mickey."

Mickey sniffs, cupping his chin in one hand. "Nice to see you could make it this time, McCall." McCall chuckles. He picks up a menu. "So. What do you recommend?"

Both men glimpse Linda moving through the kitchen. Mickey leans toward McCall, voice low. "Her."

Robert laughs, eyeing his friend. "I was thinking more in terms of lunch, Mickey."

"Oh. Right. In that case, try the bacon cheese melt."

McCall grimaces.

"Or the Number Three salad."

Linda returns with the turnovers. "Here you go."

Mickey smiles, barely noticing the food. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

They eye each other.

McCall clears his throat. "Excuse me..."

Linda flushes. "Oh, sorry." A flustered smile. "What can I get you?"

He points. "The salad please."

A curt nod. "That'll be just a minute."

Linda returns to the kitchen.

"So," McCall says. "I understand you have some free time on your hands."

Mickey nods slowly. "It looks that way."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

Mickey spreads his hands. "Surprise." He forks a bite of the turnover into his mouth. Chewing: "I was waiting for the right time?"

McCall tries to hide a smile. Fails. "And this qualifies?"

Mickey nods. "Sure."

McCall reaches for a napkin. He proceeds to fold it into a small square. "There were five messages on my machine last night."

Mickey takes another bite.

"Five," McCall repeats.

"You don't say."

"Oh, but I do."

"Sounds like you're going to be busy. All those people needing your help." He nods. "*Very* busy..."

"Yes. I could probably use some help. Quite a bit of help in fact."

Mickey nods, stabbing another piece. "Quite a bit," he echoes.

McCall sighs loudly. "Hmm. I wonder who I can find."

Mickey breaks out laughing. "I wonder."

***

Lewis grins. "Well, well, well. If it ain't Lobster Boy."

Tim maneuvers awkwardly across the squad room on his crutches. He smiles thinly. "Nice to see you too, Meldrick."

Frank stands and gestures toward his partner. "The conquering hero has returned!"

Tim flushes at the smattering of applause. "Come on you guys..." He lowers himself into his chair.

Gee stands in the doorway of his office. Arms folded across his broad chest, amused. "Did you really find it necessary to one-up Frank, Bayliss?"

Tim shakes his head. Sighs. "Luitenant..."

Munch wheels his chair back for a better view of Bayliss. "You know Tim, when they discontinue our insurance it's going to be your fault."

Kay leans on the edge of John's desk, arms folded. "Come on, John. Give the guy a break, hmm?"

John lifts an eyebrow. "I believe he's already had one, Sarge."

Kay shoots John a look. To Tim: "It's good to have you back." She smiles.

Tim nods. "Thank you, Kay."

Kellerman lights a cigarette. "So you found your friend? He wasn't dead?"

Tim sorts through his messages. "He wasn't dead."

"Explain that to me," Pembleton says. He sets a fresh cup of coffee in front of Tim. "How many times has your friend risen from the dead now?" He sips his own coffee. "Oh...wait a minute." He holds a finger up, smiling broadly. "I get it. I *get*. *That's* why they're called *special* agents."

Tim frowns. "Come on, Frank."

Munch joins in. "He's right, Tim. Inquiring minds want to know what happened." He smirks. "Is Mulder the descendant of a Jewish carpenter by any chance?"

Lewis opens a desk drawer, pulls out his football. "So Mulder didn't off himself, after all."

"Which is surprising when you consider the fact he has to carry around a driver's license that reads Fox," John muses.

Tim runs his hands through his hair, annoyed. "Haven't there been any homicides while I've been gone? Don't you have something to do?"

Mike exhales, stubbing the cigarette into an ashtray. "Well there were, Tim. But turns out none of the victims were really dead."

Lewis guffaws. "Good one Mikey."

Tim picks up his coffee. Muttering: "...how juvenile you guys are being."

Frank glares. "Don't lump me into 'you guys', Tim."

Meldrick rubs his chin. "That's right, Timmy boy. No sir, not our Frank. He's far from the madding crowd." He looks at Pembleton. "Ain't that so, *Detective* Pembleton?"

"You tell me, *Detective* Lewis."

John frowns. "What's a madding crowd?"

The phone warbles out a triple cry. A reprieve. Tim snatches for it. "Homicide. Detective Bayliss." He pulls out a pen, scribbling on the back of a message pad. "Yeah. Okay. Thanks." He hangs up, eyes searching for his partner. "Let's go Frank."

He reaches for his crutches.

***

He holds her hand.

A simple gesture. A small gesture really, but it's all he can do. The apologies have long since been made. A one-sided conversation of course, but aren't they always?

Caroline Mulder has never been a woman of many words.

Fox Mulder sits beside her bed, her still hand clasped between his. He lays his head against the cool metal railing and closes his eyes. The tears are gone now. Tears not just for his dying mother, but a dying chance. The knowledge that if she dies, so does his past. And possibly, his future.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. He is no longer certain who the apology is for. His mother? Samantha? Himself? "I'm still here, Mom. I hung on. You hang on, too." He squeezes her hand. "Hold on to me, okay?" He rocks his head against the bar. Don't let her die. I need her. I need the truth. I need *her*.

He doesn't look up at the sound of footsteps. Or the soft scrape of a chair sliding beside his. He feels a hand slide over his own. A small hand. Familiar. He feels Dana's strength flow into him. Maybe some of that same strength will find his mother.

Maybe someday they will find the truth.

...The End...

nudge, nudge you can wake up now...;-)

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I want to say a big thank you to everyone who has sent me comments on these crossovers. It means a lot to know that so many of you are reading them and actually *enjoying* them. I've had a wonderful time writing them.

By the way, to all you Homicide fans, please check out AgentRLM's brand new Homicide fan fic page at: http://www.geocities.com/~agentq/hlotsff.htm

You might even find some stories from yours truly! ;-)