From rrusnak@Lconn.com Fri Apr 11 19:16:13 1997 Subject: NEW Elixir III Retrieval (1/2) From: Rebecca Rusnak -------- Well, here it is, the final installment of the Elixir trilogy. Thanks so much to everyone who has written. Once again, I urge you to write me with any feedback, and I promise to respond. Send all comments to rrusnak@Lconn.com AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is the last part of a trilogy, and I highly recommend reading the first two sections or this part will probably make no sense to you. Elixir I and II can be found on the wonderful Gossamer Archive. If you can't find them, please let me know and I can e-mail them to you SELFISH WASTE OF SPACE: I want to dedicate this story to Pellinor, whose support and dry wit are just what I need to wake my creative muse on the days I would swear it had gone to sleep. SUMMARY: Scully is on the run, and Mulder must find her before anyone else does. DISCLAIMER: OK, you all know the drill. Chris Carter owns these wonderful characters and I am just borrowing them. The Fox Broadcasting Co. can sue me if it likes, but all it will get are my student loan payments. CLASSIFICATION: X-File. No romance here. RATING: PG-13 Elixir III: Retrieval (1/2) by Rebecca Rusnak St. Elizabeth's Hospital Dayton, Ohio February 1, 1997 10:38 a.m. The Assistant Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation was not a happy man. He never got used to getting a call that one his agents was down. It was bad enough to feel that helpless anger and worry. What made it worse this time was that it was a fellow agent who had done the shooting. An agent who was on the run, and whose whereabouts were unknown. He headed for the nurses station, then glanced up as he heard his name called. "Mr. Skinner?" A white-coated young man walked briskly down the hall towards him. He held a clipboard in one hand and there was a dull maroon bloodstain on his surgical greens. The doctor stopped in front of Skinner and held out a hand. "Mr. Skinner, I'm Dr Tholking." He turned and began walking back in the direction he'd come from. Skinner kept pace with him as they headed down the hall. "One of the paramedics discovered your man's ID, and as the listed next-of-kin could not be reached, it was decided to call the Bureau," Dr. Tholking explained. They turned a corner in the hallway and Skinner sidestepped a gurney. "How did he get here? Who called it in?" "Apparently some salesman was staying at the same motel. He heard the shot and opened his door to investigate. He says he saw a body, and that a woman tried to shoot him and told him to get back in his room. He called 911 from his hotel room phone. When the EMT squad arrived, there was no sign of any woman." Skinner sighed and his lips pressed into a thin line. The doctor stopped abruptly in front of a closed door. He glanced at his clipboard, then gestured at the door. "The bullet got him in the left side. It went straight through, missed his kidney by millimeters. We've done some minor surgery to repair the damage, and unless infection develops he should be fine. He got lucky." Skinner shook his head. How had society gotten to the point where guns and violent shootings were so common that a simple gunshot was classified as "lucky"? He reached for the doorknob. "Thank you," he said, using his most polite, yet dismissive tone of voice. "I can be paged if you need me," Dr. Tholking said, then left. Skinner opened the door, stepped into the room, and closed it behind him. The man in the bed stirred at the sudden noise, and his eyes fluttered open. Hazel eyes dark with pain and drugs focused on Skinner, then scanned the room. Skinner stepped forward. "She's not here, Agent Mulder." Atlanta, Georgia Hartsfield Airport Concourse B 11:21 a.m. Marilyn Latham was an experienced traveler. Twenty years as a flight attendant for Delta had taught her how to pack efficiently, how to negotiate strange airports, and how to be as comfortable as possible on airplanes. She also knew almost instantly how to spot the fellow passenger who would be cooperative, and the one who would cause trouble. Marilyn thought that the petite redhead next to her was a prime candidate for the latter category. The woman was curled up on two chairs in Gate 32, currently sleeping. Marilyn had arrived an hour early for her flight, which left from this gate, and the woman had been here sleeping. Her flight was now in its second hour of being delayed, and the woman still slept on, oblivious to the noise all around her. Marilyn watched the woman with undisguised curiosity. She was dressed too well to be one of Atlanta's homeless, trying to get some sleep in a warm place. She had a purse between her body and the back of the chair, and was using a small overnight bag as a pillow. She *looked* merely like a traveler taking advantage of a layover to catch up on some rest, but something made Marilyn doubt it. Maybe it was the woman's pallor, and the way her face was set in tense lines even in sleep. Her eyelids twitched violently as she dreamed, and a strand of copper hair fell against her cheek. The woman moaned in her sleep, and muttered something. "Mother," maybe. Marilyn leaned in, ready to calm the woman down, if need be. The woman stirred on the uncomfortable seats, and her hand reflexively grabbed at her purse. She inhaled sharply, and suddenly sat upright. Blue eyes flickered wildly around the room, trying to make sense of her surroundings. Marilyn put her hand on the young woman's arm. "Honey, you're okay," she said soothingly. "It was just a dream, and now it's over." The woman's head snapped to the left. She stared at Marilyn for a moment, then her gaze dropped to the hand on her arm. "Get your hands off me," she hissed, jerking her arm away. "Miss, you just had a bad dream," Marilyn continued calmly. She stood up as the red-haired woman got to her feet. She reached out again a placating hand. To her astonishment the younger woman cocked back her fist, then struck her. Marilyn fell backwards into a chair, her face flaming. "I told you to leave me alone!" the woman yelled. She scooped up her bag and purse, and ran off down the terminal, leaving Marilyn sprawled in the chair. Jan. 30, 1997 6:16 p.m. 900 W. Georgia St. Washington D.C. He sat back in the old armchair, slowly inhaling. Few things in life were as satisfying as a cigarette after a good meal. In front of him the TV blared the day's news--nothing he didn't already know. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to relax. He'd flown in to Dulles from Dayton last night, and had little chance to sleep since. It had been another long day. Manipulating information, manipulating people. He felt like a master puppeteer, controlling both people and ideas. Sometimes he idly wondered when he would finally trip up in his own wires. He was not naive enough to think that day would never come. He just hoped he'd be able to pick himself up after the fall and not find any of the strings attached to *him.* With a small regret he finished his cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray on the table next to him. He really shouldn't have moved back here, but the irony was just too great to pass up. He had been forced to move, of course, after Fox Mulder had surprised him here. An interesting encounter, that. The horrified look in the young FBI agent's eyes still made him chuckle. But he had had to move, to ensure that there would be no more surprise visits from his favorite agents. Yet sitting in his new apartment he had continually expected the hand to fall on his shoulder, to hear the creak of the floorboards. The sheer tension had gotten to him, making more irritable than usual, and he had jumped at the chance to move back here. Not even Assistant Director Skinner would think to look for him here twice. He lit a new cigarette and was beginning to consider working on his new novel when the phone rang. He eyed it with distaste for a moment, then noticed it was his private line. A number very few people had. "Yes?" Curious. Who could it be? The man on the other end cleared his throat. "There is a situation," he said. The smoking man felt a cold smile cross his face. So, the turncoat needed his help. "Oh?" He exhaled into the phone. "What might that be?" "Don't give me that crap!" The man's voice was harsh. He wondered if the man knew they referred to him by a rather unflattering name, either way you looked at it. Prostitute or traitor. He supposed time would tell which one this man was. "I am aware of many situations," he said evenly. "There is a problem with Mulder and Scully," the man said. "It cannot be allowed to continue." He inhaled deeply, taking in the smoke. "Yes, I know. She will, of course, have to be found." It was a shame, really. He had not been lying on that long ago day to Mulder. Now he would have to send out men to find her. And if that didn't kill her, she'd be institutionalized, and spend the rest of her life in a very small, very padded room. The other man spoke urgently. "Let me do it. I can find her and bring her safely back. Her and the vial." The man paused, cigarette dangling from his fingers. Even after three years of renewed loyalty to the cause and the Project, he distrusted this other man. The pain and shock of his betrayal could sometimes seem as fresh as if it had just happened yesterday. "Let me," the man insisted. "Mulder trusts me. I can do this far better than anyone else could." The man had a good point. "Yes, I believe you could. See what you can do." The man Mulder and Scully knew as Deep Throat let out his breath in relief. "It will be a few days--" he began. "We don't have a few days!" the smoker snapped. "I need that vial destroyed." "All right. But you have to give me time before you send in your men." "What makes you think I would do that?" The other man chuckled. "I know you too well, old friend. Just give me some time. You'll get both Agent Scully and your drug." "I'll be waiting." He hung up the phone and smiled. St. Elizabeth's Hospital 8:32 p.m. God, he hated hospitals. He hated the needles, catheters, IVs. He hated the bland food and fuzzy TV reception. But mostly, he decided he hated cheerful nurses who insisted on speaking to him like he was four years old. "You need to take these, Fox, so they can help you," the pretty young nurse was saying. White capsules clicked in her hand as she rolled them about. She had a pleading look on her face, but Mulder wasn't fooled. The nurses who pouted were the ones to look out for, he knew from past experience. "Look," he said, for what had to be the hundredth time. "I don't want to take any more drugs, okay?" "Fox, I know you're hurting, and these will help," the nurse said, holding them out like a sacrificial offering. "All right, fine." He held out his hand and was rewarded with a beaming smile from the nurse as she handed him the pills and a cup of water. He put the pills in his mouth, swallowed a bit of water, and gave her the cup back. "See, now that wasn't bad, was it?" the nurse said brightly. She ruffled his hair and left the room. As soon as he was sure she wasn't coming back Mulder spit the pills out into his hand. He grabbed a Kleenex from the table beside the bed and wrapped up the evidence of his defiance, then dropped the wadded tissue into the trashcan. The nurse was right, of course, Taking the medication would help ease the pain in his side, but it would also dull his mind, and right now he needed to be able to think clearly. Somewhere out there was his partner, Dana Scully, and she needed his help. But first he needed to find her. Mulder's memories of last night were hazy at best. He could remember staggering through the motel parking lot, going around to the back. Could remember Scully yelling something at him, then the hot pain in his side and he knew he was shot, and then, nothing. The EMT's had all reported the same thing: no signs of any woman in the parking lot. The rental car was gone, and none of Scully's belongings remained in the motel room. It was as if she had vanished--vanished without a trace. Except that was impossible. Scully was out there somewhere, and it was up to him to find her. Skinner had wasted no time in getting Scully's description out on the wire, and against Mulder's protests, had added that she was armed and dangerous. They had all been through this once before--the quietly desperate search for Scully. It had been hell the first time around, and Mulder had no doubt that this current search would be just as grueling and difficult. It made no difference that this time, as before, Scully was not responsible for her own actions. She was still considered dangerous, and therefore had to be found soon, at any cost. The question was: who else was looking for her? Mulder shifted in bed, trying to find a comfortable position to lay in. The pain in his side was a nagging constant, and he was beginning to think he should have taken his medication. For a moment he eyed the call button next to him wistfully, then looked determinedly away. No, not yet. First he had "find" Scully. A call from Skinner had established that her mother knew nothing. Margaret Scully had promised to let them know if she heard anything from Dana, and Mulder thought she was worried enough to keep that promise, even if it meant alienating her daughter. Surveillance teams were watching both her apartment and his, on the off chance that she would show up there. The hotel was also being watched, although no one believed she would return there. With all the obvious bases covered, it was time to consider some "extreme possibilities." He closed his eyes and called up the image in his mind. Scully stands horrified over his body, still holding the gun. The woman comes out of her motel room, and calls out. Scully runs. This much they knew. Now what? He just didn't know. Hartsfield Int'l Airport 11:21 p.m. Blue high heels clicked on the cold restroom tile as the woman crossed to the sink. She washed her hands and pulled a makeup bag out of her purse. With a practiced hand she touched up her cheeks and eyes, pursed her lips and reapplied color. She put away the makeup and glanced at her image in the mirror. Satisfied, she left. She never noticed the red-headed woman huddled in the corner stall. St. Elizabeth's Hospital Jan. 31, 1997 1:02 a.m. The click of the door closing woke Mulder and his eyes snapped open. His hand moved toward his hip automatically, reaching for a gun that wasn't there. A dark figure stood before the door, not quite blending into the shadows of the room. Too big to be a nurse. Mulder sat up, ignoring the ache in his side, and grabbed for the call button. Cautious but curious, he poised his thumb over the button but stopped short of pressing it. The man came forward slowly, quietly. When he reached the side of the bed, Mulder relaxed. He dropped the call button. "I thought visiting hours ended at eight," he quipped. His visitor shot a searching glance around the room, then looked at Mulder. "Get dressed," he said. Mulder gaped at the older man, sure he had heard wrong. "What's wrong with what I'm wearing?" Deep Throat did not look amused. "We haven't much time. Now get dressed and come with me." "Where?" "To find Scully, of course." He spoke as if Mulder had a hearing problem, enunciating each word carefully. "You know where she is?" "Yes," the man said impatiently. "But we have to move quickly." Mulder sat up, turning to swing his legs over the side of the bed. He gathered his strength, and stood up on shaky legs. "Where is she?" "We've traced her to Atlanta. Apparently she drove south to the Cincinnati airport, then took a plane to Atlanta. We think she's still at the airport there," Deep Throat replied. Atlanta. What was in that city to draw Scully? Why go there? Unless, in her haste to get as far from Dayton as possible, she had merely hopped aboard any flight that left soon after her arrival at the airport. Did it matter? Mulder shook himself angrily. They were wasting time while he stood around. Suddenly he realized that he was in no condition to go anywhere, dressed as he was. He grinned at Deep Throat. "I hope you brought me some clothes. Airports can be rather drafty places." He gestured at his flimsy hospital gown. The older man turned and walked over to the door to the room. He bent down and retrieved a knapsack and carried it over. "I got these from your motel room." Mulder pulled out a pair of jeans, a T-shirt and his dark blue V-neck sweater. A pair of boxers, socks and his sneakers. His cell phone. He looked up at Deep Throat. "I don't suppose you found my gun?" he asked hopefully. Deep Throat pulled back his suit jacket, exposing the Sig Sauer in the holster strapped around his waist. "I thought I could hide it better if I wore it." Mulder nodded, already occupied with how the hell he was going to get into his clothes. His side was letting him know in no uncertain terms that it didn't like this idea of standing up, and he doubted he could raise his left arm high enough to brush his hair, let alone pull on a shirt. Deep Throat noticed his dilemma. He glanced back at the door, then again at Mulder. "I'm going to check that no one knows we're leaving who shouldn't." When he was gone Mulder sank back onto the bed. Well, there was nothing for it. His clothes wouldn't do the work for him. For a second he grinned, thinking of the animated brooms in "Fantasia." If only he could enliven his clothes... He managed to dress the lower half of his body without incident, then sat for a moment collecting himself. He reached up behind him with his right hand and undid the knot that kept the hospital gown together. He leaned forward and let the thin material flutter to the floor. Then, curious, he looked down at his left side. White bandages stood out sharply against his skin, and did not quite hide the blue and purple bruising around the whole area. Looking at the injury seemed to intensify the pain, and he forced himself to look away. Gotta finish dressing.. He took a deep breath and painfully pulled on the shirt and sweater with only a minimum of moaning. He had been tempted to leave the sweater, but it was only February, he had to remember. Undoubtedly he would be grateful later for its extra warmth. After all, it had served him well enough in the Icy Cape, why not in Atlanta? By the time Deep Throat came back he was dressed and ready. The older man looked at him sharply, taking in his pale face, covered with a fine sheen of sweat, but said nothing. The urgency of their mission precluded wasting any more time. Deep Throat unstrapped the holster from around his hips and handed it out. Mulder pulled his gun out and jammed it into the waistband of his jeans. No way could he strap on that holster. He tossed it on the bed, where it would be quickly found. "Tell them you are checking yourself out," Deep Throat said as they left the room. Mulder walked unsteadily and only pride kept him from leaning on the other man for support. "They'll call Skinner," he said through clenched teeth. "Yes, but we'll be long gone by then," came the calm reply. The nurse on duty looked up in alarm as they came abreast of the nurses' station. "Sir, you shouldn't be--" "Sorry I couldn't stay," Mulder said. "But don't worry, I'll be sure to recommend you to all my friends," he offered over his shoulder as he and Deep Throat kept walking. "Sir! Wait! You need--" Mulder didn't glance back as he left the hospital. Hartsfield Int'l Airport Concourse D 1:49 a.m. She walked through the terminal, eying the people with envy mixed with suspicion. They waited for loved ones to arrive, for loved ones to depart, for someone to bring them news of loved ones. She thought bitterly that at least they all *had* someone they loved. Her? She had shot and probably killed the only man she loved. And wasn't that a happy thought? A sob escaped her lips but she didn't stop walking. If she stopped, they might catch up to her. She was so afraid, so alone. Hunger had forced her out of her hiding place, only for her to discover that she could not appease that need. She had no money for food, so she had resigned herself to walking endlessly up and down the terminal. Laughter to her right snapped her head around, and Scully felt tears sting her eyes as she watched a happy couple embrace. Had she ever been that happy? Had she ever felt the warmth of a lover's embrace? The answer, of course, was no. And she was not likely to feel either of those things ever again. The world had turned against her, and there would be no happiness for Dana Scully again. An empty gate loomed up on her left, and she wandered over to one of the black vinyl chairs. Her eyes scanned the gate area sharply, looking for shadowy figures that could be any of *them*, but found nothing. Wearily she sat down and forced herself to try and think of a way out. She had no money, nothing to buy a plane ticket with, rent a car with, pay a taxi fare with, or even buy food with. She could not use a credit card or ATM card without *them* being tipped off as to her location. A check was similarly traceable, and she shuddered slightly, remembering the Lone Gunmen demonstrating one day that paper money was traceable, too. Which left her two options. Stay here wandering in the Atlanta airport, or use her gun and rob somebody. Earlier in the day staying in the airport had seemed preferable, but she was so hungry now. Only the realization that robbing someone was a sure-fire way to get her picture in the paper was stopping her now. So, now what? Scully refused to give in. *They* would not get her, no sir. She had shot Mulder, and that was regrettable, but there was nothing she could do about it now. Her current situation was much more important. She needed money, and bad. Begging for it would not work, as she had watched how the Atlanta Police and Airport Security promptly dispatched anyone trying such a thing. Apparently the city was trying to upgrade its image, which was admirable, but it effectively put Scully in a bad spot. A security guard was heading her way, and Scully quickly drew her boarding pass out of her purse, pretending to study it. The guard would never be able to tell it was already used. He passed her by, and she let out her breath in a rush. Still, it was a reminder. If she stayed in one place they would find her. Scully stood up and headed down the terminal again. End Elixir III: Retrieval (1/2) From rrusnak@Lconn.com Fri Apr 11 19:16:22 1997 Subject: NEW Elixir III Retrieval (2/2) From: Rebecca Rusnak -------- Elixir III: Retrieval (2/2) by Rebecca Rusnak Disclaimer, summary in Part 1 St. Elizabeth's Hospital Dayton, Ohio 2:01 a.m. "What do you mean, he checked himself out? Less than twenty-four hours ago this man was in surgery for a gun shot, and you're telling me you just let him walk out?" Part of Walter Skinner was glad Mulder wasn't around right now, or he would probably have flayed the young agent alive. As it was, the young nurse before him was practically cowering beneath his anger. "Sir, I don't know what to tell you. Agent Mulder was capable of making his own decisions--" "And God forbid any of you interfere for fear of getting sued," Skinner snapped. The nurse reddened but said nothing in response. Skinner looked away in disgust and made a mental note to handcuff Mulder to the bed the next time he landed in the hospital. *If* there was a next time. Right now the AD was mad enough to fire his wayward agent, and to hell with the consequences. >From the corner of his eye he saw the nurse look up, and he sighed. Taking a different tack, he tried to sweet-talk the nurse. "Look, I know you must be busy, but did you happen to notice if Mulder was with anyone, or if he mentioned where he was going?" The nurse nodded, more confident now. "Yes, sir. He was with an older gentleman. But they didn't say where they were going." Skinner frowned with sudden suspicion. "What did this older gentleman' look like?" "He had dark hair, going gray," the nurse replied. "He seemed well dressed, too. I'd say he was in his sixties, but he seemed in good health." It was a vague description. Could be Cancerman, could be anyone. And dammit, they were still no closer to finding Scully. No rental car place, no airport within 100 miles reported seeing a young, red-haired woman. Margaret Scully, frantic with worry, had reluctantly been talked into staying at her house, on the off chance that Dana showed up there. The surveillance teams in DC reported nothing. And now the best chance they had of finding Dana Scully had just walked out of a hospital and vanished, too. Hartsfield Int'l Airport Concourse A 3:52 a.m. The dozen or so passengers straggled off the plane and into Gate 12, Mulder and Deep Throat bringing up the rear. Mulder watched them head off for various destinations, stifling a yawn. He had managed to get some fitful sleep on the flight to Atlanta, but the events of the past day were beginning to catch up to him with a vengeance, and he was exhausted. Deep Throat began walking down the terminal and Mulder hurried up to him, walking with his arm pressed tight against his side. "Where are we looking?" he asked. "How do we know she's still here?" "Because I would know it if she had left." "How?" The older man stopped walking and cocked his head in the fashion Mulder remembered from earlier days. "Does it matter how I know? What matters is that Scully is here and she needs our help." "How did you know she was here?" Mulder asked. "Do you remember me telling you about the man who shot his postman, Mr. Mulder? Do you know how they found this man?" Deep Throat paused for effect. "A young housewife found him hiding in her bushes, shaking with fear, forty minutes after neighbors saw him commit the murder. This woman lived five miles from the killer's house." "I don't understand," Mulder said. "What are you saying?" "Panic, Mr. Mulder. It's a very basic reaction in all of us, and even more so in psychotics. That man who killed his postman ran five miles on foot in just over half an hour." "But that's not possible. You'd have to be an Olympic athlete to do that." "Or suffering from drug-induced psychosis." Mulder stared at Deep Throat. "You're still not telling me anything here. What does this have to do with Scully?" Deep Throat gave him an exasperated look. "Don't you see? Scully is going through the same reactions this man did. When she shot you she panicked. She did the first thing she could think of; she went to the airport she could find and took a flight out of Ohio. Anything to get away. And in her panic to flee, she made a mistake." "She used her credit card." He saw it now. It seemed awfully easy. "So why doesn't the Bureau have men down here already?" Skinner would be doing everything in his power to get Scully back safely. Mulder found it hard to believe that the AD hadn't discovered this information. Deep Throat looked down, an uneasy look crossing his face. "You kept it from them, didn't you?" Mulder asked, disbelieving. His informant looked up again. "She has something we need, Mr. Mulder. It is vital that we obtain it first." "The vial." "Yes. As long as she has it, Scully will remain a target." "A target for who?" The words struck terror into his heart. Once before Scully had held a piece of something vital, something they didn't want her to have, and the price for holding that had been three months of her life. What would they ask for this time? "Target for who?" he repeated. "Who wants it?" A hint of dark amusement lit Deep Throat's eyes. "I believe you know him already." "Cancerman." "Yes. But he wants the drug destroyed, too. That's why he wants it. He won't hurt Scully unless he has to." "What do you mean, *he* won't? He sent you to get her, didn't he?" The fear within him was growing. Could it be his informant, the only man he had trusted besides Scully, had turned on him? Was Deep Throat really sent to kill Scully? Then why bother getting him out of the hospital? The other man wouldn't look at him, and Mulder knew he had hit on something. "You never told me how it was you kept them from killing you," he said, afraid of the answer. Afraid he was trusting the wrong person. Again. Deep Throat stared at a spot over Mulder's shoulder. "Killing me would have meant losing too much ground. I know things, I have seen things important enough to keep me alive. They knew it, and I knew it. Once I had been made to see the error of my ways,' renewed loyalty to the Project came easy." "You knew the other man who helped me. You let them kill him." Oh, God, the lies and half-truths. The way these people used others! He would never forget the pictures of Mr. X lying in his own blood. X, who had believed Deep Throat to be dead. The lies ran deep with this group. Too deep. "How do I know you're telling me the truth now?" Mulder asked. Deep Throat looked at him shrewdly. "You don't," he said softly. He walked forward a few paces, then stopped. He stared at Mulder. "But I'm the only one who can help you find Scully." Mulder watched him walk away. He felt nearly torn in two by his conflicting emotions. On one hand he wanted to turn his back on Deep Throat and his tangle of lies and truths. He was too tired to sort through them all and pick out which truths were real, and which ones were fabricated. Yet he doubted he could find Scully without Deep Throat. The man still had his uncanny knack for ferreting out information, and if Scully was still in the airport, Mulder knew the other man would find her. Deep Throat had stopped, and was watching him with dark eyes, waiting to see what he would do. Mulder continued to stand, indecisive, and then he heard Scully's voice. Could he do anything less than that for her? Hartsfield Int'l Airport Concourse D 5:01 a.m. Scully jerked in surprise as a recorded announcement let travelers know that the electric trams were now running between concourses. For hours she had been walking up and down the concourse, head down, eyes scanning the ground for loose change. She had managed to collect forty cents so far, which was still not enough to buy even a cup of coffee. There might be loose money on the floor of the tram,and even if there wasn't, she could take it to another concourse and start looking there. She left the gate she was in and began walking towards the tram entrances. A flashing sign told her there was a minute until the tram arrived, and Scully sighed, rocking back and forth on her heels impatiently. A few people walked by her, and she eyed them suspiciously. The longer she was here, the better the odds got that someone would find her, she knew. she urged the tram mentally. A crackle and hiss of a radio near her suddenly caught her attention. A member of airport security stood off to the left, near the escalators carrying travelers to the terminal, speaking into his radio. He was looking right at her. Terror overwhelmed her, and Scully closed her eyes and turned away, hoping the security guard hadn't seen her panicked reaction. She could hear the tram approaching now, and she clutched her purse tightly, sweaty fingers digging into the fabric. Behind her the security guard started moving forward. The tram arrived, and the pneumatic doors opened. Scully leaped forward, onto the car, moving to the back of the car, out of sight of the guard. She frantically unzipped her purse and put her hand inside, feeling the reassuring metal of her gun. If the guard tried to follow her... But nobody else got on the tram, and the doors closed. With a whoosh, the train began moving. Concourse A 5:05 a.m. "They've got her," Deep Throat said. "What?" Mulder shook his head to clear the cobwebs. For an hour he had been laying on the hard chairs of Gate 8, trying to sleep. Deep Throat had informed Airport Security of the target of their search, letting them do the dirty work. Which was just fine with Mulder. His side was hurting badly now, and he doubted he could have walked much, anyway. "A member of Airport Security saw Scully getting on a tram in Concourse D. She's heading in this direction." Mulder sat up painfully, wincing and pressing his hand to his side. "Did he try to approach her?" "No, but he says she saw him. He said she seemed nervous and jumpy." "All right. So what do we do now?" "We wait for her." Deep Throat began walking towards where the tram exited. He turned around and frowned when he saw that Mulder wasn't coming. "We have to hurry, Mr. Mulder. We need to get to her before anyone else does." He was right, of course. Still Mulder hesitated. Faintly he could hear the approaching tram. Deep Throat gave him a penetrating look, then turned his back and walked towards the tram entrances. Seeing his informant was about to go it on his own jolted Mulder out of his funk, and he quickly stood up. Instantly he bent over in pain, breathing shallowly. The noise of the tram was getting louder, and only the knowledge that Deep Throat would get on it and leave him alone got him moving. The tram arrived and the doors wheezed open. Deep Throat peered inside, then turned back to Mulder. "She's here," he whispered, urgency written on his face. Mulder forced himself to walk faster, his arm pressed against his side. He reached the tram just as the doors began to slide closed, and Deep Throat grabbed his elbow and yanked him into the tram with him. Not a moment too soon. The doors shut and the tram started moving. Startled by the abrupt forward motion Mulder was jolted off his feet. He fell hard to the floor, twisting desperately so as not to land on his injured side. He landed heavily on his back at the same time the scream sounded behind him. Terror gave him strength and Mulder got to his feet with a speed he wouldn't have believed possible five minutes earlier, oblivious to the pain that ripped through his side at the sudden movement. All his attention was focused on the back of the car. Scully was here, all right. At least in body, if not in spirit. She was curled up in the corner of the car, her face deathly white, her eyes wide with fright. Her purse and overnight bag were on the floor next to her. The purse was open, its contents spilled out all over. In shaking hands, Scully held her gun out. Her eyes gave no sign of recognizing him. "Scully, it's okay. Everything's okay now." He kept his voice soothing, trying to appeal to her. "Get away from me!" she screamed. "I'll shoot!" Deep Throat glanced at him. Mulder remembered what the older man had said about panic. There was no doubt it was the controlling force in Scully right now. "We want to help you, Scully. We're not here to hurt you." That was it, try to make her see they were on her side. Scully was not buying it. "Liar!" The gun wobbled in her hands, and she swallowed hard and brought her hands under control. The recorded announcement on the tram declared they were pulling into Terminal T, and the car began to slow. Mulder braced himself,and leaned forward slightly. "Scully, please trust me." Her eyes darkened, and an uncertain expression crossed her face. Encouraged, Mulder held out his hand. "Scully, it's me. Please trust me," he repeated. The tram came to an abrupt halt, and the doors opened. For a moment Scully's eyes left Mulder as she glanced at the doors. To Mulder's horror Deep Throat suddenly lunged forward, knocking Scully backwards. "No!" Mulder cried out as Scully fell to the floor under the older man's weight. She screamed, and Mulder cringed as her gun went off, the bullet plowing into the ceiling. Deep Throat grabbed Scully's wrists and held them over her head. She screamed again and struggled wildly beneath him, kicking and writhing. Mulder could only stare as Scully continued to struggle. Deep Throat kept one hand on her wrists, pulling them over head to prevent her from firing again. The effect was to pull Scully's blouse tightly against her body, and Mulder's eyes widened as he suddenly saw the outline of the vial under her breast. Deep Throat saw it, too. "Get the vial!" he ordered tensely,still holding Scully down. Mulder ran forward, dropping to his knees in front of Scully. There was no reasoning with her now, he could see. Taking a deep breath and hoping she would not remember this, he reached inside her blouse. His fingers found the vial, tucked inside her bra, and he hesitated only a second before reaching in for it. Scully screamed again, and tried to twist away from him. Quickly he grabbed the small vial and pocketed it. Scully kicked out at him, and her foot connected with his thigh, narrowly missing the vial. Mulder stood up hurriedly, trying to get out of range. He took a hasty step backward, and his head spun sickly, the tram car spinning around him. Pain ripped through his side, and he could feel the sticky wetness that told him the wound had re-opened. He tried to take another step back, and the world suddenly tilted, and he slid bonelessly to the floor. Dayton, Ohio 5:40 a.m. The chirp of his cell phone startled Walter Skinner. He had found himself unable to sleep, pacing back and forth with restless energy. His thoughts were continually racing, trying to discern the whereabouts of not one but two of his agents, and his frustration level was at its highest when the phone rang. "What?" he barked, praying it would be good news. "Care to buy a magazine subscription, sir? I can get you a good rate on _Discover_ if you'd like." Mulder. Being his usual smart-ass self. Then his words sank in. "What have you found, Agent Mulder?" "Agent Scully, sir. She's okay for now, sleeping. But I need your help." "Wait a minute. Where did you find her?" "In the Atlanta airport. We've got her sedated now, in the airport security office, but she needs help, sir. I need--" Skinner cut him off. "We? Who are you with, Agent Mulder?" He said a silent prayer it wasn't that smoking bastard. "Ah, I can't say that, sir. But he has helped me before. He's the one who knew where Scully was." Skinner sighed. Mulder had pulled this confidential source crap before, and the AD knew from experience that this was all he would get out of Mulder on the subject. "All right. What do you need?" "A safe house, in DC. Somewhere we can bring Scully to so she can recover from...all this. She's been through a lot." There was a slight catch to Mulder's voice, revealing just a little of the depth of his feelings over this incident. Skinner decided right then and there to change the subject, not wanting to go any further down that road. "I can arrange something for you. Call me back in an hour." "Thank you, sir." The connection was broken. Skinner turned his phone off and looked at it for a minute. He'd never felt like he understood those two, and he doubted this experience would help any. Safe House Washington, DC Jan. 31, 1997 2:43 p.m. "What do you mean, it's not enough?" Deep Throat sighed in exasperation. "I already told you, Mr. Mulder. The amount contained in that vial may not be enough to save Scully." He couldn't believe it. Not after all they had gone through, to be told there was a chance to save Scully, only to have that chance be a slim hope at best. It was just...well, it wasn't fair. Mulder looked at Scully, glad she couldn't hear what was being said about her. She lay in a wide bed, coppery hair spread out on the pillow. Dark circles underscored her closed eyes, and her face was paler than usual. The sight reminded him of the time she'd lain in a coma, after her disappearance. Only this time instead of sitting around helplessly, he could *do* something for her. "Tell me again how this works," he said sharply, looking up at Deep Throat. The older man stood by the window, watching the two of them. Mulder sat in a chair by Scully's side, unwilling to leave her for even a moment, and, he thought ruefully, he wasn't physically in any shape to be going anywhere anytime soon. So it looked like he was staying put. Deep Throat indicated the vial, lying on the nightstand next to Scully's bed. "What's in that vial is the only thing that can bring Scully back," he said. He'd heard it before, but Mulder still shook his head. "I don't understand how that's possible." "How good are you at math, Mr. Mulder?" It was a rhetorical question and Mulder didn't bother trying to answer. "Remember back to your high school algebra classes. What's the first step in solving an algebraic equation?" "Isolate the variable," Mulder replied. Deep Throat walked over to the bed and pointed to Scully. "Your variable." "Cut the crap and just tell me," Mulder said angrily. He was in no mood for mind games tonight. Tonight he just wanted answers. "Don't you see? *How* do you isolate the variable?" Deep Throat paused, then answered his own question. "By canceling out the other factors." He picked up the vial, the blue liquid sloshing around. "Your factor." Deep Throat's earlier explanation was beginning to make sense. "So you're saying we have to use the contents of that vial to "cancel out" the drug that's already in Scully." It was a terrifying prospect, and not one that Mulder wanted to consider. "Why do you think it was so important to get this?" Deep Throat asked, holding up the vial. "You knew," Mulder said dully. "You knew we'd need it." "I suspected as much, yes. Even if Scully hadn't shown any side effects we still would have needed it. To destroy it." Mulder looked down again at Scully, sleeping a dreamless, sedative-induced sleep. She was dependent on him to save her, and God help him, he didn't know if he could. "Will it work?" He couldn't look up as he said it. "Yes, it should, if it's enough. As I told you, I don't think this dosage will be enough. Scully is small enough that it may work, but the times I have seen it used successfully required a larger dosage than this." Mulder was silent for a long time, and when he finally spoke his voice was hoarse. "I need some time to think about this." Deep Throat nodded. "I'll be downstairs." He left, closing the door softly behind him. After he was gone Mulder sat still, watching Scully's even breathing. Eventually he raised his eyes and gazed at the vial lying on the nightstand. Did he dare do this to Scully? Did he have the courage *not* to? He obviously could not sit back and do nothing. Without intervention Scully's psychosis would only grow, until she was spending the rest of her days in a padded cell, in a drugged stupor. So something had to be done. The question was: what was the right thing to do? If the amount contained in the vial was not enough, he would single-handedly be responsible for sending Scully over the edge,into insanity. Thre was no way could he live with *that* on his conscience, no way he could even see living at all if that happened. If Scully woke up screaming, he would..he would...best to not think about that. Yet, if it worked...The nightmare would be over, and there would be no lasting side effects, except for whatever horrors would haunt their sleep at night. Mulder knew he would never forget the look of terror and confusion on Scully's face when she had realized she'd shot him, but he would gladly see that face over and over again in his nightmares if it meant having her back again. He closed his eyes in defeat. There really was no choice. He simply could not deny Scully the one chance she had. When Deep Throat came back some time later, Mulder only looked at him and nodded. Deep Throat did not look up at him as he injected Scully with the contents of the vial, but he said, "You made the right choice, Mr. Mulder." They talked quietly while they waited for her to wake up. Mulder had convinced Skinner to leave the safe house unguarded, so as not to attract any unwanted attention. Any visitors were forbidden, and communications were to be kept to a minimum. They had been guaranteed an unlimited time here, but if all worked out, Mulder thought by morning they would be gone. They talked of inconsequential things: the basketball season, the weather, the OJ Simpson trial. Nothing serious. Until Mulder finally pointed to the now-empty vial and asked, "What happens now?" Deep Throat did not pretend to misunderstand him. "I report that the drug has been destroyed. You and Scully go on being a thorn in our side. Life goes on." Mulder stared at him for a minute. "You don't really believe that, do you?" Deep Throat gave him a strange look, then he chuckled. "Contrary to your beliefs, Mr. Mulder, not everything revolves around you and the X-Files." Mulder sat up so sharply he gasped in pain and fell back against the chair. "Dammit!" he panted. "You know that's not what I meant." The older man stopped smiling. "Yes, I know. But what do you want me to say? I can't see the future, any more than you can. But yes, I do believe that is what will happen." "In other words, nothing." Deep Throat nodded. "Did you expect any different?" Mulder sighed. "Just once, to have some evidence..." He didn't bother finishing the sentence. "You might want to consider how well-off you are *not* having any evidence, Mr. Mulder," Deep Throat said, with a significant look. Mulder ignored that comment and looked at Scully. His heart leaped in his chest when he saw her eyelids moving. A veteran of many hospital stays, he knew that was a sign of returning consciousness. Deep Throat saw it, too, and he moved back, where Scully would not be able to see him. Mulder leaned forward with a wince, and took Scully's limp hand in his. He squeezed it softly and called her name. Blue eyes slowly fluttered open and stared blankly at the ceiling. "Scully? Can you hear me?" He pressed her hand again. Her hand moved in his, and her head slowly turned. She blinked rapidly, trying to focus her eyes. Mulder felt a cautious hope. If she had not tried to pull away yet, it could mean she was all right. Or it could simply mean she was still too out of it to do anything. "Mulder?" Her voice was a thin whisper, but there was no hiding the incredulous look in those blue eyes. "I thought--" He gave her a small smile. "Can't keep me down for long, Scully. You ought to know that by now." Instead of smiling back a stricken look crossed her face. "Oh, God. I hoped it was just a dream, or a..a..." "Hey, it's okay. You're okay now," he said gently. "Everything's all right now." Scully's head moved as she tried to see where she was. Tired out by just that simple action, her eyes slid closed again. "Get some sleep, Scully. We can talk later," he told her. She nodded, a barely perceptible movement, then was asleep. Mulder reached up and stroked her cheek, feeling bold enough to touch her now that she was asleep. The tears in his eyes belied the joyous smile on his face. J. Edgar Hoover Bldg. Feb. 7, 1997 7:45 a.m. Her heels clicked loudly as Dana Scully walked down the hall to her basement office. Skinner had told her to take as much time as she needed, but after a week of talk shows and soap operas, she had had enough. It was time to come back to work. Light showed under the crack at the bottom of the door and she shook her head. After taking her home from the safe house Mulder had reluctantly allowed himself to be re-admitted to the hospital. The wound in his side had been stitched up again and after two days of putting up with his complaining, they had released him on the fourth of February. He'd spent the weekend supposedly resting, as she had done. She wasn't surprised to find him here, but felt slightly disconcerted. She had not seen him since February first, the day she'd left the safe house. Time enough to formulate the necessary apologies, to erect the emotional barriers again, but she was still hesitant to enter the office. Her musings were interrupted as the door suddenly swung open, and Mulder strode out, coffee cup in hand. He stopped when he saw her, and for a moment they stared at each other. Then he smiled. "Welcome back, Annie Oakley." She frowned, but could not keep the stern expression, and burst into laughter. She went into the office and put down her briefcase at her desk, then took a long look around. During her week at home, she had thought long and hard about her life, about her job, about everything. She had almost lost it all due to this job, but perversely, it was the connections made because of the X-Files that had saved her. Without Deep Throat, and, to a lesser degree, Cancerman, she would surely be in a padded cell by now. If she had ever had thoughts of leaving the X-Files, they were gone now. How could she possibly leave this all behind and never learn the truth? More importantly, how could she ever leave Mulder? A noise behind her made her turn around. The object of her thoughts stood in the doorway, coffee cup in hand, a quizzical look on his face. She made an all-encompassing gesture. "It's just nice to be back." He smiled. "It's nice to have you back." He walked over to his desk and put the cup down, balancing it precariously on a stack of file folders. He grabbed one up from his desk and came over to her. "Now that I have you back, let's see if I can't interest you in *this*, Agent Scully." She took the file with a small smile. It was nice to know some things didn't change. W. 46th St. New York City Feb. 7, 1997 "Do you believe him?" "Of course I do," came the answer. Smoke wreathed the man's head, and he stubbed out his latest cigarette. "I would like to keep Agent Scully under surveillance to determine if she really is cured," rasped a bulky man. All eyes swung to him when he spoke. "If she is not, we may need to bring her in again." Heads nodded. Another man spoke, one with a clipped British accent. "Your man claims there is none of the original material left?" The smoking man nodded. "So he says. That will have to be determined, of course." The elegant gentleman nodded grimly. "Yes, just be sure to do it quietly." "Don't I always?" the smoker said, with a hint of humor. "This could have been very serious," said the man clearly in charge. His husky voice showed he was not amused. "We need to take precautions against this ever happening again." Heads nodded. "Well," said the smoking man, standing up. "I'll get right on it." He took his pack of cigarettes and lit one, then inhaled deeply. With a thin smile, he left the room. End of Elixir III: Retrieval Comments? Yes, please!!