Blessings Along the Way
By Vickie Moseley

I had vowed not to do another story with the cancer line in it, it's just too
painful to me, but here I am, going along with the challenge. It was the
operative word in the challenge that enticed me: *Cure* Scully's cancer.

Summary: Mulder determines how to cure Scully's cancer in a way the
brings them both some new realizations.

Disclaimer: Yeah, right, I don't own any of this. I couldn't afford the
paper to respond to a copyright challenge, so you win by default. I'm not
infringing. Play nice.

XSR (if that means X-file, story, romance) MSR (yep, run for the hills, all
you non-shippers). Calling any and all archivists--just keep my name
attached, please.

This is a stand alone--not connected to any of my others series. It is
meant to counter every one of the depressing 'let them have a little
happiness before she fades away and dies' stories that I've read the
first three lines of lately.
Comments, flames, general entreaties to never do this again can be
addressed to me: vmoseley@fgi.net vmoseley@fgi.net.

Blessings Along the Way
By Vickie Moseley

"Scully. Stop." He was breathing heavy and it was the most he could
get out of his mouth. Fox Mulder had been chasing his partner all the
way back to the rental car.

She stopped but didn't turn around. "Did you get the pictures?" she
asked, knowing that the only way to stop him from his intended course
of inquiry was to get him to talk about the case.

"Yeah, tons. Enough to fill a FotoMat. Here," he said, reaching over her
shoulder and handing her his handkerchief.

She took it without turning, without looking at his face. She started to
bring it up to her face when she noticed the fabric. "Mulder--this is real
linen. You aren't supposed to use this, it's for decoration."

"It's my goddamned snot rag, Scully, USE IT!" he stormed and brushed
past her to unlock the car door. After a second he regretted his anger.
It wasn't her that he was angry at. It was the damned disease. "Scully .
.. . I'm sorry." The words were just barely a whisper.

"Mulder, if you fucking use that fucking word again in my presence, I am
going to fucking blow you fucking head off," she seethed and pushed
him against the car as she moved around to the passenger side.

Even as she said the words, she was wiping the trail of blood from her
lip and holding the linen up to her nose. He was fast running out of
handkerchiefs, she'd been keeping count. She knew she'd been
responsible for at least ten good cotton hankies ending up in the garbage
of various gas stations around St. Joseph's, Missouri. That was
probably all he had brought with him this trip. Now he was reduced to
pulling them out of his suit pocket. She wondered how long it would be
before he'd start offering her his ties.

They drove in silence, Scully lost in thought, until she looked up and
realized they were at the door to her motel room. "What are you doing?"
she demanded.

"I'm dropping you off," he replied, trying very hard to keep his voice
neutral. He knew a storm was brewing by the look in her eyes and he
didn't have the strength to keep calm through another one. It seemed that
storms were the only weather they'd had of late.

"Mulder, we have witnesses we have to interview," she growled. "I'm
fine," she added, through clenched teeth.

"Well, it's 3 o'clock and you seem to get tired around then. Go in and rest
a bit and I'll talk to the first witness at the nursing home. I'll come back
and pick you up and you can go with me to interview the other two
later," he said, hoping he sounded as reasonable as he was attempting
to sound.

"Fuck you!" she said, not moving.

"You know, Scully, those chemo treatments are affecting your speech.
You're talking like one of your father's old Navy buddies," he growled
back.

"Fuck you, SIR!" she said, still not moving. The look in her eyes was
starting to make him nervous. It was way beyond the usual
'back off, Mulder--I'm fine' look. It was bordering on 'I hate your guts and
you are not going to stop me' looks that she reserved for the likes of
Smoking Man, as he now thought of the bastard.

It was time to try another tack. "Look, Scully. I was there when
Dr. Lowry told you that you need to rest more during the day. Now, if
you can't follow doctors orders--"

"Oh, please! Tell me about 'following doctors orders'!" she howled, her
face a mask of sarcasm. "You went back to work two weeks before
you were supposed to when you got back from your gunshot wound in
North Carolina. And I won't even mention how
Skinner and I both had to take your gun and badge to keep you from
coming back too soon from Alaska. So just shove that up your ass
sideways, Mulder, because it's not going to cut it! Fuck. Off. Now."

"Scully, those times . . . I was getting better," he said, and hated himself
for bringing the subject up in the first place.

"It's MY life, Mulder. Get out of it. Now." She opened the rental car door
and got out. "I'll get my own fucking rental. And don't worry, I'll put it on
my VISA so you don't have to account for it," she added, slamming the
door before he could say another word.

He was still sitting there when the local rental car agency dropped off
her car. She made a point not to look at him as she accepted the keys.
She didn't want to see the tear tracks she knew would be on his face.

She had gone out and interviewed all three witnesses, he knew that
because one of the last one's called him to tell him that she had forgotten
her handkerchief. Mulder had thanked the woman and went to the
house to pick it up.

"There's some blood on it, your partner must have had a nose bleed," the
woman apologized. "She's such a gentle woman. So easy to talk to. So
open with her feelings. It must be wonderful working with her. All my
business associates are cold fish," the woman confided when he
arrived to retrieve the hankie.

"Yeah, it's great working with Agent Scully," he assured her, and
hurriedly made his departure. All the way back to the motel, he couldn't
get those words out of his head. At he moment he said them, they'd
been a lie. It was torture working with Scully lately. He was always
saying the wrong thing, always making her angry. And she was always
slamming the door in his face. It was so much easier for her to talk to
complete strangers than it was to talk to him. 'Open with her feelings'--it
sounded like the woman had been describing someone he'd never met.

He knew from his reading that cancer patients responded better when
their lives were kept as normal as possible, and he was trying so hard to
do that, but his nature kept getting in the way. He wanted to lock her in a
satin-padded room, let her sleep on silk sheets and fill the room with
fresh cut flowers. He didn't want her to tromp through muddy woods for
signs of supernatural predators. He didn't want her to spend her days
listening to tales of alien abductions. That was his life, and it just wasn't
good enough for her anymore.

But it was her life, too. That's what she kept screaming at him. And she
was making it painfully clear that if he couldn't accept that and move on,
he could jolly well get the hell out of her way.

He'd gone with her to the cancer specialist at Northeast
Georgetown. She'd never asked him to go, but when he offered to
drive, she hadn't refused. He knew she was frightened. But he was
the only one who could have seen that. She was very professional,
taking the information Dr. Lowry gave her without comment, submitting
herself to more blood tests. She agreed to try some of the newer
treatments, advising the doctor only that she didn't want to be
incapacitated in any way. She had to work, she had to make a living, as
she put it. The good doctor had simply nodded. He probably heard that a
lot, Mulder figured.

So she went in for treatments every other week. And during those
weeks, they stayed in DC. She would go in on Tuesday morning, he'd
drive and take her home. And then he was supposed to go back to the
office and not call her. She made all the contact. She'd call him, after the
retching stopped, after she had fallen asleep on the cold tile of the
bathroom floor, after she'd managed to keep a cup of tea down her
stomach. It was usually late in the evening when she'd call to tell him
that she'd be in on time in the morning.

He was hating every second of his life these days. When he wasn't
worried sick about her, he let himself get worried about himself. What
was he going to do? What could he do? All he knew was that neither of
them were very happy at the moment, even more unhappy then before.
And she wasn't getting any better.

When he arrived at the motel, he saw that her light was out. He almost
took the extra key she'd given him and opened the door to make certain
every thing was all right. Instead, he went into his room and closed the
door, not even bothering to turn on the lights.

Hours later, his stomach protesting loudly because he hadn't eaten much
at lunch and had skipped dinner completely, he lay on the bed and
mindlessly flipped channels on the motel television. He'd turned off the
sound, just in case Scully was having a restless night. He didn't want to
be the cause of anymore stress for her.

His stomach growled again, this time accompanied by a sharp, stabbing
pain. He rubbed it absently, and snorted. It would serve him right to get
an ulcer over all this. He'd never had an ulcer in his life, with all he'd
been through, but now, it almost seemed appropriate. Maybe it would
perforate and he'd bleed to death in his sleep, he pondered. Yeah, that
would work. Not really even a suicide. Just an escape. No guilt. No
note. Just dumb Mulder luck.

He thought back to the last time he thought he'd been dying. Correction,
he mind scolded, _had_ been dying. He was certain of it, while he was
crawling through the rock crevice after escaping the searing heat of the
boxcar set ablaze. He'd pushed his way past mounds and mounds of
bones and decayed flesh, skulls that weren't human, nor like any animal
he'd ever seen. His lungs were full of smoke and he couldn't get a deep
breath to save his soul. It hadn't even been his soul that he was worried
about. He just knew he was going to die. But he didn't want to burn.
When his hand brushed against the uppermost rock, and a faint breeze
tickled his outstretched fingers, he'd willingly given up the struggle. At
least his body would be safe from the fire. He'd be dead, that much was
decided, but he wouldn't be lost to fire. He allowed his eyes to close and
listened for his heart to stop beating.

He remembered nothing until four days later. He awoke, his throat
parched, his eyes taking in the surreal images around him. Several
faces illuminated by firelight, he didn't know any of them, until one, an old
grizzled face with long gray hair, leaned over him and spoke.

At first, Mulder expected some kind of question. Something on the order
of 'What good have you done in your life?' or maybe 'How do you
account for your time spent on earth?' He didn't expect to hear 'You are
safe, FBI man.' He didn't expect his first experience in heaven, or hell for
that matter, to be a hollowed out gourd touching his lips and bringing
water to his desert dried body. He accepted it gratefully and then
submitted to the darkness again.

Each time he woke, he remembered more of his dreams. Dreams of his
father, of his old mentor, both now dead. Talk of his sister, and how she
wasn't there. Talk of how he was the memory, and if he were to die, the
memories would die as well. Being told that it wasn't his time.

Mulder was convinced that the Blessing Way Ritual had cured him. No,
had brought him back to life. Albert had told him that they couldn't find a
pulse when they dragged him out of the cavern in the rock. His flesh
was still hot from the fever, but as far as anyone could tell, he'd gone on.
He was dead. Still, Albert had been convinced that the decision was
not permanent--there was still a chance. The Blessing Way was a
journey, and the journey was the miracle. The miracle was life.

It hit him just as his stomach growled again. The journey, the miracle.
They were trying it Scully's way. It wasn't working. They needed to try
it _his_ way. It was their only hope.

But how to convince his partner?

She hadn't really slept, only dozed. She'd been so exhausted when she
got back to the room but her argument with Mulder was keeping her from
really falling asleep. It had been grueling, keeping awake while talking to
the witnesses. But she couldn't admit to him that he was right. She had
to prove to him that she could still do this. The thought that he expected
her to calmly go back to the room and _take a nap_ only set her mind on
fire again. He was so infuriating these days.

Now she was laying there, trying to decide what to do. This was having
too great an impact on him. It was funny in a way. She was laying
there, slowly losing the battle to cancer, and here she was, thinking
about how it affected her partner. How she couldn't stand to watch him
suffer through this horror anymore. It was laughable, in a car wreak
kind of way.

She knew he was trying. He always tried. He very seldom succeeded,
that was the problem. He was being so gentle with her. Even when she
pushed him away as hard as she could, he would still stand there, still
take it. As if this was just punishment for all his sins and transgressions.
As if her hating him was all right with him as long as he could be there to
protect her, help her in any way imaginable. He was getting nothing out
of this partnership but pain and grief and she was bold enough to agree
to that. She was using him. And she hated herself for it.

He was her punching bag. She couldn't rail against the cancer, so she
railed against him. He'd been right, earlier, when he pointed out that her
language was more gutterlike than usual. She wanted to wound, she
wanted to hurt someone, and he was the most likely target. He was
there, with a big red bullseye painted on his forehead and a sign that
said 'go ahead, take your best shot'.

She knew just how to hurt him. His greatest fear was that she wasn't a
part of his life, that she was separate, alone from him. That he, himself
was alone, without her. She'd seen that so many times. And now, she
used it. She almost enjoyed the look of pure sadness when she'd tell him
to get out of her life. She almost enjoyed the tears that she knew fell
when she wasn't supposed to be looking. She was turning bitter and
hateful and evil right before her own eyes. And it wasn't the cancer
doing it. It was her. Her own doubts, her own fears, her own stubborn
reservations. Her own refusal to let anyone else in her life take a share
of her burden. She was becoming 'Cancer Woman' in her own mind.

She had to do something before she destroyed them both.

The knock at the door startled her.

Sometime in the night, it had started to rain. By the time she pulled on her
robe and got to the door, Mulder was soaking wet, water dripping from
his hair. He had on his jeans and a tee shirt and was shivering in the
February air.

"Good God, Mulder, get in the room before you catch--

"Pneumonia, yeah, so I've been told. Next time answer the damned door
quicker," he scolded and headed for her bathroom to steal a towel. Not
even bothering to close the door, he started gathering up her toiletries
and throwing them in her travel bag.

"Mulder, what the hell do you think you're doing?" she asked, annoyed,
as he forgot to put her toothbrush in it's case and threw it in on top of
her exposed bar of soap.

"Packing. You're too slow, Scully. Get with the program," he announced
and zipped up the bag, tossing it at her. "Where's your suit bag--never
mind, I see it," he added over his shoulder as he rushed over and started
shoving her hanging clothes into the bag.

"Are we going somewhere, Mulder?" she asked, trying to keep a patient
tone to her voice. It wasn't working.

"Somewhere," he answered cryptically.

"Is it a case?" she asked, finally taking her other bag away from him
before he ruined every pair of panty hose she owned. She couldn't
figure out why, but started packing quickly. Maybe four years had
taught her not to delay when he was like this.

"Something like a case, yeah," he replied. "You gonna wear your robe
on the plane?" he asked pointedly. "Not that the male crew members
would mind, but it might make the stewardesses jealous," he added with
a defiant gleam to his eyes.

She gapped at him a moment. He hadn't joked like that for weeks. He
been so solicitous, or so snappish, but not a joke, not a cavalier
comment. She couldn't help herself, she smiled at him. "They'll be too
busy checking out your wet tee shirt entry, Mulder," she shot back and
grabbed one of the bags out of his hands, retreating into the bathroom to
get dressed.

She just missed hearing him sigh in relief.

She looked up at the gate as the began to enter the plane. "We're going
to Albuquerque? What's up? Did Skinner call?" He hadn't said anything
in the car, he'd been too busy wolfing down an assortment of snack
foods that he'd bought at the convenience store when they stopped for
gas.

"I talked to Skinner, yes," he said, not looking in her eyes. He had talked
to Skinner--when he'd called to tell him that they were going to be out of
pocket for a week. The Assistant Director had demanded details, but
after being stonewalled for several minutes, had granted the leave for
both of them. Mulder could almost see the acceptance on Skinner's face,
the realization that Mulder was a desperate man, set on doing anything to
save his partner.

"So what's in Albuquerque?" she asked, not really noticing that he
wasn't looking at her. It sounded like standard Mulder operating
procedure, as far as she was concerned.

"It's the nearest airport to Farmington." He wasn't going to lie to her.
Besides, the plane was taxiing already, she was captive.

"Is Albert in trouble?" she asked, immediately worried about the old man.

"No, Albert's fine. He just has something we need to take a look at."

"Not another boxcar," she sighed. She really didn't feel up to dealing
with another abandoned boxcar buried in the desert. She didn't like to
think about how close she had been to losing her partner the last time
they'd gone to check one of those out.

"No, no boxcars," he smiled as he assured her. "Settle in, get some
sleep. Oh, mind, if I eat your peanuts? I know you're going low fat these
days," he added.

"Mulder, you are a bottomless pit all of a sudden," she scolded. "Sure,
take the peanuts. Geez, you act like you haven't eaten in days." And
with that, she curled up in the seat and fell asleep.

He watched her sleep for a while and then allowed himself to join in the
luxury of it. He doubted he'd be getting very much sleep in the days
ahead.

*******

Young Eric Hosteen was at the gate waiting for them. "Eric, ah, I don't
think we'll fit on your scooter," Mulder said hesitantly. "I was figuring on
getting a rental."

"Nah, no need. I brought dad's truck. Grandpa wanted me to pick you
up. He says you tend to get 'stopped' along the way by yourselves," the
youth added, giving Scully a brief smile.

Once their baggage had been collected and they found there way to the
well worn 89 Dodge Ram, Scully's curiosity started getting the better of
her. The sun was just peeking out over the mountains and it gave the
landscape and unearthly appearance.

"OK, Mulder, what is it this time? Lights in the sky? Ghostly
Indian braves attacking by night? Another werewolf?" she asked. The
teasing tone that had come back during the last few hours had put her in
a much better frame of mind. For a brief moment, she could almost
pretend that she didn't have cancer, that it was all just a nightmare that
faded with the dawn.

Mulder bit his lip. He could tell she was enjoying the chase here. He
was just concerned that once she found out the objective, she would
get angry at him and possibly even refuse to go ahead with his plans.
But he had to try, too much was riding on it.

"Indian rituals, Scully. Mystic rituals." That was all he'd offer.

"What, are there some crimes being committed? Ritual sacrifice?" She
looked over at Eric, in the seat next to her, driving and then back to
Mulder. It would be just like Mulder to run out in the middle of the night like
this if he thought his friends were in danger.

"No, no killings, no crimes that I can tell. Well, maybe one, but I don't think
it's a criminal act, per se. More a civil thing," he mused, more to himself
that to her.

"What?" she demanded.

He drew in a long breath. "Oh, maybe, practicing medicine without a
license," he said with a wince and a shrug. She opened her mouth to
ask for a full explanation when Eric pulled up at the little bungalow that
he shared with his father and grandfather. Albert was on the porch,
waiting for them.

"FBI, it's good to see you again," Albert said with a pleasant smile as he
opened the door and helped Scully down from the pickup. "You have
been in my dreams, lately."

Scully blushed. Mulder looked over at the old man and grinned. "If I'd
said that Albert, I'd be hitting a high C right about now," he teased. Scully
gave him a quick shot to the shin with her high heel.

Albert appeared oblivious to the double entendre. "You have not been
well, isn't that so?" he asked with great concern in his voice.

Scully bit her lip and sighed. "I've been diagnosed with cancer,
Albert. It's a tumor and it's not operable." The last word was said so
low as to be a whisper.

"This is not right. It is not the way it is meant to be. I've seen visions.
You are not supposed to die this way." The old man was ushering the
two agents up the steps and into the house. Eric's father smiled at them
and handed each agent a cup of coffee.

"I'm glad you feel that way, Albert, but that's the way it is," Scully said
slowly, as if taking to a child who didn't understand why his pet had
died.

"No, Agent Scully, I mean that it is not to be. You will not die from this
cancer. You will live. You have much yet to do. Both of you," he said,
looking now at Mulder.

"Thank you, Albert, for your faith," Scully said, not really believing what
the old man said, but not wanting to offend him in any way. "Now, what
is it that you wanted to show us?"

Albert gave Mulder a curious look. Mulder shrugged. "We didn't get
much chance to talk on the plane," he explained. Then he rose and took
her hand to pull her up. "Take a walk with me, Scully."

When they got out of the house and out of earshot, she let him have it.
"What is going on, Mulder? There isn't a case here. There isn't a crime
to investigate. If this is one of your hare brained schemes to find out
more of the conspiracy--"

"I want you to undergo the Blessing Way ritual," he blurted out.

"What?" she asked, not daring to understand what he had just said.

"The Blessing Way ritual. I underwent it when they found me in the
desert. Scully, it's a healing ritual. I know that it works--I'm living,
breathing proof that it works--"

She cut him off with a wave of her hand. "Mulder you had some smoke
inhalation and exhaustion. You rested, they gave you water for the
dehydration and you got better. There was no ritual involved--any first
year med student would have prescribed the same treatment," she
huffed as she walked back toward the house.

He reached out and grabbed her sleeve. "Oh, yeah? Well, I didn't have a
pulse, Scully. They checked. And my skin was still burning with a fever.
I wasn't breathing, Scully. I was _dead_, goddamnit! Dead! Hell, when
they found me, I was even buried!"

"They aren't doctors Mulder. You have a faint pulse when you're
injured," she shot back.

"You're right, Scully, they aren't doctors. But you know what? Most
buzzards know when something's dead and they had to fight off a flock
of them that were trying to pick the meat off my fingers. But then, the
buzzards didn't have medical degrees, either," he fumed. Finally, he let
go of her sleeve and used the hand to wipe over his face. "Fine, I
should have known better than to think you'd believe me. But Scully, the
simple fact is, I did survive. And by all rights, I shouldn't have."

"Mulder, even if that was so, you were injured. I have cancer. It's totally
different." She had tears in her eyes by this point, but there was no
way she'd let them fall.

"How is it different, Scully? Isn't cancer just another injury? Aren't your
cells being injured?" he pleaded. His throat was getting so tight and
dry--it was a croaked whisper. "Do you think I'm doing this lightly? I
know what I'm asking. I'm asking you to trust me, Scully, but in an area
that you don't trust easily. I've been really good, I think. I've stood by and
let them pump poison into you and I've smiled the whole time. But I don't
think it's working. And I can't let you go. I can't. So I called Albert. And I
asked him what he thought. He agrees with me, it's not your time, Scully.
You have too much to do."

"Oh, Mulder," she moaned, her face threatening to dissolve into anguish,
but she bit her lip furiously and fought down the urge.

"Scully, do this for me. If it doesn't work, fine. We're still doing it your
way. I won't make another comment. But if there's a chance, my God,
Scully. Don't we owe to ourselves to take that chance?" He stopped for
a second and then looked away. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to presume--"

She could now see what he was saying. 'Ourselves'--that was what
this was about. To him, this cancer, her illness, he considered it a
partnership, too. What was affecting her was ultimately affecting him.
And by shutting him out, she was rejecting not just his interference, but
their partnership, their whole relationship, as well. Even though she
hadn't wanted to admit it, this was his illness, too. She couldn't reject
him, along with his theories. She couldn't do that to him. Not any longer.

"Yes," she said softly, taking his hand. "Yes, we owe it to ourselves to
take that chance."

Shyly he looked into her eyes and saw the smile waiting there. "You
sure about this?" he had to ask.

"Mulder, don't press it or I might change my mind," she warned. "What do
we do now?"

"Albert has it all arranged. We start today, this morning. It's a beautiful
ritual, Scully. I'm sorry I missed out on the first three days of it," he
smiled lopsided at her.

"I'm suppose so," she said with a disdaining shake of her head.

The ritual was different in many ways than how it had been performed
for Mulder. For one thing, the women of the village prepared Scully for
the hogan. And since she wasn't suffering from the fevers that had held
Mulder in their grip for three days, it didn't take as long. Scully slept,
lulled to sleep by the chanting of the men in the hogan.

She dreamed. A field, filled with sunlight and tall grasses. A meadow. It
was warm and she was laying on the pallet from the hogan, but none of
men nor Mulder were near her. There were people in the distance,
figures that she couldn't see clearly because the sun filled her eyes.

Her first visitor was Melissa. "Dana, when I wanted you to find out
about your missing time, this wasn't how I envisioned it," her sister
scolded her lightly. "It's not your time, Dana. You know that, Fox knows
that. You have a full life ahead of you. You are meant to journey further
down the path you're on. And you aren't meant to do that alone. It is
your decision whether to allow this cancer to grow or to die. Not
medical science, Dana, you hold the answer. You said it yourself, the
key to the secret is in you."

"Don't get me wrong, I long to be with you. But I'm patient,
Dana. I can wait until you're ready, until it's your time. I love you enough
to do that for you."

Scully watched as Melissa faded from view and then realized that in her
place was the man she called Deep Throat. "Scully, I know you probably
didn't expect to see me here. That's all right, I really didn't expect to see
you, either." She smiled briefly at that. "You are more than just a
helpmate to him, you know. You are his reason for continuing the
search. Without you, he will cease to go any further. And that would be
a grave injustice."

"But this is not just about Mulder, you were right. You have your own
destiny to fulfill, my dear. Your own achievements, your own secrets to
uncover. Some of them, many of them will be with your partner, your
mate on this journey. Some of them will come to you alone. Go back,
Scully. Go back and be whole. Don't let this weigh you down. You
vowed to fight, but it can't be done placing your faith on your holy altar of
science. If that were the case,
Mulder would have died a long time ago. Continue the journey,
Scully. In so many things, only you hold the key."

At last, she dreamed of the person she'd longed to talk to the most.
"Daddy," she said, the tears staining her cheeks. "Oh, Daddy, I'm so
scared."

"I know Starbuck, I know. But it's all right. You are going to be fine.
You've come this far, Dana. You are not a quitter, you never were. If
anything, your mother and I used to worry that your were a little too
stubborn for your own good," Bill Scully said with an indulgent smile. "I
would have never chosen this path for you, sweetheart. I know that last
time we talked that you were making a choice. You made that choice.
Don't betray it now. You will be whole. You only have to believe it."

"But Daddy, I can't. I can't believe. I'm too afraid. It's not what
I am, it's not what I've come to rely on," she sobbed.

"Ah, Starbuck, you know better than that. You know what you've come
to rely on and it's not your all important science. It's a person, Dana. The
one you trust more than anyone else in the world. That is who you rely
on, sweetheart--not a heartless field of study. You can gain all the
strength you need from him. You know that as well as I do. Now, go
back. You're fine. I won't be seeing you for a long time, sweetheart.
Know that I love you, as I always have."

Mulder wasn't allowed in the ritual bath, and knew that he probably
should be scarce for the four days following it. He waited with Eric and
his father at the house in the village. He read, mostly, old books that
Albert had from the war. He helped Eric with his school work and
generally tried not to get in the way too much. All the time, he kept
hoping . . .

She was smiling when she got out of the pickup. He was so excited to
see her, he ran down the steps and swept her into a hug. It surprised
him a little when she hugged him back.

"How are you feeling?" he asked immediately.

"Good," she answered. "Rested. You're right, Mulder, it's a beautiful
ritual. It's like a balm. It was something I needed."

He smiled. "I told you." He turned to go back into the house, put she put
a hand on her arm.

"But Mulder. I want you to understand something. This helped, don't get
me wrong. But I still have cancer. I'm not well. I'm not cured. It just
helped me gain some strength, you know." She pleaded with him to not
question her, not argue about this. She didn't want him to go back to
Washington thinking everything was now back to normal. It wasn't.
She'd still be tired, she'd still have the nose bleeds. She didn't want to
have a nose bleed and have him fall to pieces on her. She wanted him to
be clear that this was just a prayer, not a miracle.

"Sure, Scully," he said cryptically. "Whatever you say."

They got back in DC in time for the weekend. Mulder didn't mention the
fact that in the 24 hours that it took to get their bags packed, spend a little
time with Albert and his family and fly back that Scully didn't have a
single nose bleed. If he had mentioned it, she would have put it down to
being better rested.

But it was more that . She had a spring to her step. She seemed
happier than she had in weeks, ever since she'd been told the diagnosis.
If nothing else, he took pleasure in that.

On Tuesday, Mulder drove her to the hospital once again for her
treatment. On the way in the doors to the outpatient cancer treatment
ward, he couldn't keep his peace any longer. "So, when do you get your
next X ray?"

She gave him a disgusted look. "Mulder, I thought we agreed on this."

"Agree on what? I'm just asking. Is it suddenly a crime to ask?" he
whined. She gave him her best 'evil eye' and he quieted down.

As luck would have it, Dr. Lowry did want another X ray. He was
keeping track of the size and progression of the tumor and it was time
for another measurement. She sighed when he told her, she didn't want
the good mood she was experiencing to be dashed to pieces by the
reality that the disease was gaining the upper hand. Wordlessly, she
donned the hospital gown and walked down the corridor to the X ray
department.

When the X ray was over and she was dressed, she was surprised to
see a nurse waiting for her in the hallway.

"Shouldn't you be setting up the IV for me now?" Scully asked,
concerned.

"Dr. Lowry said he wants to talk to you first. He's in his office, third door
on the right," the nurse directed.

Scully's stomach lurched into her throat. The only possible explanation
was that the tumor was growing more rapidly than expected. Dr. Lowry
probably wanted to try a different treatment. He might even require in
hospital stay for her. She didn't want to hear any of it, not after she'd
been given so much hope just a short while before. Tiredly, she trudged
down the hall.

When she opened the door, Dr. Lowry wasn't in the room. She took a
seat and tried to keep her stomach from betraying her nerves. There
was a soft knock on the door and her partner entered.

He looked a little embarrassed. "Hi. The nurse told me that Dr.
Lowry wanted to speak to me. Has he talked to you, yet?"

She shook her head, not daring to speak. Tears were welling in her
eyes and he could tell by the way she was holding herself she didn't
think it would be good news.

He reached over and took her hand. "Maybe I should wait in the lobby,"
he said, and immediately regretted making the offer.

"Stay." It was one word, but it was all she could muster. He obliged
silently.

It was several minutes of unbearable tension before Brian Lowry,
MD entered the room. "Sorry for the delay. I made them double check
the film," he said with a smile. He looked over at his patient. "Well, Dana,
you're looking better than the last time I saw you. I guess that little
vacation helped, huh?"

Scully nodded, and then shrugged. She wanted him to get on with it,
what ever the news. In the back of her mind, she was more than a little
peeved that he seemed so jovial when he was about to confer a death
sentence on her head. So much for bed side manner, she groused
internally.

"Well, I must admit, this was a big surprise to me. I mean, I've heard of
some incredible results with this particular protocol, but in most cases, it
took months. This was just too much to believe, quite frankly." Dr.
Lowry stood up and put the film on the viewer. He flipped on the light
and then turned so the other two people could see what he already had
seen.

"Mulder . . ." she said, her eyes wide with disbelief. She stood slowly,
moved around Lowry's desk and stood just inches away from the
viewer. Slowly, she reached out a hand and put it to the film, touching it,
making sure it was real. "This is impossible . . ."

Mulder got up and stood behind her, looking over her head as he so often
did. There on the screen, where her tumor should have been a white
spot on her skull, there was a much tinier white speck. "It's gone?" he
asked of the doctor.

"Well, not 'gone' exactly. But it's almost dissolved. I have to tell you, I
was hopeful for such a recovery. But to tell the truth, with the stressors
from your job, and the fact that, well, let's be honest. Most single,
unattached cancer victims have a much harder time recovering than
those with personal commitments. I mean, I'm not being judgmental here,
those are just the facts. I didn't really see where we would get this kind
of result." He let his voice trail off for a moment, allowing himself to
notice for the first time the patient's partner, who had his hand
protectively on her shoulder, and the patient, who was covering her
partner's hand with her own. "Of course, my wife had often told me I'm
blind as a bat about those things," he muttered to himself.

"What about the chemo?" Mulder couldn't help but ask.

"Well, I say let's give it another week. Let's kick this thing in the ass
while we have it down," Lowry decided. "I have a feeling it won't be
much of a problem much longer."

This time, Scully let Mulder stay with her during her treatment. And even
allowed him to stay with her when she got home. She still felt ill, but she
took a nap and recovered rather quickly. He treated them both to take
out Chinese for dinner.

Two weeks went by. They went out of town on another case, and then
came back and cleaned up paperwork for a couple of days. Neither one
of them spoke of the appointment with Dr. Lowry that was coming on
Tuesday. Neither one wanted to give voice to their fear that it was all a
horrible mistake, a set of mixed X rays.

But in his heart, Mulder wasn't worried anymore. Scully just plain looked
better. Her hair shone like it had before, her eyes held that sparkle that
had been missing. All in all, she looked more radiant that he had ever
seen her. Each and every day, he silently gave his thanks to whomever
had given her back to him, once again.

Mulder held her hand all the way in the door of the hospital. This time
they went straight to X ray. She took a deep breath and headed in the
exam room to change, but before he walked away, she grabbed
Mulder's sleeve and pulled him back. Quickly, shyly, she gave him a peck
on the cheek. "A kiss for luck," she winked at him. He couldn't stop
smiling all the way down the hall to the family lounge.

They waited in the office together. This time, the tension was just as
unbearable, but not as oppressive as last time. This time there was hope
in the tension. When Dr. Lowry opened the door, he was smiling.

"Well, Dana, I hope you don't mind that the pharmaceutical company
wants your release so they can use you in their advertisements in
medical journals," he grinned. "For some bizarre reason, they think you'd
make a knock out 'poster girl'," he added.

"I always told you it's not implausible that other people think you're 'hot',
Scully," Mulder whispered in her ear.

Laughing, Scully pinned her doctor with a commanding glare. "OK, time
for show and tell."

"Well, that's the best part," Lowry replied. "There isn't anything to
show." He put up the X ray and stepped aside, allowing the partners to
come closer for their inspection.

There was no sign of the tumor. It was gone.

"I don't--"

Mulder quickly covered her mouth with his hand. "Don't you
_dare_ say you don't believe it, Scully. This time, _I'll_ be the one to
_shoot_ you!" he warned.

He could feel her giggle into his hand. Then he looked over at
Lowry. "Chemo?"

"No point," the doctor smiled brightly. "It would only make her sick to her
stomach for no reason. Go on, get out of here. I have real patients to
take care of," he teased.

"Follow up appointment?" Dana asked, as Mulder started shoving her out
the door.

"Next month. And if we have the same results on the film, I really don't
want to see you for six months." He reached out briefly and shook her
hand. "It's been a pleasure, Dr. Scully."

She took his hand and gave it a firm shake. "_Agent_ Scully, Dr.
Lowry. That's Agent Scully. And thank you, for everything."

She headed Mulder off, holding the door open for him in a sign of
superiority. She shot her partner a wicked grin. "Let's grab a quick
lunch, my treat. Then I want to run over to Mom's for a bit, we can tell
her the good news. And then we better figure on working late tonight, to
make up for all the time off I've taken--"

He stopped her with a hand on her arm. "Scully, slow down, you're
making me tired just looking at you," he grinned.

"Well then you better rest up, partner. We have a lot work to do and I'm
not doing it all alone."

"We aren't going to agree on which 'cure' worked, are we?"
Mulder asked as he held open her car door.

"I really don't think there's much point in it, do you? I mean, whatever
works, right?" She gave him a brilliant smile.

"I love it when you win the argument, Agent Scully," he laughed, and got
into the car to take his partner out to lunch. Just like old times.

The end.>
Vickie