Subject: EP> Smoky 1/1

 Thanks to Teagan Riley (read My Dana, it's SO good),and my dear Ian 
Stuart
 Disclaimer: Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, CSM, and all that jazz are not my 
creations. They are all brainchildren of Chris Carter, and are the sole 
property of Ten Thirteen Productions and Fox Network. Any resemblance to 
any fanfic, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This fanfic contains 
no artificial colors or flavors. This fanfic is not a sufficient source 
of fiber. Keep this and all fanfic out of reach of children.  Consult a 
physician before ingesting this fanfic if you are pregnant, nursing, or 
taking other fanfic.
  Rating: PG-13(violence/language)
  Summary: Angsty thriller(D.A.L. too).Scully is attacked and Mulder 
comes to her rescue. Significant badness ensues, and one or more 
characters may wind up dead.  
  Spoilers: Er-not sure?Fight the Future The End, and Talitha Cumi. 
Write me if you find something bizarre?
  Comments?: e-mail me at emmy_riley@hotmail.com   
*****************
 Smoky By Emmy Riley
*****************
PART ONE:
  "Mulder!" the shuddering cry reverberated off his walls again. 
  "Mulder, please, damnit - open the door!"
  He stumbled out of bed . /What the hell?  Damnit, this better be good. 
I was just getting to the best part of that dream!/ Stiffly, a new joint 
cracking with every movement, he walked to the door and undid six of the 
seven locks.  Before he touched the last, he breathed in, shook his head 
vigorously, and exhaled; still trying to compose himself after that 
dream.  He had taken so long already that, as he reached for the chain 
lock, the yelp that was his name came once again from behind the door. 
Mulder pushed open the door, and instantly his eyes were assaulted by 
the vicious, piercing hall lights.  He was so blinded that he didn't see 
the tiny redhead shivering in the hallway. Yet he knew she was there by 
the scent - /what is it damnit!?!/.    Every time he saw her; every day 
for six years; and every night when they strolled out, his hand on the 
small of her back, he asked that question. It could only be described as 
the unbelievable sweetness of Scully. That sweetness now lingered in his 
hallway as he blinked against the light, and just seconds later, as his 
eyes began to focus, she fell into his arms, trembling and out of 
breath. 
 Mechanically, his arms closed around her and pulled her into his 
apartment. He relaxed his grip as she sank onto the couch. Bloody - 
where he'd touched her, his arms were bloody! "Scully," it was the first 
word he'd said to her, "what? {clearing his fast-drying throat} What's 
wrong?" his voice trailed upward with anxiety. Those perfect eyes 
managed to rise upward from the carpet to Mulder's face. 
 Six years of being mesmerized by those eyes had trained Mulder, he knew 
every possible expression they held - and though he could never sound 
their depths and drop anchor on the bed of Scully's soul, he could 
always find whatever message she sent to him through those perfect, 
clear blue windows.
  Now was one of those rare instances where he wished they hadn't been 
so clear, that he couldn't read what horrors rushed through her brain as 
she sat, rocking back and forth - the pace of his heart quickening as 
she rocked faster.  
  He dropped to one knee, eye level with his partner.  "Talk to me,
Scully."
  Time number 589,533 that he'd said that.  He was counting.  He knew 
how many times he'd said her name, how many times he'd pressed her 
button on the speed dial, and how many times she'd smiled because of 
something he said.  
  He added another one to the last figure as she laughed her "he always 
says that" laugh, except without the sarcastic tenderness she usually 
infused it with;  he saw that she couldn't play any games with him 
tonight.    
  "Talk to me," he gave an anxious flick of his wrist to let her know 
just how urgent the sound of that confident, trusting, familiar voice 
was to him.  
  "Oh, Mulder?" that was not the voice he had wanted; that voice broke 
in pain and shock.  What had happened to bring this husk of his Scully, 
this pathetic torn fragment of a shaky little girl, to his door at three 
in the morning?  
  Then she did it - what he loathed more than anything, what made him 
forget everything from Samantha to the Consortium, what made him rage 
against a world in which she wasn't perpetually happy - she cried.  He 
saw the tear roll down her right cheek.  It dropped off the crest of her 
chin, seeping into the oversized gray trenchcoat she was wrapped in, 
leaving a small red circle.
  Red? Mulder traced it's path back up her cheek to where her hair 
covered her right eye.  Pushing back the strawberry locks with the back 
of his hand, he saw where the tear had gotten its dye.  From the 
beautiful red hair next to her ear almost to the corner of her eye was a 
hair-thin slit, and out of it Scully's blood was just beginning to drip.  
This wound was so recent Mulder could almost see it happening: whatever 
it was that had harmed her, it had taken a penknife, for the cut was too 
thin and jagged to have been from regular knife, and had held his Scully 
as near as Mulder himself  had dreamed of holding her,and had pressed it 
too her and slowly torn her precious face.  It had touched her 
eyelashes?his eyelashes?it had held her neck?his neck?it had drawn
 her 
blood?his blood.  Whatever it was, it was sacrilegious, for it had 
defamed the object of his worship?no sacrifice was too great to 
recompense that. Scully's eyes met his again as he touched her face.
  "I was in my apartment?and I was almost asleep?and the door?" her 
breathing accelerated, trying to get past the words which caught in her 
throat, "and he?I couldn't get to my gun?and I kicked and screamed but
 
I?but I couldn't get away?and I got cut?and I couldn't figure out
 where 
I was?and I?and then I got to your street?and?and I ran up here as
 fast 
as I could, and?" As panic began to seep into her recollections her 
speech became faster and more hysterical.  
  Mulder had gathered enough, and could hear her control slipping away 
with every "and". He couldn't bear to watch her crack, so he told her to 
just rest while he looked at her wounds.  
  First aid kit  in hand, Mulder began looking her over. He started with 
her hands - barring himself against all emotion, trying with all his 
conscious effort to be distant and only cursorily curious, he took stock 
of three broken fingers on the left hand and some damage to the right 
wrist.
  Forearms - a few bruises, nothing much; her feet and calves in the 
same condition.  He tended very gingerly to the cut on her face, 
scowling as his antiseptic stung her.  With a little embarrassment, 
Mulder ran his fingers through her hair checking for bumps and 
lacerations on her scalp. The dream she'd awakened him from had started 
like that, Mulder recalled, as the counted four - no -  five distinct 
lumps on her scull. This was no  dream.
  Mulder found himself at an impasse - he'd checked all of her that was 
visible.  But he was sure that she was injured beneath that coat. He 
glanced at her bare, smooth collar-bone and the bit of her thigh which 
the coat couldn't vale, and he instantly felt unspeakably predatory.  
She was naked, or far too near to it, under that coat, and he had to ask 
her to remove it!  "Scully, I'm, um, I'm gonna have to check the, um, 
rest of you," he mumbled, completely embarrassed and reduced to age 12.  
  Without a flicker of the shocked, frightened hesitation Mulder so 
dreaded, Scully rolled her shoulders, working the coat off of them with 
each slide of her skin beneath the fabric.  She winced with the pain of 
the motion and once again the bitterly ironic similarity, and the 
ever-present contrast, between this nightmare and his dream struck him.  
Scully in his apartment in the middle of the night in just a coat, 
stripping while he watched,him surveying her from top to bottom - it 
sounded like a sick contortion of that dream.  
  Despite his best efforts to control his imagination, he couldn't help 
but think about what was under that coat which was now slipping off a 
pair of iridescent shoulders.  Far from fantasizing, his mind's eye 
began to hypothesize on bullet holes, stab wounds,  exposed bone.
  What he saw as the coat hit the couch was worse than any of the 
injuries he had imagined.  He was paralyzed for a moment as he surveyed 
her back. They weren't stab wounds exactly?they were?flays: that was the
 
word he had been searching for, gruesome, deep, jagged slits. Two rows 
of horizontal cuts, about a hand length each,  marred the soft white 
skin with deep red. Those colors brought back still more of the dream: 
they were the colors of the roses he had brought her in it. It wasn't 
supposed to be like this, he raged, she wasn't supposed to be in pain, 
nothing was supposed to be allowed to hurt her!  
  Mulder was suddenly overcome by the desire to break something... 
preferably the head of whoever had hurt Scully.  He clenched his fists 
and gritted his teeth, his mind blazing with sulphurous curses and 
thoughts of the most slow and agonizing ways to kill someone.  
  Still, though, while rage rose hot within him, without he was even 
more tender to her.  He left her for just a moment and returned with one 
of his under-shirts, with which he began to clean the blood off her 
diced back. 
  Once he had cleaned and dressed the flays as best he could, Mulder 
went to get one of his New York Nicks shirts and came back.  He turned 
Scully back around facing front and slipped the shirt over her head as 
she drew her arms through the short sleeves.  Now again the dream, this 
time the end of it, came back to haunt him.  She looked as sexy as he'd 
imagined in his shirt, but the events which had led to her wearing it in 
his dream had been much more pleasant.  
  He had no idea what he was going to do, but he knew that he had to do 
something, anything - it was too much to sit there powerless.  Still 
staring at Scully, he stood and put on his shoes, then grabbed his gun. 
  "In case they come back?" he said, handing it to her, then he added 
"Lock the door behind me."
  "Where are you going?"  she whimpered, her voice shaking and wavering 
in time with the remnants of his sanity. 
  "To find them," his voice was resolute.
  She stood and took his hand rapidly, "Mulder, I need to know that 
you'll come back to me."
  "Don't worry, Scully - I promise I'll be back.  I just have to find 
them - I can't let them ruin everything I care about - my father, 
Sam?.you.  They're trying to destroy us so we won't find and expose the 
truth. Scully, we're the last hope for the truth: you and I?together." 
His hands has rested on her upper arms in his typical gesture of 
confidence and camaraderie, but now they entwined and pulled her to him.  
One hand stroked the satiny back of her head, the other wrapped around 
her lower back, barely touching it to avoid the lacerations.  With the 
air of a lost soul regarding its guardian angel, Scully gazed upward 
into Mulder's eyes - into Mulder's core.  As he looked at her, Mulder 
felt that sensation which he so longed
for and so seldom found: trust.  He could feel her feeding it to him
through her eyes, and for a rare moment the starved vacuum which made up 
so much of his existence was filled.  Her trust in him, flawed as he 
was, was implicit, and he wished to reciprocate.  He had to give her 
some answer to the faith with which she looked on him; he had to give 
himself to her as she gave herself to him.  He closed the distance 
between them and within them as his lips touched hers with a fleeting, 
but tender pressure.  
  Mulder held her close to him, even after the kiss had ended.  As her 
cheek rested gently against his chest, his arms formed a warm and tender 
fortress about her.  He moved his hand to touch her cheek gently, but as 
he did, his arm brushed the nape of her neck.  Her flinch and yelp made 
Mulder pause mid-motion and part the hair which covered her neck.  What 
he saw beneath that cover of red silk brought first shock, then dread, 
then fury mingled with pain.  In a barely audible voice, Mulder hoarsely 
whispered, "Oh God.":
  A cigarette burn. 
PART TWO:
  The taunt-pulled bow had snapped, and Mulder shot out of the apartment 
in a fury.  He stopped outside his door to listen as Scully clicked all 
seven locks into place. Then he dashed down the stairs, too impatient to 
wait for the elevator. "Fucking son of a bitch!  Cancer won't have a 
chance to kill him - I'll do it first.  That bastard - I'll break every 
one of his fingers that touched her.  He branded her like cattle!  He's 
a dead man," Mulder's thoughts boiled.   Still in just his green boxers 
and white undershirt,  Mulder raced through the parking garage to his 
blue Ford.  With no regard for traffic,  Mulder shot out of the garage 
like a bat out of hell onto Clarendon Avenue.  He had to remind himself 
not to take his rage out on the gas pedal as he sped toward Wilson 
Boulevard.  This asshole could be anywhere in the city, and the daunting 
task of finding this carcinogenic needle in the haystack suddenly struck 
Mulder.
  As he turned from Lynn Street onto the Francis Scott Key Bridge he saw 
the lights of Georgetown dim in the distance. What if he couldn't find 
him?  What if the scumbag got away with doing this?  How could Mulder 
live with himself knowing that not only had he not been able to protect 
her, but he could not avenge her either?  Tears of frustration at his 
own limitations darted into Mulder's eyes.  He was embarrassed by this 
betrayal of his cool exterior - even in private, he preferred not to 
acknowledge his emotions, even the most powerful ones. 
  But now he was overwhelmed by the events of the evening, and all his 
strength couldn't restrain his tears. They stung his eyes and raced hot 
down his face as he turned off of the bridge onto M Street and then onto 
Wisconsin Avenue. 
  He didn't go to Scully's apartment often, but he could drive the route 
in his sleep.  He looked around him: all the people of Georgetown were 
sleeping peacefully, unaware that the world was crumbling. 
  As he turned onto P St., he saw through his tear-blurred vision St. 
Katherine's, and the image of Scully sitting on his couch returned more 
vivid than before. "Wait," Mulder thought as he remembered every 
particular of Scully in his mind's eye, "Did she have it on?".  He 
thought harder - there wasn't a single strand of bright red hair on her 
head nor an expression of those startling blue eyes that he couldn't 
recall - yet why couldn't he remember her cross? Surely she was wearing 
it: she always wore it, didn't she?  
  These thoughts were abruptly snapped as he turned from 36th Street 
onto N street and pulled up near her apartment. Nothing - all around was 
silent and desolate to an untrained eye. But Mulder knew what he was 
looking for - and there on the doorstop of Scully's apartment door was 
the sign for which he searched.  The negligently cast aside cigarette 
butt was all too familiar- it was a Morley.  It was possibly even the 
one that had burned her, Mulder knew.  
  First a wish, then a resolve formed in his head now: Mulder wanted to 
see that chimney-like son of a bitch die slowly, painfully, after 
suffering the same indignities that Scully had been subjected to. 
  But first Mulder had to find him, and he decided to start in the city. 
Going back the way he came with a new sort of fiery dermination, like a 
lion protecting his pride, he traversed Prospect back to Wisconsin and 
picked up M Street.  The picture of his frightened partner before his 
longing and angry eyes propelled him ever further into the hazy 
Washington night.  "America the beautiful," Mulder sneered at the 
lustrous yet sordid White House as he passed. "It's you assholes who let 
people like him have power in this corrupt hellhole."   He cut a sharp 
right onto 15th Street and almost without thinking turned onto F Street.  
Following his daily route, he took F to 9th and then to E Street. There 
is was, exactly as it looked every day: the FBI building. Mulder slowed 
down as he passed by where everyday he and Scully worked in concert for 
the truth.  He took note of one of the only cars on the near-empty 
street: a gray sedan.  
  A mechanical squeak of brakes shattered the quiet night as Mulder saw 
the man who was walking away from that sedan reach into his jacket 
pocket and pull out a cigarette.
PART THREE: 
  With a few deft movements Mulder curbed the car, turned it off, and 
leapt out like an animal on the kill.  With eyes centered on his desired 
prey, Mulder followed the cigarette smoking man inside the door.  
Somehow this bastard knew the key-code.  Down the stairs, further and 
further, Mulder followed the illusive and treacherous man.     He was 
being led to what remained of  his own office, he knew, and yet he 
followed still. They were there in a moment: Mulder was standing face to 
face with the man who he wanted to kill more than anything in the world.  
He lunged toward the evil, dark man, but was stopped short by the gun 
that was pulled on him.  
  "I wouldn't do that if I were you, Mr. Mulder," the haggard old man 
hissed.
  He pulled out another cigarette and lit it with his free hand.  "You 
know, Agent," he said as he motioned to the charred remnants of the 
office, "careless cigarettes are a leading cause of fire.  Too bad they 
don't just burn offices?a pity to scorch such lovely skin isn't it, 
Agent Mulder?" 
  Ire nearly overcame Mulder.  "I'm gonna kill you, you son-of-a-bitch!"
  "I don't think you're in any position to do that, Mulder.  Actually, 
it's quite the contrary: I'm here to kill you.  Looks like you're going 
to have to disappoint Dana again?"
  Mulder shuddered at that sacred name coming out of those demonic lips. 
It was the ultimate blasphemy.
  The Cancer Man noted this.  "Yes, I call her Dana, Mulder.  I think 
we're on a first name basis, after all we've been through,"  he said 
with a suggestive leer.  "Not that you would understand that: you're 
relationship with her is, of course, purely professional."  He laughed a 
hollow, mocking laugh, devoid of mirth, as Mulder bored down on him. The 
black lunged son of a bitch nonchalantly took a drag off his Morley and 
said "Mulder, You amaze me,"  looking far from amazed. "You spend every 
day with a beautiful, intelligent, sexy woman who you love and who loves 
you, and yet you've never even made a pass at her?well, except for that 
little incident in your hallway a few weeks ago.  I was terribly sorry 
to have been the cause of the interruption, but business must be 
conducted regardless of who's tongue is in who's mouth."
  "Whose business?" Mulder asked, ignoring the last jab.
  "You know: the Consortium, the evil force, 'them'," he said making
mocking air-quotes with his hands.
  "Who are they??? Why do you perpetuate their lies???!!!  Why do you do 
this to us?to her!!!???
  "Why not?" The bastard said smugly.  "Mulder, my work is just that: 
work. It's not for pleasure or thrill anymore.  This used to be a 
passion for me - like your work is for you - but you must remember, 
Agent Mulder, I don't have a partner to cling to?"
  "Is that why you're doing this?  Are you jealous of us?"
  "Yes, I am jealous of what you have with Scully - I used to have that 
kind of trust?and love," he said with a twinge of sorrow.  Then he 
rapidly jerked his mind out of it's faded memories and said harshly, 
"But, Mulder, that has nothing to do with why I'm doing this: I'm just 
following orders."
  "Orders to do what exactly?"
  "To kill you? and Agent Scully if necessary.  I thought hurting her 
would be the best way to drive you into a rage?and make you reckless. 
Obviously, I was right.  How do you think she got all the way to your 
apartment?  I was the one who dropped her off on your block.  I had 
planned to follow her to your apartment and kill you, because I thought 
you would be off your guard with her there. Things didn't go exactly as 
I planned: Scully kicks harder than I had expected, and by the time I 
recovered from one of her blows to the head, she was already inside your 
apartment.  She wasn't supposed to get away, but that little mistake 
will soon be rectified. Now, Mulder, would you like to go see your 
partner one last time?"
  Mulder's breath stopped. "One last time?" he murmured. 
  "Call her - go ahead."  The Cancer Man pulled out both a cell phone 
and a cigarette with his left hand and lit up.  He extended the cell 
phone to Mulder.
  Mulder's anxiety, his terror for Scully, almost locked his arm at his 
side - but his heart, which was beating like a soldier's drum in the 
base of his throat, seemed to reach for the phone of it's own free will. 
That heart knew that the phone was its lifeline to Scully; it's only 
contact with its true home.
  555-0199, his own number, he dialed.   It rang three times, each ring 
a blow of the battering ram against the wall of hope Mulder had 
constructed around himself.
  Then a blessed click!  "Scully?" he asked frantically.
"Mulder?smoke? locks stuck? can't get out!  Help!" her voice broke in
 a 
violent cough.
  "Scully, I'm coming.  I'll get you out.  Just hold on," he called to 
her.
  No response.
  Frustrated, Mulder slammed the phone closed.
  "Let's go, Mulder."  He put out one Morley and lit another.
  "Why are you taking me to her if you're supposed to kill her?"
  "I'll give you a chance to get her out? if you can.  You are the one 
I'm really after - and, despite my orders, we go back a long way, Fox, 
and I'm willing to grant you this one favor."
  "Why?" Mulder grated. 
  "Let's just say I've never been able to forgive myself for Ruth's 
stroke. I wanted to thank you for saving her.  I feel responsible for 
hurting one of the few women you, or for that matter, I, care about, so 
now I'm giving you the opportunity to save the other one.  Before I 
carry out orders, I need to even out our score." 
  "Then you'll kill me?"
  "Yes.  And possibly Scully as well, if she causes too much trouble, 
but wouldn't you rather give her at least a chance of survival?and an 
opportunity to say goodbye?"  he said with a smile of diffuse evil.
  Mulder's own life seemed, to him, a trivial concept.  The alpha and 
omega of existence centered around a frightened, injured woman in his 
apartment, who was close to death.  If he couldn't save her, he didn't 
want to live - and if he could, his life had been worthwhile.  
    "Let's go," Mulder concluded.  Cancerman led Mulder to up the stairs 
and out of the building, gun at Mulder's back, onto E street.  The gray 
sedan was parked there, and the old man pointed Mulder to it and said, 
"Get in the driver's seat."
   Mulder dove into the car, heedless of the mortal danger he was 
incurring in doing so.  His captor slowly entered by the passenger side, 
taking care to keep the gun pointed at Mulder all the while.  As soon as 
Mulder started to drive, a thought occurred to him, "What's your name?" 
he asked.
   "I can't tell you," the man replied quietly.
   "You're going to kill me anyway?" Mulder coaxed.  
   "Just drive, Agent," the Cancerman said.  Mulder noticed the hardness 
in his voice, and knew that he was withdrawing into a shell of seeming 
disinterest and evil.  
  "Why do you care if I know?  In an hour I'll be dead."
  "Alright," he said, annoyed.  "My name is Stewart ."
  Somehow that seemed disconcerting.  Mulder couldn't figure out what 
he'd expected, but "Stewart" seemed far to innocuous to be the name of 
such a monster.  Still, he pressed on toward the truth,  "Stewart what?" 
  "None of your fucking business, Mulder.  Shut up and drive before your 
partner becomes fuel," he hissed, withdrawing ever further.
   As the car sped down the dark streets, a light went on in Mulder's 
head.  "Stewart Mulder, isn't it?"
  Astonished, Mr. Stewart Fox Mulder stared wide-eyed at Mr. Fox William 
Mulder, "Yes - how did you know?"
  Mulder couldn't respond, he barely managed a mere shrugged.  Wave 
after wave of recollection crashed over him - recollections of 
Thanksgivings with his crazy great aunt Lorraine and her stories of 
infamous Mulder-family Scandals, recollections of her ramblings about 
"Stewart, the black sheep", recollections of the intricately constructed 
hell that was his family. 
   "Well, Fox," he said with icy harness, "I'm sorry to have to shatter 
another aspect of your narrowly informed world, but now you know.  I'm 
your half-uncle.  Your grandfather Jim was my father.  My mother was a 
woman he met right after the war."
   Mulder's head was reeling, and he was barely still able to control 
the confusion which, monster-like, was seeping in from all directions.  
He shook his head against the memories, and the car swerved far too near 
an oncoming vehicle.
   Stewart Mulder grabbed the wheel, and set it aright.  The old man 
seemed little concerned with their narrow brush with a head on 
collision, but the younger Mulder could help but breathe rapidly and 
make an effort to recompose himself.
   But there was still too much to process - Scully, the new Mr. Mulder, 
his own impending death?it was all a vice pressing at Mulder's head from
 
the left and the right.  There was one more question he had to ask, 
though, before he could die.  "What happened to Sam?"  
  "I'm getting quite tired of answering your questions, Fox," he 
growled.  "And we're almost there."
   They were.  Mulder had just turned off of Nash Street onto Clarendon 
Avenue.  His apartment was two blocks away.  Those two blocks stretched 
endlessly before him, an ocean of asphalt separating him from Scully. 
   Finally, he pulled up at the curb of his apartment building, sending 
the front left wheel up onto it.  The two Mr. Mulder's jumped out of the 
sedan, the elder still carrying his gun.  The building, Mulder noted, 
looked much as it always had.  
   "Where's the fire?"  the younger Mulder said.
   "It hasn't spread yet.  It's under control, but your floor, I assure 
you, is filled with smoke.  The whole building will go up in about 5 
minutes. You know, Mulder, you made this all so easy," he hissed, his 
malice rising as he removed himself still further from emotional contact 
with Mulder. "Your paranoia, all those locks of yours: when I went up 
right after you left to melt the locks in place, I hadn't expected it to 
be that easy. You turned what could have been a little weak rivet of one 
lock into an unbreakable seal of seven.  I greatly appreciate your help 
in sealing her tomb.  Now, go on, Agent Mulder.  Save her, if you can - 
or at least get her body out," an evil, daring flicker crossing his eyes 
as he spoke.
   Mulder looked at him, trying to rationally assess what this bastard's 
real motives were  for allowing him this opportunity.  Rationality 
floundered as the smell of smoke increased, sending Mulder's thoughts 
spiraling  around images of Scully making a coffin of his apartment. 
   Hoping to derail that train of though, Mulder turned on his heels 
and, sucking in a lung-expanding gasp of clean air, rushed into his 
building in search of hope.  
  He was expecting to be berated by smoke and heat as soon as he opened 
the door, but everything about the first floor was just as it ever was.  
As he climbed the stairs three at a time, the air began to prick his 
eyes and dry his lips.  Breathing was getting harder, but the words 
"Mulder?smoke?can't get out," made oxygen seem superfluous. 
    Mulder never prayed.  Everything he was had always revolted against 
it, but now he knew that, if there was a God, he needed Him now.  Almost 
without being aware of himself, he found himself saying, "Oh, God?please
 
let her be alright?please, God?don't take away the only good thing in 
this world just because I'm not good enough to stop this.  Please take 
me, not her? she can't die?she just can't?what's the point of the
 world 
if she's not in it?"  
   Six: his floor.  Flames lashed out from the end of the hall; smoke 
obscured Mulder's senses.  He made his way through the thick, stinging 
air to his door.  Half of him was too terrified to kick open his 
blowtorch-scorched door, half of him was too terrified not too.  The 
latter half won, and the door gave way beneath his foot.  
  Smoke billowed out, revealing a small, red-headed heap beside the 
couch.  Still praying, he ran to her and gathered her up in his arms.    
He took from her frail fingers his gun which he had left with her.  His 
frantic pleas to her God reminded him of the cross which he hadn't been 
able to remember seeing.  As he picked her up and carried her out of the 
apartment, he looked at her neck, but saw no glint of gold.  He also saw 
no sign of breath moving through that soft, slender trachea or of any 
pulse stirring that ivory skin.  
  Just then he thought he saw her eye move slightly, and hope revived 
within him.  "Oh God, let her live - please let her live?" he repeated 
over and over as he carried her down four, five, six flights of stairs.  
  Then he was out the door and the air was clearer and cooler.  He laid 
her down gently and searched her neck frantically for the necklace as he 
found her low-throbbing pulse .  
  "Looking for this, Fox?" Stewart Mulder hissed.  Mulder looked up from 
his unconscious partner and saw before him a blackened, gnarled hand 
extended toward him holding a tiny golden cross.  Mulder snatched the 
cross from the malevolent bastards grasp  and tenderly placed it on 
Scully's collarbone, lightly caressing her alabaster neck as he did so.  
   Mulder's eyes blazed and more than ever he wanted to kill this man.  
He leapt up, gun in hand, and aimed it straight at his captor.
 "So this is the end, Agent Mulder," he said, with a hint of regret,
cocking his gun.
 "Yes, the end," Mulder replied, repeating the action with his own gun.  
The sound of the shot was masked by the approaching sirens.  A tall dark 
man fell in a crumpled heap as a gray sedan sped away into the smoky 
dawn.