The Damascus Files File 2

by Katvictory

Recovery, Discovery and the beginning of the end

TITLE: The Damascus Files - File 2 Resurrection

AUTHOR: Katvictory

DISCLAIMERS: They all belong to Chris Carter and Fox, I want nothing. Don't sue.

RATING: R for the series

SUMMARY: After fighting his way back from near death, Mulder still must learn to deal with lingering disabilities and discover how to control his mysterious and often frightening psychic powers. Along the way old secrets are revealed and hidden truths uncovered that affect not only Mulder's and Scully's relationship but the future of the entire planet.

CATEGORIES: Angst, Partly post -colonization,

SPOILERS: We leave CC's universe completely toward the end of the 6th season.

FEEDBACK: dev1025@uswest.net

Note from the author: Eventually this story will be composed of three separate files, each one detailing a different period in this long story. This is File 2.

THE DAMASCUS FILES FILE TWO by Katvictory

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In Damascus there was a disciple named Ananias. The Lord called to him in a vision, "Ananias!" "Yes, Lord," he answered. The Lord told him, "Go to the house of Judas on Straight Street and ask for a man from Tarsus named Saul, for he is praying." The Lord said to Ananias, "Go! This man is my chosen instrument to carry my name before the Gentiles and their kings and before the people of Israel. I will show him how much he must suffer for my name."

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<><><><><><><><><> CHAPTER ONE <><><><><><><><><>

FWM Tapes October 16, 2002 (Exact date unknown)

The snow started three days ago and it hasn't let up since. It's constantly drifting in front of the door, and it takes both of us, using all our strength, to open the damn thing when Skinner goes out to gather firewood. He won't let me make the trek out to the woodbox. He tells me my health is too fragile. Asshole. I'm not an invalid, for God's sake. Well, I've told him there's no way he's going out in this weather to replenish my medication, so I guess we're even.

I can't believe it, I think the two of us are turning into old maids in britches. If he reminds me to take off my wet socks one more time, I'm going to have to kill him. I guess he has just gotten into the habit of taking care of me. I'm not fooling myself anymore, I know my survival depends on him. That last bug almost took me out. I know the self-healing kicked in and finally saved me, but we never did find out what the limits are. Between recovering from the alien's attack and now getting over pneumonia or whatever it was I came down with, I doubt I have the strength to heal a hang nail. Plus, (pause) I don't think I could make it without his company (long pause).

Well, we do have enough food to last us 'til spring. Between what Wagner had stored in the basement root bin for just this occasion and what Skinner's picked up, we definitely have enough to eat. So, that's one thing we don't have to worry about. We won't starve to death (laughs). Good thing. I don't think I could find an Alfred Packer cookbook on audio tape.

I can't believe this storm. I wonder if THEY're fucking with our weather now. It would be a good way to get rid of a lot of us, this first winter. Could be I'm being paranoid, though.

Scully's fine. I know she's hunkering down somewhere east of here. It's snowing there, too. That is what makes me wonder what's making this winter so harsh. I mean, it's a little too soon for this much snow all over the country, isn't it?

Shit, I only have two day's medication left. Maybe the storm will stop. Still, I don't think the road crews will be out to clear the highways. They're all on permanent vacation. Only places that will be cleared to travel will be where THEY want to go. Maybe that's a good thing, at least we'll know where THEY are.

God, that does sound so paranoid. I skipped my meds this morning, trying to make them last; but there still has to be some in my system. I can't already be showing the effects. It's probably cabin fever. I haven't been out of this place for...shit, I don't really even know how long.

(Pause, loud sounds of stamping feet. He speaks to Skinner). Still coming down? Does it look like it's letting up at all?

(Reply is inaudible).

Well, get those wet clothes off and come over here by the fire. You're going to make yourself sick.

Shit, what did just I say? I can't believe I said that. I do sound like an old maid! No. Oh, my God! It's even worse than I thought, I'm turning into Skinner's mother.

End Tape -WSS-

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FWM Tapes Late October 2002 (Exact Date Unknown)

Though he tried to be inconspicuous, Skinner watched me very closely the last couple of days of the blizzard. I could feel those two beady black eyes studying my every move. I was under surveillance. The man didn't make it to Assistant Director because he was good at sucking up, and knew whose ass to kiss. No, he is an expert at deductive reasoning. I believe that's why he always seemed so uncomfortable behind the desk. The interagency political maneuvering that came with the office never came easy for him. He rose to the position he held because he was a damn fine agent for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The emphasis, of course, should be on the I.

The day the snow finally stopped, he confronted me about not taking my meds. I'd made three days dosage last for over a week, but I was completely out. The light in our little ex-tinker shop home was never very good. The two windows on each side of the front door were ignored when Skinner made the place ready for us to move in. The Coleman lanterns he'd acquired on one of his night raids just didn't produce enough illumination for me to even come close to making out a person's features. All I saw was a pale blur. But I didn't have to see his face to know he had discovered that I had not been taking my meds. The tone of his voice was clear enough.

"I know you haven't taken any of your pills since night before last. I have just two questions. One, with us stuck here like we are, how long did you think you could go on covering this up? And two, why are you pulling this stunt again?" Skinner angry at me is something I do remember clearly. There are certain things that have imprinted themselves in my brain and no bullet or stroke could erase them. This, however, was not just his usual rage. This was me, ruining his chance to assuage his guilt and grief. His sins wouldn't be absolved if I died now, if I killed myself with this act of stupidity. How dare I do this, after all his hard work of keeping me alive 'til Scully could come and take over the task of caring for me?

"What is it this time? Visions of Druids chanting that you need to check out Stonehenge? A trip to Peru to find your ancient astronaut's landing sites? Agent Mulder, I don't know what to think about what's in these files, the story they tell. I just know your health is shot and without that medication you WILL die."

I jumped when he called me by my old title. It was like a ghost returned. His voice had grown more controlled. The ire was less evident. He'd fallen, without realizing it, back into the stern tones of a supervisor upbraiding an underling. He didn't even realize he was doing it. "I read some on how dangerous the seizures really are for you. Hell, I watched you go through four of them before we got the Tegretol and each time I thought you were dying, right there in front of me. Why are you doing this to yourself?"

Skinner finally paused in his lecture and after taking a deep sighing breath, he finished. I already knew what he was going to say. His last few words were testimony to the crown of thorns he'd worn for almost four years.

"Why are you doing this to me?"

The question slipped out in an uncharacteristically plaintive cry of betrayal. Once uttered, I think he wished he could take back his last heartfelt query. The words hung there; the sudden quiet added an unwanted exclamation point. Emotionally spent, Skinner sank down in the beat up, overstuffed, easy chair he'd claimed as his when we moved in.

My throat was dry. I had grown used to the kid gloves he'd handled me with since his return. So much of what Skinner had said hurt, deeply and to the quick, but his outburst did help. It allowed some of the pain that accompanied his guilt to be shucked away. His load would be lighter now. I carefully chose how I replied, knowing after all he'd done for me, I owed him this chance to walk tall again, his burden lifted somewhat. The truth that I'd only been trying to make the medication last, would make his outburst seem simply an overreaction on his part and not a much needed catharsis.

"I'm sorry, I should have talked with you about it. Since you know my history, I don't blame you for being upset. This time, it wasn't so much me having delusions, it was more me making a stupid move. I decided to cut down on my dosage because I didn't want the pills to run out before the storm was over. I know how dangerous it is to do that. I just wasn't thinking straight." My apology made him slump a bit, but I breathed a sigh of relief, thinking I had allowed both of us to save a little face.

"Don't worry, Mulder, I got used to your tendency to foolishly rush into things a long time ago," Skinner murmured softly, finally looking up at me. There was a long pause before he spoke again. "And I wouldn't worry too much anymore about how straight your thinking is. The way you just covered both of our asses at the same time proves you've more than recovered."

I couldn't really see it, but I think he was flashing me one of his 'anymore than this will crack my face,' sly grins.

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FWM Tapes Late October, 2002 (Exact Date Unknown)

This was exactly what I'd feared since Skinner started to make these night raids, that one time he might come back hurt or, worse yet, not even make it back at all.

He left the night after he discovered I was out of meds. I tried to talk him out of it, telling him there were enough of the drugs still left in my system. I made sure he realized he didn't have to risk this kind of trek in the waist deep snow. I told him I could miss a few days of my seizure medicine without having a grand mal. I promised that I'd take it easy. Skinner knows stress has usually been what triggers my seizures. That's why the Risperdal/Xanax combination. They are what control the psychosis that the first brain injury caused and also keep the bi-polar disorder that I've probably suffered with my entire life, manageable. When I'm not crazy, I'm actually a pretty calm, even tempered kind of guy.

Skinner just wasn't going to take the chance that I might get sick again. I understood where he was coming from. I know guilt first hand. I understand how it can be the dominant, driving force in a person's life. The man had sent me on an assignment and I'd gotten my eye and half my face blown off. He has never forgiven himself for buckling under to the plan that allowed the bad guys to win. What had happened to me out in that field had become his cross to bear. The shot David Moye fired, laughing at the game of having a human target, shattered two lives, three, counting Scully's. Nothing has been the same since for any of us. At least I found comfort because Scully's and my relationship wound up being tempered by the trials. All Skinner has had for the long years since that happened to me, is a need to make amends. This was his chance to repay his self assumed debt, and nothing was going to stop him.

That entire first night I cursed loud and long, calling him every name I could think of. My association with a sailor's daughter has broadened my vocabulary of expletives immeasurably. By morning I was gritty eyed, but calmer and I forced myself to stay busy, attempting to do both of our chores. I surprised myself with the success I had with completing my tasks. I guess chopping the firewood was a bit foolhardy. Skinner probably could have finished the cord in a third of the time it took me, but I didn't lose any appendages and when I finished the job I was able to fall into an exhausted sleep, too tired to worry.

I woke sometime during the night, freezing because I'd neglected to feed the stove before I'd slipped into my coma. I'm used to darkness, I've had close to four years of learning to live in my world where insatiable, greedy shadows lurk constantly to consume the dim, blurred light.

I'm not used to facing the night alone. Whatever tricks I'd learned in Guatemala, when I'd wandered the jungles in easy solitude, were lost with my memories of that time. I know I could have restarted the fire, I'd done it countless times before. The shack is always gloomy, so it was just a question of me getting up and doing the task in a room that was pitch black instead of dark, murky gray. I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I huddled in my bed, facing the tiny window, 'til the faint streams of dawn filtered through the grimy panes of glass.

I forced my three meals down that day, dutifully keeping my strength up. Grabbing our biggest pot I made trip after trip outside, collecting snow to melt in our huge washtub. I set it on the cast iron, wood stove, taking my time to wash away the sweat and grime that covered me from my labors from the day before. Only half the morning was gone when I'd finished, try as I might to squander the time. Sinking down into Skinner's chair, I silently began my vigil.

When the second night descended, I didn't bother with the lanterns. Fortunately, I'd kept the big, hulking, wood stove stoked, leaving the metal door open because I liked to hear the crackle and pop of the fire. Skinner told me its faint light led him to the tinker shop on that almost moonless night. Expectantly listening for the sound of his approach, I still jumped when I heard his boots thud on the wooden step. He seemed to have trouble with the door, so I leapt to my feet and lurched to help him open it. I was smiling with relief when he stumbled inside, falling heavily against me.

His weight almost brought me to the ground with him. The smell of damp wool was strong and overpowering. But, there was another odor, one that returned me to childhood, which chilled me to the bone. It reminded me of the smell my skin used to get after holding pennies too long in a sweaty hand. That acrid, coppery stench my palm would take on is identical to the scent of blood.

Skinner moaned as I began frisking him. My stomach gave a sick lurch when I felt that his flannel shirt was soaked with a warm, sticky wetness over his ribs on the left side. Sliding my hand beneath him, I found his back tacky with more of the thick, seeping moisture.

"Oh, shit, what did you do to yourself?" I groaned, struggling to undo his down jacket. My hands shook so, I couldn't get the zipper to move. My 'bad' hand, my right, wouldn't stop trembling enough to let me use even a mitten grip to hold the thick fabric still, so I could slide the zipper down. When I finally was able to get it to move, the cloth caught in the teeth and it became hopelessly jammed. I howled in panic and frustration.

"Mulder?" Skinner mumbled, his hand gripped my arm. "We're in deep shit! You need to hide in case they followed me."

"Skinner, give me a hand here, okay?" I asked, fighting back my tears. God, I felt so useless at that moment. I was having to ask a seriously injured man to undress himself. I couldn't even manage to work a zipper. "Help me get your jacket off, sir. I got the zipper fucked up. Jammed."

Skinner's hands slowly moved to his front and I felt him lift his head to check out the damage I'd done. I rocked back, moving out of his way and lost my balance, almost tumbling on top of him. My eye finally spilled over at this latest sign of my weakness. I knew better than to try to squat. I knew better than to try to be of help to anyone. I was useless and my friend, a man who had saved my worthless life countless times in the last three months, was going to die because of it.

"Oh, shit. Yeah, I see what you did. I hate it when that happens. This thing is such a pain in the ass. I shoulda ripped off one with snaps. Mother-fucker's always going off track and jamming." He struggled with the zipper for a few more minutes before finally gripping the sides and ripping the fastener apart from its seams. Sagging back, worn out from his struggles, he weakly chuckled, "Nothin' to it, huh?"

I tried to laugh with him but the lump in my throat blocked everything but an odd, choking cough. His trials with the jacket, whether real of feigned for my benefit, did help my ailing ego, but I was still wallowing in misery, knowing Skinner deserved more than the little help I could offer him.

"Got your pills in the pack, you need to go take them, okay?" he mumbled, motioning to the bag he'd dropped when he'd stumbled through the door.

I nodded that I would do what he asked, "later, after we take care of you." My reply was a faint whisper.

"Well, why don't we just get me up off the floor, try to get me to my bed, AND get my clothes off all at the same time? The less I move, the better I'll feel." His hand went to my shoulder to pull himself up and together, we got him to his feet. He swayed for a moment, holding on to me to steady himself. Using both arms to hold him, I got him to stand beside his bed.

He allowed me to finish taking off his clothes, down to his boxers. I think our stroll took the last of his energy, and I strained to lower him to his mattress when his legs just gave out.

"A through and through on the left side, entry from the back. The size of the holes are pretty impressive but I don't think it hit anything important." Skinner gave me this quick rundown on his wound, but I only stood mutely at his side. I had no idea where to start. "Mulder, maybe you ought to get a little water boiling. Neither one of us is gonna like it much but you probably better try to clean it at least."

I turned, numb, moving to do as I was told. His grip was still strong when he caught hold of my arm to stop me, "Mulder, I'm just as in the dark here as you about what to do. You just do what you can. I don't expect a miracle."

Skinner released his hold and after grabbing a pot, I walked slowly out to get the water going. His comment about a miracle opened a door for me, setting a plan in motion, and my steps were faster as I moved inside. My idea jelled while I melted the snow, and found some soap and rags to clean the wound. Skinner took a cloth, wiping the blood off his torso. Taking a deep breath, I wet my towel and with my friend's guidance to find the place, I began to dab at the wide, irregular cleft of rendered flesh. Skinner hissed as I grew braver, gently probing the spot where the bullet had exited, the force shoving all that came before out to make this gaping insult to the human anatomy.

My friend gave a loud cry of pain when I surprised him by inserting a finger to probe the wound. His hand caught my wrist to stop me, but I stilled his interference with a thought.

"Mulder?" Skinner questioned, fright and surprise mingled in his voice when he found he couldn't move. He felt the energy I was drawing into me, feeding my powers, gathering strength. I knew what to do now, for I was being driven by some long forgotten instinct.

"As long as nothing's missing it'll be fine," I softly reassured my patient. "All I'm going to do is speed up the cell division, growing new cells...pushing them on..." I sank my fingers into the wound, deeply, past the torn muscles, feeling, reaching into him with my touch and my mind. I was strong enough then, so I was controlling his pain with my unspoken suggestion. Later, weakened by blood loss, he drifted off to sleep, so when I could no longer maintain my psychic analgesia, his own body was able to take over.

I ordered the cells to hurry their reproductive division, over and over, first one side of the gap then the other, until each type of tissue rejoined as whole. Then I went on to the next. What was rapid for human physiology still took time, so when I finally stood to rest, my bones popped and creaked in protest. I lurched over to grab the medicine that Skinner had gotten at the spilling his own blood, then fumbled around 'til I found the bread I'd made for yesterday's solitary lunch. I was too tired, too eager to return to my work, to bother slicing the half loaf, so, after downing my medications, I leaned against the wall, sipping water and gnawing on my slightly stale breakfast. I finished the entire meal, not because of hunger, but because I knew I needed the fuel in order to finish my task.

Skinner awakened as I moved to sit beside him, but I had regained some strength, so I instructed him to return to a deep sleep. Once he complied, I pulled him over to lie on his stomach and began anew on the entrance wound. The site was smaller than the massive exit hole but I was not as fresh, so my work was slower. The room was light by the time I finished. I hadn't stopped to rest, wanting to press on to the end. When I finally pushed myself upright, knowing I needed to at least take my medication and get some water before I retired, I fell flat on my face.

Try as I might, I couldn't even raise my head from the hard, concrete floor. I'd been so caught up in my psychic repair work, the fire had long since burned out. I was glad I'd covered my patient with both our quilts before I'd left him. It wasn't going to kill me if I just went ahead and dozed off on the floor, and I really didn't see that I had much choice. I was burnt out, used up and sucked dry. Without someone dragging me over to my bed, this was where I was going to stay until I got some of my strength back.

It really wasn't too bad, a bit chilly lying on the cold cement, but I didn't think I'd have any trouble sleeping. In Colorado, the temperature almost always drops at least twenty degrees when the sun goes down so, as long as I woke up before nightfall, I was in good shape. If I didn't, well, the phrase 'dead to the world' popped into my head and it took on a whole new meaning. However, the chuckle that rose up, at that touch of dark humor, didn't even have a chance to make it out before I drifted off.

Skinner woke me. It was night, but I could tell that he had lit the lanterns by the charcoal gray haze I saw around me. Fortunately, Skinner had sense enough not to overdo. While I'd made his damaged tissue heal itself completely, he was still weak. His body had suffered a major trauma and the tank was way too low on blood. It would be a while until he would feel back to normal.

Skinner covered me with my blanket, and I relaxed there on the floor. My mind was drifting and I thought about how Scully had always puzzled over the fact that I could get a body to heal muscle, skin, and organ tissue; how I could even command nerves to regenerate themselves and the brain to grow new cells, but I couldn't do anything about replenishing blood loss. She theorized it must have something to do with me not being able to replace the water content that was missing.

My gifts held so many mysteries and seeming inconsistencies. While I was able to convince bones to knit together, if you lost even the tip of your finger and were not fortunate enough to save the amputated piece, there was nothing I could do. It seems that I can't create something from nothing. So, no matter what my dementia might have been while I was in Central America, I'm definitely not any kind of a god. My eye, the workings of my inner ear, are gone forever.

I've had to learn to deal with the fact that my vision and hemiplegia can't be repaired. While I can get the brain to dissolve dead and scarred tissue and replace it with new cells, the regrown tissue must be reeducated in order to function. And if there was an injury that compromised the blood supply to that portion of the brain, well, that is why I still have limited use of my right side. I must have been able to reroute a part of the function to another healthy area, but anything requiring even limited dexterity is still beyond me. It seems that what I can make any part of the anatomy do varies from person to person, which just proves that there is no such thing as normal. I find that truth comforting.

I think Skinner has been converted from skeptic to true believer. I'm not really comfortable with the way my ex-supervisor views me now, and our friendship seems strained and awkward these past two days, since the 'miracle'. That's what he calls it and I cringe every time he says that word. He rambles on and on about what he remembers of his healing, marveling over how he actually felt the new cells growing to join together. Hopefully, things will soon settle down and we can get back to our old routine.

End tape -WSS-

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FWM Tapes Early November, 2002 ( Exact Date Unknown)

I was right, thank God, Skinner is no longer constantly watching me in amazed wonder, waiting for my next miracle. It's very hard to maintain awe for any extended period. This must be why God rarely makes house calls. If He stopped by too often we'd be less inclined to show Him the astonished reverence He's grown so used to. This is just my opinion. That's another change in Skinner. I believe I've helped him see the light. At least that's how he views it. He feels that there's some sort of divine purpose to me having these powers. Oh, excuse me, 'gifts'. To Skinner they're my 'gifts'. I think I pissed him off though, when I commented that since my wondrous capabilities appear to have come to me along with a severe, seizure inducing, brain injury, God needs a little work on His packaging concepts.

Actually, Skinner has tempered his initial zeal in the past couple of days and his new found faith really does seem to have offered him peace. So as long as he's not casting the Messiah part locally, and he learns that every conversation we have doesn't have to be related to theology, I'll be happy for him.

His proselytism did bring about some confessions, and he finally told me the entire story about what happened on that last night raid. It seems that Skinner has been protecting me from day one from truth about the nightmare that the world has become. The first time he went to town to get supplies he was implanted with a chip, exactly like Scully's. This marker is the only way we humans are able to get supplies, what little medical care that's being offered, any kind of housing and almost every other need necessary for our survival.

Non-compliance to the binary marking system is automatic banishment from any settlement area. A settlement area is any town with a population of 10,000 or more. The only place to legally buy or sell anything is at a designated, licensed dispensing center and the only place these are located is in a settlement area. If a citizen, meaning any registered person, is involved in any act of unlicensed barter, punishment is immediate confinement to one of the camps the state runs for 'undesirables' for life. Anyone caught associating in any manner with an unregistered human will receive life. The unregistered human will be immediately executed.

Skinner recalls that the first time he was at the settlement area, formerly known as Fort Collins, there had been a rumor floating around that removal of the chip was a carcinogenic. The story he heard that last time he'd gone to claim his provisions, was that the cancer causing claims were, in fact, 100% true. The numbers being quoted were that 90% of the test group, i.e., inmates at the undesirables camps, had developed cancerous tumors in the first month after removal of the chip. I believe the rumors.

This is the world Skinner ventured into when he journeyed out during the day. A place ruled by a totalitarian, world-wide government where the aboriginal denizens have been made the indentured servants of a "Master Race" of conquering off-worlders. At night, though the world truly becomes a hell on earth. Even the town formerly known as Fort Collins, a peaceful, midsize college town, proudly nicknamed by its residents, "The choice city," turns into a dark pavement jungle of crime, violence, and contraband. The control is still there. Most of the illegal underground activities are being run by the very off-world visitors who manage the cities during the day. It's a lethal quagmire of treachery and deceit where anything can be gotten for a price, yet the life of a human is worth only what can be squeezed out of him.

Skinner's drug run had gone off without a hitch, even given that the amount he had stolen was twice as large as any of his other hauls. His mistake came when he pressed his good fortune and attempted to burgle the local militia's armory. Skinner's two service weapons, and the three hunting rifles that survived the fire, were useless without ammunition and my friend had been studying how to remedy this problem in the month since he'd discovered the armory. Security was much tighter at the firearms storage building than the pharmacy, which was logical. If you steal from a pharmacy, the only people that could be endangered are those silly enough to abuse the drugs stolen. If you steal from a weapons storehouse you could be a danger to anyone.

But Skinner staked out the place and came up with an excellent plan. He knew exactly where the guards and security devices were located, and how to avoid them. The problem occurred because the warehouse had been robbed the day before the blizzard struck, and during the following ten day period, the entire security system was redesigned. My ex-marine friend was totally ignorant of this development having been snowbound during the entire time the changes were made. The moment Skinner made it inside he knew his original plan was useless.

The mission was scrubbed and immediate retreat was his intent. He made it safely out, but was not yet clear of the fenced in grounds when he triggered a silent alarm. Instantly, the small enclosure was awash with twenty search lights and his initial escape route closed. Going over the roof to the far side of the building allowed him a chance at freedom providing he could succeed in finding a way across the 10-foot gap between the roofs of the armory and the university's old, abandoned field house.

Skinner's running leap cleared the distance with room to spare but his rolling landing brought him almost to his feet and he presented a perfect target for one crack-shot, newly hired guard. How he made it out of the city and all the way home, given the size of the hole in his side, might be part of the reason he has found God. Somebody had to have been on his side.

Needless to say, no more trips away from our safe little hovel are planned. We have everything we need. At least a year's worth of food, a six month's supply of my three medications, and one full clip of ammo for two handguns. The hunting rifles could be used as clubs so I guess we'll count them, too.

<><><><><><><><><> CHAPTER TWO <><><><><><><><><>

FWM Tapes Mid November 2002 (Exact Date Unknown)

We could tell this was coming. Yesterday the weather was beautiful, almost like a spring day. But the air was too still, so you knew the front that lay behind the warmth had stalled in the mountains. That is bad news. Winter feeds off the high peaks. When it rolls down to the plains after a time spent gorging on the freezing, rarefied air, it is mighty and merciless. Skinner and I made sure we were ready.

For five days the storm raged, blanketing everything with over six feet of snow. Finally, it loosened its hold and moved on, slowly making its way east. It was too brief a respite; early this morning, the next front moved in. I have no idea how long this one will last. When I look outside, my view of the world is a study of gray and white. Skinner claims his isn't much better. He says there's nothing to see but charcoal skies and falling snow.

To keep busy during the anticipated blizzard, Skinner and I searched out everything we could find pertaining to Scully and me. We wound up cleaning out the basement those two days, setting what we didn't need or recognize clear to the back. After boxing all our findings, we brought them here. They are stacked from floor to ceiling to be researched. We are piecing together the record of what has happened to me and my partner since our arrival in Colorado 'til now.

On top of the Journals, tapes and letters I'd gotten together, we have writings and tapes from Kami, Mr. Wagner, Jack, and my mother. We are putting those into the story, too. Skinner found some tapes I'd hidden when I was having that breakdown, so my mad rantings were added to that section of the story. Getting all this information in order is a huge task, but I know we have a long, hard winter ahead.

Skinner has been reading the Bible in his newfound, religious fervor. He suggests we name what we are compiling "The Damascus Files". I'm going to have to get him to read the story of Saul of Tarsus to me. I can't see the connection except for the obvious and I don't remember if it had a happy ending.

End Tape -WSS-

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FROM THE PEN OF - DANA K. SCULLY December 25, 2000 Wellington, Colorado

I believe I've witnessed my mother lose her temper three times in my 36 years. As with most things rare and unusual, it is truly a sight to behold. Each time, this unique and unexpected experience has been triggered by an act that, upon examination, hardly seems to merit the tempestuous storm that is unleashed. However, on closer inspection, one would find that no one deed or utterance had spurred the turbulence. Margaret Scully's tumultuous fury is always a slow brewing disturbance, fed by seemingly unnoticed irritations and annoyances.

The obstinate belligerence I exuded in my refusal to join her and the Wagners for midnight Mass proved to be the catalyst that launched 'hurricane Maggie'. For the first time ever, I bore the brunt of her rage. I must admit, in the weeks following our return to Sky Watch, Mom has suffered my angry moodiness with her normal, good natured tolerance. My surly demeanor, acid tongue and often deliberate disregard for her feelings has been shameful. Up until last night she only answered my disrespect with forgiving sternness, quietly ignoring my rude behavior.

I deserved everything she gave me. She left, still fuming. I stayed, huddling on my daybed in Mulder's and my room, too filled with remorseful guilt for even tears.

I'd been told the truth and it hurt, but it's what I needed. Mom was right. I hurt so deeply, so painfully, that my every action was a desperate attempt to hurt back - - someone, anyone and everyone. I was crying out in fear and anguish - - a plea for help. The tears that finally came were huge and choking. I glanced to the still, thin form on the bed and felt drawn to him. For the first time, stoic, strong, suffer-in-silence Dana Scully cried out the need that had never stopped. I fell across his chest, my mind screaming the anguish that threatened to drive me insane.

"Mulder, come back to me. Mulder, I need you. Please. I love you."

It was a mute entreaty, no words were spoken, it was simply my every feeling. My essence. And it reached him.

His answer took my breath away. My gasp was deep, a stutter-step intake of air that began at my toes. I was frozen, held close by the force of his will. Mulder had reached out to me. Like mine, his call was not in a word, or any spoken language. It was pure thought, the essence of his soul. Mulder was still here and he had just touched me as no other human being ever had. The electric sensation slowly ebbed, fading away to leave me spent. I pushed up from his thin, wasted form and glanced at his face. Nothing had changed, except that now a small smile tilted his lips. He knew I had gotten his message.

It was late, just past midnight, when I placed the call to his mother. Waking a woman in her 60s, who was not in the best of health, requesting information that would open old wounds, was not the most mannerly thing to do. Adding to my misdeed was the fact that it was two hours later in Greenwich, Connecticut.

During our psychic embrace, Mulder had passed the information to me that Samantha was not the only child their family had lost. Mulder had a twin brother who died shortly after their birth. They had named the little boy Adam. Confirmation of this knowledge by his mother was proof, to me at least, that Mulder had actually answered my plea to return, and was still alive.

Mulder could not have sent me a more perfect message. I am a person who requires concrete proof. By telling me something he had learned during his vision quest, his revelation of a twin brother, never spoken of, never before whispered about, had given me something that could be verified, yet was unknown by all save a select few.

I knew everyone would be home soon. I pondered what to tell them about my Christmas miracle. I sat beside Mulder's bed and held his hand. I studied his face, searching for some difference that could be pointed out as proof to the others that Mulder has returned. The tiny, triumphant grin had faded. The lips were now slightly parted and his breath whispered through them in a faint snore. He looked the same as he had since he'd first slipped away from me. His face was relaxed, utterly peaceful.

"We'll keep it our secret for now, okay?" I murmured, leaning close so I could whisper into his ear. "I don't know what I'd tell them and I wouldn't want them to worry about me. You know they'd think I'd lost it, that I'd gone around the bend. I thought you'd left me for good, Mulder; I haven't been doing so well myself. I won't tell anyone you've come back. We'll just wait to let them know until you're able to show them."

I leaned back and watched him, but nothing changed. His expression remained still and placid. The inhale, exhale of air continued in its soft measured rhythm; the rise and fall of his chest visually marked the time.

My heart gave a quick flutter and tears sprang to my eyes as doubt began to surface. Had the stress of the long, endless weeks of my deathbed vigil finally taken its toll on my mind? Had what I experienced been only a hopeful delusion, my own desperate creation? Perhaps Mulder had said something of a brother during our years together, and I'd not paid attention. It could have been a vague suspicion he might have had that his past held yet another secret. Or maybe, at some point, his mother had mentioned Adam to me and I'd either not understood or not registered what she'd said.

There were a million possibilities of where I might have heard this information I'd so hastily deemed proof. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I admitted I had to have been fooling myself. I leaned my head against my folded arms and cried, sobbing in disappointment until I exhausted myself. The soft folds of Mulder's silk comforter muffled my last weary, hiccuping gasps as I drifted toward sleep. I was abruptly awakened by my mother's loud cry of surprise.

"Dana!"

Mom had slipped in to check on Mulder and me. Seeing that I slept, she'd tiptoed quietly to my side, debating on whether to try to get me to my bed, or to allow me to continue my nap undisturbed. A glance at Mulder made the decision unnecessary. His left hand had been resting atop my head. She had watched in stunned silence as his long, thin fingers slowly moved to stroke my hair.

Hearing my name, I bolted upright! I leapt to my feet to see what was wrong and spotted Mom across the bed from me. She was leaning over Mulder, touching his cheek.

"What happened?" My heart was in my throat as I pushed her hand aside to examine my patient. I quickly discovered nothing was amiss and I glanced over at my mother, raising a puzzled brow.

Mom's hand shook as it returned to Mulder's face and she smiled.

"Mom?" My short query sounded almost like a squeak. My voice reflected my nervous concern as I finally noticed the steady stream of tears that flowed from my mother's eyes.

"They all were wrong, Dana." Mom's voice shook with emotion and she gave a loud sigh to regain some control. She reached out, grasping my hand, lacing her fingers in mine. "Fox isn't gone, honey. I saw him playing with your hair when I came in. He's back." I felt a quick, tender squeeze of reassurance before she let go to gently caress Mulder's face once more. She leaned over, her lips softly brushing his brow as she whispered to him, "Thank you, Fox, sweetheart, for fighting so hard to come back to her."

I met my mother's eyes when she straightened; they shone a luminous pale blue and sparkled with tears.

"Merry Christmas, Danie," she laughed. It was a joyous, girlish giggle.

"Merry Christmas, Mama," I murmured, hurrying over to the embrace that waited in her outstretched arms.

"You both are going to have a very happy New Year, baby. I just know it," she assured me with a warm kiss.

Wrapped warmly in her love, I am filled with a childlike faith because my mother is always right.

*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

FWM Tapes November 2002 (Exact Date Unknown)

Between Skinner and I, these files are coming together. We finished that entire first year after I was shot and added it to what we had done earlier on the Central America trip. It turned out to be one massive tomb so I suggested that we start another file and label it "Damascus Revisited". Skinner states that's too theatrical so we're simply calling this "DF-2".

Much to Skinner's disappointment, I can't say I returned from my near-death with a sudden knowledge of "the other side." I don't have any tale of enlightenment for him. I remember Palenque. Then I woke up and everything had changed. Somehow, I was back in a bed, unable to talk, to move, to think clearly. I didn't know what had happened to me. I was confused and frightened, just like before, after I was shot. Memories of coming back are unclear. I hear things I was supposed to have said and done and it's as though these tales are about someone else. I wish I could recall communicating with Scully, but I can't. My memories of that time don't start until later.

The one constant throughout both of my recoveries that helped me to my goal was the knowledge that Scully was by my side. The second time, she came prepared. It's like she grabbed me by the hand and hauled me back to life. I trusted her implicitly and she did get me home, but it was a very long journey which took its toll on everyone involved.

End Tape -WSS-

*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

From the Pen of - Dana K. Scully January 14, 2001 Wellington, Colorado

Mulder is conscious. He's awake and moving and everyone is rejoicing that he has come back from the dead. He has rejoined us with more problems than I can count. Recovery is going to be hard even with his powers of self-healing. While he has come far in his efforts to repair the damage the intracerebral bleeds inflicted on his brain, his gift can't restore the physical abilities he has lost.

I have been so busy, combing the Internet, and reading constantly. I've been scanning all kinds of sites featuring subjects ranging from new, scientific discoveries involving estrogen and the restoration of cognitive abilities, to channeling the power of the third eye. I've been ingesting countless tombs from the local libraries that cover Mulder's illness, methods of rehabilitation after an intracerebral hemorrhage, and so on. I have my patient on a regimen of constant therapy and stimulation. It's helping; Mulder is responding.

I've also been trying to analyze and define Mulder's powers. The focus of my research in this area has been on the abilities he's showing now, this PSI link we have and the self-healing. I have searched and searched but nowhere have I found any kind of description that remotely resembles what I feel when Mulder is 'inside' my head. What I feel now is even more intense than when we were in Guatemala, but somehow, I find it less intrusive. Then, I would hear his voice, constantly talking to me, telling me what to do. How to think. How to feel.

Now, he has no language skills left. The ICH stripped him of the very abilities he worked so hard to relearn the last time around. He enters my head and his thoughts are instantly my own. I am surrounded by ideas, hopes, needs and wants; every emotion and each sensation he feels, I share. I am assaulted by a kaleidoscope of images, that are not truly pictures. I am pulled into a conversation without any words. After that first emotional experience when the message was placed in my mind, I tried to analyze what exactly he had said to me. It took me a good week to realize that Mulder 'says' nothing. He told me of his twin in a memory, a whole, fully formed concept. Somehow, I can interpret his ideas and label them for him. This is how he 'speaks' to me.

I've discovered that my thoughts confuse him at times. I assume it's because I do try to communicate with him using words. Every now and then, my transmissions become garbled in the translation. I might tell him about writing in this book, but instead of 'this book' he sees a tree. It's a struggle, but I have to learn to communicate with him by ideas alone, at least until we can reteach him language skills.

He's made so many strides these last few weeks, but I believe I will take Mr. Wagner up on his offer to hire someone to help me. I'm going to hire both physical and speech therapists to either live in, or at least be available to give Mulder three to four sessions a day. This will give me more time for research. I believe if I can understand Mulder's self-healing power, I can help him to refine and increase his gift. We might be able to speed up the time for self-healing, and perhaps I might aid him in making a more complete recovery. There's no telling what the limits of his powers are. The abilities he showed in Guatemala, amazing as they were, could be just the tip of the iceberg.

-DKS-

*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

From the Journal of Kami W. Wagner January 28 2001 Sky Watch Bed and Breakfast Wellington, Colorado

I don't think I will even let Dad know I've started writing this book. My entire life has been documented in his files and I feel like having something that I can keep just to myself.

Who knows though, I just might change my mind. I just might make something of myself one day, become famous. My biographers will have almost a library of research on me all in one spot, Dad's basement. Maybe I will let Dad put this in my file, for posterity.

I started taking classes last week at Foothills Junior College and plan on leaving next fall for Boulder and CU. I can't make up my mind what I want to study. I'm torn between Archeology and Medicine. Archeology was my first thought, because of our trip to the ruins. But Medicine just kind of keeps rearing its head. I've gotten quite a lot of experience in the field with Mulder having all his health problems. Since we've come home, Scully has let me take over his care for at least a couple of hours a day and I believe I'm getting pretty good at it.

Mulder seems to respond to me well, even better than to Scully in some instances, such as when we do his range of motion exercises connected to the MFES (Multichannel Functional Electrical Stimulator). When I do them with him he offers the correct resistance and seems to be actively participating with the biofeedback that the machine offers. When Scully does them with him, it's like he's just there. She does all the work. It's that way with all of his therapy. We have just hired a therapist who's going to take over most of Scully's session time. His name is Jake and he'll be living here at Sky Watch. He looks like some kind of body builder or wrestler, but actually he's a sweet, gentle man. Anyway, Mulder also works well with Jake, so it's probably for the best that Scully won't be working directly with Mulder on his PT.

We also have a speech pathologist, named Julie, who is going to come out twice a day to help with Mulder. That's the area where I see the biggest change from the last time Mulder was like this. He moved into Sky Watch in June of '99 and with one major difference he was in about the same shape that he is in now. After his gunshot injury he was more vocal. However, I think he's actually progressing better now in every phase of his recovery except for the problem with communication skills. I mean, in one month's time he has gone from being almost like a vegetable to being able to sit up in a chair without help, feeding himself, and is totally responsive to everything except verbal commands. When I first met him in June of '99 over three months had passed since his injury. He'd gone through at least two months of PT, but he wasn't this far along.

I guess what bugs me, why I'm rambling on about this, is that Scully is the only person Mulder seems able to fully communicate with. And Scully only has the time and desire to communicate with Mulder when she's putting him through his paces during therapy. I try to spend time with him, connecting emotionally, just being with him to let him know I care, but I'm going to be gone a lot now that school has started. Where is he going to get any companionship? Doesn't Scully know that is as important to his recovery as the constant therapy sessions? I don't know what's going on with her, but someone had better tell her she might be doing her best for her patient, but sadly, she is not doing her best for her friend.

-KWW-

*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

FROM THE PEN OF - DANA K SCULLY February 22, 2001 Wellington, Colorado

Most of my writing has been in Mulder's rehabilitation log and my research notes but I thought I'd go ahead and catch this book up to date. I don't think this anniversary will ever go by without me suffering a severe bout of melancholy. I can't believe it's been 2 years. It doesn't help that it's the day before my birthday, hard to forget it. I guess it could have been worse had the Brotherhood decided to take Mulder out in that field and destroy his life a day later. There's always something to be thankful for.

Mulder is progressing beautifully. Jake has just started on patterning. The repetitive motion therapy is tedious but so very effective. Combined with the Multichannel Functional Electrical Stimulator that we've been using on him during adapted range of motion exercises on his upper extremities, he is almost ready to begin the crawling part of the rehabilitation. Jake has made me promise not to push him during this important part of his retraining. He says at least three months are necessary for the patterning to effectively work. Babies utilize the benefits of crawling faster than adults. So, my impatience to get Mulder upright will just have to wait. Jake does know what he is talking about regarding this method.

My concerns lie elsewhere. I should have known we wouldn't make it through his entire convalescence with Fox Mulder keeping his Mr. Congeniality image. I guess I'd hoped his good humor and eagerness to please would stay with him a bit longer. Julie, his speech therapist, is leaving us. She told me she was sorry and was willing to come back and try again a few weeks down the road. She claims that she just isn't making any headway with him at this point in his recovery. Her sessions have just been a waste of both their time. She claims she has run into this before and that sometimes her methods of therapy are better later on when progress is a bit further along. She believes if we continue with frequent but low pressure mini-sessions, he just might start showing some kind of improvement.

So, I'll have to put my intensive study of PSI abilities on the back burner and try to create a low stress environment for Mulder to learn to communicate with others. Mulder and I don't have a problem communicating. Since I've learned to send my thoughts around the blocks that his stroke left in his brain, our mind-speak has become both fluent and informative. And necessary. Much to both Mulder's and my frustration, I am the only person with whom he can express anything more than his most primary needs and I am the only person he can understand.

Mulder still cannot understand even the simplest commands from anyone but me. Since his vision is so poor, hand signals are almost useless. Anyone instructing him must literally show him what they want him to do by manipulating his body to do it. Lately there have been signs that he is growing weary of this isolation and he has been responding with sullen pouts, fits of anger, much like temper tantrums, and bouts of uncontrollable despair where he silently cries for hours. I guess that's another reason why I should stay here at Sky Watch more often from now on. I know it must be horrible for him not to be able to make himself understood. It's probably even worse for him not to fully comprehend what's going on around him.

Kami was better at connecting with him than Julie, Jake or Mr. Wagner, but she has made friends at college and is finally building herself a life away from here. She even has a steady boyfriend now. So her time with Mulder has been limited to the weekends. I could call my mother out to help, but she, too, has a life. But at what better time could this come than now? His physical therapy will be nothing but using the MFES, doing his regular exercises, and Jake programming the large motor function patterns into his brain. Mulder and I can use this time to visit and work on his communicative skills.

I can still use the computer for research and maybe even try out some of my PSI-increasing theories on him, to see if I can help develop and train his powers. Looking at it this way, this next three months might not be so bad after all. It's even beginning to sound exciting.

- DKS-

*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

FWM Tapes Winter - December 2002/ January 2003 (Exact Date Unknown)

Before this frozen time, I believe Skinner always knew the date. He'd dutifully kept track and because of that, he could help me label these tapes or at least give the rough estimation of when they occurred. Now, after countless days of icy gales, where the sun is invisible to one of us and nothing more than a faintly glowing silver disk to the other, time itself has ceased to matter. We count only the passing storms and brief respites.

At least we have these files to keep us sane or, in my case at least as close to sanity as I will ever get. I honestly believe I'm showing signs of developing an eidetic memory again. Though I can't recall the events that happened in any given post that Skinner has read, I do know where they are, chronologically, in the file. This information is stored away in my mind ready for instant access. I can tell Skinner what comes before and after any given item. I'd make one hell of a secretary if I could only see to retrieve them.

Skinner asks after each part he reads, "Do you remember this one?"

Part of the problem is that with the disabilities I was suffering, I had no concept of time. I do recall starting the crawling phase of rehabilitation and I have memories from even before that time but there's no cohesion to them. They're not really recollections of events but of my emotions at the time. If I had to give one single word to describe how I felt then, I would be hard pressed to do it, but I think I'd have to say fear.

I was frustrated, angry, confused, but the feeling that drove me, that colored my every response and was the final result of the input of all my other emotions, was fear.

What had happened to put me here? Why was I like this? Was this going to be forever? Why was I so alone? Where was Scully? Why was she afraid of me?

My only bridge to the world was Scully and the only way to reach her was on her terms. She has always been there. She has always put my needs before her own. Who am I to find fault with her? I know the danger of obsessions first hand, and how a single minded purpose can cloud one's judgment. Her intent was always sincere. My best interest was always paramount in her heart.

That said, I'll speak of my state of mind during this long stretch of my recovery. From late February until I was finally able to really speak, I clung to my connection with Scully as a lifeline to my sanity. Could I have recovered from the aphasia sooner? I suppose I could have. Desire always plays an important role in reclamation of anything, including health. My wants laid solely with holding on to a bond. I was unable to think past the moment. Try waking up, not once but twice in a two year span, with not only time missing but parts of yourself gone, and you just might understand why I held to the comforting surety of Scully's presence in my head.

At that point, outward displays were hard for her. She'd walked this path right alongside me; hope had constantly been snatched away from her, too. I don't blame her for holding back this time, for turning all her energy to getting me well before she would allow herself to open up her heart again. What she never understood was that the feelings were still there, locked down tightly in her mind. Our link gave me access to them. I didn't know if she'd ever be able to openly show me what she felt again. So I desperately held on to what I had.

End Tape -WSS-

<><><><><><><><><> CHAPTER THREE <><><><><><><><><>

FROM THE PEN OF - DANA K. SCULLY May 18, 2001 Wellington, Colorado

Will spring ever come? While the snow has finally stopped, we never see the sun because of this constant, drizzly rain. The winters seem to get worse and worse. I am beginning to doubt the validity of the scientific theories concerning the greenhouse effect. Maybe I just don't understand them. I'm starting to think there is nothing in this world that can be fully comprehended.

Mulder is finally starting to speak but it is not through my efforts. Kami has made the greatest strides with him in this area. Julie is back and claims he's now suffering from what's called non-fluent aphasia, which means the words are there, he just hasn't developed all the pathways to find them. His auditory receptiveness is coming along rapidly, which is a relief to me. I'm no longer constantly needed as a translator. He is finally able to understand, for the most part, what others are saying to him.

I just can't comprehend why Kami and the others were able to reach him and I wasn't. Somewhere, somehow, something has changed between Mulder and I. When he does let me in now, I sense resentment from him. I can't figure out what has happened. Why is he acting this way toward me. Kami has made some rather thinly-veiled, sarcastic remarks hinting that she believes I'm neglecting Mulder. I am frustrated and angered by these barbs. My every thought is of Mulder and helping him make it back. Her insinuations hurt.

*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

FWM Tapes Winter 2003 (Exact Date Unknown)

Skinner asked if I realized what was happening that summer. If I perceived the tug-of-war over my care that went on between Kami and Scully. I'm happy to say I was in the dark, as always. I do know it all came to a head after Kami left for Boulder and Scully and I were once again alone. Skinner and I have found nothing that truly documents the change in Scully, why she finally faced her fears, except for this entry in her journal.

*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

FROM THE PEN OF - DANA K. SCULLY September 12, 2001 Aspen Glen, Estes Park, Colorado

I noticed today that I've neglected to write in this book for months. Since, suddenly, there is all the time in the world, I thought I'd catch up. I finally have something to say, or maybe I finally know my own mind. No, I believe it's that for the first time since Mulder came back to me, I've allowed what's in my heart to come out. Kami forced me to face my fears, to deal with my anger, and at last progress can be made.

The first time Mulder almost died I had an enemy, a place to focus all the anger and hurt I felt over what had happened to him. Who could I blame this time? I found all I could do was shake my fist at the winds of fate or -- be angry with Mulder. He doesn't remember anything about the events leading up to what happened to him. We're not even sure his vision quest is responsible for his 'accident'. And even if I had proof that the elixir, the blood letting ceremony, or the fact that he went for weeks without medication, directly or indirectly brought about his condition, I can't fault him. This man, who has struggled so hard these last nine months to be able to stand on his own two feet and communicate with the world around him, has more than paid any debt owed by that 'other self' who ruled him in Guatemala. So I've had to come to terms with the fact that I'd best let go of this rage or it would destroy both of us. It only took me eight months to learn this truth and it was taught to me by a girl who turns 20 years old today. Out of the mouth of babes...

Mulder and I are on a retreat; a vacation together, to get to know each other again. We are staying in a cabin Mr. Wagner owns on the Big Thompson River just outside of Estes Park, Colorado, the gateway to the Rocky Mountain National Park. This is late in the season so the area is quiet, peaceful and perfect for reflection and quality time together.

Mulder, for the first time in three quarters of a year, is not having to suffer through constant therapy sessions. I left that Dana Scully at Sky Watch. His time is his own and yesterday, our first full day here, he awoke and wandered outside to the back porch deck while I was preparing breakfast. I brought our meal out and was gifted with a grin so familiar and sorely missed it almost brought tears to my eyes.

"Well, have you been thinking about what you might want to do today?" I asked, noticing how the mountain air seemed to have increased his appetite tenfold. Mulder has been unable to regain the last thirty or so pounds he'd lost right after the ICH so this is very good news.

He stopped, surprised, fork on its way to his mouth. It was as though he just realized he did have a choice on what the day's itinerary might be. The knowledge seemed to tie his tongue and he shook his head.

"Did you want to go into town?" I asked softly, hoping a few suggestions might help him find his voice. He has come so far, but fluency is still a way off, especially when he feels pressured. Unfortunately, Mulder seems to feel a great deal of pressure when he is speaking aloud to me. This was one reason I'd wanted us to take this vacation. Again, he slowly shook his head.

I forced myself to make no further suggestions, wanting him to speak when he felt able and at last my patience was rewarded.

"A drive? To the park?" he murmured, beseeching my approval nervously.

"Great, we can make a day of it!" I exclaimed with false heartiness, forcing a smile to cover the sorrow I felt over just how strained our conversations are now. I know it will take time for us to readjust to our roles as friends. Yesterday, our drive up Trailridge Road to the top of the world, was the start. I think we can recover. Everything? Do we want to take on all that baggage? Only TIME will tell. Maybe we'll only salvage what's necessary.

*****

We drive past the high, frost covered glen and I read aloud the sign announcing that we are at THE GREAT DIVIDE. We stop to see this place where the continent's waters make their choice of which path to take, to determine which direction their destiny might lie. The tumblers click into place and I know the time has come for me to make a selection of my own. Although I say nothing of where my own thoughts have traveled, Mulder wants to get out for he knows this is a place of decision.

The thin air clears the head. I make a slow turn to see the breath taking, panoramic view of the Medicine Bow to the north, the central Rockies to the east and west, and the distant Sangria de Christos to the south. The sign says we should be able to spot almost every one of Colorado's 40 plus 14,000 foot peaks from where we stand.

Does Mulder see any of this? Not with his eye, but from the look on his face, he perceives clearly what choices lie ahead and that sadly, the road never gets less rocky. His tears aren't only from the sting of the harsh, freezing wind on his face. I watch his thin shoulders shake until his whole body starts to crumble. I rush to grab him and with a pull of his arm I manage to get him back to the jeep. His sobs are still silent and he quakes beside me in mute anguish. Will he ever be able cry aloud again?

I'm amazed for I find I can touch him now and it doesn't hurt. As his arms wrap around me, I realize we both have made our choice. Neither of us want to make out journey alone. We hold on to each other; a natural, soothing ebb and flow is born as we both give and receive comfort. I feel his hand brush my hair back and the gentle touch of warm, soft lips kissing away the salty tears that spill from my eyes, mixing with his own. Our pain is shed, one tear at a time and finally the fear seeps from us to make its way to those distant seas.

*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

FROM THE PEN OF - DANA K. SCULLY September 12, 2001 Aspen Glen, Estes Park, Colorado

It's early evening; the sun hits the canyon wall with light. It is worth building a fire to cut the chill in the air, to be able to hear the sound of the Big Thompson. The aspens are turning early this year, heralding the coming of winter. Mulder says he can see them; he can make out the bright riot of shades of gold that light up the mountainside. Sometimes, I forget that even before he lost his sight he suffered from color-blindness. I tell him I love the way the bright red contrasts with the shimmering yellow spray against the dark green of the conifers. It brings a laugh from him, and my cheeks redden as I remember red and green are just words to him.

"I know red," he whispers, and touches my cheek. "This is red." He's right, it's very red.

"It's warm," his tone is soft, smooth and I'm amazed at how well he's learned to modulate his voice. I begin to compliment him on this achievement but his lips still my comments. My body responds to the gentle touch of his tongue as it leaves my mouth to flick lightly against the fluttering pulse in my neck. He remembers the key to my body that his musician's touch has always played so masterfully.

I hear his voice inside my head. As we melt together before the fire, I know that it is true when he tells me, "It's still forever, Scully."

*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X*X

FROM THE PEN OF - DANA K. SCULLY September 15, 2001 Aspen Glen, Estes Park, Colorado

Mulder knows the last of my secrets so now if he leaves me, I'll just have to kill him. I believe his blood oath that he'll never tell, but he knows he carries this knowledge under the threat of death. I, Dana Scully, am a Stephen Kingaholic. I have been addicted to the horror-master's tombs since Junior High, when I swiped Bill's copy of "Carrie" from his bedroom. Mulder journeys to Memphis to pay honor to his King. I make a pilgrimage to Maine for mine. And here, not three miles down the road from our cabin, is the hotel that spurred that dark, macabre mind to come up with the classic "The Shining". Yes, Estes Park is the site of the Stanley Hotel and Mulder and I are staying there tonight. Be still my heart.

Actually, the grand old place is nothing like the fictional "Overlook". In fact, they remodeled in the late 1990's and it doesn't even resemble the hotel King stayed at in the '70's. We have one of the deluxe suites which affords a beautiful view of the grounds, still lush and green even this late in the year. There is no topiary, much to Mulder's and my disappointment, or even a maze like the first film, but it is a beautiful resort. It was built in the 1900s, designed to convey the Georgian Revival style of architecture.

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FROM THE PEN OF - DANA K. SCULLY September 16, 2001 Aspen Glen, Estes Park, Colorado

Our night passed without one moment's horror. We both had eight hours of restful, almost dreamless sleep. Mulder confessed he dreamed we stayed over and rented room #217 tonight, making mad, passionate whoopie in the bathtub. (I'm assuming this odd little fantasy didn't include King's ghostly suicide victim joining us. Mulder is kinky but that's just too 'spooky'). I assure him we can forego that little homage to my idol and tell him the hot tub at the cabin will just have to do. His grin tells me he'll settle for this plan.

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FWM Tapes Winter 2003 (Exact Date unknown)

Skinner has allowed me to pick and choose which writings I put in this record and I have kept the more personal ones out, unless they relate or drive the story. That doesn't mean that I'm spared the embarrassment of Skinner reading them to me directly from Scully's journal. It seems my life's partner does tend to believe her books labeled 'From the Pen of -' that she picked up from the bargain bin at Currant, are a confessional of sorts. I'm glad that I can't see the expression on my former supervisor's face when he reads one of Scully's more explicit entries. Skinner is gracious enough not to mention the colors my face turns when our tale turns steamy. He is no longer questioning me if I remember any given post. I think he realizes I remember all too well these particular moments in time.

Scully and I returned to Sky Watch the day after my fortieth birthday, refreshed and recommitted in our relationship. Jake moved out and joined Julie coming only once a day for my therapy. I was upright and mobile and while not a picture of fluid grace, I was walking without assistance, which is more than Jake thought I'd ever be able to achieve. My fluency was improving, and while the aphasia would continue to plague me, by the time the snow flew I no longer needed Julie's expertise except for weekly sessions down in Fort Collins.

We rarely spoke of the past, but at this time Scully told me what happened in Guatemala. Then, as when Skinner read her journals to me earlier this winter, I didn't know who that person was. I don't know what triggered the quest. I don't know why I followed through with the search for the temple. I don't know who was instructing me on my journey. I remember nothing of my visions.

It is strange, though, because when Scully told me of my belief that Samantha was dead, I was not surprised. I believe I've had that knowledge within me always. I just refused to see it. My heart knew, but I needed the hope to sustain me. Self-delusion is not always a bad thing. It's my favorite defense mechanism.

Scully and I actually spoke little of the future. We had no plans at this point in time, except for me working to make it the rest of the way back. Wagner had introduced me to horseback riding as a form of therapy, to improve my balance. While lessons from my childhood surfaced enough to allow me to sit the docile beast I mounted, I don't believe I will ever be a rider. The chaps chaffed too much.

Wagner and I did cement our friendship during these rides. I believe that is part of what spurred him to finally reveal all after Christmas.

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FROM THE PEN OF - K.W. Wagner December 21, 2001 Sky Watch, Wellington, Colorado

It seems so strange to be home. I feel like I'm a visitor in a place I've lived my entire life. To add to this awkwardness, I brought Derek home with me. Even though he is staying in the guest room, I think everyone knows the truth. I know Mulder does.

Mulder is my Christmas gift! Derek and I pulled up to the house and Mulder walked out to greet us, that crooked grin plastered across his face. Dad had said he was doing fine in his e-mails and since Scully and I no longer keep in touch, 'fine' covers a broad spectrum. I wouldn't let go when he grabbed me for a hug. He's walking, talking, strong and healthy. He wouldn't let go either. Dad had to force us apart to get his own hug. I had to laugh at the expression on Derek's face. Mulder is hardly the invalid I'd painted him to be. I think my friend is concerned about how I know this tall, handsome, roguish looking mystery man. God, he looks good!

Mulder and I haven't had a chance to talk alone, but it appears that he and Scully have worked out all their problems. Their relationship looks to be working out better than ever. I AM very happy for them. I know Scully thinks the friction between us early this year springs entirely from my ego and jealousy. I admitted the day I left that I have loved Mulder since we first started the interviews after my 17th birthday. But, I've known from the very start where I stood.

Mulder and I have a relationship. It isn't the one I'd wished for in my childish dreams. Those feelings passed quickly. What Mulder and I have is a deep friendship, and love made strong from what we've shared. I just wish Scully and I could get past our disagreements and rebuild OUR friendship. I do miss her.

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FROM THE PEN OF - DANA K. SCULLY December 22 2001 Sky Watch Bed & Breakfast

I had a chance to speak to Kami this morning while Mr. Wagner, Mulder and Derek were out riding. I needed to thank her for what she had said to me, for all that she's done for Mulder. Within moments we both were in tears. Wounds that had festered for a season were healed. Our celebration of forgiveness was interrupted when the three men returned from 'checking out the north forty'. One glance at two women in tears, comforting each other, was all it took. There was an immediate about face, and without a word, the door slammed shut behind them. Kami and I figure they might be back by lunch. We hope they don't mind left-overs. We're on our way into town and might return by dinner. If they're lucky!

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FWM Tapes Winter 2003 (Exact Date unknown)

Holidays were made for the memories they create. Thoughts of childhood cause us to picture holidays. Good or bad, these are the times that are indelibly imprinted in our brains. Christmas was always a secular holiday at the Mulder household. Samantha and I never felt that they lacked because of that fact. It was still the time of the year we longed for most. I don't really believe it was youthful anticipation for the gifts either. There always seemed to be the feeling of the holiday spirit around the house, and we relished the warmth that suddenly enveloped our family at this time of year. I learned at a young age that my mother lived for parties. The season always kept her step light and a smile on her beautiful face. At least that's how it was while Sam was still with us. After 1973, Christmas didn't come to the Mulder's.

(Laughs) I'm not casting myself as Tiny Tim here. I won't be uttering any heartfelt exclamations of 'God Bless Us Everyone'. I only want to explain why that Christmas at Sky Watch was special. It was a holiday spent with friends that had become family. It's a memory that will never be forgotten. How could it be? What happened the following summer might make it the last Christmas. If the day has passed this year, neither Skinner or I knew when and I don't think we were alone.

We all awoke that morning to the smell of scones and coffee, courtesy of Maggie Scully, who had arrived on the 23d. Kami's boyfriend, Derek, and I had stayed home holding the fort while the others had attended midnight mass in Fort Collins. Everyone awoke early, though, thanks to Maggie's aromatic alarm clock. Had I scripted this day it couldn't have gone much better. It was a Frank Capra film come to life.

Gifts were exchanged, amid hugs and thanks. Homage was made to the pigskin gods. A banquet was served and eaten with everyone wearing there holiday best. The day ended with fully stuffed guests sitting before a roaring fire for toasts and an evening of laughter and good conversation. It was nothing spectacular. Just a simple, happy holiday shared with family. It is a memory that has kept me warm almost every night this winter.

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From The Journal of K.W. Wagner December 28, 2001 Sky Watch, Wellington, Colorado

This Christmas has to be the best ever and one I won't soon forget. Derek gave me my gift after we returned from mass. It was a beautiful ring, a marquis cut sapphire, completely surrounded by diamond chips. He earnestly proclaimed that we are engaged to be engaged. I smiled; I guess I can agree to that. We do seem to fit together. Somehow, everything about us feels right. Who knows? Time will tell.

On Christmas Eve, Mulder and I finally got a chance to talk. Everyone was gone one place or the other, last minute shopping, I suppose. He's happy. Just looking at him I can tell, but even better than happy, he is content. Finally, he is comfortable with himself and his life. Now that makes ME happy.

Our conversation was just that, two friends catching up on each other's lives. Nothing important. We talked about his and Scully's plans to stay at Skywatch until summer, and then maybe move to Baltimore to be near her mother. Apparently, Scully has already investigated job possibilities with the Medical Examiner's office and several hospitals. Mulder's immediate plans are up in the air but he does have some appointments in January to check into some rehabilitation programs that might help him decide.

"Have you decided?" he asked, a smile playing about the corners of his mouth. His speech is still halting and sometimes slow but the improvement since August is miraculous. My friend never ceases to amaze me.

"Premed," I sighed, knowing this wouldn't come as a surprise.

It wasn't, of course, and with a broad grin, he nodded. "Is this serious?" He fingered Derek's gift, studying it again by touch.

It's wonderful to be able to have a conversation with someone with whom you only need shorthand due to the fact that you know each other so well. It helped when Mulder was first regaining his speech and now, we slipped effortlessly into our clipped style of communication even more fluent by Mulder's much expanded vocabulary.

"It's going that direction," I confessed and almost laughed at the expression that crossed his face. I've always wanted a big brother and I think Mulder has assumed the part without even being asked. I believe he has longed to play this role again for a long, long time. "We've got time. We're just going to take it slow and see how things develop."

"He seems like a nice guy," Mulder offered, and I had to chuckle at the picture of earnest sincerity on his mobile face.

"I'll let him know he has the Fox Mulder seal of approval," I teased, smiling at the warm red tint that instantly highlighted his cheeks in response to my playful barb.

I love this man so much. We whiled away the afternoon chatting about everything from the current unrest in the Middle East to our names. I learned that Mulder's first name is a family name from his mother's side. "I don't know, but I don't think Dave or Jack or even Bill would fit you, Mulder. You might not like hearing it, but you are a Fox!"

I giggled when his face screwed up in disgust over the vintage slang compliment. "I mean, it's actually pretty descriptive. A fox is sly, crafty...extremely handsome."

His derisive snort at my comparison hit my funny bone and soon we were almost rolling on the floor with laughter.

"You don't look like a Kami," he remarked, when we calmed a bit.

"What does 'a Kami' look like, Mulder?" I queried, with a touch of sarcasm behind my grin. I'm used to hearing this and I guess it's true. Derek said the same thing when we first met.

He paused to think about his answer. "A 'Kami' is cute and perky. They aren't classically beautiful, almost six foot, leggy blondes."

"You've noticed more than my hair, I guess," I murmured, remembering a conversation from long ago, when he'd almost convinced a gawky, skinny, too tall eighteen year old girl that she was pretty enough to have boys notice her. Did he remember?

He did. "I'll bet all the boys love your silver hair," he replied softly.

"I miss you so much, Mulder," I cried, leaning my head against his chest.

He gently stroked my hair before giving me a final, quick squeeze in answer.

I glanced up at him and decided I would share with him the secret that no one except my father really knows. It's on my birth certificate but every other record, from school to the Department of Motor Vehicles, lists me only as Kami W. Wagner. "My real name is Katmandu Wind Wagner."

You have to give the man credit, his smile was small and kind. "It IS pretty. Strange, but pretty. But, why Kami? Why not Kat?"

"Dad used to call me 'Kat Man'. I guess I couldn't say it right, at first. I was supposed to have told everyone I was Daddy's Ka' Ma' which finally became Kami."

Funny, that story used to irritate me at sixteen, when Dad would relate it to me during his vain attempts at father/daughter closeness. It brought nothing but scowls and complaints when I was forced to hear it yet again. Now, I suddenly felt like crying with the wistful longings it stirred. Mulder held me, gently caressing my back. I awoke curled up beside him, my head still resting on his shoulder, when everyone finally returned home.

*****

I've enjoyed this visit so much. Derek can't help himself, he has to remind me that I'd changed my mind at the last minute and decided that going home for Christmas was an idiotic, infantile waste of time. Fortunately, Derek talked me back into coming. I think my favorite memory of this holiday will be the look in my father's eyes this morning when Mulder appeared wearing the gift Dad gave him for Christmas for the third day running.

Mulder was pleased when he first opened the package but momentarily puzzled because the Bronco jersey was not the now familiar dark blue and burnt orange. When Derek let out a low whistle and exclaimed over the rarity of finding a number 7 jersey in the vintage bright orange of old, Mulder's grin grew even broader at realizing the specialness of his gift. It wasn't until later, though, when I told Mulder the story behind the Elway shirt, that he completely grasped just what that particular piece of sports memorabilia means to my father.

John Elway gave my Dad the jersey the spring after his rookie season in thanks for my father's generous contribution to the athlete's favorite charity. Elway knew my parents were expecting a son later that summer and it was a gift for the baby. My mother died that July, giving birth to my stillborn brother. I was shocked when I saw Mulder hold up that familiar, bright orange shirt, but one glance at Dad's face, when he saw my friend wearing his gift again today, made me know my father had found the right person to inherit his treasure.

*****

Well, I guess Derek and I are leaving tomorrow. We'd planned on staying 'til after the New Year, but my father just informed me that a certain relative I'd rather not see will be dropping by tomorrow night. I guess he's actually kind of like my brother but I've just never gotten along with him. I haven't seen him, face to face, since he settled down in Washington D.C. back in 1992 and I plan on trying to make it through another decade without laying eyes on him. Longer, if I can manage it!

This news of this pseudo-kin's impending return has soured my mood a bit, turning my thoughts dark. My foul mood reminds me I need to write about the only smudge on this almost perfect visit. I guess I really shouldn't label this a bad thing, but it did send a shock through Scully and me. Since Christmas morning, I haven't found the nerve to even glance at what is inside that small blue box. Mulder's gift to me is packed away in my suitcase. I doubt I'll ever want to wear it. I know, that is a horrible thing to say about something he gave to me with such pride and love. I'd never admit to him that I feel this way about his present. I'll take THIS secret to my grave.

Mulder did every bit of his shopping this year on his own. It's a fact he is very proud of, and it is quite an achievement. The thought of venturing into a mall filled with last minute pre-holiday gift buyers with an entire list of Christmas shopping is enough to make me burn my Visa. And I am fully sighted and didn't suffer an ICH a little over a year ago. The man should get a medal for bravery and be written up in Guinness for this accomplishment.

Mulder's memory is still spotty in parts and he didn't remember that he had once bought Scully the identical bracelet he presented to me on Christmas morning. When I opened the beautifully wrapped box and saw the delicate, finely crafted Guardian's Knot gleaming amid the soft cloud of cotton batting, a chill went up my spine. I had to force myself to take it from its place so it could receive the ritual ohhs and ahhs from my friends.

Maggie recognized the familiar design that her daughter had worn so proudly, however, she politely refrained from mentioning Mulder's faux pas. Scully has never told her mother the full story of what happened in Central America, so this was nothing more that a slight social blunder. Mulder was a man, and Maggie had been raised to be tolerant of the masculine gender's lack of gift buying skills. How would he know one should never give the same gift twice, especially not to two women who know each other.

"It means forever, Kami," Mulder proclaimed with a happy grin, not realizing the disturbing memories connected with that particular Celtic jewelry. Forever had not been very long at all for his last Guardian Knot.

I caught sight of Scully as her face paled. I couldn't help my sudden shiver at seeing my own dread was mirrored in her eyes.

End Part 1