Dear Constant Readers,

I really should have posted this one first, but it needed a little more work than Flesh and Blood. Actually, I wasn't going to post it at all, but I figured the story had merit, so I thought I'd give it a whirl. It should be read before Flesh and Blood really, but it won't do any harm if you read that one first. It is Cancer Arc, so I know that's not going to be everyone's cup of tea, but it's something that I wanted to explore at the time I wrote it. Anyway, enough from me. I hope you enjoy. :-)


WASHINGTON D.C.

OCTOBER 17th, 1997

Mulder listened to the rain as it beat against his windshield, the rhythmic thump of his wipers, and the soft yet persistent rush of the tires against the wet asphalt as he drove, watching the city drift by the windows.

He'd been travelling this road for more years than he cared to remember, though much had changed in the view. Buildings had fallen and risen again like phoenixes from the ashes, trees had been planted and felled, people had come and gone. It was something he had come to accept, the transient nature of the fabric of life. Things that he wished would last forever were little more than fleeting windows into everything that could be, while things that he yearned to change were as enduring as the Rockies; taxes, rent payments, the woman next door who insisted on waking him every morning at five o'clock with the goddamned radio, and the traffic on the I395 during rush hour. He supposed that the old adage of familiarity breeding contempt was pretty accurate when it came to the daily commute from his apartment in Alexandria, but it was a small price to pay for the job that had given him a purpose, a cause, a reason to exist during some of the most difficult periods of his life.

He loved his work, and always had, but during the last few years, there was one other reason that had kept him coming back to his office every day; one person in whom he had confided his deepest secrets…the one person who had helped shed light into the darkest parts of his soul.

He wound down the window to let in some air when he felt tension creep across his throat that was becoming as familiar as the twinge from an old bullet wound. Though he tried to distract himself with the scenery, the radio, and thoughts of a possible Bigfoot sighting case that had come across his desk the previous week, it was futile.

There was something else on his mind, something that would not be pushed away.

The buildings, the people on the sidewalks, the other cars around him all melded together in a dull, gray urban blur as his attention drifted until he was no longer in the car, but in the medical center with his partner, Dana Scully, where, just two months ago, she'd been told she had cancer.

He had felt the blow as keenly as she had. Like someone had reached into his body and ripped out his guts, leaving a hollow that would forever make him incomplete. She had been his partner for almost four years, but more than that, she was his friend. Just about the best friend he had ever had. All he had done since he heard the news was wish that it could have been him. He would never forget her emerging from the hospital room with that haunted expression on her face that had given him the answer to his question before the words had even been born upon his lips. She said nothing, silent tears forming briefly in her eyes before she wiped them away, leaving him to only imagine how she must be feeling as she walked with him along the corridor, passing the private rooms with their closed shutters, wondering when her own turn would come to be staring into the abyss.

But how could he possibly imagine how she felt? How does it feel to be told your time is no longer to be marked in years and decades, but in months, days, hours? He supposed that, being Dana, she would be resigned to the fact; quiet acceptance of her destiny, her strength derived from her faith. He wished that he could understand that, but he had stopped believing in deities when his sister had been abducted. For years he had dedicated his life to the search for her. He had sacrificed so much – his father, his position in the BSU, the respect he had once had from his colleagues who now found him little more than a joke, and now it looked as though he was going to lose her, too.

And it was his fault. She had been abducted and abused because of him, and as a result of the experiments that had been performed on her, she was dying.

He wasn't sure how much more loss a man could possibly bear in one lifetime.

She denied that her illness was as severe as the doctors had tried to make it sound. She denied the headaches he knew she endured, made excuses about not having her glasses with her when she had trouble reading, tried to cover up her nausea, sickness and lack of appetite by saying that she'd already eaten or that she'd get something later, and blamed the heels she wore when she sometimes lost her balance and stumbled. But despite her denials, he knew that she was getting worse. She was losing weight. She tired so quickly, too, yet couldn't sleep properly at night. She often called him at late hours for trivial things, although he was pleased just to hear her voice…to know that someone needed him. Perhaps she knew him well enough to know that he too suffered insomnia and had done for many years, though it had been a hundred times worse since her diagnosis.

The conversation was rarely earth-shattering; the latest Knicks game, a story in the news, tales of outlandish behavior at college or comparisons of track times and shooting range scores earned at Quantico…anything except her illness. He didn't blame her. He supposed he wouldn't want constant reminders if he were sick and he certainly didn't want to discuss his feelings of grief, helplessness, even guilt at being unable to find anything comforting to say or do for her. At least, nothing that felt adequate. In any case, Dana wasn't the kind of person to dwell on the darker side of things. Maybe she was trying to find a way to confide in him, to put her fears and worries into words, or maybe she just wanted to hear a voice of reality and reason in the long, dark loneliness of the night. He didn't mind, so long as she derived as much comfort from the conversations as he did. But he still worried about what she did when the receiver was replaced. Did she lie awake? Did she worry? Did she feel lonely? Frightened? Did she stare up at her ceiling and see the darkness waiting there and feel it reaching out to her like a phantom trying to claim her soul? The haunting image of her lying alone in the dark, desperate for some reassurance that she would be alright was just too much for him. He felt it in the pit of his stomach like a ton weight, snapping his attention back to the road just in time to hear the blaring of car horns behind him as he shot through an intersection without stopping.

'Shit, Mulder,' he said to himself. 'You're not much good to anyone dead.'

As he approached the office on Pennsylvania Avenue, he flicked on his indicator, turned into the car lot and drove to his usual space. He turned off the engine and sat in the silence, hearing nothing except his own heartbeat and the ticking of the cooling engine as he tried to get himself together. He had to maintain his facade for her sake. She didn't need his pity or to see the pain and sorrow in his eyes born of his frustration at being unable to do anything for her. She needed his strength now more than ever, and he would always be there for her, just as she had always been there for him.

He was early again. Most of his colleagues were still stuck in rush hour traffic that he rose early to try and avoid, so he was surprised to see a desk lamp lit, coffee already brewed, and Scully's desk already occupied. Case files, black and white photographs, notepads and memos were piled in front of her, her sleeves were rolled back and she had twisted up her red hair at the back of her head with a pencil.

She took off her glasses, looked up at him and smiled. 'Hey, you. Couldn't sleep again, huh?'

'Look who's talking,' he said as he hung up his coat. 'How long have you been here?'

'Since about 5.30, I think,' she replied, yawning. 'Don't look at me like that, Mulder. I'm okay. I just have a lot of reading I wanted to do. That file there came down yesterday from the Memphis office.' She nodded toward the open folder on his desk.

He poured himself a coffee and sat down. 'What is it?'

'It's a report made by a Reverend William Cork, the founder of Cork Evangelical Ministries, based in Memphis, but with missions operating throughout the entire southeast. It seems as though someone has been issuing him with death threats as a result of claims he has been making at his meetings that he has healing abilities.'

He tried his best to stifle a smile. 'You're kidding me, right?'

'I know, I know. But I guess someone out there is taking his claims pretty seriously. Seriously enough to send him poison pen letters with razors glued on the inside of the envelopes anyway. Apparently, he's been receiving the letters for some time, but only now has decided to make a formal report. I guess the razors made him realize that whoever is making these threats has decided to make good on them. Memphis PD forwarded the report to the FBI.'

He decided to give her the benefit of the doubt as he read through the case notes she had already made, the crime lab reports on the envelope and note, and Reverend Cork's statement. He couldn't deny that there did seem to be something worth investigating there; he supposed he was just a little worried about her interest in this case. It wasn't exactly her thing, and they both knew that this wasn't ordinarily something that the Bureau would have taken a great deal of interest in, even to send it down to the basement. Still, the travel requisition was in the file and had already been approved, so it seemed as though she had already made the decision for them both. He could only imagine what she must have told SAIC Skinner to get his signature on those papers, but then she always did have a way with people.

'So, what do you think?'

He finished his coffee and closed the file. 'I think I'm curious as to why you're so interested in this case.'

'Alright, alright…maybe I do have some personal motivation in this,' she admitted, dropping her gaze to the file that now lay on the table between them. 'I don't need your judgment or teasing right now, alright? So just save the - '

'Hey…hey,' he whispered, daring to lay his hand over hers. 'Don't you know me better than that?'

He hadn't seen tears within her eyes since the day she was diagnosed and it both surprised and unsettled him to see them there now. He wondered why she was feeling so vulnerable today, and why someone who had always held her faith so sacred would now be interested in the type of evangelical ministry that she had always despised. It indicated a kind of desperation which made him feel sick, making him believe that she was hiding far more about her condition than she was prepared to admit.

His heart ached when she turned her hand over to grasp his fingers. She had never been a particularly demonstrative woman, and certainly had never been the type of person who usually wears their heart on their sleeve. To sit there like that, with tears in her eyes, clutching his hand so desperately, was like the first gentle tremors along the San Andreas fault – nothing but a clear indication that something was horrifically, gut-wrenchingly wrong.

'We're all entitled to at least one miracle in a lifetime, aren't we?'

He was suddenly unable to look at her anymore.