Contagium (16/25)
by 6hoursgirl

Rating: PG-13
Feedback: calobee@gmail.com
Spoilers: Everything through IWTB and Season 10.

Author's Note: This is the sequel to my first book, Umbra Reverie.
I'd highly recommend reading that first. :)  As always, I hope you
enjoy, and thanks for reading!

Disclaimer: I love 'em, but I don't own 'em.
                         


Chapter 16

MARCH 31, 2015
4:43 A.M.

The darkness finds Mulder at his desk, screen glowing eerily in the
pre-dawn light. Attempts to sleep are futile, his intuition gnawing
away at his subconscious like an itch that can't be scratched. The
shed is dark no matter the time of day—like a black hole, it's easy
to get sucked in.

They've released the names of the victims from Isaac's school. It's
no one he recognizes, four boys and a girl, their faces flash over the
streaming video broadcast.

*They might as well be infants.* 

The girl's eyes are beautiful, bright and haunting, enough to make
him wince, but his sympathy is once again overshadowed by a
feeling of immense relief that it's not his kid's face on the screen.
Relief mixed with a deep-seated fear.

*Because it's not just them.* 

The reports are coming in faster than Mulder can read them; victims
with symptoms as far west as Texas, along the east coast, and
across both borders. Major cities are reporting new cases in
droves, with hospitals at capacity. Chicago, Boston, New York...

*New York...* 

His chair swivels with a tired groan, almost of its own volition. The
photo from the case file lies at his feet, the boy's bloated corpse
leering up at him, the gloss of the paper catching the light...waiting...

*I wonder…* 

He leans down and picks it up, once again struck at how much the
image reminds him of Isaac.

*Not exactly a riveting connection. They're almost the same
age.* 

But looking closer, there's something else.

*Damn…damn. Scully would have seen it.* 

It's subtle, almost covered by the discoloring effects of prolonged
submersion in the polluted river, but the boy's stomach is bruised.
Badly, as a matter of fact.

*Just like in the video…* 

He frowns, searching for the accompanying case report, finding it in
the corner behind the trash can. He shakes off the dust and begins
to read the medical examiner's report for the second time. It's the
same information, but something about the signature at the bottom
of the document rings a bell.

*N. Hagernan.* 

He turns back to the computer and pulls up the list of names from
the project, though he's read it so many times, he knows what he'll
find.

*Norman Hagernan, M.D. Jesus.* 

He sits back, hand to the back of his neck, where the muscles are
iron-tight.

*The project...the virus...* 

He wishes Scully were here. She'd be able to fill in the gaps,
correct his wild assumptions with hard logic, replace his missing
pieces. Tonight, she is his missing piece, and he feels it acutely.

He swivels his chair, facing the wall papered with clippings,
searching. His sister's picture hangs off to one side, tacked up
amongst the few pieces of ephemera he salvaged from his mother's
house after her death. His eyes linger on Samantha for a second
before settling on a different picture, this one black and white and
yellow with age, two men standing with the water at their backs.

*Was this what you were trying to save us from, Dad?* 

He hears his father's reply in his head, as brutal as it is unyielding.
The only remaining memories he has of Bill Mulder are tinged with
regret and soaked in alcohol. Over time, the good ones have faded
away, but his voice lives on.

*You were always too late, Fox. Looking for the end of the
world with your nose stuck up some extraterrestrial ass, when
the answer is right in front of your face.* 

*You're wrong,* Mulder thinks numbly, though he knows it's
futile; he's never been able to silence that inner running monologue.
Even in death—especially in death—he doesn't measure up.

The phone rings, its shrill, angry wail jolting him out of his thoughts.
Only Scully or the Gunmen would call at this hour, and either is
preferable to the drone of a long-dead drunk.

Byers doesn't bother with a greeting. "Mulder, we found
something."

Mulder glances at his computer, where the search engine spits out
another handful of new reports. Some clever journalist has coined
the term "bleeders" to describe the infected, due to the violent
nature of their deaths, the expulsion of blood in their last gruesome
moments.

He swallows hard. "I hope you've got more than a nice pair of
double-D's this time, boys."

"From what we can tell, Baray and Kent were brought into the
project for their immunology expertise. They theorized that their
failure to produce a healthy clone was the result of an autoimmune
response to the alignment of the chromosomes at the time of
mitosis."

Mulder rubs his left temple, grimacing. "In English, Byers."

"Isaac is the computer," Langly says, his voice even more nasal
than usual over the speaker, "and these two were trying to hack
him. Your kid is something else, Mulder."

Mulder snorts, thinking of a certain pencil embedded in the drywall
of his former den. "I could have told you that."

"The same gene that prevents Isaac from being cloned could make
him vulnerable to the virus. Kent was close to working around the
problematic gene when he dropped out of the project."

"Why?"

"No one knows. Maybe he disagreed on the extent of the research,
the questionable morality of using human subjects without their
consent. Maybe he suddenly grew a conscience, decided to give
his talents to more philanthropic endeavors—"

"But it's more likely he made better moolah in the private sector,"
Langly interrupts, "Uncle Sam doesn't pay for shit, no matter how
brilliant you are."

"Preaching to the choir, Langly."

"Baray continued working with the project up until about two years
ago."

Mulder closes his eyes, leans back in his seat with a tired sigh.
"That's when they gave up…when we found Isaac," he says.
"What does this have to do with the infection?"

"That's what we don't know," Byers says, "but given their
respective areas of expertise, and Kent's voice on that video clip?
Maybe they're targeting the project's victims to cover their
tracks…"

"…or maybe some idiot in a white coat stuck his fingers in the
wrong petrie dish," Frohike rumbles. "But if the goal was to keep
your kid from contracting the infection, there's a chance they were
working on a cure."

"So where do we find them?"

There's a pause before Langly fills in the gap. "Baray's dead,
Mulder. Dude was shot at his apartment, night before last."

Mulder's stomach drops. *Fuck.* "And Kent?"

"I managed to dig up a mailing address in D.C., but it's just a P.O.
box—"

"What is it?" Mulder demands, cradling the phone on his shoulder,
scrabbling through the clutter for a pen as Byers reads it off.

"What are you going to do, Mulder?"

He grimaces, turning back to the screen, thinking of his partner and
her former admonition. "I have a monster to chase."

#

6:30 A.M.

He stares at the computer after they've hung up, until his eyes are
sand-coated glass and his jaw feels like it's been wired shut.

*Getting too old for this shit, Fox.* 

He's already forming a plan. He'll wake Isaac, and they'll pack.
They'll get Scully from the hospital—*even if I have to sedate her
and carry her out,* he thinks—and they'll drive north, with a
detour to check in on their new friend, Kent. Then they'll head into
the woods until this thing, whatever it is, blows over.

*Guess we're taking that family vacation after all, ha-ha.* 

He stumbles from the shed and wanders toward the farmhouse with
his hands jammed into his pockets, the early light casting long
shadows, gnarled fingers gripping the ground. It's supposed to be a
beautiful day, March's lions becoming lambs, but the sun's warmth
is fleeting at best and Mulder shivers.

*How do you run from an enemy you can't see?* 

He's still brooding as he reaches the steps, the creak of the old
porch swing on rusty chains giving the otherwise bright spring
morning an ominous soundtrack.

*Should oil that,* he thinks absently, walking into the house,
which is slow to warm despite his efforts to seal its hidden cracks.

It's a different sound that catches his attention, sending a chill down
his spine, one that has little to do with the temperature. It's a sound
he's heard too many times over the course of the night, newscasts
riddled with its hollow echoes in the background.

But the television is a silent, empty eye at the far end of the living
room. There's no one here except…

*Isaac. Coughing.* 

Mulder swallows, stumbling over his own feet toward the sound of
his son's labored breathing. He remembers Byers' words from their
conversation, *he may be vulnerable.*

*No,* he thinks, heart sinking in his chest. *No, no, not now…*

He finds the boy curled on the floor of the bathroom. His face is
pale, his hair unkempt and wild along his temples.

"Hey, buddy," Mulder says, reaching down to gently help the boy
to a sitting position. He's grown several inches in the last two years,
he's heavier than Mulder remembers from when they first met, from
when he'd carried him, so slight in his arms. Now he feels solid,
more like a young man than a child. *When did that happen?* he
wonders dully.

"Isaac, can you hear me? Can you talk?"

*Shit. Think, Fox. Ambulance?*

No good. They're too far out, and it's unlikely any are free. He'll
drive, but where? The nearest hospital is Scully's, and they're
under quarantine.

*There's another hospital. General something…Jesus, you
should know this.* 

The hollow, reedy sound of the boy's voice fills him with equal
relief and dread.

"Don't feel good," Isaac croaks.

"Yeah…yeah, I can see that. We're going to the truck, I'm going
to get you to a hospital."

"Mmmph," Isaac mumbles. "Head hurts."

"I know, buddy, stay with me. Keep talking so I know you're alive,
Isaac."

"Don't wanna talk."

Even in sickness—*more like death,* a cruel internal voice rings
out—the boy is contrary. Mulder takes this as a good sign.

"Yeah…well, I don't…care," he huffs, wrapping his arms under the
boy's armpits and hoisting him to his feet. "C'mon, Isaac, work
with me here."

"Hurts," the boy mumbles, but he's standing on his own, barely.
Mulder supports him at the waist and steers them toward the door,
willing his knee not to lock up.

He loads Isaac into the cab of the truck, and the boy's head lolls
back against the seat. His forehead is hot to the touch, his hands
like ice. Mulder reaches behind the seat and grabs a blanket from
the floor, tucking it around him as he opens his eyes to look into
Mulder's own.

*I should have been with him.* 

"I wasn't here anyway," the boy says, causing Mulder's head to
snap up as Isaac continues, "You didn't know. S'not your fault."

Mulder's throat tightens. It's never his fault, and yet somehow, the
past refuses to release its grip on the people he loves.

"No peeking," he mutters, but he doesn't mean it. "Where'd you
go?" he asks, climbing into the truck and starting it, thankful the
engine turns over without protest.

*Keep him talking.* 

"Just the woods," Isaac says quietly.

"What's in the woods?"

"We hung out there sometimes."

*We?* 

"Alice."

Mulder's brow creases. He tries to remember if Isaac mentioned a
friend in the past, but nothing comes up, especially not a girl. That
would have caught his attention. But there's something familiar
about the name.

*Alice…Alice? She was the…* 

"The girl who died?" he blurts out. "She was your friend?"

Isaac's silence confirms the truth, and Mulder is struck dumb. He
clears his throat, gaze shifting between his son and the road in front
of them.

"Was she…alive…before you met her, Isaac?"

Isaac has enough strength to roll his eyes, as if this is the most
ridiculous thing he's ever heard, from the kid who can embed a
pencil in the wall with the flick of a finger. "God, yes. She wasn't a
fucking ghost."

Mulder turns his attention back to the road, chagrined.

*Some father you are, Fox,* the voice in his head broods. *His
friend dies, and you didn't even know her. What else don't you
know?*

"Nothing," Isaac says, not missing a beat, causing Mulder to turn to
him again, irritation flaring at this second intrusion, but it passes
quickly. 

*He's so damn pale.* 

"Hold on," he mutters through gritted teeth, not daring to say more.

#

The hospital—*Mercy General, on outer Main,* he remembers
as they take the exit, Scully had a conference there once—is eerily
quiet. There are no ambulances, no strobe lights or sirens, no
medical personnel rushing to aid. The building is lit, but the security
booth is empty, the doors locked.

*They've already given up,* Mulder thinks, rushing from the
truck. His fists bang against the glass entrance.

"Hey! Anybody!"

He turns to the right, peering into what looks like a waiting room;
some people are sitting, hunched over, while others are curled on
the floor. None of them stir as his palms smack the glass over and
over, and slowly it dawns on him that they can't hear him.

*They're all dead.* 

"No," he whispers to himself, casting a sideways glance at Isaac,
who's slipped down the wall, propped up against the ER doors.
"No, dammit! No!" 

He scans the room again, pressing his forehead against the cold
glass, looking for a sign of life. He turns back to the security booth,
desperate, and that's when he spots her—a figure behind the
registration desk, peering out from around a door. 

*A nurse…alive.* 

He catches her eye, and resumes banging on the glass. "Hey! We
need help out here!"

For a moment he thinks she's going to turn away, to leave Isaac to
die, and his panic is a raw, cutting edge. But the woman
approaches the glass doors with guarded eyes before holding up
one finger. *Wait.*

Mulder swallows, nods, breathing hard. *Whatever, lady, just
help him.*

She walks back toward the security booth, reaches inside, and he
hears the mechanical *whir-click* of the door lock.

"He's sick, he's—"

She turns back to him, but there's no surprise on her face, only a
resigned pain that makes Mulder's stomach coil like a spring. 

"Sick," she says wearily, "just like everyone else."

"It hasn't been long," he lies. "He still has a chance. You need to
help him."

The nurse sighs, as if she's heard this story countless times and
knows the ending by heart, but she re-locks the door behind them.
"This way."

Mulder fidgets in the chair beside Isaac as she takes the boy's
blood pressure, heartbeat, and listens to his lungs with the kind of
no-nonsense speed Mulder associates with assembly line
manufacturing. He watches her hands at the boy's throat, the quick,
perfunctory squeezes of her fingers on the bulb.

"Any other symptoms? Dizziness? Shortness of breath?" Her voice
is flat, almost bored, but perhaps that's the shock. He wonders how
many people's deaths she's witnessed in the last two days.

*Hundreds at a hospital this size.* 

He glances out the door but there are no others rushing to join
them, to see the latest victim. The inner hall is as silent as the waiting
room.

Isaac shakes his head weakly at her questioning, looking to Mulder,
but tonight they're equally powerless.

The nurse purses her lips, before turning to a cabinet and
withdrawing a syringe.

Mulder realizes he should be asking questions, making sure Isaac
gets the appropriate treatment—it's what Scully would do.

"What are you giving him?" 

"An antiviral. Oseltamivir, more commonly known as Tamiflu.
We've caught it early, but…"

"But what?"

She narrows her eyes, gently flicking the needle. "It's temporary."

"Temporary?"

"Mmm," she affirms, turning to Isaac to soothe, "Little pinch, now." 

"You mean you've never seen anyone come back from this…don't
you?"

He's staring at her intently, but she doesn't answer; she doesn't
have to. *Why else would the hospital be locked down?*

Mulder's knee bounces in an anxious dance, before he finally averts
his gaze to Isaac, whose head is turned away, eyes shut tight until
she finishes administering the shot.

*Coming here was a death sentence.* 

"So," he says, biting his thumbnail, "will a doctor be in to take a
look, or what?"

The nurse turns away. "I'm afraid I'm it, Mr…"

"Mulder," he says. "Call me Mulder."

"Well, Mulder. There is no doctor here; just me. I'm the only one
left."

#

10:37 A.M.

"You're not sick," she says, matter-of-fact, as they watch Isaac
drift in and out of consciousness. The Tamiflu brings his fever
down, but there's flaming color in his cheeks, a startling contrast to
his blue-white skin.

The nurse, he learns her name is Eileen, has brought coffee from the
cafeteria. It's the only thing the hospital serves now, besides soda
and chips. Vending machines have the advantage of immunity.

Mulder takes another sip; the coffee is bitter, watery, fitting.

"You look well enough yourself," he returns, raising an eyebrow
over the flimsy paper cup.

She shrugs, her eyes are dark, distant. "I'm not sure if it's good
luck or bad, to be left behind, but we're all infected. Some just take
longer than others," she whispers. "The antivirals slow the process
for some. Your son's responding well…but it's only a matter of
time. I'd suggest you pray, but you don't look like the praying
type."

Mulder might have been offended, but she's got him pegged. Scully
would pray, if worse came to worse. Mulder prefers to spend his
last hours cursing at the sky. He's done it before.

She takes his silence to mean she's hit the nail on the head. "That's
OK. Neither am I," she says with a sad, wry smile. "Not anymore."

Mulder can't take his eyes off Isaac as she talks.

"None of us realized what was happening until it was too late,"
she's talking, her voice hollow, flat as a broken drum. "The first one
died six days ago, I think…a man, late fifties, no other symptoms
but the cough. There was a lot of blood. Then suddenly every bed
was full and the waiting room was overflowing. One would die,
only to have three more start coughing…"

She closes her eyes, head swaying to an invisible rhythm.

"My super, Dr. Brennan, started convulsing in the middle of an
exam. Scared the shit out of me, and the little girl she was treating.
Both were dead within twenty-four hours."

*Jesus.* 

"There were rumors that someone had targeted the hospital, but
then the news started reporting on similar attacks in the big
cities…New York City, Philadelphia, D.C. It wasn't just us.

"I went home in the middle of a shift. Just walked out, went back to
my apartment. I thought…I don't know what I was thinking," she
whispers, suddenly agitated. "I guess I wasn't, I don't even
remember what I did. I think I made toast," she laughs suddenly,
barking into the empty room, making Mulder wince. "But by the
time I came back…there was no one. Most of the last patients
were my friends, colleagues. I watched them die."

Mulder swallows hard, wondering how many similar stories will be
told in the coming weeks and months, how many lives will be lost.
Through the years of waiting and watching, he'd silently prepared
for war, but this isn't a war.

*It's a goddamned massacre.* 

He swallows. "I need to, uh, make a call. Could you keep an eye
on him?"

She nods; the heavy door closes behind him, and he leans against it.

*Scully. Scully needs to know.* 

He pulls out the cell phone, ironically grateful for its slick metal
weight, for its tenuous connection to his partner. He doesn't expect
her to pick up, but she does. Her voice is raw, thin, and Mulder
feels his heart skip a beat.

*Shit, she's sick, too.* 

"Scully."

He takes a deep breath, exhales. "Scully, it's me."

"Mulder. Hi," she whispers, sounding distracted.

"You sound…are you…are you sick?" He grips the phone,
knuckles white, waiting for the answer.

"No…no, I haven't had any symptoms. Why, are you?"

His heart relaxes its grip, he closes his eyes and sinks back against
the wall. "I'm fine," he whispers. "I'm glad you're OK."

"I'm fine, Mulder." There's a concerned pause. "Have you found
something?"

"No," he says, his voice raw. "I, um," is all he can manage, his eyes
close and he presses the back of his skull into the hard wood of the
door, but the words remain beyond his reach.

*Our son is dying, Scully. He's sick. He's sick, and I should
have been there, I should have known. You were right, I have
no idea what I'm doing, and now he's dying, and I'm sorry.* 

"Mulder? What's wrong?" He's waited too long, the silence is
damning.

"It's Isaac…"

Her voice is a razor, cutting down his defenses, the only person
who can open him up and expose his heart with just a word. Her
panic sucks all the air out of the room. When she falls, he goes
down with her.

"What happened? Tell me."

He grits his teeth, biting off the words. "He's…I found him on the
floor."

She imagines the worst; there are tears in her voice when she finds
her breath. "No—"

"We're at Mercy General, but it's a goddamned morgue. There's
no one…they've got him on something, an antiviral—"

"He's alive?" she whispers. "Oh, thank God. I thought you were
going to say—" but she can't say it.

"He's sick, Scully."

"I…I'll be there as soon as I can."

"No, don't. I don't want you to see him like this."

*I don't want you to see me like this,* he thinks.

"Mulder," her voice cracks in disbelief, "he's our son, if he's…if
he's sick—"

"Scully, the guys found one of the scientists responsible for this
thing. They might have a cure. It's not much, but it's a lead, it's
something."

There's a skeptical pause. "And you're going to find him."

It's a statement, not a question; she knows him too well.

"I don't have a choice."

"Mulder…you can't just…leave."

"I can't sit here and watch him die," he says, the last syllable like a
gunshot. He closes his eyes against his own words, the first time
either one dares say it aloud.

*Dying. He's dying.* 

"No," she whispers, "Mulder, the CDC—"

"Doesn't know its head from its ass," he spits, with a level of
venom he doesn't intend for her. "Sorry," he mutters. "Sorry, I'm
just—I can't do this, Scully. I can't lose him."

When she speaks again, her voice barely registers above a whisper.

"What do we know for sure?" She's had this conversation with
herself hundreds of times in the last two days, but she doesn't have
Mulder's imagination. "It's viral, fast-acting. It appears to be
airborne, although no one has confirmed that for sure…given the
infection rate and spread, it's the only form of transmission that
makes sense."

"Some people aren't sick. There's a nurse here…"

"There are a few here, too," she says. "We haven't admitted any
new patients in the last 24 hours."

"The nurse said some drug—"

"Tamiflu."

"Yeah, that. She said it helps."

"Somewhat," Scully agrees, "but the virus adapts. Except no virus I
know of can mutate so drastically within days, let alone hours. I've
been trying to get the Disease Control liaison to work with me, but
their people aren't saying much. Our facilities are archaic, but
they've sent samples back to Atlanta; if this is a mutated strain of an
existing pathogen, they'll know by tomorrow. If not…"

He shakes his head. *Tomorrow is too far away.*

"They're not going to find anything, Scully. You know it, and I
know it. What we're dealing with isn't documented in any of the
medical texts, and they want to keep it that way."

"Mulder, there's no proof of—"

"Why Isaac, Scully? Why him, and not us?" he demands, pinching
the bridge of his nose as he paces the empty hall outside their son's
room.

She doesn't have an answer.

He takes a deep breath. "What if…what if the virus isn't new?"

"You're going to have to give me more than that, Mulder."

"What if immunity is the result of exposure to the virus at a different
stage of its life? If some smallpox vaccinations contained fragments
of the deactivated virus, or if someone was exposed to the original
virus, or hell, even stung by a bee…it could explain why we haven't
been affected," he says, still pacing, his mind churning. "Did you get
the results of the autopsy on your first patient?"

There's a pause. "No, the CDC appropriated the morgue. But
Mulder—"

"Can you get to the body?" There's budding excitement in his voice
now.

"I can try, but—"

"The answers will be in the victims, Scully. You have to get to that
body and examine it."

"Mulder, we don't know for certain that this is the same virus we
were exposed to. The only way to confirm is an antibody titer. Our
lab doesn't have the equipment, nor do we have time to—"

He's barely listening, talking more to himself than her. "Byers said
something about how Isaac's DNA left him vulnerable…if they
were working on a vaccine…"

"Mulder, I—"

"I know it's a stretch…call it a hunch. Humor me," he says thickly.

She goes quiet.

"Scully?"

A soft sigh. "I'm here."

Another pause. Neither wants to let go.

"Scully," he whispers, voice catching, willing her to understand, "I
have to know I did everything I could."

"I know," she replies. "You go. I'll…I'll get the autopsy results,
then come straight to the hospital. Is Isaac safe?"

"Yeah," he says. "Yeah, he's safe."

"Mulder?"

"Yeah."

"I…be careful," she says finally, the words layered and rich with
their shared, secret language.

"I know," he whispers into the phone as the connection is closed,
still tasting the lie on his tongue.

*Safe.* 

The word doesn't mean anything to him anymore.

#

He holds his breath long after the call has ended, the mint green
walls and smell of antiseptic as unforgiving as his memories, thinking
of a time when a place like this was just another mirage in the
desert of their runaway lives, a necessity that remained out of reach.

They were living out of a weekly-rate motel in Arkansas. No
amount of hand sanitizer could compete with the bugs breeding in
some of the back-country's fine dining establishments, and Mulder
had picked up a bad case of strep.

With no insurance and no way for him to see a doctor—a licensed
one, at least—he'd made do with Tylenol and tea and his partner's
careful tending, until the razors in his throat subsided, until the fever
broke and left him shivering.

He'd awoken in the dark, missing Scully's warmth on the other side
of the bed. He found her in the cramped bathroom, sitting on the
edge of the chipped fiberglass tub with her head in her hands.

"It's just strep, doc." He was trying to save face, but the sheen of
cold sweat on his bare shoulders and the whistle in his throat told a
different story.

She'd looked up, glaring at him with eyes that could cut glass,
before standing and grabbing a washcloth from the towel rack.

"Today it's strep throat, Mulder, but tomorrow it could be a
compound fracture, or a concussion…or worse," she'd growled,
running water, wringing out the cloth with a sharp twist. "You
should get back to bed."

Too weak to protest, he'd collapsed onto the worn polyester
duvet. His head throbbed, but he'd batted her hand away when she
sat down beside him and held out the cool washcloth. He was a
terrible patient, but she had years of practice.

"We're not young," she'd sighed, speaking softly this time, and
he'd actually worked up the energy to take offense, grumbling
something to the effect of youth being overrated.

"Maybe it is," she said, turning the cloth over in her hands, "but
your health isn't."

The precarious nature of their situation lingered long after Mulder
healed. It became the impetus for finding a permanent home. He'd
argued against it at the time, though now he can't imagine
why—what part of that life was he so reluctant to leave behind?
The living accommodations weren't doing them any favors.

No, their situation wasn't enviable, but he was certain of one
terrifying thing: The moment they stepped back into anything
resembling a normal life was the moment Scully would realize she'd
made a mistake.

He was a fugitive, but she was not. Why should she choose to live
like one? Why would she stay with Fox Mulder when she could
have a home, a career, and a family that wasn't tethered to a
conspiracy that destroyed everything it touched?

It was easier living day to day, motel to cheap motel, because he
knew what the stakes were, what to expect. He wasn't sure he
could go back to the real world. That world made it clear he was
no longer welcome within its boundaries.

Tonight, standing outside Isaac's hospital room, he's not sure any
of them are.

#

Eileen excuses herself, slipping out of the room like a shadow as
soon as Mulder returns. He wonders how much of the conversation
she heard, then decides it doesn't matter.

*We're all in the same boat now.* 

He pulls up a chair beside Isaac, relieved to see the boy's eyes
open and lucid.

"Hey, kid."

"Hey." Isaac's voice is thready, gravel against ice.

"Listen, Isaac," he begins, feeling his throat constrict. "There's
something I need to do."

Isaac is staring at him with resigned stoicism. There are no tears, no
plaintive goodbyes, only stony determination.

*Scully looked that way when she was dying, too.* 

He lowers his head, blinking back tears. It has never been more
clear that the baby his partner gave up and the boy who lies in front
of him are two different people. What happened in between caused
a hardness in Isaac, an inky black stone that Mulder will never be
able to crack.

*You may never get to try if you don't get your ass moving,
Fox.* 

"There's a chance we can beat this thing…but I need to meet with
someone in D.C. A doctor."

He doesn't tell the boy that the chances are small, that the meeting
is less an arrangement and more a hope and a prayer, but Isaac
doesn't need him to speak it aloud. He's too weak to shut out the
thoughts, and Mulder vibrates with a dread that makes his head
ache.

When Isaac doesn't respond, Mulder reaches out to take the boy's
hand in a rare moment of connection. "I'm sorry about your friend."

Isaac jerks back at the mention of Alice, glaring with a haunted
look Mulder has seen too often in his own reflection. As one who is
an expert in blaming himself, it's not surprising Isaac suffers the
same undeserved guilty conscience.

*Of all the things I could have passed on…* 

"Isaac…" he begins, "you told me in the truck this isn't my
fault…but it's not yours either."

The boy snorts in response, and Mulder clears his throat. "There
was a time when I thought I'd pay any price to find what I was
looking for, that no cost was too great. Then Scully was
taken…she got sick…she lost her daughter…and by the time I
thought to ask myself if it was worth it, it was too late," he says,
nipping at the pad of his thumb, his teeth leaving nervous
indentations in the calloused flesh.

Something shifts between them as Mulder talks. Isaac's eyes are
shining pools, swirled with feverish hurt.

"You lose sight of what you have when you focus on what you've
lost," Mulder whispers. "I did that with Scully, for a long time. I did
that with you."

Isaac blinks, and maybe it's a trick of the light, but Mulder thinks
he sees the trace of a tear disappear under the boy's chin.

"Your friend got sick, but it wasn't your fault. Your dad, your
mom…they weren't your fault, either," he says. "You probably
don't believe that now, but someday I hope you will."

The silence is painful, uncomfortably full.

"Go," the boy chokes out, "I'll be fine."

*Just like Scully,* Mulder thinks. *She was always fine, too.*

He sets his jaw, squeezing Isaac's hand until his fingers ache. "You
will," he replies, as if saying the words can make him believe them.

#

He finds Eileen standing outside the door.

"You're leaving," she says matter-of-factly, crossing her arms over
her chest. "What do you expect to find out there?"

He presses his lips together, avoiding the question, because he
doesn't have the answer. "Take care of him. He's…he's
important," Mulder says, unable to let himself speak the truth: That
aside from Scully, Isaac is the one thing that came from their sullied
past that's worth anything, shoebox full of memories be damned.

"What else would I do?" she mutters drily, then softens. "The
Tamiflu is helping; it should give you a day, maybe more. But
hurry," she finishes, leaving the implications of a late return hanging
between them.

"I will," he says, digging into his pocket and pulling out a scrap of
paper. "This is my cell," he says, scribbling down the number,
handing her the crumpled slip. "Call me if anything changes."

The morning air is sharp and empty, a damp slap to the face
pointing him north. His words to Isaac play themselves over in his
mind as he takes a reluctant leave from his son for the second time
in his life.

*…by the time I thought to ask myself if it was worth it, it was
too late.*