Fever By Anna Otto Email: annaotto1@aol.com Sequel to Priorities, Foreboding, and Scythe, all found at http://www.geocities.com/~annaotto Summary: Fate. And a guide to how not to treat a fever. Rating: R Classification: SA Disclaimer: CC is way more careful with his characters. So these are not mine. Warning: do you really think this story will be easier to bear than its predecessors? I don't have to tell you that there are bad things in store, do I? For Ashlea, my partner in crimes. "I'll decide, take your time, Take my time, not my life, Wait for signs, believe in lies, To get by, it's divine." ~'Tremor Christ,' Pearl Jam~ Fever I've never thought of myself as an all-powerful man, but the others have always treated me as one. Their deference elevated me to the status of a modern deity, and I didn't question it - for I knew that my life was dedicated to that which I believed in absolutely. I believe in it still. But I no longer believe that I'm able to serve my faith. A thin vein at my temple throbs and twinges, beating an incessant pulse, all too fast under my skin. I press against it, as if trying to still the flow of pain that it delivers to all my nerve endings - and lean against my desk tiredly, seeking relief that I know won't come. During the last week, our organization had suffered more damage than it did in years. The hurricane that swept through left behind the wreckage that is visible even in the sterile, unpopulated corridors of this laboratory. It is not the gradual, carefully planned destruction that shows the surprisingly rational man that Fox Mulder had become during the last two years. It is the random devastation brought on by the wounded animal, whose greatest strength is its pain. It is the pain of a father deprived of his son. I only know that giving Kyle to him right now is not something I can bear. Every human and every deity has limits of endurance - and though mine are greater than that of most... this is more than I can and will ever do. Diana knocks on the door, and I wait for her to enter. I recognize her manner - respectful yet purposeful. I brace myself for the dull ache that flares each time I see her. It is at once a longing for that which I no longer have and contempt born out of the same longing. "You've always been a man of action," she begins without pre-amble. "I hope you still are." "What do you want me to do?" I question. "You know the answer already," Diana says matter-of-factly. "Kyle still needs care of this facility," I reply. "I will not bring him to Mulder until he is better." She had time to learn to keep her feelings down, and her face betrays no worry - no hurt. She is truly stronger than I am. "Then there is only one other choice left." In the most passionate moments I'd had with her, I'd always known that these bright lips delivered death sentences with the same equanimity as each of her life-igniting kisses. The white mask on which they are painted is supremely appropriate for the moment, when she proclaims the verdict on the father of her son. "Very well, Diana," I acknowledge her intentions. "You may rely on me." She nods graciously and vacates the room. I wonder if she is brave enough to visit Kyle. I'm not. I've never felt this agony, but I recognize it instantly. It's the primitive, uncomplicated torment of one who knows that the worst is yet to come. It's the pain of the father who will soon be deprived of his son. * * * It's a cold night, and I button my trench coat. She keeps late hours; the streets grow increasingly empty and streetlights ignite above me before I hear her heels resolutely clicking on the pavement. She appears lost in contemplation; her eyes are unfocused and she doesn't notice me when I step out of the shadows beside her house. "It's been awhile, hasn't it, Agent Scully?" I ask. Her expression immediately changes to barely concealed revulsion. I'm certain that it is only well bred manners that prevent her from committing any act of violence. My respect for this woman rises another notch. "Shouldn't you be off somewhere, protecting your hide-outs and laboratories?" she inquires. My eyes narrow as I release a circle of smoke lazily. "What if I'd come here to beg for mercy?" "I'd say that you're asking the wrong person." She rummages through her purse for keys, already dismissing me. "Agent Mulder just might shoot me on site - he is not as polite as you are," I call to her and her back stiffens. "I've come to help you." "Where is Kyle?" she asks me dispassionately. "How abrupt, Agent Scully," I admonish her sarcastically. "I have no time to waste." I follow her up the stairs to her apartment and extend a manila folder. "It is extremely important that you and Agent Mulder use this information - tomorrow. Call him and book your tickets now for the first available flight out." Scully looks over the photographs and names I provided. "This is a trap," she judges instantly. I make no move to accept the rejected documents. "Any trap is preferable to staying in the city right now." She shrugs. "Then you will warn them to close the shop." Absently, I pass a hand over my burning forehead. Perhaps, I'm catching a cold - a most untimely obstacle. I disregard it for now - I'm used to ignoring personal inconveniences. "I won't warn anyone," I whisper, disbelieving the magnitude of my betrayal. "You will find the facility intact and personnel unprepared." The steel-blue eyes that projected such hatred until now regard me with curiosity. Scully opens the door and ushers me inside. Now it is my turn to stare at her in surprise. Wordlessly, she grabs a hold of my wrist, and it is only my astonishment that prevents me from resisting her. "A hundred beats per minute," her words are an accusation. "Sit down. I need to measure your temperature." "Sometimes, it's quite all right to ignore your Hippocratic oath, Agent Scully," I inform her pedantically. "I will have to respectfully decline." I turn around, and walk a few steps to the sidewalk. "Wait," she calls to me and I note an edge of fear in her voice. "I need to know...who is Kyle's mother?" It is the first point of vulnerability that she displayed during the entire encounter - and at another time, I would have scorned her for it. Yet, how can I condemn anyone else for being human? What special rights have I now? And for the first time in my life, I wonder if perhaps it's the ability to admit weakness that is the greatest strength of any person. It seems a revelation, and I feel lighter when I give her the answer. "He doesn't have one." * * * A human body is a complex organism in which every part serves a particular purpose. The smallest part excised, while not vitally important, will propel a chain reaction of pain and disease. The result will never be the same, turning one into an invalid of body and mind, no matter how the person may resist the transformation. Even the beast of a thousand appendages will feel the same agony upon losing one seemingly insignificant part of its body. My kingdom is bleeding. The legs of my throne are rotten, and it shatters under my weight. The crown has rusted, and it crumbles upon my touch. I couldn't fight fire with fire. It is all I think of when two of the doctors who were treating Kyle are detained for questioning - the result of a chain reaction caused by the destruction of another facility. I know they will never come back here. I already recognize a frighteningly mundane pattern: questioning will result in the citation of formal charges, which will lead to an ultimately losing battle between the best-paid lawyers and the people of the state, which will lead to a jail cell from which only death could release the guilty. The man who brought me the news stands erect in front of me - his face implacable in the wake of what he knows are the last steps toward the ultimate downfall. He is unimportant - the people of the state wouldn't trouble themselves with someone like that. I decide that if and when I have a chance, I will make sure that he goes down with the rest of us. They shoot the messengers, don't they? "Who is with the boy right now?" I ask coldly. "No one, sir," his eyebrows fly up. "The doctors are gone, and there is little we can do..." I make sure that my voice remains even. "Kyle requires constant supervision. Was that not made clear to you?" His eyes shift back and forth. "But the boy... sir, I don't think he likes anyone to stay close..." I dismiss him before he has a chance to finish. Incompetence is something I could never forgive. I hardly examine my motivations or my fears when I walk into Kyle's room, but it is only when I see his bandaged head that I realize just how much of a coward I'd been. And I know, with a horrifying certainty, that I was always destined to fail. His brown eyes, full of almost adult disconsolation, watch me for a brief moment. Then, the small hands return to their task and he chooses a new colored pen for a piece of paper resting in his lap. And as I come closer to the bed, I see that most of his drawing is painted in black. Wouldn't what he reads in my mind add a few dark lines to this picture? Who will make sure that he will be safe - not physically, but mentally? "Who is Mulder?" Kyle asks suddenly, curiously. I recover enough to give my voice a carefree attitude. "Someone who I will take you to tonight," I tell him. "He will take good care of you." He doesn't seem to heed my answer as his sad gaze is drawn to the window of the room. The white face of a ghost watches us with Diana's black eyes. * * * The night should be my co-conspirator, but right now, the red lights jump and traffic lines blur in front of my tired eyes. I wish I could forget my purpose, drop my head against the wheel, and sleep for just a few hours. I wish to be released from this strange possession of the soul that propelled me since the first moment that I laid eyes on this child - the child that now sits in the front seat with all the seriousness of a seasoned traveler. He doesn't stir trouble, and he doesn't ask constantly whether we "got there yet." Ironically, I want him to. I hope that my migraine will subside before too long. Kyle's hand travels to my head, and he pats it gently, carefully. It doesn't help and, ruefully, I wish that the boy had the healing powers. But somehow, the pain is easier to bear - and my pulse slows down to a manageable rhythm. He wriggles closer to my coat, as if seeking warmth. "Almost there, Kyle," I say slowly. "Almost there." I sincerely hope that my son changes his living quarters now that he has a child to take care of. The apartment building where he lives is, sadly, not a place for to bring up the kid, and even I realize that. The path from the elevator to apartment number forty-two had never been this long. I knock, and the door opens, letting a streak of light into the darkened hallway. "Who is it, Scully?" The woman in the doorway surveys us with a mixture of mistrust and relief. "It's your son," she shouts back. When she takes Kyle from my hands, he goes willingly - and I step back, strangely comforted. Mulder appears as if by magic and practically rips the boy from her embrace. I'm certain that for just this moment, he sees nothing else around him. I'm only an annoying object from the past. Kyle's obvious weakness is something to contend with in the future. The present puts a foolish grin on Scully's face. Kyle twists in his arms, suddenly restless, and Mulder's eyes turn in my direction - only instead of the expected antagonism, they project anxiety. My son's fingers reach out towards me, and I understand that there is something wrong - the boy must have heard a voice that felt out of place. Quicker than I thought myself capable of being, I close the door, placing a barrier between us. The bullet hits from behind, like a cowardly butcher, and my migraine fades, now insignificant. I'm relieved. I have a brief time to hear Scully's gasp and Mulder's swear. They pound on the door, and I realize that my body must obstruct their way. We're at odds even now. Kyle begins to cry, and I'm somewhat surprised. My dear boy, I think somberly, this is a happy occasion. Your father will explain it to you later. I keep my eyes stubbornly open, watching the blood streak across the dirty floor. The king is dying. There won't be a new ceremony of coronation. The End. Thanks to Danielle, Rachel, and Ashlea, my long-suffering beta-readers. This story also wouldn't be possible without everyone who wrote and told me that Scythe wasn't the end. Obviously, this is. There won't be anymore sequels, so the world will be a happier place. Take Me To Your Leader http://www.geocities.com/~annaotto annaotto1@aol.com