Genesis
Ally

Chapter 8

Oxford Park, San Diego. 1:56a.m.

Wearily, Mulder drew the rental car to a halt, and squinted through the darkness at the crumpled piece of paper he held in his hand.

He had taken several wrong turns during his journey, a combination of both his unfamiliarity with the local area, and his throbbing head, but as he now scrutinised the large apartment building in front of him, he was pretty sure that at last he'd made it.

The building was old but well cared for, and as Mulder stepped in to the lobby, the plush decoration indicated that this was definitely the kind of fashionable abode that an up and coming young FBI Agent, such as Wickham, would feel was both necessary and deserved.

Mulder thought of his own cramped, middle income apartment, and smiled ruefully. He doubted whether he would ever make the grade where he could expect to live somewhere such as this, or even that he would want to.

Material possessions meant little to him, status even less, although there had been a time long ago when he had enjoyed the same fast track existence that Wickham bore the fruits of. Somewhere along the way though Mulder had lost his footing, and he doubted whether he would ever climb back up, he had made too many enemies, upset too many people along the way - he was, as he had once told Scully, a lousy Bureau dancer - and he had long ago stopped trying to improve his footwork.

He had accepted the sacrifices his work brought about as completely as he accepted the ridicule. It was something he no longer even questioned, even to himself.

Mulder once again checked the slip of paper he held in his hand. According to Wickham's instructions, his apartment was located on the fifth floor, and Mulder let his eyes wander around the lobby until he sought what he was looking for. He passed the door that led to the stairway, recognising that trawling up five flights, feeling the way he did, would just about finish him off, and instead made for the highly polished brass doors of the elevator. His heart sank as he got closer.

"Great." He muttered to himself as he read the professionally printed sign which was tacked to the left of the sliding door - no tacky magic marker in this building - and did an about turn back towards the stairwell.

It was ironic he decided, that in the seven years he had lived in his own slightly down market apartment, the elevators at least, had never let him down, but here in this monument to gracious living, he was forced to let his legs take him where he needed to go.

So much for progress he decided sourly as he wrenched open the door.

The stairs where at least brightly lit and spacious, the wrought iron balustrade extending upwards in a snaking twist of metal, but as Mulder craned his neck upwards, the walls began to tilt alarmingly, and he was forced to grab the railing to steady himself. He closed his eyes briefly, and took some deep breaths, waiting until his head cleared sufficiently for him to move, and then slowly, each step laboured, his breath coming in shorter and shorter gasps, he began his climb to the fifth floor.

Despite his attempts to pace himself, Mulder was forced to stop several times to regain his breath, and once to drop his head down as a sickening wave of dizziness threatened to topple him backwards down the stairs. He was beginning to realise that in spite of his assurances to Scully, he was in no fit state to be out of bed, let alone exerting himself like this. It was also a measure of how bad he was feeling that the climb was taking such a heavy toll on him. Normally he would have sprinted up the stairs two at a time without even breaking a sweat, a level of fitness derived from a daily seven mile jog and regular laps of the FBI pool.

But the virus in his system together with a lack of both sleep and food, had left him feeling drained and used up. He wondered if this was what it felt like to be old, battling to scale even the smallest hurdle when all the time your body was screaming at you to just lie down and say "No more". It was a feeling that he could relate to at the present time.

Eventually though, he reached his destination, and after taking a minute to compose himself, he knocked softly on Wickham's door. It opened almost immediately, suggesting to Mulder that his arrival was not before time.

He held his hands up as Wickham ushered him inside. "I know. I'm sorry, I took a couple of wrong turns."

He shrugged off his jacket, and without waiting to be invited, sank heavily in to nearest chair. He was acutely conscious of the sweat which beaded his skin, and even more so of his old friend's piercing stare.

He began to squirm uncomfortably, knowing what was coming, expecting at the least an angry rebuke for keeping his superior in the dark. Wickham's words, though, when they finally came succeeded in throwing him significantly off balance, as did the concern behind them.

"Jesus Man, you look terrible. Are you OK?"

Mulder grinned crookedly. "I'd have felt a whole lot better if the elevator in this damn place was working."

He passed a hand over his throbbing temples. "It's a case of the flu, that's all. Like I keep telling Scully, I look worse than I feel."

"I sure hope so, Fox, 'cuz you look like you've just been run down by a truck."

Wickham held up the glass he held in his hand, the amber liquid it contained shining golden in the subdued lighting. "You want one of these? Medicinal purposes?"

Mulder considered the offer. It was certainly tempting, but on reflection, he decided against it. He was having a hard enough time driving as it was without adding alcohol to the equation.

Wickham however was never a man to give up without a fight. "C'mon, just a small one. You look like you need it."

"All right." Mulder conceded.

He had neither the time nor the inclination to protest. He just wanted to get this over with and get back to Scully so he could finally crawl back in to bed and block out the misery his aching body was putting him through.

He watched as Wickham poured the scotch in to a second crystal tumbler, and held up his hand as the level continued to rise. "Hey, a small one you said."

He accepted the proffered glass and took a small sip, gratified by the way the liquid warmed his aching throat, the warmth settling deep inside him like a salve, and thought back to the last drink he had had. Was it really less than two days ago? How had he managed to go from feeling relatively OK to feeling like this in only two days? For someone who was never sick, he was sure making up for lost time.

He dragged himself back to the here and now though as he realised Wickham was speaking.

"...harbouring a suspect in a Federal crime isn't going to reflect too well on your record, and the fact I brought you out doesn't sit very well on mine either."

Mulder held up his hand defensively. He had not need to hear Wickham's opening dialogue to catch the gist. "I hear what you're saying John, believe me, I've run in to enough hard assed protocol to last me a lifetime, but you have to understand that there are reasons behind our actions that go much deeper than simple Bureau procedures."

"OK. So explain it to me.....and Mulder, keep it simple, no little green men with ray guns. Just the facts."

Mulder sighed. "I'm afraid you'll find that the two tend to go hand in hand, only the little green men can seem more believable than the facts sometimes. I'll tell you what you need to know, but you need to be prepared to listen, without question to what I'm saying."

"You mean "open myself up to extreme possibility"? That is the term you'd use right?"

"Yeah," Mulder smiled ruefully, "That's the term I'd use."

He took another sip of the scotch, and sat back, dragging his mind back to find a place to start. So much had happened over the last five years, and it was difficult to pull all the strands together. When exactly had events been put in to play which resulted in him sitting here now?

His partnership with Scully? His opening of the X-Files? His partner's abduction?

So many events and so many implications to all those involved meant that Mulder now found it almost impossible to come up with the kind of narrative which would describe the gravity of the situation. His headache didn't make his task any easier. Finally though, he settled on a place to start, beginning a diatribe that he knew would sound crazy to his long time friend, but one which he had to make him believe if he ever stood a chance of discovering the truth, knowing that he needed to be able to count on his allegiance and his help in protecting Christine Stevens.

Wickham remained silent as he listened impassively to Mulder. He showed no reaction other than the occasional raised eye brow as Mulder spoke of Scully's abduction, his Sister's disappearance, the tests, the implants, the lies, the discovery of a secret Government project, the purpose of which was still unknown.

He spoke almost without pausing, eyes far away as he relived the horror and the loss his quest had brought about, and he didn't really notice when Wickham leaned forward and refilled the glass that he held loosely in his hand.

He had continued to take regular sips of the drink, more to ease his aching throat than from any great need for the alcohol it contained, and he was suddenly conscious that his words were becoming slightly slurred.

He stopped mid-sentence and frowned. He felt fuzzy and disorientated, almost drunk, and yet he knew that to be so would be impossible.

The glass remained half full, and Mulder, although not a regular drinker, had the kind of constitution that could handle six or seven such shots without it affecting him in this way. He tried to lift his hand, but he found he could do little more than twitch it slightly and this frightened him more than anything. It was as though he was paralysed, caught underneath a great weight which held him down, rendering him helpless, an all encompassing numbness spreading through his body.

The tumbler slipped unnoticed from his fingers, and landed with a dull thud on to the carpet below.

"Hey, Fox?....you OK?" the voice seemed to come from far away, and then Wickham's face loomed in to view.

Mulder struggled against the wave of dizziness that threatened to overcome him, and fought to catch his breath. His chest felt tight, as though an invisible fist were pressing down on it. He was aware of a strange whistling sound in his ears, and it took him a few seconds to recognise that the sound was actually emanating from him as he struggled to breathe. He could feel his chest rattling with the effort, cold sweat breaking out on his face, a result of his exertions.

"I...I don't feel so good..." He finally managed in a strangled whisper.

He closed his eyes as he felt Wickham press an index finger to his neck, just below the jawbone, already knowing that his pulse would be racing. He could hear the pounding of his heart inside of his head, the sound blocking out almost everything else, but Wickham's voice somehow broke through the barrier, concern all too evident in his words.

"Fox, open your eyes man..."

Mulder heard the words but did not respond. Exhaustion enveloped him like a wave, and the temptation to slip in to the darkness overrode all other thoughts, and then through the pain, and the fear, and the nothingness, a picture formed in his confused mind, a picture of his partner, her face standing out sharply against the blackness.

He struggled to open his eyes, the lids feeling like lead weights, and as he slowly focused, he was conscious of Wickham's face hovering above him, and he realised that he was no longer in the chair, but flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling. He didn't remember how he'd gotten there, and it didn't seem important.

"Jesus Buddy, don't do that to me. I thought for a minute you were dead..." He broke off as Mulder, summoning up every last reserve of strength he had left, raised his hand and clutched at his friends arm, his fingers grasping the air until they finally gained purchase.

"Scully..." he whispered hoarsely.

Wickham shook his head. "It's OK. Just take it easy, don't try to talk, there's an ambulance on the way, they're gonna take care of you...."

The pressure increased as Mulder fought to stay conscious long enough to say what he had to, even now concern for his partner at the forefront of his mind. "You have...you have to get to her...protect her..."

His hand fell away then as he lost the battle, hearing a buzzing in his head that seemed to emanate from his every fibre, overwhelming him with a sickening dizziness. He shut his eyes as the room began to spin, tilting crazily as the world angled away from him, hearing the sound of a siren wailing in the distance, hearing it getting closer and closer, until even that ceased to make any impact on him as everything went black.

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