Epilogue I
A Moment In the Sun: West

*~*~*~*

In his experience, there were two kinds of 
professional athletes: those who were some trouble 
and those who were lots of trouble.  In thirty-odd 
years as press agent, often a glorified term for 
'nanny,' he'd learned few of the latter minority 
lasted.  They burned out within a few seasons, 
sometimes within a few months.  Most were barely out 
of their teens, some barely out of high school, and 
the meteoric rise to sports stardom, with all its 
trappings, was dizzying.  Women, booze, drugs, 
parties, gambling, money, cars, houses; it was like 
suddenly inheriting a million dollars, then being 
granted immortality to spend it.  Some men were just 
too young, some too dim or naive, and some too 
arrogant, but the results were the same.  Frohike 
had watched enough amazing athletes destroy 
themselves to know the pattern.

And then there was the majority: those who were some 
trouble but worth the effort.  They were the amateur 
league big fish who made it to the pros and had to 
adjust to an entire pond of big fish.  And piranhas.  
One of his favorite clients once likened them to 
prize thoroughbreds, and there was a grain of truth 
in that.  The heart and talent was there, and it was 
a matter of teaching an athlete what to do with it, 
both on the field and off.

Fox Mulder had been the exception.  He was older 
than most rookies.  Married, with an infant son.  
Bright, and well educated, if Frohike could get him 
to talk about it.  During his playing years, aside 
from being camera shy, the only trouble Mulder 
presented was calling at all hours, lonely and 
wanting someone to talk to.

When the Yankees signed Mulder in the spring of 
1939, Frohike had watched him practice and seen the 
makings of an icon.  A Wonder Boy.  Mulder was six 
feet of sun-bronzed skin, lean muscle, sleepy hazel 
eyes, a lazy, lopsided smile, and hair that was 
never quite in place.  He was painfully polite, and 
tended to mumble and stutter, which reporters found 
charming.  After his first homerun in Detroit, in a 
post-game interview, he mentioned missing his wife 
and new baby boy, his voice raw with emotion.  On 
the other side of the radio, women and more than a 
few men sighed in ecstasy, loving a hero with his 
heart on his sleeve.  Shutters clicked, flashbulbs 
flashed, pencils scratched, and when America saw him 
on the sports page the next morning, they ate him up 
with a spoon.

From a distance, Fox Mulder was the man every boy 
wanted to grow up to be.  Not just the fortune and 
fame, but the grace he brought to the game.  He made 
homeruns look effortless, like watching Gene Kelly 
dancing with a bat instead of an umbrella.  But up 
close - and he didn't like to let people get up 
close - Mulder was still the most brilliant, flawed, 
noble man he'd ever known.  Frohike tended to think 
of his clients as sons, but Mulder was one of a 
handful he thought of as a true friend.

For fourteen seasons, nine World Series victories, 
6,821 at bats, and a world war, Mulder's son was 
actually more trouble than he was.  Until a pretty 
little redhead named Dana Scully came along.

Frohike put his foot down hard on the accelerator, 
squealing the truck's tires and running the red 
light.  Emily was curled up in her pajamas on the 
bench seat beside him, and Dana was on the passenger 
side, with two Macy's shopping bags containing 
seventy-five thousand dollars in cash at her feet.  

Dana twisted, looking through the rear window at 
Mulder, Byers, and Will in the parking garage, 
staring at Alex Krycek's dead body.  Will and Mulder 
both held pistols, but Mulder had been the one who 
just pulled the trigger.  Predictably, Byers was 
jabbering frantically, but he'd pull through.

"Where are we going?" Emily asked in a small voice, 
her sock feet dangling far above the floorboards.  
Mulder had taken them to Coney Island the previous 
day, and her nose and cheeks were still pink from 
the sun.

"I don't know, honey," Dana answered numbly.  She 
watched until Frohike's apartment building was out 
of sight, then turned, putting a hand on her flat 
abdomen.  Her full skirt, bolstered by layers of 
frothy white crinoline, spread out across the seat 
in a sea of dark blue silk.  An antique engagement 
ring glittered on her finger, still twisted slightly 
out of place.
 
"Are you all right?" Frohike asked, keeping one eye 
on the road as he weaved through mid-morning traffic 
and one eye on her. "Are you going to be sick 
again?"

"No.  No, I don't think so."

"Just let me know if you need to stop," he promised.

"Where are we going?"

"Someplace safe," he assured her.

*~*~*~*

Frohike had spent the early autumn of 1953 watching 
Mulder crawl to the bottom of a bottle of expensive 
scotch and refuse to come up for air.  And being 
Mulder, when he fell off the wagon, he landed on a 
leggy, busty brunette.  Or a series of them, rather.  

After a season plagued by injuries, he'd retired 
from baseball and, at thirty-nine years old, people 
started referring to him in the past tense. 'You 
were Fox Mulder,' people would say, unaware how that 
stung.  At first, he answered politely, 'I still 
am,' but after a few weeks, especially when a pretty 
girl recognized him, he'd order a drink for her, 
another drink for himself, and answer, 'Yeah, 
sweetheart: I was.'

When reporters asked about his plans, Mulder said he 
wanted to spend time with his family, except his 
father had just died, he wasn't close to his mother, 
and his son barely knew him.  Frohike even wondered 
if Mulder had planned to patch things up with 
Phoebe, in which case someone should hit him in the 
head with a two-by-four.  Will idolized his father, 
but at fourteen, had trouble reconciling the golden 
public image, Phoebe's condemnation, and reality.  
Mulder wanted an instant family, and his son wasn't 
cooperating.  

Then again, William seldom cooperated with much of 
anything.

"Dad's seeing someone new," Will informed him 
tersely, calling Frohike's private line at eleven 
o'clock on a school night.  Frohike had told him he 
could call anytime, so he did.  Anytime.  If his 
phone rang after ten, it was Will or Fox Mulder, 
already halfway through a conversation and expecting 
him to catch up. "Did you know?"

"Dana Scully," Frohike responded.  He changed the 
channel on his television to match what Will was 
watching, then turned down the volume.  He could 
hear the dialogue just fine over the phone line.

"How long has he been shagging her?"

"Watch your mouth, William.  He's seeing her.  He's 
been seeing her for a few months, I think."

"She has a kid.  A little girl.  He wants me to meet 
them Saturday at noon in Central Park.  Ice-skating.  
He's taking them ice-skating, then to a movie.  
Mother says she's a bloody whore."

Frohike sighed.  Phoebe should take a long look in 
the mirror. "Your mother says everyone's a bloody 
whore."

There was a pause while Will took a sip of 
something.  Tea, probably.  He'd be lounging on the 
sofa in his undershirt and jeans, watching 
television, listening to the radio, with a book 
close by.  It had to be genetic, because Mulder did 
exactly the same thing.  The two looked alike.  
Moved alike.  Sounded alike, except for Will's 
American slang and British accent.  Having both in 
the same room was a little eerie.

"Well, I'm not going," Will announced, and the sofa 
squeaked as he shifted rebelliously.

"I think you should.  At least meet her.  She sounds 
nice."

"I don't care how nice she sounds," he answered 
airily. "She's just like all the others, and I'm not 
going."

"Suit yourself."

He heard newspaper rustle.  Will must be looking at 
the photo of Mulder and Dana on the society page. 
"She doesn't look like the others," he commented. 
"She's short.  And he says she has red hair.  Just 
what I need: a redheaded stepmother." The paper 
rustled again. "He's serious about her, you know."

"Yes, I know.  He's very serious.  And he wants you 
to meet her."

"Well, I'm not," Will said haughtily. "I'll tell him 
I overslept."

Frohike knew this ruse. "Do you want me to go with 
you?"

"Well, if you want.  If I even go."

"Well, if I have time, I'll be in front of your 
mother's building at a quarter till twelve on 
Saturday.  Is that what you want?"

He could hear the wheels turning as Will thought it 
over. "I'm not saying I'm going."

"I'm not saying I'm going with you," he answered 
sarcastically.

"I'm not ice-skating," Will added. "And if I don't 
like this woman, I'm leaving.  And I'm not putting 
up with her bratty kid. I don't care what Dad says."

Will cared a great deal what his father said.  And 
what he did.

"Goodnight, William."

Will mumbled goodnight and hung up.  Frohike 
replaced the receiver, got a cold beer from the 
refrigerator, and waited.  There was no sense in 
going back to bed.

Within ten minutes, the phone rang again. 

"I asked Will to meet Dana and Emily Scully on 
Saturday," Mulder announced, the same television 
program blaring in the background. "And he said he 
would."

Frohike sipped his beer and propped his feet on his 
coffee table, pushing a broken short-wave radio 
aside. "He did?" he answered.

*~*~*~*

"Can you go by yourself?" he asked Emily outside the 
filling station's ladies' room, ardently hoping she 
could.

Emily nodded, so he set her down and waited.  At the 
pumps, the station attendants finished filling the 
truck's gas tank, then cleaned the windshield and 
raised the hood to check the oil.  Frohike hadn't 
asked them to do that, and as the hood slammed 
closed, Dana woke, sitting up in the cab.  She 
opened the door and got out slowly, pushing her hair 
back from her face as she looked around.

"Bathroom break," he said, going to her.

"Where are we?"

"Near the Pennsylvania border.  Emily needed to stop 
again."

She nodded.  There was an old bench, and he motioned 
for her to sit down.  He sat beside her, leaning 
forward and looking each way down the lone stretch 
of asphalt.  There was the filling station, and a 
greasy little diner across the street, but otherwise 
nothing but road for miles.

"This doesn't feel real," she said, shaking her 
head. "This whole day: it doesn't seem real.  I keep 
waiting to wake up."

"I know.  I don't think we were followed.  I think 
we're fairly safe.  I'll stop soon and let you and 
Emily rest a few hours.  I have a place in mind."

"And then what?"

"And then you disappear.  Change your appearance; 
change your name.  I'd like to get you out of the 
country, but I doubt you could get across the border 
right now."

"So that's it?  Emily and I vanish?  What about 
Mulder?  He shot that man because of me.  There are 
people after us.  He has to-"

"Don't worry about it," he assured her. "We'll take 
care of it." He took a deep breath, filling his 
lungs with warm, clean air. "Yes, you and Emily 
vanish until we're certain it's safe.  That's what 
Mulder wants: for you to be safe.  I'll give you a 
phone number: a person who can relay messages, but-"  

"I can't just take his money and abandon him.  He 
doesn't know how dangerous-" 

"Yes, he does."

She looked up, as if searching for some pattern in 
the clouds. 

"I did this.  To him.  To Will.  To everyone."

"You didn't do anything," he answered.

A delivery truck rattled down the road, bound for 
the horizon.
 
She started to say something, but the bathroom door 
opened, and Frohike got up to get Emily.  He picked 
her up the way Mulder did, trying not to put 
pressure on her joints.  She'd washed her hands: he 
could smell the pink powdery soap from the gas 
station bathroom as she held on to his neck.

There was a soda machine, and he dropped nickels in 
and opened the door one-handed, giving Emily three 
cold glass bottles to hold.

"We bought sodas," he told Dana when they returned 
to the truck, as if she hadn't just watched them do 
it. "Do you want one?"

"Not yet," she answered, which was what she'd said 
when he offered a late lunch.  He'd bought Emily a 
burger and shake, but Dana asked for lemonade, then 
sipped it for hours.

"You need to eat something," he reminded her, 
although soda wasn't a food group for anyone except 
Will and Mulder.

"Do you want me to drive?" she answered, taking a 
bottle.

"It's manual." He hadn't even known she could drive; 
Mulder chauffeured her everywhere.  And, though it 
wasn't top priority at the moment, Frohike liked his 
new truck with all the gears intact. "Three-speed.  
Is that all right?"

She nodded, reaching for the keys.  The woman had 
outwitted some sort of government hybrid breeding 
program, and kept Fox Mulder more or less in line 
for almost two years.  She could roast a turkey, 
balance a checkbook, and he'd once watched her 
wrestle a man back from Death.  Odds were, she could 
drive a truck.   

He put Emily in the middle of the bench seat, 
holding her soda, then got in the passenger side as 
Dana slid behind the wheel.

"It's on the column," he said when she looked for a 
gearshift.

Dana surveyed the set up, then turned the key, put 
the Ford in gear, and eased to the edge of the 
parking lot.

"Which way are we going?"

"West," he answered.

She turned right, shifted into second, and headed 
for the sunset.

*~*~*~*

The first time he laid eyes on Dana Scully, she was 
wobbling across the ice in Central Park, clutching 
Mulder's hand and laughing carelessly.  Her eyes 
sparkled, her breath hung white in the icy air, and 
her red cheeks reddened further as Mulder kissed 
her.  Shutters clicked, and one of the most famous 
images of the era was born: Mr. Baseball embracing 
his beautiful girlfriend as they glided across 
Wollman Rink.  All seemed right with the world.

The second time, almost a year later, in 1954, she 
was walking beside Mulder's hospital gurney as it 
was wheeled out of Surgery.  She was still in her 
bloodstained evening dress and stiletto heels from 
the night before, and she kept one hand on his 
forearm, unwilling to let him go.  His face was 
shadowed with stubble, hers with exhaustion and 
fear, but her eyes were determined.  Mulder was 
trying his best to die, but no one died on Dana 
Scully's watch without her permission.

It was the best of times and the worse of times, and 
his opinion was the same in both instances: she was 
one hell of a woman.

He'd been sleeping when the phone rang, and picked 
up the receiver to hear Will jabbering that his 
father had just been shot.   

"Shot?" Frohike repeated in the darkness, half-
awake.  He'd talked with Mulder that afternoon, and 
gotten the full report on Emily's convalescence and 
Dana's mid-term grades.  As soon as Dana finished 
her shift at the hospital, they were going out to 
dinner to celebrate.  And, unless he was mistaken, 
Will was supposed to be with his mother in New York.

"I was a brat and they wanted his wallet and they 
were looking at Miss Scully so he told us to run and 
they shot him. The medics said he was dead, but Miss 
Scully said he wasn't," Will babbled between sobs, 
and Frohike got on a redeye flight to DC.

When he arrived at the hospital, it was almost four 
in the morning.  Mulder was still in surgery, 
according to the nurse at the front desk, and when 
he asked about Will, she directed him past the 
lobby, through the double doors, and down a long 
white corridor.  Reaching the restricted part of the 
deserted hospital, he thought he'd taken a wrong 
turn, but then spotted Will, who was slouched on a 
folding metal chair in the hall outside Surgery.  He 
was holding Emily as she slept, and still wearing 
the rumpled suit he'd borrowed from his father.  He 
probably wasn't supposed to be there, but no one was 
making any attempt to get him to move.

William was very seldom where he was supposed to be.

"One of the nurses said the surgeons were closing. 
That mean's they're almost finished, doesn't it?" 
Will asked hoarsely. "That means he's okay, doesn't 
it?"

"It means they're almost finished," he answered, 
then leaned against the wall beside Will. "Did she 
say how he's doing?"

Will shook his head 'no' slowly.

"Where's Dana?  Is she all right?"

"She's with Dad."  

"Do you or Emily need anything?"

"Yeah.  We need my Dad not to die," the boy mumbled, 
looking lost.  Frohike put his hand on Will's 
shoulder and stopped asking questions.

There was a gray metal clock on the wall opposite 
them, and the ticking seemed intrusively loud in the 
silent hospital.  As the minutes passed into an 
hour, he left to call Byers and buy two cups of 
coffee that no one drank.  About five, Emily needed 
to go to the bathroom, so Frohike sat in the metal 
chair until Will returned with her.

Eventually, the swinging doors parted, and the 
gurney emerged in slow motion, with Dana beside it 
and the exhausted doctors following.  Frohike 
thought Mulder said she was an ER nurse, but it must 
have been easier to let her into surgery than argue 
with her.  She pulled the cloth cap off her hair and 
took off her surgical gown as she walked, handing 
them to another nurse.  The evening dress underneath 
was a strange rust color in front and dark blue in 
back, and it took Frohike a moment to realize the 
original color was blue, and the rust was Mulder's 
dried blood.  She stopped to slip off her high 
heels, then continued in her stockings, her feet 
leaving a trail of warm patterns on the cold floor. 

Will stood at the gurney approached, shifting Emily 
to his hip. 

"Dad?" he asked, sounding like a small child.  He 
started to touch his father's hand, then pulled 
back, frightened. "Daddy?" 

Will must have been expecting Mulder to open his 
eyes and say something sarcastic, but that wasn't 
going to happen.  Frohike had seen enough players go 
under the knife to know how they looked afterward: 
groggy, pale, uncomfortable.  Disoriented, often, 
but not like this.  Mulder looked like a corpse.

"There was a great deal of vascular damage, son," 
one of the surgeons told him gently. "And his brain 
was deprived of oxygen for an extended period of 
time.  The prognosis isn't good, but we're doing all 
we can."

"Miss Scully?  Dana?" Will said shakily, looking at 
his father's slack, ashen face.  Layers of bandages 
covered Mulder's chest and shoulder, and there were 
tubes and IV's running in and out of everywhere.  
His breaths were shallow and so slow that Frohike 
found himself anxiously looking forward to the next 
one.

"It's bad, Will.  Even if his heart keeps beating, 
they're not sure he'll ever wake up.  It took the 
ambulance a long time to get there and…" she trailed 
off, then repeated, "It's bad."

Frohike put a hand on Will's shoulder again, 
steadying him.

"We're taking him to Recovery.  As soon as he's 
stable, I'll come get you.  You can sit with him." 
She reached up, touching his cheek lightly with her 
fingertips. "Okay?"

Will nodded, not sure what else to do except agree.  
Dana kissed Emily's forehead as the girl slept, then 
followed the orderlies.

They maneuvered the gurney through the doorway to 
Recovery, and Will sank onto his folding chair 
again, holding Emily against his shoulder and 
staring straight ahead.

"He's going to die, isn't he?" he whispered, barely 
adding breath to his words.

"Not if she can help it," Frohike answered.

The boy didn't respond except to close his eyes 
against the too-bright lights and lean his head back 
against the cinderblock wall.  The hospital was 
silent, and Frohike could hear his own heart beating 
inside his ears in time with the ticking of the 
clock.  A tear slipped out the corner of Will's eye, 
then trickled down his cheek.  Frohike was supposed 
to pretend he didn't see it, so he did.  He closed 
his eyes, waiting, letting time swirl past 
unmonitored until it was necessary to think again.

Will sniffed, then took a long, shuddery breath.

On the other side of the wall, Frohike could hear 
the nurses moving around Recovery, monitoring 
Mulder.  Every few minutes, the doctors would ask 
for a report, and it would be the same series of 
dismal numbers.  Mulder was 'still holding on,' 
which was only positive given the alternative. 

He heard Dana speaking softly, assuring Mulder he 
was going to be all right and asking him to move his 
hand if he could hear her.

He didn't hear anything indicating Mulder moved.
 
"Doctors," a female voice called, then said Mulder's 
blood pressure, already too low, was still dropping.  

Within seconds, there were rapid footsteps as the 
surgeons returned. "We must have missed a bleeder," 
one said.

"We'll have to open him up again.  Damn it."

There were more footsteps, and the sound of air 
being forced into a blood pressure cuff again.  
Metal instruments rattled on metal trays, and glass 
clinked as nurses unhooked the bottles of blood and 
whatever else from the stands, preparing to take 
Mulder back to surgery.  Someone called out a string 
of grim-sounding numbers corresponding to vital 
signs, and the doctor cursed again.

"He won't make it," the first man responded.

Will heard the discussion and opened his eyes, 
breathing quickly.

"You have to try," Dana said.

"He won't survive, Miss Scully.  It's a miracle he's 
alive now."

"You have to try," she repeated urgently.

"I've tried!  I've been trying for eleven hours!" 
the surgeon snapped back. "His chest is hamburger!"

"You're not giving up on him!" she ordered tersely, 
and Frohike could envision her grabbing the surgeon 
by the lapels of his white coat to emphasize her 
point. "You give up when I give up, and I'm not 
giving up yet!  Do you want your picture on 
tomorrow's front page as the surgeon who let Fox 
Mulder die, because I'll make sure it's there!"

Something glass crashed to the floor, shattering and 
spattering and echoing into the hall, then there was 
a tense pause.

"Fine. Take him back," the surgeon conceded wearily, 
then asked, "How much blood do we have left?"

Frohike heard the orderlies moving the gurney, its 
wheels clacking across the tile floor.

"Three pints," a nurse answered.

The gurney came through the door again, turning 
toward the operating room.  Will stood, watching 
helplessly as the orderlies rushed his father past.

"That's not enough," the doctor said.

The nurse said they could call another hospital for 
more, and the doctor responded there wasn't time.

"What about Negro blood?" Dana demanded. "Use it," 
she ordered when there was stunned silence. The 
blood supply was segregated by race, just as White 
patients were treated in one part of the hospital 
and Blacks another. "Use whatever the hospital has."

"That still might not be enough.  We're wasting our 
time and-" he started, then caught sight of Will's 
face.  He stopped speaking, swallowed, then turned 
away, following the gurney to Surgery.

Dana stopped in the hall, hands on her hips, and 
took a deep breath.  She'd changed into a borrowed 
pair of white nurses' shoes and uniform, both at 
least two sizes too big on her.  

"You," she said suddenly, turning to Will. "Are you 
O-positive?  Your blood type: is it O-positive?"

Will nodded, wide-eyed, clutching Emily.  He hated 
needles.

"Find a nurse and tell her you want to donate a pint 
of blood.  Or two.  Whatever he needs.  Go!  What 
about you?" she demanded, pointing at Frohike. 

"O-positive," Frohike mumbled, expecting lightening 
bolts to fly from her fingertip.

"Go with Will.  Now!"

The doors to Surgery swung open as an orderly 
hurried out, giving Frohike a glimpse the nurses 
quickly cutting away the bandages as the anesthetist 
covered Mulder's mouth and nose with the black 
rubber mask.  In the adjoining room, the two 
surgeons were hurriedly scrubbing their hands.

"Now!" Dana repeated, and Frohike and Will turned, 
hurrying into Recovery in search of another nurse 
before Dana Scully found a syringe and started 
siphoning them herself.

*~*~*~*

"There wasn't much of a selection," he told Dana 
when he returned from his shopping trip, handing her 
the cheap brown wig.  She laid it on the table 
beside a brown eyebrow pencil, a new lipstick, a few 
toiletries, and the clothing he'd chosen for her and 
Emily.

"I get the feeling you've done this before," she 
commented, looking at the wig unenthusiastically.

"Maybe I just read too many spy novels."

"Maybe," she conceded tiredly.

Dana didn't ask whose guesthouse they were staying 
in, and Frohike hadn't offered.  He'd used a pay 
phone outside in town, making sure Dana's new ID's 
and passports would be ready on schedule.  He wanted 
to call Byers to check in, but didn't.  Whatever was 
happening in New York was happening; he couldn't 
change it.  His job was to keep Dana and Emily safe, 
and get them as far from Them as possible.

"I did some intelligence work in the Pacific during 
the war," he admitted. "They needed help, and I was 
a little younger then.  And taller."

It was the first time he'd ever told a soul.  When 
people asked what he'd done during WWII, he said he 
was a clerk.  And people believed him: that the Army 
had desperately needed forty-eight-year old, pudgy, 
balding, five-foot-nothing clerks with pop bottle 
glasses and no typing ability in the South Pacific.  
He had a scar on his ass from WWI, for God's sake.

"You were a spy?"

Frohike scratched the salt-and-pepper stubble on his 
jaw. "No.  More like a spy valet.  I set up their 
cover stories, made sure the men fit the roles they 
were playing, made sure all the pieces came 
together.  Not a lot different from what I do now."

She considered that, sinking into a chair and 
cupping her hands around a glass of water.  The 
guesthouse hadn't been used in a while, and the air 
was still stuffy, despite the laboring air 
conditioner.  Moisture beaded on the outside of her 
glass, streaming down to the tabletop in little 
rivers.  A drop of perspiration trickled from the 
base of her throat and disappeared down the neck of 
her wrinkled blue dress.  He tried not to watch it.

"Were you at Pearl Harbor?"

"No.  Not that day."

She dragged her thumb across the glass, wiping a 
clear arc. "I had two brothers there.  One made it." 
She was quiet a moment, then exhaled forcefully and 
blinked. "Sorry.  Hormones," she said, smiling 
tiredly and shaking her head. 

In the bedroom, Emily rolled over, pushing the 
covers off, and Dana started to get up again.  Her 
mother had taken off the grimy pajamas her daughter 
had been wearing when they fled the hospital that 
morning, leaving Emily to sleep in a pair of white 
cotton socks and panties.

"I'll get her," he offered, going to the bedroom and 
pulling the top sheet over her again.  When he 
returned, Dana was still at the dining room table, 
taking tiny sips of water. "She's sound asleep," he 
said awkwardly. "Why don't you join her?"

She shook her head. "I can't sleep."

"I'll listen if you want to talk."

Predictably, she shook her head again.

"I don't suppose I could convince you to eat 
something?"

"I did.  While you were out.  There were crackers 
and some pears-"

She stopped speaking when the phone rang, sounding 
piercing and shrill in the stale air.  They both 
stared at it.

"Is it-" she started.

"No.  It's nobody.  No one knows where we are.  Not 
Mulder, not Byers: no one.  The pitcher who owns 
this place is in Florida right now.  He's not going 
to be calling the guesthouse."

"Maybe it's a wrong number."

"Maybe."

He hadn't spotted a tail.  They'd only stopped four 
times since Manhattan: gasoline, bathroom breaks, 
and the burger joint.  He'd chosen their route 
randomly, staying on the back roads so anyone 
following them would be obvious.  Aside from the 
filling stations, the carhop at the drive-up burger 
place, and the clerks at the drug and department 
store an hour ago, the only human he'd had contact 
with was the call he'd just made from the pay phone.

Frohike continued staring at the ringing phone, the 
skin on the back of his neck tingling.

"We have to go," he said suddenly, reaching for his 
keys. "Now!"

Dana cleared the table in one motion, sweeping 
everything but her water into the shopping bags.  
Frohike went to the bedroom and picked up Emily: 
pillow, blankets, and all, and carried her outside.  
Dana followed, bringing his old service rifle and 
looking like she had at least a fair idea how to use 
it, if necessary.

"No, the garage," he ordered as she started for his 
truck.  She opened the garage doors, and he nodded 
to the Packard. "The keys should be in it.  Back it 
out." He opened the passenger door and pulled the 
seat forward, laying Emily in the back.  She opened 
her eyes groggily, then went back to sleep.   

He returned to the driveway and started his truck, 
waiting while Dana quickly backed the stately 
Packard out of the garage.  He parked his truck in 
its place, grabbing the bags of cash and taking them 
with him.

Dana slid across the front seat to the passenger 
side as he closed and locked the garage door.  He 
tossed the Macy's bags into the car, then floored 
the gas and spun the steering wheel as he closed the 
driver's door.  The Packard spun around on its 
white-wall tires, a long, luxurious expanse of cream 
and polished chrome.  The motor purred almost 
silently as he shifted gears, then moved forward, 
gliding smoothly down the dusty driveway.  It was 
dusk, but he left the headlights off.  When they 
reached the paved road, he rolled down the window, 
listening for any cars he couldn't see.

All he heard were crickets.

Beside him, Dana fished in the bag from the 
department store until she found a scarf, then tied 
over her hair.  She leaned over the seat, making 
sure Emily was covered.

He'd stop at the first place they found and switch 
the Packard's license plate, just in case.

"Did we just steal a car?" Dana asked, rolling down 
her window.    

"Its owner said 'stop by anytime.  Just make 
yourself at home.'"

The night air flowed in, cool and moist, as the 
Packard slid quietly through the forgiving darkness.

"And you think this was what he meant?"

"Probably not," Frohike responded, turning on the 
radio.

*~*~*~*

It was late November, so his work was fairly quiet.  
Anything that needed arranged or announced to the 
press could usually be done by phone.  There was no 
reason why he couldn't stay in DC, though no one had 
specifically invited him.

According to Will, Mulder had wanted to leave the 
hospital immediately after the Demerol overdose, but 
his blood pressure wasn't stable enough.  Even 
sixteen hours later, a doctor had accompanied him 
home in an ambulance, monitoring his vitals and 
giving him something to deaden the pain.  As the 
paramedics maneuvered the stretcher up the stairs 
and transferred Mulder to his own bed, he didn't 
seem to feel a thing.  The doctor checked him again, 
then wrote his home number on a card and gave it to 
Dana, telling her to call anytime.

Dana went to the window, watching as the ambulance 
drove away. On the big bed behind her, Mulder hadn't 
moved.

"How are you going to do this alone?" Frohike asked 
from the doorway, his hands in his pockets.  

"I'll manage.  He wanted to come home.  He's safer 
here," she answered, going to the bed and putting 
her hand on Mulder's.  He mumbled unintelligibly, 
then drifted away, snoring softly.

"You really think someone tried to kill him?  
Again?" he added.  

Reporters were asking questions, and Frohike wasn't 
sure what to tell them.  From what Will said, his 
father had been cooperating with the muggers.  From 
the proximity of the shooter and the gun being left 
at the scene, it looked more like a hit than a 
mugging-gone-bad.  And then the unrecorded Demerol 
overdose was just too convenient a mistake.  The 
police were saying attempted murder, but they were 
dragging their feet about it.

"Yes," Dana answered quietly, sounding tired.

"Why?"

She left the bedroom door open, but switched off the 
lights. "I don't know.  I just know They did."

He mentally assigned a capital T to her 'They.' 
Lowercase t was two muggers in an alley and a 
medical error; Uppercase T was Them, and far more 
inexplicably dangerous.

She descended the stairs, stopping in the foyer to 
take off her white shoes and feed the hungry fish.  

Will glanced at her, making sure everything was all 
right, then went back to watching television with 
Emily.  He'd volunteered to baby-sit overnight while 
Dana stayed with Mulder, which meant the kitchen 
sink was full of dishes, the refrigerator was empty, 
and he'd thoughtfully piled all the dirty clothes on 
the bathroom floor for her to pick up.  Currently, 
Will and Em were sprawled on the rug atop a nest of 
pillows, blankets and sleeping bags, still in their 
pajamas, eating junk and passing a bottle of grape 
soda back and forth.

Dana picked a path across the living room, going to 
Mulder's desk.  She took a deep breath, then sat 
down, scooting the chair forward.  She pushed the 
papers and files aside and reached for a notepad. 
"We'll need groceries," she said to no one in 
particular. "And gauze, tape: medical supplies.  
Someone will need to go to the drugstore.  His 
prescriptions need filled, too."

Will looked over his shoulder again, then started to 
get up.

"I can do that," Frohike offered. "Just make a 
list." He gestured for Will to relax, then brought a 
chair from the dining room and sat beside her at the 
cluttered desk. "Whatever you think you'll need."

She nodded, then paused to rub her eyes before she 
opened the center drawer, riffling through a 
Mulderish collection of odds and ends. "I'm not sure 
where his checkbook is."
 
"I'll take care of it," Frohike assured her.

"No, I can have Will sign his father's name.  He can 
do Mulder's signature perfectly, but I have to find 
the checkbook, first."

"Miss Scully," he said quietly. "I'll take care of 
it.  We will; it's what we do.  Langly can pay the 
bills and make sure you have housekeeping money.  
Byers can handle anything Langly can't.  We'll take 
care of everything else; you just take care of 
Mulder."

She nodded again, barely moving her head.  There 
were dark shadows under her eyes, and her shoulders 
bowed in exhaustion.  She'd been trying to work a 
late shift the previous night, so she was still in 
her nurse's uniform and cap.  She'd said she was 
taking time off from the hospital to take care of 
Mulder, but she still had medical school.  And 
Emily, who was just getting over a nasty bout of 
pneumonia.  And Will, who, despite his desire to be 
helpful, tended to be a fulltime job in himself.

Frohike forgot, sometimes, how small she was.  She 
seemed larger.

"I know you don't want anyone in the house, but what 
about a few bodyguards outside?" he suggested. "I'd 
feel better, and you'd sleep easier.  It would just 
be until we're certain he's safe."

She didn't respond for several seconds, then said 
softly, mindful of the kids across the room: "And 
when do you think that will be?" 

Frohike didn't have an answer because he couldn't.  
His job, at its core, was to protect his clients, 
but he couldn't protect Mulder when he didn't know 
who or what the threat was.

The babies, or lack thereof, Mulder and Dana had 
conceived the previous winter were a taboo subject.  
The few times he'd tried to broach it, Mulder either 
changed the topic or found a reason to get off the 
telephone.  Frohike understood that the pain was 
still too fresh, but there were just too many 
unanswered questions; too many pieces that didn't 
quite fit together.  Arthur Dales, the FBI Agent who 
investigated Dana's disappearance, had all sorts of 
theories about government projects and genetic 
experiments and aliens.  His theories sounded 
ludicrous, unless one was familiar with how the US 
Government thought.  

And Frohike was.  America wasn't subtle.  Secrecy 
wasn't its strength, and it knew it.  The US 
government didn't conceal its lies; it just put them 
in plain sight and wrapped them in even bigger lies.  
It was an effective slight of hand: give the 
audience a pretty magician's assistant and some 
pyrotechnics to stare at, and they'd pay little 
attention to the reality behind the illusion.  

In front of the flickering black and white screen, 
Emily and Will, along with the rest of the nation, 
watched Senator McCarthy's second round of hearings 
of the House Committee on Un-American Activities.  
The witch-hunt had begun in the fall of 1947 and was 
still going strong: tearing lives apart and ruining 
careers.  Among those who had been questioned or 
accused: Orson Welles, James Cagney, Walt Disney, 
Dorothy Parker, Gregory Peck, Arthur Miller, Lucille 
Ball, and young Shirley Temple.

To Frohike, the hearings and accusations and 
paranoia about communism had all the makings of an 
excellent smokescreen.  And there had to be 
something the government needed so much smoke to 
hide.  The United States of America was no more in 
danger of being overrun by communists than it was of 
being overrun by dinosaurs.  He didn't know where 
the deception ended and the truth began, but he knew 
there was more happening than met the eye.  And that 
Dana, and now Mulder, was somehow caught up in it.

"I don't know," he answered long after the question 
had been forgotten.

"I do." There was a picture of Will on the desk, 
with a second snapshot wedged into the lower corner 
of the wooden frame.  It was a photo Frohike had 
taken of Mulder, Dana, Will, and Emily playing in 
the snow in Central Park last December.  Dana pulled 
it free, examined it for a long time, then watched 
the TV screen. "I need you to do something for me, 
Mr. Frohike," she said slowly.

"Of course.  Anything," he agreed, always the sucker 
for a pretty lady in distress. "What do you need?"

"I need you to hold a press conference. Tell the 
reporters you think communists might be behind 
Mulder's shooting.  He's an all-American hero and 
the Reds tried to have him killed because of it."

Frohike's eyes widened in surprise. "Is that what 
you think?"

"No, but it's what I want you to say.  It's what 
will keep him safe."

"A preemptive strike," he realized, catching up with 
her line of thinking. "If They, whoever They are, 
would try to harm him again, the public would be 
outraged and demand an investigation.  You don't 
protect him; you get every red-blooded American 
baseball fan to do it for you."  

She nodded, still holding the snapshot.

"Miss Scully, I think you show a talent for covert 
operations." He tapped a stack of FBI files that 
Mulder had been fascinated with as of late. "Maybe 
you should abandon medicine and consider a career in 
the Bureau."

She smiled, barely moving her lips. "They don't 
allow women in the FBI, Mr. Frohike."

"And they have that arbitrary height requirement," 
he quipped. "Yes, I can hold a press conference.  
I'll do it today.  Anything else?"

"Yes," she started, then hesitated.  He could see 
her debating silently. "I want you to put this in 
the newspapers," Dana said, handing him the snapshot 
of the four of them. "I'll write a caption.  Have it 
run with the article."

"I can't," Frohike said immediately. "This has Will 
and Emily in it."

Speculating about communists and letting the 
reporters run with the story was one thing, but 
Mulder didn't allow his son's name or photograph in 
print.  Ever.  When he'd begun dating Dana, he'd 
expanded that rule to include Emily, and except for 
a few Hollywood rags, the papers and magazines 
complied.  

"It's important," she insisted. "I wouldn't ask 
otherwise."

His head had started shaking 'no' as soon as his 
fingers touched the snapshot, and it hadn't stopped 
yet.  He liked Dana, but his allegiance was to 
Mulder, and no reason she could possibly give could 
convince him to violate Mulder's wishes. 

She ignored him and picked up a pen, composing a few 
lines, then tore the page off the pad and handed it 
to him as well.  He took it, glancing back and forth 
between the snapshot and her neat cursive caption 
about a 'majestic' December day Central Park.

"There's no book in this photograph.  You aren't 
carrying a blue book.  Or a paperclip.  Miss Scully, 
this makes no sense at all."

"It will make sense to the right people.  Please," 
she requested.

"To which people?  Mulder would have my head on a 
platter if I did this," he protested, staring at the 
sheet of paper. "I'm sorry, but I can't-" he 
started.  He read the caption she'd written, then 
reread it, and a small light bulb began to flicker 
above his head.  

He knew which people.

At the close of WWII, Operation Paperclip imported 
Nazi scientists to the US, partially to acquire 
their research, and partially to keep it out of 
Soviet hands.  It wasn't his branch of intelligence, 
so he knew little about the project except it 
existed.  And that the government denied it existed, 
of course.  In the Pacific, the Kamakura Conference 
did similar for the Japanese scientists of Unit 731.  
The arrangement, though morally repulsive, had 
advanced American knowledge of virology and bio-
chemical weapons by decades.  He'd heard whispers of 
what was gained from the Nazis: years of research on 
genetics, physics, and medicine.  Both projects 
remained classified, which likely meant both were 
still in operation when Dana enlisted as an Army 
nurse, and when Emily was born in 1949.

"Is this what I think it is?" he asked in a hoarse 
whisper.

"That depends.  What do you think it is?"

"I think it's the opening move in a dangerous game.  
A very dangerous game." 

For whatever reason, she knew about Paperclip.  Not 
just about the project: something vital.  Valuable.  
Something worth Mulder's life.  She was sending a 
message, but what the message was or to whom it was 
being sent, he could only imagine.  And whatever 
cards she was holding, she seemed sure of her hand. 

"They already made the first move.  I'm just 
responding.  And upping the ante."

"Miss Scully, are you sure you know what you're 
doing?" 

"I'm keeping us safe," she answered evenly, her chin 
tilted slightly upward in defiance. "Then I'm 
washing dishes and fixing dinner." 

There was a moan from the bedroom as Mulder woke, 
mumbling about dogs and boxcars and calling for her 
as he thrashed around.  Dana hurried upstairs, and 
Emily trailed after her, bringing a threadbare 
stuffed kitten.  Frohike watched them go, then 
tucked the snapshot and piece of paper into his vest 
pocket.

He liked a woman who fixed dinner after she saved 
the world.

*~*~*~* 

A storm had passed through about four a.m., and the 
muggy remnants lingered over a collection of broken 
branches and debris.  The radio announcer said a 
tornado had been spotted, and power lines were down 
all over town.  The motel had electricity, though: 
the bulb above the door of Dana and Emily's motel 
room flickered hesitantly, trying not to attract 
attention. Every other window of the horseshoe 
shaped motel was dark, its occupant still asleep.

In retrospect, he wished he'd bought the blonde wig.  
The choices had been black-black, white-blonde, and 
brown, and the brown was a little too dark against 
her fair skin.  Even with the sunburn across her 
nose, now beginning to peel, the contrast was 
slightly startling.

Dana's lipstick was darker than usual, and the 
straight, shoulder-length brown wig covered her 
auburn hair.  She'd cut Emily's hair into a short 
bob, and put a dress and a hat on the girl; a real 
hat, not Mulder's old baseball cap.  Dana wore the 
slim black skirt and dark blouse he'd selected, 
creating an artsy, beatnik look unlike anything he 
associated with her.  Which was the idea.

"Hello, Mrs. Miller," he said, opening the passenger 
door for her.

"Good morning," she answered softly, holding the 
seat forward so Emily could crawl into the back.  
This time, the car was a mass-produced, middle-aged, 
Buick; one of about ten thousand on the road.  She 
didn't ask where he got it, or where he'd stashed 
the Packard they'd driven cross-country.

He put her suitcase in the trunk, noting she'd 
filled out the luggage tag with her new name.  No 
home address.  For now, she was Donna Miller.  The 
new passports and driver's license were in the 
suitcase, along with a few spare aliases.  He'd 
converted some of the cash to bearer bonds, sent 
some to a numbered Swiss account, and the rest lined 
the bottom of her new train case in ten-thousand-
dollar bundles.

After returning their motel keys to the clerk, who 
barely looked up from his sci-fi novel, Frohike 
pulled out of the parking lot and turned toward the 
train station, passing through the dark, silent 
town.  It was a short drive, and rather than wait 
inside the station, they sat in the car underneath a 
streetlight, leaving the engine running.

"Your ring," he reminded her, gesturing to the 
diamond setting.

She looked down, exhaled, twisted it off, and 
offered it to him.

"No, Mulder said for you to keep it.  Just-"

"Just don't wear it," she said for him.

"Right," he agreed. "Just don't wear it."

She curled her hand around the ring as she looked 
down the tracks, toward the faint blush of sunrise 
behind the storm clouds.  After a few minutes, she 
took off her necklace and threaded the chain through 
the ring so it was beside the gold cross.  She put 
her necklace on again, dropping the cross and ring 
down her blouse and out of sight.

Frohike should have objected and told her to take it 
off, that both the ring and the cross were too 
recognizable as links to her old life, but he 
didn't.  He offered her a plain wedding band and she 
put it on without looking at it.  She didn't seem 
surprised that it fit. 

"Do you want to go over the plan again?"

Dana shook her head.  She understood.  She was a 
widow; her husband just passed away serving his 
country; it was very painful for her to talk about.  
Keep it simple: answer simply, live simply.  Keep 
moving.  Keep to herself.  Contact no one from her 
old life.  If she felt like she was in danger, she 
probably was.  She had a telephone number to call if 
there was an emergency, and there would be an ad in 
the Sunday New York Times when it was safe to come 
home.  Until it was, she and Emily stayed in hiding. 

Dana was quiet a long time, watching passengers 
arrive, unload, and make their way to the platform.  
In the backseat, Emily colored, replacing each 
crayon in the box after she used it so they stayed 
in the original order.  Frohike had bought her the 
big box of Crayolas with the silver, all four blues, 
and the built-in sharpener.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

"I was just wondering," she answered seriously, 
turning her face toward him. "Where are we, Mr. 
Frohike?"

She and Emily had been asleep when they arrived last 
night, but he hadn't realized she didn't know. 
"Topeka.  Topeka, Kansas."

"And where are Emily and I going?"

"West.  Somewhere between here and LA, pick a 
station and get off the train.  The more random, the 
better.  From there, the first train or bus that 
comes along: get on it.  Repeat as necessary."

She nodded, then went back to watching the tracks. 
He turned the air conditioner on so the windows 
would stop fogging, and the man on the radio said 
another storm was on its way.  

"You can do this," he reminded her, trying to sound 
comforting.

"I feel like I'm abandoning him."

"I'm sure he feels exactly the same way."

"He wanted this so much," she told the window, 
putting her hand on her stomach again.  Lightening 
flashed in the distance, followed by a rumble of 
thunder a few seconds later. "And it's turned into a 
nightmare."

Frohike worried his lower lip, not sure how to 
respond.  If that baby was what They thought it was, 
it would never be safe, regardless of whatever she 
had in a locker in Central Park.  He'd overheard her 
conversation with Mulder about not having it, about 
having an abortion before she miscarried.  Frohike 
tended to agree. Staying pregnant was an unnecessary 
risk, especially when she'd be alone, but it wasn't 
his decision.

"I'm sorry." She took a shaky breath and wiped her 
eyes. "God, I hate hormones."

"It's okay.  It goes well with your grieving widow 
persona."

He grinned, and she chuckled half-heartedly and 
sniffed.

"Mommy: the train," Emily informed them, gathering 
up her crayons and coloring book.

"There's the train," he repeated.

"Yes, there's the train," she echoed.

Frohike walked around to open her door, letting her 
and Emily out, then handed her the train case. A 
porter came to take her suitcase, leaving them 
standing awkwardly beside the car. The wind picked 
up, whipping her skirt against her legs and blowing 
her hair over her face. She tied a scarf around her 
head, making sure the wig stayed in place.

He tried to think of something memorable and 
reassuring to say, but only came up with, "Good 
luck.  Take care of yourself.  And take care of 
Squirt," he added, using Will's nickname for Emily.

"You too.  Take care of Mulder and Will," she said, 
settling Emily on her hip, and clutching the train 
case with her other hand. "Don't let them live on 
scrambled eggs, coffee, and TV dinners."

"I won't," he promised, putting his hand on his hat 
to keep it from blowing off.

He watched her walk away across the wet pavement, 
thinking she shouldn't be carrying Emily while she 
was pregnant; thinking there were at least a 
thousand things he needed to caution her about that 
he hadn't; thinking there had to be a happily ever 
after in this somewhere.  

He watched as she and Emily bought tickets and 
boarded the westbound train, then waited to see if 
one of them would come to a window to wave goodbye.  
Neither did.  Rain began to pelt the roof of the car 
and the brim of his hat, drumming relentlessly.

He watched as the silver passenger train slid out of 
the station, down the miles of tracks across the 
plain, and into the storm on the dark horizon.  Once 
it was out of sight, he exhaled tiredly, pulled the 
wet brim of his hat lower, switched on the Buick's 
headlights, switched on the windshield wipers, and 
put the transmission in reverse. 

Melvin Frohike: 1; Bad Guys: 0

*~*~*~*

End A Moment In the Sun: West