Title: Charting Her Course
Author: Maureen S. O'Brien
Archive: Gossamer and others, please archive.
Rating: PG
Category: V
Spoilers: THE MOVIE! BEWARE!
Summary:
Author's Note: Beware of Movie Spoilers! This Means You!
I saw the movie from 12-3, stayed out till 4:30, and then
finished this story at 7:10 or so. Not too bad, but I'm 
dead sure I'm not the first fanfic here....

This one is for: The New Neon Movies, which runs Cinerama movies, 
XF eps in the lobby while you wait to see The Movie, and whispered 
"Trust No One" on their phone message; and for Tim Gould, one of
my two fannish buds at work. Not that he'll ever see this, prolly.
I loved the flick.

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Charting Her Course
by Maureen S. O'Brien

The road that we have travelled together for so long has never been
easy or well-mapped. But as I sit in the cabin of this vehicle 
traversing the most remote and harsh of continents, feeling my body
begin to painfully recover from the stress of both sickness and 
exposure, I feel a strange exhilaration about the journey coursing 
through me as well. 

Few people are permitted, by circumstance, duty, or financial status,
to pass through this wilderness of ice we call Antarctica. It appears 
that I received a free ticket, delivered by bee-courier, from the 
mysterious conspiracy we fight. Here I was destined to remain, one of
countless others I glimpsed as I slipped in and out of consciousness,
host to the 'black oil' virus -- the properties of which fascinate 
me as a scientist, but appall me as a doctor.

Whether or not the virus is truly extraterrestrial, as Mulder 
believes, or the larval form of some intelligent and hostile being, 
as the Englishman feared, is at the moment both unproved and 
irrelevant. What matters is that this virus exists, as does a cure
of sorts. This is an enemy I can fight, with a weapon such as I 
know well.

As soon as we arrive at the base camp Mulder departed from, I will
ask the camp medic to take samples of my blood. Hopefully, small
traces of the weak vaccine the Englishman gave Mulder will remain.
Upon our return to DC, I will compare my blood to the samples I took 
from Mulder after his return from the gulag where he was exposed to 
the 'black cancer'. It is my belief that the virus to which I was 
exposed is similar to, although vastly more virulent than, the 
'black cancer'. Therefore, the vaccines may well be similar, or even
the same.

It is clear that a more effective cure must be developed; 96 hours
is a very narrow window of treatment. It would also be desirable for
any cure to be capable of being administered on a large scale, 
perhaps by spraying, so that one would not have to approach an 
infected person too closely. This matter must be pursued with all 
speed; I have a feeling that time may be running out.

On a personal level, I am ever more enraged by these lawless men's
casual interference with my life. If they have good intentions for what
they do, it only makes them more culpable. And if they think that I 
am only of consequence because Mulder is vulnerable to my loss, they
must be made sorry that they have underestimated my capabilities so
badly. I am not someone who takes kindly to being made a damsel in
distress or a twisted parody of Snow White.

I have written the proceeding words slowly and painfully, at 
intervals over the course of an hour as I drowsed off, awoke, and 
fell asleep again. Mulder radioed for help from the American base
camp as soon as we got to the SnoCat. The SnoCat Mulder borrowed 
from them is almost out of fuel, so we have stopped. We are waiting 
now for some of the scientists to come pick us up.

Mulder is napping. I am worried about his fainting spell. He claims
that it was caused by nothing more than the shock of survival and 
witnessing the departure of a UFO. And the fact that _I_ saw it,
too. However, his account of the time between my abduction and his 
arrival seems to involve more time unconscious in a hospital or 
falling down ice crevasses than time spent eating or sleeping. Since 
he then proceeded to carry me bodily away from the installation, I 
think I may be pardoned for assuming that adrenalin, exposure, and
exhaustion were more responsible for his faint than emotional 
overload. Or belief. 

When I ask the medic to take blood samples, I will have to remember 
to tell him to make Mulder rest.

Myself, also. For although my body keeps insisting on sleep, my mind 
feels that I have had plenty and does not want to settle. For me, it 
was only a few hours ago that I left consciousness in the hallway in 
Mulder's apartment building. 

And that strange exhilaration returns to me, for there, where once I
confronted Mr. X, and where he died; that so many times I have trod
only to announce bad news or find Mulder in pain or learn that he has
left me behind once more; there, of all places in the world or 
outside it -- there, Mulder told me he loved me.

Not in so many words, of course. Nor did we actually manage to 
express our affections. That would be too easy. But he knows that I 
know. And while such unspoken communication is not the kind I like
best, it is enough to make a new beginning between us. 

We will be watched. We will have to be exceedingly careful. What I
have written here will have to be concealed.

But I am becoming good at that, it seems. Though I am a poor liar, I
was able to protect Mulder with my lies this year. Though I am no good
at infiltrating secret government installations, I managed to hide
myself from searchers at Bethesda and get away without the slightest
challenge. I even managed to conceal my apparently long-present
feelings toward Mulder from myself, until they were exposed by a
telepathic boy I could not protect, and my unprofessional,
unpartnerlike jealousy toward Mulder's ex-partner Fowley.

I think of her now, this predecessor of mine in Mulder's work and 
heart. She never realized how much the X-Files had changed since her
day, never knew what stakes we play for until it was almost too late.
And whether she left Mulder by her own choice or was corrupted by
the offer of a prestigious position as a LEG-ATT, she surely could
never have understood the true value of my partner as a person, or
the amazing ability he has to delight or enrage. I pity her now, for
if only she had dug a little deeper, she would have been in my 
position.

Granted, that would probably have included being dead or here. 

But I am not dead yet, and neither is Mulder. I am looking out the
window at starkly magnificent scenery such as most only see on PBS and
the Discovery Channel. Traffic consists only of Mulder, myself, and
the base camp vehicle approaching as I write. In a few more hours, I
will be seeing penguins in their natural habitat and the sun quickly
setting in an Antarctic winter sky. After that, I will be able to
bring the OPR new evidence and a story which, if hard to believe, has
the advantage of being true. Skinner will undoubtedly be able to use
my latest abduction and the burning of the X-Files office as proof
that the conspiracy is indeed out there. We may even get the X-Files
back.

Not a fairy tale ending, maybe. But 'and they worked happily ever
after' is the ending I would choose -- at least until we can change it
to, 'and they crushed the conspiracy, defeated the evil aliens, and
saved the world.'

For there is so much work to do, and so far yet to go.