This is the eighth in my alternate universe series about AD Skinner
and his son.

It is rated R and contains one passage of sex, though it's not
terribly explicit. 

Flashbacks, if any, are indicated by the following characters:
+ + + + + +  at the beginning and end of the sequence.

If you would like to make comments about this series, my E-mail
address is Clare_Skinner@prodigy.com.  

The X-Files and its characters are copyrighted by Chris Carter,
Ten Thirteen Productions and 20th Century Fox Television; all
other characters were created by me.


Anthony VIII: The Final Frontier (And It's Not Space)
by Clare Skinner

Monday, October 27, 1997, 5:09a.m.

	He was dreaming.  He knew it, but he didn't care.  It
was a wonderful dream.  He was making love to the woman he loved,
the woman it had taken him too long to realize he'd loved.  And
now it was too late, she was gone ... dead.  She'd never warm him
with her smile, her laugh, her gentle touch ... never -- except in
dreams.

	Everything was so perfect in the dream world.  They were so
perfect.  The passion between them was extraordinary, brighter and
deeper than it could possibly have been in life.  Their senses were
heightened, their flesh ultrasensitive.  Everything he did -- touched,
stroked, caressed, nibbled, licked, suckled, kissed -- everything
caused her to moan in pleasure.  He consumed every inch of her body;
and every moan from her lips brought him an equal sense of pleasure.

	He wished it could have been this way while she was still
alive, but ...  He pushed the thought away as she cried his name
again, drawing his attention back to her beautiful, sensual face.
She told him the words he'd never heard from her, never would.
She expressed the depth of her love for him.  She drew his hand to
her abdomen and he felt the movement of what their love had created.
In the perfect dream world, her stomach was still flat, even if the
child was big enough to be felt.

	She beamed at him as he slowly penetrated her and pulled him
back down on her.  He went slowly, heightening the experience still
more for both of them.  Oh, God, he thought, why couldn't it have
been like this?  He moved his lips to her throat and suckled the
creamy white, tender flesh.

	And then he heard her cry out in pain.  He looked at her
face as he realized it was *he* who had cried out, from an
unidentified pain.  He felt his heart go cold as he looked into
her eyes.  They were full of anger, disdain, but no pity.

	"You don't deserve to be this happy ... not even in dreams,
you son of a bitch.  You killed me, as surely as if you'd fired a
bullet into my brain.  I will *never* stop haunting you.  I will
never stop blocking the damage you seek to do to others.  You've
brought this on yourself, you have no one else to blame.  You aren't
deserving of anyone's love.  And *if* I'd ever become pregnant by
you, I wouldn't have hesitated to destroy the child.  Your kind of
evil could only beget more evil."

	He woke up in a sweat and reached with trembling fingers for
the light.  He tried to remind himself that it was only a dream, but
the look on her face had been so penetrating, her words had been so
bitter and stinging.  He reached for what he needed to calm his
frazzled nerves.  He reached for the pack of Morleys.

	Cancerman lit the cigarette with shaking hands and pulled
the first of several drags of smoke into his lungs.  The usual calming
effect of the nicotine was absent and he puffed harder, waiting for
the relief he desperately needed.  His entire body tingled from the
still vivid memory of the dream.  Tingled in a sick sense, that was.
He felt as though hundreds of spiders were crawling on him and flung
the covers away to be sure he was imagining the sensation.

	He choked on the cigarette when he looked down.  There were
no spiders, or anything else like that.  But there *were* two small
pools of blood beneath his ankles.  Or more accurately, under his
Achilles tendons.  He slowly pulled one foot up to examine the source
of the wound and felt a body-numbing chill envelop him as he saw bite
marks.  "Clare..." he mumbled and looked quickly around the room with
a mounting sense of paranoia.

	When he glanced back at his feet, the blood was gone, as were
the two puddles.  Even the teeth marks had disappeared.  He forced
himself to take several deep breaths.  "You're starting to imagine
things, Tom," he murmured to himself and crushed the first cigarette
before lighting another. 

	He felt a series of freezing sensations on his chest that
seemed to move like fingers.  "Atropine causes hallucinations in
toxic doses, Tom ... and it can be inhaled."  He dropped the cigarette
in horror at the voice he thought he heard, the voice that sounded
just like Clare's.

			*	*	*	*	*	*

Northeast Georgetown Medical Center, 9:35a.m.

	Walt sat by Allison's bedside, holding her hand ... again.
He was really starting to hate this medical facility.  He glanced
around at all the machines and felt the guilt in the pit of his
stomach intensify anew.  You're here because of me, he thought,
because I wasn't intelligent enough to predict that they'd go after
you.  Because I got lax and didn't provide you with protection, he
continued.

	He released her hand and sat on the edge of his chair, elbows
propped just above his knees, palms pressed together almost in prayer
with his index fingers grazing his lips when he moved his hands slowly
up and down.  He recalled his relief that Scully and Mulder had
returned from Louisiana, then had raced over to the house to make
sure nothing happened to the children.  And he remembered how torn
he'd been about whether to stay and wait for them, or go with Allison.

	Anthony had convinced him to go, promising to open the door
for no one but 'Dana' or 'Fox' after Teresa had hurriedly arrived,
saying that 'Mom' would look out for them.  They were all in
protective custody now, temporarily safe from the influence of *him*
and his damned Associates.  The question was, for how long?

	Walt knew he couldn't provide round-the-clock protection for
the rest of their lives -- that was asinine.  Yet the dark forces had
proven they could get into the house, around the security system.
There was no other explanation for the tampering of the pills.
Allison would have acquired them at work, and even those bastards
wouldn't have risked poisoning an entire shipment.  No, they would
have had to break into the house and switch packages.

	But what bothered and hurt him the most was Clare.  Why had
she deserted them?  Especially since she'd told Anthony that she
wanted him to be with Allison.  How could she be so cruel as to
allow Allison to be poisoned?  Why didn't she warn them?  And, he
reminded himself, none of this conjecture would do anything to help
Allison at the  moment.

	  She was responding to the Atropine, although the
administration of that drug meant her heart, respiratory and kidney
functions had to be closely monitored, hence the plethora of equipment.
Her blood pressure had been dangerously low, but brought back up with
Dopamine.  The preliminary toxicology reports had shown an extraordinary
level of Minipress in her system.  The doctors had looked at him with
pronounced suspicion, stating that *that* amount was considerably more
than could be found in a single birth control pill.  If he hadn't had
his official FBI identification, he had the strong impression that he'd
be sitting in jail.

	By 5:15a.m., after Allison had appeared to be out of danger,
his normal, logical functions had returned.  He'd dragged Agent
Pendrell out of bed to come get the pills, a sample of her blood and
a copy of the test results with the instruction to run a full spectrum
of tests and not return until he had some answers.

	Walt took Allison's hand again and softly kissed it.  He was
about to apologize again for the danger he'd placed her in when he
heard the door open behind him.  He turned with apprehension *despite*
having posted guards and felt a small measure of relief at seeing
Pendrell.

	Scott Pendrell felt very awkward; he was dressed in jeans and
a sweatshirt -- he also had an overnight reddish stubble, nothing like
the bristle on Skinner, though.  But when the assistant director calls
you in the wee hours of the morning, you don't concern yourself with
appearance.

	Walt jerked his head over to the corner of the room and
Pendrell wasn't particularly surprised that he didn't want to leave.
He glanced at Allison longer this time than when he'd previously seen
her that morning, noting her still-pale color, the IV and the bandages
on her arms.  She looked so completely vulnerable in the sterile
hospital gown and he understood Skinner's reluctance to be away from
her.

	Scott glanced at Skinner and quickly took in the preoccupied
expression, the pain, guilt and anguish that flashed in his eyes before
being replaced by his noncommittal look.  "What did you find out?"

	Scott opened the file he'd brought and hoped Skinner wouldn't
chew him out for some of the tests.  "The birth control pills contained
the equivalent of a 30mg dosage of Prazosin hydrochloride or Minipress.
There, uh, was no estrogen or progesterone in the tablets."  And I
hope that if you and Ms. Wright are involved, you weren't relying on
them, he had the good sense to say silently.  "Minipress is an
antihypertensive drug used to lower blood pressure.  It normally
comes in a capsule -- in one, two and five mg strengths."

	"So it was six times more potent than the largest capsule,"
Walt muttered as he glanced back at Allison.

	Pendrell wavered just a bit.  "The tablet was, yes, but it
seems to have acted on Ms. Wright's system in an odd way."

	Skinner raised a suspicious eyebrow.  "Odd how?"

	"The drug doesn't seem to be metabolizing properly.  I compared
the toxicology report from right after they'd pumped her stomach, with
the results three and six hours later ... and the decrease was far less
than it should have been."

	"So how slowly is she metabolizing the drug?" Skinner asked
with a hint of irritation.

	"The normal half-life for the drug is six hours."

	He started to explain what that meant, but Walt cut him off.
"So at the end of six hours, half of the drug's dosage would still be
in her system," he dictated.

	Pendrell resolved to remember that even though the man was
obviously hurting, he still had a brain.  "Exactly.  By extrapolating
the results of the hospital's and my own tests, I would say that Ms.
Wright is metabolizing the drug as if the half-life were 60 hours, or
10 times slower.  It's apparently caused a cumulative effect."
Pendrell swallowed slowly.  "That's what we *can* verify.  But there
are several elements that don't make sense."

	"Such as?"

	"I tracked down the LD50 dosage of Minipress -- how many
milligrams of drug to kilogram of subject weight it takes to kill
50 percent of the lab rats tested.  Do you happen to, um, know Ms.
Wright's weight?"

	Walt looked at her quickly and Pendrell couldn't help notice
the flash of emotion that crossed his face.  "165."

	Pendrell swallowed quickly as he punched a few numbers into
the calculator he'd pulled out, thinking he'd guessed a little low.
"A lethal dose for her should have been this."  He held the result for
Skinner to see.  "The level of Minipress in her system after they
pumped her stomach was about 70% of that and even if we add back in
the 30 mg, it's still low."

	Walt looked at the hesitant expression on Pendrell's face and
scowled.  "What are you leaving out?"

	"You said she's only been displaying symptoms for about a
week?"

	Walt nodded.  "She started getting nauseous Tuesday."

	"Even given the slow processing of the drug, it's
statistically impossible for a 30 mg dose to have built up to a toxic
level.  We examined all four packages and only the open one contained
Minipress.  The only thing that makes sense is if she had some sort of
allergic reaction that compounded the effect.  Given the number of
pills used from the open pack and assuming that none of the previous
ones were tampered with, I'd have to say the effect was increased by
a factor of, uh," he sneezed in the middle of his words and held up
the appropriate number of fingers instead as Skinner blessed him.

	"Are you sure there wasn't something else in the tablet to
increase the concentration?"

	Pendrell slowly wet his lips in preparation for the chewing-out
he was sure he was going to get.  "I called in Agent Stromanagle to
assist me with an experiment and we concluded that the drug only
affected the system with the 30 mg dose ... on the two subjects."

	"Two subjects?"  It took Walt a few seconds to realize what
Pendrell had done.  "You and Agent Stromanagle ingested the tablets?"
he asked, incredulous.

	"Yes, sir.  We had the appropriate counter-measures at hand
so the risk was minimal.  Um, the drug took 45 minutes to react with
Agent Stromanagle and 30 with me.  When we ran a tox scan for Minipress,
it showed the half-life to be six hours in both our cases."

	Walt shook his head and looked at Allison some more, trying to
gather his thoughts.  Having Pendrell experiment on himself wasn't what
he'd intended when he'd instructed him to get results.  But he'd
gotten them.  "An allergic reaction to what?"

	Pendrell relaxed.  "I'm not sure, possibly to one of the dyes,
they weren't the most common.  And unless you happen to know what Ms.
Wright is allergic to, we'll have to wait until she regains
consciousness to verify that."

	Walt had trouble dragging his attention back to Pendrell.
"You said there were several elements."

	"Yes, sir.  If my assumptions are correct about the
compounding factor, then Ms. Wright ..."

	"Just call her Allison," Walt interrupted, rubbing his forehead.

	"Allison should have been experiencing the symptoms to a far
more debilitating degree and not been able to leave the house.  In
fact, I would have thought the symptoms, especially the low blood
pressure, would have caused her to be hospitalized almost instantly --
certainly by Tuesday.  From what you described, the symptoms appear to
have been more flu-like until right at the end.  That or, uh, well,"
Pendrell coughed apologetically, "Agent Stromanagle said it reminded
her of morning sickness."

	Walt barely managed to keep his expression blank.  His
mounting anger at Cancerman and the others had no business being
directed at Pendrell.  "Given this unknown compounding agent, when,
in your estimation, would the lethal dose have entered her system?"

	Pendrell consulted his notes to avoid Skinner's eyes.  "This
morning.  In fact if she hadn't skipped a pill Saturday, as you
indicated, it would have happened yesterday morning.  Frankly, sir,
I'm impressed that Ms., uh, Allison was able to correctly diagnose the
drug.  If she hadn't, the doctors would have missed it with the
standard Chem7 test, although as long as they suspected poisoning or
some other sort of overdose, I'm sure the lethal amount would still
have been interrupted by the gastric lavage."  Provided that she'd
gotten to a hospital in time, he thought.

	Walt was trying to sort through a myriad of thoughts and
feelings ... and not having an easy time of it.  He and the kids were
gone when the lethal dose would have taken effect yesterday.  And this
morning, he would have been at work while Teresa walked the kids to
school.  Which meant Allison would have been alone with Amelia and
Ian when it happened.  Walt shuddered, thinking how scarred they
would have been seeing Allison the way he'd seen her, scarred for
life if she'd died.

	"So in your opinion, the tampering of the pills wasn't meant 
to kill her, just make her sick?"

	Pendrell nodded.  "Yes, sir.  I doubt that anybody could have
predicted the reaction that occurred."

	Walt rubbed his chin thoughtfully ... maybe it was just
supposed to be a wake-up call then, to let him know that she *could*
be gotten to.  "How long will it take for the drug to clear her system?"

	"Under normal circumstances, with the six-hour half-life, it
would be substantially gone probably by tomorrow morning.  But because
of the slow metabolism, it'll likely be a little under two weeks."
Pendrell looked up from his notes, closed the folder and handed it
to Skinner.  "Is there anything else, sir?"

	Walt looked absently at Pendrell.  "No.  That'll be all," he
muttered as his thoughts turned to Clare again.  Pendrell mentally
thanked himself *for* Skinner and looked forward to dashing home for
a shower, shave and change of clothes.  "Oh, and good work on this,
Pendrell.  I appreciate the turnaround time."

***

	Walt looked at his reflection in the mirror.  He felt so
unfathomably tired and his face showed it.  How does Mulder do it,
he wondered.  Find the strength to keep going, keep pursuing the
truth when those he loved were being forced to pay the price?

	Walt splashed some water on his face and noticed it did
little to help.  He also realized now that Allison had been used
as a pawn in their game, that he truly did love her and the children.
 But instead of feeling happy at his discovery, he felt forlorn and
miserable.  He could try to use the disk to guarantee their safety,
but Clare said Cancerman would always try to find a way around a deal.
Anthony's telepathy provided him with a slight edge, but the others
wouldn't have that ...

	He had to let them all go in order to protect them.

	He suddenly understood the choice Clare had made.  The pain
and distress she'd felt, knowing nothing else but total and complete
separation, even the extreme of possible death, would be enough to
protect those she loved.  He just hoped it would be enough and that,
in time, they'd all understand, especially Anthony.

	He exited the bathroom in time to see the nurse finish up
the latest check of Allison's condition and start to leave with a
fresh blood sample.  She smiled compassionately at him.  "I'm sure
she'll regain consciousness any time now, Mr. Skinner."

	Walt forced himself to nod to her as she left.  He sat back
in the chair and took Allison's hand, leaning in far enough to kiss
it before holding it to his face.  "I'm so sorry you've become
involved in this, Allison.  I never meant to put you in danger.
I've ... I've decided to ... to ..."  He couldn't bring himself to
say the words and sat back in the chair, dejected.

	He imagined the look on Charlee's face and covered his own
face, thinking how she'd feel abandoned again.  And betrayed by his
reneging of his promise to always be there for her to talk.  He
thought of never hearing Ian call him 'dada.'  Of never seeing his
beaming smile, nor experiencing another of Charlee's dazzlingly
brilliant ones.  Never feeling Amelia's soft, sweet breath against
his neck as he held her against his shoulder.  Never wrestling with
Trevor again, missing the opportunity to teach him how to play chess,
teach him to work with tools as his father had. 

	And Anthony ... how could his son ever grow up happy when
the people he came to love and trust would always be susceptible
to ... *them*?  Oh, God, he thought, maybe things would have been
better if Anthony had never contacted me.  He'd be happy now with
all his friends in Iowa, with Chris and Louis, and he'd be safe.
And I ... and I wouldn't know what I'd missed, he continued.  I
wouldn't feel I was losing everyone I love ... again.

	"Oh, Clare," he whispered, "I don't know that I'm strong
enough to turn my back on them, to go on without them.  Please mon
amour, help me make the right decision."

	He looked hopefully around the room for her, waited patiently
for her warmth to penetrate him.  And he waited in vain.

	He took Allison's hand again as tears filled his eyes.
"If I leave you, I'll never hear your laugh again.  Never blush from
your teasing, never experience the blissful feeling of wholeness that
you give me.  Never share the warmth of your embrace, the wonderful
sweetness of your kisses."

	Walt tried to convince himself that despite everything he'd
give up, it was still the best thing for everybody.  He sat in silence
a few moments, willing himself to believe it.  Willing himself to
accept his decision ... but he couldn't.  He realized it wasn't his
decision to make solely on his own.  That he had to talk to Allison,
tell her of his fears, his doubts, his love.  He had to let her be a
vocal part of the decision that would so affect his future -- their
future.

	Within seconds, he became aware of Clare's presence.  He
looked around for her again and was irresistibly drawn back to
Allison.  He watched with incredulous eyes as she rose from Allison's
body and 'sat' on the bed.  He felt her warmth travel up his arm and
fill his body.

	"She won't let you leave, mon cher.  The two of you belong
together, she knows that in her heart, but it will take a little time
before she's ready to make a lifelong commitment with you."  Clare
smiled benevolently.  "I'm sorry I couldn't stop the drug entirely;
I did my best to limit its effect and she won't suffer anything
permanent from it.  I had to let it happen, had to allow you to see
that the things most precious are too often overlooked until it's too
late.  She was never in danger of dying, mon cher.  It wasn't her
time; her circle is much bigger than mine."  Walt unconsciously smiled
at the words.  "Allison and the children will never be harmed by
the Association.  Cancerman was acting alone again, and I've taken
care of him with some, uh," Clare's lips curled up in a devilish
smile, "pre-Halloween haunting."

	She reached her ethereal hand to his face and warmed his
cheek.  "Allison's recovery will be much quicker than Agent Pendrell
predicted.  I've seen to that."

	Walt felt so calm and serene, so many other questions were
being answered, so many doubts assuaged.  He felt a pang of guilt
at the faith he'd lost.  "What is lost once can sometimes be
rediscovered and become even deeper, mon cher."  He looked at her
with eyes full of gratitude and love as her form began to dissipate.
 
	Just before Allison's eyelids fluttered open, Clare flooded
his body with a cleansing, gentle heat that was like the brightest
sunshine combined with perfect love and trust.  As it slowly departed
his body, he watched Allison's expression as it appeared to go
through her.  She stared at him with tranquil, clear eyes as he
brought her hand to his lips.  Walt smiled as he saw in them not
fear, not confusion, not blame but love -- pure, radiant love.  He
knew in an instant that his expression conveyed the same thing and that
they'd crossed the final frontier.

			*	*	*	*	*	*

46th Street, New York City, 10:35a.m.

	Cancerman sat in one of the leather upholstered chairs,
chain-smoking, lost in thought as Clare's words replayed in his mind.
How she'd described her hatred for him, making her point all too
vividly clear with her statement about a child of theirs.  She would
have kept Krycek's child without loving the father, *had* kept
Skinner's even with the knowledge that the drugs could have damaged
the fetus.  Kept the child purely on the basis of her love for it and
the father.  And she would have destroyed their child simply out of
spite and hatred for *its* father, for him.

	He stopped his musings and tried to focus on the meeting,
knowing it wasn't like him to sit through one of them so silent.

	His continued silence was of great interest to one of the
men present.

	"And finally, I believe we need to discuss another method
to deter Agents Mulder and Scully.  They came too close to the truth
again with this Malone case.  Perhaps pressure can be exerted through
Assistant Director Skinner.  He seems to be involved with this
Wright woman and her children," the tall, stout Associate (First
Elder) said.

	The man with impeccably groomed fingernails instantly felt
a twinge of discomfort, especially in light of what he had learned.
"I certainly hope you're not proposing we arrange for one of those
children to be, uh, 'removed.'  If history teaches us anything, I
thought it was to not repeat mistakes.  Taking Samantha Mulder has
in the long run proven to be counter-productive."

	"True," First Elder agreed, "but the threat can be powerful.
Skinner doesn't have enough support to protect them indefinitely."

	"I agree with Oliver," Cancerman said unpredictably and
snuffed out another cigarette.  The others looked at him in surprise,
both for the uncharacteristic backing-away attitude and the use of
a first name.  "Interference in Skinner's personal life will be more
trouble than it's worth.  Concentration should remain with Mulder
and Scully."

	The topic was discussed a few minutes more before the meeting
was adjourned.  'Oliver' and 'Tom' were the last to reach the door.
"A moment, *Tom.* "  The Well Manicured Man made a point of using
Cancerman's first name.

	Tom turned with some reluctance and smiled slightly.  "Of
course, Oliver."

	They repositioned themselves in the chairs and Oliver slowly
drummed his fingers against his well-groomed knee.  "You're not
looking well, Tom."

	Cancerman lit another cigarette and concealed his unease,
visions of his experience that morning floating through his mind 
again.  He blew out the first smoke, "I didn't sleep well, that's
all."

	Oliver's countenance registered little change other than a
slight raising of an eyebrow.  "I see.  I find your attitude toward
Assistant Director Skinner very interesting.  Are you aware that
Allison Wright was admitted to Georgetown's Medical Center very
early this morning?"

	Cancerman started slightly before taking another drag.
"Uh no, I wasn't.  I hope it's nothing serious."

	Oliver casually linked his fingers together and absently
examined one of them.  "It seems she had a nasty encounter with
some medication, but the report I received indicated that she
would be fine.  Are you sure you don't know anything about her,
shall we say, situation?"

	Cancerman blew out some more smoke and forced himself to
relax under the older man's stare.  They were both far too skilled
in deceit and denial for either to expect an admission of guilt.
"Nothing at all, but I'm glad to hear she'll be all right."  He
snuffed out the cigarette suddenly and rose.  "I'm sorry to cut
our discussion short, but I have a shuttle to catch."

	"Watch your health, Tom," Oliver cautioned to his retreating
back.  "Having no one to take care of you can be both lonely and
ill-advised."
 
	Cancerman quickly closed his trenchcoat and left.  Oliver
propped his elbows on his thighs and balanced the fingertips of one
hand against those on the other as a warm feeling swept through his
body.  He softly laughed.  "And being haunted can have deleterious
effects on one's mind and body."

*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*	*