Rating: PG

Summary: I KNOW that the "Reputation? I'VE got a reputation?!" is lifted directly from the series, and that Mulder said it, but so what? It worked.

Spoilers: Just the one line up there, and it hardly counts!
 

ALLY:

I thought things would quiet down after the election.

On what planet was I living?

If anything, it's gotten crazier. My darling husband barely sleeps. I've woken at 4 a.m. and found the office lights still sneaking out from under the doorway.

I'm not getting much sleep myself. Dana has discovered some structures she believes are proteins, but she's got no reference in any of the literature or the databases. Basically, she has to figure out how to isolate, identify and purify these substances. This is a long, horribly tedious process. It can take years. Dana doesn't feel like she has years. And she's not even in the office right now-she's officially on maternity leave, but she's been hammering away at her home computer, digging voraciously through the literature, working her grad students and lab assistants as much as is humanly possible. There's reams of numeric data, and we're only getting
started. Peter, her postdoc in genetics, pretty much lives at the lab. He hasn't seen his wife in three days. He tells me this as I port all my data on to zip disks and prepare to finally go home and spend some time with my husband and kids. At least being the statistician I can do this; I don't have to worry about doing blots or working with reagents or working with equipment that doesn't move from where it's placed.

At least the schoolwork has come back to me. It took me a while to get up to speed, but now the g-chem and calc are back. I still have to do well in physics and o-chem, and these are classes I was always weaker in, particularly physics.

This is next semester, though, and it's going to take about a century to get there in some ways, and in others, I blink my lids and the time has advanced at an alarming rate.

I need to pull all this stuff together tonight, because I have time on the Cray tomorrow. Cray time is hard to come by, and I need to be ready to run this stuff. It's mostly just sequencing stuff right now, but even an elementary sequence, which is about a million base pairs, can crash most PC's.

Michael is particularly good at dealing with statistical stuff. Langly is really hot at it, too, but he's got his own stuff to work right now, in addition to being really busy at the day job, and we argue less if I work with a neutral party. I guess you could call Michael a neutral party in this setup.

Only problem is, it's Thursday, which means Michael has a night class, so I'm going to be pretty much on my own. I'll just write this model as best I can, let Langly do a look-see, and wing it.

Michael hasn't been around much lately. He's been busy at school, I see him there, and he's working in the tutoring center, where from what I hear he's quite a good teacher. This is a surprise; I never think of Michael as a patient person, but Kelly says that he's very thorough and never rushes anybody, and he explains stuff well. Apparently people have begun to ask for him specifically, since they find their grades improve when they work with him.

Who'd have thought?

And last time I saw Michael, which was two days ago, he still looked sick. I guess he got a little better when he took a round of antibiotics, but it didn't last. He looks like hell. I know Frohike's worrying about him. He thinks he ought to stay home until he's well, but he also knows that Michael won't do it. Frohike is an old mother hen, I confess, but I think in this case his worries are legitimate. I saw Michael in the coffee bar at school on Tuesday and he looked like death warmed over. He's trying to get Michael in for medical attention-Dana's friend Daryl Bergman, who treats Langly when it's absolutely necessary, has offered to see the kid-but Michael manages to slip his ass out the door every morning.

We're all sniffling away in the offices; it's only November but the cold season has kicked in. It's just colds, though-only Michael seems to be on the verge of dying here, although at times listening to Langly and Byers, you'd think otherwise.

Frohike needs some videotapes he made back in 1988, during the Bush campaign. He thinks these would explain some of the information he and Langly have, but can't make much sense of. Problem is, he's hacked into a source that he wants to get as much out of as possible, and with hacking, it's always better not to make a return trip.

Byers offers to pick them up at Frohike's apartment, but he's in the same place where Frohike and Langly are, and they don't want to have to come back for another visit. So I ask Frohike for what tapes he wants-he labels everything carefully, at least, unlike some other people I know-and he tells me where to find them. He also asks me to be really careful with these, because he's not sure he could ever get this particular footage again. I've only been to his home once, so I get directions and instructions for parking (I've learned that you never take parking for granted in this area). I promise him I will be and I speed off into the night.

It's really windy tonight. It smells like some form of precipitation might be imminent, and the chill eats through my parka. Everyone laughs at me for putting on my parka in November here, but I'm a Cali girl, and we break those winter jackets out when the temperature drops below 60.

Frohike's apartment is only three miles away. It's kind of strange that I have only come here once; it seems that people are always at our house, and we're never at theirs. We almost don't know how to behave in other people's homes anymore. I know Langly's come here a few times, but it's been guy stuff, work stuff. I figure out which keys go in which locks. Multiple locks, it's a lifestyle. At least there's a light on when I get inside, but it's dim and I almost trip over a large black backpack near the door. It's Michael's. Shit. I don't see him, but he's never without the backpack, he has to be here. I call out for him.

Nothing for a few minutes. It's terribly quiet here, and the silence feels like eternity. I hope something didn't happen to him. I don't snoop in people's bedrooms ordinarily, but I am a mother, and I'm worried now. I creep down the hall and open the door on the right and snap on the overhead light. There's nobody there, but there is a pair of blue bunny pajamas lying on the floor, pictures of kids on the night table, and an unmade bed.  Blue bunny pajamas? Okay.

I snap off the lights and check the door on the left. I flip on the light switch and lying there, still in his jacket and wearing boots, is a small figure shivering in the red fuzzy blanket from my sofa. It's Michael. At least I think it is, judging from the clothes, which are familiar. The face is not. I go over to the bed and touch his face. He's burning, and he's shivering at the same time. He's breathing like someone who smoked three packs a day for forty years.

A small croak that sounds like 'Dad' comes out. I tell him no, it's Allison, but I'm getting his dad. This seems to calm him a little.

I go back to the living room to look for the phone.

And people think the Langlys are slobs.

The phone is buried in the sofa cushions, but at least it's holding a charge still. I dial the offices, and Langly picks up. I tell him I need to talk to Frohike NOW. Frohike's on a beer run. I tell him I'll wait, his kid's a mess, and he needs to come home NOW. Langly says he'll go get him, and clicks off.

I go back to Michael's room. I just want to hold this kid and tell him it'll be all right. He doesn't even flinch when I brush his hair out of his eyes. I go into the bathroom and look for a face cloth so I can put some cool water on it and at least try to get the fever down until Frohike's here.

It's not even five minutes, from my estimation, when I hear keys in the door. Frohike's sprinting down the hall and the look on his face when he sees his son almost makes me cry. I think it was close to making him cry.

Frohike goes over to the kid, murmurs to him like you would to a sick child-which right now is what he is, I don't care what his driver's license says his age is-and wraps the kid in his arms, holding him into him. Michael's out of it, but I think he knows his dad is there. He relaxes in his dad's arms while Frohike just rocks him gently.

It's hard to believe that Frohike was separated from him for so long. Frohike just steps into being a dad so naturally.

Then again, he did get plenty of practice on Langly and Byers in the interim. I imagine that with my husband in particular, there were many times when Frohike's done this drill. The image of my very large husband being comforted by this little man would be almost comical if it weren't so damn heartbreaking.

But Michael's his own flesh and blood, and Frohike really looks frightened. This really is his baby, and I know how I'd feel if I were in his place, holding Miranda.

Miranda, thank God, has never been this sick, and I pray she never will be.

Frohike asks me to please call Jo, who should be home from work by now. I think I'd call 911, but I know that he just bought health coverage for Michael about two weeks ago, and he's not covered for the first 30 days.

Joan picks up, and I must have palpable tension in my voice; she asks me if everything's okay. I tell her no, not really, and she asks if it's Ringo, and I assure her no, it's not.

Jo comes on, I give her the quick and dirty version, and she agrees that the kid belongs in the hospital, at least based on my description, but she also knows the situation, and she says she needs to dig out her old supplies, but she'll be along shortly. I'd call Dana but there's no way Dana needs this right now, and Mulder would have a cow with all of us.

I call Langly back and tell him that Frohike Junior is in bad shape. He asks if Frohike wants them to come by. I ask Frohike Senior and he says no, which is a relief, because even though the girls are 15, I still hate leaving them alone. I'm a lot more paranoid these days than I used to be. Langly says I should stay at Chez Frohike for the time being, at least till Jo gets there.

I put some coffee on. This could be a very long night. When it's ready, I hand Frohike a mug and pour some for myself as well. I think he knows he's going to be awake for a long time, and he says thanks graciously. He's still on the edge of the bed, holding his son, who seems to be choking for air almost. He pats Michael on the back, trying to comfort the poor kid as much as possible.

I know this is going to embarrass Frohike, but I tell him that if Michael needs to be hospitalized, the bill can go to the offices and it will be taken care of. I mean, what the fuck do I have money for if I can't even help my friends? Frohike just nods in affirmation. Were it for himself, he'd be objecting on all cylinders, but this is his baby, and when it's your kids, the rules are different.

Besides, it's not like I did anything to earn that money. It was a gift. I was not entitled to it, and my father would be appalled if I didn't share it, particularly if someone close to me needed it.

When he looks at my first brother, he must be freaking out all over.

If I ever become like that, I hope God strikes me dead on the spot.
 

Jo's not happy when she sees what the little Fro looks like. For not being a large guy, Michael is surprisingly solid, and it's taking all three of us to peel off his jacket, shirt and combat boots. He's not objecting, but he's not particularly cooperating, either.

Jo says that both lungs sound pretty nasty, and he's running a high fever. His vitals aren't critical, but they're not very good, either, and she says that even if she could get some prescriptions for him, she's not comfortable treating him at home.

The phone rings and I leave her and Frohike to hash out a decision. I figure it's Langly calling to see what's happening. I'm surprised to hear a girl's voice on the other end, and a familiar one at that. It's Kelly Martin from my chem class. She's on break in astronomy, she says, and she brought Michael home from work today and she was wondering how he was doing.

I tell her he's not doing all that well. She says she actually thought about taking him to Saint Theresa's in Arlington, but she thought that maybe she should leave that up to his dad.

I tell her that there's a problem in that Michael has no health insurance right now, and she says St. T's is charity. She knows this, because that's where her family has to go. She admits the place is a zoo, but that the care is okay, from what she's seen. Not that she has much to go on; she says she's never had health insurance, so she's never been able to go anywhere she has to pay.

I throw this option out to Frohike and Jo, who are already contemplating this. Jo is familiar with the place; as hospitals go, it's pretty insane, but pneumonia is easy to treat, and she thinks he'd be better off there. And she knows a few people on the staff there, so that makes her feel better about doing this. It's Frohike's decision, of course, though.

Frohike looks utterly lost right now. He's holding his son in his lap, a son who's nearly the same size he is, but could be six years old for as well as he's functioning right now. Michael seems dazed, which is never good. He's wrapped up in the red blanket that may never make its way back to our house, and he's shivering.

I tell Michael, comprehending or not, that Kelly called. He mumbles something about notes. His dad tells him not to worry about things like that right now.

Frohike decides that he'd better get some medical attention for his son. He and Jo bundle him up, and we all work him down to Jo's car, where we stretch him out in the back seat. He's mumbling something about his dad, it's not making sense to me, but Frohike tells him it's all right, he's there, it'll be okay.

I ask Frohike if he wants me to follow them and he shakes his head in the negative. He'll call us, he says, and let us know what's up.

"Go home to your daughters," he says softly.
 

MICHAEL:

Where the fuck am I?

It's so noisy here.

Last thing I remember I was in my bed. Kelly took me home, and I went to my room, and I was so tired I still had my boots and my jacket on.

I don't have my boots and my jacket. I have my jeans on, but that's the only thing that's mine right now. All my other clothes are missing, except for a smock that I'm freezing half to death in. And somebody took my glasses. I can't see anything.

There's nobody here. How did I get here?

My dad doesn't know where I am.

Shit. I'm scared.

I try to call my dad, but I can't get much sound out. It really hurts to talk right now. I can't even breathe.

Some lady in this dark red suit comes in. I ask her where I am. She tells me I'm in the hospital. I'm panicking now. She tells me to lie down and relax and she'll get my father for me in a few minutes. He's just talking to one of the doctors right now.

Okay. Dad's here. I'm not so scared now. But where is he?

She's jabbing me in the arm and it hurts like hell. I want my dad and I want him NOW.

Is this what dying feels like?
 

Later on I wake up a little. I'm in a different place. There's something over my nose, which is freaking me out, and something stuck in my arm and on my finger. This is way too weird.

But my dad's here and he's sitting right next to me, so it's okay. He's rubbing my back and telling me to go back to sleep.

Where the hell am I?

I feel like total shit.

My dad says something, I think, that he'll stay right here with me.

At least I hope he did.
 

November 18, 2000

Somebody's waking me up.

I don't want to wake up. I'm so tired, for all I know, I'm dead.

I've got this weird floaty feeling, like things aren't really real.

Where the hell am I, anyway? This doesn't feel like my own bed. My own bed is warm and since it's a waterbed, you sink down in it and it wraps around you. This one's hard and the blankets don't feel right. And if this was my bed, I'd probably have my sweats on, not a smock that's probably cold in the summertime.

"Welcome back, stranger." It's my dad's voice. At least I recognize one thing.

I'm trying to talk, but I don't have that much energy right now. Fortunately, he's cool with this, he just smooths out my hair, which has got to look really scary by now. I probably have a major case of bedhead.

God, I'm gonna be late for class if I don't get moving.
 

I must've fallen asleep again, but this time when I wake up, I realize I don't feel so bad. I don't feel real good, but I can sort of breathe now and things don't hurt so bad.

I must be in the hospital, I decide. When the fuck did I get here?

I look over around the room, and my dad's in the chair, snoring away.

He must've brought me here.

How long have I been here?

I call to him, and while I'm still not up to regular volume, I can at least call his name out. He snaps to it the second time I call him, tries to get himself oriented.

And then he comes over and hugs me. And he doesn't let me go, and I don't mind.

"Michael, you shouldn't scare me like this," he tells me.

"Scare you like how?" It's still hard to talk.

"You were in pretty terrible shape yesterday."

"Yesterday?" I have no clue how much time is going by.

"Jo and I brought you here last night. You've been here almost 21 hours."

"You're shitting me."

"If I was, I wouldn't be sleeping in the chair."

I'm confused. What time did I go home yesterday? I know I worked, at least part of the day...

"Allison found you last night when I sent her to pick up some videotapes."

"Oh."

"You didn't look too great. Jo and I brought you here. How're you feeling?"

"Better. When can I go home?" I want to go home and be in my own bed NOW.

"Probably tomorrow. But you're home for a while, boy."

"Dad, I can't-"

"Michael. You're home next week. Period. It's bedtime all week long, and I'm not having any arguments about it. If you even think about going anywhere other than the bathroom, you won't need to die of pneumonia, because I'll have taken care of you myself."

His words don't match his voice. He's trying to sound pissed off, but he just comes off worried.

"I'm gonna miss a lot of school. And work. And it's almost finals."

"Next week is Thanksgiving, so it's three days."

"Guess I could do three days. Are we going to Ally and Langly's for turkey day?"

"If you're better. And if you're better by the end of next week, MAYBE you can go back to school the following week."

"Dad, I'm trying so hard-"

"I know."

"I've got a 4.0 and now I'm gonna blow it."

"You'll blow it worse if you don't get well."

"I haven't written anything for TMB in ages."

"You'll write something when you're better."

"My center director is a Nazi freak."

"I'm going with Allison to your school on Monday. I'll need a list of who your instructors are and where to find them, so you can keep current on your assignments, and I'll talk to the tutoring center director."

"What if I lose my job?"

"You won't. Allison says you have a good reputation there."

"Reputation? I'VE got a reputation?!" Oh God.

"Look, I'll stay home for the three days, but-"

"Michael, what gave you the idea this was a negotiation? It's not. It's an order, and as long as you live under my roof, you'll follow it. I really don't care to repeat this experience, and I'm sure you don't."

He got that one right, anyway.

And I'm tired again...
 

ALLY:

"I hate Unix," I groan to Langly.

"Whaddya mean, you hate Unix? Unix does a lot of real cool stuff."

"I nearly blew away four months' worth of work because there's no Undo command!"

Langly is laughing at me. "Ally, that's why you make backups!"

"I hate making backups."

"Get over it, girl." He's still laughing. "It's your new religion. Here, raise your right hand-"

"Langly, why can't Unix just have intuitive commands?"

"What, you can't learn a few commands?"

"Unix has lots of commands."

"You don't need that many to do what you do. C'mon, girl, let me show you how to do something in Unix."

"I already wrote the 'Hello, world,' program. And the temperature conversion program."

"No, I'm talking about doing something real, something that might help you when you go to build a model."

"Langly honey, I'm not a programmer."

"Nobody's gonna make you program, Ally. But let's make your life a little simpler, okay?"

"Okay. I have enough trouble just worrying about the data, though."

"That's why we're gonna do this, so all you have to worry about is your data." We're sitting down at his workstation in the office. "Okay, so we need to get into the cluster at Georgetown first. You do know how to do that."

"Since I do it a lot, yeah."

"Okay, we'll Telnet in." He types rapidly, gracefully. He's got long, supple fingers that just glide over the keys, and it's amazing to watch. "What's your user ID?"

"You mean you don't know it?" I teased.

"Ally, contrary to what you may believe, I don't spend my time spying on you. Not when there are so many people who need to be spied on." He's kidding, but lately, I think he's kidding on the square. "Okay, let's grep your file."

"I created the file in Excel on my PC."

"So what do you usually do with it?"

"Cut and paste it."

"You don't have tons of data yet, but you will. Do an FTP. Watch and learn." He shows me how to do it, and I'm amazed that it's that simple. "Okay," he says, "now let's get your file. What'd you call it?"

"Well..." I'm blushing. "I wanted something easy to remember, so I named it BLONDEBOY."

He contemplates this, and bursts out laughing. "You're gonna remember that?"

"Actually, that's the directory. The files are all named after the kids and the animals."

"You might actually want something a little more mnemonic after a while. You're gonna have a ton of files soon, and you might want a simpler system. Don't worry, it's easy to rename stuff in Unix." He smiles at me. "It does have its advantages, you know." He travels to the directory. It keeps saying 'not found.' "Ally, did I spell it right? B-l-o-n-d-e-b-o-y?"

"Yeah."

"Well, it's not here. Do you remember if you changed the path?"

"No, I didn't."

"Did you copy the directory?"

"No, just the files in it."

"Did you do a copy and paste or a cut and paste?"

"Copy and paste."

"You didn't just move everything on to the Cray and wipe it out of your PC?"

"No. I didn't." I'm getting really nervous now.

"When you got on the Cray, what user ID did you use?"

"I didn't. The sysop has to let you in."

"Well, then, I guess it's time to visit the Cray. This is gonna take a few minutes. Grab me a beer, would you, sweet stuff?"

I make a beer run to the kitchen. It's quiet in the house. Shelby's out clubbing and Miranda's got a date.

We ought to be in the bedroom, not the office.

I have a message on the phone, it's from Frohike. Michael should be released tomorrow. This is good. I can use some good news right now.

Particularly when I get back to Langly. He's looking mystified.

My blood starts to freeze over.

"Ally, what time did you go on the Cray?"

"I had time from 2 to 4."

"Well, according to this, you were never there. In fact, nobody was there at that time."

"Langly, I was there!"

"Ally. Your work's gone. Both from the Cray and the PC, and it's not on the network at GU, either."

Then I remember: I have a zip disk. I go to the house and pull it from my purse, bring it back out to him.

He looks over the disk, downloads the data from it, and then pops the disk into the office safe.

"What'd I tell you about making backups, girl?"

I'm shuddering, grateful that I do have this copy, but I'm even more distressed now.

Where the hell did my work all go?

I don't think we'll be in the bedroom anytime soon.

END OF PART 16