Title: The Laws of Coming and Going Author: Buckingham E-mail: buckingham15@yahoo.com Classification: M/S, A Timeline: Set in season 8, sometime post Dead Alive Summary: Life after death Disclaimer: I do not own Mulder, Scully, or anyone else that you recognize by name. They are the lawful property of CC, 1013, & FOX. A/N: I truly have no idea where this story came from. I haven't written any fic in a very long time, but recently found myself inspired to write a longer season 7 story. In the middle of writing that, this just sort of came to me and I obediently followed the muse. Maybe I have some unresolved season 8 issues that I was unaware of - Imagine that. - x - and where you live is where you'll be buried, and when you dream it's where you were born, and the moon never hangs in both skies on the same night, and that's why you think the moon has a sister, that's why your day is hostage to your nights, and that's why you can't sleep except by forgetting, you can't love except by remembering. And that's why you're divided: yes and no. I want to die. I want to live. Never go away. Leave me alone. --- Li-Young Lee, 'Restless' - x - "Tell me again," he says. His voice sounds coarse and needy even to his own ears, but somehow he's unashamed. "Please." She's told him all of it already, a couple of times actually. He's heard about the wet, gritty snow and tough, dry flowers, how Frohike cried loudly and openly, like someone was tearing at his skin or ripping his fingernails off one by one, how her mother held her hand in a bone-crunching grip the entire time, as if she feared that Scully would slip through the cold earth to meet him, how the air was heavy with the smell of flames and it turned out that there was a house on fire, just five blocks from the cemetery, how Skinner's face was like stone, unmoving and unseeing, but his eyes held a wet glimmer of guilt, how Scully threw up in a dingy motel bathroom just before the car picked her up for the cemetery and how the baby just seemed like a heavy thing in her gut that day, an unbearable, painful weight. She tells him it all once again, weaving her story of heartbreak, horror and hell with the same chilling seriousness that she used to deliver her case reports. "I couldn't believe it," she says. Her eyes are wet as she rubs circles on her stomach. "It didn't seem real. I kept thinking I'd wake up and it would all be a terrible mistake. It didn't make any kind of sense." He imagines her, aching in her beautifully controlled way, fighting against her self, against science and the cold, hard facts, against an opened grave. Above, the sky would be blue, a false sign of hope, and she'd dig her nails into her palms, drawing blood, imagining resurrection and awakenings. She'd berate herself later, for being so foolish and weak. "I shouldn't have believed it," she whispers now. Her voice seems fragile and newly formed, as if she's only testing it out. "I should have known better." He thinks about how different they are. If he had been the one left behind, he would have crawled into the ground after her, kissed his revolver long and hard, and said good-bye to a world utterly useless and empty without her in it. He would have given up. She is too strong for that, he realizes. And there's the baby. She couldn't do a thing without weighing that life beside her own. The baby saved her - he's sure of that. However conflicted he might feel about the impending bundle of joy, he can't be anything less than grateful for that. What if he'd clawed his way out of the grave only to find Scully gone? He wouldn't have just taken out himself then; he would have sent half the world screaming into hell, in a blaze of gunfire and obscenities, before he surrendering himself. Scully roughly wipes at her eyes, sniffling. She pins him with her feverish, weepy gaze. "Never again," she declares. "I won't ever go through that again. I won't." He nods, hands curled into fists. It scares him that he doesn't know exactly what she means, but he can't argue. The world can only end so many times before the strength to rebuild it is gone. He knows this. He feels it now, all scarred and bruised, months of his life lost. He's not sure he knows what the point of all of this is anymore. Maybe there isn't one. "Mulder?" Scully whispers. She awkwardly shifts to the edge of the sofa, trying to get closer. "Are you all right?" He pulls the blinds back on the window, staring down at the gray, wet world. "I'm okay," he says. Scully blinks slowly, then looks down at the floor. He's waiting for her to say something, but she only rubs her belly, inhales deeply. When she turns for the hallway, probably off to the bathroom again, he finally sinks down onto the sofa. He's more exhausted than he wants to admit. Head thrown back, he imagines that Scully will return from the bathroom her old self - no pregnant stomach, no weepy eyes, no mournful smile - and they'll get into his car to drive, drive, drive, in pursuit of some dark mystery or another. She'll blow holes through every measly theory he manages to come up with, and reluctantly smile at all of his off-color jokes. In the night air, her hair will blow around her face like fireworks, and he'll dream of kissing her under the aluminum awning of some seedy motel when she smiles at him so sweetly that he thinks she might finally understand what it is he truly feels for her. It's not a wish, Mulder realizes, fingering one of the puckered scars on his cheek. He's lived that moment, maybe two dozen times over. But it's a memory now, part of another life. Through the window, he sees the hoary-bright moon blossom across the sky. The universe is alive and kicking, raining down silver light in its cold, unforgiving way. He can barely feel it touching him now. Scully passes through on her way to the kitchen, pregnant as ever, and he closes his eyes, chasing sleep, where he can forget everything. - x - It's official: he's one sick mother fucker. He's heard the whispers over the years, but he's always shook them off without much trouble. If the jocks in the bullpen had been through the shit he had, they'd have all been locked up in padded rooms long ago. But no one's ever been willing to take the time to stand in Fox Mulder's shoes for a moment, see the view from the dark side of the moon. They're sure as hell not about to start now. He stands on the muddy track of grass, kicking dirt free from his boots. The earth is still toppled here - the hole filled in, but the mound of soil still lumpy and lopsided, like it's been trampled on by countless feet. Some mud has fallen over on his mother's plot as well, and he tries to toe it back to his empty spot, but only winds up leaving dark smudges on her grave marker. His own tombstone rests flat on its back, staring up at the gray sky accusingly. He should feel something - scared or grateful or depressed or confused or blessed. He knows that he should feel the ground crumbling beneath him, the sky cracking above him, the stars falling one by one upon his head. But he doesn't. He feels nothing, numb through and through. That's not entirely true; he feels relieved to be out here alone, under cold, wet skies, with no one to analyze his every move. Scully is in Baltimore, staying with her mother for a few days. They'll spend the weekend doing some last minute baby shopping, looking through the Scully family photo albums at baby pictures, going over what it was like for Scully's mother when she gave birth to each of her children, how she felt, if it was what she expected, how Scully's father reacted each time he held a new, red-faced baby. She was worried about leaving Mulder on his own, but he assured her that he'd be fine. "I've got some errands to run," he said. "It'll be good to get me out of your hair for a few days, won't it?" Scully stared up at him, bright-eyed, already knowing the answer to his silly question. She ran her hand down his arm, and sighed. She didn't dare say good- bye. If she knew that he'd driven down to Raleigh, so he could stand in front of the spot where he spent three months underground, she'd be horrified. She'd want him to see a doctor, a therapist. She'd pull out articles on PTSD, and rattle off the names of medications that might be helpful. She sure as hell would not understand that this is something he has to do, something that almost makes him feel like himself. Because this is part of who he is now, this muddy hole in the ground where his body used to rest. There is no escaping it. On the drive back to DC, Mulder passes a station wagon on the highway. There is a little girl in the backseat, ten years old or so, with long dark braids and a gap-toothed smile. She looks so much like his sister that he almost slams on the brakes, sends his car careening off into the embankment. His heart twists with love and loss, the first things he's felt all day, and he clings to them, slowing his car to keep pace with the silver station wagon through the rest of North Carolina and most of Virginia. Just before the car takes an exit off the highway, the girl presses her face to the window, smashing her nose against the glass, and sticks her tongue out in Mulder's direction. He laughs, an unfamiliar sound in his lonely car, then shows her his own wet tongue. She laughs too, just before she speeds out of sight. He is alive with memories all of a sudden, of lives lost and comforts gone. He remembers the blue winter jacket that Samantha used to wear, the one with the silvery-gray fur trim around the hood, and her matching mittens, with snowmen embroidered in silver thread. He remembers the red satin ribbons that tied off the ends of her braid on special occasions, and the Mickey Mouse watch that she hated to take off. He remembers the little tan leather purse she kept her change in, with Plymouth Rock painted on the front and a gold clasp closure that she always had trouble opening. He remembers her ridiculous, wide little-girl smile, the one that always made him stop and smile back in return. He remembers the butter-colored sundress that his mother always wore to barbecues and picnics, breezy summer parties where she was always luminous in the sunlight. He remembers the pearl necklace that he never saw her without, a gift from her grandmother for her sixteenth birthday, and the diamond studs that William Mulder had given her on their fifth wedding anniversary, always brightening her ears. He remembers the thick white embossed stationary that she wrote her letters and thank you notes on, and the golden pen that she used to write with. He remembers the soft blueness of her eyes whenever he or Samantha came home bruised or scraped, how she'd kiss the spot with the barest of touches and erase all the pain. He remembers the silver lighter that his father used to ignite cigarettes and cigars, engraved with his initials, the W.E.M drawn in simple careful letters. He remembers the brown sweater his father would put on every night before he sat in his chair and read the evening paper. He remembers the gold and onyx cufflinks that his father wore on special occasions, how he'd let the kids help him put them on, one working at each wrist. He remembers his father's hand, strong and gruff, clapping him on the back after a Little League game, after he came in first place in the sixth grade spelling bee. He remembers the battered leather satchel that Scully carried around their first year together, a remnant of her med school days. He remembers the stacked heels that she wore all the time, the ones that almost brought her to even height with him but still came a bit short. He remembers the lilac sweater she wore in the spring, when she seemed as lovely and shimmering as the sky. He remembers the navy-colored satin bra, with lace all around the edge, that she always seemed to wear when she was feeling particularly frisky. He remembers her soft, insistent lips, on his forehead and cheek, against his desperate mouth, whispering down his neck, sliding across his shoulders and chest, blazing against his knees and thighs, how she could heal him with a touch of those lips, shatter him if she chose, put him back together again when she was done. Mulder remembers all the way back to DC, gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles. Back at his apartment, he tosses boxes around in his hall closet until he finds what he's looking for. He wraps it in paper that he bought at CVS the other day on a whim - all the pink, blue and yellow reminding him that this was supposed to be a happy occasion - and drives over to her place without calling first. She should be back from her mother's by now, and suddenly surprising her with this stupid little gift is of the utmost importance. He can't believe that he's spent three days apart from her. He can't believe that he thought he wanted to. She answers the door in pajamas, about to take a shower, and he almost loses it when he sees how cute she is, how she waddles around the room like she could tip over at any moment. He's teeters that fine line between acting like a jerk and acting like himself, teasing her about the baby's paternity and feigning jealousy of the pizza guy. The gift seems ridiculous now, and he's having doubts about the whole thing as he pays for the pizza. He isn't ready for this, Mulder tells himself. He isn't ready to talk about the baby, or how he might fit in to the big baby picture. Somehow his memories of Scully are so much easier to cling to than Scully herself. As usual she takes the heat off him, cramping up on her sofa and fading to the color of the moon. He doesn't have time to think or feel, just react. Clinging to her hand in the ambulance, he feels anything but numb. Later, when he finds out that she'll be fine, that the baby is fine too, Mulder lays his hand on her belly for the first time. It dawns on him finally that there is an actual human being inside her, growing even as they stand there chatting about Doggett and his lost son. This kid will need Scully absolutely and completely. The world will change once again, probably before Mulder even has his feet firmly situated in this one. "I don't want to talk about Doggett and Reyes," he tells Scully. He rubs gentle circles on Scully's stomach. She smiles up at him from her yellowed hospital pillow. "I'd rather talk about you. About the obscenely large, loaded pizza I'm going to get you when you're out of here." Scully laughs. "Oh, that sounds heavenly. Pepperoni, sausage and meatball?" "If that's what you want." "Onions and peppers too. Mmm, and pineapple." "That is disgusting, Scully. I didn't think you had it in you." She lays her hand over his on her belly. "It's not me. It's this little one." "Sure, blame the kid." Scully strokes his hand, tracing the delicate bones, and he feels a chill all the way through to his gut. The baby kicks against his palm too, and Mulder is cornered, trapped between the two greatest miracles of his life. "I was worried about you this weekend," she whispers. "When I didn't hear from you at all. I left a couple of messages on your machine and cell phone." He heard the one on his cell when he woke up in Raleigh, but couldn't bring himself to call back. He would have had to lie and he doesn't have the stomach for that right now. Not outright anyway. "I kept busy. I probably lost track of time and didn't get a chance to call you back. As you can see, I'm fine and dandy." She frowns, adjusting her IV line. "What did you do?" "Some spring cleaning." Scully squints, confused. She looks like she might be getting sleepy again, and he hopes that she'll drift off soon, so he can make a tactical retreat. "What does-" "Hey, now. This isn't about me. I'm not the one lying in a hospital bed." She nods reluctantly. "I'm a little tired," she admits. "Okay," he says, pulling a chair beside the bed. "I'll stay until you fall asleep." He leaves his hand on her belly, petting it the way he might a dog. When Scully's breathing evens out, he leaves her sleeping in a hospital bed, alone and healing. Later, after she's opened his gift and clutched the doll to her heart like it was a valentine, Mulder tries to tell himself that he can do this. He presses a kiss to her stomach after she's fallen asleep, and almost believes. - x - They're all tip-toeing on egg shells around him, so naturally he's determined to tromp around bull-like, all careless and fearless, like he's got a death wish (Been there, done that, got the coffin) or had all the good sense knocked out of him while sailing around the Milky Way on an alien dissection table. It's not all that different from the way he's always gone about his business, but even he understands that his life is no longer the same. Besides, he doesn't think he's ever done so many life-endangering, boneheaded things in such a short period of time - it's got to be a new record. He broke into a government facility, just days after regaining the ability to feed himself again, and swan-dives off an exploding oil rig only a couple of weeks later, when he's still getting winded after walks around the block, the whole time acting as if the laws of mortality do not apply to him. They don't anymore, he realizes. How many men spend months asleep under the cold, hard earth, and live another day, returning to their old lives like Rip Van Winkle, forever out of step with the rest of the world? As far as he knows, he's the only one. Sue him if he can't just walk around like the rest of them, pretending that he's the same man he used to be, only a little more fragile and wounded these days. He wants to be that guy, would give anything to feel like regular, old Fox Mulder again, but he's just not. Stretched on his sofa, in pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, he stares up at the ceiling blankly. The Gunmen are crowded around his desk, working their magic on the new computer he bought last week. Frohike and Langly are arguing like bratty siblings, while Byers works quietly and efficiently, playing mediator when necessary, throwing cautious looks in Mulder's direction every so often. It's like they've got him on a suicide watch since he lost his job, checking him for signs of depression or despondency every few seconds. It's almost enough to make him laugh. In the kitchen, Scully bangs around, doing God knows what. Every since the incident on the oil rig, she's been looking at him like she wants to keep him under glass, lock him away in the china cabinet for safe-keeping. She should know better - it's like waving a red flag in his face to even suggest that he take it easy - but she can't seem to help herself. Tears, guilt-trips, and overwhelmed frowns seem to have become a significant part of Scully's repertoire these days, though it doesn't seem as if she's made a conscious decision to make them so, or that she's particularly proud of her new tricks. Just days ago, she was in the hospital herself. If either of them is fragile these days, it's Scully. Or maybe they're both totally fucked, and can't admit it. It wouldn't be the first time. She wobbles over to the sofa and thrusts a plate toward Mulder. There's a grilled cheese sandwich and some chips on it, and she's brought him a glass of soda as well. "Eat something," she says quietly. The Gunmen are less than two feet away, and can hear everything she says regardless of how low she keeps her voice, but he admires her attempt at privacy. "You're still not at full strength, you know." He takes the plate, nodding. He doesn't tell her that he's not quite sure he'll ever make it to back to normal strength. "Shouldn't I be plying you with food?" he asks. "You're the one eating for two." She smiles sheepishly. "I ate the carton of Chunky Monkey in your freezer when you went to pick up the guys." "The whole thing?" "I left you a couple of spoonfuls." "Whew!" whistles Mulder. "That's impressive." "Not very nutritious though," Frohike adds. "Mulder, man, you should be getting this woman some real food. Like the vegetable lasagna from Gino's. Or a cheese stake from that deli on Fifth Street." Mulder stretches his neck awkwardly to peer at him. "If you're demanding food for services rendered, Frohike, just come out and say it. Don't use a pregnant woman to get what you want." "I want a damned cheese stake, all right?" "You couldn't have asked before I changed into my pj's, could you?" Mulder shoves his sandwich to the center of the table and stands. "Now *my* sandwich is going to get cold." "I'll eat it," Scully says, eyeing it in a very predatory way. "But I was going to get you a cheese stake. I'm not getting dressed again just to get these bozos some dinner." Frohike and Langly glare harmlessly in his direction, while Byers continues to work, not getting involved. Scully lifts Mulder's discarded plate, taking a bite of the sandwich. "This will tide me over until you get back." All four men turn and gape at her. Even the always polite Byers. "I'm calling the Guinness Book of World Records," Langly says. "I don't think this kind of appetite is normal." Scully flinches, imperceptibly to the naked eye, but for someone like Mulder, who's spent years studying her mannerisms and moods, it's easy to spot. She hates to think of herself or this baby as anything less than normal. She refuses to even contemplate the possibility. Mulder shakes his head, turns to his bedroom to get dressed. At the door, Scully watches him put on his jacket, looking like a nervous mother whose little boy is riding the bus for the first time. They have more privacy here in the entry-way, but she lowers her voice again anyway. "It's raining," she says. "The streets are pretty slick, so be sure to drive carefully. And don't forget your seat belt." He frowns, trying not to lose his temper. "And I promise not to run down the hall with scissors or stick my fingers in any electrical outlets either." Her face seems to crumple in on itself, though there are no visible tears this time. She forces a smile, as if this was one of Mulder's usual jokes and she could laugh about it in a regular kind of way. He knows the truth - that it hurts too much now, feeling like a low blow - but he can't seem to stop. "I'll be back," he announces to the room. He looks back at Scully as he pulls the door shut behind him, wondering if she believes him. - x - Continued in The Laws of Coming and Going (2 of 2) buckingham15@yahoo.com Continued from The Laws of Coming and Going (2 of 2) buckingham15@yahoo.com - x - It's never occurred to him how torturous and slow a day could really be when you have no particular place to go. He runs errands - a trip to the dry cleaners, a stop at the grocery store, even a meandering walk through the library - and it's still not even lunch time. As he wolfs down a sausage and pepper hero from Gino's, the pizza place where they still, somehow, remember him, he misses Scully with a pang that goes deeper than bone. He's been arms-lengthing her for a couple of days now, and wonders what the hell the point is when he always winds up aching for her before an hour's up. Sometimes he misses her even when she's with him. He waits until evening before he breaks down, letting himself into her apartment while she's napping. It's strange, he thinks, toeing off his sneakers and making himself comfortable on her sofa, but he now seems to have access to her apartment in a way that he didn't before. A year ago, he'd never presume to let himself into her apartment and hang out, while she slept on in the other room, dreaming hard. He was sleeping with her then, making love to her on a fairly regular basis, but there were still such glaring boundary lines. They'd never show up at each other's places for social calls if they hadn't been invited. Work, that was a valid excuse to appear on her doorstep at 2 am and drink her coffee, poke through her books shelves, fall into an exhausted stupor on her couch, drooling all over her lovely little throw pillows. Sometimes, if he'd been particularly charming that night, particularly sensitive or well-groomed, he'd come awake to find Scully pulling at the buttons of his shirt, easing the zipper of his pants down, leaving her hot brand all over his neck. But he'd never gone looking for that, never shown up at the threshold to her world and expected anything more than her kindness, friendship, or understanding. He's not here for anything more even now. It's just that since his return from the dead, Scully has thrown open every door between them and erased every boundary that they ever teetered across, making it clear that he's welcome to drool on her pillows any time. She seems almost desperate for him to do so, and that makes it damn near impossible to spend more than twenty minutes in her presence. He's trying. On her coffee table sits a copy of 'What to Expect While You're Expecting,' and Mulder leafs through it, for lack of anything better to do. It is mind boggling, this thing that is going on inside of Scully. It would be impossible to comprehend even if she had the reproductive history of an average woman, because it really is the most ridiculously frequent of miracles, the most unbelievably astonishing of every day occurrences. But this isn't any woman; this is Scully. His Scully. How could a book ever profess to explain what's going on inside of her? In her belly, her heart, or her mind- what difference does it make? Some stranger could never guess at the secrets held inside her. Scully begins to move around in the bedroom, making all her quiet, unmistakable sounds, so he gets up to put the kettle on for tea. He bangs his way around her kitchen, still feeling out of place, like he's been dropped back into another life, another world. "Hey," she says, seeming entirely unsurprised to find him camped out in her living room. "What's going on?" She lowers herself onto the sofa gingerly, at the opposite end from him, but close enough that he can smell her vanilla and cinnamon scent. He taps at the pregnancy guide with his foot. "Just doing a little reading." She adjusts the pillows behind her, looking slightly amused. "Find anything interesting?" "Well, my eyes were naturally drawn to the 'Making Love During Pregnancy' section. If you're interested in doing a little field research..." He can joke like this because, just like all those years when they still pretended to live separate lives, the idea of sex between them now exists only as the most theoretical of possibilities, and thus is not frightening in the least. It's like teasing her about bringing a paternity suit against the pizza guy - it's so absurd, how can you not laugh? Scully shakes her head, smiling wanly. The kettle hisses in the kitchen, and Mulder goes to fix her a cup of tea. This is the most productive he's felt all day, he thinks, handing her the dark colored mug. At least he's still good for something. She sips carefully, and they sit together in silence, Mulder's feet propped up on the coffee table and Scully rubbing circles on her stomach. He watches the motion of her hand like he's been hypnotized. "What's it like?" he asks, his voice nothing more than a throaty whisper in her quiet apartment. Scully looks up, startled. Her eyes are so wide and blue that he almost forgets what he's asked, but she stares down at her belly again and reminds him. "It's so strange," she says quietly. "But wonderful too. Like there's this tiny part of the world that only exists inside of me." He nods, not sure that he really understands. She reaches out for his hand, her fingers hot from holding her tea, and lays it against the hard, round mound of her stomach. There is movement there, life pulsing forward. Scully smiles at him, so lovely and luminous, and he imagines this child will be the best of everything in her, a tangible reminder of everything that he loves best about her. It's almost like a gift she's giving just to him. For a moment, he thinks about pressing his ear to her belly, to see if he can hear the ocean roaring, if the baby has anything important to tell him, but the phone rings beside Scully, and the mood is lost. Mulder leans back, and listens to Scully chat with Doggett. He knows what everyone else is probably thinking, but he's not envious of the guy in the least. Sure, Doggett may be gainfully employed, unlike Mulder, and he may have the X-files, for whatever they're worth these days, but he doesn't have a whole hell of a lot more than that. He's as sad and empty as Mulder ever was. And there's no Scully on the horizon for him, this woman so full of grace and magic and might that she actually can save souls. He watches her, feeling his heart contract. Slowly he stretches himself out on the sofa, his head in her lap, pressed against the swell of baby. She is stiff for a moment, still talking quietly on the phone, but then runs her fingers tentatively against his scalp, massaging and scratching. He falls asleep, wondering how to become part of that miraculous world inside Scully. - x - Back when he was just a regular guy, he had a million different fantasies and dreams about Scully. Some were sexual, so startlingly filthy that he'd blush when he caught sight of her afterward, but most were so heart-stoppingly mundane that they were almost more embarrassing than the raunchy ones. What kind of guy actually imagines doing laundry with the object of his affections? Not as a prelude to some hot and wet action, but just as a companionable act in and of itself. Maybe other men did dream about cooking a woman dinner, playing mini-golf with her at a pirate-themed course, buying her a box of rich, creamy chocolates that she'd never allow herself otherwise, swimming with her in the Pacific Ocean just as the sun started to set overhead. Maybe not. He'd never been a particularly good judge of what was normal. Mulder does know for a fact, however, that he never once dreamed about doing this with Scully. The woman standing in front of them has long black hair, streaked here and there with silver, conjuring up thoughts of Frankenstein's bride. That would be odd enough, he thinks, but the way she contorts her face as she demonstrates proper breathing techniques is downright frightening. Scully looks on solemnly, the strangeness of the situation, of the two of them here, doing this together, seemingly lost on her. Surprisingly, the other couples react to them in the same manner, as if they belong in this cheerfully decorated room with all the other mommy and daddys-to- be. No one raised an eyebrow over the fact that Mulder likes to go by his last name, and they're all childishly impressed by their FBI connection. "Just like that 'Profiler' show on TV," a chirpy blonde named Allison says. She is a dental hygienist, with the perfect white smile to prove it. "I hope you guys don't have to deal with stuff as awful as all that," she adds as an afterthought, her big Bambi brown eyes blinking insistently. Scully smiles tightly, dismissing the question with a shake of her head. So they are just Dana and Mulder, expecting their first child the third week of May. Technically, Scully announced that it was *her* first baby, but it's obvious that everyone assumes she speaks for Mulder as well. "Lamaze isn't just about hee-hee-hoo-ing your way through the delivery," Sonia, the Bride of Frankenstein look-alike instructor, says. "It's about becoming confident in your body's natural ability to give life. This class will help you become more attuned to your contractions so you're able to use your body in a way that helps the natural labor process along." Mulder tries to imagine himself in that delivery room, holding Scully's hand as she pants out her pain, but the image will not come into focus. He scratches at one of the scars on his chest through his t-shirt, frowning. Sonia begins to show the coaches massage techniques that often help the mother feel more comfortable during labor. As Mulder leans over Scully from behind, his hands moving gently over her stomach, he realizes that this is all very real, and if he doesn't get his act together, it could end very badly. Scully shifts in front of him awkwardly, trying to get more comfortable, and elbows him in the gut, a sharp burst of pain. "Fuck," he hisses, loud enough so the couples sitting on either side of them glance over in concern. He smiles tightly, trying to reassure them. He wonders if there's some rule about not cursing in front of pregnant women that he's forgotten. Scully blushes furiously, and mumbles her apologies into the empty air in front of her. Her fingers grip uselessly at her knees, clutching the rough fabric of his jeans. He remembers suddenly that he had a habit of saying 'Fuck' when they were in bed together. 'Oh, fuck, Scully.' 'Fuck, yes.' 'Fuck, fuck, fuck.' Sometimes he said it in just such a way that it almost seemed like he was trying to remind her exactly of what it was they were doing. She'd laugh against his neck then, moving over him like they had all the time in the world, and whisper back a throaty, little 'Yes' that without fail made him thrust up into her harder. If it wasn't for all those times when he let the obscenities fly, put obscenities into action, he and Scully wouldn't even be in this room in the first place. Well, at least, if this kid is the real deal, a little Scully- Mulder hybrid and nothing more. Does Scully have memories that hit her like that, Mulder wonders. Little bits of the past, floating up through the flotsam and jetsam of daily thoughts, without warning or invitation. Probably not. She's lived life in a continuous block, so her timeline is straight. It's only him who's forced to cobble the scraps together in a way that makes sense. Scully's body rests against his tensely. He rubs her shoulders in a conciliatory manner, staring down at where the baby rests. "Are you scared?" he whispers, brushing the hair away from her face. She twists her head to look up at him, her eyes wide and wet. "No," she whispers back. She leans against him heavily, breathing hard. "When your worst fear comes true, there's not a whole lot to be afraid of anymore." Mulder blinks, petting Scully's soft hair. Maybe she's right. - x - On the drive up to Baltimore, his third trip there in less than four hours, he listens to the Orioles' game on the radio. They're playing the Devil Rays, so he barely cares about the outcome, but he's always loved baseball on the radio, its rhythm and pace, the comforting sound of the announcers' voices, just like coming home. He's missed a World Series, he remembers, and a freaking amazing one at that - Yankees and Mets. He's almost willing to spend another three months in the ground to live through the Yanks kicking the Mets' ass all over New York. Scully is waiting on the curb in front of her mother's house, like a kid in line for the school bus. As pregnant as she is, it's an almost humorous sight. She waves unnecessarily as he pulls to a stop beside her. "Thanks for coming out here again, Mulder," she says, as she lowers herself carefully into the car. She drops her bag at her feet, and lays a small white plastic bag across her lap. "My mother's friend Rita had a heart attack an hour ago, and since she's got no family left in the area, Mom felt like she had to be there for her. She didn't want to wake up and find herself all alone." "It's fine, Scully. Not like I have a whole lot on my schedule these days." She frowns at him, but stays silent. This morning, when he drove her out her for the first time, she kept thanking him. "I'm know it's an inconvenience, driving all the way to Baltimore on a Saturday afternoon," she said. "So thank you. Thank you." He smiled at her, not knowing what to say. Of course he'd drive her to her mother's house. She could call on him at any time of day, for any reason. Need someone to kill the spider in your bathroom, Scully? I'm your man. Need someone to move your sofa? I'll do all your heavy lifting. Need someone to hold your hand while you give birth? I can sure as hell try. "Did you get to spend any time with your mom?" asks Mulder, as they merge onto the highway. "Before her friend got sick?" "Yes." She smiles. "We had a nice lunch, and did some shopping. She bought me this." He takes his eyes off the road for a moment to watch Scully reach into the plastic bag in her lap, and pull out a large soft-covered book. 'Best Baby Name Book in the World' the brightly colored font asserts boldly. "It is getting to be crunch time," he says. "Gotta start thinking about the nitty gritty details." "I suppose so. Though I'm not sure this book is going to help all that much. There are at least 20,000 names in here. The sheer number of choices is overwhelming." He glances over at her quickly, her face titled toward the sun where it comes through the window. "I'd have thought you'd narrowed it down some. That maybe you'd want to name the kid after someone." It's only after he's said the words that he realizes it sounds like he's fishing, which was not his intention at all. He just imagined that Scully would have a family name picked, something that spoke of the kid's legacy, connected him or her to the past. Instead, he makes himself seem like a colossal asshole, unwilling to own up to his part in all this but making demands regardless. He grips the steering wheel tightly, focusing on the road, the dark ribbon of pavement as it surges in front of him. "I'll have you know that 'Fox' didn't even make the book," says Scully, humor evident in her voice. Mulder smiles over at her, relieved. "There's a reason for that, Scully." "All I know is that 'Fox' is certainly better than Humphrey. Or Eggbert. Both of which are included. I'm not sure I can trust this book's judgment." "If I had a say..." he says, the words sticking uncomfortably in his throat. He hopes she doesn't notice, though he doubts it, the way she shifts awkwardly in her seat. "I'd make sure the kid got a name that won't get his ass kicked on the playground. Simple and traditional, that's the way to go." He feels her staring at him, but keeps his eyes ahead. "I never thought I'd hear you championing the simple and traditional," Scully says. "Did hell freeze over when I wasn't looking?" "Har-dee-har-har." They both fall silent then, the car filled with the soothing sounds of the Orioles' game. In front of them, the sun blazes wildly, bleaching the sky of color. He runs a hand over his face, his fingers sliding against a smooth spot on his cheek where his scar has almost entirely healed. Scully clears her throat delicately, begging for attention. As if he could ever deny her that. "I think my mother bought me this book solely as an attempt to trick me into telling her the baby's sex. She's been hounding me for weeks." It is a serious bone of contention between Scully and her mother, between Scully and her brothers, Scully and her sister-in-law, even Scully and the Gunmen. The sonogram picture that held all the answers was hidden somewhere in her bedroom, not pinned to the refrigerator like the earlier ones. He is as much in the dark as the others, but hasn't pushed her at all. He teases her about it, though, just to make her smile. He watches her, flipping through the book slowly. "Why don't you want anyone to know?" he asks quietly. "I mean, if you're okay with knowing yourself, then why-" "I think it's because of all the questions," Scully says, resting her hand on her belly. "There have been so many questions about this baby, so many unknown possibilities, and this was one little thing that I could know, be one hundred percent sure of. I'm just not ready to share that yet." He nods, finally feeling as if he understands her, as if the disconnect between them since his return is only a temporary blip on the radar screen of their lives, instead of the permanent fissure he'd been fearing. "I'll give you a hint, though," she whispers, sounding almost seductive. "I think it's what you were hoping for." Mulder stares at her blankly. What he was hoping for? He wasn't aware that he was hoping one way or the other, let alone that he'd given that impression to Scully. As usual, she knows him better than he knows himself. - x - He wants to feel like he's coming home, like he's where he belongs, but all he feels sitting in the basement office in the dark is cold and a little hungry. It's after eleven at night, and the place is deserted. He thinks he might finally understand how half the world was able to appear in his office unannounced all those years, popping out of shadows without so much as a 'Boo.' Apparently the security detail doesn't give a good Goddamned about weirdoes wrecking havoc in the basement. He supposes it makes sense - it's not like there's much worthwhile down here these days. In the dark, Mulder sits with his feet propped up on his old desk. It fits in with a thousand memories he has of this place, of hours spent contemplating the vast, unrelenting cosmos, vampires and shape shifters, Scully's underwear and her sexy high heel shoes. The more things change, the more they stay the same, he thinks. Scully's underwear will always remain a minor obsession for him. He closes his eyes, and thinks back to a time when all that mattered most to him fit in this shoebox office. He remembers the day he moved in down here, how excited he was, how pleased he was to have finally found his place. "What the hell are you doing down here?" Mulder opens his eyes to find Skinner silhouetted in the doorway. His jaw is tightly clenched, and his brow is wrinkled - it's a look Skinner often seems to wear around the basement. "I'm thinking of joining the evening janitorial crew. Great benefits, I hear." Skinner frowns sourly. "I came down to drop this off for Agent Doggett." He steps into the room, holding up a file folder. He slides it onto the desk, like it contains naked photos that Mulder would pay big money to see disappear, then stands back. They watch one another for a long minute, neither moving. "You're not gonna take a look?" Skinner finally asks. "Unless you tell me that it's got something to do with Scully or the baby, I don't particularly care." Skinner shakes his head, hands on hips. He glances around the room in the darkness, but returns his gaze to Mulder. "How is Scully these days?" "She's fine. She's good," Mulder tells him. "T minus nine days until baby makes two." He tries to keep the morose, bitter tone out of his voice, but Skinner exhales sharply, so he suspects that it's snuck in anyway. "Mulder, I don't know how to explain what it was like for her with you gone," Skinner says, painfully sympathetic. "And you weren't just off on one of your usual wild goose chases, hypothetically in danger. You were gone for real, Mulder. For good." Mulder grins up smartly at Skinner. "Not really, though, huh?" "You know what I mean," Skinner sighs. "She was the most broken I've ever seen her. Even more so than when she was sick. She was just lost, Mulder. Utterly and hopelessly lost." He doesn't need to hear this. He doesn't want to hear this. Scully's devotion to him has always been painfully obvious. Her love for him is as plain to see as the cross she wears every day. But he feels ridiculously jealous all of a sudden, that Skinner is privy to a chapter of her life that he'll never have access to. Anger burns in his chest. "I've never doubted that it was anything but hard for her," he says snidely. "No, you're just determined to make it even harder for her now, right?" Mulder shakes his head. "To tell you the truth, sir, I'm not determined to do much of anything these days." Skinner lowers his head, sighing. The light from the hallway reflects off his glasses, and blinds Mulder temporarily. It feels like swimming up from the depth of the ocean, when the world still shimmers and blurs before it comes back into focus. "Listen, Mulder. I can't pretend to know what any of this has been like for you either. None of us can. You were dealt a really shitty hand." His head snaps up at Mulder's sharp bark of laughter. "But there is this baby to think about. It doesn't mean that anyone's forgotten what you've gone through. It just means-" Mulder holds up his hand. "Please, Walter. Give me some credit here." He pushes away from the desk, and stands. "I'm not interested in having a contest to see whose scars are the ugliest, or whose go the deepest. I think we're all pretty fucked up actually. In our own unique ways." Skinner grimaces, but nods slowly. Like there's any point in denying the painful truth. "I've just been trying to find my place again," Mulder says quietly. "That's all I'm doing." Skinner nods again. "How's that going?" Mulder heads for the door, clapping Skinner on the arm as he passes him. "Well, I'm finally sure that it isn't down here anymore." He turns in the doorway to face Skinner once more. "Good night, sir." "Good night, Mulder. Take care of yourself." Mulder smiles, all full of self-deprecation, then waves at Skinner one last time. In the cool light of the hallway, he feels a thousand years old. The world doesn't end, he thinks. It just starts spinning in a new direction. - x - Scully doesn't answer the door until his fourth round of knocking. Not that he blames her; it takes her a minute, at least, just to get off the sofa these days. "Hey," he says from the hallway, rain beaded on his jacket. "Can I come in?" She stands back, holding the door open, her body language saying 'Of course,' though she doesn't actually utter a word. Once inside, he sees that her apartment is the orderly realm that it always is, but on her kitchen table, there is a mess of crepe paper, pink and blue balloons, ridiculous cardboard storks. "What's all this?" he asks. She frowns. "My mother is insisting on throwing me a shower. It isn't until Sunday afternoon but she dropped this stuff off this morning. I'll be drowning in all this pink and blue for the next four days." Scully wrinkles her nose in an adorable way, utterly disgusted at the thought of all that traditional female bonding. "Hey, cheer up. I brought food," he sing-songs. He holds up a large brown shopping bag. "Hot turkey sandwich with all the fixings. Bowl of matzo ball soup. And those caramel-fudge brownies you like so much for dessert." She laughs. "Be still my beating heart. What did I do to deserve all this?" He shrugs, smiling non-committally. She waddles over the sofa, in her purple satin pajamas, and throws herself down on the cushions with a great heave. She's out of breath from that small maneuver, and he realizes how fragile she is, how precious and lovely, how his entire world is now in this bright room, with rain pelting the windows outside. It seems like it's been raining every day since he woke up, the world a damp, clean slate around him. In the kitchen, he drops the food on the table, and slides out of his jacket. The back of Scully's head is a bright spark over the top of the sofa, and he's drawn to her, as always. The way she smiles up at him as he sits down, so patient and lovely, makes him want to throw himself at her feet and beg for forgiveness. He wants to spend hours explaining to her that he was just scared, for her and what might have been done to her, for the baby and what it could be used for, for himself and all the memories of ships lost among the stars and the cold, dead earth that might come back to him at any moment. He wants to tell that he's stayed away because he couldn't stand leaving again, couldn't stand losing her one more time. He wants to tell her that he finally realizes where it is he does fit - with her, anywhere with her. He wants too hold her, tell her that it's all going to be all right, that she doesn't have to be afraid anymore, that he'll protect her from anyone or thing that tries to lay a hand on her or the baby. He wants to tell her that he loves her, has always loved her, that he loved her all the way up in that lonely, black sky and from that pine box deep in the ground, even if he can't remember it. Loving her is too much a part of who he is to ever be really lost. He doesn't say any of those things, though. He hopes that she already knows. "Are we going to eat?" asks Scully, studying his eyes closely. "You can't wave a bag of food under a pregnant woman's nose and then not turn over the goods. You're endangering your own life." He smiles at her, though he barely registers the joke. "Scully, I was thinking," he starts to say. She licks her lips, listening intently. It takes him a minute to work up the nerve to continue. "I was thinking that I could hang out with you for a while. If that's all right." Scully smiles in the most heartbreaking way, her eyes dark and wet. Their hands connect over the vast expanse of empty couch between them, and he feels so much like himself that he almost can't believe he ever forgot what this meant. "I'd like that," she whispers. She tugs on his hand, pulling him closer. "I miss you so much." He nods. "I know. I know." She wipes at her eyes, resting their joined hands on her stomach. He wants to take her in his arms, but can't. He settles for sitting right beside her, their arms and legs touching, her head falling to his shoulder. They don't move for several long minutes, matching their breathing in the rainy quiet of Scully's apartment. "Food's gonna get cold," he whispers into her hair, after her eyes have slipped shut. "That's okay." Mulder closes his eyes, remembering everything. - x - The End - x - Author's Note: I think this is just my way of getting wet again in the whole fan fic thing. Please send all questions, comments, and concerns to buckingham15@yahoo.com, where they will be happily read.