Summary: Damn, I'm getting good.

Five.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One.

As if on cue, Will lets out his trademark scream.

His I-can't-believe-you're-torturing-your- own-child-like-this scream.

I'm good. I'm so good, I can predict when and where he chooses to be obnoxious.

Sometimes it's at the grocery store.

Sometimes it's when we're all sitting down for a nice meal at Mom's.

And sometimes it's at 3:30 in the bloody morning when all I want to do is continue a nice, normal pattern of what us human beings kindly refer to as 'sleep'.

This time, however, he chooses to grace me with his vocals while I am giving him his daily bath in the sink. I guess I can blame today's outburst on the defiant soapy bubbles that managed to escape up his nose.

Much to his chagrin, and much to my amusement, he does his best to flush them out, but to no avail.

This time, I'm treated to an angry thrashing of limbs and frustrated grunts.

You wouldn't believe this is all I live for.

I mercifully lift my son out of his tepid hellhole, and gently lay him down on top of the fluffy white towel laid out neatly on the counter.

I begin a vigourous process of drying him off, rubbing the towel over his little head until his wispy, golden hair spikes out in every possible direction.

Already, his mood is beginning to lift.

I even get a smile.

I think.

Of course, it may be gas.

Hey, I'm still learning here.

He begins to coo, and this leads me to believe that once again, William Mulder is content.

Contrary to popular belief, it isn't a hard task to accomplish. He's generally a very happy baby. And I know that it is in every mother's contract to say that her baby is perfect, but I think that I'm the only one who can say it and not expect a raising of eyebrows.

For somebody who, for about six years of her life was sure she was never going to be a mother, I think I deserve a little credit.

He's perfect.

There. I said it. Don't make me take it back.

I stare at him for a few seconds and let my mind wander. Absently, I reach into the sink and pull the plug, listening to the incessant *glug glug* of the water as it spirals down the drain.

Another day.

Another bath.

"All clean now," I whisper, as I wrap up my child and carry him into his nursery. I plop him gently on his changing table and go about the task of diapering, powdering, and clothing him.

Damn, I'm getting good.

You wouldn't believe what a clodhopper I used to be at this.

The first time Mulder watched me change William, I knew he was holding back hysterical laughter.

Honestly, I didn't blame him. It was quite the site. Me fumbling around like a fish out of water. Dropping the baby powder. Almost, and I repeat, , putting the diaper on backwards.

I swear, his eyes sparkled as he watched me.

I remember we were watching that special on TV that day.

I remember him saying how incredible it was that we'd finally mapped out our entire genetic makeup. And in the very same breath, saying how trite, since it's long been done and 'They' were in hysterics about our supposed 'accomplishment' this very minute.

William begins to fuss on his changing table, and I snap back to the present.

Whisking him into my arms, I place a kiss on his forehead and watch his eyelids flutter.

"So resilient, but you can't stay awake forever, my man."

I wanted to stay awake that night. I think Mulder did too. William couldn't care less what we did. All he knew is that he was sleeping, and nobody was going to get in his way. And he did. For a good three hours.

He smells of baby powder and Ivory, and I want to squeeze him so tightly against my chest and never forget the scent.

But he's fading fast, and before he knows what hits him, he's out like a light.

"When he's sleeping, it's as though the whole world is okay," Mulder told me that night.

That night.

The night that continues to live in infamy.

"Maybe it is, Mulder."

Together we watched our son sleep, trying not to notice Mulder's suitcases sitting a few feet away from William's bassinet.

We could have watched him for hours. We probably did. Time really didn't matter that night. The past two days were all one big blur to me anyway.

I place Will in his bassinet and stroke the tiny crease on his forehead. Sometimes I think he has a troubled sleep, when he frowns like that. I wonder what he's thinking. I wonder what he hears, what he sees.

I wonder if that's what I look like when I sleep.

Mulder looks surprisingly peaceful when he sleeps. For a man so tortured, for lack of a better word, Mulder sleeps so peacefully. It's almost frightening.

He fell asleep before me, much to his dismay, I know. He kept preaching that he was the Man of Steel himself, and would stay awake "all damn night" if he had to.

He was just so damn tired.

"Even the Man of Steel sleeps too, Mulder."

I wanted to wake him, I really did. I even promised him I would, you know, 'just in case'. But I didn't.

So sue me.

How could I? How many other opportunities like that would I get in this lifetime? I admit now, my reasoning was selfish. But I'd do it again. And again. Just to feel what I felt and just to see what I saw that night.

Seeing them both asleep. Beside me.

So close I could touch them.

I almost didn't want to, fearing I'd wake them.

But I did.

Just to prove to myself that they were real.

That room felt light. Almost euphoric. It's difficult to describe, but there was something magical about watching Mulder and William's chests rise and fall in exact unison while the pale moonlight pierced through the curtain.

It was like a scene out of a movie.

A movie that ended at sunrise.

Back in the kitchen I mop up the tiny puddles of water that accumulated on the floor due to William's exuberant splashing in his makeshift tub.

I double-check the pantry for Gerber.

I open the fridge to see if we're running out of milk.

I flip the lock, turn off the lights, and saunter back into my bedroom. I tiptoe this time, careful not to wake my slumbering boy.

Ten thirty-five. Not bad, Dana. Not bad at all.

I'm getting good at this mother thing, Mulder. Really good. And what's icing on this ever-domestic cake, I think our son likes me.

I've got a long way to go, though.

I'm still not the liveliest when getting up for the 2 a.m. feeding. And I must work on not giving in every time he makes that face. You know, the one where he puffs his cheeks out and squeezes his eyes shut...

Of course you don't know.

I must work on that too. Pretending you're still here, Mulder.

I undress slowly and pull down the covers. I touch the holster under the bed. I saunter over to the door and push it closed to the point where it only lets a shed of moonlight from the living room through the crack.

I never close it so I hear the click. I hate that click.

Saying goodbye to you was the longest I've ever felt a continuous sharp pain piercing inside my chest.

Much of the goodbye ceremony itself I do not remember, like a lot of things I choose to block out.

But I know there was a lot of griping. Crying. Holding. Tugging. Kissing. Hugging. And I think somewhere in there I told you I loved you.

And you told me you loved me. And William.

And you would be back.

And then I closed the door so it clicked.

Never again.

The click represents everything I'm not ready to face. The closed door. The end. It's not the end.

Mulder, it's only the beginning.

William isn't even a toddler yet. I have so many more mothering skills to perfect.

I'm going to be a pro by the time you come back. You just wait.

You will be so proud of me.

You will be so damn proud.

Fin.