SUMMARY: Mulder, Scully, and baby. Some things are too good to be true. Or are they?

"I think what we feared were the possibilities..." The heartbeat of the wind-up alarm clock ticked counterpoint to the heavy thump of Mulder's heart, both marking time, both waiting for Scully. "...the truth we both know."

Scully's eyes flickered, her gaze withdrawing to a safe distance from the answer. "Which is what?" she demurred, tucking her chin beneath the words.

Mulder eased through the tiny opening left by her question, reaching for Scully with his lips instead of words. After slight hesitation, she leaned into his kiss, meeting him part way, her mouth opening against his, accepting. Her hands skimmed up his arms, embracing their child, holding him. He let go, falling weightless, fearless with her arms around him. Scully took the lead; he simply followed her home.

Random tapping like the flutter of birds' wings against his chest finally caught the trailing edge of Mulder's consciousness. Drawing Scully back with him, he pressed his forehead to her forehead; together they watched sleep pull their son into his dreams. With a final yawn, William lay still, his tiny chest drifting up and down.

"Let's get some sleep while he does," Scully whispered as Mulder lay William in his cradle. She unmade the bed, handing Mulder pillows to pile on the floor at its foot. She slipped between the sheets, snuggling beneath the thin comforter, her eyes undressing Mulder as he undressed himself and found his way into her arms again. The heat of her body warmed him as they tucked arms and legs together, found places for their hands, and turned their faces together so each could breathe in the cloud of the other's breath. Surrendering to unconsciousness, he remembered the words, the I love you's, the promises he had wanted to make. Tomorrow, he thought as he drifted away, there will be plenty of tomorrows.

The third time Mulder woke, sunlight warmed the room. He yawned, blinking against the grit in his eyes, thinking of the midnight feeding and the two AM diaper, remembering why most people had their children well before the age of forty. He lay still for a moment, savoring the aroma of freshly brewed coffee, listening to the sounds of Scully working in the kitchen. He sat up, throwing the comforter aside. Bacon. He smelled bacon. Unbelievable.

Working creaky limbs into his crumpled jeans and t-shirt, Mulder padded down the hall to the kitchen, thinking of bacon and eggs and toast, perfect Sunday mornings on the Vineyard, his father home on a rare weekend visit and his mother in the kitchen, making brunch for the whole family. The peace he he'd forgotten for years exploded from the memory. He took two steps at a trot before his feet malfunctioned, nearly tripping him. Pulling up against the dining table, he pressed his palms against the cool oak while he struggled to reconcile what he saw with what he had just smelled and heard.

The kitchen was empty.

He turned in a complete circle. Dark. The coffee pot sat empty and clean on the counter. Cooking things - skillet, whisk, plates, fork, and bowls - were tucked away in drawers and cupboards as they usually were. A faint scent of Lysol hung in the air. He circled again.

Still empty.

No Scully.

No baby.

His stomach growled.

He scratched sleep ruffled hair into place with this fingernails. "Weird dream," echoed through the kitchen as he tottered back toward the bedroom, yawning, thinking he should have known that bacon was too good to be true....

Scully sat, bathed in lamplight, on the edge of the bed, holding their son.

What the hell? Mulder glanced at the window - dark; it was night outside - before looking to Scully for an explanation.

She rose from the bed, smiling, patting their son gently with one hand, saying "We're doing just fine."

He remembered asking "How's everybody," but not this time. Before. His lips pulled into a grimace as Scully approached him. He watched his hand reach for the blanket and pull it away from his son's face. He heard the baby fuss and his voice, saying "Hey now, none of that." When Scully offered the baby, Mulder took it. He felt the tiny weight in his arms and he found himself grinning, saying "hi" to both baby and mother as he knew he would.

His head buzzed from the surreal mix of memory and reality. "What are you going to call him?" he knew he would say.

Scully's eyes filled with tears as he remembered they did. "William," she said, then paused. "After your father."

Yes, I knew that. His heart swelled with emotion anyway. The conversation unspooled, each word an exact match to one in his memory, chilling and accurate. Then he leaned in for the kiss.

Scully rose on her toes, cupped his face with both hands, and pressed her lips against his forehead. The shock of her warm mouth against his skin caught him low, in the gut. He fell back, pulling hard at the air, fighting to fill his lungs with it. Words of denial formed on his tongue, drying there, gluing it to the roof of his mouth.

She twined her arms with his. "Mulder, I don't know how to thank you for being there for me - for us - through all of this." Lifting, she took the baby from him.

Mulder's arms fell, dangling in air at his sides.

"Really, Mulder," she nuzzled her baby, her voice muffled in the blanket, "you went above and beyond what one friend would do for another. The in vitro fertilization, time after time after time, until it finally worked. Lamaze classes. Somehow finding me in the middle of nowhere and getting us safely to a hospital after my baby was born..."

"I want more." The words came from nowhere, bursting through his lips without warning. Hope rattled in his chest, loose and dry, like seeds in an old gourd.

"Want? You've done nothing but give. Just tell me and it's yours."

I want you, Scully, and your love. I want us to be a family. I want William to grow up knowing me as his father. One demand tumbled over the other, each trying to find its voice so the words would carry to her ears. Mulder knitted his lips into a firm line and studied the floor for a moment. "I'd like to be a part of William's life," he found Scully's eyes and watched them carefully. "It's as close to fatherhood as I'm likely to get...if you'll let me."

Scully looked from Mulder to Will and back again. She smiled. Slowly. "I'd like that."

"Thanks." Finding himself empty, he bolted from the apartment. Outside, he bumped shoulders with early evening foot travelers-- couples absorbed in each other, young families with children; only a few singles, all walking as if they had somewhere important to go.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid," he fumbled his keys through damp fingers. They spiraled into the air, clattering off his car door and dropping to the ground. Snatching them up, he tore a fingernail on the uneven pavement. Juggling the keys in his off hand, he sucked his fingertip, the pain grounding him, making him part of a reality he didn't want.

He wanted family. And bacon. And waking with Scully in a yellow tinted morning.

He twisted the key in the lock, pulling at the door. Which was the dream? Last night or this one? No, he corrected himself, there was only one dream and it was unattainable. THIS was a nightmare. Mulder dropped into the seat, slamming the door behind him. THIS was his life. He slumped forward, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel. "You are such a fool," the accusation echoed from the windshield, cold as glass.

Stabbing the ignition, he revved the engine and pulled away from the curb, merging carelessly into light traffic. Red light. Green light. Green light. He accelerated, turning onto a bridge that would lead him across the dark waters of the Potomac.

Street light glowed through the windows, painting Mulder in monochrome. He sprawled on the leather sofa, one arm and one leg dangling toward the floor. On television, people mouthed conversation while dust motes flickered in the black and white light. A radio murmured through the floor. Disembodied laughter passed beneath a window he'd cracked open for ventilation. A door slammed. Mulder tracked a car's headlights as they crossed the ceiling and drove along the far wall, disappearing into the darkness of his bedroom.

Two realities warred in his head, both of them equally resonant, neither less real than the other one. After the disorientation of a brief nap, he remembered the heat of her lips as well as he remembered tears in his eyes. He wanted to believe the kiss. He had to believe the rejection. He knew two things for certain: only one of those memories was real and he didn't have a clue which memory it was. Maybe neither one of them ever happened and he was losing his mind. Dammit. He rolled off the couch. Thirty minutes later, he used his key on her door, closing it behind him with a soft click.

Scully's apartment was dark, quiet. He followed a stream of light through the hallway and into her bedroom, hesitating at the door.

Scully rose, coming toward him with the baby in her arms, patting it gently, saying "We're just fine."

The words hit him like a thunderclap. He flinched, ears ringing.

The baby, swaddled in a soft blanket, started to fuss.

"No!" Hands in the air, he lurched backward.

Scully came to him, her lips moving, her words lost in the static that hissed through his brain. Now the baby was in his arms. He pushed it back at her. "No, wait, Scully. Don't you remember?"

She thought for a moment, then spoke. "I don't understand Mulder. They came to take him from us..."

"Scully!" He wanted to grab her, shake her awake, but his arms were trapped by the tiny bundle. He spoke over her words, hoping to get through to her. "This happened before, twice before, just like..."

"I know that you feared it, too," she continued, unfazed by his interruption.

Oh yes, Scully, I'm afraid, he thought as she finally leaned up for his kiss. Her lips were warm, they felt real as they moved against his. They felt good, just as he remembered them. With a sigh, he abandoned himself to the moment, drawing her heat into his chilled body.

Scully pulled back suddenly, making a face at him. "Good grief, Mulder. What'd you have for dinner? Onions?" She laughed as if he would naturally share the joke.

"Onions?" he tasted the word in his mouth, letting her take William from his arms, standing there as she turned away from him.

Mulder watched from a great distance as Scully cooed baby noises to her son, nuzzling his face. "Scully..." he reached out to her, his fingers brushing her shoulder, his heart willing her to come back to him.

She shrugged off his hand like a bad memory, laughing in William's face instead; holding him against her shoulder, she turned her face into his neck. Mulder might as well have been a piece of old furniture, wooden, stiff with age; once useful, now forgotten.

This third time was not charmed as he hoped it would be. He fought against the scream that formed in his throat. Instead, he left the room at a run, the front door of her apartment slamming behind him as he thundered down the stairs and into the night.

Mulder shifted from one foot to the other, listening to grit crunch beneath his shoes while the snicks and clunks of turning bolts chattered along the door from bottom to top. With a final rattle, the door eased into the darkness. Langly peered cautiously into the alley, looking both ways into the evening mist before stepping aside and letting Mulder inside.

Mulder lost all the words he'd practiced on the way. Standing there empty, he relaxed into the familiar atmosphere of the Lone Gunmen's operations center.

"What's up, dude?" Langly pushed the door into its frame with a thunk.

"Did Scully have her baby?" Frohike crowded behind him, asking hopefully.

Mulder turned, fear prickling damp palms, stiffening his fingers. "Yes. Don't you remember?"

"Well, no," Byers laughed, "this is the first we've seen of you in a couple of weeks."

Couple of weeks? The locks clattered in reverse order behind him. The Gunmen's headquarters looked the same as it always had. Computers sat on every surface, strange runes scrolling up the screens. A police scanner, turned low, muttered something about a robbery attempt. Books and papers lay piled everywhere. Tangled wads of cable, floppy drives, hubs and connectors sprouted from metal shelving shoved recklessly against walls painted basic black. Wet pressure built behind Mulder's eyes, making his face throb. He massaged the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Guys, I think I'm losing my mind."

Mulder felt something nudge the back of his knees. He sat down and slumped into the embrace of an overstuffed chair that had materialized from some nook or cranny. He'd never seen it before. "Last night..." was it last night, today, or "...whenever...Scully and I finally connected. Or I thought we did." He told his story, circling back through some of the elements, trying to make sense of them. Failing. It sounded like a jumbled mess to his ears.

"You're in bad shape, Mulder," Langly stated the obvious.

"My head feels like a month old melon," Mulder massaged both temples with his fingertips.

"I suppose we should consider the possibility that your brain injuries haven't healed as well as expected," Byers' voice was thick with concern.

Mulder recoiled from the suspicion. "You think these are hallucinations I've been having?" Please say no, prove me wrong.

Byers shrugged, looking at the others for suggestions, "Naturally we need to consider alternatives."

"Thank you," Mulder whispered. "Please find one. My brain is twisted into knots." Something cold pressed against his hand. Cold and wet.

Frohike offered a glass of water with one hand and two tablets with the other. "What does Scully have to say?" he hooked a stool with one foot and sat down on it. "What's her take on this?"

Mulder swallowed the pills gratefully, forcing them past the knot in his throat. "The third time it happened, I tried to have it out with her but it was like she was off in her own little reality and I wasn't even in the room with her."

A strange expression spread across Langly's face.

"You know," Frohike seized the thought, leaning into it, "someone could be manipulating Scully with drugs, using mind control for some objective..."

"Wait a minute," Langly broke in.

"What?" Mulder turned his head too fast; purple stars exploded behind his eyes with a dull whump. He held his head together with both hands, blinking at the bright lights.

Langly tapped a pen against his chin, thinking. "You know...over the past few days, I've seen some reports on the bulletin boards from people claiming to have fallen into alternate realities."

"Alternate realities?" Mulder sat forward, then regretted the movement. He let himself fall into the soft cushions of the chair. His head throbbed steadily.

"Multiple alternate realities," Langly stressed the first word. He went on to describe something that sounded strangely like Mulder's life for the past day or two.

Mulder tried to piece it together. "These...shifts...all take place in Scully's apartment."

"But they all take place when you and Scully..."

"...and the baby..." Mulder added.

"...are there." Langly looked at him quizzically. "So if it's a reality shift, then it could one of you who could be acting as a trigger for the phenomenon."

Mulder shivered, thinking of the 'special' qualities William had been suggested to have. Oh please, don't let this be one of them, he prayed. "Could it be me?" he tried a palatable alternative.

"Then it wouldn't just happen in Scully's apartment," the cupboard muffled Byers' voice as he bent and began sifting through folders piled haphazardly on the shelves.

"You guys seem a bit strange."

"That's not the first time we've heard that." Frohike glanced at his partners.

"No...you didn't know about William," Mulder remembered the confusion. He hoped William wasn't just a figment of his muddled imagination.

"Who's William?" Frohike, confused this time.

"Scully's...our son. He was born last week in Georgia." At least I remember it that way.

"Georgia?" Frohike, still confused.

"You could have shifted into a parallel in Scully's apartment and just traveled here on the same thread," Langly nudged his glasses firmly onto the bridge of his nose.

"Look," Byers raised his voice over the squabble, "what if, instead of a person, there is a common point, a place or an action, that is the source of the fracture. Things are variable until someone encounters that...plexus, then..."

"...suddenly reality shatters." Mulder began to understand. A plexus, like the solar plexus. This one a bundle of time lines instead of a bundle of nerves. "The timeline - my timeline - has been fractured into shards of reality."

"Alternate realities," Langly nodded, his eyes skating over to Byers then back to Mulder again, "more like threads, really. Whenever you encounter your particular plexus, you randomly continue along one of hundreds, maybe even thousands or millions, of alternate realities leading away from it."

"You know, I wonder," Mulder found a few more chips falling into place. "The night William was born, I saw a bright light in the sky overhead. I used it to find them, in fact. I suspected it was an alien ship, serving as a beacon to the replicants who followed Scully to that place. But what if it's tracking Scully," he thought of the chip in her neck, "or me...or the baby, and causing all this?"

The idea hung in the air for a moment, unclaimed. Langly stared at the ceiling, twisting a long strand of blonde hair between his fingers. Frohike studied his fingers with great concentration.

"Maybe it wasn't a ship at all. Maybe tracking isn't part of it," Byers cleared his throat, a sheaf of papers in one hand. "There have been numerous sightings of a strange electromagnetic field moving randomly around the Atlantic coast of the United States."

Mulder stared at the exposed pipes in the ceiling with great concentration, trying to fit Byers' idea into the odd turn his life had taken. "Are you saying we connected with it that night and it followed us back here?"

"That's one possibility, I guess." Byers shuffled through his papers again. "We picked up the anomaly two weeks ago, off the coast of Florida," he selected a map, pointing at a spot out to sea.

Frohike squinted at the coordinates. "The Bermuda Triangle."

"Well, yes, now that you mention it. I don't know what that means," Byers scribbled a quick note in the margin then continued, spreading the maps across the table as he spoke. "We have reports...sightings...in Florida, Alabama....the mountains of Tennessee, Ohio, Virginia, and most recently, western Pennsylvania."

Mulder rose cautiously to his feet and, balancing his head carefully on his neck, he joined the Gunmen at the table, considering the maps carefully, tracing his finger from one black X to the next. "So it really hasn't come straight here, like we did," his finger went numb as it passed over Georgia then went icy cold as it slipped over the District on its way to the last X in Pittsburgh. He read the date printed next to the District X. Two nights ago.

Mulder looked up to find the Gunmen watching his finger intently. "If this electromagnetic disturbance is the cause of my reality problem then why is the problem still with me if this field has passed over and continued on its way?"

"Maybe it laid a temporal egg in Scully's apartment," Frohike chewed the tip of one finger where it emerged from his glove.

"But why there?" Byers leaned against the table, crossing his arms neatly across his chest.

"Dunno. Maybe it had something to do with Scully or Mulder or the baby..." Frohike turned to Mulder. "What's his name again?"

"William." I hope.

"...William," Frohike concluded. "Congratulations, by the way," he slapped Mulder on the back, pulling the strength from his swing at the last minute in deference to Mulder's pounding head.

"Thanks." I think. I'm not sure anymore. "How do we get out of it?"

"Maybe if you connect with the anomaly again, move retrograde through it..." Frohike paced, his face shuttered with concentration, working to formulate a mechanism.

"Yes," Byers agreed, "sort of like working a stone back out of a sock."

"Or moving backward in time, past the point where the time line shattered," Langly provided another interpretation.

"Then starting again," Mulder completed the thought, then thought again. "But how could that work? Wouldn't moving backward just back me up along one of the many threads? How would it get me back to the right one?"

The Gunmen glanced among themselves.

"Think of the...rift...as a polarized gap, with opposing timelines on each side like a battery is a polarized gap with opposing charges on either side. Time flows across the rift the way charged particles flow from pole to pole in the battery." Frohike drew a picture with his hands. "To recharge a battery, making it the same as new again, you force some of the particles back to their original position across the gap. To repair your shift in time, you have to move backward across the rift."

"Right, but..." it didn't solve the problem of getting back to the right thread, the right Scully, finding his the life he wanted.

"But, Frohike continued, "since you can't move yourself through the rift, you have to let the rift move backward over you. I'm guessing since it was moving north when you first encountered it, you want to rejoin the rift when it's moving south. That should work."

"Should." What kind of Vegas odds do I get with 'should?'

"Right. It's my best guess. Do you have any other bright ideas?"

"So we need to find a time and place where the rift reverses itself." This part I understand.

"Right."

Everyone silently weighed Mulder's chances.

"On top of that, there's no guarantee that washing yourselves through the anomaly will even mend the fracture. It could be fixed in Scully's apartment," Langly reminded them.

"Or, even if it works, and you go back," Byers said solemnly, "there's no guarantee you'll find your original thread. At best, I think you can expect to move backward on whatever thread you are in at the time you go retrograde."

Mulder thought of his eight years with Scully, all the missed opportunities, and all the alternate threads that could be out there. Her kidnapping, the cancer. The degenerative neurological disorder he'd suffered from, his abduction and death. The baby. The chance she never walked into his basement office all those years ago. The chance that she could have walked out again. So many possibilities.

The pit of his stomach burned cold.

The Gunmen weighed this new theory among themselves. "Might work," Frohike nodded. "Wouldn't hurt to try," Byers added. Langly hooked a stool with one foot, sat down, and started tapping at the nearest keyboard, the keys clattering loudly in the sudden quiet. "Let's see if we can model its course. Gimme those maps."

"What do I do?" Mulder needed to do something.

"We'll call you."

"My cell phone's broken." He remembered Krycek grinding it into the pavement beneath his foot, shattering it the way his reality had shattered.

"Here," Langly scooped one off the bench, barely taking his eyes off the computer screen. "Use mine. It's a satellite phone. Works anywhere."

"So what can I do?" Mulder asked again, tucking the phone in his pocket.

"Go to Scully's apartment. Stay with her," Byers pushed him at the door. "We'll call you when we know something."

Mulder let himself in, rehearsing the dialog as he crossed to the hallway. He tucked the key in his pocket, cleared his throat, stepped into the bedroom and stumbled to a dead stop, the words "How's everybody doing" strangling in his throat.

Scully sat on the bed, hands against her face, weeping.

**

"Go to Scully's apartment. Stay with her," Byers pushed him at the door. "We'll call you when we know something."

Mulder let himself in, rehearsing the dialog as he crossed to the hallway. He tucked the key in his pocket, moistened his lips, stepped into the bedroom, and stumbled to a dead stop, the words "How's everybody doing" strangling in his throat.

Scully sat on the bed, hands against her face, weeping.

"Scully," he rushed to her side, "What's wrong? Where's the baby?"

She wiped her cheeks and stared at him with reddened eyes. "Mulder, how could you?"

"What?" He sank with his heart, down to his knees, and gathered her hands into his own. "Tell me..."

Scully sniffled, then hiccoughed. Mulder handed her a tissue from a box on the night stand. She blew her nose, wiped her eyes, balled the tissue and blotted her nose again. "They took him," she whispered into the soft pink wad.

"They? Who? When?" Mulder bolted to his feet, pacing around the room before turning to Scully for guidance.

She stared at him curiously. "That night. In Democrat Hot Springs. Billy Miles and the others..."

A sudden chill gripped him. He hadn't considered a reality with Billy Miles still living in it. Sitting next to her, Mulder pulled Scully into his arms; she fell against him, as weightless as a dried flower. "I'm so sorry, Scully," he whispered into her hair. "I can't explain to you why I said what I did, but I swear..." his voice broke on the promise. He cleared his throat and continued, "...I swear I'll make it right for you."

"How?" she murmured into his shoulder. "How can you possibly do that, Mulder?"

"Somehow," he promised, willing the Gunmen to move quickly and find a workable solution, praying that the next reality would be a happier one for Scully. And that it would come, soon.

He undressed her unresisting body, finding pajamas beneath the pillow. Unmaking the bed, he guided her into it. Peeling down to his boxers, he slid in behind her, pulling her cold body against his chest, pressing his heated skin down the length of her back and along the backs of her legs. She shivered lightly in his arms, exhausted. Tucking the blankets under her chin, he stroked her hair and willed sleep to come for both of them. As Scully's breathing slowed to an even sigh, Mulder bolted awake. We shifted without William! William can't be the cause of this. Relief drained him; sleep welled up and filled the void.

He woke to pale gray light and empty arms. Propping himself on both elbows, he listened for clues. He pulled on his jeans, tucked his t-shirt beneath one arm, and headed for the front rooms, buttoning his fly on the way. From the hallway, he heard the faint sound of water running in the bathroom. He reversed direction, pushed through the bathroom door, looking for Scully.

She sat on the edge of the bathtub, holding the baby, smiling at him as he came through the door.

"How's everybody doing," he said in a rush; it came out more like howseverybodydoing with a gasp tacked on to the end.

Scully smiled from her perch on the edge of the bathtub, patting the baby gently through his swaddling. "Everybody's doing just fine," she responded on cue.

"Scully," he broke from the script, "We need to talk. I can explain why these strange things are happening. We're going to have to pack, get out of here, if we want to preserve our relationship..."

"What about our friendship?" she asked, honest confusion filling her eyes.

Shit. Friendship. A new F-word for his vocabulary. This is *not* my beautiful life, Mulder thought, unwadding his t-shirt and pulling it over his head. His eyes followed Scully around the room as she tested the bath water with one hand then, satisfied, carefully lowered the baby into it. Little William gurgled with pleasure as she scooped warm water over his body. Mulder tried again. "Scully, there's been some sort of disruption in the space-time continuum. It's centered on us, this apartment, your bedroom. Every time I come home..."

"Mulder," she interrupted him, "the only thing I don't understand is why you're here in the first place."

"I'm living here, with you and William?" A chill pooled in his lower belly.

"Who's William?" She didn't turn from the baby.

"The baby." Ice rose into his chest. "You named him William after my father."

Scully laughed. "Of course not, Mulder. He's Stephen, after Walter's father."

Mulder fell back against the wall, knowing exactly what would come next. His hands ached to cover his ears but he held them against the cool tile instead.

Scully lifted baby Stephen into a clean towel, wrapping him in the soft fleece. She turned to Mulder, her eyes deep blue and deeply pained. "I know it was quite a shock to you, returning from your abduction, that terrible experience, and finding me pregnant." She brushed past him, going into the bedroom, flicking on the light with her free hand. Mulder tottered after her on stuff limbs.

She lay Stephen on the bed, diapered him, then placed him safely in the cradle before turning to Mulder again. She reached out, touching his arm with cold fingers. "When you were taken, I came apart. I just couldn't cope." She grimaced, rubbing her forehead with one hand. "When we found...your body...I was paralyzed by grief. Never in my life have I felt so little need to go on."

"Scully," Mulder reached for her, squeezing her shoulder, her pain twisting his gut. He struggled to breathe through the knot in his throat.

"No, I've got to finish this. I need to explain. Please." She sat on the bed, buried her face in both hands, and continued, her voice muffled through the shield of her fingers. "After your funeral, I struggled to make it through each day. Walter...Skinner...he held my pieces together. I leaned on him and he was there for me. Patient. Strong."

Mulder knees wobbled and he dropped to the bed, his hands finding his face, his fingers pressing against his eyes, willing them to quit watering. He felt the light touch of Scully's hand as she brushed it through his hair, soothing him.

"I'm sorry," she whispered from somewhere near his ear. "I know this is painful for you."

He nodded. It was. Scully. The baby. Family. All lost to him. A little voice spoke in the back of his head but he couldn't hear the words.

"That night, after your funeral, I hit bottom. At the hotel, in Raleigh, I considered ending it all."

"You? Rock-solid Scully?" He wiped his eyes, turning to her.

"Rock-bottom Scully was more like it," she wiped her own eyes with the back of one hand. "But somehow, Walter," she glanced at him through eyelashes clotted with tears, gauging his reaction to this part of her confession, "knew. He came to me in my room that night. Stopped me. Then one thing led to another..." she let her voice trail off, knowing Mulder could fill in the blanks without being slapped in the face with bald facts.

"And you got pregnant." His voice, flat.

She nodded, then laughed, the sound sharp in his ears. "Imagine that."

"I'd rather not," he admitted, trying to stand. His numb legs refused to cooperate. Instead, he sat there, listening to Scully's breath and his own, thoughts and voices tumbling through his head in a jumble of sounds and syllables. Suddenly one voice rose above the others, reminding him this was only one time line in the bundle of time lines. There would be others. Better ones. Get the hell out of here, it urged him. Mulder finally lurched to his feet. He knew he was supposed to stay with Scully. The Gunman had been adamant. But he just couldn't. "I'm sorry Scully. I've got to go," he blurted, stumbling away from her apartment and heading for his own, hoping it was still there in this crappy version of reality.

Afternoon sunlight woke him where he sprawled, boneless, across the leather sofa in his living room. Pain lanced through his head when he tried to sit up. He squinted against the light and swam to a seated position, slumping into the back of the sofa, kicking empty glass bottles around the floor with one foot. Corona, Corona, Corona flickered across the polished wood floor. "You stupid idiot," he said to himself then winced at the sound. He struggled to his feet, cursing safely under his breath. After a shower, some aspirin, and some dry toast, he drove to Scully's apartment, letting himself in with her key. The only light spilled from the bedroom into the hall, and he moved toward it, girding himself. The Gunmen crowded the doorway, not bearing gifts this time. Seeing Mulder, they excused themselves to Scully - Frohike telling her to get some rest - then joined him in the living room.

"Thank God," Mulder exhaled from his toes. The shift had been triggered without him in the room. It wasn't him and it wasn't the baby. He used Frohike's shoulder as a prop. The smaller man stumbled a bit trying to take his weight. "It's got to be Scully...the chip. It's got to be the chip."

"Good news, Mulder," Byers drew the others into a tight circle around him. "The plexus is on the move again. We have a sighting in Northern Maine. It's moving south this time, retrograde, perfect for your needs."

"If your theory's right," Mulder added, distracted by the light pouring through the bedroom door. What reality waited for him inside, he wondered. Was it one that he wanted? He crossed his arms across his stomach, holding his elbows tightly. "What do I need to do?"

"We've plotted the course and velocity, based on its past history," Langley told him. "Granted, things could change, but it looks like...looks like," Langley stressed the probability of the event, not its certainty, "it will pass directly over Martha's Vineyard some time in the next 18 hours."

The Vineyard. He still owned a house there, his father's house, shuttered and locked up tight but still a place for them to go. And wait. He shot another glance at the bedroom door.

Frohike touched his elbow, bringing him back to the huddle. "We've chartered a private jet to fly you and Scully up there. It's standing by. As soon as you and Scully and the baby get to National, you leave."

"The sooner you get there, the better," Langly added, "just in case that thing runs fast."

"Tell Scully, get things ready," Byers urged him toward the bedroom. "We'll wait for you out here."

Mulder dragged his feet to the door, peering around the frame. Scully sat on the bed, a bundle in her arms, smiling. He crossed the room to her side, intercepting her as she rose to her feet. "We're just fine," she offered without waiting for his question.

"Who's baby is that?" he demanded.

She shrank away from him, backing into the bed. "What?"

"Is this my baby?" Mulder pulled the blanket aside, peering hard at the child swaddled there. He looked like the baby he'd seen before.

"Mulder, how could you?" Scully's eyes filled with tears. She sat, hard, on the bed, cradling the baby close against her chest. Her chin trembled. "You know it's our baby. We've tested him twice and..."

"Where did he come from?" Mulder dragged Scully's suitcase from beneath her bed and started filling it from random drawers.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," Mulder crossed to her closet, finding shirts and slacks and shoes there, "was there a petri dish involved?"

"No. You know that didn't work for us," she followed him around, snagging at his arm with one hand.

Mulder shrugged her off and closed the suitcase. Grabbing the baby's bag, he guided her from the room.

"Where are we..." Scully stopped, obviously surprised to find the Gunmen standing in her living room. All three men turned embarrassed faces to the floor and scuffed their feet against the carpet.

Mulder cupped her ashen cheek with his palm. "Trust me one more time, Scully," he whispered, "just once more. Please?"

She stared at him, her eyes dark and wide. She held their son tightly to her body as if she would fold him back into her womb.

Mulder slipped an arm around her shoulder, steering her to the door. "I'll explain everything on the way. I promise."

The next morning, sunlight woke him in his grandmother's bed. He sat up, rubbing his eyes, looking for the sea through lace curtains that fluttered gently in the breeze. Salty air flowed in the open window and out the bedroom door. The soft murmur of the sea blended with the gentle sounds of the house warming in the morning sun. The shrill trill of Langley's cell phone jolted him to full awareness. He rolled out of bed, scrabbled through the bottom of his duffle bag, opening the connection with one thumb as he raised the phone to his ear. "Mulder," he said his name and waited.

Byers spoke through the static of a weak connection. "Good news, Mulder. The plexus has been tracked off shore. It's spinning out to sea, weakening like a North Atlantic hurricane."

Was this good news or bad? Did it pass over the Vineyard or did they blow their last chance at setting things right? Would it have set things right even if it ran over them? He broke the connection, tossing the phone on the bed. Dressing quickly, he listened for some sign of Scully. He padded down stairs in bare feet, pulling a shirt over his head, combing his hair back with weak fingers. Then he heard it, a familiar creaking sound.

He found Scully on the side porch, gently rocking their son back and forth on the old glider his father built so many years ago. She looked up, smiling, when he came around the corner.

"How's everybody doing," he asked breathlessly, waiting for her answer.

She rose, coming toward him. "Fine, Mulder. Just fine."

Reassured, he touched the baby's face, brushing the blanket aside with his fingertips. The baby smiled with toothless gums, waving his arms in the air. Mulder smiled at the baby and Scully, not saying "hi." He waited, wondering, knowing they'd departed from the dialog before, knowing there was nothing definitive to learn from Scully's unscripted words.

"So," she tipped her head, regarding him with somber eyes. "you look the same as you did last night. Is that a good sign?"

She remembers. Mulder sagged against the porch railing. Alternate Scully never remembered the shifts. "Yes, that's a good sign," he grinned.

"Ummm," she leaned against the railing with him, resting her head against his shoulder; he raised an arm and gathered her against his side. "But it doesn't solve everything. It doesn't explain the physics of it...or the logic."

"I know. Dammit, I know," he pulled her against his chest so that both she and the baby were protected in the circle of his arms.

"The anomaly might have passed over and cured me or the problem might not have been me in the first place," her breath warmed a patch on his chest. "The plexus could still be there in my apartment. Maybe it's the combination of plexus plus trigger...

"You..."

"...me," she agreed in concept, "that combines to set things off. Then again, it might not be the plexus or an anomaly or my chip at all. It could be something else."

He burrowed his face in her hair, trying to see the best way out of all this.

"But WHAT IF, Mulder..." she spoke in capital letters, "WHAT IF it...the plexus or whatever it is...is still there? What if we go back to my apartment and it starts all over again?"

Nausea boiled in Mulder's stomach. What if? He swallowed hard. "We can...get the Gunmen to pack you up and move you out. We can stay at my apartment until we find another place."

"Yes, we can" she said simply and it was arranged. She rolled her head back against his shoulder, regarding him thoughtfully. "You're not quite right, you know."

I could take that a number of wrong ways, he thought, smiling at her. "Neither are you," he said instead. There was a softness about this Scully he didn't remember, an openness that was new. Wonderful.

They measured each other with their eyes.

"Scully, I forgot to tell you something," he broke the silence.

"What's that?"

"I love you."

A slow smile transformed her face. "You've told me before."

Mulder thought back to the hospital, after his encounter with the Bermuda Triangle. "And you believed me?"

"Yes. I did. Sorry," Scully's cheeks reddened, her eyes skated away. "I believed you but I couldn't cope with you at the time."

"Oh." He'd been an out-of-control pain-in-the-ass for most of their relationship, what did he expect her to say? "Sorry." He was. For everything.

"Yeah, me too."

Wasted time. I will not...cannot...waste more time. "Scully..."

"Hmmm?" Her free arm slipped around his waist. He fell into her eyes, fell all the way down to that place in her soul where it was warm and soft and safe. He found her lips with his own, feeling her breath as he spoke against them. "Don't let go of me. I feel here...now...that I'm finally home."

"I've...we've got you Mulder," she kissed him lightly, hugged him tightly, pressing her cheek against his chest. She held him firmly in place. "You won't fall."

END