Title: The 13th Sign

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: Strong R

Summary: He saw no reason for life, death, sex, Armageddon, or emotional
dysfunction to stand in the way of true love.

Archive: No.  Please link to:
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/the13thsign.html

Notes: Many thanks to my endlessly tolerant beta readers, and to Fi for
lending her manipulation.

****

Book I: But it comes with a built-in baby seat

****

Scully would never believe it, but all he'd ever wanted to be was normal.  A
normal family, a home, a dog in the yard, and a job where he never had to list
his own death as his reason for taking sick leave.  Twice.  He'd never asked
for a genetic destiny or envisioned himself on a quest for some higher truth
or signed up to save the world; it has just worked out that way for a while.

Mulder looked over the edge of the newspaper, watching the man who stared back
from the new Volvo's driver's side mirror.  His own features looked back,
older, but his lips pink instead of blue, the blood pulsing through his
temples, and the scars on his cheeks faded to barely noticeable.  Though he
knew it wasn't true, he still wondered sometimes if he was a clone or a hybrid
of some sort.  Something that was almost human, almost alive, but not. He
looked down, slowly clenching and opening one hand, still expecting to see the
gray, dead skin around the Christ-like wound through his wrist.  There was
none, just like there was none the week before and the week before that.

He exhaled slowly, sinking back into the car's plush, ergonomic seat and
trying to relax while he waited.  In the baby seat in the back, William was
dozing, making soft baby snores that Mulder found comforting.  Outside the
car, federal workers passed by in a kaleidoscope of winter jackets and
scarves, their boots rhythmic against the sidewalk.  Scully's cup of decaf
cooled in the cup holder beside his hot tea, the two scents mingling amicably.

All in all, life after death wasn't half bad.  There was that lingering
"through the looking glass" sensation that came from missing months of his
life, but he was working on that.  He looked the part, if nothing else.  He
only had a few people fooled, but those two were the most important ones.  In
his past life, he'd matched wits with the worst serial killers humanity could
offer and untangled evil, shadowy plots that defied the laws of nature and
physics; he could pull off "normal' for the sake of Scully and her son.

"We can do this, buddy," Mulder said, glancing in the rearview mirror at
William.  He didn't know whom he was talking to -- the baby or his own
reflection.

Two years ago, he and Scully had been very civil and scientific about the in
vitro attempts; Mulder had waived his right to or responsibility for any child
Scully might conceive.  It was Her Baby: capital letters.  His sperm got
washed before they'd been introduced to her egg (Ms. Ovum, allow me to
introduce Mr. Clean Sperm.  Delighted, I'm sure; let's breed.), so as few
bodily fluids were exchanged as possible. His hand shook as he'd signed the
legal papers, but he'd signed them, knowing that was what Scully wanted.  

None of the in vitro attempts had taken, but when she'd gotten pregnant during
a night she'd later referred to as "wild and passionate and perhaps ill-
considered," he'd thought the old rules still applied: it was Her Baby.  Look
but don't touch.  He'd forced a smile from the wasteland inside him and said
he was happy for her.

After a few false starts, he'd made it to Scully's apartment after the baby
was born, having convinced himself it was to check on her.  And Her Baby. 
Just to see if they needed anything.  Diapers. Groceries.  A college fund. 
Him.  Accepting Scully's invitation to hold William had been a spur-of-the-
moment decision -- one of his better ones.

Scully was in the Hoover Building now, meeting with Skinner and making
arrangements to transfer to Quantico after her maternity leave ended.  She was
staying with the Bureau, but if Mulder wanted to go inside the FBI, he'd have
to get a visitor's pass.  Someone else answered the telephone in the X-files
office now.

Life had rearranged itself at warp speed: he'd become undead, unemployed, and
a father all in the space of a few months.  Given Mulder's personnel file and
the bug Kersh had stuck up his butt, getting fired hadn't been such a
surprise.  But the other two -- his Lazarus act and the adorable bundle of
impossible in the back seat... Leasing a Volvo yesterday had seemed like a
step in the right direction.

Seeing Scully approaching on the sidewalk, he put down the latest issue of The
Lone Gunman and hit the button to unlock the doors.  Instead of getting in,
she walked around to his side of the car, so he hit the button to roll down
his window, as well. It sank into the doorframe with annoyingly efficient
Swedish precision, letting the icy wind in.

"Everything okay?"

"Everything's fine.  I'm just going to be a little longer than I'd
anticipated.  It's getting colder, and they're predicting snow.  Could you
take William back to my place?  You can handle him for a few hours, can't
you?"

Mulder shrugged one shoulder noncommittally. "It's just as easy to wait
instead of driving to Georgetown, unloading, reloading, and driving back to
pick you up.  It's not like I'm not doing anything else today, and William
thinks the rear windshield defroster is fascinating."

She hesitated, breaking eye contact. 

"The defroster really is pretty cool," he added, trying to work up to sarcasm.

"No, go on," she said. "It will be a few hours.  Skinner can take me home. 
Four ounces at noon, then again after his nap: everything is ready in the
refrigerator. Don't forget to burp halfway through."

"Right." He nodded. "Me or him?"

"You or William what?" 

He shook his head; the joke was too dumb to merit an explanation.

"Or you can take him to my mother's," she amended.

"Thank you for the vote of confidence, but I think I'm competent to watch him
sleep for a few hours." He paused. "Are you sure everything's all right?"

"Everything's fine," she repeated. "I'm meeting with Skinner and Deputy
Director Kersh at noon, and then you and I can talk tonight."

"Is there a problem with transferring to Quantico? Your old position is open;
you've applied; Skinner's approved the transfer.  Where does Kersh fit in?"

"I'm just exploring all the options." She glanced back at the ugly Hoover
Building. "I'll know more after the meeting."

"With Kersh?"

She nodded, the wind whipping her auburn hair around her face.

"All right," he agreed warily.  His gut told him this was a bad idea, but
unfortunately, his gut didn't get a vote.

He and Scully had been together for eight years, but always as partners, with
him as the senior agent. In the end, he'd had the final say on the X-files. 
Now, for him, there were no more X-files.  They weren't partners anymore. 
Despite ten pounds of cooing, drooling evidence that they'd combined genetics,
he wasn't sure they'd ever really been lovers.  They weren't married, and
Scully gave no hint that she wanted to be, but they were parents.  They cared
about each other, they worked well as a team, and they had a baby in common: 
A + B = C.  It was the part in old movies where the scene faded to black and
the director yelled "cut!"

Unfortunately, in the absence of set directions, they'd kissed, then looked at
each other awkwardly and thought, "what the hell do we do now?"

At least, he did.  She probably had it all mapped out.  Scully probably had a
five-year plan with tables and pie graphs; he had a few random ideas scribbled
down on the back of an old envelope.

"Are you happy, Mulder?" she asked suddenly, sounding like each word had a
carefully structured paragraph behind it.

"Am I happy?" he echoed in surprise.  He looked up, studying her face as the
anemic winter sun framed it. "Define happy."

"Define it?" she said awkwardly. "Happiness.  It's a concept, a comparison.  A
lack of suffering is, by definition, happiness."

"Okay..."

"Happiness, Mulder.  It's a very tentative state."

"Tentative happiness," he considered.  That sounded about right.  A semi-
normal life: fragile, handle with care.  Minor imperfections may occur. "Are
you happy?"

"I was asking you."

"And now I'm asking you.  What are we talking about, Scully?"

"Nothing." 

She straightened up, stepping back from the car and pulling the front of her
coat closed.  It was the first time she'd worn a suit since the baby came, and
there'd been an hour of changing, muttering, and safety-pinning this morning
to find one that fit. 

"Okay," he repeated uncertainly.

"I'll see you later."

"I'll see you later," he agreed, and she nodded, wrapping her scarf around her
neck.  They had a plan; they'd see each other later.

****

"In and out, Mulder," she kept repeating over the phone, calling him from
Skinner's office. "Just a few hours." No matter what he argued, she kept
repeating that: "I'll be in and out.  Nothing dangerous."

"But why you?" he asked angrily, sitting on the rug in Scully's living room
with William in the baby carrier in front of him. "Why not someone else?"

"Because Agent Doggett is my partner."

He resisted saying various things chauvinist. "He was your partner.  On the X-
files.  I thought you were transferring to Quantico.  Teaching.  How does
undercover work come into play?  Where did this assignment come from?  And
what about Agent Reyes?"

There was silence on the other end of the phone.

"You have a six-week old baby!  I thought you-"

"I have to do this, Mulder.  It's one afternoon, there's no danger, and
there's no one else."

"How can there be no one else?  There's no one else in the entire FBI who can
handle a last-minute, non-dangerous, afternoon pleasure cruise of an
undercover assignment?"

More silence, and he could feel the tops of his ears burning.

"What's your cover?  Where will you be?" he demanded.

"You know I can't tell you that."

He gaped a few times. "You can't tell me?"

"I have to do this," she repeated evenly. "I'll be home tonight.  In and-"

"Goddamn it, Scully!"

"Mulder, it's an assignment.  I don't have a choice."

"You do have a choice-"

"This isn't debatable.  I don't like it either, but please don't do this.  I
need to know William will be okay."

He exhaled through his nose, probably blowing two clouds of smoke like a
cartoon bull.

"He'll be fine," he said through his teeth.

"And you?" she asked. "Mulder?" Her voice softened. "Will you be all right?" 

His anger faded as her voice slipped inside his soul, smoothing out the
creases.  When he was on the ship, pinned down with steel spikes for
vivisection, and listening to the saws and drills whine as they closed in on
his flesh, he'd heard her voice. Scully was there, in his hindbrain,
whispering to him that it would be all right.  He remembered believing her.

"I'll be okay," he promised. "We'll be fine. I lu- I'll- Uh... Just take care
of yourself."

"I will.  I'll be home tonight, and we can talk then.  Take care of William. 
There's milk in my freezer.  Call my mother if you need anything."

"All right.  I guess I'll see you then," he said.

"I'll see you then," she responded.

****

He'd thought Scully had it all under control: every I dotted and every T
crossed.  He was gone, she was pregnant, he was dead, then he wasn't, and now
she had a baby.  Scully was handling everything with her usual finesse, and he
did mean Everything with a capital E.  Sometimes he thought the only thing he
brought to the party was a Y chromosome.

After so many years, he should have known better.

As the afternoon faded, Mulder roamed Scully's apartment, restless, checking
that the door was locked, keeping track of the cars parked across the street,
and looking in on William every three minutes to make sure the baby was still
breathing.  Then he'd go to the bathroom mirror and make sure he was still
breathing, and life wasn't just some trick of the light.  

Post-traumatic Death Disorder: there wasn't a support group or a website.

Instead of being with the others in the den, the VHS tape marked "Mulder" was
in a top drawer beside the fridge, along with a few notepads, pens, and a
spare clip for her gun.  Curious, he slid it into her VCR, made sure the
blinds were closed, and then leaned back against the sofa, crossing his legs.  

The first part was a series of clips of him, some pulled from press
conferences as far back as 1989.  A lecture he'd given at Quantico; various
footage from conferences and security cameras; even a sound bite of him in a
tuxedo telling the woman from Hollywood Insider to "piss off" after that awful
zombie movie premiered.  He grimaced at a clip of an LA Deputy demanding to
see his identification after he told her they were searching for a werewolf. 
That had made so much more sense at the time, when it wasn't on national
television.

Mulder checked on William again, then settled back, getting comfortable.  He'd
never have guessed Scully had a self-compiled best-of-Fox-Mulder movie, which,
hopefully, she used for nefarious, self-fulfilling purposes.

The footage stopped, and opened again in the interior of his apartment on May
27, 2000, 6:56 p.m., according to the time stamp on the screen.  It panned
slowly over his leather couch, his fish tank, the window with sticky residue
from masking tape, and then finally back to the bedroom door.  The frame
shifted, tilted slightly, and he heard his own voice, sounding smarmy:

"Scully, it's me.  I called and didn't get an answer at your place or the
office, and your cell phone is turned off, so I thought you might be at my
place. I don't know why, but I thought you might be.  Skinner and I just
landed in Oregon, and so far he's been a giant pain in the ass.  Sorry you're
missing it. Anyway, we're at the hotel -- same room as before -- and about to
head out to the forest, and I wanted to give you a call and see how you were
doing.  Just wanted you to know I miss you.  As my partner.  Out here, in the
field, covering my back.  Not front, of course.  Skinner isn't nearly as much
fun when he gets dizzy and wants to crawl into bed with me.  That was a joke,
Scully.  Anyway, I miss you and, uh, as soon as you know, could you give me a
call and tell me what the doctors say?  About these dizzy spells. I'm sure
it's nothing. I hope it's nothing.  Please call and let me know. I'll be in
the woods, looking for bright lights and staying well within our departmental
budget, but I'll have my cell phone.  I, uh, I miss you, baby.  Strike that: I
miss you, Scully.  Sorry, I don't know what I was thinking.  Freudian slip, I
guess.  I- I'll lu, uh, see you soon."

The computerized voice on his answering machine added, "Message received May
second.  Seven forty-one p.m.," followed by a beep as the screen went dark
again.

Mulder remembered making that call and hesitating at the end, wanting to say
he loved her, but not quite being able to.  They'd started to make love a few
nights before -- in the same hotel room in Oregon   -- but Scully had pulled
away, saying she didn't feel up to it.  He'd acted like he'd believed her.
She'd rationalized, he'd nodded, and they'd stumbled on, much more than
friends and slightly less than lovers.  Partners joined at the wussy. 

August 9, 2000; 3:35 am, according to the next caption on the bottom right of
the TV screen.  The camera wobbled, focusing on the ceiling, then panned down
to Scully, wearing scrubs and standing in front of a steel examination table. 
She looked too slim, and purple shadows smudged her pale face.  A body lay
behind her, draped with a white sheet.

"I'm not doing this, Agent Scully," Skinner's hoarse voice said from behind
the lens.

"Then give me the camera and get out," she responded, putting her hands on her
hips and dropping her head tiredly.  

There was no further objection from the cameraman, and the footage steadied.

"I'm sure this seems morbid," she began, still looking down. "But you've
probably grown up with morbid, and Mulder would find this strangely amusing."
She looked up at the camera, tried to smile, and failed. "Somehow.  I wish I
knew more about you, even what the world will be like by the time you watch
this, but-"

The camera swung to John Doggett coming through the swinging doors, and Scully
and Skinner snapped in unison, "Get the fuck out!" Agent Doggett retreated
quickly, looking crushed.

Mulder chuckled, the sound of his laughter still seeming foreign and dry in
his chest.  There it was, preserved for posterity: Dr. Dana Katherine Scully
saying the F-word.

"I wish I knew if you are a boy or a girl, if you have hazel eyes or blue.  If
you like basketball or bad science fiction movies or- I don't know.  There are
so many little details I'm afraid will get lost over the years.  I just want
you to know as much about him as you can.  Whoever you are, whoever you'll be,
you missed meeting an amazing man.  We all did, by about five minutes."

"Scully, I can't," Skinner said shakily.  The camera tilted and the picture
went black again.

Mulder exhaled slowly as he realized for whom she'd been making the video. 
And who the body on the table was.  Had been.

"Life lesson number one," Scully's rough voice said as the video camera panned
over the tile floor of some morgue. "Ex-marines aren't always as tough as they
think they are."

She focused the camera on a man's hand and wrist, grayish-green, with a
stigmata-like wound through it. Mulder flexed his fingers as she narrated,
"They aren't warm now, but they usually are.  Mulder's hands are always warm. 
And soft.  I thought he could have been a concert pianist for years before I
knew he could play.  He can.  Could.  Very well.  One night, he sat down at
the baby grand in the bar at the Memphis Ramada Inn and played fifties
rockabilly for half an hour.  I guess he was inspired.  Memphis: Graceland. 
When he noticed I was listening, he switched to classical, which I guess he
thought I'd like better.  Actually, Blue Suede Shoes was just fine."

The lens moved quickly up his arm, and he could see mottling where the blood
had pooled.  The body had been dead for some time; embalming would have been
impossible.  He caught a glimpse of the incision down the center of his chest
as the camera panned over his shoulder and slowly up his face, mercifully
pulling back.  Rows of wounds marked his cheeks, and his blue lips were parted
slightly.  The mortician would pack his mouth full of gauze and then sew his
lips together, if his funeral was open casket, which he wasn't sure if it was.

Scully hadn't mentioned it, and he hadn't asked.

She panned away, wanting to capture details rather than just a dead body.  Her
fingertip caressed his lips, then trailed down, wiping away the paths from
long-dried tears.

Mulder tried to imagine what she'd been thinking.  Was she remembering him
kissing her, whispering to her as they made love like the night would last
forever?  Or of them dancing outside a Pizza Hut bathroom, turning like two
restless souls orbiting each other, and him saying he was relieved in vitro
hadn't worked?  Or of him saying she would never have baby seats and white
picket fences with him, then letting her walk away?  Or of them kissing beside
the Tidal Basin on a beautiful spring evening, believing they had all the time
in the world to work things out?  That evening, she'd been a few weeks
pregnant and hadn't known; he'd been a few weeks from that last, ill-fated
trip to Oregon.

"Nice ears.  His mother must have taught him to keep them squeaky clean. 
Sensitive earlobes, which I'm not certain you need to know, but which might be
hereditary, just like he can curl his tongue and make the 'Live long and
prosper' sign from Star Trek.  If you look closely, there's a scar from having
both his ears pierced.  He did it at Oxford, trying to impress a girl. 
Phoebe.  He got the left one pierced, then heard that was the one which meant
he was gay, so he had the right one pierced, then heard that was the gay ear. 
He ended up taking both earrings out and dying his hair purple.  I'm not sure
if Phoebe was impressed or not."

The camera jiggled as she sniffed, then continued, "It's the little things
like that I'm afraid I'll forget to tell you about him.  I can show you
pictures, and I can tell you stories about Mulder, but I want him to be real
to you.  And trust me, this is as real as it gets."

Except for being corpse-colored, his forehead was unblemished, and she focused
on it, running her fingers through his limp, dirty hair.
 
"He doesn't know; he has no idea.  He'd helped me when I'd tried to have a
baby before and blamed himself when it failed, of course.  If the stock market
falls, Mulder blames himself.  He never said anything, but I know he did."

She was right; he had.  She wanted something and, whether he wanted it or not,
he couldn't give it to her. 

"This is different.  You are different.  I got my miracle, Mulder."

She exhaled shakily and sniffed again.  The video stopped, then started again,
filming Scully's hand in his, the time stamp twenty minutes later.

"I think, right now, I'm just numb.  It's not real.  I keep thinking stupid
things like 'I can't bury him with his hair like that.  I need to wash it, but
where am I going to find a salon that sells Paul Mitchell at five in the
morning in Helena, Montana?'  I keep expecting him to sit up and say something
sarcastic like 'if you'd wanted me out of my pants, you could have just asked,
Scully.'" Her voice softened, talking to herself rather than for the camera.
"I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry, Mulder.  We're going to have a baby, Mulder."

Off-camera, a man cleared his throat. "Agent Scully," Skinner said gently.
"Dana.  Transport's ready."

"All right," she answered, still stroking her fingers over his. "We're ready. 
Let's go home, Mulder." 

The screen faded again, then there was a montage of images and sounds.  Photos
of Samantha.  Of him.  Their basement office.  The old message from their FBI
voicemail before it had been changed upon John Doggett's arrival.  Mulder
still hadn't forgiven him for that.  Move in on a guy's girl and then change
his voice mail message.  

Scully had made a trip up the coast: she'd filmed his mother's house in
Greenwich and his father's in West Tisbury, narrating the little she knew
about each.  The new owners had repainted his father's house, and his mother's
still had the for sale sign in the front yard.  She'd even videoed the old
summer cottage in Quonochontaug, which he'd sold a long time ago.

There was an early ultrasound, which he watched twice, fascinated.  Then
another and another as the baby grew until he could see fingers and facial
features.  

Quick clips of Scully at various stages of her pregnancy, which he found
heartbreakingly sad. She'd set the camera on the kitchen counter, propped at
the right angle, then switch it on, walk in front of it, turn to show off her
belly, then walk back and turn it off again.  There was no one else to operate
it for her.

The clips stopped about six weeks before the baby was born, which was also
about the time Mulder had returned to the land of the living.  Then the
television screen crackled with gray static, and went blue as the tape ended. 
He stared at it until William woke and requested attention.  

****

"We have a slight problem," Skinner's voice said when the phone finally rang
at eight o'clock.  Mulder had been staring at it, willing it to ring.  Scully
had said she'd be home that night, and, channeling his Jewish mother, he'd
defined night as dusk.

"Clarify 'a slight problem,'" Mulder responded tersely, as William snuggled
against him, a successfully bathed bundle of blanket and powdery soft skin.

"Agent Scully's not going to be able to leave her assignment tonight.  She's
safe," Skinner hurried to add. "She just can't leave right now without blowing
her cover, and by doing so, the investigation."

To hell with the damn investigation.  Mulder didn't care if it blew everything
and everyone up to Bill Clinton; he wanted Scully walking through her front
door within the next twenty minutes.

"So when will she be able to leave?  Late tonight?  Tomorrow morning?"

"Soon," Skinner hedged. "As soon as it's feasible.  Mulder, I am sorry."

"You're sorry?"

"Yes, I am.  Is there anything I can do?"

"Can you breast feed?" Mulder asked angrily.  The stockpile of frozen Mommy
Juice was getting low. 

"Shit," Skinner responded, exhaling unhappily. "Mulder-"

"I swear to God, if you have her posing as a hooker on a corner somewhere,
I'll rip you limb from limb."

"No, nothing like that.  We have surveillance on her round the clock.  She's
not in any danger, but I promise, we'll get her out of there as soon as
possible."

"But you won't tell me where she is or what she's doing."

"You know how the FBI works, Mulder.  We all knew the rules of the game when
we signed on.  Again, I'm very sorry."

"Uh-huh." They'd had this conversation once, after Scully's abduction, as she
lay in a hospital bed with a machine breathing for her.

"I'll keep you posted."

"Uh-huh."

Mulder hung up, then pushed one of the speed dial buttons on Scully's phone.

"The Lone Studman," Frohike's voice crooned in his ear halfway through the
first ring. "Good evening, Agent Scully."

"It's Mulder."

A disappointed "Oh."

"How's family life?" Langly chimed in. "Long time, no hack, Jack."

"Well, how about starting now." He shifted William to one shoulder, cradling
the portable phone against the other. "Why don't we start with finding
Scully?"

"Did you lose her?" Langly asked. "She's short: can't see her over the racks
at Wal-mart."

"Let's just say I'm not planning on losing her."

**** 

Technically, he was trespassing on someone's private property, and, though it
was a stretch, obstructing a federal investigation.  He wasn't on the Bureau's
good side, and both convictions carried jail time, but neither was anywhere
near as daunting as what Scully would do to him if she found out who was
watching Her Baby.
          
A sound reverberated through his earpiece again, so clearly he could almost
taste the 7-11 pepperoni roll and Big Gulp behind it.

Mulder twisted, training his binoculars through the tree branches, and
focusing on a faded 1973 Plymouth Valiant parked beside a picnic shelter at
the top of the hill.  Frohike's self-described "chick-mobile" was possibly the
least memorable vehicle ever built, and roadside picnics weren't popular in
the middle of winter, so unless an eager-beaver member of law enforcement
stopped to see if it was an abandoned vehicle, no one was likely to notice
them.  Since his or Scully's car was too recognizable, the untraceable
Plymouth was serving as HQ, housing Frohike, Langly, and the honorary
"littlest gunman." 

From what Mulder could see through the windshield, William had finished his
morning bottle, and, in addition to the traditional approach, Frohike was
trying to get him to burp by showing him how it was done.  Repeatedly.  Langly
was leaning over the back seat and helping, while William stared at them,
wide-eyed, trying to decide if he should be afraid.

He should.  Just as a general rule.

"Just.  Pat.  His.  Back," Mulder ordered into his microphone, and the frat
boy chorus came to an end.

"Good one, little dude," Langly's voice said a moment later, and Frohike's hat
nodded in approval.

Mulder shifted in the crook of the tree, trained his binoculars on the
compound again, and tried not to think about William's budding phobia of troll
dolls. The alternative had been leaving the baby with Maggie Scully while
Mulder and his geek friends went to commit a felony, which in no way made him
sound like a responsible parent.

The compound was rundown: a collection of small houses, weeds, and some empty
vegetable gardens huddled in the valley between two hills.  Inside the chain-
link fence, an old church served as the main gathering place, its paint
peeling off to show the gray boards underneath.  Skinny chickens pecked at the
frozen yard, and a woman in a turtleneck sweater opened a door and tossed a
pan of scraps to them.

There was a pair of shivering FBI agents concealed on the hillside a few
hundred yards from where Mulder was perched.  They must be the "visual
surveillance" Skinner mentioned, and they didn't inspire Mulder's confidence. 
If they hadn't spotted him in an hour, they sure as hell weren't competent to
surveil his-

More-than-friend?  Ex-partner?  Woman with whom he had a child and an unspoken
agreement but no formal commitment?  Companion, keeper, and savior?  There
wasn't an IRS form for soul mates filing separately.

He steadied and refocused the binoculars as Scully emerged from one of the
houses, shrugging on a coat.  Once she was on the porch, she exhaled, rolled
her shoulders, then picked up an empty bucket and headed toward a pump in the
yard; either the commune didn't have indoor plumbing or the water had been
turned off.  Within seconds, Doggett followed, taking the bucket and manning
the pump while Scully watched.

Her hair was pulled into a loose ponytail, the way she wore it during predawn
autopsies when she was tired.  She had on glasses, but no makeup or jewelry
except a narrow wedding band. The winter coat wasn't the one she'd been
wearing the previous day, and the long skirt and boots visible below it looked
like clearance items from the softer side of Sears: The Church Lady meets
Woodstock.
 
According to the file that had mysteriously made its way from the FBI database
to The Gunmen's computer, her cover was Doggett's wife, and Agent Doggett's
cover was as a member of a small UFO cult in rural Virginia.  And,
unfortunately for Mulder, who'd been all geared up for a rescue, she seemed
safe.  Tired. A little mussed, but safe.  His plan to don Birkenstocks and
body armor, then crawl under the fence and carry Scully out of the valley over
his shoulder, was at a temporary standstill.

Langly and his wardrobe were relieved.

Before she followed Doggett inside, Scully looked up, scanning the trees on
the hillside, and he prayed she'd see him and give some sign.  Instead, she
picked up an armload of wood from the woodpile and disappeared into the house.

"Can you see anything?" Frohike's voice whispered from Mulder's earpiece,
startling him. 

"I just saw Scully.  And Agent Doggett," he answered softly, his words making
a cloud of white vapor in front of his mouth. "They came out of one of the
houses, but now they're back inside.  Is William okay?"

"Fine.  What are they investigating?" Frohike asked. "Weapons?  Drugs?"

"The paperwork went through the X-files, so there's something paranormal here
somewhere." He focused the binoculars again, watching a window in case he
could catch a glimpse of Scully inside. "And I'd love to know what it is."

His earpiece crackled with static for a few seconds, then Frohike asked, "You
want the X-files back?"

"I want Scully back," he responded automatically. 

It was bad enough that she was staying with the FBI.  And going back to work
so soon.  Scully could say "light duty" and "faculty position" all she liked,
but the first time a bizarre corpse showed up in Boise, she'd be ordered out
of Quantico, onto a plane, and away from William in a heartbeat. The FBI
wasn't a job, it was a lifestyle, and, as Skinner's ex-wife and Mulder's ex-
wife, and probably a few thousand others could attest, it wasn't a lifestyle
considerate of an agent's family.

Whatever happened between them, there was William, and Scully needed him to be
stable, available.  No more monsters, no ghosts, no alien viruses.  He'd
promised he'd be there for her and do anything he could to help with the baby. 
If that meant he ended up teaching Intro to Psychology as a night class at the
local community college, he'd do it.  No more rash, reckless Agent Mulder. 
Let someone else battle the coming Armageddon.

"Yeah, I want the X-files back," he confessed to the microphone.

****

A guard waved Mulder into the parking garage under the Hoover Building, and
another escorted him into the elevator and up to the fifth floor, offering to
help with the baby.  Mulder shook his head and kept walking down the corridor,
to the office at the end of the hall.  He passed Agent Reyes, who hurried
after him, saying something he didn't have time to listen to.  Agent Reyes
took too long to say things, sometimes.

Skinner looked up from his desk and said brusquely, "We have a problem," which
was a step removed from having "a small problem," which was what they'd had a
day ago.

"Is Scully okay?"

"Yes.  We think so." Skinner hesitated. "I just spoke with the Special Agent
in Charge, and there's been an unforeseen complication with the
investigation."

"Unforeseen by who?" Mulder snapped, setting the baby carrier down.  William
seemed to think their late night, breakneck trip from Scully's apartment to
the FBI, after Skinner had called, was his own personal thrill ride and hadn't
objected yet. 

"Agents Scully and Doggett have been detained at their present location,"
Skinner informed him. "We're maintaining visual surveillance, but we've lost
covert audio.  Agent Scully will have to continue her assignment with Agent
Doggett in order to prevent jeopardizing the investigation and compromising
their situation."

Mulder nodded, a single curt jerk of his chin, as he processed that from
jargon to English. "And what is their situation?  Exactly?"
 
"They're safe, as far as we know.  There's no reason to believe they're not
safe, but they're not able to leave at this time."

"Because..." Mulder prompted.

"At this time, no one is being allowed in or out of their location."   
 
"You mean she's locked in. Someone in the cult found the FBI's listening
device and realized they were under surveillance.  You mean the compound
suddenly locked down, barricaded themselves in, and now you can't get her
out."

Skinner exhaled, nodding.  He didn't bother to ask how Mulder knew what
Scully's assignment was.

"Get her out of there!"

"We have to consider-" Skinner started.

"What's to consider?  I have one word for you: Waco!  No, wait, I have more:
Jonestown.  Heaven's Gate.  Ruby Ridge.  Temple of the Seven Stars.  When the
phrases 'religious cult' and 'barricaded themselves in' co-occur in a
sentence, bad things happen.  Why is she even there? What the hell is wrong
with you?"

"I didn't give this assignment to her.  Kersh did," Skinner said through his
teeth.

"Is he here?  Because I have a few words for him, too!"
 
Skinner held up his hands in the classic calm down gesture. "I don't like it
either, but there's no evidence this group is violent or self-destructive.  As
far as the FBI could tell, it's just a New Age commune.  And there are small
children.  Let's wait and see what happens instead of going in with our guns
blazing."

"Why did you even ask me to come in?" Mulder snapped, then shook his head
angrily. "You could have told me all of this over the phone.  It's not like I
can change anything."

He was calling The Gunmen the second he was out of the Hoover Building and
telling them to prep the Birkenstocks and Batmobile.  They were going in. 

Skinner leaned back, glancing at the baby carrier and choosing his words
carefully. "I have two agents inside that compound, one of whom just had a
baby.  If the best course is to watch and wait, we'll keep surveillance on
them and wait.  But if it's not... In the end, I'm responsible for the safety
of my agents, not Kersh.  And I don't like flying blind.  I just have a bad
feeling about this."
 
Mulder crossed his arms and shifted his weight from foot to foot, then began
to pace restlessly. "I'm still waiting for you to say something comforting."

"I'm saying I need an informed opinion about what's happening inside that
compound.  If I need to go outside the Bureau to get it, I have the
wherewithal to do so."

"Outside the Bureau?"

"At one time, we had a profiler with expertise in the paranormal.  Now, for
that expertise, I have to go outside the Bureau.  As I see it, the FBI has
left me no choice."

Mulder stopped, looking back over his shoulder. "You're just itching to piss
Kersh off, aren't you?"

"I prefer to think of it as making an executive decision," Skinner responded
tightly.

****

"The Church of the 13th Sign is led by a man named Michael Lee Milton.  He
calls himself Ophiuchus," Agent Reyes explained, opening the file and
spreading its contents over the conference table.

"Ophiuchus.  Oh-fee-U-kus," Mulder pronounced for her, "Is the 13th Sign.  The
Sun actually passes through thirteen zodiac signs, though modern astrologers
only recognize twelve.  The Earth has wobbled a little since 5th century
Babylon, so when we track the elliptic now, it touches Virgo twice, though we
only count it once, and never touches Aries at all.  From November 30th to
December 17th, the Sun is in the house of Ophiuchus, the Serpent Bearer."

"Oh," she responded.

"Cults worshipping Ophiuchus date back to ancient Greece, and it's still a
common religious fixation, especially in the South," Mulder continued, paging
through the file and rocking the baby carrier with his foot.  It was after one
a.m., and William dozed contentedly. "He holds a healing serpent and battles
Scorpio, the Devil in the form of a scorpion.  And it's the only zodiac sign
named after a mortal: Aescelpius, a Greek doctor who had the power to heal all
of mankind, including the dead.  But the Gods couldn't allow Aescelpius to
make men immortal, so Zeus struck him down with a thunderbolt and placed him
in the heavens as the 13th sign: Ophiuchus the Healer, the Serpent Bearer. 
It's the snake coiled around his staff that we use as the caduceus: the symbol
of modern medicine."

Another wide-eyed, "Oh."  

She should see him with slides.

"What about the cult are you and Agent Doggett investigating?"

"It's affiliated with the one in Montana which was retrieving and attempting
to heal UFO abductees. 
Your kidnapping is still an open X-file, Agent- Mr. Mulder," she corrected.
"In conjunction with an FBI task force, Agent Doggett and I are investigating
the connection."

"To my abduction?"

Reyes nodded. "But, as far as we could tell, unlike the Montana group, The
Church of the 13th Sign never successfully recovered an abductee."

"But Kersh just gave them one," Mulder answered, thinking aloud. "An abductee. 
Scully's an abductee.  And a doctor.  Why did Doggett need her undercover?"

Reyes looked away, so Skinner answered. "Ophiuchus has been pressing Agent
Doggett to bring his wife into the cult.  The plan was for Agent Scully to
show up, refuse to join, have a quarrel with Agent Doggett, and leave.  In and
out, just like she was told.  By Kersh," Skinner added.

"Is Agent Scully born under the sign of Ophiuchus?" Reyes asked before he
could begin his next question.

"No," Mulder answered, as the profiler wheels begin to turn, creaking from
disuse. "But her baby was." 

He looked down, sorting through the pages scattered across the tabletop.  He
stopped at a photograph of Ophiuchus, comparing it to the information Doggett
and Reyes had gathered.

The man who was now Ophiuchus the Healer had flunked out of pre-med, then been
dishonorably discharged from the military.  He'd done time for statutory rape,
fraud, possession of cocaine, and assault with intent: an all-around unlikable
guy with outstanding warrants in three states.  After his mother's death,
Ophiuchus was committed to a mental hospital with paranoid schizophrenia,
reporting that he was a multiple abductee.  Upon release a year later, he
falsified his transcripts and applied to medical school, then the seminary. 
Both rejected him.  In 1999, he emerged as the leader of a doomsday UFO cult,
which evolved eventually into The Church of the 13th Sign.

Bad things; all very bad things.  The more Mulder read, the tighter the knot
in his stomach got.  The profile had more red flags than a bullfight.

"Agent Doggett believes Ophiuchus could be the real deal," Reyes said
earnestly. "Like Jeremiah Smith."

"Well, Agent Doggett is wrong.  Did he even look at this guy's history?"

"Of course.  Yes.  We ran background checks on all the members, but in
Ophiuchus's case, there wasn't much to go on."

Mulder gathered up the pages angrily, holding them for Reyes to see. "Not much
to go on?  Pick a page.  Ophiuchus makes David Koresh look stable."

"He what?" Skinner asked in surprise, looking back and forth between them.
"Agent Reyes?"

"I don't understand." 

She took the background check, chewing her lower lip as she skimmed it.  She
shifted, tilting her head, and read again, flipping through the pages, then
leafed through the ones scattered across the conference table, searching for
something.

Mulder drummed his fingers on the tabletop and rocked William's carrier harder
than it needed to be rocked.  

Skinner seemed to walk a tightrope between his desk and the door to the
hallway, hands on his hips, doing his unhappy dance. "Agent Reyes?" he
repeated tersely.

She continued staring at the pages, stunned. "I don't understand.  We did a
background check.  I-I did the background check, but it isn't in here.  This
one- I've never seen this one before.  This isn't the information we gathered
for the task force.  Michael Lee Milton is a drifter with no criminal record.
No-"

"He has three outstanding warrants.  How did you miss outstanding warrants?"
Mulder demanded.

"Because they weren't there," she insisted. "When I ran him through the NCIC
database, he'd never been arrested. He'd never even had a traffic ticket. This
isn't the record Agent Doggett and I received."

Mulder drummed his fingers faster.

"Oh my God.  I don't know how it even got in the file," she added, sitting
down numbly.

"I do.  Someone fed you false information, making Ophiuchus seem harmless,
then, once Scully and Agent Doggett were undercover, replaced your background
check with this one," Mulder summarized. "Check NCIC again: a hundred bucks
says you'll find exactly what this report says, and the information you
received will have vanished."

Agent Reyes was staring at him like such a thing could never happen: no one
would hack the National Crime Information Center's database just to change one
man's information.  And then change it back.  

Novice.

"It's a setup," he clarified angrily. "You and Agent Doggett were set up.  And
now Scully's-" He stopped drumming, staring at the baby carrier helplessly.

"Are they in danger?" Skinner asked. "Mulder?  Are they in danger?"

"Goddamn it!" Mulder yelled, and swept his arm across the table, clearing the
papers and photos.   A coffee cup crashed against the wood-paneled wall,
soaking the carpet and waking William.

He was off the X-files and out of the Bureau.  Scully was transferring to
Quantico.  She had a baby.  He had four-year lease on a fucking Volvo with a
built-in baby seat.  This wasn't supposed to happen anymore.

"Mulder?" Skinner repeated as the baby howled.

"Get her out of there!  Now.  Tonight," he ordered, and Skinner picked up the
phone.

****

The baby carrier was on the table between them, and Skinner and Reyes were
guarding it like two warrior archangels: Gabriel and Uriel in London Fog and
Banana Republic.  The rest of the agents belonged to the FBI's elite Hostage
Rescue Team: more than twenty men clothed head to toe in black.  They were
silent, efficient men, veterans of Ruby Ridge and Waco and a thousand other
operations. They rushed in where angels feared to tread, and thought in terms
of "acceptable losses" and "calculated risk" and other concepts foreign to
most civilized men.

Mulder had worked with many of the senior members of the HRT before: when he
was a green agent and a shot not taken at John Barnett had ended another
agent's life; with Duane Barry, before Barry escaped and took Scully to
Skyland Mountain; at the Temple of the Seven Stars, where Melissa Ephesian
took her own life.  There was the "hiding in the light" monster and Cradock
Marine Bank, and hopefully, a few he couldn't recall when someone didn't end
up dead. 

The room quieted as the lights dimmed, and the projector screen lowered from
the ceiling.

He took a breath, then laid the photo of Ophiuchus on the overhead projector
so it appeared on the bright screen. "Michael Lee Milton, age thirty-seven,"
Mulder began. "Ex-med student, ex-military, ex-con, ex-mental patient, is the
leader of a small UFO cult called The Church of the 13th Sign.  The name
Ophiuchus comes from a zodiac myth about a demigod with the power to bring
back the dead.  Milton thinks he is Ophiuchus: returned from the Heavens by
UFO's, reincarnated -- whatever.  His followers attempt to recover dead or
injured UFO abductees so he can heal them.  Except he can't."

Two-dozen heads nodded. 

"But he believes he can," Mulder continued. "As do the members of his church. 
He demands and gets blind obedience from them. If he says shoot, they will. 
If he says swallow poison or kill the hostages, they'll do that, too."

Mulder glanced over his shoulder, and, from the screen, Ophiuchus stared at
him with bland features and dead gray eyes.  The face reminded him of Robert
Modell: another little man who wanted to be big.  

"Earlier tonight, he found and disabled audio surveillance," Mulder said,
turning toward his audience again. "Which means he knows someone's been
listening.  Infrared scans indicate the members are in the central building:
an old church.  Ophiuchus is probably holding them there, trying to decide
which one is the spy, and becoming increasingly agitated and violent.  And
while we have no report of the cult stockpiling weapons, assume they're there
and that at least some of the members know how to use them."

He replaced Ophiuchus's image with a photo of Agent Doggett, then one of
Scully. "There are forty-eight cult members, including eighteen children and
two undercover FBI agents, posing as a married couple.  They're both seasoned
agents who've done undercover work and been in hostage situations before."

Scully had been in more hostage situations than he cared to count.  

Twelve.  Since joining the X-files, she'd been abducted or held against her
will twelve times. Unless the cult members were having a pajama party in the
church, this made lucky thirteen.  

"It's possible Ophiuchus knew in advance who Agents Scully and Doggett are;
that he has a personal interest in one or both of them, purposely lured them
into his church, and kept them there.  Agents Doggett and Reyes received false
NCIC information about Ophiuchus, which suggests there are greater forces at
work.  Possibly forces inside the FBI."

"For what purpose?" an agent asked from the back of the room, sounding
skeptical.

Mulder looked toward the voice, trying to make out the man's features in the
dim room. The voice seemed familiar, but Mulder couldn't recall a name or
which operation they'd worked together.

"We don't know," he answered, moving on. "To put Agent Doggett in danger,
possibly.  To make him and Agent Reyes look foolish and discredit the X-files
office, maybe.  Until recently, Agent Scully was also assigned to the X-
files."

"How do we make contact to begin negotiations?" someone else asked.

"We don't," Mulder responded. "Ophiuchus thinks he's half-human and half-god. 
Paranoid demigods see no benefit in negotiating with the FBI.  He believes he
has the power to raise the dead, which means he won't hesitate to cause death. 
If he knows we're coming, we'll have another Jonestown or Seven Stars."

"You're certain of that?" Skinner asked.

Mulder nodded, and the agents shifted uncomfortably.  Even negotiations that
ended badly saved lives.  The longer they kept a kidnapper talking, the higher
the chance of the hostages surviving.  Keep a kidnapper talking for twenty-
four hours, and hostage deaths dropped by thirty percent.  Forty-eight hours:
sixty percent.  Once the Hostage Rescue Team went in, guns drawn, survival
rates plummeted. 

"We have to surprise him.  If we don't, while we're negotiating, the people
inside the compound will be dying.  Ophiuchus will talk as long as it takes
for his followers to kill Agents Scully and Doggett and commit suicide, and
then he'll surrender.  All we'll find inside the compound will be bodies." 

"Thank you, Mulder," Skinner said, and Mulder returned to the back of the
room.

From the screen, Scully's serene blue eyes stared at him, larger than life and
deeper than the ocean. Although there was no reason to, Mulder picked up
William, holding the warm baby against him. Scully's image slid away and was
replaced by a map of the compound as the Special Agent In Charge of the
Hostage Rescue Team assumed center stage.

****

In the Virginia countryside, a moonless night was truly black.  Their
headlights off, the vans drove single-file up the gravel road, winding through
the trees to the top of the hill. When the vans stopped, the rear doors swung
open, and FBI agents in body armor and night vision gear slipped into the
woods like shadows.

"Stay with the Blazer," Skinner said as he parked on the side of the road,
well past the surveillance vans. "In fact, stay in the Blazer," he ordered,
leaving the engine running. "Don't get out."

"We must be half a mile from the compound," Mulder said. "What do you think
Ophiuchus has?  Cannons?  Scud missiles?  I think I'm fairly safe."

"It's not you I'm worried about," Skinner responded, then nodded curtly at the
baby seat in the back. "He shouldn't even be here.  I'm sure the Bureau has a
policy about it somewhere, and if not, we need one."

"He's fine.  He's asleep.  I'm not calling Scully's mother to come get him in
the middle of the night."

"I'm not taking any chances," Skinner said. "Stay in the Blazer."

"How will I know what's happening?" he protested.

"I'll have someone bring you a headset," he promised over his shoulder, then
closed the door and vanished into the winter night.

Mulder watched through the passenger side window, listening to Skinner's heavy
footsteps fade away.  The SUV's engine purred, and William breathed softly,
his fingers curled into miniature fists as he slept in the baby seat.  As the
minutes slid past, sleet collected on the windshield, forming a fine white
line across the wiper blades. 

Restless, Mulder turned the heater up and rolled his window down.  He got out,
leaned against the fender, crossed his arms, and stared impotently at the
cold, black nothing around him. Somewhere in the darkness, the Hostage Rescue
Team was moving down the slope and into place along the chain-link around the
compound, establishing a perimeter.

William was fed, changed, warm, and sound asleep, and wasn't likely to wake
until after five.  Mulder could save Mommy from the psychotic UFO zealot and
be back by 5:15.  Really.

He took a step away from the SUV, then a step back, gritting his teeth.  He'd
promised Scully that he would take care of Her Baby.  Not take him to spend
the night with Grandma in Baltimore.  Not pawn him off on The Gunmen.  And not
leave him alone in an SUV while Mulder played the hero. 

Footsteps approached, and he turned as Agent Reyes emerged from the darkness.
"I was told to bring you a set of ears," she said, holding an earpiece and
receiver out to him. "And to make sure both of us stay out of the way."

As he slid the earpiece into place, he heard the Hostage Rescue Team reporting
in, saying they were through the fence around the compound and ready to go. 
Skinner ordered them to hold their positions and wait for his command.

"It shouldn't be much longer," Reyes assured him.

"Do they have a visual on Scully?"

"Not yet.  Not that I've heard."

"They need to have a clear visual on her before they go in.  If Ophiuchus has
a special interest in her, he'll have her close to him.  She could be in the
line of fire."

"The team knows that." 

"Could you just stay with William while I-"

"They know.  Stay put, Mulder," she ordered, and he slouched against the SUV,
crossing his arms again.  

After a few uncomfortable minutes, Reyes exhaled and produced a pack of
cigarettes from her coat pocket.  Cellophane rattled, a lighter flickered
orange light against her profile, and she leaned back, savoring the sweet-
smelling tobacco.

"I quit.  Again.  I don't really smoke anymore," she explained awkwardly. "Do
you mind?"

"No.  I don't really smoke anymore, either," he said. "It's a disgusting,
unhealthy habit.  Can I have one?"

She smiled like a sad Mona Lisa and held the pack and lighter out to him.  He
took them, finding temporary comfort in the once familiar ritual: the smooth
paper between his fingers, the dry burn in his throat.  Scully wouldn't like
it, but to Hell with it.  He'd been shot, abducted, tortured, infected with an
alien virus -- twice -- died on several occasions, and survived sundry flesh
wounds, man-eating flora and fauna, and mutants galore. The Surgeon General's
warning didn't carry as much weight as it once had.

"Where is Ophiuchus?" Reyes asked, filling the tense lull. "The
constellation?"

The clouds had cleared, and Mulder looked up at the endless sky, getting his
bearings. 

"There," he said, pointing. "The star at the top of that triangle is his head,
and the bottom two are his shoulders.  See the coffin?  That's Ophiuchus,
rising.  His father was Apollo; his mother was a mortal woman named Coronis. 
Apollo loved her at first sight: her beauty and her fierce intelligence.  They
had a passionate affair but Coronis feared her fate with him and instead chose
another: a mortal man who could give her a normal life, which Apollo could
not.  The lovers quarreled, and in a fit of rage, unaware she was pregnant
with his child, Apollo struck Coronis down.  When he realized what he'd done,
he tried to bring her back, but couldn't. Desperate and half-crazed with
grief, he took his son from her body and carried the baby far away, to a place
where he would be safe.  That child became Ophiuchus the Healer." 

Agent Reyes lowered her cigarette, looking at him strangely. "That's very
impressive."

"It's Scully," he responded, shrugging one shoulder. "Her father taught her
the constellations when she was a girl, and, over the years, she taught me."

"John's been trying to teach me to appreciate stockcar racing."

"It's not really the same."

"No," she admitted. 

He adjusted the earpiece, hoping to hear something.  When there was nothing
but dead air, he checked his watch, pushing the little button so the dial
glowed blue.  Not much longer until dawn.

"John says there's an entire subtext to stockcar racing that I'm not
appreciating.  I tell him the same thing about Buffy the Vampire Slayer," she
added.

Mulder stared at her, waiting for the punch line, but there wasn't one.  He
never knew whether Agent Reyes was serious or not, whether she was making fun
of him or coming on to him or just trying to make conversation.  Some people
marched to a different drummer; Reyes polkaed. 
 
"He doesn't believe me," she said finally.

"Agent Doggett's a tough sell."

"Yeah," she said, more to herself than him.

She held rather than smoked her cigarette, watching the darkness.  Except for
a few flecks of sleet, the blackness was crystal clear and infinitely deep,
and it seemed like they should be able to see farther than they could.

"Choppers," he said, hearing them and turning as two helicopters rose from
behind the horizon, lights off, blades slicing through the air. "Here we go."

Agent Reyes blew out a lungful of smoke, then tossed the butt down, stubbing
it out with the toe of her shoe.  She watched the dark valley below them,
radiating waves of nervous energy.

He heard Skinner gave the go order over the radio, and Mulder took a step
forward before he caught himself.

As he watched, the helicopters' spotlights came on, illuminating the compound
like flashlights in the distance.  A gun fired, making Mulder flinch as the
shot cracked in his ear, seeming inches rather than half a mile away.  Over
the radio, he could hear frightened shrieks, the choppers' blades whirling,
and two-dozen FBI Agents ordering everyone to get down.  Skinner's voice
requested an update, demanding to know where the shot came from.

There was a cacophony of answers, but the consensus seemed to be that
Ophiuchus was firing.  

William woke, adding his cries to the chaos of sounds from the compound.  On
autopilot, Mulder jerked the earpiece out and opened the back door of the
Blazer. "Shush... I'm here," he assured William, as he unfastened the
complicated tangle of straps and buckles. "I'm right here, buddy.  It's okay."

The baby continued shrieking as Mulder picked him up, wrapping a blanket
around him.  Two shots echoed through the air and were answered by an
automatic rifle opening fire, sounding like firecrackers.  Mulder cupped his
hand over the baby's head, watching the helicopters' spotlights scour the
valley.

Agent Reyes pressed her earpiece tighter into her ear.  There was a muffled
shot, probably from a Hostage Rescue Team sniper in one of the trees, and
suddenly, silence.

No shots, no screams, no choppers, no nothing.

"What's happening?" Mulder demanded as William continued to sob.

"They're- Hold on," Reyes said, trying to listen. "I don't know.  I can't
hear." She fiddled with her earpiece and checked the connection to the box on
her waist. "It's not working. All I hear is static."

A light rose above the trees on the horizon, like a star becoming a supernova. 
It grew brighter, and for about a second, Mulder thought it might be a third
helicopter late to the party.  Then the Blazer's engine sputtered and died.

"Mulder?  What the hell is-" Agent Reyes started uncertainly, turning to stare
at it.

He squinted, trying to block the light with one hand and shield the baby with
his other.  He ordered his body to run, but his legs refused to obey.  Fear
ensnared him like a spider's web.  He needed to hide, to protect the baby, but
he couldn't.  He cowered and waited, with his back pressed against the SUV's
oversized tire and William pressed against his chest, as the light came
closer.

He saw Reyes' mouth moving in slow motion, yelling his name, but she could
have been miles away for all her words registered in his brain.

The UFO loomed huge and eerily silent, except for a low hum, like high voltage
lines.  Its intricate underbelly paused over them, and Mulder waited for the
beam to pull him up -- or to pull William away from him.  The light bathed
everything in white, bleaching out all color and taking up the entire sky. 
Then, as suddenly as it appeared, it was gone.

At first, he thought he was on the spaceship again, huddled in a corner like a
frightened animal, trying to escape the needles and drills and saws.  As the
spots faded from his retinas and he could breathe again, he felt William's wet
face against his neck.  Another second, and he could see Reyes crouched beside
him, gun in her hand.  He took a breath, filling his lungs with the icy air. 
He smelled frozen mud and car exhaust and baby shampoo: things found only on
the planet Earth. 

He wasn't on the ship.  They weren't on the ship.

"Are you okay?  Is he?" Reyes asked, pulling the blanket aside to check the
baby when he didn't answer. "Mulder?"

He finally nodded numbly.

They weren't on the ship. They hadn't taken William.

"Can you get up?"

They weren't on the ship.

He nodded again, flinching as she touched his arm.  To his adrenaline-
heightened senses, her hand felt like fire and scratched like sandpaper.

"Don't," he said, shrugging away, and she backed off.

"Where'd it go?" Reyes asked as he got to his feet.

"I don't know," Mulder mumbled, turning in a slow circle in the center of the
gravel road, holding the baby and watching the horizon. "It's not gone," he
promised, feeling the dull pull at the base of his skull.  He'd felt it for
too many months to ever forget it. "It's still here."

She raised her weapon. "Where?"

"I don't-"

The beam appeared again, this time illuminating the valley floor.  Mulder saw
the outline of the ship glowing blue against the black night sky, and the
stars distorting as the atmosphere rippled around the hull.  The beam of light
moved slowly toward the compound, searching for someone.

"No!"

He pushed William into Reyes' arms and scrambled down the slope, the tree
branches lashing at him.  He half ran, half slid down the slippery hillside,
toward the light shining between the saplings like a beacon.  Behind him, he
heard Reyes yelling for him to stop, to come back, but he couldn't.  Her
shouts and William's cries faded, blocked out by the white glow ahead of him.

When he reached valley floor, he jumped to reach the top of the fence, shoving
the toes of his boots into the rusty chain-link.  In two moves, he was over
the top, ignoring the metal biting into his jacket and flesh.  He landed hard,
then was on his feet again and sprinting through the frozen weeds.  His heart
pounded, his lungs strained, and his boots flew over the uneven field.  They
couldn't take Scully.  They could take him again, but not her.  She had a
baby.

It was a setup.  Ophiuchus.  The cult.  The whole task force and undercover
operation.  It was a setup to lure Scully to one of the pickup points.  They
were taking abductees again.  She was an abductee.

He was underneath the ship.  It spanned from hill to hill, filling the sky,
and it was hard to reconcile how anything that large could stay in the air. 
He kept running, passing the Hostage Rescue Team as they stood in stupefied
disbelief, staring upward. 

Mulder felt a helicopter hit the ground near him, its blades chopping into the
dirt and its cockpit crumpling like an aluminum can.  He could see it and feel
it, but there was no sound.

He saw Scully beneath the center of the ship, with a winter coat on over a
nightgown.  She stood alone, dazed, with the wind blowing her hair wildly.

He screamed her name, but she didn't look toward him.

As Mulder reached the edge of the beam, instead of drawing him in, an
invisible force tossed him back as if he was an unwanted rag doll.  He wasn't
the one They wanted this time.  He hit the back of his head hard, and the
world went nauseously bright again.  Time slowed to an uneven crawl.  As he
got to his feet, swaying drunkenly, and took a step toward it, still yelling
for Scully, the beam vanished.  In less than a heartbeat, so did the ship,
leaving nothing behind but darkness.
 
****

End: Book I

  Book II: Pre-apocalyptic romance on a per diem
  
  ****
  
  The thing about the Midwest: there's a hell of a lot of it.  America's
  breadbasket, the Bible belt, amber waves of grain and all that.  Good
  people, honest living, and corn as far as the eye can see.  
  
  But right in the middle of a long drive was an oasis they'd dubbed the
  Mystic Pizza Hut, though neither of them had seen the movie.  It was
  eternally empty except for an old woman who resembled Dr. Zaius, the
  blonde ape in Planet of the Apes.  She served as a combination waitress,
  cook, and cashier -- the sole proprietor of what seemed to be the
  restaurant at the far edge of the known universe.  There were no cars in
  the parking lot, no other customers in the restaurant, and nothing but
  corn fields for fifty miles in any direction.
  
  Corn, corn, corn, Pizza Hut, corn, corn, corn.
  
  "Some view," Scully had commented the first time they'd driven through,
  belted into the front seat of their government-issue blue Ford Taurus
  and on their way to the wonders of Lake Okabogee.  
  
  August 1993.  She'd still been wearing her "look, I bought my first real
  suit" suits and her hair had still been its original shade of red. It
  was Before.  Before her abduction.  Before her father's and sister's
  deaths.  Before his father's death.  They were newly-minted partners,
  and he hadn't quite decided if she liked him or not.  She tolerated him,
  watched his back, and seemed to think he was more than a little crazy,
  but he hadn't decided if she liked him or not.
  
  He hadn't quite decided if he'd liked her or not, either.
  
  "Keep an eye out for crop circles," he'd responded, chewing a toothpick
  into wet splinters as he drove and savoring his role as chief weirdo. 
  If he was going to be laughed at, he preferred to be the one making the
  jokes. "We can always make a side trip."
  
  "Didn't Kevin Costner build a baseball field here?  'I see great things
  in baseball'?  Or is that Bull Durham?  All his baseball movies tend to
  run together for me."
  
  He'd slowed the car, turning his head toward her. "Do not mock the
  acting talent that is Kevin Michael Costner," he'd cautioned her,
  sounding haughty. "Remember JFK."
  
  "I'm not mocking him," she responded earnestly. "I revere him.  I have a
  shrine to him in my bedroom. His autographed glossy photo is right
  beside my life-sized cutout of Keanu Reeves."
  
  She toyed with the little gold cross on her necklace, looking out the
  window as if she was bored.
  
  He turned his toothpick around and gnawed the other end for a while.
  
  "You don't really have a shrine, do you, Scully?"
  
  "Of course I do," she insisted, her lips twitching suspiciously.
  
  "Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves?"
  
  "Raw, misunderstood genius.  Look -- a Pizza Hut." 
  
  He chewed his toothpick, hit his blinker, and grudgingly decided he
  liked her.
  
  Then another blue Ford Taurus, another case: April 20, 1997.  She was a
  few years and a world away from the Dana Scully who'd first intruded
  into his basement lair armed with science and a scornful eyebrow.  She
  was more severe, more guarded, honed as delicate and dangerous as the
  edge of a sword.  She'd lost her sister and innocence, and his quest had
  become hers.  Friends fell away as X-files consumed her life just as
  they had consumed his.  She was his ally and polar opposite, and he
  couldn't imagine the journey without her. They were partners, friends,
  occasional opponents, and an elusive something more he hadn't been able
  to characterize.  
  
  Then a small mass appeared between her sinus and cerebrum, and his world
  came crashing down.  Those were the Cancer Days.
  
  She'd cut her hair shorter, blow-dried it straight, and dyed it a little
  too bright.  She'd lost weight until he could see the outline of her
  ribs through her blouses.  She'd worn black exclusively, as if already
  mourning the end of her own life.  She'd demanded a desk.  Refused an
  assignment.  Refused him.  Slept with a dark-haired, dark-eyed stranger
  and gotten a tattoo and said it was her life to live as she pleased.  Or
  die as she pleased.  As an Oxford-educated shrink and FBI profiler, it
  had only taken until 1999 for him to realize there might have been a
  connection.
  
  "You want the usual?" Dr. Zaius had asked as he'd settled into the first
  of a dozen empty booths.
  
  He hadn't realized they had a "usual." Though it violated all laws of
  franchise economics, it was possible they'd been her only customers in
  the last three and a half years.
  
  "What'd we have last time?"
  
  "Medium pan with extra cheese, onions, green peppers, banana peppers,
  black olives, and double mushrooms," Dr. Zaius had responded
  impassively, then added, "And two diet sodas."
  
  He'd blinked and said that was fine.
  
  Scully was taking one of her many trips to the bathroom that he wasn't
  supposed to notice.  He had to stop the car earlier so she could vomit
  into a ditch: one of the side effects of the chemo.  He wasn't supposed
  to notice that, either.  It was the topic they did not talk about. 
  Cancer: the other C word.
  
  She'd seemed to have no idea that he had a stake in her life: that he
  valued her beyond her ability to put in sutures, run a tox screen, and
  shoot a perpetrator dead center-of-mass.   She made him normal. 
  Anchored him, centered him.  She was his lifeline to the rest of
  humanity, and he could feel the dark undercurrent pulling her away, one
  day, one nosebleed at a time.
  
  "Dance with me, Scully," he'd requested when she returned, dropping his
  quarters into the old jukebox and summoning Jim Morrison.  He dreamed of
  dancing with her sometimes: finding a dim corner in a smoky dive and
  dancing the night away to the gods of rock-n-roll.  Buying her a beer
  and talking about all things terrestrial and non-mutant like two normal
  human beings.  Laughing.  Embracing, maybe.  Living.  
  
  Scully shook her head and slid into the booth, swallowing against the
  bad taste in her mouth.
  
  "Come on: dance with me.  He is the lizard king," he tried, moving in
  time to the haunting, psychedelic beat. "Riders on the storm..." he
  started.
  
  Ignoring him, she'd asked, "May I have water?" as Dr. Zaius brought the
  sodas.
  
  "He ordered diet."
  
  "I'm sorry.  I'd like some ice water and a salad, please."
  
  "And breadsticks," Mulder had suggested, abandoning his singing career
  and wandering over to the table.
  
  Scully shook her head again, massaging her temples.
  
  "I can get the case file from the car.  We can talk about it," he
  offered, as if they couldn't talk about it for the rest of their three-
  hour drive from nowhere to nowhere.
  
  Yet another terse, "No."
  
  "You want some Tylenol?"
  
  "No, I want you to turn that noise off," she said irritably.
  
  He slouched back to the jukebox and, unable to find an off button, used
  his mechanical expertise to reach behind it and jerk the plug out of the
  outlet. Jim Morrison's hypnotic voice slowed and died, and the purple
  and red lights faded away.
  
  As he returned to their booth, hands shoved in his pockets, Scully
  looked at the tall plastic cup the waitress had brought, but didn't
  trust her stomach enough to take a sip.  
  
  "Scully..." he started, but she didn't look up.
  
  It shouldn't be like this.  She was a young woman with her whole life in
  front of her.  She should have a home and kids and a dog and a minivan
  and a white picket fence.  She should have everything that she dreamed
  of.
  
  He realized he had no idea what she dreamed of, but it probably wasn't
  mutants and UFO's.
  
  "Scully, you're sick.  We're going home.  I'll call the airport and get
  a flight back to DC."
  
  "No.  We're on a case.  I'm fine."
  
  "You're not fine," he insisted. "You're sick."
  
  She peeled her straw from its paper wrapper and stabbed it into the cup.
  "I'm too sick to cover your back?  Is that what you're saying?"
  
  He knew this sport: Mulder-baiting.  She was terse and defensive, he was
  brusque and bulletproof, and then they retreated to their separate
  corners, licking their wounds and waiting for the next round.  And as
  good as they were at it, he wasn't sure how many more days they had left
  as sparing partners.
  
  "No, that's not what I'm saying."
  
  "Then what, Mulder?"
  
  She stopped punishing her ice water and stared at him coolly, waiting
  for him to say something so she could pounce on it.
  
  "I don't want to do this, Scully -  have this argument.  I'm saying I
  haven't seen you really eat in days.  You take handfuls of pills.  You
  always look tired. You shake.  You have nosebleeds.  You're too skinny. 
  And you won't talk to me.  I don't know if your cancer is getting better
  or worse-"
  
  "It's getting worse," she said simply, and he felt his stomach turn
  inside out. "The tumor is growing."
  
  He'd moved his lips soundlessly, fear settling over him like a cold
  mist.
  
  "The headaches are worsening.  The ringing in my ears.  The nosebleeds. 
  I'll begin having vision problems as the tumor presses against the optic
  nerve.  Seizures or tics are likely.  There will be mental status
  changes: confusion, problems with short-term memory, judgment, speech,"
  she listed clinically. "And you're right: I won't be able to do
  fieldwork much longer.  It won't be safe for either of us.  Deskwork,
  maybe, but you'll need another agent with you in the field."
  
  He shook his head, refusing to listen. "So what are your doctors doing
  about it?" he demanded.
  
  "Everything they can.  I have some tests scheduled next week," she
  continued. "I'll know more then."
  
  "About your prognosis?"
  
  "My prognosis is terminal, Mulder.  It's just a matter of how long."
  
  He exhaled a painful breath that had been stuck in his throat. "How
  long?" he asked in a voice that sounded too calm to be his.
  
  "At best: few months, maybe.  I want to work as long as I can.  I need
  to.  This is, this is all I have."    
  
  "No, it's not," he'd assured her, putting his hand over hers on the
  smooth tabletop. "Scully... You can't talk like that.  You said you have
  things to finish, and you do.  You have your whole life ahead of you. 
  And I need you.  You can't leave me.  I'm still a work-in-progress.  An
  early draft, at best."
  
  She'd stared at their hands, watching his fingertips stroking hers. 
  
  "Are you Eddie Van Blundht again?" she asked, as though it wouldn't make
  much difference if he was.
  
  He shook his head. "No.  Let's go home.  Okay?"
  
  And she'd finally agreed.  On the plane, she'd slept against his
  shoulder all the way to DC.  She'd drooled on his suit in-flight, and
  held his hand during the rough landing, and he'd let her.
  
  October 13, 1999.  After.  After in vitro.  After cancer and Antarctica. 
  After Emily.  After Diana.  His hair was still growing back after a
  haircut courtesy of C.G.B. Spender's doctors, but the scars were
  beginning to fade.  Scully was still in black, but softer: silk and
  cashmere and things that felt nice when he brushed against her.  Her
  smiles were rare but honest, and she'd cared enough to threaten to hurt
  him when he annoyed her.
  
  He leaned over the Mystic Pizza Hut's jukebox, surveying the choices.
  "They have the Goo Goo Dolls, Scully.  They're the voice of a
  generation.  They said so in Newsweek."
  
  She'd rolled her neck tiredly. "Not our generation."
  
  "Are you saying we're out of touch?"
  
  "Name one Goo Goo Doll's song, Mulder."
  
  He'd grinned, assumed his best Beastie Boy pose, and began, "Some...
  Body once told me the world was gonna roll me-"
  
  "Smash Mouth; my nephew has the single." He must have looked
  crestfallen, because she added, "It's the only single he owns and he
  plays it on a twenty-four loop.  It's grotesquely hypnotic.  I think
  it's a form of mind control urging teenagers to buy baggy pants and knit
  ski caps.  It's probably designed to replace alien implants.  You should
  open an X-file."
  
  "Smash Mouth," he repeated thoughtfully. "I looked cool, though - 
  right?"
  
  "Very cool.  For a thirty-eight year old white boy in a designer suit
  and tie trying to rap outside the Pizza Hut men's room."
  
  "You gotta dance with me, Scully. It's my birthday."
  
  "I thought that meant I had to spank you."
  
  "Kinky."
  
  She smiled in faux-embarrassment: he was Mulder, king of innuendo, and
  she was Scully, his rational, practical, Oedipal figure, and she wasn't
  supposed to think he was funny.  
  
  He dropped his quarters in the slot, pushed a few buttons, and the
  jukebox whirred as its mechanical innards slid into place.  Red and
  violet lights began to flash, and electricity hummed through the old
  speakers.  Metal pans clanked at the back of the restaurant as Dr. Zaius
  made their pizza.  Joe Cocker's digital fingers slid over the strings of
  his guitar as a keyboard player played the melody.
  
  Scully leaned against the side of the jukebox, the multi-colored light
  show reflecting off her face and in her eyes.  From the speakers, a
  gravely voice urged someone to hold on; I'll be back for you; it won't
  be long.  When the night comes.
  
  She exhaled and rolled her neck from side to side, then shifted her
  high-heeled boots.  He probably wasn't supposed to see her fingers
  gently bouncing against the jukebox in time to the music.  She was his
  rational, practical Scully, and he wasn't supposed to be in love with
  her.
  
  He was.  And she was with him.  He'd been inside her mind and heard her
  thoughts as Spender's doctors sliced into his brain.  Diana till-death-
  us-do-part held his hand sympathetically, but did nothing to stop the
  scalpels.  Unlike Diana, there was nothing manipulative in Scully's
  love, nor was there white-hot passion.  It was flannel pajamas love:
  easy to slide into, enjoy, and take for granted.  It was talking late at
  night on the phone, sharing a soda without wiping off the rim love, and
  it was such a foreign emotion that he'd almost passed it without
  recognizing it.
  
  "Mulder, just out of curiosity, do all your informants have to be
  paranoid schizophrenic UFO zealots who are probably hiding straight
  razors in their socks?  Is it some sort of prerequisite?  Next time,
  before we spend six hours on a plane and four hours in a car, could 
  you-"
  
  "Dance with me, Scully," he interrupted.
  
  "No," she said, but shook her head like a woman who wanted to be asked
  again.
  
  "Come on; it's my birthday.  Just dance with me." He gave her his
  homeless puppy eyes and pushed out his lower lip a little. "You don't
  have to enjoy it; you can claim you're doing it out of pity."
  
  She looked like she was going to refuse, then pushed off the jukebox and
  into his arms, moving in cramped circles on the five square feet of
  dance floor outside the Mystic Pizza Hut's men's room.
  
  "Only out of pity," she reminded him, laying her head against his
  shoulder.  He slid his hand around her waist, negotiating with her gun
  for a place to rest.
  
  He wanted to be inside her mind again, just for a few seconds.  He
  wanted to know if she realized how much it had hurt: she wanted his
  baby, but not him.  His genetics in a specimen cup.  He'd told her he
  was a gentleman and offered to buy her dinner before the first in vitro
  attempt, and to drive her home afterward.  He'd quipped that it would be
  the best date he'd had in six years.  Scully had laughed nervously and
  said her mother was going to the doctor's appointment with her.
  
  She hadn't gotten her baby, but she was still welcome to him, if she
  wanted him.  When he'd tried to put it into words three weeks earlier  -
  that she completed him  - she'd smiled sadly, looked at his lips, and
  kissed his forehead.
  
  "I just wanna be there beside you," he murmured as they moved, more lip-
  synching with breath than singing. "When the night comes."
  
  He put his face beside hers, closing his eyes.  His lips brushed her
  cheek in a way that could easily be excused as accidental.  Repeatedly.
  He had big hands and she had a small waist: it was understandable that
  his fingers rested more at the top of her hips than the bottom of her
  ribcage.
  
  The oven door squeaked, and the soda machine gurgled as Dr. Zaius fixed
  two diet sodas.  
  
  "I think that's lunch," Scully whispered, her head still against his
  shoulder.
  
  "Um-hum," he responded, still swaying as the song ended.  On the other
  side of the restaurant, Dr. Zaius carried their food to the table, left
  plates, forks, and a stack of napkins, then vanished into the kitchen
  again.  
  
  Scully stepped back, waiting for him to let go of her.  
  
  On the jukebox, Joe Cocker's guitar and keyboard faded, then immediately
  restarted in time to the lights and smooth backbeat. "Hold on," Joe's
  leathery voice requested, then promised, "I'll be back for you; it won't
  be long."
  
  "Again?"
  
  "It is my birthday," he answered, pulling her back to him.  The old
  wooden floor was rough and uneven under their feet, and the air smelled
  of uncooked pizza dough and liquid hand soap.  Pre-apocalyptic romance
  on a per diem: one takes what one can get.
  
  "How many times are you going to play this song?"
  
  "How long are you gonna keep dancing with me?" he countered.
  
  She sighed and leaned into him.  
  
  "Five," he admitted. "Five times."
  
  She was so close; if he used his imagination, he could feel the outline
  of her breasts against his chest, separated only by his t-shirt, shirt,
  and suit coat, and her blazer, shirt, and bra.  If he used his
  imagination, he could believe she wasn't dancing with him because it was
  his birthday.  She loved him.  She did.  Not the way he wanted her to
  love him or the way he loved her, but she did.  She loved and he was in
  love, and that was a painful combination. 
  
  "She was my ex-wife," he said quietly as Joe got to the part about
  nothing left to lose and nothing left to fear. "Diana was.  We
  discovered the X-files together, we lived together, and we were married
  for six months before she left."
  
  "Why did she leave?"
  
  "According to our marriage counselor, because I was relentlessly
  preoccupied with work and emotionally inaccessible.  I think that's the
  two-hundred dollar an hour way of saying I was an ass."
  
  "You're not an ass," she assured him. "You're challenging."
  
  He smirked. "No, I'm an ass.  I'm surprised she stayed as long as she
  did.  Can you imagine being married to me?"
  
  He felt his heart skip a beat when she didn't answer.  Her head was
  against his shoulder, so he couldn't see her face.  He cleared his
  throat, then mumbled something about their food getting cold.
  
  "I didn't ask you to be the- To donate," Scully said, as always avoiding
  the word 'father.' "Because of Diana.  It had nothing to do with her.  I
  just couldn't imagine anyone else."
  
  "It's just DNA, Scully.  You could have asked a thousand other healthy
  adult males and had it be a lot simpler."
  
  "But I know you.  I wanted a child with the characteristics I value in
  you: intelligence, passion, courage, honesty-"
  
  "But you didn't want me," he whispered, then exhaled and buried his face
  in her hair.
  
  The baby they hadn't made was only their newest unmentionable topic. 
  There was her abduction.  Her cancer and the delicate chip in the back
  of her neck that kept it at bay.  There was Diana and Diana's wake,
  which rivaled the parting of the Red Sea.  Ed Jerse and Philadelphia. 
  Emily.  Philip Padgett.  The almost-kiss before Antarctica.  And so many
  other unmentionable topics they pretended they didn't think about.
  
  "Did you want me to want you?" she asked softly, finally.  He could feel
  the tension in her body and sense her wanting to pull away.
  
  "That came out wrong," he lied. "I- Shit.  Never mind." He exhaled and
  retreated to the emotional shallow end for a few verses. 
  
  "I'm glad it didn't work," he said after a long pause.  The song ended,
  and the CD whirred as it restarted. "With me.  I wanted it for you, but
  knowing what I know now: whatever Spender wanted with my brain tissue,
  whatever happened with that artifact  I'm glad in vitro didn't happen."
    
  If the last attempt had succeeded, she'd have been pregnant at that
  moment.  He shifted his hand on her waist, bringing it closer to her
  flat stomach.
  
  "What if things were different?  Between us?  Would you still feel that
  way?"
  
  "You mean what if we were lovers?" he asked huskily, and her head nodded
  against him. "We're not," he said. "You're my best friend.  You're the
  only woman in the world who takes pity on me and dances with me on my
  birthday.  And you smell nice."
  
  "Thank you," she answered politely.
  
  "Three more," he'd reminded her as Joe Cocker's weathered voice promised
  he'd be back again, it won't be long.  When the night comes.
   
  ****
  
  The first time, it was the way he'd never wanted it to be: out of
  darkness and grief and pity.  On his unforgiving living room rug,
  beneath the blue light from the fish tank, without the pretense of a
  kiss or a pillow, and in a blur of sensations he barely remembered.
  
  She'd come to him, calmly trying to explain why his mother chose to end
  her own life.  There was no conspiracy, no murder, no hidden message,
  and no answers, just a disfiguring cancer slowly destroying the body
  that had given him life.  Scully kept saying words he couldn't fathom,
  and he'd fought them, making accusations and taking pot shots at the
  fog.  And then the dam inside him broke, and all the hurt and anger and
  fear poured out, soaking the shoulder of her blouse with tears.
   
  The world was too black to navigate, but he could feel her warm body
  against his and hear her whispering to him as he clung to her like a
  lost, frightened child.  He knew what he was saying wasn't making sense,
  but it didn't matter.  Her answers didn't make sense, either.  Nothing
  made sense except his arms around her and her arms around him as he
  sobbed.  She kept him steady as the world crumbled.
  
  The collar of her blouse was damp as he nudged it aside, pressing his
  lips against her skin.  She let him stay like that a long time, stroking
  his back as she tried to soothe him.  The sky outside threatened snow,
  and the apartment was cold and shadowed.  Her skin tasted like the
  ocean, and he smelled fabric softener, shampoo, and hints of starch and
  makeup and perfume.  And sweat.  Honest, familiar, everyday smells.  He
  kissed a soft place under her ear, feeling her pulse against his lips.
  
  She pulled back, gently trying to untangle their bodies.  They'd slid
  out of the chair, to the floor, with her arms draped around him like a
  blanket. 
  
  "I'm sorry," he mumbled, not looking at her as she moved away.
  
  "Let's get you to bed," she said softly. "I'll check your medicine
  cabinet.  There's probably something that will help you sleep."
  
  He shook his head, refusing.  He didn't want a pill that would numb him,
  pull him farther from the conscious world and into nightmares.
  
  "Then tell me what you want," she whispered, pushing his hair back from
  his face. "What, Mulder?"
  
  "I don't want to be alone," he managed.  He kept trying to catch his
  breath, but couldn't, like there wasn't enough air in the world.
  
  "I won't let you be alone," she promised immediately, probably thinking
  he was about to put a gun to his head. 
  
  "You won't leave?" he asked, not caring how pitiful he sounded.
  
  She kissed his forehead and wiped the tears from his cheeks. "No, I
  won't leave."
  
  He looked up at her, trying to get his emotions under control and
  maintain some sense of dignity, but he couldn't.  There were too many
  thoughts in his head, and he wanted to bang it against something until
  his skull split to make them stop.  He pressed his palms against his
  temples, starting to squeeze.
  
  Scully's hands were on his, pulling them away and telling him to stop,
  not to hurt himself.  He struggled but she held on.  It didn't take long
  for her to win.  His strength was gone, wrung out, and he just sat,
  slouched against the front of his creaky leather sofa.
  
  "I'm frightening you," he said hoarsely. 
  
  "No," she assured him, kneeling on the floor beside him. "No, you don't
  frighten me."
  
  He looked at her helplessly, then reached out, touching the gold cross
  at the base of her throat.  Except for the rise and fall of her chest,
  she was still.  His hand moved to her heart, feeling the pulse beneath
  her breast.  He leaned forward and put his lips over the beat, thanking
  God it was still there.  He could stand everything else, but not losing
  her.  He'd lost his mind, but she was still there.  When the world was
  upside down and the Heavens were falling, there was still Scully.
  
  "Is this what you want?  What you meant?"
  
  He nodded dumbly, though he had no idea what he'd meant or even what the
  question had been.
  
  She unfastened the buttons of her shirt, letting it slip from her
  shoulders.  Fascinated, he watched his fingertips as they slid over the
  silky fabric of her bra.  A nipple rose, pressing against his thumb, and
  chill bumps formed on her chest.
  
  He felt clumsy and drunk, as though he were as teenage boy again,
  groping his girlfriend in the back of his father's Buick.  Instead of
  unfastening her bra, he pushed the straps down from her shoulders,
  getting them twisted with her shirt.  As she tried to untangle it and
  undress, he pulled her nipple into his mouth hungrily.  Her back arched,
  and her head fell back, her eyes closed.
  
  Instinct took over: a visceral, unthinking insistence.  She was
  underneath him, smooth and soft and tasting of copper.  Her hips rose,
  her slacks slipped down, and then her legs parted as her arms went
  around his neck.
  
  No, this wasn't what he wanted: her giving herself to him out of
  kindness or sympathy, the way she'd donate blood or write a check to
  save the whales.
  
  Jeans open, boxers shoved down, he paused over her, trying to think. 
  She waited, watching him.  Outside, the cold wind whispered between the
  bare tree branches, and he shivered.  She ran her fingers through his
  hair, then cupped his face with her palm.
  
  "Is this real?" he asked hoarsely, not certain.  
  
  She nodded that it was.
  
  All the tears had poured out, and he was so dry inside.  If she let go
  of him, he might dissolve into dust and blow away.
  
  "I don't want it to be," he mumbled, burying his face in her tangled
  hair and himself, slowly, inch by inch, in her.
  
  She inhaled, then blew out slowly, trying to relax as he penetrated.  
  
  "...hurting you?" he panted, as white-hot pinpricks exploded throughout
  his body, the agonizing pleasure making him shudder.
  
  "No," she answered, though she wouldn't have told him if he was.
  
  Her fingertips pushed his t-shirt up, stroking the small of his back. 
  He could hear her panting, feel her tight body around his, each stroke
  taking him deeper inside her. He was never going to leave. He'd stay
  there, blocking everything out.  Deeper and deeper, until there was
  nothing else.  He heard her tell him it was all right, and it was: for a
  few precious seconds, everything was all right.
  
  It was over too soon and reality rushed back, overwhelming him.  Scully
  was holding him, not complaining about his weight, or the cold, hard
  floor, or being wedged in the narrow space between the sofa and the
  coffee table.
  
  He listened to the wind for a long time, keeping his eyes closed. 
  
  "Are you okay?" she asked softly.
  
  He nodded that he was, though he wasn't, and sat back, tucking in and
  pulling the front of his jeans together.  Her hair was tousled, and her
  face and chest were flushed.  She'd managed to get her shirt off, but
  her bra was still around her torso, pushed down and turned inside out. 
  Her slacks and panties were bunched around her ankles, and she still had
  her boots on.  No, she hadn't come.  She hadn't even come close. He was
  a big boy; he didn't need to ask.   
  
  When he had flights of fancy about "consummating their love," this
  wasn't the scenario his mind conjured up.
  
  He offered his shaking hand, helping her sit up.  He started to help her
  pull her blouse closed but she stiffened almost imperceptibly, and he
  realized she'd rather do it herself.  Fucking her was impersonal;
  helping her dress afterward could be construed as intimate.
  
  "Do I say I'm sorry?" he'd asked, avoiding her eyes.
  
  "No," she'd answered quietly.
   
  ****
  
  The second time, she came to him, because he never would have come to
  her.  He'd tossed and turned for an hour, thinking about old loves and
  new ones and fate and doctors named Waterston.  He'd turned his bedroom
  television on, muting the volume, and watched infomercials with
  captions.  He decided he desperately needed a juicer, a NordicTrack, and
  a food dehydrator, but probably wouldn't by morning.  He checked on
  Scully, making sure she was still asleep on the couch.  He beat his
  pillow into submission, shucked off his t-shirt, and finally found the
  uneasy edges of sleep.  When he woke, she was standing beside his bed,
  backlit by the test pattern on the television screen.
  
  "Hey," he mumbled sleepily, scratching the center of his chest. "I know:
  I'm a bad host.  Sorry." He stretched and sat up, grumbling placidly.
  "Okay.  I'm moving.  Bed's all yours."
  
  "No, stay," she whispered. "I didn't want you to move."
  
  "You need a pillow?" he guessed, swinging his legs over the edge of the
  mattress. "Or are you heading home?" 
  
  "No, Mulder, I-" she started, then trailed off.
  
  "Is something wrong?"
  
  "No.  Nothing.  I was just watching you," she said softly, and her chest
  rose as she took a deep breath. "You love me, don't you?" she asked, as
  though she just woke up and wanted to check.
  
  He looked up at her. "You know I do."
  
  "If I said I wanted to be with you tonight, what would you do?"
  
  His rational Scully: testing their null hypothesis.
  
  "This." He pulled her down to him, pressing his mouth lightly to hers.
  
  He'd kissed her before: giving in to an impulse at the edge of the new
  millennium.  This time, there was no resistance, and she seemed to melt
  into him like ice into iced tea.
  
  "Mulder..." she whispered, caressing his name.
  
  "Was that not the right answer?  Do I stop?" he murmured, kissing down
  her neck. "Do we?  What are we doing, Scully?"
  
  "I don't know."
  
  He moved back, looking into her eyes. "I love you."
  
  "I know."
  
  "No, you don't," he whispered to her. "You can't even imagine."
  
  "I-" she started as his fingertips outlined the curve of her backside. 
  She inhaled sharply, muscles tightening.
  
  "Do you want me to stop?"
  
  His heart beat twice.
   
  "No," she exhaled, and he surged forward, urging her lips apart and
  mapping her body with his hands.  As he kissed her, he felt her skin
  growing hot, her breath coming faster, and her fingers in his hair.  His
  every neuron was alive: hungry with want and pulsing with fear that she
  might pull away at any second.  The two -- passion and fear -- collided
  like thunderclouds tumbling together as the storm rolled in.  Every kiss
  and caress had a dangerous edge, and the more he had, the more he
  wanted.  He was a junkie, and she was his drug: crack in DKNY.
  
  "Take off your clothes," he requested hoarsely, his lips swollen and
  stinging.
  
  She skinned her green sweater over her head, then twisted to unzip her
  skirt.  Her nylons came off along with the skirt and slip, and she stood
  beside his bed in her matching bra and panties, a beautiful ivory
  silhouette against the television screen.
  
  "All your clothes." 
  
  He was still half-certain he was dreaming.
  
  She unfastened the satin bra, sliding it off her shoulders and letting
  it fall to the floor.  Her breasts were small, soft, like the rest of
  her, and the nipples were erect from arousal rather than cold.  She slid
  the panties down from her hips, then stepped out of them and stood
  before him, shoulders back and hair tousled wantonly.  Mesmerized, he
  drew his finger down the pale profile of her breast before he moved
  back, pushing the covers down and making a place for her on the rumpled
  bed. 
  
  "You don't get to control this," he whispered. "If you want this, you
  don't get to control it.  I'm not gonna love you on your terms."
  
  That was a lie.  He'd be with her if her terms were a bullwhip and a
  branding iron.  He needed the feel of her breasts against his bare
  chest.  He needed the smell of her becoming aroused and the rough sound
  his skin made as it slid against hers.  He needed to hear her moan and
  gasp as he touched her, to feel her thighs tremble and her back arch.
  
  He filled both hands with her breasts, squeezing, massaging, thumbing
  the nipples.  He sucked, he bit gently, he rolled them between his teeth
  and tongue, making her whimper. He slid his tongue to her navel, tasting
  the salt and forbidden fruit of her skin, then pushed her thighs farther
  apart, kneeling between them.  She was flushed, and her lower lip was
  pulled tight over her bottom teeth.
  
  She was exquisite: the borderland of her chest as it sloped into the
  twin peaks of her breasts, and then down to pale plane of her stomach. 
  The undiscovered country of her lay before him, waiting.
  
  "What?" she asked breathlessly, opening her eyes. 
   
  "Nothing.  I- I was just looking at you.  You're so beautiful."
  
  "Mulder," she requested in a voice like an uncommitted sin.  
  
  The night breathed fire, lawless and passionate. Her lips and teeth
  found his nipples, his earlobes, and her nails grazed his back as she
  spoke to him in a language of pants and moans and desperate whimpers. 
  He was inside her, on top of her, then underneath her, his head thrown
  back in ecstasy and fists grasping desperately at the sheets.
  
  He opened his eyes, watching her, mesmerized as his body slid in and out
  of hers.  He put his hands on her hips, guiding her up and down. "Come
  on," he urged, but she shook her head that it wasn't going to happen. 
  
  "Can't," she panted, collapsing on his chest.
  
  "Yeah, you can, baby." In one motion, he flipped her onto her back, her
  legs apart, and her hands above her head. He covered her palms with his,
  interlacing their fingers.
  
  Her eyes flashed defiantly as she stared up at him, and her body
  crackled like a cat coming in from a cold night.  She could have stopped
  him with one syllable, one hint of distress, but she didn't.
  
  "You don't get to control this," he whispered as he penetrated again,
  hard enough to leave her sore the next morning.  Her legs parted
  farther, her hips rose to meet his, and her teeth sank into his shoulder
  as he thrust into her, over and over.  
  
  He heard her telling him not to stop, and he didn't.  Faster, harder,
  deeper, until she cried out, saying his name as she came.
  
  "It's just Mulder," he panted, kissing her sweaty forehead.  He withdrew
  and pushed up on his elbows, letting go of her hands and looking down at
  her. "You don't need to address me as a deity."
  
  "Okay," she agreed, nodding, still trying to catch her breath.
  
  "I love you."
  
  Another dazed, wordless nod.
  
  She moaned and shivered as he penetrated again, this time slower,
  setting an easy, lazy pace. She wrapped her legs around his waist and
  arms around his neck, surrounding him.  He wanted the night to last for
  eternity: to defy the laws of time and space and human endurance and
  never end.  Two bodies, but one flesh, joined forever.
  
  "I love you," he repeated, and she kissed his shoulder, pressing her
  lips against the place she'd bitten a moment earlier.
  
  He'd find the marks on his skin the next morning, when he woke up alone
  to the sun shining through his bedroom window and the television
  weatherman saying it was going to be a great day.  
  
  ****
  
  The cigar-puffing, salsa-dancing, blue martini-drinking craze hadn't
  made it to Rick's, which was why the regulars liked it.  Atop its wobbly
  stools, men still referred to John "Cougar" Mellencamp, and the Hotel
  California/Born to Run debate continued, with the liberals holding out
  for Layla.  The bartender served any drink as long as it was light beer,
  beer, or whiskey, and there really wasn't a nonsmoking section.  The
  ladies' room didn't get much use, and when it did, the darts area
  overlapped with the dance floor, adding an element of danger to anyone
  unmanly or drunk enough to want to dance.  Every Bob Seger album ever
  made was in the jukebox, and the Silver Bullet Band was just sliding
  into "Against the Wind" as Scully blew in.
  
  She came through the door like a force of nature, her trench coat
  billowing and her oversized umbrella straining against the storm.  Every
  head in the place turned toward her, but most of the men did the mental
  odds, decided "no chance in Hell," and went back to their drinks.
  
  "This place just got some class," the man sitting beside Mulder observed
  appreciatively. "Who-rah."
  
  Without comment, Mulder left his second beer sitting on the bar and went
  to greet her, shoving his hands in the pockets of his old blue jeans.
  
  "Hi," he said softly, keeping a safe distance as she shook out her wet
  umbrella.
  
  "Oh my God, Mulder," Scully responded, unfastening her trench coat and
  pushing her hair back from her face.  The humidity made it curl, framing
  her face in wild auburn waves.  Her cheeks were flushed, making her eyes
  look sapphire blue in the dim light. 
  
  He remembered to breathe.
  
  "I told you: 'Mulder' is fine," he reminded her. "'My God Mulder' isn't
  really necessary."
  
  "No, I meant the storm."
  
  He leaned down, just grazing her cool cheek with his lips. "I think I
  saw Noah and some giraffes heading for the ark."
  
  She exhaled in frustration, vainly trying to get her hair to stay tucked
  behind her ears. "Maybe we should join them.  All right; I'm here. 
  What's so important?"
  
  "I'm-I'm glad you came.  I really didn't expect you to.  Do you want a
  beer?"
  
  "A beer?"
  
  He glanced over his shoulder, and the row of men at the bar quickly
  focused on anything besides Scully.
  
  "They have Michelob.  Or Michelob light?"
  
  "Mulder, it's pouring rain.  I just drove all the way over here at
  eleven o'clock at night, and now you're asking if I want a beer?  Your
  message said something was wrong.  What's the emergency?"
  
  He leaned against a scarred table beside the door, slouching a little,
  and shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. "I don't think I
  specifically said there was an emergency."
  
  She frowned. "How much have you had to drink?"
  
  He held up two fingers for her inspection. "I said I was afraid
  something was wrong.  I was beginning to think something happened to
  you.  Or to your cell phone.  I left messages inviting you to dinner, to
  a late dinner, to my place for a really late dinner... I would have left
  one inviting you to breakfast tomorrow morning, but four unanswered
  messages is needy; five is stalking."
  
  "I told you I'd be at Quantico all afternoon."
  
  "I know.  And if I forget, I have the skid marks you left outside our
  office this morning to remind me."
  
  "You've had me do four autopsies since Thursday," she responded
  irritably. "Just because I didn't find your 'ectoplasm' doesn't mean all
  the paperwork vanishes, Mulder.  I still have your Blair Witch buddies
  to write up, and-"
  
  He glanced at her from underneath his eyebrows, giving her his "who do
  you think you're kidding" face. "It's me, Scully.  I know this routine. 
  What's wrong?  You having second thoughts?"
  
  He stepped forward and she stepped back.
  
  "Scully..."
  
  "I can't do this.  I'll, I'll see you tomorrow," she said, then bolted
  out the door.
  
  There was a male chorus of ominous monosyllables from the bar as Mulder
  grabbed his jacket and followed Scully outside.
  
  She was huddled under her umbrella, making for her car parked down the
  block.  She hit the remote, and the headlights flashed as the doors
  unlocked.
  
  "You didn't say goodbye," he called after her, and the umbrella stopped.
  "This morning -- last night: you just left."
  
  She turned, her chest rising and falling rapidly and her eyes taking up
  her entire face.
  
  He remembered to breathe.
  
  "You don't call, you don't write..." He took a step toward her. "Makes a
  guy feel kinda unloved.  Kinda unwanted.  Kinda used."
  
  She came back, joining him under the flapping awning outside the bar.
  "No, Mulder."
  
  "Then what's wrong?" he repeated, reaching up to stroke her cheek.
  
  "I've started to call you a dozen times today," she said shakily. "I
  didn't know what to say."
  
  "Well, I'm here now.  Just talk to me."
  
  "This isn't the right time."
  
  His fingertips slid down the line of her neck, then along the open neck
  of her blouse. "Please."
  
  She inhaled and moved back a millimeter. "Mulder..." she started in that
  overly gentle breakup voice.
  
  "Oh shit," he mumbled, dropping his hand and looking away. "Scully..."
  
  "Last night-"
  
  "No," he interrupted. "Last night was real.  Don't you dare try to
  convince yourself otherwise."
  
  "It was real.  Last night was wild and passionate and..." She paused,
  looking up at him with those infinite blue eyes. "And perhaps ill-
  considered," she finished.
  
  He closed his eyes, shaking his head slightly from side to side.  This
  wasn't happening.
  
  "That doesn't mean it wasn't wonderful, Mulder."
  
  "Right," he said tightly.  Ill-considered.  She'd had seven years to
  consider it.  And she'd come to him, not the other way around.  They
  were two intelligent, sober, reasonably sane adults who'd committed a
  very consensual act.  Twice.
  
  "I'm not sorry it happened."
  
  "Right," he repeated, stepping back.  The cold March rain leaked through
  the old awning and dripped on the shoulders of his leather jacket.
  
  Yes, he and Scully belonged in the relationship scratch-and-dent bin:
  offered to the dating public only at a steep discount and with all their
  warning labels intact.  They were both seriously fucked up individuals,
  but he saw no reason for emotional dysfunction to stand in the way of
  true love. 
  
  He gritted his teeth, staring past her and watching the storm punish the
  dark street.  The B in the neon sign above Lou's Bar had burned out, and
  was now glowing LOU'S AR, which, normally, he would have found highly
  amusing.
  
  "Mulder-" she started. "Please look at me.  Do you understand how hard
  this is?"
  
  "What's hard about it?  I love you.  After all we've been through... You
  either want this with me or you don't." He balled his hands into fists,
  shoving them in his coat pockets. "And you don't.  You want baby seats
  and white picket fences, and you know you'll never have that with me. 
  Last night, you thought you could let that dream go, but you can't."
  
  The FBI hadn't paid him the big profiler bucks for nothing.
  
  She bit her bottom lip white, and a pained crease appeared on her
  forehead. "You're my best friend-" 
  
  "And you're mine.  But I don't wanna be your consolation prize. That's
  not fair to either of us."
  
  "I know it's not," she said hoarsely. She stepped forward, tiptoeing to
  kiss his cheek. "I'm sorry.  I'll see you tomorrow," she added, then
  turned, raised her umbrella, and walked away, her high heels splashing
  against the sidewalk and her dark trench coat blowing against her legs.
  
  He stood under the failing awning, watching her make her way through the
  stormy night.  The cold rain found its way down his collar, soaking the
  back of his t-shirt.
  
  "Scully..." he called again, ready to lie, but too quietly for her to
  hear.
  
  He watched her sit in her car for a few seconds, then wipe her eyes and
  start the engine.  The tires squealed as she pulled away from the curb.  
  
  ****
  
  She picked up the phone half a ring before the answering machine would
  have, but there was a long pause before she said "Hello."
  
  "It's me," he said, as though she didn't already know that. "Did I wake
  you?"
  
  He sat on his sofa in his pajama bottoms and t-shirt, listening to the
  rain punish his living room windows.  His bed was more comfortable, but
  it smelled like her.  Correction: it smelled like them.  There had been
  two bodies, not just one.  
  
  "Scully?" he asked when there was no response.
  
  She exhaled. "It's four in the morning, Mulder."
  
  "I know.  I hate to bother you, but-"
  
  "Please don't do this," she said unsteadily. "Be relentless.  I need
  some time."
  
  "Scully-"
  
  "It's like falling," she interrupted, her words tumbling over each
  other. "Being with you. It's like falling, and it's this thrilling,
  overwhelming feeling and I don't ever want it to end, but it's still
  falling and eventually, logically, I'm going to hit the ground."
  
  "Scully-"
  
  "What I feel for you -- it's real.  I know it is. But it isn't enough,
  Mulder.  We need a foundation.  A direction.  I don't want to spend my
  life falling, and, and I think you do."
  
  He picked at the leg of his pajamas and looked down at his bare feet,
  his stomach quaking.  His head pounded, and his neck ached.  He was sick
  with her, but she didn't want him.  She wanted things he couldn't give
  her.  Like a child.  A life.
  
  "Mulder?"
  
  "Skinner just called," he said, keeping his voice carefully even. "A
  Morley Tobacco executive was found dead in his home in Winston-Salem,
  North Carolina.  Skinner wants us on the next flight."
  
  He heard her take a slow, deep breath, putting her Agent Scully persona
  on, buttoning it all the way to the top. "I can be ready in forty-five
  minutes."
  
  "I'll pick you up," he said.
  
  "I'll see you then," she responded.
  
  "See you then," he said, before he hung up.
  
  ****
  
  Against all odds, he'd turn thirty-nine that year.
  
  He sat on the park bench, alone, looking back at the path of his life.
  
  It had been twenty-seven years since he'd watched Samantha being
  abducted from their living room, and in many ways, he was still that
  twelve-year old boy.  A little war-worn and battle-scarred, but just as
  solitary, just as frightened, and just as driven and single-minded. As
  Scully said, he was always chasing "the next big thing," like a tiger
  after its tail.
  
  He'd told Scully early on what his priorities were: there was nothing --
  and no one -- except the search for his sister.  And the Truth.
  
  He'd found Samantha, forever fourteen-years old and far from the
  clutches of the men who'd hurt her.  And he'd found the Truth, or at
  least some version of it.  He'd found his answers, only to discover
  there was no one who cared to hear them.
  
  It seemed like an anticlimactic way to round out the millennium, and his
  first forty years on this Earth.
  
  Then again, so were tobacco beetles. 
  
  Mulder sat near the Jefferson Memorial, listening to the water lap at
  the south edge of the basin and the sightseers chatter as they posed for
  photos.  One more week and the cherry trees would be in full bloom,
  surrounding the Tidal Basin with a sea of pink and white petals.  The
  crowds were beginning to thin, but tour buses still brought a few
  glowing newlyweds, families with young children, and old couples,
  walking slowly, hand in hand.
  
  A man on a journey owns nothing except the essentials -- air, sleep,
  dreams, the sea, and the sky.  Anything else he might stumble onto is
  providence and should be appreciated as such. 
  
  In other words: one takes what one can get.
  
  Mulder watched Scully walking toward him, every movement planned and
  gracefully purposeful.  The light from the lowering sun glistened
  against her auburn hair, and, as she pulled off the lid, steam rose from
  the Styrofoam cup in her hand, drifting with the breeze.
  
  "I was just on my way to see you.  Did the hospital release you?" she
  asked, stopping in front of him.  She'd come directly from the office,
  still in her tailored suit and high heels: designer body armor to
  protect a woundable soul. "Or are you AWOL?  Should I call the Orkin
  Army?"
  
  "Bug free," he whispered hoarsely, giving her a thumbs up sign, then
  nodded to her cup. "Coffee?" 
  
  "Tea.  I'm trying to get my stomach to settle down."
  
  "Sick?" he rasped painfully.
  
  "I'm fine.  Just a little queasy."
  
  He made a sympathetic face, then leaned forward as she offered him a
  sip.
  
  "You look tired," she observed, and he nodded. Going ten rounds with the
  Dust Buster of Death could do a fellow in. "You should be home, resting. 
  What are you doing here, Mulder?  Your note said you wanted me to see
  something."
  
  He gestured to the horizon. "Sunset.  Stay?"
  
  She nodded and sat beside him, holding the cup on her lap.  The sky
  reflected crimson in the Tidal Basin and spread out like a vast
  watercolor behind the cherry blossoms.  Shadows lengthened as night
  approached, gliding over the edge of east.  The first stars rose,
  watching from above as the city descended into evening.
  
  "It's pretty," Scully said softly. "It's been a long time since we sat
  here and watched the sunset.  This is nice."
  
  "Yeah," he answered, and interlaced his fingers with hers.  Her palm was
  warm from the Styrofoam cup and seemed so small against his.
  
  She looked at their hands, but didn't pull away.  
  
  She'd held his hand in the hospital, as if believing if she just held
  tightly enough, Death couldn't take him from her.  Each time he'd opened
  his eyes, she'd been beside his bed, but he could only stare at her,
  unable to speak. He'd heard the things she'd said to him, though:
  pleading for him to hold on, to keep breathing, to come back.
  
  "From the other side of the universe, Scully," he'd wanted to promise
  melodramatically. "I'd come back from the gates of Hell for you.  If you
  want me, Death couldn't keep me from you."
  
  Weeks had passed since they'd spent one night together: colliding like
  two primal forces with no thought of morning.  But morning had come,
  with all its repercussions, and he understood her reasons for pulling
  back. He didn't like them, but he understood and respected them.  At
  least, he kept trying to convince himself that he did. 
  
  "I'm glad you're still here to see another sunset with me," she said
  eventually. "Very glad."
  
  "Me too," he rasped, toying with her soft fingers. "Scully, I-" he
  started, then stopped.  He wanted to say all the perfect things he'd
  rehearsed in his head -- the things that would fix everything -- but
  each syllable was a painful effort.
  
  "I know; so do I," she answered softly, completing the conversation.
  
  He gave her hand a squeeze, then let go, resting his arm along the back
  of the bench.  She resumed her two-handed grip on her tea.
  
  "Venus," he said, pointing up at the blue-black sky.
  
  "That's right.  The early Greeks didn't realize Venus was a planet, or
  that the Evening Star and the Morning Star were one in the same.  To
  them, Venus was both Athena, the virgin Morning goddess of battle and
  reason, and Aphrodite, the Evening goddess of physical love and beauty."
  
  "I think I know her," he whispered, stroking the shoulder of her suit
  coat.
  
  She gave him an eyebrow, but shook her head and laughed softly.  And
  didn't pull away.
  
  "Walk?" he invited after a few minutes, gesturing to the path that
  curved around the Tidal Basin.
  
  "Are you up to walking that far?"
  
  He stood, then made a muscle for her, pulling the fabric of his
  sweatshirt taut to show off his bicep.
  
  "My hero," she deadpanned, getting up.
  
  She walked beside him, still holding her Styrofoam cup rather than his
  hand.  
   
  The lights came on inside the Jefferson Memorial, radiating between the
  classical columns.  The stone monument sat above the Tidal Basin like
  the Pantheon of Rome, looking down on the rippling water.
  
  "This is nice," she repeated as they reached the base of the memorial,
  stepping up one step and turning to look at the building's reflection
  across the water.
  
  "Tummy?" he asked, tugging gently at the front of her blazer.
  
  "I'm fine.  Better."
  
  The breeze rustled her hair slightly, and her skin glowed like pale
  marble.  As much as he loved her mind and spirit, they were housed in
  the body of a woman who could have brought Rome to its knees.
  
  Without thinking, Mulder closed his eyes and pressed his mouth lightly
  to hers.  Her warm lips tasted like peppermint, and as he moved back a
  few inches, the space between them had an unfinished feel.  She stepped
  closer, and he felt the change in her as subtly as a sailor sensed the
  tides.  And then she stepped back, uncertain.  Debating.  Teetering. 
  
  "Can't be something I'm not, Scully," his tortured throat scratched out.
  
  "I know that.  I don't want you to be," she answered, then swallowed and
  looked past him, focusing on the darkening April sky.
  
  He waited.  He'd laid his cards on the table a long time ago; the next
  move was up to her.  
  
  People do not remember days, they remember moments.  This was one of
  those moments; he could feel it being etched into his soul.  It was a
  turning point, a high water mark, a bend in the road, and there was no
  going back.  Only forward, to whatever was on the horizon.   
  
  "Where do we go from here?" she asked finally, looking into his eyes and
  fitting a thousand questions into six words.  
  
  The cool breeze blew her hair over her face, and he reached up, tucking
  it back behind her ear. "Metro station," he rasped slowly. "Outer Limits
  marathon.  Sci-Fi Channel.  Starts at eight."
  
  She blinked, and then laughed self-consciously.
  
  "We should go slow," she said. "If you're going to walk that far, we
  should go slowly.  You're still recovering; you're at risk for pneumonia
  and-"  
  
  "I can do slow," he whispered hoarsely before she could launch into
  doctor-mode.
  
  She glanced up. "Can you?" 
   
  He nodded. "We have all the time in the world," he promised, his voice
  fading to only rough breath.  He took the cup of tea from her,
  interlaced their fingers again, and continued walking.
  
  ****
  
  End: Book II


  Book III: Brought to you by the letters F and U
  
  ****
  
  "Sir?" the paramedic repeated, smoothing the last Steri-Strip into
  place. "Do you remember?"
  
  Mulder stared at her as he slouched on the back bumper of the ambulance. 
  Of course he remembered.  He remembered everything: the light, the ship,
  and the cold emptiness that followed.  The nothing that the UFO left
  behind had settled into the valley like a killing frost, draining the
  color from his world.
  
  "Do you remember the date of your last Tetanus shot?" the woman repeated
  slowly, her words drifting away in puffs of white vapor. "Or should I
  give you another?"
  
  "I've been dead since then," he mumbled, finally making the effort to
  speak. "You might wanna give me another."
  
  "Okay..." the paramedic said, and reached for a syringe. "If you won't
  go to the hospital, I want you to follow up with your primary care
  provider as soon as possible.  Can you do that?"
  
  Mulder looked past her, at the flashlights bobbing as FBI agents
  searched the fields and woods around the compound of The Church of the
  13th Sign.  The heat from the ship had scorched everything it touched,
  and the acrid smell of burnt weeds and dirt mingled with the scent of
  gunpowder.  Asphalt shingles had melted, paint had blistered, and
  several of the outbuildings were smoldering ruins, with the gray smoke
  clinging to the ground.  The firefighters didn't seem to think it was
  worth the trouble to put them out.
  
  Against all odds, dawn was coming, creeping like a traitor over the
  black horizon.  Away from the compound, lights flashed as a Medevac
  chopper rose high in the sky, pivoted, and headed for the nearest
  hospital.  The remaining cult members had been carted off for
  processing, most of the ambulances had left with the injured FBI agents,
  and the medical examiner's vans had just arrived for the dead.
  
  Both FBI helicopters had crashed when their engines failed and now lay
  on their sides like a child's forgotten toys.  White sheets covered the
  bodies in front of the church: cult members who'd rushed outside to
  greet the ship and directly into Ophiuchus' line of fire.  Twelve
  adults, two children, and three FBI Agents were scattered over the cold
  ground like fallen leaves.
  
  A line of reporters waited on the other side of the chain-link fence,
  their cameras scanning the scene like mechanical vultures. "Seventeen
  Dead After Improper FBI Raid, Dozens Injured" the headlines would read,
  splaying the gory photos across the front page and the morning news:
  heavy on blame, light on facts.  The FBI hadn't negotiated with
  Ophiuchus, but they hadn't fired first and had shot Ophiuchus to prevent
  him from killing more of his own people.  It wouldn't matter; heads
  would roll, and the truth would get lost in the media glare.
  
  Any reports of a UFO would be officially denied.
  
  "Do you have a primary care provider, sir?" the paramedic checked. "A
  doctor you see on a regular basis?"
  
  "Yeah.  I do," Mulder said numbly.
  
  "I want you to make an appointment as soon as possible."
  
  Mulder squinted at the remains of the compound as the agents dissected
  it for clues. "That's gonna be a little tough," he mumbled.
  
  Skinner approached like an angel with broken wings, his shoulders bowed,
  his dark trench coat flowing behind him, and backlit by the headlights
  of a patrol car. He brought the baby carrier and diaper bag, awkwardly
  setting both in the back of the ambulance, behind Mulder, where it was
  warm.
  
  William was awake.  He had his little knit hat pulled tight over his
  head and the blanket pulled up to his chin.  He studied Mulder with his
  serene blue eyes, then looked away, watching the paramedic.
  
  "She's not here, is she?" Mulder asked, already knowing the answer.  He
  could feel the hollowness inside him, like his soul had been stolen.
  
  Skinner shook his head tiredly. "We've identified all the bodies.  Hers
  isn't among them.  They're still searching the woods, though."
  
  "They took her.  Again."
  
  "It looks that way." He studied his shoes, and then massaged the bridge
  of his nose. "Agent Reyes just took off with Agent Doggett.  They have
  him stable, so they're taking him by chopper.  She said to bring the
  baby to you, and that she'll call you as soon as she can."
  
  "Thank you," Mulder said automatically.  He hadn't realized Doggett was
  injured, or given any thought to who was taking care of William.
  
  "I'm going to call Margaret Scully to come get the baby.  Who do I call
  for you?  Those Gunmen people?"
  
  "I'm okay.  She's patched up my-" He glanced down to see what was being
  patched: a jagged cut across his left deltoid. "My arm." He hadn't felt
  it at the time, but he hadn't cleared the barbwire at the top of the
  fence as neatly as he'd thought.
  
  "He's a little dazed," the paramedic offered. "And I'd like a doctor to
  take a look at these blisters on his face."
  
  "Can you keep him here?  Just keep an eye on him.  And the baby?  I'll
  send someone after them."
  
  The paramedic nodded, turning to smile at the baby.
  
  "We're gonna find her, Mulder," Skinner assured him. "We found you;
  we'll find her.  Do you hear me?"
  
  "Yeah," he muttered, looking down at the dead weeds around his boots.
  
  An agent called for Skinner, and the Assistant Director turned away,
  promising he'd be back.
  
  Mulder closed his eyes, trying to block out the all-too-familiar sight
  of death, but he couldn't block out the sound and smell of it.  Long
  zippers hissed as the dead cult members were placed in plastic body
  bags, and metal stretchers clattered as they were carried away.  His
  nose stung with the peppery scent of scorched earth and gunpowder.  And
  blood - the coppery smell of it lodging in his throat and threatening to
  choke off his breath.  
  
  However much he told himself it wasn't real, it was.  
  It was too real, and he wanted to let his soul rise above it all.  He
  wanted to leave his ineffective body and reach out, to let his spirit
  interweave with the fabric of space until it found hers.  She was out
  there.  Somewhere.  He could feel her pulling him, like they were binary
  stars orbiting each other: locked together, one star seen, one unseen to
  the naked eye.
  
  "Mulder..." Scully's voice whispered to him, washing over him like a
  warm tide.
  
  He inhaled sharply, opening his eyes, but there was only the same
  shadowy, smoking ruin.  His shoulder throbbed, and his face felt
  scorched, and, behind him, William mewed softly.
  
  "Is that what they call you?" the female paramedic asked gently.
  "Mulder?  Is that your name?"
  
  He stared at her.
  
  "Is your wife the FBI agent they're searching for, Mr. Mulder?  The one
  who was undercover?"
  
  He continued staring at her, hating her for daring to be any woman
  besides Dana Scully.
  
  "I'm so sorry," the paramedic said. "This is her baby, isn't it?"
  
  "Yeah," he heard his voice answer as he looked up, searching the
  moonless sky.
  
  ****
  
  Eventually, after a few hours, he went back to Scully's apartment not
  because he lived there, but because William did.  The only signs of
  Mulder's presence during the last six weeks were a disposable razor and
  a toothbrush beside the bathroom sink, a few clothes in a duffle bag in
  the bedroom, and a NICAP coffee mug in the dish drain.
  
  He laid the baby in the bassinette and gave the mobile a few twists,
  hoping William would settle down, then went to Scully's bedroom and sat
  heavily on the side of her bed.  Outside the window, the sky was a thin
  shade of gray, still spitting a little sleet.  It was mid-morning in
  Georgetown; the well-shod and forward thinking braved the weather for a
  low-fat caffeine fix and a gourmet muffin.  Mulder could hear voices
  chattering on the sidewalk below as life went on, but it had little
  relevance to him.
  
  It wasn't real.  It wasn't happening.  He'd listened to his gut instinct
  when Scully told him about the undercover assignment.  He'd realized it
  was a setup and acted sooner.  He'd run just a few seconds faster and
  gotten to her before They did.
  
  It wasn't real.
  
  Any minute, Scully would come through her front door, breathless from
  the cold, carrying a cup of decaf for her, a cup of high octane for him,
  and a bag of baby sundries from the drugstore.  She'd ask if William was
  hungry, and Mulder would surrender the fussy baby to her gladly.  She'd
  lay back on the bed, open her blouse, and put William to her breast. 
  Mulder would stretch out on the mattress, folding his arm under his head
  and watching them.  Once William was sated and drowsy, they'd put the
  bassinette beside the bed and take a nap themselves, safe under the
  cover of tentative happiness and smooth percale sheets.
  
  Any minute.
  
  He stared at the empty bedroom doorway, waiting.
  
  He looked at the bedside phone, hoping against all logic that it would
  ring and Skinner's voice would say it was a mistake: they'd just found
  Scully hidden in the woods or one of the dilapidated buildings on the
  compound.  She was cold, confused, but safe, and waiting for Mulder to
  take her home.
  
  Any minute.
  
  He let his body fall back on the mattress, his feet still on the floor. 
  He was so tired that he felt the bed spinning and the blood coursing
  through his veins. He closed his eyelids over his stinging eyes, then
  rolled, grabbed Scully's pillow, and buried his face in her scent.
  
  The furnace purred as it kicked on, shoes passed on the frozen sidewalk,
  and the mobile above William's bassinette squeaked as it turned.  Mulder
  raised his head, checking on the baby, then laid his cheek against her
  pillow and closed his eyes again.
  
  Any minute.
  
  ****
  
  As straight-laced as Scully could be in her work persona, she was a
  sensualist in private, with her satin pajamas, scented candles, fine
  lotions and potions, and long, hot, Saturday soaks in the tub.  On
  Saturdays, the suit and high heels fell away, the coiffed hair was
  allowed to curl randomly, and the soft woman behind the seventh veil
  came out to play.
  
  The steam from the bathroom smelled like Neutrogena shower gel, and one
  of her expensive, multi-wicked candles flickered on the dresser.  The
  scent was exotic, like sandalwood and mist, and the flames made long
  shadows dance across the wall.  Her favorite Eagles CD played, and as he
  stretched, waking, the sheets were cool against his bare skin. 
  
  Mulder pushed up on his elbow, grinning as he watched Scully approach. 
  She'd twisted her hair up and fastened it with a plastic clip, but a few
  damp strands had worked loose.  Instead of pajamas, she'd put on his
  white dress shirt, which hung almost to her knees.  Her legs were bare,
  and socks covered her perpetually cold feet.  She unfastened the clip
  and shook her head so her hair fell around her face, untamed.
  
  "Hi," she purred, pausing beside the bed.  She slid one electric finger
  down his chest, tracing a lazy path and making the dark hair stand at
  attention.
  
  "Hi," he exhaled. "You're certainly something for a fellow to wake up
  to."
  
  "A good something?" She licked her lips as she crawled onto the
  mattress, moving like a cat stalking its prey. "Or a bad something?"
  
  "Oh, a bad, bad something.  Who-rah," he added under his breath, laying
  back. "Come here, Miss Bad Something."
  
  She straddled his hips, inviting his hands to find their way up her
  freshly shaved legs, then thighs, to the tiny lace panties and bare
  breasts beneath the oversized shirt.  Her skin was slippery from bath
  oil and superheated from the water, and seemed to mold perfectly against
  his.  His erection pressed against the crotch of her panties, and she
  rocked slightly, rubbing against him.  Her kisses lingered on his skin
  like sea foam, sending little electric charges through his body.
  
  "I want to be with you," she said, then slid her lips to his earlobe,
  which suddenly had a pulse all its own. "Not Them," she whispered in his
  ear.
  
  He nodded, understanding.  This wasn't his fantasy; it was hers. "Tell
  me what you want."
  
  "You," she answered. "Just you."
  
  She unfastened the first button of her shirt, then watched as he undid
  the rest.  The flesh underneath was perfect, unmarred by scars or
  stretch marks. The body she gave to him had never been experimented on
  or wounded or carried a child.  Her breasts were small and high, her
  stomach flat and firm.  He took a nipple between his lips, sucking, and
  her fingers tightened in his hair.
  
  "I love you, Mulder," he heard her whisper, as though she'd said it a
  thousand times before.
  
  No games, no power struggles, no excuses or regrets.  Nothing left to
  prove or lose.  It wasn't the way he'd ever made love to her, but it was
  the way he'd always wanted to.
  
  He rolled and laid her back on the pillows, watching her watch him as he
  folded her shirt open, slowly exposing her breasts again, then slid the
  delicate panties down her hips.
  
  The original Eagles crooned, the candle flickered fairy light, and her
  skin was warm and clean under his tongue.  Her soft hands caressed his
  face and shoulders as they kissed, combining lips and tongues and souls. 
  Her thighs trembled as he touched between them, then opened wider.  
  
  He heard a knock at the front door: far away and unrelated to them.
  
  "Nice," he whispered, then blew across tender flesh, making her shudder. 
  When he ran his tongue over her for the first time, she whimpered and
  shifted her feet, toes curling. "Slick.  Like honey," he told her,
  glancing up.
  
  He saw her turn her head to the side, eyes clenched shut, before he
  lowered his mouth again, exploring her secrets.  She was all around him:
  the sounds, the smells, the textures of her.  He could feel and taste
  her body warming to his, then beginning to pull taut, like the strings
  of a violin, seeking release.
  
  "Now," she requested in a voice no man with good sense would ignore.
  
  As he made his way up her body, her sock feet ran up the backs of his
  thighs, drawing him down on top of her.  He kissed her, urging her lips
  apart and letting her taste herself on his tongue.
  
  "Fast or slow?" he asked, pressing his erection against her, feeling her
  body start to open for his.
  
  "Slow," she whispered. "Forever, Mulder."
  
  "Forever," he echoed, promising.  He looked into her blue eyes, then
  relaxed and let himself fall into her.  Her breath was hot against his
  shoulder, her body ready, and her arms safe and welcoming.
  
  The person at the door knocked again, startling him, and suddenly, there
  was nothing.
  
  He woke, finding himself sprawled across the cold bed, his face pressed
  into her pillow and his erection against her mattress.  He raised his
  head and looked around her bedroom.
  
  "Scully," he called hoarsely, hopefully, as though she might have just
  stepped out for a moment.
  
  The sky outside the window was a darker gray, but, except for the
  uncomfortable tightness in his jeans and the wrinkled comforter,
  everything else was the same.  His face and shoulder still ached, and he
  was still alone.  There was no candle, no music.  There were no
  welcoming arms, no sweet words, and no slick, inviting depths.
  
  He licked his lips, wanting to detect some trace of her on them, but
  there was none.
  
  The furnace clicked off, the sidewalk outside bustled with the lunchtime
  crowd, and William started to fuss again.  As Mulder moaned and swung
  his legs over the edge of the mattress, a key turned the deadbolt lock
  in the front door.
  
  ****
  
  Scully had taken her SIG-Sauer with her, but her Smith & Wesson was in
  the nightstand, and his old Glock was in his duffle bag on the bedroom
  floor. Making a quick decision, he reached for the Glock, fishing
  blindly inside the bag.  Finding it, as the front door opened, he pulled
  the pistol from its holster and flicked the safety off.
  
  The bassinette was beside the sofa: between Mulder and whoever had just
  entered Scully's apartment, but not directly in the line of fire.  He
  wasn't sure a nine-millimeter bullet -- or sixteen of them -- would stop
  what was coming through the door, but he didn't have many other options.
  
  He raised the pistol, crouched beside the bedroom door, took a breath,
  and was starting to move when Maggie Scully's voice called, "Fox?"
  
  He stopped in the doorway, heart pounding. 
  
  "Mrs. Scully." He exhaled. "I thought someone was after the baby."
  
  "Fox?" she repeated, eyeing the Glock. "Mr. Skinner said you had
  William, but he wasn't sure where you were. Where you went. You didn't
  answer your phone, and when you weren't at your apartment, so I thought
  you might be here.  I- I knocked."
  
  "I was asleep."
  
  She glanced past him, at her daughter's rumpled bed, but reserved
  comment. "Mr. Skinner said Dana's missing."
  
  As much as Mulder didn't want to, he nodded that she was correct.  
  
  "He said Dana was undercover, something went wrong, and now she's
  missing.  There was an FBI raid in Virginia; I saw it on the news this
  morning.  A UFO cult.  People were killed.  Was Dana there?"
  
  Mulder nodded again, barely moving his head.
  
  "Were you there?" she asked.
  
  "Yes," he said numbly.
  
  She looked at the bassinette, then at the pistol in Mulder's hand. "I'm
  not going to hurt the baby, Fox.  I'm just here to help.  Mr. Skinner
  called me.  Put down the gun and tell me what's happened."
  
  The few functioning cells in his brain conferred and agreed that it was
  impolite to hold Scully's mother at gunpoint, so Mulder lowered the
  Glock, flicked the safety on, and laid it on the end table. 
  
  "Sorry." 
  
  William mewed again, and Mulder walked around the sofa, lifted him out
  of the bassinette, and settled the baby against his chest. "Hey, buddy,"
  he murmured, feeling the world steady a little. 
  
  "Fox, I can take him.  Here," she said, offering her arms. "Here -- let
  me have him."
  
  "I have him.  He's okay." William's downy head was warm against Mulder's
  neck, and a tiny fist gripped his sweatshirt instinctively. "We're
  okay."
  
  "Are you sure?" she asked, hovering protectively.
   
  "I'm-" he started, then looked down, realizing what was worrying Mrs.
  Scully.  Dried mud flaked off his boots and jeans, and the sleeve of his
  sweatshirt was torn, revealing the bloody t-shirt and gauze underneath. 
  He hadn't shaved or showered since the previous morning.  He hadn't
  looked in a mirror, but the blisters on his face probably weren't very
  pretty. "Just a little rough around the edges.  We had a long night."
  
  "I see." She took a step back, staying within arms reach. "Where's Dana,
  Fox?  What's happened to my daughter?"
  
  "She was abducted early this morning by a ship like the one that took
  me," he said, hating the sterile sound of the words coming from his
  mouth. "I saw it, and I tried to stop it, but I couldn't.  They didn't
  want William or me, but They took her.  I couldn't stop Them," he
  repeated. "I'm sorry."
  
  He sat on the sofa, shifting the baby to the crook of his arm.  William
  wrapped his miniature fingers around Mulder's pinkie, stopped fussing,
  and watched him, fascinated by his face.
  
  "Agent John Doggett was injured in the raid," he continued, stroking
  William's belly with his thumb. "But it looks like he'll pull through. 
  Once he's conscious, maybe he'll be able to tell us something useful. 
  The same goes for the cult leader: if he lives through surgery, he'll be
  questioned.  We'll try to track the ship, maybe predict its next pickup
  point.  And we can look for patterns in recent abductions: some
  abductees are returned unharmed within hours or days.  Or, like Scully
  and I, within a few months-"
  
  "And some are returned dead, or never returned at all," she finished for
  him, her voice faltering.
  
  Mulder nodded, looking at the six-week-old baby in his arms rather than
  Mrs. Scully. "I wish I could tell you more, but the truth is that I
  don't know: why They took her or where she is.  When or if she'll be
  returned.  All I know right now is that she's gone."
  
  She inhaled and straightened, like Scully did when she steeled herself.
  "All right.  Please keep me informed.  I'll just get some of William's
  things: the diaper bag, some bottles..." She turned away, heading for
  the kitchen, and Mulder rose and followed, carrying the baby. "Clothes,
  bibs," she continued. "I have a portable crib.  Where is the baby seat?"
  
  "It's in my car.  You're, you're taking him?"
  
  "I think that would be easier than staying here."
  
  "I can take care of him," Mulder insisted as she opened the dishwasher
  and started collecting clean bottles. "I promised Scully."
  
  "No, no one expects you to do that.  You look like you haven't slept in
  days.  I don't know why you didn't call me this morning."
  
  She added a pacifier, then returned to the living room with Mulder at
  her heels.
  
  "He's fine.  I-I was sleeping, but I woke up when he cried.  I just
  hadn't picked him up yet.  I don't ever let him cry."
  
  Mrs. Scully stopped packing the diaper bag and looked at him, puzzled.
  "It's all right.  Dana asked you to look after him, and you did. I'm
  sure you did a good job, but she couldn't possibly have meant for you to
  keep him for weeks.  Or months." She paused, swallowing tensely. "Or
  forever.  He's not your responsibility."
  
  "Yes, he is."
  
  "Fox," she started soothingly. "I know you care about Dana.  I know
  you'd do anything for her, but-"
  
  "He is my responsibility." She kept looking at him like they were
  speaking two different languages. "Mrs. Scully, what did Dana tell
  you...  How did Dana tell you she was able to conceive?"
  
  She hesitated, then must have decided he already knew. "Through in vitro
  fertilization.  Using an anonymous donor."
  
  He stared at her, waiting for the rest of the story.  When he realized
  it wasn't forthcoming, a dull knife twisted in his stomach, then made
  its way upward, aiming for his heart. "And did she ever tell you who Mr.
  Anonymous was?"
  
  "No.  I have some idea, but no, she never did.  And I respect her
  choice.  And so should you."
  
  He chewed his lip and shifted William to one arm, weighing his options.
  "What if it wasn't in vitro?"
  
  "Are you saying someone tampered with her pregnancy?  That her baby
  isn't normal?  She said he was fine.  Healthy.  She said he was a
  miracle." 
  
  "He was.  He is.  Her miracle.  And-" he started, then said, "And you
  can't just take him."
  
  Her gaze moved slowly from Mulder to her daughter's bed, then back to
  Mulder and her dozing grandson. 
  
  "I can't deal with this right now, Fox.   I can't.  Not right now.  My
  daughter is missing.  She could be dead-" 
  
  "She's not dead," he said quickly. "She's out there.  Somewhere."
  
  "Then give the baby to me and go find her," she said angrily, struggling
  to hold back tears. 
  
  A polite knock at the front door interrupted before he could respond. 
  Silently, Mulder handed William to her, and motioned for them to go to
  the back of the apartment as he picked up his gun, just in case.  As
  soon as he saw the trio of faces on the other side of the peephole,
  though, Mulder lowered the Glock and gestured for Mrs. Scully to return.
  
  "Something's wrong with your cellular phone," Byers informed him as
  Mulder opened the door. "It isn't working.  If it was damaged when the
  UFO passed overhead, I'd like to examine it." He put down his briefcase
  and unrolled a large map across Scully's coffee table, preparing for
  battle.
  
  Langly followed, carrying a backpack and an open laptop computer, typing
  with one hand. "I'm gonna need a DSL connection," he said in greeting. 
  
  Frohike was last, zipped into a furry vest and bearing bags of take-out
  containers.
  
  "Hey, boys," Mulder said tiredly. "Come on in.  Have you met Mrs.
  Scully?" he asked.
  
  "We met at your funeral. It's good to see you again, Mrs. Scully.  I'm
  so sorry about Dana.  We're going to do everything we can to find her."
  
  "Thank you, Mr. Byers," she said politely. "Ringo.  Melvin," she added.
  "I appreciate that."
  
  Niceties over, The Gunmen hijacked Scully's computer and Internet
  connection, propped a US map open on the coffee table with two cartons
  of sweet & sour chicken, and made themselves at home.  Frohike manned
  Scully's computer while Langly patched his laptop into a few gadgets
  Mulder didn't recognize, then resumed his staccato, two-fingered typing. 
  
  
  "Why are they here?  And what are they doing?" Mrs. Scully whispered to
  Mulder, holding William against her shoulder.
  
  "It's not a good idea to ask, but it gets results."
   
  "Mulder, you're gonna wanna see this," Frohike said as blurry satellite
  photo appeared the monitor.
  
  "Is that her?" Mrs. Scully asked, quickly going to the computer. "Dana? 
  Is that the, the ship that took her?  Where is it?"
  
  Frohike shifted uncomfortably. "This is where the ship was at five-
  twenty this morning, when Dana was abducted.  We're not sure where it is
  now."
  
  Mrs. Scully stepped back, nodding slightly as she patted the baby's
  back.
  
  "We're looking," Frohike added, trying to sound encouraging.
  
  "If anyone can find her, they can," Mulder promised, but she didn't look
  comforted.
  
  She watched for a bit, then wrapped a thick blanket around William and
  picked up the diaper bag again, moving with the same efficiency her
  daughter had when she was trying not to think about something terrible.
  "Come see him anytime," she said softly, for Mulder's ears alone.
  "You'll be welcome."
  
  "I can take care of him.  I can."
  
  "You can't take care of him and find my daughter at the same time."
  
  Mulder looked down, studying his dirty boots.  There was an hourglass
  inside him, and he felt the last grains of sand slowly slipping away,
  leaving him empty. "Mrs. Scully-"
  
  "Just find Dana," she repeated softly. "Then the two of you can work
  this out."
  
  Five minutes later, he watched from the living room window as Mrs.
  Scully buckled William into the backseat of her Honda.
  
  Any minute now, Scully.
  
  "She'll take good care of him," Frohike said sympathetically, from
  behind him.
  
  "Yeah.  Good call, dude," Langly offered. "You can't save the world
  while wearing a Snugli."
  
  Mulder turned, a dull headache beginning to build behind his eyes. 
  Whether he'd make the mature, best-for-the-baby decision or not, he
  couldn't help feeling like a war had just been averted, but he'd gotten
  screwed in the peace talks.
  
  "What?" Mulder said tersely. "What the hell does that mean?"
  
  "I dunno.  I read it on-line somewhere," Langly added awkwardly. "What? 
  What'd I say?"
  
  "Shut up and hack, Michael Bolton," Frohike suggested.
  
  ****
  
  Scully was gone.  Again.  The X-files were gone.  Again.  William was
  with Grandma for an unspecified period, pending his mother's return or
  DNA testing and a custody hearing. Mulder was alone, unemployed, undead,
  far too tired to sleep, and the gash in his arm hurt like hell. Some
  days seemed to be sponsored by the letters F and U.  Murphy's law
  crossed paths with the cosmic G-spot, and it felt like the entire
  universe was crashing down on him.
  
  And some things made it bearable.  Not good, but bearable enough to keep
  him in motion, and to keep the barrel of his gun pointed somewhere
  besides at the roof of his mouth.  Instant cappuccino from an all-night
  convenience store, bought to wash down a double dose of Advil.  Finding
  a pair of earrings and an Eagles CD Scully had stowed in the center
  console of the car a few mornings ago, then never come back to retrieve. 
  Somehow managing to hit every green light between Georgetown and
  Baltimore.  And seeing Scully's son turn his head toward his voice and
  then reach up, splaying his tiny fingers when he woke to find Mulder
  leaning over his crib.
  
  "Hey, buddy," he whispered again. "How are you doing?  Is Grandma taking
  good care of you?" 
  
  He leaned closer, and sleepy blue eyes the exact color of Scully's
  focused on his face.  When he smiled, the baby smiled back with her
  mouth, and Mulder's arm and heart ached a little less.
  
  "I brought Snuffy." Mulder made the stuffed animal waddle along the edge
  of the crib, then sniff the baby's toes with his fabric snout. "Did you
  miss Snuffy?  I'm real.  Yes, I am," he narrated for the morose stuffed
  animal. "And I'm not an unhealthy, depressed projection of Big Bird's
  psyche.  Mommy's just a big, skeptical, stick in the mud, isn't she?"
  
  William gurgled excitedly and flailed his arms like a delighted seal.
  
  "Oh, you like that?" He tucked the stuffed animal under his arm long
  enough to pick up the baby. "Mommy put up Pooh wallpaper, like Pooh
  Corner is some hotbed of mental health," he continued in his sad Snuffy
  voice, making the stuffed animal mope across William's belly. "But
  Mulder buys one Mr. Snuffy and she-"
  
  A gun cocked behind him, and Mulder froze, cradling William in the crook
  of his arm.
  
  "Put him down.  Put him down and get away from him," Mrs. Scully
  ordered. "Who are you?  What are you doing here?"
  
  "It's me.  Just Mulder.  Fox Mulder.  You said anytime -- that I could
  come by anytime."
  
  He heard her exhale. "Fox.  You scared me half to death.  I thought
  someone was after the baby.  How did you get in?"
  
  Mulder turned and saw Mrs. Scully was wearing a long nightgown and
  holding a pistol in her hand.  He had no doubt that she knew how to use
  it.  Like mother, like daughter.  He wasn't sure she wouldn't shoot him
  just for the hell of it.
  
  "I picked the lock.  It's late; I didn't want to wake you by knocking. 
  I was just, uh, bringing William his Snuffaluffagus."
  
  It was hard to see in the dim living room, but he thought she rolled her
  eyes as she lowered the gun.  She disappeared into the back of the house
  for a few minutes, and then returned wearing a bathrobe. As Mulder
  settled the baby against his shoulder and sat on the sofa, Mrs. Scully
  sat in an armchair opposite him, rubbing her hands uncomfortably over
  her terrycloth lap.
  
  "There's no news of Dana," he said before she could ask. "In a few
  hours, she'll be listed as a missing person, but otherwise, there's no
  news."
  
  "What about the ship?  The one that took her?"
  
  "After five-twenty this morning, there's no sign of it.  The Gunmen have
  done everything short of taking over the Hubble Telescope; the ship
  isn't on any military satellite, not at any known pick-up point, and
  there were no other reported abductions in the last twenty-four hours. 
  They're looking, though."
  
  She looked down, adjusting a slipcover on the arm of the chair that
  wasn't really out of place.  
  
  "Ophiuchus -- the cult leader -- died on the operating table this
  afternoon before he could be questioned," he continued. "The FBI's
  questioning of the rest of the cult members has been less than
  profitable, and they'll be released soon.  Agent Doggett is stable, and
  the doctors are hoping he'll be conscious tomorrow."
  
  He stopped, having run out of disheartening news and nervous energy.
  
  "The Hostage Rescue Team is adamant that what they saw in the sky wasn't
  a UFO," he continued finally, as William began to doze. "They're saying
  it was one helicopter crashing into the other.  They're saying people
  died because of my incorrect assessment of the situation: that if the
  FBI had taken more time to prepare and had negotiated with Ophiuchus..."
  
  He dropped his head against the back of the sofa and closed his eyes,
  feeling William's warm cheek safe against the base of his neck. "There's
  no consortium left," he said. "All the original members are dead or
  dying.  And the cloning and hybrid experiments: those died with them."
  
  "I don't understand."
  
  "Those were men.  Men performed the experiments on Scully, on the
  others: tagging them, taking them, using them as guinea pigs.  Now,
  there are no more men," he explained. "I can find men; I can stop men. 
  I can't stop the universe-at-large.  I can't fight Armageddon with a
  plastic bow and arrow. And I can't find Scully if I don't even know
  where to look."
  
  She didn't respond and he didn't open his eyes.  
  
  A grandfather clock chimed, marking four a.m.
  
  "Is he asleep?" she asked, and the armchair shifted as she stood. "Do
  you want me to put him down?"
  
  "I will in a minute," Mulder mumbled, half asleep himself. "I hafta go
  in a minute..." He felt hands gently guiding him down onto the throw
  pillows at one end of the sofa. A baby blanket covered William, and,
  after a moment, the weight of another lay across Mulder's legs. "I hafta
  go in a minute..." he repeated. "Just bringing William his Snuffy. 
  Can't expect him to sleep without his Snuffy."
  
  "All right," she agreed softly, her voice barely breeching the edges of
  his consciousness. 
  
  ****
  
  Immense was too small a word for the desert sky, and infinite was an
  understatement. Above him, the black canopy stretched across the
  heavens, sprinkled with fairy dust and bisected by the silver river of
  the Milky Way.  A small fire crackled, warming one side of his face, and
  the wind whistled against the mountains, but otherwise, the night was
  still.
  
  Scully sat nearby, wearing a long nightshirt and holding her hands up to
  a campfire.  She smiled when she noticed he was awake -- that hint of an
  honest, relaxed smile that took years of practice to be able to detect. 
  
  "There you are.  Finally," she said, like he'd kept her waiting for eons
  and she'd started to worry.
  
  As he pushed the edge of the oversize sleeping bag down and rolled onto
  his side, the skin on his bare shoulders prickled in the cool air. "I
  was hoping you'd be here," Mulder said softly.  
  
  She fed a few sticks to the fire, stoking it to last until dawn, then
  rose and casually walked toward him.  The breeze blew her hair across
  her face and her nightshirt against her body, outlining one hip and
  breast in blue cotton.
  
  "Where else did you expect me to be?"
  
  "I- I don't know.  Are you all right?"
  
  "A little cold.  A little lonely.  Do you have room for two in there?"  
  
  He stared at her for a nanosecond while her words computed in his brain,
  then folded the top of the sleeping bag farther down, scooted back, and
  patted the warm space his body had just left.  She slid in, pausing to
  pull her nightshirt off before she lay down and zipped up, cocooning
  them in a safe world of flannel lining and goose down fill. 
  
  Her head was warm and heavy against his shoulder, as was her arm on his
  chest and her smooth leg across his.  She surrounded him, smelling of
  Ivory soap and heavy-duty sunscreen and a hint of mesquite smoke. The
  campfire reflected against her fair skin, making it glow the color of
  moonbeams and old pearls.
  
  She wasn't real; he understood that.  The desert, the campfire, the
  sleeping bag built for two: none of it was real.  Just as he'd come to
  her during his abduction, seeking refuge in her dreams, she came to him. 
  This was a place she'd created in her mind: a fantasy, a memory, or a
  page from the L.L. Bean catalog. It was a psychic link, astral
  projection, hypnagogia, lucid dreaming, mutual dreaming: his soul had
  found hers for a few moments, and when he woke, the link would be
  broken. 
  
  He spent several minutes just trying not to wake. 
  
  He stroked her hair, then ran his fingers through it, gently working out
  the tangles.  Her hand caressed his shoulder, rose and fell over his
  chest, then tracked the line of dark hair down his stomach.
  
  "Are you all right?  Are They hurting you?" he whispered finally, afraid
  to hear the answer.
  
  "I'm with you.  They can't hurt me here."   
  
  "Where are you?" he tried. "Tell me where you are."
  
  "With you.  I need to be with you," she answered. "It's nice here.  I
  can't- I can't be there," she added, her voice tightening as the soap
  bubble universe began to quiver, threatening to pop.
  
  "Okay.  It's okay.  I'll find you," he promised. "It's gonna be all
  right.  Don't think about being there.  Just stay here with me."
  
  She nodded silently, her hair sliding against his shoulder like raw
  silk.     
  
  He swallowed, then exhaled and looked up at the cloudless sky for a long
  time.  It seemed to go on forever, stretching back to the beginning of
  time.  So many stars: old souls, traveling through space, searching for
  new homes; kindred spirits trying to find each other. Samantha was
  there.  His parents.  Scully's sister and father.  And, if the ship that
  took Scully was one of those pinpricks of light, she was there now, too.
  
  "How many did you say are out there?" he asked eventually. "Four hundred
  billion stars?"
  
  "Between two and five hundred billion in the Milky Way," she corrected,
  sounding like Scully again. "In the visible universe, there are about
  five billion trillion stars."
  
  "Tell me about one of them," he requested softly, caressing her bare
  shoulder.
   
  She shifted, rolling slightly away and folding one arm behind her head.
  "You see Betelgeuse?" she asked, pointing vaguely at the vast sky.
  
  "The movie Beetlejuice?"
  
  Her sigh indicated that wasn't the correct answer. 
  "It's in Orion: his right shoulder is a star called Betelgeuse. Find it,
  then find Alderbaran just above Orion's bow; that's eye of the bull in
  Taurus.  Orion's aiming his bow at Taurus.  See it?"
  
  Mulder nodded as he scanned the sky.  So far, he'd located Orion's Belt
  and the Big Dipper.
  
  "No, you're looking too high.  Just above Orion's head," she instructed.
  "Those are the bull's horns.  Alderbaran is the eye of the bull and
  those two stars are the tips of his horns.  Now, look just below the
  right horn.  Have you found it?"
  
  "I'm trying." Five billion trillion stars and he was supposed to find
  one speck just above some bull's right horn. "What am I seeing?"
  
  "Now, to the naked eye, nothing-"
    
  "That would explain why I don't see it."
  
  "But in 1054 AD, Chinese astronomers recorded an extra star that
  appeared in Taurus, just above the bull's right horn," she continued.
  "The Anasazi Indians saw it, too.  It grew brighter than Venus, then so
  bright that it was visible during the day for almost a month.  They
  watched the new star for 653 nights, until, suddenly, it was gone."
  
  "A UFO?" he guessed.
  
  "No, a star going supernova.  All that remains now is the Crab Nebula,
  which we'd need a telescope to see, but a thousand years ago, that empty
  space you are looking at was a giant, dying star."
  
  "That is very cool.  Do they count it?"
  
  "Do who count what?" she asked, turning her head to look at him.
  
  "In the five billion trillion stars.  Is that supernova included, or is
  it really five billion trillion stars, minus one?"
  
  She propped her head on her elbow, studying him as if she wasn't sure if
  he was joking or not. "Five billion trillion is a current estimate,
  Mulder."
  
  "Right." He nodded. "And there's nothing about Michael Keaton or the
  real Beetlejuice in this story, is there?" he asked, managing to keep a
  straight face. "Because he was great in that movie."
  
  "The star in Orion is the real Betelgeuse.  It's a red giant formed
  during the birth of our universe. It predates Michael Keaton's acting
  career by about fifteen billion years."
  
  "Right," he said again, as his deadpan facade began to fail. "And
  they're sure it was a supernova?  Not a UFO?"
  
  "Yes, they're sure," she said, starting to sound like she was sorry she
  ever started the story. "The Crab Nebula is the remnants of the star
  that went supernova in 1054 AD.  It's Messier object number one.  M1. 
  It's been studied for-"
  
  "The Anasazi Indians, the Incans -- many ancient cultures reported
  contact with beings from the sky.  There are theories that the Egyptian
  pyramids were built by extra-terrestrials.  Maybe-" he started before
  her frustrated expression got the better of him and he started laughing.
  
  She glared at him, her forehead wrinkling, then flopped down on her back
  and announced they were no longer on speaking terms.
  
  "Right.  No more talking," he agreed, pressing his lips to the hollow of
  her neck, preparing to work his way down.
  
  "...the real Betelgeuse," he heard her mumble under her breath as she
  relaxed.
  
  "I'm the ghost with the most, babe," he quoted, then resumed his
  appreciation of her left breast.
  
  A coyote howled in the distance, adding its voice to the night, then
  vanished, returning the desert to pristine stillness.  Cereus, primrose,
  and desert lilies scented the breeze, and the campfire popped softly as
  the mesquite wood burned.
  
  She hummed appreciatively as he blew across her wet nipple, watching it
  harden in response.  He moved on to the right breast, sucking gently as
  he slid his hand down her flat belly and between her legs, to the warm
  nest of hair.
  
  Making love to her had always been the easy part.  It was the minor
  things -- the morning after, the rest of their lives, the aliens, the
  on-going government conspiracy, and the end of the world -- that tripped
  them up.  If they could do a John and Yoko, and save the world from bed,
  they'd be fine.
  
  "Ithildin," he whispered, pausing to watch the way her wet skin
  shimmered in the firelight. "That's what you are."
  
  "Ithildin?"
  
  "In Lord of the Rings, the Gates of Moria are made of a substance called
  ithildin: visible only by moonlight and starlight, and only when touched
  by one who speaks the secret words."
  
  She smiled tolerantly, reaching up to stroke his jaw. "Somehow, I don't
  think that one's on the periodic table."
  
  "Ithildin.  Right now, by moonlight, I can see you perfectly.  I know
  you.  I know me.  I know us.  But by day..."
  
  She rolled so they were face to face, with her head on his outstretched
  arm and her top leg over his hip. "Maybe you need the secret words?"
  
  He cupped her cheek with his hand, his lips poised over hers. "I wish I
  knew them.  Those are long forgotten in Middle-Earth," he whispered
  before he kissed her.
  
  ****
  
  He heard a thump as a newspaper landed on the porch, then, a little
  later, the gas burner whoosh off as a teakettle prepared to whistle.  A
  baby fussed, feet in soft-soled slippers moved across a hard floor, and
  a telephone got off half a ring before someone picked it up, answering
  with a hesitant "hello?"  
  
  Mulder listened to the woman's muffled voice talking to the caller,
  waiting to see if consciousness would go away.  It didn't.  Somewhere in
  the real world, it was morning again, and, likely, people would be
  expecting him to play along like he belonged among the living.
  
  He looked around the dim room as he tried to figure out where he was. 
  An unfamiliar sofa creaked as he sat up, moaning unhappily. "Shit," he
  mumbled under his breath.
  
  "You're awake," Mrs. Scully's voice said as a portable phone beeped off.
  "I was trying to keep William quiet but the telephone rang.  I'm sorry."
  
  A small female form in a robe was silhouetted in the living room
  doorway, backlit by the soft light from the kitchen.  She held a baby,
  and he stared at her for a second, half-awake, wanting her to be someone
  she wasn't.
  
  Mrs. Scully's house.  Baltimore.  Mr. Snuffy.  The baby.  Late night
  breaking and entering.  Getting the traditional greeting of the Mulder-
  Scully clan: a loaded 9mm -- when you care enough to brandish the very
  best.
  
  "Oh, God.  Did I fall asleep?" Mulder tilted his stiff neck and started
  to roll his left shoulder before he decided against it.  He licked his
  cracked lips and said, "What time it is?"
  
  "After six.  I don't think you fell asleep so much as you collapsed.  Do
  you want coffee?  Or tea?"
  
  She'd taken the baby from him.  Mulder had been holding the baby, but
  she must have taken William the second he fell asleep. And he must have
  let her. 
  
  "No.  No, I should- I hafta to go."
  
  "Mr. Skinner just called.  He wanted to tell me Agent Doggett is awake,
  but there's no news about Dana.  He asked if I'd seen you, but I didn't
  know whether to tell him you were here or not.  I wasn't sure- I wasn't
  sure of the circumstances," she said judiciously. "So I told him I
  didn't know."
  
  "Skinner's at the hospital?" Mulder asked, standing up. "With Doggett?"
  
  She nodded. "I think so.  Fox-"
  
  "I have to go.  I didn't mean to- To inconvenience you.  I-" 
  
  Mulder ran his fingers through his hair.  He was still wearing his boots
  and jacket, so except for a case of bedhead, he was as presentable as
  he'd been when he arrived.
  
  He noticed his reflection in the mirror over the sofa, and paused to
  watch the hollow-eyed, scruffy looking stranger who stared back.  A new
  pattern of small blisters ran down the right side of his face, but the
  sleepy eyes, the funny nose, the too full lower lip and the too angular
  jaw: it was all the same.  It looked like him, but it wasn't.  It was
  like the exoskeleton left behind after an insect molted: a form with
  nothing inside.
  
  In Scully's fantasies, though, he still laughed.  He still remembered
  how.
  
  "Fox?"
  
  "Yes?" he answered in his distant, "yes, I'd like cream and sugar,
  please" voice.
  
  "If Mr. Skinner calls again, what should I tell him?" Mrs. Scully asked,
  tilting William's bottle as the baby drained it.
  
  "Tell him I'm on my way to the hospital," he responded tersely, zipping
  his jacket and fishing the car keys out of his pocket. "And that Doggett
  better have some answers by the time I get there."
  
  He waited, hoping for some clue that she agreed, that she thought he was
  doing the right thing.  Mrs. Scully just looked tired, like this was a
  drama she'd witnessed one too many times.  Not sure what else to do, he
  stroked William's cheek with his thumb and promised he'd call later.
  
  A fine layer of snow had fallen, covering his car and dusting the
  neighborhood silvery-white.  A cold sliver of moon was waxing as night
  held fast against the dawn for a little longer.  Betelgeuse had set, but
  Vega was there.  And Ophiuchus.  And the Big Dipper, pointing to
  Polaris.  The North Star.  Find that, and Scully had assured him even he
  could find his way home again.
  
  Mulder opened the front door, then stopped, letting the cold air in.
  "She's alive," he assured Mrs. Scully. "I can't explain how I know, but
  I do."
  
  "There's a spare key under the flowerpot on the porch," she responded.
  
  ****
  
  It started with "Agent Who?" and spiraled downward from there.  
  
  I've had a partner, Mulder.  He's above reproach, Mulder.  Agent Doggett
  is being maneuvered.  I feel like I'm deserting Agent Doggett just to
  ensure the health and safety of my unborn baby, Mulder.  I have to do
  three-hour autopsies at thirty-nine weeks pregnant to help find Agent
  Doggett.  Because Agent Doggett is my partner, Mulder.  There's no one
  else to go undercover with Agent Doggett, Mulder.
  
  Agent Doggett didn't have to do anything; Mulder could hate the man,
  sight unseen, just on principle. Valid concern for Scully's safety and
  professional territoriality; insecurity and misdirected rage -- po-tay-
  toe; pa-tah-toe.
  
  There were two agents guarding the hospital room, and two at the nurses'
  station.  Another at the entrance to the stairs, and one at the
  elevator.  Skinner was pacing the hall, forehead creased, hands on his
  hips, doing his unhappy dance.  He glanced up as footsteps approached,
  then, seeing who it was, raised his hands, ordering Mulder to cool his
  heels.
  
  "Is he awake?  Is he?  I want to talk to him," Mulder demanded loudly,
  stalking toward him. 
  
  Skinner moved sideways, blocking access to Doggett's room. "Where the
  hell have you been?  I've been trying to call you since yesterday.  You
  took the baby and disappeared, Mulder.  Just vanished.  No one knew
  where you were.  Not me.  Not Scully's mother-"
  
  "I want to talk to that son-of-a-bitch," he interrupted, pointing at the
  hospital bed.
  
  "Not now, not like this," Skinner said sternly as the agents edged
  closer, hands on their weapons. "Calm down, Mulder.  Don't make us take
  you down."
  
  Mulder considered trying to wrestle the Assistant Director out of the
  way, then decided against it.  He'd had a long, slippery drive from
  Baltimore to work up a full head of steam, but no real plan for what to
  do with it.  Killing Doggett wouldn't bring Scully back.
  
  Hurting him would make Mulder feel slightly better, though.
  
  Through the doorway, he saw Agent Reyes sitting beside the hospital bed,
  holding Doggett's hand as he slept.  Monitors beeped and IV lines
  dripped, and she stroked his face, whispering comforting words Mulder
  couldn't hear.
  
  "I want to talk to him," he repeated a little more calmly. "I want some
  answers."
  
  "I have answers.  Some of them, at least.  Sit," Skinner suggested and
  gestured to a pair of chairs across the hall. "Have a seat," he
  reiterated.
  
  Mulder started to argue, then just sat, sighing tiredly.  He rested his
  elbows on his knees, focusing on the doorway. "All right."
  
  "Agent Doggett said Ophiuchus wasn't the one who shot him."
  
  Mulder turned his head, looking at Skinner's profile. "Then who did?"
  
  "He claims it was a member of the Hostage Rescue Team.  He's not sure
  which one, though." Skinner reached in his coat pocket and produced an
  evidence bag containing a mangled bullet. "It's not the caliber
  Ophiuchus was using, and he was the only cult member firing."
  
  "What's the HRT saying?  An accident?  A ricochet?"
  
  "The Hostage Rescue Team isn't saying much of anything." After a moment,
  Skinner folded the plastic bag containing the slug and dropped it in his
  pocket. "Doggett said he never requested Agent Scully undercover," he
  continued. "That he never even mentioned having a wife."
  
  "Then how did she get there?"
  
  "Kersh.  I'd read the file and been briefed on the investigation, but it
  was Kersh who made the decision to send her in.  He was running the
  show.  It looked legitimate, Mulder.  I swear it did.  Safe.  In and
  out.  One afternoon."
  
  "Why Scully, though?  Of all the female agents in the Bureau, why did it
  have to be her?  Didn't that seem suspicious?"
  
  Skinner worried his lower lip, then leaned forward, mimicking Mulder's
  posture. "In the reports I received, when Agent Dogget had described his
  wife to Ophiuchus, he'd described Agent Scully: her hair color, her
  build, her medical background..."
  
  Mulder's mouth moved a few times, but no words managed to find their way
  out.
  
  "She was his partner.  You were gone a long time, Mulder.  She was
  alone, pregnant, grieving.  John Doggett is a good agent, but he isn't
  made of stone.  Working with her, day after day... Yes, I thought it was
  possible he had feelings for his partner.  And that in creating an
  undercover persona, talking off-the-cuff, maybe his imagination got the
  better of him.  I thought it was unwise and unprofessional, and I
  planned to rip him a new one, but I didn't question the report at the
  time.
  
  Mulder sat back, crossing his arms and clenching his molars until his
  jaw started to ache.
  
  "Obviously, the report was false," Skinner added tiredly. "A ruse to get
  her undercover."
  
  In the hospital room across the hall, Agent Reyes continued holding
  Doggett's hand and stroking his face, soothing away the hurt.
  
  Scully had done that so many times.  The darkness would recede, the fog
  of unconsciousness would lift, and he'd wake to her hand in his.  It
  would all be over.  He'd open his eyes and she'd be there, smiling sadly
  and welcoming him back. Watching them, Mulder felt the dull ache spread
  from his jaw to the rest of his body, like he was being drawn and
  quartered in slow motion.
  
  Mulder closed his eyes and rubbed his eyelids until he saw stars. "It
  was a set-up from the beginning," he mumbled. "I'm out of the Bureau. 
  Abduct Scully, kill Doggett, make Agent Reyes look incompetent, and the
  X-files are closed for good.  Kersh finally gets what he wants."
  
  "You're forgetting someone."
  
  He looked up. "Who?"
  
  "I will have to explain myself to the Office of Professional Conduct
  next week," Skinner responded, then took off his glasses and rubbed them
  with his handkerchief. "And then, probably, to a Senate review panel."
  
  "That pretty much covers all the bases."
  
  "Pretty much," Skinner agreed, still polishing the spotless lenses of
  his glasses.
  
  "Why abduct Scully?" Mulder asked after a little thought. "If They
  wanted rid of her, why not just shoot her?"
  
  "I think that was Kersh's plan: get her undercover, knowing the
  situation was unstable, and, in the confusion of the raid, shoot her and
  Agent Doggett and blame it on Ophiuchus.  But someone or something else
  interfered."
  
  "Why?" Mulder asked.
  
  "That's the question.  And that's what I was hoping you could tell me."
  
  ****
  
  Even as a kid, he'd gravitated toward telescopes, Hardy Boys books, and
  plastic phasers, but he'd had his share of toy cars.  He remembered one
  kind in particular: wind its metal insides up with a little key, holding
  the rear wheels still, and then set it down and let it race pell-mell
  across the kitchen floor.  Under-wind it and it stops after half a foot;
  over-wind it, though, and its insides jam permanently and it can't go
  anywhere.
  
  That was how he felt now, sorting through the Gunmen's endless files:
  like a metal coil was twisting dangerously tighter and tighter inside
  him.  All wound up with no place to go and no clue how to get there.
  
  Byers had conked out at about two, his arms arranged neatly on his desk
  and his head on his hands, like a first grader at quiet time.  Langly
  was still at it, his mouse clicking as he worked his way through the UFO
  newsgroups, searching for any tidbit of useful information.
  
  The long table in the center of the Gunmen's lair was littered with
  files, photos, and old soda cups, and Frohike had to clear a place to
  prop his elbow.  He scratched the stubble on his chin before asking
  hopefully, "Mulder?  You wanna make a run for the border, man?  Get some
  air?"
  
  Mulder shook his head without looking up.  He set one stack of papers
  aside and picked up another, rubbing his eyes before he tried to focus
  on the miniscule type.  The clock on the wall read three-thirty a.m. 
  Scully had been gone almost forty-eight hours.
  
  He knew the statistics -- for terrestrial abductions, anyway.  Twenty-
  four hours after a kidnaping, with no contact with the kidnappers, the
  chances of a hostage being found or returned alive started dropping;
  after forty-eight hours, the chances fell to almost non-existent.  When
  Scully had been taken to Antarctica, he'd been able to reach her with
  the vaccine in less than forty-eight hours.  When he was abducted, she
  said the ship had lingered in the Arizona desert, but only for a few
  days.
  
  The clock ticked, and that metal coil inside him wound a little tighter. 
  
  "No one's going to deliver this time of night, but I could stick a
  frozen pizza in the oven," Frohike offered. "We have pepperoni."
  
  "I could do pizza," Langly responded, then yawned.
  
  "Did you check the flight schedules to and from Antarctica?  And New
  Zealand?"
  
  "Not in the last hour," Langly said grudgingly.
  
  "Check them," Mulder ordered. "And then check the satellite photos for a
  plane that didn't file a flight plan.  Check the payloads for anything
  that sounds odd, anything that could be them transporting Scully.  And
  then check the geothermic scans. If the ship that took Scully went to
  Antarctica, it'll show up on the scans when it lands on the ice."  
  
  "Dude, we've been at this since noon.  I need to be caffeinated."
  
  "And William needs his mother," he barked, then added raggedly, "And I
  need Scully.  Keep looking."
  
  Cowed, Langly frowned, adjusted his glasses, and went back to his
  fruitless hunting and pecking.
  
  "Where are the data from the European Remote Sensing Satellite?" Mulder
  asked, putting the papers aside and looking through the manila folders. 
  NASA, DOD, ERS-2, CIA, FBI, NORAD, SETI -- if it had an acronym and
  government funding, The Gunmen had a file on it.
  
  MUFON.  CUFON.  CUFOS.  NICAP.  NARCAP.  UFOCAT.  
  
  Projects Sign, Grudge, Twinkle, Blue Book.  MJ-12.  
  
  Men in Black.  The Philadelphia Experiment.  The Manhattan Project. 
  Crop circles.  Cloning.  Black helicopters.  731.  Paperclip.
  
  Roswell.  Tunguska. 
  
  Abductions.  Abductees.  Rousch Pharmaceuticals.  Zeus Genetics.  The
  Litchfield Experiment.
  
  Super-soldiers.  Black oil.
  
  Bees.
  
  It was like someone had spread the last decade of his life across the
  table and said, "Here are your answers, hotshot.  Now find the truth."
  
  The clock on the wall ticked loudly.
  
  The truth was that Scully was gone, and he didn't even know why or where
  to start searching for her, let alone how to get her back.
  
  "Frohike," he repeated. "The ERS-2 data?" 
  
  "There weren't any transmission errors.  Byers checked already."
  
  Mulder glanced up, his eyes stinging and his head protesting the lack of
  sleep. "Let me look."
  
  "He already checked them," Frohike objected as Mulder rummaged through
  another stack of files.
  
  "Let me look.  Which folder is it?"
  
  "There are no errors.  What are you looking for?"
  
  "I'm looking for Scully, damn it!" Mulder snapped, slamming the files
  down. "I'm looking for a ship."
  
  "It isn't on there.  She isn't on there," Frohike snapped back. "The
  ship's gone.  She's gone."
  
  Mulder opened his mouth to yell back, then closed it and pressed his
  forehead hard against his palms, trying not to go crazy.
  
  "There's nothing out there," Frohike said. "No ship.  Not in the desert. 
  Not in Oregon.  Or Skyland Mountain.  Or Antarctica." His voice
  softened. "She's gone, just like you were gone."
  
  "So what am I supposed to do?" he asked, his voice cracking. "Just wait? 
  Just wait to find a body? Go out and scream at the sky? I can't just do
  nothing."
  
  Langly stopped his two-fingered typing, and Frohike cleared his throat
  uncomfortably.  Byers raised his head, looking around sleepily, trying
  to determine the source of the commotion.
  
  "I can't just do nothing," Mulder repeated emptily.
  
  Frohike exhaled. "Why don't you go see your son," he suggested finally.
  
  ****
  
  "To fear love is to fear life, and those who fear life are already three
  parts dead."
  
  It was a line from some book he'd read as an undergrad, but Mulder was
  too tired to recall the author or even the context of the quote.
  
  Three parts dead; that still left one part alive and accountable.
  
  He sat on the rug in front of Mrs. Scully's floral sofa, his legs bent
  slightly, with William on his thighs.  In the darkness, William slept
  soundly, his lips moving as he nursed in his dreams.
  
  He wondered how different it would have been if he hadn't been abducted. 
  If he'd been with Scully from the day she found out about the baby, if
  he'd gone to the doctor's visits and seen the ultrasounds, if he'd had
  more than a few weeks to acquaint himself with the idea of her being
  pregnant.  Perhaps he could have drafted off her sense of wonder and
  certainty instead of feeling an auger boring its way through his gut
  each time he'd looked at her belly.
  
  She'd never had any doubts: that her baby was normal and that she could
  take care of it.
  
  He'd had nothing but doubts.
  
  Mulder wondered how he'd answer, on some random afternoon in the future,
  when William asked the circumstances of his birth. "I wanted you for
  your mother," wasn't going to cut it. "I love you because you're part of
  her." "I took care of you because I promised Scully that I would."
  
  He felt a sense of protectiveness and duty.  And he felt a kind of love:
  a gentle connection and warmth inside his chest when William looked at
  him.  He tried to will himself to feel more -- to feel the fierce,
  instinctive bond that Scully seemed to have with her son, but there
  wasn't any emotion left inside him to force out.
  
  He just sat, resting the baby against his knees, and stroked one tiny
  flannel foot as William slept.
  
  Three parts dead.
  
  It was Bertrand Russell, he finally remembered; the book had been
  Marriage and Morals, published in 1929. Russell had scandalized society
  by criticizing the sexuality morality of the day.  He'd questioned the
  need to establish a child's paternity, saying it benefitted the father's
  ego, not the child's well-being.  Even in the roaring twenties, Russell
  had raised eyebrows by viewing marriage as optional   and something to
  be considered only after a couple had a child.  Seventy years later, Dr.
  Dana Scully had agreed   at least when it came to Mulder   and Mr.
  Anonymous had gone along.
  
  Having an excellent memory wasn't a good thing, sometimes.  He would
  have settled for just remembering the quote.
  
  "Fox?" Maggie's voice whispered, as her slippers padded down the hall
  toward them. "Is that you?"
  
  "Yeah," he answered, then cleared his throat. "Yes.  I was just watching
  him.  He's asleep."
  
  She stopped a few feet away, tying the sash of her bathrobe, and then
  pushed her disheveled hair back. "You can come visit during the day."
  
  "I know.  I was in the neighborhood."
  
  "Do you need anything?"
  
  "No," he answered softly. "I just wanted to see him.  He's so peaceful."
  
  She nodded slightly. "Do you want a blanket?"
  
  "There's one in the crib."
  
  "For you.  If you're going to spend another night on the sofa, you'll
  need a blanket."
  
  He continued stroking the sole of William's foot. "I'm going in a
  minute.  I just wanted to see him.  Make sure he's okay.  Safe.  Not
  colicky or cold or anything..." he said, trailing off.
  
  "I'll get one, just in case."
  
  He didn't have the energy to argue.  She disappeared down the dark
  hallway, then returned carrying two blankets and a pillow, which she put
  on the arm of the sofa. "There are more in the linen closet, if you need
  them."
  
  "Thank you," he mumbled.
  
  When he looked up, she seemed uncomfortable, as if she wasn't sure if
  she should stay or go.
  
  "Don't put your dirty boots on my sofa again," she said finally,
  sounding maternal. "Take them off."
  
  "I will," he promised.
  
  She hesitated again, then said, "You can't sleep with William on your
  chest.  Not on the sofa.  It isn't safe.  He could get wedged between
  you and the cushions and smother.  Or, if you let go of him while you're
  asleep, he could fall."
  
  "Oh.  Okay."
  
  He'd skimmed "What to Expect When You're Expecting," but nothing past
  that point.  When it came to taking care of William, he just did what
  Scully told him.
  
  Scully hadn't told him what to do if she never came home again.
  
  "Goodnight," Maggie said awkwardly, and turned, her footsteps fading
  down the hallway.
  
  He watched William a little longer, then dragged a blanket off the sofa,
  unfolded it on the floor, and arranged himself and the baby on it.  He
  put one hand under his head as a pillow, and one on the baby as a frail
  shield against all the evil in the world, and, exhaling, closed his
  eyes.
  
  ****
  
  She was twenty-eight years old the first time she'd intruded into his
  fortress of paranoid solitude: five-foot nothing of red hair, blue eyes,
  and skepticism, ready to right the world in her frumpy suits and fuck-me
  shoes.
  
  He'd loved the juxtaposition from day one.  
  
  Scully was an elegant contradiction: a conformist with a rebellious
  streak just beneath her cool surface.  She was brilliant, dependable,
  and more predictable than she liked to believe.  She was fiercely loyal,
  bull-headedly obstinate, and just as dangerous as she seemed at first
  glance.  And she was beautiful.  Quietly, hazardously, fatally so.
  
  The dress she was wearing should have had a warning label: slow,
  dangerous curves ahead.  It was made to fit a woman, not a teenage girl:
  sensuous without being slutty and elegant without a hint of stuffiness. 
  The front was held up by two thin straps, then fell into a long silk
  sheath that bared her back and caressed her breasts and hips.  Her hair
  was pulled high in that magical 'do that women did: like it had been
  picked up and set atop her crown, defying gravity except for a few
  curls.
  
  He paused unseen, watching her, trying to memorize every detail.  The
  hollow where her neck sloped into her shoulder and the tilt of her head
  when she was deep in thought.  The way she moved, spoke, laughed.  The
  gestures, the nuances, the fluid beauty of her.
  
  When she noticed him in the doorway, she smiled invitingly, and he
  smoothed his tuxedo jacket and stepped into the empty ballroom. 
  Candelabras lined the walls, and an unseen band played something slow
  and smoky.  The tall windows were open, and the breath of a new spring
  evening made the gauzy curtains flutter and brought the scent of a
  hidden rose garden. In the center of the room stood Scully, alone,
  lovely, and waiting patiently for him in the surreal borderland between
  his consciousness and hers.
  
  "Just us?" he asked, stopping in front of her.
  
  "Just us," she promised, then licked her crimson lips as she put her
  arms around his neck.
  
  "I'm searching for you," he couldn't help saying.
  
  She nodded, and then closed her eyes as he kissed her.  Her skin and
  hair smelled faintly of an exotic perfume, and her mouth tasted like
  champagne.  It opened, inviting him in.
  
  He tried to relax his mind, to let the dream sweep over him and become
  reality for a little bit.  He needed it as much as she did: this fantasy
  universe she created for the two of them.
  
  "I'm not having much success," he admitted as their lips parted, her
  arms still around him.  He stroked her bare shoulder blade and hesitated
  before he said, "Scully, I need you to tell me where you are."
  
  "I'm here," she whispered into his ear. "Right here.  Dance with me,
  Mulder."
  
  She stepped backward as if expecting him to lead, but his feet stayed
  rooted to the polished floor.
  
  "I will.  I will, but you have to talk to me first.  I need to know
  where you are, Scully.  I need to know what They're doing to you."
  
  "I don't know."
  
  "You have to know," he insisted. "You're an FBI agent; you have to be
  able to tell me something.  Where are you?  What do you see?  Hear?  How
  long did it take you to get there?  Just try, Scully.  Please try.  I
  need you.  William needs you."  
  
  She let go of his hand and stepped away, regarding him sadly.  He
  reached out, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back before she could
  get away.
  
  This was maddening, and it was making him insane.  Every knock at the
  door and every ring of the phone was Scully; every petite woman on the
  sidewalk and every redhead in front of him at a stoplight was Scully. 
  In a crowd, his gaze moved from face to face, searching for hers.  Her
  presence haunted his every waking moment, and when he closed his eyes,
  she was there: in his arms, beautiful, but still just out of reach.
  
  "Then tell me what to do, Scully," he pleaded. "If you can't tell me how
  to help you, tell me what to do with William until I find you.  William:
  your son," he repeated when she looked at him blankly. "You have a son. 
  We had a baby.  And you went off and left him, and never told me what to
  do.  I don't know what to do with him, Scully," he said, one word
  tripping over the next. "I don't know what you expect.  I don't know
  what I am to you.  Or to him."
  
  His hand shook as it clutched her wrist, and his forehead wrinkled
  painfully.  
  
  "You're his father.  Take care of him," she said softly. "Keep him safe. 
  Love him."
  
  "I'm trying," he answered hoarsely. "It's so hard.  I'm just afraid..."
  
  "You can do this." She stroked his cheek, trying to comfort him. "I know
  you can. I love you." She moved closer, brushing her slick lips over
  his, then asked again, "Dance with me, Mulder."
  
  He nodded, willing his feet to move. The band played softly, the candles
  flickered, and they danced, moving in a stationary circle in the middle
  of the dim ballroom, his arms around her for as long as the song and the
  dream lasted.
  
  ****
  
  Mulder was the media scapegoat -- the rogue ex-profiler, the reckless
  FBI agent who'd chased space aliens -- for the deaths at The Church of
  the 13th Sign, but Walter Skinner was the one the Bureau could punish. 
  The Office of Professional Conduct was already building the gallows. 
  The formal hearing was in two days, but formality had little to do with
  it.  The truth was an outlying variable, blame was the name of the game,
  and the ending was a foregone conclusion.
  
  As he motioned Mulder into his apartment, Skinner's shoulders were bent,
  his jaw was set, and his face was creased with weary stoicism.  The
  collar of his shirt was open and the sleeves were rolled up past his
  forearms.  His suit coat was draped carelessly askew over a chair, and a
  tumbler of scotch sat on the coffee table, the ice just beginning to
  melt into the amber liquid.
  
  "You said you had something for me to look at," Skinner said, skipping
  the pointless fine-how-are-you formalities.
  
  Mulder handed over the file, then waited, leaning against the cool wall
  in the foyer and resting his eyes. He'd gotten a few hours sleep on Mrs.
  Scully's living room floor the previous night, but that did little to
  rest his mind.  He was tired from the inside out: an emptiness no catnap
  or cup of coffee was going to touch.
   
  "Autopsy reports?" Skinner's voice asked as he leafed through the file,
  sounding puzzled.
  
  "Autopsy reports on the fourteen cult members and three FBI agents
  killed during the raid," Mulder responded, blinking awake. "All done at
  Quantico and signed off on by the same Bureau pathologist.  Two of the
  agents were pilots who died in the chopper crashes; the third and all
  the cult members were found to have died of gunshot wounds:
  specifically, bullets from Ophiuchus' rifle."
  
  Skinner nodded. "Right.  I've seen these.  Do I want to know how and
  where you got them?"
  
  "Probably not.  You'll see where two bodies were released to funeral
  homes for burial," he continued, "The two pilots.  The body of the third
  agent, Randy Hodges, hasn't been released, nor have those of any of the
  cult members."
  
  Skinner shook his head slightly. "I don't follow."
  
  "There were seventeen corpses, not counting Ophiuchus: fourteen cult
  members and three FBI agents.  Where are the other fifteen bodies?"
  
  "Probably still at Quantico."
  
  "No, they're not.  Not according to FBI records.  The autopsies have
  been completed, the causes of death have been established; the bodies
  should have been released, yet there's no record of anyone requesting or
  receiving them.  No funeral home.  No family member.  They should still
  be at Quantico, but they aren't."
  
  Skinner adjusted his glasses. "So where are they?"
  
  "My guess?  They never arrived at Quantico in the first place.  And no
  autopsies were ever done.  My guess is, except for the two chopper
  pilots, after the corpses were tagged, bagged, and loaded into the vans,
  the 'bodies' got up and walked away."
  
  "Bodies don't to that, Agent Mulder," Skinner responded, habitually
  using his old title. "Not as a general rule."
  
  "We've seen ones that do.  We've seen something that could take a dive
  off the roof of the Hoover Building, get crushed in the back of a
  garbage truck, and walk out of the morgue the next morning."
  
  Skinner frowned and adjusted his glasses again.
  
  "Don't you find it odd that none of the cult members suffered minor
  wounds?  That none, except Ophiuchus, needed medical treatment?" Mulder
  asked. "They were all pronounced dead at the scene.  All the wounded
  were FBI agents, including Doggett, who claims he was shot by a someone
  on the Hostage Rescue Team."
  
  "You're saying the cult members were super-soldiers?  Are super-
  soldiers?  All of them?  Including the children?"
  
  "And one FBI Agent: the one who shot Doggett.  Randy Hodges.  Check his
  weapon.  Dollars to doughnuts its signature matches the bullet the
  doctors cut out of John Doggett."
  
  "Dollars to doughnuts?"
  
  Mulder nodded slowly.
  
  "I'd have to prove intent," Skinner said. "Even if Ballistics matches
  the bullet, it could still have been accidental.  If Agent Hodges and
  the cultists were super-soldiers, I'd need a way to prove that.  A
  medical exam or-" 
  
  Mulder produced a videotape that had been tucked under his arm. 
  
  "What do you have, Mulder?"
  
  He walked past Skinner and slid the tape into the VCR in the living
  room, fumbling a bit to find the play button.  The television screen
  went blue, then grainy, choppy footage of a row of cars, some stairs,
  and an elevator appeared. 
  
  "This is a captured feed from the security camera in the FBI parking
  garage, lower level, twelve hours after Scully was abducted," he
  explained.  On the film, one figure emerged from the stairs as another
  stepped out of the shadows. "That's Deputy Director Kersh.  The man
  talking to him: Special Agent Randy Hodges.  He's the member of the
  Hostage Rescue Team whose body seems to have vanished from Quantico."
  
  Skinner leaned against the back of a recliner and stared at the jerky
  black and white images on the screen. 
  
  Mulder pushed pause, stopping the tape at a point where Hodges' face was
  most visible. "He's the agent who gave me a hard time during the
  briefing.  I thought I recognized him, but the room was dark and I
  couldn't remember when or where I'd met him."
  
  "When or where did you meet him?"
  
  "Last May, in Bellefleur, Oregon.  Special Agent Randy Hodges used to be
  Deputy Ray Hoese."
  
  "Why do I know that name?"
  
  "Because he and his wife, Teresa, were abducted by the same ship that
  took me.  Teresa was returned, but Ray's body was never recovered."
  Mulder tapped the TV screen. "That's Ray.  Or at least, it was."
  
  Skinner gave him a "holy shit, batman" look.  There was no question the
  investigation into the cult had been a sham and a set-up; the problem
  was proving it.  On the television screen, courtesy of Langly's hacking
  skills, was the proof, with a paper trail to back it up.  Deputy Ray
  Hoese had vanished from Bellefleur, only to return as Agent Hodges, die
  in a raid on The Church of the 13th Sign, and be resurrected on an FBI
  security camera talking to Deputy Director Kersh less than a day later.
  
  "That's Ray," Mulder repeated. "The Gunmen are comparing photos of the
  cult members to missing person's reports involving abductees.  They'll
  have matches for you by tomorrow morning.  I'm betting, since Ophiuchus
  seems human, if the pathologist checks, his body will have implants and
  the type of scaring associated with multiple abductions.  If the
  pathologist isn't sure what to look for, have him review Duane Barry's
  file."
  
  Skinner exhaled slowly, still looking at the image on the TV screen. "My
  God, Mulder."
  
  "No, just 'Mulder,'" he said. "I'm not a deity." 
  
  On the television, Deputy Ray Hoese's face was frozen in time, his
  expression as flat as death.  Mulder remembered Billy Miles calling,
  saying Ray had disappeared.  He and Scully had been in the Hoese's home;
  Scully had held their baby as Teresa explained that Ray was a multiple
  abductee - that he loved his family and wouldn't have just left, despite
  what the police were claiming.
  
  According to Scully, Teresa had been subjected to the same type of
  torture as Mulder, then returned near death.  Jeremiah Smith had healed
  her but been abducted before he could heal Mulder.  Or anyone else.  The
  Montana cult hadn't been there to find Ray Hoese's body, and Scully
  hadn't been there to dig him up and administer anti-virals.
  
  "Did Teresa get her baby back?" Mulder asked. "I remember Social
  Services coming for it after Teresa vanished.  Scully said that after
  Teresa's return and recovery, Teresa was petitioning the court to get it
  back.  Did that ever happened?"
  
  "I'm not sure," Skinner answered. "I can check."
  
  "I hope she did." Mulder looked at the screen again. "I'll call her. 
  She deserves to know what happened to her husband." He zipped up his
  jacket and put a hand on the doorknob.  If he broke a few traffic laws,
  he could be in Baltimore before William's bedtime. "Goodnight."
  
  "That won't happen to Scully," Skinner said quickly, catching up with
  Mulder's train of thought. "We'll find her; we'll help her."
  
  Mulder paused and studied his shoes, then the smooth wood of Skinner's
  apartment door.
  
  "We have her records of how she treated you," Skinner continued,
  lecturing the back of Mulder's head. "We know what to do.  And you're
  assuming the worst.  We don't know who took her or why.  We will find
  her.  One way or another."
  
  "One way or another," Mulder agreed, as he left.
  
  ****
  
  The days were just days, one blurring into another: hours falling into
  days, days into weeks, and weeks into months.  The gray January faded,
  Valentine's Day passed unmarked, and March arrived like a lion, covering
  DC in icy dampness.  Bare tree branches weathered the storms like black
  skeletons, thrashing angrily and helplessly at the sky. Winter
  eventually retreated, then came sulking back one last time before
  beginning to thaw.
  
  William learned to roll over, to suck his toes, and to do mini pushups. 
  He babbled something that sounded like "mama," then grinned coquettishly
  and refused to cooperate when Mulder tried to get him to say it again.
  
  Maggie Scully left a pillow and blanket for Mulder on the sofa when she
  went to bed, and about half the time, found him asleep in her living
  room early the next morning, with the coffee table pushed aside and the
  portable crib right beside him.  She never invited him to stay, but the
  spare key was always under the flowerpot on the porch.
  
  The dreams of Scully continued, coming to him like a trout nibbling on
  the end of a fishing line.  She came as night fell -- talking,
  embracing, making love, and making him feel alive -- and when he woke,
  another morning was broken without her.
  
  After allegations of corruption came to light, Kersh resigned rather
  than testify.  Several high bureau officials resigned as well, and about
  half the agents assigned to the task force investigating the cult
  vanished under mysterious circumstances.  As the dust settled, various
  names were tossed around to be the next Deputy Director of the FBI. 
  Walter Skinner's was one of them. 
  
  Ophiuchus rose high in the sky, moving west, then faded into the dawn,
  just as the followers of The Church of The 13th Sign disappeared into
  the woodwork.  They were always there, though, somewhere, just beyond
  the horizon.  Waiting.
  
  Venus came from the east, just before sunrise, a brilliant light in the
  lower heavens.  As his fruitless search for Scully continued, Orion the
  Hunter dominated the cold winter sky, then began sliding sideways into
  the horizon, signaling the arrival of another spring.
  
  ****
  
  He was failing her in increments.
  
  No lights came on when he flipped the switch, which meant he'd forgotten
  to pay Scully's electric bill again.  Without heat or air conditioning,
  the apartment had the warm, stale smell of a cat's fur.  The last of her
  potted plants had succumbed to dehydration and, when he checked her
  mail, the folks at Citibank were feeling neglected as well.
  
  When he opened the refrigerator, one last sigh of cool air escaped,
  indicating the power hadn't been off more than a few days.  The shelves
  were empty except for an out of date cup of yogurt, two damp bottles of
  salad dressing, and some Chinese take-out about three months past its
  prime.  He transferred the lot to the kitchen trash but, when his
  stomach started to roll, elected to leave the contents of the crisper in
  hopes it would someday grow a salad.
  
  The nursery was still a cheerful yellow, with the inhabitants of Pooh
  Corner cavorting on the walls.  The crib was empty, and the miniature
  clothes in the dresser no longer fit William.  Mulder stood in the
  doorway for a few minutes, then turned away.
  
  In the bedroom, Scully's clothes hung neatly in the closet: a collection
  of blue, black, and beige suits, their collars still smelling like her
  skin.  The same laundry was in the hamper, and the same sheets were on
  the bed, now wrinkled and far from Downy fresh.  The clock on the
  nightstand was still set to go off at seven a.m. -- "Plenty of time,"
  she'd said that last night before her meeting with Skinner, though
  William woke them at five.  She'd slept in her robe that night, too
  tired to get up and change into pajamas.  He'd slept with his arms
  around her and his cheek against her damp hair.
  
  He pulled off his shoes and sweatshirt and lay across the bed in his t-
  shirt and jeans, staring at the ceiling, letting the not-so-distant
  memories wash over him like the tide.  For once, he couldn't pretend she
  was in the next room or had just run to the store.  Her presence was
  gone, leaving the musty apartment silent and still.  Tomblike.
  
  He rolled slightly, pulling open the top drawer of the nightstand. 
  Among the pens and notepads and to-be-read issues of JAMA was an
  unassuming journal he'd first found in an Allentown hospital years ago. 
  He'd re-discovered it in February, about a month after her abduction,
  but had yet to open it.
  
  He traced the cover with his thumb, wondering what answers might be
  inside.  Wondering if she'd written about him.  Or to him, as she had
  during her cancer.  Wondering if she'd put the journal in the drawer for
  him to find, wanting him to read the words she couldn't bring herself to
  tell him aloud.
  
  After a moment, he put the journal back and shoved the drawer closed,
  then let his head fall back onto the stale pillow.
  
  Not yet.
  
  ****
  
  There were theories purporting that time and space could be bent,
  allowing one universe to overlap with another.  According to Scully,
  physicists called these hypotheses "string theory," and argued endless
  about the possible permutations and implications.    
  
  To the ancients, the mystical pleats in the fabric of space-time were
  called "ley lines" -- powerful channels of energy that flowed over the
  Earth and, where they crossed, created doorways between the dimensions.
  To the Vikings, they were "spokenwegen," and to the Neolithic
  inhabitants of Great Britain, they were the "cursuses:" the walkways of
  the dead.  The routes the spirits traveled between one world and the
  next.
  
  There were the Chacoan roads in the New Mexican desert built by the
  Anasazi Indians sometime before memory, and the Mayan "sacbeob" of the
  Yucatan peninsula.  Monuments like Stonehenge marked the intersection of
  ley lines.  There were the Nasca geoglyphs in Peru, the Avebury circles
  in Wessex, and in the middle of the American heartland there was the
  Mystic Pizza Hut.
  
  He'd always suspected that place merited further investigation.
  
  When he pushed open the door, Dr. Zaius, the blonde ape from Planet of
  the Apes, was at her post behind the register.  Don Henley sang "The End
  of the Innocence" on the old jukebox, his voice pumiced smooth by time
  and tide.  As always, the cool interior of the restaurant was dim and
  deserted, the floor was rough and uneven, and the air was thick with the
  scent of yeast and malt.  It could have been any time between the late
  1980's and yesterday.  There were no posters advertising the newest
  pizza and pasta permutations, no $9.99 special offer banners, no
  calendars or newspapers -- nothing he could use to establish a date. 
  Inside the Mystic Pizza Hut, nothing ever changed and nothing ever
  would.  It was the franchise that time forgot. 
  
  "You want the usual?" Dr. Zauis asked impassively as the door eased
  closed behind him.  When he nodded, the old woman disappeared into the
  kitchen to bang some pots and pans, leaving him alone.
  
  The rhythm of the song was like a slow heartbeat, and Mulder nodded
  along as he leaned on the jukebox, scanning the tables and booths for
  Scully.  After a few minutes, he slid into the first booth, sitting so
  he could see the door.  As he waited for her to arrive, he drummed his
  fingers on the tabletop and looked out the window.  Night was falling
  over the Midwest, casting long shadows across the fields.  Outside the
  restaurant there was a single stretch of pavement, flanked by tall rows
  of corn, continuing until it vanished into the distance.  
  
  He jumped as Dr. Zauis set a plastic cup, a plate, and a fork on the
  table, then turned to return to the kitchen.
  
  "Wait," he called after her. "We need two.  There's someone else coming. 
  A woman.  She's... Ma'am-"
  
  She didn't seem to hear him as she walked away.
  
  He looked at the single cup, watching the ice melt into the soda, then
  got up and looked around the restaurant again.  Don Henley played
  softly, the oven door squeaked, and the jukebox lights glowed violet and
  crimson in time with the backbeat.
  
  In the dreams, Scully was always there first, setting the stage, waiting
  patiently for him at the edge of night.  He'd never had to wait or
  search for her, and he'd never had a night or a nap pass without her
  coming.  Sometimes to talk, to walk with him or dance or stargaze, and
  sometimes just seeking physical solace in his arms, but she always came.
  
  Growing increasingly uneasy, he went to the register, leaning over the
  counter and calling "Ma'am" loudly until Dr. Zauis reappeared, wiping
  her hands on a dishtowel.
  
  "There's a woman.  The woman who's always with me-" he started.
  
  "She's not here."
  
  "I know she's not here," he said in annoyance. "I see that.  It's my
  dream.  But she's-"
  
  "She's not coming," Zauis interrupted impassively.
  
  "She always comes.  She has to come," he insisted, but Dr. Zauis only
  stared at him blankly. "She'll come," he repeated adamantly.
  
  "No."
  
  "Where is she?  What have you done with her?" he demanded. "I'll find
  her.  I swear to God I will.  Scully," he called, pushing off the
  counter and scanning the restaurant again.
  
  The aging jukebox, the empty booths, two tiny bathrooms, a payphone, and
  a PacMan game so old it belonged in the Smithsonian.  His soda cup was
  gathering condensation on a table at the far side of the room, and a
  dusty FBI-issue blue Ford Taurus was parked outside the window.  The
  jukebox went dark as the song ended, then whirred as it switched tracks. 
  After a moment, Joe Cocker's worn voice replaced Don Henley's, and the
  lights and backbeat restarted. "Hold on," Joe requested softly, then
  promised someone, "I'll be back for you; it won't be long."
  
  When the night comes.
  
  He felt a cold prickling sensation began at the base of his skull and
  trickled down his spine like a lazy ice cube.
  
  "Don't look too hard," Zauis said cryptically, from behind him. "You
  might not like what you find."
  
  "Shut up," he snapped, then turned and stalked out of the restaurant,
  shoving the door open so hard that it banged against the side of the
  building.  
  
  "Scully," he called loudly, turning in a circle in the parking lot.
  "Where are you?  Talk to me."
  
  The wind whistled across the fields, bending the cornstalks and rustling
  the leaves so they sounded like whispers from the shadows.  He listened,
  but there was no response.  There were no people.  No cars passing. 
  There was only an old restaurant beside a narrow road that stretched
  between two darkening horizons.
  
  "Scully!" he screamed again, his voice breaking and heard only the
  silence answering.
  
  ****
  
  He told himself that the dreams weren't real.  That they'd never been
  real. That it wasn't Scully coming to him, her soul reaching out to his
  for comfort, but merely his subconscious at play.  They were just
  fantasies fueled by loneliness and testosterone.  Or delusions brought
  on by sleep deprivation, fear, and suggestibility.  And they didn't mean
  anything.
  
  That afternoon, he cleaned the rotted carrots and cantaloupe out of the
  crisper in Scully's fridge, threw away the pots of dirt that used to be
  houseplants, and took out the kitchen trash.  He washed the bed sheets
  and the dirty clothes in the hamper, and, while they dried, reset her
  clocks to Daylight Savings Time and replaced the battery in the smoke
  alarm.
  
  He put one check in the mail to the electric company to get the power
  back on and another to Visa before Scully's credit rating started to
  slip.
  
  He went to see William that evening and played a few rounds of "Mulder's
  gonna eat your toes" while Mrs. Scully tried not to look like she was
  hovering.
   
  And, ninety-three days after Scully was abducted from The Church of the
  13th Sign, Mulder stopped looking for a ship and started looking for a
  body.
  
  ****
  
  Valid anger and laying blame where it was due; fear, guilt, and impotent
  rage -- po-tay-toe; pa-tah-toe.  
  All things being equal, he'd rather tongue kiss Roseanne Barr.  Or be
  subjected to a three-day Golden Girls marathon.  Or chaperon a herd of
  Kindergarteners to see Disney on Ice.  Or be stripped naked, covered in
  honey, and devoured by ravenous fire ants. 
  
  Unfortunately, the tenacious Agent Reyes refused to take "no way in
  hell" for an answer.  After months of ignoring e-mail and phone messages
  from John Doggett, Mulder emerged from the Richmond morgue late one
  night to find Monica Reyes leaning against the bumper of the Volvo,
  waiting.
  
  "It's not her," he said, before she could speak. "It's not Scully.  You
  can tell your partner he was right not to waste a trip."
  
  "He'll be glad.  That it's not her, I mean," Reyes corrected. "You're a
  hard man to track down."
  
  "Places to go, bodies to ID," he responded tersely, avoiding eye contact
  as he fished his car keys out of his jacket pocket.
  
  "This woman wasn't even close, though, Mulder.  Are you planning to
  investigate every redheaded female corpse entered into the NCIC?  Just
  keep looking until you go insane?"
  
  He gave her as sarcastic a grin as he could manage. "That is the plan,
  yes."
  
  "It's not a very good one."
  
  He sighed tiredly, otherwise ignoring her.
  
  He'd left DC as soon as the woman's description had been entered into
  the FBI's NCIC database as an unidentified corpse in Richmond, setting
  off The Gunmen's bells and whistles.  It wasn't an exact match to
  Scully, but it was something.  A hope.  A possibility.  Better than
  nothing.  Something to do besides wait.  
  
  That had been two hours, three cups of coffee, and a hundred or so miles
  ago.  Now, it was four in the morning, his forehead pounded from lack of
  sleep, his shoulders ached, and his skin smelled like yet another
  morgue. 
  
  The Jane Doe in the steel drawer had been someone's daughter.  Before
  her death, she'd been someone's friend and neighbor and coworker. 
  Perhaps she'd even been someone's wife or mother or lover, but she
  hadn't been Dana Scully.
  
  "You won't find her this way, Mulder," Reyes persisted. "You're looking
  in the wrong place."
  
  He turned, his car keys in his hand, and asked irritably, "And where do
  you suggest I look?"
  
  "Jungians believe in the collective unconscious, that if we look inside
  ourselves, the answers are there, waiting.  Unless you're afraid to
  look.  Or unless you're so blinded by anger and darkness that you look,
  but can't see."
  
  He stared at her for a second, then muttered an annoyed, "Oh, shit,"
  under his breath and shoved the key into the lock.  On a good day, he
  found Agent Reyes interesting and quirky; on a bad day he found her
  annoying as hell.
  
  He hadn't had a good day in a long time. 
  
  Instead of moving, she leaned against the fender of his car, crossing
  her arms. "I've been reviewing your case files.  Dana's been abducted
  before, in 1994.  According to your report, she was one of a group of
  women subjected to experiments that left them sterile.  Yet,
  miraculously, last March, just before your abduction, she conceived a
  healthy son."
  
  "Alert the Vatican," he said, but with less sarcasm. "Look, I need to
  get back.  I'm-"
  
  "Your son," she added. "Whom the super-soldiers came for, but then left. 
  You're assuming Dana's abduction was to make her a super-soldier, but
  what if it wasn't?  What if there was another purpose?"
  
  "Which would be what, Agent Reyes?"
  
  "To harvest ova again.  To create the baby They'd hoped William would
  be.  The ova have to be there for Dana to have conceived.  All it would
  take is genetic material from you, and They could create and implant
  fetuses in unsuspecting women.  Just as They have before, according to
  your files."
  
  He rolled his shoulders and glanced at his watch as if he had better
  things to do than listen to Reyes' encyclopedic ignorance on the
  subjects of super-soldiers and genetic experiments.
  
  "Corrupt forces in the government wanted John and Dana dead, and the X-
  files closed," she persisted earnestly. "That's what the setup at The
  Church of the 13th Sign was about. But the UFO interfered. I saw it,
  Mulder.  You saw it.  That ship took Dana before Ophiuchus or Agent
  Hodges could shoot her.  There has to be a reason for that."
  
  "What does Agent Doggett think of your theory?"
  
  "He thinks I've been reading way too many of your X-files and that I
  need my head examined."
  
  Mulder hesitated, then put his keys back in his pocket. "All right; I'm
  listening."
  
  In truth, all that was waiting from him in DC was either Mrs. Scully's
  or the Gunmen's sofa.  It was a cold, foggy Saturday night that promised
  to become a dreary, gray Sunday morning.  There would be leads to
  follow-up on, phone calls to make, and piles of data to sift through. 
  And, by dusk, he'd be no closer to finding Scully than he'd been in
  January.
  
  Agent Reyes produced a pack of Morley's, taking one before she passed
  them and a lighter to him as a peace offering.  After a second, he took
  both, not bothering to feel guilty.  Hell, the worst it could do was
  kill him.
  
  "I'm still trying to quit," she informed him half-heartedly. "Really."
  
  He tilted his head to light his cigarette, cupping the flame to protect
  it. "It looks like it's going well."
  
  He inhaled, coughing gently as his lungs protested, then he settled
  against the Volvo's fender, getting the butt of his jeans wet.  
  
  "I read the file on Emily Sim, the child Dana's ovum was used to create. 
  You weren't Emily's biological father, though," Reyes said, then paused
  for a drag. "Not according to the DNA profiles.  And I wondered if the
  in vitro procedures Dana underwent were a sham -- that the true purpose
  was to obtain semen from you.  Except that the clinic burned to the
  ground, destroying any samples They had."
  
  He exhaled, watching the first cloud of smoke dissipate slowly into the
  wet night.
  
  "I know there are a few pieces missing from the puzzle, but I just have
  a feeling that I'm on the right track," she continued. "That William is
  the key -- or rather, William's parents: both abductees, both humans who
  survived exposure to the alien virus.  When William was born, those
  super-soldiers thought he was their messiah, but he wasn't.  Not quite. 
  So They left him and now they're trying to create another child."
  
  A black, windowless medical examiner's van pulled into the parking lot,
  then turned and backed up the ramp to the morgue.  The headlights died,
  and an attendant emerged from the building to help the driver unload the
  body.  It was a morbid dance he'd seen a thousand times: a homicide, a
  suicide, an overdose, a car accident, and the ME got the late night
  call.  The body would be weighed, measured, and examined.  Photographs
  would be taken; reports would be written and distributed.
  
  "It's not so bad," he said softly, exhaling another smoky breath.  Reyes
  turned her head, watching him. "Being dead.  The hard part is the dying. 
  And the people you leave behind.  But death..." He looked up, studying
  the overcast sky. "It's not so bad."
  
  "Why are you so sure Dana's dead?"
  
  He took another drag, the tip of his cigarette glowing orange in the
  darkness. "I didn't say she was."
  
  "But you think she is," she responded. "I can feel it.  You're going
  through the motions, but you don't really believe you're going to find
  her after this long.  Not alive.  Not in any condition that you'll be
  able to bring her back."
  
  "You think I'm giving up?  Does it look like I'm giving up?  I'll never
  give up on Scully."
  
  "That's not what I said."
  
  Reyes moved as if to put a hand on his arm, but seemed to decide against
  it and put it in her pocket instead.
  
  "She doesn't come anymore," he said to the cloud of smoke in front of
  his face. "In my dreams.  She did, but now, when I close my eyes,
  there's just nothing.  And when I open them, there's still nothing."
  
  Anyone else would have hauled him to the nearest ER for a CT scan and a
  Thorazine drip, but Reyes nodded in understanding. "There's William."
  
  "Yeah," he agreed softly.
  
  They leaned against the gray Volvo, not looking at each other as the
  thick mist became a slow drizzle.  They could walk thirty feet and stand
  under the eaves of the morgue, but neither suggested it.
  
  "It's like when you're shot," he said after a minute. "It's like that
  first second afterward when you realize what's happened but before you
  can feel anything.  You know how bad it is and how much it's going to
  hurt but time slows and you just wait.  That's what I feel: that empty,
  drifting lack of sensation before the pain sets in."
  
  "I'm sorry," she said softly, awkwardly.
  
  He tossed the half-smoked cigarette down and then ground it out with the
  toe of his boot.  Across the wet parking lot, the men had the body
  unloaded, and the steel gurney rattled was they wheeled it up the ramp
  and into the morgue.
  
  "On the ship," he said, still not looking at her. "The missing piece of
  the puzzle: where They got my DNA.  Semen.  Whatever.  On the ship. 
  When I was abducted."
  
  "The report Dana filed doesn't mention that."
  
  "No, it doesn't," he agreed.
  
  "That's because you didn't tell her," Reyes guessed, and he didn't
  respond.
  
  The morgue doors swung closed, and the sound of the gurney's clattering
  wheels faded, replaced by the pattering of the rain.
  
  "I'm sorry," she said again, after a moment.
  
  "Yeah." He found his keys again, and fitted the key into the wet lock,
  still not looking at her.
  
  "Mulder-" she started worriedly, but he was already in the driver's
  seat, reaching to close the door.
  
  "Thanks for the smoke."
  
  ****
  
  Half an hour later, he stopped at a rest area beside the interstate,
  parking among the tractor-trailers and RV's stabled there for the night. 
  He got out, shoving his hands on his pockets and hunching his shoulders
  against the rain as he crossed the dark parking lot.
  
  A search of his pockets yielded ninety-eight cents in change and some
  lint, so he fed a crumpled dollar into the coffee machine.  It rejected
  it the first two times, then, after some smoothing and coaxing,
  swallowed the bill with a mechanical gulp.  He pushed the button for
  black coffee, large, then leaned against the machine, temples throbbing,
  and waited for the cup to drop and be filled.
  
  When nothing happened, he pushed the button again, cursing impatiently. 
  He tried a third time, slamming it hard with his palm, but no paper cup
  fell.  The machine remained silent, smugly blinking for him to insert
  his money and make a selection.
  
  He stood in the partially enclosed shelter between the public restrooms
  staring at the uncooperative coffee machine.  The vending machines on
  either side of it offered overpriced bottles of soda and an array of
  chips and candy bars, but that had been the last of his dollar bills. 
  He wasn't risking giving it a five, and shooting it seemed a little
  extreme, even for him.
  
  He hit the button again, and, getting increasingly angry, shoved the
  machine, managing to jostle it a little.  Encouraged, he shoved it
  again, then gave it a hard kick.
  
  The digital display continued blinking for him to insert $1.00 and
  select a hot, crappy beverage.
  
  "Stupid, fucking, idiot machine," he yelled at it, his words echoing
  inside the shelter and through the quiet rest stop. "Goddamn it!"
  
  He shoved it one last time, sending it squeaking back an inch on its
  metal legs, then sat on a bench outside the men's room, exhaling like an
  angry bull.  Mulder balled his fingers into fists, wanting to hit
  something, and felt a lump rising in his throat.
  
  He sniffed and swallowed, swearing to himself that he wasn't going to
  cry.  He was forty-one years old and he wasn't going to sit at a rest
  stop in the middle of the night and cry about an inane cup of bad
  coffee.  He was tired and irritable and alone, and he just needed to get
  a grip.  
  
  And some caffeine.  And maybe some sleep.  And Scully.  And then he'd be
  okay.
  
  The memory of a woman's face flashed in his mind: the auburn-haired Jane
  Doe in the Richmond morgue, her delicate features slack and her pale
  skin tinged bluish gray.  He'd watched expressionlessly as the Medical
  Examiner folded the sheet back, not sure if he was praying it was Scully
  or praying it wasn't.
  
  He hated Them: the grays, the super-soldiers, and the impeccably dressed
  men who tried to play God from the shadows.  He hated Them not just for
  what they'd done to him but for what they'd taken away: months of his
  life.  Time with Scully while she was pregnant with William.  Time to
  talk things out, to work things out, instead of having life, love, and
  fatherhood crash over him like a tidal wave.  He hated Scully for all
  the things she'd left unsaid and unresolved.  And he hated himself for
  letting her leave them unsaid and unresolved.  He hated Them for
  abducting her and her for getting herself abducted.
  
  His forehead wrinkled painfully, and his nose continued to drip.  He
  wrapped his arms around his body and hunched his shoulders, trying to
  protect himself as he began to shake.  The dark sky wept with him,
  raining down on the sidewalk and drumming against the thin roof of the
  shelter.
  
  Any minute now, Scully.
  
  ****
  
  The scruffy clerk behind the desk at the motel didn't look up from his
  skin magazine as he swiped Mulder's credit card and slid a key across
  the counter.  As Mulder walked across the parking lot, the windows of
  the other rooms were dark, their curtains drawn.  It would be dawn in
  another few hours, but the last of night still held firm to the black
  horizon.  The rain had slacked off, leaving a layer of ghostly fog
  drifting over the wet pavement.
  
  Room 455 was in the far building, up the metal stairs, and around back. 
  Mulder opened the squeaky door, flipped on the lamp, and dropped his
  duffle bag on the low bed.  In the dim light, the mirror over the
  dresser reflected a tired stranger with red-rimmed eyes and rain-
  dampened hair.  He frowned at the image as he turned the television on,
  then sat on the lumpy mattress and stared at the mirror for a few
  minutes until he motivated himself enough to reach for the phone.
  
  "You're in Fredericksburg," Frohike said tersely, instead of hello. "I
  thought you were going to Richmond.  What are you doing at a motel? 
  What's happening?"
  
  "It wasn't her," Mulder responded, cradling the receiver against his
  shoulder as he untied his boots. "The body in the morgue.  You were
  right; it wasn't Scully.  Just another wild goose chase.  I'm just- I'm
  just gonna stay here tonight.  I'm too tired to be driving."
  
  He pulled the bedspread down, piled one cheap pillow atop the other, and
  leaned back, clicking the remote control tiredly.  The motel television
  offered infomercials, cable news, and a variety of soft core porn --
  some he'd seen before and none he wanted to pay to see again.
  
  "Are you still there, Mulder?"
  
  "Yeah.  I'm still here."
  
  "We got a report of a UFO sighting earlier tonight in Pennsylvania. 
  We're looking into it."
  
  "Okay," Mulder mumbled, not really listening.  His shirt and socks were
  clammy, like he'd taken them out of the dryer too soon, but he didn't
  have the energy to sit up and take them off. "You remember the Lombard
  Research Facility?"
  
  "The fertility clinic with the clones?" Frohike answered. "Yeah.  You
  want the file on it?"
  
  "I want you to find it -- or whatever its present incarnation is."
  
  "You think that's where They're holding Scully?"
  
  "Maybe," Mulder answered noncommittally.
  
  "We'll get right on it," Frohike promised.
  
  "When you find it, let Agent Reyes know.  And Agent Doggett," he added.
  
  Frohike cleared his throat in disapproval, but he didn't argue.
  
  Mulder continued to flip through the channels, stopping at an old film
  featuring Audrey Hepburn and Gregory Peck that he'd watched once with
  Scully.  He disliked the movie, but it was one of her favorites: a tale
  of star-crossed lovers and a romance that was never meant to be. "The
  best love stories don't have happy endings," she'd told him that
  November afternoon, in her pragmatic way.
  
  "Mulder?" Frohike's voice said, reminding him he was still holding the
  telephone. "Are you okay?"
  
  "Yeah," he lied, and then asked. "Did you guys do a drive-by tonight? 
  Check on everybody?"
  
  "Byers did.  He said it looked like William was up at one, but he and
  Mrs. Scully have been asleep since then.  If you're not going to make it
  back tonight, we'll check again in a few hours."
  
  "Okay.  Thanks." Mulder paused, watching the movie on the television
  screen, and then added, "You were right: she takes good care of him.  Of
  William.  Mrs. Scully does."
  
  "She seems to," Frohike agreed.
  
  "She does," he repeated absently.  
  
  He twisted and fished his wallet out of his back pocket, slipping the
  photographs from their little plastic sleeves and examining them. 
  
  Mrs. Scully was personally supporting J.C. Penny's Portrait Studio, and
  the latest photo shoot featured William in a sailor suit and hat,
  showing off the beginnings of his first two teeth as he grinned for the
  camera.  Except for the shape of his eyes and the dark hair, his
  features echoed Scully's more than Mulder's.  It didn't seem possible
  that her baby was almost five months old.  That their baby was almost
  five months old.
  
  Behind the new photo of William were the two of Scully, creased where
  he'd folded them and worn at the edges.  Both were black and white,
  taken by a crime scene photographer two years ago and, on a whim,
  pilfered from the evidence room by a wayward FBI Agent.  In the first,
  he and Scully were nose to nose, their trench coats flapping and their
  lips parted as they gestured over a body.  That was Agents Mulder and
  Scully: standing in some farmer's muddy field, debating some fragment of
  evidence, neither willing to budge an inch.  In the second picture, he
  was stalking away in disgust, but Scully was looking slightly to the
  side, as though something in the distance had caught her attention. Her
  features were soft and vulnerable, and her intelligent eyes were far
  away.  That second image, a fleeting expression captured by an anonymous
  camera lens while she was unawares, was Dana Scully.
  
  If Agent Reyes was right, They were harvesting more ova to make more
  Emilys.  Or more Williams, to be specific.  Thousands of them.  More
  children born conceived by medical rape, born in a test tube, and
  destined to die for an agenda.  If Agent Reyes was right, Scully wasn't
  coming back.  Not mostly-dead, not as a super-soldier, not at all.
  
  "Are you sure you're okay?" Frohike asked again. "You're kind of... I
  don't know.  You're worrying me, Mulder."
  
  "I'm just tired," he responded, laying the pictures aside.
  
  "You sound tired.  Get some sleep," he suggested. "Check in with us in
  the morning."
  
  Mulder mumbled something and hung up the telephone, then stared at the
  water-spotted ceiling as the movie droned in the background.  In the
  bathroom, a leaky faucet dripped slowly.
  
  His gun was in his duffle bag at the foot of the bed, and he raised his
  head, looking at the bag and wondering if the dark thoughts that prowled
  the edges of his brain were pragmatism or cowardice.  Unable to decide
  and too exhausted to care, he turned the TV off and closed his eyes,
  listening to the faucet and letting his mind drift away from harsh
  reality and into the battlefield of the warrior-poets.
  
  ****
  
  This time, it was his dream: the old one of the boy and the beach and
  the elaborate ship they built and rebuilt endlessly on the shore.  
  
  It was a peaceful, innocent place from his childhood, not far from his
  parents' summer home.  He and Samantha used to ride their bikes to
  Squibnocket Beach, spending long afternoons playing in the warm sand and
  searching for pirate treasure among the dunes.  
  
  After Sam was taken, he'd returned to the same empty beach again and
  again, always alone.  He'd sit on the rocks for hours, watching the tide
  and waiting for Samantha to return.  Dusk came eventually, but she never
  did, leaving him alone beneath the indifferent heavens as night fell
  over the ocean.
  
  It wasn't until he was an adult that the boy and the beach began to
  creep into his dreams, a roughhewn Eden amid the nightmares he saw
  everyday on the X-files.  Perhaps it symbolized restoration of an
  innocence lost or backtracking to a path not taken.  Or a cop-out, a
  coward's refuge -- a longing for a simpler, easier life that he wasn't
  destined to have.  Memory and desire swirling together in his
  subconscious: both of them seductive liars.
  
  Regardless, the dream hadn't come in years.  Not since before his
  abduction, not since Cancerman had invaded his brain with electrodes and
  scalpels, polluting Mulder's thoughts with his hissing voice.
  
  He sat on a flat, weathered rock, waiting, looking at the sea and
  feeling the salty wind caress his skin and ruffle his hair like an old
  friend.
  
  Far down the meandering shore, seagulls squawked and scattered, and he
  spotted two figures approaching: a woman and the boy, backlit by the
  molten sunset.  Scully and the boy.  The wind whistled through the
  dunes, blowing her auburn hair and whipping her long skirt.  The boy was
  five, perhaps, with his chestnut hair tousled and his round cheeks pink
  from a day in the sun.
  
  Spotting him, the boy let go of Scully's hand and ran toward Mulder,
  laughing excitedly, his tennis shoes sending the sand flying.  Scully
  followed at a more sedate pace, calling half-a-dozen directions that the
  boy didn't listen to.
   
  Mulder's watched, the hair on the back of his neck prickling as the boy
  approached.
  
  "William," his lips moved in recognition as he got to his feet. He'd
  seen the boy in a thousand dreams, yet never questioned who he was. "Oh
  my God."
  
  Instead of a tiny baby, there was a five-year old boy laughing and
  playing and wanting to share some wondrous new discovery with his
  father. 
  
  "Daddy, Daddy, Daddy," the boy requested, and Mulder almost looked
  behind him to see if someone else was being addressed. "You have to come
  see."
  
  "What- What is it?" he asked uncertainly.
  
  The boy skidded to a stop in front of him, panting. "A ship.  You have
  to see."
  
  "There's a ship?  A pirate ship?"
  
  "No." William grabbed his hand, tugging impatiently. "Come see," he
  repeated. "Hurry.  It's hu-mungous."
  
  He stared at the boy, dumbstruck, trying to accustom himself to this new
  role.  He glanced at Scully, who seemed faintly amused as she caught up
  with her son. 
  
  "This is William?"
  
  She nodded.
  
  "Oh my God," he repeated. "He's wonderful."
  
  She smiled, pushing back her hair as the breeze blew it across her face
  again. "He's you."
  
  "We really did this?"
  
  "We really did." She came closer, tiptoeing to press her mouth to his,
  and for a second, in his dream, he could taste eternity on her lips. "I
  love you."
  
  "Daddy," the boy pleaded, tugging harder on Mulder's hand. "Come on."
  
  "I gotta go see this ship," Mulder informed her in mock seriousness,
  feeling a little giddy as he stepped back. "It's humungous."
  
  "Go," she responded, smiling.
  
  "I love you.  We'll come back," he promised, then turned and let William
  pull him down the beach, their feet pounding and sliding against the
  sand.
  
  When he looked back, Scully waved, watching them go.
  
  "It's here," William urged, then let go of his hand to scurry up a pile
  of slippery rocks.  Mulder followed, helping the boy climb.  When they
  reached the top, he saw it in the distance: an elaborate space ship
  built of sand.  It sat on an isolated stretch of beach and the tide had
  just reached it, starting to nibble away at one edge.
  
  "There," William said, and pointed one Band-aid wrapped finger. "A
  ship."
  
  He looked up, wanting reassurance, and Mulder nodded. 
  
  "I found it."
  
  "You did," Mulder confirmed.
  
  They stood on top of the rocks, the wind blowing their shirts and the
  sun's dying rays buttering their skin in orange light.  He put his hand
  on William's shoulder as they looked at the ship.
  
  "It's getting washed away," the boy said worriedly.
  
  "We can build it again," Mulder promised. "We can always rebuild it." He
  rubbed William's shoulder. "Tomorrow.  Okay, buddy?  We'll come back
  tomorrow."
  
  The long fingers of dusk were beginning to take hold of the shore, and
  the chill in the air made him shiver.
  
  "Okay," William agreed.  He rested his head against Mulder's leg
  trustingly, watching the sea and shadows overtake the ship.
  
  As he stroked the boy's disheveled hair, Mulder glanced over his
  shoulder and, in the distance, saw Scully watching them.  Her skirt
  whipped wildly against her legs as she raised her hand, waving.
  
  She was smiling.
  
  ****
  
  He practiced saying it in the hazy motel mirror as he shaved, as he
  drove to Baltimore, then as he parked, got out, and made his way up the
  sidewalk.  Plastic Easter eggs hung from the tree branches in the front
  yard, and a cheerful ceramic bunny perched on the porch, holding out a
  basket hopefully.
  
  Instead of letting himself in, he knocked and took a deep breath,
  studying the floor of the porch as he waited.  He shoved his hands in
  the pockets of his jeans, then took them out again and wiped his damp
  palms on his thighs.
  
  "I want my son," he said as soon as the door opened, before he looked
  up.
  
  Mrs. Scully had on a tailored pink suit and was holding William on her
  hip and her purse and the diaper bag in her hand, ready to walk out the
  door. 
  
  "Fox?" she said like she might have misheard. "I wasn't expecting you. 
  We- William and I were just leaving for Mass."
  
  "I- I-" he stuttered, trying to say it again. "I think he should live
  with me."
  
  "With you?"
  
  "I'm his father.  He should live with me," he managed to repeat. "I can
  take care of him."
  
  She stared at him in disbelief and stepped back, gesturing for him to
  come inside before they gave the neighbors something to talk about.
  
  "I can," he repeated.
  
  She laid her purse on the end table and shifted William to her other
  hip. "You can come by and see him anytime.  You know you're welcome-"
  
  He shook his head. "He's mine.  He should live with me.  And you can
  come by and see him anytime."
  
  She walked around the sofa and sat down, holding William on her lap.
  "Fox-" she started tolerantly, soothing him like this was some
  adolescent whim.
  
  "He's mine," Mulder insisted. "We can do DNA testing, but you already
  know that he is."
  
  "Genetically, maybe, but you-"
  
  "No, not just genetically.  And not 'maybe.' He's mine.  I know that's
  not what you want to hear, but it's true.  The last time Dana tried in
  vitro was two years ago.  You can check her medical records.  Check the
  dates.  You can watch the videotape-"
  
  "Tell me you don't have a videotape of you and my daughter," she
  requested evenly.
  
  "It's one she made for William.  While she was pregnant and I was gone.
  It's a tape for William, about me.  Why would she do that unless she
  wanted him to know who I was? I love her. And I love him."
  
  Mrs. Scully was quiet a long time while the baby squirmed on her lap,
  wrinkling her skirt.  She turned her head, looking through the front
  window.  In the yard, the morning breeze rustled the leaves and made the
  plastic eggs suspended from the dogwood tree bang together randomly.
  
  "They why didn't you marry her?"
  
  "I asked her," he answered. "She said 'no.'"
   
  Mulder waited, uncomfortable and not sure what else to do or say.  After
  a few more seconds of silence, he smoothed his palms over his legs again
  and started chewing the inside of his lower lip.  He had all his verbal
  ammunition ready for a showdown at the Scully Corral, but her non-
  response was more unsettling than outright refusal.
  
  "Why now?" Mrs. Scully asked, patting William's back absently. "You
  never came to the hospital after he was born.  Sometimes you go days
  without seeing him, without even calling.  Why, after all these months-"
  
  "I gave him to you so I could find Dana-" he started to defend himself.
  
  "And now," she continued quietly, still looking out the window, "When
  you can't find her, you want her son."
  
  "He's my son, too," he answered, though his words didn't seem to
  register with Mrs. Scully.
  
  At the house across the street, a normal family was leaving for Easter
  services, everyone dressed in their new outfits and scrubbed squeaky
  clean.  The father started the minivan while the mother buckled a pastel
  bouquet of little girls into the back, spacing them out among the seats
  to avoid wrinkling and squabbling.
  
  "Dana's not coming back, is she?" she asked, her voice eerily soft, like
  the calm before the storm. "Not this time."
  
  "I'm sorry," he said after a moment, as if it made a difference. "I'm
  not giving up.  We'll keep looking, but..." He caught his lip between
  his teeth again, biting hard.  When the coppery taste of blood began to
  seep into his mouth, he exhaled and said, "I promised Dana I would take
  care of him.  Of William.  Keep him safe.  And I can.  And I intend to."
  
  He waited for Mrs. Scully to argue, but she just sat, looking through
  the window as the blue minivan backed out of the driveway, passing the
  white picket fence, and headed for church.
  
  ****
  
  Like a modern-day urban nomad, his life had been condensed into a duffle
  bag in the trunk of his car: a jacket, a change of clothes, his shaving
  kit, some extra bullets, a checkbook, and a box of old X-files.  His
  wallet and keys stayed in his pockets, his boots on his feet, and his
  gun within arms reach.  The Gunmen let him use their shower and Mrs.
  Scully offered her washer and dryer occasionally, so there was little
  need for Mulder to return to his apartment in Alexandria.  Mr. Pao, the
  old Chinese man across the hall, fed his fish, collected his mail, and
  poked around his apartment a little -- an arrangement that dated back to
  1995 and the first time Mulder died.
  
  When he opened the door, a cool breath of memories wafted out: old books
  and worn leather and too many nights alone.  A fine layer of dust had
  accumulated, and Mr. Pao had piled a month's worth of newspapers on the
  coffee table.
  
  He shifted William to his other hip and went to the window, opening the
  blinds and letting the sun in for the first time since January.  The
  light on his answering machine flashed red, pleading for relief, but he
  ignored it.  There were baskets of laundry in the bedroom, but he no
  longer remembered which were the clean clothes and which were the dirty. 
  The sheets and comforter clung to the foot of the bed, and one pillow
  had slid to the floor, joining the November 2000 issue of Penthouse, a
  copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting," and a resume he'd been
  half-heartedly updating.
  
  The lease and paperwork for the Volvo were still on the kitchen counter
  beside the price tag he'd torn off the ear of a Snuffaluffagus.  Except
  for a few cans of soup, the cupboards were bare, as was the
  refrigerator.  The potatoes in the vegetable bin beside the stove had
  put off shoots and mutinied until the onions caved in, turning an odd
  blackish-green.  The sink held a few dirty dishes and mugs submerged in
  a pan of murky water, and a flyer for the pizza place down the block was
  taped to the cabinet, the paper curled at the edges and the colors faded
  a bit with age.   
  
  It was like returning to a stranger's life: walking through his high
  school or visiting his childhood home.  It was a person he used to be
  but now only dimly recognized.  This was the Fox Mulder Museum, exhibit
  1, circa October-December 2000.
  
  "Pretty crappy, isn't it?" he asked William, who was clutching Mulder's
  sweatshirt and looking around uncertainly.  He would put the baby down,
  but there was no place to put him.
  
  He flipped through the mail, sorting the bills from the ads one-handed.
  "Toys-R-Us is having a sale," he noted, showing William the circular.
  "We could go get a crib.  A swing.  Some toys."
  
  Bottles, bibs, formula, diapers, groceries, Pledge, Lysol, Tide, and
  some sort of life without Scully.
  
  William let go of Mulder's shirt and reached for the shiny paper,
  crumpling one corner with his wet fist.
  
  "You like that idea?" He walked through the musty apartment again,
  stopping beside the rumpled bed.  It didn't seem like more than a year
  had passed since that night, but it had.
  
  "We can do this," he promised.  He bounced William gently, trying to
  sound more certain than he felt. "You and me, buddy: saving the world. 
  Or, at least, what's left of it."
  
  ****
  
  There wasn't much to taking care of a baby -- as long as he didn't want
  to sleep or shower or do anything else with his life.  The park was
  three blocks from his apartment, but NASA could launch the shuttle with
  less drama and preparation than it took him to leave the house at a set
  time with William.
  
  "I thought something might have come up," Skinner said as Mulder arrived
  pushing a jogging stroller, twenty minutes late. "Or you'd changed your
  mind."
  
  "No, just running behind." 
  
  "You're packing," Skinner commented as Mulder lifted William from the
  stroller, his jacket shifting to reveal the holster on the waistband of
  his jeans.
  
  "A bottle, a spare pacifier, and a snub-nosed Smith & Wesson," he
  responded, sighing and sitting on the park bench. "There's an apocalypse
  and an afternoon nap on the way, and I believe in being prepared." 
   
  Skinner chuckled half-heartedly, then leaned back, loosening his tie.
  "It's good to see you, Mulder.  How are you these days?"
  
  "Incomplete," Mulder answered, rubbing the bottom of William's sock
  foot. "But in motion.  You know me: no set destination, but making
  fairly good time."
  
  Skinner nodded, understanding. "With a passenger," he said, gesturing to
  William. "I didn't realize he was living with you until I talked to Mrs.
  Scully."
  
  "Yeah.  For about a week now.  We're the dynamic duo, aren't we, buddy?" 
  
  William answered by laying his head against Mulder's chest and chewing
  his fist as he watched Skinner. His belly was full, but his gums were
  bothering him, making it hard for him to fall asleep.
  
  "He's getting big.  I only saw him the one time, before everything went
  down with the cult, but he's really growing."
  
  "He is a chub scout," Mulder answered, stroking the chestnut wisps that
  covered William's skull. "He's crawling.  And babbling a little.  Most
  babies don't do those things until they're about six months old, at the
  earliest, but he can do them now."
  
  "Maybe he's just ahead of the curve."
  
  "Maybe."
  
  He continued stroking.  William's blue eyes grew heavy and, after a few
  blinks, closed as Morpheus took him, guiding him safely to the land of
  dreams.  The baby's hand slipped from his mouth, leaving a small, wet
  handprint on Mulder's shirt.
  
  "He looks like her," Skinner said carefully, as if telling some family
  secret.
  
  "Yeah," Mulder answered softly. "He does." He looked up, watching the
  children playing on the monkey bars on the other side of the park. "I
  talked to Mrs. Scully, too.  Is there any paperwork?  Anything I need to
  clean out of the office?  I'd rather Mrs. Scully didn't have to do it."
  
  "Agent Reyes packed everything up.  I don't think Agent Doggett could
  bring himself to do it." Skinner gestured to the blue Gap shopping bag
  beside his feet, then reached inside the lapel of his suit coat and
  pulled out a familiar black rectangle. "By rights, I guess this should
  go to Mrs. Scully, but I thought you'd like to have it."
  
  "Thanks," Mulder said quietly, taking it.  The leather was eerily warm,
  like the sidewalk after the remains of the day had passed.  He held it
  for a second, fingering one worn edge, and then slipped Scully's badge
  into the side pocket of the diaper bag, unopened.
  
  "Her disappearance is still an open investigation," Skinner reminded
  him, trying to sound convincing. "I'm just giving that to you for
  safekeeping."
  
  "I'll take good care of it."
  
  Skinner leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and interlacing
  his fingers.  He watched the children playing, looking sadly thoughtful.
  The sun sifted down through the tree branches above them, and the air
  carried the smell of newly cut grass: the first mowing of the year.
  
  "Kersh offered to reinstate you on the X-files," he said after a few
  minutes. "To Scully, in January. They must have had a deal: if she'd
  cooperate with the undercover assignment for one afternoon so Doggett
  didn't blow his credibility with Ophiuchus, you would be reinstated. 
  Kersh must have said something to her while I was out of the room.  I
  didn't know until Agent Doggett told me."
  
  "And how does Doggett know?"
  
  "He and Scully talked that night, before the raid on the compound.  She
  told Doggett once Ophiuchus found the bug and she realized they were in
  trouble."
  
  Mulder swallowed and resumed stroking William's head slowly as a shish
  kabob skewer pierced most of his major internal organs.  He looked down,
  biting his lip and watching the baby's peaceful face.  
  
  The Volvo and the Snuffaluffagus must not have been as convincing as
  he'd anticipated they would be.
  
  "Did she tell Agent Doggett anything else?" he asked eventually.
  
  "Not that he has mentioned to me," Skinner answered. "If you would
  answer Agent Doggett's phone calls, you could ask him yourself."
  
  "True," Mulder said noncommittally, and let the topic drop.
  
  "I'll have the paperwork couriered to you tomorrow," Skinner said. "Her
  401K, tax forms -- things like that."
  
  "Okay."
  
  "The life insurance policy..." Skinner started hesitantly, like it was
  another topic he wasn't sure how to approach. "The death benefit is a
  pretty hefty chunk of change, and William is the primary beneficiary.  I
  know it's been a long time since you were on the FBI's payroll,
  Mulder..."
  
  "William's fine."
  
  "She wouldn't touch yours, either."
  
  The baby shifted against Mulder, settling firmly into sleep.
  
  "Have you given any thought to coming back to the Bureau, now that Kersh
  is gone?"
  
  "You mean in the five seconds a day when I'm not changing William,
  feeding William, burping William, and looking over my shoulder for the
  latest alien or government menace to William?" He nodded to the baby
  against his chest. "Besides, I have a fulltime job." 
  
  Skinner smiled like it was a skill he'd almost forgotten. "They must be
  great.  Kids."
  
  "They are.  And depending what you feed them, you can pretty much make
  them poop any color you want."
   
  Skinner looked at William uncertainly, as if unsure if that was a joke
  or not, then cleared his throat and went back to watching the
  playground. "I have two agents on the X-files already," he said after a
  several seconds of silence. "But I can put you back at the Investigative
  Support Unit.  You could work part-time at ISU, doing a few profiles a
  week. All consults -- no travel.  Full benefits for you and the baby.
  And we'll try to send all the paranormal cases your way," he promised.
  "Including Agent Scully's abduction.  Are you interested?"
  
  "I was fired.  Clean out my desk, turn in my badge and parking pass, and
  get the hell out of the FBI, fired.  Can you do that?"
    
  Skinner tilted his head slightly and pursed his lips. "As of this
  morning, I'm the Deputy Director of the FBI.  I can do whatever I damn
  well please.  And it's really not a full workweek unless I can chew your
  ass, Agent Mulder."
  
  ****
  
  He fumbled in the darkness for the phone, knocking over an empty baby
  bottle and a glass of water before he got the receiver to his ear.
  
  "Yeah," he mumbled, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and squinting at his
  watch.  Two a.m. "Mulder.  Agent Mulder," he corrected.
  
  Skinner had said there would be no travel; there'd been no promise
  against middle-of-the-night phone calls from overzealous field agents
  wanting to fax information about their cases so Mulder could render an
  opinion by dawn.  This was the third call of the week; he and Skinner
  needed to renegotiate his contract a little.
  
  Or it could be Mrs. Scully calling with some urgent tidbit of parenting
  wisdom she worried he might not realize on his own -- like not to let
  children under three use power tools without the proper safety
  equipment.  Anything smaller than a beach ball was a potential choking
  hazard.  And was he keeping the baby's teething rings in the freezer? 
  Because she could come over right that instant and show him the proper
  way to use a freezer, if he needed her to. 
  
  "She's in Allentown," Frohike's voice informed him, catching him off-
  guard. "Allentown General."
  
  For several long seconds, he sat on the edge of the bed, trying to put
  the words and breath together to respond. "A Jane Doe?" he asked
  eventually, as his heart thudded inside his bare chest.  
  
  "It's her this time, Mulder.  Skinner's gonna be calling you in about
  two minutes."
  
  "Okay." 
  
  "She's alive," Frohike added. "She's been in the hospital for almost two
  weeks.  I'm not sure why she wasn't entered into the NCIC database when
  she was admitted, but she wasn't.  I'm still trying to get some
  information on her condition, but she's alive."
  
  His heart faltered, skipping a beat as the demons whispered to him from
  the shadows: 
  
  That The Gunmen and the hospital were wrong and it wasn't really her.
  
  That it was Scully, but not -- that it was too late and a mindless thing
  had taken her place.
  
  That he'd finally found her only to watch her die.
  
  That he'd finally found her only to watch her take her son and walk
  away.
  
  "Are you still there, Mulder?" Frohike asked uncertainly. "Mulder?"
  
  "Yeah.  I'm here.  I'm leaving right now.  Give me a few minutes' head
  start, then call Mrs. Scully."
  
  He replaced the receiver, his hand shaking.  He pulled the previous
  day's suit and shirt on, shoved his feet into his loafers, and grabbed
  his wallet, keys, gun, badge, and the diaper bag.  William was asleep
  and didn't wake as Mulder picked him up, and, a few minutes later,
  settled him into the car seat.
  
  Alexandria was silent, its windows dark and its pavement scrubbed clean
  by the street sweepers, ready for morning.  The car's headlights came on
  automatically when he started the engine, breaking the stillness.  He
  put the Volvo in gear, pulled away from the curb, and headed toward
  Allentown, Pennsylvania.
  
  ****
  
  "Dana Scully?" Mulder demanded at the hospital's security desk three
  hours later, shifting William to one arm so he could flash his badge.
  "I'm Agent Mulder, FBI.  Special Agent Dana Scully -- is she here? 
  Where is she?  What room?"
  
  The night-duty guard looked at him blearily, not seeming to comprehend
  that the entire universe hinged on his immediate response.
  
  "Now!" Mulder barked, waking the baby. "Where is she?  The ICU?"
  
  A newspaper and two coffee-stained magazines fell to the floor as the
  guard scrambled to reach the computer keyboard. 
  
  "The ICU?" Mulder repeated impatiently, then, while the guard struggled
  with the computer, headed for the elevator, not needing to ask
  directions.  It said something about his life, or lack thereof: in most
  hospitals in the continental United States, and two in Alaska, Mulder
  could locate the morgue and the Intensive Care Unit while blindfolded.
  
  "Agent Mulder, FBI," he informed a woman as he passed the nurses'
  station, waving his badge in her general direction. "I'm looking for a
  patient named Dana Scully.  Where is she?  What's her condition?"
  
  The nurse chased after him as he stalked through the unit, his gaze
  moving rapidly from bed to bed, trying to match the body beneath the
  gauze and tubing and machines with the woman in his memory.
  
  "Where is she?" he repeated loudly, over William's sleepy whimpers. "Dr.
  Dana Scully.  She's an FBI Agent and she's been exposed to a retrovirus. 
  She needs anti-virals.  Tell her doctor to discontinue life support-"
  
  "Agent Mulder-"
  
  "And lower her body temperature," he continued as though she hadn't
  spoken. "It slows the growth of the virus.  And-"
  
  "Agent Mulder, we don't have a Dana Scully up here.  She's been
  transferred.  You need to calm down."
  
  He whirled around, looming over her. "Where is she?  Who took her?  What
  have you done with her?"
  
  "I-I-I'll have to check," the nurse stammered, stepping back. "She
  wasn't my patient."
  
  "Check," he ordered, pointing to the computer at the nurses' station
  with his free hand. "Now."
  
  He bounced William nervously while the woman pecked at the computer.
  After what seemed like an eternity, she announced, "Room 7142. 
  Neurology.  Take the elevator to the seventh floor, then turn left and-"
  
  He was already in the stairwell, his feet pounding up the metal steps. 
  The bar on the door to the seventh floor didn't work the first time he
  pushed it, so he shoved it again, cursing.  When it opened finally, he
  stepped into the empty hallway and looked around, searching for a
  direction.
  
  His heart thundered and his footsteps echoed through the hall as he
  walked, rushing past room 7136, then 7138 and 7140.  The wide wooden
  door to 7142 was closed, and he took a breath, his hand shaking as he
  pushed the latch and stepped into the dim room.
  
  There was an auburn-haired woman in the bed, her face turned away from
  him and toward the window.
  
  Mulder stopped, feeling a strange lightness of being. "Scully?" he said
  uncertainly.
  
  After a few seconds, she turned her head, looking at him sleepily.  It
  was Scully; he could feel her presence the same way he felt the amniotic
  pull of the ocean.
   
  "Oh my God," he murmured, half in relief, half in prayer. "Scully-
  Dana... Hi." He exhaled shakily.
  
  "Hello," she responded carefully, as she pushed herself higher in the
  bed. "I was asleep."
  
  There was an awkward pause.  He was afraid to move, as though if he
  blinked or looked away the spell would be broken and she would vanish.
  Time stretched out like a patient anesthetized on an operating table,
  and he tried to remember to breathe.
  
  He wanted to touch her, to put his arms around her and reassure himself,
  but he didn't.  He wanted to put his mouth on hers and melt into her
  like hot wax, but he didn't.  He wanted to put William in her arms and
  have all be right with the world, but he didn't.  He bounced the unhappy
  baby again, trying to think of something to say.  His brain was filled
  with a sea of words and his heart was overflowing, but his mouth wasn't
  cooperating.
  
  She pulled the blanket higher, then pushed her hair back from her face
  self-consciously, trying to make herself presentable.  She pressed a
  button on the bed and the soft yellow light above her headboard came on,
  pushing back the darkness.
  
  "Your mother's coming," he offered for lack of anything else. "I had
  someone call her.  She'll be here in an hour."
  
  She nodded uneasily, giving him the polite smile she reserved for
  strangers. "Thank you."
  
  He waited for her to show sign of recognition, but she didn't. "Scully-"
  he started. "It's Mulder.  Do- Do you know who I am?" he asked
  hesitantly.
  
  "Agent Mulder," she answered. "The profiler.  I read your monograph on
  Monty Props a few years ago.  It was excellent," she added. "Spooky,
  even."
  
  He stared at her, still waiting for the punch line.  If she was paying
  him back, the joke wasn't funny.  
  
  She tried to smile, but really didn't, and his heart started to pound
  again.  Monty Props.  He'd written that profile in 1988, years before
  Scully had been assigned as his partner.
  
  Her smile was more genuine as she shifted her gaze to William, who was
  still squirming and whimpering unhappily. "Is this your son, Agent
  Mulder?"
  
  "Yes," he heard himself answer.
  
  ****
   
  End: Book III


  Book IV: We've secretly replaced their regular lives with Folger's
  Crystals
  
  ****
  
  According to the doctors, Mulder was a scientific marvel -- the eighth
  wonder of the medical world, which made him afraid to ask about the
  first seven.  It was hard to top his diagnosis: death, in partial
  remission.
  
  He drifted through the first week or so, often cocooned by
  unconsciousness as his body healed and his deadened senses reawakened. 
  He relied on Scully as his anchor to the world of the living.  When her
  voice said to open his eyes or respond to a question, he did, but the
  rest of the time he drifted in a warm, smooth, soundless void, and let
  life flow around rather than through him.  
  
  A new nurse checked him over, then suggested Scully go home, rest, and
  come back in the morning.  When there was no response, the nurse
  reiterated, reminding Scully of hospital policy and the importance of
  taking care of herself.  Instead of answering, Scully just remained in
  the vinyl chair beside his bed, holding his hand and studiously ignoring
  the woman's unsolicited advice.  It was about the thousandth time some
  helpful person had suggested she leave.  Each time, Scully had either
  ignored them or, if they insisted, employed some combination of her
  badge, gun, and medical license, and dared them to try to make her move. 
  When she wanted to, Scully made the Rock of Gibraltar seem yielding by
  comparison.
  
  After a few seconds of awkward silence, the nurse rechecked his IV with
  a sour look on her face, then left, crisply closing the door after her.
  
  Scully gave his other hand a gentle victory squeeze.
  
  He squeezed back.  One battle down, the rest of their lives -- and the
  coming apocalypse -- to go.
  
  "How long?" he asked, his voice rusty from disuse.
  
  The television mounted to the ceiling was tuned to CNN, volume low, and
  the ice shifted as it melted in the pitcher on his bedside table.  His
  eyes were still sensitive to light, so the room was dim, and the closed
  blinds gave no clue to the outside world.  
  
  He cleared his throat and tried again, a little louder. "How long was I
  gone?"
  
  "You were abducted in April," she answered softly. "We found you in
  August.  It's November, now.  You've been in the hospital about two
  weeks."
  
  He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling as he tried to reconcile
  that.  Almost seven months had passed since they'd walked beneath a
  bower of white and pink cherry blossoms, and kissed in front of the
  Jefferson Memorial.  It seemed impossible.  Unreal.  Like Time had
  blinked and passed him by, unseeing.
  
  "I missed the World Series."
  
  "And the Olympics.  And a presidential election."
  
  "Who-" he started.
  
  "The Yankees over the Mets in game five."
  
  He turned his head, looking at her forlornly. "Oh God.  The first subway
  series since 1956, and I had to be dead."
  
  She reached up, stroking his face.  Her fingers were cool, and whispered
  against the rough stubble and scabs on his cheek.  She touched him
  often, as if reassuring herself that he was real. "I have the Sports
  Illustrated Special Edition.  I saw an old copy in the lobby, so I
  borrowed it.  It's a little dog-eared and coffee-stained, but it should
  tide you over until the highlights video is out."
  
  "Scully?"
  
  "Hum?" she asked as she eased up from her chair, massaging the small of
  her back.
  
  "Marry me."
  
  She didn't respond, but he didn't expect her to.  As a rule, Scully
  overlooked romantic overtures and heartfelt confessions sponsored by
  Federal Blue Cross/Blue Shield.
  
  She did glance over her shoulder and smile at him, then walked away from
  his bed to retrieve the magazine.  As she turned, he blinked, thinking
  his eyes were playing tricks on him.
  
  "Uh, Scully..." he said slowly, staring at her. "Are you- Oh my God..."
  
  She stopped, looking down at the round outline of her abdomen self-
  consciously.
  
  "Oh my God," he repeated. "You're- How did-"
  
  She looked up at him uncomfortably, and he stopped, waiting for her to
  say something, to explain, but she didn't.
  
  "Scully..."
  
  One of the monitors beside his bed beeped, Nurse Sourpuss's shoes
  squeaked down the hall, and an ambulance siren wailed in the distance.
  
  He swallowed, then exhaled slowly. "It looks like I've missed a few
  other things," he said awkwardly.
  
  She nodded.
  
  He searched the empty expanses of his brain, trying to think of
  something appropriate to say.  The last time they'd had sex was that
  "wild and passionate and perhaps ill-conceived" night in late March; it
  was early November.  The math was right, but from her expression, he
  couldn't tell if he was supposed to offer congratulations, apologies, or
  pretend he hadn't noticed.
  
  "When were you planning to tell me?"
  
  "I-I... I wanted to wait until you were awake enough to talk about it."
  
  He pushed himself higher in the bed so he was semi-sitting, ignoring the
  protest from the muscles of his arms, the wounds on his wrists, and the
  IV in the back of his hand. "I'm awake."
   
  She approached hesitantly and resumed her seat beside his bed. "I've
  given a lot of thought about what to say to you.  A lot of thought."
  
  He nodded, waiting.
  
  She took a slow breath, then opened her mouth wordlessly.
  
  The television droned on, offering the headlines, and a metal cart
  clattered as it passed outside.
  
  "Do you want this?" he asked with the same tone he used to ask if she
  wanted his green Jell-O with diced pears.
  
  "Yes," she said quickly. "Yes, very much."
  
  He nodded again.
  
  "I found out right after you were abducted," she said, looking at her
  belly rather than him. "I'm thirty-five weeks, which means I have about
  five weeks to go.  I worried at first -- about how I was able to
  conceive, why I was able to conceive -- but I've had every test, and
  they all indicate he's normal.  Healthy."
  
  "He?"
  
  "Or she.  I don't know.  Mulder-" she started, then ran out of words
  again. "I'm fine.  My baby's fine."
  
  "Your baby?" he echoed softly.  She hadn't made any move indicating it
  was all right for him to touch her belly, and she certainly hadn't been
  over-eager to share the news.  To him, the words "you're going to be a
  father" immediately should have followed "you're not dead anymore" in
  the important news hierarchy, but they hadn't.  
  
  "He's just fine," she assured him. "You don't need to worry about us."
  
  "Did, did you plan this?  Getting pregnant?  Is that why... With me?" He
  stopped, embarrassed for asking. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "This is just-
  I'm not sure what to say.  Or do."
  
  "You don't have to say or do anything.  I just want you to rest and get
  better.  That's all."
  
  He looked at the bland ceiling again, then closed his eyes.  He felt her
  drape a blanket over him and smooth his hair back from his face before
  she sat down.  Glossy magazine pages rustled, and her hand took his as
  she cleared her throat and began to read about the New York Yankee's
  victory.
  
  ****
   
  His memories of being on the ship came back in blinding flashes, like
  jolts of electricity through his body: the pain, the helplessness, the
  certainty that he was going to die.  Pleading with Them to leave him
  alone, but knowing it would do no good; screaming for Scully to help
  him, but knowing she wasn't going to come.
  
  According to Scully and the doctor, he was doing remarkably well. 
  Making medical history.  An amazing recovery.  He didn't have the heart
  or energy to tell either of them differently.
  
  The only safe place was deep inside himself, so he stayed there,
  treating the world as a Brazilian soccer match: novel, but not directly
  related to him, too difficult to understand, and happening much too fast
  to keep track of.
  
  When he asked why he still had an apartment, she'd answered something
  about the lease not being up and not getting around to moving his
  things, which were semi-plausible lies until he saw the fish tank.  He
  not only still had a furnished apartment, with his suits hanging in the
  closet and his razor hanging in the bathroom, he still had live fish. 
  She'd kept the stage exactly as he'd left it; all he had to do was step
  on and play his part.  And he would, if someone would just feed him his
  lines and promise he wouldn't have to feel anything that might hurt.
  
  He lay on top of the covers with one arm curled under his pillow as he
  stared at the television.  There was a game on -- he wasn't sure of the
  score.  Or the teams.  Or the sport.
  
  "Are you still awake?" Scully asked from the bedroom doorway, and he
  nodded. "There's plenty of food in the refrigerator.  Casseroles,
  lasagna... I labeled everything, and it's all heat and eat.  And there's
  fresh cereal, soup, sandwich stuff: whatever you're in the mood for."
  
  He nodded again and patted the mattress in search of the remote control.
  
  "I put your prescription bottles on the counter. Make sure to take the
  antibiotics with plenty of water, and finish the full course."  
  
  His head barely moved against the pillowcase as he nodded.
  
  She approached his bed, moving slowly and leaning back a little to keep
  her balance. "I thought you were going to rest.  Take a nap.  Your
  body's still healing, Mulder. You need to take care of yourself."
  
  "I'm okay," he lied without looking away from the television.  He
  pressed the button on the remote and watched the channels flash past
  until Gregory Peck's face appeared the screen. "Roman Holiday," he said
  off-hand, like it was just an observation, not an invitation to stay and
  watch the movie with him.
  
  She leaned over her belly to feel his forehead, and switched into doctor
  mode. "Are you feeling all right, Mulder?  You're not acting like
  yourself.  Sit up and let me look at you."
  
  "I'm okay, Scully.  You can go home.  If you want."
  
  "I'm a doctor.  Sit up."
  
  He sighed, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and submitted.  As
  she gave him the medical once-over, he stared past her, at the old movie
  on the television.  On the screen, a mortified Audrey Hepburn woke in
  Gregory Peck's bed the morning after, facing the repercussions of her
  ill-considered actions the night before.
  
  Stolen moments, ships in the night, star-crossed lovers, never-meant-to-
  be... Having happiness land in the palm of your hand like a butterfly,
  and being perfectly still, afraid to breathe, only to watch helplessly
  as it flitted away again.  He hated this movie: loneliness and quiet
  desperation disguised as a fairytale.  He stared at it anyway, like a
  dog watching the dryer spin.
  
  "Mulder, I don't see any signs of infection.  Let me see the incision. 
  Maybe-"
  
  She pulled the neck of his t-shirt lower, and, caught off-guard, he
  jerked back as she touched the scar.  Immediately, inside his head, he
  heard the silent, hollow sound of the space ship, then the distant whine
  of the saw.  He was there again: his wrists pinned down, and hooks
  pierced his cheeks, keeping his head still.  There was no getting away,
  no help, and no way to fight back.
  
  When the searing pain didn't come, the mechanical whine faded, and the
  movie dialogue and Scully's worried voice returned.
  
  "Mulder?"
  
  He realized he was cowering, with one arm shielding his face from some
  invisible machine.  
  
  "I didn't mean to startle you.  I wanted to make sure the incision's
  healing.  I shouldn't have been so brusque.  I'm sorry; I wasn't
  thinking.  Are you all right?"
  
  His heart thundered in his ears as he lowered his hand.  He exhaled, and
  then nodded. "I'm okay."
  
  "I'm not going to hurt you.  No one's going to hurt you.  You're safe."
  
  He nodded that he understood.
   
  She waited, watching him closely.  
  
  "You just surprised me," he mumbled. "That's all."
  
  She continued waiting.  He wasn't fooling her, and he knew it.
  
  "It's nothing.  Standard fight or flight." He pulled the neck of his t-
  shirt down, giving her a glimpse of the red scar. "It's fine, okay?  I'm
  just tired."
  
  "Okay," she conceded softly. "Lie down.  I'll bring you some water.  You
  need plenty of fluids."
  
  He sank down onto his pillow again, watching as she waddled away.  Ice
  cubes rattled, a faucet ran, and she returned, carrying a glass of ice
  water, which she sat on his night stand.  He thanked her, focusing on
  the boob tube and ignoring her scrutiny.  After a moment, she maneuvered
  herself awkwardly down on the edge of the mattress, careful not to touch
  him.
  
  "You're remembering, aren't you?" she asked softly, as if afraid to hear
  the answer. "I remember parts of my abduction, but you remember every
  bit of what They did, don't you?"
  
  He hesitated, then nodded slowly.  As he did, Scully looked like an
  arrow had just pierced her heart.
  
  She raised her hand, paused to make sure he saw it, and then stroked his
  battered cheek as she bit her lower lip white. "I searched for you.  I
  did.  I went to Arizona, tracking the ship that took you.  I knew the
  ship was in the desert, somewhere.  I knew They were hurting you; I
  could hear you screaming for me, but I couldn't find you... There was a
  bounty hunter -- I almost lost the baby, and by the time I got out of
  the hospital, the ship was gone.  It was too late.  I'm so sorry,
  Mulder."
  
  He stared at her numbly.  He knew she was reaching out to him, wanting
  reassurance, but her words seemed to pass through him like he was a
  sieve.  A facade, maybe -- something that looked solid and real, but
  wasn't.
  
  He wanted to be her Mulder again -- to crack wise and smirk and wear his
  heart on his sleeve and love her like she deserved to be loved.  That
  was the man she'd kept this apartment for, not the empty, shell-shocked
  stranger she'd brought home from the hospital.  Logically, he knew what
  post-traumatic stress was, but... She'd brought his body back, but he
  wondered if his soul had stayed among the dead.
  
  "I was so afraid I'd never see you again," she admitted hoarsely,
  putting one hand on her belly.
  
  "Here I am."
  
  She nodded slightly, her eyes shining with tears.
  
  He wanted to wipe them away, put his arms around her, and whisper the
  words that would make it all better. He wanted to tell her how much he
  loved her.  That he was grateful to her.  That he just needed time: to
  make sense of what had happened to him, and to process all that had
  happened in his absence.
  
  His lips parted, but no sound escaped the void inside him.  He stared at
  her face helplessly, then at her swollen abdomen.
  
  Four more weeks.
  
  He wanted to tell her that, regardless of how or why it had come to be,
  he'd be there for this baby. That he'd love it because it was part of
  her, and she could stop acting apologetic for getting pregnant without
  his expressed written permission.
  
  As her soft fingertips traced his face and ran through his hair, he
  looked up at her and asked dully, "Are we getting married?"
  
  She inhaled suddenly, and the stroking stopped. "Mulder," she started
  shakily. "I- Oh my God."
  
  "I know it sounds old-fashioned, but you're gonna have a baby,
  Scully..."
  
  She swallowed. "Would you be asking me if I wasn't?"
  
  "What I said earlier -- that I don't know where I fit in -- I don't.  I
  need you to tell me what you want.  I love you," he said hollowly. "I
  wanna do the right thing.  I'm just not sure what that is."
  
  She blinked rapidly, then looked away. "Please don't do this to me,
  Mulder.  Not right now.  You're here, you're alive: that's enough. 
  Don't do this."
  
  He sat up, catching her hand as she pulled it away. It was warm and
  steady, like a human lifeline. "Do what?  Scully, I'm-"
  
  "I know you're serious.  I know this isn't one of your standard post-
  concussive proposals.  But I also know why you're asking."
  
  She looked down, then up at his face, the first tear spilling out of the
  corner of her eye and making a glistening path down her cheek.
  
  "I-I-I didn't mean to make you cry."
  
  "Hormones," she said, then sniffed. "Some days, I cry at dog food
  commercials."
  
  He licked his lips nervously, then leaned forward and pressed them
  carefully to hers.  He put his hand on her cheek, stroking away the tear
  track with his thumb, his mouth brushing hers as he whispered that he
  was sorry.  Warmth seemed to flow from her skin to his, and he moved
  closer, craving more. He kissed her again, his body coming alive as if a
  wave had passed over it, washing away the memories of the ship and
  leaving him clean.
  
  "Mulder," she murmured, pausing and pressing her forehead to his. "Oh
  God.  You're really here."
  
  "I'm really here." He ran one hand through her hair, feeling the silk
  slipping between his fingers.  His other hand found her breast,
  exploring the new fullness. "I love you."
  
  "You were in my dreams," she whispered as he kissed down her neck. "Like
  you were here with me.  I'd close my eyes and you'd come.  Every night. 
  And then one night, you didn't, and I knew..." Her throat convulsed
  under his lips as she swallowed. "I knew what we'd find in Montana."
  
  "Shush," he hushed her. "I'm here now."
  
  She put her arms around his neck, holding him as close as she could.  He
  wanted to be closer.  He wanted to press his skin against hers and let
  the life inside her fill him, the way his body had filled hers to create
  this baby.
  
  "Take this off," he asked, gathering up her sweater and preparing to
  pull it over her head.
  
  "Wait," she whispered breathlessly, pulling back a few inches. "We, we
  can't.  You're not up to this."
  
  "I think I am," he said, starting to guide her hand to his groin.
  
  "I'm pregnant."
  
  "I don't care."
  
  "Mulder, I can't.  I would.  But I can't.  When I said the baby's fine,
  that's not exactly true.  There have been some problems.  I-I can't do
  this."
  
  "It could hurt the baby?"
  
  She nodded, licking her kiss-swollen lips.  
  
  He couldn't tell if she was telling the truth or not.  Regardless, he
  sat back against the headboard, embarrassed. "Sorry."
  
  She studied her lap intently, her face flushed and her hair mussed.  The
  light from the television played across her skin, and the movie's
  characters bantered in the background.  Mulder watched her for a moment,
  looking for some cue, then went back to staring at the TV screen, not
  really seeing it.
  
  "We just can't catch a break, can we, Scully?"
  
  She tucked her hair behind her ears without looking at him. "You do need
  to rest," she said, starting to get up. "I'll let you rest."
  
  "Will you stay?  While I sleep?"
  
  "Of course.  I'll be in the next room.  I want to-"
  
  "Will you stay with me?"
  
  She studied him sadly, then nodded, toed off her shoes, and lowered
  herself onto the mattress, her head on the other pillow.  The handful of
  times she'd spent the night at his apartment, it had been her pillow. 
  It must have been his imagination, but he could have sworn, even after
  so many months, that it still smelled like her.
  
  As they lay there, Scully watched the television, and he watched the
  back of her head.  On the screen, Gregory Peck and Aubrey Hepburn
  embarked on a tour of 1950's Rome, savoring life and teetering on the
  edge of falling in love. She was a runaway princess in search of
  adventure; he was an average guy -- a combination doomed from the start. 
  At the end of their day together, they return to their lives with only
  fond memories of their secret time together.  
  
  "Peck's miscast," he commented, searching for something to say. "Cary
  Grant would have been perfect.  Grant could have salvaged this."
  
  "I like it the way it is," she said sleepily, then yawned. "It's a
  fairytale, Mulder."
  
  He scooted closer, fitting the front of his body against the back of
  hers.  The few nights they'd spent together, this was how they'd slept:
  curled together like spoons.  He started to rest his hand on her belly,
  but instead carefully laid it on her hip.  She didn't tell him to move
  it.
  
  "A fairytale with an unhappy ending," he responded, raising his head to
  kiss her cheek.
  
  "Casablanca, Dr. Zhivago, Romeo and Juliet... The best love stories
  don't have happy endings," she reminded him.
  
  "Right," he mumbled, returning his head to his own pillow and closing
  his eyes.
  
  ****
  
  She believed it was the spaceship on the beach in Africa: that it had
  the power to heal, and exposure to it had healed the damage done to her
  reproductive system during her abduction.  She believed her baby was the
  product of their night together in March: a human child conceived by two
  human parents.  
  
  She painted her spare bedroom pale yellow and put up a Winnie the Pooh
  border.  She bought baby clothes and a rocking chair and a bassinet. 
  When he arrived to put the crib together, he discovered she'd done it
  herself, unable to wait.  Afterward, she stood in the doorway and looked
  at the ready nursery, smiling as she stroked her heavy abdomen.  She was
  as happy as he'd ever seen her.
  
  Despite the mounting evidence, he couldn't take that from her.  He
  couldn't tell her his fears: that the baby she carried was the product
  of a laboratory -- yet another child born to die or to further an
  agenda.  He believed its conception was a miracle, but not the type she
  desperately wanted it to be.
  
  ****
   
  "Mulder," Scully said again, and he turned, putting on his grin and
  raising his brows in an expression of rapt interest. "Are you in there?"
  
  "Right here."
  
  She reached for his hand, needing help to get to her feet.  Around them,
  the other couples were getting up, dusting off their clothes, and
  collecting their pillows.  Some were chatting, some were exchanging e-
  mail addresses and promising baby photos.  The instructor was making the
  rounds, thanking them for coming.  It was their last Lamaze class; they
  were supposed to know what to do now.
  
  "Class is over.  We can go," Scully told him, rolling the kinks out of
  her back.
  
  "Oh.  Okay."
  
  "Feed me, Mulder," she requested as he followed her to the car,
  dutifully carrying their pillows.  When they stopped beside the
  passenger door, he bumped into her belly, forgetting it would be between
  them.
  
  "You're not serious?" he responded when she told him what she wanted.
  
  "It's called a craving," she informed him, fastening her seatbelt. "It's
  perfectly normal.  And there's one on the way home."
  
  He started the engine as he shook his head slowly in disbelief. "Okay. 
  Taco Hell it is."
  
  "With extra sour cream," she added a few minutes later, as he stood in
  line and she maneuvered her belly into an empty booth.  
  
  It was kiddie night at Taco Hell.  In front of him was a harried mother
  of an unruly half-dozen, trying to get her brood to agree on what they
  wanted.  And behind him was a weekend-warrior father with a young son,
  going over the boy's preliminary demands for Santa.  A preteen girl was
  trying to order with a coupon the clerk didn't recognize, so they had to
  get a manager.  As Mulder waited, all the voices and faces started to
  merge into an LSD-like neon jabber, getting progressively louder and
  closer.
  
  The manager's keys clattered as she dropped them on the counter, and
  Mulder flinched.  One of Mother Hubbard's gaggle shrieked as her brother
  put ice down the back of her coat, and a refrigerator door in the
  kitchen closed, sounding eerily alien.  The drive-thru speaker squealed
  and crackled.  A roll of quarters smacked against the register drawer,
  and the boy behind him swung from the metal railing like a monkey.
  
  He couldn't do this.
  
  "You okay, mister?" the man behind him asked, and Mulder blinked at him
  stupidly.  The man gestured to the register. "She wants to take your
  order.  Tell her what you want."
  
  From the other side of the restaurant, Scully was watching him, looking
  worried.
  
  He heard his voice ordering, then moved down, keeping pace with his
  orange plastic tray, and a little surprised when someone put food on it. 
   
  "What did you get?" Scully asked as he arrived at their booth, sliding
  in across from her.  
  
  He looked at the wrappers, trying to remember.  Nothing, it seemed. "I
  ate earlier," he lied.
  
  Mother Hubbard's brood was fighting over their food, and she was trying
  to referee, without much success.  On a dare, one boy dropped a packet
  to the floor, then stomped on it, sending a graceful arc of mild sauce
  several feet in the air.  He got his butt smacked, and was left to pout,
  screaming that he hated his mother, wasn't eating, and would rather
  starve to death.
  
  The young father and son were at a nearby table, with the son
  complaining his taco shell was broken in two, making it inedible.  The
  father tried to reason, but the boy sat, crossing his arms, shoving out
  his lower lip, and sullenly refusing.  In desperation, the weekend
  warrior dad carried the taco back to the counter, waiting to exchange
  it.
  
  He couldn't do this.  Mulder's father would have already slapped both
  boys, and Mulder's hand was itching to do the same. There would be no
  reasoning, no cajoling. "Your mother cooked this dinner.  Sit down, shut
  up, and eat it, damn it," he wanted to scream, like his father had a
  thousand times.
  
  "Mulder..." Scully said uncertainly, and the world started closing in.
  
  If her child was what she believed it was, he couldn't be a father to
  it.  Not a good one.  He couldn't even stand her yappy little dog.  And
  if her child wasn't what she believed it was, if it was some experiment,
  he couldn't watch her go through that again, either.  He couldn't go
  through that again.  He couldn't be strong for Scully while he watched
  another child suffer and die.
  
  "I can't do this.  I'm sorry.  I-I can't," he stammered, barely able to
  get the words out before he stood and rushed outside, into the cold,
  desperate for silence and air.
  
  He leaned against the rear bumper of her car, too embarrassed to meet
  her eyes as she emerged from the restaurant. She waited for a minivan to
  pass as she shrugged on her coat, but the driver saw her belly and waved
  for her to cross in front of him, giving Mulder a "what kind of asshole
  can't wait for a pregnant woman" look.
  
  "I'm sorry," he repeated over the noise and exhaust from the cars. "I
  love you.  You know I do.  I'd do anything for you, and I'm trying so
  hard, but I just can't-"
  
  "It's okay," she assured him. "You've been through a lot.  Just take
  some time."
  
  "But I don't have time," he yelled at her. "I have two weeks!"
  
  She took his hand, steadying it as it shook.  
  
  "I want this for you.  This baby," he mumbled, watching a plastic soda
  cup roll by, propelled by the unforgiving winter wind. "I swear I do,
  but-"
  
  "But you don't want it for you," she finished.
  
  He bit his lip and stared at the cold asphalt. "I'm trying.  I want to
  want it.  And, regardless, I want to be there for you.  It's just so
  fast, Scully.  I need someone to stop the world and let me get off,
  'cause otherwise I'm gonna jump."
  
  "Don't jump," she said lightly, then took a breath, trying to find the
  right words. "I know you got no choice in this.  I know it's not what we
  planned, or what you agreed to.  If you'd been here, we could have
  decided together, but you were gone, and then dead, Mulder, and I had to
  make a choice alone.  About what I wanted.  And I want this baby."
  
  He glanced at her from underneath his eyebrows. "And now I'm back."
  
  She smiled sadly. "Now you're back.  And I don't want you to feel like
  you have to change because of a choice I made.  You can't be something
  you're not.  And I don't want you to be.  That's not fair to you, and
  it's not what I expect."
  
  She didn't seem to register that if this child was theirs, it was a
  "damned if you do, damned if you don't" situation, and she no longer got
  to choose.  There was no "what's a little sperm between friends"
  contractual agreement.  They had a baby conceived through the time-
  honored wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am method of procreation.  Planned or
  unplanned, he wasn't walking away from his responsibility to this child,
  yet she seemed determined to absolve him of all accountability.  Her
  logic was like saying they'd always have Paris when they'd missed the
  train to Paris.
  
  And she wouldn't even consider the possibility that her baby was
  something other than a gift from God.  That, after all the nightmares
  they'd been through, in two weeks, a new one was about to begin. 
  
  He started to say something, then looked at her, one hand on her belly,
  with her face framed by the clear December sky, and glowing expectantly.
  
  He said nothing.
  
  ****
  
  Until Scully approached him about in vitro, he hadn't given much thought
  to having children.  In the abstract sense, he liked the idea, though
  he'd never felt an overwhelming desire to be a father.  During their
  blink-and-you'll-miss-it marriage, Diana hadn't wanted kids. A baby
  would have derailed her career, and she disliked the stickiness and
  clutter that went with being a parent.  After the divorce, he'd let the
  X-files take over his life, and, when the busybodies asked, said his
  work wasn't conducive to a family.
  
  Scully wanted a baby, though.  And, as floored and humbled as he'd been
  by her request, he wanted her to have it.  Her Baby.  He had several
  misgivings, but the greatest was the potential danger to the child if it
  could be linked to him.  In the scenario she proposed, his contribution
  would be anonymous, limited to DNA and being her best friend.  His name
  wouldn't appear in the medical records or on the birth certificate. 
  Mulder would always be there when she needed him, but not as the baby's
  father.  People could speculate, but, for the child's sake, there'd be
  no proof.
  
  When Scully had said it, looking at him with those infinite blue eyes,
  it had sounded logical. Practical, even, if he didn't think too hard.
  
  When conception had involved a specimen cup, his greatest fear was that
  at some point in the child's life, someone would run a DNA analysis and
  discover Mulder was its biological father.
  
  His greatest fear now was that someone would discover that he wasn't.
  
  He wanted to believe her -- that her baby was normal -- but he couldn't. 
  There were fake ultrasounds and amniocenteses and lab results. There was
  Dr. Parenti with his freak show fetuses, doing God knows what to Scully
  for the first part of her pregnancy.  There were baby nurses giving her
  mystery pills and super-soldiers after her, and Krycek saying her child
  couldn't come to term.
  
  For her sake, he put his hand on her belly and tried to pretend, but
  whatever he felt moving inside her body wasn't normal.
  
  His instincts didn't realize that.  On a cognitive level, he understood
  that this was another violation of her body: the product of a test tube
  and medical rape.  Eight million years of male biology, however, failed
  to agree.  He'd made love to this woman, he loved this woman, and she
  was about to give birth.  Each time he looked at her heavy belly, his
  sense of possessiveness and protectiveness grew.  He wasn't content with
  a guardian angel; he wanted to surround her and her baby with a well-
  armed guardian army.  Whatever was inside her, it was theirs, damn it --
  or at least, it should have been -- and he'd gladly die to make sure she
  got to keep it.   
  
  He squinted into the headlights and shoved his way through a sea of
  creatures that looked human, but weren't.  They were all around him:
  dozens, maybe hundreds of super-soldiers, swarming the rural Georgia
  town like hungry insects.  He screamed, demanding to know where Scully
  was and what they'd done to her, but got no response.  They moved past
  him, emotionless machines oblivious to anything but their purpose: to
  find and destroy Scully's baby.
  
  He found Agent Reyes' rental car with the key in the ignition and the
  hood cold.  He scanned the run-down buildings, looking for a safe house,
  someplace she and Scully could have hidden or barricaded themselves
  inside.  All he saw was a ghost town, populated with the alien ghosts of
  what had once been men and women.
  
  He screamed Scully's name and heard his hoarse voice echoing off the
  wooden buildings, mocking him, until it faded to nothing.  As he opened
  his mouth the yell again, Reyes called to him from the doorway of one of
  the old buildings, telling him Scully needed to get to a hospital.
  
  Not Scully and the baby.  Just Scully.
  
  He paused, watching helplessly as the super-soldiers moved away.  They'd
  come for the baby and, if they were leaving, they'd already gotten it.
  
  He was too late.
  
  "Mulder," Agent Reyes repeated urgently.
  
  He was too late.
  
  "Mulder!"  
  
  His heart restarted, beating out of habit and propelling his body
  forward.  He stepped past Reyes and into a room lit only by a few
  candles.  Dusty sheets covered most of the furniture, and cobwebs
  covered the rest.  The windowpanes that weren't broken out were covered
  with yellow grime.  The whole building looked like something time and
  modern hygiene forgot.
  
  "This is where you brought her?" he yelled at Reyes over the turmoil of
  helicopter blades and car engines outside. "You were supposed to protect
  her.  What the hell is wrong with you?" 
  
  "They came for the baby.  The super-soldiers.  They were here when she
  gave birth.  I couldn't stop them-" Reyes tried to explain.
  
  "Where is she?" he demanded, cutting her off.
  
  Reyes pointed.
  
  Scully was alone on a small bed near a wood-burning stove, looking pale
  and disoriented.  When she turned her head toward him, her eyes were
  glassy. Perspiration had soaked her hair and the t-shirt she wore, and
  there were tear tracks down her cheeks.
  
  "Mulder..." she mumbled.
  
  "I'm here.  And I'm gonna get you out of here," he promised, and she
  nodded slightly.  He gathered her up, sheets and all, as she made a
  token effort at putting her arms around his neck. "There's a chopper
  outside; I'm gonna get you to a hospital. It's going to be okay."
  
  There was a wadded pile of bloody towels on the floor beside the bed,
  and a flat place where her belly had been two days ago.
  
  He didn't think it was going to be okay ever again.
  
  "There's blood," he called to Reyes, noticing the bed as he picked
  Scully up. 
  
  In the shadows, Reyes was hurriedly wrapping something in a towel,
  preparing to put it in a trash bag.  As she did, Mulder got a glimpse of
  dark, wet tissue.  He'd assumed the super-soldiers had taken the baby,
  but perhaps they hadn't.  Perhaps they'd accomplished their mission and
  left the body behind.  He froze, holding Scully and staring at it,
  trying to find some identifiable form.
  
  "Stop that," he ordered her loudly, getting his mouth to function again.
  "It's not trash.  Don't put it in the trash."
  
  "It's the placenta.  She said to save it, to let the doctor examine it. 
  I don't know what else to do with it." She paused. "Did you want to see
  it?"
  
  He shook his head.  He didn't want to see it, and he didn't want it near
  him.  So long as it wasn't the baby, he didn't care what she did with
  it.
  
  Scully was deadweight in his arms, like a sleeping child.  As he shifted
  her, trying to get a secure grip, she mumbled his name. "I'm here.  It's
  okay," he assured her.
  
  Outside, the last of the cars disappeared over the horizon, leaving the
  abandoned town dark except for the lights on the helicopter.  Mulder
  ducked to avoid the spinning blades, then maneuvered Scully into the
  helicopter.  There were seats, but he sat on the floor, pulling Scully
  onto his lap.  Her head lolled against his shoulder, and she started to
  shiver.  He pulled the sheet around her as best as he could, then took
  off his jacket and draped it over her.
  
  "Hospital," he yelled at the pilot, who was staring at Scully,
  dumbfounded. "Now!"
  
  "What happened to her?"
  
  "Nothing, compared to what'll happen to you if you don't get her to a
  doctor," Mulder threatened.
  
  "Go," Reyes ordered, climbing in and slamming the chopper door one-
  handed.
  
  "This isn't a Medevac," the pilot argued. "It's a short-range charter."
  
  Mulder shifted, pulled the Glock 9mm from the holster on his hip, and
  pointed it at the pilot.  When the man continued staring at them, Mulder
  pulled the hammer back to half-cock for emphasis. 
  
  "Now it's a Medevac," Mulder informed him.
  
  The pilot's Adam's apple bobbed before he turned to the controls.  The
  engine whined, and the helicopter rose into the cool blackness, leaving
  Democrat Hot Springs, Georgia behind.
  
  "It's gonna be okay," Mulder assured her again, as he lowered the pistol
  and tucked his jacket tighter around her shoulders. "Just hold on."
  
  In the cockpit, the nervous pilot was on the radio, explaining the
  situation to the closest hospital and asking permission to land.  Every
  few minutes, he'd glance back at Scully, then at Mulder, then push the
  chopper a little faster.
  
  Scully's teeth started to chatter, and she shivered violently.  When he
  shifted her, trying to make her more comfortable, there was blood on the
  hand he'd had beneath her legs. "Hold on, Scully," he begged, pushing
  her wet hair back from her face.  He kissed her forehead, then held her
  against him tightly.
  
  "Find something to keep her warm," he commanded Agent Reyes. "Is there a
  blanket?  What's that?" he demanded, reaching for the bunch of towels
  she'd brought in addition to the plastic bag containing the placenta.
  
  "It's the baby," she answered. 
  
  He blinked, stunned, then lowered his hand.
  
  "Do you want to see him?" she offered, starting to unfold the towels she
  held.
  
  "No," he said quickly.  No, he didn't want to see a dead baby.  And he
  didn't want Scully to see it, either. "No, keep it over there."
  
  She furrowed her brow and leaned forward. "Skin to skin contact
  immediately after birth is an important part of the bonding process. 
  Maybe if you would just hold him-"
  
  "I said no."
   
  She sat back, bouncing the bundle disapprovingly.
  
  He stared at the towels for a moment, and then looked down, watching
  Scully instead.  She opened her eyes, trying to focus on him.  He kissed
  her forehead again, then her cool lips, and rested his face against
  hers.
  
  "...came for the baby, Mulder," she mumbled.
  
  "I know They did.  I tried to stop them.  I tried," he answered.  A tear
  slipped from the corner of his eye and trickled along his cheek until it
  met her skin. "I'm so sorry."
  
  "Twenty minutes," the pilot called. "Just stay cool back there, okay?"
  
  The helicopter sliced through the night, its rotors whirling above them
  and its engine droning.  Far below, a few cold lights littered the
  blackness.  A truck stop, or a small cluster of farmhouses, maybe. It
  looked like someplace innocent and warm and normal.  Someplace they
  weren't.
  
  Mulder kept his head down, his arms around Scully, and his eyes squeezed
  shut, trying to block out the rest of the world. He felt her chest
  rising slightly as she breathed, and the slow, patient thud of her heart
  beneath her breast. "I love you," he said hoarsely. "So much, baby."
  
  "...a boy," she said, barely audible in the noisy helicopter.
  
  "I know.  Agent Reyes told me." He cupped the back of her head with his
  palm, covering it protectively.
  
  "He's beautiful, Mulder," she mumbled, starting to fade in and out of
  consciousness. "Did you see him?"
  
  "Yeah," he lied.  He raised his head and stroked her hair as he watched
  the endless stars swirl past the window. "It's gonna be okay," he
  repeated numbly. "We're gonna be okay," he promised.
  
  ****
  
  Despite Skinner's wheeling and dealing, it took most of the next day to
  convince the chopper pilot to drop the charges against Mulder, and a
  little longer to convince the local police.  When he was an FBI Agent,
  waving a gun around and demanding a private helicopter take him where he
  wanted to go was called "commandeering." The police who'd been waiting
  for Mulder at the hospital had called it "hijacking."
  
  Whatever Skinner had offered or threatened, after a day or so, the
  incensed pilot relented, and police returned Mulder's jacket,
  wristwatch, wallet, gun, and shoelaces, and let him walk out of the
  station, alone, and fade into a cold Georgia night.
  
  Skinner also managed to finagle a seat for him on a redeye flight to DC,
  so Mulder sat wedged in with the other travelers and stared out the
  window of the plane.  As they circled Washington National Airport, dawn
  was breaking, a violet thief stealing across the horizon.  The plane
  lurched as it touched down, bounced twice on the runway, and rolled to a
  stop.
  
  Three days ago he'd raced to catch a flight at the same gate, desperate
  to reach Scully before someone or something else did.  Seventy-two hours
  later, he'd come full circle, returning to the same terminal, the same
  plasticized woman behind the counter, and the same bleak December sky
  hanging lethargically over Washington.
  
  In three days, nothing and everything had changed.
  
  He wasn't sure how he felt about Scully's baby.  If he felt about it. 
  He felt nothing, really.  Empty.  Like life was holding its breath,
  waiting for some signal before it exhaled and continued.
  
  The last time he'd seen Scully or her son, it had been amid the chaos of
  doctors and nurses on the helipad two days ago.  The police had yelled
  at him to lay Scully on the gurney and back away, hands in the air,
  which he had.  As they'd cuffed him, Agent Reyes tried to intervene, but
  he'd yelled at her not to.  To go with Scully.  Reyes had hesitated,
  then turned and hurried after the gurney.
  
  The officers had deemed he was resisting arrest and shoved Mulder
  facedown on the landing pad, so he couldn't see what happened to the
  baby.  He'd heard it crying, though.  When he'd called from jail,
  Skinner was uncharacteristically uninformed, saying only that Scully and
  the baby were stable and being transferred back to DC so her OB/GYN
  could examine the baby.  When Mulder asked why, Skinner had said
  something about a "high risk pregnancy" that hadn't sounded convincing.
  
  When the police had released him, he hadn't called Scully because it was
  the middle of the night and he didn't want to wake her. Morning had
  broken, though, so that excuse didn't work anymore.  Between the airport
  and the hospital, he had picked up his cell phone a few hundred times,
  his finger poised to dial, then put it down again.
  
  He leaned against the window of the neonatal nursery at Washington
  Memorial Hospital, forearms against the glass, and studied the baby in
  isolette number four.  It was wrapped in a blue-striped blanket and a
  knit cap covered its head, so all Mulder could see was a miniature face. 
  Fastened to the bottom of little plastic bed was a tag reading "Scully." 
  
  He pressed his palm against the cool window, watching closely for any
  sign that something was wrong.  The super-soldiers hadn't taken it, and
  hadn't killed it, so something had to be wrong.  Abnormal.  If the baby
  were sick, though, it would be in the NICU, not the regular nursery. 
  They'd have monitors and machines all over it.  Then again, Emily hadn't
  been sick, either.  Not at first.
  
  After a several minutes of watching, he noticed something; the nurses
  were moving around, tending to the other infants, but none came near
  Scully's son.    
  
  "This baby," he asked as one of the women exited the nursery.  He
  blocked her path, pointing at the window. "The boy.  Dana Scully's baby. 
  What's- No one's touching it.  Is it being isolated?  What's wrong with
  it?"
  
  The nurse's eyes gave him the once-over, making sure he had a visitor's
  pass attached to his rumpled shirt. "He's sleeping.  There's nothing
  wrong; we just try not to disturb the babies while they're sleeping. 
  Are you a friend of Ms. Scully's?"
  
  Mulder nodded. "You're certain it's fine?  There's nothing abnormal? 
  They've run tests?"
  
  "He's fine.  Perfectly healthy.  Considering what they've been through,
  he and his mother are both doing fine," she assured him. "Ms. Scully's
  only allowed one visitor at a time, and I think her mother's with her
  now.  You're welcome to wait, though, if you'd like to see her."
  
  "I'll wait," he agreed, turning back to the window.  
  
  "I can show you to the waiting room."
  
  "I'll wait here," he said without looking away from the isolette.
  
  The scenarios circled his brain like scavengers, looking for any
  vulnerability.  Maybe the nurse was lying, and the baby was sick.  Or
  there might be something wrong that the tests couldn't detect, something
  that wouldn't show up until later.  Or maybe this wasn't Scully's baby. 
  Maybe, in all the confusion, someone had switched infants.  It could be
  a clone.  A hybrid.  A genetically engineered thing created as a pawn to
  control them.
  
  Or maybe it was a normal, human child conceived by two human parents. 
  Staring at the baby, he didn't know which possibility frightened him
  more: that it was Scully's or that it wasn't.
  
  As if aware he was being watched, the baby yawned, shifted so one fist
  escaped the blanket, and opened his blue eyes.  He looked around,
  silently, serenely acquainting himself with his new world.
  
  It had always been an abstract concept: "her baby." An idea, a goal, an
  outcome.  Something to protect, something that might come between them,
  something that made Scully happy.  It had always been an "it," but this
  was flesh and blood.  Their flesh and blood, or at least, a remarkable
  facsimile.
  
  A chill ran down Mulder's spine, reversed, and sent shivers through his
  body.  Despite his fears, he wanted to believe that they'd done this:
  his body and hers.  Before that night together, this being hadn't
  existed, and now, by whatever means and for whatever reason, it did. 
  They'd created a life.
  
  He felt the layer of ice inside him start to thaw, falling away from his
  heart in painful chunks, and letting some feeling return.  For the first
  time, he let hope begin to flicker inside him: that it really would be
  okay.  That the baby would be okay.  That they -- he and Scully -- would
  be okay, somehow.
  
  "Hi," he told the infant softly, through the glass.
  
  "You know, it's very important for a child to have two parents," the
  nurse said, startling him. "Aside from financial security, it gives the
  child access to the father's medical history.  If something would happen
  to the father, the child will be eligible for survivor's benefits.  And
  it gives the child a vital sense of stability and acceptance -- to have
  legal proof of the father's identity."
  
  Mulder turned his head, looking at her.
   
  "Also, it gives the father a legal say in decisions about his child,"
  she continued easily. "Regardless of his relationship with the mother. 
  Establishing paternity is a simple procedure.  The father just needs to
  show photo ID and sign a form."
  
  "Okay," he agreed.  If she'd said it was vital to Scully and the baby
  that Mulder hit himself in the head with a sledgehammer, he'd have done
  it. "Do I need to do that?"
  
  "You can.  It's called a Declaration of Paternity.  Would you like me to
  get the form?"
  
  "Okay," he repeated.
  
  She returned to the nursery, and he watched as she spoke to a second
  nurse, gesturing to Mulder, then to the baby.  There was a short
  conversation he couldn't hear, and then the second nurse returned to the
  hallway, looking uncomfortable.
  
  "I'm Marie.  I've been taking care of Dana and her son since they
  arrived," she introduced herself. "I was told you're a friend of Dana's,
  and that you're wanting to establish paternity?"
  
  "The other nurse said there was a form." 
  
  She paused uncertainly. "It's my understanding that Dana's choosing not
  to reveal the father's identity.  That she's a single, professional
  woman who wanted a child, and both she and the biological father wish to
  keep the baby's paternity anonymous."
  
  "Oh." He exhaled, deflating.  The candle inside him guttered, starved of
  oxygen, and died silently.
  
  "We want to establish paternity in cases where the father will be
  contributing to the support of the child and involved in its life, but
  when he's not... I just don't want anyone acting against Dana's wishes. 
  Do you understand?"
  
  "Yeah, I understand." He nodded slightly, then swallowed. "I understand. 
  Sure.  The other nurse asked, so I thought..." He trailed off, gesturing
  to his ignorance. "I don't know what I was thinking.  Never mind."
  
  "Dana's resting right now.  Why don't we wait until she's awake and ask
  what she wants to do?  Maybe I misunderstood."
  
  Mulder pushed off the window, then shoved his fists in his jacket
  pockets. "No, you didn't," he said simply. "Thank you."
  
  "Do you want to wait and talk to Dana?"
  
  "I'll call her."
  
  "Do you want me to tell her you were here?"
  
  He shook his head, then turned and walked toward the elevator,
  unfastening his visitor's badge as he went.
  
  ****
  
  Agent Doggett was right; it did end.  His quest: a life spent alone,
  tilting at windmills and chasing monsters with a butterfly net.  It did
  end.  
  
  It had to, someday.
  
  He'd done what he set out to do; he'd found Samantha.  And he'd found
  The Truth on numerous occasions, only to have it crumble to dust between
  his fingers.  He'd lost his family and career and life -- also on
  numerous occasions.  And there was nothing left except a few scars, the
  nightmares, a stack of old files, and a collection of farfetched stories
  nobody believed.  
  
  And Scully.  
  
  And Scully's baby.  
  
  He was Agent Nobody, and he'd reached a dead end on the road to Nowhere.
  
  He sat in his car in the hospital parking garage, his thumb poised over
  the "send" button on his cell phone.  He drummed his fingertips on the
  steering wheel, took a deep breath, and finally pushed it.
  
  Scully's mother answered, then passed the receiver to Scully, who
  answered with a groggy, "Hello."
  
  "Hey," he said softly. "How're you doing?"
  
  He heard the hospital bed shift as she scooted up. "Good.  Better. 
  They're talking about discharging me tomorrow morning."
  
  He chewed his lower lip before he asked, "And the baby?"
  
  "He's fine.  He's ready to go home; they're letting him stay in the
  hospital so he can be with me."
  
  "Is he there now?" he asked, knowing he wasn't.
  
  "He's in the nursery for a little bit.  He just nursed, and I was hoping
  to get a nap and a shower while he's asleep."
  
  "I should probably let you go, then."
  
  "No, it's okay," she said quickly. "How are you?  I heard you had a run-
  in with Georgia's finest."
  
  He shrugged a shoulder she couldn't see. "Skinner took care of it."
  
  "He said he would. Are you okay? Where are you now?"
  
  He looked at the front of Washington Memorial Hospital across the street
  and answered, "Atlanta.  I'll be in DC in a few hours.  Do you need me
  to pick you up at the hospital in the morning?"
  
  "Mom's here.  She's going to drive us home and get us settled in."  
  
  "What about something from the store?  Do you need diapers?  Groceries? 
  A college fund?" Me. "I can drop it by.  Save you the trouble."
  
  "I think Mom has everything under control.  She's in full grandmother
  mode."
  
  "And driving you insane?"
  
  She laughed softly. "Maybe."
  
  "Say the word, G-woman, and I'll spring you from the joint.  We'll ride
  off into the sunset together."
  
  She paused, then offered, "Why don't you just come by and see us
  tomorrow afternoon?"
  
  "I can do that," he agreed. "I'll let you get some rest.  See you
  tomorrow."
  
  "Okay," she responded. "I'll see you then."
  
  "See you then," he said, and pushed "end," then let the phone drop onto
  the passenger seat of his car. He stared at it for a moment, then
  started the engine and backed out of the parking space.
  
  ****
  
  He was Special Agent Fox Mulder: a profiler whose career had taken a U-
  turn when he'd discovered a series of unsolved, unexplained crimes filed
  away in the basement of the Hoover Building.  Those files became an
  obsession: to prove the truth, to uncover what the government was
  hiding.  To find his sister.  Over the years, he'd become so driven that
  there was little room in his life for anything else.  It was all about
  his work.  He had few friends, fewer lovers, and spent too much time
  alone.  He couldn't say he liked it that way, but he could barely
  remember a time when it was different.
  
  She was Special Agent Dana Scully: a brilliant forensic pathologist
  assigned to the X-files to hold his feet to the fire of science.  She
  was loyal, professional, and not inclined to take much of his bullshit. 
  She was a small, pretty woman in a man's profession -- call her "honey"
  and she'd kick your ass three ways from Sunday, then verbally emasculate
  you using big words you didn't understand.
  
  Mulder and Scully: kicking paranormal ass and taking conspirators'
  names.  Best friends, marginal lovers, allies, and polar opposites.  It
  was the two of them against the rest of the world, and, except for a few
  setbacks, it had been that way for most of a decade.  
  
  Just over a year had passed since they'd kissed on New Year's Eve,
  tentatively testing the boundaries and exploring that elusive "something
  more." It had been almost twelve months since his mother's death, the
  end of his search for Samantha, and the first time he and Scully had
  sexual intercourse -- a bittersweet act of comfort and obligation on his
  cold living room floor.  Making love had come a later: surrendering to
  the night and kindling a fire that had threatened to burn out of control
  in the dawn.  He'd welcomed the flames; she'd shied away.  And they'd
  started over, taking it slow, feeling their way.  They had all the time
  in the world.
  
  Suddenly, in what seemed like a few weeks, he was dead, then he wasn't,
  the X-files were gone, then he was out of the Bureau, and then there was
  William.  One night together in March, one trip to Oregon in early May,
  and he'd returned from the grave to find someone had secretly replaced
  their regular lives with Folgers Crystals.
  
  Like Archimedes, with a place to stand and Scully beside him, he could
  move the world.  He was just having some trouble finding his footing.
  
  Without knocking, he used the key she'd given him years ago to unlock
  her front door.  The apartment was dim and quiet and smelled faintly of
  baby bath and shampoo.  The muddy running shoes he'd toed off beside the
  welcome mat that morning had been moved, and his coffee mug was drying
  in the dish drain along with a few dishes.  The vacuum had been run, and
  the ever-encroaching collection of baby paraphernalia had been corralled
  in a central location.
  
  He kept saying he was there to help, that it wasn't her job to clean up
  or look after him.  Inevitably, the minute his back was turned, she did
  it anyway.
  
  He dropped his duffle bag of clean clothes beside the sofa, tucked the
  stuffed animal under his arm, and headed for Scully's bedroom.  She was
  on the bed, wearing her robe, with her wet hair combed back.  William
  was beside her with a drop of milk lingering on his lower lip.  Scully's
  hand rested on his belly as they dozed.
  
  Mulder watched them, then silently pulled the blanket up so it covered
  her hips. "It's me," he assured her when she started to open her eyes.
  
  "Umm," she said in acknowledgment, then yawned. "I was just getting up,"
  she added without moving.   
  
  "Don't.  I can get him.  Is he ready for bed?"
  
  She nodded slightly.
  
  He moved William to the bassinet in the living room, laying him on his
  side.  As the baby settled in, Mulder turned off the lamp on the end
  table and left the stuffed Snuffaluffagus to stand guard.
  
  "Did you buy that for him?" Scully asked sleepily, and Mulder turned to
  find her watching him from the bedroom doorway.
  
  He shrugged one shoulder. "I saw it in the store window and figured
  every boy needs a Snuffy."
  
  "Right.  Every boy needs a nonexistent, unhealthy, depressed projection
  of Big Bird's psyche.  You think that's appropriate for a small child?" 
  
  "I-I just thought-" He started to defend himself, then saw she was
  smiling gently. "You're a party pooper sometimes, Scully."
  
  "Umm," she responded noncommittally, then turned and ambled back to bed.
  "I spoke with A.D. Skinner this afternoon," she said. "About Quantico. 
  We're meeting tomorrow morning."
  
  "You're going back to work this soon?" he asked, trailing after her. 
  Her paid maternity leave was over in a few days, but she could take
  another six months of family leave.  Or, if she wanted, he could cash in
  a few of his father's stocks and she could stay home until William
  started kindergarten.
  
  "Maybe part-time," she answered. "In a few weeks.  He and I can talk
  about it."
  
  He thought about a dozen things, but "Oh," was all he managed to say.
  
  She settled her head on the pillow and adjusted the blanket, getting
  comfortable. "What did you do this afternoon?  See the Gunmen?"
  
  He shifted his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet, then back
  again, and then sat on edge of the mattress, making it dip slightly. "I,
  uh, did my laundry.  Fed my fish.  Picked up my mail.  Bought a Snuffy,
  obviously.  And a Volvo."
  
  She opened her eyes, looking at him quizzically.
  
  "A gray one," he added. "Leather, four cup holders, a billion airbags,
  and a built-in baby seat." 
   
  "You're serious?" she asked slowly. "A Volvo?"
  
  "A gray one.  I signed the lease an hour ago.  It's parked outside."
  
  "Mulder..." she said slowly, in her slightly perplexed, slightly
  disappointed voice. 
  
  "What?"
  
  She sat up, tucking her wet hair behind her ears. "A Volvo.  Really? 
  It's just so... Not you."
  
  "Not me?  What's wrong with it?  It's a very safe, reliable car."
  
  "I mean-" She paused again. "Are you sure it's what you want, Mulder?"
  
  "What I want?  It's mine.  It's a little late to back out now."
  
  "I guess it is," she responded softly.  Her lips parted like she wanted
  to say something else, but she didn't.  She lay down again, watching the
  wall instead of him.  
  
  All the things she wasn't saying were deafening.
  
  "What?" he asked, stretching out, uninvited, beside her on the bed.
  "Scully?"
  
  When she didn't answer, he stroked her face, not sure what was wrong.
  
  "You don't have to do this, Mulder," she said eventually. "It's like
  you're trying a little too hard.  Trying to be someone you're not or to
  prove something, and you don't have to.  You don't have to prove
  anything.  Not to me.  Not to William."
  
  His stomach tightened nervously. "Are you saying you don't want me here? 
  I was just trying to help out.  If I'm in the way, I can leave-"
  
  "No," she interrupted. "You're welcome to stay.  Or go," she added
  softly.
  
  "I don't understand.  What are you saying?  I need you to tell me what
  you want, Scully."
  
  "What about what you want?" She moved closer, tracing his face with her
  thumb. "You've been through so much..."
  
  "I can do this," he insisted. "I can.  I love you.  I want you to be
  happy.  Safe.  You and William, both.  I just need... A place to stand."
  
  "Like Archimedes?" she asked softly, and he nodded. 
  
  He closed his eyes, surrendering to the sensation.  Her warm lips
  brushed his as her fingers continued to caress: through his hair, over
  the thin skin of his eyelids, and down his cheeks.  Her touch was so
  delicate, like he was made of glass instead of flesh and bone.  
  
  "Do you wanna hear a bedtime story?" he asked quietly, and her pillow
  rustled as she nodded.
  
  "Pygmalion and Galetea," he murmured, moving his hand rest in the soft
  cradle of her waist. "Began as the star-crossed lovers of their era. 
  Pygmalion was a Greek sculptor: a lonely man cynical about love until
  one day he carved a beautiful woman out of marble.  In time, he fell
  deeply in love with his creation, dressing her and speaking to her if
  she was real, yet she wasn't.  She loved him, but she couldn't respond,
  only be there and let him love her.  Then one day, the Goddess Aphrodite
  took notice of their plight, and the next time Pygmalion kissed Galatea,
  her lips warmed and she came to life.  Not long after, their first son
  was born."
  
  There was no response, so he opened his eyes and found her face was
  inches from his, giving him her old skeptical eyebrow.
  
  "What?"
  
  "That bedtime story has some vaguely disturbing overtones of
  necrophilia, Mulder."
  
  Caught off guard, he laughed, relaxing.  In the living room, William
  mewed, and she raised her finger to her lips, hushing Mulder before
  their stolen time together came to an abrupt end.
  
  "Do you know what you just did?" she whispered once the baby was quiet
  again.
  
  "I almost woke William," he guessed.
  
  "You laughed.  I haven't heard you laugh for so long." She stroked his
  face again, then down his neck and shoulder. "It's nice."
  
  "I'm gonna be here, Scully.  I can do this.  I just need a place to
  stand.  And for you to love me," he whispered. "And keep loving me.  You
  never know what the gods will do."
  
  "I can do that," she promised. 
   
  ****
  
  End: Book IV


  Book V: Just west of the sunset
  
  ****
  
  If their life together was a journey, they'd just reached the land past
  the edge of the map.  And, in a strange way, ended up right back where
  they'd begun.  The scientist and the believer, the skeptic and the
  dreamer, united on a quest to find the truth.  And maybe, along the way,
  also find a little bit of peace.  It was an old-fashioned tale of life,
  love, death, sex, loyalty, betrayal, Armageddon, destiny, and emotional
  dysfunction.        
  
  That she remembered none of.
  
  His prayer, his mission, his mantra had been to find her.  Take care of
  their son, but find Scully.  For months that purpose had propelled him
  forward, grasping at straws and pushing his mind and body to the
  breaking point.  Scully was out there, somewhere.  He could feel her
  presence around him, calling to him, as seductive as a siren and as
  elusive as the fog.  He could see her blue eyes when he looked at
  William and smell her skin when he pressed his face into her pillow. 
  For months, he'd believed if he could just find her and put his arms
  around her, everything would be all right.
  
  He had found her, or rather, two weeks ago a nurse had found her
  unconscious outside an Allentown, Pennsylvania emergency room.  Scully
  was there: alive, whole, awake, and barely five feet from him, yet it
  still seemed as if the road to happily-ever-after was permanently under
  construction.  
  
  Mulder slouched against the windowsill, holding William as another
  red dawn rose from the horizon, like a phoenix from the ashes. 
  Scully lay in bed, wearing a faded hospital gown and looking too
  small and pale against the scratchy white sheets.  She focused on
  her plastic ID bracelet, turning it slowly to examine the pale
  purple print.  It was her name, her social security number and blood
  type, but the world he was describing didn't exist for her.  To her,
  it was early 1992.  Her father and sister were still alive.  George Bush
  was still president, Charles and Di were still married, and Johnny
  Carson was still hosting The Tonight Show.
  
  "You disappeared while undercover with another agent in a cult in
  Virginia," Mulder explained, choosing his words carefully. "In January
  2001.  There was a raid on the compound, and you vanished during the
  confusion. You've been missing since then. It's late April, now," he
  added in case no one had told her.
  
  "And you've been investigating this cult, Agent Mulder?" she asked.
  
  "Yes," he said softly. "And your abduction."
  
  She recognized his name from his monograph on Monty Props, but, to her,
  they'd never met.  Special Agent Fox Mulder was a profiler with the
  Investigative Support Unit; Dr. Dana Scully was an instructor in the
  Forensic Science Research and Training Center.  If she had ever heard of
  the X-files, it had been as a humorous anecdote over the coffeepot in
  the break room at Quantico.  To her, there were no aliens, no
  abductions, no conspiracies, viruses, black oil, hybrids, or super-
  soldiers.  To her, she'd never been assigned as his partner.  They'd
  never spoken, solved a case, saved the world, fought, made up, made
  love, or had a child.
  
  Hello, my name is Fox Mulder.  We used to sit next to each other at the
  FBI.
  
  She looked at him, then at William, who was holding Mulder's shirt with
  one wet fist and gnawing on the other, trying to assuage his sore gums. 
  Mulder watched her for a sign of recognition, but there wasn't one.  She
  seemed to assume he'd brought his infant son along because it was the
  middle of the night and he couldn't get a sitter.  
  
  "I was abducted?" she asked finally.
  
  "Yes," he answered, hating that she was asking one question and he was
  answering another. "From the compound of The Church of the 13th Sign."
  
  "Ophiuchus," she said, more to herself than him.
  
  "Yes," he said again, the butterflies beginning to flutter in his
  stomach. "Do you remember?"
  
  "Ophiuchus is the 13th sign, Agent Mulder.  Due to slight shifts in the
  Earth's orbit over thousands of years, the elliptic -- the sun's path
  across the sky -- actually passes through thirteen zodiac signs.  From
  November 30th to December 17th, the Sun is in the house of Ophiuchus,
  the Serpent Bearer.  Which invalidates claims that astrology has any
  sort of scientific basis or-"
  
  She paused, seeming puzzled at his sudden twisted grin.  The butterflies
  in his belly were having a field day, and that tingling sensation
  trickled down his spine again, warming his tired body from the inside
  out.  
  
  "What is it, Agent Mulder?"
  
  "Nothing," he responded, bouncing William and smiling nostalgically as
  he turned to look at the sunrise. "It's just very nice to have you back,
  Agent Scully."
  
  ****
  
  Retrograde amnesia was the neurologist's best hypothesis, though there
  was no evidence of a head injury.  The psychiatrist leaned toward
  hysterical amnesia: the suppression of memory in reaction to a traumatic
  event.  The nurses had collected trace evidence and done a rape kit,
  both of which had been fruitless.  Aside from some muscular atrophy, the
  only physical abnormality was the remnants of branched DNA in her
  bloodstream, which the hematologist was at a loss to explain.  And, in
  her x-rays, a mysterious metallic speck at the base of her skull. 
  
  "Shrapnel, probably," the radiologist had assured her as Mulder stood
  by, silently studying the floor. "It shouldn't be causing memory loss."
  
  She'd been admitted as a comatose Jane Doe and woke twelve days later in
  the ICU, identifying herself as an FBI Agent and seeming weak but fairly
  coherent. It was when the hospital tried calling the phone numbers she
  gave as emergency contacts that the nurses began to suspect something
  was wrong.  They'd assumed she was delusional, but after she insisted,
  the police ran "Dana Scully" through the NCIC database and found she was
  listed as a missing person, much to her and their surprise.
  
  Despite the warnings against upsetting her "fragile emotional state," as
  soon as she was strong enough to sit up, Scully wanted to see her chart. 
  After that, she wanted to review the file on The Church of the 13th
  Sign, which, thanks to Kersh's legacy, was still a manila-encased bundle
  of misinformation.  She quizzed Mulder about Ophiuchus and the raid, and
  she got that frustrated crease in the white skin between her brows each
  time he repeated the sanitized-for-her-protection version of events. 
  
  An army of physicians told Scully to be patient, that her memory should
  return -- perhaps in increments, perhaps all at once.  They said forty-
  eight hours, then seventy-two, but almost three weeks after her
  admission to Allentown General there was still a gaping hole in her life
  where Mulder, William, and the X-files had once been.
  
  When he returned to the hospital Sunday evening after a catnap, shower,
  and shave, she was sitting near the window, looking at the newspaper. 
  Instead of a thin hospital gown, she wore the robe and slippers her
  mother had brought.  Her hair was drying, and the smell of industrial
  soap and shampoo lingered in the air.  Her dinner tray was on the small
  rolling table beside her, the food rearranged, but largely uneaten.
  
  "You're up," he observed neutrally. "It's good to see you out of bed."
  
  "Agent Mulder." She folded the paper and put it aside, then tucked her
  hair behind her ears and gave him that Mona Lisa smile as she said
  hello. "Mom helped.  She just left; you missed her."
  
  "No, I saw her in the parking lot; she was headed back to her hotel," he
  said, telling her the truth in the same way O'Doul's was beer. "How are
  you feeling tonight?"
  
  "Good.  Better.  You're solo, Agent Mulder.  Is the baby with his
  mother?"
  
  "No, she's-" He shook his head. "She's- No. William's with his
  grandmother tonight.  Just for a few hours."
  
  "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to pry.  You don't wear a wedding ring, and
  you keep him with you so much.  I thought you might only have him for
  weekend visits."
  
  "No," he said, but didn't elaborate.
  
  She smoothed her hair again, seeming self-conscious, and he cleared his
  throat. 
  
  Her room overlooked the darkening city, and Sirius was visible in the
  southern sky.  Just over a year ago, he'd lain in bed with her, his arms
  around her bare body and their legs intertwined, looking out his window
  as she told him about the Dog Star. It was the brightest of all stars,
  twenty-three times brighter than the sun, she'd said as he'd stroked her
  hair.  In myth, Sirius was Orion's hunting dog, and the Ancient
  Egyptians used it to predict the flooding of the Nile, she'd said, then
  raised her hand and pointed out the winter triangle: Sirius, Betelgeuse,
  and Canis Minor.  He'd taken her wrist, kissed a path to her shoulder,
  and rolled her to her back again.
  
  That was the night they'd made William.  Sirius had stood guard,
  watching over them until he sank into the horizon and Ophiuchus rose in
  the east.
  
  "Staring at me won't make me remember any faster," she said softly,
  jarring him back to reality.
  
  "Hum?" he asked, raising his eyebrows.
  
  "You were watching me again, Agent Mulder.  Like I have all these
  secrets locked up inside me, and you just need to remember where you've
  left the key."
  
  "No, I- Uh- I was just looking outside," he lied. "Thinking.  It's a
  pretty night."
  
  He couldn't tell if she believed that or if she was just being polite,
  but she turned her head, looking at the stars.  
  
  "My father taught me the constellations," she said. "When I was a little
  girl, he taught me how sailors navigated by the stars.  And the myths:
  Orion and Taurus and Gemini.  The Crab and The Lion and The Dragon.  I
  used to sit on the roof with him for hours, just looking at the night
  sky."
  
  He hesitated, then said, "Those sound like good memories."
  
  "Yes," she said softly.
  
  She watched the stars for a few more minutes and he pretended to watch
  with her, stealing occasional glances at her profile.
  
  "This afternoon, while you were gone, I asked Mom about my father," she
  told the window. "About why he hasn't come to the hospital or called. 
  She said he was at sea and changed the subject, but I- I don't think she
  told me the truth."
  
  "What do you think?" he hedged.
  
  She continued to focus on the dark glass. "I think he's dead.  I don't
  know it, but I feel it, somehow, like there's a hole inside me."
  
  He waited, not sure how to respond.  
  
  "Either you can tell me, Agent Mulder, or I can check the death records. 
  Am I right?  Is he dead?"  
  
  He nodded, though she wasn't looking at him. "He died in 1994.  Just
  after Christmas.  Of a heart attack. At his request, he was cremated and
  his remains were scattered into the sea."
  
  Two pained wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows. "How can I not
  remember that?" she asked hollowly.
  
  He didn't respond because he didn't have an answer.  Not one he could
  tell her, anyway.  The psychiatrist harped on hysterical amnesia being
  her mind's defense against the horror of her "kidnaping" and stressed
  that additional trauma could cause additional memory loss.  As much as
  Mulder wanted to roll his eyes and say, "Dana Scully's never been
  hysterical in her life," it wasn't as if he had a better explanation. 
  Or a better solution than just to wait.  
  
  Even though the chip in her neck might be blocking her memories, it
  couldn't be removed.  Or, if it was some form of brainwashing, he had no
  idea how to reverse it.  Even if he laid out the events of the last
  decade for her, complete with slides and police reports, it wasn't the
  same.  He could give her back facts, but not the essence of who she was. 
  The richness of life was in the moments people forgot: the minor
  squabbles, the casual discussions, the ebb and flow of everyday living. 
  That was what made her Scully: the little bits of life that were shaved
  off, swept up, thrown away, and lost over time.
  
  "Do you know Agent Jack Willis?  Agent Mulder," she asked after a few
  strained minutes. "Since you seem to know everything else about my
  life?"
  
  "Scully-" he started.
  
  "I called Quantico.  Obviously, he hasn't come to the hospital, but I
  thought... He gets caught up in his work, sometimes.  The secretary said
  Jack was killed in 1994.  That I was with him when he died." Her eyes
  started to shine, and she bit her lower lip white, shaking her head
  slowly. "But I don't remember."
  
  He squatted down in front of her chair, blocking her view of the sky.
  "Scully, stop.  Please don't do this to yourself."
  
  "I don't remember anything about the cult: where I was held, what was
  done to me, anything that might help you find the people who took me,"
  she said rapidly. "What if they're holding other women-"
  
  "Scully." He put one hand over hers. "Stop. You heard what the doctor
  said: don't force your mind; let the memories come back on their own. 
  There's time.  I can wait; we can wait.  You..." He stopped, then added,
  "You can't go looking for answers you aren't ready to find."
  
  She wiped her eyes, regaining some of her self-control. "Did any other
  tragedies happen in 1994 that I should know about?"
  
  "There was a really bad Star Trek movie.  And the World Series was
  canceled due to a players strike," he said. "I was in therapy for
  months."
  
  She sniffed and smiled sadly.
  
  "That's so pretty," he whispered, his face still close to hers. "When
  you smile like that."
   
  Caught off-guard, she inhaled, and then, for two breaths, held his gaze
  as the electricity crackled between them.  She had to feel it, just as
  he did; she just didn't know why.  When he started to move forward to
  kiss her, she moved back and looked away, wiping her eyes again, though
  she'd stopped crying.
  
  "Sorry," he said immediately, taking several steps back and leaning
  against the foot of the bed.  He looked down, watching his loafers and
  fidgeting.  
  
  When he stole a surreptitious glance, Scully was focused on the window
  again, her face expressionless.
  
  "I knew Agent Willis," he said eventually, shifting his hands against
  the bed. "Not well, but I'd met him.  There was a shootout in a bank,
  and both Willis and a criminal named Warren Dupre were wounded.  You
  were in the bank, but you weren't responsible for his death in any way. 
  In fact, you did everything you could to save his life.  You kept trying
  to get him back long after the ER docs wanted to give up."
  
  She showed no sign that she was even listening.
  
  He looked around her hospital room, searching for something neutral to
  talk about.  His gaze stopped on the uneaten food on her tray. "That
  stuff looks hazardous to your health," he said more casually than he
  felt. "What if I find a wheelchair and we go for a roll down to the
  cafeteria?  Whatever they're serving has to be more appetizing than
  this.  I can't let my one and only witness starve to death."
  
  She nodded silently, but as he started to leave, said, "I remember
  Warren Dupre.  I saw Jack doing this: become over-involved with the
  investigation.  And with Dupre's victims.  He knows- He knew them so
  well that he'd start to feel a kind of bond with them.  A kind of
  intimacy."
  
  He stopped in the doorway, turned, and rested his hand lightly on the
  metal doorjamb. 
   
  "Those feelings aren't real," she added quietly. "You're a profiler,
  Agent Mulder; you know that."
  
  He cleared his throat again, trying to dislodge the stubborn lump in it.
  "I'll go see about that wheelchair," he said.
  
  She nodded without looking at him.
   
  ****
  
  The shower in her hospital room was running when he arrived two mornings
  later, but the bathroom door was wide open.  Though he knew he
  shouldn't, he glanced in the bathroom, expecting to see Scully's
  silhouette through the shower curtain.  Instead, he noticed her standing
  in front of the mirror, staring at herself.
  
  "Scully?"
  
  Rather than answering, she turned her head, watching her reflection as
  it moved with her.  There was a towel and robe hanging outside the
  shower, but she'd gotten only as far as unbuttoning her pajama top.  Her
  hair was still dry, and was tousled from a restless night's sleep.
  
  "Scully?" he repeatedly worriedly, but she didn't look away. "Dana?  Are
  you okay?"
  
  She ran her hands over her body, oblivious to him.  Her expression was
  far away, like she was looking through the partially fogged mirror and
  seeing both the past and the future at once.
  
  "Are you remembering?" he asked softly and got no response.  He stepped
  closer. "Scully?"
  
  As he watched, she touched the tops of her breasts, then her hips, and
  then pushed her hair back from her face as she turned from side to side
  again, looking at herself.
  
  Her hair was shorter and slightly brighter than she would have
  remembered, and there were fine lines around her eyes and mouth.  Her
  breasts were softer and fuller; her hips were rounder.  Her cheeks and
  collarbones were more pronounced: a hollowness she'd never lost after
  her cancer.  She was thirty-seven, buffeted by time and tide into a
  strong, beautiful woman, but the Dana Scully she remembered had yet to
  reach thirty.
  
  She examined the changes with a scientist's eye.  Her body must have
  seemed familiar, yet foreign, like someone else had lived in it for the
  last decade.
  
  Her fingers stopped on her abdomen and pushed aside her cotton pajama
  top, examining the puckered scar that marked her skin.
  
  "You were shot," he explained, stepping into the bathroom. "In 1999, you
  were shot by another agent in the line of duty."
  
  "What else, Agent Mulder?" she asked in a carefully even voice. 
  
  The shower continued to drum against the tiles, and the steam eased out
  around the thin curtain.
  
  "Scully, the doctors said-"
  
  "What else?" she demanded.
  
  He moved so he stood behind her, looking at the reflection of the two of
  them in the mirror. "There are two scars on your neck." He raised his
  hand to indicate, close to her skin, but not touching. "A small one from
  your abduction, and one from a run-in with a cult in Utah in summer
  2000.  And you have a tattoo." His fingertips hovered over the small of
  her back. "Here.  A tattoo of a snake eating its tail."
  
  "An ouroboros."
  
  He nodded and lowered his hand.
  
  "I don't remember," she said raggedly, her self-control beginning to
  slip.
  
  "You will.  Just give yourself some time."
  
  "But what if I don't? What if I don't ever remember?"
  
  She stared at herself a little longer, then touched the sides of her
  belly, just above the waist of her pajama bottoms.  There were faint red
  lines there -- the map from a journey he'd shared very little of. 
  
  "I have stretch marks."
  
  He hesitated, then answered, "Yes."
  
  "I've given birth to a child.  Fairly recently."
  
  "Yes."
  
  She traced the marks, then looked up, meeting his gaze in the mirror.
  "You aren't here just to investigate my abduction, are you, Agent
  Mulder?"
  
  He shook his head slowly from side to side.
  
  "Your son... William.  Is that my baby?"
  
  He nodded.
  
  "Are you my husband?  Are we married?"
  
  "No," he answered quietly. "No, you didn't want to get married."  
  
  The mirror had fogged completely, offering only a hazy suggestion of who
  they were.  
  
  "Do you love me?" she asked in a hoarse whisper.
  
  "You know I do."
  
  She took a breath and put her hands on the white sink, steadying
  herself. "I want to go home.  Today.  Do we have a home?"
  
  "You have an apartment in Georgetown.  I have a place in Alexandria
  where I keep my fish, videos, and dirty laundry. After William came, I
  was staying with you."
  
  "And before that?"
  
  "Before that we worked together.  We've been partners for more than
  eight years."
  
  She turned, looking up at him, but keeping one hand on the sink. "I want
  to go home."
  
  Her face was beginning to flush from the steam, and her messy hair was
  curling around her face.  She was beautiful, but her eyes were tired. 
  Adrift.
  
  "I'll take you home," he promised.
  
  ****
  
  Scully was under the mistaken impression that he had his shit together.
  
  He knew the pretty picture she was seeing: a star profiler and a
  forensic pathologist were assigned as partners, fell in love, and,
  getting a little ahead of themselves, had a child out of wedlock. 
  Perhaps she'd had reservations about marriage, perhaps he had, but they
  were committed to each other and to their child. Suddenly, she was
  abducted, leaving the profiler to care for their infant son while he
  searched for her.  After months, via his brilliance and heroism, he'd
  found her and they were going home -- headed down that long stretch of
  highway into the sunset in a gray Volvo with their baby in the back.
  
  It could be a Lifetime movie of the week.
  
  Despite her bravado about feeling better, Scully was asleep before they
  hit the Pennsylvania Turnpike and didn't wake until they were
  approaching Baltimore.  Her mother had only brought pajamas to the
  hospital, so she was wearing a pair of hastily bought blue jeans from
  the outlet mall beside the motel and one of his old sweatshirts.  Her
  hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face was free of makeup,
  making her look very young as she yawned and opened her eyes.
  
  "I got coffee," he said.
  
  She turned her head and looked at him uncertainly, needing a few seconds
  to remember where she was, who he was, and why she was in a car with
  him.
  
  "I got coffee," he repeated, gesturing to the other cup in the holder.
  "When I stopped to change the chub scout a bit ago, there was a coffee
  shop.  It should still be hot."
  
  "Thank you," she answered politely and took the one he'd indicated.  She
  took a careful sip, then turned her head to watch the miles of highway
  pass outside her window. 
  
  He glanced in the rearview mirror, checking on William, and focused on
  midday traffic.  Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Scully looking
  down, studying her cup.
  
  "Did they get it wrong?"
  
  "No.  It's fine.  Dark roast -- cream, no sugar."
  
  "Then what is it?" he asked after several seconds of silence. "Scully? 
  Are you all right?"
  
  "I'm fine.  It's just eerie," she said, still looking down. "You know
  how I like my coffee.  What size I wear.  My medical history.  My work
  history.  My family.  We have a baby, so obviously... You know all about
  me-"
  
  "But you don't know anything about me," he finished for her. 
  
  She nodded. "I've heard the stories.  How the Bureau recruited you right
  out of Oxford.  How you were solving cases before you even graduated
  from the academy.  How you'd be driving along, notice what you thought
  looked like a good place to dump a body, check, and find one."
  
  "That was one time in Oklahoma.  Back road; call of nature; lucky guess:
  a legend is born." There was a pause. "Since there's no sign of damage
  to the hippocampus, it's still possible some or all of your memories
  will return.  Especially if you're calm, and around familiar people and
  things.  But you're a doctor; you already know that," he finished
  lamely.
  
  "I already know that," she echoed softly, then, a little later, added,
  "My mother likes you."
  
  "Your mother tolerates me.  Bill, Jr. hates me."
  
  "And my father?"
  
  "I never got to meet him.  I know he was proud of you, though.  You were
  his Starbuck."
  
  She sipped her coffee and went back to watching the window.  He adjusted
  his hands on the steering wheel, hoping she would say something else,
  but she didn't.
  
  "About two years ago, after being told you couldn't conceive a child
  naturally, you approached me about in vitro fertilization," he started
  carefully. "You asked me to donate anonymously, as your friend, and I
  agreed.  We did everything the doctor said -- the tests and the hormones
  and the sterile cups -- and six months and a lot of heartbreak later,
  you still weren't pregnant.  You could have tried again with donor ova,
  but you didn't."
  
  Her face was turned away as she focused on roadside billboards, so he
  couldn't gauge her reaction.
  
  "Until William, we worked on the X-files Unit, which specializes in
  cases involving bizarre, paranormal, or unexplained phenomena," he
  continued, picking his way across a verbal minefield. "We had a pretty
  good solve rate, given what we had to work with.  We can solve the cases
  and catch the monsters, but when it comes to us, we're kind of two-
  steps-forward, three-steps-back, Scully.  Last March, during one of
  those steps forward... You got your miracle."
  
  He adjusted his hands again and checked the back of her head for any
  response.
  
  "I love you.  I'd go to the ends of the Earth for you; I'd come back
  from the dead for you, but we didn't plan to have a child together --
  not like this.  I don't think you knew what to say to me, and I had no
  idea what to say to you.  I wasn't sure how or if I fit into the
  picture.  You were the one who'd prayed for a baby, and you seemed
  perfectly prepared to raise him alone if I wouldn't have come back." 
  
  She paused a moment before she answered. "But you did come back."
  
  "And so did you," he said quietly. "It's not perfect, Scully.  You, me,
  us -- it's not even close."
  
  She nodded slightly that she understood, barely moving her head.
  
  Mulder opened his mouth, then lost his nerve and said instead, "The good
  news is that all my witty puns will seem new to you. And you have ten
  years of Keanu Reeves and Kevin Costner movies to catch up on."
  
  "Someone's still paying those two to make movies?"
  
  "Strangely, yes," he deadpanned. "It is an X-file."
  
  She looked at him and smiled -- that same sad smile as in the hospital -
  - the polite expression of someone who was lost, but didn't want to
  admit it.
   
  ****
  
  Since childhood, it had been his favorite time: just before dawn, before
  even a fine layer of daybreak began to glow on the dark horizon. 
  Outside, the stars glittered like blue and yellow diamonds, and the
  silence covered the world like a goose down comforter.  For years he'd
  gone for early morning runs, pushing his body, clearing the cobwebs from
  his mind, and savoring the blood coursing through his veins.  Now pre-
  dawn was a gentle, tactile time of cool air and warm bottles, flannel
  pajama bottoms and cotton onesies, and the infinite richness of his
  son's skin.
  
  William finished the bottle, releasing the nipple with a soft pop and a
  satisfied burp.
  
  "Well, that cuts out a step," Mulder whispered, looking down and running
  his fingertips over the baby's full belly.
  
  "Muh," William informed him solemnly, tracking his face with his blue
  eyes.
  
  "Muh," he agreed, and shifted the baby in the crook of his other arm as
  they looked out Scully's living room windows.  The ripe moon was a pale
  rust color, lingering in the west like the backdrop of a movie -- too
  beautiful to be real.  As they watched, a falling star passed across it,
  burning like a comet, and disappeared in the blackness of space.
  
  "That's a gypsy moon," he told William quietly. "When a shooting star
  crosses paths with a full moon.  It's an old legend; if you see a gypsy
  moon you're doomed to wander like a gypsy, always in search of something
  just past the edge of your dreams.  Your mommy told me that story," he
  whispered. "Except she'd add that there is seldom any scientific or
  historical basis to such legends, and the 'shooting star' we saw is
  really just a chunk of space rock falling into Earth's atmosphere. 
  Mommy kinda misses the point of things, sometimes, but we love her
  anyway."
  
  William patted the front of Mulder's old t-shirt thoughtfully as they
  studied the night sky.
  
  "I guess that makes us gypsies, buddy."
  
  "Muh," the baby responded.
  
  "Yeah, muh," Mulder agreed softly.
  
  He heard Scully's bed shift, then tentative footsteps followed by water
  running in the bathroom.  A few minutes later, she emerged in a satiny
  pair of white pajamas, drying her face with a towel.  She paused to look
  around her dim living room, glanced at Mulder's wadded blanket on the
  sofa, and then turned and started toward the empty nursery, still a
  little unsteady on her feet.
  
  "We're here," he said, trying not to startle her. "William's here.  He's
  awake."
  
  "Is he all right?"
  
  "He's fine.  Just awake.  He gets up early."
  
  She adjusted her loose pajama top as if she were wrapping a robe around
  her body. "What time is it?" she whispered as she approached, her bare
  feet soundless on the rug.
  
  "A little before six."
  
  "I slept that long?  Why didn't you wake me?"
  
  "You need your rest.  I think you were out before your head hit your
  pillow yesterday afternoon."
  
  She stopped a few feet from him, pushing her tousled hair back from her
  face and tucking it behind her ears. "Did anything important happen?"
  
  "In the last twelve hours or the last nine years?" 
  
  The ghost of a smile passed across her lips. "Start with the last twelve
  hours and we can go from there."
  
  He paused before he answered, momentarily distracted.  
  Before William's birth, he'd seen her like this only on a handful of
  occasions: lazily half-wake, relaxed, before she'd buttoned up her
  daytime armor. Uncoifed.  Vulnerable.  Imperfectly beautiful.  
  
  "Your mom came by to stock the refrigerator, chastise me for letting you
  leave the hospital, and give me a few warnings about propriety," he said
  quietly. "I'm supposed to tell you that there's food in the fridge,
  she'll be back at eight a.m., and you should call her if there are any -
  - and she means any -- problems.  Before she left, she put a blanket and
  pillow on the sofa and rather pointedly said she hoped I'd be
  comfortable sleeping there."
  
  "She forgets I'm a grown woman, sometimes, but my mother means well."
  
  "Scully, I've known your mother for eight years.  I know she means well. 
  So how does this rate on the eeriness scale?" he asked. "Waking up in an
  apartment you don't remember moving into and finding a baby and a
  strange man in your living room?"
  
  "You don't seem that strange."
  
  "Wait 'til you get to know me," he responded, and earned another of
  those gentle, easy smiles so rarely seen after their first year
  together.
  
  He remembered this woman: the one who'd made her way through the
  rheumatic bowels of the Hoover Building to appear in his life in 1992 --
  an unnecessary and unwelcome Bureau-designated yin to his yang.  She'd
  been softer, more trusting, less batted around by life.  That Dana
  Scully had been a hundred and ten pounds of rational explanations and
  wide-eyed wonder, constantly at his heels and hell-bent on poking holes
  in any theory he threw out.
  
  He wondered if he'd loved her even then.
  
  "You're doing it again, Agent Mulder," she said softly, bringing him
  back to reality. "Watching me."
  
  "William was watching you." He smoothed the mink-like chestnut wisps
  that covered the baby's head. "I was merely holding him, Agent Scully."
  
  She studied him for a moment, seeming unconvinced, then turned her head
  to look out the window at the sleeping city.
  
  "Scully?" he said when she was quiet so long it started to worry him.
  "Are you all right?"
  
  "I was just thinking- As difficult as this is for me to comprehend, it
  must be equally difficult for you.  When you look at me like that... We
  have a child together, and I don't even remember your middle name.  Or
  how old you are.  Your birthday.  Your favorite food.  When we met.  Or
  the first time we kissed."
  
  "William," he answered softly, in the intimate darkness. "My middle name
  is William.  Fox William Mulder."
  
  She looked back at him, the streetlight outside playing across her face,
  gently illuminating half while leaving the other half in shadow.
  
  "Forty-one.  October 13, 1961.  And I have an almost unnatural fondness
  for sunflower seeds."
  
  "And the rest?" she asked, her voice an octave lower.
  
  "We met March 6, 1992 when you marched into my office in your God-awful
  plaid suit and announced I was a complete - albeit brilliant - crackpot
  for believing there were mysteries inexplicable by modern science." He
  paused to savor the memory as if it was fine wine on his tongue. "And
  December 31, 1999.  A New Year's Eve kiss that we later pretended
  happened because I was under the influence of pain killers."
  
  "And William?"
  
  He moistened his lips. "March 23, 2000.  You fell asleep on my sofa, and
  when I woke up in the middle of the night, you were standing beside my
  bed.  You were gone when I woke up the next morning."
  
  "Was that the first time?"
  
  "No."
  
  She broke eye contact and looked down, focusing on the baby in his arms.
  "You have a good memory for dates."
  
  "Only the important ones," he responded.
  
  He could feel the warmth radiating from her body.  He could imagine how
  her skin would feel if he pressed his lips against the hollow of her
  throat, and how it would smell if he buried his face in her neck.  Her
  skin would be warm and smooth and velvety, like a peach in the summer
  sun.  And if Nirvana had its own fragrance line, it would be a
  combination of William's No More Tears-scented crown and the soft spot
  that pulsed just under Scully's left ear.  All he wanted was to lead her
  back to bed, lay William between them, interlace their fingers, close
  his eyes, and sleep for about five years. 
  
  The worst way to miss a woman was to be inches from her, knowing he
  couldn't have her.  After all his searching, he'd found a Dana Scully --
  just not the same one he'd lost almost four months ago.
  
  "We saw a gypsy moon," he told her, then cleared his throat as she
  looked up. "William and I.  Just before you got up, we saw a shooting
  star cross the full moon.  So we're cursed: doomed to wander forever."
  
  "That's just an old legend.  My father used to put me to bed with a
  story about the gypsy moon."
  
  "I know.  You told that story to me," he said. "One night.  During some
  stakeout.  I'm just warning you: if it's true, you're dealing with two
  gypsies now."
  
  "Well, I'll consider myself duly warned."
  
  She hesitated, then reached out, tracing the sole of the baby's foot
  with her index finger. Instinctively, William curled his toes and pulled
  his foot back, and she lowered her hand.  
  
  "You know, I never gave much thought to having children.  While my
  friends were getting married and starting families, I was busy with
  medical school and my career.  I just assumed, someday..."
  
  "This is someday, Scully," he reminded her gently.
  
  "I guess it is," she agreed. "Do you think he'd let me hold him?"
  
  "Do you want to?"
  
  She nodded silently.
  
  Without comment, he nodded to the armchair beside the fireplace, and she
  sat down, looking like she was next to be called on in a spelling bee. 
  
  "What should I do?"
  
  "Relax," he told her. "You're a natural at this, I promise, and there
  isn't much to it: feed, change, burp, bathe, love, and do not drop on
  head.  Repeat as necessary."
  
  As he knelt and shifted William to her uncertain arms, he noticed an
  ache inside his chest, like his heart was under siege by an army of toy
  soldiers wielding little plastic cocktail swords.  
  
  "Got him?" he asked, staying close to her.  
  
  "I think so."
  
  The baby took his fingers out of his mouth, looked to Mulder for
  reassurance, then laid his head trustingly against her shoulder and his
  wet hand on Scully's breast, toying with her silky pajama top.
  
  Those toy soldiers overran Mulder's heart, skewering it with their
  plastic swords so it leaked as if from a hundred miniscule paper cuts. 
  Relief, fear, anger, hurt, and undying love -- all seeped out and
  swirled together in the choppy sea inside him while the surface remained
  deceptively calm.
  
  "See," he whispered, then had to clear his throat again as he moved
  back, his arms feeling preternaturally empty. "Nothing to it."
  
  ****
  
  Unfortunately, the wackos and sickos of the world were oblivious to the
  Family and Medical Leave Act, and the ISU was only a shade better. 
  Mulder could call in dead and someone from the Investigative Support
  Unit would still be waving a field report over his casket, wanting him
  to review it before the undertaker closed the lid.
  
  Using Scully's computer, Mulder deleted the unread memos from his inbox,
  scanned the other e-mails, then picked up the thick package that had
  been couriered from Quantico that afternoon.  He sighed as he leafed
  through the glossy black and white crime photos in the first file, read
  a few reports, and then decided a strong pot of coffee was in order.
  
  William had been down since eight and hopefully wouldn't wake for
  another few hours.  Scully was on the sofa, curled under a throw blanket
  with the remote control still in her hand.  She'd been mumbling earlier
  but was quiet now, her chest rising and falling gently as she dozed.  He
  slid the remote from her fingers, muted the television, and tucked the
  blanket around her.
  
  Within minutes, Mr. Coffee's white plastic belly was gurgling and the
  scent of French roast was weaving its way through the apartment.  While
  he waited, Mulder found a mug and opened a few cabinets, scanning the
  choices for a potential midnight snack.
  
  "Don't you ever sleep, Agent Mulder?" Scully asked from the doorway,
  taking him by surprise.
  
  "It's 'Mulder.'" He closed the cabinet and slouched back against the
  counter, gesturing to the sofa in the next room. "And you were in my
  bed."
  
  "Oh," she said with the morning-after awkwardness of a woman who
  couldn't quite remember the night before.
  
  The coffee pot dripped its last trickle, and he filled his NICAP mug,
  dosing it liberally with sugar. "Caffeine and empty carbohydrates: just
  like sleep in a cup," he told her, wrapping his hands around the warm
  mug and raising it to his lips.
  
  She looked at him numbly, either still half asleep or momentarily
  wondering if life was some cosmic mistake and Fate was about to take it
  all back.  
  
  It had been a week since he'd brought her home from Allentown General,
  ignoring the doctors' objections. With physical therapy, her strength
  was returning gradually, but despite his best efforts, there were still
  no flickers of memory, no flashbacks, no nothing.  There was still a
  void between early 1992 and waking in the hospital room a month ago. 
  Except in the life she'd woken to, her father and sister were gone.  The
  doctors were saying she was sterile, yet she had a child she couldn't
  remember giving birth to, fathered by a man she couldn't remember even
  kissing.  In her absence, the world had moved on, leaving her behind to
  flounder in its wake.
  
  He could tell her that he understood, but she'd never believe him.
  
  "You okay?" he asked, already knowing her response.
  
  She nodded and said, "Fine."
  
  "Did you have a bad dream?"
  
  She shook her head. "I don't think so.  I don't have dreams.  Not that I
  remember, anyway."
  
  "Good," he said softly and blew across the black surface of his coffee,
  sending miniature ripples.
  
  She glanced at him, then looked away, and he could hear the gears grind
  as she changed the subject. "It looks like you're planning to be up a
  while."
  
  "Work." He nodded to the sterile collage of death on the kitchen table.
  "I was hoping to get a profile or two done while you and William were
  sleeping."
  
  "I should let you work, then."
  
  He responded by putting his coffee mug down, pulling out the chair at
  the head of the table, and offering it to her.  As she sat down, he got
  out the tea bags and a second cup, and turned the burner on under the
  kettle.  Once her tea was underway, he slid into the chair on her right. 
  
  
  "Are you working on anything interesting?" she asked awkwardly.
  
  "Just your run-of-the-mill sociopaths, psychopaths, pedophiles, and,
  possibly, if I'm lucky, a zombie."
  
  He gave Scully a tired grin as he picked up the first of the field
  reports.  One of William's pacifiers was resting between the salt and
  pepper shakers, and he picked it up as well, toying with it idly as he
  read.
  
  "You do know there's no such thing as a zombie, don't you, Agent
  Mulder?"
  
  "We have a few old files that beg to differ," he responded without
  looking up.
  
  She was quiet a while, and he was on the third page of the report when
  she asked, "Do you miss it? Working on the X-files?"
  
  "Sometimes," he admitted casually. "But field work, flukemen, and
  fatherhood don't mix well."
  
  "When did you transfer?"
  
  "'Transfer' isn't really the correct term.  When I came back, Agent
  Doggett had been assigned to the X-files, and you hadn't taken maternity
  leave yet. No openings -- at least, that was the official reason.  I was
  assigned to another division for about two seconds before the Bureau and
  I had a difference of opinion and I was removed from the FBI payroll.  I
  didn't go back to work until recently, when Skinner approached me about
  a position with the ISU."
  
  It took a few tries before she worked up to the question he knew was
  coming. 
  
  "When you say you left and came back... Did that have to do with
  William?  With me being pregnant?"
  
  He set the field report aside and leaned forward, interlacing his
  fingers. "In a way, but not like you're imagining.  Last April, I went
  to Bellefleur, Oregon investigating a, a- Investigating a group we
  believed was affiliated with the one that later took you.  You weren't
  feeling well, so you stayed in DC.  You'd been dizzy, queasy, tired, but
  neither of us put two and two together.  I called you from the motel,
  wanting to know what the doctor said, but you never answered.  That
  evening I walked into the woods outside Bellefleur and, like you, seemed
  to vanish off the face of the planet.  The next time I laid eyes on you,
  it was six months later, I was in an ICU in Baltimore, and you were a
  couple of weeks from giving birth."
  
  "What happened to you during those six months?"
  
  "Bad things," was all he answered.
  
  "You don't want to talk about it?"
  
  "No, I don't."
  
  The sides of the teakettle creaked as it heated, and the steam from his
  coffee mug rose silently between them, dissolving into nothing.  From
  the tabletop, the gray bodies in the glossy photos stared up at them
  with lifeless eyes. 
  
  "You had to make a choice, Scully: whether to put yourself and the baby
  at risk by searching for me when I was abducted, or to keep the baby
  safe and let me go.  I think you made the right decision."
  
  "But it wasn't a decision you had any say in."
  
  "You wanted a child-"
  
  "And you didn't," she said quietly, picking at the sleeve of her
  bathrobe.
  
  "We have dangerous careers, Scully, and we've made a lot of dangerous
  enemies.  And you and I -- we each have enough issues to start our own
  weekly magazine. Together, we're spontaneous combustion.  And a slow,
  smoldering burn.  And a disaster worthy of The Red Cross."
  
  She glanced up at him, then down again.
  
  "But that doesn't mean I didn't want a child," he continued after
  several seconds. "At first I wanted him for you, because I loved you and
  you wanted a baby.  When I came back and you were pregnant, I wanted him
  because he was part of you.  After you were abducted, because he was a
  link to you, because William was the last part of you that I could hold
  against me and keep safe.  You gave me every chance to walk away, and I
  did the right thing for all the wrong reasons.  But that doesn't change
  the fact that I did it.  And I don't regret one minute of it: being a
  father, taking care of my son.  And now you're back..."
  
  "Partially, at least." She ducked her head slightly as if embarrassed.
  "I guess I owe you about five months of back child support."
  
  "God, Scully -- you don't owe me anything," he said hoarsely, the dam
  inside him cracking a little. "You told me once, right before William
  was born, that I gave you a gift.  Maybe I did, but you can't imagine
  the one you've given me in return.  The things I thought mattered in my
  life... They pale."
  
  She looked up, her face was inches from his, her shining eyes deep and
  blue.  Either he moved forward or she did or they both did, because his
  mouth met hers -- tentatively at first, then as an invited guest.  Her
  lips were soft, her breath was warm against his skin, and her mouth
  tasted milky and sweet, like the last traces of hot chocolate coaxed
  from the bottom of the cup.  His entire body exhaled, relaxing.  It was
  like standing in a river, feeling the power of the current against his
  body, and, just for a few seconds, against his better judgment, letting
  it take him where it would.
  
  He pulled back before she did, rubbing his wet lips together as his eyes
  darted over her face. "I dreamed of you," he whispered. "Every night. 
  Just like you dreamed of me."
  
  She blinked, not understanding, and reality returned, settling over him
  like a chill. 
  
  "Sorry," he mumbled, sitting back.  
  
  He picked up a random report, staring blankly at the sea of type until
  he felt her warm hand on his.  When he looked over the top of the
  report, she gave him an uncertain smile. "Don't be," she told him.
  
  He gave her a half-hearted grin to cover up the secrets he was carrying
  like concealed weapons.  The dull ache of want pulsed inside him, mixing
  with a few angry, illogical twinges from old wounds only half-healed. 
  It made no sense to resent her for things she couldn't remember.  This
  wasn't the same Scully; his forebrain understood that.  His male ego --
  the insecure little troll with abandonment issues who lived under the
  bridge between his brain and his heart -- was sleep-deprived and slower
  to catch on.
  
  "You're tired.  You need to rest.  Why don't you go to bed?" he
  suggested softly. "I can save the world solo tonight."
  
  "Okay." 
  
  On unsteady autopilot, she got up and made her way toward the dark
  bedroom, leaving him alone to break bread with the dead.  Behind him,
  the pressure built inside the teakettle while her teacup waited on the
  kitchen counter, empty.
   
  ****
  
  She treated her apartment like a crime scene: piecing together the
  evidence left behind by a woman she wasn't, but bore a remarkable
  resemblance to.  Like any good agent, she'd searched her desk drawers
  and closet shelves for clues, bringing him the remains of her life for
  positive identification.
  
  Some questions he could answer: a tarnished dog tag, his nameplate from
  the X-files office, a handmade fabric doll, an old baseball, and a trio
  of receipts from a Pizza Hut in the American heartland, their purple ink
  faded to barely legible.  But most mementoes Mulder could only guess at
  the significance of: a mysteriously fused penny and dime, a movie stub
  from a movie he'd never seen -- perhaps a remnant of a hiccough in the
  space-time continuum from a case, perhaps the last matinee she'd seen
  with Melissa.
  
  Scully wasn't satisfied with "perhaps," and he didn't expect her to be. 
  The scientist in her wanted definitive answers.  The I in FBI and all
  that.  
  
  He loved her, he loved his son, and there were dark forces -- her
  religious cultists, his elusive Them -- working to bring about the end
  of the world.  As soon as he figured out the truth beyond that, he'd
  tell her, and then they'd both know.
  
  ****
  
  Outside her apartment, the sky was shifting from dark mottled gray to
  deep sapphire, with the first stars appearing between the clouds.  A
  storm had washed the city clean, scouring the grime from the sidewalk
  and the smog from the air.  In its aftermath, streams flowed from
  gutters and down spouts, and a cool breeze rustled the leaves, shaking
  the last droplets free.  
  
  "Which way?" she asked as they reached the end of her block, venturing
  out for an evening walk.
  
  "Up to you," he responded, letting her set the pace.
  
  Rather than crossing the street, she turned left, and he and William
  followed.  He pushed the stroller as they walked slowly, side-by-side
  but not touching.  
  
  "I've been wondering about something," Scully said as they ambled along,
  skirting the puddles. "What should I call you?"
  
  "That depends on whether I'm in or out of your good graces.  There's
  'Damn it, Mulder' and 'Stop that, Mulder' and 'Shut up, Mulder' and 'Are
  you insane, Mulder?' You use that last one a lot."
  
  "No, I'm serious.  What are we?"
  
  "I'm not sure I understand the question."
  
  "We have a baby together.  We're friends.  We used to be partners.  I
  was just wondering what we are now."
  
  "Ah," he said rather than a real answer.
  
  "I- I'm getting stronger, feeling better.  After everything that's
  happened, all that I've missed, I just want things to get back to
  normal.  I suppose what I'm asking is: what is 'normal,' for us."
   
  Mulder inhaled, breathing the clean scent of ozone deep into his lungs
  and buying time before he spoke. "Normal, for us, is a little
  complicated, Scully."
  
  She focused on the sidewalk in front of them while he turned his head,
  watching their reflection in the windows of the brick townhouses.  He
  saw an attractive upper-middle class couple wearing blue jeans   he in a
  sweatshirt, her in a t-shirt and cardigan   taking their son for a
  stroll.  It was remarkable how ordinary they looked, given a little
  distance and the right vantage point.
  
  "And, there's William," he added eventually.
  
  "And there's William," she agreed.
  
  "You'd talked about going back to work at Quantico," he said, though the
  question he was answering wasn't the one she'd been asking. "Teaching
  part-time.  I'm in my office at the ISU Tuesdays and Thursdays.  If you
  taught Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, we wouldn't need for your mother
  to watch the baby."
   
  "I think the licensing board and the Bureau might take issue with me not
  remembering any of the continuing education courses I've attended in the
  last nine years."
  
  "But you attended them."
  
  "The licensing board won't see it that way."
  
  "Oh," he responded.
  
  The jogging stroller's rubber wheels hummed against the wet sidewalk. 
  The streetlights came on, glowing white against the sky as day rolled on
  into night.
  
  "I want my life back, Mulder," she added eventually. 
  
  "I know that.  I guess my question is, which life?"
  
  "Mine.  Ours.  Good or bad.  You're the only one I can really ask, and I
  wish you'd answer me instead of hedging and talking in circles."
  
  He stopped, keeping one hand on the stroller as he leaned back against
  the brick stoop of an upscale apartment building. 
  
  "The first time was a mistake," he said without looking at her. "My
  mother had committed suicide, I was out of my head and, as always, you
  were there with me, trying to bring me back.  I needed something warm
  and real to hold onto, and I guess you misread that.  I guess.  I don't
  know.  We never talked about it."
  
  He toyed with the foam padding on the stroller handle as he watched the
  baby.
  
  "What about the second time?" she prompted after a pause. "Was that a
  mistake, too?"
  
  "No," he answered immediately. "That night was..." He hesitated, tasting
  the words on his lips before he released them. "Wild and passionate and
  perhaps ill-considered.  But it was real.  Then I was gone."
  
  A car rolled past, its tires splashing slowly through the potholes as
  its wipers cleared away a few stray drops from the windshield.
  
  "A few days after William was born, I came over to your apartment to
  visit, stayed to help out, and never left.  Six weeks later, you were
  gone.  What are we?  Best friends, ex-partners, marginal lovers, and
  soul mates filing separately.  I would kill for you, no questions asked,
  Scully, but I'll fight you to the death if you try to take my son away
  from me.  Do I love you?  With all my heart and soul, in this lifetime
  and the next.  Did you love me?  I can't answer that for you."
  
  "I think you can."
  
  He exhaled. "Yeah, I probably can." He watched the water flow down the
  edge of the street, toward the storm drain. "You left, Scully.  You made
  a deal with Kersh without telling me, and, less than forty-eight hours
  later, you were gone.  I know you had your reasons, and I know it wasn't
  your fault you were abducted, but..."
  
  "But it still hurts," she finished for him. "I hurt you very badly.  No
  wonder you watch me like you do, but then pull away."
  
  "But you don't remember," he said, correcting her, his words coming
  faster. "I know what your reasons were, Scully, but you don't.  I
  remember all the fears and things left unsaid and late nights and
  promises and regrets between us that led you to make that decision.  I
  wish I could explain all that to you so you could understand why you put
  yourself at risk for my sake, and then I could be angry at you because
  yes - yes, you hurt me very badly."
                 
  The breeze blew her hair slightly, and her face was still pale and
  tired, like it had been that gray January morning last year when she met
  with Skinner and Kersh.
  
  "You don't remember me," he said after a long pause. "You don't remember
  us, and I don't want you to act out of obligation.  I know you want your
  life back, but this isn't the life you chose; it's just the one you woke
  up to.  You're right: we don't work together anymore.  We aren't
  married.  We aren't even really lovers.  If it weren't for William..."
  He trailed off. "I'm not sure I can give you the life you wanted.  In
  fact, I know I can't.  I can't be something I'm not, even for you."
  
  "I don't want you to be," she responded. 
  
  "You do.  You-" He faltered, and then ran his lower lip between his
  teeth before biting it. "You did.  You said being with me was like
  falling, and eventually, logically, you would hit the ground.  You said
  you needed a foundation and I couldn't give you one."
  
  She looked up at him and considered a moment before she spoke. "I don't
  feel like I'm falling now."
  
  He took a breath and his voice dropped an octave when he spoke again.
  "That's, that's good."
  
  "What do you want?" she asked after a pause. "You seem very focused on
  what I want; what is it that you want, Mulder?"
       
  "For you to be safe, to have what you want out of life.  I want William
  to never have to be afraid.  Guaranteeing those things, though, for us:
  it takes a little more than dual air bags, outlet covers, and good
  financial planning."
  
  Cars passed on the street and a young couple walked past, hand in hand,
  glancing down to admire the baby.
  
  "I'm not trying to make major life decisions, Mulder.  I'm just trying
  to make sense of everything, to put all the pieces together: you,
  William, what's happened to me, what's happened between us."
  
  "So am I," he said softly.
  
  She moved in front of him, stepping up to the lowest step of the stoop
  so they were eye to eye.  In the stroller, William babbled to himself,
  and the evening breeze rustled Scully's hair again. 
  
  "So where do we go from here?"
  
  He smirked. "The last time you asked me that, I told you we had all the
  time in the world."
  
  "We still do," she responded quietly.
  
  She took his hand, her fingers warm and alive against his.  After a
  second, she stepped forward, laying her head against his chest.  Beneath
  his shirt, his heart beat against her cheek, sending out a slow SOS in
  Morse code.  Letting go of the stroller, he cupped the back of her head
  with his palm and closed his eyes.  
  
  The sounds of the city continued around them: tires on wet pavement, the
  water flowing past, the breeze blowing the tree leaves up to reveal
  their pale underbelly. She stayed a long moment and then stepped back. 
  As she did, he tucked her hair behind her ear, letting his fingers
  linger on her cheek too long to pass as accidental.
  
  She smiled.
  
  Behind her head, the last of the clouds had thinned and parted, allowing
  the stars to shine in the space where the storm had finally broken and
  rolled back.
  
  "You could stay home with William for a while," he offered. "Get better. 
  Get to know him again.  And me.  And then we could go from there."  
  
  "I'd like that."
  
  "Okay, then," he said as if they'd just negotiated a complex business
  deal. 
  
  They walked on, neither of them speaking until they reached the end of
  the block.  She stopped, as did he, waiting, thinking she was getting
  tired.
  
  "Which way?" she asked.
  
  "If you turn left again, we'll go around the block and end up right back
  where we started.  Or, if you feel like walking a little farther, you
  could turn right and we could stop for ice cream."
  
  She turned right, and he and William followed, taking the long way home.
  
  ****
  
  Among her many pearls of parenting wisdom, Mrs. Scully had informed him
  that it was extremely unsanitary to bathe a baby in the sink.  She
  hadn't specified whether it was extremely unsanitary for the baby or the
  sink.  So far, William didn't appear any worse for wear.  Mulder
  couldn't vouch for Scully's kitchen sink.
  
  "It's for you," Scully said, passing him the cordless phone. "I think
  it's that weird little man again," she added impassively before she
  returned to wiping baby food off the kitchen table.
  
  Mulder cradled the receiver between his ear and his shoulder as he kept
  a tight grip on the baby. "Give it a rest, Romeo," he advised. "Juliet
  has a quick temper and a big gun."
  
  "Agent Scully just hasn't yet recalled her love for me," Frohike's voice
  responded with great certainty. 
  
  "Is there a reason you called, Frohike, or did you just run out of
  people to creep out in Baltimore?"
  
  "You still interested in that cloning lab?"
  
  "Why?" he asked slowly.
  
  "Because we finally found it."
  
  Mulder glanced over his shoulder at Scully, who was paying no attention.
  "Keep talking," he said into the receiver, cautiously.  
  
  "The Omega Center for Reproductive Medicine, located outside
  Philadelphia.  Langly and I did a little creative interfacing with their
  database this morning, Mulder.  The records you discovered at The
  Lombard Research Facility, the MUFON women who'd supposedly undergone
  fertility treatment: The Omega Center has them on file.  Ditto Agent
  Scully's in-vitro and first- and second-trimester records from Zeus
  Genetics." 
  
  "You think everything was transferred there?"
  
  "That would be my guess," Frohike said. "The scope of the project must
  have narrowed, because there doesn't seem to be any other clinics." 
  
  William splashed in the sink, sloshing warm water on the front of
  Mulder's shirt.  The TV in the living room was tuned to some nature
  documentary and the dishwasher was humming beside him.  Scully was still
  wiping strained green beans off the kitchen table, cleaning up after
  William's latest round of Gerber grenade warfare.  A postcard on the
  side of the refrigerator reminded him that the Volvo needed an oil
  change, and the grocery list indicated they needed diapers and wipes.
  
  A semi-normal life: fragile, handle with care.  Minor imperfections may
  occur.
  
  "You're sure?" he asked.
  
  "Are we ever not sure?" Frohike responded self-righteously.
  
  ****
  
  His head-to-toe covert-ops ensemble was marred only by a fresh spit-up
  stain on the shoulder of his black mock turtleneck.  He wiped off as
  much as possible, then dabbed at the spot with a wet washcloth half-
  heartedly.  At some point on his crusade, Spooky Mulder had reached the
  stage where a little vomit didn't automatically render a garment
  unwearable.
  
  "You know, Hugo and Giorgio should send me condolence cards," he told
  Scully as she entered the bedroom, carrying the sleepy baby. "Hugo Boss
  and Giorgio Armani: we used to be close."
  
  She shifted William to one hip as she watched him in front of the
  bathroom mirror. "It's not coming out?"
  
  He gave the stain one last dab before he gave up, tossed the washcloth
  in the laundry hamper, and left the bathroom. "Well, I wouldn't feel
  fully dressed anymore without a little baby puke."
  
  She didn't respond, and he felt her watching him as he fastened his
  watch and shrugged on his jacket.
  
  "What?"
  
  "I'm used to seeing you either in suits or jeans.  I was just thinking
  that you look very..." She seemed to hunt for the right word.
  "Different."
  
  His nondescript black jeans, shirt, boots, and leather jacket were
  veterans of a hundred expeditions to places he wasn't supposed to be,
  but they were new to Scully.
  
  "Good different or bad different?"
  
  Again, she paused before she answered. "Dangerous different.  More like
  what I'd imagined when I heard people talk about you."
  
  "Surprised?" 
  
  "Not at all," she said.
  
  "Damn. I thought I was doing so well. With the fugly-ass Volvo and all."
  
  She shook her head 'no' and gave him a knowing look.
  
  "You're sure you'll be okay with him?" he asked for the third time in
  the last ten minutes.
  
  "We'll be fine.  Go on.  Enjoy your evening out with the guys.  Try to
  stay out of trouble."
  
  "I will do my best," he promised.
  
  He leaned down to kiss the top of William's silky head. "Bye.  Love you,
  Buddy."
  
  "Muh," William responded, his cheek against Scully's shoulder and his
  eyelids growing heavy.  It was his one-word solution for everything: an
  amalgamation of "Grandma" and "Mulder," the only two people he knew as
  caretakers.  William didn't have a word for Scully yet, or any memory of
  her before the last six weeks.
  
  A lump rose in Mulder's throat, and he swallowed determinedly, forcing
  it back down. "He's a special little guy.  You take good care of him,
  okay?"
  
  "I will.  We'll be fine," Scully assured him again.
  
  "I know you will."
  
  His watch told him it was time to go, but he lingered, pressing the
  image of them between the pages of his mind.
  
  "I'm happy," he said quietly. "Whatever happens, I want you to know I
  don't regret one second of it."
  
  "I don't understand.  What do you mean 'whatever happens'?"
  
  "Nothing, I- I just wanted you to know."
  
  "I know," she whispered, stepping closer.
  
  He'd intended to kiss her quickly and go, but her mouth opened under
  his, testing the waters and then drawing him deeper.  As his eyes closed
  and his lips parted, time lapsed from memory.  
  
  He slid his fingers through her hair, down her neck, then along the
  underside of her jaw as electricity crackled between them, almost
  visible in its intensity.  Warmth pooled in his belly and spread through
  his body like a shot of dark rum -- the internal combustion of a man's
  heart dangerously entangled in a woman's body.  
  
  The easiest thing in the world would have been to stay with her.  With
  them.  To call The Gunmen and say the evening was off.  To let someone
  else fight the future, for once.  He and Scully could take their son,
  pack up the Volvo, and head somewhere just west of the sunset until the
  day the heavens started to fall and mankind discovered he was not alone.
  
  He broke off the kiss, and rested his forehead against hers for a
  moment, his eyes still closed. "Gotta go," he reminded her.
  
  "I know that, too," she responded softly.
  
  Scully adjusted the lapel of his jacket and stepped back, running her
  tongue over her wet lips.
   
  "I'll see you later," he promised as he picked up his car keys.
  
  She smiled as she held William. "See you then."
  
  ****
  
  On the outside, The Omega Center for Reproductive Medicine mimicked
  hundreds of new office buildings across America.  It was a shiny black
  building, all glass and modern, razor-sharp angles surrounded by a
  manicured lawn and bland landscaping.  The rear parking lot bordered the
  woods, with picnic tables provided for employees who liked to lunch
  outside.  A rent-a-cop car made a loop through the front parking lot
  every few minutes, rolling diagonally across the empty spaces.  One
  bored-looking security guard was at the desk in the lobby while another
  made the rounds, checked the doors, and then stepped outside for a smoke
  break.
  
  Inside, according to The Gunmen, were the remains of fifty years of the
  consortium's genetic research.
  
  "Just like old times," Byers said as Mulder fitted the earpiece into
  place and lowered the microphone.
  
  Over the headset, he heard Langly sniping with Frohike as they worked on
  disabling the building's complicated security system.  They were in a
  storm drain several blocks away, while Mulder and Byers had approached
  the building through the woods, using the trees and darkness as cover.
  
  "Deja vu all over again," Mulder agreed blandly. "You ready, boys?"
  
  "We will be if Do-hicky can keep his wires straight," Langly's voice
  responded. "Okay: we've looped the security cameras and we're working on
  the status monitors.  There aren't any external motion sensors, so you
  can start moving."
  
  It was two-dozen feet from the tree line to the first picnic table, and
  Mulder waited for the patrol car to pass before he slipped out of the
  shadows.  Once he reached the second table, he crouched behind the metal
  trashcan beside it, watching the back door.  The blinking red light on
  the digital keypad beside the employees' entrance indicated the security
  system was still on.
  
  He waited, feeling strangely calm for a man about to open Pandora's box.
  
  "Hey Mulder," Frohike's disembodied voice said. "You got company at
  three o'clock."
  
  He looked to his right, and, after a few seconds, spotted Agent Doggett
  approaching through the shadows, staying low. "What the hell are you
  doing here?" he hissed, as Doggett got close. 
  
  "I'm supposed to watch the building to make sure you don't have a
  poltergasm, do something stupid, and get yourself killed," Doggett
  responded in a terse whisper. "What are you doing here?"
  
  "A little after-hours investigating."
  
  The light on the keypad switched from red to green.
  
  "Go," Frohike's voice commanded, and Mulder sprinted across the parking
  lot for the building.
  
  "Hey!" he heard Doggett call after him.  
  
  The door opened when Mulder pulled the handle, but to his disgust,
  Doggett slipped inside after him like a shadow.
  
  "This doesn't concern you," Mulder said as he waited for The Gunmen to
  get the next door open. "Turn around and go home while you still can."
  
  "What do you think you're doin'?"
  
  "I'm saving the world, Agent Doggett.  Haven't you heard?" Mulder said
  as a second security door buzzed softly and the lock clicked open.
  
  The main corridor was sterile white: the floor, the walls, the ceiling. 
  Small blue placards on the doors identified the rooms: Exam 1, Exam 2,
  Restroom, Janitor, Private.  His and Doggett's footsteps echoed on the
  polished floor, the only sounds besides the drone of the air
  conditioning system and the hum of the florescent lights.
  
  "Somebody talk to me," Mulder requested, speaking into the tiny
  microphone attached to his earpiece and ignoring Doggett following him.
  "Where am I going?"
  
  "Last door on your left," Frohike's voice responded. 
  
  Doggett stayed at his heels as Mulder made his way down the hall,
  keeping low and close to the wall.  Most of the rooms they passed were
  examination rooms, the doors left slightly ajar to reveal paper-covered
  tables with stainless steel stirrups and standard OB/GYN equipment.
  
  The door Frohike guided him to was locked for an instant, then opened to
  a large, dark laboratory.  There were glass-front refrigerators,
  microscopes, centrifuges, and a collection of complicated-looking
  medical equipment he didn't recognize.  Safety glasses were arranged on
  a rack beside the entrance, along with a row of white lab coats.  There
  were computer workstations, boxes of latex gloves, even a few family
  photos scattered around.
  
  "This isn't it," Mulder told the microphone. "This is just a regular
  lab."
  
  "Keep moving," Langly advised. "The storage room is dead-center of the
  building, so the entrance should be about fifty feet in front of you."
  
  As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he saw it: what looked like the
  door to a walk-in freezer.  When he opened it, yellow light and cold air
  swirled out.  Inside, the long vault was brightly lit, and rows of
  polished steel safe deposit boxes lined the walls.
  
  "Deja vu all over again," Mulder repeated to himself as the hair on the
  back of his neck prickled.
  
  "What is this?" Doggett asked as the door eased closed behind them,
  sounding eerily alien as the latch clicked back into place 
  
  He swallowed dryly. "Human ova.  Collected from abductees to further the
  government's illegal cloning experiments."
  
  He pushed the button on the first drawer, and it slid open smoothly,
  revealing small, chilled test tubes, each labeled with a woman's name
  and a date during her abduction.  Brennan, Linda, 03/21/99 -- likely one
  of the last women subjected to the super-ovulation procedure before the
  original members of the Consortium went up in flames.  He left the
  drawer open and moved deeper into the room, encountering Hagopian,
  Betsy, 11/11/94, and stopping at the drawer labeled Scully, Dana,
  10/29/94.  He pressed the button, and the drawer opened silently,
  displaying the familiar rows of vials.
  
  Beside him, the gleaming storage units continued on, stretching back for
  decades.  All the drawers were labeled with the names of women
  unfortunate enough to fit a certain genetic profile.  All the women were
  left sterile, and all, except Scully, were now dead.
  
  "You sure it's ova, Agent Mulder?" Doggett asked.
  
  "Yeah, I'm sure," he responded tersely.
  
  Doggett was looking at the first column of drawers on the opposite side
  of the vault. "'Cause your name's on this one.  Right below Dana's."
  
  "No, Scully's back here."
  
  "Scully, Dana, April 3, 2001," Doggett read aloud. "Mulder, Fox, July
  18, 2000.  That was during your abduction, wasn't it?"
  
  "Yeah." 
  
  A chill went through him, the involuntary shiver of visceral memory:
  drills and metal pins and impersonal alien hands.  Of screaming for
  Scully and praying for Death and knowing neither would come soon enough. 
  
  "It's starting again," he realized. "Agent Reyes was right.  The
  project: it's starting over."
  
  "If they're tryin' to clone human beings here, we need to get a
  warrant."
  
  "By the time we get a warrant, everything in this building will have
  mysteriously vanished.  You should know that by now, Agent Doggett.  And
  they're not trying to clone anyone; they're trying to create a viable
  child immune to the alien virus.  They're trying to find a way to fight
  the coming plague." 
  
  "Wasn't that what William was supposed to be?"
  
  "Yeah.  Well, if at first you don't succeed..."
  
  He stared over Agent Doggett's shoulder, at the drawer labeled with his
  name, then at Scully's, the pressure building at the base of his brain.
  
  Mulder slid his arm between the wall of the vault and the first cryo-
  storage unit and pulled the electrical plug out of the socket,
  disconnecting the power supply. He knew from experience that the
  unfertilized ova were fragile; if they warmed even a few degrees, they
  became unviable.  He wasn't sure the ova he'd found in the Lombard
  Research Facility had ever been viable in the first place -- not for
  normal human fertilization.  It was possible Dr. Parenti had lied to
  Scully from the beginning, and all those months of drugs and doctor's
  appointments and waiting and heartbreak had been for nothing.
  
  "What are you doin,' Agent Mulder?"
  
  Ignoring Doggett, Mulder fished his pocketknife out and cut the plug off
  the cord.  He went to the next unit, and the next, repeating the
  process.  Once all the units were useless, there was a strange stillness
  -- no gunshots, no explosions or sirens or super-soldiers or even a
  tractor beam.  There was only the satisfying silence as the fruits of
  fifty years of medical rape melted away.
  
  "Mulder," Langly's voice said in his ear. "Whatever you just did, it set
  off a zone alarm.  You have company headed your way.  Get out of there."
  
  A red light was flashing on the keypad beside the vault door, indicating
  security had been breeched.
  
  "Time to go," he told Doggett, leading the way out of the vault and back
  into the dark laboratory. 
  
  Heavy footsteps approached in the main hallway, not seeming in any
  particular hurry.
  
  "Talk to me, Frohike," Mulder whispered. 
  
  "Opposite end of the lab," Frohike responded. "I don't know what it is,
  but I'm unlocking the door."
  
  With Doggett still following, Mulder did the hundred- yard dash to the
  other side of the laboratory.  The keypad on the door was flashing red
  as they approached, but as Mulder put his hand on the latch, switched to
  green.  He and Doggett made it through and closed the door, the latch
  clicking back into place just as the door from the main hall to the
  laboratory opened and the security guard entered.
  
  Mulder braced his hands on his knees, catching his breath.  Doggett
  crouched beside him, and, on the wall, the keypad flashed red again as
  the door locked electronically.  The guard would assume whatever room
  they'd darted into was secure and wouldn't check it.
  
  They waited until the footsteps faded and the door to the hall closed as
  the guard returned to the lobby.
  
  "A poltergasm?" Mulder asked, as his heart rate returned to normal.  
  
  Doggett shrugged one shoulder. "Monica watches Buffy.  I don't watch it
  or anything, but she has it on."
  
  "Is Agent Reyes the one who called you?"
  
  Doggett nodded. "Your Gunmen friends called us.  They didn't tell you?"
  
  "No, they must have forgotten to mention it." 
  
  There was a guilty silence in his earpiece, then Frohike's voice. "Well,
  you did tell us to call them when we found the lab.  Forgive me for
  coming between you and your death wish."
  
  "Frohike, get me out of here so I can kick your ass."
  
  "Working on that right now," Langly responded.
  
  While he waited, Mulder straightened, adjusting his headset as he looked
  around the room, then stopped with his hand in mid-air.  
  
  A grid work of low, black pipes criss-crossed the dark ceiling, with
  wires and tubes descending into tanks of murky yellow fluid.  Beside
  each tank was a computer, the screen displaying data corresponding to
  whatever was inside.
  
  Frohike and Langly were arguing in his earpiece and Doggett was talking
  about something, but their voices faded to background noise. 
  
  The project wasn't just planning on implanting fertilized eggs into
  unsuspecting women during in vitro.  They were creating hybrids as well,
  preparing to grow them in these modern wombs for rent, with a mechanical
  drone for a lullaby and vats of chemicals for mother's milk.  That must
  be the plan: just keep throwing permutations of his and Scully's DNA
  together and whatever didn't die would become fodder for more
  experiments.
  
  Flashes of Dr. Parenti's deformed fetuses appeared on the mirror of his
  mind, then of Scully's first child -- the little girl she'd elected to
  release from pain rather than try to save.  He remembered Scully, hugely
  pregnant, exhausted, and terrified that the world was out to get
  whatever being she carried inside her.  He remembered being afraid to
  look at William, even once he realized the baby was alive, terrified of
  what he might see.  It was still there: the tumbleweed of fear that
  rolled through him when the pediatrician mentioned that William had
  reached a milestone early or commented on how bright and unusually
  healthy the baby seemed to be.  It never ended.  There were always eyes
  watching them from the shadows and ears listening on the phone, posing
  some ill-defined, omnipresent threat to the three of them.
  
  As Mulder looked at the cloudy tanks, the anger inside him boiled down,
  cooled, and solidified into something dangerous as the importance of
  things became starkly clear.  The clutter of facts and theories in his
  mind disappeared, and his world simplified into two words: no more.
  
  No more experiments, no more nightmares, no more abductions or chips or
  lies within lies.
  
  No more.
  
  He had a simple dream, not all that different from the one he'd had most
  of his adult life: for him and the people he loved to be able to look up
  at the stars without being afraid.
  
  He found a metal box on the wall containing a rolled up fire hose and an
  axe.  When Mulder jerked the door open and pulled the axe out, the fire
  alarm sounded and the emergency lights started to strobe.
  
  "What the hell are you doin'?" Doggett demanded yet again, and didn't
  get a response.
  
  Mulder swung at the first tank, shattering the glass and sending yellow
  fluid gushing out onto the floor.  He turned slightly, adjusted his
  grip, and smashed the one across from it as if hitting a home run.  In
  the dim melee of glass and wires, he couldn't see if there was any form
  immersed in the liquid, and, in truth, he didn't care.
  
  He cleared a few tables as well, smashing a tray of glass vials and two
  beakers of amber fluid against one wall.  As Purity Control bled down to
  the floor, something reacted with something and began to smoke, then
  ignited.  Yellow flames retraced the wet path up the wall, spreading
  across the ceiling and reflecting on the liquid on the floor.
  
  He was on the sixth tank -- ten or so to go -- soaked to the skin in
  foul-smelling fluid, when Doggett stopped yelling that they had to go,
  grabbed the axe, and jerked Mulder toward one of the emergency exits.
  
  The hybrids' amniotic fluid sloshed out onto the pavement as Doggett
  shoved the security door open, setting off a new round of alarms. 
  Behind them, the hungry flames spread through the laboratory.  In the
  distance, police sirens approached, and, in Mulder's ear, The Gunmen's
  voices were frantic.
  
  He felt far removed from it all, like he was watching everything from
  outside his body.  Given the choice, he would have stayed and watched it
  burn.
  
  Maslow would have called it a peak experience: when man meets Destiny at
  the crossroads and becomes one with something infinite.  A moment of
  pre-apocalyptic zen.  The inexplicable certainty that what he was doing
  was right, and somewhere, some higher power was guarding the light at
  the end of the tunnel.
  
  There was a full-size fleet sedan waiting in the back parking lot, the
  lights off, the motor running, and the door to the backseat open.
  
  "Get in," Skinner ordered from behind the wheel. "Jesus, Mulder.  What
  the hell did you do now?"
  
  Agent Reyes was in the passenger seat, looking over her shoulder
  anxiously.
  
  Dogget jumped in, yanked Mulder after him, and slammed the car door
  closed.  The unmarked Ford lurched forward, and as they pulled away, the
  building exploded in an impressive fireball, sending orange flames high
  into the night sky.  The two security guards stood in the parking lot,
  staring bewilderedly at the fire, while the third guard arrived
  belatedly in the rent-a-cop car.
  
  "Yeah, I think that was specifically what I was not supposed to let you
  do," Doggett commented angrily as the Ford sped toward the back exit of
  the parking lot, then emerged from the trees onto the main road.  
  
  When they reached the interstate, Skinner turned the headlights on and
  slowed, blending into the sparse, late-night traffic. On the other side
  of the highway, a two police cars and a fire engine wailed by, followed
  by a news crew on their way to cover the latest 'abortion clinic
  bombing.'
  
  As Skinner drove north, Mulder turned, ignoring the angry barrage of
  questions and watching the flames grow smaller, like a movie fading to
  black.
  
  ****
  
  It was past three by the time Mulder checked in with The Gunmen,
  retrieved his car, and made it back to Georgetown.  Scully's apartment
  was dark and quiet, far removed from the murky, post-modern Hell he'd
  left a few hours ago.  There was an empty baby bottle on the night
  stand, next to a stack of early case files he'd brought home for her to
  review.  The flukeman, the Atlantic City beast woman, Tooms, Boggs: all
  old friends with whom she was getting reacquainted. Scully and the baby
  were in her bed, her hand on William's belly as they slept. 
  
  Mulder peeled off his wet jeans and shirt and stuffed them in a plastic
  bag, then buried them deep in the kitchen trash.  In the shower, as he
  washed off the smell of smoke and death, he noticed a few shallow cuts
  on his forearms, likely incurred during his fire axe rampage among the
  hybrid tanks.  He rinsed off, dried off, slipped on an old pair of
  pajama bottoms, and then studied his stubbly face in the foggy bathroom
  mirror.
  
  The cold rage he'd felt in The Omega Center had faded, and somewhere
  between Philadelphia and Georgetown, his insides had stopped shivering. 
  Now, as adrenaline receded and weariness set in, a sense of peace
  settled over him again.
  
  All the answers he'd hoped to find had been in that laboratory, and he'd
  destroyed them without a second thought. Open Pandora's box, let the
  demons out, and, according to the myth, the only thing left inside was
  hope.
  
  He paused beside Scully's bed, asking, "Is this all right?" before he
  lifted the blankets.  They brought William to bed with them for
  afternoon naps but still slept separately most nights.  
  
  Scully nodded and scooted closer to William, making room.  She smelled
  like fabric softener and baby shampoo and rain, and her skin tasted like
  sea salt as he kissed her neck.
  
  "Big night?" she mumbled sleepily.
  
  "You can't possibly imagine," he whispered back, curling up to her back.
  
  Putting his arms around Scully's body and listening to William's soft
  breathing, Mulder felt the last of the glacier inside him melting away,
  the long winter finally coming to an end.
  
  The truth he'd discovered wasn't the truth he'd set out to find more
  than a decade ago.  He'd begun chasing aliens, conspiracies, and his own
  personal demons, and ended up finding Scully, their son, and his
  destiny.
  
  That year, the spring thaw came in early June.
  
  ****
  
  "This," Mulder heard his own voice drone in a British accent, BBC
  documentary style, from the TV speakers, "Is William, alien child from
  the planet Churchill.  Resistance, apparently, is fertile."
  
  He opened his eyes, yawned, and shifted on the sofa so he could see the
  television.  Scully sat on the floor in front of him, amusing William
  while she manned the VCR remote control.  The morning sun was streaming
  through the blinds, painting warm yellow stripes across the rug.  
  
  On the television screen, the picture panned around her living room,
  then zoomed in on William's sleeping face in the basinet.  December 24,
  2000, the timestamp on the videotape indicated.  Christmas Eve.  There
  was a tree beside Scully's fireplace, glowing with white lights and
  ornaments and topped with a lopsided tinfoil star.  Mulder's hand
  appeared on the screen, adjusting the blanket over the baby as the
  camera rocked slightly.  At the time, his hand had easily covered
  William's entire torso.  The camera moved, capturing the creases of a
  tiny hand, the crescent of dark lashes against fair skin, and the full
  pink curve of the baby's mouth.
  
  "Nine days old, William Scully is fully dependent on others for care and
  sustenance," his voice narrated melodramatically, sounding like Desmond
  Morris. "He is a small, somewhat pink, naked-skinned mammal.  His whole
  existence is geared toward survival: eat, sleep, defecate, and create an
  instinctive bond with his caretakers, ensuring they will protect him
  with their lives. He is, in short, remarkable. Miraculous.  Clearly, he
  resembles the alpha female who gave birth to him, but shows some
  similarities to the female's partner: a dark, lanky, brooding male known
  'Damn it, Mulder.' These similarities have yet to be discussed in any
  depth.  Regardless, the male diligently keeps watch while the female
  rests."
  
  "What are you doing to him now?" Scully's voice asked sleepily, off
  screen.
  
  The picture blurred as Mulder turned, then focused on Scully in the
  bedroom doorway, wearing her bathrobe and looking new-mother tousled,
  but bemused.
  
  "Just filming the latest Mulder-Scully production," he responded.  It
  was barely noticeable, but there was an uncertain beat before he
  continued, "This is Scully, the dominant female.  Note the disheveled
  red hair, the stained robe, the annoyed crease between her brows
  reminding one she hasn't had caffeine in more than nine months."
  
  "Is that on?" she asked, leaning against the doorjamb and eyeing the
  camera warily. 
  
  "No," his voice lied from behind the camera lens. "The male approaches
  warily, sensing danger-"
  
  "It is on.  I can see the little red light blinking.  Damn it, Mulder --
  turn it off."
  
  "This is not her mating stance," his British accent droned. "Her focus
  is on her young.  He is auxiliary -- protecting the den, foraging for
  food and supplies.  She is the parent; he is support staff."
  
  Scully's hand pushed away the lens, and the picture swung dizzyingly. 
  After a few seconds, the lens ended up pointed at her living room rug. 
  He'd lowered the camera, but the tape was still recording.
  
  "He's asleep," his disembodied voice said, the British accent gone. "You
  didn't miss anything."
  
  "When did I get a Christmas tree?"
  
  "I called, and The Gunmen brought one over.  I made the star on top," he
  said. 
  
  "I can tell."
  
  "Do you like it?"
  
  "I do.  Thank you." The camera swayed again, focusing on the side of her
  sofa, and there the sound of her lips meeting his. "You aren't
  auxiliary," her voice reminded him. "You know that, don't you?"
  
  "Then what am I?" he responded, sounding as if he was joking, though he
  wasn't.
  
  "You're very necessary.  Come to bed, Mulder," she invited, her voice as
  rich and smooth as old cognac.
  
  "Who-rah," he responded softly, and the footage swayed again before the
  television screen went dark.
  
  In front of him, Scully picked up the remote control, and the VCR
  whirred as she rewound the tape.
  
  "Everybody okay?" Mulder mumbled.
  
  "We're fine," she responded, looking over her shoulder at him. "I have
  him."
  
  "Umm," he said, yawning again. "I'm awake.  We need to get on the road
  soon," he reminded her, yet made no attempt at moving.
  
  "It's barely eight o'clock.  You can sleep a little longer." She twisted
  to adjust the blanket over him, touching his forearm lightly. "You've
  cut yourself.  Did this happen with Frohike and those Gunmen people last
  night?"
  
  "Um-hum," he responded noncommittally. "I guess."
  
  "It's not bad.  I think you'll live."
  
  "Um," he said in agreement.
  
  The VCR stopped whirring, and after a few seconds, Mulder heard his
  voice droning, "This is William, alien child from the planet Churchill. 
  Resistance, apparently, is fertile."
  
  She reached back for his hand and interlocked their fingers as she
  watched the tape again. 
  
  ****
  
  It was true: a man couldn't go home again, but with the right
  connections, a little finagling, and a platinum Visa card, he could rent
  a place nearby for the summer.
  
  It had been mid-morning when they left Georgetown, the Volvo's trunk
  packed, the gas tank full, and the road at their feet, so to speak. 
  Four diaper changes, 2 fast-food meals, a ferry ride, and almost 500
  miles later, they finally rolled to a stop at the end of a lonely gravel
  road at almost midnight. 
  
  "So this is what the end of the world looks like," Scully commented as
  the Volvo's headlights cut two swaths through the darkness, illuminating
  a small gray cottage nestled among the trees. "When you said you wanted
  to get away from it all for a while, you really meant it, didn't you?"
  
  "Welcome to picturesque Old New England in June," he responded, putting
  the car in park. "Quaint, unspoiled countryside.  Fresh air.  Pristine
  beaches.  Rolling hills and grazing sheep and old stone fences steeped
  in history."
  
  "Sheep cannot be steeped in history, Mulder."
  
  "Not willingly," he agreed with a wry grin, and earned a smile as she
  unbuckled her seatbelt and got out.
  
  "Where are we again?  I lost track when we left civilization about an
  hour and a half ago."
  
  He got out and closed the car door softly, trying not to wake William.
  "The southwest corner of Martha's Vineyard.  Do you like it?"
  
  She hesitated, eyeing the isolated cottage. 
  
  "You'd better like it, at least for the night.  That was the last ferry
  from Wood's Hole.  We're stuck here until 6 a.m. tomorrow.  And, uh, the
  cleaning deposit is non-refundable."
  
  "It's June.  On Martha's Vineyard.  How did you manage this?"
  
  "I know the guy who owns the place.  I sent him money; he sent me a
  key."
  
  "So he gave you a good deal?" she checked, stretching her arms over her
  head tiredly and working the kinks out of her back.
  
  "No, he gave me an incredibly crappy deal. The week before I left for
  Oxford, he caught me in the back of my father's Buick with his daughter. 
  Twenty years later, Donna's married with three kids and sends me a
  Christmas card every year, but her father still holds a grudge.  Anyway,
  do you like it?"
  
  When she still didn't answer, he shoved his hands in his pants pockets,
  slouching a little as he scuffed the toe of his shoe into the gravel of
  the road. "Some of the first vampiric activity in the New World was
  recorded on Martha's Vineyard," he added as if that was an enticement.
  
  When he glanced up, her eyebrows had risen a degree. "We're out here
  chasing vampires?"
  
  "No.  Well, maybe a day trip, but mostly, no." He took the key to the
  front door from his pocket and held it out to her. "It's the end of the
  road, Scully.  We're getting out of the car."
  
  She looked back at the Volvo, then at him. "We are out of the car,
  Mulder," she reminded him.
  
  He kissed the top of her head and then put his arm around her as they
  walked back to get William and their bags. "Let's hope so.  For a little
  while, at least."
  
  ****
  
  The cottage sat on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and when he
  opened the window in the loft, he could smell the salt on the breeze. 
  The moon was full, reflecting pale silver on the waves that broke over
  the rocks on the shore.
  
  Memories drifted in on the cool night wind: baloney sandwiches and
  sandlot baseball games and searching for pirate treasure among the
  dunes.  Innocence.  The first and last place he remembered feeling safe. 
  If he could give William and Scully a fraction of that feeling, he'd be
  content.
  
  Downstairs, he heard Scully moving around, changing William before she
  put the baby to bed, then poking around the kitchen and the master
  bedroom.
  
  He'd brought in their luggage, but the Volvo's trunk still held a box of
  X-files Scully had yet to read -- his abduction, including medical
  records, photos of his body, and a death certificate.  There was her
  first abduction, then her trip to Antarctica, complete with the blood
  work indicating exposure to an unknown virus.  The videotape labeled
  "Mulder" was tucked in with the files, unwatched, along with her old
  journal, still unread.  And, just for kicks, before they'd left
  Georgetown, he'd tossed in Jose Chung's novel and a tape of The Lazarus
  Bowl.
  
  He'd never tried to conceal the truth from her, only to dole it out in
  manageable bites.
  
  "There you are," Scully said, the old steps creaking slightly as she
  came up to the loft. "I wondered where you'd gotten to.  Are you coming
  to bed?"
  
  "In a minute.  I was just admiring the view," he responded and extended
  his hand in invitation. "Come look at this."
  
  She approached, then took his hand and leaned back against him as they
  stood in front of the window. "What am I looking at?"
  
  "That's Squibnocket Beach down there," he told her, tracing the outline
  of her shoulder with his other hand. "I grew up on the Vineyard, Scully. 
  I went to high school off-island, and then Oxford, but I grew up here. 
  I was born about four miles from here.  I don't know if I've told you
  that."
  
  "I bet your name got doodled in more than a few starry-eyed girls'
  diaries."
  
  "I cannot confirm or deny that, but I will confess this: when I was home
  from school, I romanced every girl in Chilmark.  Both of them.  It's a
  small island, Scully."
  
  "Donna and..."
  
  "Allison Marie Vanover.  In first grade, Allie borrowed my aqua-blue
  crayon, gave it back broken and with the paper peeled off, and I was in
  love.  It lasted until recess the following Thursday."
  
  Her shoulders shook as she chuckled.
  
  He pulled her tighter against him, fitting the front of his body against
  the back of hers and resting his chin on top of her head.  On either
  side of them, the gauzy curtains fluttered as the wind whistled in.  It
  was a soft June night on the cusp of summer, full of magic and hope and
  promises. 
  
  "It seems like a nice place to grow up."
  
  "It was.  It is.  And I was thinking... How would you like to stay for
  the summer?" he asked softly.
  
  "The whole summer?  I thought we were just staying a week.  What about
  the FBI?  Your job?"
  
  "I talked to Skinner.  Anything the bureau wants me to look at, they can
  FedEx or fax.  And I did some checking: there's a big pathology
  conference in Providence in July," he said. "And Brown Medical School
  offers a bunch of continuing education courses.  How many hours do you
  need?"
  
  "Seventy-five hours every three years."
  
  "Well, you would have the whole summer."
  
  She slipped away, turning so she faced him, her back to the window. "I'm
  getting the sense that spending the summer here isn't a spur-of-the-
  moment idea."
  
  "It isn't.  I've been thinking about it for a few weeks, but I had some
  things to take care of, first. I, I told you I want you to be safe,
  Scully.  You and William.  You're my compass," he told her, stepping
  closer to her and taking her hand again. "Due north.  You keep me on
  track, keep me honest -- even when the world is insane, even when I push
  you away, even when I'm certain I don't need or want your help.  You
  tell me the truth when I don't want to hear it. You fill in the cracks
  of who I am without me even realizing it.  Me without you: it's an
  incomplete equation.  I can't erase the past, Scully, or guarantee the
  future.  And I'll let you walk away, if that's what you want, but I
  won't risk someone taking you away from me again."
  
  He could feel the intensity of her gaze, her eyes drawing him in like a
  whirlpool.
  
  "I know all that makes no sense to you right now, but it will.  And when
  it does, I- I didn't get a time to process what happened to me.  Four
  weeks after I came home from the hospital, William was born, and six
  weeks later, you were gone.  Everything just came at me, and, some of
  it, I didn't handle too well.  I want you to have time: to think, to
  come to terms.  To talk, if you want.  All the time you need."
  
  "Thank you."
  
  "You're welcome," he answered even more quietly.
  
  She looked down, seeming embarrassed. "After that kiss last night, I
  assumed- I thought this was just a romantic getaway."
  
  "Romantic?  You think I'm attracted to you?" Mulder said, deadpan, and a
  fleeting look of uncertainty crossed her face before she realized he was
  joking. "Like iron shavings to a magnet, Agent Scully, and just a
  difficult to get off." He stopped, frowning. "That, uh, didn't come out
  quite the way I intended."
  
  "Shut up, Mulder," she ordered softly, before she kissed him.
  
  ****
  
  There was a big four-poster bed downstairs, but the bed in the loft was
  narrow, tucked under the eaves, and covered in a faded quilt -- intended
  for a child rather than a couple.  As they moved toward it, her arms
  were around him, and her mouth under his was as smooth and flowing as
  Mississippi blues.
  
  "You're sure?" he whispered.
  
  She slid her hand between their bodies, looking into his eyes as she
  popped the button on his pants.
  
  "I'll take that as a 'yes.'"
  
  His shirt came off, falling to the floor with a sigh, and she slid her
  hands over his shoulders and down his arms, polishing his body back into
  her memory. As he undressed her, he kissed down the outline of her neck,
  between her breasts, and then, as she lay back on the twin bed, across
  the borderland of her stomach to the forbidden zone at the juncture of
  her thighs.
  
  The taste and smell of her was all around him, as intoxicating as the
  night.  He traced the planes and contours of her, his skin rough against
  the smoothness of hers.  She closed her eyes as he covered her, her body
  falling into a smooth cadence with his, like they'd been together a
  thousand times.  Everything was slow, unhurried, as if they planned to
  make love to each other for the rest of their lives.  
  
  "This is right," she promised him, her breath warm against his neck as
  her fingertips traced mystical runes on his back. "I feel it.  Can you
  feel it?"
  
  "As certain as the tide," he whispered back.
  
  He pushed up on his elbows to watch her face as his body slid inside
  hers, breaking the long loneliness.  She grimaced in pain and pleasure,
  biting her lip, and then wrapped a leg around his hips and her arms
  around his neck, forming a lover's knot.  He thrust slowly, barely
  moving his hips.  Her pelvis rocked upward in return, completing each
  cycle.
  
  In dreams, he'd made love to her in every possible position, indulging
  every fantasy from silk and candlelight to back alleys and a concealing
  trench coat.  He had an oral fixation, a copy of The Karma Sutra, and an
  overactive imagination, but this time the mechanics of the act were
  secondary.  Flannel pajamas sex was fine.  Comfortable.  Right.  In
  fact, he marveled at the elegant simplicity of it: the fluid transaction
  between his body and hers, the sensual math of passion -- how easy it
  was for a man to love a woman.  
  
  Outside the window, the wind whistled and the ocean broke against the
  rocks, the sounds of the night merging with the murmurs and moans and
  gasps of pleasure.  The white curtains billowed like ghosts as he
  drowned in her, teetering at the abyss, then closing his eyes and
  letting the waves crashing through her body sweep over his as well.
  
  In the seconds that followed, he wanted to pull her inside his chest and
  keep her there, safe from all the evil in the world.  To stop time and
  hold the moment in the palm of his hand before something or someone
  could emerge from the shadows and crush it.  Instead, he pressed his
  damp forehead against hers, ineloquently trying to put into words the
  emotions inside him.  As he murmured to her, her fingertips traced the
  ridge of his spine, cool and smooth and accepting.
  
  He'd loved her as long as he could remember, but love was ever-evolving. 
  Mutable.  It waxed and waned, shifted and reformed -- what they had
  together was endlessly being built, broken, and rebuilt like a sand
  castle on the shore.  In the interim were a few fragile moments of
  normal carved out of years of struggle and loss.  But those moments were
  theirs, damn it.  He just wished she could remember a few of them.
  
  When he withdrew and opened his eyes, she looked up at him, her eyes
  infinitely trusting.
  
  "All the time in the world, Mulder," she reminded him, as if reading his
  thoughts.
  
  "I know," he agreed softly, maneuvering so he faced her, with her head
  on his outstretched arm.  Her skin glowed like fine marble in the
  moonlight.  He drew his hand down her body, letting it rest in the
  valley of her waist as the tingling sense of peace settled over him.
  
  She shifted closer to him, and he could feel her watching him in the
  moonlight.  Her fingertips trailed across his forehead, down his cheek,
  and over his lips and chin.  He told her again that he loved her, then
  relaxed, luxuriating in her touch and letting his mind drift.
  
  Her hands moved over his body, exploring the evidence left by his many
  battles with Death.  His chest hair covered the white scar on his
  sternum, which had faded to barely detectible.  The scars on his face
  were only bald patches in the stubble when he hadn't shaved, and the
  ones on his ankles and wrists had healed completely.
  
  All in all, he wasn't half bad for a dead man.  He had a few scars, an
  occasional nightmare, a stack of X-files, and a collection of bizarre
  stories nobody believed.  And Scully.  And their son.  And all the time
  in the world.
  
  Not bad at all.
  
  Her heart beat against his, slowly, patiently.  He held her against him
  on the narrow bed, listening to the sea as sleep came, heavy and safe,
  covering them like the night sky.
  
  **** 
  
  In his dream, the mug was warm between his hands, steaming in the
  predawn darkness as he carried it to the back deck of their little
  rented cottage.  The air off the ocean was cool, smelling of the
  mysteries of the deep.  In the sky, the wind blew the stars across the
  heavens: the ancient gods battling it out, only marginally aware of
  their mortal spectators below.
  
  Scully sat on the steps, looking toward the sea.  She wore blue jeans
  and an oversized denim shirt, most likely pilfered from his wardrobe. 
  When she heard him approach, she turned, smiling in recognition.
  
  Those old butterflies fluttered in his belly, and his heart beat a
  little faster.  His heart didn't realize it was a dream; all his soul
  recognized was Scully.
  
  "I was hoping you'd be here," he said, sitting down beside her and
  setting his cup aside.
  
  "I was hoping you'd come," she responded softly, taking his hand and
  interlacing their fingers.
  
  They sat on the wooden steps for a long time, taking refuge in the
  shelter of each other and watching the drift of the stars across the
  heavens.
  
  "I think that went well," he said eventually, his breath white vapor in
  the cool air.  He nodded to the upstairs window, where he and Scully
  were asleep in the loft, a naked tangle of arms and legs wrapped in a
  faded quilt. "It's been awhile, but I've been trying to keep abreast of
  the literature, and, of course, practicing when I'm alone."
  
  She tried to look disdainful, but the warm smile that spread across her
  face gave her away. "We figured it out pretty well before you were
  abducted.  Were you afraid they'd changed it since then?"
  
  He shrugged, feeling slightly bashful. "I was a little concerned.  First
  time expectations and all."
  
  "We have a child." She leaned closer. "That wasn't the first time."
  
  "You know what I mean."
  
  "You were nervous." She bounced her shoulder against his, teasing, "You
  were nervous about being with me."
  
  "All right; I was nervous." He studied the weathered boards beneath his
  feet and droned in his James T. Kirk voice, "Sex: the final frontier..."
  
  "Mulder, you couldn't disappoint me if you tried."
  
  "Now you tell me," he said with a crooked smile.
  
  She laid her head against his shoulder, and he held her warm hand
  between both of his.  In the distance, he could hear the waves breaking
  against the rocks, endlessly rushing forward, then slinking back into
  the sea.  As the first violet light began to glow on the horizon,
  Ophiuchus fell into the west, tumbling with his serpent, a faint pattern
  in the vast sky for the moment.
  
  "You know, in Roman Holiday, Gregory Peck couldn't get the princess, and
  in the myth, Apollo couldn't get her back," he told her, toying with her
  hand. "Even Apollo couldn't bring Coronis back.  All he could do was
  take his son from her dead body and keep the baby safe.  Their child
  grew up to be the demigod Ophiuchus.  The healer of mankind."
  
  "Are you a god in this story, Mulder?" she said incredulously. "Or
  Gregory Peck?  Because I'd think a god would have a better sense of
  direction and remember how to put a toilet seat down."
  
  "Party pooper."
  
  He relaxed, leaning back against the steps.  There was a familiar
  rhythm, an easy simplicity to it: being with her.  He could tell her a
  paragraph in a single word.  They finished each other's sentences,
  filled in each other's cracks.  She gave him a place to stand while he
  moved the world.
  
  "They're gonna come for him," he told her seriously, reaching for his
  coffee mug. "For William.  Maybe he's not exactly what They want, but
  since I just took away all their other options, someday, They're gonna
  come."
  
  "If They do, we'll be ready," she promised.
  
  He sipped his coffee, then took her hand again as they sat on the wooden
  steps, silently watching the drift of the last stars across the fading
  night sky.
  
  "Morning's coming," she said, looking out at the brightening horizon.
  "It's time for you to go.  You have things to get back to, Mulder, and
  people to look after."
  
  "Until the day I die," he promised her, and then added mischievously,
  "Again."
  
  ****
  
  After thirty years, the monolithic rocks of Squibnocket Beach seemed
  smaller, as if a layer of their strength had been worn away by time and
  tide to reveal their hard core.  Around the cottage, summer was blooming
  on Martha's Vineyard like fireworks in slow motion.  The sun was rising,
  silently painting a wide violet and scarlet canvas in the east.  On the
  beach, the cool hand of the wind caressed the dunes, and the seagulls
  called warnings to each other, scattering in protest as he and William
  approached.
  
  Mulder selected a smooth gray rock and sat on the edge, holding
  William's hands while the baby bounced on unsteady legs, wanting to
  walk, but not ready to stand alone.  The tide was coming in, each wave
  rising higher on the sand until one reached their bare toes, leaving
  behind a layer of sea foam as it retreated.
  
  William watched, fascinated, as a wave approached, and squealed in
  delight as it consumed their feet before slipping away again.  The game
  continued for several minutes, like some oceanic version of Peek-A-Boo,
  before Mulder looked over his shoulder to see Scully approaching on the
  path from the cottage.
  
  She stopped at the edge of the dunes, a few dozen feet from where Mulder
  sat, her long skirt fluttering in the morning breeze.
  
  "So this is where you grew up?"
  
  "In more ways than one," he responded as William bounced in anticipation
  of the next wave.
  
  She wrapped her cardigan around her a little tighter, seeming awkward.
  "Is there a rule that one of us always leaves, after?"
  
  "Yes, I think there is.  And I think we should look in to changing that
  rule." He gave her a half-hearted grin as the ocean swallowed his feet
  again. "William was awake.  I thought I'd bring him down to the beach to
  play and let you sleep.  I didn't mean for you to think I'd left."
  
  She nodded, seeming as unsure what to say next.
  
  As the wave retreated, he picked up William and walked toward her,
  greeting her with an uncertain kiss. "Good morning."
  
  "Good morning," she responded.
  
  "This is the tricky part.  The morning after: that's usually when we
  screw it up," he told her.
  
  "Well, let's try not to do that this time," she said practically.
  
  "Deal."
  
  He shifted William to his hip and offered his hand.  She took it,
  walking with him down the endless shore.  The sand beneath his bare feet
  was rough and cool, and the ocean beside them continued on forever,
  until it disappeared into the crimson horizon.  It was a new day, full
  of infinite promises and mysteries.
  
  One day, if his dreams were true, the sky would glow red with flames
  instead of the sunrise as the alien invasion began and humanity became
  the hunted rather than the hunter.
  
  But not today.  And not for many days to come.  
  
  There were no spaceships half-buried in the sand behind the dunes.  No
  eyes watching from the shadows.  For now, there was only the three of
  them, the June morning, and the endless seashore.  There was her hand in
  his, and William's warm head resting safely against his chest as they
  walked along the shore.
  
  "I understand what you said last night about due north," she said
  softly, after several minutes. "About me being your compass.  I do feel
  the pull of it  -- of you -- the same way I feel the tides."
  
  "It frightens you," he answered, just as softly. 
  
  "I'm trying not to let it." She smiled slightly, unconvincingly. "As
  wonderful as it is, it's also overwhelming, sometimes.  And surreal, to
  not remember why I feel what I do."
  
  "I know."
  
  "There's research indicating that very young infants have memories,
  which are possibly stored in the limbic system.  Since the hippocampus
  and the frontal and temporal lobes aren't fully formed, those memories
  must be stored without language or context or even understanding. 
  They'd be visceral memories -- impulses or learned instincts, almost. 
  Trust or distrust.  Attach or detach.  Those early memories likely form
  the foundation of the adult personality, still hardwired into the
  nervous system, underlying but inaccessible to the adult consciousness. 
  Logically, an adult could encode memories the same way, and would retain
  them even if the hippocampus was damaged.  Those visceral memories would
  still provide the undercurrent of who they were and who they cared for,"
  she finished, Agent Scully-style, making him long for a slide projector
  and a basement office.
  
  He let her walk several more yards in silence before he responded, "My
  limbic system loves you, too."
  
  She smiled again, and this time the smile made it all the way to her
  eyes. 
  
  "Time, Scully," he reminded her. "I told you that last night, too. 
  There's no deadline for us, and no requirement on what you have to feel
  or when you have to feel it.  Take all the time you need.  All the time
  in the world," he said as they walked along the empty beach, just beyond
  the ocean's reach. "I'm only gonna wait forever."
  
  ****
  
  End: Book V
    End: The 13th Sign