Title: The Golden Year Author: prufrock's love Keywords: MSR, Angst, Mythology, Brief Sc/O Rating: R Summary: "There is the want of the flesh and the want of the soul, and I am afflicted with both. Perhaps I should see a doctor, Scully." Distribution: link to: http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/goldenyear.html Dedication: A blow against all those fat-assed purple shoulder monsters out there. You purple ones are the worst. Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue Post-hoc Author's Note: This story is told exclusively through Mulder's eyes and he explains behavior as best as he can with the information he has to work with. The Golden Year by prufrock's love ****** Like glimpses of forgotten dreams. Ah, when shall all men's good Be each man's rule, and universal peace Lie like a shaft of light across the land, And like a lane of beams athwart the sea, Thro' all the circle of the golden year? The Golden Year **** 'Deadheading,' Scully calls it. Safe from residual tabloid reporters in the fenced privacy of their backyard, she makes her way slowly from bush to bush, carefully selecting and plucking off only the roses barely past their prime by some secret system known only to Scully women. "To make more buds" she tells him. "Don't touch my roses, Mulder." "Aren't you supposed to be doing something, Mulder? This house doesn't run itself. I'm not the only one capable of picking up around here and. . ." The rest of her words are lost on him as he watches her move awkwardly, hair shining golden in the last of the dying sun. So many thoughts can be compacted into such a small word. How easily it rolls off the tongue. Alive. Other terms are more poetic - incandescent, classic beauty, gentle soul, kindred spirit - but nothing was more appropriate than 'alive'. Mulder doesn't understand this logic. If pinching off the roses makes more roses, why isn't he allowed to cut the same flowers for her while they're still pretty? Scully just gives him a look and continues her pruning or plucking or whatever it is, her canvas shoes and the back hem of her dress getting damp in the early evening dew. He'll have to find a house with a big back yard like this one so she can have her roses. Like it or not, they'll have to move again soon and she'll probably still have time to make a new garden. Her mother's house is nice, but too small to hold a family that keeps growing every time he turns around. No, not turning around. Families don't come from turning around. He and Scully pretty much have that figured out by now. A family. Sometimes Mulder is sure that if he shuts his eyes, the world will drop dead. But then he opens them and it's born again, always defying the odds. Scully doesn't seem to understand the little miracles that make up his days - it's as though she takes life at face value, never noticing the strong, dangerous pull of the undercurrent. She stays in the shallow end now, trusting Mulder to wade into the deeper water and return to sit on the bank with her, bathing in the warm sun. Mulder doesn't know if that's because she's content with her world, or because she's faced the worst so many times that she allows nothing to challenge her serenity, or because she chooses not to look beyond their pretty home and their pretty life out of fear. He hopes it's because she's content. Because he's made her happy. That damn cat follows Scully through flowerbeds, rolling playfully in the carefully weeded black dirt and hoping for a rub on his fat, lazy, useless belly. Enjoying a rare moment of silence in his domestic kingdom, Mulder pauses, sitting down on the back steps to watch her until he forgets his assigned chore. No matter - Scully will come in soon and she'll certainly remind him. She jumps suddenly and waves away a bee - probably a lone straggler making his way home for the night, but it still makes Mulder panic briefly. His memories of death are still fresh, only barely starting to cool on the windowsill. The insect flies off to wherever bees go in the darkness, and Scully finishes her rounds unharmed. A last white rosebush passes her inspection and, hand on her sore back as leverage against her belly, she wanders back to the porch where he's awaiting his lecture for not taking out the trash or not washing bottles or not picking up toys or whatever his latest sin might be. As she toes off her muddy shoes on the cement steps, the sermon begins - she doesn't even make it into the house before bitchiness replaces his Mother Earth Goddess' serenity. There's a smudge of the fertile soil on her cheek and he ignores her lecture as he licks his thumb and rubs it away. "We probably won't die of a little dirt," he tells her, "but just in case, partner. . ." Scully looks behind him at the grimy linoleum floor coated with a toddler and a preteen worth of Cheerios and Kool-aid and doesn't find that funny. He was probably supposed to mop. Her lips and hands are moving, gesturing to her swollen stomach and the bucket of Lysol she'd mixed for him. She's probably saying something about being barefoot and pregnant and having no intention of scrubbing that floor on her hands and knees, but he's still not listening. Just watching her and memorizing every nuance as the sun sets behind her head, the clouds gathering for a storm. Mulder holds open the screen door for her, then waits patiently while that damn cat meanders up the steps and into the house for the night, stopping for a lazy stretch or two. God forbid anyone should hurry the cat. An I'm-awake-come-get-me cry from upstairs and a complaint of "I'm hungry and there's nothing to eat! There's never anything to eat around here!" signals the return of real life. "Mulder, there's nothing to fix for dinner. You didn't go to the store! I can't feed four and a half people if we don't have groceries! No one wants to eat peanut butter and jellies for dinner again!" Mulder doesn't mention that sandwiches would be about the extent of her culinary ability, because that would be unwise. He just finds the car keys and a random child so she has one less to chase, and heads for the car. "Indian food, Scully?" That gets a nod. He's almost made it safely out of the driveway when he realizes he has no cash - not enough for all that take-out food. "Shit!" "You're not supposed to say that word," comes the voice of reason from the passenger seat. "Shit - sorry." Whatever gave him the idea that parenting was easy? Saving the world was easy. They should give him a medal if he made it through the teen years three times without going crazy or bankrupt or both. "Go inside and tell Scully to give you the checkbook," Mulder orders, hoping the boy can make it the thirty feet to the back door without breaking something important, wandering off, or dying of starvation. Scully's already heard the car stop and comes out, carrying the hotly-debated joint-checkbook in one hand and a foul-smelling toddler in the other. "Get me the nan with the green stuff in it." "What green stuff?" Getting the wrong thing would also be unwise. Scully plants a parting kiss on the child hidden under that tangled head of hair, and Mulder leans across the front seat for his turn. There was a line for her kisses these days and since he had the fewest boo-boos, he had to take advantage of every opportunity. Eventually their five seconds of bliss are interrupted by the car lurching a few inches as Mulder's foot slips off the brake and a rude gagging noise from the head of hair who recently discovered exactly where babies came from. She pulls away, licking her lips and probably figuring out that Mulder ate the last of the roll of cookie dough while she was outside. "You know, Mulder - the chopped up little green stuff they put inside the bread before they cook it. The same thing you got last time." Oh. That makes it so much clearer. Last time was two years ago and he'd been dead drunk. Glancing up at the house, Mulder is sure that damn cat is grinning at him from the bathroom window. "And we'd have cash if you'd gone to the bank on Saturday like I told you to, Mulder." He just puts the car back into reverse, hits the button to roll up the windows since the first raindrops are already falling, and tells his copilot to buckle up. That damn cat and the fat-ass purple shoulder monsters can grin all they want. Every moment is a treasure because it defies the odds and it's spring again. They've come full circle. **** But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. L'Envoi **** By Mulder's calculations, he had about six and a half hours to live. Scully usually woke up about eight on Saturdays when they weren't on a case. Giving her an extra hour to sleep in since she was up late, five minutes to go to the bathroom, wash her face, brush her teeth, and figure out what he'd done was cutting it close, but he'd also granted her a whole minute to find her gun, and it would never take that long. If he went home, that added an extra thirty minutes to his life while she drove to his apartment, plus five minutes more because she'd have to get dressed and find her keys. His watch said 3:14 in the morning and he expected to be dead by 9:41. Six hours and twenty-seven minutes to live. Shit. Six hours and twenty-six minutes. The summer thunderstorm gathering outside made the room even muggier, causing beads of sweat to form on his forehead again, stinging his eyes. Weren't men supposed to automatically roll over and go dead asleep after sex? Why couldn't he ever do that? Mulder had been laying in Scully's dark, stuffy bedroom for thirty minutes now, watching her sleep off her wine and curry and counting the seconds until his own death. He tried to think what he could possibly say to her to explain it away. "I was drunk" was a lousy excuse and he knew it - although it was true. In theory, take-out Indian food went better with wine, so he'd brought a bottle of good Merlot to their regular Friday night "date". Once they'd finished that, Scully had broken out her stash of girlie wine and Bacchus was praised into the wee hours. In actuality, the dal makni and nan were currently swirling around in his belly with the tart Merlot and the sweet, fizzy dessert wine and making him curse Indian cuisine, Italian wine, and the Japanese woman at the wine shop that had recommended the two could go ever together. He knew better than to eat spicy food, drink a bottle and a half of wine, and then engage in aerobic activity at his age. As he watched his best friend, partner, and maybe-girlfriend-or- something-let's-see-what-happens-Mulder, he decided indigestion was the least of his problems. Yes, he was drunk, but not that drunk. He knew better. He'd promised. Six hours and twenty-three minutes. Think man, think! Sex "just happened, Dad" when he was seventeen; that excuse didn't fly at thirty-eight. At the point when both people are taking their underwear off, he should suspect by now that he was about to have sex. Nudity was always a strong clue. He punched and flipped the unfamiliar pillow a few times, trying to find a place that wasn't wrinkled or wet or warm. Maybe if he wiggled and made enough noise, Scully would wake up and just kill him now. He hated the waiting. Mulder switched on her lamp and glanced at Scully expectantly, jiggling the mattress a little. She was still passed out cold, that glorious hair spilling out over her smooth, dry, cool pillow. Not likely, he decided. Death would have to wait until dawn. Even with her head lolling with the motion of the bed and her mouth hanging slightly open, she was still stunning. Scully attracted him like a compass to true north, even drunk and drooling - God help him. Christ, he was still drunk. She made a little contented sighing noise and Mulder wanted to wrap himself around her, to rest his head on those perfect breasts until morning, but that wasn't what they'd agreed to. Not yet. Until less than an hour ago, Scully was as untouchable as ever. If Mulder hadn't seen her nude a few times, he would have assumed she was all smooth in front like a Barbie doll. She seemed, however, fully functional, more or less. He couldn't believe he'd had sex with her. Mediocre sex, but sex, nonetheless. Maybe Scully wouldn't remember. Maybe her standards were really, really low and she'd think the Earth had moved. Maybe she'd change her mind about waiting to make love - he'd had women put on a big show about taking sex seriously and then hop right into bed the same night. After all, she'd said 'yes'- after six glasses of wine and making him promise again that he wouldn't 'try anything' if she kept drinking. Maybe Scully would be okay with rushing into sex. To all of the above, not likely. Six hours and nineteen minutes. Maybe she'd get sick when she woke up. That could add a few minutes to his life. Or maybe she'd be too hungover to shoot straight and decide to crawl back into bed for the weekend and kill him on Monday. Six hours and eighteen minutes. He could hear the thunder in the distance. He'd promised - that's what made it so bad. Fine, Scully, they'd take it slow, mutual respect, lots of emotional baggage, professional boundaries, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. Love her, want her, will do whatever she says like a donkey following a carrot. When she wanted to wait to make love, he'd said that was a mature, responsible thing to do. Of course, if she said she wanted to make like bunnies on Skinner's desk tomorrow morning, he'd say that was a good decision too. Mulder's sexual morals were relative - mostly to his groin area. It just kind of . . . happened. Really. He was feeling good, Scully was laughing, the last of the wine was being poured and he was having this delusion that she loved him as much as he loved her. Then Mulder kissed Scully, Scully kissed Mulder, and the rest was a blur. At least they'd made it to her bed instead of having at it like animals on the rug. Scully probably wasn't going to consider that a plus. He had his mother's jewelry at his apartment - Mulder considered putting his mother's engagement ring on Scully's finger while she slept as a way of showing her he wasn't playing around. If he ever wanted to marry anyone, it would be her. In seven, almost eight years, he'd never tired of looking at her or talking to her, and that said a lot, given how quickly Mulder tended to tire of people. They made a good team and there was no question in his mind that he loved her. Maybe he could live the rest of his life without fantastic sex. Lots of men did. That wasn't fair - it was the first time and she was drunk. He'd had all those years to build up fantasies about her that no woman could ever live up to. Scully wasn't cold, she was just a little . . . distant. With Mulder, at least. The ring idea seemed a bit much - besides, he was probably still too drunk to drive home to get it. He'd hang around until she woke up, then confess his undying love for her and hope for the best. As many times as they'd been mostly dead together, surely ten minutes of lousy sex wasn't going to come between them. They were best friends, partners, equals, soul mates. By mutual decision, they were on the slow path to taking their relationship to the next level since he'd come back from England in April; this was just a small false start. No more of a problem than when Scully jumped his ass for kissing her in the office last week. They were adults. They could work this out. Un huh. Sure. He was a dead man walking. Laying. Whatever. Six hours and eleven minutes. The lightning flashed through the open window - the storm was breaking. Mulder futilely rearranged the hot pillow one more time, then scooted as far away from his partner as he could manage and not fall off the mattress. He sorted out the covers and pulled only the cool sheet over his nakedness, leaving Scully the Queen of Cold the comforter. Resting his sweaty hair in the crook of his arm like a rooster at dusk, Mulder settled down for the night and waited to die. **** And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech. In Memoriam **** Mulder awoke to the smell of coffee brewing, clean bodies emerging from the shower, and the mildest hint of vomit. It triggered a memory from childhood, but he couldn't place which one. He didn't sweat it - his life was going to flash before his eyes in a few seconds anyway and he could try to figure it out then. A clock in the distance was chiming ten, which meant he'd already been granted an extra twenty minutes on Earth, unless he was dead already and this was Hell. He didn't think there would be coffee in Hell. He'd actually given it some thought and decided that if it was there, it was probably decaf. It -was- Hell, after all. "I know you're awake, Mulder. Stop playing possum." Mulder didn't move. "I'm not going to kill you - not until you shower, at least. Get up. I made coffee." Java was the one thing Scully could do in the kitchen that didn't set off the smoke alarm or require a trip to the ER, so Mulder braved opening an eye. She was clean and wrapped in her robe, wet hair still dripping down on the collar. She held two cups in her hands - one of delectable coffee and one of water with her ring finger and pinkie wrapped around a small bottle of aspirin. Scully had instructed him to take two Tylenol before he went to the dentist; maybe she was going to give him an aspirin before a gunshot wound so he'd bleed faster. That was very considerate of her. "Are you going to be sick?" Mulder gave his head the smallest 'no' shake, immediately regretting it. "Well then, get up. These sheets reek of booze and I want them out of my apartment." Mulder rolled up to sitting, feeling like Lazarus rising from the dead on a bad day. "Take the aspirin first with the whole glass of water, then you can have the coffee. All the water, Mulder - not just enough to swallow the pills this time." He squinted, trying to locate his boxers or pants or the floor in general before he attempted to stand up. Scully shook two tablets out of the bottle and he opened his mouth obediently, then finished the whole glass of tepid water, mostly out of fear. "I'm putting your coffee on the sink in the bathroom. Go shower, Mulder - you smell bad." And Scully left the room, probably to think up more things to tell him to do. Making the most pitiful noises he could muster, Mulder shuffled into her bathroom and stood under the showerhead, hoping he was steam-cleanable, since soap was just too much of an effort. He stepped out of the safety of the shower to find Scully had brought his overnight bag up from his car so he didn't have to put on yesterday's clothes. A clean layer of clothes, a shave, and a cup of strong coffee blending badly with toothpaste, and Mulder was finally alive and brave enough to open the bathroom door. Scully had dressed, stripped the sheets off the bed, and laid down on the bare mattress to rest after the exertion. If Mulder felt bad, Scully must feel horrible - they'd had about the same amount to drink and he outweighed her by seventy pounds. And she'd still managed to get up and make coffee. Love her, love her, love her. In the bravest act of his life, Mulder curled up behind her, wrapping an arm and a leg over her in the now-cool room and bed as the wind whipped the sheer curtains like the sails of a ship. "You have to know that I love you, Scully. If I've never said it fully-conscious before, I'm saying it now. And you know that I feel like a complete bastard. How much trouble am I in?" Scully shifted even closer to him, a good sign that he was at least on the road to forgiveness, but she didn't respond. Outside the window, children splashed in the puddles, oblivious to the pained silence in his partner's bed. Mulder could hear their high-pitched laughter over the slow thudding of his heart as he waited. He'd been hoping that "I love you" thing would buy him some slack. "Are you still speaking to me?" He could actually live with Scully not speaking to him for a few days, especially if she was mad. "I'm just trying to figure out what to say. And I feel like crap." How did Mulder ask this delicately? He didn't think he'd hurt her, but it still worried him. She was so small and he'd been really, really smashed. Not exactly his most gentle moments. "Are you. . . okay?" "I'm okay, Mulder. Just a little confused this morning." "I could tell you I love you again. Would that help?" No response. "Or I could leave and let you think. Whatever you want." "Just lay here with me." She sounded so sad. So he did, curling his arm around her tiny rib cage; his hand brushing the underside of her breasts. Mulder felt her stiffen and then relax, just as she had last night, exhaling and trusting. The only times he'd ever known her to flinch were the few occasions in the last month when they'd gotten carried away kissing and she'd pulled back suddenly, as though he'd triggered a bad memory she had to squash before she could continue. A light switched on. Maybe he was going to have to puke after all. Mulder collected his thoughts and kept his voice steady: "You know I won't hurt you, Scully. What's wrong?" That was why she had so many reasons for not "getting serious." Why she dodged anything that even hinted at sex between them. She had covered it well unless she was intimate with someone, but it was still pretty obvious up close and personal. It would have been obvious to him last night, but he'd been too out of it. Not frigid, but somewhat – maybe inhibited was a good word. No – more like a woman much younger or less experienced. Hesitant. Not sure if this was supposed to be fun or not. "Was it that bad, Mulder? Was it that awful?" "No, -I- was awful, and I'd love a chance to make it up to you." He raised his head to kiss her cheek, using his nose to push away the hair that was drying in waves against her face. "My first year in college - that's why I transferred when my family moved." "What happened?" "Nothing awful; I just have flashbacks sometimes, especially with someone new. I was young and I had too much to drink. I let things go past the point that I was comfortable with and then there was no turning back. It was as much my fault as his." Years of women's lib and his mother's teachings came out of his mouth before he thought. "How can you say that? It wasn't your fault, no matter what you did. Anything but a clear 'yes' is rape, especially if you'd been drinking." "Is it, Mulder?" There was more heavy silence as the room suddenly warmed and the children seemed to stop laughing outside the window. He'd just walked right into that one. How quickly the mood changed . . . "Don't you dare, Scully. Don't you dare pull your passive- aggressive bullshit with me. We got drunk and did something stupid, but WE are consenting adults. If you feel guilty, that's fine, because I feel guilty as hell, but don't you dare try to make it sound like you weren't responsible for your own actions. You don't have a tattoo to blame it on this time." Mulder rolled off the bed and stood up so quickly his head lurched. He wasn't staying around to be called a rapist, whether she'd been assaulted two decades ago or not. Bitch. Scully followed him into the living room, yelling back. "No, Mulder, I have you to blame it on. You promised me!" "I promised you? It was a stupid, childish promise, but I said would stop when you asked me to and I always have. That doesn't mean you have carte blanche to invite me into your bed and then blame me afterwards so you won't feel like you made a mistake. WE wanted to have sex, so WE did. Get over it!" "Yes, WE did! WE just had unprotected sex, which means I've just been exposed to God-knows-what. Don't you ever think about anyone but yourself, Mulder?" This was like trying to have a fight with the fog. No matter which way he turned, he was still wrong. He tried to remind himself this was just a defense mechanism, but that part of his brain wasn't listening. "Scully, YOU did my last blood work! What do you think I picked up in the last three months?" "I don't know Mulder, why don't you tell me? I'm sure she has long legs and her IQ in her push-up bra and is probably fantastic in bed!" Who the hell was this woman? One lousy lay and she turns into Phoebe? If she wanted to play Phoebe games, Mulder was an expert at returning those serves. There's no crying foul when you wanted to play dirty. "No one, Scully. No other woman in five years, because I was waiting for you. Not Phoebe, not Diana, no one. Because I loved you and I thought you were worth waiting for. Now I'm not so sure." Tying the last bow on his laces, Mulder picked up his gun, keys, and duffle bag, and stalked out, leaving Scully standing at the end of her couch, her mouth still open. Slamming the door behind him, his head and heart still pounding, he didn't feel nearly as good as when he thought she was just going to shoot him. **** But for the unquiet heart and brain A use in measured language lies; The sad mechanic exercise Like dull narcotics numbing pain. In Memoriam **** Mulder made it to his car before he had his cell phone out and was hitting the speed dial for Scully's apartment, the rain splattering in fat salty drops on his windshield. "Don't hang up," he pleaded quickly when she answered. She didn't hang up, but there was a long, empty silence. Mulder's phone was getting sweaty from his palm and he felt the dampness of his shirt against his back and chest in the humidity. He was caught between fight and flight, and he didn't want flight. He'd already run so far that he might not be able to find his way back. "I wanted to tell you I'm sorry. That was an awful thing to say and I don't have any excuse. You're worth waiting a millennium for, even hung over with bed head and curry breath." There was still silence as the line crackled. He strained to hear if she was crying. "I'm sorry, Scully. That's all I know to say. I made a mistake and I'm sorry. I do love you." More silence. More beads of sweat dripping down the back of his neck. He kept hoping those three little words would somehow work a miracle. "I'll see you at work on Monday. I'm going to go home and calm down. Okay, Scully?" "Okay, Mulder." And the line went dead. Mulder was right - he did finally have to throw up that morning. **** That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things. In Memoriam **** He was sitting in his office by dawn. Not like it bothered him to get up that early; he hadn't been to bed the night before. Mulder paced, drank enough coffee to give himself stomach cramps and two trips to the bathroom, went up and bugged Skinner until Kimberly came in at seven, and even read a few of the memos that were piled on his desk. He'd gone for bagels from the new bakery for the other early-birds, answered all his e-mail, checked voice mail at home and at work three times, and was actually balancing his checkbook when he heard heels clicking down the hall and stop outside the door. Mulder froze, holding his breath, until he heard Scully turn around and start to walk away. He knocked over his chair and banged his shin in his haste to get up, and caught her ten feet from the door, herding her the way a lame collie makes circles around a flock of timid sheep. Mulder ran his hands through his hair, rested them on his hips, and finally shoved them deep into his pants pockets because he didn't know what to do with them. He wasn't grabbing Scully like a caveman, but he was blocking her escape route. "Just talk to me, Scully. Please. I will do whatever you want." Scully didn't even meet his eyes, but Mulder realized they were attracting attention from the people in the elevator. Mulder yelled for them to hold the doors and ushered Scully in, noticing she didn't flinch away from his hand on her back. It was just sex, then. Once they were through the lobby and outside in the blinding morning sun, Mulder slowed their pace. He'd just wanted Scully not to feel like she was on his turf or that she was trapped; he had no particular place to go. No real plan except to not let her leave. Not to lose her. The sun crawled lordly across the sky, glaring down at him as he searched for words. "Tell me how to fix this, Scully. Tell me what to do." She stepped back into the shadows where she couldn't easily be seen, sat down on a step, and buried her face in her hands. "God, Scully, I'm so sorry." Mulder sat beside her, close, but not touching. He stared at the pavement, watching the unfortunate worms frying in the harsh sun in front of his feet. He bet it seemed like such a good plan when they'd slithered out onto the cool, wet sidewalk only a few hours earlier, but this was how it ended for them. Poor little worms. "You knew exactly what to say to hurt me. To humiliate me. One night and you knew exactly how to humiliate me." Mulder just sat. It was true, of course. He didn't get to be the Bureau's darling right out of the academy without being able to find people's weak points. This was about their fears of rejection and need to lash out before someone else could hurt them. This was them both growling loudly to protect their soft underbellies, the animal eclipsing the intellectual. She'd called him a rapist, a liar, and a cheat, but he wasn't mentioning that. If Scully needed anything right now, it was power and dignity. Wonder if she knew that? "What do you need, Scully?" "I need some time and some space, Mulder. I know I acted badly - I know what I said to you was as inexcusable as what you said to me. I don't know what's wrong with me. I need to figure it out instead of running - instead of letting us destroy each other." No, Scully had no idea what she needed. He wondered if she'd also run so far that she'd lost her way back in her haste to escape. Mulder stood and offered her his hand. It seemed like an eon before she took it, her palm moist against his. "I'm going to ask Skinner to send me to do profiles, Scully. They ran me ragged my first three years at the Bureau, so they'll do it again until I tell them to stop. I won't come back until you tell me to." She nodded dumbly, following him back toward the Hoover building. Mulder stopped while they were still a good distance away, far from prying eyes. "And, Scully - if it never gets any better that it was Friday night . . . or if you walk out of my life and never look back . . . I'll still be a lucky man." Then he dropped her hand, shoving his fists back in his pockets so he wouldn't touch her and told himself he was giving her some space, not running. Respect, not fear. Once they reached the building, he waited in the lobby while Scully caught the elevator, watching her hips sway as she walked, then jogged up four flights of stairs to wait for Skinner to get out of his meeting. **** There lives more faith in honest doubt, Believe me, than in half the creeds. In Memoriam **** Skinner obviously knew something was wrong, but he didn't ask. Mulder was on a plane that afternoon, bound for Topeka and The Boiler, as that killer was called. After that came Memphis and Potty Mouth, then Boston and Strangler Deux, then Los Angeles and a bunch of dead little girls. No cute name for the two men in LA. He left the number for every hotel on their office voice mail, but Scully never called. His cell phone stayed charged and in his coat pocket, but the few times it rang, it was either Skinner with a new case or the Gunmen reporting another of his fish had died. After a few weeks, the hotels and motels and endless bad coffee and drive-throughs all blended together. He could have been twenty-eight years old, young and idealistic, still a little uncertain as to why everyone didn't see the same patterns in the cases as he did. He was the Bureau's golden boy again, except that now he recognized how exploitative that title was. The commendations and pats on the back came with a twist of the knife in his gut. They expected miracles from him; for him to pull profiles out of thin air. And every time he started to slow down, someone reminded him that people would die if he took a weekend off to fly home. That didn't push his buttons the way it once did. His sister was dead; the quest to find her was over. Now it was just a job. He still didn't fly home. Because he was giving Scully her space; not because he was afraid, of course. Not because not knowing at least allowed him to hope. That wasn't it at all. It was like the last decade never happened, except that instead of carousing at the end of the day, Mulder went back to his hotel room, very alone, and waited for the phone to ring. He checked it every half hour to make sure it still had a dial tone and the ringer was turned on until he either fell asleep or it was dawn. He would have checked the phone more often, but he thought that would have been obsessive. And he waited. Mulder thought enough to generate the profiles and complete necessary daily activities, but all other mental energy was devoted to Scully. He rewrote that single night in his mind several thousand times, making minor changes until it was perfect. He choreographed every move into fluid passion, doing and saying all the right things. He was gentle, slow, letting her find her way until her eyes were ready to close. Or open. Mulder edited that Saturday morning until they ended up making love on the bare mattress in the warm sunshine and cool breeze, hangovers and hesitations forgotten. She sat between his legs afterward, leaning back against him as they read the morning paper. His face was beside hers as they scanned classifieds for a bigger apartment and her hand raised the cup up so he could take a sip of her fancy coffee. Her hair fell in a million directions over her face as she looked back over her shoulder at him. She smiled. There was a dab of the silly froth she liked on her lower lip and he licked it off, enjoying the way it contrasted with the taste of her skin. Give him twelve weeks to plan and Mulder could have it perfect. Actually, he'd had almost eight years to plan, and this was still how it turned out. Mulder twisted the top off his beer and opened the new case file. This killer liked redheaded little boys. **** Yet I doubt not through the ages one increasing purpose runs, And the thoughts of men are widen'd with the process of the suns. Tithonus **** Skinner called him off the case and back to DC, ordering him to write whatever profile he could on the plane and fax it once he got to the office. Mulder had barely opened the case file and had gotten so excited when the phone rang that he spilled his beer. "It's an emergency, Agent Mulder. Get on a plane." "It's always an emergency to someone, sir." No, Maggie Scully was dead. Mulder had made Skinner repeat it three times to make sure he was saying "Maggie" and not "Dana." On the long plane ride back from Hawaii - yes, there are serial killers in Hawaii, they're just very tan - Mulder tried to decide what to say to Scully. He didn't have the file yet, but Skinner had said it looked like a simple car jacking that had gone bad. Scully had asked that Mulder look over the police file and the crime scene, even though it was nowhere near Bureau jurisdiction. Having Skinner consent and pull Mulder off a high-profile case to do it probably meant Scully was crying when she asked. Skinner was a big softie for her. Skinner wasn't the only one. She's been there for Mulder when his mother died; he at least wanted to do the same for her. He didn't have to think up a sonnet; just be there. Forever, if she'd let him. There was no question in his mind at This point. He worked up the nerve to call her from LAX, although Scully had to know Skinner was going to have him fly home. It was just an excuse to hear her voice and he'd thought of a few good lines in the plane. He got the machine at her apartment and at work, so he left messages that he hoped didn't sound too stupid or desperate. A male voice answered her cell phone, who Mulder assumed was Charles, the phantom brother. Scully was sleeping, but could he take a message? Mulder just said the same thing he'd said on the last two machines - that he would go directly to get the file, then to the crime scene and then to his apartment. He hung up, thinking he would stop by the morgue to see the body and talk to the ME before he went home, but he wasn't going to mention that. Mulder was dead on his feet by the time he got to the office. It seemed to be light outside, but his biological clock was so screwed up that he had no idea what meal to eat if he got hungry. Skinner had bagels again, so it must be breakfast time. It could be any day of the week except Sunday - Kimberly didn't ever come in on a Sunday morning so she could go to church. Mulder decided it must be Tuesday - Tuesdays generally sucked. Wolfing down his second still-warm bagel while scanning the file, he decided Skinner was right - Mrs. Scully had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Her mother had handed over her keys without a struggle and quickly gotten out of the car, exactly what Mulder would have told her to do. Some punk shot her in the head anyway and driven off in her Toyota. Scully was grasping for straws if she thought there was anything else. Mulder remembered feeling that need to grasp - the need for it to be someone's fault, part of some greater plan instead of just random evil. Scully still hadn't called, which cut him deeply. She wanted him to investigate the case, but not bother her. God forbid Scully ever admit weakness or allow anyone into her inner sanctuary. Fine. He'd do his job and fly back to Honolulu tomorrow afternoon and leave he to her precious space. Skinner took issue with that plan, insisting Mulder and Scully needed to "talk." Skinner had a way of sticking his nose in where it didn't belong. He also had the address of the house where Scully was staying and he strongly suggested Mulder go there. Now, Agent Mulder. Take one of the fleet cars and go. Rinse off in the gym, shave, change clothes, and go now. The case and the body can wait. Go now, Agent. **** He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse. Locksley Hall **** The look in Skinner's eyes made Mulder very uneasy and his stomach knotted tighter as he drove through the ritzy neighborhood. Where the hell was she? Where else would she go? His apartment? The office? The Gunmen? Except for her brothers, who were generally floating around the Mediterranean, Scully had few close friends after working with him for so long. This was probably Ellen's place, he decided. Mulder had heard Scully mention her a few times, but he'd never met her. The distinguished-looking man that answered the door probably wasn't named "Ellen." Mulder was really, really hoping he was Ellen's husband, but he was having his doubts. Ellen had a slew of kids, and most dads had trouble car-pooling in the freshly-waxed Porsche sitting in the driveway. "You're Dana's Mulder?" The man asked. Mulder nodded. He had previously been just "Mulder," but "Dana's Mulder" would do just fine, thank you. "I'm Daniel." Mulder decided it was his stomach that had suddenly detached and fallen down into his gut, crashing brutally into whatever was below a stomach full of bagels. Liver, maybe. Everything in his belly basically felt like it was being crushed in a trash compacter, so it really didn't matter which part of his anatomy it actually was. It just hurt. Bad. It was probably supposed to. "Please come in - Dana's upstairs. She's been sleeping, but she's probably awake now. She wants to see you." Mulder had the distinct impression that Scully wasn't sleeping in the guestroom as he followed Daniel through the showy house. There was nothing overt in Daniel's manner, but it was there - this man had carnal knowledge of his partner. Not a decade ago, either. Mulder just kept walking, eyes straight ahead so he couldn't see the world, one foot in front of the other in the deep carpet. The older man left him outside a closed door, telling Mulder he'd be downstairs if they needed anything. Feeling like a bridegroom that was the butt of a very bad joke, he knocked and called to Scully as he entered, marveling at how small she looked in the huge bed, swaddled in the gaudy designer sheets. Scully sat up, her eyes and nose red and the rest of her too pale, even for her. She wanted to be held, so Mulder picked her up off the rumpled bed and carried her to a love seat, settling her on his lap and pulling her as close as possible without physically merging. Crisis or not, he'd be damned if he was laying in the bed she'd been sharing with another man. He could smell Daniel on her. On her skin and in her hair. Expensive aftershave, dry-cleaned shirts, and masculinity. The smell of another man seemed to start inside her and permeate its way out. It did start inside her. Deep, deep inside her in very dark, damp places where he wasn't welcome. Mulder tried not to breathe as he held her. Scully didn't speak; she just shook. Minutes became hours and hours became eons. He petted her like a frightened, feral animal, smoothing her tangled hair, and running his palm over the soft, wrinkled fabric on her back. This was not real. His Scully did not sin. Mulder sinned, but his pure, poised Scully that he held above reproach had not just let him find her in a stranger's bed. Again. It opened his eyes to things he'd looked at so long that he'd ceased to see them. He wondered what she'd found in this man's arms that she hadn't found in his. It certainly wasn't love. There was a soft knock on the doorframe and Daniel came in, carrying a plate of fruit and crackers, which he set on the floor beside Mulder's feet like an offering to Goddess-Scully. "Try to get her to eat a little so she won't be sick again. I can't get her to eat anything." And Daniel wisely left again, this time closing the door quietly behind him, his helplessness grating at Mulder. Maybe that was what Scully was looking for. Other men were for sex; Mulder was for cleaning up the mess afterward. It's hard to be useful to a woman in a crisis when you're busy worshiping her. Mulder was as much in awe of her as Daniel - Mulder had just been mostly dead with her a few more times. A man can't do mouth-to-mouth or apply direct pressure if he's standing there in reverence of her beauty. Bodily fluids leaking out tended to make a woman more real to Mulder. Apparently, not real enough. Or maybe too real. Whatever. Mulder shifted Scully and wiped her nose and eyes with his sleeve, oblivious to the yuck factor. Hell, snot beat alien slime. She opened her mouth and chewed on command until most of the crackers were gone, then rested her head against his chest, listening to his heart beating. Content. Could he live like this? Let her have her one cheap fling every three years or so, throw it in his face, and go back to their normal life as friends and partners, but not as lovers? Maybe Scully was right - maybe it wasn't just about him. Maybe it was just a little bit about a very frightened, very lonely woman whose mother had been gunned down and who had no one else to turn to because her best friend had gone off and left her because he was a coward. Maybe. Looking down, Mulder realized Scully was wearing a blouse with blood all over it and there was more under the fingernails she always kept so nice. She looked like she'd put the blouse back on earlier, leaving off her bra, panties, and stockings, but putting back on her skirt and blouse since she didn't have anything else. Mulder tried not to imagine the hands undressing her while he continued to try not to breathe, which was difficult. "How about a bath, Scully? You want to get cleaned up?" He needed her to get cleaned up. Scully nodded 'yes,' so he led her to the master bathroom and started filling the big bathtub. It was going to take awhile. He looked around for bubbles or any of Scully's bath stuff, but this was pretty much a man's bathroom. A man who bought Obsession deodorant. God, what an ass. Oh good - more guilt. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of Scully retching into the toilet, losing all six of the crackers it had taken him fifteen minutes to get into her. She flushed the toilet and leaned her head against the tile wall, starting to cry again. Mulder brought her water to rinse her mouth out, but she shook her head when he wanted her to drink. "It'll just come back up." Her voice was hoarse from crying. The sound of it made his heart hurt. Or maybe that was his liver; hard to tell. Anyway, it hurt. "Okay. Can you take a bath by yourself?" Scully didn't answer, so he undressed her and helped her slip into the warm water, worried at how thin she was. Mulder was through bathing her and was rinsing the last of the conditioner from her hair when he realized thoughts of sex or her being nude hadn't even crossed his mind. He couldn't decide if that was because she was so upset, or she'd been with another man. It seemed like too much to think about right now, so he added that to the things he wasn't doing - replacing not breathing now that she smelled like Ivory soap instead of sex. Mulder was down to not thinking about him having sex with Scully and Daniel having sex with Scully. Neither was an easy thing not to think about and his lover hurt. Liver. His liver hurt. He left her swathed in clean towels on the love seat while he went to get his duffle bag from the car trunk. Daniel trailed him through the house like an ineffective puppy dog, asking how Dana was doing. "Badly," was Mulder's answer, walking quickly before the urge to shoot the man returned. What could he put on her? His t-shirt and sweat pants would do until he could get her something else. Mulder was drying her hair with the purple towel when it dawned on him that she might not want to leave. He just ignored that thought and tried to get the fruit and some water into her. It took seven bites before she was stumbling to the bathroom to vomit again. He picked her up off the bathroom floor, cleaned off her face, and realized she wasn't crying tears anymore. Dehydrated. ER time. Maybe not. Maybe Dr. Daniel could do something useful and put in an IV until she calmed down. Maybe he could sedate her a little. Her mother was just murdered last night, after all. She'd given him handfuls of something the night Mulder had finally realized his mother had killed herself and he was grateful for every pill. Dr. Daniel was uncooperative and suggested Dana needed hospital care. Mulder was leading a barefoot Scully through the front door when Daniel came out, carrying Scully's briefcase and suit coat, also drenched in blood. Scully obediently got into the passenger seat of the Crown Vic and Daniel put her things in the back like a child trying to be helpful when Mommy had the flu and being about as effectual. Mulder drove away without a word. His mother's lessons in manners never covered what to say when you find your best friend half-dead in her ex-lover's bed. Mulder had no intention of writing any thank-you notes. **** Let knowledge grow from more to more. In Memoriam **** "Welcome back, Dr. Scully!" The young Korean doctor was too exuberant for Mulder not having slept in days - or weeks, depending on which time zone you went with. He met them as they walked through the automatic doors from the lobby and nipped at their heels with questions. Mulder ignored him and kept a firm arm around Scully to prevent her from falling again. She'd fallen once already in the parking lot when he turned his back for a second. She fell once when he turned his back. Hum? Sense a theme, Mulder? "Are you feeling any better? How are you doing?" George Washington was one of their favorite one-stop patch-up- shops, and Mulder didn't recognize this doctor. He must be new. Joy - that meant Mulder was going to get "the look" when he gave Scully's medical history. "How's she doing?" the doc asked Mulder when Scully didn't respond. "Badly." Mulder decided he liked that response. "She can't keep anything down and she's dehydrated," he said, covering Scully as she curled up on the hard exam table. The doctor gave her a quick check and announced she needed fluids and food. Thank God for his superior medical knowledge. Mulder started to ask that he do a rape exam, but that was just being needlessly mean. For whatever reason, Scully was with Daniel of her own free will. The nice nurse that came to start the IV and take blood was one they'd encountered several times previously. She was more concerned and less bouncy than the new doc, asking Scully about the plans for her mother's funeral and how Dr. Waterston was doing as she inserted the needles. Scully didn't respond, but the nurse kept up the chatter as a distraction, addressing Scully as 'honey.' "Are they dating?" Mulder cut in, a bad taste forming in his mouth. Probably from his liver/lover. "I don't think so, child. He was here on a consult when her mother was brought in and she finally left with him instead of the other man. I didn't think that was such a good idea, but it wasn't my place to interfere." "Who was the other man?" Mulder asked. "The other FBI man - big, tall, white guy with glasses. Looks like a middle-aged Marine. Cutie pie, but he needs more hair and less attitude. He came in with her when she got real sick with cancer that last time." Skinner. That's how Skinner knew where she was; he'd seen her leave with Daniel. Mulder smothered a smile at the idea of Skinner being the 'other man,' although if he had to share, he preferred Skinner to Doctor Daniel. Maybe Skinner's turn would come in her next triennial fling. The large woman taped the IV securely to Scully's skin, patting her hand like a comforting parent, then tucking it back under the blanket so it wouldn't get cold. "That should help you feel better and get you to stop throwing up, honey. You'll be up and around chasing those aliens in no time. This will be rough for a little bit, but trust me, it's worth it in The end." Mulder had no idea what the blonde nurse meant, but Scully's IV was making his tummy feel better already. He must have dozed off in the wooden chair beside the exam table, because he awoke to the sound of the curtain hooks whirring and the doctor gleefully announcing the lab work was back. Mulder managed a grunt of interest, but Scully seemed more alert, listening to the man and nodding. Through all the medical jargon, Mulder caught "Paxil," "release you in the morning," "morning sickness," and "first trimester." He must be only half-awake. Scully's eyes were closed again - maybe the doctor had never been there at all. "Wake up for a second, Scully. Did he just say you're pregnant?" She nodded, not opening her eyes. "I just found out. I was going to tell you. I was, Mulder." It took a moment for it to sink in and his brain to restart. Mulder had about a billion questions he wanted answered immediately, but she was too weak. For once, he restrained himself. They'd have a long time to talk about it once she was better. Or he could get some coffee in him and go talk to that obnoxiously enthusiastic doctor about the baby. The baby. Wow. A baby. How? There were no ova. Had Cancerman done something to her? That would make her four months pregnant. No, she would have figured it out earlier if she were that far along. This was their child, conceived the old-fashioned way. The 'get drunk and screw' method. All those people spending thousands on in-vitro should try it. He and Scully were going to have a baby. Wow. Not too many things left Mulder speechless, but the idea of becoming a father kept him silent for a full five minutes. "Tell me what you're feeling, Mulder," she asked in a soft, hesitant voice. "I'm surprised. And thrilled. And worried. And guilty. And scared. But I love you." "Me too." Then she was asleep. **** Oh yet we trust that somehow good Will be the final goal of ill. In Memoriam **** Her brother Bill, of course, loved to be in charge of things, so all Mulder had to do was get Scully to the wake and funeral on time. She wasn't incapable of taking care of herself, but she was willing to let Mulder take over for a few days while she got out of her head, as she once called it. Out of duty, Mulder reviewed the events surrounding her mother's death, but there was nothing he could add to the police file. It was just a random, senseless killing and they'd probably never catch the man that did it. Someone shot one of the sweetest women on Earth so he could go joyriding in her six-year-old Camry. Mulder was having a long talk with Maggie Scully's body the morning of the funeral. He'd flashed his FBI badge to get into the basement where the bodies were prepped and no one down there had bothered to make him leave yet. It was almost the truth - he was assigned to this case, but he'd already seen the body at the morgue for the forensic data. This was about something different. He'd have to go get Scully soon, but there were a few things he wanted to say away from other ears. Mulder remembered the woman who went with him to pick out Scully's tombstone and then invited him into her room once Scully was returned and they were turning off the respirator. He remembered Mrs. Scully trusting him to keep her little girl safe. He remembered feeling closer to Scully's mother than he ever had to his own. He promised her he'd take care of her daughter and her grandchild; to make sure they both had whatever they needed. Mulder hoped she knew that Scully was pregnant - that Scully had told her over lunch before her mother left to get a few groceries, ending up lying in an empty parking space with a bullet through her brain an hour later. Mulder and Maggie Scully's body were discussing possible baby names when the door to the public part of the funeral home opened. Mulder ignored it, repeating that he was not naming any children Ahab or Fox, but he would consider William, as long as the boy was Will and not Bill. As far as girls went, anything but Samantha or Melissa was fine - no sense in giving a little child such a heavy name. He was good with a Katherine or a Margarete or pretty much whatever Scully wanted. Maybe not Teena. Katerina, maybe? Maybe not. Mulder's discussion was one-sided, but he was certain Mrs. Scully was listening - not here in the basement, but close by. Mulder sensed a presence behind him and turned to find his future child's namesake standing in the doorway. He stood up and blocked Bill's view of what used to be Maggie's face. The funeral was going to be a closed casket out of necessity. "Bill, you don't want to see her like this." "They said you were down here. You're supposed to be watching Dana! Who's with Dana?" "Some cousin. I lost track. I'm leaving to go get her now - or do you want to go?" Mulder tried to pull the sheet up to hide the gunshot wound, but the woman doing the hair and makeup objected. Bill might be a pompous fool, but this was still his mother. "I want to see her, Mulder. I want to make sure it's true." Mulder felt the first flicker of kinship he'd ever had experienced with this man, and stepped to the side so Bill could approach. Like most people that seldom encounter death, Bill was afraid to touch the body, so Mulder lifted the side of the sheet modestly and put Bill's big hand on hers. "A large caliber bullet struck her below her right temple, passing through her brain and exiting above and behind her left ear." Mulder brushed back Maggie's hair to show Bill the smaller of the wounds, much to the annoyance of the cosmetologist. "That angle indicates she was standing up while the shooter was below and in front of her, probably sitting in the driver's seat of her car after she got out. That bullet stopped her higher brain functions immediately - including any ability to feel pain or fear - but it took several more hours for her heart to stop. She never knew what happened and she never regained consciousness, Bill." Bill just held his mother's cool hand, probably chanting to himself that real men don't cry. "I brought her rosary and some clothes." "That's good. You can put her rosary in her hand now, so she'll have it. They'll be getting her dressed soon." Bill complied, folding the string of simple white beads into her hand and then pulling the sheet back down. "Don't tease her hair. She doesn't like it poofy," Bill told the woman with the rat-tailed comb. "Sir, you really shouldn't be back here. And it's a closed casket - no one is going to see it." "We're seeing it now. Brush it out and wipe all that crap off her face," Mulder told her. He pulled a picture of Scully out of his wallet. "See this woman? That's who she looks like. Not Tammy Faye Baker. She looks like Scully." Mulder suddenly had to remind himself that real men do cry, but he preferred not to do it in front of Bill. "Let's go get your brother and sister and let them finish getting your mother ready." Bill followed him out of the cold room and up the deeply carpeted steps, excusing himself to go to the bathroom before they left - probably to cry. Mulder was glad; it gave him a chance to sit on the bench behind the funeral home and sob for a bit. Bill finally emerged half an hour later with the same flushed face and bloodshot eyes that Mulder wasn't admitting to having. They got in Mulder's car without a word, staring straight ahead so they didn't have to speak. Mulder popped open the glove box to reveal a supply of paper napkins that obviously neither of them needed, since real men don't cry. They each took several. For Dana - in case she got upset. **** But oh for the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still! Break, break, break **** Charles made it in for the funeral, but he had to fly out immediately afterward, so Mulder barely got to shake his hand before he was gone again. If these men were going to be his brothers-in-law, Mulder wanted to know them a little better, especially Charles. Actually, only Charles. Despite their male bonding experience, Bill quickly resorted to his usual attitude about Mulder. There had been words after the funeral, to put it very, very nicely. Scully had gotten dizzy as she and Mulder walked back to the road, so holding hands became a necessity. A few steps later, he caught her just before she hit the ground and carried her to the car, letting her go limp against him. Every cell in his body wanted to just keep walking - carrying her away from the sadness and into the sunset before he set her down. Mulder had seen a few Doris Day movies. The hero and heroine kiss, walk off into the sunset, and the credits roll. They just live happily ever after, but the movies never say exactly how. They never woke up in bed the next morning after lousy sex and too much wine and expressed their love by calling each other a frigid whore and a lying rapist. Until he figured out how to do happily-ever-after, Mulder decided he had better let Scully stand on her own two capable feet. From the passenger seat, Scully laid her head against his thigh as he waited and Mulder covered it with his hand, shielding her and waiting for the tears and the vertigo to pass. Scully's flat belly was eliciting the strong must-protect-what-is-mine instinct of the alpha-male, although alpha-male had no idea how to do anything constructive about it. Following them to the car, Bill laid into Mulder for making a scene and Mulder wisely ignored him and petted Scully's hair. The man's mother was dead - her body lying in the white casket on the hill above them. Be the bigger man, consider the source, do unto others. Mulder even apologized, for what, he wasn't sure. Bill ranted about appearances and Mulder expressed more empty remorse, trying to get Scully to drink some of the apple juice they'd brought with them and not really listening. The car was hot and Mulder hoped the juice hadn't gotten too warm. He'd turn the air on for her - help her cool off until Charles was ready to go. Mulder looked back over his shoulder, wondering how long that would be. Charles was still on his knees, resting his head on the casket, only the quiet man and his mother in the universe. A favorite son saying goodbye. Mulder envied the pain that Charles must have been feeling. All Mulder had felt when his mother died was guilt. A sharp razor cut would have been a welcome change to a throbbing exposed nerve. With a cut, there was first the shock and the dread as you waited for the blood. After came the exquisite pain and then the slow healing. There was even a scar that proved survival and solicited childhood memories. With a nerve, there was no healing an ache he couldn't even locate. It just radiated through him and he could only numb it and learn to live with it. Charles could take as much time as he needed. When Mulder went around to the driver's seat to start the car, Bill started in on Scully about making a fool of herself in front of all their mother's friends. That was a mistake. Alpha-males might not be not be subtle, but they growled loudly. In the next few minutes, the words "sick," "dead because of a fool's quest," "some alien virus," "pregnant," "father," "I am," "son-of-a-bitch," "take advantage," "hurt her," "like some whore," "ignorant, pompous ass," and "fucking bastard" were exchanged two feet away from the topic of discussion and her juice. Charles, who seemed to have the more level head of the brothers, left his mother's grave to intervene between the two men before anything except pride could be damaged. Bill's wife what's-her-name whined him into their rental car, still shouting insults, while Charles kept Mulder at bay. As soon as the driver's door closed, Mulder clammed up and just fumed, angry at himself for letting the other man get to him. It was his partner, his friend, his child, and none of Bill's business. Except that it was his sister. Mulder the alpha-male needed to settle his ass down. "Dana - is it true? Mom said you couldn't have any kids," Charles asked in a low voice from the back seat as Mulder drove, keeping his eyes on the road and his big mouth shut. "It's true," she answered. Charles leaned back, not saying anything else. Even in his severe black suit, probably reserved exclusively for funerals, he was a sailor to the core. Charles reminded Mulder of the stories Scully told of her father; a man of few words, and wisdom that seemed simple in its complexity. Glancing in the rear view mirror, Mulder saw the bloodshot blue eyes watching him. Measuring him. "Anything she wants, Charles. Anything that will make her happy," Mulder answered the eyes. A small hand, sticky with apple juice, came across the console and took Mulder's in the quiet car as he drove Charles to the airport. **** So careful of the type she seems, So careless of a single life. In Memoriam **** It was really childish to gloat, so he tried not to. It wasn't like It was his amazing manly prowess that got her pregnant. It was mostly lots of wine dulling his usual insecurities and being stupid, but he wasn't looking a gift horse in the mouth. Anything that tied him to Scully for the rest of his life was a blessing. Skinner let him stay with her as long as possible, but another Little boy was missing in Hawaii - Mulder needed to fly out as soon as possible before CNN had a field day. Whatever medications the ER doctor had given Scully, she wasn't throwing up all the time and she was planning on going back to the office Monday morning. Mulder wanted to get married over the weekend, finish up the profile in Honolulu, and then come back to enjoying his new wife and child. That probably wasn't going to happen. Scully hadn't said another word about being pregnant, and she'd had him sleep on her couch instead of in the bed with her, even once all her family left. That was a bad sign. It was time to talk. He sat her down at the dining room table once they were back at her apartment and said those exact words. And waited. And waited. "What do you want me to say, Mulder? I didn't think I could get pregnant, but obviously, I can." She sounded like she resented it. How could she resent their child? Maybe it wasn't their child. Maybe congratulations should go to Dr. Daniel. No, that wasn't true. Mulder knew who the baby's father was. Where the obligation lay, as old-fashioned as that sounded. "What do you want from me, Scully?" "I want you to leave and let me grieve my mother. A baby doesn't change anything between us." "Of course it does. It changes everything. We had one fight, three months ago, and you've been sulking ever since. I think we have a reason to move on - it's not just about us hurting each other anymore." "It -could- be just about us." If Mulder were ever going to hit a woman, it would have been at that moment. His fingers clinched and then opened again under the table, out of Scully's sight. "Don't bluff, Scully - you're bad at it. You would never have let me find out if you weren't going to have the baby. You want this child as much as I do." Caught, Scully dropped her eyes and stared at the shiny wood of the table. Mulder stroked her flushed cheek. "I know you're hurting - this has to be one of the worst weeks of your life - and I don't want to ask for more than you can give right now. I'll leave, but I want to know I'm not going to come back and find you in another man's bed." There, he said it. Screw the being an adult, forgive and forget, crap. Mulder wasn't good at sharing. Even with Skinner. "It was a just weak moment, Mulder." "I know that. We all have them." It made him feel better to hear her say it, though. "How many have you had while you've been gone?" Emotions had been running high the last few days, and that did it for Mulder. There was an audible snap inside his brain, had anyone been in there listening. "I'm sick of this game, Scully, and I'm not playing. You call me when you grow up." She was right - not a damn thing had changed. Mulder stood to leave, his chair crashing to the floor behind him. He'd seen her through the worst night right after she got home from the hospital - she was functional again. Commitment over. The courts would grant him visitation rights and he'd just write her a check every month for the next eighteen years. No, he didn't want that. Neither did she, since Scully was standing between him and the door. "I'm sorry, Mulder. Don't go." "Give me one good reason not to." "I love you." His anger left him with his next breath. He knew she loved him, but she'd never said those words before. If it was a ploy, it worked, because he wrapped his arms around her and was prepared to forgive her for anything, including sleeping with the entire cardiac care unit. "I love you too, Scully. I just don't know how to fix this. I feel so helpless." Scully leaned heavily against him, trusting him to keep her safe. She was his best friend, his partner, and she was pregnant with their child. It was almost too much for him to bear. "I want to make love to you, Scully. Do you want that?" She kissed him and he pulled back. "No - tell me 'yes.' Say it." "Why, Mulder?" "Because it's you. You're wonderful. Tell me 'yes." "Yes." Such a soft little voice. "I love you." Scully didn't respond, but she followed him into her bedroom. Knowing Scully was somewhat frightened added a whole new element to sex; one that Mulder wasn't entirely proud of enjoying. His Scully wasn't afraid of anything except maybe snakes, and certainly not of him. He'd been with a few women who were inexperienced or had been treated badly, so he had some idea of what to do, but it still made him feel very masculine. For the first time in his life, he understood the appeal of virgins. Mulder filed that thought away to feel guilty about later. Slowly - very, very slowly. No sudden moves, no force, no roughness. He talked to her, telling her what he was doing and how it felt. Wonderful was how it felt. Having Scully finally license him with her body after all these years made him feel like he must be glowing. He guided her hands, encouraging her, careful not to let his whispers to her sound like a porn soundtrack. Sex, for Scully, needed to be pretty right now. Mulder felt the slight tremors and looked up into shining eyes. She was happy. She was content. How his mouth and fingers could cause that was beyond him. He wanted to penetrate while she was relaxed, so he moved up on her body and hesitated. "Can I hurt the baby, Scully?" "No, Mulder. Only me." "Never hurt you, Scully." And, as far as he could tell, he didn't. That was the best he knew how to do - as best as he could make love to her. For her. She still told him to leave the next morning. Maybe it was that he'd insisted on wearing a condom. **** Hold thou the good; define it well; For fear divine Philosophy Should push beyond her mark, and be Procuress to the Lords of Hell. In Memoriam **** He stopped to meet with Skinner before his flight as was requested and was surprised when his AD offered him a ride to the airport. On the way out of the parking garage, they passed Scully coming in, but she didn't notice the two men in the nondescript Bureau car. They stopped to watch her park, square her shoulders, and walk into the building alone. "How's she doing, Agent Mulder? And I already know she's pregnant, so you don't need to lie." Was the status of Scully's uterus posted on the Internet somewhere? Because everyone else seemed to be better informed than Mulder. "Do you know who the father of her baby is, sir?" "She didn't say, but I can make a pretty good guess, given that her partner suddenly requested out of town assignments about three months ago. I know she's pregnant when she shouldn't be, that she's lost weight, that you two had some sort of fight, and that the man she left the hospital with after her mother died probably did not have her best interests at heart, Agent Mulder. And I know I'm taking you to the airport so you can leave again." "Then you've already pretty much got the whole story, sir." Mulder liked Skinner, but then again, he also knew Skinner liked Scully. Discussing her with him just seemed wrong. "If you keep walking away from her, someone else is going to keep being there when you're not." Mulder first interpreted that as a threat - when the cat is away the mice do play - and he was speechless. Was Skinner saying what he thought he was saying? "That came out badly - I didn't mean me. I meant anyone. She needs someone right now and she'll find someone. It can't be you if you're not there. I learned that lesson the hard way. Cost me my marriage." Mulder relaxed a little. "I'm not running out on her, sir. She Keeps telling me to leave. I'd never abandon her." He took a breath and added quietly, "or our child." "Looks like we're still headed to the airport to me, Agent Mulder." "Are you telling me I don't have to go, sir?" "No, Agent Mulder, I'm just telling you that you should invest in a round-trip ticket before it's too late." They made the rest of the drive in silence. **** Whose faith has center everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form. In Memoriam **** It was three o'clock Hawaii time, which meant it was nine at night Eastern time. Mulder found a free phone and dug out his calling card. He was lucky - the Captain had let him use the phone at a desk in the station instead of one outside in the rain. The local man wasn't impressed with his profiling skills, but given his lack of progress, Mulder couldn't blame him, so the free phone was truly a nice gesture. The roaming charges on his cell phone were outrageous, so he's called from payphones in lobbies, outside the men's room at gas stations, and once from the side of the road where he had to wait while every car with a bad muffler passed so he could hear. It didn't matter where he was or what he was doing - if it was three in the afternoon, thee investigation stopped. It was time to call Scully. Mulder had told her he would call when he left her apartment, feeling like a one-night-stand slinking away by making empty promises. In three weeks, he'd never missed a night. Maybe this time, Scully might even answer. Nope. Mulder left the usual message, telling her he loved her and he missed her. He hoped she was feeling better and he was still at the number he'd left if she wanted to talk to him. Then he hung up, just like always. He left out that his profile was at a dead end and, although he had a nice tan, he was no closer to going home than he was when he got here. There was just nothing concrete to go on; no pattern, just a bunch of dead or missing little boys. The evening news had all sorts of theories about the killer - maybe the FBI should start paying the anchors to profile, because some of their ideas sounded better than his. They stuck a microphone in Mulder's face every evening and he always said the same thing: the investigation continued, but there were no firm suspects as of yet. That wasn't enough for the parents of the missing boys. It wouldn't be enough if it was his child that was missing. "Sounds like you got trouble at home, mister." A slight woman with short, dark red hair was sitting patiently behind the desk beside him. "Trouble doesn't even begin to describe it." Mulder didn't like eavesdroppers, especially when it came to his private life. "I didn't mean to overhear. The Captain sent me down here - said you wanted to talk to me. I'm Jenn from Records on the third floor." Mulder was drawing a blank. "They think my son was one of the first victims of your serial killer." Ding! The mother of Jeffery Anderson - the eight year-old who had vanished two summers ago. The local P.D. thought every single child that had disappeared for the last decade was a victim of the same killer; a common syndrome, but the Anderson kid sounded like he actually might fit a profile. Although Mulder didn't really have a profile. Whatever. The Captain had said the mother worked as support staff for the Department. Mulder did want to interview her, just not right this second. Oh, what the hell. It's not like Scully was going to call him back. "Good to meet you, Ms. Anderson. Jenn. I'm Special Agent Mulder with the FBI. I'm here investigating the disappearance of those boys. Would it be possible to talk to you about what happened to your son?" "That's why I'm here." "Would you like to go someplace more private so we can talk?" "Last time some man said that to me, I ended up like this," she said, pulling herself to her feet and revealing a very pregnant belly. Small, feisty woman, red hair, big belly, lonely Mulder in Paradise. It must be Tuesday - Tuesdays always sucked. The worst. Sucked the worst. Mulder sighed. "Come on, Jenn Anderson - I'll buy you something jam-packed with nutrition on Uncle Sam's dime if you'll give me an excuse to get out of this building for an hour." "That's a very novel approach, Agent Mulder. Sure you're not embarrassed to be seen in public with a woman roughly the size of a whale?" Mulder thought that she looked exactly like Scully would in a few more months. Expectant. "Not in the slightest, Ms. Anderson." He held the umbrella over both of them while she made her way slowly across the street to the obligatory grease-trap located near every police station. Choosing one of the tables because she couldn't fit into a booth, Mulder was astonished at the amount of food this tiny thing ordered. "It only takes a few hundred extra calories a day, but I saved all mine up until the end. I've got four more weeks to eat a couple hundred thousand calories," she explained. He was interested to see where she was going to put all that food, because he didn't think it channeled directly to the baby. "Okay, Ms. Anderson - I've already read the statement you gave the police, which was very helpful. What I actually want you to do is look at pictures of some of the other boys we think were victims of the same perpetrator. You're looking for any physical similarity- coloring, height, build, birthmarks - anything that they would have had in common with your son." Mulder opened his briefcase to get the photos and heard her laugh. "Your books, Agent Mulder. 'What to Expect When You're Expecting' and 'Sexual Dysfunction: A guide for assessment and treatment.' One generally comes before the other, hopefully. If you get them out of order, it's not nearly as much fun." Mulder slammed the briefcase shut, gritting his molars. "No. No, it's not, Ms. Anderson. Could you please just look at the pictures?" She studied them carefully while she devoured her plate of fruit and a double order of streamed veggies. The rest of the food she arranged carefully in the to-go box; 'for later,' she'd explained, adding all the crackers, rolls, and butters on the table to the box. Mulder got the sense that this was a big treat for her, whether she let on or not. The file said she was a single mother raising a second son and obviously expecting another on a Record Clerk's salary - that probably didn't afford too many opportunities for dining out, even at places like this. He softened a bit and smoothed his ruffled feathers. It helped that her shoulders were as narrow as Scully's, and there were a sprinkle of familiar freckles across her nose. Irish to the bone. "Are there any better pictures than these? It's hard to see the details," she asked. "I have the autopsy photos of three of the boys, if you can stand to look at them." Mulder opened his briefcase again, this time turning it away from her so she wouldn't see he also had a "Games Babies Play" book he'd been memorizing. He hesitated before he handed them to her. "Agent Mulder, if you can tell me what happened to my son, I can look at anything you've got." God, that sounded like Scully. Again she studied them carefully, even asking for and reading the autopsy reports of the markings on the bodies and the parents' descriptions of their children. Mulder's sandwich was long gone when she finally answered: "Port wine stains. One of the other boys had a port wine stain on his wrist. That's all I can find. I'm sorry." Then she laid her head down on the table and was quiet for several minutes. "That's a birthmark, right?" Mulder asked when she finally raised her eyes. She nodded, most of her posturing gone. "Where was your son's? I'm wondering if it's just the marks, or if there's a specific pattern. I'm looking for a pattern." She got to her feet with great effort and opened her purse, pulling out a battered wallet. Mulder tried to object, telling her the meal was a courtesy for her cooperation, but she dropped a twenty on the table anyway and told him she'd show him her son's birthmark if he'd just shut up. Mulder followed her out into the rain, hurrying to catch up with the umbrella. A boy with auburn curls was waiting for them on the front bench of the station, the school bus barely pulling away. Mulder stared for a moment - the boy was identical to the one in the photo, just a few years older. A twin. "Show this man your belly, James." James obligingly pulled up his thin t-shirt to reveal a small, dark purple mark. "Jeff had the exact same mark." Like the other parents, she already referred to her son in the past tense. "And the other boys we've found had birthmarks on their hands or feet or forehead or places where the skin had been removed. I think we're only finding a few of the bodies - that's why the pattern isn't evident, but he's escalating. He started out taking boys with marks, but now he's creating his own wounds. He's recreating Christ's wounds, Ms. Anderson. That's it - that's the link between all the boys. His father or abuser had the red hair. It's someone with a religious background that had an opportunity to see all the boys semi-undressed." Mulder was lost in profiler land, thinking the faster he got the description written, the faster he could go home, although home wasn't much more pleasant. Scully didn't want him and all his fish were dead. "Sounds like you've got it, Agent Mulder. I'm glad I could help. You call me if you find my son's body." Then she picked up her remaining son's book bag, took his hand, although he was much too old to be holding her hand, and started to walk off in the rain. Mulder stood watching them under the shelter of his umbrella as she told the skinny boy she'd brought him a piece of cake and some fish and macaroni and cheese for dinner as she waddled away. That did it for Mulder's soft heart. "Let me drive you home," he yelled after her. "We don't accept rides from strangers," the over-protective boy yelled back through the gale, stepping in front of his mother. "I'm not a stranger - I'm an FBI agent. I'll even let your mother hold my gun while I drive." "Can I see your badge, mister?" Mulder held it up for the boy to examine. James and his mother exchanged glances, then returned to the safety of the awning while Mulder went to find his rental car. They drove the few miles slowly through the rain and heavy traffic, Jenn holding his gun on what remained of her lap, and the boy having a field day going through Mulder's stuff in the back seat. "What's this?" James asked, holding Mulder's handcuff key over the front seat. "The key to my cuffs. Do you have your seatbelt on?" "What's this?" "Put your seatbelt on. That's my cell phone. Don't mess with it." but he left that unsaid. "Who's this?" He'd found Mulder's wallet in his coat pocket. He must have stuck it there after he used his calling card. "That's my partner. Put it back. Seatbelt." He said he carried the photo in case Scully disappeared again - so he had a ready photo for identification. Good excuse as any. "Look, Mom, she looks like you." "She sure does. Put that back, James. Pull over here, Agent Mulder. And relock the doors right after we get out. No one around here cares that you work for the FBI if they decide they want your fancy car." Mulder looked hesitantly at the rows of poorly-kept government apartment buildings that seemed to stretch forever, feeling like it was a very bad idea to leave this woman here alone. A big white cat was sitting against the screen of a window, braving the rain and expectantly watching for his family to come home, but that was the only friendly thing in this place. James was cleaning up the mess in the backseat before he got out and saw Mulder looking at the clandestine animal. "You won't tell nobody about Buttons, will you, mister? We ain't supposed to have him." Mulder looked back into expectant hazel eyes, asking him to keep a little boy's secret. Maybe Scully was going to have a baby with eyes like that. "No, I won't tell anyone." He held the boy's gaze for as long as possible, thinking about teaching a little boy to play catch and spit for distance as opposed to accuracy. Wonder if there was anyone available to teach James Anderson those things? "I don't want people feeling sorry for us, Agent Mulder. I've got my son and a little girl on the way. I've got a steady job and I've been saving for a car. That's more than a lot of people have. Come on, James." She opened the door against the wind. "And Agent Mulder - it's good for a child to know his Daddy. We pregnant women get a little crazy sometimes. I wish now I'd made some different choices, but it's too late. Thank you for the ride. You lock this door, now, just as soon as I close it." Then the heavy door slammed and Mulder watched her moving clumsily up the sidewalk, carrying her doggy bag, the heavy backpack, and holding her son's hand. The cat jumped down from his perch when he saw his humans and was waiting at the door for the boy to pick him up. Once they got safely inside, Mulder pulled away from the curb, wondering if Jennifer Anderson would be interested in a position as an FBI profiler, because there was about to be a vacancy. **** I am a part of all that I have met. Ulysses **** His profile had found Jeff Anderson's eternally eight-year-old body in the weeds of an abandoned church graveyard two hours before the phone rang - Skinner ordering him to "get on a plane, Agent. Now." Mulder started to tell him no. No more running. Skinner could fire him, but he was going home to Scully before he forgot the way. This wasn't an assignment he could refuse. Not if he wanted to ever go home again. All he wanted was to spend eight hours with his arms wrapped around Scully on a cold night, holding her against him under the warm blankets and feeling the baby kick inside her. All he wanted was the simple pleasure of home and family, but once again, Mulder packed hurriedly and got on the last commercial plane that was leaving Hawaii for months. Exhausted, he stood quietly outside the lab, wasting precious seconds watching Skinner and Scully taking turns looking into a microscope. Through the glass, Mulder couldn't hear their words, but they both had grave expressions. Of course, they both -usually- had grave expressions; he would have been more worried if they were swapping dirty limericks. He noticed Skinner didn't touch Scully's back the way he would have as she peered through the scope, her lips still moving with whatever she was so urgently telling the AD. Mulder just watched her, looking for any change. Something that told him she wanted him, that she would be glad he was finally home. Maybe a sign that she was pregnant, but he couldn't see any change in her small frame. If anything, she looked even slimmer and paler. Please let her still be pregnant. Please. She twisted quickly toward Skinner, and Mulder saw her eyes lose focus. The big man caught her quickly before she fell off her stool, but Mulder was already through the lab door. "What's wrong with her?" he asked, ignoring any usual niceties of hello and how-was-your-flight. "She'll be okay - this happens a lot. Here, Mulder. Take her and I'll get her something to sip on. Just keep her steady; she'll wake up in a little bit." Skinner and Mulder played Twister for a few seconds as they switched places, and Scully's eyes were opening and starting to focus when Skinner returned with a plastic cup of clear soda and a straw. "You came back, Mulder?" she asked weakly. "It's either me or it's an amazing facsimile. I hope it's me, because I've been wearing Mulder's underwear for thirty-nine hours now." "Missed you." "Missed you too, partner." Ignoring Scully's iron-clad don't-kiss- me-in-the-office rule, he pushed his lips briefly and softly to her cool forehead before Skinner cleared his throat. "Good to see you again, Agent Mulder. We've got something I'd like you to look at." Mulder was busy holding the love of his life and the mother of his child - he could care less what was under the microscope. And he wanted to know why Scully still looked so pale. The books said most morning sickness passed by the first trimester, and she should be about four month's pregnant by now. Scully seemed able to sit up on her own, so Mulder reluctantly let her go. She leaned to the side while he looked in to the microscope, asking her what he was looking at. "Bees. One of lots and lots of bees." Scully excused herself to go to the bathroom, and Skinner briefed him on what seemed to be the X-file to end all X-files. "This is the sample that came in from Tunisia last night. The population there is being attacked by bees, as I told you on the phone. There's already been hundreds of deaths and it's not just smallpox this time." "It's starting, then." Mulder's jet lag immediately vanished. "I think it's more ending. The consortium is dead; most of the players have vanished. I think this is just an accident now that the research has ended and the network is breaking down." "Can I ask how you know that, sir?" "No, you cannot, Agent Mulder. You can take Scully home for the evening and let her rest. She's been here since dawn and she's-" Scully reappeared, so Skinner abruptly switched back into boss- mode. "Efforts to contain the outbreaks continue, but so far, none have been effective. The bees had spread through most of the Middle East and Southern Europe before the first victims died, so the entire area is a hot zone. There are no reports of swarms in North America, but it's just a matter if time. There's a media blackout, but martial law will be declared tomorrow, so if you two want to leave, you should do it tonight." Skinner had called him back, not to fight the bees, but to take care of Scully. "Are you leaving, sir?" Skinner shook his head from side to side. "Then neither are we." "Then be back in the morning for your assignments. Early. And Agent Scully - you need to decide before it's too late." **** Mastering the lawless science of out law,-- That codeless myriad of precedent, That wilderness of single instances. Aylmer's Field **** "Are you ever planning on speaking to me again, Scully?" Mulder asked as he drove her car through the innocent, sleeping city to her apartment. He wondered how many children had added the part about "if I die before I wake" as they said their bedtime prayers. "I'm just thinking, Mulder." "Whatcha thinkin, partner?" "Deep thoughts, Mulder." She continued to stare out into the dark, still sipping the drink Skinner had brought her as though ginger ale cured all things, including alien breeding programs gone awry. "About the bees? About us? About the baby? About the Knick's chances if they lose their point guard? What, Scully?" "Just thinking, Mulder. It's a lot to sort out at one time." "Start with the easiest," he told her, pulling the gearshift into reverse and backing into a coveted space right in front of her building. He carried both their briefcases and his luggage inside, following her like a porter, but Scully was silent as she unlocked the door. Assuming he was going to get to stay, Mulder let her think, sorting out his dirty clothes and preparing to do a couple loads of laundry. He'd rather not meet Death with dirty undies and twice-worn socks. "I don't think either you or I can be infected with the virus if we're stung, Mulder." "I agree," he said, instantly shifting his attention away from his socks and to his partner. What wasn't she saying? "But I'm not sure about the baby." That was the easiest thing she was thinking about? "If you got stung, the virus could gestate inside the baby and kill you, even though you'd never actually be infected," Mulder though out loud. "Scully-" "No, Mulder!" "It's not about you not wanting the baby, Scully. It's about life or death. Your life! We have know way of knowing how bad the swarms will get and-" "I can't. I'm sorry, but I just can't. I'm too afraid." Mulder still didn't think Dana Scully was afraid of anything but sex and snakes and those two kind of went together. "What are you afraid of? Everyone will understand, Scully. No one, including God, is going to judge you. You have to do it now while there are still doctors available." She sat down quickly on the couch and he was afraid she was getting dizzy again. Her eyes were open, staring past him, and after a few minutes, she spoke: "You know I didn't mean to get pregnant, don't you, Mulder?" "I know that. It was an accident. It was as much my fault as yours." "You know that I'm sorry." "I know that." "I'm sorry you got trapped. I'm sorry I'm so neurotic and plain and cold. I'm sorry you feel like you have to stay with me because I'm pregnant. I keep telling you to leave, but I know you won't. You feel honor-bound to stay, whether you want to or not. You probably think you should 'do the right thing' and marry me, don't you, Mulder? You think having a child is worth laying beside me every night for the rest of your life?" Then she just covered her face and cried. Loud, angry, child-that- needed-a-nap sobs. She was delusional. That was the only thing that could explain it. She was depressed or hormonal or traumatized or just plain nuts, because his partner would never think anything close to those thoughts. "Have you been taking those pills, Scully?" She nodded yes, but didn't stop crying. If she'd been on Paxil since the funeral, it should be helping by now. Maybe this was some sort of hormonal mood swing. Hell, what were they thinking when they gave him the psych degree? Dear Abby would have a better idea of what to say to her. "Scully, I'm never leaving you. Baby or no baby, sex or no sex. I loved you before and I love you now - nothing is going to change that. Unless you're planning on hitting me over the head with a frying pan and dragging me out into the hallway, I'm not going anywhere. And I think I'm pretty safe, since I don't think you have a frying pan." Scully raised her face, tears still streaming. "I do (sob) to have (sniff) a (sniff) frying (sob) pan, (sob) Mulder." He had to laugh. "I'll watch my back then, Scully." Christ - hormonal hell. At least, he hoped that was all it was. He kissed her damp temple and let her calm down on the couch while he made his first trip to the washer. When he came back, her face was still flushed, but the tears had stopped. Mulder sat on the other end of the couch, watching her watching him. "I want you to promise me you'll at least think about it. If you get stung - and we'll try to make sure you don't get stung." Scully stood up and pulled him to his feet, leading him a few steps away from the couch. "Take off my clothes." "Take off my clothes, Mulder." It was a voice that purred from the deep, dark place inside her that Daniel must have touched. "Scully, if you're trying to distract me, it's working." She didn't move away, so Mulder obligingly unbuttoned her blouse, letting it slip down and tossing it onto the chair behind him. He hesitated at her bra, but she reached her fingers up between her breasts and unfastened it, so he pushed it off her shoulders as well. Her breasts were already swelling, and he covered one with his hand briefly before he remembered that wasn't what she'd invited. Mulder unzipped her skirt and let it and her slip fall to the floor and she stepped back in her panties and thigh-highs. "Can you see it, Mulder?" His first thought was that, aside from the breasts, which were wonderful, she was much too skinny. He could see the outline of her ribs and hipbones, and her collarbone stood out. Mulder looked at her stomach, expecting it to be almost concave like it was when she had cancer and realized- -that it wasn't. "Oh my God!" His hands were on her slight belly before he could stop himself. "I can see it. I can see the baby!" Mulder looked up at her, his breaths shallow and his eyes shining. "You still want me to have an abortion, Mulder?" The same low, breathy voice, enticing even while she discussed destroying their child. He swallowed, suddenly much less excited. But he didn't say that. He just stood up and kissed her, not Careful or timid, but the way a man should kiss a woman, reacting to the siren invitation of her voice instead of her words. She didn't pull away, but he did once he got control over himself, afraid he would upset her. "You know - I like it, Mulder. I don't mind. Kiss me." Same promising voice. Maybe he just wanted to hear it. "You don't -mind- having sex?" Scully didn't seem to catch his inflection. "No. I like being close to you. I like you touching me; I just have trouble responding, but it will get better. It's not bad, and I like that you like it, Mulder." He thought he'd had this conversation with a girl when he was about sixteen. How could Scully be so adult about everything else and such a child when it came to sex? It didn't even sound like her. Even with his books, where did he start sorting out this neurosis? "What's the worst part, Scully?" He asked, leading her into the bedroom, a plan hatching. "Mulder, I can't talk about it." "Yes, you can. It's dark, you can't see me, only hear my voice and feel my hands. Now tell me what you don't want." She was quiet again for a few minutes, probably working up her nerve. "I don't like feeling obligated. That if I let it go past a certain point, I pretty much have to have sex or I'll make you angry." God, she's insecure about this. He never would have suspected. "What else? Any certain touches, any acts?" He knew she was blushing in the darkness. "I don't like feeling trapped. Like I can't get away if I get scared." "So you don't like actual penetration and you don't want me on top of you or holding you down. Is that right?" He heard her hair move as she shook her head. "Say it, Scully." "Yes." "Given those ground rules, and the fact that the world is about to end tomorrow morning, do you want me to make love to you?" "Yes." "Say it" "I want you to make love to me." Now it sounded like his Scully instead of a sex kitten. "Say it again. Say my name." "I want you to make love to me, Mulder." "Again. Just keep saying it, Scully." **** The old order changeth, yielding place to new; And God fulfils himself in many ways, Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. The Passing of Arthur **** Mulder didn't realize until hours later that he'd never asked her what else she was thinking about. Of course, he didn't sleep. Mulder spent an extra few minutes in the privacy of the shower once Scully was asleep, emerging feeling no cleaner, but much relieved. He finished laundry, and made a trip to his apartment to pick up jeans and boots and to visit his car which he hadn't actually driven in a month. After a drive-through midnight snack, Mulder stopped in to see the Gunmen, who were already battening down the hatches. Total media blackout, his ass. When Mulder opened their door to leave at four, the military trucks were already rolling into place under the prickly stars. The world was never going to be the same. "Time to wake up, Scully." His voice sounded too loud in the dark room. "Mulder?" "Wake up, sleepyhead. I think we should go before the sun comes up." His partner rolled out of her bed slowly, bearing little resemblance to Special Agent Scully or anyone that should be trusted with a gun. He started to make her coffee, then realized she couldn't have the caffeine, so he got her a glass of juice instead, setting it on the counter while she was in the shower and dozing while she got ready. Thirty minutes later, Agent Scully emerged, a little thin and pale, but squeaky clean and kissably soft. Mulder laughed at her putting on her suit and heels - a military state of emergency probably meant it was a casual day. Scully changed into slacks. Even aliens weren't going to get Dana Scully into the office in jeans. It took showing their badges eleven times to get from her apartment to the Hoover building, and they didn't even make it into the parking garage before a Private informed Mulder he would be valet parking their car so they could report for their assignments at once. "At once, sir!" According to the lists, Dana Scully, M.D., FBI, was to going with the CDC task force, which was leaving immediately. Mulder didn't like the idea of putting her, half-awake and pregnant, in the back of a truck going God-only-knows-where in the darkness. They were standing at the end of the convoy, probably holding up all sorts of national defense plans while Mulder hesitated. "She's only going to the Pentagon, Agent Mulder, not Tunisia," Skinner's voice yelled from across the road. "Kiss her bye-bye, put her on the Goddamn truck, and let's MOVE!" Mulder hated Marines, but orders were orders. He kissed her 'bye- bye,' helped her up into bed of the high truck and into the hands of some waiting man in uniform, then tossed in her doctor's and overnight bag. He just stood among the last of the autumn leaves and watched her sway on the bench, already alone inside herself, as the truck pulled away and the sun rose. "Fox Mulder, FBI, UN Coordination Team. Commander." **** Thro' all the world she follow'd him. The Day Dream **** By mid-morning, Mulder discovered his fancy new title meant he got to run around telling all the different countries where the bees were and who or what they should be sending men to exterminate. They weren't impressed with his communication skills, only his immunity to the virus and his ability to travel and be bossy. It also meant that, as the crisis quickly escalated, he could see Scully. Not face to face, but twenty feet tall on the screen at every briefing So he knew she was alive. He was going to buy Skinner a beer for arranging that. Mulder treasured those moments each week; getting to watch her for a few moments as the CDC people reported on the status of a vaccine. His assistant took good notes because Mulder generally had no idea what was discussed at those briefings. She never said a word - supposedly she was there as a "technical consultant," but he finally realized it was just so he could see her. He was buying Skinner a keg. She watched him, too - her face carefully serene as he mapped out the location of the swarms and the troops from each country. Sometimes the transmissions continued after the meetings ended and he could see her stand to leave - she was always sitting behind the table when he logged on, no matter how early he tried to get to the transmission sites. As the weeks passed, he could see her clothes fitting tighter and tighter and he longed to feel the fetus moving under her skin instead of a gestating alien whose host he had to order killed before it could hatch. Someone always hurried her away - out of the conference room and back into a lab; his assistant was at his elbow telling Mulder he was running behind schedule. There was always someone or something to find and kill and he always seemed to have to hurry up to do it. Wouldn't want anyone to have to wait around to die. Sometimes, though, she looked back at his picture on the screen as she left. He'd memorized those moments, too. He thought of them as he wrote to her. Give Mulder a pen and a notebook and another eighteen hours on a military plane bound for the ever-shifting "front lines," and he could almost find the words. As someone else once penned, he just picked up a quill and opened a vein, only checking the flow when he couldn't stand the exquisite pain anymore. His love, his split-apart, his alpha and omega. The true north, the first elusive zephyr, the last thought of a contented man. A challenge, a constant, a hungry scarlet familiar silently prowling his dreams. A proud lioness gently licking her cubs - power cloaked under a gentle warm touch; a huntress guarding her den - fiercely protecting those few fortunate to be called her own. Her- her prodigal son, her partner in life, her touch in the night, her companion on the final morning. He promised, he felt, he loved, he wanted and dreamed. Missed, worried, thought, cried. Cherished. Prayed. He looked out a window and watched the stars rise as he paused, pen in mid-air. "We'll be landing soon, Commander." "Okay - I'll get my suit on." Mulder began the laborious task of encasing himself in mesh, sealing any entrances that meant a painful sting for Mulder and a certain death for the rest of the world. The letter - what to do with the letter? He grabbed for a hand hold as the plane landed roughly, crumpling the pieces of paper in his other fist and stuffing them into his duffle bag with the other wads. No mail, sir. No sending, no receiving. Because - classified information, military secrets, and information management. Besides, no mail was going in or out of the quarantined areas - fear of spreading the bees, sir. Well, pretty much the whole planet was a quarantined area. It's okay, Commander, we all write letters home - we just don't bother to mail them. Mulder had not bothered to mail about a dozen now, but he kept writing. He didn't even bother to compose actual letters anymore, just tried to put his thoughts into words. 'My body has never betrayed me, Scully. The shadows have come so many times, waiting to take me, but my heart and lungs refused to stop for Death. I marveled at the mysticism of the few seconds that let me walk away once more from another of our adventures, but I didn't question fate. I thought I was strong and healthy - ten feet tall and bulletproof. I know now how very small those miracles were; bleeding stops, bacteria die, breathing is restored. This child is a miracle. I thought there would be something more significant to announce a new life - trumpets or fireworks or, at least, not two friends who had too much to drink and let their hormones and secrets get the best of them. But we did this, Scully. Someone's God stole in as we slept in your bed and changed our lives. Our cells have connected while our minds still struggle with the details - like what to do with the rest of our lives. We created a miracle, you and I, completely unawares, and I can only pray your body does not betray you. For the first time in my life, I feel small and weak by comparison.' The brakes squealed and the door opened. Cairo. And lots and lots more bees. It never got as bad in North America as it did elsewhere because they had time to put precautions into place and because the weather was cooler. People died, yes, but less than five percent of the populace was infected - and therefore destroyed - in the U.S., mostly in Florida and the Islands. Central America, the Middle East and Cuba weren't so fortunate, and Mulder was there, trying to live up to what people expected a hero to be. 'I have a single fear, Scully. Not of Death, because he is a constant visitor and I know you are strong enough to go on. Not of you wanting to leave me, because your decisions are usually the right decisions. Not of the war or the bees or the miles between us. Not of becoming a father, although it gives me pause. Tonight, I only fear once again seeing the look on your face if I disappoint you.' The first victims willingly admitted themselves to hospitals for treatment and were simply destroyed as they slept because there was no cure, despite what the public was originally told. Soon, anyone showing signs of the virus was forcibly detained and "disappeared." There were checkpoints surrounding all known swarm areas and no one stung got out alive - one way or another. As people became more savvy and the bees spread into more developed areas, it was easier to just liquidate the cities instead of trying to capture the infected humans and then hunt down any aliens that managed to hatch undetected. Mulder was in charge of getting all the different military leaders to have their troops in the right place at the right time to kill the right beings. It still meant he was a killer; just that he got to wear an expensive suit and give instead of execute the orders. Same thing; the six o'clock news just thought his hands were cleaner. 'I stare at an intimidating scrap of paper, trying to find the words to tell you what I feel, but they look too small when I write them. Do I love? Of course I love. But America loves a Coke and everyone loves a hero, so that is much too trivial a word. Do I miss? With every particle - every cell that isn't busy surviving and killing misses. Do I want? I want my partner and I want my friend and I want small warm hands that reach out in the darkness and silky hair against my throat. There is the want of the flesh and the want of the soul, and I am afflicted with both. Perhaps I should see a doctor, Scully. Do I need? I shouldn't need - it should be enough that I want and love, but I do need. The challenge and the complement. The knowing without words and the acceptance. So I love, miss, want, and need - they all seem insignificant and inadequate. We exterminated more than a thousand infected civilians today, Scully. The bodies are burning in the distance and it was called a victory. I am to be congratulated. Perhaps this is how to say it: You make me want to be the man the public thinks I am, because he is a legend. Yet I never want to lose my secret self - however flawed - because that is the man you and only you - love.' All great men are driven by dreams that scholars see as noble visions as they write and rewrite the history books. No, it's just a very human desire for unpretentious pleasures. If spring came early and the bees were still spreading, Scully could be one of the people the soldiers herded into high school cafeterias, telling them to lay their heads down on the tables after receiving their "vaccination;" just rest and the sleepiness will pass as the medicine kills the virus. The sleepiness didn't ever pass because no medicine killed the virus, only the host. Mulder had nightmares of her running from the soldiers, clutching her belly as she tripped and fell in the forest. They caught her. And shot her. And then he awoke alone. So Mulder kept making sure all the right people were in the right places to kill the right beings and they called him a visionary. Well, even visionaries get lonely, especially living tents in the middle of Egypt or Guam or Cuba. Visionaries lay alone at night and stare at their canvas roofs and think about hair like fire and skin like cream. Great men close their eyes and remember delicate, frightened arms around their necks as they whispered for her not to be scared. That the visionary loves her and he won't hurt her. That he loves her. He loves her. Yes. Loves her. Oh yes. Oh God, yes. Love you. Oh God. Visionaries are glad they get their own tent. **** In that fierce light which beats upon a throne. Idylls of the King **** Fuck it, he was going home. Scully looked too pale and too thin and he was going to check on her instead of spending one more night laying awake worrying. No, he didn't want to review the status of the CDC research on the vaccine. Again. No, he didn't want to try to get a message back to the States. No, he didn't want to speak to the representative from the Pentagon who had no idea who Dana Scully was but he was certain she couldn't come to the phone, sir. No sir, no one below the rank of Commander has phone privileges, sir. Mulder wanted everyone to stop "sir"ing him and get one of those jets fired up with a barf bag in the back seat in under an hour. The briefing was over, the Generals were moving the troops, and he could be back before anyone noticed he was even gone. End of discussion. It was time to put all that damn stealth technology to good use. "NOW!" He'd get General's Han and Mi to stop screaming at each other using only short vowels and double check that the French troops hadn't wandered off again tomorrow. "Make it happen!" His poor assistant stopped trying to placate him and found a pilot, a few plastic bags, and some Dramamine. "You worried about that lady with the red hair and the belly, sir?" the Lieutenant asked, as Mulder looked hesitantly at the B-2, his stomach already churning. There was no sense in lying; McNeill had already seen him scribbling baby names while he was supposed to be being appraised. The young man had even caught him writing out "Dana Katherine Mulder," once, just to see how it looked before he added it to the pile of crumples taking up space in his duffle bag. Some war hero. "Very worried, McNeill." "So you'll be touring the area, mapping out troop location from the air, sir?" Mulder grinned. "Hard to do in the dark, but I should have that figured out in about twelve hours, Lieutenant." "You dedication to your duties is an inspiration to the men, sir." Now that was laying it on a little thick. "You got any troops you'd like to check on, McNeill?" "Sir, there's personnel in DC that remain unaccounted for, Sir." "We wouldn't want any troops unaccounted for, Lieutenant. Better write down their last known location and I'll see about gathering any intelligence." A grin split the twenty-year-old's face. "Can you get a message to my mom, Sir?" "McNeill! Are you suggesting I exploit a multi-million dollar aircraft for personal use?" After tolerating Mulder for a whole month, the lanky Black man didn't even blink. Damn. "You've got until I work up the nerve to get in that cockpit to write a note, McNeill." **** That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew. Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington **** "Yes, our records do indicate there is a Dana Scully here, Commander. We can have her report to you first thing in the morning, Sir." Mulder was learning the power of silence and rank. Skinner would be proud. "Sir, there are hundreds of women's dormitories set up throughout the building and she could be in any one of them. It would be almost impossible to locate her until she reports to her assignment in the morning, sir." They were "sir"ing him again. More silence. These men didn't know he doodled his partner's name like he was still in Junior High. "It's three million square feet, sir. In the dark, sir." "Then turn on the lights." Mulder was surprised at the various attire women chose to sleep in. He saw everything from long flannel nightgowns to not a stitch, but no Scully. The guards would snap on the lights, announce "Officer on the Floor!" and let Mulder look for his particular female. Most of the military women scrambled out of bed and stood at attention, so Mulder just ignored them. He's spent years traveling with Scully, fighting over the car air conditioner and trying to get her awake in the mornings. He looked for the form buried deepest under the most blankets, hibernating blissfully as the other women jumped to their feet. Using that method, it took him forty-five minutes to find her. Sound asleep. Under three scratchy Army-issue blankets. Only the tip of her nose peeking out from under the covers, waiting for spring to come. Mulder ordered the men policing the building into the corner of what used to be a break room - M.P.s, S.P.s., CIA, NSA, whatever their initials were, he wanted their full attention as he peeled back the cocoon to show them her face. "Gentlemen, this is Dr. Dana Scully. Look closely at her, because when I call from now on, every one of you should be able to tell me Dr. Scully's location and what she had for breakfast, or I'm coming back here to personally review her status with whoever has the unfortunate lapse of memory. Now get out." Power had its privileges. As the flourescent lights stopped their hum, all the troops, maps and plans and coordinates and rank faded with them, leaving only an ordinary, extraordinary man trying to save lives by taking lives so he could go home. Because of her. Well, that and the good of mankind thing. "Scully? Wake up, partner." "Mulder?" No wonder she was confused - he'd appeared beside her cot in the middle of the night when he was supposed to be in Cairo. He hadn't realized it was after midnight on the East Coast. Actually, he thought it might still be yesterday here. Today's briefing might not have even happened yet for her. No, that couldn't be right. No wonder Scully was confused. "Mulder?" He wanted to ask her if she'd been eating. If she'd been able to keep her doctor's appointments and if she was gaining enough weight, because it didn't look like it on the screen. Was she comfortable here? Did she need anything? Did she miss him the way he missed her? Did she lay awake at night worrying about the two of them, the baby, the bees, and life in general? Did she still love him? "Hi, Scully." That was all he could manage. "Hi. Whus wrong?" "Everything's okay. I just wanted to check on you. How are you doing?" "I'm fine, Mulder." He should have known better than to wake her up in the middle of the night and expect a deep discussion. "How's the baby?" "Feel." She found his hand and slid it under the hot covers. Mulder held his breath, trying to detect any movement, not sure what he was feeling for under the silky fabric. Then there was a sudden ripple, like something had shifted under her skin. Not an alien - a child. It was real. "My God." He could feel his tired eyes tearing. They did this. Five months ago this creature was separate inside their two bodies and now it was whole. One hasty kiss, two friend's choices, and a few moments in the hot darkness, and they'd created something unique to them. Immortality. A bridge made out of protein and plasma and hydrogen and oxygen that the universe had breathed to life. "My God." How to put that into words in the ex-break room of the DOD in the middle of the night in the middle of a war? Shakespeare, Genesis, Eliot, Rilke . . . Ruth. "Marry me." It wasn't a question, just a finalization. "Mulder?" "It's okay, Scully. I know you're only half awake. I know you want to think it over. It's a big decision. I don't want to pressure you." "I'm going to go now, but I'll try to come back. And I'll come get you as soon as this is over. And it's almost over." "Mulder - wait." He heard rustling and felt her shift in the bed. Then she felt for his hand on the darkness and pressed something into it. "What's this?" "An answer." He kissed her, not braving any more questions because he was afraid of the answers. "Goodbye, Scully. I love you." "Bye, Mulder. Be careful." He tucked her back into her wool cave and let her drift back to sleep, shoving a bag full of crumpled goofy letters under her bed before he changed his mind. "Are you the Mulder guy on the news?" a Latino-accented voice from the bunk above Scully asked. "Cause I marry you." Great - what a brilliant plan, Mulder. Sure they should put him in charge of anything? Lights flooded the room again, making him squint and realize exactly how many women had been listening to him propose. Badly. Brilliant. Scully was going to kill him. He looked down at her, already asleep on her miniature pillow as the female zombies approached, menacing. There had to be some way to escape without being mobbed by the nosiest creatures on Earth - lonely women. "I'm going back to North Africa. I'll take any message ready in two minutes to any soldier stationed there." Mulder knew enough about military tactics to make for the hallway while they all wrote, then collect the scribbled notes and run like hell for the front door, trying to look as heroic as possible. Since none of the women actually knew where their men were stationed, Mulder had letters from every female to every male she knew - just in case. "Sgt. Michael Brown, 27, Air Force, works on helicopters. I am alive and well. Love, your Tara." "Captain Adam Martinez, 43, Navy, from Miami, helps steer aircraft carriers. All our kids are safe with your mother. Love Maria." "Dr. Alex Lee-Han, ER physician from DC, Age 29. I miss you. Take care, Kim." "To Jason Reeves from Charleston, SC, beekeeper - Dad is dead. Be careful. Love, your sister." "Private Roy Douglas from Los Vegas, Army, 18. Love you. Change your socks often. Mom." War was Hell. With decaf. By his watch, he'd left his post six hours ago and he'd be back in another five. The barf bag full of letters to fathers, sons, brothers, and lovers was going to make him very popular, but he still hadn't brought himself to look at the small folded square pressed into his palm. Scully had said it was an answer. Scully -would- have a written answer prepared just in case. She probably typed it out and ran it through spell check. He'd unfold it and look on the count of three. Okay, on the count of ten. Okay, he'd count backwards from ten real slow and then look. Okay, he'd close his eyes and unfold it and then look. Okay, he'd keep his eyes closed, count backwards from twenty, unfold the note, and then look. Okay, he'd- "Just look at the goddamn note, sir!" the pilot yelled, waiting to strap himself into the front seat. "Oh, Jesus - sorry, sir. Commander, sir, I'm really sorry - that just slipped out. You've been trying to look at it for ten minutes now and there are other planes waiting to take off and it's cold as Hell out here. I'm really tired, sir. Sorry, sir." They couldn't take off until he got in the plane, understandably enough. "You open it while I get strapped in." Coward. Damn right! A gloved hand held the small square of paper back over a shoulder. "I don't know what the hell it is, Commander, but here you go. Hope it's what you were hoping for. Hold on now; I'll get you back real quick." Mulder had time to look at the grainy picture for a few seconds, trying to figure out if it was a Rorschach Ink Blot or a satellite photo or a Xerox of someone's butt before they were in the heavens. Once again, the B-2 proved the laws of physics, but Mulder had more cosmic concerns than his stomach this time. It was a printout of an ultrasound, complete with a tiny hand held up to a tiny face inside his Scully. He took that as a "yes." **** Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null. Maud **** The men were on the prowl, jockeying for the best position. It was the sound of a couple hundred males who'd had a choice between themselves, each other, the local prostitutes - which was often unwise, the few female personnel, or the camels for two months. It was the same sound lions make when they spot tasty, fresh meat. The stalking had begun, red in tooth and claw and licking its chops. Mulder had already seen the name of the British liaison who would be substituting until their UN rep recovered from something unmentionable he'd picked up from the local girls or the camels. Whatever it was, penicillin didn't seem to be curing it. Mulder was glad he wasn't interested - and not just because of the native attitudes toward safe sex, either. Phoebe Green. Mulder wasn't coming out of his tent. He was hiding under his cot there until the war ended, wearing three pairs of boxers and two layers of pants with zippers that tended to stick, and a really tight belt. He might die of heat stroke or sand inhalation, but he wasn't dealing with Phoebe. He wasn't interested, after all. Scully was busy gestating in DC and, except for this war and alien virus thing, he was as happy as he'd ever been in his life. He wasn't tempted to have one final fling with a woman who knew every sex trick in the book and lived to use every one of them. Someone who purred nasty phrases into his ear instead of closing her eyes and drifting away. Mulder wasn't tempted at all. He was an as-good-as- married man. He just liked to wear lots of layers and sleep on a firm surface. Good fashion sense and a bad back. Some visionary. He had forgotten how well Phoebe could manipulate him - reduce him to a twenty-three-year-old bundle of insecurities and hormones in a matter of seconds. Hopefully though, his higher brain had learned its lesson, because there was yet another briefing in an hour. McNeill would come and drag him out of his tent if he didn't move. Phoebe had the sense to wait until the transmission ended, although Mulder saw Scully's face when she was introduced. He was wearing his blankest of blank expressions and a belt under his bio suit, just as a safety precaution. "Mulder." Except she pronounced it "Muul-dah," rolling her tongue around every syllable and softening a few consonants. He had a fifty dollar bill in his pocket - wonder if she'd stop saying his name for fifty bucks? "Mulder, so good to see you again. I'm sure it will be a -pleasure- working with you. I didn't see you before the meeting - you're looking fit." A hundred bucks? His watch? He felt like a wolf who'd ventured too close to a trap and was considering the merits of gnawing off a leg. Or a horse that was being appraised for stud value. "Good to see you, Phoebe." He turned his back to her and tried to send McNeill a "get me the hell out of here" mental message through the window. McNeill was standing at ease beside their jeep, knowing full and well what Mulder wanted and ignoring the ringing of the psychic hotline. "I have to go, Phoebe. Generals to find, bees to swat." "Aren't you the -important- one. Are you going back to the front, Mulder? Could you give a lady a ride?" Mulder was certain McNeill was grinning at him under that stern expression. He zipped the hood over his head and escorted her outside. "McNeill can take you and come back for me later." The young man's long face fell and his eyes narrowed a millimeter. McNeill was also an as-good-as-married man, and his fiance was a weapons expert. Scully might be able to kick Mulder's ass, but the future Mrs. McNeill could launch the scuds. "Was that your partner in the room in DC? It was hard to tell. She looked so - expectant. Are congratulations in order?" The red claws were coming unsheathed. Phoebe knew full and well that it was Scully - his little midnight flight to DC had gotten the attention of the media, who thought it was the most romantic thing since Monica blew Bill. It had also gotten the full attention of the US Navy, who owned the plane and pilot and didn't find it romantic or amusing. What were they going to do? Fire him and fight their own damn war? Send him someplace hotter, dirtier, and smellier than Egypt? Send him home to Scully? No - please not that briar patch for Brer Rabbit! The military really knew where to hit a man; they took away his phone home privileges. "Aren't you a little overdressed for a UN briefing, Phoebe?" Actually, underdressed would be more appropriate. Each branch and country still wore their own uniform, but this was a Phoebe- special. She was going to get one hell of a sunburn. "It's hard to know how to dress for the end of civilization as we know it, Mulder." She twisted from side to side, giving him and every man in sight a view of her small breasts under her tight tank top. Mulder shot a futile look at McNeill, who arranged his face into innocence under his hood. The future Mrs. McNeill was just off-shore, probably watching him through a scope and plotting the coordinates for his death if he so much as blinked. "It's not the end of the world, Phoebe. It's a bunch of bees and you look like Linda Hamilton." Right down to the knife strapped to her thigh. Jesus, woman - how fitting. "You never know, Mulder. You never know what opportunities might never. . . come. . . again." This was going to be easier than he thought. "Oh, grow the hell up. McNeill will drive you back to the camp - why don't you see if you can't impress him? You know what they say about Black men, Phoebe." "Have fun - the Army gives out boxes of rubbers and they swear he's really clean this time. There's some nasty social diseases going around, I hear." **** And on her lover's arm she leant. . . In that new world which is the old. The Day-Dream **** As he drove in, the field hospital reminded Mulder of M.A.S.H., except all tan instead of Army green, and he couldn't think of any other place he'd less like to be. McNeill was pacing out front, stopping every few seconds to look for his commander, but he didn't seem any more relaxed when Mulder squealed to a stop. "Is she infected?" "Looks like it, sir. I'm sorry, sir - I told her to put on a suit, but she wouldn't. Once the swarm hit. . ." Mulder gave the young man a pat and a "nothing you could have done" speech before he went in to see Phoebe. He at least owed her a peaceful death. The nurses had the syringe ready and handed it to him as he walked through the door. He'd radioed ahead and asked them to wait. Of course there's a vaccine for military use, Phoebs - got it right here. Just close your eyes and you'll feel better in a few days. Yea - I know it hurts. Burns. We'll talk when you come back to camp. Yes, I'm sorry we broke up, too. Of course, I still love you, Phoebs - yes, only you. Her breathing had already stopped before the syringe was empty and he watched her face relax into childhood, all worries fading into darkness. Such a little lie for so much peace. Mulder never noticed the AP photographer snapping away or had any idea that he and not the weary nurses were the focus of the lense. No idea until he saw a British newspaper four days later, complete with "UN Commander Loses Other Love," a photo of him holding Phoebe's hand while she died, and another picture of his face as he watched from the jeep as her body was burned with all the others. Scully and her belly were featured in the lower right hand corner, hard at work in a lab in DC. He had to admit - it made for quite a front page. **** For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry. To ------, after reading a Life and Letters. **** Brer Rabbit was going home - he'd finally killed enough to earn his precious briar patch. In only a few months, the operation was ending. The bees seemed to have a normal three-month life cycle and didn't pass the virus on to their offspring, so it was just a matter of containing the original colonies. There were still a few victims that slipped though the quarantines and hatched Grays which had to be hunted down and "picked" as the soldiers called it, but for all practical purposes, Operation Alien Sting was over. Home. Home had to be more than three thousand miles away. Home was a lifetime away. Aside from his silly letters stuffed under her bunk, Mulder had no way to get a message to Scully. No phone calls, no letters. The best he could do was look innocent when the camera crews cornered him - he couldn't even answer their questions. According to the military, the bees had been eradicated from all of the Middle East - Phoebe had never died. Mulder hated that he was one of the men that gave out the "official version" of the truth. He just stared out the window at the stars, telling himself everything he'd done was the right thing. By dawn, Mulder finally stepped on the helicopter at Langley Air Force Base in Virginia on the last leg to go home. To Scully. And the baby. Whether she wanted him or not. Voices called out to him as he walked through the Pentagon, probably commending his military prowess or map-making ability or some such bullshit, but Mulder just kept walking - not even seeing the faces. He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer before he opened the door to the DOD lab, just in case anyone was listening up there. Please. Let her be there, let her be alive, let her be pregnant, and let her want him. It was either divine intervention, or dedication to her post, or just plain luck. She was there. Still too skinny, still too pale, but Scully was there, sitting at a table with several other sciency-looking men drinking a bottle of V- 8. She smiled when she saw him: unwashed, unshaven, with twenty hours of military cargo plane and helicopter grime on him, and the buzz cut some Navy barber had given him in Guantanamo Bay two weeks ago. "You ready to go home, Scully?" She pulled herself up with difficulty, the way he remembered the woman in Hawaii doing what seemed like an eternity ago. "Ready, Mulder." **** Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of change. Locksley Hall **** The next stop was the FBI building to check in with Skinner and pick up her car. He must have been keeping tabs on Scully while Mulder was off saving the world, because Skinner seemed updated on the status of the belly. Mulder and Scully were to take some time off, but Mulder needed to be in DC at the White House in three weeks. They were giving him a medal. "That's not funny, Agent Mulder. It's quite an honor." "Can I tell the President where he can stick his damn medal if I show up?" "Not unless you want to go back on fertilizer patrol, Agent. Be there, be honored, and be cleaner than you are now." And Skinner went back to his meeting, leaving Mulder grinning in the front office and Scully dozing in Kimberly's chair. A fuckin' medal. An authorized, official fuckin' medal. He ordered a couple hundred thousand people hunted down like animals and drew pictures of troop movements on a few maps and they wanted to give him a medal for it. He had to love Uncle Sam. All Mulder wanted was a hot shower, a soft bed with Scully in it, and a cold beer, in that order. He was planning on carrying Scully to the car - she couldn't have gained more than ten pounds, if that much, but she awoke in the parking garage and he set her down. "You hungry, partner?" She looked like she should be hungry. She looked like she should be ravenous. Scully had been letting him lead her around, which Mulder took as a good sign that he was forgiven, but she looked so sick. Between her mother's death, their constant fighting, and trying to conquer Alien technology and gestate at the same time, Scully looked like she could use a long vacation. Mulder intended to see that she got one, starting immediately. "How about some fresh fruit and steamed veggies, if I can find any?" And some mac and cheese, and peanut butter and a whole cheesecake and a side of beef? "Un huh. That sounds nice." The car turned over lazily after sitting for almost three months, And Mulder drove off in search of zucchini and cantaloupe, a hot shower, and a soft bed with Scully in it, in that order. Some frozen steamed veggies and fruit cocktail, a hot shower - sadly, alone - and a manic Scully patching up every wound on him she could find, and Mulder made it to the soft bed part. He thought he might finally get to sleep when Scully located a spot on his back that she must doctor. "It's a mosquito bite! I'm not going to die of a mosquito bite before morning!" It was too late - Scully had all the lights on and was poking him with something metal and medical. She checked his lungs and pulse again, in case they'd changed in twenty minutes, and finally pronounced him healthy and probably quite tasty. To bugs, at least. "Scully, I swear - pregnant or not, partner or not - if you don't calm down and let me go to sleep, I'm going to set you out in the hall for the night." Mulder was conveniently forgetting that this wasn't his apartment. "So you don't want to have sex?" So that was what she was so wound up about. "I love the way you say that. It's the same voice that the girl at Burger King uses when she asks if I want cheese with that. I'M going to go to sleep, Scully. If YOU want to have sex, please go ahead - I won't mind a bit. Wake me up for the good parts, but try not to jiggle me otherwise. My almost forty-year-old body has just saved the world from Alien viruses and therefore has not slept in months." Mulder helpfully laid back spread-eagle on the bed. "So now I'm too fat and ugly?" He was beginning to see the merits of adoption and give thanks that he'd pretty much missed the first six and a half months of this game. There was no winning with her. "First you're mad because we had sex and now you're mad because we're not." He pushed himself up on his hands. "We could sit across the room from each other and masturbate? Okay, maybe not." He flopped back down. "I'm a WAR HERO, Scully. Let the war hero go nighty-night and we'll make like bunnies in the morning. Or not - whatever you want." Mulder didn't know what happened after that because he fell asleep. Either Scully calmed down and went to sleep, or else she didn't jiggle him enough to wake him. **** I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. The Palace of Art **** Mulder awoke to blood on his pillow. Unless Scully decided to lobotomize him in his sleep, it wasn't coming from him. He stretched, rolled over onto his back, and decided he'd think about it later. After coffee. He found Scully standing in the kitchen half-dressed, trying to get blood out of her pajama top. Mummm - breasts. Mulder's flesh was a little more willing now. He liked the way her pajama bottoms rode low on her hips to accommodate her belly. "You hurt?" Brain was still asleep; only groin was awake. "Nosebleed." "Need help?" "No." Scully pointed. "Coffee." "Thanks." "Decaf." "Ugh." He'd drink decaf when he got to Hell and this wasn't there. Cairo was only Purgatory. And Mulder wandered off to find a newspaper. He and Skinner were on the front page again, so he threw it on the floor and tried CNN. They were showing an old interview of him in Hawaii with a clip of Jenn Anderson singing his praises for leading the officers to her son's body. Disgusted, he switched it off and went back to bother Scully. "Your blood pressure doing funny things again?" "Probably, Mulder." "You want to go to the doctor?" "No - I'm fine." He didn't even bother to argue with her. "Okay. I'm going to go for a run. I'll stay close and I'll take my cell phone in case you get dizzy again." She was still determinedly scrubbing as he left, making sure the door latched behind him. The National Guard was pulling out after doing an excellent job of containing any looting and riots, but Mulder had seen how bad it had gotten in other countries. He was still uneasy about leaving Scully, but life needed to get back to normal. Mulder ran slowly though the quiet streets, people watching him with frightened eyes; trying to put their lives back together now that innocence was stripped away. Everyone now knew what the government was capable of, including ordering the extermination of its own citizens. Mulder had chanted "the good of the many . . ." so many times in the last few months that he'd developed what might be a permanent aversion to Dickens. Somehow he'd become one of the men he had always tried to expose. And they were going to give him a medal for it. "BABY KILLER!" an angry voice called through the snow. Mulder put a hand on his gun and tried to locate the source. "BABY KILLER!" it called again. He backed away slowly. The only humans in sight were a group of children building a snowman in a graveyard. "BABY KILLER!" That was a different voice. Mulder ignored it and continued his tour of Georgetown. Everyone was a little on edge these days. After four different voices called him "Baby Killer," Mulder decided that three miles was enough for the day and went to hide. He told himself it was because it was cold outside. **** Because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence Oenone **** A sinfully hot shower later and Mulder's flesh was definitely willing again. He came up behind Scully kissed her neck - just a gentle invitation. She turned to smile at him. That looked like a "yes" RSVP. Mulder had two thoughts - what the ground rules would be this time, and what to do about that belly. Horny or not, he still couldn't conceive that anything else was going to fit inside his tiny partner without bothering the baby. He finally settled her between his legs as he leaned back against her headboard. That gave his hands free access to her neck, those wonderful breasts, a belly which was sexy as hell, and his other favorite play areas. They probably looked like a couple that misunderstood what they were supposed to be doing in Lamaze class, although this beat those stupid breathing exercises. Free to move as she wanted, Scully laid back, closed her eyes and relaxed into his touch. Embarrassingly enough, feeling her writhe in front of him and hearing her gasp might just do it for Mulder. Or he'd take care of it while she slept. Either way, there was going to be another shower in his near future. Satiated, Scully leaned heavily on his chest, her breathing slowing. Watching their child, upset that his or her world had been sloshed around, shove against Scully's belly with little feet or elbows, Mulder was content. This was all he'd ever wanted. They needed to talk about getting married before the baby came. Scully turned her head back to look at him, a gleam in her eye. It took an effort for her to roll over onto her hands and knees, but as she backed down his body, Mulder realized there was one more thing that would make this scenario perfect. "Don't to it unless you want to, Scully. I'm not a kid anymore. I know I won't die." "Tell me you want me to." Her hands were sliding down the front of his jeans. "I want you to." "No, Mulder - say it. Say the words." Turnabout was fair play. Mulder opened his mouth to say words he'd never before uttered in her presence. Never dreamed he'd have the opportunity to use. "Stop, Scully." "Those aren't the magic words, Mulder." "No, stop. Your nose is bleeding again." Mulder grabbed a tissue out of the box on the night stand and sat up to pinch her nose shut. "It's okay, Scully." Scully didn't look like it was okay. "Calm down. It's okay - you can owe me." She still didn't seem calm, and it took an eternity for the blood to stop. A very bad thought stole across the back of Mulder's brain. They'd never figured out how she could suddenly get pregnant again - life had gotten a little busy. "Let's go see your doctor, Scully. Get you checked out - just in case your blood pressure is screwy again." "I'm fine, Mulder." "You're not fine, Scully. You're bleeding. Bleeding is not fine. Get dressed." "I'm fine!" "Get dressed or I'll call an ambulance." She must have decided he meant it, because she put her clothes back on and smoothed her hair. Mulder had to call for an escort to take her to the hospital since there was now a mob outside her apartment chanting "Baby Killer." **** . . .to have loved and lost. . . In Memoriam **** "How long have you known, Scully?" "Mulder-" "HOW LONG!" he yelled. She looked pitiful in the thin hospital gown, but he didn't care. "Since right after my mother died. I started to get the headaches and nosebleeds again, so I had Dr. Zuckerman run some tests. The chip must have malfunctioned - that's why I got pregnant. There were a few ovum left, and when the chip switched off, I was fertile again." "But the cancer came back." She shook her head yes, staring at her bare feet dangling above the scarred floor of the doctor's exam room. "And you didn't tell me?" She shook "no." "Mr. Mulder, if you'll just calm down, we can discuss-" Mulder cut the doctor off. "I don't want to discuss it. I want her treated NOW." "Sir, we can't treat her for cancer while she's pregnant." Mulder was pacing in the ten by five room, already overcrowded with Scully's OBGYN and oncologist. "If I can find another chip, could you replace it?" "Sir, if you'll just sit down, we can discuss all the options." "I'M NOT FUCKING SITTING DOWN! I'm not just letting her die!" Mulder actually did sit down, sinking against the white wall into the floor, defeated. "Mr. Mulder, Dr. Scully and Mr. Skinner already brought us a chip they found in the Department of Defense. But my colleagues and I strongly feel-" Mulder was back on his feet. "Put it in her! Do it now, before she gets any sicker." "We feel that it would probably cause a miscarriage; that the hormone levels would change so suddenly that she could hemorrhage to death." Then there was no way out. She was going to die. They couldn't do radiation and chemotherapy while she was pregnant and they couldn't replace the chip, either. "Get rid of the baby." He said it so softly that Mulder wondered if anyone else heard him. "NO!" Scully started to get up to leave, but Mulder blocked the door. "Sir, that is not in accordance with Dr. Scully's wishes." "She has brain cancer, is that correct?" he asked her oncologist, who nodded yes. "And that's what's effecting her judgment?" Again, a reluctant yes. "And if she's not treated, she will die. Is that correct?" Yes. "And she cannot be treated while she's pregnant, correct?" Yes. "So her pregnancy places her life in danger, yes?" Yes. "And that is my name on her medical power of attorney, correct?" Yes. "And I'm Dr. Mulder, a licensed psychologist, and it is my judgment that this woman is not capable of acting in her own best interests." A breath. It only took one breath to end a life. He took a breath - "Get rid of the baby." - closed his eyes - "I'm so sorry, Scully." - dropped his head. The doctors looked at each other, but they both knew there was no choice. Mulder was the man of the hour - no court was going to turn down his request. They made sure he watched, though, as the orderlies brought a gurney and tied her to it, still pleading for them to let her go, to not hurt her baby. They wheeled her down the hall, still screaming for Mulder. Begging. "I'm sorry, Scully!" he yelled at the top of her head as she was rolled away. Maybe he should tell her how he much loved her again - write her a few more stupid letters. There was a hand on his shoulder and he turned to strike like a cornered animal before he realized it was just a doctor. "Now, if you'll please come sit down in my office, Dr. Mulder, we'll discuss your options regarding Dr. Scully." Mulder could see the words "baby killer" in their eyes, but he didn't care. He wasn't losing Scully. Sorry, Scully. When had the cancer begun affecting her judgment? Is that why she said she'd marry him? Probably. Was that how she ended up in bed with Daniel? Maybe. Was that how she ended up in bed with him? Oh God. "Another fetus might be viable, but there would be a huge risk of complications at this stage of gestation. Visual impairments, mental retardation, cerebral palsy, to name a few. At the last ultrasound, the boy was far below the size he should be, probably due to Dr. Scully's illness. If we deliver him at this stage, he'll almost certainly die. My recommendation, if you insist the pregnancy be terminated, would be a partial-birth abortion. That would involve the least trauma to Dr. Scully's body and less chance of complications than abdominal surgery. I can refer you to another doctor that performs that procedure." Because I do not, Mulder was sure the man left unsaid. Baby killer. Dr. Zuckerman began: "Even once we're able to treat her cancer, Dr. Scully didn't feel the chip would necessarily be effective in causing remission a second time. It is possible - probable even - that all alien technology has ceased to function, making this chip as useless as the one currently implanted. Given the size of the tumor, the chip malfunctioned only slightly before the release of the bees. That's why Dr. Scully requested I wait until after the baby was born to attempt any treatment - she doesn't think it will work. Of course, I will replace the chip, but we'll probably rely on conventional treatment methods." There were two large, fat purple monsters, one sitting on either of his shoulders and slowly shoving Mulder through the floor and into Hell. They'd appeared when he walked through the first city the government had simply wiped off the map and they'd been gaining weight ever since. He'd thought he'd left them in Cuba with most of his hair, but they must have hitched a ride back to the States. "Has her cancer already metastasized?" That was the death knell. He remembered watching her lay in the hospital bed, begging him to let her death mean something as she waited to die. "Not yet, but the tumor is large and growing into her frontal lobe this time - that's what's causing the confusion and mood swings. It could happen at any time without aggressive treatment and this type of cancer will almost certainly be terminal once it enters the blood stream." Mulder kept looking for some other choice, but there wasn't one. Either Scully was going to die, or the baby - or his son was going to die. There was no other option. "She will need to be transferred to Georgetown as soon as she is stable after the abortion. The Lombardi Cancer Center is one of the best in the nation, although there will be some recovery period after the fetus is terminated." Terminated. He made it sound like a commercial for killing bugs. Just pest control. Call the Orkin Army - have your pregnancy terminated once and we guarantee your son will stay dead for another twenty years or your money back. Just like Alien Sting - unofficial murder. "Are you certain, Dr. Mulder? This is a major procedure and there could be complications before we're even able to treat her. A partial-birth abortion involves dilating the cervix, extracting the feet and then, using a cannula -" "I know exactly what it involves and I know it's my son. It's Scully. Don't make this any harder than it already is. Please." The monsters were jumping up and down now, probably with glee, stuffing their fat faces with doughnuts. "Dr. Mulder, I understand your concern for Dr. Scully and I respect your wishes. All I ask is that you think this through. She was very clear with what she wanted and she understood the risks when we discussed them months ago. I can't prove in court that she's still competent - not against you, anyway - but it's my strong feeling that she was able to make her own decisions at the time she made them. I want you to think it over for a few hours. Don't do anything rash." Both men left Mulder alone with his shoulder-jumping monsters, guilt, and the hum of the fish tank in the over-decorated office. Mulder's fish were dead. Just like his child - because he went off and left them. **** That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies; That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright; But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. The Grandmother **** A shadow intruded into his pool of self-pity: Skinner standing over him in the wide hospital hallway looking Skinnerish. "What's all this about, Agent Mulder? I've got the Attorney General on the phone telling me I have to get over here and talk to our newest national hero before there's a riot. Do you have any idea the number of people protesting outside?" Mulder didn't even bother to look up - he knew what Walter Skinner looked like. Scully had finally fallen asleep, still wearing the restraints, so at least the weak pleas from her room had stopped for the moment. The abortion was scheduled for tomorrow morning - even written in her chart so it looked nice and official. The purple shoulder-monsters had gone for decaf, but they'd be back by the time she awoke. "Get up, Agent Mulder. If you're going to do this, you need to stop feeling sorry for yourself and act like a man." "How do you know what I'm doing?" "You're on Headline News. I'm sorry, Agent Mulder. I'm sorry this is happening. Agent Scully asked me not to tell you, and I respected that. I respected her wishes, and I'm just here to make sure you do the same." "Skinner, it's not your choice and this is hard enough without a lecture-" "Not a lecture, Mulder. Just come look at her." Mulder was probably going to be dragged by the scruff of his neck if he didn't move, so he stood up unwillingly, giving the cracked plastic chair a kick so it made a satisfactory screech as it skidded down the hall. Scully was still asleep in the hospital bed, her belly sticking out in sharp contrast with her slim arms and legs and her red hair looking like it was painted against her pale skin. "The entire world knows you two were right about the consortium, so that quest, for her, is over. You don't need her as your counterpoint anymore. Her mother is dead. Both her brothers are dead - I bet she didn't tell you that. They were in the Gulf when the bees first swarmed and had to be destroyed. And she knows she's going to die. Even if you insist that she be treated, odds are that she'll live another few months, at most. All she has left is the hope that she can give you this child. A son. Can you at least leave her with that dignity? Let her have some peace instead of being tied down while they stick needles in her and kill her child just because you're afraid to live without her? Can't you leave her with some faith?" Skinner was gone when Mulder's eyes cleared. He unbuckled first one restraint, then the other from her wrists, rubbing away the strap marks. He picked her up, pulled her poor, sleeping body against him, and just sobbed. Dying, like everything else, is an art, and Scully did it exceptionally well. **** Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers. Tithonus **** He heard Scully shifting under the blankets sometime in the early morning, but he didn't open his eyes. Even if she was awake, she wasn't going to want to talk to him. Ever again. The purple shoulder-monsters were back, having had a few more jelly doughnuts. Now they just weighed him down instead of jumping - Mulder could feel their fat butts spilling over onto his back and chest. "Mulder? The baby, Mulder?" He heard her asking. Mulder opened his eyes, able to make out her form in the dimly lit room. "It's okay, Scully. The baby's fine. You're still pregnant. You just have to stay here until you feel better - then you can go home." That was a lie. Odds of Scully ever going home were slim to none. "You tried to take my baby, Mulder." "I was just afraid for you." True. "You told them I couldn't make decisions." "I'm sorry. I was wrong, Scully." False. Mulder told himself he'd wait - if she got too sick, he'd make them terminate her pregnancy and start treatment. He already knew that was a lie - he had the next two and a half months to watch her die with her faith intact. "I'm scared, Mulder. Will you lay down with me?" Mulder pushed the heavy wooden door to the hallway closed, lifted the blankets, and spooned up behind her, resting a hand on her swollen belly the way he had dreamed of months ago. Shoulder- monsters waited in the corner. "Do you love me, Mulder?" "Of course I love you. Close your eyes and sleep, Scully. It's the middle of the night." He rested his chin on top of her head, lost in their hazy reflection in the mirror over the sink, his dark features against her serene and seraphic beauty. "Make love to me. Make love to me so I won't be afraid, Mulder." How many times had they actually made love? That first night was mostly about relief for him - love hadn't been factored in. The second, after he led her away from Daniel's bed - that was better, but he'd treated her like a girl instead of a woman. The other few times had been for her, leaving him with nice memories for later use in the shower. They'd never really made love. Not really. And, except for a few flashbacks, there probably wasn't a damn thing wrong with her sexually. He'd created a whole profile of her sexuality based on less than ten words from her; just because Scully wasn't one of the super- aggressive, been there-done that women he'd been with before didn't mean she wasn't interested. "Are you sure, Scully? Do you understand what you're asking?" He wanted to be sure; she seemed so confused. "Make love to me, Mulder." Maybe he could get her to say that on tape so he could replay it over and over after she was gone. When he was alone. No! Don't even think that! Put your hands on her, Mulder. Feel how alive she is now. Feel her. He began with her neck, face, and breasts, slowly letting her body relax and ready. Pushing her right leg forwards so she rolled slightly away from him, he touched her, still uncertain. The open- backed gown offered easy access, baring her hips invitingly. She reacted under his fingers, rubbing herself against his hand and breathing faster. One button and a zipper and a shove of fabrics, and they were skin to skin. Ready. Her head rested contentedly on his arm, and he moved his hips just below hers, raising her top leg up a few more inches and almost covering her with his body, his face beside hers. Ready. "Are you certain, Scully? That this is what you want?" Slow, slow, slow, he was already chanting to himself. Do it slow so she doesn't hurt. Make this good for her. "Mulder, I want you to call my mom. She doesn't know I'm sick again. Will you call her?" Mulder moved gently away from her, pulling the back of her gown together and letting the blankets fall over her before the cold could seep in. A quick, uncomfortable pull on cotton and denim, a zipper, and a button, and he was dressed again. "I'm going to go call her right now, Scully. You just rest and get better." He would cry, but there weren't any more tears left. Instead, he went for another cup of bad coffee and turned his cell phone back on. He had to dial quickly before it started ringing again, but the Gunmen answered immediately. He ignored the call waiting beeping and asked the guys to bring some of Scully's things from her apartment. Pajamas and a robe, maybe a few of her books. Pictures of her family, a blanket from her bed. Anything that might help her remember her life. "Bring her badge. Bring her badge and ID - it's on the dining room table." That was who she was. Is. Who she is. **** Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break. In Memoriam **** This time, Mulder awakened to a very rude and uncalled for slap to the back of his head. "Wake up, sleepyhead! Telephone!" "You're in charge of the phone, Frohike. Take a message and tell Barbara Walters that I'll call her never." Mulder switched from his right to his left side in the reclining chair the nurse had rolled in for him, burrowing deeper against the persistent medical noises. With Byers answering his cell phone, since any calls he actually wanted to take went to it, Frohike answering the phone in the room, and Langly watching Scully and guarding the guards guarding the door, Mulder was trying to get in forty winks before his shift started again. It had been a long few weeks, mentally and physically, while he watched his partner slowly give her life to their child. "Oh, I think you want to take -this- call, Mulder." Mulder cursed and shoved the orange vinyl chair back up to the sitting position, pinching his leg in the process. "Who the hell is it, Frohike? What's so important that it's worth waking me up? I've been asleep - what - fifteen whole minutes?" That came out too bitchy. They'd been kind enough to fend off the news stations, Time, Newsweek, USA Today, and an unending stream of sneaky reporters trying to make "special deliveries" to Agents Mulder and Scully and their future child. Why the public found the situation so interesting, Mulder had no clue, but Skinner had finally done a press briefing, assuring the reporters that Agent Scully was experiencing a recurrence of an illness encountered during the course of her work on the X-files, and, while very ill, had no intention of terminating her pregnancy. Yes, Agent Mulder was with her now. Yes, the two agents were close friends, as often happens between partners. No, the FBI had no comment on the paternity of Agent Scully's child. Yes, everyone was very proud of Agent Mulder's work in Alien Sting. Frohike covered the mouthpiece, pulled the phone as far away from Scully's bed as it would reach, and looked conspiratorial. "It's a woman from Children's Something in Hawaii. She says she has a boy there that belongs to you. Something you want to share with the class, Lover Boy?" "She what? What the hell did she say?" Frohike handed him the receiver. "What the hell did you say?" "Mr. Mulder?" "Speaking. What's this about a kid?" "This is Angie Nelson with Social Services. I've got a ten-year-old boy here with you named as his next of kin. I wanted to make sure there was someone to meet us once we get to DC, since I understand your wife is ill right now." "My partner. My partner is ill. And I don't know anything about a little boy, Ms. Nelson. I think there's been some mistake." Ten years ago - who had he been screwing ten years ago? He would have just joined the Bureau. Who could the mother be? Damn near anyone. Brilliant, Mulder. This is what Scully needed right now. He looked back at his partner, her soft fists balled as she slept so her fingers would stay warm. She needed another blanket. He tried to catch Langly's eye, but Langly was accepting a pony-sized teddy bear being delivered courtesy of Diane Sawyer. "Mr. Mulder, the mother's wishes were very clear. In the event of her death, the state was to contact Special Agent Fox Mulder with the FBI. Now will you or will you not accept custody of this child?" "Who's the mother?" He asked, bewildered. Mulder had always been so careful. HIV had been spreading like wildfire and some of the women he'd picked up weren't too . . . particular. "The mother's name was Jennifer Anderson. The child's name is James Anderson. Ms. Anderson had to be destroyed and she named you as the child's guardian, Mr. Mulder. Provided you're willing to accept the child, there should be no problem with transferring legal custody." Jenn. He remembered Jenn. He remembered James, who enforced his own search warrant on his rental car and had eyes just like his. What possessed her to give Mulder her son? What was he supposed to do with a kid? There were thousands of children orphaned by the bees and the State wasn't being too picky about who took them. He'd even given thought to adopting a few if Scully wanted, before he'd come home to find her dying. "Give me just a minute, Ms. Nelson." He covered the receiver and carried the phone back in the room, sitting on the edge of Scully's bed near the window. He didn't know why he was asking her, but he was. "Scully - there's a woman on the phone that wants us to take one of the children orphaned by the bees. Would you like a ten-year-old little boy? He has red hair just like Charles'." "Okay, Mulder. But if you get him, you have to clean up after him. He'll be your responsibility." "It's a boy, not a puppy, Scully." "Oh." She'd actually been confused, but it made Mulder feel better. "Okay, send him on, I guess. Bring him to Georgetown University Hospital - that's where I'll be. I'll figure out what to do with him when he gets here." "Wonderful - and, Mr. Mulder - could you wave for me?" "What?" "Could you wave so we can see it on TV? The camera is on your window at the hospital." "Goodbye, Ms. Nelson." **** Here at the quiet limit of the world. Tithonus **** One more week. One more week and the OBGYN had agreed to take the baby and immediately re-implant the chip and start chemo. That would put Scully a little more than seven and a-half-months pregnant, although the doctor still thought the baby was smaller than he should be, even with all the medicine they'd pumped her full of to develop his lungs. They just couldn't wait any longer. One more week, Scully. Just hold on, partner. She came and went, sometimes very alert and teasing Mulder, telling him she wanted their son named Ahab instead of William. Sometimes she had no idea and thought Skinner was Ahab, and those times were becoming more and more frequent as the tumor grew. The newest development had been blindness as the tumor pressed into her optic nerve. The doctors couldn't tell Mulder if her symptoms would remit with the cancer or if the confusion, mood swings, and blindness would be permanent. There's just not any other cases to compare her to, Mr. Mulder. Every other patient just died - no hope of remission at this stage. Mulder stopped asking and just kept her comfortable. She wanted to hear his voice, but he ran out of things to say to her after a few days. Byers brought him her tattered copy of "The House of Mirth" from her apartment, and a dozen silly, crumpled letters someone wrote to her while pretending to be a soldier had been hidden in the pages - carefully smoothed and worn from being read and reread while she waited. Alone until Langly and Frohike arrived, Mulder opened the book, found his place in the well-loved pages and began: "Everything about her was at once vigorous and exquisite, at once strong and fine. He had a confused sense that she must have cost a great deal to make, that a great many dull and ugly people must, in some mysterious way, have been sacrificed to produce her. He was aware that the qualities distinguishing her from the herd of her sex were chiefly external: as though a fine glaze of beauty and fastidiousness had been applied to vulgar clay. Yet the analogy left him unsatisfied, for a coarse texture will not take a high finish; and was it not possible that the material was fine, but that circumstance had fashioned it into a futile shape?" Mulder stopped, remembering why he'd never read this book, and looked up to see a scrawny little boy in the doorway bundled deep inside a new coat against the East Coast winter. "James! Come on in. I want you to meet someone. Scully, are you awake?" Sometimes it was hard to tell, but Scully answered him. "The boy I've been telling you about is here, Scully. He has red hair and hazel eyes and he looks like he could use a bath and a few meals." James hesitated, probably not certain about all the monitors and hospitally things running in and out of Scully. Or about being an orphan. Or about his new family. Or about all the TV cameras that had met him when he got off the plane. Poor kid. Lots of shoulder-monsters. Purple ones, and those were the worst kind. "Agent Mulder?" "It's okay, James, come sit down. And you should probably just call me Mulder. This is the lady in the picture you found. Her name is Dana, but sometimes people call her Scully." "What do you call her?" The frightened child had made it as far as the chair. "I call her Scully." Mulder held out his bag of sunflower seeds and James took a handful. A bridge was built. "Then I will too. Hello, Scully." "Hello, James." Scully held her hand out in the direction of his voice. "I'm glad to meet you." Mulder thanked God that this was one of Scully's good moments. "You gonna have a baby?" "Soon," Scully answered, her other hand rubbing her belly. "My mom was gonna to have a little girl, but she died." "Well, I'm going to try not to die, James. I'm going to try real hard." That was probably as much effort as Scully could manage, so Mulder pulled her blanket up higher, more as a gesture than because she could possibly be cold, and let her rest. "James, your stomach is moving," Mulder noticed. James grinned and a large, white, whiskered head appeared through the front of his jacket. "It okay I brought Buttons, Mulder?" "Sure, why not?' At this point, life was so upside down that Mulder wouldn't have questioned the boy wanting to bring an ostrich. He'd just have to stop at a bookstore and find out about the care and feeding of cats as well as the care and feeding of ten- year-old boys. The second shouldn't be too hard, since Mulder was once a ten-year-old boy for a whole year. They left Scully to sleep, gestate, and hopefully, not metastasize, and took a walk down the hallway. Frohike was getting off the elevator, carrying something the doctors probably didn't want Scully eating and Mulder's garment bag. "James, this is Frohike, and the one with the hair is Langly. Don't do or listen to anything they say - ever." "This the kid?" Langly asked. "No, Langly, this is a demo kid I'm taking for a test drive." The little boy looked confused. Mulder was going to have to watch his mouth if he was going to be a father. Wow - a father. The little creature happily sucking the life out of his Scully didn't seem real yet, but James was. Wow. He hoped he could do a better job than his father had done. "Whatcha bring for Scully?" Mulder asked, taking the suit he'd sold out enough to wear instead of Langley's "Government Patsy" t-shirt. Skinner had threatened him. Frohike let him peek into the bag. "German chocolate cake ice- cream and my homemade peanut butter fudge. Skinner and your escorts are waiting for you in the lobby and they're getting antsy." "You're a good man, Frohike. No one should spend their last days eating hospital food." Mulder was immediately sorry he'd said that. This father thing was harder than it looked. "Hey, James - you and Buttons want to go see the White House?" "Can I meet the President?" "If I have my way, you can sick cat on Buddy." Another puzzled look. "Yes, you can meet the President. I'm getting a medal - come on, you'll be impressed. I'll get you your own bag of seeds." James zipped his covert cat back up inside his jacket and Mulder made one last check on Scully, who was sleeping peacefully in the winter sun, and they walked to catch the limo to the White House, both in battered blue jeans and sweatshirts, with one carrying a concealed weapon and one a concealed feline. **** Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime. Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington **** "Is she dying 'cause of the bees, Mulder? Or just 'cause of the baby?" The nurses must have gotten tired of entertaining James and sent him back to the room. It usually didn't take long - the boy was going to fit right in with the Mulder-Scully family. "Who told you that?" "Nurse Mandy - she said not to worry 'cause Scully would be with God and my mom soon and to stop asking so many questions. Are you worried, Mulder?" "Yes, I'm worried. But this is what Scully wants. She wants to have a baby, but she got very sick. As soon as the doctors get the baby tomorrow, they're going to try to make her better." "You think she'll like me when she gets better?" The worries of a little boy. No less important to the heart; just much more likely to be dismissed. "I'm sure she will. You better enjoy her now, though, James - she's usually awful bossy." Mulder thought he saw a faint, tired smile flicker across her face but he wasn't sure. "You want to sign on for Operation Beached Whale? It's time for a roll." Mulder actually could have picked a hundred and twelve pounds of Scully up and moved her easily, but he wanted James to feel like he was helping. "On the count of three - I'll roll her and you move the covers. One, two, three - heave! Ho! You keep eating Frohike's cooking, Scully, and we'll need a crane." Maybe she squeezed his hand, maybe she just twitched. "Why you roll her, Mulder?" "So she doesn't get sore places from laying in the same position." An idea struck him. He lowered the side rail and had James sit beside him on the high bed. "This green tube - the one under her nose - that's called a nasal cannula and it's just oxygen to help her breathe. And these three wires are cardiac leads- they're just stuck on her like Band-aids, and they measure her heart. This thing is a central IV line. The nurses use it give her medicine and food if she doesn't wake up to eat. The other one is an arterial line where they take blood so she doesn't have to be stuck with any more needles. And there's a Foley catheter under the covers so she doesn't have to get up to go to the bathroom, but you don't want to see that." James appraised the set up. "All this so she can have a baby?" "Well, because she's getting very sick having a baby. I'm just trying to make her feel better." Mulder pushed a stray piece of her hair back into place. "That's why you read to her?" Mulder nodded. "You know, I can read." "Yea - we should probably think about sending you to school." "No, I want to read to Scully like you do. She like Harry Potter?" "I'm sure she does, James. Hold her hand - she likes that too." **** All in the valley of death. . . The Charge of the Light Brigade **** "Almost there, Scully. They're cutting though something really yucky now. I see a foot, and a leg, and a butt." Mulder was narrating for her benefit, although Scully gave no sign of hearing. "You'll be glad they're taking pictures, Scully, because he is about the ugliest thing I've ever seen. It looks like they should put him back and let him cook a little more. And you should see what they're doing to you. There's all sorts of things in there that you probably know the names of, but they just look pretty gross to me." Now Mulder was making no sense at all. His brain was in overdrive, trying to synchronize a brand new baby, an unconscious Scully, a worthless medal, and another little boy being entertained by his AD somewhere. He couldn't decide which of those things scared him the most. "Now they're got him breathing and cleaned up some. All four pounds, nine ounces of him. He looks a little better. That's him on your chest." He pulled her hand up so she could feel the baby and it stayed. She knew. Happy Valentine's Day, partner. No other woman had ever given him her life and a son as a gift set, wrapped in hospital green, latex yellow, and nurse white with a big, blood red bow. "I see blue eyes and maybe a little dark red hair. Ten fingers and toes. His nose looks okay, so we got lucky. You did it, Scully. We've got a perfect little boy." He kissed her forehead. "And as soon as they get your belly put back together, they're going to switch out your chip - kind of like the battery pack on your laptop. Just hold on a little bit longer, partner." "Please, Scully. Just hold on. Don't leave me yet." They were putting the new chip in as he held his son up for Skinner, James, and the Gunmen to see through the glass, looking like a science experiment with all the monitors they had the little guy hooked to. Had she been awake, Mulder was certain Scully would have told him to put that baby down right now before he broke something and had to pay for it. Scully was in Recovery as Mulder signed the paternity papers and gave William Scully Mulder a name and a father and noticed he still had some of Scully's blood on his hands. The baby was doing well, sir, so there was a very good chance of a positive outcome, sir. Mulder wondered how exactly the doctors defined "positive outcome" as he watched Scully being wheeled back to her room, still unconscious. She was in bed where she'd been for the last month while the nurses explained his son's tubes and monitors to Mulder in the NICU. Most of them were the same as Scully's, just on a different scale. The baby had gotten tired after his big entrance, so the doctors put him on a vent for a few hours - to let him take a break from the effort of breathing. Mulder understood and almost envied him. James wanted to know if this was his baby brother and Mulder told him yes. Scully was still asleep when they started the chemo and taught Mulder how to rock a baby. Once he was asleep, Mulder wanted to take him to Scully, but the nurse insisted he be put in a miniature tanning bed for jaundice. Mulder hoped they used sun screen - Scully was really fair. The sunglasses were pretty cute, though. He wished Scully could see him squirming naked under the lights. Hell, he wished she could see him squalling. She slept while the breast nurse took milk for the baby and taught Mulder how to change a diaper, hold a bottle, and get that same breast milk puked on his shoulder in some sort of odd recycling program. He got a crash course in infant CPR since the little guy still decided to stop breathing occasionally and learned how to work an apnea monitor that was bigger than the baby. They "graduated" to the regular nursery after a week - Good Morning America sent a gift basket. Since these were "very special circumstances, sir," once he could breathe and stay warm on his own, the baby was allowed to stay in the room with Scully and a private nurse that stood over Mulder like a rottweiler whenever he wanted to touch his son. She was so obnoxious and bossy, Mulder assumed she had to know what she was doing - same logic he applied to Skinner. A picture of Mulder holding the baby as he looked at Scully laying unconscious made the cover of People and that was the last of the private duty nurse. The breast nurse, although she told Mulder not to call her that, raised the head of the bed and showed Mulder how to hold the baby against Scully so he could nurse, making greedy little sucking sounds. The doctor frowned, but increased the amount of calories flowing into Scully so she'd have enough milk for the baby. It reminded Mulder of vultures feeding on a dying animal, but it was what Scully had wanted, so he switched breasts and just marveled at humanity's will to survive. Days passed into weeks and Scully still didn't respond. Mulder picked up her favorite book, and the last page fell out. The baby fed, burped, changed, and content in his plastic bed for the moment, and James off wheedling toys out of the Gunmen for the night, Mulder read: "That was all he knew--all he could hope to unravel of the story. The mute lips on the pillow refused him more than this--unless indeed they had told him the rest in the kiss they had left upon his forehead. Yes, he could now read into that farewell all that his heart craved to find there; he could even draw from it courage not to accuse himself for having failed to reach the height of his opportunity. He saw that all the conditions of life had conspired to keep them apart; since his very detachment from the external influences which swayed her had increased his spiritual fastidiousness, and made it more difficult for him to live and love uncritically. But at least he HAD loved her--had been willing to stake his future on his faith in her--and if the moment had been fated to pass from them before they could seize it, he saw now that, for both, it had been saved whole out of the ruin of their lives. It was this moment of love, this fleeting victory over themselves, which had kept them from atrophy and extinction; which, in her, had reached out to him in every struggle against the influence of her surroundings, and in him, had kept alive the faith that now drew him penitent and reconciled to her side. He knelt by the bed and bent over her, draining their last moment to its lees; and in the silence there passed between them the word which made all clear." Mulder slammed to book closed and threw it against the wall, sending a cloud of dust and pages and love letters flying. He wasn't reading her damn eulogy. He was contemplating James' Harriet the Spy novel and trying to get the baby back to sleep when Dr. Zuckerman came in with the results of yesterday's PET scan. Mulder closed his eyes, doubting the news was good if the doctor had come to share it before he even started his rounds. The tumor was shrinking. "No promises about her level of functioning, Mr. Mulder, but it looks like she'll live." Live. Live. Alive. She was still asleep, but Mulder was sure he could see her healing. He took her warm hand in his and felt a gentle squeeze. When he looked out the window, the snow was stopping and the golden sun was rising again. Spring was coming. They'd come full circle. **** God gives us love. Something to love He lends us; but when love is grown To ripeness, that on which it throve Falls off, and love is left alone. To J. S. **** End: The Golden Year