Title: Paracelsus

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: R

Archive: link to: 
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/paracelsus.html

Summary: Georgia Low Country: August, 1865

Author's note: This story assumes that portions of 
Mulder's memories during his regression in The Field 
Where I Died were correct: in a past life, he was a 
soldier who died in the arms of his lover, November 
1863.  His recollections are one way that lifetime 
can unfold; right or wrong, Paracelsus is another.

*~*~*~*

My Dearest Wife,

In each city, instead of searching randomly, I try 
to think where I would be if I were a thirteen-year-
old boy. "At home, doing what my father told me to" 
is where I would be, so then I try to think where I 
would be if I were Samuel.  

Knowing our son travels on his stomach, I have taken 
to staking out the bakeries as they put out the 
apple turnovers, certain the smell will lure him in.  
Often, I buy one to take with me in case he is 
hungry when I find him.  Sherman destroyed most of 
the railroads in Georgia and the Carolinas, but I go 
to the train depot next, regardless.  It seems like 
the proper place to wait and look expectant.  I 
stand outside the toy store until mothers begin to 
give me worried glances.  I watch the children 
leaving the schoolyard in case he has had a change 
of heart and willingly opened a book.  Then, I check 
the hospitals, then the orphanages, then cemeteries.   

I wonder if I should even write that to you: that I 
have looked for Sam among the dead.  That I have 
begun to feel like Don Quixote tilting at his 
windmill.  I still need some truth I can tuck away 
inside my heart, some answer when I look up at the 
heavens and ask, "Why?" I need not to feel empty and 
alone.  And afraid.  I need so badly to believe 
there are still happy endings in this world.  I am 
not sure if that makes me an optimist or a fool.   

I suppose I just need peace, Melly, and I will come 
home when I find it.  Until then, I will keep 
searching.  
 
Mulder           

*~*~*~*

It was hot.  No, not just hot; some sort of Hell-on-
Earth, ninth circle, torturous wet-hot unique to the 
Deep South in August.  It sapped a man's strength, 
and burrowed into his thoughts, gnawing at his 
resolve.

It wilted his will to go on, but he didn't know 
where he was going, so it didn't really matter.

Mulder gave his horse a nudge with his heels so he 
ambled aimlessly a little faster.  He unfastened 
another button on his jacket, not getting much 
relief.  A river of sweat converged between his 
shoulder blades and flowed down to the small of his 
back, soaking through his blue uniform and making 
him itch miserably.

"Oh, leave her alone," he snapped tiredly, rounding 
a turn in the road and finding a group of scraggly 
Yankee soldiers harassing a lone woman.  A portion 
of the Union army seemed to think they'd fought a 
war so they could rape, pillage, and swindle as they 
pleased afterwards.  It wasn't enough to put down 
the rebellious South; they had to pick the bones 
clean afterward.  

It seemed there were too many villains and not 
nearly enough heroes these days.

"We're just paying our respects," one man called, 
not looking at Mulder approaching behind him. "This 
little lady isn't very appreciative."

"Find a woman in town who is appreciative and pay 
your respects to her," Mulder said authoritatively.  
They probably wouldn't actually harm her, but there 
was no sense in upsetting her just for the fun of 
it. "Now," he barked.

The soldiers turned, not happy at being ordered 
around, but jumped when they saw his officer's 
uniform and insignia. "Yes, sir," the ringleader 
finally mumbled.  The scraggly soldier nodded to the 
others, and they quickly remounted their horses and, 
after polite "good days" to the woman, disappeared 
into the cypress trees.   

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked, swinging down 
from the saddle and eyeing her swollen stomach.  She 
was too far along to be walking anywhere in this 
heat, and no gentlewoman with good sense would go 
anywhere without a male escort.  In the city, no 
lady would be in public so obviously with child, but 
so far out in the swamps, there were few people left 
to care.

"I am fine," she answered quickly, tucking a few 
stray strands of red hair back underneath her broad 
hat.  When she glanced up, squinting at him in the 
sun, he got a glimpse of fine features on a small, 
heart-shaped face, with lips drawn into a determined 
line.

"Can I help you with those?" he asked, gesturing to 
the parcels she bent to pick up, missing them by 
several inches as she tried to reach over her belly.  
"Let me rephrase that: I will help you with those."

"I am fine," she repeated for his edification, as 
though he might not have heard her the first time.

"I am not saying you are not," he responded, 
surprised at her lack of gratitude.  He stooped 
down, gathering up what appeared to be twenty-pound 
bags of coffee beans and either sugar or salt she 
must have been hoarding. 

She reached for the sacks, but he moved back 
slightly, thinking she did not need anything else to 
carry besides that baby. "Thank you for your help, 
sir," she said pointedly, offering her arms again.

"I can carry them for you.  Or put them on my horse, 
rather.  Where are you going?"

"Town," she answered, watching warily as he secured 
the bags over his saddle.  

"Where would town be?" He'd gotten turned around and 
all the burnt plantations in the Low Country had 
begun to look alike.

"Five miles north."

"And you had planned to walk five miles while 
carrying these?"

She folded her arms, looking annoyed that he would 
dare question her.  The part of him accustomed to 
obedient women toyed with just leaving her and her 
parcels sitting beside the road, but the part that 
liked a challenge quickly dismissed that idea.  

"I would send a servant, but my husband's went with 
the Yankee soldiers.  I would drive or ride, but his 
horses went with the servants.  I would ask my 
husband to go, but he has not come back from the war 
yet.  I would wait, but time is not going to wait on 
me much longer," she explained.        

"And you could fly, but you do not have wings," 
Mulder supplied, trying to consider all the 
possibilities and enjoying finding an intelligent, 
if headstrong, woman to talk to.  Hell, he would 
have enjoyed finding an intelligent squirrel to talk 
to as of late.

"I had not thought of that, sir," she nodded back, 
seeming to relax a little. "Yes, I could fly, except 
for my sadly lacking wings.  Really, I do appreciate 
your help; those men just have me a little rattled."

"You are not a Southerner," he observed, hearing a 
foreign accent as he led his horse by the reins and 
walked slowly to accommodate her lumbering pace.

"No, my husband is Southern.  I was born in Ireland.  
Oh, I am sorry; I am Mrs. Waterston." She offered 
her hand, and he glanced at his own, noticing it 
lacked a glove and was none too clean as he shook 
hers. "Mrs. Dana Waterston."  
  
"Mr. Mulder.  Just Mulder, most of the time.  I am 
pleased to meet you, Ma'am.  And I am sorry those 
soldiers were harassing you.  They are supposed to 
keep order, not stir up trouble."

She nodded, and he started walking again, thinking 
their salutations were finished.  Instead of 
following, she stopped, putting a hand on her belly, 
a curious expression crossing her face. "I need just 
a second, please."

Her second stretched to a minute, and then to a 
tense eon as he waited, watching her and trying to 
figure out a delicate way to say it.  Delicacy and 
diplomacy came as naturally as setting himself 
afire, so he said bluntly, "Ma'am, you need to go 
home and rest.  It is too hot for you to be going 
anywhere in your condition."

"I need things for the baby," she insisted, finally 
drawing a deep breath and standing up straighter. 
"The servants took everything they could carry from 
the house." 

"Let me take you home, and then I'll go to town and 
trade for whatever you want," he offered. "I am 
going anyway, and I can ride there and back by 
nightfall."

"Or you could just take my coffee and sugar and 
disappear," she countered, putting her hands on the 
small of her back as if it ached.

"Yes, I could.  But I won't." He considered a 
moment, then slipped his wedding ring off his 
finger, offering it to her. "I do not want your 
coffee or sugar, but you can be sure I will come 
back for that."
 
She looked up, scanning his face for something, then 
lowered her eyes and held out her palm.   

*~*~*~*

Mulder wasn't sure of the propriety of entering a 
deserted mansion.  Obviously, no butler was going to 
greet him, but it seemed rude to barge in. He pushed 
the front door open, knocking loudly and calling for 
her in the empty foyer.  When she didn't answer, he 
ventured farther, passing through what had once been 
a plantation house in all its glory, but was now a 
battered shell.  Discolored squares of wallpaper 
marked where paintings had hung, and the mahogany 
floor and furniture looked naked, stripped of every 
object of value.  

The Negro servants hadn't known what to take as they 
fled: candelabras and silver spoons couldn't be 
traded for food if there was no food to trade them 
for.  With all the able-bodied men at war for four 
years running and the ports closed to cargo ships 
until last month, much of the South was quietly 
starving.  Vast fields of rice, cotton, and tobacco 
were going to seed, occasionally interrupted by the 
grave of a quarter-million men who had died trying 
to defend their way of life. 

"Here," she finally called from the back of the 
house, her voice sounding small and lost in the vast 
darkness.

"I am sorry if I worried you," Mulder apologized, 
setting the packages on the kitchen table, fumbling 
in the flickering candlelight. "You said the nearest 
boat dock was five miles away, but the nearest place 
to trade for anything at a reasonable price is 
Savannah.  I thought I could be back yesterday."

"I was not worried," she said quietly, from the 
shadows.    

"You should be worried: living here, alone.  I would 
not be happy if you were my wife," he scolded as he 
untied the bundles. "There is no one around for 
miles."

"Then why should I worry?"    

That was a good point, but just on principle, he 
wasn't letting her have the last word.  Picking up 
the candle, he stepped closer to her voice, and 
found her slouched in a wooden chair, her arms 
cradling her belly. "If something would-"

He saw her jaw widen as her teeth clenched, eyes 
closing and head tilting slightly back in pain.  

"Is it time?" 

She nodded, keeping her eyes closed and waiting for 
the contraction to pass.   
     
"Is there a doctor or a midwife?" he asked urgently, 
already knowing the answer. "A neighbor?  I will get 
them.  Is there anyone?"

"No," she managed, exhaling slowly. "I will be 
fine."

"All right.  Is there anything I can do?"

"No.  I am grateful for all you have already-" She 
stopped again, panting softly as beads of sweat 
appeared on her forehead.    

"I, uh, um," Mulder stumbled, starting to panic. "I 
will just wait then, and, uh, make sure you are 
okay.  Outside.  I will wait outside." He was a 
seasoned hallway pacer, skilled at imagining all the 
horrors happening on the other side of the door 
until the doctor appeared.

"You do that," she answered between shallow breaths. 
"That would be very helpful."

He had a suspicion he was being made fun of, but he 
wasn't sure, and she seemed focused on other things 
besides casual conversation.  He assured himself she 
probably had a dozen children somewhere and could 
manage this easily by herself, regardless of whether 
or not she looked to be barely out of her teens and 
scared out of her wits.   

"Okay, I will just, uh-" He started backing out of 
the kitchen, afraid to look away, when she moaned, 
her body convulsing. "Oh, Jesus Christ!" he cursed, 
returning to her so he could hover helplessly. "You 
need to be in bed," he decided, glad to be of some 
use.  Helping her stand, Mulder asked urgently, 
"Which way is your bedroom?"

"You are not going to carry me?  Chivalry must be 
dead." 

"I was afraid I would hurt-" he started to explain 
before he realized she was making a joke. "Oh, you 
are funny.  Very funny."   

He helped her stumble to an adjacent room that had 
probably once belonged to the cook, then laid her 
down and stood nervously at the end of the bed. "I 
will be outside.  Just call if you need me," he 
whispered, trying not to disturb her, and this time 
made it all the way to the door before another 
contraction came and she cried out.    

"There must be something I can do," he insisted, 
looming over her again, dripping candle wax on the 
old quilt. "Anything?"

When she didn't respond, he reached for her hand 
anxiously, kneeling beside the rusty iron bed.  

"I am all right," she assured him as the pain 
passed, closing her eyes so she could rest a few 
seconds.

"Do you want me to leave?"  

She shook her head, murmured unintelligibly in 
Gaelic, then asked, "Do you have children, Mr. 
Mulder?"

"I think, in this situation, just 'Mulder' would be 
fine.  Yes, Melly and I have a son.  Samuel.  Sam."

"Tell me about Sam," she requested, "Just Mulder." 

"He's handsome.  And kind.  And talented.  What do 
you want me to tell you, Ma'am?"

"Tell me about anything outside this room.  Tell me 
about your family.  How long since you have seen 
them?"

"I saw Sam last fall with General Sherman.  I looked 
up and discovered he'd run off and joined the Army."

"And your wife?" she asked, trying to keep him 
talking.

"The last time I saw her?  More days and nights than 
I want to count," he said quietly, holding her moist 
hand. "I was home on leave.  Home is in Washington, 
near The Capitol," he added, searching for something 
to say. "It's the house with all the broken windows; 
my son and I play baseball in the yard, and he keeps 
hitting the ball through the front windows.  He can 
break them faster than I can replace them."

She scooted farther up in bed, half-sitting, and 
bracing herself against the headboard, resting her 
head back against the pillow, and taking long, slow 
breaths.

"You are still all right?  Nothing is wrong?" Mulder 
asked, keeping his eyes focused on her face rather 
than anything that might be happening below her 
waist. "Or do you know?" 

"My mother is a midwife.  And my cat had kittens, 
once," she murmured, smiling slightly.    

He watched as the shadows washed over her face, 
marveling at how she could find any comfort in his 
presence.  Both their medical expertise combined 
barely constituted half a nurse, and it was not his 
body this child was trying to come out of.  The only 
birth he'd witnessed involved a colt, and that had 
made him queasy. "What can I do to help?"

"Please keep talking.  You have a nice voice."

Embarrassed at her compliment, he blinked, then 
recovered by choosing a new topic: "Melly and I grew 
up together, and married as soon as her father 
allowed it.  Sam came not long after; he was Melly's 
sixteenth birthday gift.  We talked about more 
children, but I was away at school, and Melissa was 
ill.  And the war, of course.  There was a baby 
coming, though, the last time I saw her."

"Your wife is going to have a baby?" 

He nodded without thinking, putting his arm around 
her shoulders to help lift, since she seemed to want 
to sit up farther. "And I plan to be pacing my usual 
route in the hallway while the doctor delivers my 
daughter," he promised her, wondering what possessed 
him to say that.   

*~*~*~*  

"Can you hear me, Ma'am?" Mulder asked tensely, 
watching her face for any response. "Ma'am, it is 
Mulder.  Mrs. Waterston?  Dana?  Squeeze my hand if 
you can hear me."

Her fingers finally pressed against his, and he 
squeezed back, massaging her palm with his thumb.

"Thank God.  There you are," he said softly, 
exhaling.  She opened her eyes, blinking in 
confusion. "You had me worried.  There is no need 
for these theatrics, you know," he teased, still 
studying her.

These Southern ladies seemed fond of fainting, but 
usually did it at more convenient times and managed 
to attract a male audience as they gracefully, 
dramatically fell to the floor.  Giving birth and 
then passing out cold in the aftermath was not a 
polite way to hold a fellow's attention.   

"Baby?" she asked, looking from side to side in the 
tiny, shadowy room.  The candle had died hours ago, 
leaving Mulder to deliver, bathe, and swaddle the 
newborn by moonlight, which might have been a 
partial blessing in disguise.   

"Be still; you were bleeding, and I do not want it 
to start again," Mulder hushed her. "You have a 
little girl.  Are you all right?"

She nodded, looking pale and woozy and uncertain 
what had happened.  Frankly, he was uncertain what 
had happened except that there had been pushing and 
screaming, some from him, and, underneath lots of 
blood and slime and tears, suddenly a new human 
being.  It was as though God had overlooked the war-
ravaged nation, the endless fields of weeds and dead 
soldiers, and Mulder's ineptness, and slipped a bit 
of humanity between the cracks of civilization.   

"That has to be the most amazing, miraculous, 
horrible thing I have ever seen.  Giving birth, I 
mean, not your daughter.  She is beautiful."

"Is she?" she murmured, tiredly turning her head to 
see.  Mulder shifted the tiny bundle of towels in 
the crook of his arm so she could see the child's 
face, now cleaner and less red than it had been 
earlier.

Her hand left his, wanting the baby, so he laid the 
bundle beside her, placing her arm around the child. 
"She is perfect, Ma'am."   

"Yes, she is." She pushed away the towel, stroking 
the infant's tiny hand, marveling at the miniature 
fingernails. "Hello, little girl," she told the 
baby, who pursed her lips in response.

"So many miracles in one small form.  It is amazing 
what flesh, love, and God can create," he murmured 
in awe, watching her face in first purple flickers 
of dawn. "Welcome to the world, little one.  Such as 
it is."
 
*~*~*~*

He knew he wasn't one of those men who could set 
women's hearts fluttering with his flowery words and 
elaborate complements, but he wasn't a gangly, 
tongue-tied adolescent anymore, either.  Mulder 
could usually manage to string a sentence together 
well enough to get his point across, and he was 
aware of the differences between the male and the 
female of the species, so he was surprised at his 
sudden bashfulness around her.

Once the crisis had passed, he felt the immediate 
need to be anyplace else, like a groom who has just 
spent his first night with the bride and was afraid 
to face her the next morning.  What had seemed 
perfectly acceptable in the darkness now made his 
face feel hot and necessitated him sitting in a 
chair across the room, staring intently at a spot on 
the wall above the headboard.  He was afraid to 
leave her alone so soon, so he adopted a distant, 
overly solicitous air, walking on eggshells and 
pretending he had no idea how that baby had come 
into the world.                    

Since Mulder was the self-appointed chief cook and 
bottle washer, they were subsisting on whatever 
combination of flour, lard, water, soda, and salt he 
could create.  He'd made biscuits that were very 
nice, if he peeled the burnt part off the bottom.  
She ate without complaint, listened as he rambled 
on, eager to fill up the silence, nodded 
occasionally, and fell asleep in the middle of a 
story, which he didn't take personally.  She had 
said he had a nice voice, which was the first 
compliment he'd received from a woman in a long 
time.  Granted, it had been a married woman in 
labor, but still.  Giving a man a license to talk 
about himself was like milking a bull: do it once 
and make a friend for life. 

"How did your son get in the Union Army at 
thirteen?" she asked, finishing the not-black part 
of her late breakfast, then brushing the crumbs off 
the bed sheets.  He had moved her and the baby to a 
more comfortable room, and then left just long 
enough to clean up the mess downstairs and fix 
something to eat.  

"By the end of the war, they took soldiers wherever 
they could get them, and Sam was tall.  And he was a 
good shot.  He slipped away from his grandparents 
and lied about his age.  And his name, since I could 
not find a Samuel William Mulder-" he hesitated, 
then couldn't bring himself to say it. "I didn't 
know whether to burst with pride or put him over my 
knee when I saw him with General Sherman."

"He must have scared you and your wife to death."

"It wasn't the first time," Mulder quipped, tilting 
his wooden chair back. "No, that's not true.  He'd 
never purposefully upset his mother.  He's not like 
I was at his age.  I forget that.  I was a rascal, 
but he's a good boy.  And he's, he's wonderful.  
You'd have to meet him."

"You miss your Sam and Melly," she said, making a 
statement rather than asking a question. "It is good 
to see a man who adores his family."

"They are my life," he said easily, knowing that was 
true. "My Samuel and my beautiful Melissa.  They see 
a beauty in the world that I cannot, and it is a 
very empty place without them."

"Then go home, Mr. Mulder.  Unless I am mistaken, 
that is an officer's insignia on your uniform, and 
your wife needs you.  Especially now.  Emily and I 
are fine, and you have better things to do than play 
nursemaid to me."    

He had been keeping his face arranged in a friendly, 
polite expression, but turned to look out the 
window, suddenly very far away. "My wife is not 
going to have a baby.  I don't know why I said 
that," Mulder said.  He sat the chair down on all 
four legs with a sharp thump, standing quickly. "I 
am sorry I lied to you.  I'll come back and check on 
you in a little bit."   

"Mr. Mulder-" she began, but he shook his head.

His boots tromped down the grand staircase, across 
the foyer, and out to the broad porch.  Sitting 
heavily on the front steps, Mulder looked out at the 
vast swamps, so dense they were still dark at mid-
morning, so hostile they could swallow a teenage boy 
as thoughtlessly and completely as a frog swallows a 
fly.  He slouched forward, resting his elbows on his 
knees and letting his head hang wearily, for the 
first time beginning to admit defeat.  It was not 
just the Southerners whose way of life had come to 
an end.

*~*~*~*
 
"Is everything all right?" he asked, appearing in 
the kitchen doorway still buttoning his shirt and 
pulling his suspenders up and over his shoulders so 
he was presentable.  He and the hoot owl had been up 
before dawn having a tense discussion over who could 
sleep where in the barn's loft.  Mulder, conceding 
defeat, had gone to backyard pump to rinse off 
before daylight, and been mid-scrub when he noticed 
the smell of bacon frying.   

"Should you be up so soon?  I don't think you should 
be up so soon, Ma'am," he decided, drawing on his 
two-day-old knowledge of obstetrics. "Go back to 
bed: I will do that, Mrs. Waterston.  You need to 
rest."    

"I have rested.  Now I am fixing breakfast," she 
answered casually, poking at the contents of the 
frying pan with a fork and eliciting a mouthwatering 
sizzle. "I cannot keep letting you wait on me.  It 
is not right." 

He wrinkled his forehead for a few seconds before he 
understood what she was getting at. "Oh, of course, 
yes, but circumstances- uh.  I understand how bad it 
looks for me to be here, but you just had a baby, 
for pity's sake.  I do not even sleep in the house.  
How could anyone think-" He swallowed awkwardly. "I 
will take you to stay with your parents, wherever 
they are," he said decisively, "Or to one of the 
homes for widows and orphans.  Leave your husband a 
message and he can come for you when he returns.  
You cannot live here alone: your husband will 
understand.  I would understand, if you were my 
wife.  You cannot endanger yourself or your 
daughter."
   
She stared at him for a few seconds, long enough to 
be discomforting, and then, shaking her head in 
wonder, began to laugh softly as she flipped another 
slice of bacon.  

"What?" Mulder asked defensively, caught off guard.  

"I am not a soldier you can order around as you 
please, and, as you have already pointed out, I am 
not your wife, either.  Not all women whimper and 
hide under the bed every time a shutter rattles 
or a Yankee passes through, Mr. Mulder."

"I did not say they did," he said, floundering 
through this novel situation.  She might look like 
an angel, but she had the temperament of a mule.  
The dichotomy was challenging, but it had its 
charms.  But not until he'd had coffee. "I'm only 
trying to help."
 
"I am only trying to politely say I cannot stomach 
any more of your biscuits.  I had no intention of 
debating propriety or women's suffrage before 
breakfast.  Sit down and eat."

"Oh," he exhaled.

"Do you want coffee?" she asked, picking up a cup 
from the shelf above the stove and setting it in 
front of him.

He blinked at her, then chuckled, nodding "yes."
 
*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus I

***********************************

Begin: Paracelsus X

*~*~*~*

Dear Melissa,

After almost fourteen years as your husband and a 
lifetime as your friend, I will let you in on my 
deepest secret - and it isn't the stack of novels 
hidden in my desk at work.  Those are Frohike's.

My secret is this: I am not all-knowing.  I do not 
have all the answers.  I stumble.  I hesitate.  I 
make mistakes.  I regret.  I am even afraid, which 
must be a shocking admission from your fearless 
husband.  Your Fox, who can do anything, fix anything 
- herald of the truth, champion of the  weak, and 
slayer of bugger-bears, kitchen mice, and 
Confederates, is afraid.  

He sits alone at his library in the middle of the 
night, propping his feet on the Christmas presents 
under his desk, and writing to a woman who cannot 
answer and would not understand if she could.  While 
everyone else sleeps, he shrugs on his coat and goes 
outside, staring up at the immense sky as though 
there are answers in the stars.  There are none - 
only strange shadows on the horizon.

Sometimes I envy Moses his burning bush, Noah his 
white dove.  I even envy Abraham the voice of God 
commanding him to sacrifice his only son.  To have a 
clear-cut answer, to know what Destiny intends and 
only have to act on faith...

I have faith, Melly.  I make light of religion, but I 
have faith in God.  We've had several good 
conversations, God and I, though there have also been 
times when we weren't on speaking terms.

Tonight would appear to be one of those times.

Yes, I am rambling.  Yes, I have had a bit to drink.  
I think it shows amazing restraint that I have not 
had the whole bottle, but that is only because I 
spilled it and cannot find the corkscrew to open 
another.

Is there really a single right course, Melly?  I have 
not found it, or if I have, I am now hopelessly off-
course.  I wandered out of the universe where I 
belong and into another universe's Hell.  It is like 
a test where there is no right choice, where the 
facts and the truth are only distant relations.
  
I am careful to whom I quote Whitman these days, so 
I'll rely on The Bard, on what Father would say when 
I'd falter: "What is your substance, whereof are you 
made, son?" He would say to look inside myself, to 
find my center and let that be my guide.  I know 
where my center is. I have found her. She's upstairs, 
asleep in our bed, with our child inside her.

And that is the problem.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

Because of her "condition," as the ladies delicately 
put it, rather than the weather, Dana hadn't attended 
the funeral, but she was waiting when he returned 
from the cemetery.  Poppy and the rest of the staff 
were still at his mother's house, and Emily was 
asleep in the nursery, so it was just Dana in the 
big, empty foyer.  Even Grace was nowhere to be seen.

He hung his black coat on the rack, tossed his black 
hat on top, and ignored the water that dripped off 
and collected in a half-moon on the floor.  He'd had 
an umbrella, but Sam had forgotten his, so Sam now 
had an umbrella.  With no protection, the rain had 
seeped into Mulder's boots, down his collar, and 
under his cuffs, making him feel like a cold, damp 
sheep.  There was nothing more miserable than a 
funeral in the winter rain, but at least it wasn't as 
perverse as a funeral on a beautiful summer afternoon 
with birds singing and flowers blooming.  If he could 
bury Melly in the sunshine, he could bury his mother 
in a downpour.

"I guess we're back to black," he commented tiredly, 
seeing her dull mourning dress.  He tried to remember 
the number of times he'd seen Dana dressed up - in 
color and out of maternity - and realized he never 
had.

He let his suit coat fall from his shoulders and 
draped it over the banister, not bothering to pick it 
up when it slipped off and crumpled to the floor.  
Dana bent to retrieve it and he told her not to, 
trudging past her and up the stairs.  When he 
realized he was leaving her behind, he stopped, 
offering his arm to steady her as they climbed the 
steep staircase.

"How is Samuel?" she asked, pausing for breath on the 
landing. 

"He left the service early, and he wanted to spend 
the night with one of his friends instead of coming 
back here.  He just couldn't... Mother was thirty-three 
when he was born - she raised him more as a son than 
a grandson.  It's almost as if he's lost his mother 
all over again.  It doesn't seem fair for one boy to 
lose so much.  His grandparents, his mother, his 
sister..."

"Your parents, your wife, your daughter," Dana 
interrupted quietly, though he'd run out of things to 
say. "How are you?" she asked as they reached the 
bedroom.  It was mid-afternoon - an odd time to go to 
bed - but he couldn't think of anywhere else to go. 
"And I do not want to hear you say 'fine.'"

"I'm..." He paused, trying to put it in words. "I'm 
better than I should be.  My father would say I'm 
being strong for Sam, being a man, but I just don't 
feel- It's like the morning after I graduated: I got 
up, dressed, looked around, and realized one chapter 
of my life was over.  It wasn't a particularly good 
or bad feeling so much as it was an emptiness.  My 
mother is dead.  I know I should feel more, but I 
just don't.  If anything, I feel frightened that I 
don't feel more.  Do you understand?"

"Yes.  I have been better than I should be." She 
helped him unbutton his shirt, stopping to examine 
the black armband on his sleeve. "This is pinned. Why 
is it pinned on instead of sewn?  It will stick you."

"Everyone was busy.  Poppy's so upset.  I didn't want 
to bother you," he explained, unbuttoning his cuffs 
and collar, stripping off the damp shirt, and 
starting on his trousers.

"And where is your undershirt?  You are soaked to the 
skin. Why have you been standing in the rain without 
an undershirt?"

Because he didn't have a clean one, he did not 
answer.  Because Poppy was barely functional and 
their cook and maids had been loaned to his mother's 
house in Georgetown to prepare for the masses who'd 
attended the funeral, expecting to be fed and, if 
they'd traveled, offered a place to stay.  Because 
unless Dana had cooked, cleaned, sewn, or laundered 
anything in the last three days, it hadn't gotten 
cooked, cleaned, sewn, or laundered.

"I forgot," he lied, his teeth chattering. Gooseflesh 
covered his chest, making the coarse hair stiffen and 
his nipples harden.

"And now you are shivering.  I want you under the 
covers."

"I like a woman who knows what she wants," he 
responded, trying to muster the energy to sound 
sarcastic. 

She smiled dutifully.

He told his brain to smile back, but the message 
didn't make it to his face. "Stay with me?" he asked 
wearily, feeling like he was Atlas holding the world 
on his shoulders.

She nodded, brushing her lips over the raised scar 
across his chest as he sat on the edge of the bed, 
then laid her cheek against him.  He put his arms 
around her, holding her close, and exhaling for the 
first time in days.  After a few seconds, her lashes 
brushed his skin as she opened her eyes, but didn't 
pull away.

He unfastened the back of her dress, then gathered it 
and her chemise and pulled them over her head.  The 
stores sold maternity corsets, but she wasn't wearing 
one, much to her doctor's dismay.  And managing her 
high-buttoned shoes, stockings, and garters must have 
been too difficult without a maid to help.  She had 
on slippers, but she stepped out of them as he untied 
the waist of her petticoat and pantalets, letting 
them fall to the floor.

She blushed and looked down, seeming awkward being 
undressed in front of him.  The last time he'd seen 
her nude was the night he'd brought Samuel home, and 
there had been some changes, some expansions, since 
then.

He slid under the covers, then held the blankets up 
as she joined him, moving slowly to accommodate her 
belly.  Instead of rolling away so he could curl up 
to her back like he did as they slept, she faced him, 
stroking her fingertips over his cheekbones and 
looking at him sadly.

"I wish I could make this better for you, mo rún" she 
said softly.  

"You can.  You are."

Silently, slowly, he moved his mouth to hers, 
blending their lips and then tongues.  She was 
quicksand, pulling him farther and farther from the 
surface and into dangerous depths where there were no 
nouns: no sad eyes, polite words, and sympathetic 
expressions.  No quiet sobs hidden behind black-
bordered handkerchiefs.  No formal processions, no 
wills, no estates, no condolences.  There were only 
verbs: love, lick, thrust, suck.  Moan, murmur, 
embrace, surrender.  Kiss, fuck, worship, be.

He kissed the bridge of her nose, the delicate velvet 
of her earlobes, her bottom lip, her eyelids, and the 
secret underside of her throat, feeling the ridges 
convulse as she swallowed.  

His kissed the white skin of her upper arm where she 
was ticklish, the fragile dip in her collarbone, and 
the textured palm of her hand.  Her hand curled 
against his cheek, fingertips trailing down the 
coarse shadow of stubble.

He kissed her breasts, which were swollen and 
sensitive, reacting to the slightest touch.  There 
was no milk yet, so he sucked greedily, feeling her 
fingers run over his scalp and then grip his hair, 
holding him close.

He kissed the arc of her belly and the backs of her 
knees, which were creased and lined with pale blue 
veins like rivers and valleys on a map.  He kissed 
the insides of her thighs, and her toes curled in 
anticipation, shifting restlessly against the sheets.  

"I didn't know you were so beautiful," he murmured, 
finally feeling warm again. "How do I miss what's 
right under my nose?"

"You are generous.  I think I am more under your 
chin," she answered gently, teasing. 

"Rather have you under me," he said hoarsely, then 
licked his lips, realizing what he'd said and what he 
wanted.  Needed.  "Dana, I shouldn't even ask..." 

"It is fine.  I am just ungainly, but we can."

"Harvey won't mind?"

"He is asleep." She rolled to her hands and knees, 
then arranged the pillows under her head and chest 
and relaxed again. "Rub my back?" she invited, 
shifting her legs apart.
 
He made a low sound in the back of his throat - a 
blend of a growl and a sigh - which was universal to 
all males in any age or language.  He started with 
her shoulders, then rolled his thumbs down each side 
of her spine, kneading carefully.  Over her bottom 
and slowly down the back of her thighs, to the tips 
of her toes and up again.  

He leaned forward so he covered her, supporting his 
weight on his hands and knees, wanting as much of his 
skin against hers as possible. Quicksand, he thought, 
watching his body disappearing into the depths of 
hers.  The thin veneer of ice across the surface of a 
bottomless lake.  So deceptively calm and safe, and 
yet so dangerous beneath the surface.

He pushed a few stray strands of hair off her neck 
with his nose, then whispered in her ear, "Will you 
fix me oatmeal?  Later?"

The soda crackers and strawberry jam Poppy had given 
him were long gone, and he hadn't thought to eat at 
his mother's house.  He felt empty.  Dana filled most 
of the hollowness inside him, and oatmeal the rest.  

There was nothing more precious to a man than a woman 
loving him when he needed her to, the way he needed 
her to.

"Yes, if you are hungry, I will fix you oatmeal.  
Later."

"Thank you," he said in advance. "With butter and 
brown sugar?"  

The way his mother had fixed it when he was small.

"Yes, with butter and brown sugar."

*~*~*~*

Most of the wounded would have had a better chance at 
survival if they'd been left where they'd fallen on 
the battlefield.  Men who lived long enough to see a 
doctor often died during surgery - usually the 
inevitable amputation - or afterward of infection, 
measles, mumps, or whooping cough.  

Even in his dream, the hospital smelled like spoiled 
ham and human waste, and buzzed with flies, which 
would have turned Mulder's stomach even on a good 
day.  As it was, eating had required sitting up and 
moving his arms, which had required disturbing the 
silk stitches holding the skin of his chest together, 
which hurt like hell and was too much of an effort.

He and three other officers shared a room, though he 
hadn't seen two move in some time.  The fourth had 
been a quiet, lanky man recovering from a head wound.  
He must have tried to shield his face with his hand, 
because he was missing several fingers in addition to 
an eye.  He'd passed his days staring out the window, 
then suddenly, that morning, stood, put on his hat, 
and told Mulder he'd had enough - to hell with the 
war, he was going home.  He'd given as much of his 
body and sanity to his country as he'd been willing 
to give.

Mulder had just looked at him, knowing he should say 
something about desertion or duty, but not able to 
find the energy.  If he could have found the energy, 
he probably would have gone with him.

That left Mulder and two men who either were or would 
soon be corpses.  His bed was near the door, letting 
him observe the mayhem of the main ward.  There must 
have been another battle, because the litter-bearers 
circled, removing the dead and clearing the beds.  A 
short Negro man made the rounds with the water-bucket 
and dipper, offering a drink to anyone conscious. The 
doctor made his way through the big room, checking 
wounds and bandages.  About every fifth bed, he 
signaled the litter-bearers, and they collected 
another body.

Mulder's stayed perfectly still as the doctor checked 
under the cotton bandages covering his torso from 
just under his armpits to his navel.  The bayonet had 
"gotten him good," as Frohike would have put it, 
leaving a long, bloody gash that resembled a 
ceremonial sash.

"What about your roommates?" the doctor asked, 
gesturing to the other beds.

"I think they're gone: those two," he pointed, trying 
not to move his arm. "And the one with the head wound 
- he went for a walk."

A long walk.  Home.

The doctor checked, signaled the litter-bearers, then 
pulled the sheets over both bodies.

"And you?  You need anything, son?"

He considered it.  He'd already dictated a telegram 
to his father, letting him gently break the news of 
his injury to Melly and his mother. "Do you have a 
newspaper?" he asked, wondering about the world 
outside.

"No, son, no newspaper."

Mulder turned his head, looking out the dirty window 
at the trees.  It was almost December - it might 
actually be December, he wasn't sure - but the 
hospital was in Louisville, and some of the trees 
still had their leaves.  He had no memory of being 
aboard the train that had transported the wounded 
from the battlefield in Tennessee to the hospital in 
Kentucky.  He only remembered the battle, looking 
down, seeing blood, and realizing he was badly 
injured, then seeing Sarah coming toward him through 
the tall grass.  He'd closed his eyes and, when he 
opened them again, was in this hospital room. 

"Do you have an apple?" 

Not a baked or stewed or fried or dried or otherwise 
convoluted apple, but a fresh, red apple that would 
crunch when he bit into it and drip juice down his 
chin.  He could put it on the table beside his bed 
for a while and just admire it, savor it, before he 
ate it.

"No, no apples," the doctor answered indulgently, 
then moved on.

Bored, restless, but unwilling to risk the pain of 
moving, Mulder alternated between looking out the 
window and staring at the ceiling, imagining he could 
see different things in the water stains.  He turned 
his head when he heard silence fall over the main 
ward, the men settling down like lions who had 
spotted their prey.  He looked, curious, and at first 
thought he was seeing Sarah again, which would mean 
he was dead again.  

His luck: twice in two weeks.

He blinked and realized it was Poppy making her way 
through the beds, accompanied by his mother.  The 
wounded men cleared a path as best they would, eyeing 
both women hungrily.  Most hadn't seen a female in 
months, except for the nuns who volunteered in the 
hospital and the whores who traveled with the army 
under the guise of laundresses. It cost three dollars 
and took fifteen minutes to have laundry done, and 
one generally left dirtier than one arrived.

He saw his mother pause when she spotted him, then 
compose herself and continue, trying to keep her 
skirts clear of the filth on the floor. Poppy 
followed, carrying a valise and trying to keep clear 
of the hands of some of the more mobile soldiers.

Teena seeming surprised he didn't get up to embrace 
her.  For the first time since he was five, he hadn't 
stood when a lady entered the room.  Realizing that, 
Mulder gritted his teeth and swung his legs over the 
edge of the narrow bed.  Poppy hurried to help him 
sit up, guiding his hand to the bedpost so he could 
steady himself.  The room spun, his stomach pitched, 
and the light through the window darkened.  When he 
could focus again, his mother was sitting in a chair 
beside his bed and Poppy was standing, keeping him 
from falling forward or back.  He nodded that he was 
all right, and Poppy stepped away, watching him 
carefully.

"What are you doing here?" he asked. "Where's 
Father?"

"In Georgetown with Samuel.  He said you were 
wounded, but he couldn't get away," his mother 
answered, looking around nervously. "So I came.  I 
was worried." Her gaze stopped on the two corpses 
across the room.  The stretcher-bearers hadn't 
arrived to remove them.

"I'm fine.  It's barely a scratch.  Mother, you can't 
be here." 

"Why?" she asked, showing a defiant streak he'd never 
dreamed existed.  Of course, he'd never dreamed she'd 
get on a train and travel hundreds of miles with no 
one except a servant. "I'm your mother.  Why can't I 
be here?"

"Because you can't." He took too deep a breath and 
winced in pain.  His mother put her hand on his 
shoulder.  He wasn't fooling her and he knew it. 
"There's a war on.  You have to go home."

"Not in Kentucky," she insisted. "Kentucky is 
neutral."

He didn't answer that there was no such thing as 
neutral in this war, and that the odds were slim-to-
none his mother could find Kentucky on a map.

"Fox, Melissa's downstairs.  She's waiting in the 
lobby."

He looked up, his mouth open in shock. "Melly's..."  

"She's scared to death.  She begged to come, and I 
couldn't tell her 'no.' She wanted to see you, but I 
didn't know it would be like this.  What should I 
tell her?  I can't bring her up here.  She'll panic."

He took a shallower, safer breath. "Tell her Poppy's 
helping me dress and I'll be right down.  Just a few 
minutes.  Go on, Mother."

"All right," she agreed, standing. "Poppy has clean 
clothes, soap, a razor...  I'll have someone bring up 
hot water and towels."

He nodded, wondering whom she thought she'd find to 
bring hot water and towels - the cockroaches or the 
rats.  His mother lived in her own gilded little 
world, but he wouldn't have it any other way.

She put her palm on his cheek, cupping his face.

"Mother, I'm fine.  Go wait with Melly.  Keep an eye 
on her."

"You just don't want me to see, do you?"

He shook his head, and she kissed his forehead, 
possibly the only clean place on his body, and left.

"Now how in the world do you think you're gonna get 
downstairs?" Poppy asked as soon as they were alone.

"Haven't figured that out yet," he mumbled, already 
exhausted.

She helped him transfer to the chair, then unwrapped 
the bandages, clucking disapprovingly to herself. 
"This is bad, Fox." 

He nodded.  He was aware it was bad.  He was aware 
that by all rights he should have died on that field. 
"Consider it a challenge," he answered.

Whatever plantation Voodoo medicine she unleashed on 
him, ten minutes, some soap and water, a clean shirt, 
a great deal of cursing, and two morphine tablets 
later, he was leaning on Poppy and making his way 
across the lobby on opiates and sheer willpower.

Melly was standing near a window, watching the maimed 
soldiers around her, who were keeping an eye on her 
as well.  She looked as out of place as a delicate 
rose in a cornfield, and her pretty face paled as a 
man missing both legs rolled past in a wheelchair.

"I'm right here, honey: all in one piece," he said, 
and she turned, gasping in surprise.
 
"Oh my God.  Oh my God," she kept repeating, touching 
his face, his shoulders, his hands like she wasn't 
certain he was real.  He'd forgotten how her touch 
felt: feather-light, like a butterfly's wings. 
"You're really all right?"

Poppy helped him maneuver so he could lean against 
the wall, propping himself up on the window ledge. 
"I'm just fine.  It's barely a scratch."

He unfastened his top two buttons, pulling his shirt 
collar aside to show her the very top of the scar.  
About two inches of it had healed cleanly and was 
visible above the fresh bandages; he just didn't 
mention the unhealed gash continued about eighteen 
inches down his chest.

To his surprise, Melissa kissed him on the lips, then 
stepped back like she might have done something 
wrong. "Can you come home?  Do you have to stay here?  
This place smells bad, and you're- you're too thin.  
I want you to come home and get better."

"I will," he promised. "Soon.  Maybe in a week or 
two.  When the doctor says it's all right.  I'll be 
home by Christmas."

Unlike Dana, Melissa didn't think deductively.  If he 
was well enough to walk around the hospital and his 
only wound was the scratch he'd shown her, then he 
should have been well enough to get on a train and go 
home.  He saw Poppy gesturing for him to button his 
uniform coat; the blood was beginning to seep through 
the bandages and stain his shirt.

He buttoned, but in his opium world, everything 
seemed lovely.  He realized he could hear the color 
blue: it made a droning sound like a hummingbird's 
wings.  And that he couldn't feel his toes, but his 
lips tingled pleasantly.  Across the room, another 
officer raised his hand in recognition, but his arm 
seemed to continue upward for yards, stretching out 
like wool being spun into yarn.  It seemed odd, but 
not noteworthy.  The fairies flitting around his 
mother's head, little balls of dancing light 
whispering to her - those were odd.

"I was so afraid.  I was so afraid something had 
happened."

Oh yes: his lovely, adoring wife.  She was speaking, 
and he should probably answer.  He took her hand, 
smiling at her. "No, nothing is going to happen.  
Please try not to worry.  The war will be over soon 
and I'll be home for good."

Melly looked at him, her trusting brown eyes seeming 
bottomless.  They were so dark they seemed almost 
black, and he could see his own distorted image 
reflected in them. "But I'll be dead before then, 
Fox," she answered calmly.

Mulder blinked.  That wasn't the way this dream went.  
That wasn't the way it had happened.

"You're going to make me pregnant and I'm going to 
kill myself and the baby," she said in the same 
monotone voice, like a court reporter rereading the 
facts. "You said you loved me.  Why did you do that 
to me if you loved me?"

"I, I-" he sputtered, trying to get his brain to 
function. 

That wasn't the way it had happened at all, but the 
morphine was making everything seem warped and slow 
and he couldn't remember the truth.  He was certain 
the word "pregnant" would never have come out of his 
mouth in mixed company, let alone a lady's, so this 
couldn't be right.

The others - Poppy, his mother, the wounded soldiers 
- seemed to slip into the murky background, leaving 
only Melissa standing in front of him, looking every 
bit as beautiful as she always had.

"Melly, you said you wanted to.  You said you wanted 
a baby.  And you said you wanted me to come to bed.  
I wouldn't have done it otherwise."

"What else could I say?  I didn't want to.  Neither 
does Dana."

"Yes, she does.  And how do you know about Dana?"

That didn't sound like Melly at all.  She was like a 
pie made entirely of meringue: soft and sweet and 
pleasing and nothing else.  She would never accuse 
him of any wrongdoing, even in a dream.  If it rained 
when he'd planned to go hunting, she apologized for 
the rain.  If he was in a foul mood, she apologized 
for annoying him, whether she had or not.  If he'd 
ever struck her, she probably would have apologized 
for being in the way of his fist.  

"She's smart, like Sarah.  Dana knows why you married 
her and she's better at pretending than I am."

"She loves me.  She's not pretending."

Melly toyed with his hand, turning it over and 
stroking the palm like a gypsy reading the lines. 
"How would you know if she was?"

*~*~*~*

He woke alone in the big bed, curled into a ball on 
the center of the mattress, arms clutching his chest.  
Dana was gone and the blankets had fallen to the 
floor, but the smell of their bodies together 
lingered on the rumpled sheets.

That wasn't the way it had happened.  Melly had asked 
of he could go for a walk, and his mother, thinking 
quickly, had said he wasn't allowed outside the 
hospital.  After a few minutes of chitchat, they'd 
agreed the ladies would return to DC to get 
everything ready, and Poppy would stay and accompany 
him home as soon as the doctor said it was all right 
- which hadn't been for another week.  And the second 
Melly and his mother's cab left the hospital, he'd 
collapsed and had to be carried back to bed.

He scrambled up, pulled on the closest pair of 
trousers, then jogged down the steps two at a time.

"Do you love me?" he demanded breathlessly, finding 
Dana at the kitchen stove.  Emily was sitting on the 
floor, playing with the mixing bowls and leaning 
against the sleeping basset hound. "Do you?" he 
demanded.  He ran his fingers through his wild hair. 
"Why did you marry me?"

"What is-"

"No, don't do that.  Don't ask me what is wrong and 
don't soothe me.  Do you love me?"

She put a lid on the pot of oatmeal and moved it off 
the heat. "Of course I love you.  Did you have a bad 
dream?" 

"No, don't to that either.  Don't answer out of duty.  
Don't say you do just because you're my wife or 
because I love you.  Do you love me?"

"Yes, I love you." 

"Are you telling the truth?  Or are you just saying 
that because you think it's what you're supposed to 
say?  If you didn't love me and I'd told you that I 
did love you, would you answer that you did or you 
didn't?  You'd say you did, wouldn't you?"

She blinked and asked him to repeat the question.

"If you didn't love me, and I wanted you to, and I 
loved you, and I was happy, would you tell me if you 
didn't love me and if you weren't happy?"

Dana hesitated. "If I did not-"

"I knew it.  You would not tell me."

She put her hands on the small of her back, 
massaging, and answered like he was beginning to try 
her patience, "If I say I love you, you say I am 
lying.  If I would say I did not love you... I do not 
think there is a right answer here."

"Do you love me?" he demanded again.

"Yes."

"See - I knew you would say that.  Regardless of the 
truth, you would say you do."

She tilted her head to the side. "Then, am I supposed 
to say no?"

His empty stomach flip-flopped nervously. "You don't 
love me?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Mr. Mulder."

"Oh, for God's sake, what?" He huffed in 
exasperation. "You are just being difficult.  Dif-fi-
cult," he repeated, enunciating each syllable. "Why 
did you marry me, then?"

"Because you asked me?" she guessed.

"Of course I asked you!  I loved you!  Did you expect 
me to just leave you in that swamp mourning that 
faithless son-of-a-bitch?" 

He closed his mouth and looked around, wondering 
who'd just said that. 

"Why did that just happen, then?  Upstairs.  Why did 
you say yes?  My God, Dana, in almost a year and a 
half, I don't think you've ever said no.  You're 
eight months along and you still don't say no.  Is 
that out of some misguided sense of duty?  Because 
you think it's part of your job as my wife?  Keep my 
house, have my children, warm my bed?  Is that all 
you think I want?"

"I do not think you have any idea what you want."

He turned and stalked off angrily, reaching the front 
hall before he heard her call after him, "I cannot 
chase you, Mulder.  You will have to stop if you want 
me to catch up."

He stopped, hands on his hips.  Her skirts swished 
slowly against the floor as she approached, walking 
around him so they faced each other.

"I married you because I thought you were a good man 
and I wanted to go with you, wherever you were 
going."

"And now that we've arrived, do you still want to be 
here?"

"Yes.  I do."

He nodded thoughtfully, as though considering that on 
several deep philosophical levels. 

"Is there butter for the oatmeal?  There's usually 
brown sugar, but no one's been to the market.  We 
might not have butter." 

"Yes, I think there is butter."

"All right then," he answered, following her back to 
the kitchen.
 
*~*~*~*

When he'd graduated from Harvard, his father had 
asked him what he wanted to do: run for office, 
become an ambassador...  Some profession involving 
starched shirts, handshakes, and having an ancestor's 
signature on The Declaration of Independence.  

When Mulder answered, his father had chuckled, then 
immediately asked, "No, son, really - what do you 
want to do?"

Over the years, he'd become a stockholder in several 
large newspapers and publishing houses, but The 
Evening Star was still the first.  For the others, he 
traveled to New York and Boston every few months, sat 
in board meetings, voted occasionally, and made a 
nice quarterly profit, but Mulder preferred a hands-
on approach to his original "ungentlemanly, unwise 
endeavor." It was his: earned, not inherited; built, 
not bought.

The Washington Evening Star had grown until it was 
the largest building on the part of Pennsylvania 
Avenue known as Newspaper Row.  The lobby faced the 
broad street, with Mulder's and the other offices off 
each side, and the loading docks to the rear. 
Frohike's typesetters and presses occupied the second 
floor, the reporters the third, and the Associated 
Press rented the fourth.

Given that much square footage, he and Byers could 
avoid each other for days.  Or, at least, until late 
morning, when Byers appeared in Mulder's doorway, 
studying his clasped hands.

"We didn't expect you back so soon," he said 
neutrally. "I thought you'd take a few more days.   
It must be such a shock... Mulder, I had no idea your 
mother was so ill."

"She wasn't.  It was sudden - another stroke, the 
doctor thinks." 

Mulder straightened a stack of papers, then set them 
aside and folded his hands on the top his desk.  
Byers and Susanne had attended the funeral, so they'd 
already exchanged the scripted condolences yesterday.

"Still, I'm sorry.  I feel bad for losing my temper."

Only John Byers would define showing the slightest 
annoyance as "losing my temper." When Mulder lost his 
temper, walls, crockery, and the neighbors often 
suffered.  

"And I feel bad for taking advantage of your 
friendship.  I should never have asked you to read 
those letters.  Or, at least, I should have told you 
what you were reading."

"So we agree we feel bad," Byers responded. "She's 
your wife.  I won't interfere again."

"I wasn't aware you had interfered." 

Byers tilted his chin up angrily, then turned to 
leave.

"Byers- John, I'm sorry.  Close the door and sit 
down.  Please."

The door was closed, feet were shuffled, throats were 
cleared, and Mulder walked around his desk to sit in 
one of the two armchairs in front of it.

"I didn't mean to accuse you of anything unseemly.  
That was the farthest thing from my mind."

Not the farthest, really.  When Dana joked about 
mistaking him for Frohike crawling into bed with her, 
he laughed because that was ridiculous.  He wouldn't 
have laughed had she said "Mr. Byers."

"I'm only trying to help: reading those letters.  
Dana's so... So contained.  She never lets her guard 
down.  She says she loves me, but I don't think she 
really trusts me.  Not really.  I thought-" 

"Why wouldn't she trust you, Mulder?"

Mulder furrowed his forehead, trying to figure out if 
that was sarcasm, but Byers shrugged innocently.

"I thought she might talk to her mother," Mulder 
finished, as though that had anything to do with 
reading mail he'd promised to deliver to Dana - and 
still hadn't delivered.

"If you think I'm too friendly with your wife, it's 
your place to say something.  Which you did," Byers 
responded. "And, as I said, I won't interfere again."

There was a long, mutually disapproving silence. 

Dana had few friends.  Even if she'd been accepted by 
polite society, she wasn't interested in spending her 
afternoons gossiping about who'd been seen with whom, 
and more importantly, what they'd been wearing.  She 
liked science and literature and world events, topics 
seldom brought up at ladies' teas.  He knew she was 
lonely, and Mulder told himself he tried to find time 
to spend with her, as though he expected to stumble 
over a few extra minutes at the end of the day.  Time 
was made, not found, so somehow the minutes were 
never there.
 
It probably wasn't unreasonable for her to want to 
talk with someone who not only shared her interests, 
but also spoke her language, and happened to be a 
happily married man.  It just didn't happen to be the 
happily married man to whom she was married.

"Am I being a jealous ass?" Mulder asked uncertainly.

Byers nodded.

"I thought that might be the case." Mulder sighed, 
pushed a stack of ledgers aside, and propped his 
boots up on the front of his desk. "I suppose, 
though, if I want anything else translated from 
Gaelic, I should ask someone else?"

"I think that would be wise."

"Why didn't you tell me I was being an ass?" Mulder 
asked, reaching forward to retrieve his cup of 
coffee. "Isn't that part of your job?"

"It's like trying to tell you anything: it doesn't do 
any good.  We have to wait until you realize it, and 
then we all act surprised."

Mulder "uh-hummed" noncommittally in the back of his 
throat. "That's not really true, is it?"

"Oh no, of course not," Byers answered a little too 
earnestly.
 
*~*~*~*

Having been mistress of a large plantation, Dana was 
more than competent to handle Mulder's household, 
but, of course, Mulder's household hadn't known that.  
She'd quickly had enough of "But that's not how Mrs. 
Mulder did it," which was code for "that's not how 
Poppy does it." The seventh time Dana had assigned a 
task and gotten that response, she'd stopped, turned, 
and icily informed the poor maid, "I am Mrs. Mulder."

And that, except for a constant stream of complaints 
from Poppy, had been that.

So laundry was done on Thursday instead of Wednesday, 
and windows were washed on Monday morning instead of 
Friday afternoon, since they were more likely to have 
guests during the week than over the weekend.  Large 
purchases like the dressmaker or grocer were still 
charged to his accounts at the stores, but she 
instituted a ledger for household expenses.  Money 
for the market or milkman was carefully recorded 
instead of Mulder just replenishing the cash box in 
his desk whenever it was empty. The silver chest 
acquired a lock and the wine cellar became off-limits 
to the servants.  Poppy had been furious at the 
implication she or her staff would steal, but Mulder 
noticed he was spending much less on liquor, 
vegetables, and place settings.

One of the few problematic changes was how Dana 
handled sewing.  The majority of their clothing was 
ready or tailor-made, so while Dana might alter, 
trim, or mend a garment, she didn't spend the 
majority of her time sewing, like her grandmother 
had, nor did she quilt like Melissa had.  Instead of 
constantly interrupting her day, Dana's method was 
simple: if it needed her attention, put it in her 
sewing basket and she would attend to it the next 
time she sat down.

Except that was too difficult for Mulder and Sam to 
manage.  Things in need of mending or altering were 
kept everywhere - in boxes and drawers, under beds, 
on doorknobs and hooks - except in the sewing basket.  
It wasn't until Dana picked up her needle and thread 
that they recalled where half their wardrobes were.  
Then they arrived with armloads of ripped pockets, 
loose seams, and frayed hems like pagans bringing 
offerings to the Textile Goddess.

He and Sam made it back to the library at the same 
time, vying for their turn.  Dana raised an eyebrow, 
sighed, made herself as comfortable as possible, and 
asked, "Do you have the button?" as they each offered 
a shirt.

"I lost it," Mulder responded in harmony with Sam's 
"It's safety pinned to the hem."

Dana reached for Sam's shirt first, and Mulder 
flopped dejectedly on the sofa to wait.

Emily was toddling around, reaching for things she 
knew she wasn't supposed to touch, then looking to 
Mulder so he could tell her, "No-no, Emmy."

"No-no, Dahdah," Emily echoed, just checking, then 
moved on to the next item and continued the game.

Sam busied himself behind his sketchpad, scratching 
away.  He had an artist's knack for drawing 
unobtrusively, for blending into the background.  It 
wasn't until he took the pad off the easel and moved 
closer that Mulder realized Dana was his son's model, 
and several more seconds before she did.
 
"Oh, Samuel," she protested when she looked up.  More 
than eight months along, in mourning, and bent over 
her sewing probably wasn't the way she wanted to be 
captured for posterity.

"Please be still," he requested, his hand frantically 
crisscrossing the paper.  It looked like random 
scribbling, but Mulder knew it wasn't.  Every detail 
of the portrait was already in his head, and he was 
just transferring it to paper.  Suddenly, an image 
would emerge, like a sculptor discovering human form 
hidden inside a block of cold marble.

Within a few minutes, he was finished, capturing her 
in a series of stark black lines and smudges.  He 
added a few final marks, blurred an edge with his 
thumb, then flipped to the next sheet and turned to 
Emily, who was one of his favorite subjects.  She 
didn't hold still, but she didn't complain, either. 

"Do we get to look at it?" Mulder asked, curious as 
to how Sam saw Dana.  He didn't capture a person so 
much as he captured the way he saw their soul.  

His son shook his head no, and no one pushed the 
issue.

"All right, Samuel, your-" Dana started, then paused, 
putting her hand on her belly and inhaling. "Your 
shirt is finished.  Let, let me have the other."
 
"Are you okay?" Mulder asked, leaning toward her.

She nodded, slowly blowing out a breath.  He glanced 
at the clock, checking the time, just in case.  She'd 
had a few pains yesterday, but they were hours apart, 
and she said the baby was still too high to be coming 
soon.  Despite what she insisted, Mulder was sure the 
pains had something to do with them making love last 
week. 

"Dana?  Ma'am?" Sam asked, putting his sketchpad 
aside.

"It is all right." Seeing Sam's expression, she 
added, "The baby kicked.  It surprised me.  Do you 
want to feel?"

Sam hesitated, curious, but ill at ease. It wasn't 
something Melissa or Poppy would have invited.  Even 
working women made every effort to hide their 
pregnancies.  While babies were celebrated, sex 
bordered on sin, so being with child was evidence of 
a quasi-sin, however hypocritical that logic worked 
out to be.  Upper-class children were so shielded 
that many reached their teens still believing storks 
brought babies or they were just found in the cabbage 
patch.  Sam wasn't that naïve, but some girls were 
married before they saw a man shirtless, and had only 
a vague idea what one looked like nude.

He looked to his father, who nodded, urging him to go 
ahead.  Instead of touching her, Sam just held out 
his hand like he expected to have it smacked with a 
ruler.  She took it, gently placed it on the side of 
her abdomen, and waited.  Sam didn't move, but looked 
everywhere except at Dana.  

"No-no, Dahdah," Emily called from underneath his 
desk.

"No-no, Emmy," he answered without shifting his gaze 
from the minor miracle occurring at the other end of 
the sofa.

"There; that is a kick," Dana told him, and Sam 
nodded, then quickly pulled away, embarrassed.
 
"You're bigger.  Than Mother," he said cautiously.

"I'm not sure that's what Dana needs to hear right 
now, Sammy," Mulder interjected awkwardly. "This 
baby's closer to being born than... Than the other."

Sam looked at Dana as if he hadn't heard that, 
studying her with his dark, steady eyes. "Do you know 
how she died?"

"Yes, your father told me."

There was no response, and Mulder thought the 
conversation was over.  Two nods, five minutes, and a 
dozen words: that was a conversation with Sam.

"It's a sin," Sam finally added, "Poppy says she's in 
Hell."

"You cannot know that," Dana answered while Mulder 
was still between shock and seething. "Only God can 
know the depths of her soul.  Suicide, freely chosen, 
is a mortal sin, but do you think she was able to 
choose?  To understand what she was doing?"

Mulder squirmed uncomfortably.  She was breaking both 
his cardinal rules: don't say anything that might 
upset Samuel, and don't mention Melissa's illness.

"No," his son answered after some consideration, then 
just got up and left, leaving them to stare at the 
back of his head.

"I'm going to kill her," Mulder muttered under his 
breath.  Poppy was out for the evening, but he was 
going to have a long, heated discussion with her as 
soon as she returned. "What was she thinking, telling 
him that?  And you didn't help matters."

"I answered what he asked," she responded.

"I would have answered him." Although Mulder had no 
idea what he would have said.  He was the man: lord 
of his domain and all.  He should at least give the 
illusion of being in charge.

"He was not asking you."   
 
That wasn't what Mulder had needed to hear.  He saw 
the gulf between him and his baby boy, and no amount 
of frantic clutching at thin air seemed to narrow it 
again. He saw Sam come out of his shell occasionally: 
becoming tearful at the funeral, putting his head on 
Poppy's shoulder, or talking with Dana as he had a 
moment ago.  As the months passed, it happened more 
often, but it never happened with Mulder.  With his 
father, he was polite, but as elusive as the fog.

He wanted his Sammy, but he was realizing he wasn't 
going to get that boy back.  Mulder had a brilliantly 
talented, gentle, quiet, traumatized young man who 
happened to resemble his son.

Before a full-blown argument could kindle from 
Mulder's fear and dented pride, Sam reappeared, his 
sketchpad still under his arm. 

"What about the baby?" he asked from the doorway, 
looking to Dana for an answer. "Sarah?"

"A child is an innocent," she responded. "Born or 
unborn, it is incapable of sin."

There was a stilted pause, but that had been the 
right answer: Mulder could tell.  Sam leaned against 
the doorframe, relaxing a little.

"Thank you for fixing my shirt."

"You are welcome.  Did you want me to take the 
armband off?"

Three days was the usual period of mourning for men, 
marked by a black armband on their sleeve. Women were 
expected to wear black for months before switching to 
grays and violets, even for a distant relative or in-
law, but extended grief was unseemly for men.

"No.  Not now.  You should rest," Sam said, never the 
most convincing liar. "I don't need it right now."

"All right.  Whenever you are ready."  

"Sam, I don't think-" Mulder started, but Dana shot 
him her scathing look: the one that reminded him of a 
dagger being unsheathed. "Whenever you're ready," he 
reiterated.

*~*~*~* 

As always, Samuel's bedroom door was closed, and he 
had to unlock it before he could answer his father's 
soft knock.

"I was just checking on you," Mulder said 
uncomfortably. "I wanted to tell you goodnight."

"Goodnight," Sam answered automatically.  He was 
still in his shirt and trousers, but had unbuttoned 
his collar, rolled up his sleeves, and was holding 
some sheet music he must have been reading.  He kept 
one hand on the door, waiting to close it again.

"Sam, I do- I've cried too." Once the admission was 
out of his mouth, it was easier to add, "I've had 
nightmares.  I still have nightmares.  Not just about 
the war, but about your mother, even about you.  I've 
been afraid.  The only man who's never afraid is a 
fool too blind to realize what he has to lose.  And a 
hero is usually just someone with nothing left to 
lose."

"Oh."

"I'm not ashamed of you for being upset, for crying.  
I've never been ashamed of you.  You've always felt 
things more deeply than other people.  That's a gift, 
not a weakness.  I'm not what my father envisioned 
his son would be either, but he still loved me.  He 
was still proud of me."

"I'm not what you envisioned?"

"Sam, that's not what I meant.  Grandfather had very 
high expect- He could be..." He scrambled, trying to 
recover. "I love you, Sammy.  You can't imagine how 
much.  And I loved your mother.  I still do.  I hid 
in Dana's barn for months because I was too afraid to 
come home.  And I hid inside myself for months, just 
like you are, because I was too afraid.  I was afraid 
even to let myself be afraid.  It was safer to feel 
nothing, but you can't go through life like that."

"Oh."

He was wasting his breath.  Mulder could see the 
curtains lowering behind Sam's eyes.

"Goodnight," he said again, exhaling tiredly. "Sleep 
well.  You know where I am if you want someone to 
talk to."

"Goodnight," his son responded, closing the door.
   
*~*~*~*

He let his body fall backward onto the bed, enjoying 
the brief freedom of weightlessness before the heavy 
blankets engulfed him and he bounced to a stop.  Once 
there, he stared at the ceiling, studying the bland 
white expanse.  It wasn't very interesting.  Stamped 
tin ceiling tiles were becoming popular; he should 
put those up - give him and Dana something to look at 
as they contemplated life.

"Well?" she asked from in front of her dressing 
table, brushing out her hair before bed. "How did the 
talk go?"

"She didn't tell him Melissa was in Hell.  Poppy says 
they were talking about my mother's funeral, about 
souls and spirits, and he asked if she could talk to 
Melissa."

Dana put her hairbrush down and looked at him 
questioningly.

"Poppy's Christian, but her mother was a quadroon 
Haitian: like Dori but slightly darker skinned," he 
explained. "So she has all those Voodoo superstitions 
about omens and spirits and speaking with the dead.  
Sam asked if she could talk with Melissa, and when 
she said she couldn't, he assumed that meant Melly 
was in Hell.  It was just a misunderstanding.  And 
she said he was embarrassed about being upset at my 
mother's funeral, so I just tried to talk to him.  
And made a gigantic mess of it."

He stretched his arms above his head, letting his 
heels drum restlessly against the bedrail.

"Poppy says he feels slighted, second best - that I 
pay more attention to you, Emily, and Harvey than 
Samuel.  That he resents it."

"And you believe her?" she asked.

"Why wouldn't I believe her?"

"First, I know what Voodoo is and she does not need 
to be putting those ideas in Samuel's head.  He is 
too vulnerable, too suggestible.  And-" 

"She doesn't," he interrupted.

"Then why did he think to ask if she could talk to 
the dead?  Of course she said that to him, then 
probably acted like it was an accidental slip - 
something he was not supposed to know.  And he does 
not resent Emily; he adores her.  He seems excited 
about the baby, but worried, and I understand why.  
Aside from that, he barely seems to notice me.  Or 
you.  Or anything except his music and drawing."

"Then why wouldn't Poppy tell me the truth?"    

"Because she is a liar."

"Oh, be serious.  Why would Poppy lie?"

"Because that woman would say or do anything to 
control you.  Melissa relied on her.  You rely on 
her.  She raised Samuel.  I think, over time, Poppy 
began to think of herself as the lady of your house, 
as your wife in everything but name. She tells people 
the two of you are lovers.  When you were away during 
the war, she took a lover who resembles you, who's 
related to you.  She named her daughter close to what 
you'd planned to name yours.  Can you not see a 
pattern here?"

"I think someone's just tired and cranky," he said 
lightly. "Come here and I'll rub your back.  Or front 
- whichever." 

He heard her lay the brush on the dressing table, and 
then footsteps as she walked to the bed.  Mulder sat 
up, supporting his weight on his hands, and smiled at 
her.

She didn't smile back.

"Why do you suddenly treat me like I am a slow 
child?"

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to," he said after several 
tense seconds.  

"And please do not ignore me.  If you think I am 
wrong, say so, but do not act as if what I say is too 
foolish to even acknowledge.  This fascination you 
have with why I married you - part of the reason was 
because you treated me like a person instead of a 
possession.  And now you are putting me on the shelf 
between your father's bust of Shakespeare and your 
mother's Oriental vase.  I am another of your 
decorative things.  At least I am productive," she 
added, putting a hand on her swollen belly. "That 
must be a bonus."

"You are not," he said slowly, leaning toward her, 
reaching for her hand. "Merely decorative.  And I 
never dismiss what you say.  You know how much I care 
for you."

"Yes, I do.  Would you care for me on my back, my 
knees, or my hands and knees?" she answered 
perfunctorily, ignoring the hand he offered.  

There were tired purple shadows under her eyes, 
making them appear the final shade of blue before 
black, and her cheeks flushed angrily.  The last six 
inches of her hair was still unbraided, and splayed 
over the front of her nightgown in thick auburn 
curls.  She waited for his answer, and she had to 
wait a long time

"I was just trying to think," he finally said, 
explaining his silence, "If anything you could have 
said would have hurt more."

"I did not mean to hurt you.  I mean, I, we-" she 
started, searching for words.  That was one way he 
could tell she was upset: she lost her fluid command 
of English. "We cannot solve all our problems in bed.  
If you want me, fine, but you will seduce me just to 
keep from talking to me.  And I want to talk about 
this.  It is important.  This woman is dangerous, and 
you either cannot or refuse to see it."

"What do you want me to do?" he shot back, aiming 
below and slightly to the left of the real problem. 
"Yes, I know Poppy is manipulative, but I also know 
why she likes having power over men.  And she doesn't 
have it over me.  Or Sam.  She'd never hurt Samuel.  
Yes, she uses men, but no more than they've used her.  
Imagine what it was like for her.  On a plantation, 
there was nowhere to go, no one to help her-"

"I understand more than you can imagine, but that is 
not the point.  She did hurt Samuel.  She told your 
fifteen-year old son that his mother and sister were 
burning in Hell.  She upset him so much he talked to 
me, and he usually talks to me even less than he 
talks to you.  And you just shrug and accept her 
excuse that it was all a misunderstanding?  How can 
you do that?"

"Maybe because it's the truth," he answered before he 
thought, then swallowed guiltily. "Melly was ill, but 
she understood if she cut herself, she would die, and 
the baby would die with her.  What you told Sam: 
that's not the truth.  Melissa knew what she was 
doing, at least to a point."

"And I knew it was not the truth when I said it, but 
Samuel needs to believe it right now.  Just like you 
needed to believe it.  How long did it take you to 
even tell me Melissa was dead, let alone how she 
died?  Go write her a few more letters, and then tell 
me how your son should face reality, Mr. Mulder.  
Samuel has already faced enough of life's grim 
realities."

"Yes, I am aware of that." He looked down at his feet 
dangling above the bedside rug. "Again, what do you 
want me to do?  Sam loves her.  He needs her.  If 
you're confusing me with Waterston, and Poppy with 
Dori, you're wrong.  She's my friend, my housekeeper, 
Sam's nurse, and that's all."

"Poppy does not see it that way."

He looked up, meeting her eyes. "Well, so what if she 
doesn't?  I love you.  I loved you when I didn't have 
to.  And even when I didn't want to."

"I know.  I loved you, too.  Even when I do not want 
to.  Even when I would like to shake you."

"I will talk to Poppy again.  Until then, would it 
make you feel better to shake me?" he asked.  

The argument seemed to be ending, but he could be 
wrong.  He could never tell when his diversionary 
tactics worked with Dana and when she just let them 
work.

"No, unfortunately not.  Can I shoot you?"

"Anytime you want," he promised. "Will you lie down?  
Please?  Sam's right: you do look so tired, Dana.  
You're still doing too much."

"Two married people in the same bed?  What will the 
help think?"

"Hopefully, they'll be scandalized.  Besides, it 
doesn't count if I don't undress or close my eyes," 
he responded, and helped her maneuver onto the bed, 
laying across the mattress so she faced him. 

And he faced her.

"I love you," he repeated, stroking her hair. "And I 
need you to tell me the truth, and keep telling me 
the truth, whether it's what I want to hear or not.  
I need you to, because there's no one else who will.  
It's just us now.  I have a few cousins and your 
mother is out there somewhere, I guess, but we're all 
that's..."

He swallowed again, looking away.

"This is going to work.  Sam's getting better, and 
you're going to have this baby - hopefully in the 
next week - and we'll get settled in Boston, and 
maybe we'll get Poppy a muzzle and a nubile young 
love slave.  I just need time, Dana.  I know I keep 
saying that, but I need you to trust me."

"I know.  And I do trust you.  I know how hard you 
try.  I feel foolish for getting angry when I know 
how bad it could be."

"Are you ever going to tell me how bad it can be?" he 
asked. 

"Are you?" she answered.
  
*~*~*~* 

When the doctor had finally let him hold his son, 
he'd been shaking with fear, exhaustion, and all the 
reasons sixteen-year old boys didn't usually become 
fathers.  It had been overwhelming, and his father 
had put his hand on his shoulder to steady him.

"Melly's okay?" he'd asked.

"She's fine," the doctor had responded, rolling down 
his sleeves.

With no brothers or sisters, he'd never held a baby 
before, but there wasn't much to it.  Sam had been 
wrapped in white flannel so only his face showed, 
with gypsy-brown eyes blinking at Mulder and spiky 
black fuzz already covering his head.

He didn't remember getting to a chair, but he 
remembered being seated, with his father beside him 
and Sam on his lap.  He couldn't stop grinning, like 
the corners of his mouth wouldn't go down, and he 
couldn't quite catch his breath.

"He sure looks like Melissa," Bill Mulder had said, 
pushing the blanket down to put his finger in Sam's 
tiny fist.

"He's perfect.  He's so perfect.  I'm gonna do this 
perfectly," he'd babbled.  Humans didn't have good 
words for the first time a man sees his son. "I'm 
going to do this right: being a father. No mistakes."

"There is no 'perfectly,' Fox.  You just do your 
best," his father answered, patting his shoulder 
again.   

There had been no "perfectly." Melissa hadn't been 
okay.  She'd spent the next few weeks wandering 
around in a daze, refusing to eat or talk to anyone 
or leave the bedroom.  She didn't want anything to do 
with Sam, even when Mulder brought him to her.  The 
doctor had explained she was young, delicate, and 
just had to get to know her baby.  Which had seemed 
like an adequate explanation until his mother caught 
her holding the baby underwater in the washbasin.

After that came a series of doctors and hospitals, 
usually arranged by his father while Mulder was at 
school.  By the time Samuel was four, he knew the 
difference between "Sad Mommy," and "Nice Mommy," and 
"Silly Mommy," which Mulder supposed was what one 
called it when Mommy painted the windows black so no 
one could see into their bedroom.
 
Mulder's biggest fear was that Sam resented Melissa, 
but he'd adored and understood her. They were kindred 
souls: artists who found beauty in a grain of sand 
and passion in the contrast between middle C and F 
sharp.

And Mulder wasn't.  As much as he loved his son, he 
often felt as if he barely knew him.  He'd learned 
more about arias and linear perspective than he'd 
ever wanted to, but he was still the foreigner in his 
son's gifted land, floundering and struggling to 
learn the language.  He'd always wondered if his best 
was close enough to "perfectly."

It happened without warning, like a storm suddenly 
rolling in and blackening the sky.

Samuel had the horse saddled and was fitting the bit 
into its mouth when Mulder entered the stable, still 
wearing his coat and hat.  He slowed to a stroll as 
he passed the stalls, putting his hands in his 
pockets and trying to look casual. "I hear you're 
taking a trip."

Sam nodded, biting his lip in concentration.

"Would you like to tell me where you think you're 
going?"

"Colorado.  They're mining gold there."

Mulder leaned against a post and crossed his arms. 
"Well, take your mittens. The Rocky Mountains can be 
nippy in December.  You're a little late to be a 
49er, but they probably saved some gold for you. 
Provided you don't get scalped, cannibalized, buried 
by an avalanche, run over by a buffalo, or just 
starve to death."

His son fastened the bridle, tossed his saddlebags 
over the horse, and started to lead it out of the 
stable, refusing to meet Mulder's eyes.  Dana was 
right: he was serious.  Normally, the solution to Sam 
threatening to run away was to pack a lunch for him 
and tell him to write if he got work.  He seldom made 
it past the end of the street, but he meant business 
this time.

"Sammy, what is it?" Mulder asked. "What's wrong?"

"I don't belong here. I can't live here. I'm sorry."

"Has something happened?"

"No," Sam answered immediately, looking like a 
skittish animal that might bolt at any minute. "I 
don't want to talk about it.  Please just let me go.  
I just want to leave." He grimaced as if struggling 
not to cry. "Please," he repeated earnestly.

"You're upset.  Did I do something?"

Sam vigorously shook his head "no."

"Poppy?"

Another "no."

"Dana?  Is it Dana?"

The dark head shook "yes," and Sam caught his lower 
lip between his teeth again.

Mulder took a slow breath, trying to get his stomach 
to stop churning. "Tell me what happened."

Another "no," then, "Can we- Can we go to Boston?  
Right now?"

"Dana can't travel right now," he tried to explain. 
"But soon-"

"No, without her.  Just us.  We could stay there 
until you divorce her."

"Divorce her?" he echoed in disbelief.  He started to 
laugh nervously, then changed his mind.

"If you divorced her, you could keep Emmy, couldn't 
you?" 

"Dana's about to have a baby.  No one's divorcing 
anyone.  Are you serious?" 

Sam glanced up, then asked, "What if she dies?"

"No one is going to die!  Don't even say that," he 
barked, and realized Sam was cowering. "God, Sammy... 
Are you serious?  How can you say that?"

There was no answer.   

"Dana's going to have to stay in DC for at least a 
month after the baby comes.  Yes, you can stay in 
Boston with me.  Maybe you two just need a break from 
each other.  I'm sure it's hard to see her in your 
mother's place, especially when she's about to have a 
baby.  I'm sure those memories-"

"I don't want her living with us."

"And you don't dictate everyone's lives," Mulder 
responded sternly.

Instead of arguing, Sam just buttoned his coat and 
pulled the horse's reins to turn it toward the door.

"Sam, stop.  Stop and think about what you're saying.   
I love you, and I know you're still healing, but I 
love Dana too.  And Emmy.  And the baby.  This is our 
family now, and it's a nice family.  You're asking me 
to choose, and you're not even giving me a reason why 
you suddenly dislike Dana.  You've gotten along with 
her for months and now she's suddenly the enemy?"

"You don't have to choose.  I told you: I'll go."
 
"No, you won't.  Let me talk to Dana, see-"

"No!" Sam said suddenly. "Please don't talk to her.  
Please don't.  Just, just don't tell her.  Anything.  
I want to go to the London Conservatory.  Can I go 
there?"

"I-I can check, but I think you have to be sixteen."

"Then I could go- I could go to..." Sam looked around, 
searching for a destination.

"You just can't stand it here, can you?"

"I'm sorry," his son mumbled miserably.

"I'd put you on the next train to Boston, except I'm 
afraid you won't make it there.  I'm afraid you'd 
disappear again.  I'm leaving on the twenty-ninth.  
Do you think you can make it another five days?  I 
want to stay as long as I can, to be here when the 
baby comes."

His son nodded, and fiddling with the bridle. "It 
won't make a difference: whether you're here or not."

Mulder felt limp, like he'd won the battle but lost 
the war, but looked up again. "What won't make a 
difference?  You said something about Dana dying.  
Are you just upset, or has Poppy put that idea into 
your head, or is it something else?  Is it like 
knowing Grandfather was going to die?  Or like when 
you telegraphed me about your mother?"

"I don't know."

"Please try, Sammy.  Try hard."

Sam paused, trying to concentrate. "I don't know.  I 
can't tell.  There's just so much noise here.  It 
gets inside my head and I can't think."

"Okay.  It's all right.  You just promise me you 
won't go anywhere for the next five days, and then 
we'll go to Boston and figure things out from there.  
Okay?"

One last nod, and then Sam sat down heavily on a bale 
of hay while Mulder finished unsaddling the horse.  
He heard a strangled sound as he returned from the 
tack room, and found Sam with his face in his hands, 
struggling not to cry. He stood over him uncertainly, 
then sat with one arm, then both around his son's 
shoulders as he sobbed.  Mulder expected Sam to jerk 
away and run, but he didn't, so he sat holding him, 
looking around the stable for some explanation as to 
why the sky was falling.

*~*~*~*

There were schools, including private academies, but 
it was the fashion for boys to be educated at home by 
tutors before attending a university.  Since Mulder's 
father chose his tutors, his education had been heavy 
on military history and literature, light on the 
arts.  He could quote Homer and out-maneuver 
Napoleon, but he didn't know Caravaggio from a crow, 
or Michelangelo from a magpie.  It wasn't until 
Samuel that Mulder developed any appreciation of art 
besides whether he liked it or didn't like it.

Sam, still missing all four of his front teeth, had 
taught him what a vanishing point was one afternoon 
in the Smithsonian.  Gesturing to a medieval picture 
of Mary and Jesus, he'd explained why it lacked the 
illusion of depth and looked like the figures were 
piled on top of each other.  He'd moved on to a 
Renaissance painting where the figures almost leapt 
off the canvas, and Mulder nodded.  He saw the 
difference and it made sense, but he'd always thought 
that was just the way the artists had painted them.

What made a painting look real was to have everything 
moving toward one point and then disappearing into 
the distance, like water swirling down the drain.

He spun the stem of his wine glass to make a 
whirlpool, watching the wine slosh against the 
crystal sides and then accidentally over the rim and 
onto the letter on his desk.  The ink ran purple as 
he tried to dry it, but he put it in the drawer 
anyway, knowing no one would ever read it.

He heard a noise in the next room, and found Poppy in 
her nightgown, holding Sadie and explaining to her 
that Santa hadn't come yet.

"Not yet," Mulder reiterated, leaning on the back of 
a chair in the seldom-used front parlor.  The mantle 
was decked with holly bowers and empty stockings, and 
the tree glittered with silver bells and crocheted 
white snowflakes. "Soon.  He's just down the street.  
You'd better hurry and go back to sleep."

"I think she's up for good, Fox," Poppy said tiredly, 
then covered her mouth as she yawned. "And Sam's 
stirring upstairs.  I think it's Christmas whether 
the grownups are ready or not."

"Is it that late already?  That early?" he asked, 
squinting at the grandfather clock.  It read four-
thirty; he'd been drinking, writing, and staring at 
the sky all night. "I was going to light the candles 
on the tree, build a fire, get the p-r-e-s-e-n-t-s 
out..."  

Sober up, shave, change clothes, find some holiday 
cheer...

When Poppy just looked at him, he mouthed, 
"Presents," remembering she couldn't read.

"If you'll watch her, I'll do it," she volunteered.  
At two and a half, Sadie was the only one in the 
house with any interest in Santa.  Emily was still 
too little to care, and Sam had figured out the truth 
when he was five and the stripes had washed off his 
zebra.

"You wanna come with me, Miss Sadie?" he asked her, 
taking her from Poppy and then swinging her high into 
the air. "Help me make coffee?"

Sadie was agreeable, but then Sadie was almost always 
agreeable.

By the time Mulder had a fire going in the kitchen 
stove and water boiling, Poppy reappeared, now in her 
black dress with a white kerchief and apron.  He 
handed her the coffee beans and grinder, gratefully 
relinquishing his role as head chef.       

"Make it strong," he requested, pushing his bottom 
lip out to amuse Sadie.  She sat on the kitchen table 
in front of him, swinging her bare feet and watching 
her mother as they waited.

"I think you need it.  How close to sober are you?" 

"Close," he answered. "I can see sober, but I'm not 
there yet.  A few cups of coffee and I will be, 
though.  I'll be okay."

"Have you been up all night?"

He nodded, then quickly changed the topic. "Are you 
staying here for Christmas?  I didn't think you were 
working today."

"I'm not working; I'm making coffee.  Where else 
would I be?"

"I don't know.  I thought..." He ran his fingers 
through his hair, trying to get it to lie down. "Alex 
has his faults, but he's still her father and he 
loves both of you.  Why don't you let him at least 
see her?  It's Christmas."

A month had healed his pride and given him time to 
think.  There were many men he respected who kept 
mistresses or patronized whorehouses for services 
that made Mulder's skin crawl. They were still doting 
fathers and loving husbands.  He preferred his wife, 
but that didn't mean all men did.  In fact, since 
marriages were usually based on convenience or 
monetary gain, most men didn't. He had trouble with 
the idea of two men together, but, rereading Whitman, 
had realized Alex wasn't entirely to blame for 
kissing him.  It was possible Mulder had overreacted.  
He'd been known to do that once or twice in his life.

"He's not her father."

"He's not?" Mulder echoed, jarred back to reality.  
He'd only spilled the last bit of the wine.  Between 
midnight and four, the rest had disappeared into him.

"No, he's not.  He thinks he is, but he's not.  She's 
not his."

"Oh," he said awkwardly.  He hadn't meant to pry.

"She's yours."

He snorted, reaching for the cup of coffee she 
offered, then holding it carefully out of Sadie's 
reach. "I'll take that as a complement.  You wanna be 
my girl, Miss Sadie?" He leaned closer, putting his 
forehead against hers. "Hum?  You're beautiful.  I'll 
take you."

"Tanta Cause," she requested, blinking endless 
eyelashes at him.

"Tanta can't come until I have coffee.  Here," he 
held the cup between them, "Help me blow.  Blow easy, 
or it's going to go all over my lap."

Sadie blew across the surface, managing mostly air 
with a little spit mixed in for flavor.

When Mulder glanced at Poppy, she was still standing 
beside the stove, watching him.

"Poppy, that's sweet, but you can't go around saying 
that," he told her seriously, jumping as a Sadie blew 
again and a few drops of coffee hit his thigh. 
"Easy," he reminded her.

"I have no intention of telling anyone."

He sat the cup aside and turned his head to look at 
her. "I mean it.  You're not funny.  That's not 
something I want you joking about.  Dana wouldn't 
find it funny, and neither would Sam."

"I already said I won't tell them," she insisted.

"But-" He lowered Sadie to the floor, directing her 
toward the dining room and out of hearing range. "But 
I'm not her father.  We-" He gestured back and forth. 
"Have never been together.  I don't mind you having 
her here, and she's beautiful and sweet, but you will 
not start telling people she's my daughter."

"You really don't remember?"

"Remembered what?  I wasn't even in DC when, uh..."

"No, you were in a hotel room in Louisville." She was 
still standing beside the stove, arms folded, acting 
like this was just another conversation. "With me.  
Do you remember your mother and I moving you out of 
that awful hospital and to a hotel?  She and Melissa 
left and I stayed with you.  I took care of you."

"Yes, that I remember.  I also remember three dozen 
stitches in my chest and so much morphine I felt like 
I was floating."

She nodded.  

He wet his lips, then said slowly, "Poppy, I 
guarantee we've never been together. I may have been 
drugged, but I loved Melly.  And your dates don't 
quite match.  And this isn't funny; this is hurtful.  
Do you realize how many people you could hurt?"

"I won't tell anyone." He opened his mouth to 
protest, but she added, "Fox, you don't owe me 
anything.  And you didn't force me.  You asked and I 
wanted to."

He stared at her in disbelief.  Jesus Christ, she 
believed it, and he couldn't think of any way to 
prove her wrong.  

He exhaled, hearing Dana get out of bed upstairs and 
Grace's claws tripping up and down the hallway.  Sam 
was up, which meant he'd gotten Emily up, which meant 
Dana was up before five a.m.  So much for her promise 
to get more rest.

"Did you tell Melly?"

It bothered him that she hesitated, studying him and 
calculating her answer.  If she said she had, she was 
not only fired, she was about to be the first woman 
he'd ever hit.  Once again, Dana was right: she was 
dangerous.

He was getting tired of Dana being right.

"Did you tell Melly you and I were lovers?  Before 
she died, when I was away at war, did you tell Melly 
that I was the father of the baby you were having?"

"No, of course not.  Fox, I'm not trying to cause 
problems, but you asked who her father was.  I didn't 
know you don't remember; I thought you just didn't 
want to say anything.  You had Emily and Dana... She 
trusts you, and I know how much this would hurt her."

As the floorboards squeaked overhead, he considered 
his options, picking up his coffee again and 
clutching the handle angrily. "If you breathe one 
word - to Sam, to Dana, to anyone - I will fire you, 
and I will keep Sadie, since you already said she's 
mine.  Whether you think you're telling the truth or 
not, I don't care.  You'll be out of a job without a 
reference.  No nice family will hire you and you know 
where you'll end up.  Am I making myself clear?"

"I won't tell anyone," she repeated, backing away.   

"And I want you out of my house.  You're not staying 
here at night and the only reason you still have a 
job at all is because Sam loves you.  Find a flat and 
I'll pay the rent, but I want you out.  Today.  This 
morning."

He set his cup down hard, spilling it, and without 
looking back, went to help Dana down the stairs.  

To his surprise, Sam was carrying Emily on his hip 
and walking slowly with Dana, offering his arm in 
case she lost her balance.  For a boy who'd wished 
her dead twelve hours earlier, Sam was being a 
perfectly solicitous escort.  There was a whole 
procession: Grace would waddle a few steps below 
them, then wait, watch, and wag until she caught up.

"Good morning.  Merry Christmas," he greeted them, 
forcing a smile and taking Emily from Sam.

"Merry Christmas," Sam answered while Dana caught her 
breath.  The doctor kept coming by to check on her 
and promising it would be "any day now, Mrs. Mulder." 
From the look of her, any minute was more like it.

"Cwith-mas," Emily added, giving his scruffy cheek a 
wet kiss.

*~*~*~* 

End: Paracelsus X

***********************************

Begin: Paracelsus XI

*~*~*~*

Melissa,

Have I ever told you of Paracelsus? Thanks to Father, 
he's another of those scientist-philosophers about 
whom I know more than is really necessary.  Settle 
in, close your eyes, and I will lull you to sleep 
with one of my boring stories.  

Philippus Aureolus Theophrastus Bombastus Von 
Hohenheim was born November 11, 1493 in Einsiedeln, 
Switzerland.  Paracelsus, to his contemporaries.  He 
was born the year after Columbus discovered the New 
World and Leonardo Di Vinci drew his flying machine; 
he died while Henry VIII was on his fifth wife and 
the first white men were sailing the Mississippi.  He 
attended the finest universities in Europe, and yet 
discussed medicine and philosophy with gypsies and 
village wise women.  He was the most respected and 
most scandalous scientist of his day.  Paracelsus was 
a great Renaissance naturalist, a chemist, a doctor 
and a thinker, and really just a guy named Phil.

During his lifetime, men still believed they could 
turn lead into gold, and yet had begun to understand 
illness was not always sorcery or a punishment from 
God.  The alchemy of the Dark Ages was fading as 
modern scientific enlightenment took hold.  It was a 
time of awakening, except for the Inquisition and the 
remnants of the Black Plague. The world was beginning 
to open its eyes to facts, but still clinging to its 
threadbare mysticism.

Like Paracelsus, I am caught between two worlds: the 
old and the new.  From my old world, I have my 
beautiful, mystic Sam, who lives in the mists of 
Camelot and plays his lute for the high king.  And 
from the new, I have my precious Dana: my rational 
scientist, my friend, and my redeemer.  They are both 
parts of me, but they are opposing elements, and I am 
not an alchemist.  I am not Paracelsus; I cannot have 
both.  

And even Paracelsus was just a guy named Phil.  I 
find that comforting, somehow.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

Medieval knights had their armor, Mulder had his 
grin.  He'd done it for years with Melly: a twisted 
half-smile, a few jokes - he could be hemorrhaging 
inside and still stay on his feet.

This was his family and they were having Christmas, 
damn it.

There was no good way to wrap a guitar, so he'd left 
it in the wooden shipping crate. Even so, Sam spotted 
it first thing, and had the top off and was digging 
through the straw within seconds.  Once the packing 
was cleared away, Sam lifted the guitar case out of 
the crate.  He flipped the latches, opened it, and 
gazed at the polished wood and gleaming frets like a 
man who'd just found love.  

"You got it," he said reverently. "A twelve-string."

"That thing came all the way from Spain," Mulder 
responded. "So it only plays in Spanish."

Sam eased it out of the case, fitting his hand around 
the neck and caressing the delicate curve of the 
mahogany body.  Mulder started to ask if his son 
liked it, but that proved unnecessary.  Sam stationed 
himself in front of the fireplace with his new 
mistress and didn't speak to anyone for hours.  One 
of Emily's presents finished its saucer of milk, 
wormed out of the blue ribbon around its neck, and 
curled on the hearth beside him. 

Amid the piles of gifts around the tree, Emily 
crawled into the empty packing crate, wrapped her 
lips around her thumb, and closed her eyes.  Three 
minutes into Christmas morning and they'd already 
lost two of the major participants. Dana showed every 
sign of nodding off as well, but Mulder hovered over 
her, plotting a holiday like generals plan a battle.  

They were having Christmas, damn it.

"Do you want to open yours, Dana?" he asked a little 
too loudly. "Your present. Do you want me to get it?"

Before she could answer, he retrieved a box wrapped 
in newsprint and thrust it under her nose.

"You wrapped this one yourself," she guessed, 
examining his handiwork skeptically.

He nodded proudly.  He was wearing the boots that had 
come in the box; no expense had been spared.  She 
opened the lid, looking puzzled as she pulled out two 
sheaths of handwritten pages, each bound with twine.

"That's Scientific American," he told her. "And the 
other's a medical journal called The Lancet.  In 
Gaelic," he added. "One of my new typesetters is 
Irish and translated them.  Not all, but all I 
thought you'd find interesting.  Do you like it?"

"I do," she answered, then leaned forward, looking at 
him closely.

He looked away, adjusting a candle on the tree.

"Good.  Well.  So..." He cleared his throat, trying to 
appear cheerful and sober at the same time. "We have 
a baby in a manger, heavenly music, and I guess a cat 
and dog can pass as barnyard animals.  I know for a 
fact there are stars," Mulder chattered, trying to 
keep things lighthearted. "Can you manage a virgin 
birth?"

She raised her eyebrows.  Emily was asleep and Sam 
was busy communing with Bach, but that still wasn't 
appropriate in front of the children.  It had sounded 
so funny in his head, though.

"How much have you had to drink?" she asked quietly.

He held up his hand, measuring an inch between his 
thumb and index finger. "Just a little bit."

Except it came out "jus-lil bit," renouncing some T's 
and conserving his vowels.

"Sorry," he added. When he worked up the nerve to 
look at her, her lips were drawn into a thin, angry 
line, and he hunkered down a little further. Samuel's 
new guitar accompanied an otherwise very loud, very 
long silence between them until he held up his hand 
again, this time widening the distance between his 
fingers to six inches, or about four-fifths of the 
bottle.

On the opposite corner of the house, the back door 
opened and closed: Poppy leaving, and taking Sadie 
with her. He couldn't imagine how to begin explaining 
this mess to Dana, especially when he'd told her 
specifically he'd never been with Poppy, and Sadie 
wasn't his - that there was no question about it.  He 
felt dirty, angry, used, but without the enthusiasm 
to yell or hit anything.  He was so furious that his 
insides quivered, but he wasn't sure whom he was 
angry with.

And then there was Sam. "No, I can't tell you what 
happened, I just don't want Dana living with us, 
please don't talk to her, Daddy, and I want to be 
anywhere but here," Samuel.  His enigmatic, fragile 
Sam versus his enigmatic, self-reliant Dana. Mulder's 
greatest fear from the moment Sam walked out of that 
mineshaft was that he'd have to choose: his wife or 
his son. They were two separate lifetimes overlapping 
only through him - like oil and water - never meant 
to occupy the same place at the same time.

"Dana, I'm sorry.  I didn't think everyone would be 
up so early.  Maybe we could go upstairs and sleep a 
few more hours," he told her, feeling his brain 
filtering out the haziness of the wine and leaving 
emptiness behind. "Then have a nice Christmas."

"You go upstairs and go to sleep," she whispered, 
speaking softly for someone giving a direct order.
 
"If I go to sleep alone, I'll dream," he mumbled. 
"Let's just open presents.  I'm not that Goddamn 
drunk." 

He exhaled angrily and rubbed his eyelids.  Cursing 
at her was a sign he was that Goddamn drunk after 
all.  Across the room, Sam had stopped playing and 
was watching them, unhappy about all the whispering.  

"Fine," Mulder said, standing unsteadily. "Whatever.  
Nappy time. Grace, wanna come with me, boy?"

Grace opened his eyes, closed them again, and didn't 
move from Sam's feet.

"Goddamn useless mutt," Mulder muttered, stalking up 
the stairs.   

If all else failed, cuss the dog.
 
*~*~*~*

Lacking anywhere else to go, Sarah and Melissa had 
spent so much time with the Mulders that they had a 
guest room reserved just for them.  Although it was a 
huge house, the two girls preferred to be together, 
with Poppy sleeping at their feet.  That morning, 
Melly was at breakfast, but he hadn't given it a 
second thought when Sarah wasn't.  Like Dana, Sarah 
was a night owl who'd sleep as late as the maids 
would let her. 

"Female complaints," his mother had said when he 
asked where Sarah was at lunch.  He hadn't known what 
"female complaints" were and he wasn't about to ask.

He ate, finished his lessons, then, tired of Melissa 
and her shy, schoolgirl crush, gone riding.  When he 
returned, his mother sent him to get the doctor and 
his father, and try to find Jack Kavanaugh.  He'd 
found Bill Mulder and the doctor immediately, but 
spent several hours fruitlessly searching for Sarah 
and Melissa's father before he'd given up and 
returned home.  Kavanaugh was probably in a brothel, 
and Mulder wasn't allowed to go in those

His parents' house was silent, and the maids watched 
him out of the corners of their eyes as he passed, 
still in his riding boots and trousers from that 
afternoon.  

"Who's sick?  Or hurt?  Is someone hurt?" he asked as 
his mother passed, carrying a basket of bloody sheets 
and towels down the stairs.  He started to carry them 
for her, but she took the basket back, telling him to 
go to his bedroom and stay there until his father 
came to speak to him.

"All- all right," Mulder answered uncertainly.

He sat on his bed - the same one he and Melly would 
share on their wedding night a year later - and 
waited, dread beginning to build like a tidal wave 
inside him.  His parent's room was next to his, and 
he could hear their muffled voices arguing, which 
only increased his nauseous trepidation.  

Eventually, his bedroom door opened, and his father 
entered, bolstered by a few snifters of brandy. 
Mulder stood, but his father paced uneasily, refusing 
to look at him.

"Sarah's ill," his father began, which Mulder had 
already appreciated. "The bleeding probably started 
during the night, and she must have thought it was 
just the curse."

Mulder wanted to ask what this curse was, but he 
hadn't.

"The doctor says there's nothing he can do.  She has 
a fever.  She's unconscious, but if you want to sit 
with her, you can."

"Father-"

"Don't you dare speak to me, Fox," his father 
responded icily. "She's a nice girl.  I don't know 
what you could have been thinking.  I raised you 
better than this."

"I don't understand," he'd pleaded in a five instead 
of a fifteen year-old's voice.

"She's miscarried.  Either that or she's gone to a 
midwife and gotten rid of the baby.  Regardless, 
she's dying," he answered, then turned and left. 

Time slowed, his skin tingled, and all the air left 
the room.  Teenagers believed they could forestall 
tragedy by pretending it didn't exist, and he tried.  
It was about sixty feet from his bedroom to Sarah's, 
and he managed to believe for the entire sixty feet 
that he would open the door and she would be fine.  

Melly was huddled on an upholstered bench in the 
hall, looking small.  That was what Melly did in 
crises: huddle and look small.

The fresh sheets were white, but the wet, coppery 
scent of blood was still heavy, collecting in his 
throat and choking him.  Sarah was ashen, and a sheen 
of perspiration covered her forehead.  Her lips moved 
wordlessly, and her eyes were open, but unseeing.  
Occasionally, her face contorted in pain and she 
writhed in the bed, then drifted away again. 

"Sarah?" he'd said hoarsely, and she hadn't 
responded.
 
As he stood beside the bed, his father entered, 
bringing a chair and reminding him to sit.  Mulder 
did, reaching for her hand, which felt like it was on 
fire.  He clutched it desperately, still not able to 
comprehend what was happening.  He had a pretty good 
idea where babies came from - in the general sense - 
and he and Sarah hadn't done anything that would 
cause that.

The drapes were drawn, so a candle flickering on the 
nightstand was the only light in the claustrophobic 
darkness.  He told her it was all right: that she'd 
just caught a chill and she'd feel better soon.  He 
told her they'd get married someday, build a big 
house in Chattanooga, and have a dozen children.  He 
promised, if she'd just get better, she could spend 
her life bossing him around to her heart's content.  
As the night wore on, he promised he'd take care of 
Melissa - keep her safe.  He promised whoever did 
this to her wouldn't go unpunished.

She'd never regained consciousness, and been gone by 
morning, four months shy of her sixteenth birthday.

*~*~*~*  

He knew he was awake, but he couldn't move until he 
saw the hem of Dana's dress in front of him.  Then he 
looked up at her, tears streaming down his face, but 
safe in his hiding place between the dresser and the 
bed. It was one of Melly's favorite places to huddle, 
and it was quite nice.  He'd never tried it before.

"What are you doing down there?" Dana asked, puzzled.  

He sniffed and answered, "Hide and seek?"

"I win.  Did you have a bad dream?"

He nodded, catching his breath.  His chest felt tight 
and he could still taste the bloody traces of death 
in his throat. "Yeah." 

"Melissa or your mother?"

"Sarah."

"Tell me about your dream."

He shook his head. "You wouldn't understand."

"That is a coward's excuse: saying no one can 
understand your pain.  You have not cornered the 
market on pain, Mr. Mulder."

"Are you calling me a coward?" he asked crossly, 
looking for something to argue about. "The Queen of 
Fine is accusing me of cowardice because I don't want 
to talk about it?" 

"That is a good point," she responded thoughtfully. 
"And when I am drunk in front of our children on 
Christmas, and then wake from a nightmare crouched 
beside our dresser, I will talk about it."

He stared at her, bleary-eyed and head pounding. 
"What ever happened to 'biddable'?  Didn't you 
promise you could be more biddable?  Where is your 
docile femininity?"

"I lost it in the war.  Tell me about your dream."  

He got to his feet, watching her warily.  Dana's 
belly kept expanding, but the rest of her didn't, and 
she had to lean back a little to keep her balance.    

"Have you ever seen someone die?" he asked 
hesitantly.

"Yes."

That was a stupid question. Fifty was old, and infant 
mortality was so high that parents were advised not 
to get too attached to their children until they'd 
passed their first birthday.  There was measles, 
mumps, smallpox, typhoid, cholera... Females who lived 
long enough to marry averaged half a dozen 
pregnancies, and usually died in childbirth, often 
along with their last child.

"No, I mean have you been alone and seen someone you 
care for die?  Slowly, painfully?"

"Yes, I have."

"Your sister.  I forgot.  Yes, of course you have."  
He shook his head again, then turned away and rinsed 
his face in the washbasin.  

"My parents would not let me near my sister for fear 
I would fall ill as well.  I watched a man die from a 
gunshot wound to the abdomen.  Please do not tell me 
I cannot understand what it is like to watch a lover 
die."

He stopped mid-splash and turned, water dripping on 
his shirt.  People often used "lover" to mean 
"suitor," but something in her voice indicated that 
wasn't the case in this instance.

"In Ireland, after the famine, the English landlords 
realized land was more profitable for farming than 
grazing, so they wanted to evict our village, though 
we had paid the rents.  When we would not leave, 
soldiers came and shot every man they could find, 
then burned our homes.  My father and brothers were 
at sea, but he was not. That week, he did not go with 
the ship.  He stayed with me.  It took three days for 
him to die, though he knew he would from the moment 
he was shot. He wanted me to leave, but I would not."

Mulder remembered to dry his face with a towel, then 
blinked and mumbled, "Oh."
  
"I should not have told you.  America is different, 
more formal.  People here do not understand." 

"No," he said quickly, tossing the towel aside and 
guiding her to the sofa. "Please tell me.  I want to 
know."

He wanted to know only slightly less than he wanted 
to breathe.  

"He was a friend of my father's.  A doctor.  And a 
scientist.  He would let me follow him around his 
laboratory and help with his experiments.  My sister 
was the beauty, so I thought he was just tolerating 
me.  I had no idea he loved me, but when I turned 
sixteen, he asked if he could kiss me.  And I said 
yes.  And a few weeks later, he asked if I would stay 
with him that night... And I said yes."

"And?" he asked.  

"And it was nice," she answered softly, looking far 
away. "We were waiting until there was a priest so we 
could marry in the church - and we were hoping for a 
baby, but it did not happen."

"How long had you been with him before..."

"About two months."
 
"What was his name?"

"Oisin."

"Ush-een," he echoed, committing it to memory.  

"I should not have told you," she repeated, looking 
embarrassed. "You knew I had been married before.  I 
did not think it mattered."

He didn't respond, but only because he couldn't think 
of anything to say.  The gentleman in him should have 
been scandalized, but he wasn't.  There wasn't much 
scandal in two people loving each other. If anything, 
he was fascinated by the glimpse of her past.  There 
were so few of them.  

"He mattered to you," he said eventually.

"He did." She paused, then added, "I shot the soldier 
who shot Oisin.  I found him in the forest.  I lured 
him into the forest, rather.  I was aiming for his 
belly, but I hit him in the throat, so he died 
quickly.  I had never fired a gun, but Oisin had 
loaded it before he died.  All I had to do was pull 
the trigger."

He blinked again.  Jesus Christ, sometimes he felt 
hopelessly outmatched by this woman.

She started to get up, which was an awkward maneuver, 
so he hurried to help. As she straightened her dress, 
he studied her, trying to find a sixteen year-old 
village girl underneath her calm, dignified exterior.  
He tried to envision her as a studious teenager, all 
blue eyes, auburn hair, and questions, but couldn't 
quite do it.  But then, Dana probably wouldn't 
recognize the lanky, awkward fifteen year-old who'd 
stood beside Sarah's grave for an hour, staring at it 
until his father finally persuaded him to leave.
 
On impulse, he kissed her, leaning over her belly.  
Her mouth opened and arms went around his neck, 
fingers running through his hair.  He closed his 
eyes, letting everything else fade away for a few 
seconds except her.    

"What was that for?" she asked as he stepped back.

He shrugged, gave her that lazy grin, and escorted 
her downstairs. 

*~*~*~*

He had a plan that would fix everything.  

It just changed every two minutes.

The easiest choice was the obvious: he and Sam would 
stay in Boston, and Dana would stay in DC until she 
and the baby were well enough to travel.  That was 
assuming Sam calmed down and relented, but Mulder 
wasn't sure he would.  Rather than sounding like an 
angry whim, Sam's pleas had a frighteningly 
dispassionate quality, as though his father leaving 
Dana was one solution, but Sam putting a gun to his 
own head was equally acceptable.

Or it could be a permanent arrangement with Mulder 
living with Dana when Congress was in session and 
with Sam the rest of the year.  In that scenario, it 
worried him that Sam would be alone in Boston for 
months at a time, and that he'd been very specific: 
he wanted his father to divorce Dana, not just live 
apart from her.

Or there were extreme solutions like boarding school, 
but Sam hadn't done well in a local private school.  
He'd returned after his first day holding a 
handkerchief to his bloody nose and crying because 
the other boys had called him a half-breed.  That had 
been Sam's last day at school and the beginning of 
the tutors.  As excited as he was about the music 
conservatory in London, it probably wouldn't last, 
either.

Or he could legally separate from Dana and see her 
and the younger children without telling Sam, which 
was asking for disaster.  Even if he'd wanted to 
divorce her, he had no grounds.  And to answer Sam's 
question, no, he couldn't keep Emily, and Dana 
wouldn't let him.  She still had no idea Waterston 
was a bigamist, but if she wanted to argue Emily 
wasn't Mulder's, then Emily was a bastard.  And all 
the beauty and money in the world couldn't remove the 
stigma of a child being illegitimate.

He not only had to choose between his wife and son, 
he had to choose between his son and daughter.

He startled back to reality as Emily crawled on his 
lap and offered him her slice of apple.  He bit off a 
tiny, fuzzy piece, then kissed the tip of her nose as 
he chewed, thanking her.  Dana was on the sofa, but 
Mulder, Sam, and Emily were on the floor beside the 
Christmas tree, opening the rest of the gifts. 

"Do you like it?" Mulder heard Sam ask, and saw Dana 
examining a wooden music box.  When she opened the 
lid, it played the opening notes of a symphony Sam 
performed a few months ago.

"It is beautiful.  Thank you, Samuel," she responded. 
"Which one is this?"

"Number 31. Mozart was twenty-two when it premiered," 
Sam answered politely, matching the melody on his 
guitar strings. "He wrote to his father after the 
concert: about the musicians, the audience, but he 
never mentioned his mother, who was with him, died 
that day."

"Oh," Dana responded, seeming unsure if that was just 
an explanation or a veiled message.  Probably just an 
explanation; Sam's creativity didn't extend to verbal 
sparring.  

"You got Dana a present, but not me?" Mulder asked. 
"Do I detect favoritism?" 

Still holding his guitar, Sam produced a slim package 
wrapped in silver paper and neatly tied with white 
ribbon.

"Really?" Mulder asked.  He'd been joking.  He still 
thought of Sam as eleven: old enough to expect 
presents, but too young to think to give them. "What 
is it?"

Sam shrugged, telling him to open it.  He peeled the 
paper away, revealing a framed sketch of Dana.  Not a 
figure drawing like Sam usually did, but just her 
heart-shaped face: all eyes and hair and lips.  Sam 
had captured her looking up, her mouth slightly open 
and her head tilted to the side as though he'd just 
told her a whopping lie and she hadn't believed a 
word of it.  He could almost hear the picture 
exhaling and saying, "Mr. Mulder, I do not think..."

"Awe, Sammy, it's great." He turned the frame around 
and tilted it for Dana to see. "Thank you."

He exhaled, letting a small hope begin to grow: maybe 
Sam's tearful episode the previous evening was just 
teenage moodiness gone too far.  Maybe it would all 
just blow over.

"Open Dad's," Sam said, passing Dana a big box that 
had been hidden behind the tree. "It's a dress."

"A dress?" she echoed skeptically.  The last thing 
she was interested in these days was a new dress. 
"From where?  The Baltimore Tent & Awning Company?"

"Open it," Sam urged. "It cost five hundred dollars."   

"Wait, Sammy, no- Dana-" he tried to intervene.  Sam 
had helped choose the dress and seen it when it 
arrived from Paris, but he didn't know what went with 
it.

Dana lifted the lid, gasping at the evening gown 
nestled in the tissue. It was deep scarlet, trimmed 
at the neck, sleeves, and hem with delicate lace the 
color of old gold. The neckline was cut low enough to 
make men choke on their drinks, then tapered to a 
tiny waist before blossoming out again.  She let the 
box fall away and twenty yards of blood-red silk 
cascaded over her empire-waist mourning dress. 

"Oh my God," she said breathlessly. "This is 
beautiful.  Mulder..."

"Yes?" he asked innocently. 

"This is so beautiful, but where am I going to wear 
it?  I am married with three children.  I cannot wear 
this."

"Look in the bottom of the box."  

While girls could wear pastels, married women wore 
sedate colors: dark blue, brown, gray, violet.  Melly 
had liked pink, but that was Melly.  Even in very 
fashion conscious cities like New Orleans and New 
York, the only lady who'd wear scarlet to the opera 
was no lady.  England was almost as conservative, but 
France wasn't.

"The Paris opera," Mulder translated as Dana stared 
at the tickets. "Faust.  You, me, and Sammy - this 
time next year.  You'll probably be one of the more 
conservatively dressed women."

She smiled again, then leaned forward.  He leaned 
back, tilted his face upward, and their lips met 
lightly. "How do you know I will not look like this 
again next year?" she asked quietly.

"I guarantee you won't," he whispered back.  

Two babies in two years were enough for a long time.  
He planned, once Harvey was born, for them to learn 
more about prophylaxis - or something - but it looked 
like they could let his fifteen year-old son sleep 
between them and avoid contraception all together.

Realizing they'd kissed in front of Sam, Mulder 
glanced at his son for any reaction, good or bad, but 
the boy was gone.  He must have realized what the 
gift implied: when it was wrapped, his father had 
planned to be with Dana in a year.  The guitar was 
leaning against the wall, and Sam's footsteps were 
headed toward the kitchen with Grace's claws clicking 
after him.

*~*~*~*

Sam opened the back door and Mulder shoved it closed 
again, keeping his hand against it.

"I wasn't running away," Sam mumbled.

"Explain this to me, Sammy, because I'm a confused.  
Yesterday, out of the blue, Dana was the wicked 
stepmother, and then you're giving her Christmas 
presents, and then you can't stand to be in the same 
room with us?"

The shrugging started, and Mulder gritted his teeth 
in frustration.  

"You seem to forget to hate Dana, then suddenly 
remember again.  Has Poppy said something to you?  
Has she put some idea into your head about Dana?"

Sam studied the kitchen floor. "No."

That was an unconvincing lie.

"If you want to know, ask me and I'll tell you the 
truth, but I can't fix things I don't know about. And 
if it's not Poppy, if me being remarried is just too 
much and it takes Dana and I living apart for a 
while, we will.  You have to give me some time, 
though.  I thought we had an understanding.  As soon 
as the baby's born and Dana's safe, she and I will 
talk about it and she'll understand-"

"No!"

"No, what?  No, don't talk to her?  Do you expect me 
to just say I'm leaving her, take the baby, and walk 
out without giving her a reason?  You're the reason, 
Sammy.  You are the only reason.  Do you understand 
that?"

Sam looked up. "You wouldn't take Emmy?"

"No." He debated for three heartbeats, but Sam was 
even better at keeping secrets than Dana. "I met Dana 
right before Emily came.  I was there when she was 
born, and I love her, and I've been there ever 
since," he explained, "But in court, the judge would 
see her as Dana's daughter, not mine."

"Oh."

"You have to keep that to yourself, Sammy.  It's 
important.  We never lied to anyone, but people just 
assumed... And once they did, and once I found out a 
few things, it's better for Emmy to just let them 
keep assuming."

"Oh."

He would give any amount of money for Samuel to do 
something besides shrug and mumble "oh." Even a 
temper tantrum would be preferable.

"Sam, do you understand what I'm telling you?  If you 
want Emmy with us, Dana has to stay too.  Think about 
all that's happened: Grandmother dying, a baby 
coming, you being home again, then think about 
whether Dana's really the problem."

No response.

"Is it the baby?  Is that what scares you?  Do you 
look at Dana and see your mother?  I'm scared to 
death too, but upsetting Dana will only make it 
worse."

No response.

"She likes you.  She tries to be your friend.  Do you 
realize how much this will hurt her?  Did you hear 
her say she's married with three children?  Count 
them: Emily, Harvey, and you.  She cares about you, 
and I want us to be a family."

He wanted to shake Sam and shout that Dana cared for 
him a hundred times more than his mother ever had.  
Dana always found time to listen to a song or look at 
a sketch, she fixed his eggs the way he liked them, 
and so far, she hadn't tried to kill him.

Mulder paused, stunned that such a traitorous thought 
had run through his brain.  There must be a chink in 
his armor.

"I like her," Sam mumbled.

"Then what is it," Mulder exploded. "What?  Why are 
you doing this?"

Mulder got a response.  Sam slid down the wall, 
wrapped his arms around his knees, dropped his head, 
and started to sob.
 
"Oh, Sammy... God, I'm sorry." Mulder squatted beside 
him, trying to get him to look up. "Please talk to 
me.  Please."

Grace wagged encouragingly as Dana waddled in and 
appraised the situation unhappily.  In a maneuver 
that would have made a contortionist proud, she 
lowered herself to the floor so she was sitting in 
front of the kitchen table and a few feet from Sam.

"I am at your mercy now," she said softly. "If you or 
your father do not help me up, I am down here for 
good."

That got a nod from Sam, but not a laugh.  She 
motioned for Mulder, who was looming over his son, to 
move away.

"Take a few deep breaths, Samuel.  Calm down.  No one 
is angry with you. You know it would not be a holiday 
without your father making a scene."

She was teasing, but Mulder furrowed his brow, 
silently taking objection to that.  Again, she 
gestured for him to be quiet.

Sam's head moved an inch, and between sobs he choked, 
"Just. Gonna.  Take. Grace. Out. He had - go out."

"Okay," she said easily, as Mulder's stomach 
tightened. "Your father can take him out.  Go ahead, 
Mr. Mulder.  Right now."

"The hell I will," he mouthed at her, and she 
clenched her teeth and pointed toward the door.  

Five minutes later, Mulder was slouching around the 
backyard; face still hot, nose cold, holding the end 
of a leash while Grace searched for the perfect place 
to lift his leg.
 
*~*~*~*

It was barely dark, but he and Dana went to bed 
because they'd run out of anything else to do - 
except speak to each other, of course.  When they 
first married, they did that all the time, but now 
Mulder was on the sofa, listening to Dana toss and 
turn in the bed.  He kept flipping the page of his 
book, then realizing he hadn't read it and having to 
go back and try again.

"Are you okay?" he asked, giving up on the author's 
ability to hold his interest and sitting up. "Is 
Harvey okay?"

"We are just restless.  I cannot get comfortable."

He put his book aside and stole to the bed like he 
wasn't supposed to be there, then sat on the mattress 
beside her, fiddling with the blankets and trying to 
think of something neutral to say. The doctors warned 
not to upset women in the family way.  There were 
accounts of pregnant ladies being frightened by 
monkeys or horses and then having a deformed child 
that resembled that animal.  Or of them having a 
miscarriage or going into labor because they saw or 
heard something shocking.  Wealthy women often spent 
their entire pregnancy in bed, isolated from the 
world, just to be careful.

Dana had cooked three meals, washed dishes, swept the 
floor, soothed Sam, ignored Mulder's remorseful 
brooding, and rescued Emily's new kitten when Emmy 
put it in the dumbwaiter for safekeeping.  Give her 
another few hours and she could reform the corrupt 
Freemen's Bureau, persuade Napoleon III to withdraw 
his troops from Mexico, and edit Tolstoy for brevity.

Sometimes it would be easier if she was a little less 
resilient.  He knew how to deal with fragile women, 
but he didn't have much experience with one who was 
his equal.

Damn it, there was another chink.
 
"What about Howard?" he asked, putting his hand on 
her belly.  A tiny foot pressed back, disliking the 
disturbance. "That's a good, Biblical name."

"Biblical?" Dana asked, rearranging the pillows in an 
effort to get comfortable.

"God's name: 'Our father, who art in Heaven, Howard 
be thy name.' Howard."

He grinned, waiting for her to laugh.  Maybe it 
wasn't funny, or the pun didn't translate well, or 
she was exhausted, but she didn't.

"And what if your Howard or Harvey is a girl?"

"Then Drucilla," he drawled, still trying to get her 
to smile. "Drucilla Eugenia Annabelle Sue."

"Never mind.  I will have a boy."

"If he or she would just make an appearance in the 
next few days, he can be named anything you want."

She nodded in agreement, closing her eyes and letting 
him gently press on her abdomen, feeling.  By the 
doctor's estimate this evening, she was already a 
week overdue.  Given the size of the baby in relation 
to the size of Dana, the doctor had offered to break 
her water, which he said would hurry the baby along 
and sounded like a brilliant idea to Mulder.  But 
when Dana mentioned that if the baby refused to hurry 
along she would die, it had stopped sounding so 
brilliant.  So they just waited: nervously on his 
part, miserably on Dana's.

"Come on out, little guy," he leaned down and told 
the belly. "It's a great big world out here." 

He waited for a few seconds, but the belly stayed 
firmly in place.  

Mulder hesitated, then said calmly, "Dana, I'm going 
to take Sam to Boston with me.  He and I talked last 
night. He's not doing well here, and I think a change 
of scenery might be good for him.  And it will give 
you one less thing to keep up with."

"All right.  He likes spending time with you."

"It doesn't show."   

"He does."

That went well, so he flopped down, jarring the bed 
and the belly, and stared at the ceiling.  He should 
get Sam to paint a mural.

"Poppy can't spend the night anymore.  We talked this 
morning," he informed her, choosing his words 
carefully. "I'll arrange for Emily's nursemaid to be 
here, and a wet nurse for the baby.  Do you know a 
midwife who can stay with you for a few weeks?"

He was trying to sneak that in as she fell asleep: a 
wet nurse and a live-in midwife, namely her mother, 
but Dana asked, "Is Poppy going with you?"

"I hadn't considered it, but I suppose she could, if 
she'll watch what she says to Sam."

"Sadie's father would not mind?"

"Poppy and Alex had a falling out," he answered, glad 
he wasn't looking Dana in the face. "I don't see any 
reason why Poppy couldn't go to Boston, and Mother's 
Georgetown housekeeper could come here."

"Only Boston?  Can you put her on a train to 
Purgatory?" she mumbled.

"Hell's south; Boston's north.  She'd notice," he 
answered. "Do you really despise her that much?"

"No, I adore any woman who lies and tells the whole 
city my husband has been with her."

He knew that was sarcasm, so he planned to chuckle, 
but it came out sounding like someone had their hand 
around his testicles and was squeezing progressively 
tighter.

Dana opened her eyes, checking on him.

"Nothing," he said quickly. "Can I get you anything?  
A drink of water?  Another blanket?  Rub your back?  
Anything?  You just look so uncomfortable..."

"Can you get this baby to come any sooner?"

"I'll see what I can do." Mulder scooted down so he 
was eyelevel with the belly, addressing the baby 
again. "Boo," he said loudly.

Dana's abdomen jiggled as she laughed. "I do not 
think that is going to work."

"Boo, damn it!"
 
*~*~*~*

The next day, he didn't so much go to work as he did 
make a dozen trips between work and home. He averaged 
twenty minutes at the paper before he contrived some 
reason to be home immediately.  Then he'd spend ten 
minutes circling the building, looking for someone to 
annoy, before his employees complained to Byers or 
Frohike.  They'd suggest Mulder check on Dana, 
diplomatically making it sound like their idea.

By mid-afternoon, even his eight year-old newsboys 
were begging him to just go home.  And stay there.  

"Again?  Did you lose another button?" Dana asked, 
looking up to see him lurking in the doorway.  Rather 
than sit, she was leaning over to write, recording 
how much cash she was giving the cook to go to the 
store.  Dana rattled off a shopping list, a few 
instructions, then handed over the money.  

"No," Mulder responded.

"Still hungry?" she asked.  

Dana straightened, massaging her back.  A maid 
appeared with one of Mulder's winter coats, and Dana 
sent her upstairs again, telling her it was the wrong 
one.

"No," he repeated.  He'd had two breakfasts, a lunch, 
and a few snacks, most of which were surreptitious 
fed to Grace underneath the table.

"Forget another handkerchief?" 

"No."

A crew of men was packing crates to go to Boston, and 
asked if she was ready for them in the library.  Dana 
told them to go ahead, then made her way through the 
front hall with Mulder in her shadow.  

The maid returned with Mulder's coat, and Dana 
instructed her to take it and one of Sam's to the 
tailor and have them double-lined against the Boston 
winter.  The cook had a question, Emily's nursemaid 
came to report Emily wouldn't take a nap, and Sam 
wandered in with his guitar.  They encircled her, all 
wanting Dana's attention at once.
 
"Where is Poppy?" Mulder demanded, trying to be heard 
amid the chaos. "Why isn't she doing this?"

"Poppy seems to be taking the day off," she answered, 
then in rapid succession, "Get ten pounds, if they 
have it.  Bring Emily downstairs and I will rock her.  
Samuel, just a minute.  I know I keep saying that, 
but..." She turned to Mulder and guessed, "Do you have 
another splinter?  Find a new thread for me to trim?  
Forget your umbrella again?"

Mulder looked sheepish.  There was six inches of snow 
already and no sign of it letting up.  Forgetting his 
umbrella hadn't been one of his more believable 
excuses for coming home.

"What do you mean 'Poppy's taking the day off?' You 
mean she hasn't been here all day?  Why didn't you 
say something?  You're supposed to be resting."

She paused, pushing her fists into the small of her 
back and looking at him irritably.  In the library 
behind her, hammers pounded as the packing crates 
were sealed, then carried to the wagons outside.  The 
back door banged twice: once as the coats left for 
the tailor and once as the cook left to buy ten 
pounds of something - dynamite for all Mulder knew.  
Wednesday was cleaning day, so anyone who wasn't 
packing or running errands was polishing, scrubbing, 
and dusting.  Emily whimpered tiredly as her 
nursemaid brought her downstairs, and Sam strummed 
his guitar and waited his turn.  Grace guarded Sam, 
eyeing the movers suspiciously, and Emily's kitten 
was perched on the banister, complaining to be fed. 

Dana exhaled and tilted her head from side to side, 
stretching her neck muscles. "What makes you think I 
am not resting?"

"Why isn't Poppy here?"

Dana tilted her palms upward, indicating she didn't 
know, and turned back to the library.  Grace, the 
kitten, Sam, Emily's nursemaid, Emily, and Mulder 
followed. "She did not come today.  I assumed you had 
told her it was all right."

"Why would I tell her that?" They had packers 
packing, movers moving, ten-thousand square feet of 
house to be cleaned, two children, and Dana looked 
like she was smuggling a watermelon under the front 
of her dress.  The "awe, look how big she's getting" 
stage had passed a month ago and now she just looked 
ponderously uncomfortable.

"Dana-" Sam tried again, guitar poised.

"I know.  I will.  I want to hear it.  Just a-" she 
started to answer, turning and trying to step over 
Grace as she did.  Mulder saw her lose her balance, 
but was too far away to catch her.  He started toward 
her, his hand outstretched, then winced as Dana 
landed hard on her bottom amid the packing crates.

"Jesus, Dana," Mulder gasped, as everyone who wasn't 
already at her heels came running. "Are you all 
right?" 

Grace whimpered and hid under Mulder's desk, peeking 
out remorsefully.

After a second, Dana exhaled, looking at the faces 
above her like she briefly wished she had a bullet 
for each and every one.  She pushed up to sitting, 
supporting her weight on her hands, and ordered the 
maids and packers to find someplace else to be.  They 
wisely retreated to the other side of the room to 
gawk and mutter among themselves.

Mulder knelt on the rug and started to pick her up, 
saying he was taking her to bed, but Dana protested 
indignantly until he set her on her feet.  She 
adjusted her dress and rubbed her hip as he hovered, 
not sure how to help. "Go get the doctor," he ordered 
Sam, who nodded and started to leave.

"I am fine," Dana said angrily. "I need an extra set 
of hands, not a doctor.  And Mr. Mulder - I will give 
you whatever you want if you will please just go back 
to work.  And stay there." 

"You should have a doctor," Mulder argued.

"He has been here twice today," she hissed in his 
ear. "That doctor has seen more of me than you have."

"Will you at least lie down?  I can take care of 
this." Dana looked like she might relent, so Mulder 
told Sam, "Take a buggy, find Grandmother's 
housekeeper, and bring her back.  I have no idea 
where Poppy is, but if you see her, tell her I want 
her here now.  Then get the doctor.  And if you're 
not back in an hour, I'm coming after you," he added. 
"You: pack something," he ordered the crowd 
congregated in one corner. "And you: you go clean 
something.  There, Dana, see?  All taken care of."

"I will bask in the leisure," she responded 
sarcastically.   

"Bask in bed.  I'll help you upstairs."

"Why?  I cannot sleep."

"Then at least sit down."

Emily went from whimpering to full-blown squalling, 
too tired to know what she wanted, but certain she 
wasn't getting it.  The hammers started pounding 
again, evening an old score against all ten-penny 
nails.  Sam returned to say his favorite coat was 
missing.  And the kitten still wanted fed.

"I am taking a bath," Dana announced. "A long, hot 
bath."

"A bath?" Mulder echoed, taking Emily in a futile 
attempt to comfort her.  

"A bath," she repeated, smiling as though she could 
taste it on her lips. "Since you are here to take 
care of everything, Mr. Mulder... I will be in the 
bathroom.  Call me when the roof falls in."

*~*~*~*

Filled to the top, it held eighty-two gallons of 
water, a fact Poppy reminded him of every time 
someone wanted a bath.  And since Mulder had been one 
of the four men who'd carried it in the house, he 
remembered it weighted almost five hundred pounds and 
hurt like hell if dropped on a toe.  The bathtub had 
been a birthday present for Melissa, but he could no 
longer recall exactly which birthday, and that 
bothered him.  Except for Sam, a few paintings, and a 
collection of indistinct sepia photographs, memories 
were all he had left of her.  Forgetting her was 
failing her all over again.

Like Sam, Melissa hadn't been a reader, so it had 
surprised him when she met him at the door with a 
newspaper. "They're all the rage in Philadelphia," 
she'd said excitedly, showing him the article. "It 
could be a birthday present."

He'd shrugged off his coat, loosened his cravat, and 
looked over her shoulder, scanning the page. "But 
it's not my birthday, honey.  And what would I do 
with that thing?  Stock it with trout and start my 
own fishing hole?"

Melissa had turned to look at him uncertainly. "No, 
it's for bathing.  See." She pointed. "It's 
installed."

"And I suppose I'm the one who gets to install it?"

She'd blinked those big brown eyes at him.

"You want to bathe with trout?" he'd teased. "It's 
all the rage to bathe with fish?  You could do that 
in the Washington Canal.  Do Philadelphia men like 
their women to smell like a pond?"

Her forehead had started to crinkle. "It's not for 
fish, Fox.  It's for people.  It's an installed 
bathtub for people."

He'd kissed her earlobe playfully. "Yes, honey, I 
know it's a bathtub.  It's a huge bathtub.  Are you 
sure it's what you want?  You could drown in that 
thing."

"Please," she'd pleaded.

"All right," he'd grumbled good-naturedly. "Maybe 
it's meant to for two people.  A two-person tub."

Melissa had looked down, rereading the newsprint. 
"No, I don't think it said anything about two 
people."

A drop of warm water hit his cheek, startling him. 

"Mr. Mulder?" Dana asked, sounding like she was 
repeating it for the third or fourth time. 

"Sorry," he apologized, helping her pull her dress 
over her head.  The loose chemise followed, then he 
steadied her as she stepped over the side of the 
bathtub and sank into the steaming water.  She leaned 
back, closing her eyes, and an almost orgasmic sigh 
of pleasure rumbled from deep in her throat.

Mulder pulled a stool beside the bathtub and sat, 
propping his hands on the edge and his chin on his 
hands.

There were French-milled soaps and salts and fancy 
oils, but she seemed content to soak.  The clear 
water reached her chest, lapping against her swollen 
breasts and glistening on her shoulders.  Below the 
surface, her belly and legs were distorted, and 
patterned with orange and yellow as the lamplight 
refracted through the water.
 
"I can do this part without supervision," she 
murmured, not opening her eyes.

"I'll stay just in case."

"Are you staring at me?" 

"Probably," he admitted.  

Of all the horrible images stored in his mind - of 
young men in war, and innocents in death - the worst 
was Melissa's slack, gray face as he pulled her out 
of the bloody water.  The bath had kept her body 
warm, and he'd carried her upstairs to their bed, 
certain she was alive despite the lack of a pulse.  
If he wrapped her in a blanket and kept her warm 
until Sam returned with the doctor, she'd be fine.

"No jokes about my navel," Dana requested.

"Wouldn't think of it," he heard himself answer 
automatically.   

When they'd brought the coffin to the house, the 
undertaker had asked him to choose a dress for 
Melissa to be buried in.  When Mulder just sat on the 
porch, rubbing a scuffed place on his boot, the 
undertaker rephrased the question, asking which dress 
was her favorite.  Mulder had shown him, then said it 
wouldn't fit.  None of her favorites would fit her at 
seven months pregnant.  If they cut it down the back, 
the undertaker had said, it would fit, and no one 
would know.  And the long sleeves were good - those 
and gloves would cover the slashes on her wrists.  No 
one would know.      
 
Mulder trailed his fingertips across the surface, 
watching the delicate ripples they left behind.  Dana 
raised one hand out of the water, cupping her 
superheated palm against his cheek. "I did not 
think," she said softly. "Of Melissa.  I did not mean 
to upset you."

He shrugged one shoulder, unwilling to answer. 

On the other side of the bathroom door, hammers 
pounded, plates clinked as they were dried and put 
away, and indistinct voices chattered.  Emily, 
placated with a cup of milk, had settled down for a 
while, but started fussing again.  She patted the 
door, whimpering.

"Bat," Emily informed Mulder as he let her in.  

"Mommy's taking a bath," he answered, following her 
back to the tub.  Dana dropped her hand over the 
side, toying with Emily's blonde curls.

"Me bat," she requested, wiggling out of her diaper 
and pulling at her dress. "Mommy?  Bat?  Up?"

"Come here, baby girl," Dana responded, raising her 
arms as Mulder lifted the toddler in.  Emily rested 
her head on her mother's shoulder and, buoyed by the 
water, nestled safely between Dana's left arm and 
body. "Are you sleepy?"

"No 'teepee," Emily said unconvincingly, her eyelids 
getting heavy. "Dahdah?" she asked. "Dahdah bat?"

Mulder resumed his seat beside the bathtub, leaning 
on the edge. "No, Dahdah's not getting in.  Dahdah's 
watching his precious girls."

Dana closed her eyes again, stroking Emily's bare 
back and letting the hot water ease her sore muscles.  
She looked so peaceful.  It was easy to forget the 
rest of the world was only a dozen feet away.   

He floated a sponge like a boat, making journeys up 
and down the tub until it eventually took on water 
and sank.  He rolled up his sleeves and washed her 
calves and feet, soaping each wrinkled toe, then 
kissing it once it was clean.  She gave him one arm, 
keeping the other around Emily, who was fast asleep.  
In slow, lazy circles, he washed her breasts, then 
her swollen belly, then deep under the water, brushed 
against the auburn curls at the apex of her thighs.

"What if I take Emmy to the nursery, then help you up 
and take you upstairs?  I'd like to get you in bed 
one way or the other, and I think desperate times 
call for desperate measures."

She half-opened her eyes, as if she thought he might 
be joking. "I am not sure we should..." she said 
softly, though the idea seemed to appeal to her.  A 
man could talk a woman into almost anything as long 
as she was soaking in a hot bath.

"I didn't say we were going to.  I just want you to 
relax and rest.  Let me use my imagination.  Or 
hands.  Or mouth," he whispered, and she bit her 
lower lip.  Until Sam returned, that had been a 
favorite game - promising in the morning what they'd 
do in bed that night.  They hadn't done half of it, 
but he'd spend many pleasant afternoons anticipating. 

He gathered up Emily, wrapping her in a thick towel 
and holding her against his shoulder.  

"Don't start without me," he added, leaning down to 
kiss her before he left, closing the bathroom door 
after him.   
 
Much to his relief, his mother's housekeeper was in 
the kitchen, stirring a pot and warming a stack of 
towels and blankets on the open oven door.  As she 
greeted him, she draped a blanket over Emily, who 
sighed happily in her sleep.

"Just do whatever looks like it needs done, Rebekah," 
he told her, tucking the blanket tightly around 
Emily. "What happened to the movers?" he asked, 
realizing the hammering had stopped.

"I sent them away so Little Miss could take her nap.  
You and Mr. Sam can manage in Boston if your books 
and accordion are a few hours late.  And whoever that 
yowling ball of fur belongs to, it's fed.  We're 
having mutton for dinner - I just sent a maid to the 
butcher shop.  Mr. Sam's bringing the doctor to check 
Miss Dana, and if you'll bring out her wrapper, I'll 
warm it.  I added wood to the fire in the master 
bedroom, but we can't have her or that baby catching 
a chill on the way there."

"Love your heart, 'Bekah," he responded thankfully.  

If he had to venture a guess at her age, he'd say 
late fifties, but only because he remembered her 
being an adult when he was small.  Rebekah was two 
generations removed from Ireland, and well distilled 
into working-class Boston society.  She was broad 
across the cheekbones and hips, with large, pendulous 
breasts she clutched children against protectively.  
Her curly hair was a shade lighter than Dana's: the 
color called red on poor women and light auburn on 
the wealthy.  She'd raised her babies, Mulder, the 
Kavanaugh girls, and, until Mulder and Melissa had a 
home of their own, supervised Poppy with Sam.  She 
knew absolutely everything - good or bad - that 
happened in Washington, never broke a confidence, and 
kept a hickory switch beside the stove that both 
Mulder and Sam's backsides had been acquainted with.  

And he was so happy to see her he could have kissed 
her.

"And Poppy asked to speak to you," Rebekah added with 
distain.

"Where is she?"

"Here," Poppy answered, entering the kitchen carrying 
a carpetbag and leading Sadie. "We're here." 

"Rebekah, give us a minute please," he requested, and 
she moved the pot off the stove and left quietly. "I 
assume you spent the day looking for a flat?  In the 
future, I'd appreciate notice if you're not going to 
show up for work.  And I don't appreciate you leaving 
Dana high and dry.  Don't let that happen again."

"It won't.  I'm leaving," she said evenly. "We're 
leaving.  Alex is going north, and he asked us to go 
with him.  I just came to tell you.  I wanted to tell 
Sam, but he's not here, so please tell him for me."

"You're what?" he said in disbelief. "Yesterday he 
was your archenemy and you wouldn't let Sadie near 
him."

"Well, today is different.  Alex wants us."

"And you don't," hung unsaid in the air.

"So what if he does?  He can't marry you.  And he 
can't support you.  As far as I know, he has no 
income except what Spender's paying him.  Whatever 
he's promised you-"

"He promised to put Sadie in school."

"She can go to school anyway," Mulder argued.

"A white school."

He blinked.  Poppy was an octoroon, one-eighth Negro, 
with a strong influence of Cherokee - light-skinned 
and dark-eyed with silky black hair.  Sadie and Sam 
could, and sometimes did, pass for siblings instead 
of cousins.  The laws varied, but any person one-
sixteenth or one thirty-second Negro was considered 
Negro.  Proper society used the one-drop rule: any 
Black ancestor, not matter how far removed, and the 
child was Black.  To a lesser degree, the rule 
applied any non-European ethnicity, but there was 
nothing more stigmatizing to a child, especially a 
pretty girl looking to marry well, than an African 
skeleton in the family closet.

"Alex or no Alex, that's a bad idea, Poppy.  What 
will you say?  That you're her maid, not her mother?  
You expect her to live a lie?  Do you realize what 
will happen when someone finds out?  She could be 
hurt.  She could be killed.  Do you want to risk 
that?"

"I don't want her to be an ignorant maid," Poppy 
responded coolly. "Or some white man's whore.  Alex 
wants more for her too.  I explained what happened 
with you and he understands."

Mulder leaned against the kitchen table, still 
holding a sleeping Emily. "Then explain it to me so I 
can understand too."   

She bent to fasten Sadie's coat and didn't answer.

"You're playing a dangerous game, Poppy, and I think 
you're overestimating your hand.  And I won't play.  
Whatever happened in Louisville, if it happened, had 
nothing to do with me wanting or loving you.  I 
thought you were Melissa or Sarah, or I was just 
acting on instinct.  There's no way I forced or 
seduced you, because I was too weak to move.  If it 
happened... You can't imagine how used that makes me 
feel."

"Oh yes, I can," she responded, staring daggers 
through him. 

"It doesn't change my responsibility, though.  
Whether she's my daughter or Melissa's niece, I'll 
take care of her.  All I want is the truth."

She didn't even seem to hear him. "Goodbye, Fox.  
Take care of yourself.  Take care of my Sam."

He moved quickly, placing himself between her and the 
door.

"You're not taking her.  Not with Alex.  He'll get 
bored or find someone with more to offer, and you and 
Sadie will end up in the gutter."

"What are you going to do?" she countered. "Keep her 
here?  Have her share a nursemaid with Emily?  How 
would you explain suddenly having a bastard nigger 
daughter to your precious Dana?"

"Don't underestimate me, Poppy.  Don't underestimate 
Dana.  How do you know I haven't already told her?"

She recoiled, then found another unprotected place to 
strike. "She's not yours," she said evenly. "She 
could be, but she's not yours any more than Sam is."

It was a blessing he was holding Emily, because if 
he'd had his hands free, he would have hurt her. 
Instead, he demanded, "Did you say that to Sam?  Did 
you?  Is that what's wrong with him?"

"No, of course I didn't tell him," she said, but he 
couldn't tell if she was lying or not, or if he was 
supposed to think she was lying or not.

"Get out!" he ordered, moving away so she could open 
the door.  When she didn't leave fast enough for him, 
he jerked it open, letting the icy wind scatter snow 
over his boots. "Get the hell out." She picked up her 
daughter and satchel, and stepped into the storm, 
leaving without a backward glance.

He remembered to close the door, then realized she'd 
gotten exactly the reaction she'd wanted.  

"Let her go, Fox," Rebekah advised, waddling in and 
taking Emily. "You made a mistake, now let it go.  
There's nothing about that woman that's worth a 
second thought."

"How much did you hear?"

"More than I intended, and nothing I hadn't heard 
before.  Were you going to bring me Miss Dana's 
wrapper?"

Dana.  He exhaled.  He'd forgotten about Dana. 

She was still soaking as he entered the bathroom, and 
turned her head toward him. "Did Emily wake up?"

"I'm sorry," he apologized, helping her up, then 
carefully out of the bath. "No.  No, she didn't wake 
up," he said, wrapping the oven-warmed blanket around 
her before she had a chance to shiver. "Rebekah's 
here.  Mother's housekeeper: she has Emmy."

"Good," Dana responded softly, looking up at him.  
She licked her lips, then kissed the underside of his 
jaw and slowly down his neck to his open shirt 
collar. "And you brought blankets.  Did you ever fix 
the lock on this door?"

"Probably.  I don't remember," he answered, realizing 
she was just picking up where they'd left off - 
somewhere between five minutes and a hundred years 
ago. "Dana, I- I- I can't.  Not right now.  I don't 
think this is a good idea," he mumbled, stepping 
back.

His skin was warm and damp from hers, and he rubbed 
his throat nervously.  Dana nodded, reaching for her 
wrapper, pulling the fabric around her before she let 
the blanket fall to the floor.   

"It probably seemed like a better idea before I stood 
up," she said, looking awkward. She curved her arm 
around her belly, stroking.  

"I do love you," he told her.

She smiled sadly and nodded that she knew that.

He tried to think of some way to explain that he 
didn't find her repulsive, that he just wanted to 
climb into the bath and scrub off his top three 
layers of skin before he touched her again.

"I forgot," he said a few minutes later, helping her 
into bed, then tucking the covers around her and 
sitting beside her.  He reached into his vest pocket 
and pulled out a folded carnival flyer. "Melvin 
Frohike sent this for you. It's the Feejee Mermaid," 
he explained, showing her. "P.T. Barnum is exhibiting 
it.  It's half fish, half monkey.  Very shocking.  A 
horrific abomination of nature. No lady in a delicate 
condition is allowed in the tent to see it.  Sure to 
bring on labor.  Anything?"

She waited a bit, then shook her head, looking 
tiredly bemused "Thank you for trying, though."

"I am trying, Dana.  Please don't give up on me.  I'm 
not as hopeless as I seem."

"I will speak to Saint Tomas about you," she teased. 
"He is the patron saint of doubters."

"Doubting Thomas," he responded, considering. "Patron 
of the blind, stonemasons, theologians, mad dogs, 
hemorrhoids, and skeptics."

"He is a busy saint.  And the last step before Saint 
Jude of lost causes."

She rested her hands on her belly, and he put his 
hand over hers. "Thomas?" he asked. 

"Tomas," she agreed.

*~*~*~*

The universe was out to get him.  1866 was the year 
to smite Fox Mulder, and Fate was hurrying to get it 
all in before December ended.  And Mother Nature 
seemed to bear him a personal grudge, as well.

"Maybe you and Sam should catch the earlier train," 
Dana suggested, looking out the window. "Just in 
case." 

For once, the street in front of the house was 
silent, a smooth expanse of white.  It seldom snowed 
more than a couple of inches in Washington, so few 
people had horse-drawn sleighs.  A trio of boys was 
hard at work on a snow fort, but most families were 
huddled around their hearths, sipping hot cocoa and 
waiting out the storm.  

He handed Dana another shirt, and she placed it in 
the leather satchel, along with a few sets of clean 
socks and underwear.

"I'm thinking about it," he answered, coming to look 
over her shoulder. "There's no sense cutting it any 
closer than we have to, and the storm's going to slow 
the train down.  We'll have to walk to the station.  
The streetcars and cabs aren't running and I'm not 
dragging anyone out in this to bring our horses back 
if we ride."

The windowpane fogged, and he wiped it clear with his 
hand, still considering. 

"Yes, I think we'll go ahead and leave.  I'll have 
Rebekah pack us a snack, and we'll bundle up and get 
going.  Will you be all right?"

There was no answer, so he glanced down, noticing she 
was bracing her hands against the windowsill and 
leaning forward.

"Dana?"

She looked up, gritting her teeth and breathing 
shallowly.

"Another contraction?"

She nodded.

"That's two in one hour."

Another silent nod, which indicated she was less than 
grateful to him for keeping track.

"Does it hurt?" he asked uncertainly, making the same 
face he did when someone mentioned castration or 
syphilitic lesions.

"Yes, it hurts," she said though clenched teeth, then 
closed her eyes like she could block out the pain. 
"Oh God, it hurts."

"I'm sorry," he said in his tiniest, sorriest voice. 
"I am so sorry.  Is there anything I can do?"

He stepped toward her, noticing the floor was wet.  A 
puddle of fluid seeped from underneath her robe, 
punctuated with swirls of blood and something 
greenish-black.
 
"Get the doctor?" he asked, and she shook her head, 
finally taking a deep breath.

"Help me to bed," she reminded him, standing up 
straighter.

It was a good thing she remembered: he was so rattled 
he would have left her standing right there.

"Do you want another nightgown first?" 

She nodded, raising her arms so he could strip off 
her ruined robe and gown and replace it with a clean 
one.  He threw the soiled clothes at the puddle, then 
put his arm around her shoulders. "I'm just going to 
pick you up.  Is that all right?"

She nodded, letting him carry her to the bed.  As he 
was laying her down, Rebekah knocked and entered, 
bringing Dana's lunch tray so she wouldn't have to 
tackle the stairs.  Samuel followed, tagging after 
Rebekah as easily as he'd tagged after Poppy.

"I think it's time," Mulder said, putting a stack of 
pillows behind her. "Sammy, wait in the hall.  I'll 
be right there." 

"Dana?" 

"It is all right, Samuel," Dana responded, "The baby 
is coming."

"Should I get the doctor?" he asked.

"Can you do that?" Mulder asked, dreading leaving 
Dana to go himself. "Can you find the doctor and come 
right back?  You won't run off?"

"I'll come right back," Sam promised.

*~*~*~*

Dana wasn't normally a restless person, but she 
couldn't seem to get comfortable for more than a few 
seconds.  Instead of staying in bed, she paced as 
long as she was able.  She stood and leaned forward, 
bracing her hands on the footboard.  She knelt on all 
fours, then shifted to her back again, then side to 
side, then to her back, which was how Rebekah found 
her when she returned with clean towels and a basin 
of water.

"How far apart?"

"About five minutes," Mulder answered.

"Hard?"

He nodded.  He could feel the womb becoming as hard 
as rock beneath his hand on her abdomen, then 
softening again.  As the contraction passed, he wiped 
her forehead, which helped no one, but gave him 
something to do.  He shouldn't even be with her, but 
it was his house and he dared anyone to tell him to 
leave.

"It hurts in my back," she said tiredly, looking like 
she might cry. "It shouldn't hurt in my back."

"The doctor's coming," he assured her. "Try to rest 
until the next pain." He looked at Rebekah, then at 
the clock, and asked tersely, "Where is he?  It's 
been two hours."

No one mentioned that the snowdrifts hit a man mid-
thigh, it was getting dark, and God only knew where 
the doctor might be.

Dana rolled toward Mulder so Rebekah could replace 
the towel under her hips.  He was watching Dana's 
pale face, but noticed there was a slight pause 
before Rebekah told her to roll back.  When she 
dropped the used towel in the basket beside the bed, 
he saw blood on it.

He didn't remember there being much blood before 
Emily was born.  After, yes, but not before.

"Ma'am, I'm no doctor," Rebekah said quietly, "But I 
have five babies of my own and I was there when this 
one-" she nodded to Mulder, "Was born.  Will you let 
me check?"

Dana nodded, and Mulder got up to lock the door.  
Most of the staff hadn't made it to work because of 
the storm, but Emily's nursemaid was in the house, as 
was the cook.  He faced away from the bed, listening 
to the sheets shifting and limbs moving, but turned 
when Rebekah called for him.

"The baby's head is here," she told him, pulling the 
sheet back in place and putting her hand on the top 
of Dana's belly. "He hasn't turned.  The cervix is 
already three fingers dilated.  This baby's big and 
coming fast.  We need a doctor.  Now," she said, 
speaking softly, but gravely. "Once she starts to 
push..." She trailed off, shaking her head silently.

"Sam went to get him," he answered. "He should be 
back any minute."

"I'll stay with her while you go," Rebekah responded.  
She wiped her other hand on a towel, leaving more 
smears of blood.  "Just find anyone you can.  Hurry."

"Mulder," Dana mumbled weakly.

"I'm gonna find a doctor," he assured her, finding an 
encouraging smile, then gnawing his chapped lips. 
"And I'll be right back."

She nodded again, letting go of his hand.
       
*~*~*~*

As cold and wet and frightened as he was, he exhaled 
when he saw Aramis and the doctor's gelding already 
in the stable, their sides still heaving and tails 
caked with snow.  Sam had made it back with a doctor 
before Mulder had.  The doctor's wife had said her 
husband was either at the Lowell's lancing a boil or 
McCutcheon's treating rheumatism.  She said Sam had 
ridden to the Lowell's to check, so Mulder turned his 
horse toward rheumatism.  And come up with nothing 
except an old man who wanted to tell him about his 
tricky hip.  He'd pounded on every doctor's door that 
he knew, and, if Sam hadn't made it back, planned to 
head for either the military hospital or the asylum 
and kidnap a doctor at gunpoint, if necessary.

He was just stopping long enough to get his gun.    

And make sure Dana still needed a doctor, not a 
priest.

"I'll see to the horses," the cook said, taking the 
reins from his numb fingers. "I saw you ride in, and 
no one wants dinner, anyway.  I know about horses.  
You get on inside."

As soon as he could think again, he was giving all 
these people a huge raise.

The doctor must have told Sam he wasn't allowed 
upstairs, because he was sitting on the stairs, one 
step down from the top.  Like Mulder, his hair was 
plastered to his head, and his cheeks and lips looked 
surreally crimson against his half-frozen skin.  

"How is she?" Mulder asked, rubbing his arms as he 
climbed the stairs. "Sam?"

"I don't know.  The doctor's with her.  I'm sorry it 
took so long."  
 
"No, you did fine.  You found him before I did.  I 
couldn't find anyone."

"I was afraid it took too long," Sam mumbled, picking 
an imaginary piece of lint off the step. "Again."

"No.  You did wonderful.  Go to your bedroom and 
change your clothes, and then I'll meet you back here 
in a few minutes.  And I'll find out how Dana's 
doing."

Sam nodded and stood, his legs stiff with cold and 
his wet socks making squishing noises inside his 
boots as he trudged down the hall.  Mulder knocked on 
the door of the master bedroom, calling quietly for 
Rebekah.  He noticed his satchel was packed and 
waiting in the hall so he could take it and go 
without having to say goodbye to her and having a 
big, teary scene in front of the doctor.  Dana would 
think of things like that.

The doctor looked appalled when Rebekah let him in, 
like his sanctuary was being invaded, but Mulder 
ignored him and sat on the bed beside Dana.  She 
looked pale and tired, but calmer than she'd been 
earlier.  A bottle on the nightstand indicated the 
doctor had just given her something, maybe morphine, 
to ease the pain. 

"How are you doing?" he asked, stroking the sweaty 
strands of hair that had worked their way out of her 
braid. "How's our Thomas?"

"The doctor is going to try to turn him.  It should 
be all right now," she said softly.

"Good," he said as if he believed her.  Dana wouldn't 
win any prizes for lying. She could be closed-lipped, 
but once she opened her mouth, she might as well tell 
the truth, because she never fooled anyone.

"You and Samuel be careful.  I will have Rebekah wire 
Boston as soon as the baby comes.  There will be a 
telegram waiting when you get there."

He stood, moving the hands of the clock forty-five 
minutes ahead. "Damn it, we just missed the last 
train," he said irritably. "I bet it's leaving the 
station right now.  Guess I'll have to stay here."

She exhaled tiredly, but offered no objection.  He 
could see her eyes becoming glassy and her body 
relaxing as the morphine took hold.

"Mr. Mulder, I need you to wait outside," the doctor 
announced, rolling up his sleeves.

"I'll be right outside," he said lightly, getting up.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus XI

***********************************

Begin: Paracelsus XII

*~*~*~*

Melissa,

Every now and then, late at night, in a quiet corner 
of the house, Dana discovers me writing to you. 
She'll pad down the stairs in her nightgown and bare 
feet, push her hair back from her face, and ask, 
"What are you doing, Mr. Mulder?" as if she didn't 
already know.  

When we first married, I would fib and say I was 
editing an article for the paper or composing a note 
to some ambiguous "friend," but now I just answer, 
"Writin' to Melly." 

Sometimes she curls up on the sofa, waiting for me to 
return to bed; sometimes I even read a few sentences 
to her, although that still feels strange - as though 
I am being unfaithful to one of you, though I'm not 
sure which.  You were one life; Dana is another.  
Regardless, Dana knows I still write to you.  She 
said I do it because I still have something to say.

Melly, I'm not sure I still do.
 
For fourteen years, I was as good a husband as I knew 
how to be.  We were two children playing at marriage, 
taking vows without any real understanding of the 
weight behind the words.  I was not perfect, but I 
did not promise to be.  I promised to love, honor, 
and cherish you, keeping only unto you until death 
parted us, and I did my best to keep that promise.

I did my best.  You left, Melly; I didn't.  I just 
got left behind.  

And as the anger and sadness fades, when I pick up my 
pen, I am not sure what to say anymore.  I fill pages 
about Dana and Sam, but it has begun to feel like the 
awkward moment when a conversation is over, but no 
one wants to say goodbye.  So I am saying goodbye.  
Not that I will never write to you again, or won't 
think of you every time I look at Sam or hear Bach's 
piano concertos, or that I won't cry for you, but for 
now, I think the conversation has ended.

I would not say it to Dana, but her Irish Folk 
Catholicism and Poppy's Voodoo Plantation Catholicism 
share a common belief: death is not a cessation of 
life, but a gradual change from one condition to 
another.  In Catholicism, there is Purgatory, but in 
Voodoo, the soul splits into two parts.  One half 
returns to the earth and is the energy of life and 
rebirth.  The other remains with the living for a 
time, staying close to its loved ones.  Eventually, 
as the living let go, the two halves can reunite, be 
at peace, and move on - moving not into death, but 
deeper into the cycle of life.

I'm letting you go, letting you be at peace.  Letting 
myself be at peace.  And I hope with all my heart 
that I will meet you again in some future universe.  
And that we will stop and talk and perhaps become 
friends.  Perhaps become more.

Something went wrong in this lifetime, Melly.  I 
cannot explain how I know that, but I do.  Sarah 
shouldn't have died - not like she did.  And perhaps 
I should have died on that field: let the other half 
of my soul rise from my body and follow hers.  All 
that has happened after that moment is uncharted 
territory, a second chance at a life I was never 
intended to have.  
 
But my God, what a gift.

One of the first things that struck me about Dana was 
how precious she found life when all I saw around me 
was ruin.  Her pain was no less than mine, and in 
many ways it was more.  Still, she got up at night to 
watch thunderstorms and hold her baby against her 
bare skin in the darkness.  She savored life the way 
I was afraid to.  She was alive while I was only 
existing.  She let me love her - body, mind, and soul 
- when I thought I'd never find the eneergy to do more 
than play a role.

It's not enough to survive, Melly.  Any fool can hide 
from life and survive.  It's thriving that really 
unsettles people, and God knows I love to do that.  

My universe moved on, and I was left behind, a 
stranger alone in a strange world.  And, by chance, 
one hot Georgia afternoon, I met another stranger.  
One minute earlier or later and I would not have, and 
she would most likely have died alone, having her 
baby.  It would have been only "her baby," then, not 
"our Emmy." I have to think meeting her was Fate - 
God looking down and muttering, "Well, you're still 
there anyway, you stubborn fool.  Let's teach you a 
lesson."

And he did.  She did.  Dana taught me that while a 
ship is safe in the harbor, that's not what a ship is 
intended for. 

Until we meet again,

Fox William Mulder

*~*~*~*

He sat sideways on the top step, legs sprawled and 
eyes fixed on the opposite end of the long hallway as 
if his tired gaze could penetrate the bedroom door.  
Sam was one step down, wrapped in the blanket from 
his bed and staring blankly.  His son's head bobbed a 
few times as his eyelids lowered, but he startled, 
shaking awake like a toddler fighting a nap.

"You can sleep, Sammy," Mulder said gently. "Go in 
the library, lie down on the sofa, and get some 
rest."

"We're not going to Boston tonight, are we?"

"No.  The last train left hours ago.  We missed it."

A floorboard creaked, sounding suspiciously like a 
woman moaning, and Mulder had to stop breathing 
momentarily.  He stared at the door, willing it to 
open.  All he could hear was silence, which was dry 
kindling to an overactive imagination.

There was a schedule: once an hour, Rebekah or the 
doctor would come out and update him, and it was an 
agonizing forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds until 
the two a.m. update.

"Tomorrow?"

"No, probably not tomorrow, either."

Mulder shifted, trying to find a way to lean against 
the banister so the spindles didn't jab his backbone 
or kidneys.  He gave up and turned, sitting with his 
back to the top of the staircase and his feet on the 
step below Sam's. 

"What about the senate?"
 
Another moan, this time definitely Dana and 
definitely real, because Sam heard it too.  Mulder 
bit his lower lip, which burned as the chapped skin 
stretched between his teeth.  

Sam pulled the blanket tighter around him and studied 
his sock feet, then craned to see if the bedroom door 
looked any different.  He swallowed several times, 
then asked, "What's wrong?  Why isn't the baby 
coming?"

"The doctor's with her," Mulder answered evasively. 
"He's a good doctor.  He delivers lots of babies.  He 
delivered you.  He took care of your mother.  He..."

He started to say "He took care of your Aunt Sarah," 
but shivered as a chill trickled down his spine like 
a single bead of sweat.

"The night you were born, I was so nervous that your 
grandfather took pity on me and got me drunk.  Very 
drunk. Howling at the moon, embarrassing Grandmother, 
drunk. Except you took so long getting here that by 
the time you arrived, I'd sobered up again."

He planned an encouraging grin, but ended up with a 
facial twitch that didn't inspire confidence. 

"I don't want anything to happen to Dana," Sam said 
quietly, fear stealing into his voice like a cold 
fog.

"The doctor's doing everything he can.  He-"  

Even he could hear the lack of conviction in his 
voice, so he just stopped speaking.  Mulder exhaled, 
not sure how much of the empty space inside him was 
cold and exhaustion and how much was fear.  He leaned 
forward, elbows on his knees, forehead on his palms.

"Will she be all right?" Sam asked, then immediately 
repeated, "Dad?  Will Dana be all right?"

Realizing Sam just wanted to hear the words, however 
hollow they were, he answered, "Everything will be 
fine, Sammy.  You did a good job - going for the 
doctor.  Everything will be fine.  It won't be much 
longer."

Which was what Dana had said six hours ago.

"And then we'll go to Boston?"

Mulder leaned harder on his elbows, kneading his 
forehead with his fingertips.  Outside, the wind 
howled, rattling the windowpanes and forcing 
snowflakes against the glass.

"Dad?"

"Sammy..." he muttered tiredly. 

He heard Sam adjust his blanket and hunker lower, 
trying to disappear into the shadows. 

"Yes, we'll go," Mulder amended. "But not until I'm 
sure Dana and the baby are all right.  And that's not 
going to be for a few days. Maybe a few weeks, even."

"What about Grandfather's senate seat?"

"I think Grandfather would want me sitting right 
here."

Mulder glanced up, expecting to see Sam on his feet 
and walking away.  Instead, his son just sat, looking 
young and lost and afraid he'd forgotten the way 
home.

"Come here, Sammy," Mulder offered, guiding his son's 
head against his thigh.  He felt Sam resist, then 
relax and lean against him, closing his eyes.  He put 
his arm around Sam, stroking his hair and holding him 
close as he slept.

Below them, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed 
one-fifteen.
 
*~*~*~*

Night thinned into a fine silky blackness, then 
ripped, letting the first scarlet traces of dawn 
spill through the delicate fabric.  Sam made coffee, 
then fell asleep at the kitchen table, his dark head 
resting beside his mug.  Aside from his soft snores 
downstairs and the sounds from the other side of the 
bedroom door, the world was silent, insulated by the 
white drifts that glistened silver in the last of the 
moonlight.

Mulder's chapped lower lip had split in three places, 
and he alternated the tip of his tongue between the 
raw fissures. He'd changed into the clean underwear 
and shirt that had been in his satchel, but, banned 
from the bedroom, had retrieved a pair of trousers 
from the laundry basket downstairs.  There was an ink 
stain on one leg, and he licked his thumb and rubbed 
it nervously, only making it larger.   

About five a.m., his imagination had gotten the best 
of him and he'd demanded to see Dana, which was 
"interfering" and "getting in the way," according to 
the incensed doctor.  When he'd protested that he'd 
been there when Emily was born, the doctor had 
threatened to leave, saying he wouldn't stand for 
such impropriety.  Under any other circumstances, 
Mulder would have told him to go to Hell.  Proper or 
not, no one told him where he could be or not be in 
his own house.  Given the circumstances, though - 
which were almost three feet of snow on the ground, 
the middle of the night, and a glimpse of Dana lying 
barely conscious in their bed - he'd retreated to the 
hallway.

"Fox, are you still there?" Rebekah's voice asked.

"I'm here," he answered immediately, scrambling up 
and standing as close as he could to the closed 
bedroom door without merging into it. "What is it 
'Bekah?  What's wrong?"

"The baby just kicked," she responded. "I'm almost 
sure of it."

Mulder nodded and slid back to the floor, tilting his 
face upward and saying a silent thank you.  According 
to the doctor, the baby had finally turned, but then 
stopped moving.  Babies usually came within twelve 
hours of the water breaking, he'd explained, and it 
had been longer than that.  The baby was too big, 
Dana was too tired and uncooperative, and it had been 
too long.  Saving Dana was the priority now, he'd 
said.  He'd said it slowly, as though giving Mulder 
time to adjust to the idea.

"How is Dana?" he asked shakily. "Is she awake?"

That was the main problem, as well as Mulder 
understood it: the doctor had given Dana morphine so 
she'd relax and he could turn the baby.  But either 
the doctor had given her too much or she was too 
exhausted, because she'd relaxed to the point of 
unconsciousness and the contractions had stopped.

"I think so," Rebekah answered. "The pains have 
started again."

"Just a little longer, Mr. Mulder," the doctor said. 
"Why don't you wait downstairs?"
 
He shook his head defiantly as if there was anyone to 
see him.  When he opened his hands, his fingernails 
had dug eight little crescents into his palms.  
Mulder interlaced his fingers and closed his eyes, 
continuing his dialogue with God.

"Push, Miss," he heard Rebekah urging. "Push."

"Push," Mulder echoed silently, keeping his eyes 
clenched shut and his front teeth pressed together so 
hard his forehead throbbed.  

Dana mumbled in Gaelic, saying "no" and then 
something he couldn't understand.

"Mrs. Mulder, I need you to wake up and push," the 
doctor requested sternly. 

"Push, Miss," Rebekah said again. "Don't go back to 
sleep.  Listen to the doctor.  Wake up and push.  
Your baby's ready to come."

"Push, love," Mulder prayed.

"Báb?" Dana said weakly, sounding disoriented.

"Yes, the baby," he answered through the door. "Tell 
her 'Bhí, báb Tomas: tá sé go breá.'"

"Yes, baby Thomas: he is fine," he heard Rebekah 
repeat in Gaelic.

"Màthair?" Dana asked in a small voice.

"Tell her yes, Rebekah.  Say 'bhí' again.  Tell her 
you're her mother."

"Bhí," Rebekah echoed, then ordered Dana to push.

Dana responded in Gaelic, and he heard her whimper as 
she tried to obey, then collapse back onto the 
pillows, panting.

"Again," the doctor ordered. 

The pained noises on the other side of the door built 
to a crescendo with Rebekah's and the doctor's voices 
urging Dana to try one last time.  He heard a long 
moan, and then, as the seconds passed, nothing.  Dana 
panted tiredly, quick footsteps crossed the floor, 
but there was no sound from the baby.

There was a slap, some frantic whispering, and still 
nothing.

"Clean out her mouth," Rebekah's voice suggested.

"It's clean," the doctor responded tersely. "Get me 
another towel."

Mulder stared at his hands, focusing on the white 
knuckles and mottled red tips. "Breathe, breathe, 
breathe," he chanted silently, feeling his cracked 
lips moving, but no air coming out.

He finally heard a weak cry, and exhaled, unclenching 
his aching fingers.  He put one palm on the cool door 
as if he could feel the baby through it. "Is he 
okay?"

"It's a girl," the doctor said as the baby's cries 
grew louder.   

"A little girl," Mulder echoed in surprise. "Oh my 
God, we have a baby girl.  Is Dana okay?  Dana?" 
 
"She should be fine," the doctor answered.

Mulder nodded again and hurried to the top of the 
stairs, calling for Sam.  When there was no response, 
he went to wake him, barely feeling his feet on the 
steps or his hand on the banister.

"A little girl," he informed the cook and Emily's 
nursemaid, who'd fallen asleep in the parlor as they 
waited.  He jostled their shoulders excitedly. "The 
baby's here.  It's a little girl."

He was half a step from throwing open the front door 
and giddily announcing it to the frozen world.  He 
had a baby girl.

"Sammy, the baby's here," he told his son as the boy 
raised his head, trying to get his eyes open.  Samuel 
looked curiously at his father's hand on his arm, 
then started to go back to sleep. "A little girl.  
Come on - hurry up!"

Sam blinked and stumbled after him, meeting Rebekah 
halfway as she carried a tiny bundle of white flannel 
down the hall.   

"Cailín," Rebekah told them. "Miss Dana said her name 
is Cailín."

"Kee-lin?  Kay-lin?" he asked as she gave the baby to 
him.  He'd been euphoric, but as the weight settled 
safely into his arms, he momentarily lost the power 
of speech. "She's- She's- Oh, my God - she's real."

"Yes, she's real.  Congratulations," Rebekah 
responded, glowing proudly.

"She's so beautiful.  Does Dana mean Colleen?" 

If he had to decide just then, her name would 
probably be "ubba-I-uh-duh."

"Cailín," Rebekah said again, imitating Dana's 
accent. "When the doctor told Miss Dana had a little 
girl, she said 'Cailín.'"

"Cailín," he repeated, rolling the exotic word around 
his mouth. "Hello, Miss Cailín.  Hi there." Sam 
leaned closer, and Mulder added, "Meet your big 
brother.  This is Sammy.  And I think I hear Emmy 
awake - she's your sister.  Are you going to open 
your eyes for us, little one?"

"She's all red," Sam mumbled, still not really awake.

"She just came.  Just a few minutes ago.  The 
doctor's still with Dana."
 
Cailín half-opened one blue eye, looked at the faces 
above hers, and closed it again, yawning and splaying 
ten tiny fingers.

"Dana's all right?" Sam asked.

"The doctor said she'd be fine.  She's just-" 

Something in his peripheral vision caught his 
attention, and he look up, seeing Dana standing at 
the other end of the hall, watching him.  Her hair 
was loosely braided, and countless strands had 
slipped out of place and curled around her face.  Her 
long white nightgown was huge on her now, and as he 
watched, a spot of scarlet appeared over her thighs, 
then spread until the gown was stained with blood 
from her waist to her knees.  

"Jesus, Dana," he said in horror, quickly giving the 
baby back to Rebekah. "Get back to bed!  What are you 
doing?"

The figure continued to stare at him, pale and 
unblinking, and as patient as death.

"Fox?  What's wrong?" Rebekah asked as he sprinted 
for the master bedroom, his boots slippery on the 
waxed floor. "Where are you going?"

"Dad?" Sam called. "Who are you talking to?"

He opened his arms to catch her when she collapsed, 
but realized, in the half-second before the figure 
vanished, that he couldn't feel the warmth from her 
skin or sense the energy from her body.  Like his 
mother's ghost, she was visible in his world, but no 
longer a part of it.

"No," he screamed, grabbing the doorknob frantically.  
It was locked, and he pounded twice on the door with 
his fist before he used his shoulder to force it.  It 
took three tries for the thick wood to give, but it 
did, and he stood in the doorway, holding his 
throbbing shoulder and staring at the room in 
disbelief.

There was too much red.  It was everywhere: on the 
towels on the floor, on the doctor's hands, on the 
sheets.

"What are you doing to her?" he demanded as his 
stomach clenched and his throat tightened.

"She's hemorrhaging," the doctor responded, kneading 
Dana's abdomen. "Raise the foot of the bed.  Now!"

Sam and Rebekah had followed him, and Mulder turned, 
ordering Sam to help him.  Rebekah laid the baby in 
the cradle beside the bed and rushed downstairs, but 
Sam just stood in the doorway, staring at Dana.  The 
color drained from his face, and his lips moved 
wordlessly.

"Sammy," Mulder said sharply. "Listen to me.  When I 
lift the foot of the bed, slide a stack of books 
underneath it." Mulder squatted, getting a good grip. 
"Sammy, come here and help me."

Sam shook his head frantically, the way he used to 
when he was small and Poppy would try to give him 
medicine.

"She's bleeding, Sam.  Get over here!"

His son turned and bolted, pounding down the stairs, 
through the house, and out the back door.

"Damn it!  Sammy - stop," Mulder yelled, then shifted 
his attention and held the bed up as the doctor slid 
the books into place.
 
Rebekah returned with a bucket of snow and more 
towels.  She dumped the snow onto one of the towels, 
folded it into a cold compress, and placed it on 
Dana's abdomen.

"It will shrink the womb," she explained as Mulder 
stood beside the bed, watching helplessly.  He saw 
Dana's chest fall as she exhaled, but it didn't rise 
again.  He waited, holding his own breath, but she 
didn't move.

And the world slowed.

The doctor pressed another towel between her legs in 
an attempt to slow the bleeding, but Mulder could see 
the blood seeping from the center to the edges as it 
saturated.  When he looked up, he saw it again - 
Dana's pale, ethereal reflection in the doorway, 
watching him as he stood beside her body.  The figure 
regarded him impassively for several seconds, then 
took a step backward.

"Don't go," he pleaded, his nose beginning to drip 
and tears forming in the corners of his eyes. 
"Please.  I'm so sorry."

The spirit studied him, as though trying to determine 
if they were acquaintances.

"Please," he repeated. "It isn't over.  Don't you 
know me?" he pleaded. "Please - don't go."

Two men stood behind the figure, waiting for her.  
One wore a naval uniform, and Mulder recognized him 
from the photograph as her father, Captain Scully.  
The other was taller, slimmer - a blond man with 
sleepy, thoughtful eyes.  His shirt and trousers were 
neat, but plain, and Mulder realized there was a 
gunshot wound where his abdomen should have been.

A hand met flesh as the doctor slapped Dana's cheek 
hard, trying to get the body to breathe.

"Just a little longer," Mulder begged desperately. 
"Please.  Maybe, maybe this never happens again - us 
finding each other.  Maybe this is all.  Maybe this 
is our last chance." 

"Stop jabbering and hold this, Fox" Rebekah ordered, 
and he looked down, putting his hand on the cold 
compress on Dana's abdomen. "I'm getting the baby.  
Nursing the baby may help."

The doctor snapped that a lady nursing a baby was a 
disgusting idea, and Rebekah argued that it wasn't 
disgusting if it kept her from bleeding to death.  
Mulder opened his mouth, trying to string his 
thoughts together to register an opinion, but felt 
his hand on Dana's abdomen move as she took a breath, 
then moaned softly.  

"Breathe, Dana," he ordered. "Stay with me."
 
Dana's ghost was gone, and the two male figures near 
the door quickly faded, dissolving into nothing as if 
they'd never been there.

"Breathe, love," Mulder commanded again, and her 
chest rose a second time.  And a third.  And, as the 
world returned to normal speed, a fourth.  Her lips 
were blue, her face gray, and she shivered violently, 
but she kept breathing.

"You had not slept and your eyes were playing tricks 
on you," Dana would respond when he told her about it 
a week later, when she was finally well enough to 
have a conversation. "And how much had you had to 
drink?"

"Not a drop," he'd answer, and she wouldn't believe 
him.

*~*~*~*

According to the almanac, it was the most 
precipitation the east coast had seen since 1831, 
causing floods in the southern states and snowdrifts 
over a man's head in the north.  In DC, streetcars 
and trains stopped running, telegraph lines went down 
as ice-covered tree branches fell on them, and on 
Sunday, December 30th, the city awoke to thirty inches 
of snow on the White House lawn.

Even if Sam had tried, he couldn't have gone very 
far.

As he stepped inside the stable, Mulder could hear 
the muffled sobs from the last stall.  Samuel was 
huddled in the corner, shivering and desperately 
trying to catch his breath.  Porthos looked worried, 
and was nudging him with his velvety nose.

"I brought you a coat," Mulder said, shrugging his 
own off and wrapping it around his son's shoulders.  
He started to rub his back, but as Mulder moved 
forward, Sam shrank away.

"Is.  She.  Dead?" Sam asked between gasps.

"No, she's resting.  As long as there isn't a fever, 
the doctor thinks she'll recover.  It'll be a long 
time before she's well, though.  That was, that was a 
close call.  Too close."

Instead of helping, that seemed to make it worse. Sam 
covered his head with his hands, trying to shield 
himself from the world. "I'm sorry," he mumbled 
miserably. "You must hate me. You must be so ashamed.  
I try.  I try so hard to be brave, to be a man, and..."

"Sammy," Mulder said tiredly, "Look up."

His son raised his head, wiping his nose on his 
sleeve.

"Look at my hands," Mulder requested, holding them up 
like he was showing off a set of fine rings.  They 
shook uncontrollably, and there was still blood under 
his fingernails. "Do you see that?"  
    
Sam nodded. 

"I'm scared to death.  Hide in the cellar, piss my 
pants, shaking in my boots, scared.  I've watched two 
women I loved die - one in that same room - and their 
babies die with them.  I'm terrified it's going to 
happen a third time.  I'm terrified the doctor's 
going to say Dana has a fever or she's bleeding 
again.  Or that the baby's sick.  If there's anything 
past terrified, that's what I feel right now."   

Sam nodded again.

"The cook's fixing breakfast for you; when you calm 
down, come inside and eat.  And then I'd like you to 
run an errand.  The baby will be hungry soon and we 
need the wet nurse.  It's not very far.  You'd just 
need to take an extra horse and go get her.  Do you 
think you can do that?"

Nod. 

"Are you ready to come inside?"

Sam nodded no. "I'll get the nurse now."

"All right.  Be careful." Mulder stood, turning away.  
He had space in his brain to make sure Sam wasn't in 
mortal danger.  Any coddling would have to wait.

"Aunt Sarah died because she was going to have a 
baby?" his son asked from behind him. "Not cholera?"

Mulder paused and took a deep breath.  Samuel always 
managed to comprehend exactly the wrong part of a 
conversation. 

"Yes, she was going to have a baby," he answered.

Sam opened his mouth to ask the next obvious 
question, glanced at his father, and closed it again.

*~*~*~*   
 
He was aware the name "Mulder" immediately caused the 
doctor to develop indigestion.  First, there had been 
Mulder's own teenage scrapes and falls, each of which 
his parents had thought was a national emergency.  
Then Sarah's death.  Then, after Samuel's birth, 
Melly's stubborn refusal to comply with the doctor's 
promises that she would get better.  There was the 
first time she'd tried to kill Sam - and almost 
succeeded - and then the second six years later.  
Sam's many scrapes and falls - which both his father 
and grandfather thought were national emergencies.  
And a few other "accidents" Melissa had with her 
medicine or Mulder's razor before her final suicide.

And then there was Dana, who tolerated rather than 
revered the doctor's superior knowledge.  She didn't 
spend her pregnancy in bed, she didn't wear a corset 
past her fifth month, and, though she avoided going 
out in public, she didn't hide herself away in the 
bedroom, either.  She took baths, ran the house, 
raised her arms over her head, and they just didn't 
mention they'd had sex when she was pregnant.  No 
sense in making the poor old doctor faint. 

As far as Mulder was concerned, though, the man was a 
candidate for sainthood.  Dana was asleep in the 
bedroom, and his baby girl was asleep in the nursery, 
both taking slow, rhythmic breaths.  If the doctor 
had requested Mulder pay him in teeth instead of 
cash, Mulder would have found a pair of pliers and 
opened his mouth.       

"Keep her flat," the doctor said tiredly as Rebekah 
helped him with his coat.  He'd been there for three 
days straight, and the strain showed in his thin face 
and shoulders. "And I mean flat.  Not on her side, 
not sitting up, flat on her back.  When she's awake 
enough to swallow, give her sips of cool water and 
broth.  Maybe some tea."

"Can she see the baby?" Mulder asked. "If she's 
awake?"

"For a little bit; just don't upset her."

"What if she wants to feed-"

"Absolutely not," the doctor said sternly. "She needs 
her strength.  Just keep her comfortable and let her 
rest.  I'll be back first thing in the morning."

"Thank you," Mulder said, awkwardly offering his left 
hand. "You have no idea how grateful I am."

After they shook hands, there was a pause, and the 
doctor cleared his throat.  Rebekah took her cue and 
left, leaving the two men alone in the foyer.

"I've known you a long time, Fox," the doctor said 
quietly. "Your father was a good man, God rest his 
soul, but he isn't here, so I'll say it.  You and 
I've seen enough young women die, and by all rights, 
your wife should have been one of them.  Son, you 
just got a miracle."

"I know that."

"And I know you love your wife, but don't tempt 
providence again, if you take my meaning.  The 
world's full of willing flesh."  

Mulder nodded, red-faced and staring at the floor.

"I'll be back in the morning.  Just let her rest," 
the doctor repeated, then opened the door, letting 
the cold wind in.  

*~*~*~*

Life went in circles, repeating with slight 
variations on a theme.  This time it was his bed and 
his wife that he sat beside, shifting restlessly in 
his straight-back wooden chair.  His book of poems 
was half-hidden under the bed - the Whitman 
collection that had started the hoopla with Alex - 
and he reached down for it, wanting something to fill 
his mind as the surreal hours passed.  As he opened 
the worn cover to read the inscription from Dana, he 
saw three dried, bloody fingerprints on it.  The book 
had been one he and the doctor had grabbed to prop up 
the foot of the bed.  

Mulder closed it, stood, and carried it to its place 
on the shelf across the room.  

As he watched from the bedroom window, Sam trudged up 
the slushy sidewalk, returning home for breakfast.  
Mulder didn't know where or with whom the boy had 
really spent the previous night, or the night before 
that.  The teenage friend Sam had stayed with after 
his grandmother's funeral didn't exist: when Mulder 
had sent a maid to check on Sam earlier that morning, 
he'd learned the Mitchells were wintering in 
Charleston - and had been since October.
 
At fifteen and a half, Samuel didn't return home 
smelling of whiskey or cheap perfume, so Mulder 
supposed he should count himself lucky. "Wild oats" 
was the usual explanation, accompanied by a casual 
shrug. "Boys will be boys."

His son paused on the front walk, glancing up at the 
window.  When he saw Mulder looking back, he lowered 
his gaze, adjusted the collar on his coat, and 
continued into the house.  Mulder heard Emily 
chattering happily downstairs, eager to tell her 
brother about her morning.
 
As he returned to his chair, Dana turned her head, 
slowly opening her eyes, then blinking as he came 
into focus.  "Hi," he said softly. "There you are."

"Your arm?" she asked sleepily, raising her fingers 
to touch the sling immobilizing his right shoulder.

Mulder laughed in nervous disbelief, then answered, 
"I lost a fight with a door.  It took me about six 
hours to even notice. Are you all right?  How are you 
feeling?"

"Shaky.  Weak." She wet her lips, and he reached for 
the glass, raising it to her mouth. "Thank you. What- 
What happened?"

"What's the last thing you remember?"

She blinked, seeming uncertain. "The doctor saying he 
was going to..." She paused, moving her hand over the 
blankets to her flat abdomen. "To turn..."

"She's fine.  She's in the nursery.  I can bring her, 
if you want.  Do you feel well enough to see her?"

"A girl?" Her eyes darted over his face, wanting to 
know if he was disappointed.  She raised her hand 
again, stroking the beard that he'd forgotten to 
shave in the last week. "We have another girl?"

"A beautiful little girl.  Or not so little: nine 
pounds and change.  Cailín.  Blue eyes, brown hair... 
She's gorgeous, Dana."

"Her name?"

"Cailín," he repeated gently.

She nodded. "A girl.  What is her name?"

"Dana, it's Cailín.  That's her name."

"Cailín is 'girl.' You named our girl Girl?  Oh, for 
God's sake..."

"Easy," he cautioned. "Calm down." He took her hand, 
kissing the palm, then laced his fingers through 
hers. Her skin was so pale it was almost transparent, 
but it was cool to the touch.  Like glass.  He was 
certain she'd shatter at any minute. "I'll bring her, 
but you have to stay calm."

Dana nodded, too weak to object.

There were now two nursemaids - one for Emily and one 
for Cailín - a wet nurse, and Rebekah acting as 
nanny-in-chief, but Samuel was in the nursery, 
changing a diaper.

"Dana's awake and she'd like to see Cailín.  Will you 
carry her for me?"

In response, Samuel rewrapped the blanket around the 
baby, then settled her into the crook of Mulder's 
left arm.

"Why don't you carry her?" Mulder asked. "Dana's 
fine.  She's getting better.  Please, Sam."   

Samuel shook his head, and Mulder didn't pursue it.  
Instead, he said decisively in his best father voice, 
"You're staying home tonight.  And every night.  You 
don't have to see Dana if you don't want to, but 
you're too young to be out at night unless I know 
where you are."

"I'm spending the night with Jack," Sam responded 
immediately.

"Jack Mitchell's in Charleston.  Would you like to 
try again?"
 
Caught, Sam flushed and studied his boots, then 
glanced at his father from underneath his thick 
eyelashes.  Mulder's stomach flip-flopped.  He'd been 
a teenage boy and he knew that look.  He'd been a 
little older and on the giving, not receiving end of 
the look, though.

He took a long breath, rehearsing his words several 
times before he said, "You'd better send a note 
telling your friend not to expect you tonight.  You 
wouldn't want to disappoint her."

Sam's face went from red to scarlet, and Mulder left 
him to squirm, feeling he'd handled that remarkably 
well.

"Are you still awake?" he asked as he returned to the 
bedroom, and Dana opened her eyes, nodding and trying 
to sit up. "No, stay flat," he insisted, doing some 
awkward one-handed maneuvering to lay the baby beside 
her. "This is Cailín."

"Cailín álainn," she murmured, "Beautiful girl.  Is 
she all right?"

"She's fine.  She took her time getting here, but 
she's fine.  You had us worried, though."

"Is she hungry?"

"No, I don't think so," he answered, knowing Dana was 
too groggy to realize she didn't have any milk. "Not 
right now." 

"What day is it?" Dana asked, examining the baby.  
Cailín was small, but not red and wrinkled like a 
newborn. 

"It's Saturday," he hedged.

She blinked at him. "You were supposed to leave 
Friday - the senate.  Mulder, you have to go..."

The train had finally run, bringing the mail from 
Boston.  Among the letters on his desk downstairs was 
the formal notification from the Massachusetts 
legislature that he would be considered as a senate 
candidate when the January term began.  Given his 
last name, a majority vote was a forgone conclusion, 
provided he met the requirements - thirty years of 
age, nine years as a US citizen, and Massachusetts 
residency.  In the polarized aftermath of the war, 
Bill Mulder's senate seat had been empty for two and 
a half years.  Massachusetts needed representation, 
and Spender was the only other candidate under 
consideration.

"It's Saturday, January 5th," he told her softly, 
brushing his lips against her cool cheek, then the 
baby's. "Welcome to 1867."

Such as it was.
  
*~*~*~*

It was the violet no-time before dawn, and all but 
one of the candles on the dresser had melted into a 
pool of wax around a flickering yellow flame.  It was 
soothing, hypnotizing.  The baby's heartbeat was 
steady against his, and he let his mind drift through 
space as he held her: moving forward, backward, then 
turning sideways and slipping into the cluttered 
recesses of his memory.

He still had trouble comprehending the magnitude of 
the miracle asleep against his shoulder.  There were 
no words to explain what it was like to see echoes of 
his mother in his daughter's sleepy blue eyes. Cailín 
had her eyes, his mouth, his father's dimple, and a 
warm little nose that he couldn't place, but that 
matched his lips perfectly when he kissed it.  She 
was flesh of his flesh.  She was his: hoped for, 
planned for, wanted, celebrated, cherished, and 
protected with his last breath.  

And if he could have cut open his chest and stored 
her safely inside, he would have.  There was too much 
evil in the world for him to risk ever letting her 
go.

"Another hour and you'll be nine days old," he 
murmured to her, as miniscule fingers wrapped around 
his finger. "Nine whole days.  Any thoughts so far, 
Cally-girl?" 

Cailín's lips continued to move as she nursed in her 
dreams.  

"Me either," he assured her, nuzzling the top of her 
head.  Like a wild animal, he could identify her by 
smell alone: like new rain and sweet cream and clean 
pillowcases.  Her wet nurse used lavender soap, so 
there was a hint of that as well, like Emily had 
always smelt faintly of Dana's skin.
  
Across the room, the covers shifted as Dana rolled 
over, then tried to sit up. "I'm here," he said 
immediately.  He steadied Cailín against him and 
stood, going to the bed. "What is it?  Do you need 
something?"  

"I heard the baby crying," she answered, sounding 
disoriented.

"No, she's fine.  Go back to sleep."

"But I heard her crying."

"You were dreaming, Dana.  Go back to sleep."

She pushed her legs over the side, her bare feet 
dangling far above the floor. "No, I heard a baby.  
Maybe it was Emily."

"It wasn't," he insisted.  He stood in front of her, 
making sure she didn't try to get up. "I was just in 
the nursery, and she's fine.  You had a bad dream.  
You're still dreaming.  Lie down.  It's not morning 
yet."
 
She looked at him uncertainly, still more asleep than 
awake. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure it's not morning yet.  Look: she's fine." 
He sat on the mattress, showing her the baby. "And 
Emmy's fine.  Lie down.  Do you want your medicine?"

He knew she didn't.  She'd taken it before bed, so it 
was just starting to wear off.  While it eased the 
pain, it made her groggy and gave her nightmares.  It 
required Mulder and the doctor both standing over her 
to get her to take it in the first place.

Predictably, she shook her head, but relaxed and sank 
back on the pillows.  She closed her eyes, and he 
thought for a moment she'd fallen asleep.  He started 
toward the sofa, taking the baby with him.  Mulder 
slept on the sofa, Cailín slept either on his chest 
or in the cradle beside him, and Dana slept in the 
bed.  The last time they'd shared a bed, even to 
sleep, was Christmas night, and it had been 
Thanksgiving before that.  He'd retained his old 
excuse: it was so Dana could rest.  When she was 
better, he'd think up a new one.

"Why are you awake?" she asked drowsily, and he 
turned back.

"Cailín was up earlier.  That's probably what you 
heard.  I was just getting her back to sleep."

"Was she wet?"

"Yes, she was wet."

"And hungry?"

"She's fine," he said lightly, preferring to avoid 
the issue.

Dana nodded.  In the yellow candlelight, her face 
still looked too pale, too tired, and she pulled the 
edge of her lip between her teeth. "I must have heard 
her, but I did not wake up until now," she said 
shakily. "She would have cried all this time."

"She didn't.  Don't worry about her.  You shouldn't 
be waking up anyway.  Just rest and get better.  
Cally-girl's fine.  Go back to sleep."
 
As Mulder watched, a crease appeared between her 
eyebrows, and her jaw clenched as she tried to fight 
back frustrated tears.  Unlike Melissa, she wanted to 
get up, to take care of her baby, but her body 
wouldn't let her.  Mulder had argued that many 
children were raised by servants, and he'd rather 
Cailín had a wet nurse now and a live mother later, 
but his arguments seemed to fall on deaf ears.

"Dana, don't.  Please don't," he pleaded. "She's 
fine.  Do you want to hold her?"

"She cries when I hold her," Dana said in a ragged 
voice. 

"No, she doesn't.  Not always." He laid the sleeping 
baby on the mattress between them, then, cursing 
under his breath and still favoring his right 
shoulder, stretched out so he faced Dana. "See - 
she's not crying.  And I don't want you to cry, 
either.  Please don't.  You're not supposed to get 
upset."

"I just feel so helpless," she confessed. "So 
useless."

"You're alive and you're getting better.  Cailín's 
alive." He reached over the baby, putting his hand 
carefully on the soft dip of her waist. "And I love 
you.  How is that useless?"

Dana exhaled, studying the baby's face. "You wanted a 
son.  And you wanted to go to Boston, be a senator... I 
did not want you to have to choose because of me."

"First of all, I do have a son," he informed her, as 
if she might have forgotten. "Who, if I don't keep a 
closer eye on, is going to give me a grandson.  And-"

She glanced at him, then back to the baby.

"What?  He's fifteen.  I was fifteen.  Don't look so 
shocked.  Anyway, yes, I'm so disappointed with my 
Cailín that her nursemaid can't pry her out of my 
arms.  And second, I wasn't going to tell you yet, 
but the Massachusetts legislature met and there 
weren't enough votes to nominate Spender.  It wasn't 
even close.  They agreed to vote again in February.  
They want me, but it does them no good to nominate me 
unless I'm a Massachusetts resident, so they're 
giving me another few weeks."

"When are you leaving?"

"That's the thing: I'm not sure I am."

"Have you changed your mind?"
 
"I'm not sure I ever made up my mind.  I've been 
thinking about a lot of things in the last few days, 
but it's really a simple question: do I want to be a 
senator?  And the simple answer is no.  No, I don't.  
Not really.  I wish you could have met my father, 
Dana.  He was a great man.  He was a great senator.  
He made history, and I- I just make news."

"You are underestimating yourself."

"No, I'm not.  I could do it, and I'd do a good job, 
but being a senator or a soldier was my father's 
dream for me.  It isn't my dream.  I agreed to do it 
because someone needed to, and because I knew I 
could.  I've made other decisions for that same 
reason: not because I really wanted to, but because 
there was a problem and someone needed to fix it.  
And while I'm not saying I regret those decisions... 
Nobility is a very romantic idea, and I think I was 
in love with the idea.  Not the reality."

"Are you talking about me?" she asked in her softest 
voice, putting one hand on the baby and stroking his 
beard with her other. "And Emily?  This decision you 
made?"

"No.  Not in the slightest.  I was- I was talking 
about... No, I wasn't talking about you."

She didn't respond except to focus on the baby, and 
he couldn't tell if she believed him or not.

"I married you because I wanted you.  Because you 
were my friend.  And because I was afraid to be 
alone.  I know I made it sound very practical when I 
proposed, but nobility was the farthest thing from my 
mind.  For the first time in my life, I was being 
completely selfish.  If I'd been acting in your best 
interest, I'd have gotten off the ship in DC and let 
you go on to New York." 

He was going to have the blacksmith check his armor.  
It not only had chinks, it was developing gaping 
holes.

"Tell me you love me," he requested quietly. "Just 
say it.  I-I want to hear it.  I need to.  There are 
so many things I need to tell you... When you're 
better.  About Sam.  And Melissa.  And Poppy.  And 
us.  And I'm so afraid you'll hate me."

He waited, but she didn't answer.  He studied Cailín, 
and shifted his hand nervously on Dana's waist, 
toying with her nightgown.  When he finally worked up 
the nerve to look at her, her eyes were closed and 
her chest was rising and falling slowly as she slept.

*~*~*~*

In 1861, the snide joke was that one seldom saw a 
dead Union Cavalry soldier.  At the onset of the war, 
104 of the 176 U.S. Cavalry officers had sided with 
the South, leaving most Northern troops to be 
commanded by inexperienced officers.  Confederate 
horsemen were better trained and better utilized, 
while the Union thought of its cavalry as extravagant 
and decorative.  After the first battle of Bull Run, 
though, and after Mulder lost an uncle as J.E.B. 
Staurt's mounted soldiers expertly pursued and cut 
down the retreating Union troops, the North took 
cavalry soldiers more seriously.

By 1862, they were the highly prized eyes of the 
Northern army: scouting, spying on enemy movements, 
and disrupting their communication and supply lines.  
Additionally, the cavalry provided a mobile striking 
force for raiding or propping up a flagging flank 
during a battle.  They traveled quickly, sometimes 
spending twenty hours a day in the saddle, and able 
to cover more than three hundred miles in ten days.  
Soldiers learned to sleep on horseback.  They learned 
to travel lightly and live off the countryside.  And, 
since they were often closer to the enemy army than 
their own, they learned to be on alert for any sound, 
even in the dead of night.

Especially in the dead of night.

The first thing Mulder heard was Samuel's voice 
whispering, asking urgently if someone was all right.  
When he heard Dana answer that she was fine, Mulder 
sat up, trying to figure out what she was doing in 
the hall.  She could hardly get out of bed without 
help. 

"Can you walk?" Sam whispered, and there was a pause 
before he asked, "Is it all right if I pick you up?"

Dana must have agreed, because only one set of 
footsteps approached the bedroom.  The door squeaked 
open, and Samuel entered, carrying Dana in his arms.  
She looked very small against him, very fragile, but 
his son had always been good with fragile things.

If she'd really been injured, Sam would have already 
raised the alarm.  Although he'd refused any contact 
with Dana since the baby had been born two weeks ago, 
Mulder knew he quietly kept tabs on her.  He'd woken 
more than once to see Sam in the bedroom doorway at 
night, silently watching her as she slept.

Curious, Mulder laid back on the sofa, concealed by 
the darkness.  

Instead of laying her on the bed, Sam set her 
carefully on her feet, then steadied her as she 
climbed onto the mattress. "Should I get the doctor?" 
he asked, pulling the blankets over her.

"No, I just got dizzy," she answered, sounding 
embarrassed.

"You're not supposed to get up.  You're supposed to 
stay in bed.  The doctor said so.  And Dad would-" 
Samuel turned his head, and Mulder quickly closed his 
eyes. "Dad would have a fit if he knew."

"I did not want to wake him.  He does not get enough 
sleep."

Mulder opened his eyes a quarter inch, watching them 
across the room.  Sam had on trousers, but his shirt 
was untucked and unbuttoned, and hung loosely from 
his shoulders.  He'd been pulling his black hair into 
a ponytail at the base of his neck, but it was down 
now, and he pushed it behind his ears nervously.  
Dana wore her nightgown, but not her wrapper, and her 
braid kept only a minority of her curls back from her 
face.  She was less than ten years older than Sam, 
but they looked almost the same age, especially with 
the roundness having a baby had brought to her face.

Samuel was usually at ease with Dana - as much as he 
was at ease with anything besides a sketchpad and a 
horsehair bow - but he seemed awkward now.  Afraid.  
Guilty.

"You're really all right?  What if- What if I wake 
Dad, but I won't tell him you got up?  I'll just say 
you need him."

"Samuel, I am fine.  Please let him sleep."
 
Sam didn't answer, but sat on the wooden chair beside 
the bed, shifting restlessly. "What was it you 
needed?  Why were you up?"

"I wanted to check on Emily.  I had a dream..."

"She is fine.  It's the medicine," he assured her. 
"The medicine gives you the bad dreams.  My mother 
used to have them.  You just have to remember that 
they're not real."

"I will try," she answered as if Sam's innocent 
advice was the answer to all things. "You can go back 
your room.  I am sorry I upset you." 

"Do you promise you'll stay in bed?  Dad won't 
forgive me if something happens to you.  He loves 
you."

"I will stay in bed," she promised, sounding tired. 
"Will you come see me tomorrow?  I miss talking with 
you."

"The doctor says I'm not allowed."

Mulder inhaled in surprise.  That was a lie, or at 
least a twist on the truth.  No one was supposed to 
upset Dana, but the doctor hadn't forbidden anyone 
from seeing her.  She couldn't have Emily bouncing 
all over her, and it wasn't proper for Byers to enter 
the bedroom to visit, but she was allowed to sit up 
and have a conversation with Sam.

"If I would ask the doctor or your father, would they 
say you could not see me?" Dana asked quietly.

"No," Sam confessed sheepishly.

"Has something happened that you are angry with me?"

"Did you tell him-"

"No," she said quickly. "I promised you that I would 
not."

Sam shifted his sock feet, interweaving his ankles 
with the rungs of the chair.  He leaned forward so he 
was close to the bed, but not touching it.

"You were very sick, Dana, but Dad says you don't 
remember."

"No, I do not remember.  I remember you bringing the 
doctor, and then I think I remember your father 
returning.  After that, the next memory I have is 
opening my eyes and seeing him with his arm in a 
sling, looking like he had not slept or shaved in a 
week."

"He hadn't.  I've never seen him so upset, even when 
Mother died.  He was... If I hadn't found the doctor, I 
just wouldn't have come back at all.  That way he 
wouldn't have had to look at me.  He asked me to do 
something so simple, and I just couldn't.  I stood 
there like a coward, and then I- I ran.  You could 
have died, and he never would have forgiven me."

There was a long pause, then she asked, "Samuel, you 
keep saying your father would not forgive you if 
anything happened to me.  Do you think he has 
forgiven you for what happened to your mother?"

Mulder stiffened.  As he strained to hear their 
hushed voices, his breathing seemed too loud, so he 
tried to breathe quieter, and then his heartbeat 
seemed too loud.

"Why should he?" Sam answered. "I said I'd watch her 
while he was away, and I wasn't watching her.  I was 
lollygagging with the horses." He shrugged. "He's 
used to being disappointed in me, though."

"When you ask if he is disappointed in you, what does 
he say?"

"He says no, he's not.  That we're different, but 
he's proud of me."

"Maybe you should listen to him."

"And maybe there's a reason he wanted another boy so 
much," Sam said softly. 

The chair squeaked tensely.

"If you sit at the top of the stairs and play your 
guitar, I can hear it," she responded after several 
seconds of silence. "Will you play Mozart?"

"All right," Sam agreed. 

He saw his son stand and adjust Dana's blankets again 
before leaving quietly.

"You can breathe now, Mr. Mulder," Dana said softly, 
after Sam's footsteps had faded away.

*~*~*~* 

This time, they started with a handshake and ended 
with a hug.  

"It is so good to see you again," Byers said 
thankfully. "Everyone's been worried.  How is, uh, 
everything?"

"Dana's better," Mulder answered, taking off his coat 
and hat.  The snow had melted a week ago, leaving 
behind the bleak coldness of January.  The icy mud 
was four inches deep in the streets, but the empty 
lobby of The Evening Star building was warm, and 
smelled, as always, of coffee and dusty newsprint and 
electricity.

Mulder looked around, glad to be back, even for a 
moment. 

"She's much better.  And the baby's fine," he added, 
realizing Byers was waiting for him to elaborate.  He 
was making good on his promise not to interfere, but 
Dana was his friend and he wanted to know. "Come by 
and see them, if you want.  I'll be there, and Dana 
was downstairs for a bit today.  She gets tired 
easily, but she'd probably like someone to talk to 
besides me."

"Good," Byers responded, nodding, then seeming at a 
loss for anything else to say. "I'm glad."

"I just came by to get something out of my desk.  
There's a book I want... I didn't think anyone would be 
here on a Sunday night."

"I was staying late, finishing a few things. 
Frohike's upstairs."

"Frohike's right here," another voice announced as 
heavy feet hurried down the stairs. "Right here.  
How's the pretty redhead?"

"She's much better.  The doctor says she should be 
okay," Mulder answered, stepping back before Frohike 
tackled him. "And we have a new redhead.  Kind of 
light brownish-red, actually, but I think I see some 
red highlights."

Mulder tried not to grin stupidly, but didn't even 
come close.

"Congratulations," Frohike responded, and Byers 
agreed, smiling. "Well, sit down and tell us all 
about your beautiful baby girl."

Frohike poured coffee, added a shot of brandy to each 
mug, and they settled into Mulder's office, pushing 
aside the old stacks of paper.  It seemed odd, after 
weeks, to be behind his desk again, and odder that it 
was exactly the same mess he'd left behind.

"Cailín's perfect.  She's the most beautiful, 
intelligent, wonderful little girl in history." 
Mulder paused, propped his feet up, and grinned 
impishly. "It is possible I'm biased."

"I do have to ask," Byers said. "Cailín?  Why did you 
name your baby girl Girl?"

"Why does everyone keep asking me that?  It's her 
name.  What do you want me to call her?  Harvey?  
Clyde?  Thurman?"

"Thurman was my late mother's name," Frohike said 
somberly, hiding behind his mug and adding a dramatic 
sniff. "That's a beautiful name."

Byers frowned uncertainly. "My mother's name was 
Katie," he said earnestly.

Mulder succeeded in keeping a straight face, but 
Frohike made a rude snorting noise and had to wipe 
coffee off his grizzled chin and the desk in front of 
him.

"I've missed you, Byers," Mulder responded.

Byers blinked, then startled as something crashed 
close by.

"Jesus!  What was that?" Mulder asked, hurrying into 
the dark lobby.  One of the large windows facing the 
street had shattered, and shards of glass glittered 
dangerously.  It crunched under Mulder's boots as he 
walked through. Spotting the source of the commotion, 
he picked a brick up from the polished tiles.

"What happened?" Byers asked as Frohike stuck his 
head out the door, trying to see who'd thrown it.  
The muddy street was empty.

"I think," Mulder said, carefully unwrapping a sheet 
of paper from the brick and shaking the glass off it. 
"We've just officially succeeded in this business, 
boys." He held up the paper, showing them the words 
"Niger Lover" scratched in red ink. "We've just 
pissed off the KKK."

"I'm touched," Frohike responded, putting his hand 
over his heart.

Congress was considering an amendment to The 
Constitution granting citizenship to Black males, 
giving them the right to vote and hold public office.  
It would also bar any ex-Confederate soldier, and 
anyone who'd given aid to a Confederate soldier, from 
office, thereby politically crippling the Old South.

And The Evening Star, along with many other liberal 
newspapers, was publicly supporting the amendment.  
It had its flaws, but it was at least a step in the 
right direction.

Mulder and Byers had similar political views and 
seldom disagreed on what to print, but Byes had sent 
a messenger to Mulder's house with the editorial 
before he ran it, knowing it would be controversial 
and wanting to make sure it was all right.  DC had 
been a slave-holding district, and was plagued by 
corruption as the government tried to rebuild.  The 
South had recovered enough to be chafing under 
military rule, and giving ex-slaves the right to vote 
- and requiring each rebellious state to accept the 
amendment before being readmitted to the Union - was 
pouring salt into an already smarting wound.

"I guess it's true: I've always been fond of Niger," 
Mulder nodded. "That's in West Africa, I believe.  
Poppy once made something called moambé stew, which 
she swore was her great grandmother's recipe and 
wasn't the same without the elephant meat."

"How is Poppy?" Frohike asked curiously. "I'm hearing 
all sorts of rumors..."

"We are not talking about her," Mulder responded.  He 
crumpled the piece of paper, tossed it into the air, 
then swatted it across the lobby.  Leaving the glass 
for the janitor to sweep up, he turned, shoved his 
hands in his pockets, and ambled back to his office. 
"We're talking about my beautiful baby girl."
 
*~*~*~*

It didn't matter; the maids had decided he was insane 
long ago anyway.  And as for propriety... It was only 
after Dana became pregnant that he'd realized anyone 
in the kitchen could clearly hear what was happening 
in the bedroom above.  Before Sam returned, Mulder 
had been fond of long, horizontal lunch breaks, so 
there probably wasn't much propriety left to 
preserve.

He lounged on the sofa, pretending to read his book 
and watching as a maid helped Dana dress.  Her hair 
went up first: tamed by the brush, coerced into a 
braid, and pinned into a loose knot on her crown.  
She rolled on fine silk stockings and secured them 
with garters below each knee, then slipped off her 
dressing gown, revealing lace-trimmed pantalets that 
reached her calves.  She wore a simple white chemise 
against her skin, then a corset, which the maid 
tightened slowly, stopping the instant Dana told her 
to.  She started to button a corset cover over it, 
but the fabric didn't meet in front, and Dana took it 
off, not bothering.

She was only dressing to go downstairs.  It would be 
weeks before she was well enough to go out again, but 
her priest was coming to Saturday afternoon tea.  
Instead of joining them, Mulder planned on 
disappearing before he said something offensive and 
got excommunicated.  Not that he believed in 
excommunication.  He didn't believe in vampires 
either, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Petticoats, or do you just want your velvet wrapper, 
Miss?" the maid asked, opening the wardrobe.

"Petticoats.  I will try a dress," Dana answered, 
looking unenthusiastically her choices.  Anything 
that might fit dated to her sixth month of pregnancy.  
Before that, she'd let out her regular dresses, and 
soon after, she'd resorted to what Mulder called her 
"watermelon smuggling wardrobe:" all black and all 
empire-waisted.
 
"Give us a few minutes," Mulder requested, and the 
maid quickly obeyed, laying her armload of ruffled 
petticoats on the bed.

"What is it?" Dana asked, turning toward him.

He crooked his finger lazily, gesturing for her to 
come to him.

She came, looking like she was contemplating 
mischief.  Once she was able to get out of bed and 
see Emily and the baby whenever she wanted, her mood 
had quickly improved.  She wasn't supposed to lift 
Cailín, but she could hold her, and could snuggle in 
bed with Emily as they took their afternoon nap 
together.   

"I know what you really want," he teased, grinning up 
at her. 

"Oh, you do?" she answered, playing along.  

"Something I have.  Probably something you've long 
forgotten."

"And what would that be?" she asked. "A waist?"

"Your dress."

She seemed puzzled, and waited while he retrieved the 
box that had come from a Parisian dress shop. 

"That dress? And you think that is appropriate for 
Father McCue?"

"No, it's not his color.  Try it on.  I wanna see how 
it looks." 

She raised a "you can't be serious, Mr. Mulder" 
eyebrow.  

"I know it won't fit.  Just for fun." He leaned down, 
whispering, "You do remember 'fun,' don't you?  
That's something we used to have, back in the dark 
ages.  Fuuunnn," he said slowly, sounding it out for 
her. "Fun: that which what provides amusement or 
enjoyment, namely to me.  Please?" 

"Oh, for God's sake," she mumbled, not sounding very 
convincing. 

She raised her arms, letting him slide the yards of 
delicate scarlet silk and gold lace carefully over 
her head.  Like a child being born, her crown, then 
her shoulders reappeared as the dress whispered down 
her body and settled into place with an expensive 
sigh.

"How does it look?" she asked tentatively, running 
her fingertips over the fabric.

"See for yourself," he answered, adjusting the 
neckline, then turning her so she faced the dresser 
mirror.  

If there'd been a crowd, there'd have been a sudden 
hush, but it was just the two of them.  And he didn't 
know which of the two was more surprised.  Suddenly, 
instead of a pale, vulnerable woman, an elegant lady 
in French couture stared back, her fair skin glowing 
and her blue eyes sparkling excitedly.

Aware she was the subject of scrutiny, Dana always 
dressed nicely, but conservatively.  She'd never meet 
the approval of DC's society matrons, but she tried 
not to give them more fodder for the rumor mill.  
Besides, she was a married woman and it wasn't her 
job to turn heads.  Her clothing was understated, 
designed to draw neither attention nor criticism.  
And between two babies and too many graves, function 
often took precedence over fashion.

His sensible Dana.  Not Dana, honey, or Dana, dear - 
just Dana.  When he thought, if he thought, he 
thought of her as pretty, pleasant, easy-on-the-eye, 
but for the first time, the word exquisite came to 
mind.

His lips parted in silent, breathless wonderment.

"Who is that?" she said softly, studying her 
reflection.  The woman in the mirror tilted her head 
uncertainly, as if there was a mistake and she might 
see someone else if she looked a little closer.

"That's my wife."

"Are you certain?" She turned sideways, watching the 
stranger who watched back.  Dana adjusted the 
neckline, self-consciously pulling the little lace 
sleeves higher on her shoulders.  

He grinned wickedly and pushed the sleeves back down 
again.

"Do you think Father McCue will approve?"

"I certainly hope not," he answered, pulling the 
edges of the bodice tight in the back so it was 
smooth in the front.  

It wasn't his imagination, and it wasn't the dress.  
She glowed.  She radiated like a beautiful woman who, 
perhaps for the first time, was confident she was 
beautiful.  Not Waterston's second choice, or Fox 
Mulder's third, not a substitute for her sister or a 
convenient alternative to being alone, not a bed-
warmer, a housekeeper, or a baby-maker.  Not a female 
body who was pretty enough in the dark, but a strong, 
independent lady who wore beauty like silk, not 
armor, by the light of day. 

She squared her bare shoulders, getting used to this 
new reflection. 
 
The dress was cut to the same measurements as her 
other formal gowns, which meant he could put his 
hands around the waist with room to spare.  So soon 
after having Cailín, the back gaped open, but as long 
as only the front was visible, no one would ever 
know.  Just leave the buttons open.  It was an old 
undertaker's trick, and it took him a moment to 
realize why he knew it.

When he did, he swallowed, letting go of the edges.  

She could have died last month, and he would never 
have seen her for who she really was.  He'd thought 
he had - he'd memorized every inch of her body with 
his, but she was a woman that a man could strip naked 
and still not see all of.  Still not see most of.  
How arrogant of him, he realized.  He could explore 
her for decades and still be a novice. 

"Is something wrong?" Dana asked, watching his 
reflection in the mirror as he moved away.

Mulder shook his head tersely and sank back on the 
sofa.  She followed, trying to keep the dress's 
enormous skirt from dragging on the floor.   

"What is it?"

"Nothing," he answered immediately. "I'm glad you 
like the dress.  It's beautiful on you."

She stood over him, looking perplexed. "What is 
wrong?"

"Nothing.  I, uh, I was just thinking of something..." 
He shook his head, like memories were drops of water 
he could shake away. "Nothing.  Come here," he 
requested, pulling her to him.

Dana let him guide her so she straddled his lap, 
facing him, drowning them in acres of scarlet silk.  
It seemed strange to be face-to-face again, without 
her belly between them.  He tried to recall the last 
time they'd been so close.  Not since the night Sam 
came home.  Not since five months ago.

"I'm just glad you're getting better."

"All right," she said uncertainly. "I am glad I am 
better, too."

"I love you," he said impulsively, urgently, as if 
he'd never said it before. "You can't imagine how I 
love you."

"I know.  I love you," she assured him, trying to 
comfort him.

"Do you?"

She nodded slightly.

"Enough?" he asked before he thought.

"How much is enough?"

"I don't know," he answered honestly.  He put his 
arms around her, pulling her against him.  The fabric 
of the dress crushed as she leaned into him, resting 
her head on his shoulder.  Beneath the rigid 
confinement of the corset, her ribcage rose slightly 
as she breathed, but otherwise she was perfectly 
still, just letting him hold her.  Hold onto her - so 
she didn't get away. 
 
"Just a little longer," he requested when the maid 
knocked on the bedroom door.
 
*~*~*~*

Except for Frohike, he and Sam were the last men in 
the building, but Frohike never seemed to leave, 
anyway.

"Can our artist in residence please go home now?" 
Mulder asked, wrapping his fingertips over the top of 
the doorframe and stretching lazily. "We're supposed 
to feed him. He's a growing boy."

At the mention of food, Samuel immediately put his 
sketch aside and stood up from his workbench, already 
a foot above Frohike's balding head and only a hair 
shorter than Mulder.  He rolled his shoulders, then 
reached for his coat and hat.  

"Give that pretty redhead all my love," Frohike 
requested as they left.

"She's afraid of your love," Mulder called over his 
shoulder. "Frankly, I'm afraid of your love."

"Snob.  And don't call me Frankie," he yelled down 
the stairs. "'Night Sammy.  Thank you for all the 
help."

"You're welcome.  Goodnight, sir," he answered 
politely.  Dana had given him a soft, cream-colored 
scarf for Christmas, and he wrapped it around his 
neck up to his chin, preparing for the icy wind.

Mulder locked the lobby door, checked the latch, then 
dropped the key into his coat pocket to mingle with 
his collection of trinkets and trash until he needed 
it in the morning.  More often than not, Byers beat 
him to the office, anyway.

"Is it all right if we walk?" he asked Sam as the 
streetcar approached the corner. "It's not that cold, 
and I wanted to talk with you.  About a few things.  
If you want."

Sam nodded hesitantly, then wrapped his scarf tighter 
and hid his hands in his coat pockets. "What did I 
do?"

"Nothing," he answered quickly. "Nothing at all.  I 
just- I guess you've figured out..." He took a deep 
breath and tried again. "The legislature gave me 
until March 1st to be in Massachusetts.  That's next 
week, which means I can be in Boston with time to 
spare, but... But I'm not going, Sammy," he finally 
said. "I'm staying here.  With Emmy and Cally.  And 
you.  And Dana."

He blew out the rest of his breath in a long, silent 
whistle, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye as 
they walked down Pennsylvania Avenue toward The White 
House.

He wanted to believe Sam was young, moody, impulsive, 
alone, confused.  That he'd had some disagreement 
with Dana and, in a fit of temper, asked his father 
to divorce her. Once his temper cooled, he'd be fine.  

Except Sam wasn't Mulder as a teenager.  Sam was 
levelheaded, thoughtful, gentle, and so sensitive to 
others that he seemed almost empathic.  He lived in a 
borderland of four-four time and four-part harmony; 
of burnt sienna, cerulean blue, raw umber, and 
titanium white.  Like the new generation of radical 
French painters, he saw the real world only as 
moments of soft light and shadow.  He seemed to stand 
perfectly still as life raged around him, and he 
could only watch impassively, unable to fight back, 
or get away.

Like Melissa, there was so much beauty in Samuel's 
world, but there was also so much pain.

"You promised," Sam said quietly. "You said it would 
be a few weeks - until Dana was better, and she's 
better now."

Another streetcar clacked by, the draft horses' 
hooves clopping through the mud, down the center of 
the avenue toward The Capitol. An afternoon snowstorm 
had left an inch of pretty powder on the rooftops, 
but on the streets, it had been churned into more 
brown slush.  In the distance, the new Capitol dome 
glowed golden, like a yellow cake dusted with 
confectioner's sugar.

"I don't understand how you could want me to leave 
Dana, let alone divorce her.  I know you were afraid 
something would happen to her, and maybe you're even 
angry at her for getting sick and frightening you, 
but... You seem to like her very much, Sammy. You trust 
her.  If there's anyone you don't trust, it's me."

Sam kept his head down and continued walking.

He'd rehearsed the next part for weeks, so it was a 
little easier. "I've thought about what Dana said to 
you before Christmas: about your mother not knowing 
what she was doing when she died. In some ways that's 
true, but in some ways it's not. But, regardless, I 
was the reason she was going to have a baby.  I was 
the one who told you it would be all right, then fell 
asleep, so if you need to blame me, that's fine."

"Dana just said that to make me feel better," Sam 
responded softly.

"Oh. Well- Yes, she did.  I didn't think you realized 
that, though."

Mulder worried his wedding ring with his thumb as 
they walked, trying to regroup.  That hadn't been in 
the script of his speech.

Sam paused, turning his head to one side, and looking 
at nothing.

"What, Sammy?"

"You loved Mother, didn't you?  You would never have 
done anything to hurt her, would you?" he asked, as 
though he was afraid to hear the answer.

"No, I would never have hurt her." His stomach began 
to knot.  For the most part, Sam had been alone with 
Melissa the week before she died.  God only knew what 
she might have said to him in her confusion.  Or what 
Poppy might have said. "Sammy, did she or someone 
else tell you differently?"

Sam shook his head slightly from side to side. 

"Then why did you ask?" he tried, just in case he 
might get an answer.

He didn't.  The only thing he got was a puff of white 
vapor in front of his face as he exhaled.

"No, I never hurt her, Sammy.  Not on purpose.  I 
loved her.  I still love her.  And it doesn't seem to 
matter how many times I tell you I love you and I'm 
proud of you, it never sinks in, but I'll say it 
again: I do.  I'd do anything for you.  You're my 
only boy, Sammy, and you'll always be my only boy.  
There aren't going to be any more.  I don't know if 
that's something I should tell you or not, but I 
thought it might make you feel better."

Sam gave him a sidelong glance, but didn't comment.

"Does it?" he pursued.  

"Yes.  No.  I'm not sure."

"You're not sure," Mulder echoed, trying not to sound 
frustrated. 

Someone called to them from across the street, and 
Mulder and Sam raised their hands politely, then 
walked on, shoulder to shoulder.  The sleet started 
again, stinging their cheeks and bouncing off their 
noses. 

"Please talk to me, Sammy," he pleaded.

"I can't," Sam answered simply, which was the most 
telling thing he'd said in weeks.

"Then talk to Dana.  She won't tell me.  She's good 
at keeping secrets.  All right?"

Sam nodded, probably because he just wanted the 
conversation to be over.
 
They reached the end of Newspaper Row and turned 
right onto 15th Street, passing the new Treasury 
building, then the busy telegraph office, which had a 
line of people stretching out the door, waiting to 
send telegrams.  They walked along the sidewalk in 
front of Columbian University until it ended at H 
Street, then turned and crossed the cobblestones, 
dodging the wagons, dogs, and buggies.  Two blocks 
later, at Saint John's Episcopal Church, they made 
another right, and Mulder could see his house down 
the block, its brick walls rising complacently behind 
the broad, snow-dusted lawn.

Dana once observed that he hadn't built a home, he'd 
built a fortress.  She'd asked him who or what he'd 
been protecting, and he'd only laughed.

"There's home," Mulder announced, glad to have 
something neutral and obvious to say. "I bet dinner's 
ready."

"Yes," Sam answered, seeming relieved. "Rebekah said 
we're having peach cobbler."

"Peach cobbler," he echoed approvingly. "If I'd 
thought, we could have sidetracked by Fussell's and 
brought ice cream to go with it.  Should we go back?"

"I could go," his son volunteered immediately.

"Well... Okay." Mulder stripped off his gloves and 
searched his pockets for change.

Ice cream was twenty-five cents a quart, but all he 
could find were several crumpled slips of paper, two 
keys, a button, four pennies, three nickels, a five 
and a twenty-dollar bill, and some lint.  He held out 
the five, not happy about giving Sam enough money to 
buy a train ticket.  That was silly, of course.  Sam 
could just as easily take the cashbox, or pawn 
something, or, as he had before, simply be gone.  
Nothing short of locking him in the attic could keep 
him in DC if he wanted to leave.

"Your mother was dead when we found her, Sam.  It was 
too late.  I wanted to believe she wasn't, so I sent 
you for the doctor.  But there was nothing you or I 
or anyone could have done to help her."      

Sam nodded again, adjusting his scarf as he turned 
away.

"Get two quarts of vanilla," Mulder called after him, 
just so he could finally say something fruitful. "And 
whatever you want.  And Emmy likes chocolate.  And..."

He trailed off and gave up, watching his son crunch 
through the snow to get ice cream.

*~*~*~*

There had been a flurry to create post-war memorials 
and cemeteries, but Arlington National Cemetery had 
been established a month after his father's death, so 
his white headstone stood beside Teena Mulder's in 
Georgetown.

William S. Mulder, beloved husband and father. 
Senator. Colonel.  West Point graduate. Decorated 
soldier. Born December 12, 1815.  Died April 1, 1865.

Forty-nine

Teena L. Mulder, beloved wife and mother.  Born June 
22, 1818.  Died November 24, 1866.

Forty-eight

Melissa Kavanaugh Mulder, beloved wife and mother. 
1835 -1864.

Twenty-nine

Sarah Kavanaugh.  1835-1850

Fifteen.  

Sarah's was the oldest grave.  When Jack Kavanaugh 
had finally sobered up and shown up hours after 
Sarah's death, and the doctor had told him how she'd 
died, he'd called her a whore, shoved Mulder aside, 
and walked out.  Not sure what else to do, Bill 
Mulder, instead of sending the body back to 
Tennessee, had bought the plot and buried Sarah in 
the Georgetown cemetery, which had done nothing to 
stem the gossip about how and why she'd died.

Kavanaugh had reappeared for her funeral, drunk, but 
looking appropriately bereft.  

Teena Mulder had cried, and her husband had comforted 
her.

Melissa had huddled and looked small.

Mulder had felt very little except empty.

He sat on the cold marble bench, gazing back across 
almost two decades.  Sam divided the flowers between 
his mother's and grandmother's graves, pulled a few 
dead winter weeds, then stood beside him, waiting.  
Mulder looked up at his son, his beautifully chiseled 
features framed by his black hair and outlined by the 
blackening storm clouds.  The hem of his black wool 
peacoat fluttered, and the wind blew the fringed ends 
his favorite scarf against his jaw. 

Sarah had been the same age as Sam when she died, and 
yet to Mulder's eyes, Sam looked impossibly young.  
And, for thirty-three, Mulder felt impossibly old.  
He tried to remember what it felt like to be fifteen, 
and almost couldn't.  He'd only been fifteen for 
about six months, then skipped directly to thirty.

"I tried to draw Mother last week, but I can't 
remember her," Sam murmured as if telling a secret.

"We have photographs.  And you have hundreds of 
sketches."

"But I couldn't remember her," he answered, 
emphasizing "her." "I was afraid I was just making 
her up.  I tried and tried, but I can't remember what 
was Mother and what was just the way I wanted to 
think of her."

"Sometimes, neither can I," Mulder admitted.

"It doesn't seem fair," Sam said quietly, staring at 
the row of elegant white stones.

"It never does," Mulder answered.

*~*~*~*

As much as their society shunned sex, it eroticized 
pain.  Women wore rigid corsets that reduced their 
waists until they looked like they'd break in two, 
causing everything from fainting spells to 
miscarriage.  High-heeled slippers and hoopskirts 
were fashionable, uncomfortable, and often dangerous.  
And, partially to ensure premarital chastity and 
partially because their mothers spoke from 
experience, girls were told intercourse hurt.  Often 
brides barely knew what sex was, but their mothers 
were clear on two facts: it was very painful, and 
they had to do it because their husbands wanted to.

Mulder found it physically impossible to make love to 
a woman who was crying and pleading for him to stop, 
but he seemed to be in the minority.

Gentlemen were taught that they married to have 
children, not to have sex.  Once they had that all-
important legitimate son, it was easier not to bother 
their wives in bed, which was often a relief to both 
parties.  Many men loved their wife, and disliked 
pushing her into an act she found, at best, 
uncomfortable and distasteful.  They were devoted to 
her as the mother of their children, but it wasn't 
worth the effort to make love to her unless there was 
no other female body available.  And the majority of 
wives were devoted to their husband, but embarrassed 
by his base behavior, unsure how to please him, and 
often terrified of conceiving again.

Marital fidelity was the exception, not the rule.  
For men.  A wife who strayed was likely insane, and 
quietly sent to a nunnery or mental asylum.  The 
female orgasm was shameful and doctors recommended 
surgical removal of the clitoris to correct such 
deviant hyper-sexuality.  Good mothers were not good 
bedmates.

With little means to prevent pregnancy except 
abstinence, abortion was common among all classes, 
including married women, and accepted so long as it 
was done before the mother felt the baby move. 
Wealthy women and courtesans sought out doctors with 
side entrances to their offices so patients could 
enter unseen.  Working women, street whores, and 
unmarried girls sought out whoever or whatever was 
available, and like Sarah, often died in their 
attempt.

Most gentlemen had illegitimate children before they 
married, often with a maid or other working-class 
girl.  Once the affair cooled, those children were 
provided for, but politely dismissed as the follies 
of youth.  After a man married, it was considered bad 
form to seduce a servant in his own house, or to let 
his wife discover any further bastards.

There was roughly one prostitute to every four men in 
DC, ranging from pitiful creatures in dark alleys for 
a dollar to beautiful courtesans who expected to find 
a diamond necklace beside their pillow the next 
morning.  It wasn't uncommon for Mulder to hear a 
voice calling his name from the shadows, follow it, 
and be propositioned by a teenage girl who'd once 
sold matches or flowers to him on the street corner 
but had discovered she could earn more selling her 
body.  Occasionally, it was even one of his former 
newsboys, his smooth cheeks and lips painted garishly 
with women's rouge.  

There were more whorehouses than churches, catering 
to every imaginable budget, taste, and perversion.  
Set apart, though, and usually discretely at the edge 
of town, were the houses specializing in virgins - 
real or fabricated by a small sponge soaked in blood 
and a few acting lessons.  Sex with a virgin was said 
to cure syphilis and gonorrhea, which, in some 
troops, forty percent of soldiers had contracted 
during the war and later brought home to their wives.  
For some, that was the attraction, but some men just 
liked the idea of being able to hurt a frightened 
young woman as much as possible, and were willing to 
pay for that privilege.

If a man was in bed with a woman he loved, was 
faithful to, and who wanted to be with him as much as 
he wanted to be with her, he'd better count himself 
damn lucky, no matter how badly the night turned out.

And he did.  He'd just never had a disaster in bed 
with Dana before.  He'd had them with Melissa. He'd 
had nights that ended so badly it was easier to 
pretend they'd never happened and just avoid the 
issue.  It took years for the realization to make it 
through his thick skull: he wasn't the problem.  
Actually, it had taken marrying Dana.  With Melissa, 
he could be as slow and sweet and gentle as he knew 
how to be, but it didn't matter.  Melissa hadn't 
liked sex.  It was one of God's great jokes: he'd 
created one of the most beautiful women Mulder had 
ever laid eyes on, then made her completely frigid.

Dana did, though.  She trusted him and she liked 
being close to him, whether they were taking a bath 
together, holding hands, or making love.  Even when 
they had intercourse because he wanted to, he'd never 
felt like she merely along for the ride, so to speak.  
He'd felt like an invited guest, not an intruder.  

He wanted to believe the problem was that it was too 
soon after the baby.  He wanted to believe that was 
ninety percent of the problem, but it was perhaps 
ten.  And that was being generous.

He hated Poppy.  He hated her with a white-hot 
passion for taking something that wasn't hers to 
take.  It seemed like a naïve thing for a man to take 
pride in, but he had: he'd never been with a woman 
who wasn't or wouldn't become his wife.  He'd thought 
about it, he'd been tempted, and he'd even started 
down the path a few times, but he'd never strayed.  
But what Poppy had said, whether it was true or not, 
had planted a seed inside his head which had grown, 
its roots tapping into his dreams and flashing images 
across his brain whenever he closed his eyes.

Whether it was true or not, it might as well have 
been. "You asked and I wanted to," Poppy's voice 
whispered each time he tried to focus on Dana.

"What is wrong?" Dana had asked.

"Nothing," he'd mumbled, telling her she needed to 
relax.

She needed to relax; he needed to relax.  They'd gone 
out to dinner for the first time since the baby came, 
shared a bottle of wine, embraced in the carriage on 
the way home.  He'd helped her undress; she'd helped 
him.  The house was dark and quiet, the children were 
asleep, the bedroom door was locked.

It still felt awkward, as though they'd never been 
intimate before.  

"I'm scared to even touch you," he'd admitted after 
it had become obvious.

"We have done this before," Dana had answered, 
referring to making love for the first time two 
months after Emily's birth. "Just go slowly."

"If we go any slower, we'll stop," he'd said in 
annoyance, more with himself than with her.  Dana was 
trying, but despite their best efforts, her body 
wasn't following suit. "You're scared it's going to 
hurt, too, aren't you?"

"It only hurts for a moment," she'd assured him. 
"Then it stops.  Like being with a virgin," she'd 
teased.

"Never been with a virgin," he'd muttered, more 
focused on the idea that sex had hurt her and she 
hadn't told him.  She was supposed to tell him if he 
hurt her.  They had a deal.  They'd all but spit and 
shook hands on it.  He had reconsider hundreds of 
nights, trying to figure out which ones she'd been 
lying about.

"What?" he'd asked, realizing she was staring up at 
him.

"What about, what about..."

"What about what?" he'd responded, catching up with 
her train of thought and silently daring her to ask.

Wisely, she hadn't.  

He'd exhaled and started over, beginning with her 
lips and working his way down again.  He'd caught 
himself glancing at the clock as he kissed her neck, 
then closed his eyes again.

"That is a sin," she'd decided before he'd even 
finished telling her about his trip to the pharmacy.  
He'd tried to tease and persuade her into the idea of 
prophylactics, but she wouldn't budge.

"So you want a baby every year?" he'd demanded. "I 
thought we decided this."

"We have children when God decides we have children."

"Well, let's not help Him along."

"That," she'd said again, pointing to the sheath he 
was already humiliated about anyway, "Is a sin."

"And watching you die nine months from now is some 
sort of blessing?  Can you leave your priest out of 
our bed, please?" he'd snapped angrily. "Three's a 
crowd."

He'd known immediately that was the wrong thing to 
say.  Very wrong.  He'd ribbed her good-naturedly 
about her faith, but he'd never belittled her before.  

Dana got up to leave.

"All right, all right!" he'd conceded, throwing the 
unused sheath to the floor.  He'd just pull out.  She 
couldn't do a damn thing about that except fume. 
"Fine.  It's gone.  Come back here."

He'd put his arm around her waist and pulled her 
back.  Still annoyed, Dana had swatted him away and 
he'd caught her hands, pushing her down.  She'd 
struggled angrily, but not nearly as much as he'd 
thought she was capable of. 

"Do you think you're going somewhere?" he'd growled 
at her, pinning her down.

"Go to Hell," she'd snapped back.

"Not without you, love."

She'd responded with barred teeth that parted as he 
covered her mouth with his, and with angry eyes that 
closed as he touched her.

He'd felt her bare body responding under his, her 
legs shifting and breaths quickening as each kiss 
became an exclamation point instead of a question 
mark.  He'd closed his eyes again, and finally there 
was only her.

He'd felt the tide growing stronger, sweeping over 
them.  His beard scraped desperately against her face 
and neck and breasts, and her palms pressed against 
his.  He'd let go of her hands, and felt her fingers 
gripping his shoulders as he sank deep inside her, 
thrusting roughly.  That was what he craved. Not 
sweet words and giggles, but primal: dark, dangerous, 
base.  That was what would make it better.

Suddenly, he'd realized she'd started struggling 
again, trying to get away.  She pushed desperately at 
his shoulders, wanting him off her.  As soon as he'd 
withdrawn and sat back, she'd curled into a ball, her 
face contorted in pain.

"Dana?"

She'd stayed still, whimpering.

"Dana?  My God, what's wrong?"

"It hurts," she'd said hoarsely.

He touched her bare hip, and she flinched.

He removed his hand. "My God, are you all right?"

"I'm sorry," she'd managed as she caught her breath. 

"No, I'm sorry. I forgot. I was... I wasn't thinking.  
Did I hurt you?"

She'd nodded, refusing to look at him.

"Dana, I'm sorry.  Very sorry.  Are you okay?"

She'd nodded again, wiping her eyes. "Sorry," she 
repeated.

"It's all right." He'd lain down, curling up to her 
back and putting his arms around her.  He'd felt the 
tension in her body as he touched her.  He'd stroked 
her shoulder nervously, not sure what else to say or 
do. "Relax.  Maybe it's too soon after the baby."

"I could..." she'd offered, starting to roll over to 
face him.

"And I'd let you, but I think it's a moot point," 
he'd admitted, his humiliation complete. His erection 
had vanished when he'd realized he was hurting her, 
and it wasn't going to reappear in the near future.

She'd rolled away again.  He'd swallowed and scooted 
closer, pulling the blankets over them and spooning 
against her. "Dana, I'm sorry," he'd tried one last 
time, but she'd only nodded, as embarrassed than he 
was.

So he'd let the subject drop.

And now he was beside her, telling himself it 
happened because it was too soon after Cailín, and 
he'd gone too fast.

"You asked and I wanted to," Poppy's voice whispered 
to him again, and he rubbed his ear roughly, blocking 
her out.

Dana heard the noise the instant he did, and pushed 
up on her elbow to peer out the dark window.  Twigs 
snapped in the yard, and downstairs, Grace bayed 
madly. 

"Who's out there?" he asked, his head still on the 
pillow and his arm outstretched, awaiting her return. 
"Has Grace spotted a squirrel?" 

"There are men," she said softly. "There are men 
beside the house."

"Men?  Men doing what?" Mulder sat up, crawling nude 
across the mattress and looking over her shoulder.  

It was well past midnight.  The night watchman was 
out, but it was too early for the milkman or for 
farmers to be making their way to market.  The groom 
and stable boys wouldn't come to work for hours, and 
Sam was supposed to be in his room down the hall.   

Mulder rolled out of bed, grabbed his tuxedo trousers 
off the sofa, and went to the other window to check.

Dana was right: there were men in white robes and 
hoods in the yard.  As he watched, not sure what they 
were doing, he saw one put a torch to a large wooden 
cross, setting it ablaze in his front yard.  The KKK 
had burned houses and Negro schools further south, 
but in DC, all they'd done was throw bricks, lurk, 
and make empty threats.  Until now.

"What are they doing?" Dana asked, pulling on her 
wrapper.

"They're sending a message," he answered.  He gritted 
his teeth angrily, hands on his hips. "And I'm 
sending one back," he decided, jerking open the 
nightstand drawer and grabbing his old Army revolver. 

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus XII

***********************************


Begin: Paracelsus XIII
 
*~*~*~*

The historical revisionists had begun their work 
before the smoke cleared from the last battle, 
decreeing the North fought a war to end slavery.  
Mulder couldn't speak for anyone else, but he'd 
fought a war to preserve the Union.  In fact, he 
recalled seeing white Union soldiers intentionally 
firing on Black Union soldiers.  Freeing four million 
slaves was a byproduct of ruining the South.  The 
North didn't want slaves in the South, but it didn't 
want ex-slaves in the North, either.

Until his father became a senator and they'd spent 
part of each year in Georgetown, Mulder had never 
even seen a Negro.  When he did, the slaves he'd 
encountered were his friends' mammies and maids: well 
fed, well groomed, devoted, and polite, just like his 
parents' Irish servants.  He hadn't understood that 
Rebekah was free to leave her position, but Poppy 
wasn't. Slavery was more a concept than an actuality, 
and he'd had no idea what went on behind closed 
doors.

When he was eight, he'd asked why a Negro woman was 
on an auction block in Center Market with her dress 
open to her waist.  Rebekah had said it was none of 
his concern and hurried him past.

When he was seventeen, he and Byers had read "Uncle 
Tom's Cabin" in their room at Harvard and been 
appalled along with the rest of the nation.  He'd 
realized who fathered Poppy's stillborn baby, and why 
she'd been so eager to stay with Melissa at Mulder's 
parents' home instead with Kavanaugh.

When he was twenty-two and it was finally his house 
and his money, at Melissa's request, he'd bought 
Poppy from Jack Kavanaugh and signed the papers 
ensuring her freedom.  The next day, Kavanaugh 
sobered up and tried to back out of the deal, but it 
was too late.  He'd been furious with Mulder for 
months before his liver finally gave out and he'd 
taken his predestined place in Hell.

When he was thirty, he'd seen General Sherman, an 
unabashed racist, defy President Lincoln's order to 
allow Negro soldiers in his army.  As the troops 
marched through the South and up the east coast, 
Sherman had "freed the slaves:" burned the towns and 
farms they'd called home, stripped the landscape of 
any scrap of food, and then perversely promised each 
forty acres and a mule - which he had no means or 
plans to deliver.  Legions of homeless, hungry 
families followed the army north to Washington, 
waiting for Sherman to make good on his promise.

Some found work in DC, some returned south as 
sharecroppers or went west, and the rest of the 
exodus was absorbed into the sludge of saloons and 
shantytowns.  Washington - the bottom of the North 
and top of the South - epitomized "the Colored 
problem," as it was politely called.  In every large 
city, whites called for Negroes to go home, 
forgetting they had no homes left to go to.  They 
called for them to find jobs, then refused to hire 
them.  Everyone was quick to point fingers, and, as 
the displaced, destitute masses reached epidemic 
proportions, guns.

The Ku Klux Klan germinated in the rot of the 
decaying South, and spread like the plague.  Its 
members, concealed by darkness and old bed sheets, 
burned Negro schools and churches, intimidated Negro 
farmers and businessmen, and added fuel to a fire 
that was already burning out of control.
 
"Are you going to shoot them?" Dana asked, following 
him down the upstairs hallway.

He paused long enough to button his trousers and 
shrug on his wrinkled dress shirt. "I'll shoot over 
their heads, but I might miss."
 
Cally's frightened Negro wet nurse peeked out of the 
nursery.  He told her to stay with Cally and Emmy, 
lock the door, and not unlock it until he told her 
to.

"Stay here," he ordered Dana, because he liked to 
waste his breath.  She pulled her wrapper tighter 
around her and hurried down the stairs after him. 
"Then stay back," he conceded.

"Samuel is outside," she said, pushing the drapes 
aside and looking out the window beside the front 
door.  Grace watched with her, alternately barking 
furiously and whining to be let out.

"Outside?" 

Mulder saw men in white hoods encircling Sam in the 
front yard.  Sam was backing away, but there was 
nowhere to back.  Each time he reached the edge of 
the human circle, one of the men shoved him back to 
the center.

"Pretty boy," one taunted. "Come on, pretty boy.  
Where's Daddy and Granddaddy now?"

"Mulder-" Dana started, but he already had the front 
door open and his revolver cocked.  Grace bolted past 
him and into the yard, sinking his teeth into the 
closest leg.

"Let him be," Mulder said loudly, the men turned.

Abandoning Sam, they focused on Mulder, suddenly 
unsure what to do.  They usually threw their bricks, 
burned their crosses, and ran like rats.  The idea 
was to cause terror, not risk their lives.  Having 
someone point a gun at them in downtown DC, seeming 
un-terrorized, was a novel situation.

The men shifted their feet uncertainly.  "Let's go, 
boys," one said snidely, backing away. "We're done 
here."

Another danced in one-legged circles, trying to get 
Grace's teeth out of his ankle. "Somebody get the 
Goddamn dog off me," he yelled, and a weapon fired, 
the crack echoing in the still night air.  Mulder 
jumped, and Grace yelped, then slumped onto the 
frosty lawn.

"Jesus, you fool!  You'll wake everyone!" the 
ringleader hissed as the neighbors began to emerge.  
Mulder stayed where he was, keeping his weapon 
trained on anyone who came within a few feet of Sam.  
Fearful they were about to be outnumbered, outgunned, 
and unmasked, men began disappearing into the 
shadows.

Mulder exhaled and lowered his revolver, and realized 
that Dana, beside him, was doing the same.  She'd 
retrieved a rifle from the library, and was standing 
in the doorway in her robe, pointing a gun bigger 
than she was.  It wasn't loaded, she probably 
couldn't hit the side of a barn, and it would knock 
her on her lovely backside if she did fire it, but 
she could hold it, just the same.

Somehow, he wasn't surprised.

He descended the steps, holding his pistol against 
his thigh as he knelt down to check Grace.  The dog's 
pink tongue lolled out its open mouth, and, in the 
cold air, there was no vapor in front of its muzzle.  
Mulder found the bullet hole behind one floppy ear: 
his favorite place to be scratched.  He'd probably 
died instantly.

Now Mulder wished he had shot someone, but he didn't 
know how many KKK members it took to equal one good 
dog.  Six bullets was a start, and he could always 
reload.  

"Mulder," Dana said again, nodding for him to look 
behind him.

The Klansmen had left Sam standing on the front walk, 
a little roughed up and embarrassed, but unhurt.  He 
was on the ground now, straddling one of them and 
pummeling him with his fists.  Sam paused to jerk off 
the man's hood, revealing Alex, and then continued 
landing one vicious blow after another.  Alex 
struggled to fight back with one arm, but Sam had the 
advantage.

Mulder watched in astonishment.  Sam would fight if 
he had to, but he was never the aggressor.  He'd 
never known his son to start a brawl, or not to stop 
when his opponent was beaten.

"Sam," Mulder finally shouted, afraid he'd beat Alex 
to death.  That would be no great loss to humanity, 
but Mulder would have to explain it to the police. 
"Samuel William Mulder!"

Sam stopped, blinked, then got up, leaving Alex 
barely conscious.  The boy looked at his own fists as 
he backed away, perplexed by the blood on them.

"Everything okay, Fox?" one of the neighbors called, 
standing on the front porch in his silk robe and 
slippers, his genteel eyebrows almost even with his 
hairline.  Mulder, still leaning over Grace under the 
burning cross, waved that it was just another night 
on the old homestead.  Neighbor waved back, being 
neighborly, and returned to bed.

"Are you okay?" he asked as Sam passed Grace's body 
without seeming to see it.  Like his father, he'd 
dressed hurriedly, and his dangling suspenders 
bounced against his legs as he moved.  His black hair 
was tousled, and there was a cut on his cheekbone 
that would probably scar.  He'd worked up a sweat 
using Alex as a punching bag, and, in the last of the 
liquid orange firelight, he lacked only a little war 
paint and a few feathers to look exactly like one of 
his not-too-distant ancestors. 

After half a minute, Alex moaned and got to his feet, 
stumbling into the gutter and down the street after 
the other Klansmen.

"Sammy?" Mulder repeated, wondering how this could be 
the same boy who rescued kittens and rocked cranky 
babies. "Are you okay, Sammy?"

"Yes sir, I'm better now," he responded politely.

*~*~*~*

He realized his head hurt long before he realized he 
was gritting his teeth.  When he did, he tried to 
stop, and found he was clenching his fists instead.  
If he'd thought he could find him, he'd go after Alex 
and hit him a few times, just for good measure.  It 
made Sam feel better.  Maybe it would make Mulder 
feel better too.  Vindicated.  Less used.  He didn't 
give a damn how it would make Alex feel.

He was angry Poppy's idle words had stolen into his 
bed and come between him and Dana.  He was angry Dana 
had to beg him to stop rather than him realizing he 
was hurting her.  He was angry a group of cowardly 
fools in sheets had the gall to burn a cross on his 
front yard.  He was angry his son's dog was dead.  He 
was angry he hadn't shot someone.  He was angry he'd 
been trying unsuccessfully to make love to his wife 
for the first time in months while Sam was outside 
trying to fight off the KKK.  He was angry they were 
out of sugar and he had to drink his coffee black.

He glanced at the calendar beside the stove, checking 
to see if it was a holiday.  The first Saturday of 
Lent probably wasn't anything significant but, God 
help him, Easter was coming.  

Dana poured coffee, setting a cup in front of Samuel 
along with the cream pitcher.  She and Sam drank 
their coffee the same way, but Mulder needed sugar, 
damn it.

He realized he was gritting his teeth again.

He'd wrapped Grace in an old blanket and brought him 
inside, laying him in his usual place beside the 
stove until morning.  Sam took his cup and sat on the 
floor beside him, stroking the top of his dog's head.

"Sammy..." Mulder started, but his son didn't look up. 
"Sammy, he wasn't in any pain.  We'll bury him 
tomorrow: you and me."

No response.

"We can bury him in the woods where you and 
Grandfather liked to hunt. You, Grandfather, and 
Amazing Grace the Rabbit Hunter."  

No response.

"I'll buy you any puppy you want.  You could get 
another basset hound.  Or would you like..." Mulder 
offered until Dana give him a "please just stop 
speaking" look.    

Mulder closed his mouth, clenched his fist underneath 
the table, then exhaled to cool his coffee. 

"What happened to your neck?" Sam asked as Dana bent 
over him, holding a candle to see and a rag to wash 
the cut on his cheekbone.

The skin around her mouth and on her neck and upper 
chest was irritated from his beard, and there were 
several small red and purple marks from his teeth.  
Mulder bit his lip, silently rebuking himself.  
Fifteen minutes earlier, he'd thought she'd been 
giving as good as she was getting, but he doubted 
there were marks on him, and he hadn't given birth a 
few months ago.

She was still so weak; he wondered how long she'd 
fought back before he'd noticed.  And he wondered how 
badly he must have hurt her that she'd ask him to 
stop.  Having intercourse with him whenever he 
wanted, however he wanted, was one of her marriage 
vows.  Refusing was grounds for divorce.

She'd expected him to hit her.  Or force her.  When 
she asked him to stop, when he touched her again, 
she'd flinched.

Mulder looked down, studying his coffee cup.

"Nothing," Dana answered casually. "Tilt your face so 
I can see."

Sam tilted, Dana dabbed, and Mulder blew his hot 
coffee again.

"I don't think Alex shot Grace, Sammy.  Did you think 
he had?"

His son nodded "yes" unconvincingly.  Mulder started 
to ask, but decided it could wait until another time.  
Whatever the score was, he assumed Sam had evened it.

"Well, if Alex is involved, Spender's behind this 
somewhere.  He must have enlisted the KKK to do his 
dirty work." Mulder paused, replaying the events in 
his head. "Why were you in the yard in the first 
place?"

"I had to go out."

"It's thirty degrees outside."

Shrug.  Dab.  Blow.

"The front door was locked," he said skeptically.  He 
turned his head, checking. "And so is the back.  Do 
we lock the door to go to the outhouse now?"

His son focused on stroking Grace's graying muzzle.

"Sammy, I thought I was clear on this: you will be 
home at night."

"I was." 

"No, you weren't.  Home is in the house, and you 
weren't.  When Dana and I came back from dinner 
earlier than you'd anticipated, we locked the door, 
and you got locked out.  Which merits the question: 
where were you coming home from?"

Sam hunkered lower, watching Dana from underneath his 
lashes.

Mulder followed Sam's gaze, then shook his head, 
trying to keep his temper in check.  He didn't mind 
his son talking with Dana, but he disliked him 
conspiring with her.  It was his house, and for once 
he'd like to know what was happening.  Just for the 
novelty of it.

"Dana has nothing to do with this, Sam.  Dana doesn't 
have to deal with it when some girl's angry father 
shows up on my doorstep."

"That won't happen."

"How won't it happen?  Are you saying you aren't 
seeing a girl?"    

Sam stiffened, his eyes still locked on Dana.

"Then it must be one of those secret midnight cello 
societies.  Do I have a 'moron' sign pinned to my 
back?" 

"Mr. Mulder," Dana warned.

"What?" he demanded.

There was that look again, indicating if he didn't 
already have a sign, she felt he merited one.  

"Damn it, I am the boss around here!  You - go to 
your room," Mulder ordered his son. "And you," he 
snapped at Dana, "I want to talk to you."

"Mr. Mulder," Dana repeated sharply.

"What?"

"I locked the back door.  I locked it when I came in 
to make coffee.  You and Samuel were still in the 
front yard."

Mulder tipped his head from side to side, stretching 
his tight neck muscles. "No, you didn't," he said 
evenly.  She and Samuel were equally poor liars.

He glared at Dana, then slammed his coffee cup down 
angrily and stood, tipping his chair backward so it 
crashed to the floor.

Sam startled and looked as though he'd like to crawl 
under the stove and stay there.

Mulder waited for someone to apologize and tell him 
what was really happening, but no one did.  To stem 
his hemorrhaging pride before he bled out, he 
announced he was going to see what the Klan had done 
to The Evening Star building.

*~*~*~*

Byers had followed the fire engines down Pennsylvania 
Avenue and helped the firemen put out the flames 
before they could spread past the lobby.  Afterward, 
according to Frohike, he'd looked around at the 
broken glass, overturned furniture, and smoking ruin, 
and said, "Someone find a broom and we'll get this 
cleaned up before Mulder gets here." That seemed 
unlikely, but Frohike swore it was true.  

Byers was standing ankle deep in soggy newsprint, his 
shirtsleeves rolled up, surveying the damage when 
Mulder arrived.  The firefighters had moved on: other 
buildings on Newspaper Row hadn't been so fortunate.  
There was barely a silver sliver of moon, but the 
flames from across the street illuminated the lobby 
as well as daylight.

"The good news is they didn't get to your office," 
Byers said. "It looks exactly the same."

"Then how can you tell they didn't get to it?" Mulder 
answered, standing the coat rack upright so he had a 
place to hang his coat and hat. "Please tell me 
everyone's all right."

"So far.  They ransacked the lobby, but everything 
upstairs, including Frohike, is fine.  Susanne and I 
got a brick through our parlor window, though."

"They must know I own the place: I got a cross."

Byers' eyes widened. "Is everyone all right?"

"Grace is dead," Mulder answered tiredly, unbuttoning 
his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves.

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

*~*~*~*

Dinner had been served so long ago that even the 
smell of it was gone.  All that remained in the dark 
kitchen was a faint aroma from the bowl of fruit on 
the table and last of the soapy wet-wood smell from 
the clean floor.  Mulder dropped his coat over the 
back of a chair and didn't bend to pick it up when it 
slid off.

The stove's hot water reservoir was almost empty, the 
water was tepid, and his razor was dull.  He used 
Dana's embroidery scissors to trim his beard before 
he shaved it, and didn't put them back in her sewing 
basket because he didn't want to hear her fuss about 
them being dull.  As he wiped his smooth face with a 
towel, he debated going to the trouble of relighting 
the stove and heating enough water to wash the rest 
of him, but decided not to bother.  The sofa wouldn't 
care how he smelled.

As he checked the nursery and Sam's room, he 
discovered he'd lost his family, but found it had 
only migrated to the end of the hall.  Emily and 
Cally were in bed with Dana, Cally's wet nurse was 
asleep on the sofa, and Samuel was on the rug beside 
the bed.  Sam had the pillow from his bed, but he'd 
pushed it aside as he slept and instead rested his 
head on his upper arm.  The cut on his cheekbone had 
an ugly scab, and several bruises Mulder hadn't 
noticed earlier had deepened to black and purple.  In 
one hand, Sam held a pistol, his fingers loose around 
it as he slept. 

Mulder stepped over his son and sat carefully on the 
mattress, watching Dana until she woke.  She opened 
her eyes the way she always did, blinking slowly as 
he came into focus. 

"You shaved your beard," she mumbled, scooting up on 
the pillows.

"It smelled like smoke."

He pulled off his boots and let them slide to the 
floor with two soft thumps. "Easy, Sammy," he 
cautioned as Sam started to sit up and aim the pistol 
at the noise.  Mulder reached down, taking the gun 
from him. "I'm here.  I'll keep watch.  Let me have 
that." 

Sam let go of the gun and sank back onto the rug, 
immediately drifting back to an unquestioning sleep.

"Rebekah said the newspaper is still standing," Dana 
whispered. "I sent her with breakfast, but someone 
told her you were too busy and she should just leave 
it.  And she left lunch.  And dinner."

He lay down, putting his head on her abdomen and his 
arms around her waist.  As he shifted to get 
comfortable, soot from his hair left dirty smudges on 
her white nightgown. "It's standing.  It's just a 
mess right now," he said tiredly. "But everyone's 
alive.  And everything's repairable, I think."

"That is good."

"Yes."

He was quiet a while, closing his eyes as she stroked 
his hair.  His body ached, but his mind raced, too 
full for sleep.

The newspaper made money, but not a fortune.  It 
didn't print the conglomeration of sordid crimes, 
society news, and serial romances that appealed to 
the masses.  Most of Mulder's income came from his 
investments in other papers, although his family's 
money made even those unnecessary.  The racial and 
political problems in DC could only worsen as 
Reconstruction began in earnest, and some of 
Washington's finest didn't appreciate seeing their 
names on The Evening Star's front page.  As the 
previous night evidenced, Mulder was making dangerous 
enemies who believed his home and family, as well as 
his employees' homes and families, were fair game.

"Your head is heavy, mo rún," Dana said quietly.

"Sorry," he apologized, starting to sit up, thinking 
it was a ruse to get him to leave.

"No, I mean you seem to be thinking too many things.  
Is that not the way to say it?  Heavy?"

"Hearts get heavy.  Heads get full," he explained.

"Hearts do not get full?"

"Sometimes," he exhaled, relaxing and resting his 
cheek against her abdomen again. "If you're lucky.  
Hearts also get very empty."

"What about souls?"

"They get weary," he admitted tiredly. "May I stay 
here?  And sleep?  Just for a little bit.  Is that 
all right?"

"Yes, it is.  Of course it is.  It is fine."

"All right," he mumbled, feeling every muscle in his 
body go limp in exhaustion.  Emily kicked in her 
dreams, Cally hiccoughed, and Sam snored softly.  
Dana's warm hand and the sounds of a city night 
covered him: a Hanson cab's wooden wheels across the 
cobblestones and the mournful echo of a train whistle 
in the distance.

*~*~*~* 

Mulder was the only man who had dreams of falling 
that started with the part where he hit the ground.

He groaned as consciousness surged over him like a 
tide, but didn't quite let him break the surface for 
a moment.  He felt the merciless Georgia sun on his 
face, and a woman's cool fingertips stroking his 
cheek.  His shoulder blade hurt, and the back of his 
shirt was wet with something he hoped wasn't blood.

"Are you awake, Mr. Mulder?" Dana's voice asked, 
sounding like she was just above him.  Whatever he 
was laying on shifted and a shadow passed over his 
face as she leaned forward. "Mr. Mulder?"

Without thinking, he moved his hand slowly in search 
of hers, and she laced her fingers though his, 
murmuring comfortingly and telling him to stay still 
a little longer.  He felt the soft, thin fabric of 
her calico skirt against his skin and realized he was 
laying on the ground with his head on her lap.  She 
smelled nice: like a baby's head and soap and 
sunshine and the bed sheets after sex.  She continued 
caressing his face to keep him calm, and he kept his 
eyes closed.  Her touch was different from Melissa's: 
more confident, more soothing.  He'd gladly lie there 
and bleed a little longer if she'd keep touching him 
like that.

That had a faintly pitiful quality he chose not to 
dwell on.

"Is he all right?" a man called in a French Creole 
accent.  Mulder recognized it as Benjamin, Dori's 
mulatto husband of nine weeks 

"Yes, I think so," Dana answered. "He is waking up."

The previous night's lightening storm had struck a 
tree near the plantation house, and it threatened to 
fall through the roof.  Cutting it down hadn't looked 
to be a tricky operation and had to be less risky 
than staying in the house.  As incensed as Dana was 
to discover Dori had been Waterston's octoroon 
mistress, Dori was equally unhappy to learn Waterston 
had a white wife and baby in another state.  The two 
women were painstakingly polite to each other, but 
there was danger in the air and Waterston wasn't 
around to be its target.  When Mulder mentioned the 
tree after lunch, Benjamin had seen a chance to 
escape the tense silence and quickly volunteered to 
help.

It was a good plan, but there had been problems in 
its execution, namely that when he wasn't a soldier, 
Mulder ran a newspaper, and Benjamin had been a slave 
doorman at the New Orleans balls where white men came 
to meet their Negro mistresses - and neither knew 
beans about playing lumberjack.

As he finally opened his eyes, squinting at the 
yellow autumn light that streamed through the leaves, 
Dana looked at him, her lips pursed and her auburn 
eyebrows pushed together anxiously.

"Told you I'd get it down," he mumbled, sitting up 
slowly.

"You were only supposed to cut the tree down, not 
break its fall," Dana reminded him. "Are you hurt?  
Where does it hurt?"

"I think I'm all right, Ma'am."

As the yard stopped spinning, he saw Dori with 
Benjamin, checking him for injuries.  The beautiful, 
dark-haired woman seldom spoke, but she tended to 
stay near Benjamin, as though he made her feel safe.  
He got to his feet, brushed off, kissed her cheek 
reassuringly, and patted her flat stomach before he 
went back to work.  Dori sat on the tree stump, 
content to watch him.

"Your back, Mr. Mulder," Dana observed, helping him 
to his feet, then steadying him as he swayed. "Come 
sit down and let me see," she said, guiding him to 
the porch steps.

He sat, then looked at her expectantly, still dazed 
and trying to remember what he was supposed to do. 

"May I unbutton your shirt?" she asked gently, as 
though he was a shy virgin and might refuse.  He 
wasn't overly modest, and, after Chattanooga and a 
stray bayonet, he'd been bare-chested in front of 
more doctors than he cared to count.  It wasn't 
exactly proper - allowing a woman who wasn't his wife 
to undress him - but neither was lurking in her 
bedroom doorway, watching her nurse her baby the 
previous night.

He nodded and tried to help, his fingers getting in 
the way of hers.

"Let me do it," she requested. "Just relax."

He nodded again and watched, fascinated and blaming 
the inappropriate thoughts that crept into his brain 
on head trauma.  There was nothing seductive in her 
manner, and they weren't likely to end up in the 
throes of passion on the front porch with Dori, 
Benjamin, Dori's sons, and two bored cows watching.

He swallowed dryly, embarrassed.  He was a little 
war-worn to have a crush on a girl not much older 
than his teenage son.  He was just confusing kindness 
with affection, loneliness with desire, and he was 
making a fool of himself.  Even if she'd been the 
slightest bit interested, Mulder wouldn't know how to 
approach the situation.  He'd never courted a woman; 
he'd just married her.  

"It is all right," she assured him, peeling one 
sleeve off, but leaving the other on so he was 
covered as much as possible. "It is not bad: lots of 
mud, but barely a scratch," Dana decided, then told 
him to stay put while she went for water and a rag.

Mulder waited, sitting on the warped front steps of 
the plantation house with his elbows on his knees.  
In the overgrown yard, Benjamin put Dori's two older 
boys to work picking up sticks.  He surveyed the tree 
he and Mulder had cut down, raised his ax, and swung, 
missing the trunk by six inches.  Benjamin glanced at 
Dori, his brown eyes dancing mischievously.  He 
murmured something in colloquial French, Dori 
murmured back, and he swung a second time, hitting 
his mark.

"She's expecting again," Mulder said quietly as Dana 
returned, bringing a basin and washrag with her. 
"Benjamin told me.  He's excited.  He wants a girl; 
he says they have enough boys."
  
Dori's three boys were Waterston's, but the only 
provision Waterston had made for them was deeding 
them a rundown plantation in the middle of Nowhere, 
Georgia.  The doctor had made no provision at all for 
Dana, though she and her daughter were probably 
fairly low on his list of priorities.  

Mulder didn't think Dana had realized that, and he 
wasn't telling her if she hadn't.  She was already 
humiliated.  She already had a two-month old baby, no 
income, and nowhere to go.  He saw no need to make it 
worse by telling her the truth: she'd been a pretty 
distraction when Waterston was in Savannah, but there 
were almost certainly other pretty distractions 
elsewhere, and one of them was a legitimate wife.  
Wealthy, established gentlemen just didn't marry 
immigrant Irish girls, no matter how tempting those 
girls might be.  The doctor probably agreed to 
"marriage" because he couldn't bed her any other way, 
which spoke well of Dana and vilely of Waterston.  
And he must have written his will years ago, leaving 
Dori's sons a plantation he seldom visited, then 
forgotten to change it when he stashed Dana away 
there.

"I like him," he said, remembering he'd once had a 
topic. "After I talked to him, I like him.  Benjamin.  
Dori's lucky to have him.  He's a good man, and he's 
waited a long time to be with her.  He'll take good 
care of her and her boys.  Dori seems to- She needs 
someone to take care of her.  She's not like you. I 
don't think she could survive alone."

Dana didn't comment.  

"I didn't mean that what your husband did was right.  
I didn't mean to upset you, Ma'am."

"You did not.  I was just thinking."

"About?" he asked.

"About a great many things."

He heard water splash, then felt the washcloth pass 
gently over his bare shoulder blade.  A few drops 
trickled down his back, but she caught them, wiping 
them away.

"I think that's why they came here," he continued. 
"Dori looks white, and he's mulatto.  They couldn't 
live together in any city, but out here, they're 
safe." Mulder smirked as Benjamin determinedly 
tackled the tree, sinking his ax into the dirt more 
often than the wood. "He knows nothing about farming 
and they may starve to death, but at least they'll 
starve together."

An hour earlier, when Dori had looked for a place for 
her toddler to nap, she'd asked him which was their 
bedroom, assuming he and Dana were lovers and not 
wanting to intrude.  They'd never even kissed, but 
Mulder had liked the sound of that: their bedroom.  
He'd liked the idea of being a "them" with Dana 
instead of just a "him" alone.

As soon as he returned to DC, the pressure would 
begin for him to remarry.  His mother would drag him 
to parties where hopeful fathers would introduce 
their daughters, auctioning smooth white flesh like 
polite slave traders. "Oh, you own a newspaper, Mr. 
Mulder?" the wide-eyed girls would say as if they 
didn't know his net worth down to the penny. "That 
must be so exciting," they'd gush, and he'd sigh and 
glance at the clock as he sipped his punch.

There was nothing wrong with those girls.  They were 
exactly what they'd been brought up to be: decorative 
and adoring, and unable to ever be anything but 
decorative and adoring.  They were a product of a 
society with too much time on its hands, but it 
wasn't a product he was interested in being sold.  He 
wanted something more.  A challenge.  Someone to keep 
him on his toes and understand rather than idolize 
him.  He could pay women to keep his house, care for 
his children, sew his shirts, and, if it came down to 
it, warm his bed.  Finding someone who understood his 
sarcasm and truly cared if he was hurting - that was 
a rare thing.

"At least they have the courage to try," he 
commented, turning his head to look back at Dana, 
making sure she wasn't upset. 

She held his gaze for several seconds while the 
washcloth in her hand dripped cold water on his 
shoulder and soaked his muddy shirt.  Her blue eyes 
were as deep as a mountain lake, promising there was 
more in their depths than on their surface.  Her 
tongue parted her lips, moistening them, and her 
breathing quickened.

"Yes," she said.  He'd forgotten what they'd been 
discussing, but her "yes" sounded more like 
permission than agreement. 

Inside the house, a baby woke from its nap, crying to 
be fed and changed. 

"That's Emily," Mulder said softly, still not moving.

"Yes," Dana said. "I should get her."

"Go get her," he suggested hoarsely.

"I-I will.  I am.  I will get her right now." Her 
eyes flitted over his face one last time, then she 
stood, still holding the dripping cloth, and 
disappeared into the house.

And he exhaled, not sure what had just happened, but 
damn sure he wanted it to happen again.

*~*~*~* 

The bedroom door closed and the bed shifted as Dana 
returned, curling up to his back and adjusting the 
covers.  She put her arms around him, holding him 
close.

"You didn't need to send everyone away.  I told you 
all I wanted was to sleep," he said without moving.  

"I did not send anyone away.  The baby was hungry, 
and Samuel took Emily with him," she murmured. "And 
you are restless.  You were mumbling.  Maybe you will 
sleep better if it is quieter."

It was still dark, and the air on his bare face felt 
foreign and cool.  Mulder stretched and rubbed his 
eyes, trying to convince his body it was rested.  It 
was a tough sell: four hours sleep in two days.

"Mulder, please..." Dana said softly, stroking the back 
of his shirt.

"Gotta go to work," he mumbled, pushing up on his 
elbow and getting halfway to sitting.  Sitting was 
halfway to standing, and standing was halfway to 
work.  

"It is three in the morning," she responded as he sat 
with his back to her, still in the wrinkled shirt and 
trousers he'd worn to work twenty-four hours ago. 
"And you have barely slept.  Please stay." He felt 
the bed dip as she sat up, scooting closer and 
sliding her arms over his shoulders. "What can I do 
to convince you to stay?"

He shrugged away in annoyance. "Nothing.  Go back to 
sleep."

"Have- Have I done something?" she asked uncertainly. 
"Are you still angry about last night? I am sorry.  
You said to tell you-"
 
"No, I'm not angry about that," he said quickly. "I'm 
not angry with you at all.  I don't want you to think 
that."

"Then what is wrong?  What has changed?  I know you 
do not want Samuel seeing us, but it is more than 
that.  You seem different.  Angry.  Not passionate, 
but angry.  I do not think you wanted me last night 
so much as you wanted to prove you still loved me.  I 
know you love me.  I know you have too much on your 
mind and you are pulled in too many directions, but..."

Mulder sat slouched on the edge of the bed, watching 
his feet dangle and curling his fingers around the 
corner of the mattress.  He told his legs to get up 
and leave, but they refused. "It's too soon after the 
baby," he mumbled. "And too soon for you to be having 
another."

"That is not the only option and you know it."

He clenched his teeth, worrying his tongue around his 
mouth.  She was right: they might quarrel about 
everything else under the sun, but they'd always been 
compatible in bed.  

And she was right: the rift started when Sam 
returned, fueled by Mulder's guilt about having Dana 
in Melissa's place, but then widened at Poppy's 
accusation that he'd been with her, whether he 
remembered it or not.  Poppy was a beautiful, sensual 
woman and she'd been right under his nose for years.  
Of course he dreamed about her occasionally, but now 
he couldn't remember if one of those dreams had been 
real.  And the idea - the fact - that he'd been so 
angry at Poppy that he'd hurt Dana was sickening.

"Mulder," she said softly, stroking his back again. 
"What is it?  I miss you.  What has happened to us?"

If he could have applied the concept of rape to a 
man, that was what he'd tell her happened.  Poppy was 
no stranger to men's bodies, and she'd known no 
matter what his body craved in its morphine haze, 
he'd never choose to be unfaithful to Melissa.  He'd 
trusted her to take care of him when he was weak, and 
instead she'd taken advantage of a weak moment.

He exhaled and answered hesitantly, "It's not- it's 
not what you think.  Yes, something happened.  I wish 
it hadn't, but it did, and I can't stop thinking 
about it. I didn't tell you because I was embarrassed 
and I didn't want to hurt you. I'm still embarrassed.  
You were big with Cally and then you were so sick, 
and I didn't think you'd ever know..."

He heard her take a shaky breath, misunderstanding. 

He ordered his mouth to open and explain, however 
humiliating the explanation was, but the words 
wouldn't come.  And once the moment passed, it was 
lost. 

"Dana, I'm sorry," he mumbled, knowing that couldn't 
possibly fix anything.  It was probably better to let 
her think it had been a two-dollar street-corner 
whore than Poppy. Street-corner whores were faceless; 
Poppy wasn't.  Poppy had diapered Emily and made 
their bed and lived in their home.  And he'd sworn to 
Dana he'd never been with her.

"I think I would like you to go to work now," she 
said slowly.

He nodded, stood, and grabbed a clean set of clothes 
and his boots as he left. He trudged down the stairs, 
reached the bottom, then turned and trudged back up.

"What about Grace?" he called, standing outside the 
closed bedroom door.  He'd noticed there was no 
longer a dead dog in the kitchen.

"Samuel and I buried him in the back yard.  He wanted 
to wait for you, but you did not come home from 
work," Dana answered, and he trudged away again.

*~*~*~*

It was called Murder Bay for a reason.  It wasn't a 
part of DC he normally frequented, and not a part it 
was wise to frequent at all, especially late at 
night.  Between the sewage-filled Washington Canal 
north of The Mall and the reek of the fish market, it 
seemed dangerous to even take a deep breath.  Hungry 
eyes watched him from the shadows, and dirty bodies 
huddled under the eaves of the rundown tenement 
buildings.  It was part of the town where anything 
was for sale, and usually for sale cheap. 

There was no moon, and no gaslights.  The sounds of 
crying babies, shrill voices, and flesh meeting flesh 
- in anger or in lust - drowned out his footsteps. 
Fog rolled off the canal, hanging low over the muddy 
streets and obscuring everything the darkness didn't.  
Mulder turned his collar up and kept his head down as 
he made his way through the narrow alleys.

He found the address he wanted and waited in the 
alley, sitting at the bottom of some rickety wooden 
steps.  The businesses had front entrances, but no 
one used them.  If men of Mulder's class kept 
mistresses, they kept them near The Capitol.  If they 
visited prostitutes, they went to the elegant houses 
and saloons on 1st and 2nd Streets or Pennsylvania 
Avenue.  Working class men went to Tin Cup Alley or D 
Street.  Anyone in Murder Bay at night was there for 
something he couldn't get elsewhere, and he didn't 
want to be seen going in the front door to get it.

The old black coat had been his father's, made for a 
shorter, stockier man.  It had been in fashion before 
Mulder was born, but now the cuffs were ragged, it 
was missing a button, and moths had made a meal on 
the lapels.  Bill Mulder had worn it during his free 
time at West Point, and it had probably seen numerous 
youthful escapades.  The hat had been his father's as 
well, and Mulder pulled it lower over his forehead, 
hiding his face in the shadows as he waited.  The 
revolver in his waistband was his own, and it was 
loaded.

After half an hour, the side entrance opened and 
Spender emerged.  He shrugged on his coat, then 
paused to light a post-coital cigarette.  He took a 
deep draw before passing it to the skinny teenager 
who'd followed him to the door, and lit another.  The 
boy collected his money, stepped inside, and the door 
closed.  Transaction complete, romance over.

Spender descended the steps, but stopped cold when he 
saw Mulder.  His cigarette fell from his tar-stained 
fingertips and sizzled on the wet ground.  Mulder was 
taller and slimmer, but the features were similar, 
and in the darkness, in the right clothes, the 
resemblance to his father was uncanny.

"You're white as a sheet.  You look as if you've seen 
a ghost," Mulder said softly, assuming a more 
pronounced Boston accent.

Spender stared at him as wisps of cigarette smoke 
escaped his gaping mouth, making him look like a 
dying dragon.

"Boo," Mulder exhaled, standing up and stepping 
forward.

"What do you want, boy?" Spender demanded, recovering 
some of his poise.

"Come, Claudius - let's go for a walk." He nodded to 
the second-rate whorehouse. "I assume you're finished 
here?" 

"Quite." Spender looked around for another way out of 
the alley besides the one Mulder was blocking.  There 
wasn't one. "What do you want?" he repeated 
venomously.

"We're just going for a little walk."

Mulder stepped forward, crowding Spender until he 
moved back, turning toward the canal.  Mulder fell in 
step beside him: just an uncle and nephew taking a 
stroll through the bad part of town at midnight. 
Spender had been drinking: he could smell the whiskey 
on him.

"Do you like Shakespeare, Uncle-father?" Mulder 
asked, as though he was striking up a friendly 
conversation. "My father favored Shakespeare a great 
deal."

"Go to Hell," Spender muttered.

"Uncle-father, where's your witty banter?"

"What do you want?"

Mulder paused, leaning casually on a metal railing 
and looking out at the murky water. There were 
gunshots on the next block that sent the neighborhood 
dogs into a barking frenzy. "In Hamlet, the king is 
murdered by his brother Claudius, who then marries 
the king's widow and assumes the throne."

"Yes, I'm familiar with the play.  You aren't Hamlet, 
boy."

"No, but there's something rotten in the state of 
Denmark." 

"You're wasting my time," Spender hissed, then turned 
and walked away.  

"I can't prove you had anything to do with my 
father's death," Mulder called after him, and Spender 
stopped. "But you'll never be a senator.  You can 
marry his wife, you can live in his house, you can 
even wear his suits, but you'll never be anything but 
a bottom-feeder.  My father was ashamed of you.  My 
grandfather was ashamed of you.  I don't know how you 
can claim his name and be so completely morally 
bankrupt - and I don't care.  I'm telling you for the 
last time: don't come near my family again."

"Or what?  Or you'll speak to me in a stern tone of 
voice?"

"If I even suspect you or your cronies so much as 
breathe on anyone I care about, you won't live to see 
another sunrise."

Spender considered, then smirked, the alcohol making 
him over-confident. "You don't have the balls, boy," 
he responded, fumbling for something in his coat 
pocket. "To shoot a man in cold blood?  You couldn't 
do it."

"Couldn't I?  I could put a bullet in your head right 
now, walk away, and no one would ever know the 
difference."

"Not if I do it first," he responded.  In the 
darkness, Mulder only saw a flash of metal in 
Spender's hand before the hammer clicked, but the gun 
misfired.  

"It's a wet night," Mulder responded, pulling the 
revolver out of his waistband. "You let the powder 
get damp."

"You won't shoot," Spender said blandly as Mulder 
fired, putting a bullet in the old man's calf.

"That's for my son's dog," Mulder said calmly.

He hadn't planned to do that, but once he had, his 
finger itched to pull the trigger again.  He thought 
of his mother's empty expression as she asked him why 
her brother-in-law was living in her house, unable to 
remember he was her husband.  He thought of the 
healing gash on Sam's face and a dozen men taking 
turns shoving him around the yard.  He thought of 
Cally, with her grandmother's eyes and grandfather's 
dimple - which her grandparents hadn't lived to see.  

Spender looked from Mulder to his calf, realizing 
he'd just lost his right leg, but not yet registering 
the pain.  Surgeons wouldn't be able to fix the 
wound, so it would have to be amputated.  

"You impudent little bastard!" He fumbled with his 
gun, trying to get it to fire.

Mulder raised the revolver, hand steady.  Spender was 
right: he'd shot hundreds, maybe thousands of men in 
battle, but never killed one in cold blood before. 
"When you get to Hell, tell Jack Kavanaugh I said 
hello."

The shots set the mongrel dogs barking again, and 
drunken voices yelled for them to shut the hell up.  
No police came running so Mulder could explain and 
say self-defense.  No one bothered to step onto the 
porch and investigate.  No one cared.

Mulder stared at the body in the gutter, gun still 
warm in his hand, wondering how death could seem so 
mundane.  So much evil couldn't come from nowhere, 
and it couldn't just bleed away into nothing.  He 
expected the drops of blood and bits of flesh to 
reform into a thousand miniature demons, but they 
didn't.  He wondered what had driven the old man, 
whether it was a cancerous jealously of his baby 
brother, or just a pure, twisted lust for power.  
Spender took his answers with him and died with as 
little dignity as he'd lived.

"That was for my father," he told him, still feeling 
strangely calm.

As Mulder walked away, a gang of young boys was 
already stripping the body: clothes, boots, money, 
jewelry.  Once they were finished, they dragged it to 
the canal and dumped the corpse into the dirty water.  
When someone found it, if anyone ever found it, it 
would have been floating for days and unrecognizable.  

Mulder tucked the revolver back in his waistband, 
shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked slowly 
down 15th Street toward home.  Near The White House, a 
teenage prostitute asked through chattering teeth if 
he was looking for a lady friend, and he took off his 
father's coat and gave it to her, then walked on 
through the fog.

*~*~*~*

Dinner would be waiting in the oven: still tepid if 
he made it home by eight, cold and dried-out if it 
was ten.  By midnight, he might as well be eating a 
brick.  He'd feed it to the dog, but there was no dog 
to feed it to.

Rebekah packed a lunch for him each morning in case 
he couldn't find time to come home at noon.  Dinner 
was at six, though, and Mulder was usually milling 
around the kitchen, stomach growling, making a 
nuisance of himself by a quarter till.  The presses 
stopped running mid-afternoon, the reporters left, 
and there was little for him to do in his office 
after four-thirty.  

Except, for the last week, to sit at his desk and not 
go home.  When he hadn't appeared for dinner Monday, 
Dana had let his plate sit on the dining room table 
all night in protest, but Tuesday there was a note 
saying it was in the oven.  By Thursday, according to 
the number of crystal goblets drying on the rack, she 
didn't even set a place for him.  By Friday, there 
was only one place setting, indicating either Sam 
hadn't come home or Dana hadn't eaten.

Mulder ate alone in the kitchen after everyone else 
was asleep, slept in one of the spare bedrooms, and 
left for work before dawn.  The only time he'd seen 
Dana in a week was when Emily had a nightmare and 
he'd heard her calling for "Dahdah." Dana was already 
in the nursery rocking her.  Mulder had watched from 
the doorway for a few seconds, waiting for Dana to 
say something, then gone back to bed when she hadn't.

It was almost one in the morning, but Dana was 
sitting at the kitchen table as he unlocked the back 
door.  Mulder hesitated, knowing she didn't want to 
see him, and almost turned away before he realized 
she was asleep, her head on a stack of clean diapers 
she'd been folding.  

Having two girls younger than two years old meant 
dozens of diapers each day.  The maids laundered 
them, but as a wet winter slid into a cold, wet 
spring, getting them dry was difficult.  The cook 
hung them on racks near the stove each evening, and 
Dana must have been folding them when she fell 
asleep.

He tried to be quiet, but Dana looked up as he closed 
the door, disoriented.  She inhaled and shook her 
head to clear it, then stood and pushed the diapers 
aside to make a place for him.

"Please sit," she offered, like he was a restaurant 
patron and this was her job.

Mulder sat.  She looked at him oddly as he pulled the 
revolver out of his waistband and laid it on the 
table, but didn't ask.  Many men carried side arms, 
especially when they were out late at night.

He picked up his fork and poked at the food on the 
plate she set in front of him.  New potatoes were 
easy, and he recognized the petrified green stalks as 
asparagus, but he couldn't identify what was under 
the congealed hollandaise sauce.

"What was this?" he asked neutrally, wanting to say 
something.

"It was stuffed flounder."

Fish.  For Dana and Rebekah, it was Lent.

"I bet it was good seven hours ago."

"It was," she answered politely.

"Is there-" Before he could finish, a glass of tea, a 
linen napkin, a basket of stale rolls, and the butter 
dish had appeared on the table in front of him. 
"Thank you," he mumbled.

Dana added a butter knife and the sugar bowl.

Mulder poked the fish a little more, trying to prod 
it into saying something useful.  Dead fish were 
notoriously uncooperative, and he poked harder before 
he gave up, put his fork down, propped his elbow on 
the table beside his plate, put his forehead on his 
fist, and closed his eyes in frustration.

"Would you like something else?" Dana asked, her back 
to him.

He shook his head, kneading his knuckles into his 
aching forehead.

He heard her turn, and felt her eyes boring into the 
top of his head.

"Mr. Mulder, would you like-"

"Stop it!  Stop being so goddamn polite and yell.  
Slap me.  Say I'm a lying bastard and tell me to get 
the hell out, but stop treating me like a polite 
stranger.  Stop making sure my dinner's fine and my 
shirts are pressed and just say you hate me!"

He didn't have the courage to look at her, but as far 
as he could tell, she didn't move.

"I'm sorry," he continued miserably. "However angry 
and disappointed you are, I'm twice as angry and 
disappointed at myself.  I would kill to make it go 
away - to never think about it again, but I can't. 
And now, neither can you.  You're going to think 
about it every time you look at me.  And, and I don't 
know how to fix that.  To fix this.  I never wanted 
this - you, me, us, this." He looked up and gestured 
around the kitchen. "Keeping up appearances.  I'd 
rather be living in a shack and starving than have 
you look at me like that."

He stared up at her, his forehead wrinkled, 
alternately clenching his right, then his left 
molars.  After a few seconds, he covered his face 
with his hands and closed his eyes again.

"I never wanted this either." Footsteps approached, 
and he heard china and silver clanking as she removed 
his plate. "This house, all these things.  Pretty 
clothes, carriages, fine horses, a box at the opera, 
dinner at Harvey's: you have managed to give me 
everything I never wanted."

"Then why did you marry me?"

"When I said I would marry you, you could have been a 
muleskinner for all I knew.  I did not want my 
daughter to be hungry.  I did not want us to be cold.  
Aside from that, all I wanted was you."

He raised his head, still keeping his middle and 
index fingers pressed against his eyelids. "Just tell 
me what to do to fix this.  Do you need time?  Would 
that help?  Do you want me to take Sam and leave?"

A chair slid across the floor as she sat near him, 
and she moved the revolver across the table and out 
of the way. "I want you to tell me what happened."

He lowered his hands and stared at the wooden 
tabletop before he shook his head.

"Then tell me why.  I think that is what I do not 
understand.  I did whatever you wanted."

He swallowed dryly, knowing the next two words out of 
her mouth if he didn't answer would be "get out."

"I didn't mean to.  I barely remember.  I was so far 
gone I barely remembered my own name.  I-I must have 
been thinking about it, and, and I should have told 
her 'no,' but I guess I didn't.  Or else she didn't 
listen. It's not something I wanted to happen."

She was quiet a long time, and his chair squeaked as 
he shifted nervously.

"Is that why you fired Poppy?" she asked. "Because 
you were drunk and she seduced you?"

He swallowed again. "She quit."

"Dig your grave a little deeper," she said coolly.

He nodded. "Yes, that's why I fired her."

"Christmas morning?"

"Yes," he mumbled, just wanting this over with.  

"Never before then?" 

"Once.  I was at Harvard.  I told you about it."

"You told me you kissed her."

If there was a trapdoor in the floor, he'd have used 
it.  If there'd been a mouse hole, he'd have tried to 
squirm through. 

"It was a thorough, undressed kiss.  My father caught 
us and said he'd send her back to Kavanaugh if I ever 
did it again.  Looking back- looking back, she 
instigated it, but I didn't realize that at the time.  
I was so naïve that I thought had.  I wanted to tell 
Melissa, but Father told me not to, that it would 
just hurt her."

"I am not Melissa."

"I understand that," he agreed humbly, in his very 
sorry voice.

"I told you!  I told you Poppy was dangerous.  I told 
you she'd do anything to have control over you."

"Yes, you did," he agreed, even sorrier.

"She told Samuel.  Did you know that?  He thinks the 
two of you were lovers.  He thinks you are Sadie's 
father.  He asked me and I told him Poppy was lying.  
Damn it, Mulder!"

He didn't have a sorrier voice, so he just huddled, 
still looking for a way to melt through the cracks in 
the floor.  

"I'd like to put a bullet between that woman's eyes."

Mulder reached for the gun, handing it to her butt-
first. "Feel free.  It's loaded, and she was headed 
north, last I heard."

*~*~*~*

It was the same way they'd started out: Mulder on a 
sofa a few days after they'd married, nervously 
watching as she stood in front of him and nervously 
undressed.

"You don't have to," he told her softly. "You never 
have to.  Or am I just the maid tonight?"

In response, she turned for him to untie the back of 
her corset.  He worked the laces loose, then slipped 
the stiff whalebones over her hips and massaged away 
the hurt where they'd pinched.  Her skin beneath her 
chemise was warm and yielding, and she stayed while 
he rubbed, which was probably more than he deserved.

His fingers slid forward, rubbing across her soft 
abdomen and up her torso until he grazed the bottoms 
of her breasts.  He leaned forward, putting his arms 
around her waist and resting his forehead against the 
small of her back.  Still seated, he found the 
drawstring at the waist of her pantalets, untied it, 
and two legs of loose cotton and lace fell to the 
floor. 

"You don't have to do this," he whispered again.

She didn't say anything, and her reflection in the 
dresser mirror bit her lip.

"Are you... doing this?" he asked uncertainly.

The reflection nodded slowly, and he gathered her 
chemise and helped her pull it over her head, leaving 
only the delicate silk stockings and the garters that 
held them in place.

"Kiss me," he requested, and she turned and covered 
his mouth with hers, moving closer until she 
straddled his lap.  Mulder relaxed and leaned back, 
letting her be in charge, set the pace.  As he'd 
asked, she kissed him: lips, nose, eyelids, and 
earlobes.  She unbuttoned his shirt and kissed across 
his collarbone, down the center of his chest, and 
back to the base of his neck.

"You smell like gunpowder," she murmured as she 
kissed his palms, then sucked gently on his index 
finger.

"I shot Spender," he mumbled, shifting and pressing 
the erection that tented his trousers against her. 
"He's dead."

She removed her lips from his finger and asked, 
"When?" in surprise.

"About forty-five minutes ago."

"Why?" 

"He shot first.  He tried to kill me.  I was gonna 
tell you."

"Dear God, Mulder," she muttered to herself, closed 
her eyes, and resumed her slow exploration of his 
body with her mouth.  

Before, he would have done it automatically, but this 
time she put his hands on her breasts, giving him 
permission.  She arched her back as he pulled one 
nipple deep into his mouth, massaging the other with 
his thumb. 

"Bed?" he whispered, still not sure she'd say yes. 

"What did you have in mind?"

"I'm just thankful to be here.  I'll do whatever you 
like.  Or you can do whatever you like to me."

"I would like to put you over my knee and blister 
your behind for not telling me the truth about that 
woman three months ago."

"Later," he promised.

*~*~*~*

He'd concede to being a little dense, and to becoming 
overly focused on some things to the exclusion of all 
else.  And he'd concede he was a romantic, and could 
be so annoyingly optimistic that others had the urge 
to hit him in the face with a shovel.  But even he 
wasn't such a starry-eyed fool that he believed sex 
equaled forgiveness.  At best, it meant Dana was 
willing to try to move on.  At worst, it meant she 
was his wife and part of her vows included ending up 
on her back whenever he wanted.  His brain leaned 
toward the former, his guilty conscience argued the 
latter.

"Are you okay?" he asked sleepily, shifting the bare 
leg he'd intertwined with hers.

"Fine," Dana answered softly.

"Do you need anything?  A drink of water?  A towel?"

She shook her head slightly and closed her eyes.  She 
felt too warm, so he pushed the covers off, then 
noticed she had goose bumps and pulled them up again.

"Do you want to talk?"

Another sleepy nod.  

Mulder envied her.  He was too tired to see straight, 
let alone think straight, but sleep seemed as foreign 
a concept to his body as flying.  Too many thoughts 
buzzed around his brain, too random to analyze, too 
insistent to ignore.  He tried to capture and examine 
them one at a time, but they were too transient.  One 
worry led to another, which led to another, like 
dominos toppling.

"Dana, did you want me to leave?  I can sleep on the 
sofa, if you want.  Or down the hall."

"I want you to be quiet, be still, and let me go to 
sleep."

"Oh.  Okay," he agreed quickly.  

He told himself he'd be completely silent and 
motionless, which immediately caused his entire body 
to itch, twitch, or demanded to be moved.  He fought 
the tickle in his throat as long as possible, holding 
his breath until he turned blue before he finally 
coughed.  

Dana sighed and rolled over, and he curled up to her 
back, wrapping his arms around her. 

"I love you.  You know that, don't you?"

"Yes, I know," she answered for the hundredth time of 
the night.

"And you know I'm sorry."

"Yes, I know you are sorry," she repeated. "Go to 
sleep."

"All right," he answered meekly. "It didn't hurt?" he 
asked, allowing himself one last question.  Or three, 
actually. "It was nice? You weren't just pretending?"

He was under no illusions.  There was no need to use 
a more enthusiastic adjective than "nice."  It had 
been nice.  Adequate.  Done.  Like laundry, but less 
pleasurable.

"It was nice.  I thought you did not want another 
baby so soon, but it was nice," Dana mumbled, her 
breaths growing slower.

"Oh," he remembered, about six minutes too late.

*~*~*~*

He'd heard the grandfather clock downstairs strike 
two and five, and every fifteen-minute increment in 
between.  In another half-hour, he could consider the 
night officially over and say he was getting up to go 
to work.  He didn't usually work on Sunday, but he 
could be out of the house before Dana realized that.

She gave every appearance of being asleep, but the 
rise and fall of her ribcage beneath his hand 
indicated she wasn't.  When he looked, her eyes were 
open and she was staring out their bedroom window at 
the black night.  He fitted the top of her head 
snuggly under his chin, wrapped his arms tighter 
around her, and helped her stare at nothing.

In the distance, a train pushed through the darkness, 
its steam whistle floating sadly through the wet air. 

"Her name was Anne," he said softly, as though they 
were already in the middle of a long conversation. 
"Not a fancy name, but there was nothing fancy about 
her.  Just Anne.  She was about the age you are now, 
and at the time, I was a few years younger.  A nice 
girl from a well-to-do family.  Quiet.  Bookish, 
though she tried not to let it show.  To see her on 
the street, nothing about her would stand out." 
Mulder paused and thought a few seconds, then added. 
"She had pretty chestnut hair.  And nice hands."

"She'd married a New York ship-building tycoon, to 
everyone's approval," he continued. "She was a child 
bride her husband had grown tired of, though they 
were still on good terms.  He was in his fifties, 
content to smoke cigars, sip scotch, and speculate 
about politics all evening.  They never had children, 
though I never knew why.  According to gossip, they 
still tried the last Saturday of the month.  He felt 
it was his duty, and I suppose, so did she."

Mulder paused again, turning over old memories in his 
mind. "My father owned shares in her husband's ship-
building business, and there were quarterly meetings 
for the stockholders to attend.  Instead of going 
himself, he sent me."

Dana shifted slightly, moving the hand she'd slid 
under her pillow.

"Anne wasn't at the meetings, but I'd see her 
afterward.  She and her husband stayed at a lavish 
hotel in the city, and he'd invited the shareholders 
for dinner. Everyone else in the room dated from the 
time dinosaurs roamed the Earth, so Anne and I would 
take our glasses of wine and walk along the edge of 
Central Park after dinner.  Or we'd sit beside the 
fire in the hotel parlor, discussing books or plays.  
She'd been to Europe on her honeymoon, to the museums 
and the opera, and we talked about that.  We talked 
about Sam and how much she'd wanted a large family.  
We talked about Melissa enough that she knew I was 
married, and that my wife was very ill.  I didn't 
tell her Melissa had just tried to kill herself and 
Sam, and was in mental asylum, but then, I didn't 
tell anyone that."

He cleared his throat, took a breath, and continued, 
"We were friends.  Like you, she was easy to talk to.  
I noticed I looked forward to those quarterly 
meetings because I'd get to talk to her afterward.  I 
never considered writing her or trying to see her any 
other time because it wouldn't have been proper.  I 
wasn't in love with her, and I never considered she 
might be in love with me." 

Something stubborn stuck in his throat, and it took 
several tries before he managed to speak again. "It 
was January.  Cold, icy, generally miserable.   That 
evening, we talked until her husband invited the men 
to his salon for brandy and cigars.  I rolled my eyes 
at her, knowing they'd pontificate until dawn about 
their own importance, and I'd be bored to death. Anne 
and I would have gone for a walk, but the weather was 
bad, and women weren't welcome in the smoking salon.  
She smiled sympathetically, shook my hand, said 
goodnight to everyone, and went to bed. It wasn't the 
last Saturday of the month, so she and her husband 
had separate bedrooms at the hotel. After she left, I 
realized the key to her bedroom door was in my hand."

Dana exhaled slowly.

"I'd swear Anne had never done anything like that 
before in her life, and it must have taken weeks for 
her to work up the nerve.  I went back to my room and 
just stared at it.  I took a bath.  Shaved.  Dressed.  
Had a drink.  Had another drink.  Stared at my 
reflection in the mirror for a long time.  And then I 
sat on my bed and stared at that key.  No one would 
have ever known.  She wasn't asking for romance.  She 
wasn't leaving her husband, and she didn't expect me 
to leave my wife.  She was just lonely, and so was I.  
She was looking at the rest of her life and terrified 
by what she saw, and so was I.  I stared at the key 
for hours until I took it to the front desk and told 
the clerk someone had dropped it.  I went back to DC 
early the next morning, and when it was time for the 
next meeting, I told Father I was too busy with the 
paper to go."
  
Dana still hadn't spoken, but he could tell by the 
tension in her shoulders that she was listening.
  
"I saw her once after that: at a huge ball my parents 
gave to celebrate their wedding anniversary.  All of 
Washington and half of Boston attended.  By then, 
Melissa was better and she liked parties, so we went, 
and Anne and her husband were there."

He paused. 

"For once, Mother persuaded Melissa that married 
women didn't wear pink, so she wore a dark rose-
colored silk gown from Paris, and men sprained their 
necks craning at her.  You've seen the dress: Poppy 
wore it to the symphony.  Melly was so beautiful, but 
for the first time in ages she seemed happy, and she 
just glowed.  She liked to dance, so we danced and 
laughed and drank too much champagne, and as we were 
waltzing, I saw Anne with her husband across the 
room.  He was talking with his friends and paying no 
attention to her, but Anne never took her eyes off 
us.  I'd told her Melissa was pretty, but she'd never 
seen her before.  As the waltz ended, I saw her leave 
the ballroom.  As soon as I could, I left Melissa 
with Father and went after Anne.  I don't know what I 
thought I was going to do or say, but I couldn't find 
Anne.  Eventually, Melissa came looking for me and I 
had to go back to the dance.  Later, Mother said Anne 
had a headache and asked her husband to take her home 
- which Mother thought was strange because Anne had 
asked him to make the trip to Washington for the 
party in the first place."

"You never saw her again?" Dana asked quietly.

"No.  A few weeks before the war began, her husband 
was giving his friends a tour of one of his new 
ships, and she accompanied him.  They took the ship 
out of the harbor, and the captain and Anne's 
husband, wanting to show off its speed, pushed the 
engines for the first time.  The boiler blew.  Anne 
was killed instantly, along with her husband and 
several businessmen.  You probably saw it in the 
newspaper.  That was Anne."

Dana's back shifted against his front, and he wrapped 
his arms tighter around her, nuzzling her neck.  Far 
away, the northbound stream engine whistled again as 
it left the station, its belly heavy with white-hot 
coals.

"I just wanted to tell you.  I'd never told anyone 
before."

*~*~*~*

The doctor made no attempt to be polite about having 
his Sunday dinner interrupted, especially by Mulder.  
He answered the door with a napkin tucked over his 
shirtfront, a leg of chicken in his hand, and biscuit 
crumbs on his beard.

"I want you to tell me if my wife's going to have a 
baby," Mulder blurted out, wrinkling his forehead as 
the cold rain plastered his hair to his scalp and 
dripped off the end of his nose.

"Right now?"

"Right now."

The doctor took a bite of chicken as he considered, 
chewing it thoroughly. "I thought we discussed this, 
Fox."

Mulder hunkered lower, like a wet turtle trying to 
disappear into his shell. "I didn't mean to.  It was 
an accident."

Another bite.  An icy raindrop slid down Mulder's 
collar and trickled down his backbone.  The smell of 
crispy fried chicken and buttery potatoes wafted from 
the doctor's dining room, and Mulder sniffed 
longingly.

"An accident?" the doctor asked skeptically. "Did 
your foot slip?"

"No, I didn't mean to - Well, I did mean to, but not 
like that.  I forgot.  At the last minute, I just 
forgot.  Aren't there times a woman can conceive and 
times she can't?"

He'd spent all morning locked in his office at The 
Evening Star with his old marriage manuals, trying to 
make heads or tails of baby-making. Not the fun part, 
but the end result.  Abstinence was the one method 
that met Dana's priest's approval, but the problem 
was when to abstain.  One book said conception 
happened only during menses, while another said it 
occurred immediately before.  One even described 
"spiritual impregnation," in which the woman first 
fertilized the man by staring deep into his eyes.  
Mulder had turned that book sideways, examining the 
diagrams and trying to determine if the writer had 
ever even seen a nude human female.

Not that any theory made a difference: during roughly 
a year and a half of marriage, there'd been three 
months when Dana wasn't pregnant or nursing.  The 
Menses Fairy didn't come to their house.

"You said not to and I didn't plan to." Mulder 
started gesturing, as if clarifying would make things 
less humiliating. "I mean I didn't intend to- to 
finish. Like that. Inside. There are other options."

The doctor looked at Mulder as if the devil had a 
table reserved for him in Hell. "And when did this 
happen?"

Mulder checked his pocket watch. "Eleven and a half 
hours ago."

The doctor shook his head in disgust. "Ask me in nine 
months and I'll tell you if she's having a baby," he 
answered, closing the door and leaving Mulder 
standing on the porch in the cold rain. 
 
*~*~*~*

So much of who he was - actions, emotions, 
realizations - hadn't existed before Dana, as though 
she was someone he'd spent a lifetime waiting for her 
before he began living.  Before Dana, he hadn't 
realized there was such a thing as mediocre sex.  Any 
sex in which no one ended up crying was good sex.  
Before Dana, it never occurred to him a woman might 
want to go to bed with him for her own pleasure, not 
to appease him.  

Before Dana, he wouldn't have noticed anything was 
wrong, but since Dana, he did.  He knew what he'd had 
a year ago, and what he didn't have now.

"If you don't want to, just say," he murmured, his 
lips brushing her neck and his bare chest covering 
against hers.  The blankets had slid down past his 
waist, and the crisp air from the open window blew 
across his back. 

Everything should have been right: a quiet Tuesday 
evening at home, put the girls to bed, tell Sam 
goodnight, read a little, have a little wine, go to 
bed, make love, fall asleep.  Except it wasn't.  She 
knew what he liked and she was playing along, trying 
to force something she didn't feel.

"What do you want?" Dana responded softly, shifting 
suggestively under him.  

He wanted to believe time healed and it was going to 
get better.

"I want you to want this."

"I do." She traced the back of his calf with her toe. 
"Of course I do

He pushed up on his elbows, looking down at her.  
Their bedroom was dark, and her face was only the 
faintest outline of light and shadow. "I want you to 
want me," he finally said. "I want you to trust me 
again.  I want to be able to close my eyes and let 
the rest of the world vanish.  I think you want that 
too.  And I think we still have too many people in 
this bed."

She hesitated, pressing her lips together 
uncertainly, and he thought she'd misunderstood.

"Never mind.  I love you, Dana. We'll go slow," he 
whispered, stroking her hair. "Just talk to me; tell 
me what feels nice.  And no more babies yet - let me 
worry about that and you can be angry later.  All 
right?"

She nodded obediently.
 
He pulled back a few inches, still poised over top of 
her. "Do you love me?"

Another affirmative nod.  Sam must have been giving 
her nodding lessons.

"Do you want to do this?  Really?  It doesn't seem 
like it." 

"I am sorry.  I am trying."

"I know you're trying, but I don't want to push you, 
especially now.  I'm still scared it's going to hurt, 
but I'm more afraid you'll do this because you think 
you have to, and then resent it afterward.  Resent me 
afterward.  So, one last time, do you want this?"
 
She paused again, exhaled, then shook her head. He'd 
always told her she could refuse, but unless he'd 
been drinking heavily or she was about to have a 
baby, she never had before.

"Okay," he said quietly, moving back.  It was barely 
a week since he'd told her about Poppy.  She'd gone 
to bed with him once to prove she was willing to try, 
but he couldn't recall her touching him of her own 
accord since - for any reason.  No holding hands, no 
kisses on the cheek, no arms around him at night.  If 
he touched her, she responded, but she didn't 
initiate.

"You do not have to stop because I-"

"Yes, I do."

He sat back on his heels, Dana still lying on her 
back in front of him with her legs apart.  He could 
see her eyes as she watched him, both of them 
embarrassed and neither sure what to say.

"If you want, I can sleep down the hall so you won't 
feel like I'm pushing you by being here.  I want you 
to know that I'm home at night, but I certainly don't 
have to be in bed with you."

"No, you can sleep here."

"Okay.  I'm not sure how angry you are.  You don't 
say anything.  Everything seems perfectly fine until 
we're alone."

Dana scooted up on the pillows, perhaps trying to 
look less vulnerable. "What do you want me to say?"

"Say whatever's on your mind."

She exhaled uncertainly, but didn't respond.

"Dana, I can't change what happened.  All I know to 
do is mind my P's and Q's and wait.  I don't want you 
to have any reason to doubt me ever again.  I'm at 
work when I'm supposed to be; I'm home when I'm 
supposed to be-" 

"I know.  I see you trying.  And I tell myself that 
it should not matter, that if it had happened the 
other way around and someone took advantage of me, 
you would-"
 
"I'd kill him is what I'd do," he interrupted.

"You said you were with her once at Harvard, but-"

"Almost," he corrected as if it mattered. "Almost" 
only counted with cannons and horseshoes.  Besides, 
when he was eighteen, the difference between "almost" 
and "just did" could be seconds.

"But now you are not an innocent lured into her evil 
clutches.  You knew she told people she was your 
mistress. You knew she despised me.  You knew she 
toyed with men, but you let her stay, even after I 
objected.  You said it was for Samuel, but he was no 
closer to Poppy than he is to Rebekah.  I think you 
let Poppy stay because she reminded you of Sarah. And 
I am sure it makes me sound like a trusting fool, but 
I believe she took advantage of you - but I also 
cannot help but believe that you put yourself in a 
position that she could.  Because you wanted her to.  
And passive adultery is like a lie of omission: 
prettier, but no less wrong." 

Dana closed her mouth and turned her head, looking 
away. "That is what is on my mind," she added.

He nodded slowly. "Fair enough."

He sat, partially erect, nude, cold, and tried to 
comprehend all that.  Like most of Dana's arguments, 
it was cohesive and difficult to dismiss.  The facts, 
as she understood them, fit perfectly. Her accusation 
smarted because all she had wrong was the date.

He was damn sick and tired of Dana being right.

She flinched as he leaned over her again, then 
stiffened as he drew her nipple into his mouth, 
either in distaste or because she was afraid he was 
going to take his temper out on her.    

Someday, he'd like to get a hold of Dr. Waterston and 
have a long talk about what made a man a man.

"Relax," he assured her, drawing a line of light 
kisses down her breastbone and over her abdomen.  Her 
skin was cool and smooth under his mouth, and she 
stayed perfectly still. "Please," he added, and she 
exhaled.

He kissed across the hair at the top of her pubic 
bone, and up the thin skin on the inside of her 
thighs.  Slow, careful.  Lips, tongues, fingers, 
teeth.  Listen to her body, wait for her response.  

"What are you doing?" she asked hoarsely, as though 
there was some room for uncertainty.  He blew a slow, 
hot breath through his mouth, and she raised her hips 
in anticipation. "Oh, God."

The word was cunnilingus.  The arousal of a woman 
with his lips and tongue.  He'd been nineteen before 
he'd learned the term and twenty-one before he'd 
known what it meant.  He'd been thirty-one before 
he'd tried it, along with most of the other pleasures 
the flesh had to offer.

"I miss the way you taste," he murmured. "Smell. 
Feel.  I want to feel you.  I want to hear you.  Talk 
to me, Dana.  Speak to me.  Call me a bastard, but at 
least keep talking to me."

He looked up and found she was watching him, smooth 
white skin, sad blue eyes, and a mane of auburn hair 
in the moonlight.

"Do you want me to stop?"

She stared at the dark ceiling, then answered, "I do 
not know."

"I just want you to like this.  I'm not trying to 
make amends or change your mind about intercourse.  I 
just want to do something and, for once, know I'm 
doing it right.  So you tell me if I am."

"All right," she agreed, and he lowered his head 
again.
 
*~*~*~*

If one looked up his name in the Book of Dutiful, it 
had a star beside it and a notation "see also: 
dutiful husband." He knew how to mind his manners; 
he'd just never done it with Dana. She was resilient, 
self-reliant, and he'd been preoccupied with the 
newspaper, the aftermath of the war, his mother's 
illness, Samuel.  Dana didn't require the constant, 
gentle attentiveness Melissa had.

Or he hadn't felt she merited it.  Mulder was rather 
good at noticing a cliff only as he teetered at the 
edge of it, flailing his arms and desperately trying 
to grasp the wind.

Although she still didn't have much of an appetite, 
they went out to dinner and made painful, stilted 
conversation about nothing of great importance. 
Before she could say anything, he sent her plate back 
to the kitchen when it arrived, remembering she 
despised tomatoes.  He saw her eyeing his baby 
carrots and fed her one with his fingers rather than 
fork.  A man at the next table cleared his throat in 
disapproval, and their waiter looked appalled.  Dana 
chewed, and Mulder winked at her mischievously. 

Although she still tired easily and the doctor 
advised against social outings, they accompanied Sam 
to the opening of a new wing at the Smithsonian.  
Crowds bothered his son, so Sam wandered off with the 
curator, probably the only other person more 
interested in the paintings than the party.  In Sam's 
absence, Andrew Wilder's blonde wife asked Dana her 
opinion of a controversial male nude, knowing Dana 
knew little about art.  She swished her lace fan, 
batted her eyes at Mulder, and asked if Dana cared 
for Greek sculpture - had she been to Athens to see 
the ruins?  Everyone who was anyone had seen the 
ruins, she added cattily.  Dana examined the marble 
statue, its genitals eye level with her, and 
responded, "No, but I think Greece must be quite 
cold." Mulder choked on his champagne, but other men 
only started snickering when Mrs. Andrew Wilder 
looked bewildered and Mr. Andrew Wilder looked 
mortified.  Dana had blinked innocently, but Mulder 
knew better.

He covered her with his coat when she fell asleep in 
the carriage, then put his arm around her awkwardly.  
He steered her to bed and helped her undress.  They 
kissed, touched, murmured, made love until her orgasm 
came, and he pulled out just before his.  It was nice 
- less than passion, more than obligation.

He left for his office at six, putting a note on the 
nightstand saying he missed her and he'd be home at 
noon.  Dana very seldom disturbed him at work, but he 
urged her to have the groom drive her whenever she 
liked - to meet him for lunch, to ask a question, to 
have him sign a bank draft - anything so she could 
see he was where he was supposed to be.  He invited 
her for two weeks before she finally came, bringing 
Cally to show him her first tooth.  He didn't grit 
his teeth as she talked with Byers, who glanced 
uncertainly at Mulder when she invited him to hold 
the baby.  Dana invited Byers to Sunday dinner and 
Mulder later reiterated the invitation.  Byers came, 
bringing his wife and girls with him.

Mulder left his office at four each day, and was in 
the kitchen to annoy the cook well before dinner.  He 
took Saturdays and Sundays off.  He went with her to 
the market, following with the basket as she shopped 
and not saying a word about all the fancy teas she 
bought.  He drove her to Mass without complaint, and 
finally allowed Dana's priest to christen Cally.  He 
bought her a hat.  And another hat.  A basket of 
French soaps and bath oils.  A necklace.  And another 
necklace.  Earbobs.  And anything else he saw in a 
store window that he thought she'd like.  The 
jewelers began licking their lips when he entered 
their shops.

He signed the bank drafts, but he had her keep the 
ledgers so she knew where the all money went, not 
just what he spent on the house.  After dinner, he 
read Scientific American aloud and waded through the 
tongue-twisting articles in The Lancet.  He rubbed 
her feet.  He brought her hot tea made from her fancy 
tealeaves and asked about her day.  He listened as 
she answered.  The nights she asked if he was coming 
to bed, he did; the nights she didn't, he slept on 
the sofa.  She asked fifteen out of twenty-one 
nights, which he felt was an encouraging ratio.  

They'd made love seven times, been out to dinner or 
to the theater four.  One reception at the 
Smithsonian; one warm evening when they'd bundled up 
the girls, drafted Sam to drive, and gone for a buggy 
ride.  Poppy had been mentioned zero times.  On 
paper, the numbers looked positive.

He prayed he wasn't what Dana had given up - or given 
up on - for Lent, or if he was, comforted himself 
that Easter was coming.    

*~*~*~*

He'd been married almost half his life, and in that 
time he'd learned there were some things it just 
wasn't wise to share with his wife.  Gentle honesty 
was a virtue; brutal honesty meant a man lacked 
foresight and imagination.

There was no need for Dana to know a whore ate his 
lunch.

A girl, really.  Fourteen, maybe fifteen.  Frankie 
had been one of his newsboys for years, her sex 
concealed under knickers, a floppy cap, and dirt. She 
was an orphan making her way as best as she could, so 
it was no surprise that she'd found selling herself 
more profitable than selling his newspapers.  For 
pretty girls, prostitution was an alluring, if short-
lived, career.  In DC, there were more streetwalkers 
than Methodists, but few over twenty years old.

The arrangement was innocent, but difficult to 
explain to a wife.  

Mulder often went home for lunch, so whatever Rebekah 
packed for him would have gone to waste.  Instead, he 
left his lunch in one of the empty wooden crates at 
the mouth of the alley near The Evening Star each 
morning.  Occasionally, the girl would be waiting to 
return the remnants as he left work, but if not, it 
would be there: the silverware washed, the tin wiped 
out, and the linen napkin folded, ready for him to 
take home.  Often he went weeks without seeing 
Frankie, and the only evidence she was still alive 
was his empty lunch container each evening.  Rebekah 
thought Frohike ate it, and there was no reason to 
tell anyone any different.

"Maybe she doesn't work on Good Friday," Samuel 
offered, leaning against a lamp pole as they waited.

Mulder stood on tiptoe to see as far into the dark 
alley as possible without entering it.  The tall 
buildings on either side blocked out the sunlight, so 
the cobblestones were slick with green moss and old 
garbage.  Pickpockets, prostitutes, and pimps lurked 
in the shadows like spiders waiting for their prey, 
and the alley smelled of whisky, urine, and sour 
dampness.

"No, we're early.  I'll just tell Rebekah I forgot 
it," Mulder decided. "I'll get it Monday."

Growing up among reporters and politicians, Samuel 
wasn't innocent of the city's dark underbelly, but 
Mulder still preferred to shield him, if possible.  
An errant lunch tin didn't merit a father-son outing 
down Rum Row.

Mulder turned to leave, and Sam pushed off the 
lamppost when they heard footsteps approaching. 
 
Frankie seemed surprised to see Sam with him, but 
smiled warmly and smoothed her dirty dress and 
straggly hair.  She apologized for making them wait, 
then, instead of handing the tin to Mulder, she put 
it on a crate and stepped back so he didn't have to 
come near her to pick it up.  Frankie stayed in the 
shadowy alley, so passersby assumed they were either 
talking to a crate or relieving themselves.

He'd seen her at the loading docks behind The Evening 
Star, and been surprised at how brazenly she 
propositioned the men.  She'd asked him once, shyly, 
a year ago - possibly one of the first men she'd 
approached - and he'd have laughed if he hadn't been 
so embarrassed.  He'd given her his lunch instead, 
and the next morning, she'd been waiting to return 
the tin.  She'd still looked too skinny, so he'd 
given her his lunch again, and a tradition had been 
born.

"Your face's healin' real good," she observed, more 
comfortable talking to Sam.  When he wasn't making 
forts under his grandfathers' desks in Congress, he'd 
spent his boyhood playing with newsboys and printers' 
apprentices, so he'd known Frankie when she was still 
a boy. "The scar makes you look dangerous." 

"Do you think?" Sam answered, liking the sound of 
that.

Mulder rolled his eyes.  Young or old, rich or poor, 
the ladies liked Sam.  Debutants all along the east 
coast were studying Baroque art and Mozart's operas 
so they'd have something to talk about with him.  
While other teenage boys struggled and stammered 
around pretty girls, Sam could sit in the park with 
his sketchpad and have them come to him like bees to 
honey.  He was the direct male heir of two old, 
wealthy families, and he was so handsome it was 
sinful.  He didn't even have to speak, which was 
good, because he usually didn't.

"I do," Frankie said. "I got something that would 
help it, though.  It's back at my flat.  Mr. Mulder..."

Mulder opened his mouth to decline, but stopped when 
her eyes asked him to come with her, cutting back and 
forth between him and Sam.  He looked at her in stern 
disapproval.  She knew better than to proposition 
him, especially in front of his son.

"My stepmother has something she puts on it.  Thank 
you, though," Sam responded before Mulder could.  He 
stepped back, looking uncomfortable and wanting away 
from her. 

"Mr. Mulder, will you talk to me?  Alone?"

"No," he said firmly, turning to follow Sam.

"Please," she pleaded. "I don't mean nothing by it.  
Just talk." 

"I told you no.  Let's go, Sam-"

An unsteady figure approached behind Frankie, swaying 
drunkenly as she made her way through the crates.  
She stopped, not wanting to step into the light.  
Frankie glanced back at her, then at Mulder.

"Sammy, go home," he amended. "Tell Dana I'm a few 
minutes behind you." His son had been ambling away, 
but turned, his hands deep in his trouser pockets. 
"I'll be home for dinner," Mulder added. "Go on.  I 
forgot something in my office."

Samuel wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Dad, don't."

"I'm not.  Just go," he mumbled, still focused on the 
tall, slim figure behind Frankie. "Get out of here.  
Hurry up."

Sam slouched away, glancing over his shoulder 
worriedly.  Mulder didn't move until he was out of 
sight. "I thought you went north," he said, stepping 
into the alley. "Did he throw you out already?"

Poppy stared at him, glassy-eyed.  She was gaunt, 
hollow-eyed, and her filthy dress was unbuttoned so 
low that most of her breasts showed.  There was still 
frost and even snow in April, but she was barefooted, 
and her long black hair hung in dirty clumps.   

"Are you looking for a lady-friend?" Poppy asked, 
slurring her words.  Her face twitched, then resumed 
its drunken stare.

"She gets confused," Frankie explained. "I been 
lettin' her stay with me - help out with the rent, 
you know - and yesterday she said she know'd Fox 
Mulder.  Used to know you real friendly, you 
understand.  Got a baby and all.  I didn't know if 
that was true, and I didn't want her embarrassin' you 
in front of your boy."

"Thank you, Frankie," he answered without looking 
away from Poppy. "You can go now."

Frankie, accustomed to being dismissed, left quickly, 
vanishing down the dark alley and into the labyrinth 
of tenements and slums.

"Are you looking for a lady-friend?" Poppy repeated 
numbly.

"Where's your flat?" he heard his voice say.

"Something wrong with right here?"

"I'll pay," he responded, knowing the magic words.

She shrugged and turned, leading the way into the 
dirty shadows.  Although it was less than a block 
from his office, he'd never been past the mouth of 
the alley.  Nice people didn't like being accosted on 
the street, but the police left prostitutes alone as 
long as they stayed in the alleys.  Like being in 
Murder Bay, any man who stepped off Pennsylvania 
Avenue did so for a reason.

Poppy weaved a path across the slimy cobblestones, 
then turned left and navigated a series of narrow 
passages.  He followed her up some steps, under a low 
archway, and then through a wooden door and into a 
run-down brick building.

"My room's this way," she mumbled as she pushed open 
another door and walked down a dim hall, keeping one 
hand on the peeling wall to steady herself.

Mulder swallowed and followed, glancing around.  
Whatever the building had once been, it had been 
divided into dozens of ten by ten flats, most without 
windows, and many which could only be reached by 
crossing through someone else's room.  The hallway 
reeked of alcohol and sweat, and he heard snores 
through the walls: many of the tenants, like 
vampires, slept during the day and came out to feed 
on the public at night.

She entered a door without knocking, and he followed, 
crossing through a flat containing an unconscious old 
man, then another occupied by a large family with 
diapers hung to dry on lines strung across the room.  
The mother sat beside a stove, nursing the latest 
baby and staring at the fire.  She didn't seem to 
notice them.

Poppy and Frankie's room seemed tinier and darker 
than the previous ones.  There was a mattress on the 
floor, a table with a dishpan, few dirty dishes, and 
a lamp on it, and a rickety wooden chair.  A curtain 
hung from the low ceiling, cordoning off one corner.  
There was a bucket, a stove, and a slop jar in 
another.

She turned toward him, starting on the rest of the 
buttons of her dress. "You want this off?" 

"No, I don't.  Poppy, do you know who I am?"

She nodded, still struggling to unbutton the front of 
her bodice. "You're Fox.  You want this off?"

"No, I want to know what you've done with Sadie.  
Where is she?"

"You want her, don't you?"

"I want you to tell me where she is.  Does Alex have 
her?"

"You want me.  You love me," she said flatly, having 
trouble articulating her words. "Maybe not now, but 
you did."

"No, I don't love you.  I've never loved you. And if 
I ever said I wanted you, I was mistaken."

"You do; you did," she insisted in a dull voice that 
reminded him of Melly when she was very ill. "You 
wrote it to me."

"I wrote what to you?"

She fumbled her pocket, then produced fragments of a 
note so worn it looked like cloth instead of paper.  
She put them on the table, rearranging them like 
puzzle pieces.  He recognized the messy script as 
his, but couldn't tell what he'd written or imagine 
why he'd write it to Poppy, who couldn't read.

"I know what it says.  I remember.  It says 'Passing 
stranger, you do not know how-"

"...How longingly I have looked upon you.  You must be 
she I was seeking.  You give me the pleasure of your 
eyes, face, flesh, and you take of my beard, breast, 
and hands in return.  I will see to it I do not lose 
you,'" he quoted. "I wrote that to Dana when we were 
first married, not to you.  Where did you get that?"

"It was in your coat pocket.  You loaned your coat to 
me.  You wanted me to find it."

"When did I loan you my coat?" he demanded, feeling 
violated all over again.  Nothing between he and Dana 
was any of this nasty, manipulative woman's business 
- especially not love letters.  He wantted to make 
sure Sadie was safe with Alex, then wipe the memory 
of Poppy Kavanaugh out of his mind and off his body. 
"I never wanted you to find anything.  That's none of 
your business."

He'd written the note, then been embarrassed, decided 
not to give it to Dana, and written another.  He'd 
put the first note in the pocket of his favorite coat 
with the rest of his clutter and forgotten about it.  
The only time he recalled loaning Poppy a coat was 
months later... After she'd discovered Dana's pregnancy 
and started crying, he realized.  He'd told Poppy he 
needed her, asked her to start spending the night, 
and loaned her a coat to wear home because it was 
cold.  The next day, after months of sullen jealousy 
and covert sniping, she was the picture of 
solicitousness to Dana.  He remembered being puzzled 
but grateful for her sudden change in attitude.

Dana had told him he could be a little dense.

He started to speak, and Poppy looked up, her face 
twitching again.  The spasm spread down her shoulder 
and arm, and took several seconds before it subsided.  

"Syphilis," he realized nauseously, forgetting what 
else he'd intended to say.  The spasms, poor 
coordination, awkward gait, slurred speech... "Oh my 
God.  You aren't just drunk; you have syphilis.  
You've had it- you've had it for a long time."

Late-stage syphilis took years to gestate, so 
soldiers who contracted it early in the war were just 
beginning to die.  Most assumed when their fever, 
stiffness, headache, and lesions went away, they were 
cured, but the disease had only turned and silently 
attacked their hearts and brains. There were 
hospitals of afflicted ex-soldiers, but most 
prostitutes didn't live long enough to show the end-
stage symptoms.

"You do, don't you?"

Poppy looked away.

"Don't you?" he demanded.

"Don't tell Sam," she mumbled.

He heard movement behind the curtain, and little 
fingers pulled back the edge as brown eyes peeked 
out, recognizing his voice.  He opened his wallet, 
emptying it contents on the battered table.  One 
hundred, eighty-six dollars and - he fished through 
his pockets - ninety-two cents.  That would pay for a 
decent flat, a doctor, and buy as much morphine and 
whiskey as she wanted as her body succumbed to the 
disease.  Without a word, he pushed the curtain 
aside, picked up Sadie, and started to walk out.  As 
he reached the doorway, he turned back, snatched the 
faded scraps of his note to Dana off of the table, 
and shoved them in his pocket as he left.  Poppy 
didn't try to stop him.

*~*~*~*

He kept his promise: he arrived in time for dinner.  
Half of Washington had seen him standing on 
Pennsylvania Avenue holding Sadie, and the other half 
had seen him at the door of the orphanage, looking at 
the hungry, dirty faces and trying to will himself to 
leave her.  The gossip would spread as fast as the 
streetcar, and he'd rather tell Dana before someone 
else did.

Sam was at the kitchen table, murmuring to Cally and 
keeping a nervous eye on the back door, and Rebekah 
was standing in front of the stove.  They turned as 
he came in, staring at the child he carried.  Sam got 
up in surprise, putting his sister down.

Rebekah surveyed his face, then Sadie. "You're a 
fool, Fox," she said icily, then turned and continued 
stirring her pot.

Rapid footsteps pattered down the hall, accompanied 
by gleeful shrieks as Emily escaped her mother's 
efforts to get her dressed and ran naked for Sam's 
arms.  Samuel stooped to pick her up, then turned 
back to his father, still too stunned to speak.

Dana followed, laughing and calling playfully for her 
daughter to come back, then stopped short when she 
saw Mulder holding Sadie.  Her mouth hung open, and 
she slowly lowered the clean dress and diaper she 
must have been planning to put on Emily.  In a cradle 
near the stove, Cally gurgled happily.

"We should probably talk," he said quietly.

*~*~*~*

As a last resort, he told her the truth, clinging to 
some deluded hope the truth might make it better.  
Dana sat calmly in the library and listened for half 
an hour as he explained that he didn't remember what 
happened in Louisville, and that he'd never 
considered Sadie might be his until Poppy had said so 
Christmas morning.  That he still had his doubts.  
That he hadn't meant to mislead Dana about what 
happened when, but she'd misunderstood and he hadn't 
corrected her.  He promised he'd find a nice family 
to take care of Sadie, and Dana would never see her 
again, but that he wouldn't have her starve in an 
orphanage or live on the street. 

Dana nodded that she understood, excused herself, and 
went upstairs.  He stopped to check that Sadie had 
bath and something to eat, so it wasn't until he 
followed Dana to the bedroom a few minutes later that 
he'd realized she was packing.

"Whether she's mine or not," he argued, taking the 
clothes out of the valise as soon as she put them in.  
Dana was packing her clothes, not his. "She's Sarah 
and Melissa's niece.  Her mother will be dead in a 
matter of months - weeks, maybe.  Do you expect me to 
just walk away? She's not even three years old. She's 
a helpless child.  How can you be so cold?"

"Yes, she is a helpless child," Dana agreed evenly, 
closing the valise and fastening the latch. "But you, 
Mr. Mulder, are an ass."

*~*~*~*

He hadn't expected Dana to be delighted, but he'd 
thought she'd understand.  He'd just explained that 
he'd never been unfaithful to her.  Sadie had been 
almost a year and a half old when he'd married Dana.  
As Samuel had once described it, she was a leftover 
obligation.  He hadn't loved her mother, he hadn't 
wanted to be with her mother, but that didn't change 
her being his responsibility.

Dana didn't seem to see it that way, and he had to 
stand in front of the bedroom door to keep her from 
leaving.

"Get out of my way," she ordered through her teeth.

"Where is it you think you're going?"

"Away from you."

"For how long?"

"Forever.  Maybe longer."

"You're-" She reached for the knob and he blocked her 
hand. "You're serious?  You're that angry?"

Her eyes flashed dangerously.  Obviously, she was 
that angry.

"Didn't you hear me?" he insisted. "I don't remember 
being with Poppy.  I can't even swear it really 
happened, but if it did, it happened years ago."

"I asked you to get out of my way," she repeated, 
trying for the knob again.  He grabbed her wrist, and 
they struggled. "Let go of me!" she demanded, but he 
didn't.

"Just listen!  Listen!  I-I-I-I've never been 
unfaithful to you.  I've never even wanted to.  I 
didn't tell you about Sadie because I didn't want to 
hurt you.  I'm sorry.  I love you.  I don't love 
Poppy.  I've never loved Pop-"

She jerked out of his grasp and tried to open the 
door again.  In desperation, he grabbed both her 
wrists and pushed her back against the bed, holding 
her there. 

"Stop it!  Listen to me!  I'm sorry I lied, but I 
love-"

"A man came yesterday.  A landlord.  He had a bill 
for rent on an expensive flat near your office.  I 
thought perhaps it was for Miss Clara Barton, but he 
said it was not.  But he would not tell me why or for 
whom the rooms were rented, except that they were 
rented by you, just after Christmas, for a woman.  I 
put the bill on your desk, but told him he was 
mistaken."

Mulder let go of her hands and stepped back. "I, I 
told Poppy to rent a flat and I'd pay for it.  When I 
told her to leave.  Christmas morning.  I didn't know 
she'd actually rented one."

She shook her head, not believing him.

"Dana, that's the truth!"

"Whose truth?  Which version of the truth?  Whatever 
is most convenient?  Whatever will pacify me?"

"I knew you'd look at Poppy and see Dori, look at me 
and see Waterston.  That's why I didn't tell you.  I 
was trying not to hurt you!"

"Well, you failed," she said coolly.  When he opened 
his mouth, she added, "I do not want to hear about 
any more errant notes or misunderstandings or 
oversights or whatever else you can come up with. You 
are a very good storyteller and I was very gullible, 
but you can save your breath.  I just want to get my 
girls and leave."

Her forehead wrinkled, and she sniffed as she 
struggled not to cry.

He swallowed, trying to get the lump in his throat to 
go down.  If he were her, he wouldn't believe him 
either. "Not if you're going to have a baby," he 
answered, grasping at the closest straw. 

"I am not."

"But you're not certain.  You can't be certain yet.  
And you're not taking my girls anywhere."

"Why not?  You have a plethora."

He shook his head. She was his wife, and as much as 
it sickened him to play that card, she legally 
belonged to him.  Any income she generated belonged 
to him.  Any income he generated belonged to him.  
She couldn't write a bank draft, transfer a title, or 
sign a contract.  She couldn't divorce him without 
his consent, and if she simply left, he could send a 
bounty hunter to bring her back.  It was his family's 
name on the guest list at The White House: if they 
went to court over Cally, Dana would lose.

"You can't take Cally.  You can't feed her, and you 
can't pay her wet nurse to go with you.  And I'm not 
supporting Emmy unless you say she's mine, which 
means you can't take her either.  If you leave 
tonight, you're leaving alone."

He understood as much as, "How dare you!" before she 
switched to Gaelic, so angry he flinched and so 
loudly the neighbors could follow along.

He stepped back again, leaning against the bedroom 
door.  He wiped his nose on his sleeve repeatedly, 
then focused on the ceiling.  She was short: she 
couldn't see him crying if he looked up.  

He might be an ass, and he might be desperate, but he 
wasn't forcing her to stay if she didn't want to.

"Wait another month.  If there's no baby, you can 
leave.  I'll buy you a house here or you can take 
Emily anywhere within a day's train ride of DC. You 
can see Cally whenever you want. And I'll-"

"What about Samuel?"

"Sam has wanted me to divorce you for months."

He heard the beginning of a sob, then carefully 
controlled silence.  He knew Dana.  If it killed her, 
she wasn't going to start bawling in front of him.

"And I'll pay for whatever you want," he continued 
shakily. "And if you still want a divorce, a legal 
separation... Just stay another month.  I won't bother 
you.  I won't even speak to you."

"And if there is a baby?"

"Then, I, uh..." He trailed off, not wanting to even 
say it. "Then we'll see.  We'd have to stay together 
at least until it's born.  Unless you don't want to 
have it."  

"I despise you."

"Yes, I know that." 

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus XIII

***********************************

Begin: Paracelsus XIV

*~*~*~*

Dear Dana,

All my life I have had everything I should have 
wanted, and yet, deep inside myself, I always yearned 
for more.  

My father raised me to be the next Julius Caesar, and 
until he died, he believed I'd come to my senses 
eventually and follow the destiny he'd envisioned.  
He'd roll his eyes and call me an idealist, but he 
never turned his back on me.  He was always there 
when I needed him, but I never knew how much I needed 
him until he was gone.  My mother never understood my 
world of books and philosophy, but I was always 
welcome in her world of pretty appearances.  My 
parents loved each other passionately and I was their 
precious son.  Each loved the reflection of the other 
they saw in me, and they loved me, but I wonder if 
they ever saw me for who I truly am.

I married too young, but many men do.  I married for 
the wrong reasons, but many men do.  I had a child 
before I was finished being one myself, but many men 
do.  If I was unhappy, it was no one's fault but my 
own.  Melissa would have picked up my footprints and 
bronzed them, if she could have.  I loved my Sam, and 
I tried to adore his mother as much as she adored me.

Life slipped by.  One day blended politely into 
another.  I played my role, supplied my lines, and 
drifted farther and farther from the person I'd 
always intended to be.  

They say on the Great Plains, there were once buffalo 
herds that stretched as far as a man can see.  Sam 
and I saw a buffalo at the circus, and we talked 
about it: what it would be like to see a hundred 
thousand of them at once. He was seven, I was twenty-
four, and he asked if we could go west and see the 
buffalo before they were gone.  I said "perhaps" and 
bought him candy because I was too much of a coward 
to say we never would.  My family would never say "to 
Hell with civilization," pack our saddlebags, and 
ride off into the sunset, whipping our horses wildly 
and waving our hats in the dusty wind.  We would 
never put on silk couture, go to the Paris opera, 
spit over the edge of our box, and then try to look 
innocent as the people below cursed us in French.  We 
would never be anything but the beautiful, too-tight 
role society expected of us.

I had begun to content myself with that, and you 
can't know how much that frightened me.  No - yes, 
you can know.  I know you, Dana, whether you want me 
to or not, just as you know me.  

And then suddenly, it was all gone.  My world, along 
with every other American's, had come to an end.  For 
the first time since I was sixteen, I wasn't Melly's 
husband or Sam's father or Bill Mulder's only son.  
As much as I ached for them, for the first time, I 
could be anyone I wanted, but I'd almost forgotten 
who I'd wanted to be.  I wrote to Melissa that I was 
like Diogenes: roaming the Earth, holding my dim 
lantern up in the darkness, and searching for someone 
who would tell him the truth.

A man should be careful what he looks for.  One day, 
Dana, a familiar soul quietly stepped into my path, 
and I can tell you in all honesty: I will never be 
the same.  

Each time I swore I was returning to DC and yet found 
my horse pointed toward Waterston's plantation, I had 
a dozen practical explanations - some believable. You 
are better with practicality, Dana. You asked why I 
kept coming back, and I lied and said, "to fix the 
hole in your roof." I asked why you kept letting me 
come back, and you said, "You bring me coffee beans, 
Mr. Mulder."

For a man who convinced himself he wasn't in love 
with you, I will say this: in Georgia, immediately 
after the war, coffee beans were fifty dollars an 
ounce, love.  Gold was forty, flour was thirty, and 
pretty young women - without husbands and babies and 
holes in their roofs - were roughly ten cents.  I 
bought coffee beans.
 
Despite what I tried to tell myself, loving you 
wasn't a product of reasoning and practical 
statistics.  It just came, I cannot say from where, 
and refused to explain itself.  I love you.  I did 
that fall; I do to this day.  You bring courage and 
color and balance to my life; my world with you is 
vivid; my world without you is gray.

"Passing stranger, you do not know how longingly I 
have looked upon you.  You must be she I was seeking.  
You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, 
and you take of my beard, breast, and hands in 
return.  I will see to it I do not lose you." I wrote 
that to you once, Dana, but you never received it.  I 
wonder how things would have been different if you 
had.  

You made me feel whole, and I made you feel second 
best.  I went chasing fireflies when I wanted 
fireworks, and now I can only say I am sorry.  You 
were never second best.  No one ever has or ever will 
touch the place you do in my soul.  If I mistook what 
I felt for a lesser love, it was only because I had 
little previous acquaintance with the emotion.  If I 
could open my heart and show you the inside, perhaps 
you would believe me, but I cannot.  There are a 
finite number of second-chances in each lifetime, and 
I used mine up long ago.

I have been fortunate to share my path through life 
with several remarkable people, and truly blessed 
that you have been one of them.  Forms change, times 
change, but we are all parts of an evolving whole, 
and souls do not forget each other.  We have met 
before, Dana, and I believe we will meet again.  In 
some future world, when we pass on the street, I pray 
I have the sense to stop, grin sarcastically, and 
ask, "Where have you been all my lives?" And you will 
look up at me with those big blue eyes and answer in 
your logical manner, "Right underneath your nose, 
Mulder."

Know that wherever you are, whatever you are doing, 
in this lifetime or the next, I love you.  Eternally.  
Life does not stop love, nor does death.  I will 
never forget you: you are burned into my soul.  I 
will always scan the crowds, searching for a woman 
who holds the other half of who I am, because until 
you return, half is missing.  The rest is silence.   
I cannot hold you, but the hardest thing I have ever 
done - that I will ever do - is let you go.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

Follow your heart, wise men said.

When he was fifteen, his heart said Sarah, much to 
everyone's approval.  She was the girl next door, his 
friend, and his confidant. Their marriage would unite 
two old, powerful families.  His father was fond of 
her, seeing her as a pretty, well-bred asset to his 
son's future.  His mother doted on Sarah as the 
daughter she'd longed for, and Sarah had returned the 
affection.  At fifteen, as a boy struggling to find 
his place in his father's shadow, he'd been grateful 
he happened to love a girl who met both his parent's 
and society's expectations in every way.

When he was sixteen, still numb from Sarah's death, 
his heart said Melissa.  She was breathtakingly 
beautiful, endlessly sweet, and heartbreakingly 
alone.  And pregnant.  And Sarah's little sister.  
And in love with him.  He'd shrugged off the voice of 
reason, thinking the things about Melly that bothered 
him would change after they were married. In fourteen 
years, she'd demanded so little except care and 
superficial affection, and she'd known so little of 
who he really was.

When he was thirty-one and the world seemed to be 
ending, his heart whispered Dana.  He'd found her the 
way a compass finds due north - a primitive, 
mysterious pull from a force he couldn't understand 
or control.  For the first time in his life, he'd 
given in and let the tide take him where it would, 
and, to his surprise, the sky hadn't fallen.  They'd 
been happy.  Or at least, he'd been happy and Dana 
had given a convincing performance.

Then Sam.  His heart told him to keep searching - 
that Samuel was out there in the darkness, alone, 
hurting.  And Sam was, but that didn't mean he wanted 
to be found.  Mulder had brought home a confused, 
traumatized boy-soldier to a pregnant stepmother, 
then been perplexed that everyone hadn't lived 
happily ever after.

Then Poppy.  She was his last link to Sarah, and he'd 
tolerated her behavior, believing Sam needed her.  
His heart told him she loved Sam more than she 
resented Dana's place in his life.  And his bed.

Then Sadie.  An unwanted bastard child in a sea of 
unwanted bastard children.  His heart ached when he 
looked at her, not sure what to do except hurt.

Each choice had seemed like the right choice.  The 
only choice, sometimes.  Each time, he'd followed his 
heart, only to realize too late that his heart 
couldn't read a map.

*~*~*~*

When the minister tried to console him after Sarah's 
funeral, Mulder asked what kind of God let fifteen-
year old girls die. The minister hadn't been able to 
answer to his satisfaction, and that had been the end 
of Mulder's patronage of any church.  He'd gone for 
Melissa's sake, or when Sam or his mother asked him 
to, but seldom of his own accord.  He found God in 
sunrises and newborn babies and one more morning with 
his wife, not in a pew.  He'd almost gone that 
morning, though, looking for comfort in the rituals 
from childhood.  He'd sent Dana to Mass and Sam to 
Easter services instead, then moped around the house 
until the silence became deafening.

"Where is the groom?" Dana asked, looking displeased 
to find Mulder outside the church, waiting to pick 
her up after Mass.

Mulder secured the reins on the dash, set the brake, 
wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, and climbed 
down.  The horses sensed the tension in the air, and 
shifted nervously.  He patted one's haunches, then 
left his hand on the harness as he said hesitantly, 
"I sent him home.  Let me help you up."

Her posture indicated she'd rather fall to her death 
than have him lay hands on her, so he let her climb 
into the buggy by herself.  She kept her hands in her 
lap and her eyes straight ahead as he climbed up, 
ignoring the stares as the parishioners emerging from 
church.

It was a nice, juicy scandal - not that he'd been 
with the Negro help, though that was in bad taste - 
but that he'd brought the resulting child home to his 
wife.  He was still Bill Mulder's boy, so society 
chalked it up to yet another example of his lechery 
and bad judgment, gossiped, and eventually forgave.  
But instead of being sympathetic to Dana as the 
wronged wife, Washington smirked and snidely 
muttered, "I told you so."

Fox Mulder, who'd been the epitome of the devoted, 
adoring husband during Lent, obviously wasn't.  
Obviously, Dana was a fool to believe her husband 
would be faithful to any woman, let alone her.  
Society thought it was a good joke, and didn't 
hesitate to laugh.  

Ladies who'd barely been polite to Dana in public 
suddenly came out of the woodwork: dropping in for 
tea, to invite her to go shopping, or to admire 
Cally.  The gossips sharpened their knives, expecting 
a tearful scene, but got tea and little else.  Dana 
had held her head high, said Cally was sleeping, 
declined the shopping invitations, and answered 
graciously that "yes, Miss Poppy's daughter is 
staying with us." Even the most brazen among the 
women didn't dare ask, and the ladies eventually 
left, bewildered.

Dana hadn't flinched, but in two days, to his 
knowledge, she hadn't eaten or slept either, and the 
strain was beginning to show.

"How was Mass?" he asked, searching for something to 
talk about.

He saw her chest rise and fall, but she declined to 
answer.  The agreement was that he wouldn't bother 
her, wouldn't even speak to her.  He was breaking the 
agreement, but they couldn't keep living under the 
same roof and ignoring each other.  He couldn't just 
stand by and wait to see if the stork was going to 
buy him another nine months with her.  If he could 
just get her to do anything: cry, yell, scream - 
anything, he at least had a toehold.
 
"This is not the way home, Mr. Mulder."

"No, it's not," he answered.

"Where are we going?"

"Just a little side trip."

"I would like to go home." 

"And I will take you home.  I'm just taking another 
route." She started to say that he wasn't even headed 
in the right direction, but he cut her off. "My Uncle 
Ronald's widow will take Sadie. I sent her a telegram 
Saturday morning.  Auntie has a big house on Rhode 
Island, and someone's already on their way to get 
Sadie and take her back.  After Tuesday, you won't 
see her again."

She continued staring at her hands. "Will you?" 

Each word seemed electrically charged, and he 
considered his response carefully. "I don't know," he 
answered honestly. "I want her to be well-taken care 
of, but I don't know that I want to see her again.  
No, I probably won't see her unless I have to."

He watched Dana out of the corner of his eye, trying 
to see if there was any reaction.  She looked up, 
swallowing and turning her head away from him. "Even 
if she is yours?"

"Cally is mine.  Emmy is mine.  Sam is mine.  Sadie... 
She's not mine.  Not in the same sense. Even if she's 
my blood, it frightens me how little I feel for her."

"That does not seem fair."

"Find one thing in this mess that is fair, Dana," he 
responded, and she didn't answer.

A block past The Evening Star, he stopped the buggy 
in front of a boarding house.  Dana looked at him as 
he walked around to help her down, not budging. "This 
is the address on the landlord's bill.  I want you to 
see it."

"This is Poppy's flat?"

"This is the address on the bill.  She doesn't live 
here, if that's what you're asking.  Will you go in?"

He wasn't sure she would, but Dana nodded and let him 
help her down.  The front door was unlocked, and 
opened to a small foyer.  A family occupied the first 
floor, and toys were scattered around their door.  A 
narrow staircase led to the upstairs and attic flats. 
The first door opened when Mulder tried it.

The rooms were bright, clean, airy, and expensively 
furnished. There was a sitting room, a bedroom, and a 
small kitchen with a stove.  It was clean, but there 
was no sign anyone lived there: no clothes in the 
drawers or food in the pantry.  The flat was much 
nicer than Poppy could have afforded on her salary, 
but he'd been paying and he'd bet that was part of 
the reason she'd rented it.  He also suspected part 
of the appeal had been the view: the kitchen window 
overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue, kitty-corner from the 
front door of The Evening Star.

"She must have rented it Christmas Day, right after 
she told me about Sadie, then changed her mind and 
gone north with Alex.  I'd say they were trying to 
make the deadline for Spender to be eligible for the 
Massachusetts Senate.  When Spender wasn't nominated, 
they returned, but by then - or soon after - Poppy 
and Alex parted and she forgot it.  Or she assumed I 
changed my mind about paying for the flat once she 
quit her job."

Dana stood in the center of the sitting room, turning 
slowly.

"Does that sound logical?" he asked tentatively, 
trying to sound scientific instead of desperate.  

"Many things can sound logical, Mr. Mulder," she 
answered, but her voice didn't sound so razor-sharp.

He put his hands in his pockets, wiggling his fingers 
nervously. "Dana, I've been thinking about something. 
Wondering.  The morning you came to my office and 
told me you were expecting Cally, was a box of white 
roses delivered to the house?"

She wrinkled her forehead, trying to remember. 
"Perhaps.  I think so.  Why do you ask?"

"Who were they for?"

"For Poppy.  Beautiful white roses.  There was a 
card, I think, but I didn't see it.  I don't know who 
sent them.  She wouldn't say."

"I sent them.  I sent them to you, Dana.  She just 
intercepted them, assuming they were hers, I think.  
And she assumed the note I wrote was meant for her."
 
"Why would she assume that?"

Before he could answer, a man stuck his head through 
the open doorway, squinting at them and asking what 
their business was.  Mulder explained that it was his 
name on the bill, and, playing a hunch, asked the 
landlord to tell Dana who'd physically rented the 
flat, knowing it couldn't possibly be him.  The 
landlord hedged, and Mulder asked again.

The landlord glanced around, then timidly answered, 
"You, sir."

"Me?"

"You and the tall, pretty woman. Colored, Indian - I 
dunno, but she was a looker.  Had a little one with 
her I took to be yours."

Dana had been watching the landlord intently, but 
turned her back and instead looked out the window at 
the busy street.

"Me?  No, it had to be Alex.  I wasn't with her. Dana 
- Alex was with her.  Not me." He turned back to the 
landlord. "Couldn't it have been another man?  Tall, 
dark hair, dark eyes?  Alex?"

"Could be," the landlord responded, unfortunately a 
little too quickly. "Probably was, in fact.  Almost 
certainly was, sir.  Don't see so well, myself."

"Show me the lease," he demanded. "If I rented it, 
show me my signature on the lease."

"It ain't got no signature on it - just an X.  I 
wrote the rest."

"Exactly.  I can read and write.  Poppy and Alex 
can't.  Dana, why would I sign an X if I can write?"

"Keep folks from knowing you's payin' the rent, I 
suppose," the landlord postulated.

"No one asked you," Mulder snapped. "Was she ever 
here again?  Poppy?  After the day it was rented, was 
anyone ever here again?"

"Not to my knowing, sir," the landlord supplied, 
sounding wholly unconvincing. "I don't go sticking my 
nose where it don't belong."

"You live downstairs!  Of course you'd know."

"I will wait in the-" Dana started, turning to leave, 
but Mulder grabbed her arm.

"No, wait.  Don't.  I can- I can prove..." He looked 
around the cheery yellow room, trying to think of a 
way to verify his story. "Come with me."

The alley was half a block away.  Down the 
cobblestones, then left and through a labyrinth of 
narrow passages between the buildings. Up the steps, 
under the stone archway, then through the back door 
of the old factory he'd followed Poppy into Friday 
afternoon. He heard Dana panting as he led her down 
the filthy hall, still gripping her wrist like a 
drowning man.  Through the first flat, then the 
second, with the same woman and baby beside the coal 
stove, then into Poppy and Frankie's dingy room.

"Here," he announced triumphantly. "This is where 
Poppy lives.  This is where I found Sadie.  She was 
behind this curtain.  Her mother brings men back here 
with her daughter on the other side of this curtain.  
Sadie was dirty and hungry and her diaper hadn't been 
changed in hours.  Look around: there's no food, 
there's no heat.  If, if Poppy was my mistress and I 
knew Sadie was with her, do you think I'd let them 
live here?  Do you?"

"No," Dana said softly.  He could tell the idea 
anyone lived in this place, or in the manner he'd 
described, horrified her.  Neither of them would let 
a dog live in that room.

"Poppy has syphilis.  She must have had it for years 
without telling anyone, and it's finally killing her.  
It might be why her first baby died.  It might be why 
Sadie barely talks.  But I don't have it.  You don't.  
Cally doesn't.  If I'd been with Poppy - three years 
or three nights ago, willingly or unwillingly - I'd 
have it."

"Not always," she said. "In The Lancet-"

"Do you honestly think my luck's that good?  Dana, 
it's spread to her brain.  Poppy's always been high 
strung, and she's had a hard life.  I'm not saying 
she's a saint, but she wouldn't have hurt Sam.  Me 
maybe, but not Sam.  To tell him Melissa's in Hell, 
and that she and I were lovers - Poppy's changed.  
When I talked to her Friday, she barely knew me.  
Some daydream she's had about me secretly loving her 
all these years: it's slowly gotten twisted inside 
her head until she believes it."

She looked around the dingy room.

"Dana, do you believe me?"

"I-I do not know," she said tiredly, her voice 
wavering.

"All right.  Fair enough. I just wanted you to see 
this, to hear me out.  I'll take you home now."

Although the narrow hall made it awkward and there 
was little for her to stumble over, he kept his hand 
on her arm as he guided her out of the building.  As 
they reached the back of the run-down building, 
Mulder squinted as the door opened and a teenage girl 
entered, humming to herself.  Frankie grinned and 
started to speak when she recognized Mulder, but then 
quickly closed her mouth and dropped her head when 
she saw Dana.  She slid past them, and Dana turned to 
watch Frankie enter the same room they'd exited.

"You know her," Dana observed as they reached the 
stone archway. "The girl in the hallway.  And she 
knew you.  That was her flat.  She was happy to see 
you."

"I'll explain later.  This isn't the place for us to 
stop and chat."

"That was her flat.  Not Poppy's.  And you knew how 
to find it."

"Yes, that's her flat.  Her name is Frankie.  Poppy's 
staying with her," he answered, keeping an eye on all 
the other eyes watching them from the shadows.

"How did you know that?  How did you find out?"

"Dana, come on," he urged, but she refused. "I know 
Frankie because she used to be one of my newsboys.  
Before she did what she does now.  I see her, 
sometimes.  I saw her Friday as I was leaving work.  
That's how I discovered Poppy was staying with her," 
he explained impatiently.

"That does not make sense. This," she gestured to the 
urban Hell around them. "Is not in the line of sight 
from The Evening Star.  This is not between the 
newspaper's front door and ours."

"I was in the alley with Frankie."

"Oh."

"It's not like it sounds," he added quickly. "I give 
her my lunch, sometimes.  Most times.  I was getting 
the tin back so you and Rebekah wouldn't scold me, 
and Sam and I were talking to her. And I saw Poppy.  
And Frankie said Poppy was staying with her."

"You had Samuel with you?"

"Well, Sam knows her," he defended himself. "I sent 
him away."

"He said you had forgotten something at the office."

"I told him to say that because I was with Frankie," 
he argued. "Not 'with' Frankie, but talking to her.  
I saw Poppy and I didn't want Sam seeing her.  Dana, 
I'm telling you the truth."

"Then where is Poppy?"

"Probably drunk somewhere.  I gave her some money-"

"You gave her money?" Dana said in disbelief. "You 
told me she took advantage of you, could have given 
you syphilis, lied when she said was your mistress, 
lied to your son, and you gave her money?  How much 
money?"

"One hundred, eighty-six dollars," he mumbled, 
slouching guiltily. That was a great deal of money, 
especially to a two-dollar whore. 

"One hundred, eighty-six dollars..." she prompted.

"And ninety-two cents," he added.  His "tell the 
truth" plan wasn't working out well.

Dana's cheekbones stood out, and the purple shadows 
under her eyes seemed even darker. "I want to go home 
now," she requested.

"All right," he said, taking her arm again.

She jerked away, telling him not to touch her.

*~*~*~*

He had a new plan: he was just going to stay at her 
heels and protest his innocence until she believed 
him.  Since tact, judgment, and honesty didn't seem 
to be his strengths, he'd try tenacity.  Dana had 
stopped listening about 13th Street, but he'd kept 
talking - all the way home, up the stairs, and into 
their bedroom, which he hadn't set foot in since Good 
Friday.  As he pleaded his case to deaf ears, Dana 
stood in front of the dresser mirror, unpinning her 
hat and taking off the brooch she'd worn to Easter 
Mass.

"Dana, I'm telling you the truth," he insisted yet 
again, sounding petulant. "I am.  Why won't you 
believe me?"

She looked at the brooch, then closed her fingers 
around it.

"Dana, I love you.  Only you.  With all my heart.  
And body.  I've never loved anyone like I love you.  
There's no one else, and certainly not Poppy or 
Frankie.  Yes, lying to you was wrong, but now I'm 
telling the truth.  And I don't know what else I can 
say or do to convince you."

Her eyes closed and her forehead crinkled like she 
was about to cry, and he stepped toward her. "Dana," 
he said softly, comfortingly. "You haven't slept.  
You haven't-"

Then, in one fluid move, she turned and hurled the 
expensive ivory brooch at him, hitting him square in 
the chest. "How dare you," she shouted, sending her 
earbobs through the air after the brooch. "How can 
even you possibly be such an ass!"

"Dana-" he said in surprise, raising his hands to 
shield himself as she flung her stupid little hat and 
hatpin at him as well.  She opened her jewelry box 
and grabbed randomly, hurling a sapphire necklace, 
then a ring, then another necklace, and finally, in 
frustration, the whole mahogany box.

"Do you know," she continued loudly, jerking open the 
wardrobe and throwing a high-heeled slipper at him. 
"How much I wanted to believe you?  How much I want 
to believe you are the innocent, flawed, knight-in-
shining-armor and this is all just a big-"

The other dainty slipper. "Mis-" 

A walking boot. "Under-"

The other boot. "Standing!"

A black silk evening dress, which didn't make it very 
far.  In exasperation, she picked it up and threw it 
again, then kicked it when it fell to the floor.

"Do you know how much I did not want it to be true?" 
she yelled, grabbing a heavy feather pillow off the 
bed and hurling it at him. "How much I wanted to 
believe you, regardless of every bit of evidence to 
the contrary?  Do you?"

"It isn't true," he insisted. "It's not. I told you 
the truth!"

"When?  Which time?" she demanded, and he saw the 
first angry tears spill from the corners of her eyes. 
"Why did you do that, Mulder?  Bring Sadie here?  
There a hundred places you could have taken her for 
the night.  You could have said business called you 
out of town, taken her to a hotel, and I would never 
have known.  Why did you bring her home?"

"Maybe because I wanted you to know - because I 
wanted to tell you the truth, however awful it was.  
I don't like lying to you."

"Then tell me the truth!"

"I am!  I did." She moved to throw another pillow and 
he grabbed her wrist.  She fought him, pounding his 
chest with her other hand until he caught it as well. 
"Dana, stop.  You'll make yourself sick."

"You are so brilliant," she accused him tearfully. 
"You know so much of books, but nothing of life.  
People die, Mulder.  People we love die, we grieve, 
and our lives go on.  But yours did not.  You will 
not let it.  It is safer to be in love with a ghost."

"A ghost?  You think I'm still in love with Melly?  
You're wrong.  I love you.  I never loved Melly the 
way I love..." He glanced at her, then realized, 
"Sarah?  You think I'm in love with Sarah?  That's 
absurd.  She's been dead for years."

"And you think you should have died with her," she 
accused him, jerking away and leaning against the 
bedpost as she caught her breath. "How can you love 
me?  Everyone since Sarah has been just passing time; 
a poor substitute while you wait for your One True 
Love.  What you do, who you hurt, does not really 
matter, because it is all a cosmic mistake anyway.  
You let Poppy stay, not for Samuel, but because she 
looks like Sarah.  You let her humiliate me, fill 
Samuel's head full of horrible ideas... All because she 
is your last link to some life you believe you were 
supposed to have.  Everyone else - Melissa, Samuel, 
me, our children - we are just come cosmic error."

"That's not true."

"Oh, is it not?"

"Have you been in my desk?" he accused her, positive 
she hadn't. "Have you read my letters to Melly?"

"Oh, go to hell," she snapped tiredly.

*~*~*~*

He lie on the kitchen floor, fishing blindly 
underneath the stove for a tail or paw.  As he 
strained to reach another half-inch, Emily stood 
beside him, sobbing miserably for "Cat. Cat. Cat."  

"Almost," he promised breathlessly, expecting his 
shoulder to come out of joint or bones to start 
snapping. "I almost have him.  Al... mo-" He felt 
kitten fluff and grabbed, only to get a handful of 
air, sharp claws, and angry hissing.  Mulder cursed 
and jerked his hand out to examine the scratch.

"Me cat.  Cat, Dah-dah!  Dah-dah: cat," Emily 
pleaded. "Cat-cat-cat-cat." It was her new favorite 
word, and she pronounced it like she was a swaying, 
clattering train, slowly gaining speed.

"I'm trying," he insisted irritably, sucking his 
knuckle.  She didn't look convinced, so he squirmed 
sideways and tried with his left arm, avoiding the 
bottom of the hot stove. "Emmy, he doesn't want to 
come out.  Can't you sleep without him?  Just this 
once?"

"Me cat," she wailed, tears streaming down her face 
dramatically. "Peas.  Cat.  Cat-cat-cat.  Cat!"

He sighed in exasperation and continued fishing for 
feline.  In retrospect, a tiny kitten wasn't the best 
Christmas gift for a toddler. For months, Emily had 
been terrified of the loudmouthed ball of fluff and 
cried whenever she saw it.  Then, suddenly, she 
insisted on carrying it around the house, usually 
upside down, which the half-grown kitten resisted.  

"Me cat!"

"I'm trying," he snapped, which made her cry harder.  
Behind the stove, the kitten eyed Mulder and hissed 
warningly.

"Do you want me to get him out?" Sam's voice asked 
from above the black ankle boots Mulder was eye-to-
eye with.

"I'll get him," Mulder muttered, grabbing again and 
this time getting fangs through the fleshy part of 
his hand between his thumb and forefinger. "Damn it!  
Goddamn cat!"

"Tam it!" Emily repeated disapprovingly, then resumed 
her tearful pleading for, "Cat.  Cat-cat-cat.  Dah-
dah: peas.  Me cat. "

The boots disappeared into the pantry, and reappeared 
as Mulder sat up, clutching his newest wound.  Sam 
squatted down, waving a slice of ham temptingly.  The 
kitten rolled to his feet and strolled out, meowing 
longingly.  Sam sent Emily off holding the ham and 
giggling as the fat gray puffball pranced after her.

Mulder sighed in exasperation, got up, dusted off his 
backside, and reached for his tepid cup of coffee.  
He'd re-warmed the coffee from the pot Dana had made 
before Easter Mass, and six hours hadn't improved the 
flavor.  It kept him awake and removed paint.

"Dana calls him Ocras," Sam said, sitting at the 
kitchen table and weaving his legs through the chair 
rungs. "I think that's 'hungry' in Gaelic.  She said 
not to call him Damnation."

"Tam cat," Mulder responded tiredly, pouring more 
sugar into his mug in a futile attempt to mask the 
taste.  Despite the heat from the stove, he felt cold 
inside, and his belly chilled despite the coffee. 

"I think," Sam started uncertainly. "I think Dana's 
asleep.  I didn't open the door, but it sounds like 
it."

In his blend-into-the-shadows way, Sam had been 
silently observing the drama following Sadie's 
arrival.  He appeared in a doorway or in the nursery, 
watched impassively, then faded away like the morning 
fog: Mulder seldom noticed Sam arriving or going 
until he was there or gone.

"She is asleep.  She needs to rest.  Sadie and Cally 
are asleep, but Emmy won't go lie down.  I, uh..." A 
yawn interrupted him, and Mulder rubbed his eyes. 
Dana wasn't the only one who hadn't slept since 
Friday. "I, uh..." He couldn't remember what he'd been 
talking about.

"I could watch her," Sam offered.

"You don't have to.  Cally's nurse will be back soon, 
and Rebekah..." He trailed off, his ears popping as he 
yawned again.

"No, I could.   You could sleep."

"Oh, that would be wonderful." Mulder rolled his neck 
and let his eyelids close halfway in anticipation. 
"You'll wake me if anything happens?" he checked. "Or 
if you get tired of them?  Wake me, not Dana.  Let 
Dana sleep."

"I will." Sam nodded, then hesitated before he asked, 
"Dad?"

"Hum?"

"What's..." He trailed off and grew a little smaller. 
"Everyone's talking about Sadie.  Even at church this 
morning. And I heard Dana crying. Yelling. Is she..."

"She'll stay another month: long enough to make sure 
she's not having another baby.  Then she's leaving."

"But Sadie's leaving.  I heard you say so."

"That doesn't change- change the circumstances," 
Mulder hedged.

"She's leaving forever?  Like a divorce?"

The concept of divorce was almost as mythical.  
Through adultery, drunkenness, beatings, insanity - 
married people stayed married, if only to escape the 
scandal and stigma on the children.  Money and family 
smoothed over many things when a girl wanted to 
marry, but not being Negro, illegitimate, or the 
child of divorced parents.

Mulder stroked his aching forehead with his thumb, 
realizing he was running three for three. "Maybe.  I 
don't know."

"Where would she go?"

"I don't know."

"What about Emily and Cally?" Sam asked softly.

"Sam, I don't know."

"What if she's having a baby?"

"I don't know, Sammy," Mulder muttered through his 
teeth.

"I thought you and Dana weren't having any more ba-"

"Enough," Mulder said more sharply than he intended. 
"Sammy, enough.  Just stop.  Please.  I don't know 
what's going to happen.  I don't. But it doesn't 
matter. You don't want Dana here, and Dana doesn't 
want to be here.  I know you and I need to talk, but 
not now.  Later.  Right now, I'm too tired to think, 
let alone explain."

Sam nodded uncomfortably and excused himself to go 
after Emily. 

Mulder exhaled, knowing he hadn't handled that well.  
Once he found the energy to move, he stretched out on 
the library sofa and closed his eyes.  Kitten claws 
skittered across the foyer, and Emily squealed as she 
and Sam pursued Damnation up the stairs.

*~*~*~*

He heard the voice calling his name, as gently 
insistent as water dripping onto sandstone, slowly 
eroding away sleep. "Okay.  I'm awake," he mumbled.  
The cushion he'd shoved behind his head was making 
his neck ache, and he massaged it with his hand.

"Fox," she repeated slowly, wrapping his name in 
Southern mist.

"I'm up," he answered sleepily, rubbing his eyes.  
Rebekah had changed his diapers and retained the 
right to call him 'Fox,' but few others did.  Poppy 
had, but to every other adult in the house, 
including, at the moment, Dana, he was 'Mr. Mulder.'

"Get up.  Come on, silly," she persisted. "You'll 
miss everything."

He looked up and saw Melissa's brown eyes watching 
him, except there was life in them, mischief, 
sparkle.  The facial structure was similar, but 
rounder and not so exotic.  Her hair was the same 
straight, black silk, but she was fairer, looking 
less Cherokee and more French.  She wore a simple 
white dress, and she was slimmer than Melissa, with 
the small, high breasts and new curves of a teenage 
girl.  He squinted, trying to figure out who this 
girl could be, and why she'd address him so casually. 

"Sarah?" he finally realized, sitting up.

"No, Napoleon.  Get up, silly."

"Sarah?" he repeated in disbelief.  She'd died before 
photographs, and Jack Kavanaugh hadn't approved of 
paintings of his girls.  The only images Mulder had 
of her were the ones in his mind.  When he dreamt of 
her, she was always older, and it was strange to see 
her at fifteen.  She seemed so young - more child 
than woman. "Sarah?"

She stepped back, looking around the library as the 
late afternoon sun glowed orange through the windows. 
"This is your house?"

"Yes, this is my house," he answered automatically, 
assuring himself he was only dreaming, not crazy. 
"Sarah..."

It felt like a dream, but not.  It was like seeing 
his mother's soul leaving or Dana's when Cally was 
born: there, but not.  She was a spectator in his 
world, but no longer part of it.  His mind filled in 
what his senses didn't: the warmth from her body, the 
scent of her skin, and the sound of her footsteps 
across the rug.

Sarah trailed her fingers casually across the 
polished piano, over the easel, then stopped to 
examine the accordion. "What's this?"

"It's Sam's accordion.  It makes music.  Or something 
akin to it."

"Sam?  Samantha?"

"Samuel.  Melissa's son.  Melissa and I have a son 
named Samuel. He's almost sixteen."  

"You and Melissa?   My sister Melissa?  You called 
her an empty-headed pest and a crybaby.  Are you 
teasing me?"

"I'm not teasing," he insisted, trying to get his 
bearings. "Melly and I were married... We- Would- would 
you like to see him?"

Sarah nodded that she would and followed him, 
tripping lightly up the curving staircase.  He 
expected her to vanish, but when she didn't, he 
cautioned her to be quiet and pushed open the first 
door.

"Sam," he whispered, gesturing to the young man 
asleep on top of the covers, one hand under his cheek 
and one resting protectively on Emily.  The kitten 
was curled at the foot of the bed, its gray muzzle on 
Sam's ankle. "That's my Sammy."

"He's beautiful." 

"Yes."

"He looks like Melissa.  He's like her in so many 
ways.  You don't want him to be, but he is, and that 
frightens you."

"Yes, it does," he admitted quietly.

She studied Sam's face thoughtfully. "There is so 
much gentle beauty inside him.  He has a quiet 
center, an artist's soul.  An old soul.  You've lost 
him so many times, and you've searched for so long.  
You want to protect him, but you can't: you can't 
protect him from all the evil in the world."

"I can try," he said even more quietly.

"And the baby?  Is she yours?"

"That's Emily.  She'll be two this summer." He 
moistened his lips. "Yes, she's mine.  And Cally's 
asleep in the nursery. She's almost four months old."

Emily shifted, and Sam patted her back instinctively.  
He rubbed his neck, then rolled to his side, curling 
up to her.  At the foot of the bed, the kitten 
flicked its tail, but didn't open its eyes.

Mulder gestured for Sarah to step back as he closed 
Sam's door. He stood facing her in the dim hallway, 
knowing he was dreaming, but unwilling to wake.

"It seems so odd," she murmured. "You being married, 
having a house, having a family.  You're a man, Fox."

"I guess I am," he said, standing close to her.  

He wanted to put his arms around her and feel like 
the world wasn't coming to an end, but he didn't.  
He'd always envisioned her as a woman, and, in his 
dreams, treated her like a woman.  Now, seeing her as 
the child she'd been, those dreams seemed perverse, 
somehow.  She was right: he was a grown man, and this 
was a little girl.

"Stay," he offered. "There's so much to talk about.  
I can show you Cally.  I could-"

She shook her head slightly from side to side.

"I saw you once," he said quickly, afraid she would 
fade away at any moment. "In Tennessee.  Near your 
father's plantation.  There was a war, and I was 
wounded.  I was dying, and there was a bright light, 
and then you were there: walking toward me through 
the tall grass.  I felt my soul leaving my body.  I 
saw the battle as if I was looking down on it.  I 
started to come to you, but you shook your head and 
told me to go back.  So I did," he finished in a 
frantic jumble, justifying why his life had continued 
when hers hadn't.

"And you think it was a mistake?  Coming back?"

"I-I don't know.  I'm not dying now, am I?"

"No, you look pretty healthy," she assured him. "Fox, 
you see me because you want to see me.  Do you 
understand that?  You've created me.  I don't come to 
you: I exist inside you."

"Yes, you do.  You always will.  When you died, I 
drilled a tiny hole into my heart and stored you away 
in it.  I need you." 

"But you aren't fifteen anymore.  I am, but you 
aren't.  You're making me something I'm not.  I 
didn't talk like this, think like this.  I was a 
child.  We were children playing at love, and you've 
made us into a fairytale."

"I know that, but I need to believe in what could 
have been.  In what should have been.  If I have 
that, I can handle what is."

"Why?" she pursued. "So as soon as life is the least 
bit unpleasant, you can say 'well, this isn't what 
Fate intended anyway' and excuse yourself?  How can 
you assume what Fate intends for you?  For anyone?  
And when did you get to be such a coward?"  

"I'm not a coward," he defended himself. "You- you're 
a dream."

"Yes, I am.  That's all I am.  Your dream of how you 
think life should have been.  That life isn't real.  
I'm not real." Sarah pointed past him, at the door of 
his bedroom. "But she is.  Why can't you let her into 
your heart?  Are you so afraid of what she'd find?"

"That's not Melissa.  Melly's dead.  That's Dana."

She nodded that she knew that. 

He shook his head, brushing off her argument. "It's 
too late.  And even if it wasn't... She doesn't love 
me.  If she ever did, she doesn't now."

"She's still here," Sarah responded. 

"I didn't give her a choice."

"A choice?" Sarah gave him the same eyebrow Dana did. 
"She doesn't need your permission.  She could take 
those girls and vanish into the Irish section of New 
York or Boston and you'd never find them again, but 
she hasn't.  She's still here, still letting you 
trample all over her heart with your pathetic 
explanations."

"You seem to know a lot about Dana."

"Only what you know." She smiled and slipped her hand 
into his, touching him for the first time.  He could 
feel it: the warmth and texture of her palm. "Trust 
your heart.  It's that thick head of yours that gets 
you in trouble, not your heart."

"You're saying goodbye, aren't you?"

"You are," she answered.  

"Okay," he said shakily.  She stepped back, turning 
away.  He let go, and her fingers slipped away from 
his.  He stood outside the master bedroom, watching 
her walk slowly down the hall and disappear around 
the curve of the stairs.

*~*~*~*

As midnight approached, Mulder glanced at the level 
of golden liquid in the bottle, wondering how it had 
gotten so low.  Whiskey. He'd found it in the liquor 
cabinet and had to figure out why it was in the 
house: a medicinal leftover from a sore throat he'd 
had the previous winter.  Six months ago, Dana had 
fixed him a hot toddy and put him to bed, fussing 
over him in a very satisfying manner.

He'd approached the bedroom door a dozen times, only 
to stare at it, lose his nerve, and then turn away.  
The battle was over.  He'd lost.  All that was left 
was to negotiate the terms of surrender.

He poured another shot, examined it, then poured the 
liquid back into the bottle.  Most of it went in, and 
what didn't splattered across his letter, making the 
ink run purple.

There were footsteps on the stairs - too quick for 
the wet nurse and too light for Sam - and when he got 
up to inspect, he saw Dana in the foyer.  She wore 
her long, white nightgown, and her hair was down, 
falling in red waves almost to her waist.  She looked 
ghostly, as if she was already halfway gone.

"Are you all right?" he asked immediately.

"Emily is awake.  She wants a drink, and the pitcher 
was empty."

"I'll get it," he volunteered, halfway to the kitchen 
before she could object.  

With the clock counting down, he wanted to spend as 
much time as possible with Emily.  After dinner, 
they'd played as long as she could keep her eyes open 
- all her favorite games: no-no, Emmy, and chase the 
kitten, and spin things in the dumbwaiter, and bang 
on pots. Her energy had given out before his urgency, 
and he'd carried her to bed, then sat, watching her 
for a long time.

"She's asleep," he told Dana a moment later, 
returning downstairs. "I guess she didn't want it 
after all."

"I guess not," she responded awkwardly. "I didn't 
realize you were still awake.  I didn't mean to 
interrupt."

"You aren't interrupting."

"You were writing to Melissa."

"No.  No, I wasn't.  I was writing - but not to 
Melly.  I'm-I'm glad to see you.  I wanted to check 
on you, but I wasn't sure... Do you feel all right?" 
he asked, equally ill at ease. "Please sit down."

"I feel fine."

"Sit anyway.  Make me feel better.  Please?" He 
offered a chair opposite his desk, and she sat, 
tucking her nightgown around her.

"I am fine," she assured him. "Really.  My back was 
hurting earlier, but I feel fine now. I am not ill. 
This is perfectly natural."

"And you're sure you weren't- aren't-" He cleared his 
throat. "I can have the doctor come."

"No. I am sure." 

He noticed his lower lip smarting and realized he was 
biting it. 

"I almost feel like I should apologize," she said 
uncertainly. 

"Don't," he said immediately. "I'd rather you leave 
me now than be dead eight months from now.  I just 
wanted you to stay; I never wanted another baby in 
the first place." He sighed tiredly, pushed the 
things on his desk aside, and propped up his feet. 
"And to that end, I suppose we should talk."

Dana plucked some imaginary thread from her 
nightgown. "Yes, I suppose we should."

"I-" they both said, then stopped.  Dana plucked 
another thread, and Mulder found a spot on his desk 
to stare at.  He picked up his pen and tapped it 
nervously until it annoyed even him.  

"I believe the agreement was anywhere within a day's 
train ride of Washington," he said formally, as 
though closing a business deal. "Money's not an 
issue: you know that.  I won't have you or Emmy want 
for anything."

"I want the baby."

"I'm aware of that.  I want both girls.  You're the 
one who wants to leave, Dana.  As long as I can see 
her and you don't take her very far, you can take 
Emmy.  And you can see Cally whenever you want. 
That's my best offer.  My only offer."

"You cannot do that."

"Yes, I can.  And you know I can."

Her jaw clenched defiantly.

"Don't even think about it'" he warned. "Don't try to 
take her and run.  I'll find you.  I found Sam.  
There's nowhere on Earth you can take Cally that I 
won't find her, and when I do, my next offer won't be 
so generous.  Again, Dana, you're the one who wants 
to leave.  So what we need to decide," he continued 
coolly, "Is where you want to live. And, of course, 
when you want to go."

"Yes," she said softly.

"Had you given that any thought?"

"No.  No, not really.  Everything has happened so 
quickly.  You seem to be holding up well, though."

"I am aching," he said simply, then shuffled some 
papers that didn't need shuffling.

"So am I."

He stopped shuffling, set the papers aside, took a 
deep breath, and continued, "I have an address for 
your mother in New York, if you're interested. That's 
a long trip, though, and I'd prefer you stay closer 
to Washington.  You don't have to, but that makes it 
easier on everyone: I don't have to go far to see 
Emmy and you don't have to travel to see Cally.  
Baltimore, maybe.  Alexandria? I've even thought of 
my parents' home in Georgetown."

"I do not know," she whispered.

"Another thing," he continued rapid-fire, before the 
whiskey drained out of his brain and he had to think 
again. "I'd rather not divorce.  I'd rather not do 
that to the children.  A legal separation, if you 
want, but not a divorce.  And there's no reason for 
even that. I put some money in trust for Emmy, but 
otherwise there's no property or income on your side 
to separate from mine.  If it's all right with you, 
I'd rather we live apart and leave things the way 
they are.  I'm not interested in remarrying, and I'm 
sure you've had your fill of husbands for a while."

That was her cue to smirk, but she seemed far away.

"Dana, you're cold.  You're shivering," he realized.

She had her arms wrapped around her and her shoulders 
hunched forward, looking too small for the large 
armchair.  She seemed surreally pale: all blue eyes 
and auburn mane against her white nightgown and the 
dark leather upholstery.

"Are you okay?" he asked, walking around the desk to 
her.  He squatted in front of her chair. "Dana? Are 
you all right?"

"Fine," she said unconvincingly, then added, "I am 
cold."

Without thinking, he put his hand on her forehead, 
touching her for the first time since they'd argued 
on Easter Sunday. "Do you have a fever?  You don't 
feel warm. In fact," He put his hands over hers. 
"Your hands are like ice.

"I am all right.  Just cold.  Tired."

He let go of her hands and turned away, putting two 
more logs on the dying fire. "And hungry.  You didn't 
eat dinner, did you?" 

She didn't answer, which probably meant "no." He'd 
eaten in the kitchen with Emily, making mashed potato 
forts for their gravy.  He remembered Sam bringing 
his plate from the dining room to the kitchen as 
well, but he couldn't recall seeing Dana go near the 
dinner table.  She'd told him her news when he came 
home from work, then spent most of the evening in the 
nursery with Cally.

The last few nights had been cool as April drizzled 
away at May, and the logs were damp.  They smoked and 
sizzled and popped, but refused to give off heat.  He 
heard Dana's teeth chattering.  There was a baby 
blanket on the sofa, and he wrapped it around her 
shoulders, tucking it tight. "Better?" he asked, and 
she nodded, shivering less violently.  He felt her 
face again, still worried. "Dana, are you sure you 
aren't miscarrying?"

"I am sure." She looked at him, her eyes darting over 
his face, then slowly sank back in her chair, away 
from him.  She had to be able to smell the whiskey, 
but she didn't comment.

"All right."  He moved back, sitting on the rug in 
front of her.  He poked the fire a few times, 
stirring the coals.  He poked it again for good 
measure, then leaned back, watching it smolder. "I 
just want you to be all right.  Whenever you're 
leaving; wherever you're going.  You're still getting 
over Cally's birth.  No matter how much you despise 
me, I don't want you pushing too hard and making 
yourself sick.  I..." He trailed off, slouching forward 
and wrapping his arms around his legs.  He put his 
aching forehead on his knees, closing his eyes.

Like a good soldier, he'd plotted his strategy: meet 
at dawn, negotiate the terms of surrender as quickly 
and with as much dignity as possible.  He couldn't 
stop her from leaving.  He'd worn out his thesaurus 
searching for ways to make her understand how sorry 
he was.  If he had a few more weeks - or months - or 
years - maybe he could, but he didn't.  The Menses 
Fairy had arrived a full three weeks before Mulder's 
"stay another month" deadline.  He couldn't stop Dana 
from leaving, but he could at least maintain some 
dignity about it.

"I love you," he said hoarsely. "I do.  I know you 
don't believe me.  I don't expect you to, but I 
thought somewhere in the world there'd be one bit of 
truth I could put in your hands and say 'believe 
this.' But there doesn't seem to be.  I keep trying 
to follow my heart.  To put aside my pride- my 
arrogance," he corrected, "And listen to my heart, 
but all my heart does right now is break.  Which 
isn't very helpful.  And so here we are."

He looked up, wiping his nose angrily.  She was 
huddled in the big chair with the baby blanket around 
her shoulders, and her bare feet dangling a few 
inches above the rug. 

"You're still cold," he said tiredly, pushing himself 
to his feet. "And you're upset.  I'm sorry about 
Cally.  I'm not trying to keep you away from her.  
Come on: I'll walk you to bed.  I won't touch you - 
just walk with you, make sure you don't fall on the 
stairs."

"I am not going to faint."

"Humor me."

She sighed and got up, walking toward the staircase 
with him at her heels, like a sheepdog with one 
sheep. "Is this your new plan?"

"What?" His only remaining plan was "don't cry in 
front of Dana." 

"Staying right in my shadow.  All the time.  I have 
to come here to see the baby.  You will come to my 
house to see Emily.  Whenever you like, which means 
all the time.  And then you will start showing up for 
coffee, then lunch because it was 'on your way.' Then 
bringing me your shirts to get the ink stains out and 
sew the buttons back on.  Soon, you will be under my 
feet every moment of the day.  I might as well stay 
here and save you the trolley fare."

She started up the stairs, but he stopped her on the 
bottom step, putting his hand on her wrist. "Are you 
saying you want to stay?"

She turned slowly.  They were eye-to-eye, but she 
focused on his cheekbone. "I-I do not know.  When I 
said I wanted to leave, I was angry.  I was not 
thinking clearly.  Not matter what I want, having two 
houses, separating the girls... That does not seem 
reasonable." 

"It does not?" 

"No, it does not.  Leaving seems very impractical, 
now."

"It seems impractical?" he echoed.

"Yes.  It does."
 
He tilted his head to the left and leaned close like 
he was going to kiss her. As she inhaled uncertainly, 
unsure whether she was going to try to stop him or 
not, he whispered, "Bullshit."

Dana pulled back in surprise.

"If you've changed your mind and want to stay, then 
say so, but don't start mouthing about practicality 
and reasonability.  Neither of us loves reasonably."

"I am only trying to be adult-"

"Bullshit," he repeated softly. "Being adults doesn't 
mean living in the same house and acting like polite 
strangers.  Living a lie.  Wrong, Dana.  That's 
called being cowards."

She bristled, tossed her hair back from her 
shoulders, and opened her mouth to argue with him, 
but he cut her off. "I love you.  I'm sorry I lied to 
you.  I was an arrogant ass and I will make every 
effort to see that it doesn't happen again.  I've 
never been unfaithful to you.  If I've been with 
Poppy, it was years ago and it wasn't something I 
wanted to happen.  I'm not convinced I'm Sadie's 
father, but she's still my responsibility.  That's 
it, Dana.  You can live with it or you can't, but 
don't make excuses about being reasonable."

Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. "But-"

"Bullshit.  Jesus, Dana - I'm not asking you to lay 
your heart bare for me.  Play your cards as close to 
your chest as you like, but at least be honest.  If 
you don't want to be my wife, leave.  Just leave. I 
won't stop you, I won't keep you from seeing Cally, 
and I won't try to convince you to come back.  But if 
you want to stay, stay, and I'll do everything I can 
to put things right."

A pained wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows, and 
she looked just over his right shoulder, blinking 
quickly.

"You're right: you aren't going to faint.  God forbid 
you even flinch.  Go to bed, Dana," he said tiredly. 
"Just go."

She turned away, gathering up her long nightgown.  
She climbed as far as the fifth step before she 
stopped, turned back, paused, then said with 
difficulty, "I want to stay."

"All right," he responded from the bottom of the 
steps, glad he was holding onto the banister.

"I will see you at breakfast," she added, just in 
case he thought her staying meant he was welcome in 
her bed. "Tomorrow morning."

"Tomorrow morning.  I'll make coffee.  And we'll 
start over."

*~*~*~*

He found himself staring at the kitchen ceiling, 
willing her to hurry.  Rebekah would arrive in 
another half hour, and he wanted privacy. When he 
heard Dana stirring, he'd made coffee, but she'd 
dawdled so long that he'd drunk it and had to make 
another pot. He drummed his fingers on the kitchen 
table and his feet against the rungs of his chair.  
It was sweet in a too-sugary kind of way: after two 
babies, almost two years of marriage, and numerous 
acts and positions that weren't mentioned in his 
marriage manuals, Dana could still give him the 
jitters.  He heard her ambling down the stairs, 
taking her sweet time and oblivious to his plight.

"Good morning," he said when she finally made it to 
the kitchen.  He stood quickly, sending his chair 
squeaking back a few inches. 

"Morning," she mumbled blearily.

"Fox William Mulder," he introduced himself, 
extending his hand. "When I was fifteen, my 
sweetheart miscarried and died.  I never stopped 
loving her, but I married her sister Melissa.  Who 
was also expecting a baby.  Melly was a great beauty: 
sweet, talented, devoted to me. And a little touched.  
A few years ago, while I was asleep, she committed 
suicide, taking our unborn baby with her. Our Samuel 
found her.  He's almost sixteen now.  When he feels 
like emerging from his room, he's some sort of 
musical and artistic genius. I thought I'd lost him 
in the war, found him, brought him back, and don't 
know what to do with the boy I've found except try 
desperately not to lose him again."

Dana continued looking at his proffered hand as she 
asked, "How much coffee have you had?"

"My parents are dead," he continued. "My father 
during the siege of Richmond; my mother last fall.  
No brothers or sisters.  My father was a senator, and 
he cast a long shadow.  I try not to live in it.  I 
have two little girls: one mine by blood, one by 
providence.  And my first wife's half-sister says I'm 
her daughter's father. That's a long story, but drugs 
and bad judgment were involved."

Dana yawned, then scratched the back of her head in 
confusion.  She had a policy about people speaking 
before six in the morning.

"I went to Harvard, and served in the cavalry during 
the war.  I own a newspaper: one of the few in DC 
that didn't just burn down.  The KKK hates me, as 
does half of Congress.  I'm wealthy.  Idealistic.  
Stubborn.  Prideful.  Odd.  I keep secrets.  I have 
ghosts.  I snore.  I drink more than I say I do.  I 
talk too much when I shouldn't and not enough when I 
should.  And," he recalled, pointing airily, "I shot 
my bastard uncle last month.  He tried to shoot me 
and I put a bullet between his eyes."

"Good for you, Mr. Mulder," she mumbled, sitting 
down.

He took his seat across from her at the table, 
waiting expectantly.

"What?" she asked sleepily.

He gestured that it was her turn.

"Dana Katherine Scully Waterston Mulder," she said 
after a few sips of coffee. "Nice to meet you, Mr. 
Mulder."

"Nice to meet you, Dana Katherine Scully Waterston 
Mulder.  I bet there's a story behind that name."

She pointed to her cup. "Coffee first."

He nodded that he could wait.

*~*~*~*

A drop of coffee had dried on the outer rim of his 
mug, and he scratched it away with his fingernail. 
"I'd wondered," he finally said. "From what you'd 
said, your family was tied to the sea, not the land.  
It wouldn't matter if the village was destroyed."

Dana stared into her cup, then pretended to take a 
sip, although she really didn't. "I did not think," 
she said softly. Steam rose from her coffee, swirling 
toward her face and vanishing into the cool morning 
air. "When Oisin died, I picked up his gun, got the 
soldier alone in the woods, and shot him.  I never 
thought of the repercussions to my family.  Is that 
the word?  Re-per-cussions?"

"Repercussions." He nodded, then asked, "How did you 
get the soldier alone in the woods?"

She looked up at him with cool, steady blue eyes.

"Oh," he mumbled, and rubbed another caramel colored 
spot from his cup. "But you pulled the trigger, not 
your family."

"The English landlords do not see it that way.  And 
if you think I am troublesome, you should have met my 
brothers." She paused, then smiled mistily at some 
childhood memory. "Were their bodies recovered?  
Could there have been a mistake?  Could..."

"You told me not to check," he said, surprised at the 
question.

"But I knew you would."

"They were listed as being on duty," Mulder said 
softly. "On the USS Tecumseh in Mobile Bay, August 4, 
1864.  Your father warned Admiral Farragut the waters 
were mined, but it was an ironclad ship: supposedly 
unsinkable.  Farragut ordered 'damn the torpedoes, 
full speed ahead!' As it led the squadron into the 
bay, the Tecumseh struck a mine - a torpedo.  There 
was an explosion, and the ship rolled and sank. There 
were no survivors.  And no identifiable bodies.  That 
happens in war, sometimes."

She nodded slightly that she understood.

"I wish I could do better for you, Dana.  I know it 
seems senseless.  They died because Farragut was 
arrogant, and he wanted a fast victory.  Not because 
you killed a man.  Not because your family fled to 
America.  Not because your father and brothers joined 
the navy.  They were grown men and experienced 
sailors: it was their choice to fight in The War or 
not.  They understood the risks."

"I do not think my mother sees it that way," Dana 
told her coffee cup, needlessly stirring the murky 
liquid with her spoon.

*~*~*~*

Owning a newspaper wasn't an overly profitable or 
prestigious business.  For every headline, there was 
a multitude of headaches: jammed presses, frantic 
editors, cutthroat reporters, deadlines, and on and 
on.  The hours were long and the decisions difficult: 
deciding what was news and what was scandal.  More 
than once, he'd dipped into his own pocket to meet 
the payroll.  At four o'clock, sometimes all he had 
to show for his efforts were ink stains, a pounding 
head, a few more enemies, and a couple pages of 
newsprint.  Some days, he considered letting Byers 
take over once and for all, and finding a less 
troublesome occupation.  Like bullfighting.  Fire 
eating.  Alligator wrestling.

"Come," he said without looking up, and his office 
door opened. "Just put it on my desk: crises on the 
left, complaints on the right. If you hate Melvin 
Frohike, there's a line upstairs: go stand in it."

A stack of cursive covered pages appeared on the 
corner of his desk: the translations of The Lancet 
and Scientific American one of his typesetters did 
for Dana each month.  Mulder glanced at them, but 
didn't give them another thought until he left work.

He and Samuel caught the streetcar on the corner and 
squeezed in with the evening masses.  Mulder found a 
place to stand at the back, and ignored the parasol 
jabbing him in the leg as he read a letter he'd 
forgotten he asked his typesetter to translate.

*~*~*~*

October 13, 1864

Dear Mother, 

I have written to you many times, but my letters go 
unanswered.  I hope this finds you safe.  My husband 
tells me Father and Bill and Charlie are dead, but I 
do not know if this is true.  I pray it is not, but 
my heart tells me it is.  Mother, I am so sorry.  I 
would give my life if it would bring them back to 
you.

I wish I could invite you to live with me, but that 
is not possible.  I understand that I cannot leave, 
that I cannot shame my family, so I try to stay out 
of the way, especially when he is drinking.  I try to 
be a good wife, but I know he is disappointed with 
me.  Perhaps it is because we have no children, or 
perhaps because he does not love me.  I look like the 
memory of someone he loved, but that is not enough, 
except in the darkness.

Sometimes I want to leave with the first man who 
comes along - to say to Hell with this unending war, 
to hell with these swamps and mosquitoes, and to hell 
with Dr. Waterston. I want to climb into a stranger's 
buggy or scramble up on his horse and say, "I cannot 
go home, but take me anywhere but here." I want so 
much more-

*~*~*~*

"Are those Dana's?" Sam asked, and Mulder jumped, 
jostling the people around him.  The woman behind him 
responded by poking him with her parasol again.

"These are," Mulder answered, offering the two paper 
bundles he'd wedged under his arm. "Here - you can 
give them to her."

"What about that?" he asked, nodding to the letter 
his father held. 

"No," Mulder responded, folding and tucking it in his 
inside coat pocket. "This one's nothing.  Come on: 
our stop's next."

*~*~*~*

He would not be a jealous ass.  He would not be a 
jealous ass.

Mulder stopped pretending he was reading, laid the 
book on his chest, and watched Dana and Byers 
chatting in the parlor.  In Gaelic.  Without him.  
Engrossed in a conversation he could barely hear, but 
was certain was about him.  Mulder put one foot on 
the floor, deciding there was something in the parlor 
he needed to retrieve, and he'd remember what it was 
by the time he got there.

Byers started a sentence, then paused, gesturing and 
trying to remember the word in Gaelic.  

"Pluiceán," Dana supplied for him. "Pustule."

Byers nodded and continued.  He kept glancing past 
Dana, through the French doors, and into the library 
at Mulder.  He'd stopped to drop off an article for 
Mulder, and Dana had invited him to stay for dinner.  
And for a glass of wine after dinner.  And for a 
second glass of wine.  And, apparently, a riveting 
discussion of Small Pox.

Mulder exhaled tensely, put his foot back on the 
sofa, and picked up his book again.  He would not be 
a jealous ass.

When he looked up again, Byers was standing, and Dana 
was wishing him a safe trip home.  Byers leaned into 
the library, telling Mulder goodnight and that he'd 
see him in the morning.  Mulder raised his hand, 
pretending to be engrossed in his book.

"You are sulking," Dana said, returning to the 
library after showing Byers to the door.  She leaned 
over, pushing down the book he was hiding behind. 
"You have been since dinner.  If I did not know 
better, I would say you were jealous."

"Of course I'm not."

"You are.  You are jealous of Mr. Byers."

He made his hurt-little-boy face, pushing out his 
lower lip. "I am.  You never discuss pus with me."

"Pus," she whispered seductively, leaning over him.  
She'd had a smidgeon too much to drink, and her eyes 
twinkled mischievously. "Pox.  Bubon.  Canker.  
Surgical fever.  Putrefaction.  Gangrene."

He reached up, looping his finger through her 
necklace and pulling her lower. "Do you kiss your 
husband with that filthy mouth?"

"Infection.  Prophylaxis.  Pandemic.  Rigor mortis." 
She hesitated, her lips just over his. "Post-mortem 
liquescence."

"Oh my," he said softly, dropping the book and 
raising his mouth to hers.  One soft wine-flavored 
kiss, then another, then another as he sat up, 
guiding her down on the sofa. "Thank God.  I was 
beginning to think you were adding extra days to 
torment me."

"I would never-" she protested, though if she claimed 
the Menses Fairy stayed any longer, Mulder was 
assigning him a bedroom.

He cut her off, pressing her lips apart with 
increasing urgency.  He unbuttoned the front of her 
bodice, then the delicate corset cover. Her corset 
pushed her breasts high, rounding them into twin 
half-moons.  They rose and fell desperately as her 
breathing quickened, threatening to escape the 
confines of the whalebones.

"I've missed you so much," he murmured, trailing his 
mouth down her cleavage, then up the underside of her 
throat. "You can't imagine how much I want this."

"We should go upstairs," she whispered as he gathered 
up her skirt and pushed the ruffled petticoats out of 
the way.  His hand slid up her leg, past stockings, 
garters, and lacy pantalets to the soft, warm nest of 
hair between her thighs.  Split-crotch drawers: a 
God-given boon to mankind.

"No, here," he answered hoarsely, urging her legs 
farther apart.

"Mulder-"

"Here.  Now."

She shifted lower, leaning back into the corner of 
the sofa so he was over her.  He unfastened his 
shirt, wanting his skin against hers, then trousers 
as he consumed her mouth.  Reality slipped away, 
leaving earlobes, smooth eyelids, and tart, kiss-
swollen lips. The soft whimpering sound she made in 
the back of her throat as she felt his erection 
pressing against her.  The silkiness of her hair 
under his fingers; the softness of her thumbs 
outlining his face.

"Slow down," she requested, and he nodded, knowing he 
was devouring her.  Too much, too fast, too soon.  He 
just missed it so much: the world being only the two 
of them.  

It had been, once.  Before they'd married, on 
Waterston's plantation. Mulder had chopped firewood 
in the summer sun as she sat in the shade with her 
new baby.  The heat was sweltering, and sweat soaked 
his shirt and dripped into his eyes.  Sawdust coated 
his forearms and neck, and the sun singed his scalp.  
He'd glanced at her as he stopped to wipe his face, 
and found she was watching him.  He'd said something 
benign and gone back to chopping, puzzled as to why a 
woman would look at a dirty, sweaty man like he was 
the biggest piece of chocolate cake on a dessert 
tray.

And when they'd first married: laying in bed with 
Emily between them, watching in fascination as the 
baby's mouth moved against Dana's breast.  And being 
newlyweds: exploring the mysteries and pleasures of 
the flesh like an addict with a new drug. Waking Dana 
in the stillness before dawn and making love slowly, 
without speaking.  Being at work and discovering the 
scent of her lingering on his shirt. Feeling her arms 
around him late at night. Awakening.

And when Cally was coming, after morning sickness 
passed but before Sam returned: long Sunday 
afternoons of reading in front of the fire, eating 
whatever and whenever they pleased, and making love 
whenever and wherever they pleased.  Spending hours 
with his hand on her flat belly, fascinated by the 
miracle inside it.  Watching Emily grow.  Watching 
Dana glow, knowing she wanted another baby as much as 
he did.  Waltzing without music in an empty ballroom.  
Making a life together.

"Tell me you really want this," he whispered.

He didn't understand all of her response, but he 
heard her call him "mo rún," which meant everything 
was all right.

Cupid folded his arms, leaned back, and grinned 
smugly.

Mulder's brain shut down, sending only every third 
word to his lips. "...so hard," he murmured, starting 
to push inside her. "Wet.  Wanna feel you... Tight.  
Oh, God.  Hear you... Talk to me, love."

Her fingers in his hair tightened, back arched, and 
her hips rose to meet his.  Language and reason gave 
way to the low, desperate sounds and tide of passion.

"Love you.  So sweet," Mulder managed, and she 
answered with a moan, wrapping her top leg around his 
waist.  He paused, pushed up on his elbow, and put 
her palm against his pounding chest. "Do you feel 
that?" he asked, staring deep into her eyes. "You're 
here: inside me.  I'm inside you; you're inside me.  
We make a complete, a complete... Uh, a complete..." He 
couldn't remember the damn word.  Something poetic.  
Round.

"Circle," she whispered, then added breathlessly, 
"Samuel."

"Samuel?"

Cupid perked up and glanced around in confusion.

"Samuel," she repeated urgently, pulling away from 
him.  He was covering her, and she couldn't go very 
far. "Mulder!"

He heard footsteps, and looked over his shoulder in 
time to see Sam enter the library, gasp, then quickly 
whirl around and leave.

"Shit," Mulder spat, scrambling to his feet and 
pulling his trousers up. "Goddamn it.  I thought he 
was... Shit! ...somewhere."

Dana jerked her skirt down and sat up, hurriedly 
buttoning the front of her dress.  Sam had once 
walked in when they were asleep after having made 
love, but never during the making.

"I'm sorry," Samuel told the floor when Mulder caught 
up with him at the top of the stairs. "I needed my 
cello.  I didn't mean to, to, to interrupt.  I'm 
sorry."

"No, I'm sorry.  It's not your fault," he answered, 
his hands trembling as he buttoned his shirt. "I 
didn't think."

"I don't really need my cello," Sam mumbled, looking 
around for someplace else to be. "Not right now."

"Sammy, I don't think your cello's the issue.  I 
should have told- We were- Oh God.  Let's go in your 
bedroom and sit down."

Sam helped him check the floor for that trapdoor. Not 
finding it, Mulder opened the door, and Sam 
hesitantly stepped inside.  

A worn baseball bat leaned against the dresser, 
unused since before the war.  A tin box held a 
collection of colored rocks Sam and his grandfather 
had amassed.  A hunting rifle was on top of the 
bookcase; Sam cleaned it often, but declined 
invitations to hunt.  Polished riding boots and a 
quirt, also seldom used.  A ball, a few wooden and 
tin toys, a slate, and a row of textbooks, their 
spines neatly aligned: artifacts of a forgotten 
childhood.

Sam sat on the bed, hunched forward with his elbows 
on his knees, and Mulder sat beside him, copying his 
posture.  He could smell Dana on his hands, and he 
rubbed them on his wrinkled trousers, then shifted 
his feet uncomfortably, searching for an opening 
sentence.  His son kept his head down, looking like 
he'd rather be stuck with hot pins. 

There was no need to have "the talk:" Sam had spent 
months in Sherman's army, which left no room for 
innocence of any sort.  Aside from venereal disease, 
soldiers passed around pornographic photographs, 
sketches, and novels.  Prostitutes visited the camps, 
collected clients, and then adorned to what little 
privacy the tents provided.  Even as a grown man, 
Mulder had been appalled.  To be a boy in a place 
like that- it wasn't the way he'd wanted his son to 
learn about the fairer sex, but it was a thorough 
education.

On the dresser, between a sketchpad and sheet music 
for an upcoming symphony, were two photographs: one 
of Bill and Teena Mulder, and one of Melissa.  Mulder 
picked up the second frame, tilting it toward the 
lamp. "She used to make shirts for me, when I was at 
Harvard," he said thoughtfully. "Right after we 
married.  She was expecting you, so she couldn't go 
out, and that's what she did: sew shirts and mail 
them to me.  And they were awful."

Sam watched his father out of the corner of his eye.

"Really awful.  She was fifteen: she couldn't sew 
worth beans.  I had a tailor make copies so she 
wouldn't know, but I'd no sooner get one copy made 
than she'd send another one.  Grandfather wrote, 
demanding to know why I had an exorbitant tailor's 
bill when my wife sewed all the time." He chuckled at 
the memory. "I probably still have a few of those 
damn shirts somewhere.  Luckily, her skills as a 
seamstress improved over the years."

"You never told her?"

"No, I never did," Mulder answered. "She was fragile, 
she wanted to make me happy, and it would have hurt 
her.  There were many things like that." He paused. 
"But an affair with Poppy wasn't one of them, Sam.  
And that's what we need to talk about.  Poppy's sick.  
Confused.  She's said things that aren't true.  And I 
think she's said them to you.  In fact, I know she 
has.  Dana told me-"

In the blink of an eye, Sam switched from examining 
the rug to scrutinizing his father. Instead of gentle 
warmth, something dangerous flickered behind his dark 
gaze for an instant, then died. 

"What, Sam?"

"What did Dana tell you?"

"She said you asked if I was Sadie's father.  And 
Dana told you I wasn't.  That's probably the truth.  
I hope it is.  I think Poppy's making it up.  And if 
I am the father- I don't love Poppy.  I never have.  
It doesn't take love to create a child. It should, 
but it doesn't, and you're old enough to understand 
that.  I made a mistake, and now I have to live with 
the consequences.  Everyone does."

Mulder watched for a reaction before he continued, 
but Sam seemed to have stopped listening about eight 
sentences ago.  

"When is Dana leaving?"

"Obviously, she's not, Sam.  And we need to talk 
about that, too."

"Oh."

"Dana cares about you.  She takes care of you.  She 
listens to you. Hell, Sam, she even lies for you.  
She lies to me, like I was never fifteen.  When Dana 
was planning to leave, one of the things we fought 
about was her seeing you.  And when I said you wanted 
me to divorce her... She had no idea you felt that way, 
Sam.  I could have hit her and it wouldn't have hurt 
any worse."

The clock ticked loudly. Mulder scuffed his boot 
against the floor and continued, although he might as 
well have talked to the wall.

"I heard you tell Dana you think I'm disappointed in 
you as a son.  I'm not, Sam.  I'm in awe.  I can't 
begin to comprehend the gifts you have.  Your mother 
did, but I don't.  I try, but I just don't.  But I 
love you, just like she did.  You've been through so 
much..."

No response.

"I know you miss your mother.  And Grandmother and 
Grandfather.  I know you're hurting.  Alone.  Afraid.  
I know you're doing some things you shouldn't.  I 
understand what it's like to feel hollow inside, and 
need someone or something to fill that hollowness.  I 
lost the same people you did and I was in the same 
damn war.  I want to help, and I'll do just about 
anything, but please don't ask me to leave Dana.  
Because I'm not going to."

Sam slouched miserably, and Mulder scuffed the toe of 
his boot against the rug again, drawing an imaginary 
line in the sand.
 
*~*~*~*

Sam had been a child prodigy in the truest sense, 
particularly in music.  Piano first, then violin, 
then cello, guitar, and any other stringed instrument 
that crossed his path.  Perfectly.  Effortlessly.  
With perfect pitch, which mystified his tutors.  He'd 
sung in the choir and played at church, but Mulder 
had discouraged solo public exhibitions, refusing to 
have his son become a sideshow.

After the war, Sam began playing with the symphony, 
at first filling in for a sick cellist at the last 
minute.  Mulder had reservations about the noise and 
the crowds, but Sam barely seemed to notice.  He'd 
been invited back as a regular member: the youngest 
in the history of the Washington Symphony.  If he had 
strings underneath his fingers, he was at home, and 
until the performance ended, the world made sense.

Just as he'd started playing piano because Melissa 
played, Sam started drawing because she painted.  And 
because Sam was intrigued by the sketch artists and 
cartoonists at the newspaper.  He'd had lessons, but 
in general, Sam just drew what he saw, and what he 
saw were his subject's souls.

Alone in the bedroom, Mulder leafed through the pages 
of the sketchbook, stopping at a study of hands.  He 
held it up to the lamp, recognizing Emily's chubby 
fist, and Cally's palm, with a pencil drawing of her 
tiny, wrinkled foot beside it.  An old man's gnarled 
paw: leathery skin, ragged fingernails, and painful 
joints.  And his and Dana's hands, their fingers 
loosely intertwined.

On the next page was a charcoal sketch of a sleeping 
young man, his nude upper torso captured in a quick 
series of black strokes.  Mulder at his desk, chewing 
a pencil, his forehead furrowed in concentration.  
Dana with Emily.  A New York street vendor pushing a 
cart.  And on the last pages were several poignant, 
unfinished sketches of Melissa: all pregnant, and all 
unfinished because, as Sam said, he couldn't remember 
what had been her and what had been just how he 
wanted to remember her.

A tear dripped onto the page, and Mulder blotted it 
away carefully so it wouldn't smear the drawing.

Dana stopped in the doorway, noticing the faint glow 
from the lamp. "Are you all right, Samuel?" she asked 
softly.  When there was no answer, she wrapped her 
robe around her tighter and took a tentative step 
into the bedroom. "Samuel?  Are you awake?"

He continued staring at the sketchbook, refusing to 
look at her.

"Mulder?" she said in surprise, realizing it was he, 
not Sam, sitting on the narrow bed. "Where is 
Samuel?"

"Gone," he said in a strangled voice.

Dana pushed her hair back from her face. "Gone?  
Where?"

"Away."

"Oh my God.  Do you know where he went?"

Muder looked up, focusing on the darkness.  There was 
no moon or stars outside the window, just vast night. 
"Please... Please go back to bed, Dana," he requested 
hoarsely.

"What happened?  Did he run away?  Where did he go?  
Go after him.  You cannot just let him leave," she 
argued. 

"What the hell do you want me to do?" he snapped, 
anger surging through his veins in search of a 
target.  He threw the sketchbook down and stood, 
towering over her. "You didn't want me looking for 
him in the first place!  You never wanted me to find 
him."

Dana stood gaping at him.

He braced his hands on the doorframe, as though 
guarding his son's bedroom from invaders.  He inhaled 
a deep breath, then blew it out slowly. "You should 
probably get away from me," he suggested through his 
teeth, and wisely, Dana stepped back.

*~*~*~* 

"May I come up?" Dana asked as her head appeared 
through the opening of the loft.  She hooked her 
umbrella over the edge of a stall, then climbed to 
the top of the ladder and made her way between the 
bales of hay.  She smoothed her skirt under her hips 
as she sat beside him, looking shaken.

Below, a pitchfork scratched against the floor as a 
stable boy mucked out the stalls, and rain drummed 
steadily on the roof above.  Mulder heard the elderly 
groom talking soothingly to one of the mares, who 
whinnied and snorted impatiently, wanting breakfast.  
The stable smelled of sweet, damp hay and grain, and 
the mellow scent of oiled leather from the tack room.

"That was awful, I know: what I said," he mumbled. 
"And I know it's not true.  I'm sorry.  Obviously, I 
was upset.  I am upset."

"Are you going after him?"

"I don't know." He closed his scratchy eyes, 
surprised his eyelids still covered them.  The black 
rain clouds overshadowed the sun, but it still seemed 
too bright. "I don't where to start looking.  I can 
be dense, but I'd say that means he doesn't want to 
be found."

"I thought you spoke with him last night."

"I thought I did, too.  He's left twice - or tried to 
- before, Dana: before my father died,  and before you 
almost died having Cally.  And during all the years I 
was at war, he only telegraphed once for me to come 
home: right before Melissa died.  I know there are 
other problems, but the one common thread each time 
Sam and I have talked is that he doesn't want me with 
you.  He's never said he dislikes you, but he wants 
us apart, Dana.  He wants me away from you.  And 
after what he saw last night..."

Mulder leaned his head back against the cool wall of 
the stable. "Maybe that's all insanity is: being able 
to see through the fabric of time and into another 
world.  Melly... I fought as hard as I could, but I 
lost her to that other world, and I couldn't get her 
back.  And Sam's her son.  Maybe, like her, he's one 
of those souls who can lift the veil of the future, 
and what he sees for you and I, if we're together, is 
your death.  I won't let that happen, Dana."

"He is a very confused, very lonely teenage boy who 
has lost more than he can bear," Dana responded, 
choosing her words carefully. "And as much as he 
loves you... He is not what you envisioned your son 
would be and he knows it.  He wants to be, and he 
tries, but he is not.  And that frightens him: that 
he is wrong, and that you will hate him.  I do not 
think you need to look to the spirit world for 
explanations."
 
Mulder swallowed, shaking his head and dismissing 
what she'd said without really hearing it. "He knows 
something, Dana.  Something he's afraid of.  And I 
think we should listen to him."

Dana started to argue, then didn't seem to have the 
energy. "I need you to come inside now, Mulder," she 
said, measuring each syllable as though it was heavy. 
"There is a man to see you."

"You deal with him, Dana - whatever he wants.  I 
can't right now.  Say I'm unavailable."

"He told the maid he wanted to speak with you.  About 
me."

He looked at her questioningly. "About you?  What's 
his name?"

"Dr. Daniel Waterston."

*~*~*~*

He was the kind of man Mulder had idolized as a boy 
and despised as an adult: self-assured charm and 
smooth manners wrapped around old money and a 
mercurial conscience.  Handsome, worldly, and more 
dangerous than he seemed at first glance.

"Fox Mulder," he said formally, extending his hand.  
This wasn't real, he assured himself.  It was not 
happening.  He'd wake up, and it would be a horrible 
nightmare.  Dana would be asleep beside him and Sam 
would be down the hall, playing his guitar.

Waterston rose from the sofa, smoothed his suit coat 
and silver hair, and responded in a liquid, New 
Orleans gentleman's drawl, "Dr. Daniel Waterston." He 
dropped Mulder's hand and turned as Dana entered. 
"Hello, Puss," Waterston said softly, going to her 
and drawing his fingertip under her chin. "It's been 
a long time."

"It- it has," she answered uncertainly, looking to 
Mulder. 

He stroked his finger gently down the side of her 
face, his blue eyes glittering coldly. "I've missed 
you so much."

Dana stood surreally still, not responding, but not 
pulling away.  Mulder cleared his throat, and 
Waterston dropped his hand. 

"I'm sorry," Waterston apologized, grinning in a way 
women probably found irresistible. "I don't mean to 
be improper.  Dana is just a very precious thing to 
lose.  And I'm very thankful to have found her 
again."

Mulder gestured for everyone to sit down.  Dana 
started to sit beside Mulder, but stopped and chose a 
solitary chair near the hearth.  She inhaled, 
gathered her thoughts, then said cautiously, "I was 
told you died.  There was a letter from your 
commanding off-"

"He thought I had," Waterston cut her off. "I was 
wounded and taken prisoner.  I woke in a POW camp not 
knowing who I was or where I belonged.  I couldn't 
remember my own name, but I remembered you, Puss.  I 
could see you in my dreams - like an angel.  For 
years, I wasn't sure if you were real or something 
I'd imagined.  And then last month, my memory came 
flooding back.  I started searching for you, and 
thank God I've finally found you."

"Did you remember Dori as well?" she asked evenly. 
"She came to our house.  With her sons.  She- she 
said she belonged to you."

"And you believed her? Puss, you can be so gullible," 
Waterston answered, nimbly sidestepping her question.

"May I ask," Mulder said, his empty stomach churning 
nauseously. "How you found Dana after so many years?"

Waterston stretched out his legs casually, making 
himself comfortable. "The courthouse has your name on 
record as paying the taxes on one of my plantations 
for the last two years, Mr. Mulder.  For which I'll 
reimburse you, of course.  And for any other expenses 
my wife has incurred while in your employment."

Mulder exchanged quick glances with Dana: Waterston 
thought she was the housekeeper. She had on a simple, 
dark silk dress: more expensive, but similar to what 
Rebekah wore.

"That's very generous." Mulder leaned forward, 
clasping his hands. "But - and forgive me for being 
so forward - but that's a great deal of money for a 
man whose cause lost the war, and who claims he was 
basically dead until last month."

Waterston folded his arms. "You're right, Mr. Mulder: 
that is a forward question.  Puss, get your things.  
We're going home."

"This is my home.  Mr. Mulder is my husband.  I- I 
did not know-"

"I'm your husband," Waterston responded, his smooth 
exterior hardening. "And we're going home.  Don't 
make me tell you again, Puss."

Already on edge about Sam, that was the last straw 
for Mulder.  His pulse quickened, and the room grew 
brighter. "Call her 'Puss' again and I'll knock your 
teeth in, you arrogant son-of-a-bitch," he hissed. 
"And stop interrupting her.  And don't you dare 
threaten her.  Do you really think you can show up 
after two and a half years, tell her some asinine 
story about losing your memory-"

"She's my wife."

"She's not your wife.  Your wife and her two children 
are in New Orleans.  I've met her.  Nina assured me 
you'd returned from war safely and were in Charleston 
on business.  I checked: your business in Charleston 
is a French woman named Maria.  And there's Dori.  
And how many others?" Mulder shook his head angrily. 
"At first, I assumed you collected pretty, exotic 
women, but then I realized none of them speak English 
well.  That's why you picked them.  Most can't read.  
They're isolated from society, so they trust you as 
their link to the world.  You could have a wife in 
Savannah and another in Charleston, and one would 
never know about the other.  If I was going to be a 
bigamist, Doctor, that's exactly how I'd do it."

Waterston started to object, but Mulder was just 
getting started.  He still needed a target, and 
Waterston made a good one.

"But I think you bit off more than you could chew 
with Dana.  You couldn't quite keep her under your 
thumb.  You tried.  You lied to her.  You got drunk 
and hit her.  You made her feel like a whore.  A bad 
wife.  A bad daughter.  You intercepted her mother's 
letters to her, and Dana's to her family.  And when 
she was still too much trouble, you shipped her to 
your plantation in the swamps to cool her heels, let 
your overseer deal with her, and moved on." 

Mulder paused for breath, and Dana asked, "Is that 
true?"

"No," Waterston said too quickly. "Not a word of it, 
Puss."

"Is it?" she repeated, looking to Mulder.

He nodded, crossing to his desk, and leaned down to 
unlock the bottom drawer. "I can prove it.  I have 
letters: one from Nina wanting to know when her 
husband was coming home.  Your mother's letters to 
you, Dana, and one of yours to your mother.  Benjamin 
and Dori found it in the overseer's house on the 
plantation and sent it to me.  You must have given it 
to the overseer to mail, but he didn't."

He handed the stacks of envelopes to Dana, who stared 
at them in disbelief.  Waterston started to snatch 
them away, but Mulder intervened, holding his hand up 
warningly.

"How did you get these?  From my mother?  From-" She 
stopped to examine the envelope. "Nina Waterston?"

"She's my sister, Mr. Mulder," Waterston said 
haughtily.

"She's your wife.  Nina wrote to him at the end of 
the war, but he never received the letter, Dana.  It 
was eventually forwarded to Savannah, then to me 
along with Waterston's letter to you.  Which I gave 
you," he added, as if that redeemed everything.

"And you met this Nina?  In New Orleans?  When?"

"During one of the trips when I told you I was 
looking for Sam."

"So you knew Dr. Waterston was alive all this time?" 
she asked, forgetting the doctor was present.  She 
focused on Mulder, her eyes sparking dangerously. 
"And you did not tell me?"

"It didn't matter, Dana.  Alive or dead, he wasn't 
legally married to you.  I told you when Dori came: 
if he had a placage mistress, he had a white wife.  I 
just didn't tell you that it probably wasn't you."
 
"And the ones from my mother?" Dana asked angrily, 
still thumbing through the old envelopes.  Her face 
flushed, and her hands shook. "How did you get 
letters from my mother?"

"I told you: I have an address for her in New York," 
Mulder answered. "I stopped last fall on my way to 
Boston with Sam.  She gave me those letters to give 
to you.  She was worried about you.  She didn't 
understand why you hadn't written, and why her 
letters to you were returned unopened."

"But- but you did not give them to me.  And they are 
open now.  Who opened them?"

Mulder took a deep breath, leaned back against his 
desk, and gripped the edge with his fingertips. "I 
did.  I asked Byers to translate them.  And," he 
hurried to add. "When he realized what they were, he 
wasn't happy.  He refused to do it again."

"Then who translated this?" she asked, holding up 
both the English and Gaelic copies of her letter to 
her mother.

"The same typesetter who does the journals.  I'd 
asked him to do it a month ago and forgotten about 
it.  I only got it yesterday, and I hadn't had a 
chance to tell you.  We've been, uh, preoccupied."

"You had a stranger read my letter to my mother," she 
said slowly, her cheeks going from pink to scarlet 
and her voice getting louder. "Then make a copy in 
English so you could read it too?" 

"A month ago," he protested, gesturing broadly to 
demonstrate his innocence. "When you were leaving. I 
was going to tell you.  And I wasn't going to do it 
again.  I wanted to know what was wrong between you 
and your mother.  I'd asked you a dozen times, Dana, 
but you wouldn't tell me."

"Puss-" Waterston drawled.

"Oh, you go to Hell," she snapped angrily, standing 
up.  The pile of yellowed pages and old envelopes 
fell to the floor. "You can just go straight to 
Hell!"

"Dana-" Mulder said, starting toward her.

"And so can you!" she yelled, storming out.

*~*~*~*

It was the easiest thing in the world - not stopping 
her - but it felt exactly like dying.  He remembered.  
First, the shock, then the cold clamminess of it, 
then the tingling numbness settling over his body and 
pulling him away from reality. Sounds and colors were 
muted, and time seemed to drag its feet, letting the 
last few precious seconds stretch into eons.

He followed Dana to their bedroom, watching as she 
shoved a few things into a satchel.  None of the 
expensive jewelry or gowns he'd bought her, but a 
change of underclothes, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, 
and the framed daguerreotype of her father and 
brothers from her dressing table.  If she added 
diapers and some baby clothes, she'd be taking almost 
exactly the same things she'd arrived with.

"Dana..." he started.  This was the part where he said 
he was sorry.  Where he blocked her path long enough 
for her Irish temper to cool.  Where he put his arms 
around her and they agreed he was an idiot and he 
swore it wouldn't happen again, though they both knew 
it would. "You don't have to do this.  Not like this.  
When I said we shouldn't be together, I didn't mean..."

"You meant you have no respect for anyone but 
yourself? That you expect me to trust you completely, 
but you do not have the common courtesy not to open 
my mail?  Or tell me the truth?  That I can run your 
house, balance your books, raise your children, and 
warm your bed, but you still treat me like I am a 
slow child?  Was that what you meant, Mr. Mulder?"
 
"No, I meant-" He swallowed painfully. "I don't want 
you hurt.  Or dead.  I'm trying to protect you.  
That's all I was doing- All I'm trying to do now.  
Can't you see I don't have a choice?  Sam-"

"It is not about Samuel.  Or me.  It is only about 
you and what you want.  That is all it is ever about: 
you."

"Dana-" he croaked as she stalked past him. "I'm 
sorry.  Please don't leave like this.  Where are you 
going?"

"Go to Hell," she repeated in a tone as cold as ice.

Mulder loped down the upstairs hallway after her.  He 
took one stride for every two of hers, but he had to 
hurry to keep up. "No," he blurted as she stopped at 
the closed nursery door.  He put his arm across the 
doorway, blocking her path. "You can't take her."

Dana struggled to push his arm down, but he didn't 
budge. "Get out of my way.  She is mine, and you said 
I could take her."

"She's not yours.  It doesn't work that way.  If 
Waterston finds out about Emmy, she's his," he 
whispered hoarsely. "He'll take Emily and use her as 
a pawn to control you.  I'm not letting that happen.  
And I'm not letting that bastard raise my daughter."

"Move," Dana screamed, still trying to shove him 
aside.  One hundred and ten pounds of her wasn't much 
leverage against a hundred and seventy pounds of him.  
She cursed him in Gaelic, too angry to realize he 
couldn't understand anything except the intent.

"Hush.  Dana, if he knows about her, he can take her 
from you," Mulder hissed under his breath. "Just like 
I can take Cally.  You have to leave her here."

"Go hifreann leat!  Go mbeire an diabhal leis thú!"

"Quiet!  Listen to me.  You're not thinking.  Why, 
after so long, has he come back for you?  He'd have 
to suspect you're more than my employee for me to pay 
taxes on a plantation neither of us own.  You're a 
thing to him, and he doesn't like other boys playing 
with his things.  He doesn't want you; he wants to 
control you.  And if he has Emily, he can do that.  
You'll never be able to get away."

"Goddamn you!  Goddamn you, Mulder."

"I think he already has."
 
"Puss?" Waterston called from the staircase. "Is 
something wrong?" He pushed back his suit coat, and 
Mulder saw a pearl-handled pistol on his hip. "Is 
there something in that room that you want?"

Cally was taking her morning nap, but Emily wasn't.  
She could hear them and call for her Dah-Dah at any 
moment.  There was no way Waterston would miss a 
blonde-haired, blue-eyed toddler - just the right age 
to have been conceived the last time he'd seen Dana - 
rushing to a dark-eyed, dark-haired man.

"No," Dana said immediately, stepping back.  

"Leave it, Puss.  Leave him.  I'll buy you whatever 
you want."

She swallowed several times, staring helplessly at 
the closed nursery door.

"I'll take good care of her.  Of them," Mulder 
whispered, speaking around the wet lump in his 
throat.  He bit his lip hard, then added the most 
profound thing he could think of: "I love you."

"I hate you," she responded, then quickly descended 
the steps, persuading Waterston to turn back.

Mulder followed slowly, feeling like he was 
underwater: close enough to see the surface, but too 
far down to ever reach it again.  He stopped on the 
step where Waterston had been, watching as Dana knelt 
in the library, gathering up the letters Mulder had 
given her and shoving them haphazardly into the 
satchel.  She snapped the satchel closed, then 
returned to the foyer and stopped, looking around at 
everything except Mulder.

"I'll take you anywhere you want to go," Waterston 
offered.

"I am not your wife."

"That doesn't matter.  I still love you.  I just want 
you to be happy," he said, oozing snake-oil charm. 
"Anything you want, Puss."

There were footsteps upstairs, and the nursery door 
opened.

"I want to see my mother," she said crisply, quickly 
picking up her umbrella and clutching her satchel, 
her knuckles white.

"We'll be on the next train north," he promised, 
opening the front door for her. "There's a cab 
waiting.  We can talk on the way."

She glanced up at Mulder, her eyes full of hurt and 
anger, then stepped outside.  Waterston slammed the 
door triumphantly.  Mulder stood on the stairs, 
immobile, and listened to the hooves clopping across 
the wet cobblestones as the cab drove away.

*~*~*~*

The dining room table seated twenty, though only God 
knew why.  He couldn't remember more than a handful 
of people ever sitting at it at one time.  Not sure 
where else to go or what to do, Mulder took his place 
at the head, looking down the polished expanse of 
wood.  Maids came and went, casting curious eyes his 
way as they cleaned and dusted.  Someone needed in 
the silver chest, and asked where Rebekah was: she 
had the key.  A voice said she was at the market, and 
polishing the silver would have to wait.
 
"And what are you still doing here?" Rebekah asked, 
appearing in the doorway. "Why aren't you at work?"

"I'm, uh... Sitting," he mumbled, slouching in the 
elegant chair.

"Well, you can't sit there, Fox.  You're in the way.  
Come in the kitchen.  Have you eaten?"

"No," he remembered after some thought.  He pushed 
the chair back, then followed Rebekah like a sleepy 
child.

"Miss Dana said to go on: that I should get to the 
market early and she'd fix breakfast.  She didn't?"

"She's, she's gone," he answered, feeling dazed. 
"She's not here."

Rebekah exhaled a "these flighty young people" sigh 
and said, "Well, sit down. I'll feed you." She turned 
her back, stoking the kitchen stove and reaching for 
a skillet. "What about my boy?  Does Mr. Sam need 
breakfast? Or is he going to sleep all day?"

"He's gone," he mumbled, leaning against the kitchen 
table.

"He's already at the newspaper?"

"No, he's, uh, gone.  I don't know where he is.  He 
ran away." Mulder picked up an apple and considered 
it thoughtfully. "He wanted me to leave Dana so she 
won't die.  I wouldn't, so he left."

Rebekah turned toward him, holding her wooden spoon 
in midair.

"And Dana's gone; she left a few minutes ago. I kept 
both girls." He turned his head toward the kitchen 
window.  The sky was black, promising the worst of 
the storm was still to come. "It's pouring rain. Dana 
took an umbrella, but I don't know if Sam did."

"Are you drunk?" Rebekah asked slowly.

"No.  Just very empty," he said softly.  He put apple 
back in the bowl and looked at her. "Tell me I did 
the right thing, 'Bekah."

"I still have no idea what you've done."

"I let Dana leave.  I made her leave, in a way.  
She's not safe with me.  Sam's wanted us apart for 
months, but he's been afraid to tell me why.  And I 
finally realized it's because he's seeing the future 
if Dana and I are together: he's seeing Dana die 
having another baby.  He saw Melissa die.  He's seen 
Dana almost die once.  It makes sense.  He doesn't 
hate Dana: he's protecting her.  And he knows I love 
her, so in a way, he's protecting me, too."

Rebekah stared at him for a second, then, before he 
could move, smacked her spoon hard against his upper 
leg. "Are you insane?" she demanded. "Or blind?  Or 
did I raise a complete fool?"

"What?" he yelped, rubbing his stinging thigh. "Stop 
that!"

She swung again, her spoon whistling, but he dodged 
out of its path.  They'd perfected this game when he 
was nine, but he didn't care to revive it. "Damn it, 
stop that.  What's wrong with you?"

"What's wrong with me?" she said in disbelief.  The 
heat from the stove reddened her ruddy face, and the 
humidity from the storm turned her auburn curls to 
frizz.  She pushed a defiant strand back from her 
sweaty forehead, then wiped her hands on her apron 
angrily. "Fox, where did you get this 'seeing the 
future' nonsense?  Miss Dana walked in on Mr. Sam 
kissing one of his friends.  That's what he's afraid 
of: her telling you.  And you hating him."

Mulder tilted his head to one side, perplexed. "But I 
already know he's been seeing someone on and off.  I 
just don't know who."

"The curator at that museum."

He paused, mouth open, waiting for the punch line. 
"That's a man, 'Bekah. The curator at the Smithsonian 
is a man.  A nice young man.  He lets Sam sketch the 
exhibits after-hours, after the crowds, when it's 
quiet.  They're friends.  Close friends, I think."

Rebekah nodded, unimpressed by his powers of 
observation.  Sam was her darling: wholly incapable 
of wrongdoing.  In her eyes, Sam could hold up 
stagecoaches and still meet with her approval.

"Why would Sam be kissing a man?"

"I suppose because he wanted to," she replied matter-
of-factly. "For now, it makes him happy.  But Poppy 
kept telling him Miss Dana would tell you and you'd-"

"Poppy knew?"

Rebekah sighed like there was a program to this play 
and he should consult it before asking questions. 
"What do you think happened between her and that Alex 
fellow?  She caught Alex trying to kiss Mr. Sam and 
was so angry she told your father.  Mr. Mulder almost 
killed Alex, and he had a few words for Mr. Sam, as 
well.  Close your mouth before it starts collecting 
flies and go after your wife.  Whatever you did to 
Miss Dana, tell her you're sorry, Fox.  And a fool."

"But-" Mulder started to object, but she raised her 
spoon, and he backed away warily. "I don't know if I 
can stop Dana," he heard his voice saying. "I 
couldn't stop Sam."

"You certainly can't stop anyone standing in my 
kitchen."

*~*~*~*

"I need a horse," he yelled, crashing through the 
stable doors.  The groom peeked his gray head out of 
the tack room to check on the commotion. "A horse," 
Mulder repeated urgently. 

The groom continued rubbing saddle soap into a saddle 
with a rag, looking like he might consider stopping 
sometime that millennium. "Which one, sir?" he asked 
around the wad of tobacco in his lip.

"Any one!  Pick one."

Lightening cracked across the sky, and the horses 
whinnied frantically.  Aramis snorted and kicked the 
back of his stall repeatedly, and Porthos peeked out, 
looking for reassurance.

"Now, sir?  It's raining, sir."

"Yes, now." He could feel Dana getting further away 
each second.

The groom spit languidly, unable to grasp the concept 
of what "hurry" meant. "Well, lemme think...  Porthos - 
he'd be good, but he's favoring his left hock.  I 
believe it could be his shoes.  And then Athos..."

He paused to spit again, and Mulder stalked past him.  
He didn't have time to hear the litany of the 
animals' ailments, however riveting the groom might 
find it.  He grabbed a bridle and flung open the 
first stall, drafting Aramis, who wasn't sure he 
wanted any part of that idea.

"Bring me a saddle," he demanded as he forced the bit 
into the horse's mouth and buckled the bridle. "I 
need a saddle!"

"Will you be riding or hunting, sir?  Or sidesaddle 
for Miss Dana?"

"Oh, for God's sake," he shouted in exasperation, 
scrambling bareback onto Aramis and reining him 
toward the open door.

"Gonna get all wet, sir," the groom called from the 
tack room.

"Thanks," Mulder mumbled under his breath as the cold 
rain pelted him.  Aramis slicked his ears back, not 
liking the thunder and lightening.  The storm had 
worsened as the morning wore on, so the wet streets 
were deserted except for a few cabs and empty 
streetcars.  He kept his head low, his thighs tight 
against the horse, and squinted to see through the 
driving rain.  The sky was so dark it seemed like 
late evening, creating a city of shiny black shadows.  

As they galloped down Massachusetts and approached 
New Jersey Avenue, five blocks from the depot, he 
heard a train whistle pierce the air: three short 
blasts - it was approaching and stopping at the next 
station.  He didn't know if it was Dana's train or 
not, but he kicked Aramis harder, and the horse's 
hooves slid precariously as they rounded the corner 
at breakneck speed.

"Go, go, go," he urged him, whipping the reins 
against the horse's neck.  Lightening crashed across 
the sky, making the ground tremble in fear.  Aramis 
grabbed the bit and bolted, and since he was headed 
in the right direction, Mulder let him go.  Thoughts 
swirled around his brain, one tumbling over another 
in an impossible jumble.

Sam.  His son, and the only son he was likely to ever 
have.  Mulder's only exposure to physical love 
between men had been Alex's unwanted kiss, Spender's 
perversions, and the effeminate male prostitutes he 
saw in alleys.  It wasn't a line of thinking he 
applied to Sam, nor did it fit.  Apples to oranges.  
Not his son.  Obviously, Rebekah was mistaken.

His father.  Mulder found the notion of men together 
unsettling, but his father would have found it 
repulsive.  A sin.  He could imagine how harsh Bill 
Mulder's words had been: an abomination of nature, a 
Nancy-boy, a sodomite.  He could imagine how harsh 
they'd sounded, especially to a gentle young man who 
already believed he was responsible for his mother's 
death.

Dana.  What he could possibly say to get her to stay.  
Nothing, probably.  Nothing short of throwing her 
across his horse, taking her home, and tying her to a 
tree in the backyard was going to get her to stay.  
At the moment, that sounded like a plan.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape 
approaching, then lurched forward as Aramis tried to 
stop.  The horse's hooves scrambled frantically, 
trying to avoid a fast-moving cab that had just 
turned the corner. Aramis sat almost on his haunches, 
throwing Mulder, unable to get his balance without 
stirrups, over his neck.  He tumbled head over heels, 
sliding across the pavement and into something hard.  

And the world went white-hot, then heavy, liquid 
black.

"You okay, mister?" was the next thing he heard, and 
Mulder opened his eyes to see Aramis standing nearby, 
sides heaving, head hanging low, with a long gash 
down one foreleg. "Gotta watch where you're going, 
mister."

Mulder scrambled up, pushing his wet hair back from 
his face and wiping his stinging hands on the seat of 
his trousers.  Something dripped into his eyes and he 
wiped it away hurriedly.

"That horse is gonna need a vet, mister," the driver 
observed. "And you're gonna hafta pay for the damage 
to my cab."

"I-I will," Mulder stammered, trying to get his 
bearings.  

D Street: one block from the depot.  A locomotive's 
whistle shrieked again: two long blasts - it was 
leaving the station.  It could be the same train he'd 
heard earlier, or another; he didn't know how long 
he'd been unconscious. 

"Take care of my horse," he said, backing away. "I 
have to catch a train."

"Hey," the incensed driver shouted after him as 
Mulder turned and ran, splashing mindlessly through 
the puddles. "Where are you going?  I'll send for the 
police.  I will.  Hey!  Get back here!"

The Washington B&O Depot was one of the busiest in 
America.  There was a constant jam of carriages in 
front, waiting to pick up or drop off passengers.  At 
one end, an unrelenting stream of wagons loaded and 
unloaded freight from the steel arteries of a nation: 
produce, dry goods, mail, furniture, livestock, coal, 
lumber, munitions, soldiers, immigrants, and perfume 
- all went by rail.  

The yard behind the depot was a chaotic maze of 
tracks and turntables and sheds.  Arriving trains 
squealed to a stop, then exhaled a relieved sigh of 
steam, while departing locomotives digested a 
bellyful of coal and water, then eased away from the 
platform.  Occasionally, a long freight train flew 
past, bound for Baltimore or Richmond, rattling the 
windowpanes and leaving behind a layer of fine soot.
 
As he reached the front door, Mulder wiped his 
forehead again, barely noticing his hand came away 
red and left a bloody print on the knob.

"There's a line, mister," a man yelled as he shoved 
through the crowds to reach the window.

"The train to New York," he said breathlessly, 
bracing his hands on the counter. "What track?"

"To New York?" the clerk echoed. "We don't have an 
express to New York this morning.  Do you mean to 
Baltimore, then on to-"

"Yes," Mulder shouted. "To Baltimore!  What track?"

"Track four, sir." Mulder whirled, his boots 
squeaking against the floor. "But it's-" the clerk 
called after him. "Leaving now!"

He sprinted through the lobby, dodging passengers and 
satchels, and overturning chairs.  A porter was 
maneuvering a large trunk out to the platform, 
blocking the doorway.  Through the foggy window, 
Mulder saw a train sliding away from the platform.

"Move!  Goddamn it."

The porter struggled with the trunk, getting it 
wedged tighter, and in desperation, Mulder turned and 
raced for the front door, then around to the loading 
dock.  The train had cleared the station, and gave 
two whistles and a belch of smoke as it gathered 
speed.

He rushed after it, but skidded to a stop at the edge 
of the dock as another locomotive screamed by, 
dragging car after car of Pennsylvania coal after it.  
Mulder watched helplessly, bracing his hands on his 
knees as he panted.  By the time it had passed, the 
end of the passenger train was disappearing into the 
distance.

"Damn it, damn it, damn it," he cursed at no one in 
particular.  He stood among the wooden crates on the 
busy dock, jaw clenched and hands braced on his hips, 
then turned and sprinted into the depot again.

"Get the telegraph operator," Mulder shouted as the 
crowd parted, giving him a wide berth.  The counter 
clerk leaned back warily as he approached. "Have him 
wire ahead.  Have them hold the train at the next 
station.  Don't let anyone on or off.  And I need 
another horse."

"We can't do that-"

"The hell you can.  I inherited a quarter-million 
dollars worth of stock in the B&O Railroad.  Tell 
them to hold the Goddamn train!"

The clerk looked dubious, and a few men muttered for 
Mulder to watch his language around the ladies.  
Standing in the middle of the depot like a lunatic, 
cursing, soaked to the skin, bloody and muddy, Mulder 
didn't look the part of a wealthy gentleman.

"Even if we could, sir, we can't.  The telegraph 
lines are down.  The storm and all.  We have no way 
to contact the next station."

"Then when's the next train to New York?"

"To Baltimore?"

"Yes, to Baltimore," he shouted, wondering if the 
clerk would be more cooperative if he was grabbed by 
the lapels and dragged over the counter. "When is the 
train to Baltimore?"

The clerk leaned close and said in a soft, 
comforting, everything-will-be-fine voice, "That 
train just left, sir."

"When. Is. The. Next. Train. Pointed. Toward. New. 
York?"

"It should be arriving on track one in about half an 
hour, sir," the clerk answered, then yelled at the 
back of Mulder's head. "Sir!  You'll need a ticket, 
sir."

Mulder stumbled through the door and out to the 
platform, patting his pockets for anything that might 
be exchangeable for a train ticket.  His father's 
pocket watch: face cracked, hands stopped.  No hat.  
No coat.  No cash or coins.  He didn't even have his 
keys.  His boots or his wedding ring, he decided.  
Which would be worse to appear without in New York: 
his boots or his wedding ring?

He was huddled under the leaky eaves, working his 
ring over his scraped knuckle, when he noticed a 
small figure in a dark dress sitting on a bench at 
the end of the platform.  Alone in the crowd, huddled 
under an umbrella, she stared at something on her 
lap.  Around her, miserable porters lugged baggage 
toward the depot, and the arriving businessmen held 
newspapers over their heads, shouting instructions as 
they tried to protect their suits.

"Dana?" he called, raising his voice to be heard over 
the storm and the trains.  The figure looked up. 
"Dana," he repeated, a chill trickling down his 
spine.  He commanded his feet to move, to get to her 
before she vanished into the mist.

"Mulder?" she said in surprise. "My God: what 
happened to you?"

"Everything," he answered honestly, the rain pelting 
him again as he approached.  It plastered his hair to 
his skull and dripped off the end of his nose.  His 
ruined shirt clung like a second skin, and gravel 
from his collision with the cab was still ground into 
his palms.  There was blood coming from somewhere, 
but he hadn't stopped to check where.  It didn't seem 
important.
 
"There was a letter.  In my satchel," she called.  
She stood, turning toward him.  The wind whipped her 
skirt wildly, and her little umbrella strained under 
the force. "Did you put it there?"

"I didn't put anything in your satchel," he yelled 
back. "You did.  What are you talking about?"

"I found a letter from you.  To me." She wiped her 
eyes: either rain or tears. "I have a ticket.  I 
should be on that train right now.  Your heart is in 
the right place, and you try so hard, but you should 
wear a sign that says 'heartbreak.' And you will 
never change.  I must be the world's biggest fool to 
be standing here."

"No, love - you're married to him."

Thunder rumbled again, warning them, and lightening 
followed, crashing a white finger across the dark 
sky.  Dana put both hands on her umbrella, trying not 
to lose it to the gale.

"I love you," he yelled over the trains and 
thunderstorm. "I do!  And I'm sorry.  You can't 
leave, Dana.  And I can't let you.  You- you're," he 
stammered. "You're my lost half!"

"I am what?" she called, her hair blowing loose from 
its chignon.

"My lost half!  My father made me read about them.  
Men and women used to be one creature, but the Gods 
were jealous of their happiness and split them, so 
each is only half of a whole: alone, unhealed.  
You're my other half!  I found you."

"You found me?  You got lost in a swamp and I found 
you," she answered, then sniffed uncertainly.
 
A porter passed between them, wheeling a huge 
Saratoga trunk, and an engineer leaned out the window 
of a locomotive, trying to see he backed it into the 
waiting passenger cars.  The links collided with a 
heart-stopping crash, and the engine added a lungful 
of steam to the storm, then reversed.

The conductor whistled and announced the Richmond 
train was boarding.  Passengers emerged from the 
depot: young men turning their collars up and making 
a dash for it; couples hand in hand - the husband 
trying to shield his wife with his overcoat; 
squealing children with mammies yelling for them to 
avoid the puddles; a trio of women with useless 
parasols and ugly little hats who bemoaned the rain, 
then picked up their skirts and ran for conductor's 
waiting hand.  The women leapt onto the metal steps 
in a flash of white petticoats and lace, then 
disappeared inside.  At the end of the train, a groom 
struggled to get a nervous stallion up a wooden ramp 
and into a boxcar.

Mulder swallowed awkwardly, then crinkled his 
forehead and squinted against the rain. "Rebekah says 
Sam likes to kiss men," he called loudly.

Dana nodded and his chest tightened with the same 
sense of confusion and failure his father must have 
had when Mulder announced Melissa was pregnant: 
trying to comprehend why his son would choose a 
future filled with pain rather than the smooth path 
he'd envisioned.
 
"I don't understand why he-" he started, but was 
interrupted by a series of short, frantic blasts from 
a steam whistle.  Mulder waited, but instead of 
stopping, the whistles continued until they blended 
into one long, desperate plea.  Brakes squealed 
frantically, then a sound rolled toward them like 
thunder through the ground.

Dana whirled, and the wind seized her umbrella and 
the letter.  She tried to retrieve the limp sheet of 
paper, but Mulder grabbed her wrist, poised to run, 
but not sure which direction to go or what the sound 
was.  In the distance, there was the horrible 
shrieking and moaning of steel giving way.  People 
panicked, stampeding blindly.  He put his arms around 
Dana, shielding her as best as he could.  On the 
street in front of the depot, horses whinnied and 
snorted in panic, and those on the Richmond train 
kicked frantically inside the boxcar.

Something exploded, and he pushed them both to the 
wet platform, covering her body with his.  Her damp 
hair pressed against his jaw, her hot breath panted 
against his neck.  Around them, people shouted and 
screamed, and boots struck Mulder's back as a man 
scrambled over them.  The frightened stallion broke 
free from his groom, and hooves clattered across the 
platform.

An eerie stillness followed, with no sound except the 
wind and the rain punishing the wooden planks. Mulder 
raised his head, then helped Dana sit up.  He looked 
around, expecting to see smoking ruins and bloody 
bodies, but the depot was unscathed.  Porters and 
passengers poked their heads out of the trains like 
gophers. The engineers and conductors shouted between 
the locomotives, yelling over the storm and the 
terrified crowd.

After a few seconds, there was a series of smaller 
explosions, like a distant battle, and the crowd 
bolted again, trampling each other in their attempts 
to get nowhere.  

"Mortars," Mulder mumbled, still holding Dana against 
his chest.  He sniffed the wind, catching the peppery 
scent of gunpowder and hot metal. "Cannon fire.  What 
the hell?" 

Mulder squinted, barely able to see orange and red 
explosions against the black horizon, like fireworks.  
He surveyed them with a practiced soldier's eye, his 
body tensing in preparation for battle. 

"There's nothing in that direction to attack.  No 
forts, no armory..."

Dana looked, her hair falling wildly around her face 
and her wet skirt swirled over them like a shroud. 
"What is happening?"

"I don't know.  It looks like we're under fire, but 
there's nothing out there except farmland and 
railroad tracks... It's a train.  And that's dynamite.  
It's your train, Dana; it's hit something or it's 
being robbed.  Those aren't cannons; those are cars 
exploding," Mulder said numbly.

"Oh my God," she said, half in realization and half 
in prayer. "Dr. Waterston is on the train.  He is in 
the smoking car.  He left me reading my mother's 
letters and went to smoke.  He does not even know I 
got off.  I-I just did it.  I- Mulder, that cannot be 
the train."  

"A passenger train just hit a freight train carrying 
munitions!" a flagman yelled, relaying the message 
down the tracks.

That was what Mulder smelled: barrels of gunpowder 
exploding inside steel boxcars.  With the telegraph 
lines down, a passing freight train must have 
approached the station on the wrong track, colliding 
head on, at full speed, with the departing Baltimore 
line. 

There were gasps, then sobs as the flagman's message 
reached the crowd in the depot.  It was the Wednesday 
morning train to Baltimore: the fastest way to New 
York or Boston except the express.  Mulder had taken 
it hundreds of times.  Every seat was usually full, 
with men standing in the aisles and Negroes riding in 
the baggage car. 

"Oh God.  That's your train, Dana," he repeated, 
watching helplessly as the explosions continued.  He 
looked down at her, then back at the horizon as the 
realization sunk in.  He pulled her head against his 
chest, stroking her wet hair. "You would have been on 
it. I didn't make it in time to stop you. You'd be..." 

Two hundred passengers were dead, but Dana wasn't.  
He wasn't. 

A horse-drawn fire engine clanged past, on its way to 
do what it could, though the rain would put out the 
flames, and Mulder didn't see how anyone could have 
survived the crash.  He got to his feet, then helped 
her up, noticing the world was starting to sway.

"Dana..." he started.  He wiped his forehead again, 
then watched as the rain washed the blood from his 
hand.  He stared at it, mesmerized, and began to feel 
woozy.   

"Are you all right?" she asked, then repeated her 
question when he didn't immediately answer. "Mulder?" 
She put grabbed his arm, steadying him. "Easy.  What 
is wrong?  You need to sit down."

"'Bekah hit me with a big spoon," he mumbled as she 
guided him to an empty bench under the eaves.

She knelt in front of him, pushing back his hair to 
examine his forehead. "Rebekah hit you in the head 
with a spoon?"

"No, I don't think so," Mulder answered uncertainly.  
He looked at his hand again, then at her, his insides 
starting to shiver.  Her face seemed out of focus, 
like a photograph when someone moved. 

"You need to lie down.  And get out of these wet 
clothes."

He nodded obediently and started on his shirt 
buttons, but she stopped him. "No, not here.  Wait.  
I need to get you home."

A passerby offered a handkerchief and she pressed it 
against his forehead, putting his hand over it and 
telling him to hold it there and be still.  Dana kept 
checking his head, but to him, it just felt heavy.  
He could hear frantic voices jabbering and feet 
rushing somewhere, but they were far away.  His world 
seemed slower and simpler, reduced to its most 
important elements.  He grabbed a handful of Dana's 
soggy skirt, anchoring himself.

"Dana, I hafta find Sam," he realized, lowering the 
handkerchief.

"No, you have to sit still.  You are hurt, Mulder."

"No, I gotta go find my Sam," Mulder insisted, 
getting louder and trying to stand up. "He's my boy. 
I gotta find him.  He thinks I don't love him.  I-I 
do; I just don't understand. He doesn't know-"

Dana pushed him back again. "Hush.  Calm down.  He 
does know."

"Do you need help with him, ma'am?" a tall, passing 
stranger asked, towering over them.  The rain dotted 
his spectacles, and beaded on top of his bald head. 
"He looks a little dazed."

Mulder stared at him, a candle of faint recognition 
flickering.

"I have him.  He will be fine," Dana said, and the 
man moved on. 

She pushed his wet hair back from his face. "I am 
going to find a cab and take you home."  She looked 
around for her satchel, but it had disappeared in the 
chaos. "Mulder, do you have your wallet?"

He shook his head. "Do you want my ring?" 

"No, you keep that," she said in the same comforting 
voice the clerk had used. "I do not need your ring; I 
need money for a cab."

"No, you can take it." He took it off, holding it up 
to her.

"Okay," she conceded softly. "Stay right here.  Do 
not get up.  Do not take off your clothes. I will be 
right back. Do you understand?"

Mulder nodded, wrapping his arms around his chest as 
he tried to stay warm. "You're gonna come back?"

"I will come back," she assured him, vanishing into 
the crowd.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus XIV

End: Paracelsus

***********************************

Begin: Paracelsus II
 
*~*~*~*

My Dear Melly, 
 
Perhaps idealism is the final luxury of youth, as my 
father says; a romantic's way of refusing to see life 
as it is: short, nasty, and brutish.  According to 
Father, I am an idealist, among other distressing 
things.  I search for the best in this world, like 
the Greek philosopher who carried an unlit lantern in 
his quest for the truth.  Unlike Diogenes in Athens, 
sometimes I find it, but always were I least expect 
it.  In newborn babies and the sweltering afternoons 
of Southern summers and steaming mugs of coffee at 
dawn, to my surprise, there is peace.    

In my mind, I can see you: wrinkling your pretty 
forehead in bewilderment.  You do not need to 
understand my ramblings, only that I have set down my 
lantern for a moment so I will not drop it in 
exhaustion.  For a few heartbeats, I have a 
comfortable life, or lie, and a hundred excuses not 
to leave it.  Normalcy, with its gentle routine and 
placid smiles, is as seductive as any woman, and I 
let it envelope me as if I belong.
 
Yesterday, my friend saw a daguerreotype of you, the 
one where you were irritated with me and look as 
though there was ice in your veins, and commented on 
how beautiful you were.  I opened my knapsack and 
eagerly showed her the rest of my photograph 
collection of you and Sam, and she said I had a 
lovely family.  I agreed, not knowing what else to 
say.  I had a lovely family, Melly, especially in the 
photographs.  She wrinkled her forehead at me, just 
like you did, and I wish I could bring myself to 
explain, because I think she would understand.      

I already know I won't mail this letter, but I'll 
sign it anyway,

Mulder  

*~*~*~*
 
He wasn't eloquent, never had been, but, Jesus, 
usually he could stammer out something better than, 
"Ma'am, you have cows."

Yes, she was pleasant to look at: he wasn't blind.  
Yes, he was lonely and they had briefly shared as 
much romance and intimacy as an old slave's bed, 
moonlight, and a placenta could offer.  Just because 
she was willing to listen to his Sam stories and give 
him a shoulder to cry on didn't mean she felt 
anything more than gratitude and friendship toward 
him, just as he felt toward her.  She had her bed and 
baby, and husband, and he had his barn and pictures 
of Melly, and never the twain would, or should, meet.     

"Those are not mine," Dana told him, carrying a 
basket of fresh eggs as she emerged from the chicken 
coop. "I thought you just left.  I thought you were 
going to Savannah.  Did you get lost again, Mr. 
Mulder?" 

"I found them wandering.  Do you know who owns them?" 
he asked, one hand on each of the rope halters he had 
fashioned.  When she nodded "no," he grinned proudly. 
"Then, until the cows say otherwise, they are yours.  
I thought they would be good: for the baby."

"I do not know that she cares for cows."  

"For milk," he added, as though she might really 
think he had brought them to be house pets. "For 
Emily."

She crossed her arms over her breasts, and he cleared 
his throat, finding something else to look at.  That 
was an underhanded trick: her being a woman on 
purpose just to distract him.   
 
"That cow does not have any milk. She will not until 
she has a calf.  And your other friend," she gestured 
to the big creature contentedly chewing his sleeve, 
"Is a bull."

"I know that," Mulder said defensively, jerking his 
sleeve away. "But I think they like each other."

Oh, Christ, he was going to take a vow of silence.  
He bit the left side of his tongue between his teeth, 
knowing there was a "why buy the cow when you can get 
the milk for free" pun in this somewhere and afraid 
it would slip out if he wasn't careful.  

"You can put them inside your posts," Dana decided, 
leaning on one he had already set.  He'd found 
various repair projects to keep himself occupied and 
rebuilding the corral had seemed like a fine, time-
consuming idea, but he'd only gotten as far as 
sinking the fence posts: it still lacked any actual 
enclosure. "Just explain to them where the rails 
should go.  I am sure they will understand. Cows are 
bright, obedient creatures." 

"You are very difficult.  Do you know that?" he said 
in exasperation.

"Did you really think I desperately needed cattle, or 
did you just need an excuse to come back?  I bet you 
did not even make it as far as the boat dock. I 
promise I can breathe without your supervision for a 
few days."

"I saw the cows and thought you could use them.  And 
you can't have cows without a corral.  And I do not 
like going off and leaving my fence half-done," he 
said, using a tone that he'd always thought sounded 
like he meant business. 

"I thought that was the case," Dana answered, somehow 
managing not to collapse into a puddle of pliant 
womanhood.

He gritted his teeth, hating when someone else had 
the last word. "Are you telling me you want me to go?  
I will finish my corral and then go," Mulder said 
firmly, crossing his arms in imitation of her posture 
and hoping he didn't look like a child threatening a 
tantrum.

"I did not invite you to stay and I am not telling 
you to leave.  You just come and go as mysteriously 
as the tides.  I can stand on the shore and yell all 
I like, but the ocean is still going to ebb and flow 
as it pleases.  I might as well save my breath."

"It doesn't seem like you save your breath 
sometimes," he mumbled just low enough for her not to 
hear, wiped the cow snot off the back of his hand, 
then followed her inside before he missed part of the 
argument.  Experience told him she could hold an 
argument with or without him, but he had a slightly 
better chance of winning if he was present.

*~*~*~*
 
"Why did you not wake me?" Dana asked, each word 
draped in velvet by her Irish accent, then yawned, 
stretching sleepily.  She smoothed her faded skirt 
under her hips and then over her knees as she sat on 
the porch steps, covering her ankles.  The air had 
changed, electrified.  A storm was approaching, and 
she had brought a shawl with her against the chill.  
Dana tried several times to drape it around her 
shoulders, but it twisted and wouldn't cooperate, and 
she stared at it in bewilderment.    

Mulder looked up from his seat against a peeling 
white column and smiled at her drowsy disarray. 
"Emily's sleeping; she's no trouble," he explained, 
gesturing to the tiny form in the homemade cradle 
beside him. "I didn't want to disturb you unless I 
had to.  You-" 

He stopped short, wisely leaving off the words 
"needed to rest." Dana wasn't a woman who enjoyed 
being told what she "needed" to do, unlike Melly, who 
had taken his lightest utterances as Gospel.  If he'd 
said the sky was falling, Melissa would have agreed.  
With Dana, Mulder had been forced to resort to 
subtly: sneaking the baby outside when he discovered 
Dana asleep on the sofa, a pillowcase she'd been 
mending crumpled on her lap.        
 
"Where did the cradle come from?" she asked, instead 
putting her shawl over the baby against the breeze 
starting to murmur through the swamps.

"I'd thought I would make her one, but this was in 
the slaves' quarters.  I scrubbed it and let it dry 
in the sun," he added, not sure how she would feel 
about having her baby sleeping in a Negro child's 
cradle. "It is simple, but she seems to like it.  If 
she was my daughter, I'm sure there would be pink 
satin bunting and gilded carving, just so I could say 
she had the best.  I am foolish like that."

"Yes, if she were your daughter, I am sure there 
would be: pink satin and gilded inscriptions and 
fireworks to announce her arrival." Dana looked past 
him, blinking and watching the ominous clouds rolling 
in from the sea, toppling over each other in their 
hurry to reach the shore. "Once again, I am not your 
wife."

Although she hadn't said it directly, he had the 
sense her husband wasn't going to be pleased to find 
a new daughter instead of a son when he returned, if 
he ever returned.  Every man wanted a boy, but it 
wasn't reasonable to demand one, as if the woman had 
any control over the sex of the child.  Any husband 
who actually chastised his wife for having a girl was 
a fool, at least in Mulder's reckoning.                

"That isn't what I meant, Ma'am," he said hastily. 
"Your child is just as content in her this bed, 
covered with your shawl, as she would be in the 
fanciest cradle money could buy.  She is cherished, 
shielded from all the evil in the world, and that is 
more precious than gold.  If a child has that, it's 
foolish to give it more just for show.  And no gilt 
and satin can equal a mother's love.  That is what I 
meant.  I lavished poor Samuel with everything but 
silk diapers and pet elephants until he was old 
enough to fight back, and I'm sure I would have done 
the same if my daughter had been born."

He closed his mouth, having said more than he 
intended, and found Dana watching him with 
inquisitive blue eyes.  

Mulder knew she wondered about the lanky stranger who 
frequently took up residence in her barn.  Dana had 
been out of bed two days after Emily came and back to 
her chores in less than a week, and yet August had 
blended into September and hedged at October and 
Mulder still hadn't ventured very far away.  He 
chopped firewood, hunted, fished, mended fences, 
helped with the baby, and fixed the hole in the roof 
of the barn, much to the owl's dismay.  There had 
been several trips to send telegrams home and 
continue his search for Sam, but he always found an 
excuse to return to the Low Country to check on her.  
As she said, she let him come and go as mysteriously 
as the tides, as though he was something she accepted 
rather than tried to control.   

"Melly became sick after Sam came," he finally said 
softly, his words barely a whisper. "I told you that.  
Even with the best doctors, it was a long time before 
she was well.  At least, I thought she was well, but 
then, with this last baby, it came back again even 
worse than before."
  
She blinked and he looked away, clearing his throat 
and fiddling with his wedding band.    

"There's a storm coming," he finally observed, 
squinting at the black sky as the winds began to pick 
up. "A bad one.  You're shivering.  Take the baby 
inside before the rain starts.  I'll carry in some 
firewood and water and close the shutters."

"Mr. Mulder..."

"Yes, she is dead," he said quickly. "She died last 
summer, and the baby died with her."

She tilted her head, puzzled. "But you write to her; 
I see you writing to her all the time."

"Just because I write letters doesn't mean anyone 
will ever read them."

"I am sorry," she said after a pause, putting her 
hand on his forearm, then sliding down until their 
fingers intertwined.

"Now you think I'm insane," he mumbled miserably.

"This war claimed both my brothers and my father with 
a single torpedo.  All three were on the USS Tecumseh 
when it sank in Mobile Bay, and for months I was 
certain there had to be some mistake.  I was sure God 
would not do that to my family.  No, I do not think 
you are insane," she said gently.  "Do you know of 
Samhain?"

He shook his head.

"On Samhain, at summer's end, the fairy gates open 
for the night, and the dead can roam between this 
world and the next.  In Ireland, we light candles so 
our loved ones can find their way home.  I think that 
is all you are doing, Mr. Mulder: summer is ending 
and you are holding a candle in the darkness for lost 
souls.  Death does not stop love; it only changes its 
form, and you love your wife very much."     
 
She squeezed, then released his hand, picking up the 
baby as she began to wake and disappearing into the 
house.

*~*~*~*
 
He didn't even have his house key, Mulder had 
realized as the evening train pulled away from the 
platform.  His key was back in Georgia along with 
everything but his wallet, his revolver, and the blue 
uniform on his back.  When the telegram had arrived, 
he'd gone straight from the officers' tent to the 
train station and then straight to Washington.  If 
his commanding officer had refused his request for 
emergency furlough, Mulder would have shot him and 
told the entire Federal Army where they could shove 
their damn war.   

"Mother ill stop come home now stop," Samuel had 
telegraphed, and Mulder could imagine all the words 
that had been left out.  The boy had a cool head; 
when Sam panicked, everyone could safely panic.

Spotting the carriage, Mulder looked twice at the 
young man holding the reins, still not accustom to 
seeing a teenager.  According to his internal clock, 
Samuel should be about eight or nine, and yet the 
calendar insisted he'd just turned thirteen.
 
Sam nodded as Mulder climbed in, then quickly clucked 
to the horses.  When they didn't move fast enough for 
his taste, he slapped the reins against their backs 
and the buggy lurched forward.  There was no need to 
ask how Melly was; Sam keeping the horses at a racing 
trot through the congested streets and the tired 
purple shadows under his eyes was answer enough.     

"It's the baby," Sam finally said, speaking for the 
first time, but not looking away from his driving. 
"The doctor came but she won't let anyone touch her.  
I didn't want to send for Grandfather Mulder; he'll 
take her to the hospital again.  Maybe that's what 
she needs, but-"

"No, you did the right thing.  I promised she 
wouldn't go back there."

Sam exhaled, tilting his head to one side as though 
his neck ached. 

"How's the war?" he asked a few blocks later, looking 
for something to say. His father owned the Washington 
Evening Star and the boy spent his days amidst 
reporters and newspaper presses; Sam already knew how 
the war was going.

"We have Atlanta under siege; it should fall in a 
matter of months.  Once we take Atlanta, we've cut 
the Confederacy in two, destroyed their supply lines, 
and there's no place else for the rebels to run.  I 
should be home for your and Melly's birthday," he 
said lightly. "I won't miss it again." 

Next year Sam would be fourteen and Mulder would be 
thirty, almost thirty-one.  At an age when other men 
were considering taking wives, Mulder had been 
married for almost half his lifetime.  He'd been 
sixteen when Sam came, so they'd grown up together, 
just the two of them.  Melly had been there, of 
course, but also, in her Melly way, often not there.

"Dad?" Sam said uncertainly, stopping the buggy in 
front of the house. "Will she be okay?"

"I'll see to her," Mulder responded, one foot already 
on the ground. "It will be fine.  You did a good job, 
Sammy." 

His son nodded, barely moving his head.  Mulder was 
the father, so he was supposed to say something that 
would be of great moral comfort.  Some pearl of 
wisdom for the ages.

"Go rub the horses down.  You've been pushing them 
hard and it's hot.  They could catch a chill."

There was another nod, and the buggy rolled away, 
swaying toward the carriage house and stable.

Meeting him at the front door and taking his hat, 
Melly's nervous young maid whispered, "She's 
upstairs."  

People always whispered when Melly was sick, as 
though that was going to help.  The servants should 
have known better by now, but everyone had gone home 
for the night except Melly's ladies' maid, who was 
seldom in charge of anything more important than 
hairpins.  The girl waited at the bottom of the 
steps, twisting her hands in her apron and watching 
him expectantly.  Some days he felt much too young to 
have so many people look to him with that trusting, 
Mulder-will-take-care-of-it expression.  

"Honey?" he said softly, pushing open the door of 
their bedroom. The lamp wasn't lit and the sun was 
going down, so the room was a contrast of the fiery 
red sunset and the encroaching shadows. "Melissa?  
Melly?  Where are you, honey?"

There was a whimper, and he saw her toes peeking out 
from the space between the dresser and the bed.  The 
toes led to bare feet and shapely bare calves, and 
her arms were wrapped around her knees, pulling them 
as close as possible to her chest.  Except for her 
hair, which covered her back and veiled her face with 
black mist, she was nude.  She huddled against the 
wall as though she could disappear into it, 
terrified.

"What are you doing down there, honey?" he asked 
gently, leaning against the foot of their bed.

She shook her head frantically, sending her hair 
flying. "Shush; he'll come back," she whispered, 
childlike. "Be quiet.  Fox's gone and he'll come 
back." 

"He won't come back, Melly.  He's dead.  He's been 
dead for years."

"No.  No, no, no, no," she repeated mechanically, 
rocking back and forth. "He'll come back."

"Do you know who I am?  Look up at me."

"Fox?" Melly guessed in a tiny voice.  

"That's right; it's Fox.  I'm not going to let him 
hurt you.  Come on out from there.  Right now, 
Melly."

She stared up at him with huge, frightened eyes, her 
chin quivering.  She nodded "no" again and huddled 
even tighter. "Go 'way.  He's bigger than you are."    

"I doubt that.  I'm not going to let him hurt you.  
Trust me, Melly."

Mulder offered his hand, but didn't make any move 
toward her.  He could grab her and wrestle her out, 
but that only ended up making things worse; he'd 
learned that a few weeks after Sam came.  After a 
minute, she reached for his hand, grasped it like a 
lifeline, and let him help her to her feet.

"That's my good girl," he assured her, slipping her 
arms into her dressing gown and tying the sash high 
to accommodate her belly. "Look at this," he murmured 
wondrously, running his hand over the swell. "What do 
we have here?  What have you been up to while I've 
been off preserving the Union?"  

Melly had been leaning her forehead against his 
shoulder, but looked down at his fingers drifting 
over the silk fabric.  She covered his hand with hers 
for a few seconds, then backed away. 

"What's wrong?"

"No.  No, no, no," she started again, looking through 
him.

"What, honey? 'No,' what?" 

She stroked her belly, staring at it as though it 
hadn't spent seven months in the making and had just 
appeared.  Then she started to rub harder, like the 
pregnancy was a wrinkle she could smooth away, and 
then harder and harder until she was kneading so 
roughly it frighten him.

"Whoa; easy," he cautioned her, stopping her hands. 
"What's wrong?  Try to tell me.  Talk to me, Melly."

"He did this.  He did this.  He did this.  Get it 
out.  Get it out, Fox.  And don't tell.  It's bad.  
Bad, bad, bad, bad."

"Shush," he murmured. "No, he didn't do this.  Calm 
down and try to remember.  We did this, Melly.  Not 
your father.  Your father is dead.  He's been dead a 
long, long time.  This is our baby; I was home for 
Christmas, remember?  I was wounded.  We talked about 
a little girl and now we're going to have one; you 
wrote you were certain it was a girl.  We did this, 
right here.  This is our bed, in our house.  This is 
our baby: our baby girl.  You wanted this; you were 
so happy when you wrote to me.  Do you remember at 
all?  Try to be my big girl and remember.  I need my 
big girl back."

With his fingers still loosely around her wrist, she 
lowered her hand back to her belly, rubbing at it 
like a stain on the rug.  She shook her head, her 
face crinkling to cry again.      

"Then just trust me.  We did this.  Don't hurt the 
baby.  I want you to take good care of the baby."   

"What did he put inside me?" she sobbed in horror, 
and he had to stop her hands again. "What did he do?"

"No, your father is dead.  We did this."  He kissed 
her forehead, then trailed his nose down her cheek. 
"Try to remember.  This is our baby girl.  I'm not 
your father.  You're not a child anymore.  You're my 
wife and I love you and we didn't do anything wrong.  
I'd never do anything to hurt you, honey."
    
"You did this?" she said shakily, easing her rubbing. 
"You did this to me?"

He pushed her long black hair back from her pretty 
face, smiling slightly. "I suppose I did."

"You did this?  What's Daddy going to say?"  

Mulder exhaled tiredly and put his arms around her, 
massaging her back.  She stayed very still, like a 
trapped wild animal when it realizes there's no 
escape.   

"It's okay. You let me deal with him.  You take care 
of the baby.  Will you do that?"

She nodded that she would. "You're still my friend?" 
she asked in that sing-songy babyish voice that made 
his stomach twist.   

"Yes, we're still friends."

"She needs to eat," Mulder told the hovering maid, 
who was still twisting her hands as he led Melly down 
the front stairs. "And she needs a bath.  And would 
you also heat some water for me to shave?" he added, 
"I think my beard is scaring her.  And then you can 
go home."

Recognizing her as someone she knew, Melly started to 
follow her maid to the kitchen, then looked back at 
him and stopped.

"Go on," Mulder told her. "Go with her.  I'll be 
right there."

"You did this to me?" she asked numbly, one arm 
cradling her belly. "You put this inside me?"

The sixteen-year-old maid's face turned scarlet.

"I did that to you." He'd say whatever it took to 
keep her calm; they could argue semantics another 
night.

Her maid tugged on her hand, and Melly followed 
hesitantly, seeming unsure what was happening.  Melly 
was obedient by nature, and once she understood what 
he wanted, she'd spend hours trying to do it 
perfectly.  He'd probably have to lift her out of the 
bathtub and carry her to bed to get her to stop 
scrubbing.

Mulder moaned as he sat down on the sofa, then pulled 
off his boots for the first time in three days, and 
lay down for a few seconds.  He heard hot water 
gurgling from the stove reservoir in the kitchen and 
the murmur of the maid talking to Melly, trying to 
get her to eat.  The stable door opened and closed; 
Samuel was taking care of the horses.  As the world 
grew dark and hazy, Melly's maid asked if he still 
wanted to shave, and then covered Mulder with a 
blanket when he didn't respond.

"Mother?" Samuel's voice asked sharply, and then 
screamed, "Dad!  Daddy!" Mulder bolted upright in the 
dark parlor, on his feet before he even had his eyes 
open. "Daddy!" he heard again.  

When Mulder got to the back of the house, his son was 
staring through the open doorway of the little room 
they used for bathing.  Melly liked to soak until she 
pruned, so Mulder had installed the biggest bathtub 
he could find, much to the chagrin of the housekeeper 
and maids, who had to heat and carry the water to 
fill it.  There was a basin and a mirror too, and the 
inexperienced maid had laid out a towel and his 
shaving brush, lather, and the strap to sharpen the 
razor.  A lamp was burning in the window, casting a 
gentle, peaceful yellow glow over the calm water 
filling the bathtub almost to the top.

He thought for a moment the maid hadn't been able to 
find his straight razor.    

*~*~*~*

"Get the doctor!" he yelled into the blackness.  Sam 
was crying.  Melly was hurt and Sam was crying.  He 
could hear it all around him.  The pain was so 
tangible he could taste it in his mouth, and it 
encased his world like a shroud.

Sitting up, Mulder scanned the dark barn as he tried 
to get his bearings.  Army revolver in hand and naked 
to the waist, he scrambled to his feet, listening and 
trying to place the noises in some context.  His 
breath came hard and fast as his body prepared to 
take on whatever was out there.  He'd kill it if he 
could find it.

It was just the storm: just the wind and rain 
punishing the thin roof and walls.  It howled like a 
tormented soul, but it was just the storm.  Exhaling, 
he stared into the darkness and waited to relax.  His 
fingers tingled around the Colt revolver and a 
trickle of sweat ran down between his shoulder 
blades.  Every nerve was alive and alert, waiting, 
watching.

One of the shutters on the house had worked loose and 
was banging.  After listening to it slam back and 
forth for a few minutes and realizing he didn't want 
to go back to sleep, Mulder got up and dressed, 
planning to get an early start on his day.  

To his disgust, after he'd gotten his shirt soaked 
running to the house, stubbed his toe in the 
darkness, and had the window refuse to stay up and 
bash him on top of the head, the shutter had the 
indecency to fall off.  He leaned out the window, 
still holding it, his hair getting plastered to his 
skull by the rain.  With both hands full and the 
window sash threatening to brain him again, he blew a 
drop of water off the tip of his nose and considered 
his options.  So far, the day was not looking 
promising.  He wasn't going to get a ladder and fix 
it right that second, and the worst of the storm had 
passed, so he let the shutter fall to the ground.

That would be number two hundred and thirty-seven on 
his chore list for the day. 

As he closed the window and contemplated making 
himself a cup of coffee, he heard it again: the baby 
crying.  This time he recognized it as Emily and, 
without thinking, trotted up the steps to get her.

He stopped in the hallway when he saw Dana's bedroom 
door open, realizing he was intruding.  She'd never 
expect him to be in the house hours before breakfast, 
and she would certainly never expect him to be 
upstairs for any reason.     

Through the doorway, he saw a woman's silhouette pick 
up the wailing baby and carry her to the window, 
fiddling with the front of her nightgown as she 
walked.  One handed, Dana raised the window and 
unfastened the shutters, looking out at the black and 
gray sky.  The wind was blowing the wrong way for 
rain to come in the window, but there was a sudden 
swirl of damp, electrified air into the room that 
made the curtains billow like the sails of a ship.  
Holding the unhappy baby against her chest, she 
tilted her head back and inhaled like some primal 
creature, enjoying the lighting-scrubbed wind as 
though she was a part of it.  

He grinned, liking that he wasn't the only one who 
got up to watch thunderstorms at night.  He never 
would have guessed she'd do something so frivolous or 
sensual; she had her secrets, this woman.      

She laid the baby down again, making Emily squall 
even louder, and to Mulder's wide-eyed surprise, Dana 
gathered her nightgown up and pulled it over her 
head, revealing nothing underneath.  No, there was 
certainly something underneath; he could tell, even 
in the shadows.  There was something very nice 
underneath.  

The droplets of water streaming down the back of his 
neck started turning to steam.

Dana wrapped a blanket around her and picked up Emily 
again, then sat down in a rocking chair beside the 
window to nurse.  The baby stopped crying immediately 
and he heard greedy suckling sounds as her mother 
murmured to her.  Dana's profile looked up and stared 
out the open window again, watching the storm rolling 
over the treetops as she rocked.       

Mulder realized he hadn't moved in a very long time.  
He exhaled silently, blowing every bit of air out of 
his lungs.  The baby was safe.  That was all he'd 
come upstairs to check.  He should never have been 
upstairs in the first place.   

Without a sound, he turned, slipped down the shadowy 
hall, and descended the staircase, avoiding all the 
squeaky steps.  Except for a few drops of water on 
the floor where he had been standing, there was no 
evidence of his presence outside her bedroom.  
       
He needed to go home.  She was married, she had a new 
baby, and he was starting to make a fool of himself.  

"Starting?" his conscience asked, labeling him a 
voyeur instead of a concerned friend who'd stumbled 
into an embarrassing situation.  A friend would have 
left when he realized she was unfastening her 
nightgown.       

And he wasn't entirely sure it wasn't reciprocated, 
at least in some manner.  She didn't strike him as a 
woman who casually shared any part of herself, and 
yet she'd told him of her brothers' and father's 
deaths, of worrying about having no word from her 
husband in months, and, in the most roundabout way, 
of her concern about her husband's reaction to their 
daughter.  Except for the night Emily came and 
yesterday when she'd taken his hand, they'd never 
touched.  They hadn't said or done anything improper, 
and maybe he was imagining it.  And maybe he wasn't.  
Of course they were friends, but Mulder wouldn't have 
been happy if his wife had been so friendly with a 
strange man while he was away.

He needed to go home, he thought, laying down on the 
lumpy sofa in what had once been the front parlor.  
He told himself he was staying in the house because 
of the storm and he'd get up long before she did and 
she'd never know.  Another shutter could work loose 
or the roof could blow off or, well, something.  He 
wasn't picky.  Truth could be beautiful, but so could 
lies.  
          
*~*~*~*

There was a very important and proper reason he was 
standing in her bedroom staring at her asleep in her 
nightgown.  

And he would remember that reason any second now.

It wasn't really a nightgown, but an old chemise 
designed to fit under a corset but below the neckline 
of a dress, so it draped low, revealing the tops of 
her breasts and the slopes of her shoulders.  She 
could have easily untied it to nurse, but she must 
have preferred to take it off so the baby could be 
against her skin.   

Just any second now.  

It was thin cotton, washed over and over and dried in 
the wind and sun until it was almost transparent and 
probably soft as silk.  It should have reached her 
knees, but it had twisted around her hips so it 
barely covered her thighs.  And, just to torment him, 
she shifted, bending one knee up while the other fell 
outward.  

Any second now.

A thick braid of auburn hair fell over one shoulder, 
but countless strands had slipped out of place during 
the night and curled around her face and shoulders.  
Against the patched white sheet, she was a study in 
pale ivories and the crimsons of her hair, her lips, 
and under her chemise, the dark suggestions of her 
nipples and Mons Venus.    

He swallowed, noticing he couldn't feel his lips or 
his fingertips.  Dana should really learn how to 
close a door.  If she were his wife, he'd teach her 
how to close a door.

She shifted again and the lace hem of the chemise 
crept up a little further and Mulder, fearless soul 
that he was, started feeling woozy.    

For his own preservation, he covered her with the top 
sheet she'd kicked off, managing not to touch her or 
make a sound.  Then he backed slowly to the hallway, 
closed the bedroom door, took a deep breath, and 
knocked loudly.

Luckily, by the time she woke and answered, he'd 
remembered what had been so important in the first 
place.

"It's Mulder," he called to her, as though she might 
have been expecting someone else.  

The door opened a crack and she peaked out, smoothing 
the stray auburn wisps back from her face. "What is 
wrong, Mr. Mulder?"

"There are people coming up road from the river: a 
mulatto man and a white woman with two boys and a 
toddler.  The man has a rifle.  Could the woman be 
one of your friends?  A neighbor coming to call?"
 
"There are no neighbors." She stopped to yawn, 
forgetting to cover her mouth. "Maybe they are lost."

"They'd have to be very lost.  No one comes this far 
out in the swamps without a reason.  What about the 
man?  Could he be one of your people coming home?"

"You mean one of my husband's slaves?"

He nodded. "Some of the freemen who couldn't find 
work in the cities are returning to the plantations.  
He doesn't look like a field hand, but maybe a valet 
or a butler?"   

She had the sheet wrapped around her torso so it 
covered her from chest to toes, and she adjusted it 
tighter before she opened the door another few 
inches.

"He is not one of my husband's slaves."

"How can you know without looking?  It must have 
taken a hundred people to run this place."

"Because this is my husband's country house and his 
overseer ran it, Mr. Mulder.  We lived in Savannah, 
but he sent me here during the war so I would be 
safe.  When the Yankee Army got close to Savannah, 
his overseer left to join the fighting.  That left me 
in charge, and as soon as the proclamation came from 
Mr. Lincoln, I had the Negroes to take everything 
they could carry and get as far away as possible, 
just in case the overseer came back.  Luckily, he did 
not."

"You little abolitionist." He leaned against the 
doorframe, grinned at her stupidly. "I wondered where 
everything went: the china, the silver.  I didn't 
think our Army got out this far to loot.  And I 
wondered why this was the only plantation house I've 
seen that didn't have an old cook or mammy still with 
the family.  What does your husband think of this?"    

"He does not yet know."

Mulder added a raised eyebrow to his stupid grin.

"So if this man isn't one of your servants, and the 
woman isn't your friend or neighbor, who are they, 
Ma'am?  Look and tell me if you know them." 

He held up his binoculars, and she rewrapped the 
sheet around her one last time and opened the door. 

"Do you have a dressing gown?" he asked, feeling 
uncomfortably warm as he trailed into the room after 
her.

"I did.  Now I have baby clothes," she answered, 
going to the window she'd opened a few hours earlier. 
"No, I do not know them," Dana said, handing the 
binoculars back to him.

Mulder looked again, watching the light-skinned Negro 
man carrying a rifle and leading two little boys on a 
horse.  A stunning, dark-haired woman followed, also 
on horseback, riding sidesaddle with a toddler in her 
arms. "I'd say those are her children, but he's not 
the father.  They are close, though: the man and 
woman.  And the boys know him.  What could they be 
doing out here?  Oh shit," he said under his breath.  

Mulder shifted the binoculars, adjusting the focus.  
On the man's hip was a sleek pearl-handled pistol.  
He hadn't been worried about the hunting rifle, but 
that was a dueling pistol and he wore it as a regular 
sidearm, not stuck in his belt the way he would if it 
was new to him.  Whoever he was, he looked dangerous.

"What is it, Mr. Mulder?"

"Two guns.  Wait here."

When he returned from the barn, she was still at the 
window, looking like someone gave the Venus de Milo a 
pair of binoculars. "The man just pointed to the 
smoke coming from the chimney.  He is having the 
woman and children wait at the edge of the trees.  He 
kissed her, Mr. Mulder, and now he is coming this 
way."

"Ma'am, look at me.  Look at this.  Just in case."  
He held up the .40 caliber single-shot Derringer he'd 
carried in his boot during the war.  It was small 
enough to fit in his pocket, hence the nickname 
pocket pistol. "You only have one shot and then you 
need to reload.  It's ready to fire now.  If you need 
to, just aim like you're pointing your finger and 
pull the trigger.  You can't shoot very far, so wait 
until he's close, and be prepared for it to knock you 
backward.  It's just a precaution."

After handing it to her, he quickly checked the Colt 
Army revolver, making sure all six cylinders were 
loaded with a ball and powder, and the pressure caps 
were in place, and then replaced it in the holster on 
his hip.  His bowie knife and saber were on his other 
hip, and, except that he hadn't worn his uniform 
jacket in weeks, he looked the part of a Federal 
Cavalry officer, which was what he'd intended.     

"All I get is this little gun?  You get that big gun 
and two knives and all I get is this?" she asked 
uncertainly, holding the Derringer by the handle with 
two fingers. "Do you have anything else?"

Mulder stared at her, not sure whether he was 
insulted or amused. "What would you like?"

"I do not know.  Something.  I feel like I should 
just throw this at him, pick up the baby, and run."

He pondered for a second, then retrieved the rifle 
he'd left in the hall and unfastened the cartridge 
and cap boxes from his belt.  From the expression on 
Dana's face, it was a more acceptable means of self-
defense. 

"It's a .52 caliber Sharps carbine, made to be loaded 
and fired on horseback.  It's a single-shot breech-
loader, so you still have to reload between shots and 
you load through the breech at the top of the barrel, 
not through the muzzle like a musket.  It will stop a 
buffalo at two hundred yards.  I can verify it will 
more than stop a man.  Would this be better?"

She nodded, handing the pocket pistol back to him, 
still held daintily between her index finger and 
thumb.

"Well, watch then.  I'll show you how to load this 
instead.  It's easy." In rapid, practiced succession, 
he pulled a linen cartridge from his cartridge box, 
opened the breech, shoved the cartridge in, closed 
the breech to automatically ram the bullet and 
gunpowder in the cartridge, opened his cap box, 
fished out a cap, and placed the percussion cap on 
the nipple.  Cocking the hammer back and trying not 
to look too pleased with himself, he told her, "The 
cavalry standard is one shot every twelve seconds, so 
you still have five seconds left to aim and fire.  
Just make sure to put the cartridge in bullet-first 
and don't forget the cap.  It won't fire without it.  
Do you think you can reload if you have to?"

"I will hit him the first time," Dana decided, taking 
the rifle and seeming surprised at how heavy it was.  
Still wearing her Greek Goddess toga, with her loose 
braid hanging down her back, she held it up, looking 
through the sights. "Am I doing this right?"    
     
"You're, uh, close enough.  I'm going to meet him in 
front of the house; I'll find out what he wants.  
I'll handle this and it's probably nothing.  Maybe 
they're just very lost.  Don't shoot unless you have 
to, and for God's sake don't shoot me."            

She nodded, squinting through the rifle's sights 
again and spreading her legs a little further apart 
to stay balanced.  She tilted her head sideways, 
biting her lower lip in concentration and sliding her 
fingers over the long ribbon of polished steel as 
though it was human skin.  Mulder left the cartridge 
and cap boxes on the windowsill on the off chance she 
could manage to reload, and, looking at her again, 
cleared his throat and went downstairs to confront 
something less dangerous.  Somewhere in the world, 
Samuel Colt and both Mr. Smith and Mr. Wesson 
suddenly became aroused and weren't sure why.

*~*~*~*

"That's about far enough," Mulder said from the 
porch, coming down the front steps slowly. "What's 
your business?"

"I am looking for Dr. Waterston's place," the light-
skinned Negro man said in a liquid New Orleans drawl 
with the faintest hint of French behind it.  

"You've found it." Trying to intimidate him, Mulder 
looked at him steadily, taking his measure, and the 
man's brown eyes stared back, not hostile, but not 
flinching either.   

"Doctor Daniel Waterston of the Chatham Volunteers?  
Surgeon in Company E of the 47th Georgia Regiment?"
 
"Under Colonel's William and Edwards," Mulder added 
from memory. "This is his land."

"You are not Dr. Waterston."

"I'm close enough for you."  Mulder's hand casually 
nudged the handle of the pistol on his hip. So far, 
the man hadn't made any move toward his own weapon. 
"State your business."

"Do you know of Dr. Waterston?  Is this his land?"

"I think I've already answered that," he responded, 
keeping up his end of the razor-edged banter. "What 
is your business with him?"

"I have his wife and family with me."
 
"I doubt that.  His wife and family are upstairs."

The man's eyebrows twitched in surprise.  There was a 
pause before he clarified, "His other wife and 
family.  His Colored family."

"Oh," Mulder said, backing toward the house to clear 
the way in case Dana decided to shoot after all.

*~*~*~*

She was beating those biscuits as though she had a 
personal vendetta against them.  He waited for her to 
cry, but she didn't. And the more Dana didn't cry, 
the more Mulder wanted to.

"She seems nice," he said, trying to sound 
optimistic. "Just quiet, which is nice in a woman."

Dana exhaled loudly and didn't look up from making a 
late breakfast for seven.  The kitchen table was 
floured and the biscuit dough was dumped out, then 
attacked with a rolling pin and a biscuit cutter.     

That probably hadn't been the most comforting thing 
he could have said.

Mulder scuffed his boot against the edge of the wood 
stove and stared at the kitchen floor. "Do you 
understand what she is saying?  What 'placage' is?  
She was not really his wife.  You were his wife.  She 
was his legally contracted uh-" he worried the word 
around his mouth before he said it aloud, "mistress."

"She was his wife and they have three children.  Yes, 
I understand very well."

"No, she is an octoroon.  One-eighth Negro.  She was 
brought up to, um, please wealthy white men.  Une 
femme de couleur.  They are legendary.  In New 
Orleans, very light-skinned Negro girls are placed, 
placage, with white men and kept as mistresses, 
sometimes briefly, but often for months or years.  
Sometimes for life.  The woman gets a house and 
servants, and the children of the, uh, arrangement 
are educated and inherit just as the man's white 
children do.  But she was not his wife.  He could not 
have legally married her before the war.  Do you 
understand?"

"I understand she has a ten-year old son, a six-year 
old son, and an eighteen-month old son. I understand 
my husband and I had been married six years.  I 
understand his commanding officer wrote to her that 
he had died, but did not think to write to me.  Yes, 
I understand."    

"She did not come here to hurt or insult you, only to 
see what her sons had inherited and make a fresh 
start.  She never knew you existed, just as you never 
suspected she did.  In New Orleans, every wife is 
sure her husband is the exception: the one man in the 
city who does not keep a placage mistress.  And every 
mistress is sure her benefactor either will never 
marry or married out of duty, not love.  Do you 
understand?  It is-"

"Stop it!  My English is very good.  Thank you, but I 
understand, Mr. Mulder.  Please do not explain 
anything else to me."

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, hanging his head. "I'm not 
sure what to say."

"Why not launch into one of your lectures about how 
you would not be happy if I was your wife?" she said 
angrily, shoving her pan of biscuits into the oven. 
"Because that is just what I would like to hear right 
now."

"If you were my wife- I would never have done this to 
my wife.  She was too delicate to be hurt like this."

"Lucky her," she snapped back, slamming the oven door 
closed.

At a complete loss for anything to say, wise or 
otherwise, he turned and walked quickly out of the 
kitchen without looking at her.
 
*~*~*~*

For a woman who'd become both a wronged wife and a 
widow in one day, Dana was holding up much too well.  
Aside from some very well-mashed mashed potatoes at 
dinner and a tendency to talk without moving her 
lips, she was acting normally.

Which worried him.

Benjamin, the light-skinned mulatto man, had been the 
doorman at the quadroon balls where white men came to 
choose and mingle with their mistresses.  That 
explained the contrast between his graceful, 
gentleman's gentleman demeanor and the dangerous 
glint in his eyes: he'd been watching a woman he 
loved follow Dr. Waterston into a bedroom for the 
last twelve years.

The breathtaking, silent woman, Dori, was exactly 
what Mulder had told Dana she was: the daughter of a 
quadroon slave and a white Haitian plantation owner 
bought and paid for by Dr. Waterston at the age of 
seventeen. She'd been kept comfortably in New Orleans 
until Dr. Waterston suddenly stopped visiting her 
after Christmas.  Emily was two months old, so the 
good doctor must have been home to see Dana last 
fall.  All that and fighting a loosing civil war, 
too: he had been a busy man.   

Mulder heaved himself up the ladder, into the loft, 
and flopped on his back on the blanket.  Sighing, he 
folded his hands behind his head and crossed his 
ankles, staring up at the crossbeams of the barn 
roof.  It was too early to go to sleep, but too late 
to find some chore to keep him out of the house.  
Normally, he would have gone to the kitchen and read 
a newspaper or book aloud to Dana, or entertained the 
baby while she had a chance to bathe or take a quick 
nap, but he felt awkward around her tonight, as 
though it was somehow his fault she was hurting.      

Something rustled in the corner and he turned his 
head, thinking he and that owl were going to have it 
out again.  Instead, he saw Dana sitting with her 
knees pulled up to her chest and her face buried in 
her folded arms.  Only the black tips of her shoes 
and the auburn knot of hair at the back of her neck 
were visible; everything else was obscured under a 
huddle of faded calico fabric.  

His heart stopped for a second, hiccupped, and then 
restarted.  He opened his mouth to say "Melly," but 
managed to reform it into "Ma'am?  Ma'am," he 
repeated softly, scrambling to his feet and bashing 
his head into one of the crossbeams of the roof, 
adding a companion goose egg to the one from his 
predawn encounter with the window. "Are you all 
right, Ma'am?  Mrs. Waterston?  Dana?"

Of all ludicrous things, she shook her head earnestly 
that she was fine as she sobbed, trying to catch her 
breath.  

"Oh," he mumbled, shifting his weight from one foot 
to the other.  Ducking to avoid any more headaches, 
he went closer and squatting down, asked again, "Are 
you sure you are all right?"

"I am fine, Mr. Mulder," she said through her tears, 
still not raising her head. "Why would I not be?"

"Where is the baby?" 

"With Dori."

"Is Emmy all right?  Is anything wrong?"

"No, nothing is wrong with Emily.  Why do you always 
ask me that?" she asked in frustration. "Do you think 
something is wrong with my baby?"    

"No, I-" He swallowed, rubbing his fingers nervously 
over his trouser legs. "You have just had a long day.  
Do you want me to take the baby for a little while?"

She inhaled shakily, the worst of her tears seeming 
to have passed. "No.  She will be hungry soon." 

"Well, do you want me to go away and leave you in 
peace?"

"Yes," she said, so he sat down.

"I have been thinking of something, Ma'am.  I 
understand Dr. Waterston left this place to Dori's 
sons, but also that he did not know about Emily.  Is 
that right?" He waited for the nod, then continued, 
"Mr. Lincoln freed the slaves, but Congress hasn't 
yet made them citizens.  We will, of course, but the 
war just ended and the Constitution will need to be 
amended and that takes time.  Until it is, the 
freedmen are not American citizens.  They are in 
limbo.  Since the system of placage no longer exists, 
the contract your husband made to care for Dori's 
children is invalid: he made a contract regarding a 
slave and she is no longer a slave.  And her sons are 
not yet citizens who can hold property.  If you 
contest his will in court, you will most likely win."

Dana wiped her eyes and raised her face enough that 
he could see her flushed cheeks. "I had a choice 
about marrying him; she did not.  If she wants this 
place, with the shutters falling off and the roof 
falling in, she can have it.  I never want to see it 
again; this house or the one in Savannah."

"I fixed that shutter.  And my roof is not falling 
in."

"It is not your roof, Mr. Mulder." 

"Yes, I know that," he mumbled, picking at a mended 
place on the sleeve of his shirt.   

She raised her head higher, staring at the sun 
setting between the cracks in the barn wall. "I 
tried," she said slowly, stopping to sniff. "I tried 
to be a good wife.  I thought I understood what men 
wanted in marriage.  I did whatever he asked."   

"Some men just want any woman they aren't supposed to 
have," he said before he thought. "We cut off our 
nose to spite our face."

"But you are you not one of those men?"

"Na- no I am not, I suppose," he said unsteadily. "I 
have been tempted, but no woman was worth what it 
would have cost me.  To hurt Melly, to hurt Samuel: 
there was too much at stake for too little pleasure."         

He clamped his mouth closed, promising himself it 
would stay that way until he thought of something 
proper to say. Eventually, he arrived at the obvious: 
"I'm sorry.  I'm sorry about your husband.  What an 
awful way to find out."

"It is a relief to have an answer, at least.  I know 
I should not feel that way, but I do. I feel relieved 
to at least know he is dead.  The hardest part was 
the not knowing, the wondering."

"Yes," he said more to himself than her.  

"I think deep down I have known for some time he was 
not coming back.  I wanted to believe he was out 
there trying to get home, but there comes a time when 
you have to stop waiting and go on with your life."

"Yes," he repeated simply, wrapping his arms around 
his knees in imitation of her posture.  She tilted 
her head to the side and he thought for an instant 
she was going to lay it against her shoulder, but she 
didn't.  Through the cracks of the old barn wall, the 
sun crept a little lower, painting the heavens with 
its last dying traces of scarlet and amethyst.     

"I am going home, Ma'am.  I cannot hide in the swamps 
forever." He hesitated, watching the sun teasing them 
through the weathered gray boards. "I have a house, a 
business to run.  Life will go on, it will just be 
very different."

"I will miss you," she said without looking at him.

"I will miss you as well.  Very much." 

"Very much?"

"Very much.  You are my friend.  And Ma'am-" He 
inhaled, didn't think, and said it all in one breath: 
"Mrs. Waterston- Dana, I think I would be happy if 
you were my wife."   

Turning her head, she stared at him, and Mulder re-
wrapped his arms around his knees and continued 
staring purposely at the hints of amber sunset 
flickering in from outside.  

He cleared his throat.  Damn dusty barn. 

Dana continued to gape, and the lack of romance in 
the air made Cupid shake his head in disgust and 
throw up his hands.

When she still didn't answer after epoch-like 
seconds, Mulder said quickly, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't 
have asked you so suddenly, and I shouldn't ask you 
to decide so quickly.  I just worry: you and Emily 
all alone.  The world is not a nice place, Ma'am.  I 
have a big house in DC with no one to live in it now 
but me, and I do not want to be alone.  There is a 
housekeeper, a cook.  You and your daughter would 
never want for anything.  It is very nice, and I 
promise I am not as odd as I seem."

"Do you love me?"

He considered, trying to find the right way to say 
it. "I like you very much.  I like being with you.  
And I care for your daughter; she fills a void inside 
me.  But I do not feel for you what I felt for 
Melissa; I thought I could not breathe without her.  
I want you as my wife, but want and love: for men 
they are not the same."

"I would settle for being wanted."    

"Are you saying yes, then?"

"Yes, I think I am," she answered unsteadily.  He 
hadn't managed to sweep her off her feet, but he had 
confused her into matrimony. 

He nodded as though they had just agreed on a price 
of a horse. "Good.  Well then.  That is, that is 
fine, then.  We can be married tomorrow in Savannah 
before we leave for Washington."

"All right," she agreed, looking a little unfocused. 
"Mr. Mulder..."

"Yes?"

"What is your first name?"

"Fox.  Fox William Mulder.  Bill Mulder's son."

"Oh."

She must have no idea what that meant.  After 
graduating at the top of his class from West Point, 
Senator Mulder had served in Congress for decades, as 
had Representative Kavanaugh: Sarah and Melissa's 
father.  The majority of the literate population of 
the United States knew who Bill Mulder's boy was.

"Do you want me to call you 'Fox'?"

"No," he said immediately.  Sarah, Melly, and his 
parents had called him Fox. "My friends call me 
Mulder.  You are my friend."

"All right.  I should check on the baby," she mumbled 
after a bit.

"Yes, you should."

He stood, offering his hand to help her up and 
cautioning her to watch her head, although she was a 
good six inches below any of the crossbeams.  She 
kept hold of his hand as they made their way across 
the loft, brushing her thumb lightly against his 
palm. 

"If I had known you wanted to marry me, I would have 
been nicer to you," she said as he helped her down 
the first few steps of the ladder. "I can be a little 
more biddable."

"I doubt that, but you are welcome to try," he 
answered sarcastically, finally letting go. "I will 
see you in the morning.  I want to leave early."

"I will be ready," she answered, looking up at him 
for a second and then climbing down the ladder to the 
floor.   

He waited until she had closed the barn door and was 
walking to the house before he wiped his sweaty palm 
on his backside.

"Well then," he told himself, feeling strangely calm.

He'd get up early and bathe and put on clean clothes, 
although it would be nice if he had a suit.  And he 
should telegraph from Savannah to let Poppy, the 
housekeeper, know he was coming home and bringing a 
woman and a baby.  A wife.  He was bringing a wife 
and a stepdaughter.  They could stay at a hotel in 
Savannah tomorrow night, and he should see if there 
was a ship bound for DC; there was no need to bounce 
the baby around on a nasty, noisy train and Dana 
needed more rest than she'd been getting.

He laughed at himself, realizing only he would plan a 
honeymoon with an eye toward the bride getting some 
sleep, and then felt his face getting warm.  Without 
bothering to undress, Mulder lie back again, folding 
his arms behind his head and crossing his ankles: his 
favorite position for contemplation.  He stared up at 
the rafters, knowing he would never get to sleep and 
wondering how long it would take morning to come.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus II

***********************************

Paracelsus III

*~*~*~*

My Dear Melly,

I almost wrote "my dear wife," and had to stop 
myself.  It just flows automatically from my pencil 
to the page; I can barely remember a time when you 
were not my wife.  

My life has been so full and your presence colors so 
much of it.  I think of you as pink, Melly: the 
palest, most delicate shades of pink.  You are the 
touch of fine lace on a hem and the tip of a rosebud 
as it unfurls.  My mother I think of as soft yellow; 
the color of morning sunrays and sour lemonade.  My 
father was royal blue; a solid, proper color, and 
appropriate for almost any occasion.  Samuel is red, 
like the human heart and the flag the matador waves 
at the bull.  He is the color of passion and life 
and warm strawberry syrup.  This woman, Dana, I 
don't yet know what color she is.  Perhaps she is 
none: a clean slate.  Perhaps she is a chance to try 
again.  

I know she is hurting; I see pain scouring her like 
sand against fine porcelain.  I do not think this is 
real for her yet; she is simply functioning, finding 
comfort in the mundane until reality catches up with 
her.  You always said you found comfort beside me; 
that it was safe in my arms, and I wonder if she 
feels the same.

I wonder if I should tell her the last woman I 
kissed besides you was your sister, and that was 
when I was barely fifteen.  I have not told her 
about Sarah at all, although I should before we 
reach DC and someone else does.  There are so many 
secrets I should tell her, but I do not, and I am 
not sure why I do not.  I lock them inside me in 
that most private place in my heart where I know 
they will be safe and I do not give the key to 
anyone.      

When we left her home, she gave me only one bag to 
put take to the buggy, and it is mostly things for 
the baby: I peeked in it when she wasn't looking.  I 
am accustomed to your packing, and I thought how sad 
it was that she could fit everything precious to her 
into one bag and a makeshift-cradle.  And then I 
looked at my battered old knapsack.      

She sleeps like you do, Melly.  She closes her eyes 
and is gone, oblivious to the world.  I watch her 
sleeping now and feel many things, but mostly 
comfort.  I know how to do this: how to be someone's 
husband.  And I know how to be a father.  I was both 
before most of my friends had tasted their first 
drop of whiskey. That is what Dana and her daughter 
need, and I need to be needed, so perhaps she and I 
will fill in the cracks in the other's soul.   

Trust that I love you.  Always.  You are with me for 
eternity: locked safely away inside my heart where 
no one can hurt you.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

Shadow seemed perplexed at his demotion from dashing 
cavalry horse to carriage nag, and kept turning his 
ears backward, listening to see if the joke was on 
him.  He and Dr. Waterston's buggy had been 
introduced before dawn and had spent an hour 
achieving a cordial, if stilted relationship before 
Mulder had been certain it was safe for Dana and 
Emily.  The big gray animal still seemed offended, 
and looked back as if to plead "What have you 
reduced me to?"   
  
"Only for a bit, boy," Mulder interrupted his story 
to assure him.   

Shadow answered with a haughty snort, then picked up 
his pace, eager to get wherever they were going 
before any of his horse-friends saw him.  It was a 
very nice buggy; Shadow was just a snob.  He was 
still technically the property of the US Federal 
Government, and like some civil servants, he felt it 
was his place to be competent, not versatile.   

The Confederate Army had requisitioned almost all 
the horses in the South halfway through the war, so 
Mulder had found a collection of forgotten carts and 
buggies in the carriage house, most in perfect 
condition.  The slaves had taken some of the 
smaller wagons, but under a layer of grime were 
beautiful two- and four horse-carriages, remnants of 
an era when the stables must have held a hundred 
horses, with four matching bay mares just for going 
to church on Sunday and a pair of black geldings 
only for funerals.   

"That was my husband's favorite as well," Dana had 
said of the first light gig he'd hitched Shadow to, 
and so that one had immediately been replaced with a 
black, two-seated open carriage with a canvas roof 
to protect them from the sun.  He and Emily were 
conversing philosophically in the front seat, and 
Dana was sound asleep in the back, a jumble of dull 
black silk and white petticoats across the velvet 
upholstery.       

Comfortable Shadow wasn't going to bolt or swerve, 
Mulder switched the reins to one hand and offered 
the baby his finger to grip while he searched for 
the right word.  He could say "regal," but that 
didn't quite fit the tone and these little touches 
were important.  As he drove past, he looked at the 
crumbling chimneys marking where a plantation house 
had stood, then across the broad lawn and down the 
hundred year-old rows of gnarled oak trees 
lining the driveway.

"Palatial," he finally told Emily, who blinked at 
him sleepily.  He thought a moment, pooling his 
editorial resources. "The palatial stone walls rise 
from the scorched earth; the broken-out windows 
dark, distant, distrustful eyes."  

Deep in a padded basket on the seat beside him, 
Emily yawned.  The buggy swayed gently on its 
springs as the wheels rolled over the muddy road to 
the river, lulling her to sleep.

"I'm not going to finish if you're going to be so 
critical of my consonance," he said softly. "Anyway, 
the Federal Army swept through the countryside, an 
unflinching blue force leveling anything in its 
path.  It's called 'total war,' Emmy, and in the 
end, it looks like this.  We won, but we ripped 
families apart and tore our nation in two to do it.  
I heard one of my men say, 'I love my country, but 
if this war - where we burn cities and turn women, 
children, and old men out to starve in order to win 
- ever ends, I swear to God I will neverr love 
another.'"

"But we did win, and we marched through Washington 
as conquering heroes while ladies cheered and threw 
flowers, and then, after the parade, here we are.  
We have not only conquered, we have crippled the 
South and now hold it tightly by the throat under 
military rule.  We are too angry to rebuild it and 
too proud to let it crawl away and lick its wounds, 
so we grind it under our boot heels when there is 
nothing left to grind. There are more than a million 
freed slaves expected to make their way, most unable 
to read or write.  Some go north, only to find the 
North is only marginally more hospitable to Negroes 
than the South.  Some go back to the plantations, 
only to find nothing but this-" he nodded across the 
fields to the burnt mansion. "For miles.  And some 
go to the cities, where the vultures are already 
circling, waiting to pick the Confederate carcass."

He paused again, filing that last phrase away for 
later use.      

"There are so many widows that there is a shortage 
of black crepe for mourning dresses.  In our 
cemeteries are two hundred and fifty thousand 
'glorious dead', though I doubt a corpse cares if it 
is buried in blue or gray.  We fought for ideals and 
we ended up ankle-deep in our own blood and 
rhetoric, Emmy.  After so much war, people forget 
what they are fighting for, and when it is over, 
whether they have won are lost, they only remember 
that they are tired.  And tired, hungry people, 
Black or white, are easy prey.  We have won the 
battles, but I think this country will spend the 
next hundred years finishing this war."

Emily yawned again, settling firmly into her morning 
nap.

"Daddy's opinions," he added as she closed her eyes, 
"Are not always popular, but Daddy owns the paper, 
so he can print what he wants."

In back seat of the buggy, he heard Dana finally 
shifting.  One of his girls was asleep; the other 
was awake.  Mulder exhaled, blowing the dust off his 
husband role and putting his inner self away like 
summer clothes packed between layers of tissue in a 
trunk in the attic.

"I have her, Dana," he told her from front. "Are you 
thirsty?"

He heard her pat the empty space on the floor of the 
buggy in front of her, hesitate, then pat again, and 
then sit upright as quickly as her tightly laced 
stays allowed.

"I have her," he repeated, looking back over his 
shoulder. "She's up here with me."   

The carriage tilted slightly and her silk dress 
rustled as she moved, looking around as she tried to 
get her bearings.  Blinking sleepily, Dana leaned 
over the front seat to check on the baby, then 
stared out at the winding road as Shadow clipped 
along.

"I did not mean to fall asleep.  Where are we, Mr. 
Mulder?"

"Mulder," he corrected yet again. "The first dock is 
not far from here.  We will be in Savannah by 
evening.  Sit back before you fall."

Ignoring him, she rubbed her cheek, then glanced at 
the sunlight blinking through the trees.  While 
Mulder got up to meet the sunrise, Dana and that 
hoot owl would be compatible roommates; his 
definition of leaving early had been about two 
hours earlier than hers.           

"Not long," he answered before she asked how long 
she'd been asleep. "Lie back down if you want."

"What am I doing in the back seat?"

"Snoring and drooling on the upholstery," he teased. 
"Well, only a little and only in a very feminine 
manner.  You fell asleep against my shoulder.  I put 
you back there so you would be comfortable.  Are you 
thirsty?"

He reached into his knapsack at his feet and handed 
his canteen back over the seat, accidentally, 
blindly bumping his forearm against her breasts.  

"Sorry," they both said at exactly the same time, 
then listened to the carriage wheels roll along for 
several uncomfortable minutes.  

"The baby will need to eat soon," he informed her, 
as though he would know better than she. 

"Not yet," she answered.

"No, not yet, but soon.  She is asleep right now."

He was still getting used to touching her, casually 
and otherwise, being acceptable, even expected.  
He'd held her hand and stroked her face, once even 
leaning over and kissing her cheek, but each move 
was carefully rehearsed in his mind beforehand.  
 
"Which type of husband are you?" Dana asked after a 
long silence.

"Which type of husband am I?" he echoed, keeping his 
eyes on the road. "You make me sound like something 
you'd buy at market.  Do you mean 'what kind of 
husband' am I?"

"Yes.  That is what I mean."

"You know me, Dana."

"No, I do not.  You live far inside yourself, Mr. 
Mulder.  I think you could walk for miles and not 
meet another person inside your thoughts.  No, I do 
not know you."

He stared at the horse's haunches, trying to 
formulate an acceptable answer, some way to convey 
that her faith in him wasn't misguided.     

She'd been loyal to Dr. Waterston, only to discover 
his affections had been duplicitous, to say the 
least.  Some wives would have been relieved to have 
their husbands' physical advances directed elsewhere 
but, out of pride, if nothing else, he doubted Dana 
was one of them.  Aside from their conversation in 
the barn the previous night, she refused to discuss 
it, of course.  She'd already been "fine, Mr. 
Mulder" several times since breakfast.

"You know me as well as anyone.  Perhaps not which 
shirt is my favorite and how I like my tea, but 
those are details.  You have seen me angry.  I have 
a temper, but I try not to take it out on my family.  
I am headstrong.  I tend to want my way and want it 
now.  I have been known to confuse opportunism with 
recklessness.  I curse; you have heard me.  I seldom 
drink, and I usually curl up and go to sleep if I 
do.  I come home at night.  Sometimes, I come home 
for lunch, too, but if I do not, my office is only a 
few blocks away; just send a servant if you need me.  
I like children, obviously," he added, nodding to 
Emily in the basket beside him. "Did I answer your 
question?"

"No, you answered everything but my question."

"Bidd-a-ble," he reminded her. 

"I am trying," she said edgily, still partially 
asleep. "I only want to know what you want from me 
and you will not tell me."  

Sighing, he tightened the reins, stopping Shadow and 
turning back to look at her. "I think you just have 
a case of pre-wedding jitters.  Come sit up front," 
he said, climbing down and offering his hands to 
help her. "And I will tell you all about Washington.  
It's a nice place, except for the open sewage canal 
and the pickpockets."

"What is jitters?" she asked, scooting to the left 
side of the seat. "Like vapors?  No, I do not have 
that."

He grinned as he put his hands around her waist and 
steadied her as she stepped down. "Mind your skirt, 
Miss Difficult," he reminded her out of habit. "The 
wheels are muddy."

There wasn't much space between the high carriage 
and the ditch running alongside the road, so he 
stood close, and her body slid down the front of his 
as he lowered her to the ground.  It was another 
accident, but a highly erotic one that make his 
breath catch in his throat.

Instead of flinching, blushing, or jerking away, she 
stood still, leaving her hands on his shoulders and 
staring up at him.  

In the depths of his mind, he saw a fleeting image 
of him kissing her passionately, devouring her mouth 
as he tangled his fingers in her hair.  In the 
vision, he gathered up her cotton shift and jerked 
it over her head, then pushed her back onto a soft 
mattress, unapologetic about what he wanted.  As he 
undressed, she opened her legs shamelessly and 
watched him, waiting.  He saw himself nude, yellow 
candlelight flickering over his skin as he knelt in 
front of her on their bed, letting her wait a few 
more seconds.  She wanted him inside her: hard, 
fast, forceful; he could see the impatience in her 
eyes.  She wanted him to revel in her body, to lose 
control, to make her lose control until they were 
both spent and sated.

Then he blinked, and the already half-forgotten 
vision was gone.

He licked his lips.   

"These," he answered hoarsely, putting his hand over 
her heart as they stood beside the buggy, "Are 
jitters."

For almost an instant, he truly believed he was only 
trying to clarify the English language for her.  The 
heel of his hand resting at the top of her breast 
was merely a coincidence.  He even looked down at 
his hand, wondering how it had gotten there.  Queen 
Victoria would be appalled.

"Are they?" she whispered as if there was anyone 
around for miles.   

"Yes," he answered automatically, barely hearing 
her.  His body hummed.  She seemed electric, and his 
fingertips tingled like he was touching a telegraph 
wire.  She was wearing what must have been her pre-
War, pre-baby, Sunday-best black dress, and Dori had 
laced her corset tightly to get it to fit.  With no 
way to take a deep breath, her chest rose and fell 
rapidly under his palm.  

"Is this what you're asking?" he murmured, "What 
kind of husband am I?"

Her head moved almost imperceptibly and he covered 
her lips with his, tilting her face upward.  He'd 
intended a chaste kiss, but then he closed his eyes 
and the ruined world receded except for the feel 
of silky fabric, the scent of her skin, and the 
taste of her mouth.  

"Is this what you wanted to know?" he whispered, his 
face still close to hers. "If I am rough?  Am I 
rough?"

"No," she mumbled, leaning heavy against him.     

"No," he answered, brushing his mouth against hers 
as he spoke. "I am not.  I said I wanted you, not 
that I wanted to hurt you." 

"You did say that," her soft voice agreed from far 
away.

To Mulder, they were standing still and the planet 
was pivoting around them; a brilliant swirl of 
greens and blues.  Closing his eyes, he urged her 
lips apart, needing to be inside her.  Her heart 
beat faster as he slid his fingers down, gently 
weighing and exploring her breast.  She gasped as he 
ran his thumb over her nipple, and he felt her hands 
tighten on his shoulders as if they were making 
love.

"Did you want me to be rough?"

"No," she breathed out shakily.

"Are you sure?" he responded in a low, gravely voice 
that recalled dark alleys and elicit acts. "What do 
you want: politeness or passion, Dana?  I lived 
politely for fourteen years.  Is that what you want?  
Or do you want something more?"

"I do not know," she mumbled, gasping as he found 
her nipple again with his thumb, passing over it in 
long, luxurious strokes.

"I think you do," he whispered into her ear. "I 
think you know what you want." He slid his other 
hand down her back and over her bottom, cupping it 
and pulling her pelvis against him.  She murmured 
something in Gaelic, but didn't try to pull away, 
although she must have been able to feel him hard 
against her abdomen.  Against his neck, her breath 
came short little pants, feeling like sparks against 
his skin. "Don't you?" he asked huskily.    

The carriage rolled a few inches as Shadow shifted 
his feet, bringing reality and morality back like an 
explosion of light.  

Mulder startled, then recoiled as if he'd tried to 
embrace fire.  Staring down at Dana's swollen lips, 
he wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, trying 
to figure out what had happened.  It wasn't real; he 
wasn't doing this.  Another minute and he'd have her 
on the wet grass in the next field like they were 
only the rutting animals Darwin said they were.

She opened her eyes, seeming dazed as she looked up 
at him.  He hoped she'd faint in mortification and 
forget what had just happened, but Dana didn't seem 
like the fainting type.  Letting her go, he braced 
himself to be slapped, but she just stood there, 
trying to catch her breath.  

Taking another step back, he swallowed nervously and 
avoided eye contact.  He couldn't have been more 
horrified at himself if he'd just been caught in an 
alley with a prostitute with his pants around his 
ankles.  

By his mother.   

And all his mother's socialite friends.  

"My God, Dana, I am sorry," he said earnestly, not 
sure what to do with his hands except not to put 
them on her again. "You aren't yet my wife; I 
shouldn't have touched you like that.  I certainly 
should never have said those things to you.  Not 
ever.  I don't know what I was thinking.  Really, I 
do not."

Another nod as she stared at the ground, smoothing 
her already-smooth hair.  

"Dana?"

"I am fine." She looked up, then dropped her gaze 
again, clearing her throat and moving away.  

She didn't look fine.  Her face was flushed and her 
eyes shone like the surface of a lake in the 
moonlight.  She looked as drunkenly wanton and 
dangerous as he felt.

He stared at her as she stared at the muddy road, 
then he exhaled forcefully.  He could have belabored 
his apology, but it seemed easier to just move on 
and save both of them the embarrassment.

"Up you go," he instructed primly as though nothing 
had happened, and she put her hands on his shoulders 
again, letting him lift her carefully onto the seat.  
She slid the baby to the corner and scooted over, 
making room for him beside her. 

He climbed up after her, picked up the leather 
reins, and told Shadow to walk on.  The buggy 
lurched, then rocked from side to side as the horse 
trotted.  As they turned a bend on the road, he 
looked back, wondering about that rash, shameless 
man who had briefly taken control of his body.  He 
couldn't imagine what Dana must think of him.   

"I met you here," he commented, needing to say 
something. "On this road.  Just before Emily came."

"Yes," she answered, staring out at the cypress 
trees, keeping her hands properly folded on her lap.

"Had I met you before?" he asked curiously. "In New 
York, perhaps?  You said your family settled there."

"No.  I do not recall meeting you," she said 
politely.

"I travel on business, sometimes.  I just thought 
perhaps-" He trailed off, knowing he was talking 
nonsense.  Her family had come to America a year 
before she met and married Dr. Waterston and moved 
to Savannah.  Two years after that, she'd been sent 
to his plantation house in the swamps for 
safekeeping where she had seldom seen a soul except 
the servants. "When I kissed you, you seemed 
familiar to me, as though I had known you."

"You do know me, Mr. Mulder."

"Of course," he agreed, dropping the subject.   

"She agreed to be your wife," his rational self 
argued silently. "She has been married before; she 
knows what that means." He turned his heart over, 
examining it for signs of guilt, but instead found 
fear.  He had not been raised to treat women roughly 
or disrespectfully, and it frightened him that it 
came so naturally.   

And she had not objected; it bothered him that she 
had not objected.  Then again, why bother to object?  
He'd been honest about why he wanted to marry her.  
Aside from being concerned for her and Emily, he 
wanted a home, a family, and her in his bed.  It was 
a common enough reason to take a wife, but didn't 
seem so romantic in the prudent light of day.

A generation of marriageable men was dead, leaving a 
generation of well-bred ladies who had been brought 
up exclusively to marry and make homes, but there 
were few husbands left to do that with.  Some widows 
took comfort in their black veils and destitution, 
but others married far beneath their social rank out 
of desperation.  Any single man found himself knee-
deep in adoring young women, most of whom had small 
children, no money, and no place to go.  It was all 
very flattering if one didn't think too hard.  The 
choice was often tolerating a husband's demands or 
tolerating starvation, and he wondered if Dana was 
making that choice.
 
He opened his mouth to apologize, to even lie and 
say he loved her, then closed it again without 
speaking.  

Mulder slapped the reins against the horse's rump, 
ordering him to trot faster. Immediately, he decided 
that was too bouncy for the baby and tightened the 
reins, slowing them.  Shadow glanced back at him, 
looking annoyed.  

Searching for something to do, Dana picked up the 
sleeping baby and held her, putting the basket in 
the back seat.

"She looks like you," he commented, searching for a 
neutral topic.

"I had thought she looks like her father."

"Bald?" 

"No, not bald," she responded, sighing. 

He grinned at her, letting her know he was joking. 
"Well, regardless, I think she looks like you and 
she is beautiful.  Even bald," he could not resist 
adding to his roundabout complement.  

"You can be very difficult, Mr. Mulder." 

Chuckling, he tugged gently at her sleeve, making 
physical contact again and watching to see how she'd 
react. "It's part of my charm." 
 
"Did you pay money for this charm?" she responded 
uncertainly.  

At first he thought she'd misunderstood, then 
realized he was now the one being teased. "Bidd-a-
ble," he mouthed at her, smiling, and she laid her 
head against his shoulder, closing her eyes again.

*~*~*~*

He didn't think of himself as the most rugged, kill-
it, skin-it, and eat-it-bloody-and-raw man's man, 
but he wasn't a limp-wristed city boy who sat around 
polishing his nails all day, either.  He could spend 
the night on the dirt floor of the nasty clapboard 
shack, huddled near the fire and playing poker with 
marked cards.  He could take his turn as they passed 
around the bottle of cheap rum, laughing and 
slapping each other in the back as they choked it 
down.  He even had a few dirty jokes he'd been 
saving to tell Frohike, and those were sure to make 
him some friends among the rough men at the dock.  
It could actually turn out to be a pleasant night.

The problem was what to do with his soon-to-be wife 
and stepdaughter.

Mulder looked back at the buggy where Dana was 
jiggling the wailing baby against her shoulder and 
watching him expectantly.  She had suggested waiting 
for a riverboat at the docks near Waterston's 
plantation, but Mulder hadn't seen any reason why 
they couldn't just drive to Savannah and catch a 
steamer the next morning; no sense in spending the 
night on a boat when they could spend it in a nice 
hotel.  Putting his hands on his hips, he turned 
back to survey the churning, muddy river.  They'd 
crossed the others with no trouble, but all the 
water from the storm two nights ago seemed to have 
ended up here.  

"Ferry's done washed away," some Goliath of a man 
wearing buckskin informed him. "Ya ain't gettin' 
'cross tonight.  Best try in the mornin'"

"What about a flatboat?" Mulder asked as the water 
lapped over the edge of the pier. "Could we rig a 
rope and pole across on a flatboat?" 

"Ya could try." Goliath nodded back at Emily. "How 
well ya reckon that baby can swim?"

"You're not being overly helpful."

"I ain't sayin' ya cain't try it.  It's a free 
river.  That's an awful pretty young Missus ya got 
there.  Tell ya what: you tie a rope to the dock, 
strip down, jump in, and swim it 'cross to the other 
side.  After, say, ten minutes, I'll pull yer body 
back, no charge.  Leave them breeches here, 'cause 
I'm thinkin' they'll fit me fine.  Always did favor 
blue." 

Mulder gritted his teeth and exhaled slowly through 
his nose.  It was almost dark.  He could sleep 
outdoors, but Dana and Emily couldn't.  They could 
turn back, but even if he had any lamp oil for the 
lamps on the buggy to see to drive at night, they 
hadn't passed a standing house in more than an hour.  
The Low Country was a series of swamps, inlets, and 
islands, and if this river was cresting, the others 
were as well.  They were trapped, and the motley 
river men standing outside the bunkhouse didn't look 
like promising roommates for a woman and a baby.  

"We'll need a place to sleep.  Is there anywhere 
else?  A barn?  Anything?"

"Why, there's a fine hotel just up a piece.  Shine 
yer shoes while ya sleep an' everything," Goliath 
answered sarcastically. "Just set 'um outside the 
door."

Mulder gave up and walked away.  Groping her like a 
savage this morning followed by a night in a filthy 
shack with a half-dozen strange men, a bed on a dirt 
floor, and a colicky baby: what better way to 
impress a woman?  

"Ya'll can put up here," the man yelled from behind 
him. "Won't charge ya much.  We stink fer free."

*~*~*~*  

Melly had been breathtaking.  Not pleasant, not 
pleasing, not lovely: stand-there-and-just-stare-at-
her breathtaking.  Ethereal.  Agelessly, classically 
stunning.  Of the two Kavanaugh sisters, she was 
said to have been the prettier one, and Sarah, even 
at fifteen, had been strikingly beautiful in her own 
right.  Melissa had been tall, with high cheekbones 
and thick, black hair that recalled Cherokee in her 
ancestry.  Deep brown eyes, full breasts, a tiny 
waist, and then long, shapely legs; an artist 
couldn't have drawn her any more flawlessly. He used 
to run his fingertips over the broad, red slash of 
her mouth and down the delicate skin of her throat 
and just marvel at the perfection.      

Dana was pretty.  He had noticed.  She was fair, 
with beautiful, wavy auburn hair and big blue eyes, 
like a china doll.  She was petite - dainty, almost 
- and it made a man feel very masculine  to stand 
beside her.  Being Irish added a mysterious, exotic 
air of crumbling stone castles and fairy-people.  
And, if one didn't mind bright women, she could be 
dryly, unexpectedly funny.

Dana was pretty.  He had noticed, he was hadn't 
given it much thought.  No woman compared favorably 
to a ghost. 

It took him a while to realize the men outside the 
bunkhouse were making excuses to talk to him just to 
be close to Dana.  Some were crewmen waiting for the 
next boat, some were hunters or trappers, and some 
had just had enough of civilization for a while.  
They were coarse, cautious, lonely, and as delighted 
as kids at Christmas to see a pretty lady.  

Dana seemed unaware of the surreptitious attention.  
She had been quiet since noon, and that was never a 
good sign with her.  It seemed to be becoming real 
for her, how much her life had changed in the last 
thirty-six hours, and she needed time inside herself 
to just be still.  Mulder remembered what it had 
felt like after Melly's death.  For weeks, he had 
lived in a separate world where colors and sounds 
and tastes were muted.  He understood, and as much 
as possible, he wanted to give her that time.      

"Little 'un ya got there," Goliath observed, 
squatting down to examine Emily, who was still 
squalling unhappily in Dana's arms.  Dana had nursed 
her, burped her, changed her, held her, put her 
down, and picked her up again.  Emily seemed to be 
crying simply because she felt like it. "Six weeks?" 

"Eight," Mulder answered for her.   

"Umph," he responded, taking a good look at Dana as 
he sat down heavily on the ground. "He ain't happy."
       
"She," Mulder responded, taking the baby, who 
immediately started to settle down.  

"She wanted Daddy," Goliath said decisively, and 
didn't get a response.  

Dana was sitting on a bench beside Mulder and 
keeping her head down, but he saw her glance at him 
out of the corner of her eye.  

There was a respectful hush as two men stepped out 
of the woods: an old trapper and a teenage boy 
barely old enough to have a mustache.  

"You steal that uniform?" the old man with a gray 
beard halfway down his chest and tobacco-stained 
teeth asked, propping his Revolutionary War-era 
musket against the outer wall of the bunkhouse and 
standing over Mulder.   

Mulder had been in his shirtsleeves all day, but had 
brought his uniform jacket from the buggy in case 
Dana got cold after the sun went down.  He was 
planning on putting it on long enough to get 
married, then never wearing it again for the rest of 
his life. "No," Mulder answered. "It's mine."   

"Says yer an officer, Yank."

"I was." 

"Lost an arm to the Yanks at Gettysburg," Yellow-
teeth informed him, tilting his head toward his 
empty left sleeve.  The old man leaned close, 
fingering the Bowie knife on his hip. "And my 
nephew here lost his Pa.  You at Gettysburg?"

"No."

"Antietam?"

"No." 

The other men were beginning to gather in a half-
circle to watch.  Mulder really didn't want to begin 
married life with a knife fight, but this man seemed 
to be itching for a brawl.

"Fredricksburg?  Bull Run?"

Another "No."  

The old man paused to spit. "Then where the Hell 
were ya?" 

Goliath looked up, and Yellow-teeth and a half-dozen 
other men smirked.
 
"I was with General Grant at Shiloh," he answered 
coolly. "Then Chickasaw Bluffs.  Vicksburg.  Stone's 
River.  Chickamauga.  I served under General Sherman 
in Chattanooga.  Then Missionary Ridge.  Lookout 
Mountain.  Dalton.  Kennesaw Mountain.  Peachtree 
Creek and on to Atlanta, then Savannah, and the 
Carolinas."

There was a pause, and he felt Dana's body tense on 
the bench beside him.

"Get wounded?"

Mulder hesitated.  He handed her the baby, and Dana 
lowered her head further, focusing intently on 
Emily.  Standing up, he unbuttoned his shirt, 
revealing a scar from a bayonet that crossed 
diagonally from the left side of his chest to his 
abdomen.  Later in the war, a minie ball had grazed 
his shoulder, but that wound wasn't as impressive or 
as life threatening as the one he'd gotten in 
Tennessee.  It was one of those "another inch either 
way and it would have killed you" wounds, and the 
scar had a sobering affect on the river men.

"Chattanooga," he told the old man, who leaned 
forward to examine the long, raised, jagged line, 
tracing his dirty fingernail over it. "My father 
died during the siege of Richmond; one of my 
uncles was killed in '61 at the first battle of Bull 
Run.  My only son went missing last fall; he just 
never came home from the war.  I think I've seen 
enough fighting and dying for one lifetime, and so 
have a lot of other men."
 
"Amen," Yellow-teeth decided, producing and offering 
a jug of some mysterious clear liquid.  Whatever the 
test was, Mulder must have passed it.  He buttoned 
his shirt, sat down, and relaxed, running his hand 
over Dana's back to assure her it was all right.   
 
As Mulder put the bottle to his lips, several of the 
men dispersed into the woods, disappointed, but 
others grinned expectantly.  He swallowed against 
his better judgment, then gasped, "My God. What the 
hell is that?"

"Mother's milk," the old man grinned as Goliath 
reached for the bottle. "No offense to the lady: my 
language at all."

"None taken," Dana answered as Mulder felt the 
homebrewed alcohol burning its way down to his 
stomach.   

It was the first time she'd spoken, and the men 
looked at her again, taking note of the accent.  
After two months, Mulder almost didn't notice it.  
It seemed as natural for her to speak with a Gaelic 
accent as it was for Melly to speak with a hint of 
the Tennessee Smokey Mountains in her voice. 

A quiet, red-haired man was sitting on a stump near 
the bunkhouse, and immediately addressed her, saying 
what sounded to Mulder like. "Gobledy-gobledy-guke?"

"Gobledy-gook," Dana responded immediately, her eyes 
lighting up.  

"Gobledy-gook-guke-gobledy-guke?" the Irishman 
asked, coming over and boldly plopping down on the 
ground beside the bench where he and Dana were 
sitting, like they were old acquaintances.

Mulder cleared his throat, trying to be subtle.  He 
shifted his feet.  He told her he wanted a drink, 
only to have her get up, bring him a dipper of 
water, and sit back down without ever pausing what 
must have been a captivating conversation with the 
Irishman.  They could have been discussing running 
away together for all Mulder knew.  He couldn't 
remember her ever being that interested in anything 
he had to say.   

"Dana," he finally said firmly, and she glanced back 
at him in surprise, as though she'd forgotten he 
existed.

"I am sorry; I did not mean to be rude.  This man 
was in one of the Irish brigades from New York.  He 
was asking me about his brother, and I was asking if 
he knew my father and brothers," she explained.

"Did he?"

"No, I," She paused while Irishman said something, 
producing a yellowed envelope from his pocket. "He 
wants to know if you can read.  He paid a, a," The 
Irishman repeated a word, and Dana shook her head 
and blushed, not sure how to translate it into 
English. "A mistress.  No, not a mistress, but like 
a mistress.  He paid this kind of woman in town 
write a letter to his brother's commanding officer 
for him, and this is the response.  He would like 
for you to read it, and for me to tell what happened 
to his brother."

"Of course." Mulder took the letter, the edges brown 
from being carried around for so long.  In theory, 
the Army posted lists of the dead, wounded, missing, 
and captured, and notified families of changes in 
their loved one's status.  In practice, it was an 
inaccurate science.  One mangled body was mistaken 
for another; a deserter was thought to be missing in 
action; a man deserted under one name and re-
enlisted, and died, under another; a soldier 
directly in front of a cannon blast simply 
vaporized.  In practice, many men were still 
"missing" months after the war had ended, and would 
continue to be for the next fifty years.   

He skimmed the paper, summarizing, "His brother was 
captured and sent to Andersonville.  It was a 
Confederate prison camp in Georgia where captured 
Federals: Yankees," he clarified, "Were housed.  
After that, the commanding officer does not know, 
but he offers his condolences.  It's not in the 
letter, Dana, but tell him the government just tried 
Henry Wirz, the man who ran Andersonville, and 
sentenced him to hang.  The newspapers say more than 
thirteen thousand - thirty percent - of the men sent 
to that camp died, most of starvation."

While Dana translated, Mulder reread the brief 
letter, then added, "The commander suggests writing 
to a nurse named Clara Barton.  She went to 
Andersonville after the war ended to organize the 
records and graves of the dead, and if there's any 
record of how or when his brother died, the 
commander believes she might know of it."

Again, Dana repeated that, and then there was 
silence.  The other men around the campfire stared 
into the flames, pretending they weren't listening.  
The Irishman nodded curtly, said something, then 
stood and disappeared into the woods.

"He said to tell you 'Thank you,'" Dana said softly, 
and Mulder rubbed her back again.  She turned her 
head to look at him, and he stroked her cheek, 
smiling sadly at her.  

"He wanted to know.  You said it is better to know 
than to wonder," he whispered. "Right?" 

She nodded, focusing on the baby again, and he slid 
off the bench to sit on the ground in front of her, 
stretching his high boots toward the fire.  The 
bottle came around again, and Mulder took his turn 
and passed it on.  Someone thought it would be a 
good joke to offer the moonshine to Dana, but saw 
the warning look on Mulder's face and changed his 
mind.   

As it grew dark, the men continued to drink and the 
stories started, each more outlandish than the last.  
His head began to feel heavy and he leaned it 
against Dana's skirt, forgetting about the Irishman 
and smiling contentedly as she ran her fingers 
through his hair. "How much do I have to drink not 
to be a Nancy-boy?" he whispered to her as everyone 
else laughed uproariously at some vulgar joke.

"I think that might be enough," Dana answered 
casually, but her eyes looked watchful.  For 
whatever reason, she didn't like him drinking. 

"You're tired.  I'll fix you and Emily a place to 
sleep," he said nonchalantly, getting up and waving 
away the last swallow from the bottle. "Come with 
me.  I don't want you out here alone." 

No one seemed to notice their absence; the hour was 
getting late and the voices were getting loud around 
the campfire.    
 
Dana waited inside the door of the bunkhouse while 
Mulder hung the canvas fabric of his Army tent from 
the ceiling like a curtain, cordoning off one corner 
and creating some privacy for her.  His bedroll 
wasn't luxurious, but it was warm and it would keep 
her off the dirt floor, and she could cover up with 
his jacket too, if she needed to.   

"If you need to go outside during the night, wake me 
and I'll go with you," he instructed her, returning 
from the carriage with the basket Emily had been 
sleeping in earlier and a second blanket. "No, I 
mean, don't go alone.  I don't think any of these 
men would hurt you, but they're drinking.  With any 
luck, they'll pass out around the campfire and we 
can be gone before they wake up in the morning."

She nodded, putting Emily down in the basket, then 
looking around.  Mulder raised the candle, showing 
her their sparse surroundings.  The bunkhouse had 
four cots, one grimy window with a pane missing, and 
not much else.  It was a far cry from a suite in 
Savannah's best hotel.

"Dana, I am sorry.  This is not how or where I had 
in mind to spend the night."

"I know," she answered softly. "Do I, do I undress?"

"I don't think you can stand to sleep in your 
clothes.  You don't have a nightgown, do you?  Just 
sleep in whatever you have."

"How-"

Mulder turned around so he didn't have to answer how 
he knew she didn't have a nightgown.  He blew out 
the candle, and there was only the faint moonlight 
coming in through the small window.  He heard 
rustling as she unfastened her dress and folded it 
carefully.  It hooked in the back, so she had to 
take the top off to nurse; he wasn't answering how 
he knew that, either.  There was a deep, relieved 
inhalation as the corset came off, then more 
rustling for petticoats and shoes.  

"All right," she murmured.

He had the sudden, warm sensation she hadn't 
expected to be sleeping alone.

"All right.  I'll be right here.  If you sleep with 
your feet to the wall, I'm near your head.  Again, I 
don't think anyone will bother us, but if you get 
scared, just reach up and wake me.  I'm a light 
sleeper." 

Her chemise hissed against the wool blanket as she 
lay down, and once she was still, he unrolled his 
own blanket and stretched out, cushioning his head 
with his forearm.

"Are you all right?" he asked into the darkness.

"I am not sleepy," she answered. "I do not think I 
can sleep."

"I know, but you don't need to be outside.  Close 
your eyes and try to rest, even if you don't sleep."
 
She exhaled, shifted, and there was silence for 
several minutes.  Dana had taken a nap during the 
day, but Mulder hadn't, and he was dozing when she 
asked, "Does it snow in Washington, D. C.?"

She pronounced it as three separate sentences: 
"Washington.  Dee. Cee."

"Yes, it snows," he answered.

"It does not snow in Savannah.  I am not sure what 
to expect."

"It snows.  It snows, sometimes."  He paused, 
searching for words. "But right now, the leaves are 
changing.  The trees are every shade of orange and 
scarlet and yellow and even lilac.  Winter will come 
soon, but right now, DC is beautiful.  The wind 
blows the leaves across the yard and into heaps 
beside the road, and when it rains, you can hear the 
raindrops landing on them, sounding fat and lazy.  
Part of the house has a tin roof, and you can lie in 
bed and listen to the rain pattering down like 
little bells chiming, and then running down and 
dripping off the eaves."
 
"That sounds nice."

"It is nice," he assured her. "I had almost 
forgotten how nice my life was.  The closets have 
their skeletons, but I keep them locked, and I am 
the only one with a key.  I get up, put on my suit, 
go to work, come home, enjoy my family, eat dinner, 
and go to sleep in a soft bed.  It is nice.  That's 
what I meant to tell you this morning."

"What is your work?"

"Oh," he said, realizing he hadn't told her. "I own 
a newspaper."

"Oh," she echoed, then startled as a glass bottle 
broke outside and the campfire exploded as someone 
tossed alcohol into it.  A dozen male voices laughed 
drunkenly, like wild dogs howling at the moon.

"They are just letting off steam," he promised her.  
"Just don't pay them any mind.  They have probably 
forgotten we're even here."

She said nothing for so long he started to get 
worried. 

"Are you all right?" he asked again, reaching out 
and searching for her in the blackness.  Finding her 
shoulder, he asked, "Dana, are you all right?" 

As soon as he touched her, she was very still, not 
flinching, but not relaxing, either. "I am fine," 
she answered carefully, sounding like she was 
holding her breath. 

"No, you aren't." He outlined her shoulder with his 
hand, stroking lightly. "Relax," he said softly. 
"It's all right.  Those men aren't going to hurt 
you.  I'm not going to hurt you."

The top of her head nodded tensely.

"We're not married yet," he reminded her. 

"I was not sure if it mattered to you," she 
whispered, still not looking at him.

"It does.  And even then- The Irishman earlier: the 
word he said in Gaelic that you could not translate?  
Prostitute.  The English word is 'prostitute.' That 
is not what you are.  Not here, Dana.  Not like 
this," he promised. "Relax and go to sleep."

She nodded again.

"You can cry if you want," he murmured. "It is 
allowed."

"I do not want to cry; I just want to be warm 
inside."

He didn't ask how she could possibly be cold when it 
had been eighty degrees that afternoon and there was 
a campfire blazing outside.  He understood what it 
was like to be cold.  Not outside, but inside: to 
shiver like he'd eaten too much ice cream.  It was a 
different kind of cold. 

Without a word, he got up, moved his blanket, and 
lie down behind her, putting his hand on her 
shoulder again. "I'll keep you warm.  Go to sleep."
 
*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus III

***********************************

Begin: Paracelsus IV

*~*~*~*

Dear Melly,

I like to believe in True Love, that each soul has 
one perfect counterpoint, because I like to believe 
in beautiful ideas.  The world needs more of them, 
especially now.  And I like to believe in destiny, 
that each life has a purpose.  After you died, I was 
surprised, and angry, when the grass dared to 
continue to grow and the clouds to move across the 
sky, yet they do.  The world continues to turn, so I 
trust Fate has a reason when it nudges me through a 
door or around the bend of a country road.

She is more.  That is a complete sentence, and as 
clear as I can put it: she is more.  

No, I do not compare her to you because there is no 
comparison.  No one will ever take your place, or be 
to me what you were.  And still are.  I struggle not 
to think "If she was Melly, she would..." because it 
is so unfair to Dana.

That is her name, in case I hadn't told you before: 
Dana Katherine Mulder.

She is more than I expected.  I do not mean more 
beautiful or attentive, though men turn to stare at 
her just as they did you, and I could not ask Dana 
to be any more attentive to me, and I certainly do 
not mean she is more obedient.  Her hard head could 
put granite to shame, and I think a good spanking 
might greatly improve her demeanor.  She is just 
more, the way a six-horse team is more than a pair: 
stronger, more intense, more of a challenge.

And I am fond of her.

If you could see this letter, you could see the thin 
place on the paper where I wrote and erased two-
dozen words besides "am fond of," trying to find 
ones that fit.  Women can choose hats easier than I 
can put into words what I feel for Dana.  When I 
think of love, I think of the overwhelming, heart-
wrenching emotion I feel for you, and I do not feel 
that for her.  I am comfortable her, as though I 
have married my friend, which I suppose I have.  

If it is love, it is a lesser love, but it is still 
quite pleasant.  And pleasant is several steps above 
being alone.   

Mulder

*~*~*~*
 
"Expect me home by end of month stop bringing new 
wife and baby stop make arrangements accordingly 
stop"

Fifteen words.  He reread them one last time, then 
handed the slip of paper to the clerk, who began 
pecking away at the telegraph machine, sending the 
electronic blips and bleeps through the miles of 
wire between Savannah and Washington D.C.  

It was done, then.  Even if they wanted to, it was 
too late to back out.  Entering into the holy 
covenant of marriage was significantly less binding 
than telling his housekeeper she was about to have a 
new baby to fuss over.

A new wife, however, might get a cooler reception 
from Poppy.

Dana was waiting beside the door, holding Emily and 
trying to keep her eyes open.  If she had slept at 
all the previous night, Mulder hadn't noticed it.  
It had taken the men around the campfire until dawn 
to pass out, and the baby wanted to nurse every few 
hours; he'd pretended to be asleep so he couldn't 
notice that, either.  

When they'd reached Savannah, Dana had seen what the 
Army, his Army, had done, and what public reaction 
was to a Yankee officer looking to marry a 
Confederate widow.  General Sherman's troops had 
wintered there, and the city looked like an elegant 
lady who had been dragged through the mud: 
disoriented, bedraggled, and incensed, but still a 
lady.  She still had her standards: anyone in a blue 
uniform was the enemy, and anyone giving quarter to 
the enemy was a traitor.  It didn't matter that Dana 
was less of a Southerner than Mulder; New York had 
been a free state, whereas Washington DC had allowed 
slavery.  Five ministers had politely declined to 
perform the ceremony, three had impolitely declined, 
and one had suggested Mulder get out of his church 
before he had time to reload.

He was beginning to think Dana was either the most 
tolerant woman on the planet, or the most stubborn.

"Think of this as a great adventure," he said 
lightly, taking the baby and trying to get her to 
smile. "A quest."

"A quest," she echoed softly.

"Dana, are you all right?" he asked for the 
hundredth time. "This is so much, so quickly.  Are 
you sure?"

She inhaled, opened her eyes a little wider, and 
forced a smile, nodding.

"Please don't do that.  I hate falseness.  Please 
don't pretend what you don't feel.  If you've 
changed your mind, or you want to wait, just tell 
me.  I'll take you anywhere you want to go.  To your 
mother's, maybe?  After Washington, this ship is 
going on to New York; from there, I can even put you 
on a boat for Ireland, if you want."

"I want to go with you."

It was the longest sentence he'd heard from her all 
day.  He waited, but she didn't say anything else.  
 
"All right, then." He leaned down, kissing her 
lightly on the lips, and felt her mouth moving in 
response.  He made a conscientious effort to touch 
her often, and she made a conscientious effort to 
respond, although she frequently seemed surprised, 
as though she'd momentarily forgotten whom he was or 
why he was there.

The telegraph clerk cleared his throat in 
disapproval, and Dana pulled back, tasting her lips.

The ship's whistle blew, screaming impatiently at 
the sky.  On the other side of the window, men with 
broad shoulders and strong backs carried trunks and 
cargo up the gangplanks, feeding the ships like 
insects swarming a hive.  He put his hand on Dana's 
back, escorting her out of the telegraph office and 
across the bustling docks.

*~*~*~*

One nice thing about being a man: there wasn't much 
to spruce up.  If he was clean, combed, shaved, and 
buttoned, he was ready.  Except for the green tint 
beginning to creep into his face as the ship cut 
through the waves, he was as presentable as he was 
going to get.

Dana was standing at the dresser, staring at her 
reflection in the bedroom mirror.  She turned her 
head from side to side, watching herself.

"I look so shabby," she commented, running her hands 
over her black dress.  It was in decent condition, 
probably from lack of wear, but at least five years 
out of fashion.  She must have put aside one good 
dress at the beginning of the war, and Dana would 
choose basic black silk: suitable for church, 
mourning, and, in a pinch, an evening wedding.  The 
too-tight bodice ended in the deep V, and the skirt 
flared in a circle, meant to be worn with a hoop, 
though she wasn't wearing one.  The shoulders sloped 
into full sleeves that gathered below her elbows.  
Instead of the elaborate, looping styles popular 
before the war, her hair was parted in the middle 
and gathered in a simple knot at the base of her 
head.  The overall silhouette was of a wilting 
flower, which had been appropriate in 1860. "I did 
not realize how shabby."

"The world is shabby; we just blend in," he 
answered, coming up behind her and putting his hands 
on her shoulders. "You look fine."

She frowned at her reflection, then picked up the 
brush and started pulling out hairpins, showing 
every sign of starting over.  It was a feminine 
routine he'd encountered before, and it never ended 
well.  He should have known.  Whenever a woman asked 
how she looked, the proper answer was "beautiful;" 
any further comments required tact, and were sure to 
get him in trouble.  Unfortunately, he'd opted for 
"fine." 

"You look beautiful," he added belatedly, trying to 
make amends. "Anyway, who cares how you look?"

She turned to stare at him, her lower lip sticking 
out a bit and her forehead creased, then started 
brushing out her long hair.

"Dana, considering you've been living hand-to-mouth, 
spent last night in a shack, and just had a baby-"

"Mr. Mulder, any charm you have, you must have 
gotten on sale."

He would have laughed, but his head hurt. "I'm not 
making it any better, am I?"

"No." She paused, dissatisfied with the woman in the 
mirror. "And neither am I."

"The ladies I saw on the street today had their hair 
kind of sitting atop their heads." He gathered her 
auburn mane into a loose ponytail at her crown, 
trying to demonstrate.  It occurred to him she'd 
seen the same women on the street and he could have 
just told her, but this was more pleasant. "Smooth 
on the sides, then some curls, with a stupid little 
hat on top." 

"I do not have a stupid little hat, Mr. Mulder."

Untangling his fingers, he handed her a hairpin, 
then promised, "The next time the ship docks, I'll 
buy you some fabric, patterns, and a stupid little 
hat so you'll be the height of fashion.  Until then, 
just do the best you can."

There was a soft knock at the door of their 
stateroom, and Mulder opened it to find the captain 
of the ship looking dignified with his matching 
white uniform and whiskers.

"Thank you," Mulder told him as they shook hands in 
the foyer. "I appreciate you taking the time to do 
this.  Captain, this is Mrs. Dana Waterston," he 
introduced as she appeared from the bedroom. "And 
this is Emily," he added, gesturing to the cradle 
beside the sofa. "Who we're hoping will sleep 
through this."  

One of the maids had offered to watch Emily for a 
little bit, and Dana had reluctantly agreed, 
provided the baby didn't wake up.  Although there 
were probably a dozen women in steerage class eager 
to earn a few dollars as a wet nurse, Mulder hadn't 
worked up to broaching that subject.  He should put 
his foot down and insist Dana get some rest, but she 
liked having Emily close, and to be honest, so did 
he.

"It's always nice to see a young couple so in love," 
the captain answered tactfully. "I haven't married 
anyone in a long time, but I think I remember how 
the ceremony goes."

"We've done it before," Mulder offered helpfully, 
and earned an odd look from the captain.

"You're wearing wedding rings.  Did you want to use 
those?"

"Oh, uh, no.  No, I don't think so.  I'll get new 
ones the next time the ship docks.  Is that all 
right?"

Not only were both he and Dana wearing wedding 
bands, they wore them on their left hands, not their 
right as was customary for a widow or widower.

"It's fine." The captain's eyes were indulgent, and 
he seemed amused at their disarray. "Well then, I'll 
be on deck whenever you're ready.  Take your time."  
He closed the door, leaving them alone in the 
opulent rooms.

Mulder exhaled, trying not to fidget, and blaming 
his rebellious stomach on the early stages of 
seasickness. "The captain's ready," he informed her 
needlessly.

Dana nodded, frowning in concentration as she tried 
to work her wedding ring off her finger.      

After hesitating a heartbeat, Mulder did the same, 
pausing to read the worn Latin inscription inside. 
Amorem meum tibi semper dabo; in English, "I will 
give you my love always."

Succeeding, she rubbed the pale, indented skin on 
her finger, then handed the band to him for 
safekeeping.  He dropped both rings in his pocket 
without comment.  

"So I'll need to buy wedding bands, fabric, 
patterns, and a stupid little hat at the next port," 
he listed nervously. "Anything else?" 

She nodded no, smiling gently.

"The captain's ready," he repeated, offering his 
hand. 

*~*~*~*

"You understand we're not lying to your mother," his 
father had explained, tying their horses to the 
hitching post outside the saloon. "We're just not 
mentioning this.  You stopped by my office after 
school and then we made it home a little late for 
dinner.  We just won't mention any stops in between.  
You understand, Fox?"
 
Mulder, with all the hero worship a boy had for his 
father, had nodded enthusiastically.  To him, it was 
a nefarious adventure into the darker side of life, 
and he would have given his left arm to do something 
nefarious with his proper father. "I won't tell 
her," he answered earnestly.

The uniformed doorman had opened the ornate doors to 
a whole new world, and he'd followed his father 
inside, trying not to look as out of place as he 
felt.  He remembered to take off his hat, and then 
tugged nervously at his vest, pulling it smooth.  
His hair was usually a lost cause, but he ran his 
fingers through it anyway.

Bill Mulder had been well liked, so it took them 
several minutes of hand shaking and head nodding to 
reach the bar, where the barkeep greeted them with, 
"What will it be, Senator?"

"Whiskey: two." He tapped the bar with his index 
fingers as he slid onto a padded stool.  

It was an elegant establishment near the Capitol, 
specializing in catering to the tastes of DC's 
politicians and wealthy businessmen.  Mulder had 
looked around, taking in the mirrors, the heavy 
chandeliers, and, across the room, the pretty girls 
wearing only pantalets, chemises, corsets, and 
ridiculously high-heeled slippers leaning over the 
railing of the balcony.  The women flirting with the 
men downstairs were flashily dressed, some with 
rouge and face powder, but the ones upstairs were 
barely dressed at all.  

"Sorry, son," his father said in an amused tone. 
"I'm not quite that traditional.  I'll teach you to 
drink, but let's put that off for a few more 
birthdays.  So how does it feel to be sixteen?  Do 
you like your present?"

"It's wonderful," he responded dutifully, still 
watching the prostitutes upstairs.  He'd walked past 
fast women on the street, and he knew brothels 
existed, but gentlemen in polite company pretended 
they see such things, just as they didn't see a 
woman's figure when she was about to have a baby, or 
that Negro housemaids mysteriously had mulatto 
children resembling their owners.  It was a society 
skilled at not noticing.

One of the upstairs doors opened and Representative 
Kavanaugh stumbled out, pausing for a farewell kiss 
from a girl who looked to be about thirteen or 
fourteen.  Mulder swallowed hard, then shifted his 
attention back to the bar as the bartender filled 
two shot glasses.

"Drink it all at once.  Just tilt your head back and 
swallow," his father instructed, picking up his own 
glass.

Mulder did as he was told, wondering how anyone 
could find this a pleasurable habit as he tried to 
get air into his lungs again.  No wonder the Indians 
called it firewater.

"Another, Senator?" the bartender asked, holding the 
bottle ready.

"No, thank you, I'll have brandy.  What do you want, 
Fox?"

"Apple cider?" he said hopefully, not seeing 
anything he considered palatable listed on the sign 
posted over the bar.    

"And an apple cider," his father repeated, then 
quietly teased his son, "What?  You aren't having 
another?"

"Not unless I have to, sir," Mulder had replied, 
noticing his head felt funny and his nose was 
getting tingly.  This might be what being drunk felt 
like; he wasn't sure.  They always had wine with 
dinner and often beer if he had lunch with his 
father, but whiskey was different.  It was illicit, 
like the women upstairs.   

"Good boy." He hesitated in what Mulder would 
realize years later, was indecision.  As a child, 
he'd thought his father was omnipotent, which was an 
easy assumption to make when one's father was a 
Massachusetts politician. "You are a good boy, Fox.  
Whatever happened with Sarah, that was her father's 
fault and mine, not yours.  You and Sarah learned to 
crawl together and we just let the two of you run 
wild.  Obviously, we shouldn't have."

"I didn't do anything to Sarah," Mulder said, his 
tongue feeling thick. "Sir," he added respectfully.  

"All right," his father responded, not arguing.  

For months, Sarah Kavanaugh's death had been the 
most covertly discussed event in DC.  Her father, 
Representative Kavanaugh of Tennessee, said she'd 
died of cholera.  Popular gossip insisted that 
hadn't been the case, that she'd miscarried and bled 
to death, and cast a curious eye at Senator Mulder's 
son: Sarah's friend and, although the engagement 
hadn't been announced, her fiancee. 
   
"I didn't," Mulder insisted, staring at Kavanaugh as 
he wobbled down the carpeted steps and to the 
opposite end of the bar.  Spotting Mulder and his 
father, he slowly made his way across the noisy 
saloon, bringing his whiskey bottle with him.  

When Congress was in session, the Kavanaughs and the 
Mulders were neighbors.  Mrs. Kavanaugh had died 
when the girls were small, and Sarah and Melissa 
often fled to the Mulders' house, sleeping in a 
spare bedroom until their father sobered up and came 
to collect them. "Poor Jack Kavanaugh never got over 
his wife's death," the ladies had said for a decade, 
but now "Poor Jack Kavanaugh drinks to forget his 
daughter's tragic death." In the House of 
Representatives, Poor Jack Kavanaugh was a political 
legend, a bastion of the community for reasons no 
one, if pressed, could seem to remember anymore.

"The ill wind which blows no man to good," Bill 
Mulder quoted, watching Kavanaugh approaching. "I 
don't like that man, Fox," he said quietly, which 
had surprised Mulder.  While he'd debate a bill for 
weeks, his father seldom voiced his true opinions of 
people, and it made Mulder feel as if he'd been 
taken into his confidence. "I can't quite put my 
finger on it, but I don't.  In a way, I'm glad he 
isn't going to be your father-in-law."  

"I want to be married," Mulder said suddenly, 
causing his father to put down his brandy snifter 
and raise his eyebrows. 

"Excuse me?"

"I want to be married right now."

"Don't be ridiculous, son.  You can't go to West 
Point if you're married."

"I don't want to go to West Point.  I don't want to 
go in the military.  I didn't know how to tell you.  
I thought you'd be disappointed."

"No, I'm not disappointed.  Just surprised.  Well-" 
His father picked up his glass again, gently tilting 
the golden liquid. "You could've mentioned it before 
I bought you all those uniforms.  Do you want to go 
to Harvard, then?"

"No, I don't want to be a lawyer.  And I don't want 
to be a politician.  I'm proud of you.  I know you 
do wonderful things in Congress, but I don't think I 
want to do that with my life.  I want to marry 
Melly.  Right now." 

"Melissa Kavanaugh?" he said in disbelief. "Right 
now?  Calm down, son.  There's smoke coming out of 
your ears.  I thought you were looking forward to 
going off to school."

"I am, but I want to marry Melly, too."     

"Fine, you want to marry Melissa Kavanaugh.  That's 
an, uh, interesting idea.  I'll think about it.  
You'll go to school, see the world a little, and 
then, if you still want to-" There was a long, 
uncomfortable pause while feet shifted and glasses 
sloshed restlessly. "Why her?  I thought you'd 
hardly noticed Melissa, aside from her being Sarah's 
little sister.  They look alike.  Does she just 
remind you of Sarah?"

"Yes.  No," he corrected immediately. "One day I 
looked at her and saw something besides Sarah's 
little sister.  I don't want to wait four years.  I 
want to marry her now.  Please, Father; you can't 
say no."

"I can say no," his father responded sternly. "And I 
am.  Stop this, Fox.  You're too young, and I think 
you're just nervous about leaving for school.  And I 
know you miss Sarah.  I'll go with you to Harvard, 
get you settled in; it will be fine.  It will be a 
good change of scenery.  And Melissa- Well, in a few 
years, we'll see.  I think you'll grow out of this 
notion."

"Melly's going to have a baby." 

Bill Mulder's face fell, and he looked so 
disappointed his son cowered.  All the silent, 
"where did I go wrong," self-incrimination flashed 
across his eyes, but he only said, "Oh, Fox.  Are 
you sure?"

"We want to get married, Father," he pleaded. 
"Please.  I'll go to school wherever you want if 
Melly and I can get married, and if she can stay 
with you and Mother while I'm at school."

"Fox- Son, even if she is, are you sure you want to 
spend your life taking care of this girl?  Yes, 
she's beautiful, but she's also- She's delicate.  
Sarah was perfect for you; she kept you in line; 
kept those wild ideas of yours balanced.  She was 
like a curb bit.  But Melissa... Fox, sometimes I look 
in Melissa's eyes and there's no life there."

"That's because Melly's the pretty one," he'd 
responded hesitantly. "And now Sarah's gone."

"I don't understa-"

"Happy birthday, boy!" Kavanaugh announced loudly, 
slinging his arm around Mulder's shoulders and 
making him jump. "Fourteen, right?  Or fifteen?  
Good to see you're finally teaching this boy some 
propriety, Bill," he said to Mulder's father, then 
added in a stage whisper, nodding to the girls 
upstairs, "Although it's a little late.  See boy, 
that's where your prick goes.  Not my daughter."

"He's drunk, Fox," he heard his father's voice say 
as the world went red. "Let me deal with it."

Working on eight months of hurt over Sarah's death, 
his first drink of hard liquor, and the lithe grace 
of an angry young man, Mulder jerked away, slid off 
the bar stool, and, with one punch, knocked 
Kavanaugh out cold. "Yours doesn't go in your 
daughter, either," Mulder hissed through clenched 
teeth. "You're not going to kill both of them, you 
son of a bitch!"

The drinking and flirting and piano playing had 
paused, taken note of the scene at the end of the 
bar, and then continued at the same frantic, hollow 
pace.

"You can't save the world, Fox," his father had said 
a few minutes later, folding his arms as he leaned 
against the hitching post outside the saloon. "Sarah 
would have told you that."

"Yes, she would have," he had agreed. "But she'd 
also walk along the beach at low tide and throw the 
stranded starfish back into the ocean.  She said she 
was saving the ones she could." 

"Why didn't you just tell me the truth about Sarah?"  

"She never told me. I didn't know what was happening 
until after- Until after she died.  I had no idea."    

"Did you and Melissa do this on purpose, knowing I 
wouldn't let you be married otherwise?"  

Mulder didn't answer, but his father probably hadn't 
expected him to. 

"All right; let's head home.  We have to tell your 
mother.  Do you realize she's going to be a 
grandmother at thirty-three?  I won't hear the end 
of that for years."   
 
"Sir," he said uncertainly as they mounted their 
horses.

"Congratulations," his father said solemnly, then 
smiled. "You're going to be a father.  You're a 
little young for it, but I think you'll do a good 
job."

"I had a good example."

Bill Mulder had put on his hat; he was the only man 
in the world who could ride a horse at a trot 
without his top hat falling off; and grinned, his 
eyes kind.  He'd been thirty-six; not much older 
than Mulder had been the year Melly and his father 
had died and Samuel had disappeared. "Now you're 
just flattering me."

"Can Melly stay with us tonight?"

"Oh, for God's sake, Fox!" He sighed, turning his 
horse around. "Fine.  She can stay.  In the guest 
bedroom.  Far, far from you.  Her father isn't going 
to wake up until this baby's walking, anyway.  And 
son," he'd added, seeming unsure if he should say 
something or not.

"Sir?"

"That was a nice punch, but he deserved worse."
 
*~*~*~*

As long as he didn't move or breathe, he was only in 
moderate agony.  His brain seemed to have absorbed 
several gallons of water, so it squished whenever he 
tried to move his head.  His stomach, the miserable 
battlefield between his ribs and hips, felt like it 
had revolted and then been beaten into submission 
with a crowbar.

A cold, wet cloth passed over his forehead, then 
cheeks as he opened his eyes.

"You were smiling," Dana said quietly, turning away 
to rewet her washcloth.  She was wearing her white 
chemise, and her hair hung over her shoulder in a 
long, thick braid.  The clock indicated it was after 
four in the morning; she'd probably just finished 
feeding Emily. "In your sleep: you were smiling.  
Were you dreaming of Melissa?"

"My father," he rasped, his lips were dry.  The lamp 
beside the bed burned low, barely illuminating the 
mahogany furniture of their stateroom.  He rubbed 
the sleep from his eyes, then took a careful, shaky 
breath he immediately regretted. "I was dreaming of 
my father."

She turned away again, and this time returned with a 
cup of warm liquid she held to his lips. 

"Ginger tea," Dana explained when he tried to pull 
away. "It will help your stomach."

"That's not tea; that's horrible." He scooted up on 
the pillows so he wasn't completely at her mercy, 
and took the cup from her before she tried to make 
him drink it again.  

His chest was bare, as were his feet underneath the 
blankets, although he didn't remember her undressing 
him.  It seemed the only thing less romantic than 
the brief engagement and the hasty wedding was the 
wedding night.

"So, Mr. Mulder: you get seasick," she said gently. 
"When I promised 'in sickness and in health,' I did 
not know I would be tested so soon."

He frowned, then dipped his fingertips in his tea 
and flicked them at her.  She wiped the drops off, 
then went back to bathing him, running the washcloth 
over his shoulders.  She paused, examining the small 
scar from the minie ball, then went on.  He'd 
forgotten: as familiar as he was with her body, 
after Emily's birth and then traveling together as 
she nursed, she was a stranger to his.

"Nice," he mumbled, setting the cup aside and 
relaxing.  Not much felt good, but at least that 
didn't feel worse.

"The ship's doctor was here.  He said you should 
drink the tea, and to go for a walk on deck in the 
morning.  He said it would just make you sicker if 
you stay inside."

"I'll take that under advisement," he murmured, 
closing his eyes.  The cloth passed over his 
eyelids, then down the bridge of his nose. "I'm 
sorry, Dana."

"Why are you sorry?"  

He didn't answer.

"Tell me about your dream," she said quietly. 

"Why?" he mumbled.

Water swished in the basin, then splashed and 
dripped as she wrung out the washcloth.  She pushed 
the sheet down, bathing his chest, this time tracing 
the raised scar from a rebel bayonet.  

He remembered lying under the merciless sun in 
Tennessee, listening to flies and death buzzing 
around him.  They'd beaten the Confederates that 
day; butchered the Confederates, to put it bluntly, 
so the grass was littered with gray-clad bodies and 
stained red with blood.  He remembered thinking he 
was near the Kavanaugh's home at Missionary Ridge, 
and wasn't surprised to see Sarah walking toward him 
in a white dress, trailing her hands along the tops 
of the dead weeds.  She'd been dead for more than a 
decade, he realized, and if he was seeing her, he 
was dead, too, and there would be no one to take 
care of Melly and Sam.  Sarah must have realized 
that as well, because she shook her head and turned 
away, silently disappearing into the trees at the 
edge of the field.  His next memory was of waking up 
in a hospital a week later.

"I was dreaming of the day I told him he was going 
to be a grandfather.  He was worried: for me, for 
Melly, but when he saw Samuel, for the next thirteen 
years, his friends crossed the street when they saw 
him coming so he couldn't buttonhole them with 
stories of his remarkably talented grandson."

"You told the river men your father died."

"Yes, he died.  It was very sudden.  He was trying 
to negotiate the surrender of Richmond, and the 
doctors think it was his heart.  It happened a few 
months after Melly... After Melly passed away."

He tilted his head from side to side as she washed 
his neck, deciding the pleasant coolness outweighed 
the pain of moving.

"How did Melissa die?" she whispered.

Several seconds passed before he responded, "It was 
an accident.  I was supposed to be watching her and 
I wasn't.  I was tired and I fell asleep.  Samuel 
found her.  Why did it bother you last night: when I 
was drinking with those men around the fire?"

Water swished and splashed again. "I am not sure it 
is proper to discuss one husband with another," she 
answered slowly.

"Oh," he responded, shifting painfully to his side 
and scooting back on the mattress. "Come to bed.  
Get some sleep."

She put the basin aside, then folded the blankets 
back, making a place.

"Try not to jiggle.  Or be warm.  Or breathe," he 
requested as she blew out the lamp.

*~*~*~* 

Women were soft; he'd almost forgotten.
 
He was accustomed to touching them; all men were: 
lifting them into or out of a buggy, helping a lady 
who had fainted, or just being a solicitous escort, 
but that was through the merciless whalebones of a 
corset, and layers of hoops and petticoats.  In 
their natural state, like asleep beside him, women 
were infinitely soft.

His hand rested comfortably in the valley of Dana's 
waist as he opened his eyes, wondering what had 
awakened him.  The coal-fed engines droned on, 
pushing the ship through the darkness.  A lamp 
flickered across the room, casting long, yellow 
shadows on the wall behind it.  Dana's back fitted 
nicely against his front, and her skin, through her 
nightgown, was warm under his fingertips.  Content, 
Mulder was about to go back to sleep when Emily 
mewed again, not crying, but announcing she was up 
and thinking of a late-night snack.

"Baby," he mumbled to Dana, who didn't budge.  He 
jostled her gently. "Dana, the baby wants you."

She said something unintelligible and cuddled 
against him as if she planned to hibernate there 
until spring.   

Emily reiterated her request, stressing its urgency.
   
After three days, the seasickness had subsided to 
the point that he no longer dreaded moving, he just 
didn't look forward to it.  Mulder pushed up on his 
elbow, checking that the room stayed level, then 
swung his bare feet over the side of the bed.  

He'd probably owned a nightshirt at some point in 
this life, but he didn't now, and he wasn't likely 
to in the future.  He did own and usually slept in 
undershirts: short-sleeve cotton for summer and 
long-sleeved wool for winter, but had abandoned both 
two Georgian Augusts ago.  What remained of his 
sleeping attire were the bottoms; in this instance, 
the loose fitting, cream-colored summer flannels 
with a row of tiny buttons at the fly.  The form-
fitting wool drawers he wore in winter were the same 
way: anything a man might need to remove his 
underwear to do, with all those buttons, he'd better 
be able to wait a minute to do it.

He rubbed his arms briskly against the onslaught of 
cool air, and leaned over the cradle. "You do 
realize it's midnight, don't you?" he asked Emily, 
who appeared unashamed.  

There was a blanket spread over the floor beside the 
cradle, and he laid her on it, giving her his finger 
to hold while he got everything ready.  After a few 
tries, he had a dry diaper folded and pinned so all 
the important parts were covered; not an easy trick 
with a baby who'd discovered she could roll over and 
escape.  First class maids were a wonderful thing, 
so he left the wet diaper for the laundress to deal 
with and settled Emily against his shoulder, one 
hand on her head and the other on her dry behind.

"Would you consider just going back to sleep for 
Daddy?" he checked, rubbing her back encouragingly. 
"Let Mommy rest a little?"

Emily snuggled against him, radiating baby-heat, and 
letting Mulder rock and murmur to her for several 
minutes before she decided, no, that wouldn't do 
after all.

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Dana, then 
put his hand on her shoulder. "Baby," he whispered, 
hating to wake her. "Dana: the baby."

"Yes?" she finally mumbled, stretching and yawning.  
She rubbed her eyes, blinking sleepily at him as she 
sat up. "What is it?  Is something wrong, Mr. 
Mulder?"

"Baby," he repeated, working up to an amused smile.  
She always woke up like a kitten: happy to be here, 
but unsure exactly where here was.  Small words 
worked best.  He pushed a loose strand of hair back 
from her face, then brushed his thumb along her 
jawbone. "Dana, baby," he whispered.

She blinked at him again, trying to focus her eyes, 
then caressed his face in return and laid back down, 
watching him and waiting.

"Oh.  Dana, no.  The baby.  Emily.  She's hungry."

"Oh." She sat up again quickly, finally noticing the 
infant squirming against his bare chest. "Oh," she 
repeated sheepishly, reaching for her daughter. "All 
right; I will feed her.  Thank you for telling me."

"Welcome." 

He laid on the soft, warm indention she'd left on 
the bed.  If he hadn't immediately fallen asleep, he 
would have pretended he had.

*~*~*~*

As much as people liked to think they were enigmas, 
they really weren't.  What they owned, how they 
conducted themselves: all said much more about them 
than they realized.  It was just a matter of taking 
time and caring enough to notice.

Mulder toyed with the cuff of his new sweater, 
considering.

Too sick to go shopping himself, he'd sent Dana 
ashore with one of the ship's officers.  It wasn't 
an optimal solution, but she desperately needed some 
new dresses, and he craved anything that wasn't a 
cavalry uniform.  She'd returned with wedding bands, 
clothing for him and the baby, and two dresses: both 
stylish, both properly-fitting and flattering, and 
both jet black.

He was still analyzing her choices.  

She was welcome to wear whatever she wanted, but it 
seemed odd to mourn one husband while honeymooning 
with another.  Maybe she wore black for other men 
she'd lost: her father and brothers. Maybe because 
black was versatile and serviceable and she wasn't 
aware Melly had kept the D.C. dressmakers in 
business; Mulder had better things to do than 
scrutinize and complain about his wife's expenses.  
Maybe those dresses had been on sale, or all the 
stores had.  Or maybe Dana just liked black.

With many formerly wealthy families selling off 
heirlooms, fine jewelry was plentiful, and the 
Northern vultures coming south to feed looked like 
they'd been dipped in gold batter and then floured 
in diamonds.  He'd told her to pick whatever she 
wanted, and Dana had chosen two plain wedding bands, 
almost identical to the ones they replaced.  She'd 
returned to the ship wearing hers, but his new ring 
had been in a box on the dresser this morning.

He hadn't quite figured her out yet, but he was 
working on it.  He was in charge of this dance and 
he knew the steps, but part of being a good dancer 
was knowing his partner.  

He knew she didn't like tomatoes.  Not fresh, not 
stewed, not in sauces.  If Dana were in charge, they 
probably wouldn't even be permitted to grow, let 
alone be eaten.

He knew she liked fine things against her skin: 
underclothes, nightgowns - even the navy blue 
sweater and tan trousers she'd selected for him were 
petal soft.  There was nothing frilly or fru-fru 
about her clothing, but neither was she severe.  Her 
taste was elegant and understated; it was expensive, 
but it wasn't designed to specifically look like it 
was expensive.

She only pretended to dislike his jokes, but that 
was his opinion, and his sense of humor hadn't been 
at its best in the last few days.  

Unlike Melly, who would burst into tears if he 
accidentally raised his voice, Dana either ignored 
his black moods and sarcasm, or seemed amused, which 
was discomforting.
 
She liked sleeping beside him at night, and he liked 
her there.  Their berth had several bedrooms; she 
could have designated his the sick room and slept 
elsewhere, if she had wanted.  Emily's cradle 
started out in the parlor, and each night crept 
closer to their bed until the baby was sleeping a 
few feet from them, and Mulder had yet to object.  
The subject of a wet nurse had also yet to be 
raised.

She had been comfortable caring for him while he was 
ill, unlike some women who thought of men's bodies 
as boorish or dirty. Victorian morals being what 
they were, many girls were raised to be something 
past prudish, and men were taught to expect their 
wives to be good mothers, but less-than-enthusiastic 
bedmates.  For ladies, sex was a weekly chore: like 
laundry, but less pleasurable.  If a gentleman 
wanted passion, or even to break a sweat in bed, he 
should look elsewhere rather than embarrass his 
wife.  Dana seemed to have been raised with the 
middle-class notion men were touchable, and he was 
glad of it.

He knew Dana thought more than she said, but what 
she said was worth listening to.

He couldn't say for certain she was happy, but she 
didn't seem unhappy, and that was a start.

When he kissed her, she kissed back.

He watched Dana walking across the deck toward him, 
her skirt and the blanket covering the baby 
fluttering in the breeze.  She'd mastered walking on 
a ship and did it gracefully; he preferred to sit 
and not push his luck.  Not recognizing him at 
first, she started to pass, taking Emily back to 
their rooms, then stopped and looked puzzled.  She's 
never seen him out of uniform, and it took a moment 
for her to figure out who he was.
 
He held out a white silk flower to her, twirling the 
wire stem between his fingertips so the petals spun.

"For me?" she asked.

"I stole it off an old lady's hat," he told her, 
gesturing for her to sit down on the deck chair next 
to his. "She'll never miss it."

She smiled and sat, setting Emily on her lap so she 
could watch the ocean. "How do you feel?  Better?"

"I feel less bad."  

"Good."

"No, not good; just less bad."

She wrinkled her forehead at him, not quite 
following that.  He grinned and reached for her 
hand.   

"You found your ring," she observed. "Is it all 
right?"

"Um-hum." Mulder propped his boots up on a wooden 
footstool and let their entwined fingers rest on his 
thigh, enjoying the salty wind on his face.  It was 
definitely less bad.

*~*~*~*

It sounded odd to say he hadn't talked with a woman 
in fifteen years, but he almost hadn't.  Not really 
talked.  He'd exchanged information, he'd filled 
silence, and he'd talked to, but he'd seldom talked 
with a woman. 

He and Sarah used to talk about everything.  When 
they were five, they'd snuck up to the hayloft, 
stripped naked, and discussed the difference between 
Methodists and Presbyterians.  When they were nine, 
they'd sat on the limb of the maple tree in his 
backyard and decided to kiss each other, just to see 
what all the fuss was about.  Not much, they 
concluded at the time, later to revise their 
opinion.  At eleven, she'd persuaded him not to run 
away and join the circus, pointing out that he'd 
miss dinner: roast beef with carrots and new 
potatoes.  And when they were fifteen, two months 
before she'd died, they'd been bent over their books 
in the Mulders' kitchen, studying, when he'd 
suddenly asked Sarah if she loved him. "How could I 
not?" she'd replied calmly, then returned to her 
Latin verbs without batting an eye.

Those memories seemed like they belonged to a 
different person now: a brother, or a cousin, maybe.  
A man he shared a common background with, but not 
Mulder.  Just as he set aside and guarded the 
husband he'd been to Melly, he'd packed away the boy 
he'd been to Sarah and pushed it far into the attic 
of his heart.

There was nothing remarkable about the story of 
Dana's life except that it was hers, and that he 
wanted to hear it. She didn't discuss Dr. Waterston, 
but he didn't expect her to.  It was her memories of 
her childhood in Ireland, of her family, that 
interested him, and kept them talking late into the 
night.  As the hours passed, shoes were discarded 
and top buttons loosened until they were as 
comfortable as two people were allowed to be and 
still be decent. 

"Were you caught?" he asked as she started to pour 
him another cup of that repulsive ginger tea.  She 
seemed to think the stuff had medicinal properties, 
which it did: it made him gag. "Don't bother; I 
won't drink it."

"I can put sugar in it."

"You do that.  Put sugar in it, leave out the 
ginger, and add some tea leaves, and I'll drink it."

She put the teapot down on the silver tray, leaving 
the cup unfilled.

"So did you get caught?" he asked again, leaning 
back on the sofa and crossing his long legs casually 
at the ankle. "Throwing rotten apples?" 

"No.  My brothers got the whippings of their life, 
though, but they were too embarrassed to admit their 
apples had not hit anyone, but mine had.  It caught 
our neighbor right in the back of his head, and then 
I ducked back behind the tree, so when he turned 
around, all he saw were Bill and Charlie standing in 
the orchard with apples in their hands.  They took a 
whipping rather than admit they had missed, and 
their baby sister had not.  I think my father 
suspected, though." She smiled sadly, looking past 
him and into memory. "That does not seem like so 
long ago."

"Would you like me to check with the Navy and see-" 

"No," she answered quickly. "They are dead.  There 
is no mistake.  I cannot do what you do, Mr. Mulder.  
I cannot live on hope and whispers.  I have to live 
with what is, not what if."

His arm was resting along the top of the couch, and 
he rubbed his fingertips over the upholstery as he 
worried his lips, choosing his words carefully. "Is 
that what you think I do?" he finally asked, careful 
not to let anger creep into his voice. "That I 
refuse to believe the truth?  That if someone would 
bring me a body and prove it is Samuel, I would not 
believe them?"

She turned to him, putting her hand over his. "That 
is not-"

"Don't you think I know he is probably dead?  I 
know.  I know it, but I don't feel it.  Don't you 
think I've seen him die a thousand times in my 
nightmares?"   

"I know-"

"No, you don't know.  He is my son, Dana - my baby 
boy.  I raised him, and nothing is more important to 
me than he is; I always told him that.  He trusted 
me when I said 'go put up the horses; your mother 
will be fine,' but then I fell asleep and now his 
mother is dead.  And his baby sister.  And then I 
went back to the war and left him alone.  To hell 
with the Goddamn war!  Let the South secede; I don't 
care.  Let the South take their slaves and cotton 
and state's rights and build a wall through the 
middle of the Union.  But, no. 'Dad has to go, Sam.  
Stay with Grandfather.  Everything will be all 
right.' It won't be all right, Dana.  My son is 
gone.  My father, my wife, and my baby are dead.   
It will never, ever be all right ever again.  Don't 
tell me you know, Dana, because you have no idea."

Suddenly, there was silence, and he swallowed 
angrily, clenching and releasing his teeth and 
embarrassed at himself.

"No, Mr. Mulder, I have no idea how it feels to lose 
a child," she finally said evenly. "But I know how 
it feels to lose everyone else."

He leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose 
with his fingers, and keeping his eyes jammed shut 
until the urge to cry passed.  He'd already raised 
his voice, the last thing he intended to do was 
start sobbing in front of her.  He hadn't cried 
since he was ten; now wasn't the appropriate time to 
start.  

"I'm sorry," he muttered. "You didn't deserve that."

"I did not mean to upset you.  I only meant-" 

She trailed off, rubbing her hand over his back as 
she tried to smooth out the pain.

"I know what you meant." He swallowed again, turning 
his head to look at her.  Dana's face was close to 
his, so he kissed her, smirking unenthusiastically. 
"Aren't I just a laugh a minute?  I can still 
arrange an annulment and that ticket to Ireland."

She put her hand on his cheek, stroking her thumb 
over his skin. "Please do not do that: pull away.  I 
see you hurting, and I am not sure how to help.  You 
have been so kind to me-" 

"Snapping at you: yes, very kind," he interrupted. 
"Try not to faint dead away from the romance of it 
all."

"And to my daughter.  You are so alone.  When I ask 
if you are all right, you seem surprised, as though 
no one has cared enough to ask you that in a very 
long time.  You are so hungry."

"Hungry?"

"Hungry to be cared for.  Loved."

Caught off-guard, he wet his lips, then asked, "Do 
you love me?  No, never mind," he amended quickly.  
"With all that's happened in the last week, what an 
awful question.  Never mind."

"I-I do not know what I feel right now.  I know I am 
not Melissa-"  
 
"I don't expect you to be Melly.  I don't, Dana," he 
said earnestly.  He was still slouched on the sofa, 
elbows on his knees, with his head turned toward 
her. "Do you?  Love me?"

Dana stood, then slowly began unfastening the 
buttons on the front of her dress, watching her 
fingers instead of him.  One buttonhole was tight, 
and she worked at it determinedly until she got it 
undone.  She pushed the fabric back from her 
shoulders, down over her hips, and then draped the 
new dress over the opposite end of the sofa and 
started undoing the waist of her petticoat.

"Dana," he said softly, "A simple yes or no would 
have sufficed."

She let the ruffled petticoat fall to the floor so a 
pile of white material almost as high as her knees 
surrounded her.  He was mesmerized.  Except for 
stumbling onto Dana last week, he'd never seen a 
woman undressing.  Undressed, but not undressing, 
and he wasn't about to look away unless she told him 
to.  Normally, there would be more layers: a corset 
cover, a hoop or a few more petticoats, and 
pantalets, and he was sorry there weren't, since 
that meant he couldn't watch her take them off. 

Staring at her like a hungry wolf must have been 
disconcerting, because her fingers only created more 
knots.

"Let me," he finally offered, and she turned around, 
letting him work the tight laces loose until he 
could slip off the stiff, boned fabric. "You don't 
have to do this.  I won't push you.  The baby, Dr. 
Waterston: is it too soon?"

"I do not think so, but I have never had a baby 
before." She turned around, looking at him 
uncertainly, as though he might know.

"Why don't we go slowly?" he suggested, standing up. 
"We can always stop.  All right?"

"All right," she murmured, letting him lead her to 
the big bed.

"You'll tell me: if you're scared, if I hurt you?"

She nodded again, and he did too, like they'd 
reached some binding contractual agreement.

She hesitated, then began unfastening the buttons of 
his shirt.  Though she'd already seen him bare-
chested, he marveled at the eroticism of the act of 
being revealed inch by inch.  When she pulled his 
shirttail out of his waistband, and let the shirt 
fall to the floor along with her petticoats and 
corset, he stopped trying to convince himself this 
was really happening, relaxed, and let it happen.              

He laid her back on the bed, untying the neck of her 
chemise and watching her chest rise and fall with 
each breath.  He touched her through the fabric, 
tracing the slope and peak of her breast, then 
pushed the old chemise aside and cupped it with his 
palm, letting his fingers mould to the yielding 
flesh.

She inhaled, and he glanced up to make sure he 
wasn't hurting her.  He had no experience with 
breasts currently serving a practical purpose.  
Correction: he had minimal experience, and it wasn't 
with Melly or Sarah, and it wasn't a proud memory.

"Dana?"

"Fine," she murmured, pulling her shoulders back as 
he stroked her nipple. "The baby will need to eat 
soon," she added, explaining the drop of milk that 
appeared.  

"Is it all right?"

She nodded, and he lowered his head, pressing his 
tongue flat against her nipple and then teasing 
lightly rather than sucking.  Dana's breath caught 
again, and she shifted, then rested her hand lightly 
on his shoulder as he switched breasts. 

"Nice.  Soft.  Sweet," he mumbled, running one hand 
down her hip and then back up her thigh.  His 
fingers whispered against her skin, tracing 
invisible, electric paths.  She raised her hips so 
he could push her chemise up, being a perfectly 
compliant bedmate.  Nightgowns generally went up, 
not off, preserving modesty, but she pulled hers 
over her head, getting it out of the way and leaving 
her bare.  Blankets covered her from the waist down, 
and his hands and mouth and chest covered her from 
the waist up.

"Fine?" he whispered, pausing, his face over hers.

"Fine," she answered softly.

"Dana, I can count on one hand the number of women 
I've even kissed," he admitted. "I married Melly 
when I was sixteen; there hasn't been anyone since.  
Not really.  And Melly was- she was very different 
from you."

"Am I doing something wrong?"

"No.  Not a thing.  Close your eyes; try to relax," 
he told her, trailing his hand slowly down her 
stomach and under the covers. "I don't want to 
embarrass you, but I don't want to hurt you, either.  
If this isn't all right, just say."

She didn't say, so his fingers drifted downward, 
through the soft patch of hair and to the delicate 
skin beneath. "Spread you legs," he whispered 
huskily, and she did, turning her head to the side 
and clutching a handful of the blanket in her fist.  
Her breathing changed as he touched her, stroking 
lightly. "It's okay," he assured her, watching as 
she gritted her teeth, keeping her eyes tightly 
closed.  Her mouth moved, making silent vowel 
sounds, and her thighs trembled.  He explored with 
one finger, then two, and heard her gasp.

"Hurt?"

"No," she panted. "I will tell you if it hurts."

Not completely convinced, he stopped, and she opened 
her eyes, caressing his face like she had the 
previous night.

"Like this, or turn over?" she asked.

He stared at her, taking a few seconds to figure out 
what she meant.  Did he want to make love with her 
on her back or on her hands and knees?  It wasn't a 
choice he'd been offered before.

"Like this.  You do aim to please," he commented as 
she shifted under him, positioning herself, then 
putting her hands above her head. "I'm not holding 
you down.  You don't need to be still, Dana."

She lowered her arms, stroking his shoulders and 
raising her mouth to his earlobe, which he'd never 
realized had so many nerve endings.

"Well, please try to be reasonably still," he 
amended, feeling a little tipsy. "Somewhere between 
playing dead and having an epileptic fit."

To his surprise, she laughed, and so did he.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus IV

***********************************

Paracelsus V

*~*~*~*

Dear Melly, 

It is late.  The fire burns low, crumbling into its 
last glowing orange and crimson embers.  Dana and 
the baby are curled together in the center of our 
big bed, and it comforts me to listen to their soft 
breathing.  Everyone is asleep; sometimes I think 
the whole world is asleep, and I am the only one 
awake and watchful.  I look into the fire and wonder 
"does no one else see what I see?"

Dana does, I think.  She told me she needs to see 
life as it is, not as what it might be in some 
perfect world; in the perfect world I create inside 
my mind.  She has never looked away, and I am only 
now turning back to look again; to take stock; to 
calculate the water that has passed under the 
bridge.

Do you realize I am thirty-one years old?  I would 
say I am much older, but the calendar is very firm 
about it.  Only thirty-one.     

I wanted to keep you safe, Melly: to wrap my arms 
around you and protect you from the world, but I 
could not.  I don't know if I ever did.  How could I 
keep away darkness that stalks the soul from the 
inside?  I did try, and sometimes it makes me angry 
that others stood by and watched me try, and fail, 
and said nothing.  We smile and we go about our 
pretty routines, and inside we die.

Each choice I made seemed like the proper one at the 
time I made it.  Duty, honor, country: those are the 
foundations on which my world is built.  If I was a 
good boy and ate my vegetables, I got pie.  I was a 
good boy, Melly.  And a good husband, and a good 
father, and son, and student, and businessman, and 
soldier, and all the things a man is expected to be, 
most before I was finished being a boy.  There is a 
star beside my name in the Book of Dutiful, and yet 
I watched everyone I cared for being taken from me, 
one by one.

And it made me angry.  I am only now beginning to 
realize how angry.

Now, something selfish and insolent inside me 
snarls, "It is my turn.  Life has taken from me 
until I felt the wind blowing through me as if I was 
a sieve, so to Hell with the rules.  I want this 
woman, Dana, because I want her: by my side, in my 
bed, across from me at the dinner table.  I want 
this child because I love her, because I held her 
when she was born and watched her take her first 
breath and pretended she was mine."

My father was fond of Shakespeare, so I'll say it 
this way: "What wound did ever heal but by degrees?"

I am healing, and I do it by degrees.  Each day, I 
roll my shoulders, shake my arms, and marvel at this 
new freedom to move as I please.  It is heady.  And 
it is frightening.  I have spent years tiptoeing 
across the thin ice of normal, and now Dana and her 
daughter draw me farther and farther out onto the 
frozen pond.

If I want to be truthful, I married Dana, in part, 
because she could not hurt me.  I did not love her; 
I do not love her, not the way I love you.  I had 
built a wall around me brick by brick, and I allowed 
no one inside.  Yet Dana chips away at my wall, and 
I do not even notice her doing it.  She sticks her 
pretty red head through the opening she has made and 
asks, "Are you ready to come out, Mr. Mulder?" And 
when I growl no, she answers, "All right; I will be 
outside waiting when you are ready."

Everything I have learned since I was sixteen tells 
me to hang back, to stay at the edge of the pond 
where it is safe.  Safer.  To tell her to come back 
to me, instead of following her across the ice.

But I step forward, exposing myself, and I wait for 
the ice to crack.  
 
Mulder

*~*~*~*

The clouds slid silently across the moon, dense and 
black and promising a storm before morning, but the 
air was still. Not tranquil, but hesitant, cautious.  
It was too warm for a coat and too cool for 
shirtsleeves: that indeterminate no-temperature for 
which it was impossible to prepare.  What should 
have been late autumn in DC felt like spring, and 
people squinted at the night sky, sucked at their 
teeth thoughtfully, and waited.

The Italianate mansion sat back from the street, 
partially concealed by manicured hedges and a 
collection of trees clinging to the last of their 
scarlet leaves.  It was a new house build with old 
money, an exercise in clean lines and simplicity.  
Mulder's taste tended toward Spartan, but Melly had 
a brief love affair with wrought iron, so metal 
balconies decorated each of the five arched windows, 
and a wrought iron fence outlined the corner lot.  
Overall, the brick walls had a solid, placid look, 
like a lion settling down in the grass to watch the 
gazelle. 

He helped Dana down from the carriage, then paid the 
driver, who tipped his hat and clucked to the mare.  
The horse's hooves clopped hollowly away into the 
darkness, leaving them standing on the sidewalk in 
front of Mulder's house.  The twin gas lamps on the 
front porch twinkled, welcoming them home.  

Sometimes, traveling was much easier than actually 
arriving. Going had an optimistic, purposeful feel 
to it, whereas being required facing reality.

His old key still fit the lock. "This must be the 
place," he said softly to Dana, turning the knob.

On the other side of the door, a dog's claws 
fidgeted impatiently against the wood floor, but 
Grace was too old to bother barking until he saw who 
it was.

"Hello, Grace," Mulder told the basset hound, who 
sniffed them, then turned away, disappointed, and 
waddled back to his bed behind the kitchen stove. 
"Samuel's dog," he explained to Dana, who nodded.

The dog paused, looking back as he heard the name, 
then disappeared to the back of the house.  

"Grace is a boy," Dana observed, puzzled

"Yes."

He lacked the energy to explain the story behind 
that: how seventy-five pounds of fat and wrinkles on 
three inches of legs came to be called Grace.

As Mulder lit an oil lamp, the grandfather clock 
chimed eleven-thirty, then went back to its polite 
ticking, acting as if nothing had happened.  A 
landscape Melly had painted hung over the credenza.  
The canister on the floor beside it held two 
umbrellas, a walking stick: his father's, and a 
baseball bat: his son's.  The servants wouldn't 
return until morning, so except for Mulder, Dana, 
and Emily, the only things alive in the house were 
memories.

"Upstairs," he told Dana, who shifted the baby to 
one arm and gathered her skirt up enough to clear 
the steps.  He raised the lamp, following her like 
she knew the way.

When the architect had shown them the plans a decade 
ago, the selling point for Mulder had been the front 
staircase, which spiraled gracefully up to the 
landing, seeming to defy gravity.  He'd had to stop 
sliding down the banister when Samuel was six, when 
Sam had tried to imitate him, fallen off, and almost 
broken his wrist.

For Melly, the highlight of the house had been the 
ballroom on the second floor. "We could have a 
party," she'd said excitedly, although they never 
had.  The only use the ballroom ever got was on 
rainy days, when Samuel and Mulder had played ball 
in there, or pretended they were ice-skating in 
their sock feet.  The door was ajar now, and the big 
room was dark and empty.

The door to Samuel's bedroom was closed, and Mulder 
put his hand on the knob, not sure if he wanted to 
open it or not.    

"Are you all right, Mr. Mulder?" Dana asked, 
startling him.  

The lamp cast a soft glow over her face, making her 
blue eyes look bottomless, as though she could see 
directly into his soul.  

"I'm fine," he lied, letting go of the knob.

The housekeeper had gotten his telegram: the nursery 
had been repainted, and a new cradle and rocking 
chair were waiting.  There were drawers of clean 
diapers and blankets and baby clothes: more than one 
infant could ever manage to wear.  Everything was 
ready, down to a silver rattle on the dresser.  

He left Dana to get the baby settled in, and walked 
to the master bedroom at end of the hall, swallowing 
against the dry lump in his throat.  It held the 
same bed, the same furniture, but everything else 
had been conscientiously removed.  Melly's clothes 
were gone from the wardrobe, and her perfume bottles 
were missing from the dressing table; the room 
smelled like lemon oil and clean linens instead of 
like her.  No hairbrushes, no earbobs, no fashion 
magazines; no trace any woman had ever been there.

The only evidence of Melissa was the intricate quilt 
spread over the high mattress: his housekeeper's 
unspoken comment on his new marriage.  Melly had 
just finished the quilt when she died, and someone, 
probably Mulder's mother, had the idea to drape it 
over her coffin like a flag draped over a soldier's 
casket.  Before they'd lowered the coffin into the 
ground, the minister had taken the quilt off and 
handed it to Mulder, who'd carried it home, certain 
he was about to wake up from his nightmare.

Angry, he jerked it off the bed, folding and putting 
it away in a cedar chest.  He'd deal with Poppy in 
the morning. 

Fabric rustled, and there were soft footsteps in the 
hall.  As the bedroom door opened, he remembered to 
expect Dana, not Melly. 

"Is she asleep?" Mulder asked in a perfunctory non-
tone. "Is the nursery all right?"

"It is fine.  It is wonderful."

"Good."

He stared at her, then sat on the sofa in the corner 
of the bedroom, beside the cold fireplace.  A book 
he'd been reading before bed two Christmases ago was 
still on the table, his place still marked. 
Normally, Melly's sewing basket would have been 
close by.  He would read to her as she sewed, but 
that space was empty.  It was as though time had 
stopped in this house, then erased one woman's life 
before it restarted.  

"Are you all right?" Dana asked again, standing in 
the center of the bedroom and waiting, like a bottle 
of fine wine presented for his inspection.  

"You have already asked me and I have already 
answered," he answered politely. "I am fine.  How 
are you?"  

"There are ghosts here."

He couldn't tell if she was speaking literally or 
figuratively, so he didn't respond.   

"Is there anything I can do to make this easier, Mr. 
Mulder?"

"No."  

"Do you want me to leave?"

He stood, then was in front of her in three steps, 
his mouth on hers, his hands cupping her face.  He 
needed something warm and real to put his arms 
around.  She was warm and real and if he closed his 
eyes, he could almost convince himself she loved 
him: not because he thought she really did, but 
because he needed her to.  

"No," he whispered hoarsely. "Please don't leave."

"Me," he did not add.

He kissed her like he had that day beside the road, 
not hesitating or apologizing for wanting her.  And 
like she had that day, she responded, putting her 
arms around his neck and parting her lips.  

He'd learned a great deal about Dana on the ship; 
he'd learned a great deal about women, period.  
Suddenly, sex was permissible, without the guilt of 
knowing he was pushing his wife into something she'd 
rather avoid.  Dana treated intercourse as a normal 
part of life; she didn't seem to find it was any 
more embarrassing than fixing him breakfast, and if 
he liked it, she was happy he liked it.  

He unfastened the front of her dress with one hand, 
stripping it off.  Taking off the rest of her 
clothes seemed like too much time and trouble, so he 
picked her up, her legs around his hips, and set her 
on the edge of the bed, pushing her petticoats up 
and out of the way.

He talked to her in murmurs and touches rather than 
words, and heard her assuring him it was all right.  
She was all right; he was all right.  He nodded, 
opening his eyes to watch her as he penetrated deep 
inside her, where it was safe. Her fingers tightened 
on his shoulders, and she pressed her forehead 
against his chest, moaning softly.  He felt welcome 
inside her: body, heart, and soul.  She'd weighed 
the consequences and chosen to marry him, despite 
what just about anyone on the planet, including 
Mulder, would have advised her to do.  She looked 
up, watching him in return, and he rocked his hips 
slowly against hers, never breaking eye contact.

When it was over, he waited while Dana finished 
undressing, held her until she seemed to fall 
asleep, and then tucked the blankets around her.  He 
checked on the baby, then stretched out on the sofa 
in the master bedroom, remembering to remove his 
boots.  The clock downstairs struck midnight, and 
outside, it began to rain.

After a few minutes, Dana got up, still nude, took 
his hand, and led him back to bed.

*~*~*~* 

The mournful whistle sounded, and two-dozen heads 
turned in unison.

"That's the train," Mulder had informed Byers 
excitedly, in case John Byers hadn't recognized a 
train when he saw one.  Railroads had been around 
for almost two decades; they weren't a novelty 
anymore. "The train: it's coming."

Byers had looked less than impressed.

Most of the young men on the platform were 
university students going home for the break, but 
Mulder was staying at Harvard, hoping to get ahead 
on his studies.  The faster he finished, the faster 
he could go home.  Instead, his parents were coming 
for a visit, and, more importantly, his parents were 
bringing Samuel, who he hadn't seen since the 
beginning of the term.  

The engine clacked past, then the coal car, then a 
series of red passenger cars smudged black with 
soot.  Mulder loped through the steam, hurrying to 
catch up, and craning to see a familiar face in any 
of the windows.  

Before the train came to a full stop, his father 
leaned out from the steps of the first car, holding 
the railing with one hand and raising his walking 
stick with the other. "Fox!" he called, jumping 
down.

"Father!"

Mulder threw his arms around him, cherishing the 
scent of cherry pipe tobacco and brandy and home.  
Even at eighteen years old, even married with a 
family of his own, a son was allowed to miss his 
father.

"How was your trip?"

"Horrible.  Your mother may never be the same.  The 
engine hit four cows; you're going to hear about 
it."

The train groaned to a stop, sighing with relief, 
and passengers spilled out of every opening.  

"Oh, Fox, it was just horrible," his mother informed 
him as he lifted her down from the steps, setting 
her safely on the platform. "The train hit four 
cows." She paused for breath, kissing him on each 
cheek. "It was horrible.  What an awful, belching, 
unnatural monstrosity.  I don't think I'll ever be 
the same."

"I don't think my hand will ever be the same after 
your mother's death grip.  She was certain we were 
going to derail at every curve."

"I couldn't help it, Fox.  Your father said trains 
reach twenty miles an hour.  I was sure every second 
was my last.  It was just horrible.  I don't know 
how I'll survive the trip back."  

Mulder smiled, enjoying their familiar banter.  If 
his mother had really wanted to take the stagecoach 
instead of the train back, all she had to do was 
say; she had a good time pretending to be afraid and 
his father had a good time comforting her.  Even in 
a crowd of people, his parents seemed connected, as 
though they shared some secret they weren't telling 
the rest of the world.  His father offered his arm 
and his mother took it, resting her gloved hand 
lightly on the fine wool fabric of his overcoat.

"Twenty miles an hour," Mulder echoed dutifully, 
knowing trains could go much faster and his father 
just hadn't told her. "How terrifying." 

Senator Mulder winked at his son, then reached over 
to rumple his hair as though he was still seven.  
Mulder grinned and submitted, stooping down a 
little.  He was several inches taller than his 
father.  

"Mother, you look beautiful.  Is this a new dress?"

She answered that it was, and his father said 
something about it costing millions of silk worms 
their lives, but Mulder didn't really hear either of 
them.
 
A light-skinned Negro woman stepped out of the train 
car, carrying a carpetbag in her hand and a little 
boy on her hip.  Her hair was covered with a white 
kerchief, and the steam made her calico dress 
flutter, showing the outline of her legs.  Her 
father's Cherokee heritage showed in her face, just 
as it showed in Melly's, and gave her a proud, 
exotic air that caused a murmur among the well-bred 
students on the platform.

If anyone looked closely, the child she carried bore 
a resemblance to her, but few people looked closely.  
It was a regrettable, yet unforgivable error of 
birth: Melly and Sarah's mother had been Jack 
Kavanaugh's wife; hers had been his slave.

"That's one pretty nig-" a young man near them 
started to comment before he realized he wasn't in 
South Carolina and amended, "Negro girl." 

"That's my boy," Mulder shouted, reaching up to take 
Samuel from her. "My baby boy," he announced 
victoriously, holding the toddler high in the air, 
then lowering and hugging him tightly, afraid he 
might get away.  He closed his eyes, savoring the 
warmth of his son. "Oh, my Sam.  How's my Sammy?  
Did he do all right on the train, Poppy?" 

"He did just fine, sir," she answered, keeping her 
eyes down.  Another of the Mulders' servants took 
the carpetbag, and Sam's nurse disappeared back into 
the car. 

"Da-dee, Da-dee, Da-dee," Samuel chanted, pounding 
his fist against Mulder's chest.     

"Sammy, Sammy, Sammy," he answered, spinning him 
around so he squealed. "My Sammy boy!  You're so 
big." 

The crowd of men on the platform grinned and 
murmured indulgently, then fell silent as another 
woman exited the train car, her pink dress 
fluttering.  

"Surprise, Fox," his mother murmured. "Happy 
birthday, sweetheart."

Mulder looked up, curious, then truly surprised.  
Behind him, he heard Byers whisper "My God," under 
his breath.  His roommate had seen pictures of 
Melissa, but he'd never seen her in the flesh.  No 
one at school had, and Byers had dubbed her Mulder's 
"phantom wife;" much mentioned but never glimpsed, 
and said he'd begun to doubt her existence.     

She hesitated on the metal steps, then, spotting 
Mulder, she smiled uncertainly.  He smiled back, 
relieved.  Maybe she was Melly again, instead of 
some tearful, distant stranger who'd somehow taken 
her place after the baby had come.  Her skirt 
swayed, showing her petticoats and the tops of her 
dainty boots as she took one step down, holding 
tightly to the railing.  

Byers finally remembered to exhale, and the crowd 
edged closer to the train, making Melly shrink back.

"Mah-mee," Samuel announced, pointing to and naming 
her the way he'd point and announce "dog" or "cat." 

"This wasn't my idea, Fox," his father insisted, 
raising his hands to declare his innocence. "The 
doctors think it's too much excitement for her and 
so do I, but she wanted to come for your birthday.  
She and your mother have been conspiring."

"Oh, you think it's too much excitement to eat a 
peach, you old fuddy-duddy.  Melissa's been fine on 
the train, haven't you, dear?" his mother responded, 
and Melly nodded, still watching Mulder from 
underneath her eyelashes.  People tended to call 
Melly "dear" a lot, and it would never have dawned 
on her to object. "She misses Fox and it's not too 
much excitement at all.  Stand up straight, dear; 
don't slouch," she reminded her, and Melly 
obediently squared her shoulders. 

"Watch her around the baby," Poppy reminded him 
softly, and Mulder shook his head that he remembered 
as he smiled and went to kiss his wife's cheek.    
 
There was another murmur on the platform as they 
embraced.  Most of his classmates knew Mulder was 
married, an oddity for their age and station, but 
he'd just become a much-envied young man.  At 
eighteen, he already had what they dreamed of: a 
healthy son, a beautiful wife, wealthy, loving 
parents, and nothing but great prospects. As always, 
he was ahead of the game.  His future was as set as 
the stone walls of Harvard.

Years later, when John Byers had a family of his 
own, Mulder had asked him if life ever seemed just 
slightly too tight, like a suit cut a quarter-inch 
too snug.  Although it looked fine and was perfectly 
wearable, it felt confining, never allowing him to 
completely relax.  Life was fine, as long as he 
didn't want to take a deep breath.

When they were twenty-three, he'd asked, after a few 
glasses of wine, if Byers ever felt that way.  His 
wife Susanne had refilled their goblets, and they 
sat in the parlor, watching Byers' young daughters 
taking their first steps.

Byers had said "no," shaking his head and not 
seeming to understand what Mulder had meant.  He'd 
never asked again.

*~*~*~*

At its conception in the year Caesar first noticed 
Cleopatra, it was a brilliant system, but by 1582 
the faulty Julian calendar had accumulated ten extra 
days, so March 21st fell on March 31st.  To correct 
this, the Gregorian system was developed, and that 
October, Pope Gregory XIII moved everyone two 
hundred and forty hours backward and started over.

Popes could do that.

Those hours became the lost time, the violet-black, 
surreal no-time between the last bit of night and 
the first breath of morning.  Between lovers, 
between a down mattress and soft blankets, between 
strong arms and yielding flesh, the universe cast 
down its eyes demurely and looked away.  Time held 
its breath, denying anything had happened, although 
it often had. 

"She's still asleep," he told her through chattering 
teeth, as he returned from checking on the baby and 
slid beneath the covers. 

Half awake, Dana moved toward him, thoughtfully 
bringing all the heat in their bed with her.  To get 
him to stop shivering, she put her arms around him, 
fitting her body against his.

"Are you awake?" he asked, and was "um-hummed" 
lazily from the back of her throat.

She purred as he kissed down her neck, across her 
collarbone, then gently to her breast.  He reached 
up, lacing his fingers through hers, while her other 
hand rested lightly on the back of his head.

It was effortless: making love to her.

There was a difference between being allowed and 
being accepted, and he felt accepted.  Mulder 
finally understood he wasn't going to scare her, 
and, as long as he was careful, he wasn't going to 
hurt her, either.  He wasn't a moron; he knew some 
women enjoyed being close: touching, kissing, 
caressing.  Sarah had, as far as their awkward 
teenage fumbling had gone.  Dana either did, or she 
was good enough at pretending to convince him, and 
it wasn't hard to fool a man who wanted to be 
fooled.

Not much could make sex bad for a man, but a 
thousand little things can make it better, and 
feeling welcome was one of them.

"You're wonderful," he whispered to her. "I love 
you" was a betrayal and "Thank you" seemed pitiful, 
so he just repeated, "You are.  I've missed you." 

"You missed me?" she murmured sleepily, rolling her 
thumbs along the lower vertebrae of his spine and 
opening her legs.  

He wasn't sure why he'd said that, and he wasn't 
inclined to stop and think about it, so he answered, 
"It's a long walk to the nursery and back."

He pressed his erection against her and closed his 
eyes, savoring the prospect of slow, lazy, 
lovemaking before he began what was sure to be a 
long day. 

"So it is a trip to the nursery that does this to 
you?" 

Mulder exhaled, then abruptly stopped and pushed 
away. "No," he said icily. "It is not."

She stared at him, her forehead crinkled and her 
chest and neck reddened from the stubble on his 
face.

"I'm going to work," he suddenly decided, sitting 
up. "The housekeeper's name is Poppy.  She's here by 
six.  She'll see to anything you and Emily need."

"I do not understand.  Why are you angry?"

"I'm not angry," he lied, his words clipped. He got 
as far as the edge of the bed before he exploded, 
"How dare you!  Because I didn't pretend to be 
asleep earlier while you nursed Emily?  You're my 
wife: I can follow you to the outhouse if I feel 
like it.  How dare you even think I would-" He 
searched for the right words. "Harm her."

The bed shifted as Dana sat up.  She tried to touch 
him and he jerked away. "I was being funny.  Silly."

"You think that is funny?"

"I meant you were only gone a few minutes and you 
said you had missed me.  I thought it was funny you 
could miss me in two minutes.  Maybe I said it 
wrong.  What do you mean 'harm her?' You care for 
Emily.  You ask me a hundred times a day if I think 
she is all right.  I see you with her.  I hear you 
call her 'Emmy' and say you are 'Daddy.' I think you 
pretend she is your daughter: the baby Melissa was 
going to have.  Why would you harm her?  I do not 
understand."

He exhaled slowly, knowing he had overreacted. "No, 
of course I would never hurt her." 

"Then what? Please tell me.  I want to help." 

For a heartbeat, he thought about it, and for the 
first time since before Samuel was born, he almost 
told someone the truth.   

Still sitting on the edge of the bed with his back 
to her, he answered, "Melly had a sister named 
'Sarah.' That was what our daughter would have been 
called.  I just call Emily 'Emmy.'  I will stop, if 
you like."
 
She succeeded in putting one hand, then both, on his 
back, silently massaging the tense knots away.

"Sarah died," he added after an uncomfortable pause. 
"Melly's sister Sarah. She died when we were fifteen 
and Melly was fourteen.  Sarah was my friend."

"I am sorry."

It took several tries before he continued, "Sarah 
was my fiancee, Dana.  We grew up together, our 
fathers were in Congress together, and it was one of 
those 'everyone expected it' situations.  Except 
that I loved her very much.  And she loved me."

"How did she die?"

He wet his lips. "They say: of cholera." 

"How did she die, Mr. Mulder?"

"She miscarried.  Hemorrhaged.  There was an 
infection..."

"I am sorry," she repeated in the same soft voice, 
stroking his bare shoulders.

He listened to the rain drumming steadily on the 
roof above them.

"Did you know about the baby?" she asked.

"No.  Not until it was too late.  She must have 
known, but she was afraid to tell me." He shifted, 
rearranging his hands on the crumpled sheet. "I knew 
about Samuel, though.  Before Melly and I were 
married."

"Oh." 

"People say many things, Dana.  I'm sure they'll 
relish saying them to you.  You know me; believe 
what you want." 

He hung his head, unwilling to look at her, and 
examined his bare feet dangling a few inches above 
the rug.  He was cold.  As he sat, gooseflesh formed 
on his shoulders and arms, and the dark hairs rose 
protectively.

"Being here, watching you last night and this 
morning, I think I do know you," she finally said. 
"Will you come back to bed?"

"It's past five.  I'm usually up by five.  I won't 
go back to sleep."

"I was not asking you to go back to sleep.  I asked 
you to come back to bed."

"Oh.  Oh.  You want to have, uh, intercourse?" he 
asked in amazement, turning back to stare at her, 
then confirmed his title as King of the Fools by 
adding, "With me?"

She nodded, looking like she suspected he was 
teasing her.  He smirked quickly and flopped back 
down, acting as though he had been.

*~*~*~*

He realized, after he'd written the note, he'd never 
seen Dana read anything.  She enjoyed him reading 
aloud to her, but it wasn't outside the realm of 
possibility that she couldn't herself.  And it 
wasn't likely she had any acquaintance the poem, 
since it had only been published it in 1860 and 
wasn't widely known before the war.

He initialed it, regardless.  If she didn't know the 
verse, she wouldn't know he was misquoting, and just 
being literate was no guarantee she could decipher 
his handwriting.

"Passing stranger, you do not know how longingly I 
have looked upon you.  You must be she I was 
seeking.  You give me the pleasure of your eyes, 
face, flesh, and you take of my beard, breast, and 
hands in return.  I will see to it I do not lose 
you.  M."   

He looked at the slip of paper, hesitating.  He'd 
never written a love letter, and bastardizing Walt 
Whitman probably wasn't the way to start.  Lust 
wasn't love, and he'd rather Dana read Mark Twain's 
stories if she wanted something to laugh at.  

Mulder picked up the pencil again and wrote across 
the bottom of the page:

"Sleep well.  I am going to the office.  I will see 
you and Emmy at noon.  The housekeeper's name is 
Poppy.  She will see to anything you need or want.  
Make yourself at home.  M."

He tore off the top half, tucking the original note 
in his coat pocket, and propped the bottom of the 
page against the lamp for Dana to find when she 
awoke.  He fenced Emily in beside her with heavy 
pillows so the baby couldn't roll off the bed, 
kissed them both, and blew out the lamp as he left.    
 
*~*~*~*

The streetcar running from The White House down 
Pennsylvania Avenue could have him at work in ten 
minutes, but Mulder walked, trying to recapture the 
rhythm and flow of the city.

Wagons of produce rolled past, bound for Central 
Market, wheels splashing over the cobblestones.  
Shopkeepers' brooms whooshed over wet sidewalks, 
clearing the way for the first patrons to arrive.  
In the cafes, gossip hummed over cups of coffee, 
raindrops slipped from the edge of his umbrella, and 
horse-drawn trolleys squealed past as Washington 
woke.

If Samuel was his first child, The Evening Star was 
his second, born only a few years later.  Mulder 
felt the same pride in both.  Poppy was forever 
saying he shouldn't wear suits to work.  He only 
ruined them.  He started out the day with his collar 
buttoned, his hair combed back, and his waistcoat 
on, and ended it with his sleeves rolled up and his 
collar off, cursing and getting ink stains on his 
trousers as he climbed inside one of the huge 
presses to fix it.

The building was still quiet.  By definition, it was 
The Washington "Evening" Star; the presses would 
start running after lunch. In the morning, reporters 
wrote copy, telegraph operators on the top floor 
scanned the tickertape for Associated Press stories, 
and the editors laid out the pages.  Once the people 
in Byers' part of the building decided what they 
wanted to print, it went to Frohike's men to 
actually print it: to set the type, prime the 
machines, feed the rolls of paper into the presses, 
and then to cut and fold, by hand, the quarter-
million newspapers that went out each afternoon, six 
afternoons a week. 

Byers greeted him with a smile and a warm handshake 
that would have turned into a hug if Mulder hadn't 
pulled back. 

"How are you?" 

"I'm glad to be back," Mulder answered, sliding into 
the leather chair behind his desk.  Someone had 
emptied the trash and cleared away the coffee mugs, 
but unfortunately left the clutter.  Once things 
made it to his desk, they tended to stay there until 
they grew legs and escaped, or crumbled to dust.  

"I'm sorry I wasn't at, at the funeral.  I wanted to 
tell you I'm sorry.  About Melissa.  And your 
father.  I didn't know until Susanne wrote to me."

Mulder straightened a stack of papers he'd left out 
almost four years ago. "Thank you."

"I spoke with Poppy last week.  She said you've 
remarried.  And have a new baby.  Congratulations.  
Susanne and I would love to have you and your wife 
join us for dinner."

"Again, thank you.  Another night, though.  I'd like 
to let her get settled in."

Byers waited, then cleared his throat, noticeably 
uncomfortable.

"Is there any news about Samuel?"

Mulder finally looked up. "No.  Not yet."

"Many soldiers are still making their way home.  
More men return every day."

Mulder didn't respond.  Samuel wasn't a poor 
farmer's son who had to walk home coatless and 
barefooted.  All he needed to do was make his way to 
any government office and say he was Senator 
Mulder's grandson.  Byers knew that as well as 
Mulder.

His editor-in-chief shifted his feet, unsure of what 
to say next. "Anyway, it's good to have you back.  I 
can bring the books for you to look over, if you 
want."

Byers knew him too well.  Mulder hated the books.   

His chair squealed backward as he stood up.  He'd 
spent as much time at his desk as he usually did in 
one day. "Let's go find some trouble," he said 
decisively.
 
*~*~*~* 

He'd made three trips to the vast AP telegraph room 
on fourth floor, two to the reporters' desks on the 
third, watched Frohike supervising the typesetters 
piecing together that evening's front page, and 
followed Byers around like a shadow for an hour 
before Mulder realized why he was so restless.  As 
much as he felt at home among the dusty newsprint 
and the acrid scent of hot metal and ink, he found 
himself eyeing the clock as it edged closer to 
lunchtime.

In the last two weeks, he hadn't been away from 
Emily and Dana for more than a few minutes.  He 
missed them.  

"Why don't you just go home?" Frohike asked, annoyed 
at Mulder staring over his shoulder again.  He'd 
been running the mechanics of a newspaper longer 
than Mulder had been on this Earth, and he didn't 
need a supervisor. "You're worse than a bitch 
without her puppies.  Have lunch, check on your new 
wife and baby, and then come back and actually 
accomplish something."

"I'm thinking about it.  Do you want to come with 
me?  Meet Dana and Emily?"

Covert glances flew around the room as the 
typesetters and engravers looked to see if they'd 
heard correctly.  Anyone who thought women were the 
worst gossips had never worked in a building full of 
newsmen.  The baby was a girl, then, and she was 
named either Dana or Emily. By two o'clock, everyone 
who was anyone in DC would know that.

Mulder had been getting somber congratulations all 
morning, but no one had the nerve to ask him any 
details.  Most of the men, like Byers, had been at 
war when Melly and his father died, and it was 
awkward paying their condolences in one breath and 
asking him about his new wife and baby in the next.

Frohike held up his stubby fingers, stained black 
with ink. "I'd love to, but maybe another time?  I 
have to look my best if I'm gonna to meet a pretty 
lady."
 
"You mean you know some way to improve on this 
stunning façade?"

"Go home, Mulder," Byers agreed, bringing down 
another stack of handwritten stories for Frohike's 
men to translate into print.  The deadline for 
articles was eleven, but Byers was forever rushing 
downstairs with "just one more" at eleven fifteen.

"I'm going home for lunch," Mulder decided, rolling 
down his sleeves.

"What a brilliant idea," Frohike grumbled, scowling 
at Byers as he snatched the new articles. "Stunning 
façade..." 

*~*~*~*

He looked around the kitchen nervously, and almost 
went back outside to make sure he had the right 
address.

Lunch was nearly ready; the old cook offered Mulder 
a taste from a wooden spoon and a peck on the cheek 
as he passed.  Loaves of bread had just come out of 
the oven, and their mouth-watering aroma permeated 
the air.  The long dining room table was set for 
two, with a vase of flowers decorating the center.  
The fireplace crackled, pushing warmth into the 
walls, and a maid he didn't recognize smiled, then 
went back to polishing the silver, screwing up her 
face in concentration.  

"So this is what it feels like to come home to 
normalcy," he thought, then immediately felt guilty.
   
He found Dana in the nursery rocking Emily, and 
paused in the doorway to watch them.  Samuel had 
been five when Mulder built this house, so the 
nursery had been an optimistic afterthought 
consisting of the architect crossing out "bedroom" 
and writing in "nursery" on the blueprints.  Until 
Melissa become pregnant two Christmases ago and been 
overcome with decorating fever, it sat empty, a 
dusty reminder of things that weren't.

"Hi," he said quietly, when she finally noticed him 
and looked up.  

"Hello," she whispered back, smiling. "She's almost 
asleep.  How was work?"

"It was fine." He sat on the window seat, his back 
to the steamy window.  Outside, the storm was 
passing, sounding like it was raining out of habit 
rather than malice. "How are you?  Is everything all 
right?"

"Everything is fine, although I keep getting lost in 
this house."

"Did Poppy come today?" he ventured. "I didn't see 
her downstairs."

"I sent her home.  She was upset."

Mulder sighed.  He'd been afraid of that. "I'll deal 
with her.  I'm sorry, Dana.  I probably should have 
warned you.  Poppy is - She was Samuel's nurse and 
she's protective, but I didn't expect her to be rude 
to you.  I won't have that."

"No, she was civil.  She took care of Emily: changed 
her, bathed her.  I had the feeling I was being, oh, 
what is the word when you estimate how much a thing 
is worth?"

"Appraised."

"Yes, appraised this morning.  Then she asked if 
your son had gone to work with you, and when I said 
he had not, she seemed confused.  Poppy thought you 
returned home because you had found Samuel."

He cringed inwardly.  He hadn't dreamed Poppy would 
interpret his telegram to mean that.

"She has his room ready," Dana continued, "And when 
I told her you had not found him, she asked if she 
should put his things away, like she put Melissa's 
things away.  I told her not to, to wait.  That you 
were still looking for him.  Was that all right?"

He leaned forward and kissed her lightly on her warm 
lips. "That was perfect."
 
*~*~*~*

After lunch, he trailed his fingers over the ivory 
keys, aimlessly striking a few chords.  The piano 
was in tune, but Melly and Samuel were the 
performers.  Mulder's musical gifts were best suited 
for being the audience.

This was his favorite room.  His books lined the 
walls, so they'd called it the library, although 
Mulder was usually relegated to the desk or the 
comfortable chair in the corner.  The piano had been 
his present to Melissa, but the other instruments 
were Samuel's.  If it had strings or keys, Sam could 
play it.  What begin as violin and piano lessons 
when he was five had moved on to cello and classical 
guitar and, to his music tutor's horror, banjo and 
harmonica.  There was even an accordion Mulder had 
agreed to in some fit of overindulgent insanity.  

Two wooden easels stood near the windows where they 
could catch the morning sun.  One, Melly's, was 
empty, and her boxes of oil paints and brushes had 
been removed.  A few of her paintings still hung on 
the walls, but the unfinished ones had been stored 
away.  Like the quilt on the bed the night before, 
her paint-splattered easel had "accidentally" been 
left behind, like skeletal remains.

"Did Melissa draw this as well?" Dana asked, pausing 
in front of the other easel.  

On the pad was a detailed charcoal sketch of a man, 
a teenage boy, and a dog in the woods.  Snow covered 
the ground and blanketed the tree branches, pristine 
except for their footprints.  The man carried a 
rifle, and the basset hound loped ahead of them in 
pursuit of a rabbit, his long ears flying and tongue 
lolling happily.

"No, Samuel drew that," he answered.  Mulder paused 
to sip from his wineglass. "Melly liked oils, Sam 
likes charcoal or ink.  That's Sam, my father, and 
Grace hunting."

"I do not know art, but this seems excellent."

Mulder set his glass on a table and joined her at 
the window, eager to discuss his favorite subject.

"He has a gift.  He draws what he sees, just like he 
plays whatever he hears.  We've published some of 
his sketches, and there are probably more," Mulder 
speculated, folding down the sheets of paper that 
had been flipped over the top of the easel. "Poppy," 
he told her, showing her the sketch of a pretty 
mulatto woman standing on the back porch with a 
basket of laundry. Behind her, on the clothesline, 
long rows of sheets billowed in the wind.

He flipped again, and grinned. "Me," he admitted, 
showing her a man in an officer's uniform astride a 
horse, looking heroic.  The picture was drawn from 
the perspective of a small child, making the rider 
seem god-like. "A little over-dramatic, but me."

He folded another sheet down, then stopped, his grin 
going from indulgent to wistful as he saw the last 
drawing. It was a woman in a long nightgown standing 
at the window where they now stood.  Her hair was 
down, falling over her shoulders, and one hand 
cradled her belly as she stared through the glass, 
watching for someone. 

"And Melly," he said with difficulty, caught off-
guard. "Wow.  That's- I didn't know this was here.  
I've shown you photographs, but this looks more like 
her.  That's Melly.  And that's our Sarah," he 
added, rubbing his fingertip over the figure's 
belly, smudging the charcoal lines.

"I did not realize she was so far along."

"Seven months," he said, looking away. 

"She is very beautiful."

"Yes, she was."

"Mr. Mulder..." she began soothingly.

"No, it's not that.  Melly's been gone for fifteen 
months.  It's not as raw as it once was.  I love 
her, I miss her, but it's more that Samuel drew 
this. I can imagine what he must have been thinking, 
feeling, as he sketched her.  I miss him," he said 
hoarsely.

She put her head on his chest and her arms around 
his waist, staying there until someone in the 
doorway cleared her throat, making her presence 
known.

Mulder glanced up, let go of Dana, and stepped back. 
"Poppy.  Hello."

"I didn't feel right staying home," she answered, 
adjusting the toddler on her hip. "I should be 
here."

"We're always glad to have you," he responded. "Dana 
told me there was a misunderstanding.  About Sam.  
I'm, I'm sorry.  Are you all right?"

She shook her head brusquely, not wanting to discuss 
it in front of Dana. "Is there anything I can get 
you, sir?"

Poppy had once caught him perched on his parents' 
dining room table shrieking like a girl and about to 
wet his trousers because there was a spider on the 
floor.  He'd been five, and it had been a big 
spider.  Poppy, seven, had joined him, and also 
refused to come down until Sarah smashed the spider 
with her shoe and rescued them.

Needless to say, he was only "sir" in public.

"No, we were just looking at some of Sam's drawings.  
Did you know he'd sketched you?"

"No.  Sir.  I did not.  Is it all right to have my 
girl here?" She gestured to the light-skinned 
toddler she carried. 

"Of course," Dana answered graciously. 

Instead of accepting that, Poppy waited for Mulder 
to speak.

"It's fine, Poppy.  You know me better than that," 
he told her. "Take her upstairs and put her down 
with Emily, if you want.  She looks sleepy."

Poppy nodded. "It's good to have you home.  
Congratulations on your daughter.  I'll be in the 
nursery.  Please ring if you need me.  Ma'am," she 
added in afterthought.

"How old is her daughter?" Dana asked when they were 
alone again.

"Fifteen months." he answered cautiously. 

"Oh."

"I'm not the father."

"I had not even considered that you might be," Dana 
mumbled. "She thinks Emily is your daughter, 
though."

"Yes.  And Poppy is Melissa and Sarah's half-sister, 
so she thinks Emily is her half-niece by marriage." 

A crease appeared between Dana's eyebrows as she 
tried to process that tangled genealogy. 

"And Poppy's daughter was born the night Melly died.  
That's where Poppy was and why she thought I might 
not want to see her child." He clapped his hands 
together, which sounded overly loud in the quiet 
library. "Well, I think I should get back to work.  
Have a nice afternoon."

*~*~*~* 

He was in his office by twelve-thirty, and out the 
door again as soon as the last edition rolled off 
the presses at four.

"I'm looking for the lady of the house," he 
announced in a bad cockney accent, keeping his head 
down and hiding under the top hat and livery he'd 
borrowed from the groom. 
 
Luckily, the maid who answered the front door was 
the same one who'd been polishing the silver 
earlier, and she didn't recognize him.  And, though 
it didn't speak well of her powers of observation, 
she didn't recognize her employer's horses and 
buggy, either.  

"Of course, sir.  Just a moment, please."

Mulder struggled not to laugh and tightened the 
reins as Athos and Porthos began to fidget, knowing 
something was afoot.

A minute later, Dana appeared, taking off her white 
apron and dusting flour from her hands.

"Yes, sir?" she answered politely. "How can I help 
you?"

"Are you the lady of the house?" he asked, barely 
understandable.

"I suppose I am.  How can I help you?"
 
"Is your husband here?"
 
"He is at his office.  Is there anything I can do 
for you, sir?"

"Love, you can climb in, come with me to the heath, 
strip off me clothes, climb on, and make a man out 
of me."

She blinked, then gaped a few times until he raised 
his head, grinning wickedly. "Mr. Mulder?  You are 
awful!"

"Climb in," he responded, taking off the hat and 
jacket, and leaning down to offer his hand.  

"Dinner-"

"Is almost ready; I know.  Just for a few minutes.  
You keep asking about DC.  I thought you'd like to 
see it since the rain's finally stopped.  Is Emily 
all right?"

"I just fed her."

"And I missed it," he said regretfully as she 
settled in, covering her full skirt with the lap 
blanket.  

Like most of its citizens, Mulder was often blasé 
about the city.  Aside from being the seat of 
democracy, it boasted the finest collection of 
potholes and whorehouses in the nation.  A week 
seldom passed without a body being found floating in 
the cannel or some political scandal hitting the 
front page.  If a man wanted a case of the French 
Pox or to sell a load of junk railroad bonds, DC was 
the place. Mulder saw it for what it was -- the 
powerful center of a crippled government struggling 
to rebuild itself -- but he tried not to jade Dana's 
introduction to her new home.

"That's The White House," he told her as they 
reached Pennsylvania and turned right down the 
broad, muddy street. "Where the President lives," he 
added as they passed. "There was a good swimming 
hole on the south side until the Army started using 
it as pasture land for cows during the war." 

She twisted from side to side to see, peppering him 
with a dozen questions per block.  Gas streetlamps, 
six-story buildings, even a horse-drawn fire engine 
that flew past, bells clanging, were all new to her.   

He showed her the new Treasury Building, then made a 
side trip, remembering she'd liked a ghost story 
he'd heard and told her during their honeymoon.  
Supposedly, when the ship was being built, a hapless 
ironworker had been trapped alive between the dual 
hulls, and, in the interest of economy, left there.  
The crewmen swore they could still hear the 
ironworker tapping with his hammer to be let out.  
On a whim, he and Dana had taken a lantern and 
investigated, to no avail.

"That's the Octagon house," he told her, slowing the 
horses so she could look. "President James Madison 
lived there for a time.  It has six sides, but eight 
angles, hence 'the Octagon house.'  Some say it's 
haunted.  There's a dead Colonel who rings bells, 
and, sometimes, the ghost of a murdered slave girl 
who screams."

"So these are musical ghosts?" she said skeptically.

"Are you making fun of me?"
  
"Well, yes," she admitted.  

He cleared his throat, turned a corner, and 
continued, "All these are newspapers.  This part of 
Pennsylvania Avenue is called Newspaper Row.  The 
Washington Post, The Washington Times... We don't like 
them.  That's Tom Bradley's Saloon, where my father 
bought me my first drink of whiskey.  I used to meet 
him for lunch near here when I was younger."

"Did your parents live close by?"

"No, my mother and stepfather have a house in 
Georgetown when Congress is in session.  I suppose 
Mother still has it.  And then they actually live in 
Boston."

"Your mother has remarried?"

"Yes," he said tightly, then, "If we would keep 
going, we'd pass Center Market and eventually get to 
the U.S. Capitol Building, but we'll do that another 
day.  And Poppy can show you where the Market is.  I 
thought you might like to stop here, though, before 
we return home."

"What is here?"

"The Washington Evening Star.  Would you like to see 
where I work?  Some of the typesetters are still 
cleaning up, but the reporters and the office staff 
are probably gone.  I thought you might like the 
penny tour while it's fairly quiet."

He tied the horses to the hitching post in front of 
the building, then helped her down.  

Byers was carrying a sheaf of papers across the 
lobby, which he dropped and stopped short when he 
saw them.  He turned his head sideways, looking like 
a reddish Labrador Retriever who'd heard a funny 
noise.  Mulder's editor-in-chief, by comparison, 
made Mulder look like Romeo with the ladies. 
 
"Dana, this is John Byers.  He's the man who really 
runs things around here."

"John Byers," Byers repeated when he was able to 
talk again, still pumping her hand. "My name is John 
Byers."

"Byers is also the soul of wit and grace," Mulder 
commented, and Byers finally let go of Dana's hand.

She flexed it, getting the blood flowing again. "I 
am pleased to meet you, Mr. Byers."

"You are Irish.  My mother was Irish," Byers 
responded, then launched into a long discourse in 
gobbledy-guck.

He and Dana were mid "guck" when Mulder gave him a 
stern look and the tour continued in English, Byers 
at their heels.

"The lobby, obviously.  My office." He showed her 
the cluttered desk and collection of junk and dust, 
then moved on. "The first floor is almost all 
offices: circulation, advertising, accounting.  In 
the back are the loading docks.  Wagons take each 
edition to the street corners for the newsboys to 
sell, to the train deport to be shipped locally, and 
to the boat docks to go overseas."

He opened the door to the stairs, then offered Dana 
his arm as they climbed.

"This is where the paper is actually printed.  Byers 
approves all the stories and images, then the 
typesetters-" 
     
Like a badger popping up from his hole, an almost 
bald, scruffy head appeared from behind one of the 
machines. Frohike pursed his lips, whistling softly. 
"I should have come to lunch.  Hello, pretty lady."

"Don't touch him," Mulder warned, "You don't know 
where he's been.  Dana, meet Melvin Frohike.  He was 
part of the deal with I bought the paper: I had to 
take him.  Rumor has it he sleeps underneath one of 
the presses at night and lives on the raw flesh of 
apprentice typesetters.  Don't ever believe anything 
he says."

Frohike grinned and offered his filthy hand, and, 
after examining it, she shook it.  Dana was nothing 
if not a good sport.

They showed her how the metal type was set and, 
after the presses ran, broken down to be cleaned and 
reused. At the engravers' benches, Frohike explained 
how sketches were carefully transferred and then 
carved into pieces of wood or metal in order to be 
printed.  It was an exacting craft, since one tiny 
mistake made the whole engraving unusable.

"Samuel's," Mulder said, putting one hand on her 
back and pointing to the framed prints hanging on 
the wall above one bench. "Most drawings you see in 
a newspaper or magazine are drawn by one man and 
then engraved by several others, so they're 
unsigned.  He signs his, since he does all the 
drawing and carving himself."

"Did you meet Samuel?" Frohike asked, which was a 
roundabout way of asking how long she'd known 
Mulder.

"Not yet," she answered.  

Frohike and Byers waited expectantly, but she didn't 
elaborate.   

"I understand there's a new baby at your house," he 
tried.

"She's Emily, she's almost three months old, and 
she's beautiful, now stop fishing for information 
and show her the presses," Mulder intervened.

The presses weren't running or he wouldn't have 
allowed her in the room with them.  If the hem of 
her skirt or sleeve accidentally got caught in one 
of the huge machines, it would pull her in.  Most of 
the men who ran the presses had nicknames like 
Stubby for a good reason.  No one in a skirt or 
below the age of fourteen, or however old Samuel 
happened to be, was allowed near the presses.

The third floor was almost deserted as they walked 
through, and scribbled, crumpled papers littered the 
floor, waiting for the janitor's broom.  Reporters 
were at their desks at six in the morning and gone 
by two. Once the presses ran and they had tomorrow's 
assignments, their job was over until the next day.  

"A.P.?" Dana asked, seeing the sign as they reached 
the top of the building.

"Associated Press." he explained, raising his voice 
to be heard over the manic tapping of the telegraph 
machines. "Stories come into this office from all 
over the country and then are sent out by telegraph.  
If a ship comes into port with an interesting 
article from Europe or Brazil or China, we can send 
it to another US city over the telegraph and it's 
there in seconds."

"And soon, to and from Europe," a gangly blond man 
told them, sidling over to meet Dana. 

"That's right.  The ship we were on, The Great 
Eastern, was on its way to New York to lay telegraph 
cable across the Atlantic.  If it's successful, 
we'll be able to transmit messages instantly to 
London and Liverpool.  And to Dublin," Mulder added, 
smiling at her.  This was his element.  As awkward 
as he felt dealing with people, he felt equally at 
ease with facts and words.   

"Langly," the man introduced himself, since Mulder 
had forgotten.   

"Dana Waterston," she said, then quickly corrected, 
"Dana Mulder."

To cover the awkward pause that followed, Mulder had 
her sit at one of the vacant telegraph machines, 
explaining how it and Morse code worked. "Langly can 
even tell you the name of the operator hundreds of 
miles away who's sending the telegram to him, just 
by listening."

"I know their dots and dashes," Langly said 
cryptically.

"Same way you tell a boy kitten from a girl kitten," 
Mulder whispered to her, and she smiled. "Go ahead, 
press the key."

She did, sending a single electronic click amid the 
thousands of others in the room.

"Someone just heard that in New York," he told her.

"Opie heard it," Langly supplied.

Dana stared uncertainly at the machine. "In New 
York?  Are you teasing me again, Mr. Mulder?"

"I promise I'm not.  Press it again; confuse Opie to 
death."  

He stepped back, watching Langly and Byers show her 
the protocol for sending a message.  She pressed the 
key a few more times, fascinated.

"She loves you," Frohike observed quietly. "Of 
course she loves you.  All the pretty ones do.  Damn 
it, at first I thought I had a shot with her.  Alas, 
my poor heart is breaking." 

"Oh, shut up," Mulder said, laughing and watching 
her.

*~*~*~*
 
It was late.  The fire snapped and crackled, and 
occasionally a log split and disintegrated into 
molten-orange coals.  

He sat on the floor near the hearth in their 
bedroom, leaning back against the sofa with his bare 
legs outstretched.  Dana was facing him, one knee on 
either side of his hips with a blanket loosely 
draped around her.  No gentleman would let a lady 
shiver in bed as he made love to her.  The proper 
thing to do was pick her up, carry her to the fire, 
and make love to her there.

"Are your feet warm now?" he murmured, outlining the 
ridge of her collarbone with his lips.

"They are, thank you.  Would you like to feel?"

He slid his hands under the blanket, down her 
backbone, and to the hot flesh of her backside. 
"Yes, I would.  I think I'll start here and work my 
way down.  I want to be thorough," He stroked the 
backs of her thighs, then slipped his fingers 
between them. "And check-" He slid his hands higher, 
urging her legs apart. "Every-" Higher, to the soft, 
damp patch of hair. "Inch," he finished huskily. 

Watching her face change as he touched her was 
intoxicatingly erotic.  She - this - was opium in 
female form: just as dangerous and twice as 
addictive.

He tugged at the blanket and it fell to the floor, 
leaving her bare in the firelight.  Her cool breasts 
grazed his chest, a delicious contrast to the warmth 
of her back and the hotness inside her.  At his 
request, she'd left her hair down, and it hung 
almost to her waist in thick auburn waves.  It 
shimmered as she moved, and was as soft as silk as 
he ran his fingers through it.

"There's a science called phrenology that says you 
can tell someone's personality by the shape of their 
skull," he whispered, running one hand over her 
scalp. "For instance, this ridge at the back 
indicates physical lust, and above it, this one, a 
love for children and family.  Loyalty.  Here is 
kindness, intelligence, ideality, and this: 
stubbornness.  It is frighteningly large."

She pulled away, trailing her index finger down his 
profile to his lips. "That is where I bumped my head 
this morning, Mr. Mulder."

"Thank God.  I was worried," he sighed, pretending 
to be relieved.
 
"You are making up this phrenology science."

"Are you calling me a liar?"

"No, sir, only a creative truth-teller."

He smirked, kissing her fingertip. "No, it's true.  
And please don't start calling me 'sir.' 'Mr. 
Mulder' is bad enough.  Can't I be 'Mulder,' just 
this once?"

She leaned forward, her hips poised over his. 
"'Malda,'" she murmured into his ear, "Is 'gentle' 
in my language, and 'modhar' is 'soft.'

"Always 'malda,' I promise.  You know that.  I'm not 
'modhar,' though."

She started to get up, thinking he wanted to go back 
to bed. 

"No, like this.  Just like this."  

"Here?"

"Here." 

He positioned, then guided her hips slowly down, 
biting his lip as her inner muscles enveloped him.  
She hesitated, then slid down further, a little at a 
time, until her hips rested flush against his.  She 
stopped, breathing heavily as her body adjusted. 

"Oh, God.  Jesus, Dana," he groaned at the sensation 
of being a thousand kisses deep inside her.

He exhaled through his teeth, letting his head fall 
back on the sofa cushions.  When she shifted, he 
gasped, putting his hands on her hips and rocking 
her against him again.  

"Like that.  That's nice," he whispered to her. "So 
nice.  Don't stop." 

She let him guide her into a slow rhythm, then, once 
she knew what he wanted, rested her hands on his 
shoulders as her hips rose and fell over his.  
Mulder raised his head, opening his eyes to watch 
her, fascinated.  

"You are beautiful," he murmured in awe. A fine 
sheen of perspiration covered her breasts, and her 
mouth moved silently as she rocked, exhaling with 
each thrust. "You are.  I like watching you."

She tilted her hips slightly, changing the angle and 
taking him deeper inside her.

"Don't stop, Dana.  Make love to me."

She murmured something in Gaelic that sounded like 
his name, resting her forehead against his shoulder.  
He put his arms around her, closing his eyes.   

"Don't stop," he told her again, with increasing 
urgency.  

Her thighs trembled, and her breath was hot and 
labored against his shoulder, but she didn't stop.  
He gritted his teeth as the pressure inside him 
built, blocking out every other sensation.  Then, 
suddenly, he felt her vaginal muscles spasm and 
heard her moan in pleasure. 

She went limp against him, and, his arms still 
around her, he quickly lowered them both to the 
floor, laying Dana on her back, and entered her 
again, easily sliding inside. "To hard?" he asked, 
feeling her hips rising to meet each desperate 
thrust. 

If there was an answer, he didn't hear it.  A dozen 
more deep thrusts and her fingernails dug into his 
shoulders as it happened again: a quick series of 
inner contractions, more powerful this time.  His 
response was an ineloquent, "Jesus, fuck," and 
release so intense he saw stars.

One of life's mysteries solved, he realized, once he 
could think again.  That, he assumed, had been the 
female orgasm. 

She opened her eyes, looking flushed and uncertain 
in the firelight.

"It's fine," he assured her, pushing her hair back 
from her face. "I want you to like this.  Did you?"  

She nodded breathlessly, licking her swollen lips.

"So did I."

*~*~*~*

"Why, Dana?" he asked, spooning up behind her, and 
closing his eyes.  In the spirit of chivalry, he 
should have swept her up in his arms and carried her 
back to bed, but Sir Lancelot must be much steadier 
on his feet after sex.  Mulder had settled for 
leading her by the hand, getting her a drink of 
water, and then tucking her in. "Why did you do it?"

"Because you asked me to, Mr. Mulder" she mumbled 
back, wanting to sleep.

"No, why did you marry me?  Why take the risk?"  

She sighed. "Again, you asked."

"No, there's no shortage of men who would have 
asked, and you're not some clinging vine who's going 
to cry and ring her hands unless she has a man to 
tell her what to do.  Why me?"

"Because you wanted me."

"Was it just that?  Dr. Waterston was unfaithful and 
you knew I would not be?"

Dana didn't respond for a long time, and he thought 
he'd upset her by mentioning Waterston.  Except for 
slipping this evening, she hadn't mentioned him 
since they'd left Savannah, so neither had he.
   
"Have you ever wondered if there is something more?" 
she finally whispered. "Have you ever laid in bed at 
night and stared up into the darkness and wondered 
if that is all there is to life?"

He stroked her arm reassuringly, then, instead of 
answering, asked her if she wanted him to bring 
Emily to their bed for a little while.  The nursery 
was at the other end of the upstairs hall, so they 
couldn't hear the baby unless she shrieked, and it 
was almost time for her to nurse again.  

By the time he'd returned with the Emily and worked 
up enough courage to answer her question, Dana was 
asleep."

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus V

***********************************

Begin: Paracelsus IV
 
*~*~*~*

Dear Melly, 

It's mid-morning, and I've cleared a place amid the 
wreckage of my office to write.  As I walked through 
the building a few minutes ago, I tried to count the 
empty desks and machines, and there were more than I 
could stand to think about. "Gettysburg," someone 
whispered of Morgan's vacant chair.  The two Chinese 
engravers: Wong and Kim - "Shiloh," Frohike answered 
softly.  Spotnitz, Gilligan, and Goodwin? "Bull Run."  
Bowman, Gordon? "Spotsylvania."  And "Antietam" and 
"Fredericksburg" and "Vicksburg" and "Andersonville" 
on and on until I stopped asking, came to my office, 
and locked the door.

A quarter-million husbands and fathers and brothers 
and sons who should be living are now dead.  I wonder 
if I should have been counted among them, and, 
through some cosmic mistake, was not.  I have it 
often: that unsettled, queasy sense that my life has 
wandered not just off the path, but off the map, and 
I am someplace I was never intended to be, but have 
been before.  

Or perhaps I'm mistaking indigestion for spiritual 
insight.  
  
Regardless, this is the wreckage.  Those left behind 
can lie down and wait for Death, or we can grieve, 
gather what remains, and rebuild. The opposite of war 
isn't peace, Melly.  It's creation.  I spent months 
thinking I was looking for peace, but what I really 
needed was a foundation on which to rebuild.  I 
needed a landmark to guide me in this lonely, 
uncharted world if I was to find my way home.

I married Dana for two reasons: I was desperate, and 
she was exactly what I needed.  At the time, I 
realized neither, and now I realize both.  

Mulder

*~*~*~*

The sum instruction he'd received in marital 
relations was Melly's father's wedding night advice: 
"She's already pregnant; leave her the hell alone."  
His own father, not far from being a grandfather, had 
assumed Mulder already knew all he needed to of the 
fairer sex.

In truth, Mulder had once briefly encountered the 
anatomical basics necessary to create a child, though 
Samuel's conception had been an inch short of 
immaculate.  Melly had been crying, he'd been 
comforting, and three minutes later, he'd been 
rebuttoning, still uncertain as to exactly what had 
happened.

Some paternal wisdom and reassurance would have been 
welcome. 
 
He remembered waiting in his bedroom in his parent's 
house after the wedding reception, stomach knotting, 
palms sweating, not sure if he should undress or not, 
sit in a chair, lie on the bed, or stand.  He'd paced 
for what seemed like hours until his mother brought 
Melly to him, kissed him on the cheek without looking 
him in the eyes, and closed the door on her way out.  
 
A nervous, inexperienced groom, and a queasy, shy, 
frightened fifteen year-old bride hadn't made for 
conjugal bliss - then or in the future.  

Over the years, he'd invested in numerous advice 
manuals for new grooms, most of which were written in 
language so vague and flowery he wasn't sure if he 
was supposed to kiss and caress a woman's body or 
pluck it and put it in a vase.  Although the 
illustrations were interesting, pornographic novels 
were equally unhelpful with their enthusiastic, 
vulgar descriptions of rapture and ravishment.  He 
seldom wanted to ravish anyone.  He just wanted to 
love Melly at night as easily and naturally as he did 
during the day.

To answer Dana's question - yes, he had laid awake at 
night, stared at the ceiling as Melly slept, and 
wondered if there was something more.

As he massaged her back, Dana shifted and stretched, 
sighing contentedly as she slept.  Her hair was 
tousled and fell in long, red tangles over the 
pillow.  He could smell the night on her: the sweet, 
soft scent of Emily and midnight feedings, the salty, 
acidic odor of sweat and semen from him, and the 
musky feminine scent designed to bypass a man's 
reason.

His hands crept lower, pushing the blankets down, and 
passed in long, slow strokes over her bare backside 
and thighs.  The lamp on the nightstand flickered 
against the predawn darkness, making the transparent 
hairs on her back and shoulders glisten against her 
pale skin.  He told her to turn over, examining the 
half-dozen faint red stretch marks across her 
hipbones, the soft weight of her breasts, the old 
white scars on her knees from unnamed childhood 
adventures, and the light scattering of freckles 
across her nose.  She was real, laid out for him 
across the sheets of his bed in beautiful, natural 
imperfection.

Dana inhaled, opening her eyes, blinking, then 
blushed in embarrassment. "You were watching me 
again," she mumbled, rolling away.

He put his hand on her hip, pulling her back. "I 
wasn't finished."  

Under his intense gaze, the blush spread from her 
face down to her chest. "Mr. Mulder..." she began 
sleepily, batting him away.

"What?  I can't watch my wife if I want to?" he 
asked, tracing a lazy line with his finger from the 
hollow of her throat, between her breasts, over her 
stomach, and down between her thighs. "I do," he 
murmured, gently placing her wrists above her head 
with his free hand. "I want to watch you.  I've seen 
you watching me when we make love."

She shook her head "no," wetting her lips and 
shifting her hips as he rubbed.

"No, you haven't watched me, or no, you don't want me 
to watch you?"

"No, I..." she whispered, moaning and closing her eyes 
when he found her clitoris. 

"No, you don't like my fingers?  I'm sorry.  Maybe I 
should use my mouth," he offered, and felt her inner 
muscles contract in anticipation. "Maybe tonight?  
Would you like that?  I'm sure a prim and proper lady 
never thinks about things like that: a man's tongue 
between her legs." 

He didn't get a verbal response, but he hadn't 
expected one.  If Dana had said "oh yes - do it now, 
Mr. Mulder" he would have died of mortification.  He 
was still new to playing at sex, and his bravado was 
mostly smoke and little fire.  He was learning 
though, and he'd always been a quick study.

He lowered his head, feeling her tense again as his 
lips worked their way down her stomach.  At the last 
minute, he changed directions, laughing at her 
frustration, and instead took her nipple deep into 
his mouth.  He slid his fingers inside her, then back 
to her clitoris again.  Inside and back; inside and 
back, then he switched breasts, letting go of her 
wrists so she could touch him.  

His plan to kiss her goodbye before he left for work 
had gotten out of hand, as it did most mornings.  
Abandoning the idea of watching her, he stripped off 
his clothes and joined her in bed, wondering why he'd 
bothered to dress in the first place.  

She inhaled sharply as he penetrated, her fingernails 
digging into his shoulders.

"Sore?"  

"Sore.  Be careful."  

"'Kay," he promised, rolling them so they were facing 
each other, her top leg over his hips.  Each thrust 
was barely more than a tilt of his hips, slow and 
shallow. "Nice?"

She nodded that it was, relaxing.  Mulder liked early 
morning sex - and late morning and midday and 
afternoon and evening and midnight sex - but Dana 
preferred to speak, move, and think as little as 
possible before six a.m.  She'd never refused, but 
she was more cooperative if he didn't ask her to do 
anything that required actually waking up before 
dawn.

As they sunk into the hypnotic, instinctive rhythm, 
he heard the back door open and footsteps downstairs, 
and assumed it was Poppy arriving early.  Mulder 
exhaled and focused, ignoring the feet ascending the 
stairs.  It was just Poppy checking on Emily.     
  
It was as the shoes passed the nursery and approached 
their bedroom that he stopped, looking uncertainly at 
Dana.  After a few more unsuccessful efforts at 
sabotaging his love life, Poppy avoided the master 
bedroom - and bed - at all costs.  She wasn't likely 
to interrupt unless it was to throw cold water on 
them.

Pulling away, he scrambling for the pistol in the top 
drawer of the nightstand, raising it as the door 
swung open.

Without hesitation, an old man stormed in, waving a 
folded newspaper at Mulder.

"What the hell is this, Fox?" he demanded, gesturing 
to the paper with his cigarette.

Mulder exhaled and lowered the pistol. "Today's news; 
tomorrow's bird cage liner," he answered, still 
propped up on elbow, shielding Dana behind him. 
"Greetings, Uncle-Father.  It's early.  Shouldn't you 
still be in bed with your brother's wife?"

"Don't start your smart mouth with me, boy," he 
snapped. "Because I won't stand for it."

"Then, by all means, sit, Uncle Spender."

"My name is Mulder - the same as yours."  His uncle 
glared at him. "And you can stop the noble, wronged 
son act.  You aren't Hamlet."

"Your name isn't 'Mulder' because my grandfather 
never married your mother.  And you aren't my father.  
And I'm not a boy.  And if you ever barge into my 
house again, I'll shoot you like the cowardly bastard 
you are and not a soul will miss you."

Spender hesitated, seeming to realize Mulder meant 
what he had said. "What is this?" he asked again, a 
little less demanding as he brandished the paper.

Sitting up and pulling a blanket across his impatient 
lap, Mulder held the newspaper close to the lamp, 
reading the advertisement at the bottom of page two. 

"'Seeking a certain Negro woman named Mary Anne.  
Sold in Washington to Thomas Carberry of Manassas, VA 
for $900 February 8, 1861.  Also Negro girl named 
Julie, age 8, sold to same for $50.' So?  It's an ex-
slave looking for his wife and daughter.  What 
business is it of yours?"
 
"First of all, since when do you accept ads from 
Negroes?  They can't even read-"

"First of all, I own the paper.  I can take or not 
take ads from anyone I like."

Spender bristled, then paused to take a drag from his 
cigarette and change his tact. "Your mother wants you 
at dinner tonight.  Eight o'clock.  You and whoever 
this woman is you've married.  And she wants to know 
why her only son has been home two weeks and she 
hasn't seen him or her new granddaughter."  
 
"I have sent her messages," he answered tightly.

"Tonight at eight," the old man snapped.  He sniffed 
the air and frowned distastefully as he caught the 
scent of sex.  He glanced at Dana in disgust, then 
stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Mulder sighed in exasperation and sank back down, 
staring the ceiling. "That was my stepfather," he 
muttered. 

"I gathered that," she answered, wide-eyed.

*~*~*~*

He'd once watched copper wire being made, how a piece 
of metal was spun into a gossamer thread.  That was 
how he felt now: like something that began as solid, 
but was now being pulled impossibly spider-web thin.  
Any second, he'd snap in two and go drifting off with 
the icy winter wind.

Underneath the table, out of sight, Dana put her hand 
on his thigh, reassuring him.  He covered her hand 
with his, squeezing gently, and the din of a half-
dozen empty dinner party conversations faded to 
background noise.  She glanced at him and smiled like 
the Mona Lisa - mysterious, gentle, intimate - and he 
exhaled.  He removed his hand and she removed hers, 
then turned back to pretend she was enraptured by the 
endless, pointless story some foreign ambassador was 
telling over dessert.

The clock struck nine, and the guests rose from the 
table in unison and assumed their choreographed roles 
in the parlor.  This was his mother's element, and 
people put on their best eveningwear and manners for 
her dinner parties. She had been Mrs. Senator Mulder, 
and, if his stepfather had his way, she would soon be 
again.  Teena Mulder's pedigree opened doors and 
pockets all along the east coast that would otherwise 
been forever closed to Senator Mulder's bastard half-
brother.  She was wealthy, charming, and, approaching 
fifty, still elegantly beautiful.  Mulder could 
understand why his Uncle Spender married her.

He just couldn't understand why his mother had 
married him.     

Servants brought delicate crystal goblets of wine for 
the ladies and brandy for the gentlemen.  Mulder took 
the fullest snifter, watching his stepfather smoking 
and politicking across the room, and silently told 
himself "only half an hour more" and he could leave.

He found a chair in the corner of the crowded room 
and counted down the minutes as he sipped his drink.    

A maid signaled Dana, who rose and moved away.  Emily 
must be awake and hungry.  The cacophony of polite 
chatter paused, eyeing her suspiciously.  No one had 
cut her, but no one would - not tonight.  They'd take 
note so they could tear her to shreds over tea 
tomorrow in their lush salons.  Mulder knew how this 
game was played.

She was an outsider: a pretty, mysterious outsider 
who'd somehow come to be married to Senator Mulder's 
son, obviously because he had to marry her.  Everyone 
knew he'd been devastated by Melly's death - "Such a 
tragedy," they said idly, "But to be expected." 
Everyone could count: Emily had been conceived six 
months after Melissa had died. "Opportunist," they 
silently dubbed Dana. "Shameful: preying on a 
grieving widower." Everyone knew about Sarah, and 
that Sam had come five months after he'd married 
Melly.  And then there was the question of Poppy's 
baby.  They sighed and gestured in leisurely 
distress. "When will Fox learn?"

Mulder gritted his teeth and took another snifter of 
brandy from the tray as the servant passed.

"Come sit by me," his mother offered, and he went to 
her, sitting on the floor at her feet and stretching 
his legs out across the rug.  This was his childhood 
home; he could sprawl on the floor during a party if 
he liked.

"Are you enjoying yourself, Mother?" he asked 
dutifully, looking up at her.  It was the first time 
they'd spoken since he arrived, which meant it was 
the third time they'd spoken since Melly's funeral.

"I am.  You seem so sad, though."

"We haven't really been out among people - Dana and 
I," he fibbed.  They'd had dinner with the Byers 
family last week. "It's difficult."

"Of course it is.  So many things have changed."

"Yes," he answered softly, nuzzling her hand 
gratefully as she ran her fingers through his hair 
like she had when he was a boy.

"Everything has changed.  These drapes are new.  And 
the rugs.  I knew you'd notice.  And, of course, my 
dress."  

"Your dress is lovely, Mother," he answered 
automatically, leaning against the rustling lilac 
fabric of her skirt as she shifted her attention to 
another of her guests.  His mother always smelled 
like a purple flower: violets or lavender or maybe 
just all purple flowers.  It was comforting to be 
close.  Occasionally, she stroked his hair, lulling 
him, so he stayed like a dog waiting for a crumb.

"Fox," she repeated, catching his attention. "Where 
is my beautiful daughter-in-law?"

"Upstairs with the baby, I believe."

His mother's eyes widened, and she leaned down. "You 
left Melissa alone with the baby?" she chastised him.

"Dana," he whispered back, "Is fine with Emily."

She blinked, seeming momentarily confused. "Of 
course.  I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to be rude.  Yes.  
Dana," she said to herself. "Your wife is Dana.  And 
the baby is Emily."

"Yes.  I think she's finally awake.  Do you want me 
to check?"

She nodded, so he got to his feet, feeling the 
pleasant warmth of the brandy tingling his toes and 
fingertips.  She tilted her cheek for a kiss, 
squeezing his hand before he left the parlor.

As he climbed, he remembered waiting, terrified, on 
the staircase with his father while Sam was being 
born.  They'd started out in the parlor, quite proper 
and trying to stay out of the way, but as the hours 
had passed and the tension built, edged closer and 
closer to the upstairs bedroom.  Mulder could hear 
Melly pleading with the doctor to make the pains 
stop, and had gnawed his lower lip raw as dark began 
to creep into dawn.  Maids rushed up and down the 
stairs, bringing towels and water and scissors and 
avoiding questions. "Soon," his father had assured 
him, trying to sound confident, and Mulder had 
chanted that word to himself, as comforted as if the 
prediction had come directly from God.  Soon 
everything would be all right.

He wanted to go home.  He wasn't ready for this.  
Every nook and cranny was a memory.  He felt the 
copper of his heart being drawn out again, groaning 
in pain and fraying as it was pulled thin.

"My mother wants to see the baby again and then we're 
going," he told Dana decisively. "It's getting late."

He nodded to the maid, who went to tell the butler to 
tell the footman to tell the driver to bring the 
carriage around.

"You look nice.  I don't think I've told you that 
tonight," he added, paying her the obligatory 
complement. "You do."

The low neckline of her dinner dress showed off her 
shoulders and the tops of her breasts, pushed high by 
her corset.  She was petite anyway, and while he'd 
liked the softness she'd had a month ago, the tape 
measure around her waist now met with her approval.  
The bodice fit like a glove, then spread out into a 
dozen yards of black taffeta.  He'd supplied the 
jewelry this afternoon: a single large pearl 
suspended from a gold chain around her neck, and a 
pearl-seeded comb in her hair.  He'd watched the maid 
putting Dana's hair up earlier, securing all the 
auburn curls with the one comb.  He didn't know how 
that was possible, but he was looking forward to 
pulling it out and seeing her mane cascade down over 
her bare shoulders.

"Thank you," she answered after he'd forgotten what 
he'd said. "I would ask if you are all right, but I 
know you are not."

"No, I'm not." He'd watched Sarah die in this room, 
and spent his wedding night with Melissa in a bedroom 
just down the hall. "Let's just get this over with 
and go home."

She nodded, and following him and Emily down the 
stairs.  When they reached the front hall, he felt 
her hand in his, steadying him.   

"Blue eyes," his mother commented, stroking Emily's 
chubby cheek. "But she looks like you, Fox."

"Do you think?" he answered evasively. "I think she 
looks like Dana, except for the hair." A light 
covering of blonde wisps had finally made an 
appearance on Emily's head. "Do you want to hold 
her?"

"Another time.  My dress..."

"Of course.  Mother, everything was lovely, as 
always.  We'll see you again soon.  I want to get 
Dana and the baby home before it gets any colder 
outside."

Or before he started screaming how surreally wrong 
this all was.

She smiled sweetly. "You be careful.  Tell my Samuel 
to come give me a kiss before he leaves."

Mulder leaned close, out of everyone else's hearing. 
"Sam hasn't come home from the war yet, Mother.  He 
isn't with us tonight. We talked about this earlier."

There it was again: that fleeting look of airy 
confusion in her eyes.

"Of course.  Yes, I remember now.  Did Melissa come, 
then?"

"Melly's dead, Mother.  You were at her funeral."

"Of course," she repeated, still smiling.

*~*~*~*

He helped Dana into the carriage, then handed Emily 
up to her and closed the door so they'd stay warm.  
It was raining again, and the drops felt like ice was 
creeping inside the collar of his topcoat.  

His uncle was on the porch, wishing the other guests 
well as they left, and Mulder waited until they were 
alone.

"If you hurt her, I will kill you," Mulder said 
simply.

That hadn't been a threat, just a statement of fact.

Mulder turned away, climbed into the carriage, and 
knocked sharply on the roof for the driver to take 
them home.

*~*~*~*

He'd had too much to drink.  He wasn't drunk, but he 
close, and Dana wasn't happy about that.  Or maybe 
she was displeased about something else; she looked 
generally malcontented.  He'd been fixated on pulling 
the comb out of her hair, and there was the tongue 
promise he'd made that morning.  Obviously, neither 
was happening unless he wanted to get frostbite from 
her thighs.  He couldn't say be blamed her; he 
wouldn't want to go to bed with him tonight, either.
 
"I could do that if I had breasts," he mumbled, 
watching her from the doorway of the nursery.

As he said them, those words made perfect sense to 
him.  Maybe he was drunk.

"I will buy you one first thing tomorrow," she 
answered tiredly, unbuttoning her dress.

"No, I want two.  I want them about..." He held up his 
hands, cupping them as though he was holding 
grapefruits.  He checked the outline of Dana's 
breasts and resized to oranges. "Like this.  Fair.  
Dark pink nipples."

"You will have to take whatever the store has.  Go to 
bed, Mr. Mulder."

He yawned and ambled to their bedroom, stripping off 
his shoes and tuxedo as he went.  He'd planned to 
wait for her and apologize, but tossed and turned and 
eventually fell into the confusing twilight maze 
between awake and asleep.  

*~*~*~*

In his dream, the house was new; the paint had barely 
had time to dry.  The rooms smelled of mortar and the 
wooden crates the furniture had been shipped in.  
After years of living with his parents, Melly had 
been delighted to have a house of her own, and had 
fabric swatches scattered everywhere.  Mulder had 
just bought the fledgling Evening Star and ate, 
slept, and breathed newsprint and hot metal type.  
Samuel had been a six year-old, dark-haired bundle of 
energy and talent, and, that day, the sun had been 
shining.

As always, his stomach growled as he came through the 
door.  Mulder hadn't been much past what people still 
considered "a growing boy."

"Dumplings," the cook informed him, slapping his hand 
away from the pot on the stove. "And they'll fall if 
you mess with them. You won't die of hunger in ten 
minutes."

Instead, he filched a biscuit from the pan and backed 
away, wagging his eyebrows at her as he took a bite 
and knowing he was being bad.

"Where's my boy?" he asked around a mouthful of 
buttery goodness.

"Upstairs asleep."

"Asleep?" 

"He's taking a nap.  He fell off the banister and 
hurt his arm earlier.  Poppy went for the doctor, 
just to be careful.  She says it's not broken, 
though."

Mulder tossed the remainder of his biscuit to Grace 
and turned, hurrying toward the stairs with the puppy 
at his heels.

"Miss Melissa's with him," the cook called after him, 
and Mulder walked faster.  

Sam's bedroom was empty, but he found him in the 
master bedroom, asleep with Melly on the high bed.  
He was glad to see she'd finally relaxed.  She'd been 
up the last few nights, restless and fretful, and 
keeping him awake.  Normally, he tried to sooth her 
fears, but by four that morning, after the millionth 
"what if, Fox" question, he'd had enough.  No one was 
going to break into the house, he'd told her tersely.  
No one was going to look in their bedroom window, no 
one was going to spy through the keyhole, and no one 
was listening outside the door, as if there was 
anything to see or hear, anyway. "Stop being silly, 
settle down, and go to sleep," he'd snapped from the 
sofa, and she'd huddled down in the bed, if not 
sleeping, at least being quiet enough for him to 
sleep.  He'd intended to apologize to her at dinner.

"You two make a pretty picture," he murmured, sitting 
on the mattress beside them and stroking Melly's 
shoulder.

Melly didn't move.  Her bottle of laudanum, a mixture 
of opium and alcohol, was on the nightstand.  The 
doctor had prescribed it to help her sleep, but she 
also took it when she was upset.  And Samuel getting 
hurt would have upset her.  She'd probably thought 
Mulder would be furious she'd "let" their son fall 
off the banister. 

Grace paced beside the bed, whining.

Leaning over Melissa, Mulder unbuttoned and rolled up 
Sam's sleeve, examining the purple bruise on his 
forearm.  Poppy was right; it was bad, but not 
broken.  Instead of flinching or pulling away, his 
son coughed weakly, his lips blue. His stick-straight 
black hair stuck to his forehead in sweaty chunks, 
and beads of perspiration had collected on his nose.

"Sam," Mulder said sharply. "Samuel," he repeated, 
his stomach tightening.  When there was no response, 
he put his hands on the child's shoulders and shook 
him.  Sam's head lolled, and he coughed again, having 
trouble breathing.  Mulder sniffed his breath, 
detecting the sickening-sweet scent of laudanum.

Two gut-wrenching days later, Samuel woke from the 
overdose, surprised he and Mommy weren't together in 
Heaven like she'd told him they'd be.  Because Daddy 
would be angry about his arm, of course.

The doctors recommended Melly rest, and suggested 
another stay in the plush, private mental asylum.  
Her first stay had been after she'd tried to drown 
Sam when he was three weeks old.

*~*~*~*

He opened his eyes as the clock downstairs chimed 
four, disoriented and still a little tipsy.  He swung 
his legs over the edge of the mattress, licking his 
fuzzy teeth and scratching his bare chest sleepily.  
He seldom slept in the bed, and he never slept there 
alone.  Melly liked him close, but not with her, so 
he usually slept on the sofa across the room.

Melly wasn't in the bed.  Something was wrong.

Samuel's bedroom was empty, as was the nursery across 
the hall.  Mulder raised his candle and stared at the 
cheery wallpaper on the wall behind the crib, 
remembering which woman and baby it was he was 
searching for.

Melly was dead.  It was Dana and Emily who weren't in 
bed.
 
Half awake, without the aid of reason or daylight, he 
imagined all the things that could have happened.  
Someone could have broken in and taken Dana and the 
baby.  Some lunatic rapist or murderer.  She, she, 
she could have been carrying Emily in the darkness 
and fallen, knocking herself unconscious and unable 
to call for help.  Or she could have just taken her 
daughter and left him.

He checked the front door, found it locked, and 
stumbled to the back door, the floor under his feet 
changing from marble tile to plush rugs to smooth 
wooden planks as he reached the kitchen.  

Grace peeked out from behind the stove, whimpering 
and laying his muzzle flat on the floor.

"Are they in here, boy?" he asked, looking around the 
dark and otherwise empty kitchen. "Dana?"

From the other side of the bathroom door, water 
sloshed, lapping against the sides of the big bathtub 
he'd installed for Melly.

"Here," she called. "I am taking a bath."

His throat tightened, choking off breath. "Where's 
the baby?"

"She is with me."

His heart beat faster.  He rattled the knob, but the 
door was locked. 

"Open this door," he ordered. "Right now."

This wasn't real.  It wasn't happening again.  He was 
still dreaming.

Water splashed as a body shifted. "Just a minute."

"Now, Melly!"
 
"Mr. Mul-"

He stepped back, gritted his teeth, and kicked open 
the door with his bare foot, splintering the wood.  

Dana was sitting up in the bathtub, holding Emily 
against her chest and staring at him like he was 
crazy.  The water was still clear, and, in the 
candlelight, he could see her legs underneath the 
waves.  No blood, and the baby started to cry. 

"What are you-"

"Give him here," he demanded, snatching Emily from 
her and wrapping the infant in a towel.  He jiggled 
the terrified baby, trying to sooth her. "It's okay.  
It's okay; I have you.  It'll be all right." 

"What are you doing?  We smelled like smoke from the 
party.  She would not sleep, so we were taking a 
bath."

"I was- I, uh..." He swallowed, realizing what he'd 
done.  

Not knowing what else to do, he turned away, carrying 
Emily blindly through the darkness, navigating by 
memory.

"Mr. Mulder," Dana called, pulling on her nightgown 
and following him up the stairs and to their bedroom. 
"Are you insane?  What is wrong with you?"

He stared at her wordlessly, unable to get any sound 
out. "I'm sorry," he finally managed.

"What is wrong?  Why did you kick the door open?"

"I'm sorry."

"You are bleeding.  Your foot is bleeding.  Sit down 
and let me look-"

"Don't come near me," he hissed, backing away with 
the baby.

She followed, stepping toward him. "You called me 
Melly.  You have never done that before.  Not even in 
bed."

"I did not."

She nodded her head up and down.  Yes, he had. 

"You thought I would hurt her.  That is why you ask 
me all the time if I think Emily is all right." She 
paused, scrutinizing him. "Did Melissa hurt Samuel?"

"No," he said forcefully, finding his legs against 
the bed so he couldn't retreat farther.  He laid 
Emily down, fencing her in with pillows like they 
usually did.  When he turned around again, Dana was 
still standing in front of him.  Her nightgown had 
molded over her damp breasts and hips, and her wet 
hair hung down her back in blood red curls.  

"She did.  How did she die, Mr. Mulder?  What was the 
accident?"

"What. Do. You. Want!" he exploded, towering over 
her. 

"I want to help you."

"I don't want your Goddamn help!  And I don't need 
it!" He exhaled suddenly, then bit his lip and braced 
his hands on his hips. "I'm going to work," he 
decided.

That was Dana's cue to get out of his way, but she 
stepped even closer, staring up at him. "It is four 
in the morning.  You are not going to work.  What was 
the accident, Mr. Mulder?"

"Move, Dana.  You don't tell me what to do.  This 
isn't funny."

"What was the accident?"

"I'm warning you..."

"What was the accident?"

"The maid accidentally left my razor out and Melly 
accidentally slit her wrists!  There!  That's how she 
died!  She killed herself.  Because of me.  Is that 
what you wanted to know?" he screamed at her. 

He leaned against the bed, struggling to hold back 
tears. 

"Is that what you wanted to know, Dana?" he repeated 
hoarsely.

She continued staring at him, stunned.

"I will take Emily to the nursery," she said quietly, 
after a long pause. "And then I will bring a basin 
and some bandages and see about your foot.  Stay 
here."

He nodded, not looking up.  His blood pounded in his 
ears and his stomach churned.  It hurt to breathe, 
and he wished he would vomit and get it over with.

"Do you think I'm insane?" he muttered when she 
returned.

"No.  I told you: I think you are hurting." 

She put her candle on the nightstand, then guided him 
back so he was sitting on the mattress.  Instead of 
sitting, though, he laid down, hugging his arms 
tightly around his shivering body.  

"I need to see your foot," she urged him gently.

"I don't care.  Let it bleed.  Lie down, Dana."

For the first time since they'd been married, she 
hesitated. "Mr. Mulder... You are frightening me."

"No, just lie down."

She did, very slowly.  He scooted forward, putting 
his arms around her, burying his face in her wet 
hair, and closing his eyes, waiting until he was able 
to speak again.  

"When we were first married, before Sam came," he 
whispered to her, "Melly would sew shirts and send 
them to me at school because she was my wife and she 
thought that was her job: to keep me in shirts.  She 
must have sent a dozen, but they never fit.  The 
sleeves would be two different lengths or the whole 
shirt three sizes too big, but I couldn't bear to 
tell her.  So, I'd have a tailor near campus make 
copies that fit and wear those when I was home, and 
she never knew."

He tried to laugh at the memory and couldn't even 
come close. 

"And when Sam was five, on Christmas Eve, he 
announced he wanted a zebra for Christmas, so Melly 
and I spent half the night in the stable painting 
stripes on a horse with black shoe polish."

He shifted, huddling even closer to Dana in the 
darkness.

"She loved getting dressed up to go to the theater, 
but she never had any idea what was happening on 
stage, and she usually fell asleep against my 
shoulder before it was over.  During intermission, 
though, we'd look through our opera glasses at people 
and I'd make up what they were saying, and she'd 
laugh.  She loved me.  She adored me.  She thought I 
could do anything; fix anything.  She was wonderful, 
Dana.  And I couldn't save her."   

"You tried."

"I didn't try hard enough."

She rolled over, stroking his hair. "Close your eyes.  
It will be morning soon," she assured him. 

*~*~*~*

Aside from the throbbing pain behind his forehead, 
the taste of dirty socks in his mouth, and the oozing 
gash on his foot, he felt fairly good - outwardly.  
Inwardly, he was still hoping vomiting would help, 
but he knew it wouldn't.

Poppy eyed him as he hobbled into the kitchen wearing 
his tuxedo trousers and nothing else, unshaven and 
with his hair standing on end. "It must have been 
some night," she commented.

"It was.  Is there coffee?" he asked curtly.  He 
wasn't normally short with Poppy, but one difficult 
woman per morning was all he could handle, and he 
still had to face Dana after making a fool of 
himself.

She turned away, banging pots and pans, knowing each 
clash reverberated inside his skull.

Ignoring her, Mulder filled a pitcher from the stove 
reservoir and limped to the bathroom to shave and 
clean up.  When he returned, his coffee cup was 
steaming on the kitchen table beside a plate of fried 
eggs, the whites still runny.

She flashed him her sweetest, evilest smile.

"You're very funny," he grumbled, swallowing against 
the bile that rose in his throat.

"Does your limp have anything to do with the bathroom 
door having been forced open?  Or the trail of blood 
up the stairs?"

"Possibly.  I was drunk.  I don't remember."

She flipped two empty chairs around so they faced 
each other, gesturing for him to sit on one and prop 
his foot on the other. "Is that true?"

He could tell by her expression she already knew it 
wasn't.

"Possibly.  I was drunk.  I don't remember.  That's 
my story and I'm sticking to it."

She "hummed" in the back of her throat, leaning down 
and poking at the jagged cut on his heel.  He jerked 
away when she found a tender spot, and she pulled his 
foot back, frowning. 

"It hurts!"

"Of course it hurts," she responded. "It has a big 
splinter in it.  Don't kick doors open if you don't 
want your foot to hurt, Fox.  What happened?  Did you 
have an argument with her?"

Dana was always "her" or "Ma'am" or, if pressed, 
"Miss Dana."  Poppy would have died before she 
addressed Dana as "Mrs. Mulder."

"Her?"

"Her."

"She's not "her." She's my wife.  She's Emily's 
mother."

"And Samuel will be delighted she's his stepmother 
and was pregnant before his mother was even cold," 
she answered evenly.

He exhaled under the guise of cooling his coffee. 
"That was vulgar and uncalled for, Poppy.  Are you 
angry with me?  Why?  You and I can blame each other 
until Doomsday, but Melly's still gone, and I still 
have to live with what happened.  You act like I've 
forgotten and moved on when I haven't.  Like I'm 
being disloyal, somehow.  I care about Dana, but it's 
not the same at all."

"I know; I change the sheets.  Obviously, it's not 
the same at all."

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

She didn't answer, but her cheekbones stood out as 
she clenched her teeth. 

"Did you even give Dana a chance, or did you just 
automatically hate her, sight unseen, for not being 
Melly?"

Poppy stood quickly, dropping his foot on the wooden 
chair so he winced in pain. "I'm not discussing 
this."

"No, you started this," he retorted, forehead 
throbbing. "And we are discussing it.  Why do you 
hate Dana so much?  She's been nothing but kind to 
you, and you've barely been civil to her.  Is it 
because you can't dictate her every move?  Because 
she doesn't look to you to tell her what to say when 
someone asks 'How are you today, Mrs. Mulder?' She's 
not Melly.  She can think for herself."

He closed his mouth, picked up his coffee, then put 
it down again without drinking it.

Poppy stood, tilting her chin up defiantly. "You 
don't own me, Fox.  You can't tell me what to think.  
And I think you're making a fool of yourself over 
this girl."

"No, I don't own you, but you don't own me either.  
And I've had enough of this.  She's not a girl; she's 
my wife, whether you like it or not.  You may as well 
stop prissing around like a jilted mistress."

She grabbed her shawl and flung it around her 
shoulders, then picked up her basket and announced 
she was going to the market.  She marched out of the 
kitchen, slamming the back door after her. Mulder, 
King of Tact, laid his head on the table, sighing.  
That might not have been the most productive way to 
handle that situation.  

The coffee smelled nice, but the eggs were making his 
stomach turn, so he shoved the plate away in 
annoyance.  As the back gate banged shut, he heard 
his plate of undercooked eggs slide over the edge of 
the table and crash to the floor.

Grace perked up as the plate broke, then waddled over 
to lick the liquid yolks off the floorboards.  

"Glad I could brighten someone's life," Mulder 
muttered.
 
Grace wagged twice, licked his chops, then returned 
to his hideout behind the stove.

*~*~*~*

He tried to be quiet, but there wasn't much need; 
Dana would have slept through the burning of Rome.

He added a few logs to the fire so their bedroom was 
warm, then brought a basin of hot water upstairs and 
set it on the nightstand.  After some searching, 
Mulder found an unopened bar of floral-scented soap 
in the bathroom cupboard.  He added a washcloth and a 
stack of towels to his collection, poured some cream 
in the coffee he'd smelled but not tasted, and limped 
back up the steps.

She opened her eyes as he ran the washcloth over her 
belly, leaving a wet trail behind. "What are you 
doing now, Mr. Mulder?" she asked sleepily.  

"Making amends.  I interrupted your bath," he 
answered, "Good morning."

"Morning."
 
He wet the washcloth again, massaging it over her 
shoulders, neck, and breasts.  

"How is your foot?" she asked, but he shook his head, 
wanting her to be quiet.  It was his turn to take 
care of her.

Despite the fire, her nipples hardened and gooseflesh 
rose on her skin.  The water glistened on her skin, 
reflecting a kaleidoscope of colors.  Her hair was 
still damp, and had tangled into a dark red mass of 
curls, making her look wild and primal.  He squeezed 
the washcloth above her belly, watching the water 
stream over her hipbones and disappear between her 
thighs.

"Dana, you said I frightened you last night.  I 
didn't mean to.  I had too much to drink, had a bad 
dream, and when I woke, I overreacted.  I'm sorry," 
he said quietly. "It won't happen again."  

He'd rehearsed these lines, and hers was "apology 
accepted." Instead, she asked, "Why couldn't you tell 
me about Melissa?"

He stuttered, caught off-guard, "I- I don't know.  
Because it was my fault, maybe.  It's hard to talk 
about.  And I'd rather not talk about it.  I just 
wanted to apologize."

He leaned down to kiss her, but she turned her head 
away.

"How was it your fault?  Because of Poppy's baby?"

"Was that the consensus last night?"

"What is that?"

"A consensus?  When people are in agreement.  Was 
that what everyone was saying at dinner?  That Melly- 
That it was because Poppy was my mistress?"

"No, I have not heard anyone say that except you." 

He looked down, fiddling with the washcloth. "I told 
you: I'm not the father.  I have no idea who is, but 
I wasn't even in DC when the baby was conceived." 
There was silence, and he shifted uncomfortably. 
"Yes, Poppy is very beautiful, but so was Melly.  
I've never been unfaithful to my wife."

"I was not accusing you.  I was answering when you 
asked about a consensus."

"I know you weren't." 

He rinsed the washcloth, sloshing the soapy water 
over the sides of the basin.  There was a rusty smear 
of dried blood on the bottom sheet, and he dabbed it, 
realizing it was his. The blood on the sheet was his.  
The back of his brain tingled and an unexplained 
shiver ran down his spine.  He blinked in confusion, 
dabbed it again, then shook his head, clearing it.

"I kissed her," he finally said softly. "Once.  I was 
eighteen.  My parents came to Harvard for a visit and 
brought Sam and Melly, and things didn't... Things 
didn't go well between Melly and I that night.  I 
went to check on Sam, trying to cool off, and Poppy 
was with him, nursing him.  He was too old, but she 
still let him do it.  We talked for a while in the 
darkness and then, I don't know why, but I kissed 
her.  No, I do know why.  Anyway, I told her I was 
sorry and said it wouldn't happen again.  And it 
hasn't.  And it won't."

"Why?"

He slid each of his lips between his teeth, trying to 
formulate an answer since she obviously expected one.

"Why did I kiss her?"

"No, why did you stop?"

"Oh." That was an easier, less embarrassing question. 
"Poppy was Melly's father's slave. If she hadn't done 
what I wanted, I could have sent her back.  She knew 
that, and she would have done anything to keep away 
from him.  Including pretending she wanted me.  I 
couldn't ask her to do that."

"Was she Melissa's father's mistress?"

"Probably," he answered. "If you'd call it that.  She 
doesn't like to talk about it, but she had a 
stillborn son just before Sam came."

Dana put one hand behind her head, staring at him in 
confusion. "But she was Melissa's half-sister?"

He nodded.  He was learning there were upsides and 
downsides to being married to a bright, perceptive 
woman.   

"But-"

"I don't want to talk about it anymore," he said 
quickly. "I just wanted to tell you I was sorry for 
getting angry. I brought you coffee, if you want it."

He swirled the washcloth around the basin, watching 
the rough white fabric glide through the water. 

"All right."

"Do you want your coffee?"

"No."

He wrung the cloth out, then rinsed it again, 
splattering drops of soapy water across the richly 
polished wood of the nightstand.

"Mr. Mulder, it is all right," she repeated, sitting 
up.  When he still didn't look at her, she put her 
hand on his shoulder, then slid both arms around his 
neck. "It is okay," she whispered to him.     

"I guess I neglected to tell you a few things when I 
asked you to marry me."

She stroked his face, tracing his eyebrows and 
cheekbones with her thumbs as she tried to comfort 
him. "Well, you said you were not odd, which remains 
to be seen.  You said you had a temper and curse; you 
were headstrong and demanding.  You curled up and 
went to sleep when you drank.  You said you liked 
children.  You said you wanted me and cared for me 
and were not rough.  That was all true.  But I was 
relieved to find there were not bones in the house."

He pushed his eyebrows together, not sure he 
understood.

"You said there were skeletons in your closets."

He was probably being teased, but he wasn't certain. 
"That means there are secrets."

"Of course, I know that now," she responded, flicking 
her finger lightly against the tip of his nose.   

"What did I ever do to deserve you?"  

"Something very, very bad," she answered, pursing her 
lips in mock seriousness and looking like the lady-
friend he'd made in the Georgia swamps.  As much as 
he liked his new wife, he missed his friend.

"Dana, I also said, when I asked you to marry me, 
that I would take care of you and Emily.  Not the 
other way around."

"You have taken care of us.  Look around.  Could we 
possibly want for anything?"

"No, I don't mean with things.  I mean..." He searched 
for the right way to say it. "You're very strong, 
Dana.  You don't share your secrets or yourself 
casually.  I'm your husband, but sharing my bed isn't 
sharing yourself.  Sometimes one bed is as far apart 
as two people can get.  I know I get angry when you 
push me to talk, but I also know I need that push.  
But the more I push you, the more you pull away.  I 
guess what I'm trying to say is... Yes, you're right: 
I'm hurting, but I know you're hurting too.  You have 
to be, but you're so good at not showing it.  You 
said you'd tell me if you aren't all right, and I can 
only trust that you will.  And if I don't hear you 
the first time you tell me, please tap me on the 
shoulder and tell me again until I do.  I can be a 
little dense."

He ran out of air and ramblings, and paused to 
regroup. 

"Do you understand what I'm trying to say?"

She nodded that she did, leaning back on the pillows 
and looking like Aphrodite patiently waiting for 
Titian to paint her portrait.

"Do you really?  The fearless hero is supposed to 
come charging in on his white horse and save the 
damsel in distress.  Not the other way around."

"Mr. Mulder, I only let you save me in self-defense."

*~*~*~*
 
He slipped easily into a pleasant routine with Dana.  
As he'd written to Melly, it was a lesser love, but 
still quite nice, and several steps above being 
alone.  Gray autumn days blended into frigid winter 
nights, and 1865 went on as if life was real.

There was no sign of Sam, and the empty ache in his 
heart grew as the chances of his son coming home 
dwindled.  Dana asked about the carriage horses' 
names - D'Artagnan, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis - so, 
without thinking, Mulder started for Sam's bedroom to 
retrieve a copy of "The Three Musketeers." He stared 
at the door, and then turned away without touching 
the knob.

Lewis Carroll published "Alice's Adventures in 
Wonderland," and Mark Twain's short story "The 
Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County" was well 
received.  Mulder read both to Dana, and she 
listened, sitting beside the hearth as she sewed. 

Emily mastered rolling over, and started working on 
her crawling.  Her hair stayed blonde, her eyes blue, 
and strangers stopped calling her "him." People 
unfailingly said she looked like Mulder, but babies 
were like clouds: people saw what they wanted to.

A telegraph line linked India and Europe.  Messages 
could be telegraphed from London to Bombay in less 
then four minutes.  The Great Eastern, the ship 
they'd honeymooned on, prepared to leave New York to 
lay the first trans-Atlantic telegraph cable.  As the 
ship was refitted, a man's skeleton was found inside 
the hull.  The remains of the unfortunate steelworker 
were buried, and reports of mysterious tapping sounds 
below decks came to an end.
 
The Evening Star did what it was known for: it 
printed the truth about Washington's finest and 
foulest, which infuriated his Uncle Spender.  The 
very palms Spender was trying to grease were the same 
ones whose prints were all over the scandals and 
corruptions The Star reported.  At a party, his 
stepfather angrily observed Mulder spent more time in 
his wife than in his office, and was summarily told 
to go to Hell.

Congressman Thaddeus Stephens suggested the estates 
of former Confederate leaders be confiscated and 
divided into forty-acre plots for freed slaves.  A 
great deal of property was seized, a great deal of 
money was made, and very little of either made it to 
the ex-slaves.

Mulder paid the taxes on Waterston's plantation and 
transferred the title, ensuring Dori and Benjamin 
wouldn't be evicted.  Acting on Dana's behalf, he 
sold Waterston's other house in Savannah to the 
government, which had soldiers living there anyway, 
and put the money aside for Emily.  He also had her 
mail forwarded, and received two worn envelopes the 
Savannah post office had been holding. 

The first letter was from Waterston to Dana, which 
Mulder opened, read, then resealed and gave to her 
that evening.  It was the same sort of note most 
soldiers wrote - vague, optimistic - saying he loved 
and missed Dana and hoped to be home soon.  The war 
was going well, according to Waterston, and he 
mentioned having recently met Dana in Savannah.  That 
weekend had been "quite enjoyable, Puss," and, from 
the date on the postmark, had been about the time 
Emily had been conceived.  After the war, the letter 
must have sat in a forgotten mailbag until some 
Federal bureaucrat thought to forward it.  Dana 
opened it in front of Mulder, read it, moving her 
lips as she did, then put it away without comment.  
If she ever looked at it again, he didn't see her.

The other envelope was addressed to Dr. Daniel 
Waterston, Sr., care of the Confederate Army, and 
postmarked in New Orleans in April.  Mulder opened 
it, confirming his suspicions.  He'd told Dana men 
who kept placage mistresses usually had white wives.  
Dori was the mistress and Nina was the wife, writing 
to ask when her husband was coming home.  Mulder told 
Dana he was searching for Sam, but instead made a 
trip to the French Quarter.  When he knocked, a girl 
with long black braids answered the door, accompanied 
by teenage boy Mulder took to be Daniel Waterston, 
Jr.  Nina was a gracious, trusting Spanish matron who 
invited him in for tea when he said he was her 
husband's business associate.  Mulder declined tea, 
told Dana his trip had been fruitless, and locked 
Nina's letter in his desk without mentioning it to 
Dana.

Major Henry Witz, commandant of Andersonville Prison 
in Georgia, was hanged in DC.  Witz was the only 
Confederate executed by the US Government for war 
crimes, and the story made the front page of most 
newspapers, including The Evening Star.  It was 
estimated more Federal soldiers died in Andersonville 
of disease and starvation than in the battles of 
Gettysburg and Antietam combined.  13,000 graves were 
identified, but thousands more were unmarked.
 
At his mother's urging, they joined her at the opera 
for Rigoletto.  Dana wore a black dress trimmed with 
brown velvet ribbon and Mulder shielded his eyes, 
claiming its brightness blinded him.

He accidentally groaned "I love you" during 
intercourse, then told himself a man loved anything 
he had his cock that deep inside, and never mentioned 
it again.  He had no idea what Dana whispered to him, 
since she usually whispered it in Gaelic.  What 
sounded like sweet nothings in his ear could have 
been "hurry up and get this over with" or "get off my 
hair" for all he knew.  It still sounded nice.

Thirteenth Amendment, introduced before the Civil 
War, was ratified, making President Lincoln's 
Emancipation Proclamation into law.  Slavery was 
abolished as a legal institution in the United States 
and all its territories.  No provision was made for 
Negroes to vote, hold property, or be granted any 
privileges of US citizenship.

Six former Confederate officers in Pulaski, Tennessee 
formed the Ku Klux Klan.  Their invisible empire of 
vigilante justice and terrorism spread throughout the 
South like wildfire.

Ivan Sechenov published "Reflexes of the Brain," an 
article on the physiological basis of psychic 
phenomena.

One morning, just before Christmas, he woke Dana by 
crawling back into bed and whispering it was finally 
snowing outside.  They lie there for an hour, skin to 
skin underneath the covers, silent, and watched the 
white flakes drifting down.

"Do you think you're going to have a baby?" he 
finally asked, more exhaling sounds than whispering.  
Though he understood there was a causal relationship 
between sex and pregnancy, it hadn't occurred to him 
it might apply in this situation.  

"No, I think it was something I ate.  I feel better 
now."

"You're sure?" he asked. "You don't want me to get 
the doctor?"

"I am sure."

"Okay.  As long as you're all right." 

She laced her fingers through his and pulled his arms 
tight around her. "You wanted me to say yes." She 
said it as a statement, not a question, although he'd 
never mentioned another child. "You want another 
baby.  A son."

"No.  Not really.  I just want the son I have to come 
home."

*~*~*~* 

End: Paracelsus VI

***********************************

Begin - Paracelsus VII

*~*~*~*

Dear Melissa, 

There are people in this world who live moment by 
moment, never thinking beyond their next meal, 
dollar, or drink.  We call them simple and coarse, 
but sometimes I envy them.  Wouldn't it be wonderful 
to not know, and to not know that you did not know?

I can see the perplexed crease forming between your 
pretty eyebrows.  Don't make that face, honey.  It's 
just one of my "romantic notions," as Father called 
them.  Pay me no mind.

We wellborn gentlemen spend our lives scheming 
tomorrow, fighting the future, and I wonder if it 
does any good.  Some would say not.  Some would say 
fate is set the moment a baby first draws breath.  
There is no free will.  God choreographs destiny like 
an intricate ballet, and we are all his dancers.  
Please play along, Mr. Mulder; follow the program.

And some would say that is not true, that each life 
is a clean slate and a new roll of the dice.  That 
God sets the world in motion, then steps back and 
watches, hopeful, expectant, but does not interfere.  
There are infinite variables, infinite futures.  Each 
moment, we make choices - from choosing which cravat 
matches my vest to choosing which woman matches my 
soul - and those choices add up to a life.

And what do I think?  

Let me try to explain it this way: there is no new 
water in the world.  No more, and no less.  The same 
liquid in my glass has passed the lips of Julius 
Caesar, of Genghis Kahn, of Charlemagne, of Egyptian 
pharaohs and Druid priests and Chinese concubines and 
DC pickpockets.  Perhaps it is not an appetizing 
thought, but it is true.  Water - steam, liquid, ice 
- changes form, but it is eternal.

I think life is the same: the same elements reforming 
again and again.  Some bonds are strong, some are 
weak, but the elements do not change.  I feel an 
instinctive pull toward certain people, like iron 
shavings to a magnet.  You were one; Dana is another.

I have known Dana before; I swear it.  I am at ease 
with her, as though she has always known and kept my 
secrets. I watch her and wonder "Were you my mistress 
in some life?  My confidant?  How many nights have we 
shared that are now only dim memories?  Or am I 
feeling old urges from impulses never acted upon?  
Were you another man's wife I coveted, Dana?  A woman 
I could not have?  Who were you that my soul knows 
yours?"

I knew Sarah.  And you, Melly.  As much as I love 
you, it goes beyond that.  It was an instinct - to 
protect you.  My only explanation is that in some 
past lifetime, I tried to take care of you and 
failed, just as I failed in this one.

And sometimes the bonds are weaker, but still there.  
We passed a tall businessman on the street, his brown 
eyes behind his wire-rimmed spectacles intent on his 
newspaper and his long black topcoat fluttering from 
his broad shoulders, and I thought, "Do I know you?  
Have I known you?  Were we meant to stop, to speak, 
to become friends?  Or enemies?  Who are you that I 
should recognize you, and yet do not?" He glanced at 
Dana and I, nodded politely, and I nodded back, and 
then we walked on.  And, in this lifetime, the 
opportunity was lost.  

It frightens me.  One would think there were enough 
monsters and horrors in this lifetime that I wouldn't 
worry about others, but trust me to seek them out.

What did I do in the past that I lost you, Melly?  
Surely I wouldn't just walk by you on the street 
without stopping, but it is possible.  I am Fox 
Mulder - prone to stargazing, after all, and I doubt 
that is a new trait.  How many lifetimes have passed 
since we last met? One?  Ten?  Ten thousand?  When we 
meet again, will I recognize you?  When I feel that 
odd sensation of déjà vu in my belly, will I have the 
sense to heed it?  Or will I blame it on a bad bowl 
of clam chowder and walk on?

I think of the people I care for and chant to myself 
"do not forget, do not forget, do not forget." Did I 
do that in some past life?  As I drew my last breath, 
did I look at the face above mine and chant "do not 
forget?"  And if I did, who was it I wanted so badly 
to remember?

I recognized Dana.  My soul recognized hers, though 
she would laugh herself silly if I ever said that to 
her.

I am rambling, and boring you, I know.  Sarah would 
grab my ankle and jerk me back to Earth before I 
floated off to dreamland.  She would say I am 
rationalizing.  She would say I am not really talking 
about you or Dana or anyone else except Samuel.  She 
would say I am assuring myself I will see him in our 
next lifetime because I no longer believe I will see 
him again in this one.

There.  I wrote it in pen so I cannot erase.

I need to go now, honey.  There is a train leaving 
for Georgia at five and I need to be on it.  I will 
let you know what I find.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

His father had wanted him to be a soldier.  He never 
said those words, but the expectation was there.  
Bill Mulder had attended West Point, as had his 
father before him.  Their family fought in the French 
and Indian war, the American Revolution, the War of 
1812, the war with Mexico, and any other time someone 
demanded honor, bravery, and a sword or a musket.

No married man was admitted to West Point, nor could 
a cadet marry before he graduated - no exceptions.  
By marrying Melissa, or rather, by acknowledging his 
responsibility for her pregnancy and all the events 
that quickly followed, Mulder had forfeited his 
admission.  He'd graduated a year early and at the 
top of his class at Harvard, but it wasn't the same.  
He'd given his father a healthy grandson, a beautiful 
daughter-in-law, and built a successful, respectable 
business, but it wasn't the same.  

Unlike Southern soldiers, who enlisted or were 
drafted for the duration of the war, men in the North 
fought for set periods, some for only a few months.  
They could reenlist, but most didn't.  Most served 
their time, counted their blessings that they 
survived, and went home to their families. 

Mulder joined the cavalry when Lincoln called for 
soldiers April 1861 and, except for being wounded, 
two Christmases, and Melly's death, served 
continuously until May 1865, when the victorious 
Federal Army marched through Washington DC in the 
Grand Review.  He started the war as a captain and 
ended as a colonel with a collection of medals and 
commendations that would have made his father proud, 
had his father lived to see them.

In the fall of 1864, General Sherman captured 
Atlanta, quartered his 64,000 men there, then ordered 
the city to be burned as he left.  After Atlanta, he 
marched his army southeast toward Savannah and the 
Georgia coast, leveling everything in his path and 
cutting the Confederacy in two.  Total war; scorched 
earth. Destroy every factory, bridge, railroad, barn, 
and house.  Confiscate or destroy all livestock, 
cotton, and food.  Instead of attacking the enemy's 
army, decimate the population supplying the enemy's 
army.

It was a brilliant plan, but implementing it was 
nauseatingly real.  Most citizens fled as the Federal 
troops advanced, but a few on the outskirts of 
Atlanta refused to go, and it fell to Mulder's men to 
get them out.  Or to burn the roofs over their heads 
- General Sherman wasn't particular.  

"She won't leave, sir," his lieutenant informed him, 
raising his voice to be heard over the fires and the 
horses-drawn cannons and mortars rolling past.  The 
infantry was already miles away, but the soldiers 
were still moving the last of the artillery out of 
the city.  

The air was thick with smoke, stinging his eyes and 
blurring his vision.  They'd destroyed the last of 
the warehouses at the edge of town, and the flames 
spread quickly to the nearby wooden houses.  

"Tell her she doesn't have a choice," Mulder answered 
absently, watching the inferno.

None of it was real, anyway.  He'd returned to his 
regiment immediately after Melissa's funeral, and he 
registered the burning city the same way he 
registered coffee: it was hot.  Bitter.  Beyond that, 
he was still in shock.  He closed his eyes every so 
often, thinking the nightmare might be over when he 
opened them again.  

It never was.

"I've explained, sir.  She won't leave," the 
lieutenant repeated, coughing.  Mulder must have 
looked like he'd forgotten what they were discussing, 
because the young man added, "An old woman.  She says 
it's her home and she'd rather die than leave it."

"So let her," another of the officers muttered.

"Sir?" the lieutenant asked. 

"Oh, Goddamn it!" Mulder snapped in annoyance, 
swinging down from his saddle. "Where is she?"

His men indicated a modest yellow house at the end of 
the street, the paint on one side already blistering 
from the heat.

"Ma'am," he called, pounding on the front door, then 
pushing it open where there was no answer.  The 
interior was cluttered, fussy, and bathed in orange 
light from the flames outside the windows. 

"Ma'am!" He turned to the young soldier at his heels. 
"I thought you said she was in here.  Where is she?"

The lieutenant pointed to the stairs, and Mulder 
trudged up, cursing under his breath.

"Ma'am, you have to leave now," he said tiredly.  He 
reached the second floor, knocked, then stuck his 
head into the first room. "We'll escort you out of 
the city. We don't mean you any harm, but you have to 
leave.  We're-"

The gray-haired lady saw a Yankee in her bedroom and 
started screaming bloody murder.  Of course - that 
was just what he wanted to do today: rape an old 
woman.  It was on his list: mourn dead wife, worry 
about family, destroy city, rape elderly spinster.

"Ma'am, I'm not going to hurt you.  My men aren't 
going to hurt you, but you do have to leave.  You're 
not safe here.  Please come with me."

She clutched her shawl around her and jabbered 
unintelligibly, terrified.  For some reason, put a 
blue uniform on a man and southern women thought he 
forgot his manners.  Some men did, but most, like 
Mulder, just wanted to do their duty and go home to 
what remained of their lives.  They hadn't started 
this war, but they were charged with finishing it.

He offered his hand and she backed away, getting even 
more hysterical when he reached out to her.  He tried 
to take her by the arm and she kicked him in the 
shin, calling him a "dirty, yellow-bellied bastard," 
which was probably the foulest curse she knew. 

Mulder stared at her for a few seconds, hands on his 
hips, as flames consumed the neighboring house.  He 
tilted his head, debating, then picked her up and 
tossed her over his shoulder, carrying her down the 
stairs as she kicked and shrieked.  She bit his back 
in desperation, but she couldn't do more than bruise 
through his thick wool uniform.

By the time he reached the front porch, she'd gone 
limp, fainting in terror and thankfully removing her 
teeth from his flesh.  He stood at the edge of the 
street, watching the draft horses pulling the cannons 
out of the city, with her faded skirt fluttering 
against his arm and her bony pelvis cutting into his 
shoulder.  He'd lost his cap somewhere, and the waves 
of heat rustled his hair.  Sweat ran between his 
shoulder blades and his boots pinched, intended for 
riding, not walking.  The roof of a house across the 
street collapsed, sending smoke and sparks into the 
already opaque sky.  

He looked at the hellish blaze, and at the young, 
expectant faces of his men, who awaited his order to 
evacuate.  He didn't even know most of his soldiers' 
names anymore. Of his original thousand-man regiment, 
less than four hundred remained; the rest were new 
recruits or draftees.  

A wagon of wounded passed with a teenage soldier 
sitting at the back, watching his boots dangle as the 
wheels bumped through the ruts.  The boy raised his 
smoke-smudged face, staring at Mulder from underneath 
his long, black bangs.

"Sam?" he called incredulously. "My God!  Samuel?  Is 
that you?"

The handsome boy continued watching him, his gaze 
expressionless.  Mulder followed, dodging through the 
soldiers and artillery, and still carrying the 
unconscious woman over his shoulder.

"Sam, are you hurt?  What are you doing here?  Why 
aren't you with Grandfather?  He must be frantic.  
Did you run away?"

"Grandfather's dead," his son answered numbly.

Mulder stopped, stunned, and a group of officers 
reined their horses sharply to keep from running over 
him.

No, that wasn't real, either.

He got his feet to move again. "I want you to go 
home," Mulder ordered. "You aren't hurt, are you?"

Sam nodded "no."

"Who's your commanding officer?  I'll talk to him and 
he'll let you leave.  Just go home, Sam.  Everything 
will be fine."

Samuel stared through him, unseeing.

Before he could say anything else, there was a hiss 
nearby, then an explosion, and chaos erupted.  Horses 
panicked, throwing their riders or bolting away from 
their drivers.  Soldiers ran for cover as black smoke 
billowed and ash rained down.  Mulder coughed, waving 
his free hand, vainly trying to clear the air.  His 
nose and throat were coated with the peppery scent 
and taste of gunpowder; there must have been 
munitions hidden in one of the burning warehouses.

The huge wheel of one of the 1200-pound Napoleon 
cannons bumped his shoulder, forcing him aside. 

"Sam," he yelled, trying to see through the smoke. 
"Sammy!"

"We have to go, sir," one of his men yelled, and the 
weight of the old woman lifted from Mulder's 
shoulder. "Everyone's out, and the fire's spreading.  
I have her.  Let's go!  Sir?  I have her.  We have to 
go, sir!"

A private brought his horse, who wasn't happy about 
the flames, either.  Mulder stood in his stirrups, 
trying to see, and circling Shadow so he wouldn't 
bolt.  The wagon Samuel had been in was gone, but 
there were two more explosions in rapid succession.  
More gunpowder.  Barrels of it.  Panicking, drivers 
cut their horses' harnesses, mounted, and, leaving 
the last dozen or so cannons behind, made a run for 
it.

Assured Sam was out of harm's way, Mulder gave the 
order to evacuate, stopping his men when they'd 
reached a safe distance.  Behind them, Atlanta blazed 
like a volcano exploding into the night sky.

"There's a wagon of wounded with the artillery; find 
that wagon," he ordered as they caught up with the 
rear of the vast army. "There's a teenage boy in it 
named Samuel.  Bring him to me."

His captain wrinkled his forehead in disbelief. "The 
wounded left the city first thing, sir.  They weren't 
with the artillery."

"No, I just saw a wagon, and it was with the 
artillery.  Find it.  Find the boy.  Samuel Mulder."

But they never did. 

*~*~*~*

A warm hand jostled him, and then caressed his face 
as he woke.  The book of poems was still open on his 
chest, and the bedside lamp still glowed softly.  He 
must have fallen asleep reading.  Outside, the icy 
wind whistled against the eaves, making him shiver 
despite the blankets.

"You were having a bad dream," Dana whispered, 
soothing him. "A nightmare.  Calling for Samuel."

He nodded, trying to get his bearings and only 
partially succeeding.  He was awake, but he could 
still hear the fires crackling in the background.  
Dana was with him, so Melly was dead.  He wouldn't 
have to tell Melly he'd lost Sam.

"Tell me about your dream," she requested, leaning 
over him to blow out the lamp.

He shook his head forcefully, exhaling, and she 
didn't ask again.  

He rolled away, putting his back to her, and shifted 
restlessly until he finally got up.  Thinking she was 
asleep, he sat on the chaise lounge in front of the 
bedroom window, arms around his knees, and stared out 
the dark window.  The wind blew the sleet against the 
glass panes, making insistent little tapping sounds 
as though desperate to be let in.

Almost immediately, Dana got up and followed to him.  
She rested her hand on his shoulder, acting as though 
there was nothing unusual in him sitting nude by the 
window in the middle of the night.

"You will find him," she said quietly. "Wherever he 
is, whatever has happened..."

He didn't answer.  It was worse late at night, just 
before dawn.  His imagination got the better of him, 
and there was so much darkness to sift through with 
so little reason.  

"He won't come home tonight," Mulder decided, 
watching the waves of sleet thoughtfully. "It's too 
cold.  He'll stay someplace warm."

"No, I do not think he will come tonight.  Come back 
to bed."

"I should keep watch," he answered as though that 
made any sense. "Just in case."

"No, come to bed. He knows the way," she assured him.

She took his hand, finally getting him to move.  When 
they reached the bed, he stood still, the smoky haze 
of his dream still clouding his mind.

Dana traced her fingertips across his shoulders and 
down his arms, barely touching, and brushed her lips 
over his throat, across his collarbone, then to his 
chest, teasing his nipple with her teeth and tongue.  
His body reacted automatically, shifting from the 
physiological, watchful arousal of his dream to 
sexual arousal.

"...don't have to do this," he whispered to her. 

"It is all right," she murmured, guiding him back 
onto the mattress and gently working her way down his 
body with her mouth.

"No, lie back." 

As much as he'd discovered he liked fellatio, he 
wanted to be as close to her as possible.  He wanted 
to feel every inch of her skin against his.  Not just 
her mouth, but her arms around him, breath against 
him, her heart pressing against his. 

"You're... I care," he whispered through clenched 
teeth, sliding inside her.  She was slick from 
earlier, but less aroused than he, and what was a 
deliciously tight sensation for him was uncomfortable 
for her.  He waited, panting, giving her body time to 
adjust to his. "For you.  I do.  You know that, don't 
you?"

It was suddenly very important to him she understood 
how grateful he was.  To her.  For her.  Not only for 
marrying him, but for being his friend.  Not even 
really for sex, but for being there, however she 
could, when he needed her.  She made his world 
comfortable, bearable: two places at the dinner 
table, four legs in a warm bed, and one more chance.

"I know," she whispered back, relaxing into the 
pillows and letting him not think inside her.  
Suddenly, mercifully, his universe was between her 
thighs, and there was nothing else.
 
*~*~*~* 

He paused on the back porch, watching through the 
window before he entered.  Dana sat at the kitchen 
table, and the cook stood at the stove, stirring the 
stockpot as they talked.  It was chicken, simmering 
harmoniously with onions, carrots, and celery; the 
aroma was so thick Mulder could taste it.  Grace was 
on alert, watching for spills.  Holding onto Dana's 
skirt, Emily pulled herself up to standing, clutching 
the fabric tightly with her little fists.  She let 
go, considered taking a step on her own, then decided 
against it and grabbed hold again.  Dana put one hand 
on her daughter's back, rubbing affectionately.  
 
As he opened the back door, the two women and Grace 
blinked in surprise.  They hadn't expected him for 
another hour at the earliest.  Delighted, Emily 
flopped back on her padded bottom and raised her 
arms, babbling for "Dah-dah-dah-dah." 

"Upstairs," he ordered Dana, scooped Emily up, then 
walked on without looking back.  He heard the cook 
tap her spoon sharply on the edge of the pot in 
disapproval, and Dana's chair squeak against the 
floor as she stood.

"You are early," Dana said uncertainly, trotting up 
the steps after him. "Are you all right? Is something 
wrong?"

He held the bedroom door open, then closed and locked 
it after her.

Dana swallowed at the latch slid into place, then 
watched warily as he paced the length of their 
bedroom, carrying Emily with him.

"What is wrong, Mr. Mulder?" she asked again, her 
voice softer. "What has happened?"

"I'm taking a trip.  Pack my things.  No suits - 
rough clothes: boots, denim trousers, work shirts.  
My train leaves in an hour."

"All- All right," she answered apprehensively. 
"Another trip.  Would you rather Poppy-"

"I want you to do it.  I'll tell Poppy I'm going to 
New York on business.  Don't tell her differently 
until I return."

Dana took a leather satchel from the wardrobe and set 
it on the dresser, then began filling it efficiently.  
Normally, she'd have objected to being ordered around 
like a servant, but this time she didn't.  As much as 
she knew when to push him, she also knew when not to 
push.

"Cotton," he told her as she opened a dresser drawer. 
"Not wool.  I'll be in Georgia.  It's already spring 
there."

She paused, waiting for an explanation, then 
continued packing. 

"Where in Georgia?" she finally asked.

"Andersonville.  It was a P.O.W. camp during the 
war."

"Do you think you have found Samuel?  Or are you 
looking?"

"I think I've found a William Samuels.  Private.  Age 
thirteen.  He was a prisoner at the camp.  Captured 
by Confederate scouts September 10th ..." Mulder took a 
few breaths before he added, "And died November 15, 
1864.  Typhoid."

She stopped folding a shirt, staring at him. "You 
told me you saw Samuel in Atlanta with General 
Sherman's men."

"I saw him leaving the city with our army.  November 
15, 1864."

"Then this William Samuels could not be your son.  He 
could not have been at Andersonville.  That is not 
possible.  How could he be in two places at the same 
time?"

"Sam said my father had died.  I heard him.  I was 
yelling at him to go home to his grandfather, and he 
said 'Grandfather's dead.' He said it.  Very clearly.  
I know what I heard."

She shook her head, not understanding.

"He said it November 15, 1864.  My father died during 
the siege of Richmond.  April 1, 1865.  Almost five 
months later, Dana.  Father was alive when our army 
left Atlanta."

"I don't-"

"Maybe I didn't see my son, Dana.  Maybe I saw a 
ghost.  A doppelganger.  A death omen.  Maybe Sam 
died in Andersonville that night.  I wrote to Clara 
Barton, the nurse who sorted through the prison's 
records - just to make sure - and she telegraphed 
back that there was a William Samuels on the death 
roster."

He pulled the telegram out of his pocket, thrusting 
it at her like the words were somehow her fault.

"Miss Barton offered her condolences," he added 
evenly, fastening the only half-packed satchel with 
one hand and holding Emily on his hip with the other. 
"My regiment rode right past Andersonville.  We were 
twenty miles away, but we never stopped.  We were too 
intent on capturing Atlanta.  Miss Barton's 
condolences make me feel so much better right now."

Dana bit her lower lip. "Do you want me to go with 
you?  Let me pack some things for Emily and we will 
go with you."

He shook his head tersely. "No, stay here.  Take care 
of Emmy.  Here - take her.  And don't tell Poppy 
until I know for certain.  I'll be home in a week.  
Maybe sooner."

"How will you be certain?"

"We're opening the grave.  Miss Barton has located 
it, and I already wired the judge, asking permission.  
The judge was a friend of my father's; he'll grant 
it.  I need to go, Dana."

"My God! Listen to yourself! Do not do this to 
yourself.  Even if-"

"I'll be home in a week," he repeated, walking out of 
their bedroom without looking back.
 
*~*~*~*

Although he'd rather she hadn't, Poppy met him in the 
front hall before the Hansom cab was out of the 
driveway, taking his hat and satchel and asking about 
his business trip.  

He didn't respond except to ask, "Where's Dana?"

"In the nursery.  She-"

Mulder held up his hand, not interested in her litany 
of all the things she believed Dana had done wrong in 
the last five days.  Poppy always had a long list of 
grievances against Dana, 99% of which boiled down to 
Dana not being Melly.

"Are you hungry?" Poppy called as he trudged up the 
stairs. "Fox?"

He shook his head and kept walking. 

The nursery door was open, and Dana was just putting 
Emily down for her afternoon nap.  He leaned against 
the doorframe, watching them.  When Dana looked up, 
he turned away, continuing to their bedroom.

He sat heavily on the sofa, elbows on his knees, head 
hanging tiredly, fingertips pressed against his 
forehead.  He felt beaten.  Empty.  If keeping his 
heart and lungs pumping had required effort, he 
couldn't have managed it.

He heard Dana enter and close the door behind her. 
"Please go away," he requested, not raising his head.

"What did you find?  Was it- In Andersonville, did 
you..."
 
"I found a dead body.  What do you think I'd find - 
the Holy Grail?  Go away, Dana."

He'd handled it all so well: supervising the 
excavation, watching the undertaker examine the 
decomposed corpse of a teenage boy.  Andersonville 
Prison was now Andersonville National Cemetery, so 
he'd chosen a proper coffin instead of the sheet the 
body had been wrapped in, and had a minister preside 
at the burial, re-interring the body among the 
endless rows of stark white headstones.  Afterward, 
he'd calmly caught the train back to DC.  He'd even 
bought a newspaper at one stop and held it open in 
front of him as the hours passed, because that was 
what businessmen did on trains.  He couldn't remember 
one word that had been in it.
 
"Was it Samuel?"

"Why do you care?  It's not your son."

"I care because he is your son."

Ashamed of himself, he didn't respond, and there was 
a long silence as he stared at the floor. He massaged 
his forehead, trying to get his headache to subside.  
If he pressed his fingers against his eyelids, he saw 
orange and red and black swirling patterns, like 
watching flames at night.  It hurt, but at least it 
felt like something.

"Sit back," Dana's voice asked softly. "I will help 
you undress and you can lie down.  You will be more 
comfortable.  You can rest."

"For God's sake!  Goddamn it, I don't need your help!  
Stop pestering me and go a-" He glanced at her, 
seeing the compassion in her eyes. "Dana, I'm sorry."

"No, I am sorry.  I am."

She knelt on the floor in front of him, unbuttoning 
his vest and shirt.  As she pushed the wrinkled 
fabric back from his shoulders, there was a soft 
knock at the bedroom door and Poppy entered, asking 
if he was all right.

"He will be," Dana answered, unbuttoning his cuffs 
and stripping off his sleeves so he was bare from the 
waist up.  He moved like a sleepy child, only 
minimally cooperative. "Poppy, you can leave for the 
day.  Everyone can.  Please tell them.  We'd like to 
be alone this evening."

Poppy stepped into the bedroom like she belonged 
there, ignoring Dana. "Fox?  What's wrong?  What's 
happened?"

"Poppy, go home," Dana repeated sternly. 

"Something's wrong.  He needs me."

"I'm okay," Mulder mumbled, his voice sounding 
foreign to him. "Dana will take care of me."

Poppy shook her head. "No, I'll make coffee and-" 

"He's not your husband, and he doesn't need you.  Now 
do what he told you: get out of our bedroom, take 
your daughter, and go home!" Dana snapped. "Now."

There was a pause, then the bedroom door closed, and 
Poppy's quick footsteps faded away down the hall.

"She's going to put one of her VooDoo spells on you," 
he warned tiredly, filling silence.

"If VooDoo worked, you would be in love with her ten 
times over," she responded crisply.
 
He tried to chuckle, failed, and bit his trembling 
lower lip as the dam around his heart began to crack. 
"It's not him, Dana," he mumbled. "It's not."

"It was not Samuel?"

He shook his head slowly. "It's not," he repeated, 
biting his lip harder as his nose began to drip. 
"Blond hair.  Not Sam.  Not my boy." 

"Oh, thank God."

He shook his head again, his chin trembling 
uncontrollably. "Not my Sammy.  He's somebody's boy, 
but not mine.  Mine's still out there somewhere."

He looked up, his face crumpling and tears beginning 
to well up in the corners of his eyes.  

"Please go away," he repeated miserably, but she 
wouldn't.  As shameful as crying was, it was even 
worse to do it in front of a woman.  And as angry as 
it made him, he couldn't stop. 

"I am sorry," she whispered again.

Dana tried to wipe his cheeks, but he jerked away.  
He wanted to shout at her that she didn't understand, 
that she wasn't sorry because she didn't know what he 
felt, but she knew exactly what he felt.

"Would it be easier if it had been him?" she asked 
quietly. "Is that what bothers you?  That you almost 
wanted it to be Samuel?  As awful as it would have 
been, it would at have been an answer?  It would have 
been over?"

He nodded, swallowed, swallowed again, then started 
to sob in earnest, leaning forward again and covering 
his head with both hands, as though trying to shield 
himself from stones being hurled at him.  She slid 
him awkwardly from the sofa to the floor, holding him 
as he cried.  She stroked his hair, whispering to him 
like he was a child, and ignoring him every time he 
stopped sobbing long enough to yell at her to go 
away.

Eventually, his protests dwindled to weak sobs that 
soaked through the shoulder of her dress, were 
absorbed into her skin, and went no farther.  She 
kept his secrets.    

"I just paid for a funeral for someone else's son," 
he mumbled, raising his face and squinting at the 
yellow light streaming through their bedroom window. 
"Flowers, a minister, a coffin, everything.  How 
foolish is that?"

Her fingers continued stroking his hair.

"There are others.  Four hundred and sixty other 
graves, so far.  The ones Miss Barton couldn't 
identify - their headstones just say 'unknown Union 
soldier.' He might be one of them, but I couldn't 
check."

"Mr. Mulder, please tell me you did not ask the judge 
for permission to excavate four hundred and sixty 
graves.  No, never mind.  Of course you did."

"One of them could be Sam."

"So let one of them be.  Please.  Choose a grave and 
mourn it, but stop doing this to yourself.  He is not 
coming back.  You know that.  You would never have 
married me if you truly believed he was coming home.  
He is in God's hands now, not yours.  Stop holding 
onto a ghost and let him be at peace.  Let yourself 
be at peace."

His temper kindled, but was snuffed out again for 
lack of fuel.  She was the first person who'd had the 
courage to say those words to him: "He's not coming 
back."

"Miss Barton's setting up an office in DC.  People 
can send her information about missing soldiers and 
she'll try to match those names with death records, 
casualty lists...  I told her I'd pay the rent on her 
office.  And that, as she compiles them, I'll print 
her lists of the dead in the paper, free of charge."
 
He didn't know why he was telling Dana.  He was a 
grown man and it was his money.  He could do what he 
liked with it.  He didn't need her permission.

"Miss Barton will tell you only if she is sure she 
has found Samuel?  Only if she is certain?  She will 
not send you off on more wild goose chases?"

He nodded tiredly, and then let his head fall back 
and rest on the sofa cushions so he stared at the 
ceiling. He closed his eyelids over his throbbing 
eyes, listening to his heartbeat deep inside his 
ears.  The sound was hypnotic, lulling him like the 
ocean, and he obeyed mindlessly as Dana had him crawl 
up on the sofa and stretch out.  She pulled off his 
boots, put a cool, wet cloth on his forehead, covered 
him with a blanket, and let him sleep.  When he woke, 
the bedroom was dark, and Dana and Emily were asleep 
on the bed.  He shucked his trousers off and joined 
them, pulling them close so they couldn't get away.

*~*~*~*

He passed the florist's shop every day, but the next 
morning, for the first time in ages, he stopped.  
While Melly had adored getting flowers, he'd thought 
Dana might find it silly, especially from him.

"Pink roses, Mr. Mulder?" the florist asked as he 
stepped inside, recalling his usual order.  He'd once 
been a very good customer.

"White," he decided, and took the card and pen the 
man offered.  "To my house, please."

For Melly, he'd always written "I love you" and 
signed his name.  Not overly imaginative, but she'd 
never read the message, anyway.  For Dana, though, he 
looked at the blank card uncertainly, then once again 
fell back on Whitman, paraphrasing:

"Silence, the flippant expression, the darkness, the 
accustomed routine - if these conceal me from others 
or from myself, they do not conceal me from you.  
Underneath them and within them, you see me lurk.  I 
whisper with my lips close to your ear, 'I have cared 
for others, but I care for none better than you.' M."

The florist stood ready to blot the ink, assuring him 
the roses would be delivered within the hour.

"Are you finished with the card, sir?"

Mulder hummed thoughtfully, holding it in midair and 
considering.  He read it again, analyzing all the 
possible interpretations.  He didn't mind people 
laughing at him, but he minded looking foolish in 
front of Dana.  A simple "Thank you.  I'm sorry.  M." 
would have sufficed and been much safer.

"Sir, is there an error?  Did you want to rewrite 
it?"

"No," he answered, laying the card on the counter.

*~*~*~*

Mulder was the product of the highest class of a 
rigidly stratified society, and he shared many of its 
beliefs: the sacredness of marriage and family; honor 
above all else; duty to God and country.  What he 
lacked was polite hypocrisy.  He seldom set out to 
turn the world on its ear, but he often seemed to.  
He was a truth-teller in a culture that didn't like 
being confronted with the truth. Women didn't have 
"legs," they had "limbs," and menus listed chicken 
"bosoms" instead of "breasts." And where babies came 
from, no one seemed to know - apparently there was a 
pandemic of virgin births.

When confronted with a logical, intelligent argument, 
he was willing to listen, and that was what had his 
stepfather's drawers in a twist this morning: The 
Evening Star had printed an editorial by a woman 
writer, under the woman writer's name.  Not a 
ladylike piece on fashion, or a florid, laughable 
serial romance, but an editorial on women's suffrage.  
Congress was rumbling about an amendment giving ex-
slaves the right to vote - male ex-slaves, not 
females, and Mrs. Elizabeth Cady Stanton had taken 
issue with that.  Mulder was lukewarm on women 
voting, but he'd thought she made a good argument, 
and had printed her article.

And somehow that had become his Uncle Spender's 
business.

Mulder propped his elbow on his desk, his chin on his 
elbow, and tried to look interested instead of 
amused.  The editorial had run the day Mulder left 
for Andersonville, so the tirade was pointless.  It 
was almost a week too late to stop the presses. There 
was a stack of potential articles and invoices and 
correspondence three inches high on his desk, and he 
itched to sort through it as he pretended to listen.

Spender had worked himself into a tizzy, pacing and 
sputtering about propriety and decency until little 
specks of saliva formed in the corners of his mouth.  

"Are you listening?" Spender demanded.

"Yes, I'm single-handedly destroying the most sacred 
foundations of our society.  Debasing the holy 
bastions of motherhood and femininity.  Disgracing my 
family.  Angels are weeping.  Please go on."

Spender continued his rant, not catching Mulder's 
sarcasm.

Starting to get bored, Mulder tilted his head to see 
out his office door, looking for something that might 
require his immediate attention.  As luck would have 
it, there was.  His secretary was approaching, and 
Mulder gave him his plaintive, rescue-me look.

"Mr. Mulder, your wife is here."

"Oh," he answered, playing along. "Thank you.  Make 
her comfortable and I'll be right out.  Uncle, if 
you'll excuse me..." Mulder stood, walked around his 
desk, and headed for the door. "We can continue this 
another time."

"I'll wait."

Mulder exhaled in annoyance.  He needed his office; 
he had a week's worth of work waiting for him.  He 
stood in the lobby, hands on his hips, trying to 
think what he was going to do.  To his surprise, he 
saw his secretary talking with Dana, taking her coat 
and gesturing for her to sit down on the bench near 
the front door.

"Dana?" he said, quickly crossing the busy lobby. "Is 
everything all right?  My God, what's wrong?  Is Emmy 
all right?"  

She only been to his office the one time, and it 
wasn't like her to just appear for no reason.  Unlike 
Melly, Dana didn't often have a crisis, and when she 
did, she handled it and told him about it afterward.
   
"Emily is fine.  Everything is fine.  I just wanted 
to talk to you."

"All right."

"In private," she requested, looking at the people 
milling past.

"All right," he repeated, starting to get nervous.  
If she was angry enough to come to the office, he was 
in trouble.  Then he remembered the roses - and the 
note - he'd sent a few hours earlier, and his collar 
started getting tight.

Byers' office was vacant, so he guided her inside and 
closed the door, then waited, trying to look 
nonchalant.   

"All right; I'm listening," he said impatiently.  
There was a handful of loose metal type on Byers' 
desk and he fiddled with it, rearranging the letters.

"You are not listening.  You look like the rancher is 
castrating the bull calves, and you are the next one 
waiting in the pen."

"You never learned the English word for 'consensus' 
but you learned 'castrating'?" he observed, shifting 
his hips as he leaned back against the edge of the 
desk. 

"You are busy.  I am sorry.  I should not have come.  
We can talk later."

"Dana, you're already here. Yes, I'm busy, but it's 
obviously important.  What is it you want to talk 
about?"

Aside from him making a giant blubbering fool of 
himself the previous afternoon.  And acting on 
whatever romantic notion had seized him that morning. 
Castrate was the proper word: he should get her a 
little velvet case to keep his testicles in since he 
obviously wasn't using them.

"No, we can talk later."

"No, we can talk now," he responded, annoyed with the 
butterflies in his stomach. "Whatever's on your mind, 
I'd like for you to just say it.  And I'll apologize, 
say I don't know what I was thinking, promise it 
won't happen again, and that will be that."

"I am going to have a baby."

"Oh," he exhaled, then moved his lips silently a few 
more times.  His knees felt weak, so he sat on the 
top of Byers' desk, staring at her in wonder. "Not 
another bad bowl of Harvey's chowder?" 
  
"We have not had dinner at Harvey's Restaurant in 
months."

"Yes, of course I know that.  What I mean is, are you 
certain?"

"I just saw the doctor.  Yes, I am certain."

"Oh," he said again, a broad smile spreading across 
his face as her news sunk in. "Oh my God.  You're 
going to have a baby.  We're going to have a baby.  
My God - sit down." He hopped down from the desk and 
shoved a stack of files off a wooden chair, offering 
it to her. "How far?"

"About two months."

"Two months - that's, that's a winter baby.  Early 
next winter.  Christmas.  Sit down, Dana."

"I do not need to sit down.  I feel fine."

"Sit down.  Make me feel better.  I don't feel fine."

She sat down, smoothing her skirt and then looking at 
him like babies were a perfectly normal part of life.  
No matter how many times a woman conveyed those words 
to him - Melly in tears, terrified with Samuel, then 
euphoric when she'd written to him years later, and 
then now - the news was still awe-inspiring.  The 
miracle of it: what flesh, love, and God could 
create.

"You're certain?" he asked again.

"Yes, I am certain."

He stared at her like she might look differently than 
she had a few hours earlier.  They - he and Dana - 
were going to have a child together.  They had Emily, 
but this time he'd been present at the conception 
instead of just the birth.  It was real.  They - he 
and Dana - were real.  Suddenly, he was playing poker 
with real money instead of buttons, and he'd better 
not be bluffing.  Dana tended to call his hand.

"I'm taking you home," he announced. "So you can 
rest.  Let me find Byers and I'll borrow his buggy."

"I am not tired. And I took the streetcar. I thought 
I would go on to the market.  There is no need-"

"You're not taking the streetcar home.  What if your 
skirt gets caught in the wheels? And you're certainly 
not going to the market.  Everyone pushing, jostling 
around..." He paused, thinking. "Would it be 
unreasonable if I carried you to the door?"

Her mouth twitched as she tried not to laugh at him. 
"Are you going to be like this for the next seven 
months?"

"Oh no, I am going to get much worse."
 
*~*~*~*

Unlike most wealthy families, they didn't have a huge 
domestic staff, and the servants they had were 
trusted, discreet, and went home at night.  Poppy ran 
the house with the assistance of a few maids, a cook, 
and a gardener.  Emily had a nursemaid, but between 
Poppy, Dana, and Mulder, the woman seldom had much to 
do aside from laundering diapers.  There was a groom 
and a few stable boys who served double-duty as house 
and errand boys when necessary, but not the legions 
of servants most households thought they required.  
Less people around had meant less people to explain 
Melissa's behavior to, but also suited Mulder's 
reclusive personality.  It made the house seem 
intimate, as though a family lived there rather than 
a stage production.

"Bas bleu," he teased Dana, who was curled up in the 
library with her nose in some magazine. "Blue 
stocking," he translated when she glanced up.

Dana looked down at her white silk stocking feet, 
only her toes peeking out from under the afghan.  She 
pondered briefly, then went back to reading. 

"A literary woman," he explained, and she "um-hummed" 
him. 

Emily was tired and fussy, so he sank into the 
upholstered leather chair beside Dana's, settled 
Emily against his chest, and propped his sock feet up 
to the fire.  They usually went to his mother's on 
Sunday, but it was raining and Emily already had a 
cold. Dana wasn't showing yet, nor had they announced 
her pregnancy, but ladies in the family way avoided 
being seen in public.  And Mulder needed time to 
relax.  It had been an eventful week, to put it 
mildly.

Alone in the house, they'd had pancakes for 
breakfast, then, knowing when they were on to a good 
thing, again for lunch.  He'd managed an old shirt 
and trousers, but Dana got no further than putting a 
dressing gown on over her underclothes.  Propriety be 
damned: this level of sloth was so wonderful it was 
probably a sin.

"E-p-i-d-e-m-i-c," she spelled, her forehead 
wrinkling. 

"Epidemic," he answered. "A plague; when many people 
are sick.  Or, it might mean something widely popular 
that the writer doesn't approve of.  For example, we 
saw an epidemic of ugly little hats in Savannah."

She nodded, toying with her braid as she 
concentrated.  Dana must have spoken some English as 
a girl; her accent was noticeable, but it veiled her 
words rather than masked them. She hadn't been taught 
to read it, though.  She'd probably finished sixth 
grade, eighth grade, maybe, if her parents valued 
education, and learned to read and write in Gaelic.

"Do you want me to read it to you?" he offered.

"No, I want to," she mumbled, not really listening.  
He watched her lips move as she tried to sound out a 
word, then asked, "What is put-re-faction?"

"Spell it." When she did, he answered, "Putrefaction.  
To decay.  Rot.  Maybe to pollute or spoil."

She nodded again. "And p-r-o-p-h-y-l-a-x-i-s?" 

"Prophylaxis," he said slowly. "It means to prevent.  
A preventative, as in 'prophylactic.' It's an, um...  
For when...  If, uh...  Well, never mind, but it's a 
little late for it now.  What in the world are you 
reading?" He leaned sideways, looking over her 
shoulder, relieved, but puzzled. "Is that my 
Scientific American?  The Treatment of Cholera?  Why 
do you have that?"

She clutched the journal as if she expected him to 
snatch it from her. "Because I want to read it.  You 
said you had finished with it."    

"All right, Miss Difficult. I was expecting Godey's 
Lady's Journal, but read whatever you like.  I'm just 
wondering why you find cholera, of all things, so 
engrossing."

"It killed my sister."

Emily coughed, then went back to sucking her thumb.  
Her eyelids grew heavier with each blink.  He rubbed 
her back, watching Dana out of the corner of his eye. 

"I didn't know you had a sister."

She buried her nose in the journal again, pretending 
she hadn't heard him. "She died," she responded when 
he continued to look at her questioningly. "Of 
cholera.  I was seventeen; she was twenty."

"What was her name?"

"Melissa."

He exhaled, making a sound between an amused snort 
and a wistful sigh. "Melly?"

"Missy."  
 
He waited, but she didn't seem inclined to discuss 
it.  Asking would be a waste of breath, so he left 
one hand on Emily's back and picked up his newspaper 
with the other.

"Dr. Waterston asked her to marry him," she added 
several minutes later, as though it was information 
she'd just recalled.

He lowered the paper, turning his head toward her. 
"And when she died, he asked you," he guessed softly.

"Yes."

"It must have seemed like an excellent match to your 
parents: a newly-come, working-class Irish girl 
marrying a wealthy American doctor.  They would have 
been delighted.  They might have even pushed their 
daughter, if she was hesitant.  Society ostracizes 
immigrants, so how fortunate not one, but both of 
their pretty daughters would find a gentleman who 
wanted to marry for love.  And once the marriage is 
done, there is no going back."

"You are a gentleman." 

"But I am also a freethinker, and my blue-blooded 
ancestors are still scratching their heads and 
wondering where I came from.  I print what I want, I 
marry whom I want, and I live with the consequences."

She digested that, then stared straight ahead as she 
asked, "You wanted Sarah, but married Melissa.  Did 
you feel cheated you did not get your first choice?"

"No," he answered immediately. "No, I never felt 
Melissa was just a substitute for her sister.  Nor do 
I feel you're a substitute for Melly. I care for each 
of you, but in different ways."

"Oh," she said, finished discussing the topic.  
 
"It wouldn't have been different if he'd married your 
sister."

She shrugged and went back to reading.

"No, Dana, listen to me.  It would not have been 
different.  He would not have been different.  Not 
with you, not with your sister, or Dori, or any other 
woman.  When a man isn't content with himself, no 
woman can make him content, no matter how hard she 
tries.  He'll keep searching for one who can and 
wondering why he cannot find her."
  
Emily yawned and surrendered to her nap, warm and 
heavy and safe against his chest.      
 
He waited, but Dana continued to stare at her 
magazine.  Her lips and eyes weren't moving, though; 
she wasn't really reading.

"Yes, men are men.  Our heads are easily turned, but 
not our hearts, and we know the difference. At least, 
most of us know the difference.  Waterston didn't 
understand that peace is not between a woman's legs," 
he said pointedly, "It's between his ears and within 
his heart. He was looking in the wrong place."

There was still no response.  He couldn't tell that 
she was even listening to his diatribe, or whether he 
was soothing or upsetting her. He gave up and carried 
Emily to the nursery, putting her down in her crib.  
One of her cheeks was red from being pressed against 
his shirt, and he stroked it, watching her sleep.

"I care for you as well," Dana said from the doorway, 
startling him.  He hadn't heard her come up the 
stairs. "I am just not good at saying it."

He left the nursery door open a few inches, and 
followed Dana down the hall to their bedroom.  She 
slipped off her robe, draping it over the end of the 
bed, then crawled under the covers in her chemise and 
pantalets, giving him a nice view as she did.  Split-
crotch pantalets: a God-given boon to mankind.

"How is Harvey doing in there?" he asked, laying down 
beside her and putting his hand on her flat abdomen.

"Fine.  He liked the pancakes." She put her hand over 
his and looked thoughtful. "But he hates his 
nickname.  He says his father is very strange."

He snuggled against her, holding her close. "When did 
you know?" he asked. "When did you realize you 
cared?"

She thought for a while before she answered, "When 
you told me how Samuel loved splashing through mud 
puddles in the buggy.  You said when he was six, he 
would watch for them and then you would drive through 
them as fast as you could.  It was a game for the two 
of you, and after a while, you did it so much the 
horse-" 
 
"Porthos."

"Yes, Porthos would automatically bolt and run 
through puddles whether you told him to or not.  You 
said that long after Samuel outgrew the game, Porthos 
still did it."

"He still does it; that's why I keep blinders on him. 
He's not a bright animal."

"Watching you talk about Samuel with that look of 
love and pride in your eyes... I did not know who you 
were, or what you were doing in my kitchen, but I 
knew you had to be someone special.  And that you had 
lost so much."

"I remember telling you that story.  That was the 
evening before Dori and Benjamin came.  It was 
storming, and I kept hanging around after dinner, 
bothering you, and putting off going out in the 
rain."

"That night, I dreamt you were in my bedroom, 
watching me."

"What an odd dream," he commented. "What in the world 
would I have been doing in your bedroom?"

"Uh-mumm," she shrugged, lacing her fingers through 
his, relaxing. 

He grinned, raising his head to whisper in her ear, 
"Why is it you never take off all your clothes and 
sit in front of the open window to nurse now that 
I've married you?"

Instantly, she came alive again, rolling him on his 
back and straddling his hips. "You were watching me!  
You are so bad."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," he 
protested, laughing and grabbing her hands.  In one 
easy motion, he flipped them so he was on top of her, 
still holding her wrists. "And I think you like me 
being bad."

He kissed her, covering her mouth hungrily with his.  
According to the marriage manuals, most couples had 
intercourse twelve times a year. He and Dana probably 
averaged twelve times a week, and between his trip to 
Andersonville, the miserable aftermath, and her news 
yesterday, there had been a long dry spell.

He pushed himself up suddenly, remembering. "We can't 
do this.  Jesus, Dana, why didn't you say something?"

She licked her swollen lips, looking confused. "What 
was I supposed to say?"

"The baby."

"She is asleep.  Please come back here."

"No, the other baby.  You're going to have a baby.  I 
mean, you're already going to have a baby.  That's- 
that's the purpose of this.  You're my wife, not my 
mistress.  You don't have to now."

She raised her head, whispering so he could feel her 
breath in his ear, "If you do not stop being foolish 
and come here right this second, I am going to tie 
you to the headboard, strip you naked, and do 
whatever I want to you."

"Uh, ba- I, uh... Duh," he responded. "Okay."
 
*~*~*~*

By nature, he was prone to rumination, but not 
introspection.  When a topic, particularly a mystery, 
tweaked his interest, he would dwell on it so long he 
should have filed a claim, built a cabin, and paid 
taxes.  He wasn't, however, inclined to long, soul-
searching examinations of his heart.  He tended to 
act first, think second, and then, and only if 
necessary, introspect.
 
Anyone else would have carefully weighed the 
consequences of marrying a woman he barely knew - 
considering that she was grieving, she brought 
nothing except herself and her illegitimate daughter 
to the marriage, and she would never be fully 
accepted by genteel society - but Mulder just 
proposed.  He liked her, she liked him, there was a 
child... Two lives in shambles and one ruined world. It 
was a self-arranged arranged marriage, and generally, 
a pleasant one.  Debating sentiment after the fact 
would have been a polite, useless form of mental 
masturbation.

But Dana snuck up on a man, damn it.  She stole like 
a thief who gave instead of took, rearranging their 
little arrangement.  

He cared for her, and, if pressed, probably would 
have answered affirmatively that he loved her.  
Neither was a revelation.  It wasn't a passionate, 
reckless, "in-love" love, but a gentle fondness and 
devotion.  It wasn't outlandish for a man to love his 
pretty, attentive, pregnant wife.  In fact, it was 
the polite thing to do.

The revelation, which arrived one unseasonably cool 
June evening while at his desk in the library, was 
that he was happy with her.

Stunned, he stopped writing and put down his pen.  He 
was happy with her.  Content.  This was how it felt.  
He remembered, though it was like trying on a suit he 
hadn't worn in fifteen years and being awed it still 
fit.  He leaned back in his chair, propped his feet 
up on his desk, and watched her, studying on it for a 
long time.   

"I'm happy you're my wife," he announced out of the 
blue, beginning in the middle of a conversation.

Dana had been steadying Emily as she toddled around 
the library, and she paused, picking her daughter up 
and settling her on her hip.  She considered, taking 
time to figure out what he was talking about, then 
answered, "Well, you said you would be."   

He nodded thoughtfully. "Yes, I did. I didn't realize 
I'd be right, though." 

"You did not?  You asked me to marry you when you did 
not think you would be happy with me?  Did you feel 
that sorry for me?"

"Of course not, but happiness is like the color red.  
There are different shades of it.  Sometimes it's so 
vivid it's blinding, and other times, a pale, faded 
memory.  I told you I thought I would be happy if you 
were my wife, and I am just telling you that I am. I 
am happy you are my wife.  As opposed to you being 
someone else's wife.  Or someone else being my wife." 

He closed his mouth, worrying the inside of his lower 
lip.  He started conversations with her sounding so 
intelligent and ended them sounding like the village 
idiot had been given a podium.

Somewhere in the universe, Cupid put his hands on his 
hips, sighed, and shook his head in frustration.

Mulder cleared his throat, recovering his poise. 
"Anyway, I was just telling you.  For pity's sake, 
put Emmy down, Dana.  Carrying one child at a time is 
plenty-"

A floorboard squeaked, and he noticed Poppy and her 
two-year old daughter Sadie in the hallway, probably 
coming to tell him she was leaving for the day.  

He stopped scolding, and Dana turned to see what he 
was staring at.  Poppy's expression indicated she'd 
been listening for some time and wasn't pleased with 
what she'd heard.

"Well, I suppose our secret's out," he commented, 
breaking the tense silence. "Poppy, I'd appreciate if 
you wouldn't tell..."

Poppy and her daughter were already gone.  All that 
remained was the echo of her quick footsteps to the 
back of the house.   

"Oh, shit," he grumbled, getting up from his desk and 
chasing after her.  He caught up in the kitchen, 
standing in front of the back door to block her path.

"Poppy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"I know you heard us talking.  Are you angry I didn't 
tell you?  We haven't told anyone yet.  Not even my 
mother.  We only found out a month ago." 

"I - I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to eavesdrop.  No, of 
course I'm not angry.  Why would I be angry?  I just 
want to go home now.  Fox, please move."

"No, tell me what's wrong."

"Nothing's wrong.  I'm tired.  I just want to go 
home."

Focusing on the floor, she jerked at her apron 
strings.  Once she was free of it, she flung her 
apron at the peg beside the door, and grabbed her 
daughter's sweater, guiding the child's arms into it 
hurriedly.

"Are you going to let me go?"

"Of course.  In fact, let me drive you.  It's too 
cold and wet for you to walk; Sadie could catch a 
chill."

"The master of the house does not drive his 
housekeeper home," she said tightly, buttoning 
Sadie's sweater haphazardly. "It is not proper."

"You and Dana only let me think I'm the master of 
this house.  Don't think I don't know that.  You're- 
Poppy, are you crying?" he asked in surprise.  

"Of course I'm not crying."  She stood up, facing 
him, but still keeping her head down. "I'm glad she 
makes you happy.  I'm glad another baby makes you 
happy.  I'm just being foolish, that's all.  You know 
how foolish women can be."

"Well, you can't be foolish.  It makes my stomach 
hurt." Nothing made him as ill at ease as a woman in 
tears. "And you can't be angry with me for not 
telling you.  I need you now more than ever."

"You do?" she whispered, sniffing.

He shifted uncomfortably, moving away from her. 

"With another baby coming?  Of course I do.  Dana's 
not going to be able to go out.  She'll need to rest, 
except, of course, she doesn't think she needs to 
rest.  I've been wondering, if you could- In a few 
more months, could you to stay at night so she won't 
have to get up with Emmy?  And could you stay and 
help with the baby when it comes?  Or would that 
interfere with, uh..."

He nodded to Sadie, putting it as delicately as 
possible.  He had a few suspicions as to the father 
of Poppy's child - not many men had been home during 
the war - but it was her business.  She was more than 
a decade past the age when women married, and taking 
a white lover was her only choice.  As a light-
skinned mulatto woman with Indian blood, she was 
trapped between three cultures.  Most Indians and 
Negroes viewed her with suspicion, and she couldn't 
legally marry a white man.  As his father once noted, 
she was every man's mistress and no man's wife.

Of course, it had been his father who'd discovered 
him with Poppy that night at Harvard.  Mulder had 
rearranged and creatively edited the facts a bit when 
he'd told Dana the story.

"It would not interfere.  It was just... I don't know 
what I was thinking. It is over, I think. With him."   

"All- All right then.  If you won't let me drive you 
home, did you at least bring your coat?"

She shook her head no, turning to leave.  Poppy was a 
proud woman, and she disliked him seeing her cry even 
more than he disliked seeing her.

"Then take mine." He pulled it off the hook and 
draped it around her shoulders.  She was tall, so it 
wasn't a bad fit. "Just for tonight."

"Thank you."  She picked up her daughter and left, 
closing the back door softly after her.  He exhaled, 
sinking into a wooden chair beside the stove.

Jesus.  Women.

"Did she name her daughter before or after Melissa 
died?" Dana asked from behind him.

"I don't know."  He looked over his shoulder to see 
her standing at the edge of the kitchen, holding 
Emily and looking unhappy. "After, probably.  Why?"

"Sadie; it is a nickname for Sarah." 

He shrugged. "She and Melly's sister Sarah were 
close.  The four of us grew up together.  And it's a 
common name."

Dana blinked like he was telling a joke and she 
thought she might have missed the punch line. "And it 
was what you and Melissa planned to name your baby."

Another shrug.
  
"You are right, Mr. Mulder.  You can be a little 
dense."

*~*~*~*  

Once in a while, right in the middle of an otherwise 
ordinary life, a man gets a fairy tale.  It begins 
with "once upon a time there was a disillusioned 
knight, a new baby, and a fair, though un-biddable, 
princess," and before he knew it - or could avoid it 
- something extraordinary happened.

One year-olds weren't known for their patience, and 
there was ice cream involved, raising the probability 
of a tantrum to a dangerous level.  The birthday 
party needed a hostess, but when he went upstairs in 
search of her, Mulder found Dana in the empty 
ballroom, checking her figure in the floor-length 
mirrors that lined one wall.  He leaned against the 
doorway, grinning like a little boy who'd just gotten 
by with something rotten.

"Yes, it does show," he said softly. 

She turned sideways, examining the slight outline of 
her abdomen against the front of her dress. "Do you 
think people will notice?"

"I hope so."

He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, ambling 
toward her.

"There's about a, uh, a dozen people downstairs - at 
our invitation - bearing gifts and chanting for cake 
and ice cream.  It's a rough crowd, Dana: the Byers' 
family, Frohike, a basset hound, some senator's 
widow...  They have dessert forks and they're getting 
restless.  It could turn ugly."

She laughed quietly, her hair glistening in a fusion 
of gold and crimson as she turned.  She'd opened the 
heavy drapes, and the sun spilled in, illuminating 
long rectangles across the polished floor.

"I will take my chances."

"Then you're a brave woman." He stood in front of 
her, smiling. "Personally, I'm afraid to get between 
Melvin Frohike and chocolate cake.  I came upstairs 
to get reinforcements.  And my gun.  Can't be too 
careful around Frohike, toddlers, and cake."

"And I thought you were fearless, Mr. Mulder," she 
teased.

"Spiders," he admitted sheepishly. "And I'm not so 
fond of fire.  Every hero has his tragic flaw.  
Achilles, Oedipus, Samson..."

"You snore.  Is that not a tragic flaw?"

"Only if you're the one trying to sleep next to me." 
He chuckled. "Which I'm glad you are.  It's always 
seemed a shame to waste this room.  I don't remember 
it ever being danced in.  Do you waltz?"

She shook her head, but offered her arms.

"When I step forward, you step back, one foot at a 
time, then put your feet together.  Back, back, 
together.  Back, back, together." He started slowly, 
and she copied his movements. "Good, again.  Back, 
back, together.  Just go where I guide you." He 
turned her slightly, moving them in a slow, graceful 
waltz around the empty ballroom. "Back, back, 
together.  One, two, three; one, two, three.  And now 
you're dancing.  Watch us in the mirror.  We look 
nice together."

The hem of her skirt whispered against the floor as 
they glided, the only noise besides their feet in the 
room.  In the mirrors, a tall, dark-haired, sleepy-
eyed man in black trousers, a white shirt, and a gray 
silk vest whirled in endless circles with a pretty, 
petite woman with auburn hair.  They moved well, 
complementing each other in a way that made old 
romantics smile and comment, "Oh, what a pretty 
couple."

"Your bodice is navy," he realized, watching the 
reflection, then looking down at her. "Not black."  

Her full taffeta skirt was black, but the new bodice, 
made looser to fit during her pregnancy, wasn't.  It 
was the first time he'd seen her wearing an entire 
not-black garment, except for underclothes, since the 
plantation.  It had been much more than a year since 
her father and brothers died, but less than a year 
since she'd found out about Waterston.  Of course, 
Waterston had been dead for some time before Dana had 
known, so the math was sketchy.   

"Who were you mourning?" he asked out of curiosity.

"Innocence, maybe."

He nodded, understanding.  Sometimes it wasn't a 
single person, but a way of life that died.

"My father," she added, and he nodded again.  

And sometimes it was necessary to pin grief to a name 
so people would understand.

"I think you've waltzed before." She was too light on 
her feet to have no idea what she was doing.

"Perhaps I have, but it is still nice to have you 
teach me."

"Harvey's okay?  This isn't too fast?"

"She is fine."

He raised his eyebrows in false distress. "When did 
my he become a she?"

"When she discovered she was to be named Harvey."

He shifted his hand on her waist, running his thumb 
over slight swell evidencing the baby's presence. 

"I love you," he said simply, causing her to miss a 
step. "You don't have to answer, although I'd rather 
you didn't laugh.  I just wanted you to know."

She waited, probably for him to qualify that: to say 
he loved her, but not like Melly.  He loved her, but 
he wasn't in love with her.  Or perhaps to see if 
he'd spend the next week avoiding her and pretending 
he hadn't said it at all.

"If you were going to answer, though, Dana, now would 
be a good time," he said nervously, feeling naked. 
"If I would ask you if you love me, what would your 
answer be?  If I asked you?"

"If you asked me, think I would say 'yes,'" she said 
softly.

"Good." He did his agreed-on-the-price-of-a-horse 
nod. "That makes things simpler."

"Yes." She cleared her throat. "We have guests.  We 
should be downstairs.  Everyone is waiting." 

"Let them wait," he responded, holding her close and 
gliding in slow, graceful arcs around the silent 
ballroom.
 
*~*~*~*

Trust Frohike to notice, and comment, first.  He took 
one look at Dana as she came down the steps, leaned 
close to Mulder, and mumbled, "Congratulations," in 
his ear.

"Thank you," Mulder responded, not even bothering to 
pretend he didn't understand.   

Dana found a seat beside Mulder's mother, and held 
Emily on her lap.  The birthday girl, satiated by 
handfuls of cake and sticky ice cream, was sound 
asleep with smears of chocolate icing still 
decorating her dress.  

"How far?" Frohike pursued.

"Almost five months," Mulder whispered back, leaning 
against a tree in the back yard and sipping his iced 
tea.  The ladies were congregated in the shade, and 
Grace paced languidly, looking for crumbs.  His 
stepfather, thank God, hadn't seen any political or 
financial gain in attending a one year-olds birthday, 
and hadn't blessed them with his presence.

"Hoping for a boy or girl?"

"Either would be fine," he answered, trying to talk 
without moving his lips so as not to attract 
attention.

"That means you want a boy.  Any problems with the 
pregnancy?"

"No.  Not so far."

"Any problems with the conception?" he asked, and 
Mulder gaped in disbelief. "I'm just being thorough," 
Frohike defended himself, gesturing his innocence. 

"Go to Hell." Mulder laughed, moving away and sitting 
on the grass in front of the bench where Dana and his 
mother were sitting.  

"There's my precious boy," his mother said, smiling 
kindly. "Fox, where on Earth has your father gotten 
to?"

"He's in the house," Mulder answered easily.   

His mother nodded and went back to watching the 
others and enjoying the pretty summer day.  She was 
as elegant as she'd always been, but she didn't seem 
to recall anything that had happened in the last two 
years.  The doctor believed grief had brought on a 
mild stroke, blocking out her recollection of Melissa 
and Bill Mulder's death.  To her, Samuel was still 
thirteen, and her husband and daughter-in-law were 
always just in the next room.  

Which, in a way, was a blessing.  

While she knew she liked Dana, she had no idea who 
she was and had chastised Mulder more than once for 
appearing in public with a woman she assumed was his 
mistress.  And Emily, though she saw her at least 
once a week, she always called "Samuel," assuming any 
baby with her son had to be her grandson.  If 
corrected, she became embarrassed and apologized, 
remembered for a few minutes, then forgot again.  

Mulder had given thought to having her live with him, 
but she was happy in her own home.  She'd lived there 
for decades and most of her domestic staff were like 
Poppy - more loyal than family - and saw to her every 
need.  Spender wanted little to do with her, aside 
from pilfering her husband's last name and 
reputation.  Rumor had it Spender's carnal interests 
weren't inclined toward the fairer sex, and he'd been 
living in a hotel with his disreputable cronies for 
months, anyway.  Teena Mulder, a little confused but 
still a lady, had tired of her brother-in-law and his 
greasy friends hanging around her house and politely 
asked them to leave.  And when Bill Mulder hadn't 
come home to make Spender leave, she'd sent for her 
son, who'd relished throwing his uncle out.

Mulder had threatened an annulment - obviously his 
mother couldn't have consented to the marriage if she 
believed Bill was still alive - and Spender had 
backed off to plot and lick his wounds.

Mulder laid his head back on the wooden bench, 
closing his eyes as the sun filtered through the 
leaves and caressed his face.  A woman's cool 
fingertips touched his cheek: his mother's touch.  He 
could have easily fallen asleep, but that would make 
him a poor host, even at so casual a get-together.  
Instead, he offered to take Emily inside and put her 
down.

"See where your father has gotten to," his mother 
requested as Dana handed him the sleeping toddler.

"I will," he promised, yawning and ambling to the 
house.

*~*~*~*

Byers was bringing the carriage around to collect his 
family, but stopped when he saw Mulder talking to one 
of the AP reporters on the front porch.  The reporter 
had come directly from the train station, his valise 
still in his hand, and was slightly out of breath 
from hurrying.

"You're certain?" Mulder asked again, heart pounding.  

"No, I'm not certain," the man hedged. "But I think 
so.  I couldn't get him to talk to me.  It looked 
like him, but I haven't seen him in two years."

"Then how did you know?"

"I was interviewing some of the miners about the cave 
in - for the article - and I heard someone playing 
guitar, playing Bach in a coal camp.  I followed my 
ears, and there he was.  Just sitting beside the 
fire, effortlessly playing 'Jesu, Joy of Man's 
Desiring.' It looked like Sam to me. "

That was good enough for Mulder.

Frohike stood beside him, hands on his hips and jaw 
clenched tensely.  He'd been nodding along as the man 
talked, hanging on every word.

"You could telegraph-" Frohike started, but Mulder 
cut him off.

"No, I can't.  I need to go.  Take Emily." He thrust 
the sleeping child into Frohike's arms. "I need to go 
myself."

"What's happening?" Byers asked, climbing down.

"Can you drive my mother home?  And keep an eye on 
her and Dana for a week?"

"Of course.  Where are you going?"

"Pennsylvania." 

"He thinks he's found Sam," he heard Frohike explain 
as Mulder strode back into the house, forgetting to 
close the front door behind him in his haste.

"Oh, God," Byers responded sadly. "Again?"

Mulder's feet were already on the steps, pounding 
upstairs as his mind raced even faster.  Ride to the 
station, train to Pittsburgh, then ride north.  And 
start looking.  

"Wouldn't you go if it was your son?"

"Yes, I suppose I would," Byers responded.

*~*~*~*

In his haste, he hadn't stopped to think up a good 
excuse to tell Dana.  He grabbed his pistol out of 
the nightstand, shoved a change of clothes into his 
old knapsack, and was saddling his horse when she 
appeared beside him in the stable.

"Please do not do this," she said slowly.

"I'll be in Pennsylvania.  On business," he lied, 
tightening the girth so quickly the horse jumped. 
"John Byers will see to anything you need.  I should 
be home in a week or so."

"Please do not lie and please do not do this.  To 
yourself.  Again."

He ignored her and reached for reins, but she stopped 
him, grabbing his sleeve. 

"It is not him.  If it were Samuel, why would he not 
have come home?  If he were alive and well, why would 
he be working in some coal mine in Pennsylvania? This 
reporter who thinks he saw him - have you ever seen 
men coming out of a coal mine?  They are covered in 
coal dust.  You cannot tell one from another.  And 
they are all boys because they do not live long 
enough to become men.  Please stop and think."

"That reporter's known Samuel since Sam was six.  If 
he thinks he saw him...  It was.  It is Sam.  He's out 
there, Dana.  He's alive."

Dana folded her arms. "Then go tell your mother."

Mulder hesitated, caught off-guard.

"She is inside," Dana continued. "Mr. Byers has not 
yet left.  If you are so sure it is Samuel, go inside 
and tell your mother you are bringing her grandson 
home.  And then tell Poppy you have found her Sam.  
She is upstairs with Sadie and Emily.  Go tell her 
you have found the child she nursed and loved as her 
own.  Tell Poppy he is alive and will be in her arms 
by the end of the week."

"I-I couldn't do that to them.  What if I'm wrong?"

"But you will do it to yourself.  Over and over and 
over again," she said angrily. "Listen to yourself.  
Even if you saw him alive in Atlanta, it has still 
been almost two years without any word.  Let him go 
and stop this before you make yourself crazy!"

"It wouldn't matter if it had been twenty years.  
He's still my son."

"And this is not?" she asked, putting her hand on her 
abdomen.

"I owe it to my family.  I lost him.  Now it's my job 
to find him."

"Emily and I are not your family?"

"Of course you are," he answered, shutting his mind 
and not really listening. "I will be home soon.  Take 
care of yourself."

"Mr. Mulder- Mulder, stop!  Please.  Please do not do 
this.  You promised me!  No more wild goose chases."

"But this time it's him," he said earnestly, putting 
his boot in the stirrup and swinging into the saddle.

"It is always him!" she yelled after him as he rode 
away.

*~*~*~*

End - Paracelsus VII

***********************************

Begin: Paracelsus VIII

*~*~*~*

Dear Melissa,

Both my pencils have been sharpened into a pile of 
wood shavings, so I borrowed one from the porter.  It 
was late, and the car was quiet, so he stayed to make 
polite conversation, asking if I was writing to my 
wife.  To my surprise, I heard myself answering that 
I was not, that I had telegraphed my wife before I 
boarded the train.

I didn't notice the drift, but my boat seems to have 
come to rest against a different shore.  Of course, 
being Fox Mulder, I didn't realize that until I'd 
collided with the dock.

In the locked, right-hand drawer of my desk in the 
library, underneath the ledger, the cashbox, and a 
sapphire necklace I'm trying to keep hidden until 
Dana's birthday, is an impressive collection of 
letters - all addressed to you.  And I am sure, when 
I reach DC, I will add this one to the stack.  I have 
been married for almost a year, I have Emily and 
another baby on the way, and I care so much for Dana, 
yet I still find myself writing to you.  It does not 
seem reasonable, but then, I seldom do things 
reasonably.

That was what my mother said when my father told her 
you and I were getting married.  And the reason you 
and I were getting married, aside from my undying 
love, of course.  I was staring at the rug, too 
ashamed to look at her, and she patted my cheek, 
smiled sadly, and said, "You never love reasonably, 
do you, dear boy?"

No, I suppose I never do.

I know what Dana's thinking; I'm thinking that very 
same thing.  I do love her.  And Emily.  And Dana's 
mysterious stomach upset, which the doctor feels 
should be remedied by Christmas.  I love who I am 
with Dana, and the man I see reflected in her eyes 
when she looks at me.  I like that man.  I have no 
intention of losing him.

I can't tell her what the future holds, or, if I 
could relive the past, assure her I would make the 
same decisions.  In fact, I could assure her I would 
not.  That's the stumbling block of mortality: when a 
man looks to yesterday, it's unchangeable, and the 
future is an ethereal dream.  We grasp at tomorrow 
and rewrite the past, but the only moment we really 
have is the one we hold in our hands.  And right now, 
Melly, I have more than I ever dreamed of.

I have our boy.  And we are going home.

Mulder

*~*~*~*

As disasters went, it wasn't particularly tragic.  In 
early August, an underground fire had caused the main 
shaft of the Davlon mine in Pennsylvania to cave in, 
trapping workers more than a thousand feet below the 
surface and cutting off their only means of escape 
and source of air.  Of the one hundred and eighty men 
and boys who'd descended the shaft that morning, one 
hundred and ten had been crushed or suffocated.

Mining was known to be dangerous work, and accidents 
were a frequent occurrence, as they were in factories 
and mills. Nor was anyone surprised there were bodies 
of boys as young as eleven and twelve when no one 
below fourteen was supposedly allowed underground.  
The scandal about to hit the newspapers was the coal 
company's response to the accident: to leave the 
miners to die.  For two days, despite thousands of 
volunteers, no effort was made to dig the workers out 
or to put out the fire.  Rescue attempts probably 
would have been futile, given the depth of the mine 
and the extent of the cave in, but it was galling the 
company considered its miners so dispensable that it 
didn't even try.  

But the story wouldn't hit the AP wires until 
tomorrow morning, which gave Mulder a little more 
than twelve hours before it ran on the front page of 
every newspaper in the country.  And twelve hours 
before America sucked in a collective disapproving 
breath, and the company locked its gates against a 
storm of public outrage.

After a tense afternoon of waiting and arguing with 
the supervisors, trying to convince them he wasn't an 
agitator or a reporter, he'd greased a few palms and 
been given an unenthusiastic go ahead.

The supervisor had appraised Mulder's silk vest, the 
gold chain on his pocket watch, his polished boots 
and fine horse, and asked in disbelief, "You got a 
boy here, Mister?"

"I think so.  I just want to check.  I won't cause 
any trouble."

"We'll just be sure of that," the supervisor had 
responded, and assigned two burley men to escort him, 
ordering them not to let Mulder out of their sight.

It reminded him of being given a tour of Hell after 
the fire had burned out.  It was still Hell; it had 
just cooled and gathered a layer of grime.  Although 
he hadn't touched anything, he seemed to attract coal 
dust out of the air.  It coated his skin and crept 
underneath his fingernails.  It got in his mouth and 
in his throat and clogged the corners of his eyes.  
It mixed with sweat and collected in the creases of 
his wrists and the insides of his elbows.

Lean, wary faces watched him and his escorts as they 
rode past, the whites of their eyes a stark contrast 
to their dirty skin.  He'd lived in Army camps, which 
stank to high Heaven, and seen the South after the 
war, but this was worse. The atmosphere was permeated 
not only with unwashed bodies and waste, but long-
term poverty: empty bellies and paper-thin dresses 
and children who'd never worn shoes or seen a book.  
The laundry hung to dry between the dilapidated 
company houses wasn't white, but dingy gray, and the 
aroma of salt-pork, flour, and boiled potatoes hung 
in the air, although he couldn't imagine eating 
anything cooked in this place.  He couldn't imagine 
doing anything in this place except getting out and 
getting someplace, anyplace else.

He dismounted, leaving Aramis and walking along the 
benches of children picking through the coal as it 
came down the chute, pulling out the chunks of slate 
and rock.  He'd already been told Sam, if he worked 
in the camp and wasn't in the bunkhouses, was 
probably in the mines, but they also wouldn't let 
Mulder in the mines to check.

"I'm looking for a boy named 'Sam,'" he said, raising 
his voice to be heard. "He can play guitar.  He plays 
well.  And he can draw.  And read and write.  Tall, 
black hair, dark eyes.  He might be called another 
name.  Does anyone know him?"

There was no response.  The children kept their heads 
down and eyes focused on their work.  There was the 
scrape of knuckles against rock, a few coughs, and 
nothing else.

"Anybody seen the boy?  He work at this chute?" one 
of his escorts asked tersely, and four-dozen 
frightened heads automatically shook "no."

"Thank you," Mulder added awkwardly, though no one 
seemed to be listening.
 
A bell tolled loudly, resonating through the camp and 
echoing off the hills, and the sorting paused.  The 
children looked at each other from underneath their 
lashes, then continued working.

"What does the bell mean?" Mulder asked, and no one 
answered. "What does it mean?" he repeated sharply.

"Cave in," a little voice said, its owner bent over 
the chute, nimble fingers methodically sifting 
through the chunks of rock. "Maybe a fire.  Bell 
means somebody's dead." 

"Isn't anyone going to do something?" he asked 
through his teeth.   

His pulse beat a dozen times inside his ears before 
one of his escorts said casually, "Day shift's almost 
over.  We can go to up to the mine and see if your 
boy's comin' out."

Mulder wanted to snap, "What do you mean if he's 
coming out?  He's either coming out or I'm grabbing a 
pickaxe and going in," but he didn't.  He bit his lip 
nervously and followed the others to the opening of 
the main shaft, leading his horse after him.  

The crowd had begun assembling as soon as the bell 
tolled; hollow-eyed women with small children 
streamed out of the camp and making their way to the 
mine.  They gathered at the base of the slope and 
waited.  One woman had her sleeves rolled up; her 
forearms were still wet from dishes or laundry.  
Another held a baby Emily's age on her hip and, with 
her free hand, thoughtlessly clutched a spatula; in 
one of the coal company shacks, her husband's dinner 
was probably burning.  They waited to see which of 
the miners would walk out and which would be carried.  
Ten could be dead, or twenty, or all.

He wanted to shout, "Jesus Christ, how can you live 
like this?  How can you just stand there?" but he 
didn't.  He bit his lip harder and watched as the 
first boys, the ones in charge of opening and closing 
the mine doors and driving the mule-drawn coal cars, 
emerged.

After them, the teenagers and young adults trudged 
out, moving like old men.  Their backs were bowed 
from stooping in the low tunnels, and many wore 
trousers wet to the knee from standing in water.  He 
could feel the ache in their joints as they moved, 
each step an effort.  Every inch of their exposed 
skin was black with dust, and their clothes were only 
dim reflections of their original colors.  Mulder had 
no idea how the women waiting could tell them apart, 
but they could.  He watched as family after family 
was reunited, relaxed, and walked home for the night.

A stretcher bearing a mangled body was carried out, 
its upper torso crushed by falling slate.  The corpse 
wasn't Sam, but there was still a tense moment while 
Mulder convinced himself it wasn't.  No one reacted: 
the body didn't seem to belong to any of the women.  
He was no one's son or brother or husband.  One of 
the mine bosses pulled the sheet over the 
expressionless face and the stretcher moved on.
 
"Company'll take care of him," someone murmured.

A fresh group of men and boys assembled for the night 
shift, waiting to descend into the shaft, as the last 
of the day shift straggled out.  The mine doors were 
open, and the cool, dank air wafted up.  A series of 
lanterns lit the first few yards, and he could see 
the rough walls, the timber support beams along the 
sides, and the steel tracks for the coal cars along 
the bottom.  Then the shaft descended, darkened, and 
there was nothing.  Mulder squinted and stepped 
forward as though he could see into the black depths.

"Sorry, Mister," one of his escorts said blandly, 
turning to leave, but Mulder didn't move.  Not yet.  
After so much, he wasn't going to just walk away.

"Mister, we said you could look, and you looked.  If 
he's not going in and he didn't come out, and he 
ain't in camp, he ain't here.  We don't got no secret 
place we hide folks."

Mulder ignored them, and his escorts looked at each 
other, trying to decide if it was worth the effort to 
drag him away.  They must have decided it wasn't, 
because they leaned against a pile of railroad ties 
and resigned themselves to wait.

For ten minutes, no one emerged, then a man stepped 
out, pulled off his battered helmet, and announced, 
"Dog's alive; candle's burning."

The crowd of men surged forward, carrying their picks 
and shovels with them.  Odds were, of the two hundred 
men going to work that evening, one wouldn't be alive 
the next morning.

"They send a dog and candle down.  If the dog comes 
back alive and the candle's still burnin', there's 
good air to breathe," a woman waiting beside Mulder 
explained quietly.  She squeezed a man's hand, then 
released it as he followed the crowd into the mine, 
whistling and securing his helmet as he went. 

"Are there any men from the last shift in there?"  

She nodded tensely. 

"Live men or more bodies?"

"They always bring out the bodies, when they can find 
them," she answered, the thin fabric of her bonnet 
flapping against her cheek in the breeze.  The others 
had gone - either into the shaft or back to the camp 
- so only she, Mulder, and his bored escorts 
remained.  She crossed her skinny arms, waiting, 
hawk-like eyes focused on the entrance to the mine.

The change was miniscule.  She exhaled, closed her 
eyes briefly, and seemed to say a silent prayer of 
thanks. "That's my boy," she said, lifting her chin 
toward the top of the hill. "The other yours?"

He looked up, watching two teenagers coming out of 
the mine, stretching tiredly and taking their own 
sweet time.  One grinned, loping coltishly down the 
slope to his mother.

"Slowpoke!  Scare me half to death, why don't you?" 
the woman fussed at her son, smacking him on the back 
of the head and scolding him as they walked away.

The other stopped, staring at Mulder and letting go 
of the rope fashioned into a makeshift lead around a 
dog's neck.  He took off his helmet, revealing a 
clean expanse of skin between his eyebrows and 
hairline, and swung his pickaxe down from his 
shoulder, letting it thud dully against the ground.  
The rest of his face, like the others, was powdered 
black with coal dust, but the eyes hadn't changed.  
Melly's eyes. The high cheekbones, the full lips, and 
the gentle brown eyes were exactly the same.
  
"Yeah," he mumbled to no one, feeling electricity 
shooting down his spine. His voice sounded odd, as 
though he was speaking from far away. "That's my 
boy."

*~*~*~*

He wasn't certain what to say or do, and when that 
was the case, he usually said and did too much.  He'd 
lost a sweet, chatterbox of a boy and found silent, 
vigilant young man, and he wasn't sure what to do 
with him.

Except not let him out of his sight again.

"I knew it was you," Mulder continued as the waiter 
laid out dinner on the table in their hotel room.  
Samuel wasn't up to the noise and chaos of the 
restaurant downstairs. "When they said you owed the 
company store almost five dollars, all for licorice.  
How do you eat five dollars worth of licorice, Sammy?  
Was it a dare?"

From the bathtub in the corner, Sam stared at him 
numbly.  His face seemed more angular, watchful, 
without its boyish roundness and innocence.  After a 
few seconds, he took a breath and sunk below the 
surface of the water, letting his hair swirl around 
his head, and not answering.

Mulder sighed, nodded to himself, and closed his 
mouth.  Sam was there, alive, and in one piece.  
Conversation could come later.  

After the waiter left, Mulder put Sam's battered 
guitar aside and poured hot water into the basin.  He 
stripped off his vest, shirt, and cotton undershirt 
to wash, scrubbing off the nervous sweat and coal 
dust.  It would probably take more soap and water 
than the hotel had, but it was a start.

He paused, bracing his hands and staring into the 
mirror over the washbasin.  It was real.  The 
certainty of it settled over him like evening dew, 
making him shiver.

"What happened to your back?" Sam asked, arriving at 
a total of thirteen words he'd said since he'd 
followed his father out of the camp hours earlier.

Mulder twisted, trying to see.  On his left shoulder 
blade were three parallel, half-healed scratches.  
Dana needed to trim her fingernails.

"Nothing.  Probably a tree branch.  Sam... Samuel, we 
need to talk about a few things."

The manager had sent up a change of clothes, and Sam 
slipped them on, once again looking like a 
gentleman's son, though one with a bad tailor.  Once 
they were both clean, combed, and dressed, they sat 
at the table and appraised the feast the restaurant 
had sent up.  Sam hesitated half a second, probably 
planning his attack, then dropped the linen napkin on 
his lap, picked up his fork, and went to work.

It was good to see some things hadn't changed.

"Do you know Grandfather died?" Mulder said slowly, 
as though hearing it slowly made it any easier.

Sam nodded that he did, focusing on his third lamb 
chop.  The obituary had been in the papers, as had 
much speculation as to who the Massachusetts 
Legislature would appoint to fill the Senator's seat 
for the next term.  Anyone but Spender, if Mulder had 
his way.

"Grandmother is having some difficulty adjusting.  
She's fine, just a little confused."

Sam nodded again, his knife accidentally scraping the 
plate.

"Poppy's fine.  Sadie's two years old now.  I'll send 
a telegram in the morning and let everyone know we're 
coming home.  Even Grace is still there.  Your room's 
exactly the same."

Again, there was no response except a nod.  As they 
ate, Sam's silver knife clinked against his china 
plate, as did Mulder's wedding ring against the stem 
of his crystal goblet.

"Why didn't you come home, Sam?" he finally asked.

His son looked up, and Mulder waited while he 
searched for words, trying several times before he 
said, "I did.  The train stopped in DC," he answered 
uncertainly. "I just didn't get off.  I'm sorry."

"It's okay.  I was just worried about you.  I didn't 
know where you were.  If you were dead or alive.  Why 
didn't you write?  Why didn't you..." He trailed off, 
swallowing, although his mouth was empty.

Sam's face twitched, and he glanced around the room, 
looking lost.

"It's okay.  Eat," Mulder ordered gently. "And then 
you can get some rest.  We both can.  It's a long 
trip home."  

*~*~*~* 

Outside the train, the miles slid past, Pennsylvania 
falling away to the Allegheny Mountains.  Inside, 
time slowed to a crawl.  The huge steel mills and 
factories became sleepy little towns nestled among 
the hills, safe from the rest of the world.

Sam dozed, often startling awake when the train 
lurched or there was a loud noise.  Mulder opened the 
little window, letting his son sleep fitfully on one 
of the two upholstered benches in their first class 
nook.

"You lost a few ancestors here," he told Sam, who 
woke again as the train eased out of the Cumberland, 
Maryland station. "During the French and Indian War."

Sam ran his fingers through his hair, pushing it back 
from his face, and asked sleepily, "On which side?"   

"Both.  One French on my side; one Indian on your 
mother's." His son looked less than interested in his 
genealogy, so Mulder offered, "Do you want a drink of 
water?"

"No."

"I have some paper.  Do you want to draw?"

Sam took it, even getting as far as sharpening a 
pencil with his pocketknife before he put it down and 
shook his head. "It's so loud.  It's really loud.  I 
can't think."

"It's all right.  We'll be home soon," Mulder assured 
him. "A few more hours."

His son turned his head toward the window, letting 
his hand rest on the sill so the wind caressed it. "I 
forget sometimes that home is real.  Everything feels 
so different.  I feel different," Sam said quietly, 
watching the sun dancing shyly behind the tree 
leaves. "Wrong."

Mulder lay down his pencil, and put his fist to his 
mouth as if waiting for a cough.  The change in his 
son frightened him.  From the time he'd learned to 
walk, Sam had been an active, happy child.  Talented.  
Gentle.  Levelheaded.  Open.  There was a wall around 
him now, and Mulder knew what it took to build walls 
that high.

"You aren't different.  Or wrong.  You're still my 
Sammy.  You just need some time.  Some rest.  A few 
square meals.  And you needed out of that hellhole."  

"I like mining," he said in the same distance voice. 
"It's quiet.  Dark.  No one bothers you.  Sometimes 
you can hear the others working, but they seem so far 
away.  Everything feels far away, and it's nice."

"But you're not a miner." 

"I'm not a soldier, either.  It's not like they make 
it sound in the papers," Sam said. "War isn't at all 
like they make it sound.  Or like you made it sound."
 
"No, it's not."
 
Sam licked his lips, then caught the top one between 
his teeth. "Sometimes I'd get angry at them for 
dying.  No matter how many I shot, they just kept 
coming, and I'd get angry with them for insisting on 
coming at me and dying.  There were so many of them 
and they knew I'd shoot, but they just kept coming.  
They didn't even try to get out of the way.  I hated 
them for being so stupid."

"Every man feels that way, Sammy.  It's part of war."

"You're not ashamed of me?"

"God, no, I'm not ashamed of you.  I love you more 
than anything.  And I'd like to take a buggy whip to 
whoever let you enlist."

"I know.  I'm sorry."

"Sammy, I need to tell you something.  You've been 
away a long time and-" he started awkwardly.  He'd 
spent hours trying to think of a way to approach the 
subject, waiting for an opportunity, but there didn't 
seem to be a gentle segue. "Your mother... I'm married, 
Sam.  I've remarried.  Her name is Dana."

He wasn't sure what reaction to expect, but he got 
absolutely none.  He wanted to ask if Sam had heard 
him, but he was sitting directly across from Mulder; 
obviously, he had.

"Her name is Dana," Mulder repeated. "She's Irish.  I 
met her near Savannah.  She's, she's nice.  A little 
headstrong, but nice.  She's not at all like your 
mother, but I think you'll like her.  I like her."

"Do you love her?"

"I... I care for her.  Very much.  We have a... There's a 
little girl named Emily.  She just turned one.  And, 
uh..." 

He stopped, changing his mind.  That was enough news 
for the time being.

"You and Dana have a daughter?"  

"She's-" Mulder exhaled slowly. "She's just learning 
to walk."

Sam was quiet for far too long, then finally said, 
"I'm glad, I guess."

"Are you?"

"I don't know," he answered tiredly. "I don't know 
what I am." 

He pulled the shade down over the window, blocking 
out the orange and violet sunset, and watching the 
decorative tassels on it sway back and forth as the 
train rocked forward. 

*~*~*~*

Dana brought him a cup of tea, then tucked her 
dressing gown around her and sat beside him in the 
hallway outside Samuel's bedroom.  It didn't matter 
what the crisis was, she had a tea for it.  He took a 
sip.  Her husband bringing home his long lost and 
much-traumatized son to his new wife and family: 
peppermint tea.  It must soothe heartaches as well as 
stomachaches.

"I would ask if you plan to sit and watch him all 
night, but you are already halfway there," she 
whispered, slipping her hand into his, interlacing 
their fingers.  Her palm was warm from the teacup, 
and she smelled of crisp, sun-dried cotton, the 
nursery, expensive soap, and clean hair.      

Mulder responded by maneuvering so he was leaning 
back against the wall, and she was sitting between 
his legs, his hands covering hers on her abdomen.  He 
should tell her to it was late, to get from the cold 
floor and go to bed, but he didn't.  It was nice to 
have his arms around her.  Like Sarah, she stabilized 
him, giving him a sand bar to stand on in the ocean, 
a place to rest and momentarily stop treading water.

"He's real, Dana," Mulder repeated wondrously for 
what had to be the thousandth time. "He's really 
there."

Their words were barely breath with sounds attached, 
but Samuel slept on, still in suit he'd worn on the 
train, and lost in the heavy, velvet unconscious 
oblivion of adolescence.  He was sprawled across the 
sheets: his jet-black hair falling across his face 
and his soft, pink lips parted slightly as he dreamt.  
A candle flickered on the nightstand, and Grace lie 
at the foot of the bed, daring anyone to come near 
his boy.
 
"He is beautiful."

"Don't let him hear you say that.  He hates being 
called pretty."

"But he is," she insisted. "Even after seeing the 
photographs, I did not realize..." She looked back at 
Mulder, then through the open doorway at Samuel. 
"He-"

"He looks more like Melissa," Mulder answered. "He's 
a good boy, Dana.  I know he seems standoffish, but 
he's really not.  He's just been through so much."

Their train had been delayed outside DC, so they 
hadn't arrived home until almost eleven.  Dana had 
been waiting up, but Poppy was gone and Emily was 
asleep.  Grace had met his boy at the front door with 
a full-body wag, baying excitedly and sniffing for 
news.  Sam had greeted Dana politely, then walked 
through the house with Grace at his heels, silently 
noting the changes.  He'd struck a few chords on the 
piano, looked around, then told them goodnight, and 
gone to his bedroom.  Judging from the light beneath 
his door, Sam hadn't gone to sleep for another three 
hours.

"Would he tell you how he ended up in the mines?"

"He said that was the train's last stop.  End of the 
line.  As far away as he could get, I guess." He 
paused, leaning his head against the cool wall. "I 
know he blames me, and he should.  I was the one who 
fell asleep.  And Melissa should never have been 
having another baby in the first place, but- I kept 
looking for him when the truth was he just didn't 
want to come home.  He wasn't lost; he just didn't 
want to be found.  At least, not by me."

"Did he say that?"

"No, of course not.  He's not going to say that."

"Maybe it was not that he did not want to come home, 
but that he needed someone to help him find the way.  
War is bad enough for a man, but for a boy - with 
everything else that had happened...  Perhaps he just 
could not.  You could not.  There are ghosts here, 
Mr. Mulder.  Perhaps he could not face them alone 
either."

"I didn't go home because I was looking for him."

"Well, then you spent several months looking for him 
in my barn."

He smirked uncomfortably, but it was true.  War was 
horrible beyond comprehension, especially for those 
who marched off expecting glory.  Every soldier came 
home changed, hardened, and a few never came home at 
all because they were so changed they couldn't face 
their old lives.  For some, the end of the war was 
like AD: they dated their lives from that point 
forward and forgot all that had come before - 
including their homes and families.

"I did not mean-" 

"I know what you meant, Dana; I was just thinking 
about it."

She inhaled, shifting her hand against her belly.

"What's the matter?"

"The baby is moving."

"Does that mean something's wrong?" he asked 
urgently.

"No, nothing is wrong.  He is just moving.  He had 
been for a few days.  Can you feel?"

She leaned back, and Mulder put his palm where she 
indicated, tilting his head and concentrating. "What 
does it feel like?"

"Like a butterfly flapping its wings.  Just a little 
flutter."

He pushed her dressing gown aside, repositioned his 
hand against her nightgown, and pressed again, trying 
to detect any motion. "No, I don't think I can.  I'm 
not... I don't think so.  But you can?"

"Yes, I can feel him."   

He leaned back, leaving his hand where it was - on a 
new beginning.

"He's real too.  I haven't forgotten that," he said 
quietly, slowly.  Moonlight made words and emotions 
easier. "And I won't, Dana.  I do love you.  And 
Emily.  And this baby. I've been thinking about what 
you said - that I never would've married you if I'd 
truly thought Sam was still alive.  I've been 
thinking about that a lot."

"And what have you decided?"

He kissed her earlobe, then dragged his lips across 
the soft, warm skin of her neck. "That it's late, and 
sometimes I think too much."
 
*~*~*~*

His parents had been openly affectionate, both toward 
their son and with each other.  Never vulgar, but 
demonstrative.  Bill Mulder loved his wife, and he 
hadn't been embarrassed about showing it.  They'd 
been known to hold hands and even kiss in public, 
which had raised some polite eyebrows.  And in 
private, he'd often found his mother sitting on his 
father's lap or with her hand on his thigh.

From them, Mulder had learned there was more to love 
than the two extremes society deemed acceptable: 
chivalrous, untouchable adoration or flat-on-her-
back, close-your-eyes-and-think-of-England 
intercourse.  He'd learned it didn't make him less of 
a man to be gentle, or more of a man to be cruel.  
Saying he'd been a bad lover to Melissa was like 
putting a sundial in the shade and then blaming it 
for not telling time.  He'd certainly tried.

From Dana, and with Dana, he'd learned women could be 
willing, active participants, and he could be playful 
- that sex wasn't always serious business.  He was 
allowed to be silly or sweet or naughty, whispering 
things to her that made him blush at breakfast.  He 
was even allowed to give in to the rougher, animal 
side of his nature.  And so was she, which was a toe-
curling experience that left a stupid grin on his 
face until the next afternoon. 

And none of that was deviant.  God didn't seem to 
mind.  Men minded: Dana's priest probably minded, and 
the good reverend at Christ Church would have, but 
Mulder had never seen fit to mention it.
  
Their bedroom door was barely closed before she was 
in his arms, his mouth hungry for hers. "I missed 
you," he whispered huskily, gathering up her 
nightgown and pulling it over her head, then throwing 
it carelessly to the floor.  His boots went flying, 
landing across the room with two dull clops, and his 
vest, shirt, and trousers followed, buttons popping.

He picked her up, her legs around his waist and her 
arms around his neck, and carried her to the bed.  
Her slight belly pressed against him, and he wasn't 
sure it was acceptable to find that erotic instead of 
repulsive or embarrassing.  The idea she was carrying 
their child, and he'd caused that, was primitively, 
instinctively arousing.  He wanted to kill something 
ferocious and bring it to her as a bloody trophy.  He 
wanted to pound his chest and piss in the corners to 
mark his territory.  And if not for the terrifying, 
life-threatening prospect of her having to give 
birth, he'd want to make her pregnant again as soon 
as possible.

That might be deviant. 

Setting her on the mattress, he pulled his mouth 
breathlessly from hers to ask, "I won't hurt the 
baby?"

"Nil, tá mé go breá," she answered impatiently, her 
eyes dilated with arousal, and probably unaware she 
wasn't speaking English. 

"Of course you're fine," he murmured sarcastically, 
caressing her breasts and enjoying the exotic, 
lilting syllables in his ear. "How would I say 'I 
love you'?"

He raised her nipple to his mouth and her breathing 
quickened, her skin flushed and hot under his 
fingertips.  "Tá grá agam duit," she whispered 
hoarsely.

"Tah grah ugum ditch," he echoed, crawling forward so 
she fell back across the blankets, legs apart. "No, I 
like hearing you say it better." She reached to pull 
the covers down, and he stopped her. "Do you think 
you need more covering than a man?"

"Nil, mo rún," she answered, putting her arms around 
his neck again and pulling him close. 
 
"Moron?" 

"Mo rún - my lover," she whispered to him. 
*~*~*~*

It wasn't really awake, but it wasn't asleep either.  
It was the comfortable state of being skin-to-skin 
with another human being in the cool darkness before 
dawn, and having no need to open his eyes.

He put his hand on Dana's stomach again, still trying 
to feel any movement.  She yawned and shifted closer 
to him, mumbling something as she slept.

"Dad," Samuel's voice said, and Mulder rolled quickly 
and opened his eyes, seeing his son in the doorway.  
He hadn't heard footsteps or the door opening, so Sam 
had probably been there for some time, watching them. 

"Sammy," he said surprise, reaching back and pulling 
the sheet higher to cover Dana.  With no one else in 
the house at night except Emily, they'd never thought 
to lock their bedroom door.  Or to be quiet as they 
made love.  Sam, though, used to finding his mother 
in the bed and his father on the sofa, had thought 
nothing of walking in.

"I came to see if you were awake."

"Yeah.  Yes, I'm awake.  Are you all right?" He 
pushed up on his elbow and combed his fingers through 
his hair nervously.

Sam nodded. "I'm fine.  I was just awake.  No one 
else is up."  

"I'll get up.  Go start a fire in the stove and we'll 
have coffee.  I can even make biscuits.  Kind of."

He nodded again, but still didn't move. 

"Sam, I don't have any clothes on.  I can't get up 
until you leave."

"Oh," his son responded calmly, then turned away, 
quietly closing the door after him.  Within a few 
seconds, Mulder heard footsteps descending the stairs 
and the cast iron door on the kitchen stove squeaking 
open.  

"Do you want me to fix breakfast?" Dana asked, not as 
fast asleep as she'd been pretending.  She sat up, 
watching him dress. 

"No, he wants me."

"I could-" 

"No, just give us some time.  All right?" He leaned 
down, kissing her forehead, and smiling 
encouragingly.  She moved to kiss his lips, but he 
pulled back, buttoning his shirt as he left.  

*~*~*~*

Instead of eating it, Sam was slowly dismantling his 
biscuit, pulling it apart morsel by morsel and 
dropping the pieces to Grace.

"I don't know how to get them not to burn on the 
bottom.  There must be some sort of trick to it," 
Mulder decided, peeling the black part off of his. 
"Maybe-"

"I'm sorry I interrupted you," Sam said suddenly. 
"And Dana.  I wasn't thinking."

"It's okay.  We were just sleeping."

"I don't think she likes me."

Mulder raised his eyebrows, making sure he'd heard 
right. "Of course Dana likes you.  She was staying 
out of the way last night, letting you get settled 
in.  She just doesn't want to intrude.  Why do you 
think she didn't like you?"

"She didn't talk to me."

"Sammy, you didn't talk to her."  
 
"Oh," he mumbled, then went back to dissecting his 
burnt biscuit.

Mulder stirred his coffee, although there was nothing 
in it to stir except coffee.  When he tapped his 
spoon on the rim of his cup, Sam jumped. "Sorry."

"You shaved your beard," Sam observed next.

"And you started growing one," Mulder teased, 
reaching over to stroke beginning hints of a 
mustache.  Sam pulled back warily, so he dropped his 
hand and elaborated, "I shaved it after, uh, after 
the funeral.  I started out looking like Lincoln and 
realized I looked more like a grizzly bear, so I 
shaved it off.  It was gone by the time I saw you in 
Atlanta.  I did see you in Atlanta, didn't I?"
 
Sam nodded, but answered, "All of it."

"Yes, it all went." Most men wore, if not full 
beards, then at least sideburns, goatees, or 
mustaches.  Very few were clean-shaven.  For years, 
Mulder had vacillated between sideburns and a closely 
trimmed goatee as the mood struck him. "I've started 
to grow it back a few times, but it bothers Dana's 
skin."

"She's going to have a baby, isn't she?" 

"Yes, she is.  I didn't think you'd notice yet, so I 
was waiting to tell you. Do you want a little brother 
or sister for Christmas?"

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he knew 
that hadn't been the right thing to say.  Damn it, 
nothing seemed to be the right thing to say.  He 
wanted to grab his son and hold him close, to make 
all the nightmare monsters under the bed go away.  He 
wanted to launch into a lecture about how much he'd 
loved Melissa and how Dana wasn't a replacement or a 
betrayal.  He wanted to shake him and shout, "I'm 
your father, and I love you, Goddamn it," but he 
didn't.

"You fixed my bedroom window," Sam finally said, like 
that was the next logical topic of conversation. "The 
broken pane."

"I think Dana had someone fix it when I telegraphed 
we were coming home.  Byers, probably.  I was saving 
it for you.  You and that baseball... I told you if you 
broke another one, you were fixing it."

"That was five years ago."

"I meant it."

For the first time, Sam grinned hesitantly, giving 
the rest of his biscuit to Grace and reaching for 
another.  He didn't eat them, but he liked to crumble 
them.

From the nursery upstairs, a high-pitched voice 
announced she was awake and wanted her "Dah-dah-dah-
dah," immediately, each syllable getting louder and 
more insistent.

"It's five o'clock. You can set your watch by her," 
Mulder said, getting up from the kitchen table. "It's 
Emily.  Would you like to meet her?"

The floorboards above them squeaked as Dana got up, 
but Mulder looked up and said loudly, "I'll get her," 
and the feet shuffled back to bed.

Sam kept his distance as Mulder lit the lamps in the 
nursery, and got ready for a diaper change.  Emily 
watched from the crib, standing up and clutching the 
iron bars like a prisoner desperate for release.

"Dah-dah-dah, upuh."

"I'm hurrying, Miss Impatience.  All right; come 
here," he said, lifting her up. "Up we go.  You 
always want what you want right now, don't you?"   

Sam wandered closer, watching from beside his father 
as a dry diaper replaced a wet one. "Shouldn't Dana 
do that?  Or Poppy?"

"They do, but Poppy doesn't come until six.  She'll 
start spending the night soon, though.  And Dana 
needs to rest, especially now.  I can do it.  We get 
a dry backside, a drink of water, eat some crackers, 
sometimes we even take a bath, don't we, Emmy?" he 
said melodically, lifting her high in the air and 
kissing her belly before settling her against his 
chest.  Emily sucked her thumb, eyeing Sam warily. 

"She doesn't look like I thought she would."

"She looks more like Dana.  Do you want to hold her?" 
he offered spontaneously, and to his surprise, Sam 
nodded that he did, holding out his arms.

"She sometimes doesn't like strangers.  She's, uh, 
you need to...  Be careful to- Sammy- Yes, like that."  

There was a rocking chair near the window, and Sam 
sat down, Emily on his lap and his back to the door.  
Mulder hovered, thinking it was a two-second whim, 
but minutes passed, silent except for the rocker 
creaking against the floor and Sam murmuring to her.  
Occasionally, Emily answered in her secret language, 
an entire universe condensed into ten or so of the 
most important single-syllable words.

Grace made a protective lap around the room, then 
settled beside the rocking chair, keeping one floppy 
ear directed at the door.  He opened his eyes, 
checking on Mulder, then exhaled a rumbly breath from 
deep in his chest, and closed them again.

Sam pointed out the window to a lantern bobbing on 
the sidewalk below, telling Emily it was the night 
watchman making his rounds.  His shift started at 
dusk when he lit the gas streetlamps, and ended at 
sunrise when he extinguished them.  Fascinated, Emily 
reached out, thinking she could catch the light and 
hold it like a firefly.

Mulder backed away, leaning against the edge of the 
crib until he saw Dana coming to check on them.

"Is everything all right?" she whispered as he joined 
her in the dark hall.  She wrapped her robe tightly 
around her and smoothed her hair back. "Where is 
Emily?  I thought you were getting her.  And where is 
Samuel?"

Mulder tipped his head toward the rocking chair 
slowly swaying beside the dark window. 

"What are they doing?"  

"They're talking."

"Talking?"

"Talking," he answered, putting his arms around her 
shoulders, rocking her back and forth to get her to 
relax.  She covered his hands with hers, standing in 
front of him as they watched Sam with Emily. "And 
everything's going to be fine," he told her, feeling 
the first glimmer of certainty that it really would. 
"He's going to be fine.  He just needs time.  And 
we're fine.  We're going to be fine.  How do you say 
that?"

"Táimid go maith," she supplied, leaning her head 
back against his shoulder. 

"We are fine?"

"Almost.  More like 'we are well,' I think.  It is 
similar to the way you say that you are not good, you 
are just less bad.  Táimid go mait."

"Tah-mwidj go mah," he repeated after her.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus VIII

***********************************

Begin: Paracelsus IX

*~*~*~*

Dear Melissa, 

I will warn you, I am in a dangerous mood - the kind 
where sarcasm rolls off me like static off a black 
cat and people find excuses to be someplace else.  
I've quarreled with Dana, with Poppy, Byers, and with 
my bastard stepfather, who I punched as we were 
sitting down to dinner.  It was no loss to the 
conversation, but it did get blood on the tablecloth.  
I would have quarreled with our son, except there is 
no quarreling with our son. The closest to quarreling 
with Samuel is arguing with the back of his head as 
he shrugs and walks away.  And, after dinner, when we 
were alone, Sadie's father asked me if I favored Walt 
Whitman, and when I said I did, he kissed me on the 
mouth.

Thanksgiving has not been a success.

Since I am angry at the world, I will confess I get 
angry at you sometimes, Melly, although I know I 
shouldn't.  Dana once told me she knew she should not 
feel a certain way, and yet that did not stop her.  
Of all the times you thought I was upset with you 
when I was not, it seems unfair to be angry with you 
for dying.

But I am.  

And knowing I have no right to be only makes me 
angrier.  Perhaps you were ready to die, but I was 
not ready to lose you like that.  And neither was our 
son.

Occasionally, hints of my Sammy show through cracks 
in the plaster walls around him, and I think I can 
rip the chunks away and reach him.  

But I cannot.  

I would feel better if he would pout and stomp and 
yell that it is my fault, that I killed his mother, 
and that I'm betraying her with another woman.  

But he does not.  

He's polite to Dana, adores Emmy, and has asked 
several times about the baby, worried something will 
happen to Dana.  He has a tutor - or a series of 
them, rather - which gives him someone else to 
frustrate.  He comes to the newspaper in the 
afternoon, sits in his corner, and does his 
engravings.  He plays in the symphony.  He scratches 
away behind his sketchpad.  Each day he seems a 
little better, and I want to think he's a little 
better, but something inside me senses it's like he's 
been sent to spend the summer with his boring aunt - 
he's just biding his time until he can leave.

After you and Father died, after the war, when I 
couldn't find Sam, I felt like my heart had been 
broken in two and instead of blood, only rust-colored 
dust spilled out.  When Sammy says he doesn't feel 
real, I understand.  When he says he just can't talk 
about the war - or about you or our Sarah or my 
father - I understand.  And I want to shake him and 
yell that I understand, because he does not seem to 
understand that I do.

I forget, contrary to what Dana says, that I'm not my 
son's hero anymore.  I can't kiss it and make it 
better, nor does he want me to try.  In that way, Sam 
is like Dana: the harder I push, the harder I push 
him away.  I forget he no longer believes me when I 
say "it will be fine."

Well, I would not believe me either.
 
Mulder

*~*~*~*

Melly could have run naked through the streets and 
people would have sighed, shaken their heads, and 
said, "There goes Melissa Mulder, Representative 
Kavanaugh's daughter and Senator Mulder's daughter-
in-law, cousin to my Aunt Phyllis Morton of the 
Nashville Mortons, twice removed.  Poor thing's naked 
as a jaybird, bless her little heart. For God's sake, 
someone get Fox." Among bluebloods, any shortcoming 
was easily excused by adding "bless his little heart" 
after it, as in "Nathan likes to wear women's red 
flannel drawers and be whipped with a riding crop, 
bless his little heart."

Dana got no such leeway.  She was a newcomer, a word 
pronounced as if it had soured.  Aside from that, the 
very characteristics Mulder valued - intelligence, 
wit, courage, forthrightness - were met with 
suspicion.  She was an enigma in a society that liked 
to know the answer to every question before it was 
asked.  She wasn't one of them, nor did Washington's 
polite society have any intention of letting her 
become one of them.

"Do you think she minds?" a well-polished young 
woman's voice asked as a lace fan swished idly. 
"Minds the colored girl, I mean?  Lilly, Rosie, 
Violet - whatever her name is.  Do you suppose the 
new wife minds?  In the house and all..."   

"I think," another answered cattily, "The question 
should be 'does the colored girl mind the wife?'"

The ladies were under the mistaken impression that 
because the Mulders' box at the opera had been empty 
earlier, it was currently empty.  Unfortunately for 
the gossips in the hall behind him, on the other side 
of the velvet curtain, Mulder could hear every word.  

And so could Dana.  

He clenched his teeth and rolled his fingers into 
fists, tapping them lightly on the arms of his chair.  
They'd slipped in after the lights went down, 
avoiding scrutiny, and would slip out early, while 
the lobby was still empty.  As long as she was seated 
or wearing a cape, Harvey wasn't obvious.  Dana had 
heard Samuel practicing, and Mulder didn't see why 
she couldn't unobtrusively attend the opening night 
performance.  People would talk, but people always 
talked.

There was whispering he couldn't make out, then, 
"Well, what do you expect?  He seems to be averaging 
a baby a year.  Melissa, then the housekeeper, then 
the new wife... If the wife's big-bellied again, does 
that mean the housekeeper missed her turn?"

There was a flurry of giggles and admonishments that 
the speaker was "So wicked!"

"Well!  I bet you'd get more than a headache every 
night if he was your husband!"

"If he was my husband, I wouldn't need to get a 
headache," the first woman responded, swishing her 
fan. "And he wouldn't need to be tomcatting around 
with the nigger help."

"You know that's why Melissa did it, don't you?  She 
caught them," a new woman added dramatically, as 
Mulder's ears burned. "Walked right in on them."  

Livid, Mulder leaned forward to stand, not sure what 
he was going to say or do, but certain he'd think of 
something.  Dana put her hand on his forearm, 
stopping him.

"Samuel," Dana said quietly as the orchestra returned 
and the gaslights begin to dim, signaling the end of 
intermission.

He exhaled and sat back, clapping politely. On stage, 
Samuel's smooth face seemed out of place among the 
bushy gray beards and time-weathered skin, but his 
talent wasn't.  He made a few adjustments to his 
cello and the sheet music in front of him, then 
scanned the boxes, making sure his father was there.  
Mulder nodded in acknowledgement, grinning proudly, 
and Sam nodded back, then glanced at the back of the 
auditorium.  Finding the other person he was looking 
for, he drew his bow across the strings, then focused 
on the conductor, waiting.

Following Sam's gaze, Mulder noted Poppy sitting 
alone, high in the balcony, in the Colored section.  
He recognized the bodice of the rose-colored dress 
she was wearing; it was one of Melissa's many 
castoffs.

Once the musicians were ready, the auditorium 
darkened and the conductor raised his baton.  

Mulder tipped his head close to Dana's and whispered, 
"That's not true.  What those women said; it's not 
true."

She nodded, and the violinists inhaled, then embraced 
Mozart's frenzied notes with their horsehair bows.

*~*~*~*

He helped Dana into the carriage, making sure she was 
warm and comfortable.  After she assured him she 
probably wouldn't catch frostbite in October, he 
returned inside to meet Samuel.

The first of the audience was just emerging from the 
auditorium, streaming into the lobby.  He moved 
against the tide, working his way around the edges 
and toward the stage.

He saw a dark-haired man trying to speak to Poppy as 
she left the balcony, reaching for her hand.  She 
jerked away, leaving him standing alone at the bottom 
of the stairs and looking embarrassed.  Alex, Mulder 
realized, not really surprised.  As of late, Alex was 
one of Spender's cronies, but probably not his son.  
He was one of those mysterious bastards that happen 
often in wealthy families.  From the look of him, he 
clearly belonged to the family tree, but no one ever 
mentioned exactly which branch had crossed with a 
pretty Russian chambermaid a few decades ago.

Alex, seeing Mulder watching, raised a hand in 
greeting.  His other tuxedo sleeve hung limp, neatly 
pinned closed.  Mulder waved in return, smiling 
sympathetically.  They weren't close, but they 
weren't enemies, either.  Alex was family - the kind 
who was loaned money if he asked, but wasn't invited 
to Christmas parties.

The little devil on Mulder's left shoulder an 
whispered evil suggestion, so he stopped at one of 
the lower boxes, leaning carelessly on the brass 
railing around the front.

A lace fan stopped swishing, and an attractive blond 
woman blinked in surprise, then smiled enticingly. He 
could have told Mrs. Andrew Wilder she could stop 
pretending her headaches; Mr. Andrew Wilder had a 
mistress in an apartment on L Street, and a 
prostitute in Mary Hall's brothel on Maryland Avenue 
that he'd visited every Tuesday for years. Owning a 
newspaper meant Mulder generally knew everyone's 
dirty laundry, whether he printed it or not.

"The Negro woman," he told her, just for her 
edification. "Her name is Poppy."

He smiled encouragingly at her red-faced 
mortification, as though he genuinely hoped her 
memory would improve, then went to the stage door to 
wait for Sam.

*~*~*~*

Dana mumbled what was probably the Gaelic equivalent 
of "Put me down; I can walk," but made no effort to 
do so and appeared content to spend the night the 
carriage.  She'd fallen asleep on the way home, 
soothed by the gentle rocking and safe against his 
shoulder.  Instead of waking her, Sam held the door 
while Mulder carried her into the house, then up the 
stairs to their bedroom.

"I finally carried you over the threshold," he 
teased, helping her out of her evening dress.

She stared at him sleepily, probably trying to decide 
if she was supposed to answer, then solemnly handed 
him her satin slippers before turning and crawling up 
on the mattress.  He kissed her forehead, then belly 
as he tucked her in, and closed the bedroom door as 
he left.

"You love her, don't you?" Sam said as Mulder 
returned to the kitchen, humming to himself. "Dana."

Caught off-guard, he responded, "I care very..." He 
glanced at his son, seeing the dark, earnest eyes 
focused on him. "Yes, I love her."

"She loves you.  She argues with you, she does."

"Caring for someone doesn't always mean you agree 
with them. I told you: she's nice, but very different 
from your mother.  She's asleep, though, so we'll get 
some peace and quiet.  I think there are too many 
headstrong women in this house and not enough men. 
They have us outnumbered.  Reinforcements are on the 
way, though, and we're gaining on them."

"I'm glad."

Mulder waited, trying to figure out what his son was 
glad about, but Sam focused on making tea as though 
that was a normal stopping point for the discussion.  

"I thought you were wonderful tonight.  So did Dana; 
she was very impressed.  We agreed: you're the best 
in your row," he added, limping through the one-sided 
conversation.

His son didn't laugh.
 
"If you want, we could go hunting tomorrow.  Do you 
think Amazing Grace is up to terrorizing some 
rabbits?"

"I'd miss church with Grandmother."

"Well, we could, we could go early.  Before dawn.  
You could be back in time.  And Grandmother wouldn't 
mind if you missed, just this once.  We haven't been 
hunting in forever.  Or riding.  Would you rather 
just go riding?" he asked, thinking Sam might not 
like the sound of the rifles. 
 
Shrug.  

"Sam... Please stop that and talk to me.  Whatever you 
want to say, I want to hear it.  Whatever's wrong, I 
want to fix it, but you have to tell me."

His son shrugged, setting two steaming cups on the 
table. 

"I know this is hard; so much has changed, but I-"  

"You don't have to do this - make plans, act like you 
want me here.  You have a whole new life, and I'm 
just a leftover from the old one," Sam said, sounding 
far removed from the situation.  

Mulder took a breath, then answered, "You are my 
life.  You have been my life since I was barely older 
than you are now."   

Sam ran his fingers through his hair, leaving them on 
his crown as he leaned his elbow on the table.    

"When the war ended, instead of marching in the 
parade, I watched it.  For three days, I watched 
every soldier who came down Pennsylvania Avenue, 
searching for you.  And then I came here, and Poppy 
and I sat on the front steps, waiting.  And days 
passed, then weeks, and you didn't come.  And your 
mother was dead.  And I couldn't go in our bedroom or 
the bathroom because all I could see was her laying 
there, soaking wet and covered in blood.  I could see 
the coffin in the parlor.  I could smell her perfume.  
Poppy took one of your mother's hats off the hat 
rack, and I screamed at her for hours.  Grandfather 
was dead.  And the baby - your sister - was dead.  
And you didn't come home.  I went back to Atlanta, to 
Savannah, looking for you. I-" He stopped when his 
voice broke, and struggled to regain control. "I 
needed to find you.  I couldn't imagine life without 
you.  Everything else, I could stand, but not losing 
you."

"And you met Dana."

"Yes, and I met Dana.  And if you want to be angry 
with someone about that, please be angry with me.  
Not her.  She's trying so hard to be your friend."

Sam's gnawed his lower lip uncertainly. 

"She likes you, Sammy.  She wants you here as much as 
I do."
 
"No, you don't," his son said matter-of-factly.

"How can you possibly think I don't want you?"

Another shrug.  After a few seconds, without 
answering, Sam got up and went upstairs, leaving his 
teacup on the table.  As Mulder listened, he heard 
Sam go, not to bed, but to the nursery.  The crib 
rails squeaked as he picked up Emily, then the 
rocking chair scooted across the wooden floor to the 
window.  

When Mulder checked later, Emily was asleep in Sam's 
arms, and Sam was asleep in the rocking chair with 
his feet propped on the window seat.  Mulder took 
Emily, then whispered for Sam to go to bed, which he 
did without really waking, just like he had when he 
was five.  Amazing Grace looked up, debating between 
guarding Emily and guarding Sam, then waddled after 
his boy.

*~*~*~*

It took a little more effort for Dana to roll over, 
but she did, and found him sitting on the edge of the 
bed, staring at her.

"What is it?" she asked, scooting up on the pillows. 
"What is wrong?"

"Nothing.  I was just checking on you," he whispered, 
putting his hand on her belly again. "Seeing if 
Harvey was awake.  I didn't mean to bother you.  Go 
back to sleep; you need to rest."

She stretched, then moved his palm so he could feel 
the hardness of a tiny head or bottom pressing 
against her skin.  

"God forbid you 'bother' me.  I barely remember the 
last time we 'bothered' each other."

"Dana..." he mumbled sheepishly, stroking her abdomen.

"No, actually I would settle for opening my eyes and 
having you on your side of the bed instead of on the 
sofa.  We can even draw a line down the center of the 
mattress and both be sure not to cross it." She 
tugged gently at the starched front of his tuxedo 
shirt. "Lie down.  I promise I will not tell anyone."

He grumbled, but let her maneuver him down, pillowing 
his head on her chest and stretching his long legs 
out across the bed.

"What those women said at the theater: it's not true.  
Not about Poppy or anyone else.  I told you: I 
wouldn't have done that to Melly.  Or Sam.  I would 
never have let either of them walk in and find me 
with another woman."

"I know," she murmured, toying with his hair.  It was 
nice - being close to her, being still with her.

"I wouldn't do that to you, either," he added a 
little belatedly. "It's not that there's someone 
else, just with the baby, with Sam here..."

"Mr. Frohike offered to come over and fulfill your 
husbandly duties."

Mulder raised one eyebrow, looking up at her.

"I told him Thursday afternoons would be fine."

Her chest jiggled as she laughed, letting him know 
she was teasing.

"You are a wicked, wicked woman.  And I can hear your 
heart," he said softly, closing his eyes. "Sam said 
he isn't part of my life now, that he's just a 
leftover obligation.  Dana, just when I think he's 
doing better, he announces something like that, and I 
never know what to say to him.  It's like trying to 
navigate by a compass that randomly points every 
direction except north."

"Be patient.  You want him to heal faster than he is 
able to, and he tries to pretend to please you."

"Why would he do that?"

"Because he idolizes you.  Dense, Mr. Mulder.  You 
can be a little dense.  Sit up," she requested, then 
rubbed her hand over her belly, resting her palm 
against one side. "Here.  Put your ear here."

"Why?"

"Just listen," she whispered, and he laid his head 
where she indicated, wondering what in the world he 
was listening for. "Can you hear it yet?  It should 
sound like mine, but faster and fainter."

Mulder narrowed his eyes in concentration, trying to 
filter out the sounds of the house and the street. He 
exhaled, then smiled and answered wondrously, "Yes.  
I can hear something.  It sounds like he's pounding 
on a little wet drum.  What is that?"

"His heart."

"That's his heartbeat?"

She nodded, not interrupting as he listened.

"It's so fast."

"It is supposed to be fast."

"Who told you that?"

"My mother."
 
He listened for a long time, laying one arm along her 
body and one looping over her belly.  The sound of 
the baby was comforting, like the ocean.  

"I'm going to Boston in a few weeks," he said 
quietly. "To address the legislature before they 
nominate the new senators.  Spender is bucking to be 
nominated and I want to make sure he isn't.  I 
thought I'd take Sam with me.  Maybe stop in New 
York, just the two of us.  Spend some time together.  
Will you and Emily be all right?"

"We will be fine.  I think that would be good for you 
and Samuel.  You will be back, though, before the 
baby comes?"

"Of course.  Dana... Would you like me to try to find 
your mother while we're in New York?"

"I would not know where to tell you to begin looking.  
I do not know if she is still in New York.  And she 
does not speak English."

"I don't think it would be hard to find an Irish 
midwife in New York.  She probably gets a widow's 
pension.  I could find her that way."

"I just- No, I do not think you could find her, but 
thank you for offering," she said politely.

"You sound as though you don't even want me to try."

"No, I would rather you did not."

"Tell me why," he requested. 

"No," she said firmly.

He raised his head, frowning at her. "No?  I would 
like a little more explanation than that."

She set her jaw, ignoring him.

"Dana, I asked you a question." 

That was the tone that made Melly's lower lip 
tremble, but Dana continued studiously ignoring him.

*~*~*~* 

Unlike Samuel, before Mulder interrupted his parents, 
he knocked.  And, fifteen minutes after everyone had 
retired for the night, he was fairly sure what he was 
interrupting, which only added to his embarrassment.

"Mother, Melly wants you," he called, feeling foolish 
standing in the hotel hallway with his shirt open and 
his trousers barely buttoned.  He smoothed his hair 
and fastened his clothes, tucking in his shirt.

The bed creaked, and his father answered, "Can it 
wait a few minutes, Fox?"

"She's upset.  She wants Mother."

He wasn't supposed to hear his father's frustrated 
whisper: "Well, she's not the only one.  Dear, will 
you please wean these children?"

"Hush," his mother responded, then louder, "I'm 
coming.  Tell her just a minute, Fox."

He shuffled back across the hall to convey the 
message. "Mother says just a minute," he mumbled to 
Melly, who had the sheets pulled up to her chin and 
was watching him with terrified brown eyes. "Oh, 
would you stop that, honey?  For God's sake, I'm not 
going to hurt you.  You're my wife and you're acting 
like we're complete strangers."

"Go 'way!"

"I am away," he snapped. "If you don't want me to 
touch you, I certainly won't!"

"I don't like you!  You're not a nice man."

"Stop it!  Stop that baby voice.  You're-"

He was interrupted by a soft knock on he door, which 
he opened to find his mother wearing her dressing 
gown and a less-than-enthusiastic expression.

"What happened?" she asked, looking from her son to 
the rumpled bed and back again. "Fox, shouldn't your 
father handle this?"

"Nothing happened.  She's just upset.  She started 
crying and wouldn't calm down until I said I'd get 
you."

"Did you do something to upset her?"

"No," he insisted self-righteously. "Of course I 
didn't."

"Well, I have her," his mother said uncertainly, 
sitting on the bed. Melissa scooted toward her, still 
glaring at Mulder. "You go talk to your father."

"I'm eighteen years old.  It's a little late to have 
that talk with my father," he muttered under his 
breath, stalking out.  

He made a few laps up and down the hall, cooling off.  
His first impulse was to say "the hell with it" and 
walk back to his room at Harvard, but that wasn't 
practical since he wasn't wearing shoes. Eventually, 
once his pride had healed a little, he shoved his 
fists in his pockets and wandered to the room beside 
his parents' suite.

"What happened?" Poppy asked, and he quickly averted 
his eyes.  

The bodice of her dress was open, and she was laying 
on the bed with Sam, who had one hand on her bare 
breast as he nursed.  Poppy had been born on a 
plantation, where she'd been considered a valuable 
addition to the livestock.  Her job was to nurse Sam, 
and covering up, in the South, would have been 
considered an uppity pretension of modesty.  No one 
cared if the cows were naked or looked away as the 
mares were bred.

Mulder, however, had been raised with white servants, 
and believed breasts, light or dark, were breasts.

"Fox, what happened?"

"Nothing," he answered honestly, blowing out the lamp 
so he couldn't really see her, and slouching in a 
chair beside the bed. 

"Do you want to talk about it?"    
 
"Actually, I can't think of anything I'd enjoy less 
than talking about it."

He stared out the window, listening to the sound of 
Sam's mouth against her nipple.  The sucking slowed, 
then stopped and switched to soft little snores as 
the toddler fell asleep.

"The doctors keep saying she's better," he said, 
thinking aloud. "She was fine at dinner.  She ate.  
She was even laughing."  He exhaled, slouched a 
little lower, and asked, "Does she love me, Poppy?"

"Does Melissa love you?  I couldn't say," she 
answered, playing dumb. 

"Oh, of course you can say.  You'd know better than 
anyone else.  She says she does, but - was it just 
because of..." He nodded toward Sam. "We haven't even 
been married for two years.  Is it just that she 
doesn't love me?"   

"I think she loves you very much.  She's been excited 
about seeing you again."  

"Then what am I doing wrong?" 

He didn't need to elaborate.  The fact that he'd 
obviously undressed, then hurriedly dressed again, 
and was anywhere besides in bed with his wife at ten 
o'clock at night was explanation enough.

Poppy considered, and then answered, "She's a lady. 
Ladies don't think of physical love the same way men 
do.  Men or gentlemen, it's the same, but not women 
and ladies.  Some folks say ladies don't even feel 
the need the same.  If that's what you're wanting, 
it's not fair to bother Melissa with it." 

"I guess that makes sense," he mumbled, although it 
really didn't.  His mother was a lady, but he'd never 
known his father to "bother" another woman.

She covered Sam and sat up, swinging her legs over 
the side of the bed.  When he turned his head, she 
pulled her dress together. "I didn't mean to 
embarrass you."

"I'm not embarrassed," he lied, his face suddenly 
hot.  

In the darkness, she seemed very close to him, and 
very warm.  Instead of French perfume, she smelled of 
every-day things: lye soap and baked apples and 
cotton.  Like his father, she smelled like home - of 
being fifteen again and thinking life was fair and 
would work out exactly the way he'd planned it.

"You are embarrassed.  You're flushed." She put her 
cool hand on his cheek, stroking. 

"It's hot in here."

"Then take off your shirt, if you're going to spend 
the night.  It needs to be warm for the baby."

He fumbled to comply, then decided that might not be 
the best idea.  He'd grown up with Poppy, and she was 
his friend, but it was easy to see why she had more 
than her share of admirers.  

"I will help," she offered. "Help you get undressed 
and lie down.  Would you like that?"

"Really, I'm fine," he said nervously, his voice 
breaking.

She leaned closer, whispering in his ear. "I could 
show you what women like.  Would you like that?"

He bit his lip hard, nodding, and felt her mouth 
moving down his jaw to his throat, like a vampire 
approaching a victim.  The hair on the back of his 
neck stood at attention, and his body forgot how to 
do anything that required planning, including moving.  
He felt boneless, as though she could mold him any 
way she pleased.  Her hand moved down his chest, over 
his stomach, then to his groin, cupping, then 
squeezing gently.  He moaned and opened his eyes, 
briefly focusing on Sammy asleep behind Poppy before 
he closed them again.

"Have you ever really been with Melissa?" she 
murmured to him, urging him down to her breasts.  He 
unbuttoned the few buttons she'd fastened on her 
calico dress, and cupped them in his hands, pushing 
the weight upward. "You haven't, have you?  You've 
never been with any woman."

He shook his head that he had.  Not since Samuel had 
come, but four times between the wedding and when 
he'd left for Harvard two weeks later.  Five times, 
counting Samuel's conception.  Six, if he counted the 
aborted attempt tonight.   

"You have?" Poppy asked, pulling back.

"Of course I have," he answered breathlessly, then 
kissed her, penetrating deep into her mouth with his 
tongue.  He could feel her hard nipples against his 
palms, her skin soft against his.  With increasing 
urgency, he pulled the white kerchief off her head, 
letting her long, black hair fall over her shoulders.  
She always kept it covered, but she had hair exactly 
like Melly and Sarah's.  She looked like them, and 
the resemblance was close enough that, if he closed 
his eyes, he could easily pretend.  He could almost 
leave his eyes open and pretend.

"You look like her," he whispered huskily, pulling 
her off the bed and lowering her to the floor. 

"Like who?"

"Like Sarah," he whispered, stroking her hair as he 
lowered his mouth to her breast.

Instead, Poppy raised her arms, pushing him away and 
telling him no.

As soon as she did, the erotic spell broke and became 
gut-wrenching disgust with himself.  This woman 
wasn't his wife, and she didn't want him.  She was 
his son's nursemaid, and he was forcing himself on 
her on the floor beside his son's bed.  He opened his 
mouth to apologize, still on top of her, but of 
course, at that moment, his father opened the bedroom 
door.

*~*~*~*

Mulder woke to the slow, haunting guitar notes 
lilting down the hall and making their way into his 
dreams.

"How long has he been playing?" he whispered to Dana, 
scooting up so his head was beside hers on the 
pillow.  It was still dark outside with no hint of 
dawn approaching.  Three, maybe four in the morning, 
but not an unusual time to discover Sam was awake and 
roaming the house.

"Not long.  A few minutes."

He stretched, then wrapped his arm around her, 
listening. "Air on a G String," he said quietly, 
recognizing the sad melody.  Sam wasn't so much 
playing as he was letting his fingers caress the 
strings. "Bach.  It was one of Melly's favorites."

At the other end of the hall, a door opened, and bare 
feet made their way to the top of the stairs.  Mulder 
heard Poppy say something and Samuel respond 
affirmatively, then a floorboard shift as she sat.  
Without hesitation, the guitar notes slid into the 
easy rhythm a Negro spiritual, and, after a few 
seconds, Poppy's mezzo-soprano joined Sam's voice.

"He's a tenor," Mulder whispered, still curled up to 
Dana, one hand on her belly.

"A beautiful tenor," she responded.

"The last time I heard him, he was a treble.  Before 
his voice changed.  Before the war.  He used to sing 
in the boys' choir."

From the time he could walk, Poppy had taken him to 
church with her on Wednesday night, so he was as much 
at home with the soulful gospel music as he was with 
the classical composers.  They lie in the darkness, 
listening to Sam's fingers dancing over the strings.

"I should get up," Mulder decided, since he was the 
father and always knew the right thing to do. "See if 
he'll talk."

"Stay here," Dana answered, covering his hand with 
hers on her belly. "He is talking."  

*~*~*~*

"You don't remember being here?" Mulder asked as Sam 
looked around the observatory. "Not just in here, but 
being at Harvard at all?  You don't remember me 
carrying you around the yard on my shoulders?  You 
and Byers making a tent out of the blankets in our 
room?  You don't remember getting sick after my 
graduation and vomiting all over the Dean?"

"No," his son said, shrugging one shoulder, which was 
an improvement over shrugging both shoulders.

"Well, I guess you might not.  You were barely three 
when I graduated. I promise you've been here, though.  
Many times.  You were an expert rail-rider before you 
were out of diapers." 

Samuel examined the fifteen-inch telescope, climbing 
into the metal chair and squinting through the 
eyepiece. "Was this here?" he asked, showing the 
first glimmer of interest Mulder had seen in days.

"It was.  I tried to show you the rings of Saturn one 
night, but you were too little to understand."  

"I wish I could see them now," he answered. "But it 
has to be dark, doesn't it?"

"Yes, and we have a train to catch in a little bit. 
We'll come back."

"After the baby comes.  When Dana can come with us.  
She would like this.  She likes scientific things."

"Yes, she does," Mulder answered, surprised his son 
had noticed. "This observatory is called the Dana 
House."

"After her?"

"No, not after her.  She wasn't even born when the 
house was built.  And neither was I.  The University 
added the observatory and the telescope later.  The 
family who owned the house was the Dana's.  Probably 
no relation."

"Oh."  Sam answered, then twisted his mouth 
sheepishly.

"Do you think you would like to live in Boston?  If 
you decide against West Point, you could go to 
Harvard and still be close to home." 

"What about the London Music Conservatory?

"Or you could do that.  You still have plenty of time 
to decide." 

Mulder felt a chill go down his spine as Bill Mulder 
rolled over in his grave: his grandson attending a 
music conservatory.

He held the door, then followed Sam to the porch. 
They stood on the front steps, watching the students 
pass, leaning their bodies into the November wind.  
If Dana liked snow, she'd certainly get enough of it 
in Massachusetts. 

"If I accept the nomination, we'd have to move.  Not 
just come up for a month in the summer, but actually 
have a residence.  Byers could run the paper for me 
and we could keep the house in DC, but a senator has 
to live primarily in the state he represents.  Your 
grandparents still have that big house in Boston 
that's doing nothing except accruing dust and taxes.  
How do you feel about living there?"

Sam shoved his hands into his coat pockets, hunching 
his shoulders. "I didn't think you wanted to be a 
senator."

"I didn't.  I still don't, really.  That certainly 
wasn't the point of me addressing the legislature, 
but now that it's been offered... I know I'm not 
corrupt.  I know I'd do a good job.  I'd try, at 
least, and at least I'm not Spender.  But Spender 
doesn't have a baby coming in six weeks, either," 
Mulder said, thinking aloud.

His son looked up, puzzled.

"If I accept, I'd have to be Massachusetts by January 
first.  Dana can't travel right now, but I'd have to 
be living here when the legislature appoints me. 
Which means I'd either have to leave DC right after 
the baby comes, or, if he's late, I wouldn't be there 
at all.  I don't like either of those possibilities."

He inhaled, the cold air stinging the inside of his 
nose and the back of his throat.

"And I don't know how Dana would feel about all the 
dinners and galas and hoopla that come with being a 
senator's wife.  I'd rather be tortured by the 
Spanish Inquisition, so I can only imagine what 
Dana's reaction would be.  And there's you.  I grew 
up with everyone in America knowing who my father 
was.  Not that it was bad, but... As soon as I said my 
last name, people had expectations, and if I didn't 
live up to their expectations, they acted like I'd 
failed them.  They still do, and I don't want it to 
be like that for you."

"You think it's not like that already?" Sam answered 
softly.

Mulder, unsure how to respond, considered those words 
for a few seconds, then wrapped his scarf tighter 
around his neck and ducked his head against the wind 
as he descended the wooden stairs.  Sam fell in step 
beside him, crunching across the frozen yard and not 
speaking again until they'd turned toward the hotel.  
 
"Grandfather would be proud of you.  If you decided 
to accept, he'd be very proud," his son finally said.

"I know that, Sammy."

*~*~*~*

Even on a good day, Dana could be... a challenge.  Or 
just difficult, depending on how generous he was 
feeling.  She had and trusted her own opinions, and 
wasn't hesitant about sharing them, particularly with 
him.  And when he didn't agree with her, she folded 
her arms, pursed her lips, pushed her eyebrows 
together, and looked at him like he'd just blown his 
nose on her skirt.

At first, he'd blamed it on relying on herself for so 
long.  The war had taken able-bodied men from their 
homes for years, leaving women in the South to assume 
previously unheard of roles and responsibilities. 
He'd thought, in time, she'd stop questioning his 
every move. 

He'd been wrong, but he'd married her anyway.  She 
was generally difficult in an unintentionally erotic 
way, which might explain why most of their arguments 
began in the library and ended in bed.

But when she wanted to work at it, she could turn 
being difficult into an art form.  

Until he'd thought about it, he hadn't realized he 
didn't know Dana's maiden name, let alone her 
mother's name. He didn't have an address or a 
description.  The only link he could think to track 
down was that her father and brothers - Bill and 
Charlie - had died on the USS Tecumseh in Mobile Bay.  
Less than a hundred men had been aboard, so it wasn't 
hard to find a William - two Williams - and a Charles 
with the same last name.  Two Lieutenants and a 
Captain Scully.  From there, he'd crosschecked the 
pensions for Federal widows and arrived at a series 
of tenement buildings in the immigrant section of 
Manhattan on Houston Street.

"Wait here," he told Sam, closing the door of the 
cab.

His son was busy sketching the street vendors, and 
nodded, not really listening.

Mulder stood on the sidewalk, surrounded by the 
lilting Gaelic and gravelly German voices around him, 
and trying to develop some plan.  The address he'd 
been given wasn't a single residence, but almost an 
entire city block.

"Margaret Scully," he said slowly, stopping a passing 
redheaded matron.  He patted his stomach, then held 
his arms as if he was rocking a baby and looked at 
her urgently.

She answered something Gaelic that wasn't "I love 
you," "I am fine," or "Get off my hair," and pointed 
to the top of a brick building on her left.  

Using that method, he made his way through maze of 
buildings, alleys, and staircases, which were crowded 
with the sounds and smells of too many families' 
laundry and suppers and children. "Margaret Scully?" 
he repeated, reaching the top floor, and a stout 
German man pointed at the door again, then gestured 
for Mulder to knock. 

"Margaret Scully?" he asked the petite woman who 
answered, fairly sure it was.  She was dressed in 
black calico, and the small gold cross around her 
neck was identical to the one Dana wore. Her coloring 
was darker, but the delicate bone structure was the 
same, as though there were a few fairy folk among her 
long-forgotten ancestors.

She nodded, looked him up and down, and asked, "Hat 
ihre frau das kleinkind?" as she dried her hands and 
untied her apron.  When he wrinkled his forehead, 
trying to translate her bad German, she tried, "Do 
bean chéile - An bhfuil do bean ceile ag iompar 
clainne?"

He continued staring at her, so she sighed and asked, 
"Bean chabhrach?" very slowly. "Torrach?  Báb?"

"Baby?" he responded, catching the last word. "Yes - 
I mean no," he answered.  As he'd pantomimed his way 
to her door, he'd gotten congratulations in four 
languages and that German man had patted his shoulder 
and given him a tattered cigar. "I mean yes, my wife 
is going to have a baby, but no, not yet, and no, 
that's not why I'm here."

Margaret regarded him warily.  Now he knew where 
Emily had inherited that expression.

Gesturing for her to wait, Mulder took a small, 
framed daguerreotype from his coat pocket, which he'd 
taken from Dana's dressing table and hidden in his 
valise before he'd left DC.  It was a picture of 
Dana's father and brothers in their Navy uniforms, 
with her father seated and his sons standing on 
either side of him.

"Was this your family?  Husband?  Sons?" he asked 
slowly, pointing back and forth between Margaret and 
the sepia-colored daguerreotype.

She responded with a long explanation that sounded 
affirmative.

He looked past her, into the flat, trying to see 
something Dana might find objectionable.  It was 
clean, comfortable, homey.  Not lavish, but not 
impoverished, either.  As a midwife, Margaret Scully 
lived better than most immigrants.  Unfortunately, 
there was no big sign with an arrow that read "this 
is why I won't speak to my mother."

Margaret was still standing in the doorway, waiting.

Hoping he was making the right decision, he opened 
his pocket watch, showing her the photograph inside 
front cover.  He liked pictures, but Dana detested 
posing, and it had taken a week's pestering before 
she'd agreed.  He'd been standing just behind the 
photographer, teasing her, and her expression was a 
charming mixture of annoyance and amusement. He loved 
the resulting photograph as much as she hated it.

"Dana," she said immediately, then looked at him, 
wondering who he was.

In response, he tapped his wedding ring, then turned 
his watch over and opened the back cover, showing her 
one of the two pictures secreted there. "Emily."
 
She examined it closely, then pointed to the third 
picture he carried in his pocket watch.  It was the 
last one he had of Sam with Melly, taken the spring 
Sam was thirteen and before Melly was showing with 
Sarah.

"Samuel," he answered, nodding, then put his hand on 
his chest. "Mine.  My son."

She pointed to Melissa's image, then to his wedding 
ring, and he nodded again.

He thought he was doing a fair job of communicating, 
but she turned away.  Uncertain whether they were 
finished speaking, he waited, occasionally turning 
his head and noticing Margaret's neighbors hanging 
out of their doorways, keeping tabs on him.

"Dana," Margaret said, returning with a stack of a 
half-dozen letters, tied with twine into a neat 
bundle. "Dana," she repeated, handing them to him.  
The top one had been postmarked in New York in 
October 1861, sent to a street address in Savannah, 
and returned unopened.

"Okay.  Yes, I'll give them to her.  To Dana."

She nodded, and, after a few uncomfortable seconds of 
silence, put her hand on the door as if she expected 
him to leave, so he did.

*~*~*~*
 
Although Byers seldom mentioned it, his parents had 
been killed in an accident when he was in his teens, 
leaving him alone in the world.  He'd attended 
Harvard on the last of the insurance money, a few 
scholarships, and an evening job clerking in the 
Dean's office.  Mulder refrained from carousing with 
the other students because of Melly, and, aside from 
being too shy, Byers just couldn't afford it, so 
they'd spent many evenings bent over their books 
together.  

As odd a pairing as it was - Mulder who'd had every 
luxury handed to him and Byers who'd struggled for 
every morsel - they'd become close friends.  Byers 
was quiet, honest to a fault.  Earnest in a way that 
made people want to pat him on the head and pinch his 
cheek.  He'd discuss philosophy and literature for 
hours, but mention women and he'd blush scarlet.  How 
he ever managed to ask Susanne to marry him was a 
still a mystery; Mulder had always suspected she'd 
asked him.

"Do you have a few minutes?" Mulder asked, sticking 
his head around the corner of the lobby and into 
Byers' office.

His editor-in-chief looked over the stacks of books 
and articles on his desk, smiled, and answered, 
"Always.  Come in."

"I thought we could get a cup of coffee.  My treat." 

Byers shrugged and stood, pushing his chair back into 
place before he put on his coat and picked up his 
hat.  Mulder had the feeling he could have said 
"let's go roll in manure" and Byers would have agreed 
- he was that kind of friend. 

"I'd like to ask a favor," Mulder said, after hemming 
and hawing through two cups of coffee in the almost-
empty café across the street. "Which I'd like you to 
keep to yourself."

"Of course," Byers responded, and he had no doubt 
that he would.

"I'd like you to read these," Mulder asked, pulling 
the bundle of letters out of his inside coat pocket. 
"And I'd like you to tell me what they say.  I've 
tried, but I only understand a few words."

"I'll try.  I don't read Gaelic as well as I speak 
it." He took the letters, scanning the first page. 
"'My dear daughter, I do not understand why you have 
not written to us.  We are..." Byers paused, trying to 
decipher the word. "Worried.  Concerned, maybe. 'We 
are concerned for you.  Please write as soon as you 
are able,' and it's signed 'Margaret Scully.'"

"What about the others?"

Byers flipped though the pages. "More of the same, I 
think.  The handwriting's different in each letter, 
so the mother's dictating and others are writing for 
her.  Some of the spelling and grammar isn't very 
good, which doesn't help.  Here, I believe she's 
saying her husband and sons have been killed in the 
war.  She asks several times about a doctor named 
Waterston.  In this one, she says she'll be moving 
and gives the new address and directions to the 
flat."

"Anything else?"

"Not really.  It would be better to ask someone more 
fluent in Gaelic, but I think it's the same type of 
letter, over and over.  She's concerned about her 
daughter..." He glanced again, scanning for a name. 
"Dana."

Byers blinked, then quickly put the pages face down 
on the table.

"Dana's been married before.  She lost her first 
husband during the war.  His name was Waterston."

Byers waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. "If 
you wanted to know what the letters say, wouldn't it 
be simpler to ask Dana?" he asked coolly. "And more 
polite, since they're addressed to her?"

"It would be nice if I could.  They were returned to 
her mother unopened," Mulder answered, folding the 
pages and tucking them back into his coat pocket. 
"She's never read them.  Either that, or she never 
received them; I'm not sure which."   

"Oh," Byers responded, standing and laying a few 
coins on the table for the waiter - his share of the 
bill. "I'll see you back at the office.  Actually, 
I'll see you after Thanksgiving.  The presses are 
running; I think I'll take the rest of the afternoon 
off." 

"Are you angry?" he asked in surprise. "Byers- John?" 
When he didn't stop, Mulder got up, following him out 
to the busy sidewalk. "What's wrong with you?  Stop.  
Please stop!"

Byers stopped, looking at the slushy street and 
considering what he wanted to stay. "What if Dana was 
to read all those letters you write to Melissa?  What 
if she stumbled onto them and read them without your 
knowledge or consent?  Or what if she brought them to 
me to read for her?"

"Those letters aren't her business.  Or yours."

He pointed at Mulder's coat pocket. "And those aren't 
yours."

"Why?  What has Dana told you?  You two spend enough 
time with your heads together these days.  You're in 
my kitchen every time I turn around."

Byers pushed his eyebrows together angrily. "What 
exactly are you implying?" he said slowly. "I run 
your business.  I balance your books.  I fix your 
broken windows and check on your mother.  And, if 
I've talked to your wife more than usual lately, it's 
only because she's needed someone to talk to and 
you're always busy with something else.  We've been 
friends a long time, Mulder.  We know each other 
pretty well, so what exactly are you implying?" 

"Nothing.  You're married.  She's about to have a 
baby.  Of course I'm not implying anything."

"Good," Byers responded, walking away.

*~*~*~*

There was no special occasion.  He'd worked late, 
tying up loose ends before Thanksgiving, and come 
home to a house that smelled of pies and silver 
polish and freshly pressed tablecloths.  It just 
seemed like the kind of night he didn't want to spend 
alone, so he'd told himself he'd lie down with her 
for ten minutes, rationing closeness like a precious 
commodity.

After so many nights on the sofa, he felt like a 
stranger to his own bed.  Dana must have felt the 
same, because as he slid between the sheets and 
curled up to her warm back, she whispered, "I warn 
you, Mr. Frohike, I am expecting my husband home any 
minute."

"He's a foolish man - leaving you alone at night like 
this."

"He has other things on his mind," she answered, 
humming contentedly as his arms surrounded her.  
Between her pregnancy and Sam's tendency to roam the 
house at night, they'd seldom been close, let alone 
intimate, in months, and he missed it - just the 
softness of her skin against his. 

"He probably thinks about you more than you'd expect.  
He just has lots of squeaky wheels, and you're the 
one he can always count on to run smoothly."

On cue, a door opened at the other end of the hall.  
Mulder pushed up on his elbow and listened, making 
sure his son was headed downstairs and not to the 
master bedroom.  Once the footsteps faded, he 
relaxed, laying his head on the pillow again.  

He said he slept separately so she could rest, and so 
Sam wouldn't feel awkward coming in if he wanted his 
father during the night.  Dana had said she rested 
better if Mulder was with her, and that most teenage 
boys could master knocking.  A smart woman, she'd 
only suggested it once, probably knowing logic 
couldn't compete with guilt.

"Four more weeks," he commented, searching for 
something neutral to say.  

"A little longer, maybe.  I do not think I am as big 
as I was with Emily at eight months."

He put his hand on her round abdomen, feeling. "How 
much longer?  Five weeks?  Six?"

Four more weeks was Christmas.  Six was early 
January.

"I cannot tell you.  I wish I could."

"You're sure you don't want someone else here, just 
in case I can't be?  Or just to make you feel better?  
Your mother?  Or someone else?" he added quickly.

"Yes, I am sure."

He cleared his throat. "I checked the train 
schedules.  I can leave the evening of the twenty-
ninth and, if I don't stop, still be in Massachusetts 
before the new year.  I wouldn't be in Boston, but 
I'd be in the state." He jiggled her, trying to ease 
the tension. "So you hurry up with my boy, all 
right?"

"God and I are creating a life for you as quickly as 
we can, Mr. Mulder."

"You know that's not what I mean.  It's just...  This 
husband of yours - the one who sleeps on the sofa and 
always seems to have something on his mind besides 
you - maybe he's not as big an ass as you think he 
is, sometimes.  He kinda likes you, you know.  He 
even worries about you, sometimes."

"Yes, I know," she whispered back. "I worry about him 
too."

*~*~*~*

It started when he caught Dana with the turkey.

No, it started six hours earlier when he'd asked 
Poppy where breakfast was and been handed some soda 
crackers, a jar of strawberry jam, and a spoon.  Or 
maybe twenty-two hours earlier when he quarreled with 
Byers, but it really started with the turkey.

"Don't you dare!" he ordered, lurking hungrily in the 
kitchen doorway. "Get away from there right now!"

Dana was leaning over her belly, preparing to lift 
the heavy roasting pan from the oven.  She stopped, 
turning her head toward him. "I am basting," she 
answered curtly. 

"And we have a half-dozen people who can baste," he 
responded, not really sure what basting involved. 
"Let Poppy do that.  You come sit down.  Right now."

She frowned, closed the oven door more forcefully 
than usual, and followed him to the dining room, 
where the long table was already heavy with silver 
and china.

"Please do not do that," she requested angrily as 
soon as the door was closed.  A maid was arranging 
the floral centerpiece, but took one look at Dana and 
immediately recalled something she needed to do 
elsewhere. "If you want to order me around in 
private, that is one thing, but please do not do it 
in front of Poppy."

"Oh, Poppy's used to us.  She doesn't mind."

"I did not say she minded.  I said I minded.  Poppy 
probably finds it delightfully entertaining."
 
She adjusted a place setting, making sure all the 
forks lined up perfectly.  Straightening, she pushed 
her fists into the small of her back, massaging the 
ache. If he asked her, she'd tell him it didn't hurt.

Just looking at her belly made his back hurt.

"Dana, you're just tired and cranky.  This is exactly 
why I asked her to be kind to you, to make sure you 
don't do too much."

"You asked her?" she said slowly, her cheeks getting 
redder and her eyes bluer. "To be kind to me?"

"Yes.  All I had to do was tell her I needed her, and 
she's been wonderful.  She's helped with Emily; she's 
kept Sam out of your hair.  She'd run the house for 
you, if you'd let her, but of course you won't, Miss 
Difficult.  Why did you think she's been spending the 
night?  Did you think she just liked sleeping down 
the hall from our bedroom?"

"How dense are you, Mr. Mulder?" she asked 
incredulously. "Did you see her expression when she 
came to wake me this morning and found you asleep 
beside me?  Are you really that blind?  "

"Apparently I am," he retorted. "Because I have no 
idea what you're talking about."

*~*~*~*

And from there it got worse.

For the first time in history, Sam announced he 
wasn't hungry, which wasn't the correct thing to say 
as the cook carried out a twenty-pound turkey.  He 
came to the table at his father's insistence, sulking 
and looking like he'd rather be anyplace else.

Teena Mulder looked at Sam, then at her son, then 
back at Sam again, seeming confused.  Just as she 
always called Emily "Sam," despite the lack of any 
resemblance, as of late, Sam was "Fox," and she 
couldn't figure out why there were two Foxes at the 
table.

In the last month, his mother had also started asking 
about Ophelia, and it took Mulder several days before 
he realized that must be his stepfather's nickname 
for Melissa - Ophelia, after Hamlet's beautiful, 
insane love.  His mother would have been mortified to 
hear, let alone say, something so cruel when she was 
well, but the first thing her illness stole was 
dignity.
 
Dana appeared in an empire-waist dinner dress, which 
was all the fashion for pregnant women who couldn't 
fit into anything else.  She took her place at one 
end of the table, managing a polite smile for 
everyone but Mulder.  Mulder got an icy stare that 
promised their discussion about Poppy wasn't over 
yet.

He wanted to tell her once again how much he cared 
for her.  He wanted to put her and Harvey on a shelf, 
and stop time while he got the rest of his life in 
order.  Love was infinite, but time and energy 
weren't, and since Dana seemed to be the only one who 
could wait for his attention, she was the only one 
who did.

Emily, sitting on Sam's lap, immediately sneezed all 
over the steaming dish of green beans in front of 
her.

No one really liked green beans anyway.

As Mulder took his seat at the head of the table, his 
stomach growling, the back door opened and Poppy 
immediately ordered someone out of the kitchen.  
Judging by the angry voices, it was Alex asking to 
see Sadie, and Poppy was having no part of that.

Spender, unwanted and uninvited, stormed into the 
dining room, demanding to know what Mulder thought he 
was doing by taking "his" senate seat.  Mulder tried 
to reason, then asked him to leave, but when Spender 
made a snide remark about Dana, Mulder lost his 
temper and knocked him out cold, sending him 
sprawling across the table as the china, the silver, 
most of the food, and the floral centerpiece crashed 
to the floor.

Mulder thought, of all things, that he should have 
planned that better, like a lumberjack planning which 
way to fell a tree.  If he'd hit Spender with his 
left fist, the china cabinet would have suffered, but 
the sweet potatoes would have been spared.

Teena, upset by the yelling and violence, began to 
cry silently.  She didn't understand what was 
happening, and asked Mulder repeatedly when his 
father was coming home.  Mulder wanted so badly to 
snap that his father wasn't ever coming home, to let 
off a little steam before the boiler inside him 
exploded.  Instead, he exhaled, answered that his 
father was still at the office, and told Sam to take 
his grandmother upstairs and have her lie down.

Poppy stormed through, carrying Sadie, with Alex 
dogging her heels, still demanding to see his 
daughter.  He grabbed the back of her dress, and she 
whirled, slapped him hard, then stalked off, taking 
her daughter with her.  From Mulder's viewpoint, Alex 
didn't seem to have any intention of hurting or 
forcing her, but Poppy had a flare for drama, so once 
again, Alex was left standing alone, rubbing his 
cheek and looking embarrassed.

Grace waddled in and appraised the mess.  He sniffed 
Spender, who was lying unconscious across the table, 
then started pulling pieces off the mangled turkey.

Dana handed Emily a roll to gnaw, and sighed, 
propping her chin on her fist and raising her 
eyebrows at Mulder.  In spite of the irritated look 
in her eyes, she almost seemed amused.  

"I know," Mulder responded, flexing his sore fist, 
"Just another adventure in holiday togetherness."

He growled back at Grace, but finally retrieved a 
drumstick that was perfectly edible except for a 
little dirt and dog spit.

*~*~*~*

And worse.

"Women," Alex commented, sitting beside him on the 
sofa in the library.

"You do have to wonder sometimes," Mulder answered 
tiredly, putting down his book, "exactly what God was 
thinking."

The only thing salvaged from their feast was the 
wine, and Mulder poured Alex a glass, then refilled 
his own.  He didn't like Alex, but he didn't dislike 
him, either.  The man had a faintly pitiful quality 
about him, like a dog that followed anyone who 
promised him a bone.  Mulder didn't mind offering him 
a drink, but he didn't fill the goblet all the way to 
the top.

Everyone else was upstairs - his mother resting, Dana 
with the children in the nursery, Sam hiding out, and 
Poppy just avoiding Alex.  China fragments scraped 
and a broom whooshed in the next room as the maid 
raked Thanksgiving dinner off the floor. Spender was 
still sprawled across the table, so she cleaned 
around him.

"Mulder- Fox, I didn't mean to interrupt.  Spender 
told me he was coming, so I thought I'd tag along.  I 
didn't realize he wasn't invited.  Or that he'd cause 
such a scene.  He had no business saying that to your 
wife.  And congratulations, by the way.  I hadn't 
seen her recently.  I didn't know..."

"It's just a bad bowl of clam chowder," Mulder said 
lightly, rolling his neck and shoulders. "Speaking of 
which, did you get anything to eat?"

"The dog carried the turkey carcass past me.  It 
looked delicious."

He said it in such an earnest way that Mulder tilted 
his head back and laughed at the ridiculousness of 
the whole situation. "Oh, God.  Thank God this day is 
almost over.  What else can possibly go wrong?"

Alex chuckled, chucked him on the shoulder as though 
they were good buddies, then asked, "Clam chowder?"

"It's a long story."

Alex reached in his coat pocket, "Well, regardless, 
let's have a cigar in honor of your bowl of clam 
chowder."

"That's a wonderful idea," Mulder answered, noticing 
he was starting to slur his S's.  Three glasses of 
wine were enough on an almost empty stomach.  He left 
the fourth sitting on the end table, untouched. 
"Outside, though.  Poppy was after me for a week the 
last time I smoked one in the house."

November days were cool in DC, but seldom frigid, so 
they sat on the back steps, looking out at the empty 
tree limbs and flowerbeds.  A few roses were still 
blooming, looking surreal and strangely out of place 
against the dying world.

"Can I ask..." Mulder said, then paused to savor the 
first lungful of smoke. "Oh, that's nice.  Smooth.  
Cuban?"

"Honduran."

"Very nice.  Can I ask about Poppy?  Tell me if it's 
none of my business, but..."

"There really isn't much to tell.  As Poppy has made 
clear on several occasions, she no longer wants 
anything to do with me, although I don't know why.  I 
don't think we've quarreled, but it's hard to tell 
with her.  And she no longer wants Sadie having 
anything to do with me.  What I want doesn't seem to 
make a difference."

Mulder was surprised as he heard himself ask, "What 
about Spender?  What are you doing scurrying around 
with him?" He took a deep breath, feeling the wine 
warming his stomach and loosening his lips.

Alex didn't seem to mind. "I didn't get very far in 
school.  I don't have a trade, except to be a 
soldier.  There aren't a lot of jobs for one-armed 
ex-soldiers."

He shrugged, as though that excused selling bonds to 
nonexistent government railroads and levying taxes to 
build Negro schools that never got built.

"I've always liked you, Alex," he fibbed. "Just some 
friendly advice: be careful.  If you lie down with 
dogs, you'll get up with fleas.  You're young and 
you're bright.  One arm or two, you can do better 
than his kind."

Holding both in one hand, Alex alternated a sip of 
his wine with a puff of his cigar, and leaned back 
against the banister, relaxing.  Neither of them 
suggested checking on Spender or sending for a 
doctor; he'd wake up and wander off eventually, only 
to reappear the next time the rats came out of the 
woodwork.

"I saw the book you were reading in the library.  Do 
you favor Walt Whitman?" Alex asked, abruptly 
changing the subject.

"I do.  Very much," Mulder answered. "Dana got me his 
newest collection for Christmas, though I think my 
friend Byers helped her choose it.  I doubt she knew 
I'd like it."

"Probably not.  Do you know him?"

"Whitman?  Yes, he's had dinner with us.  That one 
was a little less eventful, by the way."

Alex sat up straighter. "Did he stay the night?  With 
you?"

"No, he has a flat close by," he answered, wondering 
at the odd question. "He invited me to visit him, 
though."

"And have you?"

"Not yet.  I haven't found the time.  I want to 
someday."

"I have.  Visited him.  It was very nice," Alex said. 
"He writes about the war, doesn't he?  About the 
bonds between men in battle?"

"That's right," Mulder said, surprised Alex was so 
interested. He didn't seem like the literary type. 
"And he's right.  I've shared experiences with men 
during the war that I couldn't explain to any woman.  
When you live with your men, eat and sleep and try 
not to die with your men... It's like a marriage of 
sorts.  Not that I care any less for my wife, but 
it's not something I could duplicate with her.  And 
nothing I'd want to duplicate with her."  
 
"Loving men - that doesn't mean you love women any 
less."

Alex put his hand on Mulder's shoulder, and Mulder 
looked at it curiously.  He'd thought they were 
discussing poetry, not having a heart-to-heart talk.

"No, it's just different," Mulder answered, 
uncomfortable by the sudden closeness.  During the 
war, he'd slept in tents so cramped all eight men had 
to turn over at the same time, but that was 
different. "Men are different from women, of course."
 
"Your friend Byers - the one who also favors Whitman 
- is he your only friend?  Or do you have others?"

"He's, he's, Byers is probably my closest friend.  My 
oldest.  We went to school together, roomed together, 
but, yes, of course I have other friends."

"Good," Alex whispered, then, before Mulder could 
move, leaned forward and kissed him softly on the 
lips.  

For a second, he was too shocked at the sensation to 
do anything except sit there.  Alex's mouth tasted of 
fine red wine and smoke, and his skin was rough, 
stubbly against Mulder's instead of smooth like 
Dana's.  He couldn't have been more surprised if Alex 
had shot him, but when he realized the other man 
wasn't going to pull away, and was urging Mulder to 
open his mouth further, he strung two thoughts 
together and jerked back.

"What was that!" he demanded. "Why did you do that?  
How dare you-"

"My mistake," Alex said quickly, getting to his feet 
and backing away. 

"Damn right it's your mistake!  You unnatural animal!  
What the hell gave you the idea I wanted you to do 
that?"

His face felt hot, his ears burned, and his mouth 
tasted like another man's tongue.  He was as 
humiliated that Alex had thought to kiss him as he 
was that Alex had actually kissed him.

"I'm sorry.  I promise it won't happen again.  Fox, 
you can't tell anyone."  

Mulder stood, knocking over the wineglass in his 
haste. "Get out of my house," he ordered, stubbing 
out the cigar. "Off my property.  And don't come 
back.  Don't come near me; don't come near Poppy.  
Ever!"

"Please, you can't tell anyone," Alex pleaded again. 
"You can't tell Poppy."

"I have no intention of telling anyone.  All I want 
is you out of my sight!  Now!" he yelled, and Alex 
retreated, stumbling.

Mulder wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and 
jerked open the back door, finding Sam standing in 
the kitchen.

"Did you see what he just did?" Mulder asked, still 
livid.

"No, sir," Sam said.  He examined the floor, then 
turned and walked away.

*~*~*~*

He put the letter in his desk drawer and locked it, 
then debated whether he should add wood to the 
library fireplace.  He'd used all his energy for the 
day, so he decided to let it burn out for the night.

Spender had slithered off the dining room table and 
gone to wherever reptiles went at night.  Hell, 
hopefully.

The sun was setting, so Mulder stopped to close the 
heavy drapes, then continued up the stairs.  He felt 
out of place, like when he'd been sick as a child and 
slept for three days straight.  He'd gone to sleep on 
Wednesday and woke on Friday, and had a difficult 
time adjusting to the idea that he'd missed an entire 
Thursday.  

He blamed it on the wine, although it took more than 
three glasses to make him that tipsy.  And he didn't 
feel tipsy; he felt odd.  He blamed it on Alex, but 
he wasn't confused about the kiss so much as he was 
offended, and that was fading.  What remained was the 
feeling that he was off-balance, as though something 
was wrong and he just hadn't yet figured out what.

Reaching the landing, he stopped to stretch, then 
lowered his arms as he saw his mother coming down the 
hall, wearing a different dress than she'd had on 
earlier.  She was taller than Dana, but not quite as 
tall as Poppy, so unless she'd found one of Melly's 
old ones, Mulder couldn't imagine where she'd gotten 
it.  With its high waist, it could have been one of 
Dana's early maternity dresses, except the matching 
bonnet she wore had been in fashion before Mulder was 
born.

"Mother, did you change clothes?" he asked. "That's 
lovely, but where did you get it?"

She stopped, smiled, then walked past without 
speaking or touching him.  He watched her go, making 
sure the back of her dress was closed, then froze 
when he saw a gentleman standing patiently at the top 
of the staircase, waiting for her.  He wore the same 
old-fashioned clothes as his mother, and he seemed 
too bright for the dark hallway.  He almost glowed, 
and the closer his mother got to him, the more 
luminous she became.

His father took off his top hat, transferring it and 
his walking stick to one hand and offering his arm to 
his wife.  Bill said something to Teena, and they 
paused to smile fondly at Mulder - his father raising 
his hand in greeting - then turned and made their way 
down, disappearing around the bend of the staircase.

"Mother?" he said uncertainly, following them. 
"Father?"

They'd vanished.  The staircase was empty, and the 
mahogany banister gleamed in the low light.  Like he 
had after Melly died, he could have sworn he could 
smell his mother's perfume and his father's pipe.  It 
lingered in the air, and he stayed still, not wanting 
to lose it yet.

"Fox," Poppy called from behind him, her voice hoarse 
and uncertain. "I was just checking on your mother 
and she..." 

He ignored her, still focused on the stairs and 
already knowing what she was going to say. 

"Fox, honey, come here and sit down."

"Did you see them, Poppy?"

"See who?"

"They were beautiful," he said breathlessly.  He 
turned, finally looking at her. "She was beautiful."

"She's gone, Fox.  I was just checking on your 
mother, and she's gone.  In her sleep.  Just a few 
minutes ago, I think.  She's in a better place now."

"Yes, she is," he told her calmly, exhaling.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus IX

***********************************

Begin: Paracelsus, Epilogue
 
*~*~*~*

He never ceased to be awed by the miracle of it: the 
deceptively simple hand of Fate.  The resiliency of 
the universe: how two souls found each other against 
all odds.  

A bayonet that didn't kill him, a happenstance 
meeting on a country road in Georgia, an answered 
prayer for hemorrhaging to stop, a misplaced letter, 
and a train that left on time.  A series of seemingly 
chance events, and the unstoppable Mulder crossed 
paths with the redheaded Rock of Gibraltar.  Isaac 
Newton raised his hands in surrender and backed away 
warily.  Cupid scratched his head uncertainly and 
consulted his superiors, but Fate just folded his 
arms and waited, refusing to disclose his plan.

"Your soul recognized mine?" Dana repeated 
skeptically, giving him the look. "You are rambling 
again, Mulder.  Lie back and calm down, or I am 
sending for the doctor."

"You know it's true," he'd insisted, struggling to 
sit up in bed. "Tell me you didn't feel something 
when we met."

"I did.  Labor pains." She pushed him back on the 
pillows and put a cold washcloth on his forehead.  
His collision with the cab must have been worse than 
he realized, because she kept a vigil at his bedside.  
Time blurred, marked only by darkness or light 
outside the window, but each time Consciousness 
visited, she was there.

"Admit it: it's meant to be, Dana," he insisted, 
trying to roll toward her.  He could either sit up or 
get their bedroom to stop spinning - but not both. 
"We can't fight it.  We can't even screw it up.  It's 
destiny."

"It is a head injury, Mulder," she responded without 
looking up from her book. "Now be quiet and rest."

He let his body go limp, frowning.  His forehead 
throbbed miserably despite the cold washcloth, and he 
stared at the bland ceiling.  This wasn't even the 
good kind of sick or injured - when he unwell enough 
to stay in bed, but well enough to enjoy all the fuss 
she made over him.  He just hurt.

"So you don't think it was destiny?" he asked 
dejectedly, crankily. 

Dana didn't turn her head, but her hand slid across 
the sheets in search of his.  She caressed his palm 
with her warm thumb, then intertwined their fingers.  
He raised her hand, kissed it, and closed his eyes.

Fate leads the willing and drags along the reluctant.  

Death did not stop love.  As the planet swirled 
through time, souls waited impatiently to become 
flesh yet again - for another chance.  In each 
lifetime, some couples were just meant to be.  And 
some weren't.  And some were just too stubborn to 
wait their turn.

*~*~*~*

In 1860, before the war, the height of female fashion 
was an expansive, drooping silhouette, like an 
upside-down rose about to lose its petals: huge 
hoopskirts, deep V waists, sloped shoulders, and full 
sleeves.  Women parted their hair in the center and 
arranged it in heavy coils over each ear.  They even 
slouched slightly, contributing to the appearance of 
helpless delicacy.

By the fall of 1867, the silhouette had inhaled and 
squared its shoulders: hair was fuller and higher on 
the head, and skirts were narrower and flat in front, 
with soft bustles and polonaise overskirts revealing 
contrasting underskirts.  As the nouveau riche gained 
power and the gap between the haves and have-nots 
widened, princess waistlines were in, good taste was 
out, and trim was the focus of the day.  What wasn't 
pleated, ruffled, or festooned was covered in lace or 
netting.  Stylish ladies often looked like they were 
being attacked by a swarm of bows and braid.  Except 
for Dana.  Amish widows would have found Dana's 
wardrobe dull.  
 
"What about this one?" she asked, appearing in the 
doorway of the ballroom in yet another dress.

"It's beautiful," Mulder answered automatically, 
knowing his line.  He could have answered without 
looking, but he never did.

She pivoted for his inspection, her skirt swirling 
out so her ruffled petticoat and slippers showed. 
"This or the second one?"

He left Emily and ambled toward her in his sock feet, 
hands in his trouser pockets. "Which one was the 
second one?"  

"The dark blue."

He pursed his lips thoughtfully.  They'd all been 
dark blue, though he thought one might have had some 
brown ribbon.  She came closer, checking her 
reflection in the long mirrors.  Her eyebrows knitted 
together, and she twisted from side to side, still 
dissatisfied.

Over the last three days, the house had been spit-
shined within an inch of its life.  Glass sparkled, 
wood gleamed, marble shone, and she'd almost taken 
her embroidery scissors to the hedges.  The florist 
had just delivered a hothouse worth of bouquets and 
centerpieces, and dining room table was set for a 
king's feast.  Linens were ironed, featherbeds were 
aired, and rugs were beaten senseless.  Emily and 
Cally were squeaky clean and in their Sunday best - 
and ordered to stay that way.  Mulder had been 
bathed, barbered, and shaved, but escaped her 
scrubbing brush and lye soap.  He found Dana's 
fluster faintly amusing, but had sense enough not to 
laugh.

"I like this dress," Mulder said decisively. "Maybe 
with your pearls: the necklace and the comb in your 
hair."

She looked at him like he was crazy. "I cannot wear 
pearls."

"Of course not," he responded immediately.  There 
must be an oyster ordinance: no pearls on Tuesdays in 
November.  

"And what are you and Emily doing in here?  Did you 
let her get dirty?  And where are your boots?"

"We were sliding: Emmy and-" he started, but she 
interrupted by fixing his cravat, choking him with 
it. "Dear God, Dana.  Could you calm down before you 
burst into flames?"

She ignored that, examining him so closely he 
expected her to pull apart his lips and check his 
teeth. "The groom is bringing the carriage around," 
she said briskly, jerking his vest smooth, pushing 
his hair back from his forehead, and deciding he was 
serviceable. "I want you to leave for the station 
now, in case her train is early.  I wrote her that 
you are tall, with dark hair, and would be at the 
door to the depot."

"I've met your mother, remember?" he protested. "She 
knows what I look like."

"And dinner will be ready when you get back," she 
continued as if he hadn't spoken. "Just meet her at 
the depot and drive her here."

"You think I can manage that without a map, love?  
Th-that's-that's-" he pretended to stutter. "Dana, 
that's almost four miles, round trip.  There are 
turns and, and traffic-" He widened his eyes and 
gnawed his fingers nervously. "And I've only lived in 
DC for three decades.  Are you sure I can do this?"

She flicked some nonexistent lint from his shoulders. 
"I think you will manage.  And please be on your best 
behavior, Mulder.  Please.  For me?"

"Ya mean mind my manners?" Mulder jammed his pinkie 
in his ear, wiggling it and acting like he found the 
sensation orgasmic. "Well, I s'pose I could - since 
ya done tole Ma I's fetchin' her," he drawled, 
hayseed style, then pretended to spit.

"And get her bags from the porter," she reminded him 
as she walked away, going to their bedroom to change 
yet again.

"Did ya warn her 'bout my flatulence problem?" he 
called after her and got no response. Mulder exhaled, 
picked up Emily, and went to find his boots.  Master 
of his house, lord of his domain and all.

*~*~*~*

He'd hoped Cally's hair would be red like Dana's, but 
it had darkened to chestnut brown - lighter than his, 
but with the same defiant streak.  The lamplight 
highlighted the reddish strands among the sweat-
dampened curls, which was close enough to auburn for 
him.  Mulder cradled her crown with his hand and 
leaned back in his chair, letting her sleep against 
his chest, heavy and safe.

Emily was struggling to stay awake, but her eyelids 
slid lower with each blink, and her head bobbed 
against her grandmother's shoulder.  Dana offered to 
take her, but Mrs. Scully shook her head and put her 
arms around the child, unwilling to surrender her 
granddaughter to night just yet.

Mulder maneuvered his wine glass to his lips, 
draining it, then set it on the end table and 
stretched his legs out, watching Dana with her 
mother.  He understood an occasional word among the 
short, lilting vowels and soft consonants, but most 
of the conversation was lost on him.  Mrs. Scully had 
brought photographs and a few letters from relatives 
in Ireland, which were passed his way, along with an 
unintelligible explanation in Gaelic of who they were 
or whom they were from.

He nodded every so often, and everyone seemed happy 
with that as his contribution to the conversation.

He stroked Cally's hair contentedly and watched the 
fire crackle.  The wine warmed his belly and made him 
aware of his own slow, steady heartbeat.  He closed 
his eyes, listening to it.  The full harvest moon was 
rising pale yellow, lingering just over the city and 
peering curiously through the window.  Outside, 
autumn leaves skittered across the cobblestones, and 
a lone horse clopped purposely along.

"Samuel William," he heard Dana say, and turned his 
head questioningly.  "She asked when we would have 
sons," Dana explained softly. "I said you have a son 
named Samuel William."

Mulder stroked Cally's head, watching his fingers 
glide through her tangled hair.

Mrs. Scully looked to him, then back at Dana, sipped 
her tea politely, then unknowingly asked the loaded 
question.

"Níl sé anseo," Dana answered, then translated, "He 
is away."

Mulder continued stroking Cally's damp curls as she 
slept.

*~*~*~*

He'd never had a mother-in-law.  Melly's mother died 
when she was small, so he wasn't used to anyone but 
his parents questioning or caring how he treated his 
wife.  By the standards of the day, he was an 
excellent husband.  He'd never strike his wife.  He 
didn't gamble or spend his nights in saloons.  He'd 
never willingly strayed.  He loved, protected, and 
provided amply for his family.

Which didn't explain why, as the clock ticked toward 
midnight, he found himself having trouble meeting 
Mrs. Scully's gaze.

Forgive and forget was an idyllic notion; sift 
through the ruins, pick up the pieces, and rebuild 
was reality, and he and Dana were still rebuilding.  
And, while Samuel's absence left a gaping hole, they 
had two beautiful girls to center them as they 
reconstructed their lives.  Dana made sure everything 
appeared perfect for her mother's visit, but 
underneath the elegance and polish, their foundation 
had been badly shaken.  If he were the outsider 
looking in on Mr. and Mrs. Fox Mulder, their story 
would have seemed hopelessly romantic.  If he were 
one of the principal players - or her mother - he'd 
have noticed their story wasn't so much a splendid 
tapestry as it was a diligent patchwork. 

"Slán," Mrs. Scully told her daughter, kissing her on 
each cheek, then put her arms around her neck.

"Slán leat, Màthair," Dana answered.  Goodnight, 
Mother.

Mulder stood behind Dana, one hand on her back, and 
holding the lamp with the other.  He studied the 
polished floorboards of the upstairs hallway, keeping 
his head down.  Presidents, generals, and foreign 
dignitaries didn't unnerve him, but Margaret Scully 
did, especially when he was acutely aware he was 
about to take her daughter to bed.

He heard Mrs. Scully say something that included his 
name as she released Dana. "She says thank you," Dana 
translated, and Mulder looked up. "And to tell you to 
take good care of her baby girl."

"Tell her I will," he answered quietly. "And that I 
know how she feels: I have my big stick ready to beat 
the boys off my baby girls."

That came out sounding slightly more risqué than he'd 
intended, but Dana must have tamed it down in 
translation, because Mrs. Scully smiled gently. 

"Slán," she told him.

"Slán leat, Ma'am," he answered, then waited until 
she'd closed her bedroom door before he turned Dana 
toward their room.

Dana shut their door quietly and headed for her 
dressing table, but he captured a handful of her 
skirt as she passed and pulled her to him.  He leaned 
against the edge of the bed, guiding her between his 
legs.

"You seem happy," he murmured, setting the lamp on 
the nightstand.  As she and her mother got 
reacquainted, one after-dinner bottle of wine had 
given way to another, but it was more than that.  She 
seemed to glow, as though a layer of hurt had been 
scoured away and more of her showed through. "Are 
you?" he asked softly. "Happy?"

"Yes."

"With me?" He just liked to check occasionally.

"Yes," she whispered.

"I'm glad." He toyed with the buttons on the bodice 
of her dress, unfastening the top few, then looking 
up at her. "Take this off."

"I will.  I was just going to.  Let me-" she started, 
turning toward her dressing table.  She usually 
changed into her nightgown and took down her hair 
before coming to bed.  Her nightgown stayed on for 
about fifteen seconds, but she liked the pretense.

"No, now.  Here.  I want to watch.  I want to see 
you."

Under his steady, hungry gaze, she blushed, then 
unbuttoned her bodice the rest of the way, watching 
her fingers closely. 

"Mulder," she protested, embarrassed. "Help."

"No, I like watching you.  Take it off," he requested 
hoarsely.

She pushed it off her shoulders, over layers of 
petticoats, then let it fall to the floor.  Dana 
untied the waist of her petticoats and hoop, letting 
them drop as well, then stepped to one side, out of 
the pile of dark silk, crinoline, and starched 
cotton.  She put her hand on his shoulder, steadying 
herself as she removed her slippers.  As she 
straightened, he turned her hand over, kissing the 
underside of her wrist, then up to the inside of her 
elbow.  An impatient man, he skipped to her neck, 
teasing the flesh with his lips.  She inhaled and 
pressed against his mouth, moving her body closer to 
his.

He kissed her collarbone in parting, then pulled 
back. "Sorry," he murmured. "Please continue." He 
trailed his index finger down her chest, reminding 
her she was still wearing too many clothes, then 
settled back against the bed again.  

She unfastened the tiny buttons on her corset cover, 
then leaned down again to pull off garters and strip 
off her stockings.  Pantalets crumpled to the rug 
with a sigh, and he gestured for her to turn so he 
could undo her corset.  He untied the laces, working 
them loose and followed his hands down her body with 
his mouth, kissing where the stiff fabric fell away 
and revealed yielding flesh.

Dana like soft underclothes, so the white chemise 
that remained was whisper thin.  He ran his hands 
around her waist, then higher, cupping and massaging 
her breasts through it.  She sighed and leaned back 
against him, laying her head on his shoulder.  His 
nose tingled pleasantly, and he nuzzled it against 
her warm neck.

His fingertips traveled to the apex of her thighs, 
slowly gathering the chemise so it crept higher and 
higher in half-inch increments. 

"Do you want this?" he whispered.

She nodded that she did, eyes closed. 

"Then undress me," he requested.

She turned, trying to keep as much of her body in 
contact with his as she could.  Her pupils were 
dilated with want, and the irises glittered 
dangerously, promising illicit things.  She looked up 
at him as she unfastened his shirt, popping one 
button open at a time, making him wait.  His mouth 
watered; he could have devoured her whole and gone 
back for seconds.

"This is ugán," he told her, trailing his finger 
along the top of her breast.  He had an ear for 
languages, so he'd tried to learn more Gaelic in 
anticipation of her mother's visit.  Unfortunately, 
the words he remembered best weren't ones he could 
use around Mrs. Scully. "And cíoch," he added, 
reaching her erect nipple. "Right?"

She nodded that it was close enough, stripping his 
shirt off and pushing his undershirt over his head.  
Thunder rumbled as she started unbuttoning his 
trousers, and cold wind whistled through the slightly 
open window near their bed.

"I should close that," he mumbled, his stomach 
quivering in anticipation against her lips.

"Leave it," she ordered, and he offered no objection.

His boots landed on the rug beside her petticoat, 
followed in short order by his socks, trousers, and 
underwear. "And men have calg and magairle, but I'm 
not sure if 'magairle' means one or- oh God," he 
moaned, biting his lip as she took him in her mouth.  
He ran his fingers through her hair, finding the comb 
and pulling it out so the red curls fell over her 
shoulders and down her back. "Oh Jesus," he groaned, 
struggling not to fall to his knees.

He arched his neck desperately, clenching his back 
teeth, and squeezing his eyes shut as he focused on 
the waves of pleasure.  She stopped just short of 
making his head cave in and kissed her way back up 
his bare body, indicating she wanted more tonight 
than just contributing to his satisfaction.

The air underneath the window whistled mournfully, 
and the first raindrops drummed on the tin roof above 
them. 

"Más," he remembered, stripping off her chemise and 
cupping her backside with his hands. "Such a lovely 
más.  You have 'faighean' and I have 'slat' - cock, 
spear."

"You are drunk," she murmured. 

"So are you," he mumbled, caressing her skin. "The 
uh, the Roman gladiators took their name from their 
swords. Gladius: gladiator.  But do you know where 
the gladiators sheathed their swords?  Vaginae.  
Vagina," he breathed into her ear.

"Mulder," she whispered, putting her index finger in 
the center of his chest and slowly pushing him back 
onto the mattress. 

"What, love?"

"No more talking," she requested.  

"Yes ma'am," he answered, sliding across the bed, 
then pulling the covers up as she joined him. "No 
more talking," he echoed.  

He took her in his arms, closing his eyes again and 
losing himself to the natural rhythm of night.  The 
storm blew its cool, moist breath across his back, 
and rumbled and flashed outside the window.  The 
raindrops on the roof were fat and lazy, in no 
particular hurry.

Almost as soon as he penetrated, he felt her body 
spasm around his, then relax, opening her legs 
farther.  The wine heightened every sensation, making 
each long, slow stroke seem to last forever.  The 
tightness began building in his groin, and he closed 
his eyes, trying to endure the desperate pleasure of 
it.

"Do not stop," she whispered, her swollen lips 
brushing his earlobe and her hot breath teasing the 
hairs on his neck. "Not this time."

He slowed his pace further, postponing his orgasm for 
as long as possible.  He hated pulling out, but not 
as much as he'd hate the guilty feeling in his 
stomach if she told him she was pregnant again. "No.  
It's too soon," he said through his teeth.

"Emily is two years old; Cailín is almost one.  Do 
not stop."

"No," he repeated breathlessly.
 
"You do not want a baby?"

Yes, he wanted another baby.  A son.  A son he would 
be home to raise instead of being at school and war.  
A son he wasn't a stranger to.

Yes, he wanted another baby.  Dana liked being 
pregnant and he liked seeing her pregnant.  They 
loved being parents, and they had the means to lavish 
their children with every luxury.  If she was one of 
those women who gave birth as easily as an alley cat, 
he'd welcome a dozen babies, but she wasn't.

Dana had stopped responding.  He stopped and pushed 
up on his elbow, studying her in the darkness. "Dana, 
you don't remember Cally being born," he panted. "But 
I do.  I remember watching you bleed to death.  I 
can't-"

"But-"

"The doctor said no," he said in four even words. "No 
more."

He'd never told her.  He'd been making excuses and 
dancing around the issue for months, but he'd never 
specifically said "no more babies." She tried to make 
eye contact, but he focused on her hair on the 
pillow.

"But, but he could be wrong.  Mother could be here, 
and I would-"

"No," he repeated firmly.

Her lower lip started to tremble.

She was his life: his phoenix from the ruins.  He 
owed her everything, and he'd gladly give it to her.  
If she wanted the moon, he'd get a ladder and a 
butterfly net, and capture it for her.  He'd lay his 
chest open and offer her his heart, if she said so. 

"Dana, don't.  I love you.  Please don't asked me to 
do this," he mumbled, pressing his face into the wet 
warmth of her neck.

*~*~*~*

He wasn't sure of the science behind it, but somehow 
all the alcohol in his body seemed to exit along with 
semen.  As his pulse and breathing returned to normal 
and the contented orange glow spread over his body, 
his sleepy brain was suddenly much clearer.

As he lie in bed with his arms around Dana's sweaty 
shoulders, her head tucked under his chin, he could 
see the Menses Fairy in the corner, packing his 
things to vacate for the next nine months.

The lazy autumn rain continued, beating a slow waltz 
on the roof and splattering the wet leaves on the 
streets.  The wind whispered through the window, 
stealing across their bed and kissing his skin.  

"Now you are angry," she said softly.

"I'm not angry," he answered, surprised how loud his 
voice sounded in the dark. "I don't know - maybe I 
am.  It seems senseless, Dana.  If you want another 
baby, I'll get you a baby.  That doesn't mean we have 
to have one.  The world is full of unwanted children.  
We'll adopt a whole litter, if you want."

"Is that what you want?"

"I want to open my eyes every morning for the rest of 
my life and find you beside me."

That sounded so sugary-sweet he expected her to 
laugh, but she didn't.

"Do you want Sadie here?" Dana whispered. "If you do, 
she could come back.  You never asked me, Mulder; you 
just sent her away."
 
He hesitated, gathering his thoughts. "I don't want 
her here.  Maybe that makes me an awful person, but I 
don't.  My aunt adores her, and she deserves to be 
adored." He shifted his hand, stroking her skin. 
"Poppy's dead.  I asked the police to notify me, and 
they did.  Last week.  I arranged for a funeral last 
Saturday."

"I did not know you went to a funeral."

"I didn't," he said simply.

"Did you get word to Samuel?"

He shifted again.  He knew Sam had been in Boston for 
a while, and had visited his aunt on Rhode Island, 
most likely to see Sadie. And Rebekah refused to give 
details, but he was certain Sam had spent time with 
her as well.  When Mulder asked, she assured him the 
boy was fine - just "finding his way," as she put it.

Mulder wished he'd find his way home.  They left for 
Paris in less than a month, and he couldn't imagine 
going without Sam.

"I left a message at the Smithsonian with his curator 
friend.  His friend said he'd try to relay it."

"And?"

"And then I sat outside the curator's flat all 
afternoon," he admitted.

"Was he there?"

"Yes," he exhaled. "Sam came to the window.  I saw 
him.  And he saw me, but he didn't come down.  And I 
knew he didn't want me to come up." He picked up a 
lock of her hair, wrapping it loosely around his 
finger. "He just stood there, Dana."

"He did not run."

"No, he didn't.  I guess that's an improvement."

*~*~*~*

"People are staring," she said under her breath, 
keeping her eyes focused on the empty chairs onstage. 
"Please sit still."

"I'm trying," he hissed back, tugging impatiently at 
his collar.  He'd never known a tuxedo to be so 
uncomfortable or a performance to take so long to 
begin. "Maybe we shouldn't be here.  Maybe we should 
leave."

They'd already had this discussion roughly a hundred 
times between the carriage and their box at the 
symphony.  Dana must have decided that was enough, 
because she answered crisply, "All right.  You leave.  
I will stay and listen to Samuel play.  You may pick 
me up afterward."

"I'm not joking, Dana."

"Neither am I.  Now sit still."

Mulder checked his pocket watch again, then slouched 
forward, leaning on the brass rail around the edge of 
their box.  The first musicians finally trailed 
across the stage, bringing their instruments and 
sheet music.  Mulder scanned the men's faces, looking 
for Sam's features above the identical white collars.

"There he is," Dana said softly, putting her hand on 
his back.

Sam was carrying his cello in one hand and his bow 
and sheet music in the other as he made his way to 
the string section.  Several performers spoke to him, 
and Sam seemed to answer cordially as he took his 
seat - the closest to the edge of the stage.

"He's first chair," Mulder observed, still leaning on 
the railing, chin on his fists.  Sometime between May 
and November, Sam had moved from second chair to 
first.

Sam set his sheet music on the stand, then drew his 
bow across the delicate catgut strings.  He made 
several adjustments to the pegs, listening carefully.  
The humidity affected them, as did the heat from the 
gaslights.  A few other musicians in the string 
section waited, and when Sam nodded, raised their 
bows and tuned their instruments to his.  If Sam said 
it was middle C, it was middle C.  Mulder couldn't 
hear the difference, but Sam gestured to one man with 
his bow, then played the note again.  The man tuned, 
tried again, and Sam nodded that it was better.  

Mulder watched in wonder.  This was Sam's element.  
His son, who had trouble holding a conversation with 
him, thought nothing of correcting a fifty-year old 
world-renowned musician.  Sam hadn't noticed the 
audience buzzing expectantly, or the lights, or 
anything except translating Mozart's Requiem from ink 
on paper into magic.  After the chorus filed onto the 
raised platform behind the orchestra, the musicians 
made their final adjustments and waited for the 
maestro.  Only then did Sam look out at the audience, 
searching the sea of faces.

"Mulder," Dana said, touching his arm as she nodded 
toward the balcony.  Instead of looking to their box, 
Sam was scanning the rafters.  He didn't seem to 
expect his father's presence, but he was looking for 
someone in the crowd.

"Is he looking for Poppy?"

"No.  Lower," she instructed.

Mulder picked up their opera glasses, turning them on 
the seats at the back of the theater.  

Old, wealthy families had boxes, and newly wealthy 
families competed for ground seats in front of the 
stage.  The highest balcony was the Colored section, 
but students or similarly impoverished but musically 
inclined folk filled the inexpensive seats below 
that.  His search stopped on a young man with sandy-
colored hair and gentle green eyes behind wire-rimmed 
spectacles.  He sat in the first row of the upper 
balcony, watching Sam fondly, his chin propped on his 
fist.

"His name is Robert," Dana supplied, and Mulder 
nodded that he knew that.  He couldn't continue 
calling him "the curator" forever.

Mulder adjusted the opera glasses and continued 
studying him.  To his surprise, the young man looked 
back, worrying his mouth nervously, then looked to 
the stage.

"Samuel is watching you," Dana said quietly, over the 
polite applause as the maestro took the stage.      

Mulder lowered the opera glasses and turned, finding 
Sam's gypsy brown eyes focused on him uncertainly.

"What do I do?" he asked without moving his lips.

"Applaud," Dana answered, smiling proudly and 
clapping.

He thought Sam smiled back, but he wasn't certain.  
The maestro raised his baton, the lights dimmed, and 
the requiem began.

*~*~*~*
 
He disliked hearing parents say they had a favorite 
child.  A father naturally treated his oldest son 
differently, but making distinctions beyond that 
seemed cruel.  A baby couldn't help the circumstances 
of its birth, or whom it favored, or for whom it was 
named, or any of the other frivolous reasons that 
caused parents to favor one child over another.

He had a favorite.

Samuel was his eldest, and the sole male heir of the 
Kavanaugh and Mulder families.  Mulder had been 
sixteen when Sam was born, the world had been shiny 
and new, and each time those tiny fingers wrapped 
around his thumb had been miraculous.  Sam was Bill 
Mulder's pride and joy, and, though he never said it, 
partial consolation for his son's ill-considered 
choices.  Sam had been an active, thoughtful boy, and 
he and Mulder had grown up together: allies, 
playmates, and partners in crime.  Morning baseball 
games, afternoon rides in the woods, evening bedtime 
stories.  Over the years, Sam had kept him steady, 
given him a reason to push onward when his dreams 
seemed to be crumbling.  He saw so much of Sarah in 
Sam, as if she'd left him as a teenage girl and 
returned as a son.

Samuel was his favorite.

Emily was a child of hardship, born in a slave's bed 
and rocked to sleep in a slave child's abandoned 
cradle.  He'd been thirty-one years old, and ready to 
believe his life was over.  Emily was hope that 
miracles still existed in a dying world, and evidence 
of the hand of Fate.  She was the little girl he 
should have had and didn't.  When he proposed, it had 
been as much because he loved Emily as Dana.  He was 
"Dah-dah" in a way he hadn't been with Sam.  He was 
there: changing diapers and walking floors and 
watching in wonder as she nursed.  He'd been 
fascinated by how much Dana loved her daughter, and 
he couldn't help but be swept along.

Emily was his favorite.

Cally was a child of privilege, born into every 
possible luxury.  She was the first baby he'd planned 
for, and hoped for even before the moment of her 
conception.  She was his: echoes of his ancestors and 
a promise of immortality.  In the first month after 
her birth, when Dana was too ill to get out of bed, 
he'd done everything but nurse her, forming a bond 
he'd never had with another human being.  She was a 
child of healing and faith: proof that love conquered 
most, and determination the rest.

Cally was his favorite.

The only reason he'd brought Emily to their bed last 
was because she tended to kick, and the only reason 
Sam was absent was because he chose to be.

"I am waiting for you to return carrying my mother," 
Dana mumbled as he laid Emily beside Cally's limp 
form, then slid under the covers with them.  He 
rolled on his side, draping his arm across both 
girls, and resting it on Dana's waist. "Do you think 
you can sleep now?" she asked softly.

"I'm trying.  Do you want me to leave?  You need to 
rest.  Am I keeping you awake?"

"No, you are fine."

Mulder nodded, rustling his pillow.  Downstairs, the 
grandfather clock chimed four am.  The lost time.  
Too late for night, but too early for day.  Violet-
black no time.  

He exhaled and shifted his legs restlessly. "You took 
a nap this afternoon.  Before the symphony.  You 
don't usually do that anymore," he said, talking in 
Dana's general direction. 

"No, not usually," she replied noncommittally, 
nestled across from him in the cool arms of darkness.

"You seem tired lately.  Do you think..."

"It is too early to tell."

"But maybe?" 

"Maybe," she conceded. "Would you be happy? If I am?"

"Of course," he answered quickly, then chewed his lip 
a while.  

The idea of them having a boy was her mother's 
notion, he was sure.  Even as a grown woman, she 
yearned for her mother's approval.  By not being 
pregnant ten months out of every year, Dana was 
failing as a wife, and God forbid Dana Scully fail 
anyone.  Somehow the words "you almost died" didn't 
register in her mind.  He and Dana already had a son 
named Sam, but her mother didn't see it that way.
 
"Samuel played well," Dana whispered a few minutes 
later. "He did not seem upset."

He smiled sadly, always amazed at how clearly she 
could see into the muddy waters of his heart. "No, he 
didn't."   

Sam performed with his usual effortless grace, lost 
in the power of the music.  When the requiem ended 
and the gaslights warmed, he'd gathered his sheet 
music, and then, remembering, raised his bow to the 
box where Mulder and Dana sat, waving like a small 
boy.  Mulder had waved back, his hand shaking, and 
Sam had turned and slipped off the stage.  They'd 
waited in the carriage in front of the theater until 
almost midnight, and until Dana fell asleep again, 
but Sam must have left through the stage door.
 
"I've been reading about the Irish legend of 
changelings: how fairies steal beautiful human 
children and take them to a realm of magic and music, 
where nothing can harm them.  There's no time there, 
no pain.  The fairies give them old, magical souls: 
you can see it in their dark eyes." He paused. "I 
wonder sometimes if Sam's like that: ethereal.  
Otherworldly.  The fairies stole him and I stole him 
back.  And maybe I shouldn't have.  Maybe I should-"

He swallowed, embarrassed.  Many things didn't sound 
nearly so good out loud as they did in his head.

"He is just a boy, Mulder.  A very talented, very 
frightened, confused, lonely boy," she answered. 
"Trying to find his place in the world."

"He's my boy, Dana," he said for lack of something 
profound, stroking his thumb over the soft fabric of 
her nightgown. "And he always will be.  I don't 
understand him any more than my father understood me, 
but I love him."

"He knows that."

He exhaled again and rolled to his back, wedging one 
hand behind his head. Emily rolled with him, flinging 
a warm arm across his chest.  Cally shifted against 
Dana, her little fingers splaying, and then relaxing.

"I love you, too.  I don't want you to ever doubt 
that again."

"I know.  You are a good man, Mulder," she assured 
him.

"I try," he told the ceiling, watching the shadows.  

A good man.  He turned the last few years over in his 
mind, worrying them like a puppy with a too-big bone.  
His decision to fight an endless, merciless war for a 
cause he cared little about.  He wasn't a soldier any 
more than he was a senator, but a parent's approval 
was a powerful thing; he'd yearned for his father's 
as much as Dana did her mother's.  He'd won a war, 
but come home with blood on his hands: Melly's as 
well as a thousand strangers'.

Melissa.  His beautiful, fragile Melly.  If it 
weren't for the remnants of those years with her - 
the newspaper, his house, and Sam - he'd almost 
dismiss them as a dream.  He'd lived with her for 
fourteen years, yet never been fully alive.  He 
couldn't be what she needed any more than she could 
be her sister.  But she'd given him Sam: a precious 
gift he hadn't done right by.  Mulder had left a 
nine-year old boy when he joined the cavalry, and 
been surprised when he hadn't found that same boy 
waiting on the front steps when he returned years 
later.

Then Dana.  He'd liked the idea that she had no idea 
who he was when they met.  She knew he was a Union 
officer because she'd seen his uniform, and she knew 
he could read and write, meaning he was at least 
minimally educated.  She hadn't recognized his last 
name and he hadn't elaborated.  His horse was army-
issue, just like his uniform, knapsack, and bedroll.  
There was little about him that wasn't war-worn 
except his wedding ring and a few photographs.  A 
journal.  The keys to his house in DC, his parent's 
homes in Boston and Georgetown, and The Evening Star.

She'd taken him on blind faith, and he hadn't 
recognized the rarity of that gift until he'd lost 
it, too.  He couldn't even say he'd burned his candle 
at both ends, because he hadn't.  The moment Sam 
emerged from that coalmine, Dana became secondary.  
Tertiary, even.  She was the first person in fifteen 
years who truly knew who he was and accepted him 
unconditionally, and he'd pushed her away.  And she'd 
let him.  And by the time he realized what he was 
about to lose, she was already halfway gone.

If her train had left two minutes earlier, before 
she'd read his letter, she would be gone.  And if had 
left two minutes later, and he'd been able to catch 
it, they'd both be dead, along with Waterston.

A good man.  Mulder shifted again, rearranging his 
bare feet. "I damn sure try," he repeated.

"You are.  You... You have the gentlest heart.  And the 
thickest head.  When you love someone, you love flat 
out, headlong, no holds barred.  It is overwhelming.  
Unsettling.  You are intense, like the center of a 
flame - so hot it burns blue.  As beautiful and 
wonderful as it is, it is also frightening."

When he turned his head, he saw Dana's hand on her 
flat stomach, stroking lightly through the blankets. 

"Do I frighten you?"

"Not one bit," she answered. 

"You ran," he reminded her.

"I stopped.  And you came after me."

"I can't go after Sam.  He needs to find his own way 
back."

She nodded and closed her eyes.

"It's never going to be perfect, Dana.  I'm trying... 
And I know you're trying.  I promised you a knight in 
shining armor-"

"My knight in shining armor got lost in the swamp.  
He is not good with maps."

Mulder chuckled, jostling Emily. "You like Mozart," 
he whispered, reaching over to toy with a lock of her 
hair. "The symphony performs again tomorrow tonight.  
We could go, if you want."

"I want," she answered softly. "Do you want?"

"I want."
 
*~*~*~*

It was true: everyone who was anyone had been to 
Europe. 

Children traveled with their families to winter in 
Venice or Naples, but Mulder's parents had preferred 
to winter at their home in Boston.  Their holidays 
were scheduled around his father's senate duties, 
and, given the time involved in sailing to and from 
Europe, it wasn't worth the trip.

Newlyweds went on extended honeymoons, settling into 
married life and sometimes returning to America only 
after the birth of their first or second child.  
Mulder didn't remember much about the elaborate 
wedding his mother had quickly put together, and his 
and Melly's honeymoon had been spent in his bedroom 
at his parents' house, with his lovely, queasy, 
fifteen-year old bride spending most it vomiting into 
the washbasin.  The idea of being married had seemed 
so implausible that, in short time before he left for 
Harvard, they'd twice forgotten they were expected to 
sleep in the same bed and gone to their separate 
rooms.

Young men were given a grand tour as a university 
graduation present from their parents, theoretically 
to see the art and architecture and enrich their 
minds.  The only things generally enriched were the 
young men's knowledge of European bars and brothels, 
although a few brought back Egyptian mummies or 
pieces of Stonehenge as souvenirs.  By the time 
Mulder graduated from Harvard, Sam had been three 
years old, and Melissa had been in no condition to 
travel anywhere.  His father had bought him a 
fledgling newspaper instead.

So this was his European tour: a few years belated, 
with his one-year old daughter, his two and a half-
year old daughter, his mother-in-law, and his wife, 
who was suffering from another bad bowl of Harvey's 
chowder.  Named William, this time.

"Better?" he asked as Dana returned to the box, 
looking less green.  She nodded as she resumed her 
seat beside him, arranging the endless yards of red 
silk away from his feet. "I thought it was called 
morning sickness for a reason," he added softly.

"One would think," she answered, sighing.   

"Do that again," he requested, watching the tops of 
her breasts rise and fall above gown's low-cut 
neckline.
 
She pretended to ignore him, but, without looking, 
reached over and flicked her fingertip lightly 
against his earlobe.

"You want me," he assured her, then leaned back, 
draping his arm around Dana's bare shoulders.  That 
would raise eyebrows in Washington, but the French 
were more open with their affections.  On impulse, he 
leaned over and planted an open-lipped kiss on the 
side of her neck.

"What was that for?" she asked questioningly.

"Can't I kiss my wife if I want to?"

"I suppose you can." 

He kissed her again, just to prove he could, then 
relaxed, keeping an eye on the orchestra pit in front 
of the stage.  Most of the chairs in it were empty, 
and he saw few signs of life behind the closed velvet 
curtains.  Mulder checked his watch, then dropped it 
back in his vest pocket and straightened his tuxedo 
jacket. "Eight-twenty," he informed her. 

"The concierge said the opera always starts late.  
The girls are fine; mother has them.  Are you in some 
hurry?"

"I have plans for that dress," he said a sultry 
voice, stroking his fingertips up and down her bare 
shoulder as he watched the stage.

"Does this plan involve that huge canopy bed in our 
hotel room, a silk scarf, and an ice cube?" she 
whispered innocently.

"Uh..." he gaped.  It had involved watching her take 
the dress off, but that scarf part sounded better. 
"Yeah," he managed to squeak, and checked his watch 
again.  Still eight-twenty, damn it.

Dana raised her gloved hand, signaling to the dark 
head that looked up from the orchestra pit.  Instead 
of waving back, Sam turned slowly and scanned the 
restless crowd.  Gounod's opera was a success, and 
every seat from the floor to the rafters was full.  
The new, larger Paris Opera House was already being 
built, but more than a thousand spectators waited 
impatiently, eager to see the final performance of 
Faust in the Théâtre-Lyrique.  

Mulder waved as well, but Sam continued looking to 
the boxes on the opposite side of the huge hall, his 
back to them. "I told him where we'd be," he said in 
frustration.

"He has your sense of direction," Dana responded, 
leaning over the edge of their box so Sam could see 
her.  The male half of the audience waved back 
enthusiastically, but Sam continued searching.  His 
head disappeared momentarily, then reappeared 
slightly higher.  He was standing on a chair.  The 
other musicians began taking their places, and Sam's 
shoulders slouched dejectedly.  His father had 
promised he'd be there, but he wasn't.

"Sam," Mulder called sharply, his voice lost in the 
noisy hall.

"Mulder, he does not see us," Dana said urgently as 
the gaslights begin to dim, warning the audience.

In desperation, Mulder put his fingers to his lips 
and whistled loudly, which caused an appalled silence 
to fall over the crowd.  Mouths hung open, and opera 
glasses swung and refocused, trying to see who'd be 
so rude.

"Américain," the man in the next box said 
distastefully, wrinkling his nose.

Dana covered her face with her white-gloved hand, but 
Sam spotted them and grinned, waving proudly.

"Wave, love," he encouraged her.

Dana raised one hand, still shielding her red face 
with the other. 

Satisfied, Sam disappeared to his place in the string 
section, and the gaslights dimmed to faint flickers.  
Mulder settled back, putting his arm around Dana 
again and ignoring the stares.  

The orchestra played the introductory notes and the 
curtains finally parted, revealing Faust moping 
around his laboratory, despairing that his search for 
a solution to the riddle of life has been in vain.  
Angry, cheated, Faust called on the Devil, offering 
his soul for a second chance.

After a few minutes, as Mulder felt Dana's warm cheek 
against his shoulder, resting comfortably.

"No spitting," she cautioned him.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

*~*~*~*

End: Epilogue

***********************************

Paracelsus, Prologue

*~*~*~*

Often, in his dreams, they have a family of their 
own: three or four chestnut-haired, hellion boys and 
a few pretty little girls running around.  Or, 
sometimes, she is pregnant with their first child, 
and rests one hand on her swollen belly as she walks 
with him.  They have a home in Boston or Georgetown 
near his parents, so they can visit often.  Mulder 
isn't fifteen anymore, but neither is she.  She's 
grown from a beautiful girl into a beautiful woman: 
intelligent, elegant, and in love with him.  

In this dream, she's in her early twenties, and 
wearing a blue riding habit that shows off her slim 
figure.  She rides sidesaddle as he leads the horse 
through the quiet woods.  It's a warm afternoon, and 
wild rosebushes line the path.  He wears a dress 
uniform, the buttons and boots polished to a high 
shine.  The insignia indicates he's a decorated 
officer in the US Army.

His father is proud of him.

"There's something on your mind, Fox," she says, her 
words slowed and soften by her southern accent. 
"About secession?  Is it really coming?"
 
"Yes," he answers. "I think it's unavoidable, now.  
Next month, Mr. Lincoln will be elected. When he is, 
South Carolina will secede from the union, and the 
rest of the south will follow."  

"And there will be a war."

"Many officers are talking about resigning their 
commission and returning home to fight for the 
south," he tells her as he leads the mare. "Robert E. 
Lee will go, and so will many other generals."

"And what will you do?" she asks softly.  

He looks up at her.  The sunlight outlines her head, 
making her black hair shimmer.  Her eyes are rimmed 
with thick, dark lashes, and they shine as she 
watches him.  

"I don't know," he answers honestly. "The north will 
need experienced officers, but..."

"But you do not want to fight.  Not for the north, 
but not for the south, either."

"No," he admits. "There is no winning a war like this 
one, on either side.  Men to not seem to realize 
that: it can only end in death and ruin."

"You will fight, though."

He nods.  She knows him well.  

It is September 1860, and war is brewing a like dark 
storm on the horizon.  He will fight in the war, and, 
November 1863, he will die in the war - cut down on a 
battlefield in Tennessee.  She will hold him as he 
bleeds to death.  She will cry.

They've reached a turnoff from the path, and he ties 
the reins to a tree branch.  She slips her boot out 
of the stirrup, and he helps her slide to the ground.  
He kisses her.  She takes his hand and follows him 
through the trees, to an abandoned stone church.  
They have been here before; it is one of their 
secrets.  Today, he unfolds a blanket over the grass 
in the church foyer: preparation for a picnic for 
which they'd packed no food.

Their parents trust them.  They've been friends since 
childhood, and there is no question that they will 
marry someday.  Senator Mulder's only son and 
Representative Kavanaugh's daughter: his mother will 
throw the society wedding of the year.  

Neither of them particularly cares for society.  

She takes off her jacket, and he takes off his.  He 
slides his suspenders off his shoulders and loosens 
his collar.  They kneel on the blanket, facing each 
other.  He strokes her hair, and she caresses his 
face.  He puts his hand on her waist, pulling her 
body against his as they kiss.

They've never made love.  They kiss and touch, 
though, discovering what feels nice.  When he is 
away, first at West Point and now at his military 
post, this is what he remembers.  He's memorized how 
her hair and skin smells, and how her breathing 
changes when he touches her.  Sometimes, when he's 
alone at night, he thinks about her and touches 
himself.  He's yet to go blind.

"I worry so much about you.  And now, with a war..." 
she confesses, her lips brushing against his. "I know 
you have to go, but I don't want you to.  I'm so 
afraid you won't come back."

"I will," he promises her. "On way or another, I 
will.  I'll find you.  I'll wait for you."
 
He unbuttons the front of her cotton blouse, then the 
corset cover.  Her breasts are pushed high by her 
stays, rounded into two fair globes.  He kisses the 
valley between them, and she shivers.  She likes it 
when he touches her; that is their other secret.

"When, when you're away," she asks in a hesitant 
whisper. "Are there other girls?"

"No.  Never." He raises her breast from the corset 
and covers the nipple with his mouth, sucking.  She 
gasps at the new sensation.  Her fingers tighten in 
his hair. "There's never been anyone but you," he 
adds as he kisses across her pale shoulders. 

He's telling the truth, and she believes him.

"If the war comes, Daddy won't let us be married next 
fall," she says. "Not if you fight for the north.  
Not until the war is over."

"Then marry me now," he says impulsively. "Tonight.  
We'll run away.  We'll elope."

"We can't do that," she answers in her voice of 
reason. "Your mother would just die.  And where would 
we live?"

"I don't care.  We've waited so long.  I can't wait 
any longer."

She looks at him for a long moment, and then lowers 
her eyes.  They can't disappoint their families by 
eloping, and her father won't let them be married 
now, while Mulder is stationed out west, fighting the 
Indians.  Once the war comes, their fathers will 
become enemies, and Mulder will be lucky to get to 
see her, let alone marry her. 

"Then don't wait," she whispers.  Her hand moves 
down, sliding over the front of his trousers.  This 
fascinates her: how his body grows hard for hers.  

"We can't-" he starts, then moans, trying not to lose 
control. "Oh God..."

"Like this?" she asks, rubbing the hard bulge 
underneath the wool fabric.

He nods wordlessly, unable to speak.

She unbuttons his trousers, then the flannel drawers 
underneath, and eases them down over his erection.  
She pauses, inhaling.  The last time she saw him 
nude, they were children.  He doesn't look like the 
paintings of male cherubs that she's seen.

She runs her fingertips over the shaft. "Show me," 
she asks and he puts his hand over hers, teaching her 
how to touch a man.  He lets his head fall back, 
gritting his teeth.  The pressure builds inside him.

This is really happening.

"Are you sure?" he asks while he still can.

Silently, she stops and lies back on the blanket, 
waiting for him.  He pushes up her skirt, petticoat, 
and chemise, and then eases his hands over her 
pantalets, to the opening at the crotch.  The hair 
there is soft, and her hips shift as he touches her.

He's never touched her there before.  He's never 
touched any woman.

She closes her eyes, trusting him.  

He slips one finger inside her, making sure he 
understands the basics of female anatomy.  She feels 
warm and slick, like the inside of his cheek.  He 
pushes two fingers inside her and she whimpers.

"I love you," he says hoarsely as he covers her, 
pressing the head of his erection between her legs. 
"I don't want to hurt you."

He moves forward, and feels his body slide just 
slightly into hers.  She murmurs that it is all 
right, and he pushes again, shuddering in pleasure.  
She opens her legs farther, putting her arms around 
his neck and pressing her face against his shoulder.  

He rocks instinctively, each stroke taking him a 
little deeper inside her.  The sensation is so tight, 
so hot - like nothing else he's ever known.  He hears 
her panting in his ear.  He thrusts again, she 
stiffens and cries out, and he's inside her.  Not all 
the way, but enough.  The feeling is so powerful that 
he's afraid to move.  He is still, trembling, just as 
she is.

She looks up at him, her eyes full of wonder.  

Slowly, he pulls back and thrusts again, watching the 
mixture of pain and pleasure on her face as her body 
is filled with his.

"I love you. I'll always love you," he promises her.
    
She nods, drawing him down on top of her.  He moves 
again, trying to be gentle, but the urge to thrust is 
so strong.  She cries out at the last few strokes, 
pressing her face against his shoulder as his orgasm 
comes, sending electricity convulsing through his 
body.

He lies on top of her, spent, with beads of sweat 
dripping from his forehead. "Are you all right?" he 
asks as he catches his breath.

She kisses his neck tenderly, and runs her fingers 
through his hair, then across his face.  He wants her 
to be pregnant.  He wants to marry her, to have 
children with her, to spend his life with her.

"That did hurt." He withdraws with a final shudder, 
and presses up on his elbows. "Didn't it?"

Her face is flushed, and her hair is tousled.  She's 
so beautiful.  So alive. "It's supposed to, Fox. It's 
supposed to be like this."

"I know it is," he agrees, then kisses her.  

This is how it is supposed to be.

In the abandoned church that no one knows about, for 
a stolen afternoon, he lies beside her on the 
blanket, holding her close as sleep comes.  When he 
opens his eyes, the dream is over, and she is gone.

She always is.

*~*~*~*

End: Paracelsus, Prologue

***********************************