From: Jaime Lyn Morris <leiaj@bellsouth.net>
Date: Wed, 14 Jul 1999 18:36:25 -0400
Subject: DANDELIONS ON THE WIND(1-4)

Title: Dandelions on the Wind: Part 2: To be Repaired
Author: Jaime Lyn
Email: leiaj@bellsouth.net

XxX  All disclaimers and summaries and junk listed in part one.  You
guys know the drill. Read on and enjoy:

XxX

Years rolled slowly past
And I found myself alone.
Surrounded by strangers I thought were my friends,
Further and further from my home.
Guess I lost my way.
There were oh so many roads.
I was living to run,
Running to live,
I began to find myself searching,
For shelter again and again,
Against the wind.
----- Against the Wind, Bob Seager and the Silver Bullet Band

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

Dandelions in the Wind, part 2: To be Repaired
By Jaime Lyn

XxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxXxX

---- 6 -----


***
Anonymous Journal Entry:
Cook County Hospital:
***

Even as I write this, my hands shake.  My head swims and creeps with the
lazy fog of powerful drugs.  And not only that, my dreams have gotten
stronger.  With every passing second, every time I close my eyes, they
have gotten stronger.  I still don't know what they mean, but they have
gotten stronger and more insistent.  I hear the echoing of the man's
tears in my heart, the lapping of the water and the sound of the word
'Scully' piercing through my subconscious.

Just yesterday, I heard it over and over in my head when I went in to
get another of those horrendous shots. I heard it just as strongly as if
I had been dreaming it, and it was almost as if the sound of the voice,
the uttering of the word were whispering secrets to me.  I felt even
more passionately at that moment than I ever had before that I knew
him.  I knew his voice and I knew his soul.  I just did.  I knew it and
I felt it, and I closed my eyes to think it over and over, repeating
it.  I let the thought wash over me and dissolve my allaying fears.

And that's when it happened.  The most important breakthrough I've had
yet.

I remember so clearly, opening my eyes and looking at the shelves
surrounding the table next to the high rise.  I remember reading off the
names of the chemicals-the different meds that graced the counter,
like a mad scientist's vanity dresser.  I remember recognizing the
names, being able to access in my head what each one did, how each one
worked, and what each one was for, and for the life of me, I couldn't
figure out how I knew what I did.  It just came to me, suddenly, as if a
wall had collapsed behind me.

I didn't understand what it meant, but I knew it meant something.

So I tried to tell the nurse-I tried to make her see that I remembered,
that my brain had recalled something of strange importance, and that I
needed to see the doctor right away, but she wouldn't let me.  A nervous
look came over her face then, as if I had broken a rule, and she gruffly
ushered me out of the lab, dragging me back to my room.  It puzzled me,
that she got so terrified, and I couldn't understand just what I had
done to make her so upset.  All I understand is that the next thing I
know, she's jabbed another dose of narcotic into my arm and I felt
myself drifting, her eyes watching me like an eagle would watch its
prey.

And when I closed my eyes, I dreamed my dream.  It was more powerful
that time than other any time I had dreamed it, and I cried out and
screamed, searching desperately for the man who called  `Scully' over
and over again, just as I had before. This time, however, his fingers
finally touched mine-his hand clutched to me and he gasped as if our
souls had finally met and brushed past.

When I woke up, I was sweaty and I was confused.  My head felt heavy and
jumbled with too much scattered information, but somehow, during the
night, it had opened up and spilled its contents to me, revealing the
many textbooks I seemed to have contained .  There were medical terms
and technical, scientific jargon that filled me without my even knowing
why.  It was like opening a door that had been long slammed shut.

And that was when I realized that I was being lied to; that I was being
deceived and cheated out of my life.

I was not sick at all.

And so I write this now, setting the words to paper just as surely as I
am sitting here, vowing this to myself and to those I am going to find.
I am writing this as a promise to myself, a promise to the man from my
dreams.

I am going to find him and fill his heart, the way he has filled my
dreams.  I swear I am going to remember everything. Somehow, in some
way.  I am going to discover why the fog comes every night to take me
away to a place where I hear crying and sobbing.  I am going to lift the
curtain from my mind and my heart, and I am going to find a place where
laughter claims me.

I am going to get the hell out of here, and I am going to do it even if
it kills me.

***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***
I raise an eyebrow and blink once, then twice, trying desperately to
rationalize this information to the practical part of my analytic
subconscious.  The scientific part of me is screaming in rebuttal,
telling me that `no, no, it's not possible,' while the woman in me is
trying to fathom the horrible violation that he has just described.

Somehow, I swallow and manage, "what you've just- Fox, what you're
telling me, it's not-"

"Not possible?" he asks, laughing bitterly, as if he's choking on his
own sour truth.  "You think I didn't try to convince myself of that? You
think I didn't want to believe that? I DID- but the truth is that it
happened."

I sigh and try to come up with something that could effectively refute
that.  Something that would help to prove my point beyond a shadow of
the smallest inkling of a doubt. I know that there are millions upon
millions of things--countless medical theories and scientific
ramblings that could serve as spring boards for an argument over the
semantics of reality but- Unfortunately, the fact still stands that I
wasn't there when all this happened.  I had never lived through this
with him, and I am not his beloved Dana Scully.  I could argue till I'm
blue, but it still wouldn't change the fact that I have no right telling
him that what he believes in so staunchly is wrong.   It's not something
that I can even begin to debate with him, and it's not something that
I'd care to, either.  It is his story and his life--his memories that
he has vulnerably thrust upon me, and I have no right to refute the
recollections he seems to cling to like a flower to a vine.

The woman in me knows this with certainty.

"It happened," Fox insists, vehemently, watching the emotions splay
across my face.  "My daughter wouldn't be here if it hadn't."

I close my eyes and silence the scientist within me. She has no place
within this conversation, in this corner of reality where science and
reason seem to become as nonsensical and as nonexistent as Unicorns and
sprites in wonderland.

"Ok," I conceed, softly, watching Fox as he watches me.  "I believe
you."

Astonishment paints delicate lines across his tired face.

"You- believe me?  Just like that?" he asks.

I sigh at him and nod.   He nods back and smiles, as if my response is
welcome but ultimately unexpected, and he clears his throat.  I know
that he's thinking about her-musing about what she would say, how she
would argue her point, how her ivory face would change, how her words
would differ from mine- And I hate it-I hate that I am second best, that
I am not what he wants-  I hate that I am not her and I hate that
sometimes my heart wishes I was-

But it's not like I can help it any more than I can stop the sun from
setting or the grass from growing- so I let him crash into me. I swallow
hard and let him study me-let him compare me to her in a way I've never
thought to let him before.  I let his heart scan mine, and when he
finishes, his eyes close for a moment, as if processing the information.
I feel dissected and probed, pulled apart and scattered, but I know that
it is not my soul or my heart he is looking for inside me.

It's hers.

And when his eyes open, I can tell that he has not found what he seeks.
He knows that I am not her.  He knows- but he needed to look anyway.  He
needed to, just as he needs to look every day, everywhere he goes, even
though he has not found her yet.  He has not found the part of him that
belongs to her, but he will keep looking as long as he will keep
breathing.

Our gazes lock and he finally breaks the uncomfortable silence,
starting, "Kylee got Scully's fever to go down some, but it didn't break
until morning. And that's when I told her. I told her everything.  I
told her how long we needed to stay underground, where we needed to go,
my theory-"

I nod, then ask, "What did she say?"

Fox stares off at the wall.  "What did she say-what did she say-" he
murmurs, as if it's almost funny but not in a `ha ha' sort of way.
"First, she told me that the chances of what I had suggested were slim
and nil.  She insisted that the entire idea was impossible even in its
most rudimentary form-that there was little proof to go on, little
reason to jump to hasty conclusions-"

I nod softly, then cock my head to the side, guessing that there's more
here that he's not saying.  "But?" I ask, gently.

He raises an eyebrow and acknowledges the question, pursing his lips
into a thin line, before answering, "But-" He pauses and closes his eyes
to remember fully. "But then she said to me, `Mulder, do you believe in
God?'  and I just looked at her and held her hand. There wasn't any
right answer that I could give her, and I didn't know what she wanted to
hear.  So she just sort of stared at me in a funny way and told me that
it was getting harder and harder for her to understand-to rationalize
the why's and the how's of a science she was so firmly rooted in, but
had started to distrust.  She said that it was hard to believe in
divinity for the same reason, even though her mother had always told her
that God was supposed to have a plan.  She wanted so hard to trust her
faith-in science, in God, in something, but she was losing the
strength to try.  Then she looked at me with these- these sad, worried
eyes that I don't think I'll ever forget and she said, `I need to
believe.  Help me believe again, Mulder.' But I didn't know what to say
to that, and so I didn't say anything-"

When he pauses again, I suck in a breath and bite my lip.  To understand
him and follow this story is to become part of it, to live every moment
with him, and I think I have just grown five years in one hour, playing
this in my head like a demented video player.

"But then she got better," I say, willing it to be true, feeling as if
I've met her through his eyes.  "She got better and the two of you got
out, right?"

He looks at me and nods, slowly. "Yeah," he answers, voice trailing.
"Scully recovered, with Kylee's help, and as soon as her temperature
registered near normal, we left to travel out west.  Kylee and Josh left
to go north into Canada, but Scully, the gunmen and I went west,
spending weeks travelling- Above ground at night, and underground during
the day."  He stops and shrugs, then continues, "We didn't know what was
going on up there or who was looking for us, so we spent weeks
travelling..." He manages a slight chuckle and says, "Scully called it
`incognito,' insisting that she was going to write a book on the four
paranoid musketeers- She missed the sun on her face, I could tell-"

I smile at that, wondering at the memory, then finally manage to ask the
question I'd been meaning to ask him since he started his story.

"You fell in love with her then, didn't you?"

But I can tell that it's the wrong question as soon as his back stiffens
and his face hardens.   It's almost as if I've trespassed onto sacred
ground for even insinuating such an idea.

I study him and he swallows.

"She was my partner," is all he says, and the room falls uncomfortably
silent-

***
Approxmately two weeks later
Undisclosed location
Five and a half years ago

***

"Come on, Scully- just one time-you'll like it.  It'll change your
life, I pinky swear it-"

Scully let out a barely concealed giggle that seemed to lighten the
oppresive darkness of their hideaway.

"Read my." She paused to shake her head, finishing, "my palm?"

Her voice lingered almost imperceptibly on that last word, and she
nearly lost her train of thought in a fit of hitched laughter that
welled up from inside of her.

Mulder's right arm fell tight and secure around her shoulders, and she
could feel the gentle fierceness of his heart beating beneath the head
she rested softly upon his chest.  Her fingers traced idle patterns on
his arms and up the crook of his elbow, and his left hand curled
underneath the back of his head lazily.  Often now, they would lie like
this-together-staring up at the roof of some dank and murky
underground cavern, or if they were supremely lucky, at the stars
sparkling above them like a field of sequins on a curtain of velvet.

Tonight, they happened to be crashing in some nameless barn in some
nameless town.

"Yes," Mulder answered, mock defensiveness creeping into his voice.
"What?  You don't trust the psychic abilities of Spooky Fox Mulder?
Psychic extrordinaire?"

When Scully laughed again, her voice vibrated against the hollow of his
collarbone and chest.  "Psychic or psychotic?" she deadpanned. "Because
I can vouch for the existence of one, Mulder, but not the-" Her voice
stuttered on the last word and then shot up a notch, managing, "HEY!" as
she started to giggle.

Without warning, his left hand had snuck around to wage war against the
side of her right rib cage-causing contagious laughter to echo into his
ears and flow into his brain. He had every sound she made-every
inflection of her voice catalogued, from the `doctor voice,' to the `FBI
mode' voice, to the `Dana' voice, but laughter was a new one to
him-and all he wanted was to breathe it in until the sound filled him.

"Say Supercalafragalisticexpialidocious and maybe I'll stop," Mulder
teased her, laughing as quietly as he could to ensure that they wouldn't
disturb the gunmen asleep around them.

Scully struggled valiantly, but Mulder held her steadfast, tickling and
pinning her arms, his brain getting drunk off the sound of her giggling
like a young girl.  "Say it, and I'll stop," he insisted, as she feebly
tried to get him back by lunging for his sides. "Come on, you can do
it--" She gasped and tears fell from her eyes, but he refused to
relent.

She opened her mouth and managed, "Sup- Sup-Supercal.God- Mul.
Stop."  She laughed again and again, and when finally he was sure that
she had had enough, he pulled his hands from her ribcage long enough to
peek over at her--at her fingers trailing to her eyes to wipe away
salty tears.  She sat up for a moment and blinked, rapidly opening and
closing her eyes to regain her focus and equalibruim, and Mulder tugged
on her arm and pulled her back down to him.  Her breathing was thick and
heavy, her heart racing, and she lay down into him, chasing away the
last traces of lighthearted laughter.

"Mulder," she admonished, in that soft, `Dana' voice she rarely used,
"that was NOT fair.   That was cheating."

He laughed at her and let his hand trail down her side, languidly. "How
do you figure?" he asked, amused.

She grinned and pulled away-just far enough to lean onto her side facing
him-propping an elbow on the ground with her head on her palm. Her
other hand continued its endless roam of his arm, drawing nonsense
designs on his wrist and forearm.  "You had tactical advantage," she
said, smiling.  "Not to mention a serious size factor working in your
favor, Mulder.  Admit it, you cheated."

Mulder's eyes opened wide in overexaggerated shock, and Scully shook her
head, warily.  "I resent that, Doc," he teased, using the nickname he
had only recently christened her with.  It had been borne out of a nasty
splinter that had attacked his finger--one that she had needed to coax
him into removing. And once she did, she had shaken her head at him,
amused, and he had insisted on a bandaid for his `wound.'  She had
called him a baby and he had called her `doc.' The name just seemed to
stick.

"Cheat," Scully insisted, affectionately.

She sighed and laid back down, letting her head rest inside the pillow
of his shoulder-a frequent spot for her when she was tired and ready to
snooze for the night. She cleared her throat then, holding out her right
hand in front of their closely settled faces--fingers spread
apart--and she snuggled further into Mulder's shoulder.

"Ahem, your royal psychoticness--My palm reading?" she said pointedly,
jabbing playfully at his side with her opposite hand.  She wiggled her
outstretched fingers to urge him forward.

From below her copper stained head, she heard his chest rumbling, his
deep, rich voice answer, lightly, "I thought you didn't believe in such
things, Agent Scully."

She snorted. "I don't."  Then her head lifted just enough for her to
capture his gaze, the corners of her light pink lips turning up. "But I
seem to have a weakness for tall, lanky, paranoid men who like to make
crazy suggestions about the signifigance of genetically predetermined
marks on my hands."

Mulder shook his head and laughed.  "And that would be your roundabout
way of making an exception?"

Her eyebrow raised enigmatically.

"Tell me my future, Spooky," she joked, still holding out her flattened
palm.  Her head came down to rest idly next to his, and he took her hand
gently --caressing the tips of her fingers.

Her eyes wide open and sparkling, Scully contentedly stared up at her
hand entwined with her partner's--at the index finger that slowly
curled around his thumb-at his forefinger stroking the back of her
hand.

He took in a deep breath, shoving down his racing pulse, and started,
"well, this looks promising-"

Scully raised another eyebrow and chuckled, querying, "And what would
that be?"

Mulder cleared his throat and traced the inside of her palm, running the
balls of his fingers over a crease in that ran the length of her hand.
Touching her felt like silk to his skin, and yet it was fire and ice at
the same time, setting him ablaze and putting him out continually.

"You seem to have a long lifeline," he told her, murmuring, his finger
spanning up and down the crease. "See how it goes to the edge of your
hand and then almost all the way down to your wrist?"

Scully mumbled an affirmative and he shivered as he touched her skin
again.  "That means you're going to live a long- long life- Dana
Katherine Scully-"

She sighed, leaning in closer to the inside of his neck, then slowly let
her palm curl around all four of his fingers, caressing up and down,
languidly.  In response, she could feel him swallow next to her, and her
opposite hand measured the way his heart beat quickened every time they
touched a little more-a little longer- Her face felt flush and every
spot on her being seemed to tingle-to shiver and tremble as if he were
all around her. Somehow, he was inside her and next to her-It was
insanely erotic and yet there was nothing sensual about it at all.

"And here," Mulder murmured softly, running a thumb down the outside of
her index finger, "here it says that you're going to accomplish great
things--that you're a healer of the sick, that you're kind-
forgiving-"

Their hands twined and untwined together, caressing and touching, as if
the art of him reading her palm was more a sensual dance than a casual
time passer.  She let out a contented, "Hmm-" and wrapped her hand
around the back of his knuckles, lightly tracing the texture of his
skin.

Then Mulder shifted their exploring digits so that his index finger
rested on her palm again, and he ran a course down yet another line that
ran from her thumb to her pinky.   "And here's something interesting,"
he breathed, softly.

"What's that?" Scully asked, her voice low and throaty, her skin feeling
all at once too tight and too hot for her body.

"There's someone," he whispered, gently, letting his index finger trail
up her palm again. "Someone you love that shares your lifeline; someone
who shares the other part of you. Kinda tall- lanky-"

Their hands curled together again, interweaving carefully, and this time
he lowered them so that they hovered just slightly above and between
their faces.

"Really?" Scully managed, her heart thudding out symphonies in her
chest, her breathing long and deep.  "Anything else you can see about
this- `mystery' person?"

His thumb traced the contours of her index finger and her pulse
quickened.

"Yeah," Mulder answered, his voice low and husky.  His head turned so
that his mouth murmured gently into the downy softness of her russet
hair. "He seems to know your hands pretty well-"

Scully swallowed, hard, and then turned so that her nose rested into
Mulder's neck. She closed her eyes, trying to shove back her roiling
emotions, and she managed, "Oh-" with barely hooded desire painting the
edges of her voice-

----- 7 ----

***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***

"Fox?"

He stares off at the wall as if it's speaking to him, and I have a
feeling that he's remembering something he'd rather not disclose to me.
His eyes are clouded, foggy looking, and it's almost eerie the way he
can stare at something without looking at it once.  He does it a lot.
He'll just start staring off at some inanimate object-At the office, in
the field, in meetings that don't particularly hold his attention- Like
he's living in two moments at once.

He is staring at the wall behind me, surely, but he is not seeing the
wall or anything around it.

Like always, he is seeing her.

"Ah, Fox?" I ask again, waving a hand in front of his face.  This time
he apparently hears me, because he shakes his head as if warding off a
particularly evil spell. His eyes blink a few times, his throat
automatically clearing, and he leans backward into the couch as if
trying to regain his bearings.

"Sorry," he aplogizes, wistfully.  "Where was I?"

I crack my neck warily and shift my hands in my lap, answering, "Weeks
travelling?  Heading out west?"

He frowns for a moment, as if the memory has somehow escaped him, and
then he nods slowly, continuing, "Right. West-" he clears his throat
again and leans forward.  "So anyway, the gunmen led us out west till we
hit Ohio, and here we went above ground for the first time during the
day since- well, since two weeks before.   We stumbled onto the Laughton
field office-almost by accident--and we requested our old jobs
back--Scully and I, that is-since neither of us wanted to spend the
rest of our lives running and hiding.  The gunmen took up residence
nearby, and then we finally contacted Scully's mother.  She was relieved
to hear from us, to say the least, and she decided on a whim to move
here in order to be near Scully."

I nod and crack my knuckles, understanding that this is probably the
simple part of the story. This is the part where he tells me how they
started rebuilding their lives-how everything started to fall back
into place for them in a new state with new lives.

Of course, though, I also understand that his story is not going to have
a happy ending. It's not going to be like the fairy tale-with the
picket fence and the dog, the roses and sunshine poking through the rain
clouds.  This story is going to end the way my partnership with him
began, and it is incredibly sad to sit here and listen to him tell it
when I know how it's going to end.  Where is happily ever after when
you  need it?

So I manage the only thing my brain can come up with. "But it wasn't
ever after, was it Fox?"

His eyes close at that and he leans his head back, as if asking her for
forgivness of some sort--asking for advice on how he should tell me
this part-and then he looks at me.  His hazel eyes shine soft and
unwavering.  His gaze is clear and sure.

"No," he says.  "It wasn't."  He swallows, licking his lips, then tells
me, "At first, we had to move into a two bedroom place-Scully and I,
because we couldn't afford anything else.  We had just gotten our jobs
back, and we thought it would be best.  But then, since things had
changed so drastically between us since the day we fled DC, it didn't
seem to bother either one of us to be sharing the same living space.
For us, it was just a normal routine. We got used to each other. We went
to work, we came home, we stayed out of the other's way when it was
needed, ate dinner together when we felt like it.  We lobbied to try and
get the X Files back, knowing that what had happened wouldn't be the
last we saw of the colonists, and for a few months, life was almost akin
to normal.  But then Scully started getting headaches and morning
sickness, and we couldn't just pretend that we didn't know what it was.
We wanted to, but we couldn't." His eyes start to cloud over, then he
finishes, "Upon mutual agreement, Scully went to see an Obgyn.  She had
tests upon tests done, pregnancy tests, which, obviously came back
positive, then amniocentesis' or whatever those are, and the one both of
us had dreaded- the paternity test.  We didn't know what to expect with
that one, to be honest, but when we got the results back, it ended up
shedding a little more light on what had been done- and why-"

***
August 5th
Five and a half years earlier
Mulder and Scully's apartment
Just outside Laughton, Ohio

***

Mulder cracked his neck and leaned back into the soft gray couch-the
fuzzy one that they had purchased only a month earlier.  It was nice and
it was comfortable, but it was more Scully's than it was his, and the
place he usually sat was situated across from it--the worn leather
chair--the one with the footrest he liked so much.  But since Scully
had thought it was ugly, she had condemned it to the corner of the
room-burdening it to an odd angle from the television set.  And that
was ok for reading and what not, but it was awfully hard to act lazy
when he had to lounge with his head at a funky angle.  So instead, this
afternoon, he occupied the couch, kicking his feet up on the wooden
coffee table even though he knew Scully would kill him if she saw him.
Whereas he was a mess in every sense of the word, she was neat and tidy
and organized.  Thank god they had separate rooms, he thought, or they'd
kill each other for sure-  Well- Not that he wouldn't mind sharing a
room with Scully, no, quite the opposite but-

His thoughts were interrupted when a key turned in the lock, the door
creaking open to signal her arrival. His head half turned from his lazy
position on the couch and he gave her a slight wave.

"Hey Scully," he grinned, softly. "I put up some spaghetti, if you want
some. I mean, I figured you wouldn't be up to cooking or-"

"Thanks," she mumbled, distractedly, then she nodded as if she were
thinking of something else entirely.  Something that had absolutely
nothing to do with anything he had just said.  She dropped her keys
aimlessly to the nearby counter, and they clicked and rattled, then fell
off the edge with a jingle. Mulder's eyes followed them to the floor,
but Scully walked right over them as if she hadn't even noticed.  Her
fingers unevenly slid past the formica counter top, and her black heels
trampled the Apollo 11 keychain he'd replaced for her only recently.
Then she turned the corner, barely missing the end table, and her hands
dropped her jacket over the side of the couch as she foggily wandered
past.  Sloppily, the cotton overcoat fell to the floor to join her
forgotten keys, and she didn't even acknowledge the mishap as she
stumbled over it towards the direction of her bedroom.

Mulder's eyes grew concerned, and he rose up off the couch, moving to
follow her before she could lock herself in the privacy of her
room-where she'd certainly ignore him for the rest of the night.

"Hey," he called, pulling up behind her.  "If it's the spaghetti that
offends you, I can get pizza."

But this time she didn't even bother to respond, not even to shake her
head, and Mulder frowned, coming to stand in front of her to catch her
attention.

"Scully," he said softly, lifting a finger under her chin to raise her
eyes to his, "Talk to me."

She said nothing, but thankfully, she made no move away or towards
him-and he took that as a good sign.  He straightened his neck and
watched her closely, continuing, "Something's wrong. Is it the
bloodtests?  Did you get them back?"

Scully merely stared back at him, her sparkling azure eyes filled with a
haze of confusion and something else he couldn't understand.  Her mouth
gave nothing away, and all he could see was that the look on her face
was strikingly similar to the one he'd seen on her years before-when
their basement office had burned to the ground. It was that look which
told of having been shellshocked to the point of numbness.

And for a moment, all was silent, still.  Like the eye of a hurricane or
the calm before the storm.

He forced a tiny smile and let his finger run up along her jaw, tracing
the soft line of her cheek.  `Tell me' his eyes whispered to hers,
pleading.  `tell me, Scully.'

She sighed, and a shaky, slender arm came up to wrap around his hand.
She lowered his fingers with gentle reverence, letting her palm curl
around his in a show of faith, and she tried to smile back.  It wasn't a
real smile, though-it never quite reached her eyes-and Mulder saw
right through it.

"Scully," he started, nervously.  "What--"

"I got them back."

She said no more and no less than that, and Mulder nodded, squeezing her
hand tighter, taking a deep breath that seemed more confident than it
felt.  She had requested so many tests, he remembered, so many
countless, nameless tests, and to try and even name all of them would
take more knowledge of obstetrics than he would ever have.  If one thing
was certain between them, it was idea that he wouldn't know medical
knowledge if it hit him on the head and waved at him.  Scully was the
doctor and the scientist in this partnership, after all, and if there
was something seriously wrong, she would know right away-and she would
tell him. Or, at least, he hoped she would. If something had happened or
something had come up in one of those tests that was anything less than
what it needed to be. Well, suffice to say, he shuddered to even think
it.

Mulder looked down and nodded at her, then asked, "which one?"

She blinked and stared at him, biting her lip and trying to force back
what looked like tears.  His heart sank when he recognized the trembling
lower lip.

Oh god, he thought.  If Scully was crying, that meant this was big-
Very big.  It had to be.  Mostly, because if Scully was anything, she
was unemotional to the point of stubborness.  She was calm, resolute-But
then again, lately, her emotions had been wavering.  Her hormones were
starting to wreak havoc with her, and she was beginning to act a little
less `Scully,' and a little more `Sybil.'  It was almost frightening,
the way her moods swung like a pendulum, but of course, he understood
that underneath the craziness, she was still there. She was still
Scully.  And she still rarely cried.

So needless to say, this scared him.

He watched her with almost equaling trepidation and took long, slow
breaths, trying to steady his heart. Her expression was teary but almost
unreadable, and he couldn't decide whether that was a good thing or a
bad thing.

"The paternity test," Scully finally answered, her voice barely above a
whisper.

Mulder sucked in a breath. Oh god, he thought.  The paternity one-

That was the test that had them both on edge-the one that they hadn't
wanted to see, if only because neither one of them really wanted to know
just how far it had gone-how deeply Scully had been violated. They
understood that if the paternity tests came back indeterminate as far as
DNA went, chances were great that Scully was carrying another Emily
within her. And the prospects of that terrified them both.  But then,
they also understood that if the paternity tests came back with an
actual name-perhaps the name of some government higher up, the
reppurcussions could be greater than either of them could fathom.
Scully could be subject to more tests--she could be taken away.
Scully's child could even be taken away.  The horrible possibilities
were endless.

Mulder's throat went dry and he took Scully's hands in his, pulling them
into a fist that rested between the two of them securely.  He nodded to
her in show of good faith. Their fingers twined together, like so many
times before, and their eyes connected on that level that went above
outward communication. He took a deep breath, then whispered, "whatever
it is- we'll handle it-" She nodded quietly, and he continued, "So what-
what did it, um, say, Scully?"

A tear grazed down the ivory silk of her skin, almost unnoticed, and he
reached a hand to her cheek to wipe it away.  Her own hand followed his
in suit, and she wrapped unsure fingers around the back of his knuckles,
pressing his palm to her face as she closed her eyes.  He watched her
worriedly and did not speak as she swallowed and took long, deep
breaths. Then her fingers ran up and down the back of his hand, sliding
down to his wrist and then up again to his thumb and forefinger.  When
her eyes opened again, there was something in them he couldn't place.

"It was indeterminate, wasn't it?" he asked then, trying to get the
words out without tripping and falling over them.

Scully bit her lip and sniffled slightly, shaking her head with that
strange look on her face.

Mulder swallowed and nodded, trying to take that one in.  His heart felt
like a lead brick and his temples began to throb. "Ok-" he managed,
hoarsely. "Then you have a name-  It-we don't have to tell anyone else,
you know- Whoever it is, Scully, they don't--"

"Don't have to know?" she finished, gently.

Mulder's lip quivered slightly and he nodded, gaze drilling into hers.
She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head at him, licking her
lips to return the moisture.

"No," she said, letting her hand slip from around his, "I mean yes, yes
they do. I do, actually."

Mulder frowned. "- do. You do what?" he queried, confused.

"I do have to tell him," she answered.

Mulder sighed and bit his lip so hard that he swore he could feel the
coppery tang of his own blood.  That Scully wanted to disclose the
paternal results meant that the father was someone they knew, he
thought, horror wracking his every pore.  That Scully was willing to
disclose such precarious information meant that she was carrying the
child of some man they knew.  Maybe someone they hated-the cigarette
smoking bastard, Spender, by some act of God, or even, lord help them,
Skinner- The idea of any of it was more than he could even begin to
handle.

But somehow, he managed "why?" without breaking down completely.

Scully just breathed and watched him, silently.

"Why, Scully? He repeated, dread creeping up into his throat.  "I don't-
I mean- why?"

Then the corners of Scully lips turned up slightly, hinting at the start
of an almost rueful smile, and she answered, tearfully, "because-" her
finger traced his jaw.  "Because I work with him, I live with him, and I
think he has the right to know."

Mulder's eyes went wide then, his body rigid, and he opened his mouth to
speak-hoping that he would find the words to suit him, though none
came out.  His lungs sucked in another breath of oxygen, and then his
lips turned up in a smile he couldn't seem to help as he finally
croaked, "you  mean-me. Mine?  It's mine?"

Her lips pressed together in a wistful, matching smile, and she nodded
through her tears, breathing, "yeah-  Mulder-" Her left hand still
caressed his jawline, and she raised her right one to rest over the
beating of his heart.  "I'm sorry," she went on, tears continuing to
cascade down her soft, smooth chin with an almost eerie silence. "If you
don't- want- I mean-I'd understand.  I would, I mean- I do. I can leave,
Mulder, if-"

"No- I mean- No, never."

His fevered tone surprised even him, and when he reached a hand to clasp
around hers, she swallowed, hard.  "I mean- Scully-" He paused and
searched for the right words.

She took the open opportunity and spoke.

"Mulder," she sighed, wearily, heavily, "I'm not asking you for
anything, here. I'm not your responsibility and- This wasn't something
you asked for, and it's not something I am going to force upon you. This
is something I-"

"No."

With each passing second he was feeling more confident, more exhilarated
by the prospect of doing this with Scully, and he held steadfast to his
beliefs.

"No," he repeated, adamantly, "Don't you tell me that you want to do
this by yourself Scully, because I know that's not what you want. I KNOW
it's not-"  He sighed and listened to the rising and falling of her
chest as if it could soothe his fears.  "And trust me, I'm just as
terrified as you are.  I'm just as uncertain about everything, but I am
not going anywhere.  And as far as I'm concerned, you're not either.  So
if I can't-" he let his forehead fall to rest against hers, reverently,
"If I can't ever give you anything else, Scully, at least let me give
you this."

Scully's breathing hitched, her chest rising and falling unevenly and
she managed, "so what are you telling me, then?"

He closed his eyes and squeezed her fingers, lightly.  "I'm saying- I
mean-" he paused and tried again, "I mean- I think- for the first time
in my life, Scully, I don't want to risk everything looking for answers
that aren't there. I mean-I still want to find them-I still want the
truth but- I ah, I don't want to run away  or- or shake my fist at the
sky and chase shadows..."  He breathed, then finished, "right now- in
this moment- all I want is to stand in a doorway and watch you hold a
baby in your arms- is that- is that ok to want?"

When she hiccuped, he could tell she was losing the battle to control
her conflicting emotions.  Her breath fell upon his lips like a gentle
wind rustling across his face, and her hand gripped his even tighter.
"Mulder-" she whispered, then, "yes-" as her mouth dipped closer.
"Yes-" Her breathing shallowed and her lips pressed against the crease
below his nose.

When she pulled her mouth away, slowly, her pulse thundering in her
ears, their foreheads were still touching and their fingers were still
intertwined. And when Mulder's mouth opened to release the gentle,
impassioned word "mine," her heart was still beating so fast she
couldn't tell if he was referring to her, to the baby she carried inside
her, or to both of them-

***
A few minutes later
Still in Mulder and Scully's apartment
Five and a half years earlier

***

The tea he had made her was hot and sweet-doused with sugar, she could
tell--and she gingerly brought it to her lips as her breath fell upon
the mug to cool it.  Mulder sat opposite her on the couch-arm draped
over a corner, legs hanging leisurely off the side- and he just
watched her, intermittently, trying to focus himself on something
tangible.  Thus far, he was doing a lousy job.

Dinner had been a bust, neither of them having been able to work up much
of an appetite since she had returned home, and the spaghetti had been
scrapped as a result.  Almost unconsciously, the TV had been shut off,
the entire room falling into an uncomfortable silence, and Mulder had
offered to make her tea out of a need to keep busy.  She had agreed out
of a need to find her personal space again.

And then they sat together on the couch in silence, neither of them
speaking, neither of them knowing exactly what to say to placate the
other.  There was really nothing either of them could do to make things
any less complicated or any less strange.  So Scully just sipped her tea
quietly, and Mulder watched her in between staring contests with a
nearby wall.  Scully would take a breath and Mulder would look away.
Scully would lean back and Mulder would focus on her still slender
abdomen-as if it were going to explode any moment.  Finally, when she
brought her knees up and tucked them beneath her, setting her tea down,
she cleared her throat and broke the silence, nearly startling them
both.

"So why this?" she asked, playing with the outer rim of her cup.  "Why
do this?  Why use us like this?"

Mulder leaned back and watched her, frowning as he considered that.  "I
wasn't sure at first," he said, honestly, "but now that I've thought
about it-I mean, since you told me, I think I have a theory."

Her head leaned back into the couch, facing him.  "A theory?" she
questioned, warily.  "A theory, as in totally implausible or a theory,
as in somewhat substantial?"

He licked his lips and folded his hands behind his head.  He shot her a
look and answered, "a theory, as in workable and possible considering
the situation."

She nodded slowly at that, then, "I take it you've thought about this?"

He chuckled.  "You mean in the last fifteen minutes?"

She smiled and blushed, her head casting down as if to shade her
embarrassment.  "It is kind of sudden, isn't it?"

He didn't answer her, only managed a half smile, and the room was once
again bathed in that silence that permeated every square inch.  Scully
lowered her arms to rest them upon her lap, and her legs shifted so that
she could lean further back into the gray cushions.  Mulder's eyes
almost unwittingly watched the rise and fall of her chest, then lowered
to gaze at the flatness of her abdomen.  He pretended not to stare and
she pretended not to blush.

"So, um- this theory you were about to tell me-" Scully's arm waved out
errantly in front of her, then fell to rest upon her lap again.

Mulder blinked for a moment, shaking his head as if he had lost his
train of thought, then nodded. "Oh.. right, my theory-right-"

She watched him with rapt interest until finally he collected his
thoughts.  He blinked again and cleared his throat.

"Scully," he asked, "what do you and I have in common?"

To that, he received a raised copper eyebrow and an extremely odd look.
Her lips pursed as if the wheels in her brain were guiding her, and
finally she managed, "you mean besides the workaholic, paranoid, X
files, Mr and Mrs Spooky thing?"

He grinned.  "Besides that."

Her eyes widened and she watched him, stumped.  "Besides that-" she
murmured, "besides that, then I'd have to say- nothing-" Then her head
nodded as if her train of thought were leaving him at the station and
she finished, "Huh-whatdya think of that?- nothing-absolutely nothing-"

He sighed and stared at her.  His mouth thinned into a tight line, and
he replied, "gee, thanks," with all the enthusiasm of a fish on a baited
hook.

Her head snapped back up to look at him.  "Oh.." she exclaimed, softly.
"Oh- Mulder-that's not what I- I mean- you know what I meant when I-"

"Yeah." He waved her off with an indifferent swat of his arm.  "I know.
Forget it."

She nodded, uncomfortably.

"But um," he swallowed.  "Anyway, that IS true-what you said- that you
and I don't have much in common, but we do share something, Scully.  We
share a common medical factor."

Scully frowned and propped her elbow up on the arm of the couch. "What
do you mean?" she questioned, confused. "You mean like an ailment we've
both contracted, a particular genetic attribute, or an actual shared
portion of our medical history?"

Mulder shook his head. "No, actually, more like a shared immunity."

Scully's brow furrowed. "A Shared immunity?  To what?" she asked. "Like
those Small Pox records we found?  But that- that still doesn't make
sense in retrospect--Mulder, everyone and their sister was vaccinated
against--"

"No," Mulder interrupted, putting a hand out to halt her furthered
statement.  "No, not Small Pox, Scully."

"Oh-"  She blinked, mind deep in thought.  "Well- then what- Mulder?  If
not Small Pox, then what?"

He stared straight at her, his gaze crashing its way into her blue,
clear eyes like a plane into a mountain. He had no idea how much of his
theory were true, how much of it could be possible, but he had a
sneaking feeling that most of it was pretty dead on accurate.

"That virus," he answered, lowly.  "Remember, Scully?  Remember
Antarctica?  Remember Russia?"

She watched him, strangely. "Russia?" she asked, befuddled.  "What
was-" then her brain yanked up the memory of his disappearance a few
years back-of her being thrown in jail and his run in with Kryceck.
That business they had stumbled onto with the diplomatic pouch, and
Mulder's story upon his return-his claims of having been injected with
something he hadn't understood, then his being infected with some virus
as a test of immunity.  She blinked for a moment and then nodded, her
eyes telling him all he needed to know.  She remembered.  She remembered
all of it and understood what he meant when he said "virus."  Then her
eyes went wide as if it were slowly dawning on her, and she asked, "Wait
a second, Mulder- what are you saying?  Are you suggesting that whatever
it was we were vaccinated with--"

"Made us immune," he finished for her, then waved an impatient hand in
front of his face, continuing, "but not even so much that, Scully.  I
think it did more than that.  I think it actually activated genes in us
that were dormant-genes that had been nothing but junk before-like
with that kid-Gibson Praise.  I think that by so doing, it created a
constant immunity that would arise in any individual carrying the
awakened genes for the antibodies.  Like a safeguard against ever
becoming infected-a security gate of sorts."

Scully nodded, thoughtfully. "Scientifically, I suppose it's not unheard
of-Like with a Polio or Small Pox vaccination- and now with the Chicken
Pox vaccination," she answered softly.   "But even so, what would that
have to do with this situation?  Where does that fit in?"

Mulder grinned one of his sheepish grins. "I'm getting to it," he told
her, enigmatically.

She rolled her eyes, affectionately.

"So anyway," he continued, "like I was saying, theoretically speaking,
if these antibodies could be engineered to activate dormant genes, then
once this was successfully done, recessive genes would probably be the
result, right?  -- since the body would not create an abundance of
them-seeing as how they were previously dormant. They'd be active,
present in an individual's genotype, but not dominant."

Scully nodded, mutely.  "I suppose," she breathed, softly.  "If you were
talking in theoretic and hypothetical terms-"

"Right," Mulder nodded back, then went on, "so let's say, hypothetically
speaking, that you and I now carry a recessive trait for this viral
immunity.  It is impossible for us to contract the disease or be
affected by it, BUT- recessive genes only manufacture themselves when
they're paired together. Otherwise, the dominant trait masks the
recessive trait.  You and I have only one recessive trait each, but
we're immune because we've been vaccinated.  However, we are only two
people among  two hundred billion, and if the vaccine ran out or was
decimated by chance, then there would be no way to protect the public
against the virus unless an immunity could be manufactured- in some
other way-"

Scully's eyes widened and she took in a breath, leaning forward,
managing, "Ok, I think- I think I get what you're saying, Mulder.
You're saying that if it were possible to create such an immunity, if
the antibodies for a viral infection could be produced in the form of
recessive genes- like- like the ways in which certain genetic diseases
are passed down, sickle cell anemia, for example, then thoeretically-"

"Theoretically speaking, two recessive genes, passed down from two
immune parents, would create an immune child," he finished, decisively.

Scully's face paled and she nodded, slowly.  "A carefully disguised,
naturally orchestrated, instant cure," she whispered, softly.  Mulder
nodded.

Her hands protectively came down across her abdomen, caressing the soft
flatness of a stomach that carried life within her- a life which could
now mean a new beginning for all medical science as they knew it.  Or,
in the same breath,  be taken from her in the span of a heartbeat.  A
life that could be abused and expoited as means for an end.  A life she
had unwittingly created with Mulder, and a life she was NEVER going to
see taken from her-not as long as she lived and breathed.

Scully stared at Mulder and swallowed, hard, her lungs sucking in ragged
breaths of oxygen.  "My god- if it were possible, it would be their holy
grail," she whispered, horrified, tightening her arms over her stomach.
"And we'd never be safe. Our baby would never be safe. Oh, Mulder, it
can't be true-"


----- 8 ------


***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***

It's funny how you remember certain things in your life-how you can
walk into a situation and never forget the sensations of how the wind
felt at your back, or how your clothes made your skin itch.  It's
amazing how you can forget the first day of kindergarten, the first time
you saw a sunrise, or the first time you watched your parents cry--and
yet you can recall a song you heard ten years ago-and sing all the
lyrics.

I'm one of those people who can't remember her first day of
kindergarten. My mother died when I was five, and I can't even remember
what she felt like, smelled like, let alone what she looked like the
first time she cried.  Sometimes, I'm lucky that I can remember what I
did yesterday--let alone what I did ten years ago, twenty years ago,
or longer.

And yet, for some reason, I remember the first time I met her.  I
remember with striking clarity the first time I saw Fox's little
girl--the first time she and I crossed paths, and I have no idea why
it stuck in my head the way it has.

In retrospect, I think that maybe it was because she was so-so piercing
and striking- so startlingly out of place in any situation-especially
so, in the oversized, wobbly monstrosity Fox passed off as a desk
chair.  She was just so strangely phantom like-so small and meek
looking, so beautiful and tiny, that to walk into the room and spot her
was to do a double take to make sure you were really seeing what you
thought you were seeing.

So it was just strange, I guess.

I had been gathering files for a meeting the next day, balancing a
hundred things on my two small arms, and when I had walked into our
office, there she was; this miniature little lady, with golden red
ringlets cascading around her small shoulders, and lightly freckled
ivory skin.  She had been wearing denim overalls and a blue and red
striped shirt at the time, tiny red ribbons her grandmother must have
tied for her hanging in her hair, and a golden cross that hung like a
sparkling halo around her slender neck. Her eyes were cast downward, her
russet lashes lightly dusting her chipmunk cheeks, and her fingers
toiled with utmost concentration-crayola crayons spread about my
partner's desk like a five year old's rainbow. She was soft looking and
quiet, but she sung to herself as she worked, a gentle, melancholy tune,
and I think that maybe it was her voice that did it. Maybe it was the
sound of her singing that struck a chord in my brain. For it was the
voice of a child carrying a void within her-a burden and an ache that no
child should ever have to bear.

Softly, she sang, "Oh cap-tain Ahab got nuffing on me-" then, "swallow
me, don' follow me- I'm trav-leeng alone-la la la- I skip like a stone-"

She hummed a few lines to herself again, then sung the chorus in a
strangely clear and haunting tone for a four and a half year old,
"Pease call my fam-ly- tell em' not to cry. My goodbyes wore wh-itten,
by the moon in-dah sky-"   Her fingers etched more lines in the paper,
then her voice trailed off, "- shiver me timbers, I'm sai-ling away-"

She looked up then, as if sensing me standing there watching her, and I
was thus greeted with the most striking crystal blue eyes I'd ever seen
in my life.  They shone like sapphires glowing against the fire of a
lantern, and they seemed to stare straight through me, as if she knew me
or understood who I was.  A stranger sensation to feel with a child,
there never was.

"Hi," I had managed then, startled.  "Are you waiting for daddy?"

She had not answered, merely stared at me with those breathtaking eyes
as if she were searching my brain and picking out the important
information.

"Um-" I had swallowed then, uncomfortable, and stuttered, "my ah- my
name's- Kate.  I work with your daddy.  What's ah, what's your name?"

She still didn't respond, just looked at me with delicate innocence
painted on her round, heart-shaped face, until I finally couldn't take
it anymore and I had to look away.

And that was as close as I had ever gotten to meeting her, for as soon
as Fox walked into the room and saw me standing there, he scowled and
whisked her away, mumbling his goodbyes through the muffled cotton of
his coat and the shield of his child.   And after that, he had made sure
to never bring her to work with him again, perhaps fearing that I was
one of them-that I would see her and try to steal from him the last
pieces of what made him whole. That I would grab her hand and take her
away from him.

I stare at him now, watching the worry lines play across his forehead,
and I think about that first meeting with his daughter. I think about
her eyes, and how they hold the same sadness as his.

It hurts me so much to know that I cannot fix that tear-that I can't
bridge the wide, tender gap that plagues them both-  Sometimes, I think
I'd give my left arm to at least try-to at least sew up a stitch or
two.   but- but at least I feel as if I am doing SOMETHING by just
sitting here. By listening and believing in him, I am at least beginning
to cross that threshold.  The Canyon still lies ahead of me, wide and
treacherous, but if I cannot mend it, I will at least cross it.

The room is precariously silent again, the atmosphere thick with
memories and pain, and I do not speak as I watch his eyes cloud over. He
is remembering her in his own way, recalling the way he had felt about
her wash over him, again and again, and I can tell that now is not the
time to intrude upon his thoughts.

Just as it has been for months, he will drift away and when he returns,
he will continue telling me this story. He will open up to me in his own
time-in his own way.  And just as it has been for months, I will sit
here and wait, patiently.

Casually, my eyes find the photograph lying on the mantle-the one of
the two of them at the ballpark, and I wonder what it is he's thinking
of- right now, in this moment-

***

Five and a about quarter years earlier,
Mulder and Scully's apartment
The middle of the night

***

Mulder sighed and leaned further into the couch cushions, his body
playing out a last ditch effort to try and find some semblance of
comfort at 3 o clock in the morning.  His torso twisted to the left,
then he groaned at the effort till he was again facing the right. His
long, gangly legs wavered and struggled to fit themselves onto the
too-short lounging space, but they were ultimately-like always-too
long. So in frustration, he flung them over the opposite arm, his feet
hanging off the edge. His hands burrowed beneath his pillow, and his
head shifted position as he switched channels impatiently.  Most of his
nights, although occasionally dream filled, were spent this way. Awake
and filled with restlessness.  If not in his bedroom, where he could
never seem to feel all that much at home, then on the couch, where his
body didn't seem to fit physically.  Some rare nights were spent in
Scully's bed-on those slight occasions that she would have a
nightmare- or he would- and they both would somehow gravitate
towards a need to sleep close together-like they had in those weeks
they had fled from the world, underground.

Those were usually the nights that he slept deeply- peacefully  -when
he was with her.  When their fingers curled together and they closed
their eyes in slumber, he floated away.  When she woke him up in the
morning with a finger caressing his morning stubble and a gentle press
of her lips to his cheek, he felt as if he were home.  Sometimes, he
wondered whether or not sleeping next to her was an aphrodisiac, the act
of wrapping his arms around her forming a catalyst for sweet dreams. It
was something akin to discovering the fountain of life, in his
universe--anyway, and one of these days, he was going to figure it out
for sure.

But not tonight, he mused, noncomittally flipping to an informercial on
the Abroller.  He made a face and flipped again-finding the Juice Man
infomercial. When he flipped again, there was a loud sound-as if
someone was dispensing a dish in the sink- and he craned his neck up
and above the back of the couch.

"Hey Scully?" he called into the half-darkness.  "That you?"

He heard nothing but footsteps for a moment, then, "Mulder, whoever
taught you how to wash a plate off?"

He chuckled softly at that, then turned back over on the couch to gaze
at the TV.  He did not answer her, could not come up with a good enough
excuse to give, and when he heard the water running, he knew he was in
for yet another lecture on "household cleanliness" tomorrow.  He rolled
his eyes.

Soon the water kicked back off, and when he recognized the sound of
stocking feet heading towards him, sure enough, when he lifted his head,
Scully was staring down at him.   She was tastefully decked out in one
of her many two piece pyjama ensembles-a light colored one, he
guessed, though it was too dark to tell-and on her feet were a pair of
mismatched socks.  One white, one dark.  Funny, he thought wryly, eyeing
her as she looked down at him.

"What're you doing up at this hour?" he asked, furrowing a brow. "You
feeling ok?"

Her eyes glanced briefly at the TV and she nodded, the artificial light
playing bluish gray flashes on her smooth, carefully sculptued face.
"Fine," she murmured, bending at the waist-- then dropping to her knees
to kneel beside him.  "I'm just- restless-"

He glanced at her and nodded, understanding the feeling.  Her eyes
looked sad and far away-distant and worried.  His hand raised slightly
to mute the set across from him and he shifted so that he could face her
more fully. She looked slightly ill at ease-as if maybe she'd had
another of her dreams-and he took a breath, venturing, "nightmare?"

She sighed and shook her head, almost distracted.  "No," she answered,
softly.  "Just- thinking, I guess."

Mulder nodded.  He blinked a few times in order to widen his pupils and
see her more fully, then asked, "anything open for discussion, or you
just wanted some company?"

At that she smiled, softly.  "Neither-both-" she replied, lightly.

Mulder grinned back and patted the sofa in front of him-shifting the
position of his overtly tall frame to accommodate her smaller
one-rolling back slightly, should she decide to take him up on the
offer. Ever since the horrific plague that had thrown them from the
city, they had begun to find comfort from absorbing themselves in each
other--from reassuring small touches-his hand on her cheek-or her
fingers on his arm.  Occasionally, she would sneak into his room late at
night and just crawl into bed with him, like a child, and neither would
say anything.  He would just welcome her-shifting his body and then
wrapping an arm around her shoulders until she'd fall into them.
Quietly, they'd sit watching TV until sleep came.  It would never be any
more or any less than that.  Sometimes, it was her in his bed-or it
was him in hers. There was never any discussion on exactly how or why
they did it, and neither of them ever broached the subject the next
day.  They just did it, and it was easily accepted.

Slowly, her eyes followed his hand and stayed there, as if contemplating
what she wanted to do.  At long last, her gaze sought and found Mulder's
again, and she nodded to herself as she slowly moved to lie down next to
him--molding her body into his like she had so many nights before.
Her back to his front, she softly settled in front of him, spooning him,
as his arm came to drape casually over her side.   They both stared at
the muted television for a few moments before Scully finally spoke.

"You ever think about DC, Mulder? About the way things were before-
about the life we left behind?"

She didn't have to be facing him to feel him frowning.

"We didn't LEAVE it behind, Scully," he replied, as if his entire body
had stiffened at the mere mentioning of the ordeal.  "It was either
leave or die. You know that. Frankly, we had no choice.  I wasn't about
to-"

"That's not what I meant, Mulder."

Mulder sighed into her hair.  "Oh." He managed, trying to sound aloof
enough to brush the subject under the rug.  "Well, I- I just meant-"

"I know what you meant."

He knew that tone.  That was Scully's ` angry/apologetic' tone, mixed
with a touch of sadness and a hint of resentment.  Hearing it at 3 am
was odd--at least from his standpoint--especially considering that
they worked very hard to KEEP from talking about DC.  And also since she
rarely ever used that tone with him--considering she rarely ever thought
herself to be wrong, it was strange sounding to his ears.  He let his
hand trail a pattern down her arm and he wondered at the placement of it
in this conversation.

He frowned and started, "Scully--"

"How can I do this, Mulder?"

At her strange interruption, Mulder's frown changed into a full blown
look of confusion, and he leaned his head atop her shoulder,
questioning, "how can you do what?"

Scully closed her eyes and swallowed, hard.  Her throat felt like
sandpaper, her head was not all that thrilled, and her heart was heavy.
Fleetingly, the thought that at least she didn't feel sick seemed almost
ironic.  In her heart, she felt like throwing up, but for once, at least
her stomach had settled matters more slightly.  She was beginning to
feel sick and tired of feeling sick and tired-and she was only three and
a half months along-

She cleared her throat, then breathed, "you think I don't remember all
that much, I know you don't-" she paused, gathering her thoughts, then
went on, "but I remember Mulder. I remember running- I remember
screaming-" her voice started to waver slightly, hovering just a hint
above stable, and Mulder leaned closer into her hair, closing his eyes
against his own recollections.  Just when he thought he'd been able to
forget, to move on, there they were again-back in DC-running for their
lives- the memory would forever haunt him in vivid technicolor.

She breathed raggedly, then, "I remember the fire and- and you- I
remember resenting you for saving my life, I-"

He shook his head, wearily. "Scully, that-"

"No," she interrupted.  "No, I need to get this out-please-" When she
added that last word, she waited to feel him nod against the crook of
her shoulder before she continued.  When he finally did, she breathed in
and whispered, "It wasn't you I resented, Mulder- it was never really
you, I don't think-It was-"  She sighed, lowly, then, "I resented living
with the memory of watching so many innocent people die, when there was
nothing I could have done and there was so much I wanted to. I resented
living in their place. I resented living in a world where this could
happen and I could, in good conscience, just walk away from it out of
necessity or a desire for survival.  And though-the human being in me
understands, Mulder- why I left- why you saved me-  inside- in a place
where this baby grows, I hear it over and over- I hear the screams and I
feel the blinding- fear-"

He didn't interrupt her, merely stroked his fingers up and down her
soft, smooth, silk pyjama arm as she expelled her heart to him finally,
after all this time they had avoided it.

"I think of-" she swallowed, then managed, "the cruelty of it. The
dehumanization of something that should have been sacred- life.  What
should have been just another day at the office- I think about how it
all just randomly occurred.  How one day-- it was as if an apple was
falling from the sky one minute, and then the sky itself was falling in
on us the next.  And then I look at my hands, Mulder, and I swear- it's
as if blood has been spilled on them-over them. Then I look down at
my stomach and I just-" her breathing hitched, her brain searching
desperately for the right words she needed to convey.  Finally, she
sucked in oxygen as if trying to keep from breaking down, and finished,
"I ask myself how I could be selfish enough to bring a child into a life
like this.  How I can, with good intention, start a new life when I know
with certainty it could be snubbed out at the whim of a madman, or at
the pull of a switch-"

Her downy sunset head leaned slowly into his, their cheeks and ears
touching, and she closed her eyes, letting a tear scroll down her chin.
"Tell me I'm crazy," she whispered, shakily. "Please just tell me I've
lost it."

He leaned over slightly and kissed the tip of her earlobe with his lower
lip.  "You're not crazy, Scully," he answered, breathing in the fresh
scent of her hair.  For whatever reason, it smelled of vanilla against a
sunset. He picked up the scent almost immediately and latched onto it.

He felt her shake her head against him and then lean back, almost on
autopilot.  She swallowed back another bout of tears.  She hadn't wanted
to turn this into a sob fest, he realized, and he could feel her tightly
lidded bottle every time she breathed in deeper-trying just that much
harder to suppress gut wrenching emotions.

"No- you're wrong-" she said.  "I mean- here I am-about to give my body
over to a baby I have no right carrying in the first place-a child who
was engineered by a government that would just as soon destroy it by
default.  It's- it's crazy- What am I doing here, Mulder?  What are WE
doing? Who do we think we are, that we're so confident we can play god
with science and-"

Mulder's finger came up to interrupt her---his index finger resting
across her lip like a teacher might do for a particularly unruly
student. "Don't you say that," he ordered, adamantly. "Don't you ever
say that, Scully."

She closed her eyes again.  "I just don't want-" She sighed.  "I don't
want to live my life in fear, Mulder- I don't want to always have to
keep one eye over my shoulder-always at the ready to take off at a
moments notice-to run.  I don't want to live the rest of my life
hearing the screams of those people echoing behind me--the cries for
help-"  She paused to shiver, remembering the past with a clarity she
wished she could erase, then concluded, "but I don't know how to protect
this child, Mulder.  How can we bring this life into the world knowing
what this world is-what it's capable of?"

Mulder traced his fingers over and over the crease in her pyjamas,
pausing at her sleeve cuffs, then roaming up towards her shoulders.   If
there was something he wished for more than anything, it was to be able
to give her the truth.  To have the capacity to take her in his arms
and shield her there-her and the baby-until the sun stopped setting
and the moon stopped rising.  But of course, that was impossible, and
what else was there to say to the woman you didn't know how to save
anymore?

"Maybe it's like the ark," Mulder blurted out suddenly, not knowing what
else to say, and Scully shifted so that she could turn her head and
grace him with an arched eyebrow. Their faces locked inches apart.

`The- what?" she asked dully, eyebrow raised in place.

"The story-Noah's Ark," Mulder answered, watching fascinated at the way
her eyelids fluttered, the way her lips opened and closed only ever so
slightly- every five or so seconds.  Her eyes crashed into his and he
swallowed, trying to regain his train of thought.  "They um, they all
thought he was crazy too, you know," Mulder continued, quite aware that
he was about to jump off into tangent land any second.  "In the
story-that is. Everyone said he was nuts, but he-he built the ark and
fought for his survival---he lived through the end of the world when
all hope was lost, but from that end came a better place, didn't it,
Scully?"

She closed her eyes and just shook her head at him, smiling as if she
couldn't believe the derailment their train of conversation had just
taken.  A slight chuckle emanated from her rose colored, slightly
chapped lips, and she leaned back into him, still shaking her head. He
thought for sure she was going to insult his enigmatic response with a
quick rebuttal, but she surprised him by murmuring back, "And so he
gathered the animals, two by two, and hoisted them up upon the ark,
waiting for the rains to fall-"

Mulder closed his eyes and let his head fall back against her shoulder,
the scent of her hair and her skin nearly intoxicating.  His arm draped
lazily over her side, and her own arm shifted to rest behind her head.

"And when the world fell into the sea," she continued, softly, "the ark
was tossed and turned, thrust upon an ocean of struggle.  The animals
congregated and prayed for their deliverance, prayed for absolution,
comforted each other and brought each other peace-" she yawned and
closed her eyes, heavily. "And when the ark finally found the land they
so desperately sought, they entered upon the earth anew, fresh with hope
and grateful for the chance to begin their lives again-"

Mulder chuckled into her hair, amused and suddenly exhausted.  "Bible?"
he asked, drowsily.

"No," Scully answered, sleep beginning to slur her words, blurring the
edges.  "Drunken Aunt Olive- father's side-"

Mulder smiled and burrowed his head further into the hollow of her neck,
pushing away her copper down hair so that he could breathe more easily.
"So maybe we should just name the kid Noah," he joked, his voice heavy
and tired.

Scully snorted lightly. "And what would his middle name be?" she asked,
distastefully, yawning again.  "Ark?"

Mulder shook his head, fighting to keep his eyes open as he answered a
negative, "uh uh," cracking at the end, "I was thinking more along the
lines of something else, actually. Maybe the name `way'-"

To that, Scully's eyes opened slightly and she frowned, pondering his
nonsense response.

"Huh?" she asked, her voice laden with overdue sleep.  "I don't get
it--Noah Way---" Then she finally got it, stopped and rolled her
eyes, mumbling, "Oh shut up and get some sleep, Mulder-"

He couldn't help but laugh at that, and he kissed the nape of her neck,
feeling her shiver as he snuggled in more comfortably.

"Night," he whispered back, pausing for a moment, then adding, "both of
you-"  as he drifted off.

---- 9 ----

***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***

For a moment, I stare at that picture on the mantle and I imagine that
she is me. I close my eyes and picture a sleepy night, once upon a time,
with the wind blowing on my shoulders and whispering through my hair,
and his arms wrapped tightly around me. I picture ratty old baseballs
whizzing past my nose as he propels our arms forward--again and again,
swinging my feet up off the dirt then grounding us again.  I imagine
laughter and jokes, his voice in my hair, his mouth on my ear.

But of course, I am not stupid, and I know it never happened.  It never
would.  Even if I invited him up to the park for some baseball-even if
I offered to pay a kid to hurl balls, it would never happen.  I am not
his Scully, and there isn't anyone else he would accept in her place.
There isn't anyone else he would curl his arms around like a
vice--laughing into her ear like an exhilarated young kid.  There
isn't anyone else in his universe but her.

And besides, he'd never need to coach me like that anyways.  I would
kick his ass.  I played baseball for seven years and then in college.  A
woman I may be, but oblivious to sports, I am NOT.

"Kate?"

This time it is his voice that sounds tentative, and I blink a few
times, turning my head to stare at him.  I  must have really spaced out,
I think, to not have heard him talking to me.  Was he talking to me?

I smile, embarrassed, and clear my throat.  My fingers shove an auburn
wave off my face and back behind my ear.  "Sorry," I apologize,
breathing softly.  "I guess I spaced out-"

He grins--genuinely, this time--and nods.  "Yeah, well- so did I,
so-" his voice trails and we just stare at each other, uncomfortably. It
gets like this sometimes, for us--be it in the office or in the
field--as if we're on the same wavelength but completely different
frequencies.  Not that we have nothing in common-rather, it's quite
the opposite-we have plenty of small talk fodder--we just never use
it. Which is strange, because there is so much we could talk about,
if only we gave ourselves the opportunity.

My mother died when I was five.  His sister was abducted when he was
eleven.  My father shipped me off to school to be rid of the reminder of
my mother--his parents shipped him off to college to be rid of him,
period. Both of us were blamed, if not directly, then inadvertently, for
the deaths of our loved ones.  Both of us joined the FBI to become
buried in our work.

Once, we even found a similar liking for the Knicks that sparked an
eerily pleasant conversation about defensive starters.

But then he had realized who he was talking to--who I was- and his
expression had changed, his stubborn walls going up like the armor of
the batmobile all around him, and he tossed me a file, telling me that
it was back to business as usual. It had been nice, for a brief moment,
seeing the charming, soft man behind the gruff, broken hearted
loner-but moments like those never lasted long.  They were fleeting
gems, at least to me, but they never lasted long.

Sometimes I wonder how different things would be if she were here-  If
they were together-

"So- where was I?" he asks, smiling sheepishly, as if he's just starting
to enjoy my company.

I force back a smile and reply, "She was pregnant and you were the
father-"

He just looks at me, expressionless for a moment, then sighs, telling
me, "Right- well-it was nice for awhile.  We tried not to think about
the `what if's' and `could be's' of the unpredictable future, and
instead we just focused on our work-on life-on making sure the
pregnancy was progressing smoothly- that there were no anomalies,
complications- what not."  He smiles again and recalls with fondness,
"when she started getting bigger, I used to go out to the store about 3
times a week to just keep the cabinets stocked.  She had never been much
of a food hog before, but let me tell you, she ate a lot of peanut
butter and jelly for whatever reason-"

I smile softly at that-remembering the last time my friend Kelly had
been pregnant-with Joey, I think it was- She ate things I couldn't
believe-godawful concoctions that consisted of Marshmallow and peanut
butter, or snacks from cans that said, "lightly packed in vinegar."  It
was disgusting, but I suppose you'd need to be pregnant to understand
it.

"We took walks after work," he says softly.  "I told her it would be
good for her cardiovascular system, that it would be good for the baby,
but really, I had just wanted an excuse to hold- her hand-"

I bite my lip to force back a tear.  It's as if my heart is breaking
right along with his--and I can see the end of the road with him,
though all I want is to see `happily ever after' painting the end of
this story.  The little girl in me desperately tries to remind me, it's
never too late, never too late- but in my head I just can't see how it
can get better- I know the ending to this one.

"She was- my partner," he conceeds, echoing his words from earlier this
evening.  "But- she was more than that, in so many ways-she was-" he
pauses, then sighs, "everything.  She was just everything."

***
November 15th,
Five and a half years ago
Elmer's Grove Park,
Just outside Laughton, Ohio

***

"I can't believe you let Frohike take that picture."

Scully closed her eyes and shook her head while Mulder let out a loose
chuckle and swung their interlaced fingers back and forth, propelling
their hands up and down as they walked.  The breeze was light and airy
at their backs, and the autumn leaves danced to the ground in front of
them like a golden, brown and fiery ballet.  Some crunched beneath their
feet and others sailed past them down the hill.

"Oh come on," Mulder refuted, more amused than anything, "I thought it
was great, Scully. I can't wait to post it on the bulletin board at
work--"

She stopped in her tracks and glared at him.  "Do it and I'll kill you
in your sleep," she warned, raised eyebrow in place.

Mulder shot her a surprised glance and dropped his jaw in exaggeration.
"Nawwwww." He joked, dragging out the word.

"Try me," she replied, lowly, trying to force the smile out of her words
and out of her heart so that he wouldn't be able to catch it.  The
corners of her mouth twisted upwards though, and Mulder saw right
through her veiled attempt. He smiled, innocently.

"You know you look- great, Scully. Really," he told her, pulling his
hand free so that he could rest it on her distended stomach.  He
caressed up and down lightly and smiled, fascinated at what-to him-was
the most amazing thing in the universe.  "You do," he emphasized,
glancing from her face to her belly.

She rolled her eyes.  "I look like a house," she muttered, taking his
hand again and pulling on it-urging them forward into the fresh
evening sunset.

More leaves crunched beneath their shoes and Mulder shook his head,
rebutting, "Scully, you do NOT look like-"

"What? A five bedroom, three bath mansion?" she asked, pointedly.

He turned and eyed her, his face wearing the expression he so often
called `his surprised look' due to the ambiguous nature of its total
lack of emotion. "Scully, that is SO not true," he admonished. "I'd say
three bedrooms at the most, but five's pushing it, don't you--OW!"

He furrowed a brow and clamped a hand around the bicep she had just
smacked-rubbing it like a puppy would rub an injured paw.  "Brute," he
muttered, lightly.

"Jackass," she replied.

Then they stopped and looked around, Mulder pausing to stare off at a
nearby baseball game, Scully watching the way the leaves spun and
wandered to the ground aimlessly.  She closed her eyes and breathed in
deeply, letting her lungs admire the way mid western air was so much
clearer than the city smogged air she had always grown so accustomed
to.  At times, it was all too rustic and still foreign to her, but it
was also nice to feel against her cheeks on a cool autumn day.  She
breathed it in again and almost without thought let her head fall
against her partner's shoulder, affectionately.

Nice, she thought, absently. Nice-

Suddenly, she felt a thwump against the skin of her abdomen and she
gasped, grabbing her stomach almost instantly. The sensation coarsed
through her system and penetrated her afternoon haze, and she let out an
almost fascinated, amused giggle. Mulder turned his head instantly at
the sound of her surprise and stared at her, confused.

"Scully?" he asked, as nervous as he always got around her at the drop
of a hat these days.  She just looked at him and smiled, shaking her
head reassuringly.  She closed her eyes again and reached for his hand,
curling her fingers around the outside of his palm to place it over her
swollen stomach. He frowned, beffudled.

"Scully,   what-"

"Shhhh," she hissed, impatiently. "Just-be still-"

Confused but curious, he complied, watching her drift into a trance like
state as he stretched his fingers over the arch of her stomach.  For a
few seconds there was nothing--just the sound of kids playing pick up
stickball in the distance, and the chirping of early bird crickets, and
he was starting to feel somewhat foolish.  Oh what he must look like, he
thought, wryly, just standing there with his hand on her stomach like he
was an idiot trying to give her a psychic reading.  Mystified, he cocked
an eyebrow and was about to prod her again when he felt a sharp,
definite bounce against his fingertips.

His eyes widened and he breathed in sharply, adjusting his hand to feel
it again.  God, how he wanted to feel it again.  Scully, for her part,
just smiled and bit her lip--looking as serene and peaceful as she
perhaps ever looked.

He turned to stare at her and gawked, amazed that this was actually
happening. Not that he didn't know it was happening, he did- he saw her
everyday and lived with the constant knowledge but somehow, to feel it
felt more real.  It felt like life--like his baby, moving around
inside that large stomach of hers. It was so real it was unreal.

"Did you feel that?" she whispered to him, still smiling.

"Yeah, that-my god-" was all he could say, smiling a stupidly proud
smile as he prodded her stomach with his index finger, trying to create
stimuli to feel the sensation again.  "That-" He stuttered and frowned
for a moment, catching her infectious laughter as she watched him stare,
speechless, at her belly.

"Our baby," she sighed, her eyelids fluttering open to capture his
contented gaze.  "Can you believe that, Mulder?"

He just stared at her and smiled.  Suddenly his mind was all alight with
baseball gloves and little league coaching, Tonka trucks and mini tool
belts, and he couldn't help himself.  "Little guy's got quite an arm,"
he mused.

Scully shot him a look.  "Guy?" she asked, pointedly.

He shrugged, then jutted his chin and chest out in a `fluffed peacock'
fashion.  He cleared his throat and set his hands on his hips, eyeing
her like an eagle circling its prey. "We Mulder men are strong like
bull," he gruffed, nodding his head as if he were agreeing with himself.

Scully rolled her eyes.  "You know something?" she asked, amazement
painting the edges of her voice.  "You are one irritating, self
satisfied son of a---"

The small footsteps of an approaching stranger cut her off and when
Scully turned her head, she found herself staring into the eyes of a
young boy-maybe nine or ten-looking back up at her with large, brown
eyes and a nervous expression.

"Ah, hi- lady?" he questioned, nervously.

Scully blinked and smiled, responding, "yes?" as softly and gently as
she could.  The kid was little-dressed in matching blue sweats and a
blue and white striped shirt, and he rubbed the corner of his hand
alongside his cheek-brushing away errant soil.  He looked
apprehensive, yet curious, and Scully waited for him to continue, not
wanting to frighten him or make him upset.

"Is there a baby in there?" he asked, staring at her stomach with rapt
interest.

Scully's smile widened and she nodded, creeping closer and answering,
"yes, actually.  Strong baby, too.  Sometimes the baby kicks me, did you
know that?  Would you like to feel?"

At that, the kid's eyes widened excitedly-as if Scully had just offered
him the secrets of the universe--and he shuffled slowly forward,
licking his lips and fidgiting with his tiny fingers.  Scully bent down
to meet his height and breathed softly, reaching out tentative fingers
to hold his hand.  He eyed her warily at first, then let her take his
chubby little fingers in hers.  She placed them softly upon her stomach
and tapped her blouse over the taut skin gently, prodding the baby to
move.  The first time there was no response, but the second time there
was another thwump, and the little boy's eyes lit up.

"Wow," he gasped, licking his lips happily.  "Baby kicked me!"

Mulder let out an amused chuckle and dropped his hand to Scully's
shoulder, rubbing softly for a moment as if he were about to give her a
backrub.  So ok, maybe he DID feel a little too good about being the
proud papa, but then, that was his job, wasn't it?

Scully reached up a hand to clasp over Mulder's, squeezing gently, and
she closed her eyes for a moment.   Fleetingly, she felt the little
boy's hand fall away from her stomach, and when she opened her eyes, she
was met with an extended arm--an offering presented by tiny digits
wrapped around a golden yellow flower.

"Here," he said, blushing. "flower for you, pretty lady."

Scully's eyes lit up, her face taking on an almost rosy glow, and she
gratefully accepted the child's flower-which was--in all
reality--just a dandelion, plucked from its nest inside the tall, wild
grass.  The kid shuffled his feet, blushing shyly, and his face turned
even redder when Scully leaned over  to kiss it, softly.  Her lips
plucked the side of his cheek and the small child grinned widely. She
clutched the dandelion to her chest and watched as the enamored little
urchin gaped in wonder and scampered off, yelling, "mommy, the lady with
a baby let me feel her tummy!  There's a baby in there an'--"

His voice trailed off and Scully grinned as he scampered quickly,
sprinting down the hill with the speed and excitement only a child could
muster.    Mulder  bent down next to her and peered over at her twined
fingertips--her hands clutching lightly to the tiny yellow offering
she held.  She brought it up to her nose and took a deep breath---as
if weeds could possibly have a scent--and her face warmed all the way
up to her eyes.  Mulder watched her and frowned in confusion, letting
his chin rest upon her shoulder as he commented, "Scully, what um, what
are you doing? It's ah-it's a weed-"

Her eyes opened and she shot him a venemous look, raising an eyebrow as
if he had just told her that the moon was made of blue cardboard.  She
caressed the teensy petals of her new treasure and narrowed her eyes.

"It is NOT a weed, Mulder," she retorted, pulling herself to her feet
with slightly labored effort.  She was getting bigger and bigger with
each day, fatter and fatter as if she were going to burst suddenly, and
now more than before it was harder to bend and get up-or move without
waddling.

She shook her head annoyed and wandered ahead of him, fingering the
dandelion she held with gentle and careful reverence-as if it could
break and shatter within her grasp.   And sure enough, even as she held
it, less securely anchored petals broke away and scattered into the wind
like the innocence lost in the eyes of a jaded adult.  --Like the
innocence lost in her eyes--like the innocence gone from her heart.
The thought made her body feel heavy and burdened with weight that had
absolutely nothing to do with the life she carried inside her.

"Scully?" Mulder asked, trailing behind her.  "Did I say something
wrong?"

She turned to face him and when she did, there were unshed tears burning
behind her eyes.  He stared at her quizzically and she cursed herself
for her lack of control.  She used to be so good at it-so good at
hiding her feelings, at protecting herself against sadness, but now it
just seemed as if every time she felt a surge of something-anything, it
was blown out of proportion ten times over.  It wasn't as if she WANTED
to cry-it wasn't as if Mulder had meant any harm-she just didn't
know what else to do with herself.

"It's not you, Mulder," she finally replied, her eyes clouding over with
memories spilled from a lifetime of trying to forget.  She was sick of
forgetting.

Mulder crept closer, tentatively coming to stand next to her with those
worry lines of his creasing his forehead.  She hated that he always felt
distressed every time she had a nervous breakdown--which was becoming
more and more frequent-ever since she had hit five and a half
months--but there was nothing she could do.  It seemed as if the
harder she tried to hide it, the more the emotions fought to break the
surface.  Her self control was starting to feel like the weak arms of a
swimmer caught in an undertow, and she was so afraid of going under-

"Tell me," Mulder prodded, softly.  "Whatever it is-"

She closed her eyes and took a long deep breath, allowing one tear and
then another to trickle down her face, sparkling against the sun in the
evening sky like they were diamonds dripping from her chin. She let them
fall because she saw no other option.  She knew no other way at this
point.  It was either cry, she realized, or hurt herself trying to hold
back.

Scully swallowed and watched two more petals trail off into the breeze,
managing, "no-Mulder, it's dumb-"

Mulder shook his head.  "No," he insisted, softly. "It's not. Please,
Scully-"

She watched him for a moment and bit her lip, debating with herself
quickly-reviewing the pros and cons of a no win situation. She wasn't
usually privy to telling Mulder her life's woes and pitfalls, wasn't
really used to telling much of anything, really but-

She needed to talk. She needed to say something- anything-  And he was
just there.

Scully took another cleansing breath and shook her head.  She opened her
mouth and when she spoke, her voice came out meek sounding- far away-
not at all like she was used to hearing from herself.

"When I was-" she sighed and started over.  "When I was a little girl,
Mulder, my father made his way in the world as a navy captain.  He loved
the sea and spent most of his days there, away from us.  In that
respect, we would always be moving, relocating, traveling somewhere or
another, and there was never any sense of constant... any sense of home.
Every few months or so there was a new house, another city-" Her eyes
found his, claming his gaze for her own, and her fingers held steadfast
to her flower, words pouring out of her mouth.   "But we were still a
family.  Whether it was Nagano or San Diego, my father still read to me
every night at eight o clock sharp.  My brothers still played baseball-"

Mulder watched her, silent.  He didn't dare interrupt her-didn't want
to intrude on what he saw as more a release for her than any story she
wished to tell him.  Her emotions had been running away with her lately,
taking charge of her self control, and even though he could see it was
driving her bonkers, he almost felt as if this were good for her. It had
been so long since she had told anyone anything, so long since she had
let anyone in, and even if it hurt her to do it, somehow, he felt as if
this would be better for her. And though he knew that if he told her
this, she'd most likely kick his ass, he didn't care. She needed the
release-even if it came at the expense of her precious self control.

He nodded at her and touched an index finger to her wrist.  "Go on," he
whispered, softly.

She closed her eyes and let herself drift-

"I was too little to play with them," she sighed, wistfully.  "My
brothers didn't want me messing up their games or monopolizing Dad's
time, and Missy just wanted me out of her way.  I was so small- too
small for the stuff I wanted to do so badly.  Most of the time I sat
under a tree and watched my father teach them how to catch- how to
swing. I'd have nothing to do then- so I'd read a book or draw a
picture, but I'd be so mad-in that immature way children get- You
know, Mulder.  That age when all you want is to be older than you are,
but at the same time, you can't imagine what it would be like to cross
the street alone-"

The dandelion dropped forgotten, trickling from her fingers like sand
through a strainer, and another salty tear made its way down the slope
of her cheek. "I remember- so clearly, Mulder- so vividly-" She paused
to suck in a breath, then continued, strained, "One day when Bill and
Charlie were getting water, dad came over and asked me what was wrong.
I was only eight years old. He looked at me and asked, in that navy
voice of his, `what's wrong, Starbuck?' just like that.  And I know he
meant well, but I told him that it was nothing-that I was fine because
I didn't want to hurt his feelings.  So he said-" She licked her lips
and laughed, softly, sighing, "and it sounded like something you would
say, Mulder-he said- `I don't believe you.'  He knew me so well and he
knew- he knew me. So- anyway, Bill and Charlie came back then and he
promised he would ask me again later, when he read to me--eight o
clock sharp."  Her eyes opened then, her lashes fluttering against the
porcelain of her delicate skin.  "He gave me a dandelion as a peace
offering and told me that they were the most resilient of all flowers.
He said that they were small but they always came back-no matter what
happened or how hard it rained- He said they were like me. He smiled
and then he put it in my hair-"  Scully smiled painfully, touched a hand
to the back of her silky, russet hair and looked down, recalling a time
where her innocence had been fresh and new-untainted.  "He used to give
me bunches of them.  So I collected them every day after that.  I gave
them to him when he left for sea-something triggering the naivete of
my childlike brain, telling me that if I gave them to him, he'd think of
me and come home that much faster-"

Mulder watched her mouth open to even out her hitched breathing, her
hands come up to wipe away the tears she hated shedding, and he touched
her arm, lightly-reassuringly.  That was more information than she had
ever trusted him with, ever, and he wanted her to know-if even in the
most indirect manner--that he would accept her no matter what she told
him.  Sometimes, he thought she believed that about him.  That she
wanted it.  Othertimes, he wondered if it was what she wanted at all.
And other times still, times he would never tell her about, he wondered
if it was what he wanted himself.  He'd never admit it to her, but she
terrified him.

"I'm sorry," she apologized, quietly.  "I can't believe I told you
that-"

Mulder smiled. "I can," he replied, his arm dropping back to his side.
His gaze broke from hers and wandered over the hill aimlessly.  She
nodded at him, almost as if relieved, and continued to clear her eyes of
the teary emotions she had just laid out on the table.  Mulder sighed
and stepped away from her, crouching low beneath the grass to retrieve a
tiny yellow bud nestled amongst a throng of rocks and underbrush.   When
he stood up again, brushing off his pant legs, he held out his hand and
dropped his head down, shyly.

"A flower for you, pretty lady," he said, matching the tone of the small
child who had presented her with this same gift earlier. Scully shook
her head and smiled, ruefully, taking the dandelion from his fingers as
she lightly smacked his arm in jest.  She twirled the stem in between
her fingers and licked her lips, nervously.  When her eyes caught
Mulder's again, it was if the air had somehow changed between them.  It
made her skin smolder, her heart jump, and she wasn't exactly sure how
she felt about that.

Mulder sensed it too and cleared his throat, desperately searching for
something to break the silence.  He was going to kiss her-square and
roughly on the lips-- if he didn't interrupt the awkward silence with
SOMETHING.  Anything-

"Those ah- those are for luck, you know," he stuttered, staring down at
his feet.

Scully's lips turned up in an amused fashion and she stared at him,
raising an eyebrow, replying, "really now, Mulder?"

He looked back at her and nodded, enthusiastically.  "Uh- yeah," he
stammered, shoving his hands in his pockets, moving to pace in front of
her. "You see- ah, Scully- it all stems from this ah- this folk
tale-about um, elves and-"

"Elves?"

She watched him with bemused speculation and he nodded, continuing,
"yeah, elves.  They- they used to roam the forests and help the trees to
grow by using the blessed elf dust they carried around in their
satchels-"

She eyed him, dully. "Elf dust," she repeated, monotone. "Blessed. Elf.
Dust-"

Mulder just nodded his head adamantly and continued, "See, you don't
believe me Scully, but it's true.  They used to travel all the way to
the ocean to get their elf dust blessed by the gods of the moon and the
gods of the sea.  The blessed dust would be given the gift of water, and
that was why it rained-"

Scully raised a hand to her temple and rubbed the side of her head,
wearily, closing her eyes in a familiar confusion, asking, "as much as
this flippant turn of conversation is fascinating me, Mulder, this has
WHAT to do with dandelions?"

She opened her eyes again and stared at him, soon enough greeted by his
always familiar, "I'm getting to it-"

She sighed and nodded, deadpan.

"So anyway," he continued, "The elves would bring their elf dust to the
edge of the sea-to the sailors that rode its waves--and it would be
blessed by the ocean god, himself.  Then they'd make the long trek back
to the land--to let their dust help the trees thrive every day, every
year during the summer-"

Mulder paused and caught Scully's perpetually raised eyebrow.  Her arms
were folded dubiously over her chest, her mouth thinned and straight.
Her eyes still sparkled blue though, that piercing, deep blue, and the
air between them had not changed.  It sparked and thrived between
them-changing the dynamic of their easy relationship-

Mulder stammered, then went on, "But ah.um- But one day, one of the um,
one of the elves-his name was, um, Dandelion-as you know--"

Scully fought the urge to roll her eyes and just nodded at him,
listening to the story.  His voice was low and husky, deep and tinged
with an underlying of something.

She forced the thought away as he spoke, "So, ah, Dandelion--he grew
unhappy with his route in life.   He begged the sea god to let him live
all year round-to be like the grass-to give him a chance to see the
fall and winter-"  Mulder paused and leaned against the nearby tree,
propping his body up against the rough edged bark.  A light airy breeze
kicked in, and brightly painted leaves danced to the ground from all
angles.  "And the sea god granted his request," Mulder went on, "but on
one condition: the elf would have to help the sea god bless the water
and sunshine that made the trees grow.  He'd have to do the work of the
elf dust and make sure the trees drank enough water, took in enough
sunshine-  So um, and- if he promised to do that, then the ah, the sea
god would turn him into a part of the grass--make the elf a part of
the earth for all eternity.  But- then, see- the um, the catch was that
the elf was too special and too colorful to be the grass.  And the sea
god couldn't bear to part with the um.. the beauty of the ah- the golden
color of the elf-so he was- he was turned into a dandelion, the name
derived from the elf's name, obviously, and his fierce protection of the
trees and its constant job to bless the rain and the air-so that the
trees could thrive-"

Scully nodded with a sigh. A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

"And um-" Mulder rambled on and on- "In so doing, Dandelion brought luck
to the trees because he helped them thrive, and so all his ah. His
seedlings bring luck to anyone who plucks them-because they help
things grow-"

Scully blinked, disbelief painted all over her face.  Mulder faltered.

"Or ah-" he waved his hands errantly.  "Or so I was um, told-"

Then he pushed up and away from the tree trunk, authoritatively
propelling his long legs forward so that he marched in front of her,
stepping carefully down the hill.  Scully smiled, shaking her head and
took off after him, following closely behind.

"You know something, Mulder?" she asked, calling to him until he halted
just at the foot of the hill. He turned to face her.

"What's that?" he asked, innocently enough.

The wind blew between them and leaves brushed over her head to tousle
her red strands.

She stared at him and rolled her eyes, affectionately admonishing,  "You
are SO full of shit."

His eyes widened at her and he approached closer, coming up just short
of her personal space, refuting, "Excuse me?  I resent that Scully- that
story just so happens to be a famous legend, passed down from generation
to--"

Her finger came to rest across his lips.

"Bull.  Shit." She emphasized, grinning.

He took full advantage of the opportunity-of her face's proxmity to
his-and leaned in closely, close enough to brush his lips over her
cheek, passionately promising with only the barest of chaste kisses upon
her skin that there would be more. His mouth swearing to her-without
once speaking-that he would mark every other inch of her with similar
kisses.  Long ones, short ones- she read him completely-understanding
without ever having to hear him say the words out loud.

Things had changed.

When he pulled away, watching her reaction carefully, her face turned
five shades of red all the way up to her hairline.   Her eyes burned
bright with unabsolved fervor, and she backed away carefully, trying to
regain her equalibruim, clearing her throat to stammer, "We ah. We
really should be getting back to the apartment-"

She pretended not to see the crestfallen look in his eyes when he
nodded, mutely, and then agreed with barely a murmur from his lips.
Then her eyes cast downward, and she pretended not to feel her heart
sinking into her feet when he walked ahead of her--keeping a safe
distance, and never once taking her hand in his.

Her arms wrapped around herself as if chilled.

In all the walks they took through the park, Mulder never once forgot to
hold her hand-

And that made her nervous.  Very much so-

So she quickened her steps and reached him, touching her hand to his
back softly, right before they reached the edge of the park. She cursed
herself for reacting to his gesture the way that she had, but all she
could hope now was that he understood.  -Or that he would at least try
to.

Her fingers brushed the small of his back and he turned to face her,
ambiguousness painted all over his carefully neutral expression.  She
just looked at him then and breathed, her eyes explaining more than her
lips ever could, and she bit her lips as she watched him watch her.
Ever so tentatively, she reached for his hand after nearly a minute of
silent contemplation.

She was relieved when he took it, gingerly, and even more so when he
squeezed it as they walked.  But the tension and unspoken frustration
smoldering between them still hovered. One of these days, she knew they
would have to face it, but right now she was afraid- terrified. Of him,
of what she felt for him- It was all and yet none of the above at the
same time-

----- 10 -----


***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***

In the back of my mind somewhere, always there---especially when we go
out into the field--is the lingering thought that my partner has a
serious death wish.  It just always occurs to me-with blinding
ferocity and usually more anger than sadness--that he would rather see
himself lying on the floor of an abandoned warehouse somewhere, than
he'd trust me. It also occurs to me-with no uncertain tearing of my
heart--that he would rather sell his soul to the devil than believe
she is really gone for good. No matter how many times everyone tells
him, no matter how many of those dandelions he puts by her stone, he
will always refuse to believe she is really gone.  For, in his
mind-like the mind of that ten year old who watched his sister be
yanked from him all those years ago--there is always hope she'll
return. From the dead, from that abyss that stands between the living
and the heaven he doesn't believe in.

He looks squarely at me and says, "things had changed so subtly between
Scully and I.  They had just happened so slowly and quietly that they
snuck up on us, I think.  One day when we weren't looking-"

I nod and try to understand the feeling. It's hard though, considering
the last thing I ever had that came close to a meaningful relationship
was a lazy date after a round of flirting with some random guy on the
beach.  We'd had some good conversations that night, I remember, which
was a shame when his wife showed up and demanded to know what he was
doing with a woman half his age.

The sad lives we lead, sometimes-

"She went into labor about two and a half months after that," Fox
explains, softly, then his voice trails-"Two and a half months of tip
toeing around each other- avoiding anything other than work and hello-"
His voice cracks and he manages, "If I had- known-"

My lower lip trembles for him and I watch, sympathetically, as he starts
to explain the most painful experience of his life.  No doubt, I have
already been transformed by this story. I am certainly not the same
woman who walked in the door tonight-expecting the same old thing I
had heard from everyone else.  And certainly, he is not the same man who
scowled at me and grudgingly told me what I needed to know-

Things have changed.

He clears his throat and stiffens his voice, telling me, "Scully went
into labor on January 9th, never screaming once but nearly breaking a
few of my fingers when I stupidly asked her if she wanted to hold my
hand-"  He pauses, allowing for a smile, then, "Our baby was born
kicking and screaming, a normal, healthy baby girl-if not unmistakably
Scully, with blue hair and red stubble on her head.  Scully just looked
at her and smiled.  She told me that if hope were something tangible,
our baby would have been it-" I smile at that and he shrugs, continuing,
"the name just stuck, I guess.  Made sense-"

***
January 11th
Five years ago
Clayton County Hospital

***

The hospital corridors were dark and dreary this time of night, quiet
except for the occasional ping of the nurse call monitor, and Mulder
softly made his way to room 114, hoping he wasn't about to wake
anybody.  From what Nurse what's her face had told him, babies often got
fussy in the middle of the night, and Scully had adamantly insisted on
taking care of her immediately-should the need arise.   Apparently,
Scully had been quite insistent on not letting anybody but herself take
care of the child he knew she was hell bent on protecting. He understood
it fully. Needless to say, they were both more worried and paranoid now
than joyously happy, but what else were they to do?  All they could do
was watch over her, try their best to keep her safe, and hope that
inside her tiny body, health coarsed through her veins.  The rest they
would just have to- play by ear. Such as it was.

When he got to room 114, finally, teddy bear in hand, he noticed that
the door was already slightly ajar and he peeked his head in, curious
and not wanting to disturb-should Scully be asleep.  His hands clasped
around the door frame, his head poked slightly through, and his ears
strained to her soft voice-

When he heard it, it signaled that not only was Scully awake, apparently
very much so, she was also- singing?

He blinked a few times to let that thought sink in.  Scully was singing-
Well- now there was not something you heard everyday-or ANY day, for
that matter.

His ears perked up and he strained harder---listening for the quiet,
beautiful voice that emanated from the bed. It was strange-though it WAS
Scully-no doubt-but it was certainly NOT the same woman who had sung
to him in a dark forest one dreary night.  This Scully's voice was
gentler, more melodic, with just a hint of wavering at the end of each
bar she sang. He found himself standing there, listening, hypnotized by
it-

"My tears are salt water, the moon's full and high. Be proud of
me.Many before me been called by the sea."

Her voice dropped to a hum, her finger tipped gently under Hope's chin.
Then she picked up another verse, lulling, softly, " the fall's lifting,
the sand's shifting, I'm drifting alone-  Oh, captain Ahab's got nothing
on me...  So swallow me, don't follow me.  I'm travelling alone. The
water's my daughter.  I skip like a stone-"

Mulder swallowed a hard lump in his throat and he listened to Scully hum
softly, her face gazing fondly at her daughter as she sung on, in a
soft, haunting voice, "Won't you please call my family, tell em not to
cry. My goodbyes were written by the moon in the sky.  Here nobody
knows me- Got no reason to stay. Oh, shiver me timbers- I'm sailing
away-"

Her voice trailed off then, her alto fading into a soft giggle as Hope
smiled innocently at her, grasping onto an index finger.  She brushed a
tender hand gently over her baby's cheek, then smiled, calling, "Mulder,
are you going to stand in the doorway all night or are you going to come
in here?"

He grinned. How she knew he'd been standing there listening was beyond
him, but somehow she knew, and the thought made him feel warm and
content.  There was his life before him, and all he had to do was cross
the threshold to get to them.

So he crossed the room and set the bear on the nighttable, settling into
the hard plastic chair that occupied the space next to Scully's bed.

"My father used to sing that to me," she murmured, peacefully. "He said
it was the song of the sea, and if I listened close enough, I could feel
the waves lapping at my feet-" She smiled down at Hope then looked up at
Mulder with a soft sadness underlying the happiness in her eyes.  "I was
the only one he'd sing it to-" she sighed, gently.

Mulder nodded. "Well, it was-" he shifted and tried to hide his
admiration.  "Beautiful," he finally finished, thoughtfully.  "It was
beautiful, Scully-"

She looked away and blushed.

His face softened and he touched a finger to the side of his baby's
head, marveling at how soft and tiny she was.   It was as if she were
fragile-made of glass.  He hadn't wanted to admit it to Scully, but he
was terrified of shattering her.

"She's no small," Scully whispered then, voicing his thoughts. She
licked her lips nervously and let her eyes drift to Mulder's.  Her voice
came out anxious and wavering.  "She could break so easily, Mulder- It
wouldn't take much for someone to-"

He touched a gentle finger to her cheek, watching her eyes and the rise
and fall of her chest with rapt attention.  "No," he whispered, softly.
"I won't let that happen-I promise you. Just believe--"

"I want to," she replied, hoarsely. "God, I want to, Mulder--"

He leaned in closer and ran his fingers along her hairline, the slope of
her jaw, her cheekbone and the line of her slender neck beneath her
angled chin.  She sucked in a breath and shifted her arms, resting the
baby on her opposite side, giving Mulder room to hover closer, his head
dipping lower.

"Then believe," he whispered, eyes half closed.  She swallowed nervously
and watched him, her eyes bright and open as he got closer and closer.
"Believe," he whispered, as his nose grazed across hers, slanting to
brush the edge of her cheek. "Believe," he whispered, as his lips parted
slightly, his heart racing and thudding heavily in his chest.

"I believe," she finally whispered back, and her eyes closed, her lips
parted.  Her pulse raced out of control and his mouth finally fell upon
hers for the first time--in the slightest of lingering touches.  Then
her face shifted slightly, ever so slightly, and their lips pressed
harder, more fevered-his mouth catching and wrapping into hers, her
lips tugging and pulling-the whispering of a promise from one soul to
another.

`I want to believe' was their hearts' desperate plea.

And so they kissed. Again, and again, and again-

***
Back to the present,
Mulder's apartment,
He tells the story,
May 12th

***

This time when my eyes meet his, there are salty, angry tears burning
behind the hazel depths.  It's amazing how I can look at him and somehow
understand his pain--that I can know his longing and his lonliness.  I
can recall with clarity how I felt-how my mind fought a war with my
heart when my mother died-when she abandoned me against her will. I
remember how angry I was, how undauntingly, unflinchingly miserable I
felt when she went-when she left me to a father who didn't know how to
survive without her. A grandmother who drank and chain-smoked till her
wrinkled hands shook with abuse. I was angry at her-angry at
him-angry at the world for choosing a fate so cruel, so horrible, it
was as if my destiny had been selected like a seedling on the wind.

My faith in life-in God-- had been shattered that day-that day she
took my hand and begged me to be good--to eat all my peas and mind my
elders, before slipping into that great limbo beyond anything I could
imagine as a five year old. I cried and I cried and I refused to
believe.  I ripped the petals off the flowers my father had handed me to
lay upon her coffin, and instead threw them into the breeze.  No, I had
thought.  She's coming back. Mommy wouldn't leave me.

I needed to believe then, that she would return, because I hated my
father for immortalizing her-just as Fox has done with Scully. I hated
my father for missing her and shunning me, as if a world did not exist
without her.  I hated him and I cannot help but feel a resentfulness
towards Fox-knowing that his life seemed to end without Scully.

It terrifies me to think that little Hope Mulder may one day end up like
me.  Like him.  Jaded and shattered.

Sometimes, I think if he keeps this up-if he continues to live in this
fantasy that she's going to one day reappear, out of the blue--he is
going to reap the repercussions upon his daughter.  She is going to grow
up, he is going to miss it, and twenty years from now he'll
wonder-come father's day-why she doesn't call.  And come her
birthday, she'll look discreetly for the card that won't come.

And Scully will still be gone.

"I um- I got a phone call that night," he says, waving a hand around to
try and regain his self control.  "I wasn't um, I mean- I hadn't wanted
to leave, but Mrs.  Scully told me in no uncertain terms that I looked
horrible, and I should go home and change, shower, and maybe try to get
some sleep. I wanted to stay. But she insisted-"  He breathes in so
deeply that I feel it and he manages, "I should have stayed- God, Kate,
I should have stayed with her-"

My forehead scrunches and I stare at him, wishing myself not to cry as
he tells me this-knowing that the sight of my tears is not what he
needs.  "So how did it happen?" I whisper, leaning forward on my knees.
Why I feel this insanely morbid desire-this need to understand and
hear the details, to have him tell me this, to listen in stark horror
how he found out her life had been stolen, is beyond me. I'm not usually
melancholy like this, but God, I really need to know.  I don't know why,
I just do.

His mouth finally releases something akin to a painful whimper, and he
answers, "I was watching TV- getting ready to take that shower, you
know?  The news was on, and I caught the end of a broadcast. A report
had come into PBC 5 that said an arrest had been made--the cops had
found the so called terrorists that destroyed DC, Chicago, LA, New
York-" He stops to laugh bitterly, "Course, by then, Scully and I
already knew there had never been any terrorists.  We knew who had
bombed the cities, and we also understood that it would happen
again--that it was really more a question of `when' than `why,' a
question of `what' than `who.'  Scully hadn't wanted to believe that,
but when no other options had presented themselves-"

I lick my lips and close my eyes, trying to picture this.  Him. Here. In
this place-his eyes on the TV, the cordless phone ringing-his life
changing in the span of little more than the time it took him to blink
or breathe.  The images are harsh, coarse, but I can see it just as
clearly as I can see my little five year old hands ripping daisies and
lilacs to shreds, crying over an empty hole in the ground.

"I remember-" He sighs and my eyes are still closed. I can't see him,
but I can hear him breathing.  He manages, "I remember laughing at the
TV, thinking, `if they only knew-'  It was so ironic, how they covered
it up- it made me sick-So I um- I went to turn it off then, getting
ready to hop in the shower, when Mrs.  Scully called me.  I answered the
phone, and I remember hearing nothing but sobs at first-"

I hear him swallow and gasp, trying to shove back the pain tearing at
his flesh. "She said-" He pauses, trying to collect himself, then
somehow gasps out, "She said, `Dana stopped breathing, Fox.'  Just like
that.  She said Scully had hemmoraged somehow, that the trauma she had
sustained while giving birth had somehow ruptured something the doctors
hadn't caught in time- It just- it made no sense.  None at all.  Mrs.
Scully said that one minute, Scully was fine-sleeping, recovering from
the birth. Then she had only stepped out for a few minutes-to get
coffee, and when she came back, Scully had been tossing and turning and
burning up with fever-Out of the blue-No fucking sense to it-"

I open my eyes and watch his expression, understanding where this is
going but not wanting him to continue. "Oh-Fox," I start,
sympathetically, but he cuts me off.

"I listened to Mrs. Scully while she cried, numbed- unable to think-" He
stops and forces back a swallow, then "She said that right before Scully
had lost consciousness, in those last moments, she had asked for me.
That in her frenzied state, Scully had whispered, `I have to save
Mulder, save Mulder and my baby' over and over like she was
delirious-like that night I had dragged her from the city.  Mrs.
Scully was distressed and couldn't understand what she had meant by
that, and I had no answers for her. I was so confused and angry- It was
just unreal- The heart monitor just stopped.  Her body flatlined.  And
then the doctors had come-whisking her away, wheeling her out of the
room, and that was the last any of us saw of her."

My face scrunches at this-at this painfully real description of her
death-and a wayward tear scampers down my cheek.  I brush it
impatiently away and gasp, "I- I don't- God, Fox, I never--"

"We still don't know what happened," he says dully.  "I wasn't there.
All I know is that she was taken away, before anyone could see her or
say anything, and all requests I made to see her body were denied. I
tried everything-going over the heads of the hospital supervisors,
even getting a search warrant. Everything.  Something just didn't sit
right with me.  It felt wrong, somehow.  It was-" He stops to stare
straight into my eyes, then springs on  me, "She wasn't dead, I could
feel it. I don't know how, but all I know is that when she cried, when
she laughed, I knew it, I FELT it, and I SWEAR to you Kate, I would have
known if she had died.  It would have suffocated me."

At this, my tears subside and I frown, watching him with confusion.
Where could he possibly be going with this, I wonder.  What could he
possibly mean by `she wasn't dead.'  Of course she was dead, hadn't he
just said so himself?  I stammer for a moment, then sputter, "That- that
doesn't make any sense, Fox. You just said--"

"I said she stopped breathing," he replies, trying to keep his voice
straight and even. "She flatlined.  It doesn't mean she died. I still
don't know what the hell happened.  One second she was there, and the
next, doctors we didn't know had yanked her out of the room."

I breathe deeply, considering that, then venture, "So what happened to
her-" I stammer, not wanting to seem rude but knowing no other way to
put it, "I mean-her ah, body?"

Fox stiffens.  "About four days later," he explains, "right when I
obtained the search warrant, we-Mrs. Scully and I- were contacted by
the county morgue, the entire staff apologizing for a terrible mistake
they had made." He pauses, then goes on, "Apparently- a mix up had
occurred, and Scully had been accidentally- cremated-"

He winces at that last word, as if it is a detriment to her memory, and
I gasp, exclaiming, "cremated?  Then you never-"

"ID'ed her?" he asks, bitterly. His gaze turns icy cold.  "No, I
didn't."

Suddenly, my stomach lurches and I begin to realize just what his heart
has been put through, all these years. These five years he has lived in
a sort of in between land-knowing that he should move on, that she was
probably gone, but never knowing for certain if it was really true.
Wishing in every situation he'd encounter, in every crowd and every sea
of people, that he might spot her. That maybe it had all been a mistake
and she was out there somewhere-her heart just as shattered as his.

No wonder he's never stopped searching, I think, horrified. No wonder he
sees her everywhere, walks like a fog is wrapped around his head.

No wonder he never lets anyone near his daughter-shielding her from what
he perceives to be the harsh truth about the cruel world that took his
Scully and thrust her into the wind.

"Is that why you ran off to that hospital?" I ask softly, curious about
the latest ditch he had afforded me.  "Was it a lead you thought might
bring you to her?"

He looks away, as if he's almost ashamed of his rash behavior, and
sighs.  He doesn't answer me, not in any certain terms, but I can see
the guilt behind that solemn gaze.

"Six months after it happened," he continues, broken sounding, "Mrs.
Scully bought a headstone to put her daughter to rest. She begged me to
let go, to accept the truth, but I couldn't.  I just couldn't. She gave
Hope a cross to wear like Scully's only last year, for her birthday, and
she told her that her mommy was in heaven.  I just stood back and
watched because I didn't know what to say.  I didn't understand and I
couldn't- I still don't."

His jaw squares, his features set in a determined line, and I watch him
worriedly as a shiver crosses through my spine, settling in the pit of
my stomach.  I am starting to feel sick all over again, and no doubt I
won't ever forget the look on his face right now.

"How long?" I ask, softly, almost afraid.  My eyes stare straight at
his, searching desperately for the man behind my partner. I swallow and
finish, "how long do you plan to look for someone who may not-" I pause
and bite my lip.  "For someone who may not be there?"

He glares at me momentarily, his eyes softening as I watch them, and his
gaze shifts to regard the photo resting on the mantle behind my
shoulder.  "As long as it takes," he answers, fevered.  "As long as it
takes-"

An uncomfortable silence reigns between us, penetrating our pores and
the depths of our beings, and I finally find the courage to say what I
should have said when this all started.  I should have said it first and
foremost-letting him know before he started weaving this tale of
horror and deception at every turn.  But now I have the chance to say
it-in this lull-this calm before the storm-and I am not going to
squander the opportunity.

"I don't know what to say to all this," I admit honestly, and he nods,
apparently understanding my apprehension and confusion.  "But I am NOT
against you Fox, and I am NOT one of them.  I want to be your partner-
to help you." I stammer slightly and watch his eyes, looking for the
affirmation I need right now.  "But you have to let me-"

He just looks at me and sighs with that constant anguish in his
eyes--that sadness amplified by 100 times, and nods heavily. "I know-"
is all he says, closing his eyes.

Five minutes later I leave, touching his shoulder in a supportive
gesture as I step into the hallway--and he smiles, almost as if he
wants to believe.  God, how I wish it were true.

Then the door closes behind me, snapping shut with a sound that makes me
jump, and I back up against the wall by the door, opening my mouth in
disbelief and confusion.  The first of many confused and angered sobs
wrack and convulse my badly exhausted body, and I raise a weary hand to
my forehead, letting myself slump to the floor.

My head hurts. My heart aches.

He finally told me.

And I am terrified.

---- 11 -----


***
About two and a half weeks later
Highway 4,
Sommerset Ohio

***

The sky is black and blue, like a giant bruise upon the horizon.  Light
paints the clouds in white and blinding yellow, and I chance a quick
glance out the passenger window to watch the thunder begin opening up
the clouds with soft rain.

I sigh and turn up the radio, trying to drown out the sounds of an
approaching storm.

`She's got a way- about her-'

I tap the steering wheel and hum, realizing that my voice is probably
not as good as Billy Joel's.  I think I used to take chorus once upon a
time when I was in elementary school, but I could never get the high
notes out and the girls were all snobs anyways. They'd probably cringe
if they could hear me now.

`I don't know what it is-'

The road falls ahead of me, long and straight and practically empty even
though it's rush hour.  That's odd, I think.  Maybe they're just trying
to wait out the storm, make sure it's safe.  I stare up at the sky
again. That's what I should have done too, probably.  But when have I
ever done things the easy way?

It's gray and dark out, practically black which is strange for this time
of year, if I think about it.  It usually doesn't rain during this part
of the afternoon-not till July, at least.

`But I know that I can't live without her- anyway-'

The sound of soft vocals and piano is lulling and comforting, even
though I have to turn it all the way up to drown out the echoing peals
of thunder. I make it louder again and focus harder upon the road.  This
song's one of my favorites, ironically enough, even though I think about
Fox nowadays every time I play it. I think about how he'd like this
song, maybe even play it for Hope or listen to it and think of her.  Of
Scully. He probably thinks about her as much as I think about him. And
how horrible is THAT, I wonder, to spend 90 percent of your time
dreaming about a man whose heart beats for someone else?

I hate it. It's idiotic and the ultimate kicker is that I'm no idiot.

He and I are never going to ride off into the sunset.   I know that.  I
do.  For Christ sakes, we can't even agree on what to eat for lunch half
the time, let alone tolerate each other in personal surroundings for
more than a few hours.

That's not to say that we don't get along, because we do. We get along
just fine.  We get along better than we have in months, actually.  And
as a matter of fact, after he told me that story-the one of him and his
Scully-he started treating me differently. As if he was still weary of
me, but at least now he trusted me-or he wanted to.  He'd call me up
to tell me about his cases-before he left on his own. He took me over
to see the gunmen on my birthday and he even got me a card-which
surprised me, because I never thought he knew when it was.

He started laughing more, smiling more, even though it was infrequent
and inconsistent.  It was uncanny.  He'd find a Knicks game or a Yankees
game and start watching it, going into long speils about miserable
defense and missing shots.  Sometimes, we'd even make wagers.  He owes
me five dollars and lunch, by the way.  He started becoming the man he
once was again, as if telling his story were a burden he needed to lift,
and now that he had done that, he could move on. He could try and pick
up the pieces.  He's still brooding and unhappy, but at least I feel
more a part of him now.  It's only been a two and a half weeks, but I
feel better about this partnership than I have in months.  I don't know
what's going to happen tomorrow, but I feel like I know him-at least
part of him-today.

And that gives me hope.

Speaking of which, I am ten minutes late picking the little girl up,
which I'm sure won't go over well with Mrs. Scully. Fox had mentioned
something about her going out to dinner with her son, and I have a
feeling that she's going to give me a stern `talking to' as soon as I
get there.  I can't help it, but I'm usually late getting to her
house-it's an hour from the building, not to mention off the freeway
another fifteen minutes, and  I work, what can I say?

Some days, I don't think it matters to her what I say.  She doesn't
particularly like me, I can tell, but she lets me pick Hope up on the
days that Fox works late, and I can tell that she grudgingly trusts me.
She trusts me because he has, for the past week, assured her that I am
ok and on their side.  She's scrutinized me though, sized me up against
her daughter, and I think the only reason she even lets me near her home
is because she knows that Fox doesn't trust ANYONE.  She knows that he
would never put Hope in the custody of anyone he didn't trust, and if he
trusts me- well, then so be it, right?

Sure.  Whatever.  It still makes me uneasy.

`She lifts me up when I'm feeling down, inspires me-"

I sigh and grip the wheel harder, my eyes peeled on the road.  Storms
make me nervous, paranoid, and I hate not knowing when or where the
sky's going to open up on me. I hate hearing the thunder while I'm in my
car, knowing that soon it's going to pour and I'm going to have to drive
through it. I have a feeling that I'm going to be later than usual
picking Hope up, and Mrs.  Scully's going to be none too pleased.  I
shudder to think what soft spoken lecture she's going to give me this
time.  Fox thinks she's the greatest thing since sliced bread, but she's
got a vicious underbelly when it comes to protecting her family.  It
makes me wonder what her daughter was like-

With one eye still on the road, I reach over to grab my black leather
purse, straining for the strap on the passenger seat. I yank it towards
me and shoot my gaze from it to the road, alternately watching the
zipper and the passing scenery. My right hand pulls towards the steering
wheel--trying to pull the top compartment open without veering off the
shoulder.  It's stuck though, and I curse under my breath as the thunder
gets louder, the lightning brighter. I tug harder, more insistently, and
groan, knowing that I'll  never get to my cell phone unless this zipper
comes open. Damn it.

"Fuck," I mutter, shaking the bag everywhere, the zipper not coming
loose.   My eyes fall away from the road for a moment and I grit my
teeth, yanking, pulling, calling, "Come on- Come ON!"

I shake my head and raise my eyes to the road just as the rain begins,
coming down in sheets in front of me.  Shit I think, raising my right
arm to turn on the wipers, that's just--

A flash of something creeps into view.

 "OH MY GOD!"

I gasp in shock and terror and I hit the brakes, throwing my purse wide
so that it hits the passenger window and slides to the floor. Something
is wandering out there on the road--not ten feet in front of me.  It's
too big to be an animal and too small to be a man, though it's wandering
and blurry, the rain obscuring my vision.  The sound of the car skidding
to a halt, screeching and struggling fills my ears.  My knuckles are
white upon the steering wheel, my arms ramrod straight, my foot floored
against the brake. Whatever or whoever it is out there freezes, turning
to face me, watching the headlights happen upon it like destiny or maybe
death, bearing down.  I scream and squeeze my eyes shut, listening to
the car groan and shudder, and I pray to whatever god is out there that
I have not just run over whatever it is that sauntered into the road.
Please, I think, horrified, please don't kill me.  Please let me not
kill anyone else, either. Please let it be alright.

I open my eyes the second I realize I'm not dead; the minute I recognize
I'm in one piece. I breathe long and deeply, my gaze horrified and
unblinking, and I struggle with shaking hands to get the door open.  It
takes me a minute to remember how to lift the handle, to get my head
together, but I finally yank it open into the rain and wind that assault
me almost immediately.  The door flies backwards and bounces against the
spring, and I wince against the blinding sheets of water.  My hands fly
towards my face, shielding me from the storm, and I throw myself out of
the car, squeezing my eyes shut to keep the rain out.  Thunder crashes
somewhere beyond the trees and lightning crackles down into a field
beyond my view.  I rush around to the front of the car and bend down, my
heart beating, my eyes opening, my brain desperately hoping I haven't
killed anyone.  I'm lucky that I'm not dead myself.

Rain obscures the figure for a moment, but then a surrendering hand
reaches up from the ground and shakes towards me, obviously afraid and
weary.  I frown and stare at it, noticing the slenderness of it, the
size of it against mine.  A woman, I realize, suddenly.  Then I look
closer and push the hand aside, trying to be gentle and wanting not to
scare her. There is another blast of thunder and another gust of wind
before I can focus on her face.

Her eyes, I notice, are startling blue and terrified, wide and bright
with either fever or delusion.  Her skin is pale and smooth, her chin
and cheeks dripping with water from the rain beating down on us like
miniature construction nails. Her hair is red-almost my shade-but
brighter and richer and shorter, hanging just above her shoulders as if
it had been hastily chopped and cut by someone who barely knew what they
were doing.  My own eyes widen and my mouth elicits a gasp, my hands
reaching down to grab the woman's shoulders in horror.  She winces and
there is another clasp of thunder, booming and thrusting more rain into
our bodies.  My heart starts racing and we stare at each other in
horror, both of us trying to understand and size up the other; she in
fear, me in intense shock and disbelief.  I swallow and try to ignore
the storm.

"Scully?" I somehow manage to gasp out, still gripping her like a vice.

Her body stiffens.

She seems to understand this, or at least she recognizes the word,
because her eyes change and she starts breathing raggedly.  Her head
whips around in confusion and her hands shove me away, her arms
desperately trying to pull her weak body, clad in a soaked hospital
gown, to its feet. She is unsuccessful though, and her legs give out,
causing her to fall back to the street in resignation and defeat.

She stares at me in desperation and cries out, "I don't know what that
means!"

Her fists beat hopelessly at the ground as the rain pounds on us, as she
screams, "He knows!  He knows and I need to find him!"

I stare at her in confusion and creep closer to her.  I don't know where
she's been or what's happened to her, but I know who she is and I know
what I have to do.  I don't want to do this, but I have to. It's for
everyone's own good. It's what's best-  It's what I have to do, and what
I was trained to do and instructed to handle-  I know I can make the
right decision- Oh god, I know I can-

I swallow and watch her, carefully.

"Help me," she finally sobs, her head collapsing onto her shaking
hands.  "Help me find him-Please-"

***
The next day

***

God, I hurt all over.  My heart, my head-

But I am happy for him, you know.  I'm ecstatic.  I'm happy for him,
happy for her, I am.  Really, I am.

I am happy for him, I guess, but only as one would be happy for the
puppy given away to its rightful owner.  I am happy, grateful to have
done the right thing, the honest and therefore noble thing, but my heart
is not any less broken as a result.  I am happy for him, I swear that I
am, but I am miserable for me.

It's over and I know it.  Him and me, me and him, whatever happened,
didn't, could have, what was or what could have been.  It's over.  All
of it.

And it doesn't help that I can see it in my head.  That I can see them,
together, reuniting, just as surely as I can see my fireplace in front
of me.  I've thought about it over and over, and my mind's painted a
grandiose picture of it all.

For though I know it is not the actual, in my head is the idealized
version of what I know is the truth.  The version derived from one too
many harlequin romance novels and one too many nights watching `Ghost'
with the lights dimmed.

In slow motion I watch as they go to each other, him with the heaviness
of a broken man who has been rescued, her with the tentativeness of a
nervous child.  At first he is disbelieving, untrusting, wary of a
reunion that he has only dared to dream of, but never thought possible.
In a similar light, at first she is afraid, confused, disoriented.  She
knows him but she does not remember, and she can't place his face.  Who
is this man she has envisioned only in dreams and delusional flights of
fancy?  Is this the great love she believes that she lost, oh so long
ago, once upon a time?  Is this the one she'd been searching for,
yearning for, every time her eyes closed with foggy tears in the
corners?

He looks at her then, truly and fully looks at her, blinking as if he
has just come to the conclusion that the Oasis is not only real, but
also within his grasp for the first time in years.  Then his expression
scans hers for recognition, his gaze crashing into her shattering blue
eyes with the desperation he has dragged with him all this time.  The
distance between them is like an ocean.  They are so close, yet they are
still a world away.

She doesn't know what else to do except look back at him, silent and
confused, her throat swallowing back the sadness and confusion of a
disjointed, shattered memory.  She feels the almost palpable need to run
to him, to envelop him in her shaking arms, but something is still
missing.  Something holds them both back.  What is it?

Silence reigns for another moment longer until she realizes, with
startling clarity, that it is her.  She is the reason he doesn't move to
touch her.  She is the one who forms the blockade.  Her heart runs away
with her blood pressure and the ability to breathe.  Her heart
desperately tries to place him, to remember something, grasp anything
she can use, but her eyes remain blank.  Useless.

And they remain a world apart.

His heart breaks.

It is then that a single, solitary sob escapes wantonly from his throat,
a tear trickling its way over his carefully chiseled features.  Her eyes
tell him the truth just as surely as she could speak it. She doesn't
know him.  She doesn't remember.   He realizes it and his heart explodes
in tatters all around him. What can he do now to mend her?

He opens his mouth to say something, to say anything, to tell her
everything, but all that comes out is a single word.

"Scully."

His throat breaks upon the name and her lower lip trembles as she
suddenly recognizes the unfamiliar term.  She knows that, she thinks.
But how?  How does she know that?  What does it mean?

She still wants to go to him but she can't.  Her legs feel like lead.

But then a sudden memory comes to her.  It is a flash of something so
strange yet so natural, she gasps at the intensity of it.  Her pulse
quickens with the thought.

She feels his hands in her hair, his fingers on the small of her back,
around her shoulders and against her cheek.  She hears his voice in her
head, feels him calling out for her in the middle of the night, in his
sleep, in the middle of an endless desert.  She remembers his laugh and
his touch, and she remembers his smile.  She remembers him whispering
that word upon her earlobe a hundred million times. She remembers
dandelions and the promise of forever, extending like a bridge across
the distance that lies between them.

But most of all, she remembers a name. A name she knows so well, even if
she doesn't yet recall why.

A whimper escapes unbidden from her lips, and her lower lip quivers with
uncertainty as she manages the only word she knows to say.

"M-Mulder?"

She looks unsure, afraid.  What if she's wrong, she thinks. She could be
wrong.

Simultaneous tears cascade down their cheeks.

But suddenly it is as if the wall that lies between them has crumbled,
and he crosses the vast distance to wrap his arms around her like a man
clinging to a lifeline. His face buries, hysterical, in her golden,
fiery hair and then in the nape of her neck.  She stammers at first,
uncertain as to what she should do.

Then he whispers in her ear, "Scully-Scully-" over and over as if he is
repeating a mantra of thanksgiving.

And suddenly she knows.  With startling certainty, she knows.  He IS the
one she's been looking for.

All at once she is overwhelmed and her arms wrap tight around him, her
hands gripping his shoulders, roaming his back, around his neck, yanking
and pulling on folds and bunches of his dress shirt.  Her face buries in
his neck and pieces begin coming back to her, broken shards of
experiences and sounds, sights and feelings hitting her with the force
of a two ton weight.

"Mulder," she gasps out, managing his name through grateful tears, "Oh
god, Mulder. Mulder-"

Then their eyes meet, their hearts reunite as if a merging of souls on a
deserted beach.  There is nothing else for them in this moment, nothing
but the two of them and the bond that guides them.

Somehow, their lips find each other and meet amongst the tearful
reunion.  Their hearts flood with longing and need and they kiss
roughly, passionately, greedily.  Their arms grasp and fumble to hold on
for dear life, clinging to the other.

But most of all is the kiss.   It is the kiss of forever.  They promise
it over and over, again and again-

***

Personal Email:
Federal Bureau of Investigation account:

To: Fmulder@FBI.gov
From: Kstafford@FBI.gov

Subject: Goodbye

Message text:

Fox,

I know how this must sound, coming from a person who said she would
stick by you, even through the bad times, but the truth of the matter is
that I can't stay.  I wish I could, I wish I could help you during what
I'm sure will be a confusing and bittersweet time, but I can't. If it
were safe for me to stay, if it was what I thought would be best for
everyone, I would. Believe me, I would.  But I can't, and I'm sorry.

By the time you will read this, I will already be on a plane to
someplace where you won't be able to contact me.  I will have changed my
identity and my profession, and I wish I could tell you something that
would make it easier. But the fact is that I can't.  I wouldn't even
know where to start.

By now, I'm sure you've already stopped by the gunmens' and discovered
the person I left there for you to find.  I'm sorry I can't explain this
in person, but please don't think I'm a coward or that I knew where she
was all the time.  I swear that I didn't.  I happened upon her by
accident, and I didn't even realize who she was until the last second.
By then, I knew what I had to do.  I knew what would happen if the two
of us stayed. So I brought her to the gunmens' and I told them to care
for her until you got there. She was a little delirious and confused
when I found her, but she was in one piece and pretty adamant on getting
to a man she claims she once knew.  I can only assume, from the story
you've told me, that she meant you.

Now, because you've already told me your sad story, I feel compelled to
tell you mine.  It's short but it's to the point, and it's also the
reason behind my leaving you and our partnership.  I know how hollow and
false that must sound, especially given the circumstances, but I'm going
to tell you anyway, even if you don't believe me.

Five and a half months ago, when I was assigned to you, I was new to the
bureau. I didn't know up from down, left from right, but I was damn
determined to make my mark.  I came to the Ohio office thinking that it
would be a small enough place to do it.  I hadn't expected to be
assigned a partner, to be honest, and to be really honest, I hadn't
wanted one.  Especially one who had sparked more stories about him than
anyone else in the history of the bureau.

But as the men who had assigned me to you made it abundantly clear, my
wants and needs were not important to them.  My only assigment, as far
as they were concerned, was simple. They wanted me to  keep you out of
trouble.  They wanted me to keep you from killing yourself.  They told
me that your partner had been killed years before, leaving you with a
child, and that you had a death wish as a result.

It was during that meeting that they told me how disturbed you had
become, that even though you were one of the best profilers they had,
you were still a problem to be remedied.  They said that you were hell
bent on a mission to find the partner who had died, and that you would
stop at nothing to find her, even though everyone tried to tell you she
was gone. They said that someone had been taunting you, driving you to
this, that there was some sick person trying to make you believe that
there was hope in searching for her. They said that one day there would
be a woman, a woman who looked like your partner but was not, and if
ever I saw her, I should shoot first and ask questions later.  They told
me that she was highly dangerous, that she was a master at disguise and
deception, and that she would not be who she claimed. They told me that
they had been searching for this woman for a long time, and that she was
wanted by the government.  Then, in no uncertain terms, they offered me
a prestigious position with the FBI, a salary that would set me up for
life, if only I would promise to eliminate this woman the second I saw
her.

At first, I thought they were nuts.  The whole thing sounded crazy, too
crazy to believe, but I told them yes out of necessity. I didn't even
want to think about what would happen if I told them no, so I said
yes.   They made me sign a contract, and my hand shook the whole time.
I signed my life away and I still can't believe I did it.

But then, when my car skidded to a stop on the side of the road
yesterday and I saw her, I knew what the right thing to do would be. I
remembered your story, and I knew who she was.  Then I remembered what
those men had told me, and I tried to combat it against your words.  I
stood there in the rain and just watched her, and tried so hard to
justify to myself what I was about to do.

But then I remembered your voice.  I remembered seeing Hope's sad face,
and I realized that I would never be able to do it.  She wasn't
dangerous, and somehow I knew. She was Scully.  I don't know how I could
have known for sure, but I did.  I just looked into her eyes and I
knew.  I knew the look of a woman who had once been your partner Fox,
and I couldn't do what they asked.  I just couldn't.  No amount of money
could make me do it.

But at the same time, I realized I couldn't stay.  If they knew what I
had done, if they figured out that I had refused their request- Well,
after hearing your story, I got terrified of staying. I knew that
something terrible would happen if I stayed, and so I left. I am so
sorry, Fox.  Maybe one day you'll forgive me, and if ever it is safe, I
can come visit you, Scully and Hope.  Please tell them I said hi, ok?

Please realize that I won't ever be able to receive a reply at this
address, and respect my wishes not to be found. If ever I can find a
way, I will contact you.  But until then, just take care of Scully and
Hope and give them my best. Give Mrs. Scully my best, too.  And please
realize, if you understand nothing else about the events of these past
two days, that I did this for you.  Everything I have ever done during
the span of our brief partnership I have done for you.  Always remember
that and keep yourself safe.

And don't forget to watch the Knicks tonight at 8 pm.  Five bucks says
they win by ten points.  You know I never lose. You already owe me five
and lunch.  One of these days, I'll come to collect. Don't forget that,
either.

Always,
Kate

---- Epilogue ----

***
Six months later

***
Journal Entry
Dana Katherine Scully:

***

Maybe it sounds crazy Mulder, but I've decided to keep up with this
thing after all.  You know I've never been big on journals or diaries,
but I think it helps me cope with the lost time and anger that I don't
want to take out on anyone but the pages of this notebook.  Sometimes,
late at night while you and Hope are sleeping, I creep into the living
room and write, just because I can.  I sit alone, the way I used to, and
pour my heart out to a journal I know can't ever answer me.   Don't ask
me to explain the reasoning and logistics behind it because I can't, and
I won't ever be able to.

First time for everything, isn't there?

Tonight, however, I am content to just sit here, by the soft light of
our bedside lamp, and watch you sleep.  I've never done that before,
mind you, just so you don't think I do it all the time, but I find it
oddly soothing tonight.  It's just a strangely calming thing, to watch
the rise and fall of your chest, to be able to touch you and hear your
breathing.  Maybe it's because you're so lying close to me, or because I
know I could wake you up with only a slight kiss upon your lips and we
could make love until morning, just because you're mine and we can.

In my head, I know you're right here, your fingers touching my knee,
your head pressed into the pillow that lies beside mine.   You're here
in body and you're here in my heart.  But sometimes, I still find it
hard to believe, and I need to be near you and feel you to believe it.
I'd missed that for so long, longed for it before I was ever able to
know what it was I was longing for, and I relish it now.  I relish you.
I've never been really good with words Mulder, at least not with ones
that weren't medical terms or chemical reactions, you know that, but
sitting here, I feel them coming to me and rushing from this pen.

I love you.  My god, I've loved you so deeply for so long I can't
imagine not being able to feel the sensation.  Even when I couldn't
remember who you were or why I felt what I did, I still felt it.  It
gave me the strength to keep going, even in those dark hours that I
wanted to lie down and die.

And I'm so sorry, Mulder.  I'm sorry I let you down.

I wish I could have been here for you and for her, when you were a
terrified new father and she was a baby.  I wish I would have been there
when she was just a toddler, at night to tuck her in, or during the day
to kiss away her cuts and wash away her fears.  I wanted to be there
when she took her first steps.  I wanted to be there when she first
spoke.  I wanted to hear `mommy' and know that she understood who I was
and why I loved her.

She doesn't know, does she Mulder?

She still doesn't trust who I am.

But now I am going to make up for all of it, I swear I am.  I promise
you that everyday, I am going to walk with her and tell her stories.  I
am going to hold her hand and push her on a swing in the park.  I am
going to hear her laughter and know she's ours, with you standing next
to me and holding onto us.  I am going to give her a dandelion and tell
her it's for luck, even though I know you'll laugh at me for saying so,
and I'm going to tell her its from Mommy because Mommy loves her. And I
do love her Mulder.  I do- so much-

I look at her and watch her sleep, Mulder, and I can't help but think
how I want to walk with her the way I walked with you.  I want to pick
dandelions in a field and watch her giggle.  I want to know how it is
that she sounds so much like you and looks so much like a Scully.

God, how I would give anything to get those years back.  I would give
anything to take that pain away.  What she must think of me, Mulder, as
a mother who abandoned her and couldn't save her from feeling all that
pain?  I never meant for any of it to happen, I never asked to be taken
away, but I feel like it's my fault. I feel tears that constantly sting
the back of my eyes because it's my fault she hasn't had a mother.

How many years had I sat, Mulder, a confused and nameless invalid,
rotting my life away in that damned place, while you were suffering?
When all the while I should have remembered?  How long after they had
taken me, told you I was gone, did they deposit me in some psycho ward,
not ever meaning for me to find you?  How many goddamn times should I
have tried harder-fought longer-to recall your touch, and your voice?
How many times should I have tried to realize I was missing the baby I
fought so hard to have?  How weak was I, how ridiculously inadequate, to
have not broken through the haze to know you? To remember?

I'm so sorry I forgot your face, Mulder.  I'm sorry I forgot Hope's
smile.

But I swear to you, just as surely as I am your partner and you are
mine, I swear I won't ever forget again.  I won't forget how Hope smells
like vanilla and the sunset.  I won't forget the way she smiles. I won't
ever forget your lips on mine.  I won't forget your fingers on my cheek,
or your voice in my hair.  I won't forget the way you say you love me.
But most of all, I won't let them take me.

I won't let them take you, or take Hope.  I need you both so much,
though I never say it enough, and I don't know how to say it more.  I
refuse to let anyone take my family away from me again.  I refuse to let
my voice be silenced again.

But I will always be frightened, Mulder.  I have no recollection of what
they did to me and that terrifies me more than anything.  I'm sorry that
I don't ever say it, but I am.  I wish I could be stronger than that,
but I'm not.

Noah was afraid when he built the ark, wasn't he?  Do you think he was,
Mulder?  Do you think he cried when the world was plunged into the sea?

***

Outside the window, the dark subsides to let a clear bolt of lightning
illuminate the room in an eerie blue.

There is an electrical storm brewing.

Scully sighs and sets the journal down, lowering it to the nighttable
carefully, hesitating for a moment, before she changes her mind and
slips it inside the drawer.  Maybe one of these days she'll let him see
it, she thinks. Maybe one of these days she'll read it to him, one of
these days she'll reveal to him her carefully worded fears, her deeply
disturbing recollections, but not tonight.  And not tomorrow, either.
The time's just not right, she knows.  But then, maybe it won't ever be.

Carefully, she crawls out of her warmly inviting bed and brushes an
errant lock of hair out of her partner's contentedly closed eyelids.
Her gaze is gentle, reverent, intensely grateful. In some ways, she
realizes, he won't ever be able to know just how profoundly she loves
him.  Sometimes, she doesn't even know-

 She sighs and creeps slowly into the bathroom, away from Mulder and her
journal.

Flipping the light back on, she swallows hard and makes her way towards
the white marble counter.  Her feet pad lightly across the carpet, then
onto the tile, and she brushes away her russet hair with a light sweep
of her fingers.  A slap of thunder makes her jump slightly, and she
cautiously chances a look back into the bedroom, making sure that Mulder
hasn't stirred.  She doesn't want to alarm him about anything, at least
not yet, and she knows that it's better this way.  She'll tell him in
the morning, she decides, whatever the outcome may be, she tell him no
matter what.  Her heart beats hard and heavy in her chest, and her navy
silk pyjamas rustle softly in the oppressive silence of the tiny room.
The sink is just beyond her grasp, and she licks her lips, anticipating
the unforseen.

It's what I've done all these years anyways, she thinks, putting a wry
spin of the phrase.  Anticipating the unforseen-

She closes her eyes then and wraps her fingers around the stick that
protrudes from a stand in the center of the marble counter.  Her fate is
encased inside that stick, she realizes, and when she opens her eyes she
will understand exactly what that fate may be.  Understanding pushes at
her heart, and she bites her lip so hard she nearly draws blood.  Her
breathing deepens, her pulse races, and she brings the stick close to
her face, more thunder from outside almost a forboding to what she might
expect.  When she opens her eyes, she stares at the stick and leans back
against the wall.  Tears prick at the corners of her eyes and she can't
decide whether or not she's happy, shocked, surprised, or terrified.

She swallows and drags herself down the grayed wall to the cold, tiled
floor.  Her red, copper hair falls forward into her expressive blue
eyes, and she breathes deeply, trying to regain her bearings.  Just what
she is going to do now, she has no idea, except for the idea that she
knows she  needs to tell Mulder-

Mulder, she realizes with a start.  Mulder, oh what are we going to do?

A sob comes out, nearly silent and strangled in her throat, and she
drops the tiny stick from her hand, forgotten.  "Oh god," she whispers,
complete fear and insane blissfulness fighting to encompass the depths
of her confused heart.  "Oh god Mulder- what does this mean?"

Lightning paints the room again, illuminating the dark recesses of the
bathroom in flashes of baby blue and white satin.

"I'm pregnant," she manages, the words somehow not making it as real as
it should seem.  Her head throbs and swims. She tries on a smile and
closes her eyes, trying to force it into becoming real. "I'm pregnant,"
she repeats, softly. "pregnant-"

She hears a noise then and looks up, noticing her scruffy looking,
sleepy Mulder leaning against the doorway, illuminated by the flashing
lightning.  Their gazes lock for a moment and the air crackles, thunder
rumbling into the room from outside, silence taking over after it
subsides.  His eyes crash into hers as always, and her lips tremble with
nervousness. His expression is impassive.  She licks her lips and opens
her mouth, guiltily.

"Mulder-" she starts, but he cuts her off.

They stare at each other for another moment longer, her eyes torn, his
eyes indecisive.  For a second that feels like an hour, he watches her
as if he's deciding on the right words.  He doesn't know what to say
that will solve this situation, though perhaps there aren't any right
things to say.  Finally, he decides on the most simple of responses.  He
doesn't know whether it's the correct one, but he says it anyway.

"Scully, I-" he sighs then, as if it's the most obvious thing in the
world, as if it's the most obvious thing he could say, managing, "I love
you."

The world seems to hang on a thin thread and he watches her carefully,
waiting for a reaction.

After another moment longer, she whispers back, gently, "I know,
Mulder-I- I believe-"

He smiles.

And then her heart beats even harder, her eyes fill with the faint
traces of hope, when he crosses the room to scoop her up off the floor
soundly.  His arms clasp tightly onto her, her fingers run through his
cropped, bed-ridden hair, and she claims her mouth with his, whispering
to him over and over again, I love you-

There is nothing else that matters.

________________________

She's got a way about her.
I don't know what it is,
But I know that I can't live without her.
She's got a way of showing
Just how I make her feel.
And I find the strength to keep on going.
She's got a way about her.
I don't know what it is
But I know that I can't live without her,
Anyway.
---- Billy Joel, She's Got a Way


That, my friends, is the end.  If you've stuck with me for this long, I
praise you, for that was a LONG journey.  And if you liked it- well,
then thank you so very much and I am glad.  Please let me know if you
do, because it really does make me happy. And I even reply to all my
feedback, which makes everyone happy, right? <grin>  As of right now,
there are no plans for a sequel, but I wanted to leave everyone with
something they could wrap their brains around and play with, anyway.  If
you want to know what happens to Scully, Mulder, Hope and Scully's
pregancy, just use your imagination because frankly, I think trying to
write another tolling story like this would kill me.  :o)