Title: The Marionette Rebellion Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Category: MSR, A Spoilers: Everything up to and including 'The Truth.' Rating: R Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com Archive: Ask and ye shall receive. Author's Notes: I'm not sure how long a WIP this will be. I have the basic premise outlined, but this is a write as I go fic. Thanks to Snick for quick beta, encouragement in all my writing endeavors, and for her friendship. More notes at the end. -X- Chapter One -X- Scully asked me once if kismet thought she was a marionette that could be moved, bent, but never broken. The shadow conspirators with their wooden cross pulling strings attached to her hands, feet, and body, moving her at will, tossing her to the cold ground when they grew tired. After a brief respite continuing to pick up the cross, contorting her to serve their agenda, or provide whatever entertainment they found desirable. She had grown frustrated at the constant manipulation of her life, as if there would never be enough sacrifice, or alternately that they would never push her marionette self to the edge of the stage, her sanity attached only by strings to a greater plan of which she had no control. She wondered why they'd leave her alone only to come back later and toy with her again, with no regard for human life, or suffering. I thought silently for long moments before taking her face in my hands and giving her my answer. I told her that they came back time and time again for the simple reason that they could not break her. The could bend her, they could take away her sister, daughter, comfort, innocence, and even her partner, but they could never take away her faith, her love, her hope, and in that she was greater than them. They wanted to break her to prove that they were more powerful than she was, and they failed miserably every time. They would leave her alone for short spans of time going off to their secret places, planning anew, listing with bullet point precision the way in which they would defeat her. After they had formulated a plan, they would return to claim the position of puppeteer in her life, only to be shown that they might control the game but they could never completely control her. Their hands might choreograph her moves in a game she didn't fully realize, but they could never touch the inner workings of her heart and mind. They hated her for what she was, which reinforced everything they weren't. They could be bought; they all caved under the pressure at some point and sold their souls to the devil in attempt at power and controlling the game. They thought the trade would be worth it, and for a time they had convinced themselves that it was, until Scully came along with her perfectly coifed hair, bad suits, undeniable intelligence, and unwavering loyalty. As time went on there was still perfectly coifed hair, fuck me pumps, but better suits, as well as an intellect honed and expanded through her experiences, and an even more unwavering loyalty. She'd smiled her sweet smile and nodded her understanding of my explanation. She'd looked down for a moment and then looked me straight in the eyes and said that's why they never stopped persecuting me either. I nodded then, knowing that while I was flawed, I was still everything they weren't. There was a kind of power in knowing that no matter how futile the fight might be, we were never going to give up. The discussion of long ago was reintroduced to my memory while watching Scully with a faraway look in her eyes every time we passed anything baby related, while we looked at pictures of William, or whenever it came time for us to pick up and move to another nondescript motel room in another forgettable town. For the first time I'd begun to wonder if those strings were beginning to fray, and if she was teetering on the precipice of falling over into the abyss. I'd told her that maybe there was hope, and I know there is hope, but sometimes you don't see the light at the end of the tunnel. Sometimes the journey to the end of the tunnel is paved with blood, sweat, and too many tears and you are so bone weary by the time you reach that final destination that it is hard to enjoy it. The motel room in Roswell was hundreds of motel rooms ago, time spanning over a year, and thousands of miles spent trying to avoid the long reaching fingers of the ever mysterious "them." We know hope is still there, but we are tired, more so than before, scared, and today is William's second birthday. Scully went silent a hundred miles ago, although I can practically hear the wheels in her head turning. She held a picture of William for hours as we drove an endless stretch of road until finally she relented and put the edge worn snapshot back into her backpack with a few other of her treasured possessions. She stares at nothing, not speaking, experience telling me she doesn't want to be spoken to. I reach out and take hold of her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, our joined hands coming to rest on her thigh. She glances at me, head slightly down, and gives a pained smile. I nod and she looks back out the window as the colors fly past, too blurred to make out exact images, both of us too tired to care about the scenery anyway. I see a sign for Denver and breathe a sigh of relief at once again reaching civilization. I see a sign for Pete's Bar that reinforces there really is a God. We'll have a beer or three to ease our shared pain, and then find a motel room where we'll make desperate love, escaping for a moment the sad reality of our lives. For thirty minutes to an hour there will be only us on crisp, clean sheets, loving each other, and kissing away the pain. It will be a small reprieve in the grand scheme of things yet needed nonetheless. Scully sighs her guilty sigh as we pull into a parking space at Pete's, but doesn't voice opposition to stopping. She walks lazily in front of me, her feet dragging the blacktop as I follow protectively behind her. She pushes on a heavy, wooden door that reveals a dark room with the appropriate cloud of cigarette smoke, bikers, and lonely people drinking their sorrows away while celebrating someone hitting a triple on an oversized television. She walks to the most secluded booth possible and slides in. I start to slide in the side opposite her and she looks at me, her eyes silently pleading, her hand gently tapping the space beside her. I walk the two steps to her side of the booth and slide in, our hips touching, my hand going to her knee. As soon as I'm seated, she lays her head on my shoulder and exhales one tired breath after another. Words are unnecessary and unfit to describe the ache that throbs within our hearts. I bring my other hand around to her face, brushing back strands of hair off her cheek, wanting to heal her with my touch. I kiss the crown of her head as a waiter appears asking what we'd like to drink. She orders a shot of tequila for both of us. The waiter is gone and reappears more quickly than I would have thought possible. He sets down the tiny glasses filled with amber liquid, and a small saucer of limes to help ease the burn. She picks up her glass and I follow her lead. She holds the glass in her hand, preparing for a toast. She mulls it over in her mind for a long time, and I think we must look ridiculous, our arms outstretched towards each other for long minutes, not speaking, looking lost and impossibly sad. She then says, "to hoping we did the right thing by our son," and in one easy gulp downs the tequila, not bothering with salt or the lime. Sometimes, I think she wants to feel the burn, to remind her that he was real, and that he isn't as lost to her as she thinks he is. I again follow her lead, the liquor burning my throat, settling in my belly, the ache never ceasing. I raise my hand and the waiter comes over; I ask him for our check, we pay and then climb into our truck eager to find a motel room, anxious to simultaneously share and ease the pain of our greatest loss. -X- Scully never asked exactly what Skinner told me about her decision to give William up for adoption, and I was thankful for her unusual lack of curiosity, glad I didn't have to explain that I knew exactly where William was. Maybe it wasn't so good after all, because as I drive the long gravel road and pull up in front of a small farm in Wyoming, she looks puzzled and totally unprepared for what I'm about to tell her. "This is where he lives, Scully," I explain as gently as possible. She looks at the quaint house and back towards me asking "Who, Mulder? Who lives here?" "William," I say, as I take her hand in mine. "I want to leave right now," she spits angrily, jerking her hand away. This probably wasn't the best idea. I thought if she saw he was safe and happy that it would help her. I never really thought about the flip side of the coin, that she would have to face the woman he now calls "mommy." In all my planning I never thought about seeing William's adoptive father either. What the hell was I thinking? "I'm sorry, Scully. I just-" I trail off, cranking up the truck, ready to get the hell out of here. She doesn't look at me, just stares blankly at the little house. She might have been able to forgive me for not asking what she wanted, she might have seen the love behind my actions had a white pickup truck not pulled up next to our silver one at that very moment. A middle-aged man steps out of the truck and asks if he can help us. "We're lost, we were trying to find a family member that moved out here recently, and must've taken a wrong turn. Sorry about that," I lie, although not really, the more I think about it. He doesn't suspect a thing, trusting every word I just said, simply smiles and asks who it is I'm looking for. "Billy Hale," I reply. The man frowns in thought saying, "Can't say as though I know him. Would you like to come inside and use our phone? Maybe you can get a hold of him and get better directions." "Yes, if you wouldn't mind," Scully pipes in. Suddenly, I realize what a very bad idea this was. "Come on inside then," he smiles. We exit the vehicle in perfect synchronization. Scully reaches for my hand, and I take it, surprised and encouraged by this gesture of unity. Scully looks over at me and smiles slightly, and then the door opens and a little boy with curly brown hair runs out saying "da-da, da-da," a tall middle-aged woman hot on his heels. My stomach clenches so tightly that I stop walking and bend over. Scully stops as well, her hand still in mine, and stares emotionless at the scene unfolding before her. I'm still hunched over, but I look up in time to see the man pick up William and kiss is downy head. William squeals and the man holds him tightly to his chest. He walks over to us, worry evident on his face, asking if I'm all right. "I'm fine. I've been driving too long," I hedge. "This is my son, William," he beams proudly. "Hi, William," Scully replies eagerly, all heartache and mother-love in her voice. I swear William looks at Scully like he knows her, but it is when he reaches his chubby little arms to her that my heart truly breaks. She reaches out and touches his hand, this man he calls father blissfully ignorant of the reality of the situation. "He loves people; would you like to hold him," he offers. "Sure," Scully replies nonchalantly. And then William is in her arms, and it seems like he is home as he lays his head down on her shoulder. His eyes are piercing blue like his mother's, but he has my hair color and my "unique" bone structure, as described by Scully. He is so beautiful that I cannot feel pain in this moment, simply awe that Scully and I created this tiny little person who is the perfect mixture of us. She looks to me and hands him over wordlessly, knowing that our time will soon be over, not wanting to be too selfish with this strange gift. I take him and he fusses for a moment before I say "Hey, none of that." I smile, and brush a kiss across the top of his head. I take in the baby boy scent of him, and know that as I long as I live, I will never forget it. He rests his head on my shoulder as well, and for a moment, all the pain of giving him up is gone. I know it can't last forever, that in a few minutes Scully and I will drive away, dust clouding the view of our son, but for now I am content to feel him in my arms. His 'father' smiles and says "I'll take him," and then William is gone from my embrace, and my arms have never felt so empty. I mumble something about knowing where I took a wrong turn, and Scully and I bound toward the truck at an even pace, our shared burden somehow lighter and heavier at the same time. -X- We drive 358 miles without saying one word to each other. It is Scully who finally breaks the silence. "That was incredibly stupid, Mulder," she says without looking at me. "I was just trying to ease your mind, Scully. I see you day after day and I couldn't stand it anymore. I knew it would be hard, but I thought it might help if you were able to see him, to know that he was happy and okay." "I'm not talking about that, Mulder. I'm talking about the fact that if we were followed, they now know where William is. How did you know anyway?" she asks. "Skinner told me. Agent Reyes told him thinking it would be wise for someone else to know where he was, in case something happened, and we needed to get to him," I explain. "Oh," she sighs. "We need to contact Reyes and see if she can get in touch with the adoption agency, and tell them he might be in danger, or something. I don't know, but I hate for them to be walking around in total ignorance of the situation," she comments. "Okay, we'll do that." "I'm ready to stop for the day, Mulder. I'm really tired, and could use a long bath, and some sleep in a real bed," she says hesitantly, not sure if I'm ready to stop or not. "Okay," I answer. I keep an eye out for a blue sign that has the word 'lodging' on it, and pull over exactly 401 miles away from a small farmhouse in Wyoming. -X- I call Reyes from my cell phone, and tell her of the events surrounding William and our impromptu visit to see him. She doesn't say anything after I tell her what we did, and I have to prompt her to respond to my request that she contact the adoption agency. She agrees and we hang up with promises to "keep in touch," and assurances of "call us if you need us." Scully is still in the bathroom and I suspect that her face will be red, and her eyes swollen whenever she does decide to come out. Normally, I would charge right in and comfort her through whatever was upsetting her, but I decide that for today, I will let her grieve alone. I must fall asleep because the next thing I know, Scully is crawling into bed naked, wrapping her body around me, telling me "thank you" for William. I'm not sure if she means William in general, or taking her to see him. Maybe she means both. She kisses my lips and then rolls over in an effort to find sleep. I twist and turn and finally succeed in getting my t-shirt and jeans off, letting them fall into a pile on the floor. I wrap my arms around Scully and she turns to face me. The light seeping in through dingy motel curtains shadows her face, her eyes glow crystalline blue. We sleep for several hours until I am awakened by the soft sounds of crying. The bed is cold beside me and when I roll over I see light seeping out from under the bathroom door. I get up from the bed and walk to the bathroom, opening the door slowly, so as not to startle Scully. She looks up at me with red-rimmed eyes and shakes her head saying, "I left us a way out, Mulder. I want him back; I want him back." "What are you talking about?" I soothe, as I slump down beside her and wrap my arms around her shoulders. "You never signed away your rights. You, as the biological father have the right to contest the adoption," she cries. "Scully-" I'm at a loss as to what to say. We gave William up because we thought he'd be safe, and once I came back, I thought our decision was irreversible. He is our son, but what would the ramifications be of taking him from what he's considered home for a solid year. Can we protect him? "I'm late, Mulder," she says, her eyes filled with tears and fear. Oh my God. Scully went to a family planning clinic, used a fake name, and got a prescription for birth control pills. We both thought the option of becoming pregnant again had been nullified. "Scully, how- what do you want to do?" I ask, shell-shocked by her admission. "I don't know. I don't want another baby. Jeffrey Spender made William normal, or so he says, but what about this baby? What would we do, Mulder? It doesn't seem right to have another baby, special or not, and not have our son." "Maybe you're not even pregnant," I offer. "Maybe," she whispers. "Let's get some sleep for tonight, and tomorrow we'll buy a pregnancy test and go from there," I say. She doesn't speak again, just nods her head, picks herself up off the bathroom floor and crawls wearily into bed. After settling in beside her, I stare at the ceiling for what feels like hours, wondering if we should reclaim William and take him on the run with us. If we should leave him where he is. I don't even know what to think about us having another child; we obviously couldn't protect the one we do have. There is also the ever-present question of whether or not another child of ours would be normal. I close my eyes sometime during the night, but I do not sleep. -X- Title: The Marionette Rebellion Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Category: MSR, A Spoilers: Anything up to and including 'The Truth.' Rating: R Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com Archive: Ask and ye shall receive. Author's Notes: Snick, my cheerleader, and beta extraordinaire: thank you for your continued support as well as your very characteristic exuberance over anything M/S related. We are, of course, just this side of sanity, but oh how fun it is to teeter on the edge. Here's to hope, London, the sunny drive up PCH, and sitting by my big ass pool while my personal assistant lounges around on her lazy ass drinking fruity shit with umbrellas in it. Do you think I should fire her, or give her just one more chance? =) Now, on with the story! Oh, and more notes at the end. -X- Chapter Two -X- I had long ago resigned myself to never being a father if Scully could never be a mother. It is a strange twist of fate then that Scully is now peeing on a stick in the bathroom of a Best Western to see if she is pregnant with our second child. There is a part of me that wants this; I can't deny that. That small part of me that longed for a family, the secret part of my soul that longed to live out domesticated bliss with Scully, 2.5 children, and a dog named Sparky. Funny how things never turn out the way you picture them. Scully and I attempted to make a baby when we weren't even sleeping together. We were so ready, we'd made lists, and checked them twice, considered everything, determined to keep our relationship intact. We'd talked about co-parenting, and had even discussed moving in together. We still hadn't slept together, but we'd talked about cohabitating; we were doing everything backwards as usual. The point had soon become moot when she'd come home one dark, lonely night and told me that the IVF failed. I'd shaken my head at the unfairness of it all, and taken her in my arms, telling her to "never give up on a miracle." We didn't make love that night, but we shared a bed, and when we finally did make love, I'd laughed and said, "Well, will miracles never cease." Some nine and a half months, an abduction, non-death, burial, and resurrection later, that miracle was born. I wasn't there of course, because fate had decided to screw us just one more time. I'd nearly dropped to my knees when I'd walked into that hellhole in Georgia and seen blood and afterbirth covering the sheets and floor. I was angry, furious at the injustice of not being able to see my son born. After we'd gotten Scully and the baby to a hospital in Georgia, and then subsequently had them transferred to another hospital in D.C., Reyes informed me of exactly what had happened at William's birth. She told me how Scully had screamed, cried, and begged for Billy and the gang not to take her baby. It was hard to picture Scully begging anything of anyone. Scully didn't beg. Scully shouted, commanded, and could curse any sailor six ways to Sunday, but my Scully never begged. Upon hearing the facts, I'd attempted to punch a hole in the wall, only to be detained and taken to radiology while Margaret Scully, Skinner, Doggett, and Reyes escorted Scully and William home. I'd sauntered in later than night, and spied the Gunmen staring at Scully and William in awe. Scully and I'd spoken of truths and love and had kissed to what I thought was a new beginning. We'd had one day of perfect bliss, and then Kersh had called and told me I needed to get the hell out of Dodge. I'd relented after Scully told me in her best "I'm fine" voice that we would work everything out, and that we wouldn't be apart for that long. We'd set up contingency plans, email accounts, clandestine homecomings, and yet it was still a year before I returned home by a rather unique sequence of events, only to find my son gone, and Scully, well not as Scully as she'd once been. She was still a pillar of strength, still willing down to lay down her life for my own, still beautiful, still mine, yet almost as different as she was the same. Tears seemed to stream down her cheeks from twin wells that were as endless as they were blue. Her eyes held an intensity that was at times frightening, she was more dependent, more needy of my love, more physically expressive, and somehow she was also more closed off than ever. She was a contradiction that I couldn't wrap my brain around, so I held her and kissed her, and told her that there was hope. She'd smiled and we had laid down together and slept for several peaceful hours before getting up and driving the first of thousands of miles. And now we are here, without our son, wondering if by some "miracle" Scully is pregnant again. I don't want it for a thousand and one reasons, maybe more. I do want it because I love Scully, and that for me, is reason enough. It is everything and nothing I want. "Well, I'm pregnant," she says, stepping out of the bathroom, holding the test in her hands. Time seems to stand still, everything around us going quiet. There is only her and three little words. I don't hear birds chirping or the drone of cars on the road, and then with grinding procrastination the earth starts spinning again. Slowly. I hear the humming of the air conditioner, someone honking a horn in the distance, and the squeak of the bed as it gives way to a world- weary Scully. "I don't know what to say," I mumble, not really to her. "Me either. We were careful, Mulder. It's like a big fucking cosmic joke or something. You can't have children, oops, here's a daughter you never gave birth to, but hurry up and love her because she'll be dead in a few days. We tried to have a baby and that failed, and then just about the time I'd resigned myself to never be a parent, I found out I was pregnant with William. And then, well, you know what happened. Now, after being responsible, taking my pill at exactly 7 a.m. each morning, here I am, pregnant again. I can practically hear fate cackling her demented little ass off," she laughs, sort of maniacally actually. "What do you want to do? Do you want this baby?" I ask hesitantly, not sure of what I want either. "Of course I want this baby, Mulder. It's a part of you and me. And of course I don't want this baby because, as you well know, I had to give our first child up to strangers because I was unable to protect him. That was of course after he moved things with his mind and was shot full of magnetite by your half brother to correct the aforementioned ability," she snorts. I see the threads breaking, and so I reach out to her, to keep her from falling over the edge. "We'll figure this out, Scully," is all I can manage to croak out. "Yeah, I'm sure we will, Mulder. I'm just wondering how many more miles, how much heartache, and what kind of blood loss is between us and the "figuring it out" part." -X- We don't really talk about Scully's pregnancy for several days after the initial "finding out" phase. However, on the fourth day with nary a mention, and Scully running to the bathroom at all hours of the day and night to throw up, I think it might be prudent of us to have a discussion about her well being. "Is this normal?" She looks up at me with tired eyes, and nods her head. "I was really sick with William for the first couple of months," she says. "Months? There will be months of us this?" I snap, sounding harsher than I intend. "Yeah, if this pregnancy follows the same pattern as William's did, then there will be months of morning sickness, night sickness, and middle of the day sickness. A barrel of laughs, huh?" She shifts on the bed, rolling onto her back, and stares at the ceiling. I squirm in the uncomfortable motel chair, knowing that she's never really appreciated unsolicited advice. "You need to go to a doctor, have things checked out, and make sure everything is okay," I encourage. She shakes her head, effectively blowing me off. "Talk to me, Scully. I want to know what you're thinking, how you feel about William, and about this new baby," I say, gesturing in the general direction of her stomach. "We haven't really talked about any of this, not really. We just smooth it over and go on, or throw back a shot of tequila, or make love and hope the pain won't be as bad in the morning." "I'm a doctor, Mulder. I know what's normal and what's not. I know I will be sick for three months, two if I'm lucky. I know that I need to exercise, eat a lot of protein, and get some pre- natal vitamins. I know that I will have this baby, and we will love him or her, and then one night this child will smile sweetly at us right before something flies into the room and breaks through the bars on the crib. And then, I know, that someone will come for this child, for one self righteous reason or another, and we will then be forced to make another heart wrenching decision about another child that we love. I know that I seem destined to never be a mother, barren or not." "Scully-" "Don't, Mulder. I don't want your pity, or empty promises. I don't want you to tell me that everything is going to be okay, and that we will figure this out. Our son is calling someone else mommy and daddy! Our son is a thousand miles away from us. I can still see him in my mind, and you know what I think about? Do you? I think that he knew me, and that he felt safe and loved when I held him for those few brief moments. I think that you looked like a natural father, and I hate the thought of him never knowing what a good man you are. Sometimes, I think that you must hate me for giving him up. Sometimes, I hate myself. I think that I would never have dressed him in that awful shirt he was wearing, and that I probably wouldn't have let his hair get that long, or maybe I would've, when I realized it was curly," she pauses, gathering breath, "Does he have nightmares about what was done to him? Does his head still hurt? Because my heart does every time I dream about going into his nursery, hearing him crying for me, and seeing blood on his sheets. You want to know how I feel? What I think? I think I'm tired of playing the fucking hero with a white cape of truth strapped to my back while the people I love most are left by the wayside." -X- Arizona is not all it's cracked up to be. It's a nice place to remain unnoticed, with its endless stretches of poorly paved highways, hole in the wall motels, and unending summer sunshine, but the drive itself has been a lesson in what hell must be like. All we're trying to do is get to California. Skinner is still trying to clear my name, and ever since my escape last year, he's had to work double-time considering Scully is aiding and abetting. He says he's getting closer to giving us our lives back, and that he has some information waiting for us at a post office box in Palm Springs; meanwhile, it's taking us an eternity to get there. We've had to stop four times in the span of two hours in order for Scully to throw up on the side of the road. This makes vomit- stop number five. I get out of the truck and walk around to where she's crouched over, hold her hair back, and tell her everything is going to be all right. She throws up again. I'm wondering if I should take that personally. Her face is pale and clammy, and as I rub her back, I notice that I can count her ribs through her shirt. I thought pregnant women were supposed to gain weight. Scully, with her hands on her thighs, hunched over a dusty emergency lane off I-10 vomits again, and I cannot suppress voicing my concern any longer. "I really think we should try to find you a doctor, or a clinic, or something Scully," I say. "Not right now, Mulder," she replies. "Okay," I sigh. After this round of late-afternoon-sickness is over, she tries to stand up, but sways just slightly on her feet. I put my hands on her elbows, and she leans back into me. "Dehydrated," she says, before I can voice any ill-timed concern. "There's some water in the truck," I say. She nods her head, and walks back to the truck without another word. She rummages through the truck until she comes up with a bottle of water. After unscrewing the top she takes a sip and swishes it around in her mouth before spitting it onto the ground. She recaps the bottle and climbs inside the truck, closing the door, signaling that she's ready to go. I walk around to the other side, climb in, and begin to drive again. After being on the road for about twenty minutes, Scully, out of nowhere, poses a question, breaking the not-so-comfortable silence. "When and how are we going to get William back, Mulder?" I feel sucker punched. One day she's nearly hysterical about William and being pregnant, doesn't speak about it again for almost a week, refuses my attempts at any kind of discussion, and then wham! - suddenly she's ready to talk about it. On the other hand, I can't really be mad at her either. Scully has always been this way, taking her time when she needs it, and coming around when she's ready. She is and always has been worth the wait. How are we going to get our son back? "I don't know, baby." She nods her head, as if that is answer enough, and we make it to California just before midnight. -X- Title: The Marionette Rebellion Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Category: MSR, A Spoilers: Everything up to and including 'The Truth.' Rating: R Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com Archive: Yes, to Christelle at WIPS of Our Lives. All others: Ask and ye shall receive. Author's Notes: Thank you, Snick, for beta. Here's to not stumbling off airplanes, London, and living out our dreams. Oh, and I gave my p.a. another chance, in case you were wondering. Gentle readers: Thanks for reading, and thanks to all of you that have sent feedback. After this update, look for subsequent updates every 5-7 days. More notes at the end. -X- Chapter 3 -X- "Is this line secure?" "Yes." "It's pretty sunny here; I got the package you sent." "I assume you know what to do next, Mulder." "Yes, it's what we've been doing for the past year, but there may be some complications in continuing to sneak in and out of high security DOD facilities." "What do you mean? What's going on?" Skinner asks, only slightly more perturbed than usual. "There have been some, shall we say, interesting developments," I remark. "Spit it out, Mulder. I don't have time to play twenty questions." "It's about Scully-" "Is she all right?" I've always been amused at Skinner's soft spot for Scully. I'm not sure whether or not she knows, but he loves her, and I'm not talking about a paternal-she's-like-a-daughter- to-me love. If I wasn't so secure, I might be jealous. "There has been some talk about getting our son back-" "I don't think that's a good idea, Mulder." For the moment, I choose to ignore his vague warning. "She's also pregnant." "I see," he says, contained surprise evident in his voice. "I heard about your little side trip to the great Midwest. That wasn't one of your better ideas, Mulder, although I suspect I know why you did it. We've got someone on it," he says cryptically. "Is everything okay?" "Yes, the situation is being monitored. William's adoptive parents knew who you were though, but that's a story for another day." "What? How?" I ask. "I can't discuss this right now, Mulder, just bear that in mind when making any future decisions." I take the hint. "How are things on the home front?" "The new Deputy Director is even more of a pain in the ass than Kersh ever was." "That's saying something," I laugh. "They still haven't found anything on Kersh yet?" "No, we're continuing our investigation, but no news yet. I'll be in touch, Mulder. Try to cool off and take it easy," he says, before hanging up. With my super-secret decoder ring I deduce we're supposed to go back to Denver, and stay a while. -X- "What do you mean they knew who we were?" Scully's eyebrow is shaking hands with her hairline. She's taking this about as well I thought she would. "That's all Skinner said, and he wouldn't elaborate. I'm sure we'll find out soon enough though." I try to remain calm, but I'm tired, and I've got self-flagellation issues of my own to deal with. "I'm going to call him; I want to know what's going on with my son," she says, stomping towards the phone. "Our son, Scully. Our son." "I'm sorry - I just want to know what's going on with our son," she says pitifully. I step in front of the phone, "Scully, we can't call Skinner right now. We have to try and hold it together until he can get back to us," I say, pinching the bridge of my nose between my fingers. I've got a massive headache coming on. Just fucking great. "I want to know what's going on - right now." I look up and for a moment I see the Scully of ten years ago - tough as nails, not taking anybody's shit, putting me in my place with one perfectly arched eyebrow and steel resolve in her voice. It's not that she's weak now, it's that she was so much stronger then. "We need to wait for him to get back to us, Scully. There's a reason he didn't want to tell me right now. He'll call or send word when it's safe for us to know. If we want to get William back, then we've got to be patient. It's not going to happen overnight," I say, trying to calm her. "I know that." "I mentioned that we might have to make other arrangements regarding the DOD facility in Nevada; I think he's going to try to find another way to get the information." "I can go with you," just a slight hesitation in her voice. "I don't think that's for the best right now. I want you and the baby safe, and breaking and entering does not equal safe. We're already in enough danger just being alive and on the run. Humor me with this one, Scully." "Okay," she sighs wearily. "Let's get some sleep. Skinner gave me the heads up on where we're supposed to head next, and we've got a couple of days worth of driving ahead of us." "Which message was it?" "Cool off and take it easy." "Denver?" she asks. "Denver," I say, nodding my head. -X- -Barstow, California- "How do you feel, Scully?" "Fine, Mulder." "That's good." -X- -Las Vegas, Nevada- "Scully, do you want to talk about things? I understand why you didn't want to discuss every minute detail about what happened before I came back, but it's been a year, and we need to talk about it now." "I don't feel like talking about it, Mulder." -X- -St. George, Utah- "You okay, Scully? That's the third time we've had to pull over today. I'm wondering if we're going to be stopped by the police for defiling the I-15 emergency lane." "I'm fine, Mulder" "Okay." -X- -Hurricane, Utah- "How do you think I got pregnant, Mulder? "I'm guessing it was as a result of you saying 'harder Mulder- faster, Mulder- yeah just like that,' and then I screamed yours and God's name, and-" "We were careful, Mulder." "Is the pill 100 percent?" "No." "Well, Scully, with our luck, there you go." "I don't know. That seems too cliche, even for us." "Hmmm-" "Mulder?" "Yeah?" "What do you think William was? Do you think he's what Jeffrey Spender says he was?" "No, I don't. I think that when you were abducted they did extract your ova, but not all of them. I think at some point, maybe when you were infected with the virus in Antarctica, or when I gave you the vaccine, I don't know for sure, but I think it altered your DNA. There's also the ship in Africa; you said you saw dead fish come alive again, it's possible that your exposure to the ship triggered something in your DNA. I think William is like Gibson Praise, only for some reason his abilities are, I mean were, even more intense. I think Jeffrey believed what he told you, but in reality, all he did was turn that DNA off again. If he was what Jeffrey Spender said he was, then the magnetite would have killed him. I believe that we were played, that Jeffrey Spender was played, and we laid down our cards just like they wanted us to." "You think the elder Spender set Jeffrey up, set all this in motion, knowing that I would sacrifice our own happiness for William's safety?" "Yes, I do." "You think that's what he was talking about last year? About seeing you broken?" "Yes." "Why? "He couldn't have either one of his sons. He didn't want me to have mine." "Do you think this baby will be like William?" "I don't know." -X- -Green River, Utah- "I love you, Mulder." "I know, Scully." -X- -Grand Junction, Colorado- "Since we're going to be in Denver for a while, I think I'm going to try and find a doctor. I want to have everything checked out, and make sure everything is okay." I smile, knowing that Scully takes her time, and comes around when she's ready. She is and always has been worth the wait. "That's good, Scully." She slides her hand across the console of the truck, and lets it rest on my thigh. I alternate between looking at her and the long road that stretches out in front of us, and I think to myself that she looks beautiful, and that I am glad I will be able to see how pregnancy will change her. I'm thankful I'll be here with her this time. I lift her hand to my lips and deliver a litany of promises through soft kisses - this time will be different - I'm not leaving you ever again - you don't have to be afraid - I want this baby even though I probably shouldn't - we're going to get William back - everything is going to be all right. She smiles at me as though she hears my unspoken words. I think maybe she does. -X- -Denver, Colorado- Skinner's early Christmas gift was three sets of new identities; a pass key, and set of blueprints to a DOD facility in Nevada as well as what I'm supposed to be "shopping" for there: a virtual grocery list of the governments dirtiest little secrets. He also sent us our new bank information, so our "fugitive on the run" funding has been replenished. Unfortunately, it is time to dump 'slick silver.' Oh, the memories. We've had this truck for three months though, and that is about as long as we like to keep any one vehicle. "Scully, we need a new bat mobile." "Yeah, I kind of figured we'd be doing that once we got here," she grins. "Are you tired? Would you rather go find a place to stay first, or do you want to go ahead and take care of business?" I ask. "Business before pleasure," she sighs, and I can't help but smile. I drive through Denver looking for a car dealership, and it isn't long before I hit automobile mile. As Scully and I exit 'slick silver,' a salesman approaches us with an ear-to-ear grin, and I am reminded again why I hate buying and selling cars. We pay in cash, much to the surprise of our over eager, hormone driven, staring at my woman salesman, and an hour and a half after we arrive; we drive away in our swanky new Ford Excursion. It's swanky all right, and it's like driving a damn bus. After laughing at me for three miles, as I try to maneuver in and out of traffic, Scully says, "men who buy big vehicles have small penises, and are trying to live vicariously through their automobiles in an attempt to make up for their genital inadequacies." I'm halfway back to 'Kevin Eastland's Ford' before she laughs and tells me she's joking. We find a motel and stop for the night. Scully tells me if we're going to be here a while, she'd rather find an apartment to rent month to month, and that she needs to go shopping tomorrow. I mumble an "okay," and kiss her cheek; she turns over and I curl up behind her, the gentle sounds of her breathing lull me to sleep. -X- My phone chirps from its place on the nightstand, and I reach over to answer it, with a gruff "Hello?" "Mulder, it's me." "Only Scully is allowed to say that," I quip. "Very funny, Mulder," Skinner says, not sounding the least bit amused. "It's 3:30 in the morning, what is it?" I ask. "I've sent someone to help you get into the DOD facility in Nevada. We need to get that information now, or it may disappear," he explains. "Who?" "Your favorite ex-FBI agent." "My favorite ex-FBI agent is Scully," I reply. "Consider -favorite ex-FBI agent- in the most derisive sense of those words." "I am not breaking into a DOD facility with John Doggett as my right hand man." "Now is not the time for alpha male posturing, Mulder. He's all we've got. Scully can't go and you need back up. He's our best bet, and more than that, he's willing to help you. Think of the bigger picture, of you and Scully not being on the run, of William, of your unborn child." Skinner knows all the right buttons to push, and is obviously not above emotional manipulation. "When and where am I supposed to meet him?" I ask. "Day after tomorrow, meet him where I mail your cool climate information, sometime between 2:00 and 5:00 p.m." "I can't wait," I retort. "I'm sure," Skinner says. -X- Title: The Marionette Rebellion Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Category: MSR, A Rating: R Spoilers: Everything up to and including 'The Truth.' Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com Archive: Yes, to Christelle at WIPS of Our Lives. Everyone else: Ask and ye shall receive. Author's Notes: Thanks to Snick and Beach for above and beyond beta on this chapter. Beach: Your kindness, patience, and understanding are appreciated. Thank you for always encouraging me, and for being willing to help me out at a moments notice. Snick: Here's to London, five o'clock shadows, the whole "he nibbles on my neck and I love it" obsession, and to our friendship, which is such a blessing in my life. More notes at the end. -X Chapter Four -X- "That was Skinner on the phone. He's sending Doggett to accompany me to Nevada," I whisper. "Mmm hmm," Scully murmurs. "When will he be here?" her voice soft, eyes closed. "I'm supposed to meet him in Brighton the day after tomorrow. We'll probably fly out of Denver International later that night, but I should only be gone for a day," I say, nuzzling her hair. "Okay," she murmurs. Her neck smells faintly of vanilla and sweat; I press a kiss below her ear, follow the path of her jaw, lips just barely grazing over baby soft skin. "Sore," she says, as I cup her breast in my hand. "I'll be gentle; I want you," I say, caressing her breasts softly, enjoying the feel of hardening nipples beneath my fingers. She rolls over on top of me, and I place my hands on her hips. My cock presses into her belly, and she reaches between us and strokes me through my pajama pants. "Feels good, baby," I mumble into her hair. In one swift motion she reaches up and pulls the t-shirt over her head. I gently squeeze both her breasts in my hands, our hips moving rhythmically against one another. I stop touching her long enough to remove my pants and her panties. As soon as our barrier of clothing is gone, my body melds with hers, and she moves up and down on top of me, her head thrown back, eyes squeezed shut, small gasps escaping her lips. Her skin is warm to the touch, the pace of our lovemaking causing beads of sweat to form at her hairline. My hands wander over her breasts, arms, and ass, until finally grasping onto her waist, pushing and pulling her down on me. She leans forward and back again, saying my name over and over. She looks at me, eyes only half open as her orgasm envelops her, carrying her away for the moment, bringing her back to me as the sensation ends. She closes her eyes and smiles. My release follows hers, and I give into it, panting her name, words of love interrupted by kisses to her neck, collarbone, one breast and then the other. After we are both sated, she lies down on top of me, her swollen breasts warm against my chest. Using my finger I draw smiley faces on her back; her breath is cool against my neck. "I never get tired of this," she says. "There were times before we were lovers when I'd dream of you. It wasn't always sexual; it was more sensations, feelings of fulfillment and completeness. I would wake up feeling drunk off the intensity of those dreams, the ways you would touch me, the things you would say to me. There are times now, when I feel as though I am dreaming again, and I think if I am, I don't ever want to wake up." "I know the feeling," I say, kissing the tip of her nose. "God, I love you," I whisper, closing my eyes. -X- -Fallon, Nevada- "Military Restricted Access," I read slowly, "it looks like we're in the right place." "Yeah," Doggett says, agreeing with me, looking like he's about to shit his pants. "You don't have to do this. I'll go in alone, and you can walk away right now," I offer. "Dana would hunt me down and kill me if anything happened to you because I was a being a coward. I'm going in, let's not waste anymore time debating the issue," he says. "All right then," I say, trying to tamp down my annoyance at him using her first name, although him using her last name wouldn't be much better. It's hard not to be possessive of a woman like Scully. Once you've had her, you sure as hell don't want anyone else to have her. I know she's mine; I just want everyone else to know it as well. I pull the blueprints of the building out of my briefcase, along with the passkey, and an identification badge. The heavy weight of my gun is reassuring under my army fatigues, although I hope I don't have to use it. I turn to Doggett, who is kneeling beside me and begin to explain the plan, "We're going to walk along the edge of the fence, and up over the hill for about a quarter of a mile, that should parallel us with the correct building. I have a fence cutter in my briefcase; I'll cut the fence, and from there it's about a half a mile to building two. We want to try and blend in after that. Hopefully, we can get in, and get out before anyone notices. Do you have the blank disks?" "Yeah," he answers. "Once we copy the necessary files to disk, I want you to hold onto them. Chances are if something happens, they'll come after me first. If we're separated, or I'm taken into custody, I want you to fly back to Denver and get Scully, then take her and the disks to Skinner. If we pull this off without any complications just deliver the disks to Skinner as planned. Can you do that for me?" "Absolutely," he answers. "I know we have our differences, but thank you," I say as a sort of truce. "Let's get going, just follow me, and act like you belong there once we're on the inside." We make our way over the hill, and I successfully cut the fence without any alarms blaring. It's just over half a mile from the fence to the building, although it feels more like ten. 'I'm getting too old for this shit,' I think to myself. The area surrounding the building is deserted, although I hear the drone of humvees and voices in the distance. We jog to a door with an electronic entry pad, and I slip the passkey into the slot. Green light. We're in. The set up reminds me of the three other DOD facilities Scully and I've broken into over the past year. There are the requisite number of unmarked doors, as well as a maze of seemingly unending hallways. I focus on the directions I memorized on the flight out from Colorado, and feel surprisingly confident in my navigational skills. Doggett follows behind at an even pace as I continue to guide us around the bowels of the building. Bingo. I stop at the door marked -General Shevar-, and slide my passkey in the keypad, the light turning green as I remove it from the slot. File cabinets line one wall of the large office; a computer system lines the other wall. I sit down at the desk and pull a list of codes and passwords out of my shirt pocket. After hitting the enter key, a screen pops up prompting me for a password. If only I'd known stealing government secrets was this easy. I type the password, and a jumble of numbers and letters roll on the screen so quickly that I am unable to read them. At the bottom of the screen there is a window asking me for a "subject number" and another separate window asking me for "file number." I look to my crib notes and type in the last of the information Scully and I picked up in Palm Springs. I'm aware of Doggett breathing over my shoulder, but am pulled from my reverie when I see the look on his face, and follow his line of vision: -/-/- File Number: 9867477901 Subject Number: 1000-47 Name: Rohrer, Knowle Current Status: Deactivated as of 5-20-02. Cause of Deactivation: See File Number: 9867477902 -/-/- At the bottom of the screen, the two previous windows remain, and I proceed to type in the file number noted in the first file I accessed. -/-/- File Number: 9867477902 Cause of Deactivation is as follows: Subject Number: 1001-47 was sent on 5-19-02 to eliminate Subject Numbers: 1151-7746 and 1151-5516. Subject Number: 1001-47 encountered difficulty and experienced deactivation due to magnetite compound. Files purged. Records clean. -/-/- Experience lends its hand and gives me an idea as to the identity of the subject numbers referenced, but needing to know for sure, I type the first subject number into the drop down window. The screen rolls through an abundance of information before stopping on one file. -/-/- File Number: 3971610987 Subject Number: 1151-7746 Name: Mulder, Fox William Current Status: White Raven Current Location: Unknown Last Known Location: Westbrook, Maine Subject Number: 1151-5516 Name: Scully, Dana Katherine Current Status: Red Raven Current Location: Unknown Last Known Location: Westbrook, Maine Subject Number: 1151-4616 Name: Mulder, William Scully Current Status: White Raven -See File Number: 4616223 Current Location: Wheatland, Wyoming Subject Number: 1151-4617 Name: Unknown Current Status: Red Raven -See File Number: 4617223 Current Location: Unknown -/-/- "Who's that? The last subject number?" Doggett asks. "Scully's pregnant." "Oh shit," Doggett sighs. "Yeah. We don't have time to talk about this right now. Give me the disks, let's get this information copied, and get the hell out of here." I scroll down past the initial file information and see a virtual play by play of the last ten years of my life. There are records on everything: The date Scully was assigned to the X Files, details on Scully's abduction, Melissa Scully's death, Emily's death, notations about a "chip," bank deposits with other subject numbers attached to them, Diana Fowley, orders to bomb a box car, information regarding Tunguska, lengthy notes on intimate moments Scully and I shared together, a detailed reporting on any dealings we had with the Syndicate and their associates, my abduction, William's birth, dates correlating to when they noticed I had gone underground, detailed reports of attempts to abduct William, hospital records summarizing what Spender did to William, William's adoption records, notations of my activities at the Mount Weather facility, the date of last known contact, more pecuniary records indicating pay offs to subject numbers within the last year for "services rendered." I save our information and Rohrer's on separate disks, and wonder how in the hell I'm going to explain all of this to Scully. -X- "It's me." "How are things going, Mulder?" "Don't say anything, Skinner. After my side trip I'm not sure your phone is as clean as you think it is," I state definitively. "Where are you calling from?" he asks. "31,000 feet, where else?" "Did you go shopping?" "Yes, and then some. I'm going mountain climbing. Call me in a few days, when you find a secure landline. We need to talk," I say. "I'll be in touch," he replies. -X- -Denver, Colorado- "Scully? Are you here?" I call out, as I open the door to our motel room. She doesn't answer right away, so I drop my keys and briefcase on the bed, and amble towards the bathroom. I push the door open and see her sitting on the bathroom floor holding a familiar plastic container in her hands. "What are you doing Scully? What's going on?" "Skinner told Marita Covarrubias that we're in Denver." She raises an arm and wipes her face across her shirtsleeve. "Marita? Was she here?" "She called me," she says, gesturing towards the phone by the bed, "and told me she had some information for me. She expressed her gratitude to you for saving her life last year, and said the information was a down payment on the debt she owed you." "Go on," I encourage. "She asked me if I'd been taking any medication over the past year, and when I admitted that I had, she said I might want to have it checked out. I used one of our aliases to gain access to the University of Colorado in Boulder, and told the head of the science department that I needed access to a lab for a few hours. I told him I needed to run some tests for a case I was investigating," she says, trying to maintain her composure. "What is it, Scully? What did you find?" I ask. "These," she says, holding up her birth control pills, "are nothing more than sugar pills. All of them," she finishes. She stands up and leans over the sink, her knuckles going white from the grip she has on the counter. She throws the pills at the mirror, and turns around and exits the bathroom. "I don't understand Scully; you went to random clinics across the country. This doesn't make sense." "Yeah, I did, except right before we came back to Denver. We'd been in Maine for three months, Mulder. It would have been easy to track my movements if they'd figured out where we were." "I can't believe this." "Why, Mulder? Why do this to me?" she asks, pacing the small room. "I found some things in Nevada, Scully. They know about the baby, I think they're hoping for another William." It's hard to be honest with her. She's so close to the edge already, but now is not a time for secrets. "They saw their chance and they took it. We should have never stayed in Maine that long; it was stupid and careless. I'm just an incubator for something they want; proof, knowledge, power. Honestly, I don't even know," she sighs, pausing to catch her breath, "The clincher is that it's a baby, our baby; not an experiment, not unloved or unwanted, no matter how it came to be. Whatever the hell was wrong with William, doesn't matter, DNA tests proved you were the father. I'm betting it will be the same with this baby. They can manipulate me because I allow them to; I have no choice. It's our child, that supersedes any fucking choices I may have, and they know it. I've already lost two children to these people. I- don't- know- what- else- they- want- from- me-," each word punctuated by her fists pounding against the wooden dresser. "Stop it, Scully. You're going to hurt yourself," I implore, grabbing her arms. "Hurt myself? I don't fucking care if I hurt myself, Mulder," she laughs, shrugging off my hold on her, "If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, right? They've been using and abusing my body for years, why should I give a damn anymore?" she yells, and in one sweeping motion, knocks a lamp to the floor. My mind recalls our conversation so long ago, of strings and puppets, of power and helplessness. One string snaps and the force of it brings her to her knees. "I can't do this anymore, Mulder. I can't, I can't, I can't," she cries without tears. A second string is severed and she is unable to hold herself up any longer. She collapses against the wall, clenched fists framing her face. "These are my children, our children, Mulder. They've taken our choices, invaded our lives, our bodies, our minds, our bed. I just want them to leave us alone, just leave me alone," tears finally tracking down her cheeks, and I wonder if they will ever stop." When will it end, Mulder?" "I don't know, Scully. I just don't know." She struggles against me, pressing her hands against my chest, pushing her body away from mine. She rises to her feet, and proceeds to break everything she can get her hands on. There will be nothing left to break by the time she is finished. I make no attempt to stop her. She speaks words and phrases that astound me. She curses God, and begs him to help her in the next breath. She tells William she loves him, and tells me she's sorry. She does it again, and again, and again, while I sit with my head in my hands, watching as she bloodies her fists, and damns the world to hell for everything they've done to her. She goes through the list of sacrifices one by one, uses the words "medical rape," says things about her abduction that she's never shared with me, cries for her children, she even cries for me. I know that I am partly responsible, for I have sat by, while one horror after another was visited upon her. She dropped hints, tried a couple of times to get away, knowing the path we were following was taking its toll on her. I could only see that she was leaving, and that I could never live without her. I never considered that she needed to leave for reasons that had nothing to do with me. Loving her has made me a greedy man. I could never get enough of her, and she would never have denied me. She was willing to give me everything, and I took it all, without hesitation. She rips the cross from her neck and throws it into a corner. I wonder if somewhere there is a man who has just lain down his own cross, knowing the marionette is broken, smiling with the knowledge of his victory. -X- Title: The Marionette Rebellion Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Category: MSR, A Spoilers: Everything up to and including 'The Truth.' Rating: R Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com. Archive: Yes to the following: Christelle at WIPS of Our Lives (http://sciencex.tzo.com/xf/wips/); V at Tequila Shooters (www.TequilaShooters.ohGo.com); Sybil Duckie at Just Duckies (www.justduckies.org). Everyone else: Ask and ye shall receive. Author's Notes: Thanks to Snick and Beach for beta. More notes at the end. -X- Chapter Five -X She stares at me as if I am a stranger. Emptiness. Blood-red fists. Anger. Tear stained face. Sorrow. "I'm sorry," she says. Penance. Staring at the floor, the broken remnants of our room, little pieces of her soul in shattered glass. Irreparable. Refusing to meet my gaze. Shame. Seconds, minutes, hours passing by. Silence. "Let me help you." 'Let me heal you' is what I want to say. She nods, holding her hands out to me, 'heal me, Mulder' is all I hear, although she says nothing. Need. Water running over cuts and bruises. Pink-tinged water swirling down the drain. Pain. 'Don't cry, Scully,' I think to myself. I can't tell her not to cry. She can cry for a hundred years if it will make her whole again. I'll be waiting for you, Scully. You always come around when you're ready. Take your time; I'll be waiting. "We have to leave tomorrow," I say. Taking off my t-shirt, tearing it in jagged strips, wrapping the fabric around her hands. "Why? I thought we were staying in Denver for a while." "I'm not sure it's safe here," I reply. "Okay," she sighs. Resignation. Fidgeting, pacing, hands through my hair. Helplessness. Don't fade away, Scully. Selfishness. Crawling into bed, burying her head under the covers, falling asleep. Relief. 'Sleep, Scully,' I tell her in my mind. Dream of when you were whole, when we were happy, when having each other was enough. -X- -Goodland, Kansas- "You okay, Scully." "Yeah." -X- -Junction City, Kansas- "I'm going to stop so we can get something to eat." "Okay." -X- -Topeka, Kansas- "Talk to me, Scully." "Can you pull over?" "Why? Are you sick again?" "Yeah." -X- -Columbia, Missouri- "How are your hands? Do they still hurt?" "They're fine." -X- -St. Louis, Missouri- "Are you ready to stop for the day? Are you tired?" "Yeah, let's stop and get some sleep." -X- -Marion, Illinois- "We'll get through this. Scully, are you awake?" -X- -Nashville, Tennessee- "You need anything from the store? I'm stopping for gas and some more sunflower seeds." "Bottled water and something for this headache. Wait, Tylenol, you can take that when you're pregnant." "How is the baby?" "Fine, just fine." -X- -Knoxville, Tennessee- "What did you and John Doggett find in Nevada?" "Lots and lots of files." "Anything surprising?" "Not really." "Are you telling me everything?" "Probably not." -X- -Asheville, North Carolina- "Not too much longer, Scully." "Good." -X- -Raleigh, North Carolina- The door creaks as I push it open. My back is sore from driving half way across the country. This motel room isn't any different than the others; they all look the same. Faded comforter, cheap particle board furniture, 19-inch television, mirrored closets, worn carpet. Scully shuffles inside dragging her duffel bag behind her. I'd asked her to let me carry it; I knew her hands must be sore, but she'd refused, saying she wasn't an invalid. After dropping my keys and a package of sunflower seeds on the table, I make my way to the bathroom in order to relieve my aching bladder. Scully sits on the bed, the same blank stare on her face that she's had for the past four days. "Hey Scully, I'm taking a shower," I call out over my shoulder. Sometimes the best feeling in the world is a good, long piss. "All right." I'm not surprised to find that she's asleep once I'm out of the shower. She's taken to wearing my t-shirts to bed. I don't mind. It feels like something normal not-on-the-run people would do. Easing down on the bed, I lie down facing Scully. So many nights we've shared a bed, not nearly enough, and yet too many on the road. Her skin is soft under my calloused hand. I draw a line down her cheek with my finger; she relaxes into the bed, her body telling me not to stop. Hair like silk; it falls through my fingers, strangely ironic that I cannot see the color red. There are some things, no matter the reason, that you will never truly know about another person. I will never know exactly what color her hair is, never know what she sees. Hands that are both fragile and strong, a contradiction, yet both are true. Tears roll down my cheeks. "I'm sorry, Scully," I whisper, hoping I don't wake her. Words, sentences, apologies, questions all circle my brain like vultures for fresh meat. The unanswerable picking my bones dry, leaving nothing, taking everything. I take her hand in mine, and tell her silently, in the safety of darkness and sleep, everything I cannot tell her in the sunlight. This life we've hoped for is like holding water in the palm of your hand. You squeeze your fingers together trying to contain it, the water receding so slowly you don't even notice that you've been losing it drop by drop all along. Have I told you I miss our son? When Skinner first told me about what you'd done with William, my heart dropped to my stomach, and then I'd laughed. I'd actually laughed, and told him it wasn't funny. I told him I was sorry that I'd put on my crazy act and scared the two of you, but that my son wasn't something to joke about. All he said was 'I know.' And then I knew. He wasn't joking, it wasn't a nightmare I could wake up from, he was telling me the truth. He told me about the day you called him and asked him to come over to your apartment. He told me that he held you in his arms as you cried that you had no choice. I was jealous, for a split second, before Skinner said that at that moment he'd rather have been anywhere but there with you. Funny how I would have rather been there than anywhere else. I wanted to be angry with you, tell you that you'd made a mistake, because we could repair a mistake. Blaming you for anything never came easy for me, and the day I found out about William would be no different. I could only imagine what must have happened for you to feel as though you had no other choice. Skinner told me I could never imagine what you went through. He said he'd never seen you so emotional, so out of sorts, beside yourself, depressed, lost, hopeless. I would have come back if I would've known. Do you know I would have protected you and William? I would have tried. Do you know that you are not alone? Do you know that my heart aches for our children? Do you know that I am afraid for all of us? I am not the man that danced in the rain with you so long ago. You are not the only one who has changed. I was obsessed, driven, self-centered, spitting into the wind with my quest. You said you would do it all over again. So would I, but I would do it so differently. Will there ever come a time when you realize you are the most important facet of my life? You are my heart's desire, my quarter wish in the reflecting pool, my North Star. -X- Sunlight peeks through a slight separation the motel curtains. I am vaguely aware of ringing, voices, and then an elbow gently prodding my ribs. "Mulder, wake up," Scully chides, "It's Skinner." Rolling over, I find Scully staring at me, holding my cell phone in one hand, a fist full of sheets in the other. Taking the phone from her, I hold it to my ear, and fall back onto the bed. "Yeah, what is it?" I ask, rubbing the remnants of sleep from my eyes. "I've been in contact with John Doggett, Mulder. It seems the two of you struck gold in Fallon," he explains, without sounding as happy as I'd like for him to. "Yeah, I saw the information about Knowle Rohrer. Evidence regarding his attempt to eliminate us seems to support the fact that he was not killed at Mount Weather." "The military has dropped all charges against you for any involvement in Knowle Rohrer's death," he says, none too sarcastically. "Is that so," I retort. "Yes, that seems to be the case," he says. "What did you think of the other information found in the files?" I question. "I'd have to say I think you're being set up," he confirms. "That would seem to be the case," I say, agreeing with him. "Does Scully know about all of this?" "No," I answer, glancing at Scully. "Why not?" he asks. "Things have been complicated." Scully gives a self- deprecating smirk before lying back down on the bed. Complicated is the understatement of the year. "Are things ever not complicated with the two of you?" Skinner laughs. "Not lately," I reply. "I take it that Scully received a certain phone call," he says, asking, but knowing the answer just the same. "Yes, I assume you know what that was about," I infer. "I do," he states unequivocally. "Then you know that's why I've been cleared of the murder charge against Rohrer." Scully turns over to face me, eyebrow up in question, hopeful of what an all clear might mean for us. "It wouldn't be a stretch to say that those two events are connected," he says, resignation in his voice. "What do you know about White Raven versus Red Raven status?" I ask. "I have an idea about that," his gruff reply indicative of anything but good news. "Lay it on me, Skinner." "Red is assigned to a person of value, white is assigned to a person or persons of no consequence," he explains. "Which is why they haven't bothered William." I throw an arm over my face; I'm not ready to face Scully about this just yet. It's one of those explanations you want to put off as long as possible. "Yes," he answers. "I think that whatever was done to him, whatever Jeffrey Spender injected him with, caused him to be less important in the eyes of the men that were seeking him," Skinner finishes. "What is going on, Skinner? How did those people know who we were?" "I'm not sure-" "Quit dancing around the damn issue and just tell me what the hell is going on," I interrupt, tired of avoiding the subject. "Reyes took some time off from her job, and went to Wyoming to keep an eye on William for a few days. We had to let William's adoptive parents know of our involvement, however, after she was spotted tailing them. They told her quite a story over coffee one night." "What?" "Mrs. Van de Kamp said she'd never felt at ease with the adoption. She said that she had a nagging concern that William wasn't healthy, and there were other concerns as well, although she could never put her finger on it. Time went on and she put it in the back of her mind, until a man came to visit her a few weeks ago and told her a very interesting story." "I want to know," I say. "I figured as much," he pauses, inhaling a breath, "She said her husband was at work and a man came to visit her. He said he needed to speak to her about William. Immediately she was alarmed because she didn't know him and hadn't told him William's name. Basically, he told her that he knew her fears, knew what she'd been questioning for the past year, and he was going to give her an answer to all the questions she had." "And what answers did he give her?' "She said that the man told her that William had a destiny to fulfill. Ill conceived decisions and the desire to make William her son would not change fate. Mulder, she said that William would lead armies against an unprecedented enemy of our world, that he would fight alongside his true father, and that when his father was gone, William would be the legacy he would leave behind." "What else?" I ask, stunned by what I'm hearing. Skinner exhales audibly, preparing for the last of the explanation, such as it is, "The man told her that William's true parents would come to them under the guise of strangers. He made it clear that you wouldn't take William right away, not until the time was right," he finishes. "Did he give a clue as to when that time might be?" "No, he said that she would know." "So, she believed him," I ask, already knowing the answer. "You showed up at their house the next day, Mulder. I'd say that was pretty convincing to a housewife," Skinner laughs dejectedly. "Yeah, I guess so," I rejoin. "Do you have an ID on our mystery man?" "No, she said William called out to her, and she turned around to pick him up. When she turned back around, the man had vanished." "That's certainly interesting," I quip. "You know it's not safe for you and Scully right now," Skinner says, a familiar protectiveness in his voice. "I know. I also know that we can't stay on the run forever. They know where William is and I've been cleared of all charges. We cannot continue to run," I stress. "No, you can't, but there are other considerations right now, Mulder. William might not be at risk now, but he can always be used against you, and then there's your unborn child, as well as all the information retrieved in Fallon." "We're coming back to D.C." Scully turns on the bed, eyes wide with questions, and moves her hand to my forearm. Skinner voices opposition, but I stand firm in my resolve to stop running. We exchange goodbyes, disconnecting with a promise to get in touch as soon as we're back in D.C. "We need to go. I'll explain everything on the way," I tell Scully, staring at the ceiling, trying to take it all in. She nods once, and without questioning me, begins putting clothes in her duffel bag. -X- -Petersburg, Virginia- "So, the baby and I were classified as Red Raven?" "Yes, and William and I were White Raven. Skinner said that means we are of no consequence." "Do you think William is in danger?" "I don't know for sure, they haven't acted on their information so far, but I don't want to take any chances. They know where he is, that defeats any and all reasons for him not being with us." -X- -Richmond, Virginia- As quickly as it appears and speaks to me, the apparition is gone, and I am left overwhelmed in the wake of the revelation. "Scully, do you trust me?" I ask, keeping a hand on the steering wheel, struggling to breathe normally. "Of course I do," she answers, without hesitation. "We can't go back to D.C.," the tone of my voice leaves no room for argument. "Why not?" she protests. "Someone told me it wasn't safe." "When?" "Just now," I answer. "What do you - oh, I see. Who was it this time?" she asks. "I need to call Skinner and tell him there has been a change in plans," I hedge. "I won't think you're crazy, Mulder. Well, not any crazier than I already think you are," she grins. "Thanks, Scully," I laugh nervously. "Who was it?" she asks, again. "I don't think-" "Damnit, Mulder. Just tell me who it was," she demands, cutting me off. "We can talk about this after I call Skinner." "Pull over." "Scully?" "Now," she says. Flicking the blinker, I begin to slow down, and finally come to a stop in the emergency lane. After putting the truck in park, I lean back against the headrest and close my eyes. "Why won't you trust me, Mulder? Is it because I caved under the pressure of all that we've been through? I was weak for a moment, a miniscule amount of time when considering the past ten years. I don't want you to feel as though you have to handle me with kid gloves. I'm trying, Mulder. I'm trying to work everything out, to come to terms with the repercussions of all we've learned, but I can't do that if you are always second-guessing my mental stability. I already know that you have," she pauses, "visitors. I accept that. I accept that what you see is true. Knowing that people come to you, in spite of death, is reassuring in a way. It makes me feel less alone. I am not able to explain the how or why of your ability, but I do accept it. Now, please Mulder, who did you see?" she asks. "Scully-" I say quietly, turning to face her. "Mulder, I want to know, just tell me who it was." I bow my head, and take her hands in mine, "Your mother." -X- Title: The Marionette Rebellion Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Category: MSR, A Spoilers: Everything up to and including 'The Truth.' Rating: R Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com Archive: Yes to the following: Christelle at WIPS of Our Lives (http://sciencex.tzo.com/xf/wips/); V at Tequila Shooters (www.TequilaShooters.ohGo.com); Sybil Duckie at (www.justduckies.org). Everyone else: Ask and ye shall receive. Author's Notes: Thanks to Snick and Beach for beta. Beach: Thanks for helping me make sense of things. You are such a sweet person, and I appreciate your willingness to help me as I write this story. Snick: What can I say? You are the minkey. Thank you for always pretending to be excited when I tell you I have a new chapter for you to beta. Ha ha. Seriously, thanks for being so supportive in everything I do, be it fic related or otherwise. More notes at the end. -X- Chapter Six -X- "What do you mean you saw my mother, Mulder?" Scully asks, eyes shining with disbelief. "She appeared as I was driving and told me-" "No, it's not true. Give me the phone, it's not true, Mulder. It's not," she states adamantly, taking the cell phone from me, punching at numbers furiously. She closes her eyes, and brings a hand to her forehead, before throwing the phone to the floorboard. "Her number is no longer in service." "Scully-" "It's not true," she insists, opening her door, bolting from the vehicle. She walks as far as she can before a guardrail forbids her further escape. Standing with hands on her hips, she faces away from me, and I see her body shaking, trying to contain a well of conflicting emotions. Fading sunlight lends to this surreal moment, and I go to her, wrapping my arms around her from behind. She struggles, moving back and forth, but my hold on her is strong, and finally she gives into it. We stand there without speaking, my arms around her chest, her hands gripping my forearms, my head resting on her shoulder. "Please Mulder, tell me you didn't see her," she pleads. "I wish I could, Scully," I whisper, my lips barely brushing her ear. "Why would her phone be disconnected? She would leave her number the same just in case I needed to get in touch with her. She must still be angry with me about William, about leaving Skinner to explain why I was a fugitive. That must be what it is. She's just angry, and you're just tired, and you didn't see her," she tries to explain. "I know what I saw, Scully." Then we are falling, holding tightly to each other, knees colliding with broken bits of asphalt. "You're wrong, Mulder. This time you're wrong," she says without conviction, shaking her head back and forth, burying her face in the crook of my elbow. "She said not to worry, but that she needed to tell me-" "Not to worry?" she interrupts, "Call Skinner, see if he can go and check on her. Maybe she's sick or she needs help. We're here arguing and she may need help. Call Skinner, have him send someone over to her house," her words spoken quickly, with an almost tangible desperation. "I'll call Skinner, let me get the phone and I'll call Skinner," I answer, reluctantly extricating myself from our embrace. I glance back towards her as I amble to the truck. She's standing with arms wrapped tightly around her small body, head down, the sunlight reflecting off her hair. It was just over a year ago that we traveled this same road, searching, running, leaving everything we knew behind. Here we are again, full of questions, too many miles between us and the answers. I dread making this call. I know what I saw - I know what was said. With shaky hands, and a heavy heart I pick the phone up off the floorboard of the truck and dial Skinner's number. "Skinner," he answers. "It's Mulder." "Are you and Scully in D.C. already?" he asks, surprised. "No, and I need some answers," I reply. "What's going on?" "I don't even know what to say, so I'll just ask you straight out. Is Scully's mother dead?" I ask, my voice barely above a whisper. There is a long pause, a sigh, and the sound of Skinner clearing his throat. "How did you find out about that?" he questions. "She is," I mumble. "Yes, she is," he replies. "It wasn't my decision to keep that from you or Scully. I hope you know that." "Who's decision was it?" I snap angrily. "I didn't even know anything had happened until I received some papers from Margaret Scully's attorney. There were specific instructions regarding her last wishes, and one of them was that Scully not be informed until it was safe for her to return home. There was a letter for Dana as well; I put it away until I could give it to her personally," he explains. "What happened?" "She died of cancer, Mulder. She discovered she was sick right after your trial and subsequent escape. Apparently, there was nothing the doctors could do for her. She died with her sons by her side," he says quietly. "There has been a change in plans; we won't be coming back to D.C., I'll be in touch," I say, before hanging up. Empty beer bottles lie sporadically along the interstate, dandelions are bent and twisted by gusts of wind, and there is Scully standing in the midst of it all, a part of her already knowing the truth. As I make my way back to where she is standing, I call out to her, and she turns to face me. We've had this silent communication for years, so much passing between glances, our eyes giving everything away. She nods and walks past me to our oversized vehicle, climbs inside, and lets her head fall back against the headrest. I jog around to the driver's side, pull the door open, and clamber inside. "Scully-" "I know, Mulder. I just didn't want it to be true," she says, her voice raw with acceptance. "I'm sorry," I say, glancing at her, shaking my head. "Yeah, me too," she says, reaching up to brush a few strands of hair out of her eyes. "When I was 15 my mother caught Brady Watkins in my room with his hand up my shirt, sucking on my neck for all he was worth, trying to give me a hickey. We were supposed to be studying for an Algebra test, but one thing led to another and, well, we had stopped studying. Mom told me to stay in my room, and went downstairs dragging Brady behind her. The front door slammed, and I heard her stomping up the stairs, and knew I was in for the lecture of my life. She came into my room, sat on my bed, and told me that I should have more respect for myself. She said that a physical relationship was nothing to take lightly, and that at 15 it couldn't be serious enough for a boy's hand to be up my shirt. I was upset because that was the first time I'd ever done something like that; it wasn't as if I let every guy I knew cop a feel. She told me to think about what she'd said; she got up off the bed and was at my bedroom door when she stopped, her hand gripping the doorknob so tightly I thought she might break it off. She turned around with a twinkle in her eyes, and said that she understood why I was curious, and that it was okay to be curious, just to be careful. She smiled at me and left." Taking a break from her story, she retrieves a bottle of water from the back seat, unscrews the top and takes a long swig. I sit quietly, patiently, until she begins again. "The key thing is that while she didn't approve, she understood, and she stopped being my mother for two seconds and remembered what it was like to be 15, inquisitive, and wanting to experience everything. Later on when I went to medical school, she was delighted and proud, but when I joined the FBI there was a hefty amount of disapproval regarding the career path I'd ultimately chosen. She didn't understand, until one day, we were talking and I told her that working for the FBI fulfilled this noble desire I had within myself to make the world a better place. She smiled, patted my hand, and said she could understand that. Then there was you, Mulder," she stops, and smiles wanly at me, then continues on. "For so long she didn't understand why I stayed with you, professionally, that is. Maybe she wondered about the personal aspect of our relationship as well. It was when you were missing that I told her I stayed because you were what I'd been searching for my entire life. You gave me purpose, challenged me, intrigued me, saved me, loved me," she trails off, undoubtedly lost in a memory. "When she found out I was pregnant, it was proof that I'd stayed in part because I loved you, and when you were found dead, I think she saw what I would've been if we'd never met. Before you, I walked around pretending to live, but you made me alive. I was lost without you; I was living and breathing, but that part of me that you touched with your spirit, the part of me that truly began to live when you came into my life, died when I thought you were gone forever. My mother understood that you were my partner in every sense of the word. She could appreciate and respect that. When I gave William up, it was like a light went out in her eyes, Mulder. For the first time, she didn't understand, couldn't relate. She'd spent the better part of her life, basically alone when my father was at sea, raising four children, and she couldn't understand how I could give William up for adoption. She never looked at me the same way after I went to her and confessed what I'd done; it's as if I was a stranger to her. Now, I feel the same as when my father died, and I am left wondering if she was proud of me for the woman I was, or disappointed in me for everything I wasn't. I'll never know if she forgave me, never be able to make things right, never be able to tell her I'm sorry, always wonder if she knew how much I loved her," she finishes, recaps the bottle of water, and turns to look out the window, staring at dandelions bending to the wind. "She knew you loved her," I say, rubbing her shoulder, letting my hand trail down her arm until our hands meet, dancing, caressing, comforting. "I hope so," she whispers, tears making their way down her cheeks. We drive in silence for several minutes, the sunset magnificently painted across the sky in hues of deep purple and blue, dejectedly making our way back towards Raleigh. Our hands remain clasped together, her thumb moves in circles on my palm. "So, what became of Brady Watkins, Scully?" "He did what all 15 year old boys did at that age," she answers, thoughtful, "he broke my heart." -X- -Raleigh, North Carolina- "Mulder?" "Yeah?" "Are you awake?" "Yeah," I answer, struggling to rise above the fog of sleep. "Can I talk to you?" "Of course, anything Scully, anything you need," I say, sitting up in bed, propping myself up on an elbow. "What exactly did my mother say?" "She told me not to worry about her, but that going back to Washington D.C. was not safe, that it was a trap," I answer. A constant flickering of the motel sign illuminates Scully's face, bathing it in a rainbow of colors, as she lies flat on her back, staring at the ceiling. Shadows dance along the walls, the flickering light catching our movements, distorting them in the darkness. "Do you think they're going to try and take this baby?" she asks, not looking at me, hands rubbing slow circles over her stomach. "I don't think we need to talk about this right now, Scully. You just found out about your mother today, we've got so much to think about and consider already. Let's save that worry for another day. For today you're safe, the baby is safe," I assure. "William is safe," she sighs. "Yes, William is safe," I reiterate. "Mulder, I'm so tired. I don't know how much longer I can keep doing this," she admits. "I know." "I don't want to feel anything tonight. Make it all go away, make the pain stop, just for tonight," she whispers, rolling towards me. It is a seduction, an age-old dance, as our bodies drift towards each other. Our hands are authors, writing poetry in secret places, our tongues dance to silent music. I roll on top of her, take her face in my hands, and brush her tears away with nimble fingers. She leans into my touch, closing her eyes, kissing the inside of my wrist. I kiss her forehead as I have a thousand times before, so tenderly, with such love. Her hands move up and down my back, sliding around my stomach, pushing my pants over my hips. I arch upwards as she pushes them down, and I twist and turn until they are finally discarded on the floor. I remove her t-shirt and panties, and then we are lying there, skin to skin, nothing separating us. I can smell her arousal; I close my eyes and inhale the scent of her. I kiss her breasts, stomach, the inside of her thighs, and then I am tasting her, and it tastes like forever because it is perfect, because I could stay with my head buried between her thighs for eternity and it would not be long enough. She lies back on the bed, one hand in my hair, prodding me on, the other clutching a fistful of faded comforter. Suddenly, her hands are pulling at me, forcing me to stop tongue fucking her, and she pulls me up onto her, and then I am entering her slowly, tentatively, intending our lovemaking to be a comfort, a reassurance that I'm here, however she wants me to be. Hands run up and down the length of my back; she presses her fingernails into my shoulder blades as I pump in and out of her at an unhurried pace. Our hips meet time and again as I suckle her breast, and then she is calling out my name as tears run down her cheeks, and we are coming together, and for a brief time this love between us is the only thing in the world that matters. -X- Days and weeks fade into months as Scully and I use what little resources we have available to us, concentrating our efforts on finding a way for us to return to the lives we abandoned so long ago. Mostly it's a lot of waiting, waiting, and more waiting. Skinner has been invaluable, using his few bureau contacts in an attempt to pave the way for us to safely return to Washington D.C. We've made some progress in identifying those against us, however, there never seems to be a payoff. We have yet to pinpoint the exact reason it is not safe for us to return, although I have my suspicions. There are days Scully is so far away from me, I'm not sure she will ever return. She's here physically, but thoughts of William and her mother, keep her otherwise occupied emotionally. We try to connect, and there are times when we are successful, but most of the time I feel as though she is unreachable. An impenetrable discomfited sadness seems to have her in a vice like grip; she is unable to break out of its clutches, and I am ill equipped to free her from it. I know whenever we stop running there will be a plethora of issues that need to be addressed and dealt with. For now, we do the best we can. She worries about the baby constantly; although there are times we throw worry to the wind, and enjoy this new life inside of her in spite of everything. More than once I've laid my head on her barely swollen belly, let my lips brush across her skin, the adventures we've shared taking the place of nursery rhymes and Mozart. She never fails to smile at my antics. Those are the best days. Today is Scully's first doctor's appointment. She'd wanted to have the baby checked out, so she used our laptop in order to research doctors through the Internet. Finally finding one she felt somewhat comfortable with, she made an appointment. After we sign in, a perky receptionist gives us a mountain of paperwork to complete. She eyes us suspiciously when we return said mountain of paperwork, which indicates we do not have insurance. Scully assures her that we will pay in cash, and we are finally able to relax about that bit of drama. We have been waiting nearly an hour for her appointment, which makes Scully fidgety, and gives me a headache. Finally, Scully's name is called under the alias Sarah Saidel and we follow a nurse into a cubicle where she weighs Scully, takes her temperature, and checks her blood pressure. The nurse is preparing to draw Scully's blood for routine lab work when Scully spouts off that having blood drawn is against her religious beliefs. The nurse looks at us like we are completely insane. I'd say these past ten years qualify as a religious experience. The nurse leaves briefly to check and see if there is an exam room available. "I don't want anyone having any concrete information on me or the baby, just in case," she explains, pointing to the needle and various glass tubes. "I understand," I say, taking her hand in mine, rubbing her back with my free hand. We are led to a small room that that is covered in posters of babies at various stages of gestation. While we are waiting for the doctor to come and exam her, Scully asks me if I'd rather have a girl or a boy. I tell her it doesn't matter much to me, and Scully smiles like she has a secret. There is a gentle rapping, and then the door opens, a Doctor Maryann Harris making her glorified entrance. She looks to be at least 180 years old, with blue hair, and a crazy gleam in her eyes. She flips through Scully's chart and asks her what she weighed pre-pregnancy. When Scully answers, she is properly chastised for only gaining five pounds at the 16-week mark. Doctor Harris reaches into her white coat and pulls a little machine out, promptly telling Scully to lie back on the table, and that something is going to be cold. Before I know what is happening, Scully's stomach is covered in something blue and there is a loud thumping in my ear. "Good and strong," Doctor Harris says. Scully and I smile, forgetting about conspiracies and pain, and are soothed by this waves crashing against rocks rhythmic heartbeat. Then there is more blue shit and another contraption, and finally I figure out that Scully is being prepped for an ultrasound. It's one thing to know these things go on in a general sense; it's an entirely different matter when it's happening to you. Doctor Harris and Scully discuss the first day of her last menstrual cycle, and then the good doctor whips out some kind of paper wheel and says that our baby is due January 12, 2004. Scully receives a lecture on healthy eating, and is given a prescription for prenatal vitamins by Doctor Harris. We head back to the motel carrying a sonogram printout of a baby with ten picture perfect fingers and toes, sucking on its thumb in Scully's womb. Conflicting emotions seem to reign most days. It's hard not to be excited about new life, and I love seeing Scully carrying my baby, but the repercussions of having another child are not lost on either one of us. With each new milestone of pregnancy, every change in her body, we are reminded of William. Our little boy with curly hair, her eyes and my nose, who still holds our hearts in the palm of his hand, his smile, and every breath he takes. We are reminded of how we failed him, and how we are struggling to make things right again, for all of us. -X- Make the noise stop. My sleep-addled brain tells my arm to slap at the alarm clock. I'm fumbling around, hitting at the nightstand when I realize there is no alarm clock. It's the shrill sound a phone makes when it rings. 'Answering the phone will make the noise stop,' I think to myself. "Yeah," I answer, finally finding my cell phone on the bedside table. "Yeah, what is it?" I ask quietly, trying not to wake Scully. "Fox Mulder, it's been a long time," a voice smooth as single malt scotch. "Marita Covarrubias, what can I do for you at" I pause, looking at my watch," 4:49 in the morning?" "I think a better question is what can I do for you," she says. "What can you do for me?" I ask. "I have some information for you," she answers, a hint of uneasiness in her voice. "What information?" "You need to go to Wyoming right away, Mulder." I sit bolt upright in bed, struggling to maintain my composure, "What's going on? What's wrong with William?" I ask, getting up from bed, and going into the bathroom. "You didn't take the bait, Mulder. You're not playing the game the way they planned. They cleared you of those charges, and you were supposed to do something for them, namely expose your position," she explains. "It's not safe for Scully and I to be out in the open right now. What the fuck is going on with my son?" I snap. "You didn't show up in D.C. after you found exactly what they wanted you to find in Fallon, Nevada. They've decided to up the ante, change the rules, call your bluff," she replies. "Marita, I appreciate your willingness to help us out, but quit with the fucking cliched run around, and just tell me what the hell is going on," I state angrily. "There are men, planning as we speak, to go and get your son and hold him until you give them what they want." "And what do they want?" I ask, feeling the dull throb of a headache starting behind my eyes. "You know exactly what they want, or should I say who they want," she replies. "Scully," I sigh. "Yes, and her unborn child. Prepare to make a choice, Mulder. Decide right now what is most important to you, and be willing to sacrifice the rest." "My family is a packaged deal. There will be no more sacrificing anyone to these bastards or their fucking project. They can all go to hell as far as I'm concerned; now, why do they want my children?" I question. "You had a reaction to an alien artifact several years ago, resulting in some, shall we say, unique abilities. The unfortunate thing was that it was slowly killing you. Your son had an enhanced naturally occurring ability. Multiply what you experienced a hundred fold, and you might have an inkling of what William was capable of. The key is that he would have been able to control it, instead of being controlled by it. It was not detrimental to his health, and with age, he would have learned to hone and use his ability at will. Your son's ability was done away with when he was injected with a magnetite compound by Jeffrey Spender. He became unimportant to the project leaders. William is only of use now because he is a way to your unborn child, a child that will share the same naturally occurring ability, a child they hope to claim and use for their own purposes. Imagine, a child with telepathic abilities, able to communicate with the aliens in an unparalleled manner, being raised by the syndicate. It is all about power, and they see your child as an ultimate source of power. These men will do whatever it takes to own that child. They will not lose any sleep over using a small boy to further their agenda. Get on a plane, Mulder. Get to your son before they do," she instructs coolly. The hum of a dial tone effectively ends our conversation, and I sit with the phone in my hand for a moment, trying to weigh the consequences of what I have to do. Scully's words from a few months back rattle around in my head, taunting me, filling me with new understanding. She told me she didn't have a choice, and now, neither do I. As I leave the bathroom and return to the small room we've called home for nearly three months, I find that Scully has slept through my phone call with Marita. I stand over her for several minutes, stroking her hair, praying that I will never be forced to choose between her and our children. "Scully, wake up," I say, shaking her gently, "get dressed, we're going to get William." -X- Title: The Marionette Rebellion Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Category: MSR, A Spoilers: Everything up to and including 'The Truth.' Rating: R Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com Archive: Yes to Christelle at WIPS of Our Lives, V at Tequila Shooters, and Sybils Duckie at Just Duckies. Everyone else: Ask and ye shall receive. Author's Notes: I never had the pleasure of knowing Evie Whiting personally, although I read many of her posts during my tenure at Haven. Without a doubt she was a vibrant member of the fanfic community. I'm thankful we all have an outlet to express ourselves, and I'm doubly thankful for people like Evie who make our creative expressions worthwhile. Evie, I hope you've found peace, you will be missed. God bless Adam and your three children. More notes at the end. -X- Chapter Seven -X- -Cheyenne Airport Cheyenne, Wyoming- It took us a little over an hour to drive from Raleigh to Greensboro during which time I apprised Scully of the situation. She remained quiet for the most part; her lips pressed into a thin line, hands balled into fists, the outward show of fear and anticipation she was feeling within. After we'd reached the airport, and dumped our car in a parking lot, the ticket agent informed us that the next flight out of Piedmont Triad International Airport to Wyoming was not leaving for another three hours. After booking seats on the flight I called Skinner and explained the situation to him. He said he'd call the Denver field office which handles most of the counties in Wyoming, and have them send a couple of agents to the Van de Kamp's home, as well as meet us there once he was able to get a flight out of D.C. With any luck, he'll be there before we are. Luggage circles round and round as I stand at the baggage carousel recounting the events of the day, while Scully arranges for a rental car. We landed in Cheyenne nearly 40 minutes ago, our nerves tight as twin bowstrings, everything seeming to take longer than usual. Finally, our bags drop off the conveyor belt and I grab them off the carousel, and jog towards Scully. She holds up a set of keys and we elbow our way through the crowd as we exit the airport in search of our rental car. I-25 stretches out in front of us like a dusty, endless promise. Where we've been is unimportant, the time it took us to get here irrelevant, it only matters that we're here now. Mother Nature exhales a weary breath, and the wind carries dust from one side of the road to the other, making the way clear, as if its been expecting us for a long while now. Scully sits beside me; anxiety radiating off her like heat waves off a car in the peak of summer. My cell phone rings and I maneuver around in the seat, finally easing it out of my jeans pocket. "Yeah," I answer. "Where are you, Mulder?" Skinner questions. "We're on I-25 towards Wheatland. Why? What's going on?" I ask. "I'm already in Wheatland at the Van de Kamp's home. William is fine, but there's a situation out here, just get here as soon as possible," he states with forced calmness. "William is okay though?" I ask. "Yes, I've got him right here with me," Skinner answers. "What's going on, Skinner?" "I'll explain everything once you get here," he says. "Okay, we're on our way," I say, nervously pressing the end button on my cell phone. Turning towards Scully, I begin to explain," Skinner said that William is fine, but there's a situation in Wheatland." "What's going on?" she asks, lines creasing her brow. "He didn't elaborate, but William is fine," I say, trying to reassure her. She nods and gives a tight-lipped smile. "It all seems so pointless now," she says, scratching at an imaginary spot on the window. "What do you mean?" "The adoption, holding up in Raleigh for the past three months so we could make sure everything was safe before we went to get him. We shouldn't have waited this long; he shouldn't have been given up for adoption in the first place," she confesses, fidgeting nervously in her seat. "You did what you thought was best at the time, Scully. There's no point in punishing yourself over and over for a decision you made out of love and self sacrifice." "It wasn't just because I suspected I was pregnant you know," she mumbles under her breath. "What wasn't?" I ask, completely perplexed. "The reason I wanted to go and get William. It made the desire stronger, but the desire itself was already there. I'd hoped once we found a way to clear you of the murder charge we could sit down and discuss our options. Originally I thought I could do it, be noble and give him up all the while telling myself it was for the best, but as the months dragged on it felt more and more like a mistake," she answers. "I know what you mean. I dreamed about bringing him home to us," I admit. "Ironic that I gave him up to protect him, didn't go and get him because we were on the run, and now he's in danger and we're still on the run," she laughs humorlessly. "When I talked to Skinner earlier today, he mentioned trying to find a safe place for us in or around D.C. until we can eliminate the threat towards you and the baby." " I'd wondered if that was going to be an option. All I know is that we cannot continue running with William. To be honest, I can barely think straight with all that's going on," she sighs. "Yeah, me too." "How do you think his adoptive parents are going to react?" she asks, changing the subject. "I don't know. Legally, I know I have a case. As soon as we're back in D.C. I'm going to contact the adoption agency and inform them that I neither knew of the adoption when it first happened nor gave consent. In a way, I feel badly for the Van de Kamps and for William, but he's in danger, and even if he wasn't, we need to bring him home. Home is with us, Scully." "I can't imagine how the Van de Kamps are going to respond. I wonder if that's what Skinner meant by 'situation,'" she comments. "We'll find out soon enough," I say, putting my hand over hers. We hold hands throughout the rest of the drive. Eventually I begin to recognize landmarks here and there from our visit a couple of months ago. The Van de Kamp's long driveway comes into view, and I take the left hand turn on to the gravel road a little too fast and Scully arches an eyebrow at my zeal. As we approach I see at least five or six police cars, an ambulance, and several unmarked cars. "Oh my God," Scully gasps. I pull up beside a police cruiser and we both barrel out of our vehicle in search of Skinner. As we make our way towards the Van de Kamp's home, a lanky man in his early to mid-forties approaches us. "Are you Fox Mulder and Dana Scully?" he asks. "Yes, we're looking for Assistant Director Walter Skinner, FBI," Scully states, voice steady, mask of control firmly in place. "I'm Detective Michael Shanks with the Platte County Police Department," he says offering his hand to Scully and then to me. "Walter Skinner isn't here, he wanted me to tell you that he felt it necessary to accompany your son to the hospital-" "What's wrong with him? What's wrong with our son?" Scully interrupts. "He's fine; he's fine. After everything that happened in that house we all agreed that he should be checked out though," Detective Shanks explains. "What happened? What's going on?" I question, clutching Scully's hand tightly in my own. "Apparently there were two agents from the FBI's Denver field office securing this location for reasons I'm still not fully aware of. They were both shot at point blank range; one agent was DOA, and the other was transported to the hospital in critical condition. Barbara Van de Kamp one of the residents of the home was shot execution style, her husband Jeff seems to have struggled with the intruder and got a round off his shotgun, but that was apparently after he was shot; he died from his injuries. The intruder, not yet identified, died from a gunshot wound to the chest. Bastard probably bled to death. Your son, William, was the only person to come out of that house unhurt, but we wanted to have him checked out just to be sure," he says. The last vestiges of sunlight disappear behind a mass of pine trees, blue-gray light filters through the air, the shadows of the trees cast like sentries all around us. Light from the police cars swirls around and around, making me dizzy, contributing to the dreamlike realization of what happened here today. Dozens of crime scene photos flash like a slideshow through my brain; mangled corpses, nude women brutalized beyond recognition, little girls with cloth hearts cut out of their pajamas. I feel nauseous at the thought of William being in the middle of something like this, and in my mind I see his bright blue eyes dull as a little bit of his innocence is stolen. I only pray he was fast asleep, or in another room, and didn't witness any bloodshed. "They're dead?" Scully asks, disbelief in her eyes and voice. "Yes, unfortunately they are," Detective Shanks replies. "What hospital was our son taken to? How do we get there?" Scully asks. "Platte County Memorial; it's only about eight miles from here. Turn left out of the driveway and follow that road into town. At the first stoplight make a right and the hospital is on your right hand side." "Thanks," Scully and I say in unison. -X- -Platte County Memorial Hospital Wheatland, Wyoming- "Our son was brought in, we need to see him," Scully tells a man at the admitting desk. "Name?" asks an emotionless automaton posing as an admittance nurse. "William Mulder," I answer. His fingers move over the keyboard situated in front of him, then he purses his lips and mutters something I can't make out. "No one by that name is registered," he says, finally. "Try William Van de Kamp," Scully says, realizing my mistake. The nurse identified as one Steven Preston types the name into the computer, stares blankly at the screen, and plucks a non-existent piece of lint off his shoulder. So much for bedside manner. "I'm sorry, who did you say you were?" he asks, with sudden wariness. "It's a very complicated situation, but we're his parents," I reply. "Why don't you just take a seat over there," he gestures towards some plastic chairs that by all accounts have people already sitting in them. "I'll see what I can find out," he says, looking away from us to shuffle some papers around on his desk, making no attempt to move from his station. So much is said between us in a glance, and as Scully and I make eye contact, it is not brokenness or weakness I see in her eyes, it is Scully as a mother worried about our son, a woman who has spent the better part of ten years humbly sacrificing all her hopes and dreams for the cause, a woman who as a result of the complex journey of her experiences has had enough. "Listen you pencil pushing son of a bitch, our son was transported to this hospital under the care of Assistant Director Walter Skinner of the FBI. William, our son, is the only survivor of a multiple homicide. I don't want to hear any more of your bullshit excuses, now get your indolent ass off that fucking chair and go find out what is going on with our son!" she yells, bending over the counter, only inches away from the bastard's face. "There's no need to get upset. Why don't I see if I can go find your son, or see if anyone knows how he's doing," he says, peeling himself off his chair. I think I see a wet spot on his pants where he pissed himself. Scully does indignation very well. "Yeah, why don't you do that," she snaps. The heat of the moment simmers down to a low boil, Scully shakes with the intensity of her anger, and we wait to hear news about William. It is all so surreal, being here, knowledge of what has happened to William's adoptive parents. I can't help feeling partially responsible for the events of the day; I should have known that something like this was going to happen. Unfortunately there is nothing I can do to change any of it. Concern for William pushes those thoughts out of my head; I'll have to deal with the guilt later. Scully paces the emergency room like a caged animal, nervous energy manifesting itself in jerky movements and contemplative blue eyes. Crossing the room I reach Scully in five long strides, and put my hands on her shoulders. My touch seems to ground her; she stops pacing, shakes her head, and finally leans into my embrace. We stand there for several minutes, drawing comfort from one another. Because Scully's head is resting against my chest, she doesn't see Skinner as he approaches. I take her face in my hands and press a kiss to her forehead before gently turning her around. It's one of those moments in life where each movement seems measured and slow: Skinner walking towards us, authoritative and slightly imposing, trench coat billowing out around his legs. William's brown curls bounce with each step Skinner takes, the tragic events of the day weigh heavily around my friend's eyes, so lined with fatigue and concern, only the slight smile turning up the corners of his mouth belie his otherwise weary form. Scully puts a hand over her mouth, tears already running down her cheeks, and I think it is pain, brokenness, and heartache leaving her body as what was once lost to her is now returned. I am not surprised when I feel tears well up in my own eyes; I let them fall, releasing the ache that had wrapped itself around me in my son's absence. Scully lifts her hands as if in prayer towards heaven, tears flow like rain, her prayers answered as Skinner gently lowers William into her arms. "My baby boy," she murmurs softly into his ear, "how I've missed you." I wrap my arms around both of them and think to myself, 'Welcome home, William.' -X- Title: The Marionette Rebellion Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Rating: R Category: MSR, A Spoilers: Everything up to and including 'The Truth.' Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com Archive: Yes to Just Duckies, Tequila Shooters, WIPS Of Our Lives, and Fic Scouts. All others please ask. Author's Notes: Thanks to my fabulous beta readers Beach and Snick. More notes at the end. -X- Chapter Eight -X- As our reunion comes to an end, Scully passes William over to me, while Skinner explains our predicament. "I've taken him into protective custody. With all that's happened, no one is arguing the decision," he says. "We can't continue to run," Scully comments hesitantly as she rubs William's back. "I know," Skinner says, thoughtful. "Even though his adoptive parents are now dead, there will still be red tape to muddle through in order for the two of you retain legal custody. It will be a lot easier given that Mulder never officially agreed to the adoption, but it is still going to take time. Until that time I will place him in your care while the three of you are in protective custody. I'm pulling a lot of strings so no one will ask questions. After your call this morning I set the wheels in motion for you to have a house in Rockville, Maryland until we can sort out custody as well as eliminate the threat towards you and your unborn child," Skinner says, looking intently at Scully. "Whose house is it?" I question. "My secretary, Arlene and her husband buy ramshackle houses and fix them up to sell for a profit. I asked her if they had a house available, and they do. They just spent fifteen grand on renovations; she assured me it's in good shape. Her husband is a realtor and a carpenter in his free time, so I trust their judgment. She doesn't know it's for you, although I'm sure she suspects, regardless she was more than willing to let the FBI pick up the mortgage for a while. I told her there was a baby involved and she is working on getting some furniture and is going to stock the kitchen with food, so you should be able to lay low for a while until we get this mess sorted out," he explains. "I'm sure it will be fine. I'm glad there was something available from someone we can trust. When are you heading back to D.C.?" I ask. "I've booked us all on flights leaving out of Cheyenne at 11:30 tomorrow morning," he states, glancing at his watch. "I told Detective Shanks I'd be checking in with him at the Van de Kamp's home once you arrived to care for William. You're not going back out there; it's still not a secure location," he says, shaking his head. "No, we're not going back out there," I concur. "We need to go buy some things for William, Mulder. He doesn't have any clothes or diapers," Scully says, easing William from my arms. "Yeah, we can do that on our way to find a motel," my reply muffled as I brush a kiss across William's cheek. "By the way, I've got his car seat in my rental. One of you will have to get that and put it in your car," Skinner says. There is nothing quite like standing around with your old boss discussing car seats and diapers. To say it is surreal would be a gross understatement of the situation. This is Skinner, who just last year defended me against members of a global conspiracy, broke the law when springing me from the brig, and liquidated my assets when I became a fugitive. "Mulder, the car seat?" he asks, giving me his squinty-eyed AD look. "Yeah, I'm on it," I answer. "There's a motel across the street from here," Skinner says, motioning beyond the grounds of the hospital. "I'm going to go back to the crime scene and see if there is any new information. Why don't the two of you take William and go buy whatever supplies you need." I laugh at Skinner's use of the word "supplies" in reference to a toddler; that is certainly one way to put it. "Do you have enough cash for all of this?" he asks. "Yeah, we withdrew some money in Raleigh. There is still plenty in that account," I reply. We amble out of the emergency room, Skinner the trusted friend, my fractured family put back together again. As I put William's car seat in our car, I see Skinner lean down and whisper something in Scully's ear. Her face is blank as she turns to check my progress, and Skinner rubs a hand over William's hair, his face equally unreadable. Task accomplished, we exchange pleasantries before going our separate ways. -X- Skinner was right: supplies. I feel like we're going into the Congo on an extended vacation. Scully had grabbed a rectal thermometer before I pointed her towards the ones you can gently insert in the -ear-. Who cares if it's five times the cost of that other one? Those rectal things should be outlawed. Sometimes her clinical detachment and doctoral proficiency are frightening. Rectal schmectal. Just an observation, but kids need a lot of shit. Diapers, wipes, cream, infant Tylenol, cough and cold medicine, gas medicine, band-aids, more cream (apparently this is not ass cream, this is in case Scully actually puts him down to walk and he should happen to fall), baby powder, 18 changes of clothes, 3 pairs of shoes, two packages of socks, diaper bag, some kind of spill proof cup that I could make use of on occasion, two pediatric toothbrushes, pediatric toothpaste, tear free shampoo, moisturizing Vitamin E tear free soap, three different kinds of Cheerios, a special lidded bowl to hold the fucking Cheerios, one blanket, two stuffed animals, one small monstrosity of a toy that claims to improve hand eye coordination, and various books for intellectual stimulation, or so Scully says. On top of all the "supplies," we had to buy another suitcase just to put all this shit in for our flight tomorrow. I've discovered something new about Scully: a nervous, stressed out Scully is a Scully who does not know the meaning of "buying the bare essentials until we get back to D.C." and "let's be thrifty." I apparently missed the edict over the loud speaker at Target where they said, "grab everything you can possibly fit into your buggy and then have the person with you hold the rest while juggling sleepy toddler." Scully, however, heard it loud and clear. She smiles and runs her fingers through William's hair after plunking several crisp hundred-dollar bills into the cashier's hand. An hour and a half, some 30 bags, and a sleeping William on my shoulder later, we finally exit the store. Does she know her smile was worth every penny? It was. -X- -Rockville, Maryland- William has been crying for his mama and daddy for the past fifteen minutes. I don't know if it was shock, sleepiness, or luck, but he has been abnormally docile for a toddler the past two days. Only now has he started to fuss. I try and pat his back reassuringly, while Scully moves him from hip to hip in an effort to calm him. "Mommy's here now," she whispers. He calms briefly before another shrill cry erupts from his lips. "Maybe he's hungry, Scully," I offer. She looks at me as though I've said the most brilliant thing and stumbles to the kitchen where she grabs a banana. She sets William at the kitchen table, talking to him while peeling the banana, and then hands it to him like some sort of peace offering. He squeezes the banana in his hands, little bits of fruit oozing between his chubby fingers, and giggles as he stuffs it into his mouth. We're going to have to stock up on bananas. After William finishes his snack, Scully wipes his hands and picks him up for a tour of the house. He slept through our arrival last night, and after eating breakfast this morning we took him outside to play. I guess now is as good a time as any to try and explain this situation to a two year old. She tells him this is his new home as she walks from room to room. The furnishings are sparse, but it is a nice house, and Arlene stocked the refrigerator and kitchen cabinets with enough food for a small army. Glancing out the window above the kitchen sink, I see Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber are still at their designated post. I suppose I feel moderately safer knowing there are two armed FBI agents watching the house. Scully's voice continues to permeate the otherwise quiet house. I stand still, listening in awe, smiling in spite of everything. This situation is about as far from perfect as we can get, but we're together, and for now it's enough. Perfect, or closer to perfect, will have to wait. I walk as quietly down the hall as possible and listen as Scully talks to William in a voice I can only describe as "mother." She's in our bedroom facing a window that overlooks a modest flower garden when I finally peek around the door. "Those are roses," Scully tells William, pointing to a white rosebush in full bloom. "Can you say roses? Roses-" "Woses," he mimics. "Do you remember me William? Do you remember when I was your mommy? I know you must be confused, sweetheart. We had to be away from each other for a long time, but I'm here now, and we're not ever going to be apart from each other again." Her voice is as smooth and comforting as a mountain stream. It is difficult to know how to explain this to him yet she finds the way. Her words flow easily, naturally, soothing the uneasiness William must feel. "Do you remember me telling you about your Daddy when he was away? Guess what," she says, lifting her eyebrows as if in surprise, "Daddy's back, William. That tall guy, with the big nose that makes funny faces, well, that's Daddy." "Daddy," William exclaims, clapping his hands together. I can't help wondering if he's thinking about Jeff Van de Kamp. There is no way to explain what transpired in Wheatland to William, sufficed to say we're doing the best we can, but we have to move on. We're his parents, as simple and complicated as that may be. "He loves you, William. We both love you so much. We've made some mistakes, but we're here now." She rubs his nose with her own and he lays his head down on her shoulder. She continues to stand with her back to me, but when William lays his head down my spying gig is up. He looks at me with eyes so much like his mother's, inquisitive, thoughtful, as if trying to figure out exactly who I am. "Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine, never understood a single word he said, but I helped him drink his wine," Scully sings. "Do you remember when I sang that to you William? I hope you remember," she whispers, patting his back. Scully picks up where she left off and continues singing to him. She sings through it three times, swaying back and forth, never knowing his eyes closed at the end of the first chorus. I know he's been separated from her for more than a year, but I can't help wondering if he recognizes her voice, even subconsciously. If it weren't so sentimental a notion, I would say he does. I hope there will come a day when he will recognize my voice as well. I want him to know his father loves him. It occurs to me that in the last two days I've only doubled the amount of time I've ever spent with my own son. The old adage 'hindsight is 20/20' would be applicable here. If I'd only known what was going to happen, I would've never left, and perhaps we wouldn't be in the quandary we are in today. Scully turns around and catches me staring at the two of them; she smiles, and puts William in the crib beside our bed. Quietly, she walks away from the crib, brushing past me, her hand catching mine as she makes her way down the hallway. I follow like an obedient puppy, and when she glances back at me, I see a smile on her lips. She stops once we're in the living room and pulls me into a firm hug. I cup her face in my hands and bend down to kiss her. Hands roam over my back and ass before fingers hook onto my belt loops. We turn in slow circles as we kiss, and when we break for air, she pushes me gently into a worn armchair. Slowly, she unbuttons her pants and slides them off, panties follow, and then she is working my zipper. Pushing down my boxer shorts she slides onto my erect cock without pretense and moves up and down at an undemanding pace. I don't speak, enjoying the sensation, the feel of her surrounding me in such an intimate way. I push her shirt up and allow my lips to graze over the tender flesh of her breasts. She arches her back, soft cotton precluding me from seeing her face. Her shirt smells faintly of baby powder and bananas. Her lips are moist and hot as they meet mine. Thick hair curtains her face, rippling as she rides me. She is softer and rounder with pregnancy. Her once flat stomach expanding as our child grows within, her breasts swollen, hips still narrow but less edgy. It's a good look on her, and an incredible turn on for me. I knead her breasts gently, rolling her nipples between my fingers. In my sex-induced haze I think I hear a noise; Scully must've heard it as well because she has ceased to move on me. "Was that the door bell?" she asks, obviously irritated. "No, ignore it," I answer, gently biting her neck. My hands move of their own accord, roaming the length of her back, cupping her ass, traveling back up to her breasts, shoulders, and face. Wrapping my arms around her, I press her body to mine, gently thrusting upwards. "Mulder, no one is supposed to know we're here. It could be-" her protestation muffled as I slip my tongue in her mouth. "If it were trouble they wouldn't ring the doorbell," my mouth still against hers as I break our kiss to reassure her. "Mulder? Scully? It's okay, it's just Skinner. Open up; we need to talk," Skinner booms from the other side of the front door. "Damn it to hell," I mumble, letting my head fall against her chest. Scully climbs off me with little grace, pulling her shirt down while scavenging around on the floor for her underwear and pants. After zipping up my jeans, I pull down my shirt in order to cover my waning erection. Damn Skinner. Damn his damn timing. "I'll be right back," Scully whispers, clothing in hand as she walks bare assed towards the bathroom. Bare feet pound against the hardwood floor as I run down the hall after her; I grab her gently from behind and kiss her cheek, promising round two after Skinner leaves. She nods in agreement before going into the bathroom to presumably put on her clothes and tame her sex-ruffled hair. Damn Skinner. "Is everything okay in there?" Skinner bellows. "Yeah, I'm coming," I answer, or I would be coming if you weren't here right now I add silently. "Sorry, we didn't hear you," I tell Skinner as I open the door. He looks worried and apprehensive which is never a good sign when dealing with him. "I came by to discuss some things with you. I assume Scully has informed you of what I told her in Wheatland," he says. "You know what they say about assume," I snap irritably, "because she hasn't told me anything since you dropped us off here last night." "Oh," he says to his shoes. "What's going on?" I ask. "Where is Scully anyway?" he counters. "She'll be right out. What's going on?" I persist. "Maybe we should just wait for her to continue discussing this," he hedges. "Wait for me to continue discussing what?" Scully says, making her entrance. "Skinner came by to discuss something you were supposed to have told me. Obviously I have no idea what he's talking about. Care to inform me?" Scully shoots Skinner a mildly reproachful glare before looking down and finding the pattern of the carpet fascinating and completely mute inspiring. "Scully? Care to enlighten me as to what the big secret is?" "I wanted to enjoy William for one night before we had to deal with everything else," she says. "Skinner told me that Jeffrey Spender contacted him with some information about the baby, but he'll only speak with me. He wants to meet me as soon as we can set it up, but he wants me to come alone." "Absolutely not," I retort without thinking. "No, you are not going anywhere by yourself." "Excuse me? Who are you my babysitter? I can take care of myself, Mulder," she says, looking wholly unimpressed while simultaneously pissed off at my declaration. "I know that, Scully, but things are different now, and I really don't think you should be traipsing off to meet Jeffrey Spender in your condition." I motion in the direction of her stomach, which causes her to scowl, and I know I've somehow said the wrong thing. "How long do you think we can hide, Mulder? How long before someone else comes for William in an effort to get to me? Do you think they're just going to stop looking for me and by extension this child?" she says, placing a hand over her abdomen. "No, they're not. We cannot continue to live this way. I made the mistake once before of letting them make me feel helpless, giving into their game, and I'm not doing it anymore. I'm meeting with Spender," she says matter of factly. "That's why I'm here; he wants to meet you tomorrow. I told him the only way I'd agree to the meeting is if I could accompany you," Skinner chimes in. "What time? Where?" Scully asks Skinner. "Lunch time, a bar over in Georgetown," he says. "Nothing like going home," Scully laughs. "Tell him I'll meet him there. You can go with me while Mulder stays with William." I open my mouth to speak, but before I can utter a word, Scully is shaking her head. "Mulder, we'll talk about this later," she says, effectively cutting me off. "I'll pick you up tomorrow then around 11 in the morning," Skinner says, turning to leave. Scully walks him to the front door, closing and locking it behind him. Facing the door, she pauses before turning around, taking a deep breath, preparing for the inevitable argument. It's okay, Scully. You stand there; I have no problem speaking first. "I know how much you hate me undermining you in front of other people, so I waited until Skinner left, but there is no way in hell you're meeting Jeffrey Spender by yourself. It is beyond suspicious for him to request that you meet him alone; you're not going Scully," I announce. "I'm not even going to dignify that caveman statement with a response, but keep your voice down, William is sleeping," she says through gritted teeth. "Scully, listen to me, I don't want you to do this. It could be a trap or-" "Are you forgetting that he testified for you at your trial?" she interrupts. "Are you forgetting what he did to William?" I counter. "I don't care what he said or what he did to help me last year. Almost anyone can be bought or blackmailed. This could be a set up." Scully's expression is one of hurt as if she could ever forget what prompted her to give William up for adoption. "Don't do this, Scully," I plead. "He could've simply killed William and the significance of what William was would've been eliminated altogether, but instead, for lack of a better word, he cured him. He could have killed either of us last year while you were away, but he didn't. I doubt he's going to try anything now, and besides Skinner will be there lurking from a safe distance." I really fucking hate her ability to make almost any situation sound logical when it suits her purpose. "People change as do their motivations, Scully. I am not comfortable with you doing this; let me go with you." "Then who will protect William while you're off playing the Neanderthal? There is no one I trust more than you to care for our son, Mulder. William needs you to protect him because he is helpless; I am not. I'll be fine, but I have to do this. We cannot continue to allow them to manipulate us. I am tired of playing their games; I will not play their game anymore. It's time for us to hold the upper hand for once, and if Jeffrey Spender is a means to an end then I intend to take full advantage of this situation," she says. "I'm not implying that you're helpless, Scully. What I'm saying is this situation seems all too convenient a ploy to divide and conquer. We know they want this baby for whatever purpose, and right now you carry this baby within your body. William stands to lose his mother all over again if something goes wrong, and I stand to lose my-" I stop, at a loss for words. "I stand to lose you and our unborn child. You are everything to me, Scully." She takes my hand and leads me over to the couch in the living room. Placing my hand over her stomach, she stares out the picture window in the dining room before speaking. Afternoon sunlight illuminates the room in an almost painful shade of yellowish-white; everywhere I look there seems to be a glare, causing me to squint as I try to focus on Scully. "When I first found out I was pregnant with William I was so elated that I didn't want to question how he came to be. You were gone, and I had a part of you inside me, if I couldn't have you, that was the most precious gift imaginable in your absence. Your abduction made me cling to my belief that we alone had created William. I didn't want to question how he was conceived because I didn't want my belief that we created a miracle to be shattered, but I should've questioned it, Mulder. I shouldn't have accepted the miracle so blindly. Instead, I looked halfheartedly around for answers, not caring if I ever really found any. I wanted that little boy so badly I didn't care about the how or why. The circumstances surrounding his birth made me regret not delving deeper into the how or why, but when I saw him for the first time, those questions were again pushed to the back of my mind. By the time I needed the answers, it was too late, and I felt as though all my choices had been taken from me." "Scully-" "I need to say this, Mulder. Please let me finish," she implores, gripping my hand tightly. I nod for her to continue. "We lost a year of our son's life because I allowed myself to be manipulated out of fear. At first I was afraid of what he might be, then I was afraid that regardless of what he was, he was going to be taken from me. I'm still afraid, Mulder. I'm more afraid than I've ever been before because these children, our children, are not able to fight back. I'm afraid, but I refuse to allow them to continue to control me because of that fear. We've played by the rules, maintained our integrity, but these men, whoever they might be, are chasing us down a one-way road to nowhere and it's only a matter of time before they catch up. I'm through playing by their rules. I'm not jaded, or cynical, or hopeless, quite the opposite actually. I'm full of hope because I will not be controlled, or scared into a corner anymore. These men or monsters, whichever you prefer, are finished manipulating my body and threatening my children. It's over, Mulder. This cycle of they say jump and we say how high is over." There is nothing left to say. I nod my head in agreement and pull Scully into my arms. I was a witness to her fury and pain when she found out she had been manipulated once again. I cannot argue with her desire to take control of the game. It would appear that I was wrong in my initial assessment of what happened in the motel room in Denver so many months ago. I assumed Scully was broken as a result of one too many strings being pulled, she seemed lost, beside herself with pain. There were so many miles of silence, the chasm between us no amount of time or love seemed to overcome. I assumed that I needed to be patient until Scully was strong enough to return to me, full of steely resolve, and determination to press onward. I assumed her silence meant that she had been pushed to the edge, and maybe she had been, but Scully apparently dug her heels into the earth and refused to be pushed over the edge. I wonder now what was going on in her mind. Was she devising a plan to reclaim our lives? Was she going off to her secret place planning the way in which she would break them? We have all underestimated Scully. Instead of pushing her to the breaking point, they have pushed her to the point of no return. Her silence, tears, and anger were the equivalent of tread worn shoes on rocky soil as she fought against men who were raping her with their manipulation, fingernails broken as she clawed her way back from the abyss, tears shed as she let go of heartache and grabbed onto the one thing she could possess. Vengeance. However, her revenge will not come in the form of bodies and brains splattered in crimson red against dirty walls in abandoned warehouses. There will be no deals, no compromise, and no exchange. She will take something from them more precious than life, and there is nothing they can trade for how she plans to claim payment for damages inflicted. She will take the thing they value above all else: power. -X- "I've been calling you and Scully for the past three hours! Where have you been?" I inquire angrily as I open the front door. "She ditched me," Skinner states, exasperated, stomping inside. "What do you mean she ditched you? Where the hell is she?" I ask as calmly as possible while holding William. "I mean she was there one minute and running out the front door with Jeffrey Spender the next," he explains. "I've been searching all of D.C. for the past five hours and she is nowhere to be found." "What the fuck is going on? Where is she?" "Mulder," Skinner warns, looking at William. "Where is she, Skinner?" I ask, trying to maintain a facade of control. "I don't know; she's gone," he says, adjusting his glasses. "Spender must have planned this because as soon as I was able to exit the bar, there was no sign of them. He must have had an escape route in place." "How could you let her out of your sight? You knew she was in danger; you were supposed to be watching her!" I yell, clutching William tightly against my chest as I begin pacing the room. William's eyes open wide at the tone of my voice. I whisper in his ear that everything is going to be okay. "It's ironic you know," Skinner says, sitting down heavily on a wooden chair at our kitchen table, "Scully sent me with you because she wasn't able to accompany you to Oregon, and you were abducted. I went with her today to protect her because you weren't able and she disappeared," he shakes his head, grimacing, and for a moment I feel sorry for him. "Why would she leave? Did she appear to go willingly?" I ask. "I don't know why she left. We showed up and Spender was already there. Scully went and sat at a table with him, telling me to find another table, and keep an eye on things. They talked for about 30 minutes, and I turned my head for a second and when I turned back they were practically running out of the bar. There were a lot of people, it was lunchtime, and it took me a minute to muscle through the crowd. When I was finally able to make it outside, they were already gone." "I need to go look for her," I comment. "Who is going to stay with William?" he asks. "I don't know, but I can't just sit here when she could be in trouble out there. We're wasting time!" I shout, unable to control my anger. William whimpers in my arms, and I shift him to my other arm, then kiss his forehead. "Mulder, I'm sorry," Skinner says, unable to meet my eyes. As I stand, holding William, trying to control my anger and formulate a plan, the door opens and Scully strolls in as though she's been out shopping or on a Sunday drive. "Oh my God - Scully where have you been?" I can't decide if I want to shake her or hold onto her and never let go. "I'm sorry if I scared you," Scully says looking at Skinner. "I didn't mean to worry you, sir. You can go home now; I need to speak with Mulder." Skinner asks a couple of times if she's sure she's all right, and when she answers 'yes,' he picks himself up off the chair and leaves. Scully paces somewhat frantically around the kitchen, eyes darting wildly around, hands alternately pulling at her clothes and smoothing her hair. "What's going on, Scully? Where the hell have you been? I've been so worried about you!" "Go put William down for a nap; we need to talk," she says. I follow the long hallway to our bedroom and lay William down in his crib, rubbing his back, and apologizing for yelling in front of him, assuring him I was only worried about his mommy. "Tell me what's going on," I say, entering the kitchen, startling Scully. She gets a glass down from the cabinet beside the stove, fills it with tap water, and takes a sip. She seems nervous, uneasy, almost scared. I walk the few steps that separate us, put my hands on her shoulders, move one hand to take the glass from her and set it on the counter, then wrap my arms around her. "What happened Scully?" I ask, kissing the crown of her head. "Spender did something-" "Did he hurt you? I'll fucking kill him if he hurt you." Rage makes my skin burn as though it is being licked by fire. My hand automatically goes to her belly while I search her face for any sign of confirmation. Her eyes remain downcast, her anxiety almost palpable. "No, it's not like that. I did something, Mulder. I-" she pauses, burying her face in my chest. "Just tell me, Scully." "I'm tired of being manipulated, Mulder, and I've done something that is going to make you very angry," she says, pulling away from my embrace, turning her back to me. "What is it, Scully?" I grab her arms, not roughly, only so I am able to turn her around to face me, and she winces, pulling away in pain. "Did he hit you? Did he hurt you?" I ask, attempting to push up her shirtsleeves. She turns to look at me and for the first time since she arrived I get a good look at her eyes. Her pupils are abnormally large and the whites of her eyes are beyond bloodshot. "Scully, what's wrong with your eyes?" She doesn't hesitate before answering me, "It's a side effect of the injection I let Spender give me." -X- Title: The Marionette Rebellion Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Rating: R Category: MSR, A Spoilers: Everything up to and including 'The Truth.' Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com Archive: Yes to all those I've given permission to already. All others please ask. Author's Notes: A special thanks to Sybils Duckie; she knows why. Also, to the fabulous Ktblle who recently created a home for my stories. Ktblle is a generous, fun, sweet person, and I'm thankful to have met her through the phile community. You can find my fanfic along with fic by Ktblle, Pywacket, and Buckingham at http://www.angelfire.com/ms/KtblleStorage/main.html To the pocas, I'd like to say: /You poke me with pointy sticks day in and day out/Sometimes so hard I want to shout/You send feedback that bolsters my self esteem/And tell me the angst makes you want to scream/If I post on the boards my inbox is full/With notes from 'tater who says 'get writing you fool'/Even now I know they're gathering pointed sticks and a spork /and so, it's with pleasure, I dedicate this chapter to my girls in New York./ ;) I'd also like to thank my betas Snick and Beach who have joined me for this WIP ride. Ladies, it has been a blast. Margaritas and/or martinis all around at the end. -X- Chapter Nine -X- "Injection?" "Yes." "What did he inject you with?" I ask, shifting my weight from one foot to the other. "You did this willingly?" "Yes, I did. It was - it is the only way. There are a series of three injections; I've only had the first one. The next two injections come at eight week intervals from each previous injection," she explains. "Why? For what purpose?" I query. "It's the same thing he injected into William, however, in a less concentrated form. We didn't want to overwhelm the fetus," she clarifies, rationality and justification dripping from each calculated word. She's hiding something. If it were as cut and dry as all that she'd be able to look me in the eye. "How could you do this? How could you put yourself and the baby at risk?" She proceeds to tell me how Spender spun his story about women being impregnated with altered human fetuses, in an effort to recreate Gibson Praise. William was an anomaly no one expected but happily embraced, an unexpected piece to the puzzle. They, being the syndicate, or what was left of it, monitored her pregnancy, and with each test she underwent to confirm paternity and rule out deformity, she gave them more evidence as to what William was. She didn't know at the time what to look for, but they did, and they as usual used her unawareness to their advantage. Based on preliminary test samples of William's blood, these men felt compelled to experiment on other women, trying to replicate what Scully and I seem to create naturally. None of the experimental children born thus far, without the benefit of magnetite injections, have made it to their first birthday. They are not able to endure the increased activity in their brains, and consequently it kills them. She tells me how Spender took her to a kind of halfway house where dozens of women were or are pregnant with these experimental fetuses. All the women are MUFON members, all having been abducted in the early 1990's, and again shortly before they found themselves pregnant. They were of course concerned about these pregnancies, and went to hospitals where blood tests were performed, leaving a trail for anyone who knew what they were looking for. Jeffrey Spender has contacts that know what to look for and are willing to pass along their information. After Jeffrey found the women being used as a part of the syndicate's experiment, they received shots of magnetite while pregnant, and of the children born so far, all are healthy, further testing revealing no abnormalities. There is the small, alarming fact that three women have died after receiving the final injection, their fetuses at the stage of viability, born and orphaned on the same day. No one could explain to Scully why those women died, why they were not able to withstand the last injection, and yet she has agreed to be injected twice more with a substance that could take her life. Marita Covarrubias and Jeffrey Spender have been working together; she passes on bits of information, and provides the drug, while he risks his life to save these women and children. Marita Covarrubias pimping Jeffrey Spender, who would have ever thought such a thing. As usual she allows others to labor while she orchestrates the impending trick from a safe distance. The story continues, Jeffrey Spender offering his proof, offering his cure, wrapping it all in a pretty package with a big, shiny, red bow on top. Injections given, children cured, blood tests waved like white flags to the new syndicate saying: 'Do no harm, we are worthless to you now.' "I have never known you to be so," I pause, the word dancing on the tip of my tongue, " selfish," I say, incredulity momentarily outweighing anger. "I have never known you, before this moment, to be such a hypocrite," she shoots back. "I can't believe you did this, Scully," I say, ignoring her jab. "We should have discussed this before you went off half cocked, throwing caution to the wind, believing anything and everything you were told by a man who obviously has his own agenda," I admonish, my tone sounding terribly self righteous. "How can you stand there and be so hypocritical? I did what was best for us, the very thing you claimed last year when you were willing to die instead of reveal what you found at Mount Weather. You said you knew what you were doing, and so do I. You throw trust around when it's convenient, but it is never reciprocated if you're the one that might be left behind," she says, obviously angered in her own right. "That's enough, Scully," I say, defensive of her inference. "No, it's not enough. You ditched me for years, making decisions that furthered your quest, trusting any shadow that slithered out of an alley. Just last year you were willing to give up everything, nobly saying it was all for me, sparing me the pain of knowledge, never asking if I wanted to be spared if that meant losing you. I understood, however, your propensity for altruism where I was concerned, just as you must now understand my commitment to keeping you, William, and this unborn child safe despite what may or may not be my end. There are times it seems to me that you forget how much has been lost to -both- of us over the course of the past ten years, when you act as if you're alone, but you're not alone. I've been here with you the whole time, Mulder. Just once when the proverbial shit hits the fan, I'd like for you to acknowledge this fight is as much mine as it is yours," she says. "This fight is as much yours as it is mine," I snap impatiently, sarcasm lingering from one word to the next. Fear does strange things to people. My greatest fear ever since I've known her is losing her, and I don't like being reminded of what fragile lives we lead, as if our current living arrangement isn't reminder enough. "You never wore sarcasm as well as you thought you did. It's cheap, flimsy, and brings out the worst in you," she sighs. "You were wrong to do this without consulting me," I retort. "We could've found another way; it's not worth the risk of losing you." "What did you expect me to do? Wait around and hope, maybe, that we could protect this child? What good did that do William? None of the children Jeffrey Spender has helped have been taken, Mulder. This was the right thing to do." "I can't listen to anymore of this right now. I'm going for a run." She doesn't try and stop me, but then again, she never has. I all but stomp down the hall to our bedroom, fervently unzip my duffel bag, and rummage through my clothes in search of a t-shirt and shorts. My avoidance clothes found, I slip my jeans and shirt off, replacing them with my running attire. Not bothering with socks, I jam my feet into my tennis shoes, then kick an innocent but ill positioned chest of drawers. William lifts his head, sleepy eyes searching for the offending noise daring to wake him out of a contented slumber. "Sorry son," I say, walking over to the crib. "I'm going outside for a little while, but I'll be back." He seems happy enough with my explanation and I exit the room in search of fresh air. Scully stands in the kitchen, hands gripping tan Formica, as I make a dramatic exit out of our secluded temporary home. Humid air grips my lungs like a vice, preventing me from taking in full, cleansing breaths. I continue on, unrelenting, driven by fear and the search for acceptance. My mind is miles ahead of my body and I feel the burn in my calves at trying to catch up. Thoughts swirl and collide with each step I take. The last members of the resistance have pulled themselves up by their bootstraps to form an unlikely alliance. Marita, the bitch on wheels, weaving in and out of the conspiracy, never sure if she's going to stab you in the back or help remove the knife put there by someone else. Jeffrey Spender, betrayed, shot, and tortured by his own father, motivated by revenge, and perhaps a desire to help others avoid what he has become. Scully, the once green agent armed with handfuls of scientific rationale and eyes full of hope, who over the course of ten years has been abducted, given cancer, had children given to and taken from her. And then there is me, standing on the outskirts of this circle of crusaders: I am the seeker of truth, the driven and self absorbed who will stop at nothing to uncover a conspiracy and expose a lie. The truth calls to me in the night, and it is as real as the voices of lost children, demanding to be heard, demanding justice, even as men seek to bury it. Scully says we are on a one-way road to nowhere. Marita tells me I must make a choice between what is most important, hence willing to sacrifice the rest. Some men sell their souls, others give up their children and wives for this truth, and I am quickly learning it is just now coming full circle in my own life. There is more to lose now, which leaves me vulnerable, and far more compromised. If the Bible is to be believed, it is said that 'our fathers have sinned, and are not, and we have borne their iniquities.' This succession of passing down mistakes is making its way through the families of the afflicted generation by generation. Jeffrey Spender, son of one of the most evil men I have ever known, though well intentioned is driven by hatred for his father. The end result of his actions will yield different results than those of his father, but the force that drives him isn't altogether different than what led the elder Spender down the path he tread, and ultimately to his own demise. Jeffrey's purpose is self-serving even if it helps others. C.G.B. Spender was the epitome of self- serving. What Jeffrey will learn is that no matter how many children he cures, no matter how many women he saves, no matter how he may thwart the syndicate's plans, it will never be enough. He could save the world and it won't change the fact that his own father willfully scarred more than just his skin. Bill Mulder, in my heart is my father, and in ways, I have become him. I have not sacrificed a child, or a loved one to the quest because that would be far too obvious a likening to a man I vowed I would never become. Instead, I have sacrificed pieces of my humanity little bits at a time. Hopes and dreams surrendered here, a shred of sanity there, portions of my soul given and scattered along the way. An assassin's bullet relieved my father of his burden, the knowledge of what he'd done to his family, and in truth, I'm sure in those final moments it was a welcome relief that someone else pulled the trigger, ever the martyr. Have I, under the guise of truth seeker, taken on the qualities of my enemies? In the trenches of the battle of good against evil there have been many casualties, and I have shaken my head and deemed them worthy, necessary sacrifices. As much as we have all been victims of underhanded maneuvering, we have martyred ourselves and rationalized all we have lost in the name of truth. We have made altars to the gods of the syndicate, asking for just a little piece of the puzzle in return, cried when our sacrifices were burned to ashes by the malevolence of our adversaries, and were dumbfounded when we walked away empty-handed. We willingly continue to engage in this war, undeterred by emotional and physical pain. Our fathers, no matter the side they were on, sacrificed their sons, and we in turn are living their example. We continue to offer ourselves, lambs to the slaughter, accepting and cursing our fate in the same breath. My shoes continue to beat out a staccato rhythm against the asphalt, and with each meeting of my foot against ground, as I reminisce over the events of my unyielding search for Samantha, I cannot blame Scully for what she has done, nor do I envy her position. I've been where she is, in a prison of wonder, an expert on indignant justice, only granted freedom upon meeting my sister on a hilltop, surrounded by effervescent blue miasma, able to know and accept her fate. For Scully, for her pain, for the loss of her loved ones, there have never been any real answers. There have been illusions, hypotheses, assumptions, but never any true understanding of the cause of her suffering. I understand the need to take back control of her life. I understand that Emily haunts her, that her time away from William continues to be a burden of guilt settled in for a long ride on her shoulders, and I understand that she will save our unborn child or die trying. I comprehend on a purely intellectual level how she could listen to the facts, calculate the risks, and choose to proceed forward. However, intellect can rationalize facts that love cannot. All I hear is that three women died, conversely all she hears is that babies are cured. We are at an impasse, as we've been so often in our years together. So, we'll do what we always do, join hands and brace ourselves for the ride. Every muscle in my body aches, and having grown tired, I trample thick underbrush as I take a short cut through a wooded area, and make my way back to Scully. I am determined to be as supportive as I can be. I feel a primal sense of protectiveness over our unborn child, but it is her body that has been violated, and it is her turn to fight back, to find closure. I slow to a walk as I approach the house. Our two designated agents are lounging in a car in the middle of the driveway, and wave as I pass by. Sitting on the front steps of the house, porch light cascades down around Scully, giving her an otherworldly glow. She waits patiently for me to return. As I move toward the house, her head remains down, arms wrapped tightly around her stomach. I don't say anything as I sit next to her. When I put my arm around her shoulder, she looks up at me hesitantly, and I nod. There is nothing said, but we've come to an agreement, through our own unspoken communication. There is no need for apologies, and no declarations of undying love. The fact that we are sitting here together, watching as clouds shift revealing Orion and Cassiopeia, surpasses the finite capability of mere words. Scully stretches, gets up, and silently heads back inside the house. I trudge tiredly behind her. Nodding to the old trunk that serves as our coffee table, she says, "Skinner dropped back by and gave that to me. He meant to give it to me earlier, but forgot in the midst of everything that happened." "What is it?" I ask. "The letter from my mother," she answers. "Have you read it?" The look on her face tells me she has. She nods, telling me it's okay if I want to read over it, and that she is going to fix a late supper. I pick up the envelope and let my thumb wander over its sharp edges. The sheet of paper I pull from the white, gold embossed square is pristine and crisp. There is no forgiveness or reprimand in Margaret Scully's last written words to her youngest daughter. It is as comforting as it is bewildering. The words speak more of a lifelong relationship than momentary perceived lapses in judgment. And while it did not provide the closure that Scully might have hoped for, it no doubt reaffirmed the bond they shared. One sentence, three words: 'I love you.' -X- Days and months have passed slowly as we wait for what we hope will be the end of imminent danger. We don't venture out into the world, with the exception of the two times Scully has gone to receive injections from Jeffrey Spender. The final injection of magnetite is tomorrow. Countless afternoons have been spent with William walking around the property of our transitory home, seeing the world anew through the eyes of a child. We read to him a lot, children's books, the sports page of the newspaper detailing how the Knicks are faring this season, and I have played more Hi-Ho! Cherry-O and Chutes and Ladders than I care to admit. Becoming a father was a miracle, being William's "daddy," the man he depends on, my partner in crime when teasing Scully, the recipient of his sloppy kisses, and the cause of his laughter is a reminder on a daily basis of just how miraculous a little boy he is. Scully has been nervous about not receiving prenatal care, but it was a risk we could not afford to take. Monica Reyes drops by twice a month with groceries, has kept Scully stocked with vitamins, and spoils William with every toy known to man. The last time she was here she surprised Scully with a Doppler, which enabled us to listen to the baby's heartbeat. Scully said everything sounded good. News of any kind has been basically non-existent. The police in Wheatland remain stumped months after the Van de Kamp's murder as to who the intruder was. His fingerprints were not in any databank at various law enforcement agencies. His body was shipped to Quantico given that one federal agent was killed, the other barely escaping with his life. Not surprisingly, the body never made it to Quantico, the police and FBI at a loss to explain what happened in transit. Access to information is hard to come by. Being in protective custody does not leave any room for me to go trudging off in search of the truth. I've had no luck gaining any new information in regard to what I found at Mount Weather so long ago. We simply live, as best we can, raising our son, and hoping for the best when our second child decides to make his or her appearance in the world. I tell Scully how cute she looks on a daily basis, to which her response is 'I'm as big as a fucking house.' She's thin everywhere except her stomach, but the aforementioned protrusion is like a built in TV tray. She can practically balance her plate and a glass of milk on the great belly. I've enjoyed her pregnancy, enjoyed watching the changes, reveled at the sensations as our child rolls and kicks contorting her abdomen into abnormal shapes. I'm also ready for it to be over. Patience has never been one of my virtues. Only six weeks left until D-day. Presently, I'm dangling a washer pillaged from an unforgiving metal chair, attached to a piece of sewing thread, over Scully's stomach. Without the convenience of modern technology, this is our version of an ultrasound to determine gender. Scully won't stop laughing, and the great belly continues to shake. "Stop it, Scully. I mean it; I want to know," I say, trying my best to be serious. She immediately goes still, her face turning an unnatural shade of pink. William leans in and kisses her stomach. He steps back from the great belly and we all watch, unblinking as the string works its magic. It moves almost imperceptibly at first, then gains momentum, and I notice its back and forth motion. "Back and forth! I knew it! It's a boy!" I announce. William claps and squeals, "I have brother! I have brother!" Scully smiles. A knock at the door signals Skinner's arrival, ending our impromptu gender identification session, and Scully struggles to sit up on the bed. I begin to help her up, gently gripping her shoulders and pulling her towards me. William crawls up on the bed, and positions himself behind Scully's back, pushing with all his two and a half year old might. "William, help your mommy and little Buddha off the bed while I go answer the door," I say, winking at Scully. She huffs in offense at my usage of "little Buddha" but there is a hint of a smile on her face. I let Skinner in the house as I've done so many times over the last few months. Occasionally he will drop by unannounced sharing random bits of information he's heard round the syndicate rumor mill, but today is a scheduled visit in preparation for Scully's final injection tomorrow. "I have bad news, Mulder," he states, getting right to the point. "Jeffrey Spender was found dead a little over three hours ago, gunshot wound to the head." I turn around and see Scully frozen in place, holding William's hand, obviously having heard what Skinner said. She tells William to go play with his toys, which thankfully he does without protest, and then immediately starts questioning Skinner. "What do you mean? How did this happen?" she asks. "I got a call from Marita telling me he was dead, Scully. I checked it out myself. He's at the Holy Cross morgue; I made a positive ID on the body," he replies. "Damn it," she says. We all stand around alternately looking at each other, our shoes, the wall, towards where William is chattering to himself, and building some contraption out of Lincoln Logs. There isn't a lot to say, we all know why he was killed, as well as who killed him. There is only one question weighing heavily on my mind. Neither Skinner nor I want to ask, but ultimately, there is no way around it. "How are you going to get your last injection?" I ask, looking at Scully. "Jeffrey gave me everything I'd need for my last injection, just in case something happened. You're going to have to give it to me, Mulder." "No," I state matter-of-factly. "Mulder-" she starts, unable to finish as I grab her arm and pull her towards our bedroom. She jumps when I slam the door, and by the look on her face can't decide whether to be angry or worried. "Are you forgetting this injection could be lethal to you, Scully? I'm not going to do this. I can't. Absolutely not," I rattle off. "Scully, I'm not doing it," I say one last time, as if she didn't hear my first round of protestations. "Fine, I'll do it myself," she says, and then goes to the walk-in closet, fumbling around for a minute , finally emerging with a small, metal box in hand. "You're not supposed to have the shot until tomorrow," I comment, seeing the contents of the box as she lays them out on the bed. "I'm not sure we have that long. If Jeffrey is dead, it could be an attempt to draw me out, or it may mean they're close to finding us. I'm going to go ahead and give myself the last injection now. One day isn't going to make a difference," she says. "I'm going to let Skinner know what's going on and ask him to keep an eye on William." I amble off in search of Skinner and William. Skinner seems about as happy as I am at the latest turn of events. He agrees to watch William, telling me to take as much time as I need. Upon reentering our bedroom, I see Scully inserting a syringe into a glass vial. She pulls back on the plunger and clear liquid is sucked into the syringe. After removing the syringe from the vial, she caps it and lays it on the bed beside her. She rips open a tiny tinfoil package, extracts a small, cloth square laden with alcohol, and gently rubs it over her bicep. Taking a deep breath, she uncaps the syringe, and depresses the plunger slightly, causing a few drops of liquid to escape, and run down the pointed tip of the needle. Her hand is shaking so badly, she is not able to steady the syringe enough to insert the needle in her arm. She looks at me, the possible consequences of this one moment in time lining her face, causing a fine sheen of perspiration on her forehead. Images flutter through my brain of Scully beside me, no matter what was going on around us, regardless of her own opinions, always there. I reach over and grip her free hand with my own. Her hand stills and the needle rests gently on her skin. There is an audible gasp from both of us as sharp metal penetrates her skin. She depresses the plunger, and little by little, the level of liquid in the syringe decreases as it enters Scully's body. Slowly, she pulls the needle out, blood seeps from the barely visible hole, and Scully presses a cotton ball to the offending site, after putting the syringe down on the bed. "Well, it's done," she says. "Yes, it is," I say, pressing a kiss just below the injection site. "I think I need to lie down. Tell Skinner he can go home," she says, easing herself down onto the bed. "Do you need anything?" I ask. She pauses briefly before shaking her head 'no.' I leave our bedroom, and make my way to where Skinner and William are building a cabin out of Lincoln Logs. I'm not even going to think about how bizarre this situation is. I relieve him of his babysitting duties, and he promises to be in touch within the next few days. William and I eat hot dogs for dinner, and then I give him a bath. He lays for a short time with Scully on our bed before I put him in his crib for the night. I ask Scully several times if she's all right, and she tells me she's fine, just tired. I finally relent and leave her to sleep while I log onto our computer in search of information about Jeffrey Spender. Without the Lone Gunmen, insider information has been nearly impossible to attain, and without any informants, I really don't even know where to begin searching. I feel largely out of the loop. There is no report thus far of Jeffrey Spender's demise, nor any John Doe, in or around the D.C. area. If there is a report of his death, I wonder how exactly it will be spun for the media. It will be written off to a random, senseless shooting, no doubt, and only a handful of people will ever know the truth. Jeffrey Spender, my half brother, a comrade to some extent, is another in the long list of casualties. I shake my head, and question if all this is worth it. How many people will die, how many lives will be destroyed, how much more will it take for it to be enough? I hear faint movement behind me, look at my watch and realize two hours have passed since I tucked William in for the night, and last checked on Scully. Scully stands slumped over in the hall, her face pale, strands of hair plastered to her cheeks and forehead. "Mulder, I think I need to go the hospital," she says, putting one hand on the wall to steady her trembling body. "Why?" I ask, moving off my chair, running over to her. "What's wrong?" "I thought I was having contractions," she stops, and leans against me, her breath hitching as she pants through obvious discomfort. Finally, she swallows, and inhales erratically, "I thought it was just braxton-hicks at first. I got up to go to the bathroom, Mulder, and there was so much blood, " she whispers. "Oh God, oh God. Sit down here," I instruct, leading her over to the couch. "I'm going to let Agents Adams and Greer know that we need to get to the hospital, and call Skinner, and then I have to get William. Don't worry, Scully. Everything is going to be fine, just hold on. You're going to be fine, the baby is going to be fine, everything is going to be okay." I open the front door and yell out into the night, "I need some fucking help in here!" I don't wait for a response and grab my cell phone frantically dialing Skinner's number. On the fourth ring he answers, and I let him know what's going on, while simultaneously throwing everything I think William might need into his diaper bag. I've got the bag packed and over my shoulder when Agent Adams and Greer come running into the house; meanwhile Skinner is promising to meet me at Shady Grove Adventist Hospital. I drop my phone in the diaper bag, and run over to Scully. "I'll get her," I say, before Agent Greer can pick her up, "you get William, he's in his crib." Turning around I address Agent Adams, "You can drive, go and pull the car as close to the front door as possible. We're going to Shady Grove Adventist; it's the closest hospital." Carefully, I pick up Scully from where she sits hunched over on the couch. Her right arm goes around my shoulders, her head against my chest, and as I shift her into a more secure position, I feel sticky fluid coat my hands and forearms. Looking down to the couch I see blood saturating the cushions, "Jesus, Scully, what is going on?" Her head lolls against my chest, she closes her eyes, and murmurs, "The baby, Mulder. I'm sorry, so sorry." -X- Title: The Marionette Rebellion <10/11> Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Rating: R Category: MSR, A Spoilers: Everything up to and including 'The Truth.' Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com Archive: Yes, to all those I've given permission. All others please ask. Author's Notes: As always, thanks to Snick and Beach for above and beyond beta. -X- Chapter Ten -X- It feels like I am trying to function underwater: the slight resistance as my legs press forward, the garbled hum of people talking, yet not understanding what is being said. My labored breathing echoes in my ears, shallow pants creating uneven spheres of pallid vapor in the darkness, which dissipate as I run through them towards the emergency room. Scully's eyes fluttered closed and she stopped talking halfway to the hospital. I shouted for her to open her eyes, while I checked for a pulse, which thankfully thrummed lightly beneath my fingertips. I begged her to open her eyes. She didn't, and all I could think was that we'd been to the end of the earth and back, faced death and won, confronted evil and come out victorious, and that she couldn't possibly die from something ordinary in Rockville, Maryland. She couldn't leave now that we were lovers, now that we had children between us, now that we were a family. Automatic doors glide open, permitting me entrance to the hospital, and immediately several nurses run towards us with a gurney, reality spinning around me in a dreamy haze as Scully is taken from my arms and placed onto the stretcher, blood already staining white sheets. Agent Greer walks towards me with a screaming William in his arms, and I reach out to take him, only to have Agent Greer shake his head and pull William away from me. Looking down, I see that my hands, and the sleeves of my sweater are covered in blood. I nod dumbly and ask a nurse where they've taken Scully. She tells me I can't be with her while treatment is in progress. She says they'll let me know how she's doing as soon as they know something. I demand to see Scully. We argue loudly back and forth until she threatens to call security, telling me that I'm not helping the situation, and perhaps it would help if I'd calm down. I tell her to fuck off and ask where I can find a bathroom. Upon reaching the bathroom, I realize it has another occupant, and being able to accommodate only one person at a time, I wait impatiently. An eternity later, an elderly man emerges, urine sample in hand. Once inside the small room, I click the lock in place, and lean forward, letting my head fall against the smooth wood of the door. Images, memories, and words assault my brain with agonizing precision. Scully smiling, Scully with William, Scully as big as a fucking house, Scully and I making love, Scully putting my hand on her stomach to feel the kicking of tiny feet: Scully, Scully, Scully. "I'll never forgive you if you leave me," I sob against the door. "Do you hear me? I'll never forgive you if you leave me, Scully!" I yell, pounding on the door, tears cascading down my cheeks. A woman knocks on the door, asking if I'm okay, and I shout for her to leave me the hell alone. Wearily, I turn towards the sink, and peel off my sweater. I inspect my undershirt, which is thankfully blood free, and proceed to throw the sweater in the trashcan. Washing the blood off my hands proves to be difficult. It's caked and dried and I have to scrub vigorously before my hands are clean again. Rust colored water swirls around the chrome drain, and I drop to my knees, holding onto the sink with both hands, and ask, "Is it enough now?" Not surprisingly, there is no answer. If we weren't running, Scully and my baby might not be dying right now. If I hadn't left Scully and William then I wouldn't have been on trial for murder and we wouldn't have been forced into hiding. If I hadn't gone back to Oregon then I wouldn't have been abducted, and Scully and I'd be in the suburbs raising William and reminiscing the old days. If. If Scully and the baby live, it will be different this time. If Scully and the baby die, it will never be the same. We were so close to having it all, we talked about distancing ourselves from the work, and were focusing on this extraordinary relationship between us. The beginning of the end started with going back to Oregon, and one out of control situation sent us careening into the next equally out of control situation, a tumbling domino effect, and we found ourselves gaining nothing, losing everything, continuing onward out of some perverse sense of duty. And now here we are, and I can't help wondering if it would be different if she'd gotten pre-natal care, or if it is the effects of the injection, or if it is the amalgamation of ten years of luck running out. Staring at my reflection in the mirror, I wish I had a second chance to do it all over again, to go back ten years, or five years, and tell that single minded crusader that it would all come down to this one moment in time. I'd tell him it isn't about a conspiracy, or a lost sister, it all comes down to boy that looks so much like him it will make his heart ache, about a baby he will pray to hold in his arms, and a woman who is his best friend, mother to his children, protector, defender, lover, sun in the morning, moonlight at night, and that the love between them will be worth more than an infinity of the truths he currently seeks. But I know that man, and I know that he'd laugh because the quest is the most important thing in his life, but then maybe he'd see something in my eyes, and maybe, just maybe he'd be a little more careful, and a little more hesitant to leave her behind, and maybe, just maybe I wouldn't be where I am today. As soon as I exit the bathroom, Agent Greer appears with William, who is still screaming at the top of his lungs. Snot drips liberally from his pink nose, his eyes are swollen and purple around the edges, sweat beads at his hairline causing his hair to be more curly than normal. I can't think with all the noise, nevertheless I take William into my arms, and try to comfort him. William continues to cry: crying for his mommy and brother, screaming loud enough to wake the dead because he saw his mommy covered in blood, crying to anyone who will listen. I'm listening, William, I'm listening. A nurse taps me on the shoulder and tells me she has some questions about the woman I brought into the emergency room. She coos at William and says if I'll answer her questions, she'll fill out the paperwork. Numbly, I follow her to a semi-private cubicle, dodging various nurses and doctors. Suddenly, as she begins barraging me with questions, I realize that while Scully and I have three complete sets of aliases, faux names that let us access bank accounts, give us a completely forged history, and provide us with credentials, her medical power of attorney and living will have been signed by Dana Scully and witnessed by Fox Mulder. After evading a government conspiracy for more than a year, being reunited with our son after a bloodbath, and protecting Scully and the baby for so many months, it all comes down to one little forgotten detail. We worked so hard not to leave a trail, and here we are, completely exposed when we are most vulnerable. The road to hell is paved with good intentions, or so I've heard, and this certainly feels like hell. "Name," asks the nurse again, impatiently. I hesitate for a split second, then shake my head disconsolately, and finally answer, "Dana Scully. Dana Katherine Scully." "Age?" "She's 39 years old." "How far along is she?" " 34 weeks." "How many times has she been pregnant, sir?" "Twice, this is our second child." "Were there any complications with the first pregnancy?" "She had that condition, the one where the placenta tears away from the uterus-" "A placental abruption?" "Yes, she had that with William, our son." "I'll be right back, let me pass this information on to the attending physician." "Yeah, okay. When can I see her?" "You can't be back there right now, sir." Falling into a black void of nothingness, being chased through the forest: pick your ubiquitous night terror. All I want is to roll out of bed and hit the floor so I'll wake up from the nightmare, but I'm not in bed, and it's not a nightmare. I'm standing, and I can't fall because I'm holding William. I walk over to a chair and slide down into it with William cuddled up against me. He's finally stopped screaming, his tiny body wracked with the involuntary gasping and jerking that follows such a forceful crying jag. Peripherally, I notice a large group of people in the emergency room. It's after midnight, and I can't help thinking it's odd that the emergency room is full at such a late hour. They are all about ten feet away, scattered along the wall, moonlight casting an eerie blue-gray light over their features, and when I look closely and see the contours of familiar faces, my life literally passes before my eyes. The Lone Gunmen. Krycek. Deep Throat. X. Jeffrey Spender. Margaret, William, and Melissa Scully. Emily. My mother, father, and Samantha. They stand quietly, in segregated groups, looking towards the area where Scully is being treated. Emily smiles widely at William and waves. I am startled when William waves back. "Mommy!" William exclaims. She looks like an angel, flowing white linen down to her ankles, dull light reflecting off bare shoulders. Her body is lean and shows no sign of pregnancy, her skin looks as if it has been caressed by the sun and bathed in early morning dew. She shines in every sense of the word. Almost shyly, she walks to her mother and father, and puts her arms around them. Melissa kisses her cheek, and Scully returns the gesture. She moves then and regards my own mother and father, simply nodding her head, and giving a half smile. Samantha is sitting in a waiting room chair, and Scully kneels to the ground, hugging my sister to her chest as if she were her own. Of all the ways I envisioned Scully meeting Samantha, the scene playing out before me never entered my mind. Samantha closes her eyes and lets her head fall tenderly against Scully's shoulder. Scully kisses her, and I think I see Samantha wipe tears off Scully's cheeks. Scully rises from their embrace, Samantha giving her another sad smile, finally letting her go. She moves to Jeffrey Spender, X, Deep Throat, and Krycek. She acknowledges them, and they put their hands on her shoulders, unable to take their eyes off her. I have seen pictures of soldiers, returned from a battle they barely escaped, their comrades welcoming them home in their own valiant way. That is what it reminds me of: Scully, the intrepid soldier, being welcomed home after a hard fought battle. The Lone Gunmen line up, and one by one, they embrace her. Finally, she moves to Emily, who has been waiting patiently. Emily tugs at her dress, and Scully stoops so she is at eye level with her daughter. She scoops Emily into her arms, and holds her in a way she was never able to when Emily was alive. She stays with Emily the longest, holding her, letting her fingers drift through her hair, showering her with soft kisses. After lowering Emily to the ground, the little girl runs to Melissa Scully. Scully stands, all that we have lost behind her, and looks up at William and I. She puts a hand over her heart, eyes bright, holding nothing of sadness as she watches us. Finally, she turns away, walking towards a set of double doors, passing through them as if they were not there at all. I glance around and the room is empty. William calls out for his mother, and I hold onto him with all that I am. Unable to move, my heart breaking within the confines of my body, I close my eyes and offer up a prayer on Scully's behalf. It could be seconds, or it could be hours later when a heavy hand squeezes my shoulder. I turn around to see Skinner staring at me sadly. "How are they?" he asks. My throat is raw and scratchy, "I don't know. They told me I couldn't go with her. They said I had to wait here. They haven't told me anything yet. I had to sign several release forms. I had to give them our real names," my speech stilted, enveloped in disbelief at what I've witnessed. He nods, and we both stand, waiting. "Fox Mulder?" a nurse inquires, walking through a set of double doors to my right. "Yes, that's me. How is Scully? Dana Scully, and our baby?" She shakes her head, "I'm not going to lie to you, it was touch and go there for a while. Honestly, I thought we'd lost her, but she's a fighter, Mr. Mulder. She had a placental abruption, which is a risk for women her age, and not uncommon for women who've experienced an abruption in a previous pregnancy. It was a severe abruption," she pauses, and touches my hand, "we had to give her a blood transfusion, we were able to stabilize her, and she made it through the delivery just fine." "You had to take the baby?" I ask. "Yes, we delivered by cesarean about thirty minutes ago. The baby is small, just over four pounds, but a team from NICU was there, and they checked everything out. Dana gave us a scare after the delivery, her blood pressure dropped considerably, but she's stabilized, and mother and child are doing just fine now," she says. "You're sure?" I question. "Yes, I'm sure. It is nothing short of miraculous, but I'm sure. She'll probably be out of it for a while, with all that she's been through, and being sedated for the delivery, but she's going to be okay," she smiles kindly. "Now, Mr. Mulder, are you ready to go and meet your daughter?" I grin from ear to ear. "Yes, I'm ready." -X- "Hey Scully, can you hear me?" I ask quietly. "Mulder," she mumbles, her voice raspy. "Hey sweetheart," I say, leaning down and brushing a kiss across the tip of her nose. "You've been really out of it for the past twelve hours." Her hand automatically goes to her stomach, and I place my hand over hers and smile. "She's fine, Scully. She's small, but she's okay. They kept her in the NICU last night because she was having a little trouble breathing, but she's here now," I reassure. "A girl," she says, knowingly. "Yes, a beautiful little girl with a head full of dark hair," I say, smiling. "What happened, Mulder?" she questions, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "It doesn't matter right now. All that matters is that both of you are okay." Cautiously, I lean down and let my lips brush lightly over hers. "Where's William?" she asks. "He's with his favorite Lincoln Logger," I reply, stifling a laugh. "Skinner has been a good friend to us," she comments. "Yes, he has." I bend down, kiss her cheek, and tell her I love her. She smiles, and asks if she can hold our little girl. I nod proudly, and lift a tiny pink bundle out of the bassinet. Gently, I lay our daughter in her arms, a little bit of Hope passing between us. Title: The Marionette Rebellion: Epilogue <11/11> Author: supernova Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue. Rating: R Category: MSR, A Spoilers: Everything up to and including 'The Truth.' Feedback: feed me at supernova818@aol.com Archive: Yes to those I've given permission. All others please ask. Author's Notes: At the end. -X- Epilogue -X- Two years ago, almost to the day, I told Scully I wanted to believe that by listening to those who had gone before us, we might save ourselves. As the anniversary of that day nears, I am thrust into a contemplative reflection of the extraordinary series of events that so completely changed my life. X posed the question in a prison cell as to whose truth I was exposing, and it is only now, stepping back and looking at his statement objectively that I realize the full extent of what he implied so long ago. The Lone Gunmen stood on the side of a road shortly thereafter and told me to turn around, because they knew one man could not circumvent the decisions of a thousand men before him. Shortly after I placed Hope in Scully's arms for the first time, I turned around to find a room full of sunlit faces staring expectantly at me, until finally my sister stepped forward and said, "Let it go, brother." As her words permeated my consciousness, images filtered slowly through my mind: Scully ravaged with cancer, Emily's empty coffin, files with Samantha's name superimposed over my own, Kurt Crawfords, Alien Bounty Hunters, a truth within a lie within another lie, losing William, running. Always running and hoping "they" never caught up. At that time, the memory of the conversation Scully and I had in Roswell flashed through my mind, and I knew Samantha was giving us the way to save ourselves. She was telling me to walk away. As I held four pounds of Hope, with sleepy blue eyes, and pink, baby-soft skin, it didn't seem as difficult a choice as I always surmised it might be. In the days after Hope was born, I realized that I had been shaking my fist at the enemy, and they had always responded in kind. I had continuously grasped out for a suitable weapon against them, and they being in control of the game always had a more powerful weapon with which to fearlessly strike back. A choice was presented to me, and in the end, I made the choice my father could not: I walked away. My father and I ostensibly led similar lives, even though we were on opposite sides, however, the similarity of our lives diverged at being willing to sacrifice absolutely everything for our respective journeys. He chose to participate in a conspiracy, sacrificing my sister in the process, spending every day after that fateful night regretting one luminescent moment in time. I spent seven years trying to undo my father's mistake, until I discovered my sister's fate. It was a compound blow to finally acknowledge I couldn't change the past, and that Samantha was really and truly gone. In some ways, I will never forgive my father for what he did in regard to Samantha, but in other ways, I am thankful, because he ensured I would not make the same mistake. I spent years exposing one conspiracy after another, and in the end, it enabled limited awareness, but not true change. Ultimately, there was more lost than gained, and when it came to Scully, William, and Hope, I wasn't willing to lose anymore. Walking away wasn't an assurance of safety, nor was it an attempt to turn my back on the truth, but ultimately my family was more important, and I had to believe that if I sacrificed the quest, then the syndicate would stop seeing me as a threat, and let me live my life. Time will tell. The elusive truth will always be floating around the star filled sky of our universe. It existed long before I became a pawn in my mother's womb, and it will continue to exist long after I am gone, but I only have this lifetime to share with the ones I love. 2012 may bring the end of the world, or Scully and I may stumble upon New Year's Day in 2013 surrounded by fireworks, two teenagers, and grilled hamburgers, the truth of Mount Weather nothing more than another lie of the men who manipulated me ever since the inception of my quest. The truth may be the end of the world, or the truth may be that 2013 brings winter snow dancing on the dark eyelashes of Hope. I plan to be a father to my children and love Scully until the day I die, whenever that may be. As I reminisce the past two years, I realize how blessed I am: Scully bends very well, and with her, everything becomes real and brilliant against an otherwise dismal existence. She is the breath in my lungs, the blood pumping through my veins, the friend to my loneliness, and the perfect companion to my passion. She is the reason I am able to get up in the morning with a smile on my face, and go to bed at night satisfied in all the ways that truly matter; William, our son, reminds me of where we've been, how far we've come, the miracle that we are here at all; and Hope, our daughter, is the gift of a better tomorrow. I've made peace with a great many things in my life: my mistakes, my choices, my fate. There were so many close calls with the syndicate, abductions, gunshot wounds, loved ones lost, that I hated Fate and her unsympathetic wielding of tragedy our way. In the last few months, I've grown to love the ethereal hand of Fate that brought me Scully, healed us time and time again, and blessed us with two children. Now, instead of looking back and seeing a cruel, unfeeling being, I realize she kept doling out chances until we got it right. Since the day Hope was born, there have been no ghosts in the corner, and no early morning phone calls warning of impending of doom. There have been no shadows in the darkness, or men claiming ownership of my family for their horrific purposes. There have been six months of me getting up at 5:30 a.m., bringing Hope to nurse at Scully's breast before I shower, and head to the Bangor Police Department, inevitably going out to investigate a case before I sit down to drink my first cup of coffee. Months of coming home to Scully reading a story while Hope and William listen intently, enraptured by the soft lilt of their mother's voice, loving hands brushing through twin heads of curly brown hair. Countless Saturday afternoons spent telling William why the sky is blue, and why he is more precious than the moon, stars, and sun all rolled into one cosmic package. Nights filled with Scully pressed against me, taking me so deep inside her body, I didn't know if I could ever be a separate entity again. My reverie is broken as Scully descends down the stairs of our modest three bedroom home, William toddling alongside her, Hope propped on her hip. Today, Scully and I are making a formal commitment to one another. Two children between us, I'd say it's about time. We've debated about it for months, discussing what it would mean for the children, and ultimately we conceded to this small act of conformity. "You ready?" Scully asks, out of breath. Scully has a scowl on her face, which indicates that something is weighing heavily on her mind. Hope gums a cracker into mush. William tumbles down the last two stairs in his excitement at getting to the front door. Domestic bliss at its finest. "Yeah, I'm ready," I say, glancing at Scully while helping William to his feet. "Are you excited William?" I ask. "Daddy! Let's get puppy!" he exclaims joyfully. And so, as Scully and I gather our children together, to go and buy old Sparky, a feeling of tranquility envelops me. We may always give pause to a car that follows too closely, we will never dismiss strange noises in the night, we will continue to look over our shoulders, but it is secondary to this unique life we've built together. We edge, slowly, in our own way, closer to perfect everyday. "Woman, you're moving slow today, hurry up and get those children in the car," I say, winking at Scully. "Don't make me kick your ass, Mulder. Get the diaper bag, and your son, before I have to show everyone around here who wears the pants in this family," she replies deadpan. "Ass, ass, ass," William exclaims. "You've gone and corrupted him now," I say in mock horror. "Ass, ass, ass," William continues. "Don't say ass, William," Scully chides. Scully and I smile at each other as we make our way out to the car. An eternity later, or maybe just nine minutes, and all of us are fastened into our respective seats. As we pull out of the driveway, William babbles about a puppy, Hope blows spit bubbles out of her mouth, and Scully reaches across the seat, wrapping her hand tenderly around my own. She asks me quietly if I am happy. I answer with an emphatic "yes." She grins in what I presume is agreement, and asks me if I think this life we've created will survive anything and everything the years might bring our way. I think silently for a moment before answering her, because I want to answer honestly, and then the words come in a whirlwind of past meeting present, friendship and love colliding, separation, heartache, running, hiding, reunion, fear, and love, all of which ultimately gave me Scully, William, and Hope. I turn to Scully, smile, and then focus my attention on the road ahead of us. "I want to believe." ---END--- Author's Notes: Without trying to kiss too much ass, this story is dedicated to the following people, for many different reasons: Snick, Beach, Sybils Duckie, and The Pocas.