From: attalanta@aol.com
Date: 4 Aug 2002 15:20:13 -0700
Subject: [all-xf] NEW: Song of Innocence (1/?)
Source: atxc

Title: Song of Innocence 
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13 for naughty words

Summary: It's been seven years; can three strangers become a family?

Spoilers: Follows Season 9 through Scary Monsters (since Jump the
Shark was  aptly named). Specific Spoilers for: The End/The Beginning,
The Unnatural,  X-Cops, Biogenesis/The Sixth Extinction/The Sixth
Extinction II: Amor Fati,  Existence, Nothing Important Happened
Today, Provenance/Providence.

Feedback: Makes my day at attalanta@aol.com.

Archive: Gossamer and Ephemeral, okay. Otherwise, please ask.

Disclaimer: The characters of Scully, Mulder, and anyone else you
recognize  are not mine, and I intend no infringement and make no
profit. However, this  version of Will is mine. Also quoted from,
without ownership or permission,  are the books 'Harry Potter and the
Sorcerer's Stone' by JK Rowling and 'A  Wind in the Door' and 'The
Young Unicorns' by Madeleine L'Engle; and the song  'Ghost,' music and
lyrics by Emily Saliers.

Complete Author's Notes at the end.


* * * * *


Little Lamb, who made thee? 
Dost thou know who made thee? 
Gave thee life, and bid thee feed 
By the stream and o'er the mead; 
Gave thee clothing of delight, 
Softest clothing, wooly, bright; 
Gave thee such a tender voice, 
Making all the vales rejoice? 
Little Lamb, who made thee?

    Songs of Innocence, William Blake



"The child is father to the man." -- The Sixth Extinction II: Amor
Fati


* * * * *

Late Summer 2008


717 Locust Street; Georgetown
August 17
9:58 pm


Shadows played on his bedroom walls as a car drove slowly down the
street.  Will watched the shadows, the angles and planes and corners,
pass over and  under each other, dimming, then finally disappearing,
when the car reached a  bend in the road.  A wedge of light pushed in
from the hallway, spreading on  the shiny floorboards until it faded
into grayness.

Will's hand emerged from beneath his quilt and raised over his head,
playing  in the dim light from his window. He angled his hand slowly,
trying to make  the unmistakable hand-shaped shape on the wall into
something more. He  spelled his first name easily -- he cheated by
going for "Will" instead of  "William" -- but gave up when he got to
his last name -- too tough.

Will swept his arm beneath his covers until he found Pup, his stuffed
dog,  and he held him in the air, playing his feet like he was
walking, then  dangling him by his droopy doggy ears, jiggling him
until his tail danced. He  posed Pup, paws in the air, upside down,
and then on all fours like he was a  real dog. Finally he dropped the
dog onto his chest and spelled out "Pup," an  easy one.

New light flitted over the ceiling and onto the walls, bright white
beams as  a car pulled up the driveway and eased into the garage. Will
fingerspelled  "Mom" against the wall. Another easy one. He listened
for the metallic squeal  of the garage door lowering and tucked down
his middle fingers, giving the  universal sign for "I Love You" larger
than life on the opposite wall before  diving his hands back under his
covers.

Cradling Pup against his chest, Will closed his eyes and pretended to
be  asleep when he heard the back door of their townhouse push open.
It smacked  shut and he could hear his mom's keys drop onto the table
near the door as  his grandma's voice greeted her. It was almost too
soft for Will to hear,  because, having put him to bed almost an hour
ago, his grandma assumed he was  asleep. But her voice wandered
upstairs through the heating vents, and it  teased Will's curiosity.

Will heard stepping and shuffling and the refrigerator door opening,
and then  the scrape of the kitchen chairs as his mom and grandma
pulled them out from  under the table to sit down.

"What's wrong, Dana?" Will heard his grandma ask. "He isn't in trouble
at  school, is he?"

Will frowned, trying to remember if he had done anything that his
teacher,  Mrs. Freedman, might have shared with his mom, anything that
might be  worrying her. Usually he remembered these things; usually he
remembered  everything.

Okay, not everything. Sometimes he still forgot to feed his fish, but
he had  been working on that ever since his mom said no to a dog for
his last  birthday, claiming that if he couldn't remember to feed his
fish, he wasn't  ready for a dog. But a fish doesn't remind you it's
hungry by pushing its  warm wet nose against your hand, Will told his
mom. But she had reminded him  that a fish doesn't need to be taken
outside on a cold January night, either.

"Everything's fine, Mom," he heard his mother say. "His teacher said
he could  be a little more social with the other children--"

"Like mother, like son."

"--but otherwise he's doing well. She said that this enrichment class
is  exactly what he needs, and that maybe it'll keep him from being so
bored with  his regular class once school starts again. Maybe help him
socially, too.  There's another kid in the program -- Paul something
-- who will be in his  regular class, too; I met his mother."

Paul Dade, Will filled in, scrunching up his nose in distaste.

"So what's worrying you, then? Something at work?"

"No, Mom. It was something Mrs. Freedman... She said... She said that
she  didn't know Will saw his father."

Oh, no, Will thought, burrowing under his blanket.

"What?"

"I explained to her that he doesn't. Apparently, he told her... You
remember  last week, Mom, when John and Monica asked me to do a late
autopsy for them,  and you had that dentist's appointment? Well, John
volunteered to pick Will  up at school for me..."

"And Will told his teacher that John is his father?"

"Apparently."

"Oh, Dana."

"I know," his mom said, and it grew quiet. Will couldn't tell whether
his mom  and grandma had lowered their voices, or whether they had
stopped talking. He  made his breathing shallow and tried to calm his
heartbeat in an attempt to  hear them.

Will tried not to think about what he'd said to Mrs. Freedman. His mom
and  grandma told him that his father -- his real father -- would be
coming back,  but Will knew that they didn't believe that, not really.
Especially not his  mom. He knew what she thought, really knew it,
like he could hear her saying  it right out loud. She told herself
that she had to give him hope, even if it  meant she didn't have any
left over for herself.

Will didn't know how he could know this, but he didn't question it; it
wasn't  unusual for him to just *know* things. Like he knew this.

Then his mom asked, "Is he sleeping?"

"Yes. He went to bed early. He said he was tired."

"Then something's definitely up," his mom said, and Will smiled; he
might be  able to fool his grandma sometimes, but his mom knew better
than to think he  might go to sleep early; the only thing he really
fought with her about --  well, besides the dog thing -- was his
bedtime. And usually she gave in  anyway, muttering something like
"damn insomniac father" that he knew wasn't  meant for his ears and
was therefore all that much more fun to hear.

He heard one set of footsteps on the stairs, then the creak of the
door as  his mom opened it. She walked over to his bed, then tugged
his quilt down to  uncover the top of his head. She kissed him
goodnight and pushed his hair off  his sweaty forehead before
recovering him. Then the sound of her retreating  footsteps.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he said, his voice muffled under the quilt.

Her footsteps on the creaky floor brought her back to his bedside.
"You were  listening to us, Will?" She tugged the quilt off his head.

He nodded guiltily and scooted over to give her room to sit beside
him,  pulling Pup with him. "I didn't mean to. I wasn't asleep."

She slipped off her shoes, then slid under the quilt with him. "Why
did you  tell Mrs. Freedman that John's your dad?"

"I dunno."

"Will..."

"Really, Mom," he said. "It just slipped out."

She sighed, and he leaned up against her. His mom brushed through his
hair  with her fingers. "Will, I know you like John and he's been a
good friend to  you, taking you places and coming to your t-ball
games."

Will closed his eyes. He knew what she was going to say.

"But you know John's not your dad, Will. And he's not going to be your
dad."

Will sat up and looked at her, his face scrunched tight to stop him
from  crying. "But why not? It's not fair!"

"I know, sweetie, it's not," she agreed.

"I thought you liked John..."

"I do like him."

"Then why can't you marry him?"

His mom sighed. "It doesn't work that way, Will. You have to really
love  someone to marry them. You have to know them very well--"

"You know John very well," he pointed out.

"Maybe I do," she agreed. "But that's not all. You have to love them a
lot,  and want to spend every day with them, and share everything with
them, and  not fight with them."

"John likes you a lot," Will said, rubbing his head against her arm
like a  cat. More than 'a lot,' he thought, and more than just 'like.'
His mom wasn't  the only person whose thoughts he could... tune into.
But Will kept those  thoughts to himself.

"You see him all the time at work, and you share, and you don't fight.
Why  *can't* you get married?"

"Will..."

"I like John!"

"I know you do, sweetie," she said. "But John and I are not going to
get  married."

"But how do you know?"

"Will, I know." She sighed. "To get married, you have to feel
something  special about the other person, something more than you
feel about someone  who's just your friend."

"But how do you know for *sure?*"

"I think you just love them more than you've ever loved anyone else,"
she  said. "I know this is hard for you to understand, Will, and that
you get  frustrated because other things come so easy for you. And I
know you hate  when I say this, kiddo, but when you're older, you'll
know what I mean."

He didn't say anything, just cozied up against her, resting his head
in his  mom's lap. He let her stroke his hair, so still and so quiet
that he could  almost fall asleep.

"Is that why you didn't marry my dad?"

Then she was quiet again, for a long time, and if her fingers weren't
still  moving through his hair, Will would've thought she was the one
who had fallen  asleep.

"No," she said finally.

He turned his face up so he could see her. "Then why?"

"It's hard to explain, Will," she said.

"Try," he urged.

"I did -- I do -- love your dad," she whispered. The look on her face
was  soft, and she slowly stroked her hand down his face and over his
cheek.

"Did he love you?"

A pause, then, "Yes-- Yes, he did. And he loved you," she added,
tracing her  thumb over the bridge of his nose. "Very much."

"Then why?"

"There are lots of reasons, Will. Our work, for one. We were partners
at  work, like John and Monica, for a long time. That made it harder.
And our  jobs were dangerous; there were lots of people who wanted to
separate us or  hurt us... That's why your dad had to go away. You
know that. I've told you  that."

Will felt like his mom was holding something back, but then a new
worry  struck him. "And now John has your old job?"

"But that doesn't mean that John's going to have to go away," she
assured him  in a soft but confidant voice.

"But maybe--"

"No," she said. "Things have changed at work. You know John and
Monica's job  is dangerous -- they still have to be careful -- but
they're not going  anywhere."

Still Will was uneasy, a jumpy feeling in his stomach, he suspected,
that he  was picking up from his mom. It wouldn't be the first time he
had been so in  tune with her emotions that they had sort of leapt
over to him.

"Promise?" he asked.

She sighed. "You know I can't do that," she told him. "But I can
promise you  that they're very careful and that they try very hard."

Will nodded and closed his eyes, satisfied for the moment. He turned
his head  in his mom's lap and curled his knees to his chest, letting
the soft sounds  of her breathing soothe him.

"I love you, Will," she said in a whisper as her hand gently stroked
his  hair.

"Love you, too, Mom," he said, his speech slurred with sleep.

Will held Pup tight against his chest, the stuffed dog's nose poking
up  against his chin. His bed was warm and his mom's touch soothing,
and it  wasn't long before Will drifted off to sleep.

* * * * *

Continued in Part 2.

Title: Song of Innocence (2/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Is always welcome.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

National Gallery of Art; Washington, DC
August 20
4:24 pm


Scully didn't turn on her cell phone until she and Will stepped out of
the art museum and into the stifling August sun. She pulled her hair 
off the back of her neck and wished for something to put it up with. 
The air was heavy, without even a hint of a breeze, and Scully fanned
herself with the program from the van Gogh exhibit they'd just seen.

It was a hard habit to break, carrying her cell phone. She hadn't been
a field agent for over seven years, but still she carried it wherever
she went. But she had long since gotten used to turning it off at
night  and on the weekends to spend uninterrupted time with her son.
Between  her teaching and the autopsies she did as favors for John and
Monica,  her job was demanding, and Scully was conscious of it not
interfering  with her time with Will.

Still, she was mindful that in her line of work there were
emergencies,  and that she should be available, if not at a moment's
notice, at a few  hours'. Plus, she knew that her mother liked the
piece of mind the  phone afforded her, the ability to check in with
her daughter and  grandson or just confirm dinner plans. And, despite
her continued good  health, Maggie Scully wasn't as young as she had
once been, and Scully  knew her mother relied on the security of her
daughter's cell phone.

So Scully had just punched the POWER button, watched her cell phone 
come to life, and dropped it into the pocket of her shorts, when it 
burred insistently. She fished it back out of her pocket and held it
up  to her ear.

"Scully," she said into the tiny receiver.

"Agent Scully." The voice was familiar, low and male and without 
emotion, and her stomach clenched.

"Sir?"

Now that she was off the X-Files, Scully didn't have much contact with
Deputy Director Walter Skinner. She saw him rarely, usually passing
him  in the hall of the Hoover Building on her way to or from the
occasional  meeting with John and Monica. Rarely did Skinner seek out
her  assistance himself, choosing to distance himself from both the
X-Files  and her.

And Scully understood that. Really, she did. She herself wanted the 
world to know that she was out of the X-Files, living as normal a life
as she could muster, not trying to stir up trouble. I am not a threat;
she wanted to post it on a sign in the front of her house, to tattoo 
across her forehead, and across Will's. 

"Yes," Skinner said, and there was no mistaking that voice. "Agent 
Scully, I'm sorry to bother you on the weekend, but we have... a bit
of  a situation."

"A situation?"

"Agent Scully, can you meet me in my office?"

Scully sighed. "Is this absolutely necessary, sir?" she asked,
glancing  down at her son, who was crouched on the ground beside her,
investigating a trail of ants carrying bits of food across the
sidewalk  and into the grass. "Will and I--"

"Yes, it is," he said. "We may have located Agent Mulder."

She froze, her breath caught in her throat and her heartbeat tight in
her chest. "I can be there in twenty minutes, sir."

Will looked up at her. "Where are we going, Mom?"

Scully tried to dampen the maelstrom of emotions that had risen in her
at the sound of Mulder's name, but now, with Will looking up at her in
a way that was both so familiar and so missed, she could tell that she
was fighting a losing battle. She sunk down onto the stone bench.

"What, Mom?"

She just shook her head, holding up her hand in an indication for him
to wait a minute as she punched a familiar phone number into her
cell.

"Reyes."

"Monica, it's Dana," she said.

"Dana. Hi. Is everything okay?"

"Fine," she said automatically. "Monica, I need to ask you a favor." 
Scully looked over at Will, who was watching her intently.

"What is it?"

"Could you watch Will for a little while?"

Will's mouth opened in protest, but Scully gave him an apologetic
look.  I'm sorry, kiddo, she thought, but there is no way in hell you
can come  with me on this one. She hadn't hesitated to take him to
Quantico with  her in the past, but this was different. Infinitely
different.

"Sure," Monica said. "You want me to come to your place or--?"

"Can you meet me at your office? I'm downtown right now, and--"

"My office?"

"Yes," Scully said. "Your office."

Now Will was smiling. His trips to the Hoover Building had been few --
and the times in John and Monica's office even fewer -- and Scully
knew  that her son cherished them. She wondered if he sensed that the
place  held something special for her, something of hers and Mulder's,
shared.  Their place. She almost smiled.

"Sure," she said. "I can be there within the hour. I'm just finishing
up some errands."

"Thanks, Monica," she said before hitting the END button and dropping
her phone back into her pocket.

"We're going to John and Monica's office?" Will asked immediately.

She nodded, and they walked toward the parking garage. "I'm sorry to 
cut our day short, sweetie. I know you were looking forward to
stopping  by the pet store on the way home."

Though Scully had to confess that she was not looking forward to that
particular stop. They needed to buy more fish food, but she knew Will
would use the occasion to resume his campaign for a puppy, a cause
he'd  been working on since spring, one whose pace he was beginning to
pick  up as Christmas neared. It was going to be a long fall, she
thought.

"You have to work?"

She nodded. "Mr. Skinner needs my help with something," she said. No 
sense telling him it was about Mulder. Not until she knew something
for  sure. She had to be certain, absolutely certain. "It's very
important,  and it can't wait until tomorrow."

"How come you called Monica?" he asked. Usually it was her mother who
watched Will on the odd occasions Scully had to go into work during 
off-hours.

"Grandma's house is too far away," Scully explained. "I'd have to
drive  you out there, drop you off, and drive back to the city.
Monica's going  to meet us there. And she'll watch you. Maybe if
you're lucky," she  added, "she'll let you stay in her office and read
or draw."

At this Will's smile broadened. More than anything he liked spending 
time in John and Monica's basement office. She would never forget the
day she had brought her three-year-old son there, stopping by on the 
way home to drop off some autopsy results, and her normally well-
mannered child had burst into tears when it was time to go home. She'd
had to carry him out, not quite kicking and screaming, but certainly 
red-faced and crying against her shoulder.

"Did you bring a book?" she asked. Usually he carried a book wherever
they went, but Scully knew that Monica could scrounge up some colored
markers and blank paper if he hadn't.

"In the car," he said as they reached her Accord, and Scully unlocked
it with her key chain. "Harry Potter."

She sighed and looked over at him, one eyebrow arching. Will smiled 
back at her, opening the passenger's side door and sliding in. He 
pulled his seatbelt on before reaching underneath the seat and 
unearthing the first book in the Harry Potter series, the most
battered  in his collection. Scully pulled her door shut and started
the car,  shaking her head.

Of the two full bookcases in his bedroom, Harry Potter was Will's 
favorite. Had been ever since he discovered the series as a five year
old. He'd quickly made his way through all seven of books, with Scully
reading late into the night to keep ahead of him, worrying that the 
content might become too adult for him.

But, after a bit of wheedling, she'd decided that the books were
well- written and carried a positive message, despite their fantastic
nature  and, at times, adult situations. So she'd let him read them, 
remembering her own frustration when her mother had forced her to stop
reading the newest Judy Blume book -- mid-story, no less -- when she 
scanned the summary on the back cover and deemed the material 
inappropriate for a second grader.

But it wasn't really the sophistication of the books that worried 
Scully. What most concerned her was the degree with which Will 
identified with the protagonist, eleven-year-old orphaned Harry, who,
in the first book, learned that he was a wizard and was invited to
hone  his skills at a special wizard school.

"And Harry has these special powers," Will had told her over dinner
the  night he had started -- and later finished -- the first book. "He
can  talk to snakes, and make glass disappear, and make things move by
just  looking at them!"

Scully had nodded absently as she cut Will's chicken breast into 
pieces.

"And he didn't even know he was a wizard, because he lived with his 
mean aunt and uncle and his stupid, bossy cousin, because his parents,
who were wizards, too -- well, his mom was a witch, but his dad was a
wizard -- they died when he was just a baby. He doesn't remember them
at all."

Scully set down her knife and looked over at her son.

"What does that mean, he's a wizard?" she asked.

"I *told* you, Mommy," he said, sighing as he picked up his fork. "He
has these powers, like doing spells and stuff. He even got a wand and
spellbooks, and that's what they teach him at school!"

"That sounds... interesting," she said before eating a forkful of
rice.

Will nodded, his eyes bright. "And he has wizard friends and 
everything. And some of his teachers at school, they knew his parents
and they tell him stories about them, so he can know them, too."

Scully watched her son carefully as he went on about Harry Potter and
his dead wizard parents, and his brilliant wizard friends, and his 
spellbooks and broomstick and magic wand.

"And his parents," he repeated again. "They went to the same school. 
Hogwart's. That's where they met. But Harry doesn't remember them, not
at all, because he was just a baby when they died. And his aunt and 
uncle don't talk about them, because they think that being a wizard is
something bad, and they're embarrassed that Harry's one, like his 
parents."

A niggle of guilt had crowded into Scully's mind. Was Will missing his
father in his life? she wondered. Was she not doing a good enough job
sharing pieces of their life together with their son?

It was difficult, she'd realized long ago, due to the gruesome and 
troubling nature of so many of their cases, of so much of their 
partnership. And their personal relationship had been so intertwined 
with their work partnership that it was difficult to extract one from
the other, difficult to present a happy, uncomplicated picture of them
to Will.

Yet she tried. She tried so hard, keeping pictures of Mulder -- the
few  she'd found digging through the boxed-up contents of his
apartment --  around their townhouse and especially in Will's room.
She'd made him a  scrapbook of his father's things, photos of him and
Samantha, letters  he'd written to his parents from summer camp, small
pieces of his life  that Scully knew added up to not enough. 

Then, after weeks of hearing about Harry Potter's friends and Harry 
Potter's school and even Harry Potter's goddamn magic owl, she had 
managed to become even more worried.

"Will," she'd asked casually one night, when he was drying off after 
his bath. "You know, right, that you're not going to get a letter from
Hogwart's on your birthday?"

He'd nodded after the briefest of hesitations.

"You're not a wizard, Will. I'm not a witch," she said, feeling 
ridiculous. "And your dad isn't a wizard, either."

"I know, Mommy," he'd said softly, poking his tiny big toe at the
grout  between the bathtub and the tile floor.

She turned and sat on the edge of the tub, tugging his shoulder until
he stood against her knees.

"I'm glad you like those books, sweetie," she said, rubbing his
skinny,  shivering body with the thick bath towel. "I understand why
they're so  important to you, why you feel a kinship--"

He looked up at her with a crinkled brow and an eager smile. "A 
connection," she amended.

"Why you feel a kinship with Harry, and with the things he can do.
With  the special powers he has. And there's nothing wrong with that;
in  fact, I'm happy you have Harry.

"But you have to remember that these books are fictional. There is no
wizard school, not here in DC and not in England. Harry's not a real 
boy, and there are no witches or wizards."

He nodded, looking down and biting his full lower lip, stopping the 
pout that threatened to overwhelm his face. Drops of water gathered on
the ends of his damp hair.

"Come here," she said, pulling him into a hug. "I love you, Will."

"Love you, too, Mommy," his voice responded, muffled from where his
wet  head was buried in her sweatshirt.

She pulled away a little but still kept hold of him.

"What do you want to know about your dad?" she'd asked, and then she'd
spent the rest of the night telling him Mulder stories, until Will
fell  asleep huddled against her on the couch under a well-worn Navajo
print  blanket. She had scooped him up and carried him to his bedroom,
and had  somehow managed to tuck him into bed without waking him.

"Mom?" Will asked, bringing Scully back into the present. She offered
him an apologetic smile, afraid this was not the first time he'd
called  her name.

"Yes?"

"I'm at my very favorite part," he said, "where Harry gets the 
invisibility cloak and finds the Mirror of Erised -- you know that's 
'desire' spelled backwards, right, Mom? -- and sees his parents there,
waving at him and smiling. He gets to see his parents."

"Mmm hmm," Scully said as she pulled the car into the Hoover Building
parking garage. She found an empty space, an easy task on a Sunday 
afternoon, and put the car into park.

"Don't forget your book," she said to Will as they slammed the car 
doors shut. He trailed several steps behind her as they made their way
into the building and to the elevator. Will was so engrossed in what
he  was reading that he nearly ran into the concrete-block wall when
she  stopped to press the DOWN button.

"Whoa," she said, catching him by the shoulder. "I think you can wait
to finish that page until we get to Monica's office, don't you?"

He nodded and smiled sheepishly as the elevator arrived and they 
stepped in and rode down to the basement.

Monica Reyes was waiting in her office when they got there, her hands
jittering nervously, rustling the papers on her desk. Must have tried
giving up smoking again, Scully thought with a grin.

"Hi, Dana. Hi, Will," she said.

"Hi, Monica," Scully said, motioning for Reyes to join her in the
hall.  Will, who seemed to be paying no attention to them, found
John's desk  and climbed onto his chair. He spun around to face the
wall of fame  behind Doggett's desk, studying the photographs and
computer print-outs  and handwritten notes tacked there. He reached
out to touch the faded  "I Want to Believe" poster.

"What is it, Dana?" Reyes asked softly.

Scully sighed. "I got a call from Skinner," she said. "About Mulder."

"Again?"

Scully nodded. "And I'm afraid I've let myself get my hopes up this 
time," she admitted. "It's just... it's been such a long time since
the  last one, and the call's never come from Skinner before. I just
hoped  this time, maybe... Anyway, thank you."

"No problem," Monica said. "Let me know what you find out."

* * * * *

FBI Headquarters; Washington, DC
August 20
4:51 pm


Will looked up from his book when Monica walked back inside the office
and closed the door behind her. She smiled at him, but he dropped his
gaze back to the pages in front of him. This was his favorite part of
the story, where Harry found the Mirror of Erised, and then where 
Dumbledore, the kind old headmaster, confronted Harry about the
mirror.

"It shows us nothing more or less than the deepest, most desperate 
desire of our hearts. You, who have never known your family, see them
standing around you," Dumbledore told Harry, and Will smiled, read the
next half-page, and then eased his thoughts from the book. He 
concentrated on Monica, trying to glean something about what was going
on from her thoughts and feelings.

But today she was hard to read. She had always been pretty easy, her 
emotions simmering just underneath. And he had always felt close to 
Monica, something his mom chalked up to the fact that she'd delivered
him into the world. But today, for some reason he didn't understand, 
Will struggled to grasp her feelings.

He had always had the easiest time with his mom, and didn't have much
difficulty with his grandma or even his cousins or uncles, whom he 
didn't even know very well. For a while he thought that it had 
something to do with being related, but he could read John pretty
well,  too, and Aunt Tara, who was only related by marriage.

But all he could get from Monica was worry. Maybe a little fear, some
apprehension, some excitement. What was strange, though, was that her
feelings were directed at him and his mom, and Will wondered again
what  was going on, why the sudden trip to the FBI on a Sunday
afternoon. Not  that he was going to complain about a chance to spend
time there, but  still, he wanted to know what was going on...

"Monica?"

She looked up from the file that was opened on her desk. "Hmmm?"

"Why did Mr. Skinner call my mom?"

"I wish I knew," she said. It sounded like she was telling the truth,
but Will felt an undercurrent of something else there... something he
couldn't pinpoint. He decided to change the subject.

"Have you and John investigated any more ghosts?" he asked. He liked 
hearing John and Monica's stories about their cases, stories they only
told him when his mom wasn't around. She always got this unpleasant 
little crease over her eyebrow whenever they started talking about 
anything she thought might be too scary, anything she worried would 
give him nightmares. He didn't tell her that he had enough nightmares
on his own; it wasn't the scary movies or books, or John and Monica's
stories. Not that John told him all that many stories, even when his 
mom wasn't around. He was always worried that Will would tell his mom
about them, and that she would get upset with John.

But Will knew that asking about work would get Monica talking about 
John, and getting Monica to talk about John was a great way to
distract  her, so that maybe he could tap a little more deeply into
her feelings  and hear a great story, besides. But...

"No," she said. "Nothing too exciting. Sorry, Will," she said, and she
didn't elaborate. So much for that plan.

"Monica... you knew my dad, right?"

She looked him in the eye. "Why do you ask?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. John talks about him sometimes, if I ask, but 
you don't very often. Didn't you like him?"

She smiled at him and finally closed the folder on her desk. Then she
came around to John's desk and sat there on the corner, crossing her 
arms over her chest. "I didn't know him very well, you're right," she
said. "But what I did know about him I liked."

"Tell me something about him," he asked. "Something my mom doesn't 
know."

"Oh, Will," she said in a sigh. "I don't know anything about him that
your mom doesn't know."

He frowned, waiting while she thought.

"Well," she admitted. "Maybe one thing, just something little."

"Yeah?"

"Your mom's told you the story about when you were born, right?" she 
asked.

Will nodded eagerly. It was one of his favorite stories, his mom in 
danger, fleeing to Georgia with Monica; him being born in an old house
with no electricity; his dad arriving via helicopter and taking them 
all to the hospital. An amazing adventure; he wished he could remember
it.

"We were in the hospital in Atlanta, and the doctors were examining
you  and your mom. I left Mulder in the waiting room and went outside
to  call John and Skinner on my cell phone. When I got back, Mulder
wasn't  there. One of the nurses told me that he'd gone upstairs with
you and  your mom, so I went up to the maternity floor.

"I found your mom's room, but the doctor was still in with her, so I 
figured that Mulder was, too. I thought you might be in the nursery,
so  I went to find it -- you know, those big glass windows like they
show  in movies, where you can see all the newborn babies?"

Will nodded.

"It was late at night, and Mulder was the only person looking in the 
nursery window. He stood there, one hand on the glass, very still and
very quiet, and he was crying."

"Crying?"

She nodded. "I didn't want to disturb him, but I was afraid that 
something had happened to your mom. So I went over and asked him what
was wrong, and he just shook his head and said, 'Look at him.'

"And I looked down, and you were in the little bed closest to the 
window. You were wrapped in a yellow blanket and had a little blue hat
on your head, and you were smiling at him."

* * * * *

Continued in Part 3.


Title: Song of Innocence (3/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Is always welcome.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital; Washington, DC
August 20
6:02 pm


Scully knew it was Mulder before she even stepped into his curtained 
cubicle in Intensive Care. She knew it by smell; despite the
antiseptic  odor of the hospital, she could smell Mulder somewhere
underneath, warm  and familiar and so very missed. It was like
returning home after a  long vacation, wandering through each room to
reacquaint yourself with  things that you hadn't even thought to
miss.

She felt like an animal sniffing out its mate... or its predator.

Scully pushed back the curtain and stepped next to the bed, and her 
conviction strengthened, despite the strands of gray that peppered 
Mulder's brown hair, despite the dark circles that stood out against 
his pale skin, despite the wrinkles gathered at the corners of his 
eyes. Despite the restraints.

Or maybe, she mused, *because* of them.

Scully stepped over to his bedside, taking his hand in hers. It was 
warm and soft, but decidedly lifeless.

"Mulder," she called. "Mulder?"

"He's been sedated."

Scully spun around to face the doorway, where there stood the nurse
who  had led her over to his cubicle. The young woman flipped through
his  chart.

"What have you given him?" Scully asked.

The nurse shot her a suspicious glance, so Scully slipped her Bureau
ID  out of her pocket and flashed it at the nurse, who nodded.

"Thorazine," she said. "They gave diazepam when he came in, but he 
wasn't tolerating it."

Scully nodded. Yes, she told herself -- evidence. Something concrete
to  sink her teeth into; Mulder had never tolerated diazepam. "Are
these  really necessary?" She dug her thumb nail between the Velcro of
the  restraints, and the quick rip tore through the tiny cubicle.

"I wasn't here when he was restrained," she said apologetically, "but
according to his chart, he was a danger to himself."

"In what way?"

"Apparently he grew agitated, screaming and trying to yank out his IV.
He was yelling and wouldn't answer the doctor's questions. He wouldn't
give his name or any other information or medical history."

Scully nodded, not expecting anything else from Mulder. "What was he 
yelling?"

The nurse pushed her dark hair behind her ears and squinted down at
the  chart. "They wrote it down. Thought he might give them something
to ID  him, but most of it they didn't understand. Looks like
'Sally,'" she  said. "'Sally' and 'stop' and 'baby' and 'no.' Mostly
'no.' Lots of  'no.'"

She smiled. "Was it maybe 'Scully'?"

"'Sally,' 'Scully,'" the nurse tested. "Maybe. Who's 'Scully'?"

"Dana Scully," she said, holding out her hand.

The nurse shook it, smiling. "Ah, yes," she said, flipping through the
chart. "Dana Scully, MD, of 'next of kin' and 'medical power of 
attorney' fame."

Scully nodded.

"I'm sorry we didn't contact you right away, Dr. Scully," the nurse 
said. "But, as you can see, at first he wouldn't even give us his
name,  so we had no idea about his situation."

Scully just nodded. "I understand," she said, wondering what story 
Skinner had given the hospital when he'd spoken with them and
marveling  at how quickly he had arranged for Mulder's medical records
to be sent. 

"So you're 'Sally,'" the nurse said, again checking the chart.
"Mystery  solved. Is there also a baby?"

"Not a baby anymore," she said softly.

The nurse smiled sadly and hooked Mulder's chart on the foot of his
bed  before leaving them alone. Scully glanced at the chart, then over
at  the opening in the curtain, then back at the chart. She snatched
it off  the end of the bed and flipped it open.

She scanned the pages, not finding anything unexpected. Early that 
morning Mulder had been found in the ER, left unconscious in a 
wheelchair in the corner of the waiting room. He had stopped breathing
on the exam table, then regained consciousness when they started to 
intubate him, fighting with such vengeance that he broke through one 
set of restraints.

Then, amidst his shouting and writhing on the table and kicking a med
student, they had sedated him, needing a double dose of tranquilizer,
and then successfully restrained him when he was finally knocked out.

From what they could determine from their examination of an
unconscious  Fox Mulder, he had no obvious serious injuries. However,
his heart was  racing, his breathing was erratic, and he was
experiencing a severe  tremor in his arms and legs, the muscles of
which appeared to have  partially atrophied.

They planned to bring him out of the sedation slowly, then continue 
with their tests -- including, she saw with a shudder, a psych 
evaluation. Of course, she thought, feeling stupid. Of course they'd
do  a psych evaluation, with him writhing around and screaming and 
restrained. She shouldn't have expected anything less from Fox
Mulder's  return.

Scully hooked Mulder's chart back on the foot of his bed, then settled
into the uncomfortable vinyl chair near his head. She bent down and 
pushed aside the thin blanket that covered Mulder's legs and chest,
and  wedged her fingers beneath the cool skin of his neck to untie the
top  of his hospital gown. She slipped it down his chest, her hand
going  automatically to the perfect circle of a scar on his shoulder.
The size  of her fingernail, the size of her bullet.

She moved the gown down further, uncovering his hip and trailing her 
hand over to a second bullet-wound scar, this one on his upper thigh.
Finally she allowed herself one last litmus test, bringing her hand up
to his head, seeking out the ridge of scars on his skull, tucked
behind  his hair line.

They were there; they were all there. Evidence. Scully allowed herself
a sigh of relief.

"Mulder," Scully sighed, trailing her hand down to his, skimming over
the Velcro restraints before interlacing their fingers.

"Mulder," she whispered, almost startling herself at the loudness of 
her voice in the tiny curtained room.

"Mulder, it's me," she said. "I know you can hear me. Come on, Mulder,
wake up."

His hand twitched in hers, and Scully squeezed his hand but got no 
response. She squeezed again. Nothing.

So she sat there, not moving, not speaking, just waiting. Waiting.
Then  she felt it, a definite squeeze.

"Mulder?" Her gaze shot from his hand to his face, and she saw that
his  eyes were open, wide and scared. His pupils were dilated to cover
all  but just a rim of gray-green iris.

"It's me, Mulder," she said. "It's okay. You're okay."

He gagged on his attempt to speak, and she set her hand on his 
forehead, slipping her fingers between the restraints and his clammy 
skin.

"Sshh, don't try to talk. They had to intubate you. You won't be able
to speak."

His fingers twitched in hers, and she gave his hand a squeeze. "Sshh,
it's okay," she said, but he pulled his fingers from her grasp, 
straining against the Velcro restraints that pinned his wrists to the
bed rails. His fingers flailed, then he made a scribbling motion with
hand.

"Okay," she said, pulling her purse onto her lap. "You want to write 
something?"

He nodded against the strap across his forehead, and finally she found
a pen and pad of paper in her purse. She fit the pen into his grasp
and  angled the paper so he could write. His hand shook as the pen
made  contact with the paper, and when he stopped moving, she pulled
the pad  away, revealing three wobbly letters.

U OK

Scully smiled up at him. "I'm fi--"

His brow wrinkled in displeasure at her choice of words, and again she
smiled at the familiar expression.

"Yes," she said. "I'm okay."

His wrist flailed again, and she flipped over to a clean sheet of
paper  before replacing it beneath his hand.

WM

"He's okay, too," she said with a small smile.

A look of relief filled his face, and finally Mulder relaxed against 
his bed, his chest heaving with exhaustion. Scully dug into her purse,
searching for a recent photograph of Will. Finally she found it and 
looked back up at Mulder, a smile on her face.

But he was asleep. Scully sighed and dropped her hand to her side. She
examined the photograph herself, glancing back and forth between her 
son's familiar face and Mulder's.

Mulder's mouth, she thought. His smile. Will had her nose, down to the
freckles dotting its smooth bridge, and her skin tone. His eyes were 
large, larger than Mulder's, but their intense hazel color was 
undoubtedly his. And his hair, which had been a pale reddish blond
when  he was an infant, had darkened into a beautiful auburn.

Scully tugged the pen out of Mulder's grasp, capped it, and dropped it
and the notepad back in her open purse. She slipped her fingers
between  Mulder's, caressing his long fingers. Will's fingers, she
thought,  passing her thumb over his knuckles.

* * * * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital; Washington, DC
August 20
6:15 pm


At quarter past the hour Scully allowed herself to be guided away from
Mulder's bed and into the waiting room, where she collapsed onto the 
plastic-cushioned chairs in a swarm of anxious family members.

I should call someone, she thought. She debated between Monica and 
Skinner as she dipped into her pocket for her cell phone. Or my
mother,  she thought as she noticed the Please Turn Cellular Phones
Off sign  near the nurses' station. Sighing, she tucked the phone back
into her  pocket. Scully knew she should find a payphone or step
outside to use  her cell, but she didn't feel like moving, at least
not for another  forty-five minutes, when visiting resumed.

A gruff voice got her attention. "Is it him?"

Her head jerked up to see John Doggett, one hand stuffed in the
pockets  of his jeans, the other balancing a cardboard tray with two
Styrofoam  coffee cups. He sank down in the seat next to her, and
Scully cleared  her foggy brain, reminding herself that John had
insisted on driving  over with her. She had forgotten all about him.

"Is it Mulder?" he asked again.

She nodded and took the cup of coffee he offered, sipping gratefully
in  order to give her something to focus on.

Beside her, Doggett sighed with a relief that was almost overdone. 
"Well," he said finally. "Well, I mean, good." He focused on his own 
coffee. "That's good."

She nodded and wondered whether it would be rude to send John to find
a  payphone and ask him to make a few calls for her. Instead she
closed  her eyes and cupped her coffee in both hands, trying to grasp
the  enormity of what was happening.

"I called the Bureau, Dana," John said, and she opened her eyes to
look  at him. "I thought you might want to be certain, so I asked if
they had  Mulder's records up to date."

"Yes?"

"They still have his prints in the federal employee database," he told
her. "But the samples they kept for DNA analysis are no longer 
available. Seems they're quicker to purge their records when the 
samples require actual storage space instead of a few kilobits of 
memory on their server."

Scully nodded. She had already started thinking about that
possibility,  about how she could be certain that it was Mulder lying
in that bed. A  final bit of evidence. She had been expecting that the
slow bureaucracy  might actually help her for once, and that they'd
still have Mulder's  information on file. She guessed the prints would
do, but Scully really  wished she could check for a DNA match...

"Dr. Scully?"

She looked up to see the dark-haired nurse she'd spoken with at 
Mulder's bed, whose name Scully now saw was Angela. A white plastic
bag  swung gently in front of her. The nurse glanced at John, then
back at  Scully.

"John Doggett," he said, extending a hand. "I worked with Agents
Mulder  and Scully."

The nurse nodded and turned back to Scully.

"His things," she said, offering her the bag. "As you can see from the
contents, he'll be needing some personal things, certainly some
clothes  to leave the hospital in."

Scully nodded numbly and pried the bag open as the nurse stepped away.

John ducked his head. "Uh, Dana, why don't I go call Skinner and
Monica  to let them know it's him." He stood and slipped his cell
phone out of  his pocket.

"Thank you," she said to his retreating form.

Scully fished her hand inside the bag and pulled out a shirt, a white
t-shirt so new that, despite the jagged cut down the center, it still
held a stubborn crease along the hem. Shoes -- gray, brandless
slippers  with a K-Mart sticker, $4.27, still on the right sole. Then
pants,  light blue cotton with a missing drawstring and a patch pocket
that  reminded her of surgical scrubs.

She removed the last item, a black leather wallet that she immediately
recognized as a match to the one in her own pocket. She flipped it 
open, the heavy half that held his ID on the bottom, the empty slot 
where his badge had once been on the top.

Scully knew why the badge wasn't there -- the Bureau had taken it back
when he was dismissed -- but what she didn't understand was why Mulder
had the ID on him in the first place. Though she'd never found it
among  his things, she had never thought he would bring it with him.
How  dangerous, how stupidly dangerous to carry that. Anyone could
have  found him, anyone could have...

She glanced back at his curtained-off bed. Anyone *had* found him.

Curious, Scully slipped the wallet in the pocket of Mulder's pants, 
then held the pants up by the elastic waist, testing. She jiggled the
pants, the left side weighted down by the wallet, and realized that
the  wallet was probably too heavy. He couldn't have walked around
with it  in this pocket, not wearing pants without a drawstring.
Unless he'd  been holding it in his hand, which she doubted, he hadn't
walked around  anywhere with the ID.

Someone had put it there, she thought as she slipped the wallet out of
the pocket. Someone who had dressed him and left him in the ER waiting
room, wanting him to be discovered not as some anonymous John Doe but
as Special Agent Fox Mulder.

Someone had -- dare she think it -- helped him?

Scully slid her thumb nail into the plastic window to remove the ID 
card, and a folded square of paper fell out on her lap. She set down 
the wallet and ID, and unfolded the paper. She stared at it, the faded
image familiar from Will's baby book, and Scully could feel something
crumble inside her.

The reality of the situation, of Mulder's return, hadn't hit her --
not  completely, at least -- until then. Yes, intellectually she'd
realized  it as she ran her fingers over his familiar scars. But until
she saw  the picture, she supposed that some small part of her was
unwilling to  believe in the miracle she'd been given.

The digital camera they'd used to take that picture had been a gift 
from the Gunmen -- the camera, a plush Marvin the Martian, and a baby
monitor she'd been afraid to use. At the time the camera had seemed 
like a ridiculous gift for an infant, but just days later, when Mulder
snapped William's picture as the infant lay in his bassinet, she had 
been thankful beyond words.

This is really him, she told herself. Really Mulder. She fingered the
flimsy Xerox paper she'd used to print Will's picture, running her 
thumb over dark smudges and torn edges and a drop of wetness that had
blurred part of Will's right ear.

She felt the same way she'd felt when Mulder first left, walking
around  in a daze, her heart and mind trying to come to terms with a
fact her  body had already been forced to accept. Mulder's absence.

Scully remembered that day, remembered slipping her hand into the top
drawer of her desk, pulling out William's birth certificate paperwork,
which the hospital had sent home with her since she hadn't decided on
his name before returning to DC.

She had set out to complete the form the day after returning to 
Washington, managing to fill in only William's and her first names to
go along with the information the hospital had already provided,
before  Mulder's distraught "Uh, Scully..." called her into the
bedroom, where  he'd insisted he could change their son's diaper
without her  assistance.

Later, after Mulder was gone and she thought she was starting to
accept  his absence, she pulled the half-blank form and a black pen
out of her  desk. She started in the middle of the page, filling in
the rest of her  name on the appropriate three lines, then her
birthdate. Then her eyes  darted over to the identical blanks on the
right-hand side of the page.

Her breath caught in her throat when she saw it, neatly printed
instead  of his usual hasty scrawling. In pencil, as though he thought
she might  want to erase it. Father's Name: Mulder, Fox William.

She must have left the paperwork out that morning, she thought, when 
she went to help him with William. Somehow, seeing Mulder's name there
with her own, together on their son's birth certificate, was too much.
Too real.

Tears filled her eyes but didn't spill over until she glanced up at
the  three lines under which was printed, Baby's Name -- Last, First,
Middle.

Because, on that line, lightly and in pencil, he had filled in the
last  name of Mulder.

* * * * *

Continued in Part 4.

Title: Song of Innocence (4/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Is always welcome.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

717 Locust Street; Georgetown
August 20
8:02 pm


"Will."

Will turned from book on his desk -- a big atlas opened to the page
for  Georgia -- to see his mom standing in the doorway of his bedroom,
her  hands clutched tightly in front of her.

"You're home," he said.

She nodded, then sat down on his bed. "Come sit with me."

Will slipped a Sesame Street bookmark into the thick volume on his 
desk, then climbed down off his chair and joined his mom on the bed.

Something was up, he thought. Something very, very big. Will waited 
while his mom gathered her thoughts, using the time to just sit with 
her. He could feel the worry and fear moving off her in waves.

Then, in a flash, he knew.

His dad was back.

Will looked up at his mom, and the expression on her face was a jumble
of emotions. Worried and scared and -- though he couldn't understand
it  -- sad. Why was she sad? If his dad was back -- and now Will was 
certain that he was -- then why would she be sad?

"He's back," Will said finally, unable to stand it any longer, the 
emotion moving off his mom, lapping at him like an ocean.

His mom's head jerked up, and she looked at him with wide eyes.

"Sorry," he said reflexively.

You have to be more careful, he scolded himself. He hated it when he 
surprised her like that; she was the only person he could share these
things with, these feelings and talents that no one else would
believe,  never mind understand. Even his grandma seemed uncomfortable
whenever  he mentioned his feelings, and he and his mom decided that
maybe it was  best just to keep these things between the two of them.

"No," she said, pulling him onto her lap. "You have nothing to be
sorry  about, Will. Sometimes you just surprise me, that's all. You'd
be  surprised, too," she said with a smile, "if someone could voice
your  thoughts."

Probably, Will thought. Probably *they* would be surprised, too, if 
they knew what he was thinking. "Am I right?"

"Yes," she said. "Your dad's back."

He leaned his head against her shoulder, feeling like a baby again, 
remembering. Once Will had told his mom that he could remember being a
baby, could remember lying in a crib and watching shiny stars and
moons  moving above him. He sort of even remembered being taken away
once,  being pulled from someone's safe arms -- though not his mom's
-- and  taken somewhere big and dark and scary.

And, even though Will also remembered how it ended -- his mom
snatching  him off the ground and saving him from a fire and holding
him and  kissing him -- he never told her about that memory. Not after
her  obvious panic when he had remembered just lying in a crib.

"How much do you know?" she asked him.

"That's all," he said. "I think."

"That's why Mr. Skinner called me into his office," she explained. "He
got a call from someone at Georgetown Memorial, who then identified 
your dad from the description Mr. Skinner gave.

"Your dad was carrying his old FBI ID," she explained. "I'm not sure 
why. Apparently a nurse at the hospital called the Bureau and found 
someone who looked up his name on the FBI database, and found it on a
report submitted to Mr. Skinner."

Identified by someone at the hospital, Will thought. Did that mean...?
"Is he hurt?"

"Yes," his mom said slowly, softly.

Okay, Will thought, maybe this was why she was sad. If his dad was 
hurt, or if he was...

But Will knew he wasn't dead. He couldn't tell what was wrong with
him,  but he knew that his dad wasn't dead. He said it anyway, sensing
that  his mom needed some prompting, even though Will hated playing
dumb,  pretending not to know something he was sure of, especially
around his  mom.

"Is he gonna be okay?" he asked, looking up at her.

"Yes." She smiled, and Will didn't need to tap into her emotions to 
feel her happiness. "Yes, he will."

She hugged him tight then, and Will hoped she wasn't going to cry. He
knew she did sometimes, late at night when he could only feel her but
not hear her, when her tears kept both of them awake.

But she didn't cry.

"I'm going to get someone to take over my classes this week," she
said.  "I'll go to the hospital in the mornings and I'll be able to
pick you  up from your class. Then, later in the week, when your dad's
feeling  better, I'll take you to the hospital with me."

"Okay," he said.

"There's one more thing," she told him softly. Will laid his head back
against her shoulder, and his mom stroked his hair slowly. "Something
I  need your help with."

"My help?"

"Yes," she said. "We need to do a test to make sure that it's really 
your dad."

"Does he look different?" he asked. Will added gruesome scars to the 
mental image of his father, which was already pretty blurry, not to 
mention outdated.

"No," she said. "But there are people who are going to want proof, 
Will. The FBI still has your dad's fingerprints on file, so John's 
going to check those. But there's one thing they don't have on file 
anymore.

"Will, I need to test your dad's DNA against yours."

He nodded solemnly. "Do you need to take my blood?" he asked, both 
scared and a little excited at the prospect.

"Yes," she said. "There are other ways, but a blood sample is best. It
gives the most DNA with less chance of contamination."

"Like what?"

"Well, for example, I could scrape your tongue with a tongue
depressor,  but that could be contaminated with the DNA from the food
you've eaten  recently, chicken or green bean or wheat DNA."

Will smiled up at her; he had never thought about green beans or wheat
having DNA before. "Are you going to do it?" he asked. He'd seen his 
mom do medical stuff before, but always on other people. The only 
things she ever did to him were normal stuff like checking for a fever
or making sure a cut wasn't infected.

"Yes, I'll do it," she said, slipping away from his side and leaving 
his bedroom, finally returning with a plastic ziplock baggie, which
she  emptied onto his bed. Will stuck his left arm out for her, and
she  settled it carefully on her lap, stroking her thumb gently down
the  soft skin in the inside of his arm.

Will watched as she cinched a snappy rubber tie tight around his left
upper arm. Then she ripped open a little paper packet and removed two
handiwipes, which she used to clean a spot in the crook of his elbow 
and her own fingers. She didn't wear gloves.

While his arm dried, his mom fit together the needle and the tube that
would hold his blood. Then she popped the plastic cap off the needle.

Will's eyes widened. Even though he wasn't a lot scared of needles, he
didn't really like them either. But he knew that his mom would be 
really careful, so he wasn't as scared as he was when he got a shot at
the doctor's office. Plus, Will knew that this was for a good reason;
he wanted to help his dad. Cowboy up, Will, he told himself. Be brave
for your dad.

Will watched his mom's fingers travel to a thin blue vein that rose 
just barely off the surface of his skin. She adjusted the needle, then
looked up at him. "Close your eyes, sweetie," she said, and he 
scrunched his eyes tight like he did at the doctor's.

He felt his mom press a kiss to his forehead, and then he felt the 
needle push into his arm. A prick, then the strange sting of the
needle  inside his vein. It hurt, like he knew it would, but it wasn't
too long  before he felt the needle pull out.

"You can look now," his mom said, and he opened his eyes to see her 
pressing a cotton ball to his arm. In her other hand she held a small
tube of dark red blood, the needle still attached. My blood, Will 
thought, hoping it would match his dad's.

"Here," she said. "Hold this tight." Will pressed hard on his elbow
and  watched as his mom slipped the needle off the tube and then
capped it.  She slid the needle into a skinny plastic tube and capped
that, too,  then put everything back into the ziplock baggie, all
except for the  band-aid.

Will moved to peel the cotton ball away from his arm after his mom 
opened the band-aid wrapper, but she shook her head. "Keep it there,"
she told him. Moving around his finger, she applied the band-aid, then
caught his hand with hers and moved his fingers away.

"Okay?" she asked.

"Mm hm," he told her, and she pulled him into a tight hug. Her hands 
were jittery now, running over his hair and down his back. He could 
still smell the rubbing alcohol on them.

"I'm sorry, baby," she said, her breath warm and close to his ear. "I
wish I didn't have to do that. I don't want to hurt you."

"I'm okay," Will told her bravely, but he was worried. Not worried 
about his arm, which didn't hurt as much anymore, but worried about
his  mom.

The feelings he could feel coming off her now were new, but not 
unwelcome. There was a love, deep and thick and warm, a feeling from 
her that he'd only ever felt directed toward himself before. This was
different -- yes, different -- but in many ways the same.

He felt safe. Relieved. He felt warm and happy and... almost fuzzy. It
was like his mom had swallowed the sun and he was basking in her
rays.

Suddenly Will understood what his mom had been trying to explain after
her conference with his teacher. He understood why she wasn't going to
marry John.

He had never gotten these kinds of feelings from her when she was 
around John. Never. Her feelings around John were pleasant enough. 
Content and friendly, but that was all.

But John's feelings around his mom... those were different. Different
from his mom's feelings for John, but not the same as his mom's 
feelings for his dad, either.

Will knew now that he was right in not telling his mom what John felt
for her. He had tried to, even hinted at it as recently as Thursday.
He  had wished for a long time that she would pick up on those
feelings,  and sometimes he got so frustrated waiting for others to
catch up, even  his mom. He had hoped that maybe, if she knew, she
would start to feel  the same way about John, and then John could be
his dad.

But Will had promised his mom that he wouldn't use his talents to try
to manipulate people. He had gotten into trouble for that more than 
once, and he tried very hard not to do it anymore. The first time
she'd  sent him to his room, but it didn't take her long to discover
that that  wasn't much of a punishment, not with two stocked
bookshelves. So she  had gotten more creative in her punishments, and
Will was in no mood to  be forbidden to read for another whole
weekend.

Suddenly Will's head hurt from all the feelings, and he was starting
to  worry about meeting his dad. All his life he'd wanted a dad more
than  anything, even more than a brother or sister, which he'd wished
for for  a while last year even though he didn't expect to get one,
and more,  lots more, than a dog. But now that he was going to get the
chance to  meet his real, true dad, he was scared.

Maybe his dad wouldn't like him, or maybe he wouldn't like his dad.
And  what would happen then? Will wondered. He had never felt those
kinds of  feelings from his mom before, and he knew that she wanted so
badly for  him to love his dad like she did.

But what if he didn't?

* * * * *

Continued in Part 5.


Title: Song of Innocence (5/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Is always welcome.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital; Washington, DC
August 21
8:57 am


When Scully arrived at the hospital the next day, she rode the
elevator  up to Intensive Care and claimed the last empty seat in the
waiting  room. She watched the clock, chasing the second hand around
its stark  white face, until nine o'clock, when the rest of the
waiting room, as  if part of a singular organism, rose. They moved
together, venturing  from familied clumps that pulsed with worry,
moving to the cubicles on  the periphery of the room. They reminded
Scully of a film she'd seen in  a biology class, of chromosomes
pulling apart during mitosis, the  movement appearing prearranged,
like a perfectly choreographed dance.

Scully smiled and pulled back the curtain around Mulder's bed, her 
heart seizing in her chest when she found it empty. She stood there
for  a moment, frozen, afraid, worried. Regretful.

She had considered sitting there all night, watching him sleep, the
way  they'd watched their son sleep, together, on that first night in
her  apartment with him. The way she'd watched their son sleep, alone,
on  the third.

But then she had remembered Will, who a few hours earlier had been 
picked up from the Hoover Building by her mother and taken home, and 
she was reminded, as if, after these seven years, she could have 
forgotten, that her allegiance, which had once belonged solely to 
Mulder, now rested with their son.

And then the minute hand had ticked over to a quarter past the hour, 
and the nurses had hurried visitors out of Intensive Care with a 
determination that Scully herself had possessed so often that she had
known not to question it.

Now Scully let out a shaky breath, turning and anxiously scanning the
rest of the Intensive Care unit, finally locating a nurse clad in 
salmon-colored scrubs.

"Fox Mulder," she called out as she hurried over to the nurse. "Where
is he?"

"Who?" the nurse asked her, stepping over to the nurses' station and 
checking a roster of patients. 

"Fox Mulder," Scully repeated. "He was in that bed, right there, last
night." She pointed at the empty bed, then squeezed her hand into a 
fist to quell the tremor in her hand. "Where is he?"

"Fox Mulder," the nurse muttered, flipping through the sheets.
"Mulder,  Mulder..."

Scully sighed. "Yes. Fox Mulder." She tried but couldn't keep the
angry  clip out of her voice.

The nurse looked up at her, and didn't attempt to disguise the 
irritation in her voice. "Look, Miss..."

"Scully," she said. "*Dr.* Dana Scully."

"Dr. Scully," the nurse said, her tone softening. "Are you Mr.
Mulder's  physician?"

"No," Scully admitted. "I'm... family."

The nurse nodded. "I don't have a Fox Mulder listed here," she said. 
"But I just came on shift. Let me check his status for you." She 
stepped over to the computer at the end of the nurses' station and 
clicked away at the keyboard for a few minutes.

"Fox Mulder," she said finally. "He's been transferred."

"Transferred where?" Scully asked, impatient.

"Eighth floor," the nurse whispered, almost apologetically.

"Eighth floor?" Scully asked.

The nurse nodded, then dropped her voice before adding, 
"Neurology/Psychiatry."

"Thank you," Scully called out curtly as she spun on her heel and 
headed for the elevator. Neuro/Psych, she thought desperately as she 
waited for the elevator, then stepped in and hit the button for the 
eighth floor. Of course, she thought. He was restrained, sedated. When
they extubated him, the doctor's first order had probably been for a 
psych evaluation. Who knew what kind of things he'd been saying?

After a quick word with one of the nurses, Scully was given directions
to Mulder's room, then buzzed onto the floor. She wove quickly through
the maze of hallways, then found his room.

He was still asleep, but Scully was glad to see that both his 
restraints and, as she'd assumed, his breathing tube had been removed.
She slipped into his room and scooted the single chair up to the head
of his bed, dropping onto the orange vinyl.

His lips were curved into a gentle smile in his sleep, but his hands 
twitched and shook, and Scully grasped them gently, stilling their 
frantic movement.

"Sshh," she said, running her hand over his forehead and through his 
hair. "It's okay, Mulder. It's just a nightmare. Sshh."

His eyes flew open, and it was several long seconds before the look of
panic passed over his face. "Scuh--" he croaked, then coughed 
violently. He tried to pull himself into a sitting position, his
coughs  wracking his gaunt form, but he could only fall back against
the  pillow, sighing finally and taking a deep breath.

Scully fumbled for the plastic pitcher that sat on the rollaway table
pushed down to the foot of his bed, then filled his paper cup with 
water. She offered it to him, expecting him to take it from her hand,
but instead he craned his neck toward her, and she met him halfway, 
gently tipping the cup so he could drink.

He gulped ravenously at the water, pressing up off the bed, until 
Scully set her hand on his forehead and guided him back to his pillow.
"Slowly, Mulder," she said. "Take it slow. You don't want to get
sick."

He took another long swallow, then fell back into his pillow.
"Scully."

She nodded, smiled at him.

"I thought you were a dream," he said. "But you're here?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm here." She ran her fingers through his hair, 
which felt grimy with dirt and sweat. He closed his eyes at the 
movement, and a rough hum came from his throat.

"Sorry," he croaked out. "So sorry."

"Sshh," she said, her thumb caressing the short hair at his temple.
"Go  back to sleep. You're safe here, Mulder."

"You're here?" he asked again, opening sleepy eyes halfway to check.

She gave him a small smile. "I'm still here," she said. "I'm not going
anywhere."

* * * * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital; Washington, DC
August 21
1:14 pm


It took several more hours before Mulder was able to wake up and
remain  conscious for any measurable period of time. But Scully was
afraid to  leave him, worried that the moment she slipped out for
lunch or to make  a phone call would be the moment he awoke. She
certainly didn't want an  encore of his emergency room performance,
the final act ending with  Mulder sedated and restrained.

So she stayed at his bedside, trying to make the sticky vinyl chair 
more comfortable, cushioning her lower back with her balled-up jacket,
brought from home in deference to the chilly hospital air. She used
the  tiny bathroom attached to his room and ate the lunch the candy
striper  left him after it became clear that he wasn't going to wake
up to eat.  Not that it would've been worth disturbing his slumber,
she thought as  she nibbled the overcooked carrots.

She hung the picture Will had drawn for Mulder on the wall opposite
his  bed. A painting of her and Will and Pup, he had begged an hour's
extension of his bedtime last night to finish it. Scully felt a surge
of pride as she straightened the picture, then an overwhelming sadness
as she stood back to admire it, as she was reminded of how very small
her son's family was.

Then she watched Mulder sleep, studying his face, his hands, even 
uncovering his feet for her scrutiny. She stared at his long, slender
toes, startled to discover that she'd forgotten what his feet looked 
like. His second toe was longer than his first; a sign of
intelligence,  she'd once heard.

She checked her watch at 1:17 and realized that she was late in
calling  John, who said he'd try to get the fingerprint match results
before  noon. Scully dawdled for a bit longer, then finally lifted the
phone  off Mulder's bedside table. She'd apologized for interrupting
his lunch  with Monica, but John had been happy to tell her that the
fingerprints  were a match, offering her a precious piece of evidence.
Unable to keep  the disappointment out of his voice, John explained
that they expected  the DNA verification to take another day, despite
the rush he'd put on  it when he turned it in to the Quantico lab in
her name. But,  personally, he told her, he didn't have any doubts.

"So I wasn't hallucinating after all," Mulder said, and Scully nearly
jumped off her chair.

"God, Mulder, you scared me," she said, catching her breath and trying
to calm her racing heart as she dropped the receiver on the phone. 
She'd been staring out the window, watching two pigeons that had
chosen  Mulder's window ledge to mate. Scully wondered if they
realized that it  was not spring.

"Sorry," he said, reaching for her hand. "God, Scully, it's you. It's
really you." She nodded as she bent down to kiss his forehead. His
skin  was soft against her lips, and she turned her cheek against his
head,  closing her eyes as she breathed in his smell.

Then she pulled herself away, straightening her shirt as she sat up. 
"How do you feel?" she asked him.

"Like Dudley Do-Right didn't get to me in time," he quipped.

Scully quirked an eyebrow at him and he gave her a wry smile in 
response. "You know -- Dudley Do-Right rushing to the rescue of... 
Damn, what was her name, anyway?" His brows knitted together as he 
slipped deeper in thought. "I can't remember. Well, you know who I
mean  -- the damsel in distress strapped to the train tracks. Her."

"Nell Fenwick," Scully muttered. She and Will had just watched an old
Dudley Do-Right cartoon the other morning. Or, rather, part of the 
cartoon, as they'd both found it silly to the extreme and switched the
channel in time to catch Will's favorite sketch at the end of an old 
Rocky and Bullwinkle -- the brainy dog Peabody and his boy Sherman.

Mulder grinned. "I'm impressed, Scully," he said. "Don't tell me
you've  jumped the border and joined the Mounties."

She smiled, but her tone turned serious as she lay her hand on his. 
"Mulder, do you know where you are?"

He glanced around, his head moving slowly, as though he wasn't sure if
the movement would be too much for him to handle. "A hospital, 
clearly," he said. "Don't know which one."

"It's Georgetown," she told him. "Do you know what happened, Mulder? 
How you got here?"

He shook his head carefully.

"An orderly found you unconscious in the ER waiting room. You don't 
recall that?"

He shook his head again.

"What's the last thing you do remember?"

His forehead wrinkled in confusion. "I don't-- I don't remember 
anything," he said, and she felt her chest tighten. "No, I do. I 
remember some things." He paused, then, "I remember you."

She gave him a half-smile. Yes; she had already figured that. "And?"

"And... I remember leaving you. Leaving William." He squeezed his eyes
shut.

She nodded. "And after that?" she asked, willing her voice to remain 
cool and calm. Detached.

"After that... After that, I was in New Mexico... And after that, I 
think, Oregon."

"Bellefleur?" she asked.

"Where?"

"Bellefleur, Oregon," she repeated. "Billy Miles, Teresa Hoese? Those
names don't sound familiar to you?"

He shook his head. "Should they?"

Scully sighed. "Teresa Nemens?" she tried, hopeful.

Again he shook his head.

"I don't remember," he said, the set of his face stubborn, familiar.
"I  don't want to talk about that.

"Tell me about him, Scully."

She nodded. Either he remembered and didn't want to delve into it yet
or he just didn't remember. Scully wasn't sure which would be worse. 
Either way, she knew she wasn't going to get anywhere until his own 
curiosity had been satisfied. "What do you want to know?"

"Everything."

She smiled. "He's wonderful, Mulder, beautiful and smart and loving. 
He-- Will--"

"Will," Mulder said slowly, testing it out.

She nodded. "He made that for you," she said, pointing at the picture
hung -- slightly off-center, she now saw -- beneath his television.

"Can you-- Can I see it?"

She nabbed it off the wall, careful of the scotch tape, and set it on
his lap. The paper was the thick artist's kind that Will liked to use
for his oil paints, even though he'd done this picture with 
watercolors. Mulder traced the bright figures on the paper with his 
index finger, taking his time on hers and Will's faces and looking up
at her when he reached the smudgy brown lump that represented Pup.

"What *is* this?"

Scully chuckled. "It's his stuffed dog," she explained carefully. How
could he not remember this? she wondered. How could he have forgotten?
"I know the likeness could be better, but you don't remember a stuffed
dog?"

"Should I?" he asked, puzzled.

"Pup," she explained, trying to keep the worry out of her voice. "He 
loves that dog more than anything; they're inseparable. We almost lost
him in an unfortunate incident with a mud puddle when Will was three,
but I discovered that he was machine washable... Mulder, you gave him
that dog."

"I did?"

She nodded. "You went to pick up breakfast the first night after he
was  born. You came back with a half-dozen bagels, a tub of cream
cheese,  and that stuffed dog. You don't remember?"

"Maybe," he said, but Scully could read the concern in his eyes, the 
worry. Then he averted his gaze to the painting, squinting. Scully 
wondered if she had an old pair of his reading glasses stored with the
rest of his things in her basement. She sighed. 

"Lately he's been campaigning for a real dog," she continued. "I still
think he's too young, but maybe next summer."

She looked over at Mulder, whose eyelids were starting to droop. "Aw,
Scully," he said, his voice light and sleepy. "Every kid should grow
up  with a dog."

Scully smiled, remembering a puppy her family had had when she was a 
kid. She slipped her hand over his and gently stroked the soft hairs
on  the back of his hand, careful of the IV taped there. "I know," she
said  softly. "He'll wear me down eventually."

* * * * *

Continued in Part 6.


Title: Song of Innocence (6/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Is always welcome.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital; Washington, DC
August 21
3:29 pm


Scully had intended to tell Mulder about Will -- everything about Will
-- that day, but his next sleep was so deep that she'd begun to think
that she'd have to wait until Tuesday. It was too bad, really, she 
thought as she mesmerized herself with the steady rise and fall of his
chest; it was something he needed to know, and soon. Something that
she  found herself surprisingly eager to share with her partner.

But then Mulder woke again and was alert enough for her to quiz him on
remembered cases. Which weren't nearly enough for a man with an
eidetic  memory, she thought ruefully, but she had hope that this
memory lapse  was temporary, that it would disappear when he'd been
weaned from the  drugs, both those they'd pumped into him in the ER
and those that had  already been in his system when he arrived. More
than their work  history, however, his interests seemed to lie in her
career and safety  since his departure. And in their son.

"Do you... Do you have a picture?" he asked almost shyly.

She slipped Will's photo out of her wallet and passed it to him, 
watching the emotions filter over his face as he studied it, traced
his  finger over the curve of Will's mouth. He said nothing for
several  minutes and she wondered whether he was cataloging Will's
features as  she'd done so many times, assigning his eyes to him and
his freckles to  her. Wondering how their hair colors could combine
for such a beautiful  shade of auburn.

Then he looked up at her, eyes wide and afraid. "And is he... he's 
okay? Normal? You were afraid..."

So he had gotten her email, Scully thought, remembering the frantic 
message she'd sent after Will's kidnapping. She had never been sure;
it  was around that time that she'd lost all contact with him and that
Skinner, Kersh, and Folmer told her they believed he was dead. She had
mourned then, again, wondering if it was for the last time, because
she  had no evidence to prove them wrong.

This was it, Scully thought, time to come clean and tell him. Tell him
everything. Now was the time. She waited until his eyes met hers
again,  then shook her head slowly.

"No?" he asked in a small voice.

"No," she said. "He's a wonderful little boy, Mulder, but Will is most
certainly not normal." She took his hand at the panicked look on his 
face and smoothed her index finger over his knuckles.

"He's okay, Mulder, nothing wrong. Just not your average seven-year-
old. He's so smart, so..."

Scully remembered, maybe six months ago, when she'd paged through an 
old neurology text to check something for one of her classes, only to
find small, sticky fingerprints on several pages. And the PBS 
documentaries he watched, riveted -- mature programs about quantum 
physics and the life of composer Antonin Dvorak and an old interview 
with Joseph Campbell about mythology.

No, Scully thought, not normal.

"His teachers want to skip him, but so far I've said no. He may be 
smart, but emotionally he's still seven."

"Seven." He gave a heavy sigh. "What kind of-- Has he been tested?"

She nodded, though she wasn't exactly sure what he meant. "DNA tests 
when he was an infant to confirm he's ours -- he doesn't know about 
those, of course -- and a medical work-up to be sure he was healthy, 
and intelligence testing to get into an after-school program." She 
paused. "He's off the charts, Mulder. Much higher than either of us."

Mulder smiled. "And how do you know my IQ, Scully?"

"I know all sorts of things about you now," she admitted with a grin.
"Medical power of attorney, remember?"

He nodded. Actually, Scully thought, the records that included his 
intelligence tests, part of the battery of exams the Bureau gave new 
recruits, had been in his work history, which she'd obtained through 
her status as his next of kin. Something she'd wanted for Will, when
he  was old enough to understand what the X-Files were to his father,
what  they had been to both of them.

Then, "So he's smart, but that's... I mean, otherwise, he's okay, 
right?" he asked.

Scully shook her head. "Okay, yes. He's not sick or anything, if
that's  what you mean. But, normal, no. He's..."

God, Scully thought, how to say this? How to tell him without scaring
him, without sending his mind back to Gibson Praise, back to his own 
hospitalization while she was in Africa? She quelled a rise of panic 
when she realized that he might not even remember Gibson or the time 
he'd spent in the hospital.

"He has this... this way of knowing what I'm thinking," she said.

"Knowing what you're thinking?" His hand gripped hers desperately.

She nodded. "Not the way you'd expect," she said. "As far as I can 
tell, it's not all the time, and it's not very... linear. He gets 
senses of things mostly. Feelings. It's like he tunes in and out. 

"But it seems to be--" She paused, not sure if she were ready to admit
this to herself yet. But she pushed forward. "He seems to be getting 
better at it."

"Just with you?"

"No," she said.

"At first I thought it was only me. I mean, I told myself I was just 
being paranoid. But I saw... When he was still an infant, I saw him 
move his mobile with his mind, Mulder. For the longest time I tried to
convince myself that I hadn't seen it, that I was overtired."

"But you weren't."

She shook her head. "No." Then, "Well, I was. I was taking care of a 
newborn, after all. But that... it wasn't the only thing I saw."

She remembered the small piece of the spaceship that had flown through
her apartment, sliced through the slats of Will's crib, and hovered 
there above his head. That was something she couldn't deny, and it had
sent her into a spiral of worry about him, of -- she was afraid to 
admit -- fear of him.

Of course she had still loved him; before he was born she had loved 
him. She suspected that he could have shapeshifted into the alien 
bounty hunter or the Smoking Man or the devil himself, and still she 
would have wanted to gather him into her arms and kiss the sweet-
smelling spot on the top of his bald head. Still she would have given
her life to protect him.

"No," she said. "I wasn't imagining things. I was afraid that maybe he
wasn't... well, I had to accept that he wasn't normal, but I was
afraid  that whatever was different about him was just too much, that
I  wouldn't be able to handle it."

She didn't know how to explain to him the fears she'd shared with 
Monica after Will's kidnapping, when she had started to wonder if
maybe  the cult members were right, maybe he was something not human
about  Will, something not meant to be.

That was her lowest moment, the fear she'd felt not just for her son,
but of him. It still shamed her, and she couldn't share it with
Mulder.  Not back then in an email she didn't know who would read, and
not now.  She couldn't allow herself to dwell on it, for Will's sake
more than  for her own.

He shook his head. "Scully, you're the strongest person I know.
You--"

"Sometimes," she said slowly. "I think the reason I was infertile for
so long was because I wasn't ready for this until now," she admitted.

"Because *we* weren't ready," he said, almost a question.

She gave him a weak smile.

We.

Yeah. Sure.

Immediately Scully felt guilty. She knew Mulder hadn't wanted to
leave,  that he had left them for their safety; she'd had to convince
him to  go, after all. But that didn't change the fact that she had
been doing  it all alone for the past seven years.

"I'm staying, Scully. From what you've said, you've been safe here. 
Things with the Bureau have calmed down. And even if they hadn't..."
He  shook his head. "They've already taken so much from me. From both
--  all of us. I won't let them take this away. Not again."

"I can appreciate your determination, Mulder, and I admire it, but if
it still isn't safe for you here..."

"But *why* isn't it safe?" he pressed. "Based on nothing but the word
of Alvin Kersh, I left you and William and tried not to look back. I 
know we believed that we had thought through all the possibilities,
all  the dangers and risks, but I had lots of time to work through
them over  and over again.

"Tell me something, Scully, when have we ever trusted Kersh?"

"Kersh is dead," she said softly.

"What?"

She nodded. "Heart attack."

"Foul play?" he asked.

"Not officially," she said.

"Unofficially?"

She shrugged. "Possibly. He was jogging in Falls Church. Collapsed 
three houses down from his own and wasn't found for hours."

"Maybe there is someone on our side, Scully," he said hopefully.

"We don't know Kersh wasn't on our side." She answered too quickly and
knew she sounded unconvincing, like Will did when she asked him if
he'd  made his bed yet.

He shot her a disgusted look. "We panicked, Scully. We were scared and
worried -- how could we *not* be, with the sudden responsibility of 
caring for a child? And I felt guilty for everything that had happened
to you because of me, and I thought that everyone would be better off
- - and safer -- if I wasn't around."

She shook her head. "We weren't better off. And I doubt we were
safer."  She paused. "And now?" she asked. "Now you're willing to risk
your life  to stay here? I don't like being apart, Mulder, but if it's
still not  safe--"

"Scully, I've had a lot of time to think about all of this. I did 
nothing *but* think about it for days, for weeks on end."

"And?"

This time it was he who took her hand in his, careful not to jostle
his  IV. "And we'll never know if it's safe," he said. "There's no way
to  catch everyone who might want to hurt us or Will. It's just not 
possible."

Scully closed her eyes, pressed her lips together tightly. She knew 
this; even though she hadn't wanted to admit it, deep down, when she 
lay awake at night crying over another milestone in Will's life that 
Mulder had missed, she knew this. They would never be safe. They would
never be a family.

"Hey," he said, and she opened her eyes. "Fine. So we can never assure
ourselves that we'll be completely safe. But neither can anyone else.
There are drunk drivers and stray bullets and meningitis outbreaks and
tsunamis--"

"Tsunamis, Mulder?"

He shrugged. "There are always risks; that's just life."

"Yes, but you have to admit that we have a much greater chance of some
of those things -- the bullets, in particular -- than most people."

"Fine. So we do. So do politicians and police officers and millions of
other people, Scully. It's the nature of the job. We both knew that 
when we signed on."

She nodded. It was a risk she had been willing to take when she
entered  the Academy over fifteen years ago. God, she marveled, had it
really  been that long? But now, thinking of Will and Mulder, that
risk had  seemed stupid, a relic of a rebellious young adult
determined to be her  own person, to "distinguish herself," she
remembered telling Blevins  when he partnered her with Mulder. Jesus,
had she really been that  nave?

"It's not just the job, Mulder," she said. "You know that. I'm not an
active agent anymore and look what--"

"Yes," he said. "Look what's happened to you. You've been allowed to 
live your life, raising Will. No one's hurt you or him. You've been 
safe for years." He paused, then, "We can't let them control us, 
Scully, because if we do, they win."

She sighed. "They also win if they kill us, Mulder."

"Or if they separate us," he insisted. "I can't live like that any 
longer. I won't. It seems safe to be back. Doesn't it feel better just
to hope that it is, instead of assuming that it isn't? I can't go back
to living like that, Scully. I won't."

She dropped her forehead to the starched white sheet of his bed, 
closing her eyes and breathing in the overwhelming bleach scent of the
linens. She didn't want him to take any chances, but their separation
hadn't been easy on her either, and she wasn't the one living away
from  Will; how could she ask him to disappear again? She had
convinced him  to leave the first time, and she knew she could not
find it in herself  to do it again.

"So you're back, then?" she asked, her head coming up to face him.

He nodded, resolutely. "I'm back," he said. "And I'm not going 
anywhere." He looked up expectantly, his expression betraying his 
desire.

"And you want to see Will."

"Of course," he said, even though she knew there was no 'of course' 
about it.

His seeing Will put the stamp of permanence on his decision. Despite 
what she had said to Will, she wasn't sure she would let Mulder meet 
him if he was just going to leave again. She had still been debating 
that one, trying to decide if it would be worse for Will to meet his 
father, only to have him snatched away again, or to never meet him at
all.

"Okay," she said.

He smiled, closing his eyes, and Scully stayed beside him, slipping
her  hand into his when it seemed that he'd fallen asleep.

We.

The word echoed in her mind, a gift she had never expected and was now
worried would not fit.

We.

She didn't know if *we* could handle Will's talents any better than
she  did.

Scully remembered the Christmas that Will was four, which they'd spent
in San Diego with her brother Bill's family. She and her mother and
her  sister-in-law were in the kitchen, peeling potatoes and chopping
vegetables and seasoning the roast for an early dinner before
Christmas  Eve mass. Will had run into the kitchen and flung himself
at her legs,  throwing his tiny, bony body at her and choking on
hysterical sobs.

"What?" she asked, hefting him into her arms. He was getting too big 
for her to carry like that, but she hadn't been ready to accept that 
just yet. "What is it, sweetie?"

"I-- I-- Unc-- Uncle Bill-- He-- he-- he--"

Will's breath hitched and his sobs tore through her as he ground his 
teary face into her shirt.

"Sshh," she said, struggling over to the kitchen table. She sat down,
shifting his legs so he was sitting on her lap. "Take a deep breath. 
What happened?"

"He-- he-- he called me a ba-- a ba-- Uncle Bill--" he tried again,
but  with his face still buried against her chest, Scully couldn't
make out  his words.

But Tara spun on her heel, snatched her apron off, and strode into the
family room, where the children had been setting up an electric train
around the base of the Christmas tree.

"Bill," Scully heard her sister-in-law ask. "Bill, what happened?" But
she couldn't hear her brother's response with Will sobbing so loudly 
and so close to her ear.

"Sshh," she told him, rubbing his back. "Tell me. Uncle Bill..." she 
prompted.

"Uncle Bill-- he called me -- he thought -- a ba-- a bad word -- at 
me," Will finally choked out, clutching Scully tighter.

Will's strangled cry broke over the commotion in the family room, and
Bill roared back, "I didn't say anything!"

"Bill." Tara's voice was tight. A warning.

"Give me a break, Tara," Bill said. "You believe a four year old
before  you believe your own husband?"

Scully's mother shot her a look of sudden comprehension, and she stood
and took a step in the direction of the family room. But Scully
grabbed  her arm, pulling her back.

"You can't say anything," she hissed.

"But--"

"Mom, you can't," she insisted. "No."

"Dana, look at him," she said softly, disbelieving. She stared 
pointedly at her grandson's tiny body, still shivering in his mother's
arms. "Bill shouldn't--"

"Shouldn't what, Mom?" she asked. "I can't censor his thoughts."

"But..."

Scully shook her head, bracing Will's weight against her body as she 
slowly stood. "You can't say anything, Mom," she pleaded. "Please.
Just  give us a few minutes alone, okay?"

Her mother sighed, then nodded, and Scully went through the family
room  on her way upstairs. Nine year old Matthew and six year old
Patrick  were still working on the train, which was chugging slowly
around the  Christmas tree. Wide-eyed, Matt glanced between his
parents and the  tiny train depot he was attempting to set up.

Bill stepped in front of her, his hand on her shoulder, the opposite 
shoulder from where Will's head rested. Will's fingers dug into her 
shirt desperately.

"I don't know what happened, Dana," he said. "The boys were fighting 
over the train and I was trying to break it up. But I assure you, I 
didn't say any--"

She pulled away from him. "Just give us a minute."

He nodded, and she slowly walked upstairs, rubbing Will's back as she
went. She stepped into Patrick's bedroom, which Scully and her mother
were sharing for the duration of the visit, and kicked the door shut 
behind them. Scully sat on the edge of the bed, then scooted up
against  the headboard and tried unsuccessfully to wrench Will's
claw-like  fingers from her back.

"Hey," she said, then planted a soft kiss on the top of his head.
"Come  on, Will. Look at me."

Finally he looked up, still sniffling and blinking back tears. She 
pulled a tissue from the box on the bedstand, holding it for him as he
blew his nose. She took another and blotted his tear-streaked face, 
then shifted him so that he was sitting on her lap instead of draped 
across her body.

"You don't believe me," he cried, his chest starting to heave again.

"Of course I believe you," she said. And she did. It wasn't that Will
had never lied to her -- he was a child, after all, and his lies were
most creative -- but she knew he wouldn't get this upset unless he was
truly hurt. Unless he was telling the truth.

"Will, you know you should only tell me or Grandma when you hear what
someone's thinking. No one else; not even Aunt Tara or Uncle Bill or 
your cousins."

He nodded, his lower lip trembling. "I'm sorry."

"I know, baby," she said, feeling more than a little guilty. She knew
he couldn't help it; he wasn't trying to intrude, and she guessed that
he would stop it if he could. But he couldn't, and it felt wrong for 
her to ask him to try. Still...

"You just have to be very careful," she reminded him, and he nodded, 
burying his face into her chest again. They sat like that for several
minutes, Scully stroking Will's back, waiting for him to calm down 
again, amazed at the desperation of his hold on her. Sometimes Will's
intensity, so much like Mulder's, scared her.

"Why does Uncle Bill hate me?" he asked finally.

"He doesn't hate you, sweetie," she told him.

But Will nodded. "He does. I know what he was thinking. He hates me.
He  called me--"

"We've talked about this, remember? Sometimes people think things that
they would never say."

"He *does* hate me," Will insisted. "I felt it."

Scully wanted to crawl into the bed and start crying herself. She 
didn't know what to say to comfort her son -- didn't even know if he 
could be comforted. She hadn't felt what Will had felt, and she didn't
know what it was like to hear someone else's thoughts, to know what 
they felt about you. That was a cold, cruel truth from which she had 
been spared, from which she could not shield her son.

"Will, listen to me. Sometimes people think and feel things that they
don't mean. Maybe they're angry or hurt or tired, and they think
things  they wouldn't think otherwise."

Will wrinkled his brow. "They do?"

She nodded. "I know I have. Once when I was a little girl, Grandma
sent  me to my room because I refused to help my sister dry the
dishes. There  was a show on TV I wanted to see, so I cried and got
mad and stomped my  feet. And when I was in my room, all I could think
was how much I hated  Grandma."

"You did?" he asked, his voice a mix of fear and awe.

"That's what I thought, even though I didn't really hate her," Scully
told him. "But I was so angry that I thought I did."

"So how do you know?" Will asked. "How do you know what someone really
feels?"

She gave him a little smile. "You have to pay attention to what they 
say and do. Will, what you can do... it's a special gift, but you have
to be careful with it. It's not a substitute for interacting with 
people."

At the time she wasn't sure if Will understood her, if what she was 
saying was too abstract for even him to comprehend. He was a smart 
little boy, but he was still a little boy, still struggling to 
understand his abilities.

But, as time passed, she decided that he must have understood. He was
no angel, but there were times when she thought she didn't deserve
such  a good child, times when -- despite the paternity test she'd
ordered  under false names -- she feared that no son of Mulder's could
be so  well-behaved.

But then, inevitably, she was brought back to reality with a call from
a teacher or a worried parent who didn't understand what had made Will
so upset, so completely inconsolable. Then he cried or plunged into a
precocious depression or retreated into himself for a day or a week, 
and she could see no one but Mulder in him.

More times than she could count she had had to reign him in from an 
emotional outburst when he started to believe things that were based 
only on this gift: thinking that friends from school hated him, 
worrying that his teacher didn't like him, afraid that a stranger 
they'd passed on the street was going to hurt him.

Okay, Scully admitted that that one had frightened her, too. She had 
hurried him home, locked them in their townhouse, and scared Will half
to death. But nothing had happened. No one had followed them home, no
one had tried to take Will from her, and no one had hurt him.

They were safe.

She hoped.

* * * * *

717 Locust Street; Georgetown
August 21
5:43 pm


That his mom had ordered pizza for dinner wasn't unusual. She liked 
them to eat healthy, but she had a weakness for mushrooms and green 
peppers from Antonio's, so Will could usually get her to agree to
pizza  once a month or so.

No, it was the fact that she had gotten pineapple on the pizza that 
made Will suspicious. Usually, when she did get pineapple -- his 
favorite topping -- it was just on half the pie since she didn't like
it. But this time she'd gotten it on the whole thing. A clue, he 
thought.

So Will's imagination was in overdrive as he carefully slid a cheesy 
slice onto his plate. He picked a mushroom off the top and chewed it 
thoughtfully. Something was wrong, he decided. Maybe something at
work,  something with John or Monica? Or maybe it was his grandma. Or
his dad.  Or maybe--

"Good?" his mom asked, and Will nodded. He looked over to see her 
chunks of pineapple piled on the edge of her plate. When she caught 
Will eyeing them, his mom pushed her plate over to him.

"Yum," he said as he decorated his slice with her pineapple.

She shook her head, smiling a little. "So how was school?" she asked.
"Any homework?"

Will shrugged. He did have homework, sort of. That afternoon Mrs. 
Freedman had explained their newest project: they were going to study
genealogy, starting with a field trip to a nearby cemetery, then to
the  university library to learn the computer search databases, and 
culminating in making their own family tree, using information they 
found in the library and through interviewing family members. 'I'm 
letting you know about the assignment now,' their teacher said, 'even
though you'll have plenty of time to work on it. I want you to make it
creative. Don't just draw a tree; think of something that's unique to
your family, and base your tree around that.'

Will sighed. There were lots of things unique to his family, but he 
didn't want to put any of them on a tree for the whole class to see.

"What about Wednesday?" she asked, still toying with the toppings on 
her pizza, arranging the green peppers evenly on her slice. Will shook
his head. "I was thinking that I'd pick you up from school and we'd go
to the hospital to see your dad on Wednesday. How does that sound?"

"Okay," he said. He was still a little worried about seeing his dad, 
but he was excited, too. It didn't feel real to him, not yet. He 
guessed when he saw his dad then he could really believe that he had 
returned, but right now it was like some kind of limbo.

Will watched as his mom finally took a bite of her pizza, then a drink
from her diet soda. He chomped on one of her leftover chunks of 
pineapple, trying to imagine what it would be like seeing his dad. 
Would he even know that Will was there? Would he be unconscious or 
sleeping?

"Is he still sick?" he asked his mom.

"He's getting better," she told him. "His doctor's still not sure how
long he'll have to be in the hospital, but she says he's making 
progress." She smiled. "He's eager to see you, Will. I've told him all
about you."

Will grinned back at her, but then his face fell as he realized 
something. "*All* about me?"

"Yes," his mom said, softer now. "I told him what you can do, Will.
You  don't have to hide anything from him."

Will was suddenly aware of the heaviness of the pizza making its way 
through his digestive system. Esophagus, stomach, small intestine, 
large intestine, he traced absently, feeling the bile rise up.

Will looked over at his mom with scared eyes. They had never told 
anyone what he could do before. His grandma was the only other person
who knew, and she had known ever since he was a baby. For a while Will
had wondered whether they should tell John, but the idea of sharing 
this secret with anyone had worried him so much that he never asked
his  mom about it. Besides, he listened when his mom talked about
work;  maybe John wouldn't even believe them.

As for his dad, Will had kind of hoped that they could put off telling
him for, oh, maybe a few weeks or months. Long enough for his dad to 
get to know him instead of being scared by what he could do.

"What did he say?" he asked her, his right hand going to the crook of
his elbow, where a band-aid covered his healing puncture wound.

"Well," she said. "I explained everything to him, and he asked me some
questions, and I answered them. He remembers -- that is, I think he 
remembers -- when he could do the same thing."

Will didn't say anything right away; he just picked at his slice of 
pizza and sipped slowly at his iced tea. Then, finally, he looked over
as his mom slipped another piece of pizza out of the cardboard box. He
stuck out his own plate and she served him another slice, too.

"He still wants to meet me?" Will asked, a little afraid as he waited
for her answer. He was sure that his dad wanted a normal kid, not a 
strange one who could sometimes tell what people were thinking and 
feeling. Maybe he wouldn't want Will after all; maybe he would meet
him  and see how weird Will was, and then, after he got out of the
hospital,  he would go back to wherever he'd been living. And his mom
would blame  him, Will knew, because it was obvious how relieved she
was to have him  back. She was not happy yet, Will had decided after
feeling her out for  the past two days, but there was definitely that
possibility. And Will  didn't want to do anything to ruin that for
her. 

"Of course he still wants to meet you! You're his son," she said 
softly. "Why wouldn't he want to see you?"

Will just shrugged and concentrated on his pizza. But his mom wasn't 
about to give up. "Will?" she asked. "Why wouldn't he?"

"I don't know," he said, embarrassed.

His mom reached over and set her hand on his. "Will," she said.
"You're  practically all he's talked about. And that picture you made
for him --  it's hanging on the wall in his hospital room. You'll see
it when you  visit."

Will smiled. He had painted his dad a picture on Sunday night, after 
his mom got back from the hospital and explained that his dad was
back.  At first he hadn't been sure what to put on the picture, but
finally  he'd decided to paint himself so that his dad would know what
he looked  like. The picture didn't end up looking much like him, but
then Will  added Pup and his mom, and it looked better. Like a sort of
a family  portrait.

"Eat your dinner," his mom said, brushing her hand over his shoulder
as  she grabbed her glass and went for more diet soda. He heard the
churn  of the icemaker as it spit cubes into her glass, then the hum
of the  refrigerator as the door pulled open.

Then his mom's humming, a song that Will hadn't heard from her in a 
very long time. She still sang him to sleep sometimes, but she favored
songs that were really old, like "Joy to the World" and "I Am the 
Walrus." Songs he had grown to like, too. But even though this song
was  newer, he hadn't heard it in so very long. Then, when she
remembered  the words, her humming turned to singing, off-key and
awkward, but to  Will it was comforting.

"Well, the Mississippi's mighty, but it starts in Minnesota,
At a place that you could walk across with five steps down.
And I guess that's how you started -- like a pinprick to my heart,
But at this point you rush right through me and I start to drown.
And there's not enough room in this world for my pain.
Signals cross and love gets lost and time past makes it plain.
Of all my demon spirits I need you the most.
I'm in love with your ghost."

* * * * *

Continued in Part 7.


Title: Song of Innocence (7/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Is always welcome.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital; Washington, DC
August 22
9:42 am


"Well, it's a good thing you suggested those x-rays, Dr. Scully," Dr.
Matilda Hall said as she stepped into Mulder's hospital room, her
thick  heels clicking against the tiles.

Scully turned to face her, slipping her hand from Mulder's. Ah, so it
was 'Dr. Scully' now, was it? It had been 'Dana' when she'd first 
suggested Dr. Hall do a full-body x-ray of Mulder -- Dana, the 
overprotective 'girlfriend' who had forced an entirely unnecessary 
medical procedure, who shouldn't really be giving medical advice when
she was so 'personally involved' with the patient.

Scully suppressed a victorious smile, focusing instead on the sheepish
look on the face of the doctor standing before her. "Why?" she 
demanded. "What did you find?"

The doctor walked briskly across the room, then slapped a dark x-ray 
film up against the window. Mulder struggled a little to sit up in bed
to get a good view of the x-ray, and Scully stepped around his bed to
join Dr. Hall at the window, eyes riveted to the dark film.

The x-ray showed Mulder's skull, a head-on shot, eyes hollowed, jaw 
strong, nose notably absent. It reminded Scully of her own x-rays so 
long ago, the bright white tumor on her own films, of the long, skinny
bullet lurking malignant behind her sinus. Mulder's bullet was
smaller,  planted higher up, but still a kill shot.

It was lodged on his left side, a short white cut in the dark film of
the x-ray. She was looking at it head-on, Scully saw as Dr. Hall added
another film to the window display. This one was a side view, and 
Scully could see that the white dash was located at vertex of his 
frontal, parietal, and temporal lobes, just along the central fissure
of his brain. The white mass was perfectly circular, and Scully knew 
that if she examined it beneath a microscope, she would see the tiny,
perfect grid of a microchip.

Then she shifted her focus back to the first x-ray, the head-on view,
and noticed an identical white spot, like a rip, on the other side of
Mulder's brain.

"Oh, God," Scully breathed.

"What?" Mulder asked, panicked. "What is it?"

"It looks like a tiny piece of metal, Fox," Dr. Hall said in slight 
wonder.

"An implant," Scully whispered.

"A *what?*" the doctor asked.

But Mulder said nothing, just stared up at the x-ray film, which 
wobbled just a bit as the doctor's grip wavered, then strengthened.

Dr. Hall shook her head. "I suppose I could remove--"

"No," Scully shot out. "No."

The doctor's look was questioning. "But," she continued, "I'm not sure
it's worth the risk."

You can say that again, Scully thought.

"It... it seems to be embedded in the skull."

Scully's head shot up and she eyed the x-rays. She stepped right up to
the window, then slipped the side-view film from Dr. Hall's grasp.

Indeed, upon closer inspection, there seemed to be a dull white 
blurring on the circumference of the chip. The doctor slid another
film  out of the envelope on Mulder's bed and held it up to the
window. This  shot, too, had been taken head-on, but the technician
had zoomed in for  a better view of the chip on end. Scully could see
a thin slice of  brilliant white sandwiched between nearly equal
layers of Mulder's dull  skull bone. Scully set her x-ray on the
window ledge and reached up  toward this new film, her fingernail
caressing the chip.

"I can't begin to understand how it got there," Dr. Hall said. "May
I?"  she asked Mulder, reaching toward his head. He said nothing and
didn't  nod, but he didn't move away when her fingers danced through
his hair.

"See," she said. "I can't find a scar. Nothing."

Scully stepped back to the bed and her fingers joined the doctor's on
Mulder's scalp. She felt along his skin and through his hair, as if
she  were reading him in Braille, trying to divine some meaning from
the  miraculous near-flatness of Mulder's skull.

"Feel anything?" Dr. Hall asked, and Scully shook her head. All she 
felt was the normal geography of a skull, oblique bumps and ridges,
but  nothing acute or suspicious. Nothing alien.

"I don't think I should risk trying to remove it," the doctor said, 
mostly to Scully since by that time all Mulder was doing was watching
them, his two physicians, as they navigated his skull. "Especially 
since it doesn't appear to be interfering with normal cerebral 
function."

"I agree," Scully said, sifting through Mulder's hair one last time 
before withdrawing. She tried to infuse her fingers with some sort of
sentiment, some affection, for him, wanting to draw him back into the
discussion.

But he just stared at his hands, which were clasped together on the 
sheet of his bed, his skin nearly the same color as the institutional
white fabric. He didn't even look up at the sound of the doctor's
shoes  tapping back toward the window.

"So no MRI," Dr. Hall said as she fit Mulder's x-rays back into their
envelope. She leaned against the windowsill, arms crossed over her 
chest. "But I've scheduled a CT and a PET scan for this afternoon. Is
that all right with you, Fox?" the doctor asked him, and he managed to
nod.

"What about the psych evaluation?" Scully asked the doctor. Mulder had
told her that, just after she'd left the previous afternoon, a 
psychiatrist had been by for a thorough exam.

"He'll be by to talk with Fox again this afternoon," Dr. Hall told 
them. "But I can tell you now that he didn't find any cognitive 
impairment." She turned to Scully. "You may be disappointed with some
of the results, Dr. Scully, but they were to be expected. Fox is still
withdrawing from the drugs they pumped in him in the ER, never mind 
whatever he'd been given before he arrived."

Scully nodded. She had expected that the results of Mulder's psych 
evaluation might be a little sub par given the conditions. "What about
the memory tests?"

"Again," Dr. Hall began, "the evaluating psychiatrist can give you a 
better indication of the specifics, but there doesn't seem to be any 
short term memory impairment. Fox performed admirably on the majority
of the tasks -- the digit span, the matching-to-sample, and the 
incomplete-pictures tests. Dr. Burns did note the same long-term
memory  problems you mentioned to me, but hopefully those will fade as
Fox's  recovery progresses."

Then Dr. Hall graced them with a brief smile and gathered up her notes
and Mulder's x-rays before heading for the door. "It's nice to see you
doing better, Fox. I'll be in to talk with you when I have the results
of your scans," she called out as she let the door slip closed behind
her.

Scully nearly collapsed onto the foot of Mulder's bed when the door 
snicked shut. "An implant, Mulder," she said in a sigh.

"Two," he bragged, looking up at her with a playful smile. "Now I 
really can give you that set of earrings."

She shook her head at his remembered joke before a realization came 
over her. "That's it, isn't it?"

"That's what?"

"That's the cause of your selective memory loss," she said.

"It's been a while since I studied neuroanatomy," he admitted. "Are
the  implants near the parts of the brain that are responsible for
memory?"

She shook her head. "Memory's a complex process," she explained. "From
what we understand, several parts of the brain are involved in the 
creation and storage of a memory: the hippocampus, the amygdala...

"Damnit," she said after a pause. "That would mean that your memories
probably won't return when you recover, not if they're being
suppressed  by those chips."

Such a cruel fate, Scully thought as she watched Mulder's near-
expressionless face. Either leave the chips in and live with the
memory  loss, abandoning everything he had learned over the past seven
years as  well as a portion of his previous knowledge; or remove them,
regain his  memory, and most likely succumb to cancer.

There was no decision to make, Scully knew, but she cursed it anyway.
That they could be so close to what was perhaps the truth, seven years
of memory locked inside Mulder's mind, but unable to access it.

"It doesn't matter, Scully," he said, and she jerked her head up to 
look at him. "The memories -- whatever they were -- are gone now, and
there's no way to access them."

She nodded mutely, saddened by his capitulation, allowing her brain to
explore the options that Mulder's refused to. What if they could 
somehow remove the chips, delve into Mulder's memory, and then replace
them? What if they could remove one chip and perhaps access some of
the  memories or, if both chips were needed to function properly,
access all  the memories? What if they could somehow find a
replacement chip so  that they could access the memories for a short
time and then reimplant  the other chip if he began to get sick?

But then Scully looked back over to Mulder, his head resting heavily 
against his pillow. His eyes were open and aware, but he gazed at 
Will's painting instead of at her. His lips were set and his pale arms
crossed resolutely over his chest. He had had a shave that morning, 
done by a nurse's aid since his hands still had a tremor serious
enough  that he didn't trust them with a razor. His hair was short and
peppered  with gray, and his face gaunt.

He looked older than Scully remembered, but there was something in
him,  something stubborn and so familiar, and she knew that Mulder was
right.  There was nothing they could do that would not harm or, more
likely,  kill him. They had to take what they'd been given, a second
chance she  never thought they'd get, and build a life around that.

* * * * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital; Washington, DC
August 22
3:39 pm


Scully walked the hall of the Neuro/Psych ward with a coffee cup in
her  hand and, for the first time in a long time, a steadily growing
hope in  her heart. She'd gone down to the cafeteria for lunch after
the orderly  had come to take Mulder for his PET scan, and she'd run
into Monica in  the elevator. She'd been on her way up to see Mulder,
but she'd had to  settle for lunch with Scully instead due to Mulder's
test.

It had been such a relief to share her news with someone that Scully 
hadn't even realized the burden of it all until she'd unloaded some of
it on Monica, who'd listened patiently as she sipped her Diet Coke. It
wasn't that Scully was looking for answers, really -- she just wanted
someone to sympathize with her questions. She was lucky that Monica
had  come along then, just as she'd been considering whether to call
her  mother and how much she should share with her. Plus, Scully knew
that  unloading her burden on Agent Reyes would free her a little for
going  home that night; maybe if she wasn't so bogged down with worry
for  Mulder, Will wouldn't pick up on her concerns. So even though
Monica  had had to go back to work before Mulder was back from his PET
scan,  her visit had been a welcome relief for Scully.

Now she pushed open the door to Mulder's hospital room, slowly at
first  in case he was napping after his tests. Then she caught sight
of him  and sprinted over to his bed. He was thrashing back and forth,
his  hands clutching the metal bedrails, his forehead freckled with
droplets  of sweat. Starched white hospital sheets tangled around his
body,  hampering the violent jerking of his limbs. His eyes were
squinted  shut, and he was asleep.

"Mulder," she said sharply, leaning over his bed so that she could set
both of her hands atop his clenched knuckles. She stroked the backs of
his hands, glancing over to the door, which, thankfully, had swung 
itself shut.

"Mulder," she repeated, willing him to wake up, afraid that a nurse 
would walk in to find him like this and decide that he was better off
with the restraints after all. That was all he needed, all either of 
them needed.

His head pressed into the flimsy hospital pillow, the strain visible
in  the tendons of his neck and in his clenched jaw. Scully slipped
her  right hand off Mulder's and stroked through his sweat-soaked
hair.  Finally his violent movements stilled and he opened his eyes.
She  startled, almost pulling her hand off his when she saw the
unguarded  fear in his hazel eyes.

"It's okay, Mulder," she said softly, her thumb trailing across his 
hair line. "Just a dream. You're okay."

He nodded and let his body fall limp, his hands slipping from the 
bedrails and his head pushing up against her hand as he no longer 
ground it into the mattress. He took a few, tentative breaths, then 
closed his eyes.

Scully stood and went into the small attached bathroom, snagging a 
handful of paper towels and wetting them in the sink. She sat back
down  beside Mulder, folding the towels and placing them on his hot,
sweaty  forehead.

"I think we need to talk about this, Mulder," she said gently. "We
need  to talk about what you remember, about where you went when you
left my  apartment that day."

She waited and was about to repeat what she'd said, afraid that Mulder
hadn't heard her, when he opened his eyes again. "How's Will?" he 
asked.

Scully sighed, shook her head. "Mulder..."

But again Mulder said nothing.

"He's good," she said finally. "He wants to see you."

Mulder managed a smile. "When?"

"Soon," she said. "When you're ready."

"I'm ready." His expression was hopeful.

"Soon," she repeated, and his face fell. But Scully could tell that he
knew that he wasn't ready to see his son yet. While she wanted Will to
see Mulder before he left the hospital, she didn't want their son to
be  greeted by the scene she'd just witnessed; it had scared her badly
enough. She wanted to wait until timing was no longer an issue, until
Mulder could be as lucid and communicative when he awoke as he was
when  he'd been up for hours. 

"Mulder," she said softly. "You don't remember anything?"

He turned his head away from her, facing the window, his voice soft 
when it finally came. "Scully, your priest -- Father McCue -- is he 
still alive?"

"What?"

"Edward McCue," he said. "Is he alive?"

"No," she managed, though she was still trying to catch up to his 
question. Did he want to talk with her old priest? Father McCue had 
died just a few months ago, of prostate cancer just six months after 
his retirement. Suddenly she worried that maybe she was wrong, that 
maybe it wasn't her partner but some replicant who had been returned
to  her, despite Mulder's surviving memories and John's fingerprint 
matching and the DNA sample that had matched Will's.

Mulder sighed, and she mopped the paper towels over his cheeks and 
nose, then down to his chin. His hand rose to cover hers, and he 
slipped the towels from her grip. Then he turned to face her.

"I remember the beginning," he admitted, his voice soft and level, 
almost trance-like. "I remember the beginning very clearly. I needed
to  go somewhere unexpected, somewhere they'd never think to look for
me. I  took a cab from your apartment to Alexandria, to your church."

"You what?"

"I'd never been to confession before," he told her. "But somehow it 
seemed like the place to go. I went into the booth, but I didn't know
what to do. I just sat on the little bench--"

"The kneeler," she supplied.

"The kneeler." He smiled. "I sat on the kneeler, but I didn't know
what  to say. And when the priest asked, 'Is something wrong, my
child?' I  didn't know what to tell him," he admitted. "I couldn't
remember the  last time I'd been anyone's child."

Oh, Mulder, she thought, but said nothing.

"I told him who I was," he said. "But he didn't admit to recognizing
my  name."

Of course not, Scully thought. Though Father McCue had heard Mulder's
name every time she had been to confession for nearly a decade, she 
knew that the confidentiality of the confessional prevented him from 
revealing that, even to Mulder himself.

"I told him I was your partner, and that you'd had the baby and under
what circumstances... And I told him that I was William's father."

Something clenched in Scully. "What did he say?"

"I was expecting... well, I don't know what I was expecting. 
Condemnation, maybe. Certainly disapproval."

Scully shook her head, sometimes still pained by how little Mulder 
understood of her faith.

"But he didn't do any of those things," Mulder said. "All he asked was
whether I was in need of help. His help. I didn't say anything, but I
got the feeling that he'd done this before. Helped someone in this
way.

"He showed me to a room in the rectory, a small bedroom tucked off in
the basement, and I stayed there for several weeks, seeing no one but
Father McCue, who brought my meals and, on my first day there, a blank
notebook that he suggested I use as a journal."

Scully thought back to that time, remembering the first mass she'd 
attended with William after Mulder's disappearance. She had been a 
mess, but she'd tried to hold it together, for appearance's sake but 
also for her son's. Even so, she'd cried during Father McCue's homily,
during the Our Father, and again after she'd received communion.

And all that time Mulder had been in the rectory adjacent to the 
church. She shook her head.

"I didn't write anything in it for a few days," he said. "I was afraid
to, worried that it would get into the wrong hands. I think he 
understood that, when he asked if I'd written in it yet. He said I 
could burn the pages and no one would ever read them."

Scully nodded. She remembered, as a teenager, doing much the same
thing  at a confirmation retreat. The priest and nuns running the
retreat gave  them each a sheet of notebook paper and told them to
write down  anything they wanted: a regret, a fear, anything they
wanted to be rid  of. After much deliberation, Scully had filled her
page, though now she  could barely remember what she had written.
Apparently it had worked.

"So I started writing in the notebook," Mulder continued. "And each 
night, when he brought me my dinner, we burned what I'd written. A few
days later I had to ask Father McCue for another notebook." He paused,
a rueful smile gracing his lips. "Do you want to know what I wrote?"

Although she appreciated the intimate nature of his offer, Scully 
couldn't bring herself to accept it. She shook her head, hoping he 
understood. "How long did you stay?" she asked.

Had he been there when she wept silently in the back row during 
Christmas Eve mass? She had gone alone, just her and William, despite
also attending her mother's church's midnight mass. She hadn't wanted
to fall apart in front of her family and she knew that she could
better  hold herself together if she first had a dry run, so to
speak.

"Six or seven weeks," he said. "After I had been there for a month, a
group of men visited. Franciscan monks. Father McCue spoke with one of
them and arranged for me to leave with them."

Scully nodded, trying to imagine him dressed as a monk, an undercover
operation even more unlikely than Rob and Laura Petrie at The Falls at
Arcadia. Mulder, a half-Jew, half-atheist, and a few dozen monks who 
had taken vows of poverty and celibacy. No, she thought with a
chuckle,  no one would think to look for him there.

"I stayed with the monks for a few weeks, then traveled with a half-
dozen of them to New Mexico, to some sort of interfaith council with a
small Navajo community. I stayed on their reservation for several days
after the monks left, then struck out on my own. I was still in New 
Mexico when I got your email to return to DC."

"And then?"

"After that I didn't think it would be wise to go back to New Mexico,"
he said. "There were people there who had helped me. I was afraid I 
might be followed back, and I didn't want to endanger them. So I went
north, along the Canadian border--"

"The Canadian border?" Scully was uncertain of the timeframe of 
Mulder's narration, even of the reliability of his memory, but that he
might have been near the Canadian border when their son was kidnapped,
that he had been so close so many times...

He nodded. "I remember ending up in Washington state," he said. "But 
after that... I'm not sure. I think I was there for a while. I
remember  renting an apartment. I had false identification that the
Gunmen had  given me--"

"The Gunmen," Scully said. "When I wanted to get a message to you --"
After William had been kidnapped, she thought. "-- When they told me 
they weren't in contact with you, didn't know where you were... I 
didn't believe them," she said.

"They didn't know," Mulder told her. "They set me up with a few 
contacts, subscribers of their newsletter whom they trusted to help
me,  but I don't-- I can't remember much after that." He fell back
against  the bed, and Scully realized that he was breathing heavily,
his chest  heaving. Beads of sweat collected above his eyebrows, and
Scully  watched one droplet wind down his temple.

"Sshh," she said, patting his hand before wiping his forehead with the
damp towel on his bedside tray.

"I'm sorry, Scully," he said hoarsely. "I've tried to remember, I
have.  But I can't, I--"

"Sshh," she soothed. "It doesn't matter. You're back; that's all
that's  important."

She sat there, stroking his hand, until he fell back to sleep. A 
dreamless sleep this time, she hoped. He seemed calm, his breathing 
regular, his face relaxed, his mind unburdened.

Scully thought about what he'd told her and what she'd said, that it 
didn't matter what he remembered. It wasn't a lie, she told herself, 
but not exactly the truth either. Like most of her life, and most of 
her work, this lay somewhere in between, in the grayness of a shadow.

The absolute truth was that she did want to know where he'd been. She
wanted to match up each missing day with her and Will's life. Where
had  he been when Will had spoken his first word -- inevitably 'Dada'?
Where  when he took his first steps, celebrated his first birthday? 

Where had he been when she'd made the painful decision to move from
her  apartment into their current home? That had been another dark
day, when  she'd finally come to terms with the fact that they had
outgrown her  apartment, that Will needed more room, that she would
not get the  dramatic homecoming she wanted, walking into the
apartment to find  Mulder there, her spare key in his hand before he
dropped it and pulled  her into his arms. Mulder stepping into Will's
bedroom and peering into  the crib to see a baby asleep, reaching out
to touch his son's tiny  fisted hand.

Will had already moved from his crib to a bed by that time, and his 
father's arrival would undoubtedly wake him. No longer would Mulder be
returning home to an unknowing baby, stepping back into his life 
uninterrupted. No, Will had become a little boy who would regard
Mulder  as a stranger, a child who would have clear memories of life
without  his father.

Her apartment had held so many memories for her, both good and bad.
Her  favorites were of their few times together, the nights they had
spent  in her bed, the times on her sofa, even once against the
counter in her  kitchen, her bare back pressed against the cupboards.

In many ways the house was a blessing. It allowed her to move some of
Mulder's things out of storage and into her and Will's life -- his 
couch, his fish tank, some posters, a coffee table.

But she kept the changes small. She remembered Mrs. Washington, a 
friend of her mother's, a widow at the age of twenty-six who had made
her husband's office into a shrine, going as far as keeping his
stained  coffee cup on the desk and his favorite Granny Smith apples
in a bowl  on the table, even though she kept the door shut and
wouldn't even  allow her son inside. Scully remembered little Bobby
Washington, who  had been almost three when his father had drowned
during a submarine  accident. Little Bobby, who liked to tell tales of
his father  shipwrecked on an island with Amelia Earhart and Gilligan,
the  Professor, and Marianne.

Still, she kept her memories alive, trying to walk a fine line between
giving her son pieces of his father and forcing him to live with a 
ghost. It had been painful at times to page through the few
photographs  she had of herself with Mulder, but she wanted to prepare
herself for  the questions she knew Will would ask, and she didn't
want any of the  answers to be "I don't remember."

Now, as Scully watched the gentle rise and fall of Mulder's chest and
the intermittent twitch of his eyelids as he entered REM sleep, she 
tried to reconstruct their relationship, the careful transitions from
their basement office to one of their apartments and back again.

At times she had felt like a doll her sister used to play with: 
Day/Night Scully. Day Scully came with a black trench coat and a
quick- draw scalpel, an easy look of skepticism, and three-inch heels.
Night  Scully had blue satin pajamas and toenails polished burgundy, a
look of  joy and rapture even when she wasn't mid-orgasm... and
three-inch  heels.

They had spent most of their time together at Mulder's apartment.
There  was a nice little bakery nearby and they liked his bed better
anyway.  Not the mysteriously appearing water bed that Scully had
never quite  trusted. No, it was the new bed and mattress that he had
bought alone,  because Day Scully was doing an autopsy requested by
Day Mulder, who,  surprisingly, did not differ greatly from Night
Mulder.

It was the same bed that Scully had slept in the previous night, the 
bed she slept in every night. It was the bed she'd replaced her old
one  with when the movers broke the frame while carrying it up the
stairs of  their new house. It was the bed Will had climbed into two
nights  earlier, the night of Mulder's return, when he'd curled up
next to her,  his head against her breast as the aftershocks of his
nightmare still  quaked through him.

She wondered whether Mulder would remember it.

* * * * *

Continued in Part 8.

Title: Song of Innocence (8/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Is always welcome.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital; Washington, DC
August 23
5:31 pm


Will's stomach did flip-flops as he rode up in the empty hospital 
elevator with his mom. He watched the numbers above the door light up,
then dim, and then the elevator tugged to a stop.

"Eighth floor," a computerized voice announced. "Neurology/Psychiatry.
"

Will's eyes widened and he looked up at his mom. She hadn't explained
exactly what was wrong with his dad, and now Will understood why. 
Neurology or psychiatry? Which one? he wondered, scared.
 
His mom squeezed his hand. "He's fine," she assured him as they
stepped  out of the elevator. "He was a little... upset when they
examined him,  so they had to give him something to calm him down.
There's nothing to  be scared of," she said. "Don't worry."

Will nodded, hurrying to keep up with her pace as they walked through
the maze-like corridors. Don't worry? Worried was all he felt. Worried
and scared.

All his life Will had had one daydream, the same dream, really, with 
different settings, different feelings, different scenarios; but all 
with the same result.

He must have dreamed up a million different ways of meeting his
father,  but none of them had ever taken place in a hospital.

Of all his daydreams, Will had three favorites.

In the first it was Christmas. Snow fell softly as he and his mom came
home from midnight mass, planning to catch a few hours of sleep before
they had to be at his grandma's house early the next morning. His mom
pushed the door open, they took off their coats, and then they saw
him,  just sitting there on the couch. He stood and smiled, and then
he  rushed over to them. And then he hugged them, both him and his mom
at  the same time. And then he said, "I missed you, son. I'm home."

In the second dream it was May, his birthday, and it was the first 
baseball game of the season. His team was ahead by one run in the 
bottom of the ninth, but they were in the field, and the other team
had  the bases loaded and only one out. He squatted, hands on his
knees, and  then his hand hit the raw leather of his glove to keep
himself ready.  Then the ball came to him, and he dove and caught it.
And he scrambled  over to tag second base, and then tossed the ball at
first for a double  play. And then he looked up to find his mom in the
stands, and there he  was, too, standing and cheering. And then
running out onto the field  and pulling Will up onto his shoulders.
And then he said, "Good job,  son. I'm home."

In the third dream it was a normal day. The sun was shining, and he
and  his mom were just walking down the street, maybe taking his new
puppy  out for a walk -- well, it was a dream, after all. They stopped
at an  intersection, waiting for the light to change. And then his mom
got  still and quiet, and he looked up and he saw him standing there,
on the  other side of the street. Then the light changed, and Will ran
across  the street. And then there was a car still coming, heading
straight for  him. And he never saw it, just kept running, but his dad
did. He dashed  across the street just in time to pluck Will out of
the car's path. And  then he said, "Careful there, son. I'm home."

"Dana Scully," his mom said to the nurse on duty, and Will blinked
away  his daydreams and looked up at her. The nurse found her name on
a list  and checked it off, then peered down at him.

"And who is this dapper-looking young man?" she asked, fake-sweet.

"Will," he grumbled. He hated it when grown-ups treated him that way,
cutesy and condescending. Condescending was one of his new favorite 
words -- ever since his mom used it to describe one of the MEs she 
worked with. It was long and impressive-sounding, perfect for
grown-ups  who treated him like a baby. Perfect for his Uncle Bill.

"And how old are you, cutie?"

Will squinted up at her, preparing what his mom called a "smart aleck"
answer when she was amused and a "smartass" one when she wasn't. But 
then his mom squeezed his shoulder, and he bit his tongue.

"Seven."

"Seven?" the nurse smiled down at him, showing off too-big teeth, and
then frowned and shook her head as she looked over at his mom.

"We're here to see Fox Mulder," his mom said, all business-like, and 
Will smiled at how his mom acted so different sometimes, like when she
was on the phone with someone at work. She could sound so serious and
stern when she wanted to.

"You should have a note there from his doctor. Matilda Hall. She said
it was okay that I bring him along." She patted Will's shoulder.

The nurse hunted through a stack of papers, then nodded. "Yup," she 
said. "Got the authorization here. If you could just sign this." She 
pushed a clipboard over to his mom, who scrawled her signature, then 
pushed it back.

Finally the nurse buzzed them through the door, which shut loudly 
behind them. Like a prison, Will thought as he trailed his mom down
the  hall. Then she stopped, and Will's sneakers squeaked to a halt on
the  linoleum. He looked up at her, and she nodded at the half-open
door in  front of them.

"Do you want me to come in with you, or do you want to go alone?" she
asked softly, her fingers combing through his hair before
straightening  the collar of his polo shirt.

He hesitated, then said, "Alone."

"You sure?"

He nodded. He wanted so badly to be brave, brave like his mom always 
made his dad sound in the stories she told him, brave like he knew she
was, even though she didn't tell the stories that way.

"Okay," she said. "I'll wait by the nurses' desk. You can have a 
minutes by yourself, and then I'll come back."

After picking an invisible piece of lint off his shirt, his mom turned
and walked down the hallway. He watched her grow smaller and smaller,
then disappear when she turned the corner.

Will tiptoed to the door and peered into the room. He couldn't see 
much, though. A turned-off TV was bolted to the corner of the ceiling,
and there was a window opposite the door. Beneath the television was 
Will's painting, the only bright spot in a wasteland of institutional
white. Near the bed there were machines and a tray on wheels with a 
plastic pitcher and cup on it.

Will stepped into the room, his heart pounding as he tried to see 
around the tray, to see his dad.

Then it hit him, a wave of feelings like the beams from Marvin the 
Martian's ray gun. Will stepped back into the hall, panicked. 

Nervousness. Fear.

Then he realized that these feelings weren't his but his dad's.

Will fought against the tears in his eyes as he catalogued the rest of
the feelings. More nervousness. More fear, lots of fear. Worry. 

Plus a whole lot of emotions he didn't understand and had never felt 
before. Something persistent and stabbing, digging at his gut in a way
that made him want to cut it out, just to be free of it.

The feelings were painful, almost a physical pain, and Will closed his
eyes so tight his eyelids hurt.

This wasn't like any of his daydreams. Will understood that now. His 
dad wouldn't be jumping out of bed to hug him or carry him across a 
baseball diamond or save him from a speeding car.

This was the real thing, and his dad didn't feel good about meeting 
him. Will felt his way back through the emotions, hunting for just one
good one. Happiness, maybe, or excitement. He would settle for
relief.

But it wasn't there.

And then he knew that his dad didn't want to meet him at all.

Brave, he thought. You are brave.

Then he walked into his father's hospital room.

* * * * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital; Washington, DC
August 23
5:35 pm


Will walked slowly into the room, but his dad didn't realize he was 
there and didn't turn away from the window. Will wondered if he should
say something, call out his name, but he didn't know what to call him.
Dad? Mulder?... Fox?

He had always thought of him as "my dad," but now that he had the 
chance to use the word, it was stuck on his tongue. It seemed wrong to
call someone he'd never met "Dad." It seemed wrong not to know his own
father.

Finally his dad rolled onto his back and saw him standing there.

"Will."

His dad's voice was low and soft. Gentle but a little hoarse. It was 
the first time Will had heard it live, not via a recording filtered 
through a bad sound system. It sounded different now, even though it 
didn't betray any of the negative feelings that Will knew were there.

Will nodded.

"God, you look... You look like Sc-- uh-- like your mother."

"She says I look like you," Will told him.

<I'm sure she wishes that were true.>

"What?" Will asked.

"I said, What do you think?" his dad repeated.

But Will just stood there, not knowing what to think. Then he realized
what he'd heard. It wasn't what his dad had said, but what he had 
thought. Not what he was feeling, but exactly what he had thought...

He rarely heard thoughts that clearly. Mostly it was feelings and 
snatches of thought, collections of words that sometimes made sense
but  often did not. Even when he could hear thoughts clearly, it was
only  with his mom, not even with his grandma. Certainly not with a
stranger,  and, really, wasn't that what his father was to him? A
stranger?

"Will?"

He looked over to see his dad propping himself up in bed a little, 
struggling to keep his IV tube out of the way.

"Are you okay?"

Will nodded, forcing a smile.

"Thank you for the painting," his dad said with a nod at the wall 
opposite his bed. "It certainly brightens up the room."

"You're welcome," Will said shyly.

"So, uh, your grandma told me that you play baseball," his dad said 
after a pause.

"Yeah," Will said. 

"You still playing, or has the season ended?"

"No, it's over," Will said, inching over to his dad's bed and sat on 
the chair next to him, perched carefully on the edge of the vinyl 
cushion. "We got in the play-offs but then we lost."

Up close he could see that his dad looked older than in the pictures
he  had. His dark hair was shot through with gray, and there were tiny
wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. He looked older than his mom, and
Will realized that he didn't even know how old his own father was.

Then he realized something else. "Grandma came here?"

His dad nodded. "A few times," he said. "Do you see her often?"

Will nodded. "She picks me up from school most days and stays with me
during vacations when my mom has to work. And we have lunch with her
on  the weekends sometimes."

His dad nodded and smiled. "I'm glad," he said. "She's always been...
very kind to me. I'm glad you at least have one grandparent..."

Will nodded. He knew his dad's parents were both dead, but his mom had
told him a little bit about them. Mostly about his dad's mother, but a
little about his dad's father, who he was named after, who his mom had
never even met.

"What position do you play?" his dad asked.

"Shortstop."

His dad smiled. "Samantha -- my sister -- she used to play shortstop 
when we had pick-up games in our neighborhood in the summer."

Then his dad paused, studying Will's face. "Do you... do you know
about  Samantha?" he asked, and Will felt another wave of that same
sharp,  stabbing pain.

He tried to clutch at his stomach without his dad noticing. "Mom told
me about her," he said.

His dad nodded and smiled a little.

"What position did you play?" Will asked.

"Right field," he said proudly, but Will knew it was the bad players 
who got stuck in right field, the ones who wanted to pick dandelions 
instead of watching for the ball. The ones who got beaned by pop flies
and then got carried off the field crying.

"I'd like to come to see you play sometime," his dad said. "If that's
okay with you."
 
Will nodded, understanding for the first time that he wasn't just 
meeting his dad. He was starting something all new. A whole new life.

His mind went at warp speed with questions. Was his dad really okay, 
like his mom said? When was he getting out of the hospital? Where was
he going to live? Where would he work? Would he want Will to call him
"Dad"? Would Will see him every day or just on weekends? Would he tuck
Will in bed at night and read him Harry Potter with all the voices? 
Would he make him build model ships, like Uncle Bill did with Matt, 
even though Matt didn't like to? Would he--?

"How's it going in here?"
 
Will turned to see his mom in the doorway, a smile on her face. He 
guessed he would have felt her hope, which seemed pretty obvious to 
anyone, if he hadn't been so caught up in his own feelings.

His mom stepped into the room, looking back and forth between him and
his dad, still smiling. She stopped in front of Will, bent to kiss him
on the forehead, then turned and kissed his dad's forehead, too. Will
stared, transfixed. He had always known that his mom loved his dad; 
that had been clear in her stories about him, even though Will could 
only remember her saying it out loud once or twice. And he knew it
from  her feelings when she talked about him, or even when someone
else did.

But now, watching them together for the first time, Will could feel
the  emotion bouncing between them, his mom loving his dad and his dad
loving his mom, like he was caught in a pinball game, being batted
back  and forth. He couldn't tell whose feelings were stronger, and
Will  couldn't help feeling strange. Awkward. Like he was intruding.

Then his mom sat on the foot of his dad's bed, and he scooted his feet
over to give her room.

"Sorry to interrupt," she said. "The nurse told me I had to stay in 
here with you. Doctor's orders."

Will's dad smiled, but Will could fee a tug of hurt, too. "Can't you 
countermand them, *Dr.* Scully?"

Now it was Will's turn to smile for real for the first time since he'd
stepped into the hospital. Countermand. He liked that word, but even 
more he liked his dad for not thinking that he had to dumb it down for
Will to understand.

"I'm wise to your tricks, Mulder," his mom said with a grin.

Will looked back and forth between his parents with interest. It
wasn't  the first time he had heard his mom refer to his dad as
"Mulder" --  that's what she called him when she spoke to everyone but
Will. But it  seemed strange to hear her really use it, and then even
weirder to  hear,

"I have all new tricks now, Scully."

She smiled.

No one called her "Scully." No one. The Gunmen called her "Agent 
Scully;" and her students, "Doctor Scully;" and John and Monica and 
everyone else he could think of called her "Dana."

"So, any news of when you can spring me from here?" his dad asked.

"Your doctor hasn't decided yet," his mom said, but Will sensed 
something underneath. Some kind of a lie.

Maybe he wasn't going to be allowed to leave for a long time, or maybe
ever. Will knew people could be committed to hospitals, especially 
people in the neurology/psychiatry ward. He had read through some of 
his mom's medical books. Maybe she knew when he could leave but didn't
want to tell him.

Then he glanced over at his father, gazing at Will's mom with a 
wistful, hope-filled expression on his face. 

Or maybe it was Will she didn't want to tell.

* * * * *

Continued in Part 9.

Title: Song of Innocence (9/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Is always welcome.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital; Washington, DC
August 24
4:24 pm


"Hey, Scully," Mulder said as she stepped into his hospital room. He 
gave her a small smile and looked past her, at the door closing behind
her. "You didn't bring Will?"

"He's still at school," she said. Mulder glanced pointedly at the
clock  on the opposite wall, then looked back at her.

"Someone else is picking him up," she said.

"Your mom?"

She shook her head, steeling herself. They had never been good at 
talking things through. The best they had ever done was the 
arrangements they'd made after Will was born, just before Mulder left.
They'd spent that time in a sleepless haze, attending to their son's 
needs and making plans for everything from Mulder's return to the 
baby's safety to practicalities like the bank account Mulder had left
in William's name despite her insistence that it wasn't necessary.

"Mulder, there's something we need to talk about."

"Us, talk?" he teased. She tried to summon a smile as she just sat on
the chair beside his bed.

"There's something I haven't told you, something you have to know."

He nodded, looking scared.

"Please understand, Mulder. I need to-- I know he isn't your favorite
person, but he's been good to Will. Will's needed other people in his
life. Someone besides my mom. A man in his life."

Mulder's breathing was deep and erratic, his chest rising and falling
too quickly, and Scully worried that she should've waited to tell him
this, waited until he was more stable or out of the hospital. Another
week or two or ten...

"A man?" he asked, and she nodded, tried to start to explain, but 
Mulder cut her off. He sounded defeated but resigned, as if he'd 
suspected this was coming. Still, his tone was soft, choked. "A man.
Of  course. You've been seeing someone, or you're married, or--"

"No," she quickly corrected. "No. It's nothing like that. He's just 
been good to Will, and Will's needed--"

"Who?" Mulder asked. "Who is it?"

"John Doggett," she said softly.

"Doggett?" The expression on Mulder's face was half confusion and half
disgust. "Doggett!?"

She nodded.  

"I thought you were going to say it was Skinner," he said, then forced
out a laugh.

"No," she said. "I don't see Skinner much anymore," she admitted. "Not
since he made Deputy Director."

"Deputy Director?" Mulder asked. "The Skinman?"

"Yeah," she said. "That was a few years ago, but with me at Quantico 
and him still in the Hoover Building, I didn't see him much even
before  then."

Scully didn't elaborate, but her estrangement from Skinner was still a
sore spot for her. He'd been such a help when she was pregnant with 
Will, risking his job and even his life to keep them safe, to keep up
the manhunt for Mulder. Even standing by her through Mulder's funeral
and the hellish months she'd spent wondering how she would be able to
explain to their child what kind of man his father had been. How she 
could never make their child understand the little pieces that made
him  into Fox Mulder -- his enthusiasm and passion, his gentle
teasing, his  love of baseball and outlandish theories and gaudy old
sci-fi movies.

But then, after Will was born and Mulder had left, Skinner had stepped
back. At first Scully had thought it was his discomfort and 
inexperience with the baby. She didn't think he had spent much time 
around children, never mind newborns. But later Scully had realized 
that that was just the way Walter Skinner was. One week he stuck his 
neck out for them, and the next he seemed to be working at cross 
purposes.

No, Scully thought, Walter Skinner was not someone she could trust 
implicitly, not someone she could trust with her son. Not that she 
thought he might hurt Will, but she didn't know what to expect from 
him, and that scared her. She did not trust him in the way she had
come  to trust Reyes and Doggett.

"Isn't Doggett still at Headquarters, too?" Mulder asked. "Or did
Kersh  get his way and shut the X-Files down for good?"

"No, they're still open," she told him. "Doggett and Reyes run things,
and I help them on occasion. Mostly autopsies, but sometimes I'll lend
a hand with the investigation if it's in the area."

He nodded. "So Will's with Doggett."

"Yes," she said, relieved not to detect a surge of masculine hurt that
another man was playing an important role in his son's life. "Yankees
versus Orioles."

"Will's a Yankees fan?" Mulder asked, a smile tugging at his lips.

She shook her head, and Mulder's smile faded. "John is," she said. 
"Will likes the Cleveland Indians. One of their pitchers, a veteran 
named Baez, is his favorite. Will heard once that he graduated from 
college with a degree in physics -- a real school, not just a year at
a  community college so he could get a higher pick in the draft."

"Baez," Mulder said absently. "Never heard of him."

"He was a Cuban defectee, but he's been around for a while," Scully 
said. "The physics degree was before Will was born, but Will's 
incredibly loyal."

Mulder nodded, and her double meaning was not lost on him. She needed
Mulder to understand that John Doggett was important in Will's life. 
She knew there was no love lost between the two men, but, considering
Will's attachment to John, she wasn't going to put up with Mulder 
badmouthing the other man.

"So," Mulder said. "Any word of when I'll be free to check out of
Hotel  Haldol?"

"They haven't given you more Haldol?" she asked, incredulous. The last
time she'd spoken with Mulder's doctor, she'd told Scully that they 
were weaning him from the tranquilizers. By now she'd figured that
he'd  be drug-free since Dr. Hall wanted to observe him unmedicated
before  releasing him.

He shook his head. "Kidding," he said, and she nodded.

"Right," she said. Kidding. Mulder kidded, she reminded herself. It
had  been entirely too long. "Last I heard, they were talking
Saturday."

"Good thing," he said, then smiled. "I was afraid they'd have to break
out those restraints again. I'm getting a little stir-crazy."

She returned his smile but sighed softly. "Mulder, you know things are
gonna take some work, even after you've been released," she said. 
"You're still weak. You'll continue your physical therapy, probably 
have regular visits with a psychiatrist to try to recover some of your
memory."

"Scully, no, I don't--"

She set her hand on his. "Mulder, these things are nonnegotiable," she
said, focusing her resolution into a stern tone.

"I told you, there are memories I don't want back," he said softly. "A
photographic memory ain't all it's cracked up to be."

"Fine," she agreed. She didn't want to push him, didn't want to add to
the pressure he must already feel. Give him time, she told herself,
the  memory of his return during her pregnancy strong in her mind.
"What you  talk about with your therapist is up to you, Mulder, but
you do need to  see one."

"Whatever it takes," he said softly.

Scully could only hope that he meant it.

* * * * *

Camden Yards; Baltimore
August 24
7:49 pm


"Something wrong with your hot dog?" John asked, and Will just shook 
his head, then bent to take a bite, careful not to let the chili drip
out onto his lap.

"It's good," he told John. And it was, just the way he liked it, 
covered in chili and cheddar cheese. A rare treat since his mom didn't
like him to eat junk food. But Will and John always had chili dogs
when  they went to baseball games. Chili dogs and Cherry Cokes. It was
their  special thing, and even more than the hot dogs and Cokes, Will
liked  the thrill of keeping it a secret from his mom.

"Something else the matter, then?" John asked.

Will shook his head. "I'm fine," he said, and both their attentions 
were momentarily caught by a quick double play, six-five-three. The 
crowd -- all except John, who was a Yankees fan -- cheered as the 
inning ended and the players jogged off the field and into the dugout,
slapping each other companionably on the shoulder and butt as they 
went.

"You sure, Will?" John pressed. "I know things must be a little crazy
now, with Mulder back and in the hospital."

Will just shrugged. He liked John, but he wasn't sure he wanted to
talk  about his dad with him. He normally didn't feel strange asking
John to  tell him stories about the few cases he had investigated with
his mom  and dad. And sometimes John would even tell him, great
stories about  extraterrestrial viruses and lizardmen and
supersoldiers. Sometimes  Will even asked John about the cases he'd
investigated with his mom  before he was born, a time she didn't like
to talk about.

But it seemed strange now, telling John how he felt about his dad
being  back. He could feel that John wasn't completely comfortable
talking  about the subject, and he didn't want to make things any
worse. He  could detect more than a hint of jealousy, something Will
didn't want  to understand any better.

"Have you seen him?" Will asked John.

"Yeah," he said. "I was with your mom at the hospital that first
day."

Will ground a peanut shell into the concrete floor with the toe of his
sneaker. "He's sick."

John nodded. "Your mom said he's getting better."

Will shrugged. "I guess," he said.

"I'm sure he'll be allowed to leave the hospital soon," John said, 
taking another bite of his chili dog.

Will didn't say anything. He was a little afraid of what was going to
happen when his dad left the hospital. As much as he'd always wanted a
father, he'd kind of imagined that his dad would actually want him, 
too.

"I bet your mom's excited," John said, fitting the last of his hot dog
in his mouth and dragging his napkin across his mouth.

"Yeah," Will said. His mom had been exhausted this week, limp and 
ragged like the old doll she kept on her bedstand, the doll she'd told
him his dad had given her. She was worn and tired and battered from 
driving back and forth to the hospital, meeting with doctors, trying
to  piece together the seven missing years of his dad's life.

She came home from the hospital late, ate dinner with him and his 
grandma, then fell asleep on the couch soon after the dishes were done
and his grandma left. Will woke her up at his bedtime -- or, if he was
engrossed in a book, as usually happened, a little later -- and told 
her he was going to sleep. She read to him, like she always did, but 
she was still sleepy and didn't do the voices much anymore.

"I remember before you were born," John said. "It was hard on your mom
when he came back, but it was all she wanted: Mulder back and you
safe.  I'm sure she's grateful that she has you to help her out this
time.  You're a big help to her, Will."

He nodded. He knew how much his mom loved his dad -- and how much his
dad loved her back. He could feel it between them in just the small 
amount of time they'd been allowed to visit with his dad the other
day.  And that made it so much harder.

"How 'bout you?" John asked. "You excited?"

Will shrugged. "I guess."

The people in the seats around them cheered as the Orioles first 
baseman hit a line drive in the gap between the shortstop and third 
baseman. But John said nothing -- didn't groan and certainly didn't 
cheer -- as he turned to look at Will.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it," John told him. "But I
think you need to talk to someone, Will, if something's wrong. It'll 
make you feel better. Your mom and your grandma are good listeners."

Will nodded. He knew John was right, that he would feel better if he 
talked to someone. But not to John. Even if John didn't seem 
uncomfortable talking about his dad, Will knew that he couldn't tell 
John what was wrong. John didn't know about his abilities; he couldn't
just say, 'Well, I know my dad doesn't like me because I heard his 
thoughts.' Sure.

And he couldn't talk to his grandma either, even though she seemed
like  the best choice. It always made her uncomfortable when he or his
mom  talked about his abilities. She listened, but he could tell she
wished  she didn't have to, that she wished he were normal like his
cousins,  Matt and Patrick and Abby. He couldn't tell her.

And his mom. Of course he couldn't talk to his mom. She loved his dad
so much that it would hurt her. She would probably be mad at his dad,
and maybe he would go away again, which Will didn't entirely want even
if he still felt jumbled and confused about it all.

Besides, she had lots to think about, between her job and him and 
taking care of his dad. She didn't need any more hassles, and he
didn't  want to disappoint her. He knew that she hoped everything
would be okay  for them if his dad was back, that they would be
together, happily ever  after, and he didn't want to ruin that for
her.

* * * * *

From: attalanta@aol.com
Subject: [all-xf] NEW: Song of Innocence 
Source: atxc

Title: Song of Innocence (10/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Is always welcome.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

Georgetown University
August 25
5:16 pm


It wasn't raining, Will decided as he stood against one of the wet 
marble columns of the college's Liberal Arts building, it was
spitting.  Little flicks of wet fell from the sky, and every few
minutes the wind  pushed a gust of rain over to where he stood,
spraying him like he was  in the front row at Sea World.

Despite the heat, Will zipped his jacket high up under his chin so he
wouldn't get wet. He patted the zippered pouch of his backpack,
feeling  the outline of his book in there but also knowing that it
would get all  wet and ruined if he read it in the rain.

So Will just stood and waited, away from the clump of children 
clustered around Paul Dade, who was holding a small leather-bound
book.  His fourteen year old sister's diary, he said, where he was
sure she  had written about kissing, something Paul Dade, and the rest
of the  second grade enrichment class, was immensely interested in.

All except Will. He leaned back against the wet stone pillar, watching
each passing car, looking for his mom's Accord. Will was not
interested  in Paul Dade's sister's diary, was most of all not
interested in Paul  Dade, who'd made it a sport of picking on Will
ever since he'd known  him. It was just his luck that Paul was the
only other kid from his  enrichment class who was also supposed to be
in his regular-school  class.

"Look!" Paul called out, and the other kids gave a collective gasp as
a  flimsy brochure slipped out of the diary. "A sex book!"

Will pulled further away from the crowd, arms crossed over his chest.
He kept his eyes riveted to the road. Hurry up, Mom, he thought.

"Eew, gross," Amy Hatters said. "That's sick."

"I don't think we should be looking at this," someone else said 
nervously.

"Don't be such a scaredy cat, Erin," Paul said.

"Yeah," someone else echoed, and the group laughed, but nervously.

More pages flipped, followed by giggles, followed by a chorus of 
"Gross," "Ew," and "I'm *never* doing *that!*"

"You have to if you ever want to have a baby. I think it's the law," 
Jessica Yue said.

Will let his attention shift just slightly toward the group of 
students. His mom had told him all about sex already -- it wasn't that
-- but he thought it might kind of funny to hear the other kids'
stupid  ideas about it. Obviously their parents hadn't told them about
anything.

It had been late at night -- after his bedtime, but he'd convinced his
mom to let him stay up another half hour -- when he'd lugged one of
her  medical books over to where she sat at her desk, typing up an
essay  test on the computer. He set the book, open to a diagram with
rainbow  colors and plastic cover sheets, on the desk atop her pile of
class  notes. He hadn't said anything, but she took one look at the
graphics  and knew what he was asking.

She'd sighed deeply, looked a little sad, and then set her glasses on
the desk beside the keyboard. She instructed him to sit on the couch,
then went to the bookshelves and removed several more thick textbooks,
pausing at the desk to kick the lamplight up a notch. 

Then his mom settled on the couch, the books between them, and 
proceeded to explain it all to him, a man and a woman loving each
other  so much that they wanted to share everything. And how,
sometimes, if  they were very lucky, they could make a baby.

Those were the soft words, almost inaudible over the twin harmonic
hums  of the computer and the baseboard heater; whispered without eye
contact; accompanied by a faint burning blush on his mom's barely 
freckled face and, Will knew, on his as well.

Then came the scientific words, the ones that were easier for her, and
for him. Words that he already knew, because his mom had always hated
the silly, baby-talk terms for body parts that kids at school used 
while giggling with embarrassment.

When she finished her lecture, she'd asked him if he had any
questions.  He'd nodded, scampered over to the bookshelf for another
text, and  opened it to a familiar page. He had read the text on the
page -- he  had read the whole chapter, actually -- but until then he
had had a  hard time believing it.

"So that's where baby comes out, too?" he asked, suspiciously eyeing 
the photograph of the woman's spread legs, the dark hair, and the 
strangely colored thing, like a bruise, poking out.

"Yes," she said.

"Does it... does it hurt?" he asked softly.

"Yes," she said again, just as soft.

And Will tuned in. He couldn't help it; his mom's response was too 
thick with emotion. He just couldn't stop himself.

Suddenly he was there: a dark cabin, exhausted and scared and in more
pain than he knew existed. He felt as if he were being torn in two, 
from the crotch up. His fists clenched, and sweat slipped down his 
neck, soaking his tee shirt. Monica, years younger, stood in front of
him, urging him to push as another stab of pain rocked him to his
core.  A familiar voice echoed out of his mouth as he noticed for the
first  time the blank, emotionless faces hovering around the bed.
"This is my  baby! You can't have it!"

Then Will snapped back, eyes wide as he stared at his mom.

"You're feeling it?"

He nodded once, down and up.

"Oh, baby," she said, pulling him onto her lap and holding him tight 
against her. "Don't. Don't torture yourself that way. You're the best
thing I ever did."

If he concentrated now, Will could still feel the rockets of pain. But
he couldn't say that he was surprised by any of it. It explained a
lot,  a lot more, he knew, than it did to most kids. It made sense of
some of  the strange things he'd felt from adults, feelings he still
didn't  really understand.

"Eew," the kids chorused as Paul turned another page.

"Yuck," Amy said. "Do you think your sister's doing *that?*"

"No," Josh O'Neill said with certainty. "You have to be married to do
that. At least that's what my cousin said."

"Your cousin's a liar," Erin argued. "You don't have to be married.
You  don't even have to love the other person."

"No," Paul said, meanness seeping into his voice. Will braced himself,
knowing what was coming without really *knowing.* "Just ask Will."

A half-dozen heads turned toward him, eyes wide.

"How do you know, Will?" Amy asked him, awestruck.

Will felt his face redden, and he hugged himself tight around his 
middle.

"Will's parents aren't married," Paul announced. "He just lives with 
his mom."

"So?" Josh asked. "Neither are Jessica's."

"Yeah, they're divorced," Jessica said with a hint of worry in her 
voice.

"No," Paul said. "Will's parents were never married."

"How do you know, Paul?" Amy asked.

"My mom told me," Paul said. "She heard Will's mom talking to Mrs. 
Freedman at the teacher conferences last week."

Will bit his lip, hating Paul Dade with all of his might, wishing for
a  very long minute that he really were Harry Potter, and that he
could  make Paul Dade turn into a snake or a toad or a worm so he
could join  the rest of the worms squirming in the puddles on the
concrete steps.

"My mom said that Will doesn't even know his dad," Paul said, jutting
his chin into the air.

"I do so!" Will shouted back, his chest heaving uncontrollably. He 
fought against the tears in his eyes, refusing to let himself cry in 
front of everyone. Especially in front of Paul.

A silver-blue Accord pulled up in front of the steps to the school 
then, and the small group of students turned to look, staring openly 
when they realized it was his mom. With one last glance at the kids 
clustered around Paul Dade, Will clutched his backpack straps tight
and  raced out to his mom's car, ducking his head against the light
rain.

"Maybe that's why he's so weird," Amy's voice followed him to the
car.  
"Bye, Will," Mrs. Freedman called out, pulling back from the heated 
discussion she had been engaged in with Maya, the college student that
helped out with their class. "See you tomorrow."

"Have a good day?" his mom asked as he slid into the car beside her
and  tugged his door shut. He wiped at his face, grateful that the
rain hid  his tears, and buckled his seat belt.

He nodded absently as his mom leaned over to kiss him hello before the
car roared back to life. "Get wet?"

"Not much," he said.

"That's good," his mom said, then cleared her throat awkwardly.

Will looked up at her, waiting. He knew that she was getting ready to
say something, to tell him something, but he couldn't quite reach what
it was. Nonetheless, she seemed pretty nervous.

"There are a few things we need to talk about, Will," she said. "I'm 
sorry I've been so busy lately. I've been spending a lot of time at
the  hospital. Maybe too much time -- I haven't been around enough for
you.  I'm sorry about that."

"It's okay," he told her.

"Well," she said, "hopefully everything will get straightened out 
soon."

Straightened out. Will watched the rain beat on the windshield and 
wondered what that meant. He knew things would never go back to
normal,  back to what used to be normal. But maybe they were going
back to what  his mom thought of as normal, and that scared Will. He
followed a  single raindrop shimmy and shiver down the window before
disappearing,  seamlessly, into a stream of rain. It scared him a
lot.

"I talked with your dad's doctors today," she said finally, her hands
alternately clutching the steering wheel. She flicked the windshield 
wipers up to warp speed, then gave him a quick glance.

"They said he would be ready to leave the hospital soon," she said. 
"Maybe tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

His mom nodded. "Maybe."

"Where's he going to go?" Will asked.

"Well," his mom said as she sped through a yellow light. "That's one 
thing we need to talk about. I discussed it with Grandma, and we both
agreed it would be best if your dad stayed with her for a little 
while."

"With Grandma? How come?"

"He's still weak, sweetie," she told him. "He's going to need someone
around all day, in case he needs something. And he won't be able to 
drive for a little while, so he needs someone who can take him to his
doctor's appointments."

"Why does he need to see the doctor? I thought he was getting
better."

"Just some check-ups and his physical therapy," she said lightly.
"They  want to make sure he really is okay, and that he's adjusting
well to  everything that's happened."

"A psychiatrist?" Will asked.

His mom nodded. "A psychiatrist is one of the doctors he'll see, yes,"
she said. "Have you read about Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder in my 
medical books?"

"Yes," Will admitted. "Is that what he has?"

"Maybe," she said. "He's talked with some doctors at the hospital 
already, and they think he might. He'll have to talk to lots of other
doctors, though, Will. It's going to take a long time."

Will nodded, watched his mom flip on the signal before turning right 
onto Graydon Road, and was afraid to ask her what it was, exactly,
that  was going to take a long time.

* * * * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital
August 26
4:18 pm


Will sat slumped on a plastic chair in the hospital waiting room, 
kicking the toe of his left sneaker against the metal leg of the chair
across from him. Whack. He smiled a little, enjoying the satisfying 
sound, and kicked again. Whack. Whack.

The loud sound of an accidentally-on-purpose throat clearing made him
look up, freezing his foot mid-air. The pink-smocked woman at the 
nurses' desk glared at him, but Will gave the chair one last smack 
before swinging his leg beneath his own seat.

"Can I help you, young man?" the woman called out from behind the
desk.

He just shook his head, but all that earned him was her emergence from
behind the desk. She squatted down next to him, even though almost all
of the chairs around him were empty.

"Are you lost?" she asked, but Will knew what she meant was, 'You 
aren't supposed to be here, are you?'

"No," he said.

"Well, then," she said, ignoring his answer. "Maybe I can help you."

"I'm waiting for my mom," he said, and she nodded.

"Maybe I'll just wait here with you." She gave him a big fake smile
and  sat down next to him.

Will gave up and turned away from her, knowing that there wasn't 
anything he could say that would make her go away. The truth, that he
was waiting for his mom, certainly hadn't helped. He had been waiting
for his mom for hours, it seemed, but a glance at the clock on the
wall  told him that it wasn't even twenty minutes. She had had to
leave him  in the waiting area while she went to talk to his dad's
doctors,  because he was getting out of the hospital.

Today.

Will gave another kick to the chair legs, and the stupid hospital
woman  scooted over to that chair. As if he couldn't kick another
chair if he  wanted to. Will watched the second hand crawl around the
face of the  wall clock, feeling his own watch tick against the inside
of his wrist,  where it always slipped around to.

The plan was that his mom would sign his dad out of the hospital, then
the three of them would drive over to his grandma's house, where they
would have dinner and get his dad settled in before Will and his mom 
went home.

But his dad's doctors hadn't gone along with the plan. Instead of just
letting his mom sign his dad out, the doctors had herded her and his 
dad into a little room to talk, assuring her that Will would be all 
right in the waiting area.

And that was -- Will checked the clock on the wall -- seventeen
minutes  and twenty-two seconds ago. Will wished he'd brought his book
in with  him, but he'd left it in the car since his mom had promised
him they'd  be quick and he didn't want to leave it at the hospital by
accident. So  now he was sitting across from this stupid muggle
hospital woman who  probably thought that he was here for something as
normal as his  parents bringing home a new baby brother or sister.

Will's foot shot out again, but he stopped it before it hit the seat 
next to the hospital woman, stopped it because he saw the automatic 
doors slide open and his mom and dad emerge.

His mom was carrying a small duffle bag and a vase of flowers, and
Will  wondered who had sent them. Maybe his grandma, or John or
Monica. He  wondered if Monica visited his dad there; he wondered who
else had. Mr.  Skinner? Someone else who had worked with his mom and
dad? Will himself  had only visited that one time. He hadn't asked his
mom about coming  again, and she hadn't suggested it, so now he was
seeing his dad for  only the second time that he could remember.

His dad was in a wheelchair, being pushed by a teenager with a long 
ponytail and a pink striped uniform. Will wondered if his dad had been
hurt worse than he'd thought. His mom said he was weak, but Will
hadn't  known that he couldn't walk. Will wondered how he was going to
get up  and down the steps at his grandma's house.

"Sorry, sorry," his mom said as the wheelchair paused at the row of 
chairs where Will sat waiting.

He gave the hospital woman a little glare -- told you I was waiting
for  my mom, he thought -- and got up to stand next to his mom.
"Ready?" she  asked, and he nodded. They got into the elevator
together and rode down  in silence, Will smashed up against the
elevator wall by his dad's  wheelchair.

Will hung back as the hospital girl wheeled his dad through the slow 
revolving door at the hospital entrance. He peered around his mom to 
his dad, who just looked straight ahead. He was wearing normal clothes
now, jeans and a t-shirt, not the hospital gown he'd been wearing when
Will had visited. Will wondered where he'd gotten them, whether his
mom  had dug them out of one of the boxes in the basement. He gave a
little  sniff but couldn't smell the damp, mildewy basement smell.

When they got outside, the hospital girl maneuvered the wheelchair
just  next to the door, and his mom handed his dad the flowers and the
bag,  and dug into her pocket.

"I have to get the car," she told Will. "You stay here." He nodded and
watched her walk down to the parking lot.

"Hey there," the hospital girl said to him, smiling.

"Hi," Will said.

"I bet you're excited," she said, "your dad getting out of the 
hospital. A week's a long time to be away from home."

Will just nodded and didn't say anything, but out of the corner of his
eye he could see his dad watching him. He looked back out at the 
parking lot, where he could see his mom's car drive slowly toward the
entrance.

She parked in front of the door, then got out of the car and came 
around to their side. She took the bag and flowers from his dad's lap
and set them in the backseat. Will watched his dad rise slowly from
the  wheelchair, and he saw for the first time that his dad was tall.

His mom opened the door for him, and his dad lowered himself slowly 
into the passenger's side front seat, folding his legs and raising his
knees to fit into the small space between the seat and the dashboard.
Will just stood there, staring, as his dad searched blindly for the 
button beneath the seat to push it back. Will blinked a few times, 
staring at his book tucked in the pocket of the passenger's side door,
which still hung open.

"Why don't you sit in the back," his mom suggested softly as she set 
her hand on his shoulder. A gentle pressure guided him to the
backseat,  and he waited as she opened the door for him. Then he
crawled in behind  his dad.

The backseat was new for Will. He usually rode up front with his mom,
except when they went somewhere in the same car with his grandma,
which  didn't happen very often. He reached up for the seatbelt and
latched  it, staring blindly at the windshield from between the front
seats.

"You okay back there, Will?" his mom asked as she slid into the 
driver's side. "You can move behind my seat if you want more room."

"Short little legs, Scully?" his dad said.

"Shut up, Mulder," his mom said, still looking straight ahead through
the windshield.

Will's eyes darted back and forth, and he lost track of their rapid-
fire conversation, choosing instead to concentrate on the feelings 
playing between them. He huddled up in the back seat, knees to his 
chest, his head resting against the door, turned sideways so he could
watch his dad.

* * * * *

Continued in Part 11.

Title: Song of Innocence (11/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

717 Locust Street; Georgetown
August 28
9:45 am

Scully pulled onto Locust Street and tried to see her peaceful
Georgetown  neighborhood the way Mulder was seeing it. Stone and brick
row houses,  ivy-covered wrought iron fences, a couple hand in hand
walking a golden  retriever down the sidewalk. The Gordons, her mind
supplied as she returned  their wave. The Gordons had become Will's
favorite neighbors after they'd let  him come by to play with their
dog the previous summer.

Scully slowed as she pulled up to her house, reaching above Mulder's
head to  hit the garage door opener, then parked in the garage. Will's
bike rested in  the empty half of the two-car, and hers, a little
dusty, leaned up against  the wall. Beside Will's baseball bat, two
bike helmets hung from a peg on the  corkboard above the bikes.

Scully killed the engine and pushed open the door, then hurried over
to  Mulder's side in case he needed her help. But he was already
standing next to  the car, his gaze darting around the garage.
Wordlessly he followed her up  the narrow wooden staircase and into
the house.

It was her last few hours of freedom before Scully went back to work
and, she  thought as she glanced back at Mulder, she was determined to
savor them. Her  mother had assured her that she could come by
Scully's house with Mulder so  he could sort through the boxes in her
basement. But, determined to share  this with Mulder, Scully had
gotten a colleague to cover her Monday morning  lecture and stopped by
her mother's house early that morning for Mulder.

He was quiet as she showed him around downstairs, the kitchen and
small  dining room, the living room, even the bathroom. To her
everything looked  welcoming, pale wood tones, blues and grays and as
much white as she could  safely get away with in the same house as a
slightly clumsy yet well-meaning  seven year old.

Most of the furniture had been bought after Mulder had left. There
were a few  old pieces scattered throughout the house -- end tables,
her bed,  bookshelves, her desk. But the new pieces were in the same
style as the  contents of her old apartment; Scully's tastes had not
changed. 

Mulder said nothing as she showed him around, intermittently reaching
out to  touch something, each time pulling his hand back just before
he made contact,  as though he were a child on a field trip to the art
museum, just remembering  that his teacher had told the class not to
touch.

He followed her slowly upstairs, and Scully glanced back twice to be
sure he  was still behind her. His steps were soft and slow on the
stairs, his hand  grasping the railing. He was still so weak, she
knew, but physical therapy  would help that. His doctor had set a
three-a-week schedule, though they  would start with short sessions.
Dr. Hall expected him to get his strength  back quickly, noting the
good physical shape he had started with, but she had  assured him that
it would take some work.

Scully led Mulder upstairs and down the hall, past the bathroom and
master  bedroom, then over to the door to Will's bedroom.

"Wow," Mulder said softly as she pushed the door open, and Scully
smiled. He  did not know Will, not yet, and she knew this room could
tell him more about  his son than almost anything else.

Will's bedroom shone like an oasis in a desert of blond wood and muted
blues.  The window on the far wall was framed by baseball-themed
curtains and Will's  art, fingerpaintings and watercolors and a few
oil paintings, his newest  medium. Another wall was decorated with
baseball pennants and team  photographs and a bulletin board with a
fan of multicolored tickets. His  bookshelves filled another wall,
crammed with new paperbacks and old  textbooks and oversized picture
books that had been hers when she was a  child. Next to the door was
an oversized poster of Albert Einstein sticking  out his tongue.

A large plastic toy chest sat at the foot of Will's bed, and it
overflowed  with Lego blocks and a menagerie of stuffed animals and
pieces of the  molecular modeling kit she'd had to buy for an Organic
Chemistry class in  college. The surface of his desk was covered in
small parts, the baseball  glove on the corner of the desk cradling
the empty plastic casing of Will's  broken microscope.

Scully smiled, remembering the children's microscope Bill and Tara had
bought  Will for his last birthday, and the startled look on his face
when he'd  opened the package. It was what he had asked for -- a real
microscope -- but  to Will "real" meant heavy and metal and adult, not
the yellow plastic piece  he'd unwrapped.

Though it had been advertised as indestructible, the microscope had
lasted  him all of two weeks, finally giving up when he took it apart
in an attempt  to replace its weak plastic lens with a piece of a
juice glass Scully  suspected he'd broken for that very purpose. His
new microscope, the *real*  microscope that had been paid for half by
her and half by Will's birthday  money, sat on his bookshelf, covered
carefully in its plastic jacket. A case  of slides sat next to it, and
Scully wondered if she should tell Mulder that  Will's favorite, the
slide on the top of the stack, held one of Mulder's own 
hairs, which she'd found clinging to a plastic comb packed away among
his  things.

Mulder stepped into the room, walked slowly to the bookshelf, and slid
his  hand over the cold glass top of the fish tank that dominated the
top surface  of the bookshelf. He stooped down to eye the half-dozen
angelfish swimming  unperturbed through a garden of seaweed, and then
he dropped heavily onto the  child-size plastic stepstool next to the
bookcase.

"Is this... this is my fish tank."

She nodded. "I wanted him to have something of yours. And I couldn't
very  well give him your videos," she quipped, waiting for a smile or
a laugh, but  his expression didn't move past the morose stare he'd
been working to perfect  ever since they pulled into the garage.

He pointed to the tiny gold ball tacked up in the corner of the room.
It spun  from a fine gold thread, winding its soft white wings around
and around.  "What is that?"

"I see you haven't kept up with your children's books," she said.
"It's a  golden snitch."

He wrinkled his brow at her. "A what?"

"It's from Harry Potter, Mulder," she explained. "Harry's a boy
wizard, and  there's a whole series about his adventures at the wizard
school he attends."  She smiled. "He's Will's favorite. You'd like
him, too, I think."

Mulder managed a smile this time, as he bent to pick the top book off
the  stack on the floor next to Will's hastily made bed. It was the
first Harry  Potter, battered and worn, its dust jacket held on with
scotch tape. Mulder  thumbed through it, then set it back on the pile.
After one last look around  the room, he stepped into the hall,
allowing her to move around him.

Scully opened the door to the next room, the tiny extra bedroom she'd
turned  into a study. Bookcases lining one wall bulged with medical
textbooks,  several years worth of spiral bound journals, and a few
lusty romance novels  she had crammed onto the top shelf. There was
her desk, the same desk she'd  had in her old apartment; a computer;
an over-sized end table that she used  to organize her class notes and
Will used as an easel and a puzzle board.  And, crammed into the
corner of the room, sat Mulder's leather couch.

He had put the couch, along with most of his belongings, in storage
before he  left, and it had remained there until Scully found the
townhouse, which had  considerably more room than her old apartment.
At a loss for how to decorate,  she had gone to the storage unit
looking for something to fill an  overwhelmingly large amount of empty
space for a woman who'd lived in  dormitories and apartments for her
entire adult life.

Will had toddled around the musty little room, his face alight with a
smile  as if he knew whose belongings they were sorting through. She
had sifted  through cardboard boxes, picking out books and a lamp or
two and other pieces  she wanted to populate Will's world with. Then
she'd pulled off the sheets  tucked snugly around the couch, and all
she had to do was sit down -- for a  minute, she'd told herself, to
rest -- to know where she would put it in  their new home.

It surprised Scully that she wanted the couch. After all, for years
she had  disliked it, the fabric unwelcoming, stiff and cold in the
winter and as  sticky as a second skin in the summer. It didn't escape
her that, for years,  Mulder had slept on it every night, in every
climate. At the time she had  thought it a symbol of his tortured,
solitaire existence; he did not even  allow himself a bed to sleep
in.

But over the years her opinion had gradually shifted as the couch
began to  figure into some of her favorite Mulder memories. Arguing
good-naturedly over  case files. Slurping half-melted pints of Ben &
Jerry's. Waking beside a  gurgling fishtank, the blanket that was now
slung over the arm of the couch  tucked around her with care.

And now when she looked at the couch she thought of sitting through 
Caddyshack accompanied by Mulder's amused chuckles and ice-cold Shiner
Bocks,  and she wondered if she had explained the birds and the bees
to her son on  the very same couch where he'd been conceived.

"You kept it," he said softly.

"Yes," she said.

"It's in your house; you use it."

She smiled. "Yes."

"Why?"

She shrugged, and he sat on the couch.

"Is this bringing back any memories?" she asked.

A slow smile stretched across his face. "I never forgot about us,
Scully."

She returned his grin, but, "Nothing else, Mulder? No cases or
arguments or- -"

"You want me to remember arguments, Scully?"

I want you to remember everything, she thought.

* * * * *

1978 West Harbor Road; Bethesda
August 28
5:35 pm


Will was curled up in the overstuffed armchair in the corner of his
grandma's  living room, his knees to his chest. A book sat open in
front of him, but he  was too distracted by the man sleeping on the
couch to get very far into it.

He looked over at his dad, covered to his chin by one of his grandma's
crocheted afghans and snoring loudly. His dad had been sleeping the
whole  time, ever since his grandma picked Will up from school and
brought him  there. She'd gone into the kitchen to start dinner,
leaving him with his dad,  telling Will to be quiet, that his dad had
had a hard first full day out of  the hospital and needed his sleep.

Every few minutes Will glanced down at his book, scanning over a few 
paragraphs but not really paying attention. He had read the book
before  anyway, about a girl and her friend who, guided by a strange
mystical being  named Proginoskes, go inside her brother's body to
save him from a  mitochondrial disease. Will had even had great fun
learning about  mitochondria and farandolae, the beings that the
author claimed lived inside  mitochondria, the beings that, Will
discovered with just a little  disappointment, she had made up.
Nevertheless, the story captivated him, the  idea that three full-size
people could have an amazing adventure shrunken so  small that they
could fit into Charles Wallace's tiny body.

"It is not always on the great or the important that the balance of
the  universe depends," Proginoskes said.

Will pushed the book aside again and looked at his dad. His eyes were
closed,  but Will studied his face in a way that he'd not been able to
do yet. Of  course he'd seen him in pictures, but he had only seen him
a few times in  real life.

One of his dad's hands rested on his chest, draped over the blanket.
Will  saved his place with a bookmark, then set the paperback on the
end table. He  dropped to his knees, moving toward his dad in a slow
crawl, not wanting to  wake him.

Will studied his hand. It was big and pale and a little pink, warm
looking.  His fingernails were short and clean, and he had several
tiny scars on his  hands. Odd scars that Will couldn't figure out, a
tiny cut on a knuckle,  another on a fingertip, and a longer gash on
the back of his hand. The scars  were old, though, faded pale and
soft.

He looked up to his dad's face, relaxed and peaceful. His mouth was
open  enough for Will to see the tips of white teeth peering out. The
skin on his  face looked a little rough, but it was shaved clean. Will
studied his  eyebrows, his nose, the mole on his cheek. Then his eyes
trailed up to his  hair, still dark but with significant gray shining
among the brown.

Then his dad gave a loud snort and tossed his head back, and Will
skittered  back to the safety of his armchair, his eyes still glued to
his dad.

But his dad just settled himself back into the couch, his feet poking
out  from the bottom of the afghan. Will braved another few steps
toward the  couch, this time studying his dad's feet. He wasn't
wearing any socks, and  Will stood for a long time staring at his
giant-sized bare feet, the sparse  dark hairs sprouting on his toe
knuckles and the thicker layer of hair poking  out from the edge of
the afghan, which exposed a single bony white ankle.

Again his dad moved, and Will retreated back to the armchair, this
time for  good. He grabbed his book off the end table just as his
grandma poked her  head out of the kitchen.

"Everything okay in here?" she asked, drying her hands on a towel.

"Fine," Will said, making a show of opening his book.

His grandma nodded, then leaned over his dad's sleeping form. She
smiled  softly, pulling the afghan up to recover him to his chin, then
patted his  dad's hair off his face; he didn't even twitch.

"Try to be quiet," she said. "He needs his rest." Then she looked over
at  Will, and the expression on her face reminded him a lot of his mom
when she  took care of him when he got sick.

"Dinner should be ready at 6:30," his grandma said softly, still
gazing down  at his dad. Then she looked up at Will. "Your mom said
she'd be here around  six, depending on traffic."

Will nodded as his grandma went back into the kitchen. His grandma
understood  that he liked to know things like that, when he was being
picked up and by  whom, and what time his mom was getting home and
where he could call her if  she was late. It was silly, Will knew; his
mom was rarely late and never,  ever forgot him. Still, it was a
comfort to him.

Will resumed his study of his dad, concentrating now on his whole
face, a  face familiar both through the photographs in his scrapbook
and, in some  ways, through Will's own face.

Will didn't have a lot of pictures of his dad, but what he did have
had been  enough for Will to build him into an interesting, if
imaginary, person. He  had the most photos of his dad when he was age
twelve and younger, faded  photos pasted into the scrapbook his mom
had made for him. He made up a life  from these pictures, his dad and
his sister playing together on a tire swing  in their backyard,
swimming in what was either the ocean or a giant lake, at 
a cook-out with lots of unknown adults. Will's mom had pointed out his
dad's  parents, but beyond that she didn't know anyone, so Will
populated his dad's  extended family with aunts and uncles, cousins
and grandparents and  neighbors.

Strange, he realized. He could now learn who those people really were.
His  mom had said that Will could ask his dad whatever he wanted,
though she had  warned him that he couldn't remember some things and
might not know all the  answers. 

There were only a few pages in his scrapbook with more recent photos,
starting with his dad's high school graduation picture, if he counted
that as  recent. There were only a few of his mom and dad, some
apparently taken at  work, and a few of them together, just the two of
them, not for work, just  together. These were Will's favorites, the
photographs he used when he put  pictures to his mom's exciting FBI
stories.

There were even a handful of photos of his dad with him, holding him 
awkwardly, like a normal picture of a normal family. His grandmother
had even  given him a picture, one single photo, of his parents
together when his mom  was pregnant with him. His grandma had said
that it had been taken after his  mom's baby shower, when his dad had
come over to put his crib together. That  picture was unposed, both
his parents sitting on the floor, his mom leaning  back on her elbows,
her eyes closed and her stomach bulging out; his dad  holding a sheet
of instructions but looking over his glasses at Will's mom. 
That picture always filled Will with wonder when he reminded himself
that he  was there with his parents, hidden away inside his mother but
with a very  obvious presence.

But Will bet he was the only kid in the second grade who had pictures
of his  parents together at a crime scene standing over a dead body,
even if it was  covered up with a sheet.

But Will's favorite, the absolute best thing of all, was the
videotape. He  remembered the first time he'd seen it. His grandma had
picked him up from  school, telling him on the drive to her house that
she had a surprise for  him, a wonderful surprise.

"What? What is it?" he'd asked.

But she'd just smiled at him until they got to her house, where she
guided  him over to the television. He looked up at her quizzically;
his grandma  wasn't big on TV unless it was baseball season. He
watched videos sometimes  with her, though, old black and white
mysteries that they tried to solve  before the detective in the film.

"I've been looking for this for years," she said as she popped a video
into  the VCR and the screen blinked to life. "I was sure I'd recorded
over it, but  then today I was looking for a blank tape and there it
was; I'd forgotten to  label the tape."

"What is it?" Will asked her.

But she just pressed play, and he watched as the screen went black,
then was  bathed in blue and red lights, like on a police car or
fireworks on the  Fourth of July.

Will recognized the music immediately. Cops. He'd never watched the
show, of  course -- his mom claimed it wasn't representative of life
as a law  enforcement official, and, besides, he'd always preferred
her stories to the  fake ones on TV anyway. 

The music was still playing when a familiar face flashed onto the
screen.

"Mom?"

From the corner of his eye, Will saw his grandma grin and nod, but his
gaze  remained riveted to the screen as faces flashed through the
darkness. Most  were unamazing, unfamiliar, but then he thought he saw
his mom again, or the  back of her head at least. And then, a minute
later...

"Wait-- is that--?"

"Yes," his grandma told him. "Your father."

Will's eyes widened in amazement, in wondrous joy, as he studied the
tape for  another glimpse of his dad. Just one more, Will thought.
Just one, maybe one  with him moving or, dare he hope, talking.

But the tape started to fast-forward and, after trying to catch up
with the  speeding imagines, Will turned to look at his grandma.

"Just wait," she said with a smile. "They'll be back."

"When was this?" Will asked as his grandma fast-forwarded through a 
commercial.

"Sometime in 1999, I think," she said. "It aired in early 2000."

Wow, Will thought as the tape started up again, 1999. Two whole years
before  he was born. He watched the tape carefully, but the street was
dark and the  faces hard for Will to pick out until his grandma closed
the drapes and  bathed the room in a soft gray darkness, the picture
on the TV screen  flashing colors through the room.

Will saw police officers and overturned cars, but no one familiar.
Then a  commotion, police running, cars chasing, and then her voice
again.

"FBI."

When the camera finally caught up to the cops, they were swarming
around two  people dressed all in black, looking like caught burglars,
their hands in the  air. The man was tall and lanky with dark hair,
and he turned toward the  camera to yell, "I've got ID in my back
pocket," his face cast in the bright  light of someone's flashlight as
Will heard his father's voice for the very  first time.

Will scooted to the edge of his seat as he watched them, his mom and
his dad,  together. They stood beside each other, hands on their
heads, as the cops  patted them down and finally found their IDs.

Then their names flashed across the screen, and Will got a little
thrill when  he saw 'Special Agent Fox Mulder' printed for all the
world to see. Mulder,  he thought. Just like me. It was the first time
he'd seen anyone with his own  last name. That's my dad, he wanted to
shout. My dad, moving and talking and  everything.

The plot had something to do with werewolves, Will realized
eventually, but  he was more focused on the characters.

His mom looked mostly the same. Her hair was shorter in the video, and
a  little redder, but her face was the same. What surprised Will was
how short  she looked, standing there next to his dad, even though she
was wearing the  kind of high-high heels that she kept in the back of
her closet now, claiming  that they weren't practical for autopsies.

She used her work voice, loud and forceful and almost bossy as she
said to  the cops, "We're working on a case." But then it was familiar
again, softer,  as she asked his dad, "Mulder, what the hell is going
on here?"

And his dad.

His dad looked like a superhero, tall and dark and dressed all in
black like  a secret agent. A spy. His voice was magical, Will
decided, soft and soothing  as he questioned the injured deputy; then,
as he said to Will's mom, "Will  you just escort Deputy Wetzel to the
hospital?" Will was too busy replaying  the sound of his dad saying
his name to hear the crazy theories that his mom  pooh-poohed whenever
she stepped out from behind the ambulance door, where  she was hiding
from the cameras.

But his dad didn't seem to mind the cameras, even laughing at them a
few  times during the hour-long show. Will smiled as he listened to
them discuss  the case, and his dad saying that bright pink was his
mom's color. Will  didn't think his mom owned *anything* pink.

Then it got exciting. His dad breaking the door down and his mom
pulling a  gun from somewhere inside the back of her jacket, her
fingernails shining  against the black metal of the gun grip. Then his
mom doing an autopsy,  something Will had wondered about for forever
but had, of course, never been  allowed to see.

Then the dawning in his dad's eye when he solved the mystery, dashing
off  heroically to save the deputy, his mom hot on his heels. They
stalked through  an old beat-up house, guns and flashlights in hand,
and Will thought they  were ten times better than Luke Skywalker
because they were real.

He had watched the tape twice more that afternoon before his mom
arrived, and  then once again with her, crawling into her lap when she
started crying, when  his dad turned to face the camera head-on for
the first time.

Will and his mom took the tape home with them that night, watching it
together twice before he went to bed. And even after that, Will could
have  sworn he heard his dad's soft, gentle voice drifting from
downstairs and into  his room through the vents... although it could
just have been the replay of  Will's own memories.

He loved to watch how his dad moved -- his long strides, the fluid way
he  stepped across the screen -- but it was his dad's voice that stuck
with him.  Not the soft, reassuring tone or the private, teasing voice
he used with  Will's mom, but the strong, forceful way he spoke to the
deputy, begging from  the wrong side of a locked door for Wetzel to
"cowboy up" and be a man.

Will had heard that same voice in his head ever since then, when he
needed a  push. "Cowboy up," his dad said, only it was Will he was
talking to, not some  stranger. "Cowboy up, Will," he mentally spliced
together when he needed to  borrow some of his dad's courage.

A sound came from the back of his dad's throat then, for real, a deep
sound  like the growl of a frightened animal, as he twisted himself in
the afghan.  Will crept over to him and, like his grandma had done,
straightened the  blanket, untangling his dad.

"Mmmm," his dad mumbled, his hand grazing against Will's as he pulled
the  afghan over his shoulders. Will froze there, his dad's large hand
entirely  covering his. Then his dad pulled away, and Will climbed
back onto the  armchair.

He opened his book and flipped forward several pages, to another
passage he'd  underlined like the rest of his favorite sections. Will
curled himself into a  tiny ball, the book propped up on the top of
his feet.

"'The balance of life within Yadah is precarious. If Sporos and the
others of  his generation do not Deepen, the balance will be altered.
If the farandolae  refuse to Deepen, the song will be stilled, and
Charles Wallace will die. The  Echthroi will have won.'

'But a child--' Mr. Jenkins asked. 'One small child-- why is he so 
important?'

'It is the pattern throughout Creation. One child, one man, can swing
the  balance of the universe.'"

* * * * *
NOTE: This section includes quotes from A Wind in the Door by
Madeleine  L'Engle.

Continued in Part 12.

Title: Song of Innocence (12/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

1978 West Harbor Road, Bethesda
August 30
4:31 pm


"What about your teacher?" his grandma asked. "Is your teacher nice?"

"She's okay," Will said. He leaned against the counter and watched his
grandma sort through the cupboards.

"Better than Miss Olson last year?" she asked, and Will nodded
emphatically.  His first grade teacher, Miss Olson, had truly hated
him. His mom had said,  no, a teacher doesn't *hate* any of her
students, but Will knew better. She  had always yelled at him to pay
attention and stop daydreaming, but then he  was the one she would
call on when no one else knew the answer. Of course  none of the other
kids liked him after that.

"So maybe this'll be a good year," his grandma said hopefully, and
Will  shrugged. Maybe, he thought, but probably not. It was a small
school, and  most of the same kids were in his class. No, Will didn't
hold out much hope  for this year being any different. Well, except
for one thing...

"Where's my dad?" he asked, glancing around the kitchen.

"On the deck out back," she said with a nod out the window and toward
the  backyard. Then his grandma set a plate of cookies on the table in
front of  Will. "First day of school treat," she said with a smile. It
was her special  thing, Will knew. When his mom and her sister and
brothers were his age, his  grandma used to bake their favorite
cookies for their first day back to  school every fall. And she had
made Will's favorite, M&M cookies, on his  first day of school for the
past two years.

"Why don't you take these onto the deck?" his grandma suggested. "In
case  your dad would like a cookie, too."

"Okay," Will said, slinging his backpack onto his shoulders and then 
balancing the cookie plate with two hands. He followed his grandma out
the b ack door and onto the deck, where she sat two glasses of milk
onto the patio  table. Will put the cookie platter down and his
grandma gave him a gentle pat  on the shoulder before going inside.

Will's dad was sprawled on one of the patio chairs, his legs kicked
out in  front of him and his head leaning very far back. An unopened
spiral-bound  notebook sat on the table next to him, and his right
hand rested beside an  uncapped pen. Will wondered if he was asleep.

Then his dad turned to face him, his eyes obscured by dark sunglasses.
"Hey,  there," he said.

"Hi." Will slipped his backpack off and dropped it onto the table. He
sat  down and pushed the plate toward his dad. "Grandma made cookies,"
he said. "M& M."

His dad took a cookie and bit off half. "Good," he said, and Will
nodded,  reaching for a cookie as his dad took a big gulp of milk.

After Will finished his cookie he unzipped his backpack and dug Pup
out of  the bottom. He always brought Pup with him on the first day of
school, just  kept him in his backpack all day. He wouldn't dare show
him to any of the  other kids -- probably they'd make fun of him --
but Will liked just knowing  that he was there. He set Pup on his lap,
then grabbed for the sheets of  papers that slipped out of his
backpack and onto the ground. He secured them  under the cookie
plate.

He looked up to see his dad staring at Pup. Slowly Will held the
stuffed dog  out to his dad, who, just as slowly, took him. He
examined Pup, staring into  his dark, glassy eyes, fingering the
threadbare insides of his ears, flicking  at his nub of a tail.
Finally he set Pup's pear-shaped bottom down on the  table. "He looks
loved."

Will nodded. "He's my very favorite," he told him. "I've had him since
I was  a baby."

"Yes," his dad said. "I remember."

"You do?"

"Yeah," his dad said, his voice drifting into the soft cadence of a
far-away  memory. "I think I do. I went to get breakfast. Your mom
wanted bagels and  cream cheese. And tea," he said with a sad smile.
"Well, she really wanted  coffee, but she couldn't; she was nursing
you."

Will looked up at his dad with wonder. He had no memory of his dad, so
he had  never considered that his dad might have memories of him.
Memories of a baby  sleeping and feeding and crying. His mom had told
Will about sitting with his  dad and watching him sleep one night,
about his dad rocking him to sleep once  after she'd fed him. But did
his dad remember any of that?

"There was this little toy store next to the bagel place, down the
block from  your mom's apartment," his dad continued. "I'd never
noticed it before, but  that morning it was just opening and I went
in. I saw this -- I saw Pup --  and he reminded me of a stuffed dog
I'd had as a child."

"What was his name?" Will asked.

"Fluffy," he said.

"What happened to him?"

"You know, I don't quite... No," he said. "I do remember. He got old
and  worn-out, and when I tried to wash him, his stuffing came out."

That made Will sad, and he cuddled Pup in his arms, the dog's face
soft  against his neck. He tried to imagine his dad at his age, with a
mom and a  dad and a sister, and a stuffed dog like Pup.

"What's this?" his dad asked, slipping Will's school papers out from
under  the cookie plate.

"School stuff," he said after he drained the last of his milk. "For my
mom to  fill out tonight." Will realized then that his mom would be
tired by the time  she got home from work, had dinner, and drove them
home. Maybe he could help.  Will dug a pencil out of his backpack and
grasped its thick barrel carefully.

But before he could fill in any information, his dad slipped the paper
out  from under his hand. "Why don't I do the writing," he suggested,
reaching for  his pen. Then he squinted at the small print on the
medical card. "You'll  have to help me out, though," he said. "I left
my glasses inside."

"Okay," Will said, shuffling his chair closer to his dad's. "Student's
name,"  he read. "William Mulder."

His dad's pen dropped toward the paper, just a little, then jerked
back up.  He didn't write anything, just looked over at Will.

<So she did it.>

Will looked down at the page, then back up at his dad. He didn't
understand  what his dad was thinking, but that itself wasn't too
strange; lots of times  he didn't understand the feelings he got from
other people, especially ones  he didn't know very well. He waited,
but still his dad didn't write down his  name.

Finally his lips turned up into a small smile, and he gave Will a
little nod.  "William Mulder," he repeated, his voice breaking a
little on the last name.  He filled the words into Will's blank
medical form.

"Mother's name," Will read. "Dana Scully." He watched his dad write
this,  too, recognizing his penmanship from some of the old books his
mom kept in  the study.

"Father's name," Will continued. "Fox Mulder."

Again his dad grew still, the pen gripped tight in his hand before he
finally, slowly, wrote the words in the correct space.

They went through the rest of the page like this, Will prompting his
dad with  his address and phone number, his mom's work number, his
grandma's address  and phone number. His dad surprised him by writing
down Will's birth date on  his own even before Will finished reading
the words from the page.

Then they got to the hard part, doctors' names and vaccination dates
and  childhood illnesses. "I don't know those things," Will said.

"It's okay," he added at the almost stricken look on his dad's face.
"My  mom'll know. She writes all that stuff down at the doctor's. She
keeps a  notebook and a folder in her desk at home."

His dad nodded, his expression still pained. "That sounds like her,"
he said.  "Her case reports... She used to--" Then his dad stopped,
his eyes jamming  shut. He shook his head sharply, his jaw clenching.

"She used to what?"

His dad's eyes flew open, and he looked at Will like he had forgotten
that he  was even there. "She used to keep very thorough field notes,"
he said softly.  He kept staring at the medical card, pulling down his
sunglasses to squint at  the blank spots at the bottom.

Then he slid the medical card off the stack of pages to uncover the
next  sheet, some kind of field trip permission slip. He mumbled as he
filled out  the first blank. "Name," he said. "William Mulder."

* * * * *

1978 West Harbor Road, Bethesda 
September 7
5:37 pm


When she arrived at her mom's house after work, Scully found Mulder
lounging  on the couch in the living room, a knitted afghan draped
over his shoulders  and a photo album open in his lap.

"Hey," she called. "Where's my mom?"

"Garden," he said. He looked up at her with a smile, but it was sad,
his eyes  a little murky and his lower lip appearing abused, as though
he'd been biting  it.

"What is it?" she asked, stripping off her suit jacket and dropping it
carelessly on the chair in the foyer. "Are you okay?"

He nodded, his attention turning back to the album. Scully joined him
on the  couch, sitting on the corner of the end cushion, leaning near
him to see what  he was looking at.

It was Will's first birthday party. He was smiling at the camera,
holding a  victorious, cake-covered fist in the air. His hair, sparse
for a twelve month  old, was pale and reddish blond, and it shone in
the sunshine. They'd held  the party in her mother's backyard, Scully
remembered, she and her mother and  John and Monica. Bill and Tara had
sent gifts and called to help sing Happy  Birthday.

"I've missed so much, Scully," he said softly, tracing his finger
along the  shiny plastic sheets. He turned the page, and Scully saw
herself holding  Will's hands as she coaxed him to take his first solo
step. 

He'd walked that way for weeks, it had seemed, holding onto her
fingers as a  lifeline, afraid to let go and walk on his own. She
remembered the day he  finally did, a Saturday morning they'd gone to
the park. She'd walked slowly  backwards, allowing Will to set their
pace as he held tightly to her hands.  Then she'd stumbled, her heel
skimming over the pavement before she fell. It  wasn't until she
scrambled to her feet that she realized that Will had kept 
right on going, his white Weeboks flashing against the blacktop.

"You're here now," she said. "That's what matters, Mulder. That's all
we can  do."

He muttered something unintelligible, then glanced at her oddly. His
eyes  went to the door, then back to her. "Where's the kid?"

"He's with John," she said softly, reaching onto his lap to close the
picture  album. She didn't elaborate, didn't tell Mulder that Will and
John were in  the park with John's German Shepherd, a Frisbee and a
couple of cans of  tennis balls. Scully remembered all too well
Mulder's return during her  pregnancy, and she braced herself for the
reaction she knew was coming.

"Doggett?" He said the name as though trying to expel its bitter taste
from  his tongue.

She nodded. "Please, Mulder," she said. "Whatever you have to say
about John  Doggett, do it now, when Will isn't here." He doesn't need
that added burden,  she thought. She'd tried to keep John out of the
conversation when Will was  with them, knowing that he would pick up
on Mulder's hostility.

But Mulder only grunted, repeating "Doggett" in a pained tone. Scully
glanced  down at his hands, which clenched at an orange patch on the
variegated  afghan.

"We've talked about this, Mulder," she continued. "John is good for
him. He's  needed him, needed someone. Not just a man, but a friend.
Someone outside the  family to be close to. Please, just think about
this--"

"I don't know what to think, Scully," he said bitingly. "I leave to
protect  you and Will -- I give up everything that's important to me
-- and I come  back to find that everything's hunky-dory and John
Doggett has just  *happened* into fathering my son, playing baseball
with him and doing all the  things I should have been doing." He
pushed the photo album off his lap, and  it tumbled onto the carpet.

"And you want me to be happy about that?" he choked out, eyes blazing.
"I'm  sorry, Scully, but I just can't find it in me."

"This isn't about you, Mulder," she spat, perhaps too forcefully, she
thought  as she caught Mulder's wounded expression. "This is about
Will.

"His world is very small," she explained. Her voice lowered, but it
was still  tight with anger. "Me. My mother. John. Monica. He needs
John, not as a  father but as a friend. Will's never had an easy time
with other children."  Or with most adults, she thought, but did not
want to add to what she was  coming to realize was yet another burden
of Mulder-guilt.

He looked up, the anger having fallen away, leaving his face pained.
"He  hasn't?"

"His... abilities make it difficult," she explained. "I told you that
he  doesn't hear thoughts linearly, and he certainly doesn't do it all
the time.  But he does seem to have an easier time with some people
than others. Me, for  instance. He's spot-on with me. Pretty good with
my mom, too.

"And it's easier for him to read other children's thoughts," she
added.

Mulder was silent, but he hung his head and closed his eyes, and
Scully knew  she needed to continue, though she guessed that he knew
what was coming. She  was fairly certain that he remembered those days
in the psychiatric ward, his  brain on overdrive and tuning into other
people's thoughts. At least, for  Will's sake, she hoped he did.

"He hears what they think about him, Mulder, and it's not always kind.
It's  just kids being kids, but he doesn't understand that. He's an
unusual little  boy." She paused. "And I can't help feeling
responsible for that. I'm not  exactly the typical mother."

She thought about their dinner table conversations, her patient, 
maybe-too-thorough explanations to his endless questions. What happens
to the  body when you're done cutting it up? Why is arsenic poison,
and will I die if  I eat an apple seed? What's a craniotomy, Mommy?

"I've exposed him to things that most kids -- that most adults --
can't  handle. I should have tried to protect him from these things,"
she admitted,  shaking her head.

Scully knew that, along with his insatiable curiosity and intellect,
her own  loneliness was as much to blame for the way her son was; he
wasn't the only  one with difficulty making friends. Plus, it was hard
for her to refuse him,  his eyes flashing with excitement as she
dutifully answered question after  question. His devotion was
unparalleled, or nearly so, and he drew answers  out of her, taking in
everything she said, remembering it all. Scully had to 
admit that it was easy to get caught up in his enthusiasm sometimes,
easy to  forget that he was a seven year old boy and not a
twenty-something Academy  cadet.

Her breath caught in her throat. "I know I shouldn't have--"

"No, Scully," Mulder said, taking her hand in both of his. "You can't
blame  yourself. Please don't blame yourself. Seven years, and you've
kept him safe  and happy, and he's an amazing little boy. You've done
a wonderful job."

Happy. Scully shook her head but said nothing. Was Will happy? She
hoped so,  but sometimes she just wasn't sure. He was certainly
vibrant and sensitive  and curious.

But she knew there was a piece of him that was always guarded, always
on the  lookout. And as much as she wanted to attribute that to his
abilities, she  knew that it could well have come from his parentage,
from his father's  absence and her mothering, which she knew could
border on the overprotective.

Years ago she had hoped that school would be the answer to at least
some of  Will's turmoil. She prayed that maybe learning new things and
making friends  would save him, because she knew that, as much as she
wanted to protect him,  she could not be his everything, even though
he was very nearly hers. He  needed so much more than she could
provide.

But school had proved to be yet another blunder, a clueless yet
well-meaning  kindergarten teacher, nineteen children who were still
learning phonics while  Will was slowly working his way through a
battered set of his father's  psychology texts, annotated in Mulder's
half-legible scrawl that Will  delighted in decoding.

And his hopes had been so high. Probably her fault, she thought now,
for  letting her wishes for his happiness in school inflate him as
well. She  wanted school to be the answer, and not only because she
was running out of  possibilities. As a child she had loved school,
reading and learning and  mastering new things. It had been a scary
day when she realized that the  stimulation that had meant so much to
her would not be enough for her son.

She had known this immediately when she'd picked him up on his first
day of  kindergarten, his face so serious and sad, his amazement that
the other kids  were as excited about show and tell as he was about
the Human Genome special  on PBS that night.

That was another of their low spots, the disappointment that school
could not  save him either, that he could not find in his nineteen
classmates just one  who might accept him for who he was instead of
laughing at his big words and  endless questions.

It was then that she'd first looked into a therapist for him,
wondering  whether she could somehow arrange for him to see someone
without the  therapist learning about Will's abilities. Ultimately
she'd decided that it  just wasn't safe. So she'd sped-read several of
Mulder's psychology texts,  plus a half-dozen books on gifted
children, but she didn't think any of them  had helped her better
parent her son. The truth was, there was no precedent  for raising a
child like Will.

Once she had even tried to track down Gibson Praise, the only other
person  besides Mulder that she imagined might sympathize with her
son. He was her  last thread of hope in finding a friend for Will, but
all she'd found were  dead ends. She told herself that, no longer a
minor, of course it would be  difficult to locate Gibson. She didn't
let herself think that maybe someone  else had found him first.

"Maybe Doggett is what he wants, Scully," Mulder said softly, looking
over at  her with guilty eyes.

Scully infused her words with her conviction, squeezing his hand as
she  spoke; he needed to understand this. "No. You are his father,
Mulder."

"Father," he chuffed, pulling his hand from hers and standing. "Sperm
donor's  more like it. I haven't--"

"Stop it," she said, rising and reaching up to pull his shoulders
around so  that he faced her. "You are his father. He looks like you.
He thinks like  you. When I look at him, you are what I see."

"And Doggett? Tell me you don't think he'd be a good father. Tell me
you've  never looked at him and wondered--"

"Never," she insisted. "Never.

"I'm sure he was a good father," she said. "But to his own son. And
now, a  father without a son--"

"And Will is a son without a father," Mulder supplied softly.

"Was," she corrected. "He was. I can't deny that John is very
important to  Will, but not as a father, Mulder. Never as a father."
Despite what Will  might hope, she thought.

Mulder shook his head and turned away. "He doesn't call me anything."

She had noticed this, but she had hoped -- in vain, she knew -- that
Mulder  had not. "This is a lot for a little boy to assimilate so
quickly, even a  little boy like Will. Give him time."

"And give you time, too, right?" he said, his voice tinged with hurt.
"That's  why I'm staying at your mom's, isn't it?"

"To help with your recovery," she insisted. "And to give *you* time.
You've  been through so much, Mulder. You should take it slowly."

"I've wasted enough time," he said. "Time away from you and Will, time
I  can't even account for."

"Please, Mulder," she said. "There's no need to rush things; we're not
going  anywhere."

He grunted and stalked out of the room and up the stairs, limping
slightly.  It had been a difficult therapy session today, she figured;
it was one of his  long days, and he had had an appointment with his
psychiatrist that morning  and a session with the physical therapist
in the afternoon.

Scully wondered what had prompted today's outburst. Not that she
should  wonder, really. Mulder had been showing increasing
frustration, especially  when the topic of his living arrangements
came up. He didn't understand why  he was still staying with her mom.
She reminded him that he still didn't have  his driver's license back
yet, that they needed her mother to take him to  therapy; and he
reminded her of the existence of taxi cabs.

She sighed, long and deep, and Scully was surprised at how good it
made her  feel. Mulder wasn't the only one who had been tense lately.
Her shoulders and  neck were in knots most nights when she got into
bed, and Will's temper had  been short recently as well. Only her
mother seemed to be her usual self, and  Scully wondered how she did
it when she was the one cooped up with Mulder all  day.

Scully bent down to retrieve the discarded photo album. She pulled it
onto  her lap, and it fell open to a picture of her and Will. Her
mother had been  staying over at her apartment that night, Scully
remembered, while her place  was being exterminated. She'd come armed
with presents and a loaded camera,  excited at an opportunity to spend
time with her seven month old grandson.

The light in the photo was soft, Will's canary yellow sleeper dulled
and  Scully's hair darkened. Will's feet were bare and they rested
against  Scully's makeshift nightgown, a gray oversized t-shirt of
Mulder's she'd  found in her hamper after he had left. Will's tiny
fingers clutched at the  soft fabric around the neck hole, pulling
down the shirt to expose the shadow  of her collarbone.

And in the background, casting soft light into the room, was Mulder's
fish  tank, bubbling away peacefully. In the corner of the photo
Scully could see a  single fish lurking in a shadowy clump of seaweed,
the only molly that had  survived Mulder's abduction and
disappearance, the fish that had died just  days after that picture
was taken. The fish that Scully had, at one time,  feared might
survive Mulder.

* * * * *

Continued in Part 13.

Title: Song of Innocence (13/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Is always welcome.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

1978 West Harbor Road, Bethesda
September 13
5:23 pm


"Fox?" his grandma called as she hung Will's jacket in the closet.
"Fox,  we're back."

"In here, Maggie," he called from the family room, and Will followed
his  grandma to the back of the house.

His dad sat on the couch, his legs covered with a blanket, a tray with
a  crumpled-up napkin and an empty coffee cup on the floor, and about
a  half-dozen photo albums on his lap.

"Ah, I see you've found the rest of them," his grandma said, bending
over his  dad's shoulder to look at the open book.

"What are those?" Will asked.

"Oh, just some old pictures," his grandma said. "Of you." She smiled
over at  Will, holding her hand out to him. He joined them at the
couch, looking down  to see pictures of himself as a baby, sitting in
the bathtub, wearing a puffy  pumpkin costume, opening Christmas
presents.

"Why don't you two look through that," she suggested. "And I'll put
together  a snack. Cinnamon raison toast okay, Will?" He nodded; he
loved cinnamon  raisin toast. "Fox?" his grandma asked.

"Uh, sure, Maggie," his dad said, his attention still on the album.
"Thanks."

Will sat on the couch beside his dad, the book between them. He
watched as  his dad paged slowly through it, scrutinizing each photo.
Near the end of the  album, he ran his fingertip over a picture of
Will and his mom on a beach. 

But Will liked the photo next to it better-- he and his mom in their
bathing  suits, wading into the ocean up past her waist, letting the
waves pulse  against them. Will clung to her, his legs linked around
her waist and his  arms around her shoulders. Both were mid-laugh,
their mouths open to receive  a burgeoning spray of salt water. Will
remembered the feeling of the waves p ounding against them, almost in
tempo with the pounding of his mom's heart,  the pounding he had felt
through his own chest.

Suddenly his dad looked up at him. "These pictures-- where were they
taken?"

Will squinted at the photo, pulling the album a little closer.
"Vacation," he  said. "Every summer we go on vacation with Grandma and
Uncle Bill and Aunt  Tara and my cousins."

"Where, though?" his dad asked. "Where did you go?"

"Martha's Vineyard," Will told him, a little scared by the fearful
look on  his dad's face.

"Martha's Vineyard," he echoed softly.

"Yeah," Will told him. "Aunt Tara's parents have a cottage there. It's
by the  water."

His dad nodded, pushing his glasses up on his nose to study the
picture.  "That's where I lived," his dad said. "When I was a kid."

"I know," Will said. "My mom told me."

"Mm hm," his dad said, but didn't look up. Instead, he traced the
outline of  Will's and his mom's faces in the photograph, where they
sat on a giant rock  on the beach, squinting a little at the sun.
Their freckles were even more  visible than usual, his mom's too dark
to be covered by makeup. Will's auburn  hair shone almost red in the
brilliant sun, nearly as bright as his mom's  hair, which had been
short then, encircling her head like a halo.

Will wondered about next summer, whether they'd go to Massachusetts
with his  cousins again. Whether his dad would join them. Whether his
dad would still  be here then.

"Now you tell me something," Will said, looking up at his dad. "Tell
me a  story."

"A story? I don't know any stories, Will," his dad said, looking down
at him  uncertainly. But he slid the pile of albums off the middle
cushion of the  couch, giving Will room to move closer. "Though I did
start reading your  grandma's copy of Harry Potter..."

"Not that kind of story," Will said. "A story about you. About you and
my  mom."

His dad exhaled loudly. "Ah, that kind of story," he said, and Will
nodded.

"My mom's told me some things," Will began.

"I can't begin to imagine what she's told you," his dad muttered,
smiling.  Then he gave a dramatic pause, still looking at the photo
albums, which now  sat open on the coffee table.

"Well, you play baseball, right?" he asked, and Will nodded. "Do you
know who  Josh Exley is?"

"No," Will said.

"Well." His dad smiled. "One Saturday your mom and I were at work,
looking--"

"On a weekend?"

"Yeah," his dad said. "I guess she doesn't do that anymore, huh?"

Will shook his head. Before Mr. Skinner called her about his dad, Will
couldn't remember the last time his mom had worked on the weekend.
Sometimes  at night, yes, for a review session before an exam or when
John and Monica  asked her to help out with a case, but not on the
weekends, not as long as he  could remember.

"Well, she used to," his dad said. "We both did.

"Anyway, I found this photograph with the boun-- with this man I
recognized  it in. I went to talk with another man in the picture, a
police officer I  knew named Arthur Dales, and he told me about Josh
Exley. Exley was a player  in the Negro Leagues -- really good; the
rumor was that the Yankees wanted  him for a try-out. Dales was
assigned to make sure Exley was safe because he  was getting death
threats."

His dad paused, and Will waited, hoping he would continue.

<What are you doing? He's just a kid. He's too young to hear about
this kind  of thing. Use your head, Mulder.>

No, Will thought desperately. I want to hear the rest of the story.
I'm *not*  too young. I'm not.

"What happened?" Will prompted.

"Your mom's never told you this?" his dad asked, uncertain.

Will shook his head. "No. What happened?"

His dad sighed and then, finally, continued. "So Dales went on the
road with  Exley and his team. The Roswell Grays. He attended their
games and stayed in  motels with them. And then one day, Dales heard
this strange noise coming  from Exley's motel room."

His dad hesitated, and Will scooted closer to him on the couch.
"Yeah?"

"So Dales thought Exley was in danger, and he burst into his room,
only to  come face to face with," and here his dad paused before
finishing in a  flourish with "a gray alien."

Will smiled. "An alien came for Exley?"

His dad shook his head. "No," he said. "The alien *was* Exley. See,
Exley was  sent to Earth as an advanced scout, assigned to do a job.
But he liked  playing baseball so much that he didn't want to go back
to his own planet. So  he joined the Negro League to stay clear of the
press. But then the Major  League started scouting him."

"So what happened to him?" Will asked.

"Well," his dad said, "another alien came for him, to take him back to
their  planet."

"But he didn't want to go?"

"No, because they didn't play baseball on his planet. So the other
alien came  after him, to kill him because he refused to return. The
other alien stabbed  Exley and left him on the baseball field for
dead. Dales found him there, but  Exley told him to get away, that his
alien blood was poison to humans."

"And is it?" Will asked. "Did Dales die?"

His dad shook his head. "Dales touched him, but the blood didn't hurt
him at  all. It was just normal human blood."

"So Exley turned into a human?" he asked, then paused. "Or was he a
human all  along?"

His dad shook his head. "That's the question," he said.

Will smiled. "That was a good story," he told his dad, "but it wasn't
about  you and my mom."

His dad shook his head, grinning a little, too. "I suppose not," he
said.  Then he grinned broadly. "Well, then, did your mom tell you
about the time  she shot me?"

Will's mouth dropped open. "She shot you?"

His mom hadn't told him about that, and, even though he knew from
watching  their episode of Cops that she had carried a gun and might
have even had to  shoot someone once or twice, he had never thought
too much about it. And  certainly he'd never thought of his mom
shooting his dad!

His dad nodded and then was unbuttoning his shirt and pushing it off
his left  shoulder. "Right here," he said, pressing on a pink circle
on his shoulder,  smaller than a dime.

Will scooted closer to his dad and inspected the scar. He wanted to
touch it,  but he held back, his hand reaching a few inches off his
lap before he pulled  it away.

"Go ahead," his dad said, leaning closer.

Will reached up to touch the scar, a smooth, perfect circle on his
dad's warm  skin. "My mom did this to you?" he asked, half afraid,
half in awe.

"Oh, yeah," his dad said, then turned around to reveal another,
slightly  larger scar on the back of his shoulder.

"Twice?"

His dad turned to look at him over his shoulder, smiling. "Exit
wound," he  said almost proudly as Will touched his back.

"What are you doing, Mulder?"

Will jumped back at the sound of his mom's voice. He looked up to see
her  standing in the doorway, her jacket on and her bag slung over her
shoulder. A  single eyebrow was raised, and Will could tell that she
was trying not to  smile.

But his dad didn't move, just grinned up at Will's mom. "Oh, just
acquainting  your son with your darker side."

"Don't believe him, sweetie," she said, stepping over to Will and
stooping to  kiss his forehead. "How was school?"

"Okay," he said with a shrug.

His dad raised his shirt back over his shoulders, then, after a pause,
dropped it down again. "Want to see how it's healing, Dr. Scully?"

She shook her head, a little smile dancing on her lips. "I'm sure it's
doing  just fine," she said. "You're a fast healer, Mulder. I bet
you're good as new  after thirteen years."

But she came over to them anyway, setting her hand on his dad's
shoulder. She  traced the small pink circle with one fingernail, then
trailed her hand to  his back, caressing his exit wound.

* * * * 

1978 West Harbor Road, Bethesda
September 22
6:59 pm


"Finished with my asparagus," Will said, taking great pains in
swallowing  before pushing away his plate with unrestrained triumph.
"*Now* can we go  back to the game, Mom? Please?"

"Yeah, Mom," Mulder mock-whined, setting his fork down on his own
empty plate  and grinning at her. "Can we?"

"Go ahead," she said with a smile. "Grandma and I can do the dishes
tonight."

"Thanks, Mom," Will said, his chair almost tumbling backward in his
haste to  dash off to the family room, where a half-played board game
was set up and  awaiting his return.

"Thanks," Mulder echoed, pausing to kiss her forehead before following
his  son out of the dining room. Scully watched him go, feeling her
smile grow as  she pushed a tiny red potato around her plate,
gathering parsley before  popping it into her mouth.

"Well, they play well together," her mother said, smiling indulgently
at her  daughter, who grinned back.

"I think that's the first time that's been said about Mulder," she
commented,  and her mother chuckled.

Together they rose from the table, piling dinner plates and salad
plates and  wine goblets and Will's milk glass to take into the
kitchen. Wordlessly they  rinsed the plates, then loaded the
dishwasher, each enjoying the last  half-inch of wine from their
glasses as they worked. Scully gulped down the  remainder of Mulder's
iced tea, then wedged the empty goblet into the top  rack of the
dishwasher.

Scully leaned back against the counter, rolling the sleeves of her
shirt up  past her elbows before releasing a drop of detergent into
the grease-coated  pan and filling it with water.

"I think it's going well," Scully said as she scrubbed. "Mulder and
Will, I  mean. Don't you think?" She glanced back uncertainly at her
mother, who stood  ready with a blue and white checked towel.

She nodded as Scully handed her the cleaned pan. "Yes, I think it has
gone  well," she said, "All things considered."

Scully turned to face her mom. "What do you mean?"

Her mom shrugged as she rubbed at the pan. "It's a tough situation,
Dana,"  she said. "I know it'll get easier, but it'll be slow going."

Scully nodded, considering her mother's words as she rinsed soap
bubbles from  a wooden mixing spoon. "I think it is going well," she
said finally. She  hadn't been sure how Mulder and Will would get
along, whether their  uncertainty and fear would keep them from
getting close. But, so far, it was  going well. Wasn't it going well?

"Of course," her mom said. "I just meant that you can't expect Will to
feel  comfortable with Fox immediately. It'll take some time getting
used to having  a father, never mind the time it will take Fox to get
used to being one."

Scully turned off the tap and snatched a matching checked dishtowel
from the  counter, wiping her hands slowly. "Why do you say that,
Mom?" she asked. "Is  there... Have you seen something? Has Will said
anything to you?"

Her mother slid the spoon into its proper drawer, then took a seat at
the  kitchen table. Scully sat across from her, dropping the towel
between them.

"Dana, I know he's glad to have Fox around," her mother said. "Will
does seem  to enjoy spending time with him."

"But..."

"But I think it's understandable that he feels some uncertainty, too,"
she  said.

Uncertainty? Scully didn't understand. Will had gone on,
understandably, for  years about how badly he wanted a father, even
trying to urge her and John  together. Was that it? Now that he had
met Mulder, did he realize that it was  John he wanted? Scully didn't
know if she could bear that.

"Will hasn't said anything to me," she managed to choke out.

Her mother shook her head, reaching out to pat her hand gently. "Of
course he  wouldn't, Dana," she said. "He loves you more than
anything; he's afraid of  disappointing you.

"He knows how you feel about Fox, dear," her mother told her. "It's
clear to  Will that you love him, and I do think that Will loves him,
too, but it's a  big change. He has to share you for the first time,
and he has to replace his  mental image of 'Dad' with the real thing.

"Will has been dreaming about his father for years, Dana," her mother
said.  "He's heard so many stories -- from you and me as well as from
John and  Monica -- how smart and brave he is. No matter how good a
man Fox is, he  can't measure up to seven years of a little boy's
dreams."

Scully opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by the
ringing  phone. Her mom jumped up to grab the receiver and Scully
waited patiently  until she heard her mother's exclamation of, "Tara,
How are you? It's so nice  to hear from you!"

Her mother shot her an apologetic look, but Scully waved her off,
knowing  that her mother didn't spend enough time with her brother and
his family as  she would like, even if some of that time had to come
over the telephone.

Scully poured two mugs of coffee from the pot brewing on the counter,
pausing  at the refrigerator to add milk to both. Then she wandered
into the family  room, where she was greeted by a dramatic groan from
her son.

"No," Will cried out. "Not like that! You have to roll the dice before
you  take the cards, so you know how many to take."

"Right," Mulder said, snagging the dice from the corner of the board.
He  tossed them into the center of the laminated square, then looked
up at  Scully.

"I don't suppose you'd want to relieve me," he said, accepting the
coffee  with a smile of thanks.

Scully shook her head. "No thank you," she said with a chuckle before
sipping  from her mug. "I've more than paid my dues when it comes to
Quest."

Quest was the game Will had invented several months back. He had drawn
out  his own game board, which Scully had gotten laminated for him.
Then he had  cut several dozen cards out of poster board, printing
painstakingly small  directions on each card with his thick-barreled
pencil. The dice and plastic  game pieces he had co-opted from another
game, and he'd converted the plastic  spinner from an old Game of Life
board that he'd found in her mother's  basement.

The rules to Quest were long and involved, and Scully watched as Will
patiently repeated them to Mulder, remembering when he'd dictated them
to  her. Scully herself had printed out the directions on several
stapled pages  of notebook paper after she began to suspect that Will
was making up the  rules as the game progressed.

"Pay attention," Will urged his father, and Scully realized that
Mulder was  still watching her, his eyes peering at her over the rim
of his mug as he  took a drink of coffee.

"Hey!" Will cried, more insistent this time, as he reached out to poke
at  Mulder's knee.

Mulder turned back around and listened patiently while Will explained
the  next stage of the game to him, but Scully's eyes were still
focused on the  flat of Mulder's kneecap. It was the place where Will
had touched him, the  first spontaneous physical contact she had
witnessed Will initiate. Scully  was still trying to suppress a grin
that was both relieved and giddy when  Mulder caught her attention.

"Hey," he whispered up to her, leaning his head lightly against her
leg while  Will took his turn with the dice. "How long does this game
last, anyway?"

She let her smile spill over her face. "Let's just say that I know
what  you'll be doing every night before dinner this week."

"You're kidding, right?"

She shook her head. "You'll wish I was," she said, remembering one
marathon  game of Quest that had lasted nearly two weeks, the game
board carefully  preserved on the oversized table in the study.

"Hey," Will called out impatiently. "Your turn."

Mulder groaned and knocked his forehead lightly against her kneecap,
and  Scully saw Will watching them carefully, forehead crinkled and
eyes narrowed  a bit. Scully petted Mulder's head gently, his hair
soft between her fingers,  before he turned around to take the dice.

Setting his hand of cards on the carpet, Will scampered across the
floor,  then climbed on the couch beside her. He rested his head
against her  shoulder, and Scully slipped her arm around him. Together
they watched Mulder  take his turn, then look up at Will and Scully on
the couch.

"All yours," he said, dropping the dice into Will's outstretched hand,
continuing to watch Scully even after Will slid back onto the floor to
start  his turn.

Scully watched as the game progressed. The room was quiet, and she
could hear  her mother's soft voice, speaking into the telephone from
the kitchen. Every  few minutes Will interrupted to explain to Mulder
yet another complicated  rule of the game. Each time Mulder nodded
patiently, sometimes glancing up at  her with a gentle, amused smile
after Will had looked away.

Eventually her mother came out of the kitchen, and she shared with
them the  news at Tara and Bill's house, which she'd scribbled onto a
pad of scratch  paper amidst a collection of doodles. Matt was
learning to surf, Patrick was  milking a broken finger to get out of
doing his chores, and Abby wanted to  get her ears pierced, but Tara
and Bill were still debating the issue.

Halfway through her mother's report, Will's eyelids started to flutter
shut,  and Scully realized that it was late for him, at least for a
school night.  His protests were drowned out by an especially large
yawn, and Scully, her  mother, and Mulder chuckled gently as he tried
to convince them that he  wasn't tired, really; he wanted to stay and
finish the game. But Mulder  assured him that they could leave the
board as it was so that they could  finish up the next time Will was
there.

The drive home was so silent that Scully started to wonder whether
Will had  fallen asleep beside her. But then he turned away from the
dark, glassy  window and faced her, eyes drooping to half-mast.

"Mom?"

"Yeah, sweetie?"

"Do you think I could sleep over at Grandma's sometime?" he asked.

"We can ask Grandma," she told him, trying to still her hopefulness.
Will had  slept over her mother's many times before, but not since
Mulder's return.  This was different; this was progress, Scully
thought. "But I think it would  be okay with her."

A long pause, then, "Do you think it would be okay with my dad, too?"

Scully gave him a quick smile. "I think so," she said. "I think your
dad  would like that."

* * * * *

Continued in Part 14.

Title: Song of Innocence (14/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

Georgetown University
September 28
5:17 pm


The car that pulled up in front of the Liberal Arts building was his 
grandmother's Chrysler, but someone else sat behind the wheel. Will
could  tell that much from the steps of the building, where he sat
reading, but,  through the glare shining on the window glass, he
couldn't make out who the  driver was. Only that the person was much,
much taller than his grandma.

The passenger-side window lowered as Will zipped up his backpack,
tucked his  book under his arm, and headed down the steps.

"Hey, kiddo, need a ride?" his dad asked, leaning over onto the
passenger's  seat.

Will wrinkled his forehead in confusion and pulled open the door. He
tossed  his backpack in, then followed it, pulling the door closed
behind him.

"Where's Grandma?" he asked, a little worried. He didn't think that
his dad  had gotten the doctor's okay to renew his driver's license
yet, and if he was  driving without it, something had to be wrong.

"At home," his dad said.

"I didn't think you were allowed to drive," Will said.

His dad smiled, then jerked a nod at the shiny plastic card skimming
over the  dashboard. The car turned a corner, and Will grabbed the
piece of plastic  when it slid his way.

"I'm legal now," his dad said, looking over with a grin as Will
studied the  new driver's license. It shone in the sunlight, and Will
angled it so he  could see his dad's picture. He looked pretty goofy,
his eyes all squinty and  his mouth open but not smiling. Will grinned
back over at his dad, then  returned to his scrutiny of the license.

"So, where to?" his dad asked.

"Huh?"

Will looked up from the license after learning that, in about two
weeks, his  dad would be forty-seven years old.

"Where do you want to go?"

Will was confused. "We're not going to Grandma's?"

"Eventually," his dad said. "But we should do something first. To
celebrate,"  he explained.

"Uh, okay," Will said. He hoped his dad had told his grandma that they
weren't coming straight back after school. She was probably getting
dinner  ready for them, and then his mom would get back from work, and
they'd start  to worry that something bad had happened to them...

His dad reached over and tapped him lightly on the knee. "Hey. Don't
worry.  Your grandma knows we'll be late. She said she'd save some
dinner for us," he  said, grinning. "Unless we decide to stop for
something to eat on our way  home.

"It's up to you. Where to?"

Will shrugged. "I don't know." He wasn't used to this kind of
spontaneity.  His mom liked to plan things out; they usually knew on
Monday what they were  doing the next weekend. His grandma was the
same way since she was busy with  the committees she was on at her
church. And his plans with John were usually  set ahead of time, too,
to schedule around John's work and his mom's need for  planning.

Then, suddenly, Will could hear his dad thinking. He wanted them to go
someplace interesting and special, someplace they could share, just
the two  of them. Ideas flew through his dad's mind too fast for Will
to follow, until  one solidified and stuck.

"Basketball?" Will asked.

He was glad they were at a stoplight, because his dad turned to look
at him,  eyes wide. Stupid, Will thought. So dumb. This wasn't Mom, he
told himself.  She still gets freaked out sometimes when you do this,
and she's been living  with it for years. Now you've scared him, and
now he'll never...

"Sorry," Will said in a small voice.

"No," his dad said. "It's okay. Don't worry about it."

But Will couldn't help it. He hated how this happened, how he scared
his  grandma and sometimes even his mom, even though he never meant
to. Sometimes  he just opened his mouth before he could stop himself.
Luckily, it didn't  often happen in front of strangers. Mostly it was
when he was really relaxed  or sometimes when he was tired or--

"Will... *Will.*"

He jerked his head to look at his dad when he realized he'd called his
name a  few times already. "Sorry," he said.

"I mean it, Will," his dad said. "You don't need to be sorry. I didn't
tell  your mom, but I remember what it was like."

"When you could do it?" Will asked softly. His mom had told him about
the  wink of time when his dad had had his same ability. She didn't
known much --  she had been in Africa then, trying to find a way to
help him -- but Will  could sense her regret when she talked about it.
Those were some of the times  that she had missed his dad most.

"Yeah," his dad said finally. "It was confusing, hard to get all the
voices  out of my head. Hard to make them all go away."

"Uh huh," Will whispered.

"At first I didn't know what it was. I thought... I thought I was
going  crazy. Hearing voices." His dad glanced over at him, clearly
worried that he  was in too deep for a seven year old, but he willed
his dad to understand  that this was exactly what he wanted to hear.

"Then I realized. I knew what it was."

"Were you scared?" Will asked softly.

"Oh, yeah," his dad said. "Yeah. I heard lots of things I didn't want
to  hear. It came on suddenly, and I couldn't figure out how to
control it; it  made me sick, physically ill."

The images hit Will at once: A crowded elevator. A laboratory.
Offices,  familiar and unfamiliar. A stairwell. A hospital room, his
dad strapped in  bed; struggling, fighting against restraints; then
drugged, fading in and out  of awareness, the constant thrum of
intruding thoughts the only thing to hold  onto.

"No," Will said softly, in a single puff of breath.

"What?" his dad asked, glancing over at him. "You okay?"

Will nodded, eyes wide. Scared. So scared.

His dad snatched his hand, which had come to grasp the dashboard
desperately  as the visions -- his dad's thoughts -- overwhelmed him.

"Oh, shit," his dad said, understanding. His dad's voice was sharp, 
no-nonsense. "Shit. Will. Listen to me."

Finally he turned to look at his dad, realizing that the car had been
pulled  off the road into an empty parking space.

"That's not going to happen to you," he said, his voice steady and
sure.

"How do you know?"

"I know," he assured him. "I do know, Will. I was hospitalized because
I  couldn't control it, because it made me sick, weak. Not because of
what I  could do."

Will nodded; he wanted to believe him. But there was another thought,
a  little boy with brown hair and glasses. He walked funny, like a
duck. And he  played chess.

"Gibson Praise," Will said.

His dad, who had shifted the car out of park in preparation to pull
back onto  the street, stopped. The car jerked back into park, and he
turned to Will.

"I'm sorry," Will said. "I--"

"Hey," his dad said, setting his hand on Will's shoulder. "What did I
tell  you? No sorries. Just listen to me for a minute." He sighed.

"Your mom never told you about Gibson?"

Will shook his head. He had gotten strange feelings from her
sometimes, like  she wished she could find someone to help him,
someone who could understand.  But Will had always thought it was his
dad, not another boy.

Plus, over the years his mom had become better about getting thoughts
out of  her head. Sometimes, inadvertently, he found himself tuned in
to her, feeling  something, only to be snapped out of her thoughts
like an overstretched  rubber band that had been let go. Shut out. He
couldn't decide whether he  should be hurt or relieved.

"Gibson played chess," his dad said. "You saw that much, right?"

Will nodded.

"Your mom and I discovered him when someone came after him, trying to
hurt  him. He was fine, but it wasn't safe when people learned what he
could do."

"Like I'm not safe," Will said softly.

"No," his dad insisted. "You are safe. Your mom has made sure of that,
and I  promise you that we'll both do everything in our power to keep
it that way.

"But that is why no one else can know, Will," his dad said. "Your mom
said  she's talked to you about that, about the importance of keeping
this a  secret. Not because you've done something wrong, but because
someone else  might."

Will nodded, pulling away a little as his dad's hand slipped from his
shoulder. The car pulled back onto the road, and they rode in silence
for  several minutes, Will turning their conversation on end trying to
understand.

The images he'd seen were not exactly of his dad, but *as* his dad. He
could  feel the sudden burst of thought in his own mind, an assault
more sudden and  frightening than Will had ever experienced. He could
see the looks on  familiar faces -- his mom's face -- their fright and
confusion. And he could  feel the restraints burning against his own
helpless wrists.

Will knew then that he was lucky. Lucky to have his mom, who loved him
and  tried to understand him. Lucky now to have his dad.

"Did you ever read my mom's mind?" Will asked as they pulled off the
freeway  and headed for a strip mall Will had been to a few times
before.

His dad pulled the car into a left-turning lane and smiled
conspiratorially  at Will. "Yes," he said.

<That's how I knew she loved me.>

His dad said nothing, but Will smiled over at him, a little shyly,
because,  from the look on his dad's face, he knew that Will had heard
what he was  thinking.

Finally they pulled into a parking space in front of Newman's, a
sporting  goods store. Will shot his dad a confused glance.

"Can't very well play basketball dressed like this, can we?" His dad
nodded  at Will's sandals and at their blue jeans.

"I don't know how to play basketball," Will said as he unbuckled his
seatbelt  and got out of the car.

"Good," his dad said as they headed toward the store. "I'll teach
you."

Though he was on the tall side of average, Will had never been very
good at  basketball. He had played a few times when he visited his
cousins, who had a  hoop in their driveway. But Will always felt so
awkward attempting to control  the ball, hating how the other players
tried to take it away, bumping and  pushing.

He liked baseball better; it was more controlled, more cerebral. There
were  plans and signals and lots of logical rules to learn and follow.
Not many  rules in t-ball yet, but there were in the real games he'd
gone to with John  and the ones he watched with his grandma.

"Okay," his dad said as they stepped into the store. "Shoes first."

They found the shoe section, his dad grabbing a pair of socks so Will
could  try on shoes. Next came the shoes, and Will couldn't help but
think about the  last time he'd gone shoe shopping with his mom, how
she made them go to two  or three stores to make sure they found the
right pair at the right price,  trying on a half-dozen shoes at each
store.

After the shoes, his dad led him over to the men's clothing section,
where he  pulled a pair of shorts off the rack with only a cursory
check of their  label. They went to the boys' section next, and, after
asking Will's size,  his dad picked out a pair of shorts and held them
up to his waist. Satisfied,  he looped them over his arm and steered
Will over to the cashier lines,  stopping to grab a basketball from a
display near the registers, giving the  ball more consideration than
he had the shoes or clothing.

Will stared, mouth agape. "We're not going to try them on?"

"Nah," his dad said. "I know my size, and these look like they'll fit
you.  You wanna try them on?"

Will considered this. His mom had told him he should always try
clothes on  before he bought them, so that you didn't have to make a
trip back to the  store when you discovered that they didn't fit or
were itchy or weren't the  right color.

"Nah," Will said, practicing his dad's casual tone as the cashier rung
up  their purchases.

* * * * *

Arlington, Virginia
September 28
5:42 pm


They changed into their new shorts in a grungy public bathroom in a
park  where, his dad told Will, he used to come to play basketball
after work and  on the weekends.

"It looks the same," his dad said as he toed off his sneakers and slid
his  jeans down. Before pulling on his new shorts, though, he stepped
over to use  the urinal wearing just his boxers. He wore boxers. Will
filed that fact  away.

It was strange, and he was filled with wonder as he considered the
situation,  as he slipped off his own jeans and went to stand at the
urinal next to his  dad, feeling like a baby in his white briefs. They
peed together in silence,  and Will had a hard time wrapping his mind
around the ordinariness of the  situation: a boy and his dad using
grimy urinals in the park bathroom.

Will was accustomed to using the women's room. 

It wasn't that he had never been in a men's room before. He used them
when he  was with John, and of course when he was at school. But he
usually went  places with his mom or his grandma, and because his mom
said that a seven  year old was too young to go unaccompanied into a
public restroom, he was  used to the women's room -- every toilet
walled off for privacy, the tiny  metal boxes mounted on the walls,
the vending machines that looked like they  dispensed candy, even
though Will now knew better.

He finished and zipped up, then went over to wash his hands, having to
dry  them on his t-shirt because there were no paper towels. He and
his dad pulled  on their new shorts, and his dad glanced around for
something to use to cut  the tags off.

Finally he used the unzipped fly of his jeans, snapping the plastic
piece of  the tag with the metal teeth of the zipper. Will stepped
close and offered  his dad his tag, which he broke off and tossed into
the trash.

"Okay," his dad said, scooping up their discarded clothes. They made a
pit-stop back at the car to dump off their clothes and lace up their 
sneakers. His dad grabbed the basketball out of the trunk and tossed
it over  to Will, who caught it after only a brief fumble.

"Good, that's a good start," his dad coached gently. 

"Good?" Will asked. "All I did was catch it."

"Don't knock the importance of knowing how to catch," his dad said. He
used  the key fob to lock the car, then tied it securely into the knot
of his  shoelaces. "Let's go."

His dad led him to a deserted court a few hundred feet from the car.
To Will  it looked huge, sprawling between two rusty hoops and
battered backboards.  His gaze darted uneasily between the hoops. He
wandered over to one, bringing  his eyes slowly to the hoop, which
hung so high over his head. He looked back  at his dad, scared.

"I know it looks high, but don't think about it," his dad said. "You
don't  need to reach the hoop; all you need to do is get the ball
through it."

Yeah, Will thought. Easier said than done.

Two hours later, Will watched his dad rest a hand on the metal pole, a
chip  of paint flaking off and landing near his new shoes. He bent at
the waist,  wheezing for breath for a minute, cradling the ball under
his left arm. The  neck and underarms of his t-shirt were dark with
sweat.

"Are you okay?" Will asked as he approached the hoop.

His dad nodded, then succumbed to a thick bout of coughs that Will
could  almost feel in his own chest. He brought the hem of his t-shirt
up to his  forehead and wiped the sweat off, keeping the shirt over
his mouth for a  minute before he stopped coughing.

"Guess we'd better pack it up," his dad said as he straightened to his
full  height, his hand still on the pole. "I'm beginning to remember
that I'm a  little older than the last time I did this."

Will nodded but watched his dad carefully as he pushed off the pole
and  stepped toward Will, dribbling the basketball as he went. Then he
tossed it  over to him, and Will caught it easily. "You can take
another few shots  before we go, though," his dad told him. "Let me
see."

Will frowned, staring at the hoop, still impossibly high and so very
far  away. He rolled the ball in his hands, then bounced it once,
twice, three  times, on the pavement. It hit a crack and gave a funny
spin, and Will darted  over to stop it from rolling off the court.

His dad stood at the edge of the court, his arms crossed over his
chest. "Go  ahead," he said. "Just a few and then we'll go."

"Okay," Will said uncertainly. He closed his eyes, working the ball in
his  hands, imagining his dad standing behind him again, molding his
hands over  the ball, showing him how to push the ball through the air
then snap his  wrist after releasing it.

He opened his eyes, squinted up at the hoop, then gave a mighty shove
at the  ball, hurling himself off his feet as he took the shot. He
watched the ball  as it sailed through the air, managing to hit the
backboard before rebounding  almost right back to him.

"That was a good one," his dad said. "Good job with the wrist.
Remember what  I said about trying not to shoot yourself at the hoop,
though. Your feet can  leave the ground, but don't try a high jump. I
don't think you're ready for a  lay-up just yet," he joked.

Will smiled over at him, bouncing the ball a few times at his feet. He
took  another couple of shots, one of which actually went through the
hoop, then  passed the ball back to his dad.

"Finished?" he asked.

"Yeah," Will said, jogging over to join his dad.

Together they strolled toward the car, his dad bouncing the ball
lazily as  they went. Will shot an occasional glance at him, amazed
that he could  dribble the ball without even looking, just relying on
instinct or years of  practice to know that the ball was going to
bounce back up precisely where  his hand was waiting.

"Maybe we can talk your mom into putting a hoop up in her driveway,"
his dad  said with a grin as he stooped to untie his keychain from the
laces of his  sneakers. "Think she'd go for it?"

Will shrugged, realizing that he hadn't thought of his mom all
afternoon, not  since they changed in the bathroom.

He tried to imagine a basketball hoop mounted above the garage door.
They  didn't have much of a yard, really. In the front was the
driveway and a small  line of soil that had been taken over by the ivy
that climbed up to tickle  the bottoms of the first-floor window
sills. The back was worse: uneven slabs  of granite that made a tiny
patio and a skinny strip of grass where Will  practiced baseball,
tossing himself pop flies until he got bored and turned 
to imagining how much fun it would be to play catch with a dog.

"I'm not sure it would fit," he said finally.

"We'll make it fit."

* * * * *

Continued in Part 15.

Title: Song of Innocence (15/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

1978 West Harbor Road, Bethesda
October 3
5:33 pm


"Hey," Scully said as she stepped into the family room. "I'm back."

Mulder and Will sat on opposite ends of the couch, resting their
elbows on  their knees and their chins on their hands in identical
poses. Both were  absorbed in the baseball game playing out on the
television screen and  neither heard her as she stepped behind the
couch.

"Where's my mom?" she asked, glancing between the identical
expressions on  their face.

"Mulder? Will?"

Her son turned his head, caught a glimpse of her, and flashed back to
the TV.  "Hi, Mom," he said.

"Where's your grandma?" she asked. "Will?"

Then it was Mulder's turn. "Oh, hey, Scully," he said, not even
bothering to  turn away from the screen. Scully sighed, watching the
pitcher pump his fist  as the umpire called a questionable strike
three. Then she spun on her heel  and went upstairs in search of her
mother.

"Mom?" she called, peeking into the room at her left, a spare bedroom
her mom  had turned into an office. Her computer was set up on the
desk in the corner  of the room, the rolling text screensaver
proclaiming one of her mother's  favorite quotes, "And the light
shineth in darkness; and the darkness  comprehended it not." 

Scully peaked into the guest room, which was a mess with Mulder's
belongings  scattered on the bed, over the dresser, and across the
soft beige carpet. The  painting Will had made for him was thumbtacked
opposite the window, and a  bright new basketball rested near the
bedpost. Finally she heard the quiet  hum of static and followed it
into her mother's bedroom.

"Mom?"

Her mother sat on the edge of her bed, her hands clutching her knees,
her  gaze trained on the ancient black and white television perched in
the corner  of the dresser. Scully stepped carefully, maneuvering to
avoid the spread  rabbit ear antennae and the plastic laundry basket,
forgotten on the floor  next to her mother's feet.

"Mom?"

Her mother waved at her, motioning for Scully to join her on the bed,
so she  did. She squinted at the tiny screen, focusing past the static
to see the  Padres game.

"Mom, what are you doing up here?" she asked.

"Padres," her mother said in a soft, clipped tone. "Playoffs. Bottom
of the  ninth."

Scully sighed, though, by now, she was used to her family's devotion
to the  nation's pastime. Her mom had always been a Padres fan, Will
liked the  Indians, and Mulder loved the Yankees. Scully dreaded this
year's World  Series.

"Mom, this is your house," Scully said after a moment. "And your TV 
downstairs -- your regular-sized TV. Don't let them kick you out
of--"

Her mom waved her off. "Dana, it's fine," she said. "My game's just
about  over anyway. Theirs still has a ways to go."

And then the Padres outfielder made a leaping catch against the right
field  wall, and the crowd erupted into cheers as the players jogged
off the field.  The announcers' amazed voices analyzed the final
unbelievable out, but  Scully's mother, after a restrained cheer,
reached out and flicked off the  television.

"How was work?" she asked, turning to Scully and pulling a hand towel
from  the laundry basket. She folded it and placed it on the neglected
pile that  sat between them on the bed.

"It was fine," Scully said, snatching up a towel. "Nothing eventful."

Her mom nodded. "Who's winning downstairs?"

"I didn't see," she said.

The older woman grinned. "And you couldn't tell by which of them was 
pouting?"

Scully smiled back at her. "They both seemed pretty tense," she said.
She  added the towel to the pile and took another. "Any plans for
dinner yet?"

Her mom shook her head. "I've been a little distracted," she admitted.
"It's  a nice day outside. We could do something on the grill, burgers
or chicken.  And I think I've still got a few ears of corn left from
the farmer's market."

Scully nodded. "Sounds good," she said as she rose from the bed. "I'll
make a  salad."

"Dana, wait," her mom said, stopping her with a hand on her wrist.
"There's  something I've been wanting to talk to you about."

Taking in her mom's serious demeanor, Scully sat back down beside her.
She  tried to push down the worry that had sprung up at her mother's
words.

"I wanted to tell you," her mom said, "that Fox is welcome to stay
here as  long as he'd like. As long as the two of you need."

"Thanks, Mom," Scully said.

"I know it can take a while to find an apartment, especially near your
neighborhood," she said. "And it's been nice having him around." She
smiled.  "Despite that messy sunflower seed habit."

Scully allowed herself a small grin, but inside, her stomach was still
churning with nervous energy. She decided that she might as well come
clean;  she would have to tell her mother soon enough anyway.

"Mom, I don't think Mulder's looking for an apartment," she said. At
least  not that as far as she knew.

"Well, he has plenty of time," her mom assured her with a soft pat on
her  daughter's knee. "He can stay--"

"I'm planning to ask him to move in with us," Scully said softly.

Her mother was silent for a minute, and Scully waited it out,
anticipating  her mother's less than thrilled reaction.

"Dana, do you think that's wise?" she said finally.

"What do you mean?"

Her mom shook her head, her eyes a little sad. "I know you care for
him,  dear, but seven years is a long time. Things change; people
change."

"Mom, please--"

"No, just listen for a minute," her mom said. "Even if he hasn't
changed, you  have. I know you have. You've been raising a child
alone. Seven years, Dana.  You have your son to think about. Will
needs--"

"He's his father, Mom."

"Yes," she said. "But he might as well be a stranger; Will barely
knows the  man. You may remember the way things were between you and
Fox, but what does  Fox remember?

"And the two of you have never had the experience of living together.
It's an  adjustment, Dana, even in the best of circumstances. Take it
slow and give  them a chance to get to know each other. Be sensible."

But Scully was sick of being sensible. Too many sensible decisions she
had  made had turned out wrong. It was her sensibility, her
practicality, that had  urged Mulder to leave after Will was born --
to keep them safe, she had told  herself and him, trying to be
sensible. Then it was her sensibility that had  convinced her to ask
the Gunmen to protect Will after that man had tried to 
smother him. Another sensible, but ultimately wrong, decision.

No, the decisions she was most proud of, most pleased with, were the 
unsensible ones, the emotional ones. Leaving medicine for the FBI.
Sticking  around the X-Files even when good sense would have told her
it was career --  and possibly personal -- suicide to do so. Taking
the next step in her  relationship with Mulder.

"No, Mom," she said. "I've wasted enough time being sensible."

"Dana--"

"You said I should think of Will," she said. "Will is all I've thought
of for  the past seven years: his safety, his happiness, his problems.
I'm not just  doing this for me or Mulder, Mom; I'm doing this for
Will. He needs his  father, more even than I've wanted to admit."

Scully closed her eyes, but not before a single tear slipped down her
cheek.  Seven years of being so much to her son, with her mother as
the only person  in whom she could truly confide, had been wearing on
her. Even so, this  wasn't a decision she'd made lightly, despite its
unsensibility. She felt  that Mulder was ready for this -- certainly
he had been campaigning for it  almost since he'd been released from
the hospital -- and she was realizing  that Will was ready, too,
between his excited talk about playing basketball  with his dad and
his asking to sleep over at his grandmother's.

And maybe Scully was even starting to feel ready herself.

She opened her eyes. "This isn't a rash decision, Mom, though I'm sure
it  appears that way. And I am going to talk with Will about it. It's
not his  decision -- and he needs to understand that -- but it is his
home, and I need  to make sure he's comfortable with it.

"But I think Will needs this, Mom; I think we all do."

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
October 7
6:31 pm


"Eat Tattooine dirt, Darth Maul," Will cried as he danced around the
kitchen,  brandishing his glowing green light saber at the
refrigerator. Slash, crash,  slash; he dueled the refrigerator door
handle, then turned to take on his  next opponent, the cabinet door.

The cabinet dared to attack back, popping open when the tip of his
light  saber hit the sweet spot on the door. Will dropped down,
ducking out of its  way, and rolled toward the oven. He crouched low
near the oven door, then  jumped up and thrust once, twice, three
times at the door, pushing it closed  and rising in victory, arms over
his head.

"Whoa there, Will Skywalker," his mom said, deflecting his light saber
before  it jabbed into the light fixture that hung from the ceiling in
a tempting  target. "Careful."

"Sorry," he said, lowering his weapon and bowing at her, low and deep.
"Namaste," he said respectfully.

He smiled when his mom copied his bow. "Namaste," she echoed, grinning
as she  turned back to the microwave to watch the timer tick down.
Their popcorn was  popping in earnest now, small explosions in the
yellow glow of the microwave,  providing a dramatic backbeat to Will's
battles.

"Cha," he shouted, advancing on Pup, who rested lazily on a kitchen
chair,  his nose poking between two of the rungs. "Cha!"

He poked at the stuffed dog, who tumbled easily onto the floor and
slid under  the table. Will jumped at him, nabbing his ear to pull him
off the floor. But  his feet skidded against the smooth wood, his toe
jamming into one of the  chair legs as he tumbled to the floor.

"Ouch," Will cried as he grabbed his toe and cradled his foot in his
hand.  "Ouch!"

"Are you okay?" his mom asked, dropping down onto the floor beside
him. "Let  me see." She managed to pry his foot out of his hands and
ease it onto her  lap.

"Ow," Will whined. "Ow."

"Just let me see," she said, positioning his foot so she could get a
good  view of his injured toe. Her finger approached the tiny toe, and
Will pulled  his foot away.

"Will," his mom warned. "I have to see. Hold it still, and I promise I
won't  hurt it."

Will took a deep breath. "Okay," he whimpered. He let his mom
recapture his  foot and set it on her lap. Her fingers moved slowly up
his foot toward his  pinkie toe, stroking the top of his foot gently.

"Try and move your toes," she instructed. He tried, and they moved a
little,  but his toe twinged in response, and he clenched them back
together again.

"It hurts," he said.

"Well, it's not broken, just stubbed. You'll be fine."

"It still hurts," he told her, and she leaned over it, pressing her
lips to  his pinkie toe in a soft kiss.

"Better?" she asked, and he nodded, sniffling a little.

Then his mom grazed her fingernails along the arch of his foot, and he
shrieked, pulling his foot off her lap and rolling away. "No fair! No
tickling," he cried.

His mom caught his arm and tugged him back across the slippery wooden
floor  so that he slid heavily into her legs. He twisted around and
set his head on  her lap, looking up at her. "Mom?"

"Yes?" She ruffled her fingers through his hair, then brushed them
down his  neck and headed for his armpit in the threat of another
tickle attack. Will  wriggled, and his mom's hand went back to his
hair.

"Did you ever fight bad guys with a light saber?"

His mom laughed, and he could hear it and feel it against his side
when she  bent over him, brushing his face lightly with her hair. "No,
Will," she said  into his ear. "I can honestly say that I have never
used a light saber."

Too bad, he thought; it would be cool. He could imagine her with one.
The  light saber would be blue, and she would wield it just like Luke
Skywalker,  but she would slash vampires and werewolves and Bigfoot
instead of Darth  Vadar.

Then the timer on the microwave beeped, and his mom slid her hands
under his  arms again, this time to lift him to his feet with a loud
"oomph." Then she  stood beside him and got the bowl out of the
cupboard. Will crawled under the  table to retrieve Pup and his light
saber, then stood next to her as she  shook the popcorn into the
bowl.

"Dunh daah, duh-duh-duh-DAAH-duh, duh-duh-duh-DAAH-duh, dun-dun-dun-DU
NNH,"  he sang out gleefully, pirouetting until he brushed against the
oven, dizzy.

"Mom," he said with great seriousness, reaching out for her arm to
steady  himself. "I love Star Wars."

"I know you do," she said. "But are you sure you don't want to watch a
different movie tonight? We just watched Star Wars, uh... last week."

"Not last week," he corrected. "The week before that."

"Of course," she said, grabbing a bottle of water out of the fridge
and  holding the door open so he could choose a juice box.

"It's still not too late to drive to Blockbuster," she said, offering
him a  hopeful expression. "We could get something new, something we
haven't seen  before..."

Will shook his head emphatically. "Star Wars," he insisted. Then, 
speculatively, "Hey, do you think my dad likes Star Wars?"

"I'm not sure," his mom said. "You should ask him."

Will nodded. "I could call him," he said shyly. "Maybe, if he does
like it,  he could come over and watch with us?"

His mom smiled warmly at him, and Will felt a little surge of pride.
"I'm  sure he'd like to, Will," she said. "But I think he was planning
on getting  together with the guys tonight."

Will smiled. 'The guys' were the Lone Gunmen, his mom's crazy friends.
Will  liked all three of the Gunmen, but Langley had always been his
favorite.  Langley liked to show him cool computer stuff, which was
fun even if Will  wasn't as interested in computers as he was. Plus,
Langley didn't get nervous  around Will like Byers always did,
worrying that he would make a mess or  break something, and moving all
the fun stuff out of Will's reach. And he  didn't look at him like
Frohike did sometimes, like he was studying him or  like he was seeing
someone else. Like he was seeing his dad. 

"Star Wars," Will said in a dreamy sigh. Then he dropped his voice as
low as  it would go, rasping at his mom, "Luke, I am your father."

She smiled at him then, a small smile, and sat down at the table,
rolling her  lips before blowing out a long, slow breath.

"Aren't we gonna watch the movie?" he asked, raising his light saber
in  victory.

"In a minute." She held out her arms and he climbed onto her lap, not
much of  a climb anymore.

"You know, there's something we need to talk about," she said, looking
down  at him seriously. "Something important."

"Not about Star Wars," he knew.

"No," she said, "not about Star Wars.

"It's about your dad, about your dad staying at Grandma's."

"Uh huh," he said.

"You know, Will, he isn't going to be staying there forever," she told
him.  "It's just temporary, because Grandma is home during the day to
help out, to  take him to his doctors' appointments."

"But he can drive now," Will reminded her.

"Yes. He can drive now." His mom leaned her head on top of his for a
minute,  then continued. "He can drive now, and he won't be staying at
Grandma's  forever."

Will heart thumped against his ribs, hard and fast. His mouth was
suddenly  dry, but he managed to choke out, "He's leaving?"

"No," she assured him, rocking him gently against her. "No, sweetie,
he's not  leaving you, just leaving Grandma's house."

She stopped, and Will fit his head snugly against her chest. He sucked
in a  slow, deep breath, his mom's smell familiar and comforting, like
warm  chocolate chip cookies and fresh-cut grass and the gluey binding
of a new  book. "Is he going to stay with us?" he asked.

"Mmmm," his mom said, pulling back from him a little so that she could
look  him in the eye. "That's what we need to talk about. Your dad
needs somewhere  permanent to live, not just somewhere to stay for a
few weeks like Grandma's.  He needs somewhere to stay for good."

Will nodded, locking eyes with his mom.

"This is a decision we all have to make," she told him. "You and me
and your  dad. I'd like to ask him to move in here with us -- I think
that's best for  all of us -- but I need to know what you think,
Will.

"What you really think," she said seriously. "You've got an unfair
advantage  here, kiddo: you know what I think, but I need to know what
you're feeling  about this. What do you want? I can't promise we're
going to do that, but  you've got a vote here, too."

Will set his head back against her chest, and his mom sifted her
fingers  through his hair again. He looked out into the kitchen as he
spoke: the  familiar shiny copper pots hanging near the window,
reflecting the soft light  from the fixture above the table; the
blue-gray curtains rustling in the soft  breeze that came through the
cracked-open window; the refrigerator calendar  marked with his mom's
work schedule in blue, his school schedule in red, his 
dad's doctors' appointments in green.

"I think he should move in here," he said finally.

His mom's breath near his ear was quick and shallow, rustling his hair
a  little. "You're sure?" she asked, and he nodded.

She pulled back from him again, caught his gaze with hers. Her eyes
were dark  and serious, and Will didn't look away. "Yes," he told her.
"I think he  should."

She smiled and nodded then, and he slumped against her, his feet
swaying  between her legs, his toes reaching in vain for the floor.
"You understand,"  she said. "You understand what this means, Will? It
means he'll move all of  his things in here with us--"

"His things are already here," Will pointed out. "In the basement."

"Yes," his mom said. "But it means we'd move his things out of the
basement,  most of them, and into the house with us. It wouldn't be
just the two of us  anymore, Will. He would be with us here every day,
during the week and on the  weekends, and on holidays and on
vacations. Every day."

Will nodded. "I know."

"And that's what you want?" she asked. "What you *really* want?"

It was what he wanted, and not just because he could feel how badly
she  wanted it, so badly that it burned through her like a fire of
hope. He still  wasn't sure how his dad felt about him -- the feelings
from that first day in  the hospital were still there, and he was
still trying to understand them --  but he did want his dad to love
him. He remembered something his mom had said  to him more than once,
that sometimes people thought things that they didn't  mean; and ever
since they played basketball together, Will had hoped that 
that's what had happened with his dad in the hospital that day.

"Yes," he said finally. He looked up at her with her same seriousness.
"It  is."

She smiled, and he threw his arms around her, squeezing briefly, then
launched himself off her lap. He grabbed his light saber, Pup, and his
juice  box off the table, skipping into the family room.

Will flung himself on the couch, taking up his usual cushion on the
end. He  hunted for the remote, finally finding it on the coffee table
under an old  issue of JAMA, and listened while his mom gathered
together the popcorn bowl,  napkins, and her own drink. After
struggling with the wrapper, he slid the  straw into the juice box,
taking a noisily slurp before any juice could  dribble out.

Finally his mom padded slowly into the kitchen, and Will hit the PLAY
button  on the DVD remote, grinning as the familiar music started up,
accompanied by  the scrolling text he knew by heart. Then he heard his
mom mutter, under her  breath, "Help me, Obi Wan, you're my only
hope."

Will smiled.

* * * * *

Continued in Part 16.

Title: Song of Innocence (16/?)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

1978 West Harbor Road, Bethesda
October 13
12:21 pm


"Happy Birthday!" Will shouted as he rushed past Scully and into her
mother's  living room. He set the bakery box he'd been carrying down
next to the boxes  she'd put on the hall table, then shimmied out of
his jacket. Scully removed  her own coat, took her son's, and hung
both in the front closet.

"Mom? Mulder?" she called out, snagging the bakery box by its strings.
Will  bounded in ahead of her, skipping around the living room couch
before pushing  through the kitchen door.

"They're in here," he called back to her.

Scully paused to make sure the presents were secure on the coffee
table,  especially the large, heavy box on the bottom. The gifts sat
next to another  present, flat, rectangular, and neatly wrapped, the
springy curls on the bow  advertising it as her mother's. Scully
straightened the bows on her and  Will's gifts, smiling as she pulled
the corner of the paper on the larger box  and tried to tuck it under
the scotch tape.

Will had insisted on wrapping his gift for Mulder, and he had made an
incredible mess of the study in so doing. First he had decided, just
this  afternoon, to make his own wrapping paper, and then he had
realized that they  didn't have any paper big enough. So they'd had to
rush out, first to the  drugstore down the block and then to the art
supply store when they  discovered that the drugstore didn't have the
necessary supplies.

It had been a chore, and Will had been in a fine mood all day, crabby
when  his initial attempt at sponge-painting the large sheet of
newsprint had  failed to live up to his high standards. And though she
was certainly  tempted, Scully had been loath to suggest that he just
use the same generic  Happy Birthday! print she'd used.

He was so enthused about wrapping this gift, after a week of whining
that he  didn't know what to get Mulder. Well, she corrected, at first
he'd suggested  getting him a puppy, which she'd met with the scorn
the idea deserved. But,  after his futile dog attempt, he'd been
stumped, clueless, until he was  struck with a sudden inspiration.

It had taken some convincing, but Scully figured his new suggestion
was a  step up from a puppy, so she'd given in after a few days of
logical and  persistent arguing from Will.

Scully stepped into the kitchen and was greeted by a bouquet of
familiar  smells. Her mother stood at the stove, adjusting one of the
burner knobs, and  Will was climbing onto the chair next to Mulder at
the kitchen table.

"Mmm," she said, stopping by the counter to kiss her mom hello.
"Smells  delicious." She peeked under the lid of a small pot to reveal
brown and wild  rice. Another lid obscured a steaming mix of broccoli,
snow peas and carrots.

"Hello, dear," her mom said as she slapped playfully at her daughter's
prying  hands. "Stay outta there."

"Is it almost time to eat?" Will asked, kicking his legs out from
under the  table.

"Soon," her mom said. "I need to put the rolls in, and they'll have to
cook  for twenty minutes or so."

Will sighed in frustration, and Scully went over to the table, where
Mulder  sat, pulling doughy chunks from a paperboard cylinder,
arranging the  precooked rolls on a greased cookie sheet. 

"Happy birthday," she said, bending to kiss him squarely on the mouth.
Considering their audience, she had intended a short peck, but he
trapped her  hand against the table with his sticky fingers, urging
her into a longer  kiss.

"Thank you," he said, grinning broadly.

Scully smiled on her way to the sink to rinse the dough residue off
her hand.  Will hadn't been the only one apprehensive about what to
buy Mulder for his  birthday. She had been feeling particularly
worried about her final decision  for the last few days, and now her
stomach felt jittery at the thought of the  carefully wrapped box on
the living room coffee table.

"Need any help, Mom?" she asked.

"You could pour the drinks," her mother suggested, taking the tray of
rolls  from Mulder and slipping it into the oven. "There's some white
wine chilling  in the fridge." Scully found the bottle, then stood on
her toes to reach  three wine glasses from the top shelf of the
cabinet. 

She found a plastic cup for Will, then pulled open the refrigerator
door  again. "Will, you want milk, iced tea, or... Mom, what is this?"
Scully held  up a jug of a thick grayish liquid that reminded her of
something she and  Mulder might have collected at a crime scene.

Her mom glanced over her shoulder, then chuckled and looked over to
Mulder.  "Fox?"

He laughed. "It's a high-protein, high-electrolyte breakfast shake,"
he  explained. "A few weeks ago my doctor allowed me to start
exercising a little  -- running and some basketball -- on the
condition that I take it easy and  down one of those babies every
morning."

Scully set it back in the fridge with a thud. "Yeah, and you thought
bee  pollen was fringe," she muttered.

"Huh?" he asked, and she wanted to kick herself for the oversight.
She'd been  trying not to mention the little meaningless things from
their past that he  might not remember. He got testy sometimes when
she brought them up, and it  always set her on edge, too, when she
thought about the years he had lost,  the memories hidden inside his
own mind.

"Uh, bee pollen," she said, even though it wasn't. It had been bee
venom,  actually, she remembered. Bee venom was supposed to prevent
cancer and boost  the immune system. Scully sighed. "I used to--"

"Bee pollen in your yogurt," he finished. "I remember."

She smiled over at him, and Will frowned at them. "*You* ate bee
pollen,  Mom?"

"She certainly did," Mulder said with a smug grin.

"Okay, Will," she said, changing the subject. "What'll it be? Milk,
tea, or  some of your dad's New Age hippie drink?"

"Tea," he said with a giggle.

Scully poured her son's iced tea, then paused after filling one of the
wine  glasses. "You both want wine?" At their nods, she filled the
remaining two  glasses and passed them to her mother and Mulder.

"Oh, the cake," she remembered. She snatched the bakery box off the
table and  fit it in the refrigerator. Then Scully leaned up against
the countertop,  wine glass in hand, and surveyed the scene in front
of her.

In almost every way it was the same as the past half-dozen Friday
nights, her  and Will having dinner with her mother and Mulder. After
they ate they  sometimes paged through an old photograph album or
played a game. She and  Mulder usually cleaned up on the word games,
Scrabble and Upwords, and though  he'd only won once, those games were
Will's favorites. Besides Quest, of  course, Scully thought with great
dread, hoping that Will had left that one  at home for once.

Will also liked a card game Mulder had taught them. Egyptian Rat Slap,
he had  called it, though Scully remembered the comical leer on his
face when he had  introduced it as Egyptian Rat Screw one night when
the cable had gone out in  a motel while on a forgettable case near
Columbus, Ohio. They had played it  for years after that night, after
Mulder had braved a thunderstorm to buy a  slick new pack of cards
from a nearby convenience store.

At the time she had figured that the game was a way for him to get rid
of  some pent-up hostility, since it involved slapping one's palm onto
the stack  of cards any time a double came up. Two queens? Slap your
hand on the pile  first and take the cards.

It later dawned on her that the game also gave him a legitimate reason
to  touch her, since their reflexes were both top-notch and their
hands usually  ended up slapping at the same time, one sandwiching the
other over the stack  of cards.

But today was not any ordinary Friday. It was Mulder's birthday, his 
forty-seventh birthday. She gazed at him, thinking that he did not
look  forty-seven, thinking that forty-seven sounded so very old, even
when she  managed to remember that her last birthday had been her
forty-fourth.

It seemed like a miracle to be celebrating Mulder's birthday again,
when for  the past seven years she had marked the day by trying not to
think about it.  Every year she dutifully jotted it down on her
calendar, partially because  she wanted Will to know when it was, even
if she didn't want him to get into  the habit of celebrating his
absent father's birthday. Of course she couldn't  forget it; of course
she spent every October thirteenth thinking about him. 
But it seemed a bit, well, not morbid, exactly, but certainly
unhealthy, for  them to celebrate his birthday when he was not there.

Scully sipped from her wine glass, watching as Mulder wiped down the
kitchen  table with a wet washcloth. Will lifted his tea and Mulder
swiped beneath it,  and she watched Will's eyes track his father, dart
up and down Mulder's body  as if memorizing him, taking in his
wrinkled linen shirt, his faded jeans,  his bare feet.

Again Scully felt a tug of anticipation as she thought of her gift for
him,  sitting patiently on the living room coffee table. She felt the
same jittery  uncertainty that she'd experienced when she'd asked
Will's opinion of the  gift. She remembered his little smile, the
slight dance of his eyes, as he  said, "okay."

"How long till we eat, Grandma?" Will asked again.

Scully's mother laughed. "Still twenty minutes, Will," she said. "The
rolls  have only been in the oven for two minutes."

Will slipped off his chair then and spun around the kitchen, nearly
colliding  with his grandmother before grabbing onto her arm to steady
himself. "Can we  open presents, then?" he asked.

Scully's mom looked over at her and Scully shrugged. Usually they
opened  birthday gifts after they ate, but they had only started that
tradition after  Will had immersed himself with a new toy to the
exclusion of dinner several  years back.

"I guess so," she said, and Will darted into the living room,
gleefully  singing an impromptu birthday tune. The adults followed,
cradling their wine  glasses in their hands, smiling at Will's
enthusiasm.

Will plopped himself on the couch in front of the small stack of
presents,  and Scully smiled at her son, who was acting as though it
were his birthday.  But Will had always been that way about presents,
as anxious to see if  someone liked what he had chosen for them as he
was to see what someone had  bought for him. Although, Scully
remembered, he was sometimes significantly  less excited if he sensed
that the recipient didn't like the present. She  sent up a silent
prayer that that wouldn't be the case today, that they had 
chosen wisely for Mulder.

She and Mulder settled on either side of their son, and Scully's
mother took  the armchair opposite them, setting matching coasters
onto the table for  their wine glasses.

"Whose first?" Mulder asked, smiling as he looked at Scully over the
top of  Will's head.

"Mine, mine," Will squealed, grunting with the effort of pulling his
gift out  from beneath hers and handing it to Mulder.

"Yours, yours," Mulder teased as he hefted the gift onto his lap.
"Whoa," he  said. "Heavy." He pulled off the ribbon. "What nice paper,
Will. Where did  you get this?" Scully smiled her appreciation at
him.

"I made it," he said proudly.

"Well," Mulder said. "I'd better be careful with it, huh?" He
patiently slit  the tape with his finger and unfolded the paper,
setting it aside. Then he  caught a glimpse of the printing and the
photograph on the outside of the  box, and he looked up at them with a
grin.

"A basketball hoop."

"Yeah," Will said, bouncing on the couch. "Mom said it was okay. She
said  this was the kind that attached above the garage, and that
there'd be enough  room in the driveway to play."

"You'll have to play half-court," she told him apologetically.

"I love it," he said, smiling first at Will and then at Scully as he
slipped  the heavy box off his lap and onto the floor. Will grinned
and threw himself  back down on the couch between them.

Then Will handed Mulder her present, but Scully reached around Mulder
to  intercept her son's hand. "Why don't we open Grandma's present
next?" she  suggested, slipping the gift from his grasp to set it back
on the table.

He looked up at her for a long minute, and she thought at him,
'Please, Will,  let's do Grandma's first. I want to save mine for
last.' Will said nothing,  but he did reach for the remaining gift,
then handed it over to Mulder.

Mulder looked up at Scully's mother, a slightly embarrassed smile on
his  face. "Maggie, you really didn't need to get me anything," he
said, shaking  his head. "Staying here with you... You've been so
kind."

"Don't be silly, Fox. It's your birthday," she said, reaching out to
pat his  knee. "I want you to have this. And," she added, eyes
twinkling  mischievously, "I think you'll be glad when you see what it
is."

He nodded and tore into the paper, and Scully smiled as the old Mulder
emerged, the impatient Mulder who tore through the nuisance of
giftwrap in  his hurry to get to the main event. She again sent him
her thanks for taking  care with Will's homemade paper.

"Oh, Maggie," he sighed as he uncovered a thick binder, which he
flipped  over. Scully recognized her mother's precise printing on the
cover, the black  block letters that read 'William Scully Mulder.'

Mulder flipped through the binder to reveal pages of photographs. Will
as a  newborn, eyes squinted and fists scrunched up; Will, half-blurry
as he  crawled past the camera; Will with a piece of birthday cake
smeared across  his face. In later pictures he was walking on the
beach, reading an oversized  picture book, sitting with the parts of a
dismantled telephone spread on the  carpet around him.

"Maggie, I can't take these," he said, his voice tight. "These are
your  pictures. I couldn't--"

She shook her head. "I had copies made," she said. "I've been saving 
negatives for years. I see you looking at them every day, Fox; I know
how  important they are to you.

"Here," she said, reaching out to push the binder open, almost to the
last  page. "I left some empty pages for you." She nodded at her
camera, which sat  on the end table near the front door. Then she
opened the book to the last  page, and Scully groaned when she saw the
pictures she had included there.

"And these," her mom said with a mischievous grin. "Dana when she was
a  child. Good for a laugh."

"Gee, thanks, Mom," she said as she scanned the page.

"Anytime, sweetheart," her mom said.

Scully gave another frustrated groan at the sight of one of her least
favorite pictures, a school photograph from fourth grade. Her hair was
too  bright, her face was too pale, and her mouthful of braces
reflected the  photographer's flash.

"That's you, Mom?" Will asked incredulously. He giggled. "You look
weird."

She shook her head in exasperation as Mulder caught her gaze.
'Beautiful,' he  mouthed at her over Will, and she rolled her eyes.

"Okay," Will said after having gotten his fill of his geeky mother. He
snatched the last gift off the table. "Now Mom's present."

"Now Mom's present," Mulder echoed softly as Will handed him her gift.
Scully  felt her stomach give a worried little leap. Again Mulder tore
the wrapping  paper off to reveal a generic white department-store
box. He lifted the lid  and pushed aside the layer of tissue paper to
expose a pair of leather  gloves.

"Hey, I was just looking for my old gloves," he said.

She nodded. "I figured. I couldn't find them either," she said. "I had
your  winter coat and a scarf packed away together, but I never could
find any  gloves."

"Thanks, Scully," he said.

"Try them on," she suggested. "See if they fit."

He slipped the left glove from the box and onto his hand, stretching
his  fingers inside the leather. "They fit," he confirmed, reaching to
pull the  glove off.

"Why don't you try the other one?"

He shot her a confused look, and Will, who had likely just caught on
to what  was going on, smiled over at her. Mulder pulled the other
glove out of the  box, jiggling it a bit when he took notice of its
unexpected weight.

He looked over at her. "What the...?"

She smiled tightly, her eyes riveted to his hands. He held the glove
up by  its fingertips, and a keychain clattered out onto his open
palm. He flipped  the metal circle over to reveal an engraved 'FWM.'
Fox William Mulder. Then  he noticed the key that was attached. She
watched as understanding dawned on  him.

"Scully?"

"Whenever you're ready," she said softly, her fingers clutching
worriedly at  the hem of her sweater. She glanced at Will, a smile on
his face that she had  never seen before -- hopeful, scared, excited.

Mulder pushed back against the couch, reaching for her behind Will.
She met  him halfway, and his arms pulled her over to him. The cold
metal of the  keychain rested against her bare neck.

Scully tensed a little, expecting him to go for her mouth, feeling
awkward  stuffed behind their son on her mother's couch. But instead
Mulder held her  tight, pressing his warm cheek to hers. "Thank you,"
he whispered to her.  "Thank you."

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
October 14
7:22 pm


"Why don't you go upstairs and help your dad unpack?" Will's mom said
as she  stripped off her jacket and hung it in the coat closet. Will
looked  uncertainly upstairs, where his dad had just gone, lugging a
large duffel bag  and a slim garment bag.

"Go on," she said, pulling Will's jacket off and hanging it beside
hers. She  grasped his shoulders and guided him toward the stairs.
"Help him out; show  him which drawers I cleared out for him." 

"I'm gonna to make some coffee," she said. "You want hot chocolate?"

Will nodded at her, then went slowly upstairs, dragging his toes
against each  step. He walked down the hall quietly, finally stopping
just outside his  mom's bedroom. Still standing in the hall, Will
peered around the doorjamb  and into the room, watching as his dad
unzipped the duffel bag and began  unpacking it.

He took a stack of t-shirts out and stood there for a minute, just
staring at  the doublewide bureau that sat against the back wall of
the bedroom. He  looked down at the shirts he was holding, then at the
bureau again before  finally choosing a drawer.

It was his mom's pajama drawer, Will knew, and his dad closed it and
chose  another. Underwear, Will thought as his dad tugged it open, but
Will didn't  step into the bedroom to help.

Instead, he watched as his dad lifted a pale blue tank top out of the
drawer  and ran his thumb slowly over one thin shoulder strap. He
stared at it as if  he'd never seen women's underwear before, which
Will thought was pretty silly  and completely improbable anyway.

Finally his dad dropped the tank top, shut the drawer, and opened
another.  This was one that Will's mom had cleared out for him, and
Will watched his  dad stack the t-shirts inside before going back to
his bag for another stack.  After he'd filled the drawer, he fished a
couple pair of jeans from his bag  and found a drawer for them, then
did the same for socks, underwear, and some  sweaters.

Will just stood there, watching, not sure if he should step in to help
him.  It was what he thought he wanted, his dad moving in with them.
But now, as  Will watched his dad staking claim to half of his mom's
drawers, he wasn't so  sure anymore. It was strange, being home and
having it not be just him and  his mom, like it had been every day of
his life for as long as he could  remember.

And his dad looked out of place, uncertain, even though Will was
pretty sure  that he wanted to be there, too. It was only his mom who
hadn't been acting  strange since they arrived at his grandma's house
to see his dad's bags piled  by the door. She had been all business,
moving things into the trunk and  helping Will's dad and grandma check
to make sure nothing was left behind.

Will watched his dad empty the duffel bag, pushing it aside and
unzipping the  garment bag before removing several pairs of shoes from
a bottom pouch. He  fit them in the closet, pushing aside three-inch
heels and boots and a few  pairs of running shoes.

Then his dad went back to the bag and hung up some dress shirts, suit
jackets, and suit pants, then pulled a small, zippered pouch out and
tossed  it on the bed. Finally he removed a handful of colorful ties,
holding them  away from him and inspecting them as if he didn't know
what they were doing  in his bag.

Then he turned to see Will standing there.

"So what do you think?" his dad asked.

What did he think about what? Will wondered as he poked the edge of
his left  sneaker into the bedroom. About him unpacking? About him
moving in with them?  About him sharing a room with Will's mom?

"Where should I put the ties?" he asked.

Will shrugged, and his dad hunted through the closet but apparently
couldn't  find anywhere suitable. Will wondered where that suitable
place was. Did ties  get hung up or folded or what? He only had one
tie, which he wore for special  occasions and, when his mom wasn't
looking, used as a lasso or as a belt for  the kimono his uncle had
sent him from Japan. Will kept his tie shoved in the  back of his
underwear drawer.

Maybe the trait was hereditary, he thought as he watched his dad go
back to  the bureau, open a drawer, and thrust the ties in. Then he
reached for the  zippered pouch he'd tossed on the bed and opened it.
He shuffled through some  bathroom stuff -- deodorant, shampoo, soap
-- and then removed a glasses  case, which he set on the bedstand.

Then he took out a small spiral-bound notebook and a pen, and just
stood  there holding them. He stood there for so long that Will
started counting  just to fill the empty space in his head and to
block out his dad's  nervousness. His embarrassment.

Finally he turned to face Will. "What side?" he asked softly. "What
side of  the bed does she sleep on?"

"She sleeps in the middle," he told his dad, who looked as if he'd
expected  that answer. "But when I have a bad dream and she lets me
sleep in here with  her, she's on that side." He pointed to the side
near the window, next to the  bedstand.

His dad nodded, stuffing his notebook and pen under the pillow on the
other  side of the bed. Then he sat down and jerked his head a little,
which Will  guessed to be a signal for 'Come and sit next to me.' So
he did.

His dad looked down at him uncertainly, and Will just waited, feeling
stranger than he had since watching his dad sleep that first day out
of the  hospital.

Finally his dad said, "You know," as if they'd just picked up in the
middle  of a conversation, "I don't have any experience being
someone's dad."

"You've been my dad this whole time," Will told him. 

"I... I suppose I have," his dad said as he quirked a small smile.
"But you  may have to give me a few pointers anyway. You know, when
I'm getting on your  nerves, when you need my help, when you just want
me to go away and leave you  alone for a while."

Never, Will thought, I'll never want you to leave. But he said only
"Okay."

"So," his dad said, "for example... I don't know, are you too old for
hugs? I  don't really remember much about being seven--"

Will launched himself into his dad's arms and stopped him from
talking.  Instead, they sat together for a long time, and Will could
feel himself  starting to cry when he realized that this was the first
time his dad had  ever hugged him.

* * * * *

Continued in Part 17.

Title: Song of Innocence (17/23)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
October 15
8:44 am


His dad was still there when Will woke up the next morning.

Not that Will thought he'd be gone, but, really, he wasn't sure either
way.  When he drifted out of sleep late Sunday morning, he heard
sounds downstairs,  the refrigerator door closing and plates
scratching on the table and  footsteps. Two sets of footsteps.

Then voices. A low rumble, words indistinct, and Will recognized his
dad's  voice. It was new and echoed oddly through the house, like
someone shouting  over the careful whispering in a library. Then his
mom's voice, soft and  lilting. Laughing.

Will rolled out of bed and straightened the sheets and covers, made a
detour  to the bathroom, and then went downstairs. As he neared the
kitchen he could  smell coffee brewing and the acrid sting of an
almost-burnt English muffin,  his mom's usual breakfast. His stomach
grumbled as it started to wake up, and  he stepped into the kitchen.

His mom was sitting at the table, the newspaper open in front of her.
A  steaming coffee mug was cupped in her hand, and one knee was drawn
up to her  chest, with her foot planted on the chair. It was warm in
the kitchen, and  she was wearing a pair of thin cotton pajama pants
that Will recognized as  spring PJs, a dusting of flowers on the hem.

His mom smiled over at him. "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Good morning, Will," his dad echoed. He stood at the stove, but
Will's  sleepy gaze barely registered him.

Will went to his mom for a good-morning hug, and he held on even after
she  loosened her grip, cradling his head against her shoulder. She
shifted her  leg down and he crawled onto her lap, even though he knew
he was getting too  big for that.

"Are you sick, sweetie?"

He shook his head, then closed his eyes as her hand found his
forehead, like  he knew it would. He leaned into her cool palm for a
minute.

"You don't have a fever," she said, then turned toward his dad.
"Mulder, get  him some juice, will you. Orange or pineapple?" she
asked Will.

"Pineapple," he said.

His dad handed him a glass filled to the brim, and his hand jostled a
little  when he took it, the yellow juice rising dangerously close to
the rim. His  mom's hand joined his on the glass, and she took a sip
to drain it a few  centimeters before she let him have the glass.

He looked at her, his forehead crinkled when he realized that it was a
real  juice glass, a *glass* juice glass, and not his usual plastic
Gryffindor  quidditch championship cup. She shook her head a little at
him, not wanting  him to say anything, so he just sipped at his juice.
She was the one who  liked him to use the plastic cups, anyway, and he
wasn't going to complain  when he got to use a grown-up glass.

"Well," his dad said, giving his coffee cup a final rinse and setting
it in  the drying rack. "I'm gonna go shower. Towels...?" he asked,
looking at  Will's mom expectantly.

"The linen closet's at the end of the hall," she said. "Bath towels on
the  second shelf from the bottom."

"Thanks," his dad said as he shuffled out of the kitchen.

"You sure you're okay?" his mom asked him as they listened to his
dad's  footsteps pound on the stairs.

Will nodded, but his mom, unconvinced, laid her cheek against his
forehead to  get another measure of his temperature.

"Are you hungry?" she asked. "Do you want me to make something for
you?"

Will rubbed his eyes sleepily, then looked up at her. "Do we still
have  waffles?" His mom had made waffles the previous morning, and
they had frozen  the two that were left over.

"Your dad ate them," she said, giving his back a gentle rub. "I can
make you  an English muffin or scrambled eggs. I think we might have
some cereal, too."

"Honeynut Cheerios?" Will asked, and his mom nodded. She slid him off
her lap  and onto another chair, then went to the cupboard for a
cereal bowl.

Will watched as she poured the last of the Honeynut Cheerios into a
bowl,  then went to the refrigerator for the milk. She took out the
carton and shut  the door to the fridge, but Will's gaze remained on
the calendar posted on  the freezer door, a white grid decorated in
blue and red and green wipe-away  ink.

His attention was caught by Wednesday. His dad had his usual therapy 
sessions, and his mom had both a morning lecture and an afternoon lab,
but it  was the red ink, his plans, that interested Will.

"BP w/John A/S," it read, and Will translated it into "Batting
practice with  John after school." John, who was a lefty, was going to
try to teach Will to  bat left-handed so that he could switch hit.

Will was so intent in staring at Wednesday that he didn't even notice
when  his mom plunked a spoon, a napkin, and a full bowl of cereal
down in front of  him. She sat back down, then noticed where his
attention was directed.

"What is it, sweetie?" she asked. "Will?"

"Wednesday," he said softly, turning slowly to look at her. "Am I
still going  to play baseball with John on Wednesday?"

"Of course," she told him. "Why wouldn't you?"

He just shrugged and dipped his spoon into his cereal.

"Because of your dad, you mean?" she asked, and Will nodded. "Why does
that  matter, Will?"

Will didn't know why it mattered; he just knew that it did. It
mattered to  his dad that Will spent time with John -- Will could tell
from his dad's  unspoken reaction whenever he mentioned John. So it
mattered to Will, too. He  wondered whether it mattered to John.

"I dunno," he said.

His mom sighed. "Your dad doesn't know John very well," she told him.
"Not as  well as you and I do. We're going to have to be patient with
him," she said.  "It's tough coming back here to see everyone else
changed and not know where  you fit in."

Will nodded. "So I'm not going to be seeing John anymore?"

"No," she said forcefully. "No, sweetie, that's not what I meant. You
can  spend as much time with John as you want; that's not going to
change. Okay?"

"Okay," Will said, offering her a smile before he shoveled a spoonful
of  cereal into his mouth.

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
October 15
3:27 pm


Will was in the study, curled up on the floor, Pup tucked with him
beneath  the Navajo print blanket. On the oversized coffee table sat a
puzzle,  half-worked, the missing pieces scattered in a semi-circle
around the table.

Out of the corner of his eye Will saw his dad walk past the room once,
then  twice, before he set down the piece in his hand and looked up.
His dad took  that as an invitation and stepped just inside the room.

"Working a puzzle?"

Will nodded, picking up another piece. He had always liked puzzles,
the way  they let him concentrate on just one thing, hunting for the
right pieces,  then fitting them together. It was simple -- mindless,
really -- but it freed  him from intruding thoughts.

Plus, his mom didn't like puzzles, and she usually left him alone when
he  worked them, using the time to grade papers or plan lectures, or
just to  read. It wasn't that he didn't like having her around, but
sometimes he just  needed a break from everyone else's feelings and
thoughts; his own were  confusing enough.

His dad ventured further into the room and then, after a moment's
hesitation,  joined Will on the floor. "Where's Waldo?" he said.

"Yeah," Will said. The Waldo puzzles were his favorites, so many tiny,
carefully arranged figures. He liked to find Waldo, of course, but
more than  that he liked to study the different faces as he snapped
them into place,  filling in their lives and thoughts, and then
letting it all go because it  was pretend anyway.

Will fit a few more pieces in, but it was hard for him to concentrate
with  his dad hovering around him, fingering puzzle pieces but not
trying to fit  any together. Finally Will pushed back from the table
and turned to look at  his dad.

"What's that?" his dad asked, pointing to the corner of the table,
where a  few paper clipped sheets of lined paper sat.

Will snagged the pages before they were pushed off the table by the
growing  mass of puzzle. "Stupid homework," he said. He set the papers
on the floor.  "We have to make a family tree."

"Why stupid?"

Will shrugged. He didn't want to tell his dad, but he didn't know what
to put  on his family tree. He hadn't yet decided how he was going to
make it  creative, like his teacher had requested, and it was due in
just a few days.  But what really frustrated Will was his lack of
knowledge of his dad's side  of the tree. He had the notes on his
mom's half all written out. Those had  been easy; his mom had been
able to help him with most of it, and what she  didn't know, his
grandma did.

But Will was a little afraid to ask his dad about his family. First of
all,  he knew that his dad didn't remember lots of things, even though
his mom said  that most of his missing memories had to do with their
work. But also Will  got this strange, uncomfortable feeling whenever
he mentioned his dad's  family, a feeling he didn't understand and had
no desire to experience again.

His dad slipped the pages out of Will's hand and sifted slowly through
them.  He flipped through several 'Scully' pages before stopping on
the near-empty  sheet headed 'Mulder.' He looked up at Will. "Do you
need some help?"

Will nodded. "Do you remember anything?"

"I think most of it," his dad said. "What do you need?"

Will grabbed a pencil off the desk. "Um, your birthday," he said.
"October  13..."

"Yeah," he said. "1961."

Will scribbled the date down. "Samantha," he said tentatively, eyes
still  downcast, and he felt almost ashamed speaking her name when he
knew it hurt  his dad so much. "Did she have a middle name?"

"Anne," his dad said. "Samantha Anne Mulder. She loved that her
initials  spelled SAM."

Will smiled as he copied down his dad's sister's name. He knew next to
nothing about Samantha Anne Mulder, but already he felt a spark of
kinship  because Will liked his own initials: WSM -- the same upside
down as rightside  up. 

SAM. His aunt, he thought, reminding himself that Tara Scully was not
his  only aunt. There was Samantha and there was Melissa, too. He knew
a lot more  about his mother's sister than his father's, but Will
wondered if maybe he  could learn about Samantha now.

It was easier than Will thought it would be to fill in the Mulder side
of his  family tree. His dad spoke, slowly at first, then at
increasing speed, and  Will had to rush to get everything down. His
ring finger throbbed against the  pressure of the thick pencil, but he
felt good.

After Will had exhausted the extent of his father's memory, and the
extent of  his own writing endurance, he set his pencil down and
skimmed the pages of  awkward printing. His dad had said a lot, but
Will returned to the first  page, to the line that began, 'William
Mulder.'

It was strange looking at that name and knowing that it did not mean
him. And  the strangeness was so much stronger because this William
Mulder did not have  a middle name; it was almost spooky to know that
someone else had his name.

Or, more accurately, that Will had his name.

"You want to know about him, don't you?"

Will jerked his head up. He pushed aside his papers and pencil, and
then he  nodded.

"I don't know what to tell you," he said.

"You don't remember?"

"There isn't much to remember," his dad told him. "I didn't know him
very  well."

"How come?" Will didn't understand how that could be, especially if
his dad  had lived in the same house as his father. His dad studied
the puzzle piece  he held in his fingers, an old man with a cane and a
long stocking cap and  matching striped sweater. He didn't meet Will's
gaze.

"When I was a kid," his dad said finally, "he worked for the State 
Department. He went out of town a lot on business, government
business. He  would come home and give me and Samantha a present he'd
brought for us, a  picture book or t-shirts or a little toy."

"Did he teach you how to play basketball?"

"Nah," his dad said. "I used to play with some of the other kids in
the  neighborhood. Mostly we taught ourselves."

"What about baseball?" Will asked.

His dad shook his head. "He was pretty busy," he said. "And he wasn't
really  a sports fan."

"What did you do with him, then?" he pressed.

His dad sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Will, to tell you
the  truth, we didn't do a whole lot together. I didn't really know
him."

<And I'd always promised myself that I wouldn't be like him,> Will
heard. < And yet here I am.>

"He was gone most of the time," his dad continued. "And even when he
wasn't  out of town, he brought work home to do."

"Then how come my mom named me after him?" Will asked, confused.

His dad studied him with weary eyes, looking very old to Will for the
first  time. The feelings coming off his dad were sad now, and Will
wished he'd  never asked about his dad's family at all. But it was too
late, and he didn't  know how to stop the almost fatigued sadness of
his dad's that Will could  feel.

"I think your mom chose your name to honor her father, too," his dad
said,  standing and rolling his shoulders slowly. "He was very
important to her. I  never met him, Will, but I'm sure he would've
loved you. He would've liked  being a grandfather."

His dad brushed Will's hair off his forehead, letting his hand linger
for a  moment on the back of his head and then along his neck before
pulling away  quickly, as if he wasn't sure he should touch him like
that. Will gave his  dad a little smile, wanting him to know that it
was okay. But his dad's hand  fell to his side, then stuffed into the
pocket of his jeans.

"And I think that your mom knew how much I loved my father," his dad
said as  he walked toward the hall. It was so soft that Will wasn't
sure he was even  meant to hear him. "In spite it all."

Will nodded, his fingertips pressing along the edge of the table. That
was a  feeling he could understand.

* * * * *
From: attalanta@aol.com
Subject: [all-xf] NEW: Song of Innocence 
Source: atxc

Title: Song of Innocence (18/23)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
October 19
11:21 pm


Will woke to see a girl bent over him. 

Her long dark hair tickled his chest as she pulled away and
straightened up.  She was wearing a nightgown, and Will guessed her to
be his own age or maybe  a little older.

"Sshh," the girl said, finger to her lips, before she stepped away
from his  bed. "They'll hear you."

Will stood and moved toward her, and his eyes caught the reflection in
a  full-length mirror mounted on the wall: a tall, dark-haired boy,
head hung  down, shoulders hunched, wearing a striped t-shirt and dark
pants. He looked  familiar, his eyes and mouth like Will's, his nose
more prominent and his  hair darker.

Will crouched down next to the girl, who was clutching the posts of a
banister and peering down into the family room tucked beneath the
lofted  bedroom.

There were two adults downstairs, and they were arguing. The woman, 
dark-haired like the little girl and like his own reflection, sat on
the  couch, elbows on her knees, her upper body hunched over. Her
cries echoed  through the house. The man paced in front of her, taking
short, angry  strides, his crisp words overpowering the woman's
tears.

"My baby," the woman cried, pushing the man's hand off her shoulder.

"I'm afraid, Fox. I'm afraid," the little girl said. She turned to
look at  him, dark eyes wide and tearful, and Will moved closer,
closer, then--

His body slammed up in bed, his pulse jackhammering in his ears.

"Mommy!" he screamed. "Mom!"

Will dashed out of bed and scampered into the hall, leaving Pup behind
in his  haste. Sleep-blind and panicked, he crashed through his mom's
half-closed  bedroom door, banging his knee against the doorframe and
crying out. He  scrambled a few steps across the cool floorboards,
then collided with the bed  and nearly fell down.

"Mommy," he cried out again, his stocking feet flailing against the
smooth  wood floor.

The nightlight in the bathroom lit the room enough for him to see that
the  person struggling to wake in his mom's bed was not his mom. Will
backed off a  few steps, reaching blindly for the wall behind him.

His dad sat up and rubbed at his eyes, then reached over to the
bedstand and  flicked the lamp on its lowest setting. He blinked
through the brightness as  though he didn't recognize Will.

"Where's my mom?" Will whispered, feeling surprised, angry, and more
than a  little betrayed.

His dad ran a hand through his sleep-spiky hair and finally focused on
Will  standing there, shivering in his short-sleeved t-shirt and
pajama pants.  "Downstairs," he said in a hoarse voice. "Grading
quizzes."

Will nodded and turned, slowly, to head downstairs. He wanted his mom
-- he  needed his mom. Maybe she was almost done and he could wait for
her to finish  and tuck him into bed, and tell him a story and kiss
him goodnight, and maybe  sit with him until he fell back to sleep,
like she did when he had a  nightmare before she went to bed.

"Wait," his dad said, setting his bare feet on the floor but not
getting out  of bed. "You okay?"

"I had a bad dream," he admitted.

"Scary?"

Will nodded, looked down at his feet.

"Come here," his dad said, and after a beat Will stepped back over to
the  bed. His dad scooted over and pulled back the covers, and Will
glanced  between him and the bed and the door, listening for the sound
of his mom  working downstairs. Sometimes she liked to put music on,
mostly piano music,  Rachmaninoff or Chopin, to keep her company while
she graded papers. But he  couldn't hear anything.

So Will crawled into bed, his mom's side, and it was warm and soft and
safe.  He curled into a ball, knees to his chest, the way he liked to
sleep after a  nightmare, because it made him feel like, if he wished
it hard enough, he  could disappear. His own Cloak of Invisibility. He
closed his eyes as his dad  reached over him to turn off the lamp.

"Wanna tell me about it?"

The hoarseness had left his dad's voice, and now it was low and deep
and  smooth, close to Will's ear even though his dad wasn't touching
him. He shook  his head, and the pillowcase rustled softly. It was
dark now, but instead of  being scared, Will felt safe.

"I used to have nightmares," his dad explained. "I still can't sleep 
sometimes."

"Really?"

"Uh huh," his dad said, sounding a little sad. "When I was your age, I
used  to wake up from a bad dream and hear my dad crunching on
sunflower seeds in  the next room. It was a comforting sound."

Will thought he knew the answer, but he asked anyway, made brave by
the cover  of darkness. "Did he come in and tuck you back into bed?"

His dad was quiet for a moment, and then he said, "No. He didn't."

"Your mom?" Will asked.

"No."

Will thought of how scared he was that first minute when he woke from
a  nightmare, when its realness was still possible and maybe even
lurking in his  darkened bedroom. Then he thought of how safe he felt
when he crawled into  bed with his mom, her arms around him,
surrounding him, protecting him. He  never had more than one nightmare
in a single night, because she was there to  comfort and calm him, and
to chase away his bad dreams. To keep him safe.

It made Will sad to think that his dad's mother had never crawled into
bed  with him, holding him until he fell back asleep, stroking his
hair and  assuring him that it was just a bad dream, that she was
there and it was all  going to be okay.

Closing his eyes, Will sunk deeper into the bed, letting the covers
bury him.  He scooted backwards, sliding across the cozy cotton sheets
until he bumped  up against a big warm body. He cradled himself in a
bed of thighs and hips  and ribs.

Not his mom, but maybe it would do.

Will felt his dad relax against him, his shoulders pressing gently
against  Will's. Then he slipped his arm around Will's waist and held
him against his  chest.

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
October 19
11:23 pm


Scully tugged her headphones off and let them fall to her collarbone
like a  necklace. She paused the CD in her Diskman -- a crashing
Beethoven symphony  chosen to keep her awake -- and trained her ears
upstairs.

She thought she had heard something, a sound or a cry, and her legs
had  already slid off the couch, readying to dash upstairs. Will and
Mulder had  gone to bed over an hour ago, which meant that it was
likely that they were  still awake. Still--

"Mommy!"

Scully was on her feet and untangling herself from the cord of her
headphones  before Will got the first syllable out. Finally she gave
up and jerked the  headphones from their jack, then sprinted upstairs,
the cord trailing behind  her. It sounded like Will's nightmare cry,
high in volume and pitch, high in  terror. Calling her 'Mommy' was
never a good sign.

She went to his bedroom and, though the door was open, Pup was the
only warm  body in the bed. Scully dropped to her knees and peered
beneath his bed, just  to make sure -- he had slipped in the small
space under there more than once  before, but she could usually hear
him, calling for her or sobbing her name.

He wasn't under the bed and he wasn't hiding in the closet. Finally
Scully  quieted the echoing pound of her heart in her ears enough to
hear soft voices  coming from the direction of her bedroom. She
sighed, pushed her hair behind  her ears, and stepped softly down the
hall.

"-- wake up from a bad dream and hear my dad crunching on sunflower
seeds in  the next room. It was a comforting sound." Mulder's voice
was soft with sleep  and memory, and Scully smiled and leaned back
against the wall with relief.

There was a pause, then Will's voice, small and scared-sounding, "Did
he come  in and tuck you into bed?"

Mulder's voice, pained, came back, "No. He didn't."

"Your mom?" Will asked.

"No."

Scully waited for Will's next question, waited for him to ask about
Mulder's  parents and his sister, like he'd been asking her with
increasing frequency  over the years.

She had never known what to tell him. Certainly her opinions of Bill
and  Teena Mulder, though largely lacking first-hand experience, were
not fit for  a child's consumption... especially when the child was
their grandson.

She hadn't known Bill Mulder, the man for whom she'd named her own
son, and  she had only Mulder's memories of the man to share. Memories
that, in her  opinion, were not suitable for a seven year old. So she
made do with what she  had, stretching the few happy memories Mulder
had shared with her and  changing the subject to her own father as
quickly as she could.

Neither had she met Samantha, unless you counted a mad dash past an
imposter  on a dark DC bridge. Yet she had read Samantha's diary and
shared bits of  that with Will, mostly Samantha's fledgling memories
of her brother and  parents. She said nothing about the girl's fear
and panic, nothing about the  tests or running away, and Scully could
only hope that Will could not pick up  on these facts.

A few months ago she'd realized with an irrational panic that Will was
almost  the same age as Samantha had been when she had disappeared.
Scully hadn't let  Will read the diary, at least not yet. She figured
it was not hers to give,  even though Mulder had left it quite
conspicuously in her apartment, a gift  whose meaning she couldn't
quite bring herself to try to understand.

And what Scully knew of Teena Mulder could fit inside a thimble. The
woman  was cold and emotionally distant and had serious issues that
had kept her  mellowed by Valium and had prevented her from loving the
only child she had  left. Needless to say, Scully, while she did
understand the woman's losses in  an eerie way, was not completely
sympathetic to Mulder's mother. Luckily,  Will did not ask about her
often, perhaps because he spent so much time with  his maternal
grandmother.

But when Will did ask, it was all Scully could do to keep herself from
saying, "I autopsied your grandmother's body. I cut into her skin with
my  scalpel, and only a thin sheath of latex kept me from touching her
heart. And  all I could think of as I poked and prodded and sampled
was the fact that,  even years later, a woman still carries in her
bloodstream the sloughed-off  cells of the children she once carried
in her womb."

Scully shivered and pushed the sleeves of her sweatshirt down to her
wrists,  then slipped her hands inside. Worried by the sudden silence,
she peered  around the corner and into the bedroom.

The lights were out, but the bathroom nightlight lit the room enough
for her  to see them in bed, Mulder's pale left foot peeking out from
beneath the  sheets, Will's tiny form huddled up against his father.

She stood and stared, suspecting they were not yet asleep but unable
to  motivate herself to go back downstairs to finish her work. Scully
closed her  eyes against her tears, trying to remember how many times
she'd watched this  scene, this exact scene, play out in her mind:
Mulder comforting Will,  protecting him, loving him.

But what she didn't understand was the unwelcome niggle of jealousy in
the  pit of her stomach. As soon as she identified the feeling, she
was fully  ashamed of it, ashamed of the selfishness and irrationality
in what she was  feeling.

But, still, the feelings, the childish part of her that still balked
at  sharing, remained. He's supposed to come to *me,* she thought. I'm
the one  who's been holding him and comforting him and protecting him
all these years.  I should be the one there with him; it should've
been me.

She held onto these feelings, trying to make sense of them, as she
padded  back downstairs and shuffled her half-graded quizzes into a
pile; she could  wake up early and finish them in the morning. After
turning out the lights  and checking the door locks, Scully went
upstairs and into the bedroom, the  twin sounds of Will's and Mulder's
soft snores guiding her way through the  dimly lit hall.

Scully stripped off her sweatshirt and, in her worn t-shirt and pajama
pants,  stepped toward the bed. There was just a sliver of mattress
left for her, so  she leaned over her son to push at Mulder's
shoulder. Still only  half-conscious, he scooted back in the bed,
pulling Will with him.

Then she slipped into her crowded bed, into the warm spot her son's
tiny body  had left. Scully closed her eyes and relaxed into the soft
mattress, feeling  Will's bony elbow jut into her rib. Carefully she
slid his arm over toward  Mulder, her hand lingering on her son's
until Mulder's hand found theirs,  joining in a tangle of fingers.

* * * * *

FBI Training Academy; Quantico, Virginia
October 23
12:09 pm


Scully kept two photographs in her office.

The first was Will's most recent school picture, surrounded by a
gray-green  glass frame that brought out her son's eyes. The picture
was on her desk,  facing her, and she liked the feeling it gave her
when she glanced at the  photo. It reminded her that she had something
other than this job, someone  who was waiting eagerly for her to come
home, armed with stories about school  and nuggets of information he'd
picked out of one of the books he was  reading. 

The other photograph was of Will and Mulder. Taken the day he'd left 
Washington, the picture was a reprint of a photo she'd pasted into the
Mulder  scrapbook she'd made for Will. It was printed on glossy
photograph paper by  the Gunmen's high-quality Hewlett Packard, so it
looked genuine, even though  it had been taken with a digital camera.
This photo was also framed, in a  honeyed strain of wood that had
matched the trim of her apartment.

But this picture had been locked away in her desk drawer ever since
she'd  moved into her new office at the end of both her maternity
leave and her  tenure with the X-Files.

She would have liked to have the photo on her desk, beside Will's
school  picture, but she hadn't dared. Scully had found out almost
immediately that  the rumor mill at Quantico could give the gossipers
at Headquarters a run for  their money. Not only had her professional
reputation preceded her, but her  personal one had as well. Or maybe
not, she thought. It had long been  difficult for her to delineate the
two; how could it be easier for anyone  else?

Her students' joking about the infamous X-Files division had been the
least  of her troubles once she'd realized that her colleagues all
knew something of  her relationship with Mulder, and that they were
not above kidding her about  it every now and then, joking that she
was looking for a partner (nudge  nudge, wink wink) for a particularly
overcrowded lecture she was teaching.  They spoke in voices kept low,
though not low enough, about the lover who'd  run off on her, leaving
her with a child to raise alone amidst a maelstrom of  rumors of
impropriety that had forced her from her position as a field agent.

It was no wonder that she longed for their old basement office with a
fondness that had, that first year at least, led to her doing more
work with  John and Monica than she'd intended. She hadn't wanted to
give any more fuel  to the Spooky Scully reputation that was forming
around her, so she had kept  the picture frame in her desk, hid away
safely along with her heart.

Now, her desk drawer open, Scully fingered the photograph. It was
silly,  really, she thought. She should have put it next to Will's
picture long ago,  back when she'd realized that there was nowhere in
the FBI that she truly  belonged. At least not anymore.

There was the basement office, which no longer felt like hers despite
John  and Monica's recurring invitation to join them on a full-time
basis. There  was Quantico, where she taught students who were more
curious about her  personal life than her medical expertise, where she
worked with colleagues  who were divided between awe at what now felt
like her former life and  intrigued by her personal reputation.

Scully knew it hadn't helped quell the rumors by giving her son
Mulder's last  name, but she had found, as she sat with the eraser end
of a pencil poised  above Will's birth certificate, that she could not
deny Mulder this one last  thing. She had been fully prepared for him
to be William Scully, even for the  Father section of his birth
certificate to remain blank, if that was what  Mulder wanted.

Scully sighed and slipped the picture frame out of her desk drawer.
She  fingered it for a minute, wondering why she hadn't set it on her
desk upon  Mulder's return. She'd tried to hide this from her
colleagues and, so far, it  seemed like she was doing a good job. She
hadn't yet heard any comments about  how her MIA lover had now
returned, and how she'd been nave and lovesick  enough to allow him
back into her home, back into her heart.

The truth was, Mulder's return had not seemed completely real until
just  recently, until the first night he spent at home with her and
Will, sipping  hot chocolate as the three of them eyed each other
uncertainly over a  Monopoly board. And then the two of them watching
each other uncertainly  after tucking Will into bed, both wondering,
What now? as they dressed for  bed with their backs to each other in
her darkened bedroom.

She knew so many things were still unsettled between them, between
Will and  Mulder as well as her and Mulder. He was sleeping in her
bed, but nothing had  passed between them except for several rather
chaste kisses and a handful of  warm embraces. And, as per their old
MO, they hadn't discussed any of it. 

When she asked him to move in, she'd known that he knew that there was
no  spare bedroom; either he would sleep in her bed or he would sleep
on the  couch, and she had been fearful as she trudged up the stairs
after sending  Will to help Mulder unpack, that he might have chosen
the couch.

But she found them in her bedroom, and she let out a breath she hadn't
realized she was holding. She knew, as her mother and her overworked
Catholic  guilt were apt to remind her, that it wasn't the ideal
situation for Will to  see her and Mulder share a bed without being
married. But Scully also knew  that it was a bit late to be worried
about such things when they already had  a child together, a child who
understood, as much as she felt was wise and  proper, the
circumstances of his birth.

Finally Scully set the picture frame on her desk, positioning it on
the  opposite corner from Will's photo so that, no matter which way
she looked,  she could see them looking back at her. She allowed
herself a small smile as  she glanced between the two frames, past and
present.

Her ringing phone jolted Scully out of her reverie, and she plucked
the  receiver off the phone. "Dana Scully," she said.

"Dana?" a familiar voice answered back. "It's Mom."

"Mom," she said. "Hi."

"I haven't heard from you in a while, dear," her mom said. "I was
starting to  worry, so I thought I'd just--"

"We're fine, Mom," Scully said, knowing full well that her mom had
come to  feel the same about this particular word as Mulder did.
Scully wondered how  long it would take to poison her son to 'fine' as
well.

Her mom's sigh came through loud and clear. "Dana--"

"Really, Mom," she assured her. "We're fine. Will's okay; I'm okay;
Mulder's  okay. There's nothing to worry about."

"What about Fox's therapy sessions?" her mom prodded. "How are those
going?"

"You should ask him," Scully said coolly, winding the phone cord
around her  thumb. "I'm sure he'd be glad to talk with you."

"Dana, please don't do this."

"Do what?" she asked innocently.

"You know full well what, Dana Katherine Scully," her mom said, and
Scully  rolled her head on her tense shoulders, sighing. Then her
mom's voice  softened. "Dana, don't be angry with me. I know you
weren't pleased by my  reaction to Mulder moving in with you and Will,
but I'm only trying to look  out for you," she said. "For all three of
you."

"I know, Mom," Scully told her.

"I do love Fox, Dana. You know that."

"Yes," she said. "You just love him more when we're not sleeping under
the  same roof."

Scully's below-the-belt jab did not miss its mark, and her mom's voice
was  sharp with recrimination. "Dana, that's not what worries me, and
you know  it."

She did know it, but Scully didn't want to deal with her mother's
concerns  just yet; she had plenty of her own to work out.

"This wasn't why I called you, Dana. I don't want to argue," her mom
said. "I  wanted to invite you for Thanksgiving. I've spoken to Bill,
and he and Tara  are flying up with the kids the Tuesday before. I was
hoping you and Will and  Fox would join us, at least for Thanksgiving
dinner."

"Why, Mom?" Scully asked bitterly. "So Bill can tell me how
irresponsible I  am for living with Mulder with Will in the house? No
thanks."

Her mom sighed. "Dana, have you even spoken to Bill since Fox's
return?"

"No," she admitted. She had called both Bill and Charlie the week
Mulder was  in the hospital, but she hadn't spoken to either of them.
She'd left a  message on Charlie's machine, a message he hadn't yet
returned, and she'd  talked with Tara, briefly.

"Well, I think he'd like to see you," her mom said. "It's been several
months, Dana -- since June. I'm sure Will would be happy to see his
cousins."

Don't bet on it, Scully thought, but said nothing. It was no secret
between he r and her son that he didn't enjoy visiting with his
cousins, especially Matt  and Patrick. They played roughly with him,
something she knew Will was not  used to but something she usually did
not try to stop. She felt bad that Will  was missing the camaraderie
and competition and, yes, the fighting typical of  a sibling
relationship, and this was the closest she could offer him.

It was their first holiday together, all three of them, and she wanted
to  spend it alone. That was all she wanted. Really. Scully knew that
Bill  wouldn't comment on her and Mulder's living arrangements. He had
learned  years ago that it wasn't wise to badmouth her son's father to
her face, or,  God forbid, to Will's. More likely Bill would ignore
Mulder's return,  probably ignore Mulder altogether, creating a
silence like a black hole,  pulling them all in.

Still, Margaret Scully could be unbelievably persistent when she
wanted  something, and Scully could tell that she wanted this. She
knew that she had  to give something to pacify the older woman.

"I'll talk to Mulder, Mom," Scully promised finally. 

"That's all I ask," her mother said, and Scully could almost hear her
smile  through the phone lines. "Thank you."

"Yeah," she said. "I'll talk to you later."

"Okay," her mom said. "Oh, and Dana...?"

"Yes?"

"Do call me after you and Fox discuss Thanksgiving," she said. "I know
this  is your first holiday together with Will, but just think how
nice it would be  to spend it with family."

"Yes," Scully said, defeated. "I'll call you, Mom."

They said their goodbyes and hung up, and Scully set the phone in its
cradle  and pushed back on her chair, frustrated.

She didn't particularly want to spend Thanksgiving surrounded by
family and  worried about Mulder fitting in. However, if Mulder
weren't there, if it were  just any ordinary holiday, that was exactly
how she and Will would spend it:  Thanksgiving dinner at her mother's
with her brother and his family. And part  of her didn't want to
change that just because Mulder was back; Will had  already had enough
upheaval recently, and she didn't want to add to it, to 
separate him from his family because of Mulder's return.

Scully sighed and stared intently at the photo of Will and Mulder now
sitting  on her desk, remembering back several nights to Will's
nightmare, to how he'd  gone to her for comfort, only to find Mulder
there in bed and find him  comforting.

Mulder had told her the whole story the next morning, not that she
hadn't  already worked it out for herself a hundred times over as she
turned  restlessly in bed beside her son. And Mulder had been so
proud, so excited,  that he hadn't even noticed her forced enthusiasm.
He hadn't realized that  inside she was still at war with herself,
trying to understand how she could  be so selfish as to not feel
complete happiness at the night's events.

Scully's mind drifted back a few years, to a warm summer day that
she'd gone  out to her car, parked in the Quantico lot, to discover
that it had been  broken into, the passenger's side windows smashed.
It appeared to be a random  break-in -- nothing had been taken, save
her favorite pair of sunglasses --  but it had jarred her just the
same, reminded her of a life she'd been both  trying to forget and
trying to keep alive, because it was the only way she  knew to hold
onto Mulder. For her son and for herself.

She had picked up the tiny shards of glass herself, kneeling on the
cold  concrete of her garage at home and warning her curious son to
stay back and  not touch anything.

But then, a week or so later, she had been driving Will to school when
he'd  squealed and jerked his hand out of the pocket of the
passenger's side door,  a drop of bright red blood showing on his
fingertip. It was another piece of  glass, a tiny shard that she had
somehow overlooked, and later she'd driven  to a car wash to get the
interior vacuumed out.

Still, six months after they'd done their job and all evidence of the
break-in seemed to have disappeared, she'd reached under the
passenger's side  seat to pull out her umbrella, only to slice her
hand open on yet another  small, blue-tinted square of window glass.

No matter how much time passed, no matter how thoroughly she thought
she'd  dealt with the problem, it always managed to one-up her, to
remind her that  it was part of her, not going away and not letting
her forget. And Scully  knew that, no matter how thoroughly she
searched, there would always be  another shard of glass there, waiting
to prick her when she least expected  it.

* * * * *

Continued in Part 19.

Title: Song of Innocence (19/23)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
October 30
4:31 pm


"Thanks, John," Will said as the car turned slowly onto Locust Street.
Will  waited for John to stop in front of his house like he usually
did, but  instead he pulled into the driveway.

"I thought I'd come in," John said gruffly.

"Okay," Will said, but he could sense John's nervousness, and he
wasn't  exactly sure what was going on, why John wanted to come inside
all of a  sudden. Usually he just dropped Will off, waiting to make
sure he got in  safely before pulling away. If John needed to talk to
his mom, he usually did  that when he came by to pick him up on a
weekend, or at work.

But John followed him out of the car and opened the backseat door to
take out  Will's Halloween costume... well, half of Will's Halloween
costume. He was  dressed as Fluffy, the three-headed dog from Harry
Potter, and his grandma  had made a great headpiece that fit over his
shoulders and around his head so  that he was the middle of the three
dogs.

John followed Will, carrying the headpiece up the few stone steps to
the  front door. Before going for his key, Will tried the doorknob and
found it  unlocked. He stepped inside, but John stood in the
doorframe.

"I'm home," he called, not sure who else was.

"In the kitchen, Will," his dad's voice responded.

So Will shucked his jacket and backpack, dropping them on a chair near
the  door, and went into the kitchen. He heard John closing the front
door and  setting down the headpiece as he stepped into the kitchen.
His dad stood at  the stove, his back to him. 

Will smiled as the smell of dinner overtook him. He loved his
grandma's  seafood marinara, something that she'd taught his dad to
make while he was  staying with her. Will was glad of that; his mom's
culinary talents, while  tolerable, certainly weren't up to the
challenge of most of his grandma's  recipes. 

His dad had made the same dinner the first night the three of them had
eaten  alone together. It was Tuesday night, Will remembered, because
his grandma  had stayed late and cooked dinner for all four of them on
Monday after  picking Will up from school.

"Can he cook?" Will remembered whispering to his mom as they stepped
into the  kitchen that night. She gave him a half-smile and shrugged.

"Wow," his mom had said as his dad dropped a handful of spaghetti
noodles  into the pot, a puff of steam fogging his glasses. "This
smells like..." His  mom had glanced around the kitchen. "Mulder, is
my mother here?"

"You wound me, Scully," his dad had said.

"You did this?"

He had nodded then, and Will had watched his mom sneak a finger into
the pot  of sauce on the stove, then smile after tasting the smear of
red on her  fingertip. "I'm impressed."

"Hey, kiddo," his dad said now, turning to smile at him. He wiped his
hands  on his apron, adding to the smears of tomato sauce that
decorated it.  "Taste?" he asked, and Will nodded. He watched as his
dad snagged a cube of  scallop, Will's favorite, from the simmering
sauce, blew on it to cool it,  then handed it to him. Will popped into
his mouth and smiled. Delicious.

"Good," he told him.

His dad flashed him a smile. "How was the party?"

"It was fun," Will said, dropping his small bag of treats on the
kitchen  table. The party had been great, actually, but Will wasn't
sure his dad  really wanted to hear about it. He and John had gone to
a Halloween party  thrown by the community center where they played
baseball sometimes, and his  dad had been giving off uncomfortable
feelings about it whenever Will's  grandma brought up the costume she
had made for him.

"What time did your mom say--?" He stopped short when he saw John
stepping  into the kitchen to stand beside Will. His dad's gaze darted
between John and  Will, and he set his mixing spoon down on the
stove.

"Mulder," John said evenly.

His dad nodded. "Nice... costume, Agent Doggett."

John looked down at the white glow-in-the-dark skeleton on his black
t-shirt.  It was his standard Halloween costume, Will knew; he had
worn it the previous  year when he'd gone out trick-or-treating with
Will.

Will glanced between the two men, then stepped out from between them.
He  found a carton of juice in the refrigerator and waited while his
dad reached  to the top shelf of the cabinet and handed him a juice
glass. Will didn't say  anything, but he thought that by now his dad
knew that he used the plastic  cups on the low shelf in the cupboard.
His mom had restricted him from the  glass juice tumblers after he'd
broken one accidentally-on-purpose to see if  he could use the thick
bottom as a microscope lens.

"Thanks," Will said to his dad, then poured himself some juice. He
sipped  from the glass, watching between his dad and John as his dad
put the juice  back in the fridge. Will could feel something like
jealousy move off both of  them. Will puzzled over this for a minute
while he finished his juice.

"I'm going to change out of my costume," Will told his dad, tugging on
the  soft stuffed tail his mom had pinned to the back of his pants
before school  that morning.

Will crept up the stairs and had even reached his room before
curiosity got  the best of him. He tiptoed back to the landing of the
stairs and sat down  against the railing, careful to stay behind the
line of shadows on the floor.  His dad and John must have moved into
the living room, because Will could  hear their voices without having
to strain.

"Skinner told me you turned down his offer," John started, and Will
wondered  what he meant. Had Mr. Skinner offered his dad his old job
back? And he  hadn't taken it?

His dad's voice was crisp. "And he sent you here to try to convince me
to  accept it?"

"Skinner doesn't know I'm here," John said.

"Why are you here?"

"I have my own offer," John told him. "You know that I started out
with the  NYPD. Well, one of the detectives I worked with left the
force a few years  back and went out on his own."

"An NYPD cop on his own," his dad scoffed. "I'm afraid to ask what
he's  doing."

John chuckled. "He's not on his own anymore," he said. "He's recruited
a few  partners. Another detective. A former CIA agent who was injured
in the line  of duty and left the Agency."

"To do what? Reminisce about life as a low-paid, under-appreciated
public  servant?"

"To investigate," John said.

"Investigate?"

"Yeah."

"Investigate what?" his dad asked, his voice drained of patience.

"Just hear me out, Mulder," John said. "This cop -- my friend -- his
nephew  was kidnapped about ten years ago. He helped with the
investigation but he  was frustrated with how slow it moved. The
nephew was twelve when he  disappeared, and because the cops
considered him a runaway, they didn't look  for him too hard."

"Did they?" his dad asked. His voice had softened into a gentle
whisper.  "Find him?"

"Eventually," John said, lowering his voice. But Will could still hear
him,  though barely. "He'd been taken by some guy down the street,
locked in the  guy's cellar. The kid got away with only minor physical
injuries, but  emotionally..."

His dad sighed loudly, and Will could picture him gently kneading the
bridge  of his nose like he did when he was tired. "Why are you
telling me this,  Doggett?"

"I think you know why," John said. "After that bust, my friend the cop
started a little investigative team of his own. They're pretty well
known  with local law enforcement and the FBI -- hell, Monica and I
have even  referred a case or two to them -- and they work on their
own. Cases the  police won't or can't take, for various reasons."

"Won't take?" his dad asked.

"Not missing long enough to file a missing persons. A troubled kid
who's a  presumed runaway," John said. "You know the type. Usually the
cops want to  help, but their hands are tied. So they give my friend a
call and he'll take  a look. They've got a pretty good rapport with
some of the local PDs."

"And your friend's not interested in keeping that good rapport?"

"He's heard about you, Mulder, and he's impressed," John said.

"Then he's crazy," his dad said. "Or just really desperate."

"Or a little bit of both," John said with a laugh. "Look, Mulder, 
unfortunately, there isn't a shortage of these kinds of cases, and
they're  looking for some help on a consulting basis. They want
someone with  experience in law enforcement, maybe a background in
profiling. I mentioned  your name. I told him I didn't know what you
were planning to do -- or if  you're even interested in consulting --
but he wants you to call him if  you're interested."

"I'm not going back to profiling," Will heard his dad say, and his
voice had  returned to that cool distance.

"They're not looking for a profiler exactly," John said. "Just someone
with  that sort of experience: going over the clues of a crime scene,
working with  family, suspects, and law enforcement."

His dad gave a conciliatory grunt. "Lots of travel?"

"Some," John said. "But they can work around that if it's a deal
breaker. One  of the investigators has two little kids and she doesn't
travel anymore. Most  of the work can be done from a distance. Just
think about it, Mulder. You've  gotta do something."

"Mmm," his dad grunted.

"Look," John said, and Will could hear his footsteps head toward the
front  door. "I know it's none of my business, and I'm sure you don't
want me  butting in."

"Yeah," his dad said again.

"But here's my friend's number. Call him, go see him, do what you
want; just  do something," John said. "Do it for her, Mulder. Do it
for both of them."

"Doggett--"

"No," John said. "Just listen to me for a minute. I know you've had it
rough  these past few years, but so have they. Damnit, Mulder, do you
know what I--  Do you know how many men would give their right arm to
be where you are now?

"A woman who loves you, who's waited for you for seven years. A son
who's  wanted nothing more than to have you in his life."

Then John's shoes slapped against the wooden floor of the foyer, and
Will  scrambled up a few steps, not wanting to be spotted snooping. He
fingered the  soft end of his tail thoughtfully. Despite his new
hiding place, Will could  see them now, see their feet, John's loafers
stepping out the front door and  his dad's bare feet following him. He
stood at the door for a long time,  watching out the tiny etched-glass
window. Just watching.

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
October 30
10:52 pm


Will went to bed early that night. If his mom thought that was strange
at  all, she didn't say anything. Probably she thought he was worn out
from the  excitement of the Halloween party. She just kissed him
goodnight and told him  "Sweet dreams" and sent him on upstairs.

Lost in his own world and not ready to let anyone in yet, Will was
glad. All  night he'd been thinking about John's visit, about his
conversation with his  dad. About the strange vibe of jealousy that
he'd felt between the two men.

Will sighed and shifted in bed, reaching around his ankles to find
where Pup  had slipped to. He found the stuffed dog and pulled him up,
setting his face  on the pillow next to Will's own.

Why jealousy? Will wondered. And who was the jealous one? At first
he'd  thought it was his dad who was jealous of John since his dad had
been away  for so long. But then, after John had left, Will replayed
his last words in  his mind, how it sounded like John was jealous. Of
course he and John had fun  together, and Will knew that John liked
his mom, a lot. But, even though Will  had thought about it -- about
the possibility of his mom and John together,  married, the three of
them a family -- Will had just never realized that John 
might have thought about it, thought about it seriously enough to envy
his  dad.

Will closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but he couldn't help but
overhear  the voices drifting into his room from the study.

"I had a visitor today, Scully," he said, his voice low but loud
enough for  Will to hear through the vents and the half-open doors.

"Who?"

"Agent Doggett," he said, amused.

"Really." 

"Know what he wanted?" his dad asked, barely pausing. "He had a job to
offer  me," his dad said. "Working with an old NYPD friend of his who
went solo a  few years ago."

"Mmm," she said absently. "I think he told me about him once.
Investigates  kidnappings mostly, right?"

"Yeah," he said, and then gave a long pause.

"I'm considering it," his dad admitted, his voice soft again. "The
salary's  nothing spectacular and it's on a consultant basis so the
benefits are almost  non-existent, but I'd be doing something with a
purpose again."

"Whatever you want, Mulder," his mom said. "The salary isn't an issue,
and  Will's covered under my insurance, of course. We're fine." His
mom's voice  was soft, a little distracted, and Will wondered if she
was doing something  else as they talked. Trying to grade papers or
organize lecture notes.

"Damnit, Scully!" His dad's voice erupted, echoing through the
night-quiet  house. Will lay there, raging on the inside, and torn
between burrowing  further into his bed and crying out. Stop it! he
wanted to shout. Don't yell  at my mom! 

"Why can't you just admit that you need me for something?"

"What are you talking about?" Will recognized his mom's tone, her
usual slow  simmer of anger. Nothing like his dad's voice, the harsh
cut of which seemed  to still be ricocheting through the house.

"What am I talking about?" Now his dad's voice was biting. Crisp.
"'The  account you left for Will is all there, Mulder. I didn't need
it.' *That's*  what I'm talking about. Or what about, 'We've been
fine, Mulder. I've taken  care of things'? We don't need you, Mulder.
That's what I'm *fucking* talking  about."

Will's mouth dropped open. He had never heard anyone use the f-word,
not in r eal life. He'd heard it in a few movies his mom didn't know
he'd watched with  his cousins, and he'd heard some grown-ups think
it. Not him mom, but John,  once, when he was driving and had to
swerve to avoid a semi-truck.

"Mulder. I never said--" His mom's slow simmer had ended, and her
voice  sounded as tight as his dad's did now, a fury there that Will
didn't  recognize. 

His stomach did a flip-flop as the study door swung shut, just soft of
a  slam. Will crawled out of bed and into the hall, careful not to
disturb the  creaky floorboard outside his door.

He could hear them, but just barely. Some words squeezed under the
door and  into the hall, but others bounced back, lost to him, echoing
through the  tension in the study.

But Will didn't need the words to understand what they were saying.
The anger  came through, loud and clear, and the hurt. He sat down
against the wall and  tucked his feet up under him, hugging his knees
to his chest. He rocked  himself.

Then his dad's voice rose again. "... always in control. Always fine.
You  don't need me for anything."

"I don't understand why you're so angry, Mulder," she said. "Of course
we  need you. Will needs--"

"This isn't about Will," his dad said. "And don't use him like that.
I'm  talking about you needing me. Or even wanting me."

His mom's voice was soft, and half-lost to Will. "... last time... to
pressure you... seven years, not a few months. I thought you'd need
some time  again."

His dad's reply faded into the steady bonging of eleven o'clock on the
grandfather clock downstairs, the sound that came into his room
through the  heating vents and helped lull him to sleep.

But not tonight, Will thought as he lifted Pup to sit on his knees. He
brought the stuffed dog's nose to his lips and gave him a careful
kiss, then  pressed him against his chest.

"It's okay, Pup," he said softly, rubbing the dog's soft ears against
the  underside of his chin. "It's okay."

* * * * *

Continued in Part 20.

Title: Song of Innocence (20/23)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
October 30
11:25 pm


"Seven years is a long time, Scully," Mulder said softly as he fell
back  against the couch cushions.

You're telling me, she thought, refusing to glance around the room and
remind  herself of the changes that had come over her life since
Mulder left.  Instead, she paced the room unseeingly, wearing a track
that she'd first set  when Will's abilities started presenting
themselves in ways she could no  longer deny. She remembered his
loneliness when he came home from  kindergarten and realized that none
of the other children there were like  him.

Not that he expected them to be able to read his mind -- Scully had
made sure  that he understood the rarity and secrecy of that gift --
but he was dismayed  to discover that none of them could even read a
book.

All she said now was, "I know."

"You said you thought I'd need time. But I've had time, plenty of
time," he  said.

"Yes," she said. "Time you can't account for."

"I don't need to account for it," he insisted. "I look at Will and I
see how  much I've missed... Scully, please. Please don't shut me
out."

Of course that wasn't what she was doing. He was living there with
them,  participating in Will's life every day, driving him to school
and playing  basketball in the driveway and tucking him in at night.
She was *not*  shutting him out.

But then she remembered how she'd felt standing outside the door of
her  bedroom, hearing Mulder and Will in there, alone. Hearing Mulder
give Will  the kind of comfort only she had been able to give him
before.

Was she shutting him out?

"I'm... I'm not trying to," she said in a small voice.

He nodded. "I know."

She sighed. It made sense; it all made sense, Mulder not wanting to
miss any  more of Will's life. That she understood; after all, she
suspected would feel  the same way, if she were him, if she were the
one coming to know their son  for the first time.

But that didn't change the seven years she had spent being both mother
and  father to Will, the missed first words and first steps... the
first time he  had spoken her thoughts aloud. Scully shivered.

"And I don't know what it was like for you," he said. "You've only
told me  bits and pieces, and I know I can't ever really understand. I
know that. But  I can't help feeling like you don't want me here, like
you're only tolerating  my presence because you think it's the best
thing for Will."

He turned his head away from her, then said softly, "Like we're only
sharing  a bed because there isn't another one."

"No," she insisted. "Mulder, no. I do want you here. I just-- I didn't
want  to pressure you in case... in case this wasn't what you
wanted."

"Not what I wanted?" he asked, incredulous, his eyes meeting hers
again.  "Scully, I've been as clear as I know how in telling you what
I want: I want  the life that I was forced out of seven and a half
years ago.

"What I want to know is, what do you want?" he asked, his soul laid
bare on  his face. His eyes were wide, his features relaxed into a
pained expression  that she saw on Will's face all too often.

What *did* she want?

Until he asked, Scully hadn't really wondered. She had reacted on
autopilot,  falling into an old pattern of coming to Mulder's rescue,
rehabilitating him,  helping him back on his feet. She hadn't allowed
herself the luxury to stop  and wonder where this was all headed
except in a roundabout way, when she  thought of what Will needed from
the situation.

Suddenly Scully understood her mother's objections. At the time she'd
brushed  them aside, knowing that her mother didn't exactly approve of
unmarried  couples living together, sharing a bed. Even if they did
have a seven year  old son. Even if their relationship was as chaste
as it had been in the first  years of their partnership, when an
unintentional touch was enough to set  them both on edge for days.

She'd told herself that her mom didn't know Mulder like she did,
didn't know  what it was like to finally allow yourself to feel a love
that you'd fought  against for years, only to have that love taken
away from you not once but  twice. To believe that love lost for
good.

"I want this," she said softly, reaching for his hand. He allowed her
to fit  their fingers together, and she raised their hands to her lips
so she could  kiss the back of his hand. "I want us.

"And not just for Will," she assured him. "I've missed you, Mulder.
And maybe  it's bothered me that you can't remember most of these
seven years because I  remember them. I remember every day of them,
waking up and wondering, will  this be it?

"Will this be the day that you come back to me? Will this be the day
that I  learn that you're never coming back? Or will this be the day
that they take  Will away from me forever?"

"God, Scully, I'm sorry," he said, using their linked hands to pull
her  toward him.

She went willingly, her head falling against his shoulder. He held her
gently, not pushing, waiting for her. God, I love this man, Scully
thought.  Separated from them for seven years, with gaps in his memory
big enough to  step through, and he was the one comforting her.

She pulled back slightly, and his grip immediately loosened. Scully
just  smiled, reaching up to cup his cheeks. She pressed her lips to
his, enjoying  the small sound he made in response, enjoying the
kiss.

The gentle bong of the hall clock jolted them apart, and they smiled
at each  other, almost sheepishly. Scully found Mulder's hand with her
own and  squeezed it.

"This isn't just for Will," she reminded him. "This is for us, too.
We've had  so many obstacles, so many... Maybe this is a chance for
all of us, you and  me and Will--

"Will," she said, pulling back from Mulder in sudden realization. "Oh
God,  Mulder, do you think he heard us?"

"Heard *me,* Scully," he said. "I was the one shouting. I'm sorry.
I--"

"Maybe, to move forward," she said thoughtfully as she stood and
stepped  toward the door. "We need to stop saying that we're sorry for
the past.  You're sorry for leaving, and I'm sorry for convincing you
to go."

Mulder stood and moved to join her at the door. "You're sorry for
pushing me  away, and I'm sorry for pushing too hard."

She nodded once, resolute. She took his hand again and gave it a quick
squeeze. "He isn't used to this kind of arguing," Scully said, running
her  other hand through her hair. "We've probably scared him. I should
go talk  with him."

"*We* should go talk with him," Mulder corrected, and she nodded,
offering  him an apologetic smile.

They opened the door to see Will asleep in the hall, slumped up
against the  bathroom doorframe, huddled into a little ball. His head
rested awkwardly on  his shoulder, and Pup was tucked under his chin.

Mulder bent down and scooped him off the floor, carefully juggling him
until  Will's head rested against Mulder's chest. Pup dropped to the
ground, and  Scully snatched the stuffed dog up, then followed Mulder
into Will's bedroom.

Something clenched in her as she watched Mulder carry their son down
the  hall. His grip was gentle but not uncertain, and Will shifted a
bit in  Mulder's arms, his head lolling against his father's shoulder.
Will's feet  hung off to the side, kicking gently at the air. Mulder
paused at the door to  Will's room, carefully stepping inside, mindful
of his cargo. 

Finally Mulder set Will in the bed, and Scully reached around to fit
Pup  under her son's limp arm. Mulder pulled the sheets and quilt up
around Will,  and Scully pushed his sweaty hair off his face. Then
they each leaned down to  kiss Will's forehead.

They were halfway to the door when Will's voice, scratchy and soft,
stopped  them. "Are you leaving again?"

Scully turned to see Will pulling himself into a half-sitting
position, Pup  clutched tight against his chest.

"No," Mulder said, the loudness of his voice tearing through the
sleepy  warmth of the bedroom. He dropped his voice. "I'm not
leaving."

"'Kay," Will said, snuggling Pup.

Mulder turned back to the door, but Scully stepped toward the bed.
"Will, I'm  sure you heard us arguing," she said.

He nodded, eyes wide.

"It probably scared you." He gave another little nod, then moved over
in bed.  Scully took her cue and slid in beside him, and they both
looked up at  Mulder, who stood watching them, hands shoved in his
pockets, looking out of  place.

Will scooted down in the bed and pushed the half-dozen stuffed animals
onto  the floor. Mulder hesitated for a second, then joined them on
the bed.

"I'm sorry we frightened you," she said, again pushing Will's hair off
his  forehead. "I know you've never heard anything like that before,
but sometimes  adults argue. We didn't mean for you to hear us,
though, Will. We don't want  to fight in front of you."

"Why were you fighting?" he asked, looking at Mulder this time. The
sharp,  defensive look in his eyes, plus their positions on the bed,
made it  impossible for her to ignore Will's protectiveness of her.
She stifled a  smile as she stroked his hair. Good boy, she thought.

"Well," Mulder hedged. "We've got a lot of things to figure out."

"Like what?"

"Well, like where I'm going to work. How we're going to live. Things
like  that."

It all sounded so very small when Mulder said it aloud, Scully
thought. Had  they really been arguing about Mulder's job? No, she
thought; it didn't  matter to her whether Mulder worked with John's
friend or took the civilian  profiling job Skinner had offered him. Or
even if he chose to just start on  the book he'd been mentioning more
and more often these days. As long as he  was content and there with
them, that's all she cared about. As long as the  three of them were
together.

Will looked up at her uncertainly, and Scully nodded. "We might fight
sometimes, Will, like all parents do. But that doesn't mean we don't
love  you. And it doesn't mean that your dad is leaving."

"Do you promise?"

This time Will looked to Mulder for affirmation. He nodded, and his
hand  found Will's foot under the covers. "I promise," he said. "I'm
not leaving  you again."

Mulder looked at Will as he spoke, but she knew the message was
intended in  equal amount for her.

* * * * *

Oak Hill School, Georgetown
November 2
9:12 pm


The cafeteria was crowded and overbright, warm from body heat and four
oversized metal coffee pots whose red indicator lights blinked from
the  refreshment table pushed against one wall. Plates of homemade
desserts  crowded on the tables, their saran wrap covers reflecting
the glare of the  overhead lights.

Mothers and fathers pushed past one another, jockeying for table
space.  Younger siblings clung to their parents, blinking sleepily at
their busy  surroundings. A half-dozen teenaged siblings congregated
on the radiators  near the windows, rolling their eyes and glancing at
their watches as they  bemoaned growing mountains of homework and the
fact that they wouldn't get  home in time for their favorite TV
program.

Scully poked through the crowd, cursing the disadvantage of her height
in  trying to locate the table Mulder had set out to secure for them.
Finally she  found it, not by the easily camouflaged gray turtleneck
Mulder wore, but by  her mother's sweater, which was decorated with
fall leaves in orange and red  and yellow, and called out to Scully
like a beacon.

But still it took her several more minutes to push past the other
families,  nearly stepping on a little girl, not more than two years
of age, who was  streaking away from her father.

"Sorry," the man called behind him as he dodged the crowd, eyes
riveted to a  pair of fast-moving blond pigtails. "'Scuse me."

Scully smiled at the man's retreating form, watching as he caught up
with the  little girl and swung her into his arms. The girl squealed
as she flew up  into the air, then quieted as she took in her new
panoramic view. Scully  watched the father head back over to a corner
table, stopping to greet a  woman holding an identically dressed
little terror who immediately wanted  *her* turn with Daddy. The
runaway twin reached out for her sister, and the  father grunted as he
took her from her mother, juggling them so that he held 
one toddler in each arm. Again the runaway reached out for her sister,
this  time gently patting her rosy cheek.

"There you are."

Her mother's voice caught her attention then, and Scully moved the
rest of  the way through the crowd and slumped into one of three empty
chairs at their  table.

"Fox and Monica went to get some refreshments," her mother told her.
She  pointed toward the tables against the wall. "There they are
now."

Scully craned her neck to see Mulder and Monica weaving through the
crowd,  each balancing a paper plate holding three styrofoam cups and
a handful of  desserts. John stood as they came closer and Monica's
hand wavered, causing  coffee to cascade over the side of the cup. He
nabbed the cup, but not before  it splashed onto the plate and the
cuff of his sleeve.

"Whoa," Monica said as she set the plate down. "Sorry, John. You
didn't get  any napkins, did you?" she asked Mulder, who shook his
head.

"I'll go," Scully, slipping out of her chair and heading in the
general  direction of the refreshment tables, which she couldn't
actually see because  of the many taller head bobbing around her.
Finally she found the table and  grabbed a handful of napkins.

Then she caught sight of a familiar-looking woman. She was tiny, short
and  small-boned, and her pale brown hair was cropped. She stood in
profile,  sipping from a steaming cup of coffee, and she seemed to be
alone. As Scully  brushed past her, she caught sight of her nametag,
which read "Patti" but  didn't help her place the woman's face. Still,
she had a strange feeling that  she should know this woman, that she
had seen her somewhere before, but she  figured that it was likely
from a previous school event; after all, the woman  didn't seem to
recognize her either.

"Dana," a voice called then, and Scully scanned the crowd for its
source.  "Dana Scully?"

A hand clamped on her shoulder and Scully turned. The woman standing
behind  her was tall and dark-haired, with a pleased smile on her
face. "Dana, how  nice to see you," she said. "Kathy Dade. We met at
the teacher conferences  for the Georgetown program?"

"Right," Scully said, shaking the woman's hand. "Nice to see you
again."

"I saw Will up there," Kathy told her. "Hard to miss with his hair."

Scully smiled. The stage lights had turned her auburn-haired son into
a true  redhead, and it hadn't been tough to spot Will among the crowd
of Hobbits on  the stage.

"And his costume was adorable," Kathy continued. "Did you make it?"

Scully shook her head. "My mother," she said. "She's been working on
it for  weeks."

"That's nice for Will to have her close by," Kathy said. "Paul's
grandparents  live in Florida, so he doesn't see them often. Although
Miami is an awfully  nice place to spend Christmas."

Scully chuckled. "I know what you mean. Since her other grandchildren
live so  far away, my mother gets to focus all her grandparenting
energy on Will."

Kathy nodded. "And his other grandparents?"

"It's just my mother," Scully explained. "The other three died before
Will  was born."

"I'm sorry," she replied quickly enough, though Scully caught a
confused look  pass over the other woman's face. "I know--"

"Scully!"

Both women turned to see Mulder heading toward them, cutting expertly
through  the crowd. "Doggett wanted water, too," he explained,
stepping around them to  grab a plastic cup of water. "To help get the
stain out of his shirt." He  glanced down at the napkins she still
held in her hand.

"Right," Scully said. "Sorry." She shot a glance over at Kathy, who
glanced  uncertainly between them. "I just got caught up--"

"It's my fault, really. I'm afraid I've tied Dana up here with small
talk,"  Kathy interrupted, shooting Mulder an apologetic smile as she
offered him her  hand. "Kathy Dade. My son Paul is in the same class
as Dana's son," she said.

"Fox Mulder," he said, taking her hand.

"Mulder?" she asked with an indiscreet peak at his nametag and then at
the  ring finger of his left hand. "And you--?"

"I'm Will's dad," he said.

"Oh. *Oh,*" she said, glancing between Mulder and Scully. Scully
suppressed a  sigh, guessing that Kathy Dade must have overheard her
conversation with  Will's teacher at the teacher conferences, if she
was that surprised to see  Will's father in attendance.

Scully drifted from the conversation as Kathy made small talk with
Mulder,  smiling and touching his arm when he said something she found
particularly  funny. Instead, Scully thought about what Kathy had said
-- or, rather, what  she hadn't said. Her surprise at Mulder's
presence.

She thought about the strange story that made for Mulder's sudden
return and,  perhaps for the first time, wondered how she would
explain it to people. Her  mother and John and Monica and Skinner
understood the situation, at least as  much as anyone did, so no
explanations had been necessary. And since she'd  learned long ago to
be closed-mouthed about personal issues, she needn't give 
any explanation to her colleagues at Quantico.

Scully also knew that her brothers wouldn't require much. Bill, after
some  initial awkwardness, was content to pretend that Mulder had
never existed and  Will had been conceived by some human version of
mitosis, picking up his Y  chromosome by accident along the way.
Charlie, who had lived on the West  Coast for years, had never met
Mulder and barely knew Will, so she was safe  on that front as well.

But now she wondered what kind of story they'd have to spin for the
others.  Scully knew that she didn't owe Kathy Dade any explanations
-- let her  wonder, especially if her information was gained solely by
eavesdropping --  but there were others. Their neighbors, Will's
teachers and his pediatrician,  her lawyer: people who played
supporting roles in their lives. How could she  explain this to them?

Kathy's exaggerated laugh interrupted Scully's thoughts and she looked
up at  Mulder. "We'd better get back," she said. "I'm sure John would
appreciate the  napkins and water."

Mulder's smiled was grateful as he stepped away from Kathy. "It was
nice  meeting--" he began but was interrupted by a stocky little boy
with Kathy's  dark hair and eyes.

"Did you see me, Mom?" he asked as she exchanged the tote bag he was
carrying  for a cookie and cup of punch. "Did you see me up on the
stage?"

"Of course, darling," she said, stooping to kiss him on the forehead
before  straightening and smiling over at Mulder and Scully. "How
could I miss the  cutest little face up there? Remembering all your
lines and everything!"

Paul smiled proudly but dodged his mother when she tried to bend to
press a  kiss on his forehead. "Mo-om," he intoned, and Kathy giggled
and settled for  a sideways hug, which made Paul roll his eyes.

Then Scully caught sight of her own son moving through the crowd of
people,  his hair giving him away much as she figured her own did.
"Will," she called  out. "Will!"

He saw her and slowly stepped through the crowds of proud parents and
overexcited students, his backpack bumping against his shoulder as he
moved.

"Good job, sweetie," she said when Will finally neared their small
huddle. He  reached up for a hug, and she pulled him past the man
standing behind her and  into her arms. When they finally pulled
apart, she passed Will over to Mulder  for his hugs and congratulation
s.

Will's face, which was glowing as his dad set him back on his feet,
quickly  fell when he saw Kathy and Paul Dade standing beside them.
His expression was  anxious as he dug his hands deep in the pockets of
his jeans and darted his  eyes back and forth between Paul and his
mother.

"Well, hello, Will," Kathy said, smiling down at him in a phony way
that  Scully could tell did not fool Will. "I was just telling your
mother how  adorable your little costume was."

Will looked up at Scully with a pinched expression and she nodded at
him.   "Thank you," he said softly, his eyes meeting Mrs. Dade's for a
second before  he looked down again. 

"We'd better get back," Scully told as she smiled down at her son.
"I'm sure  John, Monica, and Grandma are anxious to see you, too."
Will grinned up at  her thankfully, and she reached out for his hand,
which slipped out of his  pocket to find hers.

"Nice seeing you again," Kathy called out as they stepped into the
crowd.

"Yes," Mulder called back with an insincerity that Scully guessed only
she  could have detected. But then Will gave her hand a tiny squeeze
and she  thought, Maybe not.

Scully felt Will's small warm body pressed to her front and Mulder's
larger  form pressed behind her as they threaded through the families
of Will's  classmates. For the first time that night she glided
through the crowd  easily, trusting Mulder to steer them in the
direction of their table. On the  way they passed Will's teacher, who
stood talking with a small girl and her  parents. She waved at them
and as Will returned the gesture, Scully smiled at  her.

Finally they reached the table, where Will was greeted by a modest
amount of  cheers. Mulder passed the cup of water over to John, who
used it to wet the  napkins Scully gave him and dab at his shirt
cuff.

"Come here, sweetheart," her mother said, gathering Will on her lap.
Mulder  reached around to slip the straps of Will's backpack off his
shoulders and  loop them over his own arm. "What a wonderful job you
did up there! We're all  so proud of you."

Will beamed at her, then smiled around the table at John and Monica as
well.  "I didn't know you were coming," he told them.

"Wouldn't miss it," John said, reaching over to ruffle Will's hair.
"Sorry to  rush out, kiddo, but we've gotta go. If I'm gone too long,
Murry leaves me an  unpleasant surprise in one of my shoes."

Will giggled and the rest of the table joined in his laughter. Murry
was  John's German Shepherd who wasn't yet convinced that, despite his
advanced  age of four, he was no longer a puppy.

Scully was surprised to see Monica also rise from the table with John,
and  she shot the other woman an amused look. "We drove over
together," Monica  explained, shaking her head at Scully's knowing
grin. She and John collected  their coats and John nabbed one last
cookie from the half-empty plates in the  center of the table.

Will stood as they moved to leave, grabbing Monica in a hug. "I'm glad
you  came," he said as he let go of Monica, who smiled down at him.

"Well, you made a great little Hobbit, Will," she told him.

"That's right," John said. "And if you're interested, there are a few
more  books about the Hobbits. I've got Lord of the Rings stuffed away
somewhere,  if your parents don't have a copy. We can look for it the
next time you come  over to play with Murry."

"Thanks, John," Will said as they broke out of their hug.

Will climbed back into his grandmother's lap then, but Scully watched,
surprised as Mulder stood and turned to John, his hand held out. As
they  shook, Scully could hear Mulder, in a soft voice, say, "Doggett,
er... John?"

John turned, surprised to hear his given name. "Yeah?"

"Thank you," he said. "For everything." His voice was thick and
weighted with  meaning, and Scully admired the strength she knew this
required of Mulder.

"It's my pleasure," John said with just as much meaning as his hand
slipped  out of Mulder's grasp. Scully watched then as John and Monica
stepped through  the crowd together, and she smiled when she saw, just
before they disappeared  into a large, boisterous family, John take
Monica's hand.

She felt Mulder's eyes on her then, and Scully turned to face him. He
gave a  suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows and shot a glance back over
to John and  Monica's retreating forms. Scully shrugged in response.
She had learned long  ago to steer clear of that situation. While
Scully was familiar with the  struggles of a turning a working
partnership into something more, she didn't  pretend to understand the
complications involved in that particular  relationship. There was
history there that she would never understand, both  in the personal
guise of John's son's death and in the professional  partnership the
two had shared in the past seven years.

Mulder scooted his chair closer to hers then, slipping his arm around
her  waist. His hand rested there a minute, then slid over to her
back, his finger  gently tracing a remembered circle on the base of
her spine. Scully shivered  and, feeling her sudden movement, Mulder
chuckled and slipped his thumb  beneath the back of her shirt to graze
along the waistband of her pants.

"Is that okay, Mom?"

Scully shot Mulder a warning look before she turned to face her son,
who was  nibbling the corner of a smashed brownie. "What, sweetie?"

"Going over to John's this weekend," he said. "Grandma said the
weather might  be nice enough to take Murry to the park."

"We can ask John," she told him, "but it's fine with me."

Then Will glanced over at Mulder, his eyes asking the question for
him.  Mulder gripped her waist tighter as he answered, "Sounds like a
plan. And  maybe we'll get a chance to play some basketball, too, if
the weather stays  nice," he said, and Will nodded.

"Dana, I'd better head out," her mom said then, taking a last sip from
her  cup of coffee. "It's getting late."

Scully nodded. She knew her mother didn't enjoy driving in the dark.
"We  should probably go, too," she said with a glance at her watch.
"School  tomorrow."

Will groaned but slid off his grandmother's lap. The four of them
gathered  the empty cups and plates and found the nearest trash can on
their way out of  the cafeteria.

As they stepped into the hall, Will turned to Mulder and gave his
sleeve a  little yank. Mulder bent down for Will to whisper something
in his ear, then  straightened up again.

"We're gonna make a pit stop in the men's room first," Mulder told
them. "You  wanna--"

"I'll wait outside for you," she told them. "Near the side door where
we came  in." After Will hugged his grandmother goodbye, Scully and
her mom watched  Mulder and Will head into the considerably emptier
hall. Still, Will took his  dad's hand to lead him to the nearest
restroom. Scully turned toward her mom,  a smile on her face, when the
crowd finally swallowed them up.

"Thanks for coming, Mom," she said. "And for making Will's costume."

Her mother nodded, then pulled her into a hug.

"I'm sorry," Scully whispered while they were still holding each
other.

"Sorry for what?" her mom asked, pulling away slightly.

"The day I told you I was going to ask Mulder to move in with us," she
explained. "Your concerns were valid, Mom, and they were shared out of
love.  I shouldn't have dismissed them like that. I'm sorry."

Her mom chuckled, and Scully raised a suspicious eyebrow at her.
"Dana, I was  just going to say that I'm sorry I even brought that up.
It really wasn't any  of my business."

"No, Mom, it's okay," she told her. "You were just trying to help."

Her mom nodded then and pulled her into another embrace. "Everything's
okay,  though, Dana, isn't it?" she asked, concerned by her daughter's
words. "Has  something happened? They seem to be getting along so
well..."

"No, they're good, Mom," Scully assured her. "We're all good. You're
right,  though, that it is an adjustment--"

"But it would've been an adjustment no matter when you did it," her
mother  said. "Even if Fox had lived on his own for a year to give
Will some time to  get to know him better, it would've been another
adjustment when he finally  did move in."

Scully nodded, pleased that her mother was sure enough in her
relationship  with Mulder to assume that the three of them would
eventually end up under  the same roof. She was becoming more
confidant in that fact herself, sure  that Mulder was ready to be a
father to Will full-time.

Scully's mom patted her arm before she headed off to her car. "I'll
talk to  you soon, Dana," she called out behind her, her breath
puffing out in the  cold autumn air.

"Bye, Mom," she said, watching her mother find her car, wait a moment
while  the Chrysler warmed up, then drive out of the parking lot.

Though the temperature had dropped significantly since the sun went
down,  Scully decided to wait outside, the chill welcome after the
overwhelming  warmth of the auditorium and cafeteria. She breathed
slowly, letting the cold  air fill her lungs before expelling it with
a long visible exhale that  reminded her of sneaking her mother's
cigarettes in the backyard when she was  a teenager.

Small rebellions, Scully thought as she caught sight of Mulder and
Will in  the hall inside the school. They slowed long enough for
Mulder to slip Will's  backpack up onto his shoulders, then both
spotted her at the same time and  smiled.

Scully wondered what she had to look forward to with Will on that
front. What  *they* had to look forward to.

* * * * *

Continued in Part 21.

Title: Song of Innocence (21/23)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
November 8
9:09 pm


"Now Dave was able to look around the big table at all of them: Emily,
who  had allowed herself to need him, and her father, who was not so
lost in the  past as he seemed; the two doctors, the Indian and the
Chinese, who had flown  from Liverpool for Emily's sake; the two old
men, so different except in  their shared wisdom; the Dean, who would
knock the chip off Dave's shoulder  with the warmth of his laugh; the
English Canon, who in so short a time had  become a friend to them
all; and the Austins: the Austins who talked too  much, who were nave,
who in their innocence had freely offered him their  love: His people.
His family.

"The end," Mulder pronounced.

His soft storytelling cadence had beckoned Scully to stand outside
Will's  bedroom door. Well, she admitted, that and hearing how The
Young Unicorns  ended; at the start of the book she had joined them in
what had become their  nightly ritual: a chapter of the book, then a
question for Mulder.

Will asked the most random questions, Scully thought as she heard the
shuffle  of the pages when Mulder shut the paperback. In the few days
before she'd  decided that she wanted them to have this time just for
themselves, she had  overheard Will question Mulder about Mulder's
first memory, about his  favorite books, about the first time Mulder
had seen him. And now, since she  had given this time to Mulder, each
night Scully invented a new reason to  pass Will's bedroom at the
exact right time, so that she, too, might learn a  bit more about
Mulder.

But tonight Will was quiet, and Scully wondered whether he could have
fallen  asleep. It wasn't likely, especially since they were on the
last chapter on  their book, but she smiled as she heard Mulder's soft
whisper, "Good night,  Will," he said, his voice a little muffled.
Then his footsteps were careful  on his way to the doorway.

"Did you want me?"

Will's voice was small, and it was followed by the squeak of Mulder's
bare  feet on the wooden floor. Scully's spine prickled and she could
feel her  heart pounding deep in her chest. It never failed to
surprise her that two  people who had long eschewed verbal
communication for a meaning-laden gaze  could have a child who spoke
so frankly.

"Will... what?"

"When I was born. Did you want me?"

Scully heard Mulder's footsteps retreat fast from the door, followed
by the  smash of the bedsprings. She peered through the crack between
the doorframe  and the door, and she could see Mulder sitting at the
foot of Will's bed.

"What made you ask that?"

Damnit, Mulder, Scully thought. Just answer the question. Don't read
into  this and don't psychoanalyze him.

"Of course we wanted you."

Not 'we,' Mulder. You. Will knew how she felt. He was a smart kid; she
had  known it wouldn't take long before he added up the circumstances
of his birth  and came to the incorrect conclusion that he hadn't been
wanted. So she told  him all the time -- how happy she'd been to find
out she was pregnant, how  worried when she had complications, how
joyous when he'd been born, safe and  healthy. How much she loved
him.

Always the truth, even when it hurt, that was her policy. Their
policy.  Scully wanted no misconceptions for her son; she herself had
spent more of  her life than she wanted to admit believing, as Sister
Mary Claire had taught  her catechism class, that babies were a
special gift from God. Except, of  course, when they were a
punishment.

"You did?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes. Your mom wanted you more than anything in the
world."  He paused, and Scully closed her eyes. Please, Mulder, she
thought. Please.

"And so did I," he said. "I was afraid, though. I hadn't been part of
a  family for a long time, and I didn't know if I would be a good
enough father  for you."

They were quiet for a minute, then, finally, Will said, "But you went
away."

"Will, look at me," he said seriously. "Ever since you were born,
everything  I've done has been to keep you and your mom safe.
Everything."

"But you left us."

"I had to, Will. I didn't want to, but I had to. To keep us all safe.
But I'm  here now. I'm not leaving again."

Mulder paused, but Will said nothing, and Mulder continued. "Why would
you  ask that, Will?"

"I could feel you," he said softly.

"Feel me?"

"In the hospital. I could feel your feelings."

Jesus Christ, Mulder, she thought. What the hell could you have been
thinking  in that hospital to scare him this badly?

"What did you feel?" Mulder asked.

"You were sad," Will said. "And nervous and afraid and worried."

"Yes," Mulder said. "I was sad about how much of your life I've
missed.  Worried that I wouldn't be a good enough dad. Afraid and
nervous... that I  wasn't the kind of father you needed. Or wanted."

"Other feelings, too," Will said. "You felt bad. You felt so bad it
hurt. I  could feel it, like someone was squeezing your chest. You
felt so sad."

Mulder was silent, and Scully wished she could stop all this, that she
could  protect Will from these feelings, from living in a cloud of
grief and guilt  and fear. She wished, as she had almost every day for
the past seven and a  half years, that her son could live a normal
life, safe and unburdened, a  normal boy doing normal things, even
though she knew he wouldn't be Will that  way; he wouldn't be her
Will.

"You don't know what that feeling was?" Mulder asked.

"Unh-uh," Will whispered.

"It was guilt, Will," he explained. "It's my fault, all these bad
things that  have happened to you and your mom, and me having to go
away. If I had done  things differently, we would all be safe. If I
hadn't joined the FBI or  started the X-Files. If I hadn't been so
stubborn--"

"But then I wouldn't be born," Will rationalized. "You would never
have met  Mom, and I wouldn't be here."

Scully smiled proudly. She could almost hear the grin crack Mulder's 
guilt-induced frown. "That's true.

"But there are other things I did, wrong decision I made... I should
have  been here to keep you safe. I made so many mistakes, Will; so
many people  have been hurt because of me. If I could go back--"

"Please don't feel that way," Will whispered. "I can feel it when you
do. I  can feel it now, like you're falling apart from the inside."
His voice  trembled. "Please don't feel like that anymore, Dad,
please."

A cry caught in Scully's throat, and her hand went to her mouth to
stifle the  sound. There you go, Mulder, she said. He called you
'Dad,' but I hope to God  you heard more than that one word. I hope
you can hear what he's asking of  you.

Scully chanced another peek through the crack between the doorframe
and the  door, and she saw them still sitting on the bed, Mulder at
the foot, his head  hung low, and she knew his eyes were closed. Will
sat there, staring, his  eyes shining green and teary in the dim
light. She watched as Will crawled  over to Mulder and onto his lap.

She prayed that Mulder wouldn't pull away or stiffen, even though she
suspected he hadn't seen this coming; he did not disappoint. His arms
fit  around Will, and Scully stepped back from the doorway and slipped
into the  study, guilty for eavesdropping but overjoyed at the scene
she had just  witnessed.

When she heard the door to Will's bedroom press shut, Scully set a
bookmark  in the novel she'd only been half-reading and stepped over
to the doorway.  Mulder gave her a slow grin as he met her there.

"Are we born with an overabundance of self-doubt and fear," he mused,
"or is  it something life saddles us with early on?"

"I hope we're born with it," Scully said, leaning into him. "I hate to
think  that was something else I failed to protect him from."

"Never," he said. "You could never fail him." He fit his arms around
her, and  his chin rested against her forehead.

"You don't know that, Mulder."

He nodded against her head, the stubble on his face rasping against
the soft  hairs at her hairline. "I do," he said with a certainty she
wished she could  claim. "I do know... The way he looks at you,
Scully. You're everything to  him."

Not everything, she hoped. "We've been through a lot together," she 
rationalized aloud, even though she didn't like the codependent yet
familiar  feeling of being her son's everything.

"I'm sorry."

She pulled out of his arms and held his gaze. "Did you hear your son?"
she  asked. Mulder frowned at her in confusion. "The guilt, Mulder,"
she  explained. "He can feel it through you. You've got to find a way
to control  it."

"I don't know if I can," he admitted in a soft voice.

"You're going to have to," she said.

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
November 10
5:42 pm


When Scully stepped into the kitchen she was greeted by a sight she
hadn't  even realized she'd missed: Mulder in his charcoal suit. His
shirt was a  cornflower blue, the top two buttons undone and the knot
of his striped tie  yanked loose. He looked amazing; he looked like a
long-forgotten dream; he  looked, Scully decided, like he belonged in
an underlit basement office,  cracking sunflower seeds while he
clicked through a slideshow of mutilated  cows.

Scully smiled and made a half-humming, half-growling sound in the back
of her  throat, and Mulder turned to face her. He set the thin stack
of mail he'd  been sorting onto the table, grinning at her.

"Hey," he said.

"Hey."

He stepped toward her, stopping just inches in front of her, one hand
on her  arm. Then he pulled back, uncertain, but Scully followed. She
slipped her  hand up his arm to rest on the soft fabric of his suit
coat, then leaned up,  rising onto her toes. Mulder met her halfway
for a gentle, reassuring kiss  hello.

"Sorry," he said when they finally pulled apart.

"For what?" she asked, smiling indulgently.

"Well, for assuming," he said. "I shouldn't have--"

"No, it's fine."

"No," he said. "I know I--"

Scully shut him up by pressing her lips against his in a kiss more
insistent  than the previous one. Mulder's hands came around her waist
and pulled her  against him, and she reached up to thread her fingers
through his hair.  Finally they pulled apart and Scully chuckled at
the pleased -- and relieved  -- look on Mulder's face.

"Okay?" he asked.

"Very okay," she said to reassure him. She allowed herself a quick
glance  down the graceful fall of his suit, then back up to his face,
ending up on  his reading glasses, which shone in the light of the
lamp suspended over the  kitchen table.

"Why so dressed up?" she asked.

"I met with Dave today," he told her, stepping over to the sink to
fill a  glass with water.

"Dave?"

"Dave Margulies," he said, then took a drink of water. "Doggett's
friend."

Scully nodded. "How'd that go?"

Mulder drained the glass, then set it on the counter, his back to her.
He  twisted the base of the glass against the countertop, leaving
rings of water.  "He offered me the job."

She waited, but he didn't elaborate. "And what did you say?"

Finally he turned to face her, the look on his face so serious. "That
I  needed to talk it over with you first."

"You d--" Scully started, then paused. She had been about to say that
he  didn't need to discuss it with her, that the job was his decision
to make,  something to make him happy. But then Scully realized that
maybe they did  need to discuss it, if they wanted to work this out as
a family instead of as  two people living separate lives and trying to
share a child and a home.

"Okay," she said, pulling a chair back from the table to sit down.
"Okay."

Mulder nodded and sat down beside her. "They do good work, Scully," he
said.

She smiled. "You want the job," she said, and he nodded. "Then what's
stopping you from taking it?"

"Well, the pay could be better," he said with a shrug, feigning
nonchalance.

"Mulder, when have you ever made a decision based on money?" she
asked.

"I guess," he said, but Scully could feel him hedging. She knew that
he was  waging an internal battle over this job, weighing the good he
could do and  the consultant basis, which would allow him time to
write; with the less  desirable salary and benefits, the possibility
of travel, the concern he had  about doing anything that even vaguely
reeked of profiling.

Scully knew she had to tread carefully. "Mulder, I don't want you to
take  this the wrong way, but you don't need to worry about the pay.
We can get  along just fine on my salary if necessary."

He opened his mouth to object, but Scully stopped him with a hand on
his arm.  "Listen to me," she said. "I know you want to help out
financially, and I  appreciate that. But don't turn this job down for
that reason. If there's  something else you want to do, fine, but--"

"I just want to make the right decision for all of us," he said
softly.

"And so do I," she assured him. "If you want the job, Mulder, you
should take  it. Plus, it'll give you time to work on that book you've
been threatening to  write. If the job doesn't work out, you can
always quit and concentrate on  writing."

He cocked his head at her, thinking for a minute. "I do still have my
parents' accounts," he reminded her. "And the houses they left me. If
we need  them."

We won't, Scully thought. Mulder had never been very forthcoming with
information about his finances, from some sense of secondhand guilt,
she'd  always assumed. She hadn't known about most of what his parents
had left him  until it came time for him to leave her and their son,
when he revealed the  account he'd set up for Will and the papers that
proclaimed her as the  co-holder of his assets. Papers Scully hadn't
been able to look at for  months.

Now she just nodded. "See, Mulder, we'll be fine. Will--" Scully
glanced  around the kitchen. "Mulder, where's Will?"

"In his room," Mulder said. "He was pretty quiet when I got him from
your  mom's, and she said that he'd been that way since she picked him
up from  school. He wouldn't tell either of us what was bothering
him."

"I'll go try," she said, slipping off her shoes and snatching them up
by the  backs before she headed toward the stairs. She paused and
glanced back at  him. "Talk about this later?" she asked, waiting for
his nod before starting  up the stairs.

"Will?" Scully called when she stopped outside his closed bedroom
door. She  knocked softly. "Can I come in?"

She took his muffled reply as an affirmative and pushed open the door.
Will  lay on his bed, face down and Pup tucked under one arm. His face
was turned  away from her, but Scully didn't need to see it to know
that he had been  crying. She could hear him trying to disguise his
sniffling and, even more,  she recognized his classic defeatest pose:
limp and loose and as far into his  own head as he could get.

Scully sat on the edge of his bed and took hold of Will's foot. She
rubbed  his arch through his thick cotton socks, trying to massage
some life back  into him.

"What's wrong, sweetie?" she asked after several silent minutes.

"Nothing," came his muffled reply.

"Something's the matter," she said, working her way up to his ankle.
"Maybe I  can help."

Will just shook his head, his face still buried in his pillow.

"Hey," Mulder said, and Scully turned to see him standing in the
doorway. He  was sans jacket and had rolled his sleeves up to his
elbows. He had the  cordless phone cradled against his shoulder like a
sleeping infant.

"Anyone hungry for dinner?" Mulder asked, raising his other hand to
wave the  takeout menu of Antonio's Pizzeria.

"It's Antonio's, Will," Scully said, jiggling his limp foot. "Your
favorite."

When he didn't respond, she glanced up at Mulder. "Pizza's fine," she
said.  "Mushroom and green pepper?"

He nodded. "And pepperoni?"

Scully grinned, watching for Will's reaction out of the corner of her
eye.  Will hated pepperoni, refused to eat even a half-pepperoni pie,
claiming that  he could taste the pepperoni grease on the other half.
And Mulder knew this,  Scully thought as Will failed to respond.

"Hey," Scully said, reaching up to rub her son's back. "Hear that?
Your dad  votes for pepperoni. Sound okay to you?" She reached under
his arm, the one  that didn't have a death grip on Pup, and tickled
him.

No response.

Mulder sunk on the bed beside her. "Will, we can't help you if you
won't tell  us what's wrong," he said.

"Everyone hates me," Will whispered.

"Why do you say that?" she asked.

"Because they do," he said.

"Who do you think hates you?" Mulder asked.

"Everyone," he told them. "All the kids in both my classes."

"What happened, Will?" she asked.

He took a deep, overdramatic breath, then, "Paul didn't invite me to
his  birthday party."

"Paul Dade?" she asked.

"Uh huh."

But you don't even like Paul Dade, Scully wanted to say as she
bemoaned both  her son's need to fit in and his obvious position as
outsider. "Are you  friends with Paul?" she asked.

"No," he said.

"Then why does it matter that he didn't invite you?" she pressed.

"Because everyone hates me," Will said, and Scully sighed at his
logic,  shooting a frustrated look at Mulder.

"Is there a reason why this party is so special?" Mulder asked.

"No," Will said, but they waited. Eventually he admitted to them,
"Because I  was the only one."

Scully's heart ached for him. "The only one not invited?"

Will nodded his head and he raised his knees, pulling himself into a
tight  fetal position. Scully ran her hand gently up and down his
back. This wasn't  new, Will's isolation, but it worried her that it
didn't seem to be getting  any better: he wasn't making friends, as
she'd hoped he would do when he  started his after-school enrichment
classes, and he hadn't come to any peace  about the situation.

Not that she expected him to. Scully could sympathize; she remembered
all too  well what it felt like to be the new girl, to stand in front
of the class  while the students sized up her worthiness as a friend.
Of course, she didn't  pretend to understand Will's situation. In most
new schools, there had been  other Navy brats in her class, kids who
understood all too well what it felt  like to be in her position, kids
who were eager -- or perhaps just urged by  their parents -- to be
friendly and include her.

And, Scully reminded herself, she hadn't had the unique challenges
that Will  had to deal with.

"Well, not everyone," Will added softly, and Scully surged with small
hope.  "Not the new girl."

"The new girl?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, finally dragging himself to sit up and make eye
contact.  "Joy. I don't know her last name. She was new this week, in
my after-school  class."

"You know," Scully said thoughtfully, "I bet she's pretty lonely. It's
hard  to be the new kid, when everyone else knows each other
already."

Will studied her intently. "Were you the new kid?"

"Lots of times," she told him, brushing her fingers over his hair and
pushing  it off his sweaty forehead. "We moved around a lot because of
my dad's job.  And it was scary not to know anyone."

Will nodded.

"Have you talked to Joy?" she asked. "Introduced yourself?"

He shook his head.

"Maybe you should," Scully told him. "I bet Joy would really like a
friend."  Ever cognizant of Will's perceptiveness, she tried to keep
herself from  thinking, And so would you.

"Maybe Joy would like to come over to play sometime," Mulder
suggested, and  Scully glanced over at him thankfully. He gave her a
little smile as Will's  gaze shifted from Mulder to her, his
hopefulness clear as he silently asked  her permission.

"Sure," Scully said. "You can ask her at school, and then I can call
her  parents--"

"Just her mom," Will said. "When she introduced herself on her first
day she  said she just lives with her mom."

"Well, her mom, then," she said. "If it's okay with her, your dad or
maybe  Grandma can pick both of you up after school one day, and you
can play and  maybe she can stay for dinner."

Will's smile lit up his face. "What would we do?"

Mulder shrugged. "Maybe you could teach Joy to play Quest. Or you two
could  play with your microscope or build something with your Legos --
you keep  saying you want to make a pirate ship. Maybe she'd like to
help. Or if the  weather's nice, you could play basketball outside."

Will nodded, his eyes dazzling before his face fell. "What if she
doesn't  want to do any of those things?" he asked. "What if she
doesn't like playing  Quest?... What if I can tell that she doesn't
like me?" Will gave a cry of  despair, then flopped onto the bed, face
forward.

"You'll never know unless you try," Mulder told him. "Maybe she'll
like your  microscope; maybe she has one too and can bring some slides
to show you. Or  maybe she'll bring one of her own toys that you'll
like playing with."

"But what if she doesn't and then I can tell that she hates me," Will
wailed,  tears starting before he turned to smash his face deeper into
his pillow. "I  hate it! I hate what I can do. It's not fair!"

Scully slid down next to him, setting her head on his bed next to his
pillow.  "I know that, sweetie," she said softly, running her fingers
through his  hair. "I know it's scary and hard for you. And I'm sorry,
babe, but there's  nothing we can do to change that."

Will turned his red-rimmed face up at them, swiping at his tears with
his  fist. He concentrated his stare on Mulder, who was calmly
stroking Will's  left arm.

"You were fixed," he said softly, like a revelation. His eyes were
wide as he  stared at Mulder. "You could read minds but now you can't.
Can you fix me,  too?"

Scully's mind flashed back to Mulder's own mind-reading experience,
the bits  of it she'd seen before and after her trip to Africa -- his
mother's  mysterious involvement in his disappearance from the
hospital and her  discovery of him alone on that cold operating table,
left to die by a man he  suddenly and without reason suspected might
be his father.

"Will, no," she said, the unintentional harshness of her voice earning
her  son's attention. "No."

"How come?" he asked. "If they fixed him, why can't they fix me? Then
I could  be like the rest of the kids. I could be normal."

Scully wanted to tell him that, even if he lost these abilities, he'd
never  be like the rest of the kids. But she was silent, still
debating over what  she could say to him, when Mulder spoke.

"Your mom's right, Will," he told him in a sympathetic tone. "What
they did  to fix me -- it almost didn't work. They operated on my
brain and took out  the part they thought was responsible. I would've
died, Will, if your mom  hadn't found me and helped me get better."

"But you're fine now," Will insisted. "Maybe--"

"No," Mulder said, his voice more insistent this time. "I got lucky.
What  they did should have hurt me much worse, maybe killed me, but
when... well,  other things happened and I ended up okay. The people
who did the surgery on  me didn't know what they were doing, Will;
they didn't care about helping me  or making me better. They just
wanted to be able to do what I could do.

"Even if those people weren't dead now, Will," Mulder finished. "They
can't  help you."

Now Will's sobs grew out of control, wracking his body. His tiny
shoulders  shook, one hand balling up a fistful of his quilt and the
other squeezing  around Pup's throat in a death grip. He looked
between them, as if unsure of  who to go to, and they solved his
dilemma by advancing on him together,  enfolding him in a joint
embrace that also allowed them to hold each other  around their son's
tiny body.

* * * * *
NOTE: This section includes quotes from The Young Unicorns by
Madeleine  L'Engle.

Continued in Part 22.

Title: Song of Innocence (22/23)
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

FBI Training Academy; Quantico, Virginia
November 16
12:27 pm


Scully scrolled impatiently through her email, one eye on the time in
the  corner of her screen and the other on her watch. They were three
and a half  minutes apart, and Scully wasn't sure which to trust. She
had a lunch meeting  scheduled, a meeting that had been arranged via
the secretary she shared with  the rest of the department, with a man
she didn't know.

A knock on her half-closed door pulled her attention from her
computer, and  she slipped her reading glasses off her nose and set
them upside down on top  of her desk. "Come in," she called, closing
out her last email and looking up  to catch a glimpse of her mystery
man.

Instead she saw Mulder standing there, a crumply white take-out bag
clutched  in his hands and a big smile on his face.

"Hi," she said.

"Hey," he said. "You hungry?" He jiggled the bag. "I've got it on good
authority that I have got your favorite take-out lunch in here."

As if on cue, her stomach growled, and she smiled sheepishly. "And on
whose  authority would that be?"

He shook his head. "Nuh uh. I always protect my sources," he assured
her with  a grin identical to that of his probable source. "Come on,
Scully. Shrimp  with broccoli from The Garden Wok, your favorite..."

"Your source isn't half-bad," she told him. "But he neglected to
mention that  I've got a 12:30 lunch appointment with--"

"Let me guess. George Glass, right?"

"How did you--?"

"Meet George Glass," he said, offering her his right hand after
shifting the  bag to his left.

She grinned and started clearing off her desktop, which Mulder took as
his  cue to join her. He slipped off his worn leather jacket and
tossed it on the  back of a chair, then dumped the contents of the
take-out bag onto her desk.  He carefully unfolded the small white
cartons, passing her the first and a p air of chopsticks. As he set a
bottle of iced tea in front of each of them,  Scully opened the single
container of steamed rice and set it between them.

"Good work, George," she said, nabbing a juicy shrimp with her
chopsticks.

Mulder smiled and took a gulp from his tea. "Know who he is?"

"George Glass?" He nodded, and she asked, "No. Who?"

"Ever watch The Brady Bunch, Scully?"

"Not often," she admitted. She had never been a big fan of The Brady
Bunch  --- too sickly sweet for her -- but Melissa had enjoyed the
show, so she had  seen it on occasion.

"Aahh, Scully, such a shame," he said, clicking his chopsticks at her.
"The  Brady Bunch was a classic American sitcom, the best, Scully, the
best. What  you missed."

She smiled and concentrated on spearing an oversized stalk of
broccoli.  Somehow, it didn't surprise her that Mulder had grown up on
The Brady Bunch.  He had probably enjoyed Mike Brady and his
overworked platitudes, Carol and  her uber-sympathetic nature, Alice
and her milk and cookies. She smiled,  wondering if he was one of
those boys whose first crush had been Marsha.

"What?" Mulder asked her, and she realized she'd been staring.

Scully shook her head. "Just trying to imagine a young Fox Mulder
glued to  the television, salivating over Marsha Brady," she kidded.

He shook his head. "Nah," he said, shrugging her off as he dug through
his  carton for a mushroom. "I was never a Marsha guy." At the raise
of her  eyebrows, he grinned. "Too goody-goody." He popped the
mushroom into his  mouth.

She smiled, and they ate in silence for a few minutes, Mulder glancing
around  her office curiously, taking in the sparse, utilitarian dcor.
Suddenly  Scully felt a little self-conscious. She had been in this
office for seven  years, and it looked nearly as lonely as it had the
day she'd moved in.

There was a houseplant near her computer. A cactus, because she rarely
remembered to water it, and it just seemed kinder than killing one
tiny,  helpless African violet after another. There was a large
bulletin board on  one wall, rimmed with post-its and scribbled phone
messages. There were  shelves of textbooks and binders full of her
lecture notes and exams from  years past. And there were now the two
photographs on her desk. But  otherwise, the office was embarrassingly
impersonal, nothing like the  basement hovel they'd shared in the
Hoover Building.

But it felt good to be back like this, eating lunch together over a
messy  desk top, like they had nearly every day when they worked
together -- her  yogurt and salads, Mulder's double cheeseburgers and
onion rings. Scully  smiled as she compared lunches, past and present;
they had both moderated,  Mulder toning down his extra-value
cholesterol special and her letting go of  the strict food rules that
had allowed her to feel in control of something in  her life.

So much had changed, Scully thought, surveying Mulder, dressed in
jeans and a  long-sleeve t-shirt, his graying hair in need of a comb,
the tiny wrinkles  gathered around his eyes as he swiped a shrimp from
her take-out container.  So many changes, she thought as she caught a
glimpse of her calendar, of the  penciled-in appointment with her
attorney set for the next week.

"Mulder," she said softly, "there's something... something we need to
talk  about."

"Uh huh." Partially turned around in his seat, studying the contents
of her  bookshelves, he was only half-paying attention. She followed
his focus to the  small metal trinket on her bookshelf. A penny and a
dime, intersecting,  bisecting each other. She had found those coins
in her desk years ago, after  a dead-end case in New Mexico with
Mulder; she had never figured out how  they'd gotten that way or how
they'd gotten in her desk, for that matter. But  they carried a
certain measure of magic to her, mostly in their  inexplicability, and
she had kept them.

"Mulder, about five years ago, there was... I had a scare."

"Hmm?" He slipped the coins off her bookshelf and held them in his
palm,  flicking at them contemplatively with his finger. Two separate
coins, fused  together by some unknown force, now inseparable.

"A health scare," she said softly.

He turned to look at her, dropping the coins on her desktop and
snatching her  hand to hold it between his warm ones. "Your cancer?"

She gave him a small nod. "I didn't really think anything of the
headaches,"  she said. "Not until I woke up one night with a
nosebleed."

He closed his eyes, and Scully steeled herself against his reaction.
"It was  the Friday before Labor Day weekend," she said. "I called Dr.
Zuckerman, but  I couldn't get an appointment until the next week."

"Oh, Scully," he said softly, running his fingertips gently over her
hands,  tracing her metacarpals and then moving up, caressing the tips
of her  fingernails.

She nodded. "Those five days were hell," she told him. "My mom was out
of  town at a retreat with her church, and I couldn't get a hold of
her even if I  wanted to. I had just bought the house; Will and I had
moved in a few weeks  earlier.

"I was terrified," she continued. "Not just of the possibility of
dying or  the ability of the cancer to return without warning; I was
mostly scared for  Will. He was two, two and a half," she said. "He
was just starting to grow  from a baby into a little boy, learning so
many new things."

Scully shook her head, fighting down the feeling of despair that
returned  every time she thought about that time, those dark days of
uncertainty for  her future, and for her son's. As soon as it passed,
that time had been  shoved into the far reaches of her memory, fit in
next to her abduction, her  cancer, Emily's death, Mulder's abduction,
his leaving, Will's kidnapping...  It was getting awfully crowded in
those far reaches, she realized.

"I was scared, Mulder, scared of what would happen to Will if I got
sick, how  I could take care of him if I had to go through chemo
again..." She closed  her eyes and replayed the imagines that had
haunted her that weekend, holding  her squirming toddler son as she
wretched into the toilet; trying to keep up  with him on weak, shaky
legs; fearing that his curious hands would find her  thinning hair.

"Scared of who would take care of him if there was no miracle this
time."

"God, Scully," he whispered.

"It was a long weekend," she admitted. "I had time to do a lot of
thinking  before I finally got in to see Dr. Zuckerman. It turned out
to be nothing,  but I still couldn't get the possibility out of my
mind. The cancer might not  have returned then, but that weekend
reminded me that it could.

"My mom agreed to be Will's guardian even before he was born," she
told him.  "It's in my will, just in case. But that weekend, with my
mom away, I  realized that she wasn't so young anymore. I didn't know
if she was still  able to take care of him. Or, if something happened
to me five or ten years  down the road, if she'd even be around to do
it." Scully took a long drink  from her iced tea.

"I started to think... to think of a back-up," she said slightly
unsteadily.  "Someone who could take care of Will if something
happened to me and Mom  couldn't take him."

"Your brother?" Mulder asked with a small grimace.

She shook her head. "Charles wasn't ready for the responsibility of a
child,"  she said. "And Bill... Well, Will's never been too fond of
Bill." She ignored  Mulder's smug smile.

"I knew that Bill and Tara would do it if I asked them, but I just
couldn't  do that to Will. Bill might take care of him, put a roof
over his head and  food on his plate, but he wouldn't love him like a
son. Not like he loves  Matthew and Patrick. And Will would know."

Mulder nodded, but from the calm, slightly confused expression on his
face, S cully knew that he didn't yet see where she was headed with
this. Whom she  was headed to.

"Of course he would know," Mulder said softly.

"Yes," she said, running her fingernail along the label on her bottle
of iced  tea, steeling herself.

"I don't want you to think that he was my last choice. That's not fair
to  him. Or to you; if I had known where you were, if I had known that
you could  take him, you know it would have been you, Mulder."

Mulder opened his mouth to speak, then finally understood what she was
trying  to tell him. He snapped his mouth closed, then dropped it open
again.  "Doggett."

She nodded. "He was the best choice. He and Will have always been
close; he  knows Will better than Bill and Tara ever have. He's
responsible. He has  experience as a parent, and I was sure that he'd
do it if I asked him to."

"So you asked him."

"Yes," she admitted. "I didn't tell him about the cancer scare -- by
that  time Dr. Zuckerman had said I was fine -- but I explained that
there was  always the possibility that it would recur, or that
something... that someone  would come for me. Take me," she said in a
whisper, then rolled her dry lips.

"Or even something as everyday as a car accident," she continued. "I
told him  that, officially, my mom was still Will's guardian, but if
something happened  to her, anything... I asked him if he would do
it."

"And he agreed," Mulder knew.

"He was surprised," she said. "He knew I had brothers, but he
understood when  I explained why I didn't want to ask them. He
remembered choosing a guardian  for his son, how difficult a decision
it had been. How much it hurt to  imagine the day when you might not
be there for them.

"Yes," she said finally. "He agreed."

Mulder sighed and turned away from her, studied her bookshelves with
more  concentration than was warranted. She listened to his breathing,
sharp and  thick, fill the room. "Mulder..."

"Gimme a minute, Scully," he said, still facing away from her.

She nodded at his back and waited, afraid that this one last burden
would be  too much, that Mulder would crumble under the combined
weight of it all.

Finally he turned back to face her, his expression schooled into an 
unfamiliar restraint. "Did you tell him?"

She looked at him quizzically.

"Did you tell Doggett about Will's... abilities?"

She shook her head. "I figured if it ever became official, if his name
was  put in my will, then I'd tell him."

Mulder nodded. "Is that all?"

"All?" she asked.

"I've had this feeling. Like there's something separating us, like you
were  keeping something from me. What I want to know," he said, "is if
this is it  or if there's something else."

"There's nothing else," she told him.

He nodded, dropping his gaze to her desk to look into his empty food
carton.  He just stared, his hands flat and unmoving on her desk top,
his breathing  deep and regular, if a bit accelerated.

"Mulder--"

"I know, Scully," he said. "I know I have no right to be hurt by this,
but I  am. It hurts when I think about all the things I've missed in
his life, about  all the years I told myself that I wouldn't grow up
to become my father."

"You're not your father, Mulder," she insisted.

He shook his head. "Maybe worse," he said. "My childhood may not have
been  The Brady Bunch, but at least I knew my father. At least Bill
Mulder stuck  around."

"Mulder," she said, her hand finding his. She fit her fingers between
his,  her hand feeling small against his. "Mulder, your father never
would have  done what you did for Will. And for me. You put our safety
ahead of your own,  and you made the honorable choice, even though it
wasn't the easy one.

"You're a good man, Mulder. You make your choices out of love; your
father  made his out of fear."

He looked up at her with weary eyes, old eyes that she almost didn't 
recognize, and it pained her that he needed to hear her say this in
order to  believe. But she was willing to repeat it as many times as
he needed to hear  it.

He fell back against his chair but kept his hand beneath hers and
allowed her  to turn his hand so that their palms met. Scully slid her
fingers between his  and fell back in her own chair, letting the old
worn leather hug her.

His gaze wandered, finally coming to rest on the top row of her
bookshelf,  the shelf where she kept some of the child psychology
texts she had bought to  supplement Mulder's own library. Books she
had devoured when she had believed  that maybe, if she read enough, if
she armed herself with every possible  theory and fact, she could
figure out what was best for her son. Books she  didn't want Will to
discover.

Mulder's hand slipped from hers and Scully reached out for one of the
plastic-wrapped fortune cookies sitting between them on the desk. She
wrestled with the wrapping, finally pulling it apart with a snap. But
she  didn't earn Mulder's attention; he was staring at some point on
the wall  behind her head, perhaps out her tiny, double-paned-glass
window, but his  focus was inward.

Scully broke the fortune cookie open, popping half into her mouth and
chewing  as she unfolded the scrap of paper that was her fortune, then
turned it  right-side up. 'You are wise to be like the moon, show only
your bright side  to the world.'

She smiled ruefully and set the paper down on her desk. It caught on
the cuff  of her blouse and turned over. There was more printing on
the back, another  fortune. A bonus. Like the opposite side, the
letters were printed in red  ink, but on this side the words were
faded, and, without her glasses, Scully  had to squint at them.

'A time of peace is upon you, if you are not afraid to seize it.'

Scully smiled at the juxtaposition of the two fortunes. They seemed at
odds,  at least to her. She allowed herself to wonder about them, just
for a minute,  to wonder about which was her true fortune... if she
believed in such things,  of course.

She swept the scrap of paper into the crumpled white take-out bag that
they'd  converted into a trash bag. She reached for Mulder's hand and
took it in both  hers, running her thumb over the rise and fall of his
knuckles. His hand  jerked in hers then, and he looked up at her
curiously.

"What kinds of tests did you do, Scully?" he asked. "Zener cards? ESP
tasking?"

She looked at him questioningly, not understanding his segue.

"For Will. His abilities."

She just looked down, her tongue running over her lips.

"Scully?"

"I didn't," she admitted. "No tests."

"No--?"

"Only those necessary for him to get into his after-school program,"
she  admitted. "Stanford-Binet, some generic pediatric psychological
tests."

"But--"

She knew what he was going to say. How for eight years she had needed
proof,  proof in the guise of genetic analyses, mass spectrographs,
and autopsy  results. She had needed all that, and still she had not
allowed herself to  believe. But now...

"It's different, Mulder," she said softly. "It's a different prospect
when  the evidence is your own son. Not an alien or a government
conspirator or a  Flukeman, but the child you birthed and nursed and
bathed; the little boy who  asks you why the kids at school don't want
to play with him and where his  father is and will you please read me
Harry Potter again tonight.

"I couldn't do it," she told him. "He would look at me with your smile
and  your pout and--"

"I don't pout," he said indignantly.

"-- and I couldn't put him through that. I didn't want to put him
through  that."

And she hadn't. The few times she had wondered if it would be better
for her  to try to understand Will's talents as completely as
possible, she remembered  Gibson Praise, the little boy's
matter-of-fact pronouncement that, while she  did care for his
well-being, her focus was only on herself and the truth. On 
what she could learn from him. Never, she decided, would those words
come  from the mouth of her son.

"I understand," Mulder said, and her head jerked up to look at him.

He understood? How could he? How could he sit there and pretend to
know what  these seven years had been like for her, how lonely and
helpless, how  frightening. How many times she had cried herself to
sleep, quieting her sobs  so Will wouldn't hear but feeling guilty
knowing that he was just as likely  to feel her pain as to hear it.

"How can you?" she asked, trying to keep the bite out of her voice.

"I understand because it's the same reason I don't want my memory
back," he  told her. "I'm done with that, Scully; I have to be."

"Mulder..."

"No, Scully, listen to me. I understand what you've tried to do with
your  files and notes, but I'm just not interested."

Scully felt her cheeks redden, thinking of the old case files she had
left  lying around, a trail of breadcrumbs leading him, she had hoped,
back to his  own memories, back to her. To them.

"Look," he said. "I've been given a second chance. They got what they
wanted  from me, and there's no way of getting that back short of me
removing these  things--" He paused to tap the side of his head "--
and we both know what  that means.

"Ten years ago I would've done it anyway," he told her. "I would've
willingly  taken the chip out and gotten those missing years back,
painful memories and  consequences be damned. I would've told myself
that we would find a way to  stop the cancer that we would know was
inevitable but refuse to talk about.  But it would've been a
justification, Scully, to make me feel less guilty  about putting you
through that.

"But not now," he pronounced. "I owe Will more than a few short months
followed by a long slide back into the grave. I owe you more."

She nodded. She did understand, but still Scully was angry. Not angry
with  Mulder but angry at the choices they had been forced to make.
Her leaving the  X-Files to raise Will on her own, Mulder leaving her
and Will to keep them  safe, Mulder deciding not to fight for his past
-- their past -- so that they  could have a future.

"But what about what you knew," she said softly. She had already tried
to  reconstruct the memories he had lost, surprised at how many of
them had not  involved her, how many had been contained in files that
had inexplicably  disappeared from John and Monica's office. Scully
had no memories of the  Tunguska gulag and now, apparently, neither
did Mulder. And she couldn't even  begin to imagine the things he had
seen in the past seven years.

"What about fighting colonization? Who's going to--"

"Take over the X-Files?" he finished. "Scully, we haven't been on the
X-Files  for years, and we're all still alive and kicking. What am I
going to do about  colonization? I'm going to let Doggett and Reyes do
their jobs and hope that  this whole saving the world thing means as
much to them as it did to us.

"Scully. Hey." He tipped her chin up to look at him. His eyes were
softer  now, deep green and once again recognizable as her Mulder.
"You and Will are  safe, and that's my priority. We've had so many
struggles, Scully -- can you  blame me for wanting some peace for
us?"

Peace. At once that concept had seemed so distant, so unattainable.
She had  felt almost greedy for wanting such a thing, imagining that
it might be  theirs, that it was possible for all three of them to be
happy, to live in  peace. She had been given so many miracles -- first
Will and now Mulder. But  still there was one more thing...

"I'm afraid for him, Mulder," she said finally, and he looked up at
her. Her  voice was a whisper, rising just above the hum of her
office, the heater  gearing up, the wind rustling the trees outside
her window, the soft sounds  of her watch on her wrist, keeping time
with Mulder's.

He didn't need to ask whom she was talking about.

"What are you afraid of?" he asked softly.

"Everything," she said, letting her head drop down to her desktop,
falling  over their clasped hands. "This ability, his talent -- it's
getting stronger.  I can feel it.

"I'm afraid of the scary things, Mulder; of someone in the Consortium
--  whatever's left of them -- finding out and taking him away from us
or hurting  him; of... of someone else coming for him, whoever came
when he was born; of  him losing control of it and of himself."
Visions of Mulder, restrained and  hospitalized, came to her unbidden,
and she expertly pushed them from her  mind.  

"And I'm afraid of the normal things," she admitted. "Afraid that
he'll go  through life alone and ashamed of who he is and what he can
do. Afraid that  he'll never find someone who understands or accepts
him, that he'll never  find someone to love him for who he is."

"He will," Mulder said, his lips suddenly near her ear and his voice 
rejuvenated with hope. He pressed a kiss on her temple. His voice
dropped to  a soft whimper close to her ear. "He will."

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
November 22
11:21 pm


When Will woke up, the clock beside his bed glowed 11:21 in bright red
numbers. He turned in bed, found his stuffed dog half hiding beneath
his  pillow, and secured Pup under his arm.

Will closed his eyes but he couldn't sleep. He heard a strange humming
sound  coming from the bathroom and got out of bed to investigate.
Slowly he padded  down the hall, trailing Pup by one battered ear.

The bathroom door was mostly closed, open just a fraction, letting a
line of  soft light into the hall. Will paused, then pushed the door
all the way open,  a little afraid of what he would see there.

"Hey, kiddo," his dad said, turning away from the mirror to smile down
at  him. "What are you doing up?"

His dad stood at the sink, his electric razor still poised midair,
buzzing  softly. He was wearing just his boxer shorts, and Will
shivered a little when  his own bare feet stepped onto the chilled
bathroom tile.

Will squinted and blinked at the bright light of the bulbs around the
mirror.  "I dunno," he said. "I just woke up."

"You want a drink of water?"

Will nodded, and his dad filled the plastic Georgetown University cup
that  sat on the counter and passed it over to Will. He drank a few
sips, watching  his dad turn back to the mirror and finish shaving.

"What are you doing?" Will asked after taking another drink.

His dad flicked the razor off and met Will's gaze through the mirror.
"Shaving," he said.

Will crinkled his nose. "How come?" he asked. "You shave in the
mornings."

Now, his head a little more cleared of sleep, Will recognized the
buzzing  sound of his dad's razor as an early-morning sound, best
harmonized by the  spray of the shower, the drip-drip of the
coffeemaker, or the soft shush of  the pages of his mom's morning
newspaper.

"Sometimes in the morning," his dad said. "Sometimes at night."

"How come?"

His dad winked at him through the mirror. "Your mom likes it," he
said,  unplugging his razor and tapping tiny hairs into the sink. He
rinsed them  down, then stored the razor in the medicine cabinet.

Will yawned and, though his head was still foggy with confusion,
decided that  sleep was better than shivering in the bathroom. So he
handed the plastic cup  back to his dad, who dumped the rest of the
water down the drain.

"Come on, buddy," his dad said, ruffling his hair as he stepped around
Will  and into the hallway. "Let's get you back to bed."

So Will followed his dad down the darkened hall and into his bedroom.
His dad  held back the covers and Will climbed in. He snuggled down
into his bed,  reveling in the sleepy warmth still trapped between his
sheets.

"You got Pup?" he asked, and Will nodded, pulling the stuffed dog from
under  the covers to show his dad.

"Good night, Will," his dad said, bending down to kiss Will's
forehead.  "Sleep tight."

Will listened as his dad closed his bedroom door, then watched as the
line of  light from the bathroom slipping under his door disappeared.
He followed his  dad's footsteps back down the hall and heard another
door close. Then Will  snuggled deeper in his bed, tucked his sheet
under his body to form a tight  little cocoon, and promptly fell back
to sleep.

* * * * *

Continued in Part 23.

Title: Song of Innocence (23/23) END
Author: Christy (attalanta@aol.com)
Category: MSR, WillFic
Rating: PG-13
Feedback: Makes my day.

See longer Author's Note in Part 1

* * * * *

717 Locust Street, Georgetown
November 26
9:31 am


Will wasn't afraid until he went downstairs and saw that his mom
wasn't in  the kitchen.

He stood in the doorway, glancing between the table and the
refrigerator and  the stove, confused. A half-pot of coffee still sat
in the coffeemaker and a  dirty cereal bowl and spoon in the sink, a
pool of gummy milk at the bottom  of the bowl. A glass stood next to
it, orange pulp trailing down the inside.

"Mom?" Will called out, confused.

He walked through the first floor and even looked in the garage, not
finding  her, before going back upstairs. The door to his parents'
bedroom was open,  so he stepped inside, staring at the bed, which was
empty except for the  sheets shoved to the foot and the pillows piled
at the head.

"Mom?" Will said again, checking their bathroom before searching
through the  rest of the second floor. The study, his bedroom, the
bathroom -- all empty. 

Will wandered back downstairs, yelling this time. He even checked the
tiny  backyard, but it, too, was empty. He knew it was late, even for
a Sunday  morning, but where could they be?

"Mom!"

"Will?"

The voice came from the basement, and Will pulled open the closed
door, which  his mom never closed when she was down there. "Mom?"

"Down here," came his dad's voice, and Will nearly tripped down the
stairs,  he took them so quickly.

His dad sat on the floor in the center of the basement, surrounded by
cardboard boxes, their flaps unfolded like wings. Piled next to him
was a  collection of what appeared to Will to be junk: old manila
folders, thick  bound reports, bright yellow legal pads filled with
scribbled notes. A  tattered photograph sat next to him, a skyline
with an object Will couldn't  quite make out hovering off in the
distance.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

His dad smiled sheepishly. "Just going through some old stuff," he
said, and  Will stepped off the last stair and got as close to his dad
as the mess would  allow.

"Like what?"

"Just some old work, nothing important," his dad said, standing and
brushing  some of the dust off his jeans. Stooping to unearth his
dirty coffee cup, he  made his way through the maze of boxes to stand
beside Will. "Did you eat any  breakfast?"

Will shook his head, then allowed his dad to guide him back upstairs.

"Me neither," he said. "How 'bout pancakes?"

"Okay," Will said, then caught sight of the dirty dishes in the sink
and  remembered why he'd been so panicked. "Where's Mom?"

"At church," his dad said, pulling the griddle out of a bottom
cabinet. "She  tried waking you, but you fell back to sleep and she
was running late  anyway... You don't remember that?"

Will shook his head; he must've been really tired. He had had a
tougher than  usual time falling asleep last night, even after being
up late to introduce  his dad to Harry Potter via his collection of
DVDs. His mom had abandoned  them after dozing off during the second
movie, her head slipping onto his  dad's shoulder. His dad had waited
until she started to drool before waking  her and urging her off to
bed.

"Why didn't you go?" Will asked his dad.

"Church and I aren't on the best terms," he said without turning
around.

"Huh?"

"Church is your mom's thing," his dad explained, turning to face him.
"I'm  glad she's sharing that with you, Will, but I've never had the
kind of faith  your mom has. Besides," he said as an afterthought.
"I'm not Catholic."

"What are you?"

His dad smiled. "I suppose I'm an agnostic -- not convinced, but not
entirely  unconvinced, either."

"So you never went to church?" Will asked. He realized then that his
mom had  never said much about his dad's religion before. And there
had been so many  other questions that Will hadn't yet gotten around
to asking that one.

His dad shrugged and went to the refrigerator, pulling out the milk.
He  poured some into the bowl with the pancake mix, then brought it
over to the  table, where Will sat.

"I've been to church," his dad said. "Even to synagogue a few times;
my  sister and I were raised Jewish, like our father."

"William," Will mused. His father's father, the man he was named
after, the  man whose identity he was starting to fill in with facts
instead of  daydreams.

"Yes," his dad said. "William." He hit the whisk against the side of
the  bowl, then checked the temperature of the griddle with a spritz
of water from  the tap. The water sizzled and spat tiny droplets into
the air and his dad,  apparently satisfied, dropped small scoops of
pancake batter onto the  griddle.

Will glanced around the kitchen, his gaze coming to rest on the
refrigerator,  where, tacked beneath their dry-erase calendar, was his
newest family  portrait. He'd drawn it a few weeks ago, to replace the
painting he'd made  for his dad while he was in the hospital. This was
another family portrait,  the three of them plus Pup standing together
under a cheery yellow sun.

"After we eat, we'd better get dressed," his dad said, turning to face
Will.  "You took a bath last night, right?"

He nodded. "Are we going somewhere?"

"Yup."

"Where?" Will asked.

His dad flipped the half-cooked pancakes, then turned and leaned over
toward  Will, his forearms resting on the tabletop and a half-smile on
his face.  "That, kiddo, is a surprise."

"A surprise?" he echoed dubiously. "What kind of surprise?" He didn't'
like  surprises; Will much preferred to know things in advance, to be
forewarned  and prepared. He was like his mom that way, he knew.

His dad poked at the edges of the pancakes with a spatula. "You'll
see," he  said.

"How do I know what to wear if I don't know where we're going?"

"Fair enough," his dad said after a pause, glancing back at him over
his shou lder with a grin. "Consider it a rescue mission, then."

A rescue mission? Will was thoroughly confused now. A rescue mission
sounded  exciting, spy-like, but Will wasn't sure what kind of mission
his mom would  allow him to go on. Unless she didn't know, Will
thought; maybe his dad had  meant that they had to leave before his
mom got home. Maybe--

"Jeans and a t-shirt is fine," his dad said as he flipped the pancakes
again,  then went to the refrigerator for juice. Without asking, he
removed the jug  of pineapple juice and filled Will's Gryffindor cup.
He set the cup on the  table, then refilled his mug with coffee. He
slid two plates from the  cupboard, and Will got up and retrieved
forks and knives, and then the  plastic jug of syrup.

Will's imagination went wild with possibilities as he watched his dad
finish  the pancakes, piling them in uneven stacks on the two plates.
They ate their  breakfast punctuated with his questions: Are we
leaving DC? Are we going to  Grandma's? Who are we rescuing? Is Mom
coming?

But the only answer his dad would give was a knowing smile, so Will
quickly  finished his pancakes and juice, and dashed upstairs to
change. Standing in  front of his closet in his puffy new polka-dot
boxer shorts, he decided on  gray jeans and a black long-sleeved
t-shirt. Will thought all black would be  best for a rescue mission,
but his only black pants were his good dress  pants, and he didn't
think his mom would go along with that, whether she was 
coming with them or not.

He raced downstairs then, dangling gray tennis shoes from their laces
behind  him. His dad was still in the kitchen, washing their breakfast
dishes, though  he'd changed into fresh jeans and a clean shirt. Will
was a little  disappointed to see that his dad wasn't wearing black
spy clothes.

"Mom's not home yet?" Will asked as he laced up his sneakers.

His dad shook his head and slid into the chair across the table from
Will.  "Not yet," he said, dropping the dishtowel on the table. "And I
wanted to  talk to you about something before she gets back."

Will nodded, but he was only half-listening, more preoccupied with
imagining  what kind of secret mission he was going to go on, where
they were headed,  what they were going to find there...

"We've been okay here, right?" his dad asked.

"What do you mean?"

"The three of us," he explained. "Since I've been living here with you
and  Mom. You've been fine with that, right?"

"Yeah," Will said with a little smile. "I'm glad you're here."

"Me, too," his dad said, then rolled his lips nervously. "And I, uh, I
was  thinking... I was hoping that we could make it a permanent
thing."

Huh? Will looked at his dad, confused. "But-- But Mom said it was
permanent.  She said you were moving in for good. She said-- Aren't
you? Are you  leaving?"

Please don't be leaving, Will pleaded, his panic rising fast and easy.
Please. It wasn't fair, having his dad for such a short time and then
losing  him again, and just when he was getting to know him this time.
When he was  getting to like him. It just wasn't fair!

"No," his dad assured him, reaching for Will's hand across the table
and  giving it a little jerk to pull Will out of his panic. "Hey. I'm
not leaving.  I'm never leaving."

"Okay," Will said softly, looking down, too ashamed to meet his dad's
eyes.  It was so easy to jump to the conclusion that his dad was
leaving, and he  knew that it hurt his dad, but he couldn't help it.

"Come here," his dad said, tugging his hand, and Will slid off his
chair and  stepped around the table. He let his dad slip his arms
around him and then  shift him onto his lap. Will sighed and laid his
head against his dad's  shoulder, fighting the tears threatening to
spill over.

"I'm not going anywhere," his dad said softly. "But how would you like
to go  somewhere? How would you like to go to a wedding?"

Wide-eyed, Will stared up at his dad. "Really?"

He nodded calmly, but Will could feel his dad's heart thumping fast
against  Will's shoulder. "There's this silly old tradition," his dad
explained,  "where the man asks the woman's father for her hand in
marriage."

Will wrinkled his nose. He didn't know anything at all about weddings,
but  even he knew that it wasn't like asking to borrow a toy or trade
baseball  cards. Besides, his mom's father had died a long time before
Will was born.  "Why would you ask her father?"

"No good reason," his dad said, dismissing the notion with a casual
wave of  his hand. "What matters is that I'm asking you, Will. We're
in this together,  the three of us. What would you think about me and
Mom getting married? Would  you be okay with that?"

Okay? Will thought. Would he be okay with that? Was his dad crazy? He
had  never even allowed himself to hope for something like that, all
three of them  together, for good and for official. A family in every
possible meaning of  the word.

"Will?"

"When?" he asked, looking up at his dad with a big smile. "When are
you  getting married?"

His dad laughed and Will fell against his chest, feeling the rumbling
inside.  "Not yet, kiddo," he said. "I haven't even asked her yet. I
thought I'd talk  to you first."

"She'll say yes," Will assured him.

"I hope so," his dad said with a smile, but then his face turned
serious. "So  you're okay with this? You don't mind being stuck with
us? Speak now or  forever hold your peace?"

Will couldn't say anything, just shook his head against his dad's
chest,  closing his eyes against the softness of his t-shirt, the
warmth of his skin.  He couldn't believe he was so lucky.

Then they heard keys jingle in the back door, and they looked at each
other  with a near-identical panic.

"I haven't asked her yet," his dad whispered as Will slipped off his
lap and  back onto his own chair. He winked. "Don't say anything."

Will nodded, trying his own awkward wink. His dad grabbed the
dishtowel and  stepped over to the sink again just as his mom came
through the door.

"Good morning, sweetie," she said to Will, placing a kiss on the top
of his  head as she walked past him.

"'Morning, Mom," he said as he watched her step over to the sink. She
tilted  her face up to his dad and he bent a little, and they kissed,
and Will could  barely contain his excitement. Married, he thought.
His parents were getting  married!

He bit his lip to keep from spoiling his dad's secret, then looked
down at  his shoes. Will snatched one off the floor, remembering what
he'd been doing,  remembering their secret mission, and getting
excited all over again.

His mom poured the remainder of the coffee into her travel mug, which
had  been drying in the rack in the sink. She went to the refrigerator
to add a  dribble of milk, then joined Will at the table.

"Where are we going?" he asked her. She knew that he didn't like
surprises;  maybe she'd tell him.

But she just smiled at him over the top of her mug. "You'll see."

Will sighed and flopped back against his chair. "Why can't I know
*now*?" he  asked.

"You'll like it, I promise," his mom said, then squinted as she gave
him a  once-over. "What are you wearing?"

Will looked away, feeling an embarrassed blush on his cheeks since
they  clearly were not going on any kind of undercover spy mission.
Out of the  corner of his eye, he saw his mom exchange a glance with
his dad.

"Mulder, what did you tell him?"

Will looked up to see his dad shrug. "Just that we're going on a
rescue  mission," he said with a grin.

"Cute," his mom said, then snapped his dad on the backside with her 
dishtowel. Will giggled, and his mom looked over at him. "It's a long
drive,  sweetie," she said. "Better bring something to do in the
car."

Will decided that his Star Wars action figures would be more
appropriate for  a rescue mission than a book, although he was
starting to wonder if that was  really where they were going. At least
his mom went upstairs to change out of  her church clothes, even
though she wasn't wearing all black either.

"You sure you want to take your car?" his mom asked as Will climbed in
the  back seat, tugging a small tote bag of action figures in after
him. She shot  his dad a glance over the shiny metallic-green roof of
his new car, bought so  he could drive to his new job with John's
friend.

"What the hell," he said as he got in the driver's side. "It's gonna
lose  that new car smell sooner or later."

Hmm, Will thought as they backed out of the driveway and headed down
Locust  Street. So wherever they were going, they were going to smell
-- and probably  bad -- when they got back. Interesting, but it didn't
help him solve the  mystery.

Instead he focused on setting up a great battle across the backseat,
storm  troopers lining up on the other side of the seat and Jedi
knights propped up  against his leg. They battled valiantly, the Jedis
finally overtaking the  storm troopers and driving them off the plush
cliff and into the darkness  under the driver's seat.

Will glanced up then, looking out the window to see rolling green
hills and  what looked like farms, not that he had spent much time on
a farm ever in his  life. Will lowered the window enough to take in
the unmistakable scent of  cow, then quickly closed the window before
sticking his head between the  front seats.

"Are we going to milk cows?" he asked.

His response was his parents' amused laughter. "No," his dad managed
to say.  "We are not going to milk cows."

"Then where are we going?"

"Patience, Will," his mom said, glancing back at him. "We're almost
there."

He sighed and turned his attention back to his action figures, setting
up an  obstacle course for them: navigate over the armrest on the
door, careful of  the power window button; scale the window, then
shimmy down the soft felt of  the door to the back of the seat
cushion; slide down the seatbelt and onto  Will's lap; then continue
down Will's knee and across his shoes before  climbing up the console
between the front seats.

But he was distracted when they pulled off the highway and onto a
bumpy back  road, his mom consulting a page of directions written out
in her familiar  neat printing. "It's just ahead, Mulder," she said,
pointing out her window.  "Turn left up here and it should be about
two miles down the road."

Will abandoned his soldiers and pressed his nose against the cool
window  glass, his eyes popping open in excitement when he saw the
sign in front of  the driveway they finally turned in to. Gravel
crunched beneath the tires,  and Will could barely restrain himself
from bouncing across the backseat.

"Puppies?" he asked incredulously. "We're getting a puppy?"

Finally the car ground to a stop and immediately Will jumped out,
waiting the  interminable length of time it took his parents to join
him. "We're getting a  puppy?" he asked again, tugging on his mom's
arm.

She smiled down at him, then nodded.

"Oh, yes," Will cried out. "Yes!" He followed in his parents'
footsteps as  they walked, so slowly, to the front door of the small
farmhouse. His dad  knocked on the screen door, and, several long
minutes later, an older man  appeared in front of them.

"Can I help you?" he asked, glancing between Will's parents before his
gaze  finally rested on Will, who was literally bouncing between his
mom and dad,  trying to contain his excitement.

A dog, he thought with wonder. They were getting a dog. He was getting
his  own dog. A real, live dog to play with and walk and feed and
teach things to.  His own real live dog.

"Let me guess," the man said, smiling at Will, "you're here for a
puppy."

His dad chuckled. "Is it that obvious?"

"The young man does look rather excited," the man said, sticking out
his hand  to Will's dad. "I'm Tom Stevens."

"Fox Mulder," his dad said, and he shook the man's hand.

Then Mr. Stevens offered his hand to Will's mom, and she took it.
"Dana  Scully," she said, then patted Will's shoulder. "And this is
Will."

"Nice to meet you folks," Mr. Stevens said as he pushed open the
screen door  and led them into the backyard. After warning them to be
sure to close it  behind them, he unlocked the back gate and they were
besieged by a hoard of  Chocolate Labrador Retriever puppies, crawling
and jumping and yipping  excitedly.

Will knelt down and let the dogs climb his legs and lick his face. He
laughed  as one of the puppies gave a gentle nip on the hem of his
shirt before he  carefully pried the fabric from the dog's jaw. The
puppies wrestled, tumbling  over his legs and, after taking notice of
his shoelaces, batted at them with  their paws. One puppy grasped a
shoelace with his teeth and pulled. Will  reached out to stop him, but
the dog that had been munching on his t-shirt  jumped at him.

Will's dad knelt down beside him and extricated the lace from the
dog's  mouth, then retied Will's shoe. "Tough decision, huh?" he
asked.

Will nodded and got to his feet so that he could survey the entire
litter.  There were four puppies crowded around him, fighting and
biting and rolling  in the grass together. Another two dogs lay in the
shade next to the garage,  sleeping soundly, their paws twitching in
their dreams.

Then Will saw his dog.

The puppy stood on the other side of the garage, alone. One paw batted
at a  lawn ornament, a sunflower with spinning petals, and the dog was
entranced by  the yellow plastic petals, which he'd figured out how to
spin with his paw.

Will walked slowly over to the puppy, dropping to his knees when he
reached  him. "Hey, boy," he called softly, and the puppy immediately
turned to look  up at him, a sad but curious look in his pale
gray-green eyes. "Come here."

The dog bounded to him, jumping in the clumsy, overexcited way of a
puppy. He  wagged his tail as his front paws landed on Will's thighs,
and he rubbed his  chocolate-brown face into Will's hand. Will petted
the puppy's soft fur,  amazed at how tiny he was. Little white teeth;
a wet black gumdrop of a nose;  pale eyes shining like marbles. Will
lowered his face and let the dog lick  his chin, then his cheeks, and
he laughed.

"Looks like he's made his decision," Mr. Stevens said, and Will looked
up to  see his parents standing there with the man.

"What do you think, Will?" his mom asked, crouching down beside him to
run  her hand over the silky fur on the dog's back. The puppy craned
his neck to  look up at her, his face hopeful as he waggled his back
under her hand. "Is  this the one?"

Will nodded as the dog offered him a tiny paw, which Will took and
shook,  earning him a confused look from the puppy.

"I've got the paperwork in the house, if one of you wants to come in
with  me," Mr. Stevens said. "It'll just take a minute."

"I'll go," his mom said and followed him inside.

Will's dad crouched down next to him, offering the puppy his hand to
sniff.  Next to the dog's tiny head, his dad's hand looked unnaturally
large, and the  dog gave him a tentative lick, then another, and then
he was bathing his  dad's hand in doggie spit.

"He's so little," Will marveled.

"Not for long," his dad said, fingering the dog's soft paw pads. He
held one  out toward Will. "See how big his paws are. He's gonna grow
up to be a big  dog.

"Yeah, hey there," his dad said when the puppy yanked his paw away.
His dad  reached around to scratch under the dog's chin, then behind a
floppy ear.  "You know," he said absently, "this looks like a dog
who'd like to play  Frisbee and run on the beach."

Will smiled. "Do you mean we could take him to Massachusetts with us
in the  summer, to Aunt Tara's?"

His dad nodded. "We could," he said. "But I was thinking maybe we
could go  somewhere on our own this summer, just you and me and Mom.
How does that  sound?"

"Instead of going with the rest of the family?" he asked, hopeful. The
puppy  started licking his hand, and Will reached around to rub his
soft, furry  back.

His dad shrugged. "Or we can go with them if that's what you want."

Will shook his head. "That's okay," he said, making a face. As much as
he  loved the beach, he dreaded spending time with his cousins. Matt
and Patrick  liked to push him around and play tricks on him, and Abby
was still a baby,  always getting into his stuff and crying when he
found a good hiding place to  get away from her.

"Ready to go?" his mom asked as she rejoined them outside. The dog 
immediately pounced on her running shoes, batting the loops of her
laces and  trying to undo them. She scooped the dog up and held his
wriggling body in  her arms.

"Ready," Will said with a nod, and they waved goodbye to Mr. Stevens.
"Thank  you," Will shouted to the older man.

"We should've thought to bring a collar and leash," his dad said as he
latched the gate behind him.

"Not a problem," his mom said. She stopped and tried to pass the dog
off to  his dad, but the puppy chose that moment to try to scale her
chest, and she  had to grab tight him with both hands before he jumped
over her shoulder.

So instead she turned toward Will and his dad, revealing a loop of
canvas  stuck out of the back pocket of her jeans. His dad snatched
the fabric,  shaking it out to reveal a collar and leash, latched
together with a silver  clasp.

Will scooped the collar off the ground and unsnapped it. His mom tried
to  hold the dog still, but his paws wouldn't stop working against her
shoulder,  trying to climb over onto her back. So his dad stood close
and they carefully  transferred the dog. Then his dad knelt on the
ground and held the puppy  still enough for Will to slip the collar
around his neck and snap it on.

"There we go," his dad said, setting the dog on the gravel driveway.
"You got  the leash?" he asked, waiting for Will's nod before letting
the dog out of  his arms.

They went to the car then, and the puppy eagerly jumped into the
backseat.  Will crawled in beside him, sweeping his action figures off
the seat before  the puppy could decide which one looked more tasty.
Realizing that he was  going to have to keep his room cleaner, Will
handed the figures up to his mom  after she buckled herself into the
front seat. She stashed them safely in the  pocket on her door.

"You need to pick a name," his dad said as he backed the car out of
Mr.  Stevens's driveway. "Got any ideas?"

"I get to pick?" Will asked, choking up on the leash to keep the dog
from  vaulting himself onto his mom's lap. "Anything I want?"

His mom turned in her seat to look at him. "Well..."

"Within reason," his dad said. "I think your mom and I get veto power
since  we'll all be using the name."

Will nodded, then ran through possible names, exhausting the casts of
Harry  Potter and Star Wars without any good candidates.

His mom glanced back at him, winking. "What about Fawkes?" she said,
and Will  smiled that she was thinking the same thing as he had been.

His dad's head turned quickly to face her, then back to the road.
"Fox?" he  repeated.

"Fawkes," his mom said. "F-a-w-k-e-s. Harry Potter, Mulder -- the 
headmaster's pet phoenix."

His dad nodded. "I remember," he said. "But not funny."

Will giggled, and his dad shot him a pretend-annoyed look that quickly
dissolved into a smile. "Not Fox," he said. "No matter how you spell
it."

"What about Phoenix, then?" Will suggested.

"Phoenix," his mom tested out, turning in her seat to look at the dog.
"Phoenix is okay by me."

"Dad?" Will prompted.

He nodded. "I think Phoenix is... very fitting." 

Will smiled over at the dog. "Hey, Phoenix," he said, and the puppy
cocked  his head at him, studying him carefully.

"How long before he knows his name?" he asked his parents.

His mom shrugged. "Not too long if we keep using it," she said. "But
it's  been so long since I've had a dog that I can't really
remember."

"You had a dog, Mom?" he asked. She had never told him about a dog.
"When?"

She smiled over at his dad, who shot a strange look back at her. "Oh,
a few  years before you were born," she told him. "A little Pomeranian
named  Queequeg."

His dad tossed him a smile through the rearview mirror. "Queequeg was
a  char--"

"I know," Will told him. "Mom's already read me Moby Dick."

"Of course," his dad said with a soft chuckle.

"What happened to Queequeg?" Will asked his mom.

"He died," she told him.

"What happened?" Will pressed.

"You know," his dad muttered. "That's not really--"

"He was eaten," his mom said. "By an alligator."

"Oh," Will said, his hands finding Phoenix's neck and petting him
gently. The  dog bounced over to his lap and lifted his chin to Will's
face, licking  desperately, his tail ticking wildly between the front
two seats.

They drove about halfway home, Will trying to keep the puppy from
jumping  onto his dad while he drove. Then, abruptly, his dad pulled
over at a rest  stop.

He stopped the car.

"In case Phoenix needs a bathroom break," his dad said as Will pushed
open  the door and the dog tumbled out onto the grass, then took off
for a nearby  tree. Will watched as the puppy sniffed around the grass
for a minute, then  half squatted. After peeing, Phoenix rose.

"Ready to go, Will?" his dad called, and Will looked over to see his
parents  standing together by the passenger's side of the car, holding
hands. Even  from far away, Will could see his father's thumb tracing
absently over the  ring finger of his mom's left hand, and he wondered
whether his dad even  realized what he was doing. He wondered whether
his mom did.

Then Phoenix took off, sprinting toward the car, and Will struggled to
keep  up, grasping the leash in his fist.

"Whoa," Will yelled. "Phoenix!"

But Phoenix just barreled toward Will's parents, finally crashing into
his  mom's feet just as Will broke through their hand-hold. His dad
caught him  with one arm, swinging him off his feet before setting him
back down again.

Will watched as his mom scooped up the overexcited puppy and deposited
him in  the backseat, quickly closing the door to keep him inside.
Will and his dad  stepped back as his mom pulled the front door open
and slid inside.

Will walked with his dad around to the other side of the car. But he
stopped  him before he could open the door, throwing his arms around
his dad, who then  pulled Will into a warm hug. "What's this for?" he
asked with a chuckle.

Will shrugged as best he could. "Just thanks," he told his dad. "For
Phoenix.  I love him -- he's great."

"I'm glad you like him, but it's not gonna be all fun all the time,"
his dad  warned. "He'll need a lot of work, too -- lots of training.
You think you can  do it?"

His dad stepped back from him then, and Will nodded solemnly up at
him.  "Yes," he said. "I can do it."

His dad nodded, too, and then his hand went back to the car door
handle, but  Will wasn't ready to get into the car just yet. He
stepped back toward his  dad, latching onto one denim-clad leg.

Will knew what he wanted to say. His hand formed the words before he
could  get them out of his mouth, his middle two fingers curling down
as he pressed  his hand into his dad's thigh.

"Love you, Dad," he said softly.

His dad was still then, his hands freezing on Will's shoulders. Then,
finally, he said it -- "I love you, too, Will."

Then, together, they got into the car and headed home.


* * * * *

"You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you
might find  you get what you need." - The Rolling Stones.


THE END

Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you thought at 
attalanta@aol.com
Web Site: http://members.aol.com/attalanta/index.html


Author's Notes:

- For anyone who has not read them, I highly recommend all of the
Harry  Potter books. Start with book one (Will's favorite, Harry
Potter and the  Sorcerer's Stone, and definitely read it before seeing
the movie). Also  recommended are The Young Unicorns and A Wind in the
Door, the latter of  which is the second book in a series by Madeleine
L'Engle. For this series,  start with the first book, A Wrinkle in
Time, which is just wonderful.

- The nighttime shaving scene was inspired by a similar scene in the
novel  Contact by Carl Sagan as well as a Dear Abby column I once
read.

- My version of Will was inspired by multiple fictional characters,
including  Gibson Praise, in a small way; Harry Potter and Charles
Wallace Murry; and  the character of Fred in the wonderful movie
"Little Man Tate," which stars  Jodie Foster and Dianne Wiest.

- Danys Baez is a real pitcher for the Cleveland Indians (at least at
the  time of writing) and the information presented about him is true,
to the best  of my knowledge.

- Episode Notes: Will's dream scene comes straight from the teaser
scene of  the fourth season episode "Demons." Also belonging to 1013
are the very minor  characters of Joy and Patti, which IMHO were not
used to their full  potential.

- Finally, a great thank you goes to Linda and to my mother. Both have
been  patient and helpful with this story, reading it in pieces,
patiently  answering my questions, and encouraging me when I wasn't
sure I'd ever see  the end of this story. I would never have finished
without you!