Disclaimer in The Headers. 

PART I


*****


THE LOST LAND


"I have two daughters.

They are all I ever wanted from the earth.

Or almost all.

I also wanted one piece of ground:

One city trapped by hills. One urban river. 
An island in its element.

So I could say MINE. MY OWN. 
And mean it.....


At night, 
on the edge of sleep, 
I can see the shore of Dublin Bay.
Its rocky sweep and its granite pier.

Is this, I say 
how they must have seen it, 
backing out on the mailboat at twilight,

shadows falling 
on everything they had to leave? 
And would love forever?....


I see myself 
on the underworld side of that water, 
the darkness coming in fast, saying 
all the names I know for a lost land:

Ireland. Absence. Daughter. --


Eavan Boland, excerpts from "The Lost Land"


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


EDEN, SAPPHIRE COAST 
SOUTH COAST, NEW SOUTH WALES, AUSTRALIA
FEBRUARY 17 
5:32 a.m.



Late summer on the southern coast and the sun was coming up over the
torn pink of the cloudy east, the breeze coming in off the ocean warm
and light. The house, little more than a bungalow there on the thumb
of sea that came into the lagoon, was full of noise -- a baby crying,
a young boy's voice as he laughed, the banging of a screen door as a
woman and a man moved back and forth from the house to a worn Jeep
parked on the yard in front of the house. The woman and the man
calling the boy's name. 

It was the sounds of family, familiar and warm as the ocean breeze.
Their voices were as light as the tropical sun, clear as the blue
water that lapped the sand by the small boat pier outside the house.
A small wooden boat knocked softly on the pilings, the long blanket
of pier planks stitched with seabirds, and the trees, pushed by a
constant breeze off the sea, leaned as if listening to the people in
the house and the land, their backs toward the coming light. 

*

"Come on now! You three are going to make me late!" 

Mae Porter pushed her long dark hair back, gathering it in a thick
ponytail of curls as she leaned over the baby, who had finally
stopped crying with the removal of the soaked diaper. Mae finished
tying back her hair and smiled down at the baby, the little girl's
legs kicking the air in glee as the breeze flowed in the open window,
billowing the white of the nursery's curtains. 

"That's my girl," Mae said, deftly diapering the baby and lifting
her up off the changing table, smoothing down the child's green
cotton dress, straightening the straps. Mae had slathered the baby in
sunblock, which was smeared faintly white across the little arms and
the exposed skin of the girl's back. Reaching down, Mae lifted the
white hat, the lip of it an uneven scallop of cotton, and laid it on
the baby's blonde head. 

A horn honked, a playful little "shave and a haircut" cadence. 

"Coming, Joe!" Mae called through the window, hustling through the
doorway to the hallway with the baby, the first rays of the morning
sun laid out on the wooden floor. 

Laughter reached her again from the bedroom at the end of the
hallway. 

"Sean," Mae said, loud enough to be heard over the television she
heard in the boy's room. "Turn off the cartoons and come on. The
boat's leaving in a little while and we're going to make Joe late for
work if we don't hurry." 

The television turned off obediently and Sean exited the room
carrying a small backpack covered with dinosaurs, his tank top too
large and hanging off one shoulder slightly around the backpack
strap. 

"Let's go put your things in the truck with Katherine's bag and then
you can help me carry the cooler and snacks in," she said, putting
her hand on the boy's head, ruffling his sandy red hair, bleached by
the constant sun. Sean smiled up at her, and Mae smiled back. 

"You're excited, eh?" she said, pleased. Katherine fussed softly,
reaching for her hat, and Mae righted it before the baby could knock
the hat off. 

"Aye," Sean said shyly, his eyes shining. "I hope Joe catches
another shark today. A great big one." 

Mae grinned even wider. "Well, these people he's taking out are
looking for shark, he said, so that very well could be," she replied.
"I don't know how you can stand it. It scares me to death just to
look at the things. All those teeth." She bared her teeth in a
facsimile of a snarl at him and provoked another chirp of laughter. 

The horn sounded again, a little longer now. 

"Mae! Let's get the show on the road!" Joe's voice carried through
the screen door into the house, and she could hear he was as excited
as Sean. Joe loved it when they all came along on his charters, the
day on the boat like a vacation for them all. 

"Come on," Mae said, and she and Sean hustled out the front door
across the yard toward the Jeep where Joe Porter stood next to the
driver's door, smiling at them both, his skin deeply tanned, his T-
shirt tight across his chest, his jeans faded almost white. 

He reached for the baby, and Mae handed Katherine to him. Joe held
her up over his head as the baby let out a shrill noise in glee at
being swooped up high. Mae looked at him warmly and shouldered the
diaper bag into the vehicle's back seat, took Sean's bag and laid it
on the floor beside the pink, overstuffed bag. 

"What do we have left to get?" Joe asked her, jiggling the baby from
side to side and smiling up at her. 

"Just the food," Mae replied. "Then we'll be all set."

"You need help?" Joe asked. 

"No," Mae said, watching Katherine as he dropped her down into his
arms, the baby squealing with the sudden movement. "Sean can help
me." 

A gurgle and Katherine spit up, a pale rush of liquid going down the
baby's chin and staining the dress' front. 

"Oh Joe," Mae whined. "You shouldn't be so rough with her right
after she's eaten like that." 

Joe grimaced. "I'm sorry," he said. "You want me to go change her?" 

Mae gave him a put-upon look but a smile was still curling her lips.
"No, just start the car and get the air conditioning up so it's not
hot, all right? You know how fussy she gets if she's hot." 

"Not to mention how fussy *you* are when you get hot," he teased,
and leaned in to kiss her quickly as he handed her the baby. 

"Okay, Sean," Mae said, rubbing the boy's back. "You get the cooler
while I change Katherine's dress." 

"All right," Sean said, and the two of them made their way back to
the house. Mae listened to the Jeep's engine start up, a cough, then
another, then it finally turned over, rumbling from the yard. 

She made quick work of putting a fresh dress on Katherine, this one
yellow, patterned with sunflowers. The baby's hat back in place to
protect her pale, half-Irish skin, Mae made her way to the kitchen
where Sean was eating a cookie from the cooler. 

"Augh, you're as bad as Joe," she said, closing the cooler and
handing it to him. "Let's go." 

They went out the screen door, Mae closing the door behind them.
There was no need to lock it. The nearest house was over two miles
away, down a long dirt road that led to the main road into town. 

Music was coming through the open window of the Jeep, and Joe was
smiling. Sean tussled the cooler, his body leaned over to the side
with the weight and Mae put her arm around his slight shoulders, the
baby on her hip. 

From the direction of the car, a clicking sound. A pop. 

Mae's brow creased down at the strangeness of the sound, her eyes on
Joe, who was looking at the dash, his expression puzzled. 

Then, memory came back to her. Something buried. Long since pushed
away.

"Oh God," she breathed, and pulled Sean against her, knocking the
cooler from his hand as she pressed his face against her belly. 

In a split second, in the space of a breath...

"JOE!" she screamed, loud enough to break glass.

Then flame. 

The explosion roared up in a cloud of red and orange and black, the
sound loud enough to make her ears shriek with pain as the blast wave
knocked she and Sean down on the ground, Katherine's crying shrilling
in surprise and terror as Mae clenched her against her body, covering
the baby's face as glass flew over them, flaming debris raining down. 

She opened her eyes, the sound of things burning all around her, sat
up, tears rushing to her eyes as she looked at the burning wreckage
of the Jeep. 

She couldn't breathe, bile rising up in her throat.

In the driver's seat, through the wall of fire, she could see the
body burning, Joe slumped over the steering wheel, still, the only
thing moving in the vehicle the flames.

"NO!" she screamed, and the sound rushed up through her, pushing her
to her feet, the baby sprawled on the ground beside her, choking on
cries. 

Beside her, Sean scrambled to his feet, took a step forward and
stopped, his small chest rising and falling, his fists clenched at
his side. 

Mae reached for him, grabbed him roughly and spun him away from the
sight of Joe's body burning. 

"Don't look," she said, though she was hyperventilating. The words
came out breathy. "God, don't look..." She choked on a sob. 

Sean was tensed in her arms, shaking uncontrollably. She could feel
his fast breath through her light shirt but he made no sound.

At her feet, Katherine screamed, the sound rising with the roar of
the fire, the baby's small fists clenching the ground.


***********


BANGKOK GARDENS 
ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA 
FEBRUARY 23 
7:34 p.m.


The place was warm and smelled deliciously of spice, the walls lined
with ornate paintings flecked with gold, the light dim and candles
illuminating the waiting area. The late dinner crowd was just
starting to filter into the posh restaurant, the coat check area
clogged with people in nice dresses and suits. Thai music filtered in
from the dining area, lilting with its exotic and somehow mournful
sounds. 

Scully stood beside the large picture window that overlooked the
street, her belly full from the delicious meal and a sweet feeling of
ease settling over her. 

She glanced over at Mulder, looking smart in his dark suit as he
waited in the line with Granger to get their coats. Mulder was
laughing over something Granger was telling him, and she loved the
look of his face as he did it. It was a look she'd seen more and more
of from him in the past months. She was getting used to seeing him
smile. 

And she'd been smiling herself a lot in the past months, as well.
She was doing it now, a small secret smile as her hand came around
and touched the slight, firm bulge of her belly. 

She'd just started to show that week, the top button of her neatly
fitted slacks not closing for the first time when she'd started the
work week on Monday. Mulder had come out of the bathroom and caught
her standing there, her fingers on the button and its hole, staring
at the scant inch of new space between them in something akin to
surprise. 

He'd come forward, a towel around his waist but still dripping water
from the shower, and slid his hand down her belly between the open
flaps of her shirt. He settled his fingers in the space between her
pants, caressed the new firmness there. 

"You're beautiful," he'd said softly, and the tone of his voice had
made her look up from his fingers, into his eyes. 

"Tell me that in a few more months," she'd quipped, but she'd felt a
flush rise on her cheeks. The idea of the baby, still so new to her
even after all these weeks, was suddenly so wondrously real. 

He'd leaned forward and kissed her then, his lips warm against hers.
She held the kiss for a long time, her hands going to his cheeks. 

"I will," he'd whispered when they'd parted, keeping his face close
as though afraid someone else might hear. "Believe me. I will." 

She looked up as Mulder came forward with her coat and his, looting
around in the side pocket of his suit jacket. Granger was still
behind him at the coat room, the next in line, and Robin returned
from the restroom and joined him there.

Mulder finally found what he was looking for, the valet parking
ticket, and handed the slip of paper to a young Asian man standing by
the door. The man went out the glass doors into the street, a blast
of winter filtering into the warm room as the door swung closed.
Another man appeared from the side of the waiting area to take the
other's place. 

"Here you go," Mulder said, and handed Scully her coat. She
shouldered into the heavy wool, and he did the same, watching her. 

"You still feeling queasy?" he asked gently, standing close. 

She buttoned her coat, looked down as she did so. "I'm all right,"
she said. "It's better than before. Eating helped." 

"Phad Kapou done extra spicy helped?" he asked, amusement in his
voice. "We're going to have to buy this baby asbestos diapers if
these cravings keep up." 

She laughed, looked up at him. "It wasn't a craving this time," she
said. "It's just what I wanted for my birthday." 

"You wanted heartburn for your birthday?" he replied, his eyes
mischievous.

"No," she replied patiently. "I wanted a delicious meal in a fancy
restaurant." She nodded toward Granger and Robin. "And time with our
friends. And a night out with you."

He made a soft affirmative noise and she inched closer to him, her
eyes searching his out. 

"There's something else I want for my birthday," she murmured, loud
enough for only him to hear. 

"Oh yeah?" he replied, matching her tone. 

"Mmm hmm," she said, nodding, her lips curling, and smoothed down
his lapel. 

He searched her face and then chuckled softly. "Does that mean it
was your birthday yesterday, too?" he asked, and now she did blush,
which made him laugh again. 

"Don't make fun of me," she admonished, but she couldn't hide the
smile on her face. 

"Oh, I'm not making fun," Mulder assured, shaking his head. He
cupped her cheek, brushing her cheekbone with his thumb. "But have I
told you how much I love the second trimester?" 

And she laughed and touched his wrist, her eyes shining up at his.
"You don't have to tell me," she murmured, bemused. "It shows." 

Granger and Robin came up beside them, both of them putting on their
coats. Granger moved a little slowly, and Robin had to hold the right
side open for him as he reached back to slide his arm in the sleeve. 

"You can do it, Grandpa," Robin teased as Granger grimaced at the
motion. 

"Very funny," Granger replied, and she pushed the shoulder up,
settling the coat on his body. 

"How's it feeling?" Scully asked, taking a step away from Mulder and
looking at Granger with concern. "I noticed you were holding yourself
a little stiffly at dinner." 

"Eh, it's all right," Granger said casually. "I just had physical
therapy today and you know how that is. They're working on adhesions
and it's slow going." 

The gunshot wound he'd suffered had done a lot of damage to the
muscles in his shoulder and back and chest. Scully was frankly
surprised he was doing as well as he was, hurt as badly as he'd been.

Granger held up a ticket for the new valet by the door, who came
forward and took it and headed out into the cold. Scully watched him
go, saw she and Mulder's car pull into the valet spot out in front of
the building, the driver getting out and coming around the idylling
vehicle, rubbing his hands together for warmth. 

Robin was looting around her purse and brought out a small wrapped
box, festooned with a bright foil ribbon. She smiled as she held it
up in front of Scully. 

"This," she said, "is just a little something from both of us for
you to open when you feel like it."

Scully felt her face redden again and she looked at the box shyly,
took it, and accepted Robin's warm embrace. 

"Thank you so much," she replied. "I'm sure I'll love it, whatever
it is." 

They parted, and Scully squeezed Granger's good arm, returned his
gentle smile. 

"Happy birthday, Dana," Granger said, and smiled wider. 

A couple was coming into the restaurant, and as the door opened,
Scully heard a series of clicks, then a popping sound, like a cork
coming off a bottle of champagne. The couple turned toward the
street, and Scully and Mulder did, as well, Granger and Robin looking
around them at the door. 

"What was that?" Mulder asked.

Scully's brow creased. "I don't know," she said. "But it sounded
like it was coming from our--" 

A flash. A terrible deafening sound. 

Scully felt seering pain in her ears as the pressure in the room
changed suddenly, her hands going up to guard her eyes against the
light. 

Then nothing but the sound of glass shattering, the roar of fire and
heat. Nothing but the feel of her body tumbling backward in a cloud
of splintered wood and glass. The sound of screaming, the heaviness
of bodies crashing against hers and the sudden feeling of impact
against her head, her side. 

In a haze of pain, she heard someone shouting her name. 

Then she heard and felt nothing. Nothing at all. 


**********


GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY HOSPITAL 
WASHINGTON, D.C. 
10:24 p.m.


"Mulder, please." 

He didn't know how long the voice had been talking to him, gentle in
its insistence. He didn't know how long the cup of steaming liquid
had been poised in front of him, though he could tell by the smell of
it now that it was coffee, acrid coffee out of a vending machine,
foamed on the top. 

He brought his eyes up from where they'd been staring at his folded
hands, his elbows on his knees. He looked at the dark hand, followed
the arm up to Robin's face, the warm black pools of her eyes. The
noise of the emergency room waiting room filtered back into his
awareness, people moving back and forth behind Robin, the room
bustling. A voice paged a doctor over the intercom. 

To Mulder, it was like the world existed in liquid, everything
seeming to echo and move too slowly. 

He didn't know where he'd been. 

"You with me?" Robin asked, proffering the coffee a little closer.
There was a bandage on the side of her face in front of her ear and
one of her eyes was slightly swollen from the area around the gash.
The shoulder of her deep purple dress was stained dark with blood.

Mulder leaned up, took the coffee in his left hand, which was
wrapped with gauze. 

"Yeah," he said at last. His voice cracked as if it hadn't been used
in some time, which, in fact, it hadn't. A few words to the doctor
who had stitched up his hand. A phone call to Skinner at the
restaurant, Mulder shivering in the cold outside the waiting room so
he could talk on the cell. 

He cleared his throat. The stinging of the cuts on his face came
back to him, and he rubbed at the rough lines of dried blood,
ignoring the pain. 

"Good," Robin said as she sized him up, her hand going to his
shoulder. "Stay with me now." 

Mulder nodded, and Robin removed her hand. 

"Where's Granger?" he asked, looking around. 

Robin nodded toward the corner, where a knot of police stood, people
all around them. Most of the victims of the bombing had ended up
here, and the police were taking statements, pens and notebooks out. 

"They're going to want to talk to you, too," Robin said, regret in
her voice. 

"I'll talk to Skinner when he gets here," Mulder said gruffly, and
stood, placing the coffee in the chair, and took a couple of steps,
his hands going into his pockets. He was facing the double-doors to
the emergency room now, closed tight as a mouth. 

"She's going to be okay, Mulder," Robin said softly from behind him,
standing close. 

He wanted to believe her, but he had nothing on which to base what
she said. For once, he desperately needed that evidence, couldn't
make the leap. 

He reached up and ran a hand through his hair roughly, closed his
eyes. 

He couldn't banish the image of Scully, unconscious, in the mass of
writhing bodies and rubble on the floor in the restaurant, a gash at
her hairline, her face clammy and pale. 

They'd kept him out when they'd whisked her from the ambulance to
the examining room, a nurse having to hold his shoulders to stop his
forward motion toward the doors. 

"But...she's pregnant," he'd stammered, as if that explained the
necessity of his going back with her. As if there was something only
he could do. 

"Yes, the paramedics told us," the nurse had replied. "But we need
you to just wait here for now, sir. The doctor will come get you when
he's finished his exam. And you need to be looked at yourself." She'd
gestured down to his hand, the make-shift bandage the paramedic had
swathed around it in the ambulance soaked through with blood. 

She'd left him standing there, Granger and Robin coming in their own
car to free up an ambulance for the more seriously injured. There
were so many hurt. A dozen or more, and at least two dead that Mulder
had seen, one of them the young man who'd gotten their car.

"Mulder," Granger said from behind him, and Mulder reluctantly
turned from the door to face him. Granger's face was scraped up, as
well, but he'd taken the least damage of any of them. 

"What are they saying?" Mulder asked. 

Granger shook his head. "Not much at this point," he said. "Only
that it was a very professional job. Sophisticated device. Meant to
do a lot of damage." 

Mulder nodded. He could feel his face reddening as emotions surged
in him. 

Not fear, but pure rage. 

Granger must have seen it, the other man's face hardening, as well.
"We'll get to the bottom of this," he said firmly. 

The doors behind Mulder opened and he turned instinctively, saw
Hannah White, Scully's obstetrician, coming toward him in her usual
long skirt and bright sweater beneath her white coat, her long gray
hair pulled back into a loose braid. Her lined face was carefully
neutral, a small smile forced onto her lips. 

"Hannah?" Mulder said quickly as she reached him. "When did you get
here?" 

"I tried to find you when I came in, but you must have been back in
the treatment area." She put a calming hand on his forearm. "I came
as fast as my service contacted me about your call." 

"Has Scully regained consciousness yet?" He felt something in him
unhitch at seeing her. 

"Yes, she has," Hannah said. "I'm sorry the physician who treated
her injuries hasn't come out and told you that by now. Things are
pretty crazy back there. If I'd known no one had spoken to you, I
would have come out sooner myself--"

"Tell me how she is," Mulder interrupted. He felt taut as wire. 

"She's okay," Hannah replied, her voice patient, soothing. She
squeezed his arm. "She's got a concussion and two cracked ribs, but
she's going to be all right." 

"Thank God," Robin said from behind him.

Mulder let out a breath, nodded. "And the baby?" he asked. "The
baby's okay then?" 

White hesitated, and Mulder felt his stomach go into free-fall. 

"I want you to be calm, Mulder," she said softly. "And not jump to
any conclusions, okay?" 

Mulder looked at Robin and Granger, who had both gone still behind
him, then back at Hannah, his eyes wide. "Okay," he said, hoping he
didn't sound like he felt. "Okay. Tell me." 

Hannah met his eyes. "She's developed some spotting in the past
hour. It's been fairly steady." 

The words hung in the air, heavy. Mulder swallowed. "What does that
mean?" he asked. 

"Well," Hannah said, and crossed her arms. "It could mean nothing.
Just her body's reaction to the trauma and it will stop on its own." 

"Or?" The word pushed out of him. 

The older woman's gaze bore into his, unflinching. "Or, worst-case
scenario, she could be miscarrying." 

He shifted his weight, struggling for words. "But you can do
something." He said it with assurance when he finally found the
words. 

Hannah shook her head. "At 19 weeks, no," she said. "The fetus isn't
viable at this point. It can't survive outside the womb. And we can't
stop the process if her body decides to spontaneously abort." 

Mulder reached up and covered his mouth, rubbed at his chin to cover
the motion. "I see," he said, and his voice was almost too quiet to
be heard over the din of the room. 

"It's far too early to make that kind of conclusion, though," Hannah
said. "So I don't want you to dwell on that, or let her, if you can
help it, all right? Getting upset yourself or allowing her to is only
going to make matters worse. And it's already difficult enough that
she's a doctor and knows too much for her own good about the
possibilities of things."

Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said, looked down for a beat, gathering
himself, then back up again. "Can I see her?" 

White nodded. "Yes," she said. "I want you to be with her. You need
to help keep her as relaxed as you can. She's refusing medication
right now, even the mild sedative the Emergency Physician wanted to
give her, so you're going to be all she's got for the night." She
studied his face. "Can you do that, Mulder?" 

He stood up a little straighter, nodded. He swallowed again, and it
was like he had a stone in his throat. 

"I can do that, yes," he said, and he felt the conviction in the
words. 

Yes. He could do that. 

He *would*. 


**


11:03 p.m.



When he entered the hospital room, it was dark except for the light
over the bed, the rest of the room bathed in shadows and silence. The
door made no sound as he pushed it closed to a crack behind him,
shutting out the light from the hall and making the room more dim and
the light above Scully more stark. 

She was on her side, facing him and the door, and though her eyes
were closed, he knew she wasn't asleep. She had a fist balled in
front of her face covering her mouth, and her brow was knitted down
above her closed lids. He recognized that expression, the tautness of
her face. Control. The struggle for it. 

He went to the bed and sat on the edge carefully, his uninjured hand
going to her hair, being careful of the bandage on her forehead by
her hairline. He tunneled his fingers through the strands, stroking
slowly, and it took her a few seconds before she opened her eyes.
When she did, she would not look him in the face, her eyes focussed
on the bend of his knee. 

"Are you okay?" she asked in a faint voice, almost a whisper. 

He nodded. "Yes," he replied softly. "Some stitches in my hand and
some bumps and bruises. That's all." 

She nodded, opened her fisted hand and touched his thigh, her
fingers tentative as they brushed the fabric of his dress pants. 

"Paul and Robin?" she asked, and her voice trembled, her control
sliding. He knew the tears were not far now, and cupped her head in
his large hand, reached down and took her hand, gave it a squeeze. 

"They're all right. They went home to get Bo and take him back to
their place for the night."

She nodded, a jerked motion. "Good," she said. "Good. We're
all...very lucky..." Her voice cracked and she clenched down on his
hand, her eyes closing. She still had not looked at his face. 

He leaned down, stricken, pressed his lips against her temple.
"Scully, you don't have to do this," he whispered into her ear. "Not
with me. Just let go..."

And with that, her breath caught and her free hand went to her side,
holding her injured ribs. He could feel the tears against his cheek
and turned and kissed her face. 

"Mulder..." Her voice was choked. "I can't lose this baby...I can't
lose her..." 

"We're not going to lose her, Scully," he said softly. "It's going
to be all right. The doctor said this could be nothing. You know it
could be nothing." He paused. "And you've seen her, Scully. You know
she's going to be all right."

"How do I know the baby I've seen is the one I'm carrying?" she said
in a rush. "How do I know the things I've seen are even real, Mulder,
and not a dream...a dream for what I wish I could have?" A sob caught
in her throat. "Oh God...I'm so sorry..."

"Hey," he said, gently and firmly. "You've got nothing to be sorry
for. Nothing. Don't do that to yourself, Scully. Please..."

She trembled on the bed, her hand going up to hide her face, grief
and fear overwhelming her. Her usual fierce control over her emotions
was not what it had been before her pregnancy, and though he welcomed
that in many ways, right now it could be dangerous. For her and for
the baby. 

You're going to be all she has for the night, Hannah had said. 

The thought made his gut hurt in the face of the anguish he saw
taking her. He felt completely useless, and he *had* to be of use. 

He decided on a different tact. 

"Hey Scully," he said softly, stroking her hair. "Tell me a story."

She shook her head. "I can't..." she whispered. 

"Come on," he urged. "Tell me a story about her. Tell me what she
looks like." 

Scully sniffed, reached up and wiped her eyes, hiding her face. "You
know what she looks like, Mulder," she replied softly. 

"I like it when *you* tell me, though," he replied, smiling, forcing
ease. He smoothed her hair back and inched closer on the bed. 

"Mulder..." she began, shaking her head. 

"Come on, Scully," he said again. "Tell me what she looks like and
then tell me a story you haven't told me yet. I know you've got at
least one you haven't told me yet." 

She sniffed again, the tears still coming. "Okay..." she said,
trying to pull the tatters of her control around her. "Okay..." She
drew in a breath, still holding her side. Then she began to speak. 

"She...she looks like you. When she's born...she has lots of
hair...your color. She's very small and..." She caught on a sob
again, covered her eyes. "I can't do this, Mulder...I can't...not
with knowing I could--"

"Keep going, Scully," he urged. "Just keep going. 'She's very small
and' what?"

She wiped at her eyes, the words coming haltingly. "And...she's thin
and tall...like you."

He rubbed at her back gently. "Tell me again about her eyes." 

Scully kept her own gaze down, still staring at his knee. "She's got
my eyes. Big and blue...so blue...deep blue...but your
eyelashes...long..."

Her voice was unhitching now, her breath evening out. He smiled,
nuzzled her hairline beside the bandage. "Yes," he said softly. He
swore he could see them, Scully's beautiful eyes set into the tiny
face like jewels. "Now tell me something else. Something you haven't
told me yet." 

He knew she worried about telling him too much, worried about giving
too much away about the things she'd seen about their future. Part of
it was her distrust of her own abilities, a desire not to get his
hopes up for things that she assumed might not be. 

But he wanted to know them all anyway. He wanted to see what she
saw. Snapshots of a life he hadn't lived yet with her, a life he
would live. 

Feelings rose in him with the thought, and he reached down, put his
hand on her belly, his thumb rubbing against the small swell beneath
the blankets. Scully put her hand over his, squeezed.

"You're lying on the floor in the living room," she murmured. 

"Our living room now? The new place?" 

She nodded. "Yes. In front of the fireplace. Bo is there. He's got
his head on your belly. And she..." She hesitated. "And Rose...she's
lying on her stomach across you with her ear to your chest." 

"Hmm..." Mulder smiled. "How old is she?" 

"Three or four," she replied, and a tiny smile touched her lips,
though the tears were still coming. "She's got long long hair. A dark
french braid down her back. You're twirling it in your hand.
You're..." She swallowed.

He rubbed her belly again. "I'm what?"

"You're...teaching her how to count," she whispered. "She's trying
to count your heartbeats." 

His eyes burned. Something bloomed in his chest and he could feel
the small weight there. 

Scully turned to look at him now, her eyes shining in the light. 

He leaned down and kissed her lips softly once, twice. Then he
withdrew just enough to be able to meet her gaze. 

"Scully, you have to believe," he murmured. "No matter what's
happening now, you have to believe in what you see." He pressed his
palm against her belly. "Because Rose is already here. With us. Right
beneath our hands." 

She lay her hand on the side of his face, searching his eyes, nodded. 

"I love you," she said on a breath, kissed him again, lingering
there, her words and the kiss passed between them like secrets. 


**********


7912 LAUREL STREET 
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA 
FEBRUARY 24 
7:21 p.m.



It had begun to snow, the sky a heavy cobalt darkness, the huge
flakes coming down around Mulder as he gathered firewood from the
holder in the townhouse's tiny backyard, stacking the pieces in the
crook of his elbow. The night was quiet, and he looked up at the
windows of the house, which glowed a warm gold. From the bedroom on
the second floor there was a tiny trickle of dancing light, the
fireplace in the bedroom lit but waning. Seeing this, he went back
into the house, his shoulders and hair dotted with snow. 

Through the living room with its own fire burning more brightly than
the one upstairs, past his black leather couch, its shoulders covered
with a Navajo blanket, he made his way up the staircase almost
silently. He passed the second bedroom, the room that would be the
baby's, still empty except for a few boxes left over from the move.
The office was across from it, his computer screen glowing faintly
with Flying Toasters, Scully's laptop closed on her neat desk against
the far wall, circled with papers and files. 

Down the hallway, his socked feet making no sound on the hardwood
floor, he finally entered he and Scully's large bedroom, light
flickering from the hearth. Scully was facing away from him, a bump
beneath the covers, her breathing deep and even. 

Bo lifted his coal-dark head from the foot of the bed, his eyes
catching the firelight as he watched Mulder pull back the screen and
place more wood on the fire. Mulder fumbled the logs around carefully
until fresh flames peeked between the wood, and then, satisfied,
replaced the screen, wiping his hands on his jeans. 

He turned then and went for the bed, reaching out and stroking Bo's
soft head as he rounded the foot. Then he stood next to Scully, saw
her face smoothed out with sleep, her eyes shifting beneath her
closed lids as she dreamed. He smiled faintly. 

Then the memory of the explosion came back to him, the screaming in
the restaurant, the high-pitched sound of glass as it shattered. The
scrambling over bodies to find her in the chaos that followed. 

The smile melted away. 

He pulled the covers up over her shoulder, his fingers playing on
the hair trailing out along the pillow, then withdrew from the
bedroom, Bo coming down off the bed and falling in slowly behind him
as he went back down the stairs. 

He was in the kitchen making a pot of decaf, Bo leaned against his
leg, when the doorbell rang. He flicked the coffeemaker on and went
to answer it. 

There, outside on the front steps, Skinner stood, a bunch of flowers
in his hand and a stiff expression on his face. 

"Mulder," he said gruffly. Snow tapped on his shoulders. 

"Sir," Mulder replied, stepping aside and gesturing for Skinner to
enter, which he did. 

"Are those for me?" Mulder quipped, nodding toward the flowers as
Skinner shouldered out of his jacket, revealing casual clothes
beneath. Jeans. A dark sweater. It was to be only a partial business
meeting.

"No, you I got one of those smiley-faced silver balloons but it flew
away between here and the car," Skinner replied through his teeth.
"These are for your *wife*." He stuck the flowers out toward Mulder
without ceremony. 

Mulder laughed, both at his joke and at his purposefully heavy use
of Scully's married title. "Thank you," he said. "You want coffee?" 

"Leaded or unleaded?" 

"Decaf," Mulder replied.

"Sure then," Skinner said, and followed him into the kitchen, where
Bo still sat in front of the coffeemaker, a bone in his mouth. The
dog whined softly on seeing Skinner, and Mulder touched his head as
he lay the flowers on the counter. He went for the cabinet beside the
sink, drew out two mugs. 

"Where's Scully?" Skinner asked. "Sleeping, I hope?" 

"Yeah," Mulder said. He poured from the half-full carafe. "She's
been asleep most of the day since we got home." 

"How's she doing?" Skinner took the mug Mulder offered. 

"She's okay," Mulder said. "Bad headache from the concussion, and I
think it makes her sore to move around too much with those ribs, but
she's all right." He picked up his own mug, took a sip. 

Skinner looked down into the coffee, hesitated. "And the baby?" he
said finally, barely loud enough to hear. 

Mulder nearly choked on his drink, but held his reaction in check.
He lowered the mug, felt his face flush. 

"So that's out now, I see," he said. 

"Not to everyone, I don't think," Skinner replied. "But yes, some of
us know. The people who need to know." 

Mulder took another sip of his coffee. "So much for privacy in the
workplace," he said, and he couldn't keep the irritation from his
voice. 

"You want privacy in the workplace, go work for Dunkin' Donuts,"
Skinner replied, echoing the irritation. "I wish you'd told me a long
time ago."

"Not my call," Mulder said, not meeting his boss' intense gaze.

"I figured as much." Skinner went for the refrigerator and the milk.
"You didn't answer my question." 

"The baby's okay," Mulder said softly. "We had a bit of a scare, but
they did an ultrasound this morning and everything looks all right.
Normal." 

"Thank God for that," Skinner said, pouring milk and replacing it,
closing the door. 

"Yeah," Mulder said faintly, uncomfortable. He cleared his throat.
"What have you found out so far about the bomb?" 

Skinner turned to him now, his hip against the counter. "A
professional job. The folks in Ballistics have been all over it,
collecting evidence. Whoever did this had a lot of money and a lot of
practice. No one's claimed responsibility for it, either. Not a peep
from the usual suspects." He looked down at Bo, then up again. "We're
thinking it's personal."

Mulder nodded. "Yeah," he said. "It sure felt like it." 

"You know what Granger's doing, right?" 

"Checking cases from my VCU days, looking for anyone who could have
the means." 

Skinner nodded. "Can you think of anyone off the top of your head?" 

Mulder shook his head, said nothing. 

"I thought of something else," Skinner ventured. "I'm sure you've
thought of it, too." 

Mulder nodded. "Curran."

"Yes," Skinner said. "I've checked with Counterterrorism and there
aren't any Path left, though. And he didn't leave a lot of friends by
the time he was done. As far as the IRA goes, you and Scully did them
a favor by putting down a rabid dog who was biting them on the ass.
That was the general vibe when all that was over, I'm told. So that
doesn't make sense either." 

Mulder put his mug down, leaned on the counter himself. "None of it
makes any sense. Why us? And why now?" Frustration leaked into his
voice, the thin edge of the anger.

"That's what Granger's looking into all that stuff from VCU for,"
Skinner said. "To see if anyone you put away has recently gotten
loose again. We're not coming up with much at this point, though. But
we'll keep looking." 

Mulder looked down. "Thank you, sir," he said, relenting. 

Skinner drained his mug. "In the meantime, cabs for both of you," he
said, stood up straight. "I gotta get going. I just wanted to check
in." He nodded to the flowers, looking uncomfortable again. "And
bring those by and see how things were." 

"I appreciate all you're doing," Mulder said, and meant it. 

Skinner waved him off. "We'll catch this guy," he grunted.

Mulder set his mug down and led Skinner through the living room to
the door, where the AD put on his jacket again, zipped it against the
coming cold. 

"Give her my best when she wakes up," Skinner said. "When are you
coming back in?" 

Mulder considered. "Her doctor wants her out for a week. Me...give
me a couple of days to make sure she's all right. Then I'll be back." 

Skinner nodded. "Yeah, take a couple. And be careful, Mulder." 

"I will," Mulder replied. 

Skinner opened the door and went out into the night. 

Mulder closed the heavy wooden door behind him, stood still for a
long moment, just listening to the house. A log fell in the fire with
a hiss, and Mulder watched the sparks wink out. 

A whine and he looked down at Bo, standing there with that worried
look he got when things were out of sorts, his eyes darting. 

"It's all right," he said, gave the dog's bone a playful tug. Bo
wouldn't give it up, as usual, just stared, and Mulder chuffed
softly. 

Sighing, he went around to the couch, grabbed the remote and flicked
on the television, sinking into the familiar leather and putting his
feet up on the coffee table, flipping channels idylly. 

Bo ducked under his legs and went into a heap, dropped the bone and
lay his chin on the floor, his eyes closing.

Mulder let the sound of the television drift over him, felt his
muscles beginning to unknot a bit, thinking. 

He'd stayed up most of the night with Scully, neither of them able
to sleep as the bleeding had continued. Around four, it had begun to
slow, and by six it had all but stopped, just in time for Hannah to
return to perform the ultrasound. 

Everything looked fine, White had said, a smile on her face, and
when she'd asked if they wanted to know the sex and Scully had
nodded, Hannah had confirmed that the baby was indeed a girl. 

He closed his eyes.

Rose's head on his chest. Scully's eyes. His hand playing in his
daughter's long hair, hair the color of his...

He smiled, a wide easy smile. 

Things were going to be all right, he told himself. Things would be
just fine...

The doorbell rang again.

Mulder turned to face it, then looked toward the kitchen, wondering
what Skinner could have left behind.

Probably forgot to tell him something, he thought. That was all. 

He rose, stepping over the dog, and went to the door, opened it with
a joke on the tip of his tongue about Skinner getting old and senile. 

Then he froze, his eyes going wide.

Mae Curran stood there in the falling snow, a baby bundled in a
blanket against her shoulder. Her other arm was around Sean Curran's
thin chest, the boy shivering in a lightweight jacket, his eyes huge
and filled with some emotion Mulder couldn't name but which he did
not ever want to feel. 

Mulder's mouth opened, closed, opened again. He couldn't find words.
Emotion rose up in him, filling him. 

Anger. Anger borne of fear. 

Mae looked at him, her lip trembling. He could see a tear track down
her cheek in the porchlight, catching on a deep slice in her face
that was swollen and scabbed. 

"Mulder," she said softly. "Please let us in."

He didn't move, his hand tightening on the door. 

"Mulder," Mae implored again, pulling Sean and the baby closer to
her. Her voice broke. "I'm begging you. Please...let us in."


***

"Mulder, let them in." 

Scully said it so softly behind him that he barely registered that
she'd spoken, a ghost of her voice. 

He turned to face her there in the small entrance hallway. She was
wearing his robe, the deep green of it swallowing her in soft terry
cloth, her hair pushed behind her ears, her hand on her ribs. The
bandage was stark on her forehead, and her eyes were serious beneath
it, deeply sad and more than a little afraid. 

He turned back to Mae in the doorway. She made no move to come
forward despite what Scully had said, seeming to wait for his
permission to enter the house. She looked at him, unblinking, and
there was a strength beneath the desperation in her eyes. Something
quiet beneath the tears. 

A cough and the baby began to cry on her shoulder, a miserable sound. 

Hearing it, he stepped aside and let the three enter the house.

"You must be freezing," Scully said as he closed the door behind
them. "Go on into the living room." She nodded behind her. "There's a
fire."

It was true that they must be cold, he noted. None of them seemed
dressed for the weather, Mae's long curled hair covered with snow. 

"Thank you, Dana," Mae said, angling Sean that way, the baby
fussing, wriggling against her. 

Mulder looked at Scully there in the hallway, and he let what he was
feeling show on his face. She reached out and touched his arm. 

"It's okay," she murmured, Mae well out of earshot now. 

"HOW could this be OKAY?" he hissed. 

"Mulder," she replied softly, gave his arm a squeeze. "She wouldn't
be here if she had a choice." 

He began to say something else, but Scully shook her head, moved
around him and went into the living room, moving slowly. He
hesitated, then finally followed. 

Mae had settled onto the couch with the baby, Sean beside her,
sitting with his hands folded in his lap, his eyes drawn to the
television in the dim room. Mae was peeling out of her jacket and
unbuttoning her shirt, the baby full-throated wailing now. 

Bo got up from where he'd been lying at the sound and the sight of
strangers, his ears flat against his head in distress, and skulked up
the stairs, his tail between his legs. Mulder watched him go and
understood the sentiment completely. 

"Do you want something?" Scully asked, taking a chair beside the
couch. "I think I smell coffee." 

"No, thank you," Mae said, and she exposed her breast for an instant
as she guided the baby to it, the crying stopping abruptly as the
baby latched on and began to nurse. Mae covered the child's head with
the blanket, rubbing softly. "Sean might like something, though. Some
cocoa or the like if you've got it." 

Mulder was still standing, his hands in his pockets, in front of the
fire, looking at them all warily. He wanted to say something, but
he'd be damned if he could figure out the right thing to say in this
circumstance. 

"Do you want some cocoa, Sean?" Scully asked, looking at the boy.
"Or some milk?" 

Sean stared back at her, his eyes like glass, his mouth closed. 

"Why don't you go wash up before you have something, Sean?" Mae said
into the beat of silence. She turned to Scully. "Bathroom?"

Scully nodded toward short hallway to the kitchen. "Just down there.
On the right." 

"Go on," Mae said, touching the back of Sean's head, and the boy
obediently rose and went the way Scully had indicated. They all
watched him go.

Once the door closed down the hallway, Mae looked at them,
swallowed, and spoke. 

"He...He's not much for talking these days," she said. "Not since..." 

Scully leaned back and he could see her face fall. 

"Joe," she said. 

Mae nodded, smoothing the baby's hair gently, looking down into the
child's face. "Yes," she whispered, and a tear rushed down her face. 

Mulder's face dropped, as well. "A bomb," he said. 

Mae looked at him. "Yes," she said again, and seemed surprised at
his words. 

Mulder raked a hand through his hair. "Shit...." he breathed. 

"I'm so sorry," Scully said, emotion heavy in her voice. "Were you
hurt? Besides your face? You or Sean or...it's Katherine, right?" 

Mae nodded, looking down at the little girl again. "Just some cuts
and scorching here and there...but Sean...he hasn't spoken since."

"Probably shock," Mulder said.

Mae wiped at another tear on her face, dabbing around the gash. "He
won't even talk to me," she said softly. "I don't know what to do." 

The bathroom door opened and Sean came back into the room, retaking
his seat beside Mae, quiet as a tomb. He looked at Scully and Mulder
in turn, his mouth a thin line. 

Scully stood slowly, still holding her side, went to the couch and
knelt in front of him, reached for his hands, feeling them. She
checked his eyes, her hand running over his head gently. 

"Can you talk to me, Sean?" Scully asked softly. "Tell me how you're
feeling? If you're okay?"

Sean simply looked at her, his face blank. 

No tears. No nothing. No one was home. 

"It happened...right in front of him." Mae seemed to have a hard
time speaking about it herself. "Right in front of all of us." 

"He seems okay physically," Scully said, finishing her cursory exam.
"A little dehydrated." 

"We've been travelling a long time," Mae said. "Days to get here
from Australia. I'm not surprised if we're all a bit worse for wear." 

Scully turned to Mulder now. "I think we have some hot chocolate in
the pantry," she said, and he nodded, moved off to the kitchen,
relieved to be doing something. 

He pulled the milk from the fridge, poured it into a mug and set it
in the microwave, his mind racing as the milk heated, the machine
humming. 

Two bombs.

No coincidences.

The past, with its cold hand, reached out and touched the back of
his neck, straightening his spine as the microwave beeped. 

"Fuck..." he said under his breath, and pulled the mug out, going
for the counter and the pantry, the box of Nestle's on the top shelf. 

"...so I followed you home yesterday from work," Mae was saying as
he re-entered the living room. Scully had retaken her seat, the thick
robe curled around her. 

He went to Sean, offered the hot chocolate out toward the boy, who
looked at it, then at Mulder with those same vacant eyes. Mulder
reached down and lifted the small hand, set it around the handle.

"Drink," he urged gently, and like throwing a switch, Sean put the
cup to his mouth and took a sip. Mulder wondered vaguely if Sean
might have burned his mouth. 

He put the remote control in front of Sean on the coffee table. "You
watch what you want, okay?" he said to the boy, and then he nodded to
Scully and Mae, gesturing toward the kitchen. 

"Let's talk in there," he said, and both women rose, Scully moving
slowly, and followed him down the short hallway to the eat-in area
off to the side of the counters. Both of them sank into the chairs
around the table, Katherine still nursing steadily, undisturbed, as
Mulder leaned against the counter in the dim room, the only light the
bulb above the range. 

"How long have you been in the States?" Scully asked.

"Two days here in D.C.," Mae replied. "I was going to come here last
night, but you went out again so quickly. I waited until late for you
to come back, but with the baby and Sean...I went back to the motel
off the highway and waited until tonight."

"We were at the hospital all night," Mulder said, an edge in his
voice.

Mae looked at Scully, touched her forehead in the same place where
Scully's bandage sat.

"That?" she asked. "And Mulder's face and hand?"

Scully nodded. "Yes," she said, looked down toward her belly
unconsciously. "And...other concerns. I was in for observation after
we were in...an accident." 

Mae's face grew more grim. "You were in that restaurant, weren't
you? The one I saw on the news this morning. The car bomb." 

"Yes," Scully replied, nodding. 

The baby fussed, her head turning from side to side, and Mae pulled
her up, closing her shirt and leaning Katherine on her shoulder in
one deft movement, rubbing at the baby's back. Mae was quiet, looking
down at the baby blonde head as though afraid to meet he and Scully's
faces. 

Mulder's hands went to his hips, his temper flaring at her silence. 

"What is it you want from us, Mae?" he asked, his voice quiet in
deference to Sean in the nearby room, but his tone sharp. 

Mae met his eyes, and they glinted, even in the dim light. "It's not
a question of what *I* want anymore, is it?" she said, nodded to
Scully then returned her gaze to his hard stare. "It's a question of
what we both *need.*" 

"We can't protect you," Scully interjected, sounding more tired than
anything else. "Not without exposing you." 

Mae looked at the baby. "I don't care about exposure," she said.
"I'm not here for myself. I'm here for Sean and for Katherine." She
paused, her voice lowering. "Nothing matters to me anymore but what's
left of my family. They're my home now. I want them safe." 

She met Mulder's eyes again. He hadn't moved. 

"And you need me," she said softly. "You need what I know." 

"We can do this without you," Mulder said. "We have the resources of
the FBI, Counterterrorism--"

"Yes, and look how well they've dealt with the IRA and the Path in
the past," Mae replied, hard. "The IRA has been here for *years*
right beneath your noses and you've done nothing to stop them. You
haven't even noticed most of the time, and when you did, you didn't
care enough -- until your glorious hand in the *peace* -- to lift a
bloody finger to stop it. Jesus, if your government knew what has
been done from your own cities--" 

"I'm not going to argue politics with you, Mae," Mulder said, waving
her off with his bandaged hand. "I don't give a damn about your
politics. All I care about is *my* family." 

"Then you'd better bloody well give a damn about my politics," Mae
shot back. "Because that's what this is about."

"No, it's not," Mulder replied hotly. "This is personal." 

"Our politics *is* personal," Mae replied quietly. "That's the thing
you people have never understood." She looked at Scully. "Until now,
it seems." 

Scully looked back. "Who is doing this?" she asked, and Mulder saw
her cup her belly, as though protecting herself, their child. 

Mae looked down. "I don't know," she said, just above a whisper. 

"You don't *know*?" Mulder repeated. "You tell us we need you and
you don't have any idea who it could be?" 

Mae's eyes flashed up at him again. "I know it's someone connected
to the Path, but it's someone I don't know. Someone connected to Owen
somehow..." 

"How do you know that?" Scully asked quietly. 

Mae looked down. "Because everyone I know from the Path is dead. And
the IRA wouldn't come after me. They wouldn't blame me for what Owen
did, not after I..."

"After you betrayed him," Mulder finished. He didn't care if it hurt. 

"Yes," Mae whispered. 

Katherine had gone still against her shoulder, and Mae rubbed at her
back. Mulder couldn't tell for whose comfort the action was done --
the baby's or Mae's. 

Suddenly, Scully covered her mouth, rising as quickly as her ribs
would allow and coming around the table. 

"Excuse me..." she said, and went for the bathroom off the kitchen,
closing the door behind her and leaving Mulder and Mae with her baby
alone. 

The sounds of coughing reached them, intermittent, choked. 

"Is she all right?" Mae asked, looking toward the door and then back
at him. 

Mulder's gaze dropped to the floor, his jaw working. "She's
pregnant." 

"Oh God," Mae said. "And last night--"

"She's okay," Mulder interjected. He didn't want Mae's concern. Not
Mae's. "They're both okay. We got lucky." 

"Yes," Mae said softly. "I'm so sorry. This should be a happy time
for you. Not...this." 

He looked up her, sitting there with her eyes on the bathroom door
with the sleeping baby in her arms... 

And he blamed her. 

He couldn't help it. From the moment she'd come into their lives,
Scully had been in danger. He would always associate her with that
danger. With everything he stood to lose. 

He leaned up from the counter, shook his head. 

Scully wouldn't want him to feel that way, he told himself. Mae had
saved Scully's life, had been Scully's friend. The two women had a
bond that Mulder didn't understand but couldn't deny. 

And, thinking of the kind man he'd met in the house in Show Low,
this man Joe Porter, he realized that Mae had been punished enough
for her past, paid her penance for her sins. 

He wanted to believe that. But not for Mae's sake exactly.

For her children's sake, so vulnerable in the crossfire of this. 

And for Scully's sake. It was what she would want from him.

The toilet flushed and Scully emerged, pale, holding her side even
more tightly now, moving even more slowly. 

"I'm sorry," she began. "But I need to lie down."

"You okay?" Mulder asked gently, taking a step toward her
instinctively. 

"Yeah," Scully said, trying to sound nonchalant. "I'm just...sore.
Tired." She turned to Mae. "We have a futon in the office and the
couch for Sean. Stay here tonight. We'll call people in the morning.
The house has been swept for devices before we came home today. We'll
be safe for the night."

Mulder didn't like it, but he kept quiet, and when Scully looked at
him, he nodded. 

"Let's get you upstairs," he said softly, and Scully nodded,
resigned. 

So he left Mae in the kitchen with Katherine, moved past Sean --
still as a statue with the remote still lying in front of him -- and
followed Scully slowly up the stairs to begin settling them all in
for the night. 


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

FEBRUARY 25 
7:32 a.m.



The house was warm, so warm there was vapor clouding the corners of
the windows like cobwebs in the kitchen, light flakes of snow falling
outside in the gray morning as Scully looked into the woods behind
the tiny fenced backyard. Snow was clinging to the trunks of the
trees, the world washed in white. 

Mae sat at the kitchen table, Katherine sitting on the flat surface
as Mae held her hands to steady her, talking softly to the baby, who
was smiling, her blue eyes dancing, her downy hair mussed with sleep.
Sean was in front of the television, the bright, strange sounds of
cartoons filtering into the kitchen over the sound of bacon sizzling,
Mulder at the stove in his faded jeans and a black T-shirt and bare
feet, every burner holding a pan full of something cooking, his hands
moving over the stovetop, turning things. 

Bo leaned against Mulder's leg, looking at Scully uncertainly. He
whined softly as she looked at him, and Mulder reached into the paper-
towel covered plate in the center of the burners and broke off a
corner of cooled bacon and fed it to the dog.

She went to Mulder, stood next to him, and took the two pieces of
toast that popped from the silver toaster beside the stove, began to
butter them. 

"Don't do that," he said. "I've got everything under control. I wish
you'd go back to bed."

She finished buttering the two pieces, set them on the stack with
the others on the cornflower-colored plate. "I'm fine, Mulder," she
said. "Really. I feel okay."

And she was mostly telling the truth. More than her physical health,
she felt an anticipation this morning, having woken to the feel of
the baby moving inside her, a fluttering in her belly, as though she
were suddenly filled with tiny wings. 

It made her smile when she'd awakened, and she'd taken Mulder's
hand, already pressed against her from where his arm was draped
across her in his sleep. Holding it against her abdomen, she'd wished
he could feel it, too, as he'd drawn in a breath behind her. 

"Somebody get up early?" he'd said, his voice heavy and soft with
sleep. The sun was just coming in through the windows. 

"Yes," she'd whispered, smiled, and he rubbed his fingers against
her, pressed a kiss to her temple. 

The doorbell rang, breaking her out of the memory, and, her hand
trailing on his back, she went around him, through the living room to
the front door, opening it. 

Maggie Scully stood there, a bag of groceries in one arm and pack of
diapers in the other, her expression clearly quizzical and concerned. 

"Good morning, Mom," she said, leaned forward and kissed her mother
as the older woman entered the house. 

"I have to tell you," her mother said, handing the bag of diapers
off to Scully. "That is one of the oddest phone calls I've ever
gotten from you. Six o'clock in the morning and you call with 'Come
as soon as you can with milk and fruit roll-ups, and bring diapers
for a 23-pound baby'?" 

Scully chuckled. "I imagine that wasn't the best way to wake up,
no," she said, and took her mother's coat as she shed it. "I'm sorry,
Mom." 

Maggie smiled, though her eyes were still filled with concern. "It's
okay. You know I was coming anyway, jetlagged or not." 

Scully smiled. "Yes," she said. "I know I couldn't keep you away for
long." 

Maggie smoothed her hair down around the bandage. "Of course not,"
she replied.

Her mother had been in San Diego until yesterday afternoon, visiting
her brother Bill. Hearing of the accident from Mulder yesterday
morning, she'd taken the first plane back she could find. 

Scully had asked Mulder to wait and call her until they knew about
the baby, wanting that to be just between the two of them until they
knew something for certain. The thought of sharing that grief too
soon had been too much for her, even though it was her mother. 

Maggie looked into the living room, her brow creasing down at the
sight of Sean on the couch. "Who's here?" she asked. 

Now Scully grew serious. "Someone who might be able to help find
some answers to what happened," she said. "I don't want you to get
upset..."

"Why would I be upset about someone helping you get to the bottom of
what happened?" her mother asked incredulously. 

"Because it's Mae Curran," Scully said quietly. 

Her mother blanched, her mouth falling open. "That Irish woman?" she
whispered. 

"Yes," Scully said.

"You've got a terrorist in your house??" her mother hissed. "My God,
Dana--"

"It's all right," Scully hurried to interrupt. "AD Skinner has
already been notified that she's here. She's turning herself in,
because someone tried to kill her, too."

Maggie shook her head. "Dana, I know she saved your life, and I'm
forever in her debt for that, but having her here can't be a good
thing."

"Mom," Scully said tiredly. "This might be the *only* good thing
that can happen right now. If someone's trying to kill her, as well,
then it's someone associated with her family, with the Irish Cause,
that's doing this. And she's our link to that." 

"But isn't having her here like going fishing in a barrel?" her
mother asked, her voice exasperated, but still just above a whisper.

"Mom, I can't argue with you about this," Scully said, putting a
hand on her mother's arm. "I don't have the energy to do it. Mae can
help us. I feel certain of that. But regardless of that, in the end
all I know is that someone who has been my friend is in danger, and
she's got two children with her who rely on her. That's all I care
about right now. I'm asking you to understand that." 

Her mother drew in a breath, relenting. "All right," she said at
last. "I'll respect what you want, even if I don't like it."

Scully nodded. "Thank you, Mom," she said softly, and ushered her
mother into the living room. 

"Sean?" Scully called, rooting around in the bag her mother still
held. "Mae said you liked these?" 

Sean turned to look at her, the same blank look on his face. Scully
smiled at him, drew out the fruit roll-ups, a whole box of mixed
flavors, and handed them to him. He took them automatically, but made
no move to open the box. 

"Hi there," Maggie said, smiling broadly. Sean said nothing, simply
turned back to the television, and Scully motioned to the kitchen,
her mother following along. 

"Is he all right?" Maggie whispered as they went down the hallway. 

"No," was all Scully said as they entered the kitchen, and then they
were standing in front of Mae and Katherine, Mae looking up at Maggie
with interest. 

"Mae," Scully said. "This is my mother, Maggie Scully. Mom, this is
Mae Curran."

"Porter," Mae corrected gently, and reached her hand toward Scully's
mother. "I'm very pleased to meet you." 

Maggie put the bag down and shook Mae's hand, smiling politely.
"It's good to meet you, as well," she said. "After everything you've
done for Dana." 

"I was happy to do it," Mae said, and Maggie's smile became a
fraction warmer. 

Maggie turned to Mulder, still at the stove, turning eggs.

"Good morning, Fox," she said, and Scully heard the warmth come back
into her voice. 

"Maggie," Mulder replied, waving a spatula and licking the finger
he'd just burned as he'd fumbled bacon. "The road's okay?"

Maggie nodded, reached down and touched Katherine's hand that was
reaching toward her. "Yes, they're fine. Everything's plowed and
salted." 

"Good," Mulder replied. "We've got more people coming."

"Mr. Skinner?" Maggie replied.

"Yes," Scully said, sinking into a chair. "And Paul Granger is on
his way." 

"Let me help you with breakfast then," Maggie said, and moved toward
the stove just as the doorbell rang again. Scully went to get it,
relieved to see that Sean had dug into the box she'd given him,
though he still paid her no mind as she moved through the room. 

Outside the door, Skinner was there, flanked by two men she'd seen
before but whose names she did not know. Paul Granger was coming up
the walk behind him, the snow still falling. Skinner was in his suit
and trench, looking all business. His face matched his outfit. 

"Agent Scully," he said. "How are you?" 

"I'm all right, sir," she said, her brow creasing as she looked at
the two men with Skinner. Granger's face was grim as he stopped
behind them all. 

Skinner nodded to the men beside him. "This is Frank Music, John
Kucinski. They're both from Counterterrorism." 

"But sir, I--" She shook her head.

"Let us in, Scully," Skinner said softly, and Scully didn't realize
until then that she'd been blocking the door. 

She looked at the grim set of his face and swallowed, nodded. 

So this was how this was going to go, she thought. 

By the numbers.

She stepped aside and let them into the house. 

"Hey," Granger said softly as he followed them in, smiling down at
her. "You don't look so worse for wear." 

Her lips curled. "And you're lying," she replied, and Granger smiled
wider. 

She and Granger followed the men into the kitchen, watched with
dismay as Mae's face fell from the smile she'd been giving her
daughter, toddling on the floor beside her. Mulder and her mother's
faces almost sad as the procession came in. 

"Mae Curran?" Skinner asked, standing in front of Mae. His voice was
soft, but clearly official. 

"It's Porter," Mae corrected again. "But yes." 

"My name is Walter Skinner. I'm an Assistant Director with the FBI."
He introduced the other two men, who were looking down at Mae, their
gazes hard, their postures guarded, as though Mae were herself a bomb
that might go off at any second. 

Skinner glanced at the baby, and regret was on his face. Scully
looked at Mae, the same emotion in her eyes. 

God, she hated this. Hated it so much. 

"It's all right," Mae said as if reading her thoughts, and picked up
Katherine, hugged her close. The baby whimpered, fussing. Mae looked
at Skinner, strength in her eyes. "Go on." 

Skinner took in a breath, let it out. "Ms. Porter, you're under
arrest for Conspiracy charges stemming from the bombing of the Irish
Embassy in Washington D.C. You have the right to remain silent..." 

Mae looked at him, hugged her daughter closer, and Scully was struck
by how small she looked, wreathed by the men, the kitchen heavy with
silence except for the sound of the baby's beginning cries and
Skinner's formal, quiet voice. 


****

"....Do you understand the rights as they have been presented to
you, Ms. Porter?" 

Skinner looked at Mae expectantly, the other two men still staring
down at her. Frank Music slipped his hands in his pockets beneath his
coat. 

Scully watched Mae's face, the same determined set of it, but
something had fallen in it now a touch, and her expression was
colored with something else. 

Relief? 

Katherine was pushing off her mother now, clearly wanting to get
down as she cried, and Mae reluctantly set her down on the floor and
watched her walk away, toward the stove and Mulder and Scully's
mother. 

"Do you understand the rights?" Skinner said again, tight in the jaw. 

"Yes," Mae responded now, looking up at him and nodding. "I
understand." 

Skinner nodded back, a slight bob of his head. "Good," he said, and
it sounded almost dismissive. 

Scully knew she still had the look of protest on her face, and she
started to say something -- something about how they couldn't
separate Mae from her baby or Sean, about how Mae wasn't a danger to
anyone, about how Mae was, herself, the one who needed Skinner's
help, not this -- when Skinner pinned her with his eyes and raised a
finger, not at Mae as she expected, but at Mulder. The gesture threw
her, silenced her as her mouth began to open to voice everything
she'd been thinking. 

"Now," Skinner said. "Should I be afraid that he's cooking?" 

This threw her even more. She looked with surprise at Skinner, at
the incongruity of his treatment of Mae and that statement, one of
his usual busts of Mulder's chops. 

"Yes..." Scully stammered. "But he does all right, though--"

"Good," Skinner grunted again, and started peeling off his coat, the
other two men doing the same now. "Then someone make me a plate." 

And he pulled out a chair across from Mae, threw his coat over the
back of it and sat, leaning on his elbows, the other men clamoring
into chairs, as well. 

Mae turned and looked at Scully in surprise, and Scully looked back,
then at Mulder, who was standing agape as Maggie reached around him
to stir the eggs, which had begun to smoke faintly. 

"Sir, I think--" Scully began, tentative, looking at her boss. 

"There's nothing to think about, Agent Scully," Skinner interrupted.
"I've been in a meeting with Deputy Director Rosen this morning, and
we've come to a consensus on how to proceed." 

He turned to Mae now. 

"Ms. Porter, the charges against you are serious ones, but the
Deputy Director and I have also taken into account your past behavior
in protecting the life of a Federal Agent -- at risk to yourself --
and...other circumstances that seem to mitigate that you are no
longer as severe a threat as you may seem in your record." 

"No," Mae said softly, regaining her own composure. "No, I am not a
threat to you." 

Skinner nodded. "That doesn't dismiss these charges, and I want you
to understand that. But given recent events and the urgency of the
current situation, I've been instructed to attempt to make a deal
with you for your cooperation in our investigation." 

Scully exhaled, relieved. Skinner's attitude at the door was
urgency, yes, but not to get at Mae to arrest her. Not to take her
away. The urgency was about her and Mulder, about solving the
bombing, and Skinner and Rosen has apparently come to the conclusion,
as she had, that Mae was the way to do that. 

Thank God, she thought, watching her mother reach for a piece of
toast on the plate beside the stove and hand it down into Katherine's
reaching hands to distract the toddler from grabbing onto Bo. 

Skinner knew about Mae killing Fagan to save Scully's life. He knew
about Mae's taking her and hiding her until Mulder could get to her,
helpless as she'd been then. Those were the "other circumstances"
Skinner referred to. 

He did not know, however, that Mae had helped save Mulder's life in
the canyon in Show Low when Owen Curran had been killed. Skinner
didn't know she'd been there at all, or that Scully had herself let
Mae and Joe and Sean go free. 

And, Scully thought with even more relief, Mae was savvy enough not
to reveal any of that. 

As was Granger, who had helped her prepare the Bronco for Mae's
escape, participated in the cover. He was still standing there,
silent behind her.

"All right, Mr. Skinner," Mae said, sitting up a bit straighter as
though she'd just been dealt a complicated hand of cards. "What is it
you're after from me exactly?" 

Scully moved forward as the three men stared at Mae, went to where
her mother was pouring cups of coffee from the brimming pot, and took
them, bringing them to the table for the newcomers. Kucinski and
Music took their cups -- Music with a friendly smile -- and Scully's
mother moved in behind Scully with the cup for Skinner. 

Scully retook her place by the door beside Granger. Her ribs were
aching already and it wasn't even 9:00. 

"I think you know what we want," Skinner said, eyeing Mae. 

"Aye, I do," Mae said softly. "But what I know is very dear to me,
even if I have turned my back on it. It's about my family and my
history and the life I knew. It won't come cheaply." 

"You need our protection, Ms. Porter," Skinner said, and Scully
could see he was losing his patience now. 

"You need what I know more," Mae responded evenly. She'd looked at
her hand of cards, clearly, and seen a lot of cards with faces.
Scully knew because she saw them, too. 

"What is it you want?" Skinner said, his teeth together, though he
tried to look easy as he sipped at the coffee. Scully knew him well
enough to know he was anything but at ease. 

Mae made her bet. "I want immunity from prosecution for the bombing
and protection from your government for both me and the children." 

Skinner lowered his mug. "Anything else with that, Ms. Porter?" he
said tightly, rolling the coffee around in the mug. "A cup of coffee?
Some milk? I bet you we could even get Mulder over there to bake you
some nice muffins or something..." 

"Very funny, sir," Mulder said sourly from the stove and Kucinski
and Music smirked.

"I'm not joking," Mae said with a bit more force, and Scully could
see the hard set of the visible side of her face. "What I know is
worth that much. And if you two men are from Counterterrorism and
know much of my history, you know that's the truth."

"We know how highly placed you were, yes," Music said. "We know what
you *could* tell us." 

"All right then," Mae said, sat back. 

Call, Scully thought. She looked at Skinner, who was searching Mae's
face as though trying to measure either how serious she was or how
much to believe her. He glanced at Scully, and she gave a slight nod. 

Yes, she said with her eyes. You can trust her. 

She wanted him to believe that. Because she believed it herself. 

Skinner's eyes were drawn to Katherine again as the baby wobbled
over, a bitten-into piece of toast in her hand. The baby went to her
mother and reached up to be picked up now, and Mae did, balancing the
little girl on her lap. Katherine looked at Skinner, pulled off a
crust of her bread and offered it up to her mother's face. 

"Obstruction of justice, which is a much lesser charge. Federal
protection for you and the children." 

"I will not," Mae said clearly, "be separated from my baby or my
nephew." 

"Arrangements would be made around that," Skinner said, his eyes on
Mae intensely, like any good poker player looking for a bluff. He
wasn't finding one and Scully knew it. "I can promise you that.
That's as low as I can go." 

Mae looked at Scully, and the two women's gazes hung. This time
Scully was relaying her trust for Skinner in her eyes. She nodded. It
was about as low as Skinner and Rosen could go given Mae's history,
and she knew that. 

A rustling behind her, and Sean pushed into the room, all the
adults' eyes going to the motion. 

Mae looked at him, at Skinner, and Scully knew what was going
through the other woman's mind. Time to lay it all down. For the
children's sake if for nothing else. For Sean, who had been through
so much -- too much -- already. 

"Agreed," Mae said, still looking at Sean, and reached a hand out
toward the boy. 

He wouldn't come, and Scully put a hand gently on his head, smoothed
down his sleep-dented hair. 

"Everything's okay, Sean," she said softly. "Go back in and watch
television and we'll bring you a plate. You must be hungry."

Sean looked up at her with his wide, wet eyes, and then turned and
left the room. 

Maggie was making up plates now and came forward, putting one in
front of Skinner, another in front of Mae. Mae reached for the eggs
and picked up a tiny piece, put it in Katherine's mouth and the baby
obediently chewed. 

"Where are you going to take us?" she asked Skinner. "To protect us?" 

Skinner took the fork off his plate, looked down. He looked slightly
flustered, his face reddening. "The four of you are going to a place
close by," he said, took a bite. 

"The 'four' of us?" Mae asked, feeding the baby again and taking up
her fork, taking a bite of her breakfast herself. 

"Yes," Skinner said. "The three of you and..." He looked at Scully.
"And you, too, Agent Scully." 

Scully's mouth came open, and Granger moved further into the kitchen
as if he meant to get away from her. Scully knew from the movement
that he'd known this was coming, and she stared at his back, then at
Mulder, who had flicked off the burners with a snap.

"Wait a minute," Mulder said as Maggie pulled a plate away and went
by Scully toward the living room and Sean. Her mother looked
relieved, and it made Scully even angrier, her face flushing. 

"This is coming from Rosen," Skinner hurried to interrupt. "He wants
you put away, Scully." 

"I am part of this investigation," Scully said indignantly. "I will
not be sequestered away while it is going on. I'm an agent in the
FBI, not--"

"I won't have us separated," Mulder jumped in. "We can protect her
better by having her--"

"It's coming from *Rosen,*" Skinner said, louder this time, each
word enunciated. He looked at Scully, looking uncomfortable again.
"The Deputy Director and I feel that your...condition warrants this
added precaution." 

Scully felt her face flush even more, and she drew herself up to her
full height. It didn't seem nearly tall enough suddenly. "I hope,
sir, that you and the Deputy Director are referring to my injuries
when you use that word." 

Her voice was soft. Dangerously so. 

"You know what I'm talking about, Scully," Skinner said. 

Music and Kucinski didn't look surprised at all, both men studying
the whorls on the table. Scully burned, this time with embarrassment
she couldn't stave.

"She's not going into Protective Custody without me there--" Mulder
began, blustering. Bo shot out of the room as he spoke. 

"You told the Deputy Director that I'm pregnant?" Scully spat. There
was no use pussy-footing around it, she decided, Kucinski and Music's
heads still coming up, surprised to hear it spoken so frankly.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but that was *never* anyone's business--"

"Scully, he's the one who told *me,*" Skinner said sharply, his
volume rising to her tone and her words. 

"How did he know? How did he find out?" Scully bit the words out,
her eyes flaring. 

"You filed an insurance claim for an obstetrician," Skinner said
quickly. "That's all it takes at the FBI." 

That silenced her for a moment, and Mulder, too, who put his hands
on his hips, looking down and letting out a hard breath. Granger had
moved to stand beside him, and Granger was looking at Scully, his
expression sympathetic but resigned. 

"Look, the Protective Custody isn't open for discussion," Skinner
continued. "Mulder, you're going to be working on the case with me,
Granger and some of the other profiling people, and the
Counterterrorism Unit. Scully, you're going under. That's it. Those
are orders. We're keeping you close to home so that you can see your
doctors and so we can get to Ms. Porter easily for information. But
that's all there is to it. I'm sorry."

Mulder turned and picked up a pan, heading for the sink, and it made
a loud metal-on metal sound as he dropped it too hard into the sink. 

She understood his ire, though she knew he was not angry for the
same reasons she was. For her, it was the being coddled. For him, it
was the separation, the need to protect her himself, and though she
loved him for the sentiment, it stuck in her craw, as well. 

They weren't done with this, she decided. But she would let it go
for now. 

Skinner pushed his plate away, barely touched, as though the food
suddenly turned his stomach, as though Scully and Mulder's ire had
suddenly contaminated it. He reached for his coffee. 

"Tunes," he said to Frank Music. "Why don't you start the
conversation with Ms. Porter?" 

Scully felt nausea beginning to swim in her stomach, and she pushed
it savagely down, despite the sweat coming onto her face. 

She would not be sick in front of these men. 

"Ms. Porter," Music began, "We're aware, as we've said, of how you
were highly placed in The Path's organizational structure and--"

"It was family," Mae corrected quietly. "Pure and simple." 

"Yes," Music said awkwardly. "Well. Now, if you could give us some
idea of who might be remaining in that hierarchy, we could begin to--"

"There aren't any left," Mae said. "No Path. Not that I know of. But
I don't think that matters. This is bigger than The Path. This is
someone better connected than that, someone connected to the Cause
somehow. Or bigger than that even. That's the only way they could
have found me Australia. With my husband. I'd changed my name and
everything."

"Can you give us some idea of where we might begin to look then?"
Kucinski said, finally speaking. Even when he spoke, it seemed as
though he didn't want to, his keen dark eyes peering out from beneath
thick brows. 

Mae thought for a moment, feeding Katherine another blot of egg. "I
think you should begin with what's left of the old IRA. Many of them
are here in the States. Inactive, but still well-connected." 

"We need names," Skinner said.

Mae seemed to struggle with herself, not wanting to be that
specific. It would, Scully realized, be taking a big leap. Her turn
would be complete with involvement of even one other person. 

"There's a man in New York," Mae said softly. "His name is Conail
Rutherford. He's done work for the Campaign before."

"The Campaign for Free Ireland?" Music said. "Malcolm Flaherty's
organization, when he was alive?" 

"Yes," Mae replied, nodding. "He might be a good person to begin
with because he was sort of a go-between. Between the IRA in Ireland -
- the Old Guard -- and people here in the States. He knew a lot of
people. He might know someone who's left." She looked at the men.
"He's not a terrorist, though. He was never active that way. Just
a...go-between. Good at keeping lines open, if you take my meaning.
His family knew my family." 

She seemed lost in thought for a beat. "His family knew everyone's
family," she added, almost as an afterthought. She looked back up
from where she'd been looking into Katherine's face. 

"Start there," she said. "I'll have to think more about who else you
could talk to." 

"All right," Skinner said, and drained his cup, standing and
reaching for his coat. Music and Kucinski did the same. "We'll get on
that. The safehouse is still being arranged. We need a few hours.
It'll give you some time." He glanced at Scully. "I'm leaving Ms.
Porter in your custody until we send a car for you all." 

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, sir," Scully said evenly, and
she saw Skinner wince as he pulled the coat on. 

"Thank you for breakfast," he mumbled, and he made his way out of
the kitchen with the two men, who she heard let themselves out, the
door closing behind them. 

Quiet fell over the kitchen except for the baby, who was talking, in
single words, to her mother, picking at the plate, making a mess. 

Scully looked at Mulder across the room, his fury still boiling off
him. 

Granger spoke into the quiet. "I knew that was coming from the phone
call with Skinner this morning after he met with Rosen. I tried. I
really did. I'm really sorry."

"It's not your fault," Scully said, the nausea still rocking her,
worse now. Her whole body ached, and she already felt exhausted. 

"She will be safer," Mae interjected. "We all will be. These people
have long arms and they know what they're doing better than almost
anyone in the world. It's best to lay as low as possible." 

"I don't mind the hiding as much as I can't stand the reason,"
Scully said softly, feeling too ill to sound too angry. "A woman gets
pregnant and the men all gather around like a bunch of brooding hens.
I don't think my own father would be this patriarchal, and that's
saying something." 

"Yes," Mae said softly. "I think that would anger me, as well."

Scully sighed. The mention of her father had made her think of her
mother, who had withdrawn in the middle of things. She appreciated
that. The experience had been difficult enough without having to go
through it in front of her mother. 

It also made her think of Sean. 

"Paul," she said. "I hate to ask you to put on your psychologist hat
but..."

"What is it?" Granger asked, looking concerned. 

"Could you go in and talk to Sean in the living room? Spend some
time with him. Do an assessment of some kind if you can." 

Granger's background was far more clinical than Mulder's. He could
do it with more ease, and he wasn't personally connected, as Mulder
was to Sean. Perhaps Sean would talk to him. 

"Sure," Granger said, and he painfully came out of his coat, laying
it on the back of one of the chairs the men had vacated. "I'll be out
in a while." And he moved out of the kitchen, past her to the living
room. 

Again the quiet reigned for a few seconds. 

"Hey, I made you a plate," Mulder said, forcing his voice into
composure, but anger still tinged it. Frustration. "I'll warm it up
in the microwave for you, okay?" 

She looked at him, rubbing a knot of a headache that had started
between her eyes. 

He did not say that he wanted her to eat. And for that, she was
thankful. Even if she knew the thought was implicit in his offer. 

She felt like she had a hundred hands on her, guiding her this way
and that. It made her feel even more tired. 

She relented, though. She would not get upset with Mulder. She
pushed it away as best she could. 

"Okay," she said, and sat down next to Mae and Katherine to eat. 



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


JOHN F. KENNEDY INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT 
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK 
9:52 a.m.



The International Terminal was teeming with faces from all
countries, all walks of life. Whole families of Americans, standing
out by their boisterousness and their bright clothes. People in
turbans, their white clothes looking like dresses, with the no
nonsense shoes of travelers. Businessmen in casual clothes but who
did not look at rest as they hefted laptop carriers and heavy
briefcases through to their gates. All of them ready to board planes -
- huge ones, white and silver -- to carry them away from America and
to places that many of them called home. 

The young man walked among them, his smallish backpack over his
shoulder. He wore a thick wool sweater, white, and faded jeans with a
hole at the pocket. He looked a bit like a college student, though he
was a few years too old for that. But he still carried that look
about him, a veneer of youth, which was accentuated by his pale face
and his light red hair, cut close in a military style, a leftover
from a recent life. His eyes were light -- sky blue, but lighter. The
color of ice.

He wore headphones that curled behind his head, the sounds of the
airport drowned out by the rich sounds of a band that did not sing in
English. The man understood every word, humming to himself, the
Discman in his free hand. 

He moved to the side of the bustle of people, checking his bulky
watch as he did so. 

Almost 10:00 a.m. Time to make the call. 

There were payphones lined up against the wall in the distance, and
he went towards them, drawing out his wallet as he pushed the
headphones off around his neck. A receiver in his hand, he pulled out
the pre-paid phonecard, checked the dialing instructions once again,
and punched in the international number and all the codes, waiting to
be cleared. With a series of clicks, the phone began to ring. 

It was picked up on the first ring. 

"Yes." 

It was an old voice that answered. A woman's voice. Thin and
delicate as paper. 

"It's me," the young man said, his voice soft and deeply tinged with
accent. "Flight's leaving in an hour, so I'm calling in."

"Yes," the woman said again. "You've checked your bags then?"

The young man shifted against the half-booth, not liking the sound
of that. 

"Aye," he said. "That I have. Just now."

A pause. "You'll need to go retrieve them, Christie." 

He was surprised she used his name. He looked around to see if
anyone was paying him any mind, and no one was.

"A problem then?" he said, keeping his voice soft. 

"Yes," the woman said. "All sorts of problems, I expect."

He paused, considering. The news disappointed him, but he was not
exactly surprised. 

"Aye, well, I'll go get the bags then." He tried to sound reassuring
when he said it, as though he didn't mind the trouble. "Be right back
on it." 

He forced a smile, as if the old woman could see it. It's what he'd
do if he stood in front of her, and it came from habit.

"There's a flight back to Washington in an hour and a half. On
United. Go purchase a ticket and call me when you get in. We'll find
a nice place for you to stay in the meantime."

"All right then," he said. "I'll be in touch."

"Travel safely," she said, as she always did, and she hung up the
phone. 

He set down the receiver, slid the phonecard back into his wallet
and the wallet into his worn jeans pocket. Then he moved the
headphones back into place, the music still playing. 

It reminded him of home -- the fiddles, the guitars, the hollow
sounds of hand drums. The voices singing in their rich harmonies.

He moved back through the crowd toward the check-in area. He knew
that -- for the time being, least -- the music was as close to home
as he was going to get. 


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


7912 LAUREL STREET 
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA 
11:31 a.m.



Paul Granger sat in front of the television, his eyes bleary behind
his glasses as he alternately watched the cartoons streaming on the
television and the boy beside him, who had a box of crayons from his
backpack spread all over the coffee table and was coloring on a piece
of paper Granger had retrieved from Mulder's printer upstairs. 

He was relieved to see Sean working on his picture. It had taken
quite a bit of work to get him to do it. 

Granger had had to sit there for a long time and draw and color
several pictures himself before he'd even gotten Sean to look at what
he was doing. He had drawn a picture of himself first, over-
accentuating his nearly bald head and his small glasses in an attempt
to make Sean laugh, which he'd failed miserably at doing. Then he'd
drawn Bo, a simple picture of the dog lying in front the couch. 

His apartment building. His car. Still nothing from the boy, Sean's
eyes on the television. 

Finally, beginning to feel slightly foolish, he'd drawn a picture of
Robin, which (if he did say so himself) was a decent likeness of her,
with her lovely braids and her rich dark eyes he'd colored in with a
brown crayon. He'd bore down slightly harder to make the eyes deeper
in her already-brown face.

It was this picture that had finally gotten young Sean's attention,
the boy turning his head from time to time to check Granger's
progress. 

"You like this picture?" Granger had said when Sean had first
started to glance the picture's way. 

Sean said nothing, simply met Granger's eyes. 

"This is Robin," Granger said. "Robin Brock. She works at the FBI,
too." 

Sean blinked up at him, seeming to be listening, and Granger
continued, despite the fact that he felt like he was yammering. 

"She looks at DNA on pieces of evidence all day. I don't know how
she can stand it, but she's really good at it. One of the best
there." 

He'd gone back to coloring the picture as Sean returned his gaze to
it. 

Then Sean had done something he hadn't done in all the time Granger
had been sitting with him. 

He reached across Granger's body, touched his left sleeve, and took
the fabric of his shirt between his small fingers, drawing Granger's
arm up. Then his hand ran to Granger's hand, which he turned over,
palm up. 

Granger let him do this, confused, but encouraged at the boy wanting
to touch him at all. 

Then Sean had run a finger over Granger's ring finger on that hand,
and quickly withdrawn his hand when he'd found nothing there. 

"Ohh...." Granger had said, understanding. "No, we're not married,"
and then he'd flashed Sean a smile. "Yet." 

He winked, but Sean did nothing. 

Sean then reached onto the coffee table and picked up the picture of
Granger, looking at the caricature for a long moment. 

"Why don't you draw me a picture of yourself?" Granger'd said then.
"You can make it look any way you want to, even funny like mine if
you want. Any way you like." He pulled up a piece of paper off the
stack and put it on a book on pathology he'd pulled from the
bookcase, its cover bare. 

"Go on," he'd said. "Give it a try." 

And Sean had reached for the book and paper and a pencil and
actually started to do it, turning slightly to hide the page from
Granger's eyes.

Granger had been thrilled at the progress. He'd been trying to get
Sean to talk for over an hour, with barely a look in response. This
was something, at least. A start. 

Granger sighed as Scooby Doo ran, legs akimbo, across the television
screen, a man in a giant voodoo mask running behind he and Shaggy. He
yawned and tried to ignore the nagging pain in his chest and
shoulder, always there since the shooting in West Virginia. It made
him feel old, much older than his almost 35 years. 

Behind him, Scully moved up from the basement, followed by her
mother. They were carrying some clothes from the laundry room
downstairs, and Scully wasn't moving any better than he'd seen her so
far. 

"I wish you'd just lie down and let me and Mulder do this for you,"
her mother was saying as they moved through the room toward the
stairs. "You can tell us what you need and--"

"Mom," Scully said, her voice firm but tired. "I'm fine. Please..."

And then they moved up the stairs and out of earshot again, their
voices faint in the hallway going toward the back of the house.

Sean turned slightly now, set an orange crayon down on the table,
brushing at his picture to get the eraser dust off of it, stroking at
the image. 

"Can I see?" Granger said softly, returning his attention to Sean.
There was a large scrape on Sean's forearm, and Granger touched him
lightly just below it. Sean pulled his arm slightly away, looking up
into Granger's face. He still hid the picture on his other side. 

"Please?" Granger asked. "I showed you mine. It doesn't have to be
good or anything. Don't worry about that. I just want to see what you
did. Sort of like trading pictures." He smiled kindly. 

Still Sean didn't move. 

"Here," Granger said, reaching for his self-portrait and holding it
on his lap. "We'll put them on our laps and look at them side by
side." 

And with that, Sean slowly brought his picture up and held it
between his hands beside Granger's.

And Granger had to compose his face.

For starters, it was clear that Sean had considerable artistic
talent for his age. The image was clear, well drawn, and the colors
were vivid and blended naturally from hue to hue.

Despite what the picture showed.

A figure. Arms outstretched, legs spread wide, like he was falling
down the center of the page. Every one of the limbs a different size.
A grotesquely large foot. One hand as tiny as the other was huge.
Reddish hair like Sean's, but the figure without clothes and
genderless. In the face, huge gaping eyes, but no nose or mouth, the
eyes misshapen, one seeming to drip down the face as though it had
melted. 

And all around the body, encasing it --

Flames. Perfectly drawn, angry flames filling every inch of white
space on the page, licking out from the strange body in the center.

Sean, at his silence, began to draw the picture away.

"No, no," Granger said hurried, touching the picture. "It's a really
good picture, Sean. I like it. You're a very good artist."

Sean held still now at his words, looking down at the picture. 

"You're very upset, I know," Granger said gently. "I can see from
your picture how upset you are. But things are going to get better
now. You're safe here." 

Sean looked up at him now, and Granger saw the beginnings of tears,
tears he knew wouldn't really come. 

And then Sean shook his head. 

Granger swallowed. "You're going to be okay, Sean," he tried again.
"Really."

But Sean only shook his head again, and put the picture away. 


******

THE BLUE AND THE GREY MOTEL AND EFFICIENCIES 
FREDRICKSBURG, VIRGINIA
FEBRUARY 27 (TWO DAYS LATER) 
7:23 a.m.


Two beakers on a battered countertop beside an ancient Amana stove.
A television, its picture dulled around the edges, reruns of "Hogan's
Heroes" playing into the room for background noise, canned laughter
filling the room. The bed, unslept in, was neatly made with its cheap
comforter, the Bible taken out of the nightstand drawer and open to
the gospel of John. Beside it, Airborne Express boxes cut open with a
sharp knife, mounds of styrofoam and packing peanuts.

"That sure is a lot of boxes," the manager had said cheerfully when
the young man had gone to the desk to pick them up. 

"Yes, it's all from eBay," he'd replied, smiling, his American
accent perfect, even a hint of drawl in it to put the manager at
ease. "I love getting in them auctions and picking up things here and
there to turn around and sell myself." 

"That your business here in Fredricksburg?" the manager asked, and
the young man smiled amiably. The man wasn't suspicious -- merely
being friendly. The nosiness of the South.

"Yeah, I'm selling some things at the flea market off exit 39," he
replied. "It's a living."

"Everybody's got to make their way, that's so," the manager said,
bored now. "Good luck to you, Mr. Price," he added, and took his
leave to the room in the back. 

Now he set the bottles in front of him. 

Sulfuric acid.

Nitric acid.

Toluene. 

Distilled water. 

He'd prepared an ice bath, had his syringe and the best Celsius
thermometer money could buy. A small digital scale stood on the
counter beside him and he began his measurements, careful percentages
done by weight. 

It would take about five hours, as it always did, a series of
heating and cooling, of drawing off liquid that floated to the top,
of rinsing and waiting. But in the end, he would have what he needed. 

He glanced at the timing device he'd built from a digital wristwatch
at his own hotel the night before. It sprang wires like a colored
spider, the display flashing, waiting to be set, then triggered by
the electronic impulses of an automobile. 

Christie made the first solution, emptied an exact amount into a
beaker and placed it in the ice bath. He added the toluene, began to
stir, fighting off the chill in the room, his sweater's sleeves
pushed up to his elbows so he could work. 

He glanced at the television as he stirred. The men on the screen
all lit their cigarettes against the night sky lined up in the shape
of an arrow, pointing an aircraft to the target nearby. 

The audience laughed and Hogan looked at the screen, sharing the
joke with a sly smile, a gleam in his eyes. 



***********


PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE 
WASHINGTON, D.C. 
FEBRUARY 28 
9:20 a.m.



Mulder wished, for one of the few times in his life, that he smoked. 

He had the image in his head of him riding shotgun in the Bureau
sedan, the window cracked, and him chain-smoking his way down
Pennsylvania Avenue. He'd seen enough people do it that it always
seemed a soothing ritual, a way to calm one's nerves, even if he did
hate the things. 

Right now, he needed something, though. Something to do with his
hands, some way to compose himself he hadn't found yet. 

The company he was keeping didn't help matters much. Kucinski and
"Tunes" Music were riding in the backseat, Agent Glickman driving.
Music and Kucinski were speaking, talking about college basketball,
Duke's chances this year. Glickman -- a somewhat dim, bullying sort
of man -- was quiet next to him, glancing his way from time to time
as they made their way through traffic down the street. 

The conversations of the past 12 hours were still fresh in Mulder's
mind. First, the call from Scully at around 9:30 last night, his cell
phone chirping into the quiet, the television's sound barely audible
in the room. He'd been brooding, even Bo keeping his distance in
front of the chair on the other side of the room. 

"Mulder," she said. Her voice had been quiet, terse. He'd just
spoken to her about five that evening, their nightly check-in that
Rosen allowed, as long as no land lines were used, and she'd sounded
pinched even then. Frustrated and somehow dulled by the isolation. 

But this was different. Something was wrong this time, and she was
trying to hide it. It was hidden there, though, beneath the two
syllables of his name. 

"What is it, Scully?" he asked. "Something's wrong." 

"Yes," she'd said, hesitated. "Mulder, I'm spotting again." 

He'd sat upright on sofa a bit more, the leather squeaking. "How
bad?" 

"It's not bad, but it's steady," she'd replied. 

"You want me to call Hannah for you." He didn't ask it as a question. 

"Yes, I think you should. Tell her it started about six and it's
been steady since." 

Since six. She'd waited almost four hours to call him. He pictured
her in the room, some of Rosen's agents outside the door, and her
with no one there...

"I'll call her right now," he'd said, his tone now matching hers.
"Sit tight. I'll be right back to you." 

And he had called Hannah, waited for her return call. After, he'd
picked up the phone again and called Skinner, who'd called Rosen.
While he sat there and waited for Skinner to get back to him, he'd
grown more and more tense, more frustrated. 

It was Rosen who called him back.

"Agent Mulder," Rosen had said without prelude, "I understand your
wife needs some medical attention." 

"Yes, she does," Mulder replied, the frustration coming out in his
tone. "And don't call her 'my wife,' sir, if you don't mind." 

A pause. "How serious is Agent Scully's condition?" 

"Serious enough that her doctor has said she should come to the
hospital in the morning for tests," Mulder replied. 

"I'm not going to lie to you, Agent Mulder," Rosen said, his voice
formal but otherwise unreadable. "Extracting her for this is going to
be a production." 

"I understand that, sir, but you'll understand if I'm not as
sympathetic to the Bureau's trouble in this as you are." 

"You shouldn't forget," Rosen ventured, "that we're doing all this
to protect Agent Scully's life." 

"I haven't forgotten," Mulder said. "I appreciate the Bureau's
intentions in this, though, as you know, I have deep concerns with
the execution."

"Yes, I'm aware," Rosen said mildly, and paused again. "What time do
you need her at the hospital?" 

"Ten o'clock. For about an hour." 

"All right then," Rosen said. "I'll send four agents to accompany
her from the safehouse to the hospital." 

Mulder went still. "I'm going with her," he said, and his tone said
he wouldn't take any argument. 

"You could be being followed to trace her location. You know this." 

"There are precautions we can take to ensure that I'm not followed,"
Mulder replied. "I"m sure that, considering we're already talking
about a production here, a bit more song and dance won't be that
difficult to manage." 

Rosen was silent for a beat. "All right, Agent Mulder. Be at the
Hoover Building tomorrow at 8:30 in the morning. We'll go from there.
Contact Agent Scully and tell her to be prepared to go at 9:30." 

"Thank you, sir," Mulder said, relenting. "I...appreciate your
efforts in this." The words nearly caught in his throat. 

"Goodnight, Agent Mulder." And Rosen had hung up. 

Now, close to 9:30, Mulder watched the scenery stream by -- the
government buildings, the parks, the monuments in the distance.
They'd been doubling back around the city for almost an hour, with
two car changes along the way at two different parking garages across
town. Rosen had made it a production, all right. 

They passed the White House, Tunes and Kucinski still bitching about
the Duke team going downhill since someone named Christian had
graduated, when the hotel came into view, a tall, white and blue
building in the distance. Mulder found himself sitting up a little
bit in his seat as he saw it. His palms had begun to sweat. 

The Willard was one of the best hotels in Washington, just two
blocks from the White House. It had a wide, U-shaped driveway that
led up elegant steps to a glass front with a revolving door. The
driveway was jammed with cars, all their hazards flashing, people
jumbled around with bellhops and carts for carrying luggage topped
with shining brass bars. 

"What the hell are all these cars doing here?" Mulder hissed as they
wedged themselves in behind a parked car, empty, its tail lights
blinking. 

"It's a hotel?" Glickman said, and his voice sounded as dense and
sour as his face looked. 

"Well, get them to move them out while we get her down here," Mulder
snapped back, unbuckling his seat belt. "We need this area clear." 

"Relax, Papa," Glickman said. "It would take a fucking wizard to
have followed us here, and the car's been checked over with a comb.
Just chill out." 

Mulder scowled at him, particularly for the "Papa" comment, and got
out of the car, Music and Kucinski following him as the three of them
wove their way through the cars and people and through the revolving
door into the lush lobby beyond. 

They rode the shining, carpeted elevator to the seventh floor, and
Mulder immediately saw the agent sitting there in the small sitting
area outside the elevators, reading the paper. He nodded to the man,
who nodded back and let them pass.

Down the hallway to room 710, then Mulder rapped on the door
lightly, and Scully immediately answered. She looked put together,
her hair in its neat curve around her jaw, her black and white suit
on. He could tell from the slight bulge at her side that she carried
her gun. 

Only her pale face and the bandage still in place on her forehead
gave the appearance that anything was amiss. That and the flash of
relief that crossed her face as she saw him, so fast that only he
could have noticed it. He did his best not to smile, but he was
relieved to see her so much it made it difficult.

"You ready?" he asked. 

"Yes," she said, nodding to Kucinski and Music, and to Agent Dodd,
who had come in from the end of the hallway. 

"I'll walk you down," Dodd said. Another agent, a female agent
Mulder didn't know, was at the stairwell, her hand dipped inside her
jacket. Mulder nodded to her. 

Mulder looked behind Scully, saw Mae there with Katherine, sitting
on the neatly made bed. Mae met his eyes over the baby's head, her
face concerned. 

So she'd been here with Scully, he realized. And though he still had
hard feelings toward Mae, he was thankful to her, and let a bit of
that touch his eyes. Mae smiled to him wanly. 

You're welcome, she said with her eyes, and Mulder stood aside to
let Scully leave the room. 

They walked in a circle around her, like four points on a compass,
Mulder beside her, Dodd in the front. 

When they reached the elevator, which the agent from the sitting
area had held for them, he couldn't help it. 

His hand reached down and touched her back as he ushered her in
front of him, then he stood in the circle around her inside the car,
her bright red head barely visible in the halo of dark suits and
silence. 


**

Outside, on the opposite side of the street, a figure stood, a small
device the size of a keychain in his palm. He wore a dark wig, the
hair slicked back, an expensive suit, a black moustache. A briefcase
was beside him, a typical Washington businessman on the Washington
street. He'd gone in the front of the hotel, told them he'd just be a
moment to check in, and then slipped out the side entrance and
crossed the street, coming back around the front so he could see
inside the great glass entrance to the lobby.

He'd seen the men go in the front door, the driver arguing with the
doorman to get the cars out of the way, without much luck. It was a
scene of controlled confusion. The man's own car sat silent in front
of the door, just in front of the car the men had come in. The driver
-- the agent -- was gesturing toward it and the doorman was
shrugging, his hands out helplessly. 

He watched the lobby, saw the knot of men coming through the large
central area, then come through the doors on one side of the shining
revolving door. 

He caught sight of the woman, there surrounded by the men, all of
their heads swiveling, taking in the scene around them. The tall dark-
haired man beside her -- her husband, he assumed, from watching them
get out of the car at the restaurant days before -- was looking
around particularly keenly, his hand on the woman's back. 

The group pulled up short, waiting for the driver to finish his
argument with the doorman. 

Christie waited, his hand poised on the button in his hand. 

Wait for it, he told himself. He had to be certain this time.

Just wait... 

Finally they started toward the car, weaving through the people
coming into the hotel. 

Christie touched the button in his hand. Across the street, the car
he'd left there coughed to life, the engine humming. 

He picked up the briefcase, satisfied. 

Thirty second delay. 

He began counting in his mind as he headed to a car parked there on
the street, opened the door, the keys already in it. He tossed the
suitcase in the passenger seat, his own suitcase in the backseat
behind him. 

Then he started the car and pulled out quickly, driving away.


**

Scully was walking toward the car, being hustled along by Mulder and
Kucinski, when something began to niggle at her mind, as though there
was something she'd forgotten and was just now remembering...

Cars were starting up all around them, and Frank Music turned toward
the one in front of their car as it coughed to life, idling. 

She pulled up short, looked around, her hand going to her head. 

"Scully?" Mulder murmured next to her, stopping with her. "What is
it?" 

"I don't know," she said, taking in the scene around her, the
people, the cars. "I don't know. I just feel like...there's something
I..."

She looked at the woman getting out of her car in front of them, a
bellhop going to her trunk, the woman following behind to open it. 

(The woman was on fire.)

"I..." Scully's hand gripped her forehead as she looked around.

"Scully?" Mulder said, grabbing her. 

(Everywhere, hulks of cars burning, people running, others on fire
trying to crawl away...)

"Mulder, there's a bomb," she said suddenly, feeling lightheaded,
the images making her stomach lurch. 

"What??" he said from beside her, holding her arm as she swayed.
"Where??" 

She turned, pushing at him, grabbed Kucinski's arm as well. 

"What the fuck?" Music said, looking at her. 

Mulder reached over and pushed at Music, dragging Scully with the
other arm. 

"Back in the lobby! Hurry!" He turned toward the people in the
driveway. "THERE'S A BOMB! RUN!" 

And then she and Mulder started to do just that, Scully staggering
along beside him, Music and Kucinski following. 

They reached the glass doors, bolted inside, the sound of shouting
and screaming behind them. People were pressing through the glass
doors, into the revolving door, jamming it up...

Scully sprinted as best she could, Mulder beside her. They reached
the ornate flower arrangement in the center of the lobby, people
standing up everywhere, bewildered. 

They headed for the marble front desk when--

An eruption from outside, and the whole glass front of the lobby was
suddenly orange and yellow with flame.

Glass dissolved to splinters in a wall of fire, bodies flying, the
blast wave coming into the lobby and knocking everyone down in the
shower of shards and metal. 

Scully felt the terrible feeling of her legs being knocked from
beneath her and she and Mulder went tumbling together toward the
desk, heat blasting over them, Mulder flattening his body on top of
hers as the full sound of the blast boomed in the high ceilinged
room, pieces of the crystal chandelier, plaster, bits of metal
falling everywhere. 

"Oh God," she said, feeling renewed pain in her side, curling into a
ball around it. It was agony. She struggled beneath him. 

"Stay down," Mulder said, keeping his body on her as glass continued
to rain down. "Just stay down, Scully..." 

Scully turned her head, feeling strangely groggy, her side shrieking
with pain, and looked at the front of the lobby, over the ruin and
the smoke and the people struggling everywhere. 

In the cloudy haze, she saw the woman now, moving as though she were
dancing, dancing and on fire. People were screaming outside, awful
screaming, the bodies jammed in the revolving door writhing, encased
in flames.


**

10:16 a.m.


Granger pulled his truck up just outside the police tape, pulling
out his FBI identification as an officer came up to the window to
immediately tell him to move the car. 

"All right," the officer said. "Watch your step, Mr. Granger.
There's glass and sharp objects everywhere around the scene, all
right?" 

"Sure," Granger said, and climbed out of the X-Terra, ducked
carefully under the yellow tape and headed toward the battered hotel,
fire trucks still there hosing off the front of the building,
ambulances gathered everywhere. People walked around as if in a daze,
some with bandages, streaks of blood on their arms and faces. 

He caught sight of Skinner, standing in a knot of agents, and found
his way onto the perimeter, listening in on what Skinner was saying. 

"...he's a white male, somewhere between 30 and 40, about six feet
tall, approximately 160-175 pounds, black hair with a black
moustache. When he was last seen, he was wearing a navy or black
business suit and carrying a briefcase. We're to assume he's armed
and extremely dangerous. A sketch should be available shortly for you
to look at it, and even if the suspect was wearing a disguise, we'll
get a general idea of his facial shape and structure. Now start
combing the area. Dismissed." 

The agents broke away, moving quickly through the emergency
personnel, leaving Granger there with Skinner, who looked over at
him. Granger had never seen him look more tense, a vein bulging from
his temple. 

"It's about time you got here," he snapped, started walking toward
the side of the hotel, where the press was gathered, held at bay by
police. Granger could see Rosen standing in the distance, talking to
a bunch of very official looking men, including, Granger realized,
Don Martin, the head of the ATF. 

"I came as fast as I could," Granger said. "I was roughing up a
quick profile sketch before I came over, based on what you told me
over the phone about the physical description and the initial
ballistics." Keeping up with Skinner's pace was making his chest and
shoulder ache worse. 

"Yeah, I'd like to read your profile," Skinner grunted. "Son-of-a-
bitch kills 18 people at a hotel, using enough TNT to blow up *ten*
cars, two blocks from the fucking White House. I'd like to get ahold
of this one's *profile* all right." He swore again under his breath. 

"He was more determined this time," Granger said, getting winded. "I
think he was shamed by having missed last time and wanted to be
certain he hit the target."

"He hit the target all right," Skinner said under his breath. "Look
at this place." 

They were skirting the front of the building now, the lovely white
stone of the entrance blasted, as though someone had thrown black
paint up to the third floor. Curtains billowed out broken windows,
and the roof over the driveway had collapsed onto the ruined shapes
of many cars, some of them still billowing smoke, firemen hosing the
scene down. Here and there around the entrance, white sheets were
thrown over bodies, the sheets stark against all the blackness. 

"My God, sir," Granger said, stricken. "How could this happen? Did
he follow Mulder here?"

"No," Skinner said dully, as though he were in shock. His voice was
sad. "No way. The bomb was planted before they got here. We don't
know how he found her." 

They were silent for a long beat, taking it all in, letting it sink
in. It was a lot to take. 

"Rosen's got to talk to the press," Skinner said into the quiet.
"Come on." 

They closed the distance between them and the knot of official-
looking men, Rosen turning and going with them toward the cluster of
media, cameras waving over heads, a podium set up and a collection of
microphones gathered at the front of it. Reporters started shouting
questions immediately as Rosen took the podium, his arms raised for
silence. 

Granger and Skinner stopped behind them, both of them looking as
grave as they felt. 

"We're going to do this in an orderly fashion," Rosen said. "I have
a statement, and then I'll take the questions I can answer at this
point, which won't be many, I can assure you." He drew himself up,
cameras going off, hand-held tape recorders jutting towards his face
as the reporters quieted down. 

Rosen cleared his throat. "At 9:36 this morning, an explosive device
was detonated here outside the Willard Hotel. The device was planted
in a parked automobile at the entrance, and was, apparently,
detonated remotely in an attempt to take the life of a Federal Agent
being sequestered here for her own protection. This agent was, at the
time, being moved to another location." 

"What is the condition of this agent?" one of the reporters shouted. 

Rosen took in a deep breath and continued as though the reporter
hadn't spoken. "There were 18 deaths as result of the bombing, and 42
injured, nine critically. Among the 18 dead are three agents in the
FBI. Agent Bill Dodd and Special Agent Don Glickman, both killed in
the initial blast out in the driveway." 

He looked at the reporters, paused, camera flashing. 

"And the third is the person whom we believe was the intended target
for the bombing, who died en route to the hospital of massive
internal injuries..."

Granger swallowed, looked down. He felt hollow inside, from all of it.

Even before he heard the name. 



*******


THE AMBASSADOR HOTEL 
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK 
MARCH 4 
11:32 a.m.



A dark cherry casket covered with white sweetheart roses, the roses
dusted with the falling snow. A hill overlooking a wide dark body of
water stitched with boats moored near the shore, the water's surface
choppy and capped with white as the storm clouds huddled on the
horizon. A grey day in late-winter.

The bar across the bottom of the television said: "Live. Church of
the Resurrection. Annapolis, Maryland," the camera pulled back some
distance from the knot of people around the coffin, the sea of
wreathes and flowers so bright against all the black and grey. 

Even the blanket over the man in the wheelchair, which was set close
to the middle of the coffin, was the color of charcoal and matched
the heavy sky. 

Christie watched the scene unfolding on the television, a tray of
food in front of him on the table brought up by room service. His
eyes were on the man in the wheelchair -- this man Christie knew only
as "Mulder" -- on his blank face beneath the bandages swathing his
head, his left eye covered by white. Mulder's hands were folded on
his lap on the blanket, his knuckles white. His leg was extended in
front of him and bulged beneath the covers, the obvious shape of a
full-leg cast. 

Christie took another bite of his lunch -- a burger cooked extra
rare -- and scanned the other people in the crowd. An older woman
dressed in a black wool coat on one side of Mulder, her face like
steel despite the tears she dabbed from her cheeks with a crisp white
handkerchief in her black-gloved hands. A black man and woman
standing close to the wheelchair, the woman's hand on the rest beside
Mulder's arm. Then the man Christie had come to know as Deputy
Director Jack Rosen, his hands folded behind him, his eyes down. A
bald man with glasses who he'd seen with Rosen on the news reports,
standing there still as a headstone. Only one man seemed out of place
-- a wild array of long blonde hair and black glasses, a black T
shirt peeking out from the vee of his jacket. He was the only one,
along with the short bespectacled man beside him, who didn't look
like he'd just come from the FBI. 

Agent Scully's life seemed to have been her work -- her work and
Mulder, whose battered, scratched face was so drawn at this point,
his jaw so tight, that Christie thought it might crack. 

Mulder had yet to cry. He seemed to be beyond that now. 

A priest with a full, kind face was speaking, reading from the
Psalms. The bar on the bottom of the screen identified him as Father
Daniel McCue, Agent Scully's pastor. Then he read from John, a verse
Christie knew well. He recited it in his head as the priest read. 

"'There are many rooms in my Father's house, and I am glad to
prepare them for your coming. When everything is ready, then I will
come and get you, so that you can always be with me where I am...'"

Christie pushed the food away, his appetite waning. 

McCue turned to the group now, a card in his hand. His face was
grim. "Dana was a light to us all, a very bright light. All of us --
myself included -- can only comfort ourselves with the fact that she
is with God now, safe from the troubles of this world in her Father's
house and is at peace." 

He turned slightly now, looking directly at Mulder. "I know she
would not want us to grieve her, to despair. She would want to
comfort us in this time, and she would want us to celebrate her life
and her memory. For this reason, I offer to her mother, Margaret, and
to her husband, Fox, these words, words which I think Dana would say
to each of you herself."

He lifted the card. 

"This comes from Harry Scott Holland, the Canon of St. Paul's
Cathedral. He offers this: 'Death is nothing at all. I have only
slipped away into the next room. I am I, and you are you. Whatever we
were to each other, that we still are. Call me by my old familiar
name, speak to me in the easy way which you always used. Put no
difference in your tone, wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow.
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Pray, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the
household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without affect,
without a trace of shadow on it. Life means all that it ever meant.
It is the same as it ever was; there is unbroken continuity. Why
should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am waiting for
you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just round the corner. All
is well.'" 

Christie watched Scully's mother. Margaret. He sounded the name in
his mind. She had reached her hand over and placed it over both of
Mulder's at his waist. Now Christie saw the tears on Mulder's face,
which Mulder made no move to wipe away. He seemed unable to move at
all. 

"I offer you all Christ's peace," McCue said, and he stepped away
from the microphone that had been set up on the small podium. 

Then, the long note of a bagpipe playing into the snowy air, a
throaty sound. "Amazing Grace." 

Across the room, Christie's phone rang and he rose to get it, almost
relieved at the jarring sound. 

"Yes," he said into the receiver. 

"Are you watching CNN, Christie?" the ancient voice said, breathy
and frail. 

"Aye, I've been watching a bit," he replied, trying to sound
nonchalant. 

A pause. "Time for you to come home then. Until we find where the
other one has gone to." Another pause. "Time for you to be home." 

"That's good then," he said. "Good to be home." He meant the words
more than he could say.

"There's a ticket waiting for you at the British Airways counter at
La Guardia. The flight leaves in four hours. They'll be a car to pick
you up on the other side. Not to worry about that." 

"All right, then," Christie said. "I'll get my things packed up. Be
on my way." 

"Travel safely," and the line went dead. 

The song was still playing in the room from the television, the
camera's microphone picking up the faint sound of wind as it
fluttered the blanket of roses on the coffin. Christie watched it as
he hung up the phone, then sunk his hands in his pockets. 

He listened for a moment as the camera panned the scene, the sea of
faces, the deep cold bay beyond them. 

The song was still playing as he came forward and reached for the
remote on the table, hit the power button, and the screen went
mercifully black. 



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


CAPITAL BELTWAY, INNER LOOP 
OUTSIDE BETHESDA, MARYLAND 
1:34 p.m.


Mulder lay on his back on the stretcher, the ambulance rocking
gently around him, soothing him. He looked up at the ceiling,
pretending to be alone, pretending the paramedic wasn't sitting
beside him. He'd asked for the interior light to be turned off, and
he lay in the relative dimness and closed his one uncovered eye, let
out a deep breath.

"You okay, Mr. Mulder?" the paramedic asked from beside him,
sounding uncertain. 

"Yeah," Mulder said dully. "Thank you." 

The paramedic leaned back against the opposite wall and let him be. 

He relished the quiet, the darkness. The cameras at the funeral had
been nearly too much to take. It all had been. His mother-in-law's
grief and worry, the silent faces that looked on him with such pity
as he'd wheeled himself up to the coffin, Skinner and Rosen talking
to Maggie, and waited for everyone to leave. 

He remembered sitting there, looking at the covering of roses, the
snow. He'd reached out after a moment and gently tugged a handful of
the tiny flowers from the blanket, their faint fragrance drifting in
the frigid air. 

He'd held the flowers up to his face, inhaled deeply, his eyes
clenching shut. He was suddenly shaking, his whole body tightening. 

Not with sorrow. With rage. 

His fist closed around the flowers, tiny thorns digging into his
palm. 

"Fox," Maggie had said from behind him.

He'd composed himself as best he could, opened his fist. He was
painfully aware of cameras clicking off around him, agents holding
reporters with cameras away. 

The flowers dropped softly onto his lap with a tap. 

Maggie came around beside him, reached out and touched his shoulder.
Squeezed. In her other hand, a bunch of flowers. "Time to go." 

Granger had appeared then and pushed him slowly away from the coffin
toward the ambulance waiting on the road below. Maggie walked with
him, and the Lone Gunmen had followed, Robin behind them, looking
like a bulldog as she shooed the reporters away. 

"Let us know if you need anything," Frohike had said, standing there
as they'd loaded Mulder onto a stretcher, two paramedics attending.
Frohike looked glum, his eyes rimmed with red. "Anything at all. We
got your back." 

Langley and Byers had nodded silently, put their hands on his arm as
he thanked them for coming, and then the three of them had walked
away. 

Granger and Robin had done the same with a promise to call later,
and then they, too, had drifted off. 

"Are you all right?" Mulder asked Maggie as they finished strapping
him in. 

Maggie nodded, wiped her eyes. "Yes," she said softly. "I'm going to
go home and call Charlie and Bill. They said they'd be waiting to
hear from me, that they'd be watching." 

Mulder nodded. "Give them my best," he said, and Maggie leaned over
and kissed his cheek softly, mindful of his battered face, Mulder
turning his face to do the same. 

"Here," Maggie said, and she handed him the bunch of flowers. They
were bright. Wildflowers. "A "Get-Well.'" 

Mulder took them, lay them beside him. "Thank you," he murmured.
"I'll call." 

And they'd put him in the ambulance, Maggie's face the last thing he
saw as they'd driven away. 

"Almost there," the paramedic said from beside him as the ambulance
slowed, taking a wide turn off the highway.

He tried to block the memory from coming. He couldn't. 


He'd been waiting at her old apartment for her, a frozen pizza
beginning to burn in the oven as she'd come in and he'd met her in
the living room. 

"I was getting worried," he'd said. "You didn't say you'd be late." 

She had not, in fact, said where'd she been going that afternoon at
all. Only that she had an errand to run and that she'd meet him back
at home. 

He looked at her carefully, standing there fumbling her keys onto
the table behind the couch. Her eyes were red. She'd been crying,
though she looked down and tried to hide her eyes from him, her face. 

"What is it?" he'd asked. "Scully?" 

He'd closed the space between them, put his hands on her upper arms,
their bodies almost touching. "Tell me," he said softly. 

"Mulder," she began, her voice halting. "There are...some things I
haven't told you."

He hadn't liked the sound of that, but he'd nodded. "Okay," he'd
said. "What things?" 

She'd hesitated again. "Some things I've been seeing. Since we
finished the case with the Dillards in Virginia." She looked up into
his face, and something had crossed her features then, something a
little guilty and sad. "I'm sorry." 

He knew she didn't fully trust her abilities, so it was not exactly
a shock to him. It still made him concerned. "Bad things again?" he
asked. 

And she shook her head. "No. Not this time." 

He grew more puzzled. "Then why didn't you tell me?" His voice was
gentle, urging. 

She looked down, then up into his face again. "I wanted to be sure
before I said anything."

"'Sure'? Sure of what?" He was shaking his head, trying to find his
footing. Her reticence wasn't helping. 

"Where did you go today?"

Tears were welling, but she pressed forward. "I went to the doctor,"
she said softly. "I had some tests." 

"And?" he urged, his stomach dropping.

She looked up at him, smiled a bit uncertainly, almost shy. 

"Mulder, I'm pregnant." 

He hadn't breathed for a few seconds, searching her face. She
reached up and cupped his elbows, nodded when he didn't speak. A lump
had formed in his throat. 

Then a smile bloomed on his face, warmth rushing through him. He
leaned forward and kissed her, stayed close when they parted, his
forehead touching hers. 

"Tell me," he'd breathed at last, watching her tears, her matching
smile. "I want you to tell me...everything..."


There in the ambulance, he turned his head to the side, his hand
coming up to cover his face. The hand was trembling, and his face
felt hot enough to blister.

"Mr. Mulder?" the paramedic said again. "You sure you're okay?"

Mulder didn't look up, didn't move his hand. "Leave me alone," he
said, his jaw clenched. "Just leave me alone." 

And the poor man, mumbling an apology, did just that. 

They were on a city street now, moving through traffic. It wasn't
but another few minutes before they turned into the driveway for
Bethesda Naval Hospital, through the wide gate. 

Then they were wheeling him out, and they deftly transferred him to
a wheelchair. An orderly took him from there, pushed him into the
elevator, the flowers balanced on Mulder's lap. 

The orderly turned a key for one of the higher floors, and the car
began to move. 

Then he was in his room, light from the window meek on the bed, the
snow heavier now, everything quiet. 

Mulder sat for a few moments in front of that window, simply looking
out at the sky. His mind was numb, clouded over, anger still coursing
through him like a second pulse. 

On the night stand, the room's phone rang. Once. Twice. 

Mulder at first made no move to get it. He seemed frozen in place. 

Three times. Four. 

Finally, he put his hands on the wheels of the chair he sat in,
backed toward the table, and lifted the phone. 

"Yeah," he said into it. 

"Mulder." It was Skinner, his voice quiet. 

"Yeah," Mulder said again, flat. 

"I've got a call waiting here for you," Skinner said. "I'm going to
put it through to you on this line." 

"I don't want to talk to anyone," Mulder said immediately. The anger
was in his voice now. Anger and fatigue. 

"You'll want to talk to this person," Skinner insisted, unflapped by
his tone. 

Mulder heaved out a breath, his eyes still staring blankly out the
window. "All right," he said. "Put it through."

There was a series of clicks, then a voice came quietly through the
receiver. 

"Agent Mulder." 

Mulder's eyes widened and he sat up a bit straighter in the chair,
as much as the cast would allow him. He didn't need to hear an
introduction to know that voice. He'd know it anywhere. Its gentle
timbre. 

Albert Hosteen.

"Mr. Hosteen?" Mulder said, his surprise in his voice. "What--"

"I have been watching the television this morning," the other man
said softly. "I see things. Things I do not like to see."

"Yes," Mulder replied. If Hosteen had seen the news, there was
little else for Mulder to say to him. 

"It is time for you to come see me again," Hosteen said into the
beat of silence. "You should come here to grieve. And to heal." 

"Mr. Hosteen, that's a generous offer, but I--" Mulder was shaking
his head. 

"Yes, time for you to come. And for you to bring whoever and
whatever you need to feel safe again." Another small pause. "Do you
understand me, Agent Mulder?" 

Mulder froze then, turning Hosteen's words over in his mind. 

"I can't ask that of you," Mulder said at last. 

"You are not asking me for anything," Hosteen said quietly, his
voice firm. "I am offering." 

"You don't know what you're offering," Mulder tried again. 

His head had begun to itch beneath the bandages. He reached up and
felt for the seam, pulled at the tape, unwound the gauze. The patch
fell away from his eye and he was relieved when he opened it again. 

He tossed the bandages aside into the trashcan, rubbed at his eyes. 

"I know what I am offering," Hosteen said. "I know what I have seen.
I know what it means." 

Mulder leaned over, put the flowers on the bed, then pulled the
blanket off himself, balanced the phone on his shoulder as he lowered
the leg of the chair holding his cast up, set his heel on the floor.
He pushed himself up, then balanced carefully in his black coat and
pajamas and robe. He took off the coat, laid it on the bed. Then he
untied the robe, took it off, moving slowly, his hip against the bed. 

"There are more people involved this time," he said. "People you
don't know. I wouldn't be coming alone." 

He peeled out of the plain blue top, not even unbuttoning it, just
pulling over his head, being careful of the deep scratches on his
face, the bruises. 

"Lots of room," Hosteen said mildly. "Quiet. Peaceful. A good place
to heal." 

Mulder considered this. 

"Let me do some asking around," he said. 

"Yes," the other man said. "You do that. I will be waiting, Agent
Mulder. Goodbye." 

And the line went dead. 

Mulder looked at the phone in his hand, the dial tone humming at him
as the phone clicked over. Then he replaced it on the cradle. 

He watched the snow, thinking again. 

Then he put his hands on the waist of his pajama bottoms, pushed
them down over his boxers, down the heavy leg of the cast, stepping
out of them.

On the inside of the cast, a zipper was hidden in a fold of gauze.
He moved the gauze aside and grabbed hold of it, pushed it down with
a scratching sound, and the cast gaped open. He pushed it around his
leg and lay it at the foot of the bed, flexing his knee. 

He walked the few steps to the small wardrobe in his underwear,
pulled out a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved henley, and slipped them
on. A pair of socks and his shoes, and he returned to the bed, where
the bunch of wildflowers sat, the three tiny white roses from the
coffin. 

He picked them up, then headed out into the hall. 

Orderlies, people in white coats who looked like doctors and nurses,
all nodded to him as he passed. 

Finally he reached a door, the name on the chart outside the door
"Elizabeth Shultz." He knocked gently and went inside. 

She was lying on the bed, facing away from him, but her head turned
up toward a television suspended from the ceiling. He recognized the
sound and the channel as CNN. She craned her neck to look at him,
turning slightly on her back, the movement obviously painful. 

"Hey," Scully said, her voice hoarse. 

"Hey," he said, and tried to smile. He came around to the chair on
the side she was facing, stood in front of it and leaned over her,
pressed a kiss to her forehead, lingering there, breathing her in.
Her hand came up and stroked his face, curled around the back of his
neck. 

"How you feeling?" he asked softly. 

"Sore," she said. "But okay. The baby's been moving a lot today."
She smiled at him, brightening her battered face. "I think she's
playing."

He smiled at the thought. "I'm glad," he said. Then he turned to the
television.

"You said you weren't going to watch," he murmured. 

"I know," she said softly. "But I wanted to be there with you. Any
way I could."

He kissed her lips softly, then sat down on the edge of the chair,
leaned on his forearms on the bed, taking her hand. He laid the
wildflowers on the mattress beside her. 

"These are from your mother," he said. "She said they're a 'get-
well.'" 

Scully smiled, but it was sad. "It was hard on her," she said
faintly. 

He nodded. "She did fine, though. They all did." 

He glanced up at the television again, stroking her hand. They'd
watched Agent Dodd's funeral yesterday, sitting almost like this. The
memory made him ache, and he could see from her face that the
familarity of it did the same to her. 

"Mulder," she'd said as they'd watched, her voice soft. "I don't
want anyone else to die. There are 19 people dead now. Nineteen
people who didn't have to die. I can't help but feel responsible for
it in some way..." 

He could see the same feelings on her now as she studied his face. 

"You cried," she whispered, stroking back the hair at his temple. 

He nodded. "Yes." 

He reached up and laid the tiny sweetheart roses next to her now,
rubbed the soft body of one against her bruised cheek, trying to
tease a smile. It didn't work. 

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry it was so hard for you, too." 

He looked down, then into her eyes. "I have a lot to lose," he said
simply. 

She nodded. "So do I." And she took the rose from his hand. 

He leaned up, the flowers between them, kissed her again. 

"I've never seen you as angry as you were when you picked these up,"
she said. "The rage on your face."

He nodded, though her words made him ashamed. 

"You've got to control it somehow, Mulder," she said gently, but her
voice was serious. "You're not going to do me or you or the baby any
good unless you can." 

He looked down, unable to meet her eyes. Even now he could feel the
tinge of the fury in him, like something hot in his chest. 

He'd never felt more threatened. Never felt like so much was at
stake. He reached down and touched her belly beneath the heavy tape
where her ribs -- broken and set now -- were braced. 

"I'm going to be all right," she said. "And so is Rose. We're going
to be safe now." 

He looked at her, thinking of the phone call with Hosteen. 

He remembered the mornings on the porch at Hosteen's place, looking
out over the desert, the way the sky opened up there, no one around.
The sounds of horses and the smells of coffee and good cooking. The
bright bright stars at night. 

A quiet place. 

A peaceful place.

A place to heal. 

And finally, squeezing her hand, he nodded. 


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

CONTINUED IN PART II.