PART FIVE ***** ST. BRIDGET'S HOSPITAL BELFAST NORTHERN IRELAND UNITED KINGDOM APRIL 9 9:30 a.m. Ed Renahan couldn't remember the last time he'd gone this long without a drink. "Just slip some Glenfiddich into the bottle there," he said to the night nurse, a wide- hipped woman named Penny who looked like she should work at a fish & chip stand. "Right, Mr. Renahan," she said, rolling her eyes as she checked the flow on the drip. "You should be taking this as a time to appreciate the drying out we're giving you. You lost your spleen in this mess and the doctor said your liver was trying to hitch a ride on the way out." He smiled. "The rest of me's fit," he tried, and that only made her laugh. "Go to sleep, Mr. Renahan," she replied, switching off the room light, leaving him in the overhead light of the bed that made him feel like he was under the gaze of the Lord. Now, morning, and he was wishing not just for a drink but for a fag, as well. He reckoned he could manage to get up and find one, too…if no one was looking… A tap on the door interrupted his scheming. "Blessed Redeemer, whoever it is, tell me you've got a fag!" he called. "I beg your pardon?" Walter Skinner replied, poking his head through the crack in the door, his face perplexed. Renahan laughed, even with the strange feeling that his belly was about to open like a mouth. "A cigarette, Yank," he said. "A 'puff,' not a 'poof.'" "Well, that's a relief," Skinner said, and entered the room. "You look like someone just rolled back the bloody stone on you," Renahan noted, taking in Skinner's bandaged head, one eye covered with a patch. One hand and wrist was in a cast. "About how I feel, too," Skinner said, standing close to the bed. "How the hell are you?" Renahan leaned his head back on the pillow, feeling the cool of the mattress against his shaven head. They'd had to stitch up a gash on one side, and he'd told them just to take all of it off – and the beard – instead of shaving a patch. "Ready to get the fuck out of here," he said, though he only halfway meant what he said. No, he thought, his face falling. He didn't mean it at all. "What is it?" Skinner asked. Renahan shook his head. "It's nothing. Nothing at all." Skinner nodded. He took another step closer to the bed, his casted hand resting on the railing. His other he used to loot through his jacket pocket, a green jacket from the Irish Counterterrorism he seemed to have acquired along the way. He pulled out a handful of clippings from the newspaper – several of them, from the looks of the stack. "I thought you'd want these for your collection," he said, and laid them in the space between Renahan's hip and the rail. Renahan looked at them, the pictures of himself, of Skinner, of Neill. An old distinguished photo of the Collin family – Christie and John and Anna Simms. A perfect portrait of death. "What will you do now?" Skinner asked, though Renahan couldn't get his eyes off the faces there in black and white. "Dunno," he said. His voice sounded tired and strange and far away. "My shark appears to be dead." "Your what?" Now Renahan did look up at him. "It's nothing," he said again. "Something Mr. Mulder said is all." Skinner nodded. "Well," he said, cleared his throat. "I'm on my way back to the States. There's about 4000 pieces of paperwork to fill out on this sitting on my desk, I'm sure. No use putting it off." Renahan nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Skinner," he said softly. "For what?" Skinner said, chuckling. "Nearly getting your ass blown off?" Renahan shook his head. "For giving me a chance. No one's done that in a long while, you know. I appreciate you thinking I could be of some help." "You were a great help," he said. "People know that now. Why don't you give *them* a chance?" Renahan said nothing, his eyes going to the clippings at his waist, and Skinner turned to walk away. "Mr. Skinner?" he called, and Skinner turned again, his eyebrows raised in question. "You take these," Renahan said, picking up the pile with a bandaged hand and offering them to the other man. "Something to mark the time." Skinner stepped back toward the bed and took the strips. "I don't think I'll ever forget what I've seen here," he said. "But I'll take them off your hands." He stuffed them in his pocket again, and offered his hand. "Good luck to you, Renahan," he said. "And you," Renahan replied, and they shook, then Skinner turned and walked away. He lay there for awhile, his mind on the dark walls of his flat, on the view of the ocean from the ledge in Ballycastle, the sea-salt air on his face. Though his body was battered, his mind was more alive than it had been in longer ago than he could recall. He was grateful for that. To Skinner. And to someone else he wanted to thank. He fumbled for the phone and dialed the switchboard, an old woman's voice buzzing through the earpiece. "Help you, sir." It was meant as a question but it came out flat from sheer rote. "Eamon Neill's room," he said. "I'll ring you through." A ring, then two. He realized on the third that might be being rude calling so soon. The man had lost a leg after all. Might need some time… "Neill," a voice said as the line went through. Renahan opened his mouth, then realized he hadn't the slightest idea what he should say. "Renahan?" Neill called. "Yea," he replied. "Yea, it's me." He cleared his throat and shifted a bit on the mattress. "I…wanted to tell you that I'm sorry about your leg and all. Sorry for the trouble." Neill laughed. "I'd be laying downstairs waiting to have whiskey poured on my grave if you hadn't pulled me out from under that bit of roof," he said. Renahan chuffed. "Well you had to drag me out of the lair yourself, so I reckon we're square on that." Silence from Neill, then: "I'd say we are," Neill said quietly. "And even if we're not, let's say we are and be done with it." Renahan looked up at the light above his head, the light shining bright. "All right," he said. "All right," Neill replied. "Get some rest." "You, too, Neill," Renahan said, and he hung up the phone. ***** THE RUINS OF VICTOR HOSTEEN'S RANCH TWO GREY HILLS, NEW MEXICO APRIL 11 11:15 a.m. Inside the military tent loaned by the Feds, Albert Hosteen and Sean Curran were hidden among the horses they'd managed thus far to fetch, the light from the open side flaps showing dust dancing in the warm mid-day air. "Hold his leg up," Hosteen said softly to Sean, steadying Ghost's cannon so that the boy could grasp it between his hands. "Gently now. Gently…" Sean did as he was told, Ghost's leg swollen and gashed, the fetlock puffed out above his hoof. Hosteen smeared the area with salve, working it through the dapple-gray coat with his hands. "Will he be all right, Mr. Hosteen?" Sean asked. "Hm," Hosteen replied, reaching for the wrapping cloth he'd bought in Farmington when Sean and Mae and he had gone into town for breakfast and supplies for the day. "He did a hard thing. A very important thing. In time, yes, I believe he will be fine." He looked at Sean, at the boy's sunburned face and the clear blue of his eyes as Sean studied Ghost's leg, running his hand over the swollen places. "Time is good that way," he said, and Sean nodded. "Aye," he said, his voice sounding like his mind was far away. Hosteen took the blue wrap, held the end in place, began to wind it around and around Ghost's mottled leg. "There is something you wish to say to me," Hosteen said as he worked, Sean bent at the waist. "Something you want to ask." He stopped wrapping long enough to push the cooler on the other side of him over so that Sean could sit with Ghost's leg on his lap. "Yes," Sean said softly. He sounded very afraid. "I…" And he shook his head and bit his lip. Hosteen smiled faintly as he finished the first layer of wrap. "You wish to stay here. When your aunt leaves." Sean nodded, smoothing down a crimped edge. "Aye." Hosteen stopped what he was doing, put a hand near Sean's on the horse's leg. "Look at me," he said softly, and Sean did as he asked. Hosteen watched his face. "You would be an outsider here," he said softly. "A white among us. Some – especially the young boys like yourself – might not treat you with kindness or respect." Sean looked at him and swallowed. "How would it be different?" he asked, almost too softly to hear. "I…haven't belonged anywhere," and his eyes brimmed with tears. "Hm." Hosteen nodded. "It is a very hard life you are choosing." Sean shook his head. "Not when I think about where I've been." Hosteen looked at the boy's face, and nodded again. "You may stay here as long as you wish." * 11:45 a.m. "Mae…" Frank "Tunes" Music followed Mae Curran-Porter to the edge of the property, both of them covered in black tarry soot and ash. The baby was asleep with Sara Whistler minding her in one of the furnished trailers Rosen had scrambled from Farmington to shelter the Hosteen's while the contractors came in to rebuild. The trailers were large and posh by the old house's standards ("Dishwasher!" Whistler'd exclaimed on entering the place), but Mae wanted none of it. She wanted nothing of this place. "Try to look at it from Sean's point of view," Frank said, catching up to her again. "You're going to prison, for Christ's sake, and he knows that—" "Six fucking months!" she said, spinning on him. "It's SIX FUCKING MONTHS and he wants to stay here forever from the sounds of it." Frank stood in front of her, and she watched his face flush red. "I don't blame him for wanting someplace he knows he can count on some stability, Mae. Wouldn't you take that if it were offered to you? Especially at his age?" "I'm his FAMILY!" she roared into his face, and she grew even more enraged as Frank laughed, shaking his head, his hands going to bracket his hips. "You do anything for your family where I come from! You don't leave them—" "Yes, by all means let's run our lives by THAT, Mae! Look where that's gotten all of you up to this point." He started ticking off on his fingers. "Your brother James, Owen, your father--" "It's not the same," she pleaded, the rage and hurt turning to tears. "I'm not like them, Frank, and you know that. You know…" He stepped forward now, but didn't touch her. She was glad he knew better. Still. "I know. And on some level he knows, too. But I think, actually, some time away from you and you away from him would be good for you both. Let him come back to you when he wants to, you know? When he's ready to accept what you're offering him. What you've always offered. But for now, let him choose his place." Let him choose his place… She thought about that word "choice" for a moment, the ranch where the others were working stinking with a chemical smell and burned things. "You won't be able to return to Ireland," Director Rosen told her before he'd left the day before, after he told her where she'd been serving out her plea-bargained sentence, there at the table in Albert Hosteen's new but temporary house. "Both the Irish government and the British have barred you from returning again." There was a smudge on the table from Katherine's breakfast, a smudge on the brand new wooded table's surface. She couldn't meet Rosen or Dana or Mulder's gazes, and worried it with her finger instead. "The children can go if you have someone to care for them," Rosen offered into her silence. "No," Mae said softly, "there's no one." No one… She was tired of those words, tired of the grief that two words could hold, the empty white room of their single beats that she'd lived in for too long. She pushed the thought away, reached up, looking to the side and avoiding Frank's gaze. She wiped at her face. "I know you're right…" she said quietly. "He'd have nowhere to be…no place to stay. Katherine can stay with me, they said, but even that makes me ill, to think of her there in jail…" Frank chuffed softly. "The Federal minimum security facility at Quantico – with a section for inmates with infants and toddlers -- is hardly Cell Block H," he said. "A posh cage with a playpen is still a cage," she said glumly, and wiped her eyes again. She knew she shouldn't be even remotely upset at the bargain Rosen had struck on her behalf. It was far less than she deserved, and she felt suddenly ungrateful, especially to Frank, whom she knew had helped negotiate the length of the sentence and the place… She narrowed her eyes. "Where do you live, Frank?" she asked. He smiled shyly. "Nowhere special. Virginia. Outside Potomac Mills." She looked at him, at the smile on his face. She was annoyed by his attraction and his kindness. She resented the things that he'd done because they were things that she could not have done for herself. She detested the teenager in her who was smitten with the gold flecks in his eyes, his mischievous grin. She hated she knew, looking at him, she might love again. "I imagine that's a long way from Quantico," she ventured, and she couldn't help but smile a bit through her anger, her sorrow, her relief. "Oh yeah," he said, taking another step toward her, and grinned. "Four whole miles." "All that way?" she asked. He smelled like soap and ash and rain. "Oh yeah," he said. "It'll be a real hardship to come visit, you know, bring something good for you and the baby. New clothes. Toys. Maybe something sweet and good to eat." ** 12:10 p.m. "Can you hold onto it?" Victor Hosteen called, looking over at Robin a few feet on his right. She was holding up a split rail that he'd placed in the "X" of a support post, but the support was giving him a fit. "Yeah, I've got it," she said, though her voice was strained and clipped. It was getting hotter as April wore on, spring heading to summer and the desert starting to turn bright and more barren and hot, the greens soon to fade to buckskin and brown. Sweat was slicking her face, and she had a dark stain between her breasts. Victor smiled as he looked at her. She was strong, secure, and stubborn as a raven. Granger's perfect fit. He picked up a sledgehammer, a black railroad spike, and as Robin held the post with her long, dark arms. He hammered the spike through the place where the two supports joined, the echo going across the vast emptiness of his land, this place quieter than where the main house had been, where the earthmovers were taking what was left of his house away in the backs of Army dumptrucks to clear the land again. Robin would not look him in the face. "You're still angry with me for not taking you with us that day," he said, his words punctuated with the hammerfalls, her body jerking with each hit where the post jerked the rail nearly out of place. Robin said nothing, keeping her eyes where the hammer's head met the spike. Her mouth, though, had turned to a thin line. "Granger said he told you why," Victor continued. "But you're still angry." "Yes," she said finally. The spike's head flush against the wood, Victor stood back, gestured to her to release the rail. It held. "Why?" he asked, taking off his cap for Oslo's Feed & Seed and wiping his brow. He was winded, and Robin was, too. Inside the sheep they'd managed to round up – him and Keel and the rest of the men – were bleating in their new pen, bumping against each other, gathering in clumps of dirty white and looking up at the two people, their eyes wide. "It's hard to explain," Robin said. "Try." Robin looked out over the desert, blew out a breath. "Paul…Paul's not like you all, Victor. He's not a shaman or a sage or a magician. He comes from a simple woman and a hard-working, ordinary father. He's just an ordinary man." Victor couldn't help but smile at that. "Sounds like that's what *you* need him to be." "What do you know about him?" Robin snapped, wiping sweat from her cheek on her shirt sleeve. "I think I know him better than you do, Victor." Victor put his arm on the top of the supports, leaned his chin on his forearm and stared her hard in the face. "You do, yes," he said softly, his face devoid of its usual teasing and mirth. "But I've seen what he sees when he dreams, Robin. I know what he fears and wants and believes. I know his heart in a way that you cannot." She looked up, her eyes shining. "I know. But he's mine, Victor. You should have taken me with you. You had no right to keep me from what you saw that night." Victor quirked a sad smile. "You'll see it all, Robin," he said. "If you want to, that is. You'll see everything he is if you'll trust in who he is. All of him. And if you believe what he tells you and what you see." She looked away, a tear running down her dark cheek that she swiped away. She nodded, still not looking him in the face. "Thank you for what you've done for him," she said quietly. "I didn't say it before…and I do owe you that." Victor smiled, leaned back and replaced the battered cap. "You don't owe me a thing, Robin," he said kindly, then reached for a split rail, tilting it up on its end. "Feel like one more before we take a break and get out of this heat?" he asked, knowing she needed to be doing something with her hands. "One more," she said, hefting the wood and chancing a smile, though her voice was gruff. "Then lunch is on me." ** 12:36 p.m. Bo was panting, even in the shade of the one tree left near where the barn had been, though the trees was black and missing its leaves. Granger looked at him and sympathized. It was not a place to be covered in anything black, including his own skin. "It's hot as hell out here today," Granger ventured as he and Mulder sifted through the debris, picking out tools that looked like they could be salvageable from the pile of black ruins and charred beams. "Summer comes early here," Mulder said, picking up a hammerhead, the black blade of a saw. "There'll still be some cool days off and on, but this is what it's like a lot." Mulder had taken his shirt off while he worked, his skin working on tan. His blue jeans were covered with soot, his boots smeared and dotted with ash. Scully had trimmed his hair herself, and it was short enough to have spiked a bit as he sweat. "Voice of experience?" Granger teased, pulling out something that looked like it used to be a table saw's vise, its wooden screw-handle burned off. Mulder laughed, standing and wiping sweat from his chest. "Yeah," he said, squinting at Granger. "I've spent a little bit of time in this area, you could say." Granger laughed, and Mulder did, as well, reaching for the canteen at his belt. He opened it, offered it to Granger, who drank and handed it back. "How's Dana doing?" he asked as Mulder took long draughts, water dripping down. "She's good," Mulder replied, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Tired, but I think that's all of us at this point." Granger nodded. "I'll say." Mulder looked down at the pile of tool parts they'd collected, his hands going to his hips where the band of a pair of boxers was showing above the jeans' waist. "She's been on the phone this morning. Quantico." Granger nodded. "Things about Mae?" But Mulder shook his head. "No," he said quietly. "She's been hired to teach Forensic Pathology at the Academy. She'll start after she's been cleared to work by her doctor in D.C. and go up until she goes on Maternity Leave." "She's leaving the X-Files?" Granger replied, agape. Mulder nodded. "Yes," he said. "She'll consult, of course, but with the baby coming…we both think it's for the best." Granger looked at him, trying to see if he looked disappointed or angry. He was smiling at Granger instead. And Granger immediately knew why, and smiled back. "So," he said, clearing his throat importantly and picking up a shovel to lean on its handle, looking nonchalant. "Do you have any idea about her replacement down there in the basement, Agent Mulder?" Mulder looked down, his lips pursed importantly. "Why yes, Mr. Granger, I have one or two." "Well," Granger said, pulling himself to his full height, which still meant that Mulder dwarfed by him five inches or more. "I just happen to have recently had a few experiences that I think make me…uniquely qualified for a position in your division." "So I've heard," Mulder said, and the two looked at each other and grinned. Granger reached out and put his hand on Mulder's shoulder, and Mulder did the same. They gave each other a shake. "Have your people call my people," Mulder said as their hands dropped. "Yes," Granger said. "We'll do lunch." ** 1:00 p.m. Scully sat in a plastic Adirondack chair Mulder had picked up for her at Home Depot in Farmington, a plastic stepstool by Rubbermaid tucked in front of it for her to prop up her swollen legs and feet. There was a blanket hitched up on poles over her head, giving her a wide swatch of shade in the too-bright sunlight. Behind her, the brand-new screen door of Albert Hosteen's temporary double-wide opened without a creak, and Hosteen himself stepped outside, pushing the corner of a grilled cheese sandwich into his mouth. "You have not eaten," Hosteen said softly. "No," Scully replied, her eyes on something far in the distance, something she couldn't yet see. "I'm not very hungry, Mr. Hosteen, but I'll get something in a little while." "Hm," Hosteen said, standing next to her and chewing for a long beat. "Sara is making you eggs and dry toast. Some orange juice." Scully smiled, shook her head, and laughed. "I don't know what I'm going to do without you all to fuss over me," she said. "You all are quite a force to be reckoned with, that's for sure." Hosteen smiled. "So are you, Agent Scully. And I feel that you will do fine taking care of yourself once you've gotten the answers you are about to seek." Scully nodded, long ago giving up on being surprised at anything he knew or said. "Yes," she said. "I'll go as soon as I'm able. He's waiting for me." Hosteen finished his sandwich, wiped the crumbs from his hands on his jeans. Then he moved to stand behind her, his hands going to her shoulders, resting there. "You will find many answers where you're going," he said softly, his hands warm through her shirt. "And make a decision that will change the rest of your life, and your baby's, and Mulder's." She nodded. "Yes." She'd sensed that, that the road she had been on was leveling, that she was coming to a crossroads that led to destinations she didn't know yet. "You will know what to do," Hosteen said softly, and she reached up and touched his hand, gave it a squeeze. "And you will be able to do anything you choose. I have always believed that of you." Scully smiled, gripping his hand. "Yes," she said, unable to look at him as tears brimmed. "And for that and so much more, Mr. Hosteen, you have my love and my thanks." ***** HOOVER BUILDING WASHINGTON, D.C. APRIL 21 8:34 a.m. It was all so surreal. There he was, Agent Fox Mulder once again, his charcoal suit cleaned and pressed and bagging a bit more than usual from weight he had lost, a maroon tie patterned with white flecks at his neck. He had his feet up on his desk, his leather work shoes feeling strange after what felt like months in boots. He looked around, taking it all in. Glass cases filled with bits of rock, pieces of evidence deemed too strange for the F.B.I. Evidence Stores to keep. The clippings even more yellow on the walls, the files he hadn't put away gathering dust. The dim lights leaked through the perpetual night of the place. He swung his legs down from the desk and swiveled to look at the wall behind. The pictures of saucers, cows dead in fields. The simian face of the body in Belle Fleur, Scully standing behind it, looking barely old enough to drive and pissed. And off to one side, the familiar pixilated blue of a bad photograph, the letters stark and large in the overhead light. I WANT TO BELIEVE. He smiled. He did, he thought to himself. Just not the same things that he had when he'd first put the poster up when he'd been hidden down here in the old copy room, the words – back then – the only prayer he knew. He heard footsteps on the stairs, the rustle of keys and paper bags, and turned toward the sound. "Soh-ey," Granger said, coming in the doorway with a bag from Starbuck's in his teeth. He came forward with a cup of coffee in each hand, his keys dangling from his thumb and set them all down on the edge of Mulder's desk. "There was a line," he said, freeing up his mouth, "And I got off this morning a little late." Mulder pointed to the giant cups. "What? The pot I make down here not good enough for you, Granger?" And Granger laughed. "Dana warned me you don't clean the cups or the pot, and besides—" He nodded toward the poster and the general clutter of strange things. "—this place could use a little class." Mulder stood, reaching for the cup. "All right, Mr. No-Fat-Tall-Venti-Skinny-Latte-Two- Shot-Extra-Soy—" Someone cleared his throat, and Mulder stopped in mid-sentence, Granger turning as they both looked toward the door. Jack Rosen stood in the doorway, Walter Skinner – marred with healing cuts in his face and across his bald pate – at his shoulder behind. "Mr. Granger," Rosen said, nodding to him, then leveled his eyes on Mulder. "Agent Mulder." "Good morning, sirs," Granger said, and Mulder was glad he spoke first. He didn't like the way Rosen was looking at him, though he couldn't blame the man. There was still a vague blue spot at the base of his jaw. Rosen walked in, Skinner looking at Mulder with a look he knew well. Watch your mouth, for Christ's sake, it said. Mulder didn't even have to hear him speak to hear the frustration and the curse. "Getting settled in to your new assignment, Mr. Granger?" Rosen asked, coming forward to stand near the desk, his hands behind his back. His eyes were on the poster behind Mulder, then his eyes flicked to Mulder's face. "Yes, sir," Granger replied. "Though I just got—" "Mr. Granger, Mr. Skinner," Rosen interrupted, still staring at Mulder, "Would you two be so kind to step into the hall for a moment? And close the door behind." Mulder saw Granger look to Skinner uncertainly, but Skinner jerked his head toward the door, and the two men left. When the door had closed quietly behind them, Mulder returned his attention to Rosen's unreadable face. "Agent Mulder," he said quietly. "I'm sorry for striking you, sir," Mulder said. In New Mexico he'd still been so pissed at the clusterfuck of red tape – even after Scully was safe – that he'd simply avoided Rosen rather than say he regretted the punch. He'd been home with Scully since they returned, so he hadn't really had the chance. It was Scully who had told him to apologize, as soon as he could, and though he would have done it anyway, the seriousness of her tone and her face had sealed the decision that morning before he'd left. Rosen nodded. "I appreciate that apology, Mulder," he said, and he did seem pleased behind his mask. "I understand you were under a great deal of duress, and I'm willing to overlook your behavior during this…incident…because of the unique nature of the circumstances." Mulder nodded, his hands going behind his back. "Thank you, sir," he said. "I'll try not to let it happen again." Rosen's lip curled. "Thank you for not promising," he said. "Because that's one you are incapable of keeping." Then he stepped close to the desk. "But I will say this," and his eyes flared with rage. "Agent Mulder if you ever punch me again you'll have a hell of a lot more to worry about than a horse in your bed. AFTER I have your badge for it, and AFTER I've got you up on charges, I'll come back at you so hard you'll be wearing your ass for a fucking hat. Are we clear on that?" Mulder looked at him and swallowed. "Clear, sir," he replied. Rosen nodded, and turned, going back to the door and opening it again. "Come in," he said, and Skinner and Granger filed in, both glancing from Rosen and Mulder to see evidence of what had been done or said. "Break him in easy, Agent Mulder," Rosen called over his shoulder as he went out the door. "I leave it in you and Mr. Skinner's hands to keep things clean down here." "Thank you, sir," Skinner said, standing by the door, cocking an eyebrow at Mulder. "Don't ask," Mulder replied, and reached for his cup, took a drink. Granger went to the desk for his own coffee, perching on the corner of the desk. Mulder picked up the bag and started rifling through, coming out with a muffin the size of his fist. "You feeling all right?" he said to Skinner, taking a bite. Skinner was standing there with his hands on his hips, his jacket off, his shirt starched and pressed to within an inch of its life. "Yeah," Skinner said, shaking his head. "I felt better before I saw the two of you together and my stomach started to hurt." Mulder laughed. "Why's that?" "You two have already proven that trouble is right behind you," he said through his teeth. "I'm going to go up and start a stack of Incident Reports for this division. Just to get an head start." "Sir, we can't get in more trouble than Mulder did with Agent Scully," Granger protested. "Could we?" Skinner went for the door, and a fond, bitter laugh came up. "She kept him out of trouble, Mr. Granger, believe it or not." Walter Skinner held the knob, took one more look back. "God help me," he said, winked, and closed the door as he left. Granger took another sip of his coffee, and for a moment, as Granger looked at him, Mulder was reminded of the young man he'd met in Richmond, a man not much younger in years as experience, with that eager look of a kid in a toy store. "So…are going to start a case before you and Scully leave or do you want to just get me oriented so I can catch up on my reading while you're away?" Mulder looked down at the desk, the decision he'd come to over the days since his return to D.C. playing across his thoughts. "I've got something for you to read and start doing some thinking about, yeah," he said, turning to the file cabinet behind and to his left. "All right," Granger said, putting down his coffee and reaching for the bag. "What's the case? Unexplained phenomena? U.F.Os? Crop circles…" Mulder thumbed through the folders, zoning out Granger's list. Thumbing from A to F to H to L to M. "Samantha Mulder…" it said, the folder thick, the label faded from age and use. He pulled it out and held it in his hands. "No," he said softly, took in a deep breath, and turned. "Unexplained Death." And he set the folder in Granger's hands. **** OFF THE COAST OF VANCOUVER ISLAND BRITISH COLUMBIA CANADA APRIL 23 8:23 a.m. The ferry from the coast of Vancouver Island to Denman Island was small, the weathered boat large enough to hold perhaps 20 cars and trucks carrying supplies to the tiny islands off the coast. The air was crisp and cool, and the water of the Pacific the deepest blue Scully had ever seen. They'd gotten off the prop plane from the main airport in Vancouver across the channel, and Scully had sat, her back aching from the travel, while Mulder gathered their suitcases around her in the one-room airport while he secured a Subaru Forester – the only kind of car the rugged island rented – at the counter near the back. As she waited, she kept her eyes on him, the curve of his back in his jacket, the way he shifted his weight from one Niked foot to the other as he spoke to the clerk. In her hand, the ferry schedule and a printout on Heliwell, the wooded park that gave way to cliffs on Hornby Island, just off the coast. When he'd returned with the key, he picked up their bags and leaned forward to give her a warm, soft kiss. "You all right?" he asked as he pulled his face away. She nodded. "Yes, thank you," she said, her hand on her belly, rubbing softly as though for luck. "I'm ready to go." She was wearing a black swing coat at the ferry's railing, watching the boat move closer to the first island's shore, tucked under Mulder's arm. They said nothing as the boat blew its horn, people going back to their cars. They simply followed behind. As they bumped onto the ramp at Denman, caught in a line of cars all following the signs that pointed them across the island to the ferry to Hornby – the end of the line – Mulder reached over and clicked on the radio, respectful of her need not to speak as they drove. She couldn't help but be a little frightened of what she'd find when they reached where they were headed. She could feel that Mulder was also filled with a feeling between concern and dread. His thumb was worrying the side of her hand. "It's going to be okay," he said softly, the radio playing something old and American and familiar in a way she couldn't name. It was Mulder who recognized it first, reached for the volume control and laughed. "'…I'm crazy for feeling so lonely…I'm…crazy…crazy for feeling so blue…I knew…you'd love me as long as you wanted…and then you'd leave for somebody new…" Scully closed her eyes and smiled, lifted his hand to her mouth, rubbing his knuckles against her lips. Across the island, they boarded the ferry for Hornby, the 15-minute trip spent this time inside the car rather than at the railing as they embraced, the minutes taken up this time in the language of the kiss. They disembarked and the cars pulled up a steep climb, Scully unfolding the map she'd printed out, telling Mulder to follow this road until they reached a market at the center of town. As they saw it some minutes later, she told him to turn left. Down a winding road that was canopied by trees. Past a fork in the road marked by a split tree, the sign pointing right toward Heliwell Park. Scully looked out the window as the road turned more narrow, houses tucked far off the road in the shadows of leaves. There were no other cars – too early for the tourist season, still too cold, the island too remote. Everyone on Hornby was there was because they lived there during this, the dawning time of the living part of the year. Then they turned a corner, and saw car after car after car lining the road, most of them rentals identical to their own. "Someone's having a party," Mulder said mildly, giving the parked cars a wide berth. Her brow creased down, and she pushed a long strand of hair back from where it had slipped. Cars and cars. Then a driveway going up on the right. "Mulder," she said. "Slow down. I think—" And as they passed the drive, she looked up and the house was there. Dark wood, almost black. Huge for the island or any other place. The stained glass windows were glinting both from the sun pushing through the arch of trees and from an inner light. The design was a strange spiral, multicolored and formed into a circle. It looked like two circles but when she looked at it she realized it was one unbroken line, turned in a pattern not like the one that stood for Infinity. "That's it," she said, and Mulder stopped, backed up, and went up the drive. There were no cars in front of the house, all of them clustered for a mile down the road below the house. She looked out the window at the design on the windows again as Mulder cut the engine and it died into silence. "Strange designs," he said, looking out her window at the windows. "But really beautiful." She nodded. "They look like…mobius strips," she said, looking at them. "They're continuous circles made by rotating a strip of paper 180 degrees and connecting the ends." There was a mathematical equation to it that she couldn't recall, though she tried for a moment. She tried until the huge wooden doors to the house opened and man stepped out onto the stone landing, a smile on his face. "Looks like someone knew we were coming," Mulder said quietly, unclipping his seatbelt. Scully did the same. Mulder got out and came around to her door, opened it, and helped her climb down from her seat. The man watched them, that same smile on his face. He wore a suit and a bowtie, his dark hair slicked back from his face. "Mr. Mulder, Ms. Scully. Welcome." They both turned and gaped. "Many questions, I know," the man said, putting a hand up to quiet Mulder before he could speak. "Mr. Strawn will explain everything, I promise. Please. Come in. We've been anxious to meet you both for quite some time." Scully looked at Mulder, who reached down and took her hand. The hair was up on the back of her neck. "It's okay," he said softly, squeezing her hand. "I think everything's the way it's supposed to be." She took in a breath, the man standing to the door's side with his arm toward them, gesturing them in, the wide smile still in place. "Okay," she said, and the two of them went up the steps slowly, past the man and into the house. They were standing in a foyer the size of one floor of their house, a set of closed double doors on the left and the right. They could hear voices – many of them – chattering behind the ones on the right. "My name is Hobbie," the man said. "I'm one of Mr. Strawn's assistants, his…butler, if you wish. May I take your coats before you go in?" "No, that's okay," Scully said, and Mulder, too, shook his head. "We're fine," he said, standing close to Scully so that their arms nearly touched. Hobbie nodded, unflapped. "As you wish," he said, " If you'll come with me then," and he went to the double doors and pushed. They swung in, and the chattering instantly stopped. And both Mulder and Scully stood, stunned into silence as they faced the room the doors had hidden. It was the size of a small ballroom, ceilings that extended perhaps 20 feet, rich wood the color of the house's outside. The walls were lined with sconces, the floor covered with oriental rugs that were priceless with design and age. And inside, perhaps 100 people were standing, all facing the door, their eyes kind and most with smiles on their faces. They were from all races, many in ceremonial dress. Men and women from India in saris flecked with golden thread. An entire group from some part of Africa, their clothes a riot of colors and jewelry adorned with feathers and shells around their necks. Men in suits, women in clothes of all sorts. Asian men and women in kimonos and robes. Monks in brown and orange and white. "Welcome to The Mobius Group," Hobbie said, standing beside them, touching Scully's back. "Please. Go in. I think you'll find some of the people you see…familiar?" He grinned. Scully gripped Mulder's hand and started to walk. "Pleasure to finally meet you, Ms. Scully," a dark-skinned man said as she passed through the threshold. "Mr. Mulder," and he tilted his head in respect. "Hello," an Indian woman said from the other side as she went further, the crowd parting as they passed. "Welcome." "So glad…" "…looking well…" "…very happy…" And so it went. Finally, they reached the center of the room, the crowd continuing to part, and Scully pulled up short and pulled in a surprised breath. "Hello, Agent Scully." Albert Hosteen, Sara Whistler and Victor stood in ceremonial Navajo vestments, Hosteen looking at her with his chin up and the hint of a smile on his face. "Mr. Hosteen…?" Scully stammered. "You…?" "Victor?" Mulder got out, as stunned as she. "What are you doing here?" Victor smiled, not looking as young or as naïve here among the quiet, distinguished group. "Mr. Strawn will tell Dana," he said, and he and Albert Hosteen and Sara began to move to the side. "We'll fill you in while she's with him. But it's all all right." And as they stood aside, there he was. Black suit, a blanket across his thin legs. The wheelchair was old with a high back, and a man stood behind him to push him slowly into the space the Hosteen group had made. He looked more pleased to see them than any of the others, his frail looking hands reaching out toward them both. "Welcome to you both," he said, and Scully felt her knees going weak. How long had she heard that voice speaking to her in her visions and dreams? It was as familiar to her as her father's had been. "My name is Walter Strawn," he said softly as Mulder reached out first to shake his hand. "I am the head of the Mobius Group and this is my home you – and all the others – have come all this way to gather in. Thank you for making the trip." He turned to Scully, but spoke to Mulder as he took her in, seeming to drink in the look of her face. "Mr. Mulder, if you'll be so kind as to remain here with Mr. Hosteen, I need to speak to Dana for some time alone." He smiled at Scully. "Just a slow walk for you, Dana," he said. "Out on the bluffs overlooking the sea. I know you have much to ask me and I have much to say." Mulder started to object, but Scully squeezed his hand. "It's all right, Mulder," she said quickly. "I'll go with him. It's okay." She still had not told him about what she'd seen. And though she'd seen the horse's body in her dreams, she hadn't told him what she'd done – what she was capable of doing again. Victor came forward and put an arm around Mulder's shoulder. "Come on, Mulder," he said. "We'll fill you in while we all get something to eat." Mulder looked at Scully, his face a bit blanched, and she nodded. "It's okay," she said, letting go of his hand. "I'll be right back." ** 10:42 a.m. The cliffs at Heliwell were some of the most beautiful things Scully had ever seen. A path wound through the forest, a quiet man named Joseph pushing Strawn along it up to where the trees ended and the cliff opened up, covered with light green grass that looked like heath. The path curled along them, safely away from the edge where the Pacific moved in undulating waves to crash against the cliff's bottoms, the whole place lit by sunlight and caressed by a salty breeze. Several times Strawn asked if she was all right, if their pace was too quick or too steep. "No," she said each time. "No, I'm fine." Now, moving along the cliffs with her hands dug deep in her pockets, she looked out on the ocean, the seemingly limitless space. There was a bench set at a vista on a particularly high bluff, and Strawn instructed Joseph to take him there so that Scully could sit, and then to "leave them alone for a bit." Scully gathered her coat around her, though she wasn't cold as much as apprehensive. Though she'd just met Strawn, she felt she'd known him for years, but the circumstance was strange enough that she didn't quite know what to expect or say. Strawn sat beside her in his chair, close to the side of the bench where she sat. He tunneled his hands beneath the plaid blanket across his lap and began to speak. "Let me tell who we are," he said softly. "I know that is the first thing you will ask." His tenses confused her, but she did not address it. She kept her eyes on the sea. "Yes." "The Mobius Group is a collective of people from nearly every part of the world," he said. "We are people drawn together because of our unique ability to see things that others cannot see. We gather every year to discuss the things we've seen and put them to constructive purposes if we can, to avert things that we can, to help in places where our foresight gives us the ability to offer aid where others can or will not." Scully nodded. "So the people in that room…" she began. "Yes," Strawn said, nodding. "They see similar things that you are able to see. They have seen each other over the course of their lives. They have seen me and they have all come here at some point to make their decision to join in our work or to receive help or advice on how to move forward with the rest of their lives." ""Their decision'?" Scully said. "What is there to decide? You say that as if there's a way to stop these things I'm seeing." She turned to look at him. "If that were possible, I would have stopped seeing them long ago." He shook his head. "Some of what you see can be controlled, but not all of it, no. You will always have the ability you have, Dana. I'm sorry. I have watched you for two decades now and I know that it is the last thing you desire." His eyes were heavy and sad behind his glasses, his mouth turned down, his face a mask of regret. "It is, yes," she said. "Especially when the things I see…" "Yes," he finished for her. "Mulder's death in the shop. Your daughter there to witness. I have watched these things with you. I know it is difficult to bear." "Difficult?" she said, finding the word not up to the task, but Strawn only smiled. "You call what I've seen merely 'difficult,' Mr. Strawn?" But Strawn only nodded. "Yes. A friend of mine, Michael Lansing, who recently passed away, saw, all during the second World War, the faces of the people in Auschwitz," he said. "From his farm in Nebraska where his family grew corn. No one knew of the camps then, or so they said, and he did not understand the horrors he had seen." Scully swallowed, feeling suddenly foolish. "I'm sorry," she said. "That was selfish of me to say." "You do not know the stories of the others, the things they've had to see," Strawn said, putting a hand out to touch her sleeve. "Do not blame yourself for that." Scully looked away, then back again, replaying what he'd said. "Then what is there to decide if we have to see them?" she asked. "Oh, many things," Strawn continued. "Many things." He turned his gaze from the ocean to her face. "You have seen things which do not seem to be possible. Things that contradict." Scully nodded, pulling her cold hands into her sleeves. The entire conversation gave her the creeps, though she was relieved to be having it. She was more than relieved. "Yes. I saw Mulder killed and then…and then I saw him alive when my daughter was older. A mother herself, with a dark-haired son." The latter memory made her smile, though the smile melted away. "One of them of is true, and the other can't be." "Yes and no," Strawn said. "That is a very black-and-white view, though it is the only one you could have at this juncture, I know." "They can't both be true," Scully tried again, confused. "No," Strawn said, nodding. "But then neither could be true. You simply do not know." Her head was spinning, and she looked down. "I don't understand," she said. Strawn smiled. "You know something of time, Dana," he began. "You wrote a rather controversial paper on the topic, which, incidentally, I have read." He winked and went on. "What I ask you is to suspend those ideas and think of a metaphor instead. Think of a subway station far, far beneath a city teeming with life. Now picture the people from the city riding the escalator down to the station at certain appointed times, times when they are supposed to make certain decisions that will affect their lives, say. They wait for the train they know they should board, and when it comes, they get on and they ride away." She nodded. "Go on." "That is the linear life that most people lead, Dana. They do not have the choice of the train they will board. They do not know the other trains can take them to another place. On each train that stops, as the doors open, they look into a scene from their life – their next day, their wife. The plane they will ride. They go down and board that one train they can see and they ride away." Now he turned to look at her. "But you, Dana, you and everyone else in that room you saw – Albert Hosteen, Agita Patel, Youssou N'Maga…you stay on the platform and watch the trains come and go all day." Scully felt it all click into place. "So what I'm seeing are…possibilities of things that can be. Not what will be." Strawn shook his head. "You do see what will be. You simply do not have the ability to be able to tell the correct train in the comings and goings of the ones you see. But the real one stops, as well." Scully stood slowly, her hand on the small of her back, and walked a few steps toward the sea. She understood now, and the weight of the year lifted off of her like a veil. "That's the decision I must make," she said, not facing him, the wind gently blowing her long hair back. "You can teach me to tell which one is real." "Yes." Strawn's voice was quiet. "But that's the only choice I have, isn't it?" She turned. "You can't make it stop. You can't take it away." He looked at her sadly. "No," he said. "Nothing can do that. Nothing." She put a hand over her mouth, feeling tears coming on. "Would that give me comfort?" she asked, and her voice broke. "To know the future that way?" Strawn shrugged. "Some it does, to know that all but a few things that they see are things that will never be. To some, no. It is a prison for them, to know and, in most cases, be helpless to change what they see. Michael Lansing could do nothing to stop the things he could see. But then Agita was able to save her mother and 300 others from boarding a plane. Michael chose, in the end, not to know, and Agita chose to see." He smiled faintly, and she could tell he knew a great deal of the pain she was feeling, the grief. "That is why I offer you the choice of what you would prefer, Dana. I offer my help in whatever path you would like to take." Scully touched the baby beneath her hand as Rose turned, her head pointing down. She stroked the cloth, considering. It was an offer of a lifetime, some part of her realized, awed. To know the future? To have the possibility to alter what she could see? She stroked the baby again, thinking of the life she wanted Rose to have…the life she wished for Mulder. For herself. "What did Mr. Hosteen choose?" she asked, staring down at her hand. Strawn smiled broadly. "Albert sits in the station all day," he said fondly. "But he does not care much for trains. He concentrates instead on the people waiting on the platform, and waits for them to choose what they may." She quirked a smile. "So he knows all the possibilities. That's how he knows the things he does." "But not what will happen. Yes." Strawn smiled kindly. "Victor and Sara are the same way. They tell us things they know of, but they do not know what information they give is real and which is not. Those of us who have chosen otherwise are the only ones who can tell." "So everyone sees something different," Scully said, as if to herself. "Yes," Strawn said. "Each according to his or her gift." She turned again and looked out onto the ocean, remembering something she'd read years ago in college. Some psychology class that dealt with myth. The ocean was the first of all symbols, Jung had theorized, the one that gave rise to all the rest. It was the first thing that humans had looked upon and been staggered by the mystery about, the surface hiding so much they could not fathom and would never understand. That was the way of things, she thought, staring at the deep blue of the cold, cold sea. It guarded its secrets beneath a thin surface of jet-black glass… "I do not want to know my baby's life before she lives it, Mr. Strawn," Scully said, her voice firm and strong. "I don't want to know Mulder's before he does, at least not and be sure what I know is true or real. I would not rob Rose or Mulder or myself of the chance to live this life as I believe it was meant to be. In mystery." Strawn looked at her, gave her a small smile. "Will you work with us as the Hosteen's do then, Dana? If I help you control what you see so that it does not overcome you? If I help you to have this…mystery?" Scully smiled. "Of course," she said softly. "Of course I will." "Then come," Strawn said, and held out his hand. "Come with me, Dana." Joseph was returning from the edge of the trees. Scully watched him approaching, then looked at Strawn's frail outstretched hand. She went toward him the few steps between. She took his hand and held its warmth, tears on her face, while behind her the ocean glinted the sunlight, rolling toward them, timeless, with its surface like glass. **** EPILOGUE ******* 7912 LAUREL STREET ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA JULY 24 1:02 a.m. A pale full moon shining through the window to the bedroom, the orb huge and peering like a great eye in the star-shot night. The room was bathed in its gray light, the curtains open, light falling on Scully on the bed, curled on her side with her eyes on the window, her arm cradled around the moon of her belly. She had a restlessness tonight, her body taut and sore and, as it had been for all these months, waiting. Her back throbbed faintly, and she shifted her legs to ease the pressure, her belly pressing against the mattress a bit more firmly. Inside her, the baby slept, as still as Mulder behind her, his arm draped across her middle, his fingers on the light fabric of her T-shirt. The pain did not diminish, and she shifted again, moved her head against the pillow to bend into a more defined question mark. Mulder's arm tightened around her waist, and she did not know if she'd woken him or if he hadn't been sleeping at all. He was as restless as she was now that her due date had come and gone two days before. "What can we do?" he whispered, and then his lips were on the whorl of her ear, his nose in her hair. Her body was suddenly humming with the feel of his mouth against her skin. His warm, slow breath sent a shiver up her, and she pushed her hips back against him once, twice. An instinct. He let out a short breath, surprised, and kissed her temple, lingering there. "Oh," he murmured, and slid his hand beneath the hem of her shirt, his hands smoothing over her tight skin to her heavy, sensitive breasts. She leaned her head back and kissed him, a hand going to the waist of his boxers. "Yes," she whispered against his lips. "Please..." And he moved to do what she asked of him. When they were finished, both of them drenched with sweat, their breathing heavy, his cheek against her temple, her hands holding one of his in front of her body, she chuckled, though the pain in her back was worse. "What's funny?" he murmured, but she could tell he was smiling, too, his bare body curved against her back. "I was just thinking," she began, kissed his hand, rubbing his knuckles against her lips. "That was just like our first time." He hummed his assent, remembering, then he chuckled, as well. "You mean the part about us making love with my arm and your leg in casts?" She laughed full-out now. "Exactly," she said. She kissed him again, their lips lingering. "That was one of the best nights of my life," he said as he pulled back an inch, chiding her. "Even if it was a little awkward." "Exactly," she said again, and he pushed his hand down, taking hers with it, and stroked the now-bare mound of her belly. The baby knocked a foot against their hands. "We woke her up," he said, and she gripped his hand. "Just in time for me to go to sleep," she replied, and the fatigue was in her voice, a sleepy gravel. "You think you can sleep?" He caressed her as the baby kicked again, rolling. "I think so," she murmured, settling down deeper into the pillows. "Hmm....thank you." She could hear the smile in his voice. "You're welcome," he said, and lay his head down behind hers, his arm still around her, stroking her dewed skin. She drifted, the baby shifting. She sensed her daughter's restlessness, a thin thread of feeling connecting them. She tried to send out the state of ease she felt there in the circle of Mulder's arms, the moon shining in the window still, but brighter now, turning everything soft and silver. Finally, she slept. ** 5:54 a.m. A fist clenching inside her. The feeling woke Scully, dragging her from sleep. Like a cramp bearing down on her, tightening her middle just above the baby and moving down, radiating around the globe of her middle, around her back, then toward her pelvis. She put her hand on her belly, drew in a sharp breath as she opened her eyes, taking in the gray morning light. The feeling persisted for a moment, then ebbed away. The baby had woken and moved, as though puzzled. "Mulder," Scully said, rolling on her back and over to face him as he opened his eyes, his eyes catching the light, his hand going to her hair, smoothing. No fear in her voice as she told him to check his watch and start counting the time between the contractions, a small smile on her lips. ** 10:03 a.m. "Your turn, Doc," Granger said softly, tapping the deck on the table. They were sitting at the kitchen table -- she, Mulder, Granger and Robin -- a wicked game of rummy going on for the past hour. A score sheet next to Mulder -- four long columns of numbers -- showed that Mulder was winning. "Okay..." she said, but she was distracted, the new contraction winding itself inside her, coiling. She could feel her entire body growing taut with its impending wave. She reached up and wiped sweat from her forehead, her upper lip. "Scully?" Mulder said from beside her. His voice was quiet, but his face was looking a bit more furrowed, and the hand that came out to grip her forearm was tighter than usual. "It's okay..." she said, drew in a breath and reached for the card, though she already knew what it would be. She still had much to learn from Mr. Strawn. Much… "You sure, Dana?" Robin asked from across from her, setting her cards down in front her. "Yes," Scully said quickly, picked up the card, looking at her hand. "It's fine. It'll pass in a minute." She'd been having them the whole time they'd been playing cards, the contractions growing stronger and closer together, though they were still about five minutes apart. She'd spoken to Hannah on the phone, and until her water broke or the contractions got more intense, Scully had told her she wanted to be at home. Hannah had agreed. Like Hannah, Scully was a doctor. She would know when it was time for the hospital and time for Hannah to be involved at all. Hannah respected her enough to know that. "I don't know how you can be so calm," Robin said, and Scully discarded, a King of Spades. She knew that Robin, who was losing badly, needed the card. "Just sitting here watching you is making me nervous." "It's really okay," Scully said, forced a wan smile. "It's labor. It's going just as it's supposed to." And it was. Including the mounting pain. "You want some more ice chips?" Mulder asked. He'd crushed a tray of ice for her at the counter, had them waiting in a bowl in the freezer to refill the glass she had at the table. He and Granger had cups of coffee in front of them, Robin, a Coke. "Sure," Scully said, but more to give Mulder something to do, somewhere to move. She wanted him to be relaxed again, as he'd been when they'd first woken. He had seemed so at ease, as she had then, but the pain was starting to show on her, and she could tell he was seeing it and, though he was prepared, it still made him concerned. He took his turn at the game, setting down four nines in a row as he stood and went for the counter with her glass. He wore a gray T-shirt, his most faded jeans, his Nikes. Bo, who'd been sleeping beneath the table, rose and fell in behind him. The two of them padded soundlessly across the room and Mulder poured the chips into the glass. He was on his way back to the table when it hit her. A crushing wave coursing through her body, worse than it had been yet. Her hand clenched around the cards and then she dropped them, going to her feet, her hand on the table for support. Granger was beside her instantly, Mulder reaching her, setting the glass down and getting his arms around her, steadying her. "Okay..." he murmured. "Okay, Scully..." "I--" She didn't know what she intended to say, her body seemed to contract in on itself, a jolt of pressure and pain. Then a sudden flood of liquid soaking her sweatpants, a dark stain down the inside of her thighs. "Robin?" Mulder said calmly as Scully's hands dug into his upper arms. Her eyes were closed, her brow creased as she concentrated on the pain, the contraction still moving through her. "Can you go get Scully's suitcase for me? It's upstairs by the bedroom door." His voice sounded very far away. "Sure," Robin said, and Scully could hear her moving around the table and out to the hallway that led to the living room and the stairs. "I'm okay," Scully said again, puffing out a breath. "I just need to--" She tried to sit, but it seemed to make the pain worse. Mulder tightened his grip on her, and she swayed a bit unsteadily, Granger grabbing her arm. "Help me get her to the couch so I can call the doctor," Mulder said, and he and Granger started to guide her, the two men supporting most of her weight, though she forced herself to walk through the pain. They took her into the living room to the couch, lay her down on her side, her head on the throw pillow in the corner. She curled into a ball as the contraction pressed through her. The sunlight was in the room here, spread out on the couch like a warm blanket. She felt it touching her skin and concentrated on its warmth, on Mulder's hand on her sweaty hairline as he tapped on his cell phone, dialing Hannah's number. Robin returned with the suitcase, stood over her with Granger. She didn't listen to the conversation between Mulder and Hannah, concentrated instead on her breathing, on the feel of the light. "She's not concerned at all, but she does want you to go ahead and come in," Mulder said as he hung up the phone. Her breath caught, and Granger knelt down beside her leg, looking fretful. "It's all right," she said, though her breathing was coming a little fast. "Just a bad one. Things should...pick up from here. Start going faster." "We're going to head on out," Mulder said, his voice pitched calm, soft. He looked at Granger and Robin. "Thank you for coming over and staying with us." Scully watched her friends nod. "We were happy to do it," Granger said gently, his hand on the outside of Scully's knee. "We'll take Bo, go back to our place. We'll call Frank so he can tell Mae. You call us when you're ready for visitors, okay?" Scully nodded, the contraction finally begin to fade, but it had left her panting, sweat on the neck of her T-shirt. She felt wet and sticky and hot. But not afraid. Things were progressing, going as they should. And she knew that the baby was all right. She sensed that same puzzlement she'd felt earlier. Some fear from the baby. But Rose was all right. It made her feel a strange contentment, this feeling that the three of them were doing this together. She did not feel alone with any of it. Mulder was here. Her baby was here. Her friends had been here, keeping her company through the morning. "We'll finish the card game...later..." Scully said faintly. "Why?" Mulder quipped. "You were just letting us win anyway." Granger and Robin chuckled, and Scully blushed, caught. "Good luck, Dana," Granger said softly. "All our hopes for an easy time." He took her hand and kissed the back of it, gave it a squeeze. Mulder moved out of the way to let Robin touch a kiss to Scully's cheek. "Be well," Robin murmured, and then the two of them were gone, out the front door into the morning light. She thought of her mother then, whom she talked to that morning. She was going to meet them at the hospital when she went. She would call her when she got there she decided. They still had a long wait ahead of them. Mulder looked at her, leaned over her on the couch. "Tell me what you need," he said, stroking her hair. "I'll get it for you." Her breathing was coming down toward normal now, but the sweat was still pouring off her. "I need a change of clothes," she said softly. "Then I just need *you* when we get there." She looked up at him, a small smile on her face. "You. With a story." He smiled back. "You got it," he said. **** THE BERESFORD CENTER FOR WOMEN'S HEALTH NORTHERN VIRGINIA REGIONAL MEDICAL CENTER ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA 12:16 p.m. The room was large -- a double bed against one wall covered with a flowered comforter, a night table with a lamp, the room lined with cabinets. On the other side of the room, a large couch and a coffee table. There were rugs around the room to cover the linoleum, pictures on the walls of landscapes and flowers. Scully had chosen this room for the way the light came in through the windows by the couch, giving it a bright air. It had been one of three rooms with windows and this one had set her the most at ease for some reason she couldn't name. After she'd chosen it, Hannah had admitted to it being her own favorite of the birthing center's rooms. Hannah was gone, with a promise to return in an hour to check her again. Scully was almost ready, Hannah had said. "Not long now," were the words she left them with, touching Scully's bare leg as she completed her exam there on the couch. And then she'd added, her lined face bright. "You're doing wonderfully. Just hang on." The words had made Mulder feel better, since the pain had gotten so much worse, Scully beginning to moan as the contractions took her, her face going blood red, her brows knitting down. She had completely pulled his T-shirt from the waist of his pants as he'd held her, her upper body on his lap, the rest of her curved into a comma along the length of the couch beneath a white blanket. She was facing him, on her side, her face burrowing into the pillow on his lap, the pillow wet with sweat. Her hair was drenched with it at this point, her face shining in the light from the window. They'd stayed on the couch because she wanted to be in the light. He had a book beside him, Alice Walker's "The Color Purple," the same book he'd been reading to her for weeks now, and he'd just reached the part where the children came back from Africa, greeting their mother in the field of purple flowers, when Hannah had returned to check her progress. Now, this close to the time when she would push their child into the world, he closed the book, lay it on the table beside the couch and took her hand in one of his, squeezed, the other going to smooth back her unruly, sweat-slicked hair around her flushed face. She had taken nothing for the pain, simply ridden it through, and he could tell the toll it was taking on her. Still, she looked so strong to him, a determined, concentrated look on her face as she breathed through the contractions. He didn't think he'd ever seen her look more like herself, how he saw her. Or more beautiful. "You're doing so well," he said softly, his chest feeling full. "So well. I'm so proud of you." Maggie had said something similar when she'd visited awhile ago, before Hannah had come in, her mother rubbing Scully's back for a long moment before she'd taken her leave of them for the rest of the time. "I'll be waiting," Maggie had told them, her eyes on Mulder. He'd nodded, taken her outstretched hand, felt the squeeze. Then, with one final brush of Scully's hair, she'd gone. Now, his words about being proud of her teased a smile from her, though her eyes were closed. Then she opened them, her hand reaching out to smooth down the T-shirt he wore where she'd wadded it with the last contraction. She swallowed, and she seemed deep in thought, her chest heaving, her breath fast. "What is it?" he asked. She seemed suddenly sad. "I was just thinking..." she said, her voice soft and breathy. "I was thinking...that this is the last day you and I will be together." "You leaving me?" he teased, trying to bring some lightness to her somber tone. She smiled. "You know what I mean," she said softly. "The last day of just...the two of us. Things won't be like they've been before. Ever again." He nodded, stroking her hair. "No," he said. "I guess they won't." He thought about it for a beat. Things had already changed so much -- since she'd left the basement for her maternity leave, accepted the teaching assignment at Quantico. Since Granger had moved down to the basement himself to take her place. "Are you sorry at all?" she asked, and now he did see the tears in her eyes, catching in the sunlight across her face. He thought for another few seconds as she searched his face. "You asked me once before if I had any regrets," he said, thinking of the morning in Cape Charles all those months ago, when she'd placed his hand on her belly -- empty -- and asked him about regrets of a different kind -- the regrets of a life with only her. She seemed to need to think about it a moment, and then she nodded. "I remember," she whispered, stroked his stomach. She had begun to tremble faintly, as though she were cold. "You remember what you said to me after that?" he pressed, pulling the blanket up closer to her, though her shaking only increased. She shook her head. "Tell me," she asked, her voice breaking as tears came. "You said that you and I were like a person in a warm, safe bed who was dreaming," he murmured, reaching his arms around her and pulling her closer to him. "Do you remember now?" A contraction was coming. He could feel it as her body began to tense. "Yes, I remember," she whispered, the pain scratching her voice. "You said you wanted us to be able to keep dreaming. About anything. That you didn't want that to ever end for us." She nodded. "Yes." "Scully," he began, leaning over her and kissing her temple. His hand strayed to her belly, his hand cupping its curve in his palm. "This is a new dream we're dreaming...and it's a beautiful dream..." She choked on a sob, turned her face toward him, her lips, trembling, on his cheek. "I love you," she whispered, and the tremor was in her voice now. "I love you, too," he replied, and touched her lips with his, then rubbed his cheek against hers, holding there as the contraction began in earnest, her breath catching. "Oh God..." she gasped. "Mulder, I..." "Breathe, Scully..." he murmured. "Just breathe..." ** 1:36 p.m. "Come on, Dana, almost there..." "You're doing great, Scully...I see her." She was on the couch still, squatting, her elbows on the back, the sun still coming in the windows. She'd been unable to lie down, the pain in her back throbbing. Mulder knelt beside her, a hand between her legs where Hannah had guided it. Hannah had reached for her hand, as well, the nurse steadying her, and placed her fingers next to Mulder's on the soft mass of the baby's head. "She's got so much hair," he said, his voice quiet but delighted. "Another push, Dana," Hannah said, her voice firm but gentle. "Come on..." Scully pulled in a breath, braced herself. She couldn't help the cry that crawled up her throat, her body burning as she bore down, trembling. She kept her hand on the baby's head. "It's too loud for her," she gasped. "Too bright...God, I don't want to hurt her..." "It's okay, Scully," Mulder said softly. "She's okay. She's right here." Everyone spoke with a hushed urgency. Hannah pulled out a bulbous instrument and suctioned the baby's nose and mouth. "Just the shoulders, Dana," Hannah said softly. "One more push for the shoulders." Scully bore down again, fighting down the cry. Her legs shook with the effort. The burning was nearly more than she could take. "Mulder, keep your hand on the baby," Hannah said softly. "Help me guide her out...that's it..." The feeling of slipping, a rush of fluids onto the heavy sheets covering the couch, and the rest of the baby suddenly out. Scully looked down and saw the baby cradled against Mulder's arm, covered in blood and creamy white. Hannah was moving the cord away from the baby's face, the tiny features like a fist, the mouth shaking open and then, hands trembling on either side of Mulder's forearm... A cry. Tears burst from Scully's eyes as she looked at the baby, leaned against the back of the couch, sinking further down on her haunches, and reached for her. "Help me..." Scully said, her voice gone, and Hannah pushed up her gown around the still-round shape of her belly, Mulder leaning up and holding Rose in the crook of his arm, then gripping his daughter in his hands as he lay her, belly down, against Scully's abdomen. The baby was limp and wrinkled as Scully got her hands on her, pressing her close. The nurse, Jessie, moved in with a blanket and covered the baby to just below her matted dark hair. Then Mulder was there beside her, kissing her face, her hairline. Scully couldn't take her eyes off the baby, the small face turned to the side, the baby still crying. "It's her..." Scully kept saying in her ruined voice, choking. "Rose..." The face she had seen in her mind for all these months. The dark hair, the color of Mulder's. The button of a nose. The long, tiny body in her arms. The full lips. If Hannah was confused at all but the comment, she gave no indication. She simply stayed kneeling on the floor, her hand on the baby's back to hold her against Scully's body, her fingers around the cord, waiting for the pulsing to cease. Mulder kissed Scully again and she turned toward his face, her hand coming up to touch his rough cheek, one hand on him and the other on their daughter, who was quieting now, the crying spent, the baby puzzling again, her small hands gripping at Scully's skin. Time seemed to drift, then to hold still, and Scully let herself go, her eyes closed and her body growing limp, Mulder's tears on her face, his lips on her ear as he whispered to her. Something about her. Something about dreaming. Something about love. She was like a boat, tossed on a storm-swept sea, that had finally made its way to shore. Finally. Finally made it home. ****** END OF NOVEL AND SERIES. AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'd like to thank the following people for their help – with information or with support – during the writing of this novel: - To Jen, Arwen, Robin and Dani for the information on childbirth. - To dtg and Shari for help with formatting and posting the chapters, and dtg specifically for maintaining and updating the website and The Cave, and for her incredible support of and enthusiasm about my work. - To Jean Robinson for keeping up her enthusiasm for the story, even during its hiatus. - To Nancy, Robin and Nancy (Beach…), for their chapter-by-chapter detailed feedback and kind emails. - To E-muse, for its fabulous sense of community and its support. - To QofMush, Revely, Shari, Barbara D., Haphazard Method, Marakara, Sarah Segretti, Jean Robinson, JET, MCA, Anjou, Snacky, Sheaclaire, Laney, Jill Selby, Michaela, MD1016, Blueswirl, Lilydale, Emma Brightman, Meredith, Snark, Nlynn, Sue Pyper, and Elizabeth Rowandale for being my family and my friends. - To Nlynn, for the wonderful book jacket. - To linc, Ana_Sedai, Jessie, siggy, Beckyc, lucie, the old Stalker's Nest folks and the rest of the supporters at the Haven. - To the Lost & Found Board (and Kim, its moderator), for being such a positive and supportive place to visit on the web. - To the Enigmatic Dr. for archiving my work. - To the Cryptkeeper for support of the shorter works. - To the readers who were patient enough to wait while the story went in and out of hiatus as my life got really full and really big and really wonderful along the way. I promised I'd finish it – I just didn't specify the year. ;-) And of course, to Dani, Shari, Revely and Sheri, who all beta'd sections of this book, but especially to Dani and Shari, who managed – over the span of five years – to beta every chapter of every book. If you've enjoyed this ride, you have them to thank for it. This book is dedicated to B. Thanks for sharing my life. I can't promise to answer all feedback (which is why I've given an "out" for sending it in m headers – it seems rude to ask for it if I'm not sure I can send some back), but if you would like to reach me, you can do so at Bonetree@aol.com. So long and thanks for all the fish. ;-) Bone September, 2004