Begin Epilogue III
A Moment In the Sun: Normandy

*~*~*~*

He'd never been with another woman.  He didn't think 
of himself as naive or prudish, but he'd been raised 
to believe he'd know when it was right.  And he had. 

He'd been twenty-six years old, standing outside a 
Wiltshire pub with Mulder, waiting for WWII to get 
back on track, when she'd walked by: a beautiful, 
blonde-haired, blue-eyed Polish Jew. There was just 
something about her: a fragility and loneliness, 
like a spider's silk thread adrift on the wind. 
She'd dropped her packages, he'd rushed to help, and 
by the time they'd established in broken English 
that she was Susanne Modeski and he was Lieutenant 
John Byers, he was already in love. They were 
married thirty-six hours later.

In almost thirteen years, he'd never regretted it.  
And if Susanne ever regretted her rash decision to 
marry a Virginia farm boy, fresh out of law school, 
in the middle of a surreal war, and about to board a 
ship bound for D-Day, it never showed.  They had the 
American dream: he was senior partner at the firm, 
she raised their twin girls, and they vacationed in 
Aspen.  Dinner was on the table when he arrived 
home, except Thursdays, when the girls had piano 
lessons.  On Thursdays, he worked late, then met 
Susanne, Ana, and Katy for spaghetti and meatballs 
at a bistro a few blocks from his office.

It was idyllic.  Everything he'd ever wanted.  
Everything he'd wanted to believe life should be.  
And too perfect to be true.

He knew what he'd seen last spring.  One minute, 
Alex Krycek was pointing a sawed-off shotgun at 
Mulder, then there was a shot, then there was Alex 
Krycek's body on the pavement with half his head 
missing.  Then, within seconds, there was nothing 
except the shotgun and the leather jacket Krycek had 
been wearing.

The day Mulder shot a man who wasn't really a man, 
and Dana and Emily went into hiding, Byers went 
home, still shaking, took his telephone apart, and 
found a small electronic listening device hidden 
inside it.  Susanne returned from the grocery store 
in time to hear their bedroom mirror shatter, and to 
find him staring at the tiny hole in the wall behind 
it.  It was a camera.
 
That was Tuesday, May 31, 1955.  That day, the 
Supreme Court ordered school desegregation should 
begin "with all due speed." RCA introduced color 
television.  Salk's polio vaccine was deemed safe 
and effective. 'The Ballad of Davy Crockett' was on 
the radio and "The Seven Year Itch" was in theaters.  
And he woke up from the American dream.  

He'd told Susanne it was the mob: he'd unknowingly 
represented a client who had dangerous enemies, and 
those enemies had no qualms about spying on or 
harming his family.

In a way, it was the truth.

Their new house was a weathered stone cottage with 
enough space that the girls could have their own 
bedrooms, with a few to spare. There was a big, old-
fashioned kitchen, a dank, dusty basement, and a 
stuffy attic. There was a pond, a meadow, a garden, 
a meandering path through the woods, and the entire 
coast of Normandy for a backyard.

Paris was two and a half hours away, and they could 
board an overnight train at dusk in Bayeux, sleep as 
it glided through Berlin, and meet Susanne's mother 
in Warsaw the next morning.  There was no nanny or 
housekeeper, and their only neighbors were farmers, 
fishermen, and dairymen: friendly, country, French 
people.  And so far, Byers hadn't seen any of them 
dissolve into green goo.

Life was quiet.  As Mulder said, it was almost safe.

He traveled to Manhattan about once a month, but for 
all practical purposes, he was Of Counsel status 
with the firm: his name was on the letterhead, but 
his role was consulting.  He planted an orchard, 
painted a shed, and wrote long letters to old 
friends.  He checked for microphones and cameras 
once a week, listening to his wife's sighs as he 
took the radio, television, and telephone apart yet 
again.  As the summer of 1956 faded in yellow and 
orange splendor, he peeled and cored bushels of 
apples for Susanne as she tried her hand at making 
jelly.  He reread the classics, discovering new 
meaning in his favorite passages.  He walked on the 
beach, examining the rusting remnants of the Allied 
invasion a decade earlier.  And he found himself 
looking across the Atlantic Ocean at dusk, watching 
the waves and wondering who or what was out there 
watching back.

There was a flowerbox of mums outside the kitchen 
window, and Susanne gave it a teacup of water, then 
closed the window and turned back to the stove as 
the kettle began to whistle.  She was still in her 
robe, and was humming a lullaby he'd heard her sing 
to the girls when they were small.  

The faces across from him at the breakfast table 
could have been Susanne at eleven years old.  Ana 
and Katy had their mother's features and fair 
coloring, along with the slim coltishness of early 
adolescence.  Today, Katy had a ponytail, but that 
was the only difference.  The girls didn't dress 
alike so much as they followed the dress code of 
their generation: blue jeans, bobby socks, saddle 
shoes, cardigans, and, when he looked closer, his 
white oxford dress shirts.  He'd wondered what had 
been happening to all his shirts: his daughters had 
confiscated them.

"I don't think you can wear that," he commented 
neutrally, then thanked Susanne as she filled his 
teacup.  The teabag blushed ginger, and steam rose 
from the surface of the water, swirling lazily.  

"We asked.  Mother said it was all right," Katy 
responded for both of them.

"They are old shirts, John," Susanne explained over 
her shoulder, her words marked by the strong 
consonants and even tempo of her homeland.

"No, I don't mind the shirts.  There are rules about 
girls wearing slacks to school."

"But we're not going to school," Ana explained while 
her sister chewed.

"You're not going to school?" Byers put down his 
teacup, concerned. "Of course you are.  You have to 
go to school: education is very important.  And if 
I'm going to drive you, you'll have to hurry," he 
reminded them. "I need to meet Mulder and Dana at 
the station in-" He checked the clock. "An hour."

Both girls were blinking at him in confusion.

"Hurry," he repeated gently, taking one last sip of 
his tea, then set the cup aside and stood. "Go 
change your clothes, girls."

To their credit, his daughters started to get up.

"It is Saturday, John," Susanne reminded him softly. 

"Saturday?"

Ana and Katy nodded in agreement, two identical 
blonde heads moving in unison.

"Oh," he responded.  He'd lost track of the days.  
He knew Mulder and Dana's train arrived from Paris 
on October 27th, but he hadn't realized that was a 
Saturday.

The girls sat down, finishing their breakfast.  He 
glanced up at Susanne sheepishly, and she smiled and 
ruffled his hair.  He smoothed it back into place, 
and picked up his teacup again.

*~*~*~*
 
Because he wasn't a sports fan, Byers was the one 
soldier in the Allied Army who hadn't known who Fox 
Mulder was.  To him, Mulder was just the guy in the 
chow line who liked sugar in his coffee and ketchup 
on everything else.  He was a good shot, and a good 
soldier.  He couldn't follow a map, but he could 
remember every bit of information on it.  He was 
bright, with a good head for numbers and an ear for 
languages.  He got seasick.  Homesick.  And he had a 
son named William.

It took more than a year for Byers to realize Will 
was no longer the infant in Mulder's photos, or that 
his marriage was on the rocks, or that his wife and 
son were in war-ravaged London, not Boston.  Mulder 
had also neglected to mention the bodies they found 
in the German concentration camp were his mother's 
Jewish relatives.  It was only at the tail end of 
the war that Byers understood what happened behind 
Mulder's eyes when he looked down his rifle at the 
enemy: half his family vanished into Nazi Germany, 
and Hitler's army was encroaching on London.  

Rule number one about Fox Mulder: he was a nice guy, 
but threaten his family and he'd shoot to kill.

If they met for the first time now, years later, 
Mulder wouldn't say he'd just finished his 13th and 
final season with the Yankees, including a 10th World 
Series victory.  He wouldn't talk about being a 
veteran or attending Oxford or consulting for the 
FBI.  He'd say he was Dana's husband, a father, and 
about to be a grandfather.  And if it was late at 
night, and he was feeling wistful, he might say he 
was Samantha's big brother.

As Byers parked beside the station, he spotted Emily 
on Mulder's shoulders, her hooded head bobbing above 
the crowd of arriving passengers. Dana had Benjamin, 
though it looked like she was holding a bundle of 
blue blankets with a hat on top.  The baby opened 
his mouth for a Cheerio from the Tupperware cup 
Mulder held, explored it with his tongue, and 
considered it thoughtfully before spitting it out.

"Mulder!" Byers called, raising his hand, wading 
through the stream of passengers.  

Mulder turned and waved, then said something to 
Dana, who waved as well, smiling.  A few passengers 
watched them, admiring the pretty picture: the 
petite redhead in her tailored suit, and the tall, 
handsome, athletic-looking man beside her.  He was 
protective; she was lovely; their children were 
beautiful.  An affluent American family vacationing 
in the north of France.

The autumn afternoons were warm, but the mornings 
were cool and wet, and the breeze off the ocean 
carried a chill.  Dana pulled a blanket around the 
baby's head, then had Mulder stoop so she could 
tighten Emily's hood before they followed the 
porter.  Behind her mother, secure on Mulder's broad 
shoulders, Emily surreptitiously loosened the 
drawstring again.

"My God, you kept the Studebaker," Mulder said as 
Byers opened the back of the station wagon for the 
porter. "How did you justify putting that on a boat 
and shipping it to Europe?"

"Studebakers have a long-standing reputation for 
reliability and-" Byers began before he realized he 
was being teased and grinned self-consciously.

Mulder gave him a tired, lopsided smile.  Instead of 
a hug or handshake, he offered a Cheerio, rattling 
the cup enticingly. "They're nummy-nummy," he 
promised.

The wind ruffled his hair and whipped the sleeves of 
his jacket like the sails of a ship.  Up close, in 
the morning sun, the stubble on his jaw had flecks 
gray, and there were fine lines around Mulder's 
eyes.  Up close, he looked less like a legend and 
more like a tired hero.

"How are you?" Byers asked as everyone got in the 
station wagon: Dana in the back seat with Emily and 
Mulder in the front, holding Ben.

"Fine," Mulder answered immediately, then glanced 
back at Dana, making certain. "Are we fine?" She 
must have nodded, because Mulder sounded more 
certain when he said, "We're fine."  
 
*~*~*~*

There was no good way to cross the Atlantic with an 
eight-month old and a just-turned-seven-year old. It 
was twelve hours between New York and London by 
jetliner, then on to Paris, where they'd landed long 
before the sun rose.  Luckily, Dana said Emily and 
Ben had slept the whole way, waking only as they 
boarded the train north to Normandy.

The children had slept; the grownups had not: Mulder 
and Dana were nodding off during the drive from the 
train station to Byers' home.  Dana unpacked, then 
laid down for a ten-minute catnap that turned into 
four hours, and after getting the kids settled in, 
Mulder joined her.  The girls were having a good 
time showing off their toys and fussing over Emily, 
which left Susanne to fuss over Benjamin.  

"He is such a good boy," she marveled, carrying Ben 
into the living room.

"I think he's Daddy's boy, aren't you?" Byers said, 
putting his book aside. "Are you Daddy's boy?"

From Susanne's arms, Ben regarded them with his 
clear blue eyes, then went back to his bottle.  He 
was a quiet, contemplative child with Mulder's dark 
hair and Dana's fair skin, almost too pretty to be a 
boy.  Mulder had said he was almost walking, though 
Byers didn't see how: Ben's feet never touched the 
ground when his father was present.  He'd grin and 
gurgle and make a few sounds, but most of the time 
he just watched, silently taking in the world.

Susanne sat in the old rocking chair, draping a 
blanket over the baby.  After he finished the 
bottle, Ben nuzzled against her breast, closed his 
eyes, and settled in for his nap.  She stroked the 
fine chestnut fuzz on his head, and patted his back 
in time with a sad, exotic lullaby.

Byers leaned forward, watching as she rocked Ben. To 
his surprise, when he'd told her Mulder and Dana 
would be visiting, the girls' old baby accoutrements 
reappeared from the attic: a rocker, a highchair, a 
crib, a wooden playpen, and boxes of toys, bibs, 
diapers, and clothes.  Byers hadn't realized she 
still had all of it, let alone moved it across an 
ocean. They'd talked about more children, especially 
a boy, but in almost twelve years, there hadn't been 
so much as a false alarm.

"I don't think Mulder's going to let you keep him," 
he said quietly, knowing she was thinking along the 
same lines as he was.

"He is just such a good little boy," she repeated 
softly in her movie-star Polish accent, seeming 
uncomfortable with his scrutiny. "That is all.  It 
makes me think.  The girls are growing up.  During 
the day, the house seems so quiet.  But it is not 
going to happen, is it?"

The rocker creaked against the wooden floor, a pot 
on the stove in the kitchen gurgled, and there was a 
fit of giggles, then 'shushes' from Ana's bedroom.

"Susanne, we haven't really been trying.  Not in a 
long time."

"We have not been not trying, either, John."

He and Susanne were almost forty: statistically, 
they should be becoming grandparents, not parents 
again. Susanne had been expecting when he'd returned 
from WWII, so except for a few dreamlike nights in 
Wiltshire and Paris during the war, they'd been 
parents their entire marriage.  He barely separated 
the two: it was 'Susanne and the girls,' seldom just 
'Susanne.' She was correct: they had a hard time 
filling the silence when it was just the two of 
them.

The door of the guestroom opened, and Mulder ambled 
out in his t-shirt and wrinkled trousers, shrugging 
his shirt on, then scratching the back of his head.  
His face was creased from the pillow, and his hair 
flattened on one side.

Byers leaned back, and Susanne stood, guiltily 
offering the sleeping baby to his outstretched 
hands.

Mulder looked at them blearily, then mumbled, "God, 
get your own," as he carried his son back to bed.

*~*~*~*

'We made it, but we were damaged in route.'

The comment had been delivered with a half-smile, 
and Mulder's dry, self-deprecating wit: simple words 
from the heart of a complicated man. 

Mulder was contracted to finish the season with the 
Yankees, which had meant being on the road for weeks 
at a time.  Dana had stayed in the Catskills with 
Ben and Emily, away from prying eyes, and taking 
some time to adjust after almost a year in hiding.  
Whenever Byers had asked how Dana and Emily were, 
Mulder just said 'better,' and changed the subject. 

'We were damaged in route.' When Mulder wanted to 
specify further, he would.  There was no use asking.

The shower adjoining their guestroom ran once, for a 
long time, and two clean people emerged, looking 
flushed.  Dana had changed into a skirt and sweater, 
and her damp hair was beginning to curl as it dried.  
Mulder was in his favorite gray flannel shirt: a 
collection of patches, stains, and mended places 
rather than a garment.  His blue jeans sat low on 
his hips, and he ran his fingers through his hair, 
getting it as neat as it ever was.  He still had the 
rock-solid leanness from playing season, which made 
Byers glance at his own stomach self-consciously.  
Susanne had been working on fattening him up, so for 
the first time in his life, he couldn't quite be 
described as a beanpole.

They'd debated going out to dinner, but Will was on 
his way from Evreux-Fauville Air Base, where he was 
stationed for the moment, and they weren't sure when 
he'd arrive.  Instead, Susanne was cooking, and 
everyone else was milling around the kitchen, 
sneaking tidbits and claiming they were trying to 
stay out of the way.

"You were a medical doctor, yes?" Susanne asked, 
trying to make polite conversation with Dana as she 
sliced and diced.  

She'd only met Dana twice: one Christmas in Aspen 
and one in Georgetown after Mulder was shot.  She 
knew Dana had been a nurse, had been in medical 
school, and Mulder had dated her on and off for 
several years.  Ben had been born before they'd 
married, but they were married now, which made it 
semi-acceptable in Susanne's mind.  Like everyone 
else, she assumed Dana had been widowed soon after 
Emily's birth, and Byers let her assume. 

"I started medical school.  I didn't finish.  Emily 
was sick.  Benjamin was coming," Dana answered, 
avoiding details. "I would like to go back, someday.  
I would like to practice."

"Really?" Mulder said in surprise, and there was an 
uncomfortable pause.  

Dana shrugged. "Someday.  Maybe."

"Oh," Mulder responded neutrally, looking like he'd 
forgotten where he'd put his keys.

"Susanne, you attended college, didn't you?" Byers 
asked, knowing she had and hoping to move the 
conversation along.

"I did.  The University of Berlin.  Before John and 
I were married."

"Were you there at the same time as Wernher von 
Braun?  Or Heisenberg?" Mulder asked curiously.

"They were physicists: quantum mechanics, 
theoretical physics-"

"Nuclear fission," Mulder added, pantomiming a 
silent explosion.

"And I was studying chemistry."

"Alfred Grotjahn was there, wasn't he?" Mulder 
asked. "And Hans Gunther.  And Victor Klemper, 
chairing Gesellschaft fur Rassehygiene."

The Society for Racial Hygiene.  Eugenics.  Byers 
recognized the names as Nazi scientists, many from 
the Nuremburg Trials.  It seemed odd, but logically, 
in the late thirties, in Germany, Hitler was in 
power, which meant there were Nazi scientists at the 
University of Berlin with Susanne.  Byers had never 
really thought about it. It was like Dana attending 
medical school: before they'd married, before the 
war, Susanne was a university student.  Aside from 
being proud that his wife was bright and well 
educated, it had little bearing on their lives now.

"I was studying chemistry," she repeated, her words 
more clipped than usual. "A long time ago.  Now, we 
get the best grades on science projects," she added 
quickly, smiling and ruffling Katy's hair.  Katy 
shrugged away uncomfortably.

"You knew them, though, didn't you?" Mulder 
persisted, staring at her as he held Ben. "You would 
have had to."

"There were no Jews at University once Hitler was 
the Fuhrer."

"But you don't look like a Jew.  I do.  My sons do.  
My aunt and grandmother did, but you don't.  They 
couldn't pass, but you could."

"Mulder," Dana warned as Byers opened his mouth to 
object.

"What was the holdup with your passport?  You made 
it to England, but the government wouldn't let you 
immigrate to the US, even after you'd married an 
American citizen.  I remember, and I always wondered 
why that was.  You were expecting, and Byers wanted 
you away from the fighting, but they wouldn't let 
you leave England until after the war.  Most Jews 
had no problem immigrating: Einstein, Freud-"

"Mulder!" Dana said sharply.

Byers tried to say something, but he was too stunned 
to speak.  Susanne's family had made it out of 
Poland in the back of a truck, hidden among bags of 
seed corn.  Her mother still had a coat with a 
yellow Star of David sewn on it: she'd shown it to 
Katy and Ana.  Obviously, it was a painful memory, 
and obviously, Susanne didn't want to talk about it.  
And Byers would have thought Mulder would be the 
last person to push her.

Mulder kept staring at Susanne, grimly determined, 
like a dog with a bone.  Byers knew that look: he 
wasn't sorry and he wasn't dropping the subject.  
Ana and Katy had put down their carrot sticks and 
were glancing at their mother, then at Mulder, then 
at their mother, stunned.

Susanne seemed shaken, but she held Mulder's steady 
gaze. "It was a long time ago," she said evenly, 
enunciating carefully. "Now my girls get the best 
grades on their science projects."

Dana exhaled and started to apologize, but was 
interrupted by wheels crunching on the gravel 
driveway and a motorcycle's engine rumbling as it 
coasted to a stop.  Metal squeaked as the kickstand 
went down, and a young man in a blue Air Force 
uniform got off the bike, shrugging off his bomber 
jacket and looping his sunglasses on the front of 
his shirt.  He started to run his fingers through 
his dark hair, then remembered it wasn't long enough 
to be windblown.

"Bub," Emily announced, spotting him through the 
window and sliding down from her chair.

Dana apologized again, then got up and followed her 
daughter.  Katy and Ana went with her, leaving 
Mulder, Byers, and Susanne in the kitchen.

On the front lawn, Will picked up Emily, then gave 
Dana a one-armed bear hug, swinging her around so 
her skirt whirled up and her slip and the tops of 
her stockings showed.  She admonished him, then got 
a real hug, with Will resting his head on her 
shoulder for a long time, looking like a little boy 
who had to grow up too fast.  

Mulder glanced at Susanne again, then turned, 
carrying Ben and going to greet his older son.

"Yes, I knew them," Susanne admitted as he passed 
her. "But I did not know who they were.  No one did, 
then.  They were just men, not monsters."

*~*~*~*

Benjamin was the kind of child that made Byers wish 
he had a son, and Will was the kind that made him 
careful what he wished for.  Byers didn't dislike 
the young man by any means, but to the father of two 
little girls who insisted on growing up much too 
quickly, William Mulder was Trouble with a capital 
T: too handsome, too charming, and too practiced at 
putting those mischievous brown eyes and lazy grin 
to good use.  He wasn't a chip off the old block; he 
was an entire chunk.

In March, the secretary had buzzed in, apologizing 
for interrupting the meeting and telling him a Mr. 
Mulder was on the line. It was an emergency, she 
said, but then, whenever Mulder wanted something, it 
was an emergency.  Byers sighed, excused himself, 
and picked up the telephone in the conference room.    
In the background, competing with Will's uncertain 
voice, was a pressured chaos of noise: a siren 
dying, wheels clattering across a hard floor, and 
indistinct droning over an intercom.

"Slow down and tell me what's wrong," Byers had 
requested, gesturing for the other lawyers be quiet. 
"Are you all right, Will?  Where are you?"

"At the hospital.  The hospital in Kingston."

"What happened?  Are you hurt?  Or sick?"

"I-I didn't see him," Will stuttered, struggling to 
speak. "It was raining; he ran the stop sign.  I 
didn't see the car.  I didn't see it."

"But you're okay?" Byers asked. "Did you call your 
father?"

"The doctor called him a couple hours ago.  He's 
coming.  Oh God, he's gonna kill me."

"He's not going to kill you, Will.  Calm down.  It's 
just a car.  As long as you're all right: that's all 
that matters." There was a long pause, and Byers 
asked, "Are you all right?"

"Yeah.  No," Will answered, his voice breaking. 
"Shit, I don't know."

Mulder had been in Florida for spring training. Even 
if he were already in the air, it would be hours 
before he landed in New York.  

"Let me talk to the doctor," he requested. "Give the 
phone to your doctor, and let me talk to him."  

"A-all the doctors are with Maddie."

Byers' chest tightened.  It was hard to keep track 
of Will's conquests without a scorecard, but he 
recognized that name. "Was she with you?"

"Yeah."

"Is she okay?"

Will took a shuddery breath. "No.  Can you come? 
Frohike can't come.  He said to call you."

He exhaled slowly, looking back at the attorneys 
around the conference table, waiting to start their 
firm's meeting.  He had seventy-two hours until he 
returned to Normandy, and his secretary had every 
second booked solid, trying to squeeze a month's 
worth of work into three days. "Will, I-"

"She's pregnant."

He bit his lip hard, closing his eyes. "I will be 
there as soon as I can.  Just sit tight." 

Contrary to what Mulder claimed, he could drive 
faster than thirty-five miles per hour.  He honked 
and weaved, but it still took eons to get through 
Manhattan traffic, then he flew up the new I-87, his 
borrowed sports car's wheels humming over the miles 
of slick asphalt ribbon to the mountains.  It began 
to drizzle, then to storm, and he fumbled with the 
unfamiliar knobs and switches, trying to watch the 
road while he battled the foggy windshield.  The 
wipers slapped back and forth, cutting a clear arc 
across the glass as the rain drummed on the car's 
canvas roof.

It was a miserable day: cold and gray and so wet 
even the sidewalk should have been spongy.  The 
hospital air conditioner had forgotten it was March, 
and Byers shivered despite his suit and trench coat. 

"I guess this is the part where I promise I won't be 
any more trouble," Will said tiredly, turning away 
from the window in the lobby.  He had a few Band-
aids on his forehead, a vividly bruised and scraped 
cheekbone, and his left arm in a sling.  His shirt 
was gone; there was a rip in the leg of his jeans 
and smears of blood across his white t-shirt.  For 
once, he'd lost his cocky facade, and he looked like 
he wasn't sure if the universe was real or not.

"Are you okay, Will?"

Will smirked half-heartedly as he sank into a 
plastic chair, moving like his whole body ached.  

Byers stood in front of him, holding the briefcase 
he'd inexplicably carried in from the car.  He 
opened his mouth several times, searching for a 
neutral tone before he asked, "How is Madelon?"

"They had to remove her spleen." Will took a careful 
breath. "I don't even know where my spleen is."

"She's still in surgery?"

"She's back.  Her father's with her.  She wanted to 
talk to him alone.  He doesn't speak English, so he 
doesn't know about-" He glanced up, then down again, 
picking at the rip in his jeans. "Go ahead: say it."

Byers didn't have to.  This was exactly what Mulder 
never wanted for his son, and Will knew it.  His 
father was holding onto a normal life by a gossamer 
thread, and this was exactly what he didn't need.  
Dana, Will, and Emily had been his world, and Will 
was all that was left.

Will hung his head miserably.

Byers exhaled and set his briefcase down. "Have you 
thought about what you want to do?" he asked softly.

"Maddie wants to keep it. She wants to get married."

"And what do you want?"

"I told her I wanted the same thing."

"But what do you want to do?"

"Anything except tell my dad," Will mumbled. "Jesus 
Christ, he's gonna kill me."
Byers sat beside him, not sure what to do except 
wait for Mulder to arrive.  Frohike was Will's 
confidant and partner in crime, but he was in 
Florida, trying to keep his ballplayers in line.

"Do you want me to call your mother?"

"God no," Will muttered.

He watched the clock on the wall, its metal hands 
inching away the afternoon.  Will studied it, then 
leaned his head against the wall, closing his eyes. 
"I have a chemistry mid-term in ten minutes."

"I don't think you're going to make it." 

Will bit his lower lip until it went white, then 
opened his eyes, glancing around the lobby.  The 
florist was delivering a tray of bouquets, with the 
senders' get-well messages perched on little plastic 
pitchforks.  A nun loaded them onto a metal cart, 
then pushed it toward the elevator, smiling 
sympathetically as she passed Will.

"If Dana comes back," he said softly. "If Dana comes 
back, she and Dad could take the baby.  He wants a 
girl.  They could get married, and they could adopt 
the baby, and that would make everything all right.  
Right?" he asked uncertainly.

Byers swallowed his lecture about responsibility and 
being a man, and answered, "She's not coming back, 
Will.  Not after this long.  Your father knows that, 
whether he says it or not."

For a second, Will had that spoiled, petulant 
expression Byers detested, then he just looked 
scared and lost. "I don't know what to do."

"I think you'd better decide," Byers answered 
gently, as Mulder emerged from a taxicab, then 
sprinted for the hospital entrance.

"Will?" he said as he burst through the doors, then 
dodged around a slow-moving man on crutches, his wet 
cleats squeaking. Mulder was still in his pinstriped 
uniform, and the shoulders of his baseball jersey 
were spotted with rain. "My God; are you all right?"

Will stood stiffly, wiping his palm on his jeans.

"Oh my God, son," Mulder repeated, his shaking hands 
hovering over Will's bruised face, then the sling 
keeping his left arm immobile. "Are you okay?"

Will nodded, and Mulder put his arms around him like 
he was cradling glass.  His son closed his eyes and 
laid his head on his father's shoulder, shifting 
until he found a position that didn't hurt.

"God.  My boy.  My baby boy.  All in one piece.  
That doctor scared the hell out of me," Mulder 
whispered, rubbing Will's back, then burying his 
face in his hair and inhaling deeply.  Byers 
expected Will to pull away, but he didn't.  Even 
when Mulder moved back, he was still, letting his 
father catalogue his injuries. "What happened?"

"I didn't see the car.  I'm sorry.  It was raining.  
He ran a stop sign.  I just didn't see him and I-I 
couldn't stop in time.  He, he hit Maddie's side.  
Hard.  She's upstairs.  She had to have surgery."

"Maddie was with you?"

Will nodded silently.

"Is she going to be all right?"

"She's going to have a baby," Will said as quickly 
as possible, like his father might misunderstand if 
he said it fast enough. "We want to get married." 

Mulder froze, and the only thing that moved were a 
few damp strands of hair on his forehead as the air 
conditioner vent blew them.  Will couldn't do it, 
but his father could: Mulder could have absolutely 
no expression.  It was how Byers knew something was 
really wrong.

"Are you sure?" Mulder asked after several long 
seconds.  That was the all-purpose 'are you sure:' 
are you sure she's really pregnant, sure the baby's 
yours, and sure you want to marry her. 

Will seemed to wilt a little, then nodded almost 
imperceptibly, and after a heartbeat, Mulder nodded 
back. "Okay.  I'll, uh, I'll- Let me find a cup of 
coffee and a men's room, and then- And then I'll be 
right back."

"I think there's a cafeteria," Byers offered, and 
Mulder looked at him in surprise.  He must have been 
too focused on Will to notice Byers standing there.

"Thank you for coming," Mulder said crisply as they 
walked down the hall, leaving Will in the lobby.

"He called my office.  He was upset."

"I'm sure he was."

"Mulder-"

"Thank you," Mulder repeated, then turned and 
disappeared into the restroom.

Byers heard water splashing, and a screech as the 
faucet turned off.  There was a pause, then a crash 
of metal accompanied by a stream of curses that 
would have made a sailor proud.

He pushed open the men's room door as Mulder slammed 
his fist into the paper towel dispenser a third 
time, knocking the metal cover off and sending the 
roll of scratchy brown paper towels unfurling across 
the tiles.  He kicked the roll for good measure, 
then leaned back against one of the sinks, clutching 
his hand and staring up at the ceiling.  Unless 
Byers was mistaken, he was struggling not to cry.

"Are you-"

"No," Mulder answered in a strangled voice. "How the 
hell do you think I am?  And what the hell is he 
thinking?  He's seventeen years old."

"He is seventeen.  And you have full custody, now.  
He can't get married unless you give permission."

Mulder blinked, still looking at the flickering 
florescent lights. "Maddie's a nice girl."

"If she was a nice girl, she wouldn't be in 
trouble."

The look Mulder gave him was so venomous that Byers 
stepped backward.  He pulled a clean handkerchief 
from his pocket, offering it to Mulder from a safe 
distance.

Once the anger faded, Byers didn't think he'd ever 
seen anyone look so sad.  Empty.  Lost.

"I've known a nice girl who got in trouble," Mulder 
mumbled as he wrapped the handkerchief around his 
bloody knuckles, then tied it awkwardly in place.

"I know you have," Byers answered as he slid down 
from his moral high horse. "I'm sorry.  I didn't 
mean it that way at all.  Come on: I'll buy you a 
cup of coffee."

*~*~*~* 

"You know you're welcome to stay as long as you 
want," Byers said softly, finding Dana alone on the 
porch after dinner. "And if there's anything Susanne 
and I can do, please let us know.  We want to help."

Mulder was standing at the edge of the back yard, 
holding Ben and staring at the ocean in the 
distance.  Will was with him, tall and slim, the 
breeze blowing his Air Force uniform.  The sun 
hovered above the horizon, and the almost-full moon 
was rising, pressing through the vast fabric of the 
sky and giving birth to the beginning of night.

"Thank you," Dana answered, finding her polite smile 
and putting it on again.

"I don't mean to pry, but is he all right?"

"He has a lot on his mind right now."

"I understand," he said, though he didn't.  

Mulder got it all: family, fame, fortune.  All of 
it.  He'd wrestled with the Devil and won.  Alex 
Krycek, whoever or whatever he'd been, was dead.  
Dana was back.  Ben was healthy.  Emily seemed to be 
slowly getting better.  Will wasn't dead or in 
prison.  This was where the hero coasted off into 
the sunset, but all Mulder did was stand there and 
stare at it, holding one son and standing shoulder-
to-shoulder with the other.

"How far is it?" Mulder called, looking back. "The 
bunker?"

"About forty-five minutes up the coast, then a short 
walk," Byers answered, after taking a moment to 
realize what Mulder meant.

"Would you drive us?" he requested, backlit in 
scarlet by the clouds. "I want Will to see it."

Byers nodded, returning to the house long enough to 
tell Susanne where he was going, get his jacket, his 
car keys, and find an old pair of loafers.  It was a 
silent drive, then he parked on the roadside, near 
an ancient stone fence, and led the way.  Mulder and 
Ben followed, and Will brought up the rear.  The 
shadowy footpath meandered through the woods and 
hedgerows, along the edge of a cow pasture, then 
opened to a cliff littered with broken chunks of 
concrete and twisted metal, and what looked like the 
doorway to an old root cellar or a pharaoh's tomb.

Mulder hesitated, walking around to look at the side 
of the unassuming, squat cement bunker hugging the 
face of a cliff.  Byers could see him tense, as if 
he still expected brown-uniformed German soldiers to 
be waiting inside.

"It's empty," Byers reminded him, knowing that as 
silly as it sounded, they both needed to hear it.

Will ducked into the narrow gray passage, and Mulder 
followed, cradling Ben's head with the palm of his 
hand.  The inside was empty; anything of value or 
nostalgia had been carried off years ago.  The 
cement walls were pockmarked with bullet holes, and 
large chunks had fallen from the ceiling.  All that 
remained of Hitler's great seawall were cramped, 
damp bunkers like this one, with its rifle slits 
looking out toward the ocean.

"This is where it happened," Will said, sounding 
like he didn't quite believe it. "D-Day."

June 6th, 1944 was the greatest invasion by sea the 
world had ever seen. One hundred and fifty thousand 
soldiers came ashore that day, most never having 
seen combat before.  The Germans had the north coast 
of France heavily fortified, and even with air and 
battleship support, the Allies knew the first troops 
on the beach would be slaughtered. Seasoned soldiers 
would retreat from certain death, but green troops 
somehow didn't think the bullets applied to them. A 
few experienced captains and lieutenants were 
assigned to lead, but the rest of the men had no 
idea what they'd face when the landing vehicles 
reached the shore and the gangplanks dropped.

He and Mulder had been in the third wave, probably 
actually the fourth by the time they'd made it to 
shore: seasick, soaked to the skin, trying to scream 
commands and locate their men over the machinegun 
fire and mortars.  The tide was coming in, devouring 
the beach and forcing them forward.  Their rifles 
were wet and useless, and the water was pink with 
blood.  Bodies floated facedown in the choppy sea: 
soldiers shot as they waded and swam ashore, or 
drowned by the weight of their gear or because they 
couldn't swim.  Around them, on the sand, weren't 
men, but pieces of men.

"The big guns were mounted here," Mulder told Will, 
looking through the rifle slits to the golden sand 
of Omaha Beach in the distance. "Seventy-five and 
eighty-eight millimeter heavy artillery, aimed at 
our ships off-shore.  When they fire, it's like a 
freight train screaming across the sky.  In the 
trenches down there were the machineguns: German  
MG-42's.  1200 rounds a minute.  They fire so fast 
it sounds like canvas ripping."

Byers stayed at the back of the dark bunker, 
restless.  He'd been here, but always alone.  He'd 
never brought Susanne or the girls to see the bomb 
craters and rows of rusting razor wire among the 
weeds.  This was what he wanted to protect his 
family from, not share with them.

Mulder turned Ben so the baby could look at the 
waves eroding the sand. "I'd seen combat in Italy, 
but nothing like this.  This was Hell on Earth, and 
it was the most afraid I've ever been in my life.  
Anyone who says he wasn't afraid that day is lying.  
D-Day had nothing to do with courage or patriotism, 
and everything to do with necessity.  You'll be 
amazed what you can do when there's no choice.  And 
no going back."

"Yeah," Will mumbled, leaning his elbows on the 
front wall of the bunker and staring out at the 
darkening sky.

"We weren't trying to save the world, Will, or be 
heroes.  Or make history.  We're just trying to do 
what has to be done and make it out alive."

Byers shifted again, aware Mulder was switching 
between the past and present tense.

Will nodded slightly, then swallowed.

"I'm proud of you," Mulder continued softly. "You 
know that, don't you?  It's okay to have doubts.  
It's okay to be afraid."

Another nod.  This father-son fieldtrip seemed to 
have an entire subtext Byers hadn't anticipated. 
Will was one of those people who always seemed to 
land on his feet, but he'd jumped in headfirst into 
the deep end this time: a new wife, an unplanned-for 
baby, and a career that took him far away from both.

Byers had witnessed this drama once before, as had 
Will.  Firsthand.

"You can do this, Will. I know you can.  Just step 
up to the plate.  And hold on to the bat this time."

Will smirked, then pushed back, looking up at the 
crumbling ceiling. "So you took this bunker?" he 
asked, abruptly changing the subject. "You and Mr. 
Byers made it up here and took the bunker?"

"God no," Mulder answered. "One of the Navy 
destroyers finally got it.  We were-" He pointed 
vaguely toward the beach, looking for landmarks. 
"Over there.  Miles from where we were supposed to 
be.  Our landing vehicle was off-course and Byers 
lost his glasses and the radio coming ashore-"

"And Mulder had the map," Byers chimed in. "We 
didn't know where we were.  We're lucky he didn't 
have us storm Belgium."

"I knew exactly where we were, Lieutenant Byers."

Byers gave Mulder a 'sure you did' look and turned, 
climbing over the rubble in the doorway and emerging 
to a world bathed dark crimson by the sunset.  The 
sun had settled in behind the ocean, casting an 
otherworldly glow across the water, and over hunks 
of broken cement so large it look like the gods had 
been shooting dice.  The salty breeze rustled his 
hair, and prickled the bare skin above his beard.  
It seemed strange to hear nothing except the waves, 
and Mulder and Will's muffled voices in the bunker.  
No machinegun fire, no screams, no mortars, no calls 
for help.  It seemed peaceful, except for the echoes 
in his mind.

This was where they'd won the war.  The fighting had 
dragged on another year or so, but this was where 
they'd made their stand and driven Hitler back.  
Byers didn't enjoy being on the beach again, but he 
knew what it stood for, and he liked it between his 
family and the rest of the world.

"Did your father tell you he dragged me halfway up 
that beach?" he asked Will when he and Mulder 
emerged a few minutes later.  When Will shook his 
head, looking interested, Byers continued, "I was 
hit in the leg as we came out of the water.  It 
wasn't fatal, but I was loosing blood, I couldn't 
run, and there was no cover.  And we were under 
fire.  He grabbed my collar and dragged me almost 
two hundred yards, until we found a foxhole."

Will grinned, liking this story, while Mulder looked 
around for something else to talk about.

"He wasn't supposed to do that," Byers explained. 
"We were told specifically: if a man was hit, leave 
him behind.  We needed to get up the beach as 
quickly as possible, and we couldn't do that if 
every soldier was trying to save his friends."

"He owed me three bucks," Mulder defended himself, 
then looked at the golden beach, shifting Ben to his 
other arm.  For a long time, he stood very still, 
his eyes far away.  

Byers remembered what he'd said as their landing 
vehicle approached the beach twelve years ago.  
Mulder had checked his rifle, then looked at Byers 
sitting across from him, keeping his head down and 
trying not to vomit again. 'You look out for my boy, 
Byers.  The address is on my tags.'

'And you look out for my wife,' Byers had responded.  

Mulder had nodded, then lurched forward as the boat 
struck something underwater and stopped, fifty feet 
offshore, and the gangplank splashed open into the 
choppy water.

William would have been five, maybe; he and Susanne 
had been married a few weeks.

"Dad?" Will said worriedly. "Mr. Byers?"

Mulder exhaled, glanced at Byers, and added in his 
glib, deadpan manner: "Come to think of it, Byers, 
you still owe me three bucks."

Mulder slapped him on the back, then looped his arm 
around Byers' shoulders affectionately as they 
walked back to the car.

*~*~*~*

It was his favorite time of day: the long, cool 
lowering hour as late evening sank into night.  The 
yellow harvest moon was a few slivers from full, and 
it pushed back the last of the blue and violet 
shadows, covering the fields in expansive black.  
Above, the sky glittered in a thick blanket of 
stars, unmarred by city lights.  The dog went out 
one last time, then settled her old bones in front 
of the hearth with a wet sigh.  The dinner dishes 
were dried and put away, the children were in bed, 
and the house belonged to the grownups.  Fairy time, 
his grandmother had called it: when the rational day 
gives way to the magic of night.

"Burgundy, I think," he said, taking another sip 
from the wineglass, and nodding that it was still 
good. "Or Bordeaux.  Fine Bordeaux."

They'd found the bottles in the wine cellar when 
they moved in, forgotten under layers of dust.  The 
house had been empty for ten years, and most of the 
labels were missing, so when he and Susanne were 
adventurous enough to open a bottle, they could find 
anything from a smoothly aging red to vinegar.

"We don't know what this one is either, but John 
said it is old, red, and good," Susanne explained as 
she carried another bottle to the living room.

Mulder and Dana were on the sofa with their backs to 
the kitchen, and their feet propped on the ottoman.  
Will sat on the floor beside the radio, searching 
the stations for one that met everyone's approval.  
The first bottle was on the coffee table, about an 
inch of wine still available inside it.  The rest 
had been divided between Dana, Susanne, Byers, and 
Will, who, to everyone's quiet amusement, asked his 
father's permission before accepting half a glass.

Again, Mulder declined, crossing his ankles and 
adjusting his arm around Dana's shoulders as she 
sipped hers. "What are the chances of me getting you 
liquored up and taking advantage of you?" Byers 
heard him murmur to Dana, after Susanne returned to 
the kitchen.

"I wouldn't rule it out," Dana whispered back from 
behind her glass. "It's good wine."

"You think they'd notice if we took another shower?"

"Probably, Mulder."

Will must have overheard, because he rolled his eyes 
and turned the radio up. "God," he mumbled to 
himself, sounding disgusted.

Byers caught Susanne's wrist as she returned with 
another bottle of mineral water for Mulder, silently 
pulling her back to him.  He put his arms around her 
waist, fitting her back against his front, and 
listened to the slow, hypnotic jazz on the radio. 
"That discussion we had earlier?" he whispered, and 
she nodded slightly. "I've been thinking about it, 
and I think it's a good idea."

The more he watched Mulder with Ben, the more he 
wanted to be a father again.  Now.  Like this.  Now 
that he had the time and resources to care for his 
family the way he wanted to.  

When the girls were small, he'd been struggling to 
make ends meet: a new wife, two babies, a cramped 
apartment in Brooklyn, and a one-man law firm with 
too much overhead and not enough income.  He 
remembered weeks when Mulder was his only client.  
He remembered weeks when his secretary got paid, and 
he and Susanne lived on beans, rice, and peanut 
butter.  He remembered her nursing the girls because 
they couldn't afford formula and the doctor telling 
her that Katy and Ana would be malnourished.  He 
remembered catching the subway into Manhattan before 
dawn, and returning home, shoulders aching, feet 
stinging, long after dark.  

He'd trudge up the stairs, swearing to himself that 
he was going to become a plumber, and then the 
apartment door would open to Susanne in her apron, 
his dinner staying warm in the oven, and his girls 
clean and dressed for bed.  He'd hang up his hat, 
coat and jacket, shed his shoes, and lie in bed with 
the three of them, reading stories until the girls' 
eyes grew too heavy to stay open.  Often, Susanne 
couldn't stay awake either, and he'd turn the oven 
off so his dinner didn't burn to a crisp, move the 
girls to their cribs, and return to bed with 
Susanne, preferring staying with his wife to eating.

He remembered, in those lean years, knowing he could 
catch the seven-fifty subway six blocks from his old 
office and still make it home in time to put the 
girls to bed.  He remembered never missing a night.

"But what if we cannot?" Susanne whispered back, her 
words smelling of sun-warmed Italian vineyards. 
"What if something is wrong or it is too late?"

"Then we cannot, but it can't hurt to try." He 
paused, enjoying her against him. "I think I would 
like to try, if you would."

"I would," she said softly, leaning her cheek 
against his shoulder.

Mulder tilted his head back, glancing over the top 
of the sofa.  He looked at Byers with his arms 
around Susanne, then, without comment, went back to 
watching his sock feet and the crackling hearth in 
front of them.

"Hey Will?" he said carelessly, stroking Dana's arm.

"Hummm," Will responded from the floor, trying to 
ignore the old folks.

"Those people who say these are the best years of 
your life?"

"Um-hum."

"They lie," Mulder informed him, then grinned and 
turned his head, making a low purring sound in his 
throat as he kissed Dana's earlobe.
 
Will rolled his eyes again.

*~*~*~*

Occasionally, it would still happen: he'd be in a 
store or on the sidewalk, and spot Susanne a few 
yards from him, occupied with shopping or the girls.  
He'd watch her, follow her unobtrusively, thinking 
to himself, 'That is one enchanting woman.'  

'You're married; you aren't supposed to be enchanted 
with other women,' his conscience would remind him, 
and send twinge of guilt down his spine.

'You're married to her,' his higher brain would 
realize.

'Oh yes: that's right,' he'd remember proudly, still 
a little surprised.

He reached around Susanne, turning the lock on their 
bedroom door.  The lights stayed off, but the moon 
outside the window lit the walls soft yellow.  The 
air was just cool enough to give her chill bumps as 
he unfastened the front of her dress, kissing her 
swollen lips, her throat, the hollow of her neck.

"Cold?" he whispered, and she nodded, her eyes huge 
and blue in the darkness. "Come to bed."
 
He reached to pull loose a tie he wasn't wearing, 
then started on his shirt buttons, backing them 
toward the bed.  She stepped out of her shoes and 
let her dress fall to the floor, leaving her slip 
and stockings.  One of the straps fell off her 
shoulder, showing her white bra, and he traced the 
outline of her garter up her thigh.  She was pale 
smoothness under his hands: soft skin and slippery 
silk and nylon.  He loved the tastes and textures of 
her; he'd committed them to memory long ago. 

"Give me a thousand years and I might get tired of 
looking at you," he whispered, stroking her cheek.

"My John," she murmured sadly, caressing his name 
with her lips. "My sweet John.  You love me so much, 
don't you?"

He pushed her hair back from her face. "Yes, I love 
you," he answered, just in case she wanted to hear 
it a millionth time.

To his surprise, instead of kissing him, she laid 
her head on his chest, against his heart, and stayed 
there for a long time.  He put his arms around her, 
uncertain what was suddenly wrong. 

"Susanne?"

She slipped away, sitting on the edge of the bed, 
and studying the rug.  He sat beside her, his 
unbuttoned cuffs flopping and his shirt open. 

"What is it?"

"What Mr. Mulder said: me marrying you to become an 
American citizen- That, that is not true."

"Of course it's not true.  I don't know what got 
into him."

She looked at him sadly, then hunched her shoulders 
and went back to examining the rug, her hair falling 
over her cheeks and hiding her face. "I do not want 
you to think it is true.  You are- I think you are 
the kindest, gentlest man I have ever met. I married 
you because I was lost, and you found me."    

"And I'm thankful I did," he answered softly, hoping 
that was the right thing to say.  Susanne was always 
cool, calm, and collected.  Before today, he had 
trouble recalling the last time he'd seen her upset.

"You knew there was someone else.  Before we met."

"Yes, I knew." She'd told him before they married, 
in case he might change his mind.  He hadn't. 

"You never asked who he was."

"According the Kinsey survey, up to fifty-percent of 
college-educated women have had premarital-" he 
started, then just said, "I thought if you'd wanted 
to tell me, you would have."

They'd been in their mid-twenties when they met.  
While he found promiscuity unacceptable, they 
weren't teenagers.  He'd dated, even seriously a few 
times, and he'd always imagined Susanne had been 
engaged and her lover had died, either in the war or 
in the death camps.  

"I should have told you."

"Susanne, it was thirteen years ago.  It didn't 
matter to me then; why should it matter now?"   

"I should have told you," she repeated, not looking 
at him. The fair skin on her shoulders and bare arms 
was covered in gooseflesh, and he pulled the blanket 
from the end of their bed, draping it around her.

"All right," he said quietly. "If you want to tell 
me, tell me." 

Outside the window, the wind rustled the tree 
branches, making the dying leaves whisper secrets.  
The curtains billowed in the darkness like white 
ghosts, and he could hear his heart beating faster.

"One of the professors at University," she said 
after a few tries. "One that Mr. Mulder said.  I 
worked on his projects.  I was the only woman, the 
only one who had not finished my doctorate.  I was 
so proud." She paused, adjusting the lace hem of her 
slip. "What Mr. Mulder said was true: by the late 
thirties, Jews were not welcome at University.  
Jewish students were expelled; Jewish professors 
retired or were fired.  But I stayed.  He said my 
research was important, and he convinced me it was 
just a small lie.  No one would question me: I look 
Aryan, I speak German.  He said he loved me. He said 
he could keep me safe.  He said he could keep my 
family safe, when the time came.  I did not know 
what he meant by that, then, but I trusted him."

Byers opened his mouth to ask a question, then 
closed it again.

"I was an organic chemist. I worked in a laboratory, 
not with people.  Tables, formulas, reactions.  It 
was all here," she pointed to her temple, "And on 
paper.  On slides under the microscope, sometimes.  
There would be a question and I would do research 
and answer.  This is how genetics work; this is how 
they do not work.  This is why you cannot combine 
this cell with that one.  Sometimes they would ask 
the strangest questions, and I could not imagine why 
anyone would want to know such things."

She adjusted the lace hem again, pulling it over her 
knees. "My research would go to the medical doctors, 
so I never saw the end result, or even knew why the 
question was being asked.  Sometimes, the doctors 
would have data, and ask me to analyze them, to say 
what went wrong or what would work better.  It was 
all numbers, but sometimes details would slip 
through and I could figure out what it was: animal 
experiments: reproduction, euthanasia, and xeno-
transplantation: combining one species with another.  
Futile experiments; things that would never work.  
The mortality rate was so high, and the experiments 
were careless, as if no one cared if the lab animals 
lived or died."

"They weren't experimenting on lab animals," he 
said, voice breaking, and not quite believing his 
ears.  He'd seen the end result of those experiments 
at Dachau, at one of the death camps in Germany.  He 
remembered vomiting all over his boots, and Mulder 
being strangely calm as they searched the camp and 
executed the remaining German guards, then, when 
they ran out of things to shoot, the guard dogs.  

"But I did not know that," she insisted. "All they 
told us was that people were being resettled.  The 
Jews, the gypsies, homosexuals, the feebleminded and 
crippled: they all just vanished." She stopped to 
take a shuddery breath. "One day, I opened a file, 
and someone had left a memo in with the other 
papers.  They were testing a Formalin solution, 
injecting it into the uterus to sterilize females.  
The data I was given said the subjects were female 
rabbits.  This memo said they were 'utermenschen.' 
Subhumans.  Jewish women." 

She bit her lip. "He lied to me.  He kept me in that 
lab, doing research for his Nazi friends.  He said 
he hated Hitler.  That he did not believe in racial 
purity and he was secretly working against it.  I-I 
called my family, told them to get out of Poland 
immediately, however they could.  I got in my car, 
and I drove.  I had papers and money: I could get 
through the checkpoints.  From Berlin to Paris, then 
to Marseilles, then a ship to French-occupied 
Morocco to meet my family and buy visas to Lisbon. 
In London, the intelligence officers detained me, 
but let my family go on to America."

He stared at her, trying to comprehend how his 
beautiful wife could have any association with the 
stacks of dead bodies they'd found in Dachau.

"I-I married you because I loved you.  I still love 
you," she whispered desperately. "You have given me 
so much: children, a home.  I love you.  Please stop 
looking at me like that, John."

"The camera in our bedroom in New York," he said 
evenly, staccato-like. "The bug in our telephone: 
they weren't monitoring me; they were monitoring 
you."

"No.  Why would they?  The war has been over for a 
decade.  What would they want with me?"

"It's not over!" he barked before he could catch 
himself, and she flinched.  

On the other side of their bedroom wall, Mulder 
cleared his throat loudly, letting them know he 
could hear them.

Byers took a breath, trying to stay calm. "That 
research you did: the experiments those men did: it 
didn't stop.  Those men never stopped, Susanne; they 
just got better at it."

*~*~*~*

Mulder was a romantic at heart, and he adored Dana 
and Emily.  If he wanted to believe there was some 
conspiracy involved in Dana having a daughter out of 
wedlock, Byers saw little harm in it. Emily needed a 
last name; Mulder needed stability.  As his friend, 
Byers recalled having concerns about Dana Scully, 
especially after her mysterious three-month 
disappearance and 'miscarriage,' but he wasn't 
dating her: Mulder was.  Mulder was a grown man; he 
made his own decisions, and it did no good to try to 
reason with him.

Love was blind, or, at least, conditionally myopic.

Byers had always been able to push the pieces into 
some semblance of order in his mind: Alex Krycek was 
an obsessed psychopath who'd seduced or, more 
likely, forced Dana, with Emily being the end 
result. Perhaps she'd repressed that memory, given 
the circumstances, and replaced it with one of 
government doctors and secret projects.  Years 
later, Krycek kidnapped Dana, forcing her to abort 
the baby she carried.  Later, in a fit of jealous 
rage, he shot Mulder and staged it to look like a 
mugging.  He even went to their house in Georgetown, 
looking for Dana and Emily, and when he'd cornered 
them outside Frohike's apartment building last year, 
Mulder put a bullet in his head.

Until the day Krycek died, Byers had been able to 
arrange the facts to fit his perception of the 
world, but there was no denying what he'd seen: 
Krycek had looked like a man, talked like a man, but 
he hadn't been.  And if he was Emily's father, by 
whatever means, she wasn't entirely human either.

Occam's razor was never intended for little girls.

For the first decade of their lives, Katy and Ana 
had campaigned for separate bedrooms, desperate to 
avoid sister cooties.  Now that they had them, he 
often found them like this: both in Katy's bed, 
asleep amid a nest of discarded Nancy Drew novels, 
textbooks, and diaries with miniature brass locks.  
Tonight, they had Emily between them, and were 
curled up like a trio of sated kittens.  Three half-
empty glasses of milk were leaving rings on the 
nightstand around a plate of cookie crumbs, and 
there was a dirty kiss of chocolate on Emily's lips.

Katy slept like a log, but Ana opened her eyes as he 
stepped into the room, sensing his presence. "I'm 
just checking on you," he whispered, tucking the 
blankets around them. "Go back to sleep."

"Emily wanted to stay here," Ana whispered back in 
the hushed darkness. "We're having a slumber party."

"That's fine." He kissed her forehead, then 
collected the plate and glasses to take to the 
kitchen, trying not to clink them together.

"What time is it?" she asked groggily, as if it made 
any difference.

Emily started to stir.

"Late.  After midnight."

Ana nodded, rolled to her side, and slipped back 
into unconsciousness as easily as she'd slipped out.  
Standing beside the bed, Byers watched for a long 
time, studying their serene faces.  His girls didn't 
sleep with a nightlight, but they'd rigged one for 
Emily by draping a scarf over a small lamp.  Their 
stuffed animals had joined the party as well, lined 
up to guard the foot of the bed.  Among them was a 
very well worn Kitty, his glass eyes missing, his 
fur loved off, and his tail hanging by a thread.

"Mr. Byers?" Emily said softly, as he was about to 
turn away.

"Yes, Emily?  Are you feeling all right?"

She yawned, then asked, "Does Santa come to France?"

"Yes, he does," he assured her quietly, nodding. 
"Not for a few more months, but he comes."

"Mommy says Santa is meta-for-ical," she informed 
him sleepily. "Mulder says Mommy's a party pooper."

"Go back to sleep, sweetheart."

She snuggled deeper into the valley between the two 
pillows. "Bub says Santa's a fat pervert who likes 
to play with elves, and someone should call the 
law," she mumbled, then closed her eyes again.

Balancing the glasses on the plate like a skilled 
waiter, he moved Kitty from the foot of the bed to 
Emily's arms, then stood in the doorway, studying 
her in the red light that filtered through the 
scarf.  She was such a sweet, beautiful child. 
Bright.  Much-loved.  If she wanted the moon, Mulder 
would write a check and Dana would get a stepladder.

Each time Byers had tried to broach the subject of 
Emily's illness, Mulder answered his questions with 
more questions.  Less than two years ago, there had 
been endless specialists, medicine, and hospitals, 
and Dana had all but swabbed people with alcohol 
before she'd let them near her daughter.  A few 
months ago, Emily had been close to death, rapidly 
losing the battle between her red blood cells and 
her immune system.  Now, when Byers had asked, all 
Mulder said was 'wash your hands and try not to 
sneeze on her.'

According to Langly's monthly summaries, soon after 
Dana, Emily, and Ben returned, Mulder made a large 
purchase from a medical supply company.  Byers had 
checked, making sure it was a legitimate expense: a 
small autoclave, a specialized refrigerator, a 
microscope, IV poles, and everything necessary to 
collect and store blood, or to perform a transfusion 
without going to a hospital.  All they'd need was a 
nurse qualified to do the procedure, and a suitable 
donor.  Dana was a nurse, and Mulder and Will were O 
positive, except Will joined the Air Force shortly 
thereafter.  Which left Mulder.  

Byers had assumed Ben was ill, but Mulder assured 
him the baby was fine, that the equipment was for 
Emily, and then changed the subject.

Emily's and Mulder's blood cells should be no more 
compatible than two strangers', yet they were.  He 
and Dana weren't related, and Emily wasn't his 
biological daughter. The only possibility remaining, 
aside from a statistical anomaly, was that Mulder 
was related to Emily's father, and that sent a dark 
chill trickling down Byers' spine.

"Did they finally settle down?" Mulder's voice 
asked, and Byers jumped, rattling the glasses.  He 
steadied them with his free hand before they crashed 
to the floor. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"I-I just didn't hear you.  Yes, they're asleep."

Mulder's flannel shirt was unbuttoned, with the 
sleeves casually rolled up.  Above the V-neck of his 
undershirt, a fading scar ran from the base of his 
throat and disappeared underneath the white fabric.  
He must have realized Byers could see it, because 
Mulder adjusted his t-shirt uncomfortably, then 
started buttoning his shirt, watching his fingers.  

"Did you know," Mulder started awkwardly, still 
working with the buttons. "Your wife is on the 
porch?  She's, uh- She's just sitting."

Byers switched from watching him button to watching 
the floor, not really focusing on either. "Oh," he 
eventually said, then turned and watched his feet 
follow Mulder down the stairs.

Will was on the sofa, sprawled in the black oblivion 
of sleep with one hand hanging off the edge and an 
oversized foot propped on armrest.  His lips were 
parted slightly, and his eyes twitched beneath his 
eyelids as he dreamed.

"Hey, Daddy-O," he mumbled as Mulder pulled the 
blanket so it covered his escaped foot, then lifted 
Will's hand back to his chest.  
      
"Hey, Slugger," Mulder whispered, smoothing what 
remained of Will's shorn hair.

Someone, Dana probably, had taken a roll of film of 
Maddie showing off her belly, and one of the black 
and white snapshots was propped against Will's empty 
wineglass on the coffee table.  Mulder picked it up, 
squinted at it expressionlessly, then silently put 
it back, and rubbed Will's foot before he moved on.  

The logs in the hearth were falling into molten 
orange cinders, hissing and sparking and dancing 
around the room as firelight.  The front door was 
closed, but the window was slightly open, and the 
cool air whistled as it stole in.  Mulder paused to 
look out, scanning the horizon as though making 
certain it was safe before he relaxed for a few 
hours.  Byers stood beside him, wondering what it 
was that he watched for.  At least Mulder had a 
glimpse of the enemy; Byers felt like he was 
shooting at shadows.

"A very smart woman told me everything has a price, 
and I had to decide if what I'd gain by being with 
her was worth what I'd lose.  I think she's worth 
it.  I always have," Mulder said quietly, letting 
the curtains fall over the window. "But that's me."

Byers nodded thoughtfully, not sure what they were 
discussing.  Mulder wasn't looking at him, but Byers 
had the uncomfortable feeling of being exposed.
 
"Goodnight, Byers."

"Goodnight," he responded automatically.

When Mulder pushed open the door to the guestroom, 
Byers saw Dana in bed, reading.  Ben was asleep in 
the corner, safe in Katy's old crib.  Dana turned as 
he entered, and lowered her book, saying something 
Byers couldn't hear.  As the door closed, Mulder 
answered affirmatively, sinking onto the bed beside 
her.

Byers watched the door, feeling like a stranger in 
his own home. Time seemed distant, impersonal, like 
he was standing still as the world turned around 
him, a complicated tangle of secrets and lies. His 
wife had been one of Them.  Them: the Nazis, the 
government scientists, the madmen, the corrupt 
elite: the evil he'd gone to war to stop before it 
spread to a global plague.  More than a decade 
later, he found he was sleeping with the enemy, and 
sitting across from her at breakfast each morning.

More than a decade later, he was still in love with 
the enemy.  All he'd ever wanted was a home, a 
family, and love, and she'd given him all three.  
The gingham dog and the calico cat chased madly 
around his brain, threatening to devour each other 
and leave nothing but stuffing and rags.         

Mulder was right: Susanne was on the porch, just 
sitting, with her white robe wrapped tightly around 
her.  She didn't move as Byers approached, or as he 
stood on the steps beside her.

"You shouldn't be out here without a sweater," he 
said softly. "Even a light breeze can raise the wind 
chill factor, making it feel ten to twenty degrees 
colder and-"

She shivered, but continued staring into the 
darkness as if she wasn't even aware of his 
presence.  The sky seemed endless, like infinity 
sprinkled with a dusting of stars.

"Susanne..."

"At first, I did not tell you because I could not.  
Do you understand that?"

"Yes, I do." There were still parts of the war he 
couldn't talk about.  Not honestly, not in detail.

"I waited for someone to come to our door," she 
continued in a hoarse whisper, not looking at him. 
"To say 'You are not a good wife, you are not a good 
mother.  You do not deserve this.  You are a war 
criminal.  You come with us.' But they never came."  

"Susanne, you're not a war criminal.  How could you 
know what was being done with your research?"

"How could I not know?" She wrapped her arms tighter 
around her body. "How could I be so naive?"

"I think we were all naive, then." 

He'd meant that to be comforting, but it didn't end 
up sounding that way.

"I'm sorry, Susanne.  When you told me- Clearly, I 
didn't handle it well.  Please come inside.  We'll 
talk, if you want."

"What is there to talk about?"

"Just come inside.  Please?  Let me try to explain."

She still hadn't turned her head, so he descended a 
few steps and turned so he stood directly in front 
of her, blocking her view of nothing.  She was 
crying, and the wind was pushing the angry tears 
back from the corners of her eyes, defying gravity.

"Please," he repeated, and his heart beat twice 
before he added, "I love you." 

She looked up, then stood and let him lead her into 
the house.  As soon as the door closed, she pressed 
her wet face against his neck, shivering and sobbing 
silently, as though she wasn't allowed to make a 
sound.  He put his arms around her, wishing they 
were strong enough to shield her from the world. 

On the sofa a few yards away, William shifted 
restlessly, kicking his blanket off again.  The fire 
crackled, the wind whistled, the dog snored, and the 
leaves tapped politely on the windowpanes.  The 
October night surrounded them like a velvet cocoon, 
keeping the monsters at bay for a few more hours.
 
*~*~*~*

The overhead light seemed too bright, so they turned 
on the one in the pantry, letting it spill out on 
the wooden floor in pale yellow puddles.  The flame 
under the teakettle was liquid blue, and the kettle 
creaked and moaned as it came alive.  Seated at the 
kitchen table, they spoke in hushed voices of secret 
things, playing connect-the-dots with a series of 
random numbers.

He'd poured Susanne the last of the red wine, trying 
to get her to calm down, and she clutched the goblet 
with both hands, holding it rather than drinking it.  
He sat across from her, running his fingertip around 
the rim of his teacup while he waited on the kettle. 

"I know what I saw, Susanne.  I'm just not sure how 
to explain it," he told her, still feeling like his 
voice was too loud in the empty kitchen.

It was strange to hear the words come out of his 
mouth after spending so long lurking in the corners 
of his mind.  It seemed to give them flesh, make 
them real: both more and less frightening, like a 
nightmare by the light of day.  

"Eugenics was alive and well in America and Europe 
before World War One," he continued. "We like to 
believe the Nazis originated the idea of racial 
purity, and forget we've sterilized the 'genetically 
inferior' since the turn of the century in the U.S., 
and encouraged the 'genetically fit' to reproduce.  
What the Nazis did: it's only a difference in 
degree.  We've been building better humans for fifty 
years."

Her voice was still shaky, like her hands, but she 
answered, "Naturally occurring, yes: parents passing 
on preferred traits: that is possible.  That is what 
Hitler did.  But what you are describing, John: 
human-hybrids: that is not possible.  That is 
science fiction.  You cannot combine human with 
nonhuman.  Aside from blood, plasma, and minor 
grafts, you cannot even combine human with human.  
The body rejects foreign tissue."

"But it doesn't reject it before a child is born, 
does it?" he said. "Early on, foreign tissue can be 
introduced and the baby incorporates it into its 
body.  Is that true?"

That was the product of a late night, slightly 
intoxicated conversation with Frohike, and Byers was 
never sure whether to believe it or not.  When he 
was in his cups, Frohike had his own brand of 
paranoia that made Byers' ideas seem quaint.

"Yes," she admitted. "A fetus has no immune system.  
For a while, yes, I suppose a human-hybrid could be 
created.  But once it nears term, it will reject the 
tissue and it will die."

"But what if it didn't?" he said softly, and the 
pressure inside the teakettle begin to build.  He 
fussed with his cup, spoon, and saucer, needing to 
put something in order. "What if, through some 
means, it could be brought to term?  A living, 
human-hybrid baby.  What then?"

She shook her head tiredly, her forehead wrinkling. 
"If it was possible, the offspring would be fragile.  
Sterile, probably.  Each time the cells reproduce, 
there is a chance of rejection.  There would likely 
be auto-immune problems-"

"Auto-immune hemolytic anemia?"

"Possibly: the immune system attacking red blood 
cells.  It is hard to speculate.  And even if we 
could create hybrids, why would we?  Why go to such 
lengths to create something so delicate?  From a 
scientific viewpoint, whatever trait the government 
valued, it would be easier to reproduce it through a 
naturally occurring mutations in humans than try to 
hybridize it with animal genetics."

"What if it wasn't animal genetics?" He leaned 
closer to her. "What if it was alien?" he whispered. 
"Alien genetics introduced into a human child?"

Susanne stopped toying with her wine glass and 
stared at him, her eyes wide and her lips parted in 
shock.  She waited, as if making sure she'd heard 
correctly.  Byers worried his lips between his teeth 
and waited with her, giving that time to sink in.

The kettle shrieked, startling them.  He twisted in 
his chair to turn off the heat, forgetting about 
their tea.

"You are serious, yes?" she finally asked.

He nodded.  And waited a little longer.  He was her 
John: he invested long-term, couldn't tell a joke, 
drove a Studebaker station wagon, and defined 
'casual' as a starched, short-sleeve dress shirt.  
She teased him about being such a fuddy-duddy, but 
he preferred to think of himself as orderly. Well-
informed.  Precise.  Moral.  A Victorian gentleman 
born after his age.  Regardless, 'adventure' wasn't 
his middle name and he wasn't given to flights of 
fancy.

"In the summer of 1947, a flying saucer crashed in 
Roswell, New Mexico," he explained quietly. "It was 
in the newspapers, though the military later said it 
was a weather balloon. I looked up the article. That 
fall, the House of Un-American Activities Committee 
began investigating again.  HUAC.  It's the perfect 
cover: our government had the data from the Nazi 
experiments in genetics, embryology, immunology. It 
had its own ongoing eugenics projects: naturally 
occurring, as you say.  After the saucer crashed, it 
had alien genes and technology.  And anyone who 
dared question their activities was branded a 
communist."

Susanne glanced at her still-full wine glass, then 
carefully set it on the kitchen table, deciding 
she'd had enough to drink for one night.

"I'm not crazy, Susanne.  Think about it.  Think 
about the scientific advances we've made in less 
than a decade.  We've discovered DNA.  Harnessed the 
atom.  Broken the sound barrier.  Developed the 
heart-lung machine.  We're not far from putting a 
rocket into space.  Even with the foundation of Nazi 
research to build on, that still doesn't explain all 
our advances.  Name any other period in history when 
mankind has made so many leaps-"
 
A door opened, and Byers stopped mid-sentence as 
rapid footsteps moved through the living room. Still 
in his blue jeans and t-shirt, Mulder bounded up the 
stairs, with Dana a few steps behind him in her 
pajamas, her robe fluttering after her.  

Byers hadn't heard Emily, but Mulder must have.  And 
when Mulder ran, it was bad.

Byers watched them tensely, then looked up as their 
feet hurried down the hall to Katy's room.  The bed 
squeaked as someone picked Emily up, and a faucet 
turned on in the bathroom, running until it got 
cold, then wetting a washcloth.  Another nosebleed: 
the third of the day.

Mulder's and Dana's voices upstairs were urgent, but 
indistinct, and Byers could hear Emily coughing, 
struggling to breathe.  He waited for it to stop, 
like the first two had, but the kitchen clock kept 
ticking away the minutes.

There was no sound indicating Ana or Katy was awake, 
so he and Susanne just sat, waiting.  Dana was a 
nurse, and they'd be in the way.  It seemed wrong to 
do nothing, but there was nothing they could do.
 
Susanne helped him watch the ceiling. "Should we 
call a doctor?"

"No," Byers answered immediately, his chest tight. 
"They don't want any more doctors.  She's had enough 
doctors."

In the living room, the old dog got to her feet, 
pacing restlessly, then whined and nuzzled Will, who 
slept on.

"Is it leukemia?" Susanne whispered, sounding as 
powerless as he felt.

"Anemia.  Auto-immune hemolytic anemia."
 
In the guestroom, Ben started crying, frightened and 
wanting his daddy.  As Byers stood to get him, glad 
to have something to do, Susanne's goblet cracked, 
then shattered, sending bits of glass through the 
air and wine flowing across the tabletop.  She 
jumped back in surprise, her chair squeaking, and 
her white robe splattered with dark red liquid.

"My God!  Are you hurt?  What happened?"

"I do not know.  I did not touch it," she said.

Upstairs, he could hear Emily's frightened voice, 
and Dana trying to comfort her.

The hair on Byers' scalp bristled as the wine drip-
dropped rhythmically to the floor. "Don't move.  
There's glass everywhere and you don't have any 
shoes on."

"I did not touch it, John," Susanne insisted.

Ben continued crying, and Mulder's footsteps hurried 
down the stairs, calling to his younger son that it 
was all right.  Byers shivered, though he didn't 
recall being cold.  A goose was walking across his 
grave, his grandmother would have said.

"John-" Susanne started shakily, then gasped as the 
bulb in the pantry exploded, raining to the floor in 
a tinkle of glass, and the kitchen went black.

"Don't move," he warned her, trying to figure out 
what was happening.  His body felt like it did when 
a storm rolled in: instincts tugging at the base of 
his brain and awakening senses forgotten for a 
million years.  He could feel the pressure building, 
the air moving over his skin like a living thing.  
It was magical.  Sensual.  Beautiful, primal, 
frightening, and far beyond his control.

Upstairs, he heard four loud pops: the bulbs above 
the bathroom vanity exploding, then the one in the 
guest bedroom as Mulder reached for Ben, murmuring 
to him until the shrieks subsided.

Within seconds, the house was silent again except 
for the water running upstairs, the fireplace, and 
Mulder's voice soothing his son.  Byers took a deep 
breath, his heart pounding in his chest.  

"John," Susanne said a third time, her voice small 
and lost in the darkness.

"I'm here," he answered, then listened, realizing 
the kitchen clock had stopped ticking.
 
*~*~*~*

God forgive him, but when he finally understood what 
Mulder was asking over the crackling trans-Atlantic 
telephone line, his first thought was that Mulder 
was drinking again.  His second thought was that 
Mulder couldn't afford two ex-wives.

"No, not Will.  Me," Mulder had repeated. "I'm 
getting married.  Saturday morning.  I know it's 
short notice, but can you come?"

Byers' lips had moved soundlessly, trying to form 
words, and he had to remind himself not to drop the 
telephone.  Susanne stopped making lunch, holding 
the bread knife in midair, and watched him 
curiously.

"Byers?"

"We'd- Susanne and I, we'd planned to be there for 
Will's wedding.  We, we have reservations."

"So do I," Mulder quipped good-naturedly. "But 
that's not for two more weeks.  I need a best man 
this Saturday."

"And you're asking me?" Byers squeaked. "Who, wh-
who, uh, who are you marrying?"

"Take a breath, John.  You sound like a hoot owl, 
and you're starting to hyperventilate.  Who do you 
think I'm marrying?"

Byers searched his memory, trying to think of any 
woman Mulder had even mentioned since Dana and Emily 
went into hiding.  No one Byers could recall.  When 
he wasn't playing ball, Mulder spent his time holed 
up in the Catskills, two hours and a world away from 
Manhattan, as he put it.  He put on a good show for 
the cameras, but since Will's baby announcement, 
Byers, Frohike, and Langly had all been holding 
their breath, waiting for the other shoe to fall.

"Wait, she's up." The phone shifted, and Mulder's 
muffled voice requested, "Say hello, honey."

"Hello, honey," Dana's voice mumbled sleepily, then 
asked if there was coffee.

Something hit Byers' shoe, and he realized he'd let 
go of the receiver.  He scrambled after it, pulling 
it back by the cord, his hand shaking as he put it 
to his ear again.  Susanne pantomimed 'who are you 
talking to?' and when he mouthed, 'Mulder,' she 
shook her head and went back to making sandwiches.

"Byers?  John- Are you there?" Mulder was asking. 

"I'm, I'm here.  My God.  Yes, absolutely, I'll be 
there.  If I get a flight this afternoon, I can be 
there Saturday morning."

"Great," Mulder responded. "I appreciate it.  We'd 
appreciate it.  I'll explain more when you get here, 
but Byers-" He paused, his voice softening. "I have 
someone for you to meet."

"W-Who?" His brain seemed to have a case of the 
hiccoughs.

"His name is Benjamin.  Ben.  Isn't it, buddy?" he 
added quietly, talking to someone close by.

"Who's Ben?"

"He's, uh, mine," Mulder answered. "He's my son."

"Oh my God," Byers had managed.

*~*~*~*

In the kitchen, Susanne's broom dragged slowly, 
precisely across the floor, gathering slivers of 
glass before they could bite tender feet.  She got 
every nook and cranny, then went over the floor and 
baseboards with a damp rag, making sure.  Byers 
watched her on her hands and knees, wanting to tell 
her it was the middle of the night and he'd do that 
in the morning, but kept his mouth closed.  It was 
her way of restoring order to an upside down world.  

Dana sat on the swing on the front porch, wrapped in 
Mulder's oversized flannel shirt, staring blankly at 
the dark horizon. The wind ruffled her hair, blowing 
it around her face.  Mulder stood a few feet away, 
leaning back against the banister, looking at ease, 
but tracking everything around him with the watchful 
eyes of a soldier.  The thousand-yard stare, they'd 
called it in the Army: when a man spends too long 
watching for the enemy.

There was no clock in the house that still worked, 
but Byers supposed it must be after two.  Maybe 
almost three.  Time had slipped out of alignment, 
into a muddled jumble of real and unreal. It was the 
aftermath of the witching hour, and the beginning of 
the long, empty wait for dawn to burn away the 
night: when fevers broke and babies came, and logic 
became disjointed.   

Mulder turned his head, noticed Byers watching them, 
and returned inside, leaving Dana to listen to the 
ocean.  He checked on Ben and Emily, who were asleep 
in the guestroom, then joined Byers at the living 
room window, near the hearth.

"I'm sorry," he said softly, words that seldom 
passed Mulder's lips. "We never meant to- I-I just 
thought France would be a nice change of scenery for 
Scully.  Emily wanted to see the Eiffel Tower; we 
could see Will-"

"Don't be sorry," Byers assured him. "We want to 
help.  This just isn't quite what I'd anticipated." 
He looked through the window at Dana, who sat 
unmoving on the old swing. "Is she all right?"

Mulder paused, choosing his words. "It's hard for 
her: Em being sick.  And Ben.  As much as she loves 
him, he frightens her a little bit.  She feels 
helpless, and Scully doesn't like feeling helpless."  

"But Ben doesn't frighten you?"

"No, he doesn't frighten me."

Whatever force had shattered the light bulbs and 
Susanne's wine glass, it wasn't natural.  Not as 
Byers understood Nature to be.  He and Susanne had 
been in the kitchen, directly under Katy's bedroom, 
and hadn't heard Emily wake.  There was no way 
Mulder could have heard her from the downstairs 
guestroom, behind a closed door.

"Can, can you read my mind?" Byers whispered after a 
few false starts.

"No," Mulder answered, as though that was just a 
routine question. "Lately, I've realized I can sense 
things, especially if the emotion is strong, but I 
can't read your mind.  Some people I can sense 
better than others."

The last log in the hearth split, sending orange 
sparks up the chimney, and startling Byers.  On the 
sofa, Will shifted, but didn't wake.

"I've read of experiments involving ESP," Byers 
said, trying to sound calm. "In the 1930's, Oxford 
University did a series of controlled tests with 
Zeener cards, and-" 

He stopped as Mulder looked at him, his face painted 
in stark light and shadow by the fire. 

"He who fights with monsters should take care lest 
he become a monster.  If you gaze too long into an 
abyss, the abyss gazes also into you."

"That's Nietzsche."

Mulder nodded. "Knowledge is a seductive thing, 
Byers.  It's easy to ask questions, but you have to 
ask yourself if you really want them answered.  You 
can tell yourself it was a power surge, replace a 
few light bulbs, and go on with your life."

"No, I want to know," Byers heard his own voice 
answer unsteadily. "What was that, Mulder?  What are 
you?"

"Your friend," he answered, then added, "My mother 
is a German-born Jew; my father worked for the State 
Department.  Intelligence.  I always assumed she was 
a war bride, but it's possible their marriage was 
arranged.  They had two children: my sister and me.  
And when she was nine, my sister vanished.  I was 
with her in the woods: she didn't run away; she 
wasn't kidnapped; she just vanished." He swallowed 
dryly. "Girls are born with all the ova they'll ever 
have.  Scully told me.  Did you know that?  To pass 
on a male's genetics, you have to wait until 
puberty, but in females, the ova are present at 
birth.  Before birth, even."

"You think They waited until your sister was old 
enough to demonstrate the same, uh, abilities you 
have, then took her?"

"I think so.  Whether it was intentional or a fluke, 
a natural, latent gene got switched on in Samantha 
and me.  And we can pass it on.  Ben has it.  Will, 
as far as I can tell, doesn't, but he could still be 
a carrier."

Byers nodded, wanting him to continue, but Mulder 
waited a long time before he spoke again.

"I think I was superfluous: the boy that came before 
the girl They wanted.  Aside from keeping track of 
me, I don't think They gave me a second thought 
until I met Scully.  And when They realized the 
opportunity, They capitalized on it." 

He cleared his throat. 

"I see them sometimes.  In my dreams," Mulder said 
in a rough whisper. "Twin girls: happy, redheaded 
toddlers.  Safe.  Loved.  I see Samantha, still nine 
years old.  She's happy, too.  But sometimes I see 
other children.  Dark-haired babies: identical boys 
and identical girls.  Rows of them: maybe seven or 
eight of each.  Like Samantha, but not.  And what's 
inside them, when I can feel them: it's dark, too."

"Do you think any of what you see is real?"

"I don't know.  I know some of it isn't." Mulder 
shifted his hands on the windowsill, still watching 
Dana on the porch. "We're real, though." He tilted 
his head toward her. "She and I."

"If what you're saying is true, you have to-"

"What?" he interrupted. "I have to what?  Notify the 
proper authorities?  The death camp, Byers: do you 
know who granted immunity to the men who did that?  
Who continued their work?  You know who took our 
first babies and left Scully to die?  Do you know 
who's behind Emily's birth?  Do you know who shot 
me?  Who pointed a gun at Will and would take Ben 
the same way They took Samantha if They knew what he 
can do?  Do you know who those men are?  The proper 
authorities, Byers.  Old Glory, apple pie, Mom, and 
ticker tape parades: God bless America."

Mulder pushed away from the window, restless, like a 
dangerous animal confined to too small a cage.

"Don't tell me what I have to do.  I have to protect 
my family.  I waited almost forty-two years just to 
be normal. To have what every other man has.  Just 
to be able to come home at night and kiss my wife 
and read a story to my kids before bed.  And maybe 
have my daughter-in-law bring my grandson over so I 
can stuff him full of sweets and tell him stories 
about when Papa was a boy.  You've had that all 
along, but I just got it, so don't tell me what I 
have to do, Byers."

As Mulder paced, that storm-coming-in feeling 
started creeping up Byers' spine again. 

"I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to presume."   

Mulder exhaled, and the feeling subsided. "I know.  
I know you didn't.  It's-" He paused. "You said you 
wanted to know.  You said you wanted to help."

Byers hesitated.  He'd meant help in a 'baby sit for 
the afternoon' kind of way.  The last time he'd 
blindly agreed to help Mulder, he'd ended up an 
accessory to murder.

"We do want to help," Susanne's voice answered, and 
Byers turned, seeing her standing in the doorway 
between the kitchen and living room, still in her 
wine-stained robe, holding a dishrag. Under Mulder's 
penetrating gaze, she shifted, looking down. "I did 
not mean to overhear.  I was in the kitchen- I would 
like to help."

*~*~*~*

It was the last Saturday morning in May, just after 
the full moon crested.  The florists and caterers 
must have arrived before dawn to set up the white 
tent now beside the lake.  The sun was up, pulling 
the mist from the tops of the Catskill Mountains.  
The ranch's previous owner had bred racehorses, and 
miles of white fences enclosed the fields, now 
populated by a single fat pony.  An old, one-eyed 
cat prowled the perimeter of the house, his tail 
flicking as he kept watch over his domain.

As Dana came to greet him, she smiled uncertainly, 
looking vulnerable.  She was still in her robe, with 
her hair done, but her face bare of makeup.  She 
seemed paler than he remembered, and more watchful, 
but she was real.  Alive.  Standing on Mulder's 
front steps.  Mulder had never wavered in his 
insistence that she would come back, and Byers felt 
traitorous for not believing him.

"I'm early; I'm sorry I'm so early.  Eighty-two 
percent of commercial flights arrive at least thirty 
minutes late.  Whoever heard of a plane landing 
early?" Byers said clumsily, shaking the hand she 
offered as though they were being introduced for the 
first time. "It's so good to see you again."

"It's good to see you," she answered, taking his 
satchel.  An awkward pause followed, which Dana 
ended by adding, "Mulder wanted to talk to you. 
He's down at the lake.  Just follow the path."

The air was crisp, and the grass was damp with dew, 
collecting on the hem of his trench coat and dotting 
his wingtip shoes.  Under the tent, men were 
arranging tables and chaffing dishes, while beside 
the lake, chairs were being set up for the ceremony.  

It was a simple wedding sandwiched between a Friday 
night home game and a two-week road trip.  Two-, 
maybe three-dozen guests.  No honeymoon, but no 
reporters, no photographers, and no one except 
trusted friends and family.  No one in the press 
knew about the wedding, or that Dana had returned, 
or about Ben, and Mulder wanted to keep it that way 
as long as possible.

Frohike was meeting Dana's sister at North Beach 
Airport and driving her upstate; Langly was flying 
into Albany, as were Agent Dales and a man who'd 
been an Assistant Director of the FBI - hopefully, 
not on the same flight.  According to Frohike, 
Mulder's and Dana's mothers had been invited, but 
neither would be attending.

Mulder was lounging in a chair in the first row, 
wearing his suit pants and a white dress shirt, 
collar open.  He faced away from Byers, watching the 
fog rolling off the lake.  Except for metallic 
squeaks as the caterers worked, and petals and 
fabric rustling as the florists decorated, the only 
sound was the water lapping against the dock.

"Scully won't let me have a tilt-a-whirl or a 
dunking booth," he complained softly, looking back 
as Byers approached. "Or a cotton candy machine.  
They rent them, you know, and I think this shindig 
would benefit greatly from a cotton candy machine."

Byers looked around, trying to fathom where Mulder 
thought a cotton candy machine would fit into this 
pristine setting.

"I'm joking Byers," Mulder added, then nodded to the 
chair beside him. "Take a load off."

Byers sat, leaning over to examine the bundle 
nestled in the crook of Mulder's arm.  Somewhere 
underneath it, defying all odds, was a small baby, 
sleeping soundly.  

"This is Benjamin," Mulder said quietly, stroking 
the baby's cheek. "Ben.  He's three months old.  
He's beautiful.  And, since he got Daddy up at five 
a.m., he's taking a little nap."

Byers stared at the baby's peaceful face, trying to 
comprehend that he was real. "My God, Mulder.  Did 
you know?  All this time?"

Mulder nodded slowly, smiling as Ben pursed his 
lips.  He was a man in love.

Byers shook his head in disbelief. "Why didn't you 
say something?"

"It was safer not to." He studied Ben, then changed 
the subject, requesting, "Get the paperwork rolling 
for me to adopt Emily.  And Ben's birth certificate 
needs to be changed: my name isn't on it, and it 
needs to be.  My will needs to be changed, too."

"I'll get right on it."

Byers waited for further instructions, but Mulder 
was silent, holding his new son and watching the 
mist skimming the silvery surface of the lake.

"I'm getting married, Byers," he finally said 
absently. "In two hours.  For better or for worse, 
till death us do part.  Ani l'Dodi, v'Dodi li," he 
added in Hebrew. "The whole shebang."

Byers nodded, trying to be supportive.  Instead of 
pre-wedding jitters, Mulder seemed to be in one of 
his odd, contemplative moods.

Mulder exhaled and added, "And to that end, I'd 
better finish getting dressed," as he adjusted the 
blanket around the baby and got up.
 
Dana was making her way down the path from the 
house, carrying two steaming mugs.  Mulder smiled at 
her and exchanged the baby for one of the cups, 
blowing the surface of the coffee to cool it.

"My mother just called," she said, her voice a 
little shaky as she settled Ben against her 
shoulder. "She's changed her mind.  She's at a 
service station in Kingston.  Bill wouldn't bring 
her, so she drove.  From Alexandria.  All night."

"Your mother can drive?" Mulder asked over his mug.

Dana nodded, biting her lower lip. "Will just left 
to get Maddie.  I'm afraid to leave Emily for that 
long, I still need to get ready, and we'll have more 
people here any minute.  Could you-"

"You want me to go meet her so she doesn't get 
lost?" Mulder offered gently.

Dana nodded again.

"Your mother frightens me, Scully."

"Just lock your doors, roll up your windows, and 
come straight home," she advised, turning away. 

"We're gettin' married, honey," Mulder called after 
her, as though he'd just realized it. 

"Don't say that too loudly," she responded over her 
shoulder, then added a wink. 

Mulder chuckled and sipped his coffee, then stepped 
aside to let two men unfurl a long runner between 
the chairs, creating an aisle that ended at a small 
canopy: a nod to Mulder's heritage.  

"It would be better with a cotton candy machine," 
Mulder said wistfully, looking around at a scene 
that made 'picturesque' seem cliched. "But I suppose 
this will do."

"Congratulations," Byers answered, remembering his 
manners. "I hope you'll be very happy together." 

That came out sounding less certain than Byers had 
intended, but Mulder didn't seem to notice.

"Do you know those jigsaw puzzles- The huge ones: 
two-thousand pieces, almost all the same color?" he 
asked softly, watching Dana walk back to the house 
with his infant son. "You lay them out, and even if 
you get the outside edge, all the inside pieces just 
seem like a jumble of green and gray.  Do you know 
those puzzles?"

"Yes, I know those puzzles," he said uncertainly, 
the coffee mug warm between his hands and the steam 
drifting with the breeze.

"She's the picture on the box, Byers."

*~*~*~*

Despite the glare of the public spotlight, Mulder 
was an extremely private person, as was Dana. 
Neither asked to be extraordinary.  All they wanted 
was to be together, to raise their family, and to 
live their lives.  And, through some cruel twist of 
genetic fate, those were the three things they 
struggled hardest to do.

Byers and Susanne sat with Mulder at the kitchen 
table, listening as he explained fifty years of 
government conspiracy.  Mulder said that, beginning 
around the turn of the century, the US and Europe 
had attempted to create superior humans through 
selective breeding programs, but after WWII, after 
Roswell, those programs shifted focus.  It wasn't 
enough to build a better human anymore: the Russians 
could do that.  The US had the Nazi data and the 
alien tissue from the Roswell crash: America could 
create an alien-human hybrid.

The swing on the front porch squeaked as Dana 
shifted, and Mulder stopped speaking momentarily. 

He explained that the first experiments after 
Roswell were clumsy: creating hybrid pregnancies in 
unsuspecting women in the military, relying on their 
shame to keep them silent or to force them to give 
their babies up for adoption.  He said Emily was a 
product of those experiments, but didn't say Dana 
was never married to Emily's father.  He said Alex 
Krycek was deceased, but didn't mention the bullet 
that killed Krycek came from Mulder's gun.

Mulder said the experiments had evolved, becoming 
more adept at blending human and alien DNA.  That, 
using the hunt for communism as a smokescreen, the 
government tracked people's genetics, monitoring 
those whose genes would be most compatible with 
alien tissue.  Using them as unsuspecting test 
subjects.  Using their tissue.  Using their unborn 
children's tissue to further their project.  He 
never mentioned the first babies he and Dana had 
conceived: not that Dana had disappeared for three 
months, not that her pregnancy had mysteriously 
ended, not that she'd almost died herself.

"These men are dangerous," Mulder told them. "Above 
the law.  They'll stop at nothing to get what they 
want.  You need to understand that."

Byers glanced at Susanne. "We understand."

Mulder chewed the inside of his lower lip, then said 
slowly: "Emily has a rare, auto-immune anemia.  It 
can be treated with blood transfusions, but the 
donor's cells have to be compatible with hers.  In 
Emily's case, that means being compatible with alien 
genetics.  Not alien, per say, but able to co-exist 
with alien," he said, watching Susanne, gauging her 
reaction.

Susanne just nodded.

"I'm compatible, as staggering as the implications 
of that are.  And Emily seems to benefit from my 
immunities: if I have antibodies, she can use them.  
Mulder-cillin, Scully calls it.  She keeps saying my 
body wasn't designed to produce red blood cells for 
two people, but right now, I'm fine. Emily's getting 
better.  But I'm the only one we're sure she's 
compatible with, and we discovered that by dumb 
luck.  If something were to happen to me, or if it 
becomes too dangerous for Scully, Ben, and Emily to 
stay with me..."

He trailed off, unwilling to say it. 

"We need a plan B, if there is one.  A way to slow 
the anemia.  A way for her to be compatible with 
another donor.  A way to find another donor.  We 
don't even know what in my blood makes me a match."

Susanne nodded.

"I know what I'm asking for is a medical needle in a 
haystack," he said, now speaking solely to Susanne. 
"And we've already had the best doctors in the world 
tell us it isn't possible: there is no cure, and the 
only treatment they can offer makes her sicker than 
the anemia." He hesitated, soundlessly opening and 
closing his mouth several times. "I'm not ready to 
accept that.  The science at Johns Hopkins and 
Children's Hospital isn't the same science that 
created this child, and it isn't the science that's 
going to make her better. You knew those men; you've 
seen their science," he said, his eyes seeming to 
scan her soul.  This time, there was no accusation, 
just calm appraisal and a statement of fact.

"Yes," she said, barely audible.

"I can get you access to whatever equipment or 
information you need," Mulder offered. "Blood 
samples, medical records: whatever you need."

She nodded.
 
"Do you think you can help?" he asked hesitantly.

"I'm not sure.  I can try," she said softly. 

"Thank you." Mulder took a deep breath and got up, 
rolling his neck and shoulders tiredly. "We can talk 
later.  Right now, I should get my wife off the 
porch before she turns into a Scully-cicle."

As he reached the doorway to the living room, Mulder 
turned back, bracing his hands on the doorjamb. "If 
you discover there isn't a plan B," he said slowly, 
weighing his words. "I don't want Scully to know.  I 
don't want her to know about any of this.  Ever."

Susanne nodded again.

*~*~*~*
 
Byers didn't recall Mulder wearing glasses, but when 
Dana noticed him squinting at the photo, she handed 
him a pair from the pocket of the gray flannel shirt 
she'd borrowed.  He put them on, tilting the picture 
of Maddie and her belly so he could see it in the 
dim light.

"Did you look like this?" Mulder asked, glancing up 
at her. "With Ben? This big?"

"Bigger," Dana responded, toying with his hair as he 
sat on the ottoman beside the sofa. "This is her 
first baby, and she's still at the cute stage."

Mulder looked at the picture again, as if trying to 
fathom that.  Eventually, he put it back on the 
coffee table and jostled Will's shoulder gently.

"Aren't you supposed to report for roll call, 
Slugger?" Mulder asked. "Time to get up."

"...don't have school today," Will answered without 
moving his lips or opening is eyes.

"William, come on.  Gotta get up."

"Dad?" Will responded, grimacing unhappily as he 
tried to figure out where he was. "...time is it?"

"Almost morning.  After five.  You need to get back 
to the base."

"Shit.  Five isn't morning.  Write me a note," he 
mumbled sleepily, burrowing deeper under his 
blanket. "We'll call it an excused absence."

"Unfortunately, the Air Force will call it AWOL.  
Get up, go shower, and I'll see about coffee."

Will squinted at his father like a pampered pet 
denied his place at the foot of the bed, then 
started to go back to sleep.

"AWOL.  Summary court-martial.  Military jail, 
William," Mulder reiterated. "A note from Daddy-O 
won't cut it anymore."

Will grumbled unintelligibly and got to his feet, 
yawning and stumbling through the darkness toward 
the downstairs bathroom.  After some slamming and 
cursing, a faucet turned on, then the showerhead, 
and water splashed against the tiles.

"Did you talk to him?" Dana asked, her back to Byers 
as he stood in the kitchen doorway.

"We talked at the beach this afternoon," Mulder 
answered, resting his head against her thigh and 
looking up at her. "I talked, anyway; God knows 
whether or not he listened.  He loves Maddie, but 
he's so young.  Maybe I shouldn't have let them get 
married.  Maybe I..." 

He sighed and pulled off his glasses, rubbing his 
eyes.

"He made his decision.  You can't live his life for 
him," she reminded him.

"I just want him to be happy.  That's what I want 
for all of us: just to be healthy, happy, and safe.  
I don't think that's so unreasonable." 

"Neither do I, but I think your cape's getting a 
little threadbare tonight," she said softly, running 
her fingers through his hair again. "Saving the 
world may have to wait a few hours while you get 
some sleep, Superman."

Mulder rubbed his jaw against the fabric of her 
pajamas, making a rough, scratchy sound as stubble 
slid against cotton.

"Not the whole world, actually: only a very select 
minority.  Saving the world is more of a larger, 
long-term goal." He turned his head, looking past 
her, at the last of night outside the window. "It's 
almost full: the moon.  We'll have a full moon for 
Halloween," he said thoughtfully. 

"Again."

"Three years, Nurse Scully," he said in some pre-
dawn shorthand exclusive to the two of them. "A 
hundred lifetimes squeezed into 1,095 days.  One 
hundred and fifty-six Saturday afternoons.  Would 
you do it all again, if you had the choice?"

"You know I would, Mr. Marty Martin," she answered, 
stroking his cheek as he leaned against her.

"I know. I just like to hear you say it." He nuzzled 
her thigh again, exhaling, then deadpanned, "Are you 
wearin' lead panties?"

Dana nodded, and Byers heard her laugh softly.  

A hollow place inside him envied that sound.  Mulder 
and Dana had forgotten Byers was there, and, in a 
few seconds stolen between everyday worries and 
global conspiracies, gotten lost in each other.  
Their world was only the two of them.  In the vast, 
hungry darkness of the universe, two homeless souls 
had found an oasis.

Dana trailed her finger down the outline of Mulder's 
neck, then underneath his t-shirt, stroking the top 
of the scar that bisected his chest. 'A love line,' 
Byers had heard Dana call it, on another occasion 
when he'd accidentally intruded.  

Byers turned silently and, for lack of anywhere else 
to go, returned to the kitchen.  Susanne was at the 
stove, cooking nothing, and unfinished conversations 
hung in the air.  The silence from the living room 
was comfortable, but in the kitchen, it felt 
strained, like catgut strings over a guitar's frets.

"William's awake.  He needs to get back to the 
base," he said, his voice sounding foreign to him. 
"He'd probably like coffee."

Susanne nodded and started the mundane process of 
making coffee, seeming relieved to have a direction.  
After plugging in their seldom-used percolator, she 
stood and watched it, entranced by the creaks and 
rumbles as the metal pot heated.

"Susanne-" he started, not sure how he planned to 
finish his sentence.  

"Do you want tea?" she asked before he had to.

"No.  I-I can drink coffee.  Later.  I don't want 
anything right now."

She nodded and went back to watching the percolator.    

"Susanne-" he tried again.

"I should make breakfast for him," she decided, 
speaking rapidly as she reached for a skillet. "I 
should make breakfast for everyone.  An American 
breakfast: pancakes and eggs and-"

"I don't think anyone's hungry this early."

She stopped, her hand poised over the knob to turn 
on the burner.  Her shoulders slouched tiredly, and 
her head tilted down, as if exposing her neck for 
the executioner's axe.

"Do you think you can help Emily?" he asked, and she 
turned, looking ethereally pale. "Or were you just 
being polite?"

"I don't know," she answered in lost whisper. "With 
blood samples, the right equipment, and enough time, 
I should be able to discover what makes Emily and 
Mr. Mulder compatible, so at least they could find 
another donor.  Beyond that, I am not sure."

It was Byers' turn to nod.

"To find that, though: the precise link between 
humans and aliens...  If I find it, these men you 
and Mr. Mulder speak of: they would kill for that 
knowledge, John."

"You don't owe them anything, Susanne.  If you think 
it's too dangerous, all you have to do it say 'no'."

She looked past his left shoulder, not focusing on 
anything behind him as much as avoiding everything 
in front of her. "How can I say 'no'? Emily could be 
our daughter."

"Could she?" he asked hoarsely.  

He'd never questioned her about Ana and Katy, and 
he'd never had any reason to.  At the raw edge of 
spring 1945, after the Allies routed the Nazis from 
France, he'd finagled a pass and met Susanne in 
Paris for twenty-four giddy hours.  They'd written 
copious letters and talked by telephone when he 
could get to one, but Paris was the first time 
they'd seen each other since they'd married.  She'd 
shown him the Left Bank that afternoon, the Eiffel 
Tower that evening, and nine months after that 
night, they'd become the parents of twin girls.

His beautiful, bright, tall, blonde-haired, blue-
eyed daughters: he wanted desperately to believe 
that the timeline didn't fit.  According to her 
story, Susanne had left Germany several years before 
she'd conceived.  There was no tampering with her 
pregnancy, no ulterior motive to her marrying him.  
Two lonely, frightened people had found each other 
and fallen in love in the middle of a war.

She wasn't just cruising Wiltshire, looking for Mr. 
Gullible Good Genes and his American citizenship.

He wanted to be her Superman.

"Susanne?" he said, his voice rising an octave.

"John, no.  No, not like that.  Do not even think 
that.  I mean she is just an innocent little girl."

When he didn't respond, she hung the skillet back on 
the pot rack, lifting it with both hands as though 
it had suddenly grown heavier, and had trouble 
securing it on the hook.

"Is 'Susanne Modeski' even your real name?" he 
asked, worrying his wedding band with his thumb.

'Modeski' wasn't a Hebrew surname, but he'd assumed 
her family adopted it as an Anglicized version of 
'Moidecki' or 'Moidezki,' while 'Susanne' was the 
German equivalent of 'Susannah.' Her mother called 
her 'Nan,' which Byers had thought was a diminutive 
from childhood.

It was also, between Hebrew, Polish, and Yiddish, 
'Grace,' 'Ann,' and 'Nancy.'

The papers that allowed Susanne to flee Germany were 
forgeries, and any earlier documents had probably 
been destroyed.  The crumbling Nazi regime had 
burned the birth records, attempting to conceal the 
genocide of the Jews as well as the Lebensborn 
project: a quarter-million 'racially pure' children 
either born to unmarried Aryan women and SS officers 
and given to the government to raise, or kidnapped 
from occupied countries.  Many immigrants - Jewish 
and Aryan - arrived on Allied soil with only their 
fake passports and the clothes on their back, and 
were, for lack of any evidence otherwise, whoever 
they said they were.  It was possible, even likely, 
that when she'd bought a passport on the Moroccan 
black market in 1943, she became 'Susanne Modeski,' 
and the woman she'd been before ceased to exist.

"I cannot imagine being anyone but your Susanne," 
she finally said.

"You didn't answer me."

"John, I-" she started before her voice broke, 
leaving them in tense silence. 

He tried to say something, but he felt bone-weary, 
numb, and stretched tissue thin.  His eyes burned, 
his temples pounded, and his shoulders ached from 
the weight of the world.

He'd married a beautiful stranger, lived with her, 
loved her, and raised children with her, only to 
realize she was still as much a stranger as she'd 
been the day they'd met.

He needed a fact to quote.  He liked facts and 
figures, but the only related one he could think of 
was that almost six million Jews died in the death 
camps, and only twenty-one Nazi scientists were ever 
brought to justice in a court of law.

Byers wondered, as his tired mind began to drift 
past the edge of reason, if her German lover had 
been one of the men tried at Nuremburg.  That had 
been late November 1945, right after the war, and 
just before Katy and Ana were born.  They hadn't 
owned a television, but there was one in the window 
of the appliance store near their first apartment. 
He remembered stopping with Susanne, who was well 
into her seventh month of pregnancy, to catch a 
glimpse of the tiny, flickering screen one Saturday 
morning.  There had been a crowd, so he'd waited on 
the curb, holding their umbrella.  She'd watched for 
several minutes, huddled under a leaky awning in her 
too-tight winter coat, then turned away, took his 
hand, and walked on.  She hadn't looked back.

"I doubt La Sorbonne has the laboratory equipment I 
will need, but I am sure Oxford does," she said, 
avoiding looking at him. "I could go there.  That is 
not so far away: just across The Channel.  I could 
come home, sometimes."

At 'sometimes,' his head popped up, tilting to one 
side.  He'd envisioned her working on this research 
while the girls were at school. There might be trips 
to universities for the labs or libraries, but not 
extended stays.  He wanted to help Mulder, but not 
if that meant having Katy and Ana's mother away for 
weeks at a time.

"What do you mean 'sometimes'?"

"I-I mean I could- I could see the girls?  Yes?" she 
asked, looking at him from underneath her eyebrows, 
her blue eyes pleading. "Sometimes?"

He stepped forward, closing the gap between them. "I 
don't want you to leave.  Is that what you think?" 

She nodded miserably.

"You're my wife, Susanne, the mother of my children.  
All I want is for you to tell me the truth." He 
paused. "Whatever that truth is."

"I told you the truth!" she responded a little too 
loudly, her lower lip trembling. "And you do not 
believe me!  You think I am a Nazi harlot!  That I 
kill my own people!  I have my old research notes.  
In the attic.  They are packed between the boxes of 
summer clothes and the second-hand law books from 
your first office.  Do you want to see them, John?  
See what I did? Your wife?  Mother of your children?  
I have all the numbers.  Twin studies: mortality 
rate: ninety-three percent.  Xeno-transplantation: 
mortality rate: ninety-nine-"

"Stop it!  Please," he added.

Her face crumpled, and she wrapped her arms around 
her body, struggling not to cry.

He braced one hand on the stove beside her, and, 
without touching her, looked down at the spotlessly 
clean floor. "I believe you.  I-I just need some 
time to, to think.  To sort this out.  All of it.  
You.  Ben.  All of this."

"I am sorry," she managed.

"So am I."

"How can you possibly want me here?" she asked in a 
ragged voice.

"How can I possibly not?" he answered, his words 
bypassing his overworked brain and coming straight 
from his soul.

She lost her battle against tears and started to 
sob, covering her face with one hand.

Without raising his head, he slipped his hand into 
hers, toying with her cold fingers. "Ani l'Dodi-" he 
started, his voice creaking like a rusted hinge. 
"Ani l'Dodi, v'Dodi li."

It was one of two Hebrew phrases she'd taught him: 
'I am my Beloved's, and my Beloved is mine.'

She inhaled shakily, rested her head and one wet, 
white knuckled fist against his chest, and then 
stood motionless for a long time, waiting for the 
shadows to recede.  Eventually, as the night began 
to fray at the edges, his heart slowed beneath her 
hand, thudding dully instead of pounding in his 
ears, her fingers unclenched, and he closed his 
eyes.  

"Ani ohevet otcha," she whispered hoarsely, leaning 
against his chest as though it would open, and she 
could crawl inside and never come out again. 

"I know.  I love you, too.  I do." He put his arm 
around her, stroking the silky back of her robe.

Behind him, a man cleared his throat apologetically, 
the sound intruding into their fragile universe.

Byers exhaled and stepped back, expecting Mulder, 
but it was Will who asked, "Am I interrupting?"

"No," he lied as Susanne moved away, wiping her 
eyes, and opened the cupboard to get Will a mug. 
"Please sit down.  I think the coffee's ready."

"I was looking for my dad.  Or Dana.  Dad woke me, 
but he's not in the living room or their bed."

Byers massaged his forehead. "I think they may be 
otherwise occupied right now." 

"Occupied?" Will said skeptically, buttoning his 
uniform shirt.  He paused to yawn, then stretched 
sleepily. "No they're not; I was just in the 
shower."

Susanne salvaged the conversation by handing Will a 
cup of hot coffee, then asking if he wanted sugar.

"Lots of it.  Why is everyone awake?  And dressed?" 
he asked, noticing the dress shirt and slacks Byers 
had been wearing since the previous day.

Susanne kept her head down, fiddling with the fabric 
belt of her stained robe.  

"We were just talking."

Will looked unconvinced, but shifted his attention 
to spooning half of the sugar bowl into his coffee 
cup, leaving a sprinkle across the counter as well.  
He stirred his coffee with the sugar spoon, thought 
a moment, then asked, "May I use your telephone?"

"Of course," Byers answered. "Do you want me to put 
the call through for you?"

Will shook his head 'no,' reaching for the receiver 
as he took his first sip of coffee.  To Byers' 
surprise, Will had no trouble conversing with the 
operator in French, then waited, yawning again and 
licking off his spoon, while he was routed through 
to the switchboard in Kingston, New York.  It was 
more than an hour before dawn in France, but mid-day 
on the east coast.

"Bonjour, Madelon," Will said in a husky whisper 
that made Byers want to guard his daughters with a 
shotgun. "Comment ca va?" There was a pause, then a 
grin. "Yeah, I know that.  Dana showed me pictures.  
You're huge.  What are you gonna have: an elephant?"

Byers blinked, watching the years peel away.  He'd 
seen Mulder do this so often during the war, and 
Will unknowingly mimicked his father's posture 
perfectly.  If there was a lull in the fighting, 
Mulder was on a telephone, trying to get through to 
his wife and baby boy.  And Byers had been in line 
behind him, sitting on his field radio, and waiting 
for a chance to talk to Susanne.

Spring 1944 to autumn 1956.  More than twelve and a 
half years.  Six hundred and fifty-four Saturdays.

Will listened to whatever Maddie was saying, then 
ducked his head and responded softly, "I know.  I 
miss you.  Je t'aime aussi.  So much, honey."

The sky outside the kitchen window was black, but 
the stars had begun their slow slide toward morning.  
In the distance, lights twinkled in their neighbors' 
kitchens and barns: dairymen who milked by lantern 
light and fishermen making their way to the dock, 
just as they had for the last thousand years. Dawn 
would come soon, opening her rational violet eyes 
and pushing back the fairy magic of the night.  In a 
few hours, the girls would get up, and life would go 
on: the same, but not.

Yawning, Byers slid his hand down Susanne's sleeve, 
then over her wrist and fingertips as he left the 
kitchen.  When he entered the living room, the dog 
yawned and raised her gray muzzle, her tail 
thwapping hopefully against the stone hearth.  
Mulder must have rebuilt the fire, because flames 
were slowly licking their way over the logs, and 
warming the old stone walls.  

As he started toward his bedroom, Byers noticed 
Mulder's and Dana's door was open, revealing nothing 
in their rumpled bed except Emily and Ben.  He 
lingered in the doorway, studying them.  They slept 
like all children: cuddled together, safe, innocent, 
and certain one cry would bring their parents 
swooping in to chase away the boogieman.  Except, 
for Emily and Ben, the nightmare boogiemen in the 
shadows were real.

Byers had seen them; Mulder had slain them.

He patted the dog's head absently as she came up 
beside him, then turned, looking around his living 
room as if it might appear differently than it had 
the previous evening.  Will had turned on the radio, 
and The Five Satins crooned the opening notes of 'In 
the Still of the Night:' number twenty-four on the 
chart that week, according to the French announcer.  
The breeze had picked up, whistling under the sash 
and making the white curtains billow.

The dog sighed and lie down outside the guestroom, 
watching the front door, with one ear cocked 
sideways, listening for Emily and Ben.

A board creaked outside, and Byers went to the 
window, thinking there was an animal on the porch.  
Instead, backlit by the distant yellow moon, were 
Mulder and Dana, dancing slowly.  Mulder had gotten 
his shirt back, and he leaned down, his hands around 
Dana's waist, stroking the skin beneath her robe and 
simple blue pajamas.  She tilted her face upward, 
tiptoeing and parting her lips as he kissed her 
softly, almost reverently.  As the silhouette of 
their faces separated, she rested her head against 
his chest as they resumed dancing.

Byers doubted they could actually hear the radio, 
but it didn't seem to matter.

"John?" Susanne asked hesitantly, and he turned, 
noticing her across the room, spatula in hand. "I 
thought you were going to bed.  Did you change your 
mind?  About breakfast?"

She wanted to fix breakfast for him far more than he 
wanted to eat it.

"Or I could make tea," she offered.

"Tea," he conceded, and followed her back to the 
kitchen.

Will had pulled a chair away from the kitchen table, 
and was straddling it backward as he cradled the 
telephone against his shoulder.  He was on his 
second cup of coffee, discussing baby names in a 
rapid jumble of French and American slang.  It was a 
fruitless conversation: Mulder said the baby was a 
boy, and would be named Luc.  Byers wasn't sure how 
Mulder knew, but he'd lay odds he was right.

Rule number two about Fox Mulder: never bet against 
him, even when the chips were down.  Especially when 
the chips were down.     

Susanne turned on the burner under the kettle with a 
blue whoosh, and set an empty mug on the table, in 
front of Byers.

"Did you know that the beverage we know as 'tea' is 
virtually unchanged from what Emperor Shen-Nung 
discovered in 2737 B.C.?" Byers asked, looking up at 
her. "According to Chinese legend, the breeze blew 
some tea leaves into a kettle of boiling water, the 
Emperor tasted the resulting brew, and soon tea-"

He stopped as she smiled, looking tiredly bemused. 
"My John," she whispered, ruffling his hair. 

He pushed his eyebrows together in what Mulder 
called his 'puzzled puppy dog' expression. "You 
don't want to hear the rest of the story?"

"Of course I do," she assured him. "Tell me the rest 
of it."

Outside, on the porch, in the darkness, another 
board squeaked.

He cleared his throat and smoothed his hair into 
place as she turned away, reaching for the tea bags. 

*~*~*~* 

End Epilogue III
A Moment In the Sun: Normandy