Title: Agunah II 
Author: prufrock's love
Rating: PG-13
Keywords: sequel, other pov, established msr 
Summary: Mulder's admirer is back – and watching 
Scully and the baby
Spoilers: through Within 
Archive: link to:
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/agunah.html
Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue
Silver spoons: Jen check: fine – ends in msr & no cd, 
keep reading; Skinner-head check: attached, fully 
functional; Spooning: yep- ahhh; angst-o-meter: 
3.7 out of 10  

****

There is some benefit to all those liberal arts 
courses my father paid for: I can take the name of 
more than a dozen gods besides mine in vain. Mary-
mother-of-Christ, Sweet Buddha, Praise Allah, Blessed 
Be, and Hail to the Chief, Mulder gets up early. 

The nice thing about a baby monitor – it only has two 
channels: A and B. As long as I bought the same 
brand, I could put it on the right frequency and make 
sure the baby was all right for less than thirty 
dollars. I turned the speaker up so the crying would 
let me know if something was wrong, but it has been 
quiet since Mulder fed it at about one a.m. Even my 
mother doesn't get up this early, but I'll get used 
to it. I haven't seen Mulder sleep past five a.m. 
since I've been watching him. 

I make a quick trip to my little dingy bathroom, then 
stretch, running my tongue over my teeth and 
wondering why God chose to match me, a woman who 
likes to sleep until noon, with a man that gets up to 
usher in dawn. God works in mysterious ways. 

From my cubbyhole attic apartment, I have a clear 
view – with a little assistance from modern 
technology – of Mulder's bedroom and bathroom 
upstairs and the kitchen and living room downstairs 
through the windows.  

His new house sits on the rise of a small hill, 
overlooking the blue-green Virginia valleys and 
almost lost under the vast sky. The closest neighbors 
are several hundred yards away, so the big white 
Victorian sits apart, making it difficult to approach 
unseen. I think that's on purpose. No one gets close; 
the UPS man and pizza boy are met at the street and 
anyone unexpected is turned away. Maggie, whoever she 
is, is there often, and government men are always in 
a car at the bottom of the long driveway, watching 
the front door. There are two teams of FBI guards – 
one during the day and one at night. I've seen them 
get out and walk around: they have guns. 

They are there to keep me from Mulder and Mulder from 
me. I know that now: it's not Scully against us at 
all. Scully isn't even a part of it. They took me 
away from him and he can't stand the thought of Them 
trying to take Scully – thus the guards. Mulder must 
think Scully is all he has left. 

No, I'm alive. He doesn't have to settle for her. 

****

Mulder doesn't turn on the lights in the bedroom or 
the bathroom, but I hear him stumbling around, seeing 
to a few physical necessities before going to get the 
baby. There is some low murmuring - not even words, 
really - to quiet the baby, a diaper change, and 
footsteps descending the squeaky wooden stairs. I 
can't hear him downstairs, but I go to my telescope 
as he turns on the dim bulb in the hood over the 
kitchen stove.  

And I can see him: bare-chested, hair tousled, face 
creased with sleep and worry, and shadowed with 
stubble. He's holding a baby in the crook of his left 
arm and punching numbers on the microwave with his 
right hand, warming a bottle. While the formula 
heats, he turns the gas on under a teakettle and then 
yawns, scratching tiredly at the center of his chest 
and leaning against the counter to wait. 

He's beautiful. I've never thought of men as 
beautiful before, but Mulder is. I have memorized 
even the faintest details: a scar high on his left 
shoulder, just above where the baby's head rests, the 
V under his chin as he leans his head back against 
the kitchen cabinets, lightly dozing. He swallows and 
his throat muscles contract rhythmically. I feel like 
I could reach my hand through the high-powered lenses 
and touch him – feel the coarse hair of his chest and 
the smoothness of the muscles of his shoulders. 

The microwave goes off, probably beeping, and Mulder 
jumps awake, blinking in momentary confusion, and 
then gets his feet in motion. I know the routine: 
he'll feed the baby, then take care of it while he 
does chores and gets ready for work. By the time 
Scully decides to finally drag herself out of bed 
around eight, Mulder has done most of the housework 
and been gone for two hours.  

He has a long drive to DC, if he still works in the 
Hoover building, almost an hour. I'm sure it's 
because of her – that Scully. She probably insisted 
on this big house in the country just like she 
insists he stay with her because of the baby. I 
feel bad that this woman doesn't even take decent 
care of him; Mulder does everything before he leaves 
for work: makes bottles, folds clothes, and then 
comes home every night loaded with groceries or take-
out food, dry cleaning, and Wal-Mart bags in addition 
to his briefcase.  

That's not the way it should be, Mulder.  

There was another woman here with the baby when I 
found him again – a small, older lady with dark hair 
that Mulder calls Maggie. I knew I had the right 
address: that company on TV really can find anyone 
for $29.95, but Mulder didn't come home, even at 
night, so I thought that Maggie was a nanny and he 
was working. If Scully had died – which would be a 
sad, but a sure sign from God - he needed my help 
immediately to care for the baby. Not until I could 
be alone with him, though: I wasn't sure whether 
Maggie was one of Them or not. I can't give myself 
away until I'm sure.  

If They put me back in that hospital again, I may not 
be able to get out. It takes a long time to figure 
out what the doctors want you to say. 

Finally, Mulder came home and brought a very tired 
and pale-looking Scully with him. He kept touching 
her constantly, as though she might vanish if he lost 
contact. I watched, my face burning, as he helped her 
out of the passenger side, and then started to open 
the back door to get her suitcase. Scully's hands 
pressed against her stomach, now flat again after 
having the baby, and her chest, and she said 
something urgently to Mulder. He answered, quickly 
dropping her bag and putting his hands on her 
shoulders to steady her. After a few seconds, he 
picked her up and carried her like a child – into the 
house and up the stairs to the bedroom before he laid 
her down on the bed.  

Mulder pulled the quilt over her and she was asleep 
instantly, her hand still in his. He sat and watched 
her for a long time, stroking her hair, his face 
unreadable. Whatever he was thinking, he finally 
blinked quickly, as though he were trying not to cry, 
and then lay down beside her. That was how they 
stayed for hours – him spooned up behind her with his 
face buried in her hair.  

I saw his shoulders convulse, and I realized he was 
sobbing.  

That was when I understood why he hadn't tried to 
find me: Mulder thought I was dead and he'd resigned 
himself to Scully. Maybe she had tried to leave him 
for another man or They had taken her, but Mulder had 
found her again. He was terrified that he might lose 
her the way he lost me; I could read that easily in 
his dark eyes. It makes me sad to see him so 
neglected – to tolerate things and humble himself in 
ways no man should have to – but I also understand 
and forgive him. How could he have known what 
happened to me? 

An awful thought crossed my mind once: perhaps Mulder 
believed I'd abandoned him the way Scully had tried 
to. I shook my head, trying to clear away the 
invading thoughts and red whispering voices. Of 
course that's not true. Mulder knows me and I would 
never leave him alone. 

**** 

I understand privacy. Although I can see into the 
bathroom window, I don't watch - ever. Nothing has 
ever happened in the bedroom besides all of Scully's 
sleeping, but if he needed or had to have sex with 
her for some reason, I wouldn't watch that either. 
That's private, and he wouldn't want me to see it.  

The baby is fed and quiet now in a little hammock-
like bouncer on the kitchen table, and Mulder is 
shuffling around, doing a million little tasks that 
he shouldn't have to do.  

What kind of wife doesn't get up and make breakfast 
for her husband? For that matter, what woman gives 
her baby formula unless she has to? Scully's home all 
the time; she could nurse very easily. Wouldn't want 
to ruin her pretty breasts, I'm sure. 

It makes me sick to think anyone could be that vain. 
Goodness, I'd like to say a few things to that 
Scully.  

Mulder loads his empty cereal bowl and the baby 
bottle and nipple into the dishwasher, and makes 
himself a second cup of coffee using one of those 
little single-serve baggies. After about 45 seconds, 
he takes the bag out, leaves it in a small bowl on 
the stove, and then scrapes the very last of the 
sugar out of the sugar bowl. 

After stirring the coffee in his mug, then licking 
off the spoon and putting it in the dishwasher as 
well, Mulder finds a pen and writes something on the 
grocery list stuck up on the refrigerator door – 
'sugar', probably. He puts some laundry in the 
washer, shucking off his own plaid pajama bottoms as 
an afterthought, which embarrasses me half to death, 
and tossing them in.  

In between getting ready for work and getting the 
baby back to sleep, Mulder carries a package of 
diapers upstairs, and the trash and a few random 
dishes downstairs. He opens the front door in his t-
shirt and dress slacks and takes two bags of garbage 
out to the end of the driveway, stooping to pick up 
the newspaper on the way back in. Then back upstairs 
for a last quick check on the sleeping baby and 
Scully, and he starts the washer, finds his suit 
coat, trench coat, cell phone, keys, badge, 
briefcase, and wallet, and he's in a government 
Crown Vic and out the driveway. 

Six a.m. Not even daylight yet. 

I lay down on the lumpy twin bed that came with my 
furnished room and go back to sleep for a bit. My 
mother always says a woman should rest when her 
baby rests. The baby is fine and it isn't time yet. 

**** 
My goodness, Scully – two in the afternoon and you're 
already in the shower? Are you expecting the Queen? 
Aren't you supposed to sleep, talk on the phone, play 
on the Internet, and occasionally trouble yourself 
with that baby while wearing your bathrobe all day? 

She's put the laundry in the dryer, looking like it 
was a huge effort, made herself a weak cup of coffee 
– that's why Mulder leaves that second coffee baggie 
- and padded around the kitchen a littlle, but 
essentially, she's seen to the baby and laid on the 
couch most of the day. For the first time since 
Mulder came home with Scully, Maggie didn't come.  

Scully has the TV on CNN, but 'mute' is showing on 
the screen and the stereo looks like it's on as well. 
Mulder – or someone else she likes talking to - has 
called often, but other than that, the house is very 
still. I bought a scanner when I got the telescope 
and binoculars, but she's using the regular phone 
instead of the portable one in the kitchen or a 
cellular phone. 

Yes, I know it's illegal to listen in on telephone 
conversations, but it's not like I'm taping them or 
anything. I needed to know what was happening, and it 
can't be that awful a thing to do: the frequencies to 
pick up cell and cordless phones are posted on the 
Internet. I've never gotten to use it, anyway.  

She walks slowly into the bedroom with one towel 
wrapped around her head and another tucked under her 
arms, glancing at the baby still asleep in the middle 
of the big bed in between two pillows. I blindly 
maneuver the watered-down diet Coke from my drive-
thru, or walk-thru rather, lunch to my lips as I 
watch her, curious as to what the big event is.  

I've seen women undressed before – in movies and 
quick glimpses in gym class when I went to a public 
high school for one semester. And of course, I'm a 
woman – but it still makes me uncomfortable. I've 
seen my father too, but somehow women's bodies seem 
very foreign to me. I'm fascinated, unable to look 
away as Scully lets the towel drop to the floor and 
stares at herself critically in the dresser mirror. 

Seeing her nude makes me feel better: seeing that she 
isn't perfect either. It shouldn't. I shouldn't be so 
insecure, but knowing I shouldn't does not help very 
much. I understand that Mulder is lonely and afraid 
and he thinks I'm gone, but it still bothers me to 
see him with Scully. Even though she's not destined 
for him or good for him, she has been with him for 
months while I was locked in that awful room and 
stuffed full of pills. 

Yes, dear, in case you can't tell, you just had a 
baby. No announcement appeared in the paper, but I'm 
guessing the baby is not very old. That cute little 
toned figure you had when I last saw you – like 
someone had taken a Barbie doll and added a little 
belly as an afterthought – is not reflecting back at 
you anymore.  

I swallow, ashamed and guilty for thinking such awful 
things. Mulder cares for this woman and I owe it to 
him to be kind to her. 

I was right, though: she is vain about her breasts. 
Scully's fingers trail down over them and, as she 
turns toward me, come to rest on the angry red scars 
down the middle of her chest and across her abdomen. 
I hadn't seen those before. One is low and healed 
into a thin red line, almost certainly a C-section, 
but the others are newer and still bruised an ugly 
yellow and purple. Maybe some sort of complication 
from having the baby: that would explain where she 
was for so long. And it would explain why Mulder is 
doing all the housework and staying with her and why 
she isn't nursing – she's been very sick. Now I feel 
incredibly, three-times over guilty for thinking she 
was so lazy and slovenly.  

I understand. He can't leave her until she's better. 
I would never expect him to. I'll just have to wait 
and help in any way I can. 

As I watch, she turns from side to side, appraising 
herself in the mirror. I can't tell if she dislikes 
what she sees or not. Aside from the scars, which are 
frighteningly scarlet against her white skin, her 
body is beautiful: soft and round and smooth. It's 
different from how tiny she was before – not 
fashionably skinny yet, but I wouldn't say there is 
anything to be ashamed of. 

She pulls on her terrycloth robe and sits down at her 
dressing table, glancing over her shoulder again at 
the baby. Flipping the makeup mirror over to the 
magnifying side, she peers at herself, lightly 
touching the purple-gray shadows under her eyes and 
the creases beginning to show on her forehead and in 
the corners of her eyes. 

After unwrapping the towel from her hair and gently 
blotting it, she reaches, for the first time since 
she came home, for her cosmetics. 

I have done this – not with makeup, of course – but I 
didn't know other women did: getting dressed up when 
there's no place to go. It makes me feel close to 
her: knowing I'm not alone. Everyone needs to feel 
pretty occasionally, especially when they sometimes 
have to do dirty things. Like I said, I haven't seen 
Mulder wanting Scully to do that, but I know it will 
happen eventually. Maybe tonight; maybe she already 
knows. 

She sponges foundation over the shadows and lines, 
and then looks again, deciding she needs blush and 
mascara. Her hair is curling as it air dries and she 
tousles it with her fingers, pushing the soft red 
waves back from her face.  

Truly, Mulder, she is pretty. 

She flips the mirror to the normal side and stares at 
herself again, looking at this reflection like an old 
friend. And she smiles a little. And so do I.  

There's a trip back to the bathroom, and then she 
returns and rubs lotion over her feet and now-smooth 
legs, maneuvering awkwardly to accommodate her 
incisions. Perfume is sprayed into the air and she 
walks through it, closing her eyes as the fragrant 
mist falls over her pale skin.  

I realize my breathing has become quick and shallow 
as I watch her moving nude around Mulder's bedroom. I 
can imagine how he touched that body: gently, never 
meaning to hurt – how that baby came to be, and my 
face begins to get warm. 

I look away, decide I need to make my own trip to the 
bathroom, and when I look through the telescope-thing 
again, Scully is rummaging through the dresser 
drawers. 

A white satin bra and bikini panties go on first, and 
then Scully slides open the closet to stare at her 
wardrobe choices. She finally exhales, pushes the 
hangers of her suits aside, and selects a soft blue 
sweater with little buttons up the front. Slacks are 
more difficult, but she finds a long loose skirt with 
an elastic waist that fits. 

It's not that different from the way I dress: modest, 
feminine. I can see why you chose her, Mulder.  

I like her, Mulder. 

**** 

Scully's fallen asleep. She finished dressing and lay 
down beside the baby, probably intending to just rest 
for a minute, but she's still asleep when Mulder's 
fleet sedan turns into the driveway about four 
o'clock. She moved the monitor to the bedroom so she 
could listen to the baby while she was in the shower, 
but I don't hear her getting up as I pivot the scope 
to watch Mulder. 

He's brought dinner again: take-out Italian, from the 
look of the bags. Setting his briefcase beside the 
front door and the plastic bags on the kitchen 
counter, he goes quietly upstairs, smiling when he 
sees them laying there. Careful not to squish either 
Scully or the baby, Mulder crawls on the bed on his 
hands and knees so he's straddling Scully, kissing 
her lightly on the forehead to wake her. It reminds 
me of a prince waking Sleeping Beauty. 

I see her start to twist and stretch underneath him, 
and then stop suddenly – it must hurt. Her lips move 
a single syllable: "hi," as they contemplate each 
other, faces a few inches apart, then kiss softly.  

"How's my Lump?" Mulder asks the baby a few moments 
later, finally standing back up. "Were you good for 
your mom?" 

"She was fine," Scully's voice answers, further away 
from the mike so it's a little tinny. They've 
forgotten the monitor is in the bedroom instead of 
the nursery, so, for the first time, I have a 
soundtrack for my own private movie. "Other than the 
phone ringing every thirty minutes so you could make 
sure we were still breathing, we've both been fine." 

"Is she telling the truth, Lump? Or did Scully just 
get dressed an hour ago so I'd think she's been up 
all day?"  

"For God's sake, Mulder, stop calling her that." 

"That's it, isn't it, Lump? How 'bout Grandma Lump 
can come tomorrow so your mom can rest?" 

"Are you going to do this for the next eighteen 
years?" Scully asks. "Address me via the baby?" 

"Your mom sounds cranky, Lump. Why don't we take her 
out to dinner before she goes stir-crazy in this 
house?"

"I still have my gun, Mulder," she warns. 

"Testy, isn't she, Lump?" 

**** 

They didn't actually go out for dinner, in spite of 
what he promised. I know: men are like that. Mulder 
seems to be working on a case, so they ate at the 
coffee table in the living room, Scully sitting on 
the couch with the baby and Mulder on the floor while 
they sorted through files and watched the early news.  

I had to keep an appointment with my psychiatrist; to 
say all the right things, and it's a long bus ride, 
so it's late when I get back. Scully is asleep – at 
least, the bedroom is dark and quiet – but Mulder is 
laying on the couch downstairs watching "Gladiator." 
Wonderful: the one night I can hear them in the 
bedroom, they have a fight and decide to sleep 
separately. 

It's midnight, the movie is still playing, and I'm 
starting to yawn, when Russell Crowe returns home to 
find his wife and son dead. Mulder, who had been 
half-watching/half-dozing, stands up and shifts his 
weight from foot to foot, fidgeting with the remote 
as the gladiator finds the bodies. Then his eyes 
narrow in the blue light from the screen, and he 
flips the TV off, tossing the remote carelessly on 
the couch. 

Upstairs, the lamp beside their bed glows a soft 
yellow as he strips to his boxer shorts and lays down 
with Scully. I can hear the mattress shifting as she 
scoots closer to him. I hold my breath, cringing for 
her, as he unbuttons the front of her pajama top and 
runs his finger down the long red scar between her 
breasts. At his touch, Scully sighs and opens her 
eyes sleepily. 

"It should be shaped like an 'S' – for 'Super 
Scully," he whispers to her, planting four kisses at 
even intervals down the incision. "I can't think of 
anything for an 'I'. 'Incredible,' maybe. You wanna 
be Incredible Woman? Mulder Man and Incredible Woman: 
saving the world together." 

"You should have told the surgeon," Scully mumbles, 
resting her hand on the back of his head. "Maybe he 
takes requests." 

"He was a little rushed: those doctors get antsy when 
patients keep trying to die on them." Mulder takes 
her left nipple into his mouth briefly, sucking, then 
closes her top and lays his head on the pillow beside 
her. "It can't be an 'L' because it would be a 
lowercase letter and proper names start with caps. 
Maybe it's a number one – we can be thing one and 
thing two." 

I guess she's trying to distract him from wanting to 
have sex with her, because Scully asks him what's 
wrong.  

It takes him a few seconds, but he answers: "If I had 
been here, if you could have gotten to the hospital 
sooner…" 

"Don't, Mulder. No one could have known. It just 
happened." 

He reaches behind him to switch off the light, 
probably more comfortable touching her in the dark, 
and continues talking as though she hadn't said 
anything. "I was so scared when the baby was coming, 
but then Lump was here and you were fine and we could 
get out of the car for the first time in eight years. 
Somehow, I got it all: everything that matters in 
life. And like a fool, I blinked."  

I hear bodies shifting under the sheets and his voice 
is muffled. It must be starting. I feel for Scully, 
but it will be over soon.  

Mulder keeps talking, though: "I swear to God I would 
never have gone to work that day if I'd known you 
were feeling that sick. You said you were fine, just 
some twinges in your belly, and I believed you. 
Paperwork, Scully. I was sitting in our office doing 
paperwork and shooting the shit with Doggett while my 
wife was laying unconscious on the kitchen floor and 
our month-old baby was screaming upstairs." 

"Mulder," she tries to say, but he talks over her. 

"I think that had to be the worst moment in my life – 
which is saying something – walking in and finding 
you laying there. It just kept getting worse and 
worse. Every time the doctors would come out to the 
waiting room, there was something else wrong. The 
infection had spread further and you were getting 
weaker. Those physicians didn't know you, Scully. 
They don't know how hard you had fought to keep 
breathing in Antarctica or when you were shot or when 
you were returned or had cancer or how long we'd 
wanted that baby I was holding. It was just routine 
to them. Just another mundane infection that didn't 
get caught quickly enough and now your body was 
shutting down. What if they'd decided to quit? If the 
surgeon had been late for his golf game or needed 
to pee and decided not to do the thora – thoro – open 
your chest to get your heart going? You'd be dead 
because I went back to work to catch up on paperwork 
for one Goddamn day."  

I hear a sob and a long, shuddery breath from him and 
the sound of lips touching flesh.  

"Please don't do this, Mulder. You don't need to do 
this to yourself." 

"Too late," he says, and then sniffs. "I'm so sorry, 
Scully." 

"I'm a doctor. If anyone should have recognized the 
signs of a postpartum infection, it should have been 
me. You want to hear about how guilty I feel?"  

"Okay," he whispers to her, sniffing again. 

Scully makes an exasperated noise and the bed shifts 
again. "We need comfort-makeup sex, Mulder. It's the 
only thing that will get you to snap out of it when 
you're like this." 

"Can't, can we?" His voice sounds a little calmer. 

"No, not yet. Try laying here with me and thinking 
dirty thoughts." 

"Not dirty, Laura – we're married now." He murmurs 
something that I can't make out and her reply makes 
me blush. I'm not able to image ever being so bold 
and shameless. 

"You better now, Mulder?" she asks a few minutes 
later, although I haven't heard anything that could 
make a man 'feel better.' 

"Yeah," he answers. "How 'bout you?" 

"I'm fine," Scully says calmly, and Mulder chuckles, 
although I don't understand why. 

I put the monitor beside my bed and lay down, 
waiting, almost wanting to hear him with her, but 
after an hour or so, all I hear is soft breathing as 
they both finally fall asleep. 

It doesn't seem fair.  

**** 

I'm so embarrassed that I actually start crying, 
which horrifies me even more. I dropped my basket of 
muffins and bagels all over the driveway and now my 
present is ruined. What kind of crazy idiot am I that 
I can't even deliver a welcome basket without making 
a fool of myself? 

"Sorry, Agent Scully – we told her to stop. I don't 
think she speaks English," one of the FBI men says, 
holding me by my shoulder and twisting my arm 
painfully behind my back. "English?" he yells into my 
ear, and I flinch back, terrified he's going to hit 
me. "I don't think she understands." 

"For God's sake, Adams, let her go. You're scaring 
the poor girl to death," Scully says, sticking the 
mail under her arm and closing the box.  

The other agent keeps his hand on his gun as Adams 
takes a step back, frisking, and then releasing me. I 
wrap my arms around myself, shaking, and ashamed to 
look at Scully. My English is good, but I was focused 
on hurrying to meet Scully at her mailbox and I guess 
I didn't hear them. Now she thinks I'm a fool. 

"Do you speak English? What's your name?" she asks 
me, talking the way you'd talk to a frightened child. 

"Ruth," I stutter out, which is a lie. "My name is 
Ruth. I am sorry."  

"You didn't do anything wrong, Ruth. My name is Dana. 
I'm sorry these men frightened you. They are just 
trying to keep me safe." 

"I bring – I brought-" Oh, God, I'm so embarrassed. I 
never can conjugate when I'm nervous, so I'm just 
standing there and pointing at the baked goods on 
the pavement while she stares at me. 

"You brought a welcome gift?" I nod, wiping my nose 
on my sleeve. "Are you a neighbor?" 

"She came out of there," Adams says, pointing to the 
old blue house across the field. "I think she lives 
there." 

"Hush," Scully orders him. "Are you one of our 
neighbors?" 

Again, I only manage a nod. After a deep breath, I 
whisper, "It is dirty. Ruined." 

"Your bagels? I think we can save a few." She starts 
to stoop down to pick them up, then stops, wincing.  

"I will – I…" I quickly kneel, the asphalt grinding 
into my knees through my skirt, and start gathering 
anything that is wrapped in cellophane. I was so 
excited about the poppy seed muffins when I saw them 
in the bakery – close to the sunflower seeds Mulder 
is always eating - but now they're soggy and inedible 
from the wet driveway. 

"How about," Scully says as I get to my feet and hand 
the half-empty and jumbled basket to her, "You and I 
share a bagel on the front porch – front porch, Adams 
– and we'll let Adams and Agent McCoy have all the 
muffins they can pick up out of the gutter?" 

I nod eagerly and sniff one last time.  

"Come on, then."  

When we get to the front porch, Scully asks me to 
wait outside while she goes to get a knife. I stand 
in the doorway, trying to take in the sensations that 
go with things I've only seen from a distance. In the 
corner of the big living room is a desk piled with 
files and books – Mulder's domain, and his empty cup 
is still sitting on the end table where he left it 
last night. A ponytail scrunchy of Scully's has been 
forgotten beside the telephone and the phone number 
for 'Pizza Place' is written on the front of the 
phone book with a smiley face beside it. A pacifier 
and two Blockbuster movies on top of the TV, a worn 
pair of Mulder's tennis shoes beside the couch, 
Maggie's purse just inside the door. I smell coffee 
and dusty books and a clean baby and starched shirts 
and polished wooden floors. The house is open, airy, 
and the clutter seems to be confined to certain 
corners that Mulder frequents.

"Ruth, this is my mother Margaret," Scully says, 
gesturing to the woman who returns with her and 
jarring me back to reality.  

"Maggie," she says, offering her hand. "Thank you for 
the bagels." 

"You are welcome," I answer, then add, "Maggie."  

Her mother sits beside me, but the baby starts to cry 
and she goes inside to get it, leaving Scully on the 
top step and me sitting a few below her. I'm so 
nervous that I can't eat and I'm stuttering all over 
the place, but she pretends not to notice. 

"It is nice – your mother come and watch the baby," I 
say, trying to make conversation. 

"Yes, she's been a big help." 

"You have been married long time?"  

"We've been together forever," she answers, pulling 
the foil safety seal off of the little tub of cream 
cheese I bought to go in the basket. "Would you like 
some?"  

"Yes, thank you." While she ices my half of the onion 
bagel, I say, "It is kosher." She's probably too 
polite to ask. For Mulder, I mean; I know she's not 
a Jew. 

"Oh," she looks surprised for a second. "Thank you." 

Scully is wearing one of Mulder's oversized polo 
shirts, and, as she looks up, I can see a gold cross 
glittering at the hollow of her throat. Below that, 
the very top of the scar that runs between her 
breasts is visible. 

"You have been sick," I say, impulsively putting my 
fingers on the raised, red line. There's an electric 
spark as my flesh meets hers and I pull back. "I am 
sorry." 

"Yes, I have been sick." She looks uncomfortable and 
starts to get up. 

"I am sorry," I say again. "My culture – it is 
different than yours." One nice thing about having a 
strong foreign accent and an exotic face: you can 
blame any odd thing you do on your 'culture' and no 
one will dare say any different.  

Scully shifts away from me, probably not even 
conscious that she's doing it, and stares out at the 
rolling hills. 

"I did not mean to make you feel bad." 

"No," she hurries to say. "You didn't do that. I'm 
just a little jumpy." 

"Jumpy?" I ask. 

"Nervous," Scully explains. 

I nod again. "You are worried about Them. The men." 

"The men in the car?" She raises her chin toward the 
agents at the end of the driveway. "No – they are 
supposed to be there." 

"Of course," I agree. "I know about Them. Mulder and 
I – we know about them." 

"You know Mulder?" 

"He is awake early in morning. We see each other, 
sometime." I blush, thinking of some of the things 
I've seen early in the morning. "While you are 
asleeping." 

Scully looks me up and down, making me feel awkward 
and gangly beside her petite figure. I have seen my 
mother look at my father like that: I know what she 
is thinking.  

"It is not bad," I try to explain. "There is no 
secret. He is your husband, not mine. I know that."  

My doctor and I talk about that: me mixing reality 
with fantasy. How sometimes the real is so awful you 
have to live in a dream, but you still have to be 
able to tell the difference. Mulder and I will be 
together one day, but we are not married yet. 
Sometimes I become confused, but my medicine helps me 
sort it out now. 

"Oh," she says, laughing softly. "No – Mulder makes 
lots of friends. He's, um, outgoing." 

"Out-?" 

"Outgoing. Friendly. He talks a lot." 

"Yes, he does," I agree wholeheartedly. "Sometime I 
do not understand." 

"Would you like to know a secret?" Scully asks me, 
the corners of her mouth turning up and her blue eyes 
sparkling. 

I nod, wide-eyed. No one ever tells me secrets. 

"He doesn't want you to understand: that's his excuse 
to keep talking. When you do understand, he'll just 
find something new to tell you about." 

That was too many pronouns for me to keep track of, 
but Scully smiles, so I smile back.  

"Be glad he doesn't have slides." 

Now I'm completely lost, but I keep nodding, probably 
looking like a chicken with a nervous tic. 

As I'm trying to figure out how to respond, another 
car parks in the driveway, and I turn, assuming 
Mulder is home from work, although it's not even noon 
yet. Instead, it's another man I've never seen 
before. I watch him as he gets out of the car, trying 
to decide if he reminds me more of Paul Newman or 
Clint Eastwood.  

Scully starts to get up, trying to figure out the 
most comfortable way stand. 

"Hold on – I'll help you," the man calls to her, 
getting his briefcase out of the backseat.  

Scully ignores him, finally managing to get to her 
feet. I hover over her, not knowing how to help and 
trying not to get in the way.  

"You're gonna bust those stitches," the man informs 
Scully good-naturedly. "Then I'll be stuck listenin' 
to your husband all by myself."  

"Ruth, this is John Doggett. John Doggett, Ruth." He 
smiles appreciatively. "Mulder's found another 
victim; Ruth seems to have the early morning shift." 

"You can have it, Ruth. Everyone makes it a point to 
avoid Mulder until they've had their first cup of 
coffee. Me, I try not to speak to anyone until ten, 
so you're right on time." 

I'm just smiling and nodding like I have any idea 
what they're talking about. 

"Mr. Doggett works with Mulder and me, Ruth. He's 
brought some things for me to look at. I'm sorry, but 
this is important. Can you-?" 

"Yes," I say enthusiastically, not even letting her 
finish her sentence. "I can come back anytime." 

"That would be nice. Thank you for the basket," she 
says politely, but I'm already hurrying down the 
sidewalk before I say or do anything else stupid. 
When I look back over my shoulder, both Scully and 
John Doggett are already inside. 

****  

There are so many new things to think about, but I 
don't have time. As soon as I catch my breath, make 
my weekly phone call to my mother – which takes a 
while - and check all my e-mails, Mulder is parking 
in the space John Doggett pulled out of a few hours 
ago.  

I paid top dollar for the 'bug' I hid in the basket, 
but it's new technology to me, and it doesn't seem to 
pick up more than a few feet away. I'm a little 
disappointed, but something is still better than 
nothing. 

"Hi, sleepyhead," Mulder says as Scully ambles into 
the kitchen about six o'clock, still half-asleep from 
her long nap. 

Scully leans close for a kiss, mumbles something in 
response, and then peers into whatever he's stirring 
in the big pot. "Dinner? What is this, Mulder?"  

"I started out making seven-bean soup, but then I 
moved on to vegetable and now I'm going for 
minestrone. If that doesn't pan out, I'm considering 
chili." 

She examines a spoonful, raising an eyebrow. "And how 
close do you think you are to something edible?" 

"Well, there have been a few setbacks." He takes the 
spoon back, looking defensive. "I didn't know we 
needed anything from the store. Do we owe your mom 
any money or did you give her the check card? I 
looked, but I didn't see any checks missing."  

Scully looks puzzled until she realizes he's talking 
about my basket of bagels and a few salvaged muffins 
on the counter. "No – one of our neighbors brought 
that over. It was very Arcadia. Ruth: tall, pretty, 
long dark hair, shy. She said she'd talked to you." 

"Tall, pretty, long dark hair – no, doesn't sound 
like anyone I'd notice. I'm hooked on redheads. I 
like those cinnamon bagels, though." Mulder turns the 
burner down and puts the lid back on the stockpot. 
"Come here – I made you something." 

"I see what you made me, and whatever it is, there's 
a hell of a lot of it." 

"No, something better." He backs her to the other 
side of the kitchen and lifts her up very gently so 
she's sitting on the washing machine with him between 
her legs. "Something not scorched. I even wrapped 
it." 

"Ooh, baby," Scully responds, sounding sarcastic. 
"You only missed my birthday by a few months." She 
looks him over, pats all pockets, and then asks, 
"So where is it?" 

"Here," he says, opening his arms wide. "You don't 
unwrap, you unbutton." 

She gives him an amused look, and then starts undoing 
the buttons on his dress shirt as I check the focus 
on my telescope and remind myself to breathe. "Why 
am I not surprised there's a vicarious thrill in this 
for you? You're going to make me strip search you? I 
swear, if you've-" 

Then she starts giggling, which doesn't seem like 
anything Scully would ever do. She locks her ankles 
around his waist, lets her head fall on his shoulder, 
and laughs wildly, alternating between laughter and 
"ouch, ouch, ouch," as she clutches her chest and 
stomach.  

"Stop – what are you laughing at? I really dislike it 
when women start taking off my clothes and laugh. 
Thank God it's not my pants. Seriously, what?" 

Scully's back is still convulsing and she doesn't 
answer. 

"Okay, okay, stop laughing. I'd like to keep all your 
insides inside. Don't hurt yourself." 

She finally recovers enough to speak, but first 
plants a long, warm, open-lipped kiss on him that 
makes me run my tongue around my own mouth, wondering 
how it feels to have someone do that. 

Wiping her eyes and tasting him on her lips as she 
smiles, Scully says, "That has to be one of the 
sweetest things I've ever seen. I'm not sure whether 
to laugh or cry." 

"For God's sake, don't cry," he says quickly. "I 
didn't mean to make you cry." 

"That's a permanent marker?" she asks, and Mulder 
nods, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Then I guess 
we're stuck with each other." 

"Guess so. Why didn't we do this years ago, Scully?" 

"I don't think we could have." 

He ponders for a few seconds, then replies, "Guess 
not. Glad we did it now?" 

"Very," she answers, kissing him lightly one last 
time before he helps her slide down. 

"I almost did Lump, but I thought maybe babies and 
markers didn't mix," Mulder says, making sure Scully 
is steady before he steps back. 

"Good thought," she says, following him out of the 
kitchen. 

Mulder stops to turn the burner all the way off and 
his blue shirt, still unbuttoned, falls open. In red 
magic marker down the center of his chest, a good 
eight inches high, is a big number '2.'  

I have no idea why I'm crying.

****  

When I think of FBI agents, I think of stakeouts and 
car chases and secret undercover assignments like 
they show on television. In my dreams, Mulder kicks 
down the door and shouts "freeze," then shoots the 
gun out of the bad guy's hand to save me. 

He does not sit around in the middle of the afternoon 
with green goo on his face and paint Scully's 
toenails while they watch M*A*S*H reruns and pig out 
on stale baked goods.  

"It itches," he complains again, finishing with one 
of her feet and switching to the other. "What is this 
supposed to do again – are we exfoliating or 
moisturizing?" 

"We're fighting fine lines and wrinkles, and we need 
all the help we can get," Scully replies, her own 
green cheeks stuffed full of the last cinnamon bagel. 
They've camped out in the living room and seem to be 
having some sort of combination picnic and pajama 
party. Scully is sitting on the couch and Mulder is 
on the floor in front of her with her legs draped 
over his shoulders. The baby is squirming around on a 
blanket beside Mulder, and the remnants of their 
feast are scattered across the rug: my basket, open 
jars of peanut butter, jelly, cream cheese, a quart 
of skim milk and some orange juice they've been 
passing back and forth. "Don't scratch, Mulder." 

Mulder scratches, leaving flesh-colored lines across 
his cheek and forehead, and then wipes his fingers 
off on the belly of his t-shirt. He leans his head 
back onto her lap, looking up at her with pleading 
eyes. "Please get this shit off my face, Scully. I 
feel stupid and my skin is on fire." 

She calls him "a wimp," but she tissues most of it 
off, revealing pink skin underneath. Mulder finishes 
the job with the hem of his t-shirt, still scratching 
at his cheek.  

"I think that stuff reacts badly to testosterone," he 
informs her, finishing the last toe and giving the 
top of her foot a kiss. "Done. Next." 

Mulder pivots the baby around, then picks through the 
collection of polish, trying to choose. "Whatcha 
wanna be, Sculder Lump – 'desert rose' or 'flutter'? 
Or 'vamp' – you wanna be 'vamp'?"  

"Mully', Mulder – and she doesn't want her toes 
painted." 

He makes a puppy-dog face at her. "But I'm gettin' so 
good at it." 

Scully gives him a stern look and the nail polish is 
put away.  

"Do you know what Mommy and Daddy were doing this 
time a year ago, Little Mully-Sculder Lump?" Mulder 
asked the baby, setting her on his legs so she's 
looking up at him with big blue eyes. "Daddy had been 
off chasing space ships, which is very, very bad, and 
Mommy had some sort of epiphany. Long story short: we 
did something you shouldn't even think about doing 
until you're thirty and got ourselves the beginnings 
of a Lump. Of course, Daddy didn't know that for a 
long time. Daddy thought the only thing he got that 
weekend was an ugly hat, some jet-lag, and a big 
smile, so imagine his surprise."  

Scully sighs, although she doesn't seem as 
embarrassed as I am at Mulder acting so stupid, and 
goes into the kitchen. When she returns, her face is 
skin-colored again and she's brought him a wet paper 
towel so he can clean off the last traces of face 
mask. 

"Traumatize that child a little more, Mulder," Scully 
says as he helps her sit on the floor beside him. 
"Can't you tell her a normal story?" 

"Um – no," Mulder replies flippantly, shifting the 
baby to his shoulder where she snuggles down 
contentedly. Such a good baby - I won't mind taking 
care of her at all. 

"Love you, Scully," he says softly a few minutes 
later, never looking away from Radar and Hot Lips' 
big adventures on the television.
 
"I know," she says, leaning her head on his 
unoccupied shoulder. 

"Gotta go tomorrow, Scully…" he whispers, so quiet I 
can't make out the rest. 

"I know," Scully says again, stroking her fingers 
tips up and down his forearm. 

"Gotta make the world a safe place for Sculder-Mully 
Lumps, Scully. Destiny sucks sometimes." 

I expect another 'I know,' but instead she just lies 
down across his lap and he rests his hand lightly on 
her head. They stay that way as afternoon starts to 
become evening – the baby dozing on Mulder's shoulder 
and Scully across his legs among the remnants of 
their feast – until I finally get tired of watching 
them and go play on the Internet. 

*~*~*~* 

I'm typing away in a chat room when a moan from 
Mulder catches my attention.  

"Whatcha doin'?" he asks in a sleepy voice as I go to 
my telescope. "Are you accosting me while I sleep?" 

"Nothing," Scully answers, unfastening the front of 
his jeans as he lays on a blanket on the living room 
floor.  

"You're very brave," Mulder mumbles, squirming. "My 
wife will be back any minute and she has a gun. If 
she catches you torturing me like this…" He pauses 
to moan again, arching his neck back as she peels 
open the front of his Levis. "Seriously, Scully – 
what are you doing? You're not supposed to be having 
sex yet. No exertion. The doctor said – oh dear God – 
the doctor said-" 

"I'm not having sex," she responds, but her shoulders 
are blocking my view. I can't see what she's doing to 
him, but I can imagine and it makes me sick to my 
stomach. 

"Says who? Clinton?" Mulder manages. "Wait, wait a 
second. Time out. Come down here, woman."  

She maneuvers carefully so they're laying face to 
face on the floor, her head resting on his 
outstretched arm.  

"How are we gonna do this, Scully?" 

"You mean you don't remember?" she says playfully, 
looping her leg over his hips. "Has it been than 
long? Do we need to get out some of your videos?" 

"You know what I'm asking. And we both know why 
you're doing this. And Lump's here. What's it gonna 
do to that child's sexuality if she wakes up and sees 
us 'not having sex'?"

"At this rate? She'll probably yawn and go right back 
to sleep, Mulder." 

Mulder runs his hand lightly over her body: caressing 
her breast, gliding down her waist, and finally 
resting on her backside. "You talk about me 
traumatizing Lump: I'm warning you - this," he says, 
"is how lesbians get started – not that that's a bad 
thing." 

"You can't just make someone a lesbian," Scully says, 
shifting her hips. 

"Howard Stern can," he replies earnestly, "I think 
I'm a lesbian trapped in a man's body, Scully."  

She stops him, tilting his chin so she can see his 
face. "I think maybe you don't want to do this." 

Mulder watches her, chewing his lower lip nervously. 
"It's not that you're not amazing – you know that. 
You just seem so… fragile. If the doctor says wait, 
let's wait. You can't imagine what is was like to 
almost lose you." 

"Maybe I can." She sighs, closing her eyes. "Who knew 
you'd have all the sexual restraint in this 
relationship?" 

"Seven years of practice," he explains blithely, then 
adds more seriously, "I'm gonna come back, Scully. 
You know me – I'll finally get to the heart of this 
global conspiracy and probably discover all my 
questions could have been answered by the true lyrics 
to 'Louie Louie' the whole time. One little meeting – 
don't even worry about it. Me, Skinner, Krycek, an 
empty parking garage, some cryptic double-speak – 
just like old times. Tomorrow is just a little side-
trip and then we get on with our lives." 

She opens her eyes. "You take a lot of these side-
trips, Mulder." 

"Not anymore, I don't." He stands, helps Scully to 
her feet, and then picks up the sleeping baby. "How 
about – since we're not having sex, let's put Lump to 
bed and then not have sex on a softer surface?" 

Scully watches at him for a moment, her eyes looking 
very sad, then nods and follows him up the stairs. 

Oh God, I can't watch this.  

*~*~*~*

Scully answers the door still holding the portable 
phone, a little out of breath and looking flustered. 
I tolerated as much of her and Mulder touching and 
kissing and… licking and sucking as I could stand and 
then I magically discovered an unlisted phone number 
and an excuse to interrupt.  

"Ruth - hello," she says politely, like her hair 
isn't tousled and her cheeks aren't flushed. Like I 
don't know what she and Mulder were just doing.  

Upstairs, the baby is crying, and I hear Mulder 
moving around, seeing to it. That must have been the 
deal: Mulder would get the baby after the phone woke 
it, and Scully would get me the sugar I claimed I 
needed desperately. 

"Ruth?" she says again, and I realize I've been 
standing there for several seconds doing nothing 
except staring.  

"Mulder give me the number for emergency, but I am 
not supposed to call," I stutter out, knowing that's 
what she's wondering. "In case something wrong. No 
neighbors." I explain, gesturing to the open fields 
around the two houses. 

"It's okay – no phone number stays a secret very long 
around Mulder. Come in; I'll get your sugar."  

I follow her through the living room and into the 
big, old-fashioned kitchen, trying not to look like 
I'm on the White House tour as I crane to see 
everything.  

"Bottle!" Mulder requests from upstairs. 

"Coming," Scully responds, grabbing one out of the 
refrigerator, loosening the lid, and popping it into 
the microwave. 

"Did you bring…." she asks, looking to see what I 
want her to put the sugar in. In my haste, I didn't 
remember to bring anything, so she gets out one of 
Mulder's clean Tupperware bowls; he's been making 
soups for the last week and taking his catastrophes 
to work with him for lunch. "How much do you need?" 

"A cup," I respond, since that's what people always 
say on television.  

Scully nods, measures four perfectly level quarter-
cups, and then snaps the lid down as the microwave 
beeps. 

"I get it," I offer, jerking open the door, 
tightening the lid, and then tipping the bottle back 
and forth to mix the formula the way I've seen them 
do it. "Need practice," I add. "Baby is coming soon." 

She pauses long enough to note my flat stomach and 
the engagement ring I traded my wedding band for. 
That, and if she knows anything about being a Jew, my 
long, uncovered hair indicates I'm a virgin – they 
wouldn't let me out of the hospital until I stopped 
covering my head, wearing a wedding ring, and 
insisting I was married. "Congratulations." 

"No, that is not true," I blurt out, then blink, 
wondering what possessed me to say that. I know when 
Mulder leaves her he won't bring the baby, but I kind 
of like to think that he might. 

"What is not true?" she asks, offering the plastic 
bowl and reaching for the bottle. 

"No baby," I mumble. "I only like to pretend. Maybe 
He will bless us." 

"You never know," Scully says, smiling kindly, and I 
relax. 

Sock feet pad softy down the stairs and I hear Mulder 
talking to the infant in the living room, trying to 
get it to settle down as he puts it in a baby swing.  

"Okay," he says, coming into the kitchen in jeans and 
that same gray t-shirt with face mask smeared across 
the front of it. "Butt's dry – I've averted the 
crisis, but she's gonna figure out any minute that 
the pacifier is only a placebo and we'll have a 
melt-" 

Mulder stops short when he sees me, jerking his head 
back a millimeter. The briefest flash of realization 
and panic pass over his face before his blank 
expression returns. He puts a hand on his right hip, 
searching for something, then stops when he realizes 
it's not there. 

"Hello," he says calmly.  

I look down, suddenly feeling very shy. 

"Mulder - you already know Ruth," Scully introduces, 
watching him curiously. 

He nods, his dark eyes darting between Scully and me 
in the kitchen, and then to the baby in the living 
room. His chest seems to rise and fall a little 
faster as he focuses on the block of knives on the 
counter beside me.  

"I am not going to hurt," I assure him.  

"Then prove it to me," Mulder responds calmly. "Come 
away from Scully and away from the counter." 

I shuffle a few steps toward him, mumbling miserably, 
"I did not tell her about us. I did not. I was only 
watching – in case." 

"Watching what?" he asks, gesturing for Scully to 
come to him. She hurries past him, and then returns, 
standing close and pressing something into his hand 
behind his back so I can't see what it is.  

God, I've really done it now. The red voices that 
have been whispering to me all day start hissing 
angrily and I don't have any of my pills to make them 
stop. 

"Scully faint in the kitchen; almost die. When you 
bring – brought her home, you lay with her and cried. 
You were sad. I watch in case she get sick again. 
Just watching – not bother, just like the doctor 
said."  

"How did you know I cried?" Mulder say tersely, his 
face flushing. "You're watching us in our bedroom? 
That's why you just called, isn't it? Are you 
listening to us, too?" 

I nod, feeling tears beginning to spill out of my 
eyes and my nose starting to drip. 

"What did you tell Scully? That we're lovers? Tell 
her that's not true. Tell her-" 

"Mulder," Scully warns.  

"I told her nothing about that!" I yell at him. 

"Because there's nothing to tell!" he barks back, and 
I flinch. "There never has been and there never will 
be. How dare you! You stalked us, watched us? You 
bugged our house? You lied to my wife? She's lying, 
Scully – whatever she said, she's lying. I know she 
looks like Diana, but I swear to God-" 

"Of course she's lying, Mulder. I know she's lying," 
Scully assures him.  

"You saw…" He stops, swallows, and raises a gun, his 
hand shaking.  

"Mulder!" Scully says sharply.  

"You saw her laying here, didn't you? You knew Scully 
was in the kitchen when I found her because you 
watched her lay there dying! You saw and yet you did 
nothing!" 

There's a click, and I find myself staring down the 
barrel of a very big gun pointed at my chest. 

I want him to shoot. I'll never have the courage to 
do it myself, but I wish he would. Maybe when I'm 
dead there won't be voices in my head or touches in 
the dark or people whispering about me behind my back 
and thinking I can't hear them. 

I hold my breath, focusing on his finger on the 
trigger as Scully puts her hand on his arm.  

"Easy, Mulder," she tells him, "It's not worth it. 
You're too tired – too much stress." 

At her touch, he exhales, but doesn't look away from 
me or move a muscle. "I will do everything I can to 
make sure you never get out this time," Mulder says, 
pronouncing each word distinctly, "But if you ever 
come near Scully or my daughter again I will blow 
your head off and not think twice. Don't think I 
won't."

"We have her, Mulder," comes another male voice from 
behind me, and I realize the FBI guards have come in 
the kitchen door. There must be some sort of panic 
button like in the hospital and Scully must have 
pushed it when she went to get his gun. And hers – 
she has her weapon as well.  I was wrong: Scully is 
one of Them. I should have known. Everyone is one of 
Them. 

"They have her, Mulder," Scully echoes, and he slowly 
lowers the gun, turning toward her. 

As the men frisk me and start reading my rights, 
Mulder wraps his arms around Scully's shoulders, 
pulling her against him.  

"I'm sorry, Scully," he tells her tiredly. "I'm 
trying so hard. Christ, what a year." 

"I know. Would you like to tell me what this was all 
about?"  

The Agent called McCoy wants to handcuff me, but I 
plead with him, "I did not hurt." I never intended to 
do anything except make sure Mulder was okay while 
I waited for him. 

Mulder's holding Scully as though she might try to 
slip away, and he raises his face from the top of her 
head to look at me. "You did hurt," he says icily, 
but I don't understand. 

****

End: Agunah II