I am a part of all that I have met.
Ulysses
                          ****

His profile had found Jeff Anderson's eternally eight-year-old body
in the weeds of an abandoned church graveyard two hours before
the phone rang - Skinner ordering him to "get on a plane, Agent. 
Now."

Mulder started to tell him no.  No more running.  Skinner could
fire him, but he was going home to Scully before he forgot the
way.  

This wasn't an assignment he could refuse.  Not if he wanted to
ever go home again.

All he wanted was to spend eight hours with his arms wrapped
around Scully on a cold night, holding her against him under the
warm blankets and feeling the baby kick inside her.  All he wanted
was the simple pleasure of home and family, but once again,
Mulder packed hurriedly and got on the last commercial plane that
was leaving Hawaii for months.

Exhausted, he stood quietly outside the lab, wasting precious
seconds watching Skinner and Scully taking turns looking into a
microscope.  Through the glass, Mulder couldn't hear their words,
but they both had grave expressions.  Of course, they both -usually-
had grave expressions; he would have been more worried if they
were swapping dirty limericks.  He noticed Skinner didn't touch
Scully's back the way he would have as she peered through the
scope, her lips still moving with whatever she was so urgently
telling the AD.

Mulder just watched her, looking for any change.  Something that
told him she wanted him, that she would be glad he was finally
home.  Maybe a sign that she was pregnant, but he couldn't see any
change in her small frame.  If anything, she looked even slimmer
and paler.

Please let her still be pregnant.

Please.

She twisted quickly toward Skinner, and Mulder saw her eyes lose
focus.  The big man caught her quickly before she fell off her 
stool, but Mulder was already through the lab door.

"What's wrong with her?" he asked, ignoring any usual niceties of
hello and how-was-your-flight.

"She'll be okay - this happens a lot.  Here, Mulder.  Take her and
I'll get her something to sip on.  Just keep her steady; she'll wake
up in a little bit."

Skinner and Mulder played Twister for a few seconds as they
switched places, and Scully's eyes were opening and starting to
focus when Skinner returned with a plastic cup of clear soda and a
straw.

"You came back, Mulder?" she asked weakly.

"It's either me or it's an amazing facsimile.  I hope it's me, 
because I've been wearing Mulder's underwear for thirty-nine hours
now."

"Missed you."

"Missed you too, partner."  Ignoring Scully's iron-clad don't-kiss-
me-in-the-office rule, he pushed his lips briefly and softly to her
cool forehead before Skinner cleared his throat.

<Jealous, sir?>

"Good to see you again, Agent Mulder.  We've got something I'd
like you to look at."

Mulder was busy holding the love of his life and the mother of his
child - he could care less what was under the microscope.  And he
wanted to know why Scully still looked so pale.  The books said
most morning sickness passed by the first trimester, and she should
be about four month's pregnant by now.   

Scully seemed able to sit up on her own, so Mulder reluctantly let
her go.  She leaned to the side while he looked in to the
microscope, asking her what he was looking at.

"Bees.  One of lots and lots of bees."

Scully excused herself to go to the bathroom, and Skinner briefed
him on what seemed to be the X-file to end all X-files.  "This is 
the sample that came in from Tunisia last night.  The population there
is being attacked by bees, as I told you on the phone.  There's
already been hundreds of deaths and it's not just smallpox this
time."  

"It's starting, then."  Mulder's jet lag immediately vanished.

"I think it's more ending.  The consortium is dead; most of the
players have vanished.  I think this is just an accident now that 
the research has ended and the network is breaking down."

"Can I ask how you know that, sir?"

"No, you cannot, Agent Mulder.  You can take Scully home for the
evening and let her rest.  She's been here since dawn and she's-"

Scully reappeared, so Skinner abruptly switched back into boss-
mode.  "Efforts to contain the outbreaks continue, but so far, none
have been effective.  The bees had spread through most of the
Middle East and Southern Europe before the first victims died, so
the entire area is a hot zone.  There are no reports of swarms in
North America, but it's just a matter if time.  There's a media
blackout, but martial law will be declared tomorrow, so if you two
want to leave, you should do it tonight."    

Skinner had called him back, not to fight the bees, but to take care
of Scully.

"Are you leaving, sir?"

Skinner shook his head from side to side.

"Then neither are we." 

"Then be back in the morning for your assignments.  Early.  And
Agent Scully - you need to decide before it's too late."
                     ****

Mastering the lawless science of out law,--
That codeless myriad of precedent, 
That wilderness of single instances. 
Aylmer's Field
                     ****

"Are you ever planning on speaking to me again, Scully?" Mulder
asked as he drove her car through the innocent, sleeping city to her
apartment.  He wondered how many children had added the part
about "if I die before I wake" as they said their bedtime prayers.

"I'm just thinking, Mulder."

"Whatcha thinkin, partner?"

"Deep thoughts, Mulder."  She continued to stare out into the dark,
still sipping the drink Skinner had brought her as though ginger ale
cured all things, including alien breeding programs gone awry.

"About the bees?  About us?  About the baby?  About the Knick's
chances if they lose their point guard?  What, Scully?"

<Glib would probably NOT be the best way to go, Mulder.>

"Just thinking, Mulder.  It's a lot to sort out at one time."
     
"Start with the easiest," he told her, pulling the gearshift into
reverse and backing into a coveted space right in front of her
building.  He carried both their briefcases and his luggage inside,
following her like a porter, but Scully was silent as she unlocked
the door.  Assuming he was going to get to stay, Mulder let her
think, sorting out his dirty clothes and preparing to do a couple
loads of laundry.  He'd rather not meet Death with dirty undies and
twice-worn socks.  

"I don't think either you or I can be infected with the virus if 
we're stung, Mulder."

"I agree," he said, instantly shifting his attention away from his 
socks and to his partner.  What wasn't she saying?

"But I'm not sure about the baby."  

That was the easiest thing she was thinking about?  

"If you got stung, the virus could gestate inside the baby and kill
you, even though you'd never actually be infected," Mulder though
out loud.  "Scully-"

"No, Mulder!"

"It's not about you not wanting the baby, Scully.  It's about life 
or death.  Your life!  We have know way of knowing how bad the
swarms will get and-"

"I can't.  I'm sorry, but I just can't.  I'm too afraid."

Mulder still didn't think Dana Scully was afraid of anything but
sex and snakes and those two kind of went together.  "What are
you afraid of?  Everyone will understand, Scully.  No one,
including God, is going to judge you.  You have to do it now while
there are still doctors available."

She sat down quickly on the couch and he was afraid she was
getting dizzy again.  Her eyes were open, staring past him, and
after a few minutes, she spoke:

"You know I didn't mean to get pregnant, don't you, Mulder?"

"I know that.  It was an accident.  It was as much my fault as
yours."

"You know that I'm sorry."

<What for?>

"I know that."

"I'm sorry you got trapped.  I'm sorry I'm so neurotic and plain
and cold.  I'm sorry you feel like you have to stay with me because 
I'm pregnant.  I keep telling you to leave, but I know you won't.  You 
feel honor-bound to stay, whether you want to or not.  You probably think 
you should 'do the right thing' and marry me, don't you, Mulder?  
You think having a child is worth laying beside me every night for the 
rest of your life?"  

Then she just covered her face and cried.  Loud, angry, child-that-
needed-a-nap sobs.

She was delusional.  That was the only thing that could explain it. 
She was depressed or hormonal or traumatized or just plain nuts,
because his partner would never think anything close to those
thoughts.  

"Have you been taking those pills, Scully?"

She nodded yes, but didn't stop crying.  If she'd been on Paxil
since the funeral, it should be helping by now.  Maybe this was
some sort of hormonal mood swing.   Hell, what were they
thinking when they gave him the psych degree?  Dear Abby would
have a better idea of what to say to her.

"Scully, I'm never leaving you.  Baby or no baby, sex or no sex.  I
loved you before and I love you now - nothing is going to change
that.  Unless you're planning on hitting me over the head with a
frying pan and dragging me out into the hallway, I'm not going
anywhere.  And I think I'm pretty safe, since I don't think you have
a frying pan."

Scully raised her face, tears still streaming.  "I do (sob) to have
(sniff) a (sniff) frying (sob) pan, (sob) Mulder."

He had to laugh.  "I'll watch my back then, Scully."  

Christ - hormonal hell.  At least, he hoped that was all it was.

He kissed her damp temple and let her calm down on the couch
while he made his first trip to the washer.  When he came back, her
face was still flushed, but the tears had stopped.  Mulder sat on 
the other end of the couch, watching her watching him.

"I want you to promise me you'll at least think about it.  If you 
get stung - and we'll try to make sure you don't get stung."

Scully stood up and pulled him to his feet, leading him a few steps
away from the couch.

"Take off my clothes."

<Huh?>

"Take off my clothes, Mulder."  It was a voice that purred from the
deep, dark place inside her that Daniel must have touched.

"Scully, if you're trying to distract me, it's working."  

She didn't move away, so Mulder obligingly unbuttoned her
blouse, letting it slip down and tossing it onto the chair behind 
him.  He hesitated at her bra, but she reached her fingers up 
between her breasts and unfastened it, so he pushed it off her 
shoulders as well.  Her breasts were already swelling, and he 
covered one with his hand briefly before he remembered that wasn't
what she'd invited.  Mulder unzipped her skirt and let it and her
slip fall to the floor and she stepped back in her panties and 
thigh-highs.

"Can you see it, Mulder?"

His first thought was that, aside from the breasts, which were
wonderful, she was much too skinny.  He could see the outline of
her ribs and hipbones, and her collarbone stood out.  Mulder
looked at her stomach, expecting it to be almost concave like it was
when she had cancer and realized- 

-that it wasn't.

"Oh my God!"  His hands were on her slight belly before he could
stop himself.  "I can see it.  I can see the baby!"  Mulder looked 
up at her, his breaths shallow and his eyes shining.

"You still want me to have an abortion, Mulder?"  The same low,
breathy voice, enticing even while she discussed destroying their
child.

He swallowed, suddenly much less excited.

<How do I tell you yes?  If it's a choice between you and this baby,
I choose you.>

But he didn't say that.  He just stood up and kissed her, not 
Careful or timid, but the way a man should kiss a woman, reacting to 
the siren invitation of her voice instead of her words.  She didn't 
pull away, but he did once he got control over himself, afraid he 
would upset her.                                        
     
"You know - I like it, Mulder.  I don't mind.  Kiss me." 
Same promising voice.

<Touch me, Mulder.  I want you to touch me.>  Maybe he just
wanted to hear it.

"You don't -mind- having sex?"

Scully didn't seem to catch his inflection.  "No.  I like being 
close to you.  I like you touching me; I just have trouble responding,
but it will get better.  It's not bad, and I like that you like it, 
Mulder."
 
He thought he'd had this conversation with a girl when he was
about sixteen.  How could Scully be so adult about everything else
and such a child when it came to sex?  It didn't even sound like
her.  Even with his books, where did he start sorting out this
neurosis?

"What's the worst part, Scully?"  He asked, leading her into the
bedroom, a plan hatching.  

"Mulder, I can't talk about it."

"Yes, you can.  It's dark, you can't see me, only hear my voice and
feel my hands.  Now tell me what you don't want."

She was quiet again for a few minutes, probably working up her
nerve.  "I don't like feeling obligated.  That if I let it go past a
certain point, I pretty much have to have sex or I'll make you
angry."

God, she's insecure about this.  He never would have suspected.

"What else?  Any certain touches, any acts?"

He knew she was blushing in the darkness.  "I don't like feeling
trapped.  Like I can't get away if I get scared."

"So you don't like actual penetration and you don't want me on top
of you or holding you down.  Is that right?"  He heard her hair
move as she shook her head.  "Say it, Scully."

"Yes."  

"Given those ground rules, and the fact that the world is about to
end tomorrow morning, do you want me to make love to you?"

"Yes."

"Say it"

"I want you to make love to me."  

Now it sounded like his Scully instead of a sex kitten.  

"Say it again.  Say my name."

"I want you to make love to me, Mulder."

"Again.  Just keep saying it, Scully."

<Because I'll never get tired of hearing it.>
                     ****

The old order changeth, yielding place to new;
And God fulfils himself in many ways, 
Lest one good custom should corrupt the world. 
The Passing of Arthur
                     ****

Mulder didn't realize until hours later that he'd never asked her
what else she was thinking about.

Of course, he didn't sleep.  Mulder spent an extra few minutes in
the privacy of the shower once Scully was asleep, emerging feeling
no cleaner, but much relieved.  He finished laundry, and made a
trip to his apartment to pick up jeans and boots and to visit his 
car which he hadn't actually driven in a month.  After a drive-through
midnight snack, Mulder stopped in to see the Gunmen, who were
already battening down the hatches.  Total media blackout, his ass. 
When Mulder opened their door to leave at four, the military trucks
were already rolling into place under the prickly stars.

The world was never going to be the same.

"Time to wake up, Scully."  His voice sounded too loud in the dark
room.

"Mulder?"

"Wake up, sleepyhead.  I think we should go before the sun comes
up."

His partner rolled out of her bed slowly, bearing little resemblance
to Special Agent Scully or anyone that should be trusted with a
gun.  He started to make her coffee, then realized she couldn't have
the caffeine, so he got her a glass of juice instead, setting it on 
the counter while she was in the shower and dozing while she got
ready.  Thirty minutes later, Agent Scully emerged, a little thin 
and pale, but squeaky clean and kissably soft.  Mulder laughed at her
putting on her suit and heels - a military state of emergency
probably meant it was a casual day.  Scully changed into slacks. 
Even aliens weren't going to get Dana Scully into the office in
jeans.

It took showing their badges eleven times to get from her
apartment to the Hoover building, and they didn't even make it into
the parking garage before a Private informed Mulder he would be
valet parking their car so they could report for their assignments 
at once.     

"At once, sir!"

According to the lists, Dana Scully, M.D., FBI, was to going with
the CDC task force, which was leaving immediately.  Mulder
didn't like the idea of putting her, half-awake and pregnant, in the
back of a truck going God-only-knows-where in the darkness. 
They were standing at the end of the convoy, probably holding up
all sorts of national defense plans while Mulder hesitated.

"She's only going to the Pentagon, Agent Mulder, not Tunisia,"
Skinner's voice yelled from across the road.  "Kiss her bye-bye, put
her on the Goddamn truck, and let's MOVE!"

Mulder hated Marines, but orders were orders.  He kissed her 'bye-
bye,' helped her up into bed of the high truck and into the hands of
some waiting man in uniform, then tossed in her doctor's and
overnight bag.  He just stood among the last of the autumn leaves
and watched her sway on the bench, already alone inside herself, as
the truck pulled away and the sun rose.
  
"Fox Mulder, FBI, UN Coordination Team.  Commander."

<My, my.  I think that's a promotion.  Wonder if it comes with a
raise?  I'm going to have a family to support soon, provided we
don't blow up the whole damn planet.>
                     ****

Thro' all the world she follow'd him. 
The Day Dream
                     ****

By mid-morning, Mulder discovered his fancy new title meant he
got to run around telling all the different countries where the bees
were and who or what they should be sending men to exterminate. 
They weren't impressed with his communication skills, only his
immunity to the virus and his ability to travel and be bossy.  It 
also meant that, as the crisis quickly escalated, he could see Scully.  
Not face to face, but twenty feet tall on the screen at every briefing 
So he knew she was alive.

He was going to buy Skinner a beer for arranging that.

Mulder treasured those moments each week; getting to watch her
for a few moments as the CDC people reported on the status of a
vaccine.  His assistant took good notes because Mulder generally
had no idea what was discussed at those briefings.  She never said
a word - supposedly she was there as a "technical consultant," but
he finally realized it was just so he could see her.

He was buying Skinner a keg.

She watched him, too - her face carefully serene as he mapped out
the location of the swarms and the troops from each country. 
Sometimes the transmissions continued after the meetings ended
and he could see her stand to leave - she was always sitting behind
the table when he logged on, no matter how early he tried to get to
the transmission sites.  As the weeks passed, he could see her
clothes fitting tighter and tighter and he longed to feel the fetus
moving under her skin instead of a gestating alien whose host he
had to order killed before it could hatch.  Someone always hurried
her away - out of the conference room and back into a lab; his
assistant was at his elbow telling Mulder he was running behind
schedule.  There was always someone or something to find and kill
and he always seemed to have to hurry up to do it.  Wouldn't want
anyone to have to wait around to die.

Sometimes, though, she looked back at his picture on the screen as
she left.

He'd memorized those moments, too.

He thought of them as he wrote to her.  Give Mulder a pen and a
notebook and another eighteen hours on a military plane bound for
the ever-shifting "front lines," and he could almost find the words. 
As someone else once penned, he just picked up a quill and opened
a vein, only checking the flow when he couldn't stand the exquisite
pain anymore.  

His love, his split-apart, his alpha and omega.  The true north, the
first elusive zephyr, the last thought of a contented man.  A
challenge, a constant, a hungry scarlet familiar silently prowling
his dreams.  A proud lioness gently licking her cubs - power
cloaked under a gentle warm touch; a huntress guarding her den -
fiercely protecting those few fortunate to be called her own.  Her- 
her prodigal son, her partner in life, her touch in the night, her
companion on the final morning.  He promised, he felt, he loved,
he wanted and dreamed.  Missed, worried, thought, cried. 
Cherished.  Prayed. 

He looked out a window and watched the stars rise as he paused,
pen in mid-air.  

"We'll be landing soon, Commander."

"Okay - I'll get my suit on."  Mulder began the laborious task of
encasing himself in mesh, sealing any entrances that meant a
painful sting for Mulder and a certain death for the rest of the
world.  The letter - what to do with the letter?  He grabbed for a
hand hold as the plane landed roughly, crumpling the pieces of
paper in his other fist and stuffing them into his duffle bag with 
the other wads.  

No mail, sir.  No sending, no receiving.  Because - classified
information, military secrets, and information management. 
Besides, no mail was going in or out of the quarantined areas - fear
of spreading the bees, sir.  Well, pretty much the whole planet was
a quarantined area.  It's okay, Commander, we all write letters
home - we just don't bother to mail them.

Mulder had not bothered to mail about a dozen now, but he kept
writing.  He didn't even bother to compose actual letters anymore,
just tried to put his thoughts into words.

'My body has never betrayed me, Scully.  The shadows have come
so many times, waiting to take me, but my heart and lungs refused
to stop for Death.  I marveled at the mysticism of the few seconds
that let me walk away once more from another of our adventures,
but I didn't question fate.  I thought I was strong and healthy - 
ten feet tall and bulletproof.  I know now how very small those
miracles were; bleeding stops, bacteria die, breathing is restored. 
This child is a miracle.  I thought there would be something more
significant to announce a new life - trumpets or fireworks or, at
least, not two friends who had too much to drink and let their
hormones and secrets get the best of them.  But we did this, Scully. 
Someone's God stole in as we slept in your bed and changed our
lives.  Our cells have connected while our minds still struggle with
the details - like what to do with the rest of our lives.  We 
created a miracle, you and I, completely unawares, and I can only pray your
body does not betray you.  For the first time in my life, I feel 
small and weak by comparison.' 
 
The brakes squealed and the door opened.  Cairo.  And lots and
lots more bees.

It never got as bad in North America as it did elsewhere because
they had time to put precautions into place and because the weather
was cooler.  People died, yes, but less than five percent of the
populace was infected - and therefore destroyed - in the U.S.,
mostly in Florida and the Islands.  Central America, the Middle
East and Cuba weren't so fortunate, and Mulder was there, trying
to live up to what people expected a hero to be.

'I have a single fear, Scully.  Not of Death, because he is a 
constant visitor and I know you are strong enough to go on.  Not of 
you wanting to leave me, because your decisions are usually the right
decisions.  Not of the war or the bees or the miles between us.  Not
of becoming a father, although it gives me pause.  Tonight, I only
fear once again seeing the look on your face if I disappoint you.'

The first victims willingly admitted themselves to hospitals for
treatment and were simply destroyed as they slept because there
was no cure, despite what the public was originally told.  Soon,
anyone showing signs of the virus was forcibly detained and
"disappeared."  There were checkpoints surrounding all known
swarm areas and no one stung got out alive - one way or another. 
As people became more savvy and the bees spread into more
developed areas, it was easier to just liquidate the cities instead 
of trying to capture the infected humans and then hunt down any
aliens that managed to hatch undetected.  Mulder was in charge of
getting all the different military leaders to have their troops in 
the right place at the right time to kill the right beings.

It still meant he was a killer; just that he got to wear an 
expensive suit and give instead of execute the orders.  Same thing; 
the six o'clock news just thought his hands were cleaner.

'I stare at an intimidating scrap of paper, trying to find the words 
to tell you what I feel, but they look too small when I write them.  
Do I love?  Of course I love.  But America loves a Coke and everyone
loves a hero, so that is much too trivial a word.  Do I miss?  With
every particle - every cell that isn't busy surviving and killing
misses.  Do I want? I want my partner and I want my friend and I
want small warm hands that reach out in the darkness and silky
hair against my throat.  There is the want of the flesh and the want
of the soul, and I am afflicted with both.  Perhaps I should see a
doctor, Scully.  Do I need?  I shouldn't need - it should be enough
that I want and love, but I do need.  The challenge and the
complement.  The knowing without words and the acceptance.  So
I love, miss, want, and need - they all seem insignificant and
inadequate. We exterminated more than a thousand infected
civilians today, Scully.  The bodies are burning in the distance and
it was called a victory.  I am to be congratulated.  Perhaps this is
how to say it: You make me want to be the man the public thinks I
am, because he is a legend.  Yet I never want to lose my secret self
- however flawed - because that is the man you and only you -
love.'

All great men are driven by dreams that scholars see as noble
visions as they write and rewrite the history books.  No, it's just 
a very human desire for unpretentious pleasures.
          
If spring came early and the bees were still spreading, Scully could
be one of the people the soldiers herded into high school 
cafeterias, telling them to lay their heads down on the tables after 
receiving their "vaccination;" just rest and the sleepiness will pass 
as the medicine kills the virus.  The sleepiness didn't ever pass 
because no medicine killed the virus, only the host.  Mulder had 
nightmares of her running from the soldiers, clutching her belly as 
she tripped and fell in the forest.  They caught her.  And shot her.  
And then he awoke alone.

So Mulder kept making sure all the right people were in the right
places to kill the right beings and they called him a visionary.

Well, even visionaries get lonely, especially living tents in the
middle of Egypt or Guam or Cuba.  Visionaries lay alone at night
and stare at their canvas roofs and think about hair like fire and
skin like cream.  Great men close their eyes and remember delicate,
frightened arms around their necks as they whispered for her not to
be scared.  That the visionary loves her and he won't hurt her. 
That he loves her.  He loves her.

Yes. 

Loves her.

Oh yes.  Oh God, yes.

Love you.

Oh God.

Visionaries are glad they get their own tent.
                     ****

In that fierce light which beats upon a throne. 
Idylls of the King  
                     ****

Fuck it, he was going home.  Scully looked too pale and too thin
and he was going to check on her instead of spending one more
night laying awake worrying.  No, he didn't want to review the
status of the CDC research on the vaccine.  Again.  No, he didn't
want to try to get a message back to the States.  No, he didn't want
to speak to the representative from the Pentagon who had no idea
who Dana Scully was but he was certain she couldn't come to the
phone, sir.  No sir, no one below the rank of Commander has
phone privileges, sir.  Mulder wanted everyone to stop "sir"ing him
and get one of those jets fired up with a barf bag in the back seat 
in under an hour.  The briefing was over, the Generals were moving
the troops, and he could be back before anyone noticed he was
even gone.  End of discussion.  It was time to put all that damn
stealth technology to good use.

"NOW!"

He'd get General's Han and Mi to stop screaming at each other
using only short vowels and double check that the French troops
hadn't wandered off again tomorrow. 

"Make it happen!"

His poor assistant stopped trying to placate him and found a pilot, 
a few plastic bags, and some Dramamine.  "You worried about that
lady with the red hair and the belly, sir?" the Lieutenant asked, as
Mulder looked hesitantly at the B-2, his stomach already churning. 
There was no sense in lying; McNeill had already seen him
scribbling baby names while he was supposed to be being
appraised.  The young man had even caught him writing out "Dana
Katherine Mulder," once, just to see how it looked before he added
it to the pile of crumples taking up space in his duffle bag.  Some
war hero.

"Very worried, McNeill."

"So you'll be touring the area, mapping out troop location from the
air, sir?"

Mulder grinned.  "Hard to do in the dark, but I should have that
figured out in about twelve hours, Lieutenant."

"You dedication to your duties is an inspiration to the men, sir."

Now that was laying it on a little thick.  "You got any troops you'd
like to check on, McNeill?"

"Sir, there's personnel in DC that remain unaccounted for, Sir."

"We wouldn't want any troops unaccounted for, Lieutenant.  Better
write down their last known location and I'll see about gathering
any intelligence."

A grin split the twenty-year-old's face.  "Can you get a message to
my mom, Sir?"

"McNeill!  Are you suggesting I exploit a multi-million dollar
aircraft for personal use?"  After tolerating Mulder for a whole
month, the lanky Black man didn't even blink.  Damn.  "You've
got until I work up the nerve to get in that cockpit to write a 
note, McNeill."           
                     ****

That tower of strength 
Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew. 
Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington
                    **** 

"Yes, our records do indicate there is a Dana Scully here,
Commander.  We can have her report to you first thing in the
morning, Sir."

Mulder was learning the power of silence and rank.  Skinner would
be proud.

"Sir, there are hundreds of women's dormitories set up throughout
the building and she could be in any one of them. It would be
almost impossible to locate her until she reports to her assignment
in the morning, sir."

They were "sir"ing him again.  More silence.  These men didn't
know he doodled his partner's name like he was still in Junior
High.

"It's three million square feet, sir.  In the dark, sir."

"Then turn on the lights."

Mulder was surprised at the various attire women chose to sleep in. 
He saw everything from long flannel nightgowns to not a stitch,
but no Scully.  The guards would snap on the lights, announce
"Officer on the Floor!" and let Mulder look for his particular
female.   Most of the military women scrambled out of bed and
stood at attention, so Mulder just ignored them.  He's spent years
traveling with Scully, fighting over the car air conditioner and
trying to get her awake in the mornings.  He looked for the form
buried deepest under the most blankets, hibernating blissfully as
the other women jumped to their feet.

Using that method, it took him forty-five minutes to find her. 
Sound asleep.  Under three scratchy Army-issue blankets.  Only the
tip of her nose peeking out from under the covers, waiting for
spring to come.

Mulder ordered the men policing the building into the corner of
what used to be a break room - M.P.s, S.P.s., CIA, NSA, whatever
their initials were, he wanted their full attention as he peeled 
back the cocoon to show them her face.  

"Gentlemen, this is Dr. Dana Scully.  Look closely at her, because
when I call from now on, every one of you should be able to tell
me Dr. Scully's location and what she had for breakfast, or I'm
coming back here to personally review her status with whoever has
the unfortunate lapse of memory.  Now get out."

Power had its privileges.

As the flourescent lights stopped their hum, all the troops, maps
and plans and coordinates and rank faded with them, leaving only
an ordinary, extraordinary man trying to save lives by taking lives
so he could go home.  Because of her.

Well, that and the good of mankind thing.

"Scully?  Wake up, partner."

"Mulder?"  No wonder she was confused - he'd appeared beside
her cot in the middle of the night when he was supposed to be in
Cairo.  He hadn't realized it was after midnight on the East Coast. 
Actually, he thought it might still be yesterday here.  Today's
briefing might not have even happened yet for her.  No, that
couldn't be right.  No wonder Scully was confused.  "Mulder?"

He wanted to ask her if she'd been eating.  If she'd been able to
keep her doctor's appointments and if she was gaining enough
weight, because it didn't look like it on the screen.  Was she
comfortable here?  Did she need anything?  Did she miss him the
way he missed her?  Did she lay awake at night worrying about the
two of them, the baby, the bees, and life in general?

Did she still love him?

"Hi, Scully."  That was all he could manage.

"Hi.  Whus wrong?"

"Everything's okay.  I just wanted to check on you.  How are you
doing?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."  He should have known better than to wake her
up in the middle of the night and expect a deep discussion.

"How's the baby?"

"Feel."  She found his hand and slid it under the hot covers. 
Mulder held his breath, trying to detect any movement, not sure
what he was feeling for under the silky fabric.  Then there was a
sudden ripple, like something had shifted under her skin.  Not an
alien - a child.  It was real.

"My God."  He could feel his tired eyes tearing.  They did this. 
Five months ago this creature was separate inside their two bodies
and now it was whole.  One hasty kiss, two friend's choices, and a
few moments in the hot darkness, and they'd created something
unique to them.  Immortality.  A bridge made out of protein and
plasma and hydrogen and oxygen that the universe had breathed to
life.  "My God."

How to put that into words in the ex-break room of the DOD in the
middle of the night in the middle of a war?  Shakespeare, Genesis,
Eliot, Rilke . . . 

Ruth.

"Marry me."  It wasn't a question, just a finalization.

"Mulder?"

"It's okay, Scully.  I know you're only half awake.  I know you
want to think it over.  It's a big decision.  I don't want to 
pressure you."

<SHUT UP!  You sound like a total blithering idiot!>

"I'm going to go now, but I'll try to come back.  And I'll come get
you as soon as this is over.  And it's almost over."

"Mulder - wait."  He heard rustling and felt her shift in the bed. 
Then she felt for his hand on the darkness and pressed something
into it.

"What's this?"

"An answer."

He kissed her, not braving any more questions because he was
afraid of the answers.  "Goodbye, Scully.  I love you."

"Bye, Mulder.  Be careful."

He tucked her back into her wool cave and let her drift back to
sleep, shoving a bag full of crumpled goofy letters under her bed
before he changed his mind.  

"Are you the Mulder guy on the news?" a Latino-accented voice
from the bunk above Scully asked.  "Cause I marry you."

Great - what a brilliant plan, Mulder.  Sure they should put him in
charge of anything?

Lights flooded the room again, making him squint and realize
exactly how many women had been listening to him propose. 
Badly.  Brilliant.  Scully was going to kill him.  He looked down at
her, already asleep on her miniature pillow as the female zombies
approached, menacing.  There had to be some way to escape
without being mobbed by the nosiest creatures on Earth - lonely
women.

"I'm going back to North Africa.  I'll take any message ready in
two minutes to any soldier stationed there."

Mulder knew enough about military tactics to make for the hallway
while they all wrote, then collect the scribbled notes and run like
hell for the front door, trying to look as heroic as possible.  
Since none of the women actually knew where their men were
stationed, Mulder had letters from every female to every male she
knew - just in case.  "Sgt. Michael Brown, 27, Air Force, works on
helicopters.  I am alive and well.  Love, your Tara."  "Captain
Adam Martinez, 43, Navy, from Miami, helps steer aircraft
carriers.  All our kids are safe with your mother.  Love Maria." 
"Dr. Alex Lee-Han, ER physician from DC, Age 29.  I miss you. 
Take care, Kim."  "To Jason Reeves from Charleston, SC,
beekeeper -  Dad is dead.  Be careful. Love, your sister."  "Private
Roy Douglas from Los Vegas, Army, 18.  Love you.  Change your
socks often.  Mom."

War was Hell.  With decaf.

By his watch, he'd left his post six hours ago and he'd be back in
another five.  The barf bag full of letters to fathers, sons, 
brothers, and lovers was going to make him very popular, but he still 
hadn't brought himself to look at the small folded square pressed into 
his palm.

Scully had said it was an answer.  Scully -would- have a written
answer prepared just in case.  She probably typed it out and ran it
through spell check.  He'd unfold it and look on the count of three. 
Okay, on the count of ten.  Okay, he'd count backwards from ten
real slow and then look.  Okay, he'd close his eyes and unfold it
and then look.  Okay, he'd keep his eyes closed, count backwards
from twenty, unfold the note, and then look.  Okay, he'd-

"Just look at the goddamn note, sir!" the pilot yelled, waiting to
strap himself into the front seat.  "Oh, Jesus - sorry, sir. 
Commander, sir, I'm really sorry - that just slipped out.  You've
been trying to look at it for ten minutes now and there are other
planes waiting to take off and it's cold as Hell out here.  I'm 
really tired, sir.  Sorry, sir."

They couldn't take off until he got in the plane, understandably
enough.  "You open it while I get strapped in."

Coward.

Damn right!

A gloved hand held the small square of paper back over a shoulder. 
"I don't know what the hell it is, Commander, but here you go. 
Hope it's what you were hoping for.  Hold on now; I'll get you
back real quick."

Mulder had time to look at the grainy picture for a few seconds,
trying to figure out if it was a Rorschach Ink Blot or a satellite
photo or a Xerox of someone's butt before they were in the
heavens.  Once again, the B-2 proved the laws of physics, but
Mulder had more cosmic concerns than his stomach this time.

It was a printout of an ultrasound, complete with a tiny hand held
up to a tiny face inside his Scully.  

He took that as a "yes." 
                     ****

Faultily faultless, icily regular, splendidly null. 
Maud 
                     ****

The men were on the prowl, jockeying for the best position.  It was
the sound of a couple hundred males who'd had a choice between
themselves, each other, the local prostitutes - which was often
unwise, the few female personnel, or the camels for two months.  It
was the same sound lions make when they spot tasty, fresh meat. 
The stalking had begun, red in tooth and claw and licking its chops.

Mulder had already seen the name of the British liaison who would
be substituting until their UN rep recovered from something
unmentionable he'd picked up from the local girls or the camels. 
Whatever it was, penicillin didn't seem to be curing it.  Mulder
was glad he wasn't interested - and not just because of the native
attitudes toward safe sex, either.

Phoebe Green.

Mulder wasn't coming out of his tent.  He was hiding under his cot
there until the war ended, wearing three pairs of boxers and two
layers of pants with zippers that tended to stick, and a really 
tight belt.  He might die of heat stroke or sand inhalation, but he 
wasn't dealing with Phoebe.   He wasn't interested, after all.  Scully
was busy gestating in DC and, except for this war and alien virus thing,
he was as happy as he'd ever been in his life.  He wasn't tempted
to have one final fling with a woman who knew every sex trick in
the book and lived to use every one of them.  Someone who purred
nasty phrases into his ear instead of closing her eyes and drifting
away.  Mulder wasn't tempted at all.  He was an as-good-as-
married man.

He just liked to wear lots of layers and sleep on a firm surface. 
Good fashion sense and a bad back.  Some visionary.

<Stop being a baby, Mulder.>

He had forgotten how well Phoebe could manipulate him - reduce
him to a twenty-three-year-old bundle of insecurities and hormones
in a matter of seconds.  Hopefully though, his higher brain had
learned its lesson, because there was yet another briefing in an
hour.  McNeill would come and drag him out of his tent if he
didn't move.

Phoebe had the sense to wait until the transmission ended, although
Mulder saw Scully's face when she was introduced.  He was
wearing his blankest of blank expressions and a belt under his bio
suit, just as a safety precaution.

"Mulder."  Except she pronounced it "Muul-dah," rolling her
tongue around every syllable and softening a few consonants.  He
had a fifty dollar bill in his pocket - wonder if she'd stop saying 
his name for fifty bucks?

"Mulder, so good to see you again.  I'm sure it will be a -pleasure-
working with you.  I didn't see you before the meeting - you're
looking fit."

A hundred bucks?  His watch?  He felt like a wolf who'd ventured
too close to a trap and was considering the merits of gnawing off a
leg.  Or a horse that was being appraised for stud value.

"Good to see you, Phoebe."  He turned his back to her and tried to
send McNeill a "get me the hell out of here" mental message
through the window.  McNeill was standing at ease beside their
jeep, knowing full and well what Mulder wanted and ignoring the
ringing of the psychic hotline.  "I have to go, Phoebe.  Generals to
find, bees to swat."

"Aren't you the -important- one.  Are you going back to the front,
Mulder?  Could you give a lady a ride?"

Mulder was certain McNeill was grinning at him under that stern
expression.  He zipped the hood over his head and escorted her
outside. "McNeill can take you and come back for me later."  

<Ha.  Ha.>  The young man's long face fell and his eyes narrowed
a millimeter.  McNeill was also an as-good-as-married man, and
his fiance was a weapons expert.  Scully might be able to kick
Mulder's ass, but the future Mrs. McNeill could launch the scuds.

"Was that your partner in the room in DC?  It was hard to tell.  She
looked so - expectant.  Are congratulations in order?"

The red claws were coming unsheathed.  Phoebe knew full and
well that it was Scully - his little midnight flight to DC had 
gotten the attention of the media, who thought it was the most 
romantic thing since Monica blew Bill.  It had also gotten the 
full attention of the US Navy, who owned the plane and pilot and 
didn't find it romantic or amusing.

What were they going to do?  Fire him and fight their own damn
war?  Send him someplace hotter, dirtier, and smellier than Egypt? 
Send him home to Scully?  No - please not that briar patch for Brer
Rabbit!  The military really knew where to hit a man; they took
away his phone home privileges.

"Aren't you a little overdressed for a UN briefing, Phoebe?"

Actually, underdressed would be more appropriate.  Each branch
and country still wore their own uniform, but this was a Phoebe-
special.  She was going to get one hell of a sunburn.

"It's hard to know how to dress for the end of civilization as we
know it, Mulder."

She twisted from side to side, giving him and every man in sight a
view of her small breasts under her tight tank top.  Mulder shot a
futile look at McNeill, who arranged his face into innocence under
his hood.  The future Mrs. McNeill was just off-shore, probably
watching him through a scope and plotting the coordinates for his
death if he so much as blinked.

"It's not the end of the world, Phoebe.  It's a bunch of bees and 
you look like Linda Hamilton."

Right down to the knife strapped to her thigh.  Jesus, woman - how
fitting.  

"You never know, Mulder.  You never know what opportunities
might never. . .  come. . .  again."

This was going to be easier than he thought.  "Oh, grow the hell
up.  McNeill will drive you back to the camp - why don't you see if
you can't impress him?  You know what they say about Black men,
Phoebe."  

<Paybacks, McNeill.>

"Have fun - the Army gives out boxes of rubbers and they swear
he's really clean this time.  There's some nasty social diseases
going around, I hear."
                     ****

And on her lover's arm she leant. . .  
In that new world which is the old. 
The Day-Dream
                     ****

As he drove in, the field hospital reminded Mulder of M.A.S.H.,
except all tan instead of Army green, and he couldn't think of any
other place he'd less like to be.  McNeill was pacing out front,
stopping every few seconds to look for his commander, but he
didn't seem any more relaxed when Mulder squealed to a stop.

"Is she infected?"

"Looks like it, sir.  I'm sorry, sir - I told her to put on a suit, 
but she wouldn't.  Once the swarm hit. . ."

Mulder gave the young man a pat and a "nothing you could have
done" speech before he went in to see Phoebe.  He at least owed
her a peaceful death.  

The nurses had the syringe ready and handed it to him as he walked
through the door. He'd radioed ahead and asked them to wait.  

Of course there's a vaccine for military use, Phoebs - got it right
here.  Just close your eyes and you'll feel better in a few days.  
Yea - I know it hurts.  Burns.  We'll talk when you come back to camp. 
Yes, I'm sorry we broke up, too.  Of course, I still love you, 
Phoebs - yes, only you.

Her breathing had already stopped before the syringe was empty
and he watched her face relax into childhood, all worries fading
into darkness.  Such a little lie for so much peace.

Mulder never noticed the AP photographer snapping away or had
any idea that he and not the weary nurses were the focus of the
lense.  No idea until he saw a British newspaper four days later,
complete with "UN Commander Loses Other Love," a photo of
him holding Phoebe's hand while she died, and another picture of
his face as he watched from the jeep as her body was burned with
all the others.  Scully and her belly were featured in the lower 
right hand corner, hard at work in a lab in DC.

He had to admit - it made for quite a front page.
                     ****

For now the poet cannot die,
Nor leave his music as of old, 
But round him ere he scarce be cold 
Begins the scandal and the cry. 
To ------, after reading a Life and Letters.
                    **** 

Brer Rabbit was going home - he'd finally killed enough to earn
his precious briar patch.

In only a few months, the operation was ending.  The bees seemed
to have a normal three-month life cycle and didn't pass the virus on
to their offspring, so it was just a matter of containing the 
original colonies.  There were still a few victims that slipped 
though the quarantines and hatched Grays which had to be hunted down
and "picked" as the soldiers called it, but for all practical purposes,
Operation Alien Sting was over.  

Home.  Home had to be more than three thousand miles away. 
Home was a lifetime away.

Aside from his silly letters stuffed under her bunk, Mulder had no
way to get a message to Scully.  No phone calls, no letters.  The
best he could do was look innocent when the camera crews
cornered him - he couldn't even answer their questions.  According
to the military, the bees had been eradicated from all of the Middle
East - Phoebe had never died.  

Mulder hated that he was one of the men that gave out the "official
version" of the truth.  He just stared out the window at the stars,
telling himself everything he'd done was the right thing.  By dawn,
Mulder finally stepped on the helicopter at Langley Air Force Base
in Virginia on the last leg to go home.  To Scully.  And the baby.

Whether she wanted him or not. 

Voices called out to him as he walked through the Pentagon,
probably commending his military prowess or map-making ability
or some such bullshit, but Mulder just kept walking - not even
seeing the faces.   He closed his eyes and said a quick prayer 
before he opened the door to the DOD lab, just in case anyone was
listening up there.  Please.  Let her be there, let her be alive, 
let her be pregnant, and let her want him. 

It was either divine intervention, or dedication to her post, or 
just plain luck.
     
She was there.  

Still too skinny, still too pale, but Scully was there, sitting at a 
table with several other sciency-looking men drinking a bottle of V-
8.  She smiled when she saw him: unwashed, unshaven, with twenty
hours of military cargo plane and helicopter grime on him, and the
buzz cut some Navy barber had given him in Guantanamo Bay two
weeks ago.  

"You ready to go home, Scully?"  <Please say yes.>

She pulled herself up with difficulty, the way he remembered the
woman in Hawaii doing what seemed like an eternity ago.  "Ready,
Mulder."
                              ****
Let the great world spin forever down the ringing grooves of
change. 
Locksley Hall  
                     ****
                       
The next stop was the FBI building to check in with Skinner and
pick up her car.  He must have been keeping tabs on Scully while
Mulder was off saving the world, because Skinner seemed updated
on the status of the belly.  

Mulder and Scully were to take some time off, but Mulder needed
to be in DC at the White House in three weeks.  They were giving
him a medal.

"That's not funny, Agent Mulder.  It's quite an honor."

"Can I tell the President where he can stick his damn medal if I
show up?"

"Not unless you want to go back on fertilizer patrol, Agent.  Be
there, be honored, and be cleaner than you are now."

And Skinner went back to his meeting, leaving Mulder grinning in
the front office and Scully dozing in Kimberly's chair.  

A fuckin' medal.  An authorized, official fuckin' medal.  He
ordered a couple hundred thousand people hunted down like
animals and drew pictures of troop movements on a few maps and
they wanted to give him a medal for it.  He had to love Uncle Sam.

All Mulder wanted was a hot shower, a soft bed with Scully in it,
and a cold beer, in that order.

He was planning on carrying Scully to the car - she couldn't have
gained more than ten pounds, if that much, but she awoke in the
parking garage and he set her down.  

"You hungry, partner?"  She looked like she should be hungry. 
She looked like she should be ravenous.  Scully had been letting
him lead her around, which Mulder took as a good sign that he was
forgiven, but she looked so sick.  Between her mother's death, their
constant fighting, and trying to conquer Alien technology and
gestate at the same time, Scully looked like she could use a long
vacation.  Mulder intended to see that she got one, starting
immediately. 

"How about some fresh fruit and steamed veggies, if I can find
any?"  And some mac and cheese, and peanut butter and a whole
cheesecake and a side of beef?

"Un huh.  That sounds nice."

The car turned over lazily after sitting for almost three months, 
And Mulder drove off in search of zucchini and cantaloupe, a hot
shower, and a soft bed with Scully in it, in that order.

Some frozen steamed veggies and fruit cocktail, a hot shower -
sadly, alone - and a manic Scully patching up every wound on him
she could find, and Mulder made it to the soft bed part.  He thought
he might finally get to sleep when Scully located a spot on his back
that she must doctor.

"It's a mosquito bite!  I'm not going to die of a mosquito bite
before morning!"

It was too late - Scully had all the lights on and was poking him
with something metal and medical.  She checked his lungs and
pulse again, in case they'd changed in twenty minutes, and finally
pronounced him healthy and probably quite tasty.  To bugs, at
least.

"Scully, I swear - pregnant or not, partner or not - if you don't 
calm down and let me go to sleep, I'm going to set you out in the 
hall for the night."

Mulder was conveniently forgetting that this wasn't his apartment.

"So you don't want to have sex?"

So that was what she was so wound up about.  

"I love the way you say that.  It's the same voice that the girl at
Burger King uses when she asks if I want cheese with that.  I'M
going to go to sleep, Scully.  If YOU want to have sex, please go
ahead - I won't mind a bit.  Wake me up for the good parts, but try
not to jiggle me otherwise.  My almost forty-year-old body has just
saved the world from Alien viruses and therefore has not slept in 
months."

Mulder helpfully laid back spread-eagle on the bed.  

<The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak, Scully.>

"So now I'm too fat and ugly?"

He was beginning to see the merits of adoption and give thanks
that he'd pretty much missed the first six and a half months of this
game.  There was no winning with her.  "First you're mad because
we had sex and now you're mad because we're not." He pushed
himself up on his hands.  "We could sit across the room from each
other and masturbate?  Okay, maybe not."  He flopped back down. 
"I'm a WAR HERO, Scully.  Let the war hero go nighty-night and
we'll make like bunnies in the morning.  Or not - whatever you
want."

Mulder didn't know what happened after that because he fell
asleep.  Either Scully calmed down and went to sleep, or else she
didn't jiggle him enough to wake him.
                     ****

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house,
Wherein at ease for aye to dwell. 
The Palace of Art
                     ****

Mulder awoke to blood on his pillow.  Unless Scully decided to
lobotomize him in his sleep, it wasn't coming from him.  He
stretched, rolled over onto his back, and decided he'd think about 
it later.  After coffee.

He found Scully standing in the kitchen half-dressed, trying to get
blood out of her pajama top.  

Mummm - breasts.  Mulder's flesh was a little more willing now. 
He liked the way her pajama bottoms rode low on her hips to
accommodate her belly. 

"You hurt?"  Brain was still asleep; only groin was awake.

"Nosebleed."

"Need help?"

"No."  Scully pointed.  "Coffee."

"Thanks."

"Decaf."

"Ugh."  He'd drink decaf when he got to Hell and this wasn't there. 
Cairo was only Purgatory.

And Mulder wandered off to find a newspaper.  He and Skinner
were on the front page again, so he threw it on the floor and tried
CNN.  They were showing an old interview of him in Hawaii with
a clip of Jenn Anderson singing his praises for leading the officers
to her son's body.  Disgusted, he switched it off and went back to
bother Scully.

"Your blood pressure doing funny things again?"  

"Probably, Mulder."

"You want to go to the doctor?"

"No - I'm fine."

He didn't even bother to argue with her.  "Okay.  I'm going to go
for a run.  I'll stay close and I'll take my cell phone in case you 
get dizzy again."

She was still determinedly scrubbing as he left, making sure the
door latched behind him.  The National Guard was pulling out after
doing an excellent job of containing any looting and riots, but
Mulder had seen how bad it had gotten in other countries.  He was
still uneasy about leaving Scully, but life needed to get back to
normal.   

Mulder ran slowly though the quiet streets, people watching him
with frightened eyes; trying to put their lives back together now
that innocence was stripped away.  Everyone now knew what the
government was capable of, including ordering the extermination
of its own citizens.  Mulder had chanted "the good of the many . .
." so many times in the last few months that he'd developed what
might be a permanent aversion to Dickens.  Somehow he'd become
one of the men he had always tried to expose.

And they were going to give him a medal for it.   
 
"BABY KILLER!" an angry voice called through the snow. 
Mulder put a hand on his gun and tried to locate the source. 
"BABY KILLER!" it called again.

He backed away slowly.  The only humans in sight were a group of
children building a snowman in a graveyard.

"BABY KILLER!"  That was a different voice.  

Mulder ignored it and continued his tour of Georgetown.  Everyone
was a little on edge these days.  After four different voices called
him "Baby Killer," Mulder decided that three miles was enough for
the day and went to hide.  He told himself it was because it was
cold outside.
                     ****

Because right is right, to follow right 
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence
Oenone
                     ****

A sinfully hot shower later and Mulder's flesh was definitely
willing again.   He came up behind Scully kissed her neck - just a
gentle invitation.  

She turned to smile at him.  That looked like a "yes" RSVP.  
Mulder had two thoughts - what the ground rules would be this
time, and what to do about that belly.  Horny or not, he still
couldn't conceive that anything else was going to fit inside his 
tiny partner without bothering the baby.

He finally settled her between his legs as he leaned back against
her headboard.  That gave his hands free access to her neck, those
wonderful breasts, a belly which was sexy as hell, and his other
favorite play areas.  They probably looked like a couple that
misunderstood what they were supposed to be doing in Lamaze
class, although this beat those stupid breathing exercises.  Free to
move as she wanted, Scully laid back, closed her eyes and relaxed
into his touch. Embarrassingly enough, feeling her writhe in front
of him and hearing her gasp might just do it for Mulder.  Or he'd
take care of it while she slept.  Either way, there was going to be
another shower in his near future.

Satiated, Scully leaned heavily on his chest, her breathing slowing. 
Watching their child, upset that his or her world had been sloshed
around, shove against Scully's belly with little feet or elbows,
Mulder was content.  This was all he'd ever wanted.  They needed
to talk about getting married before the baby came.

Scully turned her head back to look at him, a gleam in her eye.  It
took an effort for her to roll over onto her hands and knees, but as
she backed down his body, Mulder realized there was one more
thing that would make this scenario perfect.

"Don't to it unless you want to, Scully.  I'm not a kid anymore.  I
know I won't die."

"Tell me you want me to."  Her hands were sliding down the front
of his jeans.

"I want you to."

"No, Mulder - say it.  Say the words."

Turnabout was fair play.  Mulder opened his mouth to say words
he'd never before uttered in her presence.  Never dreamed he'd
have the opportunity to use.

"Stop, Scully."

"Those aren't the magic words, Mulder."

"No, stop.  Your nose is bleeding again."  Mulder grabbed a tissue
out of the box on the night stand and sat up to pinch her nose shut. 
"It's okay, Scully."  Scully didn't look like it was okay.  "Calm
down.  It's okay - you can owe me."

She still didn't seem calm, and it took an eternity for the blood to
stop.  A very bad thought stole across the back of Mulder's brain. 
They'd never figured out how she could suddenly get pregnant
again - life had gotten a little busy.

"Let's go see your doctor, Scully.  Get you checked out - just in
case your blood pressure is screwy again."

"I'm fine, Mulder."

"You're not fine, Scully.  You're bleeding.  Bleeding is not fine. 
Get dressed."  

"I'm fine!"

"Get dressed or I'll call an ambulance."  

She must have decided he meant it, because she put her clothes
back on and smoothed her hair.

Mulder had to call for an escort to take her to the hospital since
there was now a mob outside her apartment chanting "Baby
Killer."
                     ****

. . .to have loved and lost. . .
In Memoriam
                     ****

"How long have you known, Scully?"

"Mulder-"

"HOW LONG!" he yelled.  She looked pitiful in the thin hospital
gown, but he didn't care.

"Since right after my mother died.  I started to get the headaches
and nosebleeds again, so I had Dr. Zuckerman run some tests.  The
chip must have malfunctioned - that's why I got pregnant.  There
were a few ovum left, and when the chip switched off, I was fertile
again."

"But the cancer came back."

She shook her head yes, staring at her bare feet dangling above the
scarred floor of the doctor's exam room.

"And you didn't tell me?"

She shook "no."

<What a stupid question.  Obviously she didn't tell me.>

"Mr. Mulder, if you'll just calm down, we can discuss-"

Mulder cut the doctor off.  "I don't want to discuss it.  I want her
treated NOW."

"Sir, we can't treat her for cancer while she's pregnant."

Mulder was pacing in the ten by five room, already overcrowded
with Scully's OBGYN and oncologist.  "If I can find another chip,
could you replace it?"

"Sir, if you'll just sit down, we can discuss all the options."

"I'M NOT FUCKING SITTING DOWN!  I'm not just letting her
die!"  Mulder actually did sit down, sinking against the white wall
into the floor, defeated.

"Mr. Mulder, Dr. Scully and Mr. Skinner already brought us a chip
they found in the Department of Defense.  But my colleagues and I
strongly feel-"

Mulder was back on his feet.  "Put it in her!  Do it now, before she
gets any sicker."

"We feel that it would probably cause a miscarriage; that the
hormone levels would change so suddenly that she could
hemorrhage to death."

Then there was no way out.  She was going to die.  They couldn't
do radiation and chemotherapy while she was pregnant and they
couldn't replace the chip, either.

"Get rid of the baby."  He said it so softly that Mulder wondered if
anyone else heard him.

"NO!"  Scully started to get up to leave, but Mulder blocked the
door.

"Sir, that is not in accordance with Dr. Scully's wishes."

"She has brain cancer, is that correct?" he asked her oncologist,
who nodded yes.  "And that's what's effecting her judgment?" 
Again, a reluctant yes.  "And if she's not treated, she will die.  
Is that correct?"  Yes.  "And she cannot be treated while she's
pregnant, correct?"  Yes.  "So her pregnancy places her life in
danger, yes?" Yes.  "And that is my name on her medical power of
attorney, correct?"  Yes.  "And I'm Dr. Mulder, a licensed
psychologist, and it is my judgment that this woman is not
capable of acting in her own best interests."

A breath.  It only took one breath to end a life.  He took a breath 
- "Get rid of the baby." - closed his eyes - "I'm so sorry, Scully." -
dropped his head.

The doctors looked at each other, but they both knew there was no
choice.  Mulder was the man of the hour - no court was going to
turn down his request.  They made sure he watched, though, as the
orderlies brought a gurney and tied her to it, still pleading for 
them to let her go, to not hurt her baby.  
 
They wheeled her down the hall, still screaming for Mulder. 
Begging.

"I'm sorry, Scully!" he yelled at the top of her head as she was
rolled away.  Maybe he should tell her how he much loved her
again - write her a few more stupid letters.  

There was a hand on his shoulder and he turned to strike like a
cornered animal before he realized it was just a doctor.  "Now, if
you'll please come sit down in my office, Dr. Mulder, we'll discuss
your options regarding Dr. Scully."

Mulder could see the words "baby killer" in their eyes, but he
didn't care.  He wasn't losing Scully.  Sorry, Scully.

When had the cancer begun affecting her judgment?  Is that why
she said she'd marry him?  Probably.  Was that how she ended up
in bed with Daniel?  Maybe.  Was that how she ended up in bed
with him?

Oh God.

"Another fetus might be viable, but there would be a huge risk of
complications at this stage of gestation.  Visual impairments,
mental retardation, cerebral palsy, to name a few.  At the last
ultrasound, the boy was far below the size he should be, probably
due to Dr. Scully's illness.  If we deliver him at this stage, he'll
almost certainly die.  My recommendation, if you insist the
pregnancy be terminated, would be a partial-birth abortion.  That
would involve the least trauma to Dr. Scully's body and less
chance of complications than abdominal surgery.  I can refer you to
another doctor that performs that procedure."  

Because I do not, Mulder was sure the man left unsaid.  Baby
killer.

<He.>

<It's a boy.>

Dr. Zuckerman began: "Even once we're able to treat her cancer,
Dr. Scully didn't feel the chip would necessarily be effective in
causing remission a second time.  It is possible - probable even - 
that all alien technology has ceased to function, making this chip 
as useless as the one currently implanted.  Given the size of the
tumor, the chip malfunctioned only slightly before the release of
the bees.  That's why Dr. Scully requested I wait until after the
baby was born to attempt any treatment - she doesn't think it will
work.  Of course, I will replace the chip, but we'll probably rely 
on conventional treatment methods."

<Which didn't work. . .> There were two large, fat purple
monsters, one sitting on either of his shoulders and slowly shoving
Mulder through the floor and into Hell.  They'd appeared when he
walked through the first city the government had simply wiped off
the map and they'd been gaining weight ever since.  He'd thought
he'd left them in Cuba with most of his hair, but they must have
hitched a ride back to the States.

"Has her cancer already metastasized?"  That was the death knell.  
He remembered watching her lay in the hospital bed, begging him
to let her death mean something as she waited to die. 

"Not yet, but the tumor is large and growing into her frontal lobe
this time - that's what's causing the confusion and mood swings.  It
could happen at any time without aggressive treatment and this
type of cancer will almost certainly be terminal once it enters the
blood stream."

Mulder kept looking for some other choice, but there wasn't one. 
Either Scully was going to die, or the baby - or his son was going
to die.  There was no other option.

"She will need to be transferred to Georgetown as soon as she is
stable after the abortion.  The Lombardi Cancer Center is one of
the best in the nation, although there will be some recovery period
after the fetus is terminated."

Terminated.  He made it sound like a commercial for killing bugs. 
Just pest control.  Call the Orkin Army - have your pregnancy
terminated once and we guarantee your son will stay dead for
another twenty years or your money back.  Just like Alien Sting -
unofficial murder.

"Are you certain, Dr. Mulder?  This is a major procedure and there
could be complications before we're even able to treat her.  A
partial-birth abortion involves dilating the cervix, extracting the
feet and then, using a cannula -"

"I know exactly what it involves and I know it's my son.  It's
Scully.  Don't make this any harder than it already is.  Please."

The monsters were jumping up and down now, probably with glee,
stuffing their fat faces with doughnuts.  

"Dr. Mulder, I understand your concern for Dr. Scully and I respect
your wishes.  All I ask is that you think this through.  She was 
very clear with what she wanted and she understood the risks when we
discussed them months ago.  I can't prove in court that she's still
competent - not against you, anyway - but it's my strong feeling
that she was able to make her own decisions at the time she made
them.  I want you to think it over for a few hours.  Don't do
anything rash."

Both men left Mulder alone with his shoulder-jumping monsters,
guilt, and the hum of the fish tank in the over-decorated office. 
Mulder's fish were dead.

Just like his child - because he went off and left them.  
                     ****

That a lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies; 
That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright; 
But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight. 
The Grandmother
                     ****

A shadow intruded into his pool of self-pity: Skinner standing over
him in the wide hospital hallway looking Skinnerish.

"What's all this about, Agent Mulder?  I've got the Attorney
General on the phone telling me I have to get over here and talk to
our newest national hero before there's a riot.  Do you have any
idea the number of people protesting outside?"

Mulder didn't even bother to look up - he knew what Walter
Skinner looked like.  Scully had finally fallen asleep, still 
wearing the restraints, so at least the weak pleas from her room had
stopped for the moment.  The abortion was scheduled for tomorrow
morning - even written in her chart so it looked nice and official. 
The purple shoulder-monsters had gone for decaf, but they'd be
back by the time she awoke.

"Get up, Agent Mulder.  If you're going to do this, you need to stop
feeling sorry for yourself and act like a man."

"How do you know what I'm doing?"

"You're on Headline News.  I'm sorry, Agent Mulder.  I'm sorry
this is happening.  Agent Scully asked me not to tell you, and I
respected that.  I respected her wishes, and I'm just here to make
sure you do the same."

"Skinner, it's not your choice and this is hard enough without a
lecture-"

"Not a lecture, Mulder.  Just come look at her."  

Mulder was probably going to be dragged by the scruff of his neck
if he didn't move, so he stood up unwillingly, giving the cracked
plastic chair a kick so it made a satisfactory screech as it skidded
down the hall.

Scully was still asleep in the hospital bed, her belly sticking out 
in sharp contrast with her slim arms and legs and her red hair 
looking like it was painted against her pale skin.  

"The entire world knows you two were right about the consortium,
so that quest, for her, is over.  You don't need her as your
counterpoint anymore.  Her mother is dead.  Both her brothers are
dead - I bet she didn't tell you that.  They were in the Gulf when
the bees first swarmed and had to be destroyed.  And she knows
she's going to die.  Even if you insist that she be treated, odds 
are that she'll live another few months, at most.  All she has left is 
the hope that she can give you this child.  A son.  Can you at least
leave her with that dignity?  Let her have some peace instead of
being tied down while they stick needles in her and kill her child
just because you're afraid to live without her?  Can't you leave her
with some faith?"

Skinner was gone when Mulder's eyes cleared.  He unbuckled first
one restraint, then the other from her wrists, rubbing away the 
strap marks.  He picked her up, pulled her poor, sleeping body 
against him, and just sobbed.  Dying, like everything else, is an art, 
and Scully did it exceptionally well.
                     ****

Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers. 
Tithonus
                     ****

He heard Scully shifting under the blankets sometime in the early
morning, but he didn't open his eyes.  Even if she was awake, she
wasn't going to want to talk to him.

Ever again.  The purple shoulder-monsters were back, having had a
few more jelly doughnuts.   Now they just weighed him down
instead of jumping - Mulder could feel their fat butts spilling over
onto his back and chest.

"Mulder?  The baby, Mulder?"  He heard her asking.  

Mulder opened his eyes, able to make out her form in the dimly lit
room.

"It's okay, Scully.  The baby's fine.  You're still pregnant.  You
just have to stay here until you feel better - then you can go 
home."

That was a lie.  Odds of Scully ever going home were slim to none.

"You tried to take my baby, Mulder." 

"I was just afraid for you."  True.

"You told them I couldn't make decisions."

"I'm sorry.  I was wrong, Scully."  False.  Mulder told himself he'd
wait - if she got too sick, he'd make them terminate her pregnancy
and start treatment.  He already knew that was a lie - he had the
next two and a half months to watch her die with her faith intact.

"I'm scared, Mulder.  Will you lay down with me?"  

Mulder pushed the heavy wooden door to the hallway closed, lifted
the blankets, and spooned up behind her, resting a hand on her
swollen belly the way he had dreamed of months ago.  Shoulder-
monsters waited in the corner.
                              
"Do you love me, Mulder?"

"Of course I love you.  Close your eyes and sleep, Scully.  It's the
middle of the night."  He rested his chin on top of her head, lost 
in their hazy reflection in the mirror over the sink, his dark features
against her serene and seraphic beauty. 

"Make love to me.  Make love to me so I won't be afraid, Mulder."

<With the shoulder-monsters watching, Scully?>

How many times had they actually made love?  That first night was
mostly about relief for him - love hadn't been factored in.  The
second, after he led her away from Daniel's bed - that was better,
but he'd treated her like a girl instead of a woman.  The other few
times had been for her, leaving him with nice memories for later
use in the shower.  

They'd never really made love.  Not really.  And, except for a few 
flashbacks, there probably wasn't a damn thing wrong with her 
sexually.  He'd created a whole profile of her sexuality based on 
less than ten words from her; just because Scully wasn't one of the super-
aggressive, been there-done that women he'd been with before didn't 
mean she wasn't interested.  

"Are you sure, Scully?  Do you understand what you're asking?" 
He wanted to be sure; she seemed so confused.

"Make love to me, Mulder."

Maybe he could get her to say that on tape so he could replay it
over and over after she was gone.  

When he was alone.

No!  Don't even think that!  Put your hands on her, Mulder.  Feel
how alive she is now.  Feel her.

He began with her neck, face, and breasts, slowly letting her body
relax and ready.  Pushing her right leg forwards so she rolled
slightly away from him, he touched her, still uncertain.  The open-
backed gown offered easy access, baring her hips invitingly.  She
reacted under his fingers, rubbing herself against his hand and
breathing faster.  One button and a zipper and a shove of fabrics,
and they were skin to skin.  Ready.  Her head rested contentedly on
his arm, and he moved his hips just below hers, raising her top leg
up a few more inches and almost covering her with his body, his
face beside hers.  Ready.  

"Are you certain, Scully?  That this is what you want?"  Slow,
slow, slow, he was already chanting to himself.  Do it slow so she
doesn't hurt.  Make this good for her.

"Mulder, I want you to call my mom.  She doesn't know I'm sick
again.  Will you call her?"

Mulder moved gently away from her, pulling the back of her gown
together and letting the blankets fall over her before the cold 
could seep in.  A quick, uncomfortable pull on cotton and denim, a
zipper, and a button, and he was dressed again.

"I'm going to go call her right now, Scully.  You just rest and get
better."

He would cry, but there weren't any more tears left.  Instead, he
went for another cup of bad coffee and turned his cell phone back
on.  He had to dial quickly before it started ringing again, but the
Gunmen answered immediately.  He ignored the call waiting
beeping and asked the guys to bring some of Scully's things from
her apartment.  Pajamas and a robe, maybe a few of her books. 
Pictures of her family, a blanket from her bed.  Anything that might
help her remember her life.  

"Bring her badge.  Bring her badge and ID - it's on the dining room
table."

That was who she was.  

Is.  Who she is.
                         ****

Never morning wore 
To evening, but some heart did break. 
In Memoriam 
                     ****

This time, Mulder awakened to a very rude and uncalled for slap to
the back of his head.

"Wake up, sleepyhead!  Telephone!"

"You're in charge of the phone, Frohike.  Take a message and tell
Barbara Walters that I'll call her never."  

Mulder switched from his right to his left side in the reclining 
chair the nurse had rolled in for him, burrowing deeper against the
persistent medical noises.  With Byers answering his cell phone,
since any calls he actually wanted to take went to it, Frohike
answering the phone in the room, and Langly watching Scully and
guarding the guards guarding the door, Mulder was trying to get in
forty winks before his shift started again.  It had been a long few
weeks, mentally and physically, while he watched his partner
slowly give her life to their child.

"Oh, I think you want to take -this- call, Mulder."   

Mulder cursed and shoved the orange vinyl chair back up to the
sitting position, pinching his leg in the process.

"Who the hell is it, Frohike?  What's so important that it's worth
waking me up?  I've been asleep - what - fifteen whole minutes?"   

That came out too bitchy.  They'd been kind enough to fend off the
news stations, Time, Newsweek, USA Today, and an unending
stream of sneaky reporters trying to make "special deliveries" to
Agents Mulder and Scully and their future child.  Why the public
found the situation so interesting, Mulder had no clue, but Skinner
had finally done a press briefing, assuring the reporters that Agent
Scully was experiencing a recurrence of an illness encountered
during the course of her work on the X-files, and, while very ill,
had no intention of terminating her pregnancy.  Yes, Agent Mulder
was with her now.  Yes, the two agents were close friends, as often
happens between partners.  No, the FBI had no comment on the
paternity of Agent Scully's child.  Yes, everyone was very proud of
Agent Mulder's work in Alien Sting.  

Frohike covered the mouthpiece, pulled the phone as far away from
Scully's bed as it would reach, and looked conspiratorial.   "It's a
woman from Children's Something in Hawaii.  She says she has a
boy there that belongs to you.  Something you want to share with
the class, Lover Boy?"

"She what?  What the hell did she say?"  Frohike handed him the
receiver.  "What the hell did you say?"

"Mr. Mulder?"

"Speaking.  What's this about a kid?"  

"This is Angie Nelson with Social Services.  I've got a ten-year-old
boy here with you named as his next of kin.  I wanted to make sure
there was someone to meet us once we get to DC, since I
understand your wife is ill right now."  

"My partner.  My partner is ill.  And I don't know anything about a
little boy, Ms. Nelson.  I think there's been some mistake."

Ten years ago - who had he been screwing ten years ago?  He
would have just joined the Bureau.  Who could the mother be?

Damn near anyone.  Brilliant, Mulder.  This is what Scully needed
right now.  He looked back at his partner, her soft fists balled as
she slept so her fingers would stay warm.  She needed another
blanket.  He tried to catch Langly's eye, but Langly was accepting a
pony-sized teddy bear being delivered courtesy of Diane Sawyer.

"Mr. Mulder, the mother's wishes were very clear.  In the event of
her death, the state was to contact Special Agent Fox Mulder with
the FBI.  Now will you or will you not accept custody of this
child?"

"Who's the mother?"  He asked, bewildered.  Mulder had always
been so careful.  HIV had been spreading like wildfire and some of
the women he'd picked up weren't too . . . particular.

"The mother's name was Jennifer Anderson.  The child's name is
James Anderson.  Ms. Anderson had to be destroyed and she
named you as the child's guardian, Mr. Mulder.  Provided you're
willing to accept the child, there should be no problem with
transferring legal custody."

Jenn.  He remembered Jenn.  He remembered James, who enforced
his own search warrant on his rental car and had eyes just like his. 
What possessed her to give Mulder her son?  What was he
supposed to do with a kid?   There were thousands of children
orphaned by the bees and the State wasn't being too picky about
who took them.  He'd even given thought to adopting a few if
Scully wanted, before he'd come home to find her dying.

"Give me just a minute, Ms. Nelson."  He covered the receiver and
carried the phone back in the room, sitting on the edge of Scully's
bed near the window.  He didn't know why he was asking her, but
he was.  "Scully - there's a woman on the phone that wants us to
take one of the children orphaned by the bees.  Would you like a
ten-year-old little boy?  He has red hair just like Charles'."

"Okay, Mulder.  But if you get him, you have to clean up after him. 
He'll be your responsibility."

"It's a boy, not a puppy, Scully."

"Oh."  She'd actually been confused, but it made Mulder feel
better.

"Okay, send him on, I guess.  Bring him to Georgetown University
Hospital - that's where I'll be.  I'll figure out what to do with 
him when he gets here."

"Wonderful - and, Mr. Mulder - could you wave for me?"
          
"What?"  

"Could you wave so we can see it on TV?  The camera is on your
window at the hospital."

"Goodbye, Ms. Nelson."
                     ****

Here at the quiet limit of the world.
Tithonus                                
                     ****

One more week.  

One more week and the OBGYN had agreed to take the baby and
immediately re-implant the chip and start chemo.  That would put
Scully a little more than seven and a-half-months pregnant,
although the doctor still thought the baby was smaller than he
should be, even with all the medicine they'd pumped her full of to
develop his lungs.

They just couldn't wait any longer.

One more week, Scully.  Just hold on, partner.  

She came and went, sometimes very alert and teasing Mulder,
telling him she wanted their son named Ahab instead of William. 
Sometimes she had no idea and thought Skinner was Ahab, and
those times were becoming more and more frequent as the tumor
grew.  The newest development had been blindness as the tumor
pressed into her optic nerve.  The doctors couldn't tell Mulder if
her symptoms would remit with the cancer or if the confusion,
mood swings, and blindness would be permanent.  There's just not
any other cases to compare her to, Mr. Mulder.  Every other patient
just died - no hope of remission at this stage.

Mulder stopped asking and just kept her comfortable.  She wanted
to hear his voice, but he ran out of things to say to her after a 
few days.  Byers brought him her tattered copy of "The House of
Mirth" from her apartment, and a dozen silly, crumpled letters
someone wrote to her while pretending to be a soldier had been
hidden in the pages - carefully smoothed and worn from being read
and reread while she waited.  Alone until Langly and Frohike
arrived, Mulder opened the book, found his place in the well-loved
pages and began:

"Everything about her was at once vigorous and exquisite, at once
strong and fine. He had a confused sense that she must have cost a
great deal to make, that a great many dull and ugly people must, in
some mysterious way, have been sacrificed to produce her. He was
aware that the qualities distinguishing her from the herd of her sex
were chiefly external: as though a fine glaze of beauty and
fastidiousness had been applied to vulgar clay. Yet the analogy left
him unsatisfied, for a coarse texture will not take a high finish; 
and was it not possible that the material was fine, but that 
circumstance had fashioned it into a futile shape?" 

Mulder stopped, remembering why he'd never read this book, and
looked up to see a scrawny little boy in the doorway bundled deep
inside a new coat against the East Coast winter.

"James!  Come on in.  I want you to meet someone.  Scully, are
you awake?"  Sometimes it was hard to tell, but Scully answered
him.  "The boy I've been telling you about is here, Scully.  He has
red hair and hazel eyes and he looks like he could use a bath and a
few meals."

James hesitated, probably not certain about all the monitors and
hospitally things running in and out of Scully.  Or about being an
orphan.  Or about his new family.  Or about all the TV cameras
that had met him when he got off the plane.  Poor kid.  Lots of
shoulder-monsters.  Purple ones, and those were the worst kind.

"Agent Mulder?"

"It's okay, James, come sit down.  And you should probably just
call me Mulder.  This is the lady in the picture you found.  Her
name is Dana, but sometimes people call her Scully."

"What do you call her?"  The frightened child had made it as far as
the chair.

"I call her Scully."  Mulder held out his bag of sunflower seeds and
James took a handful.  A bridge was built.
   
"Then I will too.  Hello, Scully."

"Hello, James."  Scully held her hand out in the direction of his
voice.  "I'm glad to meet you."

Mulder thanked God that this was one of Scully's good moments.

"You gonna have a baby?"

"Soon," Scully answered, her other hand rubbing her belly.

"My mom was gonna to have a little girl, but she died."

"Well, I'm going to try not to die, James.  I'm going to try real
hard."  

That was probably as much effort as Scully could manage, so
Mulder pulled her blanket up higher, more as a gesture than
because she could possibly be cold, and let her rest.  

"James, your stomach is moving," Mulder noticed.

James grinned and a large, white, whiskered head appeared through
the front of his jacket.  "It okay I brought Buttons, Mulder?"

"Sure, why not?'  At this point, life was so upside down that
Mulder wouldn't have questioned the boy wanting to bring an
ostrich.  He'd just have to stop at a bookstore and find out about
the care and feeding of cats as well as the care and feeding of ten-
year-old boys.  The second shouldn't be too hard, since Mulder
was once a ten-year-old boy for a whole year.

They left Scully to sleep, gestate, and hopefully, not metastasize,
and took a walk down the hallway.  Frohike was getting off the
elevator, carrying something the doctors probably didn't want
Scully eating and Mulder's garment bag.

"James, this is Frohike, and the one with the hair is Langly.  Don't
do or listen to anything they say - ever."  

"This the kid?" Langly asked.

"No, Langly, this is a demo kid I'm taking for a test drive."  The
little boy looked confused.  Mulder was going to have to watch his
mouth if he was going to be a father.

Wow - a father.  The little creature happily sucking the life out of
his Scully didn't seem real yet, but James was.  Wow.  

He hoped he could do a better job than his father had done.
     
"Whatcha bring for Scully?"  Mulder asked, taking the suit he'd
sold out enough to wear instead of Langley's "Government Patsy"
t-shirt.  Skinner had threatened him.

Frohike let him peek into the bag.  "German chocolate cake ice-
cream and my homemade peanut butter fudge.  Skinner and your
escorts are waiting for you in the lobby and they're getting antsy."

"You're a good man, Frohike.  No one should spend their last days
eating hospital food."  Mulder was immediately sorry he'd said
that.  This father thing was harder than it looked.  "Hey, James -
you and Buttons want to go see the White House?"

"Can I meet the President?"

"If I have my way, you can sick cat on Buddy."  Another puzzled
look.  "Yes, you can meet the President.  I'm getting a medal -
come on, you'll be impressed.  I'll get you your own bag of seeds."

James zipped his covert cat back up inside his jacket and Mulder
made one last check on Scully, who was sleeping peacefully in the
winter sun, and they walked to catch the limo to the White House,
both in battered blue jeans and sweatshirts, with one carrying a
concealed weapon and one a concealed feline.
                     ****

Rich in saving common-sense,
And, as the greatest only are, 
In his simplicity sublime. 
Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington 
                     ****

"Is she dying 'cause of the bees, Mulder?  Or just 'cause of the
baby?"

The nurses must have gotten tired of entertaining James and sent
him back to the room.  It usually didn't take long - the boy was
going to fit right in with the Mulder-Scully family.

"Who told you that?"

"Nurse Mandy - she said not to worry 'cause Scully would be with
God and my mom soon and to stop asking so many questions.  Are
you worried, Mulder?"

"Yes, I'm worried.  But this is what Scully wants.  She wants to
have a baby, but she got very sick.  As soon as the doctors get the
baby tomorrow, they're going to try to make her better."

"You think she'll like me when she gets better?"

The worries of a little boy.  No less important to the heart; just
much more likely to be dismissed.

"I'm sure she will.  You better enjoy her now, though, James -
she's usually awful bossy."  Mulder thought he saw a faint, tired
smile flicker across her face but he wasn't sure.  "You want to sign
on for Operation Beached Whale?  It's time for a roll."  Mulder
actually could have picked a hundred and twelve pounds of Scully
up and moved her easily, but he wanted James to feel like he was
helping.  "On the count of three - I'll roll her and you move the
covers.  One, two, three - heave!  Ho!  You keep eating Frohike's
cooking, Scully, and we'll need a crane."

Maybe she squeezed his hand, maybe she just twitched.

"Why you roll her, Mulder?"

"So she doesn't get sore places from laying in the same position." 
An idea struck him.  He lowered the side rail and had James sit
beside him on the high bed.  "This green tube - the one under her
nose - that's called a nasal cannula and it's just oxygen to help 
her breathe.  And these three wires are cardiac leads- they're just 
stuck on her like Band-aids, and they measure her heart.  This thing
is a central IV line.  The nurses use it give her medicine and food if 
she doesn't wake up to eat.  The other one is an arterial line where 
they take blood so she doesn't have to be stuck with any more needles. 
And there's a Foley catheter under the covers so she doesn't have
to get up to go to the bathroom, but you don't want to see that."

James appraised the set up.  "All this so she can have a baby?"

"Well, because she's getting very sick having a baby.  I'm just
trying to make her feel better."  Mulder pushed a stray piece of her
hair back into place.

"That's why you read to her?"  Mulder nodded.  "You know, I can
read."

"Yea - we should probably think about sending you to school."

"No, I want to read to Scully like you do.  She like Harry Potter?"

"I'm sure she does, James.  Hold her hand - she likes that too."
                     ****

All in the valley of death. . .
The Charge of the Light Brigade
                          ****

"Almost there, Scully.  They're cutting though something really
yucky now.  I see a foot, and a leg, and a butt."  

Mulder was narrating for her benefit, although Scully gave no sign
of hearing.  

"You'll be glad they're taking pictures, Scully, because he is about
the ugliest thing I've ever seen.  It looks like they should put him
back and let him cook a little more.  And you should see what
they're doing to you.  There's all sorts of things in there that you
probably know the names of, but they just look pretty gross to me." 

Now Mulder was making no sense at all.  His brain was in
overdrive, trying to synchronize a brand new baby, an unconscious
Scully, a worthless medal, and another little boy being entertained
by his AD somewhere.  He couldn't decide which of those things
scared him the most.

"Now they're got him breathing and cleaned up some.  All four
pounds, nine ounces of him.  He looks a little better.  That's him
on your chest."  

He pulled her hand up so she could feel the baby and it stayed.  

She knew.  

Happy Valentine's Day, partner.  No other woman had ever given
him her life and a son as a gift set, wrapped in hospital green, 
latex yellow, and nurse white with a big, blood red bow.

"I see blue eyes and maybe a little dark red hair.  Ten fingers and
toes.  His nose looks okay, so we got lucky.  You did it, Scully. 
We've got a perfect little boy."  He kissed her forehead.  "And as
soon as they get your belly put back together, they're going to
switch out your chip - kind of like the battery pack on your laptop. 
Just hold on a little bit longer, partner."

"Please, Scully.  Just hold on.  Don't leave me yet."

They were putting the new chip in as he held his son up for
Skinner, James, and the Gunmen to see through the glass, looking
like a science experiment with all the monitors they had the little
guy hooked to.  Had she been awake, Mulder was certain Scully
would have told him to put that baby down right now before he
broke something and had to pay for it.

Scully was in Recovery as Mulder signed the paternity papers and
gave William Scully Mulder a name and a father and noticed he
still had some of Scully's blood on his hands.  The baby was doing
well, sir, so there was a very good chance of a positive outcome,
sir.  Mulder wondered how exactly the doctors defined "positive
outcome" as he watched Scully being wheeled back to her room,
still unconscious. 

She was in bed where she'd been for the last month while the
nurses explained his son's tubes and monitors to Mulder in the
NICU.  Most of them were the same as Scully's, just on a different
scale.  The baby had gotten tired after his big entrance, so the
doctors put him on a vent for a few hours - to let him take a break
from the effort of breathing.  Mulder understood and almost envied
him.  James wanted to know if this was his baby brother and
Mulder told him yes.  

Scully was still asleep when they started the chemo and taught
Mulder how to rock a baby.  Once he was asleep, Mulder wanted to
take him to Scully, but the nurse insisted he be put in a miniature
tanning bed for jaundice.  Mulder hoped they used sun screen -
Scully was really fair.  The sunglasses were pretty cute, though. 
He wished Scully could see him squirming naked under the lights. 
Hell, he wished she could see him squalling.

She slept while the breast nurse took milk for the baby and taught
Mulder how to change a diaper, hold a bottle, and get that same
breast milk puked on his shoulder in some sort of odd recycling
program.  He got a crash course in infant CPR since the little guy
still decided to stop breathing occasionally and learned how to
work an apnea monitor that was bigger than the baby.  They
"graduated" to the regular nursery after a week - Good Morning
America sent a gift basket.  

Since these were "very special circumstances, sir," once he could
breathe and stay warm on his own, the baby was allowed to stay in
the room with Scully and a private nurse that stood over Mulder
like a rottweiler whenever he wanted to touch his son.  She was so
obnoxious and bossy, Mulder assumed she had to know what she
was doing - same logic he applied to Skinner.  A picture of Mulder
holding the baby as he looked at Scully laying unconscious made
the cover of People and that was the last of the private duty nurse.

The breast nurse, although she told Mulder not to call her that,
raised the head of the bed and showed Mulder how to hold the
baby against Scully so he could nurse, making greedy little sucking
sounds.  The doctor frowned, but increased the amount of calories
flowing into Scully so she'd have enough milk for the baby.  It
reminded Mulder of vultures feeding on a dying animal, but it was
what Scully had wanted, so he switched  breasts and just marveled
at humanity's will to survive.
     
Days passed into weeks and Scully still didn't respond.  Mulder
picked up her favorite book, and the last page fell out.  The baby
fed, burped, changed, and content in his plastic bed for the
moment, and James off wheedling toys out of the Gunmen for the
night, Mulder read:

"That was all he knew--all he could hope to unravel of the story.
The mute lips on the pillow refused him more than this--unless
indeed they had told him the rest in the kiss they had left upon his
forehead. Yes, he could now read into that farewell all that his
heart craved to find there; he could even draw from it courage not
to accuse himself for having failed to reach the height of his
opportunity. He saw that all the conditions of life had conspired to
keep them apart; since his very detachment from the external
influences which swayed her had increased his spiritual
fastidiousness, and made it more difficult for him to live and love
uncritically. But at least he HAD loved her--had been willing to
stake his future on his faith in her--and if the moment had been
fated to pass from them before they could seize it, he saw now that,
for both, it had been saved whole out of the ruin of their lives. It
was this moment of love, this fleeting victory over themselves,
which had kept them from atrophy and extinction; which, in her,
had reached out to him in every struggle against the influence of
her surroundings, and in him, had kept alive the faith that now
drew him penitent and reconciled to her side. He knelt by the bed
and bent over her, draining their last moment to its lees; and in 
the silence there passed between them the word which made all clear."

Mulder slammed to book closed and threw it against the wall,
sending a cloud of dust and pages and love letters flying.  He
wasn't reading her damn eulogy.  He was contemplating James'
Harriet the Spy novel and trying to get the baby back to sleep when
Dr. Zuckerman came in with the results of yesterday's PET scan. 
Mulder closed his eyes, doubting the news was good if the doctor
had come to share it before he even started his rounds.

The tumor was shrinking. 
 
"No promises about her level of functioning, Mr. Mulder, but it
looks like she'll live."  

Live.

Live.  Alive.

She was still asleep, but Mulder was sure he could see her healing. 
He took her warm hand in his and felt a gentle squeeze.  When he
looked out the window, the snow was stopping and the golden sun
was rising again.  

Spring was coming.  They'd come full circle.
                     ****

God gives us love. Something to love 
He lends us; but when love is grown 
To ripeness, that on which it throve 
Falls off, and love is left alone. 
To J. S.
                     ****

End: The Golden Year