Title: A Moment in the Sun
Author: prufrock's love
Rating: R
Keywords: historical au, msr, novel, angst, mytharc, 
light 'other'
Summary: Autumn, New York City, 1953.  A baseball 
player past his prime and a beautiful woman with a 
secret.
Archive: link to
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/moment.html
Website: 
www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/prupage.html
Disclaimer: not mine; don't sue
Silver spoons: Spooning: yes; Skinner's head: 
attached; Jenn: keep reading, you'll be fine; angst-
o-meter: 5.9 out of 10; Snortameter: 7 out of 10 
 
*~*~*~*
A Moment in the Sun
By prufrock's love

The metal tray hit the floor, making Mulder jump and 
sending stainless steel instruments scattering, 
clattering loudly across the polished floor of the 
examination room.  Nonplused, the overhead bulb 
continued to glare down, sullenly illuminating the 
scarlet splatters on the crumpled white shirt on his 
lap, and adding an atmospheric touch to an otherwise 
lackluster All Hallows Eve.  

Staring at the tangle of ruined sutures, swabs, and 
unnamed torture devices, Mulder reconsidered his 
decision to seek medical treatment: a nice, oozing, 
jagged scar might give his face some character.  A 
little blood loss never killed anyone. 

"Idiot girl!" the red-faced doctor exploded at the 
nurse, not acknowledging he had been the one who had 
tipped the table over as he lumbered around. "Get a 
fresh tray and then clean this mess up!  Christ, I 
can't stand incompetence."  
 
Never glancing at the patient, he ordered the nurse 
to call him when everything was ready to proceed; he 
would be in the lounge.  Despite the trashcan beside 
the exam table, Dr. Zucker purposely dropped his 
gloves on the floor for her to pick up and teetered 
out through the swinging doors, taking his Napoleon 
Complex and his three-martini after-dinner snack 
with him.

Mulder and his Oedipus Complex just sat, embarrassed 
to have been witness to such a scene and done 
nothing, hiding under the ice pack pressed to his 
forehead and watching his long legs dangling idly.  
The nurse used the toe of her white shoe to nudge a 
few gloves, sponges, and tweezer-looking things 
aside without comment, and then tilted his face to 
the light so she could see the small cut, sighing to 
herself.   

"Um, nurse?"

"Yes, sir?" she replied, not seeming to notice how 
awkward he felt in his undershirt now that he was 
alone with her.  

"Is another doctor working tonight?  Dr. Zucker 
seems to be, uh, well-"  

'Drunk' would be the missing word.  'Asshole' would 
substitute in a pinch.

"Dr. Zucker is usually-" She cleared her throat. "Do 
you want me to stitch this up so you can go?  It 
looks worse than it is and your x-rays are fine."

"Instead of a doctor?  Can't you just get another 
doctor?"

She leaned back against the cabinet, crossing her 
arms and alternating her weight between her feet.  
"Mr. um, Martin: it's one in the morning on a 
Sunday.  I can get you some Jell-O and Aspirin and 
you can wait for Dr. Willis to come in at six or you 
can let me put three stitches in your head and be 
gone before whoever it is you're trying to avoid 
gets here.  It's up to you.  I'll tell Dr. Zucker he 
did it and he'll never know the difference."    

There didn't seem to be a choice, so he watched 
warily as she readied everything, flicking the 
syringe with her finger to get the bubbles out.  No 
matter how many times he was cut or sewn for various 
injuries, and there had been many over the years,   
he still hated this part: the waitin', knowin' it's 
gonna hurt part.

"Just a little prick, then it will be numb and I can 
put the stitches in.  Come back here, big guy."  

He hadn't realized he was leaning away from her, 
eyeing the needle, until a warm hand took him by the 
shoulder and guided him back under the light.  
Mulder found himself eye-level with her breasts as 
she worked, which he made a great effort not to 
stare at.   Apparently, he still wasn't staying 
where she placed him, since the nurse kept a firm 
grip on his chin while she cleaned and sewed one-
handed.

"So tell me, patient to nurse, what really happened 
to you, Mr. Martin," she began, trying to distract 
him from the big fishing hooks she was about to jab 
into his flesh, "Because this looks more like a 
blunt trauma than- What was that story you came up 
with?"

"Slipped on some ice," he mumbled. "I thought that 
was pretty good, actually."

She tossed a few used pieces of gauze in the trash 
and picked up the first suture. "Close your eyes, 
sir."  He did, gladly. "First, it's October: there 
is no ice.  Second, people generally fall backward 
when they slip, or else they have marks on their 
forearms where they catch themselves if they fall 
forward.  And the angle is wrong.  I'm guessing this 
is a-" She paused to readjust his head: without his 
homing nipple, he was drifting again, "Lead pipe, 
maybe?  A pool cue?"

"Do you promise you won't tell anyone?"

"Promise.  Stop squirming."  

"My kid accidentally hit me with a bat.  Well, a bat 
he let go of.  We were at the ballpark and I was 
trying to teach him to swing through instead of 
bunting.  He got excited, swung hard, and let go, 
and it cracked me a good one.  I waited for it to 
stop bleeding on its own, but it didn't, so I 
thought I should get checked out before I drove him 
home.  Back to his mother's," Mulder added for 
clarity. "That's Slugger in the waiting room: the 
kid looking remorseful and uncoordinated."

He heard her pulling the string to open a band-aid 
as she asked, "So what's so shameful about that?  
That's it.  All done.  See: the world didn't end.  
You can open your eyes now."

"When it comes to my son, I like to keep things 
quiet, if I can; out of the papers, especially.  He 
gets enough teasing as it is."

Liking what he saw: her concerned face even with 
his, he smiled self-consciously, but the nurse 
didn't meet his gaze.

She ran her thumb over the bandage to smooth it into 
place, paused to admire her handiwork, and then 
picked up his chart to make notes.  "You get the 
same bill, regardless of whether the doctor or the 
nurse sews.  You can pay as you leave if you don't 
want to give a billing address."

"You honestly don't know who I am, do you?" he 
asked, immediately grimacing at himself for stooping 
to say that.  It was a step away from handing her 
his baseball card with his phone number written on 
the front: pompous, unimaginative, and only 
effective on women who dotted their I's with little 
daisies.     

"Mr. Marty Martin- That's a lousy alias, by the way. 
Injured in- Do you want to have been mugged or won a 
bar brawl?"

"Bar brawl.  May I get dressed now?"

She nodded, either not noticing or ignoring him 
watching her as she wrote. "Keep the wound dry, ice 
it to keep the swelling down, and come back to get 
the stitches out in two weeks.  Stand outside the 
batting cage from now on or learn to dodge faster.  
If you start to get dizzy or confused or the wound 
looks infected, come back immediately."

"I know a doctor who can take the stitches out.  Is 
that okay?"

"Fine.  It was nice doing business with you, Mr. 
Not-Really-Martin."

"Um, thanks, Nurse-"

"Scully," she answered, walking out the door, 
leaving him fastening the top button of his ruined 
shirt, legs still dangling off the edge of the exam 
table, and noticing the room had warmed 
considerably.

*~*~*~*
 
It was always a toss-up: wear the Yankees cap and 
risk being recognized or wear any other hat like a 
normal adult and risk being recognized and called a 
traitor.  After so many seasons in the blue and 
white uniform, Mulder generally went with the 
familiar Yankees cap.  Besides, it did a fair job of 
hiding the bandage just above his left eyebrow as he 
slipped in through the ambulance bay.  

"Mr. Martin," Nurse Scully said, surprised to see 
him wandering around the vast ER again: in search of 
her, but she didn't know that.  "I thought you had 
your own doctor: is something wrong?"

Crap.  Now this was starting to seem like a stupid 
idea. 

"I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd come here and…" 
he trailed off, embarrassed.  He'd actually been 
sitting across the street in his car for hours while 
he tried to work up his nerve.  He had, too: gotten 
his nerve all worked up and then lost in somewhere 
between the curb and the exam room.  He should go 
outside and look for it and get back to her in his 
next lifetime.

"That's fine.  We're quiet this morning.  No one 
should bother you.  Come with me."  She gestured for 
him to follow her into one of the turquoise-tiled 
exam rooms, which Mulder did, twisting his hat in 
his hands and keeping his eyes open for his mislaid 
nerve.

"Why would anyone bother me?" he asked, trying to 
sound innocent, thinking he would end up fixated on 
the one beautiful woman in New York who didn't 
recognize him.  He hopped up on the exam table, 
trying to look athletic.  Innocent and athletic: 
both tough at almost forty, but he had been a 
professional.

She shrugged, tiptoeing to reach a bottle on the top 
shelf, snapped on a rubber glove, and poured some of 
the clear liquid into her gloved hand.  Mulder's 
eyes widened: the last time someone had done that, 
it had been at his Army physical for WWII, and that 
examination hadn't turned out pleasantly at all. 

"These stitches aren't supposed to come out for 
another few days, but since you're here, it should 
probably be okay if the cut has healed."

"I heal fast; I've had surgery on my knees a few 
times.  What is that you're doing?"  The smell was 
familiar, but Mulder couldn't place exactly what she 
was rubbing, though thankfully she was rubbing it on 
his forehead.

"Baby oil.  Whoever put this band-aid on put it over 
your eyebrow.  If I just yank it off, part of your 
eyebrow is going to come with it and leave you 
lopsided.  If I put baby oil on the bandage first, 
it comes off easier.  Close your eyes in case it 
drips."

"I put it on.  Sorry; I guess I did it wrong." He 
took a deep breath, relaxing and deciding braving 
the Mercy ER again wasn't such a bad idea after all. 

New York Citywas full of unforgettably beautiful 
women who soon blended into a shallow, unforgettably
beautiful blur, but this one was different. Touchable.  
Memorably real.  He was certain there was something 
happening behind her blue eyes, but he was equally 
certain she'd never quite tell him what it was.  She 
was silk-stockings-mysterious in a practical white-
cotton-panties kind of way.  She was deliciously 
contradictory in a world of banal, and as tempting 
as a broken cookie cooling on the baker's rack.  

And he was lonely.   

"I'll have to remember this trick: we tried batting 
practice again, and now my son has scrapes on both 
elbows." 

"How does one get batting injuries on one's elbows, 
Mr. Martin?" she asked, gently peeling off the band-
aid, pursing her lips as she rubbed it to take away 
the sting, just in case. 

"One inherits absolutely none of his father's 
athleticism, Nurse Scully."

*~*~*~*

Yeah, this was low-key.  Following a strange woman 
through the silent streets of the Bronx before dawn 
yelling 'nurse!' after her.  This would never make 
the newspapers.

It wasn't hard to keep pace with her, but Mulder 
couldn't get her to stop or listen to him until she 
reached the subway entrance and he had her trapped 
for a few seconds.

"Go away!  Haven't you had enough fun for one night?" 
She was so angry her cheeks were flushed and her eyes 
snapped blue fire at him.

"I am sorry.  Just go back to the hospital.  I 
guarantee they will give you your job back."

"Sure they will." Nurse Scully fished through her 
purse for a subway token, finally dumping it out on 
an empty bench in exasperation.  A tube of lipstick 
escaped and rolled into the shadows and she didn't 
bother to retrieve it.

"They will.  Look: that doctor was out of line.  You 
don't have to tolerate him talking to you like that."

"You're right: I don't.  But I know how to handle 
it and I don't need a hero.  Thank you so much, 
Superman: you interfering just made it a hundred 
times worse.  Not only do I not have a job, now 
I don't have a reference."

"I swear to you the hospital will give you your job 
back.  They'll fire that doctor and rehire you."

"Why?  Because you'll tell them to? I don't need 
some mobster who happens be nice to his kid to look 
out for me."  She finally found the fifteen-cent 
subway token and fed it into the turnstile, leaving 
him standing on the other side.

"Hey!" he yelled after her, his voice echoing 
through the tunnels over the roar of the train.  
"Hey! I'm not a mobster!"

"Go to Hell, mister!"

"I'm a ballplayer," he informed her as the doors of 
the subway car closed. "I played in the World Series 
ten times!"

"I won nine of those!"  Mulder told the back of the 
subway train.  "I'm in the damn Hall of Fame!"

"Shit!" he said to no one in particular.  A whole 
city full of models and actresses and he gets hung 
up on one mouthy, hardheaded, redheaded nurse.

*~*~*~*

She better show up soon or Nurse Scully was going to 
find a remorseful Mulder-shaped icicle on her 
doorstep, he thought, glancing up from his seat on 
the cracked cement stoop and then huddling deeper 
into his winter coat.   

"You don't understand 'no' very well, do you, 
mister?" said the owner of the unhappy shadow 
suddenly looming over top of him, her head outlined 
golden by the sunrise.

"I got your address from the hospital.  And I 
brought your lipstick," he replied, his teeth 
chattering.  Brilliant, Mulder; very smooth.  Brace 
yourself, she'll be throwing herself into your arms 
any second.  "Please: I don't want to bother you; I 
just don't want you to lose your job because of me."

"It was a lousy job, anyway.  And no man drives all 
the way from the Bronx to Brooklyn Heights out of 
the goodness of his heart or to return a dime store 
lipstick, Mr-" she paused expectantly.

"Mulder.  How did you know I drove?"

She cocked her head in the direction of the out-of-
place black Cadillac parked down the block, which he 
hadn't wanted her to notice, juggling the groceries 
she carried. "Are you a murderer, a rapist, or a 
mobster, Mr. Mulder?"

He shook his head 'no.'

"Married, insane, or a communist?"

Another 'no.'

"Then hold these groceries while I find my key and 
we'll call it even." She handed him two bulging 
brown paper sacks, balancing the third on her hip as 
she opened the security door.  

Not sure what was happening, or his role in it, 
Mulder followed her into the foyer and ended up 
holding all three bags while she went to the door of 
the first apartment.  There was a brief exchange 
between she and the older woman who answered, and 
a sleeping girl in pajamas was passed into her arms.  

"Put those bags down," she told him over the child's 
blond head. "I'll get them.  Thank you for going to 
so much trouble, Mr. Mulder, but it's really not 
necessary.  We'll be fine."  
 
"I'll carry them up if you want.  How could you 
manage three bags and her," he nodded to the limp 
child, "at the same time?"

"The same way I've managed for years." She waited 
for him to move, then shrugged. "Suit yourself."

"Which floor do you live on?" he asked when they 
reached the fourth set of steps and she hadn't 
slowed her pace.

"The top. We have a view."  The child stirred 
against her shoulder and blinked sleepily at Mulder.

"So do I, but I also have an elevator."   

Nurse Scully seemed to have difficulty keeping track 
of things in her purse, because she shifted the 
groggy girl from hip to hip and then set her down on 
the mat while she hunted for her door key.  Finally 
unlocking and putting her shoulder against the 
warped door to push it open, she herded a half-awake 
daughter inside the small apartment and then turned 
to Mulder to take the bags.

"I'll carry them to the kitchen for you.  Just leave 
the front door open."   

She glanced behind her at the racks of children's 
clothes and her own stockings, housedresses, and 
undergarments hung up to dry in the living room, 
probably decided he'd seen laundry before, and held 
open the door for him.    

He was setting the groceries on the table and trying 
to figure out another excuse, short of bleeding 
again, to hang around, when the little girl wandered 
in wearing her footy pajamas and began examining her 
mother's purchases.  

"Why couldn't you have woken up five flights of 
steps ago, Em?" her mother asked, her head deep in 
the icebox as she rearranged the bundles of her 
washed, starched and waiting-to-be-ironed nurses' 
uniforms to make room for her purchases.  Mulder 
supposed yesterday must have been washday.     

"Who are you?" the child asked, a little fist 
digging into her eye as she stood precariously on a 
kitchen chair.

"Mulder," he replied, leaning down so they were face 
to face.  This was always a good step: making 
friends with a woman's kids.  Not that he'd ever 
dated a woman with kids.  And he wasn't really 
dating this woman; he was following her.  Hell, he 
was still trying to make friends with his own kid, 
and he'd had fourteen years to do it.

"Are you a nice man?"

"I try to be." That was a very subjective question.

She looked him up and down, her eyes full of serious 
four-year old thoughts and decided, "You can feed my 
cat."

He supposed that was a vote of confidence.

"Dry food, honey.  I didn't buy tuna."  A hand set a 
bowl of fish-shaped cat food morsels on the table 
and Mulder noted it lacked a wedding ring.

"We're poor again?  Why?" 

"Because we're so good at it," Scully replied, going 
to the living room to pull off her shoes and 
probably trying not to moan in pleasure.  "It will 
be fine, Emily.  Mr. Mulder-" she began as she 
unpinned her nurses' cap.

"Let me buy you a drink."  That was the first thing 
he could think of and it generally worked.

"It's barely morning.  Try again."

Well, at least she hadn't thrown him out yet.  

"Breakfast?"  Stretching out his fingers to help pet 
Emily's scruffy calico cat, Mulder asked, "Em, would 
you like to have breakfast?  Aiello's will be open 
soon."

The look on the woman's face actually made him 
flinch.  Rooking in the kid hadn't been a good idea. 

"Aiello's is at Coney Island," Scully informed him, 
frowning, a little crease appearing between her 
eyebrows.

"And by the time we get there, they will be open," 
he responded, feeling bold. 

"Let's hear the pitch, Mr. Mulder.  Tall, dark, and 
handsome doesn't get very far with me.  You can 
leave out the part about being obsessive and awkward 
around women, because I already know that."

"My name is Fox Mulder," he began, having mastered 
that phrase early on in life. "I used to play ball, 
but I quit after last season.  Um, I'm divorced, 
with a teenage son." He paused to consider for a 
second. "I think that's it.  Not a mobster, 
communist, or murderer."

She crossed her arms, focusing her gaze on him until 
he began to fidget. "An out-of-work, divorced 
ex-ballplayer?" She raised an eyebrow at him.  

"You make it sound so negative."

*~*~*~*
        
"You're late," Langly informed him tersely as Mulder 
burst through the office door, slightly out of 
breath. "We were about to start without you."

"Feel free," Mulder replied, crossing immediately to 
the liquor cabinet, opening the wooden doors, and 
squatting down.   

His press agent, accountant, and attorney exchanged 
worried looks as Mulder rummaged through the glass 
bottles.  He was sober now, after an extended 
retirement party last month spent at the bottom of 
an old-fashioned glass.  Days that had once been 
occupied by baseball had quickly become filled with 
scotch and a few questionable women, but Mulder had 
been wise enough to find a wagon and stay on it when 
he saw where he was headed.  As with many things in 
his life, Mulder had said very little about it, but 
everyone around him had breathed a sigh of relief 
when he stopped drinking and became himself again.    

Finally, it was Frohike, press agent extraordinaire, 
who said it: "It's ten-fifteen in the morning, 
Mulder; tell me you're hunting for canned orange 
juice."

"I'm good, boys.  Go ahead: I'm sure Byers is antsy 
that we're behind on his agenda for the meeting.  
Heaven knows my life isn't interesting enough that 
we need an agenda, but I'm sure he has one."

Byers, Mulder's attorney for more than a decade, 
frowned.  He did indeed have an agenda: typed up 
with mimeographed copies for everyone.  "Item one: 
ex-wife," he said, raising his voice over the 
clinking of the liquor bottles. "Phoebe wants your 
son for Christmas and says you can have him for New 
Year's." 

"No," Mulder replied, now lining up rows of 
decanters on the rug as he cleaned out the cabinet 
in search of whatever he was searching for. "Will 
and I are going to Aspen with you; Phoebe already 
knows that."

"That's what I thought.  I'll deal with it.  Item 
two: also ex-wife.  Phoebe-"

"We do this every week, Byers." Mulder interrupted, 
abandoning his search of the liquor cabinet and 
beginning to investigate the junk drawer of Langly's 
desk.  "I'm tired of Phoebe being items one through 
five on the memorandum of my life.  As long as I get 
to see Will, just give her whatever she wants.  I'm 
not fighting anymore.  Ah ha!" Mulder announced, 
triumphantly holding up the bottle of Rolaids. "I 
knew you'd have them.  I'm not the only one with an 
ex-wife."
 
Mulder flopped in the leather chair in the corner, 
making a face as a nasty taste of coffee mixing with 
stomach acid made its way up his throat. Swallowing 
several times, he shot the three men a puzzled look, 
as though he hadn't just made the most bizarre of 
announcements, and opened the antacids. "Move on.  
Item three "

"You've eaten?" Frohike observed, familiar with the 
ulcer-acting-up expression. "You're telling us to 
give your ex-wife whatever she wants, and you're 
eating again?  And you got your stitches out.  I 
detect a new lady in your life.  A nurse, maybe?"

Mulder shrugged self-consciously. 

"He has it bad," Langly commented. "God help us all." 

"Well, it's about damn time." Frohike nodded in 
approval and picked up his pen, gesturing to Byers. 
"Item three."  

*~*~*~*

Mulder was caught up in the impromptu game of street 
ball, vicariously reliving a few moments of glory, 
and didn't notice her watching him as she 
approached.  He helped Emily swing and sent her 
running for first base, her oversized snow boots 
something of an impediment.  Nurse Scully was a 
'you'll grow into it' kind of mom.  From the window 
of the apartment building, her babysitter applauded, 
nodding in approval.  

"You're like Em's cat, Mr. Mulder," came a woman's 
voice from the sidewalk. "I let you in once because 
you looked pitiful and now you keep showing up on my 
doorstep."   

He grinned, handing the bat off to one of the 
neighborhood boys, and walking to her eagerly.  

"Friday night.  You said we could have dinner Friday 
night.  It's Friday, it's almost night." He'd been 
here since four-thirty, just in case her definition 
of 'night' was early.  What Mulder lacked in charm and 
tact, he made up for in doggedness, and he turned on 
his pleading Border Collie eyes for emphasis.

"When you asked me at breakfast, I thought you meant 
next Friday." She was folding those arms again and 
he could feel a forehead crease coming on.  His 
puppy-dog eyes weren't working, damn it. "Two meals; 
one day: I don't know, Mr. Mulder."

He waited, adding a sad eyebrow as her gaze shifted 
between him and her daughter, who was waving proudly 
from first base.  He'd known he meant next Friday, 
too.

"I've been at work all afternoon.  I'm not sure I'd 
be much fun this evening if I fall asleep in my 
soup."

"Did you go back to the hospital?"  Mulder asked, 
noting the stiff nurses' uniform peeking out from 
underneath her coat.

"No.  One of the agencies needed a private duty 
nurse.  I called and they had a job for me this 
weekend; I thought I'd better take it now and 
sleep later.  I'm sorry, but if I don't spend time 
with Emily tonight, I won't see her again until 
Sunday, and maybe not even then.  I honesty didn't 
think you meant this Friday.  Can I get a rain 
check?"

"Bring her."

She rubbed her temples, obviously very tired.   

"Thank you for your offer, but no. And thank you for 
being nice to her, but we're used to our lives the 
way they are.  I don't want to confuse her by having 
men tramping in and out of her life.  You and I can 
have dinner next week, if you still want to, but-" 

"My ex-wife left me when our son was a baby," Mulder 
replied, speaking so quickly his frosty breath 
didn't have time to dissipate in the cold air. "I 
was traveling constantly with the ball club, and she 
spends a lot of time in England: that's where 
she's from.  Then the war, then more baseball, and  
before I knew it he was five, and then ten, and now 
a teenager I barely know.  Every time I want to see 
him, it's a fight, and I don't know what to say when 
we are together: I mostly just buy him things.  Your 
daughter Emily: I can talk to her.  I don't mind 
her at all."

"You don't play with people's lives, Mr. Mulder, 
especially not my daughter's."

"I promise you I'm not playing," he replied, his 
voice low and soft, watching mesmerized as the 
season's first snowflakes landed on her eyelashes.  

*~*~*~*

"Mrs. Osborne, this is Mulder.  There was a message 
at the front desk that Mrs. Scully had called.  
Could I speak to her please?"

"Of course; let me get her, Mr. Mulder; she's about 
to burst if she doesn't tell you her news soon, so 
just excuse her for being so forward," Emily's 
babysitter replied, as though women weren't 
beginning to call men left and right these days.  

Knowing what was coming, he held the receiver away 
from his ear as Mrs. Osborne bellowed, "DANA!" out 
her apartment door loud enough to carry up five 
floors.

As usual, there were numerous clicks as everyone in 
her apartment building picked up their phones to 
listen on the party line.  Mulder was, for reasons 
beyond him, was 'one of New York's most eligible 
bachelors:' an endorsement almost as deep as the 
society page it was printed on.  Her neighbors 
tended to conjure up mental images of a tuxedo-clad 
Mulder sipping champagne on a balcony in Paris 
rather than a blue jean-clad Mulder, alone in the 
suite at The Plaza Hotel that he called 'home,' 
drinking flat ginger ale and picking at the hole in 
his right sock.     

"She's coming, Mr. Mulder."

"Thank you."

He stretched out on the sofa, watching the snow 
began to blanket Central Park outside his living 
room window as he waited.

"Mr. Mulder," Scully said, slightly out of breath 
from having run down the stairs.  "Hello."

"Yeeesss, Nurse Scully." he replied, letting his 
head rest comfortably on the arm of the couch. "I 
understand you have news.  We have an audience, 
though."

There were a few guilty clicks as a couple of eves-
droppers hung up, but their conversation was still 
being shared with the majority of Brooklyn Heights.  

"I got the job," she said, still breathless.  "In 
pediatrics.  Regular day shift: no midnights and no 
weekends.  I'll even have insurance for Emily and I 
can be home for dinner every night."    

"That's wonderful!" Mulder replied, not as shocked 
as he tried to sound.  He'd been watching her 
struggle through twenty-four and thirty-six hour 
shifts as a private duty nurse for dirty old men for 
a month now.  Enough was enough. "When do you 
start?"

"Monday.  They want me as soon as possible."  She 
paused, and Mulder heard her take a long, shaky 
breath. "Did you do this Mr. Mulder?  I don't have 
any experience with pediatrics; I'm a trauma nurse."

"So you think they shouldn't have hired you?" 
 
"No: I can do it.  I just don't understand why the 
hospital would even interview me.  A well-paying job 
close to home just falls in my lap: this has Fox 
Mulder-meddling written all over it."  
 
There was a long pause.  This was a touchy subject; 
Dana Scully was as independent a woman as he'd ever 
met.  Too independent, sometimes.

"So I care enough to meddle," he finally admitted.  
"You deserve a break.  If you can't do the job, you 
won't keep it.  And no hospital is going to hire a 
nurse who isn't qualified."   

Another silence, so loud Mulder could hear the 
traffic from Seventh Avenue below him as he and 
everyone else listening in to their private 
neighborhood soap opera waited tensely. "You 
don't owe me anything," he added.  "I called a 
friend and got you the interview, but you got the 
job on your own merits.  Congratulations."

"You can't buy me, Mr. Mulder."

"I wasn't trying to," he responded meekly.

Her neighbor's cuckoo clock on the second floor 
announced the hour and a teakettle and a toddler 
were both shushed while the neighborhood held its 
collective breath.

"Thank you," he finally heard her exhale.     

*~*~*~*

"You had a great career, Mulder.  I saw every home 
run you ever hit at Yankee Stadium," he said, 
patting Mulder on the shoulder with a fatherly air.  
Mulder registered the older man as someone faintly 
familiar: maybe a regular guest at the hotel or a 
business acquaintance.  He must be important or the 
headwaiter, familiar with Mulder's reclusiveness, 
would have already escorted him out of the 
restaurant.  "You hit 131 triples and 389 doubles in 
6,820 at bats," he continued, "I remember that and I 
forget my wife's birthday these days.  Yes, you 
certainly had your moment in the sun.  We're all 
very proud."

Mulder forced a smile, wishing the man would just go 
the hell away and let then enjoy their dinner.  It 
was wonderful, at thirty-nine years old, to be 
talked about in the past tense, as though his life 
had ended when he stepped off the ball field.  And 
it was 6,821 at-bats.

"Tough to keep up with those nineteen-year old kids, 
isn't it?" Mulder received a few more sympathetic 
pats as he begin to grit his teeth. "No one blames 
you; you're a legend, Mulder.  And you quit while 
you were ahead."

They'd never been out without Emily, and fans were a 
little more reluctant to approach 'a family' having 
hotdogs.  This was supposed to be their first 'big 
grownup date,' as Em called it, but it meant Scully 
had to endure the full brunt of the adoring public 
for the first time.  Mulder had chosen The Oak Room, 
one of the restaurants in The Plaza, hoping this 
would be a gentle introduction into the spotlight 
for her.  In the dark, almost medieval atmosphere, 
New York's elite old-boys-club shaped history while 
their respective, decorative wives cast sideways 
glances and whispered over their cocktails, eyeing 
the new competition.    

Taking a long drag off his cigarette, the gentleman 
continued, "Life goes on, though.  It's good to see 
you have new interests." He gestured to Scully, who 
was staring at her lap, red-faced. "Lovely."

"If you will excuse us," Mulder growled, laying his 
knife across the back of his plate, standing, and 
squaring his shoulders.  He was fair game; Scully 
was not.  Catching their waiter's eye, he mouthed 
'back room' and offered his hand to Scully.  His 
suite upstairs would be much nicer than the 
employees' dining room, but he didn't want Scully to 
get the wrong idea about his intentions, especially 
since she was still antsy about his role in her new 
job.  

Two waiters appeared instantaneously, picking up 
their plates and glasses without comment and heading 
to the back of the restaurant. 

"My apologies, Mr. Mulder: I didn't mean to 
intrude," the smoking man drawled, not looking the 
least bit apologetic. "Please, you and Miss Scully 
stay."

"You're not intruding.  We were just leaving.  Have 
a nice evening," he managed.  This man must know 
Scully.  He knew her name, but Scully didn't seem 
too fond of him.

"Have a nice evening," the man replied, stubbing out 
his cigarette in their previously unused ashtray and 
reaching inside his expensive suit coat for another, 
watching as Mulder hurried Scully away.   

The kitchen staff were used to Mulder getting tired 
of living on room service and wandering down to eat 
with them, but they weren't quite sure how to react 
to Scully, assuming she was a starlet or a model.  
They had her wait while the old magazines and 
ashtrays were cleared away and a white tablecloth 
was unfurled over the battered card table.  As a 
final touch, the head chef appeared with a bud vase 
containing a single white rose and Scully's quiet 
smile reappeared.     

"I am so sorry," Mulder apologized, pulling out the 
metal folding chair for her.  "He doesn't mean any 
harm.  People don't even think about what they're 
saying."   
 
"It's okay," she replied, trying to arrange her full 
silk skirt so it didn't drag on the less-than-
spotless floor. "Our dates so far have been 
adventures."

"Adventures?" He rested his hand tentatively on top 
of hers on the table. "You spend your evenings with 
an over-the-hill, divorced ballplayer and you think 
that's an adventure?"

"It suits me," she replied, casually dropping her 
napkin on her lap, then looked up at him with those 
shining eyes.   

A little flustered, he stuttered, "That's, that's 
good," before he lost the power of intelligent 
speech and just kissed her.  Back.  Kissed her back.

*~*~*~*

"Hey, Dad," William said, tossing his book bag into 
the back seat and slamming the passenger-side door 
so hard the window rattled.  "Mother's gonna kill 
you: it's not Friday yet."

Mulder decided it wasn't worth it to tell him not to 
slam doors. "I just wanted to talk to you.  About a 
few things.  I already called your mother; it's 
okay.  You want to get a milkshake?"  

He glanced in the rearview mirror and then eased the 
car back onto Joralemon Street, driving slowly as 
the other children streamed out of the elite prep 
school and into waiting cars.   

"There's a soda shop a few blocks over: I'd rather 
get a cup of coffee."

Switching lanes, Mulder asked, "When did you start 
drinking coffee?"

"Is this about why you married my mother?  She said 
that's why you left school to play ball; because she 
got knocked up and baseball paid the bills.  Is that 
what you wanted to talk about, because I already 
know all about it."  

Will was nothing if not direct.

"Mother's been on a rant this week," he added. "Hey!  
Honk the horn; I know this girl!"

Mulder felt his ulcer awakening as William leaned 
precariously out the car window to flirt at the 
stoplight.  Trying not to be a pervert, Mulder 
checked his son's latest interest out of the corner 
of his eye: tall, blonde, seventeen, and bright as a 
burnt-out light bulb: Will definitely had a type.

"You know none of that is your fault, don't you, 
Will?  William, can you sit back down and roll up 
the window, please?  If you want to talk about this, 
then act like it.  What happened between your mother 
and me is not your fault.  Both of us love you very 
much."  

Sighing, the boy threw himself down in the seat, 
sprawling the too-long legs and too-big feet he 
hadn't yet grown into and tilting the mirror to 
check his hair. "I know that.  Don't get all hyped 
up about it; your ulcer will start bothering you.   
And Mother wants me to ask you if she can take me to 
London with her for the summer.  She says I can't 
stay with you all three months because you're an 
incompetent bum."

The incompetent bum who'd been paying her bills 
since the late 1930's, but Phoebe probably left that 
part out of her lectures.

"And what are you supposed to tell her when she asks 
you to tell me things, Will?"

"To have her attorney call your attorney and not to 
put me in the middle," he rattled off, making his 
'this is stupid' face. "I don't really listen to 
her.  It's always the same speech anyway." 

"How in the world did you end up this normal, son?"  
   
"Maybe because my Dad's a living legend," William 
replied in his British accent, grinning at him 
around a mouthful of braces.

Mulder grinned back.  "Nah.  That can't be it."

*~*~*~*

"You're not supposed to be drinking that," William 
informed him, as though Mulder didn't know that.

"I'm not drinking it; I'm smelling it." He had to 
put the cup of coffee down to sign autographs for 
three giggling teenage girls while Will rolled his 
eyes, looking too much like his mother. "So what 
was the girl's name on the corner: the one in 
the red coat?  She seemed, uh, interesting."

"That is not why you picked me up today," the boy 
responded, pouring so much sugar into his coffee 
that Mulder's tongue started to salivate in protest.  
Clearly, William wanted to appear he enjoyed 
drinking coffee much more than he actually enjoyed 
drinking coffee. "Spill it.  Is this about the 
woman in the newspaper pictures with you?  Mother's 
already checked her out, you know.  Dana Scully, 
right?"

Lovely.  He added a little more cream to his own 
cup.  Even if he couldn't drink it, Mulder found it 
comforting to have his coffee flavored correctly.  

"That's right: Dana Scully.  I'd like you to meet 
her.  And," He swallowed, "I'd like to ask her to 
come to the Byers' house in Aspen with us for 
Christmas."

"You're that serious about her?"  

Like Scully, Mulder didn't waltz people in and out 
of his son's life, so this was a first.  He nodded, 
focusing on thoroughly stirring his coffee.  "I'm 
that serious."

"The paper says you've only been seeing her a few 
months."

That hit a nerve: the pinched one connecting his 
heart and conscience.  "You don't need to keep track 
of your father through the society pages.  Just pick 
up the phone and call me, Will."  He tapped his 
spoon harder than necessary on the rim of his mug 
and the soda jerk appeared, thinking Mulder wanted 
something.  "I'd love to talk to you on a weekday.  
Just about whatever: school, movies, girlfriends.  
Whatever you want to talk about."

"Mother makes it-" William started and then stopped, 
tearing his napkin to bits as the counter boy 
hovered. "It's hard to call you from Mother's 
apartment.  It causes problems."

"I'm sorry," Mulder mumbled, wondering where his son 
learned such a messy habit and began to shred his 
own paper napkin while he looked for a straw to gnaw 
on.

Will, recovering faster, asked lightly, "So tell me:
what isn't in the papers about Dana Scully?"

"Um, she has beautiful red hair; you can't tell that 
in black and white.  Well, neither of us could tell 
anyway, but she does.  She was the nurse that patched 
up my head at Halloween and I've been seeing her since 
then."  He stirred his coffee thoughtfully, trying to
 gauge the boy's reaction. "She has a young daughter 
named 'Emily.' We've been keeping that out of the papers."  

Will nodded, understanding.  That was one of the few 
restrictions his father placed on the press: taking 
pictures of his son or hounding him when they were 
in public together was not allowed.  Any reporter or 
photographer who forgot that didn't stay employed 
very long. 

"Widowed or divorced?"

Mulder raised his eyebrows.  "She was an Army nurse 
until her daughter came, so I assume her husband 
died in Korea.  I've never asked her.  I'm sure it's 
not an easy subject for her to talk about.  He must 
have died when Emily was a baby; Em doesn't seem to 
remember him at all.  They've probably been alone 
for a long time."
 
"You smile when you talk about her.  Do you know 
that?"

Mulder actually blushed, sloshing his coffee over 
the side of the mug.   
          
"Sure: bring her.  Them.  We need more people who 
can't ski.  You wanna help me with my history 
homework?" his son asked, saving him from sinking 
under the table in embarrassment. "It's British 
history and I hear you went to Oxford."

*~*~*~*

"Does it make me a bad father to occasionally think 
my son is insane?" Mulder asked her, tugging self-
consciously at his borrowed black turtleneck as he 
returned to his place on the couch beside her.  Will 
had insisted he couldn't wear an undershirt with it 
and he felt half-naked. "Or is that me going 
insane?"

"Is that still Bill Haley he's playing or that other 
man?" Scully said, shifting comfortably as he wrapped 
an arm around her shoulders. "I think that's a clear 
sign of insanity for both of you: him for buying the 
rock-n-roll records and you for letting him play 
them."

"I have 'Rock Around the Clock' and 'Shake, Rattle, 
and Roll' permanently burned into my brain, taking up 
space that could be used for Ella Fitzgerald and 
Count Basie," Mulder sighed.  William had brought his 
new 45's to Aspen with them and had been playing his 
Hi-Fi at top volume for the non-skiers for the last 
two hours. "He's sane," he decided. "Probably ruining 
his life by listening to that music and going to end 
up hooked on marijuana and riding motorcycles, but 
sane at the moment."

"What's with the snappy outfit?" Scully asked, 
offering him a sip of her tea.   

"It's Will's.  He says it makes me look like a 
beatnik."  Mulder tilted his head to whisper in her 
ear, "I don't know what a beatnik is."

"I think it's a good thing," she replied, squirming 
adorably as he nuzzled her neck.

"Uummm.  I hope so.  This," Mulder tilted her head 
back to access her pale throat, "This is a good 
thing.  I like this, Scully: just being with you."

There was the sound of a man clearing his throat as 
Mulder's attorney and Susanne came in from the 
slopes.  Their twin daughters and Emily followed 
them, cheeks red from the cold and looking like 
Indian warriors with the stripes of zinc oxide Scully 
had painted on them against the winter sun.   

It said something about the sum of his life, Mulder 
thought, at forty years old, to spend Christmas with, 
excepting Scully and her daughter, people he paid.  
Even his son, in a way, was bought and paid for by 
major league baseball.  And worth every penny.

Scully, as he watched her wipe up the new puddles and 
peel her daughter out of her snowsuit, was clearly 
not for sale, though.  

Mulder just watched, sipping his borrowed tea, 
thinking this was very pleasant: just being together 
with friends and family in front of a warm fire.  It 
was very pleasant, very normal, and very unfamiliar 
and welcome territory.  

*~*~*~*

"Is everything okay?" Mulder asked, as Scully quietly 
carried Emily into the kitchen, both of them wearing 
their pajamas. "Another bad dream?"

Scully paused, scrutinizing him.  She obviously 
didn't like him either knowing about or commenting on 
her nightmares.  He'd been up late the previous night 
and heard her cry out, but been hesitant to wake her, 
uncertain as to how she would react to finding him in 
her bedroom. "I heard you last night," he finally 
said, and Scully looked away. 

"We're fine; just getting something to drink.  Why 
are you still up?"

"My roomy says he can't sleep without someone called 
'Elvis' playing on the Hi-Fi.  Again and again and 
again.  It was okay the first twenty times, then the 
sofa started to call.  Is Emily feeling okay?"

"I think she's just overdone it: too much excitement 
this weekend and now she can't relax.  Can you hold 
her while I find a cup?"

Scully probably had no idea how erotic it was: to be 
so close to her in the moonlight while wearing 
nothing but a few layers of cotton as he took the 
child from her.  There were plenty of girls that 
'did', but it was the ones who 'didn't' who were 
still sexy padding around a kitchen in their slippers 
at four in the morning searching for the milk.  The 
girls who 'did,' in Mulder's experience: those 
needed some lace or satin or at least a few strong 
drinks to dull his brain first.

"Look out there, Em," he told her, carrying the 
child to the kitchen window to see the lights on the 
mountain so she wouldn't notice that 'Santa' and his 
attorney had already visited the living room. "Santa 
must be getting close.  He can't come until you're 
asleep." Scully found the bottle of milk, pronounced 
it drinkable, and poured a few swallows.  As the girl 
finished it, Mulder wiped her chin and asked, "You 
think maybe you can sleep now so Santa can come?"  

Emily felt she possibly could, with a story, so he 
carried her down the hall to Scully's room, her blue 
eyes finally getting heavy as he reached the 'moon on 
the breast of the new-fallen snow' part for the 
fourth time.  By the time Santa had 'a little round 
belly that shook like a bowl full of jelly,' or 
something to that effect, she was out cold.       

"If you're trying to impress me, you've done it," 
Scully said, coming up behind him as he tucked the 
blankets over Emily. "I'd about had it with her."

He was a little surprised: the word 'competent' 
always came to mind when he thought of Scully-as-a-
mother.  She made taking care of her daughter alone 
look effortless, although it had to be anything but.  
It made Mulder feel better to know he wasn't the only 
one who occasionally thought he was failing the 
parenthood test. "You can't be too impressed.  You've 
just spent three days with my son.  That should scare 
any woman away."

"I don't scare easily."

"Obviously not," he replied, finding a waist under 
her cotton pajamas and pulling her to him as they 
watched Emily sleeping. "You're doing an amazing job 
with her.  But then," he kissed the nape of her neck, 
searching with his lips until he found her pulse and 
then pressing, feeling it quicken, "You're pretty 
amazing yourself.  You shouldn't have to raise her 
alone."

Scully turned to face him, letting him lead her the 
few steps into the hallway, just in case Emily awoke.  
"And you're wonderful with Will." He was speaking 
between kisses now, his mouth insisting hers open as 
trembling, eager arms went around his neck. "And 
you're wonderful with me."

His pajama bottoms were thin and she was pressed 
against him; Scully pulled back within a few seconds, 
his cue to stop.  This time, though, as she moved 
away, he moved closer, instinctively keeping the 
contact.  

"Stop, Mulder.  This isn't right."

"Yes, it is.  It's very right.  And I'll stop." He 
exhaled, trying to regain control as he rested his 
forehead against hers.  Scully was correct; they 
needed to wait. "I will stop," Mulder repeated, more 
as a command to himself than as an assurance to her.  
"Say you'll marry me, Scully: this is what's right.  
Us.  Together.  It feels more right than anything 
I've ever felt in my life."  

Realizing what he'd said, he punctuated his proposal 
by pulling her face to his, fingers lost in her hair, 
and embracing her with a hungry intensity that 
probably frightened her.  It frightened him: burning 
the way dry kindling became engulfed before anyone 
even realized it was smoldering.

He'd never proposed to a woman of his own free will 
Before: more like a 'guess we hafta get married, 
huh?' He and William had even practiced earlier, 
their conversation concealed by five-dozen 
repetitions of "That's All Right Little Mama" that 
afternoon.  His son, not old enough to drive yet, was 
better at smooth talking than Mulder was.  The part 
that came after smooth talking, Mulder had had a few 
more years to learn, and he was willing to just skip 
to that and finalize the details afterward.  

He thought for a few wonderful moments that she was 
actually going to let him do this, his groin getting 
ahead of his brain.  As his left hand covered her 
breast and his right unbuttoned her top, Scully 
brought her arms up and forcefully pushed him away.

"Sorry," he apologized, trying to catch his breath.  
"Sorry, Scully.  I'm sorry."

She wrapped her white cotton top around her as though 
it was a robe and leaned back against the wall of 
the hallway, not looking at him.

"Scully, look at me." She glanced up, sniffing. "I 
do mean it.  You said it's wrong to play with 
people's lives and I'm not playing.  This isn't a 
game to me.  You're not a game or something that I 
can win, only lose."

Christ, he sounded like a complete idiot.

"Come here."  When she didn't move, he took her by 
the hand and led her to the Christmas tree, sitting 
amidst the new bicycles and train sets he and Byers 
had assembled earlier. "This is Will's idea.  In 
case you still think I'm only trying to seduce you, 
you should know I don't usually ask my son for 
advice." He searched under the tree until he found 
two small boxes he'd brought from Manhattan.   

Scully wiped her eyes, trying to figure out what he 
was talking about.

"I was going to do this when we opened presents in a 
few hours, but now seems fine.  These are pearl 
earrings.  I thought they were pretty," he said, 
holding up one of the velvet boxes. "And this one is 
a ring; my grandmother's.  I do mean it, Scully.  
Pick what you want."

*~*~*~*

"Dad?" William asked, stirring in his twin bed on the 
far side of the room they shared as his father 
entered.

There was a muted sound as a small box was hurled 
into a pile of dirty clothes by a right arm attached 
to a living legend and pictured in the damn Hall of 
Fame.  

"Go to sleep, Will."

"Did you ask her?"

"Go to sleep!  Damn it, I need a drink."

"No you don't," Will replied, much too loudly, as he 
sat up in bed, prepared to intervene if his father 
stepped toward the liquor cabinet.

"You're right: no, I don't," Mulder said, sitting 
down hard on his bed and burying his face in his 
hands.

"Did you ask her?  What did she say?"

Laying back, his feet still on the floor on one side 
of the bed as his head hung back off the other, he 
took one of those deep, calming breaths his doctor 
was always harping on him about.  He'd had a fastball 
hit him square in the chest once, and it felt exactly 
the same.  The doctor had told him to take deep 
breaths then, too, and it never helped one damn bit.

"She said 'no.'"

*~*~*~*

Emily was amusing herself in the front seat between 
Mulder and Scully by having little conversations with 
her new Mr. Potato Head as they drove back from North 
Beach Airport.  Will was still sprawled across the 
backseat and making loud, disappointed sighing 
noises.

Mulder, trying not to lose his temper with the rush 
of holiday drivers as he navigated traffic, asked his 
son for about the fifteenth time, "Will, you didn't 
really expect me to buy you a car, did you?  Next 
year, when you're old enough to drive, we'll see."

The only reply was another sigh, some muttering, and 
a sharp knee hitting Mulder's back through the seat 
as William rearranged himself: probably not an 
accident.

"I'll teach you to drive this summer while your 
Mother's away and then you can pick out the car you 
want, within reason, for next Christmas," Mulder 
offered, hating both the idea that he was ruining his 
son's holiday and that he was getting sucked into 
this stupid teenage game.

He braked suddenly to avoid a pack of shoppers 
delirious with fresh kill from Macy's and threw out 
an arm to stop Emily from hitting the dash. "I'm not 
buying you a car until you're old enough to drive.  I 
don't know where you got that idea, but it's not 
going to happen!  Pout all you want!"

"Mother will buy it for me!" Will retorted.  "She 
said I could have it!"

Mulder managed to keep his mouth shut, his knuckles 
white on the steering wheel.

"You're just being mean!" Will shouted, opening the 
door to get out as Mulder waited for a light to 
change. "I hate you!"

"Don't you dare get out here.  It's another three 
blocks," Mulder ordered, as though Will hadn't spent 
almost a decade of his life in Manhattan and didn't 
know it was another three blocks.
    
"Since I don't have a car, I'll just walk!"  Will 
punctuated his dramatic protest by slamming the door 
and stalking off, looking as dignified as any 
fourteen, almost-fifteen-year old wearing pink socks 
and cuffed blue jeans possibly could.

Mulder angrily rolled down his window and yelled, 
"William!" after him, but his son kept walking.   

Reaching down to retrieve Mr. Potato Head's plastic 
red lips from the floorboards for Emily, Scully gave 
him a look located somewhere between sympathetic and 
amused.

"It's no wonder you said 'no,'" he said, watching 
Will's dark head bobbing through the crowd. "What in 
the world am I doing wrong?"  

"Pick a holiday and give him a car key and an I.O.U. 
redeemable on his sixteenth birthday, maybe even a 
picture of the car.  He wants a Thunderbird, right?  
Make it conditional on his getting his license.  That 
way he knows he'll get it and he can brag, but you 
can stall until he matures enough to be driving."

Wide-eyed, Mulder replied, "How do you know to do 
that?"  

"You weren't around very much when he was a toddler, 
were you?" Scully said, helping Emily climb over the 
seat into the back so she could stretch out after 
their long flight. "Try doing all your shopping with 
a two-year old and you'll learn these tricks.  I 
doubt teenagers are any different."  

"I wonder how I would get a key for next year's 
model?  I'll call the dealership after I drop you 
off."

"No, you've already missed your chance.  If you do 
it now, you'll be giving in to his tantrum."

"New Year's?  A New Year's gift?"

"You try so hard, don't you, Mulder?"

"I guess I do," he said, pulling into a parking space 
in front of Phoebe's building to wait and make sure 
Will arrived safely. "I have a lot to make up for."

*~*~*~*

He glanced in the rearview mirror to check that Emily 
was really asleep under his coat in the backseat and 
not just pretending, and then said quietly, "We had 
to get married."

Scully had been watching the fog roll off the river 
as they sat stuck in a traffic jam on the Brooklyn 
Bridge, and looked back at him quickly.

"I was thinking on the plane ride home that you don't 
know much about me, and maybe that's why you said 
'no.' My ex-wife would be a good place to start."

"I want to know whatever you want to tell me."  

He couldn't tell of she was completely horrified or 
just waiting to hear the whole story.  It wasn't that 
exciting a tale.

"I had a bad week, had too much to drink, and Phoebe 
was just there that night.  It just happened.  I was 
twenty-three; I'd never-" 

He stopped, taking a breath and trying for the less 
explicit version. "I tried taking her home to meet 
my parents once, right after we were married, but 
they were just horrified. 'Oxford' my mother kept 
saying; how could I have thrown away Oxford.  

My father was Boston blue blood at it's best, and 
this was the last straw for him   I had a sister who 
disappeared and he always blamed me.  It didn't 
matter that we never found out what happened to
Samantha, it was still my fault, according to him.  
Marrying Phoebe was just the final screw-up in his 
book.  My mother has seen Will, once, but my father 
died last year without ever meeting him.  He never 
even acknowledged that he exists.  Phoebe's pretty, 
and she can be lots of fun, but she's not-  She was
a waitress at the pub, and she had a bad reputation, 
even then.  My parents didn't miss that.  They thought
I should have just walked away."

"Why didn't you?"

It was a valid question; nice boys didn't marry bad 
girls, not matter what.   

He just shrugged, moving the confession along, not 
wanting to admit how dazzled he'd been at the idea of 
having a family of his own.  A normal family, where 
the mother spoke to the children and the father came 
home, and stayed sober, at night. 

"My original plan was to work part-time and finish 
graduate school.  I only had a few more months, and 
the FBI had already offered me a job, but that just 
wasn't going to happen once my father refused to 
help.  So I came home: to New York instead of Boston 
so my parents wouldn't be embarrassed in front of 
their friends.  When Will was three months old, 
Phoebe had enough, left me, and took Will back to 
England with her for about six years.  I spent about 
five of those years certain she was going to come back
any day."

He took a nervous breath.  

"The minor leagues were having open tryouts and they
were willing to pay me more than I was making loading
trucks at the docks.  I spent a month playing Class A 
ball for New York-Penn before the Yankees made me an 
offer.  I was their star hitter and centerfield for 
more than a decade until, like the man at the 
restaurant said, I couldn't keep up with the nineteen-
year old kids anymore.  I can still throw and hit, 
but my knees have just had too much abuse over the 
years.  That's why I don't ski anymore.  I didn't want 
to make a fool of myself, so I quit while I was still 
ahead."

There was a long silence in the car as impatient 
horns blared mindlessly around them on the bridge:   
drivers furious at having their lives interrupted. 

"End of story, Scully.  Please don't get out of the 
car and start walking yet.  We're still a long way 
from your apartment and it's cold."

To his surprise, he saw tears streaming down her 
face.

"Scully?"

"Was it worth it: not walking away? Not playing by 
everyone's rules?"

"I never looked back," Mulder said, pulling her 
across the seat so she sat beside him, stroking her 
cheek anxiously with his fingertips. "At least, I 
try not to.  It was the right thing for me.  How can
I miss a life I'll never know?  If I would have told
Phoebe tough luck, finished school, and gone to work
for Hoover, I would never have heard sixty-seven 
thousand fans cheering when I walked up to bat for 
the final game of the World Series last year.  I hit 
my three hundred and sixty-first, and last, home run
over the wall at Yankee Stadium and my son saw it.  
Yes, I think it was worth it."

*~*~*~*     

"Are you sure you don't want to go up on the roof 
with everyone else for the fireworks?" Mulder asked 
as they stepped off the elevator, Scully swaying 
against him in her high heels, giving him an excuse 
to keep an arm around her waist. "The band is even 
on the roof."

"I want to see this view you've been bragging about 
for months," Scully replied. 

"In the dark?" he answered huskily, resting his hands 
on her hips, stroking the velvet fabric as he leaned 
his face close to hers. "You just wanted to ride my 
elevator."  

Scully nodded, laughing softly as they embraced in 
the foyer, glad to finally be away from photographers 
and prying eyes in the ballroom.  Caught up in 
exploring the textures and smells of her hair and 
mouth and skin, the first of the fireworks exploded 
before Mulder noticed how much time had passed.   

"Balcony." He slipped his tuxedo jacket over her bare 
shoulders before pushing open the glass doors to the 
terrace.  Not even noticing the pyrotechnics, they 
began their New Year's kiss, or continued the one 
from last year, as the blue and red stars exploded 
over Central Park. "Happy New Year."

"Happy New Year," she replied from just behind his 
right ear as her lips moved across his skin, the 
sensation catching him off guard.  This woman had no 
idea what she did to him, and that made it even worse. 

"Come inside before you freeze," he whispered a few 
minutes later, although neither of them was in danger 
of being cold.  She stayed close to him, kissing, 
touching, keeping hold of his hand as he backed into 
the apartment.  He reached behind her to slide the 
door closed, then pressed her against the glass, 
blood singing in his ears when she didn't object.  He 
kept waiting for Scully to tell him to stop, but she 
didn't, and, although he hadn't had any alcohol in 
months, it made him feel a little drunk to know she 
wanted this.    

Bedroom, Mulder decided.  They weren't two teenagers 
who had to fumble awkwardly on the couch. "You tell 
me when to stop," he told her, "We go as far as you 
want and no further, I promise."    

"I don't want you to stop," Scully said, sitting, 
then watching him as she lay back, still fully 
dressed, the primary colors of the fireworks outside 
the window making patterns on her white shoulders. "I 
want you to make love to me."

"Then marry me, Scully," Mulder whispered, running 
his fingers lightly over the swell of her breast 
as he joined her. "Make this right."

Christ, it was incredible just to see her laying 
across his bed, waiting for him, watching him.  There 
had to be a way to have this happen every night. 

"Please, Scully.  I don't want to wake up tomorrow 
knowing I've done something wrong."

"Make love to me, Mulder," she repeated, wrapping her 
arms around his neck and pulling his face down to hers.

*~*~*~*

"I can't stay," she murmured, nuzzling the underside 
of his neck like a sleepy kitten.

Of course not: God forbid two adults who love each 
other get to spend an entire night together.  People 
would talk.

"I'll drive you home.  Just stay with me for a little 
bit: no one will notice with the party still going."  
Mulder kissed the top the tousled head resting on his 
shoulder, trying to arrange his thoughts in a 
straight line. "Why did you let me do that, Scully?"

"Why did you do it, Mulder?"

"I think you know that."  Perhaps she had 
misunderstood all hundred and fifty-two times he'd 
told Scully he loved her since leading her into his 
bedroom.  Or the fourteen times he'd asked her to 
marry him, including one especially suave 'if you get 
pregnant, then you'll have to,' offer. "I can't seem 
to have you any other way."

Ah: there was the guilt.  He brought his wrist up so 
he could see his watch in the moonlight.  Almost ten 
minutes post-coitus to guilt and Mulder estimated 
another seven minutes until his ulcer awoke.  

"What is it, Scully?  Phoebe got in trouble, yes, 
but- I was young; I'm not like that.  Yes, there have 
been women, especially right after I quit playing 
ball and I was drinking, but I don't go around doing 
this: seducing nice girls.  Is it Will?  That I'm not 
a doctor or a lawyer?  That I'm older than you are? 
That my mother's family is Jewish?  Do you not want 
me raising Emily?" Mulder stared at the ceiling, 
listening to the party-goers still ringing in the 
new year on the roof above them. "Or do you just not 
love me?"

She shifted closer to him, her breath warming the 
skin at the base of his throat as she toyed with the 
coarse hair on his chest. "Of course I love you."

"Then what is it?  Something about you?  Whatever it
is, I don't care.  You've met my press agent.  Frohike
can make anything in your past vanish.  He always says
I'm too boring for his talents.  Are you divorced?  I
always thought your husband had died, but-" Mulder's 
thoughts finally managed to arrange themselves single-
file.  "Did he just leave you?  Are you still married?"

That would make sense: no alimony, child support, or 
widow's pension.  The midnight shift in the ER 
probably paid slightly more and Mercy, a Catholic 
hospital, would be sympathetic and willing to hire-  

"No, I've never been married."

Mulder was busy congratulating himself on his 
brilliant intuition and didn't process her words 
until he realized he wasn't breathing.

"I didn't do anything wrong, Mulder." Her voice was 
trembling.

"I'm sure you didn't, honey," he got his mouth to 
say, trailing his fingers up and down her bare back 
as the rest of his body lay paralyzed. "I'm sure you 
didn't."

"I did all the right things: I went to the home for 
unwed mothers.  I didn't have a choice: the Army 
discharged me and I couldn't find a job in that 
condition.  And I certainly couldn't go home to my 
parents.  When she came, though, I just couldn't 
leave her.  I kept her and I started over." 

Although he could feel her starting to sob, Mulder 
just pulled her closer, not trusting himself to speak 
or look at her.  

"I never lied to you; I never lied to anyone.  
People just assume I'm a widow, but when hospitals 
check my references, they find out why I was 
discharged from the military and that I wasn't 
married."

"Why didn't he marry you?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter, Mulder."  She sniffed, 
starting to sit up. "Let go of me so I can leave."

"If I wanted you to leave, I'd let go of you."  

Decision made.  He'd have to pay Frohike overtime to 
make this go away, but Dana Scully would become a war 
widow for anyone who cared to look. "I just want to 
know what happened.  Was Emily's father killed in the 
war?  Was he already married?  Did one of the 
officers force-"

"I don't know who her father is!" She blurted out, 
jerking out of his grasp and turning her back to him 
in the bed. "There was no one to marry because I 
have no idea who her father is."  

Scully wrapped the sheet around her, picked up her 
evening dress and underclothes from the floor, and 
hurried into the bathroom.  After the door closed, 
Mulder heard her lock it.

By the time she emerged, he'd pulled on his tuxedo 
trousers and found the ring in the pocket where he'd 
put it earlier, just in case.  He was sitting at the 
bottom of the bed, resting his face in his hands, and 
telling himself this wasn't real.  Scully was just 
not like that; he'd just been with her and she wasn't 
like that. 

"Instead of sending me to Korea, the Army assigned me 
to an underground base in the middle of the Nevada 
desert.  They were doing secret experiments with 
technology like I'd never seen, but I was proud to do 
my part.  Except that my part was a joke: they had me 
maintaining medical records and storing tissue 
samples; I never laid a finger on a live person. 
Within a few months I started getting sick and 
fainting and the doctor said I was going to have a 
baby.  There were about a dozen young nurses and 
secretaries and clerks on the base, and we all found 
out we were expecting.  I can't speak for the others, 
but I didn't do anything to get that way.  They gave 
up their babies and I didn't.  I couldn't, even when 
the men from the base insisted.  I don't expect you 
to believe me.  I don't expect you to ever speak to 
me again if you pass me on the street, but I wanted 
you to know the truth.  I did what was right for me."

"Women do not just get in trouble without doing 
something to get that way, Scully.  There is no 
secret base underground where the government is using 
women as brood mares. This is the United States, for 
God's sake, not Nazi Germany.  I fought for our 
Government.  I got shot for our government.  I've met 
President Eisenhower!  There is no big baby 
conspiracy, honey."

"Of course, Mulder.  It all sounds so silly.  Of 
course, I would make up a story like that instead of 
just picking out a late husband off a tombstone." 

"Scully," he managed to get out, not raising his 
face. "Just don't go.  I don't care what happened, 
just don't leave.  I can fix this."

"You don't understand, Mulder: there's nothing wrong 
with me.  There's nothing wrong with my daughter.  
You're welcome to love us, but we don't need you to 
fix us.  We aren't broken."  

Then there was the rapid clicking of unsteady 
stiletto heels across the expanse of his penthouse 
suite and the sound of his front door opening and 
closing softly.  As Mulder sat shaking on the edge of 
the rumpled bed, the party ringing in 1954 on the 
roof above him was still going strong.

*~*~*~*

He hung up the phone, telling himself it was an 
appropriate compromise: he'd called room service for 
a breakfast that didn't include vodka on his orange 
juice, but he was having coffee, damn it.  After this 
long a night, he deserved coffee.   

Shower: Mulder had been avoiding it, not wanting to 
wash the traces of her away.  Shower, and then go 
after her and hope it wasn't too late.  Stand in the 
street outside her building and throw rocks at the 
window until she came out if he had to, but he was 
going to make this right.

If she hadn't gone to bed with him last night, he 
would never have believed her, never even have 
thought to check the story.  Women did not just 
miraculously conceive.  Scully, though: she'd asked 
him if that was supposed to happen, that nice feeling 
like her insides had sneezed.  He'd laughed, at the 
time thinking she was joking, and told her sometimes 
it happened twice.  

The more he thought about it, the more the wheels had 
started to turn.  She really hadn't ever been with a 
man before.  Which meant he had a few more things to 
apologize for.
 
About two in the morning he'd managed to move and 
call Frohike, repeating what Scully had said.  By 
six, Frohike had called back to report that there was 
indeed a Top Secret part of Nellis Air Force Base in 
Nevada called Area 51.  One near where there were 
reports of a UFO crashing a few years ago, he'd said, 
causing Mulder to laugh out loud.  Aliens; there's no 
such thing as space aliens.   

More importantly, and rationally, there was a home 
for unwed mothers conveniently close by where young 
women could have and leave their babies.  He was 
still working the phones, Frohike told him, but they 
couldn't find any record of those children ever being 
adopted.  They just vanished.

"You mean she's telling the truth?  How in the world 
do you get a woman to have a baby without, uh-"

Frohike enlightened him in graphic detail until 
Mulder asked him to stop out of basic decency.

"But why?  Why create illegitimate children? It's not 
like there's a shortage." 

Continuing the German experiments, Frohike 
speculated.  Maybe at attempt to create a superior 
human.  All the mothers were bright, attractive, 
healthy young women who should have been sent to 
Korea instead of stateside.  "There's something else, 
Mulder: my sources are mentioning your name.  Yours 
and Samantha's, both."

"I'm not adopted," he immediately replied, resenting 
even the implication.  "Neither of us are; I 
remember Sam being born.  The government had just 
transferred my father and we had to move.  I remember 
my mother trying to pack all by herself while she was 
so big with Samantha."

"No, not under the adoption records, just as two of 
the people they tracked.  There are other names: 
athletes, artists, scientists, politicians, and 
professors.  Didn't you ever wonder how you could 
take up professional baseball at twenty-three years 
old and make twenty-five thousand dollars your first 
year?  Maybe you're somehow genetically predisposed 
to the game."

"Frohike," Mulder had said, "Have you been into the 
booze again?  Why in the hell would anyone want to 
breed ballplayers?"

"Maybe you weren't supposed to be a ballplayer."

That had taken a full hour to digest.  Mulder had 
then placed a call to a very unhappy Byers, still on 
vacation in Aspen and sound asleep, and ordered him 
to get his hands on these records immediately: Emily, 
Samantha, Scully, him.  He wanted to know what the 
hell the government was doing to people.  He'd heard 
his attorney crack his neck, yawn, and ask from whom 
exactly he was supposed to subpoena these documents? 

"Try Hoover," Mulder had told him, "Maybe Eisenhower.  
Or the Martians.  Beats me; just get them."  

Lucy usually knocked when she brought up meals, but 
maybe she was taking New Year's Day off.  "Thank 
you," he called to whoever had come in the front door 
as he fastened his pants.  There was no response, and 
Mulder assumed he was getting the silent treatment 
from the kitchen staff for ordering a forbidden cup 
of coffee.  He suspected a conspiracy between his 
doctor and the chef.

Frohike and his wild theories were starting to rub 
off on him. Alien babies.  That's it: Emily was a 
Martian baby.  Sure: and men would be walking on the 
moon one day soon.  He smirked and tossed his towel 
at the hook on the back of the bathroom door.

Shirtless and hair still damp, he padded barefooted 
into the kitchen, slipping the ring into his pocket, 
and intending to quickly down his coffee and toast 
before he left to do whatever it was he was going to 
do.  Beg, probably.

"Goodness, Fox; forty suits you well," came a voice 
with a clipped cockney accent as Phoebe looked him up 
and down. "The years are kind to you."

"How did you get in here?"   

"I used a key." She held up Will's, looking 
victorious.  

His throat tightened. "Is Will okay?" Frohike had 
him too paranoid to see straight.

Phoebe shrugged, and did a walkthrough of his 
rooms as though she was Queen of Sheba, pausing 
to peer into the master bedroom. "Bed looks well-
used.  I recall you preferring the couch.  Was she 
here last night?"

He'd actually begun preferring the couch when Phoebe 
was briefly the one he was expected to share a bed 
with.  The novelty of her had worn off very quickly.  
"What do you want, Phoebe?" 

"You don't really have to tell me: people saw her 
leaving the hotel in quite a disarray.  Surely 
you can afford her for the entire night, Fox, 
dearest."

"Phoebe," he warned.  She had to know this was 
dangerous ground.     

"I will not have you bedding that trollop with 
William in the next room.  I will not have my son 
stigmatized by being seen in public with her 
illegitimate brat.  I'm sure the judge, if we ask 
him, would agree.  You're not the big baseball hero, 
anymore, dearest.  You can't show up in court and 
dazzle them into granting you visitation, into making 
me move to New York.  Now you're just an over-the-
hill nobody trying to recapture your youth with a 
girl barely half your age."

"I have no idea what you're talking about.  Either 
get out or I'll call security to help you get out."  
Mulder was fairly certain if he laid his hands on his 
ex-wife at this moment, he would harm her.  How dare 
she stand there, perfectly coifed in her Chanel suit 
and pumps, trying to pass for a lady, and judge Dana 
Scully.  

When she didn't move, he repeated through gritted 
teeth, "Get.  Out."  

"I'm not trying to be mean, Fox.  What or whom you do 
in private is your business, but I will not have that 
woman involved in William's life.  If you want her 
for sport, I could care less, but you're parading 
around like you're actually going to marry her.  What 
kind of example is that setting for William?  Fox, 
dearest-" Phoebe stepped forward, hand raised to 
caress his face, and Mulder stepped back. "Fine," she 
said, her practiced, placid expression hardening, "If 
that trollop or her bastard is ever in my son's 
presence again, I'll go to the papers and then the 
court and make sure you don't see William again 
until he turns eighteen."

She whirled to leave and he slammed his hand against 
the door jam in front of her so she couldn't, his 
face flushed.  

"You say one word and I'll take you apart piece by 
piece for all your pretty, empty-headed friends to 
see." He felt a wave of satisfaction as her eyes 
widened. "I'm 'Fox, dearest,' remember?  I'm the guy 
who's paid for your booze and pills and shrinks and 
abortions for the last fifteen years.  You say one 
word against Dana Scully and we'll go back to court.  
Byers will bring in your eighteen-year old boyfriends 
to testify to what a swell time you were and whether 
or not Will was there to see it.  You think about 
that."

"You won't do that to William."  

"You think he doesn't know, Phoebe?  You think his 
friends don't laugh at him because of you?" Mulder's 
voice was still low, but his face was inches from 
hers. "You think you have the ultimate hold over me: 
you say my son's name and get whatever you want?  I 
think I've more than done right by you.  No one else 
is going to determine my life for me.  Don't cross me 
on this."

He dropped his arm to let her leave and turned away, 
disgusted.  As he waited, the atmosphere in the room 
changed, thickened sickeningly, as Phoebe tried 
another tact.
     
"I know how much you want the best for our son, Fox: 
the nannies, Packer Prep School, an Ivy League 
college, maybe a year in Europe before he marries a 
nice girl from a good family.  I know how much you 
sacrificed so he could have that."  She ran her 
fingernails lightly down his bare back and he 
shivered involuntarily as a memory resurfaced. "He 
idolizes you, Fox.  You'd never endanger that by 
showing him it's acceptable to make the same mistakes 
you did.  There are girls you marry and girls you 
don't.  Do you really want him to confuse the two the 
same way his father does?"
  
*~*~*~*

An empty baseball stadium was not unlike an empty 
cathedral: one could still hear the echoes in the 
silence.  This was the part of the American dream 
that didn't make the papers: the winter after the 
glorious season ended.   

Mulder could always think here: shut out the sounds 
falling down from the stands and focus on doing what 
came naturally.  He tossed the ball high into the 
air, and then swung through, sending it sailing over 
the wall a few seconds later.  

Will's voice called to him from the dugout, "Nice.  
That's home run number three-hundred and sixty-two."

"Three-hundred and seventy-three: you missed a few 
earlier.  What are you doing up here, Will?  Where's 
your mother?"

"I don't know, and you didn't answer at the hotel. I 
wanted to talk to you.  Mother made me give her my 
key this morning, but she hasn't been back since 
then.  Dad, she said some awful things about Mrs. 
Scully."

"I'm sure she did." He picked up another ball from 
the bucket, holding it briefly to his nose to inhale 
the familiar, comforting smell.  Baseballs always 
smelled like innocence.

"They aren't true, are they?  Dad, she says people 
saw Mrs. Scully leaving your hotel room last night, 
but she says you're not going to marry her.  I like 
Mrs. Scully and Emily.  I'd kinda thought-"  

Mulder threw the ball up again, this time hitting a 
line drive past third base and into the outfield in 
perfect form.  Always perfect.  He'd always done 
everything perfectly and made it look so easy.   

"I'd kinda thought if you two were married I could 
maybe live with you instead of Mother.  I guess I 
really don't care if it's true or not: about her not 
being married to Emily's father.  She's a nice lady 
either way.  Do you care, Dad?"

"Do I care?  How do I tell you to do one thing when I 
do another?  How do I tell you to stay away from the 
wrong kind of girls, and to wait when you meet one 
you want to marry?  Trust me, it doesn't feel like 
you want to wait when you're young." He swung again, 
so hard he almost knocked the horsehide off the old 
ball. "It doesn't feel like you want to wait when 
you're forty, either.  You want to know if Scully is 
a nice lady?  Yes, she is.  What kind of example does 
that make me?"

Will stepped over the wall of the dugout and ambled 
to home plate, turning up the collar of his leather 
jacket against the cold.   

"You want to know the big secret, Will?  What 
everyone won't tell you because it's so dangerous?" 
Mulder lowered the bat and stared out at the empty 
stadium. "Love, when it's right, is everything it's 
supposed to be: as wonderful as hitting a homerun and 
as frightening as a roller coaster at the top of a 
hill.  I think that's why people are so cynical about 
it.  Everyone looks in the wrong places to find it, 
but the real thing, when it comes along: that moment 
is worth anything it costs you.  It's just hard to 
wait for the real thing when there are so many quick, 
empty substitutes out there." 

"Like that cheese that comes out of a can.  Mother is 
that stuff.  Cheap and convenient and fake."

"I would never say that, Will.  She's your mother."

"You don't have to say it; I know the difference."   

Still slightly taller than Will, Mulder slung one arm 
around his son's shoulders and carried the Louisville 
Slugger in the other as they walked off the field.  
"How'd you know where to find me?  And how'd you get 
all the way up to the Bronx?"

"You've been my father since I was born; I know you 
pretty well.  There was only one car parked in the 
lot: yours, so I figured I had the right place."

"But how did you afford the cab?"

"I took the subway," Will replied, looking very proud 
as they walked through the gate and into the huge 
parking lot. "It's easy.  You just buy the tokens 
and get on the right train.  Mrs. Scully showed me."

"When?"  

"Mother forgot to come get me one day after school, 
so I tried to find you.  When I called Mrs. Scully, 
she came and showed me how to use the subway and the 
busses, just in case Mother forgot again.  I guess 
she didn't tell you."

There was an awkward silence as they stood in front 
of the car, not looking at each other.  

"Here, Will," Mulder finally said, sliding the spare 
key off his key ring. "This will be your key.  Start 
the car and you can drive to the edge of the parking 
lot.  When you turn sixteen, we'll pick out a car for 
you, but you can only practice with me in my car 
between now and then."

Will's face brightened, and he almost bounded into 
the driver's seat.  Mulder got in the passenger side, 
saying his prayers.  He was fairly sure his son 
wasn't genetically destined to be a chauffeur.

Christ, he had to stop listening to Frohike.  This 
was getting ridiculous.  

"Give it just a little gas as you turn the key. Don't 
flood it.  A LITTLE gas, Will!" he ordered as the 
Cadillac engine roared. "Now, put your foot on the 
brake.  No, you only use one foot to drive this car, 
there's no clutch.  Foot off the gas and on the 
brake and put it in gear." Mulder exhaled. "Very 
easily, touch the gas and the car will move.  If you 
feel like you're going too fast, just put your foot 
back on the brake.  Try not to forget to steer, but 
there's really nothing for you to hit."

William, unquestionably his father's son, floored the 
gas, squealing the tires as though they were drag 
racing, then panicked, slammed on the brake, and sent 
Mulder face first into the dashboard.

"Ah, shit, Will!" Mulder said, rubbing his forehead.

"Sorry."

"S'okay.  Try again.  Easy."

After a few uneven starts, Will had the feel of 
things, actually making a victory lap before they 
reached the edge of the empty parking lot and came to 
a less painful stop.

"Where to now, Dad?"

Noticing a woman's lipstick and Mr. Potato Head's red 
plastic lips had rolled from underneath the passenger 
seat during one of Will's braking fits, Mulder 
replied, "Brooklyn Heights.  I think I should have a 
nurse look at my forehead.  I'll drive, though."

"I can do it," Will insisted.

"I'll drive.  I'll drive and you can help me think up 
what to say to her."  
 
After walking around the car to get in on the other 
side, and, of course, slamming the passenger door, 
Will scrutinized his father's forehead as Mulder 
shifted the transmission into gear. "The bruise 
really isn't that bad."

"Then we have to return her lipstick and," He picked 
up the red lips from the floor, "Whatever you'd call 
this."

Will shook his head; still a bad plan.

"Okay," Mulder said, pulling onto the empty street, 
leaving the stadium behind them. "If we get as far 
as the Brooklyn Bridge without figuring out something 
smooth to say to Scully, I'll pull over and you can 
hit me with the baseball bat again.  That worked last 
time."

*~*~*~*
    
End: part I
A Moment in the Sun