Begin: A Moment in the Sun III

*~*~*~*

It wasn't that he liked to count things, just to 
know how many there were, and counting was a means 
to an end.  Mulder liked to keep track in his head 
of virtually anything: matches left in a box, 
gallons of gas in the car.  If there had been ten 
pairs of underwear in his suitcase, and he had worn 
three, there were seven pairs left and he would be 
fine until he got home.  He knew how many years 
it would be until the sun burned out, leaving them 
all in frigid darkness, and he probably wouldn't get 
all of the orange juice in his refrigerator drunk 
before it went bad.  Not that anyone was likely to 
ask him about either.  Counting was comforting: a 
little game Mulder played with himself to stay sane.

Bill Scully had insulted him twelve times between 
five and five-fifteen.  That was a projected average 
of four dozen per hour, and almost a hundred by 
sunset.  At this rate, by the time they had Scully 
moved into her new apartment, he was either going to 
have another restraining order against him or a new 
ulcer.

Mulder set the parking brake on the moving van, 
climbed down, and handed the keys back to the 
incensed driver, not bothering to say 'I told you 
so,' because that would be petty and childish.  He 
had told them the truck could be backed around the 
corner and into the narrow Georgetown alley so they 
didn't have to carry Scully's things half a block.  
Bill and the movers had insisted the turn was too 
tight, but it was just a matter of slowly seesawing 
and angling the truck so it didn't brush the cinder 
block wall perpendicular to the alley or the fences 
on either side. 

"Nice job," Bill said sarcastically, unfastening the 
latch on the back of the big van and throwing the 
doors open, making Mulder dodge so he didn't get 
bashed in the face. Emily, watching from the window 
of her new bedroom, thought that was hilarious. "I 
thought you just hit the baseballs.  Did you park 
the bus for the Yankees too?"

"No," Mulder deflected, thinking Bill better get his 
next jab in soon or he was going to fall behind. Of 
course, Mulder couldn't hear what had been said while 
he had been parking, so he might have missed a few.  

"If the truck gets dented, Dana has to pay for it," 
Bill persisted, tossing him a box of books too heavy 
to be tossed.

"It didn't get dented." Out of masculine pride, 
Mulder caught the box, his muscles protesting.  He 
handed it off to the movers and turned just in time 
to have another heavy crate hit him in the chest as 
Bill threw it down from the back of the truck.

"Sorry," Bill said flippantly. "Guess my reflexes 
are a little quicker than yours."

"When you drop fifty pounds, it weighs about two 
hundred pounds when I catch it," Mulder explained 
neutrally. "If you'll slide them to the edge of the 
truck and let me pick them up, it would be easier."

"I always wondered what you baseball players did in 
the off season.  Aside from drink and chase women- 
and you seem pretty good at both.  When did you find 
time to become an expert on unloading trucks?" 

"The docks in New York," Mulder answered, feeling 
his ears start to burn.  His patience was wearing 
thin, and little pinpricks of temper were beginning 
to show through. "At the end of the Depression."
 
Scully appeared at the back door of the old house, 
folding her arms and clearing her throat, reminding 
both men they had promised to be on their best 
behavior.  Maggie had nodded in Mulder's general 
direction when she arrived, and then confined 
herself to the apartment, avoiding him.  Bill, on the 
other hand, had asked him point blank what in the 
hell he was doing there.  The truth: that Mulder was 
just helping Scully and Emily move, hadn't assuaged 
her brother. 

"I had a wife and a two-week old baby: it was honest 
work," Mulder said, despite his previous vow of 
silence.  Just for once, he didn't want to come off 
looking like a complete loser in front of Scully's 
family.  
    
"You wouldn't know honest work if it bit you in the 
ass," Bill snapped, glaring down at him and preparing 
to drop another box. 

Jesus Christ, it was going to be a long evening.

*~*~*~* 

"Can you move?" Scully asked, looking down at Mulder, 
who had sprawled on the lawn the second the moving 
van and Bill's Ford pulled away.

"Yes.  I'm just working up to it," Mulder answered, 
wondering which part of him hurt the most.  He 
raised his hand, reaching out to her. "Help: pull."

"You didn't have to keep up with Bill.  He's ten 
years younger than you and he's showing off."

"Now you tell me," he responded, sitting up with a 
moan, then getting to his feet, knees cracking. "You 
always have stairs.  I hate stairs."

"I know you hate stairs," she teased back, her eyes 
moving over him nervously.  "I owe you.  Are you 
hungry?  You could rinse off while I-"

Mulder looked away, knowing she was just postponing 
saying goodbye. "You don't owe me." 

She inhaled, then exhaled silently. "Did you tell 
Will we'd been, uh, talking?"

"No, I thought I'd wait until there was something to 
tell." He hesitated, shoving his hands into his 
pants pockets. "You said that in the past tense, 
Scully: 'we had been talking.' Is that a clue?"  

"No," she said quickly. "But you're going back to 
New York and I'm staying in DC."

"I don't have to fly back tonight," someone using 
Mulder's voice replied, finally looking at her. "I 
could catch a later flight."

Their 'dating,' if it could be called that, had been 
limited to numerous phone calls, mostly from him, a 
dozen or so casual outings, and a few tentative 
embraces in the last three months.  It was like 
living with an announcer counting down the seconds in 
the background: if Mulder wanted to see Will at all, 
he was in Manhattan; if Scully wanted to go to med 
school, it was in Georgetown.  The more he tried to 
rationalize it to himself: she was just a couple of 
hours away by air, she would be out of school in a 
few years, the less rational it sounded to talk about 
being anything more than friends.

"I'm just not ready to say goodbye yet," he said 
awkwardly, shifting his feet.   

"Maybe it would be easier in the morning," Scully 
invited, both of them knowing exactly what she 
meant.

"It won't be."  They weren't married, they weren't 
going to be married, whether she could get pregnant 
or not, they didn't need to be acting like they were.

"Maybe after dinner, then," she offered, holding 
open the back door of the converted Victorian house 
for him.

"Yeah, maybe," Mulder mumbled, stepping inside.

*~*~*~*

"Can you turn the television down, Will?" Mulder 
called into Scully's phone, sitting on the floor 
amid the piles of boxes and furniture. "I can barely 
hear you."

"It's not the TV; Mother's having a party.  Wait, 
I'll close my door."  The music and chattering 
voices decreased a few decibels, and Will picked up 
the receiver of his bedroom phone again. "Is that any 
better?"

"A little.  How are you doing?"

"I hate you, I hate my mother, my life is crap, and 
I want a Corvette instead of the Thunderbird for my 
birthday," Will replied flippantly. "Buy me 
something, Dad: assuage me." 

Mulder declined to tell him to watch his mouth, since 
'crap' was a pretty adequate description. "That's a 
stick-shift, you'll have to learn to drive a manual 
transmission."

"So?"

"I'm just saying-" Mulder sighed, actually not sure 
what to say. "Why don't I fly up to Boston and drive 
my father's car down?  Grandmother wants to get rid 
of it, and I could teach you on Saturday.  You 
already know the basics, but you'll need to 
practice."

"Sure, whatever," Will said sarcastically, as though 
all fifteen year-olds had the right to learn to drive 
in a Porsche. "Are you going to be back by then?"

"Of course I am," he said urgently.  "I'm done with 
my business in DC; I'll be back for your baseball 
game tomorrow."

"You can come to that?"

"As long as it's okay with you.  Yeah, your mother 
will be there, and all I'm doing is watching."

"I'll feel like a dope playing in front of you," 
Will answered, thawing a bit.

"That picture of me dropping the ball in the ninth 
inning a few years ago: the one that made the front 
page?  I'll have it framed for you.  Don't feel like 
a 'dope' until they make jokes about you on Ed 
Sullivan."

"You're sure it doesn't count? I thought the judge 
said-"    

"The judge said we can see each other on Saturdays 
from noon to eight: just you and me.  Eight hours, 
for now," Mulder said, trying to keep the anger out 
of his voice. "Anything else supervised by your 
mother or in public where we don't have any contact 
is fine.  I can come to your baseball games, school 
plays, teacher conferences.  Court appearances," he 
added, trying to make a joke. "And you can be at my 
apartment anytime you want, as long as I'm not there.  
You could even go tonight; just ask your mother and 
make sure it's okay."        

Scully emerged from Emily's bedroom, nodding that 
the little girl was finally asleep, and picking up a 
few forgotten glasses to take to the kitchen.

"Mother's busy.  I'll just leave her a note and go.  
She won't even notice."

"No, ask her," Mulder said sternly. "Be sure.  And 
take a taxi: it's too late for you to be walking or 
riding your bike."

"I don't have cab fare," Will replied, accompanied 
by noises that sounded like he was packing his 
overnight bag.  

"I gave you twenty dollars on Saturday.  What did you 
spend twenty bucks on in four days?"

Scully returned, drying her hands on a dishtowel as 
she stood beside him, probably not sure if she was 
supposed to overhear this conversation or not. Mulder 
reached up for her, indicating he wanted her to stay.

"I had to go to the store for Mother," he mumbled, 
not wanting to answer.

"Your mother can throw a party, but she can't afford 
to give you money to go to the store?" Mulder said 
tensely, wondering if it was the liquor or drugstore 
she had sent him to.  He exhaled, knowing it would 
be unfair to Will to ask. "Never mind.  If she says 
you can go, just have the front desk at the hotel 
pay the taxicab and I'll reimburse them tomorrow."

"You're sure it doesn't count toward our time on 
Saturday?" the teenager asked, belaying his cool, 
nonchalant cover and sounding a lot like a kid who 
missed his dad.

"I'm sure.  Ask your mother, then catch a taxi. 
There's orange juice in the refrigerator if you get 
thirsty."

"Okay.  I guess I'll see you at the game tomorrow 
then," Will answered. "Look, I gotta go find Mother, 
and I'll have a better chance of getting her to say 
'yes' if she doesn't think it's your idea."

Mulder nodded supportively, as though Will could see 
him, said his goodnights, and hung up the phone 
harder than necessary, actually picking it up and 
slamming the receiver back down a few times for good 
measure.  Scully looked at him questioningly, but he 
shrugged.  

"Is he okay?" 

"Yeah, he's going to my place for the night.  Phoebe 
wanted him back so badly, she's throwing a party 
while he sits in his room and mopes.  I guess he's 
there in case someone needs to make a gin run." He 
swallowed, looking down. "He says he hates me."

"He's just angry," she soothed, sitting beside him 
and leaning back against a cardboard box.

"He should be angry.  I said he was going to stay 
with me and then- It's exactly what Frohike told me 
would happen: Phoebe and I are both unfit parents, 
she's just the female unfit parent, so she gets the 
kid."   

"He knows you tried; he knows you love him," Scully 
insisted, stroking his sore shoulder.  

"What would you do?  If I was Em's father and I tried 
to take her away from you, how dirty would you fight? 
Would you put her on the stand? Would you make her 
sit in the courtroom and watch your attorneys tear me 
apart?  Would you show up with the police and take 
her when I wouldn't give her back?"

"You're not her father, so that's not a fair 
question."

"But if I was," Mulder persisted, standing up and 
towering over her.

"You are in a bad mood and you're looking for 
someone to take it out on.  Are you asking if I 
think you're a good father?"  

"Hell, Scully," he said tiredly. "I don't know what 
I'm asking.  I lost Samantha, I lost Will, and I'm 
about to say goodbye to you and Emily.  I'm a forty-
year-old, divorced, out-of-work, ex-ballplayer, as 
you put it.  I wish God would just kick me in the 
face and get it over with."

*~*~*~*

They absolutely, under no circumstances, no-way-no-
how, should be doing this, but that didn't seem to 
be stopping them.

She needed to shower, but the male animal in him was 
glad she hadn't.  Scully smelled like female, 
magnified: hours of lugging boxes in the August heat 
coating her skin, her hair drying in crisp strands 
behind her ears and across her forehead.  A damp 
path of salt ran down each side of her neck, then 
disappeared between her breasts.  Mulder traced it 
with the tip of his tongue, pushing her thin cotton 
blouse off her shoulders and unfastening her bra, 
instinctively seeking where the trail led.

"What are we doing, Scully?" he asked softly, 
cupping her breast in his hand as they lay on the 
bare mattress, Venus watching unobtrusively through 
the open window.  She had unpacked a metal fan first 
thing, and it hummed purposefully in the corner of 
her bedroom, cooling the sweat on their skin.

"I was hoping you would take the lead, so if you 
don't know, we're in trouble." She raised her face 
to kiss him again, but he moved away, sitting up.

"No, I mean, what are we doing?  Are we saying 
goodbye? Am I just supposed to be gone when you wake 
up in the morning?  Is that what you want?  For me to 
treat you like that?"

"You know that's not what I want," she whispered, 
pulling him back down beside her. "But you can't 
pretend I didn't hurt you, and there's a reason 
we've been talking for three months and you haven't 
told your son. Probably, it's the same reason I 
didn't let you put Emily to bed.  There's more at 
stake than just us, Mulder.  We have kids, families, 
not to mention you keep staring at my stomach and 
counting months with that kicked dog look in your 
eyes."

"That doesn't mean I don't love you.  Maybe I don't 
understand everything that's happened, but-" 

She had been nuzzling his throat as he spoke, making 
the hair on the back of his neck stand up, but 
paused, finding the cross he was wearing under his 
shirt.  She stopped moving, he stopped moving, and 
the fan in the corner hummed a little louder. Venus 
twinkled.  Or perhaps winced.

"Em and I had a deal.  After you were g-gone.  We, 
um, I, uh," he stumbled, flushing. "I meant to take 
it off, but I kind of never did."

"You forgot?" she asked quietly, running her finger 
over the gold chain.

"No, I couldn't forget, that's the problem." He 
exhaled, staring at the wall instead of her. "Not 
that I didn't try.  I'm scared, Scully. I guess 
that's what it comes down to.  You make me feel 
alive: like I'm standing in the warm sun, and I've 
never felt that before.  And I'm afraid I never will 
again.  I'm willing to live my life moment by 
moment and take whatever comes.  If you are."  

"So what do we do with this moment?" 

"We, uh, stop acting like stupid teenagers and get 
dressed.  I catch a flight back to New York, call 
you when I get home, and I'll see you over Labor Day 
weekend.  And I'll tell Will."

She nodded, reaching for her blouse on the floor.  
He watched her dress, trying to guess what she might 
be feeling.  Scully's surface seldom gave anything 
away.  For a man who liked mysterious women, she was 
the ultimate enigma.

"Scully, I need a little assurance here."

"Of course I love you," she murmured, buttoning her 
blouse and trying to smooth her tousled hair.  

They absolutely, under no circumstances, no-way-no-
how, should be doing this, but that didn't seem to 
be stopping them.

*~*~*~*

"Yeah: it's definitely a house," Will decided, 
surveying the three-story red brick from the curb.  
"We drove down from New York to see this?"

"Do you like it?" Mulder asked, getting out of the 
Porsche and rocking from his heels to his toes and 
back again, the epitome of nervous energy. 

"Yeah, I guess.  What's so special about it?"

"It's my house, Will.  I bought it."

"Okay," he said skeptically, looking around the 
front yard and pausing to crack his gum. "Cool.  An 
investment?"

"No, it's my house.  When I'm not in New York, I 
live here.  Go inside.  Look around."

"People don't bother you?" Will asked, stepping 
inside the foyer and dropping his overnight bag at 
the foot of the stairs.  The boy was probably 
shocked to find his father inhabiting any building 
that didn't come with a lobby, a doorman, and an 
elevator.

"Not really.  It's a quiet neighborhood.  You know, 
I've never owned a house before," he said, giving 
Will the grand tour. 

"You own hotels, Dad.  A couple of them.  And you've 
probably personally paid for the Byers' vacation 
house in attorney's fees."

"True," Mulder replied proudly. "But this is 
different."

"So why did you decide you needed a house?  
Especially a big house?"

"I've been thinking about it for a long time.  Maybe 
we could have Christmas here.  There's a fireplace: 
a couple of them, actually.  That's nothing, Will.  
Just leave it," he said quickly, as the teenager 
scanned the piles of books and articles on the desk 
in the corner of the living room.  His son had a 
sixth sense for focusing on exactly what he wasn't 
supposed to see.

"What's an X-file?  'Behavior Patterns in Stranger 
Killings?'  What are you typing?  I didn't know you 
could type." 

Will started to open a file and Mulder put his hand 
on top of it to stop him. "Really, Will: leave it 
alone.  It's just something I've been working on.  
These are Agent Dales' files, and they have pictures 
in them you really shouldn't see."

"What are you doing with FBI files?" he asked, 
puzzled.

"Research."  

Will crossed his arms, looking like his mother, and 
waiting for an answer.

"I'm working on a research paper.  A dissertation.  
My doctoral dissertation," Mulder admitted. "To 
finish school, I need to do my oral and written 
exams and my dissertation."

"And then what?"

"And then I'll be finished, that's all," he said 
defensively, feeling foolish. "It's just something 
I've been doing."  

"No, I mean: why bother?  Who's going to care?"

"I'll care."

Will shrugged. "Whatever.  I just think it's a 
little stupid to do all that work for nothing."

Mulder shrugged back, not wanting to ruin their 
first whole weekend together by fighting. "It 
probably is."

His son hesitated, then turned and jogged up the 
wooden steps, indicating the discussion was 
finished.  

"It was built in 1856.  Five bedrooms, four baths: 
three of which work right now," Mulder called, 
following him.  "I thought the front bedroom could 
be yours, but we can switch if you want."

Will nodded, seeming at ease, although not 
overwhelmed.  For a boy raised in Manhattan's best, 
this seemed rather plain vanilla, which was exactly 
why Mulder liked it, right down to the picket fence 
around the back yard.  

"You like it?" Mulder asked hopefully. "I want you 
to like it."

"I like it," Will nodded, pausing at the top of the 
stairs, leaning against the banister. "So spill it: 
you just all of a sudden needed to buy a house in 
Washington, DC, and you chose this one?"

"It has a great view." 

"Of what?"

Mulder cocked his head toward the master bedroom, 
grinning mischievously, and wanting Will to follow.  
He picked up the flashlight on the windowsill, 
blinking it twice at the big house across the alley 
that had been converted into four apartments.  After 
a few seconds, someone blinked back from the third 
floor window.

"At whom are we blinking?" Will asked, his proper 
Queen's English recalling a childhood spent in 
London and contrasting sharply with his usual 
American slang. 

"Emily.  That's her bedroom in the back, and 
Scully's is in the front."  He took a long breath, 
and then added, "They live there and I live here."

"For how long?"

"A couple of months.  Since August." Mulder 
hesitated, worrying his tongue against his teeth. 
"No, we're not getting married right now, but yes, 
we've been seeing each other again.  Scully's in 
medical school, but right now she's at work at the 
hospital.  She works and goes to school.  And 
Emily's been sick." He swallowed, running out of 
plot points and starting to fidget. "Say something, 
Will."

Will shrugged casually, cracking his gum again. 
"Cool."

*~*~*~*

"Come on.  Here we go," Mulder told her, pulling an 
exhausted Nurse Scully out of the passenger seat and 
steering her up the wet sidewalk to his house, 
trying to dodge the puddles in the darkness.  

"I don't think I live here," Scully mumbled, but he 
couldn't tell if she was joking or serious. "Who are 
you?"

"Your chauffeur.  Do you just get in the car with 
anybody, little girl?"

"You looked safe enough."

"Then you didn't look very close," he shot back 
sarcastically, giving her a helpful shove to get her 
up the front steps, his hand almost accidentally 
landing on her backside instead of her back.

She turned to look at him, bleary-eyed. "Why am I 
here again?"

"Emily is here: Will was watching her while I went 
to pick you up. I didn't want to take her out in the 
rain," he explained, putting his arm around her 
shoulders and guiding her inside before she 
collapsed.  

"What happened to the sitter?"

"Oh, she quit about one.  Emily's been over here all 
night."

Scully made an 'umh' noise without opening her 
mouth, shuffling through the foyer and kitchen and 
toward the back of the house.  Mulder paused to pick 
up Emily, still sound asleep, off one end of the 
couch, and thanked Will, also sound asleep, on the 
other end.  Will made a similar, slightly deeper 
'ump' sound in response, and burrowed further into 
the cushions.

"Keep going," Mulder instructed, giving Scully 
another gentle nudge off the back porch and into the 
stormy night. "Almost home."

"It's raining," she observed, plodding through the 
yard and across the alley.

"I'll see what I can do about that."

"Thank you," Scully said seriously, managing a 
relatively good mood for someone who had been on her 
feet for almost twenty-four hours in the ER after 
finishing six hours of classes on Thursday. "Is it 
still Friday?"

"Early Saturday morning." Emily coughed under the 
blanket he had covered her with, and he adjusted her 
against his shoulder, making sure she could breathe.  
"What happened that you had to work overtime?"  

He'd waited to pick her up at midnight, already six 
hours past her normal shift, not wanting Scully to 
walk home alone that late, but, when he'd gone 
inside to ask where she was, someone had said to 
come back at four.  Then, four a.m. Saturday morning 
had stretched to five a.m., and then five-thirty 
before Scully had finally emerged.

"Some nurses called in sick, then a bus wreck and 
a couple of car wrecks.  They offered me double-
time.  Did I miss anything important?"

"Up the stairs," he reminded her, shifting Emily's 
limp body again and following her. "Well, your 
sitter quit: I told you that. Will seems to like my 
house, and he's eaten every scrap of food in both 
our iceboxes.  And if he says 'cool' or cracks his 
gum one more time, I'm afraid I might hurt him."

"Em's okay?"

"She's a little warm, but otherwise she's okay.  
According to Will, she's also 'cool.'"

"And it's Saturday?" Scully confirmed, giving her 
apartment door a frustrated kick when the lock and 
her key didn't work in harmony.   

"Saturday," Mulder answered, unlocking the door 
she'd just locked and turning the knob for her. 
"Very early Saturday."

"I have to be at work at noon on Saturday."  She 
surveyed her apartment curiously, found it 
acceptable and faintly familiar, and headed for the 
bedroom, stepping out of her shoes and unpinning 
her cap as she went.  After tucking Emily in, Mulder 
followed, finding her collapsed across the 
bedspread, still wearing her white uniform.

"Un-uh.  Get up: you're soaked."  

"Can't move," she mumbled into the pillow, looking 
like a rag doll carelessly tossed on the bed. "Wake 
me at eleven."

"Oh, for pity's sake!" he said lightly, sitting her 
up and jerking at the zipper on the back of her 
damp uniform, making every attempt to avert his 
eyes from the lacy slip underneath. "You can't keep 
doing this, Scully.  You're going to make yourself 
sick.  Where are your pajamas?"

She blinked sleepily as he retrieved a towel and made 
an attempt at drying her hair, then decided his chest 
made a good pillow and snuggled up against him, still 
sitting on the side of her bed. "Nice and warm," she 
mumbled, cuddling closer.

"You're not going back to work in less than six 
hours.  The hospital can go to Hell if they think 
that's going to happen," he said authoritatively, as 
though Miss Hardhead might listen to him. "Will hasn't
seen you since January.  Stay home and we'll do 
something with the kids."

She 'um-hummed,' which meant she just wasn't going 
to bother telling him 'no' outright.  No one had 
ever mentioned to Scully that Father, or Mulder, as 
the case may be, Knows Best.

"I'm serious, Scully."  He laid both of them down, 
doubling the blankets back over her cold shoulders, 
waiting for her to stop shivering before he left. It 
was raining that icy autumn rain that might as well 
be sleet, and she felt like a Popsicle.  A very soft, 
musky, pliant Popsicle against him. "You're exhausted."

"I dreamt I was a muffler," she mumbled, kissing his 
neck softly. "The car I was on drove all over the 
place, and when I woke up, I was exhausted."

"My God, that's even worse than some of my jokes," 
he chuckled, lying beside her, their arms and legs 
intertwined. "Are you warm yet?"

"I'm getting there.  Are you?"

"A little too warm," he murmured back, wondering 
what possessed him tonight. "I probably need to go 
stand in the rain for a little bit."

"You go do that," she said lazily, shifting closer 
to him and wrapping her arms around his neck.

"I'm going.  Right now." He slid his hand up her thigh, 
over the silky fabric of her stocking, then garter, 
telling himself he was stopping in precisely two seconds.

"Are you gone yet?" Scully asked, rolling slightly 
to her back so he was lying almost on top of her.

"Long gone," he whispered into her hair, closing his 
eyes.

*~*~*~*  

Something warm and wonderful was draped over his 
bare back and hips, and Mulder nestled against it 
happily.  Little things like whose bed he was in, 
who was behind him, and what had happened to his 
pants didn't worry him so much as having his 
backside all toasty warm.

Something was breathing cornflake breath in his 
face, and he opened his eyes lazily to see what it 
might be, blinking a few times at the morning sun 
streaming through Scully's window.  

Emily greeted him with a frown, solemnly offering a 
spoonful of the cold cereal she was eating while she 
watched he and Scully lying in bed together.  

"No, thank you," that mysterious person who kept 
using his voice said politely, while his hand 
frantically reached back to shake Scully awake.

"Ump, um?  Dilated six centimeters.  What?" she 
muttered, stretching and yawning, then relaxing 
to go back to sleep. "Don't push," she added.

"We have company, Scully," Mulder said, trying to 
sound casual instead of horrified.

"Did you sleep with Mommy?" Em asked, trying to 
figure out what to make of this and not looking very 
pleased about it.  Mulder gaped for a few seconds 
before she added: "I'm getting too big to sleep with 
Mommy now.  I have my own bed.  Don't you have your 
own bed, Mulder?"

"Mulder put Mommy to bed last night and accidentally 
fell asleep here, just like Mommy does in your bed, 
sometimes," Scully said, returning to semi-
consciousness just in time to save him from utter 
humiliation.  "It was an accident.  Mulder has his 
own bed, just like you do."

Emily nodded, seeming appeased, and wandered off, 
still crunching and slurping happily.  As soon as 
she was out of the bedroom, Mulder reached over and 
closed the door, then sank into the pillow, his 
heart pounding.  He stared at the ceiling in 
silence, trying to figure out if there was a proper 
thing to say in this situation.

"Jesus, I'm sorry.  I must have fallen asleep."

"Go ahead and get dressed.  Shower if you want; it's 
past eight in the morning: the neighbors are going 
to see you anyway," Scully murmured calmly. "Tell 
Emily she can come lie down with me as you leave; 
I'm going to sleep a few more hours."

Mulder nodded, sitting up quickly and grabbing his 
boxers and slacks off the floor.  His hair was only 
slightly more out of place than usual, but he rinsed 
his mouth and face in her bathroom, trying to make 
himself as presentable as possible.  He laid her 
pajamas across the bottom of the bed where she 
could reach them, then jerked his still-damp shirt 
over his head, furious at himself for letting this 
happen.

"With any luck, Will should sleep until noon: he'll 
never realize I didn't come back from picking you up 
last night," he muttered, looking around for his 
shoes and socks. "Shit: I can't believe I did that."

"We did that," Scully reminded him quietly from the 
pillow, still not opening her eyes.  

"Yeah." He watched her for a moment, then sat down 
on the bed again.  It didn't seem worth going 
through his usual 'we-shouldn't-be-doing-this-
unless-we're-married' speech.  And 'I'm sorry,' just 
seemed insulting.  "And we didn't do too bad. I 
think," he said uncertainly. "Mostly."

"Mostly," she agreed, then either going back to 
sleep or pretending she was asleep, leaving him to 
hunt for his socks under the sheets and wax neurotic 
about that 'mostly.'  
 
*~*~*~*
 
"That's not a word," Emily agreed, crossing her arms 
and looking like she knew what she was talking 
about. 

"Is to," Will countered, pushing his tiles into a 
slightly straighter line. "Reticulan: someone from 
Zeta Reticuli. R-E-T-I-C-U-L-A-N.  Where space 
aliens come from, right, Dad?"

Mulder nodded, busy thinking of redheaded things.

"It's not a word, Will," Scully repeated. "If it's 
not in the dictionary, then it doesn't count.  I'll 
give you 'Reticuli' because it's a star, but not 
'Reticulan.'"

Will narrowed his eyes, pretending to glare over the 
Scrabble board at her. "Let's vote on it.  Who 
thinks 'Reticulan' is a word?"

Mulder and Will quickly raised their hands in 
unison, and Emily, slightly unfamiliar with 
democracy, but a champion Simon Says player, 
concurred.  Scully sighed, gave Mulder a 'you're 
such an overgrown child' look, and added Will's 
triple-word score to her tallies.   

"It balances out for you not letting me count 
'rock'n'roll,'" Will commented smugly, fishing the 
last few slippery kernels out of the bottom of the 
popcorn bowl. "I can't help it that the game doesn't 
come with apostrophes."   

"You two cheat like crazy," she teased, standing up 
and rolling her shoulders tiredly.  Ignoring 
Mulder's protests, she'd worked from noon to seven 
this evening, meaning she had only slept from about 
six am until eleven, minus time spent on 'mostly' 
adequate lovemaking with him. "And you get my tiles 
all buttery.  I'm taking my game and going home."

Will was eager for another round, having slept until 
lunch, then 'practiced' driving for five hours this 
afternoon, returning with a stack of new records, an 
empty gas tank, and a hickey.  He seemed to enjoy 
this quasi-domesticity as much as his father, which 
was a sad comment on what he must be used to with 
Phoebe, Mulder realized dejectedly.

"I'll make more popcorn, sans butter, if you stay," 
Mulder offered, not ready to have their familial 
evening end yet.  It might be a motley, slightly 
awkward family, but it was all he had, and, on the 
surface at least, it looked damn good. "Come help 
me, Scully," he said, picking up the big bowl and 
purposely telling rather than asking her.  She 
looked puzzled, but followed him into the kitchen, 
leaving Emily and Will in the living room.

"What is it, Mulder?" Scully asked curiously as the 
door swung closed.   

"Just wanted to talk to you," he said casually, 
picking her up and setting her on the kitchen 
counter so they were face to face, putting his hands 
on the tiles on either side of her hips. "Alone," he 
added, kissing her lightly on the lips, tasting 
traces of salt and melted butter.  It was tempting 
to press harder, to press past her rational facade 
and into the comforting, erotic lie of flesh: 
comforting, but not honest.

"What is it you want to talk about?"  She leaned 
back, turning her face away.  She didn't want to be 
intimate this evening any more than she had early 
this morning.  Not yet; not really.  There was too 
much water still flowing under the bridge and she was 
struggling just to stay afloat.  It had been a lie, 
and she was beautiful enough, and he was in love 
with her enough that she didn't have to lie very hard. 

"Popcorn, Scully," he said softly. "I never want any 
until I smell it, but then my mouth starts to water 
and I can't think of anything I want more."

"So make more popcorn, Mulder."  

"You're like that, too," he continued. "It's not 
that I don't notice you, but it's when you're right 
there, right in my arms that I can't think of 
anything else." He swallowed, looking away. "Emily
said her Aunt Tara's baby came yesterday.  Bill's 
wife finally had that baby."   

"I didn't tell you?" Scully responded, feigning 
surprise, but not feigning very well. "A little boy.   
Matthew. Tara checked into the hospital last night."

"And you came home and went to bed with me," he said 
softly, but she still watched him, bewildered. "You 
don't think there might have been a connection?  
Your brother's wife was about as far along as you 
would have been, her baby comes, and you suddenly 
decided we needed to become lovers again."

"I already told you-"

"That you don't want to talk about it," he finished 
for her, already on edge. "I'll add it to the list 
of things you don't want to talk about.  I'm not 
asking you to talk, just listen.  Will you do that?"

She nodded, watching him closely, unaccustomed to 
seeing him anything other than cool, calm, and 
collected.  Frohike had told him once that he had 
the perfect poker face, and it drove women mad to 
never know what he was thinking.  Looking back, it 
made sense: it wasn't that he attracted insane 
brunettes; it was that they went crazy once they were
around him.

"That wasn't right, Scully: what happened this 
morning.  I don't know if I took advantage of you or 
you took advantage of me, but- I know you have 
nightmares; I know you pull inside yourself and shut 
people out, just like I did when I came back from 
the war.  You had to make an awful choice, alone, 
and now you feel numb, because that's all it's safe 
to feel.  I understand all that, just like I 
understand what it's like to be young and dream of 
something more than being tied down to a baby and a 
family.  You want to be a doctor: I respect that.  
And I assumed- Hell, I don't know what I assumed 
last year, but I never thought you specifically 
wouldn't want to have another baby.  Then, after 
that first time, what were you going to say?  It was 
a little late to mention it then-"   

"No, that's not true," she interrupted. "That's not 
what happened."

"Would you like to tell me what happened?" he asked 
tersely, starting to get angry. "Would you like to 
tell me why you just didn't come to me and tell me?  
Jesus Christ, we could have found a better doctor 
than that if you wanted-"

She shook her head 'no,' but murmured, "Not that.  
Don't ever think I didn't want you or any part of 
you."

He paused, stunned at such an open revelation from 
her. "If you didn't want to be alone this morning, 
all you had to do was tell me.  You don't have to 
pretend you want something you really don't," 
he finally said shakily.

"Why do you say that?" she bluffed.

"Because I'm not a complete idiot."

"I'm sorry," she murmured, staring at the kitchen 
floor. "I guess I don't compare to the women you're 
used to."

He made his gaping-fish-mouth face a few times, then 
managed, "Are you serious?  Because you're either 
joking or insane.  You think I'm some sort of Don 
Juan?"

"You're a little intimidating, Mulder," she 
conceded, and he considered going outside to see if 
there was pork in the treetops. "You're older than I 
am; you're more experienced than I am-"

She paused, finding something over his left shoulder 
to watch instead of looking at him.

"You, uh, wanna hear a good joke, Scully?  I don't 
even remember that first time with Phoebe.  I was 
that drunk, or I wouldn't have done it.  I remember 
going to the pub and I remember waking up hung over 
the next morning, but I have a son from a night I 
don't remember a thing about.  So, when Phoebe 
showed up a few months later and announced she was 
going to have a baby, I knew as much about women as 
your average shy, twenty-three year old bookworm.  
Which would have been fine if I'd married anyone 
else besides Phoebe," he added, blushing at the 
memory. "Phoebe can be very, uh, critical.  Does it 
sound silly to say it's still a sensitive topic?"             

"I didn't mean that it wasn't nice, Mulder," she 
said quickly. 

"I know that; I was there.  But it wasn't what you 
wanted, either. All you wanted was not to be alone, 
and you didn't think I'd understand that.  That hurts, 
Scully."

She glanced up, staring deep into his eyes as though 
she could see something no one else did.  "I don't 
want to be alone.  Not at night," she eventually 
whispered, finding whatever she'd been looking for 
in the windows of his soul.

"I'll be over tonight after Will goes to sleep," he 
answered in the same soft voice, then stepped back, 
cleared his throat, and helped her slide down from 
the counter. 

"Mulder," she said urgently as he turned to go to 
the living room.

He whirled around, going back to her eagerly.  Just 
because he was a gentleman didn't mean he was blind 
or dead or any less red-blooded than the next man. 
 
"You forgot to make more popcorn," she reminded him.

*~*~*~*

He'd thought she would have fallen asleep already, 
but Scully's eyes opened as he entered, and she 
scooted over on her bed to make a place for him.  He 
loved her for that: finding a place for him in her 
life, separating 'us' from 'them,' and counting him 
among her 'us.'     

"You're sure?" Mulder whispered, laying on top of 
the covers and curling up to her warm back. As she 
nodded 'yes,' he added, "Sorry it's so late.  Will's 
a night owl and he's found a new 'dish' to telephone 
in Alexandria.  I think it's the 'dish' responsible 
for the hickey on his neck, although if she was my 
daughter, I'd make her get off the phone before 
midnight."   

"Sure you would.  You're not over-indulgent at all.  
Is she 'cool?'" Scully murmured, adjusting her body 
to fit against his.

"No, she's 'hot,' but I'm not sure what the 
difference is.  He's meeting her for sodas tomorrow 
before he 'blows' Georgetown for Manhattan.  She's a 
'hot dish,' which I always thought was a tuna 
casserole, but me being with you is 'cool.'" He 
clicked his tongue against his teeth, imitating 
Will's omnipresent bubblegum. "And you're 'the 
most,'" he added.

"The most what?"

"I'm a little unclear on that," he confessed, toying 
with her hair.  "But we both agree you are.  So, 
doll: I got wheels," Mulder said in his best steel-
jawed gangster impression. "You wanna blow this 
square joint and find some hot dive where the cool 
scene hangs out?" 

"I have no idea what you just said." 

"I think it translates to: if you don't like it 
here, I have a car. Let's go someplace else."

"No, I like it right here," she said contentedly, 
exhaling, lacing her fingers through his.

"So do I."

*~*~*~*

"She's okay, Scully," Mulder said softly, returning 
with two useless mugs of hot tea to find her still 
watching Emily asleep on his couch. "The doctor said 
she was going to be fine.  It's just pneumonia, and 
he said you caught it early."
 
"It's not 'just' pneumonia," she whispered tensely. 
"Healthy, five-year-old little girls do not 'just' 
get pneumonia."  

Mulder shifted, knowing Scully didn't want to hear 
some comforting lie.  This wasn't another case of 
the sniffles: even he realized that.   

"It happened so fast," Scully continued, stroking 
Emily's flushed cheek, her fingers trembling from 
fear and lack of sleep. "One second she had a chest 
cold and the next she was burning up and she 
couldn't breathe."

"And you got her to the hospital, and the doctor has 
her on all that medicine, and she's going to be 
fine.  We keep her warm, give her plenty of fluids-"   

"It's starting, Mulder," Scully said shakily, 
looking up at him with big, frightened eyes.

"I w-would do anything to make her well again," he 
murmured helplessly, and she looked back down at 
Emily.  He just stood there like he had for the last 
three days in the hospital, feeling like an outsider 
who didn't belong, but seemed to be along for the 
ride.  He felt very close to Scully when he could 
slay the nightmares, and very far away when he 
couldn't. 

"I know that."  

"It's warmer here: not damp and drafty like your 
apartment.  It will be easier for her to breathe.  
I'll make up a bed for you, or you can go home and 
get some sleep and I'll watch her."

"I'd rather sleep with you tonight," she said 
quickly, still watching her daughter's peaceful face. 

Mulder swallowed.  There was a subtle and visceral 
difference between his 'staying until you go to 
sleep' and 'sleep with you.' One involved wearing 
pants and the other, done correctly, did not.  

"I'll carry her upstairs and put her in the room 
across the hall from mine.  From ours," he corrected, 
clearing his throat. "So we can hear if she wakes up."

Scully nodded, not letting Emily out of her sight as 
he carried the limp body up the steps and tucked her 
into bed, but not speaking, either.   

"I don't know if I can do this, Mulder," she finally 
said as he began to undress for bed, feeling like a 
nervous teenager instead of a grown man.   

"Do you want to sleep with Em?  Or for me to leave?"

"I don't know if I can watch this happen to her.  I 
don't know if I'm that strong."

When he wrapped his arms around her, he realized she 
was trembling, and he heard her sniffing against his 
shoulder. "You are the strongest person I know."

He backed her to his bed and helped her undress, 
then laid her down, pulling the luxurious blankets 
up to her chin.  His usual routine was to lie on top 
of the covers behind her, which preserved some 
propriety, and avoided embarrassment when his body 
realized there was a beautiful, half-dressed woman a 
few inches away.

"What's happening, Scully?" Mulder asked instead, 
sitting on the edge of the bed, still wearing his 
slacks and t-shirt. "Why is this happening to 
Emily?"

She shook her head, as usual, refusing to answer.  

"No, I love your daughter like she's my own.  You, 
Emily and Will are my life.  I won't ask you where 
you were for three months or what happened with the
babies, but I want to know what's happening to Em," 
he insisted. "I don't think it's fair not to tell me."

"She's an experiment," Scully whispered. "And the 
experiment, for her, failed.  She's something that 
was never meant to be."

"Like the eugenics experiments?  Like the Nazis?" he 
asked huskily. "They breed people like race horses?  
That's what she is: a selectively bred human?"

"Mulder, I can't."

"I saw those Nazi death camps, Scully.  Most of my 
mother's relatives died in those camps."

"I can't," she repeated, avoiding his eyes.

"Am I part of that experiment?" he managed to ask 
after several false starts.  

"You are a part of me.  And I don't know if I'm 
strong enough to lose you, either," she whispered 
hoarsely, then pressed her face into the down pillow, 
her back shaking as she sobbed silently.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry, honey.  I'm not going anywhere.  
I'm right here.  I'm going to be right here, no 
matter what happens." She rolled to face him, and he 
pulled her close, pressing his lips into her hair. 
"I love you, Scully. I probably don't say that often 
enough."

"Love me," she requested, and he did, breathlessly.
 
*~*~*~*

Thankful no reporters could hear him, Mulder leaned 
over the landing and instructed for the fifth time, 
"Don't take your knickers off.  You can't go if you 
take your knickers off!"  
 
"Leave them on," Scully confirmed from the upstairs 
bathroom, putting the finishing touches on her hair.

Emily pushed her bottom lip out, but dropped the hem 
of her party dress, scratching miserably at the 
thick wool leggings Scully was trying to keep on 
her. "The whole dress is itchy.  I wanna wear my 
overalls," she insisted.  

"You need a nice dress to go to the restaurant with 
us and your leggings will keep you warm.  You can 
take them off when we get there.  Come help me pick 
out a tie: your mom's almost ready." 

He held a few possibilities over the banister, 
wondering if trusting a five-year-old's fashion 
expertise and sense of humor was a good idea.  In 
New York, the maids had a system for organizing his 
wardrobe, but in Georgetown, he was at the mercy of 
the Scully women.  Although Emily knew her colors, 
she seemed to have convenient memory lapses at his 
expense. Mulder had appeared in public more than 
once wearing mismatched socks while Em and Scully 
giggled at him. 

"What color do you want?" Emily asked, hands on her 
wool-padded hips as she watched him jog down the steps.

"Blue.  The blue tie goes with this suit."

Emily pointed to the one on the left, nodding in 
approval as he tied it in the mirror in the foyer.

"That one's brown and your suit's gray," Scully 
informed him, crossing the landing with her high 
heels and velvet purse in her hands. "Be nice to 
Mulder, Emily."

Emily blinked in wide-eyed innocence as Mulder 
squatted down so they were nose-to-nose, pulling his 
tie off. "I'm gonna-" he began to tease her, but was 
interrupted by a knock at the front door.  

"Will," Mulder said in shock, opening it to find his 
son on the porch, looking like a pampered house cat 
accidentally left out all night. "What are you doing 
here?  Does your mother know where you are?"

"I guess." Will shrugged, stepping inside and 
dropping his backpack, shucking off his black 
leather jacket and tossing it in the general 
direction of the coat rack.  Nothing unusual: the 
boy couldn't sink a basket or hit the toilet, 
either. 

"Is something wrong?" 'For you to show up on my 
doorstep looking like a lost puppy when you're 
supposed to be in Manhattan with your mother?' 
Mulder's inner voice elaborated. 

Another shrug.  No, clearly nothing was wrong at all.   

"You can't just run away like this, Will, even if 
you're upset.  I'm calling your mother before she 
calls the police."

Mulder had his hand on the kitchen phone before Will 
blurted out, "Mother and I had a fight.  She's mad 
about Thanksgiving being her holiday with me when 
she doesn't celebrate Thanksgiving.  She said I 
should spend the week with you and your- with Miss 
Scully and plan to be with her over Christmas.  I 
borrowed some money and bought a bus ticket."   

"You're sure that's the truth, Will?  That your 
mother knows you're here?  Because if it's not, I 
could be in trouble."

"She knows where I am," Will conceded, looking 
distastefully at Emily, who was scratching again. 
"Why is she dressed like that?" 

"We were going out to dinner.  Scully passed all her 
mid-term exams and Em's finally feeling better, so 
we were going out to celebrate."  

"Wear this one, Mulder" Scully called from the 
landing, letting another tie drift down to the 
foyer. "Oh, hello, William.  Is everything okay?"

"Everything's fine. Why does something have to be 
wrong for me to see my father?" Will snapped, 
glaring at her as she came down the steps in her 
blue evening dress. "Isn't this my designated 
weekend to be his kid?"

"Of course," Scully answered, giving Mulder a 
worried look. Will had seemed accepting, even 
content with her in his father's life again, and 
while he was often short with Mulder, he'd always 
been polite to her. "Can you come to dinner with us, 
Will?  The restaurant has a dress code, but you're 
so tall now: I bet one of Mulder's suits will fit 
you."  

"Sure.  Why not," Will muttered, passing her without 
making eye contact and trudging up the stairs.

"The tie on the banister is brown," Mulder called 
after him, giving Scully his 'how should I know 
what's wrong; I'm only his father' face.

"Go help him," Scully instructed quietly, squatting 
down and trying to stuff her uncooperative daughter 
into the jacket of her snowsuit. "We'll wait in the 
car.  See if he'll tell you what's wrong."
 
"How do I do that?"

"Try asking, then listening."
 
*~*~*~*

"Ready, sir?" the waiter asked, holding his pad and 
pencil ready.

"Salmon, Scully?" Mulder asked, glancing up to make 
sure she hadn't changed her mind. "Gateau de salmon 
for the lady, coq au vin for me.  One jam sandwich 
and a glass of milk," he continued, trying not to 
smile at Emily's request. "And my son will just have 
the entire left-hand column of the veal section," he 
finished, handing the menu back.  

"Strawberry jam, Mr. Mulder?" the waiter confirmed 
with great dignity, and Emily nodded, nibbling at 
the elaborate apple swan the chef had carved for 
her.  

She sat up taller on her impromptu booster seat of 
telephone books and adjusted the floppy chef's hat 
she'd wheedled out of the owner, making a few nearby 
patrons smile indulgently.  So far, there had been 
no problem with bringing a child to a grownup 
restaurant, but then, there was seldom a problem 
with bringing Emily anywhere.  Will, on the other 
hand, was so sullen Mulder could almost smell the 
storm brewing in the little black rain cloud above 
the boy's head.  His son's vocabulary had dwindled 
to two words: a 'you're interrupting my life' "What?" 
and a 'like you give a damn' "Fine!"

As another waiter appeared to refill their glasses, 
Scully leaned over the table, wiping something off 
Em's chin, and accidentally giving Will and Mulder a 
glimpse down her deep princess neckline.  Looking 
quickly at his son, Mulder grinned when he caught 
Will staring, his cheeks starting to redden.  

"You're depraved," she chastised them, sitting back, 
and Mulder nodded in agreement, giving his son a 
stern look. "I meant you, Mulder."

"So did I," he agreed, putting his hand over hers on 
the table. "Can't help it: you're gorgeous.  Isn't 
she, Will?" Mulder asked, trying one last time to 
lure his son out of his shell.   

"Very pretty.  I think you're the only redhead Dad's 
been with lately, Miss Scully," Will said politely. 
"Usually, he has brunettes with him when we're in 
New York."

Mulder tipped his head sideways, giving Will a 
puzzled look.  That wasn't true and Will knew it. 
"What are you talking about?"

"Oh. Miss Scully didn't know you're still seeing 
Diana Fowley and those other women?" he asked 
innocently, taking a sip from his water goblet. "I'm 
sorry, Dad.  I didn't mean to cause trouble.  Not 
'seeing,' really, Miss Scully.  Kind of like when he 
and Mother get together: they used to be married, 
after all.  I guess it doesn't count."

"W-Will," Mulder stuttered, trying to keep his mouth 
from hanging open in shock.  He had the urge to hit 
himself in the head with his palm to see if there 
would be a 'boing' noise as his brain restarted, 
since he couldn't possibly have just heard that.

"What?"   

"What are you doing, Will?  In New York, I go to 
business meetings, make a few PR appearances, alone, 
and spend time with you.  The only brunettes I 'see' 
there are you and Frohike.  What's the matter?"

"Nothing," Will insisted, slouching in his chair. "I 
don't even know that Miss Scully's a natural 
redhead, but I guess you would, right Dad?"

"We're, uh-" Mulder pushed back from the table, 
pursing his lips thoughtfully. "We're going to wash 
our hands.  Please excuse us," he decided. "Let's 
go, Will."

"What?" the boy asked again, looking Wheaties box 
wholesome.

"Move!" he ordered, resisting the urge to grab his 
son by the scruff of his neck, and settling for 
keeping a firm hand on his shoulder as they made 
their way to the lobby. "What the hell was that, 
William?  Scully's never been anything except 
wonderful to you.  How could you do that?"

Will slouched against the back of an upholstered 
chair in the ornate lobby, refusing to answer.

"They have made medical school and work as tough as 
possible on her," Mulder continued angrily. "I don't 
think Georgetown University realized 'Dana Scully' 
was a woman when they admitted her, and half of her 
professors are the same doctors she works for in the 
ER.  You know who gets the worst shifts and the 
nastiest patients?  Her.  You see how thin and pale 
Emily is?  That's because she's just getting over 
pneumonia.  How dare you take whatever your problem 
is out on her!"

Will stopped leaning on the chair and crossed his 
arms miserably, staring at the Oriental rug and his 
borrowed wingtips. 

"Come on, Will.  What is it?" Mulder asked, getting 
his temper in check.

"You're just always down here.  With her," he 
mumbled. "With them."

"With Scully and Emily? You're not a child and this 
isn't a popularity contest.  I see you every second 
the court lets me, and half the time, you take off 
for the movies or the record store or on a date.  
Don't pretend I'm neglecting you."

"I hate her!" Will shouted, turning a few 
aristocratic heads in the next room. "Everything I 
do is wrong and she treats me like I ruined her 
life.  If it wasn't for me, she'd still be pouring 
pints for a bunch of over-privileged Oxford brats!"

Mulder nodded, realizing it wasn't Scully they were 
discussing at all. "What happened with your mother?"

"I just don't want to live with her.  Miss Scully 
lives with you.  Why can't you just marry her and 
I could live here? I could-"

"Wait, wait," Mulder interrupted, signaling a 
timeout with his hands. "Scully and I do not live 
together.  And she doesn't want to be married right 
now.  Maybe someday-"  

"Someday she'll get tired of being a doctor and want 
to stay home, have babies, and get off baking apple 
tarts?"

"Watch it, Will," Mulder warned. "Even if we were 
married, the judge said you couldn't live with me 
full-time.  Not right now.  That has to do with me, 
not Scully.  I'm doing everything the judge told me, 
and we have another court date next month: maybe 
he'll consider joint custody then."

"Can you just talk to Mother?  Maybe get her to lay 
off me a little?"

"Gods run for cover and the heavens tremble when she 
and I are in the same room," Mulder responded 
sarcastically.  Seeing Will's hopeful look, he 
exhaled. "Yeah, I'll talk to her.  Are we done here, 
Will?  I want you to go back and apologize to 
Scully.  That was completely uncalled for."

Will nodded, silently following his father through 
the dining room to their table in the back.  Emily 
looked up, her black patent leather dress shoes 
drumming excitedly as the waiters arrived with their 
food.  To her, this was a tea party come to life, 
complete with china, white tablecloths, and ladies 
in pretty gowns.  And, although Mulder might be 
biased, the prettiest lady in the room was sitting 
right beside Emily, waiting to trim the crusts off 
her daughter's dollar-fifty jam sandwich.  Bread was 
eighteen cents a loaf: that had better be some damn 
good jam.   

"Okay?" Scully asked as he and Will sat down, 
sliding their chairs forward.

"I think so," he answered, glancing at Will. "Will, 
you had something to say?"

"I'm sorry: who had the salmon?" a waiter asked, 
picking up the plate and looking to Mulder for a 
cue. 

"Dad's doorknob," Will answered, casually gesturing 
across the table to Scully, then dropping the linen 
napkin onto his lap as though that was how he 
usually referred to her. 
 
"Or not okay," Mulder said through clenched teeth, 
sliding his chair back again. "Sorry.  We'll be 
right back.  Let's go, Will."

"They like their hands really, really clean: germs," 
Emily explained to the puzzled French waiters.

*~*~*~*

"Keep walking, Will: there's going to be yelling," 
Mulder instructed, holding open the glass door of 
the restaurant for his son to step outside.   

Knowing he was in deep this time, Will leaned 
against the brick wall, watching warily while his 
father paced the sidewalk, pausing occasionally to 
raise a finger, start to speak, and then change his 
mind and go back to pacing. 'Dad's doorknob:' as in 
'everyone takes a turn.' Mulder had no allusions as 
to what Phoebe called Scully, but it was different 
coming out of Will's mouth.  
 
"If there was ever a best time to announce you're on 
drugs, this is it," Mulder finally said. "Okay, I'm 
listening, Will. You have my full and undivided 
attention." He stopped moving, standing eye-to-eye 
with his son and crossing his arms.   

"I'll tell her I'm sorry," he finally mumbled 
miserably, ducking as though he could avoid the 
falling sleet.

Mulder waited, not trusting himself to say 
anything else.  To his surprise, instead of more 
empty apologies, he saw a tear trickling down from
the corner of the boy's eye, tugging at his own 
heart like water finding a weak spot in a dam.

"Will, what's wrong?  This isn't like you."

"What Mother says about Miss Scully, is it true? 
About Emily?  You never really told me." 

"About Scully not being married to Emily's father? 
Yes, that's true.  I don't think Scully had any 
control over whether or not she had a baby, though.  
Do you understand?"

"You mean someone forced her."

"Basically." Mulder nodded. "To me, it's not the 
same, but I can see how you might not feel that 
way."  He had a whole speech composed on splitting 
moral hairs, but controlled himself, swearing he 
was listening, not lecturing. "Actually, I think 
keeping and raising her daughter alone is very 
brave."

"But you didn't know that when you asked her to 
marry you last Christmas?"

"No, I didn't.  I thought her husband had died."  

"And, uh, is it true about the baby?" he mumbled.

"What baby?" Mulder asked, trying to stall for time 
and wondering what the penalty was for strangling 
his ex-wife.  That was what was wrong with Will: 
Phoebe had found out and told him. Of course Phoebe 
told him: she would never pass up the chance to make 
Mulder look bad in front of their son. "Scully's not 
going to have a baby."

"I heard you talking to her last month about what 
it's like to be young and not want to be tied down 
to a baby and family.  And then when Mother said 
Miss Scully had- How could you let her do that, Dad?  
You always say it's my responsibility: to stop, and 
then to be responsible for whatever the consequences 
were with a girl if I didn't stop.  Why didn't you 
just marry her?" Pushing himself off the wall, Will 
yelled, "Jesus Christ, you married my mother!  Was 
the baby not yours?"

When Mulder hesitated, Will continued lividly, "It 
wasn't, was it?  That's why Miss Scully ran off!  
And when she showed up again, you took her back like 
it never happened!  Do you think she'll stop 
sleeping with you when she finishes school, or will 
she let you pay her way through her residency, too?  
She must be one bloody good shag." He pointed to the 
mat in front of the restaurant, then to his father, 
then back at the mat. "My father.  The doormat.  My 
father.  The doormat.  What's the difference?  I 
know: my father is taller!"

"Will-" he tried to interrupt.  This had ceased to 
be a discussion and was disintegrating into a vulgar 
temper tantrum.  

"What's the excuse this time? You never fix 
anything, Dad, but you damn sure can make excuses.  
My mother was young, and she had to raise me alone 
while you hit baseballs.  Losing your sister was 
hard: Grandmother's 'just like that.' Your father 
'didn't know me.' It's not that I'm six months away 
from being a bastard.  So what's Miss Scully's 
excuse?  And, while you're at it, what's your excuse 
for me?  Let me guess: you were drunk!"   

Mulder stepped closer, but Will shoved him back, 
cursing, then turned away.  When Mulder tried to put 
a hand on his son's shoulder, Will shrugged away, 
refusing to look at him.   

He moved back, trying to come up with something 
brilliant and fatherly to say, but drawing a blank.  
In fact, the space between his ears was so empty he 
could hear it echoing like a huge, deserted 
warehouse.

The restaurant door swung open, letting the sounds 
of DC's elite spill out onto the sidewalk for a few 
seconds before it closed again with a well-mannered 
'whoosh.' Behind him, Mulder heard a woman 
approaching, her stilettos clicking across the wet 
cement.

"I'm sorry to interrupt," Scully said hesitantly. 
"Everyone's smoking in the restaurant.  Emily was 
having trouble breathing."

"Okay.  Okay, I think we should just go home." 
Mulder took a few breaths, trying to calm down. 
"I'll go pay the check."

"The owner said not to worry about it: for us to 
come back another evening and they'd put us in a 
private room." She noticed Will standing a few feet 
away, still sniffing and flushed, then looked to 
Mulder. "Is there anything I can do?"

Mulder nodded 'no,' fishing in his pocket for his 
spare set of keys. "I'm not in the mood to wait for 
the valet; would you mind if we walked to the car?"

"Some fresh air would be nice, actually.  Emily, are 
you all right to walk?"  

Bundled in her wool snowsuit, Emily agreed, taking 
her mother's hand, assuming Scully would feed her 
dinner at some point this evening and it would 
involve strawberry jam on white bread with the 
crusts cut off.  Mulder wondered what it must be 
like to have a child's unconditional love and trust.  
Somehow he had missed the part of fatherhood when he 
had been his son's hero.  Probably, he had been deep 
in WWII, a bottle of Scotch, a double-header, or a 
brunette during that developmental stage.  

"We're going home, Will," Mulder said neutrally, 
still keeping his distance.       

"You can go to Hell!  And you can take your whore 
with you!"

'What is it?' Scully mouthed, and Mulder held both 
his palms up in the classic 'hands off' gesture.  
Continuing this discussion wouldn't be profitable 
for anyone except the psychotherapists, and it 
wasn't her responsibility to referee this blame 
game.      

"Let's just go," Mulder muttered, taking Emily's 
other hand, then picking her up in his need for 
something to do.  Will followed, refusing to 
acknowledge their presence, but muttering just 
loudly enough for Mulder and probably Scully to 
catch the occasional 'bloody tramp' comment.  

Mulder pretended to ignore him, still waiting for 
the Wisdom Fairy to come down and smite him.  The 
Conscience Fairy arrived with his usual agenda, 
bringing his friends Hurt, Insecurity, and Betrayal, 
but all the productive sprites seemed to have 
previous engagements.

What could he say to his son when he didn't 
understand Scully any better?  How could she invite 
him into her family, her bed, and her heart, but not 
her past or, in any permanent sense, her future?  
Life went along peacefully and pleasantly as long as 
they lived in the present, which was what Mulder 
tried to do, but he was like his son: forgive, 
forget, and move on wasn't his strong suit.  They 
tended to recall in great detail, silently ruminate, 
and give themselves ulcers until they exploded in 
self-destructive meltdowns.   

Mulder could almost see the Insecurity Fairy jumping 
up and down and clapping with glee out of the corner 
of his eye.  Yes, Virginia, there is an Insecurity 
Fairy: he brings indigestion and ex-wives.

Scully squeezed his hand, leaning her head against 
Mulder's shoulder as they walked. "What's wrong with 
him?" she whispered. "Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay," Mulder said brusquely, still 
holding her hand but putting some distance between 
them. "And not a damn thing's wrong with him." 

"Dad," Will said nervously, suddenly sounding much 
younger and unsure of himself.

"I'm not speaking to you until you calm down," 
Mulder insisted, but turned anyway and found two men 
pointing pistols at him as they stepped out from the 
shadows.  It was barely dusk, but the evening was 
overcast and miserable, and the alley between the 
restaurant and the parking lot was deserted.  

Wondering if this was actually a positive turn, 
considering how their evening had gone so far, 
Mulder set Emily down, let go of Scully, and 
slowly reached for his wallet.  

"Just take the money and go: we don't want any 
trouble," he said calmly, easing his hand out of his 
pocket.

The muggers exchanged looks, focusing on Scully in 
her evening gown instead of Mulder.  One grinned, 
his chapped lips parting slightly, his breath making 
white mist in front of his face as he watched her.   

"Will," Mulder said evenly, praying his son wouldn't 
choose this moment to argue with him, "Take Scully 
and Em and get out of here.  Drop your watch and 
wallet and run."  

Thankfully, he immediately heard the sounds of 
Will's watch hitting the pavement and then Scully's 
heels hurrying away behind him.  Holding his own 
billfold and raising his right hand, trying to keep 
the men's attention, Mulder said slightly louder, 
"There's probably two-hundred dollars here, and I'm 
wearing my World Series ring and a Rolex.  It's 
yours.  And my car keys: the black Cadillac parked 
on the next lot.  Just take it and get out of here.  
I don't want any trouble."

Will would probably take Scully and Emily back to 
the restaurant, and Mulder wanted these men moving 
in the opposite direction.  He laid everything on 
the wet asphalt, then started to back away, his 
heart rate only slightly elevated.  Everyone was 
fine, and, with the exception of the ring, 
possessions were replaceable.  It was still a 
charming way to end a romantic evening, though: at 
the police station going through pictures of 
criminals.  

"Okay?" he asked, taking another step back, keeping 
both hands in sight.  He was a veteran New Yorker; 
muggers were nothing new to him.  He thought of them 
as panhandlers with weapons and a pushy attitude.

The men waited, not moving toward his wallet and 
jewelry, still keeping their guns trained on him.  
Mulder was about fifteen feet when he saw one man 
raise his pistol and heard the hammer clicking back.

*~*~*~*

For a long time: he couldn't tell if it was seconds, 
hours, or epochs, consciousness was like a few women 
he had known: a nice, casual acquaintance it would 
be acceptable to see again, but there were no hard 
feelings if he didn't.  He didn't even see the point 
in politely lying and saying he'd stay in touch, 
because he probably wouldn't.

Mulder heard snatches of conversation, and men were 
telling Scully the same thing: he wasn't going to 
make it and she could stop trying.  Sleet was 
stinging his face, gravel was pressing into his 
shoulders, and in the background, he heard Emily 
crying and Will's hoarse voice asking if his dad was 
going to be okay.  He surmised his own situation as 
grave, to make a bad joke, but he smiled inwardly as 
she told the men, medics, probably, to go to Hell.  
No one was ever going to win a battle of wills with 
Dana Scully, so if she said he wasn't going to die, 
he might as well just resign himself to living.

Other voices passed through the darkness in search 
of him, often impatiently dissipating into nothing 
before he could respond.  To Mulder, the time inside 
his mind moved slowly, but life around him was a 
film running too quickly.  He caught a few plot 
points: sirens, needles entering his skin, the 
whirring and beeping of machines, and someone 
covering him with a warm blanket as though he was a 
sick child.  In general, though, reality had little 
application to him: just another ship passing in the 
immense night.

"Mulder," Scully's voice said again, finding him in 
his warm cocoon, and he felt her hand over his.  He 
rubbed his thumb against her palm, letting her know 
he could hear.  "You're in the hospital: there's an 
oxygen mask on your face helping you breathe, and 
we're giving you blood and medicine intravenously: 
through IV's in your arms.  You just came out of 
surgery again.  Don't try to talk yet, but you can 
open your eyes.  Otherwise, I need you to be still."

He tried to tell her he understood, but there was a 
something covering his mouth and nose and it hurt to 
breathe.  He shook his head to get it off, starting 
to panic when he realized he couldn't raise his left 
arm.  As he struggled, waves of pain and nausea 
buffeted him until he froze, terrified, tears 
seeping from the outer corners of his eyes.  Dying 
was a perfectly natural and acceptable concept so 
long as it didn't apply to him or anyone he knew.

"No, relax big guy," she instructed, stroking his 
forehead. "You're safe.  Everything's going to be 
fine." 

After a few tries, he got his eyelids to open, 
blinking through a layer of Vaseline someone had put 
on them.  Scully wiped it off, letting him focus on 
her pale face and white surgical gown.  From the 
purple shadows under her eyes and the firm way she 
was holding her lips, things were worse than she was 
letting on: his condition must fit her 'at least 
you're not dead' definition of 'fine.' 

"Hello there," she whispered, taking his hand again. 
"You're in Georgetown Hospital in Recovery.  We're 
moving you to a private room in a few minutes.  Do 
you remember what happened?"
    
Still frightened, Mulder formed his other hand into 
a gun, the way little boys playing cowboys shot at 
Indians. 

"That's right.  You were shot twice: once through 
the shoulder and once close to the heart.  The 
surgeons missed a bleeder when you came off the 
heart-lung bypass machine, and they just went back 
in to tie it off.  You're going to be fine; just be 
still so you don't tear your sutures or IV's.  Your 
blood pressure is still low." 

He raised his index finger, weakly pointing at her.   

"I'm fine, and so are Will and Emily.  They're just 
scared.  The surgeons repaired the damage to your 
aorta, and they think they have the internal 
bleeding under control.  You gave us a good scare, 
Mulder."     
  
He pointed at her again, then touched the layers of 
gauze covering his chest and shoulder, tapping 
lightly.

"You remember that?" she responded, sounding 
surprised. "Yes, I worked on your heart until the ER 
doctors could take over.  Will's waiting: I promised 
I'd tell him as soon as you were awake.  Are you in 
any pain?"

Mulder nodded 'yes,' too weak to pretend stoicism.  

"I'll see what I can do." She backed away, but he 
kept hold of her hand. "You have to let go, Mulder.  
I'm going to get the doctor and talk to Will and 
I'll be right back.  I'm not going to leave you."

"Thanks," he murmured through his scratchy throat, 
releasing his grip and letting the warm tide take 
him again.

*~*~*~*   

He turned his face toward Scully as she entered his 
room, habitually checking his IV's, then peeking at
the layers of gauze on his chest and left shoulder 
to check for bleeding. "The doctor was here, but all
he does is cluck to himself and make notes in my chart.  
What's the verdict?"

"Your pressure is close to normal, which means 
there's no internal bleeding.  There's no infection, 
and those drains in your chest will probably come 
out soon.  I think everyone's a little stunned 
you're doing as well as you are." 

"But I'm not going to make spring training this 
year, am I?" he said lightly.

"The doctors don't know the extent of the nerve 
damage to your arm, but you can move your fingers: 
that's a start.  You'll need some physical therapy 
once the incisions heal.  And your heart stopped 
before the ambulance arrived, which means your brain 
was partially deprived of oxygen for several 
minutes.  What I did helped, but not if there wasn't 
enough blood left to circulate the oxygen.  It's 
still too early to tell about anything else.  By all 
rights, you should be dead," she admitted, dropping 
her nurse persona and sitting on the edge of his 
bed. "But you're not, and I thank God for that."

"You mean it's too early to tell if I have brain 
damage."

She nodded, watching him carefully.

"So how much do I have to heal before I can have my 
shorts back?" he quipped, trying to push himself 
higher in bed to sit up, and collapsing without 
moving an inch. "Damn it, could you not just sit 
there?" he snapped, not sure who he was angry at.

Scully calmly raised the head of his bed a few 
inches, adjusting his pillow. "I'll get a basin and 
help you clean up and shave.  I don't know about 
boxer shorts, but I can probably lay my hands on a 
pair of pajama bottoms."

"Get another nurse to do it," Mulder said gruffly, 
looking away again to stare at the industrially 
antiseptic white wall.  

"Don't be ridiculous," she argued, straightening the 
IV lines he had tangled trying to move.  He jerked 
his arm away, refusing to look at her. 

"Just get someone else, Scully.  It's not your job 
to take care of me."   

"Yes, it is," she said evenly. "Now stop before you 
tear out your IV's."   

"It's a lousy job: one needy, injured, ex-ballplayer 
with an insane ex-wife and a screwed-up teenage son.  
The money's good, but he tends to get drunk, stupid, 
and morose.  I wouldn't sign up for that position 
either, Scully.  In fact, I'd get as far away as I 
could."

"I'll take my chances," she soothed, kissing his 
temple, then his forehead as he turned his face back 
to her, wondering if his eyes looked as frightened 
as hers.

*~*~*~*

Mulder awoke to Will hovering beside the bed, 
looking like he desperately wanted to do or say 
something but couldn't figure out what.  

"Hi," he said tiredly, reaching up to rumple his 
son's dark hair.  Will had been cultivating a high-
maintenance style that puffed up in front and 
feathered together in the back which he called a 
'duck's ass' and Mulder called, 'you could use a 
haircut, son.'  

"Hi.  How are you doing?" Will asked nervously, 
eyeing all the tubes and machines as he smoothed his 
hair back into place. "Tell me it's not as bad as it 
looks."

"I'm okay, Will.  I understand I have a few pints of 
your blood in me."   

Will nodded awkwardly. "I bleed well.  Dana said you 
were sitting up earlier."

"For a little bit," Mulder responded, noting that 
Scully had finally moved from being 'Miss Scully' to 
being 'Dana' to Will. "The doctor says I'm healing 
quickly and I'll be okay in a few months.  So far, 
all my marbles seem to be intact."

"Good," Will said quickly, still hovering.   

"None of this is your fault," Mulder assured him, 
closing his eyes for a few seconds.  It was 
humiliating that something as simple as lifting 
his arm had become exhausting.  

"I shouldn't have left you, but I saw the way those 
men were watching Dana."

"You did the right thing." 

"We would have been having dinner if I hadn't been 
such a brat," Will said guiltily, and Mulder heard 
the chair squeak as he finally sat down.  Scully had 
told him she thought Will had aged about a decade in 
the last week.  The poor kid probably had enough 
issues now to start his own magazine.   

"Do you think I'd rather those men had hurt Scully 
and shot you or Emily?" When Will mumbled 'no,' 
Mulder reiterated, "You did the right thing."

"Yeah.  Anyway, Mother's here.  She wants to see 
you.  Sorry: I got scared a few days ago and called 
her.  She's in the hallway," Will hedged.  Outside 
of court, he couldn't recall seeing his parents in 
the same room in his entire life. "What do you want 
me to tell her?"

"She can come in," Mulder conceded, not wanting to 
make things rougher for Will. "We don't hate each 
other; we just don't get along very well."

Will raised a doubtful eyebrow, but stood and opened 
the door, and a few seconds later Mulder heard high 
heels and smelled the once familiar scent of Chanel 
No. 5.   

"Fox, dearest," Phoebe said softly, sitting on the 
edge of the bed and looking concerned, the cool gold 
clasp of a diamond bracelet resting on his wrist as 
she took his hand. "How do you feel, love?"

"Like I've been shot in the chest," Mulder said 
easily, keeping things friendly. "How's Will doing?"

"He was so upset when I arrived, I had to sedate 
him, but I think he'll be better now that he's seen 
you.  Your girlfriend pulled some strings so he 
could visit you before we go back to New York.  I 
don't think you're supposed to have visitors."  

Will lurked in the corner, warily watching the 
tableaux on the hospital bed.  It was no coincidence 
his life with his mother had become steadily more 
miserable as his father had become more serious 
about Dana. 

"Take it easy on him, Phoebs.  It's been a rough 
week for everyone.  It's been a rough year."

"I will," she promised, running a manicured nail 
down his profile, lingering over his lips as though 
she expected them to open. "He can get his 
schoolwork and fly back down in a few days.  We'll 
work out the details when you're feeling better." 

"He can stay at my place," Mulder responded, getting 
tired. "Scully will keep an eye on him."  

"Fox, we stopped at your house so William could pick 
up his knapsack and there's a little girl's bedroom 
there.  It's your business, but I don't want him 
seeing that: you living with someone."

"Emily takes naps there and comes over to play, but 
she and Scully have their own apartment.  Always," 
he lied, conveniently forgetting the night they 
brought Emily home from the hospital. 

"All right.  I saw her with your girlfriend earlier.  
She's a beautiful child."

"Yes, she is," Mulder answered, hoping she meant 
Emily and not Scully. "And she's smart.  I'd love to 
have a daughter like her."

"I'm sorry you don't.  Really, I am," Phoebe 
whispered, sounding as though they were lovers 
instead of competitors locked in a struggle over a 
common human providence. "Why don't we bury the 
hatchet, Fox?  It can't be healthy for William for 
us to fight like this."  

Mulder murmured something affirmative, not 
mentioning he wasn't the one who fought unless she 
tried to take his son away.  He just signed the 
checks and wanted to see his kid as much as 
possible: everything else was just details.

"Good: we're friends, then.  I hope you feel better 
soon," she offered, leaning down to kiss him lightly 
on the lips, then standing and primly instructing 
William to say goodbye to his father for a few days. 

Will, who didn't kiss anything less than a B-cup 
these days on principle, squeezed Mulder's hand, 
promising he'd call as soon as he got off the plane 
in New York, then followed his mother out.

As the door closed, Mulder finally exhaled.  Jesus.  
Sixteen years and that woman still triggered 
something in the base of his brain that led directly 
to trouble. 

*~*~*~*

When Scully appeared in the doorway, hands on her 
hips, Mulder knew he was in Big Trouble.  According 
to Emily, there was being in 'trouble' and in 'Big 
Trouble' with Mommy: 'Big Trouble' was when the tops 
of Scully's ears turned scarlet and someone was 
about to get their mouth washed out with soap.  
Plain old 'trouble' was anything less, and Scully 
could usually be talked out of actual punishment if 
the offender promised they would never, ever do it 
again.  And this time they meant it.  Really.

He tried to warn Will, but his son was collapsed in 
his chair, laughing hysterically as 'Anita Johnson' 
was summoned to the parking lot over the intercom: 
'Hugh G. Rection' needed her urgently.  Of her own 
accord, the unwitting switchboard operator announced 
Anita was to 'come immediately,' which Mulder 
thought was either empty boasting or extremely high 
standards.    

Without a word, Scully marched into his hospital 
room and unplugged the phone cord from the wall, 
glaring at the two of them.  Mulder watched her, 
fascinated by the way her face kept changing shapes 
and colors.

'I love you,' was what he planned to say, but it 
came out more as "I rub you," which also sounded 
like a fine idea and made him start giggling again.  

"Yes, Mulder, I know you love me," Scully said 
sternly. "You love me, you love your nurse, the ER 
nurses, janitorial and food services, and the 
switchboard operator.  If you are up to loving that 
many women, you must be feeling better. What is 
wrong with you?"

"But I was careful this time," he told her 
seriously, noticing he could see the outline of her 
right nipple through her nurse's uniform. "Will and 
I were just discussing girls."

"And?"

"We're for them," he decided happily, trying to 
catch his breath. "Although being against them is 
pretty damn pleasant, too."

"No more phone calls, Mulder," she ordered. "Doctors 
Ben Dover and Seymour Butz aren't in Proctology, so 
don't call and try to make any more appointments 
with them.  No one named 'Oliver Clothesoff' or 
'Herald Johnson' is in the waiting room, and Mike 
Rotch isn't needed in Gynecology, so don't have him 
paged again.  I'm trying to work, Mulder."

"That was Will," Mulder insisted breathlessly, 
conversing with her breast and wondering if it was 
permissible to lick it under these circumstances.  
No, probably not in front of William. "And I rub 
you, Sculleee." 

"How much pain medication have you had?" she asked 
suspiciously, leaning over him. "Mulder, are you 
okay?"

Mulder responded by pressing her nipple with his 
index finger as if it was a doorbell, adding a loud, 
electronic, "Beeeeeep," sound. "Turkey's done," he 
announced, grinning at her stupidly. 

As she stepped back in surprise, cupping her breast 
protectively, Will spewed a mouthful of Coca-Cola 
out his nose and across Mulder's blankets before he 
fell out of his chair.   

"It's not funny, Will.  How much Demerol as he had?  
Mulder, how many pain shots have you had?  Or did 
they accidentally give you pills and a shot?  Answer 
me, Mulder," she ordered, rudely interrupting his 
pornographic rendition of the Oscar Mayer Wiener 
Song.  

"I like him better like this," Will called from the 
floor, coughing and trying to blow the remnants of 
soda out his nostrils. "I had no idea he knew so 
many dirty limericks."  

"You won't like it when he stops breathing," she 
said tersely, reaching for his chart. "Demerol 
depresses respiration.  How many nurses have been in 
to give him shots since you've been here?"

"None," Will insisted.

Mulder, hearing the magic word and knowing the 
drill, obligingly shifted, pulled down the right 
side of his pajama bottoms to bare his backside, and 
passed out cold.

*~*~*~*  

"I did not!" Mulder protested, staring up at Scully 
in shock and pulling the oxygen mask off his face.

"I wish I were an Oscar Mayer wiener," she sang 
flatly, crossing her arms.  At his horrified 
expression, a strangled sound escaped from her nose 
before she regained her composure.  

Mulder groaned, closing his eyes. "I was drugged," 
he mumbled, wishing he could sink into the floor and 
hide.  It was humiliating enough to have his every 
bodily function questioned, charted, and discussed 
by half the hospital without making a fool of 
himself and having no memory of it.  Please God, 
don't let there be pictures.  And, if he'd told Will 
any autobiographical stories, please let them 
be the ones where Mulder turned out sounding like a 
heartless womanizer instead of a pathetic looser. 

"You were very drugged," Scully informed him 
seriously. "I checked with the doctor: he's willing 
to discharge you in the morning if you'll go home in 
an ambulance and if you have a nurse 'round the 
clock."

Mulder didn't think he was up to 'having a nurse 
'round the clock,' but he kept his mouth shut, 
thinking he'd already said enough for one day. "Am I 
being expelled?"

"No, but I'd feel better and so would the police," 
she hedged. "Mulder, medication mix ups do happen, 
but I can't imagine any nurse giving you an 
injection without checking your chart.  Will says 
you were already loopy when he got here at eight-
thirty, but the only injection logged was by the 
duty nurse at eight.  Someone is responsible for the 
other puncture mark on your hip between eight and 
eight-thirty, but no one seems to know who that 
could be.  I'm not sure this overdose was an 
accident, just like I'm not sure those were muggers 
in the alley.  That second bullet could have killed 
you, just like that much pain medication could have 
stopped your breathing."

"This is when I'm supposed to tell you you're 
paranoid, isn't it?  And that nothing bad is going 
to happen?" She nodded, helping him sit up and take 
a sip of water. "What could I possibly have done 
that anyone would want to kill me?  Is your brother 
in town again?"

"He doesn't want to kill you, Mulder; he just wants 
to hurt you really, really badly." She smiled at his 
groggy reasoning, taking the paper cup and setting 
it on his hospital-issue nightstand beside his 
hospital-issue box of Kleenex. "You'll be more 
comfortable at home.  I can take some vacation time 
from work, and I'll be finished with school for the 
semester in a week.  Or you could get a private duty 
nurse from one of the agencies," she back-peddled.   

"No, if you're willing to tolerate me, that's fine."

"I'll have to: it's not like I can get rid of you," 
Scully said, running her fingers through his sleep-
matted hair.

"You're aware there's still a full-time position 
available, in case you're ever interested?  I figure 
taking care of me could be a twenty-four/seven job, 
especially when Will's factored in." He hesitated, 
waiting for an answer, then added, "Or a twenty-
four/three job while you're in school, but at least 
you wouldn't have to work.  Work now: you could 
always work later, once you finish school."  

Mulder decided if he stopped right then, he could 
still blame it on the drugs and romantic ideals.  
He'd actually managed an offer of marriage a 
romantic step below 'so you're sure you're 
gonna have a baby?'       

"Are you asking what I think you're asking, Mulder?"

He shrugged, wincing now that the painkiller had 
partially worn off. "You know me: Mr. Suave.  Yeah, 
I'm asking what you think I'm asking.  Let me think 
a few months and I can probably come up with 
something more starry-eyed."

"You do that.  I think this might not be the best 
time to make life-altering decisions," she said 
gently. "I have a policy of rejecting proposals from 
men who've just had massive doses of narcotics."

"You get these often?" he teased, dropping the 
issue.  

"Daily," she responded, helping him lie back down, 
covering him with a blanket, and turning off the 
lights near the bed. "Get some sleep; I'll stay with 
you."

"Hey, Scully," he said softly, pushing up on his 
elbow. "I'm not saying you're not paranoid, but, um, 
can I go home tonight?"

"I'll find your doctor and see.  Just stay put and, 
if anyone except me comes through that door, for 
God's sake, keep your pants on."
 
*~*~*~*

End: A Moment In the Sun: Part III