A Moment In the Sun: Part IV *~*~*~* It wasn't hard to understand how he and Byers had become friends during WWII. Aside from surviving Hell on Earth together, they were probably the two GI's least likely to get laid in Europe while on a twenty-four-hour pass. The average soldier had sex forty-two times during WWII, and Lieutenant Melvin Frohike later reported he had been in the Pacific personally skewing up that average. Given Byers and Mulder had been puddle-ducking around the single- digit end of the nookie pond and someone had to hold up the top end of the bell curve, that might have been the truth. For John Byers, every moment away from the fighting was spent telephoning the center of his universe: his new wife. It was one of those romances that should have lasted a weekend and was still going strong after more than a decade: Susanne was fleeing Hitler's campaign against Polish Jews, and Byers was a newly minted attorney not sure what he was suddenly doing in the middle of a war. They met Friday afternoon and were married Saturday evening, and somehow managed to hold on to their happily- ever-after. Mulder, on the other hand, was technically still married when he had arrived in Europe, having come home from a road trip to find his apartment empty, his bank account drained, and Phoebe and Will on a plane to England. Always preferring complete emotional desolation and public humiliation to taking a gentle hint - like his wife taking their infant son and moving an ocean away - he'd spent his precious R&R time on various public telephones still trying to 'win her back.' Eventually, the 'win her back' campaign dwindled to the 'But I'm his father, Phoebs. Please, honey: just put him on the phone. No, I don't believe Will won't talk to me. He'll talk to anyone; he'll talk to a ceiling fan. Just for a minute. Please, honey,' campaign… also largely unsuccessful. The Army, though, had the unreasonable expectation the two men were supposed to spend their time shooting at the enemy instead of trying to telephone England. Although lacking any actual military talent, Byers was unfailingly enthusiastic and patriotic, and someone had the foresight to give him a field radio rather than heavy artillery. Mulder, being a 'famous athlete' wasn't so lucky, which contrasted problematically with his instinct to drop his rifle and run away as fast as possible. He was of the opinion 'courage' was an exalted synonym for 'a remarkable lack of imagination.' As WWII trudged through the invasion of Normandy and the liberation of Paris, passes became more rare than Italian virgins in August, which made no sense, but that was how their CO had put it. When he did get away from the fighting, either on R&R or while getting patched up at one of the EVAC hospitals, Mulder could bet on Byers appearing in line for the phone either in front of or behind him. The rest of their unit roamed off in search of public intoxication, brawls, and those elusive Italian virgins, leaving Byers and Mulder to find affection via Ma Bell. After a great deal of pleading and promising on his part, Mulder held long, one-sided conversations with what might have been Will or might have been a potted plant: the silence on the other end of the line was so complete it could have easily been either. Byers did his sweet-talking in German, but it didn't sound any more intelligent. Being manly men, they exchanged manly nods, and then pretended to ignore the other's idiotic blathering. As Mulder waited for his turn at the only working pay phone left in Munich, Byers walked up behind him, shrugged off the forty-pound field radio he carried, and sat down with a sigh. Mulder didn't notice him at first, being busy fiddling with his dog tags and questioning life, love, and his place in the universe. He ran his thumb over the indented letter P in the metal tags, the military code for 'Protestant.' There hadn't been a more specific letter for 'well, my father's a lapsed Methodist.' Mulder had originally wanted a H, figuring that would cover 'Hebrew' as well as 'Hell if I know' and keep his mother from having a stroke. The other choices had been C for 'Catholic' and a blank space meaning he'd been raised by wolves, so he'd put down h, choosing a diminutive lowercase letter to indicate his level of skepticism. That hadn't been acceptable to the Army either, and the harried man making the tags had suggested he just list Protestant since Mulder was being shipped to Europe and might be captured by the Germans. At the time, no one had told him why it was so important to be P rather than H to the Nazis; they'd just given him a rifle and instructed him to point it at people. Under his name and serial number, the year of his last Tetanus shot, and his blood type, was imprinted 'Phoebe Victoria Mulder,' followed by Phoebe's mother's street address in London: the only home address and next of kin he could think to give when he'd been drafted. Will had been born January 1939, Phoebe had been gone by summer, and he'd been drafted in 1942. It wasn't until 1944 when Will had started talking about a 'new daddy' who lived with Mommy that Mulder had finally agreed to the divorce. He'd commemorated Will's 'new daddy' by getting drunk and getting laid as often as possible for the next month in order to 'show Phoebe' Which mean four times with three faceless women before Mulder felt Phoebe had been sufficiently 'shown.' "Hey, Mulder," Byers finally said, probably drawing on years of Ivy League education to make such a profound statement. "Hey," he answered, adding a nod to convey he'd studied psychology at Oxford and could nod with the best of them. "How long have you been in line for the phone?" "Almost two wonderful hours now." He pointed at the portable radio on which Byers was sitting. "What kind of reception do you get on that thing? I'll give you a dollar if you can get a call through to Boston for me." "You're asking me to use a military radio for unauthorized civilian communication?" "Just for a second," Mulder promised. "It's a good cause." Byers had grinned, looking like an eager, ginger- colored puppy that still hadn't grown into his paws. After he'd somehow gotten a day-pass to meet her in Paris, Susanne had reported she was euphemistically 'late;' news which Byers was zealously sharing with any man willing to listen and a few who weren't. "I'm know it is. And I wish I could help you. Are you calling Will? Telling him Daddy's coming home?" Mulder looked away, patting down his uniform for the cigarettes he'd smoked in those days, although he already knew he didn't have any. Ignoring Byers, he stared morosely at the empty pack before he crumpled and threw it into one of the ruts the Allied tanks had made in the muddy streets. Will was growing up thinking his 'real daddy' was a little man who lived inside the telephone, and there wasn't a damn thing Mulder could do about it. "The government says those things aren't addictive," Byers commented, noticing his foul mood. Mulder shrugged and tucked his dog tags down his olive drab t-shirt. As they waited, he leaned against the sooty brick wall of a burnt-out building, idly watching the few remaining shops closing as the spring afternoon began to settle hesitantly into the German dusk. Byers offered a stick of chewing gum so old it snapped as Mulder bit into it, but which was better than nothing. Mulder chewed morosely for a few minutes until his jaws began to ache, then pulled off his sweaty metal helmet. It too was olive drab, just like his jacket, fatigues, his socks, and his boxers. Everything about this war was either olive drab or blood red or a blend of both, like a Christmas sweater washed in hot water. He half-expected to get to Hell and be poked in the ass with an olive drab pitchfork. Whoever put up those 'Uncle Sam Wants You!' posters should have clarified a little: he'd thought Uncle Sam wanted him to wear a pretty uniform and wave proudly. Uncle Sam never mentioned wanting him to live on broiled Spam and black coffee, sleep in a puddle with eight other GI's, or murder people. Somehow, going 'Above and Beyond the Call of Duty' was a different ballgame from, 'shoot the enemy in the head at point-blank range.' The phone line moved and the column of homesick men took two steps forward, Byers carefully resettling his field radio and sitting down again while Mulder found a new place on the wall to lean, running his fingers through his buzzed, sweaty hair out of habit. Why he had to be almost bald to kill Nazis was beyond him. Mulder missed his kid, his sofa, his hair, strawberry milkshakes, air-conditioned movie theaters, and new socks: in that order. Word filtered down that the overseas operator was allotting each man one minute for a call to the States, so Mulder started composing how he was going to tell his mother her sister, niece, and mother had died in a Nazi boxcar in sixty seconds or less. "You're wife's a Jew, isn't she?" he asked, catching Byers off-guard. "I just gave you gum, Mulder. Tell me I'm not about to hear a Pollock joke," Byers answered warily. In response, Mulder ran his finger down his nose, then smirked unenthusiastically. "Her family got out in time: before the resettlement camps. What about, um, yours?" "Death camps. Calling them 'resettlement camps' implies people weren't sent there to die. Settling involves building a house, raising a family, getting a dog. I didn't see any of that. What I saw were a hell of a lot of bodies." "Yeah," Byers had said for lack of anything more profound. "The war's over, Mulder. We won. We're going back to Mom, apple pie, and ticker-tape parades, and all this will be a world away. Call your wife and son and tell them you're coming home." "Yeah," Mulder had mumbled, picking up his dog tags again. *~*~*~* "Shush," Scully's soft voice soothed him. "You're just having a dream. You need to be still." "Open the cars," he muttered, struggling to get up. "They're in the boxcars. Oh my God." "Easy, big guy. Relax," she whispered. "What the hell is wrong with you people? Goddamn Nazi murderers… They're dead. They're all dead." "Mulder," her voice repeated. He opened his eyes, blinking in confusion as he tried to follow her voice. Even though it was mid- afternoon, she switched on the lamp beside his bed and the faces of the dead Jews and dying Nazi soldiers retreated to the shadows. "They're all dead, Scully," he mumbled as her face came into focus, still not certain what was happening. He felt nauseated, and it hurt to breathe. "No one's dead, Mulder. You're just groggy. I'm here. Will and Emily are downstairs watching television and making a meal out of Grape Nehi and Mallow Cups. Everyone's fine. It was just a dream," she repeated, sitting on the edge of his bed and taking his hand. "Are you awake now?" Mulder nodded sleepily, lying still as she stroked his face and pulled the blanket over him. "What time is it?" "Just past four. You're at home." "I was having a weird dream." "You're coming off morphine. That's going to happen," Scully assured him. "Try to go back to sleep." "We shot the dogs," he told her, closing his eyes, but keeping hold of her warm hand. "All of them: the guards and the guard dogs." "What dogs?" "In one of the death camps. We liberated the camp, opened a train beside it, and found thousands of dead women and children packed inside like cattle, some of my mother's family among them. The Nazis had just locked the train and waited for the people inside to die. After we saw those boxcars- We executed the German guards, and when we ran out of guards, we shot the guard dogs." "That was what you were dreaming about?" Scully whispered, lying down beside him for a few precious, forbidden seconds. "Usually, I don't dream about the dogs; I dream about the boxcars: what it must have been like to wait to die in one." "So do I," Scully admitted softly, quickly getting up as Emily came in, eyeing the bed curiously. "Would I," she corrected, ushering her daughter out so Mulder could sleep. *~*~*~* "You're supposed to rest! You lie back down or I'll tell Mommy," Emily ordered, and Mulder immediately put his sock feet back up on the couch, slouching guiltily. He was marooned on his sofa with a five- year-old sadistic cherub in a Davy Crocket cap guarding him. "And you'll be in Big Trouble." "Your mommy isn't the boss of this house," Mulder responded dejectedly, tired of being treated like a sick child. He might not be in tip-top shape, but he wasn't helpless anymore, either. It didn't take a three-hour nap to rest up for a ten-minute meeting. Emily had been warming her flannel-covered backside in front of the living room fireplace, but frowned in disapproval and hurried off to find her mother. Mulder heard as much as, "Mommy, Mulder says you're not-" before she rounded the bend of the stairs and was out of earshot. He sighed, picking up his notes again and trying to concentrate. Scully had insisted he'd be less nervous about talking to the FBI people tonight if Mulder would eat something, but that hadn't proven correct. Now he was nervous about talking to them in addition to being nervous he was going to throw up on them. There was a knock at the front door and his stomach pitched: they were early. He still had several hundred things scheduled to worry about before Agent Dales and his supervisor arrived. Scully clipped downstairs, running a comb through her hair and then tucking it behind her ears. "You're going to wear that?" Mulder asked, eyeing her casual sweater and slacks as she hid the comb behind the fish tank. She'd been trying to get Emily ready for bed while taking care of Mulder, and a dress wasn't conducive to either of those jobs. Since he wasn't allowed to do anything more strenuous than breathe, there were still dinner dishes in the sink and a basket of dirty clothes waiting for the washing machine at the basement door. And the plan to have Emily asleep by seven- thirty had failed miserably, as it did most nights. "What do you want me to do?" she whispered back, snapping the television off. "Let them wait on the porch in the snow while I change?" He offered his hands to her, palms up, in desperation. Standing up slowly so he didn't get dizzy, Mulder dropped his pillow and blanket behind the couch, then kicked Em's toys underneath it and stepped into his loafers. "Ready," he nodded as Scully reached for the doorknob and Emily watched from the landing in her pajamas, making half an effort at brushing her teeth. "I guess. Maybe they'll be too busy laughing at my domestic bliss to think I'm a risk to national security." *~*~*~* "How's the ticker?" Dales asked, stamping the snow off his shoes, managing to get none of the slush on the mat and yet still evenly distribute it across ten feet of carpet. "Better. It's good to see you again, Agent Dales. This is Dana Scully, and you met Emily last year," he introduced, tipping his head at the top of the stairs. "William is with his mother for the holidays." "Hello, young lady," he responded, "Good to finally meet you. This is-" "Assistant Director Walter Skinner," the tall man said tersely, offering his hand. Mulder noted he didn't take off his trench coat, indicating he didn't plan to stay long. "A big fan. Agent Dales says you're interested in some Bureau cases, Mr. Mulder." "That's right. Thank you for coming," he responded, keeping his arm around Scully for support: physical, moral, spiritual, whatever. "Can I get you gentlemen some coffee?" Scully took over, playing the hostess. "You look like you just came from the office. Have you had dinner? We have turkey and dressing: we celebrated Thanksgiving a few weeks late." "I'm not proud; I'll eat," Dales said quickly, tossing his hat on top of the coat rack, then flicking the aquarium with his finger to frighten the fish. "Mr. Skinner?" she asked, and the AD glanced at his watch. Mulder took the hint, clearing his throat. The Assistant Director was only going to allot so much time to humor a retired baseball player, especially when a house call was involved. Mulder gestured for everyone to sit down in the living room, trying not to think more than three-dozen thoughts at once. "So you're interested in the FBI?" Skinner prompted, perching on the edge of his chair as Scully vanished into the kitchen and Emily ambled downstairs, bringing a pitiful-looking stuffed Kitty with her for everyone to see. "Mulder's been writing a monograph," Dales explained, sinking casually onto the sofa and propping his feet on the coffee table. "Or a dissertation. Or something. Anyway, he needs files." "A dissertation: Behavior Patterns in Stranger Killings." "The FBI will certainly cooperate as much as possible," Skinner said politely, sounding like a politician at a fundraiser. Men who wore suits and ties for a living tended to speak to Mulder as though English was his second language. "Could you explain specifically what you're wanting?" "Well, as you know, stranger killings are notoriously difficult to solve because there seems to be no clear motive for the crime. The attacks seem random and senseless, as well as bizarre. It seems to be the work of a madman, yet someone truly insane is far easier to catch than this type of killer." Skinner nodded impatiently. Mulder was preaching to the choir. "My proposal is there is a motivation, but one unique to the killer's perspective: his actions make sense in his own twisted mind. Just as we would nod in understanding that a husband might kill a cheating wife: a criminal, but comprehensible act; a stranger killer might ritually revenge childhood abuse on women who remind him of his mother, or kidnap, kill, and preserve young boys to replace a son who has died. If we can see the world as the killer sees it and understand what he gains from the crime, we can predict the type of person who would commit such acts. By examining the crime, we can know the killer." He paused, making sure Skinner understood. He'd practiced this speech on Scully earlier, and she'd cautioned him about venturing off into what she called 'genius land' and leaving his audience behind. The AD was watching him intently, cautiously, like a soldier who had spent so long on guard he had forgotten how to relax. He nodded for Mulder to continue, resting his elbows on his knees and leaning slightly forward. "The basic question is 'Why?' Why would this criminal choose the victim, the manner, the time and place? I want to take preliminary data from solved stranger killings and blindly predict the type of person who committed the crimes. Then, I go back and check my error rate: how close was I on basic facts: age, occupation, location, habits, and so forth." "And how accurate do you think you can be?" "I'm not sure," Mulder hedged. "Without knowing the specifics of the cases, it's hard to say." "Eighty percent," Dales chimed in. "I gave him five files to look at and he was right on the money on four out of five. I told you this evening wasn't a waste of time." "And the fifth?" Skinner asked, looking annoyed with Dales. "It was an X-file," the agent answered, accepting the glass of iced tea Scully handed him. "Aliens. He didn't even come close. The others descriptions he nailed like a truck stop waitress. Oh, sorry, sweetie," Dales added, glancing Scully, who frowned and herded her daughter back to the kitchen with her. "That's higher than the average Bureau solution rate." Skinner paused and Mulder swallowed, worried at how unconvinced the AD looked. "Excuse my skepticism, but you're a baseball player, Mr. Mulder, and an excellent one, and this is highly sensitive information you're asking for-" "I respect that." "It's not a matter of respect. We're talking about the most horrific of crimes, and you're claiming you can solve these cases better than my best, seasoned agents. I understand you were recently the victim of a violent crime-" "Not solve," Mulder interrupted desperately. "Just predict the type of perpetrator based on-" "Give him a file, Skinner," Dales said casually. "Open your briefcase, pick out any file, and let him look at it and tell you what he thinks. I promise he can do it." Skinner hesitated again, then reached into his briefcase. "One," he said sternly. *~*~*~* Mulder closed the file, then taking a nervous sip of tea before he worked up the courage to look at Skinner. He glanced at Dales, who folded his arms smugly, which Mulder took as a positive sign. Skinner took off his glasses, and needlessly, methodically wiped them with his handkerchief, then stroked his fingers over the muscles of his throat for a few seconds. Mulder waited, hoping the A.D. would say something soon because he was holding his breath and starting to get lightheaded. "May I use your telephone?" Skinner finally asked. "Of course," Mulder answered quickly. "There's a telephone in the kitchen." "If you're calling your wife, it's gonna be a long evening," Dales informed his boss around a mouthful of sweet potatoes, still chewing blissfully. "You sure you don't want our lovely hostess to warm up some leftovers for you? She's a good little cook." Skinner smoothed his left eyebrow, then disappeared through the swinging door without answering. "What did I get wrong?" Mulder whispered to Dales, as china plates and metal roasting pans clinked on the other side of the kitchen door. Assistant Director Skinner must have been hungry after all. "You didn't get anything wrong. He just hates it when I'm right," Dales explained, picking turkey out of his teeth with his pinky nail. *~*~*~* He must have dozed off waiting for Scully and Emily to get back from the doctor, because Mulder woke to crime scene photos spilled across his chest, his reading glasses halfway down his nose, and Scully's voice whispering, "Are you going to sleep on the couch?" into his ear in a manner he, in his naivete, interpreted as seductive. "Santa can't come if you're not in bed," he responded suggestively, stretching and sitting up, smiling sleepily at her. The house had seemed very empty this afternoon without her and Emily. He hadn't realized how accustom he'd become to having them there until they weren't. "I missed you." His smile faded when he saw her complete lack of amusement: usually she'd at least roll her eyes. Scully checked him over, making sure he hadn't developed the plague in her absence, but seeming so far away he might as well have been invisible. "You're going to get a lump of coal in your stocking if you keep talking like that," she said, sounding like a disinterested actor supplying her line. "I think I'm already on the naughty list," Mulder mumbled, taking a sip from the glass of tepid water on the coffee table to fill the silence, watching her as he swallowed. "I thought you were going to call me from the airport to pick you up?" "You didn't answer, so we took a taxi." She gazed at him tiredly, wiping the sleep from his eyes before she straightened up and looked around at the ruins of his day: files and books scattered on every flat surface, the phone cord stretched across the rug to sofa, and the television droning in the background. She picked up his congealed, uneaten plate of food and turned back to the kitchen, seeming to have forgotten him. Mulder started to say he'd been sitting almost on top of the phone, worrying about the snowstorm and waiting for her to call, but decided it wasn't worth the argument. Maybe the phone lines were down or the operator put the call through wrong, but the telephone hadn't rung in hours. "You know, according to the Kinsey sex studies I was reading, we're still lagging behind the national naughty average. Not that your behind lags at all," he added, tilting his head sideways to admire as she walked away in her stocking feet, still ignoring him. "This is my best material," he called after her. "Could you appreciate it a little?" There was no response from the other side of the door. "How was your afternoon, Mulder?" he supplied for her. "Oh, my day was fine, Scully. How was yours? It was all right. Let me tell you what the Dr. Scanlon said…" There were a few seconds of domestic noise from the kitchen: the cabinets and icebox opening, before Scully returned with a glass of orange juice, her all-purpose cure-all. "Have you done anything besides stare at those files today? Have you eaten?" "Mumm," he replied noncommittally, obediently draining the glass, then stroking her thigh through her wool skirt. "I'm fine. How did it go today?" Instead of answering, she found it necessary to step away and adjust the stockings hanging above the empty fireplace, and then to unplug the Christmas tree lights for the night. Mulder had plugged them in. The outlet was too far back for her to reach, and the branches lashed her face as she struggled, finally cursing and jerking the sting of lights out by the cord. Although she sounded angry, as she got to her feet, he could have sworn she was wiping tears instead of pine needles from her eyes. "Is everything okay, Scully? Honey?" he added, reaching out and pulling her back to the sofa when she continued to ignore him. "Come here, sit down-" In true Santa fashion, he tried to guide her onto his lap, but she pulled away, so he stood instead. "And tell me what's wrong." "I'm fine," she said predictably, looking past him. He bit the inside of his lip, not sure what to say next. "Is Emily fine?" "No," she said, turning away. "But she hasn't been fine for a long time. Why don't you sleep upstairs so you don't wake up sore?" "Scully, did you see the doctor too? Are you-" He was going to say 'okay,' but stopped and considered the possibilities. In more than a month, she'd seldom been more than a dozen feet from him, ensuring he was mending to her satisfaction. Emily had a bedroom at his house, and, in theory, Scully was occupying a guestroom. In actuality, she'd started sleeping in the master bedroom when he came home from the hospital, afraid he'd be too weak or groggy to call for her if something was wrong. While he no longer needed round- the-clock monitoring, she still came to his bed each night, and he still scooted over to make a place for her. Having her beside him hadn't led to platonic friendship and pillow talk. As he recovered, it often led to slow, unhurried exploration that, in the last week, bordered on consummation. He kept telling himself there was no chance of another baby if they did, but three cells in the front of his brain refused to accept that. If she'd conceived the night they brought Em home from the hospital, she'd know by now. She started classes again in two weeks, but the baby wouldn't come until summer. Provided Georgetown University allowed her to attend while noticeably pregnant, she wouldn't miss any school, though she'd have to stop working, of course. And they'd have to get married, which was fine by him. He started getting the warm, orange fuzzies in his belly, until he realized that, if she was pregnant again, she didn't look thrilled about it. "Scully- Anything I need to know, Scully? Don't you take off on me again." He shut his mouth quickly: he hadn't meant that as angry as it sounded. He crossed his arms, standing in the middle of the messy living room and feeling foolish and ashamed of himself. She adjusted Em's coat on the coat rack, then stooped down to arrange everyone's shoes beside the door so the heels lines up evenly, putting some order back in the world. "It's not that," she said tiredly. "I just need some time." "You just need some time? To do what?" "Just to think, Mulder." "About what?" "About everything. I'm going to bed." He looked at her, then sighed defeatedly like a man who finds absolutely nothing he likes on a restaurant menu. He wasn't leaving the diner, but he wasn't half as excited as he'd been when he walked through the door. "Sure. Okay. Fine. I'll put the presents in the trunk of the car to go to your mother's in the morning, and then I'll be up. Go on to bed." She paused on the bottom step, her hand on the carved mahogany banister. "No, we're having Christmas here." "Oh for God's sake!" Mulder said in exasperation, certain there was an entire subplot to this evening he was missing. "I thought we settled this." Bill Scully refused to be in the same house, even his mother's, with Mulder, and he wouldn't allow Tara and Matthew there, either. Christmas morning was traditionally 'done' at Maggie Scully's house, and it seemed easiest for Scully and Emily to go without Mulder rather than ruin everyone's holiday. Will was in London with Phoebe: something Phoebe claimed Mulder had agreed to in the hospital. Mulder would be content sleeping until ten, eating a leftover meatloaf sandwich, and watching Christmas specials on television while Emily and Scully opened presents at Maggie's. Her family had been waging the anti-Mulder campaign for some time now, but it wasn't fair to drag a child into it, and it wouldn't be the first Christmas he'd spent alone. By his estimate, it would be the twenty-first, and at least there was meatloaf and television. "Em should have Christmas with a family. I'm not helpless. I'm fine without you now, Scully." She turned back quickly, eye-to-eye with him since she was standing on the first step. "Don't you dare tell me what my daughter should have! She should have everything I can give her!" Dumbfounded, Mulder stepped back as though she'd slapped him. "Fine. Go to your mother's; don't go to your mother's; tell me what's wrong; don't tell me: do whatever you want. Let's just go to bed." He flicked the switches at the bottom of the steps, turning off the lights on the porch, the foyer, and the passageway to the kitchen so only the fish tank and glowed surreally. When he looked up, she was still there, watching him, her expression suddenly sad and her shoulders slouching from the weight of the world. Her anger had flared and gone, leaving her hollow and alone. "What, honey?" he asked quietly, taking her hand and noticing it was trembling. "I don't want to be with you tonight," she said flatly, as though there was nothing on the menu she liked, either. "I was just joking," he said softly, grinning at her nervously. "You know that. Come on. You look exhausted. I'll rub your back." "No, I'd rather be alone. We can talk tomorrow. We will talk tomorrow. Goodnight, Mulder." He blinked, opened his mouth, and then let go of her hand and took a step back. Whatever was happening, he wasn't a part of it, and she didn't want him to be. Without a word, she turned and continued up the stairs, leaving him standing at the bottom. After a few seconds, he heard the door to his bedroom close. He'd just been kicked out of his own bed. Mulder shook his head, gesturing to the fish that he had no idea what was happening except that he didn't like it, and headed back to the sofa. As he passed the cold fireplace, because Santa couldn't come if there was a fire in the hearth, he batted at the empty stockings and succeeded in twisting his shoulder the wrong way so the still- healing muscles twinged painfully. Exhaling, he adjusted a throw pillow and lay back down, listening to the sounds of Scully moving around his bedroom above him, wrestling her demons in private. Merry Goddamn Christmas. It was getting to be a tradition. *~*~*~* He wiped the fog from the bathroom mirror again so his reflection stared back at him, unflinching. With the steam still settling from his shower, Mulder paused, turning his freshly shaven face from side to side, and watching the man who watched back. So much of life passed unexceptionally: turn off the alarm, answer the phone, wait for the stoplight to change, but there were moments, like holding Will for the first time or seeing Scully and Emily in the park last spring, when the sun seemed a little warmer and the stars a little closer. Senses heightened and emotions peaked, and somehow he went to bed a slightly different person than he'd been that morning. Moments of love, hope, faith, fear: these make up a man. Not money or power or status, but a few precious seconds strung together over a lifetime to hold back the darkness. Life wasn't so much a path as it was a connect-the-dots and, halfway through the journey, he just wanted to make sure he was moving in the right direction. The man in the mirror had gained four pounds since he stepped off the professional ball field for the last time, although his coaches would have been pleased. 'Lean' the sportswriters always wrote; 'lanky' Mulder always thought, with hands, feet, and a nose intended for someone else. Fine lines were appearing around his eyes, and he had glasses he wore when no one was looking: the price of time and tide. There were scars, too. The newest ones bisected his chest and decorated his left shoulder in a rather impressive manner: souvenirs of the mugger's bullets that had almost killed him. Further down was the scar on his thigh from a German mortar round that had put him out of WWII for two months, and then the scars on his knees that had finally put him out of a career. Not bad for forty years on this Earth. The worst damage didn't even show. "What's takin' you so long, Mulder?" a plaintive voice asked underneath the bathroom door, her chubby pink fingers wiggling through the crack as though she could grab him and pull him out. "Hurry up." "I'm ready," he answered Emily, snapping back to reality and shrugging his shirt on. "Move your fingers so you don't get pinched." He opened the door to find her crouched down on the rug, her ruffled velvet backside stuck up in the air as she tried to see underneath the door. Emily had on her red velvet Christmas dress, so Scully must be about ready to go. She was pulling a Diana 'It's snowing, Mulder. Can you get up and drive us to Mom's,' which was obviously a ploy of some kind. Scully would have bundled up, borrowed all the neighborhood dogs, and dog-sledded to her mother's house before she'd have willingly asked him for help. Something, as the great detective said, was afoot. "Go find your coat, Em." "Uncle Freaky is here. Mommy says for you to come downstairs." "Uncle Freaky? Is Aunt Langly with him?" Mulder asked in surprise. "Well, good. Uncle Freaky and I need to have a talk." In sorting through the reams of useless papers Byers prepared for him every month, he'd been startled to see the headline 'Yankee Legend's Planned Comeback Cut Short By Mysterious Attack: Are Communists Involved?' in an article clipped from the paper six weeks ago. There was a note attached asking, 'did you know anything about this? Do I need to look into this?' in Byers' copperplate script. No, he hadn't known anything about it. He'd barely been conscious six weeks ago. Anyway, the article wasn't so bad: to Mulder's knowledge, there wasn't a comeback in the works, but whatever floated their boat. He'd read it and been interested to learn the Russians had a stake in his not returning to professional baseball, boosting American morale, and thereby aiding the war against Communism. Mulder had no idea he was so important; someone should tell Will his father was solely responsible for thwarting the Red Menace. No, his bone to pick with Frohike was what accompanied the headline: a snapshot of the four of them - him, Scully, Em, and Will - playing in the snow in 'majestic' Central Park right before Scully disappeared. If Mulder remembered correctly, it wasn't a press photo. Frohike had taken it, and somehow 'Fox Mulder's lovely female companions' had their names in print: Dana and Emily Scully. Mulder and Uncle Freaky were going to talk all right. Tucking the clipping in his pocket, he buttoned his shirt and followed Emily down the hall, pausing on the balcony as Scully, dressed in a pretty Sunday suit, answered the door to the Byers family. Mulder tilted his head slightly to one side, trying to determine what was happening. He wasn't surprised to have Frohike and Langly get lonely and show up on Christmas morning, but Byers had said he and Susanne were taking the girls to spend Christmas with their grandmother in Poland. "Mulder! Merry Christmas," Byers called to him, stomping the snow off his boots while trying to balance two armloads of presents. The gifts started to slide and John Byers, never the master of grace, flinched as a shoebox-sized present hit the hardwood floor with an expensive glass-shattering crash. "Oh, you got me the vase," Susanne said sadly in her Polish accent, shrugging off her coat. "How sweet, John. Merry Christmas, Mr. Mulder." "Merry Christmas," Mulder mumbled back after a second, still in shock. It didn't take him long to realize he'd been duped. Santa's elves had visited the living room in the time it had taken Mulder to shower, shave, and contemplate fate. He could have sworn those stockings were empty when Scully woke him at seven-thirty: getting him out of the living room so she could clean up and get ready before their company arrived. 'Would you drive us to Mom's?' his ass. The woman was devious. Emily, delighted to have playmates, rushed past him, and Mulder walked slowly down the steps to Scully, who greeted him with a kiss on the cheek for the benefit of their guests. "You look smug," he whispered tersely as everyone else headed for the Christmas tree. "You tricked me." She nodded 'yes,' adjusting his shirt collar and carefully smoothing the fabric over his shoulders. "You can thank me later." "You invited everyone here for Christmas without telling me? You know I hate surprises." "No, you don't," she answered, and he looked down sheepishly. "Will has an early flight out of London, so he'll be here later. That was the best Mr. Byers could negotiate with your ex-wife. I left messages with your mother's housekeeper, but I haven't heard from her." Scully looked at him uncertainly, then added, "Surprise," forcing a Betty-Crocker-fresh- brownies smile. When Mulder didn't smile back, her expression fell and she sighed tiredly. "Hey," he said softly, stepping close to her and leaning down a little so he could kiss her. "Thanks. For everything." "Thanks for putting up with me," she murmured back, sounding relieved. "I'm sorry about last night." "I figure I'll wear down your defenses and you'll eventually get over being so difficult," he teased, nuzzling gratefully at her neck until he heard the Byers' twins making a prepubescent "eeewww!" noises behind him. "Don't get your hopes up," she teased back, pulling away to answer another knock at the front door. Mulder didn't know whom to expect next, but he was stunned to see Margaret Scully armed with a shopping bag of gifts and a steaming casserole dish: the weapons of modern urban holiday warfare. As he took the bag and food, letting Maggie and Scully embrace on the porch, he saw Bill Scully sitting in a car parked on the curb, the man's eyes straight ahead. "Mrs. Scully: please come in," Mulder offered, turning back to take Maggie's coat, figuring a peace treaty had been negotiated for the holidays. "The car's running," Scully's mother explained, addressing only her daughter from the porch and keeping her coat on. The 'not setting foot under Mulder's roof' rule was still in place. "I just came by for a moment: to see you and Emily and drop everything off." "You can't stay?" Scully asked as Mulder looked away, hands on his hips. "We'll be at Bill Junior's house if you and Emily can come by later," Maggie responded gently. "And we'll go to Mass tonight, like always. We'd love to see you." She smiled sadly and kissed her daughter's cheek, telling her to take care of herself and have a good Christmas. "Okay, Mom," Scully answered, sounding very young. "It will depend on how Emily feels tonight: whether she can go out or not. I'll come to Mass if I can." "I understand how difficult things must be for you sometimes," Maggie said, glancing at Mulder for the first time. "But we always miss you." "Then stay," Mulder pleaded, swallowing his pride. "I don't hate you, Mr. Mulder; I just don't think you're good for my baby girl, and I'm not going to condone this." "Mulder is-" Scully started. "You don't even know me," Mulder interrupted, still staring at the doormat and feeling like the middle of an under-baked biscuit. Margaret Scully must be a Jewish mother at heart to wield guilt so well. "I know enough to know you're dangerous, and that all my daughter is going to get from you is hurt. Again." "Grammy!" Emily announced, defusing the discussion as Maggie stooped to hug her, leaving Mulder to fume. "My sweetheart! How's my favorite granddaughter?" "I'm your only granddaughter," Em said practically, her arms still locked around Maggie's neck as Scully tried to drape a coat over her. "And that makes me the best," she said in unison with her grandmother, completing the ritual. "Grammy just stopped by for a minute," Scully explained as a taxicab stopped on the snowy street behind Bill's Chevrolet. "And now she's leaving. Say bye-bye to Grammy, honey." As Mulder glanced up, a tall, dark form in sunglasses, blue jeans, and a leather motorcycle jacket emerged from the taxi, slinging an olive green duffle bag over his shoulder. Will had absconded with Mulder's WWII Army-issue duffle, probably thinking the bullet holes in it made him look tough. Mulder hadn't told his son an angry French husband made those holes when Mulder, a few sheets to the wind during his 'show Phoebe' campaign, had mistaken a madam for a mademoiselle. Will was fond of his 'my father stormed the beach at Normandy' story and it seemed like a pity to ruin it with a factual account. Mulder had been seasick and scared out of his wits at Normandy, and keeping track of his duffle bag had taken a distant second to not dying. "Will!" Mulder shouted from the porch, then hurried down the steps, passing Margaret as she left, wiping her eyes. "Hey!" Will called back, grinning, assuming the welcoming party on the porch was for him. "Come pay the cab. I'm outta cash!" "What are you doing here? Scully said you weren't coming until later." "I got on a plane at dawn and it's five hours earlier here: do the math. Where's my car?" "Still at the dealership," Mulder said, basking in the moment as he hugged his son, who hugged him back carefully, wary of his father's shoulder. "I didn't get the memo it was Christmas already. But it's paid for and I have a key. We can go steal it later if you want." "Cool: committing a felony with my father. Think the Boy Scouts give out merit badges for that?" Declining to answer, Mulder was forking over the appropriate bills to the driver when Emily spotted Will and slipped out of the house, yelling for her 'Bub! Bub!' As Mulder tucked his wallet back in his pocket, the door of Bill's car closed and Margaret Scully turned to watch through the window. "Get back inside, Squirt!" Will ordered her, then slung her over his shoulder and carried her into the house, her bare legs kicking helplessly. Mulder exchanged silent, accusatory looks with Maggie, then followed Will and Emily back to the porch where Scully stood waiting with coats. As she scolded Emily and Mulder for going out in the cold, and greeted Will, Mulder saw her look past him, watching Bill Scully's car as it drove away. *~*~*~* Something was intrinsically sad about watching rain falling on snow, even from in front of a warm fire. It was a merciless ruin of innocence and beauty; one state of nature slowly, methodically eroding the other. Headlights pulled up to the curb, and he saw Will get out and walk around to open Scully's door, dodging the fat raindrops, then get back in the driver's seat. Before Scully reached the front steps, the new Thunderbird's taillights defiantly turned the corner at the end of the block without stopping for the stop sign, and disappeared in search of whatever teenagers always thought was out there. Will had volunteered to drive Scully to and from Mass, which Mulder had reluctantly agreed to after an extended period of pleading and whining. The boy had independently expanded that agreement to include 'and then go cruise around DC looking for trouble on a dark, wet night without my license while my father sits at home and worries.' Mulder hadn't even intended to let him drive the car at night until he turned sixteen in two weeks, but God forbid Dad the Doormat deny his son. Mulder's paternal guilt allowed him six non-negotiable 'no's a year, and he'd used up the last one forbidding a boy/girl of-course-it's-supervised-Dad camping trip in September. Anyway, Will was a fairly good driver - provided no one else was on the roadd. Mulder stared out the window at the ruined December night, then turned his head as his bedroom door opened and Hurricane Scully entered, the bottom six inches of her dress clinging to her legs and almost transparent. She had the clutching-the-armrest pallor people tended to develop after riding with William, but her cheeks were flushed from the cold and her hair curled from the dampness, giving her a surreal beauty that made her blue eyes seem enormous. Crossing his ankles casually, he followed her in his peripheral vision, watching like a domesticated wolf: calm, approachable, but at its center, still a hunter. He still wanted her; wanting to throttle her didn't stop that. If anything, it intensified the primal need, combining an act of caring and the sensual math of creation with an act of control. Not to hurt, but to strip away clothing and boundaries, and in the chaos of passion, make her tell him just once what happened behind her serene expression. After exchanging perfunctory 'Emily's asleep,' 'how was Mass?' and 'Will seems to like the car,' information like amicable strangers, Scully turned her back, waving the hem of her dress in front of the fire as she tried to dry it. From his favorite chair, he watched her, pretending he was fixated on the mosaic of the fire. "I see England, I see France," Mulder begin, then shut his mouth and went back to staring at the hearth. Outside the window, the snow began to lose its battle against the rain and fall off the roof in big, sloppy clumps. "What are you reading?" she finally asked, breaking the tense silence. "The Case for the UFO, with notes by Carlos Allende and his two alter-egos. Agent Dales loaned it to me," Mulder said, putting down the paperback he'd forgotten he was holding. "Did the Navy ever station your brother in Philadelphia?" "A few years ago. Why?" "This book claims there was a 1943 experiment in Philadelphia that made an entire ship vanish and reappear in the Norfolk, Virginia shipyard a few minutes later. The Navy was testing Einstein's theories on time and space, and the test went wrong." From in front of the fire, Scully looked over her shoulder at him, giving him her warning eyebrow. "And then the ship was suddenly back in Philadelphia with the crew acting drunk and confused: fighting, cursing, and talking to people who weren't there-" "Sounds like shore leave." "And then they burst into flames," Mulder finished triumphantly. "Bill never mentioned that," she said casually. "But I'll keep you posted. You'll be the first person I call if my brother catches fire. Speaking of which: what happened in the kitchen? Why does it smell like you tried to broil cellophane downstairs?" "Scully, I tried to broil cellophane," he said with mock dignity. "I was tired of the house smelling like pine and pie crust and holiday cheer, so I scorched some plastic." Scully shrugged, still flapping the hem of her dress at the hearth. "You'd think blenders would have a label saying whether or not they shave ice. The kids wanted snow cones," he finally confessed sheepishly. "And the snow outside was melting." "And you were genetically unable to tell them 'no'," she responded, giving up on her dress and taking off her high heels to see if they might be salvageable. "As if those two haven't eaten enough sweets today. I'm amazed Will's not in a sugar coma. And why is he driving around in this weather? He doesn't even have a license yet." "Don't tell me how to raise my son," he snapped irritably, then slouched down in the overstuffed leather chair and stared purposely at his tattered UFO book. "You're not his mother." Scully looked up, holding one of her shoes in midair. Instead of throwing it at his head like she should have, she put it back on, telling him goodnight as she headed for the bedroom door. "Don't go. I'm sorry. That wasn't fair." "No, it wasn't, Mulder," she said tiredly, still facing the door. "I do the best job I can with my daughter and I'm sorry if it doesn't live up to Phoebe Mulder's exacting standards." "You do a great job with her. And with Will. Scully, I-I talked to Frohike today. He said-" She turned quickly and held up one finger, wanting him to wait before he said anything else. "This is the program Mr. Frohike talked about, isn't it?" she asked, turning up 'The Man Called X,' which had been providing background noise on the radio. "About the spy?" "It's just going off. X found the microfilm," Mulder answered, tipping his head like the RCA puppy looking into the phonograph. "Honey, if you're trying to distract me by seducing me, change the station. 'The Waltz Hour' is on next and I don't think I can make love in three-quarter time." Without a word, she turned the dial until she found "Stormy Weather," then pushed his bare feet aside and sat down on the leather ottoman, facing him. "Fitting," he smirked as she leaned over to close the blinds. "Uh, Scully, we need to talk. I'm not happy about this." "I asked Frohike to put that picture in the paper and use the communist-scare angle," she said calmly, looking serious rather than seductive. "I'm sorry. I knew you wouldn't like it, but I couldn't protect you alone, I couldn't leave you, and I needed a way to generate public interest. You're so protective of your private life that when Frohike offered a picture of you with Emily and Will, almost every paper in the nation ran the story. They won't try to hurt you again: the public would demand an investigation and They don't want that kind of publicity." "Are we in 'Them's' bad graces again?" he asked sarcastically, pretending he'd been appeased by her half-assed explanation. "I'll send Them a fruit basket. You can be as paranoid as you want, Scully, but don't drag Will into it again. Ever. I don't care if you think Martians are landing in the backyard, you keep Will out of it." "You don't think I agonized over this?" she said softly but quickly, her words tumbling over each other like water over a crumbling dam. "I care about you and that hotheaded rebel-without-a-cause. You're the only father and Will's the only brother my daughter knows, but I'd rather you be furious with me than be dead. I've had to make that choice before, and I chose being alone then, too." Taken aback, he stared at her for several seconds before he remembered to blink, and then managed the understatement of the century: "I care about you too, honey. And Emily. I just don't understand. I'm having a hard time with this, Scully." "I know," she said, regaining her composure. She reached out and stroked his face the same way he remembered her doing when he came out of surgery. He'd be dead twice over if it hadn't been for her. That wasn't a gift he took for granted. Rubbing his lips together to warm up and get a running start at it, he asked, "W-were they aiming for Will? I need to know." Seeing her perplexed look, he explained, "It was dark, icy, and we hadn't expected Will to be with us. He had on my suit." "I don't think so," she said after some thought. "But I don't have all the answers." "You know more than you're telling me, though," he said intuitively, still frustrated. "You say you don't know what experiments were happening when you were in the Army, or why Emily is sick, or what happened when you disappeared, but I think you do, at least in part. I told you I'd take whatever comes, but I don't want Will in any danger." "He's not. If he was before, he's not now." "How do you know?" he persisted. Of course, she didn't answer. Why did he even bother to ask? He kept telling himself he couldn't live like this: couldn't live with not knowing. The alternative, though, was unthinkable. "I know you got hurt, Scully, but I got hurt, too. All I want is the truth. I want to know what to believe, even if it's that Uncle Sam isn't my friend. Or," he paused. "Even if that baby wasn't mine and you just didn't know how to tell me." He closed his mouth, exhaling slowly, tensely through his nose. He'd mistaken the insecurity fairy for the courage fairy again, damn it. The two tended to dress alike. Ashamed, he clenched his teeth and looked away. Not only was that a cheap shot, it was the pot calling the kettle black. The name Diana Fowley came to mind, and, though Scully had to know, she'd never brought her up. "The truth won't make it better," she finally said, measuring each word. "It and that hard head of yours would just get you killed." "You mean you could tell me, but then you'd have to kill me?" He laughed nervously and leaned forward to kiss her, as though he was dropping the subject. He wasn't dropping it, just retreating and regrouping for the moment. "Do you know who kidnapped the Lindbergh baby?" "They executed the man who did that, Mulder." "No, they didn't," he answered, forcing a grin and tucking a damp curl behind her ear. "They executed a man; not the man who took that baby." He sighed, wrapping his legs around her hips and pulling her and the ottoman closer. "And I love that you told the Assistant Director of the FBI that to his face," she responded, smiling sadly. "You know I love you, don't you?" "I know that," he answered softly, kissing her again and reaching down to unbutton the front of her dress. It was time to ignore the big white elephant standing in the middle of the room, and they usually did that horizontal and naked. "And did you know George Hale built the Palomar Observatory because an elf climbed through his window one night and told him to?" "No, I didn't know that. I don't hear elves, Mulder." "It's true," he murmured, pushing her damp skirt and crinolines up with his other hand to unfasten her garters from the tops of her stockings. "And in Nevada in 1947- In, uh, 1947- In, uh- My God, does Playtex sell instructions for this? It must take a degree in engineering to get this off." He'd made three trips around this bra-girdle-corset- thing, trying to figure out a way in, and was still stumped. Trust that French fashion designer to convince American women they needed twenty-inch waists this season, much to the chagrin of aroused American men. Another season of the au courant wasp waist and Christian Dior would personally halt the post-WWII baby boom. "It's a challenge," she answered, rolling off the nylon he'd freed, then unfastening the other one. "Some lady's man you are." "Lady's man is still working on his dexterity and grip after being shot and left for dead seven weeks ago. Do me a favor and just stand up and strip naked in time to the music. No hurry: you can do it slowly. I'll wait." Knowing what her reaction would be, he leaned back, folded his arms, and waited. On cue, she rolled her eyes, standing up and pulling the front of her dress together as Billie Holiday began caress each note of 'God Bless the Child' on the radio. "What are you going to do about Will?" "We'll hear him when he comes back, and I'll go sleep downstairs later: set a good example. Did you notice he kept choking on his eggnog every time you leaned over in front of him to get something from under the tree? Then again, so did Frohike, but I'm not responsible for his moral development. Thank God." "No, I mean–" "Oh. You know those books and magazines he's never, ever supposed to have here because Emily could find them?" Mulder reached beside his chair and held up a handful of thirty-five cent novels with titles like "Wayward Girl" and "Women Without Virtue" and a few copies of Playboy with the good pages conveniently dog-eared. "Found them in the basement. I thought I'd secretly replace them with Em's coloring books: that should keep him sweating." "And?" "And I'll take his car keys back until he gets a license," he promised grudgingly. "And?" "Oh, okay," he conceded, tossing the trashy novels and magazines into the hearth. "I didn't even get a chance to peek," he muttered. "You're wonderful, you know that?" "Well, yeah," he said sheepishly, turning on the sad puppy dog eyes. "Take pity on me: go slip into something more secular." She smiled: the first real smile he'd seen today, then turned and headed for the bathroom to change into her nightgown. Leaning forward, he tossed a few sticks of wood into the fire: wouldn't want that big white elephant to get cold. *~*~*~* "How's the book?" Scully asked from behind him, causing Mulder to remember he was still holding it. "Good. Really interesting." "It must be: you're still on the same page," she observed, tousling his hair playfully. He tilted his head into the sensation, exhaling contentedly. "You don't know that. And I'm reading for depth, not speed," he answered, doing his best to sound casual. They were lovers who seldom made love, and it was still delicious: the anticipation, the seductive dance of banter and glances. Love was still a dangerous, forbidden thing, and nothing was as attractive to a man as something he shouldn't have. She 'um-hummed' him, then followed as he got up and turned off the lights, slipping off his robe but leaving on his T-shirt and boxers as they laid down. "I've seen scars before," she whispered as he curled up behind her. "Cold," he explained. "Liar," she countered, and left it at that, sighing as he ran his fingers lightly down her face, then neck, then over her breast to her hipbone. She stretched like a cat, enjoying the caress and luxuriating in his touch for a long time. "So you've been reading Kinsey?" He chuckled to himself and relaxed, recognizing an invitation to intellectual foreplay. It seemed he wouldn't be spending another night on the couch; not all night, at least. "That, and your anatomy textbook. This, for example," he brought his hand back up to her breast, stroking lightly through her white nightgown, "Is 'the areola: the darkly pigmented part of the breast. At the center is the nipple, which is highly sensitive to stimulation, either manual or oral,'" he quoted. "During sexual arousal, the nipple becomes erect, swelling, darkening." "I don't think that part's in my text," she murmured, pulling her shoulders back. "It wasn't on the test." "I thought they taught doctors these things. You may be getting a substandard education. I'll help. Did they teach you-" He slid his right hand slowly down the thin cotton, massaging, "This is the veneris mons: the hill of Venus? The outer female genitals, collectively, is the vulva, while the inner structure is the vagina. Is that right, Scully?" "Umm. Yes," she whispered, letting her legs part as he gathered up the front of her nightgown. As he touched skin to skin, she inhaled, and as he raised his head to kiss her cheek, closed her eyes. "The labia majora, the outer lips, conceal the labia minora, the inner lips at the opening to the vagina," he said softly into her ear, sliding three fingers down, then spreading them apart, liking what he found. "When the female is aroused, these lips engorge, filling with blood," he continued quoting, watching her hand clutching the sheets as her breathing quickened. "The clitoris is the center of female pleasure: a tiny bundle of thousands of nerve endings. As the clitoris swells, the vaginal walls moisten- Is this okay, honey?" he asked huskily, pressing his hips against hers in case she thought he was asking her to play Scrabble. "I'm okay. You okay?" He nodded, kneeing her legs further apart. He couldn't put much stress on his left shoulder, but he liked this: her lying in front of him, her head on his outstretched, left arm while his right had free range over her body. It was different from being face-to-face: not as intimate, but close, with her body on display rather that hidden under his. "Do we need to be careful?" "No." "'Kay," he mumbled into her hair, putting his left palm over hers in front of them, interlacing the fingers. "Relax. Trust me. Not gonna hurt you again. Inside-" he pressed two fingers slowly inside, savoring her surprised reaction. "Inside is the vagina: a narrow sheath of muscles, which, during sexual arousal, moistens, expands, and lengthens to receive the male. It's all right. You don't have to do anything except let it happen," he urged her as he rubbed, alternating feather-light passes with direct contact that made her thighs tremble and breath catch. "The female orgasm is a period of heightened sexual excitement and gratification. The face flushes, blood pressure and pulse rise, and the female may exhibit involuntary facial expressions and vocalizations which apppear to express pain. Climax is characterized by spasms of the pelvic muscles causing vaginal contractions. Like that," he added hoarsely as she gasped, rocking against his palm, "Followed by relaxation and release of sexual tension." As the light spasms subsided, her breathing slowed, and her body slackened, he shucked off his boxers, letting her enjoy the languid, peaceful state for a moment before he had her sit up to pull off her nightgown. "Female orgasm seems to serve no biological function," Mulder whispered to her, stroking her hips and kissing the sweaty skin on her neck as she watched him expectantly, then slowly laid down. "Although scientists speculate it may deepen the pair bond between the couple, or cause a female to select a male who is likely to bring her pleasure." "Good theory," she murmured, shuddering again as he spooned up behind her, his erection pressing against her bare bottom and the apex of her thighs. In response, he stroked his fingertips over her cheekbone, then pressed them to her mouth, telling her she was beautiful. Her lips parted, sucking gently, teasing with the tip of her rough, warm tongue. "If I was a betting man, I'd bet you were thinking about this earlier, in the shower, maybe, or while you were getting ready for bed: about us, together. Pleasure." "What would you think of me if I said I was?" she asked hesitantly, having no idea how enticing she sounded. "I'd think I was damn lucky." Telling her to relax again, he bent her top leg up slightly, positioning her hips as she faced away from him. "Just trust me. I love you, honey." "I know," she whispered back, breathing quickly, shallowly as he slowly penetrated. "Oh God. Okay. All right," she assured him. "Love you," he managed again, just for emphasis. *~*~*~* 'Three million sperm,' he thought drowsily, keeping his arms around Scully as they spooned up in bed, murmuring all the things lovers say to each other in the dark. Across the room, the fire had burned down to a liquid orange core, while Bessie Smith, Empress of the Blues, sang of her sad life on the radio. 'Three million sperm all in search of one egg. A healthy couple had a twenty-five percent chance of conceiving a child each month - all it took was one in three million.' In his drowsy, over-satiated state, he wondered idly if there was still a chance of one in three million, regardless of what the doctors said. "You asleep?" Scully whispered at some point, pulling Mulder back from the brink of the abyss. "Mumm-hum," he responded, not wanting to exert the effort necessary to move his lips. He adjusted the sheet to cover her, then relaxed, resting his hand on her hips and listening to the music, the fire, and the slow drip of the snow outside. "I need to go back to New York, Mulder." Pursing his lips, he nuzzled her neck and asked sleepily, "Right now? Will can drive you; you'll be there in thirty-five minutes flat." She hesitated, and he felt her tense and swallow before she whispered, "Emily's anemia is getting worse: her body's attacking its own red blood cells, and no one knows why. One solution is to remove her spleen, but that would further destroy her immune system. Dr. Scanlon has enrolled her in an experimental outpatient program in New York: she needs to begin treatment immediately." "She's that sick?" he asked, opening his eyes. "I thought she was getting better." No, this surreal conversation wasn't happening. Normal people didn't just announce these things out of the blue nineteen minutes post-coitus. There was a one-hour post-male-orgasm period of thoughtless bliss: he should have mentioned that in the seven times they'd made love in the last year. Rule number one: wear easy-access underwear. Rule number two: immediately after sex, don't announce your daughter is gravely ill as though that's all you've been thinking about all evening and just went to bed with Mulder to get your mind off things, just like you usually do, Scully. There was another hesitation, then, "Mulder, it's not just that her immune system is failing, but also attacking her own cells. If the doctors try to boost her immune system, it destroys her red blood cells even faster. If they suppress her immune system, it slows the anemia, but she won't be able to fight off any germs. Something like a cold could kill her. It's a no-win situation." He sat up, dazed and disoriented in the darkness and still inebriated by the afterglow of lazy, winter evening lovemaking. "Is that what Dr. Scanlon told you yesterday?" She nodded, still facing away from him as she lay on the opposite side of the bed. There was a wet, rushing sound as the last of the snow on the roof lost its battle with the rain and slid over the eaves, landing on the empty flowerbeds with a collective soggy plop. "I don't accept that. Maybe she's a little pale and tired and she gets nosebleeds, but she's not dying!" When she didn't answer, he exhaled and said with as much conviction as he could muster, "All right. I'll see about chartering a private plane so she's not around strangers and she can rest. When does she need to be there? And we could have a nurse here while you're at school-" "I'm not going back to school. I can live and work in New York, just like I can here." "You're not quitting school. You can quit that awful ER, though. Scully, would you sit up and talk to me instead of lying there and reciting everything like you already have it all worked out? Could you maybe act like I exist at all? Why can't you stay in Georgetown? Your family's here, school's here. I'm in Manhattan at least every other week anyway. You and Em can just come with me." "Mulder, I can't afford to take her back and forth to New York every month." "But I can." "I can't take-" "Yes, you can. You saved my life, Scully. Stay with me, go to school, take care of Em, and stop working in that nasty ER. How hard is that? You're here anyway, and if you're still trying to convince yourself you're living with me because I need a nurse, you're crazy. Put on the damn ring, make your mother happy, and, when you're certain, we'll set a date." He leaned over, burying his face in her damp hair for a moment. "I know you're afraid to love me, but at least let me try. Anything you want, Scully: I'll promise whatever you want: no more drinking, no more women. I'll put it in writing. Anything you want for Emily. Just say 'yes'." "Please don't, Mulder," she interrupted, burrowing further into the feather pillow. Right. So much for a more eloquent proposal. He knew she wasn't for sale, but God forbid she ever let herself need anybody. "That's Will," she informed him as an engine died and a car door opened in front of the house. Sighing, he sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the bed, reaching for his robe. The white elephant reappeared and stretched out contentedly in front of the fire, making happy little white elephant snores as he dozed. "Right: one lecture on obeying rules and earning privileges by being responsible coming up." "Shower first: he's not stupid." "Right," he repeated numbly. "Scully-" "You're not going to save Emily. I know you care about her, about both of us, but you can't bring back or atone for your sister disappearing by watching another little girl die." "I know that," he responded automatically, wondering if he actually did. "Sam's been gone for almost twenty-seven years. She's not coming back: I understand that. It's not about that at all. It's about you taking care of me when I needed it, and now you letting me take care of you." "Then yes," she finally conceded after the longest four seconds of his life. "Yes?" "Yes," she repeated with a little more conviction, scooting over to his side to avoid the wet spot. He pulled on his robe and fumbled with the cloth belt, not able to get his fingers to cooperate. Mulder settled for tying two square knots instead of a bow, meaning he was either going to have to cut his robe off later or wear it for the rest of his life. He wanted to ask one more time to make sure she hadn't changed her mind already, but didn't want to take the chance that she had. "Check on Emily while you're up," Scully instructed, adjusting what had recently been his pillow and settling in for the night. He nodded stupidly, heading for the bathroom mirror to recheck his reflection. *~*~*~* A single picture or sensation, either in the mind or on film stock, often captured the zeitgeist of an era. For the folks at home, it was the last innocent war, frozen in time by Marines raising the flag at Iwo Jima and a mushroom cloud lazily unfolding over Nagasaki. Victory was clean, efficient, and heroic, paving the way for suburbia, big Detroit cars gleaming with chrome, and a generation who liked Ike. For the soldiers of WWII, the images were more intimate: the face of a fallen comrade, the way wet sand squished under new combat boots on D-Day, or the smell of gunpowder and death hanging over a ruined village. It was Dear John letters, powdered eggs for breakfast, and counting out francs to a Paris prostitute because a scared eighteen-year-old GI didn't want to die a virgin. For Mulder, those years could be condensed to the dull, haunting ache in his chest as he watched a little boy with beautiful German Shepherd eyes standing on a London doorstep, holding his fishing pole as he scanned the V-E Day crowds hopefully. The Allies had won, the soldiers were returning home, and Daddy had called and said they were going fishing. Fishing had seemed like a good, honest, father-son thing to do. Seeing his son for the first time in more than six years, Mulder had stopped across the street to process, taking in the school uniform of short pants, loafers, knee socks, and a white shirt; the cap, blazer, and tie probably having been discarded the second the bell rang. Someone, a governess or grandmother probably, had attempted to slick down the brown curls, with little success. William watched each passing man as though he could see through them with his dark eyes - a shade darker than Mulder's hazel. It was an intense gaze for such a small boy, but he had, as his Grandfather Mulder would have said if he had ever acknowledged his grandson existed, 'gotten it honest.' Their eyes met across the street, and Mulder grinned, slung his duffle bag over his shoulder, and started pushing his way through the jubilant masses of Piccadilly Circus. Will had smiled back politely, then looked away and continued to scan the crowd in search of his father. That was when the ache had started. Soldiers weren't new to his son: he wouldn't have remembered a time without Nazis and rationing and hiding in subway tunnels as bombs exploded over London. Will, with all the decorum afforded by his six years and four months, was scrutinizing the uniformed GI's as he tried to figure out which man might have been his father. He had no memory of a world that wasn't at war, just as he had no memory of a Daddy outside of a voice on the telephone. May 8, 1945. V-E Day. Victory Day: it was a Monday, of course. Will leaned out of the doorway, craning his head to see far down the packed street. Winston Churchill addressed Britain on a hundred radios at once while housewives leaned out third and fourth floor windows cheering and waving flags, but the world Mulder walked through was a silent, colorless place. His boots made no sound as he crossed the cobblestones, and he seemed to be pushing cobwebs aside instead of the corporeal, teaming masses. "William?" Mulder finally heard his own voice ask from far outside his body. "Hello, William." "Hello," the boy had responded in his clipped British accent, the 'o's and 'i's beginning to be rounded out by expensive schools and governesses. One of the few insights Phoebe had ever given Mulder into her heart was that she wanted their son to have the best: to have all the comforts and privileges she had not, and Mulder had always tried to see William got them. "Hi," Mulder said breathlessly, squatting down and swallowing nervously when the child didn't come to him for a hug or kiss. "My name is William," he informed his father, seeming to have also inherited the tendency to say useless things when he was nervous. "I am William Adam Mulder." "I know. I know your name is William. I'm, uh, the one who named you. When did you get so big, Will?" he said in wonder, biting his lip uncertainly. "I've been drinking my milk. Are we going fishing? Where is your fishing pole? If you don't have one, you can use mine," Will offered generously. "I thought we might be able to make one. I was going to stop and buy one, but the stores are closed today. Everyone's celebrating." "You talk funny. Just like on the telephone." Laughing nervously, Mulder conceded that, to Will's ears, he probably did sound funny. "You're one of the American GI's," Will surmised next, looking Mulder's well-worn uniform up and down. "I am. I have to go back to my unit soon, but then I'll come back and I'd like us to be friends." "Do you kill the Germans?" "I do what my CO tells me to do, Will," Mulder had hedged, the memories of the death camp and the dogs barely a week old. "Are you ready to go? Do we need to tell your mother you're leaving?" He glanced up, hoping to see Phoebe in an upstairs window. She wasn't coming back; he understood that. Maybe, though, he would wave and she would wave back, and they could at least be friends. Instead, her mother stood watching, tersely gesturing to Mulder that he could take Will and go; the attorneys had already worked out the details. "No, Mother's not at home, and Grandmother is resting." "So you're ready to go?" Mulder stood, offering Will his hand. He wanted so badly to make physical contact: to pick the child up and swing him around and embrace him tightly and swear Daddy was never going to go away again. He wanted not to be alone. "I'm a big boy. I don't hold hands," Will had informed him haughtily, picking up his tackle box. "All right," Mulder agreed quickly, feeling like his heartbeat hurt. "Stay close, then. I wouldn't want to lose you." *~*~*~* "Dad," Will's voice insisted, and Mulder winced at the hand shaking his shoulder. "Wake up, Daddy-O." "Yeah. What? Shit. I'm awake," Mulder mumbled, pushing the blanket aside and sitting up on the sofa. "What's wrong?" he asked, immediately putting his hand on his chest as though he were saying a painful Pledge of Allegiance. The doctor hadn't specifically forbidden having sex seven weeks post-op, but Mulder hadn't specifically asked and the doc hadn't specifically suggested it, either. "You okay?" "I'm all right. Just sore. What's wrong? Why are you awake? What happened? Are you okay?" Blinking and rubbing his eyes, he squinted at Will, who appeared to still be fully dressed at four-thirty in the morning. "Are you just getting in?" he asked tersely, going with what was statistically most probable, although he could have sworn he'd already given one lecture tonight. "Does the sheriff want to talk to me? Where are your car keys? Didn't you already come home once?" "I've been home since ten; I haven't been to bed yet. I heard Dana and thought you were with her, but then I remembered you were downstairs, so I figured she was having another bad dream. She's asking for you." "Oh. Okay," Mulder mumbled, shaking his head to himself. His teenage son heard Scully begging and struggling to get away, and immediately assumed his father was 'with' her. What wonderful conjecture: it was this kind of thing that could cause years of therapy bills. He started to ask if Will really couldn't tell the difference between the sounds of fear and the sounds of passion, then, in his half- awake brain, realized there was no answer the boy could give that Mulder would find acceptable. "It's a bad one," Will urged. "I'll check on her," Mulder answered, standing up and putting one foot in front of the other toward the stairs. "Thanks. You can go back to sleep." "I wasn't asleep. I'll make coffee," Will answered from the foyer, strolling off to the kitchen. "Go to bed, Will," Mulder ordered, then sighed and headed upstairs when he continued to be ignored. The fire in the hearth had burned down the last red- orange coals, casting only a few weak shadows over the big bed. He noticed she'd put on her nightgown after he'd left to lecture Will, meaning she hadn't been as sound asleep earlier as she'd been pretending she was. She was now, though, fighting the faceless Them and begging him to help her. He would. He'd get a gun, a checkbook, or a marriage license and help her, but he didn't know how. She wouldn't tell him. "I'm here," he told her softly. "You're just dreaming, honey. It's okay." "Please don't take her. Please don't," she pleaded with him, trying to push him away. "Hurts." "Nobody's gonna hurt you. Nobody's gonna take Emily. I'm right here. I'm not gonna leave you." "Mulder?" Scully asked, opening her eyes, but still sound asleep. "You're here?" "I'm here. You're dreaming. What is it, honey? What are you so afraid of?" "I'm so sorry, Mulder," she murmured, rolling away from him and pulling herself into a little ball. "Too late. It's too late." "It's okay," he assured her, having no idea what he was assuaging. "They took the baby," she sobbed, covering her head with her arms the way schoolchildren were taught to in case of a nuclear bomb. "You hate me." "Why? Why did They take the baby? Babies?" he pressed her, hoping for an answer from her subconscious. He'd believe just about anything. He'd believe little green men from Venus whisked the baby away in a spaceship to ensure world peace if she'd just give him an answer. "I don't know! What did you do to me, Mulder?" He exhaled suddenly, moving back a few inches. "I d-did what I thought-" he finally mumbled, shaken, as she continued to cry. It was the first time she'd ever blamed him, unlike Phoebe, who made no bones about her displeasure at finding herself pregnant. Years later, Mulder's attitude toward Phoebe was that it took two to tango and she'd been as much at fault as he, but he'd never been able to convince himself of that with Scully. He knew to stop; he hadn't stopped. She was a nice girl, he had been wrong, and he knew it. And she probably secretly hated him for it. Ignoring the screaming pain in his chest and shoulder, Mulder gathered her up, holding her loosely and waiting for the nightmare to stop. She seldom woke up anymore, but the frightened gasps would eventually slow to normal breathing, the pleading would end, and her muscles would go slack against him as her demons dissipated into the night. "What do you dream about, Scully?" he asked her softly, watching her face relax into deep, thoughtless sleep. "Boxcars? The baby? Our babies? Was there ever 'our babies'? Who hurt you? Why can't you tell me? You said you loved me, you made love to me, and then you vanished and showed up half- dead beside a railroad switching station after three months, un-pregnant. And the only explanation I get is that you're 'sorry.' I'm sorry too. I'm so sorry." There was no response from her except to shift slightly on his lap, her tousled hair falling over her face. The smell of coffee wafted up the steps and down the hall, staving off the cold of the icy- gray winter pre-dawn. "Why do you build such a wall around yourself? You never drop your guard, never put it all on the line. You never trust me, Scully. You saved me in a hundred ways: you saved my life. You kept me from drowning myself in booze and women, and all you ask is that I don't ask you any questions. All I have is questions, but with you there's no past and no future, only today, and I can't live my life like that. If you're afraid to love me, I don't blame you, because I'm scared as hell to love you. You think I'm dangerous? You're dangerous, honey. You're either completely insane or completely right, and it scares the shit out of me either way." He rolled her carefully onto the down pillows, and, after listening to make sure Will was still downstairs, curled up behind her and pulled her close. To his surprise, she put her hand over his as she slept, the wet paths of tears still glistening on her cheek. On her left ring finger, the glint of diamonds caught his eye. He'd put the ring on as she slept earlier, and she'd left it. For now. "Aw, Jesus, Scully," he whispered to her, wiping her tears away. "What you've done for me, for Will: you can't imagine how deeply my life has been changed by yours. You happen to a man, and, for better or worse, I thank God you happened to me." *~*~*~* End - A Moment In the Sun: Part IV