Title: Paracelsus Author: prufrock's love Rating: R Archive: No. link to: www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/paracelsus.html Summary: Georgia Low Country: August, 1865 Author's note: This story assumes that portions of Mulder's memories during his regression in The Field Where I Died were correct: in one past life, he was a soldier who died in the arms of his lover, November 1863. His recollections are one way that lifetime can unfold; right or wrong, Paracelsus is another. *~*~*~* My Dearest Wife, In each city, instead of searching randomly, I try to think where I would be if I were a teenage boy. "At home, doing what my father told me to do" is where I would be, so then I try to think where I would be if I were Samuel. Knowing our son travels on his stomach, I have taken to staking out the bakeries as they put out the apple turnovers, hoping the smell will lure him in. Often, I buy one to take with me in case he is hungry when I find him. General Sherman destroyed most of the railroads in Georgia and the Carolinas, but I go to the train depot next, regardless. It seems like the proper place to wait and look expectant. I find a music hall and ask after him: might they have a handsome, unassuming, dark- haired, dark-eyed musical prodigy in their midst? I watch the children leaving the schoolyard in case he has had a change of heart and willingly opened a book. Then, I check the hospitals, then the orphanages, and then cemeteries. I wonder if I should even write that to you: that I have looked for our Sam among the dead. I wonder if I should tell you that I have begun to feel like Don Quixote tilting at his windmill. I still need some truth I can tuck away inside my heart, some answer when I look up at the heavens and cry, "Why?" I need not to feel so infinitely empty and alone. And afraid. I need so badly to believe there are still happy endings somewhere in this ruined world. I am not sure if that makes me an optimist or a fool. I suppose I just need peace, Melly, and I will come home when I find it. Until then, I will keep searching. With all my love, Mulder *~*~*~* The air was so humid that it bordered on being solid rather than vapor. His shirt, fresh the previous morning, now clung to his skin, wet and limp. Sweat stung his eyes, and he felt the August sun glaring down at him through the treetops, scorching the top of his head through his wool cap. Like yesterday and the day before and the dozens of days before that which had now blurred together, the long southern afternoon refused to end. The suns path across the sky seemed to drag on infinitely, defying the constraints of time and logic. The world stopped having rhyme or reason, end or beginning, and he felt cut loose – adrift - disconnected from where he'd begun, yet without any end in sight. Too tired to keep searching, yet unable to recall how to do anything else. Mulder was in Purgatory, but the locals just called it Georgia. It was his second summer at the mercy of that sweltering sun – first with General Sherman during the Atlanta campaign and now in the Low Country, which was the local name for the expanse of low-lying swamps and dense forests that began east of Savannah and spread north, though the inlets and islands the South Carolina coast. Throughout the fallen Confederacy, the rebellious cities were under tight military control but in the country the hungry, destitute people were lawless. It had been the same in the rolling farmland around Atlanta, in the mountains inland, in Charleston, and now along the coast. The old men, widows, and children narrowed their eyes as he approached their porches in his well-made blue uniform, atop a well-fed horse bearing a government brand. The southerners shrugged and spat in answer to his questions, pretending ignorance no matter how innocuous the question or honorable his mission. Once he rode on, though, behind his back, they hissed, "Just go home, you damned Yankee." He always wanted to go back, dismount, and grab them by their tattered shirtfronts and explain through clenched teeth that all he'd ever wanted to do was just go the hell home. He never did, though. He just kept riding. Mulder sighed and gave Shadow a nudge with his heels so the big horse ambled aimlessly a little faster. Since he hadn't passed another soul in hours, he unfastened the top button on his jacket, still not getting much relief. Having saturated his shirt, sweat now converged between his shoulder blades and flowed down to the small of his back, soaking through his blue uniform as well and making him itch miserably. The road had wound on for miles, twisting and looping back on itself through the swamp and seemingly going nowhere. Spanish moss and determined vines gripped the trees with their gnarled fingers, slowly sapping their strength. Dragonflies buzzed past his head and birds called to each other - herons, gulls, hawks - warning of his approach, then warily watched him pass from their perches in the treetops. He was the outsider – dangerously suspect and out of place. Fox Mulder was a tall man, as lean and long-limbed as thoroughbred racehorse. His tanned face was an eccentrically handsome blend of angles, with hazel eyes and full, almost feminine lips he'd been teased about as a boy. Underneath his cap, his hair was dark brown and had developed a bit of curl in the humidity. He'd shaved off his beard during the Atlanta campaign, and then let his goatee grow back only to shave it off again as the summer wore on. Two days ago, he'd been clean-shaven, but now stubble sprouted from his cheeks and itched along with everything else. He rode well, comfortable in the saddle and in his uniform; he'd been a cavalry officer so long that riding was almost more natural than walking. An educated, well-read man, he spoke well and in several languages, but usually preferred to commit his thoughts to paper. By trade, he ran a newspaper in Washington DC, though most of his income came from his family's money; by class he was a gentleman, if that still mattered somewhere in the tattered, battle-weary world. As the shadows began to lengthen across the path, Mulder rounded another turn in the road to find three federal soldiers standing a little to close to a lone woman. There were troops stationed in Savannah and Charleston and at forts all along the coast, but there was no reason for these scraggly fellows to be out in the middle of nowhere. Bothering a woman who didn't seem to want to be bothered. A troublesome minority of the Union army seemed to think they'd fought a war so they could rape, pillage, and swindle as they pleased afterwards. It wasn't enough to put down the rebellious south and restore order; they felt entitled to pick the bones clean afterward. It seemed there were too many villains and not nearly enough heroes these days. "Leave her alone," he barked. "Let her be, soldier." "We're paying our respects," the tallest man called, not looking at Mulder approaching behind him. "Mind your own business." One soldier stepped aside, and Mulder could see the pronounced roundness of the young woman's stomach. "The next time you're off duty, corporal, find a woman in town and pay your respects to her," Mulder said authoritatively. "For now, get back to your post or I'll shoot you were you stand." The soldiers turned, not happy at being ordered around, but startled when they saw his officer's uniform and insignia. "Yes, sir, colonel," the ringleader said. The tall soldier nodded to the others, and they quickly remounted their horses and, after hollowly polite "good days" to the woman, disappeared into the cypress trees. He doubted they had any intention of rejoining their troop, but that wasn't his problem anymore. The woman exhaled as the sound of their horse's hooves faded away. There were packages on the ground at her feet – maybe flour, coffee, or tobacco – most likely what the soldiers had wanted rather than sport with her. At least, that was what he was hoping. "Are you all right, Ma'am?" Mulder asked, swinging down from the saddle and eyeing her swollen stomach. "Where is your husband?" Aside from the fact that no lady should be out without a male escort in these times, she was too far gone to be walking anywhere in the sun and humidity and relentless heat. In the city, no lady would appear in public when she was obviously with child, but out in the swamps, there were few people left to care. "Yes, I am fine, thank you," she answered quickly, tucking a few stray strands of curly auburn hair back underneath her broad sunhat. His ear detected a soft Irish accent, not fresh to American soil but still gently lilting. When she glanced up, squinting at him in the sun, he got a glimpse of fine features on a small, pretty, heart-shaped face, with lips drawn into a determined line. For a few seconds, he stared at her, the back of his neck prickling as if someone had stepped on his grave or he was seeing a ghost. "Ma'am..." he started to say, but didn't manage to finish the sentence as his stomach flip-flopped inexplicably. He exhaled and swallowed, wondering what was wrong with him. The heat, probably. "Ma'am, may I help you with those?" he asked, remembering his manners and gesturing to the parcels she bent to pick up, missing them by several inches as she tried to reach over her belly. "I will help you with those," he decided when she didn't respond. "I am fine," she repeated for his edification, as though he might not have heard her the first time. "I did not say you were not," he responded, surprised at her lack of gratitude. He stooped down, gathering up what appeared to be twenty- pound bags of coffee beans and white sugar she must have been hoarding. She reached for the sacks, but he moved back slightly, thinking she did not need anything else to carry besides that baby. "Thank you for your help, sir," she said pointedly, offering her arms again. "I'm not the enemy, Ma'am; the war is over. And I'm not interested in your packages, but if you want, I can carry them for you. Or put them on my horse. You shouldn't be out without an escort, wherever it is you are going. Where are you going?" "Town," she answered, watching warily as he began to secure the bags on his saddle. "And which direction would town be?" He'd gotten turned around and all the burnt plantations in the Low Country had begun to look alike. "Five miles north." "You had planned to walk five miles carrying these?" She folded her arms above her belly, as if annoyed that he would dare question her. The part of him accustomed to obedient women toyed with just leaving her and her parcels sitting beside the road, but the bored, lonely part dismissed that idea. "I would send a servant, but my husband's servants went with the Yankee soldiers," she explained, her rhythmic Irish accent rounding her consonants and lilting the vowels. "I would drive in a buggy, but his horses went with the servants. I would ask my husband to go, but he has not come home from the war. I would wait, but time is not going to wait on me much longer," she explained as he finished attaching her packages to his saddle. "Really, I do appreciate your help, sir; I do not mean to be rude or ungrateful, Colonel. Those men... I am just tired and a little upset." "Both are understandable. There was a river crossing a few miles back. If that is where you are going, would you allow me to accompany you?" "I could not impose." "But if I was going in that direction…" he offered. "But you are not," she reminded him knowingly. In answer, he took the horse's reins and led Shadow in a tight half- circle so he now faced north, toward the closest dock. He gave her a half-grin, and she smiled back in tired amusement. "In that case – yes, Colonel, I would be grateful for the escort," she decided. When she smiled, the prickling at the back of his neck drained down his spine and created a curious warmness in his belly. Mulder blinked and wiped one hand across his brow, clearing away the sweat and the odd sensation. "I-I would put you on Shadow and lead him," he said, stumbling over his words. "But he can be skittish, sometimes, and I would hate to risk you falling." "It is all right. I am fine. I can walk." "All right," he responded as he began to lead his horse by the reins, walking slowly to accommodate her pace. She was small; he could have easily rested his chin on top of her head. "My name is Mulder, by the way. Since we will be traveling companions for a bit." "Oh, I am sorry, Colonel Mulder; I am Mrs. Waterston." She offered her hand awkwardly, and he glanced at his own, noticing it lacked a glove and was none too clean as he shook hers. "Mrs. Dana Waterston. My husband is Dr. Waterston." "It's Mr. Mulder, now. I stopped being Colonel Mulder months ago; the horse and the blue uniform are only convenient federal remnants I have not taken the time to address. Anyway, I am pleased to meet you, Ma'am. And I am sorry those soldiers were harassing you. They are supposed to keep order, not stir up trouble." She nodded, and he started walking again, thinking their salutations were finished. Instead of following, she stopped, putting a hand on her belly, a curious expression crossing her face. "I need a second, please, Mr. Mulder." Her second stretched to a minute, and then to a tense eon as he waited, watching her and trying to figure out a delicate way to say it. Delicacy and diplomacy came as naturally as setting himself afire, so he said bluntly, "Ma'am, you need to go home and rest. It is too hot for you to be going anywhere in your condition." "I need things for the baby," she insisted, finally drawing a deep breath and standing up straighter. "The servants took everything from the house." "Let me take you home, and then I'll go to town and trade for whatever you want," he offered. "I am going anyway, and I can ride there and back by nightfall." "Or you could take my coffee beans and sugar and disappear," she countered, putting her hands on the small of her back as if it ached. "Yes, I could. But I won't." "How can I be sure?" He considered a moment, then on impulse slipped his wedding ring off his finger, offering it to her. "Here. I do not want your coffee or sugar, Ma'am, but you can be sure I will come back for that." Clearly, the heat must be affecting his judgment. Otherwise, he didn't know what could have possessed him. He had a wallet full of greenbacks if he wanted to offer her collateral as assurance he would return. His wedding band hadn't left his finger in fifteen years; already his hand felt strangely light and bare without it. He wanted to retract the offer, but he didn't. "Many men would be happy to be free of such…" She paused, searching for a word. "Tethers." "Many men would." The ring glinted in the afternoon sun as he continued to hold it out between his thumb and forefinger. "I am not one of those men," he said simply. "You will have my life; all I will have is your coffee beans." She looked up, scanning his face for something, then, seeming to find it, lowered her eyes and held out her palm for the heavy gold band. *~*~*~* Mulder wasn't sure of the propriety of entering a deserted mansion. Obviously, no butler was going to greet him, but it seemed rude to barge in. He pushed the front door open, knocking loudly and calling for her, his voice echoing in the empty foyer. When she didn't answer, he ventured deeper inside, passing through what had once been a plantation house in all its glory, but was now a battered shell. Discolored squares of wallpaper marked where paintings had hung, and the mahogany floor and furniture looked naked, stripped of every object of value. The Negro servants hadn't known what to take as they fled; candelabras and silver spoons couldn't be traded for food if there was no food to trade them for. With all the able-bodied men at war for four years running and the ports closed to cargo ships until last month, much of the south was quietly starving. Vast fields of rice, cotton, and tobacco were going to seed, occasionally interrupted by the graves of a quarter-million men who had died trying to defend their way of life. "Here," she finally called from the back of the house, her voice sounding small and lost in the vast darkness of the kitchen. "I am here, sir." "I did not intend to be gone so long. I am sorry if I worried you, Ma'am," Mulder apologized, setting the packages on the kitchen table, fumbling in the flickering candlelight. "You said the nearest boat dock was five miles away, but the nearest place to trade for anything at a reasonable price is Savannah. I had thought I could be back yesterday." "I was not worried, Mr. Mulder," she said quietly, from the shadows. "You should be worried: living here, alone. I would not be happy if you were my wife," he scolded as he untied the bundles. "There is no one for miles." Picking up the only candle, he stepped closer to her voice, and found her slouched in a wooden chair near the cold fireplace, her arms cradling her belly. "What if something would-" He saw her jaw widen as her teeth clenched, eyes closing and head tilting slightly back in pain. "Is it time, do you think?" She nodded, keeping her eyes closed and waiting for the contraction to pass. "Is there a doctor or a midwife?" he asked, already knowing the answer. "A neighbor? I will get them. Is there anyone, Ma'am?" "No," she managed, exhaling slowly. "I will be fine." "All right. Is there anything I can do?" "No. I am grateful for all you have already, Mr.-" She stopped again, panting softly as beads of sweat appeared on her forehead. "I, uh, um," Mulder said. "I will just wait then, and, uh, make sure you really are fine. Outside. I will wait outside." He was a seasoned hallway pacer, skilled at imagining all the horrors happening on the other side of the door until the doctor appeared. "You do that, Mr. Mulder," she answered between shallow breaths. "That would be very helpful." He had a suspicion he was being made fun of, but he wasn't sure, and she seemed focused on other things. He assured himself she probably had a dozen children somewhere and could manage this easily by herself, regardless of whether or not she looked to be barely out of her teens and scared out of her wits. "All right, I will just, uh-" He started backing out of the kitchen, afraid to look away, when she moaned, her body convulsing. "Oh, Jesus Christ!" he cursed, returning to her so he could hover helplessly. "I am taking you to bed," he decided, glad to be of some use. Helping her stand, Mulder asked urgently, "Which way is your bedroom?" "But we only just met." "I only mean that you should lie-" he started to explain before he realized she was making an off-color joke. "Oh, you are funny, Ma'am. Very funny," he said sarcastically. He helped her to an adjacent room that had probably once belonged to the cook, then laid her down and stood nervously at the end of the bed. "I will be outside. Just call out if you need me," he whispered, trying not to disturb her, and this time made it all the way to the door before another contraction came and she cried out. "There must be something I can do," he insisted, looming over her again, dripping candle wax on the old quilt. "Anything?" When she didn't respond, he reached for her hand anxiously, kneeling beside the rusty iron bed. "I am all right," she assured him as the pain passed, closing her eyes so she could rest a few seconds. "Do you want me to leave?" She shook her head no, murmured unintelligibly in Gaelic, and then asked, "Do you have children, Mr. Mulder?" "I think, in this situation, just 'Mulder' would be fine. Yes, Melly and I have a son. Samuel. Sam." "Tell me about Sam," she requested, "Just Mulder." "He's handsome. And talented. What do you want me to tell you, Ma'am?" "Tell me about anything outside this room. Tell me about your family, Mr. Mulder. How long since you have seen them?" "I saw Sam last fall with General Sherman. I looked up and discovered he'd run off and joined the Army." "And your wife?" she asked, trying to keep him talking. "The last time I saw her? More days and nights than I want to count," he said quietly, holding her damp hand. "I was home on leave at Christmas. Home is in Washington, near The Capitol," he added, searching for something to say. "It's the house with the constantly broken window; my son and I play baseball in the yard, and he keeps hitting the ball through the front window by mistake. He can break them faster than I can replace them." She scooted farther up in bed, half-sitting, and bracing herself against the headboard. She rested her head against the pillow and took long, slow breaths. "You are still all right? Nothing is wrong?" Mulder asked, keeping his eyes focused on her face rather than anything that might be happening below her waist. "Or do you know?" "My mother is a midwife. And my cat had kittens, once," she murmured, managing a tired smile. He watched as the shadows washed over her face, marveling at how she could find any comfort in his presence. Both their medical expertise combined barely constituted half a nurse, and it was not his body this child was trying to come out of. The only birth he'd witnessed involved a colt, and that had made him queasy. "What can I do to help?" "Please keep talking. You have a nice voice." A little embarrassed at her compliment, he blinked, then recovered by choosing a new topic: "Melly and I grew up together, and we married as soon as her father allowed it. Sam came not long after; he was Melly's sixteenth birthday gift. We talked about more children, but I was away at school, and Melissa was ill. And the war, of course. There was a baby coming, though, the last time I saw her." "Your wife is going to have a baby?" He nodded without thinking, putting his arm around her shoulders to help lift, since she seemed to want to sit up farther. "And I plan to be pacing my usual route in the upstairs hallway while the doctor delivers my daughter," he promised her, wondering what possessed him to say that. *~*~*~* "Can you hear me, Ma'am?" Mulder asked tensely, watching her face for any response. "Ma'am, it is Mulder. Mrs. Waterston? Dana? Squeeze my hand if you can hear me." Her fingers finally pressed against his, and he squeezed back, massaging her palm with his thumb. "Thank God. There you are," he said softly, exhaling. She opened her eyes, blinking in confusion. "I was worried." "Baby?" she asked, looking from side to side in the tiny, shadowy room. The candle had died hours ago, leaving Mulder to deliver, bathe, and swaddle the newborn by moonlight, which might have been a partial blessing in disguise. "Be still; you were bleeding, and I do not want it to start again," Mulder hushed her. "You have a little girl. Are you all right?" She nodded, looking pale and woozy and uncertain what had happened. Frankly, he was uncertain what had happened except that there had been pushing and screaming, some from him, and, underneath lots of blood and slime and tears, suddenly a new human being. It was as though God had overlooked the war-ravaged nation, the endless fields of weeds and dead soldiers, and Mulder's ineptness, and slipped a bit of humanity between the cracks of civilization. "That has to be the most amazing, miraculous, horrible thing I have ever seen. Giving birth, I mean, not your daughter. She is beautiful." "Is she?" she murmured, tiredly turning her head to see. Mulder shifted the tiny bundle of towels in the crook of his arm so she could see the child's face, now cleaner and less red than it had been earlier. Her hand left his, wanting the baby, so he laid the bundle beside her, placing her arm around the child. "She is perfect, Ma'am." "Yes, she is." She pushed away the towel, stroking the infant's tiny hand, marveling at the miniature fingernails. "Hello, little girl," she told the baby, who pursed her lips in response. As he watched her holding her newborn daughter, a strange sensation came over him, trickled down his backbone as it had on the road the previous day. He felt the odd urge to push her auburn hair back from her face and kiss her forehead gently, if she was his wife rather than a stranger and the child was theirs instead of hers. It seemed second nature to sit carefully on the bed beside her and lean close, butterflies swarming in his stomach as he admired the baby with her. The baby would nurse and then sleep; he would lie beside Dana, proudly keeping watch as she rested as well. Those impulses seemed almost faded memories, something that had happened eons ago and then been long forgotten. He did none of those things, of course. "So many miracles in one small form. It is amazing what flesh, love, and God can create," he murmured instead, watching her as the first flickers of dawn appeared on the horizon. "Welcome to the world, little one. Such as it is." *~*~*~* He knew he wasn't one of those men who could set women's hearts fluttering with his flowery manners and elaborate complements, but he wasn't a gangly, tongue-tied adolescent anymore, either. Mulder could usually manage to string a sentence together – sometimes fairly eloquently – to get his point across, and he was well aware of the differences between the male and the female of the species, so he was surprised at his sudden bashfulness around her. Once the crisis of giving birth had passed, he felt the immediate need to be anyplace else, like a groom who has just spent his first night with the bride and was afraid to face her the next morning. What had seemed perfectly acceptable in the darkness now made his face feel hot and necessitated him sitting in a chair across the room, staring intently at a spot on the wall above the headboard. He was afraid to leave her alone so soon, so he adopted a distant, overly solicitous air, pretending he had no idea how that baby had come into the world. Since Mulder was the self-appointed cook, they were subsisting on whatever combination of flour, lard, water, soda, and salt he could create. He'd made biscuits that were very nice, if one peeled the burnt part off the bottom. She ate without complaint, listened as he rambled on, eager to fill up the silence, nodded occasionally, and fell asleep in the middle of a story, which he didn't take personally. She had said he had a nice voice, which was the first compliment he'd received from a woman in a long time. Granted, it had been a married woman in labor, but still. Giving a man a license to talk about himself was like milking a bull: do it once and make a friend for life. "How did your son get in the Union Army at thirteen?" she asked, finishing the not-black part of her breakfast and brushing the crumbs off the bed sheets. He had moved her and the baby to a more comfortable room, and then left just long enough to clean up the mess downstairs and fix something to eat. "By the end of the war, they took soldiers wherever they could get them, and Sam was tall. And he was a good shot. He slipped away from his grandparents and lied about his age. And his name, since I could not find a Samuel William Mulder-" he hesitated, then couldn't bring himself to say it. "I didn't know whether to burst with pride or put him over my knee when I saw him with General Sherman." "He must have scared you and your wife to death." "I don't think he had any idea what war was really like, Mulder said, tilting his wooden chair back. "And the reality of it… He's such a gentle spirit. He'll hunt and play ball to humor me, but his world – his passion - is his music and art. Like his mother. Since he was small, if it has strings, he can play it; if it will stand still, he can sketch it. I don't know how I ended up with a son like Sam, but he's, he's amazing. You'd have to meet him to understand." "You miss your Sam and Melly," she said, making a statement rather than asking a question. "It is good to see a man who adores his family." "They are my life," he said easily, knowing that was true. "My talented Samuel and my beautiful Melissa. They see a beauty in the world that I cannot, and it is a very empty place without them." "Then go home, Mr. Mulder. I am grateful to you, but your wife needs you. Especially now. Emily and I will be fine, and you have better things to do than play nursemaid to me." He had been keeping his face arranged in a friendly, polite expression, but turned to look out the window, suddenly very far away. "My wife is not going to have a baby. I don't know why I said that," Mulder said. "Wishful thinking, I suppose." He sat the chair down on all four legs with a sharp thump, standing quickly. "I am sorry I lied to you. I'll come back and check on you in a little bit." "Mr. Mulder-" she began, but he shook his head. His boots tromped down the grand staircase, across the foyer, and out to the broad porch. Sitting heavily on the front steps, Mulder looked out at the vast swamps, so dense they were still dark at mid-morning, so hostile they could swallow a teenage boy as thoughtlessly and completely as a frog swallows a fly. He slouched forward, resting his elbows on his knees and letting his head hang wearily, for the first time beginning to admit defeat. It was not just the southerners whose way of life had come to an end. *~*~*~* "Is everything all right, Ma'am?" he asked, appearing in the kitchen doorway still buttoning his shirt and pulling his suspenders up and over his shoulders so he was presentable. He and a hoot owl had been up before dawn having a tense discussion over who could sleep where in the barn's loft. Mulder, conceding defeat, had gone to backyard pump to rinse off before daylight, and been mid-scrub when he noticed the smell of bacon frying. "Should you be up so soon? I don't think you should be up so soon, Ma'am," he decided, drawing on his two-day-old knowledge of obstetrics. "Go back to bed; I will do that, Mrs. Waterston. You need to rest." "I have rested. Now I am fixing breakfast," she answered casually, poking at the contents of the frying pan with a fork and eliciting a mouth-watering sizzle. "I cannot keep letting you wait on me, Mr. Mulder. It is not right." He wrinkled his forehead for a few seconds before he understood what she was getting at. "Oh, of course, yes, but circumstances– uh. I understand how bad it looks for me to be here, but you just had a baby, for pity's sake. I do not even sleep in the house." He swallowed, feeling awkward. "I will take you to stay with your parents, wherever they are," he said decisively, "Or to one of the homes for widows and orphans. If you feel well enough to travel, leave your husband a message and he can come for you when he returns. You cannot live here alone. Your husband will understand. I would understand if you were my wife. You cannot endanger yourself or your daughter." She stared at him for a few seconds, long enough to be discomforting, and then, shaking her head in wonder, began to laugh softly as she flipped another slice of bacon. "What is it?" Mulder asked defensively, caught off guard. "I am not a soldier you can order around as you please, and, as you have already pointed out, I am not your wife, either. Not all women whimper and hide under the bed every time a shutter rattles or a Yankee passes through, Mr. Mulder." "I did not say they did," he said, floundering through a novel situation. She might look like an angel, but she had the temperament of a mule. The dichotomy was challenging, but it had its charms. But not until he'd had coffee. "I'm only trying to help, Ma'am." "I am only trying to politely say I cannot stomach any more of your biscuits. I had no intention of debating propriety or women's suffrage before breakfast. Please, sit down and eat." "Oh," he said, and exhaled. "Do you want coffee, Mr. Mulder?" she asked, picking up a cup from the shelf above the stove and setting it in front of him. "Then, perhaps, we can debate." He chuckled to himself and sat down, nodding "yes." *~*~*~* End: Paracelsus I