Begin: Paracelsus X
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Dear Melissa,
  
  After almost fourteen years as your husband and a lifetime as your
  friend, I will let you in on my deepest secret – and it isn't the stack
  of novels hidden in my desk at work.  Those are Frohike's.
  
  My secret is this: I am not all-knowing.  I do not have all the answers. 
  I stumble.  I hesitate.  I make mistakes.  I regret.  I am even afraid,
  which must be a shocking admission from your fearless husband.  Your
  Fox, who can do anything, fix anything - herald of the truth, champion
  of the weak, and slayer of bugger-bears, kitchen mice, and Confederates
  - is afraid.  
  
  He sits alone at his library in the middle of the night, propping his
  feet on the Christmas gifts hidden under his desk, and writing to a
  woman who cannot answer and would not understand if she could.  While
  everyone else sleeps, he shrugs on his coat and goes outside, staring up
  at the immense sky as though there are answers in the stars.  There are
  none - only strange shadows on the horizon.
  
  Sometimes I envy Moses his burning bush, Noah his white dove.  I even
  envy Abraham the voice of God commanding him to sacrifice his only son. 
  To have a clear-cut answer, to know what Destiny intends and to only
  have to act on faith…
  
  I do have faith, Melly.  I make light of religion, but I have faith in
  God.  We've had several good conversations, God and I, though there have
  also been times when we weren't on speaking terms.
  
  Tonight would appear to be one of those times.
  
  Yes, I am rambling.  Yes, I have had a bit too much to drink.  I think
  it shows great restraint that I have not had the whole bottle, but that
  is only because I spilled it and cannot find the corkscrew to open
  another.
  
  Is there really a single right course, Melly?  I have not found it, or
  if I have, I am now hopelessly off-course.  I wandered out of the
  universe where I belonged and into another universe's Hell.  It is like
  a test where there is no right choice, where the facts and the truth are
  only distant relations.
    
  I am careful to whom I quote Whitman these days, so I'll rely on The
  Bard, on what Father would say when I'd falter: "What is your substance,
  whereof are you made, son?" He would say to look inside myself, to find
  my center and let that be my guide.  I know where my center is, Melly. 
  I know who grounds me to this world and who makes my life bearable after
  so much loss.  I have found her.  She's upstairs, asleep in our bed,
  with our child inside her.
  
  And that is the problem.
  
  Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Because of her "condition," as the ladies delicately put it, rather than
  the weather, Dana hadn't attended the funeral, but she was waiting when
  he returned from the cemetery.  Poppy and the rest of the staff were
  still at his mother's house, and Emily was asleep in the nursery, so it
  was just Dana in the big, empty foyer.  Even Grace was nowhere to be
  seen.
  
  He hung his black coat on the rack, tossed his black hat on top, and
  ignored the water that dripped off and collected in a half-moon on the
  floor.  He'd had an umbrella, but Sam had forgotten his, so Sam now had
  an umbrella.  With no protection, the rain had seeped into Mulder's
  boots, down his collar, and under his cuffs, making him feel like a
  cold, damp sheep.  There was nothing more miserable than a funeral in
  the winter rain, but at least it wasn't as perverse as a funeral on a
  beautiful summer afternoon with birds singing and flowers blooming.  If
  he could bury Melly in the sunshine, he could bury his mother in a
  downpour.
  
  "I guess we're back to black," he commented tiredly, seeing her dull
  mourning dress.  He tried to remember the number of times he'd seen Dana
  dressed up - in color and out of maternity – and realized he never had.
  
  He let his suit coat fall from his shoulders and draped it over the
  banister, not bothering to pick it up when it slipped off and crumpled
  to the floor.  Dana bent to retrieve it and he told her not to, trudging
  past her and up the stairs.  When he realized he was leaving her behind,
  he stopped, offering his arm to steady her as they climbed the steep
  staircase.
  
  "How is Samuel?" she asked, pausing for breath on the landing. 
  
  "Upset.  He left the service early, and he wanted to spend the night
  with some friend from the Smithsonian Museum instead of coming back
  here. He just couldn't… Mother was thirty-three when he was born; she
  raised him more as a son than a grandson. It's as if he's lost his
  mother all over again. It doesn't seem fair for one boy to lose so much. 
  His grandparents, his mother, his sister…"
  
  "Your parents, your wife, your daughter," Dana interrupted quietly,
  though he'd run out of things to say. "How are you?" she asked as they
  reached the bedroom.  It was mid-afternoon – an odd time to go to bed –
  but he couldn't think of anywhere else to go. "And I do not want to hear
  you say ‘fine.'"
  
  "I'm…" He paused, trying to put it in words. "I'm better than I should
  be.  My father would say I'm being strong for Sam, being a man, but I
  just don't feel- It's like the morning after I graduated from Harvard: I
  got up, dressed, looked around, and realized one chapter of my life was
  over.  It wasn't a particularly good or bad feeling so much as it was an
  emptiness.  My mother is dead.  I know I should feel more, but I just
  don't.  If anything, I feel frightened that I don't feel more.  Do you
  understand?"
  
  "Yes.  I have been better than I should be." She helped him unbutton his
  shirt, stopping to examine the black armband on his sleeve. "This is
  pinned.  Why is it pinned on instead of sewn?  It will stick you."
  
  "Everyone was busy.  Poppy's upset.  I didn't want to bother you," he
  explained, unbuttoning his cuffs and collar, stripping off the damp
  shirt, and starting on his trousers.
  
  "Where is your undershirt?  You are soaked to the skin. Why have you
  been standing in the rain without an undershirt?"
  
  Because he didn't have a clean one, he did not answer.  Because Poppy
  was almost incoherent with grief and their cook and maids had been
  loaned to his mother's house in Georgetown to prepare for the masses
  who'd attended the funeral, expecting to be fed and, if they'd traveled,
  offered a place to stay.  Because unless Dana had cooked, cleaned, sewn,
  or laundered anything in the last three days, it hadn't been cooked,
  cleaned, sewn, or laundered.
  
  "I forgot," he lied, his teeth chattering. Gooseflesh covered his chest,
  making the coarse hair stiffen and his nipples harden.
  
  "Now you are shivering.  I want you under the covers."
  
  "I like a woman who knows what she wants," he responded, trying to
  muster the energy to sound sarcastic. 
  
  She smiled dutifully.
  
  He told his brain to smile back, but the message didn't make it to his
  face. "Stay with me?" he asked wearily, feeling like he was Atlas
  holding the world on his shoulders.
  
  She nodded, brushing her lips over the raised scar across his chest as
  he sat on the edge of the bed, then laid her cheek against him.  He put
  his arms around her, holding her close, and exhaling for the first time
  in days.  After a few seconds, her lashes brushed his skin as she opened
  her eyes, but didn't pull away.
  
  He unfastened the back of her dress, then gathered it and her chemise
  and pulled them over her head.  The stores sold maternity corsets, but
  she wasn't wearing one, much to her doctor's dismay.  And managing her
  high-buttoned shoes, stockings, and garters must have been too difficult
  without a maid to help.  She had on slippers, but she stepped out of
  them as he untied the waist of her petticoat and pantalets, letting them
  fall to the floor.
  
  She blushed and looked down, seeming awkward being undressed in front of
  him.  The last time he'd seen her nude was the night he'd brought Samuel
  home, and there had been some changes, some expansions, since then.
  
  He slid under the covers, then held the blankets up as she joined him,
  moving slowly to accommodate her belly.  Instead of rolling away so he
  could curl up to her back like he did as they slept, she faced him,
  stroking her fingertips over his cheekbones and looking at him sadly.
  
  "I wish I could make this better for you, mo rún," she said softly.  
  
  "You can.  You are."
  
  Silently, slowly, he moved his mouth to hers, blending their lips and
  then tongues.  She was quicksand, pulling him farther and farther from
  the surface and into dangerous depths where there were no nouns: no sad
  eyes, polite words, and sympathetic expressions.  No quiet sobs hidden
  behind black-bordered handkerchiefs.  No formal processions, no wills,
  no estates, no condolences.  There were only verbs: love, lick, thrust,
  suck.  Moan, murmur, embrace, surrender.  Kiss, fuck, worship, be.
  
  He kissed the bridge of her nose, the delicate velvet of her earlobes,
  her bottom lip, her eyelids, and the secret underside of her throat,
  feeling the ridges convulse as she swallowed.  
  
  His kissed the white skin of her upper arm where she was ticklish, the
  fragile dip in her collarbone, and the textured palm of her hand.  Her
  hand curled against his cheek, fingertips trailing down the coarse
  shadow of stubble.
  
  He kissed her breasts, which were swollen and sensitive, reacting to the
  slightest touch.  There was no milk yet, so he sucked greedily, feeling
  her fingers run over his scalp and then grip his hair, holding him
  close.
  
  He kissed the arc of her belly and the backs of her knees, which were
  creased and lined with pale blue veins like rivers and valleys on a map. 
  He kissed the insides of her thighs, and her toes curled in
  anticipation, shifting restlessly against the sheets.  
  
  "I didn't know you were so beautiful," he murmured, finally feeling warm
  again. "How do I miss what's right under my nose?"
  
  "You are generous.  I think I am more under your chin," she answered
  gently, teasing. 
  
  "Rather have you under me," he said, then licked his lips, realizing
  what he'd said and what he wanted.  Needed. "Dana, I shouldn't even
  ask…" 
  
  "It is fine, I think.  I am just ungainly, but I think we can."
  
  "Harvey won't mind?"
  
  "He is asleep." She rolled to her hands and knees, then arranged the
  pillows under her head and chest and relaxed again. "Rub my back?" she
  invited, shifting her legs apart.
   
  He made a low sound in the back of his throat – a blend of a growl and a
  sigh – which was universal to all males in any age or language.  He
  started with her shoulders, then rolled his thumbs down each side of her
  spine, kneading carefully.  Over her bottom and slowly down the back of
  her thighs, to the tips of her toes and up again.  
  
  He leaned forward so he covered her, supporting his weight on his hands
  and knees, wanting as much of his skin against hers as possible.
  Quicksand, he thought, watching his body disappearing into the depths of
  hers.  The thin veneer of ice across the surface of a bottomless lake. 
  So deceptively calm and safe, and yet so dangerous beneath the surface.
  
  He pushed a few stray strands of hair off her neck with his nose, then
  whispered in her ear, "Will you fix me oatmeal?  Later?"
  
  The soda crackers and strawberry jam Poppy had given him were long gone,
  and he hadn't thought to eat at his mother's house.  He felt empty. 
  Dana filled most of the hollowness inside him, and oatmeal would fill
  the rest.  
  
  There was nothing more precious to a man than a woman loving him when he
  needed her to, the way he needed her to.
  
  "Yes, if you are hungry, I will fix you oatmeal."
  
  "Thank you," he said in advance. "With butter and brown sugar?"  
  
  The way his mother had fixed it when he was small.
  
  "Yes, with butter and brown sugar."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Most of the wounded would have had a better chance at survival if they'd
  been left where they'd fallen on the battlefield.  Men who lived long
  enough to see a doctor often died during surgery – usually the
  inevitable amputation - or afterward of infection, measles, mumps, or
  whooping cough.  
  
  Even in his dream, the hospital smelled like spoiled ham and human
  waste, and buzzed with flies, which would have turned Mulder's stomach
  on a good day.  As it was, eating had required sitting up and moving his
  arms, which had required disturbing the silk stitches holding the skin
  of his chest together, which hurt like hell and was too much of an
  effort.
  
  He and three other officers shared a room, though he hadn't seen two
  move in some time.  The fourth had been a quiet, lanky man recovering
  from a head wound.  He must have tried to shield his face with his hand,
  because he was missing several fingers in addition to an eye.  He'd
  passed his days staring out the window, then suddenly, that morning,
  stood, put on his hat, and told Mulder he'd had enough – to hell with
  the war, he was going home.  He'd given as much of his body and sanity
  to his country as he'd been willing to give.
  
  Mulder had just looked at him, knowing he should say something about
  desertion or duty, but not able to find the energy.  If he could have
  found the energy, he probably would have gone with him.
  
  That left Mulder and two men who either were or would soon be corpses. 
  His bed was near the door, letting him observe the mayhem of the main
  ward.  There must have been another battle, because the litter-bearers
  circled, removing the dead and clearing the beds.  A short Negro man
  made the rounds with the water-bucket and dipper, offering a drink to
  anyone conscious. The doctor made his way through the big room, checking
  wounds and bandages.  About every fifth bed, he signaled the litter-
  bearers, and they collected another body for burial.
  
  Mulder's stayed still as the doctor checked under the cotton bandages
  covering his torso from just under his armpits to his navel.  The
  bayonet had "gotten him good," as Frohike would have put it, leaving a
  long, bloody gash that resembled a ceremonial sash.
  
  "What about your roommates?" the doctor asked, gesturing to the other
  beds.
  
  "I think they're gone: those two," he pointed, trying not to move his
  arm. "And the one with the head wound - he went for a walk."
  
  A long walk.  Home.
  
  The doctor checked, signaled the litter-bearers, then pulled the sheets
  over both bodies.
  
  "And you?  You need anything, son?"
  
  He considered it.  He'd already dictated a telegram to his father,
  letting him gently break the news of his injury to Melly and his mother.
  "Do you have a newspaper?" he asked, wondering about the world outside.
  
  "No, son, no newspaper."
  
  Mulder turned his head, looking out the dirty window at the trees.  It
  was almost December – it might actually be December, he wasn't sure –
  but the hospital was in Louisville, and some of the trees still had
  their leaves.  He had no memory of being aboard the train that had
  transported the wounded from the battlefield in Tennessee to the
  hospital in Kentucky.  He only remembered the battle, looking down,
  seeing blood, and realizing he was badly injured, then seeing Sarah
  coming toward him through the tall grass.  He'd closed his eyes and,
  when he opened them again, was in this hospital room. 
  
  "Do you have an apple?" 
  
  Not a baked or stewed or fried or dried or otherwise convoluted apple,
  but a fresh, red apple that would crunch when he bit into it and drip
  juice down his chin.  He could put it on the table beside his bed for a
  while and just admire it, savor it, before he ate it.
  
  "No, no apples," the doctor answered indulgently, then moved on.
  
  Bored, restless, but unwilling to risk the pain of moving, Mulder
  alternated between looking out the window and staring at the ceiling,
  imagining he could see different things in the water stains.  He turned
  his head when he heard silence fall over the main ward, the men settling
  down like lions who had spotted their prey.  He looked, curious, and at
  first thought he was seeing Sarah again, which would mean he was dead
  again.  
  
  His luck: twice in two weeks.
  
  He blinked and realized it was Poppy making her way through the beds,
  accompanied by his mother.  The wounded men cleared a path as best they
  would, eyeing both women hungrily.  Most hadn't seen a female in months,
  except for the nuns who volunteered in the hospital and the whores who
  traveled with the army under the guise of laundresses. It cost three
  dollars and took fifteen minutes to have laundry done, and one left
  dirtier than one arrived.
  
  He saw his mother pause when she spotted him, then compose herself and
  continue, trying to keep her skirts clear of the filth on the floor.
  Poppy followed, carrying a valise and trying to keep clear of the hands
  the more mobile soldiers.
  
  Teena seeming surprised he didn't get up to greet her.  For the first
  time since he was five, he hadn't stood when a lady entered the room. 
  Realizing that, Mulder gritted his teeth and swung his legs over the
  edge of the narrow bed.  Poppy hurried to help him sit up, guiding his
  hand to the bedpost so he could steady himself.  The room spun, his
  stomach pitched, and the light through the window darkened.  When he
  could focus again, his mother was sitting in a chair beside his bed and
  Poppy was standing, keeping him from falling forward or back.  He nodded
  that he was all right, and Poppy stepped away, watching him carefully.
  
  "Mother, what are you doing here?" he asked, trying not to take a deep
  breath. "Where's Father?"
  
  "He is in Georgetown with Samuel.  He said you were wounded, but he
  couldn't get away," his mother answered, looking around nervously. "So I
  came.  I was worried." Her gaze stopped on the two corpses across the
  room.  The stretcher-bearers hadn't arrived to remove them.
  
  "I'm fine.  It's barely a scratch.  Mother, you can't be here." 
  
  "Why can't I?" she asked, showing a defiant streak he'd never dreamed
  existed.  Of course, he'd never dreamed she'd get on a train and travel
  hundreds of miles with no escort except a female servant. "I'm your
  mother.  Why can't I be here?"
  
  "Because you can't." He took too deep a breath and winced in pain.  His
  mother put her hand on his shoulder.  He wasn't fooling her and he knew
  it. "There's a war on.  You have to go home."
  
  "Not in Kentucky," she insisted. "Kentucky is neutral."
  
  He didn't answer that there was no such thing as neutral in this war,
  and that the odds were slim-to-none that his mother could find Kentucky
  on a map.
  
  "Fox, Melissa's downstairs.  She's waiting in the lobby."
  
  He looked up, his mouth open in shock. "Melly's…"  
  
  "She's scared to death.  She begged to come, and I couldn't tell her
  ‘no.' She wanted to see you, but I didn't know it would be like this.  I
  thought… What should I tell her?  I can't bring her up here.  She'll
  panic."
  
  He took a shallower, safer breath. "Tell her Poppy's helping me dress
  and I'll be right down.  Just a few minutes.  Go on, Mother."
  
  "All right," she agreed, standing. "Poppy has clean clothes, soap, a
  razor…  I'll find someone to bring up hot water and towels."
  
  He nodded, wondering whom she thought she'd find to bring hot water and
  towels – the cockroaches, the rats, or the corpses.  His mother lived in
  her own gilded little world, but he wouldn't have it any other way.
  
  She put her palm on his cheek, cupping his face.
  
  "Mother, I'm fine.  Go wait with Melly.  Keep an eye on her."
  
  "You just don't want me to see, do you?"
  
  He shook his head, and she kissed his forehead, possibly the only clean
  place on his body, and left.
  
  "Now how in the world you think you gonna get downstairs?" Poppy asked
  as soon as they were alone.
  
  "I haven't figured that out just yet," he mumbled, already exhausted.
  
  She helped him move from the bed to the chair, then unwrapped the
  bandages, clucking disapprovingly to herself. "This is bad, Fox."
  
  He nodded.  He was aware it was bad.  He was aware that by all rights he
  should have died on that field. 
  
  Whatever plantation Voodoo medicine Poppy unleashed on him, ten minutes,
  some soap and water, a clean shirt, a great deal of cursing, and two
  morphine tablets later, he was leaning on Poppy and making his way
  across the lobby on opiates and willpower.
  
  Melly was standing near a window, watching the maimed soldiers around
  her, who were keeping an eye on her as well.  She looked as out of place
  as a delicate rose in a cornfield, and her pretty face paled as a man
  missing both legs rolled past in a wheelchair.
  
  "I'm right here, honey: all in one piece," he said, and she turned,
  gasping in surprise.
   
  "Oh my God.  Oh my God," she kept repeating, touching his face, his
  shoulders, his hands like she wasn't certain he was real.  He'd
  forgotten how her touch felt: feather-light, like a butterfly's wings.
  "You're really all right?  Really, Fox?"
  
  Poppy helped him maneuver so he could lean against the wall, propping
  himself up on the window ledge. "I'm just fine.  It's barely a scratch."
  
  He unfastened his top two buttons, pulling his shirt collar aside to
  show her the very top of the scar.  About two inches of it had healed
  cleanly and was visible above the fresh bandages; he just didn't mention
  that the unhealed gash continued about eighteen inches down his chest.
  
  To his surprise, Melissa kissed him on the lips, then stepped back like
  she might have done something wrong. "Can you come home?  Do you have to
  stay here?  This place smells bad, and you're- you're too thin.  I want
  you to come home and get better."
  
  "I will," he promised. "Soon.  Maybe in a week or two.  When the doctor
  says it's all right.  I'll be home by Christmas."
  
  Unlike Dana, Melissa didn't think deductively.  If he was well enough to
  walk around the hospital and his only wound was the scratch he'd shown
  her, then he should have been well enough to get on a train and go home. 
  He saw Poppy gesturing for him to button his uniform coat; blood was
  beginning to seep through the bandages and stain his shirt.
  
  He buttoned, but in his opium world, everything seemed lovely.  He
  realized he could hear the color blue; it made a droning sound like a
  hummingbird's wings.  And that he couldn't feel his toes, but his lips
  tingled pleasantly.  Across the room, another officer raised his hand in
  recognition, but his arm seemed to continue upward for yards, stretching
  out like wool being spun into yarn.  It seemed odd, but not noteworthy. 
  The fairies flitting around his mother's head like little balls of
  dancing light whispering to her – those were odd.
  
  "I was so afraid.  I was so afraid something had happened."
  
  Oh yes: his lovely, adoring wife.  She was speaking, and he should
  probably answer.  He took her hand, smiling at her. "No, nothing bad is
  going to happen.  Please try not to worry.  The war will be over soon
  and I'll be home for good.  I promise."
  
  Melly looked at him, her trusting brown eyes seeming bottomless.  They
  were so dark they seemed almost black, and he could see his own
  distorted image reflected in them. "But I'll be dead before then, Fox,"
  she answered calmly.
  
  Mulder blinked.  That wasn't the way this dream went.  That wasn't the
  way it had happened.
  
  "You're going to make me pregnant and I'm going to kill myself and the
  baby," she said in the same monotone voice, like a court reporter
  rereading the facts. "You said you loved me.  Why did you do that to me
  if you loved me?"
  
  "I, I-" he sputtered, trying to get his brain to function. 
  
  That wasn't the way it had happened at all, but the morphine was making
  everything seem warped and slow and he couldn't remember the truth.  He
  was certain the word "pregnant" would never have come out of his mouth
  in mixed company, let alone a lady's, so this couldn't be right.
  
  The others – Poppy, his mother, the wounded soldiers – seemed to slip
  into the murky background, leaving only Melissa standing in front of
  him, looking every bit as beautiful as she always had.
  
  "Melly, you said you wanted to.  You said you wanted a baby.  You said
  you wanted me to come to bed.  I wouldn't have done it otherwise."
  
  "What else could I say?  I didn't want to.  Neither does Dana."
  
  "Yes, she does.  How do you know about Dana?"
  
  That didn't sound like Melly at all.  She was like a pie made entirely
  of meringue: soft and sweet and pleasing and nothing else.  She would
  never accuse him of any wrongdoing, even in a dream.  If it rained when
  he'd planned to go hunting, she apologized for the rain.  If he was in a
  foul mood, she apologized for annoying him, whether she had or not.  If
  he'd ever struck her, she probably would have apologized for being in
  the way of his fist.  
  
  "She's smart, like Sarah.  Dana knows why you married her and she's
  better at pretending than I am."
  
  "She loves me.  She's not pretending."
  
  Melly toyed with his hand, turning it over and stroking the palm like a
  gypsy reading the lines. "How would you know if she was?"
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He woke alone in the big bed, curled into a ball on the center of the
  mattress, arms clutching his chest.  Dana was gone and the blankets had
  fallen to the floor, but the smell of their bodies together lingered on
  the rumpled sheets.
  
  That wasn't the way it had happened.  Melly had asked of he could go for
  a walk, and his mother, thinking quickly, had said he wasn't allowed
  outside the hospital.  After a few minutes of chitchat, they'd agreed
  the ladies would return to DC to get everything ready, and Poppy would
  stay and accompany him home as soon as the doctor said it was all right
  – which hadn't been for another week.  And the second Melly and his
  mother's cab left the hospital, he'd collapsed and had to be carried
  back to bed.
  
  He scrambled up, pulled on the closest pair of trousers, then jogged
  down the steps two at a time.
  
  "Do you love me?" he demanded breathlessly, finding Dana at the kitchen
  stove.  Emily was sitting on the floor, playing with the mixing bowls
  and leaning against the sleeping basset hound. "Do you?" he demanded. 
  He ran his fingers through his wild hair. "Why did you marry me?"
  
  "What is-"
  
  "No, don't do that.  Don't ask me what is wrong and don't soothe me.  Do
  you love me?"
  
  She put a lid on the pot of oatmeal and moved it off the heat. "Of
  course I love you.  Did you have a bad dream?" 
  
  "No, don't to that either.  Don't answer out of duty.  Don't say you do
  just because you're my wife or because I love you.  Do you love me?"
  
  "Yes, I love you." 
  
  "Are you telling the truth?  Or are you just saying that because you
  think it's what you're supposed to say?  If you didn't love me and I'd
  told you that I did love you, would you answer that you did or you
  didn't?  You'd say you did, wouldn't you?"
  
  She blinked and asked him to repeat the question.
  
  "If you didn't love me, and I wanted you to, and I loved you, and I was
  happy, would you tell me if you didn't love me and if you weren't
  happy?"
  
  Dana hesitated. "If I did not-"
  
  "I knew it.  You would not tell me."
  
  She put her hands on the small of her back, massaging, and answered like
  he was beginning to try her patience, "If I say I love you, you say I am
  lying.  If I would say I did not love you… I do not think there is a
  right answer."
  
  "Do you love me?" he demanded again.
  
  "Yes."
  
  "See – I knew you would say that.  Regardless of the truth, you would
  say you do."
  
  She tilted her head to the side. "Then, am I supposed to say no?"
  
  His empty stomach flip-flopped nervously. "You don't love me?"
  
  "Oh, for God's sake, Mr. Mulder."
  
  "For God's sake, what?" He huffed in exasperation. "You are just being
  difficult.  Dif-fi-cult," he repeated, enunciating each syllable. "Why
  did you marry me, then?"
  
  "Because you asked me?" she guessed.
  
  "Of course I asked you!  I loved you!  Did you expect me to just leave
  you in that swamp mourning that faithless son-of-a-bitch?" 
  
  He closed his mouth and looked around, wondering who'd just said that. 
  
  "Why did that just happen, then?  Upstairs.  Why did you say yes?  My
  God, Dana, in almost a year and a half, I don't think you've ever said
  no.  You're eight months along and you still don't say no.  Is that out
  of some misguided sense of duty?  Because you think it's part of your
  job as my wife?  Keep my house, have my children, warm my bed?  Is that
  all you think I want?"
  
  "I do not think you have any idea what you want."
  
  He turned and stalked off angrily, reaching the front hall before he
  heard her call after him, "I cannot chase you, Mulder.  You will have to
  stop if you want me to catch up."
  
  He stopped, hands on his hips.  Her skirts swished slowly against the
  floor as she approached, walking around him so they faced each other.
  
  "I married you because you were a good man and I wanted to go with you,
  wherever you were going."
  
  "Well, now that we've arrived, do you still want to be here?"
  
  "Yes.  I do."
  
  He nodded thoughtfully, as though considering that on several
  philosophical levels. 
  
  "Is there butter for the oatmeal?  There's usually brown sugar, but no
  one's been to the market.  We might not have butter." 
  
  "Yes, I think there is butter."
  
  "All right then," he answered, following her back to the kitchen.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  When he'd graduated from Harvard, his father had asked him what he
  wanted to do: run for office, become an ambassador…  Some profession
  involving starched shirts, firm handshakes, and having an ancestor's
  signature on The Declaration of Independence.  
  
  When Mulder answered, his father had chuckled, then immediately asked,
  "No, son, really – what do you want to do?"
  
  Over the years, he'd become a stockholder in several large newspapers
  and publishing houses, but The Evening Star was still the first.  For
  the others, he traveled to New York and Boston every few months, sat in
  board meetings, voted occasionally, and made a nice quarterly profit,
  but Mulder preferred a hands-on approach to his original "ungentlemanly,
  unwise endeavor." It was his: earned, not inherited; built, not bought.
  
  The Washington Evening Star had grown until it was the largest building
  on the part of Pennsylvania Avenue known as Newspaper Row.  The lobby
  faced the broad street, with Mulder's and the other offices off each
  side, and the loading docks to the rear. Frohike's typesetters and
  presses occupied the second floor, the reporters the third, and the
  Associated Press rented the fourth.
  
  Given that much square footage, he and Byers could avoid each other for
  days.  Or, at least, until late morning, when Byers appeared in Mulder's
  doorway, studying his clasped hands.
  
  "We didn't expect you back so soon," he said neutrally. "I thought you'd
  take a few more days.   It must be such a shock… Mulder, I had no idea
  your mother was so ill."
  
  "She wasn't.  It was sudden – another stroke, the doctor thinks." 
  
  Mulder straightened a stack of papers, then set them aside and folded
  his hands on the top his desk.  Byers and Susanne had attended the
  funeral, so they'd already exchanged the scripted condolences yesterday.
  
  "Still, I'm sorry.  I feel bad for losing my temper."
  
  Only John Byers would define showing the slightest annoyance as "losing
  my temper." When Mulder lost his temper, walls, crockery, and the
  neighbors suffered.  
  
  "I feel bad for taking advantage of our friendship.  I should never have
  asked you to read those letters.  Or, at least, I should have told you
  what you were reading."
  
  "So we agree we feel bad," Byers responded. "She's your wife.  I won't
  interfere again."
  
  "I wasn't aware you had interfered." 
  
  Byers tilted his chin up angrily, then turned to leave.
  
  "Byers- John, I'm sorry.  Close the door and sit down.  Please."
  
  The door was closed, feet were shuffled, throats were cleared, and
  Mulder walked around his desk to sit in one of the two armchairs in
  front of it.
  
  "I didn't mean to accuse you of anything unseemly.  That was the
  farthest thing from my mind."
  
  Not the farthest, really.  When Dana joked about mistaking him for
  Frohike crawling into bed with her, he laughed because that was
  ridiculous.  He wouldn't have laughed had she said "Mr. Byers."
  
  "I'm only trying to help by reading those letters.  Dana's so… So
  contained.  She never lets her guard down.  She says she loves me, but I
  don't think she really trusts me.  Not really.  I thought-" 
  
  "Why wouldn't she trust you, Mulder?"
  
  Mulder furrowed his forehead, trying to figure out if that was sarcasm,
  but Byers blinked innocently.
  
  "I thought she might talk to her mother," Mulder said, as though that
  had anything to do with reading mail he'd promised to deliver to Dana –
  and still hadn't delivered.
  
  "If you think I'm too friendly with your wife, it's your place to say
  something.  Which you did," Byers responded. "As I said, I won't
  interfere again."
  
  There was a long, mutually disapproving silence. 
  
  Dana had few friends.  Even if she'd been accepted by polite society,
  she wasn't interested in spending her afternoons gossiping about who'd
  been seen with whom, and more importantly, what they'd been wearing. 
  She liked science and literature and world events, topics seldom brought
  up at ladies' teas.  He knew she was lonely, and Mulder told himself he
  tried to find time to spend with her, as though he expected to stumble
  over a few extra minutes at the end of the day.  Time was made, not
  found, so somehow the minutes were never there.
   
  It probably wasn't unreasonable for her to want to talk with someone who
  not only shared her interests, but also spoke her language, and happened
  to be a happily married man.  It just didn't happen to be the happily
  married man to whom she was married.
  
  "Am I being a jealous ass?" Mulder asked uncertainly.
  
  Byers nodded.
  
  "I was worried that might be the case." Mulder sighed, pushed a stack of
  ledgers aside and propped his boots up on the front of his desk. "I
  suppose, though, if I want anything else translated from Gaelic, I
  should ask someone else?"
  
  "I think that would be wise."
  
  "Why didn't you tell me I was being an ass?" Mulder asked, reaching
  forward to retrieve his cup of coffee. "Isn't that part of your job?"
  
  "It's like trying to tell you anything; it doesn't do any good.  We have
  to wait until you realize it, and then we all act surprised."
  
  Mulder "uh-hummed" noncommittally in the back of his throat. "That's not
  really true, is it?"
  
  "Oh no, of course not," Byers answered a little too earnestly.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  Having been mistress of a large plantation, Dana was more than competent
  to handle Mulder's household, but, of course, Mulder's household hadn't
  known that.  She'd quickly had enough of "But that's not how Mrs. Mulder
  did it," which was code for "that's not how Poppy does it." The seventh
  time Dana had assigned a task and gotten that response, she'd stopped,
  turned, and icily informed the poor maid, "I am Mrs. Mulder."
  
  And that, except for a constant stream of complaints from Poppy for the
  first year, had been that.
  
  So laundry was done on Thursday instead of Wednesday, and windows were
  washed on Monday morning instead of Friday afternoon, since they were
  more likely to have guests during the week than over the weekend.  Large
  purchases like the dressmaker or grocer were still charged to his
  accounts at the stores, but she instituted a ledger for household
  expenses.  Money for the market or milkman was carefully recorded
  instead of Mulder just replenishing the cash box in his desk whenever it
  was empty. The silver chest acquired a lock and the wine cellar became
  off-limits to the servants.  Poppy had been furious at the implication
  she or her staff would steal, but Mulder noticed he was spending much
  less on liquor, vegetables, and place settings.
  
  One of the only problematic changes was how Dana handled sewing.  The
  majority of their clothing was ready or tailor-made, so while Dana might
  alter, trim, or mend a garment, she didn't spend the majority of her
  time sewing, like her grandmother had, nor did she quilt like Melissa
  had.  Instead of constantly interrupting her day, Dana's method was
  simple: if it needed her attention, put it in her sewing basket and she
  would attend to it the next time she sat down.
  
  Except that was too difficult for Mulder and Sam to manage.  Things in
  need of mending or altering were kept everywhere – in boxes and drawers,
  under beds, on doorknobs and hooks – except in the sewing basket.  It
  wasn't until Dana picked up her needle and thread that they recalled
  where half their wardrobes were.  Then they arrived with armloads of
  ripped pockets, loose seams, and frayed hems like pagans bringing
  offerings to the Textile Goddess.
  
  He and Sam made it back to the library at the same time, each vying for
  their turn.  Dana raised an eyebrow, sighed, made herself as comfortable
  as possible, and asked, "Do you have the button?" as they each offered a
  shirt.
  
  "I lost it," Mulder responded in harmony with Sam's "It's pinned to the
  hem."
  
  Dana reached for Sam's shirt first, and Mulder flopped dejectedly on the
  sofa to wait.
  
  Emily was toddling around, reaching for things she knew she wasn't
  supposed to touch, then looking to Mulder so he could tell her, "No-no,
  Emmy."
  
  "No-no, Dahdah," Emily echoed, just checking, then moved on to the next
  item and continued the game.
  
  Sam busied himself behind his sketch pad, scratching away.  He had an
  artist's knack for drawing unobtrusively, for blending into the
  background.  It wasn't until he took the pad off the easel and moved
  closer that Mulder realized Dana was his son's model, and several more
  seconds before she did.
   
  "Oh, Samuel," she protested when she looked up.  More than eight months
  along, in mourning, and bent over her sewing probably wasn't the way she
  wanted to be captured for posterity.
  
  "Please be still, just for a moment," he requested, his hand
  crisscrossing the paper.  It looked like random scribbling, but Mulder
  knew it wasn't.  Every detail of the portrait was already in his head,
  and he was just transferring it to paper.  Suddenly, an image would
  emerge, like a sculptor discovering human form hidden inside a block of
  cold marble.
  
  Within a few minutes, he was finished, capturing her in a series of
  stark black lines and smudges.  He added a few final marks, blurred an
  edge with his thumb, then thanked her and flipped to the next sheet and
  turned to Emily, who was one of his favorite subjects.  She didn't hold
  still, but she didn't complain, either.
  
  "Do we get to look at it?" Mulder asked, curious as to how Sam saw Dana. 
  He didn't capture a person so much as he captured the way he saw their
  soul.
  
  His son shook his head no, and no one pushed the issue.
  
  "All right, Samuel, your-" Dana started, then paused, putting her hand
  on her belly and inhaling. "Your shirt is finished.  Let, let me have
  the other."
  
   All right?" Mulder asked, leaning toward her.
  
  She nodded, slowly blowing out a breath.  He glanced at the clock,
  checking the time, just in case.  She'd had a few pains yesterday, but
  they were hours apart, and she said the baby was still too high to be
  coming soon.  Despite what she insisted, Mulder was sure the pains had
  something to do with them making love after the funeral last week. 
  
  "Dana?  Ma'am?" Sam asked, putting his sketch pad aside.
  
  "It is all right." Seeing Sam's expression, she added, "The baby kicked. 
  It surprised me.  Do you want to feel?"
  
  Sam hesitated, curious, but ill at ease. It wasn't something Melissa or
  even Poppy would have invited or allowed.  Even working women made every
  effort to hide their pregnancies. While babies were celebrated, sexual
  intimacy bordered on sin, so being with child was evidence of a quasi-
  sin, however hypocritical that logic worked out to be.  Upper-class
  children were so shielded that many reached their teens still believing
  storks brought babies or they were just found in the cabbage patch.  Sam
  wasn't that naïve, but some girls were married before they saw a man
  shirtless, and had only a vague idea what one looked like nude.
  
  He looked to his father, who nodded, urging him to go ahead.  Instead of
  touching her, Sam just held out his hand like he expected to have it
  smacked with a ruler.  She took it, gently placed it on the side of her
  abdomen, and waited.  Sam didn't move, but he looked everywhere except
  at Dana.  
  
  "No-no, Dahdah," Emily called from underneath his desk.
  
  "No-no, Emmy," he answered without shifting his gaze from the minor
  miracle occurring at the other end of the sofa.
  
  "There; that is a kick," Dana told him, and Sam nodded, then pulled his
  hand away, embarrassed.
   
  "You're bigger.  Than Mother," he said cautiously.
  
  "I'm not sure that's what Dana wants to hear right now, Sammy," Mulder
  interjected awkwardly. "This baby's closer to being born than… Than the
  other."
  
  Sam looked at Dana as if he hadn't heard that, studying her with his
  dark eyes. "Do you know how she died?"
  
  "Yes, your father told me."
  
  There was no response, and Mulder thought the conversation was over. 
  Two nods, five minutes, and a dozen words: that was a conversation with
  Sam.
  
  "It's a sin," Sam finally added. "Poppy says she's in Hell."
  
  "You cannot know that," Dana answered calmly while Mulder was still
  vacillating between shock and seething. "Only God can know the depths of
  her soul.  Suicide, freely chosen, is a mortal sin, but do you think she
  was able to choose?  To understand what she was doing?"
  
  Mulder squirmed uncomfortably.  She was breaking both his cardinal
  rules: don't say anything that might upset Samuel, and don't mention
  Melissa's illness.
  
  "No," his son answered after some consideration, then just got up and
  left, leaving them to stare at the back of his head.
  
  "I am going to fire her.  No, kill her.  I'm going to kill her," Mulder
  muttered under his breath.  Poppy was out for the evening, but he was
  going to have a long, heated discussion with her as soon as she
  returned. "What was she thinking, telling him that?  And you didn't help
  matters."
  
  "I answered what he asked," she responded.
  
  "I would have answered him." Although Mulder had no idea what he would
  have said.  He was the man: lord of his domain and all.  He should at
  least give the illusion of being in charge.
  
  "He was not asking you."   
   
  That wasn't what Mulder had wanted to hear.  He saw the gulf between him
  and his baby boy, and no amount of frantic clutching at thin air seemed
  to narrow it again. He saw Sam come out of his shell occasionally:
  becoming tearful at the funeral, putting his head on Poppy's shoulder,
  or talking with Dana as he had a moment ago.  As the months passed, it
  happened more often, but it never happened with Mulder.  With his
  father, he was polite, but as elusive as the fog.
  
  He wanted his Sammy, but he was realizing he wasn't going to get that
  boy back.  What he'd brought home from the mines was a brilliantly
  talented, gentle, traumatized young man who just happened to resemble
  his son.
  
  Before a full-blown argument could kindle from Mulder's fear and dented
  pride, Sam reappeared, his sketch pad still under his arm. 
  
  "What about the baby?" he asked from the doorway, looking to Dana for an
  answer. "Sarah?"
  
  "A child is an innocent," she responded. "Born or unborn, it is
  incapable of sin."
  
  There was a stilted pause, but that had been the right answer: Mulder
  could tell.  Sam leaned against the doorframe, relaxing a little.
  
  "Thank you for fixing my shirt."
  
  "You are welcome.  Did you want me to take the armband off?"
  
  Three days was the usual period of mourning for men, marked by a black
  armband on their sleeve. Women were expected to wear black for months
  before switching to grays and violets, even for a distant relative or
  in-law, but extended grief was unseemly for men.
  
  "No.  Not now.  You should rest," Sam said, never the most convincing
  liar. "I don't need it right now."
  
  "All right.  Whenever you are ready."  
  
  "Sam, I don't think-" Mulder started, but Dana shot him her scathing
  look: the one that reminded him of a dagger being unsheathed. "Whenever
  you're ready," he reiterated.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
  As always, Samuel's bedroom door was closed, and he had to unlock it
  before he could answer his father's soft knock.
  
  "I was just looking in on you," Mulder said uncomfortably. "I wanted to
  tell you goodnight."
  
  "Goodnight, sir," Sam answered politely and automatically.  He was still
  in his shirt and trousers, but had unbuttoned his collar, rolled up his
  sleeves, and was holding some sheet music he must have been reading.  He
  kept one hand on the door, waiting to close it again.
  
  "Sam, I- I've cried too." Once that unmanly admission was out of his
  mouth, it was easier to add, "I've had nightmares.  I still have
  nightmares.  Not just about the war, but about your mother, even about
  you.  I've been afraid.  The only man who's never afraid is a fool too
  blind to realize what he has to lose.  And a hero is just someone with
  nothing left to lose."
  
  "Oh."
  
  "I'm not ashamed of you for being upset at the funeral, for crying.  Or
  for hating the war or for not being able to come home afterward.  I've
  never been ashamed of you.  You've always felt things more deeply than
  other people.  That's a gift, not a weakness.  I'm not what my father
  envisioned his son would be either, but he still loved me.  He was still
  proud of me."
  
  "I'm not what you envisioned?"
  
  "Sam, that's not what I meant.  Grandfather had very high expect- He
  could be…" He scrambled for the right thing to say, trying to recover.
  "I love you, Sammy.  You can't imagine how much.  And I loved your
  mother.  I still do.  I hid in Dana's barn for months because I was too
  afraid to come home.  And I hid inside myself for months, just like you
  are, because I was too afraid.  I was afraid even to let myself be
  afraid.  It was safer to feel nothing, but you can't go through life
  like that."
  
  "Oh."
  
  He was wasting his breath.  Mulder could see the curtains lowering
  behind Sam's eyes.
  
  "Goodnight," he said again, exhaling tiredly. "Sleep well.  You know
  where I am if you want someone to talk to."
  
  "Goodnight, sir," his son responded once again, just as politely, and
  closed the door.
     
  *~*~*~*
  
  He let his body fall backward onto the bed, enjoying the brief
  weightlessness before the heavy blankets engulfed him and he bounced to
  a stop.  Once there, he stared at the ceiling, studying the bland white
  expanse.  It wasn't very interesting.  Stamped tin ceiling tiles were
  becoming popular; he should put those up – give him something to look
  at.
  
  "Well?" Dana asked from in front of her dressing table, brushing out her
  hair before bed. "Did you talk to her?"
  
  "Well, she didn't tell him Melissa was in Hell.  Poppy said they were
  talking about my mother's funeral, about souls and spirits, and he asked
  if she could talk to Melissa."
  
  Dana put her hairbrush down and looked at him questioningly.
  
  "Poppy's Christian, more or less, but her mother was a quadroon Voodoo
  priestess: like Dori but darker skinned," he explained. "Poppy inherited
  all those plantation superstitions about omens and spirits and speaking
  with the dead.  Apparently, Sam asked if she could talk with Melissa. 
  When she said she couldn't, he assumed that meant Melly was in Hell.  It
  was just a misunderstanding.  And she said he was embarrassed about
  being upset at my mother's funeral, so I tried to talk to him about
  that.  And made a mess of it."
  
  He stretched his arms above his head, letting his heels drum restlessly
  against the bed rail.
  
  "Poppy said he feels slighted, second best – that I pay more attention
  to you, Emily, and Harvey than to Samuel.  That he resents it."
  
  "And you believe her?" she asked.
  
  "Why wouldn't I believe her?"
  
  "First, I know what Voodoo is and she does not need to be putting those
  ideas in Samuel's head.  He is too vulnerable, too suggestible.  And-" 
  
  "She doesn't," he interrupted.
  
  "Then why did he think to ask if she could talk to the dead?  He does
  not resent Emily.  He plays with her all the time, pretending she is
  Melissa's daughter, I think.  He seems interested in the baby, but
  worried, and I understand why.  Aside from that, he barely seems to
  notice me.  Or you.  Or Poppy.  Or anything except his music and
  drawing."
  
  "Why wouldn't Poppy tell me the truth?"    
  
  "Because she is a liar."
  
  "Oh, be serious.  Why would Poppy lie?"
  
  "That woman would say or do anything to control you.  Melissa relied on
  her very much.  You rely on her.  She nursed Samuel.  I think, over
  time, Poppy began to think of herself as the lady of your house, as your
  wife in everything but name.  Did you know that she tells people the two
  of you are lovers?  Or, at least, she lets them assume that you are? 
  When you were away during the war, she took a lover who resembles you,
  who's even related to you.  She named her daughter close to what you'd
  planned to name yours.  You cannot see a pattern?"
  
  "I think someone's just tired and cranky," he said lightly. "Come here
  and I'll rub your back.  Or front – whichever." 
  
  He heard her lay the brush on the dressing table and footsteps as she
  walked to the bed.  Mulder sat up, supporting his weight on his hands,
  and smiled at her.
  
  She didn't smile back.
  
  "Why are you treating me like I am a slow child?"
  
  "I'm sorry.  I didn't mean to," he said after several tense seconds.  
  
  "And please do not ignore me.  If you think I am wrong, say so, but do
  not act as if what I say is too foolish to even acknowledge.  This
  fascination you have with why I married you – part of the reason was
  because you treated me like a person instead of a possession.  Now you
  are putting me on the shelf between your father's bust of Shakespeare
  and your mother's Oriental vase.  I am another of your things.  At least
  I am productive," she added, putting a hand on her swollen belly. "That
  must be nice."
  
  "You are not," he said slowly, leaning toward her, reaching for her
  hand. "Merely a possession.  I never dismiss what you say.  You know how
  much I care for you."
  
  "Yes, I do.  Would you care for me on my back, on my knees, or on my
  hands and knees?" she answered perfunctorily, ignoring the hand he
  offered.  
  
  There were tired purple shadows under her eyes, making them appear the
  final shade of blue before black, and her cheeks flushed angrily.  The
  last six inches of her hair was still unbraided, and splayed over the
  front of her nightgown in thick auburn curls.  She waited for his
  answer, and she had to wait a long time
  
  "I was just trying to think," he finally said, explaining his silence,
  "If anything you could have said would have hurt more."
  
  "I did not mean to hurt you.  I mean, I, we-" she started, searching for
  words.  That was one way he could tell she was upset: she lost her fluid
  command of English. "We cannot solve these problems in bed.  If you want
  me, fine, but you will seduce me just to keep from talking to me.  And I
  want to talk about this.  It is important.  This woman is dangerous to
  you and to your son.  Perhaps you could depend on her once, but now her
  behavior is becoming more and more unpredictable - and you either cannot
  or refuse to see it."
  
  "What do you want me to do?" he shot back, aiming below and slightly to
  the left of the real problem. "Yes, I know Poppy is manipulative and
  dramatic, but I also know why she likes having power over men.  And she
  doesn't have it over me.  Or Sam.  She'd never hurt Samuel.  Yes, she
  uses men, but no more than they've used her over the years.  Imagine
  what it was like for her.  On Kavanaugh's plantation, there was nowhere
  to go, no one to help her-"
  
  "I understand more than you can imagine, but that is not the point.  She
  did hurt Samuel.  She told your fragile, fifteen-year old son that his
  mother and sister were burning in Hell.  She upset him so much he talked
  to me, and he usually talks to me even less than he talks to you.  And
  you just shrug and accept her excuse that it was all a misunderstanding? 
  How can you do that?"
  
  "Maybe because it's the truth," he answered before he thought, then
  swallowed guiltily. "I was there. Melly was confused, but she understood
  if she cut herself, she would die, and the baby would die with her. 
  What you told Sam: that's not the truth.  Melissa knew what she was
  doing."
  
  "I knew it was not the truth when I said it, but Samuel needs to believe
  it right now.  Just like you needed to believe it.  How long did it take
  you to tell me Melissa had died, let alone how she died?  Write her a
  few more letters, then tell me how your son should face the truth, Mr.
  Mulder.  Samuel has already had to face enough of life's grim truths."
  
  "Yes, I am aware of that." He looked down at his feet dangling above the
  bedside rug. "Again, what do you want me to do?  Sam loves her.  He
  needs her.  If you're confusing me with Waterston, and Poppy with Dori,
  you're wrong.  She's my housekeeper, Melly and Sarah's half-sister,
  Sam's nurse, and that's all."
  
  "Poppy does not see it that way.  At least, not anymore."
  
  He looked up, meeting her eyes. "Well, what if she doesn't?  I love you. 
  I loved you when I didn't have to.  Even when I didn't want to."
  
  "I know.  I loved you, too.  Even when I do not want to.  Even when I
  would like to shake you."
  
  "I will talk to Poppy again.  I promise.  Until then, would it make you
  feel better to shake me?" he asked.  
  
  The argument seemed to be ending, but he could be wrong.  He could never
  tell when his diversionary tactics worked with Dana and when she just
  tired of arguing with him and let them work.
  
  "No, unfortunately not.  Can I shoot you?"
  
  "Anytime you want," he promised. "Will you lie down?  Please?  Sam's
  right: you do look so tired, Dana.  You're still doing too much."
  
  "Two married people in the same bed?  What will the help think?"
  
  "Hopefully, they'll be scandalized.  Besides, it doesn't count if I
  don't undress or close my eyes," he responded, and helped her maneuver
  onto the bed, laying across the mattress so she faced him. 
  
  "I love you," he repeated, stroking her auburn hair. "I need you to tell
  me the truth, and keep telling me the truth, whether it's what I want to
  hear or not.  I need you to, because there's no one else who will.  It's
  just us now.  I have a few relatives and your mother is out there
  somewhere, I guess, but we're all that's…"
  
  He swallowed again, looking away.
  
  "It's going to be fine.  Sam's getting better, and you're going to have
  this baby – hopefully in the next week - and we'll get settled in
  Boston, and maybe we'll get Poppy a muzzle and a nubile young love
  slave.  I just need time, Dana.  I know I keep saying that, but I need
  you to trust me."
  
  "I know.  I do trust you.  I know how hard you try.  I feel foolish for
  getting angry when I know how bad it could be."
  
  "Will you ever tell me how bad it can be?" he asked. 
  
  "Will you?" she answered.
    
  *~*~*~* 
  
  As Dana slept, Mulder listened as the grandfather clock downstairs
  struck three o'clock, and then three-fifteen and three-thirty, slowly
  eating away at the remains of the night.  He was too restless to sleep
  and too weary to get up, so he'd spent hours lurking below the surface
  of consciousness but just short of dreams.  
  
  Though the only sound was Dana's soft breathing, the hairs on the back
  of his neck prickled, and Mulder opened his eyes to see his son watching
  them silently from the doorway.  An oil lamp burned far down the hall,
  silhouetting Sam with an eerie yellow glow, like the eclipse of a
  distant son.  Samuel wore loose flannel drawers, but no shirt or
  undershirt or socks, and his black hair fell almost to his bare
  shoulders.  His handsome face, half-hidden in shadow, was
  expressionless.
  
  Mulder pushed up on his elbow, glanced back at Dana, and then at Sam. 
  He didn't think he'd been asleep, but, once again, he hadn't heard Sam
  approach or the door open.
  
  "What's wrong?" he called softly, but Samuel didn't move or respond.
  "It's all right; we were just sleeping," he added, and then paused to
  rub the sand from eyes. "What is it, Sammy?"
  
  Sam continued staring at them, and, unnerved, Mulder sat up, running his
  hair through his hair.  Dana shifted, resting her hand on the indention
  his body had left, but she didn't wake as he moved away.
  
  "What's wrong?" Mulder repeated as he got up, feeling like he'd been
  caught doing something he shouldn't.  He'd dropped his trousers on the
  rug earlier, so he slipped them on over his drawers, then glanced around
  for his shirt or undershirt. "Dana was cold earlier," he lied as he
  dressed. "I must have fallen asleep.  Did you want to talk to me?"
  
  His son still didn't seem to hear him, and continued to stand motionless
  in the doorway, watching the darkness like an Indian brave on guard. 
  Sam's blank face reminded him of his mother's ghost; it was the echo of
  something no longer fully present.  Mulder had found his undershirt, but
  he shivered anyway.
  
  "Sammy?" he said again, stepping closer, and then realized Sam was only
  sleepwalking, not lurking.  He exhaled slowly. "Come on son," Mulder
  whispered, trying not to wake him. "Let's get you back to bed.  Come on
  Sammy.  It's all right."
  
  He put his hand gently on Sam's shoulder and turned the boy toward the
  hallway.  Once he was pointed in the right direction, Samuel moved
  obediently, letting his father guide him through the dark house.  Their
  bare feet were quiet against the cool, polished floor, and their shadows
  followed them on the walls, gliding after them like silent
  doppelgangers.
  
  When they reached the lamp halfway down the hall, though, Sam stopped,
  looking at the large mirror that hung above the table outside the
  ballroom.  
  
  "Come on, Sammy," he prompted. "Back to bed.  It's all right."
  
  Instead of moving, Samuel turned his head, looked at Mulder vacantly,
  and then back at their dim reflections in the looking glass.
  
  "We're wrong," Samuel whispered expressionlessly, like someone else was
  using his voice to tell a secret. "All of us."
  
  Mulder, uncertain Sam meant, nodded mutely as the hair prickled on his
  neck again.
  
  "We shouldn't be here," Sam said to their reflection in the same vacant
  voice. "We're already dead."
  
  He shivered and then swallowed dryly. "No one's dead, Sammy," he said
  finally. "Come on."
  
  Mulder, knowing he was too old to get spooked by dark shadows in
  corners, tried to guide Sam forward again, but his son didn't budge.
  
  "Not her, though," Sam added, looking back at the master bedroom where
  Dana slept, the tiniest bit of curiosity in his otherwise monotone
  voice. "Not yet."
  
  Sam looked at Mulder blankly, with a dead man's eyes, seeing something
  his father couldn't.  Mulder's heart beat double-time inside his chest. 
  He took a slow breath, reminding himself that Sam's eyes were open, but
  the boy was still sound asleep and talking the nonsense of dreams.
  
  He would not be afraid of his own son.
  
  He would not be afraid of his own son.
  
  "Back to bed, Sammy," he said, putting his hand on Sam's back and giving
  him a firm push. "Let's go."
  
  Sam didn't speak again as Mulder walked him back to his bedroom, then
  had him lay down.  The boy rested his head on the down pillows, eyes
  still open and following Mulder as he retrieved the blankets that had
  fallen to the floor.
  
  "Sleep," Mulder whispered, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I'll be
  right here."
  
  He took another slow breath, telling himself to calm down.  It was late,
  he was tired, and finding his son roaming the house was nothing out of
  the ordinary.  
  
  As Mulder waited, Sam shifted, opened his eyes, and asked, "Daddy?"
  uncertainly as he woke, sounding a decade younger. "What's wrong?"
  
  "Nothing's wrong.  You just had a bad dream." Mulder smoothed the dark
  hair back from Sam's forehead, his hand shaking slightly. "Go to sleep. 
  I'll be right here.  Sleep, baby boy."
  
  After a second, Sam's eyes closed trustingly and his face relaxed,
  looking young and peaceful.
  
  As he waited, to calm his nerves, Mulder lit the oil lamp beside Sam's
  bed as well, telling himself it was so his son wouldn't be frightened of
  the shadows.
  
  *~*~*~*
   
  Regardless of what Dana insisted, he hadn't done right by his son.
  
  All those years ago, when Bill Mulder had asked if Mulder was certain he
  was the father of Melissa's unborn child, he'd understood the
  consequences of answering affirmatively.  From the moment Samuel was
  born, Mulder had wanted to take a broom and sweep his son's path clear. 
  He could buy him every physical comfort and opportunity their world
  could provide, but it seemed he'd never been able to give Sam what the
  boy needed most.
  
  Melissa had spent the weeks after Sam's birth wandering around in a
  daze, refusing to eat or talk to anyone or leave the bedroom.  She
  didn't want anything to do with Samuel, even when Mulder brought him to
  her.  The doctor had explained she was young, delicate, and just had to
  get to know her baby.  Which had seemed like an adequate explanation
  until his mother caught her holding the baby underwater in the
  washbasin.  After that came a series of doctors and asylums, usually
  arranged by his father while Mulder was at school.  By the time Samuel
  was four, he knew the difference between "Sad Mommy," and "Nice Mommy,"
  and "Silly Mommy," which Mulder supposed was what one called it when
  Mommy painted the windows black so no one could see into their bedroom.
  
  Mulder had worried that Sam might resent Melissa, but he'd understood
  her far better than Mulder ever had.  Sam and Melly were kindred souls,
  artists who found beauty in a grain of sand and passion in the contrast
  between middle C and F sharp.
  
  And Mulder wasn't.  
  
  As much as he loved his son, he often felt as if he barely knew him. 
  Over the years, Mulder had learned more about arias and linear
  perspective than he'd ever wanted to, but he was still the foreigner in
  his son's land, floundering and struggling to comprehend the language.
  
  Melissa had understood Sam, and, because of Mulder's impulsiveness and
  carelessness, Melissa was dead.  He couldn't take back Christmas night
  he'd gone to her and she'd conceived; he couldn't take back the evening
  seven months later when he'd fallen asleep on the parlor sofa and she'd
  slit her wrists, taking Sam's unborn sister with her into death.  And he
  couldn't take back the years he'd spent away at war or Bill or Teena
  Mulder's deaths.  He couldn't take back the horrors Sam must have seen
  with General Sherman or the pain of coming home to a family and a world
  he was no longer a part of.
  
  Mulder could try to claw his way back to his son as much as he liked;
  Sam seemed to only continue drifting farther away.
  
  That afternoon, Samuel had the horse saddled and was fitting the bit
  into its mouth when Mulder entered the stable, still wearing his coat
  and hat.  He slowed to a stroll as he passed the other stalls, putting
  his hands in his pockets and trying to look casual. 
  
  "I hear you're taking a trip."
  
  Sam nodded, biting his lip in concentration as he struggled to hold back
  tears.  Apparently, there had been some sort of unpleasant exchange
  between Sam and someone about fifteen minutes before he'd arrived home
  from work.  Dana had sent Mulder hurrying to the stables to calm Sam
  down, but hadn't told Mulder what had upset his son in the first place.
  
  "Would you like to tell me where you're going?"
  
  "Colorado.  They're mining gold there.  I could mine gold."
  
  Mulder leaned against a post and crossed his arms. "Well, take your
  mittens.  The Rocky Mountains are nippy in December.  And you're a
  little late to be a 49er. And then there's the possibility you'll get
  scalped, cannibalized, buried by an avalanche, run over by a buffalo, or
  just starve to death."
  
  "California, then," Sam said, his voice quaking a little. "I'll go to
  California."
  
  "To get to California, you have to get through the Rocky Mountains. 
  Again, there's the freeze-or-starve-to-death impasse.  Why don't you
  have come inside and have a big, hot dinner first?  Fortify yourself a
  little and see if you don't calm down?"
  
  His son fastened the bridle, tossed his saddlebags over the horse, and
  started to lead it out of the stable, refusing to meet Mulder's eyes. 
  Dana was right; he was serious.  Normally, the solution to Sam
  threatening to run away was to tell him that if he did, the dog would be
  eating his supper.  He seldom made it past the end of the street, but he
  meant business this time.
  
  "Sammy, what happened?" Mulder asked, now without any sarcasm. "What's
  wrong?"
  
  "I don't belong here.  I can't stay here.  I'm sorry, but I can't."
  
  "What's happened, son?   Dana didn't tell me."
  
  "Good," Sam answered immediately, like a skittish animal that might bolt
  at any minute. "Please just let me go.  I want to leave.  I shouldn't
  have ever come back." He grimaced as if struggling not to cry. "Please,"
  he repeated earnestly.
  
  "What happened?  Tell me."
  
  Sam vigorously shook his head.
  
  "Did you and Dana have a disagreement?"
  
  "Yes.  I mean, no."
  
  "She's tired and she's uncomfortable right now, Sam.  I'm sure she
  didn't mean to hurt your feelings.  Let me talk to her about whatever's
  happened and-."
  
  Sam barked "no!" before Mulder could finish the sentence.
  
  "No, what?  Sammy, you can't leave.  Dana tries very, very hard to take
  care of you and to make you happy.  She's about to have a baby; come
  inside and-"
  
  "I can't face her!" Sam blurted out, but then paused before he added,
  "She's not my mother.  She shouldn't be barging around our house like
  she is."
  
  Mulder took a slow breath, trying to get his stomach to stop churning.
  "Tell me what happened."
  
  The dark head shook "no," and Sam caught his lower lip between his teeth
  again. "Can we- Can we go to Boston?  Right now?"
  
  "Dana can't travel right now," he tried to explain. "But soon-"
  
  "No, without her.  Just us.  We could stay there until you divorce her."
  
  "Divorce her?" he echoed in disbelief.  
  
  "You could divorce her, and we could keep Emily." 
  
  "Dana's my wife just like you're my son; neither of those things is
  going to change.  Are you serious?  Divorce?  Who put that idea into
  your head?  Poppy?" 
  
  Sam glanced up and asked in a voice that was suddenly frighteningly
  calm, "What if she dies?"
  
  "No one is going to die!  Stop that!  Don't even say that," he barked,
  and realized Sam was cowering. "God, Sammy… How can you say that?"
  
  There was no answer.   
  
  Mulder exhaled slowly, trying to think of some way to pacify Sam before
  he disappeared into a mineshaft again.
  
  "Dana will have to stay in DC for at least a month after the baby comes. 
  Yes, you can stay in Boston with me.  Maybe you two just need a break
  from each other.  I'm sure it is hard to see her in your mother's place,
  especially when she's about to have a baby.  I'm sure those memories-"
  
  Instead of arguing, Sam just buttoned his coat and pulled the horse's
  reins to turn it toward the door.
  
  "Sam, stop.  Stop and think about what you're saying.   I love you, and
  I know you're hurting, but I love Dana too.  And Emmy.  And the baby. 
  This is our family now, and it's a nice family.  You're asking me to
  choose, and you're not even giving me a reason why you suddenly dislike
  Dana.  You've gotten along with her for months.  I know she's not your
  mother, but I can't bring your mother back, Sam."
  
  "I just want to leave.  I don't belong here."
  
  "You do belong here.  Let me talk to Dana, see-"
  
  "No," Sam said suddenly. "Please don't talk to her.  Please don't.  I
  don't want her to know."
  
  "All right," Mulder agreed.  He didn't particularly want Dana to know
  about this discussion, either. "But I'm not letting you run off to
  Timbuktu."
  
  "I want to go to the London Music Conservatory.  Can I go there?"
  
  "I-I can check, but I think you have to be sixteen."
  
  "Then I could go- I could go to…" Sam looked around, as if searching for
  a destination, then just looked lost.
  
  "I'd put you on the next train to Boston, except I'm afraid you won't
  make it there.  I'm afraid you'd vanish again.  I'm leaving on the
  twenty-ninth.  Do you think you can make it another five days?  I want
  to stay as long as I can, to be here when the baby comes."
  
  His son nodded, fiddling with the bridle but not really focusing on it.
  "It won't make a difference: whether you're here or not."
  
  Mulder felt limp, like he'd won the battle but lost the war, but looked
  up again. "What won't make a difference?  You said something about Dana
  dying.  Are you just upset, or has Poppy put that idea into your head
  too, or is it something else?  Is it like knowing Grandfather was going
  to die?  Or like when you telegraphed me about your mother?"
  
  "I don't know."
  
  "Please try, Sammy.  Try hard."
  
  Sam paused, trying to concentrate. "I don't know.  I can't tell. 
  There's just so much noise here.  It gets inside my head and I can't
  think."
  
  "All right.  It's all right.  You just promise me you won't go anywhere
  for the next five days, and then we'll go to Boston and figure things
  out there.  And I won't mention this discussion to Dana, but I want you
  to be polite to her.  Do we have a deal?"
  
  One last nod, and then Sam sat down heavily on a bale of hay while
  Mulder finished unsaddling the horse.  He heard a strangled sound as he
  returned from the tack room, and found Sam with his face in his hands,
  struggling not to cry. He stood over him uncertainly, then sat with one
  arm, then both around his son's shoulders as he sobbed.  Mulder expected
  Sam to jerk away and run, but he didn't, so he sat holding him, looking
  around the stable for some explanation as to why the sky was falling.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  There were private academies, but it was the fashion for boys to be
  educated at home by tutors before attending a university.  Since
  Mulder's father chose his tutors, his education had been heavy on
  military history and literature, light on art.  He could quote Homer and
  out-maneuver Napoleon, but he didn't know Caravaggio from a crow, or
  Michelangelo from a magpie.  It wasn't until Samuel that Mulder
  developed any appreciation of art besides whether he liked it or didn't
  like it.
  
  Sam, still missing all four of his front teeth, had taught him what a
  vanishing point was one afternoon in the Smithsonian Museum.  Gesturing
  to a medieval picture of Mary and Jesus, he'd explained why it lacked
  the illusion of depth and looked like the figures were piled on top of
  each other.  He'd moved on to a Renaissance painting where the figures
  almost leapt off the canvas, and Mulder nodded.  He saw the difference
  and it made sense, but he'd always thought that was just the way the
  artists had painted them.
  
  What made a painting look real was to have everything moving toward one
  point and then disappearing into the distance, like water swirling down
  the drain.  Like many things, reality was a vanishing illusion.
  
  He spun the stem of his wine glass to make a whirlpool, watching the
  wine slosh against the crystal sides and then accidentally over the rim
  and onto the letter on his desk.  The ink ran purple as he tried to dry
  it, but he put it in the drawer anyway, knowing no one would ever read
  it.
  
  He heard a noise in the next room, and found Poppy in her nightgown,
  holding Sadie and explaining to her that Santa hadn't come yet.
  
  "Not yet," Mulder reiterated, leaning on the back of a chair in the
  seldom-used front parlor.  The mantle was decked with holly bowers and
  empty stockings, and the tree glittered with silver bells and crocheted
  white snowflakes. "Soon.  He's just down the street.  You'd better hurry
  and go back to sleep."
  
  "She's up for good, Fox," Poppy said tiredly, then covered her mouth as
  she yawned. "And Sam's awake."
  
  "Is it that late already?  That early?" he asked, squinting at the
  grandfather clock.  It read four-thirty; he'd been drinking, writing,
  and staring at the sky all night. "I was going to light the candles on
  the tree, build a fire, get the p-r-e-s-e-n-t-s out…"  
  
  Sober up, shave, change clothes, find some holiday cheer…
  
  When Poppy just looked at him questioningly, he mouthed, "Presents,"
  remembering she couldn't read or write.
  
  "You watch her and I'll do it," she volunteered.  At two and a half,
  Sadie was the only one in the house with any interest in Santa.  Emily
  was still too little to care, and Sam had figured out the truth when he
  was five and the stripes had washed off his zebra.
  
  "You wanna come with me, Miss Sadie?" he asked her, taking her from
  Poppy and swinging her high into the air. "Help me make coffee?"
  
  Sadie was agreeable, but then Sadie was always agreeable.  She said only
  a few words and had just started walking, but she was a pretty, happy
  little girl who still bore an uncanny resemblance to Samuel. 
  
  By the time Mulder had a fire going in the kitchen stove and water
  boiling on top of it, Poppy reappeared, now in her black dress with a
  white kerchief and apron.  He handed her the coffee beans and grinder,
  relinquishing his role as chef.       
  
  "Make it strong," he requested, pushing his bottom lip out to amuse
  Sadie.  She sat on the kitchen table in front of him, swinging her bare
  feet and watching her mother as they waited.
  
  "You need it.  You sober? 
  
  "I'm close," he answered. "I can see sober, but I'm not there yet.  A
  few cups of coffee and I will be, though.  I'll be okay."
  
  "You been up all night?  What's wrong?"
  
  He nodded, but changed the topic. "Are you staying here for Christmas? 
  I didn't think you were working today."
  
  "I'm not working; I'm making coffee.  Besides, where would I go?"
  
  "I don't know.  I thought…" He ran his fingers through his hair, trying
  to get it to smooth down. "Alex has his faults, but he's her father. 
  Why don't you let him see her?  Just see her.  It's Christmas."
  
  A month had healed his pride and given him time to think.  There were
  many men he respected who kept mistresses or patronized whorehouses for
  services that made Mulder's skin crawl. They were still doting fathers
  and loving husbands.  He preferred his wife, but that didn't mean all
  men did.  In fact, since marriages were usually based on convenience or
  monetary gain, most men didn't. He had trouble with the idea of two men
  together, but, rereading Whitman, had realized Alex wasn't entirely to
  blame for kissing him.  It was possible Mulder had overreacted.  He'd
  been known to do that once or twice in his life.
  
  "He's not her father."
  
  "He's not?" Mulder echoed, jarred back to reality.  He'd only spilled
  the last bit of the wine.  Between midnight and four, the rest had
  disappeared into him.
  
  "No.  He thinks he is, but he's not.  She's not his."
  
  "Oh," he said awkwardly.  He hadn't meant to pry.
  
  "She's yours."
  
  He snorted, reaching for the cup of coffee she offered, then holding it
  out of Sadie's reach. "I'll take that as a complement.  You wanna be my
  girl, Miss Sadie?" He leaned closer, putting his forehead against hers.
  "You're beautiful, just like my Sammy was at your age.  I'll take you."
  
  "Tanta Cause," she requested, blinking endless eyelashes at him.
  
  "Tanta can't come until I have coffee.  Here," he held the cup between
  them, "Help me blow.  Blow easy, or it's going to go all over my lap."
  
  Sadie blew across the surface, managing mostly air with a little spit
  mixed in for flavor.
  
  When Mulder glanced at Poppy, she was still standing beside the stove,
  watching him.
  
  "Poppy, you can't go around saying that," he told her seriously, jumping
  as a Sadie blew again and a few drops of coffee hit his trouser leg.
  "Easy," he reminded her.
  
  "I'm not telling anyone."
  
  He sat the cup aside and turned his head to look at her. "I mean it. 
  That's not something I want you joking about.  Dana wouldn't find it
  funny, and neither would Sam."
  
  "I said I won't tell," she insisted.
  
  "But-" He lowered Sadie to the floor, directing her toward the dining
  room and hopefully out of hearing range. "But I am not her father.  We-"
  He gestured back and forth between then. "Have never been together.  I
  don't mind you having her here, and she's beautiful, but you will not
  start telling people she's my daughter."
  
  "You don't remember?"
  
  "Remembered what?  I wasn't even in DC when, uh…"
  
  "No, you were in a hotel in Louisville." She was still standing beside
  the stove, arms folded, acting like this was a normal conversation.
  "With me.  You remember your mother moving you from the hospital to a
  hotel? She and Melissa left, but I stayed with you. I took care of you."
  
  "Yes, that I remember.  I also remember three dozen stitches in my chest
  and so much morphine I felt like I was floating."
  
  She nodded.
  
  He wet his lips and then said slowly, "Poppy, I guarantee we've never
  been together.  I may have been drugged, but… No.  Your dates don't
  quite match.  If you're playing a joke on me… This isn't funny; this is
  hurtful. Do you realize how many people you could hurt?"
  
  "I won't tell anyone." He opened his mouth to protest, but she added
  gently, "Fox, you don't owe me anything.  It happens.  You didn't force
  me.  You asked and I wanted to."
  
  He stared at her in disbelief, still a little tipsy.  Jesus Christ, she
  seemed to believe it, and he couldn't think of any way to prove her
  wrong.  
  
  He exhaled, hearing Dana get out of bed upstairs and Grace's claws
  tripping up and down the hallway between the bedrooms.  Sam was up,
  which meant he'd gotten Emily up, which meant Dana was up before five
  a.m.  So much for her promise to get more rest.
  
  "Did you tell Melly?"
  
  It bothered him that she hesitated, studying him and calculating her
  answer for half a second.  If she said she had, she was not only fired,
  she was about to be the first woman he'd ever hit.  Once again, Dana was
  right: she was dangerous.
  
  He was getting tired of Dana being right.
  
  "Did you tell Melly you and I were lovers?  Before she died, when I was
  in Georgia, did you tell Melly I was the father of the baby you were
  having?"
  
  "No.  No, course not.  Fox, I'm not tryin' to cause problems.  You asked
  who her father was.  I didn't know you didn't remember; I thought you
  just weren't saying anything.  You had Emily and Dana… She trusts you,
  and this would hurt her.  Especially now."
  
  "Are you trying to blackmail me?  Is that what this is about?"
  
  "No," she insisted innocently. "No, Fox.  Never."
  
  "What have you told Sam?" he demanded, but she didn't answer. 
  
  As the floorboards squeaked overhead, he considered his options, picking
  up his coffee again and clutching the handle angrily. "If you breathe
  one word – to Sam, to Dana, to anyone - I will fire you.  Whether you
  think you're telling the truth or not, I don't care.  You'll be out of a
  job without a reference.  No nice family will hire you and you know
  where you'll end up.  Am I making myself clear?"
  
  "I won't tell anyone," she repeated, backing away, shivering even though
  the kitchen was warm.
  
  "I want you out of my house.  You're not staying here at night and the
  only reason you still have a job at all is because Sam loves you.  Find
  a flat and I'll pay the rent, but I want you out. Today. This morning."
  
  He set his cup down hard, spilling it, and without looking back, went to
  help Dana down the stairs.  
  
  To his surprise, Sam was carrying Emily on his hip and walking slowly
  with Dana, offering his arm in case she lost her balance.  For a boy
  who'd been discussing her death twelve hours earlier, Sam was being a
  perfectly solicitous escort.  There was a procession: Grace would waddle
  a few steps below them, then wait, watch, and wag until she caught up.
  
  "Good morning.  Merry Christmas," he greeted them, forcing a smile and
  taking Emily from Sam.
  
  "Merry Christmas," Sam answered while Dana caught her breath.  The
  doctor kept coming by to check on her and promising it would be "any day
  now, Mrs. Mulder." From the look of her, any minute was more like it.
  
  "Cwith-mas," Emily added, giving his scruffy cheek a wet kiss.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
  End: Paracelsus X