Begin: Paracelsus XII *~*~*~* Melissa, Every now and then, late at night, in a quiet corner of the house, Dana discovers me writing to you. She'll pad down the stairs in her nightgown and bare feet, push her hair back from her face, and ask, "What are you doing, Mr. Mulder?" as if she didn't already know. When we first married, I would fib and say I was editing an article for the paper or composing a note to some ambiguous "friend," but now I just answer, "Writin' to Melly." Sometimes she curls up on the sofa, waiting for me to return to bed; sometimes I even read a few sentences to her, although that still feels strange – as though I am being unfaithful to one of you, though I'm not sure which. You were one life; Dana is another. Regardless, Dana knows I still write to you. She said I do it because I still have something I need to say. Melly, I'm not sure I still do. For fourteen years, I was as good a husband as I knew how to be. We were two children playing at marriage, taking vows without any real understanding of the weight behind the words. I was not perfect, but I did not promise to be. I promised to love, honor, and cherish you, keeping only unto you until death parted us. I did my best to keep that promise. I did my best. You left, Melly; I didn't. I just got left behind. As the anger and sadness fades, when I pick up my pen, I am not sure what to say to you anymore. I fill pages about Dana and Sam, but it has begun to feel like the awkward moment when a conversation is over, but no one wants to say goodbye. So I am saying goodbye. Not that I will never write to you again, or won't think of you every time I look at Sam or hear Bach's piano concertos, or that I won't cry for you, but for now, I think the conversation has ended. I would not say it to Dana, but her Irish Catholicism and Poppy's Voodoo Catholicism share a common belief: death is not a cessation of life, but a gradual change from one condition to another. In Catholicism, there is Purgatory, but in Voodoo, the soul splits into two parts. One half returns to the earth and is the energy of life and rebirth. The other remains with the living for a time, staying close to its loved ones. Eventually, as the living let go, the two halves can reunite, be at peace, and move on – moving not into death, but deeper into the cycle of life. I'm letting you go, letting you be at peace. Letting myself be at peace. I hope with all my heart that I will meet you again in some future universe. And that we will stop and talk and perhaps become friends. Perhaps become more. Something went wrong in this lifetime, Melly. I cannot explain how I know that, but I do. Sarah shouldn't have died – not like she did. And perhaps I should have died on that field: let the other half of my soul rise from my body and follow hers. All that has happened after that moment is uncharted territory, a second chance at a life I was never intended to have. But my God, what a gift. One of the first things that struck me about Dana was how precious she found life when all I saw around me was ruin. Her pain was no less than mine, and in many ways it was more. Still, she got up at night to watch thunderstorms and hold her baby against her skin in the darkness. She savored life the way I was afraid to. She was alive while I was only existing. She let me love her - body, mind, and soul - when I thought I'd never find the energy to do more than play a role. It's not enough to survive, Melly. Any fool can hide from life and survive. It's thriving that really unsettles people, and God knows I love to do that. My universe moved on, and I was left behind, a stranger alone in a strange world. By chance, one hot Georgia afternoon, I met another stranger. One minute earlier or later and I would not have, and she might have died alone, having her baby. It would have been only "her baby," then, not "our Emmy." I have to think meeting her was Fate – God looking down and muttering, "Well, you're still there anyway, you stubborn fool. Let's teach you a lesson." And he did. She did. Dana taught me that while a ship is safe in the harbor, that's not what a ship is intended for. Until we meet again, Fox William Mulder *~*~*~* He sat sideways on the top step, legs sprawled and eyes fixed on the opposite end of the long hallway as if his tired gaze could penetrate the bedroom door. Sam was one step down, wrapped in a blanket from his bed and staring blankly. His son's head bobbed a few times as his eyelids lowered, but he startled, shaking awake like a toddler fighting a nap. "You can sleep, Sammy," Mulder said gently. "Go to the library, lie down on the sofa, and get some rest. I'll wake you when the baby comes." "We're not going to Boston tonight, are we?" "No. The last train left hours ago. We missed it." A floorboard creaked, sounding suspiciously like a woman moaning, and Mulder had to stop breathing momentarily. He stared at the door, willing it to open. All he could hear was silence, which was dry kindling to an overactive imagination. There was a schedule: once an hour, Rebekah or the doctor would come out and update him, and it was an agonizing forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds until the two a.m. update. "Tomorrow?" "No, probably not tomorrow, either." Mulder shifted, trying to find a way to lean against the banister so the spindles didn't jab his backbone or kidneys. He gave up and turned, sitting with his back to the top of the staircase and his feet on the step below Sam's. "What about the senate?" Another moan, this time definitely Dana and definitely real, because Sam heard it too. Mulder bit his lower lip, which burned as the chapped skin stretched between his teeth. Sam pulled the blanket tighter around him and studied his sock feet, then craned to see if the bedroom door looked any different. He swallowed several times, then asked, "What's wrong? Why isn't the baby coming?" "The doctor's with her," Mulder answered evasively. "He's a good doctor. He delivers lots of babies. He delivered you. He took care of your mother. He…" He started to say "He took care of your Aunt Sarah," but shivered as a chill trickled down his spine like a single bead of sweat. "The night you were born, I was so nervous that your grandfather took pity and got me drunk. Very drunk. Howling at the moon, embarrassing Grandmother, drunk. Except you took so long getting here that by the time you arrived, I'd sobered up again." He planned an encouraging grin, but ended up with a facial twitch that didn't inspire confidence. "I don't want anything to happen to Dana," Sam said quietly, fear stealing into his voice like a cold fog. "I don't, but… I'm scared. I don't want to be here if something happens to her." "She's going to be fine, Sam. The doctor's doing everything he can. He-" Even he could hear the lack of conviction in his voice, so he just stopped speaking. Mulder exhaled, not sure how much of the empty space inside him was cold and exhaustion and how much was fear. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, forehead on his palms. "Everything will be fine, Sammy. You did a good job – going for the doctor. Everything will be fine. It won't be much longer." Which was what Dana had said six hours ago. "Then we'll go to Boston?" Mulder leaned harder on his elbows, kneading his forehead with his fingertips. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windowpanes and forcing snowflakes against the glass. "Father?" "Sammy…" he muttered tiredly. He heard Sam adjust his blanket and hunker lower, trying to disappear into the shadows. "Yes, we'll go," Mulder amended. "But not until I'm sure Dana and the baby are all right. And that's not going to be for a few days. Maybe a few weeks, even." "What about Grandfather's senate seat?" "This is his grandson being born; I think Grandfather would want me sitting right here." Mulder glanced up, expecting to see Sam on his feet and walking away. Instead, his son just sat, looking young and lost and afraid that he'd forgotten the way home. "Come here, Sammy," Mulder offered, guiding his son's head against his thigh. He felt Sam resist, then relax and lean against him, closing his eyes. He put his arm around Sam, stroking his hair and holding him close as he slept. Below them, the grandfather clock in the foyer chimed one-fifteen. *~*~*~* Night thinned into a fine silky blackness, then ripped, letting the first scarlet traces of dawn spill through the delicate fabric. Sam made coffee, then fell asleep at the kitchen table, his dark head resting beside his mug. Aside from his soft snores downstairs and the sounds from the other side of the bedroom door, the world was silent, insulated by the white drifts that glistened silver in the last of the moonlight. Mulder's chapped lower lip had split in three places, and he alternated the tip of his tongue between the raw fissures. He'd changed into the clean underwear and shirt that had been in his satchel, but, banned from the bedroom, had retrieved a pair of trousers from the laundry basket downstairs. There was an ink stain on one leg, and he licked his thumb and rubbed it nervously, only making it larger. About five a.m., his imagination had gotten the best of him and he'd demanded to see Dana, which was "interfering" and "getting in the way," according to the incensed doctor. When he'd protested that he'd been there when Emily was born, the doctor had threatened to leave, saying he wouldn't stand for such impropriety. Under any other circumstances, Mulder would have told him to go to Hell. Proper or not, no one told him where he could be or not be in his own house. Given the circumstances, though – which were almost three feet of snow on the ground, the middle of the night, and a glimpse of Dana lying barely conscious in their bed – he'd retreated to the hallway. "Fox, are you still there?" Rebekah's voice asked. "I'm here," he answered immediately, scrambling up and standing as close as he could to the closed bedroom door without merging into it. "What is it ‘Bekah? What's wrong?" "The baby kicked," she responded. "I'm sure of it." Mulder nodded and slid back to the floor, tilting his face upward and saying a silent thank you. According to the doctor, the baby had finally turned, but then stopped moving. Babies usually came within twelve hours of the water breaking, he'd explained, and it had been longer than that. The baby was too big, Dana was too tired and uncooperative, and it had been too long. Saving Dana was the priority now, he'd said. He'd said it slowly, as though giving Mulder time to adjust to the idea. "How is Dana?" he asked shakily. "Is she awake?" That was the main problem, as well as Mulder understood it: the doctor had given Dana morphine so she'd relax and he could turn the baby. But either the doctor had given her too much or she was too exhausted, because she'd relaxed to the point of unconsciousness and the contractions had stopped. "I think so," Rebekah answered. "The pains have started again." "Just a little longer, Mr. Mulder," the doctor said. "Why don't you wait downstairs?" He shook his head defiantly as if there was anyone to see him. When he opened his hands, his fingernails had dug eight little crescents into his palms. Mulder interlaced his fingers and closed his eyes, continuing his dialogue with God. "Push, Miss," he heard Rebekah urging. "Push." "Push," Mulder echoed silently, keeping his eyes clenched shut and his front teeth pressed together so hard his forehead throbbed. Dana mumbled in Gaelic, saying "no" and then something he couldn't understand. "Mrs. Mulder, I need you to wake up and push," the doctor requested sternly. "Push, Miss Dana," Rebekah said again. "Don't go back to sleep. Listen to the doctor. Wake up and push. Your baby's ready to come." "Push, love," Mulder prayed. "Báb?" Dana said weakly, sounding disoriented. "Yes, the baby," Mulder answered through the door. "Tell her ‘Bhí, báb Tomas: tá sé go breá.'" "Yes, baby Thomas: he is fine," he heard Rebekah repeat in Gaelic. "Màthair?" Dana asked in a small voice. "Tell her yes, Rebekah. Say ‘bhí' again. Tell her you're her mother." "Bhí," Rebekah echoed, then ordered Dana to push. Dana responded in Gaelic, and he heard her whimper as she tried to obey, then collapse back onto the pillows, panting. "Again," the doctor ordered. The pained noises on the other side of the door built to a crescendo with Rebekah's and the doctor's voices urging Dana to try one last time. He heard a long moan, and then, as the seconds passed, nothing. Dana panted tiredly, quick footsteps crossed the floor, but there was no sound from the baby. There was a slap, some frantic whispering, and still nothing. "Clean out its mouth," Rebekah's voice suggested. "It's clean," the doctor responded tersely. "Get me another towel." Mulder stared at his hands, focusing on the white knuckles and mottled red tips. "Breathe, breathe, breathe," he chanted silently, feeling his cracked lips moving, but no air coming out. He finally heard a weak cry, and exhaled, unclenching his aching fingers. He put one palm on the cool door as if he could feel the baby's heartbeat through it. "Is he okay?" "It's a girl," the doctor said as the baby's cries grew louder. "A little girl," Mulder echoed in surprise. "Oh my God, we have a baby girl. Is Dana okay? Dana?" "She should be fine," the doctor answered, and a heavy weight lifted from Mulder's shoulders. He nodded again and hurried to the top of the stairs, calling for Sam. When there was no response, he went to wake him, barely feeling his feet skipping down the steps or his hand gliding along the banister. "A girl," he informed the cook and Emily's nursemaid, who'd fallen asleep in the parlor as they waited. He jostled their shoulders excitedly. "The baby's here. It's a little girl. We have a little girl." He was half a step from throwing open the front door and giddily announcing the news to the frozen world. He had a baby girl. "Sammy, the baby's here," he told his son as the boy raised his head, trying to get his eyes to open. Samuel looked curiously at his father's hand on his arm, then started to go back to sleep. "A little girl. Come on – wake up!" Sam blinked and stumbled after him obediently, following Mulder up the stairs. They met Rebekah halfway as she carried a tiny bundle of white flannel down the upstairs hall. "Cailín," Rebekah told them, smiling proudly. "Miss Dana just said her name is Cailín." "Kee-lin? Kay-lin?" he asked as she gave the baby to him. He'd been euphoric before, but as the weight settled safely into his arms, he momentarily lost the power of speech. "She's- She's- Oh, my God." "Congratulations," Rebekah responded, glowing. "She's beautiful. Does, does Dana mean Colleen?" If he had to decide just then, her name would probably have been "ubba- I-uh-duh." "Cailín," Rebekah said again, imitating Dana's Irish accent. "When the doctor told Miss Dana had a little girl, she said ‘Cailín.'" "Cailín," he repeated, rolling the exotic word around his mouth. "Hello, Miss Cailín. Hello there." Sam leaned closer, and Mulder added, "Meet your big brother. This is Sammy. And Emily is your sister. And I'm your father. Are you going to open your eyes for us, little one?" "She's red," Sam mumbled, still not really awake. "She just came. She was just born a few minutes ago. The doctor's still with Dana." Cailín half-opened one blue eye, looked at the faces above hers, and closed it again, yawning. "Dana's all right?" Sam asked. "The doctor said she'd be fine. She's just- She's, uh…" Something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He looked up and saw Dana standing at the other end of the hall, watching him impassively. Her hair was loosely braided, and countless strands had slipped out of place and curled around her face. Her nightgown was huge on her now, and as he watched, a spot of scarlet appeared over her thighs, then spread until the gown was stained with blood from her waist to her knees. "My God, Dana," he said in horror, quickly giving the baby back to Rebekah. "Get back to bed! What are you doing? Where's the doctor?" The figure continued to stare at him, pale and unblinking, and as patient as death. "Fox? What's wrong?" Rebekah asked as he sprinted for the master bedroom, his boots slippery on the waxed floor. "Where are you going?" "Father?" Sam called. "Who are you talking to?" He opened his arms to catch her when she collapsed, but realized, in the half-second before the figure vanished, that he couldn't feel the warmth from her skin or sense the energy from her body. Like his mother's ghost, she was visible in his world, but no longer a part of it. "No," he screamed, grabbing the bedroom doorknob frantically. It was locked, and he pounded twice on the door with his fist before he used his shoulder to force it open. It took three tries for the thick wood to give, but it finally did, and he stood in the doorway, holding his throbbing shoulder and staring at their bedroom in disbelief. There was too much red. It was everywhere: on the towels on the floor, on the doctor's hands, and on the bed sheets. "What are you doing to her?" he demanded as his stomach clenched and his throat tightened. "She's hemorrhaging," the doctor responded, kneading Dana's abdomen. "Raise the foot of the bed. Now!" Sam and Rebekah had followed him, and Mulder turned, ordering Sam to help him. Rebekah laid the baby in the cradle beside the bed and rushed downstairs, but Sam just stood in the doorway, staring at Dana. The color drained from his face, and his lips moved wordlessly. "Sammy," Mulder said sharply. "Listen to me. When I lift the foot of the bed, slide a stack of books underneath it." Mulder squatted, getting a good grip. "Sammy, she's not your mother. Come here and help me now. Hurry." Sam shook his head frantically, the way he used to when he was small and Poppy would try to give him medicine. "She's bleeding, Sam. Get over here and help me!" His son turned and bolted, pounding down the stairs, through the house, and out the back door. "Damn it! Sammy – stop," Mulder yelled, then shifted his attention and held the bed up as the doctor slid the books into place. Rebekah returned with a bucket of snow and more towels. She dumped the snow onto one of the towels, folded it into a cold compress and placed it on Dana's abdomen. "It will shrink the womb," she explained as Mulder stood beside the bed, watching helplessly. He saw Dana's chest fall as she exhaled, but it didn't rise again. He waited, holding his own breath, but she didn't move. And his world slowed. The doctor pressed another towel between her legs in an attempt to slow the bleeding, but Mulder could see the blood seeping from the center to the edges as it saturated. When he looked up, he saw it again – Dana's pale, ethereal reflection in the doorway, watching him as he stood beside her body. The figure regarded him impassively for several seconds, then took a step backward. "Don't go," he pleaded, his nose beginning to drip and tears forming in the corners of his eyes. "Please. I'm so sorry." The spirit studied him, as though trying to determine if they were acquaintances. "Please," he repeated. "It isn't over. Don't you know me?" he pleaded. "Please – don't go." Two men stood behind the figure, waiting for her. One wore a naval uniform, and Mulder recognized him from the photograph as her father, Captain Scully. The other was taller, slimmer – a blond man with sleepy, thoughtful eyes. His shirt and trousers were neat, but plain, and there was a gunshot wound where his abdomen should have been. Her Oisin. A hand met flesh as the doctor slapped Dana's cheek hard, trying to get the body to breathe. "Just a little longer," Mulder begged desperately. "Please. Maybe, maybe this never happens again – us finding each other. Maybe this is all. Maybe this is our last chance." "Stop jabbering and hold this, Fox" Rebekah ordered, and he looked down, putting his hand on the cold compress on Dana's abdomen. "I'm getting the baby. Nursing the baby may help." The doctor snapped that a lady nursing a baby was a disgusting idea, and Rebekah argued that it wasn't disgusting if it kept her from bleeding to death. Mulder opened his mouth, trying to string his thoughts together to register an opinion, but felt his hand on Dana's abdomen move as she took a breath, then moaned softly. "Breathe, Dana," Mulder ordered. "Stay with me." Dana's ghost was gone, and the two male figures near the door quickly faded, dissolving into nothing as if they'd never been there. "Breathe, love," Mulder commanded again, and her chest rose a second time. And a third. And, as the world returned to normal speed, a fourth. Her lips were blue, her face gray, and she shivered violently, but she kept breathing. "You had not slept and your eyes were playing tricks on you," Dana would respond when he told her about it a week later, when she was finally well enough to have a conversation. "How much had you had to drink?" "Not a drop," he'd answer, but she wouldn't believe him. Instead of arguing, he'd just asked, "Oisin was tall and slim, like me, but with blond hair, wasn't he?" and for once, gotten the last word as she'd stared up at him in mute disbelief. *~*~*~* According to the almanac, it was the most precipitation the east coast had seen since 1831, causing floods in the southern states and snowdrifts over a man's head in the north. In DC, streetcars and trains stopped running, telegraph lines went down as ice-covered tree branches fell on them, and on Sunday, December 30th, the city awoke to thirty inches of snow on the White House lawn. Even if Sam had tried, he couldn't have gone very far. As he stepped inside the stable, Mulder could hear muffled sobs from the last stall. Samuel was huddled in the corner, shivering and desperately trying to catch his breath. Porthos looked worried, and was nudging him with his velvety nose. "I brought you a coat," Mulder said, shrugging his own off and wrapping it around his son's shoulders. He started to rub his back, but as Mulder moved forward, Sam shrank away. "Is. She. Dead?" Sam asked between gasps. "No. She's resting. As long as there isn't a fever, the doctor thinks she'll recover. It'll be a long time before she's well, though. That was, that was a close call. Too close." Instead of helping, that seemed to make it worse. Sam covered his head with his hands, trying to shield himself from the world. "I'm sorry," he mumbled miserably. "You must hate me." "Sammy," Mulder said tiredly, "Look up." His son raised his head, wiping his nose on his shirt sleeve. "Look at my hands," Mulder requested, holding them up like he was showing off a set of rings. They shook uncontrollably, and there was still dried blood under his fingernails. "Do you see that?" Sam nodded. "I'm scared to death. Hide in the cellar, piss my pants, shaking in my boots, scared to death. I've watched two women I loved die – one in the same room, in the same bed – and their babies die with them. I'm terrified it's going to happen a third time. I'm terrified the doctor's going to say Dana has a fever or she's bleeding again. Or the baby's sick. If there's anything past terrified, that's what I feel right now. So, no, I don't hate you." Sam nodded again. "The cook's fixing breakfast for you; when you calm down, come inside and eat. And then I'd like you to run an errand. The baby will be hungry soon and we need the wet nurse. It's not very far. You'd just need to take an extra horse and go get her. Do you think you can do that?" Nod. "Are you ready to come inside?" Sam nodded no. "I'll get the nurse." "All right. Be careful." Mulder stood, turning away. He had space in his brain to make sure Sam wasn't in mortal danger. Any coddling would have to wait. "Aunt Sarah died because she was going to have a baby?" his son asked from behind him. "Not cholera?" Mulder paused and took a deep breath. Samuel always managed to comprehend exactly the wrong part of a conversation. "Yes, she was going to have a baby," he answered. Sam opened his mouth to ask the next obvious question, glanced at his father, and closed it again. *~*~*~* He was aware the mere mention of the name "Mulder" caused the doctor to develop indigestion. First, there had been Mulder's own youthful scrapes and falls, each of which his parents had thought was a national crisis. Then Sarah's death. Then, after Samuel's birth, Melly's stubborn refusal to comply with the doctor's promises that she would get better. There was the first time she'd tried to kill Sam – and almost succeeded – and then the second six years later. Sam's scrapes and falls – which both his father and grandfather thought were national crises. And a few other "accidents" Melissa had with her medicine or Mulder's razor before her final suicide. Then there was Dana, who tolerated rather than revered the doctor's superior knowledge. She didn't spend her pregnancy in bed, she didn't wear a corset past her fifth month, and, though she avoided going out in public, she didn't hide herself away in the bedroom, either. She took baths, ran the house, raised her arms over her head, and they just didn't mention they'd had relations when she was pregnant. No sense in making the poor old doctor faint. As far as Mulder was concerned, though, the man was a candidate for sainthood. Dana was asleep in the bedroom, and his baby girl was asleep in the nursery, both taking slow, rhythmic breaths. If the doctor had requested Mulder pay him in teeth instead of dollars, Mulder would have found a pair of pliers and opened his mouth. "Keep her flat," the doctor said tiredly as Rebekah helped him with his coat. He'd been there for three days straight, and the strain showed in his thin face and shoulders. "And I mean flat. Not on her side, not sitting up, flat on her back. When she's awake enough to swallow, give her sips of cool water and broth. Maybe some tea." "Can she see the baby?" Mulder asked. "If she's awake?" "For a little bit; just don't upset her." "What if she wants to feed-" "Absolutely not," the doctor said sternly. "She needs all her strength. Just keep her comfortable and let her rest. I'll be back first thing in the morning." "Thank you," Mulder said, awkwardly offering his left hand. "You have no idea how grateful I am." After they shook hands, there was a pause, and the doctor cleared his throat. Rebekah took her cue and left, leaving the two men alone in the foyer. "I've known you a long time, Fox," the doctor said quietly. "Your father was a good man, God rest his soul, but he isn't here, so I'll say it. You and I've seen enough young women die, and by all rights, your wife should have been one of them. Son, you just got a miracle." "I know that." "I know you love your wife, but don't tempt providence again, if you take my meaning. You already have a healthy son, and the world's full of willing flesh." Mulder nodded, red-faced and staring at the floor. "I'll be back in the morning. Just let her rest," the doctor repeated, and then opened the door, letting the cold wind in. *~*~*~* Life went in circles, repeating with slight variations on a theme. This time it was his bed and his wife that he sat beside, shifting restlessly in his straight-back wooden chair. His book of poems was half-hidden under the bed – the Whitman collection that had started the hoopla with Alex – and he reached down for it, wanting something to fill his mind as the surreal hours passed. As he opened the worn cover to read the inscription from Dana, he saw three dried, bloody fingerprints on it. The book had been one he and the doctor had grabbed to prop up the foot of the bed. Mulder closed the small book, stood, and carried it to its place on the shelf across the room. As he watched from the bedroom window, Sam trudged up the slushy sidewalk, returning home for breakfast. He'd asked to spend the last few nights with his curator friend from the Smithsonian Museum, claiming they were sketching but likely just looking for any excuse to avoid being at home. Mulder had tried to talk to him several times to assure Sam that he wasn't angry and Dana would be fine. He'd had those conversations with the top of Sam's head as his son stared at the rug or floorboards, desperate to be anywhere except in his father's presence. Sam paused on the front walk, glancing up at the bedroom window. When he saw Mulder looking back, he lowered his gaze, adjusted the collar on his coat, and continued into the house. Mulder heard Emily chattering happily downstairs, eager to tell her big brother about her morning. As he returned to his chair, Dana turned her head, slowly opening her eyes, then blinking as he came into focus. "Hello," he said softly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. "There you are." "Your arm?" she asked sleepily, after a few seconds, raising her fingers to touch the sling immobilizing his right shoulder. Mulder laughed in nervous disbelief, then answered, "I lost a fight with a door. It took me about six hours to even notice. Are you all right? How are you feeling?" "Shaky." She wet her lips, and he reached for the glass, raising it to her mouth. "Thank you. What- What happened?" "What's the last thing you remember?" She blinked, seeming uncertain. "The doctor saying he was going to…" She paused, moving her hand over the blankets to her flat abdomen. "To turn…" "She's fine. She's in the nursery. I can bring her, if you want. Do you feel well enough to see her?" "A girl?" Her eyes darted over his face, wanting to know if he was disappointed. She raised her hand again, stroking the beard that he'd forgotten to shave in the last week. "We have another girl?" "A beautiful little girl. Cailín. She has blue eyes, brown hair… She's perfect, Dana." "Her name?" "Cailín," he repeated gently. She nodded slightly. "A girl. What is her name?" "Dana, it's Cailín. That is her name." "Cailín is ‘girl.' You named our girl Girl? Oh, for God's sake…" "Easy," he cautioned. "Calm down." He took her hand, kissing the palm, then laced his fingers through hers. Her skin was so pale it was almost transparent, but it was cool to the touch. Like glass. He was certain she'd shatter at any minute. "I'll bring her, but you have to stay calm." Dana nodded again, too weak to object. There were now two nursemaids – one for Emily and one for Cailín – a wet nurse, and Rebekah acting as nanny-in-chief, but Samuel was in the nursery, putting the final pin in Emily's new diaper. "Dana's awake, and she'd like to see Cailín. Will you carry her for me?" In response, Samuel set Emily down, retrieved Cailín from the cradle, and settled her into the crook of Mulder's good arm. "Why don't you carry her?" Mulder asked. "Dana's going to fine. She's getting better. Please, Sam." Samuel shook his head. "She isn't angry with you, Sam. In fact, she had no idea what happened. I just asked, and she doesn't remember any of it, thank God." Sam shook his head again, and Mulder didn't pursue it. "All right. How is your friend from the museum?" "He's fine, sir," his son said politely. "It's nice that he lets you spend the night so often. And that he likes art. You should keep in touch with him after we move to Boston." Sam glanced at his father, watching him from beneath his dark eyelashes, and then went back to studying the floor as he mumbled, "Yes, sir." Mulder wasn't certain Sam was really staying with this curator friend; his instincts told him there was something more going on, and at Sam's age that usually meant he'd met a pretty housemaid or shop girl. For well-bred young men, casual love affairs were tolerated and even expected. Rather than being frowned upon, so long as the girl was working class, "wild oats," was the usual explanation, followed by a casual shrug. "Boys will be boys." Mulder had never been one to blindly accept the usual explanation for much of anything. "You should invite him for tea, sometime. I'd like to meet him. Could you do that?" Another nod and an unconvincingly mumbled "Yes, sir," which confirmed Mulder's suspicions. That was three sirs in one minute; even Samuel wasn't that polite unless he'd been doing something he shouldn't. "Sammy – where's your charcoal and sketch pad? Sam glanced to the side, like they might be in the corner of the nursery. "I forgot them." "Yes, you did. They're in the library, Sam. They've been there since Wednesday. You forgot to take them with you when you left. You can't meet your artist friend to sketch if you don't bring your sketch pad. But you could have borrowed one, so why don't you show me the charcoal smudges on your cuffs?" he asked, keeping his voice calm. His son shoved both hands deep in his trouser pockets and slouched miserably. "I think you should stay home at night from now on," Mulder said after a moment, trying to sound kind but firm. "If he really exists, invite your museum friend over or go visit him during the day, but I want you to come home at night. You're fifteen, and, regardless, it would make me feel better to know where you are. You don't have to see Dana if you don't want to, yet, but I want you home at night. And as soon as she's well, we'll leave for Boston. All right?" "Yes, sir," Sam said, barely audible. "I'm not angry, Sammy. Or even surprised. I remember being fifteen. With all that's happened, it must be nice to – just to be with someone. I understand that, but you are fifteen and there are consequences. There always are. I don't want that for you. All right?" Sam nodded, looking guilty and embarrassed. "Good," Mulder said, starting to turn away. "I'll stop," he heard Sam say hoarsely, and then clear his throat. As Mulder looked back, holding the baby in the crook of his good arm, Sam was nodding affirmatively as if committing himself to some goal. "I will stop." Mulder paused in the nursery doorway. "I think that would be best," he responded softly, then carried the baby down the long hallway to the master bedroom. "Are you still awake?" he asked as he returned to the bedroom, and Dana opened her eyes, nodding and trying to sit up. "No, stay flat," he insisted, doing some awkward one-handed maneuvering to lay the baby beside her. "This is Cailín." "Cailín álainn," she murmured, "Beautiful girl. Is she all right?" "She's fine. She took her time getting here, but she's fine. You had us worried, though." "Is she hungry?" "No, I don't think so," he answered, knowing Dana was too groggy to realize she didn't have any milk. "Not right now." "What day is it?" Dana asked, examining the baby. Cailín was small, but not red and wrinkled like a newborn. "It's Saturday," he hedged. She blinked at him. "You were supposed to leave Friday - The senate. Mulder, you have to go…" The train had finally run, bringing the mail from Boston. Among the letters on his desk downstairs was the formal notification from the Massachusetts legislature that he would be considered as a senate candidate when the January term began. Given his last name, a majority vote was a forgone conclusion, provided he met the requirements – thirty years of age, nine years as a US citizen, and Massachusetts residency. In the polarized aftermath of the war, Bill Mulder's senate seat had been empty for two and a half years. Massachusetts needed representation, and Spender was the only other candidate under consideration. "It's Saturday, January 5th," he told her, brushing his lips against her cool cheek, then the baby's forehead. "Welcome to 1867, love." Such as it was. *~*~*~* It was the violet no-time before dawn, and all but one of the candles on the dresser had melted into a pool of wax around a flickering yellow flame. It was soothing, hypnotizing. The baby's heartbeat was steady against his, and he let his mind drift through space as he held her: moving forward, backward, then turning sideways and slipping into the cluttered recesses of his memory. He still had trouble comprehending the magnitude of the miracle asleep against his shoulder. There were no words to explain what it was like to see echoes of his mother in his daughter's sleepy blue eyes. Cailín had her eyes, his mouth, his father's dimple, and a warm little nose that he couldn't place, but that matched his lips perfectly when he kissed it. She was flesh of his flesh. She was his: hoped for, planned for, wanted, celebrated, cherished, and protected with his last breath. If he could have cut open his chest and stored her safely inside, he would have. There was too much evil in the world for him to risk ever letting her go. "Another hour and you'll be nine days old," he murmured to her, as minuscule fingers wrapped around his finger. "Nine whole days. Any thoughts so far, Cally-girl?" Cailín's lips continued to move as she nursed in her dreams. "Me neither," he assured her, nuzzling the top of her head. Like a wild animal, he could identify her by smell alone: like new rain and sweet cream and clean pillowcases. Her wet nurse used lavender soap, so there was a hint of that as well, like Emily had always smelt faintly of Dana's skin. Across the room, the covers shifted as Dana rolled over, then tried to sit up. "I'm here," he said immediately. He steadied Cailín against him and stood, going to the bed. "What is it? Do you need something?" "I heard the baby crying," she answered, sounding disoriented. "No, she's fine. Go back to sleep." "But I heard her crying." "You were dreaming, Dana. Go back to sleep." She pushed her legs over the side, her bare feet dangling far above the floor. "No, I heard a baby. Maybe it was Emily." "It wasn't," he insisted. He stood in front of her, making sure she didn't try to get up. "I was just in the nursery, and she's fine. You had a bad dream. You're still dreaming. Lie down. It's not morning yet." She looked at him uncertainly, still more asleep than awake. "Are you sure?" "I'm sure it's not morning yet. Look: she's fine." He sat on the mattress, showing her the baby. "And Emmy's fine. Lie down. Do you want your medicine?" He knew she didn't. She'd taken it before bed, so it was just starting to wear off. While it eased the pain, it made her groggy and gave her nightmares. It required Mulder and the doctor both standing over her to get her to take it in the first place. Predictably, she shook her head, but relaxed and sank back on the pillows. She closed her eyes, and he thought for a moment she'd fallen asleep. He started toward the sofa, taking the baby with him. Mulder slept on the sofa, Cailín slept either on his chest or in the cradle beside him, and Dana slept in the bed. The last time they'd shared a bed, even to sleep, was Christmas night, and it had been Thanksgiving before that. He'd fallen back on his old excuse: it was so Dana could rest. When she was better, he'd think up a new one. "Why are you awake?" she asked drowsily, and he turned back. "Cailín was up earlier. That's probably what you heard. I was just getting her back to sleep." "Was she wet?" "Yes, she was wet." "And hungry?" "She's fine," he said lightly, preferring to avoid the issue. Dana nodded. In the yellow candlelight, her face still looked too pale, too tired, and she pulled the edge of her lip between her teeth. "I must have heard her, but I did not wake up until now," she said shakily. "She would have cried all this time." "She didn't. Don't worry about her. You shouldn't be waking up anyway. Just rest and get better. Cally-girl is fine. Go back to sleep." As Mulder watched, a crease appeared between her eyebrows, and her jaw clenched as she tried to fight back frustrated tears. Unlike Melissa, she wanted to get up, to take care of her baby, but her body wouldn't let her. Mulder had argued that many children were raised by servants, and he'd rather Cailín had a wet nurse now and a live mother later, but his arguments seemed to fall on deaf ears. "Dana, don't get upset. Please don't," he pleaded. "She's fine. Do you want to hold her?" "She cries when I hold her," Dana said in a ragged voice. "No, she doesn't. Not always." He laid the sleeping baby on the mattress between them, then, cursing under his breath and still favoring his right shoulder, stretched out so he faced Dana. "See – she's not crying. And I don't want you to cry, either. Please don't. You're not supposed to get upset." "I feel so helpless," she confessed. "So useless." "You're alive and you're getting better. Cailín's alive and healthy." He reached over the baby, putting his hand carefully on the soft dip of her waist. "And I love you. How is that useless?" Dana exhaled, studying the baby's face. "You wanted a son. You wanted to go to Boston, to be a senator… I did not want you to have to choose because of me." "First of all, I do have a son," he informed her, as if she might have forgotten. "Who, if I don't keep a closer eye on, is going to give me a grandson. And-" She glanced at him, then back to the baby. "What? He's fifteen. I was fifteen. Don't look so surprised. Anyway, yes, I'm so disappointed with my Cailín that her nursemaid can't pry her out of my arms. And second, I wasn't going to tell you yet, but the Massachusetts legislature met and there weren't enough votes to nominate Spender. They agreed to vote again in February. They want me, but it does them no good to nominate me unless I'm a Massachusetts resident, so they're giving me another few weeks." "When are you leaving?" "That's the thing; I'm not sure I am." "Have you changed your mind?" "I'm not sure I ever made up my mind. I've been thinking about many things in the last few days, but it's really a simple question: do I want to be a senator? And the simple answer is no. No, I don't. I wish you could have met my father, Dana. He was a great man. He was a great senator. He made history, and I- I just make newspapers." "You are underestimating yourself." "No, I'm not. I could do it, and I'd do a good job, but being a senator or a soldier was my father's dream for me. It isn't my dream. I agreed to do it because someone needed to, and because I knew I could. I've made other decisions for that same reason: not because I wanted to, but because there was a problem and someone needed to take care of it. And while I'm not saying I regret those decisions… Nobility is a very romantic idea, and I think I was in love with the idea. Not the reality." "Are you talking about me?" she asked in her softest voice, putting one hand on the baby and stroking his beard with her other. "And Emily? This decision you made?" "No. Not in the slightest. I was- I was talking about… No, I wasn't talking about you." She didn't respond except to focus on the baby, and he couldn't tell if she believed him or not. "I married you because I wanted you. Because you were my friend. And because I was afraid to be alone. I know I made it sound very practical when I proposed, but nobility was the farthest thing from my mind. For the first time in my life, I was being completely selfish. If I'd been acting in your best interest, I'd have gotten off the ship in DC and let you go on to New York." He was going to have the blacksmith check his armor. It not only had chinks, it was developing gaping holes. "Tell me you love me," he requested quietly. "Just say it again. Now. I-I want to hear it. I need to. There are so many things I need to tell you… When you're better. About Sam. And Melissa. And Poppy. And us. And I'm so afraid you'll hate me." He waited, but she didn't answer. He studied Cailín, and shifted his hand nervously on Dana's waist, toying with her nightgown. When he finally worked up the nerve to look at her, her eyes were closed and her chest was rising and falling slowly as she slept. *~*~*~* In 1861, the snide joke was that one seldom saw a dead Union Cavalry soldier. At the onset of the war, 104 of the 176 U.S. Cavalry officers had sided with the south, leaving most northern troops to be commanded by inexperienced officers. Confederate horsemen were better trained and better utilized, while the Union thought of its cavalry as extravagant and decorative. After the first battle of Bull Run, though, and after Mulder lost an uncle as J.E.B. Staurt's mounted soldiers expertly pursued and cut down the retreating Union troops, the north took cavalry soldiers more seriously. By 1862, they were the highly prized eyes of the northern army: scouting, spying on enemy movements, and disrupting their communication and supply lines. Additionally, the cavalry provided a mobile striking force for raiding or propping up a flagging flank during a battle. They traveled quickly, sometimes spending twenty hours a day in the saddle, and able to cover more than three hundred miles in ten days. Soldiers learned to sleep on horseback. They learned to travel lightly and live off the countryside. And, since they were often closer to the enemy army than their own, they learned to be on alert for any sound, even in the dead of night. Especially in the dead of night. The first thing Mulder heard was Samuel whispering, asking urgently if someone was all right. When he heard Dana answer that she was fine, Mulder sat up, trying to figure out what she was doing in the hall. She could hardly get out of bed without help. "Can you walk?" Sam whispered, and there was a pause before he asked, "May I pick you up?" Dana must have agreed, because only one set of footsteps approached the bedroom. The door squeaked open, and Samuel entered, carrying Dana in his arms. She looked very small against him, very fragile, but his son had always been good with fragile things. If she'd really been injured, Sam would have already raised the alarm. Although he'd refused any contact with Dana since the baby had been born two weeks ago, Mulder knew he quietly kept tabs on her. He'd woken more than once to see Sam in the bedroom doorway at night, silently watching her as she slept. Curious, Mulder laid back on the sofa, concealed by the darkness. Instead of laying her on the bed, Sam set her carefully on her feet, then steadied her arm as she climbed onto the mattress. "Should I get the doctor?" he asked, pulling the blankets over her. "No, I just got dizzy," she answered, sounding embarrassed. "You're not supposed to get up. You're supposed to stay in bed. The doctor said so. Father would-" Samuel turned his head toward the sofa, and Mulder quickly closed his eyes. "Father would have a fit if he knew." "I did not want to wake him. He does not get enough sleep." Mulder opened his eyes a quarter inch, watching them across the room. Sam had on trousers, but his shirt was untucked and hung loosely from his shoulders. He'd been pulling his black hair into a ponytail at the base of his neck, but it was down now, and he pushed it behind his ears nervously. Dana wore her nightgown, but not her wrapper, and her braid kept only a minority of her curls back from her face. She was less than ten years older than Sam, but they looked almost the same age, especially with the roundness having a baby had brought to her face. Samuel was usually at ease with Dana – as much as he was at ease with anything besides a sketch pad and a horsehair bow – but he seemed awkward now. Afraid. Guilty. "You're really all right? What if- What if I wake Father, but I won't tell him you got up? I'll just say you need him." "Samuel, I am fine. Please let him sleep." Sam didn't answer, but sat on the wooden chair beside the bed, shifting restlessly. "What was it you needed? Why were you up?" "I wanted to check on Emily. I had a dream…" "She is fine. It's the medicine," he assured her. "The medicine gives you the dreams. My mother had them. You have to remember that they're not real." "I will try," she answered as if Sam's innocent advice was the answer to all things. "You can go back your room. I am sorry I upset you." "Do you promise to stay in bed? Father won't forgive me if something happens to you, too. He loves you." "I will stay in bed," she promised, sounding tired. "Will you come see me tomorrow? I miss talking with you." "The doctor says I'm not allowed." Mulder inhaled in surprise. That was a lie, or at least a twist on the truth. No one was supposed to upset Dana, but the doctor hadn't forbidden anyone from seeing her. She couldn't have Emily bouncing all over her, and it wasn't proper for Byers to enter the bedroom to visit, of course, but she was allowed to sit up and have a conversation with Sam. "If I would ask the doctor or your father, would they say you could not see me?" Dana asked quietly. "No," Sam confessed sheepishly. "Has something happened that you are angry with me?" "Did you tell him-" "No," she said quickly. "I promised you that I would not. I think you should, though." Sam shifted his sock feet, interweaving his ankles with the rungs of the chair. He leaned forward so he was close to the bed, but not touching it. "You were very sick, Dana, but Father says you don't remember. He says you died." "Obviously, I did not die, Samuel. I am still here," she reminded him. Sam shifted his feet against the rungs again. "I dreamt you did," he confessed. "That you bled to death. I dreamt it for weeks before the baby came." "But you just told me dreams are not real." "Maybe this one was," he said softly. "I heard Father say he saw your spirit, asked it to stay, and you started breathing again. That's what Rebekah says, too. She says it's true." Dana was quiet a moment, seeming unsettled. "I do not know. Your father told me the same thing, but… I remember you bringing the doctor, and then I think I remember your father returning. After that, the next memory I have is opening my eyes and seeing him with his arm in a sling, looking like he had not slept or shaved in a week." "He hadn't. I've never seen him so upset. Not even when Mother died. He was… If I hadn't found the doctor, I wouldn't have come back. That way he wouldn't have had to look at me. Then he asked me to do something so simple, and I just couldn't. I stood there like a coward, and then I- I just ran. If you hadn't started breathing again, he never would have forgiven me." There was a long pause, and then she asked, "Samuel, you keep saying your father would not forgive you if I had died. Do you think he has forgiven you for what happened to your mother?" Mulder stiffened. As he strained to hear their hushed voices, his breathing seemed too loud, so he tried to breathe quieter, and then his heartbeat seemed too loud. "I promised I'd watch Mother while he was away. I wasn't watching her. I knew she was upset about the baby. I knew she was thinking of cutting herself, like before, but I was lollygagging with the horses." "How could you know what she was thinking, Samuel? Did she tell you?" "No." His silhouette shrugged. "I just knew. And I had dreams, just like with Grandfather. Anyway, Father's used to being disappointed with me." "When you ask if he is disappointed with you, what does he say?" "He says no, he's not. That we're different, but he's proud of me." "Maybe you should listen to him." "Maybe there's a reason he wanted another boy so much," Sam said softly. The chair squeaked tensely. "He loves you, Samuel. He will always love you. Do not underestimate him." There was no response. "If you sit at the top of the stairs and play your guitar, I can hear it," she said after several seconds of silence. "Will you play Mozart?" "All right," Sam agreed. He saw his son stand and adjust Dana's blankets again before leaving quietly. "You can breathe now, Mr. Mulder," Dana said softly, after Sam's footsteps had faded away. *~*~*~* Only children believed in happily-ever-after, but then, he'd been a child – an idyllic young man dreaming of a future too perfect to be real. He'd wanted, first of all, to be a dutiful son and to make his parents proud. He'd wanted to be a soldier and have men follow him to victory, just as they'd followed his father. He'd wanted the admiration of peers and the comforts money could buy – a fine home, well-bred horses, and the trappings of a gentleman. He'd wanted a beautiful, loving wife to willingly lie beside him at night and healthy children to hold in his arms. At fifteen, it had all seemed easily attainable. Then Sarah had died. Dreams were scoured down over time, their polish and gilt eroding away so their true core showed through. He had his boyhood dream, Mulder realized late one night, when the house was quiet. The boy had just grown into a man. As a father, he realized his own parents would have been proud of him if he'd become a beggar or a rag picker. The old blue uniform in the wardrobe held a row of medals, and, in exchange for victory, his body and brain bore scars he would carry with him until he died. Respect had become more important than admiration, and many men respected his courage to print the truth, whether they agreed with him or not. He had all the fine things he'd wanted, though he'd discovered they were merely that: things. He recalled the sweltering Indian summer he'd spend sleeping on his bedroll in Dana's hayloft, clinging to a fine thread of happiness rather than returning to the hollow comforts of an empty mansion in DC. As a boy, he would have never envisioned himself marrying a woman like Dana, but he wasn't a boy any longer. Where he was impulsive and intuitive, she was logical and methodical. He leaped; she held his feet to the ground. He loved, and she let him. She was his ally even when he doubted himself, and he was her protector when she didn't think she needed protected. She was there when he needed her, and he let himself need her. As he'd once hoped, they filled in each other's cracks, and no one, even Poppy, could come between that for very long. They had children – two beautiful girls and a son, each with their own challenges, each with their future still unwritten. And if he allowed her to, his wife would willingly come to him as soon as she was able, risking her life to give him another child. Fathers cast a long shadow. There was no glory in war. Money can't buy happiness. Home is where the heart is. A virtuous woman's price was far above rubies, and every child was a miracle. As the years passed, dreams distilled down to reality and there was more truth in old sayings. This was a second chance at the life he'd envisioned, complete with its everyday flaws and miracles. As that realization settled over him, Mulder listened to a train in the distance and Dana's soft breathing as she slept. He walked to the bed and lay beside her, then curled his body against hers in the darkness. He put his arms around her thankfully, closed his eyes, and didn't dream that night. *~*~*~* This time, they started with a firm handshake and ended with a hug. "It is so good to see you again," Byers said thankfully. "Everyone's been worried. How is, uh, everything?" "Dana's better," Mulder answered, taking off his coat and hat. The snow had melted a week ago, leaving behind the bleak coldness of January. The icy mud was four inches deep in the streets, but the empty lobby of The Evening Star building was warm, and smelled, as always, of coffee and dusty newsprint and electricity. Mulder looked around, glad to be back, even for a moment. "She's much better. And the baby's fine," he added, realizing Byers was waiting for him to elaborate. He was making good on his promise not to interfere, but Dana was his friend and he wanted to know. "Come by and see them, if you want. I'll be there, and Dana was downstairs for a bit today. She gets tired easily, but she'd probably like someone to talk to besides me." "Good," Byers responded, nodding, then seeming at a loss for anything else to say. "I'm glad." "I just came by to get something out of my desk. There's a book I want. I didn't think anyone would be here on a Sunday night." "I was staying late, finishing a few things. Frohike's upstairs." "Frohike's right here," another voice announced as heavy feet hurried down the stairs. "Right here. How's the pretty lady?" "She's much better. The doctor says she should be fine," Mulder answered, stepping back before Frohike tackled him. "And we have a new redhead. Kind of chestnut, actually, but I think I see some red." Mulder tried not to grin stupidly, but didn't even come close. Society considered it unseemly for a father to be so openly proud of a new daughter, but, for Mulder, that standard was something else society could shove where the sun didn't shine. "Congratulations," Frohike responded, and Byers agreed, smiling. "Well, sit down and tell us all about your beautiful baby girl." Frohike poured coffee, added a celebratory shot of brandy to each mug, and they settled into Mulder's office, pushing aside the books and stacks of paper. It seemed odd, after weeks, to be behind his desk again, and odder that it held exactly the same mess he'd left behind. "Cailín's perfect. No offense, Byers - I know you're proud of your girls - but my daughter is the most beautiful, intelligent, wonderful little girl in history." Mulder paused, propped his feet up, and grinned impishly. "It is possible I'm biased." "I do have to ask," Byers said, seeming amused rather than offended. "Cailín? Why did you name your baby girl Girl?" "Why does everyone keep asking me that? It's her name. What do you want me to call her? Harvey? Clyde? Thurman?" "Thurman was my late mother's name," Frohike said somberly, hiding behind his mug and adding a dramatic sniff. "That's a beautiful name." Byers frowned uncertainly. "My mother's name was Katie," he said earnestly, missing the joke. Mulder succeeded in keeping a straight face, but Frohike made a rude snorting noise and had to wipe coffee off his grizzled chin and the desk in front of him. "I've missed you, Byers," Mulder responded honestly. Byers blinked, then startled as something crashed close by. "Jesus! What was that?" Mulder asked, hurrying into the dark lobby. One of the large windows facing the street had shattered, and shards of glass glittered dangerously. It crunched under Mulder's boots as he walked through. Spotting the source of the commotion, he picked a brick up from the polished tiles. "What happened?" Byers asked as Frohike stuck his head out the door, trying to see who'd thrown it. The muddy street was empty. "I think," Mulder said, carefully unwrapping a sheet of paper from the brick and shaking the glass off it. "We've just succeeded in this business." He held up the paper, showing them the words "Niger Lover" scratched in red ink. "We've upset the KKK." "I'm touched," Frohike responded, putting his hand over his heart. Congress was considering an amendment to The Constitution granting citizenship to Black males, giving them the right to vote and hold public office. It would also bar any ex-Confederate soldier, and anyone who'd given aid to a Confederate soldier, from office, thereby politically crippling the old south. The Evening Star, along with many other liberal newspapers, was publicly supporting the amendment. It had its flaws, but it was at least a step in the right direction. Mulder and Byers had similar political views and seldom disagreed on what to print, but Byes had sent a messenger to Mulder's house with the editorial before he ran it, knowing it would be controversial and wanting to make sure it was all right. DC had been a slave-holding district and was plagued by corruption as the government tried to rebuild. The south had recovered enough to be chafing under military rule, and giving ex-slaves the right to vote – and requiring each rebellious state to accept the amendment before being readmitted to the Union - was pouring salt into an already smarting wound. "I don't know about love, but I suppose one could say I'm fond of Niger," Mulder said, feigning deep thought. "That's West Africa, I believe. Poppy once made something called moambé stew, which she swore was her great grandmother's recipe and wasn't the same without the elephant meat. I liked it, though." "How is Poppy?" Frohike asked curiously. "I'm hearing all sorts of rumors…" "We are not talking about her," Mulder responded. He crumpled the piece of paper, tossed it into the air, then swatted it across the lobby. Leaving the glass for the janitor to sweep up, he turned, shoved his hands in his pockets, and ambled back to his office. "We're talking about my beautiful baby girl." *~*~*~* It didn't matter; the maids had decided he was insane long ago anyway. As for propriety… It was only after Dana became pregnant that he'd realized anyone in the kitchen could clearly hear what was happening in the bedroom above. Before Sam returned, Mulder had been fond of long, horizontal lunch breaks, so there probably wasn't much propriety left to preserve. He lounged on the sofa, pretending to read his book but actually watching as a maid helped Dana dress. Her hair went up first: tamed by the brush, coerced into a braid, and pinned into a loose knot on her crown. She rolled on fine silk stockings and secured them with garters below each knee, then slipped off her dressing gown, revealing lace- trimmed pantalets that reached her calves. She wore a simple white chemise against her skin, then a corset, which the maid tightened cautiously, stopping the instant Dana told her to. She started to button a corset cover over it, but the fabric didn't meet in front, and Dana took it off, not bothering. She was only dressing to go downstairs. It would be weeks before she was well enough to go out again, but her priest was coming to Saturday afternoon tea. "Petticoats, or do you just want your wrapper, Ma'am?" the maid asked, opening the wardrobe. "Petticoats. I will try a dress," Dana answered, looking unenthusiastically her choices. Anything that might fit dated to her sixth month of pregnancy. Before that, she'd let out her regular dresses, and soon after, she'd resorted to what Mulder called her "watermelon smuggling wardrobe:" all black and all empire-waisted. "Give us a few minutes," Mulder requested, and the maid quickly obeyed, laying her armload of ruffled petticoats on the bed. "What is it?" Dana asked, turning toward him. He crooked his finger lazily, gesturing for her to come to him. She came, looking like she was contemplating mischief. Once she was able to get out of bed and see Emily and the baby whenever she wanted, her mood had quickly improved. She wasn't supposed to lift Cailín, but she could hold her, and could snuggle in bed with Emily as they took their afternoon nap together. "I know what you really want," he teased, grinning up at her. "Oh, you do?" she answered, playing along. "Something I have. Probably something you've long forgotten." "What would that be?" she asked. "A waist?" "Your dress." She seemed puzzled, and waited while he retrieved the box that had come from a Parisian dress shop. "That dress? You think that is appropriate for Father McCue?" "No, it's not his color. Try it on. I wanna see how it looks." She raised a "you can't be serious, Mr. Mulder" eyebrow. "I know it won't fit. Just for fun." He leaned down, whispering, "You do remember ‘fun,' don't you? That's something we used to have, back in the dark ages. Fuuunnn," he said slowly, sounding it out for her. "Fun: that which what provides amusement or enjoyment for someone, namely to me. Please?" "Oh, for God's sake," she mumbled, not sounding very convincing. She raised her arms, letting him slide the yards of delicate scarlet silk and gold lace carefully over her head. Like a child being born, her crown, then her shoulders reappeared as the dress whispered down her body and settled into place with an expensive sigh. "How does it look?" she asked tentatively, running her fingertips over the fabric. "See for yourself," he answered, adjusting the neckline, then turning her so she faced the dresser mirror. If there had been a crowd, there would have been a sudden hush, but it was just the two of them. And he didn't know which of the two was more surprised. Suddenly, instead of a pale, vulnerable woman, an elegant lady in French couture stared back, her fair skin glowing and her blue eyes sparkling excitedly. Aware she was the subject of scrutiny, Dana always dressed nicely, but conservatively. She'd never meet the approval of DC's society matrons, but she tried not to give them more fodder for the rumor mill. Besides, she was a married woman and it wasn't her job to turn heads. Her clothing was understated, designed to draw neither attention nor criticism. Between two babies and too many graves, function often took precedence over fashion. His sensible Dana. Not Dana, honey, or Dana, dear – just Dana. When he thought, if he thought, he thought of her as pretty, pleasant, easy-on- the-eye, but for the first time the word exquisite came to mind. His lips parted in silent, breathless wonderment. "Who is that?" she said softly, studying her reflection. The woman in the mirror tilted her head uncertainly, as if there was a mistake and she might see someone else if she looked a little closer. "That's my wife." "Are you certain?" She turned sideways, watching the stranger who watched back. Dana adjusted the neckline, self-consciously pulling the little lace sleeves higher on her shoulders. He grinned wickedly and pushed the sleeves back down again. "Do you think Father McCue will approve?" "I certainly hope not," he answered, pulling the edges of the bodice tight in the back so it was smooth in the front. It wasn't his imagination, and it wasn't the dress. She glowed. She radiated like a beautiful woman who, perhaps for the first time, was confident she was beautiful. Not Waterston's second choice, or Fox Mulder's third, not a substitute for her sister or a convenient alternative to being alone, not a bed-warmer, a housekeeper, or a baby- maker. Not a female body who was pretty enough in the dark, but a strong, independent lady who wore beauty like silk, not armor, by the light of day. She squared her bare shoulders and looked again, getting used to this new reflection. The dress was cut to the same measurements as her other formal gowns, which meant he could put his hands around the waist with room to spare. So soon after having Cailín, the back gaped open, but as long as only the front was visible, no one would ever know. Just leave the buttons open. It was an old undertaker's trick, and it took him a moment to realize why he knew it. When he did, he swallowed, letting go of the edges. She could have died last month, and he would never have seen her for who she really was. He'd thought he had – he'd memorized every inch of her body with his, but she was a woman that a man could strip naked and still not see all of. Still not see most of. How arrogant of him, he realized. He could explore her for decades and still be a novice. "Is something wrong?" Dana asked, watching his reflection in the mirror as he moved away. Mulder shook his head tersely and sank back on the sofa. She followed, trying to keep the dress's enormous skirt from dragging on the floor. "What is it?" "Nothing," he answered immediately. "I'm glad you like the dress. It's beautiful on you." She stood over him, looking perplexed. "What is wrong?" "Nothing. I, uh, I was just thinking of something…" He shook his head, like memories were drops of water he could shake away. "Nothing. Come here," he requested, pulling her to him. Dana let him guide her so she straddled his lap, facing him, drowning them both in acres of blood scarlet silk. It seemed strange to be face- to-face again, without her belly between them. He tried to recall the last time they'd been so close. Not since the night Sam came home. Not since five months ago. "I'm just glad you're getting better." "All right," she said uncertainly. "I am glad I am better, too." "I love you," he said impulsively, urgently, as if he'd never said it before. "You can't imagine how I love you." "I know. I love you," she assured him, trying to comfort him. "Do you?" She nodded slightly. "Enough?" he asked before he thought. "Enough? Love is love. How does one love enough?" "I don't know," he answered honestly. He put his arms around her, pulling her against him. The fabric of the dress crushed as she leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Beneath the rigid confinement of the corset, her rib cage rose slightly as she breathed, but otherwise she was perfectly still, just letting him hold her. Hold onto her – so she didn't get away. "Just a little longer," he requested when the maid knocked on the bedroom door. *~*~*~* Except for Frohike, he and Sam were the last men in the building, but Frohike never seemed to leave, anyway. "Can our artist in residence please go home now?" Mulder asked, wrapping his fingertips over the top of the doorframe and stretching lazily. "We're supposed to feed him. He's a growing boy." At the mention of food, Samuel put his sketch aside and stood up from his workbench, already a foot above Frohike's balding head and only a hair shorter than Mulder. He rolled his shoulders, then reached for his coat and hat. "Give that pretty redhead all my love," Frohike requested as they left. "She's afraid of your love," Mulder called over his shoulder. "Frankly, I'm afraid of your love." "Snob. And don't call me Frankie," he yelled down the stairs. "‘Night Sammy. Thank you for all the help." "You're welcome. Goodnight, sir," he answered politely. Dana had given him a soft, cream-colored scarf for Christmas, and he wrapped it around his neck up to his chin, preparing for the icy wind. Mulder locked the lobby door, checked the latch, then dropped the key into his coat pocket to mingle with his collection of trinkets and trash until he needed it in the morning. More often than not, Byers beat him to the office, anyway. "Is it all right if we walk?" he asked Sam as the streetcar approached the corner. "It's not that cold, and I wanted to talk with you. About a few things. If you want." Sam nodded hesitantly, then wrapped his scarf tighter and hid his hands in his coat pockets. "What did I do?" "Nothing," he answered quickly. "Nothing at all. I just- I suppose you've figured out…" He took a deep breath and tried again. "The legislature gave me until March 1st to be in Massachusetts. That's next week, which means I can be in Boston with time to spare, but... But I'm not going, Sammy," he finally said. "I'm staying here. With Emmy and Cally. And you. And Dana." He blew out the rest of his breath in a long, silent whistle, watching Sam out of the corner of his eye as they walked down Pennsylvania Avenue toward The White House. He wanted to believe Sam was young, moody, confused. Still dazed by the war and the loss of his mother and grandparents. That he'd had some disagreement with Dana and, in a fit of temper, asked his father to divorce her. Or that it had been Sam's dreams of Dana dying – dreams that, by all rights should have come true – that had caused Sam to act as he had. That it hadn't been Dana being in Melissa's place that had upset Sam, but the desperate need to escape watching another pregnant woman die. It was impossible to tell. Sam was kind, gentle, and so sensitive to others that he did seem almost empathic. He lived in a borderland of four-four time and four-part harmony, of burnt sienna, cerulean blue, raw umber, and titanium white. Like the new generation of radical French painters, he saw the real world only as moments of soft light and shadow. He seemed to stand perfectly still as life raged around him, and he could only watch impassively, unable to fight back, or run away. Like Melissa, there was so much beauty in Samuel's world, but there was also so much pain. "I'm not leaving, Sammy," he repeated. "Dana or D.C." "You promised," Sam said quietly. "You said it would be a few weeks – until Dana was better, and she's better now." Another streetcar clacked by, the draft horses' hooves clopping through the mud down the center of the avenue toward The Capitol. An afternoon snowstorm had left an inch of pretty powder on the rooftops, but on the streets, it had been churned into more brown slush. In the distance, the new Capitol dome glowed golden, like a yellow cake dusted with confectioner's sugar. "I don't understand how you could want me to leave Dana, let alone divorce her. I know you were afraid something would happen to her when the baby came, but… She's better now. You seem to like her very much, Sammy. You trust her. If there's anyone you don't trust, it's me." Sam kept his head down and continued walking. He'd rehearsed the next part for weeks, so it was a little easier. "I've thought about what Dana said to you before Christmas: about your mother not knowing what she was doing when she died. In some ways that's true, but in some ways it's not. But, regardless, I was the reason she was going to have a baby. I was the one who told you it would be all right, to go to the stables, then fell asleep, so if you need to blame me, that's fine." "Dana just said that to make me feel better," Sam responded softly. "Oh. Well- Yes, she did. I didn't think you realized that, though." Mulder worried his wedding ring with his thumb as they walked, trying to reorganize his thoughts. That hadn't been in the script of his speech. Sam paused, turning his head to one side and looking at nothing. "What, Sammy?" "You loved Mother, didn't you? You would never have done anything to hurt her, would you?" he asked, as though he was afraid to hear the answer. "No, I would never have hurt her." His stomach began to knot. For the most part, Sam had been alone with Melissa the week before she died. God only knew what she might have said to him in her confusion. Or what Poppy might have said. "Sammy, did she tell you differently? Did anyone tell you differently?" Sam shook his head slightly from side to side. "Then why did you ask?" he tried, just in case he might get an answer. He didn't. The only thing he got was a puff of white vapor in front of his face as he exhaled. "No, I never hurt her, Sammy. Not on purpose. I wouldn't have forced her or betrayed her. I loved her. I still love her. It doesn't seem to matter how many times I tell you I love you and I'm proud of you, it never sinks in, but I'll say it again: I do. I'd do anything for you. You're my only boy, Sammy, and you'll always be my only boy. There aren't going to be any more babies. I don't know if that's something I should tell you or not, but I thought it might make you feel better." Sam gave him a sidelong glance, but didn't comment. "Does it?" he pursued. "Yes. No. I'm not sure." "You're not sure," Mulder echoed, trying not to sound frustrated. Someone called to them from across the street, and Mulder and Sam raised their hands politely, then walked on, shoulder to shoulder. The sleet started again, stinging their cheeks and bouncing off their noses. "Please talk to me, Sammy," he pleaded. "Tell me what's wrong?" "I can't," Sam answered simply, which was the most telling thing he'd said in weeks. "Then talk to Dana. She won't tell me. She'll understand and she's good at keeping secrets. All right?" Sam nodded, probably because he just wanted the conversation to be over. They reached the end of Newspaper Row and turned right onto 15th Street, passing the new Treasury building, then the busy telegraph office, which had a line of people stretching out the door, waiting to send telegrams. They walked along the sidewalk in front of Columbian University until it ended at H Street, then turned and crossed the cobblestones, dodging the wagons, dogs, and buggies. Two blocks later, at Saint John's Episcopal Church, they made another right, and Mulder could see his house down the block, its brick walls rising complacently behind the broad, snow-dusted lawn. Early in their marriage, Dana had observed that he hadn't built a home; he'd built a fortress. She'd asked him who or what he'd been protecting, and he'd only laughed. "There's home," Mulder announced, glad to have something neutral and obvious to say. "I bet dinner's almost ready." "Yes," Sam answered, seeming relieved. "Rebekah said we're having peach cobbler." "Peach cobbler," he echoed approvingly. "If I'd thought, we could have sidetracked by Fussell's and bought ice cream to go with it. Should we go back?" "I could go," his son volunteered immediately. "Well… All right." Mulder stripped off his gloves and searched his pockets for change. Ice cream was twenty-five cents a quart, but all he could find were several crumpled slips of paper, two keys, a button, four pennies, three nickels, a five and a twenty-dollar bill, and some lint. He held out the five, not happy about giving Sam enough money to buy a train ticket. That was silly, of course. Sam could just as easily take the cashbox, or pawn something, or, as he had before, simply be gone. Nothing short of locking him in the attic could keep him in DC if he wanted to leave. "Your mother was dead when we found her, Sam. It was too late. I wanted to believe she wasn't, so I sent you for the doctor. But there was nothing you or I or anyone could have done to help her." Sam nodded again, adjusting his scarf as he turned away. "Get two quarts of vanilla," Mulder called after him, just so he could finally say something fruitful. "And whatever you want. And Emmy likes chocolate. And…" He trailed off and gave up, watching his son crunch through the snow to get ice cream. *~*~*~* There had been a flurry to create post-war memorials and cemeteries, but Arlington National Cemetery had been established a month after his father's death, so his white headstone stood beside Teena Mulder's in Georgetown. William S. Mulder, beloved husband and father. Senator. Colonel. West Point graduate. Decorated soldier. Born December 12, 1815. Died April 1, 1865. Forty-nine Teena L. Mulder, beloved wife and mother. Born June 22, 1818. Died November 24, 1866. Forty-eight Melissa Kavanaugh Mulder, beloved wife and mother. 1835 -1864. Twenty-nine Sarah Kavanaugh. 1835-1850 Fifteen. Sarah's was the oldest grave. When Jack Kavanaugh had finally sobered up and shown up hours after Sarah's death, and the doctor had told him how she'd died, he'd called her a whore, shoved Mulder aside, and walked out. Not sure what else to do, Bill Mulder, instead of sending the body back to Tennessee, had bought the plot and buried Sarah in the Georgetown cemetery, which had done nothing to stem the gossip about how and why she'd died. Kavanaugh had reappeared for her funeral, drunk, but looking appropriately bereft. Teena Mulder had cried, and her husband had comforted her. Melissa had huddled and looked small. Mulder had stood alone and felt little except empty. He sat on the cold marble bench, gazing back across almost two decades. Sam divided the flowers between his mother's and grandmother's graves, pulled a few dead winter weeds, then stood beside him, waiting. Mulder looked up at his son, his beautifully chiseled features framed by his black hair and outlined by the blackening storm clouds. The hem of his black wool peacoat fluttered, and the wind blew the fringed ends his favorite scarf against his jaw. Sarah had been the same age as Sam when she died, and yet to Mulder's eyes, Sam looked impossibly young. And, for thirty-three, Mulder felt impossibly old. He tried to remember what it felt like to be fifteen, and almost couldn't. He'd only been fifteen for about six months, then skipped directly to thirty. "I tried to draw Mother last week, but I can't remember her," Sam murmured, as if telling a secret. "We have photographs. And you have hundreds of sketches." "But I couldn't remember her," he answered, emphasizing "her." "I was afraid I was just making her up. I tried and tried, but I can't remember what was Mother and what was just the way I want to remember her." "Sometimes, neither can I," Mulder admitted. "It doesn't seem fair," Sam said quietly, staring at the row of elegant white stones. "It never does," Mulder answered. *~*~*~* As much as their society shunned sexual intercourse, it eroticized pain. Women wore rigid corsets that reduced their waists until they looked like they'd break in two, causing everything from fainting spells to miscarriage. High-heeled slippers and hoopskirts were fashionable, uncomfortable, and often dangerous. And, partially to ensure premarital chastity and partially because their mothers spoke from experience, girls were told marital relations hurt. Often brides barely knew what sexual intercourse was, but their mothers were clear on two facts: it was very painful, and they had to do it because their husbands wanted to. Mulder found it physically impossible to make love to a woman who was crying and pleading for him to stop, but given the birth rate, other men must not. Gentlemen were taught that they married for children, not for sport. Wives were for children; mistresses and whores were for pleasure. Once they had that all-important legitimate son, it was easier not to bother their wives in bed, which was often a relief to both parties. Many men loved their wife and disliked pushing her into an act she found, at best, uncomfortable and distasteful. They were devoted to her as the mother of their children, but it wasn't worth the effort to make love to her unless there was no other female body available. And the majority of wives were devoted to their husband, but embarrassed by his base behavior, unsure how to please him, and often terrified of conceiving again. Marital fidelity was the exception, not the rule. For men. A wife who strayed was likely insane, and quietly sent to a nunnery or mental asylum. The female orgasm was shameful and doctors recommended surgical removal of the clitoris to correct such deviant hyper-sexuality. Good mothers were not good bedmates, and frigidity was considered lady-like behavior. Melly had been quite lady-like. With little means to prevent pregnancy except abstinence, abortion was common among all classes, including married women, and accepted so long as it was done before the mother felt the baby move. Wealthy women and courtesans sought out doctors with side entrances to their offices so patients could enter and exit unseen. Working women, street whores, and unmarried girls sought out whoever or whatever was available, and like Sarah, often died in their attempt. Most gentlemen had illegitimate children before they married, often with a maid or other working-class girl. Once the affair cooled, those children were provided for, but politely dismissed as the follies of youth. After a man married, it was considered bad form to seduce a servant in his own house, or to let his wife discover any further bastards. There was roughly one prostitute to every four men in DC, ranging from pitiful creatures in dark alleys for a dollar to courtesans who expected to find a diamond necklace beside their pillow the next morning. It wasn't uncommon for Mulder to hear a voice calling his name from the shadows, follow it, and be propositioned by a girl who'd once sold matches or flowers to him on the street corner but had discovered she could earn more selling her body. Occasionally, it was one of his former newsboys, his smooth cheeks and lips painted with women's rouge. There were more whorehouses than churches, catering to every imaginable budget, taste, and perversion. Set apart, though, and usually discretely at the edge of town, were the houses specializing in virgins – real or fabricated by a small sponge soaked in blood and a few acting lessons. Relations with a virgin was said to cure syphilis and gonorrhea, which, in some troops, forty percent of soldiers had contracted during the war and later brought home to their wives. For some, that was the attraction, but some men just liked the idea of being able to hurt a frightened young woman as much as possible, and were willing to pay for that privilege. It was such a simple, natural thing – for a man to love a woman – yet the world had twisted and perverted it into something barely recognizable. He understood the rarity of what he had with Dana; he just didn't know how to have it again. He wanted to believe the problem was that it was too soon after the baby and she was still recovering. He wanted to believe that was ninety percent of the problem, but it was perhaps ten. And that was being generous. He hated Poppy. He hated her with a white-hot passion for taking something that wasn't hers to take. It seemed like a naive thing for a man to take pride in, but he had: he'd never been with a woman who wasn't or wouldn't soon become his wife. He'd thought about it, he'd been tempted, and he'd even started down the path a few times, but he'd never really strayed. But what Poppy had said, whether it was true or not, had planted a seed inside his head which had grown, its roots tapping into his dreams and flashing images across his brain whenever he closed his eyes. Of course he'd wanted her. If he squinted his eyes, Poppy was the very image of Sarah. She moved like her, sounded like her. He'd heard a dozen men bragging about their affairs with Poppy while his own wife flinched and stiffened at his touch. Of course he'd wanted her, damn it, but since that one night at Harvard, he'd never acted on that. At least, he'd thought he never had. Whether it was true or not, it might as well have been. "You asked and I wanted to," Poppy's voice whispered each time he tried to focus on Dana. "What is wrong?" Dana had asked. "Nothing," he'd mumbled, telling her she needed to relax. She needed to relax; he needed to relax. They'd gone out to dinner for the first time since the baby came, shared a bottle of wine, embraced in the carriage on the way home. He'd helped her undress; she'd helped him. The house was dark and quiet, the children were asleep, the bedroom door was locked. It still felt awkward, as though they'd never been intimate before. "I'm scared to even touch you," he'd admitted after it had become obvious. "We have done this before," Dana had answered, referring to making love for the first time two months after Emily's birth. "Just go slowly." "If we go any slower, we'll stop," he'd said in annoyance, more with himself than with her. Dana was trying, but despite their best efforts, her body wasn't following suit, which made him even more nervous. "You're scared it's going to hurt, too, aren't you?" "No. It only hurts for a moment," she'd assured him. "Like being with a virgin," she'd teased. "Never been with a virgin," he'd muttered, more focused on the idea that he had hurt her and she hadn't told him. She was supposed to tell him if he hurt her. They had a deal. They'd all but spit and shook hands on it. "What?" he'd asked, realizing she was staring up at him in the darkness. "What about, what about…" "What about what?" he'd responded, catching up with her train of thought and silently daring her to ask. Wisely, she hadn't. He'd exhaled and started over, beginning with her lips and working his way down again. He'd caught himself glancing at the clock as he kissed her neck, then closed his eyes again. "That is a sin," she'd decided before he'd even finished telling her about his trip to the pharmacy. He'd tried to tease and persuade her into the idea of prophylactics, but she wouldn't budge. "So you want a baby every year?" he'd demanded. "We have children when God decides we have children." "Well, let's not help Him along." "That," she'd said again, pointing to the sheath he was already humiliated about anyway, "Is a sin." "And watching you die nine months from now is some sort of blessing? Leave your priest out of our bed, please," he'd snapped angrily. "Three's a crowd." He'd known immediately that was the wrong thing to say. Very wrong. He'd ribbed her good-naturedly about her faith occasionally, but he'd never belittled her before. Dana got up to leave. "All right, all right!" he'd conceded, throwing the unused sheath to the floor. He'd just pull out. She couldn't do a damn thing about that except fume. "Fine. It's gone. Come back here." He'd put his arm around her waist and pulled her back. Still annoyed, Dana had swatted him away and he'd caught her hands, pushing her down. She'd struggled angrily, but not nearly as much as he'd thought she was capable of. "Do you think you're going somewhere?" he'd growled at her, pinning her down. "Go to Hell," she'd snapped back. "Not without you, love." She'd responded with barred teeth that parted as he covered her mouth with his, and with angry eyes that closed as he touched her. He'd thought she'd started to respond to lovemaking, but later realized that, to weak to fight back and unable to get away, she'd only stopped resisting. He'd felt her bare body under his, her legs shifting apart obligingly. He'd closed his eyes again, and finally there was only her. He'd felt the tide grow stronger, sweeping over him and washing every other thought away. His beard scraped against her face and neck, and her palms pressed against his. He'd let go of her hands and felt her fingers gripping his shoulders as he sank deep inside her. That was what he craved. Not sweet words and giggles, but something primal, dark, dangerous, base. That was what would make it better. Suddenly, he'd realized she'd started struggling again. She pushed at his shoulders desperately, wanting him off of her. As soon as he'd withdrawn and moved back, she'd rolled away and curled into a ball, her face contorted in pain. "Dana?" She'd stayed still, legs together, trying to catch her breath. "Dana? My God, what's wrong?" "It hurts," she'd said hoarsely. He touched her bare hip, and she flinched, as if afraid he would hit her. He'd removed his hand. "My God, are you all right?" "I'm sorry," she'd managed as she caught her breath. "No, I'm sorry. I forgot. I thought… I was… I wasn't thinking. Did I hurt you?" She'd nodded, refusing to look at him. "Dana, I'm sorry. Very sorry. Are you okay?" She'd nodded again, wiping her eyes. "Sorry," she repeated. After a moment, she'd shifted to her back again. "All right," she offered unconvincingly. "Just- Please be careful." "No," he'd said immediately, disgusted with himself and unsettled that she would feel obligated to continue. "No, Dana," he'd repeated. She'd looked, and then turned away. Not sure what else to do, he'd lain down, curling up to her back and putting his arms around her. He'd felt the tension in her body as he touched her. He'd stroked her shoulder nervously, not sure what else to say or do except apologize again. "Relax. It's too soon after the baby." "I could…" she'd offered, starting to roll over to face him. "And I'd let you, but I think it's a moot point," he'd admitted, his humiliation complete. His erection had vanished when he'd realized he was hurting her, and it wasn't going to reappear in the near future. She'd rolled away again. He'd swallowed and scooted closer, pulling the blankets over them. "Dana, I'm sorry," he'd tried one last time, but she'd only nodded, as embarrassed than he was. So he'd let the subject drop. And now he lay beside her, pretending to sleep, and telling himself it happened because it was too soon after Cailín, and he'd gone too fast. Beside him, she was pretending sleep as well, though he couldn't imagine what she must be thinking. He doubted he and Melly had been together two dozen times in their marriage, but he'd never physically forced her. He'd known she disliked the act itself, but sometimes she did like kissing him, being close to him in the darkness. Beyond that, either she cooperated or she got frightened and didn't, and he stopped. He didn't think of it as refusing to please him – which no good wife would do - but rather as being unable to. While Dana's response to lovemaking was very different, he applied the same standard. In his mind, there was a word for it when a man violently forced a woman, even his wife. "You asked and I wanted to," Poppy's voice whispered to him again, and he rubbed his ear roughly, blocking her out. Dana heard the noise just before he did and pushed up on her elbow, listening, before getting up to look out the window. Twigs snapped in the yard, and downstairs, Grace bayed excitedly. "Who's out there?" he asked, his head still on the pillow and his arm outstretched, awaiting her return. "Did Grace spot a squirrel?" "There are men," she said softly. "There are men beside the house." "Men? Men doing what?" Mulder sat up, crawling nude across the mattress and getting up to look over her shoulder. It was well past midnight. The night watchman was out, but it was too early for the milkman or for farmers to be making their way to market. The groom and stable boys wouldn't come to work for hours, and Sam was supposed to be in his room down the hall. Mulder grabbed his trousers off the sofa, slipped them on, and went to the other window to check. Dana was right: there were men in white robes and hoods in the yard. As he watched, not sure what they were doing, he saw one put a torch to a large wooden cross, setting it ablaze in his front yard. The KKK had burned houses and Negro schools farther south, but in DC, all they'd done was throw bricks, lurk, and make empty threats. Until now. "What are they doing?" Dana asked, putting on her wrapper. "They're sending a me message," he answered. He gritted his teeth angrily, hands on his hips. "And I'm sending one back," he decided, jerking open the night stand drawer and grabbing his old Army revolver. *~*~*~* End: Paracelsus XII