Begin: Paracelsus XIII
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  The historical revisionists had begun their work before the smoke
  cleared from the last battlefield, decreeing the north had fought a war
  to end slavery.  Mulder couldn't speak for anyone else, but he'd fought
  a war to preserve the Union.  In fact, he recalled seeing white Union
  soldiers intentionally firing on black Union soldiers.  Freeing four
  million slaves was a byproduct of ruining the south.  The north didn't
  want slaves in the south, but it didn't want ex-slaves in the north,
  either.
  
  Until his father became a senator and they'd spent part of each year in
  Georgetown, Mulder had never seen a Negro. When he did, the slaves he
  had encountered were his friends' mammies and maids: well fed, well
  groomed, devoted, and polite, just like his parents' white servants.  He
  hadn't understood that Rebekah was free to leave her position but Poppy
  wasn't.  Slavery was more a concept than an actuality, and he'd had no
  idea what went on behind closed doors.
  
  When he was eight, he'd asked why a Negro woman was on an auction block
  in Center Market with her dress open to her waist.  Rebekah had said it
  was none of his concern and hurried him past.
  
  When he was seventeen, he and Byers had read "Uncle Tom's Cabin" in
  their room at Harvard and been appalled along with the rest of the
  nation.  He'd realized who fathered Poppy's stillborn baby and why she'd
  been so eager to stay with Melissa at Mulder's parents' home instead
  with Jack Kavanaugh.
  
  When he was twenty-two and it was finally his house and his money, at
  Melissa's request, he'd bought Poppy from Kavanaugh and signed the
  papers ensuring her freedom.  The next day, Kavanaugh sobered up and
  tried to back out of the deal, but it was too late.  He'd been furious
  with Mulder for months before his liver finally gave out and he'd taken
  his predestined place in Hell.
  
  When he was thirty, he'd seen General Sherman, an unabashed racist, defy
  President Lincoln's order to allow Negro soldiers in his army.  As the
  troops marched through the south and up the east coast, Sherman had
  "freed the slaves:" burned the towns and farms they'd called home,
  stripped the landscape of any scrap of food, and then perversely
  promised each forty acres and a mule – which he had no means or plans to
  deliver.  Legions of homeless, hungry families followed the army north
  to Washington, waiting for Sherman to make good on his promise.
  
  Some found work in DC, some returned south as sharecroppers or went
  west, and the rest of the exodus was absorbed into the sludge of saloons
  and shantytowns.  Washington – the bottom of the north and top of the
  south – epitomized "the Colored problem," as it was politely called.  In
  every large city, whites called for Negroes to go home, forgetting they
  had no homes left to go to.  They called for them to find jobs, but then
  refused to hire them.  Everyone was quick to point fingers, and, as the
  displaced, destitute masses reached epidemic proportions, guns.
  
  The Ku Klux Klan germinated in the rot of the decaying south and spread
  like the plague.  Its members, concealed by darkness and old bed sheets,
  burned Negro schools and churches, intimidated Negro farmers and
  businessmen, and added fuel to a fire that was already burning out of
  control.
   
  "Are you going to shoot them?" Dana asked, following him down the
  upstairs hallway.
  
  He paused long enough to button his trousers and shrug on his wrinkled
  dress shirt. "I'm shooting over their heads, but I might miss."
   
  Cally's frightened Negro wet nurse peeked out of the nursery.  He told
  her to stay with Cally and Emmy, lock the door, and not unlock it until
  he told her to.
  
  "Stay here," he ordered Dana, because he liked to waste his breath.  She
  pulled her wrapper tighter around her and hurried down the stairs after
  him. "Then stay back," he conceded.
  
  "Samuel is outside," she said, pushing the drapes aside and looking out
  the narrow window beside the front door.   Grace watched with her,
  alternately barking and whining to be let out.
  
  "Outside?" 
  
  Mulder saw men in white hoods encircling Sam in the front yard.  Sam was
  backing away, but there was nowhere to back.  Each time he reached the
  edge of the human circle, one of the men shoved him back to the center.
  
  "Pretty boy," one taunted. "Come on, pretty boy.  Where's Daddy and
  Granddaddy now?"
  
  "Mulder-" Dana started, but he already had the front door open and his
  revolver cocked.  Grace bolted past him and into the yard, sinking his
  teeth into the closest leg.
  
  "Let him be," Mulder said loudly, the men turned. "You get away from
  him."
  
  Forgetting Sam, they focused on Mulder, suddenly unsure what to do. 
  They usually threw their bricks, burned their crosses, and ran like
  rats.  The idea was to cause terror, not risk their lives.  Having
  someone point a gun at them in downtown DC, seeming un-terrorized, was a
  novel situation.
  
  The men shifted their feet uncertainly. "Let's go," one said snidely,
  backing away. "We're done here."
  
  Another danced in one-legged circles, trying to get Grace's teeth out of
  his ankle. "Somebody get the Goddamn dog off me," he yelled, and a
  weapon fired, the crack echoing in the still night air.  Mulder jumped,
  and Grace yelped, then slumped onto the lawn.
  
  "Jesus, you fool!  You'll wake everyone!" the ringleader hissed as the
  neighbors began to emerge.  Mulder stayed where he was, keeping his
  weapon trained on anyone who came within a few feet of Sam.  Fearful
  they were about to be outnumbered, outgunned, and unmasked, the men
  began disappearing into the shadows.
  
  Mulder exhaled and lowered his revolver, and realized that Dana, beside
  him, was doing the same.  She'd retrieved a rifle from the library and
  was standing in the doorway in her robe, pointing a gun bigger than she
  was.  It wasn't loaded, she probably couldn't hit the side of a barn,
  and it would knock her on her lovely backside if she did fire it, but
  she could point it, just the same.
  
  Somehow, he wasn't surprised.
  
  He descended the steps, holding the gun against his thigh as he knelt
  down to check Grace.  The dog's pink tongue lolled out its mouth, and,
  in the cold air, there was no vapor in front of its muzzle.  Mulder
  found the bullet hole behind one floppy ear.  Now he wished he had shot
  someone, but he didn't know how many KKK members it took to equal one
  good dog.  Six bullets was a start, and he could always reload.  
  
  "Mulder," Dana said again, nodding for him to look behind him. 
  
  The Klansmen had left Sam standing on the front walk, roughed up but not
  seriously injured. When Mulder turned around, Sam was on the ground,
  straddling one of them and pummeling him with his fists.  Sam jerked off
  the man's hood, revealing Alex, and then continued landing one blow
  after another.  Alex struggled to fight back with one arm, but Sam had
  the advantage.
  
  Mulder watched in astonishment, Grace momentarily forgotten.  Sam would
  defend himself if he had to, but he was never the aggressor.  
  
  "Sam," Mulder finally shouted, afraid he'd beat Alex to death.  That
  would be no great loss to humanity, but Mulder would have to explain it
  to the police. "Samuel William Mulder!"
  
  Sam stopped, paused, then got up, leaving Alex barely conscious.  The
  boy looked at his own fists as he backed away, seeming perplexed by the
  blood on them.
  
  "Is everything all right, Fox?" one of the neighbors called, standing on
  the front porch in his silk robe and slippers, his genteel eyebrows
  almost even with his hairline.  Mulder, still leaning over Grace under
  the burning cross, waved that it was just another night on the old
  homestead.  Neighbor waved back, being neighborly, and returned to bed.
  
  "Are you all right?" he asked as Sam passed Grace's body without seeming
  to see it.  Like his father, he'd dressed hurriedly, and his dangling
  suspenders bounced against his legs as he moved.  His black hair was
  tousled, and there was a cut on his cheekbone that would probably scar. 
  He'd worked up a sweat pummeling Alex and, in the last of the liquid
  orange firelight, he lacked only some war paint and feathers to look
  exactly like one of his Indian ancestors.
  
  After half a minute, Alex got to his feet, wiped the blood from his
  face, then, once he got his bearings, stumbled down the street after the
  other Klansmen.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He realized his head hurt long before he realized he was gritting his
  teeth.  When he did, he tried to stop and found he was clenching his
  fists instead. If he'd thought he could find him, he'd go after Alex and
  hit him a few times, just for good measure.  It seemed to have made Sam
  feel better.  Maybe it would make Mulder feel better, too. Vindicated. 
  Less used.  He didn't give a damn how it would make Alex feel.
  
  He was angry that, despite his promise to himself, Poppy's idle words
  had stolen into his bed and come between him and Dana.  He was angry
  Dana had to beg him to stop rather than him realizing he was hurting
  her.  He was angry that a group of cowardly fools in bed sheets had the
  gall to burn a cross on his front yard.  He was angry his son's dog was
  dead.  He was angry he hadn't shot someone.  He was angry he'd been in a
  warm bed while Sam was outside trying to fight off the KKK.  He was
  angry they were out of sugar and he had to drink his coffee black.
  
  He glanced at the calendar pined up beside the stove, checking to see if
  it was a holiday.  The first Saturday of Lent probably wasn't anything
  significant but, God help him, Easter was coming.  
  
  Dana poured coffee, setting a cup in front of Samuel along with the
  cream pitcher.  She and Sam drank their coffee the same way, but Mulder
  wanted sugar, damn it.
  
  He realized he was gritting his teeth again.
  
  He'd wrapped Grace in an old blanket and brought him inside, laying him
  in his usual place beside the stove until morning.  Sam took his cup and
  sat on the floor beside him, stroking the top of his dog's head.
  
  "Sammy…" Mulder started, but his son didn't look up. "Sammy, he wasn't
  in any pain.  We'll bury him tomorrow."
  
  No response.
  
  "We can bury him in the woods where you and Grandfather liked to hunt."  
  
  No response.
  
  "I'll buy you any puppy you want.  You could get another basset hound. 
  Or would you like…" Mulder offered until Dana give him a "please just
  stop speaking" look.    
  
  Mulder closed his mouth, clenched his fist underneath the table, then
  exhaled to cool his coffee. 
  
  "What happened to your neck?" Sam asked as Dana bent over him, holding a
  candle to see and a rag to wash the cut on his cheekbone.
  
  The skin around her mouth and on her neck and upper chest was irritated
  from his beard, and there were several small red and purple marks from
  his teeth.  Mulder bit his lip, silently rebuking himself.  Thirty
  minutes earlier, he'd have sworn she'd been giving as good as she was
  getting, but he doubted there were marks on him, and he hadn't given
  birth a few months ago.  She was still so weak; he wondered how long
  she'd struggled before he'd noticed.  And he wondered how badly he must
  have hurt her that she'd ask him to stop.  Having intercourse with him
  whenever he wanted, however he wanted, was one of her marriage vows. 
  Refusing was grounds for divorce.
  
  Mulder looked down, studying his coffee cup.
  
  "Nothing," Dana answered casually. "Tilt your face so I can see."
  
  Sam tilted, Dana dabbed, and Mulder blew his hot coffee again.
  
  "I don't think Alex shot Grace, Sammy.  Did you think he had?"
  
  His son nodded "yes" unconvincingly.  Mulder started to ask, but decided
  it could wait until another time.  Whatever the score was, he assumed
  Sam had evened it.
  
  "Well, if Alex is involved, Spender's behind this somewhere.  He must
  have enlisted the KKK to do his dirty work.  To spook me, I suppose."
  Mulder paused, reconsidering the events in his head. "Why were you in
  the yard in the first place?"
  
  "I had to go out."
  
  "It's thirty degrees outside."
  
  Shrug.  Dab.  Blow.
  
  "The front door was locked," he said skeptically.  He turned his head,
  checking. "So is the back.  Do we lock the door to go to the outhouse
  now?"
  
  His son focused on stroking Grace's graying muzzle.
  
  "Sammy, I thought I was clear about this; you will be home at night."
  
  "I was." 
  
  "No, you weren't.  Home is in the house, and you weren't.  When Dana and
  I came back from dinner earlier than you'd anticipated, we locked the
  door, and you got locked out.  Which merits the question: where were you
  coming home from?"
  
  Sam hunkered lower, watching Dana from underneath his eyelashes.
  
  Mulder followed Sam's gaze, then shook his head, trying to keep his
  temper in check.  He didn't mind his son talking with Dana, but he
  disliked him conspiring with her.  It was his house, and for once he'd
  like to know what was happening.  
  
  "Dana has nothing to do with this, Sam.  Dana doesn't have to deal with
  it when some girl's angry father shows up on my doorstep."
  
  "That won't happen."
  
  "How won't it happen?  Are you saying you aren't seeing a girl?"    
  
  Sam stiffened, his eyes still locked on Dana.
  
  "Then you must be attending one of those midnight cello societies.  Do I
  have a ‘fool' sign pinned to my back?"
  
  "Mr. Mulder," Dana warned.
  
  "What?" he demanded.
  
  There was that look again, indicating if he didn't already have a sign,
  she felt he merited one.  
  
  "Damn it, I am the boss around here!  You – go to your room," Mulder
  ordered his son. "And you," he snapped at Dana, "I want to talk to you."
  
  "Mr. Mulder," Dana repeated sharply.
  
  "What?"
  
  "I locked the back door.  I locked it when I came in to make coffee. 
  You and Samuel were still in the front yard with Grace."
  
  Mulder tipped his head from side to side, stretching his tight neck
  muscles. "No, you didn't," he said evenly.  She and Samuel were equally
  poor liars.
  
  He glared at Dana, then slammed his coffee cup down angrily and stood,
  tipping his chair backward so it crashed to the floor.
  
  Sam startled and looked as though he'd like to crawl under the stove and
  stay there.
  
  Mulder waited for someone to apologize and tell him what was really
  happening, but no one did.  To stem his hemorrhaging pride before he
  bled out, he announced he was going to see what the Klan had done to The
  Evening Star building.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Byers had followed the firefighters down Pennsylvania Avenue and helped
  the firemen put out the flames before they could spread past the lobby. 
  Afterward, according to Frohike, he'd looked around at the broken glass,
  overturned furniture, and smoking ruin, and said, "Someone find a broom
  and we'll get this cleaned up before Mulder gets here." That seemed
  unlikely, but Frohike swore it was true.  
  
  Byers was standing ankle deep in soggy newsprint, his shirt sleeves
  rolled up, surveying the damage when Mulder arrived.  The firefighters
  had moved on; other buildings on Newspaper Row hadn't been so fortunate. 
  There was barely a silver sliver of moon, but the flames from across the
  street illuminated the lobby as well as daylight.
  
  Mulder stood the coat rack upright so he had a place to hang his coat
  and hat as he asked, "Is everyone all right?"
  
  "So far," Byers answered. "They ransacked the lobby, but everything
  upstairs, including Frohike, is fine.  Susanne and I got a brick through
  our parlor window, though."
  
  "They must know I own the place; I got a burning cross in my yard."
  
  Byers' eyes widened. "Is everyone all right?"
  
  "Grace is dead," Mulder answered tiredly, unbuttoning his cuffs and
  rolling up his sleeves.
  
  "I'm sorry."
  
  "So am I."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Dinner had been served so long ago that even the smell of it was gone. 
  All that remained in the dark kitchen was a faint aroma from the bowl of
  fruit on the table and last of the soapy wet-wood smell from the clean
  floor.  Mulder dropped his coat over the back of a chair and didn't bend
  to pick it up when it slid off.
  
  The stove's hot water reservoir was almost empty, the water was tepid,
  and his razor was dull.  He used Dana's embroidery scissors to trim his
  beard before he shaved it, and didn't put them back in her sewing basket
  because he didn't want to hear her fuss about them being dull.  As he
  wiped his smooth face with a towel, he debated going to the trouble of
  relighting the stove and heating enough water to wash the rest of him,
  but decided not to bother.  The sofa wouldn't care how he smelled.
  
  When he checked the nursery and Sam's room, he discovered he'd lost his
  family, but found it had only migrated to the end of the hall.  Emily
  and Cally were in bed with Dana, Cally's wet nurse was asleep on the
  sofa, and Samuel was on the rug beside the bed.  Sam had the pillow from
  his bed, but he'd pushed it aside as he slept and instead rested his
  head on his upper arm.  The cut on his cheekbone had an ugly scab, and
  several bruises Mulder hadn't noticed earlier had deepened to black and
  purple.  In one hand, Sam held a pistol, his fingers loose around it as
  he slept. 
  
  Mulder stepped over his son and sat carefully on the mattress, watching
  Dana until she woke.  She opened her eyes the way she always did,
  blinking slowly as he came into focus. 
  
  "You shaved your beard," she mumbled, scooting up on the pillows.
  
  "It smelled like smoke."
  
  He pulled off his boots and let them slide to the floor with two soft
  thumps. "Easy, Sammy," he cautioned as Sam started to sit up and aim the
  pistol at the noise.  Mulder reached down, gently taking the gun from
  him. "I'm here.  I'll keep watch.  Let me have that." 
  
  Sam let go of the gun and sank back onto the rug, immediately drifting
  back to an unquestioning sleep.
  
  "Rebekah said the newspaper is still standing," Dana whispered. "I sent
  her with breakfast, but someone told her you were too busy and she
  should just leave it.  And she left lunch.  And dinner."
  
  He lay down across the bed, putting his head on her abdomen and his arm
  around her waist.  As he shifted to get comfortable soot from his hair
  left dirty smudges on her white nightgown. "It's standing.  It's a mess
  right now," he said tiredly. "But everyone's alive.  And everything's
  repairable, I think."
  
  "That is good."
  
  "Yes."
  
  He was quiet a while, closing his eyes as she stroked his hair.  His
  body ached, but his mind raced, too full for sleep.
  
  The newspaper made money, but not a fortune.  It didn't print the
  conglomeration of sordid crimes, society news, and serial romances that
  appealed to the masses.  Most of Mulder's income came from his
  investments in other papers, although his family's money made even those
  unnecessary.  The racial and political problems in DC could only worsen
  as Reconstruction began in earnest, and some of Washington's finest
  didn't appreciate seeing their names on The Evening Star's front page. 
  As the previous night evidenced, Mulder was making dangerous enemies who
  believed his home and family, as well as his employees' homes and
  families, were fair game.
  
  "Your head is heavy, mo rún," Dana said quietly.
  
  "Sorry," he apologized, starting to sit up, thinking it was a ruse to
  get him to leave.
  
  "No, I mean you seem to be thinking too many things.  Is that not the
  way to say it?  Heavy?"
  
  "Hearts get heavy.  Heads get full," he explained.
  
  "Hearts do not get full?"
  
  "Sometimes," he exhaled, relaxing and resting his cheek against her
  abdomen again. "If you're lucky.  Hearts also get very empty."
  
  "What about souls?"
  
  "They get weary," he admitted tiredly. "May I stay here?  And sleep? 
  Just for a little bit.  Is that all right?"
  
  "Yes, it is.  Of course it is.  It is fine."
  
  "All right," he mumbled, feeling every muscle in his body go limp in
  exhaustion.  Emily kicked in her dreams, Cally hiccoughed, and Sam
  snored softly.  Dana's warm hand and the sounds of a city night covered
  him: a Hanson cab's wooden wheels across the cobblestones and the
  mournful echo of a train whistle in the distance.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
  Mulder was the only man who had dreams of falling that started with the
  part where he hit the ground.
  
  He groaned as consciousness surged over him like a tide, but didn't
  quite let him break the surface for a moment.  He felt the merciless
  Georgia sun on his face, and a woman's cool fingertips stroking his
  cheek.  His shoulder blade hurt, and the back of his shirt was wet with
  something he hoped wasn't blood.
  
  "Are you awake, Mr. Mulder?" Dana's voice asked, sounding like she was
  just above him.  Whatever he was laying on shifted and a shadow passed
  over his face as she leaned forward. "Mr. Mulder?"
  
  Without thinking, he moved his hand slowly in search of hers, and she
  laced her fingers though his, murmuring comfortingly and telling him to
  stay still a little longer.  He felt the soft, thin fabric of her calico
  skirt against his skin and realized he was laying on the ground with his
  head on her lap.  She smelled nice: like a baby's head and soap and
  sunshine and the bed sheets after lovemaking.  She continued caressing
  his face to keep him calm, and he kept his eyes closed.  Her touch was
  different from Melissa's: more confident, more soothing.  He'd gladly
  lie there and bleed a little longer if she'd keep touching him like
  that.
  
  That had a faintly pitiful quality he chose not to dwell on.
  
  "Is he all right?" a man called in a French Creole accent.  Mulder
  recognized it as Benjamin, Dori's mulatto husband of nine weeks 
  
  "Yes, I think so," Dana answered. "He is waking up."
  
  The previous night's lightening storm had struck a tree near the
  plantation house, and it threatened to fall through the roof.  Cutting
  it down hadn't looked to be a tricky operation and had to be less risky
  than staying in the house.  As angry as Dana was to discover Dori had
  been Waterston's octoroon mistress, Dori was equally unhappy to learn
  Waterston had a white wife and baby in another state.  The two women
  were painstakingly polite to each other, but there was danger in the air
  and Waterston wasn't around to be its target.  When Mulder mentioned the
  tree after lunch, Benjamin had seen a chance to escape the tense silence
  and quickly volunteered to help.
  
  It was a good plan, but there had been problems in its execution, namely
  that when he wasn't a soldier Mulder ran a newspaper, and Benjamin had
  been a slave doorman at the New Orleans balls where white men came to
  meet their Negro mistresses - and neither knew beans about playing
  lumberjack.
  
  As he finally opened his eyes, squinting at the yellow autumn light that
  streamed through the leaves, Dana looked at him, her lips pursed and her
  auburn eyebrows pushed together anxiously.
  
  "I told you I'd get it down," he mumbled, sitting up slowly as the earth
  rocked from side to side.
  
  "You were only supposed to cut the tree down, not break its fall," Dana
  reminded him. "Are you hurt?  Where does it hurt?"
  
  "I think I'm all right, Ma'am."
  
  As the yard stopped spinning, he saw Dori with Benjamin, checking him
  for injuries.  The beautiful, dark-haired woman seldom spoke, but she
  tended to stay near Benjamin, as though he made her feel safe.  He got
  to his feet, brushed off, kissed her cheek reassuringly, and patted her
  flat stomach before he went back to work.  Dori sat on the tree stump,
  content to watch him.
  
  "Your back, Mr. Mulder," Dana observed, helping him to his feet,
  steadying him as he swayed. "Come sit down and let me see," she said,
  guiding him to the porch steps.
  
  He sat, then looked at her expectantly, still dazed and trying to
  remember what he was supposed to do. 
  
  "May I unbutton your shirt?" she asked gently, as though he was a shy
  virgin and might refuse.  He wasn't overly modest, and, after
  Chattanooga and a stray bayonet, he'd been bare-chested in front of more
  doctors than he cared to count.  It wasn't exactly proper - allowing a
  woman who wasn't his wife to undress him – but neither was lurking in
  her bedroom doorway, watching her nurse her baby the previous night.
  
  He nodded and tried to help, his fingers getting in the way of hers.
  
  "Let me do it," she requested. "Relax."
  
  He nodded again and watched, fascinated and blaming the inappropriate
  thoughts that crept into his brain on a recent blow to the head.  There
  was nothing seductive in her manner, and they weren't likely to end up
  in the throes of passion on the front porch with Dori, Benjamin, Dori's
  sons, and two bored cows watching.
  
  He swallowed dryly, embarrassed.  He was a little war-worn to be smitten
  with a girl not much older than his teenage son.  He was just confusing
  kindness with affection, loneliness with desire, and he was making a
  fool of himself.  Even if she'd been the slightest bit interested,
  Mulder wouldn't know how to approach the situation.  AS he'd told Dana,
  he'd never courted a woman; he'd just married her.  
  
  "It is all right," she assured him, peeling one sleeve off, but leaving
  the other on so he was covered as much as possible. "It is not bad: lots
  of mud and barely a scratch," Dana decided, then told him to stay put
  while she went for water and a rag.
  
  Mulder waited, sitting on the warped front steps of the plantation house
  with his elbows on his knees.  In the overgrown yard, Benjamin put
  Dori's two older boys to work picking up sticks.  He surveyed the tree
  he and Mulder had cut down, raised his ax, swung, and missed the trunk
  by six inches.  Benjamin glanced at Dori, his brown eyes dancing
  mischievously.  He murmured something in colloquial French, Dori
  murmured back, and he swung a second time, hitting his mark.
  
  "She's expecting again," Mulder said quietly as Dana returned, bringing
  a basin and washrag with her. "Benjamin told me.  He's excited.  He
  wants a girl; he says they have enough boys."
    
  Dori's three boys were Waterston's, but the only provision Waterston had
  made for them was deeding them a rundown plantation in the middle of
  Nowhere, Georgia.  The doctor had made no provision at all for Dana,
  though she and her daughter were probably low on his list of priorities. 
  
  Mulder didn't think Dana had realized that, and he wasn't telling her if
  she hadn't.  She was already humiliated.  She already had a two-month
  old baby, no income, and nowhere to go.  He saw no need to make it worse
  by telling her the truth: she'd been a pretty distraction when Waterston
  was in Savannah, but there were almost certainly other pretty
  distractions elsewhere, and one of them was a legitimate wife.  Wealthy,
  established gentlemen just didn't marry immigrant Irish girls, no matter
  how tempting those girls might be.  The doctor probably agreed to
  "marriage" because he couldn't bed her any other way, which spoke well
  of Dana and vilely of Waterston.  He must have written his will years
  ago, leaving Dori's sons a plantation he seldom visited, but then
  forgotten to change it when he stashed Dana away there.
  
  "I like him," he said, remembering he'd once had a topic. "After I
  talked to him, I like him.  Benjamin.  Dori's lucky to have him.  He's a
  good man, and he's waited a long time to be with her.  He'll take good
  care of her and her boys.  Dori seems to– She needs someone to take care
  of her.  She's not like you. I don't think she could survive alone."
  
  Dana didn't comment.  
  
  "I didn't mean that what your husband did was right.  I didn't mean to
  upset you, Ma'am."
  
  "You did not.  I was just thinking."
  
  "About?" he asked.
  
  "About a great many things."
  
  He heard water splash and felt the washcloth pass gently over his bare
  shoulder blade.  A few drops trickled down his back, but she caught
  them, wiping them away.
  
  "I think that's why they came here," he continued. "Dori could pass as
  white, but he's obviously mulatto.  They couldn't live together in a
  city, but out here they're safe." Mulder smirked as Benjamin
  determinedly tackled the tree trunk, sinking his ax into the dirt more
  often than the wood. "He knows nothing about farming and they may starve
  to death, but at least they'll starve together."
  
  An hour earlier, when Dori had looked for a place for her toddler to
  nap, she'd asked him which was their bedroom, assuming he and Dana were
  lovers and not wanting to intrude.  They'd never even kissed, but Mulder
  had liked the sound of that: their bedroom.  He'd liked the idea of
  being a "them" with Dana instead of just a "him" alone.
  
  As soon as he returned to DC, the pressure would begin for him to
  remarry.  His mother would drag him to parties where hopeful fathers
  would introduce their daughters, auctioning smooth white flesh like
  polite slave traders. "Oh, you own a newspaper, Mr. Mulder?" the wide-
  eyed girls would say as if they didn't know his net worth down to the
  penny. "That must be so exciting," they'd gush, and he'd sigh and glance
  at the clock as he sipped his punch.
  
  There was nothing wrong with those girls.  They were exactly what they'd
  been brought up to be: decorative and adoring, and unable to ever be
  anything but decorative and adoring.  They were a product of a society
  with too much time on its hands, but it wasn't a product he was
  interested in being sold.  He wanted something more.  A challenge. 
  Someone to keep him on his toes and understand rather than idolize him. 
  He could pay women to keep his house, care for his children, sew his
  shirts, and, if it came down to it, warm his bed.  Finding someone who
  understood his sarcasm and truly cared if he was hurting – that was a
  rare thing.
  
  "At least they have the courage to try," he commented, turning his head
  to look back at Dana, making sure she wasn't upset. 
  
  She held his gaze for several seconds while the washcloth in her hand,
  forgotten, dripped cold water on his shoulder and soaked his muddy
  shirt.  Her blue eyes were as deep as a mountain lake, promising there
  was more in their depths than on their surface.  Her tongue parted her
  lips, moistening them.
  
  For a moment, the male animal lurking inside him wanted to take her
  upstairs, strip off that old dress, and do things to her that he'd only
  read about.  Then afterward, to lay nude across the soft sheets with her
  in his arms and sleep away the long warm afternoon.
  
  "Yes," she said.  He'd long forgotten what they'd been discussing, but
  her "yes" sounded more like permission than agreement. 
  
  He wondered, if he asked – was that her answer, already decided?  Did
  she even think of such carnal matters or was he imagining things?  Yes,
  if he asked, she would let him make love to her - not out of obligation
  or friendship or gratitude, but because she wanted him to.  Because he
  wanted her and there was an empty place inside her body that craved his.
  
  "Yes," he agreed.
  
  Even if she would allow him, he couldn't be with her and then just walk
  away afterward.  He knew that.  Already she was more than that to him. 
  But he knew he couldn't return to DC chaste and alone, to spend the rest
  of his life in polite society wondering "what if," either.
  
  Inside the house, a baby woke from its nap, crying to be fed and
  changed. 
  
  "That's Emily," Mulder said softly, still not moving and barely even
  breathing.
  
  "Yes," Dana said. "I should get her."
  
  He wanted to be the father of her child.  And he wanted her to be the
  mother of his.
  
  "Go get the baby," he suggested hoarsely. "I'll wait here."
  
  "I-I will.  I am.  I will get her right now." Her eyes flitted over his
  face one last time, then she stood, still holding the dripping cloth,
  and disappeared into the house.
  
  He exhaled, not sure what had just happened, but damn sure he wanted it
  to happen again.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
  The bedroom door closed and the bed shifted as Dana returned, curling up
  to his back and adjusting the covers.  She put her arms around him,
  holding him invitingly close.
  
  "You didn't need to send everyone away.  I told you all I wanted was to
  sleep," he said without moving.  
  
  "I did not send anyone away.  The baby was hungry, and Samuel took Emily
  to the nursery when he left," she murmured. "You are restless.  You were
  mumbling.  Maybe you will sleep better if it is quieter."
  
  It was still dark, and the air on his bare face felt foreign and cool. 
  Mulder stretched and rubbed his eyes, trying to convince his body it was
  rested on four hours of sleep in two days.
  
  "Mulder, please…" Dana said softly, stroking the back of his shirt.
  
  "Gotta go to work, love," he mumbled, pushing up on his elbow and
  getting halfway to sitting.  Sitting was halfway to standing, and
  standing was halfway to work.  
  
  "It is three in the morning," she responded as he sat with his back to
  her, still in the wrinkled shirt and trousers he'd worn to work twenty-
  four hours ago. "You have barely slept.  Please stay." He felt the bed
  dip as she sat up, scooting closer and sliding her arms around his
  shoulders. "What can I do to convince you to stay?"
  
  He shrugged away in annoyance. "Nothing.  Go back to sleep.  You should
  rest."
  
  "Have- Have I done something?" she asked uncertainly. "Are you still
  angry about last night?  I am sorry.  You said to tell you-"
   
  "No, I'm not angry about that," he said quickly. "I'm not angry with you
  at all.  I don't want you to think that."
  
  "The newspaper?  The men in the yard?" she guessed.
  
  He shook his head tersely. "No."
  
  Dana slid her fingertips down his shoulder, then arm as she leaned close
  and whispered into his ear, "I want you to stay with me."
  
  "Stop it," he ordered curtly, and she moved back.
  
  "What is wrong?  If you are not angry with me, what has changed?  I know
  you do not want Samuel seeing us, but it is more than that.  You are not
  yourself.  Last night, you seemed different.  I do not think you wanted
  me so much as you wanted to prove… Something.  I know you have too much
  on your mind and you are pulled in too many directions, but…"
  
  Mulder sat slouched on the edge of the bed, watching his feet dangle and
  curling his fingers around the corner of the mattress.  He told his legs
  to get up and leave, but they refused. "It's too soon after the baby,"
  he mumbled. "And too soon for you to be having another."
  
  "That is not the only option and you know it.  I will do whatever you
  want – I want to do whatever you want – but you have to tell me what
  that is."
  
  He clenched his teeth as he worried his tongue around his mouth.  She
  was right; they might quarrel about everything else under the sun, but
  they'd always been compatible in bed.
  
  "Mulder," she said softly, stroking his shoulder again. "What is it?  I
  miss you.  What has happened?"
  
  If he could have applied the concept of rape to a man, that was what
  he'd tell her had happened.  Poppy was no stranger to men's bodies, and
  she'd known no matter what his body might have craved in its morphine
  haze, he'd never choose to be unfaithful to Melissa.  He'd trusted her
  to take care of him when he was weak, but instead, according to her,
  she'd taken advantage of a weak moment.
  
  Dana was still watching him, wanting to know what she'd done wrong when
  the answer was nothing.
  
  He exhaled and answered hesitantly, "It's not- it's not what you think. 
  Yes, something happened.  I wish it hadn't, but it did, and I can't stop
  thinking about it.  It's like dirt that I can't wash off my skin.  I
  thought I could, but I can't.  I didn't know it would be like that; I
  thought I could just forget about it. I didn't tell you because I was
  embarrassed and ashamed and I didn't want to hurt you.  I'm still
  ashamed. You were big with Cally and then you were so sick, and I didn't
  think you'd ever know…"
  
  He heard her take a shaky breath, misunderstanding. 
  
  He ordered his mouth to open and explain, however humiliating the
  explanation was, but the words just wouldn't come.  And once the moment
  passed, it was lost. 
  
  "What did I do-"
  
  "Nothing.  You didn't do anything wrong.  It had nothing to do with you. 
  Dana, I'm sorry.  I'm so sorry," he mumbled, knowing that couldn't
  possibly fix anything.  It was probably better to let her think it had
  been a two-dollar street-corner whore than Poppy. Street-corner whores
  were faceless; Poppy wasn't.  Poppy had diapered Emily and made their
  bed and lived in their home.  And he'd sworn to Dana on numerous
  occasions that he'd never been with her.
  
  "I think I would like you to go to work now," she said slowly. "If you
  would, please."
  
  He nodded, stood, and grabbed a clean set of clothes and his boots as he
  left. He trudged down the stairs, reached the bottom, then turned and
  trudged back up.
  
  "What about Grace?" he called, standing outside the closed bedroom door. 
  He'd noticed there was no longer a dead dog in the kitchen.
  
  "Samuel and I buried him in the back yard.  He wanted to wait for you,
  but you did not come home from work," Dana answered, and he trudged away
  again.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  It was called Murder Bay for a reason.  It wasn't a part of DC he
  normally frequented, and not a part it was wise to frequent at all,
  especially late at night.  Between the sewage-filled Washington Canal
  north of The Mall and the reek of the fish market, it seemed dangerous
  to even take a deep breath.  Hungry eyes watched him from the shadows,
  and dirty bodies huddled under the eaves of the rundown tenement
  buildings.  It was part of the town where anything was for sale, and
  usually for sale cheap. 
  
  There was no moon, and no gaslights.  The sounds of crying babies,
  shrill voices, and flesh meeting flesh – in anger or in lust – drowned
  out his footsteps. Fog rolled off the canal, hanging low over the muddy
  streets and obscuring everything the darkness didn't.  Mulder turned his
  collar up and kept his head down as he made his way through the narrow
  alleys.
  
  He found the address he wanted and waited in the alley, sitting at the
  bottom of some rickety wooden steps. The businesses had front entrances,
  but no one used them.  If men of Mulder's class kept mistresses, they
  kept them near The Capitol.  If they visited prostitutes, they went to
  the elegant houses and saloons on 1st and 2nd Streets or Pennsylvania
  Avenue.  Working class men went to Tin Cup Alley or D Street.  Anyone in
  Murder Bay at night was there for something he couldn't get elsewhere,
  and he didn't want to be seen going in the front door to get it.
  
  The black overcoat had been his father's, made for a shorter, stockier
  man.  It had been in fashion before Mulder was born, but now the cuffs
  were ragged, it was missing a button, and moths had made a meal on the
  lapels.  Bill Mulder had worn it during his free time at West Point, and
  it had probably seen numerous youthful escapades.  The hat had been his
  father's as well, and Mulder pulled it lower over his forehead, hiding
  his face in the shadows as he waited.  The revolver in his waistband was
  his own, and it was loaded.
  
  After half an hour, the side entrance opened and Spender emerged.  He
  shrugged on his coat, then paused to light a cigarette.  He took a deep
  draw before passing it to the skinny young man who'd followed him to the
  door, and lit another.  The boy collected his money, stepped inside, and
  the door closed.  Transaction complete, romance over.
  
  Spender descended the steps, but stopped cold when he saw Mulder.  His
  cigarette fell from his tar-stained fingertips and sizzled on the wet
  ground.  Mulder was taller and slimmer, but the features were similar,
  and in the darkness, in the right clothes, the resemblance to his father
  was uncanny.
  
  "You're white as a sheet.  You look as if you've seen a ghost," Mulder
  said softly, assuming a more pronounced Boston accent.
  
  Spender stared at him as wisps of cigarette smoke escaped his gaping
  mouth, making him look like a dying dragon.
  
  "Boo," Mulder exhaled, standing up and stepping forward.
  
  "What do you want, boy?" Spender demanded, recovering some of his poise.
  
  "Come, Claudius – let's go for a walk." He nodded to the second-rate
  whorehouse. "I assume you're finished here?" 
  
  Spender looked around for another way out of the alley besides the one
  Mulder was blocking.  There wasn't one. "What do you want?" he repeated
  venomously.
  
  "We're just going for a little walk."
  
  Mulder stepped forward, crowding Spender until he moved back, turning
  toward the canal.  Mulder fell in step beside him: just an uncle and
  nephew taking a stroll through the bad part of town at midnight. Spender
  had been drinking; he could smell the whiskey on him.
  
  "Do you like Shakespeare, Uncle-father?" Mulder asked, as though he was
  striking up a friendly conversation. "My father favored Shakespeare a
  great deal."
  
  "Go to Hell," Spender muttered.
  
  "Uncle-father, where's your witty banter?"
  
  "What do you want?"
  
  Mulder paused, leaning casually on a metal railing and looking out at
  the murky canal water. There were gunshots on the next block that sent
  the neighborhood dogs into a barking frenzy. "In Hamlet, the king is
  murdered by his brother Claudius, who then marries the king's widow and
  assumes the throne."
  
  "Yes, I'm familiar with the play.  You aren't Hamlet, boy."
  
  "No, but there's something rotten in the state of Denmark." 
  
  "You're wasting my time," Spender hissed, then turned and walked away.  
  
  "I can't prove you killed my father," Mulder called after him, and
  Spender stopped. "Poisoned him, smothered him – I don't know what.  But
  you'll never be a senator.  You can marry his wife, you can live in his
  house, you can even wear his suits, but you'll never be anything but a
  bottom-feeder.  My father was ashamed of you.  My grandfather was
  ashamed of you.  I don't know how you can claim kin to them and be so
  completely morally bankrupt – and I don't care.  I'm telling you for the
  last time: don't come near my family again."
  
  "Or what?  You'll speak to me in a stern tone of voice?"
  
  "If I suspect you or your cronies so much as breathe on anyone I care
  about, you won't live to see another sunrise."
  
  Spender considered, then smirked, the alcohol making him over-confident.
  "You don't have the stones, boy," he responded, fumbling for something
  in his coat pocket. "To shoot a man in cold blood?  You couldn't do it."
  
  "Couldn't I?  I could put a bullet in your head right now, walk away,
  and no one would ever know the difference."
  
  "Not if I do it first," he responded.  In the darkness, Mulder only saw
  a quick glint of metal in Spender's hand before the hammer clicked, but
  the gun misfired.  
  
  "It's a wet night," Mulder responded, pulling the revolver out of his
  waistband. "You let the powder get damp."
  
  "You won't shoot," Spender said blandly as Mulder fired, putting a
  bullet in the old man's calf.
  
  "That's for my son's dog," Mulder said calmly.
  
  He hadn't planned to do that, but once he had, his finger itched to pull
  the trigger again.  He thought of his mother's empty expression as she
  asked him why her brother-in-law was living in her house, unable to
  remember he was her husband.  He thought of the healing gash on Sam's
  face and a dozen men taking turns shoving him around the yard.  He
  thought of Cally, with her grandmother's eyes and grandfather's dimple –
  which her grandparents hadn't lived to see.  
  
  Spender looked from Mulder to his calf, realizing he'd just lost his
  right leg, but not yet registering the pain.  Surgeons wouldn't be able
  to heal the wound, so it would have to be amputated.  
  
  "You impudent little bastard!" He fumbled with his gun, trying to get it
  to fire.
  
  Mulder raised the revolver, hand steady.  Spender was right: he'd shot
  thousands of men in battle, but never killed one in cold blood before.
  "When you get to Hell, you give Jack Kavanaugh my regards."
  
  The shots set the mongrel dogs barking again, and drunken voices yelled
  for them to shut the hell up.  No police came running so Mulder could
  explain and claim self-defense.  No one bothered to step onto the porch
  and investigate.  No one cared.
  
  Mulder stared at the body in the gutter, gun still warm in his hand,
  wondering how death could seem so mundane.  So much evil and hate
  couldn't come from nowhere, and it couldn't just bleed away into
  nothing.  He expected the drops of blood and bits of flesh to reform
  into a thousand miniature demons, but they didn't.  
  
  He wondered what had driven the old man - whether it was a cancerous
  jealously of his baby brother or just a pure, twisted lust for power. 
  Spender took his answers with him and died with as little dignity as
  he'd lived.
  
  "That was for my father," he told him, still feeling strangely calm.
  
  As Mulder walked away, a gang of young boys was stripping the body:
  clothes, boots, money, and jewelry.  Once they were finished, they
  dragged it to the canal and dumped the corpse into the dirty water. 
  When someone found it, if anyone ever found it, it would have been
  floating for days and unrecognizable.  
  
  Mulder tucked the revolver back in his waistband, shoved his hands in
  his pockets, and walked slowly down 15th Street toward home.  Near The
  White House, a young prostitute asked through chattering teeth if he was
  looking for a lady friend, and he took off his father's coat and gave it
  to her, then walked on through the fog.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Dinner would be waiting in the oven: still tepid if he made it home by
  eight, cold and near petrified if it was ten.  By midnight, he might as
  well be eating a brick.  He'd feed it to the dog, but there was no dog
  to feed it to.
  
  Rebekah packed a lunch for him each morning in case he couldn't find
  time to come home at noon.  Dinner was at six, and Mulder was usually
  milling around the kitchen, stomach growling, making a nuisance of
  himself by a quarter ‘till.  The presses stopped running mid-afternoon,
  the reporters left, and there was little for him to do in his office
  after four-thirty.  Except, for the last week, to sit at his desk and
  not go home.  
  
  When he hadn't appeared for dinner Monday, Dana had let his plate sit on
  the dining room table all night in protest, but Tuesday there was a note
  saying it was in the oven.  By Thursday, according to the number of
  goblets drying on the rack, she didn't even set a place for him.  By
  Friday, there was only one place setting, indicating either Sam hadn't
  come home either or Dana hadn't eaten.
  
  Mulder ate alone in the kitchen after everyone else was asleep, slept in
  one of the spare bedrooms, and left for work before dawn.  The only time
  he'd seen Dana in a week was when Emily had a nightmare and he'd heard
  her calling for "Dahdah" as he came home. By the time he'd gotten
  upstairs, Dana was already in the nursery rocking her.  Mulder had
  watched from the doorway for a few seconds, waiting for Dana to say
  something, and then turned and left silently when she hadn't.
  
  It was almost one in the morning, but Dana was sitting at the kitchen
  table as he unlocked the back door.  Mulder hesitated, knowing she
  didn't want to see him, and almost turned away before he realized she
  was asleep, her head resting on a stack of clean diapers she'd been
  folding.  
  
  Having two girls younger than two years old meant dozens of diapers each
  day.  The maids laundered them, but as a wet winter slid into a cold,
  wet spring, getting them dry was difficult.  The cook hung them on racks
  near the stove each evening, and Dana must have been folding them when
  she fell asleep.
  
  He tried to be quiet, but Dana looked up as he closed the door,
  disoriented.  She inhaled, blinked, and shook her head to clear it, then
  stood and pushed the diapers aside to make a place for him.
  
  "Please sit," she offered, like he was a restaurant patron and this was
  her job.
  
  Mulder sat.  She looked at him oddly as he pulled the revolver out of
  his waistband and laid it on the table, but didn't ask.  Many men
  carried side arms, especially when they were out late at night.
  
  He picked up his fork and poked at the food on the plate she set in
  front of him.  New potatoes were easy, and he recognized the petrified
  green stalks as asparagus, but he couldn't identify what was under the
  congealed hollandaise sauce.
  
  "What was this?" he asked neutrally, wanting to say something.
  
  "It was stuffed flounder."
  
  Fish.  For Dana and Rebekah, it was Lent.
  
  "I bet it was good seven hours ago."
  
  "It was nice," she answered politely.
  
  "Is there-" Before he could finish, the butter dish appeared on the
  table in front of him. "Thank you," he mumbled.
  
  Dana added a butter knife and the sugar bowl.
  
  Mulder poked the fish a few times before he put his fork down, propped
  his elbow on the table beside his plate, put his forehead on his fist,
  and closed his eyes in frustration.
  
  "Would you like something else?" Dana asked, her back to him.
  
  He shook his head, kneading his knuckles into his aching forehead.
  
  He heard her turn, and felt her eyes boring into the top of his head.
  
  "Mr. Mulder, would you like-"
  
  "Stop it!  Stop being so goddamn polite and yell at me.  Slap me.  Say
  I'm a lying bastard and tell me to get the hell away from you, but stop
  treating me like I'm a stranger you're obligated to serve. Stop making
  sure my dinner's fine and my shirts are pressed and just say you hate
  me!"
  
  He didn't have the courage to look at her, but as far as he could tell,
  she didn't move.
  
  "I'm sorry," he continued miserably. "However angry and disappointed you
  are, I'm three times as angry and disappointed at myself.  I would kill
  to make it go away – to never think about it again, but I can't. And
  now, neither can you.  You're going to think about it every time you
  look at me.  And, and I don't know how to fix that.  To fix this.  I
  never wanted this – you, me, us, this." He looked up and gestured around
  the kitchen. "Keeping up appearances.  I'd rather be living in a shack
  and starving than have you look at me like that."
  
  He stared up at her, his forehead wrinkled, alternately clenching his
  right, then his left molars.  After a few seconds, he covered his face
  with his hands and closed his eyes again.  His fingers smelled of
  gunpowder, stinging his nose and throat.
  
  "I never wanted this either." Footsteps approached, and he heard china
  and silver clanking as she removed his plate. "This huge house, dresses
  from Paris, fine horses, a box at the opera, dinner at Harvey's -- we
  never talked about those things.  When I said I would marry you, you
  could have been a muleskinner for all I knew.  I did not want my
  daughter to be hungry or afraid.  I did not want us to be cold.  Aside
  from that, all I wanted was you.  Only you.  Because you wanted me. 
  Only me."
  
  "I did want only you.  I still do." He raised his head, still keeping
  his middle and index fingers pressed against his eyelids. "Just tell me
  what to do to fix this.  Do you need time?  Would that help?  Do you
  want me to take Sam and leave?"
  
  A chair slid across the floor as she sat near him, and she moved the
  revolver across the table and out of the way. "I want you to tell me
  what happened."
  
  He lowered his hands and stared at the wooden tabletop before he shook
  his head. "I can't."
  
  "Then tell me why.  That is what I do not understand.  I did whatever
  you wanted."
  
  He swallowed dryly, knowing the next two words out of her mouth if he
  didn't answer would be "get out."
  
  "Dana, I'm not Waterston.  I didn't plan to do it. I was so far gone I
  barely remembered my own name.  I-I must have been thinking about it,
  and, and I should have told her ‘no,' but I guess I didn't.  Or else she
  didn't listen.  It's not something I wanted to happen."
  
  She was quiet a long time, and his chair squeaked as he shifted
  nervously.
  
  "Is that why you fired Poppy?" she asked. "Because you were drunk and
  she seduced you?"
  
  He swallowed again. "She quit."
  
  "Dig your grave a little deeper," she said coolly.
  
  He nodded. "Yes, that's why I fired her."
  
  "Christmas morning?"
  
  "Yes," he mumbled, just wanting this conversation over with.
  
  "Never before then?" 
  
  "Once.  When I was at Harvard.  I told you about it."
  
  "You told me you kissed her."
  
  If there was a trapdoor in the floor, he'd have used it.  If there had
  been a mouse hole, he'd have tried to squirm through. 
  
  "It was a thorough, undressed kiss.  I was upset with Melly, and my
  father caught us and said he'd send her back to Kavanaugh if I ever did
  it again.  Looking back- looking back, she instigated it, but I didn't
  realize that at the time.  I was so naive I thought had.  I wanted to
  tell Melissa, but Father told me not to, that it would just hurt her."
  
  "I am not Melissa."
  
  "I understand that," he agreed humbly, in his very sorry voice.
  
  "I told you!  I told you Poppy was dangerous.  I told you she'd do
  anything to have control over you."
  
  "Yes, you did," he agreed, even sorrier.
  
  "She told Samuel.  Did you know that?  He thinks the two of you were
  lovers.  He thinks you are Sadie's father.  He asked me and I told him
  Poppy was lying.  Damn it, Mulder!"
  
  He didn't have a sorrier voice, so he just huddled, still looking for a
  way to melt through the cracks in the floor.  
  
  "I'd like to put a bullet between that woman's eyes."
  
  Mulder reached for the gun, handing it to her butt-first. "Feel free."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He sat on the sofa, watching her as she undressed for bed, and wondering
  which of them was more nervous.
  
  "The sofa's fine," he told her softly. "Or I can keep you warm.  Or I
  can sleep down the hall.  Or am I just the maid tonight?  Or have you
  decided?"
  
  In response, she turned for him to untie the back of her corset.  He
  worked the laces loose, then slipped the stiff whalebones over her hips
  and massaged away the hurt where they'd pinched.  Her skin beneath her
  chemise was warm and yielding, and she stayed still while he rubbed.
  
  His fingers slid forward, rubbing across her soft abdomen and up her
  torso until he grazed the bottoms of her breasts as she stood in front
  of him.  He leaned forward, putting his arms around her waist and
  resting his forehead against the small of her back.  Still seated, he
  found the drawstring at the waist of her pantalets, untied it, and two
  legs of loose cotton and lace fell to the floor. 
  
  "You know I want you.  Only you," he said softly, watching the contrast
  between his tanned hands and her white skin in the lamplight as he
  touched her. "And you know that you don't have to do this," he
  whispered, looking up. "I'd never hurt you or force you."
  
  She didn't say anything, and her reflection in the dresser mirror bit
  her lip.
  
  "Are you… doing this?" he asked uncertainly.
  
  The reflection nodded slowly, and he gathered her chemise and helped her
  pull it over her head, leaving only the delicate silk stockings and the
  garters that held them in place.
  
  "Kiss me," he requested, and she turned and gently, hesitantly, covered
  his mouth with hers.  He closed his eyes, exhaling, and leaned back on
  the sofa, letting her set the pace.  She moved with him, settling half
  on his lap, half on the sofa cushion beside him.  As he'd asked, she
  kissed him, slowly making her way from his lips to his nose, his
  cheekbones and earlobes.  The fabric of his shirt pulled slightly as she
  unbuttoned it, and then rested her forehead against the base of his neck
  for a long time.
  
  He opened his eyes, slid one hand down her shoulder, and cupped the
  other hand against her face.
  
  "I love you," he promised. "You know no one and nothing will ever change
  that."
  
  "I know," she murmured as she kissed his palm. "You smell like
  gunpowder."
  
  "I shot Spender," he mumbled.
  
  She removed her lips from his finger and asked, "When?" in surprise.
  
  "About forty-five minutes ago."
  
  "Why?" 
  
  "He shot first.  I went to talk to him about the KKK and he tried to
  kill me.  I was gonna tell you."
  
  "Dear God, Mulder," she muttered to herself, closed her eyes, and
  resumed tracing a slow path across his body with her mouth.
  
  Before, he would have done it automatically, but this time she put his
  hands on her breasts, giving him permission.  She arched her back as he
  pulled one nipple deep into his mouth, massaging the other with his
  thumb. 
  
  "Bed?" he whispered, still not sure she'd say yes. 
  
  "What did you have in mind?"
  
  "I'm just thankful to be here.  I'll do whatever you like.  Or you can
  do whatever you like to me."
  
  "I would like to put you over my knee and blister your behind for not
  telling me the truth about that woman three months ago."
  
  "Later," he promised.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He'd concede to being a little dense, and to becoming overly focused on
  some things to the exclusion of all else. He'd concede he was a romantic
  and could be so annoyingly optimistic that others had the urge to hit
  him in the face with a shovel.  But even he wasn't such a starry-eyed
  fool that he believed physical intimacy equaled forgiveness.  At best,
  it meant Dana was willing to try to move on.  At worst, it meant she was
  his wife and part of her vows included ending up on her back whenever he
  wanted.  His brain leaned toward the former, his guilty conscience
  argued the latter.
  
  "Are you all right?" he asked sleepily, shifting the bare leg he'd
  intertwined with hers.
  
  "Fine," Dana answered softly.
  
  "Do you need anything?  A drink of water?  A washcloth?"
  
  She shook her head slightly and closed her eyes.  She felt too warm, so
  he pushed the covers off, then noticed she had goose bumps and pulled
  them up again.
  
  Mulder was too tired to see straight, let alone think straight, but
  sleep seemed as foreign a concept to his body as flying.  Too many
  thoughts buzzed around his brain, too random to analyze, too insistent
  to ignore.  He tried to capture and examine them one at a time, but they
  were too transient.  One worry led to another, which led to another,
  like dominos toppling.
  
  "Dana, did you want me to leave?  I can sleep on the sofa, if you want. 
  Or down the hall."
  
  "I want you to be quiet, be still, and let me go to sleep."
  
  "Oh.  All right," he agreed quickly.  
  
  He told himself he'd be completely silent and motionless, which
  immediately caused his entire body to itch, twitch, or demanded to be
  moved.  He fought the tickle in his throat as long as possible, holding
  his breath until he turned blue before he finally coughed.  
  
  Dana sighed and rolled over, and he curled up to her back, wrapping his
  arms around her. 
  
  "I love you.  Only you.  You know that, don't you?"
  
  "Yes, I know," she answered for the hundredth time of the night.
  
  "And you know I'm sorry."
  
  "Yes, I know you are sorry," she repeated. "Go to sleep."
  
  "All right," he answered meekly. "It didn't hurt?" he asked, allowing
  himself one last question.  Or three, actually. "It was nice? You
  weren't just pretending?"
  
  He was under no illusions.  There was no need to use a more enthusiastic
  adjective than "nice." It had been nice.  Adequate.  Done.  Like
  laundry, but less pleasurable.
  
  "It was nice.  I thought you did not want another baby so soon, though,"
  Dana mumbled, her breaths growing slower.
  
  "Oh," he remembered, about six minutes too late.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Once again, he'd heard the grandfather clock downstairs strike two and
  five, and every fifteen-minute increment in between.  In another half-
  hour, he could consider the night officially over and say he was getting
  up to go to work.  He didn't usually work on Sunday, but he could be out
  of the house before Dana realized that.
  
  She gave every appearance of being asleep, but the rise and fall of her
  rib cage beneath his hand indicated she wasn't.  When he looked, her
  eyes were open and she was staring out their bedroom window at the black
  night.  He fitted the top of her head snugly under his chin, wrapped his
  arms tighter around her, and helped her stare at nothing.
  
  In the distance, a train pushed through the darkness, its steam whistle
  floating sadly through the wet air. 
  
  "Her name was Anne," he said softly, as though they were already in the
  middle of a long conversation. "Not a fancy name, but there was nothing
  fancy about her.  Just Anne.  She was about the age you are now, and at
  the time, I was a few years younger.  A nice girl from a well-to-do
  family.  Quiet.  Bookish, though she tried not to let it show.  To see
  her on the street, nothing about her would stand out." Mulder paused and
  thought a few seconds, then added. "She had pretty chestnut hair.  And
  nice hands."
  
  "She'd married a New York ship-building tycoon, to everyone's approval,"
  he continued. "She was a child bride her husband had grown tired of,
  though they were still on good terms.  He was in his fifties, content to
  smoke cigars, sip scotch, and speculate about politics all evening. 
  They never had children, though I never knew why.  According to gossip,
  they still tried the last Saturday of the month.  He felt it was his
  duty, and I suppose, so did she."
  
  Mulder paused again, turning over old memories in his mind. "My father
  owned shares in her husband's ship-building business, and there were
  quarterly meetings for the stockholders to attend.  Instead of going
  himself, he sent me."
  
  Dana shifted slightly, moving the hand she'd slid under her pillow.
  
  "Anne wasn't at the meetings, of course, but I'd see her afterward.  She
  and her husband stayed in a hotel in the city, and he'd invited the
  shareholders for dinner.  Everyone else in the room dated from the time
  when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, so Anne and I would take our glasses of
  wine and walk along the edge of Central Park after dinner.  Or we'd sit
  beside the fire in the hotel parlor, discussing books or plays.  She'd
  been to Europe on her honeymoon, to the museums and the opera, and we
  talked about that.  We talked about Sam and how much she'd wanted a
  large family.  We talked about Melissa enough that she knew I was
  married, and that my wife was very ill.  I didn't tell her Melissa had
  just tried to kill herself and Sam, and was locked in an insane asylum
  at the time, but then, I didn't tell anyone that."
  
  He cleared his throat, took a breath, and continued, "We were friends. 
  Like you, she was easy to talk to.  I began to look forward to those
  boring quarterly meetings because I'd get to talk to her afterward.  I
  never considered writing her or trying to see her any other time because
  it wouldn't have been proper.  I wasn't in love with her, and I never
  considered she might be in love with me."
  
  Something stubborn stuck in his throat, and it took several tries before
  he managed to speak again. "It was January.  Cold, icy, generally
  miserable.  That evening, we talked until her husband invited the men to
  his salon for brandy and cigars.  I rolled my eyes at her, knowing
  they'd pontificate until dawn about their own importance, and I'd be
  bored to death. Anne and I would have gone for a walk, but the weather
  was bad, and women weren't welcome in the smoking salon.  She smiled
  sympathetically, shook my hand, said goodnight to everyone, and went to
  bed. It wasn't the last Saturday of the month, so she and her husband
  had separate bedrooms at the hotel. After she left, I realized the key
  to her room was in my hand."
  
  Dana exhaled slowly.
  
  "I'd swear Anne had never done anything like that before in her life,
  and it must have taken weeks for her to work up the nerve.  I went back
  to my room and just stared at the key.  I took a bath. Shaved. Dressed. 
  Had a drink.  Had another drink.  Stared at my reflection in the mirror
  for a long time.  Then I sat on my bed and stared at that key.  No one
  would have ever known.  She wasn't asking for romance.  She wasn't
  leaving her husband, and she didn't expect me to leave my wife.  I don't
  know that she even wanted to go to bed with me – not really.  She was
  just lonely, and so was I.  She was looking at the rest of her life and
  terrified by what she saw, and so was I.  I stared at the key for hours
  until I took it to the front desk and told the clerk someone had dropped
  it.  I went back to DC early the next morning, and when it was time for
  the next meeting, I told Father I was too busy with the paper to go."
    
  Dana still hadn't spoken, but he could tell by the tension in her
  shoulders that she was listening.
    
  "I saw her once after that: at a ball my parents gave to celebrate their
  wedding anniversary.  All of Washington and half of Boston attended.  By
  then, Melissa was better and she liked parties, so we went, and Anne and
  her husband were there."
  
  He paused. 
  
  "For once, Mother persuaded Melissa that married women didn't wear pink,
  so she wore a dark rose-colored silk gown from Paris, and men strained
  their necks craning at her.  You've seen the dress; Poppy wore it to the
  symphony when Sam played.  Melly was so beautiful, but for the first
  time in ages she seemed happy, and she just glowed.  She liked to dance,
  so we danced and laughed and drank too much champagne, and as we were
  waltzing, I saw Anne with her husband across the room.  He was talking
  with his friends and paying no attention to her, but Anne never took her
  eyes off us.  I'd told her Melissa was pretty, but she'd never seen her
  before.  As the waltz ended, I saw her leave the ballroom.  As soon as I
  could, I left Melissa with Father and went after Anne.  I don't know
  what I thought I was going to do or say, but I couldn't find Anne. Soon,
  Melissa came looking for me and I had to go back to the dance.  Later,
  Mother said Anne had a headache and asked her husband to take her home –
  which Mother thought was strange because Anne had asked him to make the
  trip to Washington for the party in the first place."
  
  "You never saw her again?" Dana asked quietly.
  
  "No.  A few weeks before the war began, her husband was giving his
  friends a tour of one of his new ships, and she accompanied him.  They
  took the ship out of the harbor, and the captain and Anne's husband,
  wanting to show off its speed, pushed the engines for the first time. 
  The boiler blew.  Anne was killed instantly, along with her husband and
  several businessmen.  You may have read about the accident in the
  newspaper.  That was Anne."
  
  Dana's back shifted against his front, and he wrapped his arms tighter
  around her, nuzzling her neck.  
  
  "During the war, I used to sit beside the campfire and watch the flames
  and think – if just one thing had been different that day, she'd still
  be alive.  She might have had a chill and decided to stay in.  Or maybe
  she might have waited on the dock as the men took the ship out, not
  wanting to be in the way.  Or maybe, at my parents' party, I'd caught up
  with her, so the day her husband sailed the ship, she'd stayed home to
  write to me in secret.  I thought of a multitude of maybes, Dana, but
  that didn't change the reality, however random and unnecessary her death
  seemed.  I just wish…" He paused. "When she gave me her room key, I
  thought- I know I did the right thing by leaving that night and by
  staying away.  But when I read that she had died… I've never been so
  sorry to have done the right thing.  And I've done a multitude of ‘right
  things' on which to base that judgment."
  
  Dana was misunderstanding; he could feel her body tightening again.
  
  "I don't mean I wish I'd had the affair.  I mean that I hurt her, Dana. 
  She was my friend and I owed her the truth and instead I took the easy
  way out.  And, like you, she deserved more than that. Maybe, in some
  future universe, I'll be able to make it up to her."
  
  Far away, the northbound stream engine whistled again as it left the
  station, its belly heavy with white-hot coals.
  
  "I just wanted to tell you.  I'd never told anyone before."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  For the first time in months, he could smell her skin on his the next
  morning, and he didn't go to the basin to wash it away.  Instead, he
  dressed quietly, made coffee and drank it in a dark kitchen, then sat at
  his desk for several minutes, trying to compose a brief note to her by
  lamplight.  In the end, the words wouldn't come, so he put the paper
  away and walked softly up the front stairs as the rest of the house
  slept.
  
  When he returned to their bedroom, Dana had drifted to the other side of
  the bed, with one arm tucked under her pillow and the blankets draped
  across her hips.  The air from the open window was damp and cool, so he
  sat on the edge of the mattress, trying to pull the blankets higher
  without waking her.
  
  "Did you want…" she asked softly, as he covered her with the blanket.
  
  He wanted to believe time healed all wounds, including theirs.
  
  "No," he whispered back. "Sleep."
   
  She moved closer to the center of the bed, and he stretched out on edge,
  laying on his side and propping his head up on his hand.  Their bedroom
  was dim, and her face was only the faintest outline of light and shadow. 
  Her eyes remained closed, but she was no more sleeping than he was.
  
  "Dana," he said quietly, and she opened her eyes. "I do want something."
  
  She opened her eyes, watching him and waiting.
  
  "I want you to want me," he finally said softly. "Really.  Like you used
  to.  I want you to trust me again.  Like you used to.  I want to be able
  to close my eyes and let the rest of the world vanish.  I think you want
  that too."
   
  "I do."
  
  Dana shifted again, pulling the blankets higher.
  
  "I can't change what happened," he told her. "All I know to do now is
  mind my P's and Q's and wait.  I won't give you any reason to doubt me
  ever again.  I'll be at work when I'm supposed to be; I'll be home when
  I'm supposed to be…" 
  
  He didn't know what else to promise, so he just trailed off, closing his
  mouth and reaching out to stroke her auburn hair. "I'm not Waterston. 
  And I am sorry."
  
  "I know." 
  
  He waited, and it was a long time before she spoke again. 
  
  "I tell myself that it should not matter, that if it had happened the
  other way around and someone took advantage of me, you would-"
   
  "I'd kill him is what I'd do," he said.
  
  She propped her head up on her hand, unconsciously mimicking his
  posture. "You said you were with her once at Harvard, but-"
  
  "Almost," he corrected as if it mattered. "Almost" only counted with
  cannons and horseshoes.  Besides, when he was eighteen, the difference
  between "almost" and "just did" could be seconds.
  
  "But now you are not an innocent boy lured into her evil clutches," she
  continued, her words soft in the pre-dawn violet-time. "You knew she
  told people she was your mistress.  You knew she despised me.  You knew
  she toyed with men, but you let her stay, even after I objected.  You
  said it was for Samuel, but he was no closer to Poppy than he is to
  Rebekah.  I think you let Poppy stay because she reminded you of Sarah. 
  And I know it makes me sound like a trusting fool, but I believe she
  took advantage of you – but I also cannot help but believe that you put
  yourself in a position that she could.  Because you wanted her to.  And
  passive adultery is like a lie of omission: prettier, but no less
  wrong." 
  
  Mulder nodded slowly, and after a few seconds, admitted, "Fair enough."
  
  Like most of Dana's statements, it was cohesive and difficult to
  dismiss.  The facts, as she understood them, fit perfectly. Her words
  smarted because all she had wrong was the date.
  
  He was sick and tired of Dana being right.
  
  She lay down again, and, though she didn't move, she seemed to shrink
  back from him a little. 
  
  He closed his eyes tightly, his head feeling heavy against his hand.  He
  felt like there were hailstones pelting him from all sides, leaving him
  bruised and sore and praying that the end of the storm was in sight so
  he could begin to heal.
  
  "I should not have said that," he heard her say.
  
  "Yes," he responded quietly, "You should have.  I told you that's your
  job: to tell me the truth."
  
  "Still, I…"
  
  "No," he corrected. "Don't be."
  
  He moved forward, kissing, rather than her lips, her bare shoulder.  Her
  skin was cool and smooth under his mouth, and she stayed perfectly
  still, not even breathing. 
  
  "I'll be home for lunch," he promised, getting up, and heard her exhale.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  If one looked up his name in the Book of Dutiful, it had a star beside
  it and a notation "see also: dutiful husband." He knew how to mind his
  manners; he'd just never done it with Dana. She was resilient, self-
  reliant, and he'd been preoccupied with the newspaper, the aftermath of
  the war, his mother's illness, Samuel.  Dana didn't require the
  constant, gentle attentiveness Melissa had.  Or he hadn't felt she
  merited it.  Mulder was rather good at noticing a cliff only as he
  teetered at the edge of it, flailing his arms and desperately trying to
  grasp the wind.
  
  Although Dana still didn't have much of an appetite, they went out to
  dinner and made painful, stilted conversation about nothing of great
  importance. Before she could say anything, he sent her plate back to the
  kitchen when it arrived, remembering she despised tomatoes.  He saw her
  eyeing his carrots and seductively fed her one with his fingers rather
  than fork.  A man at the next table cleared his throat in disapproval,
  and their waiter looked appalled.  Dana chewed, and Mulder winked at her
  mischievously.
  
  Although she tired easily and the doctor advised against social outings,
  they accompanied Sam to the opening of a new wing at the Smithsonian. 
  Crowds bothered his son, so Samuel wandered off with his young curator
  friend, who turned out to be real and was probably the only other person
  more interested in the paintings than the party.  In Sam's absence,
  Andrew Wilder's blonde wife asked Dana her opinion of a controversial
  male nude, knowing Dana knew little about art.  She swished her lace
  fan, batted her eyes at Mulder, and asked if Dana cared for Greek
  sculpture – had she been to Athens to see the ruins?  Everyone who was
  anyone had seen the ruins, she added cattily.  Dana examined the marble
  statue, its genitals eye level with her, and responded, "No, I think
  Greece must be quite cold." Mulder choked on his champagne, but other
  men only started snickering when Mrs. Andrew Wilder looked bewildered
  and Mr. Andrew Wilder looked mortified.  Dana had blinked innocently,
  but Mulder knew better.
  
  He covered her with his coat when she fell asleep in the carriage, then
  put his arm around her awkwardly.  He steered her to bed and helped her
  undress.  They kissed, touched, murmured, made love until her orgasm
  came, and he pulled out just before his.  It was nice – less than
  passion, more than obligation.
  
  He left for his office at six, putting a note on the night stand saying
  he missed her and he'd be home at noon.  Dana seldom disturbed him at
  work, but he urged her to have the groom drive her whenever she liked –
  to meet him for lunch, to ask a question, to have him sign a bank draft
  – anything so she could see he was where he was supposed to be.  He
  invited her for two weeks before she finally came, bringing Cally to
  show him her first tooth.  He didn't grit his teeth as she talked with
  Byers, who glanced uncertainly at Mulder when she invited him to hold
  the baby.  Dana invited Byers to Sunday dinner and Mulder later
  reiterated the invitation.  Byers came, bringing his wife and twin girls
  with him.
  
  Mulder left his office at four each day and was in the kitchen to annoy
  the cook well before dinner.  He took Saturdays and Sundays off.  He
  went with her to the market, following with the basket as she shopped
  and not saying a word about all the fancy teas she bought.  He drove her
  to Mass without complaint, and finally allowed Dana's priest to christen
  Cally.  He bought her a hat.  And another hat.  A basket of French soaps
  and bath oils.  A necklace.  And another necklace.  Earbobs.  And
  anything else he saw in a store window that he thought she'd like.  The
  DC jewelers began licking their lips when he entered their shops.
  
  He signed the bank drafts, but he had her keep the ledgers so she knew
  where the all money went, not just what he spent on the house.  After
  dinner, he read Scientific American aloud and waded through the tongue-
  twisting articles in The Lancet.  He rubbed her feet.  He brought her
  hot tea made from her fancy tea leaves and asked about her day.  He
  listened as she answered.  The nights she asked if he was coming to bed,
  he did; the nights she didn't, he slept on the sofa.  She asked fifteen
  out of twenty-one nights, which he felt was an encouraging ratio.  
  
  They'd made love seven times, been out to dinner or to the theater four. 
  There had been one reception at the Smithsonian and one warm evening
  when they'd bundled up the girls, drafted Sam to drive, and gone for a
  buggy ride.  Poppy had been mentioned zero times.  On paper, the numbers
  looked positive.
  
  Winter was passing, but the hurt Poppy left behind was slower to remit. 
  He prayed he wasn't what Dana had given up – or given up on - for Lent,
  or if he was, comforted himself that Easter was coming.    
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He'd been married almost half his life, and in that time he'd learned
  there were some things it just wasn't wise to share with his wife. 
  Gentle honesty was a virtue; brutal honesty meant a man lacked foresight
  and imagination.
  
  There was no need for Dana to know a whore ate his lunch.
  
  A girl, really.  Fourteen, maybe fifteen.  Frankie had been one of his
  newsboys for years, her sex concealed under knickers, a floppy cap, and
  dirt. She was an orphan making her way as best as she could, so it was
  no surprise that she'd found selling herself more profitable than
  selling his newspapers.  For pretty girls, prostitution was an alluring,
  if short-lived, career.  In DC, there were more streetwalkers than
  Methodists, but few over twenty years old.
  
  The arrangement was innocent, but difficult to explain to a wife.  
  
  Mulder often went home for lunch, so whatever Rebekah packed for him
  would have gone to waste.  Instead, he left his lunch in one of the
  empty wooden crates at the mouth of the alley near The Evening Star each
  morning.  Occasionally, the girl would be waiting to return the remnants
  as he left work, but if not, it would be there: the silverware washed,
  the tin wiped out, and the linen napkin folded, ready for him to take
  home.  Often he went weeks without seeing Frankie, and the only evidence
  she was still alive was his empty lunch container each evening.  Rebekah
  thought Frohike ate it, and there was no reason to tell anyone any
  different.
  
  "Maybe she doesn't work on Good Friday," Samuel offered, leaning against
  a lamp pole as they waited.
  
  Mulder stood on tiptoe to see as far into the dark alley as possible
  without entering it.  The tall buildings on either side blocked out the
  sunlight, so the cobblestones were slick with green moss and old
  garbage.  Pickpockets, prostitutes, and pimps lurked in the shadows like
  spiders waiting for their prey, and the alley smelled of whisky, urine,
  and sour dampness.
  
  "No, we're early.  I'll just tell Rebekah I forgot it," Mulder decided.
  "I'll get it Monday."
  
  Growing up among reporters and politicians, Samuel wasn't innocent of
  the city's dark underbelly, but Mulder still preferred to shield him, if
  possible.  An errant lunch tin didn't merit a father-son outing down Rum
  Row.
  
  Mulder turned to leave, and Sam pushed off the lamppost when they heard
  footsteps approaching. 
   
  Frankie seemed surprised to see Sam with him, but smiled warmly and
  smoothed her dirty dress and straggly hair.  She apologized for making
  them wait, then, instead of handing the tin to Mulder, she put it on a
  crate and stepped back so he didn't have to come near her to pick it up. 
  Frankie stayed in the shadowy alley, so passers by assumed they were
  either talking to a crate or relieving themselves.
  
  He'd seen her at the loading docks behind The Evening Star, and been
  surprised at how brazenly she propositioned the men.  She'd asked him
  once, shyly, a year ago – possibly one of the first men she'd approached
  – and he'd have laughed if he hadn't been so embarrassed.  He'd given
  her his lunch instead, and the next morning, she'd been waiting to
  return the tin.  She'd still looked too skinny, so he'd given her his
  lunch again, and a tradition had been born.
  
  "Your face's healin' real good," she observed, more comfortable talking
  to Sam.  When he wasn't making forts under his grandfathers' desks in
  Congress, he'd spent his childhood playing with newsboys and printers'
  apprentices, so he'd known Frankie when she was still a boy. "The scar
  makes you look dangerous." 
  
  "Do you think so?" Sam answered, liking the sound of that.
  
  Mulder rolled his eyes.  Young or old, rich or poor, the ladies liked
  Sam.  Debutantes all along the east coast were studying Baroque art and
  Mozart's operas so they'd have something to talk about with him.  While
  other teenage boys struggled and stammered around pretty girls, Sam
  could sit in the park with his sketch pad and have them come to him like
  bees to honey.  He was the direct male heir of two old, wealthy
  families, and he was so handsome it was sinful.  He didn't even have to
  speak, which was good, because he usually didn't.
  
  "I do," Frankie said. "I got something that would help it heal, though. 
  It's back at my flat.  Mr. Mulder…"
  
  Mulder opened his mouth to decline, but stopped when her eyes asked him
  to come with her, cutting back and forth between him and Sam.  He looked
  at her in stern disapproval.  She knew better than to proposition him,
  especially in front of his son.
  
  "My stepmother has something she puts on it.  Thank you, though," Sam
  responded before Mulder could.  He stepped back, looking uncomfortable
  and wanting away from her. 
  
  "Mr. Mulder, will you talk to me?  Alone?"
  
  "No," he said firmly, turning to follow Sam.
  
  "Please," she pleaded. "I don't mean nothing by it.  Just talk."
  
  "I told you no.  Let's go, Sam-"
  
  An unsteady figure approached behind Frankie, swaying drunkenly as she
  made her way through the crates.  She stopped, not wanting to step into
  the light.  Frankie glanced back at her, then at Mulder.
  
  "Sammy, go home," he amended. "Tell Dana I'm a few minutes behind you."
  His son had been ambling away, but turned, his hands deep in his trouser
  pockets. "I'll be home for dinner," Mulder added. "Go on.  I forgot
  something in my office."
  
  Samuel wrinkled his nose in distaste. "Father, don't."
  
  "Just go," he mumbled, focused on the tall, slim figure behind Frankie.
  "Get out of here.  Hurry up."
  
  Sam slouched away, glancing over his shoulder worriedly.  Mulder didn't
  move until he was out of sight. "I thought you went north," he said,
  stepping into the alley. "Did he get tired of you already?"
  
  Poppy stared at him, glassy-eyed.  She was gaunt, hollow-eyed, and her
  filthy dress was unbuttoned so low that most of her breasts showed. 
  There was still frost and even snow in April, but she was barefooted,
  and her long black hair hung in dirty clumps.   
  
  "You looking for a lady-friend?" Poppy asked, slurring her words.  Her
  face twitched, then resumed its drunken stare.
  
  "She gets confused," Frankie explained. "I been lettin' her stay with me
  – help out with the rent, you know – and yesterday she said she know'd
  Fox Mulder.  Used to know you real friendly, you understand.  Got a baby
  and all.  I didn't know if that was true, and I didn't want her
  embarrassin' you in front of your boy."
  
  "Thank you, Frankie," he answered without looking away from Poppy. "You
  can go now."
  
  Frankie, accustomed to being dismissed, left quickly, vanishing down the
  dark alley and into the labyrinth of tenements and slums.
  
  "You looking for a lady-friend?" Poppy repeated numbly.
  
  "Where's your flat?" he heard his voice say.
  
  "Something wrong with right here?"
  
  "I'll pay," he responded, knowing the magic words.
  
  She shrugged and turned, drunkenly leading the way into the dirty
  shadows.  Although it was less than a block from his office, he'd never
  been past the mouth of the alley.  Nice people didn't like being
  accosted on the street, but the police left prostitutes alone as long as
  they stayed in the alleys.  Like being in Murder Bay, any man who
  stepped off Pennsylvania Avenue did so for a reason.
  
  Poppy weaved a path across the slimy cobblestones, then turned left and
  navigated a series of narrow passages.  He followed her up some steps,
  under a low archway, and then through a wooden door and into a run-down
  brick building.
  
  "My room's this way," she mumbled as she pushed open another door and
  walked down a dim hall, keeping one hand on the peeling wall to steady
  herself.
  
  Mulder swallowed and followed, glancing around.  Whatever the building
  had once been, it had been divided into dozens of ten by ten flats, most
  without windows, and many which could only be reached by crossing
  through someone else's room.  The hallway reeked of alcohol and sweat,
  and he heard snores through the walls: many of the tenants, like wolves,
  slept during the day and came out to feed on the public at night.
  
  She entered a door without knocking, and he followed, crossing through a
  flat containing an unconscious old man, then another occupied by a large
  family with diapers hung to dry on lines strung across the room.  The
  mother sat beside a stove, nursing the latest baby and staring at the
  fire.  She didn't seem to notice them.
  
  Poppy and Frankie's room seemed tinier and darker than the previous
  ones.  There was a soiled mattress on the floor, a table with a dishpan,
  few dirty dishes, and a lamp on it, and a rickety wooden chair.  A
  curtain hung from the low ceiling, cordoning off one corner.  There was
  a bucket, a stove, and a slop jar in another.
  
  She turned toward him, starting on the rest of the buttons of her dress.
  "You want this off or up?" 
  
  "Neither.  Poppy, do you know who I am?"
  
  She nodded, still struggling to unbutton the front of her bodice.
  "You're Fox.  You want this off?"
  
  "No, I want to know what you've done with Sadie.  Where is she?"
  
  "You want her, don't you?"
  
  "I want you to tell me where she is.  Does Alex have her?"
  
  "You want me.  You love me," she said, having trouble articulating her
  words. "Not now, but you did."
  
  "No, I don't love you.  I've never loved you. And if I ever said I
  wanted you, I was mistaken."
  
  "You do; you did," she insisted. "You wrote it to me."
  
  "I wrote what to you?"
  
  She fumbled her pocket, then produced fragments of a note so worn it
  looked like cloth instead of paper.  She put them on the table,
  rearranging them like puzzle pieces.  He recognized the messy script as
  his, but couldn't tell what he'd written or imagine why he'd write it to
  Poppy, who couldn't read.
  
  "I know what it says.  I remember.  It says ‘Passing stranger, you do
  not know how-"
  
  "…How longingly I have looked upon you.  You must be she I was seeking. 
  You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, and you take of my
  beard, breast, and hands in return.  I will see to it I do not lose
  you,'" he quoted. "I wrote that to Dana when we were first married, not
  to you.  Where did you get that?"
  
  "It was in your coat pocket.  You gave your coat to me.  You wanted me
  to find it."
  
  "When did I give you my coat?" he demanded, feeling violated all over
  again.  Nothing between he and Dana was any of this nasty, manipulative
  woman's business - especially not love letters.  He wanted to make sure
  Sadie was safe with Alex, then wipe the memory of Poppy Kavanaugh out of
  his mind and off his body. "I never wanted you to find anything.  That's
  none of your business."
  
  He'd written the note, then been embarrassed, decided not to give it to
  Dana, and written another.  He'd put the first note in the pocket of his
  favorite coat with the rest of his clutter and forgotten about it.  The
  only time he recalled loaning Poppy a coat was months later… After she'd
  discovered Dana's pregnancy and started crying, he realized.  He'd told
  Poppy he needed her, asked her to start spending the night, and loaned
  her a coat to wear home because it was cold.  The next day, after months
  of sullen jealousy and covert sniping, she was the picture of
  solicitousness to Dana.  He remembered being puzzled but grateful for
  her sudden change in attitude.
  
  Dana had told him he could be a little dense.
  
  He started to speak, and Poppy looked up, her face twitching again.  The
  spasm spread down her shoulder and arm, and took several seconds before
  it subsided.  
  
  "Syphilis," he realized nauseously, forgetting whatever else he'd
  intended to say.  The confusion, the spasms, clumsy movements, slurred
  speech… "Oh my God.  You aren't drunk; you have syphilis.  You've had
  it- you've had it for a long time."
  
  Late-stage syphilis took years to gestate, so soldiers who contracted it
  early in the war were just beginning to die.  Most assumed when their
  fever, stiffness, headache, and lesions went away, they were cured, but
  the disease had only turned and silently attacked their hearts and
  brains.  There were hospitals of afflicted ex-soldiers, but most
  prostitutes didn't live long enough to show the end-stage symptoms.
  
  "You do, don't you?"
  
  Poppy looked away.
  
  "Don't you?" he demanded. "And you knew."
  
  "Don't tell Sam," she mumbled.
  
  He heard movement behind the curtain, and little fingers pulled back the
  edge as brown eyes peeked out, recognizing his voice.  He opened his
  wallet, emptying it contents on the battered table.  One hundred,
  eighty-six dollars and – he fished through his pockets – ninety-two
  cents.  That would pay for a decent flat, a doctor, and buy as much
  morphine and whiskey as she wanted as her body and brain succumbed to
  the disease.  Without a word, he pushed the curtain aside, picked up
  Sadie, and started to walk out.  As he reached the doorway, he turned
  back, snatched the faded scraps of his note to Dana off of the table,
  and shoved them in his pocket as he left.  Poppy didn't try to stop him.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He kept his promise: he arrived in time for dinner.  Half of Washington
  had seen him standing on Pennsylvania Avenue holding Sadie, and the
  other half had seen him at the door of the orphanage, looking at the
  hungry, dirty faces and trying to will himself to leave her.  The gossip
  would spread as fast as the streetcar, and he'd rather tell Dana before
  someone else did.
  
  Sam was at the kitchen table, murmuring to Cally and keeping a nervous
  eye on the back door, and Rebekah was standing in front of the stove. 
  They turned as he came in, staring at the child he carried.  Sam got up
  in surprise, putting Cally back in her cradle.
  
  Rebekah surveyed his face, then Sadie. "You're a fool, Fox," she said
  icily, then turned and continued stirring her pot.
  
  Rapid footsteps pattered down the hall, accompanied by gleeful shrieks
  as Emily escaped her mother's efforts to get her dressed and ran naked
  for Sam's arms.  Samuel stooped to pick her up, then turned back to his
  father, still too stunned to speak.
  
  Dana followed, laughing and calling playfully for her daughter to come
  back, then stopped short when she saw Mulder holding Sadie.  Her mouth
  hung open, and she slowly lowered the clean dress and diaper she must
  have been planning to put on Emily.  In a cradle near the stove, Cally
  gurgled happily.
  
  "We should probably talk," he said quietly.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  As a last resort, he told her the truth, clinging to some deluded hope
  the truth might make it better.  Dana sat calmly in the library and
  listened for half an hour as he explained that he didn't remember what
  happened in Louisville, and that he'd never considered Sadie might be
  his until Poppy had said so Christmas morning.  That he still had strong
  doubts.  That he hadn't meant to mislead Dana about what happened when,
  but she'd misunderstood and he hadn't corrected her.  He promised he'd
  find a nice family to take care of Sadie, and Dana would never see her
  again, but that he wouldn't have her starve in an orphanage or live in
  filth. 
  
  Dana nodded that she understood, excused herself, and went upstairs.  He
  stopped to check that Sadie had gotten a bath and something to eat, so
  it wasn't until he followed Dana to the bedroom a few minutes later that
  he'd realized she was packing.
  
  "Whether she's mine or not," he argued, taking the clothes out of the
  valise as soon as she put them in.  Dana was packing her clothes, not
  his. "She's Sarah and Melissa's niece.  Her mother will be dead in a
  matter of months - weeks, maybe.  Do you expect me to just walk away?
  She's not even three years old. She's a slow, helpless child.  How can
  you be so cold?"
  
  "Yes, she is a child," Dana agreed evenly, closing the valise and
  fastening the latch. "But you, Mr. Mulder, are an ass."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He hadn't expected Dana to be delighted, but he'd thought she'd
  understand.  He'd just explained that he'd never been unfaithful to her. 
  Sadie had been almost a year and a half old when he'd married Dana.  As
  Samuel had once described it, she was a leftover obligation.  He hadn't
  loved her mother, he hadn't wanted to be with her mother, but that
  didn't change her being his responsibility.
  
  Dana didn't seem to see it that way, and he had to stand in front of the
  bedroom door to keep her from leaving.
  
  "Get out of my way," she ordered through her teeth.
  
  "Where is it you think you're going?"
  
  "Away from you."
  
  "For how long?"
  
  "Forever.  Maybe longer."
  
  "You're-" She reached for the knob and he blocked her hand. "You're
  serious?  You're that angry?"
  
  Her eyes flashed dangerously.  Obviously, she was that angry.
  
  "Didn't you hear me?" he insisted. "I don't remember being with Poppy. 
  I can't even swear it really happened, but if it did, it happened years
  ago."
  
  "I asked you to get out of my way," she repeated, trying for the knob
  again.  He grabbed her wrist, and they struggled. "Let go of me!" she
  demanded, but he didn't.
  
  "Just listen!  Listen!  I-I-I-I've never been unfaithful to you.  I've
  never even wanted to.  I didn't tell you about Sadie because I didn't
  want to hurt you.  I'm sorry.  I love you.  I don't love Poppy.  I've
  never loved Pop-"
  
  She jerked out of his grasp and tried to open the door again.  In
  desperation, he grabbed both her wrists and pushed her back against the
  bed, holding her there. 
  
  "Stop it!  Listen to me!  I'm sorry I lied, but I love-"
  
  "A man came yesterday.  A landlord.  He had a bill for rent on a flat
  near your office.  I thought it was for Miss Clara Barton, but he said
  it was not.  But he would not tell me why or for whom the rooms were
  rented, except that they were rented by you, just after Christmas, for a
  woman.  I put the bill on your desk, but told him he was mistaken."
  
  Mulder let go of her hands and stepped back. "I, I told Poppy to rent a
  flat and I'd pay for it.  When I told her to leave.  Christmas morning. 
  I didn't know she'd actually rented one."
  
  She shook her head, not believing him.
  
  "Dana, that's the truth!"
  
  "Whose truth?  Which version of the truth?  Whatever is most convenient? 
  Whatever will pacify me?"
  
  "I knew you'd look at Poppy and see Dori, look at me and see Waterston. 
  That's why I didn't tell you.  I was trying not to hurt you!"
  
  "Well, you failed," she said coolly.  When he opened his mouth, she
  added, "I do not want to hear about any more errant notes or
  misunderstandings or oversights or whatever else you can conjure up. You
  are a very good storyteller and I was very gullible, but you can save
  your breath.  I just want to get my girls and leave."
  
  Her forehead wrinkled, and she sniffed as she struggled not to cry.
  
  He swallowed, trying to get the lump in his throat to go down.  If he
  were her, he wouldn't believe him either. "Not if you're going to have a
  baby," he answered, grasping at the closest straw. 
  
  "I am not."
  
  "But you're not certain.  You can't be certain yet.  And you're not
  taking my girls anywhere."
  
  "Why not?  You have a plethora."
  
  He shook his head. She was his wife, and as much as it sickened him to
  play that card, she legally belonged to him.  Any income she generated
  belonged to him. She couldn't write a bank draft, transfer a title, or
  sign a contract.  She couldn't divorce him without his consent, and if
  she simply left, he could send a bounty hunter to bring her back.  It
  was his family's name on the guest list at The White House; if they went
  to court over Cally, Dana would lose.
  
  "You can't take Cally.  You can't feed her, and you can't pay her wet
  nurse to go with you. I'm not supporting Emmy unless you say she's mine,
  which means you can't take her either.  If you leave tonight, you're
  leaving alone."
  
  He understood as much as, "How dare you!" before she switched to Gaelic,
  so angry he flinched and so loudly the neighbors could follow along.
  
  He stepped back again, leaning against the bedroom door.  He wiped his
  nose on his sleeve repeatedly, then focused on the ceiling.  She was
  short; she couldn't see him crying if he looked up.  
  
  He might be an ass, and he might be desperate, but he wasn't forcing her
  to stay if she didn't want to.
  
  "Wait another month.  If there's no baby, you can leave.  I'll buy you a
  house here or you can take Emily anywhere within a day's train ride of
  DC. You can see Cally whenever you want. And I'll-"
  
  "What about Samuel?"
  
  "Sam has wanted me to divorce you for months."
  
  He heard the beginning of a sob, then carefully controlled silence.  He
  knew Dana.  If it killed her, she wasn't going to start bawling in front
  of him.
  
  "I'll pay for whatever you want," he continued shakily. "If you still
  want a divorce, a legal separation… Just stay another month.  I won't
  bother you.  I won't even speak to you."
  
  "What if there is a baby?"
  
  "Then, I, uh…" He trailed off, not wanting to even say it.  He took a
  breath and answered, "Then you will have to stay until it's born."
  
  "This baby: you would take it as well?"
  
  "You would not take it with you if you left, no," he responded.
  
  "I despise you."
  
  "Yes, I know that." 
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  End: Paracelsus XIII