Begin: Paracelsus XIV
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Dear Dana,
  
  All my life I have had everything I should have wanted, and yet, deep
  inside myself, I have always yearned for more.
  
  My father raised me to be the next Julius Caesar, and until he died, he
  believed I'd come to my senses eventually and follow the destiny he'd
  envisioned.  He'd roll his eyes and call me a romantic and an idealist,
  but he never turned his back on me.  He was always there when I needed
  him, but I never knew how much I needed him until he was gone.  My
  mother never understood my world of books and philosophy, but I was
  always welcome in her world of society and pretty appearances.  My
  parents loved each other passionately and I was their precious son. 
  Each loved the reflection of the other they saw in me, and they loved
  me, but I wonder if they ever saw me for who I truly am.
  
  I married too young, but many men do.  I married for the wrong reasons,
  but many men do.  I had a child before I was finished being one myself,
  but many men do.  If I was unhappy, it was no one's fault but my own. 
  Melissa would have picked up my footprints and bronzed them, if she
  could have.  Sarah was dead, so I loved my Sam, and I tried to adore his
  mother as much as she adored me.
  
  Life slipped by.  One day blended politely into another.  I played my
  role, supplied my lines, and drifted farther and farther from the person
  I'd always intended to be.  
  
  They say on the Great Plains, there were once buffalo herds that
  stretched as far as a man can see.  Once, Sam and I saw a buffalo at a
  circus, and we talked about it: what it would be like to see a hundred
  thousand of them at once. He was seven, I was twenty-four, and he asked
  if we could go west and see the buffalo before they were gone.  I said
  "perhaps" and bought him too much candy because I was too much of a
  coward to say we never would.  My family would never say "to Hell with
  civilization," pack our saddlebags, and ride off into the sunset,
  whipping our horses wildly and waving our hats in the dusty wind.  We
  would never go to the Paris opera house, spit over the edge of our box,
  and then try to look innocent as the people below cursed us in French. 
  We would never be anything but the beautiful, too-tight role society
  expected of us.
  
  I had begun to content myself with that, and you can't know how much
  that frightened me.  No – yes, you can know.  I know you, Dana, whether
  you want me to or not, just as you know me.  
  
  Then suddenly, it was all gone.  My world, along with every other
  American's, had come to an end.  For the first time since I was sixteen,
  I wasn't Melly's husband or Sam's father or Bill and Teena Mulder's only
  son.  As much as I ached for them, for the first time, I could be anyone
  I wanted, but I'd almost forgotten who I'd wanted to be.  I wrote to
  Melissa that I was like Diogenes: roaming the Earth, holding my dim
  lantern up in the darkness, and searching for someone who would tell him
  the truth.
  
  A man should be careful what he looks for.  One day, Dana, a familiar
  soul quietly stepped into my path, and I can tell you in all honesty: I
  will never be the same.  
  
  Each time I swore I was returning to Washington and yet found my horse
  pointed toward Dr. Waterston's plantation, I had a dozen practical
  explanations – some even believable.  You are much better with
  practicality, Dana.  You asked why I kept coming back, and I lied and
  said, "to fix the hole in your barn roof and split more kindling,
  Ma'am." I asked why you kept letting me come back, and you said, "You
  bring me coffee beans, among other things, Mr. Mulder."
  
  For a man who convinced himself he wasn't in love with you that fall, I
  will say this: in Georgia, immediately after the war, coffee beans were
  fifty dollars an ounce, love.  Gold was forty, flour was thirty, and
  pretty young women – without husbands and babies and holes in their
  roofs - were roughly ten cents.  I bought coffee beans.
   
  Despite what I tried to tell myself, loving you wasn't a product of
  reasoning and practical statistics, or of loneliness and lust.  It just
  came, I could not say from where, and refused to explain itself.  It was
  a truth inside my self; I only had to discover it.  I love you.  I did
  then; I do to this day.  And, laugh if you like, but I am sure I have
  loved you in a dozen lifetimes before this one.
  
  Long ago, a scientist named Paracelsus wrote that man is not body; the
  heart, the spirit is man, and each spirit is part of a larger whole. 
  When one soul connects with another, however briefly, like two metals
  fused by fire, both are forever transformed. 
  
  "Passing stranger, you do not know 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." I wrote that to you once, Dana, but
  you never received it.  I wonder how our time together would have been
  different if you had.
  
  You bring courage and color and balance to my life.  My world with you
  is vivid; my world without you is gray.  You made me feel whole, and I
  made you feel second best.  I went chasing fireflies when I wanted
  fireworks, and now I can only say I am sorry.  You were never second
  best.  No one ever has or ever will touch the place you do in my soul. 
  If I mistook what I felt for a lesser love, it was only because I had
  little previous acquaintance with the emotion.  
  
  I loved Sarah, but I was a boy playing at love.  And, as a man I clung
  to secret dreams of a life that I had long outgrown.  I have put away my
  childish things, Dana.  If I could open my heart and show you what is
  inside it, perhaps you would believe me, but I cannot.  There are a
  finite number of second-chances in each life, and I used mine up long
  ago.
  
  Forms change, times change, but we are all parts of an evolving whole,
  and souls do not forget each other.  We have met before, Dana, and I,
  like Paracelsus, believe we will meet again.  In some future world, when
  we pass on the street, I pray that I have the sense to stop, grin
  sarcastically, and ask, "Where have you been all my lives?" And you will
  look up at me with those big blue eyes and answer in your logical
  manner, "Right underneath your nose, Mulder."
  
  I have been fortunate to share my path through life with several
  remarkable people and truly blessed that you have been one of them. 
  Know that wherever you are, whatever you are doing, in this lifetime or
  the next, I love you.  Eternally.  As you told me once: death does not
  stop love.  I will never forget you; you are burned into my soul and I
  am forever transformed.  I will always scan the crowds, searching for a
  woman who holds the other half of who I am, because until you return, or
  until I find you again, half of me is missing.  The rest is silence.  I
  cannot hold you, but the hardest thing I have ever done - that I will
  ever do - is let you go.
  
  Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Follow your heart, wise men said.
  
  When he was fifteen, his heart said Sarah, much to everyone's approval. 
  She was the girl next door, his best friend, and his confidant.  Their
  marriage would unite two old, powerful families.  His father was fond of
  her, seeing her as a pretty, well-bred asset to his son's political
  future.  His mother doted on Sarah as the daughter she'd longed for, and
  Sarah had returned the affection.  At fifteen, as a boy struggling to
  find his place in his father's shadow, he'd been grateful he happened to
  love a girl who met both his parents' and society's expectations in
  every way.
  
  When he was sixteen, still numb from Sarah's death, his heart said
  Melissa.  She was breathtakingly beautiful, sweet, and heartbreakingly
  alone.  And pregnant.  And Sarah's little sister.  And in love with him. 
  He'd shrugged off the voice of reason, thinking the things about Melly
  that bothered him would change after they were married.  In fourteen
  years, she'd demanded so little except care and superficial affection,
  and she'd known so little of who he really was.
  
  When he was thirty-one and the world seemed to be ending, his heart
  whispered Dana.  He'd found her the way a compass finds north – a
  primitive, mysterious pull from a force he couldn't understand or
  control.  Inexperienced at true love, he'd mistaken it for lust and
  friendship, both of which were safer emotions.  Regardless, for the
  first time in his life, he'd given in and let the tide take him where it
  would.  To his surprise, the sky hadn't fallen.  They'd been happy.  Or
  at least, he'd been happy and Dana had given a convincing performance.
  
  Then Sam.  His heart told him to keep searching - that Samuel was out
  there in the darkness, alone, hurting.  And Sam was, but that didn't
  mean he wanted to be found.  Mulder had brought home a confused,
  traumatized boy-soldier to a pregnant stepmother, then been perplexed
  that everyone hadn't lived happily ever after.
  
  Then Poppy.  She was his last link to Sarah, and he'd tolerated her
  increasingly erratic behavior, believing Sam needed her.  His heart told
  him she loved Sam more than she resented Dana's place in his life.  And
  in his bed.
  
  Then Sadie.  An unwanted bastard child in a sea of unwanted bastard
  children.  His heart ached when he looked at her, not sure what to do
  except hurt.
  
  Each choice had seemed like the right choice.  The only choice,
  sometimes.  Each time, he'd followed his heart, only to realize too late
  that his heart couldn't read a map.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  When the minister tried to console him after Sarah's funeral, Mulder
  asked what kind of God let fifteen-year old girls die. The minister
  hadn't been able to answer to his satisfaction, and that had been the
  end of Mulder's regular patronage of any church.  He'd gone for
  Melissa's sake, or when Sam or his mother asked him to, but seldom of
  his own accord.  He found God in sunrises and newborn babies and one
  more morning with his wife, not in a pew.  He'd almost gone that
  morning, though, looking for comfort in the rituals from childhood. 
  He'd sent Dana to Mass and Sam to Easter services instead, then moped
  around the house until the silence became deafening.
  
  "Where is the groom?" Dana asked, looking displeased to find Mulder
  outside the church, waiting to pick her up after Mass.
  
  Mulder secured the reins on the dash, set the brake, wiped his sweaty
  palms on his trousers, and climbed down.  The horses sensed the tension
  in the air, and shifted nervously.  He patted one's haunches, then left
  his hand on the harness as he said hesitantly, "I sent him home.  Let me
  help you up."
  
  Her posture indicated she'd rather fall to her death than have him lay a
  hand on her, so he let her climb into the buggy by herself.  She kept
  her hands in her lap and her eyes straight ahead as he climbed up,
  ignoring the stares from the other parishioners as they emerged from
  church.
  
  It was a nice, juicy scandal - not that he'd been with the Negro help,
  though that was in bad taste - but that he'd brought the resulting child
  home to his wife.  He was still Bill Mulder's boy, so society chalked it
  up to yet another example of his lechery and bad judgment, gossiped, and
  eventually forgave.  But instead of being sympathetic to Dana as the
  wronged wife, Washington smirked and snidely muttered, "I told you so."
  
  Fox Mulder, who'd been the epitome of the devoted, adoring husband
  during Lent, obviously wasn't.  Obviously, Dana was a fool to believe
  her husband would be faithful to any woman, let alone her.  Society
  thought it was a good joke, and didn't hesitate to laugh.  
  
  Ladies who'd barely been polite to Dana in public suddenly came out of
  the woodwork: dropping in for tea, to invite her to go shopping, or to
  admire Cally.  The gossips sharpened their knives, expecting a tearful
  scene, but got tea and little else.  Dana had held her head high, said
  Cally was sleeping, declined the shopping invitations, and answered
  graciously that "yes, Miss Poppy's daughter is staying with us." Even
  the most brazen among the women didn't dare ask, and the ladies
  eventually left, bewildered.
  
  Dana hadn't flinched, but in two days, to his knowledge, she hadn't
  eaten or slept either, and the strain was beginning to show.
  
  "How was Mass?" he asked, searching for something to talk about.
  
  He saw her chest rise and fall, but she declined to answer.  The
  agreement was that he wouldn't bother her, wouldn't even speak to her. 
  He was breaking the agreement, but they couldn't keep living under the
  same roof and ignoring each other.  He couldn't just stand by and wait
  to see if the stork was going to buy him another nine months with her. 
  If he could just get her to do anything: cry, yell, scream – anything,
  he at least had a toehold.
   
  "This is not the way home, Mr. Mulder."
  
  "No, it's not," he answered.
  
  "Where are we going?"
  
  "Just a little side trip."
  
  "I would like to go home." 
  
  "And I will take you home.  I'm just taking another route." She started
  to say that he wasn't even headed in the right direction, but he cut her
  off. "My Uncle Ronald's widow will take Sadie. I sent her a telegram
  Saturday morning.  Auntie has a big house on Rhode Island, and someone's
  already on their way to get Sadie and take her back.  After Tuesday, you
  won't see her again."
  
  She continued staring at her hands. "Will you?" 
  
  Each word seemed electrically charged, and he considered his response
  carefully. "I don't know," he answered honestly. "I want her to be well-
  taken care of, but I don't know that I want to see her again.  No, I
  probably won't see her unless I must."
  
  He watched Dana out of the corner of his eye, trying to see if there was
  any reaction.  She looked up, swallowing and turning her head away from
  him. "Even if she is yours?"
  
  "Cally is mine.  Emmy is mine.  Sam is mine.  Sadie… She's not mine. 
  Not in the same sense. Even if she's my blood, it frightens me how
  little I feel for her."
  
  "That does not seem fair."
  
  "Find one thing in this mess that is fair, Dana," he responded, and she
  didn't answer.
  
  A block past The Evening Star, he stopped the buggy in front of a
  boarding house.  Dana looked at him as he walked around to help her
  down, not budging. "This is the address on the landlord's bill.  I want
  you to see it."
  
  "This is Poppy's flat?"
  
  "This is the address on the bill.  She doesn't live here, if that's what
  you're asking.  Will you go in?"
  
  He wasn't sure she would, but Dana nodded and let him help her down. 
  The front door was unlocked, and opened to a small foyer.  A family
  occupied the first floor, and toys were scattered around their door.  A
  narrow staircase led to the upstairs and attic flats. The first door
  opened when Mulder tried it.
  
  The rooms were bright, clean, airy, and nicely furnished.  There was a
  sitting room, a bedroom, and a small kitchen with a stove.  It was
  clean, but there was no sign anyone lived there: no clothes in the
  drawers or food in the pantry.  The flat was much nicer than Poppy could
  have afforded, but he'd been paying and he'd bet that was part of the
  reason she'd rented it.  He also suspected part of the appeal had been
  the view: the kitchen window overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue, kitty-
  corner from the front door of The Evening Star.
  
  "She must have rented it Christmas Day, right after she told me about
  Sadie, then changed her mind and gone north with Alex.  I'd say they
  were trying to make the deadline for Spender to be eligible for the
  Massachusetts Senate.  When Spender wasn't nominated, they returned, but
  by then – or soon after - Poppy and Alex parted and she forgot about the
  flat.  Or she assumed I changed my mind about paying for it once she
  quit her job."
  
  Dana stood in the center of the sitting room, turning slowly.
  
  "Does that sound logical?" he asked tentatively, trying to sound
  scientific instead of desperate.  
  
  "Many things can sound logical, Mr. Mulder," she answered, but her voice
  didn't sound so razor-sharp.
  
  He put his hands in his pockets, wiggling his fingers nervously. "Dana,
  I've been thinking about something.  Wondering.  The morning you came to
  my office and told me you were expecting Cally, were roses delivered to
  the house?"
  
  She wrinkled her forehead, trying to remember. "Perhaps.  I think so. 
  Why do you ask?"
  
  "Who were they for?"
  
  "For Poppy.  I do remember; they were white roses.  There was a card, I
  think, but I didn't see it.  I don't know who sent them.  She wouldn't
  say."
  
  "I sent them.  I sent them to you, Dana.  She just intercepted them,
  assuming they were hers, I think.  And she assumed the note I wrote was
  meant for her."
   
  "Why would she assume that?"
  
  Before he could answer, a man stuck his head through the open doorway,
  squinting at them and asking what their business was.  Mulder explained
  that it was his name on the bill, and, playing a hunch, asked the
  landlord to tell Dana who'd physically rented the flat, knowing it
  couldn't possibly be him.  The landlord hedged, and Mulder asked again.
  
  The landlord glanced around, then timidly answered, "You, sir."
  
  "Me?"
  
  "You and the tall, pretty woman. Colored, Indian – I dunno, but she was
  a looker.  Had a little one with her I took to be yours."
  
  Dana had been watching the landlord intently, but turned her back and
  instead looked out the window at the busy street.
  
  "Me?  No, it had to be Alex.  I wasn't with her. Dana – Alex was with
  her.  Not me.  I spent Christmas at the house with you." He turned back
  to the landlord. "Couldn't it have been another man?  Tall, dark hair,
  dark eyes?  One arm?  Alex?"
  
  "Could be," the landlord responded, unfortunately a little too quickly.
  "Probably was, in fact.  Almost certainly was, sir.  Don't see so well,
  myself."
  
  "Show me the lease," he demanded. "If I rented it, show me my signature
  on the lease."
  
  "It ain't got no signature on it – just an X.  I wrote the rest."
  
  "Exactly.  I can read and write.  Poppy can't, and Alex just barely can. 
  Dana, why would I sign an X if I can write?"
  
  "Keep folks from knowing you's payin' the rent, I suppose," the landlord
  postulated.
  
  "No one asked you," Mulder snapped. "Was she ever here again?  Poppy? 
  After the day it was rented, was anyone ever here again?"
  
  "Not to my knowing, sir," the landlord supplied, sounding wholly
  unconvincing. "I don't go sticking my nose where it don't belong."
  
  "You live downstairs!  Of course you'd know."
  
  "I will wait in the-" Dana started, turning to leave, but Mulder grabbed
  her arm.
  
  "No, wait.  Don't.  I can- I can prove…" He looked around the cheery
  yellow room, trying to think of a way to verify his story. "Come with
  me."
  
  The alley was half a block away.  Down the cobblestones, then left and
  through a labyrinth of narrow passages between the buildings. Up the
  steps, under the stone archway, then through the back door of the old
  factory he'd followed Poppy into Friday afternoon. He heard Dana panting
  as he led her down the filthy hall, still gripping her wrist like a
  drowning man.  Through the first flat, then the second, with the same
  woman and baby beside the coal stove, then into Poppy and Frankie's
  dingy room.
  
  "Here," he announced triumphantly. "This is where Poppy lives.  This is
  where I found Sadie.  She was behind this curtain.  Her mother brings
  men back here with her daughter on the other side of this curtain. 
  Sadie was dirty and hungry and her diaper hadn't been changed in hours. 
  Look around: there's no food, there's no fire.  If, if Poppy was my
  mistress, even a discarded mistress, do you think I would let her and
  her daughter live here?  Do you?"
  
  "No," Dana said softly.  He could tell the idea anyone lived in this
  place, or in the manner he'd described, horrified her.  Neither of them
  would let a dog live in that room.
  
  "Poppy has syphilis.  She must have had it for years without telling
  anyone, and it's finally killing her.  It might be why her first baby
  died.  It might be why Sadie barely talks.  But I don't have it.  You
  don't.  Cally doesn't.  If I'd been with Poppy – three years or three
  nights ago – I'd have it."
  
  "Not always," she said. "In The Lancet-"
  
  "Do you honestly think my luck's that good?  Dana, it's spread to her
  brain.  Poppy's always been high strung, and she's had a hard life.  I'm
  not saying she's a saint, but she wouldn't have hurt Sam.  Me maybe, but
  not Sam.  To tell him Melissa's in Hell, and that she and I were lovers
  – Poppy's changed.  When I talked to her Friday, she barely knew me. 
  Some daydream she's had about me secretly loving her all these years:
  it's slowly gotten twisted inside her head until she believes it."
  
  She looked around the dingy room.
  
  "Dana, do you believe me?"
  
  "I-I do not know," she said tiredly, her voice wavering.
  
  "All right.  Fair enough. I just wanted you to see the flat, to hear me
  out.  I'll take you home now."
  
  Although the narrow hall made it awkward and there was little for her to
  stumble over, he kept his hand on her arm as he guided her out of the
  old factory.  As they reached the back of the run-down building, Mulder
  squinted as the door opened and a teenage girl entered, humming to
  herself.  Frankie grinned and started to speak when she recognized
  Mulder, but then quickly closed her mouth and dropped her head when she
  saw Dana.  She slid past them, and Dana turned to watch Frankie enter
  the same room they'd exited.
  
  "You know her," Dana observed as they reached the stone archway. "The
  girl in the hallway.  And she knew you.  That was her flat.  She was
  happy to see you."
  
  "I'll explain later.  This isn't the place for us to stop and chat."
  
  "That was her flat.  Not Poppy's.  And you knew how exactly to find it
  in that maze."
  
  "Yes, that's her flat.  Her name is Frankie.  Poppy's staying with her,"
  he answered, keeping an eye on all the other eyes watching them from the
  shadows.
  
  "How did you know that?"
  
  "Dana, come on," he urged, but she refused. "I know Frankie because she
  used to be one of my newsboys.  Before she did what she does now.  I see
  her, sometimes.  I saw her Friday as I was leaving work and we talked. 
  That's how I learned Poppy was staying with her," he explained
  impatiently.
  
  "That does not make sense. This," she gestured to the rotting urban Hell
  around them. "Is not in the line of sight from The Evening Star.  This
  is not between the newspaper's front door and ours."
  
  "I was in the alley with Frankie."
  
  "Oh."
  
  "It's not like it sounds," he added quickly. "I give her my lunch,
  sometimes.  Most times.  I was getting the tin back so you and Rebekah
  wouldn't scold me, and Sam and I were talking to her. And I saw Poppy. 
  And Frankie said Poppy was staying with her."
  
  "You had Samuel with you?"
  
  "Well, Sam knows her," he defended himself. "I sent him away."
  
  "Samuel came slouching home and said you had forgotten something at the
  office.  I knew he was lying, but I thought you'd put him up to it so
  you could stop at the jeweler's again."
  
  "I did put him up to it, but I told him to say that because I was with
  Frankie," he argued. "Not ‘with' Frankie, but talking with her.  I saw
  Poppy and I didn't want Sam seeing her.  Dana, I'm telling you the
  truth."
  
  "Then where is Poppy?"
  
  "Probably drunk somewhere.  I gave her some money-"
  
  "You gave her money?" Dana said in disbelief. "You told me she took
  advantage of you, could have given you syphilis, lied when she said she
  was your mistress, lied about having your child, lied to your son, and
  you gave her money?  How much money?"
  
  "One hundred, eighty-six dollars," he mumbled, slouching guiltily. That
  was a great deal of money, especially to a two-dollar whore. 
  
  "One hundred, eighty-six dollars…" she prompted.
  
  "And ninety-two cents," he added.  His "tell the truth" plan wasn't
  working out the way he'd envisioned.
  
  Dana's cheekbones stood out, and the purple shadows under her eyes
  seemed even darker. "I want to go home now," she requested.
  
  "All right," he said, taking her arm again.
  
  She jerked away, telling him not to touch her.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He had a new plan: he was just going to stay at her heels and protest
  his innocence until she believed him.  Since tact, judgment, and honesty
  didn't seem to be his strengths, he'd try tenacity.  Dana had stopped
  listening about 13th Street, but he'd kept talking – all the way home,
  up the stairs, and into their bedroom, which he hadn't set foot in since
  Good Friday.  As he pleaded his case to deaf ears, Dana stood in front
  of the dresser mirror, angrily unpinning her hat and then the brooch
  she'd worn to Easter Mass.
  
  "Dana, I'm telling you the truth," he insisted yet again, sounding
  petulant. "I am.  Why won't you believe me?"
  
  She looked at the brooch, then closed her fingers around it.
  
  "Dana, I love you.  Only you.  With all my heart.  And body.  There's no
  one else, and certainly not Poppy or Frankie.  Yes, lying to you was
  wrong, but now I'm telling the truth.  And I don't know what else I can
  say or do to convince you."
  
  Her eyes closed and her forehead crinkled like she was about to cry, and
  he stepped toward her. "Dana," he said softly, comfortingly. "You
  haven't slept.  You haven't-"
  
  Then, in one fluid move, she turned and hurled the expensive ivory
  brooch at him, hitting him squarely in the chest. "How dare you," she
  shouted, sending her earbobs through the air after the brooch. "How can
  you possibly be such an ass!"
  
  "Dana-" he said in surprise, raising his hands to shield himself as she
  flung her stupid little hat and hatpin at him as well.  She opened her
  jewelry box and grabbed randomly, hurling a sapphire necklace, then a
  ring, then another necklace, and finally, in frustration, the whole
  mahogany box.
  
  "Do you know," she continued loudly, jerking open the wardrobe and
  throwing a high-heeled slipper at him. "How much I want to believe you? 
  How much I want to believe you are the innocent, flawed, knight-in-
  shining-armor and this is all just a big-"
  
  The other dainty slipper. "Mis-" 
  
  A walking boot. "Under-"
  
  The other boot. "Standing!"
  
  A black silk evening dress, which didn't make it very far.  In
  exasperation, she picked it up and threw it again, then kicked it when
  it fell to the floor.
  
  "You are my husband.  Do you know how much I do not want it to be true?"
  she yelled, grabbing a heavy feather pillow off the bed and hurling it
  at him. "Even now?  Do you know how much I want to believe you,
  regardless of every bit of evidence to the contrary?  Do you?"
  
  "It isn't true," he insisted. "It's not. I told you the truth!"
  
  "When?  Which time?" she demanded, and he saw the first angry tears
  spill from the corners of her eyes. "Why did you do that, Mulder?  Bring
  Sadie here?  There a hundred places you could have taken her for the
  night.  You could have said business called you out of town, taken her
  to a hotel, and I would never have known.  You do not want her and you
  do not want her to live here, so why did you bring her home in the first
  place?  Why do that now, just as we are beginning to heal?  Why hurt me
  for no reason?"
  
  "Because I wanted you to know - because I wanted to tell you the truth,
  however awful it was.  I don't like lying to you."
  
  "Then tell me the truth!  Bed half the city, if you want, but tell me
  the truth!"
  
  "I am!  I did." She moved to throw another pillow and he grabbed her
  wrist.  She fought him, pounding on his chest with her other hand until
  he caught it as well. "Dana, stop.  You'll make yourself sick."
  
  "I married you," she said tearfully, struggling to get free. "Not just 
  on paper or in name; we took vows before God.  I promised: until I died,
  there would be only you.  And you promised the same thing."
  
  "There is only you," he responded loudly, not understanding what she was
  getting at.
  
  "There was never only me," she shouted back. "There was always someone
  else.  I do matter, Mulder.  If I am your wife, I am supposed to
  matter."
  
  "You are my wife, and of course you matter."
  
  "I do not.  Not really. For you, I am just a pleasant option while you
  wait for a second chance at the life you think you should have had.  You
  are my husband, but I was never really your wife."
  
  Surprised, he loosened his grip on her wrists. "What are you talking
  about?"
  
  "People die, Mulder.  People we love die, we grieve, and, after a time,
  our lives go on.  Mine did, but yours did not.  Because you will not let
  it.  It is safer for you to lie to everyone around you while you are
  secretly in love with a ghost."
  
  "A ghost?  You think I'm still in love with Melly?  No, you're wrong.  I
  love you.  I never loved Melly the way I love…" He studied her face,
  then realized, "Sarah?  You think I'm in love with Sarah?  She's been
  dead for years."
  
  "And you think you should have died with her," she accused him, jerking
  away and leaning against the bedpost as she struggled for breath. "How
  can you love me?  How can you really be my husband?  Everyone since
  Sarah has been just passing time; a substitute while you wait for your
  One True Love.  What you do, who you hurt -- it does not really matter,
  because it is all a cosmic mistake anyway.  In fact, I think you'd
  rather push us away.  You let Poppy stay, not for Samuel, but because
  she looks like Sarah.  You let her humiliate me and fill Samuel's head
  full of horrible ideas… All because she is your last link to some life
  you believe you were supposed to have.  Everyone else – Melissa, Samuel,
  me, our children – we are just some error of Fate."
  
  "That's not true."
  
  "Oh, is it not? What is it about me that reminds you of Sarah?  Do I
  smile like her, move like her, act like her?  Make love like her?  What
  is it, Mulder?"
  
  "Have you been in my desk?" he accused her, almost positive she hadn't.
  "Have you been reading my letters to Melly?"
  
  "Oh, go to hell," she said tiredly, turning away.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He laid on the kitchen floor, fishing blindly underneath the stove for a
  tail or paw.  As he strained to reach another half-inch, Emily stood
  beside him, sobbing miserably for "Cat. Cat. Cat."  
  
  "Almost," he promised breathlessly, expecting his shoulder to come out
  of joint or his bones to start snapping. "I almost have him.  Al… mo-"
  He felt kitten fluff and grabbed, only to get a handful of air, sharp
  claws, and angry hissing.  Mulder cursed and jerked his hand out to
  examine the scratch.
  
  "Me cat.  Cat, Dah-dah!  Dah-dah: cat," Emily pleaded. "Cat-cat-cat-
  cat." It was her new favorite word, and she pronounced it like she was a
  swaying, clattering train, slowly gaining speed.
  
  "I'm trying," he insisted irritably, sucking his knuckle.  She didn't
  look convinced, so he squirmed sideways and tried with his left arm,
  avoiding the bottom of the hot stove. "Emmy, he doesn't want to come
  out.  Can't you sleep without him?  Just this once?"
  
  "Me cat," she wailed, tears streaming down her face dramatically. "Peas. 
  Cat.  Cat-cat-cat.  Cat!"
  
  He sighed in exasperation and continued fishing for feline.  In
  retrospect, a tiny kitten hadn't been the best Christmas gift for a
  toddler. For months, Emily had been terrified of the loudmouthed ball of
  fluff and cried whenever she saw it.  Then, suddenly, she insisted on
  carrying it around the house, usually upside down, which the half-grown
  kitten resisted.
  
  "Me cat!"
  
  "I'm trying," he snapped, which made her cry harder.  Behind the stove,
  the kitten eyed Mulder and hissed warningly.
  
  "Do you want me to get him out?" Sam's voice asked from above the black
  boots Mulder was eye-to-eye with.
  
  "I'll get him," Mulder muttered, grabbing again and this time getting
  fangs through the flesh between his thumb and forefinger. "Damn it! 
  Goddamn stupid cat!"
  
  "Tam it!" Emily repeated disapprovingly, then resumed her tearful
  pleading for, "Cat.  Cat-cat-cat.  Dah-dah: peas.  Me cat. "
  
  The boots disappeared into the pantry, and reappeared as Mulder sat up,
  clutching his newest wound.  Sam squatted down, waving a small slice of
  ham.  The kitten rolled to his feet and strolled out, meowing longingly. 
  Sam sent Emily off holding the ham and giggling as the fat gray puffball
  pranced after her.
  
  Mulder sighed in exasperation, got up, dusted off his backside, and
  reached for his tepid cup of coffee.  He'd re-warmed the coffee Dana had
  made before Easter Mass, and six hours hadn't improved the flavor.  It
  kept him awake and removed paint.
  
  "Dana calls him Ocras," Sam said, sitting at the kitchen table and
  weaving his legs through the chair rungs. "I think that's ‘hungry' in
  Gaelic.  She said not to call him Damnation."
  
  "Tam cat," Mulder responded tiredly, pouring more sugar into his mug in
  a futile attempt to mask the taste.  Despite the heat from the stove, he
  felt cold inside, and his belly chilled despite the coffee. 
  
  "I think," Sam started uncertainly. "I think Dana's asleep."
  
  In his blend-into-the-shadows way, Sam had been silently observing the
  drama following Sadie's arrival.  He appeared in a doorway or in the
  nursery, watched impassively, then faded away like the morning fog. 
  Mulder seldom noticed Sam arriving or going until he was there or gone.
  
  "She is asleep.  She needs to rest.  Sadie and Cally are asleep, but
  Emmy won't lie down.  I, uh…" A yawn interrupted him, and Mulder rubbed
  his eyes. Dana wasn't the only one who hadn't slept since Friday. "I,
  uh…" 
  
  He couldn't remember what he'd been talking about.
  
  "I could watch her," Sam offered.
  
  "You don't have to.  Cally's nurse will be back soon, and Rebekah…" He
  trailed off, his ears popping as he yawned again.
  
  "No, I could.   You could sleep."
  
  "That would be nice." Mulder rolled his neck and let his eyelids close
  halfway in anticipation. "You'll wake me if anything happens?" he
  checked. "Or if you get tired of watching the girls?  Wake me, not Dana. 
  Let Dana sleep."
  
  "I will." Sam nodded, and then hesitated before he asked, "Father?"
  
  "Hum?"
  
  "What's…" He trailed off and grew a little smaller. "Everyone's talking
  about Sadie.  Even at church this morning. And I heard Dana crying.
  Yelling. Is she…"
  
  "She'll stay another month, long enough to make sure she's not having
  another baby.  Then she's leaving."
  
  "But Sadie's leaving.  I heard you say so."
  
  "That doesn't change- change the circumstances," Mulder hedged.
  
  "She's leaving forever?  Like a divorce?"
  
  The concept of divorce was almost as mythical.  Through adultery,
  drunkenness, beatings, insanity - married people stayed married, if only
  to escape the social scandal and stigma on the children.  Money and
  family smoothed over many things when a girl wanted to marry, but not
  being Negro, illegitimate, or the child of divorced parents.
  
  Mulder stroked his aching forehead with his thumb, realizing he was
  running three for three. "Maybe.  I don't know."
  
  "Where would she go?"
  
  "I don't know."
  
  "What about Emily and Cally?" Sam asked softly.
  
  "Sam, I don't know."
  
  "What if she's having a baby?"
  
  "I don't know, Sammy," Mulder muttered through his teeth.
  
  "I thought you and Dana weren't having any more ba-"
  
  "Enough," Mulder said more sharply than he intended. "Sammy, enough. 
  Just stop.  Please.  I don't know what's going to happen.  I don't.  But
  it doesn't matter. You don't want Dana here, and Dana doesn't want to be
  here.  I know you and I need to talk, but not now.  Later.  Right now,
  I'm too tired to think, let alone explain."
  
  Sam nodded uncomfortably.
  
  "I'm sorry, Sammy," he apologized. "There are just so many things… I'm
  sorry this is happening, and I'm sorry you have to watch it happen." 
  
  His son nodded again, then paused uncertainly before he asked, "When she
  leaves – you won't go after her, will you?"
  
  He shook his head slowly, his neck muscles aching. "No, if she wants to
  go, I won't try to stop her."
  
  Sam nodded one last time, seeming comforted somehow, and then excused
  himself to go after Emily. 
  
  Mulder exhaled, knowing he hadn't handled that well.  Once he found the
  energy to move, he stretched out on the library sofa and closed his
  eyes.  Kitten claws skittered across the foyer, and Emily squealed as
  she and Sam pursued Damnation up the stairs.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He heard the voice calling his name, as gently insistent as water
  dripping onto sandstone, slowly eroding away sleep. "All right.  I'm
  awake," he mumbled.  The cushion he'd shoved behind his head on the sofa
  was making his neck ache, and he massaged it with his hand.
  
  "Fox," she repeated slowly, her accent wrapping his name in southern
  mist.
  
  "I'm up," he answered sleepily, rubbing his eyes.  Rebekah had changed
  his diapers and retained the right to call him ‘Fox,' but few others
  did.  Poppy had, but to every other adult in the house, including, at
  the moment, Dana, he was ‘Mr. Mulder.'
  
  "Get up.  Come on, silly," she persisted. "You'll miss everything."
  
  He looked up and saw Melissa's brown eyes watching him, except there was
  life in them, mischief, sparkle.  The facial structure was similar, but
  rounder and not so exotic.  Her hair was the same straight, black silk,
  but she was fairer, looking less Cherokee and more French.  She wore a
  simple white dress, and she was slimmer than Melissa, with the small,
  high breasts and new curves of a teenage girl.  He squinted, trying to
  figure out who this girl could be and why she'd address him so casually. 
  
  "Sarah?" he finally realized, sitting up.
  
  "No, Napoleon.  Get up, silly."
  
  "Sarah?" he repeated in disbelief.  She'd died before photographs, and
  Jack Kavanaugh hadn't approved of paintings of his girls, claiming they
  were just vanity.  The only images Mulder had of her were the ones in
  his mind.  When he dreamt of her, she was always older, and it was
  strange to see her at fifteen.  She seemed so young – more child than
  woman. "Sarah?"
  
  She stepped back, looking around the library as the late afternoon sun
  glowed orange through the windows. "This is your house?"
  
  "Yes, this is my house," he answered automatically, assuring himself he
  was only dreaming, not crazy. "Sarah…"
  
  It felt like a dream, but not.  It was like seeing his mother's soul
  leaving or Dana's when Cally was born: there, but not.  She was a
  spectator in his world, but no longer part of it.  His mind filled in
  what his senses didn't, though: the warmth from her body, the scent of
  her skin, and the sound of her footsteps across the rug.
  
  Sarah trailed her fingers casually across the polished piano, over the
  easel, then stopped to examine the accordion. "What's this?"
  
  "It's Sam's accordion.  It makes music.  Or something akin to it."
  
  "Sam?  Samantha?"
  
  "Samuel.  Melissa's son.  Melissa and I have a son named Samuel. He's
  almost sixteen."  
  
  "You and Melissa?   My sister Melissa?  You called her an empty-headed
  pest and a crybaby.  Are you teasing me?"
  
  "I'm not teasing," he insisted, trying to get his bearings. "Melly and I
  were married… We- Would- would you like to see him?"
  
  Sarah nodded that she would and followed him, tripping lightly up the
  curving staircase.  He expected her to vanish at any second, but when
  she didn't, he cautioned her to be quiet and pushed open the first door.
  
  "Sam," he whispered, gesturing to the young man asleep on top of the
  covers, one hand under his cheek and one resting protectively on Emily. 
  The kitten was curled at the foot of the bed, its gray muzzle on Sam's
  ankle. "That's my Sammy."
  
  "He's beautiful." 
  
  "Yes."
  
  "He looks like Melissa.  He's like her in so many ways.  You don't want
  him to be, but he is, and that frightens you."
  
  "Yes, it does," he admitted quietly.
  
  She studied Sam's face thoughtfully. "There is so much gentle beauty
  inside him.  He has a quiet center, an artist's soul.  An old soul. 
  You've lost him so many times, and you've searched for so long.  You
  want to protect him, but you can't: you can't protect him from all the
  evil in the world or from the storm inside himself."
  
  "I can try," he said even more quietly.
  
  "You won't succeed."
  
  "But I can try," he repeated.
  
  "And the baby?  Is she yours?"
  
  "That's Emily.  She'll be two this summer." He moistened his lips. "Yes,
  she's mine.  And my Cally's asleep in the nursery. She's almost four
  months old."
  
  Emily shifted, and Sam patted her back instinctively.  He rubbed his
  neck, then rolled to his side, curling up to her.  At the foot of the
  bed, the kitten flicked its tail, but didn't open its eyes.
  
  Mulder gestured for Sarah to step back as he closed Sam's door. He stood
  facing her in the dim hallway, knowing he was dreaming but unwilling to
  wake.
  
  "It seems so odd," she murmured. "You being married, having a house,
  having a family.  You're a man, Fox."
  
  "I guess I am," he said, standing close to her.  
  
  He wanted to put his arms around her and feel like the world wasn't
  coming to an end, but he didn't.  He'd always envisioned her as a woman,
  and, in his dreams, treated her like a woman.  Now, seeing her as the
  child she'd been, those dreams seemed perverse, somehow.  She was right;
  he was a grown man, and this was a little girl.
  
  "Stay," he offered. "There's so much to talk about.  I could show you
  Cally.  My daughter.  I could-"
  
  She shook her head slightly from side to side.
  
  "I saw you once," he said quickly, afraid she would fade away at any
  moment. "In Tennessee.  Near your father's plantation.  There was a war,
  and I was wounded.  I was dying, and there was a bright light, and then
  you were there: walking toward me through the tall grass.  I felt my
  soul leaving my body.  I saw the battle as if I was looking down on it. 
  I started to come to you, but you shook your head and told me to go
  back.  So I did," he finished in a frantic jumble, justifying why his
  life had continued when hers hadn't. "And so I'm here."
  
  "And you think it was a mistake?  Coming back?"
  
  "I-I don't know.  Maybe.  I'm not dying now, am I?"
  
  "No, you look pretty healthy," she assured him. "Fox, you see me only
  because you want to see me.  Do you understand that?  You've created me. 
  I don't come to you; I exist inside you."
  
  "Yes, you do.  You always will.  I need you." 
  
  "But you aren't fifteen anymore.  I am, but you aren't.  You're making
  me something I'm not.  I didn't talk like this, think like this.  I
  wasn't your rock or your voice of wisdom.  I was a child.  We were
  children in love, and you've made us into a fairytale."
  
  "I know that.  I do, but I need to believe in what could have been.  In
  what should have been, if you hadn't died.  If I have that, I can handle
  what is."
  
  "Why?" she pursued. "So as soon as life is the least bit unpleasant, you
  can say ‘well, this isn't what Fate intended anyway' and excuse
  yourself?  Perhaps if I had lived, we would have become lovers and you
  would have died in Tennessee, leaving me behind to grieve.  Or perhaps
  we would have married to please our parents but ended up hating each
  other until the day we died, bitter and miserable.  There are infinite
  possibilities in each lifetime, so how can you presume to know what Fate
  intended for you?  For anyone?  And when did you get to be such a
  coward?"  
  
  "I'm not a coward," he defended himself. "You- you're just a dream."
  
  "Yes, I am.  That's all I am.  Your dream of how you think life should
  have been.  That life wasn't real.  It wasn't something you had and
  lost, Fox; it never happened for us in this lifetime." Sarah pointed
  past him, at the door of his bedroom. "But she happened to you.  She is
  real, and she loves you.  Why can't you let go and let yourself love
  her?  Really love her?  Why can't you let her into your heart?  Are you
  so afraid of what she'd find?"
  
  "That's not Melissa.  Melly's dead.  That's Dana."
  
  She nodded that she knew that. 
  
  He shook his head, brushing off her argument. "It's too late.  Even if
  it wasn't… She doesn't love me.  If she ever did, she doesn't now."
  
  "She's still here," Sarah responded. 
  
  "I didn't give her a choice."
  
  "A choice?" Sarah gave him the same eyebrow Dana did. "She doesn't need
  your permission.  She could take those girls and vanish into the Irish
  section of New York or Boston and you'd never find them again, but she
  hasn't.  She's still here, still letting you trample all over her heart
  with your half-truths and pathetic explanations."
  
  "You seem to know a lot about Dana."
  
  "Only what you know." She smiled and slipped her hand into his, touching
  him for the first time.  He could feel it: the warmth and texture of her
  palm. "Trust your heart.  There's truth there.  It's that thick,
  brilliant head of yours that gets you in trouble, not your heart."
  
  "You're saying goodbye, aren't you?"
  
  "You are," she answered. "You don't need my anymore."
  
  "I do."
  
  She shook her head slowly from side to side. "Listen to your heart."
  
  "All right," he said shakily.  She stepped back, turning away.  He let
  go, and her fingers slipped away from his.  He stood outside the master
  bedroom, watching her walk slowly down the hall and disappear around the
  curve of the stairs.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  As midnight approached, Mulder glanced at the level of golden liquid in
  the bottle, wondering how it had gotten so low.  Whisky.  He'd found it
  in the liquor cabinet and had to figure out why it was in the house: a
  medicinal leftover from a sore throat he'd had the previous winter.  Six
  months ago, Dana had fixed him a hot toddy and put him to bed, fussing
  over him in a very satisfying manner.
  
  He'd approached the bedroom door a dozen times, only to stare at it,
  lose his nerve, and then turn away.  The battle was over.  He'd lost. 
  All that was left was to negotiate the terms of surrender.
  
  He poured another shot, examined it, and poured the liquid back into the
  bottle.  Most of it went in, and what didn't splattered across his
  letter, making the ink run purple.
  
  There were footsteps on the stairs – too quick for the wet nurse and too
  light for Sam - and when he got up to inspect, he saw Dana in the foyer. 
  She wore her long, white nightgown, and her hair was down, falling in
  red waves almost to her waist.  She looked ghostly, as if she was
  already halfway gone.
  
  "Are you all right?" he asked immediately.
  
  "Emily is awake.  She wants a drink, but the pitcher was empty."
  
  "I'll get it," he volunteered, halfway to the kitchen before she could
  object.
  
  With the clock counting down, he wanted to spend as much time as
  possible with Emily.  After dinner, they'd played as long as she could
  keep her eyes open – all her favorite games: no-no Emmy, and chase the
  kitten, and spin things in the dumbwaiter, and bang on pots. Her energy
  had given out before his urgency, and he'd carried her to bed, then sat
  watching her for a long time.
  
  "She's asleep," he told Dana a moment later, returning downstairs. "I
  guess she didn't want it after all."
  
  "I guess not," she responded awkwardly. "I didn't realize you were still
  awake.  I didn't mean to interrupt."
  
  "You aren't interrupting."
  
  "You were writing to Melissa."
  
  "No.  No, I wasn't.  I was writing – but not to Melly.  I'm-I'm glad to
  see you.  I wanted to check on you, but I wasn't sure... Do you feel all
  right?" he asked, equally ill at ease. "Please sit down."
  
  "I feel fine."
  
  "Sit anyway.  Make me feel better.  Please?" He offered a chair opposite
  his desk, and she sat, tucking her nightgown around her.
  
  "I am fine," she assured him. "Really.  My back was hurting earlier, but
  I feel fine now. I am not ill. This is perfectly natural."
  
  "And you're sure you weren't- aren't-" He cleared his throat. "I can
  have the doctor come."
  
  "No. I am sure." 
  
  He noticed his lower lip smarting and realized he was biting it. 
  
  "I almost feel like I should apologize," she said uncertainly. 
  
  "Don't," he said immediately. "I'd rather you leave me now than be dead
  eight months from now.  I just wanted you to stay; I never wanted
  another baby in the first place." He sighed tiredly, pushed the things
  on his desk aside, and propped up his feet. "And to that end, I suppose
  we should talk."
  
  Dana plucked some imaginary thread from her nightgown. "Yes, I suppose
  we should."
  
  "I-" they both said, then stopped.  
  
  Dana plucked another thread, and Mulder found a spot on his desk to
  stare at.  He picked up his pen and tapped it nervously until it annoyed
  even him.  
  
  "I believe the agreement was anywhere within a day's train ride of
  Washington," he said formally, as though closing a business deal.
  "Money's not an issue; you know that.  I won't have you or Emmy want for
  anything."
  
  "I want the baby."
  
  "I'm aware of that.  I want both girls.  You're the one who wants to
  leave, Dana.  As long as I can see her and you don't take her very far,
  you can take Emmy.  And you can see Cally whenever you want. That's my
  best offer.  My only offer."
  
  "You cannot do that."
  
  "Yes, I can.  And you know I can."
  
  Her jaw clenched defiantly.
  
  "Don't," he warned. "Don't try to take her and run.  I'll find you.  I
  found Sam.  There's nowhere on Earth you can take Cally that I won't
  find her, and when I do, my next offer won't be so generous.  Again,
  Dana, you're the one who wants to leave.  So what we need to decide," he
  continued coolly, "Is where you want to live. And, of course, when you
  want to go."
  
  "Yes," she said softly.
  
  "Had you given that any thought?"
  
  "No.  No, not really.  Everything has happened so quickly.  You seem to
  be holding up well, though."
  
  "I am aching," he said simply, then shuffled some papers that didn't
  need shuffling.
  
  "So am I."
  
  He stopped shuffling, set the papers aside, took a deep breath, and
  continued, "I have an address for your mother in New York, if you're
  interested. That's a long trip, though, and I'd prefer you stay closer
  to Washington.  You don't have to, but that makes it easier on everyone;
  I don't have to go far to see Emmy and you don't have to travel to see
  Cally.  Baltimore, maybe.  Alexandria?  I've even thought of my parents'
  house in Georgetown."
  
  "I do not know," she whispered.
  
  "Another thing," he continued rapid-fire, before the whiskey drained out
  of his brain and he had to think again. "I'd rather not divorce.  I'd
  rather not do that to the children.  A legal separation, if you want,
  but not a divorce.  And there's no reason for even that. I put some
  money in trust for Emmy, but otherwise there's no property or income on
  your side to separate from mine.  If it's all right with you, I'd rather
  we live apart and leave things the way they are.  I'm not interested in
  remarrying, and I'm sure you've had your fill of husbands for a while."
  
  That was her cue to smirk, but she seemed far away.
  
  "Dana, you're cold.  You're shivering," he realized.
  
  She had her arms wrapped around her and her shoulders hunched forward,
  looking too small for the large armchair.  She seemed surreally pale:
  all blue eyes and auburn mane against her white nightgown and the dark
  leather upholstery.
  
  "Are you all right?" he asked, walking around the desk to her.  He
  squatted in front of her chair. "Dana? Are you all right?"
  
  "Fine," she said unconvincingly, and then added, "I am cold."
  
  Without thinking, he put his hand on her forehead, touching her for the
  first time since they'd argued on Easter Sunday. "Do you have a fever? 
  You don't feel warm. In fact-" He put his hands over hers. "Your hands
  are like ice.
  
  "I am all right.  Just cold.  Tired."
  
  He let go of her hands and turned away, putting two more logs on the
  dying fire. "And hungry.  You didn't eat dinner, did you?" 
  
  She didn't answer, which probably meant "no." He'd eaten in the kitchen
  with Emily, making mashed potato bowls for their gravy.  He remembered
  Sam bringing his plate from the dining room to the kitchen as well, but
  he couldn't recall seeing Dana go near the dinner table.  She'd told him
  her news when he came home from work, then spent most of the evening in
  the nursery with Cally.
  
  The last few nights had been cool and wet as April drizzled away at May,
  and the logs were damp.  They smoked and sizzled and popped, but refused
  to give off heat.  He heard Dana's teeth chattering.  There was a baby
  blanket on the sofa, and he wrapped it around her shoulders, tucking it
  tight. "Better?" he asked, and she nodded, shivering less violently.  He
  felt her face again, still worried. "Dana, are you sure you aren't
  miscarrying?"
  
  "I am sure." She looked at him, her eyes darting over his face, then
  slowly sank back in her chair, away from him.  She had to be able to
  smell the whisky on his breath, but she didn't comment.
  
  "All right." He moved back, sitting on the rug in front of her.  He
  poked the fire a few times, stirring the coals.  He poked it again for
  good measure, and leaned back, watching it smolder. "I just want you to
  be all right.  Whenever you're leaving, wherever you're going.  You're
  still getting over Cally's birth.  No matter how much you despise me, I
  don't want you making yourself sick. I…" He trailed off, slouched
  forward and wrapped his arms around his legs.  He put his aching
  forehead on his knees, closing his eyes.
  
  Like a good soldier, he'd plotted his strategy: meet at dawn, negotiate
  the terms of surrender as quickly and with as much dignity as possible. 
  He couldn't stop her from leaving. He'd worn out his thesaurus searching
  for ways to make her understand how sorry he was.  If he had a few more
  weeks – or months – or years - maybe he could, but he didn't.  Dana's
  euphemistic "curse" had arrived a full three weeks before Mulder's "stay
  another month" deadline.  He couldn't stop Dana from leaving, but he
  could at least maintain some dignity about it.
  
  "I love you," he said hoarsely. "I do.  Only you.  You have given me so
  much and all I've given you is heartache.  I am sorry: for hurting you,
  for lying to you, for pushing you away.  I know you don't believe me.  I
  don't expect you to.  But I thought somewhere in the world there would
  be one bit of truth I could put in your hands and say ‘believe this.' 
  But there doesn't seem to be.  I keep trying to follow my heart - to put
  aside my pride and listen to my heart, but all my heart does right now
  is break.  Which isn't very helpful.  And so here we are."
  
  He looked up, wiping his nose.  She was huddled in the big chair with
  the baby blanket around her shoulders, and her bare feet dangling a few
  inches above the rug. 
  
  "You're still cold," he said tiredly, pushing himself to his feet. "And
  you're upset.  I'm sorry about Cally.  I'm not trying to keep you away
  from her.  We can talk about it another time.  Come on; I'll walk you to
  bed.  I won't touch you – just walk with you and make sure you don't
  fall on the stairs."
  
  "I am not going to faint."
  
  "Humor me."
  
  She sighed and got up, walking toward the staircase with him at her
  heels, like a sheepdog with one sheep. "Is this your new plan?"
  
  "What?" His only remaining plan was "don't cry in front of Dana." 
  
  "Staying right in my shadow.  All the time.  I have to come here to see
  the baby.  You will come to my house to see Emily.  Whenever you like,
  which means all the time.  And then you will start showing up for
  coffee, then lunch because it was ‘on your way.' Then bringing me your
  shirts to get the ink stains out and sew the buttons back on.  Soon, you
  will be under my feet every moment of the day.  I might as well stay
  here and save you the trolley fare."
  
  She started up the stairs, but he stopped her on the bottom step,
  putting his hand on her wrist. "Are you saying you want to stay?"
  
  She turned slowly.  They were eye-to-eye, but she focused on his
  cheekbone. "I-I do not know.  When I said I wanted to leave, I was
  angry.  I was not thinking.  Not matter what I want - having two houses,
  separating the girls… That does not seem reasonable." 
  
  "It does not?" 
  
  "No, it does not.  Leaving seems very impractical, now."
  
  "It seems impractical?" he echoed.
  
  "Yes.  It does."
   
  He tilted his head to the left and leaned close like he was going to
  kiss her. As she inhaled uncertainly, unsure whether she was going to
  try to stop him or not, he whispered, "Bullshit."
  
  Dana pulled back in surprise.
  
  "If you've changed your mind and want to stay, then say so, but don't
  start mouthing about practicality and reason.  Neither of us loves
  reasonably."
  
  "I am only trying to be adult-"
  
  "Bullshit," he repeated softly. "Being adults doesn't mean living in the
  same house and acting like polite strangers.  Living a lie.  Wrong,
  Dana.  That's called being cowards."
  
  She bristled, tossed her hair back from her shoulders, and opened her
  mouth to argue with him, but he cut her off. "I love you.  Only you. 
  I'm sorry I lied to you.  I was an arrogant ass and I will make every
  effort to see that it doesn't happen again.  I've never been unfaithful
  to you.  If I've been with Poppy, it was years ago and it wasn't
  something I wanted to happen.  I'm not convinced I'm Sadie's father, but
  she's still my responsibility.  And I am fallible.  I make mistakes, but
  I'm trying my damnedest to learn from them.  That's it, Dana.  You can
  live with it or you can't, but don't make excuses about being
  reasonable."
  
  Her throat convulsed as she swallowed. "But-"
  
  "Bullshit.  Jesus, Dana – I'm not asking you to lay your heart bare for
  me.  Play your cards as close to your chest as you like, but at least be
  honest.  If you don't want to be my wife, leave.  Just leave. I won't
  stop you, I won't keep you from seeing Cally, and I won't try to
  convince you to come back.  But if you want to stay, stay, and I'll do
  everything I can to put things right."
  
  A pained wrinkle appeared between her eyebrows, and she looked just over
  his right shoulder, blinking quickly.
  
  "You're right: you aren't going to faint.  God forbid you even flinch. 
  Go to bed, Dana," he said tiredly. "Just go."
  
  She turned away, gathering up her long nightgown.  She climbed as far as
  the fifth step before she stopped, turned back, paused, and then said
  with difficulty, "I want to stay."
  
  "All right," he responded from the bottom of the steps, glad he had one
  hand on the banister to steady himself.
  
  "I will see you at breakfast," she added, just in case he might assume
  her staying meant he was welcome in her bed. "Tomorrow morning."
  
  "Tomorrow morning.  I'll make coffee.  And we'll start over."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He found himself staring at the kitchen ceiling, willing her to hurry. 
  Rebekah would arrive in another half hour, and he wanted privacy.  When
  he heard Dana stirring, he'd made coffee, but she'd dawdled so long that
  he'd drunk it and had to make another pot. He drummed his fingers on the
  kitchen table and his feet against the rungs of his chair.  It was sweet
  in a too-sugary kind of way: after two babies, almost two years of
  marriage, and numerous acts and positions that weren't mentioned in his
  old marriage manuals, Dana could still give him the jitters.  He heard
  her ambling down the stairs, taking her own sweet time and oblivious to
  his plight.
  
  "Good morning," he said when she finally made it to the kitchen.  He
  stood quickly, sending his chair squeaking back a few inches. 
  
  "Good morning," she mumbled blearily.
  
  "Fox William Mulder," he introduced himself, extending his hand. "When I
  was fifteen, my sweetheart miscarried and died.  I was not-" 
  
  He faltered; the sentence had been easier when he'd rehearsed it in his
  head.  He took a breath and tried again, wanting to tell her the truth. 
  
  "I was not the father of her child," he managed, and then continued, "I
  never stopped loving her, but I married her sister Melissa.  Who was
  also expecting a baby.  Melly was a great beauty: sweet, talented, very
  devoted to me.  And a little touched.  A few years ago, while I was
  asleep, she committed suicide, taking our unborn daughter with her. Our
  Samuel found her.  He's almost sixteen now.  When he feels like emerging
  from his bedroom, he's some sort of musical prodigy and artistic genius.
  I thought I'd lost him in the war, found him, brought him back, and
  don't know what to do with the boy I've found except try desperately not
  to lose him again."
  
  Dana continued looking at his proffered hand as she asked, "Who was the
  father of Sarah's child, then?  And how much coffee have you had?"
  
  "My parents are dead," he continued. "My father during the siege of
  Richmond; my mother last fall.  No brothers or sisters.  My father was a
  senator, and he cast a long shadow.  I try not to live in it.  I have
  two little girls: one mine by blood, one by providence.  And my first
  wife's half-sister says I'm her daughter's father. That's a long story,
  but drugs and very bad judgment were involved."
  
  Dana yawned and scratched the back of her head in confusion.
  
  "I went to Harvard, and served in the cavalry during the war.  I own a
  newspaper, one of the few in DC that didn't just burn down.  The KKK
  hates me, as does half of Congress.  I'm wealthy.  Idealistic. Stubborn. 
  Proud.  Odd.  I keep secrets.  I have ghosts.  I snore.  I drink more
  than I say I do.  I talk too much when I shouldn't and not enough when I
  should.  And," he recalled, pointing airily, "I shot my bastard uncle
  last month.  He tried to shoot me and I put a bullet between his eyes."
  
  "Good for you, Mr. Mulder," she mumbled, sitting down.
  
  He took his seat across from her at the table, waiting expectantly.
  
  "What?" she asked sleepily.
  
  He gestured that it was her turn.
  
  "Dana Katherine Scully Waterston Mulder," she said a sip of coffee. "It
  is nice to meet you, Mr. Mulder."
  
  "Nice to meet you, Dana Katherine Scully Waterston Mulder.  I bet
  there's a story behind that name."
  
  She pointed to her cup. "Coffee first."
  
  He nodded that he could wait.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  A drop of coffee had dried on the outer rim of his mug, and he scratched
  it away with his fingernail. "I'd wondered," he finally said. "From what
  you'd said, your family was tied to the sea, not the land.  It wouldn't
  matter if the village was destroyed."
  
  Dana stared into her cup, then pretended to take a sip, though she
  really didn't. "I did not think," she said softly.  Steam rose from her
  coffee, swirling toward her face and vanishing into the cool morning
  air. "When Oisin died, I picked up his gun, got the soldier alone in the
  woods, and shot him.  I did not care what happened to me, but I never
  thought of the repercussions to my family.  Is that the word?  Re-per-
  cussions?"
  
  "Repercussions." He nodded, then asked, "How did you get the soldier
  alone in the woods?"
  
  She looked up at him with cool, steady blue eyes.
  
  "Oh," he mumbled, and rubbed another caramel colored spot from his cup.
  "But you pulled the trigger, not your family."
  
  "The English landlords do not see it that way.  If you think I am
  troublesome, you should have met my brothers." She paused, then smiled
  mistily at some childhood memory before she asked, "Were their bodies
  recovered?  Could there have been a mistake?  Could…"
  
  "You told me not to check," he said, surprised at the question.
  
  "But I knew you would."
  
  "They were listed as being on duty," Mulder said softly. "On the USS
  Tecumseh in Mobile Bay, August 4, 1864.  Your father warned Admiral
  Farragut the waters were mined, but it was an ironclad ship: supposedly
  unsinkable.  Farragut ordered ‘damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!' As
  it led the squadron into the bay, the Tecumseh struck a mine - a
  torpedo.  There was an explosion, and the ship rolled and sank. There
  were no survivors.  And no identifiable bodies.  That happens in war,
  sometimes."
  
  She nodded slightly that she understood.
  
  "I wish I could do better for you, Dana.  I know it seems senseless. 
  They died because Farragut was arrogant, and he wanted a fast victory. 
  Not because you killed a man.  Not because your family fled to America. 
  Not because your father and brothers joined the navy.  They were grown
  men and experienced sailors; it was their choice to fight in the war or
  not.  They understood the risks."
  
  "I do not think my mother sees it that way," Dana told her coffee cup,
  needlessly stirring the murky liquid with her spoon.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Owning a newspaper wasn't an overly profitable or prestigious business. 
  For every headline, there was a multitude of headaches: jammed presses,
  frantic editors, cutthroat reporters, deadlines, and on and on.  The
  hours were long and the decisions difficult: deciding what was news and
  what was scandal.  More than once, he'd dipped into his own pocket to
  meet the payroll.  At four o'clock, sometimes all he had to show for his
  efforts were ink stains, a pounding headache, a few more enemies, and a
  couple pages of newsprint.  Some days, he considered letting Byers take
  over once and for all, and finding a less troublesome occupation.  Like
  bullfighting.  Fire eating.  Alligator wrestling.
  
  "Come," he said without looking up, and his office door opened. "Just
  put it on my desk: crises on the left, complaints on the right. If you
  hate Melvin Frohike, there's a line upstairs: go stand in it."
  
  A stack of cursive covered pages appeared on the corner of his desk: the
  translations of The Lancet and Scientific American one of his
  typesetters did for Dana each month.  Mulder glanced at them, but didn't
  give them another thought until he left work.
  
  He and Samuel caught the streetcar on the corner and squeezed in with
  the evening masses.  Mulder found a place to stand at the back, and
  ignored the parasol jabbing him in the leg as he read a letter he'd
  forgotten he asked his typesetter to translate.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  October 13, 1864
  
  Dear Mother, 
  
  I have written to you many times, but my letters go unanswered.  Once
  again, I hope this letter finds you safe. My husband tells me Father and
  Bill and Charles are dead, but I do not know if this is true.  I pray it
  is not, but my heart tells me it is.  Mother, I am so sorry.  I would
  give my life if it would bring them back to you.
  
  I wish I could invite you to live with me, but that is not possible.  I
  understand that I cannot leave, that I cannot shame my family, so I try
  to stay out of the way, especially when he is drinking.  I try to be a
  good wife, but I know he is disappointed with me.  Perhaps it is because
  we have no children, or perhaps because he does not love me.  I look
  like the memory of someone he loved, but that is not enough, even in the
  darkness.
  
  I remember a time when I wished I had died with Oisin.  Eventually, the
  ache in my heart faded and left behind only emptiness, as though I could
  see the sun at a distance but its rays never reached my face.  So I
  married this American doctor I barely knew, and who I knew did not love
  me.  I thought it would not matter because I thought there was nothing
  left alive inside me to feel.  But there is, mother.  My heart was
  broken, but it continues to beat.  
  
  Sometimes I want to leave with the first man who comes along – to say to
  the Devil with this unending civil war, to the Devil with these
  miserable swamps and mosquitoes, and to the Devil with Dr. Waterston. I
  want to climb into a stranger's buggy or scramble up on his horse and
  say, "I cannot go home, but take me anywhere but here."  Sometimes-
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  "Are those Dana's?" Sam asked, and Mulder jumped, jostling the
  passengers around him.  The woman behind him responded by poking him
  with her parasol again.
  
  "These are," Mulder answered, offering the two paper bundles he'd wedged
  under his arm. "Here - you can give them to her."
  
  "What about that one?" he asked, nodding to the letter his father held. 
  
  "No," Mulder responded, folding and tucking it in his inside coat
  pocket. "This one's nothing.  Come on: our stop's next."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He would not be a jealous ass.  He would not be a jealous ass.
  
  Mulder stopped pretending he was reading, laid the book on his chest,
  and watched Dana and Byers chatting in the parlor.  In Gaelic.  Without
  him.  Engrossed in a conversation he could barely hear, but was certain
  was about him.  Mulder put one foot on the floor, deciding there was
  something in the parlor he needed to retrieve, and he'd remember what it
  was by the time he got there.
  
  Byers started a sentence, then paused, gesturing and trying to remember
  the word in Gaelic.  
  
  "Pluiceán," Dana supplied for him. "Pustule."
  
  Byers nodded and continued.  He kept glancing past Dana, through the
  French doors, and into the library at Mulder.  He'd stopped to drop off
  an article for Mulder to read, and Dana had invited him to stay for
  dinner.  And for a glass of wine after dinner.  And for a second glass
  of wine.  And, apparently, a riveting discussion of Small Pox.
  
  Mulder exhaled tensely, put his foot back on the sofa, and picked up his
  book again.  
  
  He would not be a jealous ass.
  
  When he looked up again, Byers was standing, and Dana was wishing him a
  safe trip home.  Byers leaned into the library, telling Mulder goodnight
  and that he'd see him in the morning.  Mulder raised his hand,
  pretending to be engrossed in his book.
  
  "You are sulking," Dana said, returning to the library after showing
  Byers to the door.  She leaned over, pushing down the book he was hiding
  behind. "You have been since dinner.  If I did not know better, I would
  say you were jealous."
  
  "Of course I'm not."
  
  "You are.  You are jealous of Mr. Byers."
  
  He made his hurt-little-boy face, pushing out his lower lip. "I am.  You
  never discuss pus with me."
  
  "Pus," she whispered seductively, leaning over him.  She'd had a
  smidgeon too much to drink, and her eyes twinkled mischievously. "Pox. 
  Bubon.  Canker.  Surgical fever.  Putrefaction.  Gangrene."
  
  He reached up, looping his finger through her necklace and pulling her
  lower. "Do you kiss your husband with that filthy mouth?"
  
  "Infection.  Prophylaxis.  Pandemic.  Rigor mortis." She hesitated, her
  lips just over his. "Post-mortem liquescence."
  
  "Oh my," he said softly, dropping the book and raising his mouth to
  hers.  One soft wine-flavored kiss, then another, then another as he sat
  up and then guided her down and back on the sofa so he was on top of
  her. "Thank God.  I was beginning to think you were adding extra days to
  torment me."
  
  "I would never-"
  
  He cut her off, pressing her lips apart with increasing urgency.  He
  unbuttoned the front of her bodice, then the delicate corset cover. Her
  corset pushed her breasts high, rounding them into twin half-moons. 
  They rose and fell desperately as her breathing quickened, threatening
  to escape the confines of the whalebones.
  
  "I've missed you so much," he murmured, trailing his mouth down her
  cleavage, then up the underside of her throat. "You can't imagine how
  much I want this."
  
  "We should go upstairs," she whispered as he gathered up her skirt and
  pushed the ruffled petticoats out of the way.  His hand slid up her leg,
  past stockings, garters, and lacy pantalets to the soft, warm nest of
  hair between her thighs.  Split-crotch drawers: a God-given boon to
  mankind.
  
  "No, here," he answered hoarsely, urging her legs farther apart.
  
  "Mulder-"
  
  "Here.  Now."
  
  She shifted lower, leaning back into the corner of the sofa so he was
  over her.  He unfastened his shirt, wanting his skin against hers, then
  trousers as he consumed her mouth.  Reality slipped away, leaving
  earlobes, smooth eyelids, and tart, kiss-swollen lips. The soft
  whimpering sound she made in the back of her throat as she felt his
  erection pressing against her.  The silkiness of her hair under his
  fingers; the softness of her thumbs outlining his face.
  
  "Slow down," she requested, and he nodded, knowing he was devouring her. 
  Too much, too fast, too soon.  He just missed it so much: the world
  being only the two of them.  
  
  It had been, once.  Before they'd married, on Waterston's plantation.
  Mulder had chopped firewood in the summer sun as she sat in the shade
  with her new baby.  The heat was sweltering, and sweat soaked his shirt
  and dripped into his eyes.  Sawdust coated his forearms and neck, and
  the sun singed his scalp.  He'd glanced at her when he stopped to wipe
  his face, and found she was watching him.  He'd said something benign
  and gone back to chopping, puzzled as to why a woman would look at a
  dirty, sweaty man like he was the biggest piece of chocolate cake on a
  dessert tray.
  
  And when they'd first married: laying in bed with Emily between them,
  watching in fascination as the baby's mouth moved against Dana's breast. 
  And being newlyweds: exploring the mysteries and pleasures of the flesh
  like an addict with a new drug. Waking Dana in the stillness before dawn
  and making love slowly, without speaking.  Being at work and discovering
  the scent of her lingering on his shirt. Feeling her arms around him
  late at night. Awakening.
  
  And when Cally was coming, after morning sickness passed but before Sam
  returned: long Sunday afternoons of reading in front of the fire, eating
  whatever and whenever they pleased, and making love whenever and
  wherever they pleased.  Spending hours with his hand on her flat belly,
  fascinated by the miracle inside it.  Watching Emily grow.  Watching
  Dana glow, knowing she wanted another baby as much as he did.  Waltzing
  without music in an empty ballroom.  Making a life together.
  
  "Tell me you really want this," he whispered.
  
  He didn't understand all of her response, but he heard her call him "mo
  rún," which meant everything was all right.
  
  Cupid folded his arms, leaned back, and grinned smugly.
  
  Mulder's brain shut down, sending only every third word to his lips.
  "…so hard," he murmured, starting to push inside her. "Wet.  Wanna feel
  you… Tight.  Oh, God.  Hear you… Talk to me, love."
  
  Her fingers in his hair tightened, back arched, and her hips rose to
  meet his.  Language and reason gave way to the low, desperate sounds and
  tide of passion.
  
  "Love you.  So sweet," Mulder managed, and she answered with a moan,
  wrapping her top leg around his waist.  He paused, pushed up on his
  elbow, and put her palm against his pounding chest. "Do you feel that?"
  he asked, staring deep into her eyes. "You're here: inside me.  I'm
  inside you; you're inside me.  We make a complete, a complete… Uh, a
  complete…" He couldn't remember the damn word.  Something poetic. 
  Round.
  
  "Circle," she whispered, then added breathlessly, "Samuel."
  
  "Samuel?"
  
  Cupid sat upright and glanced around in confusion.
  
  "Samuel," she repeated urgently, pulling away from him.  He was covering
  her, and she couldn't go very far. "Mulder!"
  
  He heard footsteps, and looked over his shoulder in time to see Sam
  enter the library, gasp, then quickly whirl around and leave.
  
  "Shit," Mulder spat, scrambling to his feet and pulling his trousers up.
  "Goddamn it.  I thought he was… Shit! …Somewhere."
  
  Dana jerked her skirt down and sat up, hurriedly buttoning the front of
  her dress.  Sam had walked in when they were asleep after having made
  love, but never during the making.
  
  "I'm sorry," Samuel told the floor when Mulder caught up with him at the
  top of the stairs. "I needed my cello.  I didn't mean to, to, to
  interrupt.  I'm sorry."
  
  "No, I'm sorry.  It's not your fault," he answered, his hands trembling
  as he buttoned his shirt, then shoved his shirttail into his waistband.
  "I didn't think.  I forgot you were home."
  
  "I don't really need my cello," Sam mumbled, looking around for
  someplace else to be. "Not right now."
  
  "Sammy, I don't think your cello's the problem.  I should have told- We
  were- Oh God.  Let's go in your bedroom and sit down."
  
  Sam helped him check the floor for that trapdoor. Not finding it, Mulder
  opened the door, and Sam hesitantly stepped inside.  
  
  A worn baseball bat leaned against the dresser, unused since before the
  war.  A tin box held a collection of colored rocks Sam and his
  grandfather had amassed.  A hunting rifle was on top of the bookcase;
  Sam cleaned it often, but declined all invitations to hunt.  There were
  polished riding boots, also seldom used.  A ball, a few wooden and tin
  toys, a slate, and a row of textbooks, their spines neatly aligned:
  artifacts of a forgotten childhood.
  
  Sam sat on the bed, hunched forward with his elbows on his knees, and
  Mulder sat beside him, copying his posture.  He could smell Dana on his
  hands, and he rubbed them on his wrinkled trousers, then shifted his
  feet uncomfortably, searching for an opening sentence.  His son kept his
  head down, looking like he'd rather be stuck with hot pins. 
  
  There was no need to have "the talk." Aside from wherever he'd been
  sneaking off to at night, Sam had spent months in Sherman's army, which
  left no room for innocence of any sort.  Aside from venereal disease,
  soldiers passed around pornographic photographs, stories, sketches, and
  novels.  Prostitutes visited the camps, collected clients, and then
  adjourned to what privacy the tents provided.  Even as a married man,
  Mulder had been appalled.  To be a boy in a place like that – it wasn't
  the way he'd wanted his son to learn about the fairer sex, but it was a
  thorough education.
  
  On the dresser, between a sketch pad and sheet music for an upcoming
  symphony, were two photographs: one of Bill and Teena Mulder, and one of
  Melissa.  Mulder picked up the second frame, tilting it toward the lamp.
  "She used to make shirts for me, when I was at Harvard," he said
  thoughtfully. "Right after we married.  She was expecting you, so she
  couldn't go out, and that's what she did: sewed shirts and mailed them
  to me.  And they were awful."
  
  Sam watched his father out of the corner of his eye.
  
  "Really awful.  She was fifteen: she couldn't sew worth beans.  I had a
  tailor make copies so she wouldn't know, but I'd no sooner get one copy
  made than she'd send another one.  Grandfather wrote, demanding to know
  why I had an exorbitant tailor's bill when my wife sewed all the time."
  He chuckled at the memory. "I probably still have a few of those damn
  shirts in a trunk somewhere.  Luckily, her skills as a seamstress
  improved over the years."
  
  "You never told her?"
  
  "No, I never did," Mulder answered. "She was fragile, she wanted to make
  me happy, and it would have hurt her.  There were many things like
  that." He paused. "But an affair with Poppy wasn't one of them, Sam. 
  And that's what we need to talk about.  Poppy's sick.  Confused.  She's
  said things that aren't true.  And I think she's said them to you.  In
  fact, I know she has.  Dana told me-"
  
  In the blink of an eye, Sam switched from examining the rug to
  scrutinizing his father. Something flickered behind his dark gaze for an
  instant, then died silently. 
  
  "What, Sam?"
  
  "What did Dana tell you?"
  
  "She said you asked if I was Sadie's father.  And Dana told you I
  wasn't.  That's probably the truth.  I hope it is.  I think Poppy's
  making it up.  And if I am the father- I don't love Poppy.  I never
  have.  It doesn't take love to create a child. It should, but it
  doesn't, and you're old enough to understand that.  I made a mistake,
  and now I have to live with the consequences.  Everyone does."
  
  Mulder watched for a reaction before he continued, but Sam seemed to
  have stopped listening about eight sentences ago.  
  
  "When is Dana leaving?"
  
  "Obviously, she's not, Sam.  And we need to talk about that, too."
  
  "Oh."
  
  "Dana cares about you.  She takes care of you.  Hell, Sam, she even lies
  for you.  She lies to me, like I was never fifteen and don't know
  exactly what you're doing.  When Dana was planning to leave, one of the
  things we fought about was her seeing you.  And when I said you wanted
  me to divorce her… She had no idea you felt that way, Sam.  I could have
  hit her and it wouldn't have hurt any worse."
  
  The clock ticked loudly.  Mulder scuffed his boot against the floor and
  continued, although he might as well have talked to the wall.
  
  "I heard you tell Dana you think I'm disappointed in you as a son.  I'm
  not, Sam.  I'm in awe.  I can't begin to comprehend the gifts you have. 
  Your mother did, but I don't.  I try, but I just don't.  But I love you,
  just like she did.  You've been through so much…"
  
  No response.
  
  "I know you miss your mother.  And Grandmother and Grandfather.  I know
  you're hurting.  Alone.  Afraid.  I know you're doing some things you
  shouldn't be doing.  I understand what it's like to feel hollow inside,
  and need someone or something to fill that hollowness.  I lost the same
  people you did and I was in the same damn war.  I want to help, and I'll
  do just about anything, but please don't ask me to leave Dana.  Because
  I'm not going to."
  
  "What if she left you?" Sam asked finally, after a long silence. "Would
  you go after her?"
  
  "As long as there was breath left in my body," he promised.
  
  "Please don't, Father," his son requested, his voice eerily soft and
  plaintive. "Just let her go."
  
  An ominous chill passed through Mulder, but he said, "I can't, Sam.  Not
  even for you.  Regardless of what happens."
  
  Sam slouched miserably, and Mulder scuffed the toe of his boot against
  the rug again, drawing an imaginary line in the sand.
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  Sam had been a child prodigy in the truest sense, particularly in music. 
  Piano first, then violin, then cello, guitar, and any other stringed
  instrument that crossed his path.  Perfectly.  Effortlessly.  With
  perfect pitch, which mystified his tutors.  He'd sung in the choir and
  played at church, but Mulder had discouraged solo public exhibitions,
  refusing to have his son become a sideshow.
  
  After the war, Sam began playing with the symphony, at first filling in
  for a sick cellist at the last minute.  Mulder had reservations about
  the noise and the crowds, but Sam barely seemed to notice.  He'd been
  invited back as a regular member, the youngest in the history of the
  Washington Symphony.  If he had strings underneath his fingers, he was
  at home, and until the performance ended, the world made sense.
  
  Just as he'd started playing piano because Melissa played, Sam started
  drawing because she painted.  And because Sam was intrigued by the
  sketch artists and cartoonists at the newspaper.  He'd had lessons, but
  in general, Sam just drew what he saw, and what he saw were his
  subject's souls.
  
  Alone in the bedroom, Mulder leafed through the pages of Sam's
  sketchbook, stopping at a study of hands.  He held it up to the lamp,
  recognizing Emily's chubby fist, and Cally's palm, with a pencil drawing
  of her tiny, wrinkled foot beside it.  An old man's gnarled paw:
  leathery skin, ragged fingernails, and painful joints.  And his and
  Dana's hands, their fingers loosely intertwined and resting against the
  fabric of the sofa in the library.
  
  On the next page was a charcoal sketch of a sleeping young man, his nude
  upper torso captured in a quick series of black strokes.  There was
  Mulder at his desk at work, chewing a pencil, his forehead furrowed in
  concentration.  Dana with Emily in the rocking chair beside the nursery
  window.  A New York street vendor pushing a cart.  A group of three men
  bathing in the river, their broad backs to the viewer.  And on the last
  pages were unfinished sketches of Melissa: all pregnant, and all
  unfinished because, as Sam said, he couldn't remember what had been her
  and what had been just how he wanted to remember her.
  
  A tear dripped onto the page, and Mulder blotted it away carefully so it
  wouldn't smear the drawing.
  
  Dana stopped in the doorway, noticing the faint glow from the lamp. "Are
  you all right, Samuel?" she asked softly.  When there was no answer, she
  wrapped her robe around her tighter and took a tentative step into the
  bedroom. "Samuel?  Are you awake?"
  
  He continued staring at the sketchbook, refusing to look at her.
  
  "Mulder?" she said in surprise, realizing it was he, not Sam, sitting on
  the narrow bed. "Where is Samuel?"
  
  "Gone," he said in a strangled voice.
  
  Dana pushed her hair back from her face. "Gone?  Where?"
  
  "Away."
  
  "Are you sure he did not just sneak out again?"
  
  Muder looked up, focusing on the darkness.  There was no moon or stars
  outside the window, just vast night. "Please… Please go back to bed,
  Dana," he requested hoarsely.
  
  "What happened?  Did he run away?  Where did he go?"
  
  "How the hell should I know?" he snapped, anger surging through his
  veins in search of a target.  He threw the sketchbook down and stood,
  towering over her. "You didn't want me looking for him in the first
  place!  You never wanted me to find him."
  
  Dana stood gaping at him.
  
  He braced his hands on the doorframe, as though guarding his son's
  bedroom from invaders.  He inhaled a deep breath, then blew it out
  slowly. "You should probably get away from me," he suggested through his
  teeth, and wisely, Dana stepped back.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
  "May I come up?" Dana asked as her head appeared through the opening of
  the loft.  She hooked her umbrella over the edge of a stall, then
  climbed to the top of the ladder and made her way between the bales of
  hay.  She smoothed her skirt under her hips as she sat beside him,
  looking shaken.
  
  Below, a pitchfork scratched against the floor as a stable boy mucked
  out the stalls, and rain drummed steadily on the roof above.  Mulder
  heard the elderly groom talking soothingly to one of the mares, who
  whinnied and snorted impatiently, wanting breakfast.  The stable smelled
  of sweet, damp hay and grain, and the mellow scent of oiled leather from
  the tack room.
  
  "That was awful, I know: what I said," he mumbled. "And I know it's not
  true.  I'm sorry.  Obviously, I was upset.  I am upset."
  
  "Do you think he has really run away?"
  
  "He's not here."
  
  "Are you going after him?"
  
  "I don't know." He closed his hot, scratchy eyes, surprised his eyelids
  covered them.  The black rain clouds overshadowed the sun, but it still
  seemed too bright. "I don't where to start looking.  I can be dense, but
  I'd say that means he doesn't want to be found."
  
  "I thought you spoke with him last night."
  
  "I thought I did, too.  And I thought he understood me.  He's left twice
  – or tried to - before, Dana: before my father died, and before you
  almost died having Cally.  During all the years I was at war, he only
  telegraphed once for me to come home: right before Melissa died. I know
  there are other problems, but the one common thread each time Sam and I
  have talked is that he doesn't want me with you.  He's never said he
  dislikes you, but he wants us apart, Dana.  And after what he saw last
  night…"
  
  Mulder leaned his head back against the cool wall of the stable. "Maybe
  that's all insanity is: being able to see through the fabric of time and
  into other worlds, other fates.  Melly… I fought as hard as I could, but
  I lost her to that other world, and I couldn't get her back.  Not
  really, not fully.  And Sam's her son.  He's so like her... Maybe, like
  her, he's one of those souls who can lift the veil and catch glimpses of
  the future, and what he sees for us, if we're together, is your death. 
  I won't let that happen, Dana."
  
  "He is a very confused, very lonely boy who has lost more than he can
  bear," Dana responded, choosing her words carefully. "As much as he
  loves you… He is not what you envisioned your son would be and he knows
  it.  He wants to be, and he tries, but he is not.  And that frightens
  him: that he is wrong, and that you will hate him.  I do not think you
  need to look to the spirit world for explanations.  And I doubt he has
  gone very far away from home.  I bet he turns up for dinner tomorrow
  with an empty stomach, a sheepish expression, and a bad lie about where
  he has been."
   
  Mulder swallowed, shaking his head and dismissing what she'd said
  without really hearing it. "He knows something, Dana.  Something he's
  afraid of.  And, as hard as it is, I think we should listen to him."
  
  "He was wrong before: his dreams.  I did not die."
  
  "But you did, Dana.  I saw you.  Or maybe it wasn't you having Cally
  that he dreamt of, but the next baby, or the next.  I can say we won't
  have any more children, but we both know it's an imperfect science. 
  Sooner or later, I'm going to forget, you're going to conceive, and
  then…"
  
  Dana started to argue, then didn't seem to have the energy. "I am sorry,
  but I need you to come inside now, Mulder," she said, measuring each
  syllable as though it was heavy. "There is a man to see you."
  
  "You deal with him, Dana – whatever he wants.  I can't right now.  Say
  I'm unavailable."
  
  "He told the maid he wanted to speak with you.  About me."
  
  He looked at her questioningly. "About you?  What's his name?"
  
  "Dr. Daniel Waterston."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He was the kind of man Mulder had idolized as a young boy and despised
  by fifteen: self-assured charm and smooth manners wrapped around old
  money and a mercurial conscience.  Handsome, worldly, and more dangerous
  than he seemed at first glance.
  
  "Fox Mulder," he said formally, extending his hand.  This wasn't real,
  he assured himself.  It was not happening.  He'd wake up, and it would
  be a horrible nightmare.  Dana would be asleep beside him and Sam would
  be down the hall, playing his guitar.
  
  Waterston rose from the sofa, smoothed his suit coat and silver hair,
  and responded in a liquid, New Orleans gentleman's drawl, "Dr. Daniel
  Waterston." He dropped Mulder's hand and turned as Dana entered. "Hello,
  Puss," Waterston said softly, going to her and drawing his fingertip
  under her chin. "It's been a long time."
  
  "It- it has," she answered uncertainly, looking to Mulder. 
  
  He stroked his finger gently down the side of her face, his blue eyes
  glittering coldly. "I've missed you so much."
  
  Dana stood surreally still, not responding, but not pulling away. 
  Mulder cleared his throat, and Waterston dropped his hand. 
  
  "I'm sorry," Waterston apologized, grinning in a way some women probably
  found irresistible. "I don't mean to be improper.  Dana is just a very
  precious thing to lose.  I'm thankful to have found her again."
  
  Mulder gestured for everyone to sit down.  Dana started to sit beside
  Mulder, but stopped and chose a solitary chair near the hearth.  She
  inhaled, gathered her thoughts, then said cautiously, "I was told you
  died.  There was a letter from your commanding off-"
  
  "He thought I had," Waterston cut her off. "I was wounded and taken
  prisoner.  I woke in a POW camp not knowing who I was or where I
  belonged.  I couldn't remember my own name, but I remembered you, Puss. 
  I could see you in my dreams – like an angel.  For years, I wasn't sure
  if you were real or something I'd imagined.  But last month, my memory
  came back.  I started searching for you, and thank God I've finally
  found you."
  
  "Did you remember Dori as well?" she asked evenly. "She came to our
  house.  With her sons.  She- she said she belonged to you. I-"
  
  "You believed her? Puss, you can be so gullible.  I hope you didn't give
  her any money," Waterston answered, nimbly sidestepping her question.
  
  "May I ask," Mulder said, his empty stomach churning nauseously. "How
  you found Dana after so many years?"
  
  Waterston stretched out his legs casually, making himself comfortable.
  "The courthouse has your name on record as paying the taxes on one of my
  plantations for the last two years, Mr. Mulder. For which I'll reimburse
  you, of course.  And for any other expenses my wife has incurred while
  in your employment."
  
  Mulder exchanged quick glances with Dana: Waterston thought she was the
  housekeeper. She had on a simple, dark silk dress, more expensive, but
  similar to what Rebekah wore.
  
  "That's very generous." Mulder leaned forward, clasping his hands. "But
  – and forgive me for being so forward – but that's a great deal of money
  for a man whose cause lost the war, and who claims he was basically dead
  until last month."
  
  Waterston folded his arms. "You're right, Mr. Mulder; that is a forward. 
  Puss, get your things.  We're going home."
  
  "This is my home.  Mr. Mulder is my husband.  I- I did not know-"
  
  "I'm your husband," Waterston responded, his smooth exterior hardening.
  "We're going home.  Don't make me tell you again, Puss."
  
  Already on edge about Sam, that was the last straw for Mulder.  His
  pulse quickened, and the room grew brighter. "Call her ‘Puss' again and
  I'll knock your teeth in, you arrogant son-of-a-bitch," he hissed. "And
  stop interrupting her.  And don't you dare threaten her.  Do you really
  think you can show up after two and a half years, tell her some asinine
  story about losing your memory-"
  
  "She's my wife."
  
  "She's not your wife.  Your wife and two children are in New Orleans. 
  I've met them.  Nina Waterston assured me you'd returned from war safely
  and were in Charleston on business.  I checked: your business in
  Charleston is a French woman named Maria.  And there's Dori.  And how
  many others?" Mulder shook his head angrily. "At first, I assumed you
  collected pretty, exotic women, but then I realized none of them speak
  English well.  That's why you picked them. Most can't read. They're
  isolated from society, so they trust you as their link to the world. 
  You could have a wife in Savannah and another in Charleston, and one
  would never know about the other.  If I was going to be a bigamist,
  Doctor, that's exactly how I'd do it."
  
  Waterston started to object, but Mulder was just getting started.  He
  still needed a target, and Waterston made a good one.
  
  "I think you bit off more than you could chew with Dana.  You couldn't
  quite keep her under your thumb.  You tried.  You lied to her.  You got
  drunk and hit her.  You made her feel like a whore.  A bad wife.  A bad
  daughter.  You intercepted her mother's letters to her, and Dana's to
  her family.  And when she was still too much trouble, you shipped her to
  a seldom-visited plantation in the swamp to cool her heels, let your
  overseer deal with her as he saw fit, and moved on." 
  
  Mulder paused for breath, and Dana asked, "Is that true?"
  
  "No," Waterston said too quickly. "Not a word of it, Puss."
  
  "Is it?" she repeated, looking to Mulder.
  
  He nodded, crossing to his desk, and leaned down to unlock the bottom
  drawer. "I can prove it.  I have letters: one from Nina wanting to know
  when her husband was coming home.  Your mother's letters to you, Dana,
  and one of yours to your mother.  Benjamin and Dori found it in the
  overseer's house on the plantation and sent it to me.  You must have
  given it to the overseer to mail, but he didn't."
  
  He handed the stack of envelopes to Dana, who stared at them in
  disbelief. Waterston started to snatch them away, but Mulder intervened,
  holding his hand up warningly.
  
  "How did you get these?  From my mother?  From-" She stopped to examine
  the envelope. "Nina Waterston?"
  
  "She's my sister, Mr. Mulder," Waterston said haughtily.
  
  "She's your wife.  Nina wrote to him at the end of the war, but he never
  received the letter, Dana.  It was eventually forwarded to Savannah,
  then to me along with Waterston's letter to you.  Which I gave you," he
  added, as if that redeemed everything.
  
  "You met this Nina?  In New Orleans?  When?" Dana asked.
  
  "During one of the trips when I told you I was looking for Sam."
  
  "You knew Dr. Waterston was alive all this time?" she asked, forgetting
  the doctor was present.  She focused on Mulder, her eyes sparking
  dangerously. "And you did not tell me?"
  
  "It didn't matter, Dana.  Alive or dead, he wasn't legally married to
  you.  I told you when Dori came: if he had a placage mistress, he had a
  white wife.  I just didn't tell you that it probably wasn't you.  I
  didn't see the point in hurting you further."
   
  "And the letters from my mother?" Dana asked angrily, still thumbing
  through the old envelopes.  Her face flushed, and her hands shook. "How
  did you get letters from my mother?"
  
  "I told you: I have an address for her in New York," Mulder answered. "I
  stopped last fall on my way to Boston with Sam.  She gave me those
  letters to give to you.  She was worried about you.  She didn't
  understand why you hadn't written, and why her letters to you were
  returned unopened."
  
  "But- but you did not give them to me.  And they are open now.  Who
  opened them?"
  
  Mulder took a deep breath, leaned back against his desk, and gripped the
  edge with his fingertips. "I did.  I asked Byers to translate them. 
  And," he hurried to add. "When he realized what they were, he wasn't
  happy.  He refused to do it again."
  
  "Then who translated this?" she asked, holding up both the English and
  Gaelic copies of her letter to her mother.
  
  "The same typesetter who does the journals.  I'd asked him to do it a
  month ago and forgotten about it.  I only got it yesterday, and I hadn't
  had a chance to tell you.  We've been, uh, preoccupied."
  
  "You had a stranger read my letter to my mother," she said slowly, her
  cheeks going from pink to scarlet and her voice getting louder. "Then
  make a copy in English so you could read it too?" 
  
  "A month ago," he protested, gesturing broadly to demonstrate his
  innocence. "I didn't want you to read your mother's letters first and be
  hurt if there was something negative in them.  If she was criticizing or
  blaming you… If everything was all right, I was going to give them to
  you; if not, I wasn't.  As for your letter – I wanted to know what was
  wrong between you and your mother.  I'd asked you a dozen times and you
  wouldn't tell me until recently."
  
  "Puss-" Waterston drawled.
  
  "Oh, you can go to the Devil," she snapped angrily, standing up.  The
  pile of yellowed pages and old envelopes fell to the floor. "You can
  just go straight to the Devil!"
  
  "Dana-" Mulder said, starting toward her.
  
  "And so can you!" she yelled, storming out.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  It was the easiest thing in the world – not stopping her from leaving –
  but it felt exactly like dying.  He remembered.  First, the shock, then
  the cold clamminess of it, then the tingling numbness settling over his
  body and pulling him away from reality. Sounds and colors were muted,
  and time seemed to drag its feet, letting the last few precious seconds
  stretch into eons.
  
  He followed Dana to their bedroom, watching as she shoved a few things
  into a satchel.  None of the expensive jewelry or gowns he'd bought her,
  but a change of underclothes, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and the framed
  daguerreotype of her father and brothers from her dressing table.  If
  she added diapers and some baby clothes, she'd be taking almost exactly
  the same things she'd arrived with.
  
  "Dana…" he started.  This was the part where he said he was sorry. 
  Where he blocked her path long enough for her Irish temper to cool. 
  Where he put his arms around her and they agreed he was an idiot and he
  swore it wouldn't happen again, though they both knew it would. "You
  don't have to do this.  Not like this.  When I said we shouldn't be
  together, I didn't mean…"
  
  "You meant you have no respect for anyone but yourself? That you expect
  me to trust you completely, but you do not have the common courtesy not
  to open my mail?  Or tell me the truth?  That I can run your house,
  balance your books, raise your children, and warm your bed, but you
  still treat me like I am a slow child?  Was that what you meant, Mr.
  Mulder?"
   
  "No, I meant-" He swallowed painfully. "I don't want you hurt.  Or dead. 
  I'm trying to protect you.  That's all I was doing– All I'm trying to do
  now.  Can't you see I don't have a choice?  Sam-"
  
  "It is not about Samuel. Or me. It is only about you and what you want. 
  That is all it is ever or will be about: you."
  
  "Dana-" he croaked as she stalked past him. "I'm sorry.  Please don't
  leave like this.  Where are you going?"
  
  "Go to the Devil," she repeated in a tone as cold as ice.
  
  Mulder loped down the upstairs hallway after her.  He took one stride
  for every two of hers, but he had to hurry to keep up. "No," he blurted
  as she stopped at the closed nursery door.  He put his arm across the
  doorway, blocking her path. "You can't take her."
  
  Dana struggled to push his arm down, but he didn't budge. "Get out of my
  way.  She is mine, and you said I could take her."
  
  "She's not yours.  It doesn't work that way.  If Waterston finds out
  about Emmy, she's his," he whispered hoarsely. "He'll take Emily and use
  her as a pawn to control you.  I'm not letting that happen.  And I'm not
  letting that bastard raise my daughter."
  
  "Move," Dana screamed, still trying to shove him aside.  One hundred and
  ten pounds of her wasn't much leverage against a hundred and seventy
  pounds of him.  She cursed him in Gaelic, too angry to realize he
  couldn't understand anything except the intent.
  
  "Hush.  Dana, if he knows about her, he can take her from you," Mulder
  hissed under his breath. "Just like I can take Cally.  You have to leave
  her here."
  
  "Go hifreann leat!  Go mbeire an diabhal leis thú!"
  
  "Quiet!  Listen to me.  You're not thinking.  Why, after so long, has he
  come back for you?  He'd have to suspect you're more than my employee
  for me to pay taxes on a plantation neither of us own or live on. 
  You're a thing to him, and he doesn't like the other boys playing with
  his things.  He doesn't want you; he wants to control you.  If he has
  Emily, he can do that.  You'll never be able to get away."
  
  "Goddamn you!  Goddamn you, Mulder."
  
  "I think he already has."
   
  "Puss?" Waterston called from the staircase. "Is something wrong?" He
  pushed back his suit coat, and Mulder saw a pearl-handled pistol on his
  hip. "Is there something in that room that you want?"
  
  Cally was taking her morning nap, but Emily wasn't.  She could hear them
  and call for her Dah-Dah at any moment.  There was no way Waterston
  would miss a blonde-haired, blue-eyed child – just the right age to have
  been conceived the last time he'd seen Dana - rushing to a dark-eyed,
  dark-haired man.
  
  "No," Dana said immediately, stepping back.  
  
  "Leave it, Puss.  Leave him.  I'll buy you whatever it is that you
  want."
  
  She swallowed several times, staring helplessly at the closed nursery
  door.
  
  "I'll take good care of her.  Of them," Mulder whispered, speaking
  around the wet lump in his throat.  He bit his lip hard, then added the
  most profound thing he could think of: "I love you.  When you can, when
  you're ready, send a telegram.  Let me know where you are and I'll send
  money.  Just money; I won't write, and I won't come after you.  Go," he
  urged her.
       
  She didn't respond, but turned and quickly descended the steps,
  persuading Waterston to turn back.
  
  Mulder followed slowly, feeling like he was underwater: close enough to
  see the surface, but too far down to ever reach it again.  He stopped on
  the step where Waterston had been, watching as Dana knelt in the
  library, gathering up the letters Mulder had given her and shoving them
  haphazardly into the satchel.  She snapped the satchel closed, then
  returned to the foyer and stopped, looking around at everything except
  Mulder.
  
  "I'll take you anywhere you want to go," Waterston offered.
  
  "I am not your wife."
  
  "That doesn't matter.  I still love you.  I just want you to be happy,"
  he said, oozing snake-oil charm. "Anything you want, Puss."
  
  There were footsteps upstairs, and the nursery door opened.
  
  "I want to see my mother," she said crisply, quickly picking up her
  umbrella and clutching her satchel, her knuckles white.
  
  "We'll be on the next train north," he promised, opening the front door
  for her. "There's a cab waiting.  We can talk on the way."
  
  She glanced up at Mulder, her eyes full of hurt and anger, then stepped
  outside.  Waterston slammed the door triumphantly.  Mulder stood on the
  stairs, immobile, and listened to the hooves clopping across the wet
  cobblestones as the cab drove away.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  The dining room table seated twenty, though only God knew why.  He
  couldn't remember more than a handful of people ever sitting at it at
  one time.  Not sure where else to go or what to do, Mulder took his
  place at the head of the table, looking down the polished expanse of
  dark wood.  Maids came and went, casting curious eyes his way as they
  cleaned and dusted.  Someone needed in the silver chest, and asked where
  Rebekah was; she had the key.  A voice said she was at the market, and
  polishing the silver would have to wait.
   
  "What are you still doing here?" Rebekah asked, appearing in the
  doorway. "Why aren't you at work?"
  
  "I'm, uh… I'm sitting," he mumbled, slouching in the elegant chair.
  
  "Well, you can't sit there, Fox.  You're in the way.  Come in the
  kitchen.  Have you eaten?"
  
  "No," he remembered after some thought.  He pushed the chair back and
  followed Rebekah like a sleepy child.
  
  "Miss Dana said to go on: that I should get to the market early and
  she'd fix breakfast.  She didn't?"
  
  "She's, she's gone," he answered, feeling dazed. "She's not here."
  
  Rebekah exhaled a "these flighty young people" sigh and said, "Well, sit
  down. I'll feed you." She turned her back, stoking the kitchen stove and
  then reaching for a skillet. "What about my boy?  Does Mr. Sam need
  breakfast?  Or is he going to sleep all day?"
  
  "He's gone too," he mumbled, leaning against the kitchen table.
  
  "He's already at the newspaper?"
  
  "No, he's, uh, gone.  I don't know where he is.  He ran away." Mulder
  picked up an apple and considered it thoughtfully. "He wanted me to
  leave Dana so she won't die.  I wouldn't, so he left."
  
  Rebekah turned toward him, holding her wooden spoon in midair.
  
  "And Dana's gone; she left a few minutes ago. I kept both girls." He
  turned his head toward the kitchen window.  The sky was black, promising
  the worst of the storm was still to come. "It's pouring rain. Dana took
  an umbrella, but I don't know if Sam did."
  
  "Are you drunk?" Rebekah asked slowly.
  
  "No.  Just very empty," he said softly.  He put apple back in the bowl
  and looked at her. "Tell me I did the right thing, ‘Bekah."
  
  "I still have no idea what you've done."
  
  "I let Dana leave.  I made her leave, in a way.  She's not safe with me. 
  Sam's wanted us apart for months, but he's been afraid to tell me why. 
  I finally realized it's because he's seeing the future if Dana and I are
  together: he's seeing Dana die having another baby.  He saw Melissa die. 
  He's seen Dana almost die once.  It makes sense.  He doesn't hate Dana;
  he's protecting her.  He knows I love her, so in a way, he's protecting
  me, too."
  
  Rebekah stared at him for a second, then, before he could move, smacked
  her spoon hard against his upper leg. "Are you insane?" she demanded.
  "Or blind?  Or did I raise a complete fool?"
  
  "What?" he yelped, rubbing his stinging thigh. "Stop that!"
  
  She swung again, her wooden spoon whistling, but he dodged out of its
  path.  They'd perfected this game when he was nine, but he didn't care
  to revive it. "Damn it, stop that.  What's wrong with you?"
  
  "What's wrong with me?" she said in disbelief.  The heat from the stove
  reddened her ruddy face, and the humidity from the storm turned her
  auburn curls to frizz.  She pushed a defiant strand back from her sweaty
  forehead, then wiped her hands on her apron angrily. "Fox, where did you
  get this ‘seeing the future' nonsense?  Miss Dana walked in on Mr. Sam
  kissing his friend.  That's what he's afraid of, I suppose: her telling
  you.  And you disowning him."
  
  Mulder tilted his head to one side, perplexed. "But I already know he's
  been seeing someone on and off.  I just don't know who."
  
  "The curator at that museum."
  
  He paused, his mouth open, waiting for the punch line. "That's a man,
  ‘Bekah.  The curator at the Smithsonian is a man.  A nice young man.  He
  lets Sam sketch the exhibits at night, when it's quiet."
  
  Rebekah nodded, unimpressed by his powers of observation.  Sam was her
  darling, and wholly incapable of wrongdoing.  In her eyes, Sam could
  hold up stagecoaches and still meet with her general approval.
  
  "Why would Sam be kissing a man?"
  
  "Don't make it right, but at that moment, I suppose because he wanted
  to," she replied matter-of-factly. "But Poppy kept telling him Miss Dana
  would tell you and you'd-"
  
  "Poppy knew?" 
  
  Rebekah sighed like there was a program to this play and he should
  consult it before asking questions. "What do you think happened between
  her and that slippery Alex fellow?  She caught Alex trying to kiss Mr.
  Sam and was so angry she told your father.  The Senator near killed
  Alex, and he had a few words for Mr. Sam, as well.  If he ran away, Mr.
  Sam didn't go very far and he'll come back when he's ready, just like
  when he was little.  Close your mouth before it starts collecting flies
  and go after your wife.  Whatever you did to Miss Dana, tell her you're
  sorry, Fox.  And a fool.  And try not to do it again."
  
  "But-" Mulder started to object, but she raised her spoon, and he backed
  away warily. "I don't know if I can stop Dana," he heard his voice
  saying. 
  
  "You certainly can't stop her by standing in my kitchen."
       
  *~*~*~*
  
  "I need a horse," he yelled, crashing through the stable doors.  The
  groom peeked his gray head out of the tack room to check on the
  commotion. "A horse," Mulder repeated urgently. 
  
  The groom continued rubbing saddle soap into a saddle with a rag,
  looking like he might consider stopping sometime that millennium. "Which
  one, sir?" he asked around the wad of tobacco in his lip.
  
  "Any one!  Pick one."
  
  Lightening cracked across the sky, and the horses whinnied frantically. 
  Aramis snorted and kicked the back of his stall repeatedly, and Porthos
  peeked out, looking for reassurance.
  
  "Now, sir?  It's raining, sir."
  
  "Yes, now." He could feel Dana getting farther away each second.
  
  The groom spit languidly, unable to grasp the concept of "hurry." 
  
  "Well, lemme think…  Porthos - he'd be good, but he's favoring his left
  hock.  I do believe it could be his shoes.  Then Athos…"
  
  He paused to spit again, and Mulder stalked past him.  He didn't have
  time to hear the litany of the animals' ailments, however riveting the
  groom might find it.  He grabbed a bridle and flung open the first
  stall, drafting Aramis, who wasn't sure he wanted any part of that idea.
  
  "Bring me a saddle," he demanded as he forced the bit into the horse's
  mouth and buckled the bridle. "I need a saddle!"
  
  "Will you be riding or hunting, sir?  Or sidesaddle for Miss Dana?"
  
  "Oh, for God's sake," he shouted in exasperation, scrambling bareback
  onto Aramis and reining him toward the open door.
  
  "Gonna get all wet, sir," the groom called from the tack room.
  
  "Thanks," Mulder mumbled under his breath as the cold rain pelted him. 
  Aramis slicked his ears back, not liking the thunder and lightening. 
  The storm had worsened as the morning wore on, so the wet streets were
  deserted except for a few cabs and empty streetcars.  He kept his head
  low, his thighs tight against the horse, and squinted to see through the
  driving rain.  The sky was so dark it seemed like late evening, creating
  a city of shiny black shadows.  
  
  As they galloped down Massachusetts and approached New Jersey Avenue,
  five blocks from the depot, he heard a train whistle pierce the air:
  three short blasts – it was approaching and stopping at the next
  station.  He didn't know if it was Dana's train or not, but he kicked
  Aramis harder, and the horse's hooves slid precariously as they rounded
  the corner at breakneck speed.
  
  "Go, go, go," he urged him, whipping the reins against the horse's neck. 
  Lightening crashed across the sky, making the ground tremble in fear. 
  Aramis grabbed the bit and bolted, and since he was headed in the right
  direction, Mulder let him go.  Thoughts swirled around his brain, one
  tumbling over another in an impossible jumble.
  
  Sam.  His son, and the only son he was likely to ever have.  Mulder's
  only exposure to physical love between men had been Alex's unwanted
  kiss, Spender's perversions, and the effeminate male prostitutes he saw
  in alleys.  It wasn't a line of thinking he applied to Sam, nor did it
  fit.  Apples to oranges.  Not his son.  Obviously, Rebekah was mistaken
  or Sam was very, very confused.
  
  His father.  Mulder found the notion of men together unsettling, but his
  father would have found it repulsive.  He could imagine how harsh Bill
  Mulder's words had been: an abomination of nature, a Nancy-boy, a
  sodomite.  He could imagine how harsh they'd sounded, especially to a
  gentle boy who believed he was responsible for his mother's death.
  
  Dana.  What he could possibly say to get her to stay.  Nothing,
  probably.  Nothing short of throwing her across his horse, taking her
  home, and tying her to a tree in the backyard was going to get her to
  stay.  At the moment, that sounded like a good plan.
  
  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a dark shape approaching, then felt
  his body lurch forward as Aramis tried to stop.  The horse's hooves
  scrambled frantically, trying to avoid a fast-moving cab that had just
  turned the corner. Aramis sat almost on his haunches, throwing Mulder,
  who was unable to get his balance without stirrups, over his neck. 
  Mulder tumbled head over heels, sliding across the pavement and into
  something hard.  
  
  The world went white-hot, then a heavy, liquid black for a long, long
  time.
  
  "You all right, mister?" was the next thing he heard, and Mulder opened
  his eyes to see Aramis standing nearby, sides heaving, head hanging low,
  with a long gash down one foreleg. "Gotta watch where you're going,
  mister."
  
  Mulder scrambled up, pushing his wet hair back from his face and wiping
  his stinging hands on the seat of his trousers.  Something dripped into
  his eyes and he wiped it away hurriedly.
  
  "That horse is gonna need a vet, mister," the driver observed. "Or a
  bullet.  And you're gonna hafta pay for the damage to my cab."
  
  "I-I will," Mulder stammered, trying to get his bearings.  
  
  D Street: one block from the depot.  A locomotive's whistle shrieked
  again: two long blasts – it was leaving the station.  It could be the
  same train he'd heard earlier, or another; he didn't know how long he'd
  been unconscious. 
  
  "Take care of my horse," he said, backing away unsteadily. "I have to
  catch a train."
  
  "Hey," the incensed driver shouted after him as Mulder turned and ran,
  splashing mindlessly through the puddles. "Where are you going?  I'll
  send for the police.  I will.  Hey!  Get back here!"
  
  The Washington B&O Depot was one of the busiest in America.  There was a
  constant jam of carriages in front, waiting to pick up or drop off
  passengers.  At one end, an unrelenting stream of wagons loaded and
  unloaded freight from the steel arteries of a nation: produce, dry
  goods, mail, furniture, livestock, coal, lumber, munitions, soldiers,
  immigrants, and perfume – all went by rail.  
  
  The yard behind the depot was a chaotic maze of tracks and turntables
  and sheds.  Arriving trains squealed to a stop, then exhaled a relieved
  sigh of steam, while departing locomotives digested a bellyful of coal
  and water and eased away from the platform. Occasionally, a long freight
  train flew past, bound for Baltimore or Richmond, rattling the
  windowpanes and leaving behind a layer of fine soot.
   
  As he reached the front doors, Mulder wiped his forehead again, barely
  noticing his hand came away red and left a bloody print on the brass
  knob.
  
  "There's a line, mister," a man yelled as he shoved through the crowds
  to reach the window.
  
  "The train to New York," he said breathlessly, bracing his hands on the
  counter. "What track?"
  
  "To New York?" the clerk echoed. "We don't have an express to New York
  this morning.  Do you mean to Baltimore, then on to-"
  
  "Yes," Mulder shouted. "To Baltimore!  What track?"
  
  "Track four, sir." Mulder whirled, his boots squeaking against the
  floor. "But it's-" the clerk called after him. "Leaving now!"
  
  He sprinted through the lobby, dodging passengers and satchels, and
  overturning chairs.  A porter was maneuvering a large trunk out to the
  platform, blocking the doorway.  Through the foggy window, Mulder saw a
  train sliding away from the platform.
  
  "Move!  Goddamn it."
  
  The porter struggled with the trunk, getting it wedged tighter, and in
  desperation, Mulder turned and raced for the front door, then around to
  the loading dock.  The train had cleared the station, and gave two
  whistles and a belch of smoke as it began to gather speed.
  
  He rushed after it, but skidded to a stop at the edge of the dock as
  another locomotive screamed by, dragging car after car of Pennsylvania
  coal after it.  Mulder watched helplessly, bracing his hands on his
  knees as he panted.  By the time it had passed, the end of Dana's train
  was disappearing into the distance.
  
  "Damn it, damn it, damn it," he cursed at no one in particular.  He
  stood among the wooden crates on the busy dock, jaw clenched, head
  pounding, and hands braced on his hips, then turned and sprinted into
  the depot again.
  
  "Get the telegraph operator," Mulder shouted as the crowd parted, now
  giving him a wide berth.  The counter clerk leaned back warily as he
  approached. "Have him wire ahead.  Have them hold the train at the next
  station.  Don't let anyone on or off.  And I need another horse."
  
  "We can't do that-"
  
  "The hell you can.  I own a quarter-million dollars worth of stock in
  the B&O Railroad.  Tell them to hold the Goddamn train!"
  
  The clerk looked dubious, and a few men muttered for Mulder to watch his
  language around the ladies.  Standing in the middle of the depot like a
  lunatic, cursing, soaked to the skin, bloody and muddy, Mulder didn't
  look the part of a wealthy gentleman investor.
  
  "Even if we could, sir, we can't.  The telegraph lines are down.  The
  storm and all.  We have no way to contact the next station."
  
  "Then when's the next train to New York?"
  
  "To Baltimore?"
  
  "Yes, to Baltimore," he shouted, wondering if the clerk would be more
  cooperative if he was grabbed by the lapels and dragged over the
  counter. "When is the train to Baltimore?"
  
  The clerk leaned close and said in a soft, comforting, everything-will-
  be-fine voice, "That train just left, sir."
  
  "When. Is. The. Next. Train. Pointed. Toward. New. York?"
  
  "It should be arriving on track one in about half an hour, sir," the
  clerk answered, then yelled at the back of Mulder's head. "Sir!  You'll
  need a ticket, sir."
  
  Mulder stumbled through the door and out to the platform, patting his
  pockets for anything that might be exchangeable for a train ticket.  His
  father's pocket watch: face cracked, hands stopped.  No hat.  No coat. 
  No cash or coins.  He didn't even have his keys.  His boots or his
  wedding ring, he decided.  Which would be worse to appear without in New
  York: his boots or his wedding ring?
  
  He was huddled under the leaking eaves of the depot, working his ring
  over his scraped knuckle, when he noticed a small figure in a dark dress
  sitting on a bench at the end of the platform.  Alone in the crowd,
  huddled under an umbrella, she stared at something on her lap.  Around
  her, miserable porters lugged baggage toward the depot, and the arriving
  businessmen held newspapers over their heads, shouting instructions as
  they tried to protect their suits.
  
  "Dana?" he called, raising his voice to be heard over the storm and the
  trains.  His vision was getting hazy, but he saw the figure look up.
  "Dana," he repeated, a chill trickling down his spine.  He commanded his
  feet to move, to get to her before she vanished into the mist.
  
  "Mulder?" she said in surprise. "My God: what happened to you?"
  
  "Everything," he answered honestly, the cold rain pelting him again as
  he approached.  It plastered his hair to his skull and dripped off the
  end of his nose.  His ruined shirt and undershirt clung like a second
  skin, and gravel from his collision with the cab was still ground into
  his palms.  There was blood coming from somewhere, but he hadn't stopped
  to check where.  It didn't seem important.
   
  "There was a letter.  In my satchel," she called.  She stood, turning
  toward him.  The wind whipped her skirt wildly, and her little umbrella
  strained under the force. "Did you put it there?"
  
  "I didn't put anything in your satchel," he yelled back. "You did.  What
  are you talking about?"
  
  "I found a letter from you.  To me." She wiped her eyes: either rain or
  tears. "I have a ticket.  I should be on the train right now.  Your
  heart is in the right place, and you try so hard, but you should wear a
  sign that says ‘heartbreak.' And you will never change.  I must be the
  world's biggest fool to be standing here."
  
  "No, love – you're married to him."
  
  Thunder rumbled again, warning them, and lightening followed, crashing a
  white finger across the dark sky.  Dana put both hands on her umbrella,
  trying not to lose it to the gale.
  
  "I love you," he yelled over the trains and thunderstorm and the
  pounding inside his head. "I do!  I'm sorry.  You can't leave, Dana. I
  can't let you go.  You- you're," he stammered. "You're my lost half!"
  
  "I am what?" she called, her hair blowing loose from its chignon and
  swirling with the wind.
  
  "My father had me read about them.  Men and women used to be one
  creature, but the Gods were jealous of their happiness and split them,
  so each is only half of a whole: alone, unhealed.  You're my other half. 
  I found you."
  
  "You found me?  You got lost in a swamp and I found you," she answered,
  then sniffed uncertainly.
   
  A porter passed between them, wheeling a huge Saratoga trunk, and an
  engineer leaned out the window of a locomotive, trying to see he backed
  it into the waiting passenger cars.  The links collided with a heart-
  stopping crash, and the engine added a lungful of steam to the storm and
  reversed.
  
  The conductor whistled and announced the Richmond train was boarding. 
  Passengers emerged from the depot: young men turning their coat collars
  up and making a dash for it; a couple hand in hand – the husband trying
  to shield his wife with his overcoat; squealing children with mammies
  yelling for them to avoid the puddles; a trio of women with useless
  parasols and ugly little hats who bemoaned the rain, then picked up
  their skirts and ran for conductor's waiting hand.  The women leapt onto
  the metal steps in a flash of white petticoats and lace, then
  disappeared inside.  At the end of the train, a groom struggled to get a
  nervous stallion up a wooden ramp and into a boxcar.
  
  Mulder swallowed awkwardly, crinkled his forehead, and squinted against
  the rain. "Rebekah says Sam kissed a man," he called loudly.
  
  Dana nodded and his chest tightened with the same sense of confusion and
  failure his father must have had when Mulder announced Melissa was
  pregnant: trying to comprehend why his son would choose a future filled
  with pain rather than the smooth path he'd envisioned.
   
  "I don't understand why he-" he started, but was interrupted by a series
  of short, frantic blasts from a steam whistle.  Mulder waited, but
  instead of stopping, the whistles continued until they blended into one
  long, desperate plea.  Brakes squealed frantically, then a sound rolled
  toward them like thunder through the ground.
  
  Dana whirled, and the wind seized her umbrella and the letter.  She
  tried to retrieve the limp sheet of paper, but Mulder reached forward
  and grabbed her wrist, poised to run, but not sure which direction to go
  or what the sound was. In the distance, there was the horrible shrieking
  and moaning of steel giving way.  People panicked, stampeding blindly. 
  He put his arms around Dana, shielding her as best as he could.  On the
  street in front of the depot, horses whinnied and snorted in panic, and
  those aboard the Richmond train kicked frantically inside the boxcar.
  
  Something exploded, and he pushed them both to the wet platform,
  covering her body with his.  Her damp hair pressed against his jaw, her
  hot breath panted against his neck.  Around them, people shouted and
  screamed, and boots struck Mulder's back as a man scrambled over them. 
  The frightened stallion broke free from his groom, and hooves clattered
  across the platform.
  
  An unnatural stillness followed, with no sound except the wind and the
  rain punishing the wooden planks. Mulder raised his pounding head, then
  helped Dana sit up. He looked around, struggling to focus his vision. 
  He expected to see smoking ruins and mangled bodies, but the depot
  appeared unscathed.  Porters and passengers poked their heads out of the
  trains like gophers. The engineers and conductors shouted between the
  locomotives, yelling over the storm and the terrified crowd.
  
  After a few seconds, there was a series of smaller explosions, like a
  distant battle, and the crowd bolted again, trampling each other in
  their attempts to get nowhere.
  
  "Mortars," Mulder mumbled, still holding Dana against his chest.  He
  sniffed the wind, catching the peppery scent of gunpowder and hot metal.
  "Cannon fire.  What the hell?" 
  
  Mulder squinted, barely able to see orange and red explosions against
  the black horizon, like fireworks.  He surveyed them with a practiced
  soldier's eye, his body tensing in preparation for battle. 
  
  "There's nothing in that direction to attack.  No forts, no armory…"
  
  Dana looked, her hair falling wildly around her face and her wet skirt
  swirled over them like a shroud. "What is happening?"
  
  "I don't know.  It looks like we're under attack, but there's nothing
  out there except farmland and railroad tracks… It's a train.  That's
  dynamite.  It's your train, Dana; it's hit something or it's being
  robbed.  Those aren't cannons; those are boxcars exploding," Mulder said
  numbly.
  
  "Oh my God," she said, half in realization and half in prayer. "Dr.
  Waterston is on the train.  He is in the smoking car.  He left me
  reading my mother's letters and went to smoke.  He does not even know I
  got off.  I-I just did it.  I- Mulder, that cannot be what it is.  I was
  just on that train."  
  
  "A passenger train just hit a freight train carrying munitions!" a
  flagman yelled, relaying the message down the tracks.
  
  That was what Mulder smelled: barrels of gunpowder exploding inside
  steel boxcars.  With the telegraph lines down, a passing freight train
  must have approached the station on the wrong track, colliding head on,
  at full speed, with the departing Baltimore line.
  
  There were gasps and sobs as the flagman's message reached the crowd in
  the depot.  It was the Wednesday morning train to Baltimore: the fastest
  way to New York or Boston except the express.  Mulder had taken it
  hundreds of times.  Every seat was usually full, with men standing in
  the aisles and Negroes riding in the baggage car.  
  
  "Oh God.  That's your train, Dana," he repeated, watching helplessly as
  the explosions continued.  He looked down at her, then back at the
  horizon as the realization sunk in.  He pulled her head against his
  chest, stroking her wet hair. "You would have been on it.  I came after
  you, but I didn't make it in time to stop you.  You should have been…" 
  
  Two hundred passengers were dead in the train cars, but against all
  odds, Dana wasn't. Their chance meeting in the Low Country had set off a
  chain of events too complex to comprehend but leading from that
  crossroads to this one: a freak train accident.  It was the second point
  where his path intersected with hers.  It was only one ethereal thread
  in the spider's web of souls moving through time, trying again and again
  to find each other.  Connect those two points, though, and between them
  was a life together neither of them should have had.
  
  "I should have been," she echoed with the same certainty he had when he
  spoke of that battlefield neat Chattanooga.
  
  A horse-drawn fire engine clanged past, on its way to do what it could,
  though the rain would put out the flames and Mulder didn't see how
  anyone could have survived such a catastrophe.  He got to his feet, and
  then helped her up, noticing the world was starting to sway.
  
  "Dana…" he started.  He wiped his forehead again, then watched as the
  rain washed the blood from his hand.  He stared at it, mesmerized, and
  began to feel woozy.
  
  "Are you all right?" she asked, then repeated her question when he
  didn't immediately answer. "Mulder?" She put grabbed his arm, steadying
  him. "Easy.  What is wrong?  You need to sit down."
  
  "‘Bekah hit me with a big spoon," he mumbled as she guided him to an
  empty bench under the eaves.
  
  She knelt in front of him, pushing back his wet hair to examine his
  forehead. "Rebekah hit you in the head with a spoon?"
  
  "No, I don't think so," Mulder answered uncertainly.  He looked at his
  hand again, then at her, his insides starting to shiver.  Her face
  seemed out of focus, like a photograph when the subject moved. 
  
  "You need to lie down.  And get out of these wet clothes."
  
  He nodded obediently and started on his shirt buttons, but she stopped
  him. "No, not here.  Wait.  I need to get you home."
  
  A passerby offered a handkerchief and she pressed it against his
  forehead, putting his hand over it and telling him to hold it there and
  be still.  Dana kept checking his head, looking worried, but to him, it
  just felt heavy. He could hear frantic voices jabbering and feet rushing
  somewhere, but they were far away.  His world seemed slower and simpler,
  reduced to its most important elements.  He grabbed Dana's soggy skirt
  with one hand, anchoring himself.
  
  "Dana, I still hafta find Sam," he realized, lowering the handkerchief.
  
  "No, you have to sit still.  You are hurt, Mulder.  You need a doctor."
  
  "No, I gotta go find my Sam," Mulder insisted, getting louder and trying
  to stand up. "He's my boy. I gotta find him.  He doesn't know-"
  
  Dana pushed him back again. "Hush.  Calm down.  He does know."
  
  "Do you need help with him, ma'am?" a tall, passing stranger asked,
  towering over them.  The rain dotted his spectacles and beaded on top of
  his bald head. "He looks a little dazed."
  
  Mulder stared at him, a faint candle of recognition flickering.
  
  "I have him, but please send a doctor if you can find one," Dana said,
  and the man nodded and hurried away. 
  
  She pushed his hair back from his face again. "I am going to find a
  doctor, or find a cab and take you to a doctor." She looked around for
  her satchel, but it had disappeared in the chaos. "Mulder, do you have
  your wallet?"
  
  He shook his head slightly. "Do you want my ring?" 
  
  "No, you keep that," she said in the same comforting voice the station
  clerk had used. "I do not need your ring; I need money for a cab."
  
  "No, you can take it." He took it off, holding it up to her.
  
  "All right," she conceded softly, taking it. "Stay right here.  Do not
  get up.  Do not take off your clothes.  I will be right back."
  
  As she started to turn away, he grabbed a handful of her wet skirt
  again, holding tightly.
  
  "Mulder, let me go.  You are hurt; I have to find a doctor."
  
  "You get a second chance," he told her, but she didn't seem to
  understand. "Take care of my Sam.  He needs someone to take care of him.
  Take care of the girls.  And yourself."
  
  "I will," she agreed. "Of course I will.  Mulder, try to stay awake.  Do
  you understand?"
  
  Mulder nodded, let go of her skirt, and wrapped his arms around his
  chest as he tried to stay warm.  He felt dazed and groggy, and the world
  was beginning to seem far away.  He wanted to close his eyes and slip
  into the deep blackness of sleep until it was time to wake again.
  "You'll come back?  You'll find me?"
  
  "I will come back; I will find you," she assured him. "Stay right here
  and do not go to sleep."
  
  "Do not forget," he mumbled nonsensically, numbness beginning to creep
  over him.
  
  "I will not forget," she promised, placating him, then slipped away, a
  small, hazy figure with auburn hair that vanished into the endless sea
  of people around him.
  
  Mulder closed his eyes, waiting.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  End: Paracelsus XIV
  
  End: Paracelsus