Begin: Paracelsus IV
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Dear Melly,
  
  I like to believe in true love, that each soul has one perfect
  counterpoint, because I like to believe in beautiful ideas.  The world
  needs more of them, especially now.  I like to believe in destiny, that
  each life has a purpose.  After you died, I was surprised - and angry -
  when the grass dared to continue to grow and the clouds to move across
  the sky, yet they do.  The world continues to turn, so I trust that Fate
  has a reason when it nudges me through a door or around the bend of a
  country road.
  
  She is more.  That is a complete sentence, and as clear as I can put it:
  she is more.  
  
  No, I do not compare her to you because there is no comparison.  No one
  will ever take your place, or be to me what you were.  And still are.  I
  struggle not to think "If she was Melly, she would…" because it is so
  unfair to Dana.
  
  That is her name, in case I hadn't told you before: Dana Katherine
  Mulder.
  
  She is more than I expected.  I do not mean more beautiful or attentive,
  though men turn to stare at her just as they did you.  I could not ask
  Dana to be any more attentive to me, and I certainly do not mean she is
  more obedient.  Her hard head could put granite to shame, and I think a
  good spanking might greatly improve her demeanor.  She is just more, the
  way a six-horse team is more than a pair: stronger, more intense, more
  of a challenge.
  
  And I am fond of her.
  
  If you could see this letter, you could see the thin place on the paper
  where I wrote and erased two-dozen words besides "am fond of," trying to
  find ones that fit.  Women can choose hats easier than I can put into
  words what I feel for Dana.  When I think of love, I think of the
  overwhelming, heart-wrenching emotion I feel for you, and I do not feel
  that for her.  I think of Sarah, and I do not feel that for her, either. 
  I am comfortable her, as though I have married my good friend, which I
  suppose I have.
  
  If it is love, it is a lesser love, but it is still quite pleasant.  And
  pleasant is several steps above being alone.   
  
  Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
   
  "Expect me home by end of month stop bringing new wife and baby stop
  make arrangements accordingly stop"
  
  Fifteen words.  He reread them one last time, then handed the slip of
  paper to the clerk, who began pecking away at the telegraph machine,
  sending the electronic blips and bleeps through the miles of wire
  between Savannah and Washington D.C.  
  
  It was done, then.  Even if they wanted to, it was too late to back out. 
  Entering into the holy covenant of marriage was significantly less
  binding than telling his housekeeper she was about to have a new baby to
  fuss over.
  
  A new wife, however, might get a cooler reception from Poppy.
  
  Dana was waiting beside the door, holding Emily and trying to keep her
  eyes open.  If she had slept at all the previous night, Mulder hadn't
  noticed it.  It had taken the men around the campfire until dawn to pass
  out, and the baby wanted to nurse every few hours; he'd pretended to be
  asleep so he couldn't notice that, either.  
  
  When they'd reached Savannah, Dana had seen what the Army - his Army -
  had done to the city she'd briefly called home, and what public reaction
  was to a Federal officer looking to marry a Confederate widow.  General
  Sherman's troops had wintered there, and the city looked like an elegant
  lady who had been dragged through the mud: disoriented, bedraggled, and
  incensed, but still a lady.  She still had her standards: anyone in a
  blue uniform was the enemy, and anyone giving quarter to the enemy was a
  traitor.  It didn't matter that Dana was less of a southerner than
  Mulder; New York had been a free state, whereas Washington DC had
  allowed slavery.  Two ministers had politely declined to perform the
  ceremony, three had impolitely declined, and one had suggested Mulder
  get out of his church before he had time to load his shotgun.
  
  He was beginning to think Dana was either the most tolerant woman on the
  planet, or the most stubborn.
  
  "Think of this as a great adventure," he said lightly, taking the baby
  and trying to get her to smile. "A quest."
  
  "A quest," she echoed softly.
  
  "Dana, are you all right?" he asked for the hundredth time. "This is so
  much, so quickly.  Are you sure?"
  
  She inhaled, opened her eyes a little wider, and forced a smile,
  nodding.
  
  "Please don't do that.  I hate falseness.  Please don't pretend what you
  don't feel."
  
  "I am sorry," she apologized.
  
  "If you want to wait, or if you've changed your mind, just tell me. If
  it's a matter of money – I'm in debt to you for months of room and
  board.  You could collect and take a grand tour of Europe," he said,
  trying unsuccessfully to get a genuine smile. "Above all, you are my
  friend, Dana.  I won't have you do something you don't want to do.  I'll
  take you anywhere you want to go and I'll make sure you and the baby are
  well taken care of once you get there.  Would you want to go to your
  mother's, maybe?  After Washington, this ship goes on to New York; from
  there, I can even put you on a boat for Ireland, if you want."
  
  "I want to go with you, if you want me."
  
  It was the longest sentence he'd heard from her all day.  
  
  "I do," he responded softly, honestly.
  
  He waited, but she didn't say anything else.  
  
  "All right, then." He leaned down, kissing her lightly on the lips, and
  felt her mouth move in response.  He made a conscientious effort to
  touch her often, and she made a conscientious effort to respond,
  although she frequently seemed surprised, as though she'd momentarily
  forgotten whom he was or why he was there.
  
  The telegraph clerk cleared his throat in disapproval, and Dana pulled
  back, tasting her lips.
  
  The ship's whistle blew, screaming impatiently at the sky.  On the other
  side of the window, men with broad shoulders and strong backs carried
  trunks and cargo up the gangplanks, feeding the ships like insects
  swarming a hive.  He put his hand on Dana's back, escorting her out of
  the telegraph office and across the bustling docks.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  One nice thing about being a man: there wasn't much to spruce up.  If he
  was clean, combed, shaved, and buttoned, he was ready.  Except for the
  green tint beginning to creep into his face as the ship cut through the
  waves, he was as presentable as he was going to get.
  
  Dana was standing at the dresser, staring at her reflection in the
  bedroom mirror.  She turned her head from side to side, watching
  herself.
  
  "I look so shabby," she commented, running her hands over her black
  dress.  It was in decent condition, probably from lack of wear, but at
  least five years out of fashion.  She must have put aside one good dress
  at the beginning of the war, and Dana would choose basic black silk:
  suitable for church, mourning, and, in a pinch, an evening wedding.  The
  too-tight bodice ended in the deep V, and the skirt flared in a circle,
  meant to be worn with a hoop, though she wasn't wearing one.  The
  shoulders sloped into full sleeves that gathered below her elbows. 
  Instead of the elaborate, looping styles popular before the war, her
  hair was parted in the middle and gathered in a simple knot at the base
  of her head.  The overall silhouette was of a wilting flower, which had
  been appropriate in 1860. "I did not realize how shabby."
  
  "The world is shabby; we just blend in," he answered, coming up behind
  her and putting his hands on her shoulders. "You look fine."
  
  She frowned at her reflection, then picked up the brush and started
  pulling out hairpins, showing every sign of starting over.  It was a
  feminine routine he'd encountered before, and it never ended well.  He
  should have known.  Whenever a woman asked how she looked, the proper
  answer was "beautiful;" any further comments required tact and were sure
  to get him in trouble.  Unfortunately, he'd opted for "fine." 
  
  "You look beautiful," he added belatedly, trying to make amends.
  "Anyway, who cares how you look?"
  
  She turned to stare at him, her lower lip sticking out a bit and her
  forehead creased, then started brushing out her long hair.
  
  "Dana, considering you've been living hand-to-mouth, spent last night in
  a shack, and just had a baby-"
  
  "Mr. Mulder, any charm you have, you must have gotten at a discount."
  
  He would have laughed, but his head hurt. "I'm not making it any better,
  am I?"
  
  "No." She paused, dissatisfied with the woman in the mirror. "And
  neither am I."
  
  "The ladies I saw on the street today had their hair kind of sitting
  atop their heads." He gathered her auburn mane into a loose ponytail at
  her crown, trying to demonstrate.  It occurred to him she'd seen the
  same women on the street and he could have just told her, but this was
  more pleasant. "Smooth on the sides, then some curls, with a stupid
  little hat on top." 
  
  "I do not have a stupid little hat, Mr. Mulder."
  
  Untangling his fingers, he handed her a hairpin, then promised, "The
  next time the ship docks, I'll buy you some fabric, patterns, and a
  stupid little hat so you'll be the height of fashion.  Until then, just
  do the best you can."
  
  There was a soft knock at the door of their stateroom, and Mulder opened
  it to find the captain of the ship looking dignified with his matching
  white uniform and whiskers.
  
  "Thank you," Mulder told him as they shook hands in the foyer. "I
  appreciate you taking the time to do this.  Captain, this is Mrs. Dana
  Waterston," he introduced as she appeared from the bedroom. "And this is
  Emily," he added, gesturing to the cradle beside the sofa. "Who we're
  hoping will sleep through this."  
  
  One of the maids had offered to watch Emily for a little bit, and Dana
  had reluctantly agreed, provided the baby didn't wake up.  Although
  there were probably a dozen women in steerage class eager to earn a few
  dollars as a wet nurse, Mulder hadn't worked up to broaching that
  subject.  He should put his foot down and insist Dana get some rest, but
  she liked having Emily close, and to be honest, so did he.
  
  "It's always nice to see a young couple so in love," the captain
  answered tactfully. "I haven't married anyone in a long time, but I
  think I remember how the ceremony goes."
  
  "We've done it before," Mulder offered helpfully, and earned an odd look
  from the captain.
  
  "You're wearing wedding rings.  Did you want to use those?"
  
  "Oh, uh, no.  No, I don't think so.  I'll get new ones the next time the
  ship docks.  Is that all right?"
  
  Not only were both he and Dana wearing wedding bands, they wore them on
  their left hands, not their right as was customary for a widow or
  widower.
  
  "It's fine." The captain's eyes were indulgent, and he seemed amused at
  their disarray. "Well then, I'll be on deck whenever you're ready.  Take
  your time."  He closed the door, leaving them alone in the opulent
  rooms.
  
  Mulder exhaled, trying not to fidget, and blaming his rebellious stomach
  on the early stages of seasickness. "The captain's ready," he informed
  her needlessly.
  
  Dana nodded, frowning in concentration as she tried to work her wedding
  ring off her finger.      
  
  After hesitating a heartbeat, Mulder did the same, pausing to read the
  worn Latin inscription inside. Amorem meum tibi semper dabo; in English,
  "I will give you my love always."
  
  Succeeding, she rubbed the pale, indented skin on her finger, then
  handed the band to him for safekeeping.  He dropped both rings in his
  pocket without comment.  
  
  "So I'll need to buy wedding bands, fabric, patterns, and a stupid
  little hat at the next port," he listed nervously. "Anything else?" 
  
  She nodded no, smiling gently.
  
  "The captain's ready," he repeated, offering his hand. 
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  "You understand that we're not lying to your mother," his father had
  explained, tying their horses to the hitching post outside the saloon.
  "We're just not mentioning this.  You stopped by my office after your
  lessons and then we made it home a little late for dinner.  We just
  won't mention any stops in between.  Do you understand, Fox?"
   
  Mulder, with all the hero worship a boy had for his father, had nodded. 
  To him, it was a nefarious adventure into the darker side of life, and
  he would have given his left arm to do something nefarious with his
  proper father. "I won't tell her," he answered earnestly.
  
  The uniformed doorman had opened the ornate doors to a whole new world,
  and he'd followed his father inside, trying not to look as out of place
  as he felt.  He remembered to take off his hat, and then tugged
  nervously at his vest, pulling it smooth.  His hair was usually a lost
  cause, but he ran his fingers through it anyway.
  
  Bill Mulder had been well liked, so it took them several minutes of hand
  shaking and head nodding to reach the crowded bar, where the barkeep
  greeted them with, "What will it be, Senator?"
  
  "Whiskey: two." He tapped the bar with his index fingers as he slid onto
  a padded stool.  
  
  It was an elegant establishment near the Capitol, specializing in
  catering to the tastes of DC's politicians and wealthy businessmen. 
  Mulder had looked around, taking in the mirrors, the heavy chandeliers,
  and, across the room, the pretty girls wearing only pantalets, chemises,
  corsets, and ridiculously high-heeled slippers leaning over the railing
  of the balcony.  The women flirting with the men downstairs were
  flashily dressed, some with rouge and face powder, but the ones upstairs
  were barely dressed at all.  
  
  "Sorry, son," his father said in an amused tone. "I'm not quite that
  traditional.  I'll teach you to drink, but let's put that off for
  another birthday or two.  So how does it feel to be sixteen?  Do you
  like your present?"
  
  "It's wonderful," he responded dutifully, still watching the prostitutes
  upstairs.  He'd walked past fast women on the street, and he knew
  brothels existed, but gentlemen in polite company pretended they see
  such things, just as they didn't see a woman's figure when she was about
  to have a baby, or that Negro housemaids mysteriously had mulatto
  children resembling their white owners.  It was a society skilled at not
  noticing.
  
  One of the upstairs doors opened and Representative Kavanaugh stumbled
  out, pausing for a farewell kiss from a girl who looked to be about
  thirteen or fourteen.  Mulder swallowed hard, then shifted his attention
  back to the bar as the bartender filled two shot glasses.
  
  "Drink it all at once.  Just tilt your head back and swallow," his
  father instructed, picking up his own glass.
  
  Mulder did as he was told, then wondered how anyone could find this a
  pleasurable habit as he tried to get air into his lungs again.  No
  wonder the Indians called it firewater.
  
  "Another, Senator?" the bartender asked, holding the bottle ready.
  
  "No, I'll have brandy.  What do you want, Fox?"
  
  "Apple cider?" he said, not seeing anything he considered palatable
  listed on the sign posted over the bar.    
  
  "And an apple cider," his father repeated, then quietly teased his son,
  "What?  You aren't having another?"
  
  "Not unless you say I have to, sir," Mulder had replied, noticing his
  head felt funny and his nose was getting tingly.  This might be what
  being drunk felt like; he wasn't sure.  They had wine with dinner and
  often beer if he had lunch with his father, but whiskey was different. 
  It was illicit, like the women upstairs.   
  
  "Good boy." He hesitated in what Mulder would realize years later, was
  indecision.  As a child, he'd thought his father was omnipotent, which
  was an easy assumption to make when one's father was a Massachusetts
  politician. "You are a good boy, Fox.  Whatever happened with Sarah,
  that was her father's fault and mine, not yours.  You and Sarah learned
  to crawl together and we just let the two of you run wild.  Obviously,
  we shouldn't have."
  
  "I didn't do anything to Sarah," Mulder said, his tongue feeling thick.
  "Sir," he added respectfully.  
  
  "All right," his father responded, not arguing.  
  
  For months, Sarah Kavanaugh's death had been the most covertly discussed
  event in DC.  Her father, Representative Kavanaugh of Tennessee, said
  she'd died of cholera.  Popular gossip insisted that hadn't been the
  case, that she'd miscarried and bled to death, and cast a curious eye at
  Senator Mulder's only son: Sarah's friend and, though the engagement
  hadn't been announced formally, her fiancee. 
     
  "I didn't," Mulder insisted, staring at Kavanaugh as he wobbled down the
  steps and to the opposite end of the bar.  Spotting Mulder and his
  father, he slowly made his way across the noisy saloon, bringing his
  whiskey bottle with him.  
  
  When Congress was in session, the Kavanaughs and the Mulders were
  neighbors.  Mrs. Kavanaugh had died when the girls were small, and Sarah
  and Melissa often fled to the Mulders' house, sleeping in a spare
  bedroom until their father sobered up and came to collect them. "Poor
  Jack Kavanaugh never got over his wife's death," the ladies had said for
  a decade, but now "Poor Jack Kavanaugh drinks to forget his oldest
  daughter's tragic death." In the House of Representatives, Poor Jack
  Kavanaugh was a political legend, a bastion of the community for reasons
  no one, if pressed, could seem to remember anymore.
  
  "The ill wind which blows no man to good," Bill Mulder quoted, watching
  Kavanaugh approaching. "I don't like that man, Fox," he said quietly,
  which had surprised Mulder.  While he'd debate a bill hotly for weeks,
  his father seldom voiced a negative opinion about his fellow
  congressmen. It made Mulder feel as if he'd been taken into his
  confidence. "I can't quite put my finger on it, but I don't.  Even
  though it would have been a good match, I'm glad he isn't going to be
  your father-in-law."
  
  "I do want to be married," Mulder said suddenly, causing his father to
  put down his brandy snifter and raise his eyebrows. 
  
  "Excuse me?"
  
  "I want to be married right now."
  
  "Don't be ridiculous, son.  You can't go to West Point if you're
  married."
  
  "I don't want to go to West Point.  I don't want to go in the military. 
  I didn't know how to tell you.  I thought you'd be disappointed."
  
  "No, I'm not disappointed.  Just surprised.  Well-" His father picked up
  his glass again, gently tilting the golden liquid. "You could've
  mentioned it before I bought you all those uniforms.  So you want to go
  to Harvard, then?"
  
  "No, I don't want to be a lawyer.  And I don't want to be a politician. 
  I'm proud of you.  I know you do wonderful things in Congress, but I
  don't think I want to do that with my life.  I want to marry Melly. 
  Right now." 
  
  "Melly who?  Sarah's sister Melly?  Melissa Kavanaugh?" he said in
  disbelief. "Right now?  Calm down, son.  There's smoke coming out of
  your ears.  I thought you were looking forward to going off to school."
  
  "I am, but I want to marry Melly, too."     
  
  "Fine, you want to marry Melissa Kavanaugh.  That's an, uh, interesting
  idea.  Let me think about it.  For now, you'll go to school, see the
  world a little, and then, if you still want to-" There was a long,
  uncomfortable pause while feet shifted and glasses sloshed restlessly.
  "Why her?  I thought you'd hardly noticed Melissa, aside from her being
  Sarah's little sister.  They look alike.  Does she just remind you of
  Sarah?"
  
  "Yes.  No," he corrected immediately. "I don't want to wait four years. 
  I want to marry her now. Please, Father; you can't say no."
  
  "I can say no," his father responded sternly. "And I am.  Stop this
  foolishness, Fox.  You're too young, and I think you're just lonely and
  nervous about leaving for school.  I know you miss Sarah…" Bill Mulder
  hesitated again, his voice softening. "I know you miss her very much. 
  It's been months now, and you still seem so lost.  It worries your
  mother and me.  I've been thinking about it and I've decided… Fox, you
  are sixteen now.  Kavanaugh's colored girl, Poppy: she looks like Sarah,
  too, a great deal. I can arrange…" His father stopped and swallowed
  nervously. "Fox, I've thought about it, and if it would make you feel
  better, I can arrange to have her come to work for us."
  
  Mulder shook his head no, understanding what his father was offering,
  but not wanting it.
  
  "All right," Bill Mulder said gently. "Then I'll go with you to Harvard,
  get you settled in; it will be fine.  It will be a good change of
  scenery.  And Melissa- Well, in a few years, we'll see.  I think you'll
  grow out of this notion."
  
  Kavanaugh was halfway down the bar, pausing to shake hands and have a
  shot of whiskey with a businessman.
  
  "Melly's going to have a baby," Mulder said suddenly. 
  
  Bill Mulder's face fell, and he looked so disappointed that his son
  cowered.  Silent "where did I go wrong," self-incrimination flashed in
  his eyes, but he only said, "Oh, Fox.  Are you sure?"
  
  Mulder nodded miserably. "We want to get married, Father," he pleaded.
  "Please.  I'll go to school wherever you want if Melly and I can get
  married, and if she can stay with you and Mother while I'm at school."
  
  "Fox- Son, even if she is, are you sure you want to spend your life
  taking care of this girl?  Yes, she's beautiful, and she seems sweet,
  but she's also- She's delicate.  And she's not very bright, even for a
  woman.  Sarah was perfect for you; she kept you in line, kept those wild
  ideas of yours balanced.  She was like a curb bit.  But Melissa… Fox,
  sometimes I look in her eyes and there's no life there."
  
  "That's because Melly's the pretty one," he'd responded hesitantly. "And
  now Sarah's gone."
  
  "I don't understa-"
  
  "Happy birthday, boy!" Kavanaugh announced loudly, slinging his arm
  around Mulder's shoulders and making him jump. "Fourteen, right?  Or
  fifteen?  Good to see you're finally teaching this boy some propriety,
  Bill," he said to Mulder's father, then added in a stage whisper,
  nodding to the girls upstairs, "Though it's a little late.  See boy:
  that's where your prick goes.  Not my daughter."
  
  "He's drunk, Fox," he heard his father's voice say as the world went
  red. "Let me deal with it."
  
  Working on eight months of hurt over Sarah's death, his first drink of
  hard liquor, and the lithe grace of an angry young man, Mulder jerked
  away, slid off the bar stool, and, with one punch, knocked Kavanaugh
  sprawling across the polished wooden floor. "Yours doesn't go in your
  daughter, either," Mulder hissed through clenched teeth. "You're not
  going to kill both of them, you son of a bitch!"
  
  Bill Mulder had stared at his son, his mouth agape and his brandy
  snifter forgotten in his hand.
  
  The drinking and flirting and piano playing had paused, taken note of
  the scene at the end of the bar, and then continued at the same frantic,
  hollow pace.
  
  "You can't save the world, Fox," his father had said a few minutes
  later, folding his arms as he leaned against the hitching post outside
  the saloon. "Sarah would have told you that."
  
  "Yes, she would have," he had agreed. "But she'd also walk along the
  shore at low tide and throw the stranded starfish back into the ocean. 
  She said she was saving the ones she could." 
  
  "Why didn't you just tell me the truth about Sarah?"  
  
  "She never told me. I didn't know what was happening until after- Until
  after she died.  I had no idea."    
  
  "Fox, are you certain – very certain – that this child Melissa is
  carrying is yours?"
  
  Mulder took a deep breath, biting at his lower lip before he nodded.
  
  "All right; let's head home.  We have to tell your mother.  Do you
  realize she's going to be a grandmother at thirty-three?  I won't hear
  the end of that for years."   
   
  "Sir," he said uncertainly, as they mounted their horses. "I am sorry."
  
  "It's done," his father had said. "You've made your decision.  And I
  hope and pray it turns out the way you want it to." His smiled slightly,
  trying to cover his concern. "Congratulations: you're going to be a
  father.  You're a little young for it, but I think you'll do a good
  job."
  
  "I have a good example."
  
  Bill Mulder had put on his hat; he was the only man in the world who
  could ride a horse at a trot without his top hat falling off; and smiled
  again, his eyes kinder.  He'd been thirty-six; not much older than
  Mulder had been the year Melly and his father had died and Samuel had
  disappeared. "Now you're just flattering me."
  
  "Can Melly stay with us tonight?"
  
  "Oh, for God's sake, Fox!" He'd sighed, turning his horse around. "Fine. 
  She can stay.  In her and Sarah's old room.  Far, far from you.  Her
  father isn't going to wake up until this baby's walking, anyway.  And
  son," he'd added, seeming unsure if he should say something or not.
  
  "Sir?"
  
  "That was a nice punch, but he deserved worse."
   
  *~*~*~*
  
  As long as he didn't move or breathe, he was only in moderate agony. 
  His brain seemed to have absorbed several gallons of water, so it
  squished whenever he tried to move his head.  His stomach, the miserable
  battlefield between his ribs and hips, felt like it had revolted and
  then been beaten into submission with a hammer.
  
  A cold, wet cloth passed over his forehead, then cheeks as he opened his
  eyes.
  
  "You were smiling," Dana said quietly, turning away to rewet the
  washcloth.  She was wearing her white chemise, and her hair hung over
  her shoulder in a long, thick braid.  The clock indicated it was after
  four in the morning; she'd probably just finished feeding Emily. "In
  your sleep: you were smiling.  Were you dreaming of Melissa?"
  
  "My father," he rasped, his lips dry.  The lamp beside the bed burned
  low, barely illuminating the ornate mahogany furniture of their
  stateroom.  He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, then took a careful,
  shaky breath he immediately regretted. "I was dreaming of my father."
  
  She turned away again, and this time returned with a cup of warm liquid
  that she held to his lips. 
  
  "Ginger tea," Dana explained when he tried to pull away. "It will help
  your stomach."
  
  "That's not tea; that's horrible." He scooted up on the pillows so he
  wasn't completely at her mercy, and took the cup from her before she
  tried to make him drink it again.  
  
  His chest was bare, as were his feet underneath the blankets, though he
  didn't remember her undressing him.  It seemed the only thing less
  romantic than the brief engagement and the hasty wedding was the wedding
  night.
  
  "So, Mr. Mulder: you get seasick," she said gently. "When I promised ‘in
  sickness and in health,' I did not know I would be tested so soon."
  
  He frowned, then dipped his fingertips in his tea and flicked them at
  her.  She wiped the drops off, then went back to bathing him, running
  the washcloth over his shoulders.  She paused, examining the small scar
  from the minie ball, then went on.  He'd forgotten: as familiar as he
  was with her body, after Emily's birth and his more recent hallway-
  lurking, she was a stranger to his.
  
  "Nice," he mumbled, setting the cup aside and relaxing.  Not much felt
  good, but at least that didn't feel worse.
  
  "The ship's doctor was here.  He said you should drink the tea, and to
  go for a walk on deck in the morning.  He said it would just make you
  sicker if you stay inside."
  
  "I'll take that under advisement," he murmured, closing his eyes.  The
  cloth passed over his eyelids, then down the bridge of his nose. "I'm
  sorry, Dana."
  
  "Why are you sorry?"  
  
  He didn't answer.
  
  "Tell me about your dream," she said quietly. 
  
  "Why?" he mumbled.
  
  Water swished in the basin, then splashed and dripped as she wrung out
  the washcloth.  She pushed the sheet down, bathing his chest, this time
  tracing the raised scar from a rebel bayonet.  
  
  He remembered lying under the merciless sun in Tennessee, listening to
  flies and death buzzing around him.  They'd beaten the Confederates that
  day; butchered the Confederates, actually, so the grass was littered
  with gray-clad bodies and stained red with blood.  He remembered
  thinking he was near the Kavanaugh's home at Missionary Ridge, and
  wasn't surprised to see Sarah walking toward him in a white dress,
  trailing her hands along the tops of the dead weeds.  She'd been dead
  for more than a decade, he realized, and if he was seeing her, he was
  dead, too, and there would be no one to take care of Melly and Samuel. 
  Sarah must have realized that as well, because she shook her head and
  turned away, silently disappearing into the trees at the edge of the
  field.  His next memory was of waking up in a hospital a week later.
  
  "I was dreaming of the day I told him he was going to be a grandfather. 
  He was worried: for me, for Melly, but when he saw Samuel, for the next
  thirteen years, his friends crossed the street when they saw him coming
  so he couldn't buttonhole them with stories of his remarkably talented,
  sinfully handsome grandson."
  
  "You told the river men your father died."
  
  "Yes, he died.  It was very sudden.  He was a senator and he was trying
  to negotiate the surrender of Richmond.  The doctors think it was his
  heart, but they don't really know.  It happened a few months after
  Melly… After Melly passed away."
  
  He tilted his head from side to side as she washed his neck, deciding
  the pleasant coolness outweighed the pain of moving.
  
  "How did Melissa die?" she whispered.
  
  Several seconds passed before he responded, "It was an accident.  She
  was not well.  I was supposed to be watching her and I wasn't.  I was
  tired and I fell asleep.  Samuel found her.  Why did it bother you last
  night: when I was drinking with those men around the fire?"
  
  Water swished and splashed again. "I am not sure it is proper to discuss
  one husband with another," she answered slowly.
  
  "Oh," he responded, shifting painfully to his side and scooting back on
  the mattress. "Come to bed.  Get some sleep."
  
  She put the basin aside, then folded the blankets back, making a place.
  
  "Try not to jiggle.  Or be warm.  Or breathe," he requested as she blew
  out the lamp.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
  Women were soft; he'd almost forgotten.
   
  He was accustomed to touching them; all men were: lifting them into or
  out of a buggy, helping a lady who had fainted, or just being a
  solicitous escort, but that was through the merciless whalebones of a
  corset, and layers of hoops and petticoats.  In their natural state,
  like asleep beside him, women were infinitely soft.
  
  His hand rested comfortably in the valley of Dana's waist as he opened
  his eyes, wondering what had awakened him.  The coal-fed engines droned
  on, pushing the ship through the darkness.  A lamp flickered across the
  room, casting long, yellow shadows on the wall behind it.  Dana's back
  fitted nicely against his front, and her skin, through her nightgown,
  was warm under his fingertips.  Content, Mulder was about to go back to
  sleep when Emily mewed again, not crying, but announcing she was up and
  thinking of a late-night snack.
  
  "Baby," he mumbled to Dana, who didn't budge.  He jostled her gently.
  "Dana, the baby wants you."
  
  She said something unintelligible in Gaelic and cuddled against him as
  if she planned to hibernate there until spring.   
  
  Emily reiterated her request, stressing its urgency.
     
  After three days, the seasickness had subsided to the point that he no
  longer dreaded moving, he just didn't look forward to it.  Mulder pushed
  up on his elbow, checking that the room stayed level, then swung his
  bare feet over the side of the bed.  
  
  He'd probably owned a nightshirt at some point in this life, but he
  didn't now, and he wasn't likely to in the future.  He did own and
  usually slept in undershirts: short-sleeve cotton for summer and long-
  sleeved wool for winter, but had abandoned both two Georgian Augusts
  ago.  What remained of his sleeping attire were the bottoms; in this
  instance, the loose fitting, cream-colored summer flannels with a row of
  tiny buttons at the fly.  The form-fitting wool drawers he wore in
  winter were the same way: anything a man might need to remove his
  underwear to do, with all those buttons, he'd better be able to wait a
  minute to do it.
  
  He rubbed his arms briskly against the onslaught of cool air, and leaned
  over the cradle. "You do realize it's midnight, don't you?" he asked
  Emily, who appeared unashamed.  
  
  There was a blanket spread over the floor beside the cradle, and he laid
  her on it, giving her his finger to hold while he got everything ready. 
  After a few tries, he had a dry diaper folded and pinned so all the
  important parts were covered; not an easy trick with a baby who'd
  discovered she could roll over and escape.  First class maids were a
  wonderful thing, so he left the wet diaper for the laundress to deal
  with and settled Emily against his shoulder, one hand on her head and
  the other on her dry behind.
  
  "Would you consider just going back to sleep for Daddy?" he checked,
  rubbing her back encouragingly. "Let your mother rest a little?"
  
  Emily snuggled against him, radiating baby-heat, and letting Mulder rock
  and murmur to her for several minutes before she decided, no, that
  wouldn't do after all.
  
  He sat on the edge of the bed, watching Dana, then put his hand on her
  shoulder. "Baby," he whispered, hating to wake her. "Dana: the baby."
  
  "Yes?" she finally mumbled, stretching and yawning.  She rubbed her
  eyes, blinking at him as she sat up. "What is it?  Is something wrong,
  Mr. Mulder?"
  
  "Baby," he repeated with an amused smile.  She always woke up like a
  kitten: happy to be here, but unsure exactly where here was.  Small
  words worked best.  He pushed a loose strand of hair back from her face,
  then brushed his thumb along her jawbone. "Dana, the baby," he
  whispered.
  
  She blinked at him again, trying to focus her eyes, then caressed his
  face in return and laid back down, watching him and waiting.
  
  "Oh.  Dana, no.  The baby.  Emily.  She's hungry."
  
  "Oh." She sat up again quickly, finally noticing the infant squirming
  against his bare chest. "Oh," she repeated sheepishly, reaching for her
  daughter. "All right; I will feed her.  Thank you for telling me."
  
  "You are welcome," he answered very politely for a man wearing only his
  under-drawers. 
  
  Mulder lay down, tucking his bare feet under the blankets and crossing
  his arms across his bare chest.  As he waited for sleep to come, he
  watched Dana gather up a spare blanket, preparing to take Emily to the
  next room to nurse her in private.
  
  "Dana," he called as she started to leave, his voice carefully casual.
  "It's warmer in here."
  
  "Yes," she agreed, her response just as neutral.  It was a large bedroom
  with a sofa and several chairs, but no wall or screen to provide
  privacy.
  
  "I'm going back to sleep. It's dark. There's no sense in you and the
  baby being cold or uncomfortable."
  
  "You need to rest. I would not want to disturb you."
  
  "You won't."
  
  In silent invitation, he scooted back a few inches so he was in the
  middle of the broad mattress, leaving ample space for her in front of
  him.  He pushed up on one elbow, ignoring the protest from his stomach
  as he studied her and waited.
  
  "You brought her to bed last night to bed to feed her," he reminded her.
  
  "I thought you were asleep when I did that.  Were you just pretending,
  Mr. Mulder?"
  
  "Perhaps I woke up and peeked," he admitted tiredly.
  
  "And will you be peeking again?" she asked, a note of embarrassed
  amusement in her voice.
  
  "I can't promise either way.  Stop shivering, bring the baby, and come
  back to bed, Dana."
  
  After a few seconds, the mattress dipped as she sat down, then laid down
  with the baby in front of her and her back to Mulder.  A ribbon
  whispered as she slowly untied the top of her chemise, baring one breast
  just enough for the baby to nurse.  In the dim light, he could make out
  Emily's tiny hand resting on Dana's breast, and her glistening eyes
  looking up at her mother as she nursed.
  
  "Sammy used to do that," Mulder said softly. "With his hand.  When he
  was a baby."
  
  Her profile just smiled and nodded.
  
  He scooted closer to Dana, pulled the blanket up to their waists, and
  pillowed his head on his folded right arm.  With his left hand, he
  traced down her shoulder, then along her arm until his hand covered hers
  on Emily.
  
  The ship rocked slightly as it cut through the waves along the east
  coast, carrying them home.  Once he was still again, the ache in his gut
  faded, leaving behind a weak, rung-out feeling.  With his eyes closed,
  he could hear the water crashing against the hull and the baby's mouth
  moving against Dana's breast.  Dana's bottom was warm and round against
  his pelvis, causing a pleasant sensation in his belly and groin – not an
  arousal, really, just a comforting reminder that he wasn't dead.
  
  Soon, he told himself.  Home, intimacy, normalcy.  
  
  Soon.
  
  As promised, he slept.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  As much as people liked to think they were enigmas, they really weren't. 
  What they owned, how they conducted themselves, all said much more about
  them than they realized.  It was just a matter of taking time and caring
  enough to notice.
  
  Mulder toyed with the cuff of his new sweater, considering.
  
  Still too sick to go shopping himself, he'd sent Dana ashore with one of
  the ship's officers.  It wasn't an optimal solution, but she desperately
  needed some new dresses, and he craved anything that wasn't a cavalry
  uniform.  She'd returned with wedding bands, clothing for him and the
  baby, and two dresses: both stylish, both properly-fitting and
  flattering, and both jet black.
  
  He was still analyzing her choices.  
  
  She was welcome to wear whatever she wanted, but it seemed odd to mourn
  one husband while honeymooning with another.  Maybe she wore black for
  other men she'd lost: her father and brothers. Maybe because black was
  versatile and serviceable and she wasn't aware Melly had kept the
  dressmakers in business; Mulder had better things to do than scrutinize
  and complain about his wife's expenses.  Maybe those dresses had been
  discounted, or all the stores had.  Or maybe Dana just liked black.
  
  With many formerly wealthy southern families selling off heirlooms, fine
  jewelry was plentiful, and the northern vultures coming south to feed
  looked like they'd been dipped in gold batter and then floured in
  diamonds.  He'd told her to pick whatever she wanted, and Dana had
  chosen two plain wedding bands, almost identical to the ones they
  replaced.  She'd returned to the ship wearing hers, but his new ring had
  been in a box on the dresser this morning.
  
  He hadn't quite figured her out yet, but he was working on it.  He was
  in charge of this dance and he knew the steps, but part of being a good
  dancer was knowing his partner.  
  
  He knew she didn't like tomatoes.  Not fresh, not stewed, not in sauces. 
  If Dana were in charge, they probably wouldn't even be permitted to
  grow, let alone be eaten.
  
  He knew she liked fine things against her skin: underclothes, nightgowns
  - even the navy blue sweater and tan trousers she'd selected for him
  were petal soft.  There was nothing frilly or fru-fru about her
  clothing, but neither was she severe.  Her taste was elegant and
  understated; it was expensive, but it wasn't designed to specifically
  look like it was expensive.
  
  She only pretended to dislike his jokes, but that was his opinion, and
  his sense of humor hadn't been at its best in the last few days.  
  
  Unlike Melly, who would either cower or burst into tears if he
  accidentally raised his voice, Dana either ignored his black moods and
  sarcasm, or seemed amused, which was discomforting.
   
  She liked sleeping beside him at night, and he liked her there.  Their
  berth had several bedrooms; she could have designated his as the sick
  room and slept elsewhere, if she had wanted.  Emily's cradle started out
  in the parlor and each night crept closer to their bed until the baby
  was sleeping a few feet from them, and Mulder had yet to object.  The
  subject of a wet nurse had also yet to be raised, and there had been no
  further midnight trips into the next room to feed the baby in private.
  
  She had been comfortable caring for him while he was ill, unlike some
  women who thought of men's bodies as boorish or dirty. Victorian morals
  being what they were, many girls were raised to be something past
  prudish, and men were taught to expect their wives to be good mothers,
  but less-than-enthusiastic bedmates.  For ladies, marital relations were
  a weekly chore: like laundry, but less pleasurable.  If a gentleman
  wanted passion, or even to break a sweat in bed, he should look
  elsewhere rather than embarrass his wife.  Dana seemed to have been
  raised with the middle-class notion men were touchable, and he was
  secretly glad of it.
  
  He knew Dana thought more than she said, but what she said was worth
  listening to.
  
  He couldn't say for certain she was happy, but she didn't seem unhappy,
  and that was a start.
  
  When he kissed her, she kissed back.
  
  He watched Dana walking across the deck toward him, her skirt and the
  blanket covering the baby fluttering in the breeze.  She'd mastered
  walking on a ship and did it gracefully; he preferred to sit and not
  press his luck.  Not recognizing him at first, she started to pass,
  taking Emily back to their rooms, then stopped and looked puzzled. 
  She's never seen him out of uniform, and it took a moment for her to
  figure out who he was.
   
  He held out a white silk flower to her, twirling the wire stem between
  his fingertips so the petals spun.
  
  "For me?" she asked.
  
  "I stole it off an old lady's hat," he told her, gesturing for her to
  sit down on the deck chair next to his. "She'll never miss it."
  
  She smiled and sat, setting Emily on her lap so she could watch the
  ocean. "How do you feel?  Better?"
  
  "I feel less bad."  
  
  "Good."
  
  "No, not good; just less bad."
  
  She wrinkled her forehead, not quite following that.  He grinned and
  reached for her hand.   
  
  "You found your ring," she observed. "Is it all right?"
  
  "Um-hum." Mulder propped his boots up on a wooden footstool and let
  their entwined fingers rest on his thigh, enjoying the salty wind on his
  face.  It was definitely less bad.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  It sounded odd to say he hadn't talked with a woman in fifteen years,
  but he almost hadn't.  Not really talked.  He'd exchanged information,
  he'd filled silence, and he'd talked to, but he'd seldom talked with a
  woman. 
  
  He and Sarah used to talk about everything.  When they were five, they'd
  snuck up to the hayloft, stripped naked, and discussed the difference
  between Methodists and Presbyterians.  When they were nine, they'd sat
  on the limb of the maple tree in his backyard and decided to kiss each
  other, just to see what all the fuss was about.  Not much, they
  concluded at the time, later to revise their opinion.  At eleven, she'd
  persuaded him not to run away and join the circus, pointing out that
  he'd miss dinner: roast beef with carrots and new potatoes.  And when
  they were fifteen, two months before she'd died, they'd been bent over
  their books in the Mulders' kitchen, studying, when he'd suddenly asked
  Sarah if she loved him. "How could I not?" she'd replied calmly, then
  returned to her Latin verbs without batting an eye.
  
  Those memories seemed like they belonged to a different person now: a
  brother, an old friend, or a cousin, maybe.  A man he shared a common
  background with, but not Mulder.  Just as he set aside and guarded the
  husband he'd been to Melly, he'd packed away the boy he'd been to Sarah
  and pushed it far into the attic of his heart.
  
  There was nothing remarkable about the story of Dana's life except that
  it was hers, and that he wanted to hear it. She didn't discuss Dr.
  Waterston, but he didn't expect her to.  It was her memories of her
  childhood in Ireland, of her family, that interested him, and kept them
  talking late into the night.  As the hours passed, shoes were discarded
  and top buttons loosened until they were as comfortable as two people
  were allowed to be and still be decent. 
  
  "Were you caught?" he asked as she started to pour him another cup of
  that repulsive ginger tea.  She seemed to think the stuff had medicinal
  properties, which it did: it made him gag. "Don't bother; I won't drink
  it."
  
  "I can put sugar in it."
  
  "You do that.  Put sugar in it, leave out the ginger, and add some tea
  leaves, and I'll drink it."
  
  She put the teapot down on the silver tray, leaving the cup unfilled.
  
  "So did you get caught?" he asked again, leaning back on the sofa and
  crossing his long legs casually at the ankle. "Throwing rotten apples?" 
  
  "No.  My brothers got whippings, but they were too embarrassed to admit
  their apples had not hit anyone and mine had.  It caught our neighbor
  right in the back of his head, and then I ducked back behind the tree,
  so when he turned around, all he saw were Bill and Charlie standing in
  the orchard with apples in their hands.  They took a whipping rather
  than admit they had missed, and their baby sister had not.  I think my
  father suspected, though." She smiled sadly, looking past him and into
  distant memory. "That does not seem like so long ago."
  
  "Would you like me to check with the Navy and see-" 
  
  "No," she answered quickly. "They are dead.  There is no mistake.  I
  cannot do what you do, Mr. Mulder.  I cannot live on hope and whispers. 
  I have to live with what is, not what if."
  
  His arm was resting along the top of the couch, and he rubbed his
  fingertips over the rich upholstery as he worried his lips, choosing his
  words carefully. "Is that what you think I do?" he finally asked,
  careful not to let anger creep into his voice. "That I refuse to believe
  the truth?  That if someone would bring me a body and prove it is
  Samuel, I would not believe them?"
  
  She turned to him, putting her hand over his. "That is not-"
  
  "Don't you think I know he is probably dead?  I know," he said, rage
  beginning to boil dangerously inside him. "I know it, but I don't feel
  it.  Don't you think I've seen him die a thousand times in my
  nightmares?"
  
  "I know-"
  
  "No, you don't know.  He is my son, Dana - my baby boy.  I raised him,
  and nothing is more important to me than he is; I always told him that. 
  He trusted me when I said ‘go put up the horses; your mother will be
  fine,' but then I fell asleep and now his mother is dead.  And his baby
  sister.  And then I went back to the war and left him alone.  To hell
  with the Goddamn war!  Let the south secede; I don't care.  Let the
  south take their slaves and cotton and state's rights and build a wall
  through the middle of the Union.  But, no. ‘Father has to go, Sam.  Stay
  with Grandfather.  Everything will be all right.' It won't be all right,
  Dana.  My only son is gone.  My father, my wife, and my baby are all
  dead.   It will never, ever be all right ever again.  Don't tell me you
  know, Dana, because you have no idea."
  
  Suddenly, there was silence, and he swallowed angrily, clenching and
  releasing his teeth and embarrassed at himself.
  
  "You are correct, Mr. Mulder, I cannot know how it feels to lose a
  child," she finally said evenly. "But I know how it feels to lose
  everyone else."
  
  He leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers and
  keeping his eyes jammed shut until the urge to cry passed.  He'd already
  raised his voice; the last thing he intended to do was start sobbing in
  front of her.  He hadn't cried since he was ten; now wasn't the time to
  start.
  
  "I'm sorry," he muttered eventually. "You didn't deserve that."
  
  "I did not mean to upset you.  I only meant-" 
  
  She trailed off, rubbing her hand over his back as she tried to smooth
  out the pain.
  
  "I know what you meant." He swallowed again, turning his head to look at
  her.  Dana's face was close to his, so he kissed her quickly, and then
  smirked unenthusiastically. "Aren't I just a laugh a minute?  Say the
  word and I can arrange an annulment and that ticket to Ireland."
  
  She put her hand on his cheek, stroking her thumb over his skin. "Please
  do not do that. Do not pull away.  I see you hurting, and I am not sure
  how to help.  You have been so kind to me-" 
  
  "Snapping at you: yes, very kind," he interrupted.
  
  "And to my daughter," she continued, smoothing his dark hair back from
  his temple. "You are so alone.  When I ask if you are all right, you
  seem surprised, as though no one has asked you that in a very long time. 
  You are so hungry-"
  
  "Hungry?"
  
  "I think that is the right word: hungry.  Hungry to be cared for. 
  Loved."
  
  Caught off-guard, he wet his lips, then asked, "Do you love me?  No,
  never mind," he amended quickly.  "With all that's happened in the last
  week, what an awful question.  Never mind."
  
  Her hand left his face and smoothed her black skirt anxiously. "I-I do
  not know what I feel right now.  I know I am not Melissa-"  
   
  "I don't expect you to be Melly.  I don't, Dana," he said earnestly.
  
  "I do care that you are hurting.  I would like-" She stopped, sliding
  her lower lip between her teeth. "I would like to lessen that, if I
  can."
  
  He was still slouched forward on the sofa, elbows on his knees, with his
  head turned toward her. "Do you?  Love me?"
  
  "I will," she answered softly.
  
  "You will what?" he asked, not understanding.
  
  "I will love you."
  
  "I will let you."
  
  To his surprise, Dana stood, and then slowly began unfastening the
  buttons on the front of her dress, watching her fingers instead of him. 
  One buttonhole was tight, and she worked at it determinedly until she
  got it undone.  She pushed the fabric back from her shoulders, down over
  her hips, and then draped the new dress over the opposite end of the
  sofa and started undoing the waist of her petticoat.
  
  "Dana," he said quietly, almost reverently, "I think we were talking
  about two different kinds of love."
  
  She paused, looking self-conscious. "Do I stop?"
  
  "Under no circumstances," he responded in the same soft voice.
  
  She let the ruffled petticoat fall to the floor so a pile of white
  material almost as high as her knees surrounded her.  He should step out
  and let her undress privately, but he was mesmerized.  Except for
  stumbling onto Dana in her bedroom that night at Waterston's plantation,
  he'd never seen a woman undressing.  Undressed, yes, but not undressing,
  and propriety be damned - he wasn't about to leave or look away unless
  she told him to.  Normally, there would be more layers: a corset cover,
  a hoop or a few more petticoats, and pantalets, and he was sorry there
  weren't, since that meant he couldn't watch her take them off. 
  
  Staring at her like a hungry wolf must have been disconcerting, because
  her fingers only created more knots in the laces of her whalebone
  corset.
  
  "Let me," he finally offered. "Do I just untie it?" he asked.  She
  nodded and turned around, letting him work the tight laces loose until
  she could slip off the stiff, boned fabric. "You don't have to do this,"
  he reminded her. "I won't push you.  The baby, Dr. Waterston: is it too
  soon?"
  
  "I do not think so, but I have never had a baby before.  Many women have
  a child every year, so it must be all right, I would think." She turned
  around, looking at him uncertainly, as though he might know.
  
  "Why don't we go slowly?" he suggested, standing up. "We can always
  stop.  All right?"
  
  "All right," she murmured, letting him lead her toward the big bed.
  
  "You'll tell me: if you're scared, if I hurt you?"
  
  She nodded again, and he did too, like they'd reached some binding
  contractual agreement.
  
  He stopped beside the bed, looking down at her, an unwelcome thought
  taking root where passion should have been.  Of course she would love
  him physically.  She was his wife and it was the correct – and long
  overdue - thing to do.  Dana liked knowing and doing the right thing;
  he'd learned that about her already.  Whether it was conjugating a verb
  or consummating a marriage, she liked to follow the rules.  She would
  please him in bed, give him children, run his house, and meet his every
  need – and he would never be sure if it was because she wanted to or
  because she was obligated.
  
  She hesitated, then exhaled and began unfastening the buttons of his
  shirtfront.  He let her strip it and his undershirt off, leaving him
  bare-chested, then resumed watching her.  He didn't move to touch or
  kiss her, and after a few seconds, she looked away, flustered and
  awkward.
  
  "Mr. Mulder, you can just say – if this is not what you want.  If you
  are still unwell.  Or if I am doing something wrong.  When you asked me
  to marry you and on the road that day, I thought… Please tell me what
  you want, because I am confused."
  
  "I am sorry.  I think I'm confused about what I want." He raised his
  hand, outlining her cheek with his fingertip. "I think that may be the
  problem."
  
  "Just tell me."
  
  He sat on the edge of the bed, pulling her to sit facing him. "There is
  something I want to know.  Something I want to ask you, first."
  
  "What is it?"
  
  He took her hand, toying with it as he asked slowly, "If there were no
  vows.  No marriage.  No potential of a baby.  And no sin," he said,
  trying to preempt her potential objections. "And no consequences or
  expectations.  If it was just us – a man and a woman, would you want
  this?"
  
  She was watching him intently for some clue as to how to proceed, and he
  saw her blink in surprise.
  
  "Would you be with me only because you wanted to?" he asked, boiling his
  question down to a single sentence.
  
  "I, I-" she started uncertainly. "I do not know how to answer because
  that is not the case.  We are married.  We could have a child. 
  Fornication is a sin.  There are other factors."
  
  "But if there were no other factors, Dana," he pressed her.
  
  "But there are, Mr. Mulder," she insisted. "For a woman, regardless of
  what she wants, there are always other factors."
  
  "You told me that if Dr. Waterston was dead, you did not want to marry
  again."
  
  "I did say that.  And you offered me some kind advice which I have tried
  to heed."
  
  "That advice was about…" He paused and looked at her steadily. "About
  choosing to follow a man who is worth following."
  
  Her voice softened and she looked down. "Yes."
  
  "All right," he said after a moment, his tone matching hers. "You are
  correct; there are always other factors.  You cannot answer me, and I
  should never have asked you to."
  
  "All right."
  
  "Relax, Dana."
  
  She took a slow breath, her breasts rising and falling underneath her
  white chemise.
  
  He smoothed his thumb across her palm. "Relax," he repeated. "We aren't
  off to the best start, are we?"
  
  "At marriage or at, at this?  At your type of love?"
  
  "Yes," he answered, and earned a dutiful smile.
  
  He kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger against the cool skin,
  then leaned down and rested his cheek against hers.
  
  She shifted closer, and he felt her hand on his bare forearm. "It is a
  quest, you said.  The beginning of an adventure," she whispered.
  
  He slid one hand across the fabric covering her back and then let his
  fingers caress her neck and slide through her silky hair. "I wonder what
  we'll discover?" 
  
  She didn't respond verbally, but her lips touched his jaw and made their
  way diagonally down his neck, each kiss sending sparks to his spine.
  
  He exhaled and closed his eyes.
  
  "I cannot separate the other things I feel – friendship, gratitude, duty
  – to say what I would want if I felt none of those things," she
  explained quietly, her lips close to his ear, her breath making the tiny
  hairs stand at attention. "But, if I am allowed to consider them – to be
  close to my husband, to please him, to have another child, my answer
  would be yes, I think."
  
  "All right," he answered softly, and then slid his lips along her jaw
  and to her mouth. As they kissed, he felt the last of the tension
  draining from his body as well as hers.  Something built inside him, and
  instead of pulling back he just let the flow of it carry him along the
  way the tide carried a raft away from shore and out to sea.
  
  He laid her back on the bed, untying the ribbon at the neck of her
  chemise and watching her chest rise and fall with each breath.  He
  touched her through the fabric, tracing the slope and peak of her
  breast, then slowly slipped the thin cloth aside and cupped her breast
  with his palm, letting his fingers mold to the yielding flesh.
  
  She inhaled, and he glanced up to make sure he wasn't hurting her.  He
  had no experience with breasts currently serving a practical purpose. 
  Correction: he had minimal experience, and it wasn't with Melly or
  Sarah, and it wasn't a proud memory.
  
  "Dana?"
  
  "Fine," she murmured, pulling her shoulders back as he stroked her
  nipple. "It is fine.  The baby will need to eat soon," she added,
  explaining the drop of milk that appeared.  
  
  "Is it all right?"
  
  She nodded, and he lowered his head, pressing his tongue flat against
  her nipple and then licking lightly rather than sucking.  Dana's breath
  caught again, and she shifted, then rested her hand lightly on his
  shoulder as he switched breasts. 
  
  "Nice.  Soft.  Sweet," he mumbled, running one hand down her hip and
  then back up her thigh.  His fingers whispered against her skin, tracing
  invisible electric paths.  She raised her hips so he could push her
  chemise up, being a perfectly compliant bedmate.  Nightgowns generally
  went up, not off, preserving modesty, but she pulled hers over her head,
  leaving her body bare before him.  Blankets covered her from the waist
  down, and only his hands and mouth and chest covered her from the waist
  up.
  
  Several of the lamps on the walls were lit, so he could see her clearly. 
  She didn't ask him to get up and snuff them.
  
  "Fine?" he whispered, pausing, his face over hers.
  
  "Fine," she answered softly.
  
  "Dana, I can count on one hand the number of women I've even kissed," he
  admitted quietly. "I married Melly when I was sixteen; there hasn't been
  anyone since.  Not really.  And Melly was- she was very different from
  you."
  
  "Am I doing something wrong?"
  
  "No.  Not a thing.  Close your eyes; try to relax," he told her,
  trailing his hand slowly down her stomach and under the covers. "I don't
  want to embarrass you, but I don't want to hurt you, either.  If this
  isn't all right, just say."
  
  She didn't say, so his fingers drifted downward, through the soft patch
  of hair and to the delicate skin beneath. "Spread you legs," he
  whispered huskily, and she did, turning her head to the side and
  clutching a handful of the blanket in her fist.  Her breathing changed
  as he touched her, stroking lightly. "It's all right," he assured her,
  watching as she gritted her teeth, keeping her eyes tightly closed.  Her
  mouth moved, making silent vowel sounds, and her thighs trembled.  He
  explored with one finger, then two, and heard her gasp.
  
  "Hurt?"
  
  "No," she said, her breaths coming a little quicker. "I will tell you if
  it hurts."
  
  Not completely convinced, he stopped, and she opened her eyes, caressing
  his face like she had the previous night.
  
  "Like this, or turn over?" she asked.
  
  He stared at her, taking a few seconds to figure out what she meant. 
  Did he want her on her back or on her hands and knees?  It wasn't a
  choice he'd been offered before.
  
  "Like this.  You do aim to please," he commented as she shifted under
  him, positioning herself, then putting her hands above her head. "I'm
  not holding you down.  You don't need to be still, Dana."
  
  She lowered her arms, stroking his shoulders and raising her mouth to
  his earlobe, which he'd never realized had so many nerve endings.
  
  "Well, please try to be reasonably still," he amended, feeling a little
  tipsy. "Somewhere between playing dead and having an epileptic fit."
  
  To his surprise, she laughed, and so did he.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  End: Paracelsus IV