Begin: Paracelsus IX
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Dear Melissa, 
  
  I will warn you, I am in a dangerous mood - the kind when sarcasm rolls
  off me like static off a black cat and people find excuses to be
  someplace else.  I've quarreled with Dana, with Poppy, Byers, and with
  my bastard stepfather, who I punched as we were sitting down to dinner. 
  It was no loss to the conversation, but it did get blood on the
  tablecloth.  I would have quarreled with our son, except there is no
  quarreling with our son.  The closest to quarreling with Samuel is
  arguing with the back of his head as he shrugs and walks away.  And,
  after dinner, when we were alone, Sadie's father asked me if I favored
  the poet Walt Whitman, and when I said I did, he kissed me on the mouth.
  
  Thanksgiving dinner was not a success.
  
  Since I am angry at the world, I will confess that I get angry at you
  sometimes, Melly, though I know I shouldn't.  Dana once told me she knew
  she should not feel a certain way, and yet that did not stop her.  Of
  all the times you thought I was upset with you when I was not, it seems
  unfair to be angry with you for dying.
  
  But I am.  
  
  And knowing I have no right to be angry only makes me angrier.  Perhaps
  you were ready to die, but I was not ready to lose you like that. 
  Neither was our son.
  
  Occasionally, hints of my Sammy show through cracks in the plaster walls
  around him, and I think I can rip the chunks away and reach him.  
  
  But I cannot.  
  
  I would feel better if he would pout and stomp and yell that it is my
  fault, that I killed his mother, and that I'm betraying her with another
  woman.  
  
  But he does not.
  
  He's painfully polite to Dana and to me, likes Emmy, and has asked
  several times about the baby, worried something will happen to Dana.  He
  has a tutor – or a series of them, rather – which gives him someone else
  to frustrate besides me.  He comes to the newspaper in the afternoon,
  sits in his corner, and does his engravings.  He plays cello - or any
  other instrument they ask him to - in the symphony.  He scratches away
  behind his sketch pad.  Each day he seems a little better, and I want to
  think he's a little better, but something inside me senses it's like
  he's been sent to spend the summer with his boring spinster aunt – he's
  just biding his time until he can leave.
  
  After you and Father died, after the war, when I couldn't find Sam, I
  felt like my heart had been broken in two and instead of blood, only
  rust-colored dust spilled out.  There was nothing left inside me to
  bleed.  When Sammy says he doesn't feel real, I understand.  When he
  says he just can't talk about the war – or about you or our Sarah or my
  father – I understand.  I want to shake him and yell that I understand,
  because he does not seem to understand that I do.
  
  I forget, contrary to what Dana claims, that I'm not my son's hero
  anymore.  I can't kiss it and make it better, nor does he want me to
  try.  In that way, Sam is like Dana: the harder I push, the harder I
  push him away.  I forget he no longer believes me when I say, "it will
  be fine."
  
  Well, I would not believe me either.
   
  Mulder
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Melly could have run naked through the streets and people would have
  sighed, shook their heads, and said, "There goes Melissa Mulder,
  Representative Kavanaugh's daughter and Senator Mulder's daughter-
  in–law, cousin to my Aunt Phyllis Morton of the Nashville Mortons, twice
  removed.  Poor thing's naked as a jaybird, bless her little heart. For
  God's sake, someone get Fox." Among bluebloods, any shortcoming was
  easily excused by adding "bless his little heart" after it, as in
  "Nathan likes to wear women's red flannel drawers and be whipped with a
  riding crop, bless his little heart."
  
  Dana got no such leeway.  She was a newcomer, a word pronounced as if it
  had soured.  Aside from that, the very characteristics Mulder valued in
  her – intelligence, wit, courage, forthrightness – were met with
  suspicion.  She was an enigma in a society that liked to know the answer
  to every question before it was asked.  She wasn't one of them, nor did
  Washington's polite society have any intention of letting her become one
  of them.
  
  "Do you think she minds?" a well-polished young woman's voice asked as a
  lace fan swished idly. "Minds the colored girl, I mean?  Lilly, Rosie,
  Violet – whatever her name is.  Do you suppose the new wife minds?  In
  the house and all…"   
  
  "I think," another answered cattily, "The question should be ‘does the
  colored girl mind the wife?'"
  
  The ladies were under the mistaken impression that because the Mulders'
  box at the opera had been empty earlier, it was currently empty. 
  Unfortunately for the gossips in the hall behind him, on the other side
  of the velvet curtain, Mulder could hear every word.  
  
  And so could Dana.  
  
  He clenched his teeth and rolled his fingers into fists, tapping them
  lightly on the arms of his chair.  They'd slipped in after the lights
  were dimmed, avoiding scrutiny, and would slip out early while the lobby
  was still empty.  As long as she was seated or wearing a cape, Harvey
  wasn't obvious.  Dana had heard Samuel practicing, and Mulder didn't see
  why she couldn't unobtrusively attend the opening night performance. 
  People would talk, but people always talked.
  
  There was whispering he couldn't make out, then, "Well, what do you
  expect?  He seems to be averaging a baby a year.  Melissa, then the
  housekeeper, then the new wife… If the new wife's big-bellied again,
  does that mean the housekeeper missed her turn?"
  
  There was a flurry of giggles and admonishments that the speaker was "So
  wicked!"
  
  "Well!  I bet you'd get more than a headache every night if he was your
  husband!"
  
  "If he was my husband, I wouldn't need to get a headache," the first
  woman responded, swishing her fan. "And he wouldn't be tomcatting around
  with the nigger help."
  
  "You know that's why Melissa did it, don't you?  She finally caught
  them," a new woman added dramatically, as Mulder's ears burned. "Walked
  right in on them."  
  
  Livid, Mulder leaned forward to stand, not sure what he was going to say
  or do, but certain he'd think of something.  Dana put her hand on his
  forearm, stopping him.
  
  "Samuel," Dana said quietly as the orchestra returned and the gaslights
  beside the stage were dimmed, signaling the end of intermission.
  
  He exhaled and sat back, clapping politely as he gritted his teeth.  On
  stage, Samuel's smooth face seemed out of place among the bushy gray
  beards and time-weathered skin, but his talent wasn't.  He made a few
  adjustments to his cello and the sheet music in front of him, then
  scanned the boxes, making sure his father was there.  Mulder relaxed and
  nodded in acknowledgement.  Sam nodded back, then glanced at the back of
  the auditorium.  Finding the other person he was looking for, he drew
  his bow across the strings and focused on the conductor, waiting.
  
  Following Sam's gaze, Mulder noted Poppy sitting alone, high in the
  balcony, in the colored section.  He recognized the intricate silk
  bodice of the rose-colored evening dress she was wearing; it was one of
  Melissa's many castoffs.
  
  Once the musicians were ready, the auditorium darkened and the conductor
  raised his baton.  
  
  Mulder tipped his head close to Dana's and whispered, "That's not true. 
  What those women said; it's not true."
  
  She nodded, and the violinists inhaled, then embraced Mozart's frenzied
  notes with their horsehair bows.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He helped Dana into the carriage, making sure she was warm and
  comfortable.  After she assured him she probably wouldn't catch
  frostbite in October, he returned inside to meet Samuel.
  
  The first of the audience was just emerging from the auditorium and
  streaming into the lobby.  He moved against the tide, working his way
  around the edges and toward the stage.
  
  He saw a handsome, dark-haired man trying to speak to Poppy as she left
  the balcony, reaching for her hand.  She jerked away and moved on,
  leaving him standing alone at the bottom of the steps looking
  embarrassed.  Alex, Mulder realized.  He thought of Sadie's oddly
  familiar features, and the many military hospitals in DC during the war,
  overflowing with maimed and convalescing soldiers – and the puzzle
  pieces fell into place.  Under normal circumstances, a woman like Poppy
  would have been far out of Alex's reach, but perhaps the wartime
  pickings had been slim.  Or perhaps, in the craziness of the war, they
  had found love - or at least something that had passed for it - long
  enough to conceive a child.
  
  As of late, Alex was one of Spender's cronies, but probably not his son. 
  He was one of those mysterious bastards that happen often in wealthy
  families.  From the look of him, he clearly belonged to the family tree,
  but no one ever mentioned exactly which branch had crossed with a pretty
  Russian chambermaid a few decades ago.  He was a charming ne'er-do-well,
  quick to exploit his family's connections when he was short of funds. 
  And Alex was always short of funds, yet adverse to any actual work. Like
  Spender's resemblance to Bill Mulder, Alex's resemblance to Mulder was
  only skin deep.   
  
  Alex, seeing Mulder watching, raised his hand in greeting.  His other
  tuxedo sleeve hung limp, neatly pinned closed.  Mulder waved in return,
  smiling sympathetically.  They weren't close, but they weren't enemies,
  either.  Alex was family – the kind who was loaned money if he asked,
  but wasn't invited to Christmas parties.
  
  The little devil on Mulder's left shoulder an whispered evil suggestion,
  so he stopped at one of the lower boxes, leaning carelessly on the brass
  railing around the front.
  
  A lace fan stopped swishing, and an attractive blonde woman blinked in
  surprise before she smiled enticingly.  He could have told Mrs. Andrew
  Wilder she could stop pretending her headaches; Mr. Andrew Wilder had a
  mistress in an apartment on L Street, and a prostitute in Mary Hall's
  brothel on Maryland Avenue that he'd visited every Tuesday for years.
  Owning a newspaper meant Mulder generally knew everyone's dirty laundry,
  whether he printed it or not.
  
  "The Negro woman," he told her, just for her edification. "Her name is
  Poppy."
  
  He smiled encouragingly at her red-faced mortification, as though he
  genuinely hoped her memory would improve, and then went to the stage
  door to wait for Sam.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Dana mumbled what was probably the Gaelic equivalent of "Put me down; I
  can walk," but made no effort to do so and appeared content to spend the
  night the carriage.  She'd fallen asleep on the way home, soothed by the
  gentle rocking and safe against his shoulder.  Instead of waking her,
  Sam held the door open while Mulder carried her into the house and then
  up the stairs to their bedroom.
  
  "I finally carried you over the threshold," he teased, helping her out
  of her evening dress and petticoats.
  
  She stared at him sleepily, probably trying to decide if she was
  supposed to answer, then solemnly handed him her satin slippers before
  turning and crawling up on the mattress, still in her chemise and
  stockings.  He kissed her forehead and belly as he tucked her in, and
  then closed the bedroom door as he left.
  
  "You love her, don't you?" Samuel said as Mulder returned to the
  kitchen, humming to himself. "Dana."
  
  Caught off-guard, he responded, "I care very…" He glanced at his son,
  seeing the dark, earnest eyes focused on him. "Yes, I do love her."
  
  "She loves you.  She argues with you, she does."
  
  "Caring for someone doesn't always mean you agree with them. I told you:
  she's nice, but very different from your mother.  She's asleep, though,
  so we'll get some peace and quiet for a while.  I think there are too
  many headstrong women in this house and not enough men. They have us
  outnumbered.  Reinforcements are on the way, though, and we're gaining
  on them."
  
  "I'm glad."
  
  Mulder waited, trying to figure out what his son was glad about, but Sam
  focused on making tea as though that was a normal stopping point for the
  discussion.  
  
  "I thought you were wonderful tonight.  So did Dana; she was very
  impressed.  We agreed: you're the best in your row," he added, limping
  through the one-sided conversation.
  
  His son didn't laugh.
   
  "If you want, we could go hunting tomorrow.  Do you think Amazing Grace
  remembers how to flush out rabbits?"
  
  "I'd miss church with Grandmother."
  
  "Well, we could, we could go early.  Before dawn.  You could be back in
  time.  And Grandmother wouldn't mind if you missed, just this once.  We
  haven't been hunting in forever.  Or riding.  Would you rather just go
  riding?" he asked, thinking Sam might not like the sound of the rifles. 
   
  Shrug.  
  
  "Sam… Please stop that and talk to me.  Whatever you want to say, I want
  to hear it.  Whatever's wrong, I want to fix it, but you have to tell
  me."
  
  His son shrugged, setting two steaming cups on the table as they sat
  down. 
  
  "I know this is hard.  So much has changed, but I-"  
  
  "You don't have to do this – make plans, come to hear me play, act like
  you want me here.  You have a whole new life, and I'm just a leftover
  from the old one," Sam said, sounding far removed from the situation.  
  
  Mulder took a breath before he answered, "You are my life.  You have
  been my life since I was barely older than you are now."   
  
  Sam ran his fingers through his hair, leaving them on his crown as he
  leaned his elbow on the table.    
  
  "When the war ended, instead of marching in the parade, I watched it. 
  For three days, I watched every soldier who came down Pennsylvania
  Avenue, searching for you.  And then I came here, and Poppy and I sat on
  the front steps, waiting.  Days passed, then weeks, and you didn't come. 
  And your mother was dead.  I couldn't go in our bedroom or the bathroom
  because all I could see was her laying there.  I could see the coffin in
  the parlor.  I could smell her perfume.  Poppy took one of your mother's
  hats off the hat rack, and I screamed at her.  Grandfather was dead. 
  The baby – your sister – was dead.  And you didn't come home.  I went
  back to Atlanta, to Charleston and Savannah, looking for you. I-" He
  stopped when his voice broke, and struggled to regain control. "I had to
  find you.  Everything else, I could bear, but not losing you."
  
  "And you met Dana."
  
  "Yes, and I met Dana.  And if you want to be angry with someone about
  that, please be angry with me.  Not her.  She's trying so hard to be
  your friend."
  
  Sam's gnawed his lower lip uncertainly. 
  
  "She likes you, Sammy.  She wants you here as much as I do."
   
  "No, you don't," his son said matter-of-factly.
  
  "How can you possibly think I don't want you?"
  
  Another shrug.  After a few seconds, without answering, Sam got up and
  went upstairs, leaving his teacup on the table.  As Mulder listened, he
  heard Sam go, not to bed, but to the nursery.  The crib rails squeaked
  as he picked up Emily, then the rocking chair scooted across the wooden
  floor to the window.  
  
  When Mulder checked later, Emily was asleep in Sam's arms, and Sam was
  asleep in the rocking chair with his feet propped on the window seat. 
  Mulder took Emily, then whispered for Sam to go to bed, which he did
  without really waking, just like he had when he was five.  Amazing Grace
  looked up, debating between guarding Emily and guarding Sam, and waddled
  after his boy.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  It took a little more effort for Dana to roll over, but she did, and
  found him sitting on the edge of the bed, holding a cup of tepid tea and
  staring at her.
  
  "What is it?" she asked, scooting up on the pillows. "What is wrong?"
  
  "Nothing.  I was just checking on you," he whispered, setting the teacup
  down and putting his hand on her belly again. "Seeing if Harvey was
  awake.  I didn't mean to bother you.  Go back to sleep; you need to
  rest."
  
  She stretched and then moved his palm so he could feel the hardness of a
  tiny head or bottom pressing against her skin.  
  
  "Heaven forbid you ‘bother' me.  I barely remember the last time we
  ‘bothered' each other."
  
  "Dana…" he mumbled sheepishly, stroking her abdomen.
  
  "Actually I would settle for opening my eyes and having you on your side
  of the bed instead of on the sofa.  We can even draw a line down the
  center of the mattress and both be sure not to cross it." She tugged
  gently at the starched front of his tuxedo shirt. "Lie down.  I promise
  I will not tell anyone."
   
  He grumbled but let her maneuver him down, pillowing his head on her
  chest and stretching his long legs out across the bed.
  
  "What those women said at the theater tonight: it's not true.  Not about
  Poppy or anyone else.  I told you: I wouldn't have done that to Melly. 
  Or Sam.  I would never have let either of them walk in and find me with
  another woman."
  
  "I know," she murmured, toying with his hair.  It was nice – being close
  to her, being still with her.
  
  "I wouldn't do that to you, either," he added a little belatedly. "It's
  not that there's someone else, just with the baby, with Sam here…"
  
  "Mr. Frohike has offered to come over and fulfill your husbandly
  duties."
  
  Mulder raised one eyebrow, looking up at her.
  
  "I told him Thursday afternoons would be fine."
  
  Her chest jiggled as she laughed, letting him know she was teasing.
  
  "You are a wicked, wicked woman.  And I can hear your heart," he said
  softly, closing his eyes. "Sam said he isn't part of my life now, that
  he's just a leftover obligation who doesn't belong.  Dana, just when I
  think he's doing better, he announces something like that, and I never
  know what to say to him.  It's like trying to navigate by a compass that
  randomly points every direction except north."
  
  "Be patient.  You want him to heal faster than he is able to, and he
  tries to pretend to please you."
  
  "Why would he do that?"
  
  "Because he idolizes you.  Dense, Mr. Mulder.  You can be a little
  dense.  Sit up," she requested, then rubbed her hand over her belly,
  resting her palm against one side. "Here.  Put your ear here."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "Just listen," she whispered, and he laid his head where she indicated,
  wondering what in the world he was listening for. "Can you hear it yet? 
  It should sound like mine, but faster and fainter."
  
  Mulder narrowed his eyes in concentration, trying to filter out the
  sounds of the house and the street. He exhaled, then smiled and answered
  wondrously, "Yes.  I can hear something.  It sounds like he's pounding
  on a little wet drum.  What is that?"
  
  "His heart."
  
  "That's his heart?"
  
  She nodded, not interrupting as he listened.
  
  "It's so fast."
  
  "It is supposed to be fast."
  
  "Who told you that?"
  
  "My mother."
   
  He listened for a long time, laying one arm along her body and looping
  one over her belly.  The sound of the baby was comforting, like the
  ocean.  
  
  "I'm going to Boston in a few weeks," he said quietly. "To address the
  legislature before they nominate the new senators.  Spender is bucking
  to be nominated and I want to make sure he isn't.  I thought I'd take
  Sam with me.  Maybe stop in New York for a bit, just the two of us. 
  Spend some time together.  Will you and Emily be all right?"
  
  "We will be fine.  I think that would be good for you and Samuel.  You
  will be back, though, before the baby comes?"
  
  "Of course.  Dana… Would you like me to try to find your mother while
  we're in New York?"
  
  "I would not know where to tell you to begin looking.  I do not know if
  she is still in New York.  And she does not speak English."
  
  "I don't think it would be hard to find an Irish midwife in New York. 
  She probably gets a widow's pension.  I could find her that way."
  
  "I just- No, I do not think you could find her, but thank you for
  offering," she said politely.
  
  "You sound as though you don't even want me to try."
  
  "No, I would rather you did not try."
  
  "Tell me why," he requested. 
  
  "No," she said firmly.
  
  He raised his head, frowning at her. "No?  I would like a little more
  explanation than that."
  
  She set her jaw, ignoring him.
  
  "Dana, I asked you a question." 
  
  That was the tone that made Melly's lower lip tremble, but Dana
  continued studiously ignoring him.
  
  *~*~*~* 
  
  Unlike Samuel, before Mulder interrupted his parents, he knocked.  And,
  fifteen minutes after everyone had retired for the night, he was fairly
  sure what he was interrupting, which only added to his embarrassment.
  
  "Mother, Melly wants you," he called, feeling foolish standing in the
  hotel hallway with his shirt open and his trousers barely buttoned.  He
  smoothed his hair and fastened his clothes, tucking in his shirt.
  
  The bed creaked, and his father answered, "Can it wait a few minutes,
  Fox?"
  
  "She's upset.  She wants Mother."
  
  He wasn't supposed to hear his father's frustrated whisper: "Well, she's
  not the only one.  Dear, will you please wean these children?"
  
  "Hush," his mother responded, then louder, "I'm coming.  Tell her just a
  minute, Fox."
  
  He shuffled back across the hall to convey the message. "Mother says
  just a minute," he mumbled to Melly, who had the sheets pulled up to her
  chin and was watching him with terrified brown eyes. "Oh, would you stop
  that, honey?  For God's sake, I'm not going to hurt you.  You're my wife
  and you're acting like we're complete strangers."
  
  "Go ‘way!"
  
  "I am away," he snapped. "If you don't want me to touch you, I certainly
  won't!"
  
  "I don't like you!  You're not a nice man."
  
  "Stop it!  Stop that baby voice.  You're-"
  
  He was interrupted by a soft knock on he door, which he opened to find
  his mother wearing her dressing gown and a less-than-enthusiastic
  expression.
  
  "What happened?" she asked, looking from her son to the rumpled bed and
  back again. "Fox, shouldn't your father handle this?"
  
  "Nothing happened.  She's just upset.  She started crying and wouldn't
  calm down until I said I'd get you."
  
  "Did you do something to upset her?"
  
  "No," he insisted self-righteously. "Of course I didn't."
  
  "Well, I have her," his mother said uncertainly, sitting on the bed.
  Melissa scooted toward her, still glaring at Mulder. "You go talk to
  your father."
  
  "I'm eighteen years old.  It's a little late to have that talk with my
  father," he muttered under his breath, stalking out.  
  
  He made a few laps up and down the hall, cooling off.  His first impulse
  was to say "the hell with it" and walk back to his room at Harvard, but
  that wasn't practical since he wasn't wearing shoes. Eventually, once
  his pride had healed a little, he shoved his fists in his pockets and
  wandered to the room beside his parents' suite.
  
  "What happened?" Poppy asked, and he quickly averted his eyes.  
  
  The bodice of her dress was open, and she was laying on the bed with
  Sam, who had one hand on her bare breast as he nursed.  Poppy had been
  born on a plantation, where she'd been considered a valuable addition to
  the livestock.  Her job was to nurse Sam, and covering up, in the south,
  would have been considered an uppity pretension of modesty.  No one
  cared if the cows were naked or looked away as the mares were bred.
  Mulder, however, had been raised with white servants, and thought of
  breasts, light or dark, as breasts.
  
  "Fox, what happened?"
  
  "Nothing," he answered honestly, blowing out the lamp so he couldn't
  really see her and slouching in a chair beside the bed. 
  
  He stared out the window, listening to the sound of Sam's mouth against
  her nipple.  The sucking slowed, then stopped and switched to soft
  little snores as the toddler fell asleep.
  
  "All the doctors keep saying she's better," he said, thinking aloud.
  "She was fine at dinner.  She ate.  She was even laughing." He exhaled,
  slouched a little lower, and asked, "Does she love me, Poppy?"
  
  "Does Miss Melissa love you?  I couldn't say," she answered, playing
  dumb. 
  
  "Oh, of course you can say.  You'd know better than anyone else.  She
  says she does, but - was it just because of…" He nodded toward Sam. "We
  haven't even been married for two years.  Is it just that she doesn't
  love me?"   
  
  "I think she loves you.  She's been looking forward to seeing you."  
  
  "Then what am I doing wrong?" 
  
  He didn't need to elaborate.  The fact that he'd obviously undressed,
  hurriedly dressed again, and was anywhere besides in bed with his
  beautiful young wife at ten o'clock at night was explanation enough.
  
  She considered, then answered, "She's a lady. Ladies don't think of
  those things the way men do.  Men or gentlemen, it's the same, but not
  women and ladies.  Folks say ladies don't even feel the need at all."
  
  Mulder glanced at her warily, listening.  It was the first time he'd
  ever, even in the most roundabout way, discussed marital relations with
  a woman.  And, from what the gossips whispered, Poppy was plenty
  knowledgeable on the subject.  Several married gentlemen had strayed
  across her path, lavishing gifts and complements until the affair cooled
  and they drifted away again, ashamed of themselves.
  
  "You wanting a baby, Fox?"
  
  "No," he answered quickly.  The last thing he wanted was for Melly to
  conceive again.
  
  "She's a lady, and she's your wife.  It's not nice to bother Miss
  Melissa just for sport.
  
  "I guess that makes sense," he mumbled, although it really didn't.  His
  mother was a lady, but he'd never known his father to "bother" another
  woman.
  
  Poppy covered Sam and sat up, swinging her legs over the side of the
  bed, the front of her dress still open.  When he turned his head, she
  pulled her dress together. 
  
  "I didn't mean to embarrass you."
  
  "I'm not embarrassed," he lied, his face suddenly hot. "I was just
  thinking about what you said."
  
  In the darkness, she seemed very close to him, and very warm.  Instead
  of French perfume, she smelled of every-day things: lye soap and baked
  apples and cotton.  Like his father, she smelled like home - of being
  fifteen again and thinking life was fair and would work out exactly the
  way he'd planned it.
  
  "You are embarrassed.  You're red." She put her cool hand on his cheek,
  stroking. "Silly boy."
  
  "It's hot in here."
  
  "Take off your shirt, if you're going to stay.  It needs to be warm for
  the baby."
  
  He fumbled to comply, but then decided that might not be the best idea. 
  He'd grown up with Poppy, and she was his friend, but it was easy to see
  why she had more than her share of admirers.
  
  "I will help," she offered. "Help you get undressed and lie down.  You
  like that?"
  
  "Really, I'm fine," he said nervously, his voice breaking.
  
  She leaned closer, whispering in his ear. "I could tell you what women
  like.  You like that?"
  
  He bit his lip hard, nodding, and felt her mouth moving down his jaw to
  his throat, like a vampire approaching a victim.  
  
  "Or you want me to show you?" she whispered, her breath hot against his
  skin.
  
  The hair on the back of his neck stood at attention, and his body forgot
  how to do anything that required planning, including moving.  He felt
  boneless, as though she could mold him any way she pleased.  Her hand
  moved down his chest, over his stomach, then to his groin, cupping, and
  then squeezing gently.  He moaned and opened his eyes, briefly focusing
  on Sammy asleep behind Poppy before he closed them again.
  
  "You ever really been with Melissa?" she murmured to him, urging him
  down to her breasts.  He unbuttoned the few buttons she'd fastened on
  her calico dress, and cupped them in his hands, pushing the soft, heavy
  weight upward. "You ain't.  You never been with any woman."
  
  He shook his head that he had.  Not since Samuel had come, but four
  times between the wedding and when he'd left for Harvard two weeks
  later.  Five times, counting Samuel's conception.  Six, if he counted
  the aborted attempt tonight.   
  
  "You have?" Poppy asked, pulling back.
  
  "Of course I have," he answered breathlessly, then kissed her,
  penetrating deep into her mouth with his tongue.  
  
  Poppy pulled back and guessed, "Some shop girl?"
  
  "Don't be silly," he answered, not wanting to talk anymore.  He could
  feel her nipples against his palms, her skin soft against his.  With
  increasing urgency, he pulled the white kerchief off her head, letting
  her long, black hair fall over her shoulders.  She always kept it
  covered, but she had hair exactly like Melly and Sarah's.  She looked so
  much like them that he could easily pretend she was either.
  
  Sarah.  He wanted Sarah.
  
  "Come here," he said huskily, pulling her off the bed and lowering her
  to the floor.  There were no more thoughts, not really.  His instincts
  were taking over, sweeping him along like a raging river.  This was what
  he'd wanted, what he'd imagined lovemaking would be like with Sarah, but
  never gotten the chance to experience.
  
  It was wrong – with Poppy - and he knew it was wrong, but that didn't
  make him pull away.  In the darkness, he let his imagination and base
  nature take over, giving himself permission, just once, to pretend what
  should have been.
  
  "Fox, slow down.  I don't think-" Poppy started uncertainly, her accent
  sounding like cotton fields rather than old southern money and spoiling
  his fantasy. "Please."
  
  "Don't talk," he requested, stroking her hair as he lowered his mouth to
  her breast.
  
  Poppy raised her arms, pushing him away and telling him to stop.
  
  As soon as she did, the erotic spell broke and became gut-wrenching
  disgust with himself. This woman wasn't his wife, and she didn't want
  him.  She was his son's nursemaid, and he was forcing himself on her on
  the floor beside his son's bed.  He opened his mouth to apologize, still
  on top of her, but of course, at that moment, his father opened the
  bedroom door.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Mulder woke to the slow, haunting guitar notes lilting down the hall and
  making their way into his dreams.
  
  "How long has he been playing?" he whispered to Dana, scooting up so his
  head was beside hers on the pillow.  It was still dark outside, with no
  hint of dawn approaching.  Three, maybe four in the morning, but not an
  unusual time to discover Sam was awake and roaming the house.
  
  "A few minutes."
  
  He stretched, then wrapped his arm around her, listening. "Air on a G
  String," he said quietly, recognizing the sad melody.  Sam wasn't so
  much playing as he was letting his fingers caress the strings. "Bach. 
  It was one of Melly's favorites."
  
  At the other end of the hall, a door opened, and bare feet made their
  way to the top of the stairs.  Mulder heard Poppy say something and
  Samuel respond affirmatively, then a floorboard creak as she sat down on
  the step.  Without hesitation, the guitar notes slid from Bach into the
  easy rhythm a Negro spiritual, and, after a few seconds, Poppy's pretty
  mezzo-soprano joined Sam's smooth voice.
  
  "He's a tenor," Mulder whispered, still curled up to Dana, one hand on
  her belly.
  
  "A beautiful tenor," she responded.
  
  "The last time I heard him sing, he was a treble.  Before his voice
  changed.  Before the war.  He used to sing in the boys' choir."
  
  He and Dana lay in the darkness, listening to Sam's fingers dancing over
  the strings and his and Poppy's voices singing softly.
  
  "I should get up," Mulder decided, since he was the father and knew the
  right thing to do. "Talk to him."
  
  "Stay here," Dana answered softly, covering his hand with hers on her
  belly. "He is talking; we do not speak this language."
  
  She was right, but that didn't make him feel any better.
  
  "I'm glad Poppy's with him, then," he commented.
  
  In the distance, a train whistle pierced the night.  He curled closer to
  Dana, pulled the covers higher, and then rested his hand on her belly. 
  Dana put her hand on top of his again, making small circles with her
  thumb, soothing him as they listened.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  "You don't remember being here?" Mulder asked as Sam looked around the
  observatory. "Not just in here, but being at Harvard at all?  You don't
  remember me carrying you around the yard on my shoulders?  You and Byers
  making a tent out of the blankets in our room?  You don't remember
  getting sick after my graduation and vomiting all over the Dean?"
  
  "No," his son said, shrugging one shoulder, which was an improvement
  over shrugging both shoulders.
  
  "Well, I guess you might not.  You were barely three when I graduated. I
  promise you've been here, though.  Many times.  You were an expert rail-
  rider before you were out of diapers." 
  
  Samuel examined the fifteen-inch telescope, climbing into the metal
  chair and squinting through the eyepiece. "Was this here?" he asked,
  showing the first glimmer of interest Mulder had seen in days.
  
  "It was.  I tried to show you the rings of Saturn one night, but you
  were too little to understand."  
  
  "I wish I could see them now," he answered. "But it has to be dark,
  doesn't it?"
  
  "Yes, and we have a train to catch in a little bit. We'll come back."
  
  "After the baby comes.  When Dana can come with us.  She would like
  this.  She likes scientific things."
  
  "Yes, she does," Mulder answered, surprised his son had noticed. "This
  observatory is called the Dana House."
  
  "After her?"
  
  "No, not after her.  She wasn't even born when the house was built.  And
  neither was I.  The University added the observatory and the telescope
  later.  The Dana family owned the house, originally.  Probably no
  relation."
  
  "Oh," Sam answered, and twisted his mouth sheepishly.
  
  "Do you think you would like to live in Boston?  If you decide against
  West Point, you could go to Harvard and still be close to home." 
  
  "What about the London Music Conservatory?
  
  "Or you could do that.  You still have plenty of time to decide." 
  
  Mulder felt a chill go down his spine as Bill Mulder rolled over in his
  grave: his grandson attending a music conservatory.
  
  He held the door, then followed Sam to the porch. They stood on the
  front steps, watching the students pass, leaning their bodies into the
  cold November wind.  If Dana liked snow, she'd certainly get enough of
  it in Massachusetts. 
  
  "If I accept the nomination, we'd have to move.  Not just come up for a
  month in the summer but actually have a residence.  Byers could run the
  paper for me and we could keep the house in DC, but a senator has to
  live primarily in the state he represents.  Your grandparents still have
  that big house in Boston that's doing nothing except accruing dust and
  taxes.  How do you feel about living there?"
  
  Sam shoved his hands into his coat pockets, hunching his shoulders. "I
  didn't think you wanted to be a senator."
  
  "I didn't.  I still don't, really.  That wasn't the point of me
  addressing the legislature, but now that it's been offered… I know I'm
  not corrupt.  I know I'd do a good job.  I'd try, at least, and at least
  I'm not Spender.  But Spender doesn't have a baby coming in six weeks,"
  Mulder said, thinking aloud.
  
  His son looked up, puzzled.
  
  "If I accept, I'd have to be Massachusetts by January first.  Dana can't
  travel right now, but I'd have to be living here when the legislature
  appoints me. Which means I'd either have to leave DC right after the
  baby comes, or, if he's late, I wouldn't be there at all.  I don't like
  either of those possibilities."
  
  He inhaled, the cold air stinging the inside of his nose and the back of
  his throat.
  
  "I don't know how Dana would feel about all the dinners and galas and
  hoopla that come with being a senator's wife.  I'd rather be tortured by
  the Spanish Inquisition, so I can only imagine what Dana's reaction
  would be.  And there's you.  I grew up with everyone in America knowing
  who my father was.  Not that it was bad, but… As soon as I said my last
  name, people had expectations, and if I didn't live up to their
  expectations, they acted like I'd failed them.  They still do, and I
  don't want it to be like that for you."
  
  "It already is, sir," Sam answered softly.
  
  Mulder, unsure how to respond, considered those words for a few seconds,
  then wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck and ducked his head
  against the wind as he descended the wooden stairs.  Sam fell in step
  beside him, crunching across the frozen yard and not speaking again
  until they'd turned toward the hotel.  
   
  "Grandfather would be proud of you.  If you decided to accept, he'd be
  very proud," his son finally said.
  
  "I know that, Sammy."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  Even on a good day, Dana could be… a challenge.  Or just difficult,
  depending on how generous he was feeling.  She had and trusted her own
  opinions, and wasn't hesitant about sharing them, particularly with him. 
  When he didn't agree with her, she folded her arms, pursed her lips,
  pushed her eyebrows together, and looked at him like he'd just blown his
  nose on her skirt.
  
  At first, he'd blamed it on relying on herself for so long.  The war had
  taken able-bodied men from their homes for years, leaving women in the
  south to assume previously unheard of roles and responsibilities. He'd
  thought, in time, she'd stop questioning his every move. 
  
  He'd been wrong, but he'd married her anyway.  She was generally
  difficult in an unintentionally erotic way, which might explain why most
  of their arguments began in the library and ended in bed.
  
  But when she wanted to work at it, she could turn being difficult into
  an art form.  
  
  Until he'd thought about it, he hadn't realized he didn't know Dana's
  maiden name, let alone her mother's name. He didn't have an address or a
  description of her mother, aside from being Irish and a midwife.  The
  only link he could think to track down was that her father and brothers
  – Bill and Charlie - had died on the USS Tecumseh in Mobile Bay.  Less
  than a hundred men had been aboard, so it wasn't hard to find a William
  – two Williams – and a Charles with the same last name.  Two Lieutenants
  and a Captain Scully.  From there, he'd checked the pensions for Federal
  widows and arrived at a series of tenement buildings in the immigrant
  section of Manhattan on Houston Street.
  
  "Wait here," he told Sam, closing the door of the cab.
  
  His son was busy sketching the street vendors, and nodded, not really
  listening.
  
  Mulder stood on the sidewalk, surrounded by the lilting Gaelic and
  gravelly German voices around him, and trying to develop some plan.  The
  address he'd been given wasn't a single residence, but almost an entire
  city block.
  
  "Margaret Scully," he said slowly, stopping a passing redheaded matron. 
  He patted his stomach, then held his arms as if he was rocking a baby
  and looked at her urgently.
  
  She answered something Gaelic that wasn't "I love you," "I am fine," or
  "Get off my hair," and pointed to the top of a brick building on her
  left.  
  
  Using that method, he made his way through maze of buildings, alleys,
  and staircases, which were crowded with the sounds and smells of too
  many families' laundry and suppers and children. "Margaret Scully?" he
  repeated, reaching the top floor, and a stout German man pointed at the
  door again, then gestured for Mulder to knock. 
  
  "Margaret Scully?" he asked the petite woman who answered, fairly sure
  it was.  She was dressed in black calico, and the small gold cross
  around her neck was identical to the one Dana wore. Her coloring was
  darker, but the delicate bone structure was the same, as though there
  were a few fairy folk among her long-forgotten ancestors.
  
  She nodded, looked him up and down, and asked, "Hat ihre frau das
  kleinkind?" as she dried her hands and untied her apron.  When he
  wrinkled his forehead, trying to translate her bad German, she tried,
  "Do bean chéile - An bhfuil do bean ceile ag iompar clainne?"
  
  He continued staring at her, so she sighed and asked, "Bean chabhrach?"
  very slowly. "Torrach?  Báb?"
  
  "Baby?" he responded, catching the last word. "Yes - I mean no," he
  answered.  As he'd pantomimed his way to her door, he'd gotten
  congratulations in four languages and that German man had patted his
  shoulder and offered him a tattered cigar. "I mean yes, my wife is going
  to have a baby, but no, not yet, and no, that's not why I'm here."
  
  Margaret regarded him warily.  Now he knew where Emily had gotten that
  expression.
  
  Gesturing for her to wait, Mulder took a small, framed daguerreotype
  from his coat pocket, which he'd taken from Dana's dressing table and
  hidden in his valise before he'd left DC.  It was a picture of Dana's
  father and brothers in their Navy uniforms, with her father seated and
  his sons standing on either side of him.
  
  "Was this your family?  Husband?  Sons?" he asked slowly, pointing back
  and forth between Margaret and the sepia-colored daguerreotype.
  
  She responded with a long explanation that sounded affirmative.
  
  He looked past her, into the flat, trying to see something Dana might
  find objectionable.  It was clean, comfortable, homey.  Not lavish, but
  not impoverished, either.  As a midwife, Margaret Scully lived better
  than most immigrants.  Unfortunately, there was no big sign with an
  arrow that read "this is why I won't speak to my mother."
  
  Margaret was still standing in the doorway, waiting.
  
  Hoping he was making the right decision, he opened his pocket watch,
  showing her the photograph inside front cover.  He liked pictures, but
  Dana detested posing, and it had taken a week's pestering before she'd
  agreed.  He'd been standing just behind the photographer, teasing her,
  and her expression was a charming mixture of annoyance and amusement. He
  loved the resulting photograph as much as she hated it.
  
  "Dana," she said immediately, then looked at him, wondering who he was.
  
  In response, he tapped his wedding ring, then turned his watch over and
  opened the back cover, showing her one of the two pictures secreted
  there. "Emily."
   
  She examined it closely, then pointed to the third picture he carried in
  his pocket watch.  It was the last one he had of Sam with Melly, taken
  the spring Sam was thirteen and before Melly was showing with Sarah.
  
  "Samuel," he answered, nodding, then put his hand on his chest. "Mine. 
  My son."
  
  She pointed to Melissa's image, then to his wedding ring, and he nodded
  again.  He'd probably just communicated that Melly was his wife and Dana
  was his mistress, but it was the best he could do.
  
  She turned away without responding.  Uncertain whether they were
  finished speaking, he waited, occasionally turning his head and noticing
  Margaret's neighbors hanging out of their doorways, keeping tabs on him.
  
  "Dana," Margaret said, returning with a stack of a half-dozen letters,
  tied with twine into a neat bundle. "Dana," she repeated, handing them
  to him.  The top one had been postmarked in New York in October 1861,
  sent to a street address in Savannah, and returned unopened.
  
  "All right.  Yes, I'll give them to her.  To Dana."
  
  She nodded, and, after a few uncomfortable seconds of silence, put her
  hand on the door as if she expected him to leave, so he did.
  
  *~*~*~*
   
  Byers seldom mentioned it, but his parents had been killed in an
  accident when he was in his teens, leaving him completely alone in the
  world.  He'd attended Harvard on the last of the insurance money, a few
  scholarships, and an evening job clerking in the Dean's office.  Mulder
  refrained from carousing with the other students because of Melly, and,
  aside from being too shy, Byers just couldn't afford it, so they'd spent
  many evenings bent over their books together. 
  
  As odd a pairing as it was – Mulder who'd had every luxury handed to him
  and Byers who'd struggled for every morsel – they'd become close
  friends.  Byers was quiet, honest to a fault.  Earnest in a way that
  made people want to pat him on the head and pinch his cheek.  He'd
  discuss politics and literature for hours, but mention women and he'd
  blush scarlet.  How he ever managed to ask Susanne to marry him was a
  mystery; Mulder had always suspected she'd asked him.
  
  "Do you have a few minutes?" Mulder asked, sticking his head around the
  corner of the lobby and into Byers' office.
  
  His editor-in-chief looked over the stacks of books and articles on his
  desk, smiled, and answered, "Always.  Come in."
  
  "I thought we could get a cup of coffee." 
  
  Byers shrugged and stood, pushing his chair back into place before he
  put on his coat and picked up his hat.  Mulder had the feeling he could
  have said, "let's go roll in manure" and Byers would have agreed – he
  was that kind of friend. 
  
  "I'd like to ask a favor," Mulder said, after hemming and hawing through
  two cups of coffee in the almost-empty café across the street. "Which
  I'd like you to keep to yourself."
  
  "Of course," Byers responded, and he had no doubt that he would.
  
  "I'd like you to read these," Mulder asked, pulling the bundle of
  letters out of his inside coat pocket. "I'd like you to tell me what
  they say.  I've tried, but I only understand a few words."
  
  "I'll try.  I don't read Gaelic as well as I speak it." He took the
  letters, scanning the first page, and began to read aloud slowly. "‘My
  dear daughter, I do not understand why you have not written to us.  We
  are…" Byers paused, trying to decipher the word. "Worried.  Concerned,
  maybe. ‘We are concerned for you.  Please write as soon as you are
  able,' and it's signed ‘Margaret Scully.'"
  
  "What about the others?"
  
  Byers flipped through the pages. "It's more of the same, I think.  The
  handwriting's different in each letter, so the mother's dictating and
  others are writing for her.  Some of the spelling and grammar isn't very
  good, which doesn't help.  Here, I believe she's saying her husband and
  sons have been killed in the war.  She asks several times about a doctor
  named Waterston.  In this one, she says she'll be moving and gives the
  new address and directions to the new flat."
  
  "Is there anything else?"
  
  "Not really.  It would be better to ask someone more fluent in Gaelic,
  but I think it's the same type of letter, over and over.  She's
  concerned about her daughter…" He glanced again, scanning for a name.
  "Dana."
  
  Byers quickly put the pages face down on the table as his face started
  to redden.
  
  "Dana's been married before.  Her husband didn't return from the war. 
  His name was Waterston."
  
  Byers waited for him to elaborate, but he didn't. "If you wanted to know
  what the letters say, wouldn't it be simpler to ask Dana?" he said
  coolly. "And more polite, since they are addressed to her?"
  
  "It would be nice if I could.  They were returned to her mother
  unopened," Mulder answered, folding the pages and tucking them back into
  his coat pocket. "She's never read them.  Either that, or she never
  received them; I'm not sure which."   
  
  "Oh," Byers responded, standing and laying a few coins on the table for
  the waiter – his share of the bill. "I'll see you back at the office. 
  Actually, I'll see you after Thanksgiving.  The presses are running; I
  think I'll take the rest of the afternoon off." 
  
  "Are you angry?" he asked in surprise. "Byers- John?" When he didn't
  stop, Mulder got up, following him out to the busy sidewalk. "What's
  wrong with you?  Stop.  Please stop!"
  
  Byers stopped, looking at the slushy street and considering for a moment
  what he wanted to stay. "What if Dana was to read all those letters you
  write to Melissa?  What if she stumbled onto them and read them without
  your knowledge or permission?  Or what if she brought them to me to read
  for her?"
  
  "Those letters aren't her business.  Or yours."
  
  He pointed at Mulder's coat pocket. "Those letters aren't your
  business."
  
  "Why?  What has Dana told you?  You two spend enough time with your
  heads together these days.  You're in my kitchen every time I turn
  around."
  
  Byers pushed his eyebrows together angrily. "What are you implying?" he
  said slowly. "I run your business. I fix your broken windows and check
  on your mother.  If I've talked to your wife more than usual lately,
  it's only because she's needed someone to talk to and you're always busy
  with something else.  We've been friends a long time, Mulder.  We know
  each other pretty well, so what exactly are you implying?" 
  
  "Nothing.  You're married.  She's about to have a baby.  Of course I'm
  not implying anything."
  
  "Good," Byers responded angrily, walking away.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  There was no special occasion.  He'd worked late, tying up loose ends
  before Thanksgiving, and come home to a house that smelled of pies and
  silver polish and freshly pressed tablecloths.  It just seemed like the
  kind of night he didn't want to spend alone, so he'd told himself he'd
  lie down with her for ten minutes, rationing closeness like a precious
  commodity.
  
  After so many nights on the sofa, he felt like a stranger to his own
  bed.  Dana must have felt the same, because as he slid between the
  sheets and curled up to her warm back, she whispered, "I warn you, Mr.
  Frohike, I am expecting my husband home any minute.  He's a very jealous
  man."
  
  "He's a very foolish man – leaving you alone at night like this."
  
  "He has other things to worry about," she answered, humming contentedly
  as his arms surrounded her.  Between her pregnancy and Sam's tendency to
  roam the house at night, they'd seldom been close, let alone intimate,
  in months, and he missed it – just the softness of her skin against his. 
  
  "Your husband - he thinks about you more than you'd expect.  He just has
  lots of squeaky wheels, and you're the one he can always count on to run
  smoothly."
  
  On cue, a door opened at the other end of the hall.  Mulder pushed up on
  his elbow and listened, making sure his son was headed downstairs and
  not to the master bedroom.  Once the footsteps faded, he relaxed, laying
  his head on the pillow again.  
  
  He said they slept separately so she could rest, and so Sam wouldn't
  feel awkward coming in if he wanted his father during the night.  Dana
  had said she rested better if Mulder was with her, and that most teenage
  boys could master knocking.  A smart woman, she'd only suggested it
  once, probably knowing logic couldn't compete with guilt.
  
  "Four more weeks," he commented, searching for something neutral to say. 
  
  "A little longer, maybe.  I do not think I am as big as I was with Emily
  at eight months."
  
  He put his hand on her round abdomen, feeling. "How much longer?  Five
  weeks?  Six?"
  
  Four more weeks was Christmas.  Six was early January.
  
  "I cannot tell you.  I wish I could."
  
  "You're sure you don't want someone here, just in case I can't be?  Or
  just to make you feel better?  Your mother?  Or someone else?" he added
  quickly.
  
  "Yes, I am sure."
  
  He cleared his throat. "I checked the train schedules.  I can leave the
  evening of the twenty-ninth and, if I don't stop, still be in
  Massachusetts before the new year.  I wouldn't be in Boston proper, but
  I'd be across the Massachusetts state line." He jiggled her, trying to
  ease the tension. "So you hurry up with my boy, all right?"
  
  "God and I are creating a life for you as quickly as we can, Mr.
  Mulder."
  
  "You know that's not what I mean.  It's just…  This husband of yours –
  the one who sleeps on the sofa and always seems to have something on his
  mind besides you – maybe he's not as big an ass as you think he is,
  sometimes.  He likes you, you know.  He even worries about you,
  sometimes."
  
  "Yes, I know," she whispered back. "I worry about him too."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  It started when he caught Dana with the turkey.
  
  No, it started six hours earlier when he'd asked Poppy where breakfast
  was and been tersely handed some soda crackers, a jar of jam, and a
  spoon.  Or maybe twenty-two hours earlier when he quarreled with Byers,
  but it really started with the turkey.
  
  "Don't you dare!" he ordered, lurking hungrily in the kitchen doorway. 
  Dana was leaning over her belly, preparing to lift the heavy roasting
  pan from the oven while Poppy chopped carrots and the cook rolled out
  piecrust. "Dana, get away from there right now!"
  
  Dana stopped, turning her head toward him. "I am basting," she answered
  curtly.
  
  "We have a half-dozen people who can baste," he responded, not really
  sure what basting involved. "Let Poppy do that.  Poppy: see to the
  turkey.  Dana, you sit down.  Right now."
  
  She frowned, closed the oven door more forcefully than usual, and
  followed him to the dining room, where the long table was already heavy
  with silver and china.
  
  "Please do not do that," she requested angrily as soon as the door was
  closed.  A maid was arranging the floral centerpiece, but took one look
  at Dana and recalled something she needed to do elsewhere. "If you want
  to order me around in private, that is your right, but please do not do
  it in front of Poppy."
  
  "Oh, Poppy's used to us.  She doesn't mind."
  
  "I did not say she minded.  I said I minded.  Poppy probably finds it
  quite entertaining."
   
  She adjusted a place setting, making sure all the forks lined up
  perfectly.  Straightening, she pushed her fists into the small of her
  back, massaging the ache. If he asked her, she'd tell him it didn't
  hurt.
  
  Just looking at her belly made his back hurt.
  
  "Dana, you're just tired and cranky.  This is exactly why I asked her to
  be kind to you, to make sure you don't do too much."
  
  "You asked her?" she said slowly, her cheeks getting redder and her eyes
  bluer. "To be kind to me?"
  
  "Yes.  All I had to do was tell her I needed her, and she's been
  wonderful.  She's helped with Emily; she's kept Sam out of your hair. 
  She'd run the house for you, if you'd let her, but of course you won't,
  Miss Difficult.  Why did you think she's been spending the night?  Did
  you think she just liked sleeping down the hall from our bedroom?"
  
  "How dense are you, Mr. Mulder?" she asked incredulously. "Did you see
  her expression when she came to wake me this morning and found you
  asleep beside me?  Are you really that blind?  "
  
  "Apparently I am," he retorted. "Because I have no idea what you're
  talking about."
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  And from there it got worse.
  
  For the first time in history, Sam announced he wasn't hungry, which
  wasn't the correct thing to say as the cook carried out a twenty-pound
  turkey.  He came to the table at his father's insistence, sulking and
  looking like he'd rather be anyplace else.
  
  Teena Mulder looked at Sam, then at her son, then back at Sam again,
  seeming confused.  Just as she always called Emily "Sam," despite the
  lack of any resemblance, as of late, Sam was "Fox," and she couldn't
  figure out why there were two Foxes at the table.
  
  Dana appeared in an empire-waist dinner dress, which was all the fashion
  for pregnant women who couldn't fit into anything else.  She took her
  place at one end of the table, managing a polite smile for everyone but
  Mulder.  Mulder got an icy stare that promised their discussion about
  Poppy wasn't over yet.
  
  He wanted to tell her once again how much he cared for her.  He wanted
  to put her and Harvey on a shelf, and stop time while he got the rest of
  his life in order.  Love was infinite, but time and energy weren't, and
  since Dana seemed to be the only one who could wait for his attention,
  she was the only one who did.
  
  Emily, sitting on Sam's lap, immediately sneezed all over the dish of
  green beans in front of her.
  
  No one really liked green beans anyway.
  
  As Mulder took his seat at the head of the table, his stomach growling,
  the back door opened and Poppy ordered someone out of the kitchen. 
  Judging by the angry voices, it was Alex asking to see Sadie, and Poppy
  was having no part of that.
  
  Spender, drunk and unwanted and uninvited, stormed into the dining room,
  demanding to know what Mulder thought he was doing by taking "his"
  senate seat.  Mulder tried to reason, then asked him to leave, but when
  Spender made a snide remark about Dana, Mulder lost his temper and
  knocked him out cold, sending him sprawling across the table as the
  china, the silver, most of the food, and the floral centerpiece crashed
  to the floor.
  
  Mulder thought, of all things, that he should have planned that better,
  like a lumberjack planning which way to fell a tree.  If he'd hit
  Spender with his left fist, the china cabinet would have suffered, but
  the sweet potatoes would have been spared.
  
  Teena, upset by the yelling and violence, began to cry silently.  She
  didn't understand what was happening, and asked Mulder repeatedly when
  his father was coming home.  Mulder wanted so badly to yell that his
  father wasn't ever coming home, to let off a little steam before the
  boiler inside him exploded.  Instead, he exhaled, answered that his
  father was still at the office, and told Sam to take his grandmother
  upstairs and have her lie down.
  
  Poppy stormed through, carrying Sadie, with Alex dogging her heels,
  still demanding to see his daughter.  He grabbed the back of her dress
  in desperation, and she whirled, slapped him hard, then stalked off,
  taking Sadie with her.  From Mulder's viewpoint, Alex didn't seem to
  have any intention of hurting her, but Poppy had always had a flare for
  drama, so once again, Alex was left standing alone, rubbing his cheek
  and looking embarrassed.
  
  Grace waddled in and appraised the mess.  He sniffed Spender, who was
  laying unconscious across the table, then started pulling pieces off the
  mangled turkey.
  
  Dana handed Emily a roll to gnaw, and sighed, propping her chin on her
  fist and raising her eyebrows at Mulder.  In spite of the irritated
  expression on her face, she almost seemed amused.  
  
  "I know," Mulder responded, flexing his sore hand, "Just another holiday
  with the Mulders."
  
  He growled back at Grace and finally retrieved a drumstick that was
  perfectly edible except for a little dirt and dog spit.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  And worse.
  
  "Women," Alex commented, flopping beside him on the sofa in the library,
  looking a little tipsy.
  
  "You do have to wonder sometimes," Mulder answered tiredly, putting down
  his book, "exactly what God was thinking."
  
  The only thing salvaged from their feast was the wine, and Mulder poured
  Alex a glass, then refilled his own.  He didn't like Alex, but he didn't
  dislike him, either.  The man had a pitiful quality about him, like a
  dog that followed anyone who promised him a bone.  And like a dog that
  would bite the hand that fed him, given half a chance.  Mulder didn't
  mind offering him a drink, but he didn't fill the goblet all the way to
  the top, either.
  
  Everyone else was upstairs – his mother resting, Dana with the children
  in the nursery, Sam hiding out, and Poppy just avoiding Alex.  China
  fragments scraped and a broom whooshed in the next room as the maid
  raked Thanksgiving dinner off the floor. Spender was still sprawled
  across the table, so she cleaned around him.
  
  "Mulder- Fox, I didn't mean to interrupt.  Spender told me he was
  coming, so I had a few drinks and decided I'd tag along and try to talk
  to Poppy again.  I didn't realize he wasn't really invited to dinner. 
  Or that he'd cause such a scene.  He had no business saying that to your
  wife.  Congratulations, by the way.  I hadn't seen her recently, and
  Poppy hadn't mentioned it.  I didn't know…"
  
  "It's just a bad bowl of clam chowder," Mulder said lightly, rolling his
  neck and shoulders. "Speaking of which, did you get anything to eat?"
  
  "The dog carried the turkey carcass past me.  It looked delicious."
  
  He said it in such a drunkenly earnest way that Mulder tilted his head
  back and laughed at the ridiculousness of the whole situation. "Oh, God. 
  Thank God this day is almost over.  What else can possibly go wrong?"
  
  Alex chuckled, chucked him on the shoulder as though they were best
  friends, then asked, "Clam chowder?"
  
  "It's a long story."
  
  Alex reached in his coat pocket, "Well, regardless, let's have a cigar
  in honor of your bowl of clam chowder."
  
  "That's a wonderful idea," Mulder answered, noticing he was starting to
  slur his S's.  Three glasses of wine were enough on an almost empty
  stomach.  He left the fourth sitting on the end table, untouched.
  "Outside, though.  Poppy was after me for a week the last time I smoked
  one in the house."
  
  November days were cool in DC, but seldom frigid, so they sat on the
  back steps, looking out at the empty tree limbs and flowerbeds.  A few
  roses were still blooming, looking strangely out of place against the
  dying world.
  
  "Can I ask…" Mulder said, then paused to savor the first lungful of
  smoke. "Oh, that's nice.  Cuban?"
  
  "Honduran."
  
  "Very nice.  Can I ask about Poppy?  Tell me if it's none of my
  business, but… You two are yelling at each other in my house, so I
  suppose it is my business."
  
  "There isn't much to tell.  As Poppy has made clear on several
  occasions, she no longer wants anything to do with me.  I don't think
  we've quarreled, but it's hard to tell with her.  She won't take money
  from me.  She won't accept gifts.  She won't let me see Sadie. What I
  want doesn't seem to make a difference." 
  
  "Is there someone else?"
  
  Alex turned his head, looking directly at Mulder. "I don't know.  Is
  there?"
  
  Mulder shrugged that he had no idea.
  
  Alex smoked his cigar for a while, then consoled himself by deciding,
  "She'll come to her senses.  And I may or may not take her back when she
  does."
  
  Mulder didn't comment, and after a few minutes, heard himself ask, "What
  about Spender?  What are you doing scurrying around with him these
  days?" He took a deep breath, feeling the wine warming his stomach and
  loosening his lips.
  
  Alex didn't seem to mind. "I didn't get very far in school.  I don't
  have a trade except to be a soldier.  There aren't a lot of jobs for
  one-armed ex-soldiers." He shrugged, as though that excused selling
  bonds to nonexistent government railroads and levying taxes to build
  Negro schools that never got built.  Alex would never be one of those
  men whose conscience kept him awake at night.
  
  "I've always liked you, Alex," Mulder fibbed. "Just some friendly
  advice: be careful.  If you lie down with dogs, you'll get up with
  fleas.  You're young and you're bright.  One arm or two, you can do
  better than his kind."
  
  Holding both in one hand, Alex alternated a sip of his wine with a puff
  of his cigar, and leaned back against the banister, relaxing.  Neither
  of them suggested checking on Spender or sending for a doctor; he'd wake
  up and wander off eventually, only to reappear the next time the rats
  came out of the woodwork.
  
  "I saw the book you were reading in the library.  I know the cover.  Do
  you favor Walt Whitman?" Alex asked, abruptly changing the subject.
  
  "Yes, I do.  Very much," Mulder answered. "Dana got me his new book for
  Christmas, though I think my friend Byers helped her choose it.  I doubt
  she knew I'd like it."
  
  "Probably not.  Do you know him?"
  
  "Whitman?  Yes, he's had dinner with us.  That one was a little less
  eventful, by the way."
  
  Alex sat up straighter. "Did he stay the night?  With you?"
  
  "No, he has a flat close by," he answered, wondering at the odd
  question. "He invited me to visit him, though."
  
  "And have you?"
  
  "Not yet.  I haven't found the time.  With Dana, and Sam home now… I
  want to someday."
  
  "I have.  Visited him.  It was very nice," Alex said. "He writes about
  the war, doesn't he?  About the bonds between men in battle?"
  
  "That's right," Mulder said, surprised Alex was so interested.  "And
  he's right. I've shared experiences with men during the war that I
  couldn't explain to any woman.  When you live with your men, eat and
  sleep and try not to die with your men… It's like a marriage of sorts. 
  Not that I care any less for my wife, but it's not something I could
  duplicate with her.  And nothing I'd want to duplicate with her."  
   
  "Loving men - that doesn't mean you love women any less."
  
  Alex put his hand on Mulder's shoulder, and Mulder looked at it
  curiously.  He might be a little tipsy, but he'd thought they were
  discussing poetry, not having a heart-to-heart talk.
  
  "No, it's just different," Mulder answered, uncomfortable by the sudden
  closeness.  During the war, he'd slept in tents so cramped all eight men
  had to turn over at the same time, but that was different. "Men are
  different from women, of course."
   
  "Your friend Byers – the one who also favors Whitman – is he your only
  friend?  Or do you have others?"
  
  "He's, he's, Byers is probably my closest friend.  My oldest.  We went
  to school together, roomed together, but, yes, of course I have other
  friends."
  
  "Good," Alex whispered, then leaned forward and kissed him softly on the
  lips.  
  
  For a second, Mulder was too shocked at the sensation to do anything
  except sit there.  Alex's mouth tasted of fine red wine and smoke, and
  his skin was rough, stubbly against Mulder's instead of smooth like
  Dana's.  He couldn't have been more surprised if Alex had shot him, but
  when he realized the other man wasn't going to pull away, and was urging
  Mulder to open his mouth farther, he strung two thoughts together and
  jerked back.
  
  "What was that!" he demanded. "Why did you do that?  How dare you-"
  
  "My mistake," Alex said quickly, getting to his feet and backing away.
  "A little too much wine."
  
  "Damn right it's your mistake!  You unnatural animal!  What the hell
  gave you the idea I wanted you to do that?"
  
  His face felt hot, his ears burned, and his mouth tasted like another
  man's tongue.  He was as humiliated that Alex had thought to kiss him as
  he was that Alex had actually kissed him.
  
  "I'm sorry.  It won't happen again.  Fox, you can't tell anyone."  
  
  Mulder stood, knocking over a wineglass in his haste. "Get out of my
  house," he ordered, stubbing out his cigar. "Off my property.  And don't
  come back.  Don't come near me; don't come near Poppy or her daughter. 
  Ever!"
  
  "Please, you can't tell anyone," Alex pleaded again, still sounding
  tipsy. "You can't tell Poppy."
  
  "I have no intention of telling anyone.  All I want is you out of my
  sight!  Now!" he yelled, and Alex retreated, stumbling.
  
  Mulder wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and jerked open the back
  door, finding Sam standing in the kitchen.
  
  "Did you see what he just did?" Mulder asked, still livid. "Alex?"
  
  "No sir," Sam said softly.  He examined the floor, then turned and
  walked away.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  He put the letter in his desk drawer and locked it, then debated whether
  he should add wood to the library fireplace.  He'd used all his energy
  for the day, so he decided to let it burn out for the night.
  
  Spender had slithered off the dining room table and gone to wherever
  reptiles went at night.  To Hell, hopefully.
  
  The sun was setting, so Mulder stopped to close the heavy drapes, then
  continued up the stairs.  He felt out of place, like when he'd been sick
  as a child and slept for three days straight.  He'd gone to sleep on
  Wednesday and woke on Friday, and had a difficult time adjusting to the
  idea that he'd missed an entire Thursday.  
  
  He blamed it on the wine, although it took more than three glasses to
  make him that tipsy.  And he didn't feel tipsy; he felt odd.  He blamed
  it on Alex, but he wasn't confused about the kiss so much as he was
  offended, and that was fading.  What remained was the feeling that he
  was off-balance, as though something was wrong and he just hadn't yet
  figured out what.
  
  Reaching the landing, he stopped to stretch, then lowered his arms as he
  saw his mother coming down the hall, wearing a different dress than
  she'd had on earlier.  She was taller than Dana, but not quite as tall
  as Poppy, so unless she'd found one of Melly's old ones, Mulder couldn't
  imagine where she'd gotten it.  With its high waist, it could have been
  one of Dana's early maternity dresses, except the matching bonnet she
  wore had been in fashion before Mulder was born.
  
  "Mother, did you change clothes?" he asked. "That's lovely, but where
  did you get it?"
  
  She stopped, smiled, and walked past without speaking or touching him. 
  He watched her go, making sure the back of her dress was closed, then
  froze when he saw a gentleman standing patiently at the top of the
  staircase, waiting for her.  He wore the same old-fashioned clothes as
  his mother, and he seemed too bright for the dark hallway.  He almost
  glowed, and the closer his mother got to him, the more luminous she
  became.
  
  His father took off his top hat, transferring it and his walking stick
  to one hand and offering his arm to his wife.  Bill said something to
  Teena, and they paused to smile fondly at Mulder – his father raising
  his hand in greeting – then turned and made their way down, disappearing
  around the bend of the staircase.
  
  "Mother?" he said uncertainly, following them. "Father?"
  
  They'd vanished.  The grand staircase was empty, and the mahogany
  banister gleamed in the low light.  He could have sworn he could smell
  his mother's perfume and the sweet cherry tobacco from his father's
  pipe.  It lingered in the air, and he stayed still, not wanting to lose
  it yet.
  
  "Fox," Poppy called from behind him, her voice hoarse and uncertain. "I
  was checking on your mother and she…" 
  
  He ignored her, still focused on the stairs and already knowing what she
  was going to say. 
  
  "Fox, honey, come here and sit down."
  
  "Did you see them, Poppy?"
  
  "See who?"
  
  "They were beautiful," he said breathlessly.  He turned, finally looking
  at her. "She was beautiful."
  
  "She's gone, Fox.  I was checking on your mother, and she's gone.  In
  her sleep.  A few minutes ago, I think.  She's in a better place now."
  
  "Yes, she is," he told her calmly.
  
  *~*~*~*
  
  End: Paracelsus IX