Title:  Pascal's Wager

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: PG-13 (language, mild sexuality)

Keywords: Long story, MSR, Light Angst, Post-Requiem, Mytharc 
 
Skinner head check: Intact - fully functioning and attached 
at the end of the story.  Possibly smiling.   

Spoilers: through Requiem

Summary: Mulder is returned: to Scully, to a new baby, and 
to vivid nightmares of his role in the future.  A love story 
of Elvis' revenge, baseball, babies' toes, hitchhiking the 
galaxy, aliens, hard science, and a little faith.  Star Trek, 
Tigger baggage, old shirts, new beginnings, and the end of 
the world as we know it.  And Jack Nicholson.

Archive: link to: 
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/pascalswager.html
 
Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue

Angst o'meter:  6 out of 10; sufficient high drama, but 
skewed by spooning and nesting instincts.  
 
 
****
Pascal's Wager
By prufrock's love 
****

"Let's just say that if complete and utter chaos were 
lightning, he'd be the sort to stand on a mountain in a 
thunderstorm wearing wet copper armor and shouting 'All 
gods are bastards'."

- "The Color of Magic"

****

I want to assign a number to my life like those medical 
files in West Virginia Scully tells me about - to say 'this 
is the equation of Fox William Mulder, and the answer is 
forty-two.'  I'll sit sandwiched between forty-one and 
forty-three in coach class and annoy them with pictures of 
my baby girl while we wait, 'cause that's what proud 
fathers are supposed to do when they have to wait and they 
have a captive audience.  I know; up until recently, I've 
been the captive audience.

I want to hole-punch everything neatly, sort it all by date 
and subject, and flip through the file in my old age, 
looking at the faded photo of a lanky, smirking kid and a 
little girl with braids and thinking 'life is a journey; 
not a destination' or something equally banal from a 
Hallmark card.  I'll sign off on the final report and the 
adventure, having solved the mystery to everyone's 
satisfaction, and shove the squealing metal drawer closed.   

There's an excited, pneumatic rushing sound of wet glass 
moving over smooth wood as the bartender slides another 
drink my way without asking.  I catch it, empty it, and 
recycle it back to her with a sloppy grin.  She grins back 
and I find something else to look at.
 
I want to skip ahead in the novel to see how it turns out; 
make sure no one dies of cancer or loses faith in the 
struggle or just gets fed up with me and walks out of my 
life in clunky black heels.  I need to know that the ending 
is sunny and sweet and bunnies and kitties before I plunk 
down my credit card and heart.  I'd like to read the 
reviews and see if any of my friends would recommend it 
before I open the book of Mulder again 'cause, damn - the 
revised version has a few new chapters.
  
I want to feel not cheated and blessed at the same time, 
because I do single-minded obsession much better than I do 
rationalization.  I leave the rational to Scully, but I 
keep hoping she'll rub off on me.

If only she would.

I want Jack Nicholson to stop using the chip in my head as 
his personal karaoke microphone to growl "What if this is 
as good as it gets?" like a bad William Shatner commercial.  
I need to know that my thoughts are my own and my stomach 
not to churn like an overloaded washing machine when I 
think that this is the first day of the rest of my life.  

One o'clock in the morning - night; the first night of the 
rest of my life and this could be as good as it gets.

I want those Hallmark folks to come up with a card with all 
that in it so all I have to do is sign it 'Love, Mulder,' 
like I didn't stop to think before I wrote that and I sign 
my checks 'Love, Mulder.'  It needs to say 
'congratulations' and 'don't shut me out' and 'I am so 
scared I could pee my pants' and 'please have faith in me,' 
but none of that can be obvious because I'm a chicken-shit.  
It should be pale pink, with pretty ivory script and a 
useless piece of transparent tissue in the middle and the 
envelope should be lined with silver foil - keeps out alien 
mind control rays.  I'll sign it 'Love, Mulder' and put it 
in my top dresser drawer with her name on it next to 
the cross I don't wear, but haven't given back.  

I want. 

What is it they say about wishes, beggars, horses, wings, 
and frogs bumping their butts?  

After hours of practice, the motion has become automatic 
again and my wrist dances as fluidly as a cobra striking.  
There's a hiss, then a satisfying 'thwap' sound as the 
sleek metal tip of the dart penetrates the corkboard.  
Sexual frustration cloaked as a sporting event - same as 
the Super Bowl.

I'm wallowing.  Scully would tell me I'm wallowing.  Well, 
I've been the perfect little boy for months while I try to 
readjust to gravity and I think I deserve a little pity 
party.  I've done all my exercises, and kept all my 
appointments, and pissed and bled on command until I've 
begun to suspect my bodily fluids have black market value. 

Thwap!  

I went for a little stroll in the woods and came back to 
her belly being hailed as the greatest miracle since the 
Christ child and three weeks in the ICU while I decided 
whether or not to breathe on my own.  I'm supposed to be 
patient.  It takes time, Mr. Mulder.  You've been through a 
lot, Mr. Mulder.  

I'm tired of being a patient; of being patient.  I want my 
life back, damn it!  I want my partner and my X-files and I 
want to be able to stand up quickly without getting dizzy.  
I want to go back to work and I want to know what They did 
to me and to Scully and I want it all NOW! Call me a greedy 
horse's ass, but I do.   

I do.

Thwap!

I couldn't head off the urge to self-destruct, so I'm 
drowning it.  Maybe I can convince Scully it's for the 
calories everyone's always trying to shovel into me so my 
clothes won't look like hand-me-downs from someone who had 
great taste, but weighed 170 instead of 155.  Let's see - 
2000 calories in a pound, six shots and two beers at an 
average of maybe 200 calories each means I've gained . . . 

Fuck - I think it just means I'm drunk. 

I officially quit outpatient physical therapy today - I 
just couldn't stand any more heel-toe walking.  Hey - 
Mulder made a joke! Stand; walking - PT humor.  I'll drink 
to that.  Of course, I may have to concentrate to get the 
shot glass from the bar to my face without spilling, but 
I'll work on that Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.  Until I 
got fed up and stalked out, Tuesdays and Thursdays were 
reserved for fixing whatever ET did to my balance and 
regaining some of the muscle tone I lost while I was in the 
hospital.  I stopped on my way home for a morose 
celebratory beer, which turned into a morose celebratory 
tequila and a phone call to Scully that involved lying, and 
somehow it got to be one in the morning.

I like the way a middle-aged Mary Kay wannabe dodges before 
she gets a dart directly between her overly made-up eyes.  
It makes me feel powerful; like I have some control and my 
life isn't just something to amuse the gods.
 
Thwap!  

Bull's-eye.  Go me.  My Occupational Therapist would be 
proud.  She'd say something about fluent visual-motor 
integration and slap a smiley-face sticker on me.

Mary Kay makes the mistake of touching my left shoulder, 
her fingernails a gaudy purple against the soft gray.  "You 
havin' a bad night, sweetie?"

Don't

Thwap!

Fucking

Thwap!

Touch

Thwap!

ME!

My, my - telepathy works after all.  Mary Kay unclenches 
her talons and wanders off to find another excuse not to go 
home alone tonight.  I'm probably supposed to watch her 
undulate.

Sorry, sweetheart, you don't even compare.  There are 
primes and there are remainders, and at the end of this 
night, you'll still be a remainder.  My prime is home 
asleep in her functional pajamas while I choose between a 
motel and the Gunmen's couch for the night, since I can't 
show up at Scully's apartment this drunk and my bed seems 
to focus bad dreams with laser-like precision.  I have a 
theory that They can't find me again if I don't go home, so 
hiding out at the Best Western will probably beat 
humiliating myself in front of Frohike by a mile.  

If I ask her, Scully will tell me it will be 'fine'.  That 
my memory and strength will come back, that we'll work 
through this, and that my nightmares about the baby are 
just that - nightmares.  We'll both at least suspect she's 
lying on several counts; Scully's very liberal with her 
definition of 'fine.'
 
I shake it off like a wet dog and pull my phallic symbols 
out of the dartboard, walking back to renew my assault on 
the cork Mother Goddess.  I've become that awkward variable 
you can't do anything with except divide it into both sides 
of the equation and make it go away.  How do I explain how 
that feels to Scully?  

Thwap!  

It feels like I want to hit something - to fight my way 
free and run - except that there's no one and nothing to 
hit and nowhere to run tonight.  Wonder what section 
Hallmark would have that card in - the post-abduction, 
pseudo-fatherhood, get-well-soon, anxious-angst aisle?  And 
I missed Mother's Day; shit!  I'll never find a card for 
all that, not a pale pink one with a silver foil lining, 
anyway.

****

"A dreamer is the one who can only find his way by 
moonlight, and his punishment it that he sees the dawn 
before the rest of the world."

- Oscar Wilde

****

Something's tied around my ankles and I thrash madly, 
fighting, desperate to get free like Houdini in the final 
seconds of an underwater escape.  I bolt upright, gasping 
for air as I break the surface of consciousness, reassuring 
myself that I'm able to move and that gravity is in full 
force.  Once my legs are untangled from the covers, I 
concentrate on slowing my breathing, trying to figure out 
what triggered this latest trip down repressed memory lane.

I'm on the floor between the couch and the coffee table, 
hiding, most likely.  The blanket, a pillow, and a few of 
the couch and throw cushions are on top of me, shielding me 
from 'Them' as I cower.  Like Alien beam-me-up-Scotty 
tractor-beams don't penetrate cotton.  Like They can't take 
me again anytime they damn well please and torture me for 
shits and giggles.

Headlights or maybe an ambulance driving by, I hypothesize.  
I was so drunk I forgot to close the blinds.  Breathe, 
Mulder; it's just ordinary, totally terrestrial lights.

I hate this: being alone, sweaty-cold, and afraid in the 
suffocating darkness.  Knowing something is wrong but not 
able to place that wrongness in any context. Feeling 
hunted, not knowing which way to turn for safety.  

The Animal Behavior Lab at Oxford - that's what this 
reminds me of: my freshman year work-study job and Elvis 
the mouse.  Professor Kelly was a withered old alcoholic 
who had published something important about three decades 
previous and was still pickled and on display for when the 
Alumni association came around.  Most of the time, though, 
he conducted and got off on running mice in the lab.  My 
job, 'a learning experience,' as it was called, was to 
listen to his theories, go for more gin, and take data.  
He'd teach the white mouse to navigate the mazes until he 
could do it like a commuter in rush hour.  Then he'd begin 
electrifying a small section of the floor, each day 
gradually decreasing the safe areas until the entire floor 
of the maze was live.  The poor mouse had to decide - run 
and get shocked or stand still and get shocked.  That's 
when the experiment really became interesting, he said - 
when there was no place left to run.  The only thing I 
learned from him was that he was a sadistic old shit and I 
never wanted to be one of his mice.  I liberated Elvis, got 
fired, and hopefully contributed to Professor Kelly's liver 
failure the next spring.  

When I try to get up from my Laura Ashley floral rubble, I 
become aware of pain - exquisite, someone-beat-me-with-a-
baseball-bat pain.  Shit - what the hell is broken now?  If 
I get any more dents or dings, something's going to end up 
getting shoved back into place.  Maybe that chip will get 
knocked loose, I'll sneeze, and that will be that. 

"You okay, Mulder?"  Scully appears over me, looking 
tousled, tired, and concerned.

Son-of-a-bitch - I thought those gray and white-stripped 
couch cushions I was using as cover looked familiar.

"I'm okay.  How'd I get here?"

At least that's what I intended to say.  Between whatever 
has happened to my jaw and the coating of spackle that has 
been applied to my tongue, it came out sounding like 
Charlie Brown's teacher.

"The bartender found you on the floor after a brawl and had 
the sense to speed dial number one on your cell phone 
instead of calling the police.  I called Skinner to go get 
you, and after much debate, we decided to let you sleep it 
off on my couch and interrogate you in the morning.  God, 
Mulder - you cannot mix alcohol and your meds.  What were 
you thinking?"

"I'm sorry, Scully.  I-"  

"Just save it.  Actually, I don't even want to hear it; 
whatever you're going to say isn't going to make it better.  
It's not morning yet.  I refuse to be livid on Fridays 
before six."  

Satisfied that I'm not dying, Scully shuffles to the 
kitchen, breathing much louder than is necessary.  I 
follow, a little unsteady on my feet, hoping she'll let me 
apologize tonight instead of stewing until morning.  Right 
now, I'm looking all helpless and cute and I can work the 
injured puppy dog angle - by morning, I'll just be a 
stupid, sore, hung over mutt and there will be no hope of 
mercy. 

"Drink," she orders.  I drink, sticking my raw face under 
the kitchen tap to rinse out my mouth and wash off a layer 
of bar grime after I fill my glass.  "So what were you 
dreaming about?"

A cry from the bedroom interrupts before I can answer, so I 
grab an ice pack out of the freezer for my jaw, transform 
my couch cushion fort back into furniture, and start 
channel surfing.  There's half a drugstore worth of pills 
assigned to me; none of which keep away the dreams - they 
just keep me from swimming to consciousness and escaping.  
Experience tells me going back to sleep unstoned probably 
won't be an option, so I snuggle down and listen to the 
lull of Scully talking to Emma in the bedroom as the 
television flickers mindlessly.   

I have no memories of what They did to me and some of my 
pre-abduction memories are still a little scrambled - not 
missing, just out of focus.  I'm functional, barely, but at 
night rumors roam free, untouched by regression hypnosis, 
drugs, or Scully's gentle attempts to reach out to me.  
This is PTSD, she says, closing my chart and running her 
palm over my cheek comfortingly.  Rest, Mulder.  Do your 
exercises, Mulder.  Don't think about your personal price-
check chip in your frontal lobe, Mulder.  

The nightmares begin Technicolor vivid: gaudy, silvery 
figures chasing us - the baby and I - as we run through the 
deep snow.  Scully's trying to keep up behind me, but she's 
falling further and further behind.  I can feel the cold 
seeping into my boots - soaking through my jeans - and my 
arms tiring as I carry the baby in the darkness.  Frozen 
tree branches lash at my face, frantic fingers clawing at 
me from every direction.  Scully's exhausted; she can't go 
on, and she yells at me to leave her, that I can't let Them 
get to Emma no matter what.  Safety - whomever, whatever, 
or wherever it is, is just ahead, but I can't leave Scully.  
I'm so cold and so tired and so afraid and this is a choice 
I can't make.  But They're getting closer and closer - I 
can see the lights bobbing through the snow, reflecting 
diamonds against the icicles in the black and white world.
   
"Mulder," Scully says softly, trying not to startle me.  
"It's okay.  Just a dream."

I jump, blinking and shaking my head, and the hallucination 
vanishes into cool mist.  "What was that?"  

"Confusion arousal.  You're just not awake yet.  Go back to 
sleep; I have to feed the baby." 

"I don't think I like having something called 'confusion 
arousal,' Scully." I tell her, burrowing deeper, away from 
the beam-me-up-Scotty lights.

"It's a waking dream."

"Oh," I respond, leaving it at that.  No sense in rehashing 
the same thing again; there's only the impending sense of 
doom and a frantic need to keep Scully and Emma safe, which 
I chalk up to my usual paranoia and some probably misguided 
nesting instincts.
 
There's a series of loud protests as Scully again tries to 
get the baby to take a bottle.  Emma's having none of it 
and she's as opinionated as her mother when she's pissed 
off.  It's still Scully-juice, just in a more convenient 
container, but Emma doesn't understand that her personal 
source of nutrition can't be at home and at the Hoover 
building at the same time.  After a few minutes of chasing 
the baby's mouth with a bottle, the neighbors are pounding 
on the wall and Scully sighs and heads out of sight to 
nurse.

The die-cast model of a 1957 Chevy Bel Air suddenly becomes 
very interesting on QVC.  I stare straight ahead, 
contemplating the benefits of being able to make two 
payments of $24.95 and how they can justify almost six 
dollars in shipping and handling.  Perfectly natural, best 
for the baby, nothing to be ashamed of - whatever; they're 
still breasts and they're still Scully's and this is all 
happening at warp speed from my perspective.  

"Breathe, Mulder," comes a voice from behind the door of 
the bedroom.  "It's okay.  You're allowed to notice."  

"Am I?"  Shit!  That didn't sound the way I meant it, 
although I'm not sure how I meant it.  

"Is that what tonight was about?  You and me?  Or the 
baby?"  

I let my head drop heavily to the back of the couch so I'm 
staring at the shadows on the ceiling, and the room spins 
for a moment while my brain correlates the new angle.  "No.  
God, no.  I don't even know what I'm so pissed off about.  
Life, I guess."

Scully lets me mope, muse, or whatever, as she performs an 
amazingly selfless miracle that I unfortunately find sexy 
as hell, which reassures me that at least some of my parts 
are in full working order.  Scully's always been modest, so 
it's not that she's one of those women that bare all in the 
middle of the food court for God, Country and the counter 
boy at Starbucks to examine.  All she's doing is covertly, 
voluntarily sustaining a parasitic creature whose never-
ending demands wake her at all hours, restrict her freedom 
of movement, and necessitate - from what I've seen in the 
laundry basket - some really ugly bras.  It's still amazing 
and it's still sexy as hell and I still feel like I should 
get a bunch of small bills ready before I let myself notice 
that milk doesn't get into babies by osmosis.  

My recollection of the Emma saga starts with realizing I 
was conscious, then reaching out, searching for Scully 
through the fog, and finding a belly where there used to be 
a waist.  She helped me run my hand over her swollen 
breasts and stomach - possibly the most intimate contact 
we've ever had, and said everything was going to be 'fine'.  
I didn't buy it; the sun could be going super-nova and 
Scully would slather on extra sun screen and say it was 
going to be 'fine'.  I had the breathing tube down my 
throat, so I couldn't ask questions and I was having 
trouble seeing, but, um, you couldn't have children, 
Scully.  Your ova were in my freezer between the 
Fudgecicles and a collection of those fruitcakes your 
mother sends me every Christmas.  And we hadn't had sex - 
not even close; I knew how the mechanics of these things 
worked and I'd remember something like that.  I decided it 
was just too weird and went back into my coma for another 
week.  

"Doesn't it scare you, Scully?" I say, raising my voice so 
she can hear me in the bedroom.

"What?" she calls back.  Deep discussions work best in the 
dark, but not when we have to volley our hearts' secrets 
the length of her apartment like two blind souls playing 
badminton. "Does what scare me?"

"Everything."  That you have no idea why Cancerman arranged 
for you to have that baby, that your partner is a few 
French fries short on his Happy Meal these days, that we 
haven't said one word about our future together or what 
we're going to do with that little creature I'm carefully 
not noticing is latched onto you like the Flukeman.  

"It scares the hell out of me, Mulder, but that's not your 
fault.  Stop beating yourself up - or getting someone else 
to do it."  

It's quiet, only the low chatter from the television 
protecting us from silence until Scully reappears buttoned 
up with a contented baby, motioning me to scoot down and 
make room.  "She's not really hungry, Mulder.  She's just 
greedy, but I understand.  You wake up helpless and alone 
in the dark and it's all right to be a little greedy for a 
while."
 
CNN drones the celebrity news and fashion trends as though 
they were scripture as she strokes the baby's fair cheek, 
lulling her back to sleep.  

When Scully first brought me to her apartment after the 
rehab unit at the hospital said - uh, insisted - I could 
leave and stop causing trouble, I'd noticed one new 
addition.  Something that didn't blend with all the Winnie-
the-Pooh crap single mothers are required to have for five-
month old babies.  In the kitchen, on the stove that Scully 
never turns on, was a new thing that you set hot dishes on 
that read 'Martha Stewart doesn't live here.'  It was 
probably a gift from her mother and I have a suspicion that 
Martha Stewart is really one of the superhuman shape-
shifting aliens I dimly recall, but regardless, I liked 
that Scully got that out of the way right up front.  

Martha Stewart doesn't live here - there would be no tatted 
lace doilies cunningly made into toaster cozies, no mashed 
potatoes made from actual whole spuds and riced with heavy 
cream and organic home-grown chives, and no hand-quilted 
baby comforters painstakingly embroidered with the ABCs 
which Emma would just puke on indiscriminately.  

My mother would have been appalled.  Mom was big on 
doilies.

In this apartment, the lady of the house carries a gun and 
opens the drawer beside the refrigerator where she keeps 
all the take-out menus when she asks what I want for 
dinner.  If what she orders doesn't suit me, I could get up 
and make my own damn bowl of Frosted Flakes.  She finally 
resorted to a scalpel to get into the supposedly 'child-
proof' baby aspirin drops yesterday, glaring at me, daring 
me to say a word about her surgical or mothering skills.  
In the hospital, I know she thought I was still too groggy 
to notice, but one of my first memories is her taking out 
my stitches with one hand, holding a week-old baby up to 
nurse with the other, and going over the finer points of 
dating corpses by the life cycle of the flies on them on 
the phone.  

Martha Stewart doesn't live here, and no one seemed to be 
suffering for it.  While I'm at the Hallmark store looking 
for that card I thought was such a good idea two hours ago, 
I'm going to see if they have a hot plate thingy that says 
'Ward Clever doesn't live here, either.  Actually, his 
insecure alter ego, Fox Mulder, doesn't even live here.  He 
has his own apartment in Alexandria, but he likes it here 
much better and he'd like to stay; he's just not sure how 
to ask.'  It will probably be a big hot plate thingy.  

"Can I hold her, Scully?  I'll be careful."

Scully hesitates, but shifts the warm bundle of baby and 
blankets to my chest, hovering protectively over us.  As 
long as she's within Scully's sight, everyone passes this 
kid around as though she's a public property: Mrs. Scully, 
Byers, even Skinner and Frohike will retrieve a pacifier or 
offer a finger to grasp if no one is looking.  No one 
passes her to me, though, and I'd never offered.  I could 
have a flashback, or my arms could suddenly go limp, or I 
could somehow screw it up and traumatize her for life, so 
I've been watching, but leaving the parenting to Scully for 
now.  My justification was that I focused on getting better 
so I could go back to work, but a still, small voice kept 
whispering that I was just a little afraid - and a little 
greedy.

She's so small.  Emma looks much bigger in the crib or when 
Scully holds her.  God, with one hand on her butt and one 
over her head, she almost disappears.  I look to Scully to 
see if I'm doing it right, and she nods affirmatively, so I 
lean back, wondering how long I can breathe without moving 
my chest and disturbing her.

"What if she's like the other little girl, Scully?" I say 
softly.  For the life of me, I can't remember her first 
daughter's name.  I remember making a Mr. Potato Head face 
at her and Scully's face after her funeral, but not her 
name; another glowing example of my Swiss cheese memory.

"Emily, Mulder."

"Right, Emily.  Emma didn't just come from nowhere, 
Scully."  Since I escaped rehab two weeks ago, everyone has 
been tiptoeing around and answering my questions with 
questions and I was tired of it.  It was time to talk about 
'fine.' 

"She's healthy.  The Gunmen have the files while I'm on 
maternity leave - if you're up to it, go visit them 
tomorrow.  They'd love to see you."  She pauses, shifting 
her gaze from the TV screen to me.  "You remember I told 
you she's genetically related to you?"
 
I nod, flinching at the pain shooting through my jaw, and 
reach out for her hand as I curl into the corner of the 
couch.  I'm not likely to forget that Emma is somehow my 
daughter.
 
"We ran the DNA against yours and the profiles from your 
parents' autopsies.  There are some things we need to talk 
about."

I can tell that Scully was going to say more, but there's 
really no need.  Whatever she wants - I'm content right 
here, right now, and I haven't felt that since that last 
night together in Oregon.  That was another night we 
'almost,' but didn't - and the Aliens generously left that 
memory.  

I'm already dozing, blissfully enjoying normalcy with a 
slight smile, a small Scully hand, and a minuscule bundle 
of baby.    

"I know you're going to make this your new quest as soon as 
you can, Mulder, but I don't want you turning her into a 
science project.  I want to know what happened, but not at 
her expense or yours."

Scully rubs her thumb over mine and I relax and surrender 
to sleep, a warm little head innocently nestled against my 
chest, completely unaware that she's my living proof of the 
Drake equation.   

****

"It's not very pleasant in my corner of the world at three 
o'clock in the morning.   But for people who like cold, 
wet, ugly bits, it is something rather special."

- Eeyore

****

When I open my eyes again, it's dawn, and I'm eye level 
with Scully's bare feet.  She's still on the other end of 
the couch; still sound asleep with the baby cuddled up in 
front of her.  I shift and she shifts, one hand 
protectively on Emma and the other briefly patting my fuzzy 
calf like I've been a good boy before she tucks the blanket 
carefully over my leg, her shoulder, and most of the baby 
without ever really waking.  I contemplate the pink little 
piggy that was deprived of roast beef, but Scully's likely 
to kick me in the face if I 'wee-wee' it and annoy her 
after my shenanigans last night. 

I untangle myself from the two women in my life and head 
for the bathroom, then return pressing the forgotten, but 
still vaguely cool cold pack alternately to my busted lip 
and my aching jaw.  Emma opens her blue eyes and 
contemplates me, sizing me up as a possible father figure, 
source of entertainment, or method of sustenance.  I'm 
batting one, possibly two, out of three this morning, so I 
squat down eye-to-eye with her for easier inspection.  Emma 
immediately whops me over the head with her bunny and 
babbles something that probably translates to "Not the 
Mama!  Not the Mama," like that baby dinosaur that used to 
be on TV, indicating she finds me inferior as a food 
source, but possibly amusing.  

Scully opens a matching set of lake-blue eyes and yawns 
like a lioness.  "It looks like I worked you over good, 
Mulder."
 
"Frohike's gonna be jealous."  Bunny's hard nose makes 
contact with my tender mouth and I make a face at Emma.  
Those eyebrows come together in a familiar scowl and I 
brave a very small smile under my swollen lip.  "You want 
me to watch her while you get a little more sleep?  Or 
shower?  If she's anything like her mother, abusing me 
should amuse her for hours."

"Wait until she learns to talk and can second guess you," 
Scully says.  "Go on, Mulder.  I know you're all geared up 
to see the Gunmen.  I'm going to pretend that I don't know 
you're driving when you're not supposed to be."

I don't like being dismissed, but I don't argue.  Greedy; I 
will not be greedy.  Since I'm not sure Scully would 
appreciate a kiss right now, I get Emma's piggies, which 
are identical to Scully's, rolling the impossibly tiny, 
perfectly perfect toes between my fingertips.  Emma is also 
unappreciative, and lets me know that as I hunt for my 
shirt and shoes, keys and wallet.

"I'll call you when I get there, okay, Scully?" I ask, hand 
on the doorknob, eager to make my escape before she gets 
completely awake and starts thinking.  I still have a 
serious ass-kicking coming to me.

Scully stands and stretches, giving me an unknowing glimpse 
of her pale stomach.  "Did you quit OT, too, or just PT?  
Are you going this afternoon?"

Shit!  Is there an underground source tracking my every 
move?  Thank God I'm not trying to do anything actually 
shifty - her Spidey Sense is better than my mother's.  
"I'll go if you'll let me take you out to dinner tonight, 
partner."

"I don't see what one has to do with the other, but I'd 
love to get out.  I'll call Mom and see if she'll babysit."

"Nah - Gunmen are cheaper.  They accept payment in beer and 
video games.  Seven?"

"Seven.  And she's a baby, not a science experiment, 
Mulder.  I mean that."

She's a blue ribbon science experiment courtesy of C.G.B. 
Spender and half a step short of medical rape, but I'd 
never say that.  She's another enigma to add to my filing 
cabinet and miracle to add to Scully's - and hopefully, my 
- life, although I have no idea how. Itt's not like our 
lives are conducive to minivans, bake sales, or parenting 
in general.  Scully has enough trouble just raising me.

For Christ's sake, Mulder!  Greedy - I will not be greedy.

I leave Scully mid-yawn and go do what I do best - chase 
mysteries.  In this case, the mystery is a daughter and six 
missing months of my life.

****

" 'You'd better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace.  
It's unpleasantly like being drunk.'
'What's so unpleasant about being drunk?'
'You ask a glass of water'."

- Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide

****

"Hey, Mulderman!  Where's your scrumptious partner?"

"Damn, Mulder - what the hell happened to you?"

"How's the baby?  Is Scully with you?" 

A trio of voices greets my deep-dish pizza and I as the 
Gunmen throw the dozen bolts on the steel door behind me.  
That door doesn't seem nearly as paranoid to me as it used 
to.   

"Emma did this," I tell them, choosing one generic response 
and gesturing to my now-purple jaw and swollen lip.  
"Scully's in negotiations with Don King as we speak."

"Looks like you got one good shot in," Langly says, 
eyeballing my battered right hand holding the bowed pizza 
box.

I flex my free arm, demonstrating my legendary brute 
masculinity.  "Skinner's face got in the way of my fist."  
Or I tripped and slammed it into the asphalt while he was 
hauling my drunken ass through the parking lot by the 
scruff of my neck - truth can be subjective.

"Damn right, Mulder, but you need to use a stick to beat 
the men off Scully.  Less soft tissue damage and more 
leverage."  Frohike tosses me a root beer and makes room 
around the table they use as HQ.  "I assume you're here for 
some seedy-underbelly scoop and not just the intellectually 
stimulating company?"

I hand over the box, inhaling the liquid, greasy smell of 
something not hospital food, and set down the stack of the 
half-dozen X-files I'd wedged underneath my arm.  "Bring it 
on."

While my queasy stomach and I gently explore a slice of 
pizza and I press the cold can to my jaw, Byers plunges 
hungrily through the DNA analysis, sorting out the black 
blips into the closest thing that would equal two parents 
and one child.  I hadn't realized there was any question.  
Scully, me, and baby makes three.  As he pages through the 
file, looking for the right sheets, I notice that Scully 
has run genetic tests on everyone she could access: me, my 
parents, her sister, Emily, Gibson, and several names I 
don't recognize and don't plan to ask about.  I wonder if 
Skinner realizes his genetic profile is in here as a 
possible father?  I borrow that transparency and hold it up 
to the light as I chew, wondering which is the gene that 
triggers the bald over-protective scowling.  

Greedy, Mulder.  

The green-eyed monsters started jabbering when I noticed 
Skinner and Scully were a bit more casual than when I left, 
especially when said casualness involved him showing up at 
her door in jeans and carrying groceries at all hours to 
'check' on 'us'.  I threw a royal something's-wrong-and-
I'm-not-gonna-tell-you-what shit fit that would have made a 
two-year old proud when I woke up last week and found them 
having coffee in the kitchen.  Fully dressed.  Vertical - 
not even sitting; leaning against the counter and speaking 
quietly so they didn't wake the babies - Emma and Mulder - 
up.  

Green-eyed monsters are fierce, but not very bright.

Scully, having had me all but meld myself to her every time 
another man came around for the last eight years, calmly 
explained that Skinner blamed himself for losing me and 
just felt better keeping close tabs.  When that didn't 
pacify me, Scully told me Skinner had been royally bent out 
of shape when she nominated Byers instead of him to help 
her mother as the Lamaze coach.  That mental image had 
finally distracted me from my Scully-Skinner fixation - but 
it meant I was planning a long man-to-man talk with Byers.  

John Fitzgerald 'I have witnessed the miracle of birth 
while you were still being fed through a tube' Byers 
finally flops about five different profiles on the battered 
vinyl tablecloth and starts circling with a felt-tipped 
marker.  The closest he can calculate is half-Scully, part 
Mulder family - not me, he notes, and part something not 
identifiable.  

In other words: part not human, and not my daughter.  

He says it so casually, showing me the DNA Emma shares with 
Gibson Praise and a dead bee, as though that's of vital 
interest to me at this moment.  I'm only interested in how 
many slurs I can cast on his manhood before he loses 
consciousness from strangulation by his own prissy necktie 
when I accidentally choke him with it.

Thinking back, Scully never said I was Emma's father.  When 
I finally woke up and could understand, she'd said breezily 
that Emma was 'related' to me, but everything was 'fine' 
and moved on to more important matters like removing 
breathing tubes and catheters.  Again, I took Scully's 
'fine' to mean 'Cancerman arranged for us to have a little 
girl and I love you very much, but I have things under 
control and I want you to concentrate on getting better and 
then we'll talk.'  Or, 'You went off and left me alone and 
pregnant, you son-of-a-bitch, and I'd never willingly ask 
you for a damn thing even if we'd conceived the kid the 
old-fashioned way in the backseat of a Ford Taurus.'  Or, 
'You can throw around pretty words about touchstones and 
constants, Mulder, but you're not cut out for this, and 
vaginal birth pretty much gives me property rights - this 
is my life; look but don't touch.'      

I uncross and cross my ankles again, under the wobbly 
table, but the boys are already moving on, oblivious.  
Byers drones over Scully's and the baby's medical records, 
but there's nothing abnormal except for the immaculate 
conception.  Not my daughter.
 
I'd been chewing on a crust, but it's suddenly dry, as 
though sawdust had been used in place of the flour, and I 
toss it back into the box.  Frohike grabs it, looking at me 
like I'm crazy; pizza and information are not to be lightly 
thrown around.    

Langly the Graceless takes this moment to spill my personal 
X-file into his paper plate and pizza sauce, and the 
pictures they took in the emergency room are awful enough 
to momentarily jar me out of my mini-murderous-funk.  

I saw my MRI when they called Scully to come explain why 
the surgeon couldn't take the chip out of my head - I was a 
little bit upset to learn I had a tracking device embedded 
in me like a marked grizzly bear.  I felt like I should 
have a red ear tag and people in flannel following me 
through the woods with radio antennae.  'Observe the Mulder 
in his native habitat - note the omnipresent sunflower 
seeds and the glances over his shoulder, checking for 
global conspiracies.  We may just catch a rare glimpse of 
the Mulder's mating rituals - he's dialing.'

Scully said the chip did absolutely nothing and to calm 
down or I was going to end up in restraints.  Again.  
Scully says her chip does absolutely nothing, yet it 
remains in her neck. 

Anyway, I've seen the scans, but never the actual police 
photos.  Dear Lord - Scully must have identified me by 
dental records and sense of smell, bless her little eight-
month pregnant soul. I looked like I had been carried out 
of a Nazi death camp after being whacked in the head a few 
times.   

"Jesus H. Christ!"

"That's one hypothesis, Mulder," Frohike tells me, trying 
to distract me as Langly gets the photos out of sight.  
"You definitely arose from the dead.  You're the only 
abductee that was returned, and there's got to be a reason 
for that and for your condition.  You didn't have the 
branched DNA, so there's no evidence of any genetic testing 
on you - definite signs of malnutrition, abuse, and of 
being held in zero gravity, though."
 
"Same as rehab.  Boys, if you've got a theory about the 
baby, lay it on me before you go on, 'cause I'm a little 
hazy these days."  

Byers gives me a sidelong look from behind his glasses and 
I ignore him.  You try doing 'subtle' with Post-concussion 
Syndrome, or whatever it is that Scully thinks I have this 
week, Lamaze Boy.  

As the designated victim, I lay claim to the odd slice of 
pizza; fortifying my strength, although I leave most of the 
greasy cheese in the box.  Frohike slaps Langly's hand 
back, snatches the gob of mozzarella, toppings, and 
cardboard, and answers as he chews like a victorious, 
cannibalistic milk cow.

"Best guess?  The baby is a fusion of a Samantha hybrid and 
Scully's ova implanted by Cancerman, although we don't know 
exactly how or why.  The Alien genetics are there, but not 
like Emily's or any of the other hybrids Scully or we have 
been able to compare her to.  There's a 99.7% certainty 
that you share a maternal ancestor with Emma, but you're 
not her father."

I got that.  You can stop saying it.  

Byers takes and hurriedly closes the DNA file to move on, 
but there's a question they're not answering.  My head 
isn't screwed on completely backward and you boys look like 
you've just had your testes threatened by a redheaded fed.

"What about a paternal ancestor?  Is Emma biologically my 
half-sister?"  Jerry Springer would love to get a hold of 
that one.  'My partner gave birth to my niece and alien 
sister.'

Three sets of eyes find something besides me to stare at, 
and the air conditioner drones loudly over the hum of the 
room of homemade, rag-taggle computers.  Frohike is the one 
who finally cracks, spilling the beans: "According to the 
DNA analysis, you and Samantha don't share a paternal 
ancestor; only maternal."

That's what Scully's been tap dancing around - not that 
Emma isn't 'mine,' that's not what she thought I'd be upset 
by - but that Samantha and I had different fathers.  

Suspecting is one thing; certainty is another.  I 
officially hate DNA testing.

"I'm sorry, Mulderman.  Scully didn't want you to have 
anything else to worry about in rehab, so we didn't tell 
you."

"Which one of us is my father's and which is Cancerman's?"  
My stomach has decided all the pizza, and possibly much of 
the last decade, was a huge mistake.
 
"Your DNA matches Bill and Teena Mulder's.  Samantha's only 
matches your mother's.  Emma is a closer match to Samantha 
than to you.
 
What a tangled web we weave…  Scully's raising Cancerman's 
granddaughter.  That's what it works out to: that bastard 
cloned his daughter and my sister and gave her back to me 
combined with my Scully and bundled in an adorable little 
package that coos spit bubbles and kicks with ten perfect 
pink toes.  Talk about the ultimate practical joke.  

Hold it together, Mulder.  "Scully knows this?"  I get nods 
as they cough in three-part harmony.  "For how long?"

"Since the first amniocentesis.  She ran all the DNA 
comparisons herself - didn't trust a lab to do it.  When 
the blood type came back, she thought the baby might have 
been yours, but-"

Did you all develop Tourette's while I was gone?  It's not 
my child and it's not my sister - I don't need to write it 
five hundred times so I'll remember.

Fuck!

They manage to studiously ignore my absence for the next 
few minutes while my stomach rids itself of three slices of 
pizza. Leaning against the nice, cool, porcelain God, I 
tell myself that it doesn't make a difference - Sam is 
still the same sister I remember and Emma is the same baby.  
It's not a cruel joke on Scully - it's a baby, not a 
science project, Mulder.  My life isn't just one little 
gear to power the Project machine.  I have some control.  

I weave my way back through their piles of techno-crap, 
looking for a clean place large enough that I could throw 
myself on the floor, kick and scream and demand that I get 
my way.

No luck - the boys are pack rats.  You lay around very long 
here and they hot-wire you to a modem, shove a CD burner in 
an orifice and expect you to download and dub Led Zeppelin.

"Are any of your memories coming back, Mulder?"  Byers asks 
when I return, obviously, jarringly changing the focus of 
the discussion.

"Only as nightmares, and you've already heard those."  
Byers, wisely, only nods.  I don't know who wakes up 
screaming more during the night - me or Emma.  "I'm 
noticing that the stuff I'm missing from before is very 
specific - I couldn't remember Emily's name last night.  
Anything to do with the Consortium or the Project is a 
little blurry, but everything else is still clear."

"A selective memory wipe.  Damn, that's cool."  

Langly, you are officially a geek and it wouldn't be so 
cool if it were inside your brain.  Ignoring any further 
discussion about Emma or anyone's father, we spread the 
files out on the table, using Scully's and my old field 
notes as a substitute for things I used to be able to reel 
off from the top of my head and annoy the hell out of 
everyone.  

"Is there any evidence of the Consortium?"

"Krycek and his chickadee are still lurking around, but 
that's all they do - lurk.  It shouldn't be hard to locate 
him, through alternative sources, of course.  Your black-
lunged bastard is gone and cattle mutilations are down, 
although SETI funding got cut, if that means anything to 
you, Mulder."

I shake my head 'no' at Langly, noting that the room 
doesn't rock as much as it did last week.  "So what - the 
little gray men decided I wasn't up to their standards and 
threw me back?"

"Not the Grays, Mulder; the bounty hunter.  Skinner 
described one of the shape-shifters in the woods and then 
the admitting nurse recalled the exact same man carrying 
you into the ER and vanishing.  The shape-shifters took 
you, but they also brought you back."

"And they made sure you'd get medical treatment," Frohike 
chimes in.  "They want you back and they want you alive."  

I close my eyes and lean back, trying to stuff all this 
information into the cracks in my memory and come up with 
some sort of cohesive picture, but my Oedipus complex is 
negotiating with my Madonna/whore complex and considering 
going condo.  Wow - a not-a-daughter and a not-a-sister all 
rolled into one and a not-the-mother-of-my-child thrown in 
for free; I should be in the penthouse of my complex, but 
my elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor these 
days.  Maybe I can afford a basement office.
   
When I open my eyes, the pizza box is gone and the meeting 
seems adjourned.  Come on, boys, surely you have some file 
that can fuck up my other ideals.  Baseball?  Apple pie?  
Mom - you know - that woman that was screwing C.G.B. 
Spender?  What else do you have on her? 

"You want to lay down, Mulder?  I hear you have a big date 
tonight."

I'd love to be macho and say no, but I'm tapped out for a 
while.  "Did Scully call you?" I ask, stretching out on 
Byers' bunk, which seems to be the most sanitary, and 
rubbing my temples.  Yes, obviously she called and told 
them not to tell me about Samantha.  "I swear that woman 
should work for the CIA.  I bet she told you to get me to 
OT, too."

Frohike looks sheepish - if Ken, of Barbie and Ken, and a 
troll doll had a baby, it would have that face.  Byers 
should do a comparison on that DNA. 

"I'm not going.  I can't face another pegboard."  Actually, 
I can't face that perky woman cheering every three seconds 
while I'm busy trying to modify my paradigm on sisters, 
fathers, daughters, mothers and the all people in my life 
designated to as those variables.  

"We'll cover for you, Mulderman.  Just get some sleep."

How nice of you, Frohike, I think, as I adjust the South 
Park pillow and lay staring at the wooden slats of the bunk 
above me, waiting, dreading for sleep to come and let the 
new monsters run freely with the old.  Maybe if I 
concentrate hard enough, I can will peace instead of panic.

Scully is still my prime.  She's been all over the equation 
of Fox William Mulder and she's still both my constant and 
my ever-evolving variable.  Primes aren't divisible; 
they're a universal truth that has been bouncing back and 
forth between galaxies for as long as intelligent life 
could look up and wonder and look down and count.  A prime 
can never be divided.  Put that in your pipe and smoke it, 
you cancerous bastard.

But any prime, multiplied once by itself, is easily 
divisible.  Now she's two and three's a crowd and we are 
all together. 
  
This nightmare is about, of all things, not being able to 
see the sky.
  
****

"I don't see much sense in that, said Rabbit."
"No," said Pooh humbly, "There isn't.  But there was 
-going- to be when I began it.  It's juust that something 
happened to it along the way." 

****

There is a point, whether in the final weak heartbeat or 
the void between the stars, or as backs arch, breaths 
catch, and a life begins, where we are all equal.  There is 
a point when there is nothing more to humans than humanity 
- when knowledge gives way to trust andd flesh yields to 
time, tyrants, or just plain exhaustion and we look for a 
place to lay our heads and arms to hold us safe.  It comes 
when slaves step on the auction block and watch their 
families being sold away and when children hold out their 
arms to be tattooed so they can die in the correct order.  
It came for me in the shower while washing away the smell 
of techno-nerd, pizza sauce, and vomit, pausing to rest my 
forehead against the slick white fiberglass wall and 
letting the water sting my back like a scourge.  It took me 
minutes to notice that the spray had turned cold.  Out of 
habit, I stepped out, dried off, and sat shivering and 
alone on my bed, contemplating the man I'd become versus 
the man I thought I needed to be.   

Where's Oxford, Mulder?  Oxford is a worthless piece of 
paper on the wall hanging beside all the other 
commendations that don't love or care.  Where are trust 
funds and basketball buddies and long-legged brunettes when 
you have a nightmare or when you couldn't feed yourself?  
It's amazing what falls to the wayside after weeks in ICU 
and months of rehab.  Scully seems to have forgotten the 
few nights we 'almost' while she pursues a double major in 
motherhood and sainthood.  The FBI has graciously allowed 
me to come back next week if I promise not to do any actual 
work; their star profiler isn't allowed to profile until he 
stops wanting to sleep with all the lights on.  I've lost
friends, family, blood, and even my sanity a few times, but 
this is the most frightening - losing who I thought I was.   

Men in suits say our faith comes from those moments, but 
faith is an easy thing to cling to when it's all that's 
left, and it's a cheap accessory to afford when you don't 
really need it.  Those people waving pictures of starving 
children and preaching faith - they're seldom the ones that 
need it. 

Faith is that point of light that burns without oxygen or 
consumption - if we choose to look, we find it deep inside 
ourselves when Darwin growls on the coldest, darkest 
nights.  Later, when Maslow has been satiated, we try to 
recall what kept us strong, but we can only remember that 
fire.  Being the thinking creatures we are, we wrap our 
scientific minds around the flame of faith as best as we 
can and call it 'God', but only for lack of a better word.   

I believe.  I choose to believe.  Not in hellfire and 
brimstone, but in the beautiful simplicity of the loom of 
the universe.  I could pull one thread and unravel so much 
- which is why my mother taught me to nnever pull threads.  
There are finally too many strings to ignore, too many 
frayed edges, so that leaves cutting them off - deciding I 
can't accept this unless it's perfect and throwing it away, 
or realizing that I can live with a few strings if I love 
the cloth.  

Buttoning the first dress shirt I've had on in a year with 
clumsy fingers and peering at my thin, freshly shaven face 
in my foggy mirror, I believe because I choose to believe.  
If I waited until I want to believe, it would be a long 
wait and I'd probably get bored and wander off.  That flame 
still burns and the loom still stands; the rest I take on 
faith.  One day my shirts will fit again and the crisp 
fabric won't feel so foreign on my skin.  God and I had a 
long discussion as I drove back from Baltimore, and I've 
thought of trying on a few different ones, but this shirt 
is mine, damn it.  It's my favorite shirt and we've been 
through too much together for me to worry about there being 
a few strings out of place.  If Nicholson's right - if this 
is as good as it gets - I can live with that.  It's even a 
two-for-one special; maybe a three-for-one, it depends on 
how you do the math. 

Hair is dried and shoes are tied, then I contemplate myself 
and my life one last time - last chance to change, Mulder.  

No, there's no question.  This is what I got and this is 
what I'm going with.  It may be a little rumpled right now 
and it may not fit like I want it to, but I'm vested in the 
damn shirt.  I refuse to let C.G.B. Spender dictate my 
wardrobe.  
  
Scully would say that dark matter of space and the order in 
the periodic table that I label 'God' has worked a few 
miracles in her life.  I'd say that a chip, recumbent DNA, 
and intelligent alien life are pretty miraculous - and I'd 
probably smirk, because I'm supposed to.  Had I been around 
at the time, Scully would have just rubbed her belly under 
one of my t-shirts that she wore and not even bothered to 
argue with me.  I guess letting a child you know isn't 
possible grow inside you beats my little fashion fatherhood 
crisis by a long shot. 
 
Each time I look at Emma's perfect little toes, I have to 
believe she is a gift from something greater.  Cancerman 
may have been able to create a world of hell, but it takes 
a benevolent God to spend all that time sculpting a baby's 
toes.  Two baby's toes - I remember getting a spanking for 
trying to pull Samantha's off.  They just seemed 
superfluous - Sam couldn't have needed all ten of them.  

Evangelists can preach all they want; nothing evidences God 
like a baby's toes.
 
"You're looking better, Fox," Mrs. Scully says, sizing me 
up as I come through the front door.  I'd love to know what 
I'm being appraised for: dinner date, son-in-law, or lost 
cause, but she doesn't share.  "Still too skinny."

"He eats; we can swear that he eats," Frohike defends me, 
gnawing an extra-crispy wing and leaving a trail of biscuit 
crumbs across the rug.  Having only stopped for a bucket of 
chicken and the customary evasive maneuvers to throw off 
anyone tailing a blue and rust 1967 VW bus, the boys must 
have beaten me back.  "He ate our lunch."

Maggie Scully and The Lone Gunmen in the same room; this 
has to be one of the signs of the Apocalypse.    

"I bought their lunch, Mrs. Scully," I tell her as she pats 
me down, feeling for ribs and looking for something to nag 
me about.  

"Your shirt looks a little worn, dear."

I shrug, looking past her for Scully. "I'm a little worn.  
No sense in investing in a new shirt - we'd clash."  

"So you're going to wear that one for the rest of your 
life?  At least let me trim those strings off, Fox."

For all her mothering me, which I suck up like a sponge, 
neither of us are demonstrative, so her eyes widen when I 
kiss her forehead.  "Not a chance, Mrs. Scully.  I'm 
going to get attached to my strings."

She appraises me with those eyes, trying to figure out what 
we're talking about, then gives up, moving on to nag her 
daughter.  "Dana, Fox is still too skinny.  And he's 
wearing an old shirt."

Scully passes through quickly, still in her robe with her 
hair dripping from the shower.  "And you want me to do 
-what- about this, Mom?  Call me if he  spikes a fever."

I have no idea why people say women turn into their 
mothers.  

Emma looks up briefly from gnawing Bunny as I come in, but 
doesn't seem disturbed by the menagerie.  Life has been a 
roller coaster since she was born, so she doesn't generally 
question as long as someone has breasts and Bunny.     

Scully, on the other hand, had written down directions for 
everything from optimistically warming bottles to the 
bedtime ritual should we be kidnaped by terrorists, and is 
briefing her mother on the finer points of child care.  
Come on, partner - she raised four relatively normal kids; 
I think she can handle Emma for a few hours, especially 
when she has three eager helpers.  Well, Langly is already 
attacking Scully's laptop like a hacker deprived of the 
Internet for a forty-five minute drive and jonesing for a 
newsgroup fix; two eager helpers.  Frohike can answer any 
female anatomy questions that may come up and Byers is 
a whole cookie jar full of useless facts to horrify a 
Catholic grandmother.

Scully, having posted Emma's insurance card, vaccination 
records, and for some reason, birth certificate on the 
fridge, goes to get dressed.  "A dress," I whisper to her, 
"no jeans, no suits."  

After she leaves, I note that 'Unknown' is listed as Emma's 
father on the birth certificate.  I clench my back teeth 
until Frohike comes in for a Pepsi and asks me what I'm 
staring at.  

"Nothing important," I respond, taking a deep breath and 
forcing a grin.  Just strings. 

When she reappears in a black sheath, probably the one from 
the movie premier, Scully looks more like my partner and 
bears only a faint resemblance to Emma's mother and 
Mulder's doctor and my grin and life stop feeling forced. 

"Ready?"

"Wait; one last thing, Mulder.  Mom-"

Maggie's had enough instruction from Dr. Dana Spock and 
steers us to the door, promising she has both our cell 
phone numbers and a hint of common sense.  We 'kids' are 
instructed to 'have fun,' and, from Frohike, 'don't do 
anything I wouldn't do.'  

I catch a glimpse of Scully and I in the mirror as we wait 
in the restaurant lobby.  Her eyes are sparkling with the 
excitement of being away from the apartment and the 
hospital for the first time since Christmas, and she's 
trying not to let me see her covertly sneaking a fifth peek 
into her purse to make sure her cell phone is turned on.  I 
watch my reflection as I come up behind her, sliding my 
hands around her waist where the fabric is still slightly 
tight and leaning down so our faces are even. "Hey - it's 
gonna be fine," I whisper into her ear, smelling soft 
perfume and feeling the roughness of the nubby black silk
catch on my frayed cuffs.

"Of course it is, Mulder.  What are you worried about?"  
The woman in the mirror looks up, smiling a fairly 
contented smile as she kisses the underside of my jaw.  

Damn, I like this shirt.  

****

The knack of flying is learning how to throw yourself at 
the ground and miss.

-Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide 

****

"Come on, partner, show me the fruits of that physics 
degree."

Tummies full, we're stargazing from the front steps of her 
apartment building.  That was the furthest I could drag 
Scully away from her progeny - to the bistro across the 
street for salads, once around the block hand in hand, and 
then back to her building.  She does exactly the same thing 
when I'm helpless, so I'm familiar with this pattern, but 
it was all I could do to convince her that our - her - two 
hours of freedom weren't up yet and head her off at the 
front porch. 
 
"Physics, Mulder, not astrophysics.  You want to hear about 
the Doppler Effect?"

"That's how they tell if it's going to rain, right?"  I 
hope she realizes I'm joking.

"Uh - sure." She looks back over her shoulder at me and 
grins.  "That's Polaris, the North Star.  Can we go inside 
now?"

"Slaves would follow that star north to the Underground 
Railroad and freedom.  They'd wait until harvest when it 
was warm, and then slip away on Friday night so they 
wouldn't be missed until Monday morning.  By the time they 
made it north, the rivers were frozen so they could cross 
easily into Canada.  Can you imagine the leap of blind 
faith that must have taken - a few scared people against an 
entire world, trying to find free will by following one 
distant glimmer in the whole night sky?"

Looking up into the arc of tattered black felt that wraps 
the world away, only a few pinholes of Heaven shyly 
stealing through, I feel the need to shiver.  How many of 
those pinholes are watching back?  It's very pleasant and 
noble to be the explorers and very unpleasant to be the 
explored - ask any slave.  I wrap my arms around Scully's 
shoulders in case she's cold.  It's May and sixty-five 
degrees; Scully's probably not cold, but it's a plausible 
excuse.  She lets me stay as she shares my moment of cosmic 
awe.

"Oxford Boy, the closest you get to the Underground 
Railroad is taking the Metro while the people making 
minimum wage are changing your oil.  I'm suitably dined, 
entertained, and impressed, but I'm going upstairs before 
Langley hacks into my AOL account and changes the motto to 
'kiss me where it smells funny' like he did yours.  Man, 
did that get you some weird instant messages when I tried 
to check your e-mail while you were gone.  Are you in or 
out for an after-dinner cup of decaf?"  

You are damn adorable, woman.  I steal a kiss - a real one, 
not one of those for show - while the Heavens hopefully 
aren't looking, which Scully seems to enjoy and the stars 
either don't notice, or don't seem to resent.

"So, the Boys told you about your sister, Mulder."  

You certainly know how to kill a mood, Scully. 

"I wasn't trying to keep anything from you; I just thought 
your plate was already full.  You want to talk about it?" 
she asks.  

Sure; let's showcase our pitiful communication skills and 
emotional insecurities.  That's always a nice way to end an 
evening.

I shrug, which, since I'm sitting behind her, is a useless 
gesture.

"Mulder?  Are you angry with me?"

I shrug again.  Check my chest for a varsity letter; this 
would be adolescent, posturing Mulder.

"You know, I did okay with your dog."  I stopped the car to 
let him pee, at least.  That qualified me for fatherhood: 
braking ability.  Hell, it qualified my father.

"My dog got eaten by an alligator, but you were young and 
stupid then," she says, standing.  I'm not sure I'm 
entirely flattered by that remark.  "Is that your way of 
saying you want to talk about Emma?"

Shrug.  Stare at shoes. 

"Mulder?"

Boy, are my shoes interesting.  Look at that shine.  I can 
almost see the strings on my shirt reflecting on the tips.

"I kinda like the idea of Emma being related to you, 
Mulder."

"You do?"  I quickly admit defeat, hop up as if I'm a 
jumping jack, and hold the security door open for her.

"Color blind, no sense of direction, obsessive paranoia, 
tendency to vanish into thin air; what's not to like?"

"Don't forget far-sighted but gifted with visionary fashion 
sense, Scully.  Does this mean I should get a dog?"  She 
ignores me, leading the way back to her apartment with that 
Ginger Rogers saunter that puts Mary Kay to shame.  "I can 
do pull-ups now.  Wanna see?"  I grab the molding above her 
head, sandwiching her between me and her front door.  

"Down, boy."  

Sorry; got a little excited there.  I back off, looking 
sheepish underneath my blank face.  "It was that boyish 
agility thing, Scully."

"You're thirty-nine, Mulder.  Impress me by keeping your 
therapy appointments."  She leans out to me and I close my 
eyes, praying my busted lip doesn't start bleeding again.

"Only for you, Scully." 

Our mouths meet, lips parting and tongues insisting when 
Frohike opens the door, causing Scully to fall back into 
him.

"Hey, Mulderman!  I thought I heard something.  How was 
dinner?  I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

I'm beginning to think hallways might not be the most 
conducive place for romance.

****

"Sometimes I think that the surest sign that intelligent 
life exists somewhere is the fact that none of it had tried 
to contact us."

- Calvin & Hobbes

****

Scully made coffee - for two - and no one took the hint.  
She yawned and stretched; I got my blanket and pillow out 
and made up my bed on the couch while Frohike gave me a 
knowing look.  Her mother and Byers kept chatting away into 
the night - Mrs. Scully's found yet another man to mother.  
Finally, Scully picked up the baby and asked me to unzip 
her dress; there were no buttons to unbutton, so she'd have 
to strip to the waist if she wanted to nurse and she gave 
every appearance of planning to do just such in the middle 
of her living room.

THAT cleared the apartment, although Frohike was still 
reluctant and her mother was giving me 'the look' - the 
same look I used to get from fathers on first dates.  

After she closes the front door, Scully grins at me, very 
proud of herself.  "Watch her while I change, okay, 
Mulder?"

I unzip the back of her dress, carefully not noticing a new 
black lace bra and slip against fair shoulders.  

The second Scully closes the bedroom door, the kid sizes me 
up, realizes this is my big chance at proving I can keep 
her alive on my own for three minutes, and begins the make 
I'm-not-happy-but-I-don't-know-what-I-want disgruntled baby 
noises.

I pick her up like a Christmas puppy and hold her at arms' 
length while she weighs the pros of making me look like a 
complete idiot versus the cons involved when I'm the only 
person tall enough to reach the stuff on top of the fridge.  
Eye to eye again, Emma appraises me.  

"You know, I'm not your father," I tell her quietly.  "I'm 
your mother's partner, but you'll probably be seeing a lot 
of me, so I think we should be on friendly terms."

Emma squirms, kicking her legs thoughtfully.

"Okay, then.  Just so we're clear on that.  And if you act 
like you like me, I'll make it worth your while."

She wiggles some more, concentrating on my face and turning 
red.

"I can teach you how to unhook bras with one hand - even 
the front hook kind, and those are tough.  Your mommy leans 
toward the front hook kind, but you already know that and 
I'm not supposed to."

"What are you saying to that child, Mulder?"  Scully asks, 
emerging in her gray cotton jammies and brushing out her 
hair.

"I didn't do anything, Scully - she just started changing 
colors."     

Scully scrutinizes the two of us - me standing in the 
middle of the living room holding a baby as far away from 
me as possible, and Emma, who is rapidly turning scarlet.  
"Give her here."

"What's wrong with her?  What did I do?"  It's a baby; I've 
held babies before.  Briefly.   

"Nothing.  You did fine.  We'll be back in a few minutes."  

A minute later the most horrible smell wafts from the 
bedroom.  "I can't believe something that small produced 
something that awful, Scully," I yell to the back of the 
apartment as I change into my t-shirt and sweat pants.

Water runs in the bathroom; hands being washed, then 
Madonna and child reappear - mother looking none the worse 
for wear and baby looking cherubically innocent, as though 
she could blame that stench on someone else. 

"You think that was a comment on me, Scully, 'cause I take 
that kinda personal?"  

"Hang around every night about nine.  You'll love it - it's 
a pattern.  Predictable behavior."

Is that an invitation, Agent Scully?

The bottle is warm, and Scully's ready to try another round 
of the battle.  I pull up my feet so she can have the 
superior end of the couch, in case that helps, but Emma's 
already eyeing her pajama top.  Monday morning from eight 
until noon, everyone's favorite breasts are going back to 
work.  Emma the finicky has to learn to drink breast milk 
from a bottle like every other yuppie baby on the planet.  
Scully's been trying for days and looks like she's ready to 
poke the Playtex nurser up Emma's nose.

"You want me to try, Scully?  She'll be shocked to get 
anything from me, maybe she'll be delighted to get even a 
bottle."

I get a doubtful eyebrow, but Scully lets me take the 
bottle and baby and I'll be damned if Princess Finicky 
doesn't settle right down.  "I remember getting to feed 
Sam," I tell Scully, who is hovering again.

I'm probably doing at least a dozen things wrong, but 
Scully manages not to critique for as long as it takes Emma 
to drain the bottle and fall into a light sleep.  I'm 
feeling all warm and fuzzy when Scully forcibly separates 
us and takes her in the bedroom - covertly examining her 
for damage before putting her down for the night.

I throw the bottle in the general direction of the sink and 
settle down, feeling very proud of myself and hoping Scully 
won't go to bed this early.  My wish is granted, but it 
means I have to surrender the remote control and be 
subjected to nature documentaries.

"Hey, Mulder?"  She's focusing all her mental energies on 
The Preview Channel, so she can't drag herself away to look 
at me.

"Yeah, Scully?" 

"No one would be shocked by anything you wanted to give.  
It's not expected, but it's welcome."

I half-open my eyes; considering sitting up and finishing 
what we keep starting in hallways once and for all.  
Scully's still fixated in the boob tube, thumb clicking 
furiously with about eight years worth of sexual tension.  
Instead, I stand, put my pillow on her lap, and then lay 
down again, resting the back of my head against her stomach 
while she doesn't breathe for a while.

"Change the channel, Scully," I tell her, curling up into a 
ball and adjusting shoulders and boundaries.  "We can't get 
caught watching Melrose Place if we're going to be role 
models."

I finally feel her chest rise, and her thumb resumes its 
hunt for distraction.  Once she's sure I'm asleep, fingers 
pass gently though my hair and down my cheek, then stand 
guard on my shoulder into the night in case anyone tries to 
take me away again.   

****

Nature abhors a hero.  For one thing, he violates the law 
of conservation of energy.  For another, how can it be the 
survival of the fittest when the fittest keeps putting 
himself in situations where he is most likely to be 
creamed.

- Solomon Short 

****
There's no place left to run, so I huddle in a tiny cave 
with Emma, tucking her inside my coat so she'll stay warm.  
I can see Them outside searching for us in the snow, lights 
dancing through the frozen, bare branches.  My ears are so 
cold they've stopped burning, but if I pull my hood up, I 
won't be able to hear their footsteps crunching near and 
nearer.  

Please don't let them find us.  

My heart is pounding and I'm almost hyperventilating trying 
to keep my breathing silent.  If They find her, They'll 
take her and there won't be any way for me to get her back.

If we can just hide long enough, I can take her further 
north where They can't follow.  Once it stops snowing, I 
can follow the stars, but we have to hide tonight.  It's so 
cold; I can't imagine trying to take a baby anywhere even 
more frigid.

Emma starts to cry.

God - don't cry, baby.  Don't cry; They'll hear us.

I put my hand over her mouth and pull her even tighter 
against me, trying to get her to stop.  I can't cover her 
nose - then she won't be able to breathe.

You have to be quiet, Emma.  Please be quiet, baby.

Little gray hands reach through the mouth of the cave, 
clawing at us, trying to take her.  I punch out randomly, 
knocking one back, but there are hordes of them.  They want 
Emma - They want what's inside her.

I kick out backward, clutching her to my chest and turning 
my back to the entrance, knowing there's no hope.

Then one of their sharp claws pierces my shoulder and I go 
limp.

I've lost her.

****

Even at the very bottom of the river, I didn't think to 
myself, 'Is this a hearty joke or the merest accident?'  I 
just thought, 'It's wet.'"

- Eeyore

****

"Mulder?  Come lay down on the bed.  You're awake now.  
It's okay - I'll help you."     

Scully pulls me to my knees and helps lift as I crawl up on 
the mattress, feeling weak and woozy.  "What's wrong with 
me?"

"I gave you a sedative.  You were having a nightmare.  Just 
relax; I'm going to turn on the lamp so I can check the 
baby, and then I'll look at your hand.  Okay, Mulder?  Do 
you understand?  I want you to be still."

"Scully, you know I hate that shit.  What'd you give me?"

"Diazepam."

"What the hell is that?"

"Valium.  Be still, Mulder.  I mean it."

I lay there watching the ceiling spin while Scully quiets a 
shrieking baby.  After a few minutes, I feel well enough to 
sit up, but when my eyes focus, I see Scully holding the 
baby against her breast.

"Lay down, Mulder!  I'll give you another shot if you don't 
lay back down!"

"Sorry," I mumble, flop back into her soft pillows and 
close my eyes for good measure.   

I try to organize my dream while I lay there, smelling the 
clean sheets and fresh, crisp air through the window, but 
there's nothing new; all I can think is that it's a good 
night for baseball.  I hear Scully talking softly to the 
baby, saying the things all good mothers say to children 
that are upset, and I just let my mind swirl to happier, 
warmer memories.

Summers on the Vineyard were endless.  I'd get annoyed with 
Sam wanting to follow me like a shadow - I was a grown-up 
ten year-old, after all, and I didn't want my kid sister 
tagging along everywhere.  Mom would pack our lunches in 
the morning while trying to make a deal that suited both of 
us.  If I'd let Sam play ball with us, I could ride my bike 
the half-mile to the store after dinner, or Mom would offer 
to take us swimming, but only if I let Sam come with me and 
my friends.  It usually boiled down to 'she's your baby 
sister and you're taking her or you're not going, Fox.'  
I'd stomp out of the kitchen, clutching my baseball glove 
and sack lunch, and trying to walk so fast that Samantha 
couldn't keep up.

I always looked back over my shoulder in my prepubescent, 
condescending, over-protective big brother way to make sure 
she was there, trotting as fast as she could manage and 
yelling at me to slow down in that whiney, bratty, adoring 
six-year old little sister way. 

If Samantha hadn't run home crying by noon to 'tell,' we'd 
find a shade tree beside the lake and conspire to exploit 
our mother's culinary ability as compared to the other 
kids' moms.  Even aside from the brownies, which were prime 
currency, and the carrot sticks, which fed the fish, OUR 
mother remembered I liked my bologna with only mayo and Sam 
liked mustard and cheese.  My PBJs were cut diagonally and 
Sam's into four squares without crusts and both our peanut 
butter and jelly were spread carefully all the way to the 
edges.

OUR mother was a great mother - except that she let C.G.B. 
Spender into her bed.  Then Samantha was gone, OUR mother 
was only my mother, and she didn't bother to be so great 
any longer.

"Okay, Mulder - let me see your hand," Scully tells me, 
bringing me back to hazy reality.  "Very pretty - let me 
get some butterfly bandages and antiseptic."

While she's in the bathroom, I flex my right fist, causing 
it to bleed even more.   

"Stop it, Mulder - I know you're moving your hand in 
there."

Spidey Sense?  

Whoo-boy, am I stoned.

"What did I punch, Scully?" I call to her as she heads for 
the kitchen. The wall, which is my first guess, looks 
unscathed.  I get no response, and the silence is very 
loud.  
  
Gesturing for me to lay my hand on the pillow, Scully aims 
the reading light down and starts cleaning the busted 
wounds from my bar brawl, looking very medical and 
businesslike.  There's a red bruise spreading across her 
cheekbone.
 
I swallow before I ask: "Scully, did I do that?"  

No response.  She's in full-blown Dr. Scully 'I'm not 
thinking about this' mode.  

I've never hit a woman in my life.  I raise my left hand to 
examine her face and she flinches back without thinking.  I 
wonder if I haven't done it before and not remembered.  
"God, I'm sorry, Scully."

"You were holding your hand over Emma's mouth this time, 
and I was afraid you would suffocate her, so I tried to 
take her away.  You didn't mean to hit me, Mulder, and 
you've got a fairly wimpy punch, anyway."

I watch her wrap gauze around my hand, trying to make sense 
of this.  "You said 'this time'; have I bothered Emma 
before? Have I hit you before?"

"You've just had a big day and gotten too tired and I 
overreacted, I guess."  

She is such a bad liar.  

"Why do you have liquid Valium?  Why would you have 
something like that?"

Scully avoids meeting my eyes as she secures the end of the 
gauze.  

"What are you doing, Mulder?"

"I need to go, Scully."  I swing my legs to the floor, 
trying to get my bearings enough to stand.  "I need to go 
right now."

"Mulder, lay down.  You're in no condition to go anywhere."  
She touches my shoulder and I shrug away, fully aware that 
I'm acting like a brat again.  "Mulder, I'm fine.  You 
didn't mean to hit me - you were just having a nightmare."

"But what if that's why They sent me back - to kill the 
baby?  Or you?  What if it's you?"  

"You weren't trying to kill anyone, Mulder.  Just relax."

"My brain is like bubble wrap - I can't remember what 
Krycek looks like or why your sister died, and I know 
things I didn't know before!  Weird shit!  How do you know 
I wasn't trying to hurt her or you?  I want you to get this 
chip the fuck out of my head!  Now!  Either take it out or 
let me leave!"

I'm pushed down firmly into the pillows, too wobbly to 
fight back and knowing I'm not making sense.  "Either calm 
down or you're getting more Valium, Mulder.  Just breathe; 
I'd hate to have you stoned into next week, but I'm a 
little on edge right now."

I take several deep breaths and feel my body relaxing as 
the drug takes full effect.  My brain starts to cloud, but 
that's welcome at the moment.  "I saw my father hit my 
mother, Scully.  After he let Them have Sam.  I want to 
leave."

"I want you to actually take your pills from now on, and I 
want you to stay."  She rubs my messy hair back from my 
forehead.  "Okay, Mulder?  Taking out that chip would cause 
damage similar to a lobotomy, so that's not an option.  
We've already talked about it; you've just forgotten.  Just 
close your eyes and go to sleep.  I'll be right here if the 
nightmares come back.  No one's going to hurt you again."

"How long do you want me to stay, Scully?" I mumble, 
feeling my body start to float.  She wraps herself around 
me the way I did her just before I was abducted, putting a 
blanket between us for show as though some piece of fabric 
can keep us apart.  I can make love by proxy to this woman 
a universe away.   

I'm asleep in her arms before I hear an answer.

****

"'Right,' said Ford, 'I'm going to have a look.'
He glanced round at the others.  
'Is no one going to say, "No you can't possibly, let me go 
instead"?
They all shook their heads.
'Oh well.'"

- Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide

****

On last night's Futurama, they followed the tubes - the 
kind drive-through banks use - trying to determine where 
all the bureaucratic paperwork goes when you send it 
through 'channels'.  The woman with one eye - who Frohike 
thinks is hot - discovered all forms and memos, after being 
stamped in triplicate, signed, and sealed, funnel into a 
huge pile that serves no purpose and are never heard from 
again.  I agree, but a bank vacuum tube system would save 
me a bunch of treks upstairs since I have almost a year's 
worth of things to not read, sign, date, stamp, and seal.  

I ventured out of my lair to drop off my final pile of 
contributions to the red tape, time-wasting conspiracy and 
found Skinner standing on point in his assistant's office.  
Through the window, he seemed to be bird-dogging the rug, 
but when I open the door, it's actually Emma dozing in her 
car seat.

"Kimberly had to go to the restroom," he explains 
hurriedly, defensively crossing his arms and trying to look 
like this is part of his job description.  "She said she'd 
be back in a minute." He doesn't look away from the baby 
seat, certain Emma will hop up and take off and he'll be 
held accountable.  I often have that very same feeling.   

As of six-thirty this morning when I left, Scully's mother 
was coming to talk to Scully's daughter like they're both 
complete idiots, cook things that have me inching back to 
my usual 170 pounds, and studiously ignore that I've been 
living there for over a month.  How did Emma manage to make 
it from her doting grandmother in Georgetown to the AD's 
rug by nine-thirty?  

Skinner answers the obvious.

"Agent Scully's mother wasn't feeling well and Scully has 
back-to-back autopsies, so she asked Kim to watch her until 
she can get to a stopping point.  Kimberly asked me to 
stand here and to go get her if the baby wakes up - I 
figured I could handle that."

So could I.  I can stand and watch a baby sleep just fine.  
I frown at him and pick up the handle of the baby seat.  
"Where's the baby bag-of-crap?"

I have no idea what other people keep in diaper bags, but 
Emma's is strangely bottomless and seems to contain a Star 
Trek replicator.  No matter what anyone needs - safety pin, 
drink of juice, Bunny, keys, binky, pen, evidence bag, 
latex glove, tire gauge, anvil, small nuclear device - I 
swear Scully can open that bag, root around a little, and 
produce it.  I'm going to ask her for a light and see if 
she can't do a Mary Poppins and pull out a floor lamp.

"Mulder, Kimberly didn't say anything about you taking 
her," Skinner warns as I search under Kimberly's desk for 
the vortex, black hole, Winnie-the-Pooh diaper bag.  

Probably not, God forbid Scully 'impose' on me. She's 
dedicated her life to my health and my quest, but God 
FORBID she call ME when her mother comes down with the flu.  
That might interfere with my precious work on the X-files, 
indicate we never had a conversation two weeks ago about 
welcoming anything I wanted to give to her and Emma, and 
possibly even cause me to be slightly inconvenienced.

That damn bag has vanished into its own wormhole.  Hell 
with it.

I ignore Skinner, who steps between me and the door, hands 
on his hips.
 
I realized on our first case that we both came with a lot 
of baggage - mine had obviously been around since I was 
twelve and was always with me for quick access.  Scully's 
had started out packed in a matching set of blue luggage, 
but the rest of it had shown up soon enough.  We somehow 
managed to stay under Delta Air's emotional baggage limit 
through the years by losing some of the old as we 
accumulated new.  There were also a few light carry-ons 
that we just traded back and forth every few years - the 
'Mulder-Scully-Other' make-up case that tends to bump one's 
ass as one walks out doors; the ultra-light backpack we use 
when one of us discovers a windmill and needs to single-
handedly take off to save mankind; a black doctor's bag 
stocked with gauze, caffeine, anger, fear, and guilt - 
Scully had that last one for too long. 

Now we had a Pooh diaper bag to keep up with. I got Scully 
the damn diaper bag, I was the reason she had it; she could 
at least let me carry it once in a while.  

"Agent Mulder, if Agent Scully wanted to bother you, she 
would have called you.  I'm sure you're busy and Kimberly 
doesn't mind."

Kimberly has possibly the most hectic job in the FBI and 
four stepsons under the age of ten at home; that's not even 
a good lie.

There's two hundred pounds of AD still blocking the door 
like a bald bulldog with nothing better to do.  Christ, 
Skinner's going to, as we called it in Junior High, make 
something of this.  Do you know why bulldogs' noses turn 
upward, Skinner?  Because otherwise they'd die.  Darwin had 
to give them pug noses so they can keep breathing as they 
sink their teeth in deep and hang on past the point of 
common sense.

I whip out my cell phone and punch number one smugly. 

"Hey, Scully - you want me to watch Emma for the morning?  
I'm just doing some paperwork in the basement.  She won't 
be in the way at all."

"If you want to, Mulder.  I didn't want to bother you." 
Scully has been big on not 'bothering' me lately.  I've 
apologized until she finally told me to shut up and 
threatened to hit me back, which would be fine except she'd 
probably dislocate my jaw and have to set it.   

"Bother me, Scully; any time.  Here - tell Skinner that.  
He takes his baby-watching duty very seriously."

"Skinner!"  I hear as I hand him the phone.  "Skinner has 
my baby?  How in the hell. . ."

I slip past my AD with the baby, figuring I can pick up my 
cell phone later.  Supervisor or not, friend or not, 
Scully's going to have something to say about Skinner's 
parenting abilities, or lack thereof, in conjunction with 
her daughter and I wouldn't want him to miss a word of it.

"Your mommy is a little protective," I tell Emma as we get 
on the elevator, secretaries eyeing me curiously.  "There 
was this time when I decided I was taking off for the North 
Pole - would you believe she came after me?"

Emma blinks those big blue eyes up at me, considering 
waking.  "She tracked me down in Puerto Rico, too. I have 
no idea what really happened yet, because your mommy writes 
boring reports, but she probably saved my ass from Aliens 
both times."

Blink.

"I'm probably not supposed to say 'ass' in front of you.  
Don't tell your mom, okay?"

Blink, blink.

"Okay."

****

"Poetry and hums aren't things which you get, they're 
things which get you.  And all you can do is to go where 
they find you."

- Pooh  

****

I'm not actually working on a case; I'm not allowed to work 
on cases, which makes me a little useless as an FBI agent 
but passable as a paper weight.  To relieve the tedium of 
doing nothing, I'm going through my old files trying to 
reconstruct my memories while I'm on a short workday 
schedule and desk duty.  Scully's on loan for autopsies at 
Quantico so she doesn't have to travel, so I'm all by my 
lonesome as I page through my Antarctic adventure and 
occasionally give the baby seat a nudge with my toe so it 
rocks wildly in my quiet office.  Emma seems thrilled.  Low 
expectations - probably good if she's going to hang out 
with me.

It's all still there inside my head.  I can feel the 
memories flowing just underneath the surface, but I can't 
get at them.  As soon as I read a report or see a 
photograph, I know it's true, but I don't recall even 
creating some of these files.  Most of my early work on the 
X-files was destroyed in the fire, so that is just gone 
from my life except for Scully's sterile reports, and I'm 
devouring them like a starving man.  

It's interesting to see the single file not even singed by 
the inferno - Scully's tattoo escapade, which I could do 
without remembering.  Cosmically, it was just paybacks for 
something I did a long time ago, but I made sure I erased 
every molecule of that woman from my body.  I can't wipe it 
out of my brain, but I can make sure Scully never got hurt.  
It wasn't love or lust - it was cheap, frightened sex and I 
swore Scully would never find out or be treated like that.  
I lived with a secret for years - Scully had her secret 
branded on her back so I couldn't miss it.  I show Emma the 
picture of the snake, and then immediately feel guilty.  
Those would be my issues; not hers.  

"How's it going, Mulder?"

I'm going to pretend I don't notice that Scully's slightly 
out of breath from hurrying and that she's still wearing 
her scrubs from the morgue.  

"All quiet.  Did you finish the autopsies?"  I give the 
baby seat another nudge and earn an excited spit bubble and 
some baby babble.

"Not in thirty minutes.  I just came by to get Emma so she 
won't be in your way."

"How can she be in the way?  She doesn't do anything except 
sleep and drool and creep around a little - give me a pill 
and we could be twins."

Scully's fussing over the baby; trying to overcompensate 
for any emotional damage Skinner may have done in the time 
it took his secretary to pee.  "It's not your job to take 
care of her, Mulder."  

"What if I want it to be?"  

Close your face, Fox William Mulder.  My mouth, as it often 
does, just keeps nattering.  "I know it takes half a bottle 
of pills for me to sleep at night so I don't play hide-the-
baby.  I know my memories aren't coming back like the 
doctors thought they would.  I know I came back programmed 
to take care of you and Emma, so why don't you let me?"

Nothing - no response.  Her mouth is actually hanging open.

"I'm not talking about minivans or suburbs or ceremonies, 
because that's not who we are, but at least add me into the 
equation.  Close your mouth and nod 'yes,' Scully.  Have a 
little faith in me."

She closes her mouth with a soft plopping sound and nods.  
Good girl.

"Go finish your autopsies, Scully.  Come pick up the baby 
when you're done."

Scully turns without a word and walks out of the office, 
slightly wobbly.  I get up to close the door behind her.

"That wasn't as hard as I always thought it would be, 
Emma."

She squirms, kicking her legs and starting to turn red.  

This wasn't the part I was thinking of when I volunteered.

****

"They say time is the fire in which we burn."

-Soron, Star Trek: Generations

****

I've never been one for jewelry, so the sensation of 
Scully's cross against my skin distracted me - bouncing, 
jabbing at me like a conscience.  The gold chain tangled in 
her hair and then seared the hollow of my throat as I laid 
back, but I wouldn't take it off.  It was the last barrier 
between my skin and hers, the last thing keeping me from 
smelting into Death.  She teased me, saying I treated that 
stupid necklace like a saint's relic, and I felt my neck 
flush under the metal.  I rolled, pinning her underneath 
me, penetrating harder and faster than I should have - 
knowing I wanted to hurt her for saying that and that she 
wanted to be hurt.    

It's over so quickly; she's not the woman my mind craves 
and my body knows it.  I sit on the hillside and watch the 
house burn, the black smoke blending night and day into 
one.  The hot flames warm the metal again as I stare 
blindly, trying not to think.  When I focus through prisms 
of tears, there's long, brunette hair caught in the links, 
and I jerk it out furiously - it doesn't belong there.  
That's a dead woman's hair.  When I found the necklace in 
Duane Barry's trunk, it still had a few red strands caught 
in the clasp and I left them - relics.  No, relics are from 
the dead and Scully is alive somewhere.  Those dark hairs 
that snap and break as I jerk them free are from a woman 
only minutes dead, but Scully is alive. 

I twist and twist the gleaming chain in the firelight, 
making sure no evidence remains for Scully to find when 
she's returned.  A tired fire fighter trudges up the hill, 
asking if I lost any loved ones in the fire.  'No,' I tell 
him, kissing the clasp like a child and pulling it to the 
back of my neck, making a wish.   

What is it they say about wishes and horses and beggars and 
frogs and wings?

He watches me, wondering, his worn face smudged with soot 
and ash blowing over us like snowflakes.  "Are you the FBI 
man?"

I nod.  Yes, that's all I am now.  Nobody's friend or 
partner or son or father or brother or lover or husband - 
I'm just the FBI man.  

"Mulder," Scully's low voice says, calling to me.

Oh please God, don't let Scully see this.  I need to shower 
- to scrub this smell of sex and smoke   and death off me 
before I can face her.  Christ, what did I think I was 
doing?

"It's only a dream, Mulder."

"Scully?"

"Just a dream, Mulder."

I pull her to me, but all I can do is sob in the ash and 
the smell of her burning hair.   

I feel her hand on my shoulders, rubbing, smoothing out 
worries.

"Just a dream," she says again.

I breathe in, smelling Scully - not sterile hospital rooms 
or flesh pulled taut over fine bones by cancer, but warm, 
clean skin, toothpaste-tinted breath, and fabric softener 
and baby head.

I reach out in the dark, finding her face with my fingers, 
reassuring myself that she's alive and there and forgiving.  
Then my mouth is on hers, inhaling her greedily, not 
waiting for her to respond, but plunging past her lips and 
into her soul.  Screw being friends, screw taking it slow; 
I want to feel that this woman is alive.

"I want you," I tell her, attacking her neck with my mouth 
and hearing her gasp - in surprise?  In pleasure?  "Now.  I 
want to make love to you, to feel myself inside you now," 
the words tumble out before I can stop them.

She doesn't speak, but I feel smooth legs parting and 
wrapping around my waist.  "I love you.  I don't ever want 
anyone else touching you - no one.  Never.  I want to feel 
you moving with me and I want to make you pregnant and I 
want my name on the forms instead of 'unknown,' Goddamn 
it." 
 
Slow down, I tell myself, but I'm not listening.  Her skin 
is against mine, mouth under mine, body under mine, and I 
thrust without thinking, feeling shocked flesh give way.  

"Don't you ever leave me, Scully.  Don't you dare leave me 
alone in the dark."

There are sharp cries, and I stop suddenly.  God, don't 
cry, Scully.  I'm sorry; that was too fast.  I'm sorry; I 
know better.

I don't think it's Scully crying.  She's not even moving.  
I push up on my elbows to look down at her face, and her 
eyes are open, hollow.  A few scarlet drops of blood are 
making their way from her nose down each side of her lips 
like a red mustache.  

The crying is still there, shrill and piercing and pained.  
"Scully?"  Her unblinking eyes stare up at me, pupils fixed 
and dilated into black pools of oil.  "SCULLY!"

"I'm here, Mulder," comes a voice, but it's not from this 
body.  This woman is dead.  "Wake up!  Wake up, it's just a 
nightmare!"

"No, Scully!"

Someone's pulling me, trying to come between us, calling my 
name.

Then arms wrap around me, rocking me gently, telling me 
it's only a nightmare.  As I wake, the room is very bright, 
and I hear the baby on the floor crying over the sounds of 
the television.  

"Scully?  Am I awake?"

"You're awake.  I'm right here.  You fell asleep watching a 
movie, and I'm right here.  No fires, Mulder.  No fire. 
Only a movie on TV."  I press my head into her small 
shoulder, seeking safety.  "That sounded like a bad one, 
Mulder.  Maybe you shouldn't be back at work yet."
 
My heart is about to explode, I'm so afraid.  I breathe on 
command so I don't hyperventilate, chanting to myself that 
this is reality, this is reality.  Scully is warm and alive 
and Emma is squalling to be picked up and there are no more 
nosebleeds.  

"Did I hurt you?  Did I hurt the baby?"

"No - no, Mulder.  You've only been asleep a few minutes.  
Emma bumped her forehead on the coffee table.  I just 
wanted to wake you before you tried to get up.  You 
sometimes get upset when she cries."

Scully holds me, rocking me until Emma finally decides 
she's not getting enough sympathy and crawls over for her 
fair share.  "They're getting worse, Mulder.  You couldn't 
have been asleep more than five minutes."

"Love you," I respond into her neck, knowing it's not 
intelligible as she pulls away.  

Emma on her lap, Scully runs one hand down my face, wiping 
away my tears.  "You want to tell me about it?"

"No," I respond, scrutinizing her face for any sign of 
sickness, but she looks radiant.  "No, it was just a 
dream."

****

"Someone once told me that time was a predator that stalked 
us all our lives, but I'd rather believe that time is a 
companion that goes with us on a journey, reminds us to 
cherish every moment, because it'll never come again."

- Picard, Star Trek:  Generations

**** 

"So, what exactly would you give for information, Comrade?"

Krycek makes the mistake of leering at my crotch.  At this 
point, Fink-boy, if I thought you knew anything that would 
make these dreams stop, I'd play naked leapfrog or 
hopscotch or checkers with you and three of your best 
buddies.  Fortunately for me and my knees, you seem as 
clueless as you ever were.

"This is a waste of time," I spit out, more to Skinner than 
to Krycek.  "He doesn't know anything."

Skinner's eyebrows indicate he agrees.

"Relax, Mulder.  You're always such a tight ass," he 
taunts.

I glance around the empty roof of the parking garage as 
though I'm looking for witnesses and Skinner moves, almost 
imperceptibly, on my cue. 

"Let's kill him."

Skinner has Krycek's arms pinned behind him before I can 
blink.  God, this is fun.  Krycek wasn't an FBI agent long 
enough to learn this game, but Skinner's good at it.  He 
has that 'two days too long in 'Nam' blank killer's stare 
that has me half-convinced.

"What the fuck are you two doing?  Are you fucking nuts!" 
he cries, sounding like a first grade bully caught by two 
third graders.

"I am.  Ask the Bureau shrink.  PTSD exacerbated by REM 
Sleep Behavior Disorder," I tell him, pulling my weapon and 
trying not to grin.  From behind Krycek and his glasses, 
Skinner smirks - we both see the same doctor at the Sleep 
Disorder Clinic at Georgetown.  "Watch yourself, Sir, I 
can't hit the broad side of a barn these days."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, Agent Mulder."  
He shifts a squirming Krycek slightly away from him and 
leans his own head back. "Hate getting blood in my face."

"You two are crazy!"

I do my best Jack Nicholson: "If that's what's bein' crazy 
is, then I'm senseless, out of it, gone-down-the-road, 
wack-" 

"They're gone!  There IS no Consortium, no Elders, no 
colonists! There's nothing left except a couple of idiot 
shape-shifters!  What the fuck do you want me to tell you?"

Good boy - although I may still have to hurt you for 
interrupting my Nicholson impression.  I nod to Skinner, 
who tosses Krycek roughly onto the hood of an old Buick and 
follows me to the elevator.  

"You want to hear about my part in that baby, Mulder?  I 
always did like your stuck-up little redhead," comes his 
voice from behind us.

My reflexes are still slow, so before I can even raise my 
gun, Skinner pivots, sinks a sucker punch deep into 
Krycek's stomach and follows it with a brutal left to his 
jaw that splatters blood across the pavement.  Damn!  I 
knew he boxed, but Krycek's not going to wake up for hours.  
Damn!  Krycek slides down the Buick Skylark and into an oil 
slick like a rag doll.

"If They're gone, their damn technology is gone, too."  
Skinner tells him, jerking Krycek up by his shirt to make 
sure he's paying attention.  "Scurry back into whatever rat 
hole you crawled out of before I let Dana Scully kick your 
sorry ass herself."

Satisfied that he's still breathing, I follow Skinner back 
to the elevator, trying to look half as tough as my AD, who 
hasn't looked back.  

"What did Fink-boy do to you?" I ask as the doors open.  
It's no huge secret that Skinner has a soft spot for 
Scully, but that sounded personal.

"Long story.  Too long for tonight; you look like hell, 
Mulder."

"I haven't been sleeping," I respond, respecting his 
evasive maneuvers and considering running back and giving 
Krycek one last, good kick in the ribs for old time's sake.

Skinner examines his fist as the doors close.  "Last time 
you said that to me, you punched me, Agent Mulder."

Seriously?  I'd love to have that memory back.  

"And then Scully shot you, so it all evened out."

Oh.  That file.  I keep my mouth shut for the walk back to 
the car.

"You want to come eat take-out with us, Sir?  Scully's good 
at patching up busted knuckles and we can think up a lie on 
the way there."

He considers, flexing his hand, then gets in the passenger 
side of my car, trying to look as tough as possible for a 
middle-aged man that doesn't want to go home alone.

"REM Sleep Behavior Disorder, huh?  That sounds pretty 
pansy-ass."  He's focusing past the windshield.

"Don't start on me, Skinner.  It's only what I have this 
week.  What've you got?"

"Somnambulsim."

"That sounds like something that Krycek would like and you 
could get arrested for in Louisiana."

"Just drive, Mulder."

****

"Men of peace are usually brave."

- Mr. Spock

****

Each time my skin touches the pane, it sticks like duct 
tape, leaving little smudges of dermis, so I scrape away 
the layer of ice with my thumbnail, trying to see if 
morning has come.  The sky is purple, overripe with 
predawn, but it's been predawn for weeks now.  The northern 
lights are interrupted by huge ships moving through the 
sky, flashing as they process hundreds of thousands of 
human lab rats.  I saved one – Elvis – perhaps I can 
save them all.

I watch for several minutes, but they seem no closer.  Not 
today, I decide; they won't find us today.

After adding wood to the stove to get the cabin above 
freezing and starting water for coffee, I check on Emma, 
and then slip back under the covers with Scully.  She moves 
closer to me, bringing body heat with her and running her 
fingers through my long hair.

"Do you know what day it is, Scully?" I ask her, pulling 
the blankets up over her bare shoulders.  "It's Christmas.  
Know what I want for Christmas?"

She shifts, draping a leg over my hips.  "Would this be the 
same thing you wanted for Thanksgiving, Halloween, and 
Labor Day?  The fall equinox, your birthday, the last full 
moon, and Christmas Eve four hours ago?"

"At least I'm consistent."

"Tell me again.  I like hearing it," she says, rolling to 
her back without pretense.  

"You.  I want one more day with you and Emma without 
nosebleeds or Grays or Purity.  It's almost dawn, so today, 
I already have what I wanted."

"And tomorrow?" 

"Tomorrow - if I get what I want each day, I get tomorrow 
and forever on faith."   

She smiles up at me with sleepy, lazy eyes, and I am lost.  
It's comfortable now - we left the idea of flesh being 
forbidden in DC with microwave ovens and cell phones.  
There hasn't been time for many pretty pretenses; I have a 
mental list of things we need to do: make love in our own 
bed, let Emma walk on grass instead of snow, eat by 
candlelight by choice instead of so I can see my oatmeal.  
That smile, though - that trusting optimism in the face of 
fate; I fight with guns and fists, Scully fights with that 
gentle smile and small, skilled hands.  And faith.

In the distance, there's the rumble of a train gathering 
force as it begins its dizzying climb.  I feel trembling as 
Scully leans her forehead into my shoulder, telling me 
she's 'fine' as that first moment together stretches into 
infinity.  Feet barely recognizable as such under two 
layers of thick wool socks run up my denim calves and rest 
on the back of my thighs as she relaxes.  

The engine gathers steam as the ground under us begins to 
shake, reaching the top of the mountain as the teakettle on 
the wood stove begins to shriek.  There's no time to cross 
the summit before Emma's crying and white light through the 
window pull us away from each other.  Not even time for one 
last kiss.

I roll away, heart racing, fastening my jeans uncomfortably 
and grabbing the ice pick from the top shelf as Scully 
pulls on her long johns and goes to get Emma.  The light 
and the tremors are closer now, rattling the coffee mugs 
off the counter and stealing through the cracks around the 
windows and door where normally only cold wind would come 
in.  

"Go!" I yell at Scully, but there's nowhere to go.  She 
huddles in the far corner of the cabin, shielding Emma and 
raising her weapon as the door opens.  I get a good grip on 
the ice pick, squinting as the blowing snow stings my eyes 
and bare chest.  

Silhouetted against the light is the shape-shifter.  I back 
up until I'm standing almost on top of Scully and the baby, 
feeling the metal handle of the ice pick beginning to stick 
to my skin as the metal freezes.  "Not today," I tell him, 
yelling to be heard over the whistling kettle and the 
screaming wind. "You're not taking them today."

The light bathes us, creating false warmth as it filters 
through the icy window.  Behind me, I hear futile clicking 
as Scully pulls the trigger again and again.    

Time starts to warp, stretching into a thin copper wire and 
there are only two colors - the yellow-white light from the 
ship and the black of the shadows.  "Not today!" I yell at 
him, hearing my voice slow like a Walkman low on batteries. 

****

"What if this is as good as it gets?"

- Jack Nicholson - "As Good as it Gets"""

****

It's familiar now - navigating my way out of a nightmare by 
Scully's voice as I separate the real from the surreal.  I 
follow her words until I find myself in her arms, in her 
bed.  The blowing snow becomes an air conditioner and the 
blinding yellow light fades to the glow of a Tigger 
nightlight near the crib.

"Awake?" I ask groggily, pulling her close to me, having no 
idea how I ended up in her bed.  

"Awake," she confirms, running her fingers through my short 
hair.  "It's all over."

"Skinner gone?" Please don't let me have had a nightmare in 
front of him – he'll keep me on desk duty from now to 
eternity if he knows how bad it really is.

"Um-hum.  It's almost midnight."

She doesn't ask me what my dreams are about anymore, 
because I never remember.  Like the others, this one has 
melted like a chalk drawing in the rain: Christmas, coffee, 
woolen socks, and Scully's bare shoulders.  I relax into 
her, searching for the nightmare in wool socks and bare 
shoulders, but it's already gone.

Fingers run down my back, smoothing, petting, calming.  I 
take a deep breath and exhale shakily, becoming aware of 
how close our bodies are and that I'm very - um - happy to 
see her.  I shift away, embarrassed, as Emma makes her 
presence known from the crib.  I never thought I'd be so 
glad for a screaming baby.
 
"I'll get her," I say, already halfway to the crib.  Emma 
raises her arms, anticipating big midnight adventures.  She 
thinks her "Muh-muh" is great fun.  It's two very distinct 
sounds – 'mama' and 'muh-muh,' and I claim the latter, 
although Emma doesn't seem to know that.

"Hey, little girl – when are you going to start sleeping 
through the night?"

"Muh-muh," she informs me.  See?  

"Probably when I stop letting her nurse every time she 
wakes up," Scully says as I hand off the baby.  

"So why do you?"  Between the baby and I, Scully gets next 
to no sleep.

"Same reason you're still sleeping here."  A practiced hand 
unbuttons her top few buttons and positions Emma as I 
watch, mesmerized. "Stay?" she asks.

Gladly.

I wait for an explanation, but there isn't one.  

I sit, then lay, facing her across the bed.  Sleep is 
already taking me again; with all my pills, there's no hope 
of staying awake to either discuss or finish whatever I've 
started once the adrenaline wears off.  A hand – obviously 
not mine – reaches out and caresses from her shoulder down 
over her breast to the baby's head. 

"Don't you let me hurt you or Emma," I whisper, already 
falling back to Morphous.  "Promise me."

I have no idea if she promised or not.  My body relaxes, 
brain unfocuses, and I am gone, hand still on Emma's soft 
brown curls.

****

"A day . . . is a miniature eternity."

- Emerson
 
****

"Bye, Scully."  I kiss her cheek, barely brushing my lips 
against the velvet, and pick up my car keys off the coffee 
table as slowly as possible, fiddling with Emma's bare 
magnetic toes as I stall.  

"Bye, Mulder.  Sweet dreams."  

"That's not funny."  

As June bleeds into July, my nightmares have finally 
intruded past the point that any 'normal' sleeping pills 
can keep me still at night.  According to the sleep clinic, 
I lay my head on the pillow, close my eyes, and immediately 
hit REM, which triggers the vivid nightmares.  If I wake up 
or someone else wakes me, it stops and the cycle restarts.  
If they give me what amounts to general anesthesia, the 
dreams just continue endlessly.  

Either way, I don't rest and I keep going after Emma.  Half 
the time, I go to sleep on the couch and wake up in 
Scully's bed like I belong there.  Sometimes, there are 
marks on me and when I awoke Sunday morning, there were 
marks on Scully again.  I asked for an explanation and 
didn't get one and decided enough was enough.  

I met with Dr. Mahowald, who basically threw up his hands - 
although he said lots of big words as he did it, and then 
went to talk to Scully.  Talking to Scully is the best 
description, since my conversation was with the top of her 
head.  I wanted to let the doctor do surgery to reduce the 
electrical activity in my brain - I lived through it last 
time, I just had bad hair for about a month.  Red head 
shook 'no' and said the words 'split-brain procedure' and 
'decreased level of functioning.'  I know what it is, 
Scully - it's partially severing the two halves of my brain 
and, yes, at my age, there will be some residual damage.  
My personal physician picked at the baby food stain on 
her shirt and shook 'no.'  

Then I want to find a neurosurgeon to remove the chip.  No, 
I didn't want to hear the 'part of the brain dreams is 
not the part with the chip in it' lecture again.  
Don't try to scare me by saying 'lobotomy' again, either, 
because it's not like they use an ice pick anymore.  You 
don't have to live with the nightmares, Scully.  And as 
long as I keep having the dreams, there's no way I can stay 
with you - on the couch or otherwise.  Not sex; just 
getting on with our lives, wherever they are going. 

Scully pulled a low punch - saying that, after removing her 
chip, she was dying of cancer within two years.  Emma was 
seven months old now - that would make her about three when 
I died.

Discussion over.

I managed the first few endless nights away from Scully 
pacing my own now-unfamiliar apartment, but then switched 
to the Boy's bunker looking for some company.  Friday 
morning, there was a vote, and there will be no more 
slumber parties at The Lone Gunmen's.  They won't tell me 
what I did, but Langly nervously avoids me.  Tonight, it's 
back to Casa Mulder.

"You know, you're a lot cuter in your pajamas than Frohike 
is, Scully."

"When did you see Frohike in my pajamas?  His backside is 
twice as big as mine."

I personally prefer this nice, slightly rounder bottom that 
came with motherhood, but she probably doesn't want to hear 
that.   

"Bye, Scully."

"You said that, Mulder."    

"I don't wanna go.  Can't you just tie me to the headboard 
for the night?"

"In your dreams, partner."

"A lot you know."

To my great surprise, I find a soft mouth on mine.  I 
quickly close my eyes and part my lips so I appear at least 
a little suave and not like a freshman whose cheerleader-
crush just decided to reciprocate big time.  I manage to 
get my face and hands to play their appropriate roles, 
although my brain is thundering 'oh, my, God, oh, my, God,' 
on an infinite loop as the seconds pass.  I'm trying to 
relax and enjoy this but I feel something whacking me in 
the head - what was it Frohike said about beating the men 
off Scully with a stick?  Better get a damn big stick.  

Bunny.  I'm being assaulted with Bunny.

"Wow," I mumble as we part.

"Wow?"

"Wow."  I look down to glare at Emma, who is sitting 
between us on the couch with her 'no, I didn't just fill my 
diaper or interrupt your first time' Mulder-family blank 
face.  "Wow. Do it again."

To my delight and Bunny's dismay, Scully does.

****

"I cannot walk through the suburbs in the solitude of the 
night without thinking that the night pleases us because it 
suppresses the details, just as our memory does."

- Jorge Luis Borges

****

Of all the places I'd expect to find Walter Skinner at 
midnight, my favorite pub would not be high on the list.     

"I'm hiding out from sleep, stars, and a vengeful Bunny - 
what's your excuse, Skinner?" I ask as I straddle the bar 
stool beside him.

Damn, if I hadn't recently spent forty-five minutes doing 
some seriously heavy petting with Scully, that would be a 
great pick-up line.

"Just having a beer."  

He doesn't even bother to look at me, just lifts the pint 
to his mouth and drains the pale ale.  The muscles across 
his smooth face ripple as his throat convulses, reminding 
me how much I miss drinking.

The blonde bartender, who's switched from calling me 
'Spooky,' to calling me 'Slugger,' sets down a Rolling Rock 
and a frosty mug, and slides a basket of pretzels at me 
without missing a beat.  I like this place, even if the 
men's room hasn't worked in years, and I figure one beer 
won't screw with my brain chemistry that much.

"Don't leave her alone tonight, Mulder."

Uh?  Scully just had a baby and she's a little antsy and it 
took us eight years to get this far, not like it's any of 
your business, so, therefore, huh?  "How much have you had 
to drink, sir?"

"You need to stay with her tonight.  If you still insist on 
bringing her, it's coming soon."  His face twitches again 
as he finishes his beer and lays a five on the bar.  He 
must be a pay-as-he-goes man, because his movements are 
uncoordinated, as though he's not comfortable in his own 
skin.  He's wasted. 

I pour, admiring the way the ice on the mug turns to steam 
in the muggy air, and considering all the merits of being 
privy to a drunken AD.  If he feels morose and gabby, this 
could be a profitable evening.  I could see my reports 
finally getting approved without Scully having to edit 
them, but when I look up, he's vanished and another man has 
taken his seat.

"Skinner?"  

"You need to be ready, Fox.  Don't be afraid." 

"Dad?"  

Oh, man - I do not want to go back to the neurologist.  I 
use my high-tech AMA-approved method for making 
hallucinations vanish: I close my eyes and shake my head a 
little, scratching my hair like I'm turning over a few 
fleas.

Upon closer examination, the stool is empty and Skinner's 
walking past the men's room to the back door.  Of course, I 
am Agent Mulder, so I must give chase while yelling his 
name - modified into as many syllables as possible.

"Skinner!" He just keeps walking, trench coat flowing 
behind him like a villain's cape.  He's too drunk to be 
roaming around dark alleys this late in a suit - he'll lose 
his wallet, if not part of his skull.  

"Skinner!" I yell again.  If he's just headed to the alley 
to pee like the rest of us outies do, I want to make sure 
he has the sense to wander back inside.

Throwing open the door to the alley, I run smack dab into a 
wall of chest.

"It's almost time.  Go to Scully and the baby."  

It's the bounty hunter.  A guy never knows whom he'll meet 
while taking a piss in an alley.  

Oh, shit - it's the bounty hunter.  That's who my father 
and Skinner was - were - one shape-shifting bounty hunter.

"What do you want me to do?"

"You'll know," he replies, expressionless as he pats my 
shoulder comfortingly.

"No, I don't remember.  Stop playing games with me and tell 
me what's happening."  What is this - the designated alley 
for lousy informants?

"You'll know.  You'll do just fine."  His face moves 
mechanically, like I'm having a conversation with one of 
the Pirates of the Caribbean or Steven Seagal.

"NO!  I don't remember!  All I know is- HEY!  Don't walk 
away from me!"

The shape shifter doesn't even seem to be running, but he 
pulls away from me and vanishes into the fog in less than a 
quarter of a mile.  Never one to quit when I'm down - or 
dead - I check all the doorways, alleys, and side streets, 
but he's gone.  There's only the mist rising from the storm 
drains and a few mice skittering like a melodramatic movie.

"Shit!"  Now what?  I stand on the sidewalk, panting, hands 
braced on my trembling knees as I try to figure out if that 
was real, a flashback, or a waking nightmare.  Was it live 
or was it Memorex?  Do I get in line at the closest ER or 
go home and try to sleep it off?  It's Friday night and 
Monday's Independence Day - I'll sit in chairs all night if 
I go to a hospital, but I'm obviously hallucinating.  It 
could be from lack of sleep; probably it's from lack of 
sleep, but I don't want to be pumped full of dope again.

Trying not to look pitiful, I walk back and lean against 
the trunk of my car and consider: the emergency room on a 
holiday weekend or 'fessing to Scully that I haven't been 
back to either physical or occupational therapy and that I 
don't take my pills when I'm not at her apartment.

Holiday weekend.  

Leave on Friday night so we can get as far as possible 
before Monday morning.  

Go north - follow the North Star.  

Take the baby that's genetic proof of the Consortium and go 
north where it's cold.  Where the Grays can't follow.

****

"He believed in a door.  He must find that door.  The door 
was the way to...to...
The Door was The Way.
Good.
Capital letters were always the best way of dealing with 
things you didn't have a good answer to."

- Douglas Adams, Hitchhiker's Guide

****

"Mulder?"  Her front door bangs loudly against the wall, 
echoing out into the hallway; I didn't bother with knocking 
on it or closing it.

"We have to go, Scully.  Find your winter coat and some 
warm clothes for the baby."

She just lies there, squinting at me from our bed - her 
bed.  "Go where?  Are you okay, Mulder?  What's wrong?"

"North.  I'll explain once we're in the air.  Hurry, Scully 
- there's not much time." I get her oveernight bag out of 
her closet and pick up the sleeping baby from the crib.  
"Come on!  There's a flight out of Dulles in an hour."

She finally stands and takes Emma while I shoulder the 
diaper bag and start ransacking her dresser for a 
sweatshirt I left here.  

"How much have you had to drink, Mulder?"

She's sniffing me.  Don't sniff me, woman.  "Nothing.  
Well, almost nothing.  Find your boots, too.  It's going to 
be cold."

"You're upset.  Sit down and tell me what's happened."

"There's no time.  We have to go, Scully.  Please - have a 
little faith in me.  Trust me.  If I'm wrong, we waste a 
long weekend and we get a little cold.  If I'm right-"

I step toward her to take the baby back so she can dress 
and she steps back, keeping the distance between us and 
shifting Emma to her hip.    

"Get back."

"This isn't a game, Scully, or a flashback. I'm sober and 
I'm wide awake.  They're coming and we have to go tonight.  
Just give me the baby and go find your coat." 
  
"Get back!" 

"For Christ's sake, it's me!  Mulder!  The same Mulder that 
dragged you buck naked out of a UFO in Antarctica. 
Hallucinogenic mushrooms.  Phillip Padgett, Donnie Pfaster, 
Clyde Bruckman.  The couch, two hours ago - that was pretty 
memorable." 
 
"I know it's you, Mulder.  I want you to give me your gun 
and back away until you calm down.  I'm not going to give 
you the baby."  

I obey, taking a few steps back into the living room.  I 
can understand why my barging in and ranting in her bedroom 
might upset her a little. "We don't have time for this, 
Scully. They sent me back to take care of Emma - They want 
her DNA.  She has to survive while They fight back.  
Please; They're coming."

My lips form those words without any consultation from my 
brain.

"Those men took you and did awful things to you, Mulder, 
but you're safe now.  They'll never come back."

I slam my palm into a molding, waking the baby and probably 
not helping matters.  "All my nightmares; all that 
Underground Railroad stuff I keep spouting off; everything 
I read in the old X-files - it finally all makes sense!"

"No, it doesn't.  Stop and think it through - why send you 
back to protect Emma?  Why not just take her?  You aren't 
immune to the virus, Mulder - I was vaccinated, not you.  
Why not program me to take her and hide?"

"I don't know!  Please believe me; I'm not trying to hurt 
you or Emma.  I'm trying to keep the two of you alive."  
I'm almost yelling now, but damn it Scully - why do you 
always have to be so stubborn?

I don't realize I've stepped toward her until she raises my 
own weapon at me.  "Get back!"

"She is going to die - They will find her and They will 
kill her if we don't go now." I enunciate clearly so she 
can understand every word, taking another step.  "Either 
kill me or give me the baby; kill us both or let us all 
live."

I've reached the point of ranting - I don't even understand 
what I'm saying.  I don't know if I can really hear the 
ticking as the time bomb counts down or if it's just my 
imagination, but something is marking the seconds as they 
tick by.

She considers, worried eyes never leaving me and shaking 
hand still aiming the Sig.  "Okay.  Okay, Mulder.  I'm 
going to get a few things from the bathroom and we'll go 
with you.  I want you to sit on the couch and not get up 
until I tell you, okay?"

"Fine; just hurry," I snap.

I toss the diaper bag at the front door and sit on the 
sofa, fiddling impatiently while she takes her own sweet 
time.  "If we fly into JFK, we can catch a flight directly 
to Northern Canada.  That's where the slaves went, so I 
think that's what we should do - go up past the tree line, 
but not so far into the Arctic that it will be dangerous 
for the baby," I call into the bedroom, not looking back in 
case she's nursing.

"And you've calculated how far north that would be?  Cold 
enough to freeze aliens, but not human babies?" comes her 
low voice in my ear as Scully wraps a soft arm around my 
shoulder, pressing her breasts into the back of my head.  

Don't distract me, Scully.  We can get it on after we save 
the world, or whatever it is that I'm programmed to do.

"For some reason, I know moss grows on the north side of 
dead trees.  Does that help?  Hey - do we need a passport 
for the baby?  I reserved a third seat so you could belt 
her in, but I didn't think about a passport."

I feel a sharp needle penetrate my shoulder before I can 
pull away and the room goes very white, then black.

****
 
" . . . and when I cried out with a mother's grief and none 
but Jesus heard me, and ain't I a woman?"

- Sojourner Truth

****

"I'm not saying he's right - that little green men are 
about to descend from spaceships and take over the planet, 
Scully, I'm pointing out that, except for the nightmares, 
he wasn't showing any signs of being extremely unstable 
until last night."  

Skinner's voice reaches me through the slow waves as 
consciousness laps at me: "I've seen plenty of agents, 
profilers especially, crash and burn; I've seen him crash 
and burn, and this isn't what it looks like.  No problems 
at home or personality changes, no high-stress cases; 
nothing that fits the pattern."

A wet washcloth wipes over my face like a mother cat's 
tongue and Scully's angry voice is very close.  "You think 
I should let him take Emma and head for the North Pole - is 
that what you're saying?"

After the cloth is gone, Scully's warm hand rests on my 
forehead, pushing my hair back from my face the way my 
mother used to when I had a stomach virus.

"If you believe him, then yes.  As... difficult as Mulder 
can be, he's not often wrong and I can't see him harming 
you or Emma.  If you don't believe him; if you think this 
is some kind of PTSD or hallucination or that chip in his 
head, then we need to get him to a hospital before he hurts 
someone."

The warm little hand stays, caressing, fruitlessly trying 
to wipe away worries again.  If I could open my eyes, I'm 
fairly sure I would see tears in hers.  "I hate to do that 
to him.  He hates hospitals so much.  He's been so sick."

"I can put him on six months' paternity leave and have one 
of the Bureau shrinks make house calls if you think you can 
keep him here, Scully.  Everyone assumes anyway...  Parents 
don't have to be married to take the leave time - I have no 
problem with putting the paperwork through and letting him 
quietly disappear.  But if you can't handle him; if he hits 
you again or hurts the baby..."

"I already told you, those were accidents."  
 
"Are you sure?"

"No!  No, I'm not sure.  I've followed him all over the 
planet and I'd go with him this time, but I can't take Emma 
to the Arctic Circle if he's not stable.  I can't handle 
him and her, too."  The hand is shaking now.  "I may not 
believe what he does, but…  He's just been through so much…  
He doesn't take his Klonopin right - he's on a high dose 
and he takes it when he feels like it and he was drinking.  
That's all it is - you mix alcohol with a fluctuating level 
of Klonopin and people can become confused.  And he needs 
another MRI to check for diffuse hemispheric or brainstem 
lesions - those are common with Sleep Behavior Disorder.  
Or maybe he's just depressed; he doesn't take his Prozac 
either.  Or-"

Whatever I'm laying on lurches as Scully gets up and there 
are quick footsteps across a wooden floor.

"She just went in the bedroom to cry, Agent Mulder.  I hope 
you realize that."  Skinner's voice is low now, not wanting 
Scully to hear him, and talking more to himself than to me.  
"She's going to say she was getting you a blanket or some 
other excuse, but she's in there crying.  Whatever you did 
last night scared her good, so you either better damn well 
be right or completely out of your head - otherwise I'm 
kicking your ass."

"Fuck you," I manage.

"Good to see you too, Skinner.  Thank you for spending your 
Saturday watching my sorry ass sleep.  No, no problem at 
all, Agent Mulder - it's what I live for.  I have no life 
outside of your crises."

"True." My tongue feels thick and my eyes seem glued 
together as I try to open them.

"Scully, your partner is awake!"  Then quieter, "Arrogant 
shit head."

"Asshole.  Hope They put you at the front of the line."

Scully appears in my field of vision fussing over me like 
I'm a puppy that got left out in the rain, her eyes and 
nose red - from getting me another blanket, I'm sure.

"He's talking," Skinner notes, "But he's not quite with 
it."

"Mulder?  How are you feeling?"

"Like hell.  What did you do to me?"  I grab at an armrest 
to sit up, miss, and realize I'm on the same couch where we 
almost made love last night.  "You gave me that goddamn 
Valium shit again, didn't you?  What time is it?"

"It's Saturday afternoon.  Tell me where you are," she 
says, offering me a drink of water.

"Fox William Mulder," I say, swishing the tennis ball out 
of my mouth.  "I'm in my partner's apartment and I'm 
thirty-nine and I have to pee.  Your three things for me to 
remember are always dog, chair, and cup.  You always hold 
up your necklace and ask me what it is and I always say 
'brainwashing and guilt.'  Don't make me count, okay, 
Scully, cause my head is spinning like a slot machine."

I try to stand up and Scully catches me as I sway, guiding 
me back down.  "Just take it easy, Mulder.  You're going to 
feel pretty hung over for a few more hours.  That wasn't 
Valium; it was what they gave you in the hospital while I 
was in Africa.  That's how you're going to feel now - do 
you remember?"

"Of course I don't fuckin' remember.  Stupid, Scully; that 
was so stupid - what you did.  I'm not delusional.  I saw 
one of the shape shifters last night and all the pieces of 
the puzzle fit.  We have to go north."

"Mulder, what about-"

Skinner interrupts her.  "I can have you and Scully and the 
baby on a military plane in less than an hour, Mulder, but 
you have to make some sense.  Everyone wants to believe 
you, to understand you, but you have to give us some 
proof."

"Hostage negotiation training, Skinner?"

"Just convince me, Agent Mulder, and we're on a plane.  I 
saw you disappear into a bright light in the woods with the 
same man I saw jump off a bridge with your sister years 
ago.  Then I saw a huge ship move through the sky the way 
no aircraft I've ever seen can maneuver, and I have access 
to the government projects we don't tell Janet Reno about.  
I'm not as skeptical as I used to be, but what you told 
Scully just doesn't add up."

"How doesn't it add up?" I ask, my voice raising.  "How can 
I explain it when you keep shooting me full of that shit!"

Scully wraps her arms around herself, her face starting to 
crumple.  I've seen that posture before - the few times 
I've seen her cry.  "I'm sorry, Mulder.  I'm so sorry.  I 
didn't know what else to do.  I had the Nembutal, just in 
case-"

"Just in case what?  Just in case I went psychotic and you 
had to dope me up until I'd sit and drool on myself!"  God, 
I didn't mean to yell at her but my forehead feels like 
it's about to explode.

"Don't you understand?  I don't know what else to do!" she 
screams back at me.  

"Scully - you're not going to be able to do this," Skinner 
says gently.

She whirls, turning her face and her anger at him.  "I'm 
the doctor; I can decide what's best for him," she snaps.

"Yes, you're the doctor.  You've got a medicine cabinet 
full of drugs - I saw them when you patched up my hand.  
You've got liquid Valium, which you've obviously given him 
before, you've got Ativan and his Klonopin and Xanax and 
Buspar and every other sedative under the sun and you were 
frightened enough to give him Nembutal.  He's right, 
Scully.  You thought there was a chance he'd become 
dangerous or you wouldn't have had something that strong 
here.  You obviously thought he -was- dangerous last night 
or you wouldn't have used it."  

"No."  She sounds like a little girl pouting.

"You've done everything you possibly can.  Whatever the 
problem is, he's not lucid enough to communicate it.  
You're giving him a powerful antipsychotic and he's still 
trying to come after you.  You can't keep him here; Mulder 
needs more help than you can give him right now."  

He pulls out his cell phone and starts to dial.  God, call 
someone, Skinner - my head is going to burst like an 
overripe melon.

"I'm not letting them lock him in a room somewhere!"  

Shut up, Scully!  Why do you have to talk so loudly?

"No one's going to let that happen, but he's hurt you 
before and he's going to do it again.  It's not a choice 
anymore, Scully."  

Skinner sounds as though he's speaking through water or 
from the bottom of a deep cavern.  I hear the garble of him 
talking to someone, but he's interrupted as the bulb in the 
overhead light explodes, raining debris of glass down on 
our hair. Emma shrieks from the bedroom; the power surge 
must have blown the ceiling light in there as well.  Scully 
hurries to get the baby as Skinner gently brushes me off, 
picking up the larger pieces from the floor.

"It's okay, Mulder," he reassures me, patting me as though 
he's talking to a child while he fiddles with his cell 
phone, looking puzzled.  

He's picking up Scully's cordless phone and Scully's saying 
the baby is fine when the room is bathed in blinding white 
light, as though the entire Earth was being X-rayed.  
Before I can react, it fades, the scalding light 
disappearing almost before it was even here, retreating to 
a colorless arc across the horizon - a faux rainbow with no 
pot of gold at either end.  It lingers outside Scully's bay 
window, hanging there as the sky fills with a ball of 
billowing dark smoke.
 
Scully reappears, clutching a screaming Emma to her chest, 
trying to figure out what's happening.  

I know what's happening; we've waited too long.  "EMP," I 
mumble, still shaken by the light, but the pressure inside 
my head is gone.  "Tell me I just hallucinated that."

Skinner wastes valuable seconds realizing that I'm right - 
it's not just the power that's out.  His cell phone is 
fried, as is the phone line and the portable weather radio 
and Scully's laptop.  One nuclear device, detonated high 
above the Earth, will create an electromagnetic pulse that 
will make Y2K panic look like a Boy Scout camping trip.  If 
They wanted to conquer humanity, it's much easier if we 
can't run or fight back - just like Elvis the mouse.
 
"Scully!  Scully, bring the baby!"

"I have her; get Mulder!" she yells back, picking up her 
holster and wrapping the quilt I bought her around the 
baby, although it was ninety degrees in DC yesterday.  It's 
warm enough for Them now; we have to go where it's cold.  
"God, I'm so sorry, Mulder," she says, as Skinner hauls me 
to my feet, making my head swim, and wraps my arm around 
his shoulder.  He waits only a few more seconds while 
Scully makes a mad dash through the apartment, stuffing 
things into the diaper bag, although I have no idea what 
you'd pack for an apocalypse.  

I'm dimly aware of stumbling down steps and then the 
glaring brightness as we reach the street - cars stopped in 
the road where they were when the pulse hit and traffic 
lights colorless against the mushroom cloud blossoming in 
the sky. 

"Where now?" Scully asks me.

"Underground Railroad," I manage, not even knowing what I 
mean.  All those riptide memories that have been taunting 
me are starting to pull like primal instincts to survive.

"What's he talking about?" Skinner asks.  There are already 
screams - people already starting to panic when they 
realize this isn't just a blackout; it's The blackout.  

They, as I have said previously, are here.

"He's developed an interest in the Underground Railroad - 
slavery, following the stars, going north to escape.  I 
thought it was just something he'd been reading up on while 
he recuperated."

Skinner fights to keep me on my feet as people rush past 
us, bumping into Scully as she holds the terrified baby and 
tripping over each other in their rush to get nowhere.  In 
all the chaos, the world is eerily quiet: no radios, no car 
horns, no air conditioners.  A false dusk comes as the 
mushroom cloud blocks the sun.     

"The Metro.  The Underground Railroad is the Metro and it 
leads to the Amtrak station.  Where's the closest stop?"  
 
My feet are barely skimming the ground as Skinner drags me 
through the endless, crowded streets.  The fires from my 
dreams burn unchecked, and ash rains down like gray snow on 
our heads.  I hear the baby coughing as we skirt around the 
last block, trying to find a way into the station that 
isn't blocked by rioters or fire.  Vietnam was supposed to 
be Hell on Earth, so if Skinner's ever going to have a 
flashback, now would be the time.  Me, I don't have 
flashbacks; I have flash-forwards.

Foggy Bottom/GWU station; I know the littered steps as we 
hurry down, past the people rushing out into the light.  
This is the meeting point.  It's sixteen minutes to Union 
Station and twenty-six to get to my neighborhood, both for 
a buck, ten cents.  They left that in my head, but They 
couldn't mention that They were planning to fry every 
conductor on the face of the planet.  We could have been in 
an airplane right now and since even Saint Scully can't 
fly, that would have been bad.

I could remember – I know I could remember what to do if I 
just wasn't so stoned.

"Scully?"  I'm getting even more disoriented as we go 
deeper into the darkness, losing all sense of direction as 
shadows buffet us.

"I'm here, Mulder.  We're in the subway - you, me, Skinner, 
and Emma.  Do we stay here or go into the tunnels, Mulder?"  

"I don't know, Scully."  My teeth are chattering in the 
cold air over the sounds of people yelling in the 
blackness.  Then it comes like God's foggy breath: "North."

"Any idea which way is north, sir?  I'm a little turned 
around," she says, reaching out to make sure I'm just in 
front of her and not merely a voice in the suffocating 
darkness.  

Then there are shots from several yards away, echoing on 
forever in the cavernous underground room, and I'm half 
dropped, half shoved against cinder block roughness.  
Scully pulls me into her and I feel Skinner's hand pushing 
me into the wall as we crouch low, trying to duck and cover 
from the mindless stampede.  

Eventually, the frightened torrent of feet and elbows 
becomes only a steady stream, and Scully manages to get the 
baby to stop screaming.  

"Are you okay?" Scully asks.

I start to tell her I'm fine, with the exception of being 
shot full of dope, but Skinner answers shakily: "I can't 
tell."

There's rustling, then he tells her quickly not to turn on 
the flashlight - that would make us a target.  "Let me go 
up to the street; figure out what's happening and what's 
wrong with me.  I don't think I'm bleeding, but something 
feels odd.  Stay here."

I hear his footsteps blend with the sounds of people 
flooding out of the subway like melodramatic rats and 
Scully sits close, pushing the warm baby into my arms and 
wrapping herself and the quilt around me, trying to keep me 
from going into shock.

"If this is the quilt from your bed, the pattern is called 
'The North Star', Scully.  It gave directions to other 
slaves when it was hung outside to dry."  

"You know, Mulder - when you're right, you're really 
right."

"And here you thought the Grays were just multi-cultural," 
I say through chattering teeth.

****

"Those who desire to give up Freedom in order to gain 
Security will not have, nor do they deserve, either."

- Thomas Jefferson

****

I could feel the memories flowing back as I read the words 
in my file - feel the cold seeping through my clothes and 
the blowing snow burning my face.  I could hear Scully's 
heart beating as she held me, not knowing where we were or 
how I found her.  I had lingered there, my toes going numb 
as my head lays on her lap.  Her last memory would have 
been of me almost kissing her - would that have been 
enough?  But we had made it - if the Snow Cat wouldn't 
restart, we were going to freeze to death, but we were 
alive.  Her heart beating strong under my winter coat 
proved that, and I lingered to listen.  They hadn't beaten 
us.  As long as we were both alive and we both had faith, 
They hadn't beaten us.  Not today.

"Mulder, are you awake?"  

I'm awake, Scully.  Why is it so dark?  There's more diesel 
behind the seat of the Snow Cat, but it might not start 
again.  I wasn't supposed to turn it off, but I forgot.  I 
bet we can't push-start a Snow Cat the way we could a 
Pinto, Scully.

Scully's hand is so warm in mine - don't ask how I know 
it's her; Scully's healed me enough times that she's 
statistically the first thing I feel after a near-death 
experience.  It goes:  massive system's failure, being 
mostly dead, a bright white light, visions of dead loved 
ones, the smell of disposable, plastic hospital things, and 
Scully's hand in mine.  When I get to the warm hand, I know 
I've made it through another cosmic round trip.

"Scully?"

"I'm here.  We're in the Metro, alone, I think.  Skinner 
went to find out what's happening, but he's been gone a 
long time and I didn't want to leave you or use the 
flashlight until you were awake."

That would be one of the more normal explanations - 'We're 
in the Arctic' 'Antarctic' 'Bermuda Triangle' 'Um, Oregon' 
were much more exotic.

Oh, now I remember.  Actually, I remember everything.  Big 
white light, Mother Earth forgot to pay the power bill, and 
we were about to learn all about taxation without 
representation if the Grays have their way.
  
Every time Scully and I 'almost,' the world tries to come 
to an end.  There's got to be a lesson in that somewhere.

"I cleaned my floor, Scully," I tell her, nuzzling my face 
into her warm belly as I wait for Jim.

One hand squeezes mine and the other wraps protectively 
around my head.  "You did?"  It's the same voice she uses 
when she's humoring Emma or women that think they've had a 
baby with Luke Skywalker.  

Actually-

Never mind.

"I'd never mopped before.  I've swept, but not actually 
scrubbed it.  I thought you might be bringing Emma over, so 
I wanted it to be really clean.  Did you know the woman 
that lived there before me was blonde?"

I feel her chest contract as she swallows and she sniffs - 
the cold subway must be making her nose run.  "No blonde 
guests, Mulder?"

"Well, Langly, but this was really long blonde hair all 
over the baseboards.  That baby book you have says to get 
down on the baby's level and look, so I looked, and I had 
vintage 1989 hair balls.  Somewhere in the world there's a 
bald blonde woman.  Not that it's important, but Emma 
should be able to lick that floor now if she wants to."

"No brunette?"

"Not one with long hair."  She can take that any way she 
wants to.

"No redheads?"  

"Only one, and she's not very fuzzy.  How about you?  I bet 
your corners stay spotless, Scully."

"I used to clean pretty often when I was in school and 
teaching and didn't have anything better to do, but then I 
got a new job and I wasn't home enough for them to get 
dirty for about eight years.  Since Emma came, I've been 
almost too busy to even notice.  I've been meaning to 
check, though."

"We all had to clean pretty often when we were in school.  
There were things in my corners in the 80's I couldn't even 
name."
 
She sniffs again and laughs softly.  "What are we talking 
about, Mulder?"

"I'm talking about Emma not feeding herself handfuls of the 
previous occupant's spiral perm - what are you talking 
about?"

A light appears at the top of the escalator and bounces 
down.

"Mulder?  Scully?"

"We're here, sir," Scully calls to him and the light comes 
closer.

"I bet Skinner doesn't get hair on his baseboards at all, 
even his own; that's what's wrong with him," I tell her.  
"Not the main thing that's wrong with him, of course, but 
part of the problem."

"Shush!" she whispers, and shoves me off her lap to a 
decent, cooler distance.  "Get up – it's Skinner."

"No, it's Jim," I calmly tell her, getting to my feet.  The 
light from the lantern flickers eerily over Skinner's face.  
"Hey, Jim."

Don't ask me how I can tell them apart, but I can.  It's 
Jim.  He's brought a backpack and a sleeping bag and a few 
other things Scully had forgotten in our haste.  

"Hey, Mulder.  We were worried about you.  That chip wasn't 
working properly."

"No shit," I reply.  "Could you have been any less 
helpful?"

"Skinner?  Sir?" Scully asks, bewildered.  In her world, 
people look like who they actually are.  

"Scully, this is Jim," I introduce, just like my mother 
taught me, as the bounty hunter's square features emerge.  
"Jim, you know Scully – from the bridge."

From behind me, I hear Scully cocking the hammer of her gun 
so we can hear it.  "What did you do to Skinner?"

"He's safe.  A little sick, but safe."  

"Nano-technology, Scully," I inform her, swinging up the 
backpack as she gathers the sleeping baby one-handed, gun 
never leaving the shape-shifter. "Krycek infected Skinner 
with nano-machines and the electro-magnetic pulse fried 
them, just like it did the chips in us." Then, shifting my 
attention back to the shape-shifter: "Did you find Krycek?"

"Oh – we found him," Jim replies, almost smiling.  I'm sure 
the shape-shifters have big plans for Krycek.  

"Mulder?"  

"It's okay.  He's on our side."  I had six months in outer 
space to become accustom to shape-shifters, but I'm not 
sure of the most succinct way to explain the whole plan to 
Scully.  "There's two viruses – one creates Grays, and we 
have – or, at least, they think we have – a vaccine to it 
because I gave it to you.  The other virus, Purity, is what 
I was infected with in Russia.  The shape-shifters are a 
slave race to the Grays and they're going to help us."

"Conquest is easy.  Control is not," Jim chimes in 
tonelessly, morphing into William Shatner for effect, just 
because he can.

"Oh – God!  If you're going to do Kirk, do a young Captain 
Kirk."

Scully gasps as Jim obliges me, his face rippling like a 
fun house mirror.  Actually, this isn't bad, Scully.  Right 
after I was abducted, they found me and they hid me from 
the Grays so I wouldn't be slaughtered with the other 
leftover lab rats.  When I woke up, they had all decided to 
look like Jack Nicholson.  All of them, like a clique of 
teenagers that have to dress alike – and they all wanted to 
be called 'Jack'.  Jack Nicholson smuggled food and water 
into the cranny where they had me hidden, trying to keep me 
alive as best as they could.  Jack Nicholson explained that 
my partner was pregnant and that I had to protect her child 
so humans would have the DNA.  Three Jack Nicholsons 
psychically explained their plan to save the planet Earth 
and then held me down and stuck this chip in my head: 
Shining Nicholson, Cuckoo Nicholson, and Good-as-it-Gets 
Nicholson.  Any idea what that did to my little brain?  Is 
it any wonder I had nightmares?  

"Anyway – the Grays are going to try to infect us with 
Purity, which won't work, so they'll move on.  If they ever 
figure out we aren't really immune to their reproductive 
virus, they'll come back, but that's why we have Emma.  We 
take her and go north where they won't search and hide out 
until they leave while the shape-shifters go through the 
motions of infecting humans with Purity."

Scully, bless her little heart, is just standing there with 
her mouth open, holding her gun in one hand and the baby on 
her hip.  I guess it is a lot to absorb at once, but we 
only have so much time.

"You're still set on taking Scully with you, Mulder?  She'd 
be much safer with us," Jim argues for about the hundredth 
time.  "You can move faster without her."

I don't even bother to discuss this with him again.  We 
battled this out on the ship a year ago.

"Well, then get her to put the gun down.  I got shot once 
and I didn't care for it."

"Scully, let me hold the baby while he helps you," I try.
 
Scully doesn't budge.  I know she'd like nothing better 
than to blow that son-of-a-bitch's head into next week, but 
that would sentence all of us to death and really annoy 
Jim.  "She won't get sick, Scully - Emma's not a true 
hybrid.  All we have to do it keep her from being found 
until the Grays move on and she'll be fine.  They don't 
know to look for her or me - neither of us is supposed to 
exist.  If the Grays find us, though, they'll kill us." 

No response - only eyes that burn blue fire.  This is the 
Scully that shot Donnie Pfaster in her living room - it's 
easy to care about a pretty package with a quick mind and a 
gentle spirit, but truly knowing her is knowing this is at 
the core.  I know her.  And I know she finally has a target 
and she wants to pull that trigger for Melissa and cancer 
and ova and a long list I probably know nothing about. 

"I remember now, Scully.  They put a chip in my head so I 
wouldn't remember until the pulse switched it off, but 
something malfunctioned and my brain went crazy trying to 
process all the information.  The shape-shifters couldn't 
take the baby because they were afraid they couldn't hide 
her.  They gave us a child and they gave us a way to fight 
back.  Please let him help you so your cancer won't come 
back.  Jim can do it, but he'll be missed if he's away much 
longer."  

"If she can't handle this, it would be better if she went 
to the concentration camps with the other humans," Jim 
interjects.  "There are people who just cannot believe, 
cannot grasp anything that is beyond their world.  Let me 
take her so she'll be safe."

"No – give her a minute.  I know what you've seen, Scully.  
The shape-shifters have no choice.  They're already 
infected.  If they fight back or overtly disobey, they die; 
they're helping us so maybe we can eventually win the war.  
Your chip has stopped working; the pulse destroyed all 
conductors and the chip in your neck was a circuit.  Jim 
can help you, but you have to let him."

This is it, Scully.  After all we've been through together, 
I need you to take this on faith.  Two months ago, I 
trusted that I still loved you and left the rest of the 
details to fate – or Aliens.  Now I need you to trust me.

Her face changes; she heard my thoughts.  The spaceships 
must be getting close.  Interesting that Scully is slightly 
more psychic than I am.

I don't breathe for the few seconds it takes her to lower 
the gun, shoving it back under her arm and handing me the 
limp baby.   

****

"Bother," said Borg, "We've assimilated Pooh." 

****

I want to believe we cannot see God's truth. 

It's better that way - if we could see the outcome from the 
first page, would we read the story, play our roles?  No.  
We are thinking creatures; we would want to judge what is 
and is not worth expending our finite heartbeats, choosing 
glory and pleasure and revelry and thinking ourselves 
happy.  I speak as someone who has stood in the shadows – 
it takes darkness to define the light.

The light, the dawn - it's coming now, creeping like a 
scarlet plague over the drifts.  Three weeks, twenty-one 
days that we've fought our way north through panicked human 
sheep stampeding to nowhere.  Once we emerged from the 
subway tunnels in Maryland, we've stolen: old trucks 
without electrical ignitions, motorboats, food, clothes, 
weapons.  We've outsmarted and outmaneuvered, and on a few 
occasions, outgunned, using all our FBI training to remain 
the alphas in the struggle.  Once we reached the tree line, 
the populace thinned, letting us move faster, frantically 
chasing Polaris and never seeming to get any closer.

We've seen them, the shape-shifters, but they let us pass 
as they round up humans, waiting for the Grays to arrive 
and begin infecting us.  After I introduced the vaccine 
into the ship in Antarctica to save Scully, They assumed 
all humans were immune to that one.  We aren't, of course, 
but we can use Emma's DNA to recreate a vaccine if They 
ever figure that out.  Then Purity - and all those files in 
West Virginia - row after row of humans tagged and sorted, 
ready to become drones.  All vaccinated against smallpox.  
A smallpox vaccine slightly modified by the shape-shifters 
so we are immune to Purity as well.  In this lab, the mice 
quietly took over.

That's the Alien DNA Scully found - the residual affects of 
being vaccinated against Purity, and the reason we're 
slightly psychic as long as the ships are in orbit.  When 
the Grays try to infect us, they'll simply believe it 
doesn't work.  The shape shifters' plan is breathtakingly 
simple; we don't have the technology to either run or fight 
back yet, so we simply hide in plain sight.  

If God is Alien, his archangels are laughing at him - and 
probably quoting Star Trek.  And if God is Alien, then we 
are all a little God-like and that will save us - set us 
free.  

Emma's asleep, happily innocent, blissfully unaware on the 
cot near the stove as I carry in a final armload of 
firewood and bolt the door.  Scully announced that she 
wasn't meeting Death with dirty hair about an hour ago and 
is evaporating in front of the fire, wrapped in a blanket 
and watching the horizon warily.  On the table beside her 
is one of our many ice picks and awls as well as her 
weapon, loaded with hollow-points to stop any humans we 
might encounter in the white wilderness.  We're as ready as 
we can be.  It's a gamble, a wager - if we gain, we gain 
eternity; if we lose, we lose nothing more than the rest of 
civilization.  We've calculated the odds, placed our bets, 
and now we wait as the wheel of fate revolves.

I kneel, resting my head on her lap, turning my face to the 
side so I can watch the sunrise across the snow as she runs 
her fingers through my shaggy hair and down the back of my 
shirt, smoothing out worries.  The skin of night begins to 
split, letting red drops of dawn bleed through.

I want to believe.
  
****

"I have a faith in God similar to how I have faith in the 
sun.  Not because I can see it, but because I cannot see 
without it."

- Anonymous

****

She's trying not to cry in frustration, trying to look like 
it doesn't matter.  

"Relax," I tell her softly, wiping her tears as I back 
away.  "This is supposed to be fun."

She nods, digging her heels in, blue eyes squinting with 
concentration and not listening to me one little bit.  
Always the perfectionist, this one.  God forbid we not get 
it right on the first try.  

"Focus.  Don't let anything distract you."

Her body tenses in preparation.  Muscles bunch, nerves wind 
tight over the frets of joints.

"No, relax.  Just focus and let your body to the rest.  You 
won't even have to think about it."

We've attracted a curious audience sitting on the split 
rail fence at the edge of the park.  The people who spent 
their Friday afternoons working on minor things like 
vaccines and public safety must have gotten my message and 
come for the show.  

"Ready?" I ask her, shoving my rolled-up shirt sleeves 
above my elbows.  My shirt doesn't feel at all foreign now.

"Ready."  She tosses a brown braid over her shoulder and 
pulls the brim of her Knicks' cap a millimeter lower.

"You sure?" 

"Throw the ball already, Mulder!" Scully yells at me from 
the cheap seats, munching her popcorn.  Beside her, Skinner 
leans on his elbows, his face arranged in something that 
might be an amused grin or might be a burp.  I look twice - 
it was a burp, he's back to his bulldog, nothing amuses me 
face, except for his eyes.  Skinner's eyes are a ten-year 
old boy's with a new mitt and a spring evening as he swipes 
a few kernels.  

"I'm gonna throw it!  I just want her to be ready."

"Don't worry about it - she's genetically predisposed to 
the game."  Scully hops down, walks over to home plate, and 
adjusts Emma's grip on the bat.  "Don't strangle it, Emma.  
Just shake hands with the bat.  Hello, Mr. Bat.  Nice to 
meet you, Mr. Bat. No, no, no-"

"You're goofy, Mom."

"She is, isn't she? God, Scully - is that the best you can 
coach - 'Hello, Mr. Bat'?  Just leave her alone and start 
walking now, because this next one's going into orbit."

Scully shoots me a look that tells me I'll pay for that 
later, but she sheds her blazer, grabs my old catcher's 
mitt, and squats undignified behind home plate in her 
slacks and heels, distracting me and probably half the men 
in the park.

I throw possibly the slowest underhand pitch in history, 
screwing with all laws of physics as it spins slowly 
through space.  There's a 'swoosh', a satisfying crack, and 
the horsehide arcs into the sky.  It's another foul, but 
Emma doesn't know that, and as it clears the dugout, the 
ballpark lights come on in celebration of dusk.  

"There you go!  Look at that!"  American priorities - they 
can't fix the Ford plant so us peons can have cars again, 
but baseball must go on.

Emma grins a six-year old Samamtha grin at me, trying to 
look like she planned that and not giggle with glee, 
because Scully women do not giggle with glee.  Screw it, I 
laugh for both of us.

On a hunch, I turn my head quickly and catch a bona fide 
Skinner grin, but he coughs, stands, and calls "Seven," 
sternly to Scully as he saunters back to the Bucar.  The 
car, a huge privilege, is technically assigned to both of 
them and several other AD's and they're waging war over the 
proper time to arrive at work - Skinner votes for six and 
Scully eight.  He always says seven, shows up at six forty-
five, and makes coffee and fidgets while he waits for her 
until seven fifteen, the same as the rest of us do.  The 
other Assistant Directors learned quickly - they requested 
to be picked up after Scully and don't bother to be ready 
until seven thirty.

I can say from experience - it's worth the wait.

Occasionally, when Scully's running really late, I shuffle 
through in my pajama bottoms and grin at him - not my 
fault; school doesn't start until eight-fifteen and we live 
a block away.  Emma and I can be ready in thirty minutes 
flat.  When they pay profilers the big bucks and don't make 
us take the Metro, I'll get up at six instead of seven-
thirty.  I've missed enough sleep for one lifetime; I plan 
to spend every minute possible spooned up behind Scully.  
Or at least, in bed, in her very close proximity.

I grab a handful of Jiffy-pop from the bag by the fence, 
then walk back to the pitcher's mound, remembering what it 
was like to be king of the world.

I want this summer to be endless for Emma, like mine used 
to be.  Scully and I've been talking about a little brother 
in our spare time, so maybe, in a few years, she'll learn 
the joys of a bratty younger sibling following her like a 
shadow too.

I want Emma to grow up looking at the night sky with awe 
and not with fear.  I want her to never question free will 
or that we'd face an army of monsters to keep her safe.  I 
want her to know that she's special because she does well 
in math and can make the 'live long and prosper' sign from 
Star Trek - not because her mom sometimes needs a few vials 
of blood.  

I want Scully's research on the vaccine to move faster.  I 
want certainty, but if I have faith in anyone, it's Scully.  
She settles down behind the plate and Emma raises the bat 
again, both shining those strong, blue eyes at me and 
making my knees a bit weak.

What do I want?

I want there to be about a million more evenings like this 
one.  And I believe there will be. And tonight, before 
Little League sign-ups Saturday morning, I want Emma to get 
just one hit between first and third bases.  Then we can 
sit on the fence and eat the sandwiches I made for dinner - 
PBJs with both the peanut butter and the jelly spread 
carefully all the way to the edges.  And we'll watch the 
sun set and the stars rise and look up and wonder who else 
is looking back.

****

"God is or He is not... Let us weigh the gain and the loss 
in choosing... 'God is.'  If you gain, you gain all, if you 
lose, you lose nothing.  Wager, then, unhesitatingly, that 
He is. 

-Pascal's Wager 
****

End: Pascal's Wager