Title: Promises to Keep

Author: prufrock's love

Rating: NC-17  

Keywords: Novel, MSR, Everybody/other, Angst, Post-
ep:Requiem, Minor character death  

Spoilers: through season 7

Summary: What happens to a marriage of convenience 
when it becomes inconvenient?  A seriously fractured, 
quasi-Jewish fairytale. 
 
Distribution: link to:
http://www.geocities.com/prufrocks_love/promises.html

Disclaimer: Not mine; don't sue.

Author's notes: For A. - can buy another car, can't 
buy another you. 


Promises to Keep
by prufrock's love

                                    *******

Gentle Reader, contrary to the scribbles of 
idealistic sixteen-year-olds trying to write the 
next great American fairy tale, sex is seldom 
perfect.  Sex is sweaty, messy, awkward, and 
sometimes hurtful as hell.  A release, a 
punishment, a right, or an obligation.  It can be 
funny, it can be functional, and it can serve many 
purposes – very few of them about love.  Thoughtless, 
isolating, joining, dominating, submissive, selfless 
and selfish; all in fifteen minutes from first button 
to last thrust.

If I could have looked away, I'm sure I would have 
seen Stephen King, or Danielle Steele, or The 
Brothers Grimm squatting in the dim corner of my 
bedroom and scribbling away - taking notes for a 
future classic. But I was busy watching her drift 
off to sleep beside me, beads of salty sweat 
forming miniature rivers down her face. They passed 
the inner corner of her eye like tears, and then 
down her cheek as the fan blew them back, denying 
them her lips.  But she didn't deny me: not her 
mind, not her soul, not her body.  Not that night.  
That night was the first miracle.

It wasn't perfect.  The first time should have been 
slower - as if seven years weren't slow enough.  
After the second time, I'm sure Scully was sore the 
next day and there were a few uncomfortable moments 
when we awoke in the same bed, wishing for coffee 
and eloquence and youth.  We laid there silently, 
both pretending to sleep while we figured out what 
to say to the other, since we were adults and could 
handle things like that.  

It seemed easier to just make love again.

By dawn, I must have told her I loved her a 
thousand times, before, after, and during - making 
up for lost time, I suppose.  I tried to put into 
words and flesh what I was feeling and I failed 
miserably, but at least I tried.  

All my secrets; I laid them out on white cotton 
sheets for Scully to either cherish or dissect with 
one of her sharp scalpels.  I loved her.  Not this 
sweet friendly shit we'd been playing at for years; 
I loved her the way a man should love a woman.  And 
I did - until the heart was as sated as the flesh 
allowed.  And then I watched her afterward for a 
long time, an unknowing witness to a second miracle 
as she slept.

Then she left.

And so did I.  But I promised I'd come back.  She 
made me promise I'd come back, and I keep my 
promises.

From that night on, our lives were never the same - 
we weren't just partners and friends anymore.  We 
were something else, Scully and I.  I didn't know 
what just then, but she'd spent the evening musing 
about choices until she finally passed out on my 
couch.  Then I looked up from my lonely bed and saw 
her standing in the doorway - and nothing from that 
moment on was a choice.  

This is our fairy tale.  Our happily ever after.  
It just got seriously fractured and fucked up along 
the way, but you never really expected any 
different from us, did you? 
                   
                   *******

January 4, 2004
 
"Iska ba twat, Dada!"  

The conquering hero must have returned to tend his 
crumpled kingdom. 

I feel the bed shift slightly as Skinner retrieves 
Hairball from my feet, muttering something about a 
"useless goddamn hunk of fur."  There's more 
cursing as I hear him stalking back down the hall 
to deposit the unfortunate kitten in David's crib.

"Cat, Bubby, not twat," he tells the boy for the 
thousandth time.  

"Twat, Dada.  Ia up, Dada?"

"I geo nite-nite, Bubby," his sister tells him from 
her crib across the room.  Bossy woman, just like 
her mother.

"Yeah - I geo nite-nite, whatever that is, David.  
Go back to sleep."

Sure, that will work, Skinner.  All preschoolers 
automatically go back to sleep at your command.  
You couldn't even get Mulder to behave, and you 
expect obedience out of his progeny?  I might as 
well get up.

I try to move and decide against it.  Dada woke 
them up, Dada can deal with them.

Skinner's an optimist - he's actually going to 
bother coming to bed.  I hear him tiredly pulling 
off his clothes and the soft sound of his holster 
and weapon being locked safely away, willing to let 
someone else wage the war for a few hours.  Even 
the strongest of men get weary, although few of us 
are allowed to know that – that might make our 
heroes seem human.  I scoot over carefully to make 
room for a tired hero in the sanctuary of designer 
sheets.

He stands beside the bed in the darkness, watching 
me.  He still seems a little surprised each time he 
comes home in the wee hours, strips for bed, and 
finds me waiting for him.  Skinner always paused a 
few seconds, making sure there wasn't some mistake.  
He's a cautious man, and given my history, I can't 
blame him.

I reach a hand out for him, pushing down the covers 
to make a place for him to sleep.  Sleep, dear.  It 
doesn't matter that you've been gone a week, dear; 
those children aren't going to go back to sleep and 
I feel like someone smashed me with a steamroller.  
Missed you, too, Skinner, but I think the flesh is 
a little weak this morning.  Just make love to me 
in spirit and I'll make it up to you later.

I expected to feel guilty, to feel like I was 
betraying Mulder the first time we made love, but I 
didn't.  It wasn't the same at all.  Accepting 
pleasure from a man's body is entirely different 
than communing with his soul - and much, much less 
dangerous.

I expected to be afraid - Skinner may have been my 
friend, but he was also still my uncompromising, 
unknowable AD.  But I wasn't; a little nervous 
maybe, but not afraid.  He was an experienced 
leader and I just followed where he gently led.  
                         
I expected to feel odd - being so intimate with my 
distant, decisive boss, but I already knew the side 
of his soul he kept shielded with well-tailored 
armor.  I'd caught glimpses.  There is Skinner the 
persona and Skinner the man and all I did was allow 
myself to enjoy the passionate man who enjoyed me.  
Adored me.     

I've never shared the secret part of myself 
reserved for Mulder with another.  My heart is 
still his - he's just never came back to claim it.  
I never close my eyes and imagine someone else when 
we make love.  I never say the wrong name.  Never 
say 'sir' instead of 'dear,' because Skinner is 
dear to me.  And I never lie to Skinner and say
words I don't feel.  Neither does he.
 
A light bulb intrudes into dawn's early light and 
I'm losing the covers.  Warm, still-novel hands 
push up my silk pajama top, gently examining the 
vivid purple and blue bruises under my left arm.

"God, Scully - are you okay?"

"I'm okay - just a little dented.  Did you see the 
car yet?"  

We had married a whole two months before I wrapped 
Skinner's new toy around a telephone pole 
yesterday.  Literally, around.  Had anyone been in 
the passenger seat - like I usually was - they 
would have been crushed.  And had I been driving 
anything but Skinner's big BMW, we all would have 
been killed.  I wasn't sure where he'd go first 
when my mother called him to come home - to the ER 
to see me and the kids or to the dealership to 
visit his other baby.

"The hospital said you have broken ribs.  And that 
David's arm is broken.  Is Sissy okay?"

"She's fine - nothing got near her.  And Bubby just 
has a hairline fracture and some scrapes - they put 
his arm in a brace and an Ace bandage for a few 
weeks."

"And you?"  The mattress moves again as he sits 
beside me, pushing my hair back so he can see the 
scrapes on my face.

"Tylenol 3's.  Give me one and I'll be a happy 
woman again."

Water runs in the bathroom while I again consider 
the options regarding sitting up.  I don't think 
that's going to happen.  How am I going to chase 
two children all day if I can't even sit up?

God-bless my husband - he found a straw.  I can 
swallow laying down.  Living with a Marine has its 
drawbacks, but combine thoughtfulness and 
resourcefulness with an early-riser and I was 
usually a happy girl.

All these warm fuzzies over a stupid straw - that 
pill must be fast acting.

"You send Mom home?"  That's not a hint, Skinner - 
just a question.  Okay, maybe it's a hint, but you 
have to wait until this pill kicks in.  I feel some 
warm fuzzies coming.

Coming.  Giggle.

Skinner's giving me his patented 'I'm a busy man 
and you're not the only agent I supervise - get to 
the point' look.  Just like old times, except now 
he's wearing sweat pants and crawling stiffly into 
bed with me. 

"She was dead on her feet.  I'll get the kids today 
- the FBI bureaucracy will keep grindinnng away if I 
take a week off."

A whole week - you only took three days off for our 
honeymoon and you brought your cell phone.  The BMW 
must merit a week.

"How did you get here so quick?  Weren't you in 
Chicago?"  

"Chartered a plane.  I approve the expense 
reports."  He lays down beside me, draping a 
careful arm across my hips and resting his smooth 
head against the small of my waist.  "You scared 
me, Scully."

That was about as close to baring his soul as this 
man ever got.  He didn't have the gift that Mulder 
had - that ability to reach his mind right into my 
heart and soul and put those feelings into words.  
Skinner is distant, often stubborn and dominating, 
and he has a hell of a temper, but he'd kill to 
keep me or my children safe, and that was why I 
married him.  Not the same passion I felt for 
Mulder, but I was content.

Maybe passion isn't all it's cracked up to be.

"We're all fine.  I'm just sorry about the car."  

"I can buy another car."

Ahhh.  How sweet.  That pain pill is definitely 
kicking in, because I'm thinking he looks 
absolutely adorable curled up beside me.  Adorable 
isn't usually a word I used to describe my new 
husband.

"Dada!  Twat!" comes a little boy's voice as the 
orange cat streaks for the safety of our bed.  

"You wake those kids up on purpose?" I ask.

"Wanted to check on them."  

Ahhh.  That means you can get up with them.  And 
try not to jiggle me.

"Dada!  Ia geo los tees."

"Dada - Bubby tees."  Sissy feels the need to 
translate everything her brother says - for 
clarity, such as it is.  

"All yours, lover.  He who wakes them gets potty 
duty."  

I get an unhappy grunt as he tries to get his body 
back in motion.  I doubt he's slept since my mother 
called him yesterday morning.  "Nina coming?"

"Mom called her - she was visiting her family, so 
you'll have to meet her plane at the airport this 
evening.  And Mom promised we'd pay her double this 
week if she'd come back early."

"Which flight?"

"Probably the one from Panama."  Go get that child 
before it's too late.

"Dada - Bubby geos los tees."

Too late.  

"Call Mom to come back."  

"I'm not calling your mother and telling her I 
can't take care of my own children."

Whatever - not my problem.  And one day we're going 
to have to tell them they aren't your biological 
children, Skinner.  That another 'Dada' was Mama's 
partner and friend who vanished almost four years 
ago and left her alone and pregnant with twins.  
That her boss was there for her every awful step of 
the way until she didn't know what she'd do without 
him, so she didn't.     
  
Not this morning, though.  This morning I was busy 
floating off the bed.

"Skinner - bring me another pill about half an hour 
before you put your heathens down for their nap."

I'm sure he's smiling as he kisses my scraped 
forehead.  There's an unhappy pussycat sound as 
Skinner removes Hairball from our bed, giving the 
animal another chance at flight, which he again 
fails.

"Dada - twat?"

"Cat, Bubby.  Not twat," he says as he pulls a 
shirt on, picks up the discontented kitten, and 
prepares to start the day.

                   *******

I felt - like hell.  That step-into-the-light plan 
proved to be a bad idea.  Bad, bad idea, Mulder.

My first conscious thought was: why don't I ever 
get to go on the UFOs?  Did I smell bad or 
something?  Everybody else got to go except me - it 
was like the summer I was thirteen and broke my 
arm; the other kids got to go to swim camp while I 
stayed home.  Well, that actually turned out pretty 
good.  Jennifer Lynn Douglas was terrified of 
water, but -really- curious about boys.  I 
discovered several of the possibilities in life 
that summer courtesy of Jenni Lynn.  My wrist still 
aches when it rains, but I can French kiss around 
braces like a pro - not that it comes in handy in 
later life. 

Scully didn't have braces.  Maybe she'd be 
interested in my hickey-giving ability.  We'd kinda 
missed the necking on the couch stage of 
relationships and gone straight to the main course 
- not that I was complaining.

They must have been giving me some seriously good 
shit in that IV. 

Maybe I -did- finally manage to get abducted.  
Maybe I'd been used as a sex slave by hordes of 
panting, moaning Scully-clones.  Damn - I wish I 
remembered a thing about it.  Actually, and, more 
likely, I've just been anally probed by an alien 
that looked almost exactly, but completely unlike 
Jessie Ventura.  I clench - nope - didn't detect 
any anal probing.  Good; I was saving myself for 
when Scully felt better, although I hoped she 
wasn't overly interested in that area. 

I'd been wondering what was wrong with her - it 
wasn't like her to swoon like something from a 
novel.  I'd passed out more times during our 
partnership that she had, and no one made me cut up 
dead people.  We'd have to get her checked out when 
we got back.

For that matter, what was wrong with me?  Why was I 
in an ambulance?  Scully was the one that had been 
sick.  Please, please, God, don't let it be cancer.  
How could you have given us so much just to laugh 
and take it all away?  To take her away from me?    

Georgetown University ER - well, home again, home 
again.  Hi, ladies - miss me?  Been at least a 
month since I was here.  Beetles last time, right?  
Yuck.  You know the routine - call Dr. Scully and 
let her know I was only mostly dead again.  

Wait - wasn't I in Oregon?  
 
                   *******

January 4, 2004

Unfortunately, I decide to stretch when I wake up, 
and marvel at the exquisite pain a few broken ribs 
can cause.  

"Iska koop ake, Mama?"

There's grape Kool-aid being poured into my nose.  
Koop ake - whatever.  There's a child sitting on my 
pelvis and another beside me, offering me a drink.  
A rough tongue scrapes against my cheek as "Twat" 
licks up the purple stickiness before it hits the 
pillow.  

Four years ago, this would have annoyed me.  Today, 
it doesn't even surprise me.  PBJ's in the VCR, 
Lego's in the freezer, kitty litter in my shoes - 
this is fairly mild.  I just want to know who gave 
them that crap to drink, but I have a pretty good 
idea.

"Skinner!"  Oh, that hurt.  Everyone will be 
delighted - no more yelling for a few weeks.  "The 
Kool-aid fairies come?" 

"They asked for it.  Gra-ju - isn't that grape 
Kool-aid?" he asks, appearing in the doorway with a 
huge basket of laundry.

"Koop ake is Kool-aid.  Gra-ju is white grape 
juice.  The Kool-aid is Nina's and they know it.  
You just got suckered."

He starts to take it away and I tell him 'no'.  
Might as well let them have it at this point.  How 
many agents is it that you supervise, dear?  
Sucker!  You probably took them through McDonald's 
too. I sniff David - yep, McNugget breath.  

Bubby is pulled off me and resettled on the 
mattress as Skinner sits beside him.  My sweet 
family.  If I'd drawn a picture of 'a family' when 
I was eight years old, it would have looked like 
this – minus the bruises on my rib cage and the 
basket of dirty laundry overflowing in the corner.  

"Did all of you go to therapy this morning?"

"We all did speech therapy and then physical 
therapy for Sissy - she's got a new walker to show 
you.  And I called the vet to make an appointment 
for Hairball to be tutored."  Skinner paused to 
grin - he hates that cat.  "He's going to be a very 
smart pussycat.  And we went to Playgroup, although 
we might not be allowed to come back after David 
told the other kids about his new cat, and we've 
all had lunch."

"Okay, you pass muster as a parent.  Get those kids 
down for a nap and we'll see about other marital 
obligations."   Missed you, dear.

"You do this every day, Scully?"  

I nod at him in the dim room - he's left the drapes 
closed so I can sleep.  "Why do you think I wanted 
to keep working?  Oh God - did you call -"

"I called.  You're taking the week off."

Great - the University should love that.  Two 
months on the job and I'm taking a week off. 

Skinner reaches quickly to grab an aluminum leg 
before Hannah can bang her walker into my face.

"Mama - I geo un aka."

"Talk right, Sissy."

"I. Got.  Waka," she says, carefully enunciating 
every syllable.  She can stop using the jumble of 
twin-speak and Nina's Spanish when she wants to - 
David, so far, almost cannot.

"Good - you got your new walker.  Can you use it?"

"Aya."  

Skinner sets it down for her and then lowers her to 
the floor.  She usually just dives off fearlessly, 
but he doesn't know that.  Skinner still thinks 
Cerebral Palsy means fragile.  Not to my daughter, 
it doesn't.  

She demonstrates a few steps before she sits down 
heavily on her padded butt for a break and we 
applaud appreciatively.  She'd been practicing for 
several months at therapy, but she still tired 
easily.  When she'd first gotten the hang of it, 
I'd borrowed a walker for the night and brought it 
to Skinner's old apartment so he could watch
her take her first wobbly steps at three years of 
age.  I saw a tear that he quickly blinked away, 
and when he asked me to marry him later that night 
I didn't hesitate.  I said "yes" and let him lead 
me to his bedroom for the first time.  That was 
three months ago.

"That's great.  We'll have to call Grandma to come 
see you tonight."  Because Dada is going to drop dead 
from exhaustion, I think, but do not add.  

"I. Cat," purple lips say, showing off two inches 
away from my face.  Sibling rivalry has started 
already.

"You have a cat?  That's very good, David."

I hear Skinner muttering something under his 
breath.  You brought Hairball home for them, dear.  
A woman was giving away kittens outside the 
drugstore and put one in David's arms.  Skinner 
didn't have the heart to make him leave it, so the 
puff-ball of orange fur had ridden home in his 
shirt pocket - that was how we acquired the "twat".

"Nap time," the resident cat-hater announces.  
"Pill for Mama," he says with a gleam in his eye, 
"and beds for the heathens.  Start toward your 
room, Sissy, and I'll catch up."

She heaves herself back up and starts the laborious 
task of navigating the rugs in our bedroom.  I can 
see Skinner thinking about pulling up the carpet and 
putting in a hardwood floor so she can get around 
easier.

What a man.  I don't love Mulder any less than I 
did when he vanished, but I couldn't ask for a 
better man than Skinner.   

I reach out and pull him back to me by his 
shirttail.  "You're doing a good job, Skinner."

We've never said the pretty, hollow phrases about 
love because that's not exactly what we feel.  
We're friends.  We share a common view and we care 
for each other.  He wanted a family in his life and 
I wanted my family to be wanted.  And we both adore 
my babies.

"I'm trying."  He leans down to kiss me, still not 
sure that it's allowed.  Still feeling like he's 
doing some thing he shouldn't.  It's allowed - my 
only regret is losing Mulder, but there aren't any 
others.  When I stood in front of the judge and 
recited those marriage vows, I meant them.  So did 
he.

"Maybe you tired them out enough to take a really 
long nap."

"Hope so - take that pill.  Take two."

I take two.  We are still newlyweds.  

                   *******

Four years.  I'd been gone almost four years.  Not 
four days, not four months, FOUR fuckin' years.  
Four years of my life were just gone.  

I didn't remember anything - I was even wearing the 
same clothes I had been wearing when I went into 
the forest.  My keys were still in my pocket and I 
was still cleanshaven.  Scully's cross was still 
around my neck - a gold promise that I had a reason 
to find my way home safely.  A promise not just 
with her words, but with her eyes.  Promises to 
keep, miles to go before I sleep.  With her.  
Again.  Always.  Not a choice - a promise.  

I was home, Scully.  I got a little lost in the 
woods, but I kept my promise.  I still had the 
cross, Scully.  Why didn't you answer your cell 
phone?  Didn't you know I've been gone four years?

                   *******

I'm drifting again, floating, when I feel hands on 
me and open my eyes.  I still expect to see Mulder 
sometimes, but Skinner's touch is different.  
Mulder had no hesitations about my body once I said 
yes - Mulder knew I wasn't breakable.  Skinner 
isn't so sure.  We're still learning about each 
other; we haven't been married very long and
he's often gone for weeks supervising various 
investigations.  Although we followed FBI protocol 
to the letter about relationships between agents 
and superiors, he'd taken lots of heat about me - 
lots of people offering unsolicited opinions when 
we announced our marriage and my resignation, 
including several from the other Assistant 
Directors and the big man himself.  Skinner acted 
like he didn't care what they thought, but he was 
trying to be Super AD to make up for it, and that 
meant lots of traveling and long hours.  

I can honestly say I miss him when he's gone.

But I still miss Mulder, and he's been gone almost 
four years.

Skinner comes back; Mulder doesn't.  That's the 
difference.

"You sure you're up to this, Scully?"  

"Kiss me.  Very, very gently."  Like I have to tell 
him that.  I keep hoping he'll be a little less 
gentle, but I'm embarrassed to ask.  Maybe even 
occasionally, a lot less gentle.  

My body is different now - my breasts are softer 
and that rock-solid stomach is no more.  Although I 
haven't gained any weight, having and nursing twins 
has made me fuller, rounder.  I used to wonder if 
Mulder would like this body when he came back, but 
those thoughts have almost stopped.  I know Skinner 
likes it.  I know he waits for me when he's away 
instead of masturbating, although he'd never tell 
me that.  I know I wait for him.  For this.  

Of course, he's being careful - keeping his weight 
off me and letting me lay flat on my back while he 
maps my body.  It's a slow process and he seems to 
delight in it; in being able to cause my flesh to 
prepare for his.

I wonder how many times in the last decade that he 
sat through endless meetings with me and thought 
about doing this.  How long he'd wanted me before 
he thought it was safe to ask - to pronounce 
Mulder's death.  Skinner is a confident but 
deliberate man; he wouldn't have offered unless he 
was certain I'd say 'yes'.  That I thought the same 
thing - Mulder was gone.

'Will you marry me, Scully?' 

'Yes.'  

We'd already become close in our quest, but in 
those few words, we each acknowledged the search 
was over.  It was an admission of defeat as much as 
of mutual affection.  A part of me died in that 
moment, but I didn't have time to grieve.

He kissed me as a lover then - very carefully, 
knowing what I was thinking.  I let myself get lost 
in his mouth and arms; I needed to let someone else 
support me, just for a few hours, because life was 
too heavy.  Skinner and I tended to think alike; 
there was a low whisper in my ear:  
 
'Will you stay tonight?'

I knew if I didn't, if I allowed myself time to get 
nervous and over think it, I would ruin it for both 
of us - no matter how good a lover he was.  My 
children were asleep on the couch, I had three 
glasses of wine in me, and this man cared more for 
me than any other man alive - on the planet.  

And, honestly, I wanted to stay.  'Yes.'
 
When he brings his face up to meet mine again, I 
whisper to him.  "Not that gentle.  Sometimes I 
want to forget we're friends and pretend we're 
lovers."

That's the drugs talking, but his lips and hands 
are a little rougher and he gets a response from 
his proper wife that probably surprises him.  This 
was how Mulder touched me - as an equal, not as a 
Goddess, and it's what I want.

A slight orgasm later and Skinner has decided I'm 
ready.  More will follow, I know, but we'd had some 
size problems at first and he wanted to make sure 
he wasn't hurting me again.  I think sometimes 
that's his goal in life - just not to hurt me.   

"Roll over - easy."  He helps me turn onto my 
stomach and then eases my legs up, pushing my knees 
apart.  Would you believe I've actually never done 
this before, Skinner?  For Miss make-love-with-the-
lights-off-in-the-missionary-position with her new 
husband, this is kinky.  And a little scary.  

Skinner must sense that, because he pauses, 
stroking my hips and waiting for me to relax.  
"It's okay - I just don't want to put any pressure 
on your chest.  You want me to stop?"

He would stop.  I know he would.

"No," I answer him, laying my forehead against the 
pillow and waiting.  There are warm lips against my 
tattoo - he thinks it's sexy as hell - and then I 
feel a slight pressure.  As much as I'm trying to 
relax, I hate that I can't see what he's doing and 
I tense.  I know that will make it worse.  Fingers 
- just fingers moving slowly in and outtt of my 
vagina.  I hear his deep voice telling me to trust 
him, that I will like this.  I already like this, 
I'm just embarrassed.   I arch my back like a cat 
in heat in spite of myself, my legs parting further 
and fingers leave me suddenly.  The male animal 
reacts to a primal signal and I get my wish for 
less gentle.  I can almost hear the low,
primitive growl between us.  I try to breathe 
slowly as he penetrates, his hands holding my hips 
firmly so I can't pull away - there is brief pain, 
and then only pleasure. 

I turn my head to the side and relax into the soft 
pillowcases, closing my eyes and forgetting one of 
my promises.  But I forget so often these days.

                    ******

I was so angry.  Sure - go get the staff 
psychiatrist - I told him I was angry, too.  

Hey, Shrink - I was angry.  100, 93, 86, 79, 72, 
65, 58 - could I go home, Freud?  'The early bird 
catches the worm', means the person in the correct 
role at the correct time can seize the opportunity 
while others are away - like me.  I'd been away.  
Could I go home?  No, I don't really believe I was 
abducted by aliens.  Sure, I believed that ten 
minutes ago, but if I said I'm feeling much better 
now, could I go home?  
                                        
I just wanted to go HOME.  I'd missed enough of my 
life.  No, not missed - not like a flight at the 
airport.  Stolen.  Someone stole four years from me 
and it made me ANGRY!

Scully's phone had been disconnected and her cell 
phone didn't answer, so I thought maybe she'd 
moved.  There was another man's voice on our office 
voice mail, so I guessed she had a new partner.  I 
told them to try Skinner's home number; ask him how 
to reach Scully.  I had to talk to her.  

I'd missed turning forty.  And forty-one and forty-
two.  Missed New Year's - it was four years since I 
kissed Scully for the first time and it seemed like 
about six months to me.  Almost four years since 
our one and only night together; a month and a half 
to me.  For me, Scully slept in my arms a few 
nights ago and the fractured world was finally 
beginning to heal.

I remember sitting at the nurses' station fiddling 
with her cross while the doctor dialed.

                   *******

January 4, 2004

"Dada - iska tela."  

David has figured out how to climb out of his crib.  
I dimly hear his sister protesting at being left 
behind.  

"Is it work?" Skinner asks, like a three-year-old 
would know that.

"Iska tela."  Yes, we've already established that 
it's the phone.  We let all the telemarketers talk 
to David until they decide to hang up, so he thinks 
he's supposed to answer it when it rings.

"Iska Dada joba?"  Skinner asks, because he's not 
budging if it's not.

Don't do that, Skinner - he'll never stop the twin-
speak of you use it when you talk to him.  At 
least, we're still hoping it's twin-speak.

"No unna - Mama."

"Give me the phone, David."  It had better not be 
AT&T again.  I hold the portable phone to my ear as 
Skinner unwillingly grabs a pair of pants and goes 
to free Sissy from her prison.  I hear David crying 
- she must have whacked him for going oooff and 
leaving her.  I understand.  It sucks to be 
ditched.

"'Lo," I manage.

"Dr. Dana Skinner?"

"Speaking."  I'm trying my best to learn to respond 
to that name.  Skinner is not a 'progressive woman' 
kind of man. 

"This is Dr. Lopez at the Georgetown University 
Hospital Emergency Room again.  I met you last night.  
Anyway, we've got a patient here with you listed as 
next of kin and he's having a tough time tracking 
you down.

Mom.  She must have had a car wreck on the way 
home.

"Okay, I'll be right there.  How fast do I need to 
drive?"  I know they can't tell me her condition, 
but sometimes the doctors will urge loved ones to 
hurry if it's really bad.

"He's just weak and a little disoriented.  We're 
getting some food and fluids into him and he'll be 
ready to go home in a few hours.  You can just pick 
him up in the morning if you want – although we'll 
gladly give him to you tonight."

He?  Bill? Charles?

"Who is the patient?"  I can't even hope.  It can't 
be.

"Mr. Mulder.  Do you want to talk to him?  He's 
right here annoying all the nurses.  He's -"

"Hi, partner - miss me?"

Skinner must have heard the phone hit the floor, 
because he comes to check on me.  When I don't 
answer, he picks up the phone.

"Who is this?  What did you say to my wife?"

I don't know if Mulder said anything else, but 
after a few seconds, Skinner hits the button to 
sever the connection, not uttering another word.

I just sit, each frantic breath making my ribs 
scream.  This isn't happening.  This isn't 
happening.  An hour ago, I was having amazing sex 
with my husband, content to spend the rest of my 
life with him, and now Mulder is back - my one in 
five billion and the other father of my children.  

"Easy, Scully.  Breathe slowly.  Slow, easy 
breaths.  It's gonna be okay."  

How is this going to be okay?  You got a plan for 
this, Skinner?  What to do with my husband and the 
only father my children know when my lover rises 
from the dead?

"Where is he?  At the hospital?"  

I manage a nod.  "Georgetown."

"Scully, get in the shower and I'll call the 
hospital back.  I'll even talk to Mulder if he'll 
talk to me.  Then I'll drop you off and go meet 
Nina's flight."

"What am I going to do?"  I know I look to Skinner 
as a father figure, but it usually works for us.  

"You're going to do whatever's best.  Go clean up."

I stand up, cursing the stupid drunk that ran me 
off the road yesterday.  "You're my husband."

"Yes.  And you're my wife."

That's not an answer, Skinner.

He has the kids clean and already strapped in when 
I emerge from the bathroom.  In fact, he's packed 
me an overnight bag, given the kids a snack, and 
has the hood up tinkering and muttering by the time 
I emerge.  I spent an extra ten minutes and most of 
the hot water crying.

                   *******

Bastard.  Mother-fucking bastard!

No, no, not mother-fucking.  Scully-fuc-

Oh, God - I was going to throw up.  Hell, no, I 
didn't want to talk to the son-of-a-bitch!  

It couldn't be real.  It was a sick joke or a blow 
to the head or maybe I'd gone psychotic again.  
Should have called that shrink to come back - I 
thought my partner was married to my A.D.

My friend went to bed at night with my boss.

My lover was another man's wife.

Wife?  His wife?  She was never going to be your 
wife, Skinner.  We were married when we covered 
each other's asses from bullets and bureaucrats a 
thousand times.  When we believed each other when 
no one else did - including you.  You didn't know 
her, Skinner.  Scully and I had shared everything 
from childhood secrets to bodily fluids and I knew 
her.  And, vows or not, I knew she'd never be your 
wife.
                    
                    *******
January 4, 2004

"Mulder?"  

I watched him through the window for several 
minutes while I worked up the nerve to go in, 
wishing for IV's and hospital gowns so I could 
switch into doctor mode and at least know my role.  
I've stood like this so many times, quickly 
discussing his condition with his doctors, trying 
to find some way to save his life, to snatch him 
back from death one last time.

Nothing I did brought Mulder back this time, and 
circling in the tiny room, there's no question that 
he's alive.  He's alive enough for both of us 
tonight.

I can feel the energy rolling off Mulder as he 
paces in his makeshift cage - four long strides 
across the suture room, then the turn and back 
again like a restless panther.  One, two, three, 
four, then he has to stop and turn because 
otherwise he'd run into the brick wall.  He seems 
surprised every time he runs out of tiles, like 
someone should expand the floor plan a bit so he 
could take that fifth step.

No fifth step, Mulder.  Not this time.

"Scully."  He wraps his arms around my shoulders as 
soon as I open the door, resting his head primly on 
mine.  I realize he's looking behind me for 
Skinner.  "I'm sorry, Scully.  I didn't mean to 
shock you like that.  I keep forgetting I've been 
gone a long time and things change."

"Some things don't change, Mulder." 

"Yes, but some things do."

That's why your arms are still around me - because 
things have changed, Mulder?  

"You need to sit down; your doctors want you to 
rest until the tests come back."  

"Scully, I'm fine.  The last thing I remember is 
the bright lights in the woods, then waking up in 
an ambulance a few hours ago.  I'm not sick, I'm 
not having flashbacks, yet - it's like I've been in 
suspended animation for four years.  I want to go 
home."

I pull back from him.  I remember that feeling - 
like time was supposed to have stopped while I was 
gone.

"No home, huh, Scully?"

I shake my head "no."

"Gunmen?"  

I smile - the boys would be delighted.  "Skinner 
will be back in a few hours.  He has the car."

Mulder nods this time, backing away from me and 
into the shadows, taking the hint.  I don't know 
how his brain can be absorbing all of this so 
quickly.  I can blame my fog on an extra pain pill, 
but Mulder is managing without better 
living through chemistry.

"I can explain, Mulder-"  

"You don't need to explain anything," he 
interrupts, not meaning a word he's saying. 

I close my eyes for a few seconds, trying to get my 
thoughts in a straight line.  It doesn't work and I 
feel the tears starting.  Christ, I hate to cry, 
but I can't stop.  I used to do this when I was a 
kid – get so mad I'd just cry.

Damn it!  Stop it!  Dry up, Dana!

Mulder pulls me into the shadows with him, those 
familiar arms trying to silence all the voices that 
are jabbering in my brain, those lips kissing the 
top of my head as I cry, pretending brotherly 
concern when they want -  

More, they want more.

So do I.

"I thought you weren't coming back, Mulder.  I'm 
sorry.  We searched - we searched everywhere and 
followed every lead, but you were just gone.  I'm so 
sorry.  I shouldn't have given up, but it had been so 
long and-" I lose the ability for intelligent speech 
and switch to just sobbing that I'm sorry, like a big 
baby.

Fingers caress my cheeks and I look up at him.  
Mulder is crying too, sharing my furious tears.  It 
isn't fair - how could life have cheated us out of 
so much?  The only thing I hate more than crying is 
losing, especially when the game is rigged.

Ten minutes later I would tell myself that I made 
an awful choice.  That I was weak and wanton and a 
bad example for my children.  That I was a horrible 
wife and that I deserved every hurtful thing that 
had ever happened to me.
 
I couldn't tell who moved first.  My best guess is 
a shock wave moved through DC and shoved one of us 
into the other, but the carefully designed woman 
Skinner dropped off a few minutes ago vanishes. 

I feel Mulder's lips on mine and I don't pull away.  
No sweet pretenses, no gentle nuzzling - my mouth 
against his as hard and angry as his against mine.  
Now.  I've waited so long; how dare any gods deny 
us this?  No talking, no thinking - now.  

Through my painkiller fog, I feel his hands set me 
up on something so our faces are even and push my 
legs unceremoniously apart.  I don't even pretend 
to object.  All thoughts of being a mother and a 
wife vanish with the rough onslaught of tongues and 
hands. This isn't what happens when my newly 
revived libido misses my sweet husband for a week.  
This is when my heart and soul are starved for 
completion for years. Sex doesn't even begin to 
describe it.  Fucking comes close.  This is 
animalistic, instinctive, visceral.  This is what I 
need.  This is something more.

The skirt Skinner bought me is hurriedly shoved up 
around my waist and I feel thumbs looping the 
elastic of my panties, hear the fabric tearing.  
"Yes, Scully?" Mulder asks.   If I just say 'no,' 
he'll stop and I can pretend this never happened.  
I can just walk away.  

Not a choice.  The sun will always rise, sparks 
will always fly upward, I will always love this 
man.

"Yes."

He jerks me to the edge of the counter.  With his 
mouth inches from mine, he pauses for a millisecond 
to savor.  He smells like Mulder.  I used to just 
stand in his apartment and close my eyes, swearing 
I wouldn't forget that scent, but I almost had and 
it made me livid.  

I startle as I feel fingers suddenly deep inside 
me; my breaths are coming faster.  Foreplay isn't 
really necessary - I've been ready for this for 
years, and play has nothing to do with it.  The 
harsh whispers start into my lips, into my ears, 
and neck and throat.  Things my polite husband 
wouldn't dream of saying to me.  He loved me 
goddamn it.  I was beautiful.  Strong.  I was his.  
Now.  Always.  Need this.  Tell him I needed this.  
Fuck - tell him I still loved him.  Tell me, 
Scully.  Say it now.  Say you still love me.  Now!

"Love you."

This he's inside me, not being sweet or gentle 
because he knows that's not what I need.  I need 
more.  Hands are rough on my breasts, around my 
hips to keep me from sliding back from the 
onslaught, and his mouth invading mine again to 
keep me quiet.  I dimly register that we're 
somewhere in the suture room, but that doesn't seem 
important right now.  I wrap my legs around his 
waist, letting him thrust deeper, harder, angrier, 
and trying to let him disappear inside me so I'll 
never lose him again.  Lean back, let him conquer 
me briefly, and close my eyes, enjoying the pain-
tinged pleasure.  Pain makes me feel alive again.  
Lips are on my breasts, already knowing which 
places need kissed, which need licked, and which 
need bitten.  Hard.  I feel his hand in my hair, 
jerking my head back so he can leave marks on my 
neck like an animal marking his territory.  His.  I 
am his and I revel in it.  My teeth find his 
shoulder and I taste a tinge of salty blood.  Mine.  
How dare you try to leave me, Mulder?  How dare 
you!

I can't tell which are orgasms and which are sobs 
for either of us, but eventually I feel his body 
leave mine and his arms wrap around me. 

My body is slowing, but my mind still races, trying 
to focus though the drugs.  I wrap my legs tighter 
around his waist, locking my ankles. I can't live 
the rest of my life and never feel this way again.  
This is what it feels like to be a part of life 
instead of just an observer.  My mouth covers his - 
gently this time, still needing to feel our bodies 
blending into one.  As our breathing slows, there 
is a long, leisurely kiss in sharp contrast to the 
frenzied sex of a moment ago.

"Love you.  Never stopped loving you," I tell him.

He rolls his head back, closing his eyes and 
letting me taste the salty sweat, letting me smell 
the scent of my skin on his.  His throat moves as 
he swallows, exhaling sharply at the rough sand of 
my tongue and savoring the last few spasms.  He 
moves to kiss me again, lips parted and dark eyes 
open and searching into mine, begging me not to 
leave him. 

Never leave you, Mulder.  What in heaven or hell do 
you think could make me ever leave you?

I put my hands on either side of that beautiful 
face and see my new wedding band with its expensive 
platinum and diamonds as I smile at him.  Skinner 
went a little overboard buying a ring for a hand as 
tiny as mine, but it's beautiful, just like my 
Mulder.

Then I realize what's happened and pull away as 
though this man were fire, as though I can rewrite 
the last few minutes if I deny myself this kiss.  
The sweat is cooling on my hot skin and there's 
still a throbbing between my legs as a painful 
reminder that what's done is done.  I can't take it 
back now.

Oh, God.

I shove Mulder away as I slide down from the 
counter, returning to reality as I jerk down my 
ugly skirt.  He won't meet my eyes and he's still 
breathing quickly.  The entire room smells like sex 
– the clock says not more than ten minutes have 
passed, but the planet has just tilted sharply to 
the left.

The tears have started again.  Oh, God - what did I 
just do?  What was I thinking?

Mulder doesn't know where to put his hands.  He's 
trying to reconcile the idea of his Scully being 
another man's wife.  He's trying to conceive that 
what we've just done is wrong as he hurriedly 
redresses.  

So am I.  I just stand there and try to reconcile 
for a long time.  Conceive and shake and cry, while 
I lean against the counter, not strong enough to 
stand alone.  You shouldn't have left me, Skinner.  
I'm not strong enough to stand alone. 

Finally, he pulls the front of my bra together, 
fastening the latch, and then starts to button up 
the blouse which I don't remember him even 
unbuttoning in the fray.

"Scully?  What's this?"  Mulder is looking at the 
bruises on my ribs and shoulder.  He runs his 
fingers over them and I flinch.  His face hardens 
as he finds the marks on my forehead.  "Did Skinner 
do that?  Did he hit you?"

I'm sure he wants to think Skinner did.  That 
Mulder had come back to rescue me from some kind of 
monster, climbing the tower to save me and then 
carrying me off to happily-ever-after.  Nothing 
could be further from the truth.  In theory, I 
already lived in happily-ever-after.  At least, I 
lived in the same zip code.
 
"God - no, Mulder.  He's wonderful to me and the 
kids.  We had a wreck yesterday.  I ran his new car 
into a telephone pole."

I realize I've said "the kids."  So does Mulder.  
He smiles, his face still flushed.  He wanted that 
so much for me. The afterglow of illicit sex and 
its implications are temporarily forgotten as he 
wipes away my tears.

"You have kids, Scully?  How old?"

"Twins.  They turned three in November.  A boy and 
a girl."  

He's not a stupid man.  I had to have been pregnant 
when he was abducted.  I see the question in his 
eyes and I nod "yes."  

His arms go around me again, very carefully, and he 
rests his damp forehead against me for a long, long 
time as the tears start to flow again.
                  
                   *******

I remember my prayer:

God - if you're up there - thank you.  Thank you 
for those two children.   Thank you for giving them 
to Scully.  And to me.  Thank you for the miracles; 
thank you for letting me love my Scully - even if 
it never happens again, for letting her conceive, 
for keeping her safe while I was away, and for 
letting me come home.  

Four miracles - I shouldn't expect another.

Guess expecting to get to come home to Scully would 
be too much for you, eh, God?  Getting to be a 
father to my children - couldn't quite manage that, 
now could you?  How about keeping her out of my 
boss's bed?  No, huh?  One more night with Scully in 
my arms - not even sex - just getting to hold her 
and know that it's right instead of what I've just 
done.  Too much of a miracle for you, isn't it, Big 
Guy?  

I guess I get only four, because as soon as I can 
get myself to stop holding her, I'm never going to 
get to do it again.  She's going to pull away from 
me, jump in that river in Egypt, and I'll never 
touch her again because it's somehow become 
legislated into a sin.

Better have heard that prayer, God, because I'm 
never speaking to you again as long as I live.

Amen.  Shalom.  Fuck you.  Whatever. 

                  *******

January 4, 2004

"Tell me about them - what they're like."

Mulder is slumping down in the chair so I can lie 
in the bed, waiting for my latest pain pill to kick 
in and putting as much distance as possible between 
us.  I actually took three when Mulder wasn't 
looking - far more than I'm supposed to, but I'm 
going to need to be a lot more numb to face my 
trusting husband when he gets here.

"They're wonderful.  Where do you want me to 
start?"

"How did you get pregnant, Scully?"

"When we had sex, Mulder."  Such a silly question.  
How did he think I got pregnant?

"You're stoned.  Do you at least have any pictures 
I can look at?"

I point to my overnight bag - my wallet should be 
in it.  I'm not stoned, Mulder - I'm floating.  You 
won't tell my husband we just had sex, will you, 
Mulder?  He doesn't like it when I have sex with 
other men, Mulder, especially you.

I watch Mulder's face lazily as he flips through 
the pictures - Skinner and I right after we were 
married, one of me with my mother and my brothers, 
one of Skinner and me with the kids, and one of 
Mulder.  My life summarized in four photographs.
 
He looks at the one of all of us at a kids' picnic 
at the club for a long time, trying to understand 
that this is real.

"I'm sorry, Scully.  I'm sorry, I left you alone - 
I had no idea."

I want to tell him I was fine, but that's not true 
and I'm too sleepy.  I'll tell him later.
                       
                   *******

Hannah and David.  It was written on the back of 
the picture.  Walter and Dana Skinner and David and 
Hannah Mulder.  Not Scully, not Skinner - Mulder.  
She gave them my name.  She took Skinner's name but 
my children had mine.

I had children.

I had a daughter with a head full of light red hair 
and blue eyes named Hannah.  A good name.  She 
looked like Scully - except she hadn't learned to 
hide that mischief yet.  Beautiful bedroom eyes and 
Scully's lips.  She looked like a fairy vixen, up 
to something rotten.  My daughter.

And I had a son.  David.  I could see my face in 
his.  Those droopy eyes, those floppy lips.  I 
don't even need to question that they were mine - 
that boy proved it.  He was an intense little guy, 
watching his mother like a hawk.  My son.   

I looked at the photo from every angle while Scully 
slept, trying to see something new.  Some clue as 
to what my children were like.  I went out to the 
nurses' station and held it up to the light where 
they read the x-rays, but there was still nothing.  
No secrets.  No answers.

All I saw was Scully wearing a pretty summer dress.  
Her hair is pulled back from her face and there's 
one hand on Skinner's chest as she kisses his 
cheek.  He's holding the boy on his shoulder and 
the girl on his lap, but he's looking down 
adoringly at Hannah.  Scully had a gentle hand on 
David's shoulder, and he was looking over at his 
mother.  

Scully's eyes are closed as her lips touch Skinner.  
They were open when she kissed me half an hour ago.

It wasn't a stiffly posed K-Mart $24.99 photo 
package with everyone wearing their Sunday best.  
These were people affluent enough to have their 
picture taken often and casually.  Life just 
handed them all these nice things and they had 
look up in their Dockers and Lizwear as the 
photographer strolled by at the country club.

It looked like a family.  A beautiful, complete, 
happy family.  I tried to imagine myself in the 
portrait - where would I be in the picture?  
Sitting on Skinner's lap or standing useless in the 
background – just a backdrop for a pretty picture?  
Or do I just show up occasionally and fuck the lady 
of the house; don't get to be in the family 
portraits?

                   *******
                    
January 5, 2004

Skinner's voice wakes me next - asking me if I want 
to go home.  

"What time is it?"  

"Almost four.  They're ready to discharge Mulder."

I roll up to sitting, trying to look like it 
doesn't hurt.  Not just my ribs are sore.  Good, I 
deserve to be in pain.

"He wants to go to the Gunmen's - can you make sure 
he has money for a cab?"  That's a nice way of saying 
I don't want him staying with us.  "Why do you still 
have the kids?  Where's Nina?"  Sissy is asleep 
against his shoulder and Bubby is laying across the 
bottom of the bed. 

I slip back so easily into our casual formality.  
We each know our roles - all I have to do is play 
my part.  I can feel myself carefully folding and 
storing away who I was last night and putting on 
Mrs. Skinner and Mama.  The woman I was to Mulder 
goes into a drawer in the back corner of my mind - 
someone I didn't want to lose, but not me anymore.  
Only a memory, nothing more.

"Nina drank the water while she was home - she's 
being admitted right now.  Your mother is coming at 
eight to watch the kids - unless you think Mulder 
would like to spend some time with them."

I can see it in his eyes - he's trying so hard to 
handle this like an adult.  So am I. 

"You're going back to work?" I ask, trying to rinse 
my face in the tiny sink.  I can smell Mulder on 
me.  Semen has dried on the inside of my thighs - I 
have the urge to find a bathroom and start washing 
it away as though it was blood on my hands.  

"Long story, but it's not a choice."

"I'd rather you stay with me."  That's a really big 
hint, Skinner.

"Your mom will be there.  I'm trying to avoid 
having to fly back to Chicago this morning.  And 
I'll try to leave early. "

'Early' meant before midnight.  When was the last 
time he slept?  He'd been up for two nights 
straight at the least.  I need him right now - 
screw the FBI.

Jack, Skinner, Mulder - three down, Dana.  Two in 
the last twelve hours, actually.

SHUT UP!

Mulder is stirring at the sound of our voices, and 
I see his eyes open.  "The doctors say you can go - 
you ready, Mulder?"  

He nods, looks curiously at the kids, but he's not 
awake yet.  Mulder goes to find a bathroom as I 
brush out my hair and realize my panties are gone.  

"He looks fine."

"He seems fine - just missing the last four years."

We're tap dancing around the real issue, which 
isn't Mulder's health. "I want to go home, Skinner 
- our home.  With our kids.  Take me hooome."

He nods.  Message received.  Love isn't a promise, 
but commitment is.  Choice made.  

Mulder returns, eating a leftover Christmas cookie 
he probably charmed out of a nurse.  He sits in the 
chair again and just stares at the two sleeping 
children.

"It doesn't seem real, Scully."  

Neither do you, Mulder.  Skinner lays Hannah down 
on the bed beside David to help me with my coat and 
Mulder reaches out to touch her long hair.  

Eyes lock and looks are going back and forth 
between Mulder and Skinner - probably a 
continuation of whatever was said on the phone.  I 
see them both standing up straighter; each 
declaring his territory like my children and I are 
new lands to be conquered.  Didn't we just settle 
this, Skinner?  Mulder?  You can't tell him what 
happened, Mulder.

The alpha males are ignoring me.  Apparently, I 
just have the babies and warm the bed for whoever 
isn't abducted by aliens at the moment.

Fuck you both - fight it out.  I'm taking my babies 
and going home.  I may be a lousy wife, but I'm 
still a good mother.

"Give me the keys," I tell Skinner, holding out my 
hand as I scoop up Hannah with my other arm.  "Wake 
up, Bubby."  David obediently wakes enough to 
follow me to the car.

"You can't carry her, Scully.  And you aren't 
driving with those pain pills.  I'll drive you 
before I go to work."

"I haven't had a pill since last night - I'm fine 
and I'm going home."

"Scully - I'm not sure you're thinking straight," 
Mulder chimes in.  That's quite an understatement, 
partner.

"You have four broken ribs - you're not carrying 
her."  Skinner.  

I'm being tag teamed.  Nice of them to interrupt 
their pissing contest to bully me.

"Give me THE KEYS!  I want to go home and I want to 
go home NOW!"

Oh, Christ, that hurt, but I get the keys.  

"Second level of the garage," Skinner says, holding 
out the keys. "I'll be home by six."  Mulder suddenly 
finds something very interesting to stare at on the 
floor so he can act like he didn't hear that.

Skinner only said it so Mulder could hear it.  To 
remind Mulder he wasn't the one coming to me 
tonight.  The pissing contest was far from over, 
but covert jabs had just replaced chest thumping.

Hannah feels like she weighs a ton against my hip, 
but I make it to the car, get the kids buckled in, 
and turn the key, already anticipating some heat on 
my feet.

Nothing.  

Try again.

Nothing - just clicking noises.

"SHIT!"

I can't leave my kids in a cold car, so that means 
waking them, lugging them back inside the hospital, 
and making Skinner what he considers 'late' for 
work.

All I want is away from these two men until I get a 
chance to think.

Mulder has vanished again, but Skinner spots me as 
soon as I step out of the parking garage and comes 
to take Hannah.  David is dogging at my heels as we 
go back into the ER, escaping the snowstorm.

"The car won't start.  You said you'd put a new 
battery in it."

"Okay - stay here where it's warm and I'll go look 
at it.  If the cab comes, tell Mulder to go on and 
I'll be there in a little bit.  He's going to the 
office with me so we can start the paperwork to get 
him alive again.  I put a new battery in your car a 
few weeks ago, so I think it's the alternator again 
- it was acting up earlier."

"And you were just going to let me and the kids 
drive off without mentioning that?  Why didn't you 
fix it?"  That was too bitchy and I know it.  I'm 
tired and cold and in pain and my dead lover just 
showed up and helped me shatter my marriage vows.

"Well, first I was off trying to arrest mobsters, 
so I put some jumper cables in the trunk and 
planned to fix it when I got back, since you were 
driving my car.  Then my wife wraps MY car around a 
telephone pole with our kids in the back seat, so I 
left the mobsters to come take care of my family.  
Then I spent the day chasing two preschoolers, 
which doesn't allow time for mechanics.  Then 
Mulder comes back from the dead, so I've spent the 
night driving you to the hospital, meeting overdue 
flights from Central America, feeding children, 
changing children, and driving back to the hospital.  
Now I need to get my ass back in the office, since 
the Director called and told me if my wife was well 
enough to be running around the ER, she was well 
enough for me to be at work.  And I have to get your 
old partner undead so I can kill the arrogant son-of-
a-bitch the next time he touches my daughter.  And I 
got to call your mother to come take care of our kids 
like I'm a lousy, workaholic father, so when would 
you LIKE ME TO FIX THE DAMN CAR, SCULLY?"

"Hey!"  Mulder rounds the corner, having heard at 
least some of that.  "Back off - don't yell at 
her."

The look on Skinner's face is priceless - he can't 
decide whether to laugh or not, but he's not angry 
anymore.  If it was anyone else besides Mulder, 
he'd probably laugh.  He settles for the default 
scowl.

"It's okay, Mulder.  Here - take a child so Skinner 
can go look at the car."

Skinner gives me another 'look' as he shifts a 
sleeping Hannah to Mulder and leaves without a 
word.  I'm going to hear about this later, I'm 
sure.  She may be the apple of your eye, but she's 
still Mulder's DNA, dear.  Live with it.

"You shouldn't have interfered, Mulder," I tell 
him, embarrassed, as David crawls up on my lap to 
get warm.  This is a mild fight.  Put a man as 
dominating as Skinner in the same house with a 
woman as independent and headstrong as me and 
sparks will often fly.  We both know it, we handle 
it, and we make up later, but I hated for Mulder to 
see it.

"He was yelling at you, Scully."

"He's my husband, he hasn't slept in two days, and 
I was being a bitch.  It was none of your business."

Mulder can't conceive that anything about me would 
be none of his business.

"Are you married, married, Scully?" he asks, 
looking at my wedding ring.

I understand what he's asking - is this a marriage 
of convenience?

"We're married, married, Mulder.  Two months, now."  

Great sex and all, Mulder.  

The wheels are turning behind his eyes - if he'd 
come back two months ago, would this still have 
happened?  I don't know, Mulder, but I know I can't 
imagine not having Skinner to depend on.  All those 
days in the Neonatal ICU when I didn't know if the 
babies were going to live or die, and if they did 
live, what kind of life would they have?  Then 
taking them home with all that equipment - even a 
chart of how long they could each stop breathing.  
Trying to nurse two preemies.  Trying to go back to 
work, even without traveling.  Then trying to pay 
my bills - and the medical bills - on a part-time 
salary.  Then the news that neither child was okay 
- Hannah has Cerebral Palsy and David hhhas serious 
speech delays - you weren't there for any of that 
and Skinner was.  It was that simple. 

David wiggles against me.  It's almost time for Mr. 
Early Bird to be getting up.  He and Skinner often 
have breakfast and watch CNN together before he 
goes to work so I can sleep an extra few minutes.

"Mama - Dada?"

"He went to fix the car, Bubby - he'll be back in a 
little bit and we can go home," I answer before I 
think.  Yes, Mulder - your son calls another man 
'Dada'.

He strokes Hannah's face against his chest as she 
sleeps on, oblivious to the world.  She is her 
mother's daughter.    

"You love him, Scully?"

"It doesn't matter, Mulder."

"So that's a 'no'."  

"Mulder - just stop.  I'm too tired and in pain to 
discuss this right now.  I've missed you so much 
and I thank God you're back, but I can't rip my 
family apart to run to your arms.  We're -not- 
going to discuss this, are we, Mulder?" 

Please understand what I'm saying, Mulder.  It's 
not that I don't still love you.

"No, Scully - we aren't discussing it with anyone.  
Sometimes people say things on painkillers that 
they don't mean.  Things that shouldn't be held 
against them."

My secret is safe.  Mulder looks like he's been 
sucker-punched, but my secret is safe.

Silence as David climbs down so he can get into 
trouble.  Skinner had put diapers on him for the 
night, so I'm not worrying about potty patrol - not 
that it's the greatest of my worries at this 
moment.  

"What happened to his arm?" Mulder asks, searching 
for a different topic as we wait.

"The same drunk driver that ran us off the road hit 
David's side of the car.  It's just a hairline 
fracture - it will heal fine."

David hears us talking and comes to tell us his 
side of the story.  This should be interesting.

"Godda geo boom.  Car-car iska by.  Ba woo-woo.  
Twat," he adds with a knowing nod.

Mulder looks at me, eyebrows raised questioningly.  
Sorry, no clue, Mulder.  Hannah is half-awake now 
and translates:

"Got boo-boo.  Car bye-bye.  Am-bu-lance.  Cat." 

"I see," Mulder responds.  He's always been good 
with kids.  I used to imagine how good he would be 
with these two until the doctors started listing 
all their problems.  Then I started noticing how 
good Skinner was with them.  "Hannah - are you 
okay?"

"No boo-boo.  I.  Got.  Waka."  

"She has a new walker at home - she's very proud of 
it."

"That's great, Hannah.  Is it like a scooter?"

"No - waka."  She also has a scooter, which pales 
in comparison to her new walker, silly man.

"Oh, it's a walker.  Okay."  More raised eyebrows 
at me.

"She has CP, Mulder.  They were both born 
prematurely and she uses a walker to walk."

There, I said it.  You didn't get "normal" children 
because I couldn't stay pregnant long enough.  
Because my body was inadequate.  Skinner loves them 
if you don't.

Mulder is quiet for a few seconds.  "His speech - 
is that dysphasia, or echolalia, or is it twin-
speak?  Can he stop?"

"Not for very long.  The doctors can't tell how 
delayed he is because he won't cooperate, but he is 
at least mildly delayed."

"Mildly retarded."

"Don't say that - it's just a speech delay."  I 
couldn't bring myself to believe that a man as 
brilliant as Mulder would have a mentally retarded 
son.  Could love a retarded son.

"Mildly developmentally delayed is a nice way of 
saying 'probably mildly retarded' when kids are 
small and the parents don't want to hear the words 
yet, Scully."

"Stop it - we see enough shrinks.  I don't need 
your professional opinion, too."

"Sorry."  Mulder watches the snow fall through the 
window for a while.  "I'm just trying to sort 
things out."  More snow-watching.   

"I.  Walk."  God bless that child.  If I can find a 
Hasbro product Skinner hasn't already bought for 
her, I'm buying it for those two words.

"She wants to show you how well she can walk, 
Mulder."

Hannah nods.  My children have never met a 
stranger.  "If you'll let her hold your fingers, 
she can do the rest.  You don't have to lift her, 
just keep her balanced and let her support 
herself."  

Mulder follows my directions, playing marionette 
with Hannah in the empty lobby as David tags along 
with commentary about his "twat."  I see Mulder 
turn his head and look back at me and grin like a 
kid with a new toy as Skinner blows in with the 
cold wind.

"I think the car's a hopeless quest, Scully.  
They're bringing us a rental."

I wrap his arms carefully around me and cover his 
frozen hands with mine as we watch Mulder.

"What are we going to do, Skinner?  They're his 
children."

"He's not going to try to take them - he can play 
with them any time he wants, as far as I'm 
concerned.  I doubt children can be loved to death, 
Scully - just like you can't."

Did I say Skinner was bad with words?  It must have 
been the meds.

Screw the FBI - you're taking another day off - 
just in case.

                   *******

Fan Frohike, boys, he was gonna faint.  

Yes, it was really me - you could turn off the 
voice recognition thingy.  If the FBI and the DMV 
said I was alive, then I was alive.  

And I had a few questions I wanted answered.  NOW.

And then I was getting drunk.  Totally, shit-faced 
drunk.  Drunk enough to forget Scully is ashamed 
that she had sex with me.  Told me she still loved 
me, blamed it on pain pills, and then went back to 
Skinner.  Pills will do that to you, Scully - I 
think I even woke up stoned in a hospital once and 
told you I loved you.  You left with Skinner that 
day too, if I recall correctly.
 
Nope, Boys, didn't remember a thing about the ship 
- and that made it even worse.  I had nnno home, no 
car, and no Scully.  I had my old job back, since 
my AD felt guilty for marrying the mother of my 
children.  And I had piles of my father's money 
that had been drawing interest; bought all that 
Internet stock during the Y2K panic.  And I had two 
kids that called Skinner 'Dada.'  And I spent five 
hours at the DMV trying to get my driver's license 
renewed, since it had expired three years before I 
was returned.  Ever try to explain alien abduction 
to a State employee?  Don't - just fill out the forms 
and stand in line.

Bring on the booze.  Not only was I drinking until 
I remembered something about the past four years, I 
was drinking until I forgot the past two days.

                    *******

January 9, 2004

I'm thinking that space has opened up a wormhole at 
our bedroom door.  Every time I drag myself out of 
our bed, I seem to step into an alternate universe.  
Maybe Mulder should open an X-file.

First, there is my husband - home in the middle of 
the day, wearing a sweatshirt instead of a suit and 
ripping up the new carpet.  On my last trip to the 
kitchen, he had a hammer in his hand and was 
calling Hairball.  

Nina seems to have recovered from her unmentionable 
illness and is back to bustling around the house 
and fussing at the kids.  She followed me down the 
hall offering a bowl of chicken soup and chattering 
about "Senor Mulder."  He has that effect on women.

Senor Mulder is in our living room playing with the 
kids, and doing a fair job of it.  Senor Skinner is 
still hammering away and he's hitting those 
finishing nails harder than necessary, stopping 
occasionally to glare at Mulder.  I'm betting he's 
imagining the damage that hammer would do to the 
other man's skull as he plays horsy with Bubby and 
Sissy.  It's the touching, Mulder.  Skinner doesn't 
like other people touching them - just set them 
down and watch and you'll live a lot longer.

I look out the bathroom window to see the rental 
car has disappeared and a silver BMW and a green 
Grand Cherokee are sitting in its place.  How did 
Skinner know I'd been eyeballing those Cherokees 
every time I tried to get two kids, Nina, and a 
week's worth of groceries into my Taurus?  Are we 
still called 'soccer moms' if we only drive to 
Special Olympics?

There's also a new sedan parked on the curb that 
probably belongs to Mulder.  That means Skinner got 
him undead and he had access to his estate.  They 
probably accepted Skinner's signature instead of 
mine since we're married.  I bet that was a pretty 
scene – Skinner didn't know how much Mulder was 
worth at the time of his most recent "death."  Even 
not counting the life insurance - lots.  Lots and 
lots and I never touched a penny - even went to my 
mother and asked for money instead of just going to 
Mulder's attorney and getting a check.  I never 
understood my own logic - maybe I was angry at him 
for leaving me - but the money has been drawing 
interest for years now while I struggled.  Yeah, that 
must have been quite a scene.

Skinner's secretary Kimberly has made a house call 
to get his signature, convey messages, and take a 
few letters, since the FBI can't possibly catch the 
bad guys without him signing things and dictating.  
If he's hearing a word she says, it doesn't show 
and she finally just leaves the papers for him to 
look at as I head back to bed.  Skinner's made it 
to the edge of the living room with the new 
hardwood floor and the pattern is established.  
Pound a nail, glare at Mulder.  Pound, glare.  
Pound, glare. 

Pound!

"Fuck!"

He started glaring too early and smashed his thumb.  

"Fucka!" Echoes Bubby from Mulder's lap.  That 
would be the other word he can say clearly every 
time - twat and fucker.  He inherited something 
from Mulder besides those eyes.

Mulder is laughing.  Oh - that's a mistake.  I 
don't think Skinner would kill anyone in front of 
my kids, but I'm not certain.

"You think it's funny, Mulder!  He says two 
intelligible words and both of them got him thrown 
out of preschool!  If you want to play Instant-
Daddy, maybe you can do something about that.  Stop 
bouncing them on your knee and take them to speech 
therapy.  Then Hannah needs to go to physical 
therapy to learn how to walk.  They go back to John 
Hopkins next week so the doctors can tell you David 
isn't getting any better and stick more needles 
into Hannah, so you'd better call and find a hotel 
room that's really handicapped accessible.  You owe 
Nina fifteen hundred dollars when she leaves this 
evening because she's on double-time and she gets 
paid sick time.  Both kids need to be fed and put 
down for a nap when you get back.  Make yourself 
useful, Mulder - you're supposed to contribute more 
than fifteen minutes in the dark if you want to be 
a father!"

There's one final "pound" as Skinner throws the 
hammer at the end of the hall, leaving a nice dent 
in the plaster, and stalks into our bedroom, 
slamming the door behind him. 

"Sorry - I'm already sorry.  You don't even need to 
start on me, Scully."

I just rub his back and say nothing, because I 
don't know what to say.  Mulder's not much more 
than a big kid himself - he could no more take care 
of those babies than he could fly.  He'll love 
them, he'll play with them, and he'll run off 
chasing the first windmill that comes by, leaving 
me to pick up the pieces like he always does.  

"You should have told him to drop Hairball off at 
the vet and pick up the dry cleaning on his way to 
therapy," I say, laying down with Skinner.  "I 
think you're out of clean shirts."

He spoons up behind me, resting his chin on top of 
my head, his breathing slowing to normal.

"I am trying, Scully."

"I know.  So am I.  I almost wish he had stayed 
dead."  I can't believe I just said that.

"You're going to have to leave this bedroom and 
face Mulder at some point, Scully, and he's going 
to want to pick up where he left off."  

Skinner is a very wise man and there aren't many 
secrets between us.  Well, except one.  He rises up 
on his elbow so I can see his dark eyes.

"If I were a poet, I'd tell you true love conquers 
all, wish you well, and thank you eloquently for 
what we've had together.  But I'm not - I'm a 
soldier, Scully.  I'm protective and possessive and 
you didn't marry me for romantic ideals or 
political correctness.  Don't expect me to stand by 
and smile while a poet thoughtlessly dismantles my 
family.  Selfish or not, I'll fight like hell to 
keep that from happening."
               
Does he know how much I want to take the 
responsibility and steadiness and generosity that is 
Skinner and pour it into the passion that is Mulder?  

But I can't.  And it's not just about me anymore.  
Mulder still thinks it's all about him.

"I can't say I don't still feel something for him, 
Skinner.  But what I feel and what I can live with 
are two different things.  I'm not going anywhere."

I can feel his body relaxing and strong fingers 
cover my breast, caressing a nipple gently 
underneath my top as I relax back into sleep, 
allowing him to keep me safe from the world.  This 
is my safe place - strong arms that slip under the 
covers late at night smelling of a quick shower, 
wrap around me, and block out reality until dawn.  
I'm floating again when there's a soft knock at the 
door.

"Excuse - Senor Skinner?"

Skinner tells her to come in, not even bothering 
budging, although his hand stops moving under the 
thin fabric so it's not noticeable.  Nina has 
pretty much seen it all in her sixty-some years, so 
the two of us cuddling in bed fully dressed and 
legally married, shouldn't shock her.

"Voy al amacen.  Wal-mart, senor.  Dinero, por 
favor?"

"Take a credit card," he tells her.  He's not 
getting up to sign a check.  There's a pause - Nina 
doesn't understand.  "MasterCard."  

"Si - charge it."  She understood MasterCard just 
fine.  "Senor Mulder - los bebes - terapia - okay?  
Los claves - Bimmer?"

"Si - keys are in my coat pocket."  My car seats 
must be in Skinner's new car; the other ones would 
have to be replaced.   

"Senor?"

"Los claves estan en mi-" Skinner can speak some 
Spanish – I usually just have to point, but Nina 
has years of experience with kids with 
disabilities.  I'm lucky Skinner was willing to 
fight the bidding war to get her, although I think 
he threatened the other families with an audit.  
Anyway, it's good to lay here with my eyes closed 
and know my babies are safe.

"Yo comprendo, Nina.  Gracias, Senor. Senora."  
That's Mulder's voice.  I feel Skinner's hand 
startle on my breast, and his body jump, pressing a 
respectable hard-on into my backside, and I open my 
eyes.  

Mulder is standing behind Nina in the doorway 
holding David and watching the two of us lay in bed 
together.  He's just staring, particularly at 
Skinner's hand as it quickly slips down to my 
waist, rippling under the silk.

"Get out of my bedroom, Agent Mulder."  A voice 
like dusty gravel as he gives a direct order.

The door closes softly and Mulder's footsteps walk 
quickly down the hall, away from our bed.  In a few 
minutes, the engine of Skinner's big sports car 
turns over and I hear Mulder backing it out of the 
driveway and Nina following seconds later in my new 
SUV.   

Skinner's neck and chest are sweaty and coated with 
a fine layer of sawdust from the new floorboards.  
I'm too stoned to feel any pain, but he's rougher 
than he has been before.  He's still spooned up 
behind me, still careful of my sore ribs, but it's 
not the gentle, kind touch I associate with him.  
There aren't the sweet words in my ear, that deep 
voice soothing, caressing my mind.  My husband is 
letting me feel what he must be feeling - intruding 
into my body too fast, too soon, the way he feels 
Mulder must be intruding into his family.  That 
sensation of being personally and intimately invaded.  
Just assuming this is his to claim anytime he wants.  
I can't say 'no' - what do I tell him - I'm saving 
myself for Mulder?  I can't even lie and say I 
don't like it because my body obviously does - 
twice.  

Afterwards, as he dozes, I hope Skinner doesn't 
notice I'm crying.  It has nothing to do with sex.  
It even has very little to do with him.

                   *******

I should have puked in Skinner's new BMW.  Nah - I 
just left the emergency brake half-on while I 
drove.

I was having this delusion that Scully didn't 
really want him to touch her - that they'd had sex 
a few times for appearance's sake, but she didn't 
really ENJOY it.  Skinner took care of Scully so 
she could take care of our kids - that was it.  I 
wasn't there for her and she was overwhelmed, so 
Skinner gave her a nice home and kept her safe.  
Even made all her decisions for her so she could 
concentrate on being a good mom.   

I saw her laying there in his arms, at peace with 
the world – the same way she had lain in bed with 
me a few days before I left; which was last week to 
me.  The FBI only had one men's locker room and 
modesty wasn't encouraged - I didn't want that son 
of a bitch anywhere near Scully.  She liked it when 
he had sex with her.  Maybe she was into pain.  
Maybe that was why she didn't want to come back to 
me; because I tried to be so careful not to hurt 
her. Maybe I should have just held her down and 
gotten off while she tried not to cry, because I 
could have hurt her too.  

David and Hannah called me 'Mul'er'- not Dada, not 
Papa - Mul'er.  They thought I was a new playmate.  
They had no idea I was their father.  Scully had 
never told them.  Wonder if 'Dada' wasn't the first 
word out of their mouths?  Wonder if they learned 
it from Scully?

Fifteen minutes in the dark, Skinner?  You really 
knew where to hit a man, didn't you?  The complete 
asshole in me would have loved to have told you 
about ten minutes in the ER, but I didn't.  

Sorry I came back to life and ruined your little 
father-knows-best plan.  Watch it, or Scully might 
remember she knew how to make up her own mind.  You 
might have to go out and buy another wife if she 
started doing something radical like wanting to 
step outside her gilded cage.

"Iky keem, Mul'er," came a voice from the rocket 
seat behind me.

I had no idea what that meant.  I had no idea how 
to change a diaper or give a bath or what those 
children were supposed to eat or do or not do.  I 
had no idea how to be a father and no one seemed 
interested in teaching me.  I was supposed to just 
slink off and let another man raise my kids.  Maybe 
one day I'd even get to be 'Uncle Mul'er' if I 
minded my manners.

I knew the way to Outpatient Therapy at Georgetown 
because I took Scully there after she was shot.  I 
knew where Barnes & Noble was and I knew they had a 
section on parenting and a bunch of children's 
books.  I knew I could ask their therapists what I 
should be doing to help them.

I knew we'd stop for Happy Meals afterward and get 
gooey handprints all over Skinner's new car.  Check 
the boxes, kids - see if there's some happy in the 
bottom you can share, 'cause my iced tea didn't 
come with any happy today.

And I knew after I dropped my passengers off with 
Mama and Dada that Mul'er needed another drink.

                   *******
     
April 1, 2004

It's easier than I thought it would be.  I actually 
very seldom even see Mulder - Skinner or Nina is 
usually there when he picks up and drops off my 
kids, although I think Mulder times it that way.  
From what I can gather from Nina, who all but pants 
over him, Mulder is back at the BSU as a profiler 
and having no problems stepping back into his old 
life.  Now he just has two children he gets to play 
with - "play" being the key word.

He tends to do 'fun' things with David and Hannah - 
ice cream, trips to the circus and toy store, story 
time at the library.  What Mulder doesn't do is get 
up with them at dawn.  Or sit through another 
endless, pointless meeting with the dozen ever-
changing people trying to help the them.  Or keep 
any of the zillions of doctors' appointments.  Or 
stay awake for days when they both come down with 
chickenpox at the same time despite that 
vaccination they suffered through.

No, Mulder just plays at being Daddy.  He's Mu'ler 
- bringer of toys, tickles, and candy.    My children 
adore him - hell, who wouldn't?  Skinner is Dada - 
putter in timeout, server of vegetables, killer of 
midnight dream-monsters, and kisser of boo-boos.  

It puts a strain on the Assistant Director/ Special 
Agent working relationship, to put it mildly.  I 
can only imagine the gossip that must be flying 
around the Bureau, but Skinner never says a word 
about it.  I do see Skinner's jaw clench every time 
Mulder drops off two dirty, exhausted children who 
hadn't had a nap or eaten anything but junk food 
all day.  

This evening, it finally happened - the big blow 
up.  Mulder had given Hannah so much candy she 
threw up all over her clothes in the car, so he 
brought her back wrapped in his jacket and reeking 
of vomit.  Skinner stripped her and put her in the 
kitchen sink for an impromptu bath, asking Mulder 
what possessed him to give her so much junk.  I 
strolled in early from work thinking Skinner was 
being a little harsh - he was guilty of 
overindulging those kids on a daily basis.  Look 
around - do these children look deprived? 

Mulder wanted to pay child support and Skinner told 
him 'no way,' so they were having a toy and 
clothing buying-contest instead.  Mulder also 
tended to pay Nina whenever he picked up the kids - 
before Skinner or I got home, and before it was 
actually time, which helped Nina's opinion of 
Mulder and pissed off Skinner to no end.

Whatever Mulder said, by the time I reached the top 
of the stairs and began feeling a little dizzy, the 
fight was on.  Loudly.  While David hid behind 
Skinner's legs crying and Hannah happily splashed 
water all over the kitchen floor, they growled at 
each other like two angry animals, circling.  I saw 
Skinner clinch his fist.  He'll tolerate
a lot to keep peace, but his baby girl smelling 
like vomit pushed the wrong button. 

I dramatically interrupted their little territory 
dispute before either could land a blow - I got to 
the kitchen table, set down my briefcase, and 
passed out cold.  

Fight over.

The next thing I heard was Mulder's voice anxiously 
asking what was wrong with me.  I felt his hand on 
my cheek and heard Skinner tell him not to touch 
me.  The hand didn't move and Mulder said my name:                    

"Scully?  What's wrong, Scully?"

"She's fine.  You need to leave, Agent Mulder."

"We're not on FBI time - she's my partner and I 
want to get her to a doctor."  

"She's not your partner anymore - she's MY wife and 
she's fine.  Get your hands off her.  You awake, 
Scully?"

I opened my eyes to see both men watching me 
intently.  "Just got dizzy."  A hand petted my hair 
- Skinner's touch.

"You want to lie down for a while?"  I nodded 
'yes.'  Skinner gathered me up in his arms and 
stood easily.  "Get Hannah out of the sink before 
she falls, Mulder.  I'll come get her in a minute."

My eyes focused well enough to look back and see 
Mulder holding his wet and naked daughter in the 
kitchen while he watched Skinner carry me to our 
bedroom.

Whatever happened next, by the time I woke up, 
Mulder was gone, both my kids were clean and in 
bed, and the kitchen floor was dry.  I shuffle down 
to the den, curl up beside Skinner on the sofa and 
reach for his glass, which he jerks away, not 
looking at me.

He's drinking.  Skinner doesn't normally drink very 
much, but he was making up for it tonight, judging 
by the level of the bottle of Laphroaig on the end 
table.  Maybe he has cause for a celebration.  At 
least, I hoped so.  I hoped it was the pungent 
scent of the expensive scotch that was making my 
stomach churn.

I can smell the earthy whiskey on his breath when 
he speaks:

"I guess it's not a question anymore, Scully."

"Guess not."

Welcome to the 0.01 percent who do conceive on the 
pill.   

"You have any thoughts you'd like to share?"  A 
tentative arm wraps around my shoulders and I 
breathe. 

I'm sure he's delighted.  Mr. Delighted doesn't 
have to be pregnant for the next six months.  Mr. 
Delighted doesn't have to take maternity leave or 
have amniocentesis or have a single labor pain.  
All Mr. Delighted gets is congratulation from all 
his buddies, a new tax deduction, and litter box 
duty for Hairball the de-balled which he'll probably 
get Nina to do.  

"Just a little surprised."  

What an understatement. 

"I know this isn't what you wanted . . ."

Really?  I'm forty years old with almost four-year-
old twins – both with disabilities - that I can't 
keep up with now.  I have a brand new teaching 
position at Georgetown, a new husband who works 
ninety hours a week, and a newly undead Mulder 
wanting back into my life and bed.  No, dear, now 
is the perfect time for a new baby - maybe I can 
have triplets this time.  Nothing like trying to 
stay on bed rest for six months with your heathens 
climbing the walls.

"If you don't want to have another baby, Scully, 
don't.  You've got your hands full now."

He may not be the love of my life, but this man 
certainly occupies a special place in my heart.  
He'd only told me once, when the kids were in the 
NICU, why he and Sharon never had children – their 
first baby came too soon and died.  So did their 
second.  Then a bad miscarriage that almost killed 
Sharon.  Then they stopped trying.  He had stared 
straight through the glass observation window and
used his 'I-am-made-of-steel AD Skinner' voice as 
he told me, but I know how much he had wanted 
children.  Why he loved my kids - our heathens - as 
much as he did. 

"I expect you to be extra nice to me.  To blame any 
crankiness or weirdness on hormones for the next 
six months and to do anything I want without 
question.  Then you are taking a full six weeks of 
leave when this baby comes and the Director can go 
to Hell if he doesn't like it.  Then one of us is 
getting fixed.  Deal?"

"Deal."  Warm, smoky-smelling lips softly kiss the 
tip of my nose.  

Deal. 

With Mulder, it was about me standing in the 
doorway of his bedroom, marveling at how beautiful he 
looked as he slept.  He stirred, saw my silhouette, 
and reached a graceful hand in invitation.  There 
were no vows, no pieces of paper that said we were 
responsible for each other, no thoughts of maternity 
leave, or tax brackets or even the next morning.  It 
took five steps from the doorway to his hand and I 
don't remember taking them - I only know how many 
times I stood at that door after he was gone and 
wondered what would have happened if I had taken one 
less step. 

That night was about making up for lost time; 
managing to fit seven years of touches and tender 
words into on night, and by morning, I was 
pregnant.  Five steps to a miracle.  The miracle of 
two new lives, the miracle of Mulder and me finding 
and loving each other even one night.  The miracle 
that the babies lived, and the miracle Mulder came 
back.

I was still short a miracle if there was going to 
be one for each step.  Maybe this was it, but I 
don't think so - miracles were about faith and 
passion.

This was just a deal.  A wonderful deal that I told 
myself I was content with for the rest of my life.  
Mutual respect and friendship and trust.  

Still just a deal.

I lay back so my head is pillowed on the arm of the 
couch and prop my cold feet on Skinner's thigh as 
he plays with his newest DVD player, watching 
'Bladerunner' in super-slow motion.  He sets the 
remote on the end table with his glass and rubs my 
bare sole with one hand, examining the pink polish 
on my toenails.  Hannah and I did each other's toes 
a few days ago and I think Hannah got the better 
end of the bargain.  Another hand begins to play 
with my calf, then runs up to caress my thigh and 
finally rubs between my legs.  Oh, my.  I close my 
eyes, letting my legs fall apart and enjoying his 
confident touch.  I'm squirming when I hear the 
lamp and the big television turn off.  Right here 
on the couch in the den, dear?  Drunk or not, I'm 
betting this man could teach me a thing or two in 
the dark, if I was more comfortable learning.  

Hell, he's my husband.  Whom am I supposed to be 
more comfortable with?

Don't answer that, brain.

I lift my hips to let him quickly slip off my 
pajama bottoms and panties, then he continues the 
slow, hard, methodical rubbing.  He unbuttons my 
top and pushes it apart so I'm completely exposed, 
but he doesn't touch my breasts.  I'm waiting for 
fingers inside me or his mouth on my chest, but he 
keeps teasing  - touching me the way girls 
masturbate until they figure out a more direct 
approach.  Making me tell him I want this.  Want 
more.  Want him.  I close my eyes and say the words.  
And I say 'please.'

"Scully - we're under Virginia law.  That law 
assumes paternity of any children born during a 
marriage to be the husband's unless another man 
questions it.  No one is going to question it, are 
they, Scully?  Are they, Scully?"

He's rubbing harder now, bringing me almost to 
climax with every rough pass and I realize his 
words are a little slurred.  Even the scratching 
sound of his palm sliding against the soft hair is 
erotic, but so is fear.

Skinner knows.  He knows I've been with Mulder.  He 
knows I'm not sure who fathered this baby.  I can't 
open my eyes - I'm too ashamed.  Oh, God.  He's 
drunk and he's going to hurt me – to make me pay.  

"No, no questions," I manage as the orgasm comes.  
Mulder promised me.  

I wait for Skinner to force me, to punish me, but 
he doesn't.  He could hurt me so easily, but it's 
the same careful, practiced touch of a man who's 
been with hundreds of woman and uses that knowledge 
to please a friend.  His mouth slowly exploring 
mine tastes of peat and salt as he gently enters my 
body, and it's wonderful.  It's always wonderful.

I wish he had just hurt me.

                   *******
  
I didn't even know why I was angry.  

Maybe I thought if I were a good enough father, 
Scully might come back to me.  Not that she'd shown 
one hint of interest in six months, but I could 
still hope.  She'd said she still loved me.  She'd 
made love to me; not just me to her.  She also 
didn't tell her husband either of those things, I 
was sure.

Maybe I thought the baby was mine.  But she'd 
probably been with Skinner a hundred times before 
and after that one time in the ER with me.  The 
odds were not in my favor.  I thought if it were my 
child, though, maybe she'd leave him.  Hell, maybe 
he would even slap her around and throw her out and 
give me an actual reason to hate him.

Maybe I still didn't really believe they actually 
had sex.  But babies didn't come from cabbage 
patches or storks.  They came from mental images I 
didn't want to have of Skinner and my Scully: 
under, on, above, below.  Behind - hand already on 
her breast, eyes closed, hard, breaths coming a 
little faster.

Maybe it's because someone stole that from me - 
Nina had shown me pictures of two tiny babies 
hooked up to miles of tubing and wires, but I 
didn't have any memories.  I'd never seen Scully 
pregnant or felt a baby kicking inside her.  I 
didn't get to hear first words or see first steps 
or do the first day of preschool tears.  I didn't 
even get to sit in the doctor's office and feel 
numb when he said my kids wouldn't ever be 
'normal'- not that any child of mine would ever be 
normal.  

Skinner's kid - Skinner's kid would be normal.

Maybe I liked having a hold over Scully; they're 
still MY children.  It sounded awful, but it gave 
me power over her.  She had to deal with me - see 
me - talk to me - about her kids.  Now she had a 
child that wasn't mine.  No more reason to see me - 
not that I'd seen her alone or up close in months.

Maybe it was looking like a fool in front of all 
the other agents while Skinner got to inform me 
that Scully was pregnant – standing there looking 
all formal and supervisory, like he hadn't been 
fucking the love of my life.  He didn't have me 
come in his office to tell me privately or act as 
if this should concern me at all; just looked me in 
the eye and told me in the middle of the hallway that 
Scully was going to have a little boy, like he hadn't 
been FUCKING the love of my life.   

How much did it cost to fuck Scully those days, sir?  
A nice big house, a new car every few years, acting 
like you weren't embarrassed to take my kids out in 
public?  What was her price, sir, because I would 
have paid it?  Gladly - I had a lawyer that would 
write her a check, except that wasn't what she 
wanted.  

Not what I wanted, either.

You know what, Skinner?  You could only rent 
Scully.  Maybe you could rent her for a long time, 
but you couldn't ever buy her – and you didn't want 
the type of woman you could buy.  The best Scully 
is the one she gave willingly; that's the woman you 
wanted.  That's what wasn't for sale because it was 
already taken.

And I hadn't any intention of giving it up. 

                   *******

July 5, 2004

"You're pregnant." 

I look up from swing-pushing duty to find Mulder 
standing in our backyard in his suit at ten in the 
morning.  The kids spot him and immediately want 
unbuckled to go to "Mul'er! Mul'er!"  I free the 
natives and set Bubby on his feet and Sissy on her 
scooter, noticing my back is starting to ache.  I 
don't remember Skinner saying Mulder was going to 
be taking the kids on Thursdays, but he's welcome 
to them.  Contrary to Lifetime Television, marriage 
and motherhood are not always the ultimate 
fulfillment twenty-four hours a day.  

"You're pregnant," he repeats acidly. 

Yes, Mulder - I'm pretty obviously pregnant.  
Almost six months now.  A little boy, thank you 
very much.  Either a Robert or a Michael.  Skinner 
wants Michael.  Point?

I know exactly what his point is, but I'm not 
having this conversation.  

He lowers his voice.  "Scully . . . Scully - is-.  
God.  Is the baby-"

He stops as I shake my head 'no'.  No, I'm not 
guessing - I'm sure.  I'm so sure I've been doing a 
lot of standing today. I keep idly watching the 
empty swing I'm pushing since I can't manage to 
face him with such a fresh memory.
 
I had the lab compare the DNA from the amniocentesis 
against yours, Mulder.  No match.  I left the report 
on our dresser for Skinner to see this morning as he 
dressed for work.  There were the usual pre-dawn 
'getting ready' noises as I played possum in our bed, 
then I heard the paper crumple and land in the 
trashcan.

"Is this what you wanted, Scully?"  Skinner had 
asked.

He didn't sound angry at all - more like I'd asked 
him to bring back something specific from the 
grocery store and he wasn't sure if he'd gotten the 
right thing.  I felt him very close to me, but not 
touching.

"Yes, it really is."  That was the truth, for about 
a thousand reasons.

"I'm sorry."  Cool air met my skin as he pulled the 
covers down, exploring my breasts.  I didn't 
understand what he was sorry for - he wasn't the 
one that necessitated a paternity test.  "I 
shouldn't treat you like you need to be protected.  
I shouldn't treat you like a polite friend I go to 
bed with occasionally instead of like my wife.  
Then it never would have happened."

I was still nude from a few hours before, so there 
was no barrier between my skin and the rough starch 
of his shirt.  I moved where he placed me, wrists 
above my head with my eyes inches from his - no 
room for secrets.  

"Is there anything you wouldn't forgive me, Skinner?"  
I could make him a list if he wanted to peruse it 
before answering.

"Not if I can't forgive myself."  I still didn't 
understand, but I was about to lose the ability to 
think.  Christ he was good at this – just the right 
mixture of rough and tender to remind me I wasn't 
in control, but not enough to frighten me.  "You're 
my wife - I need to treat you like my wife.  You 
wouldn't still be here if that wasn't what you 
wanted."

Apparently, Skinner's wife needed thoroughly fucked 
until she dreaded sitting down and prayed he'd come 
back and do it again.   I could see how he stayed 
married for 17 years.  The other AD's must have 
been shocked to find Skinner not as his desk by 
six-thirty a.m.  They would have been even more 
shocked had they been witness to what he was doing 
to the former Mrs. Spooky at the time - and that 
she liked it.   

Mulder's voice jerks me back to reality:

"I won't make waves, Scully.  I just want to know.  
The truth – not what you'll tell Skinner or anyone 
else.  Please."  

My head is still shaking 'no' at the empty swing.  
What part of 'no' is unclear to you?

"Please, Scully.  I can do the math and I deserve 
to know."  

"I don't know what you're talking about, Mulder."  

"Fine, Scully.  Whatever.  It never happened.  Just 
close your eyes and maybe it'll go away - try 
clicking your heels and chanting."  

I can feel his words hurling at me like knives.  He 
thinks I'm lying to him.  I wouldn't lie about 
something like that.  Christ, Mulder – do you have 
any idea how many mattress I've piled on in the 
last six months while I try not to feel the pea?  
Do you know how close you've come to ripping my 
marriage apart just by breathing in the same area 
code?  

I'm trying not to cry - I hate hormones, but 
Mulder's too angry to notice.

"You couldn't even tell me yourself, Scully?  I 
overheard someone congratulating Skinner after the 
meeting - 'congratulations about your boy, sir.'  
When I asked what David had done, I got looks from 
every agent in the bullpen like I was the stupidest 
man on Earth.  What, did he put that in a memo or 
something?  'I'm going to have a son; don't tell 
Agent Mulder and we'll all have a good laugh.'  The 
entire damn Bureau knows and you couldn't tell ME,
Scully?"

He picks up David, which, to my well-trained mind, 
means he now has a hostage.

"Oh - sorry - I forgot.  You're not 'Scully' 
anymore.  You're Mrs. Dana Skinner - 'Scully' 
doesn't even exist now.  I'm supposed to forget the 
woman I spent years with - fought for, fought with, 
even came back from the dead for a couple of times.  
I'm not supposed to remember how much I love you or 
where these kids came from, because now you're Mrs. 
Dana Skinner - so wrapped up in your fairy tale 
world of appearances and Gerber babies and empty 
vows that you're afraid to feel anything you can't 
buy at Anne Klein or Baby Gap."

"Give Bubby to me, Mulder."  

"You think I'm going to hurt him?  All I ever 
wanted was you, a couple uber-Scullys, and a safe 
world to raise them in - two out of three ain't 
bad.  I'm sorry I left you, Scully - I had no idea 
you were pregnant.  But they're still my kids and I 
want to be a good father - although you and Skinner 
do everything you can to make me feel like an 
outsider, like a failure.  MY kids, Scully - MINE!  
I'm sure you remember that night.  And one other.  
No matter how many times you close your eyes and 
pretend, you're never going to feel the same thing 
with Skinner.  You don't belong to him.  The 
universe put us together - I'm yours as much as 
you're mine – and nothing will ever change that, 
including a marriage certificate.  I can't walk 
away from it or I would.  I'd forget about you and 
leave you to your castle walls and be a hell of a 
lot happier, but I can't forget.  You - you can 
pretty it up all you want with big houses and new 
cars, but you're still not Skinner's.  He's just 
buying you and your children - OUR children, Scully 
- and that makes you a whore."
 
"Get out.  GET OUT!"

I really didn't have to yell - he's already through 
the back gate with David trying to climb the fence 
after him.  

Mulder turns around, walking backwards as he 
speaks:

"Look around, Scully - see if you can even remember 
who you were when you were alive.  That woman is 
MINE, Scully, and I am hers.  As long as we both 
exist, it's not a choice, even if we want it to be."

I'm trying to convince myself it's just another 
Mulder temper tantrum, but it's not sinking in.  I 
hear his tires in the gravel of the alley as he 
drives away, and I tell myself I'm not a whore.  
And if I am, it's a good trade for my children to 
have a good father.  But my children's father just 
said he loved me and then drove away.  Just like 
always - Mulder always leaves me.

But he always comes back.  He promised, just like I 
did.

I'm tired.  I'm pregnant and I'm suddenly tired.  
Come on, kids – nap time.  Even if you two don't, 
Mama needs a nap.  Her brain needs to rest.

                   *******

August 14, 2004

Laying back and floating under the fading sun, I 
almost feel skinny.  I started bringing the water 
babies to the pool late in the day to avoid prying 
eyes - not that the entire nosey neighborhood 
doesn't already know my two socialites; I'd just 
rather as few people as possible see me in a swim 
suit at more than seven months pregnant.  I think I 
look like a whale.  Skinner says I look beautiful, 
but he's charming and sworn to say things like that.  
Mulder - the few times I've seen him at a distance - 
has had no comment.  Not that I should care what 
Mulder thinks.

Bubby, both his fathers' son, ran himself until he 
dropped and is now sprawled undignified and snoring 
on a lounge chair, bathed orange in the sunset as 
he sleeps.  Sissy has on her usual pool gear - a 
life jacket, floaties, and her big blow-up Blue's 
Clues dog around her waist.  Not only should she 
not sink, it's amazing Sissy doesn't levitate.  Her 
little legs work better in the water and she's 
still paddling happily around the shallow end and 
chatting with the bronzed life guard.  

My charges safe, content, and nurtured for the 
moment, I close my eyes and think - about the 
choices in life and the purpose of love and how to 
throw a curve ball.

I didn't choose my house.  Skinner bought it for me 
as a wedding present and I love it - enough 
bedrooms for all the kids to have their own one 
day, a guestroom Skinner often uses when his 
nightmares flare up, a living room upstairs for our 
still growing Playschool and Little Tykes 
collection, and a den downstairs for Dada's 
audio/visual toys and Mama's peace of mind.  I have 
a beautiful home with a big backyard and a custom 
kitchen and it's in a good neighborhood with good 
schools, but I didn't choose it.

I didn't choose my new SUV either, although it's 
what I wanted.  Skinner made them take my Taurus 
back under the Lemon Law and got the Grand Cherokee 
instead - a very good choice.  But he did it all 
while I slept.

I had nothing to do this summer except take care of 
children and gestate; that sounds like a much more 
noble cause than it actually is.  I'd wanted to 
teach a few classes, but Skinner thought that was a 
bad idea - we didn't need the money and it might be 
too much for me, he said.  Take the whole fall 
semester as maternity leave – stay home and enjoy 
the heathens, Scully.  Like I didn't exist outside 
of being a mommy and a wife - those people that 
call me "doctor," dear - they do it for a reason 
besides my mothering ability.  I didn't argue, 
didn't say a word, so here I float.  Go save the 
world, Skinner, while God and I create a child.  
Wouldn't want to interrupt that process by acting 
like a grown woman capable of making her
own decisions - people used to believe that 
intellectual women were infertile, anyway.

I rub my belly - his Michael is having a heyday in 
there.  Those Victorians may have a point; the less 
I think, the more I breed.  
 
Love.  If I don't love Skinner, then I should.  
It's that simple.  No thinking necessary; I should 
just relax and gestate.

"Scully?"

Go away - Scully doesn't live here anymore.  You 
can have either Mrs. Skinner or Mama, but there 
aren't any other options.  

"Scully?"

Mulder.  And I look like I swallowed a basketball - 
not that I'm thinking about things like that.  Not 
that I should even care what Mulder thinks about 
how I look.

Maybe I can swim down and hide in the deep end.

"Whatcha doin', Scully?"

"Floatin'.  How did you get in here, Mulder?  It's 
a private club."

He holds his leg over the edge of the pool for me 
to see.  "I'm wearing Dockers and loafers without 
socks - they just assumed I belonged, so I looked 
judgmental and self-righteous, and kept walking."

I'm just ignoring that.  "What do you want,
Mulder?"

"I wanted to take the kids to Temple, but you 
didn't answer the phone and by the time I tracked 
you down, we're too late.  It's dusk."

You are so full of shit, Mulder.  Since when are 
you a practicing Jew?  You're even less Jewish than 
I am Catholic.  If you're taking the kids to Temple 
at all, it's just to annoy Skinner and my mother, 
who are still waging the Mass or Sunday School war.  

"Don't look at me like that, Scully.  I was raised 
Jewish and I want my kids to have some sense of 
their heritage that isn't wrapped in white bread 
and endorsed by the Pope and the Southern Baptists."

"Mulder-"

"Stop.  Sorry, Scully.  I'm sorry.  I'm just 
aggravated that I couldn't find you, but I should 
have called earlier.  And I got a nice 'Dirty Jew' 
look when I asked one of the caddies where the pool 
was.  None of those things is your fault.  Truce - 
okay?  I'll just say hi to the kids and go."

I just glare at him.  Was I completely out of my 
mind when I crawled into bed with you?  Were you 
always this big an ass and I just didn't notice it 
until we combined DNA?      

Hannah has spotted her Mul'er and wakes her brother 
with her yelling.  Mulder grabs them both and 
swings them around, getting his shirt soaking wet 
in the process.  My anger fades as they squeal with 
delight - I can't hate anyone for very long who 
loves me and our kids.

I'm not supposed to be allowing thoughts like that.  
I'm supposed to be contentedly gestating.

Gestate, damn it, gestate.

"Mrs. Skinner - the pool's closing."  I ignore the 
juvenile lifeguard.  There's no way I'm getting out 
in front of Mulder.  "Mrs. Skinner..."

Oh, hell!

Mulder has airplaned his children until they're all 
laying dizzy in the cool grass, watching the sky 
spin.  I see him raise his head and look at me the 
second time the lifeguard says my name.  He's 
wearing his usual blank face - which could mean 
he's feeling anything from undying passion to 
chronic constipation.  

"How about I get the kids dressed while you change, 
Scully?  Give me a chance to give them a few Hebrew 
lessons."

You don't know any Hebrew, Mulder, I think, but I'd 
love to see a few well-plucked eyebrows rise around 
the pool when you try.  He's already turned his 
back to me as he strips them out of their wet swim 
suits, saying something to a naked Bubby that makes 
no sense to me, but causes the lifeguard to look 
awkward.  I gratefully heave myself up the ladder, 
grab the duffle bag, and make for the locker room.    

I've got clothes all over the bench, trying to find 
something slightly dignified.  There must be 
something not yuppie-wear in this bag.  I've found 
a zip-lock baggy of Graham Cracker crumbles, a 
mitten, three socks - none matching, and forty-
seven cents, but no black, sexy, maternity wear.  

Levi's blue jean overalls and Keds.  Even my t-
shirt is a Liz Claiborne.  A ponytail of damp hair 
completes the look and I stare at myself in the 
mirror.  I don't even recognize this woman, 
although she's someone I thought I wanted to be one 
day.  A successful husband, a comfortable world, 
happy children.  I look at her closely - would 
Agent Scully like her?  Or would Scully pee herself 
laughing?  Or would Agent Scully think she's a 
whore, too?  A very well kept whore who lives in 
such a plush pumpkin she even forgets about it 
until she walks into a shell?  Was that all I was, 
just a shell?

Peter, Peter pumpkin eater . . . had a wife and 
couldn't keep her.

I scowl at the woman in the mirror and compose 
myself as much as possible before I have to face 
Mulder.  I see his eyes glance over me, taking me 
in, but he says nothing.  More eyebrows rise as 
Mulder carries Hannah to the parking lot for me. 

You know, Mrs. Kennedy, a good plastic surgeon 
could get your eyebrows to stay that way and you 
wouldn't have to make the effort to look 
distasteful each time you see me and my belly.  Or 
is it my children and I?  Or maybe their father?  
Half-Jewish - Mulder's mother was Jewish, Mrs. 
Kennedy, but I get the feeling you use the 'one 
drop' rule.  And Catholicism and Hebrew may make 
for some awkward moments at Christmas, but it also 
makes for beautiful children.  And more, but I'm 
not thinking about that.

I fight the urge to stick one of those little 
Hebrew hats on David and stuff a beach ball down 
the front of Hannah's jumper; cover all possible 
bases and see if Mrs. Kennedy's eyebrows can 
actually detach and make for the back of her skull.   

Hey, Mulder, wait while I blow up the beach ball 
and see if there's a beanie in the pool bag.  
There's a mitten in there; why wouldn't there be a 
yarmulke?  Now put her down so she can limp for 
Mrs. Kennedy and her eyebrows.  Tell her about your 
cat, Bubby.

I'm wondering if there's any way I can work my 
tattoo into this and trying to smother a giggle 
when Mulder looks back at me, puzzled.  Nothing, 
Mulder.  I can't tell you things like that any more 
and Skinner wouldn't find it funny.  I just smile 
to myself at the wicked mental image and follow him 
until I remember we walked to the pool.  Shit - the 
last thing I feel like doing is carrying Sissy a 
half-mile home in the dark.  

"Let me drive you, Scully."

I hesitate, but my back is already aching.  Why not 
- we could probably make it less than aaa mile 
without killing each other if neither of us speaks.  
And if I do kill him, I can blame it on hormones 
and get off on the insanity defense. 

Our children are well conditioned.  Mulder gets 
them fastened in the car seats - when did he get 
his own car seats?  Anyway, they immediately start 
screaming for iky keem.  

"Iky keem, Mul'er?"  Ice cream.

"Not this time - you need to go home with your 
Mama," Mulder tells them as he puts the keys in the 
ignition.  "Hold on, Scully - your belt-" He leans 
over me and moves the top latch down so the strap 
isn't hitting me in the face and then adjusts the 
lower belt, hands brushing over my abdomen so 
casually I almost think it's an accident.  "The lap 
belt is supposed to go over your hips, not your 
belly.  That way it can't hurt the baby if we stop 
suddenly."

I just sit frozen.  How in the hell does he know 
that?

"Iky keem Mul'er.  Mama?"  They sound desperate.  
Poor, deprived children.  Sorry, babies - Mama 
can't move right now.

Mulder puts the car in gear, but doesn't take his 
foot off the brake.  "Scully?  Ice cream?  Let me 
make a few things up to you?"

I should absolutely say "no."  I should not be 
alone with this man.  I should be home in my house 
with my kids waiting for my husband to call.   

Fuck it - Skinner's not my damn father and I don't 
have a curfew.  Besides, Dairy Queen sounds like 
Heaven.

"It's going to take more than an ice cream cone, 
Mulder."

"I can have them dip it in that chocolate stuff."

"That's a start."
 
                   *******
 
August 14, 2004

Mulder obviously does this a lot with our kids - 
they have a routine down pat.  One big banana split 
and a spoon - they eat in turns.  Bite for Sissy, 
bite for Bubby, bite for Mulder - Mulder gets all 
the banana and Sissy gets the strawberry sauce.  
David gets tired of waiting for his turn and grabs 
a handful of chocolate, actually getting some of it 
in his mouth.  Most of it goes down his chin and 
neck and I start to go for more napkins.  Mulder 
doesn't even blink - he picks Bubby up, turns him 
upside down, and proceeds to lick him clean while 
making loud, slurping sounds that make the entire 
restaurant turn around, stare, and then smile.  
Sissy laughs, purposely puts a dab of strawberry 
sauce on the tip of her nose, and leans over for 
her turn.  

I just sit there like a pregnant bump on a log with 
a dripping ice cream cone.  I don't usually allow 
my children to be slurped in public, but I'm busy 
imagining all the things Mulder can do with his 
tongue.  I even have first hand experience and two 
children to show for it.  Well, no - that wasn't 
his tongue.  

"Beautiful children you have there," an elderly 
woman leaving the next table says.  "How much 
longer, sweetie?"

"Two more months," I tell her, trying not to flinch 
from the obligatory pat on my stomach.

"Such a sweet family."  A lot you know, woman.  My 
fairy tale got seriously fractured somewhere along 
the way, but I'm not thinking about that.

"Ulka una beta?"  David says.  I have no idea what 
that means.  Sissy?

"David wants to know if you'd like a bite," Mulder 
translates for the woman.  David offers a last 
spoonful of melted ice cream and slobber.

"Thank you, pumpkin, but I just had my dessert."

"I cana waka," Hannah offers.  Come on, not here, 
Sissy.  I don't want to have to explain in front of 
all these people.  I don't even know why Mulder 
brought that walker in from the car.  Hell, I don't 
even know where he got another walker for her, 
since her walker stays at home until she gets a 
little older. 

"Hannah just learned to walk - she wants to show 
you," Mulder says, not even phased.  

Come on, Mulder.  Don't do this.

She scurries down from Mulder's lap and stands up 
proudly with her tiny walker.  "I cana waka," she 
repeats proudly.

"So stop talking and start walking, Sissy - head 
for the door,"  Mulder tells her, gathering up the 
trash and giving David a second quick spit bath 
with a napkin.

PLEASE do not let all these people start asking 
questions, Mulder.  

"Isn't she doing well?" Mulder asks the older 
woman, a proud grin on his face.  "The earlier kids 
with cerebral palsy learn to move around, the 
better.  She's been working really hard."  Mulder's 
forcing that grin - he's not oblivious to the cruel 
comments strangers, and sometimes even friends, can 
make.

I would sink under the table if my belly would fit.  
Skinner, if he let her do this in public at all, 
would be glaring at everyone in his sight, daring 
them to say a word.  

Mulder just lets her go.  He watches, but he lets 
her make her own way.  By the time Hannah reaches 
the door, Miss Socialite's collected three French 
fries, a bite of a chicken strip, two pats on the 
back, one on the fanny, and a Wal-Mart smiley face 
sticker from the other diners.  She's shared two 
strawberry kisses, shown her walker to eleven 
people, and is walking on air.

The woman smiles and tells Hannah she's doing a 
great job and that polio works much the same way.  
Then she pulls her crutches from the next booth, 
stands up with great effort in her leg braces, and 
follows Hannah as Bubby and Mulder hurry to get the 
door.  

"Twat," Bubby tells the lady as she slowly passes.  
Mulder gives him a nudge with his hip.  "Cat!  I ga 
cat."  

That's a new word - got.  He hasn't said 'got' 
before.  He must have learned that at speech 
therapy.   

"A cat?  I have a cat, too."  David has just found 
a kindred spirit.  He carries the woman's huge 
granny purse for her, dodging between her crutches 
and continuing his commentary on Hairball's 
exploits. 

Hannah is tired by the time we reach the parking 
lot, so Mulder carries her on his shoulders to the 
car, making her feel seven feet tall as David uses 
the remote to unlock and relock the car about a 
dozen times.  He sets off the alarm and turns the 
lights on and off and Mulder just laughs.  Skinner 
would not be laughing.  

Mulder waits with me to get my door while the 
elderly woman puts her crutches into the next car 
and then gets awkwardly into the driver's seat, 
pulling her legs in after her.

"Such a sweet family," she repeats through the open 
window as Mulder puts Sissy's walker in the trunk.  
"Your husband is a wonderful man."

"Yes, he is," I tell her.  Where was that fairy 
godmother with the friggin' wand when I needed her?  

                   *******

I'd never felt Jewish before.  I had nice childhood 
menorah memories, and that's all I thought being 
Jewish was.  I remembered a few trips to Temple and 
Friday night at my grandfather's table before 
Samantha disappeared and my family went to Hell.  I 
had heard my grandmother talk about my grandfather 
surviving the death camps, but he never discussed 
it.  My grandfather, as best as any human could, 
put those memories behind him and went on with his 
new life.  She was his second wife, by the way, 
Scully - his first died in Auschwitz, but he never 
mentioned that. 

So I had the memories and the ethnic background, 
but I thought that was all it was.  

At twenty-two years old, my grandfather knew what 
is was to have the entire world decide he was unfit 
and unwanted and attempt to wipe his memory from 
their minds under the guise of political correctness.  
Now I understood how it felt to be the outsider. 

It wasn't your fault, Scully.  Not Skinner's; not 
mine.  I was the outsider.  The wandering Jew - 
that was me, not the plant.  I wandered off for a 
few years and came back to find Scully had finally 
gotten her normal, and I wasn't included in normalcy 
except as a weekend visitor - and then I'd better 
call ahead.  I could either sit around and bemoan the 
past or I could make a new life with my family and 
trust some higher power has a big plan for all of 
this.  

You remember that old "I want to believe" poster, 
Scully?  Thank you for saving it for me.  I needed 
it.  I taped it and a picture of Hannah and David 
at the circus - eyes wide with excitement and 
waving about fifty dollars worth of souvenirs that 
they left in their seats, and I had my religion.  
That and your cross that I still wore.  My 
grandfather might have raised those eyebrows at me, 
but he would have understood.   

I bought a walker, Scully.  And car seats.  And I 
taught David a few new words.  And that really was 
Hebrew, or at least a close facsimile - don't tell 
Skinner.  And I had a library of books about kids 
and/or disabilities.  And I'd hounded everyone to 
death about what I was supposed to be doing with 
them.  What good fathers were supposed to do, since I 
didn't have such a great example.  

I tried to cover all bases, although Byers said I 
should set up college funds early for the tax 
benefits or something.  I thought it over, 
considering the latest "expert opinions" about 
David, and set up two trusts instead.  They could 
use the money for whatever they wanted or needed - 
including college for Hannah.  Skinner had the
stuff from the lawyer, Scully, since I couldn't 
bear to tell you what I'd decided.  You'd think 
you failed me somehow and nothing could be further 
from the truth.  

And, yes, I thought my kids were allowed to be kids 
in public.  I didn't have to carry Hannah 
everywhere and make David keep his mouth shut just 
so a bunch of fools didn't stare or ask 
embarrassing questions.
                    
When I was nine, my father let me wear Spock ears 
whenever we went to town.  The whole bloomin' Star 
Trek uniform - phaser and all.  My daughter walks 
with a walker.  If she kept working on it, one day 
soon she probably wouldn't, but, either way, it 
wasn't a sin.  I wasn't making her feel ashamed of 
whom she was.  I bet she was a lot cuter with her 
walker than I was with those stupid ears.

David is my son, Scully.  The only son of my body I 
ever planned to have.  I tried to keep the cursing 
down, but he was allowed to talk to other people.  
The more he spoke, the better he'd be at it. Maybe 
he was a little slow or maybe he was just obstinate, 
but either way, he was my son and I loved him.

You didn't fail anyone.  If they'd squeeze you, 
Scully, Parent's Magazine could harvest 'good 
mother' juice, bottle it, sell it, and put a bunch 
of kid shrinks out of business.

Me - I just inherited them.  Those were the kids I 
got and I was going to enjoy them and do the best I 
could.  Don't think I didn't have the guilt, just 
like you did.  If I had been there for you, would 
things be different for them?  Would there be fewer 
boulders for our kids to push up the mountain? Maybe, 
but I couldn't change that by then.  

Couldn't change my kids, couldn't change that you're 
married, couldn't change that the child you're 
carrying wasn't mine.  Couldn't change that I still 
love you.  Best I could do was buy ice cream for 
everyone - with a double-dipped cone for you.

                   *******

August 14, 2004

We're pulling into the driveway when I hear loud 
snores from the back seat.  This time, it's not 
David.  It's little Hannah, her head lolled back 
and her mouth open.  

Mulder laughs.  "She doesn't get that from her 
mother, so I guess I'm to blame."  I don't say 
anything.  "I'm sorry, Scully - should I not have 
said that?  I'm not sure what the rules are now."

"No, Mulder - it's fine.  I remember where those 
kids came from.  I'm just getting tired."

Mulder is unreadable.  "Okay - I'll just put them 
to bed and go.  You don't need to be carrying 
them."

I lugged them around for seven months worth of 
pregnancy and then the next three years without 
you, Mulder, but I don't say that.  I just carry 
the bag of wet swimsuits to the laundry room and 
leave my shoes in Skinner's den for the elves while 
Mulder carries the limp bodies quietly up the 
steps.

I hear water running upstairs as Mulder wipes off a 
layer of sticky from the kids as the both of them 
sleep, then his footsteps coming back down stairs.  
The front door opens - he's going to leave without 
saying goodbye - when the contraction hits.

Oh, God - it's too soon.

"Mulder!"

He couldn't have appeared any faster if he had just 
flown down.

"What is it, Scully?  What's wrong?  The baby?"

I can only nod as I wait for the pain to pass.   If 
there aren't any complications, there's a good chance 
of the baby living at almost seven and a half months, 
I tell myself.  Relax.  Relax and this will pass in a 
few seconds.

Please, God, don't let this happen again.

I feel Mulder moving me to the couch and laying me 
back carefully.  The contraction passes quickly - 
it could actually have just been a bad muscle 
spasm.  I carried Hannah all the way to the pool 
and then swam for an hour.  It's probably either 
false labor or a muscle spasm.

"Scully?  Open your eyes and tell me what to do, 
Scully."

"Go find me something to drink.  If it's a muscle 
spasm, fluids will help."

I close my eyes, trying to relax and wait.  Skinner's 
in Chicago again - he probably can't be here in time 
if the baby comes quickly.  But I don't want to call 
and bother him if this is a false alarm. 

"Drink, Scully."  I obey, taking the small sips I'm 
supposed to take, always the obedient little girl.  
"What now, Scully?  Do you need to go to the 
hospital?"  I notice my hand is warm and realize 
Mulder is holding it.

"Just wait with me.  See if it happens again."  I 
should tell him to let go of my hand, but I don't.  
I lay still, waiting, trying to remember to 
breathe.                              
                    
Skinner would already have called for an ambulance, 
but Mulder trusts my judgment.   

I need to stop doing this - comparing the two of 
them.  Skinner is my husband and Mulder isn't.  
There's a reason for that.

"Is this what happened with the kids, Scully?  I 
looked at their records, but it's just a jumble of 
medical jargon."

He's trying to distract me, but I don't care.  I 
lean my face against his slacks as he sits beside 
me, seeking some shelter.  Please don't let this 
happen again.  There are beads of sweat on my 
forehead I'm so scared, and he wipes them with gentle 
fingers, waiting for me to answer.  

"The simple explanation is I pushed myself too 
hard, Mulder.  I was trying to find you - I even 
went back to Antarctica to search - and I was 
trying to work, and I was sick the whole pregnancy 
and my body just couldn't handle it all."   

I'm surprised at how good it feels to finally say 
that.  No long technical explanations, just the 
truth.  I wait for Mulder to blame me, but he 
doesn't.

"Keep talking so I know you're okay, Scully." I 
feel his hand petting my hair, comforting.  How 
much easier those hours in the hospital would be if 
Mulder could come with me.   

STOP IT!
                         
"I felt like I'd failed.  Like it was my fault, so 
I tried to be super-mom to make up for it.  I 
wanted them to have everything: a perfect home, a 
perfect family.  It doesn't though - nothing makes 
up for it."

"You're a great mom, Scully."

"A great whore, you mean."

"I'm so sorry I said that.  If I could erase those 
moments from your memory, I would.  I was just 
upset and - and jealous - do you know how hard it 
is, Scully?  Almost five years have passed for you, 
but only seven months for me.  I made love to you 
one month, walked into the woods the next, and when 
I woke up again you're married to my boss with two 
kids who call me Mul'er instead of Papa.  I still 
feel exactly the same as I did when I stepped into 
that light, Scully, and if you do, you don't want 
to."

"You don't know that, Mulder."

"Is that why you bury it so deep, Scully?  You're 
trying to hide under this mother-wife person so 
Dana Scully stops existing?  If you chip away long 
enough at yourself, do you think you'll forget what 
we had?  You won't forget, Scully."

"I don't have a choice, Mulder."  

I need to shut my mouth.  There haven't been any 
more pains and I need to go upstairs to bed and 
tell Mulder to go home.  Skinner would probably 
call soon, if he could, to check on us.  I always 
thought of it as a goodnight call.  Him checking in 
with me, not the other way around.  Watching the 
way Mulder watched me, I wasn't so sure anymore.  

"Scully - are sure you should be getting up?"

"I'm fine, Mulder."  Sure I am.

He puts an arm around my big waist and holds my 
elbow, making sure I don't fall.  I wish he wasn't 
touching me, and not just because I'm so huge.  

Other than being dead tired, I feel fine.  Mulder 
refills my glass in the kitchen sink as he watches 
my every movement.  I stretch out on the living 
room couch and he flops in the floor in front of 
me, drinking half of my water - without asking, of 
course.  

Just like old times.

Mulder is Mulder - the fact that he can take his 
kids for ice cream and remembers to wipe off their 
faces before he puts them to bed doesn't mean he 
can handle the day-to-day grind of fatherhood. He's 
the same thoughtless, impulsive, arrogant genius he 
always was; I just like to daydream sometimes.

"You still okay, Scully?"

"I think so.  There haven't been any more 
contractions.  I think I'm just tired.  You can go 
home, Mulder."

"Just wait a little longer, Scully.  Skinner's in 
Chicago, right?  Do you want me to call your mother
to come stay?  Or call Skinner to come home?"

I don't know why that hits the hormonal nerve but 
it does.  I tell myself I will not cry, so I go 
with mad as a substitute.

"I'm not a child, Mulder.  I don't need a nanny.  
As much as it may seem like it, I'm not helpless.  
I was your partner for almost eight years - I'm 
still that same woman, Mulder."

"Yes, you are.  You've just forgotten."

I didn't even see him move.  My mouth is still open 
from saying his name, so he doesn't have to push my 
lips apart with his.  He's hungry - that's the only 
way to describe it.  I feel devoured, passionately 
wanted, and I want so much to be wanted like this.  
I feel hands in my hair, pulling it out of my prim 
ponytail so it falls like a wild mane around my 
face as he moves from the floor to the couch.  It's 
not the gentle, carefully thought out, practiced 
touch Skinner uses  - never upsetting, never really 
pushing too hard.  This is someone who knows me to 
the core - good and bad, weak and strong.  This is 
what it's like to be touched as a woman instead of 
as a wife.  This is what I want.  Need.  This is 
the kiss that awakens a sleeping woman.

"My Scully.  My Scully.  Love you so much," I hear 
against my neck as I lay back, welcoming, legs 
parting shamelessly.  His hands find my swollen 
breasts and I gasp as he kneels over me; careful and 
yet not careful at all.  One strap of my stupid 
overalls is unfastened and an insistent mouth finds a 
nipple under my t-shirt and bra.  "So beautiful.  So 
perfect, Scully."  I think at first he means my 
breasts - yes, they're very cool, but then I realize 
his hand is running down my swollen belly to my 
groin, telling me how beautiful I am.  None of 
Skinner's sweet words can compare to Mulder suckling 
at my breast and getting hard rubbing my stomach - 
another man's child.  I felt about as sexy as your 
average pregnant cow - right until this moment.   

"Oh God, Mulder!"  We're not even going to make it 
to our bed if he doesn't slow down.

Our bed.

It's not our bed.  The bed is Skinner's and I just 
warm it up.  My two point three children are asleep 
just down the hall and I'm making out like a teenager 
on the couch with my former lover.

I can't stop.  I need this.  I need to feel wanted 
and loved instead of just bought and paid for.  I 
need something more.

Mulder stops.  

Leans back.

Pulls my shirt back down, buckles up the strap, and 
smoothes my hair back with his fingers without a 
word.  Without meeting my eyes.  He pulls a baby 
blanket from the back of the couch and covers me as 
I lay still, my eyes open and watching.  I can feel 
every cell in my body alive for the first time in 
months.  

Is this the part where you go to bed and I follow 
you, Mulder?  I promise I can't get pregnant this 
time.  I don't want to go to Skinner's bed, though.  
Too many memories.  Go to the guestroom.

He puts the portable phone on the floor in front of 
the couch and switches off the lights.  

I wait for him to come back to me.

"If you need me, call me, Scully.  I'll do anything 
I can to help you - but staying tonight won't help 
you.  It will only help me."

Then the front door locks automatically behind him 
and I hear his car backing out of the driveway.  
Then mad gives way to tears.

                   *******    

I made it to the end of the block before I was 
shaking so badly that I had to stop the car.  I sat 
with my knuckles white on the wheel for a few 
minutes until the front seat got too small and I 
switched to pacing in front of the headlights.

I almost did it.  I was almost that selfish.

A few cars passed me, drivers slowing down to see 
what I was doing.

Going a little crazy was what I was doing.

I was fine, Scully.  I knew that was your phrase, 
but I was borrowing it for the night.  I was fine.  
You didn't need to lose anything else because of me.

You're fine, I'm fine.  Everybody's fine!

Finefinefinefinefinefine.  FINE!  

I was just FUCKING FINE!

Touching the only woman I'd ever loved had become a 
sin – how could I not have been FINE?

You must have run yourself half to death searching 
for me while you were pregnant - having nightmares 
about what 'They' were doing to me.  Well, whatever 
it was, I don't remember it.  No scars, no 
nightmares, no implants.  I think I accidentally 
hitched a ride around the galaxy for a few years 
until they found me stowed away and tossed me off.  
Or else, 'They' got a lot better with their memory 
wipes.  You didn't need to worry about me; I was 
fine.

Whoever 'They' were, 'They' were gone.  I couldn't 
find any trace of the Consortium.  I'd searched 
and, more important, The Gunmen had searched, and 
it just wasn't there.  The X-files division stuck 
to investigating genetic monsters and bleeding 
statues of Christ while I profiled human monsters 
full-time, Scully - our quest was over.  So that 
was fine.

I had two wonderful children because of you and a 
few small miracles, and I thought I did a fairly good 
job of being a father – by my standards.  I was 
financially comfortable, I liked profiling, and I 
even got laid occasionally, although the women in 
the bars were looking younger and younger.  I 
tended to leave with redheads who were willing to 
ooh and ahh over pictures of my kids, but the 
evenings still ended the same.  So my life, in many 
ways, was fine.

Fine.  Good.  I was goddamn mother-fucking BLESSED.  
I counted my blessings.  One, two, three, four . . . 
Hmm?  Seemed to be missing one.

But don't worry about me - I was FINE!

I was a greedy fool to ask for more.  You'd made me 
someone's friend, lover, partner, and father and I 
wasn't taking anything else from you, no matter how 
much I thought I wanted it. I already had more than 
my share of miracles.  As Skinner reminded me, 
getting to be the man who came to you at night 
wasn't going to be one of them.

I had my daydreams and you didn't have to imagine 
very hard to know what they were, Scully; 
extraordinary men are often seduced by the most 
simple of pleasures.  I never asked to be 
extraordinary.  All I wanted was a home, a family, 
a safe world, a little happiness, and you, Scully.  
Completely, totally ordinary.  I already had the 
first four miracles and I needed to enjoy them and 
stop lusting after a fifth that I would just screw 
up.  I needed to learn to live with fine, just like 
you had.  Just like my grandfather had.

Your husband adored you, Scully.  You should have 
seen Skinner's eyes light up when you called his 
cell phone - no matter how tired he was or how 
badly the day was going, he always looked like the 
weight on his shoulders lightened a bit at the 
sound of your voice.  My A.D. couldn't admit 
publicly to being a human being, so there weren't 
any family photos proudly on display in his office 
- but there was one of Hannah's paintinnngs taped to 
his desk where only he could see it.  And a snapshot 
of all of you at a baseball game, with David and 
Skinner wearing matching hats and you laughing over 
your plastic cup of Pepsi.  
 
And he knew, Scully.  Skinner was no fool.  Once - 
once he was probably willing to chalk it up to pain 
pills and high drama as long as he didn't get it 
thrown his face, but twice - twice would have cost 
you your marriage and me my job.  The odds were 
good that if he divorced you for adultery, it would 
cost you that baby, too and you'd never forgive me 
for that.   

It's not such a sin – for a man to love his wife.

A police car stopped, asking if I was okay.  I told 
him I was fine - and I was.  I was going count my 
miracles and to go on with my life, and I was going 
to be fine.  And so were you, Scully.

There wasn't going to be a fifth miracle. 

I got back in the car and drove home.
               
                   *******

August 15, 2004

I reach for the phone out of habit - only two men 
ever called me in the middle of the night and they 
both had the same problem.  Only Skinner calls me 
now, so I don't know who slays Mulder's dream- 
monsters, or if the monsters even still visit him.

"You better be glad you hit the right button this 
time," I mumble, rolling on my side on the couch 
and rubbing my eyes.

"Yeah - Kimberly gets worried," he manages.

"When her boss calls in the middle of the night 
breathing heavily - really - worried?"  I hear him 
take a deep breath and relax a bit.  "Which one was 
it this time?"

"A best of 1973 retrospective.  Are you and the 
heathens okay?"

"We're all fine.  We even have tummies full of ice 
cream.  You want to tell me about it?"

That's a stupid question.  No, Skinner won't tell 
me about it.  He'll get up in the middle of the 
night and check every door and window in the house, 
but he won't tell me who he's keeping out.  He'll 
unlock the drawer and check his weapon five times 
in one night, but he won't tell me why.  Sometimes 
he gets the kids and brings them to bed with us - 
so no one gets them, he says, not really awake, but 
he won't tell me who would hurt them.  It gets him 
to go back to sleep, so I just scoot over and make 
room.

My bed's getting a little crowded these days. That 
must be why I'm still on the couch.

Skinner's called me from all over the globe and 
it's always the same simple question - was his 
family all right?  The rest of the world could go 
to hell as long as we were fine.

Lots of responsibility goes with being the center 
of a man's universe.  Two men's universes, and 
those universes keep colliding.
  
"Just wanted to make sure you're okay," he says. 

"All fine - your Michael got a little restless 
earlier, but he's settled down now."  I take a sip 
of the half-empty glass beside the couch and it's 
not cold anymore.  I could get up and get some 
fresh water, but that would involve effort.  "You 
awake now?"

"I'm awake."  I hear him stretch and the hotel bed 
move as he sits up. "Gonna go for jog before anyone 
else finds that out."  There's rummaging sounds - 
he wants to listen to me breathe a little longer 
while he gets ready.  "Okay - I'm really awake now.  
Go back to sleep.  I'm hoping I can fly home late 
tonight, but if the baby gets jumpy, call me.  
Everything's set to go down mid-morning, so I can 
leave as soon as the operation goes off."

Always so careful.  He's been setting up a mob 
sting that would have made Hoover proud, but he 
wasn't going reveal any information over a cellular 
phone line.  

"You doing the Magnificent Mile again?  Look for 
something glamorous in a size six.  I plan to be 
skinny again for our anniversary."

I hear him lacing up his running shoes.  "I'll 
window shop. Who's that crazy designer on the ties 
you keep buying me? The Xena one," he asks, 
completely serious and awake.

"God, you're obnoxious in the morning. Ermenegildo 
Zenga, but he doesn't do dresses.  I was teasing, 
but just look for anything with a waist."

I make a contented sleepy-girl noise and he laughs 
softly.  "You know I love you, don't you, Scully?"

My numb brain takes a few seconds to register that.  
"As if there would be any question."

More soft laughter.  "Morning, Scully."

"Night, Skinner."

I fumble until I find the right button on the 
phone, then tuck it into the cushions beside me as 
I drift back to dreamland.  On second thought, one 
big heave and I'm on my feet, headed for the 
bathroom to pee and then the kitchen to put the 
phone back on the base.

Being the center of two men's universes involves 
keeping the portable phone charged.

                   ********

August 15, 2004

If Hannah had her way, she'd push both my breasts 
together and make one good one.  In a moment of 
insomnia and delusion, we decided to get up with 
the sun and her brother, but it didn't last.  
Bubby's been parked in front of the television for 
hours now, probably frying brain cells left and 
right, while Sissy and I vegetate on the couch and 
wait for the spirit to move us again.  

Hannah has it easy - the spirit moves me to go pee 
about every thirty minutes.

My daughter's brush with morning conscious passed 
about six a.m. and she's been sound asleep since 
then on the five square inches of my body not 
occupied by boobs or belly. Occasionally, she stirs 
and a little hand shoves a swollen breast this way 
or that to better suit her pillowing needs.  

My breasts haven't belonged to me in years, so I 
obligingly shift right and to the center this time.  
Hannah settles back down, making the same contented 
sucking sounds that I first heard in the Neonatal 
ICU when I stood beside her tiny body and prayed 
God wouldn't take her from me.  I remember being 
glad they were in the same incubator - that way it 
was easy for God to figure out which babies I was 
praying for since there were so many children in 
that room in need of prayers.  I wanted to plead 
for them all to live - and thrive - but I was too 
focused on my two tiny miracles. 

My miracles.  It's so easy to think of them that 
way, especially since I know how far they've come.  
Skinner, for all his hidden heathens soft spots, 
views raising children as some sort of mission – 
success is vital - and I sometimes find myself 
getting sucked into his quest the way I got sucked 
into Mulder's.  I get so busy fighting the good 
fight that I forget to stop and enjoy the ride the 
way Mulder does.  

Perfect doesn't equal happy.  And imperfect may not 
be bliss, but it's never dull.  Thank you for 
reminding me of that, partner.

My redheaded miracle shifts again, readjusts a 
breast, nuzzles like a calf wanting milk, and then 
burps loudly without ever opening her eyes.  Her 
Mul'er would be proud - he'd rate that a six or 
better on the belch scale.  The hazel-eyed miracle 
turns to applaud – that would also be Mulder's 
influence - and decides to come see if there's room 
for him to snuggle.

Always, Bubby.  

"Michael-dog asweep?" David asks as I settle him 
carefully on the apex of my belly, Hannah beginning 
to disappear into couch cushions with the remote 
control and spare change.

"A baby boy, Bubby, not a puppy.  Dog mamas have 
puppies, people mamas have people babies."
  
We've had this conversation several times and it's 
just not taking.  David's very excited about me 
having a baby - as long as it's a baby puppy.  No 
matter how hard I gestate for everyone, I don't 
think I can produce a litter of puppies, so he's 
going to be disappointed.  

That's what we should have done with Bill - traded 
him for a nice Cocker Spaniel.  

"Michael's asleep right now, but he's going to wake 
up if you keep bouncing on his tummy, Bubby."

"MY tummy!" he says, bouncing lightly to get the 
point across until I make him stop.

Your tummy, Bubby - stop or you'll give me 
heartburn.  Your tummy, Hannah's breasts, 
Skinner's body, and Mulder's heart and soul.  

I've been sold for spare parts.  

Bubby pivots so his butt is inches from my face, 
wallowing me half to death, and puts an ear to my 
belly, listening - for barking I suppose.  

I may have been sold, but I was a motivated seller 
and I got a fair deal.

Maybe I should get up and find that label-maker so 
I can keep it straight.  I keep confusing who gets 
access to what.

Or I could just lay here with my burping, rutting, 
wallowing, puppy-wanting mini-miracles and bask.

I'll bask.

There's pounding at the door.  Who would be 
knocking on the door at nine fifteen on a Saturday 
morning?  I'm not answering it, but regardless, I'd 
better get off the couch and act like a normal 
human being.  

They keep pounding.  

I'd rather not deal with visitors without brushing 
my teeth and hair, although I'm still dressed.  

Still pounding. 

"Mama - cups," Bubby informs me from in front of 
the TV wearing nothing but his underwear and a 
smile by now.  

Can't say 'VCR,' but he can work one.  And open a 
box of Pop Tarts.  I get the sense this is what he 
does on the Saturday mornings he's with Mulder - I 
can see them in their t-shirts and boxers flopped 
on the couch, clogging their arteries and watching 
the early cartoons while they huddle under the 
covers and wait for Sleeping Sissy Beauty to wake 
up.  We'd finally won the potty war when Bubby came 
back from a visit proudly wearing teeny Calvin 
Klein look-a-like boxer-briefs and refused any more 
diapers.  Skinner is a brief man - not literally - 
so the boxers had to be Mulder's influence.

What about cups?  "Cups!"  He points to the street.

I look out a window.  Cops, Bubby.  Two of them.  
And a bunch of other Agents I recognize from the 
Bureau.  I doubt they are here for a cookout.

Oh, God - what's wrong?  Pool hair and ice cream 
breath and undressed children are forgotten as I
fling open the door and find myself under arrest.

For the murder of Walter Skinner.

What?

What in the hell are you all talking about?  

"You have the right to remain-"

"I know my rights, Agent King; what's this all 
about?"  They're putting handcuffs on me in front 
of my children.  Oh, God - they're going to take me 
to jail.  The kids . . .
 
A skinny woman in a bad wig and some sort of 
patchwork dress is in my living room, picking up 
Hannah.  She smells like cigarettes and cheap 
perfume, and Sissy pulls away, wrinkling her nose.  

The social worker and the agents walk through my 
house like they own the place, opening drawers and 
rummaging through the desk in the kitchen. 

"Can you tell me what happened to Skinner?  Is he 
okay?" 

Obviously he's not okay if they're arresting me for 
murder.  

Oh, God!  Obviously my husband is not okay. 

David's hiding in the corner, having crawled behind 
the television where he knows he's not allowed to 
be.  An officer is trying to pull him out by his 
arm, and Bubby is resisting loudly.  The man isn't 
trying to hurt David, but he's scaring him, and he 
starts to cry big, terrified, I-don't-understand-
this sobs.

"Where are you taking them?  I want you to call my 
mother.  Or Mulder.  Call Agent Mulder to come get 
them and he can call their nanny.  I don't want 
them in foster care."

"Just get in the car, Agent Scully.  I don't think 
Agent Mulder is going to be an option."  

They're leading me to the patrol car when pain 
hits.  That's not a muscle spasm; that's a 
contraction. 

"In the car, Agent."  I can't move.  This is not 
happening.  "Move, Agent.  We've got a dead AD, and 
enough witnesses to convince the Simpson jury that 
you and your lover had a hand in it."

They think Mulder and I killed Skinner. My husband 
is dead and they think we killed him.  

The skinny woman and the young officer have finally 
rounded up the kids, still in their underwear and 
PJs, and I suppose the officer, not aware that I'd 
just become the whore of Babylon, takes pity on me.

"We'll call your mother.  What's her number?"

The pain passes again and I get in the car, 
reciting Mom's home phone.  This will be fine, I 
tell myself.  I'm innocent.  All I have to do is 
answer some questions and I can go home.

As we drive away, the social worker is standing in 
the front yard holding Hannah on her bony hip and 
David by the hand.  Both kids are waving bye-bye to 
Mama.

                   *******

They had us.  Scully and I didn't do a damn thing 
against the law, but it certainly didn't look that 
way on paper.  That woman from the pool - the one 
that looked at me like I was a leper: Scully's 
neighbor and more than happy to say she saw and 
half-heard us in Scully's backyard.  Twist that 
conversation a little in her warped mind and you've 
somehow got conspiracy to commit murder.  Then us 
leaving the pool together that night - giving us 
both an alibi.  Then my little pacing in the street
trick for the entire neighborhood - looked a little
suspicious.  My financial records were so screwed up 
that it took days to go through them, but I'd made 
several large cash withdrawals recently.  A six-
hundred dollar special car seat for Hannah, a new 
walker, a shopping trip to Brooks Brothers and Armani
to replace my four-years-out-of- style wardrobe,
a local liquor store that I'd been personally
supporting for a few months - lots of cash I 
couldn't easily account for.  Lots of meeting with
shadowy men while the Gunmen and I tried to figure
out where I had spent the last four years.  And
few trips to Chicago to help profile how best 
to set up the wise guys for the sting.  

If it's what the FBI wanted to see, there was a 
slightly out of focus picture of me funding and 
finding a hit man and then creating an alibi for 
both Scully and I.  It didn't help that Skinner had 
added a huge life insurance policy when he realized 
Scully was pregnant again.  

It was a fuzzy picture, but it was there.  And it 
was enough.
          
How could anyone have believed Scully would ask me 
- or allow me - to have Skinner killed???  It didn't 
really matter though; that wasn't the true crime in 
question.  Scully had done the unthinkable - she'd 
cheated on one of the FBI's own with Spooky Mulder 
and gotten caught.  All those men at the Bureau 
that told Skinner he shouldn't have married her, 
shouldn't even have been her friend - shit, 
shouldn't have even let women in the FBI - now they 
were going to show the world that they were right 
in the first place.  

Yeah - I got my miracle.  Scully wasn't married 
anymore.  I guess I should have specified a little 
further.  

                   *******

August 15, 2004

I don't know what else to tell them.  Nina and I 
were home most of the day Friday, then she left and 
I took the kids to the pool.  Mulder took us for 
ice cream and then brought us home around nine-
thirty.  I was alone all night until you all showed 
up this morning.

And I had to go pee again.  And these contractions 
are getting closer together.  The detective doesn't 
believe I'm in labor - like he had an owner's 
manual for my uterus.

We've been over this a dozen times.  I haven't seen 
my husband in days.  I spoke to him - um - early 
this morning on the phone, but that's it.  Please 
tell me what's happened.

"Maybe this will jog your memory, Agent Scully."

He pushes the play button on a VCR and a woman in a 
nurse's uniform appears on the screen, speaking in
between drags off her cigarette.

"So anyway, I was walkin' back to check on that 
cute Mulder guy, since he'd been talkin' crazy talk 
before, and I heard these noises.  I opened the 
door and they's havin' sex on the cabinet, so I 
just closed it again and let them be.  None of my 
business, nohow."

"And who was the woman he was having intercourse 
with?" a voice asks.

"She was in the night before.  Dana Skinner - come 
in by ambulance with her two kids after a MVA.  
Stuck up little bitch.  Ordered everyone around 
like SHE was a doctor."

The detective stopped the tape.  "Anything you'd 
like to add to your story, Agent Scully?  We've got 
her, we've got your next door neighbor overhearing 
an interesting conversation, and we've got 
witnesses placing Mulder in parts of Chicago that 
nice FBI Agents don't tend to frequent.  And 
there's lots of cash he can't quite account for 
just yet.  Let's start with the nurse's aid."  

"She's telling the truth."  I might as well admit 
it.

"Who is the father of your child?"

"My husband."

"The husband you had murdered?  Shot in the back of 
the head execution-style so you could collect the 
life insurance and be with your lover?"

Oh, no.  I try not to cry.  I will not cry in front 
of all these men.

"Let's watch another clip.  We're doing 'the sex 
life of Fox Mulder.'  Quite a busy guy, Agent 
Scully."

Now Mulder's on the screen, staring past the camera 
and into a wall.  He hasn't shaved and his eyes 
look even older than usual.

"Is there anyone who can corroborate your 
whereabouts the last few nights, Agent Mulder?"

"Yes."

"And who would that be?"  

He doesn't answer.
 
"Mulder, the social worker still has those kids.  
We can keep them in the State's custody 
indefinitely if Mrs. Scully isn't deemed to be a 
fit guardian.  Foster care can be quite good, I 
hear.  Of course, things still happen to boys 
occasionally.  Sad.  Most of the freaks like little 
girls, though.  That little redhead couldn't run 
very far, could she, Mulder?" he says, pushing the
microphone closer to Mulder. 

I can't believe he said that on tape.  That was 
illegal as hell.

Mulder closes his eyes.  I can see him on the 
grainy screen willing himself to speak.

"Her name is Blacky.  She's a bartender at Mel's in 
Alexandria.  She was with me Thursday night and 
Friday morning before I left for work.  She'll 
vouch that I was home about midnight Friday night 
because she showed up and I asked her to leave."

"Last name?"

"We never got that far.  Her nametag said 
'Blacky'."

"A one night-stand with a bartender, Mulder?  
That's the best cover you could come up with?  How 
much did that story cost you?"

"Just Scully."   

The tape stopped again.  

"Still so sure about hiring an assassin so you can 
be with Lover Boy, Agent Scully?"

"I didn't hire any assassins and I'm not a Federal 
Agent any longer."  I just lay my head down on the 
table as another contraction starts.

"Neither is Mulder."

I know he's just baiting me, but I want to know.  
"Why is that? What did he do?" I ask through my 
breaths.

"Screwed the Assistant Director's wife.  If we look 
hard enough, we can get indefinite suspension 
without pay out of that.  He's welcome back, of 
course, on Domestic Terrorism in Topeka."

On fertilizer patrol in Kansas; not as a profiler.  
Ten minutes with me had cost Mulder his career.  
And someone shot Skinner.  And they thought I 
arranged it.  And they took my children.  And the 
contractions are getting worse.

"Would you like to hear what 'Blacky' had to say 
about Mr. Mulder?  She was quite complimentary."

I will not cry in front of all these men.  I may 
give birth, but I will not cry.

                   *******

The more their case against me fell apart, the 
nastier the fibbies got.  They had NO case - not 
one they could win in court, anyway.  Neither of us 
was anywhere near Chicago when Skinner was killed 
and they'd been over my financial records with a 
fine-toothed comb by then.  I may have spent to 
much on clothes and booze and made the acquaintance 
of a few questionable females, not there was 
nothing linking me to a hit man or to the mob.  
Skinner handled their money - Scully just had a 
housekeeping and 'play' money checking account, so 
unless she found a killer that took green stamps or 
Betty Crocker points, the prosecuting attorney was 
shit out of luck.  

That hit was professional and expensive - it would 
take an expert assassin to get the drop on Skinner.  
Not a sniper, either.  He was killed point blank to 
send a message - back off from the mob. 

It was just a matter of time before they had to 
release me, and I thought Scully would be off the 
hook too.  I thought we could go home and start 
sorting this mess out.

Then one of the agents in the Chicago office caught 
the shooter.  A shooter who said the person that 
paid him - whom he wouldn't name - had him listen 
to Skinner's cell phone conversations so he would 
know and when to make the hit.  Said to listen when 
he talked to his wife.  Said he heard him tell 
Scully he was going jogging.  Said she even 
mentioned a specific route and store, so it was 
just a matter of stepping into the shadows and 
waiting.  Just like she knew he was listening, the 
shooter said.

Still not enough to convict in court.  

They didn't seem to care, though.  All they cared 
about was destroying Scully and me as much as 
possible.

I don't think we needed the FBI; Scully and I could 
destroy each other just fine.

                   *******

August 16, 2004

"I don't want a C-section!"  I kept telling 
everyone that, but no one was listening.  I'd had 
one C-section and I didn't want another.  I could 
have this baby just fine, but no one was listening.  
One C- section didn't mean I automatically needed 
another, except to this doctor and his antiquated 
MD.  There seemed to be a schedule and labor was 
taking up too much time.  The strange doctor was 
patting my hand and telling me they'd take good 
care of my baby until I got out.  
          
Got out?  Got out of where?  The hospital?

Prison.

I told them to go get Dr. Simmons.  My doctor is 
Dr. Simmons and we've already decided all this.  I 
don't know this doctor - DON'T TOUCH ME!

Get Mulder.  Please.  Get Skinner.  My mother - 
anyone.

We don't call felon's mothers to come hold their 
hands and Mr. Mulder is in police custody.  And, of 
course, you had your husband killed.

The nurse tells me to just relax.  I was going to 
start feeling sleepy and it would all be over when 
I woke up.

Oh, God - this isn't happening.

                   *******

My mother, God rest her prim and proper soul, would 
have skinned me alive for the way I showed up at 
Mrs. Scully's door: half a week's growth of beard, 
hair nasty and going every direction, and wearing 
the same ratty jeans and t-shirt I had grabbed out 
of the hamper when the police arrested me.

Three days in that filthy cell and interrogation 
room, a bunch of calls to and from my attorney and 
a few elected officials, and the FBI had finally 
caved in and released me on bail.  It didn't matter 
that they were holding the title to my house - the 
FBI had a sure fire assurance that I wouldn't run.  
They had Scully.  And they were keeping her.

They kept holding it over my head that Scully was 
having the baby - like I could go to her if I just 
made up a confession.  I'd been an FBI agent for 
more than a decade, boys.  Scully was charged with 
conspiracy to commit murder, aiding and abetting, 
insurance fraud, and - here was my favorite - 
fraternization with the mob, since they finally 
realized it looked like a mob hit.  They had this 
theory that she traded information in exchange for 
a hit on her husband. Unless a mobster-in-training 
bagged Scully's organic produce and whole grain 
bread at Safeway, that was just laughable, but it 
still meant they weren't going to let me go to her. 

The next best thing I could do was to go see my 
kids.  Our kids.

I didn't call Mrs. Scully; I just showed up and 
pounded on her door like I was insane, desperately 
needing something to be right in this world.  The 
door flew open instantly and Bubby attacked my 
right leg like a dog with a mission.  Hannah was 
close behind, telling me all about their big 
adventures over the last few days, but behind her 
was Mrs. Scully.

Looking at least seven feet tall and already in the 
middle of a conversation.  

"I don't understand what this, Fox.  I don't 
understand why they're doing this to Dana.  Why did 
they release you and not her?"

I guess I could only expect her mother to forgive 
me so much, and I was way over the 'Dana peril' 
limit for her.

Nice to see you again, too, Mrs. Scully.  It had 
been what, six, seven years?    

"It's going to be okay," I lied, picking up Hannah 
in a big bear hug and closing my eyes to enjoy as I 
took a deep breath for the first time in days.  
"They don't have any evidence to convict her.  
They're just harassing and they ran out of stuff to 
harass me with first."

I got a bona fide Scully 'you're full of shit, 
Mulder' look, but she let me in the door, settling 
down a bit when she saw me hug Sissy.   
  
There was tea, of course.  Anytime there was a 
crisis with the Scully family, there was tea.  In 
the Mulder family, it was scotch, but the idea was 
the same.  My Earl Grey cooled while I held David 
and Hannah tight in the living room floor, afraid 
someone would snatch them away if I let go.  The 
kids tolerated me being a nutcase for about three 
minutes, then declared our reunification bonding 
was over and went to watch Sesame Street.  

Having the entire FBI turn on Mama and Mul'er isn't 
as big a concern at almost four years old as 
missing Big Bird and the letter of the day.  

Children, the letter for today is 'A'.  Do you know 
any words that start with 'A'?

Abducted.  Assistant Director.  Adultery.  
Assassin.  Ashamed.  

Like it or not, I had to talk to Scully's mother.  
Which part would be best to start?  Me getting her 
daughter pregnant and leaving her to go chase 
spaceships?  That midnight 'pleased to see you 
again' tumble in the Georgetown ER suture room that 
started this mess and made the front page of 
yesterday's paper?  Making a complete and total 
jealous ass of myself for the last seven months?   
Then there was still the whole Melissa dying, 
Scully getting shot, getting cancer, getting 
abducted arc I had avoided for years.  
     
Maybe I should have just borrowed a paring knife, 
slit a vein, and bled for her in apology.  

"Did you come to get the kids, Fox?"

I couldn't read her face - was she worried, was she 
pissed?

"Can I have them?"  We'd never set up any sort of 
legal visitation schedule or even established joint 
custody.  I just picked them up whenever I wanted 
and contributed as much money and kid stuff as I 
could slip past Skinner.  

"Do you want them?"  Of course I wanted them.  I 
didn't understand her game.  "If you want them,
they need a father, Fox, not a playmate."

I thought I was being a father.  I bought all the 
stuff.  I had the books, damn it.  If Sharper Image 
had sold fatherhood kits, I would have gotten two 
so I could have a spare.  I was still a little new 
to parenting, okay?  I'm trying.

"I'm not angry at you.  I'm not angry at Dana.  You 
two are both adults, but these aren't accessories, 
Fox; you need to learn to think before you act."

I was gritting my back teeth, tolerating the 
lecture if it meant I got to take my kids home.

"Don't you dare tune me out, Fox.  And don't act 
like I don't know what I'm talking about.  I raised 
a few sons and I know that face.  Look at me!"  I 
swallowed - Mrs. Scully had both the Catholic 
Church and years of mothering experience to use 
when she wanted to lay on the guilt.

I even hung my head.  The teenaged boy living 
inside my head had forgotten someone once let him 
be an FBI Agent.

"I know this isn't fair, but you should know by now 
that life isn't fair, Fox.  It's not fair that you 
disappeared, it's not fair that Dana was alone, 
it's not fair that Walter loved her more than she 
loved him, it's not fair that you came back to what 
you did, and it's not fair that Walter's dead.  
It's not fair that my daughter is sitting in a jail 
cell either, but you two took that risk when you 
put each other over everything else.  That doesn't 
work nearly as well in real life as it does in 
novels.  And it's not fair to expect you to 
instantly become a father, but if you want these 
children, then I do."

I nodded, having no idea what to say.  

"Dana may tolerate you going off to hunt the white 
whale, but I won't, Fox.  You want my grandchildren, 
you can have them, but I expect you to take care of
them as well as Dana would, to make the same 
sacrifices she did.  And I don't care if that's 
fair or not."

                    ********

 August 23, 2004

"Agent Scully?"

My head snaps around at those soft words - my 
guards at the hospital addressed me only as "Mrs. 
Skinner," as if I had no identity outside of my 
husband.  I'm making what will probably be my last 
lap down the hall as my latest jailer watches me 
from the nurses' station, fairly certain I'm not 
going to make a run for it with a belly full of 
staples.  That was the deal: they'd bring me the 
baby from the nursery if I would get up and walk 
like the doctor insisted.  God forbid anything 
interfere with my health; it's not nearly as 
satisfying to burn a dead woman at the stake.

"You Agent Scully?" the tiny, almost elfin woman 
asks, not looking up from her moping.  I nod, 
leaning against the railing as though I'm resting.  
I never thought my fairy godmother would have such 
a bad perm.  "I'll be cleaning your room when you 
leave in a few.  Make sure you check all the 
drawers - folks often leave things behind and you 
ain't coming back."  She shoves the mop bucket 
nosily past me as she moves down the hall, never 
meeting my eyes.

It takes every ounce of my willpower to keep my 
calm, lumbering pace back to my room instead of the 
shameless waddle I want to assume.  

Check the drawers - there's only one in the 
nightstand.

Check the drawers - how do I get the guard out of 
my room long enough to look?

Check the drawers - that had to be Mulder.  What 
would Mulder leave for me?  A nice file?  A trail 
of breadcrumbs leading to South America?  A 
spinning wheel and some straw - see if I could spin 
myself a good defense attorney before morning?

I ring for the nurse and ask her to bring the baby 
one more time so I can nurse again.  She gives me a 
withering 'why are you wasting my time' look, but 
she goes to get Michael.  It's amazing how fast I 
became subhuman - a little over a week ago she 
would have been shaking in her sensible shoes at my 
husband and indulging our every silly new-parents' 
whim.  I get dressed in the too bright bathroom 
while she's gone, putting on the awful orange 
jumpsuit and rolling up the legs so I don't trip 
over them.  I don't even bother to look at myself 
in the mirror.

I'm waiting at the door of my room, peeking past 
the surly, burley agent when she returns with my 
little bundle.  Settling back in the bed, I give 
Agent Miner a 'look' as I reach for the zipper at 
my neck.  Agent Miner was young enough to not only 
have been terrified of AD Skinner, but to be 
totally in awe of Special Agent Spooky Mulder.  He 
could give a damn about me, but I guess he figures 
at least one of those men already claims ownership 
of these breasts, and he waits outside.

Maybe it's one man per breast.  Mulder tended to 
prefer the right one and Skinner the left.  Kinky.  
I hold up my newest miracle and peer at him.  Which 
breast would you prefer, little man?  Left or 
right?  True to his sex, Michael prefers the one 
that's the closest and fullest.

With my free hand, I pull open the drawer beside 
me, praying it doesn't squeal.  My, my - heard that 
prayer, didn't you, God?  You planning on getting 
back to me on the others I've sent your way?

The drawer has a fine layer of dust, a battered 
phone book, and a box of Kleenex.  I blindly root 
around while trying not to jostle the baby, having 
no idea what I'm rooting for.  My fingers locate a 
small flat square - and I pull out a photo.  

Stealing another glance at the closed wooden door, 
I hold the picture down beside my hip and try to 
examine it in the dim light.

It's the baby - recently - he's not all red like he 
was earlier this week.  He's propped up on Hannah's 
lap with David staring at him curiously - probably 
looking for a puppy-dog tail.  On the back, in 
Mulder's illegible scrawl is: 'David & Hannah 
Mulder & Michael Skinner- 8/23/04.  I owe you, 
partner.  My turn to hold down the fort for a 
while.  So sorry, Mulder.'

God - how in the world did he manage this?  Not 
only to get those kids past the front lobby, but to 
get a picture of them snuggling up with the baby.   

There's a harsh knock on the door and I jump, the 
baby's mouth detaching with a wet, slurping sound.  
"Ten minutes," I ask, and there's not further 
knocking.  Burp & switch breasts, little man - the 
one is Mulder's favorite.

Once I'm sure the Agent Miner isn't going to come 
in, I hold the Polaroid up to the light above my 
bed and peer at it, looking for some clue while the 
baby happily drifts off to sleep, his mouth still 
moving.  Maybe I'm looking for some idea of how 
this whole mess will turn out in the photo.  All I 
see is Hannah looking like a proud big sister, 
David looking like - well - David and his father, 
and an impossible tiny bundle I have to leave in 
ten minutes.  No answers as to what I'm supposed to 
do with the rest of my life, providing they don't 
just hang me and end this witch hunt.  Where do I 
fit in this picture?  The kids' mother, Skinner's 
wife, Mulder's lover?  Or am I just the brood mare 
that has the babies - don't get to be in the
pictures?

"Mrs. Skinner!"  

Ten minutes couldn't have passed that quickly.   I 
tuck the picture inside my bra - for the second 
time in my life, my breasts are actually big enough 
to conceal it - and open the door to keep everyone 
from barging in.  

Agent Miner has been joined by Agent King - who I 
honestly hope burns in Hell - and the nurse.  I try 
to get the baby to burp quickly before she takes 
him, but he won't cooperate.  He needs burped, I 
tell her.  Try laying him across your knees instead 
of on your shoulder - but she just takes him and 
walks away.  I can see his dark hair against her 
neck as she goes back to the nursery.

"Come on, Richie - those can't be necessary." Agent 
Miner says, looking at the ankle cuffs.  "It's not 
like she's going to go anywhere."

Agent King just ignores the young man as he fastens 
the cuffs, tightening them enough to make me 
flinch. "I think I owe it to our AD, Miner."

You've got a lot to learn about the secrets between 
husbands and wives, Agent King; between friends and 
lovers, I think, but don't bother to say.  That AD 
that you're trying to impress post-hoc - he'd 
rather me screw the entire FBI on the bullpen 
conference table while he watched than let me be 
humiliated like this even once.  And Spooky Mulder 
that you're trying to ruin - he'd trade his life 
for mine without a second thought - no discussion 
of who was going to bed with who, or whose baby 
belonged to who, or who loved who the 'correct' 
amount.  

You've got a lot to learn about honor among men, 
Agent King.  Somehow that doesn't change that I'm 
following him back to jail and away from my baby.

                   ********

I remember setting the kids on the couch in my 
living room, one on each end, and just staring at 
them.  They obediently sat and stared back - the 
Teletubbies were on television behind my head.   

I was responsible for these two lives for the rest 
of my life.  Scully might be able to help one day, 
but for right then, it was just me.  Not as a 
visitor or a money machine, but everything from 
stubbed toes to finding a new preschool to tummy 
aches to puberty to first dates to till-death-do-
us-part was up to me.  

Just me.
     
God, give me strength.  I'd lost the receipt - no 
matter how bad I screwed it up, these two came with 
a no returns policy.  The Skinner rent-a-kid store 
was out of business.

Did they know I couldn't remember eight times seven 
Without doing eight times eight and counting 
backward?  Had to pretend to eat to know which was 
left from right?  And that, even before I had run off 
chasing bright lights in the woods, that I was 
sometimes a serious fuck up as a human being?  

No, they probably didn't.  That's one nice thing 
about kids.  Kids and dogs - they know who loves 
them and they're forgiving.  Love them, try your 
best to take care of them, and they'll let you do 
both.

                  ******** 
 
I wanted to reach my hand through the glass window 
and reassure Scully that this would somehow be 
okay.  That I had some plan I wasn't sharing with 
her or I was going to run in at the last second 
waving my gun and save her from the bogeymen.  

She hesitated, and I thought she might turn and 
walk away when she saw that I was her visitor.  I 
picked up the phone, praying she'd do the same.  
God must be forgiving - I'd had some rather unkind 
things to say to him in the last few weeks - 
because Scully sat down and put the receiver to her 
ear.

"Nina has the kids.  The social worker doesn't want 
them to see you. . ."  Scully stared at the table, 
nervously picking at a chip in the wood.  Trust me 
to say exactly the wrong thing.  It took me days to 
work up the nerve to come see her and I was going to
blow it.  I took a deep breath and started over.  
"They're fine, Scully.  The baby too.  I just wanted
 to tell you that."

"That's all you wanted to tell me?"

"No."

Scully finally meets my eyes, and I see a mirror of 
my own fractured soul - dark and deep and not whole 
anymore - before she looks back down.  

"I saw you all once, Scully.  A week or so after I 
showed up and made such an ass of myself in your 
backyard, I saw Skinner with David in the store.  
I didn't mean to snoop, but I wondered what your 
life was like.  We used to be able to tell each 
other anything, and now…  Anyway, you were busy 
with Hannah and didn't see me or I would have just 
left.  Skinner was heading toward the back of the 
store with a list, but he passed the toy department 
and David started to throw one of his fits.  I just 
found a bottle of shampoo or something to look at and 
waited for Bubby to have a nuclear meltdown until 
he got what he wanted like he did with me.  I was 
actually gloating.  Skinner tried to reason with 
him, tried to distract him - all the same stuff I 
tried that generally didn't work.  Then he plopped 
him down in the middle of the isle and walked off 
without a word, letting David wail at the top of 
his lungs.  I started to go get him, but Skinner 
intercepted me and told me to turn around and keep 
walking.  I was so embarrassed I got caught 
eavesdropping that I did - just followed Skinner 
down the isle.  As soon as we rounded the corner 
and got out of sight, Skinner stopped.  Three 
seconds later, David dried up and followed, 
behaving like a little angel once he lost his 
audience.  I kind of stood there for a minute, not 
knowing what to say and feeling like a fool.  
Skinner said, 'You'll get it.  It just takes some 
practice and I've had a few more years to get used 
to it than you have, Mulder.'  He was so nice to 
me, Scully.  I thought he hated me - it's not like he 
didn't know about. . . He had to face me every day 
knowing.  He must have loved you and the kids more 
than he resented me, and I figured I was a big enough 
man to do the same.  I'm still trying, and I screw it 
up a lot, but that's what I wanted to tell you."  

"Is that your way of saying 'no hard feelings,' 
Mulder?"

"It's easy to say that when I'm not the one wearing 
blaze orange."  Scully fiddled with a rolled-up 
sleeve so I was addressing the top of her head.  I 
wanted to say something to cheer her up, but the 
prose muse had gone out for coffee.  "How are you 
doing, Scully?"

"I'm fine, Mulder," she answers automatically.

I'm so tense that her response strikes me as funny.  
"Peachy keen?"

"Fine and dandy.  Footloose and fancy free."  She 
holds up her handcuffs to demonstrate.  

"Trendy.  I saw a teenager wearing the same thing 
at the mall."  Enough banter.  "Do you want me to 
keep the baby until you get out, Scully? Or if you 
want, I'll pay Nina and he can stay with your 
mother once the hospital releases him."

I'm tap dancing around asking her if she even wants 
me keeping David and Hannah, let alone the baby.  I 
had no say over Michael, but I'll gladly - what?  
Claim him?  Adopt him?  That was a little 
presumptuous.  

"Do you really want them?  You're not just trying 
to be noble?"

"Christ, Scully - of course I want them.  How can 
you doubt that?  I want them as much as I want 
you."  

I swallowed, wishing I could rewind and retract 
those last words, but she doesn't even look up.

"I miss them so much, Mulder."

"I know you do.  How about some pictures?  And some 
audio tapes so you can keep up on the latest 
jargon?  I can send them with your mother."  There 
were several paragraphs worth of meaning buried in 
those words.

She nodded, and I remembered to breathe.  Scully 
didn't seem inclined to say anything else, and I 
started to stand to leave.   
      
"I miss you too, Mulder.  And I miss Skinner."  

"Love isn't a choice.  Commitment is a choice, but 
you can't chose who you love.  And it isn't a sin 
or a finite quantity.  And it isn't always pretty 
or perfect."  

"Hindsight, Mulder or a professional opinion?" The 
guard was coming; our time was up.

"You taught me more about life and love than Oxford 
ever did, Scully."

			********
November 18, 2004

In my dream, our thick down comforter instead of my 
itchy wool jail blanket lifts and he slips into bed 
behind me, curling up against me like a human 
furnace and smelling of a quick shower.  Strong 
arms wrap around me and we let someone else wage the 
war for a few predawn hours.

"Hey," I say through the waves of sleep, leaning 
back into him. 

"Hey," Skinner replies, melting into me with a 
sigh.  I can smell the toothpaste on his breath 
where he's brushed his teeth and his chest hair is
still damp from the shower. "I found you a dress."

"You're dead, Skinner."

"Does that mean you don't want to hear about the 
dress?  It's in a window near the Xena tie 
designer.  Very nice – watch that alley, though.  
It can be murder."  

I laugh softly, sniffing through my tears.

"Don't cry, Scully.  Dead isn't as bad as you think 
– no paperwork."

I want to roll over and look at him, but I'm afraid 
he'll vanish if I move.

"Ha ha.  You're much funnier dead," I manage.  His 
chin rests contentedly on top of my head and I feel 
a leg sliding over mine, rough cotton over silk.  
Surrounded; I'm surrounded by him and no one can 
get to me.  "I'm so sorry, Skinner."   

He considers a moment, running a hand down my arm.

"That saying about if you love something, letting 
it go; you know it, Scully?"  I nod, sniffing 
again.  "I'm more the track it down, drag it back 
home, build a really high fence, and guard it with 
a rifle type of man.  I enlisted in the Marines 
knowing I would go to 'Nam; that means I love 
fighting a losing battle."

"I never would have left you."

"You were never there to leave; I knew that from 
the beginning.  Scully, what do you think happens 
to a marriage of convenience when it's not 
convenient anymore?"

Whether he wants me to cry or not, the waterworks 
are about to explode.

"I'm not sorry," he says, nuzzling my neck with a 
cold nose.

I roll quickly, but he's gone.  My fingers scrape 
against the cement wall of my cell as I reach for 
him and the itchy wool blanket scratches my face.  
     
                   ********

November 18, 2004
 
"Fuck you."  

The last time anyone heard those words come out of my 
mouth, my mother made me gargle with Dawn.   

Probable cause, my ass.  Try wrongful arrest.  Try 
violating my civil rights in about a dozen ways.  
Practicing medicine without a license because I 
wasn't giving birth fast enough for you.  Denying Due 
Process.  Slander.  Keeping me away from my babies.  
If you hadn't finally managed to accidentally arrest 
a few mobsters with big mouths, I'd still be sitting 
in that cell, so FUCK YOU!

And you have a nice goddamn day too, officer.

I can't believe I have to go home in the same stupid 
overalls I was wearing when I was arrested.  I know 
my emotions are running a little high, but I'd rather 
go naked than wear these things one more minute.  I'm 
not going home to change, though.  Mulder has the 
kids and he's only a cab ride away.

A courtesy?  You'll drive me over to Mulder's as a 
courtesy?
 
My baby is two months old and I hadn't seen him since 
he was in the hospital.  You think a courtesy makes 
up for that?  For you dragging me back to jail and 
leaving him?   I missed the kids' fourth birthday and 
now you're going to drive me a goddamn few miles and 
save me the cab fare?   

Luckily, it wasn't very far or I would have gone back 
to jail for assaulting a stupid police officer.  

I stare at the big brownstone from the curb, trying 
to get my life restarted.  I've never been inside.  
Mulder must have gotten the message that I was 
coming; the front door is slightly ajar.  He's 
waiting for me, but I'm terrified to take the next 
step.  I've been away so long and everyone's lives 
have gone on without me, like I'm not necessary 
anymore either.

Must be how Mulder felt standing outside my big new 
house for the first time.

Two little faces appear in a window - the welcome 
committee – and I'm in motion again.  I'm necessary.

"Mama!"  They meet me at the front door, accompanied 
by the largest dog I've ever seen.  "Mama - wook!  
Quim!"  

It's too much to see all at once.  There's David, who 
has grown three inches in two months and has 
practically tackled me.  Hannah has leg braces and 
crutches now, so she can run for the first time in 
her life and she has a ready weapon to whack her 
brother. She tells me about them in great detail, 
alternating with Bubby's stories of 'Quim'.  Mulder 
seems to have told them they could have 'a puppy'
from the pound to offset David's disappointment with 
his little brother, but he didn't specify further.  
They chose a full-grown St. Bernard.  It's interesting 
that my children now have a 'Quim' and a 'Twat.'  
Talk about a theme - it's probably something else 
they inherited from Mulder.  I just sink to the floor 
in the foyer and bask.

When we've finally exchanged sufficient stories, 
kisses, hugs, and licks, I'm ready to see my baby.  
Sissy informs me he's 'wockin' with 'Papa'.

Papa?

He's singing.  Mulder's singing to the baby.  I've 
never heard him sing.  

I can only catch a few words as I lurk in the doorway 
of the den - he's not singing for my ears - but I 
think it's the Eagles.  "But you only want the one 
thing you can't have."  Fitting.   

There is no eavesdropping with preschoolers, so 
Mulder hears us almost immediately.  And smiles.

"Hey, Scully - you're just in time.  Don't look at me 
like that – this is harder than it looks.  Come see 
what you think is wrong with this child.  I've got it 
narrowed down to either him not liking November or 
being disappointed at being Gentile, but we need an 
expert opinion."

God, Mulder is smooth.

"Dark, Papa," David says, looking like it's urgent.

"I know, Bubby.  I'm trying to hurry."  Mulder stands 
up so I can sit in the rocking chair and then settles 
Michael in my arms.  The squirming and mewing noises 
quiet.  "Oh - so that was what he wanted.  Mama.  
Sorry I'm so inadequate, little man."

Mulder leans on the hearth, fascinated as he watches 
me become acquainted with my baby until Hannah 
appears wearing a top hat.  "Papa - is 'most dark!"

"Okay - get a hat on, David.  You got him, Scully?  
We usually do it in here."

"What in the world are all of you doing, Mulder?"

He just grins and finds me a Yankee's baseball cap.  
I sit holding the baby in the rocker as Mulder 
gathers up a menorah, a tray of something from the 
kitchen, and his NICAP hat, which he puts on 
backward.  David hurries in with a bag of chocolate 
chip cookies and a sombrero and the dog lumbers in, 
wearing a visor with a green tweedly-bopper antennas 
and 'honorary alien' printed on the front.  

"Papa - 'most dark!"  Hannah warns.  Friday is the 
Hebrew Sabbath.  They're doing the Sabbath.  Oh, this 
is just too adorable, Mulder.    

"Ready?" Mulder asks.  He pulls the rocking chair - 
with me in it - across the room so I have a front row 
seat.  Blue and hazel eyes twinkle with excitement 
from around the coffee table.  "Scully, you want to 
light the candles?  A woman is supposed to do it."  
He strikes a match for me and I hesitate - what am I 
supposed to do?  "Just light them - no order or 
words."

The shadows are inching across the carpet as I finish 
and blow out the match.  They each draw their hands 
from the flames to their faces three times, then wait 
for Mulder.

"Ye simcha Elohim k'efrayim v'che-menasheh," he says, 
looking at David over the candles.  David's solemn 
Mulder-eyes gaze back.

Then to Hannah: "Ye simcha Elohim k'Sarah, Rivkah, 
Rachel, v'Leah."  He earns one of Hannah's gentle 
smiles.

Mulder continues as they stay silent, taking in every 
ancient word, "Yevarechecha Adonai V'yyishmerecha, 
Yaer adonai panav eilecha v'chuneka. Yisa Sdonai 
panav eilecha v'yaseim lecha shalom."

"Shalom," they reply, and open the cookies.  Another 
moment of faith brought to us by the Keebler Elves.  

Mulder pours something from a little teapot into 
miniature teacups as David serves cookies.  I like 
that Hannah sips her pretend-tea with her pinkie 
raised.

"I can't believe I'm letting you watch this, Scully," 
Mulder says, looking sheepish.  "Hey - don't give any 
cookies to Clementine, Hannah.  They have chocolate 
in them."  

"I don't recall this part in 'Fiddler on the Roof,' 
Mulder."

"Scully - are you questioning my ancient Sabbath 
blessing and tea party ritual?  This custom is at 
least three months old."

He hands me a cookie and a teeny cup of apple juice 
'tea,' then sits Indian-style in the floor with the 
dog's muzzle in his lap, Clementine's eyes pleading 
for a cookie.  

If I tried to tell someone about this day, they'd 
think I was crazy.  This morning I was awaiting trial 
for my husband's murder and now I'm rocking the third 
child I was never supposed to be able to have and 
having tea with my-

My what, exactly?

He idly plays with one of the springy antennas on the 
dog's headdress and breaks off chip-free bites for 
her while he watches me hold the baby.

My Mulder.  Always my Mulder.

"I didn't know you knew any Hebrew, Mulder."

"I don't, actually.  I remember some of it from when 
I was a child - my grandfather was a practicing Jew.  
I always looked forward to being blessed, although I 
had no idea what he was saying, so I thought the kids 
might like it.  I just do the parts I know and make 
up the rest as I go." 

So do I, Mulder.

The baby has fallen asleep, and Mulder carries him 
upstairs to put him down.  The kids finish their 
cookies and wander off, leaving me alone in the 
rocker with Mulder flopped on the floor at my feet. 

"We usually have a traditional Sabbath post-tea party 
trip to K-mart and Wendy's, but I think we can skip 
that so all of you can get home before bedtime, 
Scully."

I'm just rocking.

"Are you going home, Scully?"

Still rocking.  

"Do you want me to say it, Scully?  Do you want me to 
ask you to stay or tell you to leave?"

Rock, rock, rock.

"Which frightens you more – that I might still love 
you or that I might not?"

I manage something that's halfway between a 'yes' and 
a sob.

"It's a big house.  Why don't you stay in one of the 
spare rooms tonight so you at least don't have to get 
up with the baby?  He still wants fed every two hours 
and your mom is exhausted.  Just get some rest and we 
can talk on Monday when Nina comes.  There are no 
deep conversations with three kids, I'm learning.  
Okay?" 

"Okay."  
 
I can't tell if it's minutes or hours later, but 
Mulder's palm rubs my shoulder, asking if I want to 
lay down.  I half open my eyes - don't make me move, 
Mulder.  The wicked fairies came and stole all of my 
energy.  And fashion sense.

"I'll carry you to bed if you promise me something, 
Scully…"  He hooks an arm under my knees and arms, 
lifting me gently. "…two actually.  Move Clem."  I 
hear big dog paws blazing a path up the stairs for 
us.  "One - watch your head - I'll find you something 
else to sleep in and you'll never wear those overalls 
again."

"Deal."  Not a problem.  I'd love to burn the damn 
things.  I nuzzle contentedly into his shoulder, not 
even waking while he carries me.

"Second…" he shifts me to peel back the covers, "the 
next time you want to go somewhere, you walk on your 
own two feet.  You've earned being carried tonight, 
but it's not who you are."

You talk too much, Mulder.  I shoot him one of his 
patented puzzled puppy-dog looks and he grins at me, 
pulling the blanket over my head and turning out the 
lights.  

"It's a promise, then, Scully.  'Night."

Promises made under duress don't count, Mulder, but 
I'm far too comfortable to yell that after him.

Aside from a few trips to the bathroom, the next 
thing I remember clearly is waking with a start in a 
dark room and hearing a baby crying.  I'm in an 
unfamiliar bed, but the hungry cries are close by and 
I act on instinct.  I go to the doorway and see 
Mulder coming up the stairs with a bottle and a 
bundle.  David also appears, but Mulder steers
him back to bed; David never really waking.  The 
cries quiet as Mulder carries a little bundle into 
his bedroom, stepping over the dog, but too asleep to 
notice me standing in the shadows.

I follow Mulder, hearing contented suckling sounds 
and more baritone singing from his bed  He's leaning 
back against the headboard, with the baby propped up 
on his knees facing him as Mulder holds the bottle 
and sings softly, eyes closed, trying to steal a few 
seconds of rest.  "All alone at the end of the 
evening, when the bright lights have faded to blue…"  
It's an Eagles' fest tonight.  I stand watching them, 
seeing my cross against his bare chest, and 
considering my choices.  I had no idea he still had 
my necklace, or that he wore it.

Mulder senses me and stops singing.  Watching.  
Waiting.

Some things aren't choices.  Some were just promises 
that took a long time to keep.  

Five steps.  One, two, three, four.

I'm going to need a little help here, Mulder.  It's 
not just about you and me anymore.  It's about three 
kids, two fathers, defense attorneys, lots of 
baggage, and two pets with unmentionable names. 

I can do it, Mulder.  I remember when we could save 
the world together.  I didn't forget - that or you - 
the world just got too heavy and the woods to dark to 
walk alone. 

Mulder reaches over and folds back the blanket to 
make a place for me beside him.  No matter how weird 
or awful my life has gotten - and I've pretty much 
tested the limits - there was always a place for me 
beside Mulder.  All I had to do was trust.
     
Five.  

                   *******
 
Five.

FIVE, Mulder.  

I made it.  I did my part.  I want my miracle.  Why 
does Prince Charming still have his pajama bottoms 
on? 

I watched adoringly while he fed the baby, rocked the 
baby, took the baby back to his cradle in the corner, 
and laid here getting all tingly while Mulder 
stalled.

FIVE!  FIVE, FIVE, FIVE!   FIVE, MULDER!

Where's my fairy tale?  My happily-ever-after?  It's 
not in that cradle, Mulder - you can stop fiddling.  
Look under the covers; maybe you left it over here.

I finally crawl to the bottom of bed as he stands 
beside me bathed in the moonlight.  All I can see is 
my cross around his neck and the promise he kept and 
I didn't.  Time for that to change.

"We've got two and a half hours until this cycle 
repeats, Scully.  You'd better sleep while you can."  
He puts one knee on the end of the bed, waiting for 
me to move back so he can lay down.

Wrong answer, Mulder. 

I move to kiss him and he turns his head, so I settle 
for his neck instead, savoring the way he smells and 
tastes.  He smells like a mixture of sleepy baby head 
and the sexiest man on Earth.

"I don't think this is a good idea, partner.  We've 
both got too much crap to sort through and sex won't 
help right now."  

You are such a lousy liar, Mulder.

"It'll help me," I whisper, finding an ear lobe.  I 
hear him catch his breath in response.  I don't think 
I've ever blatantly come on to him before.  I do know 
how, I've just never gotten the chance.  "I want 
this, Mulder.  Want you."  That earns me a moan.  His 
resolve is fading fast.

"Scully- I don't- you could get pregnant again.  I've 
been careful, but I still could have picked up 
something.  Oh, Jesus, Scully."  He lets his head 
fall back as I make my way down his chest, 
alternating feather kisses, rough licks, and small 
nips as needed.  My hands run over those strong, slim 
hips, earning myself at instinctive trust.  I
slide my hand between our bodies and cup him, 
enjoying the weight and power.  "No, Scully.  You 
just had a baby.  I'm too tired to do this right.  
Just let me go to sleep."

"I had a baby two months ago.  I want this, Mulder," 
I whisper back, squeezing lightly.  

He must have grasped at the last shred of sanity, 
because he stops my hands. "No, I'm not going to make 
this even worse.  It's not worth it."  He pulls away, 
sitting back on his calves.  

I NEED this, Mulder.  I would trade breathing or 
blood to forget real life for a few minutes tonight.

After all this time, I know how to push Mulder's 
buttons.  If all else fails, go for possessive and 
dangle a mystery in front of him.  I turn, sitting 
back on his lap so he presses into my thin panties 
and rubbing his hands over my still-round hips. "Not 
even like this, Mulder?  No pressure on my belly.  
You don't want me like this?"  I think that's 
a rhetorical question as I lightly rock against him, 
teasing.  "Don't you wonder what Skinner liked, 
Mulder?  What he liked to do to me?"

I move forward on my hands and knees, letting my 
borrowed t-shirt slip up to my waist and waiting for 
him to follow.  Instead, he pulls me back onto his 
lap, nuzzling gently against my neck.  "I love you, 
Scully.  I'm still not even sure it's all right to 
say that.  You don't need to prove anything to me and 
you don't need to punish yourself.  Whatever you're 
blaming yourself for, I'm not letting you use me to 
hide, either.  Just take some time - let yourself 
grieve - and I'll be here when you're ready.  I 
promise.  If you want me, I'll always be there."

Sex would be so much easier than thinking.  Hey - the 
less I think, the more I breed.

His arms go around me and I relax, laying my tired 
head on his shoulder.  "Promise?"

He shifts slightly and I feel my necklace drop over 
my face.  "Promise.  Avoid bright lights in the 
forest."

He's right, of course.  I hate it when he's right, 
but I don't have the energy left to work up to mad, 
so I just let him rock me, let my eyes close.

Our moment of bliss is interrupted by earsplitting 
shrieks from across the hall of "Daddy!  Mosters!  
Mosters, Daddy!"

Mulder pulls away from me and bounds off the bed, 
cursing as he stumbles in the dark. I hear them 
pacing in the hallway, Mulder telling her Daddy is 
safe.  No more mosters.  I think at first he's saying 
'monsters,' but then I realize it's 'mobsters'- she 
knows what happened to Skinner.

Mulder walks through the bedroom with Hannah - he 
must be taking her on a tour of the house to make 
sure there are no 'mosters.'  I feel myself getting 
angrier and angrier until the mercury boils over the 
top of my thermometer.  If the FBI wanted to punish 
me and Mulder - fine.  It was petty and illegal and 
sexist, but fine.  We're adults.  But how could they 
do this to my children?  What did they do?  Show 
them crime scene photos and ask her if Mama had 
talked about having Dada killed?

David appears behind Mulder in the doorway and Mulder 
steers him back to bed again.  David's sleepwalking.  
He didn't sleepwalk before. 
 
"Scully, can Sissy sleep here?  She's scared," Mulder 
asks.

I scoot over and make a place for them, tucking the 
comforter over her carefully.  "Papa, sweep wit' me?"

He hesitates, then sits beside her, stroking her hair 
as she falls back into the arms of sleep. 

"What did they tell them, Mulder?" 

"Exactly what you think they told them.  And that 
social worker actually got a pretty good story about 
ritualistic Satanic worship out of Hannah's 
overactive imagination until they checked for the 
bodies buried in the basement."

"I don't have a basement, Mulder."

"Me neither.  That kinda ended that line of 
investigation."  He scoots down in the bed and pulls 
Sissy against his chest, smiling tiredly at me.  

Glib isn't working, Mulder.  Skinner let the FBI push 
him into being Super-AD because of me until the mob 
shot him dead.  He took care of me because he thought 
he lost you and they made him pay for it; pay for 
caring about Mrs. Spooky.  They arrested me, ignored 
every civil right we had, and ruined your career, all 
because we didn't play their games.  They traumatized 
our children and kept me away from my baby and…

THEY, THEY, THEY.  It's always a THEY or a THEM 
screwing with me, with us.  THEY killed my sister.  
Created a daughter I had to watch die.  THEY took me 
and used me as a human guinea pig until I though I 
couldn't have children, until I accidentally got 
pregnant and then THEY took my Mulder.  THEY're 
always just out of my reach, just out of range of a 
bullet or just beyond the limits of the law.  

I can feel my dam cracking, all that pent-up anger 
about to come bursting through.  I don't have anyone 
here to be angry at though - not really. No THEM to 
curse or punch or shoot or even to scream at like a 
shrew.  That leaves Mulder, my kids, Skinner, and me.  
Knowing my history, I'll probably go with me.  Wait - 
aren't I supposed to be grieving?  Maybe I can do 
both at once - I can go stark raving mad with grief.

If anyone needs me for the next few years, just take 
a message, Mulder.  I'll be curled up in the fetal 
position drooling and jabbering to myself.

"Come on, Scully."  I feel Mulder pulling at my hand.  
"Come with me - she's already asleep.  Hannah will be 
fine for a few minutes."

I crawl out of bed and stumble after him, tripping 
over the mountain of dog and drool guarding the door, 
but walking on my own two little angry feet as 
promised.  God forbid I lean on someone else for one 
night.  Mulder leads me through the big house, down 
the stairs and into the kitchen, leaving me against 
the counter while he gets me a glass of orange juice.  
It's almost dawn anyway - I can see the first purple 
streaks of morning through the windows.  At least one 
night is over.

One down, a lifetime to go.

I'm trying to find wakefulness when I hear music 
coming from one of those Bose radios and Mulder 
singing along, tired eyes twinkling down at me.   

'What would you think if I sang out of tune? Would 
you stand up and walk out on me?'

A little help from my friends.  Just a little help 
between friends.

I am being danced with - slowly turned in circles 
around and around, my bare, angry feet gliding over 
the cold floor in the middle of the kitchen.  Dirty 
dishes are piled two feet deep in the sink and eau de 
new baby diaper is wafting from the trashcan, but 
Mulder doesn't seem to notice.  He kicks a stray baby 
bottle, a gnawed bone, and a tiny sneaker out of the 
way and keeps swaying with me. 
   
"I'm not letting them win, Scully.  Like you say, 
it's going to be 'fine.'  We're going to get through 
this and it will be fine, no matter what happens."

"How's that, Mulder?  You got a miracle left?"  That 
sounds bitchy, but I feel bitchy.  I'd like to take a 
big stick to the entire world like a giant piñata and 
then sit down and have a good cry about it afterward.

"You don't think we've still got one coming?  Think 
we can't pull off the fairy tale, Scully?" he asks, 
as I lean into him, relaxing a bit, my face cooling.  
Someone's spilled red Kool-aid on the floor – my feet 
are making sticky sounds, but that's becoming less 
and less important.  My children won't die of a 
couple cups of Kool-aid. Mulder's singing softly into 
my ear:

'Would you believe in a love at first sight? Yes, I'm 
certain that it happens all the time.'

"Maybe, Mulder.  I just never imagined so many damn 
lawyers in my fairy tale.  You, some kids, maybe a 
Volvo, but no defense lawyers."

"Didn't you get the memo?  It's a Jewish fairy tale.  
Lots of lawyers, but I'm related to them all, so I 
get a discount.  We get miracles and happily-ever-
after, but we whine a lot."

I turn my face up to look at him, letting my tangled 
hair fall down my back as he continues to sing, 
turning me around faster and grinning at me with 
those lazy eyes: 'I get by with a little help from my 
friends.  I get-' 

"I am so totally screwed up, Mulder."  I'd just like 
to get that out in the open.

He dips me back carefully.  "You were screwed up 
before and I liked you."

I actually smile. It's a very small smile, and it's 
much older and wiser, but it still means that I can 
register gentle human emotions.  

"So tell me about these Jewish fairy tales - I grew 
up with the Brothers Grimm.  Do people have morning 
breath in Jewish fairy tales?"

Mulder runs his tongue over his teeth.  "Oh yes.  And 
sometimes they wear clothes that smell like baby puke 
and don't sleep for days.  And they very seldom think 
of the perfect thing to say and they sometimes make 
giant asses of themselves when they don't get what 
they think they deserve out of life."

"Do they ever get lost and overwhelmed and marry 
their bosses?"

"'Course - they can't marry the right man every time.  
Sometimes they drink too much and sleep around, too. 
Doesn't change how the fairy tale ends.  Even you and 
I can only screw up fate so much, Scully."

He pauses to grab my glass off the tile counter and 
drinks half of my orange juice - without asking, of 
course.

Still my Mulder.  

I rest my head against his chest as we move.  "I'm 
sorry this is what you came back to Mulder.  In my 
fairy tale, we had two perfect children and happily-
ever-after and Skinner was just my boss and we all 
went to Mass to make my mother happy."

"See - that's your mistake, Scully.  You're dealing 
with the chosen people and the promised land.  Or 
maybe it's the promised people and the chosen land; I 
don't remember.  Anyway, we're used to lots of 
persecution and taxation, so we settle for small 
miracles.  I promised I'd come back, Scully, and I 
did.  And you were still here.  Everything else is 
just cake.  Or unleavened bread.  Or something."

I raise one eyebrow at him; something I haven't done 
in years.  "Are you even the slightest bit Jewish, 
Mulder?"

"I'm sure I was at one point. And I saw 'Schindler's 
List'."

Unbelievable.  I'm living a quasi-Jewish fractured 
fairy tale. 

I can't believe I'm smiling.  I'm dancing in Mulder's 
nasty kitchen at dawn in his t-shirt and my panties 
and I'm smiling.  Not throwing my head back and 
laughing with glee, but I think I might be able to 
find Dana Scully inside myself somewhere. 

Skinner accepted the risks he took to keep me and the 
rest of the world safe.  That was who he was.  He was 
a soldier and he left the poetry to others – whatever 
promise he made to himself after Mulder disappeared, 
he more that kept it.  I couldn't chose who I loved – 
and neither could Skinner.  Who can fault a man for 
falling in love with his own wife? 

Mulder the undead poet and I have three kids between 
us and no jobs until I finish my semester-long 
maternity leave.  I have a baby that was cut out of 
my body that I barely know who's going to start 
screaming in a few hours.  And two more kids that 
have been living on Kool-aid and pizza for months 
while I was in jail and I now own a dog the size of 
a pony.  And a fresh grave at Arlington that I still 
need to shed tears over.  And Mulder just drank the 
last of the orange juice without asking. And we've 
established that I'm seriously screwed up.
     
But it's going to be fine.  Not perfect.  No one 
promised me perfect, and, anyway, perfect doesn't 
equal happy.  And imperfect may not be bliss, but 
it's never dull.  What happens tomorrow?  Tomorrow 
I'll still be seriously screwed up, and this kitchen 
will still smell like dirty diapers, and Mulder will 
still be Mulder. 

Five.    
 
                   *******

The end.

THE END.  

Nothing more to see here.  Move along, Gentle Reader.  
Please try to stay with your tour group so you don't 
get lost, and you in the back - no flash photography 
of the hero and heroine until they've brushed their 
teeth.

What, that's not fairy-tallish enough for you?  Wait, 
I'll get my white horse and shining armor.  Scully, 
get your wand.  

Scully says she can't find her wand - will her gun 
do?  She's busy making coffee and packing lunches.

That's the fairy tale, folks.  Hero gets girl - three 
times in one night, thank you; hero gets girl 
pregnant-

Scully says she's not a 'girl' and she has that gun 
now.

So the hero and the BEAUTIFUL princess with bed head 
make a couple of babies and then he gets scooped up 
by a UFO for a few years.  Angst ensues for a while, 
but it all works out in the end; more or less.

It's the 'more or less' part that's a sticking point 
for you, isn't it?

Fine - we all lived deliriously happily ever after.  
Scully never cried again, the kids grew into normal, 
well-adjusted teenagers, and that huge hunk of hair 
didn't have thirteen half Clementine, half sneaky-
neighbor-dog puppies.   

Scully says that first, I'm a liar; second, she dares 
me to put that in writing; and third, if I'm just 
making up the fairy tale, she wants to be taller.  
And who the hell was I talking to?

I'll make this quick.

Do we live happily ever after?  Well, we lived - 
that's a good start. Are we happy?  Probably happier 
than most.  
  
Angst?  Of course we've got angst; where were you 
during the first part of this story?  Angst makes you 
appreciate your blessings, so we've got both: 
blessings to count and lots of depth to appreciate 
them.

Right now, I'm appreciating that we're out of coffee, 
the dog is at the back door announcing she's about to 
burst, and the kids need actual food, not something 
cooked in a toaster.  The heroine insists I do 
something about one of those things and stop talking 
to myself.   

What about the perfect sex?  All fairy tales have 
picture-perfect, passionate sex that lasts for hours 
and solves all the main character's problems and 
sometimes cures world hunger. Everything fits 
together perfectly on the first try, from noses to 
toeses, no one makes funny noises or says goofy 
things, and no one ever has to stop to fish a 
stray hair out of their mouth.  Starry-eyed couples 
aren't interrupted by ringing phones, nosey cats 
chasing whatever's moving under the covers, or those 
omnipresent children we thought we wanted.  Then 
there's the part of our fairy tale where the hero 
gets in a hurry and forgets about birth control and 
the heroine makes him watch videos of actual 
childbirth until he's sufficiently repentant and 
chaste for a few days.   

So, given those standards, nope - nowhere close.  We 
do manage to put on a good show for the dog 
occasionally, though.  Nothing like trying to 
consummate a fairy tale with a hundred and fifty 
pounds of slobbering, panting pooch sitting beside 
the bed, evaluating your technique like that Romanian 
judge that marks down for a bad dismount.  

What about the rest: the kids, the jobs, the grave, 
the lawyers?  Did we pull off the fairy tale?  Manage 
any more miracles?

Hard to tell - it's not over yet.  You just make it 
up any way you want like I do my Hebrew.  Check back, 
though.  I promised Scully it would be fine; not 
perfect, but fine - and that woman holds a man to his 
promises.

The end.  So far.  
                     ********

End: Promises to Keep