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 a 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. *******