*******    

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 paintings 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 Michael 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 
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 nteresting 
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