Book IV: We've secretly replaced their regular lives with Folger's
  Crystals
  
  ****
  
  According to the doctors, Mulder was a scientific marvel -- the eighth
  wonder of the medical world, which made him afraid to ask about the
  first seven.  It was hard to top his diagnosis: death, in partial
  remission.
  
  He drifted through the first week or so, often cocooned by
  unconsciousness as his body healed and his deadened senses reawakened. 
  He relied on Scully as his anchor to the world of the living.  When her
  voice said to open his eyes or respond to a question, he did, but the
  rest of the time he drifted in a warm, smooth, soundless void, and let
  life flow around rather than through him.  
  
  A new nurse checked him over, then suggested Scully go home, rest, and
  come back in the morning.  When there was no response, the nurse
  reiterated, reminding Scully of hospital policy and the importance of
  taking care of herself.  Instead of answering, Scully just remained in
  the vinyl chair beside his bed, holding his hand and studiously ignoring
  the woman's unsolicited advice.  It was about the thousandth time some
  helpful person had suggested she leave.  Each time, Scully had either
  ignored them or, if they insisted, employed some combination of her
  badge, gun, and medical license, and dared them to try to make her move. 
  When she wanted to, Scully made the Rock of Gibraltar seem yielding by
  comparison.
  
  After a few seconds of awkward silence, the nurse rechecked his IV with
  a sour look on her face, then left, crisply closing the door after her.
  
  Scully gave his other hand a gentle victory squeeze.
  
  He squeezed back.  One battle down, the rest of their lives -- and the
  coming apocalypse -- to go.
  
  "How long?" he asked, his voice rusty from disuse.
  
  The television mounted to the ceiling was tuned to CNN, volume low, and
  the ice shifted as it melted in the pitcher on his bedside table.  His
  eyes were still sensitive to light, so the room was dim, and the closed
  blinds gave no clue to the outside world.  
  
  He cleared his throat and tried again, a little louder. "How long was I
  gone?"
  
  "You were abducted in April," she answered softly. "We found you in
  August.  It's November, now.  You've been in the hospital about two
  weeks."
  
  He opened his eyes, staring at the ceiling as he tried to reconcile
  that.  Almost seven months had passed since they'd walked beneath a
  bower of white and pink cherry blossoms, and kissed in front of the
  Jefferson Memorial.  It seemed impossible.  Unreal.  Like Time had
  blinked and passed him by, unseeing.
  
  "I missed the World Series."
  
  "And the Olympics.  And a presidential election."
  
  "Who-" he started.
  
  "The Yankees over the Mets in game five."
  
  He turned his head, looking at her forlornly. "Oh God.  The first subway
  series since 1956, and I had to be dead."
  
  She reached up, stroking his face.  Her fingers were cool, and whispered
  against the rough stubble and scabs on his cheek.  She touched him
  often, as if reassuring herself that he was real. "I have the Sports
  Illustrated Special Edition.  I saw an old copy in the lobby, so I
  borrowed it.  It's a little dog-eared and coffee-stained, but it should
  tide you over until the highlights video is out."
  
  "Scully?"
  
  "Hum?" she asked as she eased up from her chair, massaging the small of
  her back.
  
  "Marry me."
  
  She didn't respond, but he didn't expect her to.  As a rule, Scully
  overlooked romantic overtures and heartfelt confessions sponsored by
  Federal Blue Cross/Blue Shield.
  
  She did glance over her shoulder and smile at him, then walked away from
  his bed to retrieve the magazine.  As she turned, he blinked, thinking
  his eyes were playing tricks on him.
  
  "Uh, Scully..." he said slowly, staring at her. "Are you- Oh my God..."
  
  She stopped, looking down at the round outline of her abdomen self-
  consciously.
  
  "Oh my God," he repeated. "You're- How did-"
  
  She looked up at him uncomfortably, and he stopped, waiting for her to
  say something, to explain, but she didn't.
  
  "Scully..."
  
  One of the monitors beside his bed beeped, Nurse Sourpuss's shoes
  squeaked down the hall, and an ambulance siren wailed in the distance.
  
  He swallowed, then exhaled slowly. "It looks like I've missed a few
  other things," he said awkwardly.
  
  She nodded.
  
  He searched the empty expanses of his brain, trying to think of
  something appropriate to say.  The last time they'd had sex was that
  "wild and passionate and perhaps ill-conceived" night in late March; it
  was early November.  The math was right, but from her expression, he
  couldn't tell if he was supposed to offer congratulations, apologies, or
  pretend he hadn't noticed.
  
  "When were you planning to tell me?"
  
  "I-I... I wanted to wait until you were awake enough to talk about it."
  
  He pushed himself higher in the bed so he was semi-sitting, ignoring the
  protest from the muscles of his arms, the wounds on his wrists, and the
  IV in the back of his hand. "I'm awake."
   
  She approached hesitantly and resumed her seat beside his bed. "I've
  given a lot of thought about what to say to you.  A lot of thought."
  
  He nodded, waiting.
  
  She took a slow breath, then opened her mouth wordlessly.
  
  The television droned on, offering the headlines, and a metal cart
  clattered as it passed outside.
  
  "Do you want this?" he asked with the same tone he used to ask if she
  wanted his green Jell-O with diced pears.
  
  "Yes," she said quickly. "Yes, very much."
  
  He nodded again.
  
  "I found out right after you were abducted," she said, looking at her
  belly rather than him. "I'm thirty-five weeks, which means I have about
  five weeks to go.  I worried at first -- about how I was able to
  conceive, why I was able to conceive -- but I've had every test, and
  they all indicate he's normal.  Healthy."
  
  "He?"
  
  "Or she.  I don't know.  Mulder-" she started, then ran out of words
  again. "I'm fine.  My baby's fine."
  
  "Your baby?" he echoed softly.  She hadn't made any move indicating it
  was all right for him to touch her belly, and she certainly hadn't been
  over-eager to share the news.  To him, the words "you're going to be a
  father" immediately should have followed "you're not dead anymore" in
  the important news hierarchy, but they hadn't.  
  
  "He's just fine," she assured him. "You don't need to worry about us."
  
  "Did, did you plan this?  Getting pregnant?  Is that why... With me?" He
  stopped, embarrassed for asking. "I'm sorry," he mumbled. "This is just-
  I'm not sure what to say.  Or do."
  
  "You don't have to say or do anything.  I just want you to rest and get
  better.  That's all."
  
  He looked at the bland ceiling again, then closed his eyes.  He felt her
  drape a blanket over him and smooth his hair back from his face before
  she sat down.  Glossy magazine pages rustled, and her hand took his as
  she cleared her throat and began to read about the New York Yankee's
  victory.
  
  ****
   
  His memories of being on the ship came back in blinding flashes, like
  jolts of electricity through his body: the pain, the helplessness, the
  certainty that he was going to die.  Pleading with Them to leave him
  alone, but knowing it would do no good; screaming for Scully to help
  him, but knowing she wasn't going to come.
  
  According to Scully and the doctor, he was doing remarkably well. 
  Making medical history.  An amazing recovery.  He didn't have the heart
  or energy to tell either of them differently.
  
  The only safe place was deep inside himself, so he stayed there,
  treating the world as a Brazilian soccer match: novel, but not directly
  related to him, too difficult to understand, and happening much too fast
  to keep track of.
  
  When he asked why he still had an apartment, she'd answered something
  about the lease not being up and not getting around to moving his
  things, which were semi-plausible lies until he saw the fish tank.  He
  not only still had a furnished apartment, with his suits hanging in the
  closet and his razor hanging in the bathroom, he still had live fish. 
  She'd kept the stage exactly as he'd left it; all he had to do was step
  on and play his part.  And he would, if someone would just feed him his
  lines and promise he wouldn't have to feel anything that might hurt.
  
  He lay on top of the covers with one arm curled under his pillow as he
  stared at the television.  There was a game on -- he wasn't sure of the
  score.  Or the teams.  Or the sport.
  
  "Are you still awake?" Scully asked from the bedroom doorway, and he
  nodded. "There's plenty of food in the refrigerator.  Casseroles,
  lasagna... I labeled everything, and it's all heat and eat.  And there's
  fresh cereal, soup, sandwich stuff: whatever you're in the mood for."
  
  He nodded again and patted the mattress in search of the remote control.
  
  "I put your prescription bottles on the counter. Make sure to take the
  antibiotics with plenty of water, and finish the full course."  
  
  His head barely moved against the pillowcase as he nodded.
  
  She approached his bed, moving slowly and leaning back a little to keep
  her balance. "I thought you were going to rest.  Take a nap.  Your
  body's still healing, Mulder. You need to take care of yourself."
  
  "I'm okay," he lied without looking away from the television.  He
  pressed the button on the remote and watched the channels flash past
  until Gregory Peck's face appeared the screen. "Roman Holiday," he said
  off-hand, like it was just an observation, not an invitation to stay and
  watch the movie with him.
  
  She leaned over her belly to feel his forehead, and switched into doctor
  mode. "Are you feeling all right, Mulder?  You're not acting like
  yourself.  Sit up and let me look at you."
  
  "I'm okay, Scully.  You can go home.  If you want."
  
  "I'm a doctor.  Sit up."
  
  He sighed, swung his legs over the edge of the bed and submitted.  As
  she gave him the medical once-over, he stared past her, at the old movie
  on the television.  On the screen, a mortified Audrey Hepburn woke in
  Gregory Peck's bed the morning after, facing the repercussions of her
  ill-considered actions the night before.
  
  Stolen moments, ships in the night, star-crossed lovers, never-meant-to-
  be... Having happiness land in the palm of your hand like a butterfly,
  and being perfectly still, afraid to breathe, only to watch helplessly
  as it flitted away again.  He hated this movie: loneliness and quiet
  desperation disguised as a fairytale.  He stared at it anyway, like a
  dog watching the dryer spin.
  
  "Mulder, I don't see any signs of infection.  Let me see the incision. 
  Maybe-"
  
  She pulled the neck of his t-shirt lower, and, caught off-guard, he
  jerked back as she touched the scar.  Immediately, inside his head, he
  heard the silent, hollow sound of the space ship, then the distant whine
  of the saw.  He was there again: his wrists pinned down, and hooks
  pierced his cheeks, keeping his head still.  There was no getting away,
  no help, and no way to fight back.
  
  When the searing pain didn't come, the mechanical whine faded, and the
  movie dialogue and Scully's worried voice returned.
  
  "Mulder?"
  
  He realized he was cowering, with one arm shielding his face from some
  invisible machine.  
  
  "I didn't mean to startle you.  I wanted to make sure the incision's
  healing.  I shouldn't have been so brusque.  I'm sorry; I wasn't
  thinking.  Are you all right?"
  
  His heart thundered in his ears as he lowered his hand.  He exhaled, and
  then nodded. "I'm okay."
  
  "I'm not going to hurt you.  No one's going to hurt you.  You're safe."
  
  He nodded that he understood.
   
  She waited, watching him closely.  
  
  "You just surprised me," he mumbled. "That's all."
  
  She continued waiting.  He wasn't fooling her, and he knew it.
  
  "It's nothing.  Standard fight or flight." He pulled the neck of his t-
  shirt down, giving her a glimpse of the red scar. "It's fine, okay?  I'm
  just tired."
  
  "Okay," she conceded softly. "Lie down.  I'll bring you some water.  You
  need plenty of fluids."
  
  He sank down onto his pillow again, watching as she waddled away.  Ice
  cubes rattled, a faucet ran, and she returned, carrying a glass of ice
  water, which she sat on his night stand.  He thanked her, focusing on
  the boob tube and ignoring her scrutiny.  After a moment, she maneuvered
  herself awkwardly down on the edge of the mattress, careful not to touch
  him.
  
  "You're remembering, aren't you?" she asked softly, as if afraid to hear
  the answer. "I remember parts of my abduction, but you remember every
  bit of what They did, don't you?"
  
  He hesitated, then nodded slowly.  As he did, Scully looked like an
  arrow had just pierced her heart.
  
  She raised her hand, paused to make sure he saw it, and then stroked his
  battered cheek as she bit her lower lip white. "I searched for you.  I
  did.  I went to Arizona, tracking the ship that took you.  I knew the
  ship was in the desert, somewhere.  I knew They were hurting you; I
  could hear you screaming for me, but I couldn't find you... There was a
  bounty hunter -- I almost lost the baby, and by the time I got out of
  the hospital, the ship was gone.  It was too late.  I'm so sorry,
  Mulder."
  
  He stared at her numbly.  He knew she was reaching out to him, wanting
  reassurance, but her words seemed to pass through him like he was a
  sieve.  A facade, maybe -- something that looked solid and real, but
  wasn't.
  
  He wanted to be her Mulder again -- to crack wise and smirk and wear his
  heart on his sleeve and love her like she deserved to be loved.  That
  was the man she'd kept this apartment for, not the empty, shell-shocked
  stranger she'd brought home from the hospital.  Logically, he knew what
  post-traumatic stress was, but... She'd brought his body back, but he
  wondered if his soul had stayed among the dead.
  
  "I was so afraid I'd never see you again," she admitted hoarsely,
  putting one hand on her belly.
  
  "Here I am."
  
  She nodded slightly, her eyes shining with tears.
  
  He wanted to wipe them away, put his arms around her, and whisper the
  words that would make it all better. He wanted to tell her how much he
  loved her.  That he was grateful to her.  That he just needed time: to
  make sense of what had happened to him, and to process all that had
  happened in his absence.
  
  His lips parted, but no sound escaped the void inside him.  He stared at
  her face helplessly, then at her swollen abdomen.
  
  Four more weeks.
  
  He wanted to tell her that, regardless of how or why it had come to be,
  he'd be there for this baby. That he'd love it because it was part of
  her, and she could stop acting apologetic for getting pregnant without
  his expressed written permission.
  
  As her soft fingertips traced his face and ran through his hair, he
  looked up at her and asked dully, "Are we getting married?"
  
  She inhaled suddenly, and the stroking stopped. "Mulder," she started
  shakily. "I- Oh my God."
  
  "I know it sounds old-fashioned, but you're gonna have a baby,
  Scully..."
  
  She swallowed. "Would you be asking me if I wasn't?"
  
  "What I said earlier -- that I don't know where I fit in -- I don't.  I
  need you to tell me what you want.  I love you," he said hollowly. "I
  wanna do the right thing.  I'm just not sure what that is."
  
  She blinked rapidly, then looked away. "Please don't do this to me,
  Mulder.  Not right now.  You're here, you're alive: that's enough. 
  Don't do this."
  
  He sat up, catching her hand as she pulled it away. It was warm and
  steady, like a human lifeline. "Do what?  Scully, I'm-"
  
  "I know you're serious.  I know this isn't one of your standard post-
  concussive proposals.  But I also know why you're asking."
  
  She looked down, then up at his face, the first tear spilling out of the
  corner of her eye and making a glistening path down her cheek.
  
  "I-I-I didn't mean to make you cry."
  
  "Hormones," she said, then sniffed. "Some days, I cry at dog food
  commercials."
  
  He licked his lips nervously, then leaned forward and pressed them
  carefully to hers.  He put his hand on her cheek, stroking away the tear
  track with his thumb, his mouth brushing hers as he whispered that he
  was sorry.  Warmth seemed to flow from her skin to his, and he moved
  closer, craving more. He kissed her again, his body coming alive as if a
  wave had passed over it, washing away the memories of the ship and
  leaving him clean.
  
  "Mulder," she murmured, pausing and pressing her forehead to his. "Oh
  God.  You're really here."
  
  "I'm really here." He ran one hand through her hair, feeling the silk
  slipping between his fingers.  His other hand found her breast,
  exploring the new fullness. "I love you."
  
  "You were in my dreams," she whispered as he kissed down her neck. "Like
  you were here with me.  I'd close my eyes and you'd come.  Every night. 
  And then one night, you didn't, and I knew..." Her throat convulsed
  under his lips as she swallowed. "I knew what we'd find in Montana."
  
  "Shush," he hushed her. "I'm here now."
  
  She put her arms around his neck, holding him as close as she could.  He
  wanted to be closer.  He wanted to press his skin against hers and let
  the life inside her fill him, the way his body had filled hers to create
  this baby.
  
  "Take this off," he asked, gathering up her sweater and preparing to
  pull it over her head.
  
  "Wait," she whispered breathlessly, pulling back a few inches. "We, we
  can't.  You're not up to this."
  
  "I think I am," he said, starting to guide her hand to his groin.
  
  "I'm pregnant."
  
  "I don't care."
  
  "Mulder, I can't.  I would.  But I can't.  When I said the baby's fine,
  that's not exactly true.  There have been some problems.  I-I can't do
  this."
  
  "It could hurt the baby?"
  
  She nodded, licking her kiss-swollen lips.  
  
  He couldn't tell if she was telling the truth or not.  Regardless, he
  sat back against the headboard, embarrassed. "Sorry."
  
  She studied her lap intently, her face flushed and her hair mussed.  The
  light from the television played across her skin, and the movie's
  characters bantered in the background.  Mulder watched her for a moment,
  looking for some cue, then went back to staring at the TV screen, not
  really seeing it.
  
  "We just can't catch a break, can we, Scully?"
  
  She tucked her hair behind her ears without looking at him. "You do need
  to rest," she said, starting to get up. "I'll let you rest."
  
  "Will you stay?  While I sleep?"
  
  "Of course.  I'll be in the next room.  I want to-"
  
  "Will you stay with me?"
  
  She studied him sadly, then nodded, toed off her shoes, and lowered
  herself onto the mattress, her head on the other pillow.  The handful of
  times she'd spent the night at his apartment, it had been her pillow. 
  It must have been his imagination, but he could have sworn, even after
  so many months, that it still smelled like her.
  
  As they lay there, Scully watched the television, and he watched the
  back of her head.  On the screen, Gregory Peck and Aubrey Hepburn
  embarked on a tour of 1950's Rome, savoring life and teetering on the
  edge of falling in love. She was a runaway princess in search of
  adventure; he was an average guy -- a combination doomed from the start. 
  At the end of their day together, they return to their lives with only
  fond memories of their secret time together.  
  
  "Peck's miscast," he commented, searching for something to say. "Cary
  Grant would have been perfect.  Grant could have salvaged this."
  
  "I like it the way it is," she said sleepily, then yawned. "It's a
  fairytale, Mulder."
  
  He scooted closer, fitting the front of his body against the back of
  hers.  The few nights they'd spent together, this was how they'd slept:
  curled together like spoons.  He started to rest his hand on her belly,
  but instead carefully laid it on her hip.  She didn't tell him to move
  it.
  
  "A fairytale with an unhappy ending," he responded, raising his head to
  kiss her cheek.
  
  "Casablanca, Dr. Zhivago, Romeo and Juliet... The best love stories
  don't have happy endings," she reminded him.
  
  "Right," he mumbled, returning his head to his own pillow and closing
  his eyes.
  
  ****
  
  She believed it was the spaceship on the beach in Africa: that it had
  the power to heal, and exposure to it had healed the damage done to her
  reproductive system during her abduction.  She believed her baby was the
  product of their night together in March: a human child conceived by two
  human parents.  
  
  She painted her spare bedroom pale yellow and put up a Winnie the Pooh
  border.  She bought baby clothes and a rocking chair and a bassinet. 
  When he arrived to put the crib together, he discovered she'd done it
  herself, unable to wait.  Afterward, she stood in the doorway and looked
  at the ready nursery, smiling as she stroked her heavy abdomen.  She was
  as happy as he'd ever seen her.
  
  Despite the mounting evidence, he couldn't take that from her.  He
  couldn't tell her his fears: that the baby she carried was the product
  of a laboratory -- yet another child born to die or to further an
  agenda.  He believed its conception was a miracle, but not the type she
  desperately wanted it to be.
  
  ****
   
  "Mulder," Scully said again, and he turned, putting on his grin and
  raising his brows in an expression of rapt interest. "Are you in there?"
  
  "Right here."
  
  She reached for his hand, needing help to get to her feet.  Around them,
  the other couples were getting up, dusting off their clothes, and
  collecting their pillows.  Some were chatting, some were exchanging e-
  mail addresses and promising baby photos.  The instructor was making the
  rounds, thanking them for coming.  It was their last Lamaze class; they
  were supposed to know what to do now.
  
  "Class is over.  We can go," Scully told him, rolling the kinks out of
  her back.
  
  "Oh.  Okay."
  
  "Feed me, Mulder," she requested as he followed her to the car,
  dutifully carrying their pillows.  When they stopped beside the
  passenger door, he bumped into her belly, forgetting it would be between
  them.
  
  "You're not serious?" he responded when she told him what she wanted.
  
  "It's called a craving," she informed him, fastening her seatbelt. "It's
  perfectly normal.  And there's one on the way home."
  
  He started the engine as he shook his head slowly in disbelief. "Okay. 
  Taco Hell it is."
  
  "With extra sour cream," she added a few minutes later, as he stood in
  line and she maneuvered her belly into an empty booth.  
  
  It was kiddie night at Taco Hell.  In front of him was a harried mother
  of an unruly half-dozen, trying to get her brood to agree on what they
  wanted.  And behind him was a weekend-warrior father with a young son,
  going over the boy's preliminary demands for Santa.  A preteen girl was
  trying to order with a coupon the clerk didn't recognize, so they had to
  get a manager.  As Mulder waited, all the voices and faces started to
  merge into an LSD-like neon jabber, getting progressively louder and
  closer.
  
  The manager's keys clattered as she dropped them on the counter, and
  Mulder flinched.  One of Mother Hubbard's gaggle shrieked as her brother
  put ice down the back of her coat, and a refrigerator door in the
  kitchen closed, sounding eerily alien.  The drive-thru speaker squealed
  and crackled.  A roll of quarters smacked against the register drawer,
  and the boy behind him swung from the metal railing like a monkey.
  
  He couldn't do this.
  
  "You okay, mister?" the man behind him asked, and Mulder blinked at him
  stupidly.  The man gestured to the register. "She wants to take your
  order.  Tell her what you want."
  
  From the other side of the restaurant, Scully was watching him, looking
  worried.
  
  He heard his voice ordering, then moved down, keeping pace with his
  orange plastic tray, and a little surprised when someone put food on it. 
   
  "What did you get?" Scully asked as he arrived at their booth, sliding
  in across from her.  
  
  He looked at the wrappers, trying to remember.  Nothing, it seemed. "I
  ate earlier," he lied.
  
  Mother Hubbard's brood was fighting over their food, and she was trying
  to referee, without much success.  On a dare, one boy dropped a packet
  to the floor, then stomped on it, sending a graceful arc of mild sauce
  several feet in the air.  He got his butt smacked, and was left to pout,
  screaming that he hated his mother, wasn't eating, and would rather
  starve to death.
  
  The young father and son were at a nearby table, with the son
  complaining his taco shell was broken in two, making it inedible.  The
  father tried to reason, but the boy sat, crossing his arms, shoving out
  his lower lip, and sullenly refusing.  In desperation, the weekend
  warrior dad carried the taco back to the counter, waiting to exchange
  it.
  
  He couldn't do this.  Mulder's father would have already slapped both
  boys, and Mulder's hand was itching to do the same. There would be no
  reasoning, no cajoling. "Your mother cooked this dinner.  Sit down, shut
  up, and eat it, damn it," he wanted to scream, like his father had a
  thousand times.
  
  "Mulder..." Scully said uncertainly, and the world started closing in.
  
  If her child was what she believed it was, he couldn't be a father to
  it.  Not a good one.  He couldn't even stand her yappy little dog.  And
  if her child wasn't what she believed it was, if it was some experiment,
  he couldn't watch her go through that again, either.  He couldn't go
  through that again.  He couldn't be strong for Scully while he watched
  another child suffer and die.
  
  "I can't do this.  I'm sorry.  I-I can't," he stammered, barely able to
  get the words out before he stood and rushed outside, into the cold,
  desperate for silence and air.
  
  He leaned against the rear bumper of her car, too embarrassed to meet
  her eyes as she emerged from the restaurant. She waited for a minivan to
  pass as she shrugged on her coat, but the driver saw her belly and waved
  for her to cross in front of him, giving Mulder a "what kind of asshole
  can't wait for a pregnant woman" look.
  
  "I'm sorry," he repeated over the noise and exhaust from the cars. "I
  love you.  You know I do.  I'd do anything for you, and I'm trying so
  hard, but I just can't-"
  
  "It's okay," she assured him. "You've been through a lot.  Just take
  some time."
  
  "But I don't have time," he yelled at her. "I have two weeks!"
  
  She took his hand, steadying it as it shook.  
  
  "I want this for you.  This baby," he mumbled, watching a plastic soda
  cup roll by, propelled by the unforgiving winter wind. "I swear I do,
  but-"
  
  "But you don't want it for you," she finished.
  
  He bit his lip and stared at the cold asphalt. "I'm trying.  I want to
  want it.  And, regardless, I want to be there for you.  It's just so
  fast, Scully.  I need someone to stop the world and let me get off,
  'cause otherwise I'm gonna jump."
  
  "Don't jump," she said lightly, then took a breath, trying to find the
  right words. "I know you got no choice in this.  I know it's not what we
  planned, or what you agreed to.  If you'd been here, we could have
  decided together, but you were gone, and then dead, Mulder, and I had to
  make a choice alone.  About what I wanted.  And I want this baby."
  
  He glanced at her from underneath his eyebrows. "And now I'm back."
  
  She smiled sadly. "Now you're back.  And I don't want you to feel like
  you have to change because of a choice I made.  You can't be something
  you're not.  And I don't want you to be.  That's not fair to you, and
  it's not what I expect."
  
  She didn't seem to register that if this child was theirs, it was a
  "damned if you do, damned if you don't" situation, and she no longer got
  to choose.  There was no "what's a little sperm between friends"
  contractual agreement.  They had a baby conceived through the time-
  honored wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am method of procreation.  Planned or
  unplanned, he wasn't walking away from his responsibility to this child,
  yet she seemed determined to absolve him of all accountability.  Her
  logic was like saying they'd always have Paris when they'd missed the
  train to Paris.
  
  And she wouldn't even consider the possibility that her baby was
  something other than a gift from God.  That, after all the nightmares
  they'd been through, in two weeks, a new one was about to begin. 
  
  He started to say something, then looked at her, one hand on her belly,
  with her face framed by the clear December sky, and glowing expectantly.
  
  He said nothing.
  
  ****
  
  Until Scully approached him about in vitro, he hadn't given much thought
  to having children.  In the abstract sense, he liked the idea, though
  he'd never felt an overwhelming desire to be a father.  During their
  blink-and-you'll-miss-it marriage, Diana hadn't wanted kids. A baby
  would have derailed her career, and she disliked the stickiness and
  clutter that went with being a parent.  After the divorce, he'd let the
  X-files take over his life, and, when the busybodies asked, said his
  work wasn't conducive to a family.
  
  Scully wanted a baby, though.  And, as floored and humbled as he'd been
  by her request, he wanted her to have it.  Her Baby.  He had several
  misgivings, but the greatest was the potential danger to the child if it
  could be linked to him.  In the scenario she proposed, his contribution
  would be anonymous, limited to DNA and being her best friend.  His name
  wouldn't appear in the medical records or on the birth certificate. 
  Mulder would always be there when she needed him, but not as the baby's
  father.  People could speculate, but, for the child's sake, there'd be
  no proof.
  
  When Scully had said it, looking at him with those infinite blue eyes,
  it had sounded logical. Practical, even, if he didn't think too hard.
  
  When conception had involved a specimen cup, his greatest fear was that
  at some point in the child's life, someone would run a DNA analysis and
  discover Mulder was its biological father.
  
  His greatest fear now was that someone would discover that he wasn't.
  
  He wanted to believe her -- that her baby was normal -- but he couldn't. 
  There were fake ultrasounds and amniocenteses and lab results. There was
  Dr. Parenti with his freak show fetuses, doing God knows what to Scully
  for the first part of her pregnancy.  There were baby nurses giving her
  mystery pills and super-soldiers after her, and Krycek saying her child
  couldn't come to term.
  
  For her sake, he put his hand on her belly and tried to pretend, but
  whatever he felt moving inside her body wasn't normal.
  
  His instincts didn't realize that.  On a cognitive level, he understood
  that this was another violation of her body: the product of a test tube
  and medical rape.  Eight million years of male biology, however, failed
  to agree.  He'd made love to this woman, he loved this woman, and she
  was about to give birth.  Each time he looked at her heavy belly, his
  sense of possessiveness and protectiveness grew.  He wasn't content with
  a guardian angel; he wanted to surround her and her baby with a well-
  armed guardian army.  Whatever was inside her, it was theirs, damn it --
  or at least, it should have been -- and he'd gladly die to make sure she
  got to keep it.   
  
  He squinted into the headlights and shoved his way through a sea of
  creatures that looked human, but weren't.  They were all around him:
  dozens, maybe hundreds of super-soldiers, swarming the rural Georgia
  town like hungry insects.  He screamed, demanding to know where Scully
  was and what they'd done to her, but got no response.  They moved past
  him, emotionless machines oblivious to anything but their purpose: to
  find and destroy Scully's baby.
  
  He found Agent Reyes' rental car with the key in the ignition and the
  hood cold.  He scanned the run-down buildings, looking for a safe house,
  someplace she and Scully could have hidden or barricaded themselves
  inside.  All he saw was a ghost town, populated with the alien ghosts of
  what had once been men and women.
  
  He screamed Scully's name and heard his hoarse voice echoing off the
  wooden buildings, mocking him, until it faded to nothing.  As he opened
  his mouth the yell again, Reyes called to him from the doorway of one of
  the old buildings, telling him Scully needed to get to a hospital.
  
  Not Scully and the baby.  Just Scully.
  
  He paused, watching helplessly as the super-soldiers moved away.  They'd
  come for the baby and, if they were leaving, they'd already gotten it.
  
  He was too late.
  
  "Mulder," Agent Reyes repeated urgently.
  
  He was too late.
  
  "Mulder!"  
  
  His heart restarted, beating out of habit and propelling his body
  forward.  He stepped past Reyes and into a room lit only by a few
  candles.  Dusty sheets covered most of the furniture, and cobwebs
  covered the rest.  The windowpanes that weren't broken out were covered
  with yellow grime.  The whole building looked like something time and
  modern hygiene forgot.
  
  "This is where you brought her?" he yelled at Reyes over the turmoil of
  helicopter blades and car engines outside. "You were supposed to protect
  her.  What the hell is wrong with you?" 
  
  "They came for the baby.  The super-soldiers.  They were here when she
  gave birth.  I couldn't stop them-" Reyes tried to explain.
  
  "Where is she?" he demanded, cutting her off.
  
  Reyes pointed.
  
  Scully was alone on a small bed near a wood-burning stove, looking pale
  and disoriented.  When she turned her head toward him, her eyes were
  glassy. Perspiration had soaked her hair and the t-shirt she wore, and
  there were tear tracks down her cheeks.
  
  "Mulder..." she mumbled.
  
  "I'm here.  And I'm gonna get you out of here," he promised, and she
  nodded slightly.  He gathered her up, sheets and all, as she made a
  token effort at putting her arms around his neck. "There's a chopper
  outside; I'm gonna get you to a hospital. It's going to be okay."
  
  There was a wadded pile of bloody towels on the floor beside the bed,
  and a flat place where her belly had been two days ago.
  
  He didn't think it was going to be okay ever again.
  
  "There's blood," he called to Reyes, noticing the bed as he picked
  Scully up. 
  
  In the shadows, Reyes was hurriedly wrapping something in a towel,
  preparing to put it in a trash bag.  As she did, Mulder got a glimpse of
  dark, wet tissue.  He'd assumed the super-soldiers had taken the baby,
  but perhaps they hadn't.  Perhaps they'd accomplished their mission and
  left the body behind.  He froze, holding Scully and staring at it,
  trying to find some identifiable form.
  
  "Stop that," he ordered her loudly, getting his mouth to function again.
  "It's not trash.  Don't put it in the trash."
  
  "It's the placenta.  She said to save it, to let the doctor examine it. 
  I don't know what else to do with it." She paused. "Did you want to see
  it?"
  
  He shook his head.  He didn't want to see it, and he didn't want it near
  him.  So long as it wasn't the baby, he didn't care what she did with
  it.
  
  Scully was deadweight in his arms, like a sleeping child.  As he shifted
  her, trying to get a secure grip, she mumbled his name. "I'm here.  It's
  okay," he assured her.
  
  Outside, the last of the cars disappeared over the horizon, leaving the
  abandoned town dark except for the lights on the helicopter.  Mulder
  ducked to avoid the spinning blades, then maneuvered Scully into the
  helicopter.  There were seats, but he sat on the floor, pulling Scully
  onto his lap.  Her head lolled against his shoulder, and she started to
  shiver.  He pulled the sheet around her as best as he could, then took
  off his jacket and draped it over her.
  
  "Hospital," he yelled at the pilot, who was staring at Scully,
  dumbfounded. "Now!"
  
  "What happened to her?"
  
  "Nothing, compared to what'll happen to you if you don't get her to a
  doctor," Mulder threatened.
  
  "Go," Reyes ordered, climbing in and slamming the chopper door one-
  handed.
  
  "This isn't a Medevac," the pilot argued. "It's a short-range charter."
  
  Mulder shifted, pulled the Glock 9mm from the holster on his hip, and
  pointed it at the pilot.  When the man continued staring at them, Mulder
  pulled the hammer back to half-cock for emphasis. 
  
  "Now it's a Medevac," Mulder informed him.
  
  The pilot's Adam's apple bobbed before he turned to the controls.  The
  engine whined, and the helicopter rose into the cool blackness, leaving
  Democrat Hot Springs, Georgia behind.
  
  "It's gonna be okay," Mulder assured her again, as he lowered the pistol
  and tucked his jacket tighter around her shoulders. "Just hold on."
  
  In the cockpit, the nervous pilot was on the radio, explaining the
  situation to the closest hospital and asking permission to land.  Every
  few minutes, he'd glance back at Scully, then at Mulder, then push the
  chopper a little faster.
  
  Scully's teeth started to chatter, and she shivered violently.  When he
  shifted her, trying to make her more comfortable, there was blood on the
  hand he'd had beneath her legs. "Hold on, Scully," he begged, pushing
  her wet hair back from her face.  He kissed her forehead, then held her
  against him tightly.
  
  "Find something to keep her warm," he commanded Agent Reyes. "Is there a
  blanket?  What's that?" he demanded, reaching for the bunch of towels
  she'd brought in addition to the plastic bag containing the placenta.
  
  "It's the baby," she answered. 
  
  He blinked, stunned, then lowered his hand.
  
  "Do you want to see him?" she offered, starting to unfold the towels she
  held.
  
  "No," he said quickly.  No, he didn't want to see a dead baby.  And he
  didn't want Scully to see it, either. "No, keep it over there."
  
  She furrowed her brow and leaned forward. "Skin to skin contact
  immediately after birth is an important part of the bonding process. 
  Maybe if you would just hold him-"
  
  "I said no."
   
  She sat back, bouncing the bundle disapprovingly.
  
  He stared at the towels for a moment, and then looked down, watching
  Scully instead.  She opened her eyes, trying to focus on him.  He kissed
  her forehead again, then her cool lips, and rested his face against
  hers.
  
  "...came for the baby, Mulder," she mumbled.
  
  "I know They did.  I tried to stop them.  I tried," he answered.  A tear
  slipped from the corner of his eye and trickled along his cheek until it
  met her skin. "I'm so sorry."
  
  "Twenty minutes," the pilot called. "Just stay cool back there, okay?"
  
  The helicopter sliced through the night, its rotors whirling above them
  and its engine droning.  Far below, a few cold lights littered the
  blackness.  A truck stop, or a small cluster of farmhouses, maybe. It
  looked like someplace innocent and warm and normal.  Someplace they
  weren't.
  
  Mulder kept his head down, his arms around Scully, and his eyes squeezed
  shut, trying to block out the rest of the world. He felt her chest
  rising slightly as she breathed, and the slow, patient thud of her heart
  beneath her breast. "I love you," he said hoarsely. "So much, baby."
  
  "...a boy," she said, barely audible in the noisy helicopter.
  
  "I know.  Agent Reyes told me." He cupped the back of her head with his
  palm, covering it protectively.
  
  "He's beautiful, Mulder," she mumbled, starting to fade in and out of
  consciousness. "Did you see him?"
  
  "Yeah," he lied.  He raised his head and stroked her hair as he watched
  the endless stars swirl past the window. "It's gonna be okay," he
  repeated numbly. "We're gonna be okay," he promised.
  
  ****
  
  Despite Skinner's wheeling and dealing, it took most of the next day to
  convince the chopper pilot to drop the charges against Mulder, and a
  little longer to convince the local police.  When he was an FBI Agent,
  waving a gun around and demanding a private helicopter take him where he
  wanted to go was called "commandeering." The police who'd been waiting
  for Mulder at the hospital had called it "hijacking."
  
  Whatever Skinner had offered or threatened, after a day or so, the
  incensed pilot relented, and police returned Mulder's jacket,
  wristwatch, wallet, gun, and shoelaces, and let him walk out of the
  station, alone, and fade into a cold Georgia night.
  
  Skinner also managed to finagle a seat for him on a redeye flight to DC,
  so Mulder sat wedged in with the other travelers and stared out the
  window of the plane.  As they circled Washington National Airport, dawn
  was breaking, a violet thief stealing across the horizon.  The plane
  lurched as it touched down, bounced twice on the runway, and rolled to a
  stop.
  
  Three days ago he'd raced to catch a flight at the same gate, desperate
  to reach Scully before someone or something else did.  Seventy-two hours
  later, he'd come full circle, returning to the same terminal, the same
  plasticized woman behind the counter, and the same bleak December sky
  hanging lethargically over Washington.
  
  In three days, nothing and everything had changed.
  
  He wasn't sure how he felt about Scully's baby.  If he felt about it. 
  He felt nothing, really.  Empty.  Like life was holding its breath,
  waiting for some signal before it exhaled and continued.
  
  The last time he'd seen Scully or her son, it had been amid the chaos of
  doctors and nurses on the helipad two days ago.  The police had yelled
  at him to lay Scully on the gurney and back away, hands in the air,
  which he had.  As they'd cuffed him, Agent Reyes tried to intervene, but
  he'd yelled at her not to.  To go with Scully.  Reyes had hesitated,
  then turned and hurried after the gurney.
  
  The officers had deemed he was resisting arrest and shoved Mulder
  facedown on the landing pad, so he couldn't see what happened to the
  baby.  He'd heard it crying, though.  When he'd called from jail,
  Skinner was uncharacteristically uninformed, saying only that Scully and
  the baby were stable and being transferred back to DC so her OB/GYN
  could examine the baby.  When Mulder asked why, Skinner had said
  something about a "high risk pregnancy" that hadn't sounded convincing.
  
  When the police had released him, he hadn't called Scully because it was
  the middle of the night and he didn't want to wake her. Morning had
  broken, though, so that excuse didn't work anymore.  Between the airport
  and the hospital, he had picked up his cell phone a few hundred times,
  his finger poised to dial, then put it down again.
  
  He leaned against the window of the neonatal nursery at Washington
  Memorial Hospital, forearms against the glass, and studied the baby in
  isolette number four.  It was wrapped in a blue-striped blanket and a
  knit cap covered its head, so all Mulder could see was a miniature face. 
  Fastened to the bottom of little plastic bed was a tag reading "Scully." 
  
  He pressed his palm against the cool window, watching closely for any
  sign that something was wrong.  The super-soldiers hadn't taken it, and
  hadn't killed it, so something had to be wrong.  Abnormal.  If the baby
  were sick, though, it would be in the NICU, not the regular nursery. 
  They'd have monitors and machines all over it.  Then again, Emily hadn't
  been sick, either.  Not at first.
  
  After a several minutes of watching, he noticed something; the nurses
  were moving around, tending to the other infants, but none came near
  Scully's son.    
  
  "This baby," he asked as one of the women exited the nursery.  He
  blocked her path, pointing at the window. "The boy.  Dana Scully's baby. 
  What's- No one's touching it.  Is it being isolated?  What's wrong with
  it?"
  
  The nurse's eyes gave him the once-over, making sure he had a visitor's
  pass attached to his rumpled shirt. "He's sleeping.  There's nothing
  wrong; we just try not to disturb the babies while they're sleeping. 
  Are you a friend of Ms. Scully's?"
  
  Mulder nodded. "You're certain it's fine?  There's nothing abnormal? 
  They've run tests?"
  
  "He's fine.  Perfectly healthy.  Considering what they've been through,
  he and his mother are both doing fine," she assured him. "Ms. Scully's
  only allowed one visitor at a time, and I think her mother's with her
  now.  You're welcome to wait, though, if you'd like to see her."
  
  "I'll wait," he agreed, turning back to the window.  
  
  "I can show you to the waiting room."
  
  "I'll wait here," he said without looking away from the isolette.
  
  The scenarios circled his brain like scavengers, looking for any
  vulnerability.  Maybe the nurse was lying, and the baby was sick.  Or
  there might be something wrong that the tests couldn't detect, something
  that wouldn't show up until later.  Or maybe this wasn't Scully's baby. 
  Maybe, in all the confusion, someone had switched infants.  It could be
  a clone.  A hybrid.  A genetically engineered thing created as a pawn to
  control them.
  
  Or maybe it was a normal, human child conceived by two human parents. 
  Staring at the baby, he didn't know which possibility frightened him
  more: that it was Scully's or that it wasn't.
  
  As if aware he was being watched, the baby yawned, shifted so one fist
  escaped the blanket, and opened his blue eyes.  He looked around,
  silently, serenely acquainting himself with his new world.
  
  It had always been an abstract concept: "her baby." An idea, a goal, an
  outcome.  Something to protect, something that might come between them,
  something that made Scully happy.  It had always been an "it," but this
  was flesh and blood.  Their flesh and blood, or at least, a remarkable
  facsimile.
  
  A chill ran down Mulder's spine, reversed, and sent shivers through his
  body.  Despite his fears, he wanted to believe that they'd done this:
  his body and hers.  Before that night together, this being hadn't
  existed, and now, by whatever means and for whatever reason, it did. 
  They'd created a life.
  
  He felt the layer of ice inside him start to thaw, falling away from his
  heart in painful chunks, and letting some feeling return.  For the first
  time, he let hope begin to flicker inside him: that it really would be
  okay.  That the baby would be okay.  That they -- he and Scully -- would
  be okay, somehow.
  
  "Hi," he told the infant softly, through the glass.
  
  "You know, it's very important for a child to have two parents," the
  nurse said, startling him. "Aside from financial security, it gives the
  child access to the father's medical history.  If something would happen
  to the father, the child will be eligible for survivor's benefits.  And
  it gives the child a vital sense of stability and acceptance -- to have
  legal proof of the father's identity."
  
  Mulder turned his head, looking at her.
   
  "Also, it gives the father a legal say in decisions about his child,"
  she continued easily. "Regardless of his relationship with the mother. 
  Establishing paternity is a simple procedure.  The father just needs to
  show photo ID and sign a form."
  
  "Okay," he agreed.  If she'd said it was vital to Scully and the baby
  that Mulder hit himself in the head with a sledgehammer, he'd have done
  it. "Do I need to do that?"
  
  "You can.  It's called a Declaration of Paternity.  Would you like me to
  get the form?"
  
  "Okay," he repeated.
  
  She returned to the nursery, and he watched as she spoke to a second
  nurse, gesturing to Mulder, then to the baby.  There was a short
  conversation he couldn't hear, and then the second nurse returned to the
  hallway, looking uncomfortable.
  
  "I'm Marie.  I've been taking care of Dana and her son since they
  arrived," she introduced herself. "I was told you're a friend of Dana's,
  and that you're wanting to establish paternity?"
  
  "The other nurse said there was a form." 
  
  She paused uncertainly. "It's my understanding that Dana's choosing not
  to reveal the father's identity.  That she's a single, professional
  woman who wanted a child, and both she and the biological father wish to
  keep the baby's paternity anonymous."
  
  "Oh." He exhaled, deflating.  The candle inside him guttered, starved of
  oxygen, and died silently.
  
  "We want to establish paternity in cases where the father will be
  contributing to the support of the child and involved in its life, but
  when he's not... I just don't want anyone acting against Dana's wishes. 
  Do you understand?"
  
  "Yeah, I understand." He nodded slightly, then swallowed. "I understand. 
  Sure.  The other nurse asked, so I thought..." He trailed off, gesturing
  to his ignorance. "I don't know what I was thinking.  Never mind."
  
  "Dana's resting right now.  Why don't we wait until she's awake and ask
  what she wants to do?  Maybe I misunderstood."
  
  Mulder pushed off the window, then shoved his fists in his jacket
  pockets. "No, you didn't," he said simply. "Thank you."
  
  "Do you want to wait and talk to Dana?"
  
  "I'll call her."
  
  "Do you want me to tell her you were here?"
  
  He shook his head, then turned and walked toward the elevator,
  unfastening his visitor's badge as he went.
  
  ****
  
  Agent Doggett was right; it did end.  His quest: a life spent alone,
  tilting at windmills and chasing monsters with a butterfly net.  It did
  end.  
  
  It had to, someday.
  
  He'd done what he set out to do; he'd found Samantha.  And he'd found
  The Truth on numerous occasions, only to have it crumble to dust between
  his fingers.  He'd lost his family and career and life -- also on
  numerous occasions.  And there was nothing left except a few scars, the
  nightmares, a stack of old files, and a collection of farfetched stories
  nobody believed.  
  
  And Scully.  
  
  And Scully's baby.  
  
  He was Agent Nobody, and he'd reached a dead end on the road to Nowhere.
  
  He sat in his car in the hospital parking garage, his thumb poised over
  the "send" button on his cell phone.  He drummed his fingertips on the
  steering wheel, took a deep breath, and finally pushed it.
  
  Scully's mother answered, then passed the receiver to Scully, who
  answered with a groggy, "Hello."
  
  "Hey," he said softly. "How're you doing?"
  
  He heard the hospital bed shift as she scooted up. "Good.  Better. 
  They're talking about discharging me tomorrow morning."
  
  He chewed his lower lip before he asked, "And the baby?"
  
  "He's fine.  He's ready to go home; they're letting him stay in the
  hospital so he can be with me."
  
  "Is he there now?" he asked, knowing he wasn't.
  
  "He's in the nursery for a little bit.  He just nursed, and I was hoping
  to get a nap and a shower while he's asleep."
  
  "I should probably let you go, then."
  
  "No, it's okay," she said quickly. "How are you?  I heard you had a run-
  in with Georgia's finest."
  
  He shrugged a shoulder she couldn't see. "Skinner took care of it."
  
  "He said he would. Are you okay? Where are you now?"
  
  He looked at the front of Washington Memorial Hospital across the street
  and answered, "Atlanta.  I'll be in DC in a few hours.  Do you need me
  to pick you up at the hospital in the morning?"
  
  "Mom's here.  She's going to drive us home and get us settled in."  
  
  "What about something from the store?  Do you need diapers?  Groceries? 
  A college fund?" Me. "I can drop it by.  Save you the trouble."
  
  "I think Mom has everything under control.  She's in full grandmother
  mode."
  
  "And driving you insane?"
  
  She laughed softly. "Maybe."
  
  "Say the word, G-woman, and I'll spring you from the joint.  We'll ride
  off into the sunset together."
  
  She paused, then offered, "Why don't you just come by and see us
  tomorrow afternoon?"
  
  "I can do that," he agreed. "I'll let you get some rest.  See you
  tomorrow."
  
  "Okay," she responded. "I'll see you then."
  
  "See you then," he said, and pushed "end," then let the phone drop onto
  the passenger seat of his car. He stared at it for a moment, then
  started the engine and backed out of the parking space.
  
  ****
  
  He was Special Agent Fox Mulder: a profiler whose career had taken a U-
  turn when he'd discovered a series of unsolved, unexplained crimes filed
  away in the basement of the Hoover Building.  Those files became an
  obsession: to prove the truth, to uncover what the government was
  hiding.  To find his sister.  Over the years, he'd become so driven that
  there was little room in his life for anything else.  It was all about
  his work.  He had few friends, fewer lovers, and spent too much time
  alone.  He couldn't say he liked it that way, but he could barely
  remember a time when it was different.
  
  She was Special Agent Dana Scully: a brilliant forensic pathologist
  assigned to the X-files to hold his feet to the fire of science.  She
  was loyal, professional, and not inclined to take much of his bullshit. 
  She was a small, pretty woman in a man's profession -- call her "honey"
  and she'd kick your ass three ways from Sunday, then verbally emasculate
  you using big words you didn't understand.
  
  Mulder and Scully: kicking paranormal ass and taking conspirators'
  names.  Best friends, marginal lovers, allies, and polar opposites.  It
  was the two of them against the rest of the world, and, except for a few
  setbacks, it had been that way for most of a decade.  
  
  Just over a year had passed since they'd kissed on New Year's Eve,
  tentatively testing the boundaries and exploring that elusive "something
  more." It had been almost twelve months since his mother's death, the
  end of his search for Samantha, and the first time he and Scully had
  sexual intercourse -- a bittersweet act of comfort and obligation on his
  cold living room floor.  Making love had come a later: surrendering to
  the night and kindling a fire that had threatened to burn out of control
  in the dawn.  He'd welcomed the flames; she'd shied away.  And they'd
  started over, taking it slow, feeling their way.  They had all the time
  in the world.
  
  Suddenly, in what seemed like a few weeks, he was dead, then he wasn't,
  the X-files were gone, then he was out of the Bureau, and then there was
  William.  One night together in March, one trip to Oregon in early May,
  and he'd returned from the grave to find someone had secretly replaced
  their regular lives with Folgers Crystals.
  
  Like Archimedes, with a place to stand and Scully beside him, he could
  move the world.  He was just having some trouble finding his footing.
  
  Without knocking, he used the key she'd given him years ago to unlock
  her front door.  The apartment was dim and quiet and smelled faintly of
  baby bath and shampoo.  The muddy running shoes he'd toed off beside the
  welcome mat that morning had been moved, and his coffee mug was drying
  in the dish drain along with a few dishes.  The vacuum had been run, and
  the ever-encroaching collection of baby paraphernalia had been corralled
  in a central location.
  
  He kept saying he was there to help, that it wasn't her job to clean up
  or look after him.  Inevitably, the minute his back was turned, she did
  it anyway.
  
  He dropped his duffle bag of clean clothes beside the sofa, tucked the
  stuffed animal under his arm, and headed for Scully's bedroom.  She was
  on the bed, wearing her robe, with her wet hair combed back.  William
  was beside her with a drop of milk lingering on his lower lip.  Scully's
  hand rested on his belly as they dozed.
  
  Mulder watched them, then silently pulled the blanket up so it covered
  her hips. "It's me," he assured her when she started to open her eyes.
  
  "Umm," she said in acknowledgment, then yawned. "I was just getting up,"
  she added without moving.   
  
  "Don't.  I can get him.  Is he ready for bed?"
  
  She nodded slightly.
  
  He moved William to the bassinet in the living room, laying him on his
  side.  As the baby settled in, Mulder turned off the lamp on the end
  table and left the stuffed Snuffaluffagus to stand guard.
  
  "Did you buy that for him?" Scully asked sleepily, and Mulder turned to
  find her watching him from the bedroom doorway.
  
  He shrugged one shoulder. "I saw it in the store window and figured
  every boy needs a Snuffy."
  
  "Right.  Every boy needs a nonexistent, unhealthy, depressed projection
  of Big Bird's psyche.  You think that's appropriate for a small child?" 
  
  "I-I just thought-" He started to defend himself, then saw she was
  smiling gently. "You're a party pooper sometimes, Scully."
  
  "Umm," she responded noncommittally, then turned and ambled back to bed.
  "I spoke with A.D. Skinner this afternoon," she said. "About Quantico. 
  We're meeting tomorrow morning."
  
  "You're going back to work this soon?" he asked, trailing after her. 
  Her paid maternity leave was over in a few days, but she could take
  another six months of family leave.  Or, if she wanted, he could cash in
  a few of his father's stocks and she could stay home until William
  started kindergarten.
  
  "Maybe part-time," she answered. "In a few weeks.  He and I can talk
  about it."
  
  He thought about a dozen things, but "Oh," was all he managed to say.
  
  She settled her head on the pillow and adjusted the blanket, getting
  comfortable. "What did you do this afternoon?  See the Gunmen?"
  
  He shifted his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet, then back
  again, and then sat on edge of the mattress, making it dip slightly. "I,
  uh, did my laundry.  Fed my fish.  Picked up my mail.  Bought a Snuffy,
  obviously.  And a Volvo."
  
  She opened her eyes, looking at him quizzically.
  
  "A gray one," he added. "Leather, four cup holders, a billion airbags,
  and a built-in baby seat." 
   
  "You're serious?" she asked slowly. "A Volvo?"
  
  "A gray one.  I signed the lease an hour ago.  It's parked outside."
  
  "Mulder..." she said slowly, in her slightly perplexed, slightly
  disappointed voice. 
  
  "What?"
  
  She sat up, tucking her wet hair behind her ears. "A Volvo.  Really? 
  It's just so... Not you."
  
  "Not me?  What's wrong with it?  It's a very safe, reliable car."
  
  "I mean-" She paused again. "Are you sure it's what you want, Mulder?"
  
  "What I want?  It's mine.  It's a little late to back out now."
  
  "I guess it is," she responded softly.  Her lips parted like she wanted
  to say something else, but she didn't.  She lay down again, watching the
  wall instead of him.  
  
  All the things she wasn't saying were deafening.
  
  "What?" he asked, stretching out, uninvited, beside her on the bed.
  "Scully?"
  
  When she didn't answer, he stroked her face, not sure what was wrong.
  
  "You don't have to do this, Mulder," she said eventually. "It's like
  you're trying a little too hard.  Trying to be someone you're not or to
  prove something, and you don't have to.  You don't have to prove
  anything.  Not to me.  Not to William."
  
  His stomach tightened nervously. "Are you saying you don't want me here? 
  I was just trying to help out.  If I'm in the way, I can leave-"
  
  "No," she interrupted. "You're welcome to stay.  Or go," she added
  softly.
  
  "I don't understand.  What are you saying?  I need you to tell me what
  you want, Scully."
  
  "What about what you want?" She moved closer, tracing his face with her
  thumb. "You've been through so much..."
  
  "I can do this," he insisted. "I can.  I love you.  I want you to be
  happy.  Safe.  You and William, both.  I just need... A place to stand."
  
  "Like Archimedes?" she asked softly, and he nodded. 
  
  He closed his eyes, surrendering to the sensation.  Her warm lips
  brushed his as her fingers continued to caress: through his hair, over
  the thin skin of his eyelids, and down his cheeks.  Her touch was so
  delicate, like he was made of glass instead of flesh and bone.  
  
  "Do you wanna hear a bedtime story?" he asked quietly, and her pillow
  rustled as she nodded.
  
  "Pygmalion and Galetea," he murmured, moving his hand rest in the soft
  cradle of her waist. "Began as the star-crossed lovers of their era. 
  Pygmalion was a Greek sculptor: a lonely man cynical about love until
  one day he carved a beautiful woman out of marble.  In time, he fell
  deeply in love with his creation, dressing her and speaking to her if
  she was real, yet she wasn't.  She loved him, but she couldn't respond,
  only be there and let him love her.  Then one day, the Goddess Aphrodite
  took notice of their plight, and the next time Pygmalion kissed Galatea,
  her lips warmed and she came to life.  Not long after, their first son
  was born."
  
  There was no response, so he opened his eyes and found her face was
  inches from his, giving him her old skeptical eyebrow.
  
  "What?"
  
  "That bedtime story has some vaguely disturbing overtones of
  necrophilia, Mulder."
  
  Caught off guard, he laughed, relaxing.  In the living room, William
  mewed, and she raised her finger to her lips, hushing Mulder before
  their stolen time together came to an abrupt end.
  
  "Do you know what you just did?" she whispered once the baby was quiet
  again.
  
  "I almost woke William," he guessed.
  
  "You laughed.  I haven't heard you laugh for so long." She stroked his
  face again, then down his neck and shoulder. "It's nice."
  
  "I'm gonna be here, Scully.  I can do this.  I just need a place to
  stand.  And for you to love me," he whispered. "And keep loving me.  You
  never know what the gods will do."
  
  "I can do that," she promised. 
   
  ****
  
  End: Book IV