Book V: Just west of the sunset **** If their life together was a journey, they'd just reached the land past the edge of the map. And, in a strange way, ended up right back where they'd begun. The scientist and the believer, the skeptic and the dreamer, united on a quest to find the truth. And maybe, along the way, also find a little bit of peace. It was an old-fashioned tale of life, love, death, sex, loyalty, betrayal, Armageddon, destiny, and emotional dysfunction. That she remembered none of. His prayer, his mission, his mantra had been to find her. Take care of their son, but find Scully. For months that purpose had propelled him forward, grasping at straws and pushing his mind and body to the breaking point. Scully was out there, somewhere. He could feel her presence around him, calling to him, as seductive as a siren and as elusive as the fog. He could see her blue eyes when he looked at William and smell her skin when he pressed his face into her pillow. For months, he'd believed if he could just find her and put his arms around her, everything would be all right. He had found her, or rather, two weeks ago a nurse had found her unconscious outside an Allentown, Pennsylvania emergency room. Scully was there: alive, whole, awake, and barely five feet from him, yet it still seemed as if the road to happily-ever-after was permanently under construction. Mulder slouched against the windowsill, holding William as another red dawn rose from the horizon, like a phoenix from the ashes. Scully lay in bed, wearing a faded hospital gown and looking too small and pale against the scratchy white sheets. She focused on her plastic ID bracelet, turning it slowly to examine the pale purple print. It was her name, her social security number and blood type, but the world he was describing didn't exist for her. To her, it was early 1992. Her father and sister were still alive. George Bush was still president, Charles and Di were still married, and Johnny Carson was still hosting The Tonight Show. "You disappeared while undercover with another agent in a cult in Virginia," Mulder explained, choosing his words carefully. "In January 2001. There was a raid on the compound, and you vanished during the confusion. You've been missing since then. It's late April, now," he added in case no one had told her. "And you've been investigating this cult, Agent Mulder?" she asked. "Yes," he said softly. "And your abduction." She recognized his name from his monograph on Monty Props, but, to her, they'd never met. Special Agent Fox Mulder was a profiler with the Investigative Support Unit; Dr. Dana Scully was an instructor in the Forensic Science Research and Training Center. If she had ever heard of the X-files, it had been as a humorous anecdote over the coffeepot in the break room at Quantico. To her, there were no aliens, no abductions, no conspiracies, viruses, black oil, hybrids, or super- soldiers. To her, she'd never been assigned as his partner. They'd never spoken, solved a case, saved the world, fought, made up, made love, or had a child. Hello, my name is Fox Mulder. We used to sit next to each other at the FBI. She looked at him, then at William, who was holding Mulder's shirt with one wet fist and gnawing on the other, trying to assuage his sore gums. Mulder watched her for a sign of recognition, but there wasn't one. She seemed to assume he'd brought his infant son along because it was the middle of the night and he couldn't get a sitter. "I was abducted?" she asked finally. "Yes," he answered, hating that she was asking one question and he was answering another. "From the compound of The Church of the 13th Sign." "Ophiuchus," she said, more to herself than him. "Yes," he said again, the butterflies beginning to flutter in his stomach. "Do you remember?" "Ophiuchus is the 13th sign, Agent Mulder. Due to slight shifts in the Earth's orbit over thousands of years, the elliptic -- the sun's path across the sky -- actually passes through thirteen zodiac signs. From November 30th to December 17th, the Sun is in the house of Ophiuchus, the Serpent Bearer. Which invalidates claims that astrology has any sort of scientific basis or-" She paused, seeming puzzled at his sudden twisted grin. The butterflies in his belly were having a field day, and that tingling sensation trickled down his spine again, warming his tired body from the inside out. "What is it, Agent Mulder?" "Nothing," he responded, bouncing William and smiling nostalgically as he turned to look at the sunrise. "It's just very nice to have you back, Agent Scully." **** Retrograde amnesia was the neurologist's best hypothesis, though there was no evidence of a head injury. The psychiatrist leaned toward hysterical amnesia: the suppression of memory in reaction to a traumatic event. The nurses had collected trace evidence and done a rape kit, both of which had been fruitless. Aside from some muscular atrophy, the only physical abnormality was the remnants of branched DNA in her bloodstream, which the hematologist was at a loss to explain. And, in her x-rays, a mysterious metallic speck at the base of her skull. "Shrapnel, probably," the radiologist had assured her as Mulder stood by, silently studying the floor. "It shouldn't be causing memory loss." She'd been admitted as a comatose Jane Doe and woke twelve days later in the ICU, identifying herself as an FBI Agent and seeming weak but fairly coherent. It was when the hospital tried calling the phone numbers she gave as emergency contacts that the nurses began to suspect something was wrong. They'd assumed she was delusional, but after she insisted, the police ran "Dana Scully" through the NCIC database and found she was listed as a missing person, much to her and their surprise. Despite the warnings against upsetting her "fragile emotional state," as soon as she was strong enough to sit up, Scully wanted to see her chart. After that, she wanted to review the file on The Church of the 13th Sign, which, thanks to Kersh's legacy, was still a manila-encased bundle of misinformation. She quizzed Mulder about Ophiuchus and the raid, and she got that frustrated crease in the white skin between her brows each time he repeated the sanitized-for-her-protection version of events. An army of physicians told Scully to be patient, that her memory should return -- perhaps in increments, perhaps all at once. They said forty- eight hours, then seventy-two, but almost three weeks after her admission to Allentown General there was still a gaping hole in her life where Mulder, William, and the X-files had once been. When he returned to the hospital Sunday evening after a catnap, shower, and shave, she was sitting near the window, looking at the newspaper. Instead of a thin hospital gown, she wore the robe and slippers her mother had brought. Her hair was drying, and the smell of industrial soap and shampoo lingered in the air. Her dinner tray was on the small rolling table beside her, the food rearranged, but largely uneaten. "You're up," he observed neutrally. "It's good to see you out of bed." "Agent Mulder." She folded the paper and put it aside, then tucked her hair behind her ears and gave him that Mona Lisa smile as she said hello. "Mom helped. She just left; you missed her." "No, I saw her in the parking lot; she was headed back to her hotel," he said, telling her the truth in the same way O'Doul's was beer. "How are you feeling tonight?" "Good. Better. You're solo, Agent Mulder. Is the baby with his mother?" "No, she's-" He shook his head. "She's- No. William's with his grandmother tonight. Just for a few hours." "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to pry. You don't wear a wedding ring, and you keep him with you so much. I thought you might only have him for weekend visits." "No," he said, but didn't elaborate. She smoothed her hair again, seeming self-conscious, and he cleared his throat. Her room overlooked the darkening city, and Sirius was visible in the southern sky. Just over a year ago, he'd lain in bed with her, his arms around her bare body and their legs intertwined, looking out his window as she told him about the Dog Star. It was the brightest of all stars, twenty-three times brighter than the sun, she'd said as he'd stroked her hair. In myth, Sirius was Orion's hunting dog, and the Ancient Egyptians used it to predict the flooding of the Nile, she'd said, then raised her hand and pointed out the winter triangle: Sirius, Betelgeuse, and Canis Minor. He'd taken her wrist, kissed a path to her shoulder, and rolled her to her back again. That was the night they'd made William. Sirius had stood guard, watching over them until he sank into the horizon and Ophiuchus rose in the east. "Staring at me won't make me remember any faster," she said softly, jarring him back to reality. "Hum?" he asked, raising his eyebrows. "You were watching me again, Agent Mulder. Like I have all these secrets locked up inside me, and you just need to remember where you've left the key." "No, I- Uh- I was just looking outside," he lied. "Thinking. It's a pretty night." He couldn't tell if she believed that or if she was just being polite, but she turned her head, looking at the stars. "My father taught me the constellations," she said. "When I was a little girl, he taught me how sailors navigated by the stars. And the myths: Orion and Taurus and Gemini. The Crab and The Lion and The Dragon. I used to sit on the roof with him for hours, just looking at the night sky." He hesitated, then said, "Those sound like good memories." "Yes," she said softly. She watched the stars for a few more minutes and he pretended to watch with her, stealing occasional glances at her profile. "This afternoon, while you were gone, I asked Mom about my father," she told the window. "About why he hasn't come to the hospital or called. She said he was at sea and changed the subject, but I- I don't think she told me the truth." "What do you think?" he hedged. She continued to focus on the dark glass. "I think he's dead. I don't know it, but I feel it, somehow, like there's a hole inside me." He waited, not sure how to respond. "Either you can tell me, Agent Mulder, or I can check the death records. Am I right? Is he dead?" He nodded, though she wasn't looking at him. "He died in 1994. Just after Christmas. Of a heart attack. At his request, he was cremated and his remains were scattered into the sea." Two pained wrinkles appeared between her eyebrows. "How can I not remember that?" she asked hollowly. He didn't respond because he didn't have an answer. Not one he could tell her, anyway. The psychiatrist harped on hysterical amnesia being her mind's defense against the horror of her "kidnaping" and stressed that additional trauma could cause additional memory loss. As much as Mulder wanted to roll his eyes and say, "Dana Scully's never been hysterical in her life," it wasn't as if he had a better explanation. Or a better solution than just to wait. Even though the chip in her neck might be blocking her memories, it couldn't be removed. Or, if it was some form of brainwashing, he had no idea how to reverse it. Even if he laid out the events of the last decade for her, complete with slides and police reports, it wasn't the same. He could give her back facts, but not the essence of who she was. The richness of life was in the moments people forgot: the minor squabbles, the casual discussions, the ebb and flow of everyday living. That was what made her Scully: the little bits of life that were shaved off, swept up, thrown away, and lost over time. "Do you know Agent Jack Willis? Agent Mulder," she asked after a few strained minutes. "Since you seem to know everything else about my life?" "Scully-" he started. "I called Quantico. Obviously, he hasn't come to the hospital, but I thought... He gets caught up in his work, sometimes. The secretary said Jack was killed in 1994. That I was with him when he died." Her eyes started to shine, and she bit her lower lip white, shaking her head slowly. "But I don't remember." He squatted down in front of her chair, blocking her view of the sky. "Scully, stop. Please don't do this to yourself." "I don't remember anything about the cult: where I was held, what was done to me, anything that might help you find the people who took me," she said rapidly. "What if they're holding other women-" "Scully." He put one hand over hers. "Stop. You heard what the doctor said: don't force your mind; let the memories come back on their own. There's time. I can wait; we can wait. You..." He stopped, then added, "You can't go looking for answers you aren't ready to find." She wiped her eyes, regaining some of her self-control. "Did any other tragedies happen in 1994 that I should know about?" "There was a really bad Star Trek movie. And the World Series was canceled due to a players strike," he said. "I was in therapy for months." She sniffed and smiled sadly. "That's so pretty," he whispered, his face still close to hers. "When you smile like that." Caught off-guard, she inhaled, and then, for two breaths, held his gaze as the electricity crackled between them. She had to feel it, just as he did; she just didn't know why. When he started to move forward to kiss her, she moved back and looked away, wiping her eyes again, though she'd stopped crying. "Sorry," he said immediately, taking several steps back and leaning against the foot of the bed. He looked down, watching his loafers and fidgeting. When he stole a surreptitious glance, Scully was focused on the window again, her face expressionless. "I knew Agent Willis," he said eventually, shifting his hands against the bed. "Not well, but I'd met him. There was a shootout in a bank, and both Willis and a criminal named Warren Dupre were wounded. You were in the bank, but you weren't responsible for his death in any way. In fact, you did everything you could to save his life. You kept trying to get him back long after the ER docs wanted to give up." She showed no sign that she was even listening. He looked around her hospital room, searching for something neutral to talk about. His gaze stopped on the uneaten food on her tray. "That stuff looks hazardous to your health," he said more casually than he felt. "What if I find a wheelchair and we go for a roll down to the cafeteria? Whatever they're serving has to be more appetizing than this. I can't let my one and only witness starve to death." She nodded silently, but as he started to leave, said, "I remember Warren Dupre. I saw Jack doing this: become over-involved with the investigation. And with Dupre's victims. He knows- He knew them so well that he'd start to feel a kind of bond with them. A kind of intimacy." He stopped in the doorway, turned, and rested his hand lightly on the metal doorjamb. "Those feelings aren't real," she added quietly. "You're a profiler, Agent Mulder; you know that." He cleared his throat again, trying to dislodge the stubborn lump in it. "I'll go see about that wheelchair," he said. She nodded without looking at him. **** The shower in her hospital room was running when he arrived two mornings later, but the bathroom door was wide open. Though he knew he shouldn't, he glanced in the bathroom, expecting to see Scully's silhouette through the shower curtain. Instead, he noticed her standing in front of the mirror, staring at herself. "Scully?" Rather than answering, she turned her head, watching her reflection as it moved with her. There was a towel and robe hanging outside the shower, but she'd gotten only as far as unbuttoning her pajama top. Her hair was still dry, and was tousled from a restless night's sleep. "Scully?" he repeatedly worriedly, but she didn't look away. "Dana? Are you okay?" She ran her hands over her body, oblivious to him. Her expression was far away, like she was looking through the partially fogged mirror and seeing both the past and the future at once. "Are you remembering?" he asked softly and got no response. He stepped closer. "Scully?" As he watched, she touched the tops of her breasts, then her hips, and then pushed her hair back from her face as she turned from side to side again, looking at herself. Her hair was shorter and slightly brighter than she would have remembered, and there were fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Her breasts were softer and fuller; her hips were rounder. Her cheeks and collarbones were more pronounced: a hollowness she'd never lost after her cancer. She was thirty-seven, buffeted by time and tide into a strong, beautiful woman, but the Dana Scully she remembered had yet to reach thirty. She examined the changes with a scientist's eye. Her body must have seemed familiar, yet foreign, like someone else had lived in it for the last decade. Her fingers stopped on her abdomen and pushed aside her cotton pajama top, examining the puckered scar that marked her skin. "You were shot," he explained, stepping into the bathroom. "In 1999, you were shot by another agent in the line of duty." "What else, Agent Mulder?" she asked in a carefully even voice. The shower continued to drum against the tiles, and the steam eased out around the thin curtain. "Scully, the doctors said-" "What else?" she demanded. He moved so he stood behind her, looking at the reflection of the two of them in the mirror. "There are two scars on your neck." He raised his hand to indicate, close to her skin, but not touching. "A small one from your abduction, and one from a run-in with a cult in Utah in summer 2000. And you have a tattoo." His fingertips hovered over the small of her back. "Here. A tattoo of a snake eating its tail." "An ouroboros." He nodded and lowered his hand. "I don't remember," she said raggedly, her self-control beginning to slip. "You will. Just give yourself some time." "But what if I don't? What if I don't ever remember?" She stared at herself a little longer, then touched the sides of her belly, just above the waist of her pajama bottoms. There were faint red lines there -- the map from a journey he'd shared very little of. "I have stretch marks." He hesitated, then answered, "Yes." "I've given birth to a child. Fairly recently." "Yes." She traced the marks, then looked up, meeting his gaze in the mirror. "You aren't here just to investigate my abduction, are you, Agent Mulder?" He shook his head slowly from side to side. "Your son... William. Is that my baby?" He nodded. "Are you my husband? Are we married?" "No," he answered quietly. "No, you didn't want to get married." The mirror had fogged completely, offering only a hazy suggestion of who they were. "Do you love me?" she asked in a hoarse whisper. "You know I do." She took a breath and put her hands on the white sink, steadying herself. "I want to go home. Today. Do we have a home?" "You have an apartment in Georgetown. I have a place in Alexandria where I keep my fish, videos, and dirty laundry. After William came, I was staying with you." "And before that?" "Before that we worked together. We've been partners for more than eight years." She turned, looking up at him, but keeping one hand on the sink. "I want to go home." Her face was beginning to flush from the steam, and her messy hair was curling around her face. She was beautiful, but her eyes were tired. Adrift. "I'll take you home," he promised. **** Scully was under the mistaken impression that he had his shit together. He knew the pretty picture she was seeing: a star profiler and a forensic pathologist were assigned as partners, fell in love, and, getting a little ahead of themselves, had a child out of wedlock. Perhaps she'd had reservations about marriage, perhaps he had, but they were committed to each other and to their child. Suddenly, she was abducted, leaving the profiler to care for their infant son while he searched for her. After months, via his brilliance and heroism, he'd found her and they were going home -- headed down that long stretch of highway into the sunset in a gray Volvo with their baby in the back. It could be a Lifetime movie of the week. Despite her bravado about feeling better, Scully was asleep before they hit the Pennsylvania Turnpike and didn't wake until they were approaching Baltimore. Her mother had only brought pajamas to the hospital, so she was wearing a pair of hastily bought blue jeans from the outlet mall beside the motel and one of his old sweatshirts. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face was free of makeup, making her look very young as she yawned and opened her eyes. "I got coffee," he said. She turned her head and looked at him uncertainly, needing a few seconds to remember where she was, who he was, and why she was in a car with him. "I got coffee," he repeated, gesturing to the other cup in the holder. "When I stopped to change the chub scout a bit ago, there was a coffee shop. It should still be hot." "Thank you," she answered politely and took the one he'd indicated. She took a careful sip, then turned her head to watch the miles of highway pass outside her window. He glanced in the rearview mirror, checking on William, and focused on midday traffic. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Scully looking down, studying her cup. "Did they get it wrong?" "No. It's fine. Dark roast -- cream, no sugar." "Then what is it?" he asked after several seconds of silence. "Scully? Are you all right?" "I'm fine. It's just eerie," she said, still looking down. "You know how I like my coffee. What size I wear. My medical history. My work history. My family. We have a baby, so obviously... You know all about me-" "But you don't know anything about me," he finished for her. She nodded. "I've heard the stories. How the Bureau recruited you right out of Oxford. How you were solving cases before you even graduated from the academy. How you'd be driving along, notice what you thought looked like a good place to dump a body, check, and find one." "That was one time in Oklahoma. Back road; call of nature; lucky guess: a legend is born." There was a pause. "Since there's no sign of damage to the hippocampus, it's still possible some or all of your memories will return. Especially if you're calm, and around familiar people and things. But you're a doctor; you already know that," he finished lamely. "I already know that," she echoed softly, then, a little later, added, "My mother likes you." "Your mother tolerates me. Bill, Jr. hates me." "And my father?" "I never got to meet him. I know he was proud of you, though. You were his Starbuck." She sipped her coffee and went back to watching the window. He adjusted his hands on the steering wheel, hoping she would say something else, but she didn't. "About two years ago, after being told you couldn't conceive a child naturally, you approached me about in vitro fertilization," he started carefully. "You asked me to donate anonymously, as your friend, and I agreed. We did everything the doctor said -- the tests and the hormones and the sterile cups -- and six months and a lot of heartbreak later, you still weren't pregnant. You could have tried again with donor ova, but you didn't." Her face was turned away as she focused on roadside billboards, so he couldn't gauge her reaction. "Until William, we worked on the X-files Unit, which specializes in cases involving bizarre, paranormal, or unexplained phenomena," he continued, picking his way across a verbal minefield. "We had a pretty good solve rate, given what we had to work with. We can solve the cases and catch the monsters, but when it comes to us, we're kind of two- steps-forward, three-steps-back, Scully. Last March, during one of those steps forward... You got your miracle." He adjusted his hands again and checked the back of her head for any response. "I love you. I'd go to the ends of the Earth for you; I'd come back from the dead for you, but we didn't plan to have a child together -- not like this. I don't think you knew what to say to me, and I had no idea what to say to you. I wasn't sure how or if I fit into the picture. You were the one who'd prayed for a baby, and you seemed perfectly prepared to raise him alone if I wouldn't have come back." She paused a moment before she answered. "But you did come back." "And so did you," he said quietly. "It's not perfect, Scully. You, me, us -- it's not even close." She nodded slightly that she understood, barely moving her head. Mulder opened his mouth, then lost his nerve and said instead, "The good news is that all my witty puns will seem new to you. And you have ten years of Keanu Reeves and Kevin Costner movies to catch up on." "Someone's still paying those two to make movies?" "Strangely, yes," he deadpanned. "It is an X-file." She looked at him and smiled -- that same sad smile as in the hospital - - the polite expression of someone who was lost, but didn't want to admit it. **** Since childhood, it had been his favorite time: just before dawn, before even a fine layer of daybreak began to glow on the dark horizon. Outside, the stars glittered like blue and yellow diamonds, and the silence covered the world like a goose down comforter. For years he'd gone for early morning runs, pushing his body, clearing the cobwebs from his mind, and savoring the blood coursing through his veins. Now pre- dawn was a gentle, tactile time of cool air and warm bottles, flannel pajama bottoms and cotton onesies, and the infinite richness of his son's skin. William finished the bottle, releasing the nipple with a soft pop and a satisfied burp. "Well, that cuts out a step," Mulder whispered, looking down and running his fingertips over the baby's full belly. "Muh," William informed him solemnly, tracking his face with his blue eyes. "Muh," he agreed, and shifted the baby in the crook of his other arm as they looked out Scully's living room windows. The ripe moon was a pale rust color, lingering in the west like the backdrop of a movie -- too beautiful to be real. As they watched, a falling star passed across it, burning like a comet, and disappeared in the blackness of space. "That's a gypsy moon," he told William quietly. "When a shooting star crosses paths with a full moon. It's an old legend; if you see a gypsy moon you're doomed to wander like a gypsy, always in search of something just past the edge of your dreams. Your mommy told me that story," he whispered. "Except she'd add that there is seldom any scientific or historical basis to such legends, and the 'shooting star' we saw is really just a chunk of space rock falling into Earth's atmosphere. Mommy kinda misses the point of things, sometimes, but we love her anyway." William patted the front of Mulder's old t-shirt thoughtfully as they studied the night sky. "I guess that makes us gypsies, buddy." "Muh," the baby responded. "Yeah, muh," Mulder agreed softly. He heard Scully's bed shift, then tentative footsteps followed by water running in the bathroom. A few minutes later, she emerged in a satiny pair of white pajamas, drying her face with a towel. She paused to look around her dim living room, glanced at Mulder's wadded blanket on the sofa, and then turned and started toward the empty nursery, still a little unsteady on her feet. "We're here," he said, trying not to startle her. "William's here. He's awake." "Is he all right?" "He's fine. Just awake. He gets up early." She adjusted her loose pajama top as if she were wrapping a robe around her body. "What time is it?" she whispered as she approached, her bare feet soundless on the rug. "A little before six." "I slept that long? Why didn't you wake me?" "You need your rest. I think you were out before your head hit your pillow yesterday afternoon." She stopped a few feet from him, pushing her tousled hair back from her face and tucking it behind her ears. "Did anything important happen?" "In the last twelve hours or the last nine years?" The ghost of a smile passed across her lips. "Start with the last twelve hours and we can go from there." He paused before he answered, momentarily distracted. Before William's birth, he'd seen her like this only on a handful of occasions: lazily half-wake, relaxed, before she'd buttoned up her daytime armor. Uncoifed. Vulnerable. Imperfectly beautiful. "Your mom came by to stock the refrigerator, chastise me for letting you leave the hospital, and give me a few warnings about propriety," he said quietly. "I'm supposed to tell you that there's food in the fridge, she'll be back at eight a.m., and you should call her if there are any - - and she means any -- problems. Before she left, she put a blanket and pillow on the sofa and rather pointedly said she hoped I'd be comfortable sleeping there." "She forgets I'm a grown woman, sometimes, but my mother means well." "Scully, I've known your mother for eight years. I know she means well. So how does this rate on the eeriness scale?" he asked. "Waking up in an apartment you don't remember moving into and finding a baby and a strange man in your living room?" "You don't seem that strange." "Wait 'til you get to know me," he responded, and earned another of those gentle, easy smiles so rarely seen after their first year together. He remembered this woman: the one who'd made her way through the rheumatic bowels of the Hoover Building to appear in his life in 1992 -- an unnecessary and unwelcome Bureau-designated yin to his yang. She'd been softer, more trusting, less batted around by life. That Dana Scully had been a hundred and ten pounds of rational explanations and wide-eyed wonder, constantly at his heels and hell-bent on poking holes in any theory he threw out. He wondered if he'd loved her even then. "You're doing it again, Agent Mulder," she said softly, bringing him back to reality. "Watching me." "William was watching you." He smoothed the mink-like chestnut wisps that covered the baby's head. "I was merely holding him, Agent Scully." She studied him for a moment, seeming unconvinced, then turned her head to look out the window at the sleeping city. "Scully?" he said when she was quiet so long it started to worry him. "Are you all right?" "I was just thinking- As difficult as this is for me to comprehend, it must be equally difficult for you. When you look at me like that... We have a child together, and I don't even remember your middle name. Or how old you are. Your birthday. Your favorite food. When we met. Or the first time we kissed." "William," he answered softly, in the intimate darkness. "My middle name is William. Fox William Mulder." She looked back at him, the streetlight outside playing across her face, gently illuminating half while leaving the other half in shadow. "Forty-one. October 13, 1961. And I have an almost unnatural fondness for sunflower seeds." "And the rest?" she asked, her voice an octave lower. "We met March 6, 1992 when you marched into my office in your God-awful plaid suit and announced I was a complete - albeit brilliant - crackpot for believing there were mysteries inexplicable by modern science." He paused to savor the memory as if it was fine wine on his tongue. "And December 31, 1999. A New Year's Eve kiss that we later pretended happened because I was under the influence of pain killers." "And William?" He moistened his lips. "March 23, 2000. You fell asleep on my sofa, and when I woke up in the middle of the night, you were standing beside my bed. You were gone when I woke up the next morning." "Was that the first time?" "No." She broke eye contact and looked down, focusing on the baby in his arms. "You have a good memory for dates." "Only the important ones," he responded. He could feel the warmth radiating from her body. He could imagine how her skin would feel if he pressed his lips against the hollow of her throat, and how it would smell if he buried his face in her neck. Her skin would be warm and smooth and velvety, like a peach in the summer sun. And if Nirvana had its own fragrance line, it would be a combination of William's No More Tears-scented crown and the soft spot that pulsed just under Scully's left ear. All he wanted was to lead her back to bed, lay William between them, interlace their fingers, close his eyes, and sleep for about five years. The worst way to miss a woman was to be inches from her, knowing he couldn't have her. After all his searching, he'd found a Dana Scully -- just not the same one he'd lost almost four months ago. "We saw a gypsy moon," he told her, then cleared his throat as she looked up. "William and I. Just before you got up, we saw a shooting star cross the full moon. So we're cursed: doomed to wander forever." "That's just an old legend. My father used to put me to bed with a story about the gypsy moon." "I know. You told that story to me," he said. "One night. During some stakeout. I'm just warning you: if it's true, you're dealing with two gypsies now." "Well, I'll consider myself duly warned." She hesitated, then reached out, tracing the sole of the baby's foot with her index finger. Instinctively, William curled his toes and pulled his foot back, and she lowered her hand. "You know, I never gave much thought to having children. While my friends were getting married and starting families, I was busy with medical school and my career. I just assumed, someday..." "This is someday, Scully," he reminded her gently. "I guess it is," she agreed. "Do you think he'd let me hold him?" "Do you want to?" She nodded silently. Without comment, he nodded to the armchair beside the fireplace, and she sat down, looking like she was next to be called on in a spelling bee. "What should I do?" "Relax," he told her. "You're a natural at this, I promise, and there isn't much to it: feed, change, burp, bathe, love, and do not drop on head. Repeat as necessary." As he knelt and shifted William to her uncertain arms, he noticed an ache inside his chest, like his heart was under siege by an army of toy soldiers wielding little plastic cocktail swords. "Got him?" he asked, staying close to her. "I think so." The baby took his fingers out of his mouth, looked to Mulder for reassurance, then laid his head trustingly against her shoulder and his wet hand on Scully's breast, toying with her silky pajama top. Those toy soldiers overran Mulder's heart, skewering it with their plastic swords so it leaked as if from a hundred miniscule paper cuts. Relief, fear, anger, hurt, and undying love -- all seeped out and swirled together in the choppy sea inside him while the surface remained deceptively calm. "See," he whispered, then had to clear his throat again as he moved back, his arms feeling preternaturally empty. "Nothing to it." **** Unfortunately, the wackos and sickos of the world were oblivious to the Family and Medical Leave Act, and the ISU was only a shade better. Mulder could call in dead and someone from the Investigative Support Unit would still be waving a field report over his casket, wanting him to review it before the undertaker closed the lid. Using Scully's computer, Mulder deleted the unread memos from his inbox, scanned the other e-mails, then picked up the thick package that had been couriered from Quantico that afternoon. He sighed as he leafed through the glossy black and white crime photos in the first file, read a few reports, and then decided a strong pot of coffee was in order. William had been down since eight and hopefully wouldn't wake for another few hours. Scully was on the sofa, curled under a throw blanket with the remote control still in her hand. She'd been mumbling earlier but was quiet now, her chest rising and falling gently as she dozed. He slid the remote from her fingers, muted the television, and tucked the blanket around her. Within minutes, Mr. Coffee's white plastic belly was gurgling and the scent of French roast was weaving its way through the apartment. While he waited, Mulder found a mug and opened a few cabinets, scanning the choices for a potential midnight snack. "Don't you ever sleep, Agent Mulder?" Scully asked from the doorway, taking him by surprise. "It's 'Mulder.'" He closed the cabinet and slouched back against the counter, gesturing to the sofa in the next room. "And you were in my bed." "Oh," she said with the morning-after awkwardness of a woman who couldn't quite remember the night before. The coffee pot dripped its last trickle, and he filled his NICAP mug, dosing it liberally with sugar. "Caffeine and empty carbohydrates: just like sleep in a cup," he told her, wrapping his hands around the warm mug and raising it to his lips. She looked at him numbly, either still half asleep or momentarily wondering if life was some cosmic mistake and Fate was about to take it all back. It had been a week since he'd brought her home from Allentown General, ignoring the doctors' objections. With physical therapy, her strength was returning gradually, but despite his best efforts, there were still no flickers of memory, no flashbacks, no nothing. There was still a void between early 1992 and waking in the hospital room a month ago. Except in the life she'd woken to, her father and sister were gone. The doctors were saying she was sterile, yet she had a child she couldn't remember giving birth to, fathered by a man she couldn't remember even kissing. In her absence, the world had moved on, leaving her behind to flounder in its wake. He could tell her that he understood, but she'd never believe him. "You okay?" he asked, already knowing her response. She nodded and said, "Fine." "Did you have a bad dream?" She shook her head. "I don't think so. I don't have dreams. Not that I remember, anyway." "Good," he said softly and blew across the black surface of his coffee, sending miniature ripples. She glanced at him, then looked away, and he could hear the gears grind as she changed the subject. "It looks like you're planning to be up a while." "Work." He nodded to the sterile collage of death on the kitchen table. "I was hoping to get a profile or two done while you and William were sleeping." "I should let you work, then." He responded by putting his coffee mug down, pulling out the chair at the head of the table, and offering it to her. As she sat down, he got out the tea bags and a second cup, and turned the burner on under the kettle. Once her tea was underway, he slid into the chair on her right. "Are you working on anything interesting?" she asked awkwardly. "Just your run-of-the-mill sociopaths, psychopaths, pedophiles, and, possibly, if I'm lucky, a zombie." He gave Scully a tired grin as he picked up the first of the field reports. One of William's pacifiers was resting between the salt and pepper shakers, and he picked it up as well, toying with it idly as he read. "You do know there's no such thing as a zombie, don't you, Agent Mulder?" "We have a few old files that beg to differ," he responded without looking up. She was quiet a while, and he was on the third page of the report when she asked, "Do you miss it? Working on the X-files?" "Sometimes," he admitted casually. "But field work, flukemen, and fatherhood don't mix well." "When did you transfer?" "'Transfer' isn't really the correct term. When I came back, Agent Doggett had been assigned to the X-files, and you hadn't taken maternity leave yet. No openings -- at least, that was the official reason. I was assigned to another division for about two seconds before the Bureau and I had a difference of opinion and I was removed from the FBI payroll. I didn't go back to work until recently, when Skinner approached me about a position with the ISU." It took a few tries before she worked up to the question he knew was coming. "When you say you left and came back... Did that have to do with William? With me being pregnant?" He set the field report aside and leaned forward, interlacing his fingers. "In a way, but not like you're imagining. Last April, I went to Bellefleur, Oregon investigating a, a- Investigating a group we believed was affiliated with the one that later took you. You weren't feeling well, so you stayed in DC. You'd been dizzy, queasy, tired, but neither of us put two and two together. I called you from the motel, wanting to know what the doctor said, but you never answered. That evening I walked into the woods outside Bellefleur and, like you, seemed to vanish off the face of the planet. The next time I laid eyes on you, it was six months later, I was in an ICU in Baltimore, and you were a couple of weeks from giving birth." "What happened to you during those six months?" "Bad things," was all he answered. "You don't want to talk about it?" "No, I don't." The sides of the teakettle creaked as it heated, and the steam from his coffee mug rose silently between them, dissolving into nothing. From the tabletop, the gray bodies in the glossy photos stared up at them with lifeless eyes. "You had to make a choice, Scully: whether to put yourself and the baby at risk by searching for me when I was abducted, or to keep the baby safe and let me go. I think you made the right decision." "But it wasn't a decision you had any say in." "You wanted a child-" "And you didn't," she said quietly, picking at the sleeve of her bathrobe. "We have dangerous careers, Scully, and we've made a lot of dangerous enemies. And you and I -- we each have enough issues to start our own weekly magazine. Together, we're spontaneous combustion. And a slow, smoldering burn. And a disaster worthy of The Red Cross." She glanced up at him, then down again. "But that doesn't mean I didn't want a child," he continued after several seconds. "At first I wanted him for you, because I loved you and you wanted a baby. When I came back and you were pregnant, I wanted him because he was part of you. After you were abducted, because he was a link to you, because William was the last part of you that I could hold against me and keep safe. You gave me every chance to walk away, and I did the right thing for all the wrong reasons. But that doesn't change the fact that I did it. And I don't regret one minute of it: being a father, taking care of my son. And now you're back..." "Partially, at least." She ducked her head slightly as if embarrassed. "I guess I owe you about five months of back child support." "God, Scully -- you don't owe me anything," he said hoarsely, the dam inside him cracking a little. "You told me once, right before William was born, that I gave you a gift. Maybe I did, but you can't imagine the one you've given me in return. The things I thought mattered in my life... They pale." She looked up, her face was inches from his, her shining eyes deep and blue. Either he moved forward or she did or they both did, because his mouth met hers -- tentatively at first, then as an invited guest. Her lips were soft, her breath was warm against his skin, and her mouth tasted milky and sweet, like the last traces of hot chocolate coaxed from the bottom of the cup. His entire body exhaled, relaxing. It was like standing in a river, feeling the power of the current against his body, and, just for a few seconds, against his better judgment, letting it take him where it would. He pulled back before she did, rubbing his wet lips together as his eyes darted over her face. "I dreamed of you," he whispered. "Every night. Just like you dreamed of me." She blinked, not understanding, and reality returned, settling over him like a chill. "Sorry," he mumbled, sitting back. He picked up a random report, staring blankly at the sea of type until he felt her warm hand on his. When he looked over the top of the report, she gave him an uncertain smile. "Don't be," she told him. He gave her a half-hearted grin to cover up the secrets he was carrying like concealed weapons. The dull ache of want pulsed inside him, mixing with a few angry, illogical twinges from old wounds only half-healed. It made no sense to resent her for things she couldn't remember. This wasn't the same Scully; his forebrain understood that. His male ego -- the insecure little troll with abandonment issues who lived under the bridge between his brain and his heart -- was sleep-deprived and slower to catch on. "You're tired. You need to rest. Why don't you go to bed?" he suggested softly. "I can save the world solo tonight." "Okay." On unsteady autopilot, she got up and made her way toward the dark bedroom, leaving him alone to break bread with the dead. Behind him, the pressure built inside the teakettle while her teacup waited on the kitchen counter, empty. **** She treated her apartment like a crime scene: piecing together the evidence left behind by a woman she wasn't, but bore a remarkable resemblance to. Like any good agent, she'd searched her desk drawers and closet shelves for clues, bringing him the remains of her life for positive identification. Some questions he could answer: a tarnished dog tag, his nameplate from the X-files office, a handmade fabric doll, an old baseball, and a trio of receipts from a Pizza Hut in the American heartland, their purple ink faded to barely legible. But most mementoes Mulder could only guess at the significance of: a mysteriously fused penny and dime, a movie stub from a movie he'd never seen -- perhaps a remnant of a hiccough in the space-time continuum from a case, perhaps the last matinee she'd seen with Melissa. Scully wasn't satisfied with "perhaps," and he didn't expect her to be. The scientist in her wanted definitive answers. The I in FBI and all that. He loved her, he loved his son, and there were dark forces -- her religious cultists, his elusive Them -- working to bring about the end of the world. As soon as he figured out the truth beyond that, he'd tell her, and then they'd both know. **** Outside her apartment, the sky was shifting from dark mottled gray to deep sapphire, with the first stars appearing between the clouds. A storm had washed the city clean, scouring the grime from the sidewalk and the smog from the air. In its aftermath, streams flowed from gutters and down spouts, and a cool breeze rustled the leaves, shaking the last droplets free. "Which way?" she asked as they reached the end of her block, venturing out for an evening walk. "Up to you," he responded, letting her set the pace. Rather than crossing the street, she turned left, and he and William followed. He pushed the stroller as they walked slowly, side-by-side but not touching. "I've been wondering about something," Scully said as they ambled along, skirting the puddles. "What should I call you?" "That depends on whether I'm in or out of your good graces. There's 'Damn it, Mulder' and 'Stop that, Mulder' and 'Shut up, Mulder' and 'Are you insane, Mulder?' You use that last one a lot." "No, I'm serious. What are we?" "I'm not sure I understand the question." "We have a baby together. We're friends. We used to be partners. I was just wondering what we are now." "Ah," he said rather than a real answer. "I- I'm getting stronger, feeling better. After everything that's happened, all that I've missed, I just want things to get back to normal. I suppose what I'm asking is: what is 'normal,' for us." Mulder inhaled, breathing the clean scent of ozone deep into his lungs and buying time before he spoke. "Normal, for us, is a little complicated, Scully." She focused on the sidewalk in front of them while he turned his head, watching their reflection in the windows of the brick townhouses. He saw an attractive upper-middle class couple wearing blue jeans he in a sweatshirt, her in a t-shirt and cardigan taking their son for a stroll. It was remarkable how ordinary they looked, given a little distance and the right vantage point. "And, there's William," he added eventually. "And there's William," she agreed. "You'd talked about going back to work at Quantico," he said, though the question he was answering wasn't the one she'd been asking. "Teaching part-time. I'm in my office at the ISU Tuesdays and Thursdays. If you taught Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, we wouldn't need for your mother to watch the baby." "I think the licensing board and the Bureau might take issue with me not remembering any of the continuing education courses I've attended in the last nine years." "But you attended them." "The licensing board won't see it that way." "Oh," he responded. The jogging stroller's rubber wheels hummed against the wet sidewalk. The streetlights came on, glowing white against the sky as day rolled on into night. "I want my life back, Mulder," she added eventually. "I know that. I guess my question is, which life?" "Mine. Ours. Good or bad. You're the only one I can really ask, and I wish you'd answer me instead of hedging and talking in circles." He stopped, keeping one hand on the stroller as he leaned back against the brick stoop of an upscale apartment building. "The first time was a mistake," he said without looking at her. "My mother had committed suicide, I was out of my head and, as always, you were there with me, trying to bring me back. I needed something warm and real to hold onto, and I guess you misread that. I guess. I don't know. We never talked about it." He toyed with the foam padding on the stroller handle as he watched the baby. "What about the second time?" she prompted after a pause. "Was that a mistake, too?" "No," he answered immediately. "That night was..." He hesitated, tasting the words on his lips before he released them. "Wild and passionate and perhaps ill-considered. But it was real. Then I was gone." A car rolled past, its tires splashing slowly through the potholes as its wipers cleared away a few stray drops from the windshield. "A few days after William was born, I came over to your apartment to visit, stayed to help out, and never left. Six weeks later, you were gone. What are we? Best friends, ex-partners, marginal lovers, and soul mates filing separately. I would kill for you, no questions asked, Scully, but I'll fight you to the death if you try to take my son away from me. Do I love you? With all my heart and soul, in this lifetime and the next. Did you love me? I can't answer that for you." "I think you can." He exhaled. "Yeah, I probably can." He watched the water flow down the edge of the street, toward the storm drain. "You left, Scully. You made a deal with Kersh without telling me, and, less than forty-eight hours later, you were gone. I know you had your reasons, and I know it wasn't your fault you were abducted, but..." "But it still hurts," she finished for him. "I hurt you very badly. No wonder you watch me like you do, but then pull away." "But you don't remember," he said, correcting her, his words coming faster. "I know what your reasons were, Scully, but you don't. I remember all the fears and things left unsaid and late nights and promises and regrets between us that led you to make that decision. I wish I could explain all that to you so you could understand why you put yourself at risk for my sake, and then I could be angry at you because yes - yes, you hurt me very badly." The breeze blew her hair slightly, and her face was still pale and tired, like it had been that gray January morning last year when she met with Skinner and Kersh. "You don't remember me," he said after a long pause. "You don't remember us, and I don't want you to act out of obligation. I know you want your life back, but this isn't the life you chose; it's just the one you woke up to. You're right: we don't work together anymore. We aren't married. We aren't even really lovers. If it weren't for William..." He trailed off. "I'm not sure I can give you the life you wanted. In fact, I know I can't. I can't be something I'm not, even for you." "I don't want you to be," she responded. "You do. You-" He faltered, and then ran his lower lip between his teeth before biting it. "You did. You said being with me was like falling, and eventually, logically, you would hit the ground. You said you needed a foundation and I couldn't give you one." She looked up at him and considered a moment before she spoke. "I don't feel like I'm falling now." He took a breath and his voice dropped an octave when he spoke again. "That's, that's good." "What do you want?" she asked after a pause. "You seem very focused on what I want; what is it that you want, Mulder?" "For you to be safe, to have what you want out of life. I want William to never have to be afraid. Guaranteeing those things, though, for us: it takes a little more than dual air bags, outlet covers, and good financial planning." Cars passed on the street and a young couple walked past, hand in hand, glancing down to admire the baby. "I'm not trying to make major life decisions, Mulder. I'm just trying to make sense of everything, to put all the pieces together: you, William, what's happened to me, what's happened between us." "So am I," he said softly. She moved in front of him, stepping up to the lowest step of the stoop so they were eye to eye. In the stroller, William babbled to himself, and the evening breeze rustled Scully's hair again. "So where do we go from here?" He smirked. "The last time you asked me that, I told you we had all the time in the world." "We still do," she responded quietly. She took his hand, her fingers warm and alive against his. After a second, she stepped forward, laying her head against his chest. Beneath his shirt, his heart beat against her cheek, sending out a slow SOS in Morse code. Letting go of the stroller, he cupped the back of her head with his palm and closed his eyes. The sounds of the city continued around them: tires on wet pavement, the water flowing past, the breeze blowing the tree leaves up to reveal their pale underbelly. She stayed a long moment and then stepped back. As she did, he tucked her hair behind her ear, letting his fingers linger on her cheek too long to pass as accidental. She smiled. Behind her head, the last of the clouds had thinned and parted, allowing the stars to shine in the space where the storm had finally broken and rolled back. "You could stay home with William for a while," he offered. "Get better. Get to know him again. And me. And then we could go from there." "I'd like that." "Okay, then," he said as if they'd just negotiated a complex business deal. They walked on, neither of them speaking until they reached the end of the block. She stopped, as did he, waiting, thinking she was getting tired. "Which way?" she asked. "If you turn left again, we'll go around the block and end up right back where we started. Or, if you feel like walking a little farther, you could turn right and we could stop for ice cream." She turned right, and he and William followed, taking the long way home. **** Among her many pearls of parenting wisdom, Mrs. Scully had informed him that it was extremely unsanitary to bathe a baby in the sink. She hadn't specified whether it was extremely unsanitary for the baby or the sink. So far, William didn't appear any worse for wear. Mulder couldn't vouch for Scully's kitchen sink. "It's for you," Scully said, passing him the cordless phone. "I think it's that weird little man again," she added impassively before she returned to wiping baby food off the kitchen table. Mulder cradled the receiver between his ear and his shoulder as he kept a tight grip on the baby. "Give it a rest, Romeo," he advised. "Juliet has a quick temper and a big gun." "Agent Scully just hasn't yet recalled her love for me," Frohike's voice responded with great certainty. "Is there a reason you called, Frohike, or did you just run out of people to creep out in Baltimore?" "You still interested in that cloning lab?" "Why?" he asked slowly. "Because we finally found it." Mulder glanced over his shoulder at Scully, who was paying no attention. "Keep talking," he said into the receiver, cautiously. "The Omega Center for Reproductive Medicine, located outside Philadelphia. Langly and I did a little creative interfacing with their database this morning, Mulder. The records you discovered at The Lombard Research Facility, the MUFON women who'd supposedly undergone fertility treatment: The Omega Center has them on file. Ditto Agent Scully's in-vitro and first- and second-trimester records from Zeus Genetics." "You think everything was transferred there?" "That would be my guess," Frohike said. "The scope of the project must have narrowed, because there doesn't seem to be any other clinics." William splashed in the sink, sloshing warm water on the front of Mulder's shirt. The TV in the living room was tuned to some nature documentary and the dishwasher was humming beside him. Scully was still wiping strained green beans off the kitchen table, cleaning up after William's latest round of Gerber grenade warfare. A postcard on the side of the refrigerator reminded him that the Volvo needed an oil change, and the grocery list indicated they needed diapers and wipes. A semi-normal life: fragile, handle with care. Minor imperfections may occur. "You're sure?" he asked. "Are we ever not sure?" Frohike responded self-righteously. **** His head-to-toe covert-ops ensemble was marred only by a fresh spit-up stain on the shoulder of his black mock turtleneck. He wiped off as much as possible, then dabbed at the spot with a wet washcloth half- heartedly. At some point on his crusade, Spooky Mulder had reached the stage where a little vomit didn't automatically render a garment unwearable. "You know, Hugo and Giorgio should send me condolence cards," he told Scully as she entered the bedroom, carrying the sleepy baby. "Hugo Boss and Giorgio Armani: we used to be close." She shifted William to one hip as she watched him in front of the bathroom mirror. "It's not coming out?" He gave the stain one last dab before he gave up, tossed the washcloth in the laundry hamper, and left the bathroom. "Well, I wouldn't feel fully dressed anymore without a little baby puke." She didn't respond, and he felt her watching him as he fastened his watch and shrugged on his jacket. "What?" "I'm used to seeing you either in suits or jeans. I was just thinking that you look very..." She seemed to hunt for the right word. "Different." His nondescript black jeans, shirt, boots, and leather jacket were veterans of a hundred expeditions to places he wasn't supposed to be, but they were new to Scully. "Good different or bad different?" Again, she paused before she answered. "Dangerous different. More like what I'd imagined when I heard people talk about you." "Surprised?" "Not at all," she said. "Damn. I thought I was doing so well. With the fugly-ass Volvo and all." She shook her head 'no' and gave him a knowing look. "You're sure you'll be okay with him?" he asked for the third time in the last ten minutes. "We'll be fine. Go on. Enjoy your evening out with the guys. Try to stay out of trouble." "I will do my best," he promised. He leaned down to kiss the top of William's silky head. "Bye. Love you, Buddy." "Muh," William responded, his cheek against Scully's shoulder and his eyelids growing heavy. It was his one-word solution for everything: an amalgamation of "Grandma" and "Mulder," the only two people he knew as caretakers. William didn't have a word for Scully yet, or any memory of her before the last six weeks. A lump rose in Mulder's throat, and he swallowed determinedly, forcing it back down. "He's a special little guy. You take good care of him, okay?" "I will. We'll be fine," Scully assured him again. "I know you will." His watch told him it was time to go, but he lingered, pressing the image of them between the pages of his mind. "I'm happy," he said quietly. "Whatever happens, I want you to know I don't regret one second of it." "I don't understand. What do you mean 'whatever happens'?" "Nothing, I- I just wanted you to know." "I know," she whispered, stepping closer. He'd intended to kiss her quickly and go, but her mouth opened under his, testing the waters and then drawing him deeper. As his eyes closed and his lips parted, time lapsed from memory. He slid his fingers through her hair, down her neck, then along the underside of her jaw as electricity crackled between them, almost visible in its intensity. Warmth pooled in his belly and spread through his body like a shot of dark rum -- the internal combustion of a man's heart dangerously entangled in a woman's body. The easiest thing in the world would have been to stay with her. With them. To call The Gunmen and say the evening was off. To let someone else fight the future, for once. He and Scully could take their son, pack up the Volvo, and head somewhere just west of the sunset until the day the heavens started to fall and mankind discovered he was not alone. He broke off the kiss, and rested his forehead against hers for a moment, his eyes still closed. "Gotta go," he reminded her. "I know that, too," she responded softly. Scully adjusted the lapel of his jacket and stepped back, running her tongue over her wet lips. "I'll see you later," he promised as he picked up his car keys. She smiled as she held William. "See you then." **** On the outside, The Omega Center for Reproductive Medicine mimicked hundreds of new office buildings across America. It was a shiny black building, all glass and modern, razor-sharp angles surrounded by a manicured lawn and bland landscaping. The rear parking lot bordered the woods, with picnic tables provided for employees who liked to lunch outside. A rent-a-cop car made a loop through the front parking lot every few minutes, rolling diagonally across the empty spaces. One bored-looking security guard was at the desk in the lobby while another made the rounds, checked the doors, and then stepped outside for a smoke break. Inside, according to The Gunmen, were the remains of fifty years of the consortium's genetic research. "Just like old times," Byers said as Mulder fitted the earpiece into place and lowered the microphone. Over the headset, he heard Langly sniping with Frohike as they worked on disabling the building's complicated security system. They were in a storm drain several blocks away, while Mulder and Byers had approached the building through the woods, using the trees and darkness as cover. "Deja vu all over again," Mulder agreed blandly. "You ready, boys?" "We will be if Do-hicky can keep his wires straight," Langly's voice responded. "Okay: we've looped the security cameras and we're working on the status monitors. There aren't any external motion sensors, so you can start moving." It was two-dozen feet from the tree line to the first picnic table, and Mulder waited for the patrol car to pass before he slipped out of the shadows. Once he reached the second table, he crouched behind the metal trashcan beside it, watching the back door. The blinking red light on the digital keypad beside the employees' entrance indicated the security system was still on. He waited, feeling strangely calm for a man about to open Pandora's box. "Hey Mulder," Frohike's disembodied voice said. "You got company at three o'clock." He looked to his right, and, after a few seconds, spotted Agent Doggett approaching through the shadows, staying low. "What the hell are you doing here?" he hissed, as Doggett got close. "I'm supposed to watch the building to make sure you don't have a poltergasm, do something stupid, and get yourself killed," Doggett responded in a terse whisper. "What are you doing here?" "A little after-hours investigating." The light on the keypad switched from red to green. "Go," Frohike's voice commanded, and Mulder sprinted across the parking lot for the building. "Hey!" he heard Doggett call after him. The door opened when Mulder pulled the handle, but to his disgust, Doggett slipped inside after him like a shadow. "This doesn't concern you," Mulder said as he waited for The Gunmen to get the next door open. "Turn around and go home while you still can." "What do you think you're doin'?" "I'm saving the world, Agent Doggett. Haven't you heard?" Mulder said as a second security door buzzed softly and the lock clicked open. The main corridor was sterile white: the floor, the walls, the ceiling. Small blue placards on the doors identified the rooms: Exam 1, Exam 2, Restroom, Janitor, Private. His and Doggett's footsteps echoed on the polished floor, the only sounds besides the drone of the air conditioning system and the hum of the florescent lights. "Somebody talk to me," Mulder requested, speaking into the tiny microphone attached to his earpiece and ignoring Doggett following him. "Where am I going?" "Last door on your left," Frohike's voice responded. Doggett stayed at his heels as Mulder made his way down the hall, keeping low and close to the wall. Most of the rooms they passed were examination rooms, the doors left slightly ajar to reveal paper-covered tables with stainless steel stirrups and standard OB/GYN equipment. The door Frohike guided him to was locked for an instant, then opened to a large, dark laboratory. There were glass-front refrigerators, microscopes, centrifuges, and a collection of complicated-looking medical equipment he didn't recognize. Safety glasses were arranged on a rack beside the entrance, along with a row of white lab coats. There were computer workstations, boxes of latex gloves, even a few family photos scattered around. "This isn't it," Mulder told the microphone. "This is just a regular lab." "Keep moving," Langly advised. "The storage room is dead-center of the building, so the entrance should be about fifty feet in front of you." As his eyes adjusted to the low light, he saw it: what looked like the door to a walk-in freezer. When he opened it, yellow light and cold air swirled out. Inside, the long vault was brightly lit, and rows of polished steel safe deposit boxes lined the walls. "Deja vu all over again," Mulder repeated to himself as the hair on the back of his neck prickled. "What is this?" Doggett asked as the door eased closed behind them, sounding eerily alien as the latch clicked back into place He swallowed dryly. "Human ova. Collected from abductees to further the government's illegal cloning experiments." He pushed the button on the first drawer, and it slid open smoothly, revealing small, chilled test tubes, each labeled with a woman's name and a date during her abduction. Brennan, Linda, 03/21/99 -- likely one of the last women subjected to the super-ovulation procedure before the original members of the Consortium went up in flames. He left the drawer open and moved deeper into the room, encountering Hagopian, Betsy, 11/11/94, and stopping at the drawer labeled Scully, Dana, 10/29/94. He pressed the button, and the drawer opened silently, displaying the familiar rows of vials. Beside him, the gleaming storage units continued on, stretching back for decades. All the drawers were labeled with the names of women unfortunate enough to fit a certain genetic profile. All the women were left sterile, and all, except Scully, were now dead. "You sure it's ova, Agent Mulder?" Doggett asked. "Yeah, I'm sure," he responded tersely. Doggett was looking at the first column of drawers on the opposite side of the vault. "'Cause your name's on this one. Right below Dana's." "No, Scully's back here." "Scully, Dana, April 3, 2001," Doggett read aloud. "Mulder, Fox, July 18, 2000. That was during your abduction, wasn't it?" "Yeah." A chill went through him, the involuntary shiver of visceral memory: drills and metal pins and impersonal alien hands. Of screaming for Scully and praying for Death and knowing neither would come soon enough. "It's starting again," he realized. "Agent Reyes was right. The project: it's starting over." "If they're tryin' to clone human beings here, we need to get a warrant." "By the time we get a warrant, everything in this building will have mysteriously vanished. You should know that by now, Agent Doggett. And they're not trying to clone anyone; they're trying to create a viable child immune to the alien virus. They're trying to find a way to fight the coming plague." "Wasn't that what William was supposed to be?" "Yeah. Well, if at first you don't succeed..." He stared over Agent Doggett's shoulder, at the drawer labeled with his name, then at Scully's, the pressure building at the base of his brain. Mulder slid his arm between the wall of the vault and the first cryo- storage unit and pulled the electrical plug out of the socket, disconnecting the power supply. He knew from experience that the unfertilized ova were fragile; if they warmed even a few degrees, they became unviable. He wasn't sure the ova he'd found in the Lombard Research Facility had ever been viable in the first place -- not for normal human fertilization. It was possible Dr. Parenti had lied to Scully from the beginning, and all those months of drugs and doctor's appointments and waiting and heartbreak had been for nothing. "What are you doin,' Agent Mulder?" Ignoring Doggett, Mulder fished his pocketknife out and cut the plug off the cord. He went to the next unit, and the next, repeating the process. Once all the units were useless, there was a strange stillness -- no gunshots, no explosions or sirens or super-soldiers or even a tractor beam. There was only the satisfying silence as the fruits of fifty years of medical rape melted away. "Mulder," Langly's voice said in his ear. "Whatever you just did, it set off a zone alarm. You have company headed your way. Get out of there." A red light was flashing on the keypad beside the vault door, indicating security had been breeched. "Time to go," he told Doggett, leading the way out of the vault and back into the dark laboratory. Heavy footsteps approached in the main hallway, not seeming in any particular hurry. "Talk to me, Frohike," Mulder whispered. "Opposite end of the lab," Frohike responded. "I don't know what it is, but I'm unlocking the door." With Doggett still following, Mulder did the hundred- yard dash to the other side of the laboratory. The keypad on the door was flashing red as they approached, but as Mulder put his hand on the latch, switched to green. He and Doggett made it through and closed the door, the latch clicking back into place just as the door from the main hall to the laboratory opened and the security guard entered. Mulder braced his hands on his knees, catching his breath. Doggett crouched beside him, and, on the wall, the keypad flashed red again as the door locked electronically. The guard would assume whatever room they'd darted into was secure and wouldn't check it. They waited until the footsteps faded and the door to the hall closed as the guard returned to the lobby. "A poltergasm?" Mulder asked, as his heart rate returned to normal. Doggett shrugged one shoulder. "Monica watches Buffy. I don't watch it or anything, but she has it on." "Is Agent Reyes the one who called you?" Doggett nodded. "Your Gunmen friends called us. They didn't tell you?" "No, they must have forgotten to mention it." There was a guilty silence in his earpiece, then Frohike's voice. "Well, you did tell us to call them when we found the lab. Forgive me for coming between you and your death wish." "Frohike, get me out of here so I can kick your ass." "Working on that right now," Langly responded. While he waited, Mulder straightened, adjusting his headset as he looked around the room, then stopped with his hand in mid-air. A grid work of low, black pipes criss-crossed the dark ceiling, with wires and tubes descending into tanks of murky yellow fluid. Beside each tank was a computer, the screen displaying data corresponding to whatever was inside. Frohike and Langly were arguing in his earpiece and Doggett was talking about something, but their voices faded to background noise. The project wasn't just planning on implanting fertilized eggs into unsuspecting women during in vitro. They were creating hybrids as well, preparing to grow them in these modern wombs for rent, with a mechanical drone for a lullaby and vats of chemicals for mother's milk. That must be the plan: just keep throwing permutations of his and Scully's DNA together and whatever didn't die would become fodder for more experiments. Flashes of Dr. Parenti's deformed fetuses appeared on the mirror of his mind, then of Scully's first child -- the little girl she'd elected to release from pain rather than try to save. He remembered Scully, hugely pregnant, exhausted, and terrified that the world was out to get whatever being she carried inside her. He remembered being afraid to look at William, even once he realized the baby was alive, terrified of what he might see. It was still there: the tumbleweed of fear that rolled through him when the pediatrician mentioned that William had reached a milestone early or commented on how bright and unusually healthy the baby seemed to be. It never ended. There were always eyes watching them from the shadows and ears listening on the phone, posing some ill-defined, omnipresent threat to the three of them. As Mulder looked at the cloudy tanks, the anger inside him boiled down, cooled, and solidified into something dangerous as the importance of things became starkly clear. The clutter of facts and theories in his mind disappeared, and his world simplified into two words: no more. No more experiments, no more nightmares, no more abductions or chips or lies within lies. No more. He had a simple dream, not all that different from the one he'd had most of his adult life: for him and the people he loved to be able to look up at the stars without being afraid. He found a metal box on the wall containing a rolled up fire hose and an axe. When Mulder jerked the door open and pulled the axe out, the fire alarm sounded and the emergency lights started to strobe. "What the hell are you doin'?" Doggett demanded yet again, and didn't get a response. Mulder swung at the first tank, shattering the glass and sending yellow fluid gushing out onto the floor. He turned slightly, adjusted his grip, and smashed the one across from it as if hitting a home run. In the dim melee of glass and wires, he couldn't see if there was any form immersed in the liquid, and, in truth, he didn't care. He cleared a few tables as well, smashing a tray of glass vials and two beakers of amber fluid against one wall. As Purity Control bled down to the floor, something reacted with something and began to smoke, then ignited. Yellow flames retraced the wet path up the wall, spreading across the ceiling and reflecting on the liquid on the floor. He was on the sixth tank -- ten or so to go -- soaked to the skin in foul-smelling fluid, when Doggett stopped yelling that they had to go, grabbed the axe, and jerked Mulder toward one of the emergency exits. The hybrids' amniotic fluid sloshed out onto the pavement as Doggett shoved the security door open, setting off a new round of alarms. Behind them, the hungry flames spread through the laboratory. In the distance, police sirens approached, and, in Mulder's ear, The Gunmen's voices were frantic. He felt far removed from it all, like he was watching everything from outside his body. Given the choice, he would have stayed and watched it burn. Maslow would have called it a peak experience: when man meets Destiny at the crossroads and becomes one with something infinite. A moment of pre-apocalyptic zen. The inexplicable certainty that what he was doing was right, and somewhere, some higher power was guarding the light at the end of the tunnel. There was a full-size fleet sedan waiting in the back parking lot, the lights off, the motor running, and the door to the backseat open. "Get in," Skinner ordered from behind the wheel. "Jesus, Mulder. What the hell did you do now?" Agent Reyes was in the passenger seat, looking over her shoulder anxiously. Dogget jumped in, yanked Mulder after him, and slammed the car door closed. The unmarked Ford lurched forward, and as they pulled away, the building exploded in an impressive fireball, sending orange flames high into the night sky. The two security guards stood in the parking lot, staring bewilderedly at the fire, while the third guard arrived belatedly in the rent-a-cop car. "Yeah, I think that was specifically what I was not supposed to let you do," Doggett commented angrily as the Ford sped toward the back exit of the parking lot, then emerged from the trees onto the main road. When they reached the interstate, Skinner turned the headlights on and slowed, blending into the sparse, late-night traffic. On the other side of the highway, a two police cars and a fire engine wailed by, followed by a news crew on their way to cover the latest 'abortion clinic bombing.' As Skinner drove north, Mulder turned, ignoring the angry barrage of questions and watching the flames grow smaller, like a movie fading to black. **** It was past three by the time Mulder checked in with The Gunmen, retrieved his car, and made it back to Georgetown. Scully's apartment was dark and quiet, far removed from the murky, post-modern Hell he'd left a few hours ago. There was an empty baby bottle on the night stand, next to a stack of early case files he'd brought home for her to review. The flukeman, the Atlantic City beast woman, Tooms, Boggs: all old friends with whom she was getting reacquainted. Scully and the baby were in her bed, her hand on William's belly as they slept. Mulder peeled off his wet jeans and shirt and stuffed them in a plastic bag, then buried them deep in the kitchen trash. In the shower, as he washed off the smell of smoke and death, he noticed a few shallow cuts on his forearms, likely incurred during his fire axe rampage among the hybrid tanks. He rinsed off, dried off, slipped on an old pair of pajama bottoms, and then studied his stubbly face in the foggy bathroom mirror. The cold rage he'd felt in The Omega Center had faded, and somewhere between Philadelphia and Georgetown, his insides had stopped shivering. Now, as adrenaline receded and weariness set in, a sense of peace settled over him again. All the answers he'd hoped to find had been in that laboratory, and he'd destroyed them without a second thought. Open Pandora's box, let the demons out, and, according to the myth, the only thing left inside was hope. He paused beside Scully's bed, asking, "Is this all right?" before he lifted the blankets. They brought William to bed with them for afternoon naps but still slept separately most nights. Scully nodded and scooted closer to William, making room. She smelled like fabric softener and baby shampoo and rain, and her skin tasted like sea salt as he kissed her neck. "Big night?" she mumbled sleepily. "You can't possibly imagine," he whispered back, curling up to her back. Putting his arms around Scully's body and listening to William's soft breathing, Mulder felt the last of the glacier inside him melting away, the long winter finally coming to an end. The truth he'd discovered wasn't the truth he'd set out to find more than a decade ago. He'd begun chasing aliens, conspiracies, and his own personal demons, and ended up finding Scully, their son, and his destiny. That year, the spring thaw came in early June. **** "This," Mulder heard his own voice drone in a British accent, BBC documentary style, from the TV speakers, "Is William, alien child from the planet Churchill. Resistance, apparently, is fertile." He opened his eyes, yawned, and shifted on the sofa so he could see the television. Scully sat on the floor in front of him, amusing William while she manned the VCR remote control. The morning sun was streaming through the blinds, painting warm yellow stripes across the rug. On the television screen, the picture panned around her living room, then zoomed in on William's sleeping face in the basinet. December 24, 2000, the timestamp on the videotape indicated. Christmas Eve. There was a tree beside Scully's fireplace, glowing with white lights and ornaments and topped with a lopsided tinfoil star. Mulder's hand appeared on the screen, adjusting the blanket over the baby as the camera rocked slightly. At the time, his hand had easily covered William's entire torso. The camera moved, capturing the creases of a tiny hand, the crescent of dark lashes against fair skin, and the full pink curve of the baby's mouth. "Nine days old, William Scully is fully dependent on others for care and sustenance," his voice narrated melodramatically, sounding like Desmond Morris. "He is a small, somewhat pink, naked-skinned mammal. His whole existence is geared toward survival: eat, sleep, defecate, and create an instinctive bond with his caretakers, ensuring they will protect him with their lives. He is, in short, remarkable. Miraculous. Clearly, he resembles the alpha female who gave birth to him, but shows some similarities to the female's partner: a dark, lanky, brooding male known 'Damn it, Mulder.' These similarities have yet to be discussed in any depth. Regardless, the male diligently keeps watch while the female rests." "What are you doing to him now?" Scully's voice asked sleepily, off screen. The picture blurred as Mulder turned, then focused on Scully in the bedroom doorway, wearing her bathrobe and looking new-mother tousled, but bemused. "Just filming the latest Mulder-Scully production," he responded. It was barely noticeable, but there was an uncertain beat before he continued, "This is Scully, the dominant female. Note the disheveled red hair, the stained robe, the annoyed crease between her brows reminding one she hasn't had caffeine in more than nine months." "Is that on?" she asked, leaning against the doorjamb and eyeing the camera warily. "No," his voice lied from behind the camera lens. "The male approaches warily, sensing danger-" "It is on. I can see the little red light blinking. Damn it, Mulder -- turn it off." "This is not her mating stance," his British accent droned. "Her focus is on her young. He is auxiliary -- protecting the den, foraging for food and supplies. She is the parent; he is support staff." Scully's hand pushed away the lens, and the picture swung dizzyingly. After a few seconds, the lens ended up pointed at her living room rug. He'd lowered the camera, but the tape was still recording. "He's asleep," his disembodied voice said, the British accent gone. "You didn't miss anything." "When did I get a Christmas tree?" "I called, and The Gunmen brought one over. I made the star on top," he said. "I can tell." "Do you like it?" "I do. Thank you." The camera swayed again, focusing on the side of her sofa, and there the sound of her lips meeting his. "You aren't auxiliary," her voice reminded him. "You know that, don't you?" "Then what am I?" he responded, sounding as if he was joking, though he wasn't. "You're very necessary. Come to bed, Mulder," she invited, her voice as rich and smooth as old cognac. "Who-rah," he responded softly, and the footage swayed again before the television screen went dark. In front of him, Scully picked up the remote control, and the VCR whirred as she rewound the tape. "Everybody okay?" Mulder mumbled. "We're fine," she responded, looking over her shoulder at him. "I have him." "Umm," he said, yawning again. "I'm awake. We need to get on the road soon," he reminded her, yet made no attempt at moving. "It's barely eight o'clock. You can sleep a little longer." She twisted to adjust the blanket over him, touching his forearm lightly. "You've cut yourself. Did this happen with Frohike and those Gunmen people last night?" "Um-hum," he responded noncommittally. "I guess." "It's not bad. I think you'll live." "Um," he said in agreement. The VCR stopped whirring, and after a few seconds, Mulder heard his voice droning, "This is William, alien child from the planet Churchill. Resistance, apparently, is fertile." She reached back for his hand and interlocked their fingers as she watched the tape again. **** It was true: a man couldn't go home again, but with the right connections, a little finagling, and a platinum Visa card, he could rent a place nearby for the summer. It had been mid-morning when they left Georgetown, the Volvo's trunk packed, the gas tank full, and the road at their feet, so to speak. Four diaper changes, 2 fast-food meals, a ferry ride, and almost 500 miles later, they finally rolled to a stop at the end of a lonely gravel road at almost midnight. "So this is what the end of the world looks like," Scully commented as the Volvo's headlights cut two swaths through the darkness, illuminating a small gray cottage nestled among the trees. "When you said you wanted to get away from it all for a while, you really meant it, didn't you?" "Welcome to picturesque Old New England in June," he responded, putting the car in park. "Quaint, unspoiled countryside. Fresh air. Pristine beaches. Rolling hills and grazing sheep and old stone fences steeped in history." "Sheep cannot be steeped in history, Mulder." "Not willingly," he agreed with a wry grin, and earned a smile as she unbuckled her seatbelt and got out. "Where are we again? I lost track when we left civilization about an hour and a half ago." He got out and closed the car door softly, trying not to wake William. "The southwest corner of Martha's Vineyard. Do you like it?" She hesitated, eyeing the isolated cottage. "You'd better like it, at least for the night. That was the last ferry from Wood's Hole. We're stuck here until 6 a.m. tomorrow. And, uh, the cleaning deposit is non-refundable." "It's June. On Martha's Vineyard. How did you manage this?" "I know the guy who owns the place. I sent him money; he sent me a key." "So he gave you a good deal?" she checked, stretching her arms over her head tiredly and working the kinks out of her back. "No, he gave me an incredibly crappy deal. The week before I left for Oxford, he caught me in the back of my father's Buick with his daughter. Twenty years later, Donna's married with three kids and sends me a Christmas card every year, but her father still holds a grudge. Anyway, do you like it?" When she still didn't answer, he shoved his hands in his pants pockets, slouching a little as he scuffed the toe of his shoe into the gravel of the road. "Some of the first vampiric activity in the New World was recorded on Martha's Vineyard," he added as if that was an enticement. When he glanced up, her eyebrows had risen a degree. "We're out here chasing vampires?" "No. Well, maybe a day trip, but mostly, no." He took the key to the front door from his pocket and held it out to her. "It's the end of the road, Scully. We're getting out of the car." She looked back at the Volvo, then at him. "We are out of the car, Mulder," she reminded him. He kissed the top of her head and then put his arm around her as they walked back to get William and their bags. "Let's hope so. For a little while, at least." **** The cottage sat on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, and when he opened the window in the loft, he could smell the salt on the breeze. The moon was full, reflecting pale silver on the waves that broke over the rocks on the shore. Memories drifted in on the cool night wind: baloney sandwiches and sandlot baseball games and searching for pirate treasure among the dunes. Innocence. The first and last place he remembered feeling safe. If he could give William and Scully a fraction of that feeling, he'd be content. Downstairs, he heard Scully moving around, changing William before she put the baby to bed, then poking around the kitchen and the master bedroom. He'd brought in their luggage, but the Volvo's trunk still held a box of X-files Scully had yet to read -- his abduction, including medical records, photos of his body, and a death certificate. There was her first abduction, then her trip to Antarctica, complete with the blood work indicating exposure to an unknown virus. The videotape labeled "Mulder" was tucked in with the files, unwatched, along with her old journal, still unread. And, just for kicks, before they'd left Georgetown, he'd tossed in Jose Chung's novel and a tape of The Lazarus Bowl. He'd never tried to conceal the truth from her, only to dole it out in manageable bites. "There you are," Scully said, the old steps creaking slightly as she came up to the loft. "I wondered where you'd gotten to. Are you coming to bed?" "In a minute. I was just admiring the view," he responded and extended his hand in invitation. "Come look at this." She approached, then took his hand and leaned back against him as they stood in front of the window. "What am I looking at?" "That's Squibnocket Beach down there," he told her, tracing the outline of her shoulder with his other hand. "I grew up on the Vineyard, Scully. I went to high school off-island, and then Oxford, but I grew up here. I was born about four miles from here. I don't know if I've told you that." "I bet your name got doodled in more than a few starry-eyed girls' diaries." "I cannot confirm or deny that, but I will confess this: when I was home from school, I romanced every girl in Chilmark. Both of them. It's a small island, Scully." "Donna and..." "Allison Marie Vanover. In first grade, Allie borrowed my aqua-blue crayon, gave it back broken and with the paper peeled off, and I was in love. It lasted until recess the following Thursday." Her shoulders shook as she chuckled. He pulled her tighter against him, fitting the front of his body against the back of hers and resting his chin on top of her head. On either side of them, the gauzy curtains fluttered as the wind whistled in. It was a soft June night on the cusp of summer, full of magic and hope and promises. "It seems like a nice place to grow up." "It was. It is. And I was thinking... How would you like to stay for the summer?" he asked softly. "The whole summer? I thought we were just staying a week. What about the FBI? Your job?" "I talked to Skinner. Anything the bureau wants me to look at, they can FedEx or fax. And I did some checking: there's a big pathology conference in Providence in July," he said. "And Brown Medical School offers a bunch of continuing education courses. How many hours do you need?" "Seventy-five hours every three years." "Well, you would have the whole summer." She slipped away, turning so she faced him, her back to the window. "I'm getting the sense that spending the summer here isn't a spur-of-the- moment idea." "It isn't. I've been thinking about it for a few weeks, but I had some things to take care of, first. I, I told you I want you to be safe, Scully. You and William. You're my compass," he told her, stepping closer to her and taking her hand again. "Due north. You keep me on track, keep me honest -- even when the world is insane, even when I push you away, even when I'm certain I don't need or want your help. You tell me the truth when I don't want to hear it. You fill in the cracks of who I am without me even realizing it. Me without you: it's an incomplete equation. I can't erase the past, Scully, or guarantee the future. And I'll let you walk away, if that's what you want, but I won't risk someone taking you away from me again." He could feel the intensity of her gaze, her eyes drawing him in like a whirlpool. "I know all that makes no sense to you right now, but it will. And when it does, I- I didn't get a time to process what happened to me. Four weeks after I came home from the hospital, William was born, and six weeks later, you were gone. Everything just came at me, and, some of it, I didn't handle too well. I want you to have time: to think, to come to terms. To talk, if you want. All the time you need." "Thank you." "You're welcome," he answered even more quietly. She looked down, seeming embarrassed. "After that kiss last night, I assumed- I thought this was just a romantic getaway." "Romantic? You think I'm attracted to you?" Mulder said, deadpan, and a fleeting look of uncertainty crossed her face before she realized he was joking. "Like iron shavings to a magnet, Agent Scully, and just a difficult to get off." He stopped, frowning. "That, uh, didn't come out quite the way I intended." "Shut up, Mulder," she ordered softly, before she kissed him. **** There was a big four-poster bed downstairs, but the bed in the loft was narrow, tucked under the eaves, and covered in a faded quilt -- intended for a child rather than a couple. As they moved toward it, her arms were around him, and her mouth under his was as smooth and flowing as Mississippi blues. "You're sure?" he whispered. She slid her hand between their bodies, looking into his eyes as she popped the button on his pants. "I'll take that as a 'yes.'" His shirt came off, falling to the floor with a sigh, and she slid her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, polishing his body back into her memory. As he undressed her, he kissed down the outline of her neck, between her breasts, and then, as she lay back on the twin bed, across the borderland of her stomach to the forbidden zone at the juncture of her thighs. The taste and smell of her was all around him, as intoxicating as the night. He traced the planes and contours of her, his skin rough against the smoothness of hers. She closed her eyes as he covered her, her body falling into a smooth cadence with his, like they'd been together a thousand times. Everything was slow, unhurried, as if they planned to make love to each other for the rest of their lives. "This is right," she promised him, her breath warm against his neck as her fingertips traced mystical runes on his back. "I feel it. Can you feel it?" "As certain as the tide," he whispered back. He pushed up on his elbows to watch her face as his body slid inside hers, breaking the long loneliness. She grimaced in pain and pleasure, biting her lip, and then wrapped a leg around his hips and her arms around his neck, forming a lover's knot. He thrust slowly, barely moving his hips. Her pelvis rocked upward in return, completing each cycle. In dreams, he'd made love to her in every possible position, indulging every fantasy from silk and candlelight to back alleys and a concealing trench coat. He had an oral fixation, a copy of The Karma Sutra, and an overactive imagination, but this time the mechanics of the act were secondary. Flannel pajamas sex was fine. Comfortable. Right. In fact, he marveled at the elegant simplicity of it: the fluid transaction between his body and hers, the sensual math of passion -- how easy it was for a man to love a woman. Outside the window, the wind whistled and the ocean broke against the rocks, the sounds of the night merging with the murmurs and moans and gasps of pleasure. The white curtains billowed like ghosts as he drowned in her, teetering at the abyss, then closing his eyes and letting the waves crashing through her body sweep over his as well. In the seconds that followed, he wanted to pull her inside his chest and keep her there, safe from all the evil in the world. To stop time and hold the moment in the palm of his hand before something or someone could emerge from the shadows and crush it. Instead, he pressed his damp forehead against hers, ineloquently trying to put into words the emotions inside him. As he murmured to her, her fingertips traced the ridge of his spine, cool and smooth and accepting. He'd loved her as long as he could remember, but love was ever-evolving. Mutable. It waxed and waned, shifted and reformed -- what they had together was endlessly being built, broken, and rebuilt like a sand castle on the shore. In the interim were a few fragile moments of normal carved out of years of struggle and loss. But those moments were theirs, damn it. He just wished she could remember a few of them. When he withdrew and opened his eyes, she looked up at him, her eyes infinitely trusting. "All the time in the world, Mulder," she reminded him, as if reading his thoughts. "I know," he agreed softly, maneuvering so he faced her, with her head on his outstretched arm. Her skin glowed like fine marble in the moonlight. He drew his hand down her body, letting it rest in the valley of her waist as the tingling sense of peace settled over him. She shifted closer to him, and he could feel her watching him in the moonlight. Her fingertips trailed across his forehead, down his cheek, and over his lips and chin. He told her again that he loved her, then relaxed, luxuriating in her touch and letting his mind drift. Her hands moved over his body, exploring the evidence left by his many battles with Death. His chest hair covered the white scar on his sternum, which had faded to barely detectible. The scars on his face were only bald patches in the stubble when he hadn't shaved, and the ones on his ankles and wrists had healed completely. All in all, he wasn't half bad for a dead man. He had a few scars, an occasional nightmare, a stack of X-files, and a collection of bizarre stories nobody believed. And Scully. And their son. And all the time in the world. Not bad at all. Her heart beat against his, slowly, patiently. He held her against him on the narrow bed, listening to the sea as sleep came, heavy and safe, covering them like the night sky. **** In his dream, the mug was warm between his hands, steaming in the predawn darkness as he carried it to the back deck of their little rented cottage. The air off the ocean was cool, smelling of the mysteries of the deep. In the sky, the wind blew the stars across the heavens: the ancient gods battling it out, only marginally aware of their mortal spectators below. Scully sat on the steps, looking toward the sea. She wore blue jeans and an oversized denim shirt, most likely pilfered from his wardrobe. When she heard him approach, she turned, smiling in recognition. Those old butterflies fluttered in his belly, and his heart beat a little faster. His heart didn't realize it was a dream; all his soul recognized was Scully. "I was hoping you'd be here," he said, sitting down beside her and setting his cup aside. "I was hoping you'd come," she responded softly, taking his hand and interlacing their fingers. They sat on the wooden steps for a long time, taking refuge in the shelter of each other and watching the drift of the stars across the heavens. "I think that went well," he said eventually, his breath white vapor in the cool air. He nodded to the upstairs window, where he and Scully were asleep in the loft, a naked tangle of arms and legs wrapped in a faded quilt. "It's been awhile, but I've been trying to keep abreast of the literature, and, of course, practicing when I'm alone." She tried to look disdainful, but the warm smile that spread across her face gave her away. "We figured it out pretty well before you were abducted. Were you afraid they'd changed it since then?" He shrugged, feeling slightly bashful. "I was a little concerned. First time expectations and all." "We have a child." She leaned closer. "That wasn't the first time." "You know what I mean." "You were nervous." She bounced her shoulder against his, teasing, "You were nervous about being with me." "All right; I was nervous." He studied the weathered boards beneath his feet and droned in his James T. Kirk voice, "Sex: the final frontier..." "Mulder, you couldn't disappoint me if you tried." "Now you tell me," he said with a crooked smile. She laid her head against his shoulder, and he held her warm hand between both of his. In the distance, he could hear the waves breaking against the rocks, endlessly rushing forward, then slinking back into the sea. As the first violet light began to glow on the horizon, Ophiuchus fell into the west, tumbling with his serpent, a faint pattern in the vast sky for the moment. "You know, in Roman Holiday, Gregory Peck couldn't get the princess, and in the myth, Apollo couldn't get her back," he told her, toying with her hand. "Even Apollo couldn't bring Coronis back. All he could do was take his son from her dead body and keep the baby safe. Their child grew up to be the demigod Ophiuchus. The healer of mankind." "Are you a god in this story, Mulder?" she said incredulously. "Or Gregory Peck? Because I'd think a god would have a better sense of direction and remember how to put a toilet seat down." "Party pooper." He relaxed, leaning back against the steps. There was a familiar rhythm, an easy simplicity to it: being with her. He could tell her a paragraph in a single word. They finished each other's sentences, filled in each other's cracks. She gave him a place to stand while he moved the world. "They're gonna come for him," he told her seriously, reaching for his coffee mug. "For William. Maybe he's not exactly what They want, but since I just took away all their other options, someday, They're gonna come." "If They do, we'll be ready," she promised. He sipped his coffee, then took her hand again as they sat on the wooden steps, silently watching the drift of the last stars across the fading night sky. "Morning's coming," she said, looking out at the brightening horizon. "It's time for you to go. You have things to get back to, Mulder, and people to look after." "Until the day I die," he promised her, and then added mischievously, "Again." **** After thirty years, the monolithic rocks of Squibnocket Beach seemed smaller, as if a layer of their strength had been worn away by time and tide to reveal their hard core. Around the cottage, summer was blooming on Martha's Vineyard like fireworks in slow motion. The sun was rising, silently painting a wide violet and scarlet canvas in the east. On the beach, the cool hand of the wind caressed the dunes, and the seagulls called warnings to each other, scattering in protest as he and William approached. Mulder selected a smooth gray rock and sat on the edge, holding William's hands while the baby bounced on unsteady legs, wanting to walk, but not ready to stand alone. The tide was coming in, each wave rising higher on the sand until one reached their bare toes, leaving behind a layer of sea foam as it retreated. William watched, fascinated, as a wave approached, and squealed in delight as it consumed their feet before slipping away again. The game continued for several minutes, like some oceanic version of Peek-A-Boo, before Mulder looked over his shoulder to see Scully approaching on the path from the cottage. She stopped at the edge of the dunes, a few dozen feet from where Mulder sat, her long skirt fluttering in the morning breeze. "So this is where you grew up?" "In more ways than one," he responded as William bounced in anticipation of the next wave. She wrapped her cardigan around her a little tighter, seeming awkward. "Is there a rule that one of us always leaves, after?" "Yes, I think there is. And I think we should look in to changing that rule." He gave her a half-hearted grin as the ocean swallowed his feet again. "William was awake. I thought I'd bring him down to the beach to play and let you sleep. I didn't mean for you to think I'd left." She nodded, seeming as unsure what to say next. As the wave retreated, he picked up William and walked toward her, greeting her with an uncertain kiss. "Good morning." "Good morning," she responded. "This is the tricky part. The morning after: that's usually when we screw it up," he told her. "Well, let's try not to do that this time," she said practically. "Deal." He shifted William to his hip and offered his hand. She took it, walking with him down the endless shore. The sand beneath his bare feet was rough and cool, and the ocean beside them continued on forever, until it disappeared into the crimson horizon. It was a new day, full of infinite promises and mysteries. One day, if his dreams were true, the sky would glow red with flames instead of the sunrise as the alien invasion began and humanity became the hunted rather than the hunter. But not today. And not for many days to come. There were no spaceships half-buried in the sand behind the dunes. No eyes watching from the shadows. For now, there was only the three of them, the June morning, and the endless seashore. There was her hand in his, and William's warm head resting safely against his chest as they walked along the shore. "I understand what you said last night about due north," she said softly, after several minutes. "About me being your compass. I do feel the pull of it -- of you -- the same way I feel the tides." "It frightens you," he answered, just as softly. "I'm trying not to let it." She smiled slightly, unconvincingly. "As wonderful as it is, it's also overwhelming, sometimes. And surreal, to not remember why I feel what I do." "I know." "There's research indicating that very young infants have memories, which are possibly stored in the limbic system. Since the hippocampus and the frontal and temporal lobes aren't fully formed, those memories must be stored without language or context or even understanding. They'd be visceral memories -- impulses or learned instincts, almost. Trust or distrust. Attach or detach. Those early memories likely form the foundation of the adult personality, still hardwired into the nervous system, underlying but inaccessible to the adult consciousness. Logically, an adult could encode memories the same way, and would retain them even if the hippocampus was damaged. Those visceral memories would still provide the undercurrent of who they were and who they cared for," she finished, Agent Scully-style, making him long for a slide projector and a basement office. He let her walk several more yards in silence before he responded, "My limbic system loves you, too." She smiled again, and this time the smile made it all the way to her eyes. "Time, Scully," he reminded her. "I told you that last night, too. There's no deadline for us, and no requirement on what you have to feel or when you have to feel it. Take all the time you need. All the time in the world," he said as they walked along the empty beach, just beyond the ocean's reach. "I'm only gonna wait forever." **** End: Book V End: The 13th Sign