From: <kitty_amazon@yahoo.com>
Date: Sun, 20 May 2001 02:38:05 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: xfc: FIC: All The Mulder 1/2 (NC-17)
Source: xfc

A quick fic with a sequel/prequel (not sure yet) on
the way.
Feed me back.

Title: All The Mulder.
Author: Mandy
E-mail: table_666@yahoo.com
Rating: NC-17
Category: S
Spoilers: all things, post-DeadAlive
Key words: MSR, angst.
Archiving: Please ask first.
Note: We are pretending, without prejudice, that the
events following DeadAlive never happened, or at least
not for a while, and that dear Mulder was conveniently
buried in Washington D.C. rather than South Carolina. 
More notes at the end. 
Summary: Mulder is back from the dead, but he is not
the man he used to be.    
Disclaimer: Mulder, Scully, Skinner, Dogget, the
Gunmen and anyone else mildly involved belong to Chris
Carter, Fox and 1013.  Don't sue me, Writer = $0.00.
.

All the Mulder.

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come

Let aeroplane circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of public doves
Let the traffic policeman wear black cotton gloves

He was my North, my South, my East and West.
My working week and Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever; I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now, put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

                        W.H. Auden (1907-1973)

        It turns out; he's not the man he used to be.  Asides
from the weight loss, various things that may or may
not be missing from his anatomy (yet to be
determined), and small parts of his memory, Mulder is
missing the thing that makes him Mulder.  That little
indefinable spark, the energy that inspires him to
pace, and the lightning quick comprehension that makes
him brilliant.  Scully stares at Mulder's chart for a
very long time; she wonders what scientific name to
give the removal of his spark.  A Mulderectomy,
perhaps?  All the Mulder is gone from Mulder.
        It takes him three days.  Three days of IV's,
physiotherapy, doctors, the Gunmen and Scully
wandering around fretfully.  Three days of Doggett
giving Scully long passive stares from the doorway,
Skinner making odd little smiling twists with his
mouth, like a smile but not.  Three fat days that roll
away, then Mulder points at Scully's bulge.
"What's that?" he asks.  
Scully's face lights up, she has been waiting for this
moment.  She smoothes her hand over her abdomen, the
gentle swell that is proof of the life within.  She
takes Mulder's hand, thin as her own, and settles it
on the bulge.  They stand there like that for a long
time, but he doesn't seem to understand.
"Are you... okay?" he asks.  He seems confused, unsure. 
Scully falters.
"I'm in perfect health.  I'm pregnant." She stutters. 
Mulder looks at her oddly, the doctor bustles in.
        Mulder is released into Scully's care, Dogget scowls
and leaves the waiting room in search of greener
pastures.  The weight of guilt has been lifted from
Skinner's shoulders, he steers the wheelchair while
the Gunmen bring Scully's car around.  Scully walks
with one hand on Mulder's shoulder, one hand cradling
her belly.  Byers drives, Frohike on the seat beside
him.  Mulder sleeps, his head on Scully's lap.  She
counts the bones in his hand, clearly visible.  
        Mulder, sleepy and weak, is escorted upstairs,
Skinner holding him up, and installed in Scully's bed.
  He is asleep almost immediately, and Scully and
Skinner creep into her kitchen, hot milk for her and
coffee for him.  They sip quietly, thankfully, for
several minutes, sharing a moment of finality.  It is
over.  Mulder is home.
"You've told him?" Skinner asks.  Scully nods.
"I don't think it has sunk in.  He has a lot to think
about." She says.  She will hold this excuse for as
long as Mulder's spark is gone, she decides.  Dead men
can be as distracted as they want.
        Skinner leaves shortly, leaves Scully with a ticking
clock and an apartment that feels so full, just
knowing Mulder is in the next room.  She hugs her
unborn baby with her arms, grinning stupidly.  He's
home baby, she says aloud.  She wants to laugh, but
doesn't, in case Mulder wakes.  Let him sleep, baby.
        When the light goes grey she lights one lamp, eating
voraciously.  Lasagne her mother made, her and the
baby and the plate balanced on the couch.  She eats
like she hasn't eaten since he left, with hunger for
food and life.  It all makes sense again, she decides,
and thinks about baby names.  Fox Jnr, she considers,
but knows Mulder would never allow it.
        When there is no light left, she turn off the lamp
and creeps into the bedroom.  She shimmies out of her
clothes, watching Mulder twist on the bed, and climbs
in beside him, naked.  He is drawn to her warmth even
in sleep, nuzzling his body close to hers and going
still.  His breathing deepens, Scully smiles secretly,
the baby kicks in agreement.

****

        With morning comes the Scully clan, swooping in with
small children, and food that is both nutritious and
easily heated in the microwave.  Mulder sleeps on
while Scully belts a robe, opening the door to admit
her mother, brother, sister-in-law and what seems to
be a bevy of little ones.  
"My nieces," Tara explains, grimacing in apology.  She
drops a kiss on Scully, holds her hand for a profound
moment, and then hustles the small herd out the door,
mumbling something about a park.  
        Maggie is one huge beam of delight, standing in the
doorway of Scully's bedroom and gazing upon Mulder,
the prodigal son returned.  She takes her daughter's
hand and squeezes, biting so hard on her bottom lip a
drop of blood wells up.  Bill is an ominous presence
behind them.
"I'm glad he's home, for you," he whispers finally,
and Scully feels happiness like a hot blush.  Mulder
stirs and they back up and away, back to the kitchen. 
Scully makes tea, and they converse in hushed
whispers.
        The day passes, Maggie's patience and Bill's lips get
thinner.  They want to see Mulder, to see for
themselves that he is still alive and coherent. 
Scully is both thankful and annoyed, thankful for
their concern and annoyed at their burning curiosity. 
A dead man sleeps soundly in her bed, the idea causes
Scully to check in on him every now and then,
listening to his raspy breath, reassured.
        Tara returns briefly, long enough to grab car keys
and explain she is taking her nieces home.  Bill will
ride with his mother.  Scully makes tea, Maggie makes
sandwiches.  They talk about children, Bill hands out
advice, Maggie makes suggestions, Scully listens, and
doesn't hurt for the first time in years.  
        A crash interrupts them, from the bedroom, and they
all hurry in, stopping in the doorway.  Mulder,
blankets pooled around his thin waist, looks up from
the broken lamp in mild surprise.
"Hello." He says slowly.  He looks back at the lamp,
guilty.  "I knocked it.  I'm sorry."
"It's fine.  It's okay." Scully says warmly.  Maggie
can take it no longer, pushing past her daughter to
hover by Mulder.
"Fox.  So good to have you back." She says, bursting
with happiness.  Mulder smiles back, a vacant
expression on his face.
"Yes." He agrees.  A beat passes, then he nods slowly.
"Do you want some help getting dressed, Mulder?"
Scully asks.  It takes him a moment to focus on her.
"Yes." Mulder repeats.  Another slow nod.
        Bill and Maggie make themselves scarce.  Getting
Mulder dressed becomes a comedy of errors, Scully is
awkward, while Mulder is weak.  They bump knees a lot,
Mulder almost suffocates in a sweatshirt.  Scully
smoothes the seams across his shoulders, across the
thinness there, the sinewy feel of his emaciated body.
 They wobble upright together, Mulder steps into some
sweat pants, lanky arms dragging them up over his
boxer shorts.  They both catch their breath, Mulder's
nose in Scully's hair.
"You smell good." Mulder mutters.  Scully inhales,
nose to chest, and decides she can't return the
compliment.  Mulder smells like a hospital.  Like
death.  Bottle that and sell it, she thinks.
"Ready to face the masses?" Scully asks.  Mulder
sighs.
"Has one of the masses made food?" he asks.  Scully
raises her head, Mulder stares at her for a moment.
"Mulder-" she begins, but he pulls away from her,
taking her hand and leading her to the kitchen in a
Frankenstein lurch.  Maggie has heated soup, some sort
of chicken broth, most likely from a can.  Mulder
sits, a bowl is placed before him, a spoon in his
hand.  Mindless of his audience, he eats.
        Scully counts nine spoonfuls, then Mulder pushes the
bowl away.  Always hungry, she finishes it off. 
Mulder appears lost in thought, Bill watches both of
them, his shoulders bunched with tension.  Maggie is
dreamy, she runs her hands through Mulder's hair,
pretending not to notice the scars on his cheeks.
        When it is late, and time to go, Maggie hugs Mulder,
even though he has barely noticed her presence.  Bill
gives him a gruff nod and smile, and shakes his hand,
looking surprised when his firm grip causes Mulder to
wince in pain.  Scully assures her mother there is
enough food to last for months, and they hug as well
as they can, what with Scully's pregnancy.  
        Mulder takes up residence on Scully's couch, the
remote jammed in his hand.  He channel surfs fiercely,
every station receiving no more than half a second of
attention before he moves on.  Scully hovers about the
couch, her back aches.  Mulder is completely focused
on the television.
        When the phone rings she is relieved, snatching it
up.  She says her name into the receiver, wandering
into the bedroom to escape the noise of Mulder's
relentless flicking.  It is Doggett, he is outside her
building, asking if he can come up.  Scully hesitates,
not wanting Doggett and his perpetual frown to burst
her bubble of happiness.  She is just about to say no,
when Doggett begs.  Please, he says, please.  She
gives her assent.
        Mulder seems confused by the other man's presence in
the room, he turns off the TV and looks back and forth
between Scully and Doggett.  Scully realises they have
not been properly introduced.
"Fox Mulder... Agent John Doggett.  He's my temporary
partner in the X-Files." She says.  Doggett flinches
at the word 'temporary', Mulder stands slowly, looking
suspicious.  They shake hands.  Scully is getting a
headache.
"Good to see you looking so lively." Doggett says. 
Mulder cracks a small smile.
"Good to be seen."
        Mulder listens in silence, drifting away again, while
Doggett tells them he has started the proceedings to
get Mulder's 'death' retracted in the eyes of the law.
 Scully is grateful, smiling her thanks, Mulder
fiddles with his shirt.  Doggett speaks directly to
Mulder, he will need a doctor's signed statement and
DNA tests to prove he is who he is. 
"What happened to my stuff?" Mulder asks abruptly.  He
waves his hand in the air vaguely.
"As sole beneficiary of your will, I have it." Scully
explains.  Mulder frowns.
"Have it?" 
"It's all there, in your apartment." She continues. 
The phone rings, Scully lets the machine get it. 
Mulder has lost interest, and goes to answer the
phone.  Dogget keeps talking, Scully listens to him
while keeping an eye on Mulder.  She figures it must
be the Lone Gunmen, for Mulder smiles a bit, chuckles
and shakes his head.  He puts down the phone and then
goes to Scully's computer.
"...courthouse sometime this week, his social security..."
Doggett is saying.  Mulder has dredged up Jazz
Jackrabbit on Scully's computer, she thinks he must
have been the one to load it in the first place.  But
his movements are too slow and jerky, and Jazz keeps
dying, making Mulder frown and pout like a child.
        Scully gets caught on the idea of a child, her hand
on her belly, ultrasound picture on her fridge.  A
little girl, she thinks, or a little boy.  Something
little.
"Should I come back another time?" Doggett asks,
interrupting Scully's train of thought.
"Yes." She replies decisively, social graces out the
window.  Doggett's mouth is hard, and he goes to the
door.
"I'm still your partner." He calls from the doorway. 
"He's not fit for duty, and I'm still your partner,
Agent Scully." Scully nods, casting a gentle look at
Mulder.
"Yes I am, Agent Doggett.  John." She says, and the
name is strange in her mouth.  She tries again.  "But
he's not fit for duty, and as long as he isn't,
neither am I."
        Doggett leaves, him and his hard mouth, hard face,
leaving Scully to a ticking clock and a happiness that
is slowly draining away.  She stands behind Mulder,
puts her hand on his shoulder, turns him around to
face her.
"Mulder, we need to talk." She says, hand on her
belly.  Mulder smiles weakly.
"Iced tea?" he says.  Jazz Jackrabbit dies another
death.  
"Yes Mulder." Scully sighs.  He has iced tea and more
soup, Scully lights two lamps and finishes the last of
his soup.  Mulder stumbles into the bathroom, and
Scully tries not to cry. 
        They brush their teeth side by side, slow motion zig
zags across their mouths, both tired, one lost and the
other found.  Mulder stares at her shower longingly,
but Scully doesn't think they can handle it.  She
pushes him into the bedroom, tugging his sweats off. 
A bit of the old leer glints in his eyes, then
disappears.  He sits on the edge of the bed while she
strips, nothing sexy about it.  Scully pulls on the
flannel pyjama top, extra, extra large, that she has
been using as a nightie.  She could fit a small
country inside. Scully is half on the bed when Mulder
puts his hand on her belly.
"Whose baby is it?  Doggett's?" he asks.  Scully
wiggles herself into a sitting position next to him,
and her feet don't touch the floor.
"Yours Mulder.  Ours.  It's our baby." She says,
pained and confused by his question.
        Scully remembers the night their baby was conceived,
or the night she thinks it was.  The night that Mulder
came back from England, when she fell asleep on the
couch and he tucked her up so lovingly.  She had woken
up, the fish tank burbling at her cheerfully, and
found Mulder, all lanky limbs and scruffy hair, naked
in his bed.  He'd said 'what' and she'd said 'Mulder'.
 She'd climbed into bed with him, he'd helped her
wriggle out of her clothes while trying to put his
tongue in her mouth at the same time, which had made
her laugh out loud.
        Then they had kissed properly, mouths fused together
and entwined, legs, arms and all, getting hotter and
hungrier.  She'd lain on his chest, just because, and
he had run his hands over her curves and said 'slinky'
in a teasing tone.  Then there were no more words,
just mouths and skin and hot and wet and deep and
hard, harder, please God, Mulder, Whatever, harder.
        Later, much later, he had put on a CD, very softly,
and wrapped her in his big embrace and put his face
close to hers.  He had mouthed, half sung, the words
to her; 'speak to me baby, in the middle of the night,
pull your mouth close to mine', his lips brushing
against hers.  In that moment, with only the light of
his fish tank, the moon through the window, she had
felt a burning love and had known.  'This is it',
she'd thought, 'this is forever.'
        Losing him had been like dying.  
"Our baby, Mulder." Scully says again.  Tears are on
her cheeks, and she grips Mulder, hugs him tightly,
willing him to be him again.  He nods slowly, the
vacant look back in his eyes, but holds Scully while
she cries.
        When she is spent, and has shed all the tears she
can, they climb under the covers together.  Mulder,
his eyes shining in the darkness, is awkward and
fumbles around, unsure.  His hand slides briefly
across Scully's ribs, and she sucks in a breath.  It
has been so long, she thinks.  But he is weak and
still dazed, and finally just curves his long body
around hers.  Scully drifts off to the familiar sound
of Mulder's heartbeat.

****

        Grey dawn light with a naked and dripping wet Mulder
awaken Scully in the morning.  He shivers and dances
from foot to foot unsteadily in the cool morning air,
while Scully sits up in befuddlement.
"I couldn't find the towels." Mulder says.  Scully
climbs out of bed and pulls her robe on.  In the linen
closet she pulls out fresh towels, which were half
hidden behind some sheets.
"You had a shower?" she asks disapprovingly.  Mulder
stares out the window as he wraps himself up, sarong
style.
"Yes.  I sat down, I got a bit dizzy." Mulder says. 
Scully touches her hand to the scar on his chest, and
they both stare at it.
        Mulder insists on gooey scrambled eggs for breakfast,
and although he doesn't eat much, Scully is
encouraged.  She lets him have one cup of coffee, on
the condition that she can inhale its aroma for a good
two lustful minutes.  She thinks about lattes as she
eats her scrambled eggs, and Mulder's spark.  It is in
there, she decides, it's just up to her to coax it out
again.
        She has a hot shower, too hot, and when she and her
wet hair and fresh clothes emerge from the bathroom,
the Gunmen are sitting around her kitchen table. 
Mulder is wearing his sweatpants, and has made more
coffee, which the Gunmen partake of greedily; her
coffee is finer and more expensive than what they buy.
 Frohike leers, but her pregnancy has caused his
lasciviousness to lose its edge.  Scully is unsure
whether it is because of her altered body shape, or
out of respect to the now undeniable nature of her
relationship to Mulder.  The Gunmen, collectively,
look alarmed.
        Frohike and Langly attempt to draw Mulder, who is
scattered, into conversation.  Byers leads Scully
aside, a frown creasing his usually pleasant face.
"Is he getting any better?" Byers says, his voice a
careful stage whisper.  Scully shrugs.
"Define better."  
        Mulder wants to see his old apartment, so Scully
helps him dress and they all troop downstairs.  Byers
finds himself behind the wheel again, Mulder stretches
out in the backseat, Scully cuddled up with him. 
Frohike and Langly wave from the VW, and at a set of
lights, they rev the engine and pull lurid faces. 
Drag race, calls Langly, and Scully can hear Frohike
say something about cyber punks in 'VeeDubs.'  Paint
the town red, thinks Scully, but Mulder only smiles
distantly, and looks out the window.
        Scully gives Mulder the keys to his apartment, and
they stand outside together, staring at the four and
the two.  Mulder holds the key to the lock, but his
hand seems to freeze midair.  The Gunmen twitch and
shuffle impatiently behind them, and finally Mulder
passes the keys to Scully.  She smiles reassuringly;
he looks at his feet.
        Inside is cold and old.  Langly writes his name in
the dust on the coffee table, Byers raises a storm
when he sits on the couch.  Frohike, being alarmingly
practical, goes to pack some of Mulder's clothes. 
Mulder looks out of place, his shoulders at an odd
angle, his head hanging low, arms crossed; a defensive
pose.  He goes into his bedroom, opens his closet
doors, stares at the empty spaces where his files used
to be.  Scully follows him, her heart breaking, into
the bathroom.  Mulder stares at his scarred face in
the mirror.
"They took all your files for the investigation."
Scully explains.  Almost ceremoniously, Mulder
retrieves a towel from the cupboard.  Scully's bottom
lip trembles as Mulder carefully, carefully, hangs the
towel across the mirror, blocking out his own
reflection.
"I want to go home." Mulder says.  Scully is grateful
for small miracles.  His home is with her now.

****

All The Mulder 2/2.

        The days pass in heavy silences.  Mulder becomes
stronger, perhaps more alert, but his attention is
often caught by feelings and memories beyond Scully's
comprehension.  He eats, his appetite taking them both
by surprise.  He eats almost as much as she does, and
things just as odd.  She craves hot crusty bread,
smothered in peanut butter and honey, all mixed into a
gooey mess, and drinks chocolate milk by the gallon. 
Mulder puts Scully's mother's pasta bake, scalloped
potatoes and fried rice in one big bowl, nuking it in
the microwave until it is burning hot.  He stirs it
all up, and lets Scully pick at it while he eats. 
Cans of iced tea take up an entire shelf of Scully's
fridge.
        Two mornings in a row, Scully wakes up alone in the
bed, steam filtering into the room.  Mulder is curled
up in the bottom of the tub, hot water making his skin
red and splotchy, eyes glazed.  She turns off the
water, and pulls the shivering man out of the tub,
into a towel and a funny sideways hug.  Both mornings
he exhibits symptoms of shock, but Scully feeds him
coffee and talks him back to coherency.  She can make
him better, she is sure of it.  When he sleeps in the
middle of the day, she takes down the towels and
blankets he has hung over the mirrors.
        On the fourth day, Scully takes Mulder back to the
hospital for blood work and urine samples.  Skinner is
with them, and he watches Mulder sadly.  While the
doctor on duty, a young woman horrified by Mulder's
scars, draws blood, the A.D. leads Scully out into the
hall.
"How's he doing?" Skinner asks.  Weary, she drags a
hand over her face, annoyed.
"Why don't you ask him?" she mutters.
"Are you alright?" Skinner asks.  Scully does not
answer.  Skinner gnaws his bottom lip for a moment,
and then takes a card out of his pocket.  "This is
someone you might want to call.  Somebody to talk to."
        Scully takes the card Skinner offers, tucking it into
her purse.  Mulder emerges, pale and perturbed.  They
head to a small diner for lunch, Skinner seems
disturbed by the vast amounts of food that Scully and
Mulder consume between them.  They have developed
habits over many years, intensified by the last few
days, bird-like movements, picking prime morsels from
the others plate.  There is quietness, Scully flicks
through a fashion magazine, comparing the shrunken
children playing dress-ups on the pages, to her own
swollen form.
"I like your bump better than their sticks.  And your
curves, I like your curves." Mulder says.  Skinner
chokes on his cup of coffee, and Scully smiles,
pleasure sliding over her, rippled and hot.  The baby
kicks and she laughs out loud, hungry and happy.  Both
men smile back at her, and everything feels right.  
        But then Mulder clenches his hand and looks away, not
hungry anymore, and Scully's happiness is just another
idea she doesn't want to handle.

****

        Doggett hunts her down the following day, pounding on
her door until Mulder lets him in.  Mulder has been
lifting weights, has filled out a bit, cleaned up a
lot.  Doggett claps him on the back, and then steadies
Mulder when he stumbles.  They give each other manly
looks, Scully watches, peeking out from the kitchen
around double choc chip cookie dough and cream from a
can.  She's been doing calorie lines, a junkie.
"She's in the kitchen." Mulder says finally.  He is
bare-chested, wearing what used to be his weekend
slouch sweats.  The scar down the centre of his chest
is soft and pink, healing slowly but surely.
"Thank you." Doggett says.  Neither man moves.
"If you do anything, ever, to betray her trust, I will
hunt you down and break your fucking neck myself."
Mulder says, so suddenly that it seems to startle him
as much as Doggett.  They glare at each other, and
Scully drops her cookie dough.
"I don't like threats, Mr Mulder." Dogget says, very
stiff and formal.  Scully joins them in her living
room, but neither seems to notice.  
"I don't like being replaced!" Mulder snarls, with
passion that Scully has been waiting for.  
Mulder whirls and paces like a caged animal, and when
he sees the hall mirror, complete with artfully draped
towel, he lets out a cry of frustration.  Doggett and
Scully start as his arm swings out, square and heavy
hand knocking the mirror from the wall.  It shatters,
and the air is still once more, the fight is gone from
Mulder.  He turns away from his reflections, all the
pieces of mirror showing him something he'd rather not
see.  He slinks away, wound-licking, to the bedroom.  
Scully's hands tremble as she attempts to pick up the
broken shards of the mirror and her life, squatting
awkwardly.  No don't, Doggett says, and cleans it up
for her.  He puts all the glass and broken frame into
the bin, and then sits Scully down on the couch.  He
makes her hot milk, and brushes the tears from her
cheeks with the calloused pads of his thumbs.
"I should just be glad."  Scully says.  "Glad that
he's home."
        Then her face screws up and she cries, wrenching sobs
of despair, body quaking sorrow.  Doggett makes
shushing noises, and pulls her into his arms, so she
leaves face-shaped stains of tears against his shirt. 
Doggett strokes her hair so tenderly that Scully cries
all the harder, and he begins a slow rocking motion
with his torso, in time to a silent drumbeat. 
        When Scully raises her face, Doggett smiles.  More
tears shudder on her lashes, splashing down onto her
flushed cheeks, and slowly, slowly, Doggett leans
forward and kisses them away.  He holds his breath for
a moment, and Scully closes her eyes, tired and
confused.  When he brushes his mouth over hers, soft
and cobwebby, Scully clenches her hands on his
shoulders.
"Doggett.  John." She revises.  Doggett lifts his
head.  "Mulder-"
"I know." He interrupts.  Scully sits up, drawing away
from Doggett, back into herself.  He shakes his head. 
"I know, I just... I'm sorry.  I should go."
        They stand at the same time, bumping body parts and
not making eye contact.  Doggett puts on his coat, and
Scully stands at the door with her hand over her
mouth.  She thinks it is best this way, perhaps
neither of them will say things they shouldn't. 
Doggett opens his mouth, as if to say something, but
stops, eyes focused on some point behind her.  Scully
turns.  Mulder is watching them from the kitchen,
carefully still.  His face is frighteningly neutral,
his eyes dark.  Scully feels like a guilty child.
"Jesus." Doggett mutters, and jerks the door open,
stepping out into the hall.  He strides away, leaving
Scully to shut the door behind him.  When she turns
back, Mulder is gone.
        Scully finds Mulder in the bedroom, yanking on a pair
of old jeans.  He is breathing hard with the effort,
and almost tumbles onto the bed while pulling on a
turtleneck.  He digs through his stuff until he finds
a belt; the jeans are loose and slip from his waist.
"What are you doing?" Scully asks.  Mulder barely
looks at her as he pulls on a jacket.
"I don't belong here." Mulder says.  He stops for a
moment, catching his breath.
"Whatever you saw in there, it doesn't mean anything. 
I was upset, he was just being kind." Scully says,
almost desperately.  Mulder walks past her, out of the
room.
"It doesn't matter.  None of it does." He calls over
his shoulder.  He takes a can of iced tea from the
fridge, and Scully's keys from the counter.  Scully
follows him, fighting anger and misery.  
"You matter.  You matter to me and this baby." She
tells him.  Mulder looks at her, at her tear-streaked
face, her hands folded over her 'bump', as he called
it.
"I'm dead.  Dead on arrival, stone cold, six feet
under dead, dead like my mom, my dad, dead like
Melissa and dead like Ahab.  We all die sometime, and
I was three months ago.  I don't belong anywhere."
        Mulder finishes his speech and goes out the door, out
into the night.  Shocked, stricken, all Scully can
think was that his declaration was the most she'd
heard him say since his return.

****

        They all search.  The night is cold, and Skinner
insists on wrapping Scully in a big scarf he finds in
her closet.  The Gunmen go in silence, understanding
Scully's need to keep it all to herself, no questions
asked.  Doggett is half drunk when Scully calls him,
but sobers quickly when she says the words.  Mulder is
gone.  Again.
        Maggie promises to keep a candle burning, the Gunmen
go to check all of Mulder's previous watering holes,
and Scully suspects they want something to burn their
throats too, to alleviate the shock.  Doggett vows to
take a cab rather than drive, going to the office. 
Skinner and Scully cruise the streets nearby, fearing
that Mulder may have had an accident, but there is no
sign of Scully's car, crashed or not.
        When they make it to Mulder's apartment building, a
timid looking neighbour is on the verge of prodding
Mulder's unlocked door open.
"He was here, alright.  Made a hell of a racket,
thumping and crashing about in there.  You just missed
him, he left a few minutes ago." The neighbour says,
Skinner thanks him and slips him a bill for his
trouble.
        Scully is horrified by the destruction inside.  The
furniture has been knocked about, the television has a
hammer through its screen.  The fish are dying on the
floor, flipping about and gaping their mouths
helplessly.  Scully plugs up Mulder's sink, fills it
with water and scoops the fish into it.
        Books and papers are scattered everywhere, Mulder's
basketball has been popped.  In the bedroom, the
sheets have been stripped from the bed, the mattress
overturned.  The hot water is running in the shower,
going slowly cold.
        All the mirrors in the apartment have been smashed.
"Where could he be?" Scully asks, and Skinner does not
know the answer.
        They drive through the area, Frohike calls to report
that Mulder isn't in any bar, isn't at the reflecting
pool, isn't at their place.  Scully calls Doggett;
Mulder is not in the basement, nor any other level of
the building.  Maggie has not seen him all night, and
none of the hospitals she has called have admitted a
man fitting Mulder's description.  Skinner's shoulders
sag more and more with each announcement, he takes
Scully's hand in his own and squeezes briefly.  Scully
imagines he will make a wonderful Godfather to her
child.
        Halfway to the city centre, Scully understands.
"The cemetery.  He's at the cemetery."

****

        Mulder, morbidly, is curled up on his own plot.  The
headstone is gone, the land freshly dug, now empty of
his coffin.  Skinner aims the beam of his flashlight
on the ground beside Mulder's head, so as not to blind
him, but still make enough light for Scully to see by.
 Mulder is shivering as Scully sinks to her knees
beside him, awkwardly pulling his head and shoulders
onto her lap as well as she can.
"Bury me.  Put me back." Mulder says.  He has been
crying, his eyes bloodshot.
"The government has laws against burying the living."
Skinner says dryly.
"Come home, Mulder." Scully says.
        They leave Scully's car at the cemetery, and Skinner
returns them to Scully's apartment, giving her a
quick, reassuring smile.  Scully says they'll be fine,
and Skinner promises to call Doggett, her mother and
the Gunmen for her.  Get some rest, both of you, he
says.  Scully closes the door behind him, sliding the
deadbolt home, and when she turns around Mulder is
behind her, creeping into her personal space and
gazing at her intently.  He slips his hands under her
top, smoothing his palms across the firm skin of her
abdomen, feeling the child inside kick heartily.
"My child." Mulder says, almost defiantly.  Scully
nods, she raises her hands, cupping Mulder's face.
"It was conceived that first night, in your
apartment." She says.  Mulder takes a step back, hands
falling away, creating distance.  Scully steps
forward.  "I found out the day after you were taken
away from me."
        Mulder takes two more steps back, his face falling.
"Stop it." He says.  He continues to move backwards,
and Scully follows.
"Your child, Mulder yours and mine.  I thought my
heart would break when I realised you wouldn't be here
to share that with me."
        Mulder turns away now, his shoulders shaking, trying
to escape.
"Shut up!" he cries.  Scully stands behind him, angry,
her small palms on his back.  She wants to push, to
slap, to hurt him as much as he is hurting her.
"I searched, Mulder!  I never gave up on you, like you
never gave up on me!  And then you came back, and you
were dead, and I thought 'he'll never have a chance to
know his own child', and it almost destroyed me!"
Scully yells.  Mulder almost runs from the room, but
Scully will not give up, a dog with a bone, following
him into her bedroom, where Mulder presses his nose
against the window.
"And here you are.  You're back, back from the dead
again.  I thought this was a second chance, a gift
from God!"  Scully is crying, hot salty tears of anger
and confusion.  "But you're not the same man.  You
barely even acknowledge me, let alone the child I
carry.  You hide yourself from the world, afraid of
your own reflection.  What the hell is wrong with
you!?" 
        Mulder turns, finally, to face Scully, eyes hollow
and back hunched.  He takes off his jacket, pulls his
turtleneck over his chest.  Scully cringes at the
scars on his body, his thin, wasted body.
"You're right.  I'm not the same man, barely even a
man at all!  Look at me.  Look at me!" he demands.  He
touches his chest, his cheeks.  "Is this the man you
knew?  This is not my body, not my face.  I wake up, a
dead man.  Three months in the dirt, yet more lost in
the night sky!  There is no place for me here.  You
have Skinner to look after you and your child, Doggett
to partner you in the X-Files.  I don't fit anywhere,
there is no place for me.  No family, no home that
deserves that name.  Even you are different Scully,
stronger.  You're better off without me."
        Scully understands, in the same way she understood
why Mulder would be at the cemetery, understands that
he is lost, disjointed, feeling out of place. 
"You're not dead, Mulder.  You're alive, and I need
you, this baby needs you.  There is nobody that could
take your place in our lives." She whispers.  She
creeps closer, putting her hands on Mulder's chest.
"How could you know?  How could you possibly even
begin to understand?" Mulder yells, taking Scully's
hand, he puts it directly over the long scar in the
centre of his chest.  His eyes are wild, his body
trembling.
"I know!  Damn you, I know!  To be here and then not,
to have time missing, months!  And when you get back...
nothing is the same.  There are times when you think
the whole world has turned while you were gone, and
nothing can ever be right again!  And it gets worse
before it gets better..." Scully cries, her hand going
to the back of her neck, "It gets so much worse.  It
gets so bad that you can't breathe in the middle of
the night, wondering what you have missed, what they
have done, and will it ever be the same again?  But it
gets better Mulder.  I got better, Mulder.  I got
better because you didn't let me go, and I won't let
you go.  Do you understand me?  I won't let you go!"
        Mulder looks crestfallen, tears welling up in his
eyes and all Scully wants is to make him stop hurting.
 She holds his shoulders, his face, pressing kisses to
his neck.  She is rewarded when he groans, his head
dropping, his mouth smoothing across her cheekbone. 
His hands flutter in the air for a moment, before
settling on Scully's shoulders, cupping them, stroking
down her shoulder blades, counting her ribs with his
fingers.  
        Scully kisses Mulder's cheek, apologising when he
hisses with pain.  They kiss, properly, for the first
time, mouth on mouth, open and wet, Scully being the
first to use tongue.  She thinks this is as close to
heaven as she's ever been.
        With nervous hands Mulder pushes the jacket off her
shoulders, pulling off her sweater.  She is wearing a
lacy white bra, which clasps in the front, and Mulder
scrapes his teeth across her collarbone as he undoes
it.  He is careful and tender, brushing her slacks and
panties from her hips, kneeling to kiss her belly; the
child she carries.
        Mulder wrestles with his belt while she back-steps
him to the bed, a strange, complicated dance.  She
tries to kiss him while he shuffles out of his jeans
and boxer shorts, needing his touch.  He topples onto
the bed, and Scully, hungry, climbs up beside him. 
Mulder smiles up at her, they kiss again, his hands
cup her breasts, feeling their new shape, kneading.  
        Scully groans, she is tired of waiting, always
waiting.  She grips his erection, pleased when Mulder
bucks.  They are awkward, touching and kissing the
best they can, but Scully's pregnancy makes it
difficult.  Mulder clambers to his knees, prising
Scully's hand off him.  He rains kisses on her face,
her neck, bathing her in his tears.
"I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I love you." He whispers, a
mantra, a hope.  
        Finally he lets her push him back, lets her straddle
him, kisses her hands, moans when he is enveloped
inside of her.  They shudder, she moves, crying his
name, crying out to God, crying.  I love you, she
moans, I need you.  The storm is inside her, and she
wants to make it last for him, but she is too close,
the sensations are too broad across her body.  It
starts with a tremble, a shudder, she breathes faster
and rocks in time.  He gazes up at her with passionate
eyes, whispering encouragements, caressing her neck,
her shoulders, her breasts.  It is not enough, she
decides, harder, faster, all and nothing and
everything and Mulder, Mulder, Mulder, Mulder!
        I love you, he says, when she cries out.  I'm sorry,
he says, when she arches and stiffens, eyes squeezed
close, nails digging into his skin.  I love you, he
thinks, when her body tightens around his own, and his
own pleasure comes barrelling down upon him, so
focused and perfect that for a moment he is afraid. 
Surely it can't be real?  The moment is upon them
both, release
        They smile sleepy stupid smiles at each other, and
Mulder tenderly brushes away slick curls from Scully's
forehead.  She collapses sideways and backwards,
bare-ass naked, loose limbed and perfectly content. 
Mulder ambles from the room, she can hear him turning
off lights and checking the locks.  He takes a detour
through the bathroom, returning with a wet cloth.  He
parts her legs and cleans her gently, she feels silly
and shy when she blushes.
        They drag themselves under the covers, tangled up and
sighing softly.  There is some vague attempt at
spooning, which ends up being Scully's head and upper
back couched on Mulder's chest, their legs tangled. 
Scully plays with Mulder's fingertips, happiness is a
slow, languid thrill through her body.
"It's good to have you back." She whispers.  Mulder
kisses the top of her head, drowsy.
"Good to be back."

****

        Mulder is humming and waving a spatula about when
Scully finds him in the kitchen the next morning. 
There are no towels on the mirrors in the bathroom. 
He is cooking bacon, and drops a long kiss on her,
then the baby.  The picture from the ultrasound is
sitting on the kitchen bench, it has Mulder sized
fingerprints on it.
"Agent Doggett is in the other room." Mulder says in a
distracted way.  Scully looks at him in surprise, and
he shrugs.  "Didn't want to wake you."
        She is naked underneath her bathrobe, and ties it
tightly around herself.  Doggett is sitting on her
couch, looking out of place and uncomfortable.  He
stands when Scully enters the room, colouring slightly
at her dishevelled state.  Scully pats her hair,
smiling in spite of herself.
"I just came by... to check everything was okay." He
says.  Scully nods.
"Everything is fine.  Mulder is well." She says. 
First prize for understatements, she thinks.
"About last night..." Doggett says, but Scully waves him
away.
"You're a good man, John Doggett.  A good partner."
        The emphasis is on the word 'partner', and Doggett
nods, giving a small self-deprecatory smile as he
stands.
"Well, I'd better get going.  Bye Scully." He says
gruffly, and moves towards the door.  Scully stops him
with a touch to his arm.
"I'm very thankful, for everything you have done, for
both Mulder and I.  It won't be forgotten." She says. 
Doggett studies her face for a few long moments, then
nods in understanding.
"I know, Scully."
        When he is gone, Scully hugs herself, rocking and
singing half a lullaby under her breath, out of tune. 
Mulder is making thump and clatter noises in her
kitchen, then sticks his head round the door.
"I made you breakfast." He says, and then leers. 
"What do I get in return?"
        Scully laughs and follows him into the kitchen,
sitting at the table.  They smile tremulously at each
other, so hopeful, so knowing.  Yes, Scully decides,
his spark is there.  All the Mulder is back in Mulder.

The End.

Author's Notes: Obviously, the lyric quoted is from
the same song in 'all things', a beautiful song by
Moby called 'The Sky Is Broken'.  It belongs to him. 
The poem is a very beautiful poem, by W.H. Auden, as
listed, and is known as either 'Stop all the clocks'
or 'Funeral blues'.
        This is my first *completed* XF fic, though I have
been reading for quite a while.  To read some of my
Pretender fanfic, go here->
http://www.the-pretender.de/Mandy.htm or
http://repository.topcities.com/tpff.htm (what a
shameless plug).  In case you are wondering, I'm an
Aussi, so that's why some of my spelling and so forth
may be different. 

Mandy